#my drawing capabilities have gotten noticeably worse and it’s my own fault but it’s still deeply upsetting reguardless

[thwackk]

mr. commitment issues over here

[wondernimbus]

breaking point — draco malfoy

pairing: draco malfoy x female!reader

summary: draco reaches breaking point.

a/n: i wrote this for @nebulablakemurphy​‘s writing challenge !! congrats again and i hope i did your prompt justice <3 the prompt was “i had no choice” and will be in bold (also can i just say this was so sad to write .. draco just needs a hug my dudes)

[Y/N] knows every inch of Draco better than she knows herself. Knows all of the quirks that he thinks are flaws, all his little insecurities, his habits and his innermost secrets and all the worries that plague his head even before he tells her about them.

But she doesn't know how long he has been like this. She notices, though, that the light in Draco's eyes has begun to dim; he is losing some of his color, the bags under his eyes deepening, the frown lines drawn across his face growing more prominent. The worst part is that she doesn't know exactly when this started—how long he's been like this—but one day she knocks on his dorm room, when all of his roommates are home for the holidays and only a few Slytherins have chosen to stay.

When she pushes open the door, Draco is alone, hunched over at the edge of his bed with his head in his hands, bowed down like he's trying to become as small as possible.

She stops in the doorframe. 

"Draco?" she says softly, rapping her knuckles against the open door as she steps inside the room. It's dark. The lanterns are off. "Why weren't you at dinner?"

Draco doesn't respond. Only as [Y/N] draws nearer does she realize that Draco's hands are trembling in his hair, and [Y/N] panics a little, feels her breath catch in her throat with dread as she pauses halfway to him.

"Draco?" she asks quietly, tentatively, stepping forward and reaching out a hand to touch him—

But then Draco recoils like he's been struck, standing up so suddenly [Y/N] lets out a quiet little gasp.

"Get out," he whispers, eyes wide but not quite meeting hers, and his voice—he doesn't sound like himself. Doesn't look like himself, either; he looks more tired than ever, like he's aged a thousand years older, his face gaunt and sunken. [Y/N] stares at him, at a loss for words.

Since when had it gotten this bad? She'd known for a while that something was up; something he wasn't telling her. Something she couldn't figure out. But she thought she was helping him by not bringing it up and by giving him space.

Guilt blooms inside of her chest. Should she have tried harder? Found out what exactly it was so she could help him properly and not just sit by the sidelines, thinking that she was helping, but in reality she'd watched him get worse?

Like a ticking time bomb, she thinks to herself. And I just let him explode. 

She takes a hesitant step forward, hand held out before her as she says, gently, (and yet there is only so much she can do to mask how her voice shakes), "Tell me what's wrong, Draco."

"Get out."

"Darling," her breath rattles in her throat. "Let me help."

"GET OUT!"

[Y/N] pauses several feet away from him. He has whipped out his wand, pointed it directly towards her, and [Y/N] freezes in place.

"You can't help me," Draco says, breathing ragged. "I'm sorry. I'm sorry," his voice cracks, his wand shaking in his hand. "Get out. Please."

[Y/N] inhales sharply. But even then, she doesn't stand down. She isn't afraid of Draco; she could never be. She should see a dangerous boy with his wand pointed at her, capable of doing anything he wants to to force her out of the room, but instead all she sees is Draco. The boy she has loved for so long, who, for some reason that she doesn't yet know, is in so much pain.

"You're not going to hurt me," she says. There isn't a sliver of doubt in her voice.

Draco makes a frustrated noise, his lips curling in a way that lets [Y/N] know he's trying to hold it together. "You don't.. you don't know that. You don't know what I'm capable of, [Y/N]," he says, and it should sound threatening, but all she hears is anguish. "You don't know what I've become."

[Y/N] risks another step closer to him. Five feet away. The hand holding his wand stays up, pointed directly towards her, but she knows, the same way she knows that the sun will rise and fall everyday, that Draco wouldn't hurt her.

"Draco," she begins, fighting to keep her voice steady. "Just let me help you. Tell me what's wrong."

And then Draco does something that knocks the breath out of her throat—roughly, he pulls up the sleeve of his robes, revealing the skin of his left arm.

A tattoo of a skull, with a serpent protruding from its mouth.

The Dark Mark.

And all of a sudden everything makes sense.

[Y/N] blinks and forces herself to breathe again, mind untangling bits of logic, stringing them around her throat, pulling tight. "Draco—"

"I had no choice!" he screams; a guttural sound. Something so pained it doesn't even sound like him anymore. But he doesn't look or sound or seem angry at her—no, the way he tugs at his hair in frustration, the blazing look in his eyes all suggests that he is more angry at the world than anything. Angry at himself, even. But not at her. "He said he'd kill everyone I loved if I didn't take the bloody mark—he said he'd murder my entire family—and [Y/N], he knows you, I don't know how but he knows you and he—"

A cut-off sort of choking noise leaves Draco's lips. "He said he'd force me to watch you die."

“Oh, Draco.”

She rushes forward just as he sinks to his knees, face contorting as he begins to cry—heartbroken sobs that surge straight through the spaces between her ribcage and sink into her heart. But the pain she feels as she wraps her arms around Draco and holds him close no doubt pales in comparison to what he feels.

"It's okay, it's okay," she whispers into the crown of his head, letting him cry into her shoulder. And it hurts, how this is the only thing she can do to help him, and it's excruciating—it's torture, how his chest lurches with the force of his sobs, how he tries to stifle the whimpers that leave his lips and he keeps choking out apologies as though this human show of vulnerability is something to be ashamed of. And it's not. It's not.

“It’s fine, Draco,” she murmurs, raking her hands through his hair, pressing comforting little kisses to the top of his head. “It’s okay. You can cry. It’s okay.”

She can't rid him of all his pain. God, she'd love to—if she could only reach straight into him and pull all the pain out, even if it means she has to bear the weight of his burdens herself, she would do it. With zero hesitation.

But she can't, so all that she is left to do is hold Draco as tightly to her as she can, his tears soaking into her collar. At some point—she doesn't know exactly when—she realizes that her own cheeks are wet, and that salty taste on her tongue is likely her tears, but this isn't about her. This is about Draco and that blasted mark on his arm and everything that he has been forced to endure. So she presses her lips together into a tight line, holding back her own sobs, silent tears dripping down her chin and onto Draco's hair.

She holds him until she loses track of time, sitting curled up on the floor as she waits for Draco's sobs to turn into quiet sniffles. When they do, she feels his shoulders sag as the fight in him dies down, replaced only by weak sort of defeat that has his head hanging low, leaning still on the crook of her neck, shoulders hunched over.

[Y/N] stays silent. She knows this isn't about her. So she waits, rubbing circles into his shoulder blades and carding her hands gently through his hair because she knows that it calms him. She waits for two, three minutes, but she doesn't count the seconds as they pass; just stares out the window of the Slytherin dorm room, watching the water ripple just behind the glass.

And she waits.

And waits.

And she knows she will wait for as long as it takes.

Finally, after some time, Draco makes a move to lift his head off of her shoulder. She lets him, slowly, hands sliding from his back to cup the side of his face as he draws away to look at her.

Draco stares at her through bleary eyes, and oh—[Y/N] feels more tears stinging at the back of her eyes, burning at her throat. He looks even more tired from up close. So, very tired. His eyes are swollen and his cheeks tinged pink from all the crying, but what has [Y/N]'s tears spilling over again is that sad frown on his face—and [Y/N] realizes, with yet another horrible rush of guilt, that this isn't the first time she has seen this look on Draco. It's the same expression he has worn every single day that [Y/N] convinced herself wasn't something to worry too much about, but now she sees it clear as day: that look of resignation, as though he's been through so, so much and just wants to rest. To have it done with.

So, so tired. And so sad.

And it's that sudden realization—that she might not know Draco as well as she thought she did, that he has been here, struggling, all of this time, carrying the weight of the world on his shoulders without anyone to help him bear it, and [Y/N] has never realized—it's the realization of that that has her whispering, "I'm sorry, Draco."

She leans forward, pressing her forehead against his, the tips of their noses just brushing as she closes her eyes and rakes in a deep, shuddering breath. "I'm sorry, darling. I should've known. I should've helped sooner."

But Draco is patient and loving and good, so much more than she deserves, so all he does is shake his head and say, quietly, "It's not your fault." Her eyes are closed and she misses the way Draco is staring at her—like he always has, like the entire sky is opening up after weeks and weeks of rain. "It's not your fault," he repeats, voice scratchy, but he finds the strength in him to lift a hand and cup the side of her jaw, thumbing at the tears that have fallen on her cheeks despite the ones on his own.

[Y/N] swallows down the lump in her throat, squeezes her eyes shut for a few more moments, then opens them again. She pulls away and moves her hands to hold his lower arm—the one with the mark—and gently, she makes Draco hold the tattoo up between the pair of them. Her breathing is still erratic, but she says, her hands cradling his arm, smoothing over his skin, "This doesn't change anything."

Draco's eyes swim with all sorts of conflicting emotions—anger and guilt and disgust and sadness—as he stares down at the mark, lips turned down into a frown.

"Draco, listen to me," she whispers, urging him to look at her. "If you think that this stupid mark makes you any less of a person, you're wrong. You are still the same boy I fell in love with. The same boy I'm still in love with, and that's not going to change, Draco, do you hear me? You're—" she pauses as a tear slips down her cheek and onto his arm, landing on the Dark Mark. "You are brave," she says, voice laced thick with emotion as her grip tightens. "And I love you."

And Draco is still scared. Still so terrified of what's to come. The mark on his wrist isn't going away—no amount of regret will ever have it fade—but sitting here, sharing the same breath as the girl who makes his heart feel like everything is going to be okay, no matter how bleak things may get, no matter how hopeless life may seem, Draco allows himself to think, even for a few, meager moments, that everything is going to be okay.

taglist:  @dancing-in-the-moonlight3 @kalimagik @alittletoomanyobsessions @hariosborn @obsessedwithrandomthings @emcchi @sxrensxngwrites @enjoying-fantasyland21 @masterofthedarkness @siriusly-addicted-to-writing @bforbroadway @hufflefluff-writer @summer-writes @chaotic-fae-queen @firewhisky-kisses @dracosvftie @heloisedaphnebrightmore @idont-knowrn @dreamer821 @peachesandpinks @slytherinprincess03​ @chocfrogaddict @nebulablakemurphy​ ​

[wonderwomanfantasy]

Pain in my ass

Here you go you horny bastards a second part to this fic. 

Atsumu x reader Osamu x Reader 

warnings: smut, dirty talk, breeding kink, Daddy kink, cheating??? kinda, 

words: 3,100 (about) (at least it’s shorter) summary: Fuck it, Atsumu’s a dick why not find someone who treats you better?

You had gotten pretty close to Osamu in recent months. You’d bonded with him over annoying his brother. You were more than happy to run into the Silver-haired boy in between your classes. 

“Morning Osamu, It’s been a while,” you greeted cheerily. He waved back and swallowed the mouth full of food he’d been chewing. 

“Morning, and don’t blame me, I’ve been explicitly told I’m not allowed to hang out with you,” he said wrapping his arms around you in a quick friendly hug. 

“Really Atusumu told you not to see me?” you asked disbelievingly. 

“Yep, he doesn’t want me stealing you away,” you scowled at that.

“And what right does he have to be so possessive? We aren’t even friends let alone dating,”

“He likes you,” Osamu shrugged. That pissed you off

“Not enough to stop sleeping around,” you snapped. Osamu held his hands up in a ‘ don’t be mad at me’ way. 

“You know he only does that to make you Jealous, He’d drop every other girl on campus for you,” He insisted. You rolled your eyes as your face heated up with embarrassment. “Seriously, My brother is a dick but he’d never hurt you.”

“Maybe I just don’t want to date him okay? Whether he’d hurt me or not,” you snapped crossing your arms defensively over your chest. Osamu smiled at you and you were struck with how much he looked like his brother. You knew they were twins but still, that smirk was pure Atsumu. 

“Lair,” He accused. 

“I’m not lying!” you barked stamping your foot childishly. 

“Yeah, okay whatever helps you sleep at night, but if you want to give my brother a taste of his own medicine and make him jealous I’ll help,” he offered. Some of your annoyance dissipated.

“Really?” you asked a little bit of eagerness creeping into your voice. Osamu smiled at you. 

“Anything to piss Tsumu off.”

You quickly started to regret agreeing to Osamu’s plan. You were alone in the corner of the room while a party raged on around you. You had never been invited to a ton of parties, mostly just tagging along when your roommate, who was way prettier than you, decided to head out to one. Then you’d spend most of the night clinging to her or better yet, making out with Atsumu. 

You felt awkward alone by yourself nursing on your drink. You weren’t even getting hit on by drunk frat brothers because they all knew you as Atsumu’s girl.  Speaking of Atsumu, he hadn’t even noticed you were here, he was too busy grinding on some stranger. Not exactly great for the ‘he’s doing this to make you jealous’ theory. 

“Sorry for the wait,” Osamu said parting from the crowd and slipping an arm around your waist pulling you from your safe corner before you could even say something. 

Osamu pulled you into a throng of dancing people holding you close to his chest so you didn’t get lost. His body was so warm it made you flush. He leaned down and whispered in your ear “loosen up, dance a little bit.”

Your heart pounded to the beat of the music and slowly you started moving. You weren’t the best dancer, but looking around the room it seemed like no one was moving with much grace or elegance. 

Osamu moved his hands to your hips and pulled you closer moving his body in tandem with yours. Your hands went around his neck loosely holding him as well. 

“Forget about Atsumu, that loser doesn’t deserve you, just pay attention to me,” he whispered his breath tickling your ear. You shuddered. Even if you wanted to disobey him you didn’t think you were capable of it. He was magnetic drawing you to him seemingly without trying. 

Osamu slipped his thigh between your legs then pushed your hips down basically making you hump his thigh. 

 “Kiss me,” he demanded, cupping your face and bringing your lips to his. The minute your mouths connected you forgot you were doing this to make Atsumu jealous, his tongue slipped into your mouth touching yours and making your brain short circuit. Your arms tightened around his neck holding him close, not wanting the kiss to end. But the kiss did end, it ended when Atsumu pulled his brother off of you in fact. 

“What the fuck ‘Samu?” the blonde snapped shoving his brother in the chest. 

“What’s your deal man? What are you jealous that someone else is making a move on your girl- oh wait she isn’t your girl at all,” 

Atsumu punched him square in the jaw and they both went to the floor. You didn’t get to see much of the fight a crowd gathered pushing you to the outskirts until you couldn’t see over the shoulders of people. After a few minutes, Atsumu pushed through the crowd and grabbed you by the arm hauling you out of the party. His normally perfect hair was a mess and his nose was bleeding, but he didn’t seem to care. 

You tripped over your own feet trying to keep up with him but he just kept pulling you along until you were out of the Sorority house and in the cool night air. He pushed you against the wall of the house hard enough to knock the breath out of you. 

He kissed you roughly, not letting you get a chance to catch your breath. Atsumu forced his tongue into your mouth tinging the kiss with the metallic taste of blood. It was a rush to be kissed like this by him. Your hands went to his hair, your fingers getting lost in the messy waves. 

Atsumu pulled back and held your cheeks in his hand squeezing your jaw until your mouth popped open. He spat in your mouth his saliva melting on your tongue. “Swallow,” he ordered and you obediently did as he asked. You’d never seen him look so mad before, you were kind of ashamed to admit that seeing him like this turned you on. 

Atsumu shoved his hand down your pants and roughly started finger fucking you. He bit your jaw making you cry out before you slapped a hand over your mouth. “Tsumu someone is going to see,” you hissed shoving at his shoulder. 

“Good, let them see, I want everyone to see who’s pussy this is,” he snarled his fingers continuing to coat in your wetness as he pumped in and out of you. 

“Did Osamu get you this wet? Does he fuck your whore- cunt as well as I do?” he spat. 

“N-No,” you whined. 

“Oh, so you let him fuck you?”

“NO!” you shouted. He laughed harshly. 

“Stop screaming like that someone might think I’m doing something indecent out here,”

He kissed you stuffing his tongue into your mouth gagging you. You were going to cum. You could feel the ball of pleasure welling up in your core. He laughed when you creamed around his fingers. 

“Here I thought you were going to be a good girl and wait to cum around daddy’s cock but I forgot you were a stupid fucking whore who can’t help but cum every time someone even looks at your stupid cunny,” He spat whipping his wet fingers off on his jeans. He moved in to kiss you again but you shoved him away, hard enough that he stumbled back, a little stunned. 

“What the fuck is wrong with you?” you spat with as much venom as you could muster. 

“What you get to run around make out with whoever you want but I can’t?” you snapped

“Not with my fucking brother, especially when you’re just doing it to make me jealous!” he shouted. You flushed at his correct accusation. 

“And all those girls you fucked  they weren’t trying to get under my skin?” 

“Fuck you we aren’t dating remember? You shot me down. What right do you have to get jealous of me?” 

“What right do you have to get jealous of me?”

Atsumu froze, and the silence stretched between you. 

“Fine, fuck whoever you want, but don’t come crying to me when they can’t get you off. In fact, don’t fucking talk to me again you fucking bitch,” he spat. It stung worse than any other insult he’d thrown your way because this time he really meant it. 

You bolted past him to your car pulling out of the parking lot and tearing away from this stupid fucking party.  You spent most of that night crying. 

You really didn’t want to see either of the Miya twins the next day, but things never really went your way did they? You had been walking with your head down when you literally ran into Osamu. 

“Hey-” he said apologetically, rubbing the back of his neck. He looked just as bad as his brother. With a black eye and a cut on his jaw that was turning green. 

“Sorry about last night, that didn’t go according to plan,” he apologized and you ignored him. 

“That looks infected,” you said carefully reaching for his face. 

“Yeah. I tried to clean it but it didn’t really work,” 

“Clean it with what?”

“...Strawberry margarita?” 

“Jesus christ Osamu really?”

“Alcohol is supposed to clean wounds right?” you pinched the bridge of your nose. 

“Come on I’ll clean it for you, this is kind of my fault anyways,” you said taking his hand in yours leading him back to your dorm. 

“But- class?” he protested weakly, 

“Class is less important than fixing your fucked up face,” you laughed poking the bruise on his jaw lightly. 

Osamu sat on your bed while you leaned down and dabbed at his wound with a cotton ball soaked with hydrogen peroxide. 

“That stings,” he whined wincing away from your hand. 

“I’m sorry,” you said cupping his cheek with your free hand then holding him in place so you could attack him again. “Sorry, you’re such a baby,” 

Osamu and you both laughed. And you finished cleaning out the cut, bandaging it properly. “I really am sorry things didn’t work out with you and Tsumu,” he said, and the good mood dissipated. 

“It’s not your fault,” you murmured. Osamu stood from the bed and took your chin in his hand making you look at him. 

“He really doesn’t deserve you,” he breathed. Leaning in and kissing you, It gave you the same warm feeling it had the night before. You wanted to pull away and stop him, it was wrong, you were in love with his brother. On the other hand, you could really use some stress relief, and it was clear that your normal hookup wasn’t available. 

So you let him kiss you and push you down on the bed. Osamu pulled off your clothes and ran his hands over your naked body. Sitting back on his knees so he could see all of you. It was a little embarrassing to be so openly ogled, Atsmu normally buried his face in your neck when the two of you fucked. 

“So pretty,” he said pushing your legs apart and pulled your thighs around his head before he slowly devoured you. He licked you in slow patient laps of his tongue savoring your taste like he was doing this more for his own enjoyment than yours. 

“More,” you pleaded softly carding your fingers through his gray hair. Despite your begging, he didn’t speed up or push harder. He kept going at his own pace, building you up slowly until you were dripping wet. 

“You taste so good baby,” he purred chewing on your clit. “You gonna cum?” he asked almost lazily. 

“Y-yes,” you whined bucking your hips against his mouth desperately. 

“So sensitive,” he teased before going back to teasing your cunt with his tongue until you came all over his face. 

“Such a pretty mess you made babe look,” Osamu scooped up your head and forced you to look at the damp spot you’d created on the bed. 

“Samu it’s embarrassing,” you whined closing your legs. 

“Awe are you feeling shy?” he teased kissing behind your ear, his hands going up to your breasts teasing your nipples while he kissed you. 

“I wanna fuck you so bad he groaned in your ear, moving your hand to his crotch so you could feel his painfully hard cock. 

“Please,” you begged reaching into his pants and pulling out his dick. Osamu pushed you back down crawling behind you spooning you as he pushed into you from behind. He buried his face in the back of your neck as he started moving. 

You couldn’t help but moan and rock your hips against his spurring him on to move faster and faster until the slap of skin on skin filled the room. 

“Ah fuck Atsumu just like that!” you cried out and just like that he froze. You could feel him go soft in you and you knew your fun was over. You awkwardly disconnected from one another and got dressed again. 

“Sorry,” you said avoiding his gaze. 

“It’s okay, I knew you weren’t into me the way you were into him,” he shrugged. 

“Thanks for patching me up and I really hope you and Tsumu patch things up for his sake and yours,” He said opening your dorm room to leave. 

“Thank you, Osamu.” 

If you were a mature adult you would have texted Atsumu. Even though he had yelled to never talk to him again but it felt wrong to leave things like that, especially when a week ago he’d sweetly told you he loved you, and you admitted you felt the same. But you were a coward, you’d even started ditching the classes you shared with him so you wouldn’t run into him. You got a pit in your stomach every time you thought about him. still, the guilt wasn’t bad enough for you to actually do anything about it. 

So when there was a knock on your door you weren’t expecting it to be Atsumu, after all, he was just as stubborn as you. There was another sharp knock and you groaned. 

“I’m coming,” you snapped standing from your desk cracking your back before opening the door, you almost slammed the door in his face seeing who it was 

“Atsumu?” you shouted quickly slapping your hand over your mouth. “Atsumu, what are you doing here?” you asked a little quieter this time, 

He pushed past you into your room taking your hands in his. “I’m sorry,” he blurted 

“I shouldn’t have said what I did, I was drunk and pissed I’m so so sorry,” You couldn’t get a word in edgewise he was talking so fast. Not that you really minded, in fact, it made your heart melt to hear his apology. You never thought in a million years that Atsumu would ever apologize to you. But it seemed like you were wrong about him. He was still talking a mile a minute so you leaned up and kissed him, shutting him up effectively. 

