#maybe even just as bad as that particularly vicious head cold where everything was so swollen and clogged

[robinsnest2111]

painful blood clots in very inconvenient places that aren't life threatening and can only be treated by popping hella painkillers and putting ointment on the affected area for weeks to months and wait for it to go away on its own is LITERALLY a huge pain in the ass ✌

[onecanonlife]

careful son (you got dreamer's plans)

Wilbur gasps back to life with mud between his fingers and rain in his eyes.

Wilbur was dead. Now, he is not. He can't say that he's particularly happy about it.

Unfortunately, the server is still as tumultuous as ever, even with Dream locked away,  so it seems that his involvement in things isn't a matter of if, but when.

(Alternatively: the prodigal son returns, and a broken family finally begins to heal.  If, that is, the egg doesn't get them all killed first.)

Chapter Word Count: 5,895

Chapter Warnings: swearing, violence, blood, choking, attempted murder, manipulation, and references to past abuse

Chapter Summary: Wilbur and Tommy speak to Dream. It doesn’t go fantastically (though Wilbur does beat him up, so there’s that).

(masterlist w/ ao3 links)

(first chapter) (previous chapter) (next chapter)

Chapter Six: hide your soul out of his reach (ii)

Most people never think to guess that he is Technoblade’s brother.

There is a reason for that, of course; they are both adopted, for one thing, and they look nothing alike, which is why he used to like to say that they were twins. It was always funny, to watch Techno roll his eyes and get all exasperated and try once again to explain to him that that’s not how twins work, Wilbur, and it would always make him feel warm inside, because no matter his irritation, Techno never quite got around to saying that they’re not.

But whether by blood or no, he is Technoblade’s brother, and he has something of the Blade in him, something of his simmering rage, something of his inclination toward violence, the urge for blood howling in his soul, screaming at him to protect what is his.

And so.

“Hi, Tommy,” Dream says. “It’s good to see you,” and Wilbur is moving without having given himself permission to do so, a wordless snarl curling in the back of his throat. For a moment, he forgets where he is, forgets what he’s here for, forgets who he has at his side. His attention is focused on one thing and one thing only, and he launches himself forward, and the sudden sting in his knuckles as they impact porcelain is nothing in the face of the grunt that Dream lets out, surprised and pained. A crack rings through the room, and he withdraws his hand to see a new break in Dream’s mask, a new fracture, and nothing is so satisfying as the knowledge that he put it there.

Dream is staggering back, seeking to regain his balance. Wilbur regards him for a moment, his head strangely clear, and then decides not to let him.

They go down in a heap, Dream’s head bouncing off the hard obsidian floor with a gratifying thunk. Wilbur lands squarely on top of him, and his fist flies once, twice, three times. Into his mask, over and over, and the cracks widen, and the mask is breaking, and he wants to see it shattered, wants to see it come to pieces—

There is someone saying something, someone shouting. He’s not paying attention. They can wait.

Because then, Dream starts to laugh.

And the thing about it is, it doesn’t sound like what Wilbur knows his laugh is, that wheezing tea kettle noise that everyone always made fun of him for.

(gentle teasing, back in the old days, back when they were all friends, when this server was a safe place, a good community, back before it all went wrong, and perhaps he should wonder what happened to make that Dream into the monster that he is now, but he hurt Tommy and he doesn’t care)

Instead, it’s quiet and low and steady, and there is a smugness to it, a superiority even under the breathlessness, as if this is where he wants to be, as if everything is going according to plan, some plan of his, going right even though Wilbur is sitting on his chest and doing his level best to beat his face in, and—

How dare he have the nerve

(how dare he have the nerve)

to laugh

(to laugh when he’s just destroyed everything around him)

after all that he’s done

(and leveled the very thing that he fought so hard to reclaim but if he cannot have it nobody can and he laughs for the joy of it, the terrible, terrible joy)

to everyone, to the server, to Tommy?

He made a list, when he woke up. He made a list. And he’s accomplished the first goal. He’s found Tommy. And his mind is separating, splitting in half, and one half has control of his body and one is watching from the outside, and the one with his body takes his hands and puts them to Dream’s throat. He can feel his pulse, rabbit-quick. His skin is warm to the touch.

He presses down, and Dream stops laughing.

The half of him that is watching begins to scream with a voice that sounds like his father’s. Begins to shout, asks him,

(can you kill a man in cold blood?)

and the answer is

(yes)

because he knows what monsters are, knows that he has one pinned beneath him, and he knows that he is one too, and only a monster can kill another monster. He will suffocate the life from him, and the world will be better for it. He will suffocate the life from him, and Tommy will be safe.

It’s one of the easiest decisions he’s ever made.

But someone is still shouting, shouting words that enter one ear and rattle around in his skull and fade away without making any kind of sense, and he ignores them. Except then, he can’t, because there are hands on his shoulders, hands trying to pull him back and away, and he resists them, doubles down, places more pressure on his stranglehold, because he wants Dream gone and he wants Dream dead and he’s not going to stop until he’s paid in full—

“—bur, please!”

But Tommy sounds scared.

Like a rubber band released, he comes back together again. His grip goes slack. He allows Tommy to pull him off.

“You can’t—” Tommy is saying, is babbling, and he has tears in his eyes, and it doesn’t make sense for him to be crying, because Dream was the one who hurt him, so he should want Dream gone, right? “Wil, you can’t, you can’t kill him, we need him, we need to talk to him, and he doesn’t, he doesn’t deserve to die, Wil, he doesn’t, so you can’t—”

“Doesn’t he?” he asks, and is surprised by the hollowness of his own voice.

Tommy falls completely silent. For a long minute, the only sound in the cell is Dream wheezing, coughing, struggling for air.

“I don’t know,” Tommy says, and he sounds so miserable that Wilbur regrets asking the question. “Maybe. I mean, I think about stabbing him every time I see him. But I—I don’t want him dead, alright? He’s in prison, and he can’t hurt anyone anymore. So I don’t want him to die.”

He hurt you, Wilbur doesn’t say. He’s still hurting you.

Because Tommy is pale and trembling, his hands shaking where they’re still gripping Wilbur’s shoulders. Because there is a waver in his voice that is wrong, that doesn’t belong, that Wilbur has heard only a handful of times before. Because sometimes, Wilbur will look at him, and his eyes will be far too old, older than any sixteen-year-old’s should be, and part of that is on him, he knows, he knows, but Dream is responsible for so much of the rest.

“I don’t want him to die,” Tommy repeats, and Wilbur realizes that he’s been silent for too long, that Tommy must have taken it as disagreement. “And I don’t want you to kill him, okay? Not like—not like this.”

He’s not entirely sure what that’s supposed to mean.

He opens his mouth, and no sound comes out. So he clears his throat and tries again, and he’s not sure why he’s so hoarse, since he wasn’t the one being strangled, but his voice is a croak.

“Fine,” he says. “But you can’t—if he so much as looks at you wrong, I’m not about to fucking hold back. You get that, right? I’m not letting him—I wasn’t there when it counted. So I’m gonna make it count now. I’m doing my damnedest to make it count now. So if he does anything, I’m not letting it go. I’m not letting him do shit.”

Tommy’s hands tighten. For a second, Wilbur thinks he sees tears in his eyes, but then he blinks, and they’re gone, so perhaps it was his imagination. He has to think it was his imagination, because otherwise he’s going to lose his mind. Because Tommy doesn’t cry. Almost never cries. And if he cries now, it’s either because Wilbur’s fucked up massively, which is bad, or it’s because Wilbur has done something right but it’s overwhelming him because he’s not used to things going right, which would be worse. So much worse.

“Okay,” Tommy says. “Yeah. I—thanks, Wilbur.”

“Not to interrupt,” Schlatt says, and Wilbur flinches with his entire body. He’d forgotten that Schlatt was here, and now Tommy’s looking at him in confusion, and now is not the time for this. Now is definitely not the time for this. Schlatt is over by the entrance, he thinks, but he doesn’t dare turn to look. That’s too obvious. “Because this is very touching and I’m real happy for you, but he’s up again.”

He draws in a breath. And looks past Tommy. Dream is on his feet.

He exhales.

“I won’t kill you,” he says, and his voice is far cooler, far steadier than he feels, “because Tommy doesn’t want me to. That’s it. That’s what’s keeping you alive right now.” And he stands, and Tommy stands with him, shifting to be at his side rather than in front of him.

Dream inclines his head. “I get it,” he says, and Wilbur feels a vicious spark of delight at how terrible he sounds. “Thank you, Tommy.”

“Oh, shut up,” Tommy snaps. “I’m not doing it for your sake. You great green bastard.”

“It’s been pretty boring since the last time you visited,” Dream continues, as if he hadn’t spoken, and if Wilbur couldn’t hear the evidence in his voice, he would assume that the last few minutes hadn’t happened, either. Since when was Dream this unflappable? That’s not the Dream that he remembers.

(he remembers more than one Dream. he remembers the Dream who invited them to his server, who offered them a home and friends, who played war games with Tommy and Tubbo but was always so very gentle with them, who was considerate and funny and someone Wilbur was glad to call a friend. he remembers the Dream who fought against the independence of L’Manberg, cunning and bitter and angry and loud about it. he remembers the Dream who sided with Pogtopia, who always sounded as though he was smiling, laughing at all of them, like they were all a great joke whose punchline had yet to be told. he remembers the Dream who gave him the TNT, who told him to blow them all sky high, and the way his blood sang in anticipation in return and Dream knew, then, he knew what Wilbur was planning, he could tell by that damn smile)

(Ghostbur remembers the Dream of Tommy’s exile. but Ghostbur didn’t know any better than to like him, and he can’t trust memories that are colored by that)

“Tough shit,” Tommy says, more confident now, and if he thinks he has the lead on this, Wilbur’s content to let him take it. “We’ve got questions and you’re going to answer them.”

“What makes you think I have answers?” Dream asks, and—

Is he always this purposefully obtuse?

He glances at Tommy’s face, takes in the frustration written there, the resignation. Apparently so.

“If you don’t think you can help us, then we’ll just leave,” Tommy says, and it’s an odd statement, but apparently, Tommy knows what he’s doing, because Dream takes a step forward. Just one, though, and Wilbur would like to think that he knows better than to get any closer.

“I can help,” he says. “I’m glad you came to me. What’s the question?”

Silence falls for a moment. Tommy’s eyebrows go up, and Wilbur chances a glance back at Schlatt. He’s still hovering near the entrance, by the lava, and its glow permeates through his figure, a bit, rendering him translucent. His eyes are narrow, fixed on Dream.

At least he’s taking it seriously.

“Right,” Tommy says. “You’re going to make me spell it out, then. You said you could bring back Wilbur. That’s pretty much the whole reason why we left you with your third life. But, and I don’t know if you noticed this, but here he is, see? So how the fuck did you do something from in here, or if it wasn’t you, who the hell was it?”

“I did notice, actually,” Dream says, more than a bit wryly. “Hi, Wilbur, by the way. Nice to see you again.”

“I think that you should drown yourself in your sink,” Wilbur replies with an easy smile.

“So, that’s the question?” Dream says, ignoring him once again. “You want to know how I did it?”

“And why,” Tommy puts in. “Why would be good to know too, since I didn’t ask you to. You know.”

“I do know,” Dream agrees. “I have to say, I was kind of surprised at that. I thought you wanted your brother back?”

Tommy sputters. “Wha—of course I do! Did,” he tacks on, with a sidelong glance at Wilbur. “Uh, ‘cause I don’t have to anymore, because he’s here. Look, could we stay on track?”

“Sure, sure,” Dream says. “I mean, I’m not sure exactly how much I can tell you. Resurrection's a tricky business, you know. Lots of moving parts. And you get it if I don’t want to give away all my secrets. Do you want anything to eat? I can’t give you much in the way of variety, but I thought I’d offer.”

There’s something about this that Wilbur doesn’t like.

“No, we don’t want your fucking—your fucking raw potatoes,” Tommy says. “That’s disgusting, and you are a sad, pathetic man because that’s all you have to eat. Wilbur, isn’t he a sad, pathetic man?”

He nods absently. He should be chiming in. He shouldn’t be making Tommy do all the work, shouldn’t be making Tommy confront Dream himself. But there is something creeping over his mind, a nameless dread, stealing his words. And under that, a realization, one that makes no sense at all but that he is increasingly certain is right.

“You’re saying that like I have a choice,” Dream protests, sounding so mild, so even-keel, and it’s wrong, there’s something wrong with this picture. “Potatoes is all I’m given. Maybe if you talked to Sam and got him to give me something else, but unless you do that, it’s potatoes all the way.”

“I’m not getting you things,” Tommy says. “We’re not friends. You need to stop talking like we’re friends. We’re not friends, I don’t like you, I don’t like who I am around you, and I’m not talking to Sam about your fucking potatoes, Jesus Christ.”

“I mean, okay, but you can’t complain about the food when I try to give you some—”

They keep bickering. Wilbur’s only paying half of his attention to the conversation, only enough to make sure Dream doesn’t try to pull anything too terrible. The rest of him is frantically working, thinking, trying to puzzle out why this is pinging as so very off.

“I’m a good businessman, Wilbur,” Schlatt mutters, and Wilbur jumps, because he is right by his ear, the fucking stealthy ghost bastard. “I know stall tactics when I see them.”

“He’s stalling?” he asks, and only realizes his mistake when both Tommy and Dream look at him. But Schlatt is right; Dream is stalling, has been going out of his way to change the subject and goad Tommy into an argument, and that means— “You’re stalling. You’ve got no fucking clue what’s going on, do you?”

Dream laughs. “Oh, come on now,” he starts, but Wilbur’s got his number now, and he’s not going to allow him space to breathe or to spin a lie.

“No,” he presses, “none of that. No potatoes, no fucking with Tommy’s head, no games. I’m not playing games. You would’ve been so quick to gloat, if you had been the one to do this. So quick to hold it over our heads. And even if you hadn’t, but you knew who did, you would’ve dangled that information in front of us like a, a fucking carrot on a stick. Instead you’re rambling about your food and trying to pick a fight. You didn’t know I was alive until I stepped foot in this cell, did you?”

Dream is silent. His mouth is thin. There is a stream of blood slowly trickling out from under his mask.

“Holy shit,” Tommy says. “Holy shit. You bastard.”

“Well then,” Wilbur says, “I think we’re done here. Tommy, do you think we’re done here?”

“Yeah,” Tommy says, shaking his head. “Yeah, I think we are.”

He turns to call out to Sam, to tell him that they’re ready to leave, but there are footsteps, and he wheels around again to see that Dream has moved closer, far too close for his liking and far too close to Tommy.

(there is something)

“Okay, maybe I don’t know why Wilbur’s back,” he says, “but don’t you think that’s concerning? It could’ve been anything, with any goals. I could help you figure it out.”

Tommy winces, and Wilbur once again feels the urge to drive his fist into Dream’s face, to put his hands around his neck and squeeze. He refrains, if only because of the look that it put on Tommy’s face the last time, the fear it put in his voice.

(there is something very wrong)

“We don’t need your help,” Wilbur jumps in before Tommy can answer.

“Right, yeah, we don’t—Sam! Sam, we’re ready to go!” Tommy calls.

“You say that now,” Dream says scornfully. For a second, Wilbur fears that he’s going to try to come forward more, to make an attempt to get out when Sam comes for them. But instead, he stands where he is, crossing his arms. “I know things about this server that no one else does. You need me.”

“We need you like we need a heart attack,” Tommy snaps. Beside him, Schlatt mutters something inaudible.

“Maybe you do,” Dream says, and then, inexplicably, his tone lightens. “I hope you visit again. I like seeing you. And this is the first time I’ve had so many visitors at once, so this was fun. We should do it another time.”

“I think that you should shut up and stop talking now,” Wilbur says, eyeing the lava as it continues to flow over the entrance. Is it taking too long? How many seconds has it been? Sam is there, isn’t he?

“Well, you three are always welcome to come back,” Dream says. “I’ll be here. Unless I’m not.”

Wilbur’s blood runs cold.

(can you see it?)

“What the fuck is that supposed to mean?” Tommy demands. “You’ve got nowhere else to go. You’re going to be staying in here for the rest of your sorry fucking existence, and I’ll come back here to tell you all about all the fun things you’re missing out on because you decided to be a fucking dickhead toward all of the people that used to care about. How’s that, then?”

“As long as you visit,” Dream says mildly. He’s smiling. There is blood on his lips.

“He’s looking at me,” Schlatt whispers. “He’s looking at me, Wilbur, oh god oh fuck he is looking right at me, how the fuck is he—”

Dream tilts his head. Schlatt cuts off, making a choked sound.

“I’m still the admin of this server,” Dream says. “Putting me in a box doesn’t change that. So if you’ve got more questions, I’m happy to answer them whenever.” His smile broadens. “Not just about this, too. If the Egg ever starts being a problem, feel free to come to me. Not like I’ve got anything else to do.”

Finally, finally, the lava curtain drops. Sam is standing on the other side, entirely too far away, and the platform is approaching, entirely too slowly. Wilbur feels locked in place, mind ringing out with three, three, three. He shouldn’t know that. He should have no way to know that, admin or not. He shouldn’t—so how does he—?

(look closer look closer do you see it do you see it do you see there’s something wrong with)

“The Egg?” Tommy asks, and the platform is here. Tommy hesitates, clearly torn between staying and following this new line of questioning, and going. But then, he shakes his head vigorously. “No. No, we’re not doing this. Goodbye, Dream.” He strides out onto the platform.

Wilbur lingers a moment. Schlatt has disappeared.

Dream is staring at him. He can’t see his eyes, but he knows, deep in his soul, that they are boring into his.

So he turns on his heel and joins Tommy on the platform. It begins to move, and he can’t help the glance back over his shoulder. Dream is still there. Unmoving. And if he does make a motion, he doesn’t do it until they are across, until the lava has dropped back down, masking him from sight.

..........

The pressure in his chest lifts as they step outside. He sucks in a deep breath, relishing the fresh air in his lungs, air that is bright and clean and smells of grass rather than hard stone and the bitter heat of lava. The sun is bright in the sky, and he has to blink a few times to readjust to the light.

“I’m sorry you didn’t get what you wanted,” Sam says.

“He’s a dickhead,” Tommy says, oddly quiet. “Didn’t really expect much.”

“Well, I’ll let you know if he says anything to me,” Sam says, and then winces. “Anything relevant, anyway. He talks a lot.”

Tommy snorts, looking away. “Tell me about it,” he says, and his demeanor is definitely strange, subdued. He seems better, less fidgety than when they were inside, but still not at ease. “Or don’t, actually. I don’t want to hear about what that sick, sick man tells you.”

“Probably for the best,” Sam agrees, and then turns to him. “It was nice seeing you, Wilbur. Welcome back to life, I guess.”

There are a multitude of ways he could respond to that. Thank you would be easiest, would be what’s expected. Part of him wants to answer with something snarky, something sarcastic, something that reveals just how much he appreciates being here, but he won’t do that, not with Tommy standing right there. He’s trying to be positive. Trying to be better, trying to at least pretend to be happy. For him. He needs to keep to that, especially now, after whatever the fuck that was in there. So, thank you it is, then, and he opens his mouth to say it, except what actually comes out is, “He can’t get out of there, can he?”

Sam is silent for a long moment. His face does something that Wilbur can’t quite interpret, not with the mask covering half of it, but his eyes go a little wider, his brows a little more furrowed. It’s almost like understanding, or perhaps pity, and Wilbur doesn’t like either option. He doesn’t want to be understood, not really, doesn’t want people to think they understand him before he expressly allows them to, and he has no use for pity.

(villains are not meant for pity, and he still has Dream’s blood on his knuckles)

“No,” Sam says. “As long as I live, he will never set foot outside this prison.”

He says it with such conviction that Wilbur has to believe him. But somehow, it doesn’t set him much at ease. He can’t stop thinking about it, what Dream said, what he implied that he saw, the way he stared, motionless and intent and predatory, in a way, even though he was weaponless and armorless and subsisting off of raw potatoes. He should hold no power, be no threat, and yet, Wilbur can’t make himself relax.

“Alright. Thank you, Sam,” he says. Sam nods.

“Of course,” he says. And then, he’s stepping away, heading back into those dark walls, to that swirling portal that opens for none but who the warden wishes. And then, he is gone.

“Right then,” Tommy says, after a beat of silence. “Home?”

“Yeah,” he says, and feels exhaustion settle in, that constant companion.

So they do. They go home. They run into no one on the way, once again, and Tommy notices his confusion about it this time and tells him that no one truly lives in the area anymore, not since L’Manberg’s third and final destruction, and Tommy says it in such an offhand way that he doesn’t have a good response to it. Doesn’t have a good response to the way he seems to accept its loss, as if it was inevitable, only natural that everyone should have up and left the area, and it’s true that Wilbur wanted the nation gone but he never wanted Tommy to suffer for it, not really.

(though he didn’t care who suffered in the end, in that room covered in buttons, his anthem, that glorious song scraped into the walls, the music crescendoing with the explosion and then the ringing, blissful silence)

(no, he didn’t care who suffered, by the end)

He doesn’t know what to say, so he doesn’t say much, not until they’re back at Tommy’s house, the hole he dug out in the side of the hill and has made his own. He doesn’t know what to say, all of his old charisma failing him, so he watches Tommy for a little while as he knocks about his chests and goes to harvest a few carrots and rants about things that have been happening on the server lately, little things, minor things, things that conspicuously don’t involve Dream at all.

“Tommy,” he finally manages, “are you alright?”

Tommy stops where he is. “Course I am,” he says. “Wilbur, I’m a very big man, you know. It’s going to take more than one green bastard to unsettle TommyInnit.”

“It’s alright if he unsettles you,” he says. “Prime knows he unsettled the hell out of me.”

Tommy stares at him, and then looks away and into the chest he’s got open.

“Yeah,” he says, quieter this time, “I know.”

Wilbur waits.

“It’s just that—” Tommy says, “It’s just that I hate him, so much, and I hate what he does to me. He gets in my head so easily, even when I know to expect it. He’s so good at fucking with me, and I can’t stop him. And I tell myself, each time I go, that this’ll be the last time, this’ll be the time I put it all behind me, but then it’s a couple of weeks later and I go back again, because I think part of me misses him. How fucked up is that? I know exactly what he is, and part of me still wants to think he’s my friend.”

He says it all vehemently, but so very softly, like he’s trying not to hear it himself.

“It is fucked up,” he agrees, matching Tommy’s tone. “But that’s not your fault. It’s his.” He hesitates. “I’m sorry I made you go with me. I shouldn’t have.”

Tommy wheels on him, eyes suddenly blazing, and he slams the chest lid closed.

“You didn’t make me do shit,” he snaps. “Nobody makes me do shit. I do what I want. And I wouldn’t have felt any better if I knew that you were in there with him alone. Think that would’ve been worse, actually, so shut the fuck up about it.”

“I—” he starts, and then stops. “You’re right. I’m sorry.”

He needs to be better about this. Needs to be better about remembering that Tommy is more than capable of making his own decisions. He is a child still, and ought to be protected, but he doesn’t need coddling, doesn’t need babying. There is a fine line between those things, and it is a difficult one to walk.

“Of course I’m right,” Tommy says. “I’m always incredibly correct. You should stop apologizing so much, though, it’s weird. Or wait, actually, do it some more, tell me all about how I am very right and you, Wilbur Soot, are very wrong and dumb.”

It’s an obvious ploy to lighten the mood. He can’t bring himself to go along with it.

“Why did you stop me?” he asks. “Actually, though. Not because he didn’t deserve it or some shit. That’s bullshit and you know it.”

Tommy scowls, his shoulders tensing.

“And what if I do?” he says. “Maybe he does deserve it. Doesn’t mean it should happen. I told you, I want to stab him really bad, but that doesn’t mean I do it. It wouldn’t be fair. Or very satisfying.” He crosses his arms, and for a moment, the image of him in the present is juxtaposed over a younger Tommy, in the exact same pose, arguing with Techno or Phil or him over some stupid, childish thing. Wilbur blinks, and the image is gone. “Besides, we did need him. To talk, that is, even if he turned out to be fucking useless.”

Alright, he can believe that.

(but he sounded so very scared, and)

“Did I scare you?” he blurts out. He regrets the words instantly, but he can’t take them back. “With what I did?”

He’s expecting Tommy to answer with a resounding denial, no matter what the truth actually is. He’s not expecting him to flinch.

(they are in that dark ravine and Tommy is conspiring with traitors and he’s screaming at him, half angry and half desperate to make him understand, to keep him on his side, to get him to see that they have each other and no one else, that no one else can be trusted, he’s screaming and he takes another step forward and he’s not expecting him to flinch)

“You didn’t see the look on your face,” Tommy says. “It reminded me—”

He cuts off, but Wilbur is capable of reading between the lines.

“I’m sorry,” he says, somewhat helplessly.

“You are better, right?” Tommy says. “I mean, really, you don’t—you don’t feel like you did back then, right?”

He’s trying to keep it casual, like it’s not a big deal, like he’s not desperately searching for the answer as to whether or not Wilbur is still insane.

Wilbur’s heart is doing something strange. Something that hurts. Or perhaps that’s just guilt.

“I am,” he says, “I am, I swear. I just—I saw him, and I couldn’t hold back. I know that how I was—how I was then, I don’t understand how you don’t hate me for it, but I look back, and I know now. I do. I’m sor—”

“I don’t need you to apologize again,” Tommy cuts him off. “I—I am actually very fucking sick of apologies, I’ll have you know. But I never hated you, Wilbur. I was really angry, after you—after you went and did that, but I didn’t hate you, and then I was sad, and I just wanted you back. The real you. And I was upset and angry because I knew I could never have that. Except I do now, right?”

“You do,” Wilbur says, because there is no other way he could possibly respond to that. “I swear, you do.” And he opens his arms, and after a second of hesitation, Tommy comes over and sits on the bed next to him, and slumps into his embrace, and Wilbur holds him against his chest because it’s all he can do.

(all he can do to hold him like this and hide from him that the darkness is not gone, that there is something in him that still calls for the destruction of everything and everyone for no reason other than why not, something in him that wants to pour oil over the world and light the match and take himself along with it, something in him that has broken once and will do so again, at the slightest provocation, something as fragile as a sheet of glass already cracked or a bird’s wing once fractured from the fall and never healed right)

“I’m sorry I wasn’t there. I wish I had been,” he says, ignoring Tommy’s request for no more apologies, ignoring the fact that wishes and could-have-beens and what-ifs are useful to exactly nobody. “Ghostbur wasn’t exactly a great help, I know—”

“Oi,” Tommy says, pulling away to look him in the face, “don’t insult Ghostbur. He was doing the best he could. Maybe he didn’t really understand a lot, but he was there. Even when nobody else really was. He was—he was better than nothing, you know? He tried to make people happy. So don’t make fun of him.”

“Okay, okay, I won’t,” he says, and for some reason, thinks about the flowers he still has. He’s not sure why he kept them, why he bothered to retrieve them from the locker at all. But he did, and he has them, and they’re the only thing in his inventory at all. Cornflowers. Blue.

(he tried to make people happy but he failed, didn’t he, so how much could he possibly have mattered? he failed in a different way from Wilbur-when-living, but he failed all the same, and that is another thing they have in common, loathe though he is to admit it)

Tommy seems content with this, and he leans forward again with a sigh.

“We’re gonna have to go check out that Egg, aren’t we?” he mutters into Wilbur’s shirt.

“What makes you say that?”

“Dream mentioned it,” Tommy says. “I hate letting him yank me around. But he could be involved with it, maybe. Could be trying to—to hatch something, or something like that. I wouldn’t put it past him. So we’ve got to go see what the thing is all about.”