“Does this mean you forgive me?” he asked, breathlessly as the kiss ended. You stroked his cheek affectionately, 

“Yeah, I do. And I should probably say I’m sorry too, I was a real bitch that night,” you said then with a deep breath and added.  “And before you start forgiving me, you should also know that I uhm I kind of slept with Osamu when I was still pissed at you.”

Atsumu just laughed, which was honestly a much better reaction than what you were expecting. 

“Gross, you could have at least warned me before you kissed me, Now I’ve got Sumu germs all over me,” he whined making both of you laugh. 

“I know you said you didn’t want to date me, and that’s fine but- I really do love you and I won’t sleep around if you don’t want me to, you’re the only one I want to bust a nut in any way.” you visibly cringed and pushed at his chest. 

“You had me until that last part,” you said. He wrapped his arms around your trapping you and peppering your face in kisses making you giggle. 

“Ba-by at least it’s true, I’ve been saving myself for you! I’ve had the worst case of blue balls for a week now!” he laughed

“Gross!” you shouted in between fits of lighter as his lips tickled your neck. 

“I want to give you all of my cummies!”

“If you don’t shut the fuck up right now I’ll never have sex with you again,” you threatened and he fell completely silent. Which made you burst out laughing. 

“Come here big guy,” you said, pulling him into a soft kiss. 

“Did you really mean that I couldn’t talk anymore? Because you’re going to have to gag me if you want to keep me from dirty talking,” he gasped. 

“Kinky,” you said, pushing him back on your bed and straddling his lap. “But I think for now you can speak,” you said running your hands over his chest. 

“Good, it would be a crime not to let you know how stunning you are,” he said. You slowly kissed him, rolling your hips against his crotch feeling his cock twitch to life in his jeans. 

“Hard already? Guess it really has been a while for you,” you teased. 

“Shut up I bet your little virgin cunt is so wet right now,” he shot back his cheeks bright pink. 

“Mmm are you going to talk shit or are you going to fuck me?” You asked. He smiled up at you in that classic Atsumu way that you hadn’t realized how much you’d missed that smile. 

“You know I will princess,” he purred, rolling you over and climbing on top of you. 

“Gonna make my pretty baby cum,” he purred, pulling off his shirt. You took turns sensually stripping one another until you were both naked.  

“Do you want me to be rough?” he asked, surprising you, you’d both come to an unspoken agreement that sex was always rough. 

“Why do you ask?”  he blushed. 

“I kinda want to go slow and soft tonight, but I get it if that’s not your thing,” he explained. You smiled and kissed him. 

“That sounds nice,” you said. He smiled down at you, a lovesick dopey smile. He kissed you again. In the end, you and Atsumu wouldn’t make it. But for now, it didn’t matter, for now just having him kissing and making love to you was enough. 

[peaceoutofthepieces]

you were my crown

chapter 5

Ao3

~^~ For the entire week, Lucas seemed to adjust well.

He knocked on Jens’s door and waited impatiently for Jens to drag himself out of bed before entering. (This might’ve had something to do with the guards, or it could be that Lucas actually was listening to him. Jens could know it was the first and still tell himself the latter.) He’d hesitantly started riding lessons with Sander, and seemed more upset about Jens always accompanying than his less-than-stellar capabilities. He’d taken to the duties of a servant without a hint of hesitation; his hands already knew their way around a stable, a wash basin, a bedroom. Jens could admit Lucas certainly had talented hands.

Jens also noticed that Lucas seemed to get along fine with most of the others. He and Sander seemed to get closer by the day, and he seemed to hold an easy respect for Robbe, softening every time in the face of the youngest’s kindness. He even shared an odd camaraderie with Lies that irritated Jens most.

Because of course, with Jens, he still insisted on being entirely insufferable.

It was made worse by the moments in between. They were rare, but Jens caught each and every one of them and clung on. Times he couldn’t help but laugh at one of Lucas’s smart remarks, even when they were always at his expense, and Lucas clammed up in surprise, staring at Jens with twitching lips. Lucas’s own laughter was even rarer, but even more appreciated. He would give a huff or snort at Jens’s expense on occasion; and then there were the blessed times when Lucas seemed to be feeling kind, and his lips curled in amusement along with Jens.

Jens thought they might have just settled into the jabs and barbs so quickly that it now seemed wrong to abandon them, and maybe they were actually forming their own deformed brand of friendship.

He couldn’t say he disliked it entirely. Some part of him had grown a little fond of Lucas’s teasing, when he realised there wasn’t much true malice behind it. Not often, anyway.

But it could be better, so this something wasn’t enough.

Jens rarely had the opportunity to get to know someone the way he could with Lucas. The only time he’d ever really made friends was with Moyo and Aaron, and even they were still based on circumstance. They were the only Lords’ sons his age around. Robbe, Senne, and Sander had all become close to him through necessary proximity. That didn’t mean he didn’t really love them, or thought they didn’t really love him, but it was different. It was another thing Jens thought had been handed to him. He knew if he was unlikable they still didn’t have to like him, but it was different.

Lucas was the first person Jens had chosen for himself.

He didn’t feel that the circumstances mattered in this instance. Jens had been the one to look at him and listen to him and choose not only to stand up for him, but to have him stand by his side. He didn’t know what it was, but something had drawn him to someone for the first time in his life.

And that someone was insistent on pushing him away.

But he wouldn’t let it hurt. Lucas was doing good—he was getting better by the day. That meant he was keeping himself safe. That was what mattered.

The morning Jens woke up on his own with the sun high behind the curtains was when he knew Lucas had finally messed up.

It was a fuzzy realisation in his half-asleep state, but he woke up quickly. He sprung into a sitting position and flitted his eyes around the room. Him, asleep; curtains closed; table devoid of breakfast. He didn’t know exactly what time it was, but he knew it wasn’t as early as usual.

Which meant Lucas was late.

Jens could do nothing more than sit in his confusion for the few minutes it took to hear a loud knock on the door. He stumbled out of bed, preparing himself to scold Lucas for being late. He was tripping over with his foot caught in the bedding when the door swung open, and now he was readying to scold Lucas for never waiting for permission.

But Lucas always waited, now, so that wasn’t right, either.

It wasn’t Lucas. It was Sander.

Jens stumbled free and managed to get out, “What—“

“The carriage never got here,” Sander interrupted without preamble. “It’s almost an hour late.”

“An hour?” Jens kicked his fallen bedding out of the way with a string of quiet profanities before walking closer to Sander. His heart picked up speed as his throat filled with questions. He asked, “Does she know?”

Sander nodded grimly.

Jens swore again and rushed to his wardrobe, flicking through in search of a worn tunic. “What do you know? Did you hear anything?”

“No. Like I said, the carriage hasn’t come. That could be the problem. It may never have even gotten there. It could have been raided, something could have happened the horses…anything.”

Jens considered. “It might not be Lucas.”

Sander shook his head, shrugging. “He could be trudging his way here, cursing you for messing up.”

“Let’s hope so,” Jens sighed, settling into his clothes before sitting down to shove on his boots. “Go look for him. Ride out; take Senne.”

Sander bowed slightly, then raised a brow. “What are you going to do?”

“I’m going to try to convince my mother not to kill him when he does get here.”

“She can’t do anything if it’s a simple mistake, surely.”

Jens looked up at him, stood, and raised his brows back.

Sander pursed his lips and gave a curt nod. “Okay, I’m going.” He strode away, threw open the door, and almost rammed straight into Robbe.

Robbe clasped onto Sander’s shoulders and squeaked an apology, then said, “Jens. You need to come to the drawing room, right now.”

Jens didn’t waste any time arguing. He ushered Robbe to lead the way and followed after him, feeling Sander at his back. He knew what would be waiting for them, but he also didn’t have a clue. It was Lucas, one way or another. Something had happened to Lucas, or something was about to happen to Lucas.

Jens hoped that, either way, it wasn’t his fault. He didn’t need to give Lucas any more reasons to hate him.

“She’s not in the middle of killing him, is she?” Sander asked, optimistic as ever.

Robbe grimaced. “I don’t think that’s going to be a problem, actually. It’s not like that.”

“What?” Jens almost clipped Robbe’s heels, and slowed down only to have Sander step on the back of his boot. “What do you mean?”

Instead of answering, Robbe pushed him into the drawing room, where his mother, Lies, and Lucas already stood, surrounding a woman who sat in one of the plush armchairs. It took Jens a second to realise it was Lucas’s own mother, Tess. She lit up when she saw him.

“Jens,” she greeted, all excited warmth, before catching herself. “Your Highness. It’s so lovely to see you again.”

Jens met Lucas’s eyes briefly, and they gave no indication of what was going on. Robbe and Sander lingered at the door, and Robbe gestured towards the hallway, silently telling Jens they would be nearby. Jens wanted him to stay, but he nodded in acknowledgment. As they left, he moved closer to the others and smiled as kindly as he could. “Tess,” he returned, wincing at the clear confusion in his voice. “Is everything alright? Can we do something for you?”

Her eyes widened and she quickly flapped a dismissive hand. “No, no, I’m not here to ask anything of you. It’s just about Lucas. You understand, I can’t let him walk around alone, don’t you? It’s not safe.”

“Not safe,” Jens repeated, tilting his head, flickering his eyes to Lucas again. “I assured you, Lucas is well taken care of here. Have we done something wrong?”

“No,” Lucas said quickly, looking at the Queen.

“Not you,” Tess agreed. “Them. The ones painting my son as a criminal. He’s no criminal! I was there!”

Before Jens could reassure her or Ellis could make a cutting remark, Lies stepped in. She neatly stepped up to Tess and took the woman’s hand, squeezing in comfort. “Of course,” she said softly. “We won’t argue with what you know. But what makes you think anyone intends to do harm? It is more likely a mistake has been made, no?” When Tess hesitated, Lies frowned. “Has anyone made you feel threatened, Tess?”

“Someone is lying about him,” Tess insisted. “He shouldn’t be left out alone.”

Jens wanted to respond. He should point out that Lucas wasn’t alone, that the carriage had been sent for him every morning and obviously must have brought them both here. He shouldn’t say that it was unlikely Tess would be able to do much in the way of protecting Lucas, anyway, and the boy would likely be less afraid heading into whatever possible danger there was alone. Before he could say anything, Lucas grabbed onto his arm.

The touch was so unexpected that Jens froze up, feeling the contact zap through him and root him in place. It was only the thin layer of Jens’s sleeve separating their skin.

“Jens, I need to talk to you.” His voice was tighter than his grip. It was clear that, whatever he had to say, he would rather have kept to himself. But there was a request there now that Jens wouldn’t deny.

He nodded and drew his arm towards himself, bringing Lucas closer. Before he could guide the boy away, however, his mother clasped his shoulder with a warning look.

Lies tugged gently on Tess’s hand. “While you’re here, can I show you around? You can see where Lucas is spending all his time, and I can get you something to drink.”

“Lucas,” Tess began.

“I need Lucas for a moment, if you don’t mind, Tess,” Jens butt in. “He won’t be far, and you’re in good hands with Lies, I promise.”

She waited for Lucas’s nod before carefully accepting the offer, letting Lies guide her out of the room. Lucas and Jens remained, with Ellis staring at them expectantly.

“Why does she think you’re in danger?” Jens asked, cutting right to what bothered him most. He didn’t want to let the conversation be derailed into an argument right off the bat.

Lucas winced. “She’s sick,” he said, quiet and anxious. Jens had never seen him portray such emotion, and even now he was concealing it as much as he could. Desperation was the only reason it slipped through the cracks. “I know that’s not the best way to describe it, but I don’t know how else to explain. She gets this way, with all of these ideas, and she can’t be talked out of it, but afterwards…” He turned to Jens now, and he wore a fierce expression, but his eyes were pleading. “I can’t leave her alone.”

Jens wanted to reach out and comfort. He clasped his hands together and squeezed tightly, then changed his mind. He set a careful hand on Lucas’s arm. Lucas didn’t shake him off.

“Mother,” Jens started.

The Queen was looking at the door, after Lies and Tess. She turned to the two of them and said, “She will stay here.”

Lucas’s parted lips were the only show of surprise. Jens was sure even he looked more dumbfounded. “What? Really?”

“I understand what he means,” Ellis said, addressing Jens only, it seemed. “I will not ignore an unwell woman, not when I have the facilities to help. Just as I have let Robbe and his mother stay here for years.”

Jens did not know what to say. He wanted to point out how very different it was. Robbe was family, and Ellis had always adored him and his mother. His mother, who had been a Lady, and already a friend of the Queen’s. To him, at least, the difference was glaringly obvious; Lucas was essentially a prisoner.

Was Ellis making Tess one, too?

Was Jens horrible for even thinking she would?

Robbe hadn’t been family before getting here, he reminded himself. Ellis did not seem ill-intentioned or conniving in her offer; as sure of herself as ever, but with no hints of a hidden agenda, no signs of cunning. Maybe Jens should trust the process. Maybe this was their chance.

“But,” Lucas started, and then quickly snapped his mouth shut. Jens understood they were feeling the same. Lucas did not want to trust the offer, or even believe it, but he couldn’t bring himself to risk arguing, either. He hadn’t quite swallowed his suspicions down, however, before saying, “That is a kindness I don’t know how to accept, Your Majesty.”

Ellis lifted her chin. “Good thing the offer is not for you, then. I will discuss it with her myself. You can be grateful that it makes your job easier, now.” She looked from Lucas to Jens and back, then walked out before any of them could put in another word.

They were locked in silence for a moment, and then Lucas stepped back abruptly, pulling his arm from Jens’s touch as if it had burnt him. Jens had forgotten his hand was still on him. It felt more natural to have contact with Lucas than it probably should have, considering Jens had touched him less than a dozen times so far.

“What was that?” Lucas asked, voice wobbly as he stared down at his wobbly hands. He looked up at Jens. “Why would she do that?”

Jens pursed his lips. “She’s not a bad person, Lucas. I believe she meant it.” For now.

“But she doesn’t understand. You don’t understand,” Lucas corrected. “She’s sick, but it isn’t—I can’t—“

Jens took a hesitant step closer to him, but was careful not to encroach. “We do. Robbe’s mother, she has similar problems. Yasmina calls them episodes, when the delusions come, or other times when she…she gets kind of sad? Almost goes mute. But she’s gotten better,” he added, comfortingly. “Since staying here, she’s been given a lot of help, not just by Yasmina. There are ways it can be improved, so that it isn’t so intense.”

“She isn’t crazy,” Lucas said savagely.

“Of course she isn’t. Did I say something that implied—“

“She doesn’t need your help. I’m the one who takes care of her.”

That, he had a much easier answer for. “That’s why my mother said it will make your job easier. Now you can stay here. In the adjoining chambers, like you’re supposed to.” Jens smiled, feeling hopeful, unusually nervous, something in his heart jumping and kicking.

Lucas didn’t look as pleased with the offer as he had hoped, hands curling into fists at his sides before unfurling again, fingers stretching towards the floor. Jens’s gaze clung to them because it was easier than watching Lucas’s frustrated scowl. “Why are you so determined to make my life miserable?” he demanded.

“What?” Jens deflated. “I’m not. I’m trying to do you a favour.”

“That’s what you always say.”

“That’s what I always mean,” Jens insisted.

Lucas’s lips twitched and a muscle in his jaw jumped, holding something back.

Jens felt tired, all of a sudden. “Why do you always make it harder? Why won’t you just accept my help when it’s offered?”

“You aren’t doing any of this to help me,” Lucas exclaimed, taking a step closer. “This is for you. Everything’s always for you. I would have been better off with your mother’s death sentence.”

“And how well off would your mother be then, huh?” Jens snapped.

Lucas recoiled as if he’d punched him. His gaze darkened even further, but Jens only softened his own.

“This is for her. She will be taken care of, Lucas. I swore that I wouldn’t let harm come to you, and I know nothing would hurt you more than any harm coming to her.” Jens knew he was on the right track when Lucas’s harsh expression, and then his head, dropped, leaving him staring at the floor. “You won’t be cut off from her. You will be nearby at any time now should she need you.”

Lucas still clearly didn’t want to give in. Jens needed to give another little push. He took another step closer, and Lucas’s gaze shot up to him. “I could tell from that first moment watching you that you weren’t a bad person. I chose right then to put my trust in you, hoping it was the right decision, and hoped that you would prove it to me eventually. Now I’m asking you to sleep with only a meager wall and single door between us, still hoping you’ll prove me right. But you haven’t had any tests to see if you could trust me, and I know that. So let me to prove it to you through this.”

The speech, unsurprisingly, earned him a look of pure disbelief. “Your test of trust is with my mother’s life?” Lucas asked, with a high-pitched laugh of derision.

“I am trusting you with mine,” Jens said.

“You could kill me at any moment easier than I could lay a finger on you. You made a point of showing it, the first day.”

“And I haven’t. So, really, that should be enough to earn your trust already.”

Lucas stared at him, then grit his teeth. “I’m already late. I should be working, or these arguments will all be pointless when your mother simply has me hung.” He spun on his heel before Jens could argue, and disappeared in a second.

Jens blew out a breath and ran a hand through his hair, trying to catch his bearings.

Then Lucas’s head popped back through the door.

“Have you had breakfast?” he asked, reluctantly.

Jens wordlessly shook his head.

“It’ll be in your chambers in five minutes.” Lucas didn’t move, but looked away, then back at him. “I’ll have mine in my new room.”

He left before his words could sink in and he could catch Jens grinning dopily after him.

|*~^~*|

Jens instantly realised that it was strange, having Lucas so close. His comment about breakfast was clearly his way of giving in without hurting his pride, but Jens refused to actually let him use the damp and dusty room adjacent to his own that hadn’t been used in…honestly, he couldn’t recall if it had ever been used. So they had breakfast together in Jens’s room, which was not the wholly unusual part, but which felt different already, anyway.

It wasn’t until the day had passed as normal, and Lucas was there to snuff out his fire and blow out the last lingering candles before stepping through the door on the far wall of Jens’s room, closing himself away to sleep and stay so close, that the strangeness of the situation sunk in.

Lucas was right there. Behind the door that Jens couldn’t stop staring at. Jens wouldn’t have to go through anybody else to get to him. He was right there, probably not freaking out half as much as Jens, despite how obviously stranger it must have been for him. He could be sleeping already, curled up on the single cot, snoring softly. Did Lucas snore? If he did, should Jens be able to hear it?

He listened, heard his own breath, held it, and listened some more. He could still hear nothing but his own pulse in his ears.

He rolled away from the door and forced his eyes shut.

What did it matter that Lucas was just there? He was just…there. It didn’t make all that much difference. They weren’t suddenly exchanging goodnights; Lucas had not even looked at him during this new task of leaving him in the dark. Lucas hadn’t treated him any differently all day. If anything, he’d only been more anxious to sneak away, checking on his mother in every moment he could find.

Jens should probably be thinking more about Tess, too. She had balked at the Queen’s suggestion at first, and adamantly refused. Jens had been the one to gently persuade her, and Lucas had given him the stink-eye during the whole interaction. But he had reluctantly softened, Jens noticed, when Tess did, looking at Jens and responding kindly and taking his hand as if she already held a fondness for him. Maybe he should be thinking more about Tess. He wasn’t even sure which room she was staying in, and she might have been the key to his whole problem.

He rolled onto his back, frustrated. Lucas would only hate him more, hearing him think that. It didn’t matter that Jens didn’t mean it in any manipulative sense. It sounded bad, even to himself.

Having weirdly panicked non-thoughts about Lucas had probably been better than this. He rolled onto his other side and returned to staring at the door.

Lucas was just behind it. Jens could get up and open the door and be able to look at him. But why the hell would he do that? It didn’t matter. It was unusual. Jens didn’t think anyone had ever stayed in that room. They were just a door away from him.

He wondered what Lucas thought of it, because of course, he had given no reaction when Jens had proudly presented it to him other than a mumbled ‘thanks’. It was much smaller than Jens’s room, with not even half as much furniture or decor, but it was a considerable upsizing from Lucas’s home. Lucas probably hated that, too, on the basis of some principle Jens would not understand and that Lucas would cling tighter to precisely because Jens would not understand.

Jens was getting to know him very well, he realised, with only half sarcasm.

But he couldn’t figure out what Lucas thought of the room, or if Lucas was sleeping as he ought to, or staring at the door like Jens. He didn’t know if Lucas snored, if he was sleeping, or if he seemed more peaceful or happy in his sleep, without that furrow in his brow, or if he was sleeping well or what position he slept in or if he slept without a shirt like Jens or if he had dreams or nightmares often or if he was thinking about this half as much as Jens was. He concluded that the last question was one he could probably answer on his own, and Lucas probably wasn’t thinking about hi—the same questions at all.

But he kept trying to figure it out, anyway, and avoided wondering why he felt any of it was important, and dreaded the thought that every night from now on would have the same questions, the same crisis.

It was enough to eventually fall asleep because he couldn’t keep his eyes open any longer. But he kept his eyes directed at the door until then, and afterwards Lucas was there, curled up in the darkness behind Jens’s lids without that furrow between his brows, sleeping peacefully where Jens could see him.

|*~^~*|

Two days after Lucas moved in, Jens found him cornered by Lotte in the hallway.

This would not be surprising or alarming if they had already met. Instead, Lucas had managed to go through all of his time here without ever being introduced or running into the little Princess. It was hardly all luck; Jens was willing to bet his mother had something to do with it. It would be easy, considering Lotte still stayed closest to the Queen’s own rooms and had classes with her tutor and maids for too many skills for Jens to keep track of. Ellis seemed to be purposefully short on details when Lotte asked about Lucas, and Lotte was smart enough to know she wasn’t going to get anywhere. She had been bugging Jens to let her meet him instead, on the simple basis it was unfair that she was the only one who didn’t even know what he looked like. Jens had always had to say no because he’d never been able to find Lucas at the time.

Now, it seemed like she’d managed it herself.

“Who are you?” Lotte demanded, with all the air of authority she’d learned from her siblings. Then, not even leaving a second to respond, “You’re him, aren’t you?”

Lucas blinked, looking shocked speechless. “Who?”

“Lucas.” They both snapped to attention as Jens joined them, Lotte with a small, sheepish smile and Lucas with a straighter spine. Jens nodded at him and gestured at the Princess. “This is my little sister, Lotte, who usually remembers more manners than that.”

Lotte made a small sound of protest, but Jens was wholly enraptured with Lucas’s softening features, his lips curving in the barest of smiles. “Oh,” he said. “I’m sorry, I should have known that.” He did a gracious dip; not quite as polished as Sander’s usual bow for the girl. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Princess. I’m Lucas van der Heijden.”

Jens would not be upset that Lucas showed the youngest member of the family more courtesy than he’d shown him. He was good with children. That was sweet. Like his smile.

Lotte flushed, but then shook her head. “You can call me Lotte, like Robbe and Sander do. And Senne and Jens’s other friends.”

“And Yasmina, and Luca, and anyone else who treats you like the favourite, right?” Jens raised a brow.

Lotte scowled and elbowed him pointedly.

Jens bent slightly as a burst of breath escaped him, but wasn’t derailed from looking at Lucas. “Don’t let her fool you. She’ll treat you like the favourite, too, but she’s not as sweet as she looks.”

Lucas only watched him in amusement. Then he looked to Lotte and very subtly rolled his eyes. (It could not have been more obvious.) Lotte giggled back, and Lucas’s smile widened a fraction, and Jens should’ve been annoyed that Lucas was getting along with absolutely everyone else on the basis of teaming up on him.

But, well. Sweet. He supposed.

Still, he couldn’t show that he was swayed that easily. He tapped Lotte’s shoulder. “Aren’t you supposed to have a dozen or so classes now? What are you doing harassing my servant?”

“I’m not harassing anyone,” she said, indignant. “I wouldn’t have had to if you let me meet him before.”

Jens held his hands up. “Don’t blame me. And don’t avoid the question.”

She pouted and gave a slight shrug.

“What are you doing?” Lucas asked him, in what should have seemed like a retaliation but wasn’t. His expectant expression made it clear he thought the answer might be ‘looking for you’.

Jens could have said that, and he wouldn’t have been lying. But he did have a more prominent reason. “I was going to ask some more questions about the Ackermans’ stay.”

Lucas pursed his lips, and now his expression just said, Ah.

Jens had been mostly avoiding thinking about it, if he was entirely honest. Every time he remembered, a tangled ball of unwanted emotions lodged itself in his chest and made him flighty with anger and anxiety. His mother had no right to make this decision for him; he was sticking by that. He wasn’t sure if it quite explained why the whole ordeal made him feel sick. Why what it might lead to made him feel sick.

He really had liked Jana, once upon a time, did have that boyhood crush on the beautiful Princess, which seemed unavoidable. And it wasn’t that Jens hadn’t thought about her in the years since; but in the way of missing a friend, not a lover.

Lucas, stuck with Jens as he was, hadn’t heard this spiel. Robbe was the only one Jens spoke to about it in any detail. The others, however, had all become victims of his sour mood and been given a gruff explanation in the first couple of days. It was enough for the one mention to make Lucas wary.

Between all of that, and the recent living developments, Jens was running pretty low on sleep.

“We’ll leave you to it, then,” Lotte said lightly. It would have come across better if she hadn’t winced.

Jens sighed, stroked her head briefly, and said, “Don’t miss anything. Go on, get Lucas to escort you if you want, then let him get back to work, okay?”

It dragged both of their smiles back as Lotte shyly glanced at Lucas and turned to lead the way. This was what made Jens a good prince—he was born to please. “Okay,” Lotte agreed, hugging him quickly around the waist before scampering off.

Lucas followed, but paused and glanced back at Jens. Whatever he wanted to say didn’t come, but he raised his brows at Jens instead. Jens nodded his assurance, feeling oddly touched, and Lucas nodded back once before disappearing, too.

Jens continued on his original trek to his mother’s chambers, and stopped when he found the door ajar. Brow furrowed, he nudged it another inch to poke his head through, but stopped again instead when he caught the shimmering glint of chain mail.

“It’s not wise,” De Smet’s deep voice slunk towards him. “He should not have been allowed to stay in your son’s chambers. You know the threat he poses.”

Jens’s heart knocked against his ribs, but he stayed stock-still as he heard his mother sigh. “I do not have to explain my decisions to you, Mathias, and certainly not this many times. I did it for the woman, not the boy. And I will not keep shooting down my son’s orders.”

“You should. He needs to be warned. The boy shouldn’t have been let live, never mind allowed so close.”

“Jens will not be warned,” Ellis said, half-exasperated and half-dismissive. “I don’t believe that telling him anything would cause the reaction you’re looking for. Jens is soft. If anything, curse Lucas too much, and it will fall on deaf ears.”

De Smet shifted, moving his back out of Jens’s sight and, presumably, closer to the Queen. “It is a dangerous game, Ellis. His kind only rot and let it spread.”

“Then let us hope,” Ellis bit back, “that Jens will dig himself out first. The boy will slip up on his own. You need not spread this urgency and push him further under Jens’s protection. Have some trust and some patience.”

De Smet sighed, now, and the clunk of his boot brought him back to where Jens could see before Jens quickly made himself scarce.

|*~^~*|

His anger had only soared to new heights after the encounter, and it pushed him to seek out Sander. He found him in the lower halls this time, heading towards the kitchen for an early lunch with Lucas at his side. They both came to a stop before Jens quite reached them, Lucas with his usual disinterest and Sander with his usual smirk.

“Don’t,” Jens said, before the knight could get a smart word in. “I am not in the mood.”

Sander’s brow twitched. “Clearly.”

“Did it not go well?” Lucas asked. “Your questions.”

Jens looked at him and felt something fierce thrum through him. He pursed his lips, giving a slight shake of his head. “She wasn’t there,” he lied. Which probably wasn’t the best way to earn Lucas’s trust, but better than the truth. Which was that he’d eavesdropped on more plans for Lucas’s eventual demise and ran away before he could get caught.

At least his mother could sit in the comfort of being right. Jens only felt more anger towards them and more protective of Lucas after hearing their words.

Why did they still think he was such a threat? Jens thought that if Lucas really wanted to do away with him, he would’ve found a way by now.

So unless he had Jens under a spell and this was what left his thoughts running every night, leaving him to eventually die a slow death by exhaustion, he was harmless.

“Do you have enough energy left for a training session first?” Jens asked Sander before any of them could question him further, or outright call out his lie.

Sander rolled his head and blew out a breath, considering. “For you, I suppose.” He nodded towards his companion. “But I already promised Lucas I wouldn’t abandon him, and he gets his lunch along with yours.”

Jens huffed, then shrugged it off. “Actually, that works out fine. He can train with us.”

Lucas gaped at him. “Your mother wants to kill me because she thinks I stole a sword, and now you want to teach me how to use one?”

Jens flushed, even while pausing to think about it. “Well, honestly, I probably would, but I meant for hand-to-hand combat. It might stop the guards from thinking they can manhandle you if you know how to break their wrists.”

This got Lucas’s attention.

Meanwhile, Sander clutched at his chest and tipped his head back with a dramatically pleased sigh. “Gosh, I enjoy it when you lose all that princely propriety.”

He spoke with an odd amount of genuity for words that were obviously sarcastic. Jens was hardly proper. Lucas’s lips twitched in amusement, as if he was thinking the same thing.

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Jens said. He nudged at Sander’s shoulder until Sander changed direction, turning back the way he and Lucas had come. Jens fell into step behind and Lucas hesitantly followed alongside.

“Where do you do…this?” he asked after a moment.

Jens glanced over, then nodded towards the windows. “The knights train outside in different groups, depending on their title. I sometimes lead sessions and train with them, but Sander and I got into the habit of one-on-one when he came to us and I helped catch him up. There are plenty of unused rooms down here by the weapons hall.”

“Catch up?”

Sander looked around at them. “I told you, I haven’t been here long. My training followed the usual process, but it was much more accelerated. But it meant I got special treatment and supposedly learned from the best, and now I can leave them in the dust.”

He threw Jens a wink, and Jens rolled his eyes. “We’ll see about that.”

Lucas was biting down another smile.

Jens waited in the middle of the room for Sander as the knight shuck off his coat and left himself in a light grey tunic. Lucas hovered by the doorway and examined the empty room, the blank stone walls only brightened by the odd lantern and a lone tapestry. Lucas moved to examine it, and Jens wished him luck. It was too worn and faded to depict anything with much clarity. Jens wasn’t sure how old it was or how long it had been here, or if anyone else even knew it existed. Sander had examined it with care at first too, however, so perhaps Jens just wasn’t enough of an artist to understand. To him it was only another battle on another field, this one blurrier than the rest.

“Alright, Lucas, you wanna see how it’s done?” Sander called to him, meeting Jens in the center of the floor.

Lucas turned to face them and crossed his arms, giving a slight shrug. The curiosity was clear in his face.

“We’ll explain as we go.” Sander winked at Jens and spread his feet into a fighting stance, then gave a beckoning flick of his fingers.

Jens narrowed his eyes and mimicked the other’s position, then held. Sander grinned and lunged first. He was quick, being almost a head smaller than Jens, and knew his strength, but Jens had the advantage of experience. He tracked the blow and could have easily caught it, but instead he spun out, not letting his stance falter. Sander followed and narrowed his eyes.

Jens allowed a glance at Lucas. It would have been easy for Jens to land Sander on his back, but somehow, he thought that would have annoyed Lucas more than it would have impressed him. He needed to let Sander show just how good he was, and then Jens could prove that he was better. He met Sander’s eyes, and knew they had come to the mutual decision to put on a show.

Sander snorted quietly, but simply rolled his shoulders before going again.

They traded blows and parries, dancing their way around the room without getting too close to where Lucas hung at the sidelines. Sander started calling out tips as he moved, turning them into jokes more than helpful drops of wisdom. Still, Lucas seemed to be listening, from the few glimpses Jens got.

It was marvelous at replacing the tension in Jens’s muscles, and that was the important thing. It was energy instead of anger thrumming through him now, and Lucas was nearby, and there wasn’t anything immediate to worry about. This, Jens could manage.

Eventually he feinted a blow and caught Sander off guard, making him wobble and stumble back. Jens grinned, letting the anticipation of the win fill him as he checked to make sure Lucas was watching, before he found his back to the wall with the wind knocked out of him.

“Most important lesson,” Sander called, to where Lucas was hiding a smirk behind his hand. “Never take your eyes off your opponent or immediate threat. Don’t assume you’ve won before the fight’s over.” He braced his arm over Jens’s chest like he was leaning against a particularly sturdy post, rather than holding him back, and looked over his shoulder to offer Lucas another one of those winks, and Jens swept his feet out from under him.

Sander sprawled on his back with a grunt and let his arms flop to the sides. Before Jens could even speak, he let out a loud sigh.

Jens knocked Sander’s boot with his own and gazed down at him. “You were saying?” Sander flipped him off and he huffed, then addressed Lucas without looking up. “Most important lesson. Never let your guard down. Don’t assume the fight’s over before you’ve won.”

He looked up, and the most marvelous thing happened—Lucas grinned at him.

Then he was staring at the ceiling.

He wheezed as he hit the floor, and wondered if the burst of laughter he heard was actually Lucas or a result of the daze he was in. Sander kicked his leg from his own position on the floor, where he’d obviously found it appropriate to take Jens down with him. “You were saying?” Sander drawled.

Jens probably deserved that.

He watched Sander get to his feet and pushed himself onto his elbows, and then Lucas was there, offering a hand. Jens stared at him for a moment, then clasped it carefully, letting Lucas haul him up with surprising strength. Lucas released him instantly, but the feeling lingered in his fingertips much more than it had with that first brief touch outside the carriage.

Lucas brushed dirt off the back of Sander’s shoulder and was rewarded with a smile, and Jens tried not to feel bitter as he dusted himself off. Lucas was his servant, for Heaven’s sake.

“Your turn?” Sander asked him. He nodded at Jens, and Jens froze with his hands on the bottom of his tunic.

Lucas considered him, then shrugged. “I learn better by doing.”

Jens shouldn’t have felt any hesitance. It wasn’t as if Lucas would provide tough competition. He swallowed. “If you’re alright to wait for lunch for a bit longer, then sure.”

“I can’t promise I’ll be as much fun,” Lucas said.

Jens eyed him as he traipsed back to the middle of the floor, pointing at where Lucas should stand in front of him. Lucas rolled the sleeves of his tunic up to his elbows as Jens and Sander had and positioned his feet with Sander’s guidance. Jens watched him before saying, “I think you’ll surprise us.”

Jens came to the realisation quite quickly that he was unprepared for Lucas’s hands on him, and the earlier touch did nothing to lessen the effect. Lucas had kept Jens at a distance as much as he could. He’d had no reason so far to help Jens dress, and while he prepared every bath, he’d made sure not to be in the room any time Jens had one. Normal servants wouldn’t blink, but Lucas hadn’t been raised with that teaching. Jens didn’t really think it was all about modesty, but it came back to trust. It didn’t matter that Jens should be the vulnerable one in those instances; it was too close either way for someone untrustworthy. Jens understood that Lucas pretty much came with the rule ‘do not touch’, and only made the most minor of exceptions.

The rule had been forgotten now. Lucas didn’t seem to think twice about the close contact. Jens pushed aside the thought that it was out of excitement to get a punch at him. Lucas must have actually paid attention, because he managed a hit to Jens’s shoulder within a few minutes and stayed light on his feet. He managed to block Jens’s attempt, but he put him back a few steps, so Jens reached after him.

“Wait, here, it’s like this.” He waited for Lucas to set his wrist in Jens’s grip on his own, and then Jens drew his arm into position. “Use this part of your arm, keep it turned out.” The hairs on Lucas’s forearm rose as Jens trailed his fingers across it. Then he inched back, letting go as Lucas kept the position on his own, and pushed his arm against Lucas’s. They formed an x as Lucas understood and pressed back, leaning their weight into each other. “There,” Jens praised. “Now you have strength behind him.”

Lucas’s lips quirked and he nodded. He managed to apply said strength and shove Jens backward, and the dance began again.

They stopped when Jens had Lucas locked back against his chest with an arm around his throat. Both of them were breathing hard, and Jens could feel Lucas’s heart pounding against his own. He had leaned back into Jens, the energy drained out of him even though his shoulders remained tense.

“You’ve just killed yourself,” Jens told him.

Lucas made a noise of confusion, and Jens briefly tightened his arm, hearing Lucas’s breath hitch as he went entirely still.

“Don’t lean into someone who has you in a headlock,” Jens explained. “You’re defenseless. I’m going to show you how to get out, okay?”

Even though Jens had eased up again, Lucas hadn’t calmed. Jens realised, with a burst of regret, that he’d scared him. He let his grip slacken.

“Sorry, you’re probably starving now. We can leave it for another time.”

Lucas’s fingers curled around his arm. “No,” he argued, clearing his throat. “No, sorry. Show me now, while we’re here. It’s useful.”

Jens waited to see if he would change his mind, then locked his grip again. “Okay. So you’re gonna turn into my arm, and it’ll be easier to breathe. See? And move your hand down, so your fingers are between you and my elbow, then tuck your chin down into the space. Raise your shoulders to get yourself the room.”

Lucas listened and followed the instructions perfectly. His breath puffed into the crook of Jens’s elbow, where his hand already gripped the more sensitive skin.

Jens took a steadying breath. “Good. Now bend your knees, and your grip will bring me with you. This’ll make it harder for me to tighten my grip again before you can flip me.”

“I’m going to flip you?” Lucas asked, startled.

“Well,” Jens smiled slightly. “If you can.”

Lucas huffed.

“Now step back, on the right where I’m holding you. Careful you keep your weight forward, don’t lean back towards me again. No, not to the side, back. Your foot needs to go behind mine, so we’re calf-to-calf. That’s it. Feel steady?”

A moment to consider, then Lucas nodded.

“Alright, now you’re going to get out. Listen to me and then try, okay? You’re going to bend your knees, and step around with your left foot now, so you’re turning out to face the opposite direction. Keep turning your shoulders and hips into my hold to get more leverage if it’s harder than you expect. You’ll still have the grip on my arm, so pull diagonally across your chest, and I’ll trip on the foot behind me. Make sure you plant your left foot strong. Wanna try?”

Instead of answering, Lucas was already moving. Jens felt himself being drawn forward as Lucas leaned his weight, and then he was spinning. He had himself free in a second, and held onto the momentum as he pulled. Jens’s gravity shifted, and the incremental amount he’d leaned forward made no difference as he fell back onto his ass.

He was flat on the floor again, but now he could see Lucas’s smiling face above him instead of the ceiling. Jens smiled breathlessly back. “Good,” he gasped. “That was—you did really good.”

Lucas’s smile brightened, and he glanced away. “Thank you,” he said.

A sharp clap reminded them of Sander’s presence, and they both looked to find him leaning against the wall, eyes shining. He applauded Lucas with seemingly genuine enthusiasm, and pushed off the wall to walk towards them. “You two make an interesting show. That might be the best thing I’ve seen yet. And I’m impressed.”

Sander held his hand up to Lucas, and Lucas slapped it half-heartedly. He cleared his throat and went about shaking down his sleeves, and this time Sander held out a hand to help Jens up. “I think this deserves a nice lunch, His Highness’ treat.” Sander raised a brow at Lucas. “What do you think?”

Jens scowled at him, but Lucas’s expression was turning hopeful. He turned to Jens just as expectantly, and Jens was reminded of why he was here, of the conversation he’d overheard earlier. He couldn’t imagine how Lucas would slip up.

He wouldn’t let him.

“Fine,” he relented. “But Sander is just as capable of this himself. The cook has a soft spot for him more than me.”

“So our combined qualities make us irresistible,” Sander smirked, before pulling Lucas under his arm. “Even more so when you add this one to the mix.”

Lucas made as if to wrestle his way out of the hold, and Sander quickly let go.

Now Jens smirked. “This one does just alright on his own, I’m sure.”

Lucas’s lips quirked again, and Jens took the win.

[statticscribbles]

Nomenclature

Summary: Cheryl/Jones!Reader Request: After finding out FP is to blame for Jason’s death; what would happen to their relationship and then after they figure out it was actually Clifford Blossom.

Cheryl’s voice floats into your ears. It’s then you realize she’s not talking to you, she’s talking next to you. To the space closest to you without needing to acknowledge you; you hope it’s because she still has feelings for you. Although as she presses herself against the wall as you step forward; you watch her eyes shine and you understand. Cheryl Blossom, your girlfriend, is afraid. You leave deciding you’re unwilling to know if it is fear for you or of you. “I know what Jones’ are capable of!” She shouts after you. You bite your tongue to not shout back. You let your brother pull you into a hug. “I’m guessing trying to explain it to her didn’t go well?” You shrug as Jughead keeps his arm around you, you follow him from the school and towards the holding cell in the sheriff’s station. “I’m only capable of loving her; why can’t she see that?” You kick a rock from the pathway as you trudge towards the station.

“She can; that’s what scares her. She can avoid a murderer, she can avoid me cause I mean nothing to her. Only thing worse than someone who hates you;” He pauses stumbling slightly so you’re forced to turn around. You catch Cheryl jerking back to hide. “Is someone who loves you.” “Jug, she hates me! Did you not hear her threaten to cut me from the Vixen’s earlier, or about how I shouldn’t touch her with “murder child hands” He laughs as you scowl.

“If she hated you she would have broken up with you. Or gotten you expelled” He nods and shoves you towards her. You keep your eyes on the ground. “I can’t forgive your father.” She spits and you nod. “Can you forgive me?” “Why?” You meet her eyes surprised to see her confused. “You didn’t do anything Y/N, you didn’t kill JJ, you didn’t help your dad hide the body, you did nothing wrong.” “My dad did.”

“Yes he did, but I’m not having my girlfriend suffer due to guilt by association. Beside’s Jason would want me to be happy, and being with you is what makes me happy.” You nod at her turning back as you hear Jughead open the door to the Sheriff’s station. “I have to go, visiting hours are tight.” She nods and you try your best to steel yourself for her being gone once you leave.

Your dad’s not angry you’re still with Cheryl, he seems more surprised than anything, offering you and Jughead only one mouthful of advice. To leave it alone. You’re not a hundred percent sure exactly what he means for you and Jughead to leave alone but you find out quickly when they find a usb drive tucked into Jason’s jacket.

There’s no sound on the video, you’re thankful for that and you stare fearfully at Betty as she moves from the now closed laptop and pulls her phone out. You stumble up, towards your bike, trying to shove Jughead off you, but he keeps his hands on your shoulders. “No Y/N. Stay; it’s safer. You don’t know what they’d do if you show up. The daughter of the man that killed their son?” “It wasn’t dad! It wasn’t him! We have; I have to let Cheryl know! She’s not safe there! She’s not safe!” Jughead nods pulling you back towards the shed. “We’ll take care of it. Seriously, don’t worry.”

“You’re telling me that it’s okay to let my girlfriend stay in a house with her father, who murdered her brother, and I’m not supposed to worry?How would you feel if Betty’s dad murdered someone and she was staying with him?” You snap and smirk when he stays quiet. “Well you still can’t just run up and break her out.” You huff and sit back on the couch.

—————————————————————————————- Despite everything that’s happened it’s school as normal. You’re nervous about returning to Cheryl’s side, as the unwavering popularity had fastened itself around her it seemed to slide off of you. What had been glares for being a Southsider, and then glares for being the daughter of a murderer had now morphed back into a surprisingly normal glare, the envy of being popular, the envy of being with Cheryl.

You settle back into the routine of school, of being with the HBIC; you find small things have changed, one of which is Cheryl bringing you home. You’re slowly growing more terrified as you walk up the steps waiting for her mother or nana to appear and demand you leave and never return. The house is empty, void of anything that resembles the home Cheryl would describe to you. She brings you up to her room, sitting on her bed; you’re expecting to go through the photo albums again; to hear more stories of Jason and her as kids. Instead she grips your hands.

“Why are you still here.” Her voice is as limp as her grip on you; you rub your thumb over her skin and tug her hand into your lap as you pull her into a hug. “Because I love you Cheryl.” “I accused your father, I sent him to jail, you could have-“ she starts “Cheryl, that’s not going to happen anymore, that’s in the past. I have to let that go, yes I’m upset it happened, but I don’t blame you. If I did that, if I blamed and held onto everything that could have happened I’d be so angry and hurt all the time. I wouldn’t have anything to do with my dad, or Jughead, or any of his friends. I’d still be at Southside High, I wouldn’t know you.” You shut her down, pulling her back with you as you lay on her bed. “I love you.” You repeat kissing her face until she smiles against your lips.