“Well, I wouldn’t say that you have to do anything,” Wilbur says. “You deserve a break. You don’t have to play hero.”

“I’m not playing hero,” Tommy murmurs. “I am a big damn hero. Never really got a choice in that, did I?” He pulls back again, letting Wilbur get a good look at the way his eyes have begun to droop. It’s no wonder; it’s been an exhausting day, even if it’s only late afternoon. It’s a good thing, really, because that means he doesn’t quite notice the twisted expression that Wilbur is sure is on his face. “No, but there are people I want to protect. My friends. Like Tubbo. And Sam. So we should go see the Egg and make sure it’s not gonna hurt them.”

Wilbur looks at him, at this child who has gone through more than any child should and has come out the other side still standing, still determined to help his friends, still loyal to a fault, and he wonders how he could ever have suspected him of turning against him. How he ever could have managed to fuck up with him so badly.

“Okay,” he says softly. “We can go see the Egg.”

Never again, he thinks. I swear to you, I’m not fucking up again. And ignores the dread that’s pooling in his heart.

They’ll go visit the Egg. Assuage their curiosity. And then, finally, perhaps, some peace.

[roger-that-cap]

once upon a december

summary: you had no idea who you were, how you got to where you were, or even your real age. all you knew was that you needed to go to auren, and something there would help you find the family that you always secretly craved. little did you know, you’d find family far before you actually got to auren.

warnings: nothin’. maybe a little swearing possibly? memory loss (lol)

word count: 4.7k

so, not this being my first multi-chaptered fic up here… WOW. there’s absolutely no reason for me to put this out right now other than the fact that i wanted it to leave my drafts. ha!

part one!

You had known the cold your whole life.  When you woke up after god knows what happened, you were in the cold snow, face buried in it, clothes wet with it, and so that was what you knew. You laid in the snow for what seemed like forever, and you were lucky that a man was on his horse, selling trinkets that were said to belong to some lost princess of a far off land. The “Land of Always Summer”, everyone in the orphanage liked to call it. He carried you up onto his horse and dumped you right at the orphanage, and you weren’t even conscious enough to move your lips to thank him. But you would never forget his face and the way he tipped his hat, snow flurrying around before hopping up on his horse again and disappearing like he never existed in the first place. 

  The cold was the first thing you remembered, and the first part of the life that you now knew. Everything else was such a blur that you never even bothered to attempt at remembering what your life used to be, especially not when all of the other kids were around. 

  Growing up, they all thought you were weird. They had all been dropped off as young children, some even babies in the vicious winter storm. They knew that they couldn’t have done anything that made their parents want to chuck them, because they were too young to do so. But you? For you to have been thrown to the side at fifteen or sixteen years old, you must have been really weird. And to make it worse, you couldn’t even defend yourself. You knew nothing about yourself. Not even your name. But they had that covered for you.  

 At first, they called you Stacy. It was an old name, a name that was slowly on the rise again. It was easy to remember, and it wasn’t degrading, so you went with it at first. And then, one night, you woke up and shook your head, determined to name yourself, and not have others name you. You would give yourself at least that. Something would be yours, and if it wasn’t going to be memories, then it would be your name. You decided randomly on Y/N, and then that was what you were called from there. For years at the orphanage, that was who you were. 

  But you were done. It was the day. You had finally come of age, and it was time for you to leave, unless you wanted to be employed there. You surely did not. You were ready to get away from the people that ran the place, and the children that you grew up with and watched grow, except one. You were packing your bag, trying to keep the smile off of your face in order to not make any of the others feel bad. 

 “Today, isn’t it?” You jumped, even though the voice was one that you easily recognized. It was Lucas, the little boy who had practically become your shadow ever since he was brought to the doorstep as a baby. You were the oldest kid, you were a girl, and he had no mother. You were the one who was in charge of taking care of him because somehow, you knew how to take care of children. And you loved him, you loved him more than you had ever loved anything in your “new” life. He would be the hardest thing to leave, without question. 

  “Yes, honey.” You stopped packing your small bag so that you could walk up to him and crouch down to his height, his curly hair and sad brown eyes really plucking at your heartstrings. “I’m leaving now.” 

  “When will you be back?” He asked slowly, his eyes getting a little watery. But he had thick skin, skin so thick, skin that no child should have to wear. He wiped his eyes quickly. “Will you be back at all?” 

  “I will be, one day.” He was young, and you were hopeful, but you both knew that the chances of you coming back to the mild hell of the orphanage were slim to none. 

  “I want to leave, too.” He said, his voice tapering off into a whine at the end, his brows scrunching together. “I don’t like it here.” 

In every aspect, you thought about taking him with you. But you had nothing to support him with. You were sure that you were going to starve for a while even by yourself, and you couldn’t take the possibility of him being taken in by a good family who could provide for him away because you wanted to keep him close. “I know you don’t, sweetheart. But someone is going to see just how adorable you are and give you everything you want, alright?” 

 “A good mommy or daddy?” 

“Absolutely, my love.” You pulled him into a hug and closed your eyes, and you knew that it would probably be the last time that you were ever going to hug him. You squeezed him twice, drawing out a giggle from his little body. “Because you… what? Finish.” 

 “Because I deserve it.” 

You pulled away and smiled with pride. “That’s right. Because you deserve it.” You patted his head before turning to finish with your bag, and you hoped that you were fast enough so that he didn’t see your watering eyes. 

 It took him a few more minutes to say anything, but you knew that he was standing there and watching with his wide eyes, curiosity flaring up inside of him like always. “Don’t you have a coat?” He asked quietly. “It’s winter time.” 

“Sure, I have a coat,” you lied, your voice a calming hum in the otherwise quiet room.

 You didn’t have a coat anymore. You gave him your coat not even three weeks ago, when the heat of the fire wasn’t enough for him to stay warm in the dark of the night. You worked with dull scissors all night and a thick sewing needle that you borrowed without the warden knowing, and you got to work with the needle and made him a nice fur blanket. It was much nicer than any of the ones that any of you and the others had ever been given, and he was convinced that you hired a seamstress to make it for him. You took the compliment. 

  That was your clue, though. Your singular clue to who you were, and it wasn't even big. You remembered how to do nothing but walk, talk, write, and read in the beginning. You were about as smart as anyone else, and unlike them, you had no hobbies. Until you went to a village and saw a cheap little sewing kit, and it sparked something so faint in your mind that you knew that you would work extra chores just to be able to buy it. You knew it. 

 You were an absolute goddess with a needle and some fabric, as it turned out. Your hand never wavered, your aim was never off, and no stitch was ever too tight or too loose. Your first stitching was immaculate, and so were your second, and third, and so forth. It wasn’t until Sophia, a girl who had been with you since you had started, suggested that it was a clue to who you once were that you truly considered it to be. From then on, sewing was all you had. You hoped that it would be enough. 

  “Why don’t you get on to breakfast, and I’ll be there in a few minutes.” You suggested, turning your head to give him a little smile of encouragement. He shrugged his shoulders and bounded away, leaving you with your own thoughts for a moment. 

You knew what you had to do. You had to go to the nearest town and get a job there, wherever you could knit something. You would get fast money there, hopefully, and maybe the money that you got would make you enough to buy a ticket, one to take you to the one place that stuck in your mind like it was pasted. Auren. 

Ever since you heard of the land where warmth surrounded you and the sun came down brightly on everything that breathed, you wanted to go. The cold was welcoming in a way, but the Kingdom of Auren was said to be the prettier one between it and Yuran. Yuran was cold and unforgiving, but beautiful if one allowed themselves an open mind. You didn’t want to have to think too much, not about something that should be so plain in front of you. But Auren was far, and it was expensive to get there. 

Chore money hardly got you that sewing kit, and it sure as hell wasn’t enough for a horse, or a train ticket. 

  By the time you got to the breakfast table with your bag around your shoulders, your plate was already made. Lucas was sitting next to it, where he always sat, and he grinned at you the second you walked into the room. The others were all demolishing their breakfast, because it was a good meal today. Bacon and eggs and even pancakes, which were a rarity. A big meal was made every time a person aged out or got adopted, and it was tradition. You almost teared up. It was your big meal, this time. 

You sat down in the chair and ruffled Lucas’s hair, putting the napkin on your lap and rearranging your spoon and fork. The sounds of cutlery against dishes was almost as loud as the others chewing, sloppily and without a care in the world as they stole glances at you, even the ones who didn’t particularly care for you. 

“Loosen up, would you?” A boy named Julius asked, like he did at every meal. “You always look so… so…” 

“You look fancy when you eat.” Sophia explained in a bored tone, nodding towards the way you held your fork and knife. “I don’t know why he feels the need to say it every single time we sit down together, but-”

“Because it’s true, Sophie,” he spat, and you sighed. You wouldn't miss the arguing, that was for sure. 

“So, where will you go?” Dalia, a brown skinned girl who had the cutest gap in her teeth and the brightest eyes in the orphanage asked. 

“I’m hoping to get a job as a seamstress in the village,” you said somewhat strongly, even though you were nervous. Actually, you were nearly bursting out of your own skin. What if they didn’t take you? 

“That will be a good job for you, you’re really good at it.” The entire facility could agree on that. Every time one of them ruined their pants or ripped a shirt so badly that the caretakers just told them to throw it away, they came to you. From the time that you came and up until the day you left, you had made entire wardrobes for them all. 

“I hope so, Dal.” You sighed out, giving a nice smile when you put a syrupy piece of pancake in your mouth, not talking until you swallowed again. “Are you guys going to be good?” 

“We’re always good, Y/N,” Lucas said with a small eye roll. “You don’t have to worry about us.” You wished that you didn’t. 

After everyone was finished eating, the door opened, and in walked the tall and broad shouldered woman who owned the orphanage. You saw all of the other kids sigh and look away, and you did the opposite. You were older, and this woman was mean, but she didn’t scare you. She was bitter, but that was all she was. “You’re leaving.” 

“In a few minutes,” you added, and then kept eye contact with her when you put a piece of bacon in your mouth, nearly collapsing at the taste. God, breakfast hadn’t been so good since Susanne left. You felt Lucas tug on your pant leg, his arm reaching under the table. 

“Good.” The woman said, and she gave you a once over. “I imagine that you’d want to work at the dress shop in the village, correct?” 

“That’s my goal.” 

“Hm.” She took a few steps closer. “I heard there’s an opening there, if you want it.” She looked towards the windows. “But you’ll have to make it quick. You’re not the only girl with quick fingers and a needle, you know.”

She wanted you out. You knew that. She never really liked you, and you never cared for her much, either. You came too late for her to get attached to, not even in that oddly placed way that she loved everyone else. “When do you suggest I take my leave?”

“Within the hour,” she answered immediately. “You don’t want to get lost in the dark, you know.” You frowned. It was eight in the morning, there was no way that the sun was going down any time soon. You knew that she just wanted you to leave, and so did everyone else at the table who was older than nine. 

“Okay.” You said, not anywhere near to being in the mood to start an argument with her. That’s not how you wanted Lucas to remember you, at all. So, you kissed his forehead, waved goodbye to all of the other kids, and then got up from your chair. 

The worst part of leaving was finally approaching, close enough to raise its fist and knock on your door. You had seen it happen millions of times it seemed, and yet, you thought that you would be exempt from it. The children were always ushered back to their rooms once another left, and you were sure that it had everything to deal with not wanting them to see what freedom looked like. The warden didn’t want them to witness what it looked like when an orphan got their own wings.

“Wait!” Lucas shouted, and he nearly yanked your arm out of the socket before shoving a little, wooden toy soldier in your hand, the one that he always played with. 

Your heart was warm. It was so warm that you had a hard time forming your next words, your mind so full of adoration for this little boy who had been your living shadow, your source of happiness in a world that had given you none at all, nevermind on a silver platter. You took in a deep breath at seeing one out of two of his favorite toys, the one that he always made you take so that he could play with the other one. The one he was trying to give you had an idle gun with it, and the other had it cocked aimed. Lucas’s one won every time. 

You gave him a sad smile. “No, kiddo, you can keep it.” 

“I have another one.” He rushed out. “Please, take it. That way we can still play when we’re far away.” 

Oh. Oh. If you could have chosen to stay there with him until he grew too old to be there, you would have. You would have a million times over. You knew that he had even the old, bitter woman thinking twice about her decision to throw you out when she made a hmph noise and turned away, her long dress exiting last. 

“Alright. I’ll take it, Lucas.” You ruffled his hair again. “I’m gonna miss you so much.” 

“I’ll miss you, too.” He hugged you tightly, and then you were swarmed by all of the younger kids, who held you all together in the customary send off hug as tears came through your shut eyes. 

“I’m going to miss all of you, you know.” 

“I’ll miss you, too,” you heard back, coming from about twenty different voices that you recognized individually. 

“I’ll miss you. Even that posh accent and the way that you eat and sit,” Julius admitted, and you cracked a smile at him. 

“I don’t have an accent, but, thank you.” You said, and you reached over and flicked his forehead. “You guys are all amazing, and don’t you ever not think that for a second. You deserve the best, and one day, you’ll get that for yourselves.” 

You looked at all of their faces, and saw them watching you. Despite how much some of the older ones didn’t like you sometimes simply because you were older, they listened to you. “You are the best children anyone could ever ask for, and if people don’t see that, they’re dumb.” 

“We don’t need parents to feel validated,” Sophie nodded. 

“Precisely!” You said, and then you cleared your throat when you saw some of them look at you strangely. “Exactly. Now, you guys remember that, okay?” They nodded their heads, and you pulled your back tighter. “Alright. I’ll miss you.” 

You watched them be ushered into their rooms, watching the backs of their heads disappear, even hearing a few sniffles. You clenched your jaw and cleared your throat, shaking your head clear of any worries or trace of sadness, and then you walked up to the door. 

No one would accompany you out there. No one was going to be able to tell you which way to go, not metaphorically or even directions wise. There wasn’t going to be anyone like Sophia, who had clued you in on your past so kindly before. No one was going to be beside you, and you were going to miss it, no matter how nagging everyone was. 

  You took in a deep breath as you felt the chill of the door on your hand, and you wrapped yourself in the blanket that came from your bag. You only regretted for a split second that Lucas had your coat, but then you remembered that he needed it much more than you did. And so, he had it. You opened the door to light snowfall, and immediately once you stepped onto the cold ground, a snowflake fell onto your cheek. 

Slowly, you walked up to the rusted gates that were probably once a brilliant silver, and then you looked back at the rundown place before touching the gate, forgetting all about rust. You took in a second deep breath and closed your eyes, because you knew that once you stepped foot outside of the gates of the orphanage, there was no going back. 

You were an orphan no longer once you stepped away. You were an adult. You were the caretaker, not the one to be cared for. 

You nodded your head to yourself and pushed the door to the gates open, hearing the same sound that you had always heard after breakfast when someone left, but it was much louder up close. You almost jumped at how easy it was to get open, and then you slipped through, shutting it after yourself quickly. You huffed out a breath and saw it fog up in the air, and then you felt tears burn in your eyes. 

You were leaving behind the family that you barely even realized that you had. And you would likely never see them again. And this was all because you wanted to find the family that had tossed you aside like yesterday’s newspaper, like you were someone else’s problem. 

But it wasn’t really to meet them, you knew. It was so that you could see what you had or hadn’t been missing. 

Your feet were moving before you even knew that they were. You looked back and couldn’t even see the orphanage anymore, and you had a strong urge to run in again and say that you regretted leaving, but you couldn’t. So you kept walking. 

§§§

You didn’t have a watch, but you knew that it had been hours since you started walking away from the orphanage. Your hands were getting a tingly feeling in them, and your pants were wet with snow. They weren’t nearly enough for you to be protected, and you really regretted not saving up for some real pants instead of a new sewing kit. 

You hadn’t passed a single road sign during the entire walk. You expected to see something, maybe even a landmark that the bitter woman would talk about, something that would spark a memory even, but you got nothing. You had absolutely no idea where you were, and you were starting to get scared. 

You were definitely in the woods, that was for sure. You were in so deep that turning back was the less intelligent option. You hadn’t heard another voice in hours, or even the sound of horses and carriages. Nothing. Where the hell were you? 

 Your foot caught a tree root that was hidden by a somewhat thick layer of snow, and you went down hard. You grunted when you hit the ground, and you immediately reached out for the ankle that started throbbing. You hissed when you touched it and then threw your head back, nearly starting to cry from being scared out of your mind and frustrated at the same time. 

“Why didn’t they give me a map?” You asked aloud, slamming a hand on the ground before bracing yourself to stand on the very tree that had got the better of you.

You only got three steps before falling over again, the pain in your ankle far too strong for you to go much further. You bit down a cry as you tilted your head up towards the sky, which was getting darker by the minute. 

You were going to die out there. After your first night alone. You were about to die. 

“Um, miss?” You nearly jumped out of your skin at the sound of another voice, scrambling up even though you felt the pain in your ankle intensify. “You shouldn’t stand on that.” 

When you finally turned around, you were met with a man on a gray horse, who looked just as confused as you. Even from the distance you were at, you could tell that he was handsome. His blue eyes contrasted nicely with his dark hair that was cut short with just the slightest hint of waviness. He tilted his head sideways at you, like he was trying to see something, and then the weirdest of noises escaped his lips, a strangled gasp that startled you even more. “Ale- who are you?”

You turned your head behind you, thinking that his slightly horrified question couldn’t have been directed towards you. “Do you see something?” 

“Who are you?” He repeated, his voice slightly choked yet as sharp as a blade. His horse trotted closer without him even speaking a command. He stopped a few paces in front of you, and you looked up at him directly for the first time and nearly cried. He was huge. And he looked like he could crush you.

  “I- wait, who are you?” If there was one thing the orphanage taught you, it was to not talk to men you didn’t know. It was a way to get hurt or murdered. Everyone knew that. Not even men on horses who could pass for rich knights could be trusted. 

It took a few moments of mutual staring for him to even think about saying anything. “I’m James,” he answered cautiously, like you were the one to be wary of. “And you are?” 

You kept your grimace to yourself. You had two choices; to be friendly with this man and hope that he gave you a bit of shelter for the night without anything in return, or to be rude and possibly save your life, or ruin it all the same. You were leaning towards the first choice. 

It took you a moment to clear the cobwebs of thought from your mind and come up with an answer. When you did, it seemed like he was hanging on edge for your response, like it would make a few things in his life miraculously make sense. “I’m Y/N.” 

 He gave you a look. It was long, curious, and doubting. You thought for a second that he was surely seeing through you, seeing a version of you that you weren’t aware of. He breathed in through his nose, looking you up and down. “How old are you?”

You frowned at the question automatically. “You know, it’s not polite to ask a woman her age.” 

 You could have sworn that his lips tilted upwards before he schooled his features. “Are you camping?” 

“I-”  were you to tell him that you were utterly helpless? Was that the smartest thing to tell a man so big and obviously strong? You wouldn’t stand a chance if he decided to be your worst nightmare, not at all. But something in you knew that he wasn’t anything like that. Something knew. “I’m kind of lost.” 

“Where are you trying to go?”

“I’m trying to find the village, where there’s an opening for a seamstress.” 

  His eyes nearly bulged out of his head. “You’re a seamstress?” 

“I’m trying to be.”

“Have you learned?” He asked, and you looked towards your freezing feet. 

 You should have expected that question. If not from a stranger in the woods, than from a possible employer. You sighed. “No, I never learned. No one taught me.” 

“Then how do you plan on becoming a seamstress?” 

You looked up at him for a second, trying to keep your teeth from chattering as you decided to shed your bag and put it on the ground, opening it up to reveal some shirts and pants that you had made on your own. “I made these myself.” He made a noise. 

 “I thought you said you never learned?” 

“I didn’t,” you said softly, the warmth of the clothes feeling good in your hand. “I never did learn, I just did it one day. And it’s been what I do ever since.” 

 He was still giving you that look, like he was expecting something more, or like you were some type of ghost or hallucination. The staring match took a while, and you were starting to feel the numbness of your ankle wear off. “My friend and I are in need of someone who’s good with a needle.” 

 That wasn’t exactly what you wanted to hear, unless he and his friend owned a sewing shop. Judging by his appearance, it was unlikely that he did. “I should be finding town.” 

“The nearest town is about thirty leagues, and there are no openings for seamstresses—or  any job really—there.” He said. “I can take you to the nearest town, my pal is waiting there for me.” 

 You were thinking far too hard for such an easy question. Thirty leagues was too far for you to clear by yourself before nightfall, and if night fell on you, you were as good as dead. You tried to think about it, but you knew your answer. You were done if you didn’t get on that horse. “I… okay. I think I’ll have to take you up on that, James.” 

  “Do you need help getting on the horse?” He asked, and though you had never even been on a horse before, you shook your head. You weren’t going to let the man grab on your waist and hoist you up. You would fall ten times before that happened, because that was far more embarrassing. 

  “No, thanks.” You were scared. You had never seen a horse so close before, and they were much bigger than you expected. Horses were for the rich, and that was partly why you were riding with this man. If he was needing someone who could sew and had a horse, he would pay you well for something that you enjoyed. It seemed good, in theory. 

You took in a deep breath as you threw yourself up there, expecting fully to slip and land right on your butt, but you didn’t. And he didn’t help you, either. In a movement as fluid as water, you were on the horse, in the exact position that you were supposed to be in. You frowned at yourself, looking down at your legs in muted surprise. 

“I’m shocked you made it,” you heard him rumble, and you nodded. “Most people who ride for the first time can’t do that.” 

You added that to your memory bank, another clue to the screwed up mystery you were playing around with. You watched your sigh come out of your mouth, your breath coming out in smoke because of the cold. “Guess I’ve ridden before.”

*****

this isn’t what i usually write, but man, was this fun. i hope you guys liked this little part! come back if you want, and you’ll meet steve!! i hope you guys liked it, thank you so much for reading this far, y’all have my heart fr

[astringofmadhousefloozies]

Sardines, or Professor Vargas is an Asshole

Another fic from someone who’s only half-read everything. Told in second person, starring a female Yuu.

Content warnings for coarse language, kidnapping, sexual harassment along the lines of Vargas being similar to Gaston, and being deeply, direly self indulgent.

As always, please let me know if you enjoyed it, I live and breathe for positive feedback.

You do not like Professor Vargas, and the feeling is mutual.

It wasn't like the almost amiable vitriol between you and Schonheit, which, while having its ups and downs, was usually at a level of shooting a few insults at each other in between whatever dorm prefect business had you talking to each other, and parting ways with a hair flip on his part and a rude hand guesture on yours. And hell, the other teachers seemed almost fond of you. Trein appreciated you passion for history, even if annoyed at your preference for layman-oriented literature, and would let you sound off about whatever strange bit of lore you'd recently found out, and even once down and listened very patiently as you tried to explain who Emperor Norton was before he said you needed to leave so he could mark papers. Crewel and you had reached an uneasy truce where he did not call you a puppy, and you did not start going "what happens when these go together" in potions class every time he called you that in protest. (You may be a bitch, but he certainly isn't allowed to imply it, even in the most roundabout of ways.)

But Vargas. Vargas hates your soft belly, your unwillingness to push yourself to the point of exhaustion, and most of all, he really, really hates that you're a girl that won't throw herself at his feet. You were trundling along at a swift walking pace on a broom, a mere few feet off the ground, when he stopped yelling at your classmates to pick on you instead.

"Too weak to do better than that?"

"I'm not magic. That I can do this at all is impressive." You're pointedly looking ahead, not looking at him jogging up beside you.

"You can go higher!"

"Professor," you say with barely contained irritation, "I am a beginner, and would much rather have the basics down before I attempt to turn myself into a fine paté from a hundred feet up."

He snorted. "Ashengrotto goes high; you can too."

"Azul's damn near in tears by the time he comes down because he didn't even have legs before a few years ago. He's not a good example."

Vargas, being a wretched asshole who should not be allowed to teach, instead tipped the end of your broom up. Only the broom shot into the air, you merely went ass-over-teakettle onto the grass, and stayed there because if you got up you would attempt to bite his nose clean off.

"Such poor balance! But I can fix that with some private lessons!" Oh, Christ. "You come by here after dark, I know all about teaching a girl how to ride -”

At that, you kicked him in the shin, and while he started back in pain, you shot up and started walking off the field, vibrating with the strength of your disgust.

"You can't hit a teacher! You'll regret this you stupid-" And you've picked up to a jog, because fuck if you were going to listen to that piece of shit try and pick up one of his own fucking students, what the actual fuck.

~*~*~*~

You relayed this whole mess across the supper table, afterwards, and your host was just as grossed out as you were.

"Keep an eye out next class," Azul said to you. "He holds a grudge."

"First hand knowledge?”

His silence was telling.

"You think I could get an exemption? Or like, permission to do a treadmill when everyone's out on a broom?"

"Who do you think you have to ask about all fitness-related things?" Azul had a faraway look that recalled war films. "It's not going to work.”

"What if I start skipping class?"

He gave you a look that could wither an evergreen. "Don't you dare, or he'll start picking on me again."

You shrugged. "Aight. I got three days to figure out what to do, then. You got any ideas?”

He folded his hands and rested his head upon them. "What would you pay?"

"No."

"Come on."

"What do I even have that you want?"

"I can think of a few things. The wave in your hair, or the gleam off your teeth."

"Because you need more curl to your hair."

"Someone might want to contract me for them."

"No. I got three days, Azul, we don't have to resort to your contracts.”

As it turned out, you did not have three days.

~*~*~*~

The next day's gym class was a motley bunch. Idia couldn't miss any more gym days this month, Lilia was doing his stretches, Floyd was... being Floyd, resulting in everyone who wasn't Rook giving him a wide berth, and Leona appeared to be skipping class and was therefore not present for the upcoming bullshit.

"Sorry I'm late!" Cater jogged in, cheery as sunshine though the clouds, and Idia rolled his eyes so hard it was a miracle they didn't strain. "Laps today?"

"Vargas said we're doing Capture the Flag. Dunno how the teams'll go." Lilia was doing something complicated with his hands as he stretched his arms. "Kingscholar's absent, so they'll be uneven. And," he thumbed over at Rook, who was looking into the forest with the coiled intensity of a greyhound waiting for the rabbit to spring, "he's got an advantage, he knows the woods best."

"Yeah, but I've got unlimited data and a GPS." Cater patted his chest with a smile, the outline if his phone visibly through a pocket.

"Can't count on that for everything."

"Alright students!" yelled Vargas, strolling out of the woods with a bruise purpling one cheek. "Capture the Flag today. Use your brooms to navigate the forest, grab the flag, whoever brings it back gets the flag as a prize."

"It's in the forest, hanging from a pole in a clearing, you cannot miss it! All in white, too..." The professor brought up a little screen, showing off a live feed of his flag.

The flag, of course, was you, trussed up with rope and you legs hanging freely, still in last night's sleep shirt. Your voice came out, tinny from the speakers: "I did not consent to this, asshole."

The students were torn between looking at Vargas in shock, looking at the phone in shock, and muttering between themselves.

"Don't forget to have all the fun you want with the flag before you bring it back to me! When else will you get the chance?"

This just had everyone looking at each other with shifty-eyed suspicion.

"Every man for himself! Go get your prize!"

~*~*~*~

Vargas couldn't rig worth a damn. You're twenty feet in the air with just one rope suspending you, tied at the base with a simple knot. Everything hurt from chafing, you were cold, and you couldn't help but worry over what the hell was going to happen, depending on who found you. Vil still hadn't forgiven you for projecting a gorefest of a film across the walls of Pomefiore, so he might leave you to rot or use the situation to put a particularly vicious curse on you. Idia would probably drop dead of exhaustion after reaching you, leaving you both stuck. Floyd, well. As much as you enjoyed his company, it was like hand feeding a pet tiger; eventually he'll decide your hands tastes better, it's just a matter of when. You're running the numbers on most likely scenarios based on who shows up, when some twigs snap by the meadow's edge and you look towards a small "Hi."