“Seriously babe, you need to heal, you’ve been through a lot. No one will blame you for not being sad or upset all the time. I’m here for you.” “Why?” She ducks her head cuddling into you. “Because being with you makes me happy.” You watch her frown almost playfully. “You have to come up with your own ideas. Can’t go stealing mine.” “Well you’ve already stolen my heart.” You laugh and she rolls her eyes. “Can you at least think about getting some different cheesy one liners?” “You know you love them.” You nod enthusiastically. “I love them because I love you.” You nod. “Exactly so by default of loving me, you love them. It’s basic math.”

“And what do you know about math?” You grin and she groans. “Babe please don’t-“ “Well I know that me plus you equals forever.” You laugh when she shoves a pillow at you. “Cherylllll stopppp, wait is it true your pillows are stuffed with cash?” “No that’s a dumb rumor, they’re filled with goose down.” “So no cash at all?” She narrows her eyes. “No, why?” You try your best to stifle a laugh. “Cause-“ You don’t finish before the pillow is smacked into your face.

“I warned you Y/N” You nod smiling at her. “You know you should really let more people see this side of you.” “What side? You mean I should flirt and cuddle with everyone?” You shake your head laughing. “No, just be a little less HBIC all the time. Take a break, relax.” “Well that’s what I’m doing now.” “No with other people.” She rolls her eyes. “No, I refuse.” You sit up and she returns to curling around you, the pillows resuming their place behind your heads.

“I was really scared you were going to break up with me.” You look confused as Cheryl runs her fingers through your hair. “Why would I break up with you?” “Because I accused your-“ “Cheryl, we just-“ “No.” You freeze as she snaps at you. “I accused your father, almost got you sent back to the Southside to a foster family and never being able to see you again!” You nod letting her vent and sputter to you, complaining about herself and her faults. You sit watching and nodding along as her voice begins to crackle and it becomes slightly more sobbing than actually words. You pull her in as close as possible tucking her head against your shoulder as you hold her. “I’m sorry.” You speak into her hair as she shakes her head weakly.

“I’m sorry for not realizing how much this was hurting you. I’m not upset at you Cheryl; I’m upset at the circumstances that pushed us apart but not at you, never at you. I want to be with you, I’m making that choice. Just like I’ve made the choice to forgive you for hitting Jughead, for blaming my dad. You were just grieving, you were hurting and I wasn’t there for you. I’m sorry for that. That’s what I’m apologizing for, for not being there for you, my girlfriend, the love of my life. I’m so sorry.” She pulls back to look at you, you move to wipe the tears at the corner of her eyes, and she does the same for you. “I shouldn’t have pushed you away. That’s sort of how I was taught. You either love with everything, or give nothing.” You nod kissing her. “Well then good thing you didn’t push me away properly.” She laughs a little. ‘Can’t even do that right.”

“Hey, babe, stop. I’m here, you’re not a bad person, I still love you. I stayed. I want to stay. I want to be with you.” You rest your forehead on hers and she nods to you. You stay like that for a moment content to watch her, you notice her eyes flickering around you face, you smile and you can see her lips quirk up slightly. “What-“ She nudges your forehead and you close your mouth watching her watch you. “I was memorizing your face.” “Why?” “I want to draw you later.”

“You draw?” You shift on the bed as she nods turning almost shyly from your sight to pull a sketchbook from beside her bed. She holds it out and nods to you, you open it slowly thumbing through the pages. Most are of the Vixen practice, there’s a few of the Bulldog��s practice as well. Reggie and Jason stretching; Archie playing his guitar. Betty and Jughead asleep in the student lounge. Veronica and Josie practicing some song. You look up glancing back as you flip the page, half sketches of you, part of your smile, or your hand brushing your ear. “These are amazing.” She shrugs and pulls the sketchbook back to place it in the drawer she got it from.

“You could ask me you know, to draw me.” You smile and her face lights up, you tilt your head as a grin stretches her face. “Are you asking for me to draw-“ “Cheryl no I want to say it!” She clamps a hand over your mouth. “Draw you like one of those French girls.” She winks and you glare before licking her hand, she wipes it down your face laughing as you cringe.

“It’s your spit, don’t look so disgusted.” “Yes, and it’s supposed to stay in my mouth.” “You say as you lick my hand.” She arches an eyebrow  at you and you shrug. “You stole my line.” “I wasn’t aware we’re on the Titanic now.” You half pounce on her pulling her into as tight of a hug as you can manage. “I’ll never let go Jackkkk” You both end up laughing holding each other as you fall asleep.

Support My Writing?

[iturbide]

If you are still up for character asks, how about Sumia. I was sad no one asked about her yet.

And your latest fan art got me interested in also hearing your thoughts on Takumi. If you feel ok answering since I know you haven't played Fates.

I’ve been sad about that too so thank you for rectifying that situation ❤

How do I feel about this character?

My girl.  I love Sumia so much, she is one of my absolute favorite characters in Awakening and one I will never pass up an opportunity to write.  I love her and how passionate she is about books, how deeply invested she gets in the stories and characters and how she uses them both as an escape from her own life (where she can’t help but dwell on her own shortcomings) and as a source of inspiration and courage.  There’s something intensely relatable about wanting an escape like that, feeling outclassed or useless and getting lost in a book as a way to cope -- and yet she’s so capable, even if she doesn’t recognize it herself.  She seems so used to people looking down on her or criticizing what she does or making fun of her slip-ups that she’s started to really believe all of it, when the reality is that her mistakes have never been her defining trait: seeing her learn to embrace her own skills and talents is so heartwarming and I find myself constantly rooting for her to succeed in everything.

Who do I ship this character with romantically?

Sully!!  Sully and Sumia is one of my favorite ships in all of Awakening, honestly: I love these two ladies who are so gung-ho about horses and bond over that mutual interest and I love the idea of them getting together and learning more about each other, bolstering one another’s confidence (Sully reassuring Sumia that she’s more capable than she thinks and offering to train her if it would make her feel more assured, Sumia insisting that Sully doesn’t need to be girly to be a woman and gushing about how she admires the cavalier) and falling for one another in the process.  It’s just really warm and I love it a lot, and given how encouraging they are in their supports, I really think they’d be a fantastic match for each other.

Also, I do love her with Chrom, and I feel like she’d be an encouraging influence for him, doing what she can to give him confidence and help him keep moving forward in spite of the obstacles; she’s such a bright and refreshing character and I think they could end up working really well together, leveraging their individual strengths to make the halidom a better place.  And I really enjoy her with Robin, too, considering how they bond over their mutual love of books, and I think Robin would be one of those people who really can see her for who she is, rather than the klutz she sees herself as.  It’s especially good when it’s both of them together with her though (yes I love my OT3).

Who is my brOTP for this character?

Robin and Sully, when I’m not shipping them!  Their relationships are so strong and they’re founded on such deep rooted friendship that even when I have them in other relationships, those bonds remain.  Also, even though she doesn’t have any supports with him in the game (which is criminal), I love the idea of a Sumia and Kellam friendship.  Kellam is someone who struggles to be noticed, Sumia’s someone who often seems to wish she could disappear.  The idea of them coming together and overcoming their obstacles together is really heartwarming to me.

What’s my Unpopular Opinion™ about this character?

She’s so much more capable than fandom wants to give her credit for.  Most people seem to write her off as stupid, passing over her as a brainless klutz in favor of the “genius” Cordelia -- but this is such a disservice to Sumia and her character.  She’s a fantastic fighter if given the chance, outrunning and outmaneuvering enemies, and while the game loves to play her off as comic relief, she’s a character with interesting, thoughtful support conversations whose life clearly doesn’t revolve around getting a man’s attention.  She’s her own person with hopes and dreams, hobbies and interests, unique skills and charming quirks, and bothering to get to know her really allows her to shine.

And personally, I don’t think she’s actually that clumsy.  Sure, she can be a little scatterbrained sometimes, but even the smartest and most capable people can be; when she has too many things to juggle she slips up in comic ways, but when push comes to shove she’s incredibly capable; if she weren’t, she never would have been able to rescue Chrom at the Longfort (sometimes I think people forget that she’s the one who swept in and got him clear of the javelins).

(And for a bonus unpopular opinion: I hate Cordelia and Sumia as a ship.  Cordelia is so mean to Sumia in their supports, banning Sumia from telling her flower fortunes because she personally doesn’t see value in them -- she doesn’t even bother trying to understand what Sumia’s doing or why, she just decides that her own way is the only right way, which is not how friends should act; putting them in a relationship is out of the question for me.)

What’s one thing I wish would have happened with this character in canon?

Why does she have so few supports?  It’s not fair that she can so easily end up alone because the game limits her options so much; aside from Chrom, she has the fewest marriage options, but unlike him she doesn’t have an auto-marriage after a certain point.  It’s not fair that the game treated her that way, and I wish canon had given her more supports, platonic and romantic both.  Again, seeing her with Kellam would have been incredible, and I really wish they’d bothered to give her a support chain with Maribelle, too, considering how Maribelle treats her early on; it would have been amazing to see them work things out.

and you know I was wondering if people forgot my favorite Fates character

How do I feel about this character?

I have never played Fates.  I know about these games purely through fandom osmosis.  And yet I will say, in no uncertain terms, that Takumi is my absolute favorite Fates character. Fallen Takumi is still one of my very few units at +10 merges in Heroes because I love him that much.  And it’s kind of hilarious how it came to this because it’s kind of Heroes’ fault that I’m in this situation. 

I remember when the game first launched how much of a pain he was in the early Arena before Skill Inheritance was a thing, and how the only reliable counter I had for him was Hector because I’d never gotten Takumi myself.  And then one day he randomly showed up in a summon, and I was so excited I ran off to train him immediately...and realized as I did that this guy has some massive self-esteem problems.  It’s what got me interested in him in the first place, enough to do some digging in the wikis, and I kind of fell in love with his character: he’s smart, he’s capable, but he has a massive inferiority complex since he’s grown up in the shadow of his older brother -- something Corrin’s return manages to make worse, since everyone kind of loses their minds over it and pushes him down and away despite the fact that he’s the only one being sensible and questioning whether they can really trust Corrin after they were brought up in Nohr.  While he has an attitude problem that needs to be addressed (though it’s nowhere near as bad as Felix’s), he can get better and gain confidence in himself and his abilities...but in Conquest, his fate is an absolutely tragic one, where his self-doubt and anger allow Anankos a foothold, something to prey upon, and ultimately lead to his loss of control, loss of self, and loss of life.  His story just really hits me in the heart, kind of like Lyon, and I just want to see him grow and overcome his doubts. 

Who do I ship this character with romantically?

Okay so this is probably where my not having played the game is going to bite me but I have no idea. There are so many characters in Fates and I don’t even know half of them.  I know Leo is a popular partner for him but I’ve never really seen the chemistry there so I can’t say that’s for me; I could always cheat and say I ship him with happiness because honestly that is true, I really do want him to be happy first and foremost, but I don’t have an actual character answer whoops.

Who is my brOTP for this character?

Azura.  I love the idea of the two of them coming together as friends, both haunted and hounded by nightmares and terrible thoughts they can’t seem to shake, and finding ways to support one another through it.  I get the feeling that Takumi might have treated Azura with some distrust early on, but despite the fact that she came from Nohr, I honestly think they could have ended up having a close bond in Hoshido growing up as they struggle with their own problems, and it would have been amazing to see them come together to overcome them.  Also, I love the idea of him and Sakura being close as siblings, with Takumi protecting Sakura and helping draw attention off her when she’s feeling especially shy while she tries to encourage him and give him a place where he can relax with and get away from all his issues for a little while, someone he can enjoy himself with and not have to think about his problems.

What’s my Unpopular Opinion™ about this character?

I actually don’t know what kind of popular opinions there are about Takumi so I have no idea what kind of unpopular opinion I could have.  Honestly I don’t see anywhere near enough to Takumi in general since he seems to be eclipsed by not only his older brother but the Nohrian royals in fandom-wide popularity; is it an unpopular opinion to want more people to give him a chance, rather than writing him off as just an angry nay-sayer?  Because honestly, he is the only one with any sense, since he’s the only one who thinks to distrust Corrin when they return.

What’s one thing I wish would have happened with this character in canon?

Okay so this is really really niche but I really wish they’d made Takumi Corrin’s half-brother rather than just a step-brother.  It honestly would have made so much sense?  Takumi’s the only other character who has the same kind of pale hair that Corrin canonically does, even if it’s not the exact same shade, so if that came from Mikoto it would fit perfectly with not only Corrin’s and Takumi’s hair color, but Sakura’s hair being that super pale pink compared to Hinoka’s vibrant red, which is what you’d probably expect from Ikona and Sumeragi after Ryoma inherited his father’s very dark hair.  I get the feeling they didn’t do it because they wanted to make all the royals available as romance options, which is both cheap and gross (and after what they did with Azura in Revelations it’s worse), but I think it would have been a really interesting plot element if they’d taken the time.

Give Me a Character  

[seokjinsdisciple]

Riddikulus - nine

jungkook x reader, hogwarts!au, enemies to lovers!au

Warnings: language, mentions of injuries, tbh i think thats it

Word Count: 1.1k

THIS IS UNEDITED

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series masterlist

taglist: @nellaphine @elixirguks @softfluffgirl @sensiblebutch, @deolly

IF YOU WOULD LIKE TO BE ON THE TAGLIST SEND ME A DM OR AN ASK

You had avoided your friends all night, and most of this morning too. It was torture, wondering about Jungkook, and about how Jin was handling it. But you couldn’t let the others know about, well you weren’t exactly sure what that reaction was when Jungkook fell. I mean it had to be that you felt responsible. It was your potion that had knocked him off his broom. 

Thankfully your brother knew you better than anyone else, and texted you about both Jungkook and Jin, allowing you to get the smallest amount of sleep. It turns out Jungkook was actually not too beat up, but Pomfrey wanted to keep him in the infirmary until the potion's effects wear off. 

You begrudgingly packed your bag full of your potions homework, trying not to think too hard about what you were about to do. You sped through the common room, ignoring the whoops and hollers of the still celebrating Slytherin team. Assholes. At least Jimin had the decency to sit away from them, even if he was trying to hide his grin. 

You ignored Jimin’s shouts of your name as you pushed through the doors, making your way through the dungeons and towards the infirmary. All you could hope for was that Jungkook was alone. He probably wasn’t, and at that thought you almost turned around, but you didn’t. 

You were in front of the infirmary in no time, yet you found yourself just standing outside. You weren’t ready to go in yet, at least not while your heart beating was filling your ears. You tried to calm yourself, taking a few breaths as you tried to  ignore your feelings. It was too late though, Jungkook had spotted you already. 

“Snake Princess!” he shouted, the grin on his lips tugging your own mouth into a smile. Your smile dropped as you saw a few of his friends staring at the two of you. You walked in to where his bed was. 

“Leave,” you spoke to his friends, sending them a threatening glare. 

“Why should we?” Jongho asked, “Why are you even here?”

“I’m here to tutor Jungkook in Potions. Now leave,” you growled back at him, the three of them just rolling their eyes and walking (begrudgingly) through the doors.

You and Jungkook were silent as you pulled out your potions materials. You were trying not to look at him, his bruised face and hands enough to make you want to break down. 

“Why are you here?” he asked quietly, drawing your eyes curiously to his. You took a deep breath. It was worse than you thought. He had a black eye, the other side of his face had two deep gashes in it. His lip was busted, and his nose looked broken. It looked like he had gotten into a fight, not fallen off of his broom. Still, with all of those injuries, his face was softer than you have ever seen it before.

“We have a potions essay due tomorrow,” you spoke, ignoring his original question, “can you write?”

“Both my arms are still healing,” he spoke, his mouth now pressed into a line. He was clearly frustrated with both himself, and your lack of answer. 

“Then I’ll write for you,” you answered easily, once again meeting his gaze, “but don’t get used to it, I’m here to help you get better at potions, not help you cheat.”

He doesn’t have an answer to that, so you both go back to silence. You write his essay quickly, not thinking about what you were going to write for your own. You had gotten about halfway through the best explanation of the Pepperup Potion that you had given when you felt it. He placed his hand gently on your arm, your eyes snapping to where he was touching you before glancing at his eyes. 

“Why are you here?” he repeated his question, his thumb rubbing gently on your arm. 

“You didn’t listen to me,” you whispered back, averting your eyes as they started to water.  You feel his hand on your head now, tucking a piece of your hair behind your ear. Your heart pounded in your chest, your eyes flickering over to the boy you claimed you hated. But this feeling, growing inside your chest, you knew that wasn’t hatred. Jungkook was handsome, you never doubted it. But sitting here, with him being so delicate with you, and looking at you as if you were the only person in the room, you couldn’t help but lean your face into his calloused hand. That’s when he felt the wetness of your cheeks, and just like that, mischief was back sparkling in his eyes. 

“Oh my god,” he smiled, “You feel guilty.”

“Shut up!” you jerk away from him, wiping your cheeks quickly. 

“Princess, I did listen to you,” he laughed, “but I lied to you. I had already drank from the goblet. It’s not your fault.”

You resisted the urge to hit him, you couldn’t hit him when he was already hurt. 

“You absolute idiot,” you groaned, “if you had told me that I could have made an antidote.”

“And miss the chance to see you cry over me?” he laughed, “Not a chance.”

“Fuck you,” you smiled at him, rolling your eyes as he batted his eyelashes at you. 

“I know you’re still gonna feel guilty,” he added, “I know it was a potion you made, but I do have to say, I was only out of it for 5 minutes. Isn’t it supposed to be at least 10?”

“Do you take anything seriously ever?” you asked him, handing him his cup of water before standing to wipe the sweat off of his brow. 

“Well I do take my potions tutoring very seriously, and I want someone who’s actually capable of making a potion correctly to teach me.”

You couldn’t hold back your laugh at that, his smile growing with yours. 

“Your laugh is pretty,” he said, your head whipping to him in surprise. 

“Are you still on drugs?” you asked, standing quickly and throwing your things into your bag, “I should go, it’s getting late.”

You’d be lying if you said your heart didn’t skip a beat when you heard him whisper a ‘no’ as you walked away. Unable to contain your smile, you turned back to him. His dejected face brightened as he noticed you had stopped. 

“You might wanna get better at whispering,” you grinned at him, his cheeks dusting a pretty pink, as he looked away. There was one thing that happened today that you could say for certain, something had changed between you and Jungkook. As much as you hated to admit it, you were excited to find out exactly what that meant for the both of you.

[lady-wallace]

Whatever It Takes (Febuwhump Day 13: “Hiding Injury”)

For today’s @febuwhump​ prompt: Hiding Injury

Fandom: JoJo’s Bizarre Adventure: Steel Ball Run

Synopsis: Even though they both took some hits in the previous Stand battle, Gyro would have liked to know how bad Johnny was hurt preferably before he fell off his horse.

Check out my Ko-Fi! I do doodles for coffee ^_^

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Read on Ao3

Read on FF.net

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Johnny was really getting tired of Stand battles. The race was hard enough, having to cross remote locations, but being stopped constantly by people trying to kill you only made it worse.

They'd had to beat a hasty retreat from the last battle and it wasn't until Johnny was already settled onto Slow Dancer's back that he felt the warm trickle of blood running down his side.

He freed one hand and reached up, touching the spot with a frown. His fingers came away red.

Johnny hissed a breath as he felt the sting of an injury under his arm that he hadn't even realized he had gotten. Sure, bullets had been flying everywhere thanks to that guy's Stand, but he hadn't thought either of them had gotten hurt—though Gyro's hat had gotten another hole in it.

Johnny winced and bit his lip as his probing fingers sent a shot of pain down his whole arm and side. Well, it seemed like the bullet was still in there, but he wasn't bleeding terribly, so there was no point in stopping now when they might run into more trouble because of it. It didn't seem too bad anyway, the bullet stuck just under the skin, not deep at all. Johnny would take care of it himself that night when they made camp. Then Gyro wouldn't even have to worry about it.

Johnny glanced forward at his companion. It had been really nice to have a friend on this journey, but he knew well enough just how much of a burden he was to the older man. Not only did his legs not work, but he seemed to be in constant need of Gyro's help. He was sure it was his own fault that Gyro was getting lower and lower on the race brackets every stage. He just couldn't seem to stop attracting trouble. They had to make it another fifty miles by the next morning to even dream of getting a good placing in the next stage. So, no, he couldn't afford to let Gyro fuss over him, especially when he was perfectly capable of taking care of himself.

"Johnny, you good?"

Johnny startled to see Gyro glancing over his shoulder, several lengths in front of him and slowing down. Johnny leaned forward to urge Slow Dancer on faster. "Yeah, let's go!" he called.

But as their horses ate the miles, Johnny started to feel like he was getting out of breath, which was weird…He reached up to prod the wound again, but the bullet was definitely just under the skin, no chance that it could have damaged a lung. It hadn't even hit a rib. His vision blurred and he blinked hard. Okay, what the hell was going on?

He blinked again and glanced ahead. Maybe just dust in his eyes? That might explain his shortness of breath too. Johnny tried to even his breathing, but he wasn't feeling any better. In fact, he felt really tired and weak, and his stomach was starting to cramp like he'd eaten bad food. Why was he feeling like this? He hadn't gotten a chance to eat or drink since they left camp that morning, maybe that was why.

Their horses, who were pretty good with endurance, were still going at a moderate clip, but Johnny found he was too tired to sit right and so his bones were just being rattled. Why was he so useless like this? Why couldn't he be perpetually strong, always assertive, like Gyro?

Why couldn't he be more like his brother? If he had been, he wouldn't even be out here.

Never too late to start, he decided. So, he gritted his teeth, tried to calm his breathing, and rode on. He wasn't going to lose them this race just because of his own weakness.

He was startled when Gyro called out a halt, pointing to a river they could see in the distance. Johnny nodded, knowing the horses could use a drink. He could too. Maybe it would help. He was probably dehydrated.

He swayed in the saddle as they slowed down, gripping the horn tightly with one hand so as not to fall. He wouldn't fall…he refused!

His body had other ideas though. Breathing was becoming more and more difficult and he felt downright nauseous. His hand slipped.

He didn't even realize he was falling until he hit the ground.

~~~~~~~

The first indication Gyro got that something was wrong was the sound of a dull thud behind him and Slow Dancer's alarmed whinny. Gyro turned in his saddle seeing Johnny lying on the ground beside his horse.

"Johnny? Why the hell did you fall off your horse?" Gyro demanded. When the younger man didn't even stir, Gyro felt a pit form in his stomach as he hurriedly swung off of Valkyrie and hurried to grab Slow Dancer's reins, calming the distressed horse.

"Johnny," he called again and crouched beside his companion, reaching out to carefully inspect him, running his hands over Johnny to check for broken bones before he moved him.

Once he was satisfied, he rolled Johnny onto his back, and that was when he saw the splotch of red under his right arm.

"Johnny, you idiot!" Gyro hissed as he pulled Johnny up across his knee to make it easier to see. He rucked Johnny's shirt up and saw a bullet resting under the skin right below his armpit. A painful spot for an injury, but it didn't look too bad either. He certainly hadn't lost enough blood to pass out from so why the hell was he unconscious?

That was when Gyro noticed the sheen of sweat on Johnny's forehead and neck, and the labored breaths hissing between his lips. He hurriedly pressed his fingers to Johnny's neck to check his pulse and found it to be fast and thready.

"What the hell?" Gyro muttered.

He checked the wound again and realized it looked redder than it should have. It was way too early for any kind of infection to set in so that only left one explanation.

Those bullets were poisoned.

"Shit," Gyro hissed as he looked around. There was no shelter, but the river wasn't far and he would need fresh water. Thankfully it looked like it would be a clear night. Hopefully none of their enemies found them out here because they would have nowhere to hide.

"Why the hell didn't you tell me you were injured!" Gyro growled at the unconscious man as he picked him up and whistled for the horses, heading over to the river. "We probably could have avoided this, Johnny."

He got no response aside from Johnny's labored breathing.

Gyro hurriedly set up, snatching Johnny's bedroll from his saddle and throwing it on the ground before lowering the injured man onto it. Johnny lolled bonelessly, head tipped back, obviously fighting to breathe.

Gyro snatched his bag and started to rummage through it for his medical kit, first grabbing soap and washing up in the river. He should probably have hot water, but that could wait until later. He didn't have time to go looking for wood to start a fire right now.

He grabbed a bowl of water and headed back to Johnny, crouching beside his companion and digging through his medical supplies. "You're an idiot, Johnny," he gritted out as he reached out and simply ripped Johnny's shirt to get it off. He could sew it back together later. He pulled Johnny's arm up out of the way to get to the wound. It was an easy matter to get the bullet out since it was just under the skin. Johnny whimpered and flinched as Gyro coaxed it out with a pair of tweezers and sat back on his heels to inspect the bullet. He wiped the blood from it and stuck his tongue against the small object, spitting instantly into the dirt.

Yeah, it was definitely poison, probably some kind of plant judging by the symptoms Johnny was presenting. That meant that hopefully, he could treat it with what he had.

First though, he really needed to flush the wound. He simply picked Johnny up and carried him down to the river. Gyro took his boots and coat off before stepping into the fast running, cold water, lowering Johnny into it.

Johnny's eyes flew open and he gave a strangled cry, flailing.

Gyro held on and repositioned him so his wound was in the current. "Easy. I'm cleaning this out."

"G-Gyro," Johnny gasped, eyes fluttered as his chest heaved with labored breaths, one hand clawing weakly at Gyro's back.

"I've got you," Gyro told him quietly. "Just hang on, Johnny."

Johnny let out a chocked off sob as Gyro pressed against the wound, making sure it got properly flushed to get as much of the poison out as possible.

Once he was satisfied, he pulled Johnny out of the river and dried him off with an extra blanket, helping him into dry pants before he tucked him into the bedroll with several blankets.

Gyro turned back to his bag and reached for his herbal pouch. He had a few things that could draw poison out. However there was another option…

He glanced over to his belt and holsters that he'd taken off when he went into the river. He hadn't really tried this before but the idea was good and should work. Gyro reached for his steel ball and went back to kneel beside Johnny, turning him onto his side so that his injury was exposed.

Johnny moaned and stirred but Gyro steadied him with a hand on his side. "Stay still. This might feel a little strange."

"What are you…?" Johnny murmured but Gyro hushed him and starting up the rotation of the steel ball. He moved Johnny's arm out of the way and settled the spinning ball right over the wound.

Johnny gasped, tensing, but Gyro squeezed his side comfortingly and reached up to ruffle the younger man's hair. "Easy," he murmured, watching as Johnny's flesh twisted where the steel ball sat and gave a small sigh of relief when he saw something trickling from the wound.

He grabbed a cloth and wiped it away, leaving the ball in place for a little while longer until he was sure. Then he eased it away and saw Johnny's body relax into the bedroll. Gyro gave him another reassuring pat and turned back to his herbs, rummaging through them. It wouldn't hurt to make a poultice as well.

"Gyro," Johnny whispered, breathing still a little labored, but sounding a bit better. "Sorry."

"Why's that, Johnny?" Gyro asked, putting some of the herbs into his mouth and chewing them before taking the wad out and packing it into Johnny's wound.

The younger man hissed and tensed. "Was stupid," he muttered.

Gyro leaned over to see his face which looked miserable and pale, a sheen of sweat coating his forehead. "Because you hid the fact that you were injured?" he asked blandly.

Johnny swallowed hard. "I'm sorry," he whispered again.

Gyro sighed and chewed some more herbs to pack into the wound before wrapping a light swatch of cloth over the spot. "Johnny, you won't do it again, will you? You realize that if you'd told me I probably could have gotten the bullet out before the poison started to set in."

"I know," Johnny murmured. "But we were running and I…I just didn't think it was that bad."

"Not that bad? Johnny you fell off your damn horse!" Gyro snapped. The younger man flinched and Gyro huffed a sigh. "You can't do that! We don't have the luxury!"

Johnny sat there for a long second before he started to push himself up onto his elbow. "You're right. I'm feeling better. We can go now."

Gyro was livid. "What the hell are you talking about?"

"Need to go," Johnny said firmly. "Can't stop the race on my account." He pushed himself up and instantly swayed, eyes rolling up in his head. Gyro caught him and lowered him back onto the bed roll with a sigh.

"You're not going anywhere in this condition," Gyro informed him.

Johnny's face twisted. "Then go on without me!"

"Johnny," Gyro said quietly and gently tucked a blanket around him like he would one of his younger siblings, reaching out to take Johnny's hat off and push back the strands of hair stuck to his sweaty face. "You're an idiot."

Johnny bared his teeth, breath hissing between them. "Yeah, so leave!"

He was practically hyperventilating and Gyro grabbed his shoulders in an attempt to calm him down, bending to meet his eyes firmly. "Johnny, don't be dumb. You're my friend. I'm not going to leave you here. We'll stay until you rest up, the poison should be out of your system in a few hours. We'll make up the time tomorrow."

"But we'll get even further behind!" Johnny protested. "And you need to win!"

"We'll worry about that tomorrow," Gyro promised him.

Johnny ducked his head into the pillow and choked back a sob.

"Don't cry, Johnny," Gyro told him quietly.

"Why don't you just leave me? Why do you care? I'm not even good for anything, I'm useless."

Gyro looked down at him in surprise. "Where the hell is that coming from?"

Johnny trembled, hiding his face under the blankets. Gyro waited but no explanation was given.

However, he felt he had a pretty good idea.

"Look, Johnny, I don't know who ever made you think that, but it's just not true, okay? This race is rough, and I for one am grateful to have someone by my side. It makes it a little easier."

"I don't know how. I don't do anything but get us into more trouble."

Gyro had to laugh. "Yeah, well, that used to be me. All the time. Trust me, takes one to know one. And you're not useless, you idiot, you're my friend. I'm glad you're here."

Johnny looked up at him, dull blue eyes glowering suspiciously. "Are you just playing?"

"No," Gyro said firmly and smiled. "So stop being so hard on yourself."

Johnny looked down again and started to tremble, catching his breath. Gyro reached out to press the back of his hand on Johnny's forehead to check his temperature and Johnny grunted in protest. Gyro retaliated by ruffling his hair.

"Get some rest, Johnny. You'll feel better tomorrow."

"You'll…" Johnny stopped then started again, looking up. "You'll still be here?"

"Of course," Gyro said in surprise.

"Promise?"

Gyro nodded. "I always keep my promises."

Johnny seemed to relax and closed his eyes, gone in an instant.

Gyro watched him for a long moment and felt an overwhelming sense of protectiveness overcome him. Whoever had made Johnny feel worthless, he would do everything he could to make sure his friend never felt that way around him.

If nothing else, he could at least do that.

"Sleep well, Johnny," he muttered as he went to make himself some coffee, settling in until Johnny was well enough to travel again.

[aracaeli]

The Sign of Three

NOTE: Merry Christmas @elfchensdcartblog from your DCMK secret santa!! I’m sorry for posting it at the last minute possible, I should probably have said Happy New Year instead. Here is my humble gift to you. Also, I’m sorry for not writing it with the accent. Regular english still gives me trouble and I’m not sure I’m capable of writing it right. Big thanks to @dcmksecretsanta for hosting he event.

I’m really rusty, but actually making this gift is more fun than I imagined. I forgot how soothing writing can be. Please forgive any mistake I made, happy reading! ^^

----The Sign of Three----

“You know, this is a very bad idea.” Heiji said to Kazuha for the sixth time that day. He’s practically sulking by now. On default, Heiji is not a big fan of malls. Much less going to a mall two days before Christmas. Suffice to say, the place was packed. People are everywhere. There’s people who are getting their christmas shopping late, young couples celebrating christmas together, or just some rando who had the bright idea to come to the mall near christmas. The mall even blasted out “We Wish You a Merry Christmas'' in every speaker on loop. Heiji swears if he finds the person responsible for that song that guy will have to answer to him.

Kazuha however is chipper as ever. She ignored his comment and instead was busy looking at toy displays in front of her while whistling along on the christmas song. Heiji wouldn’t even be here if Kazuha had not dragged him out. Heck, he wouldn’t even leave the house if it weren’t for her. His plan is to stay at home and do some reading, maybe go out for a bit to get food, but that’s it.

Kazuha apparently had other plans for him. She insisted on making him come with her to her class christmas event today and accompany her to do last minute shopping for the kids. Apparently the school wanted the students to celebrate Christmas by making a christmas event where the kids can play and exchange gifts. Only, the actual event is two days early from christmas because the kids will be celebrating with their own family on the actual christmas.

The idea is stupid. Heiji said as much.

He gets smacked in the head for that. Heiji had tried to lie his way out, but Kazuha immediately saw through him.

And that’s another weird thing about Kazuha lately. They had been married a while, but Heiji was sure that her changes only occurred recently.

Lately, she seems to become more observant. She often notices small things that she didn't notice before. Normally if someone moved her pen when she was away, she wouldn’t notice, but now she was able to tell the exact distance of the pen’s displacement. 

Another weirdness is, she woke up by the slightest noise. Before when Heiji had to stay late because of work, he was able to get to their bed without waking her. Now Kazuha is awake when he cracks the door open. If Heiji made a noise, she was able to tell exactly what was causing the noise, even if she was two rooms away. Heiji didn’t know what was the cause, it’s not like it’s the first time he saw that kind of ability. He had good ears, so does his father. What’s weird is that Kazuha suddenly developed one, too.

Maybe it was contagious?

Heiji shakes his head, chasing the ridiculous thoughts away. Despite Kazuha being weirdly observant, Heiji managed to secure an awesome gift for her, in his humble opinion. The subject of his musings is still shopping happily, uncharacteristically unaware of his thoughts. 

Kazuha is still looking at the display. But now she has already moved to the far end of the store. She picks up the toys one by one and assesses them carefully, as if it was important evidence on a crime scene. After a while, she held up a toy truck in front of him.

“Do you think Mikoto-kun would like this one?” Kazuha asked, holding a red toy car that resembles a fire truck. 

Mikoto is one of Kazuha's students in elementary school, who Heiji really doesn’t like. Mikoto, like most the boys in her class, had a crush on Kazuha-sensei and wanted to marry her when they grow up. Nevermind that Heiji visited the class and told them that Kazuha was already married to him.

In response to that information, Mikoto--who had the smuggest face for someone barely older than a toddler-- just looked at him from top to bottom, face clearly displaying unimpressed. “Oh well, we’ll see about that.”

The audacity.

Not caring what the brat would get for Christmas, Heiji answered shortly, “He’s a kid, that’s a toy. The math suggests that he would be thrilled.” 

He thought she would get annoyed with him, but his wife just shrugged and went back to shopping. In the end, she made a decision and took the toy to the counter to pay for it and told him to wait for her. Heiji watched her with a suspicious gaze, wondering if what meets the eye is really the truth. 

Heiji thinks it’s weird that Kazuha invited him to the event. While it’s not the first time he has come to her class and participated, it was always such a disaster. Considering what happened when he was present, he should be banned.

In his defense, it was the brat’s fault. Everytime Heiji comes to pick Kazuha up, he will ‘accidentally’ step on his foot. Kazuha makes Mikoto apologize to him of course, but the boy apologizes with a sleazy grin not fit for a child. One time, when he visited Kazuha during class, the brat ‘accidentally’ poured paint all over his shirt. Heiji tried to get back at the kid, but as if sensing his petty intention, Mikoto immediately cried.

Worse, Kazuha never sided with him. She came and comforted the kid while Heiji had to watch the kid buried his face in Kazuha’s chest while giving him the smuggest smile known to humankind. He had to bite back a curse. 

Another incident that popped in his mind is when Heiji cursed in her class, in front of the children. It was actually quite comical, the children had simultaneously stopped what they were doing and looked at him in shellshock, Heiji stood awkwardly for a minute. He was about to make a run for it. When one of the kids decided that what he had done was unacceptable on so many levels and tattled on him to Kazuha.

Kazuha had put him on time-out as if he was five despite his protest to her.

“I can’t play favour, Heiji. It’s not a good example for the kids” Kazuha said sternly while putting her hands at her hips. Long story short, he lost the debate.

He had to sit in the hallway to think about what he did while the other children peeked at him curiously from the window.

One kid even booed at him.

Yeah, it was not his proudest moment.

While he was reminiscing, Kazuha came back from the cashier, carrying one more bag in her hand. She didn’t have any trouble carrying it, but he decided to perform his duty as a good husband and took the bag from her hand. Beside, this way her hand would be free for him to hold.

Chiding himself for being sappy, Heiji linked their fingers together in a loose grip, suppressing the blush that always comes despite already being married to her. But Kazuha was having none of it today as she tightened her hand.

Kazuha leaned closer on him. Their arms linked together and her nose almost brushed his shoulder. 

“Let’s go upstairs.” Kazuha said, leading the way. As they walked side by side, she broke the silence.

“Did you finish your christmas shopping?” Kazuha asked. The mall was crowded and loud, so Heiji really had to pay attention to hear her. 

“I did. Finished it weeks ago.”

“Including my gift?”

“Yes.”

“Is it a living thing?”

“No.”

“Is it a nonliving thing?”

“We’re not playing 20 questions!”

Kazuha pouted. She bit the inside of her cheeks and turned her face away from him. Giving Heiji her side-view. And suddenly he finds himself resisting the irrational urge to kiss that protruding lips in public. Fortunately, unlike with the case of  Fairy’s lips, he still had common sense left.

“I think I know what you get me.” Kazuha said suddenly. 

Heiji gave his wife a skeptical stare, surely she was just bluffing, afterall he went through a painstaking measure to make it a surprise. He even draws a murderboard, which he hides in Kudo’s house, much to the latter dismay.

“No you don’t.” Heiji sneered.

“Hmm let’s see now,” Kazuha put her hand to her chin, mimicking his favorite pose when solving a case, complete with a smile, which may appear innocent at first but completely devious. 

“I know that you suck at handcraft. And I don’t see you working at anything, so it can’t be handmade. You said it was a non-living thing, so it can’t be a pet. Judging by how quick you are in answering my question earlier and the fact we have a joint account, it’s unlikely to be a trip or a dinner.”

Heiji started to sweat. Is this what the suspect always felt whenever he made a show of his deductions? Still, Kazuha is not done yet.

“The fact that you finished weeks ago means you had planned it for awhile. You’ve gone to Tokyo for a suspicious amount of time, it can be unrelated to gift-buying, but my instinct said it was very related. But it’s weird that you go so far just to shop, there’s plenty of places here where you can hide your gift. That suggests the involvement of an outside party. Probably a delivery. Which means…”

Kazuha added a dramatic pause.

“....it was custom-made.”

Damn. What’s gotten into her?

Still, Kazuha went for the kill, “The fact that you’re giving it to me, big chance it was a jewelry. Probably a necklace. Since you had no sense when it comes to women’s fashion, the one you custom it’s not probably the design. If my deduction is correct, that necklace would have my initial.”

Heiji completely avoided looking at her. Somehow his pride is trampled over her deductions. He had plans after all. The only solace he had was Kazuha doing all of that is kinda hot. So he let it pass.

“Am I right?”

Heiji shrugged. “I don’t know, you had to wait.”

Kazuha gives a little happy jump, almost knocking a lady that was passing by them.

“I can’t wait for a necklace with a ‘K’ pendant to come.”

Heiji nodded along with her statement. The pendant that he ordered is actually spelled ‘K.H’, since Kazuha had officially become a Hattori now. He decided to let her little mistake in detail be left uncorrected and changed the subject.

“Can we go now? I think this place is getting more packed.” Heiji said, and true to his word, someone bumped into him. Said person didn’t even apologize and just walked. 

“Hold on, I still need to buy one more for Chika-chan.”

“Huh? I thought it was a secret santa.”

“It is, but I’m buying a present for all of my students in the class.”

Heiji frowned. “Why? Isn’t that a bit much even for you? You’ll see them again next year.”

He felt her getting tense. She was looking straight ahead but he can tell that she was carefully masking her face as casual indifference.

Shrugging her shoulder, Kazuha answered, “I just want to make this year memorable.”

Heiji observed her face carefully for any clue, but sensing his curiosity, Kazuha looked back at him and feigned a smile. Deciding to not pursue it further, he noted this exchange and kept it in Kazuha’s folder, a place in his mind palace where he keeps anything related to Kazuha that he finds odd or weird. That folder had recently become thicker and thicker.

“Let’s go up one more floor, I think I see a store selling hair accessories.” Kazuha said quickly as she pulled him along by his hand to the elevator direction. Heiji followed along.

She accidentally stumbled on her steps. Delaying them for a few seconds. In consequence of that, they missed the elevator. As the door closed with a resounding ding sound. It was like a butterfly effect, the world just decide what he needs today is a murder.

If only they got on that elevator, they would have missed the shrill scream of a person discovering a dead body.

But unfortunately they did.

Knowing that scream everywhere, Heiji felt his detective sense alert in an instant. But before running off to the source of the commotion, he looked at Kazuha first, wordlessly asking for her permission.

Kazuha sighed, smiling softly, “Go”.

Heiji gave her a cheeky grin. He  handed her the shopping bags to her. Since both his hands are free, he had the chance to strike a cool pose before running off by gripping the edge of his hat and pulling the cap to the front.

“I’ll be back.”

------------------------------------------------------------

In the span of time for one call to the police, five interrogations, and one person broke down crying later, Heiji managed to gather the suspects in the back of the store. The body is found in a clothing changing room. A man in his late thirties, wearing casual jeans and polo shirt. The corpse had been found laying on his back, half his body leaned on the mirror. Eyes wide and mouth wide open. Although there is no blood. 

The store owner had been very helpful in aiding his investigations. She closed the crime perimeter and helped gather witnesses. Even though she initially insisted that the man just had a heart attack, until Heiji pointed out the signs that he clearly is poisoned.

Heiji was busy doing his usual detective work that he didn’t really notice that Kazuha hadn't shown up even after thirty minutes had passed since they heard the scream.

Heiji was about to search for her, already worried that something happened to his wife. But as he was about to walk away from the crime scene, Kazuha catches up with him, completely unaware of his worry. She even brought a drink in hand  and casually sip the cold liquid from the straw while looking around the crime scene curiously. 

“Solved it yet?” She asked. Slurping the boba tea. 

Heiji was momentarily distracted by the movement of her lips. Shaking the unwanted thoughts away, he looked back at the corpse.

“Not yet. So far, here’s the situation. Someone is found dead in the changing room of this store.” Heiji gestured towards the corpse.

“No blood.” Kazuha remarked.

Heiji nodded. He feels weirdly proud that she participated in the case. He resisted the urge to pat her head, “Exactly. Death by poison.”

“Cyanide?”

“No, arsenic.”

“Who do you think did it?”

“Well, I figured out the trick, But I’m still not sure who did it.”

Kazuha nodded solemnly. Still slurping her drink. Her gaze turned towards the three people standing behind the store owner who were looking at them the whole time. The three men are the main suspects for the case. Heiji told them to stand far enough so they can’t overhear his conversation. Heiji was sure the culprit was between the man with glasses and the tall one. Although he had no evidence or any defining clue.

“The guy with the glasses seems suspicious.” Kazuha said. Leaning close to whisper in his ears. He instinctively take a step back. Typical of Kazuha to annoy him with her stupid breath and her slurping when he was in the middle of a case. 

Heiji snatched the drink from her hand. 

“How is he suspicious?” He asked, only half-interested in her answer.

“Look at the inside of his wrist.” Kazuha said confidently at first, but she suddenly turned hesitant and quickly shrugged “But, I don’t know though, you’re the Detective.”

Reluctantly, Heiji followed Kazuha's advice and focused on the man in glasses hands. 

Wait….that mark…

“I know who the killer is.”

-----------------------------------------------------------------------

An hour and half later, they finally manage to get out of the mall. Heiji was sure that they were already late to the event. Thankfully, there was no traffic on the way, so they made it to the school ground less than ten minute later. The event hasn't started yet. Most of the kids were still playing around, although Kazuha’s coworkers had pulled out various games and an assortment of christmas themed sweets out.

When Heiji and Kazuha enter the classroom. The children cheered. Immediately, she was surrounded by her students. They formed a circle around her and tried to get her attention. Looking at the spectacle before him, Heiji can’t help but note that Kazuha is really good with kids. 