Little ears! Little hands! Little all over, and looking up at you with curiousity as his tail swished. Chen'ya? No, no, other Ch- name. "Cheka! Hi, sweetie, honey, baby, can you get me down?" You'd already been here an hour and your hands were nothing but tingles.

"... Okay! Why're you up there?"

"Bad man," you say as he starts to tug at the rope. "You got it?"

He shook his head. "It's hard."

"Can you go get help, honey? Bring them back to get me down?"

He nodded. This was a big boy job, he could do it. "I'll get Uncle Leona."

Please don't, you thought to yourself, but instead said "Okay, please be quick, Cheka."

He started off towards the school, and you could have sworn he vanished before he actually hit the treeline.

~*~*~*~

He was only gone for a few minutes before you realized that you were starting to move. Turns out Cheka, despite being so small, had pulled enough at the rope before he left that the knot was unraveling.

"Oh shi-" is as far as you got before you're in freefall, and you yelped as you hit the ground feet first, wheezing. Fuck. You can barely move to survey the damage, because a certain asshole had put your hands behind your back, and every move made your ankles wail in pain. The only saving grace was that the ground was soft.

At least someone had landed by you, looking you up and down.

"... Hi, Yuu."

"... Hi, Lil."

Lilia pointed up. "You're supposed to be up there."

"Vargas was too busy trying to get upskirts to secure a fucking knot, apparently." You wince as he worked at the ropes. "My feet?"

"On the right way." You gritted your teeth and hissed as he prodded at them. "Both badly sprained, left worse than right. You're not walking out of here."

"Figured." You sat up and held your arms out. "Come on, old man, you're stronger than you look."

He was, but was too small to leverage you correctly.

"Can't you fly?"

"Yes," He said as he tried to balance you on the broom. 

"Then carry me.”

"You want me to drop you?"

"Nope."

"Do we just wait for the others?"

As if on cue, you heard distant yelling and what was maybe an explosion.  

"Yeah." Lil brightened, and snapped his fingers. "I saw a place, hold on."

Said place was either a nice treehouse or an okay deer blind, wide enough in the floor that you could lay flat out as he surveyed the damage. "This should be a good place."

"What the hell is going on out there?”

"Everyone's looking for you." Lil's settled crosslegged, with an amused smile. "Vargas said you're the prize, so everyone's trying to get here first. Isn't it good I found you? Who knows what they're planning."

You set your arm over your eyes and sighed. "Brave words from someone who's broken into my room more than once."

He shrugged. "You need looking after."

"De-organizing my things isn't looking after, you damned goblin."

He bristled. "I'm not a goblin."

"What is a goblin, Lilia."

"Small little fae who like to cause trouble."

"Exactly."

You couldn't see it, but you could feel the eye-roll.

~*~*~*~

It was five minutes at the most after that before Rook climbed in the door, looking so fresh-faced and joyful to see you it made you want to swat him. "Bonjour, my Trickster! You're living up to your name, hidden away!"

"Salut, Rook." You squinted at him. "You have first aid anything?"

"Hm," He said, prodding at your calf. "I have water, but these need wrapped."

"Give." Lilia took a sip of water before passing it to you. "The uniform denim won't tear easily-”

"Oh, we use this."

"Oh no you do not," You said as you tugged the hem of your sleep shirt from his hand. "No one here gets to see my underwear."

"I don't care about your panties, I care about this," he said as he brushed an ankle, making you jerk back. "It'll get worse if they aren't wrapped. There is fabric to spare.”

You huffed before you told him not to mention it to Vil, and between him and Lilia, you had two wrapped ankles and a dangerously short hemline. At least you'd actually put underwear on before Vargas decided to kidnap you, otherwise this would be a whole other level of distressing.

~*~*~*~

"You have a phone?"

Lilia pulled his from a hidden pocket. "You want to play Sweetie Scrunch?"

"No," You say as you take it from him and start flipping through his contacts. "I'm calling help."

It took him a whole three seconds before he realized who help was. "... Nope, nope, you're not getting Malleus involved, he will eat Vargas alive, we are not causing an international incident."

"Would you rather he find out after? And he knows how to heal." You'd already texted him a brief explanation one handed, the other keeping Lilia away.

"She is not wrong, monsieur... And it would be a delight to see him raise hell."

"See?" You gave Lilia a smile that would be very sweet if it wasn't full of the devil. "C'est bon."

~*~*~*~

Mal hurtled through the window so fast it was a miracle he didn't go clean through the far wall, before he was on top of you, fussing over his precious Child of Man.

"Mal, I am fine, please fix my -"

"Dreadful, simply dreadful." He was already working a prickly green light around your bruises. "And he did that, too?" he growled as he guestured to your ragged hemline."

"No, we did that to wrap my ankles. As much as I'd love to see it, we do not need to turn Vargas into - Mal. Mal. Put your clothing back-" He'd already managed to wrap you up in his green-trimmed uniform coat. "You don't have to do that."

"Yes I do." He already had you cradled in his lap, both arms around you in a vice grip. "You won't heal immediately, I must keep you safe until then.”

Lilia raised an eyebrow at him, but said nothing. You were about to ask, before a dreadful wheezing started up from outside, and familiar pale hands had the bottom of the doorframe in a vice grip. "Help."

"Shit, Idia! Get him in here before he falls!"

~*~*~*~

Idia looked downright grey in your arms as you tried to get him to drink some water. For someone who had the physical fortitude of an overboiled noodle, he'd pushed himself to his limits looking for you, and then some.

"You're okay? Full health?" Idia sounded horribly raspy, and you fussed over his scrapes as you picked half-charred twigs from his hair. He was too tired to protest you holding onto him in much the same manner Malleus was holding onto you.

"Bout three-quarters. Fifty before Mal got here." Idia's eyes flicked to just behind your left ear before he shrank back.

You turned your head around, and Mal gave you his sweetest you're-my-best-friend smile. You looked back at Idia, who was attempting to shrink into something microscopic, and then back at Mal.

"Play nice. He's my friend too." 

Mal turned his face as innocent as he could muster. "Whatever do you mean, my friend?"

"You know what I mean."

"I do not." He wasn't looking at your face anymore.

"Yes you do. And he's you're friend too-"

Idia raised one hand tentatively. "We only play Dragon-Kun with each other."

You guestured down at Idia, still looking at Mal, looking anywhere but you. "You love your Dragon-kun. And maybe," you say as you nudge Malleus's cheek, "If you made more friends than me, you wouldn't have to be jealous when I have other friends?"

Mal's pupils were so narrow as to be barely visible when he glanced out of the corner of his eye at you, but he nodded, and mumbled a very quiet apology as Idia faintly relaxed.

"Impressive. I haven't been able to do that in years."

"That's because you're his dad."

"Do you think anyone else will show up, my Trickster? It's getting cramped in here."

You looked around and considered. "I mean, probably."

~*~*~*~

"Sevens?"

"Go fish."

"And that's when they added a dance emote, but it cause a glitch so the top half of your body started to spin around while the bottom half went normally, which would be okay, but if you collide with a wall then you clip about a mile above the ground and die from fall damage, and when they went to fix that -"

There were eight people in the treehouse, and no room for more. Mal had you in his lap in a corner. Idia was gesticulating wildly as he talked about what you were sure was this universe's version of Fallout 76, tucked against you at an angle. Floyd insisted on you using his lap as a footrest while he, Lilia and Cater played card games with an ancient deck Lilia had produced from another pocket. (You were not certain that Floyd's guesture was innocent, since he kept poking at your toes until you said you'd take them away if he didn't stop.) Rook was skipping this round to keep an eye out the window. There was maybe a half foot total of floor showing. Despite the magic fired and fists swung earlier, as soon as everyone had realized that no one was running to your rescue simply to perform their own indignities, everyone had relaxed.

Overall, it was very cozy, and as long as you could keep Idia talking instead of realizing he was crammed in a tiny room with a whole bunch of people, you could stay here quite comfortably for ages. Your ankles were currently only sore, with twinges of more, no one was at each other's throats, and as long as no one else fucked shit up, you could wait out Vargas, go home, and think about how in the hell you can report a teacher at this school for harassment.

"Trouble's coming."

Ah, shit.

Trouble, unfortunately, had figured out where they were due to the cluster of broomsticks at the base of the tree, flew to the window, and started spewing bullshit.

"What are you all doing? You abandoned the game," and here he guestured towards you, "and didn't come back with the prize. None of you would know what to do with a girl if she begged you!"

What a piece of shit, and he couldn't even read a room with eight sets of eyes glaring murder at him. He was still talking, but you weren't paying attention. Instead, you drained the last of the water, wiped your mouth on your arm, and took a deep breath.

"Get his ass."

~*~*~*~

Everyone scattered after that, not ready to deal with the consequences of ganging up on their teacher, even if he thoroughly deserved it. Everything will be dealt with tomorrow, when you can put weight on your legs without your knees buckling. Mal was walking you out of the woods personally in a princess carry, when he stopped in place.

"See, she's down, you didn't have to bug me."

You'd completely forgotten that Cheka had gone to bug Leona for help. "It's been hours."

He ignored that. "Draconia. What would your grandma say?"

"Mal-"

"I would hope she would be proud of my helping a friend." He held his head high, and brushed by Leona without another word.

"Bye!"

"Bye Cheka." You waved back at Cheka before the two lions were out of sight.

~*~*~*~

"Mal, you know you could just take me to my dorm, right?"

"Someone should keep an eye on you until you are fully healed," he said as he pulled out a pair of silk pajamas.

"Which you could do at my dorm, instead of." You guestured to the hangings on his bed. "Here."

"It's far more comfortable here than your dorm."

"I'm not kicking you out of your bed, Mal."

"You're not in a state to argue." He set the pajamas beside you, before turning to face the wall.

"About that."

He did not move a muscle.

"I'm surprised you didn't just heal them outright."

Silence.

"I know perfectly well that you can. So why didn't you?"

He still said nothing.

"Be that way, Malleus. But you know that's not okay." You flung the remains of your shirt at him, managing to catch it on one horn. "If you want me to stay over, just say that instead of conspiring to keep me dependent for an evening."

He turned, pulling the cloth from his horns, before his eyes nearly popped from his head and he hurriedly turned back to the wall. "I... am not used to this."

"Neither am I. We're going to have to have a little talk about boundaries and healthy friendships. You can turn around now."

He did, you patted the side of his bed, and he joined you.

"How do you want to do this, Mal."

"I do not."

"Tough titty, said the kitty."

He raised an eyebrow.

"I know I'm the first real friend you've had. I've been on both ends of that. You know what happens when you cling real fucking hard to your friend, and try to isolate them because you don't wanna share?"

His face was a practiced mask of emotionlessness. "What is that?"

"They suffocate, and draw away because the intensity is way too much. And then no one's happy."

Mal frowned, but said nothing.

"I do want to be your friend. I like you. You're funny, you're deeply sincere, and you're still the same person I knew when I just called you Horned Boy. But I will cut this off if you try to isolate me. I do not want to, but I will have to. If you can't play nice with others, you don't get to play with me at all."

He's so clearly trying to hide his distress and irritation, but he could not help a sigh. "You are not wrong, Child of Man. And..." He looked away. "You won't live forever. Or be here forever, at that."

"I will not. You won't either, but like, you'll outlive me. Eggs in one basket, and all. Another reason to attempt to make more friends."

"Hm." He stretched out beside you, staring at the ceiling. "With who should I start? My reputation precedes me."

"Well," you smiled, "If I've learned one thing, forced proximity does wonders with forcing Idia to like you, and he's already somewhat used to you."

He smiled at the ceiling. "I do like him."

"Me too. You'd like his little brother."

"The creation?”

"Yeah. Look, I'll network for you with other people. And I'll make sure to invite you places."

"A promise?"

"Of course. Now, are you going to take me home, or put up with the rumours of keeping me in your room all night after beating up Vargas to get at me?"

"... Oh dear."

"Yeah."

After a moment, "... I am alright with the rumours."

You snorted. "You could just ask for a sleepover next time. Don't wait for an injury."

"I will ask."

"Make sure Sebek doesn't eat me in the morning."

"I would like to see him try." He gripped your closest hand and squeezed it.

"Me too."

You lay there a few moments, scary lonely dragon boy and strange lonely human kid, hand in hand.

"Do you have any tales from your home you could tell me?"

"Mostly ones you already kind of know."

"I would still like to hear."

Even a dragon wants a bedtime story, it seems.

[like-rain-or-confetti]

Can you do a little text with your opinion about the Volturi members? What you like and dislike, they personality, they story... Would be interesting! Kissessss and have a great day! 💜

Imma have a little fun and throw the very young me into the mix to. Let's see child me vs adult me's opinions on the Volturiiii.

Fun fact: I wasn't team Volturi until I was like fifteen. Before that I was team edward... I don't want to talk about that 🤔😒

Also I'm a sucker for villains. If it isn't obvious already, I like the villains more than the heroes. (We all love a bad boy though, don't we?--- TIK TOK NOW IS NOT THE TIMEE.)

So everything i say is just my opinion and should be taken just as that.

Aro: Younger me was like "this...is a terrible person. There really is no need to expand on this." However adult me has been like "GUYS this guy is possibly the SCARIEST character. This man rips off heads AND SMILES ABOUT IT." He gives me child snatcher vibes (from the movies in particular). I thoroughly enjoy the power hungry persona. He's really fitting to be the puppeteer behind the Volturi. Even if he makes it seem it's a group effort with himself, Marcus and Caius. Realistically, Aro gets what he wants and isn't afraid to do what it takes to get it...sorry Didyme. What's even darker about it, WHICH I LOVE, is that he isn't heartless. Smeyer wrote that Aro genuinely loved his sister. It's all good to have a character that's a evil heartless monster but what's more terrifying to me is the ability for someone to do evil despite their love and emotions. It doesn't hold them back and that's what I find particularly frightening now that child me didn't comprehend. Micheal Sheen, from what I remember of his interview years ago, played on the idea that vampires of Aro's age kinda begin to lose their mind. Which, hell freaking yes. However there is one thing I hate for Aro's character that happened in the movies. Breaking dawn part 2. That fucking laugh. Don't get me wrong, hilarious. I can't not laugh but for his character I felt it was too 'hey hey I'm a crazy man hehe'. It was a but too much, even for an eccentric Aro. However, I'm not to mad at it because again, it was funny to watch. I thoroughly enjoy the ‘friendship’ Aro and Carlisle share and i love that it is ‘maintained’ throughout the books. I think it’s just a really nice detail. (I love lore. I am a sucker for it.) The one thing that didnt sit right with me is Aro marrying someone so that he wasnt the alone one whilst his co-leaders were very much in love? Was a little off for me but i suppose that just adds to the character.

Caius: child me would shrink into the seat because what did I do to this man? High key still think I wouldn't want to be Caius' child because imagine doing something wrong and you get that glare? No thank you! Scary angry man. As an adult... "He's an angry boi but...DAYUM WHY IS HE SUDDENLY SO HOT?" Just...don't get angry with me. You'll get annoying real quick and you're too pretty for that. I enjoy the taking-no-shit attitude he has but felt it could have been a little more prominent in BDP2 where Aro asks if Caius' is challenging him. I full believe Caius to an extend would be like "yes, yes I am. Don't be an idiot Aro. Use that braincell!" Which is why I adore the meme vibes I see every now and then of Caius hating Carlisle because why does Aro love that blonde so much? CAIUS HAS BEEN NOTHING BUT LOYAL-- Anyways, I can totally get why Aro wants him on his team. Caius is so angry and has so much hatred that he’s a good asset to the coven, even if not having a special ability.I do find it hard to imagine that Caius is a century older than Aro though. Although I cant picture him over forty years old lol. Although i do personally enjoy the whole Caius x Athenodora route. IT’S TRUE LOVE! Okay so maybe thats a little dramatic but its better than Aro’s lmao.

Marcus: movie Marcus is absolutely not nineteen years old and that's just a fact. If anything, he's the forty year old one lmao. Child me couldn't care about this man. He was the man who said nothing and slumped on a throne. That was Marcus. That was his character summed up. Then adult me rolled in and OMG NO DON'T DO THIS TO THIS SWEET MAN. LET HIM BE IN LOVE. As an adult i definitely became more attached. I feel like i was too young back then to get why Marcus was in the Volturi. He seemed very out of place and like a filler co-leader more than anything. However as i’ve gotten older (and written for him), I recognised that's the point. That’s Marcus’ evident grief. He isn’t there by choice and losing Didyme caused him to fall out of line with the coven. He’s lost point or purpose. Almost like its become meaningless because the love of his life was gone and he couldn't save her.So what was the aims of the Volturi to protect vampire kind when they couldn’t protect their own? He couldnt protect her. I had never heard of anything like bond identification and once i had- i was shook, like it became clear why he had been so necessary in the first place. That really is handy to understand everyones bonds in a coven, he could direct Chelsea and the two alone could destroy covens by bonds alone. Marcus makes the Volturi more realistic in a lot of ways. Like in a family, there is the happy times, goofy people like Felix, the twins representing a close bond. Afton and Chelsea, love that cant be divided. The list really goes on. Marcus represents love and heartbreak, pain, loss grief, the sad moments every family goes through. In that way he makes the coven seem less invincible, a group of people who at the end of the day, have their own weaknesses and immortality doesn’t mean a perfect existence. Especially when, in my opinion, Bella fantasized about immortality and how perfect it would be. Even after her change, she waited for her happy ending because that was somehow guaranteed in some level. Which in the end, she got but not everyone gets that happy ending we all want. I also personally think Marcus is the most feeling of the Volturi, despite being apathetic. A result of heartbreak. It’s shown he can still feel more in his own ways when he voted against Renesmee being destroyed. Furthermore, he advocated that vampire hybrids were a lot like vampires. He made that relation openly before anyone. Its almost as though losing Didyme helped him value a life?

Jane and Alec: Child me thought these two were  badass...and that still remains in my adult life. It’s always been uncomfortable to me that someone so young is so sadistic and powerful. Jane is the older twin with the ability of pain illusion...yikes. Her ability was evident in her human life along with Alec’s. His gift is sensory deprivation and these two were my favourites in the whole Saga. Still kind of are if im honest. I thoroughly enjoy the twins backstory. It has the most detail. I have a tag for the twins. Canon!twins is the tag for the twins in their book age. Unless this tag is present, the twins have been aged up :). They are very much canon but I put a bit more emphasis on tantrums. If they get angry, they both have tantrums. So whilst (unless tagged) they aren't children they can be very childish and these tantrums are pretty deadly. They’re also very possessive? I dont even know if thats the right word i’m looking for in all honesty. Lets say they get very attached if they like you. These two are probably the most secluded out of the whole Volturi.

Felix: Felix! High ranking guard due to strength and speed. I am a major supporter of Felix being a gladiator when he was human. He as a lighter grey cloak meaning he isn’t as high ranked but is so good at what he does that he’s been kept for centuries...and a lot of them. Personality? FINALLY, WE’VE GOT ONE WITH PERSONALITY!! (Im writing these out of order and i’ve just finished a chunk of Volturi members who have personalities as invisible as Afton.) Flirtatious and Light hearted, we love flirtatious and light hearted! Basically a comedian! Helllll yes, keep it going! Extremely vicious and highly aggressive? You know what? I still like it. He wouldn’t be a Volturi without a dark side. Cold blooded murderer. Yes. 10/10. Finally, someone Smeyer seems to actually care about. He flirted with Bella a couple of times in the books and i was FOR IT ALL THE WAY. I was very sad i saw none of it in the movies but im used to heartbreak by now. Im in this fandom after all. We were robbed of a lot. Strongest vampire in the world? I believe you, he’s also a hecking treeeeee. HE DO BE A TALL BOI. He actually makes Demetri look small and that’s still hilarious to me. Demetri is actually tall. However, if it isnt obvious we clearly traded backstory for personality. I cant get both smh. So...as i said before I fully believe Felix was a gladiator back in the day, hence his physique and height and excellent fighting abilities he has even as a vampire but then it kind of ends. I will say from the dawn of time, i don’t think Felix is the most academic man, just because of his era. I also think majority of the Volturi couldn’t read of write in their human lives and had to learn much older, most learning as vampires. Felix was one of these vampires, Although even now he isnt the most great at it. Then a wonderful writer known as @wallwriterstuff included it and now it’s canon in my eyes. I fully believe Felix is a slow reader and writing isn’t his strong suit either. Wallwriter also includes the possibility that Felix could be dyslexic which im all for too. For a very long time i’ve considered writing a dyslexic reader with the Volturi but have always hesitated because i don’t have it and wouldn’t want to upset someone for any misunderstandings or inaccuracies. However what i will say is that i think vampires would be the most understanding to humans with dyslexia. Learning things like that in later development or as an adult is difficult and they wouldnt think any less of you for struggling with reading, writing, numeracy- you name it. You’ll probably find they’re with you in the struggle at least half of the time. He’s also the goofball of the Volturi, even though he’s not really a goofball in our eyes, he’s the closest to a goofball out of the whole Volturi ...Emmett beats him in the Goofball wars.

Demetri: Oh yeah, it's Demetri's turn! So Demetri was previously in Amun's coven. When Chelsea gave him the old razzle dazzle...I've said Chelsea's gift so many times at this point it's getting old. I have two characters left after Demetri 😂😂 Anyway, with that Demetri was like "welp, I'm in the Volturi now." And now that they had a better tracker the previous one was kicked out. He isn’t much of a talker, polite and formal. He’s elegant (more graceful than i could ever be) and charming...yeah he is, you can say that AGAIN. He is also very calm, when next to Felix, i think everyone is calm but you know, we’ll say he’s a very calm person. I like how he was originally in the Egyptian coven with Amun. Given Amun’s goals this a pretty nice detail. NOW LETS GO TO MY VERSION. He’s very charming, calm, polite, formal and even a lil’ but quiet, i kept him pretty canon because he actually had a description to go on :))))))))))  Moving on. Demetri can be a very successful flirt when he wants to be and does have a Casanova reputation. However beyond the charming Volturi guard who has a brutal side like the rest of them, he has a chewy centre, deep down. I added that he had a child in his human life, one he doesn’t remember and very few people know about. He remembers that they died of an illness very young (around six?) but can’t remember what they look like. For that reason he doesn’t like talking about his child, he feels awful he doesn’t remember them and the loss still hits a pang in his chest. 

Heidi: Alright im ready for this one! Child me didn’t necessarily enjoy Heidi? I was rather passive about her. It was all ‘pretty vampire used for her looks’ in my eyes back then and i was never comfortable with that. I’ll get into my take on Heidi in a moment, roll on the backstory!  So Heidi knew Victoria as they used to be coven mates and we’re going to continue on as though Heidi didn’t care when she was killed? Like...its genuinely a burning question in my mind! If she didn't care, could that show the extent of Chelsea’s power in action!? (can we tell im enthusiastic about this coven yet?) It’s quite smart to have someone lure in prey. I wont lie, Heidi has quite the badass role in the coven. I wouldn't have thought about that I reckon. I’ve always thought that showed a kind of superiority. Oh you guys need to hunt your prey? pfft, ours literally comes to us. Her backstory really starts with Heidi being mistreated in her human life...a common theme Smeyer has. It can get old- i wont lie but when i give it some thought it kind of makes sense. Rosalie said it herself in eclipse, if any one of them had their happy ending, they’d be six feet under but i’d love a little bit more creativity. I could go on about how male vampires ended up being changed in comparison to female vampires but i’ll swiftly move on because that’s a whole other thing alone. Heidi was changed out of pity. (Which kinda infuriates me just to type, a pity change? Really? Really Hilda? we’ll see why it annoys me when i explain my take on Heidi.) Heidi was happy in her coven with Hilda, Victoria etc, which is hell yes. We love that. This is around the time she discovered her gift. Vampires were attracted to her and humans fell prey to her easily. Yup okay. I’ll take that. After a newborn vampire caused ‘too much attention’ Aro spared Heidi and Chelsea used her gift on Heidi. Nice, very nice aaaaand that’s where it stops and im left hanging.  Personality time with Smeyer! Lets goooo.  From what i remember and can find- she didn’t fucking have one. Apparently being pretty is enough for everyone.  Which in hindsight, fair enough on a human Bella’s perspective, its literally Heidi’s gift to lure you in no matter what. She could tell you she’s a serial killer (and technically is lmao) and is about to sell your kidneys on the black market as to which you’ll be like ‘sign me the fuck up, want my liver too? Here, let me lie on the table for you. I’m down.’ without even realising what just happened. But even beyond that...Heidi has no personality traits mentioned. In New Moon she appears to be a little flirty which im all for, why the hell not? But...thats it? Thats all I get? Then we get into fanfictions, because i read them growing up. Heidi was depicted as flirtatious, promiscuous and then it varied between manipulative or she wasnt very smart. Which i’m knocking absolutely no one for. I think you can get a badass character who is incredibly dumb. I think all characters are actually valid whether they’re a genius or flat out dumb. I love them all. However it never really sat with me. I was never quite satisfied which i was fine with until i started writing for myself. That’s when i knew i’d have to really think about what my version of Heidi would be or i’d never be happy with my work. That and you also begin to fill in the blanks? The more you write the more you flesh out a character for yourself and so that rolls into my version of Heidi! So for my Heidi, she often gets the same trope of ‘she’s pretty and rich, those types of girls have easy lives who always had everything given to them.’ Then when it’s discovered she didn’t have a good human life. It turns to the next assumption of ‘oh she’s pretty and stupid enough to be used and manipulated’. In a lot of ways, that’s what Heidi wants everyone to think. Underestimate her, please, its all the easier to manipulate you if you do.  She’s actually very smart and her rough human life made her more tough and intelligent. She’s very manipulative and yes she’s very flirty. You can look but you cant touch! She enjoys the attention her beauty gets her but if only these people would care more about what she’s like as a person. She’s not a barbie doll she will play you if she needs to. The only one who’s actually gotten far enough to sleep with Heidi is Demetri and even then the two don’t see each other romantically. They’re good friends who thinks the other is very attractive but that's where it ends. They’re basically friends with benefits some times lmao. However, Demetri got that far because he see’s the intellect Heidi actually has and acknowledges it. He thinks shes a queen who should be treated as such. She could take anything she wanted, a storm that people can only hope to survive in one piece.  Secretly she enjoys a family setting. Whilst she never really wanted children (especially when she was expected to when human), she couldn't help but melt inside seeing little human children with their loving parents. She wants that for all children. Whether that's because she lacked such affection growing up, no one knows. She’s also a really good friend, you bet she’ll have your back. Crappy ex? Well we’ll show them, wont we (Y/N)? She’ll be a bitch and enjoy every second of it. She also loves the single life, believe it or not, you’ll have more difficulty getting Heidi to settle down than you would Demetri which speaks volumes.  So yeah, move past her gift and really get to know her and you might have a very good friend.  I also don’t see Heidi having a preference between male or females and that’s in all honesty. Times have changed and if she is attracted to another female then she wont be ashamed of it. She never has been (Demetri was the first to figure that out, Felix may be the last.) Even when the times weren’t approving of different sexualities, she didn't care. She will flirt with you and find it ridiculously cute if you get flustered.

Sulpicia: Sulpicia was an orphan which i used to develop my own version of her. Sulpicia grew to love Aro which im on the fence about but yup, i’ll take it. You’ll see what happens with my version in a bit lmao. and that’s where it stops. I get no personality again but do you know what we do in this fandom? We create one and fill in the blanks baby! So i write Sulpicia very materialistic and vain, she’s most snobbish of the wives and due to the other two, also considered the meaner one. She didnt have such things as a child being an orphan so when she got the opportunity to have it-she jumped. She isnt easily impressed and married Aro not for love but for immortality, money and status. (He’s only married you for your money, princess Jasmine! HE ONLY MARRIED YOU FOR YOUR MONEY! Damn it tik tok, but make it princess Aro) Which works well, because Aro doesnt necessarily love her either, he just wanted a mate so he wasnt the odd one out.He literally created her because he was like “Yup, you’ll do.” The two recognised they made a great team and image so they kinda grew to love each other? A little bit? Sure we’ll say its love...sorta. ANYWAY, It’s a highlight to Sulpicia being locked in that tower where she doesnt need to see Aro every little moment, it’s better than having a husband who she’d need to see everyday. ...Yeah my Sulpicia is something else lmao.

Athenodora:  Athenodora is one of the oldest vampires in existence which kinda has me shook but I'll take it. She met Caius when he was fleeing from the Romanians, the two travelled together until they met Aro. Whilst on their nomadic travels they seemingly became mates. That's all we know about that. As to which the Volturi coven was made. Athenodora is completely loyal to Caius as well as highly dependent on him and I think that's very realistic given her circumstances. That's where their story ends...maybe for Smeyer but not for me! 😁 So I picture Caius and Athenodora being different sides of the same coin. Athenodora really mellows Caius, she is no where near is violent and sadistic as he is but due to her unwavering loyalty and dependency, she doesn't feel inclination to go against him...also because of Chelsea and Corin but I've said that so many times in this post I think we get the point. I think she's actually more gentle and soft spoken but that being said. She is very reserved and if she were to be angered she'd very much change. She could cut you down with words alone. Caius loves it. However beyond this is someone who is very maternal. Caius would appreciate it more if the two had children but instead it has created empathy. Caius doesn't want that when he can rip their head off. She struggles a little more with the 'no second chances' and that's another reason why Caius keeps her locked away and away from it. These two love each other more than words can describe. After being through so much with someone, the love can only grow. The two would happily risk their life for the other. Caius is saddened that he could never give her the family she wanted. He knows that to this day, Athenodora tries to reign in that side of her. He's a very supportive husband who's very different around his wife. He's much more tolerant, and angry. Simply more at ease. If anything happened to Athenodora, to put it simply...there would be hell to pay.

Didyme: Married to Marcus and Aro’s biological sister. Cute, me likely, keepy going. Her gift was happiness induction. VERY ADORABLE- Dont be as menacing as your brother...please. She was born several years after Aro and was changed by Aro ten and a half years after he was turned. (Dont tease me with all this lore Smeyer, I know what you’re gonna do) Aro was deeply disappointed her gift was just to make people happy- its okay Didyme, we love you. Aro is just...Aro. Her gift made many fall in love with her and its so freaking cute i CANT- but she only felt the same feelings for Marcus. MY HEART IS SO WARMMMM. Unfortunately they were so happy together that they lost interest in anything Volturi and were ready to leave. (Uh oh.) Aro, being the sneaky fellow he is, was like “I’m really happy for y’all of course you can leave. I love you my babies. My best friend and my sisterrrrrrr, I am the captain of this SHIP.” but was actually like “wait, no, no, no, not my Marcus. D-D-Did-Didyme I NEED him.” Think Sid the Sloth from ice age in the first movie when Sid really wants the baby. So this man is like...gonna have to do it to em and murder. He killed Didyme secretly (dunno how he pulled the secret part off- like i know how he did it but how did no one hear or see anything or even suspect anything IT WAS LITERAL FRIENDLY FIRE but we love the drama so continue.) Ironically enough she was very close with Aro and the two actually did love each other, Aro is just...murderous apparently, to the extent that even his sister isnt safe. And that’s it. That’s Didyme. Which im like...alright Smeyer i see you. I like this and expanded on this with my Didyme.  i get the vibes that Didyme is the most innocent and kind of all the Volturi. Losing her meant losing the consciousness within the Volturi making them all the more ruthless because there was no one to say. “Guys, maybe lets rethink this? and quickly because i cant get Caius to put down the torch thats currently on fire.” Losing Didyme made Marcus mostly become passive and would rarely stop anything that happened. I often wonder if that provoked a lot of guilt for Marcus later on. (However thats a spoiler for something im currently writing...;) ) I also think of her as a major daydreamer and the most soft, gentle person anyone will ever meet. Like its difficult not to like her despite being in the Volturi, even the Romanians would have struggled if they met her. So in the long run...i hate nothing about Didyme, only find more and more love lmao.

Corin: So im going to be honest and tell you i have no idea what Corin would look like. I’ve got nothing and when i was younger i wasnt even sure if Corin was male or female. Like a lot of these names, i had never heard of the name ‘Corin’. I dont write for her as of yet because im still trying to figure her out. I think she’s quite quiet, she lets her gift do most of the work for her in keeping the wives, Chelsea and Caius when he doesnt get to go on a rampage, content. She was brought in also after Didyme died but Marcus refused her gift.That’s all i’ve got for her. Her gift is amazing, pretty underrated in my personal opinion since like Chelsea, she really helps keep the Volturi unified but other than that, I dont have much to say about her. :(

Afton:  Another character i basically filled the blanks in for myself. So what we’re told is that he’s Chelsea’s mate and has the ability to disappear . Whilst thats a pretty cool trick...the volturi dont necessarily need it but they have to keep Chelsea happy and she demands that Afton stays so welcome to the family Afton! I also recently learned that if you hide behind Afton and he goes invisible infront of an opponent, you too will also be invisible. I figure that is until the opponent moves and basically changes their perspective but i could be wrong with that last part. That’s all we get so time for my unnecessary input!  SO AFTON IS A TOTAL SWEETHEART. He’s very shy but polite. This is a complete opposite to his mate Chelsea. It’s actually what she liked about him. At first is was just be flirtatious to the shy vampire but when she actually got to know him... she fell hard. It was also Chelsea who had made the first move since Afton was so shy. Of course she’d never say so and Afton would never want to embarrass her so that was never really disclosed to anyone who wasn’t around at that time. She brings Afton out of his shell a lot and it wasn’t long before the two were mates. Chelsea is the light of his life. Hands down. He puts up with a lot for her and is happy to do so. She could ask anything of him and he’d do it and she doesn’t even need to use her gift. He buys are anything she wants almost instantly. He cant help but adore her passionate personality, like how hooked she can get on era’s such as the 1920′s, her love for jazz music and her ability to gush on and on about anything. The two had what the other lacked and that made them an excellent team. I love their relationship. I cant help it. However, as i said before Afton is very shy and tends to keep to himself. Sadly that, paired with Chelsea’s demand to keep him in the Volturi has left Afton a little bit outcasted. All the other permanent guards were wanted and considered important whilst Afton...not so much. Although that isn’t to say the other guards are mean to him or anything. They aren’t! (Except the twins who are...the twins.) Felix and Demetri tried to include him a lot but it was very difficult to break him out of his shell. That doesn’t mean to say they wont invite Afton when he’s around. Chelsea always appreciates their efforts. Afton is notably good friends with Santiago, who often preferred solitude as well. 

(Guard to the left is who I imagine Afton is)

Chelsea: So supposedly Chelsea’s original name is Charmion? When i was younger i didnt really care much about her. I only really knew her gift and that she was the reason Afton was kept in the Volturi, since they were mates. From what im aware Chelsea basically wasnt in the movies/not identified. There wasnt much said about her in the books either. So since then i’ve kind of developed my own persona of Chelsea that could be completely inaccurate to canon but canon was my foundations with characters like these. She was always a red head in my eyes with ringlets, a copper kind of red head. I also pictured her to be small. However the newest addition to her character would have to be the mid-Atlantic accent. I blame Poppy Hill for this one. That character screamed Chelsea to me. She was very close to how i imagine Chelsea to be. So now Chelsea has an accent that i have no clue how she managed to maintain being in Italy so long and being born in Greece. LMAO. We’ll say she was very attached to that time. However, I think the time she joined the Volturi was actually very good for the story. She first came around just after Marcus had lost Didyme and Aro had her use her ability to keep Marcus in the coven. it’s really cool how she could really make or break the coven. Although, Aro was smart enough to not fully rely on her, using Corin’s ability on Chelsea to make sure she’d be happy and stay within the Volturi. Thats where the information on Chelsea really ends Over the years Chelsea has appeared in my writing and so beyond this point, Chelsea’s character is only my depiction.  I figure Chelsea is a talker, like she can talk her way in and out of situations with ease. She enjoys being manipulated and even more so, being needed.Much like her gift, she gets under people’s skin- not in terms that she’s annoying but more so she can figure out people very well. Her mate is the complete opposite and so she often speaks on the behalf of them. Chelsea is very social and charismatic. She along with Heidi are the only two Volturi members who will be out and interacting with humans if necessary. Heidi for her ability but Chelsea purely for her social skills. She’s also the most interested in human culture. She loves the parties- the 1920′s being her favourite era in terms of fashion. She has no issue changing her name and has done so multiple times when the names run out of fashion.It’s like playing dress up! I’d actually love to write more about her. I’ve really grown to love her character, even if i filled in some blanks for myself. I think she and Afton’s relationship is one of the best, up there with Carlisle and Esme- despite the two being very different. It’s a part of their dynamic!

(I always imagined Chelsea to be a red head but Poppy Hill from THOHH is a very close depiction to Chelsea in my eyes)

Renata: A stressed little bean that lives on stress. I remember thinking when i was younger she was the big threat since she was Aro’s shield but now that im older i see...a stressed little five foot bean. I have no idea what she looks like but always imagine her dark hair tied in a tight bun, looking almost painful. Another who wears heels, like Heidi but she is very rigid just as she has been described. Her uncle is a bit of an ass considering he begged her to go with the Volturi so there wouldn’t be a threat. Dude, can you not just...hand over your niece? At least hesitate! Just like that, thanks to Chelsea, she’d give her life to protect Aro and...I have nothing else. Yes it does drive me mad that there are two named guards i know next to nothing about.

Santiago:So what’s known about Santiago is that he doesn’t actually have an ability. He’s just very good at battle techniques and fighting which is why he’s kept around. If they need fighters, they’re top three are Felix, Demetri and Santiago...in that order. Santiago is also much faster than a regular vampire (as shown in breaking dawn part 2- he caught up to Jacob and Renesmee quite fast despite the two having a running start and wolves supposedly being very fast- much like a vampire) That’s all we know of him so then i got in there and this is how I write Santiago. I gave him the background of coming from a superstitious family. Like he would be told tales of demons and witches growing up as well as things like voodoo. He knew an awful lot of urban legends and whilst he stopped believing in the bad luck his family taught him, he still held interest and couldn’t help the instinct of unease when witnessing such things as rituals. It’s ironic really. However Santiago always deems that humans have it all wrong. These forces are beyond human understanding and shouldn’t be played with. In that way, perhaps Santiago still has some belief in things such as superstition. He’s very secretive about it and would never clarify it for you. Santiago keeps to himself and can be quite standoffish. He can also be blunt even if it’s insulting- he doesn’t tend to care. Although he and Afton became quite good friends since the Afton was an outcast and Santiago didn’t enjoy large groups, or most people in general.

[suzukiblu]

@homeyhumblelife: Hey, in progress means I can not read right. Because let me tell you. Mermaid!Jaskier hit a cord and I need it now.

Well, it’s nowhere near done, but you know what, have the so-far: 

(and a read-more, obviously, because this is a fair chunk of words, lol)

Jaskier falls in love with a witcher. It’s a bad idea, of course, but he falls in love with a lot of bad ideas. He’s always longed to have things he can never have, to go places he can never go. This isn’t something new. 

The witcher kills a siren in the water. Jaskier watches from a distance, hidden behind the craggy stones in the depths. That’s not enough to make him fall in love, of course—he’s easy, but not THAT easy—but it does make him intrigued. 

The siren takes the witcher’s silver sword to her gut, but clips his head with her tail and knocks him off his little boat. They both sink, bleeding. Jaskier’s been avoiding the siren, but he swims in closer. He thinks the siren’s dead, or at least dying. The witcher, though . . . 

The witcher’s still sinking. 

Jaskier swims closer unthinkingly, and then he finds himself grabbing the witcher under the arms and swimming towards the surface with him. He’s heavy in all his armor, but Jaskier’s a strong swimmer. They break the surface, and the witcher stirs weakly, a hand grasping at the side of his little boat. Jaskier lets go of him quickly and darts away and downwards. The witcher will think he imagined it, if he remembers. 

Jaskier’s not the sort to leave someone to drown, so . . . 

Besides. It’ll make for a much more satisfying story if the witcher lives. 

He follows the witcher’s little boat to shore, careful to stay out of sight. The witcher disembarks groggily and trudges out of the waves, his medallion flashing brighter than Jaskier’s own scales in the moonlight, and his black armor and white hair drip with seawater. 

He’s very handsome. 

That’s still not enough to make Jaskier fall in love, though. 

“The siren is dead,” the witcher says to the lantern-carrying fishermen awaiting him on the dock, his voice carrying across the water. It’s a lovely voice, Jaskier thinks, peering out from behind a convenient rock. Nearly as lovely as his own, which is saying something for a human. 

Well—a witcher. 

“Both of them?” one of the fishermen says. The witcher’s lip curls. 

“Both of them,” he says. Jaskier blinks. He hadn’t seen a second siren. 

“They won’t be singing around here anymore, then, the vicious things,” the fisherman says, and Jaskier blinks again. He hasn’t heard any siren song. The only one who’s been singing around here is—

Oh. 

Jaskier ducks beneath the water, covering his mouth with his fingertips. He hadn’t realized the humans were hearing his songs. He’s just been trying to avoid other merpeople, lest someone tell his parents where he’s wandered off to this time. He wasn’t thinking about HUMANS. 

He doesn’t understand, though. Why did the witcher lie? 

Jaskier resurfaces and peers out from behind his rock again. The fishermen hand the witcher a coin purse, and the witcher tucks it away. Then they turn away and leave him on the dock. 

Jaskier is ALMOST stupid enough to swim closer, but not quite. The witcher turns towards the water, and he hides behind his rock. 

“You should move on,” the witcher says, his voice echoing across the water again. “Your songs are pretty things, but these people can’t tell the difference between your kind and a monster.” 

So that’s when Jaskier falls in love. 

The witcher turns back towards shore and leaves, and Jaskier covers his burning face and sinks beneath the waves. He aches to be able to follow the witcher and do . . . SOMETHING. 

Kiss him, probably. He’d very gladly do that. 

But he can’t follow him, of course. But his face still feels hot, and he still wants to. 

No one’s ever called his songs pretty before. 

If he could, Jaskier would walk right out of the sea right now and catch the witcher’s hand and pull him to him and sing him the loveliest song he knows. It’s not often someone’s saved his life, after all, even if he saved theirs first, and even if only by not going out of their way to kill him. Jaskier’s fairly certain he wouldn’t have been that difficult to track down, if the humans can hear his songs from where he’s been singing. 

So yes, he’s most certainly in love. 

It won’t come to anything, though, just like every other love he’s had; just like the way he craves to walk out of the water, the places he wants to go, the kind of songs he wants to sing. The escape he wants, and the freedom. 

Except then . . . then the next day he meets a witch on the beach. She’s wearing a purple dress criss-crossed by black straps, and she seems uninterested in the docks. She has purple eyes, too. 

Jaskier thinks it’s an awfully convenient coincidence, so he asks her for a wish. 

“Why would I do that?” she says. 

“Why not?” he says, folding his arms on the rock he’s lounging on and peering up at her. The bottom of her skirt is wet. She looks tired. Jaskier doesn’t know if that’s normal, with witches. 

“Magic has a cost,” she says bitterly. 

“That’s fine,” he says, flicking his silvery tail. “If you can give me what I want, it’d be worth it.” 

“You don’t even know what it’s going to be,” she says. 

“You don’t know how badly I want it,” he says. 

She looks at him. She laughs. 

“Fine,” she says. “Why not. What’s your wish, boy?” 

“I want legs,” Jaskier says, flicking his tail again. “Like humans have.” 

“You want to be human?” the witch says, wrinkling her nose. 

“No,” Jaskier says. “I just want legs.” 

“The sun will burn you,” she says. 

“I’ll live,” he says with a shrug. He’s more used to the sun than most merpeople, anyway. He spends a lot of time near the surface, WANTING. 

He wants a lot of things, and having legs would get him most of them. 

“Fine,” the witch says again. “Let me see what I can do.” 

What she can do HURTS, it turns out, and leaves Jaskier thrashing in the shallows as agony splits down his fins. He screams, and hopes the humans won’t hear it across the water. His throat hurts almost as much as his fins do. 

“I told you,” the witch says as the pain finally starts to recede, and Jaskier pants, trying to recover himself. Everything feels sensitive and painful, though the cold water soothes some of it. 

He looks down at himself. 

He has legs. They look human. He tries to move them, and it feels . . . very strange, and a little painful. 

“I hope you’re happy, boy,” the witch says. 

“I—” Jaskier starts, and then gags as KNIVES stab into his throat. He gasps in pain, and that hurts too. The witch frowns. 

“What is it?” she says. 

“My voice,” he manages to croak out, clutching at his neck, and it hurts so badly he thinks he might die. The witch’s face clears. 

“Ah,” she says. “I suppose that’d be the cost, then.” 

Jaskier tries to say something again, but the pain is too terrible to speak past. The witch leans down and grabs his arms and pulls at them, and he somehow figures out how to stumble to his feet. His aching new legs are long. He’s taller than her. 

“Come on,” she says, pulling one of his arms over her shoulders. “Let’s get you inside. And maybe find you some pants, while we’re at it.” 

Jaskier chokes on a strangled noise as he reflexively tries to reply to her, but he manages to walk. The witch pulls him along, and they leave the water for the first time in his life and walk down the craggy beach together. The little stones hurt his tender feet, but nothing hurts like his throat does. 

The witch takes him to a white tent and takes him into it. It’s bigger on the inside, and full of things he doesn’t know the names of. Some of them he’s seen in sunken ships, but that’s not particularly helpful. 

“Go sit on the bed,” she says, letting go of him. He gives her a blank look, not willing to try speaking again. Nothing in here looks like a bed to him. She looks up at him and sighs, then pushes him towards the center of the tent and the massive square structure of wood and cloth sitting in the middle of it. He puts a hand on it. It’s soft, under the cloth. 

The witch kneels in front of a heavy-looking . . . crate, he thinks? Though it’s an odd-looking one. She opens its lid and digs down into its contents, and comes up with armfuls of cloth. Jaskier watches curiously, wanting to ask but not stupid enough to try talking again just yet. 

“Here we go,” she says, getting to her feet again and bringing the cloth over to him. He touches it. It’s heavy, for cloth. “Hm. You probably don’t know how to get dressed, do you.” 

Jaskier shakes his head. The witch sighs, unfolds the cloth to reveal it to be clothing, and walks him through the process. He’s clumsy with it, but mostly because of his unsteady legs. The rest is easy enough. 

“There we go,” she says, straightening the front of the doublet she’s helped him into and stepping back as he pulls on the boots. “Well, you’re a little overdressed for the local fishing village, maybe, but better overdressed than under.” 

Jaskier wants to ask her SO many things, but even opening his mouth to try sends a warning prickle of pain through his throat. She looks up at him and sighs again. 

“I’d ask if it was still worth it, but that’d be a bit nasty of me,” she says. 

Jaskier has the thought that he might never sing again, and isn’t sure how to respond. 

Not vocally, obviously. 

The witch hands him a coin purse. It jingles. 

“Well, that’s all I can do for you,” she says matter-of-factly. “Do your best. Try not to get too badly sunburned.” 

Jaskier wants to ask her so many things, but apparently he should’ve done that before the magic happened, so instead he just nods, and he leaves her white tent, and he goes out into a part of the world he’s never touched in his life. 

He knows where the fishing village is, so he decides to go there first. He’s not interested in staying there, but there’ll be a road he can follow, he thinks. Human villages have roads. His legs are still weak, but they work. And he’s sure they’ll get stronger. 

He’s going to MAKE them get stronger, if he has to. 

In the village, people look at him like he’s a stranger, which is a novelty. Jaskier has rarely been a stranger in his life. He walks around, distracted from his goal of the road by all the unusual little HUMANNESSES of the place. He looks at the squat old buildings and the weather-worn people. He walks down to the beach and watches the fishermen bring in their catch, though that’s something he’s watched before. Humans fish differently than merpeople do, though, and it’s interesting to watch them from the shore instead of the sea. It’s not too sunny today, so he can watch without worrying about that. 

Eventually, though, Jaskier goes back into the village and looks for the road. He’s distracted by little paths more than once, but it’s not difficult to find in the end. 

He stands at the edge of the village and looks out at the road, not sure what to do with it. They don’t really have roads in the sea, though he knows what they are. He’s seen them in flooded towns and cities before, and they lead places. 

He supposes the only thing to do is to follow it, really. 

Something makes a rhythmic clacking sound behind him, and he glances back over his shoulder and finds an approaching horse—humans ride those, much as his people ride dolphins and sharks—and straddling the horse’s back . . . 

Oh, he thinks, feeling an odd warm rush. 

It’s the witcher. 

Jaskier’d thought he must already be gone, but apparently he was wrong. 

He immediately wants to say something, but of course he can’t. The witcher frowns briefly at him, and Jaskier wonders if he knows him for a stranger here. 

“What?” the witcher says, looking suspicious. Jaskier realizes he’s staring at him, but can’t bring himself to stop. He wants to say SO many things, but any one of them would be a knife in his throat. 

He doesn’t know what to do about it. 

For lack of a better idea, he gives a flourishing little bow in imitation of a greeting. The witcher’s frown deepens, so . . . that didn’t work, clearly. 

“What are you doing out here?” the witcher says. Jaskier shrugs, then gestures to the road. It seems obvious enough to him. The witcher doesn’t stop frowning, though. “Do you speak?” 

Jaskier winces, and makes a little “so-so” gesture, then shakes his head. Because he still CAN, technically, but he certainly doesn’t WANT to. Not if it’s going to keep hurting that badly. 

“Hn,” the witcher says. Jaskier smiles sheepishly at him. The witcher gives him an inscrutable look, then walks his horse forward. Jaskier falls into step beside them reflexively, and the witcher frowns down at him. 

Jaskier tries to figure out a way to do . . . literally anything that'll make the other let him follow him. Usually he'd talk him into it—talking is his specialty—but . . . 

Well, that's not going to work this time, obviously. 

The witcher doesn't hurry his horse or say anything, though, so maybe Jaskier doesn't need to talk him into it. He keeps pace with the horse as best he can, though his weak legs are already starting to burn from walking around the village and to the shore and back. It doesn't hurt anywhere near as much as speaking did, so he'll be fine. He can keep up. 

He wants to ask the witcher SO many things. 

The witcher lets him follow him down the road, and it's a long walk, but Jaskier keeps up. If he stops, he's sure he'll never see the witcher again, and that would be . . . such a waste. Such a shame. 

He's made it this far. He can make it a little farther. 

The witcher stops to feed and rest his horse and let it drink from a thin little river. Jaskier drops down into the shadowed grass under a convenient tree with a sigh that hurts his throat. His skin's a little hot, but not burnt. The cloud cover is enough to protect it, it seems, at least for today. 

Maybe he should've just wished to be human, he thinks, but it'd seemed like such an odd idea when the witch had said it. 

The witcher gets back on his horse. Jaskier gets up too, legs already aching. He's very tired, but again, he's made it this far. 

He doesn't really know what he's expecting to happen, honestly. He just wants to follow the witcher, so he is. 

Well, he is in love, after all. He's done sillier things for that. 

They keep walking. Jaskier wonders what the witcher’s name is. He doesn't know how to ask without, well . . . ASKING. 

[our-wargame]

miss the sun, and it starts to snow

Rating: M Pairing: Oda Sakunosuke / Dazai Osamu Tags: Implied Sexual ContentI...I...legitimately wrote this for fluff week...but it's not fluff. Mutual Pining. I can't even use the fluff and angst tag because it's literally not fluff. Chuuya's a Hoe and Also The Reason I Wrote This - Thank Him. Angst. angst with a ? ending. Ambiguous/Open Ending. Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence. One suicide mention. Hurt/Comfort. But Mostly Hurt Word Count: 2099 Status: Complete AO3 Link

Summary:

Sleeping with someone who cares about you too much despite the warning signs is the most selfish thing Dazai's done in the entirety of his lifetime, and he's slaughtered numbers and brought down entire nations to try and understand himself.

He knows this will not end well. They keep fucking like it might.

The first time Oda Sakunosuke fucks Dazai Osamu, it's a little more than a good decision made by two mature consenting parties. It starts with a slow night at Bar Lupin; low lights, lax words, long talks of nothing and everything. Tonight is not the first time Dazai looked at Odasaku and remembered the stars glittering for them, or the last time that he had thought, maybe the galaxy in its lonesome darkness could learn to live with some light. But it is the first time Dazai figures out the look in Odasaku's eyes, finally registers it for what it is. He breaks off from the middle of a bad joke. With an elbow on the counter propping him up and his chin in his hand, his bangs dance in and out of his eyes when he gives a little shake of his head, a little grin. "Odasaku."

"Mm?" Odasaku's gaze is too warm, too kind. All of his features are even softer under the mellow lighting. 

Dazai's grin gets a little meaner. "You should know better than to look at me like that!" Like you want me. "If you were anyone else, I'd have already taken your hand in mine and asked you to come home with me!" His drink tastes like layers and layers of lies. Don't.

The gate's been blown wide open; there are an infinite number of responses that could walk into his arms. But this is Odasaku, Odasaku who tils his head a degree, says, with meaning, "Do you want me to go home with you?"

Odasaku holds himself still, waits because he understands Dazai needs to search him. When Dazai can find nothing in his eyes that say anything else besides I'd choose you, if ever you'd let me, he's a fool for wanting to give in.

He tosses back the rest of the contents of his glass, a mess of melted ice and soft heat splashing down his throat, then rises to a stand. The bar stool shakes a little from his- enthusiasm? anxiousness? Odasaku waits. "I do." Dazai replies, and it is the most honest thing he has said so far, but that doesn't negate that it takes every bit of his willpower to keep holding Odasaku's gaze. They could stop here. They could turn back to talking about nothing at all.

The pressing need to flee battles against the way his chest hurts when he thinks about Odasaku and his willingness to offer a friend the universe.

Shut up. Just shut up. He should stop now. Shut. Up.

"Will you?" says Dazai.

So their first kiss is not preceded by the slide of a grin, the slip of a laugh. Dazai steps into Odasaku's space, a little concerned with how his approach feels like he's threatening Odasaku more than anything else, but Odasaku is already leaning in, slotting their mouths together. And that is that. That is that, because then Odasaku disengages, looks down to assess Dazai's reaction, absolutely overreacting in his care and attention. Dazai stares back at him, doing the same. And then they are leaving Lupin.

The first time Odasaku fucks Dazai, there is a little more to it than what's said. It may be a mistake, because this is not how things are supposed to go, is it? You can acknowledge your feelings, tuck them away, and never bring them up again. You can acknowledge your feelings and choose not to pursue them. But he wants to.

The beginnings of regret, the poison in his veins, is watered down, bearable. 

That night, Odasaku part his lips with his own, again and again and again. Dazai's had a couple of meaningless hookups with nameless mafia members before, but this is anything but that, so he fumbles in every instant that Odasaku is too close and yet not close enough. The lingering scent of smoke on Odasaku's coat lights the room. Dazai gets his hands in the thick of Odasaku's hair, presses teeth to the shell of an ear, slides his tongue over steady collarbone, trying to burn bruises there. Sometime later, he find himself burying his face into the warm crook between neck and shoulder, just breathing them in.