Heiji put their bag on the gifts table. He searched for an empty chair to sit on. Heiji found one in the back of the room. He sits down on one of the chairs beside the low round table. Heiji was so focused that he didn’t notice someone approaching him.

“So you came.”

Heiji turned to the source of the voice. But he didn’t see anyone.

“Down here”

He looked down and his stare met with Mikoto’s gaze.

“Hey”

Mikoto only grunted. The kid pulled the chair across him and sat down. He slouched on the chair while looking around the room with bored eyes. Heiji noticed that his eyes landed on a little girl with a pigtail who was excitedly chatting with Kazuha. He looked back at the kid and the girl.

Heiji was a very observant Detective. The best in Japan. Despite what neechan said. That’s why the blush on Mikoto’s face didn’t go unnoticed by Heiji. He gave a small sigh. Kids these days, so easy to move on from one crush to another.

“Do you like that girl?” Heiji asked. One eyebrow raised suggestively. He deliberately didn’t gesture on the little girl across the room.

Mikoto looked scandalized, suddenly sitting straight with face flushed red. “What! No! Who likes Chika!?”

Heiji grinned. “I didn’t say anything about Chika-chan.”

Mikoto was about to defend himself. But no words come out. All of his face was flaming red to the tip of his ear. The blush even went up to his ears. In the end, he settled to look away instead. Sulking.

“So…” Heiji began, finding the opportunity to tease the kid highly amusing. “Do you think Chika-chan cute? What’s her deal?’

Mikoto crossed his hand in front of his chest, “She’s not cute! She’s stupid!” he stated, too loud and too defensive to be true. Some of the kids and one teacher had looked their way due to commotion. 

“Hey, stupid is a bad word.” Heiji chided. 

Mikoto was about to protest. But somehow decided against it and mumbled a low “Sorry.”

Seeing the kid actually reminded him a lot of someone. Although Heiji can’t quite recall who. “Here’s an advice, if you like her, don’t pull her pigtails.”

Mikoto, once again, flushed red. As if he was just caugh red-handed. “I don’t need your advice, I bet you also pulled Kazuha-sensei’s ponytail.”

Heiji laughed. It’s actually happened. The scene of their younger years flashed before his eyes. Kazuha used to have pigtails too when she was young and the sight of her hair swinging around as she walked always seems cute and endearing to him. Although back then he had no idea what the feeling blossomed in his chest was. 

Young Heiji never made the connection between the flutter of his heart and Kazuha’s presence. Once Heiji even thought he had heart problems. His mother laughed when he brought his concerns to her. Shizuka had said that he was healthy as a clamp and had nothing to worry about. To his embarrassment, it took him ten more years to finally understand he was in love with Kazuha.

“What are you boys talking about?”

Both of them turned around simultaneously, only to find Kazuha standing behind.

“Nothing,” Mikoto said. Kazuha looked at the two of them suspiciously. “Mikoto-kun, you should join the others. The game is about to start.”

Mikoto sends Heiji a distress signal to help him get away. But Heiji feels no remorse as he shrugged his shoulders in total betrayal.

“Mikoto-kun.” Kazuha said again, voice more stern. In the end, Mikoto sighed and walked away from the couple. Joining the merry and fun of his friends in the center of the room.

Kazuha sat on the empty chair that Mikoto left, staring at the crowd in a somewhat somber gaze, “He reminds me a lot of you.”

Heiji immediately defended himself, “What! I am nothing like that brat.”

“You two seemed to get along, though” Kazuha said.

“No, we’re not. He hates my gut. Apparently he used to have a crush on you.” Heiji added, “And just so you know, those little accidents that he did, are not an ‘accident’.”

Kazuha laughed. “I know. I just wanna show how ridiculous you are, getting jealous of kids.” Heiji opened his mouth, but she cut him off, “Don’t even try to deny it.”

Heiji blew a harsh breath. Looking around at the happy kids around him, the christmas decoration is exquisite, and the cookies smelled delicious, even from when he was sitting.

“Why do you insist I come anyway?” Heiji asked. Although he probably knows the answer. With how observant Kazuha is lately, maybe she noticed that he’s not having such a great time at work. 

But his wife is always able to surprise him. “I’m pregnant.”

Heiji gaped at her as the world turned into a standstill. Voices become mute and he swears the earth stop spinning.

Kazuha...is pregnant…

Kazuha is pregnant.

He heard the words clearly. But the meaning didn’t actually register in his head. Kazuha is pregnant? With his child….

There’s another human being that he will be responsible to. Someone who looks like him. Or maybe Kazuha. Maybe a well-behaved kid like Chika-chan or a brat like Mikoto.

What would he do if his kid makes bad choices? Or become too reckless like him?

He could feel his panic rapidly growing by the second. The thought of bringing a human life in this world is downright overwhelming. Kazuha might be good with kids, but he is not. What would he do with one? That’s easy, he should feed it. Oh God, what did you feed a kid? What does a kid even eat??

As if sensing his rapidly growing panic, Kazuha called his name. “Heiji,”

When there was no response, Kazuha grabbed his hand that was laying on the table. The contact startled him. His eyes turned to her.

“We’re gonna be fine, Heiji.” Kazuha added, “Beside, I’ve been thinking about it, and I think I want to focus on raising our family.” 

Suddenly, it made sense. Why she wants to make this year christmas with her class so memorable. The way she is acting so weird recently. There’s only one thing he can’t figure out, thought….

“I don’t get why you suddenly become so observant, is that another side effect of pregnancy?”

Kazuha stared at him in bewilderment, “What are you talking about?”

“You! You were suddenly very observant. Like a detect--” Heiji stopped mid-sentence, he abruptly stood up from the chair, knocking it backwards. As if he just received the meaning of the universe, he exclaimed:

“Oh God, our child is gonna be a detective!!”

.

.

.

A/N: And thus, Heisuke is doomed since he was a literal fetus to be a detective by his father. 

There’s a local belief in my area that when a mother is pregnant, how she behaves is influenced by the child’s personality. So if a woman often gets angry during pregnancy, that means the child is temperamental, so on. Halfway writing this, I realized that it might be too weird and specific, so I ended up rewriting it into a more general trope. Although dumbass me misread the fact that Kazuha is elementary teacher-to-be, not elementary teacher. Still, I hope you accept this as a humble sort-of-headcanon to your Heisuke AU.

I actually really like the concept of the AU, I had to refrain myself from liking and reblogging all the posts because then you would have easily figured out that I’m your Secret Santa (lol). Can’t wait to see your next works. Good luck and Merry Christmas! ^^

[rosequartzakapinkdiamond]

Everything’s Fine

you know what got me the most about ‘Everything’s Fine’? this scene:

‘I’m a fraud.’

on god, i felt that

when you’re mentally ill, abused, neuro-divergent, or have had anything different in the way you think, you CONSTANTLY feel like you’re masking, like you have to wear this facade to stay included, or loved, or safe, until you’re so far down that hole you don't know how to get out, so you deny its even happening, and you work yourself up inside with all this self-hatred, after all you’re lying to people, and you begin to believe deep down that you’re not good anymore. that you polluted yourself. and so everything in you wants to pretend its not real, and the cyclical facade continues.

‘I don’t know what you’re talking about! I’m fine, awesome in fact! Ah- c’mon, you’ve seen me when I wasn’t doing well. Nothing’s wrong, and besides, I don't want you to worry.’ 

Steven is deflecting, trying to draw attention away from his problems so the others won’t fret about him, because worry leads to scrutiny, which leads to concern, and then he could burst, everything he’s tried to prove, tried to show as true, is all going to shatter. he’s so, so used to being the one who catches the other in a trust fall, he doesn’t know how to lean back himself, so when faking doesn’t work, he immediately tries to remove himself from the situation. 

‘It’s not that easy! You know what, I don’t have to deal with this!’

if he’s not in the room, the atmosphere can’t follow, he can find somewhere safe and far, and calm down, but this doesn't work. its another attempt at deflecting, and neither Pearl, Amethyst or Connie allow it, they know he needs to talk it out before they can help

and so now, the lies begin to come out, and oh god it hurt to watch. ive been exactly where Steven is and hoo boy sucks, because you instantly try to dumb it down as a protection measure, despite how it feels to lie further. throughout the show we’ve seen how much Steven values the Gems’ opinions of him, Connie and Greg too, as early on as ‘Laser Light Cannon’ he’s desperate to show he isn’t a liability. he’s taught himself to not be a problem, to not cause problems, so he can stay included and helpful, and help them get better instead. its just so much easier to focus on other people over yourself. its distracting, it’s comfortable.

‘Hahaa... It wasn’t that important you guys! You’re making a big deal out of nothing! Have I done some thing wrong? Sure! I trashed the house today, I broke an anvil, but what teenager hasn’t? Dad and I had a little disagreement, but that’s practically a rite of passage! I mean, it would be weird if we didn’t, right?’

he’s still looking for their approval, their assurance that it’s not a problem, repercussions can go away, and everything can just go back to normal, but you can see in their faces, they’re angry, and this only spurs on his deflecting, because now he’s faced with rejection, again. so he tries to assure himself that it’s just the everyday teen problems, nothing to make an issue out of, because that’s too raw to think about, I mean, Connie's had disagreements with her parents right, that’s the same?? right?

‘And maybe I’ve had a not-so-nice thought or two, about, like, slamming White Diamond’s head through a pillar, but, but, it’s not like I actually went through with it! Ha, I-- I only actually shattered Jasper!’

and what’s horrible is it’s almost a satisfying feeling at first, technically he succeeded!! he got away with it, and doesn’t that make him smart, or capable of coping, or maybe he’s getting better!!! he could’ve done those horrible things, but its okay! he fixed them, or they weren’t as bad as they sound, or, or, or--

ive done plenty of damaging impulse things thanks to my mental illness and neuro-divergency, and ive had exactly the same script. you try so hard to make it seem like the problem isn't as large because really, you know what you did was bad, or stupid, or dark. but you still did it, you couldn’t just stop yourself. you still made the mistake and now you want to move past it as quick and as painlessly as possible, but doing so puts other things in jeopardy and means telling other people, and that’s scary. you can’t avoid letting people know about your problems, but what Steven’s struggling with is that he’s on a completely different page to the Gems, Connie and Greg. he’s had all this time dwelling on these thoughts-- he’s several chapters in, but they’ve only just picked up the book, so no wonder they’re shocked and horrified to read the blurb. these thoughts of inflicting harm, whether it be or others or otherwise, are dark, so who wouldn’t be shocked?

so Steven immediately deflects again. he pushes himself to sound positive, so desperate for the facade of normality, that it borders on unstable, as he overcompensates for this fear of criticism 

‘Oh! Don’t worry, I fixed that too! I can fix anything! I can just keep messing up and fixing things forever and you’ll never have to think or know about any of it!’

it’s because they had no idea there was anything wrong that cemented this idea in Steven that he had to keep hiding, because what they didn't know couldn’t hurt them, right, and he’s Steven! he fixes things! if you’re always deemed as perfect, any flaw can’t be shown, right? any fall and you’re out, you’re not a crystal gem anymore and you can’t go on missions or hang out with Connie or protect anymore, protect the town, protect the earth, so you hide, and you can go on, self-sabotaging and hiding and stressing, without anyone knowing a thing. 

but you know. you know well, too well, and eventually everything crumbles whether Steven wanted to ever acknowledge it or not. it just became too much for one person to hold.

‘How messed up is that? That I’ve gotten away with this for so long? You have no idea how bad I am!’

what strikes me about this too is ‘gotten away with this’ and ‘you have no idea how bad I am’. cannot tell you how many times ive said these phrases word for word in therapy and i almost screamed at my computer when I heard him say it, because that’s EXACTLY how it feels. you’re acting. the whole time you’re acting in self-preservation because of this all consuming anxiety of failure, and its always in your head and hey, you know its BAD-bad, even if they don’t notice, or ask, because you’re absolutely not going to tell. he already tried, remember, and they brushed him off, so nope, no, their fault.

so now Steven’s faced with actually looking at what exactly he’s done and how no one noticed. how not one of them thought to have this conversation with him before, did they not care? did they not see him? did not one of them wonder why Jasper just appeared suddenly out of their bathroom, at the least? could they not bother to try to reach him?

but it’s not a matter of them not loving him, or seeing him. it’s that they didn’t listen in the right way to understand him. Connie’s speech in the following episode sets it out perfectly 

‘Yes, you hurt him, but this isn’t the time to make this all about you! That is not helping! Maybe Steven would care about how sad you are, because he always puts everyone else’s feelings first, but he can’t do that for you right now, because he needs us this time!’

she acknowledges that they needed to hear Steven, especially when he wasn’t laying out exactly what was wrong, because he didn’t know what was up either (the dude has only been to the doctor once, he doesn’t know what c-ptsd is, let alone anxiety or depression), and because they should, as adults, realise that while their actions and feelings do matter, it cannot be at Steven’s detriment. his venting to Garnet, and to Greg, in ‘Together Forever’ and ‘Mr Universe’ wasn't an opportunity for them to give him advice or lay their own experiences on top, it was a chance for them to really listen to, and really hear, what Steven was telling them he was feeling and then see that as his truth. no ‘you had it better’, no ‘it was inevitable’, all he needed was ‘I hear you, I love you, let’s fix this together’. 

‘We all had Steven when we needed him, but the only person who’s never had Steven, is Steven! So, how can we be there for him now?’

which makes what Steven says next all the more painful, as he’s been holding this role on his shoulders like atlas holds the sky and its breaking him.

‘You think I’m so great, I’m so mature, and I always know what to do, but that's not true! I haven’t learned a thing from my problems. They’ve all just made me worse!’

thus far, Steven’s been taught that every experience is a chance to learn, like in ‘The Test’ (which was another ep that made me go FERAL when i saw it). he’s searching for meaning in all the horrible things that happened to him but sometimes, there is no moral. sometimes things are just that. they’re bad and they hurt you.

‘You think of me as some angel, but I’m not that kid anymore! I’m a fraud. I’m a fraud. I’m a monster!’

when you believe so deeply in yourself that you’re not a good person, it really hurts, especially when the people around you keep reminding you of who you used to be, see the whole of ‘Snow Day’. you feel like a fake, because who exactly are you? who are you without that mask? who is Steven Universe if not the boy who helps? yes, he’s not that kid anymore, but he doesn't want to be this ball of pain either, so what’s left after but to think he’s just ruined? he’s not an angel, he’s not helping anymore, he’s just angry, hurt and lost.

what’s left but a monster?  

[starlightsearches]

Can I request a fluffy Kylo X OC where they’re chasing their little toddler around Star Killer base? Pleaseeeee? 💕💕😘

Not Going Anywhere

Here’s my first request! I hope you guys like it; feel free to send in more 😌

Pairing: Kylo Ren X Female Reader

Warnings: This is probably a little more angst than you wanted, sorry about that 😬 But the ending is nice and fluffy!

“What do you mean you lost him?” You yell, and Ren puts a hand over your mouth, hoping no one outside of the supply closet heard you shouting. It’s cramped and too warm—only worsening Ren’s anxiety—which had built itself to a crescendo in the time it had taken to find you on the bridge and then convince you to leave your post. You brush his hand away, aggravated.

“I told you, he ran out the door. I couldn’t grab him fast enough.” Ren whispers, pained, “please help me.” Your mouth flattens into a line of frustration, contemplating the potential benefits and pitfalls of making him do it himself, and then you roll your eyes, sighing with exasperation.

“Fine, let’s go,” you shove him unceremoniously from the closet and back into the hallway, and two officers outside the door startle at his sudden appearance. For a moment they look like they might laugh, until they see your face, and instead they avert their eyes, suddenly absorbed with the screens of their data pads.

“Which way did he go?” You whisper to him, and Ren starts off down the hallway in what he thinks is the right direction. Others are watching as you make your way down the corridor, curious whispers following behind. 

People know, of course, about the two of you. That had been unavoidable. You had done your best to stay professional in the public eye after your relationship began, but nobody on the whole damn crew was capable of keeping their mouth shut, especially after your nine-month “special assignment” off-base. Still, privacy was necessary to the survival of your relationship, and for any sense of normalcy when working. Most crew members never even saw you in the same room, let alone exiting a closet together.

“I’m sorry,” Ren whispers, again. He can see your anger in your posture, the way you stomp down the hall, listening intently for any sign of your son.

“Don’t you think-”

“No,” he cuts you off before you can finish. This is a conversation you’ve had before, and not one he’s interested in having again.

“I’m just saying,” you begin, “I could take him somewhere—somewhere safe—where he could grow up. Have a childhood. And then, later, when this is over …”

“You can’t leave.”

“Being on this base is not good for him, Ren.”

“Neither is growing up without a father.” He’s growling, anger bleeding through his words. You bite your lip and don’t respond. These talks never go well; Ren always ends up frustrated, and it’s worse this time because now he knows that you’re right. Maybe his son would be better off far away from him. Safer.

He’s still worried as the two of you walk: there are plenty of dangerous places a child could find themselves on the base. The armory, the hangar … the trash compactor. He forces himself to move faster, overtaking you quickly with his long stride. You feel it too, the panic, and grip his wrist in your fingers, a strange and unfamiliar show of affection for such a public space.

“Can you sense him?” You ask, running your thumb over the edge of his sleeve, finding your way to the skin beneath, but the panic won’t subside. He shakes his head, feeling helpless, and you pull him into an alcove.

“I’m sure he’s fine,” you whisper, bringing your hand to his face and rubbing the pad of your thumb over his cheek, “but we do need to find him. Can you?” Ren nods into your palm, calmed by your touch, and focuses outward, looking for his son. He’s easy to find once Ren has found focus: a small spark of joy amid the harshness and conflict of the base. Ren takes your hand in his, and pulls you in the right direction, the worry ebbing now that he has a clear destination. He pulls you to a stop in front of a door and punches in his access code, not waiting for it to open all the way before you both rush in.

Two sets of eyes stare back at you, their shock echoing their own, the silence in the room broken apart by pealing laughter. This is a Storm Trooper barrack, you realize immediately, the eyes belonging to a group of Troopers, KH-1317 and TZ-4390, in uniform but without their helmets. They look sheepish and avoid your gaze.

“Jaren!” You break from Ren, running to your son, pulling him out of the arms of the nearest Trooper. He giggles again, oblivious to the tension in the room, and you hold him close.

“Where did you find him?” You ask, and both Troopers relax infinitesimally, seeing that they are not in trouble. 

“We were doing our rounds and he came around the corner,” KH-1317 says, gesturing to her partner, who nods, “we didn’t know he was your kid.” There’s a pause, awkward, uncomfortable, as no one seems to know what to say next. You pull your son tighter in your arms, and he rests his head on your shoulder, tired from his exciting afternoon.

“Thank you,” you say, hesitantly, “for watching him.” This is a break from the normal order of things, a strangely human moment for all of you, and Ren’s not entirely comfortable with the scene unfolding before him. 

“It was no problem,” the other responds. She waves uncertainly to Jaren, who waves back tiredly, fighting to keep his eyelids open. You tug on Ren’s hand, surreptitiously, pulling him towards the door, and the two of you leave a bit embarrassed, but grateful.

The walk back to your quarters is better, almost peaceful, as Jaren dozes on your shoulder. Ren is feeling strange, the fear of losing his son gone now, leaving something soft and sentimental in its place. Gingerly, he places a hand on the curve of your spine, the connection so gentle you may not have noticed it, if you hadn’t outside of your quarters.

“Are you sure that’s a good idea?” you whisper, looking up at him with worry in your eyes. You’re drawing attention again, holding your child in your arms, and Ren knows that he’s only making it worse, but he needs to feel close to you right now. He solidifies the contact, pressing his hand more firmly into your back, and glares at the watching crew members who in turn avert their gaze.

 You enter your chambers together, the room dark, and a little messy: clothes on the floor, and a few toys scattered around. You set Jaren in his crib and pull the blanket over him. He’s already asleep, soft pink lips pursed into a perfect O, his dark, unruly hair brushing his eyebrows. Ren sees too much of himself in him. He sits on the bed and swallows hard, unable to look at you, now that you’re alone. Afraid of what you’re about to say.

He feels the indent of the mattress as you climb up behind him, running your hands through his hair with soft, even strokes. He sinks into you, instinctively, amazed that you still have the power to undo him with such a simple touch.

“I’m sorry.” Your chest vibrates against his back as you speak, and tears prick his eyes without warning. Ashamed, he turns away from you, pressing the heels of his hands into the sockets, hoping to keep the grief from spilling out. You move to him again, pulled in by his gravity, grabbing onto his wrists and uncovering his eyes. Your expression is delicate, and you run your hands over the tears on his cheeks, clearing them away. He melts against your touch, the skin of your lips ghosting over his forehead, down his temple, and then placing a soft kiss on his nose. He smiles, involuntarily.

“I don’t want to leave,” you say quietly, mouth resting against his ear now, “and I’m sorry I suggested it.”

“I don’t want you to go,” he wraps his arms around you, holds you to him, laying back on the mattress beneath you. You fall together, your head resting in the crook of his neck, breathing in time. Your fingers trace lazy shapes on his chest, and his breath hitches in response.

“I lost him,” he says, and he’s crying again, the tears running down his face and into his hair, “he could have gotten hurt, and it would have been my fault.”

“Things like that happen, Ren. You can’t blame yourself.” You sit up and look him in the eyes, deadly serious. “You’re a good father. He needs you.”

“I don’t want you to go,” he’s repeating himself, but he’s desperate. He can’t do this without you.

“We aren’t going anywhere.” You fold into each other, and he feels it. You mean it when you say you’ll stay.

[chickensarentcheap]

Best Part of Me -Chapter 23

WARNINGS: SMUT. NSFW.

Tagging: @innerpaperexpertcloud​, @c-a-v-a-l-r-y​, @alievans007​

“So how mad are you?” Tyler asks, as he stands in the doorway of the main floor laundry room, leaning against the frame with his arms crossed over his chest.  

The situation is touch and go. She hadn’t set foot upstairs while he’d carried out Millie’s bedtime routine or when Kyle had wandered in with a sleeping five year-year old under each time; dumping each of them fully clothed into their beds before taking off again.

“Why would I be mad at you?” she counters, as she gathers a bundle of laundry from inside the dryer and drops them on top of it. “You didn’t do anything wrong. Well, besides getting  glitter all over the goddamn place.”

“You can blame your daughter for that. She's a little obsessed with sparkly shit.”

“Just a little,” Esme agrees with a grin.