Lying in the same bed in the aftermath, Dazai knows he doesn't regret this but he may come to. The truth is, he's afraid of what comes next.

"Osamu," says Odasaku, rescuing Dazai, rather jarringly, out of his own head. "Stop thinking so loudly." It is a request- talk to me.

Dazai closes his eyes. He tugs the blankets over his head, curling his entire body inward, towards Odasaku, but keeping distance. Then he finds Odasaku's fingers, leaves the back of his hand against Odasaku's palm. Odasaku's thumb comes down to tap his palm once, then retreats, because you can't corner a stray dog and expect it not to get away in any way it knows how to. Dazai leaves between two and three in the morning anyways. Odasaku lets him, only telling him to grab an extra coat from the closet because of the cold. This is the little Dazai can comply with, so he complies, he does.

Sleeping with someone who cares about you too much despite the warning signs is the most selfish thing Dazai has done in the entirety of his lifetime, which is really something considering he's slaughtered numbers and brought down entire nations to try and understand himself. 

He knows this will not end well, so the only question is if the war he's fighting is between knowing and wanting to believe differently, or deciding who he can bring himself to trust more.

This does not end well. They keep fucking like it might.

****

The first time Dazai uses Odasaku's given name, Odasaku isn't even present. Using it is an accident, the unfortunate result of accumulating far more hours of stress than sleep, particularly the last four nights, which have requested the best of the Port Mafia to meet on each one. More importantly, The first time that Dazai says Sakunosuke, it is not so much an accident as it is a mistake. This means he can bite his tongue all he wants when he realizes what's left his lips, but the rest of the room falls silent with or without him. Chuuya's head snaps up, off of the meeting table from where it was resting in nap and the expression he turns on Dazai is both too incredulous and violent to be a grin.

"What a scandal- the executive sleeping with the errand boy!'" Chuuya gasps. "Does this mean Sakunosuke-"

Dazai plunges his hand into his pocket. Chuuya doesn't even bother with his ability- just tilts his head, lets the entire pistol fly by, clocking the wall and clattering to the ground.

Triumphant. "-is finally moving up the ladder?" Vicious. "The man deserves a different position! It's only right to return the favor...I assume he puts you in a different one every night-" 

Dazai contributes a solid effort towards putting a bullet through Chuuya's kneecap. It is a good place to go for, because even reconstruction surgery does not revive that which dies. In the end, their meeting table collects some new scars and the Golden Demon is summoned to hold him back. He cannot be objective about whether it is more for his own good or for Chuuya's, but his partner's sneer is telling, as is the gloat, the edge of his coat flaring out when he shows Dazai his back and skips off.

Dazai not hate Chuuya. There is nothing to be held against Chuuya, and he will acknowledge Chuuya's act of grace ungrudgingly. They're dogs after all. To savage without mercy when weakness is exposed is expected of them. Those who can not understand are driven from the pack and those who teach the law to others walk on. Dazai prefers the stray dogs.

He loathes himself a little more. 

 For Sakunosuke, today is a visit to the kids. He spends the usual number of hours of the afternoon with them, until his phone rings. The number of people who would call him are few, and the fraction of them who would call right now are even fewer. He knows it's Dazai. Even as he brings the phone to his ear, he knows there's something wrong.

"Odasaku-"

"Where are you," he interrupts, and his voice is rough from the worry so he swallows. Tries again. "Dazai, I'm coming. Where are you?"

"...your apartment. In 10?"

"Be there in 10." He promises. A moment is spent debating whether or not to hang up- would Dazai prefer to stay on call? But the line goes dead and he gets moving. Quick hugs for the kids, his thanks goes to the curry shop owner, and then he's gone.

There's very little that distresses Dazai. With his lips pressed in a tight line, Sakunosuke grips the steering wheel tighter and tries to keep within twice the speed limit. This is his fault.

Dazai's always known how Sakunosuke feels about him, just like he's known it's never not been mutual, even before Dazai said yes, before they'd walked away, hand in hand, that first night. But it's fault, because then he let Dazai drift, walk free. He thought it was time that would slowly pull Dazai into coming to terms with believing- they could make it work. But now he sees what he was extending, what he thought was kindness, for only its flaws. Right now, Dazai does not need Sakunosuke's patience.

What Dazai needs is a reminder. A reminder that he is only everything to Sakunosuke. Even if this does not end well...Sakunosuke is too selfish to want anything else for them. 

Racing through the city takes an eternity. He takes the stairs instead of the elevator to give himself something to do, with his heartbeat thundering in his head, but counts to ten, reigns himself in, when he works the doors instead of breaking them down.

Dazai lies in their bed, lies on his side, doesn't lift his head. "Odasaku..."

"I'm here." Sakunosuke murmurs. The mattress sinks a little when he sits on the edge of the bed, his back to Dazai. After a moment, he hears it creak again, Dazai shifting, moving close so he can reach and wrap an arm around Odasaku's waist, rest his hand on Odasaku's knee. Odasaku threads their fingers together. He doesn't know what it is that set Dazai off, because there are too many possibilities. Life. Death. Work.  Mafia. Osamu. Sakunosuke. Nothing. Everything. If he could take Dazai's misery and make it his own, he would.

Dazai squeezes his fingers. Sakunosuke makes himself breathe.

 An eon goes by. And then another. Humans live, humans die. Someone scrawls down history in letters and sends bottles out to sea. 

Dazai whispers, "How's Sakura?" 

"I love you."

Dazai flinches like he's been burned. This is the first time Odsaku has said it out loud, but is only cruel for him to give the words to Dazai right now. Sakunosuke relaxes his grip so that Dazai can disengage if he wants to, but this time, if Dazai runs, Odasaku will chase him. This doesn't mean he isn't tensed from head to toe, doesn't have the rest of his muscles locked. 

"I love you too."

Odasaku's inhale is sharp. He wants, so badly wants to believe that this isn't a goodbye.

 They could run away. Ango would help them hide the kids, the curry shop owner....and then what? Move, pack up every time, word of men in black are spotted some dozen miles away? Port Mafia is ruthless, Mori relentless.

They could part ways. It is- possible- that Odasaku will be allowed to leave the organization and yet, unlikely. Mori is a man of logic. He will find a way to use Sakunosuke up entirely beforehand, or if he is let go, somehow, Dazai will be used to call him back. Neither of them are okay with either of these.

They could die. It has been some time since he's asked, because he's stayed willing to learn himself, and because Sakunosuke still wants to write some day. This must be where Dazai's thoughts go now, and Sakunosuke trips over the same rabbithole. But they deserve better than that. If Sakunosuke is to die, it will be dying fighting.

They could stay. They could live and hurt and die a little and stay.

 His ability only sees six seconds into the future. He does not know how this ends. Dazai's fingers are warm against his.

---

Notes:

I'm dying to debrief the story owo.... As an additional disclaimer, I wrote the beginning and middle and end bit in entirely different moods but humor me and pretend it came out okay. [Legitimately Chuuya’s part is what convinced me to develop the rest of it mwahhaa]

*claps my hands* Though it's technically an open ending, I prefer Dazai still holding Odasaku's hand. :) He stays.

Let me know what you thought (tumblr replies yo); as always, reblogs appreciated + hmu on tumblr to talk odazai

[blouisparadise]

Upon request, here is continuation of our angsty fic rec list. If you’re looking for bottom Louis fics with some painful angst, you’ve come to the right place. If you missed the first angsty fic rec list we did, you can find it here.

Happy reading!

1) Just Stop Your Crying (It’s a Sign of the Times) | Explicit | 5864 words

My own imagining of the inspiration for Sign of the Times.  Featuring boys in love, even after all this time.

2) Give Me Things To Stay Awake | Explicit | 10261 words

AU. It's been a year since Louis broke up with Harry.

3) This Glorious Mess | Mature | 14260 words

His head lolls to the side, and his eyes float open to focus on what used to be his bedside table.

It’s empty now, devoid of the framed photo of the two of them. And Louis knows that he has no right to feel hurt, but somehow, this only confirms what this really is.

“This is the last time,” he cries, his voice breaking both from pleasure and pain.

“I know, baby,” Harry breathes, burying his face in Louis neck.

4) Baby Honey | Explicit | 14744 words

When the next great war strikes, all alphas have to ship out. Alex leaves a little more behind than some of the others.

5) Wait For Me (To Come Home) | Explicit | 16066 words

"i’m always soft for you, that’s the problem. you could come knocking on my door five years from now and i would open my arms wider and say, ‘come here, it’s been too long, it felt like home with you.’"

6) Maps Can Be Poems When You’re On Your Way | Not Rated | 18974 words

Harry falls in love with the guy his best friend is fooling around with.

7) Monsters At Home | Explicit | 21566 words

High School!AU. Everyone's eyes are on Harry, the beautiful, charming new student. Harry's only got eyes for the school golden boy: football captain Louis Tomlinson, whose homophobic father complicates matters a bit.

8) England Has My Bones | Explicit | 24087 words

The next time Harry thinks about calling, it’s 4.14 in the morning on a Parisian hotel balcony.

9) Etched In Salt (Is A Cathedral Of The World) | Explicit | 24416 words

Note: This fic has mentions of BH.

Louis asks for very few things in life, and they are: to solve cases, to keep bad people from doing their bad things, to get good coffee, to go home to a spacious apartment with nobody else in it, and to manage his stupid telempathy powers with minimal interference. And now he's stuck in a tiny cabin in a snowstorm in the middle of god-awful-nowhere with Harry Styles. Because of course he is.

10) The Things I’d Do To Wake Up Next To You | Mature | 36109 words

AU. Harry wakes up to a pregnant Louis Tomlinson and a wedding band on his finger.

11) Brooklyn Saw Me | Explicit | 38537 words

In the cold and unforgiving city of New York, Louis doesn't have a home and Harry wants to give him one. But as their heartstrings become increasingly intertwined, and the snow continues to fall, home is getting harder and harder to find.

12) Bloodsport | Explicit | 40283 words

“You know how our next game is against the Cardinals, right? You remember how vicious those guys can get. I wanted us to come up with some plays, maybe work on a block from the left—”

Louis stops when he hears a chuckle.

He doesn’t think he’s said anything particularly funny, so he turns to Harry, waiting for an explanation.

“‘S funny, ‘s all.” Harry throws his finished bottle somewhere near the other discarded ones. “This is the first time you’re talking to me in eight months, and it’s still about football.”

13) Ever Fixed | Mature | 41521 words

Three years ago, Harry was happily married, successfully heading the largest technology company in the world, and raising his young daughter. After he loses nearly everything in the aftermath of his daughter’s lost battle with a rare brain tumor, it may take three strange and yet very familiar visitors – and a man from the therapy group Harry keeps refusing to go to – to get him back on track.

14) We’re What’s Right In This World | Explicit | 48809 words

The World War II AU where Harry goes off to fight and all Louis wants to do is be the boy who brings him home.

15) Why Can’t It Be Like That | Explicit | 63567 words

A fashion AU with a royal twist, where Louis doesn't need a stylist, Harry's thrilled to have a real life Barbie doll, and they're both very wrong about each other.

16) Like Real People Do | Explicit | 64175 words

Louis didn’t ask for a lot of things. He didn’t ask for his entire family to die in a car crash that may or may not have been his fault. He didn’t ask to get powers out of that accident, either, powers that eventually led him into a two-year relationship with a man who was far more than met the eye. But one night, he chose to ask for a replacement to a broken camera from someone he hadn’t spoken to in a year and a half. He did ask for that. And that kind of led to everything else.

17) Consequences | Explicit | 78655 words

Two years ago Harry let his powerful family come between him and the love of his life, something he deeply regrets. Louis has tried to move on from their devastating break up. Sometimes, he even thinks he has. It only takes one moment to freeze them back in time.

18) For Reasons Wretched and Divine | Explicit | 94655 words

Ten years ago, Harry Styles was just a nerdy kid with one friend and a debilitating crush on the captain of his school’s football team. He thought the stars were smiling down on him the day he and Louis Tomlinson were paired for their end-of-term Literature project. But because Harry’s life is decidedly not a fairytale, the budding friendship quickly leads to the least happy ending of all time.

Now, Harry Styles is a household name. Barely twenty-seven with two Grammy nominations to his name, the singer-songwriter is poised to take the music industry by storm with his highly anticipated third album. So, what happens when the best producer in the business is also the only person Harry’s vowed never to speak to again?

19) A Taste Of Desire | Explicit | 104414 words

Victorian ABO where Harry is the owner of the most successful cotton mill in Manchester, and Louis is an opinionated social activist about to disrupt Harry’s world.

20) Saving Symphony Hall | Mature | 124766 words

Note: This fic is a sequel to this fic.

“I think I have an idea,” Louis said. Slowly, and reluctantly, but with a growing sense of the inevitable. “God damnit, I think I have a really good idea.”

“Oh christ, that's the problem-solving face,” Babs said. “Last time we saw that face, he sold a company.”

“Wait, what?” Zayn asked.

“Right place, right time,” Louis said. “Also, fuck my life,”

“What?” Zayn repeated. Niall patted his hand.

“I usually just roll with whatever Louis is about to do,” he said. “It’s better for us all.”

“That’s the attitude,” said Louis, “I’ll tell you tomorrow. Tonight, I need to do some research. Zayn, give me your number. I’m gonna save our symphony.”

21) Run Like the Devil | Explicit | 138095 words

Note: This fic has mentions of BH.

Harry stops pouting, but his frown is still fixed in place. “Are you sure?” he asks. “You know it’s your soul you’re signing away.” He sounds…sad? No, that’s not right, but there’s  something.

Christ. This is the most incompetent demon Louis’ ever met. If he hadn’t seen the red of his eyes he wouldn’t believe he was a demon at all. How’d he get this job if he isn’t trying to convince Louis to deal? Or is it just another trick? A ploy for sympathy?

“I’m sure,” Louis says. “Come over here and kiss me.”

22) Collision | Not Rated | 207413 words

Mythology/Fairytale!AU in which Louis is a dainty fairy with a temper who wants to be intimidating and Harry hurts people. Naturally, they hate each other.

Check out our other fic rec lists by category here and by title here.

[kpop-zone]

If you only knew | Jihyo

Warnings: none (I think?)

Genre: angst

Word count: 1,234

A/N: Hi! This is my first fic, so I’m sorry if it’s a little rocky. Please feel free to request whatever you like!

Jihyo and you usually had a pretty mature relationship. Neither of you appreciated fighting and disagreements were mostly settled calmly and with understanding for each other. This time was different though. Jihyo was particularly stressed that day. Her schedule had been killing her lately and a lot of frustration had piled up in her.

It was a vicious cycle. As a leader, she wanted to be a role model and a rock for her members. She wanted to show them that they can rely on her and that they can make it though this phase together. However, this also made her feel incredibly guilty about neglecting you. She loved you and more than anything else, she wanted to make you happy. It was tearing her apart. It was an impossible task for her to balance her obligations as a leader and her obligations as a girlfriend, although the latter were rather self-imposed.

You assured her daily that she didn’t have to feel bad about not making a lot of time for you. You were really understanding since the beginning of your relationship, because just like her, you wanted to see her happy more than anything else. You knew how long and hard she had trained for her career and couldn’t imagine taking it from her, just because you were missing the attention. But no matter how hard you tried, you just couldn’t relieve Jihyo’s bad conscious. It grew and grew until she just couldn’t take it anymore.

That day, they filmed a performance video for their YouTube channel and although she normally could remember all the choreographies in her sleep, she just couldn’t seem to get it right that day. Consequently, the staff showed no mercy and scolded her several times throughout the day. Her members trying to cheer her up, made everything even worse.

That was her job.

She was supposed to be the strong one, not the other way around. So when she came to the dorm, later than everyone else, because the staff wanted to have a word with her, she just couldn’t control her emotions anymore.

You were in the kitchen, chatting with Momo and Nayeon while preparing dinner. As soon as you saw her, you had that look on your face that she usually loved. It was a look full of love and empathy, but it also showed her that the other members must have told you about her hard time today in the dance studio. But she just was too frustrated and angry at herself to be pitied. Without saying hello, she strutted to her room, loudly slamming the door. That action made everyone in the kitchen and living room stop in their motion. Confused looks were exchanged, and no one knew what to say. Nayeon was the first to speak up

“Y/N, I think that is a matter for you...”

You made eye-contact with Momo, who was standing next to you and encouragingly squeezed your shoulder. Not being used to such an outburst of Jihyo, you slowly made your way to her room, not even knowing what you should do once you reached your destination. For a minute, you just stood in front of the door, unsure if you should knock or just enter the room. Usually you never knocked as the dorm had somewhat become your second home over time. This time, however, you opted to take the safe route. Slowly you put your fist up to knock against the door,

“Jagi? Can I come in?”

There was only silence on the other side, so you put your ear against the door. Maybe you just overheard her response, you thought. But what you heard, was even more heartbreaking than the possibility of her not wanting to see you. You could hear Jihyo sniffling. She was crying. All insecurities aside, you were quick to open the door. Jihyo was sitting on her bed, cuddling a pillow, with her head buried in her hands. Without hesitation you made your way over to her bed, sitting down at the edge in order to be able to hug her. Out of reflex, she leaned against you, burying her head in the crook of your neck. For a moment, you were just sitting there, rocking back and forth in an attempt to calm her down. After a while, you figured, however, that it was time to talk.

“Do you want to talk about it?”

Your voice startled her a bit and made her look at you. You hated to see her like this. Her eyes were puffy, and her mascara left stains on her cheeks. But the words she spoke, hurt you even more,

“I just hate to never be enough.”

Quickly you took her face in your hands and reassured her,

“Hey, where are those thoughts coming from? You know that you are more than enough for me. And not only for me. All of your members love you and JYP couldn’t have dreamt of a better leader for his girl group.”

It was just the way you said it. How could you still think that she was enough? She clearly wasn’t. In her attempt to balance her work and private life, she only managed to ruin both of them. She just wanted you to understand that you deserved better than her. So she just snapped. She screamed at you, how oblivious you were. How naïve and how you didn’t understand how life worked. She was just getting so worked up that she didn’t even know what she was saying or who she was throwing all those accusations at. It felt like it wasn’t even her saying all those things. Not until she heard herself say the most hurtful things, she had ever said to you.

“All I ever do is try to explain myself, but you just don’t understand. But, how could you? You’re not a part of my world. I don’t even know why I’m dating you.”

She was actually taken aback by her own words. She didn’t even know where they were coming from. Never in a billion years, she thought about you in that way. As a matter of fact, the thing that made her date you in the first place beside all the complications of dating a non-idol, was that you understood her without words. Although you had different personalities, it was still like you shared the same braincells. You knew exactly what she loved and what she hated. So saying those words immediately made her slap her hand on her mouth,

“Y/N...”

But she couldn’t speak further. You just nodded in defeat, not even knowing what to say. Maybe you were naïve. All this time, you thought that she was just having a lot on her plate. That this was the reason only you were making an effort in your relationship. But maybe that was just your imagination all along. Maybe Jihyo had enough of you a long time ago and just was too polite to break up with you. So you got on your feet, ignoring Jihyo’s desperate voice behind you, dragging your feet out the dorm, not even noticing the other members’ concerned looks. It was all like a bad dream and you wanted to wake up so badly. But even the cold air that hit your face once you left the building, could not bring you clarity. Because it wasn’t a dream. Jihyo left you, because instead of making her happy, you were a burden. At least that is what her words made you believe. If you only knew...

[aki-draws-things]

NaNoWriMo 2020 #06

I was in love with that prompt from the beginning of the planning, but once again my plans for lot of angst dissolved. But don’t worry, there’s a couple of them that will be so painful I will almost regret them (no, I never regret angst.)

Let this little mouse know what you think ~ 

Day: 06/11/2020

Prompt: Ignoring an injury / Wound reveal

Ship: Mingjue/Zonghui

Word Count: 2756

They had been brothers long before Meng Yao even came in the picture, one becoming Sect Leader too young, the other his loyal shadow, the general who would never turn his back on him. 

They've been partners for years before meng Yao came in the picture too and if someone dared to think the young man had stolen his role they weren't paying attention. 

Meng Yao was capable, he was a good, really good, strategist, but he was no general. He could never lead them into battle and make them sure they won't only win, but they will go back home too. He was capable, but Qinghe always needed more than just ability. Qinghe needed power, and control. Qinghe meant loyalty and trust and the Nie sect always kept those words close to their hearts even when their own control faded. And meng Yao… he wasn't a Nie, and he didn't want to be one. Zonghui in the other hand embraced the name the previous sect leader gave him and made it his own. He was a nie in everything but blood, his name too reflected that. 

For inner and outer nie disciples there was only one thing that would make them lose faith in a potential victory, and it was their leader and general fighting on their own. Not that this happened frequently, on the contrary, and if they did there was always a good reason. 

For someone that curious, meng Yao never asked many questions, only a couple, and only to nie huaisang. 

"I've studied the history of your family." he said once while the young Master was painting. "It's unheard of a dual wielding." 

Nie huaisang briefly lifted his eyes from the fan paper and studied his face. 

"are you referring to ZongHui?" 

"is that his name?" 

"tall as me, twin sabers on his back, - his eyes twinkled briefly as he grinned. - possibly currently trying to drag Da-ge out of the training ground and into a bath before dinner is ready?" 

"the first two, yes. - meng Yao nodded. - not sure about the third one…" 

"Then yes, the name is Nie ZongHui. Advisor, general, shadow, probably your secret supervisor." 

"dual wielding." meng Yao pressed, his curiosity dripping out of him. He wanted to know, to understand. - he wanted to know how actually dangerous the man was, to him and to everyone else. - 

"twin spirits. When he chose the saber he got called by both, they didn't want to be divided." 

"but how? How can he do that? I've read of men, stronger men, succumbing to their sword spirits, and they only had one." 

Nie huaisang smirked and leaned over as if to tell him a secret. 

"dual cultivation." 

That night at dinner meng Yao couldn't look at nie mingjue without feeling his cheeks grow red. He never asked about zonghui anymore. - but it was obvious now, the way they seemed to lean over the other, the way they showed up at the same time, the way they seemed to always touch each other, even just brushing. Meng Yao regretted his new knowledge. - 

It came to no one's surprise when at nightless city they were back to back fighting the puppets. Their attacks coordinate to an almost impossible level, a twirl of dark gray robes intertwining together, strings of golden magic as they dipped into each other's strength, borrowing speed and energy and martial knowledge. It was like being one, they could fight blindfolded and still never miss a hit. 

They still could be hit, even when together, it just happened in different ways. Because they belonged together it was more the times they got hit to protect the other than when it was due to a minor distraction, there was always some sort of pattern, and they hated every time it happened. Nie zonghui would scold him for being a too reckless leader, that it wasn't his duty but the contrary. Nie mingjue just stared at him in shock when he said that, like nie zonghui had offended him in the worst and most vicious way. 

"it's not your duty either. You're not my guard." 

"except for the part where this is one of my jobs. Need a refresh? General, your shadow and personal guard. Old Master Nie personally made me that." nie mingjue groaned, he knew he was right and he couldn't win on that side. 

"fine, you are my guard, but you're my partner too. My energy is yours, and yours is mine. - he lowered his voice to a mere whisper and looked at him sadly, knowing what effect that had on nie zonghui. - what would I do without you? What would I be?" 

Usually it ended with zonghui crashing against his chest, arms wrapped around the taller man uncaring of his own wounds, they would slide on the floor in a mess of crumpled robes, doing nothing but hold on each other like their lives depended on that single contact. - sometimes it did. Sometimes that contact was their personal dual cultivation way. Grounding and yet powerful. - 

Nie mingjue was sure that this was how things would go at the end of that battle, he was so sure of that in the moment zonghui twirled around him, placing himself in front of nie mingjue, the sword from a Jiang disciple turned puppet slashing through his armored robe. Baxia behind him beheaded the man and MingJue's arm circled his shoulders, his body colliding against his chest. 

"I had it under control." 

Nie Zonghui smirked and slipped out of the hold to prove he was hurt badly, the armor was stronger than what it would look like. 

"I'm faster." and it's my duty. They both knew those unspoken words. 

For the rest of the battle nie mingjue kept himself even closer than usual, never straying too far, never leaving him out of his sight, the cold weight on his chest uncomfortable and choking. Fear, and worry, and regret. He let his qi flow into him the moment they were back to back for a couple of seconds, he did it when he caught him the moment he almost fell while ducking a blow. 

That was when he felt it. Nie Zonghui's qi was quivering unstable, the hit was probably worse than they both thought, and zonghui knew better than to underestimate a wound, especially on the battlefield. Perhaps adrenaline was the cause and zonghui really didn't know how bad it was. He would have to take him to a healer once the battle was over, even better, carry him, so he wouldn't tire himself too much. He would complain, people would see them, who cared?

Still the coldness didn't leave. It was unsettling and, worse, it was shared.

“Stop worrying.” How could he? Hit after hit he could feel their connection stretch thin in his mind, he feared the moment he would feel it break, the mere thought almost made him sick.

When the puppets suddenly stopped and crumbled like broken dolls on the field he didn’t care, the battle was over, whoever stopped Wei WuXian now had his gratitude. - He never felt real darkness and evilness coming from the young man his brother befriended in Gusu, he felt if from his Dizi, but never the boy. The problem was people never truly listened. - He turned in time to see Nie ZongHui sway on his feet, a hand pressed over his chest where the robes had been cut and blood trickling through his fingers and from the mouth. There was surprise in his eyes when he looked up and met Nie MingJue's eyes, surprise and shock and fear.

He tried to speak, to explain or to call his name, instead he spit more blood and his legs gave out. Nie MingJue's hands were around him in a moment, they slid on the ground slowly, Nie MingJue kneeled behind him holding his body up against his chest, a hand desperately trying to stop the bleeding  before it was too late.

“I didn’t notice.” Nie ZongHui whispered anticipating his question and MingJue believed him, he had no reasons not to, he fought with him, he could have noticed too, but he didn't, it took time for the blood to finally reach the outer layer and seep through the robe, and once there there was no stopping. He was quickly getting paler and cold and yet he was calm.

He placed a hand veer MingJue's and shook his head before exhaling slowly and trying to settle against him more comfortably, he didn't know how he could remain that much calm in a moment like that, as life was slipping away without him doing anything to prevent it. He was dying and there was nothing he could do or say to change it. Maybe it was the place he was in, his body cradled carefully against the chest of someone he loved, the one he had always been ready to die for. Maybe it was because he fulfilled his duty, Nie MingJue was safe, he survived yet another battle and that was enough for him. Maybe, maybe, maybe. Maybe dying wasn’t that bad if it was like that. He let his head loll to the side, blood dripping from his lips and he closed his eye, the hand covering MingJue's falling on the ground.

Nie MingJue screamed.

The first time they tried dual cultivation was after a particularly hard night hunt. No matter how much he trained, wielding two sabers left Nie ZongHui spiritually drained for days, the healers often showed concerns for his health, saying that his life would be even shorter than what usually a Nie would live, the two spirits would feed on his qi and he won’t survive long after the 20s. From where he was laying on his bed ZongHui studied his young master, curve over books at the desk, studying even harder a way to suppress, or at least quiet, the saber spirits.

“I don’t wish them to be any less, and neither you do with Baxia.” He said softly as a greeting, within seconds Nie MingJue was at his side helping him sit and placing a glass of water in his hands.

“You’ve heard the healer, I know you were awake, you won’t live long like that.”

“There’s another way.” He laughed at his confused look. “Dual cultivation.” And then he laughed even harder once Nie MingJue understood what he was talking ab pout and got flustered. He dropped the talk after a moment and slipped into a dreamless sleep.

“Would that really help you?” Nie MingJue asked him a couple of days later when he was regaining his strength and managed to stay awake for more than a dozen minutes.

“What?”

“Dual cultivation. - He took his hand and squeezed it. - If you think it will help then it’s fine for me. I— we’ll do it.” Nie ZongHui smiled and nodded.

“I… I think so. Your energy is unparalleled. If we share it I won’t only be able to wield both my sabers, but you’ll have more control over Baxia too. Or… well, or so I’ve read.”

“It’s worth a try. - But then Nie MingJue blushed, he really blushed, cheeks turning a bright red and he felt his face grow hot. - There’s one problem…” He admitted at the end. “I’ve never… I don’t know…”

Nie ZongHui didn’t laugh like MingJue feared, he moved closer and took his face in hands before kissing him. He was sixteen.

When Lan Xichen found them Nie MingJue was still kneeling in the middle of the battlefield, curled over ZongHui's body.

“Da-ge?” There were tears streaming down his face he noticed when MingJue lifted his head to look at him, his chest wrecked by silent sobs and his hands, covered in blood, caressing the man in his arms. Lan XiChen met him only a couple of times, not more. He was, if he wasn’t mistaken , the person who took A-Yao’s place by Nie MingJue’s side, they probably got close during the past years, they had, or Nie MingJue would have never reacted like that.

“XiChen… XiChen you have to help him. It’s… he’s been wounded — he…” Lan Xichen could see it without him specify it, he could see the blood oozing from the cut robes, he could see his chest rising as his lungs tried to keep working, with enough concentration he could feel his heart trying not to give up. “You have to save him.” He had known Nie MingJue for years and he never heard him beg before, not even for his little brother’s sake. It was a sound he didn’t even know could come from his mouth, so broken and desperate.

“It’s too late.” Lan XiChen almost said, but he stopped. Nie MingJue moved the man carefully, held him a little closer in his arms, cradled against his chest, his cheek brushed against ZongHui's hair before he kissed the top of his head. So Lan XiChen tried. At least he could say he tried.

Nie MingJue forgot what day it was, or how long it had been since the battle was over and won, he slept sitting on the floor, his head on the mattress of the bed and complained every morning that his neck was hurting, that he shouldn’t fall asleep, in case Nie ZongHui needed him. And that his back too was hurting. And yet every night he sat in the same, uncomfortable position and waited. And fell asleep. And complained.

And days merged into each other and he waited.

When Nie ZongHui finally woke up, endless days after, his qi had never been that low in all his life. The loud voices of his twin sabers were now reduced to a distant whisper, like the bond between them had been irreparably broken and was now kept together by a single thin string. He was weak, he probably wouldn’t be able to move for many more days, heavens only knew if he would be able to lift his swords again. But he was alive, and that had to mean something at the very least.

“That’s the last time.” Nie MingJue's voice was hoarse from disuse. He looked at him from the end of the bed, sitting cross-legged agings the wall and staring at him with dark circles under his eyes and an almost sickly pale face. “You do something like that again and I swear, I will never forgive you.”

It was a lie, they both knew it, but Nie ZongHui nodded anyway in agreement.

“Understood, Master. - He whispered looking away. - This one is truly sorry for worrying you that much.”

A hand caressed his cheek gently forcing him to lift his face and look at him.

“Don’t do it again. Don’t go where I can’t follow. Don’t leave me. Ever.”

“MingJue-xiong, - Lan XiChen said entering the room with Jin GuangYao behind him. - I was thinking about some way to help you general regain his strength faster and, maybe, even the use of his sabers.”

Both men looked up from the plate in their hands, they were sitting close enough their side was touching, Yao briefly looked away, the memory of Nie HuaiSang's answer still haunted him even after years.

“Please don’t think wrong of me, - Lan Xichen continued with a smile. - I’ve made some research and there are many ways people can share their spiritual power, even without using a complete Dual Cultivation. Which I suppose would be… embarrassing.”

Nie MingJue frowned for a moment, stared at Lan XiChen and then turned to ZongHui.

“Would it be embarrassing?” He shook his shoulders taking another spoonful of soup.

“I believe I’ve seen more embarrassing things than that.”

“Mh… Do you mean HuaiSang's paintings?”

“No, I believe they're pretty realistic, even though I’m not sure where he got the ideas… I always make sure the door is sealed.”

“He always had a big imagination.”

Nie ZongHui suppressed a laughter and leaned on his shoulder.

“There was one that had a truly striking resemblance with you—”

With a loud cough, and his face getting redder, Jin GuangYao muttered something about how they shouldn’t worry about ways to help the Nie general get back on his feet fast, and dragged Lan Xichen out of the room. Nie MingJue laughed passing an arm around his shoulders.

“I can’t believe XiChen out of everyone really went and suggested Dual Cultivation. I thought it was obvious by now.”

“Not so much… I think they didn’t understand I am the one bedding you.”

[hoodoo12]

Music To His Ears (2/4)

Part One

NSFW. Beetlejuice/f!reader. Sex, ghostly secretions, bad attempts at humor, the Netherworld is not pleasant, past embarrassments affecting the present.

Another night, another lay. 

You’d come on his fingers twice and his cock once, and even though you were on your back with Beetlejuice between your thighs, pushing them up and back so he could pile-drive his cock into you at an angle, your hand was once again over your mouth. Sometimes you couldn’t contain a gasp underneath it, but overall you kept quiet. When Beetlejuice was particularly forceful, it felt so good that you had to bite your lower lip, and that helped too.

Tonight he didn’t finish inside you. Just as his own ghostly moans ratcheted to a cry, he pulled out and with his hand squeezing his cock, he came in spurts over your belly and pubic hair. 

A tiny sound of disappointment escaped you.

Although he’d watched himself come on you, Beetlejuice cocked an eyebrow at your groan. 

“So you can make noise,” he announced, half-tired from the exertion and half-gleeful, like he’d caught you doing something illicit. 

In response you slapped his chest and threw one leg around him to move away and grab a tissue from the bedside table to wipe yourself off.

Beetlejuice lay down and accepted the extra tissue you handed him. 

“Sorry about the jizz,” he said, not sounding sorry at all, “I know it’s cold.”

“It’s not cold at first, it gets cold quickly,” you corrected him. You had no idea why that would be; the properties of ectoplasmic ejaculate were odd. It didn’t just lose any residual heat exponentially fast, it was also faintly luminous and thicker than normal. It wasn’t the most pleasant substance to have sitting for long periods of time on your bare skin.  

You balled up the soiled tissue, plucked the one he’d used on himself out of his hands, and tossed them in the general direction of the table. Then you grabbed the rumpled sheet from where it’d been kicked at the end of the bed and pulled it up to your chest before relaxing.

Beetlejuice hiked himself up on an elbow to look at you, and reached over to push your sweaty hair off your forehead. Usually you were the one to initiate post-coital niceties, so you were surprised at the contact. 

“Let’s talk about it.”

Him wanting to talk surprised you too.

“Talk about what?”

He gave you a withering look. “You know what I mean, babe. Let’s talk about the fact that you try hard not to make any sound during sex.”

If you could have, you’d have denied it. You hoped he hadn’t noticed! You didn’t want to talk about it. It made you ashamed. Making noise made you ashamed, not making noise made you ashamed; it was a vicious cycle. You worked so very hard to keep quiet--

Beetlejuice continued, filling your new silence with questions to try and ferret out the truth, speculating, “Did you stop making noise for a reason? Did you get caught by your parental figures once? Are you secretly an exhibitionist who typically has sex in public places like crowded subways or in the audience of a Broadway musical? Do you sing as you come? You’ve got a good voice, I’ve heard you in the shower--”

“No, Beej, no! Nothing like that!” you interrupted. 

“What, then? Come on, babydoll, you can tell me! What is it?”

At his unrelenting insistence all the shame you felt was replaced by a flare of anger. 

“I just sound weird while I’m having sex, okay?” you barked at him.

His mouth shut with an audible snap and his playful expression melted to confusion. Your momentary burst of rage faded too, and you felt even more embarrassed admitting your shame out loud. Your face felt on fire. 

After closely examining you for a moment, Beetlejuice asked, “What the actual fuck?”

His seriousness, the question spoken like an eloquent, formal query, actually made you choke out a tiny laugh, which quickly dissolved into a sob that you swallowed. He let you have a moment, then asked again, 

“What do you mean, you sound weird during sex?”

Another sob scratched at the back of your throat and you shook your head, unwilling to open your mouth to let it out. 

He narrowed his eyes. “Do you quack like a duck? Do you cough like you need the Heimlich?” His eyes widened in horror. “Oh my god, was I right--do you sing? Do you burst into spontaneous song?! All of the sudden, would I hear OOOOOOaK! LAHOMA?!”

A weepy laugh burst from your throat. The horror in his face, you realized, was mock.

“No!” you said, slapping his chest again and swiping a hand over your eyes to wipe away the tear that had formed there. “Stop it! I don’t start singing.”

Beetlejuice nodded, but his eyes still narrowed in suspicion. “You have to tell me if you do. Because I only want to hear seventies rock or Irish folk, okay? Maybe other popular songs from musicals. No Disney songs or crap like that.”

“Shut up, Beej.”

To his credit, he actually dropped the topic. After a moment’s quiet, though, he said,

“Why do you think you sound weird during sex? Everyone sounds weird during sex!”

You closed your eyes and whispered, “I sound the worst.”

“Hey. Hey!” the ghost said. His fingers slipped to the side of your head and turned you so you were facing him, even if your eyes were closed. He ordered, “Look at me.”

Resigned, you did. 

“The Netherworld is filled with miserable ghosts. They’re always sobbing and wailing. Demons just scream randomly.”

That was supposed to make you feel better?

He closed his eyes as he continued. “And there’s this low frequency hum . . . I don’t know what the fuck that is, but it’s insidious and just, just always there. Like a vibration that just settles on the back of your teeth. The whole place is just this unrelenting, throbbing nightmare of sound.”

Beetlejuice opened his eyes again and stared intently into yours.

“Sounds during sex are not the same, baby,” he told you softly, earnestly, like he needed you to understand how important this information was. “Moans during sex are living sounds, and everything I hear in the Netherworld, all the moaning and crying and that infernal hum, is gloom and suffering. It’s all just dead.”

He paused and you watched a subtle expression cross his face, one that made his eyebrows furrow a little. The look in his eyes became a little vacant, introspective; he didn’t see you.

You didn’t know what to say, so you didn’t say anything. 

After a second, Beetlejuice gave himself a tiny shake and came back. He licked his lips and grinned. You imagine he’d have clapped his hands if one elbow wasn’t still supporting himself up.

“So! As long as you don’t sound like you’re suffering eternal torment, I’m sure the noises you make while we’re gettin’ it on are fine!” 

He’d given you a lot to think about. Discussions of what the Netherworld was like were never high on his list; dragging information out of him was nigh impossible. It was just moments like that, unexpected and with you not prepared, that he gave up some secrets about it. It left you both wanting and not wanting to know more about the place he resided. 

But that was neither here nor there at the moment. Beetlejuice had his reasons for not talking  about the Netherworld, and you had yours about keeping quiet during sex.

You told him so, expressly. “I don’t want to talk about it.”

Once more, his dark eyes narrowed. You tried to ignore him and his unspoken needling. When it became obvious you might be prepared to never speak again, Beetlejuice broke the silence once more. 

“Come on baby. I already told you it can’t be that bad. And even if it is, I don’t care--”

That same anger reared its head again, and you spit, “You will care! I sound horrible! I sound stupid and ridiculous and, and--and I’ve been told that, so I know it’s true, I hate it and I won’t make any sound! I just won’t!”

And like before, as quickly as it’d come, the rage burned itself out again, leaving you with tears in your eyes and a sore throat. 

Beetlejuice didn’t recoil at the venom in your voice. His fingers ran through your hair again, now dampened above your ears by the tears that slid from the outer corners of your eyes.

“Somebody told you that, baby?” he asked quietly. 

“Y-yes!” you choked out. “He told me I sounded weird and stupid, and-and-and I know it’s true!”

The ghost watched you as you struggled to regain some control by holding your breath and letting it out slowly. When you finally calmed yourself, he pulled you closer. His hand never left your head and he didn’t move off his elbow; you were simply at one spot on the mattress and then in the next, without any more physical contact. You ended up pressed into him, but it wasn’t horribly uncomfortable. 

“Baby, listen. Listen to me,” he said, and you thought that was a poor choice of words when this whole thing was about keeping quiet. “I want to hear you the sounds you make. I want to make you moan and gasp and cry out. I want to know what you sound like when you come. I want to know that I did that, that you couldn’t help it because I made you feel so good. 

“That guy was an asshole, baby. He was wrong.”

You pressed your lips together, but tried hard not to shake your head no.

He wouldn’t have taken it for an answer anyway.  “The sounds you’re gonna make for me? That’s the sound of life, babydoll, and it’ll be music to my ears.”

tbc . . .

[yougottalovekyloren]

Across the Stars (Part 14)

A/N: Hello, my lovelies! I hope you all are doing well and are staying healthy! This past week, I have been trying to decide what my new update schedule should be, and I think that I’m going to aim to update at least once a week.I’m thinking Fridays, but let me know what you all think!  I only have three weeks left in my semester, and then I’m free... for two weeks and then I begin a few summer courses to get ahead. BUT.... those two weeks will have quite a few uploads! Anyway, I hope you like this chapter, and I will try to have my new one part imagine up by the end of the week (no promises, though!)

-M <3

Y/N'S POV

My eyes fluttered opens lowly, sore and red with fatigue. I was still in Ben's arms, leaned against the wall. I glanced up at him. His head leaned back against it, his eyes closed and hair falling slightly over his eyes.  I let out a small sigh and leaned against his chest, closing my eyes as I soaked in the rare moment of peace.

 Unfortunately, it was not meant to last.

Only a few brief moments later, the door opened with a sharp woosh, and a familiar silver-plated figure stepped into the room. My hand instinctually grasped onto Ben’s arm.    

"Get up, girl." Phasma snapped, her hand wrapping around my arm and yanking me from where I sat. A new hand grabbed the other, pulling me back towards its source.

"She's not going anywhere." Ben’s voice was deadly, clearly awake now. The normally emotionless Captain let out a small snort. 

"Wake up, Ben. You are no longer my commander. Your words are empty. You are a prisoner of the First Order."

"Do not call me that." He hissed, not releasing his hold on me. She shook her head.

"I have to take her. She needs to be questioned."

"By who?"

"Garrik Turon, your new replacement. You may remember him from when you started training under Snoke." I could almost hear her amusement under her mask. I had no idea who that was, so I tried to believe that I had nothing to fear. But as soon as I saw Ben's face, my confidence shattered into a million pieces. As much as he tried to hide it, I could still see the fear glistening in his eyes. It quickly morphed into white hot rage.

"You can't take her to him."

"I can, and I will." Phasma grabbed me and pulled me up again. But as Ben rose to get me again, a dart of some sort shot out of Phasma's wrist and sunk into his neck.

"No!" I could only watch in horror as he dropped to the ground, his eyes open and body twitching.

"It only stunned him, you stupid girl." She growled, yanking me towards the door. "Let's go!"

"B-Ben." I cried, trying to pull away and go back to his side.  A familiar click of a gun sounded only mere inches from my ear, making me freeze.

"I suggest that you walk out of the cell before your beloved watches your blood coat the floor." Phasma spat icily. "He is not here to save you now." 

I looked down at him sadly, watching as the effects started to wear off slowly.  I had to do this, for Ben's sake. 

I walked slowly out of the room, terrified to go forward but not daring to go back.  My bottom lip caught between my teeth as I held back tears,  hearing the door shut quietly behind me. My life hung by a thread. 

"Let's go." The gun pressed against the small of my back, and I felt myself stumble forward. We walked through several long corridors before we reached our destination. "Go inside. He's waiting."

Trying to hide my fear, I entered the room. A dark figure sat in a chair, a simple hood covering his face.

"So... this is the girl who turned Kylo Ren soft." His voice sent a shiver down my spine. He rose and removed his hood.  My eyebrows rose a little in surprise. This man was only a handful of years older than myself, not too much younger than Ben.  He had soft wavy brown hair and a scar that ran directly across his right across his right eye. If his lips weren't twisted in a nasty sneer, I would’ve considered him somewhat handsome.

"I didn't make him weak." I swallowed, before continuing to speak. "I-"

A brilliant flash of pain cut me off, and a startled cry of pain escaped my lips as my body dropped to the floor. 

"I didn't ask you to speak." His voice was quiet, a slight twinge of amusement laced in with his calm demeanor, watching as I gasped for breath. My head was throbbing and something inside my chest was beginning to burn, like a growing fire. "Do you know who I am? You may speak now. “

"No." I managed to whimper.

"I'm Garrik Turon. But you can call me Lord Turon." He looked down at my darkly, disgust evident in his gaze. "I'm ten times stronger than your little boyfriend ever was, and will ever be. I do not give in when the first set of pretty Y/E/C eyes and long legs come along!"

I felt myself slowly begin to cry as I felt the fire continue to burn deeper in my chest, and the pounding in my head grow harder to bear. Who knew when it would be over? Or if I’d ever see Ben again?

---

Ben's POV

I slammed my fist into the wall for the fifth time since she was taken away. Blood began to soak through the dark fabric of my gloves, but I could not even begin to care in the slightest.  

They had taken Y/N away. 

They took her to him. 

The thought only made me angrier than I already was, my jaw tensing as my fist clenched again.

I had known Garrik for years. He was just as bad as I was, if not worse.  The friend I once knew knew nearly nothing of the Light. Snoke had made sure of that.

       (FLASHBACK TEN YEARS)

"Do you have family?" I asked after a particularly grueling duel, sitting next to him on the bench inside the training center. He wasn’t much younger than I was, perhaps fourteen or fifteen. 

"I do." His smile was bright, reaching his eyes.. "I'm hoping they'll be able to visit one day."

 I winced slightly, the painful images of my mother and father racing through my mind. And of course... my uncle.  But that didn’t matter anymore. The past was in the past. 

"Maybe. But for now, we have to concentrate on training."

"Absolutely." Garrik looked at me. "Will you help me?”

"Sure. Why not? Let’s get going.” 

   (FLASHBACK END)

Not even a week later,  Garrik received word that his family had been murdered. It did not take much sleuthing to know who had been behind the vicious attack. I expected nothing less from someone with that much hatred.

But after that moment in the training room, I never saw him smile again. I knew that whatever light, whatever inch of happiness was left inside him was gone. 

The Dark Side was all he had left.

After that, he trained hard. Just as hard as me. When Snoke appointed me as Commander, everything changed between us. Whatever friendship we had was destroyed. 

He became consumed by jealously, and I frankly didn't blame him at all.  But after that, I kept my distance and he kept his. All that remained was a growing tension. I hadn't seen him in a year or two. 

As I found myself lost in my thoughts, the door opened and my head snapped up. Phasma took a step into the room. "Where the hell is she?"

"She will be brought in in a few minutes." She hesitated,before continuing. "But first, Ren, I think we need to talk."

"There's nothing to talk about." I shrugged absentmindedly, pulling off my gloves and examining the damage my fists had taken only moments earlier..

"There is everything to talk about!" Phasma hissed. "You betrayed us!  You betrayed the First Order for a girl!"

"I know what I did." My gaze shifted to her once again, hard and cold. "And I have no regret for my actions." 

She knelt in front of me. 

"You came to us, remember? You felt the Calling and you left. You came to find a greater purpose, more potential."

"Shut up." I snapped. "You don't know anything."

"I do know something." She scoffed. "That girl will die, Ren. What then?"

"I won't let her die." I narrowed my eyes. "I will protect her, always."

“But it doesn’t seem that you can now, does it? Not even your love can save-”

I stretched my hand out, starting to choke her. "What would you know about love?”

"If you do not let me go in five seconds, you will never see Y/N again." Phasma choked out and I immediately released my hold on her. She slowly rose to her feet, and started walking to the door, pausing and looking back at me. “I loved you... more than you would ever know.”

I couldn’t comprehend which was more powerful, my disgust or my confusion. I gazed up at her, before speaking. “What of it now?” 

Even through her mask, I could tell she was torn in two. I did not feel anything remotely close to what she felt for me, but surely her loyalty to me could be manipulated to be stronger than to those for the First Order.

Phasma’s helmet tipped upwards. “It sure doesn’t matter now, does it?” 

The room fell silent. 

"Bring in the prisoner."

The door opened once again, and two Stormtroopers entered the room. In between them, was Y/N. 

She did not look well at all. Her eyes were wet with tears, rimmed red with exhaustion. Her hair was a mess, and I could see slight bruising around her arms. I immediately rose to my feet.

"What did he do to her?”

"Not my business nor my place to disclose anything related to the First Order’s interrogation procedures." Phasma’s voice hardened once more. "Ask him when you see him tomorrow."  

Without another word, she stormed out of the room, the troopers not far behind. The door shut not long after their departure. Y/N stood silently in the middle of the room, shaking slightly.

"What did he do to you?" I whispered, walking slowly and cautiously to her side.

"He..." Her voice cracked and she paused, as if she was praying for her tears to disappear. "He hurt me. In ways that I have never been hurt before. My body felt like it was on fire." I looked at her, and I instantly knew that she was leaving something out of her story. 

"What else?"

"Nothing."

"Tell me." I said firmly, taking her hand in mine. "I need to know."

 "He touched my head." Y/N whispered, her voice weak as she spoke further.   "And he put a vision inside." I squeezed her hand when she hesitated to continue.

"Please."

"You died." Y/N whimpered. "Over and over again. I was next to you, and couldn't do anything but watch as he killed you.”

"I'm not going to die." I pulled her closer to me. "Don't worry."

"I lost track of how many times he made me watch you die. It feels like it’s destined to happen." She softly, numbly.. "What if it’s what lays ahead of us?"

"No." I said firmly. "It won't. I'm not going to die and neither are you."

“It seems that are chances of surviving these days have been fairly small.”

"I'm seeing hint tomorrow. I will kill him myself, if or when it comes down to it.”

"You don't have your lightsaber."

 "No." I shook my head. "But I know how to without it."

 “How-”

 "Don't dwell on it anymore, my stars." I kissed her forehead softly. "Come, close your eyes and rest. That is something that we both need more than anything now.”

----

[yourfaveisyanderematic]

The Worm Turns

Hell yeah I can, buddy

To whom do lions cast their gentle looks? Not to the beast…the smallest worm will turn being trodden on, and doves will peck…

Shakespeare bored you at the best of times, but there was something about that particular passage—somewhere in Henry VI, maybe Part 3—that echoed in your mind with that sense of troubling significance the superstitious called premonition.  

Entertaining that kind of thought would do nothing for your nerves, though.  You turned your attention to the coffee you idly stirred, watching your reflection blink back from the surface of the drink.  It gave you a twinge of vicious satisfaction, seeing how composed you looked; your expression was determinedly neutral, almost bored looking, and there wasn’t a hair out of place or a wrinkle in your clothes.  Unreadable, you decided, that was how you looked.

This was important, because half this battle was fought by hiding how thoroughly rattled and angry you were.

You set your spoon down with a delicate clink and leaned forward, resting your hand on your chin in a gesture of thoughtful contemplation as you regarded the young man with you.  Like you, he was the picture of composure: well groomed and calm, enjoying his own drink in a way you could only describe as ‘elegantly casual’.  Diffused sunlight glinted off his golden bangs and highlighted the blue in his eyes, drawing more than one interested glance from the women milling around the open-air cafe.

Giorno Giovanna, for his part, was politely pretending he wasn’t watching you watch him, with mixed success; he seemed distant enough that other patrons kept trying to catch his eye, but you could tell by the subtle tension in his neck and the way his head was angled that you were the only person he was paying any attention to.  His fingers twitched against the handle of his cup every now and then, making it rattle in its saucer slightly.  He probably would have killed to have a book in his hands, anything to fiddle with.

Your coffee was getting cold.  You forced yourself to take a slow sip, and then finally broke the silence.

“I’ve given a lot of thought to what you said yesterday.  About wanting me to move in with you.”

Giorno was beautiful to watch in motion.  The second you finished speaking, he unfolded his legs and set his cup down, leaning forward in one practiced motion.  When he replied it was confidently and from the heart, as if the words had always been there.

“It’s the only reasonable option,” he began, and you couldn’t help but wonder if that subtle emphasis on reasonable was deliberate, “until we uncover and stop your stalker, it’s safest for you to stay with someone who can protect you.  A temporary arrangement, naturally, it’s but an important one; they won’t be able to hurt you as long as you’re with me.  You won’t even have to go home to collect your things if you don’t want to, I’d be happy to pick things up.”

He said it like it was a foregone conclusion, that you’d already agreed even if you hadn’t said the words.  You suppose it made sense; where else were you supposed to turn?  How much longer could you endure your nameless shadow by yourself—worse, how much longer would it be before they finally did something?  Giorno was right: as long as you didn’t know who they were or how to stop them, all you could do was accept his help.

There was just one problem with that logic.  You sighed, a simple exhalation that did nothing to lessen the tension coiling in your chest, but you held his gaze.

“I don’t think that’ll be necessary, Giorno.  I already know it’s you.”

Your voice was flat and unemotional; this was not an accusation but a statement of fact.  The easygoing smile vanished from his face as suddenly as if you’d slapped him.  If you were expecting more of a reaction—an impulsive denial, a guilty glance, a flinch backwards—you would be disappointed.  He now looked at you with shrewd reassessment, no doubt mentally filing through possible responses for whatever would keep you on his side.

Whatever he prepared for, it certainly wasn’t this.  That was fine, you were more than willing to give him a piece of your mind since you had the opportunity.  

“Do you think I’m stupid?  In the beginning I thought it was just bad luck, and then I realized how everything that was happening came back to you.  You were good, I’ll admit; I didn’t think anything of telling you about my schedule.”  You found yourself leaning forward as you spoke, all pretense of relaxation gone, resting your hands on the table in an aggressive half-crouch.  

“You were the first one I told when I noticed the people following me, the things missing from my house.  You were the one I cried to when the police wouldn’t do anything and everyone stopped talking to me, and the more I confided the worse things got and the better friend you became.  You broke in, you stalked me…did you do something about the cops, too?  Did you threaten my friends?”

There was a reason you insisted on meeting Giorno at an outdoor cafe at the peak of business hours, and it wasn’t because you were in love with the coffee.  He wouldn’t dare try anything here, and you had plenty of exits if you needed to get away quickly.

“You need to understand—“ Giorno began, finally thinking of something he thought could manipulate you, but you were finished listening to him.

“No, you need to understand.”  You pulled something out of your pocket and slapped it onto the table.  It was a keychain, a little ladybug trinket he found somewhere and wanted you to have.  It was only now that he dropped his gaze, staring down at the gift and what it meant.

“The only reason I haven’t already called the police on you is because I know you could worm your way out of it, but you’re done making a fool out of me.  This is the last time I’ll see you, Giovanna.  That’s what I came here to say.”  You stood up, fast enough that the chair squeaked against the stone flooring, and turned to leave.  Your planned exit had been blocked by a particularly chatty group of college students, you noticed with some dismay, but you just held your breath as you walked past Giorno’s seat instead.

You were unsurprised but still afraid when he caught you by the arm, a gentle grasp that promised something else.

“This wasn’t how you were supposed to find out.”  His voice was a surprisingly urgent murmur.

“Don’t make me make a scene, Giorno.”  That was your only reply.  You gave him a moment to relax his grip before you roughly shook him off and all but fled the cafe.  Something burned at the corner of your eyes; you blinked away angry tears and quickened your pace.

Which was unfortunate, because otherwise you might have noticed your phone was missing.