He takes it as a sign that all is well between them and finally approaches, standing behind her and pushing a hand through her hair, tangling his fingers in the soft, fine tresses and lightly tugs; drawing her head back and kissing her. Teeth lightly capturing her bottom lip as he pulls away, and she gives a grin and reaches back to grab a hold of his ass, lightly squeezing before he steps beside her.

They work in companionable silence; each tending to handfuls of clean clothes that they drop into a wicker basket that sits on the floor between them. And he glances over at her every few seconds; eyes wandering her entire form; clad in nothing more than one of his old t-shirts, tattered and filled with holes and paint stainss.  Taking in the way her hair falls to just below her shoulders and brushes against the sides of her face; the natural red high lights sparkling under the artificial light.

She catches him watching her and a grin tugs at the corner of her mouth, a slight blush creeping into her cheeks and the tips of her ears. Almost seven years later and she’s still self-conscious about how she looks to him. Always fretting about the shape of her ass or the size of her thighs and how wide her hips have gotten. He sees none of that; he doesn’t notice the extra ten pounds she complains about or the stretch marks she tries desperately to hide. All he sees is the woman that he’d fallen in love. And keeps falling in love with each passing day.  

“Tyler...” she says.

“Esme...”

“Why are you staring at me?”

“I’m not staring. I’m admiring. I’m not allowed to admire my wife?”

“Admiring or critiquing?”

He frowns. “What the hell is there to critique?”

“I’ve had five kids. Things don’t look like they used to,” she laments. “I’m definitely not the same person I was when we met.”

“Neither am I.”

“But you’re only getting better with age. Me? I just get worse.”

“Baby, have you looked in the mirror lately? Because you look fucking amazing. And I know you’re just going to say I’m just being biased or that I’m just trying to boost your ego. But it’s true. Every word. You’re beautiful and you’re sexy and you always will be in my eyes.”

He hates not only what her own battle with depression and the monsters from her past has done to her, but also her disastrous first marriage; Mark’s abusive behavior –physical, emotional, sexual- leaving so much damage in its wake. And it’s been a full-time job in itself getting her to see herself the way he does. It’s his main bone of contention in their marriage: having to listen to her degrade herself and drag herself down when he just wants to worship the ground she walks on.

“Even after five kids?” she challenges.

“Especially after five kids. I don’t know what more I can say. How to get you to see yourself like I see you. I just wish you would.”

“Maybe you need glasses.”

“Maybe you need to stop. I love you. And I think you’re the most beautiful woman in the world. I have since that day you walked into my place. I don’t see what you do.  I don’t see the extra weight you bitch about or the marks on your skin or the how your clothes don’t fit like they used to. All I see is you.”

“You really are determined to make me cry by the end of the night,” she teases, and playfully slaps him in the face with one of Addie’s sleepers.  

She watches the way his hands move as they fold that simple piece of clothing. His hand –from the base of his palm to the tip of his middle digit- longer than the actual sleeper itself; those fingers with their various scars and their swollen and misshapen knuckles never fumbling as they tend to impossibly tiny buttons.  She knows what those hands are capable of; the things that they’d done. The blood he has on them; hundreds of men in Dhaka alone were dead because of those hands. Large and powerful. Frightening, even.  

But she also knows how those hands feel; the callouses on the palm and the even more prominent one on the right index digit; his ‘trigger finger’. She knows they’re capable of inflicting so much more than brutality and death. They can be soothing and gentle; rocking babies to sleep, caring for the kids’ injuries and clearing away their tears, massing her aching back when in the agonizing final stages of childbirth. And she knows how they feel during intimate times; how they can alternate between gentle and rough depending on his mode and what how she wants and needs his touch to be. She’s experienced those delirious heights of pleasure that they’re more than capable of bringing her to.  

She looks away; the mere thought bringing a flush to her cheeks and a familiar warmth that builds between her thighs and in the pit of her stomach.  

“I was always looking at you because I was trying to figure out if you’re wearing underwear or not,” Tyler admits.

“This is not a safe house to walk around in wearing JUST a t-shirt.  Not only do we have all kinds of little people that can show up out of nowhere, but now we have Kyle wandering in and out.”

“How long’s he staying for anyway?”  

“He SAID his vacation was for two weeks.”

“But? There’s a ‘but’ coming. I can feel it.”

“He did say if he liked it here that much, he might not go back.”

Tyler sighs.

“I thought you liked my brother.”

“I do. I just don’t like the baggage he brings with him.”

She smirks. “Nik?”

“We just got rid of her. He sticks around, that means she’s going to come back. And I don’t know about you, but the less of her the better.”

“She does tend to bring the drama with her.”

“Drama, home wrecking, whatever you want to call it.”

“But if we could get him away from her...”

“We are NOT getting involved. We just talked about this. We agreed to stay out of it.”

“No, you agreed to stay out of it,” Esme corrects.  

“And I told you to stay out of it.”

“When do I ever listen to anything you say?”

He smirks.

“We could always kick Chloe out and have Kyle take her place.”

“You mean Ovi could kick Chloe out. Because we’re not doing shit. We are staying out of people's personal crap. Didn’t you hate when people were always in our shit back in Colorado? Your mom, your other brothers...”

“But they’re evil and were always trying to cause problems. We’re trying to avoid a huge problem. If we get Kyle away from Nik, then there’s no more Nik. That way if he stays here, we won’t have to worry about her coming around and sticking her nose where it doesn’t belong. Neither wants you to stick in her...”

“Let’s not start that conversation again.”

“I’m just trying to think of what’s best for my brother. And I know she’s not it.”

“Then you never should have set him up with her in the first place. This is kind of all your fault.”

Frowning, she rolls up the beach towel in her hand and smacks him hard across the ass with it.  

“I’m just saying that we need to stay out of. Let Kyle do what he wants and whatever happens, happens. I just don’t want him living here. We have enough people living under this roof. We don’t need another one.”

“And yet you want another kid,” she scoffs.

“That’s totally different and you know it. That’s a kid. That we’d make together. Kyle’s a grown ass man. Let him be one. Stay out of it. If he wants to marry Nik, let him marry Nik. If he wants to dick down the neighbor, let him dick down the neighbor. Who gives a shit?”

“And if he’s dicking down both?”

“Then good for him. He’s lucky.”

She rolls her eyes.

“He manages to juggle both of them, he’s a fucking legend.”

“You’re going to be juggling both your balls in a second. Is this your sly of way of telling me you want to be dicking down the neighbor?”

“Are you fucking insane? No way in hell.”

“You have to admit, she’s cute.”

“She’s not you. I don’t want to be dicking down anyone else, okay?”

“You know,” she grins. “Sometimes you can really redeem yourself.”

“And even if I did want to, I wouldn’t have the energy to dick anyone else down anyway.”

“I’m not sure if that’s reassuring or...”

“Just you, baby. I only want you.”

She smiles, then lightly bumps his hip with her own.  

“So I never did get a yes or a no.  About the underwear.”

She gives a dramatic sigh and then lifts the bottom of the t-shirt to her waist; giving a slight peek of the elaborate and colorful tattoo that graces her entire left rib cage, and a look at the lacy black garment that sits low on her hips but is cut high on her ass. “Good?”

“Very good. Very, very, very good.”

“You’re getting easy to please in your old age. Pretty soon all it’s going to take is some side boob to get you in the mood.”

He grins. “Who says it doesn’t already?”

“You have been very...what’s the word...amorous...lately.”

“Lately?”

“I mean, you always are. You always HAVE been. Our track record was amazing sex over the past almost seven years is remarkable. But since the doctor gave that green light, you’ve been extra...I don’t know...extra.”

“Do you blame me? I just went four months having to flog the bishop two to three times a day.”

“Flog the bishop,” she can’ t help but laugh. “Baby, you’re so cute.”

“What I am is horny.”

“Yeah,” a grin tugs at her lips.  “I’ve noticed that the last couple of days.”

“No. I mean like right now. This very second.”

“I’m busy.”

“Get unbusy,” he says, and yanks the piece of clothing she’s folding out of her hand and tosses it aside.

“You need to chill,” Esme suggests, and then has the nerve to bent over in front of him as she fetches a wayward sock off the floor; the shirt slipping up to the small of her back.

Just the mere sight of her ass –that smooth, pale skin- causes his cock to stir; the pressure beginning to build in the pit of his stomach.  And he reaches out, running a fingertip along the edge of the lace, feeling the goosebumps that prick her flesh.  Finger slowly travelling over her skin until he reaches her hip; then pressing his palm against it and squeezing tightly.  

“That hurt!” she scolds and reaches around to rub at the tender spot. “What’s gotten into you?”

“It’s what I want to get into you.”

“Okay, well can give you five minutes to get shit done? Patience is a virtue, after all.”

“Screw patience,” he growls, the slams the dryer door closed and places on hand her stomach and the other at the base of her throat, fingers applying slight, yet firm pressure as he presses his erection against her.  His hand slips down the front of her panties; fingertip dragging along the top of her pubic bone, his breath warm and moist as his mouth hovers by next to her ear. “Let’s fuck.”

She opens her mouth to respond, but all words escape her when she feels the tip of his nose and the scratch of his beard against the side of her throat, followed by the sensation of his hot, wet mouth. Lips aggressive and demanding against the skin; teeth lightly grazing along the flesh, fingers pressing harder and deeper into her neck.  His aggression has always been a turn on; starting with that moment he’d pinned her against the wall in the hotel room in Dhaka in a fit of a rage. She’d quickly discovered it was what she liked. What she craved. And she’d initially been ashamed because of it; Mark had caused a tremendous amount of pain and torment during their shit show of a marriage, so she’d felt disappointed and disgusted in herself for wanting sex to be that way with another man. But she’d learned that the two situations were vastly different; one was abuse, the other someone she trusts with her life. Who’d never intentionally do anything to hurt her.

She presses her ass against him; loving the way he groans in her ear. It’s empowering. Knowing you have that kind of effect of someone. When you know all the little things that drives them crazy; those magic spots that can nearly bring them to their knees. And she reaches up to grab a hold of his hair as he kisses her. His tongue aggressively pushing its way into her mouth just as his hand slides lower into her panties, palm cupping her mound; hot and wet against his skin. Giving a low moan of approval at the sensation before his mouth finds the side of her throat once again. Her eyes closing and the grip on his hair tightening as two of his fingers push past the swollen lips, the ends coming in contact with her clit; causing her body to shudder against and her hips to jolt backwards, bringing her ass in contact with his cock yet again.

“Fuck...” he growls. The simple contact even through the fabric of his sweats causing the pressure to build; erection painfully straining against the confines around him. And she cries out when his teeth clamp down on the juncture between neck and shoulders and he slips two fingers inside of her.   “So good...” he breathes, mouth against her neck. “...you feel so good...and you’re so fucking wet.”

“For you,” she says. “Only for you.”

A low and almost feral moan resonates from deep within his chest and removes his hand from inside of her panties. His gaze never wavering from hers as he licks and sucks her fluid from his fingers, the taste sweet and delicious on his lips and his tongue.  

“Tastes so good,” his voice is low. “So fucking good.”

There’s a primal, animalistic look in his eyes; a hunter stalking its prey.   And it makes that aching and longing between her legs almost overwhelming; almost too powerful to bear.  She grinds her ass against him once more; feeling how hard he is through the fabric of his sweats. His breathing quickening and become more ragged as she continues to rub against him, feeling the way his fingers bite into her hips. And she attempts to slip her own hand between her legs to chase some relief, but he roughly grabs her by the wrist, then brings her arm behind her back.

“I don’t fucking think so,” Tyler snarls, and uses the force of his grip and the weight of his body to propel her towards the countertop across the room. A knee pushes her legs apart as he keeps her arm secure behind her back; his other hand roughly yanking her panties off her hips and over her ass, letting them to pool at her ankles. “Take them off,” he orders, and she hurriedly obliges.  

Anyone else in this situation and it would scare her, the intensity in his eyes, the aggression in both his voice and his movements. But the trust is there. It always has been. The confidence that he’d never hurt her; that he’d stop the very second she showed any signs of pain or discomfort.

Tyler tightens his hold on the wrist that’s pinned behind her back and pushes her further into the countertop. His free hand on her shoulder; pushing her upper bod down before hastily shoving down his sweatpants. “Open,” he demands, using a thigh to push apart her legs. And still holding her arm firmly behind her back, the other hand settles on her shoulder as he pushes into her with one smooth, solid thrust that has her crying out, cheek pressed against the cold ceramic beneath her.  

He hesitates; leaning over to press a kiss to the corner of her mouth. “You okay, baby?”

“Mm...hmm...” she responds, and pushes her ass back, encouraging him to continue.

“I don’t want to hurt you.”

“Just fuck me,” she orders. “Now.”

He grins. “You’re demanding.”

“Now!” she forcefully repeats and reaches back to dig her nails into his thigh, hard enough to break the skin.  

He pulls out completely, smirking at the disappointed, pissed off look that crosses her face before slamming back inside of her with brutal force.  It always surprises him; how someone that small and seemingly fragile can take as much as she can. How she’s always so eager and willing to this side of him to come out; aggressive, mean, controlling. Sometimes it even scares him; how quickly he can lose control of both the situation. Afraid that he’ll hurt her and then spent a week hating himself for it.  

But he gives her what she wants. Repeatedly driving into her; that arm still pinned behind her back, the other hand now on the back of her head; spurred on by her pleas for ‘harder’ and ‘faster’. Sweat beading across his forehead and gathering at the nape his neck and the small of his back. Fucking her until she loses the ability to form coherent words and is gasping and sobbing; tears streaming down her face. Hips jerking back towards him, matching every movement.   And he drops the hand from the back of her head and reaches between her legs, fingers easily finding her clit; vigorously and relentlessly rubbing at it until her orgasm hits her. The scream muffled against the countertop and those internal muscles contracting almost painfully around his cock. It quickly brings on his own release; a few deep, controlled thrusts until a deep, low growl rumbles in chest and he empties himself inside of her.

He finally releases the hold on the arm behind her back; both hands now resting on her hips as he closes his eyes and drops his forehead onto her shoulder. Chest heaving and legs sharking as he attempts to regain his composure.

“Tyler...” she reaches around and lays a hand on his thigh, trying to push him back. “...I love you, but you’re really fucking heavy.”

He didn’t realize his entire weight had collapsed against her, and he places a kiss on her cheek and gives an apologetic smile before backing away, withdrawing completely.  Snagging a towel from the laundry basket, he uses it to clean himself up, then gently presses it between her legs. “You alright?”

Esme nods.

“Was I too rough?”

She shakes her head. “You were perfect. But I swear to God if you got that towel out of the clean basket...”

“Sorry,” he gives a sheepish grin, then kisses her softly before tossing the item in question into the nearby sink before pulling his sweatpants back up. “Here,” he locates a pair of pajama pants in the dryer and hands them to her. “I don’t think you’ll want to put that underwear back on. They’re a little...wet.”

“Well if you didn’t have that effect on me, they’d be perfectly fine,” she retorts, and then turns to face him; hands on his chest for balance as he helps her slip into the pants.  “I never thought you’d be the type of guy who’d be into aftercare,” she teases.

“I never was. Until I met you.”

“Look at me. Bringing out all the good sides of you.”

“All the best sides,” he declares, then lays a hand on the back of her head and kisses her. “You sure you’re okay? I think I was a little too into it.”

“I would have told you if you were. You were amazing. Trust me. And thank you,” she stands on her tiptoe to kiss him, her arms wrapping around his neck. “I love you,” she says, as she buries her face in his chest, fingernails lightly scraping against the bottom of his hairline. “So much.”

“I love you too, baby,” he brushes his lips against her temple. “Always.”

****

The second time lasts longer. Slow yet intense love making that follow two rounds of foreplay.  Now they lay in a mix of tangled sheets and sweaty limbs; on their sides with her back tucked into his front, one of his legs draped over hers and their tightly clasped hands pressed against her stomach.  Tyler’s eyes are closed, tip of his nose and his lips pressed against the nape of her neck; happy and sated. Not just from the sex, but from the intimacy afterwards; lying together and feeling the warmth that radiates from her body and the familiar smell that clings to her hair. And she gives a long, content sigh and turns her face to the side, smiling back at him.

“You asleep?” she asks.

“Nope. Just completely and utterly fucked out.”

She laughs at that, and he gives a chuckle of his own and raises his head long enough to kiss the corner of her mouth.

“I love you,” he says, and brushes his nose against her temple.

“I love you too,” she snuggles tighter into him and increases the grip on his hand. “What are you thinking about?”

“Nothing really. Just lying here. Thinking about how happy my dick is right now.”

She snorts.

“Which is very fucking happy, by the way.”

“If he wasn’t, I’d be very insulted.”

“What are you thinking about?” he inquires.

“You probably wouldn’t believe me if I told you.”

He frowns. “As long as it’s not Dhaka. Because if you say Dhaka...”

“It isn’t Dhaka,” she assures him. “As amazing as those five days were...”

“Best five days of my life.”

“...I was NOT thinking about that place. I was thinking about that shack of yours. After Millie brought it up, I started thinking about wanting to go there and see it.”

“It doesn’t look the same anymore. Not after what he’s done do it.”

“You mean it actually has walls and an actual roof now?”

“Listen, smart ass...”

“I don’t care what it looks like. I just want to see it. It’s where everything started. It’s where WE started.”

“Technically WE didn’t start until Bangladesh.”

“But we met there. At the shack. It’s where I first saw you. It would be nice to go and see it. To see Koen again. And bathroom chicken.”

“I don’t think bathroom chicken is there anymore. I think he’s probably made dinner out of her by now.”

“That dick. That’s fucking savage.”

Tyler chuckles and presses his lips to the side of her head. “You eat chicken,” he reminds her.

“I wouldn’t have eaten HER. We could have kept her as a pet. Or considered her our first child.”

“I remember when we were in Dhaka and...”

“Hey!” she jabs him in the stomach with her elbow. “No saying the D word.”

“When we were THERE, I used to think about how we’d make things work. If they went okay between us and we didn’t kill one another while we were travelling. If you’d be happy staying there with me whenever you came to town.”

“Why wouldn’t I have been?”

“It wasn’t exactly five-star accommodations.”

“You were a bachelor. You didn’t care what your place looked like. You were on the job so much it was basically just a place to eat and sleep. And fuck some of your pieces of ass.”

“I never had any pieces of ass there. I didn’t want anyone close to home. In case they got attached and started showing up all the time.”

“What about Nik? I’m sure she visited you there.”

“We only ever fucked when I was on a job and she’d show up at the hotel. Never at my place. I didn’t want her there. I didn’t want ties to anyone, which meant keeping them away from my place.”

“You’re a very complex man, Tyler Rake,” she muses. “But you thought about having me there.”

“Because I wanted you there. I wanted you to be part of my life. If it was a dick and ditch, I would have told you right from day one. When we first fucked.”

“So you wanted to keep me around. Right from the start.”

“More like from the third day in. I was hopeful. That you’d want to stick around.”

“And here I was thinking it was me getting attached way too soon,” she teases, and he smiles against the back of her neck. “I was hopeful too. That there’d be more to it. That we’d travel like we planned and find out if we actually liked each other outside of sex. We never got that chance though.”

“No. We didn’t.”

“Do you regret that?” That it never went according to plan?”

“No.  It’s the butterfly effect, right? Change one thing, everything changes?”

She grins. “When did you become the deep thinker?”

“Not just a pretty face and big muscles, baby. If things had had went the way we planned, there’s a chance that the twins and Declan and Addie wouldn’t even be here. The only for sure one is Millie.  Because I wasted no time knocking you up with her.”

“Your swimmers were very determined,” she concludes. “I wonder what day of the five it happened on. I hope it wasn’t the first day.”

“Why’s that?”

“You want your daughter knowing she was conceived while you were choking me?”

“You want her to know how much you like it?” He counters.

“How about we agree to keep our mouths shut. Because those five days were extremely dirty and what she doesn’t know won’t hurt her. Deal?”

“Deal,” he agrees, and presses his lips to her shoulder; lingering on the lotus flower tattoo that graces her skin.

“I would have been happy there,” she says. “At the shack.”

“Yeah?”

She nods. “I think WE would have been happy.”

“Wouldn’t have been able to raise a family there. Maybe one kid. But not five.”

“We would have had to move once we found out about the twins. Or added onto the place.”

“The outback is not a place to bring up kids. Trust me.”

“I would have liked some time with you there. Even just a little while.”

“Honestly? I would have just liked to fuck you there. At least once.”

She looks over her shoulder at him, frowning.

“What? You have your thing, I have mine. Just ‘cause it sounds weird, doesn’t mean it is. And I’m not gonna lie, I would have done it that first day.”

“Seriously? What about Nik?”

“She could have watched.”

“I don’t fucking think so,” Esme scoffs. “Bad enough she’s seen you naked. I don’t want her seeing me naked. Seeing us...you know.”

He grins. “Fucking?”

“To be crude about it, yes.”

“She could have just waited outside then,” Tyler reasons.

“You wanted to seriously fuck me the first day we met?”

“First day? First ten minutes. Do you blame me? I’m a guy. And you walked in there looking so cute and...”

“Cute? You’re calling me cute?”

“What’s wrong with being called cute? I think you’re very cute.”

“I want to be beautiful and sexy and alluring and...”

“You’re those things too.  But sometimes you look cute. That’s not an insult. You’re tiny and cute and I want to pick you up and put you in my pocket. And you looked cute that day. You had on those little jean shorts and that yellow tank top that had one strap that kept falling down. Your hair was in a ponytail. And you smelled like coconut.”

She rolls over onto her side to face him. “You remember all that?”

“Why wouldn’t I? Like I said, you looked cute. And you walked in there like you owned the place. All fucking attitude. I liked what I saw. You were different. You didn't take shit and you let me know pretty early that you weren’t going to put up with any from me.”

“I knew it. You’re turned on by assertive women.”

“Well I was turned on by YOU. I don’t know about other assertive women. I so would have fucked you. Right there. Right then.”

“I don’t know whether to be flattered, or....”

“Flattered. Definitely flattered.”

“For the record, I would have let you.”

A broad grin covers his face. “Yeah? Why didn’t you say anything?”

“What was I supposed to say? ‘Hey you, nice hair. Let’s fuck’?”

“That would have worked actually. I would have been like ‘let’s go’.”

“Why didn’t YOU say anything? Esme counters.