—

Giorno would have given you a head start—some much needed time to cool off and be more understanding about the situation—but you had caught on far quicker than he expected, and he needed to move before you made things worse with this pointless game.

Following you was a simple enough matter.  It was cute, the way you’d changed your clothes and avoided all routes you took normally as you fled town, but he had something of yours, and that meant you could never really escape him.

Even so…he felt his nails dig into his palms as he walked alongside the snake that used to be a phone, but nobody was around to notice.  This was a significant setback.  A lot of work had been undone, and now he was going to have to do things the hard way.  

The snake paused, so suddenly he nearly stepped on it.  It poked its head at the crack under the door, finally locating the shitty hotel room you’d holed yourself up in.  The best-laid plans…the more you tried to prepare against your stalker, back when it was still a nebulous threat, the more Giorno knew about what you were like and what you planned to do.

And, of course, the fact that you were terrified of snakes.

—

You weren’t sure what woke you, at first; the darkness outside hadn’t changed, and the room was still dead silent.  The nearby lamp cast weak yellowish light over the little room, illuminating the bed you ignored and the cabinets, leaving shadows that shifted ominously if you indulged in a little paranoia.

Then it happened again.  The tickle of something moving, something on your leg.

Something crawling up your leg.

Your eyes darted downwards, only now registering the small dark snake winding itself upwards, eyes glittering like black diamonds in the low light.

oh jesus Oh JESUS OH JESUS—

You couldn’t be blamed for shouting and jumping up, wildly shaking your leg in the wild impulse to get it off, get it off before it bites, how did a snake even get—

And then your foot accidentally landed on it.  The snake became the last thing on your mind.

All the breath punched out of you at once as several somethings inside you snapped, strangling the scream before it could get past your throat.  You careened sideways, the edge of the nightstand rushing to meet you, helpless to do anything about the fact that you were about to bash your head open…

Someone caught you, held your head back at the last possible moment.  Someone who held you in a gentle grasp that promised no escape.

“Shh…oh, that was close.  I was hoping you’d be in bed when you attacked the snake, but this is fine too.”  Golden bangs came into view, glinting in the light as Giorno carefully lowered you to the floor, already lightly pressing his hand to your sides as your chest heaved.  

“That’s four…five ribs, and I think you’d smashed one of the vertebrae…” he turned you over, all too happy to lay his hands on you once more.  Pain became your world, an all-consuming crushing force that obliterated any sensation except the agony in your chest, silenced all noise except the pounding of your heart.  All you could do was blink slowly, stupidly, unable to see anything but the carpet pressed against your cheek.

“This is what I was trying to say, earlier,” Giorno whispered, probably trying to sound calm but unable to wholly hide the edge in his voice.  “You need to understand that you can’t take care of yourself.  Running off on your own like this will only get you hurt.”  

“Snakes bite when you step on them, after all.”

[rukafais]

da capo

(meaning: from the beginning)

In scattered interludes and encounters along the long and winding road, Divine imparts bits and pieces of her past.

[ao3 mirror]

The days are hot; the nights are cold. This dry land is full of broken structures that dominate the landscape in their desolate forms; they cast long shadows with the sun and moon alike.

Divine leaves her usual spot to breathe in the arid air. Even as night falls (it comes so fast here), she stays outside. Her breath forms clouds in the chilling air as her eye lingers on sandy, rolling hills.

“It shouldn’t be this empty,” she says. Brumm glances at her, and notices her distant look, and doesn’t ask.

He plays a song, old and low and soothing. A rumbling lullaby from a storm-crushed land.

She eventually goes back inside, when she can stand the cold no longer. But she smiles a little, and thanks him (squishes his face gently and tells him he’s dear for it, which he doesn’t mind).

Later, he checks on her, and the lamps in her tent are dim, and she is curled up asleep. She looks more weary than he has ever seen her.

Grimm just shakes his head at Brumm’s unspoken question. He’s made himself a cosy nest of blankets and pillows, while they await their summoner in this realm; he’s reading one of the many books he’s collected on their travels together.

“That is something she must tell you herself, my dear musician,” he says, turning rough pages with careful fingers. “It would be a breach of trust to say anything else.”

Brumm just nods. Rather than practice and disturb the silence, he simply lingers, unwilling to be away from him. Grimm doesn’t invite him, exactly, but his master certainly doesn’t mind when Brumm eventually curls up by his side.

His musician plays idly with his fingers after a while, to distract him from his reading, and though he blushes when Grimm laughs quietly and tells him he likes this new, bold step, neither of them feel the need to stop it happening.

-----------

Here and there, in their journeys, Divine has requests. She hums snatches of old songs, things he’s never heard before even in all their travels - he’s heard similar, but not the exact same. They come from a distant time and place - he suspects that it’s somewhere that no longer exists.

He plays them all, or tries to. Divine corrects him, now and then, but mostly she seems content to listen. Her eye is closed; if not, it’s distant, as if she looks at something far away.

They’re often loud, energetic, almost vicious in their intensity, these songs. They tell stories of a place he’s never seen and, he suspects, will never be able to. She tells him their names, if she can remember them; they are often very long, or very short, and there is no in-between. They describe mythical figures and grand journeys, great hunts and world-shaping events.

Some of them are about her, she says. He’s not sure how true that is, but he’s not one to question, only to listen.

“You’re very good at understanding them, lovely,” she says, once. “You have a talent.”

“It’s just practice,” Brumm says. Divine waves it off with a smile.

“Practice is one thing! I’ve heard many musicians. Only some of them have a spark, like you. You breathe life into the songs. You make them live again, like little memories. Little stories in the music, lovely.”

When she explains it like that, he thinks he almost understands. But he’s not certain, even so, and he says as much.

“You’ll understand someday. Or maybe you won’t. It doesn’t matter that much, lovely. All you need to know is that you’re very, very skilled. Master was right to choose you as the musician. Music is very important, you know.”

He knows. Or, at least, he thinks so. Divine gets like this, sometimes, and he has to admit he’s not particularly used to her being philosophical - or maybe it’s just because she’s intensely focused on him, and while he knows she wouldn’t hurt him, that level of intensity is still a little much to have on you all at once.

------------

“I was an adventurer myself, once,” she says, out of nowhere.

Brumm squints, because Divine tells stories all the time, and a lot of them aren’t true.

(Not that this is a bad thing. She’s a wonderful storyteller, and she loves to exaggerate to make things interesting. She and Grimm make a constant game of it, picking out each other’s falsehoods; telling bigger and more ridiculous tales, finding more elaborate, silly reasons to discount them.

It’s something that Brumm has only ever watched, not taken part in. He’s not good at making things up, except when it comes to music. But he does like to listen, and Grimm or Divine will ask for him to compose a song, and he provides.)

She meets his doubting expression with a laugh and a grin. “So suspicious, lovely! So harsh to me, so cruel!” She pats his cheek; Brumm just huffs, because she knows why he acts that way about the things she says.

“And maybe you’d be right, lovely! Speaking little and watching much, you do see a lot, don’t you? But I’m telling the truth. No tall tales here, I promise.”

She settles into a more comfortable position, curling so she can recline on, essentially, herself.

“I was all sorts of things, lovely. A bodyguard, a warrior, even a hunter! It was fun, very fun. I wasn’t always this shape, either. Much more nimble.”

Brumm sort of hums thoughtfully at that, because while he doesn’t doubt that Divine might have looked different once, she was still entirely capable of sudden and swift violence. It’s one of the roles she still plays for the Troupe, after all.

She laughs, as if reading his mind (she’s unnervingly good at guessing his thoughts, and that makes him wonder, too).

“Yes, lovely, even faster than I am now! I didn’t carry a weapon, no, but I didn’t need one.”

The laugh peters out, her normally wicked grin receding a little. She leans on a forelimb, her visible eye thoughtful and dim, not sharp and bright as usual; she’s thinking about something long past and far away.

“But all things come to an end, lovely, even exciting journeys like that. I was supposed to find someone to settle down with, to start a nest, a stronghold. I had my pick, of course! And I found a mate that I liked, who wasn’t boring, who was my equal in combat - and who liked me very much.”

She sighs, wistfully, shaking her head. “But sometimes, it doesn’t work out. You know how it is, lovely. Things happen. A kingdom dies, collapses, takes what you knew with it. Scars you.” (He thinks about the mask that Divine never removes; whatever is beneath that aches during bad weather). “Crumbling into ruins...and then, there was Master, and now, here I am.”

Brumm simply nods. That, too, had been the way he had met Grimm’s predecessor; when all else was gone, when the ruin of everything he’d known lay before him, there was the Troupe. And he could have stayed in a dead land, tended it, told his stories of the bugs who lived there before to those who would come after - to be part of its rebirth - but he was a child, then, and all his life was gone, and any future he could possibly envision only held emptiness.

The Troupe had promised a family and companionship for him, a shield against loneliness, a warmth that would always last. It was better than anything a dying land had to offer him.

(He still feels the ache of that loss, of the master who had come before; he remembers a soft voice and scarred hands and a quiet lullaby. A weary, gentle voice. Grimm doesn’t speak of it, but he doesn’t have to; it’s a pain they both understand without words.)

“Do you miss it?” he ventures, after a moment. “Mrm. Your old life, your old home...”

“No,” Divine says, shaking her head with a slight smile. “Home is where people are, lovely. You know that, I think. It would be easy to leave, even if I wasn’t injured like I was. Nothing left, not even a morsel of what I wanted and loved.”

Love isn’t a word Divine uses often. Brumm has always wondered about it (but some bugs are just like that, and there’s nothing wrong with it, so he hadn’t wondered too much), but he thinks he understands.

Love means something different to her, something deep and quiet and soft, a remnant of the past. And if he knows anything about Divine, it’s not that she dislikes being soft, but it simply doesn’t occur to her to show it.

He plays a song for her that she’s requested before. It tells a simple story about rivers running past arid places to the sea, finding each other, meeting again, and she listens gladly.

“Come again, lovely,” she says, after it’s done, and he thinks that’s something of a thank you.

[lilacmiracle]

The Moon Won't Help You When You're Lost

Fandoms: Markiplier

(AO3) Words: 2999

You had been in these woods for hours. You had decided to take a nice, short hike to get away from the stress of work - it wasn’t easy, being the District Attorney. You had left around midday - and now the full moon hung in the sky, mocking you with its cold light as you searched desperately for anything, any sign or landmark that could lead you back out of the woods.

As you searched, the moon only climbed higher in the sky, and the forest around you became denser and denser.

You had glimpsed various animals earlier in the day, but now it was eerily silent. There were no footsteps, no rustle in the leaves underfoot as a small animal scurried about. Not even the chirp of a cricket or the whistle of the wind - the only noise came from your feet softly crushing the leaves beneath your shoes.

Finally, as you began to accept that you may very well die in these woods, you hear a chilling howl. It sounds like a wolf, and one that was far away at that, but some instinctive, visceral feeling pierced your chest. It left your heart racing, and you knew, deep within your bones, that this was no wolf.

You walked a bit faster. There had to be some way out of these woods, there had to. Besides, the sound came from a direction away from where you were walking.

A creeping sense of unease stole over you. You tried to shake it off - the creepy noise was too far away for its source to be nearby. It couldn’t bother you.

Nevertheless, you felt eyes watching you. Stalking you. Observing its prey, just before it pounced.

You were walking at a speed just short of a run. Adrenaline pounded within your veins, you could hear your heartbeat thumping loudly in your ears, your breaths came out quickly, harshly, unevenly.

In the corner of your eye, you saw a shadow, and you could barely make out the crunch of leaves as something stepped upon the ground nearby. It could’ve been a harmless deer - but that was the breaking point. You broke into a dead run, flying through the woods as though every footfall was the difference between life and death.

Behind you, the sound of leaves being crushed was so loud that you couldn’t ignore it - something was chasing you, hunting you, going to catch up at any second -

And something caught your leg.

You slammed into the ground, hitting your arm painfully on a gnarled tree root, which was sticking up from the ground.

Your calf was within the jaws of some monstrous wolf. It practically screamed in pain, the slimy saliva of the wolf - it had to be mutated or something to have grown this large - mixing with the blood within the gaping holes in your flesh, carved out by the abomination’s monstrously sharp teeth.

It began to drag you by the leg, back where you had just come from - your head dragged on the ground, your muscles drained of all strength by the monster.

You felt something warm creep from your calf, and you faintly heard it drip onto the leaves on the ground, and you felt it slide beneath your back when the wolf continued its journey back, presumably to its den, with its prize. You almost can’t bear to look - look into the beady, vicious eyes of the predator, look into its snarl as its mouth was undoubtedly marred with your blood, look at its matted, greasy black fur glimmer in the pale moonlight.

But you look anyway - to see your pant leg torn into unrecognizable shreds, and your calf dripping a viscous crimson fluid, while the powerful wolf drags you on. Its maw is dripping in blood and something that looks almost yellow.

You cannot feel your leg anymore, and you don’t know whether that is a good or bad thing. Your thoughts are confused, your mind is filled with a hazy fog.

Maybe it’s the blood loss that gets you. 

Or maybe you finally pass out from fear.

-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

You wake up with a jolt. The surface that you are lying on is soft, and you are covered in something warm. Sunlight streams into the room as you open your eyes.

You’re on a bed that isn’t yours. It looks vaguely familiar, and you get the nagging feeling that you’ve been here before.

You attempt to sit up, before falling back onto the pillows, hissing in pain. It felt like a knife had just sliced through your skull.

Deciding to simply look around, you see minimal decor. It appears to be a guest room.

The style of the room nags at you, for it screams of familiarity. You know where you are, but a fog in your mind just won’t let you think.

As alarming as this should be, you can’t help but feel safe. You know who owns this room, and you would trust them with your life.

“I’m glad to see that you’re awake, old friend.”

The door had creaked open, and Damien stood in the doorway. Now you remember - this is his house, and his guest room.

You try to ask him what happened, or how you got from the woods to his spare bedroom, or something to that effect - but the words won’t leave your throat. It feels like they’ve been caught by massive shards of glass embedded in your airways.

“Please don’t try to speak. You’re probably wondering what happened, right?”

You nod hesitantly, not knowing if the action will cause the same kind of pain that everything else has so far. 

Damien walks towards you, and sits near the end of the bed. He gently lays one hand on your leg, while his shoulders sag. He looks deeply into your eyes.

It’s now that you realize that he looks as awful as you feel. The bags beneath his eyes are a deep purple, his usually perfectly styled hair is hopelessly tangled, and his abnormally small frame trembles slightly. You can nearly see his skeleton, with how thin he’s become.

“I found you on my morning run, on the edge of the woods that I always pass by. It looked like you’d been attacked by a wild animal - you were covered in dirt and leaves and there were cuts on your arms and hands. Most of your clothes were torn to shreds, or else covered in dirt and blood. Your leg had been nearly torn off - I almost had to call a doctor, but I was able to bandage it somewhat decently.”

You were immensely grateful to him. He, quite frankly, looked like shit, and yet he still managed to save you from whatever injuries you had sustained the evening prior.

You still couldn’t feel your leg. You tried to move it, or wiggle your toes at the very least, but it wouldn’t budge.

“I know that you’re not going to like this, but I must implore you not to attempt to leave, at least for the near future.”

That seemed somewhat reasonable, for the time being. You knew that you couldn’t really do any work in this state, and Damien likely feared for your safety. After all, if you had found him on the ground looking half-dead, you wouldn’t want him out of your sight either.

“Do you want anything?”

You shake your head slightly. Damien nods, and lightly squeezes your uninjured leg before standing. He walks back to the doorway, before looking back at you for a moment.

“I would advise getting some rest.”

You glance over at the window, still brightly shining sunlight into the room. Damien notices this, and walks over to the curtain and closes it. He smiles at you gently, before walking back to the door, leaving it slightly cracked open as he leaves you to sleep.

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The next time you wake up isn’t nearly as pleasant. The room is completely drowned in darkness, and you can’t even see your hand in front of your face.

Your skin itches all over. You try in vain to scratch some of it, but that only makes it worse.

Your leg hurts, but it’s not the sharp sting of when it was bitten. It’s more of a dull ache, radiating out to the rest of your body.

You try to sit up. You manage to, for a moment, but then it feels like your brain has been skewered by a particularly violent chef. You lie back down on the bed.

When your head hits the pillow, the sound that it makes is almost akin to that of a gunshot in its intensity. You slide your hand on the blanket slightly as you raise it to place it against your forehead, for a sound that loud only intensified your killer headache; the sound of your hand on the embroidered top of the blanket is awful, it is so loud that you feel that it should tremble the house.

There are crickets outside of the window, and they chirp - but it is so loud that they may as well be screaming. 

Your ears are assaulted for hours on end; everything is so loud. Too loud.

The sun begins to rise, after so, so long. You can see the light streaming through the window, only a single ray of sun filtering through the crack between the curtains. Though it is only a ray of sun, the whole room becomes clear. Your eyes adjust much faster than usual, and everything in the room is in abnormally perfect focus.

There are footsteps outside the door. It creaks open, slowly, and its hinges scream violently in protest.

Damien speaks softly, but you can hear him just as well as if he were sitting next to you instead of standing in the doorway.

“Hello, old friend. I did not mean to disrupt your rest, but...do things suddenly seem abnormally loud to you?”

You nod, and wonder just how he knew what was happening, because clearly things weren’t actually that loud. It had to be your perception, right?

Damien walks off, his footsteps light enough that they aren’t too loud.

He comes back a few minutes later, with two earplugs in hand.

“These should help you.”

He hands them to you, and you put them in. Everything is much quieter. It feels good, calm, refreshing even.

Damien smiles at you, gently. There is a sadness in his eyes, but you cannot fathom why. It feels bittersweet.

You are so, so tired.

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You wake up, and the sun is shining brightly. You can see it stream through the space between the curtains.

You sit up, and it is easy. You are able to remain upright, and no jolt of pain crashes through your skull.

You go to grab at one of the earplugs, but when you tap on it, the noise is like that of a cannon going off. You decide to leave it in.

You take the blanket off of you, for the first time in who knows how long. Your injured leg is wrapped in clean bandages. You notice that you are in clean pajamas, though you are still wearing your undershirt and all of your other underclothes. 

The pajamas smell like Damien.

You swing your legs off of the bed. You try to stand, putting most of your weight on your uninjured leg. You have to grip the nearby dresser for balance, but eventually you are able to stand unsupported.

You gingerly take a step forward. And then another. You have to lean on the dresser, but you make your way to the end of it, towards the door.

You have to lean against the wall for the final few feet, but you finally make it to the doorway.

Your stomach growls. You know where the kitchen is - you can make your way there.

As you walk to the kitchen, painfully slowly and relying heavily on the wall, you smell something. The aroma is heavenly, and you think that it may be coming from the kitchen.

Eventually, you make your way there. You see Damien at the stove, his back to you. He might be humming, but you cannot be sure without taking out the earplugs.

Damien looks up, and he visibly jolts at the sight of you. He puts down whatever he is holding, rushes over to you, and firmly grips the arm that you’re not using for support.

He wordlessly gestures for you to lean on him. You obey, and he helps you over to the dining room table, where you sit in the chair that you always use.

He gestures for you to take out the earplugs. You are hesitant. You do not want to.

But his expression implores you; he appears to know exactly why you don’t want to. He appears to know exactly why things seem so loud.

You manage to slide them out without making too intense of a sound. 

“I’m glad to see you up and about. I’m cooking steak for dinner - how would you like yours?”

Dinner? You looked at the nearby grandfather clock, and you saw that it was 5:00 in the evening.

You go to tell him that you don’t particularly care (you never have before), but you feel a sudden craving for a rarer cut. Damien has always liked his meat rather bloody, so he must be somehow affecting you, due to his close proximity. That happens often, you tell yourself.

You tell him that you’d like it just like his steak, knowing that he always chooses to have the least cooked option while still being edible. You notice that talking is no longer painful.

He appears concerned for half a second, but it passes over so quickly that it could have easily been your imagination. He shoots you a small smile, nods, and stands to go back to the kitchen. You suppose that the steak must have been what you smelled earlier.

You can still see him from where you sit. You watch him cook, while listening to the sizzle of grease and his soft humming of a song that you both know well.

Eventually, he walks back into the dining room, with two plates in hand. He pulls out a chair next to you, setting one plate in front of you, and the other in front of him.

The steak is so rare that the grease it is dripping may easily be blood. It is brown, but you can see red within it. Damien’s is nearly identical.

You cut into the steak, and red fluid flows from the meat. You stab a bite-sized portion with your fork, and bring it to your lips. The outside of the piece is cooked, but barely. The center is a brilliant red.

You take a bite, and wonder why you ever liked the cooked part of meat. The steak is a bit bloody, and the taste coats your tongue. It is delightful.

You scarf down the rest of your steak, so quickly that it would be rude if Damien weren’t doing the same. As the both of you finish your meals, he daintily wipes his mouth with a napkin, acting as though he hadn’t rabidly eaten as though he’d been starved. He shoots you a mischievous smirk, and you return one of your own.

When you set your fork on your plate, the sound sharply pierces your eardrums. You flinch, and, almost offhandedly, you ask yourself why it was so loud.

And then you begin to wonder, really wonder. Why did everything sound so loud? Why could you pick up on smells that you previously didn’t pay attention to? Why was your vision clearer than it had been...ever? Why did you suddenly prefer bloody meat?

How did Damien know about all of it?

You look over at Damien, and it looks like he knows exactly what you’re thinking. He knows that you’ve connected the dots, though you have no idea what picture they’ve created. He appears resigned.

“I knew that I couldn’t keep the truth for long. You were always so sharp.” He gives you a small, rueful smile, and continues. “The truth is...I-” he takes a sharp breath, as though steeling himself for something terrible. “I have been cursed, since I was young. On the full moon, I transform into a terrible beast. I do not know what I do, what horrors I may inflict, while I am in this form. I do know that this curse is spread by being bitten by one with the curse.”

He takes a deep breath, and screws up his face as though he were remembering something very painful.

“This past moon, I went into the woods that I always go into. I know them like I know the back of my own hand. I woke up, as the sun rose, and I can taste blood in my mouth. It is all over my face and hands. Beneath me is a body; it is so bloody, so dirty, that I almost do not recognize it. I tilt their head, praying that I do not recognize them, and I see your face. I check for a pulse, and it is there, but faintly. I barely manage to get you back here and patch you up, but the damage is done. Your leg was bitten. My curse is now yours as well, and it is my fault. It’s all my fault...”

He wraps his arms around himself, tightly, and his voice wavers. You can see tears glitter in his eyes. He squeezes his eyes shut, in a vain attempt to keep himself from crying; it doesn’t work.

You wind your arms around him, hugging him gently. He leans into you, with his head on your shoulder. He bites his lip to keep from sobbing. You put one hand on the back of his head, using the other to pat him on the back.

You forgive him.

[fifiliphaser]

take my hand and follow me into the sun (Cherik fic)

Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 4

[AO3 Version]

A story, inspired by that beautiful scene at the end of XMDP, exploring how Charles and Erik’s relationship develops from there, and how this development helps Charles to sort out his issues and finally find his peace.

So, yeah. Hi, everyone. Took me long enough. In my defense, I initially intended to post it all at once, but—as it keeps happening to me lately—the story has gradually become longer and longer, so, in the end, I decided to divide it into four parts. I hope you’ll enjoy it. I tried to explore Charles’s state of mind more, because I doubt he was completely alright at the end of XMDP. As always, it’s proof-read and not beta-ed. So, I’d be grateful for any and all comments. The title comes from the song Where We Come Alive by Ruelle. The name of the café comes from this post by @miss-melodypond, because I couldn’t help myself.

Part 1

You love someone, you open yourself up to suffering, that’s the sad truth. Maybe they’ll break your heart, maybe you’ll break their heart and never be able to look at yourself in the same way. Those are the risks. That’s the burden.

Like wings, they have weight, we feel that weight on our backs, but they are a burden that lifts us. Burdens that make us better than we are.

Burdens which allow us to fly… 

—Bones, season 4, episode 26

The Old Friends Café is a truly pleasant spot, which Charles has quickly taken a liking to, what with its accessible location and tasty treats. He’s been coming here almost every morning since he arrived to the neighbourhood. Thanks to the mild weather, he could sit outside and observe pedestrians rushing in various directions, the soft hum of their thoughts surrounding his mind and drowning out any bleak images overflowing from his subconscious.

It has become a sort of a ritual of his, a morning coffee among passing people who have no idea who he really is. Quite refreshing, to blend in without the need to use his ability. That’s one of the reasons why he decided to leave the US and head somewhere else. Perhaps it was in an attempt to run away from the past, from his mistakes; to run away from what he is. As futile as that running fundamentally is, Charles finds himself strangely content, lost in the bustle and vibrancy of the City of Lights.

He tries to smile when a waitress places his coffee in front of him, but part of him knows that this smile is just a shadow of what it once was. Despite his great efforts, he cannot muster enough enthusiasm to radiate joy like he used to; he simply lacks energy for that these days. Even the usual politeness of his tone sounds off to his ears, as if an ill-fitting mask started to slowly slip down his face.

It is truly ironic, how what made him the Professor in the first place—his focus on others, on their well-being, his compassion and how tuned in he tries to be to everyone’s feelings but his own—has essentially become his greatest downfall. He’s come too far, flew too close to the sun, and paid the price for it, greater than he could ever imagine.

The memory of the colourful flowers scattered on the freshly turned earth, bathed in the unrelenting cold rain, is as vivid as if he was still looking down at what was left of one of the people he cherished the most—his sister whom he thought he had got back, only to lose her yet again, long before wooden splinters could even slice through her chest. Even so, it isn’t only her death that has broken his heart, shattering it into a million small pieces.

Charles looks down at the cracked, uneven pavement, not even fighting the urge to compare it to his pathetic emotional state. Although he finds his mind constantly drifting in every feasible direction, a muffled, yet relentlessly suffocating sense of guilt is always colouring even the most idle of his thoughts nowadays. After all, it was his fault that they lost Raven, what with his recklessly desperate attempt to prove to his sister that he respects and trusts her opinion. It was his fault that Jean started wreaking havoc, his actions bringing her to her breaking point and his efforts to help her only making things worse. It was his fault that Hank left, feeling raw, wronged, and seeking vengeance. It was his fault that he didn’t notice those soldiers earlier, too occupied with Jean to realise he should find a way to stop them from capturing all the mutants.

None of that would’ve happened if it hadn’t been for him.

That was why he left. He was tired after years of keeping the school going, surely, and after the fiasco in New York his reputation has been tarnished forever, yet those reasons alone wouldn’t have stopped him from staying with his family, if only he was able to look them in the eye. He couldn’t do that, not with the knowledge that it was him who tore this family apart.

His departure from the mansion was rather unceremonious, as if he were leaving only for short holidays rather than retiring completely. Many students bid him goodbye, unaware that they probably won’t see him again in a very long time. It pained him terribly to leave the children who had grown on him so much over the years, yet, as egotistical as it might’ve been, he didn’t have the heart to admit to them that what he was actually doing was running away.

Even Hank, though their relationship has still been a little strained ever since the Jean Grey incident, tried to talk him out of the retirement idea, honoured with Charles’s wish for the scientist to become the new headmaster, but rather unwilling to take his place. It took Charles a while to convince Hank, but he just couldn’t bear it anymore. Looking at Scott trailing forlornly around the mansion, at Ororo trying to keep the team together and step into Raven’s shoes, at Peter doing his best to bring Kurt’s humour back, at the children’s enthusiasm remaining somewhat subdued after the threat of the school being shut down; it was all too much for him, the relentless whispers flooding his mind and only amplifying the grief-fueled darkness lurking in its corners.

Hank eventually relented, although he insisted on driving Charles to the airport after he unsuccessfully tried to fish out from the telepath where he intended to go. Despite Hank’s good intentions, born purely out of concern for him, Charles couldn’t afford anyone knowing his destination, foolishly so, perhaps. Not much of him has remained in the mansion, and that is precisely what he wanted, with the school having the name changed and being under the new management. He even briefly considered altering everyone’s memories, so they would have hardly any recollection of him; he decided against it in the end, however. Nevertheless, it hasn’t made him feel less of a coward, roaming the busy streets of Paris in an attempt to fade into the background, to become nothing more than another nameless face in the crowd.

In the aftermath of the Jean Grey incident, it initially seemed that the mutant cause was lost, but they somehow managed to sway the government from taking any drastic measures, what with the main threat being “neutralised.” The damage to the mutant perception in the eyes of the general public has been done, however, and although many haven’t supported the idea of the mutant confinement centres, the discourse has quickly become exceedingly mutantphobic.

There’s a bit less hostility in Western Europe, as there has been no incidents here, which doesn’t mean, though, that people are not fearful. Therefore, it is the most reasonable not to attract any attention, even if the vicious voice at the back of Charles’s mind mocks him for hiding. It isn’t the world he’s fought for, but it’s the one he wakes up to in the wake of his mistakes.

With his jaw set firmly, Charles eventually reaches for the cup. He’s come here to forget, not to dwell on what is left of his aching heart, so these thoughts are really of no use to him. He reigns them in, perhaps for the thousandth time, his gaze boring into the smooth, dark surface of his coffee. However, before he manages to do as much as raise the cup to his lips, he feels something, a small, familiar tendril of thought.

A presence which he isn’t sure he’d like to feel right now.

For a moment, he can’t help but entertain the idea that maybe it’s just an illusion, conceived in the depths of his lonely mind. It wouldn’t bode any good for his sanity, and yet Charles would rather not face the possibility that Erik is indeed here. Although they didn’t part on particularly bad terms, their history having seen much more hostile farewells than that one, their relationship just isn’t what it used to be, even though after everything that happened, Erik has appeared to be less distant and perhaps even willing to rekindle their friendship.

What a twist of fate that it was Charles this time who shied away from this connection. It seems, though, that Erik is more unrelenting than the telepath expected.

Charles braces himself, unable to stop a sigh from escaping his lips. His body is tense as he watches Erik pass him and walk casually toward the other chair at the table. He places a folded chessboard on the ground before he sits, while Charles puts the cup away, pulling a saucer a bit closer to himself.

Erik seems to be quite relaxed, looking more put together than in the aftermath of the battle, when they saw each other for the last time. There’s a small smile curling on his lips as he asks, “How’s your retirement treating you?”

So different is Erik’s demeanor from the coldness that Charles has come to associate with him, that the telepath cannot stop suspiciousness from blooming in his mind. It doesn’t seem right, to see Erik so calm—so serene—when Charles feels like his own mind resembles one huge beehive. There’s only one way to confirm his suspicions, to see if what Charles interpretes as blissful indifference isn’t in actuality a completely different emotion, but he refuses to go anywhere near Erik’s mind, even if it leaves him at a significant disadvantage. 

“What are you doing here, Erik?,” he says instead of acknowledging the man’s question, not bothering with any pleasantries, not even trying to hide his reluctance.

His clipped tone does little to deter Erik, however. “I came to see an old friend,” he answers simply, his eyes trained on Charles’s face thoughtfully. Charles tilts his head, but doesn’t say anything, which Erik apparently takes as a cue to continue. “Fancy a game?,” he offers briskly, glancing down at the chessboard next to his leg.

Charles follows his gaze, and then crosses his arms, leaning slightly away. Normally, he would never say no to a chess match, especially with as challenging an opponent as Erik can sometimes be, but he doubts his game would be any good now, what with the whirlwind of not only his own, but also all the other people’s thoughts threatening to consume him.

“Not today, thank you.” A meagre sad smile crosses Charles’s lips and he looks away, his stare once again fixated on the pavement.

Despite his greatest efforts, however, he cannot simply ignore Erik’s presence, not when it brushes against the edges of his mind, surprisingly comforting in its tranquillity. Charles barely suppresses the urge to dive inside, to drown in Erik’s consciousness and forget about everything else, so he quickly strengthens his shields.

He can see out of the corner of his eye how Erik leans in, resting his elbows on the table. He’s thoughtful for a little while, before he looks up at Charles once again.

“Long time ago, you saved my life and you offered me home,” he says firmly, and Charles can’t stop himself from glancing back at him, utterly taken aback by the sudden change of topic. “I’d like to do the same for you.”

Erik’s expression is wary, but earnest, and Charles catches himself sifting fleetingly through the man’s surface thoughts, which seems to confirm the genuineness of his words. All the while his eyes are trained on Charles’s face, not leaving it for even a second. Even though being a subject of Erik’s undivided attention used to excite him beyond compare back in the day, now that piercing gaze feels nothing but overwhelming, as if Erik could see his very soul and notice all the darkness lurking in his heart. Charles cannot stand it, he has to look away.

This is exactly why he wasn’t sure if he wanted to see him. Charles doesn’t seem to have been particularly good with people lately, not that he ever actually was. It’s easy to smile to a stranger, to offer a helping hand to someone who looks up to you, but looking in the eyes of those close to him and seeing his true reflection—an overconfident egomaniac, convinced that he has the higher moral ground and is the only one who can make the world a better place, who’s in reality nothing more than a lost little boy, seeking validation and love from others—is at times simply too painful. No wonder he has struggled with getting closer to others, and even if he managed, they always ended up seeing through his poise and leaving him sooner or later. Not that he holds it against them; he would leave himself, too.

Seemingly unaware of Charles’s turmoil, Erik reaches into his pockets. After a moment, he pulls his hands out, clenched into fists, and lifts them in the air, leaning in, resting his elbows back on the table.

“Just one game,” he asks good-naturedly, and his lips slowly form an encouraging smile. “For old times’ sake.”

Hunched slightly over, Charles has to look up to face him. Why Erik is so insistent escapes his comprehension, but there is no harsh judgement nor bitter disappointment which Charles expected to see in those bright mesmerising eyes—nothing but a bit exasperated affection.

That’s not the way it should be. It has always been Charles who’s tried to help Erik find peace, to help him become a better person. And now that they’re sitting at the small Parisian café, it is Charles who’s struggling to find it in himself not to run. After all, he knows what he is, and what he is isn’t worth all that trouble.

And yet there’s something so pleasant about Erik’s mind, almost welcoming, even if all Charles feels is just its very surface, that the telepath cannot pull away. He wants to say no, to ignore Erik long enough for the man to leave, but he eventually relents, slowly reaching and tapping Erik’s left hand. He quickly withdraws, though, despite pleasant tingling in his fingertips that just a quick brush over Erik’s skin has evoked.

Erik smiles, with an excited glint in his eyes, and spins his hand. He slowly unwraps his fingers, revealing a single white pawn.

Charles’s colour.

“I’ll go easy on you,” Erik assures as soon as Charles has snatched the pawn out of his hand, even though his voice sounds rather mischievous.

Even if you come in, Charles hears, clear as day, and it cannot not be a projection. For a split second, he thinks that maybe he’s just overheard something he’s not supposed to, but he’s been shielding himself from Erik ever since he sensed him, so it must’ve been Erik’s intention for Charles to hear it. Something pangs in his heart, even though Charles is too miserable to get his hopes up, to see it as anything more than just teasing.

But his hope has never needed much to spring back to life.

A small smile spreads on Charles’s lips almost on its own accord. “No, you won’t,” he says, a bit of cheer returning to his voice, and continues in their thoughts, Even if I come in.

Erik grins at him, his eyes warm, and he looks so unguarded—so delightfully open—that Charles’s heart skips a beat. It hits him in this moment that no matter how many decades have passed, how many wrinkles have started to adorn Erik’s face, how many of his hair have already turned to grey, he continues to be as beautiful as he was on the day they met, in the cold Atlantic waters thirty years ago, if not even more so. Charles cannot help but try to mirror Erik’s smile, his stomach twisting into knots. He never expected that he would feel like this again, giddy and excited, flushed with the intensity of Erik’s gaze as his companion doesn’t seem to be able to look away from him, so it is Charles who averts his eyes first.

Erik sets up the board swiftly, his deft fingers placing meticulously all the pieces in their proper places. Charles follows them, mesmerised by the grace of even the smallest of movements. He is used to seeing Erik do that with nothing more than a gentle wave of his hand, but he has brought a wooden set and is forced to set up the game in a more traditional way. They don’t draw unnecessary attention to themselves this way, at least, and Charles appreciates that.

Even so, he cannot help but feel the bitterness seeping into his heart. There would be no need for hiding in the world he once hoped to build, but the dream has been shattered. Much as he loathes himself for this, he cannot refrain from wondering that perhaps prioritising trying to gain the humans’ approval over keeping the mutants he was supposed to take care of safe was never the proper course of action; that he should’ve focused on the school, not his political ambitions. But what is done is done, and all that Charles is left with is the bitter feeling in the pit of his stomach that Raven was right all along.

After all, he did sacrifice his team—his family—for the cause which seemed to be less about mutants and more about building his own public persona. Clearly, he lost his touch so thoroughly that he has become what he had once stood so strongly against—a politician focused solely on his own success rather than people he was supposed to serve. It was bound to end in disaster. So many years devoted to the mutant cause, and all of them wasted because of his own vanity and the fantasy of mutants becoming the heroes of humanity.

To think that it might have been different if only he had been less stubborn, not as lost in the vision of the world which was as idealistic as it was impossible to achieve. Perhaps, had there not been a division between the mutants, their efforts could have brought much better results. Maybe Erik was right, and that rupture was meant to weaken them, as it has quite clearly done so.

Leaning away from the board, Erik gives Charles a quizzical look. Even though he isn’t the one with telepathic abilities, he stares at Charles as if he knew exactly what the telepath is thinking. Perhaps he does; perhaps he has similar regrets, Charles muses, still determinedly blocking out Erik’s thoughts. They both wanted to make the world a better place for mutants, even if using drastically different methods, and all of it has been for naught.

Perhaps not all—there is still Genosha which seems to function better than Charles suspected. It may not be a mutant utopia yet, as his friend certainly wanted it to be, but it does provide mutants with the place where they can live free of persecution, given a chance to create their own system. He even remembers a couple of his students with more visible or not so easily reined in mutations choosing to move there after their graduation, something that should go against his goal of mutant-human integration, but deep down Charles felt relief every time one of them found a safe home in Genosha. Erik might’ve had a point while insisting on the separation between mutants and baseline humans, after all.

A quiet snort escapes Charles’s nose, and Erik raises his eyebrows, a corner of his lips rising in a lopsided smile as he asks, “Something’s funny?”

Charles studies Erik for a long moment, his gaze tracing wrinkles which replaced the lines once almost permanently running across his friend’s face. Now, though, despite the years, Erik almost looks younger, his eyes bright and his expression serene, and Charles thinks that he’s falling for him all over again, enticed by the soft humming of Erik’s thoughts, its pull akin to the strength of the magnetic force that the fascinating man before can bend to his will.

“Nothing, just…” Charles sighs and pauses for a moment, trying to find the best way of putting into words a strange paradoxical feeling. He cannot refrain from snorting again as he shakes his head. “I didn’t expect that we would swap places,” he admits at last, an edge of humour to his voice.

“Life’s full of surprises,” Erik murmurs, with smugness written all over his face.

The chessboard momentarily becomes forgotten as Erik holds Charles’s gaze, his eyes flicking to the telepath’s mouth every now and then. Were they alone, in a more secluded place, Charles wouldn’t probably stop himself from reaching out to Erik, but—as it happens—they sit in a public space where any more intimate gestures might be as frowned upon as a display of their abilities.

Charles could just make everyone else look away or think that something completely different is happening, he knows that. Part of him is tempted to do so, yet he doesn’t feel like meddling with all those minds, unsure of how his erratic emotions impact his control; whether he’d be able to draw the line before hurting somebody. Maybe it’s for the better; he’s not sure if he’s actually ready for anything to happen just yet.

“I’m glad you’re here,” Charles says instead, his voice soft, surprising even himself with how blunt his words are.

Perhaps he’s too old and too tired to hide his vulnerability anymore. Perhaps, despite him running away, he doesn’t actually want to be alone. Wallowing in self pity and letting himself be consumed by his pent-up emotions certainly won’t solve anything, he’s perfectly aware of that, and yet, it’s not that easy for him to pull himself out of that dark place. But Erik is here, offering to throw him a lifeline to which Charles so desperately wants to cling.

For a moment, he is afraid of Erik’s reaction, of his possible ridicule of such sappiness, yet Erik only smiles tenderly, and the wave of fondness encompassing at once Charles’s thoughts makes it clear that he must share the sentiment. Once again, Charles finds it hard to shake off the feeling that the scene playing out before his very eyes isn’t real; that he’ll soon wake up, alone in his bed, hating his mind for conjuring images of what he’s always wanted, but will never have. After all, the Erik before him is nothing like the man who left him over and over again, not with the serenity which is practically pouring off of him.

His mind, however, has the achingly familiar tinge to it that Charles isn’t sure he could so easily recreate, not even with the help of his rather remarkable memory. Yet again, the telepath has to suppress the urge to plunge into Erik’s thoughts and allow them to wash over his troubled psyche. It’s almost painful to hold himself back; even so, Charles cannot quell the fear that his presence won’t be welcome. After all, nobody wants a telepath rummaging through their heads.

His throat feels suddenly dry as Charles tries to clear it, his gaze boring into the chess board. Despite his doubts, if Erik’s projection is anything to go by, it seems that he could’ve tried to prompt Charles to do something. Perhaps it does sound too good to be true, but Charles has to ask.

“Could I?”

There’s a swell of mild surprise on the surface of Erik’s mind when he says calmly, “Could you what?”

Charles looks back up at him and finds Erik gazing at him curiously. Although there’s a hint of a smile in the corners of his lips, Charles hesitates. Part of him knows that what he’s about to ask is quite a lot, probably more than he deserves after everything that he’s done. But he cannot help himself.

“Could I—,” he hesitates momentarily, with his heart practically in his throat, “—come in?”

Charles struggles not to drop his gaze, as the world around him seems to have come to a halt. It surprises him how desperate he is to sink into Erik’s mind, even though he hasn’t done so in a terribly long time, and waiting for his friend’s reaction only makes him jittery. What’s worse, Erik keeps a straight face, and the surface of his thoughts brushes against Charles’s calmly, doing very little to help the telepath gauge his friend’s reaction.

Some of Charles’s desperation must be evident in his look—or it could’ve been his voice—because Erik’s expression softens, and he glances down at the chessboard.

“Your move,” he says casually, as if Charles hasn’t just asked him about something as intimate as opening a mental link between them.

The telepath tries to hide his disappointment, clearing his once again awfully dry throat. He shouldn’t be suffering from such disenchantment, not after his gift has been routinely rejected throughout the vast majority of his life. After all, people generally value their privacy quite highly, and Charles really understands that, even though he himself would give anything not to be alone in his own head at the moment.

Scarcely does he have a chance to slip back into the thick darkness of his mind, however, before he feels the deliberate caress of a thought against his consciousness. Another projection, but much gentler than before. You can if you’d like.

Charles finds himself blinking again, and the question escapes his mouth before he can do as much as consciously register asking it, his voice small and vulnerable, “You don’t mind?”

Erik’s gaze is on him again, although this time there is a flicker of something else in those kaleidoscopic eyes, greenish in the warm light of day, something much less peaceful. Regrettably, the odd ripple on the surface of Erik’s mind is gone too fast for Charles to put a finger on what his friend might feel, as Erik takes a deep breath, the playful smile back on his lips.

“I know you won’t cheat, you’re too bloody arrogant for that,” he says teasingly, though there is no actual bite to his words.

Charles doesn’t know if he’s more relieved that Erik seems to be genuinely unbothered by the prospect of Charles’s presence in his mind, or affronted by the suggestion that the only reason why he wouldn’t go as far as to cheat during their always wonderfully engaging games of chess is all due to his arrogance. In the end, his relief wins over, what with the familiar mischievous glint in Erik’s eyes.

“I simply happen to have a moral code, thank you very much,” Charles argues, even though his tone lacks any actual disdain, his hand hovering over the board. He ponders for a moment how he should start this time, and ends up picking the pawn before his queen. With his fingers wrapped around it, he continues, his voice matter-of-fact, “And I find that cheating essentially kills the purpose of the game. After all, it’s hardly any mental challenge to just take a peek into your mind to foresee your intention and adjust my strategy accordingly—”

Even though he quickly realises that he’s started mumbling, it is a gentle touch of Erik’s fingertips to the top of his still extended hand that puts him out of his reverie.

“Charles.” Erik’s voice is tender, yet unyielding. “You can read my mind.”

Despite the reassurance, Charles hesitates, which clearly doesn’t go unnoticed.

“I’d like you to,” Erik adds firmly, his fingers slowly starting to draw comforting patterns over Charles’ dry skin.

As little as it is, this amount of physical contact is enough to make shielding from Erik that much more of a bother, so Charles eventually just lets go, his consciousness instantly washed over with Erik’s thoughts. They are as serene as Charles expected, but there is also a different tinge to them, one that he didn’t really pick up on before.

Affection.

He’s barely able to compose himself enough not to let out a quiet whimper. It’s been ages since he felt anything remotely resembling this; Raven didn’t really allow him into her mind, even when their relationship was much less strained, and with Hank it’s been a different kind of companionship, one that has never included that kind of affection. That has been the void that even the children couldn’t fill, not with their respect and admiration, and even though he loved them—and still does—very dearly, being the authority figure for young minds has always put him in the position hardly allowing for forming equal connections, even when they grew up.

And to think that those are just surface thoughts… Although he’s well aware that he probably shouldn’t be doing that and most certainly will come to regret it later, he feels his mind plunging deep into Erik’s, flowing through the beautiful buzzing stream of consciousness. It won’t last long, Charles is sure of that, so he sets his mind to enjoy that while he still can, before Erik changes his mind and forces him out.

Instead of this anticipated withdrawal of Erik’s consent, Charles is once again met with a playful smile. “Want to know everything all over again?”

Charles can’t help but wince, even though the question hasn’t got any accusatory undertone whatsoever. Despite that, he’s quick to start withdrawing, his thoughts curling tightly around themselves. He hasn’t invaded another person’s mind like that in years, and he has no idea what’s overcome him to act so recklessly, unmindful of Erik’s boundaries.

“Don’t,” Erik says warningly, stopping Charles in his tracks.

He squeezes the telepath’s hand reassuringly, and even though he promptly lets go, his touch lingers, leaving the pleasant tingling sensation in its wake. Charles swallows, his mind still surrounded by Erik’s calming thoughts.

That is the moment he feels it for the first time, something relatively new in the mind that he once was so familiar with. A cool, metal-like surface, of which the tendrils of his ability slid off smoothly, feels as foreign as it is fascinating, and it can only be one thing.

“Shields?,” Charles finds himself asking incredulously.

The mischievous look is back in Erik’s eyes. “I had some practice,” he admits cheekily, though his thoughts get a slightly melancholy tinge that he is clearly struggling to hide.

Charles can’t do much more than stare at his friend. “I—”

“It’s easier for you this way, isn’t it?,” Erik observes lightly, his eyes back on the chessboard as he makes his move. “If there’s something I’d rather you didn’t see, I can take care of that myself.” He once again gazes at Charles, the smile still on his lips. “Other than that, you’re free to rummage around.”

It is difficult to even describe the feelings that one sentence evokes in Charles. It seems like the whole world around him has suddenly brightened, filled with the warmth that Charles has clearly been missing. Rarely has he been given such an explicit permission, a wish even, to allow his telepathy to run free, unchecked and unbound. It’s truly exhilarating, how it feels to let his mind wander aimlessly in the space where he’s very much welcome.

“That is…” Charles’s voice is rough, his throat weirdly constricted in his elation. He soldiers on, however, not minding it that much—the need to express his overwhelming gratitude is much stronger than his self-consciousness. “Thank you, my friend,” he says with a watery smile, reaching across the table to cover Erik’s hand with his own. “It means a lot.”

The softness is back on Erik’s face, his thoughts brushing tenderly against Charles’s, and as surprising as it was for Charles to feel it just moments ago, it slowly becomes a familiar—and very much cherished—sensation. “I know,” Erik murmurs, focusing again on the chessboard.

The game is rather unhurried after that, not that Charles minds. It’s actually a very pleasant reprieve from the mundaneness of his recent routine, and Charles finds himself more relaxed than he’s been in weeks, even before the incident. It feels very nice to stretch his mental muscles while coming up with the suitable strategy, even if his whole heart isn’t exactly in the game.

They are slowly making progress, at first chatting idly about things of little importance, such as the charm of early summer, even in the city as frequently bathed in pouring rains as Paris. There is an undercurrent of worry to Erik’s thoughts, even if he doesn’t voice it, and Charles can tell that he’s not the only one avoiding some more sensitive topics. Instead, they focus mostly on Charles’s stay in the City of Lights so far, the struggles of daily life in Genosha, and the atmosphere at the mansion when it turns out that Erik has recently pay the school a visit. It surprises Charles, but not altogether unpleasantly; after all, it is a good thing that Erik seems to be on good terms with Hank now, even if the circumstances leading to that were rather unfortunate.

Despite the concern swirling somewhere deeper in Erik’s mind, the man keeps steering away from the questions that are clearly pestering him. Charles is grateful for that because he isn’t sure how he would explain what is going on inside his head.

Rather than tackling those topics, the telepath allows his mind to drift, floating freely through Erik’s thoughts. Surrounded by calmness and affection, Charles realizes with a start that he feels at peace for the first time in years. It isn’t until now that he notices how much he was missing that feeling.

Unfortunately, Charles doesn’t get to enjoy that feeling for long. He is about to make his next move when a thought comes to the forefront of his mind—one that demands an explanation for something that has been bugging him distantly for quite a while now. He looks up from the board in time to see Erik’s eyebrows furrowing as he’s observing the progress of their game. The board is already lined up with a bunch of the pieces, both black and white, but the real struggle is only about to begin.

There’s something truly endearing in Erik’s focused expression, in the way his eyebrows are drawn and his eyes flicker about the board with a playful glint, and Charles is pretty certain that the affection must be written all over his face. As much as he wasn’t actually aware of that, he’s been missing this sight deeply. This, and the simple, yet undeniable pleasure of the companionable game of chess.

And yet, the question of the real reason behind Erik sitting at his table right now brings his hopes back down.

“I doubt you came all this way just for a chess match,” Charles says, still smiling lightly, even if his voice comes out a bit strained.

The telepath’s attention is yet again on the board, though his thoughts have already drifted away from strategising. He can’t see Erik’s face, but he feels his intense gaze.

“You’d be surprised,” comes Erik’s quiet answer, which nevertheless manages to take Charles aback with its fervency.

It is still rather unlikely that Erik has travelled across the world solely to play one game, which leaves Charles with a couple of explanations to consider.

“Are you meeting somebody?”

Erik keeps studying him for a long moment, before he finally decides to answer.

“No.”

There is yet another possibility, since Erik has mentioned swinging by the mansion. “Did Hank send you?”

Charles’s question hangs in the air for a long moment. The telepath can feel the myriad of thoughts swirling in Erik’s mind as the man tries to figure out what would be an appropriate answer. Hardly comforting, Charles thinks distantly.

“He did say that you’d probably use some company,” Erik eventually admits, caressing a white pawn in his hand thoughtfully, one that he’s just picked up from the board. “But I don’t think he believed that I’d bother to find you.”

“But you did.”

Erik’s attention snaps back to Charles, his thoughts sharpening, his gaze wary. “Clearly.”

“Why?” Charles barely suppresses the urge to look away, afraid of being too much of a bother with all those questions, but he has to know what hides behind Erik’s carefully dispassionate tone.

The waitress chooses that moment to walk up to them, a questioning look on her face. She’s about to ask a question, her thoughts brightening with mild interest at the appearance of an earlier unseen man at the otherwise rather lonely table. She doesn’t get a chance to, however, when Erik simply shakes his head, giving her a polite smile. In the end, she rushes past them, to another table, greeting another guest.

“Why do you think?” Erik asks, and the waitress is soon forgotten.

Erik’s thoughts continue to be calm, gently lapping against Charles’s mind, and yet the telepath doesn’t fail to notice a shade of worry which colours them. It should be reassuring, he thinks briefly, that somebody still cares about his well-being, more so than he does himself. Somehow, though, it only triggers the anger that lurks deep in his thoughts. Perhaps it’s his pride, feeling wounded at the suggestion that he, Dr. Charles Francis Xavier, the honoured professor of genetics and the creator of the first school for mutants, might need rescuing. Perhaps it’s seeing Erik’s concern as patronizing. Or perhaps he simply doesn’t deem himself worthy of it.

Whatever the reason, Charles cannot stop himself from snapping, “I don’t need help, I’m fine.”

Despite Charles’s sharp voice, Erik doesn’t do as much as flinch, seemingly unbothered by the man’s harsh reaction. His fingernails are drumming against the table as he goes back to contemplating the advancement of their game.

Eventually, Erik decides to speak up. “Charles,” he starts slowly, his voice calm, almost soothing, “you come here every morning, order one black coffee and sit, sometimes for an hour, hour and a half, just idly looking around.”

Erik’s tone isn’t accusatory, he merely states the facts, and yet Charles cannot help but feel a burning stab of shame, as if he was caught doing something he wasn’t allowed to. It’s ridiculous; he’s an adult, he can do whatever he pleases, and there’s nothing wrong with enjoying a morning coffee and revelling in the pleasant surroundings.

Even so, Charles catches himself continuously being defensive as he asks, “How did you know?”

“I’m observant,” Erik says simply, finally making his next move, one of the corners of his lips curling up slightly.

Charles takes a deep breath, hoping to clear his upset mind somewhat. Getting angry doesn’t serve anyone, and neither does it help in finding out the real reason behind Erik’s visit. Charles could just pluck it out of his friend’s mind, but the mere thought of it fills him with a sense of self-disgust.

“I’m just… taking a breather, I suppose,” he allows, reaching to the chessboard. “Enjoying my retirement,” he adds, more of an afterthought than anything else. 

“That’s what I came to see.”

A grimace crosses Charles’s face. “There isn’t much to see, as you’ve noticed.” His voice is as tight as it is bitter.

“Still worth it,” Erik says firmly. “Especially when I can do this.” His hand hovers above the board for a moment, a quick move of one innocent piece, and when the man pulls it back, it doesn’t take Charles more than a quick glance to know that he’s just lost. “Checkmate. I warned you.” There’s pride, glistening in Erik’s eyes, but his thoughts lack an undercurrent of boastfulness which tends to be sparked off by Erik’s victories.

Nevertheless, Charles purses his lips, deeply unsatisfied, even though he hardly expected any other outcome. “I’d like a rematch, if you don’t mind.”

“Let me take you to lunch first.” Although Erik’s proposition is rather nonchalant, seemingly unprompted, there is a sense of nervousness creeping in his thoughts.

As if he was hoping to ask, but dreaded that Charles would refuse. But Charles finds himself unable to turn down the offer, in spite of the strong desire to bid Erik goodbye and continue on with his mundane day. 

Charles clears his throat, reminding himself that he only agreed to one game. There is no need for him to entertain Erik, to keep him company when all he wants to do is hide somewhere where he’d be alone, preferably in his Parisian flat, yet he finds himself thinking that maybe this is what he needs right now, a little bit of comfort, and he smiles, a small, but genuine curl of his lips, for what feels like the first time in weeks. 

“Actually, lunch sounds lovely.”