“I was trying to be a gentleman.”

“You plied me with alcohol.”

“I asked you if you wanted a drink and you said yes. I gave it to you. I didn’t ply you with it. There’s a difference.”

“Well even without the booze, I would have given in. Just so you know.”

“I used to have a thing about wanting to fuck you on the kitchen table,” Tyler admits. “Just bend you over it and just give it to you.”

“You’re dirty.”

“That’s tame compared to some of the things we’ve done. Most of them, actually.”

“You’re such a bad influence,” she declares, then places a hand on the back of his head and kisses him; mouths moving slowly against each other, naked limbs rubbing and brushing together.  And when he pulls away, he brushes the hair away from her face and presses his lips to her forehead, then the bridge of her nose.

“I’m hungry,” Tyler announces.

Eme sighs. “Me too. What are you going to make me?”

“What do you want?”

She shrugs. “Guess we’ll have to see when we get down there.”

“How come I have to be the one to make it?”

“Your daughter said that you were the good cook, so I’ve given it up and handed you the reins,” she chides. “You wanted to try your hand at the domestic life, well there you go.”

“By domestic life, I meant siting on my ass while you do everything.”

“You wish!” she scoffs, and he pecks his life being throwing back the covers and climbing out of bed. “Baby...” she muses, rolling over onto her stomach and propping herself up on her elbows. “You’re sexy. Can I feel your arms?”

“You can feel whatever you want, whenever you want, however much you want.”

“Wherever and whenever?” she enthuses. “That’s dangerous. What if I start feeling you up at the grocery store or when we pick the kids up at school? Make Millie’s teacher extra jealous.”

“Baby, if you want to fuck me in the parking lot at the grocery store, all you have to do is ask.”

‘Kinky,” she giggles, then frowns when he tosses on his t-shirts at her and lands on top of her head. “Are you really going to Port Douglas tomorrow?” she asks, as she sits up and shrugs into the shirt. “To see your dad?”

Tyler nods.

“And you’re taking Millie?”

“She wanted to see him. And asked if he could come to her birthday party. She even made him a special invitation to give him.”

“You think she’ll be okay? I mean, if he’s having an ‘off day’...”

“If he is, we leave. I wouldn’t take her anywhere I didn’t think she could handle. You know that.”

“And what about you?” She climbs out of bed and stands in front of him, hands on his chest. “Think you can handle it?”

“I did the first time,” he points out.

“Did you?” her fingertips trace the scar on the left side of his chest, where the sniper’s bullet had caught him on the Sultana Kamal Bridge.  

He hadn’t even known what hit him; the shot knocking him off his feet, an immediate burning sensation filling his entire chest and blood rising into his throat. He remembers thinking that he had to get up and get cover; that the sniper would be waiting to take the ‘kill shot’. But his legs wouldn’t work; he was nauseous and dizzy and in excruciating pain and all he could do was drag himself across the asphalt while coughing up blood.

“I think so,” he replies. “I didn’t come home and crack open a bottle and pop some Oxy, so I guess I did okay.”

“I know there’s a lot you’re holding back,” Esme says. “From your childhood. That you’re angry and you’re hurt and even though he’s sick, you want him to pay for what he’s done. And I get it, Tyler. You know I do. And you know I support you one hundred percent.”

“But...”

“I just don’t want Millie hearing all of that. If something happens and you snap on him, I don’t want her being there. Because she’s five and she’s a baby still and she doesn’t need to shoulder adult things. It’s bad enough she asked about the time you nearly died.”

“In all fairness, you brought that up the other night and she’s been holding onto it for days.”

“I know. And I feel like shit for doing it. Sometimes I forget she’s listening and that she’s as smart as she is. She’s insanely smart. It’s almost scary how smart she actually is. Which is why I don’t want her there if things go bad between you and your dad.”

“I promise you, if something goes wrong, we just leave. I wouldn’t do anything to hurt her. You know that.”

“I do know that,” Esme agrees. “But I also know what you get like when you go off, Tyler. When you can’t control what you say or what you do. And...”

He silences her with a kiss. “I would never...ever...put our daughter in that situation. You know I wouldn’t.”

She smiles, then stands on her tip toes and circles her arms around his neck. “You’re a good man, Tyler Rake. Whether you think so or not.”

“I think you overestimate me way too much.”

“I think you need to keep your mouth shut,” she counters, then squeals when he pinches her ass hard enough to leave a bruise. “I could take you; you know.”

He smirks. “I’d love to see you try.”

“It’s the little ones you have to watch out for.”

“What are going to do? Bite my ankles?”

“You’re such a dick sometimes, you know that?

“I do. But you love me.”

“Yeah....” she smiles, then tightens the hold around his neck. “...I do.”

[stattic-writes]

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Yoongi had never been a big fan of traveling. He liked his dwelling and the comfort it provided, and he rarely, if ever, saw any reason to leave it.

He had found the little pond he called home almost six years ago, after a rather unfortunate accident involving some now potentially scarred-for-life fishermen in the river he had previously spent his time in. There was a huge, complex cave system that stretched for miles upon miles in every direction underneath his tarn, but he hadn’t explored much more than what was near the main pond’s area. He saw no reason to – what good would it do him? He had everything he could ever need right where he was, and there were little to no humans around. Besides, there wasn’t anything there that he hadn’t already seen.

Or, so he had thought.

One day, he found a rock at the bottom of his pond. Of course, this wasn’t really an unusual occurrence, and there were plenty of rocks around, but this one was different.

It was manmade.

It had been resting just outside the mouth of one of the longest tunnels in the entire cave system, one that frequently had a rather strong current flowing through it into the mire. The rock must have been carried from its source at the other end of the tunnel all the way to Yoongi’s pond – it was definitely small and light enough to have been swept along.

So, despite himself and his inhibitions, Yoongi found himself swimming along said tunnel. It wasn’t that he was curious, of course not. He just wanted to know what was potentially living in the caves with him. Not that he couldn’t handle whoever it was.

There were no other tunnels that broke off of the main channel, which was weird for this particular system. It was also really, really dark. Yoongi trailed his hands along the walls on either side of him as he swam, not only to look for potential branching off, but also to make sure he didn’t run into a sudden curve. It was longer than he expected, despite being aware of just how vast the caves were, and after a long while of swimming he started debating going back.

I’m probably more than halfway by now. If I turn back it’ll be an even longer swim.

Sighing internally, Yoongi kept swimming. The water was slowly warming, indicating either an upward curve bringing him closer to the surface, or an area exposed to direct sunlight. Or that he was in some sort of unnatural structure.

His suspicions were confirmed when he spotted more of the peculiar rock he had found in his pond. Much more of it.

Gradually, pillars took shape around him. The tunnel started to noticeably slant upward, and the dirt around him became mixed with bricks of the same rock. Roots poked out from the cracks in the rock, more and more moss covering the walls the further up he went.

Yoongi spotted sunlight. He was almost entirely vertical now, looking up at what seemed like a surfacing hole, maybe a fourth of the size of his pond. Big enough for a couple people to splash around in, but not nearly large enough for a naiad. Whoever this structure belonged to was a land dweller.

He swam a bit harder, letting his hands fall to his sides from the walls – the rough, unfamiliar brick causing unpleasant tingles on his skin – and finally broke through the surface.

Yoongi shook his hair out, and became aware of the sound of birdsong as he did. He blinked his eyes open, water droplets clinging to his eyelashes, and looked around. He was in some sort of huge…temple? Really? A temple?

What the hell was this doing in the middle of the forest? Yoongi could remember the general area of where the tunnel ran, and it was definitely not near any sort of civilisation. He kicked his legs gently, swimming closer to the edge of the hole and resting his hands on the side. Vines wound around the pillars at the edges of the rooms, colourful birds and reptiles flitting to and fro among the rock and flora.

The roof was somewhat dilapidated, caved in in some areas and totally sunken in others, letting the warm sunlight break through. The hole Yoongi had surfaced in was nothing more than a collapsed area of the floor, the tunnel likely eroded over long periods of time due to the strong current. There was an open archway of a door leading to another area of the temple that Yoongi couldn’t see properly, and a set of huge, wide stairs on the other side of the room. The stairs lead to nothing but what probably used to be a huge stained glass window – there was nothing left of it but bits and pieces of colourful crystal and some ironwork.

“Hello?”

Yoongi nearly jumped out of his skin at the voice, and whipped around to face its owner.

A naga stared back at him.

Yoongi’s mouth gaped. He hadn’t seen a naga in years. No one had seen a naga in years. Like, centuries. And here one was, in an old, ruined temple in the middle of nowhere.

Any words Yoongi could have come up with were stuck somewhere in his throat. Not only was he looking at something that had been believed extinct for centuries, but he had accidentally trespassed on its territory. He had no idea what nagas were capable of, and this one had a direct passage to Yoongi’s home. Shit.

Finally, he opened his mouth to say something, but the naga beat him to it.

“Dae…hyun…?”

Yoongi blinked, mouth still open. Daehyun? Who the fuck is that? Before he could correct the naga, it had excitedly slithered all the way across the room in a couple seconds flat, only a foot away from Yoongi’s face now.

“It’s you!” the naga exclaimed, smiling so wide it hurt Yoongi’s cheeks just to look at it. “I knew you weren’t dead, not really! You had to go into hiding or something, right? So they wouldn’t find you again? Or-” the naga gasped, and his voice dropped. “Were you injured? Do you still need help? Did it really take all this time to heal?” The naga’s hands were shifting nervously from the jewelry around its neck to hovering around Yoongi’s shoulders and face and back again.

Yoongi swam a few inches back, his shoulders tensing and drawing up to his ears. The naga’s hands dropped.

“Uh…I don’t know who this Daehyun person is, but it sure as fuck isn’t me,” he said, unable to help the hint of condescension dripping from his words. The naga flinched. “I live in the tunnels connected to this hole, and I wandered a bit too far, that’s it. I’m not even from around here. So, no need to get so worked up over nothing.” The naga’s whole body seemed to slump. Its huge tail shifted and coiled, and then it was backing away. Yoongi wasn’t sure if it was his imagination or not, but the entire room seemed different – almost like the very atmosphere had dropped with the naga’s mood. He stayed relatively far away, unsure if he should just leave or not.

“…Sorry,” the naga mumbled, just loud enough that Yoongi could hear it. “I mistook you for…someone else.” A glance was shot at Yoongi over the naga’s shoulder, something dwelling in those brilliantly blue eyes that he couldn’t quite decipher. “Didn’t mean to freak you out.”

Yoongi forced his muscles to relax, but stayed where he was.

“It’s…fine. I wasn’t expecting to find someone over here.” Even as he spoke, Yoongi frowned. Who was this Daehyun? Did he really look that similar to someone else? Someone that had clearly lived in this area? Someone who knew a naga? “Uh, if you don’t mind me asking…”

The naga looked at him again, more fully this time.

“Who is Daehyun? How am I…so similar to them?” Yoongi wasn’t sure what boundary he was overstepping by asking this, if he even was.

The naga turned away almost immediately.

“That’s none of your business.” Yoongi’s lips parted. The naga’s tone was drastically different from just a couple minutes ago. What had been warm and inviting was now cold and shuttered. Even so, he wasn’t deterred.

“Well, I’d say it is, if I resemble them so much you immediately mistook us.”

“It isn’t!” the naga snapped, turning sharply back around to face Yoongi, its lips pulled back in a snarl. “That’s not for you to decide, naiad! Now get out of my house!” The utter anger on the naga’s face was unsuitable, Yoongi thought.

“Can you at least just-”

“Get! Out!”

The naga’s huge tail lashed out like lightning at Yoongi.

Acting entirely on instinct, Yoongi ducked below the water. There was a crack and a giant splash from the impact of the naga’s tail on the surface, the ripples of the contact shuddering over Yoongi’s skin. He waited, quietly, but didn’t hear anything else. Figuring it would be better to stay away from whatever nerve he had just hit – and perhaps this naga altogether – Yoongi turned himself around and swam back down the tunnel to his pond.

----

Yoongi couldn’t stop thinking about the naga. He had never been one for feeling bad or guilty about speaking his mind, and he hadn’t expected his chance encounter the other day to be an exception. He had struck a nerve with a total stranger – not hard to do – but had fled before the situation could have gotten any worse. And, really, he figured, it was mostly the naga’s fault for getting up in Yoongi’s face like that.

I shouldn’t have reacted like that, though.

Yoongi scowled at his own thoughts and slouched a bit more in the water, his mouth dipping below the surface.

I hate this.

He had to apologize, right? Even if it wasn’t totally his fault, it was still sort of because of him. And he just really, really couldn’t stop thinking about the naga.

Fuck it.

Without giving himself time to second-guess himself, Yoongi dove down into his pond and beelined for the tunnel that lead to the naga’s temple. It was just as long of a swim as he remembered, but this time he was accompanied by self-loathing and a nagging voice somewhere in the back of his head telling him he had really fucked up this time. What other explanation was there for this awful feeling of guilt, after all?

When he surfaced in the naga’s temple, the creature itself was nowhere to be seen. The big, ornate room looked much the same as before, if a bit darker. Yoongi swam to the edge of the little hole and propped himself up on the broken stones. He leaned forward, craning his neck to try and see into the other room, but the doorway was situated at too odd of an angle for him to get a good look into. He grunted and settled back again, looking around.

“Can I help you?”

This time, Yoongi was more prepared for the sudden voice. He turned around, and found the naga in the same spot as last time, eyeing him warily. Yoongi didn’t blame it, really, with the way he had acted. He was frankly surprised he wasn’t being kicked out immediately.

“Uh.” He stared for a second, unused to having to apologize for his actions. “I just…wanted to come back to say sorry. Uh, for the way I acted. The other day. It was stupid. I was…stupid.” He let out a breath with those last words, hating the way that whole apology came out. “I shouldn’t have pried about something that wasn’t my business. So. Yeah. Sorry.” Yoongi stared down at the water, unable to look the naga in the eyes. Not out of embarrassment, necessarily, but frustration.

Why doesn’t anything I say ever come out right? That sounded so dumb. Why couldn’t I just have apologized normally and gone on my way-

“It’s okay.”

Yoongi looked up sharply at the naga’s voice. It was smiling gently at him, the look reassuring and calm despite the horns curling around its head and the shocking blue of its eyes.

Wait. Why am I paying so much attention to what it looks like? No one has seen one of these for centuries and I’m worried about its eyes? Seriously?

“I shouldn’t have reacted the way I did either, you were just asking a question,” the naga continued, slithering closer. The temple almost seemed to move along with it, breathing and shifting in sync. Yoongi watched carefully, for some reason. “So, I’m sorry too.” It settled on the ground close to Yoongi, the very tip of its huge tail dipping into the water, as if checking the temperature.

“What’s your name?” The question was out before Yoongi could even register thinking it. He mentally smacked himself. The naga looked vaguely surprised, but not shocked.

“Jimin,” it said softly. “I’m the God of Love.”

“Oh.”

Oh? That’s all you have to say? You finally know why you can’t stop thinking about him – he’s the God of fucking Love of all things – and all you can say is oh?

Jimin’s smile widened a bit at Yoongi’s bluescreening.

“Don’t worry, I get that all the time. ‘Why are you locked up in the middle of nowhere if you’re a God? Why haven’t I heard of you, or seen you?’” He shook his head, the jewellery around his neck jingling gently with his movements. “It’s a long story, if you were wondering as well.”

Yoongi tilted his head at the naga, observing him carefully for a minute.

“If that’s what makes you happy, I don’t think I have the right to say anything about it at all, let alone question it,” he said finally. He definitely wasn’t about to judge how someone else lived after all the shit he’d gotten for his own solitary ways. Jimin seemed to perk up at his words. The whole temple brightened, subtly.

“You remind me of someone I used to know,” the naga said, and Yoongi wasn’t sure if the fond warmth in his voice was his own imagination or not. “That sounds exactly like something he would say.” Yoongi shifted a bit uncomfortably under the naga’s gaze, unsure if this was meant to be a compliment or not. “Don’t worry,” Jimin added, shifting his eyes away and up past the broken ceiling of his temple, to the blue sky above, “that’s a good thing. He meant a lot to me.”

They lapsed into silence for a few moments, but it wasn’t the awkward sort of quiet that Yoongi was used to. It was more comfortable, familiar.

Weird.

“My name is Yoongi. I already said this, but I live in a pond attached to this tunnel,” he said, gesturing down to the water he was still treading. Jimin looked at him closely, as if considering something.

“You should come visit me more often, then, Yoongi,” he finally said. Something about his tone was final, and Yoongi thought with a bit of amusement that this was more of a command than a request. Not that he minded, the naga was proving to be good company so far.

Yoongi smiled.

“I think I will.”

[douxreviews]

Gotham - ‘Ruin’ Review

Zsasz: "I did not make that building go boom Jim!"

After two sufficient episodes, and one jerry-built episode, 'Ruin' delivers easily the best chapter so far of Season 5's no man's land arc, jam-packing all of Gotham's best qualities on the front lines.

Last week, an unknown assailant bombed Haven, the refuge taken over by the GCPD to protect the civilians still trapped within the city. Gordon has no suspect at the moment, but an act as broad as this means it could really be anybody. And very understandably, Gordon's redundant speeches are not enough this time to quell the survivors' fear and rage. But at long last, Season 5 continues to give me glimpses of a more valiant and sympathetic side to Gordon as he struggles to keep the morale of his fellow officers intact, and works urgently to protect as many individuals as he can in the immediate wake of Haven's bombing.

Though 'Ruin' is still split into two separate subplots like previous episodes, the narrative of 'Ruin' has a more orderly flow to it, simply because Gotham is taking advantage of one of its most prominent gifts - its cast. Rather than having each character more allocated to their individual stories (or even worse a crime, just not having them show up at all), they are all in some way or another either involved in the search for the Haven bomber, or they're involved in the continuing pursuit of Jeremiah Valeska. Characters that have felt neglected lately, such as Nygma, Lucius, Alfred and Jeremiah, now all get at least one opportunity to be dubbed 'scene-stealer' in 'Ruin'.

Because he lost men in the bombing too, Oswald proposes a truce with Gordon so that they may combine resources and bring the bomber to justice. Since the premiere of Season 5, I've felt that Oswald should have started off this year from the get-go working alongside the GCPD. And the reason for that is because Season 4 made it a point to establish that Oswald, by comparison to other rouges, possesses a more sane and logical approach to his criminal activity. Oswald simply needs order and structure to run a prosperous criminal empire. The chaotic antics orchestrated by the Valeska brothers in Season 4 that upset the established order of Gotham's municipal formation goes very much against Oswald's rule of thumb, which was why he was so quick to turn on Jerome too. But since this alliance was likely an inevitably anyway, it's a mere nitpick for me. (That being said, it was a really dumb move for Oswald to give away his and the GCPD's position through a bullhorn when they were pursuing their suspect. Even Tony Stark, the guy who gave his home address out in a video threat to a terrorist, would see that and shake his head in stupefaction.)

Oswald and the GCPD follow up on a tip given by Barbara which leads them to none other than Victor Zsasz. Of all the characters that could flourish in no man's land, I've been especially curious this season to see the shenanigans of the gunslinger Zsasz. Anthony Carrigan's comedic take on Zsasz, reinterpreting the character more as a fusion between Deadpool and the Man with No Name, has made him one of the series' best guest-appearance characters. That being said, after Season 3 and his consistent failures to assassinate Gordon per Carmine Falcone's decree despite talking up a storm about how no one ever sees him coming, I can't say I buy Zsasz's gloating in the precinct when he assures Gordon and Bullock he didn't bomb Haven; Zsasz's reasoning is that if it was him, there'd be no survivors. I'm sure a shopping cart with one bad wheel is more fruitful than Zsasz with a firearm.

Oswald remains vengeful towards Zsasz for selling him out to Sofia Falcone last year and believes that Zsasz's denial means nothing, and that the blatherskite should be executed, a decision that is met with unanimous approval from Haven's survivors in the style of a kangaroo court (one reminiscent of Scarecrow's own hearings from The Dark Knight Rises). I always appreciate these tiny callbacks like Oswald still bitter towards Zsasz, or a desecrated 'Make Gotham Safe Again' campaign poster from Season 3 appearing in the streets, because it keeps each season from feeling disjointed from the others, and given how many writers Gotham has had staffed over the years, that feature comes up time and again. But because one does not simply kill Victor Zsasz, Gordon decides the 'innocent until proven guilty' doctrine still needs to be upheld, and frees Zsasz. Whether it's to repay the favor, or maybe because he realizes Gordon is essential to Gotham's rebuilding, Zsasz chooses afterwards to not kill off Gordon either. Because Zsasz routinely comes and goes throughout the series, this may be the very last we see of him, and so I felt it was a nice way for him and Gordon to part there - both have come quite a ways since the days of Season 1 where Zsasz was always aiming something lethal at Gordon's head.

Meanwhile, Ed Nygma continues meager efforts to understand the nature of his blackouts. For weeks, I had given up wondering if Gotham was going to give us any hints at all about Nygma's arc this season, and instead decided that maybe his story was appropriately meant to be a riddle itself. We finally get some answers to Nygma in 'Ruin' that completely revolutionize the way we'll look at all of Season 5. In his quest to follow up on a clue he had left himself, Nygma is bargained with by Lucius Fox to help him and the GCPD understand the nature of Haven's bombing. Nygma agrees, and before long, the two concur that the assailant used a rocket launcher from the outside to ignite the initial explosion within Haven. We haven't seen Fox and Nygma interact with each other since Season 3's 'How The Riddler Got His Name', and I very much enjoy their energy and possibly even dormant affinity for each other. I suspect that in another timeline where Nygma never went down a path of crime and corruption, he and Fox would have probably worked well alongside each other within the GCPD.

Also contrary to what I thought might have been Nygma's shtick this season, he actually doesn't play up the 'I've-lost-my-marbles' mindset at all this episode, instead returning to the traits of egoism and lacing riddles throughout his speech, a pleasant blend almost between the old Ed and Riddler. Following his and Fox's teamup, Nygma examines the rooftop Haven's bomber must have fired from, and notices an old lady watching him from her apartment across the street. From her, Nygma is horrified to learn that he himself is Haven's bomber (and most likely the one who also fired upon the Wayne Enterprises chopper back in the season premiere). Why Nygma is routinely shifting between alternate consciousnesses we don't know yet, but I would definitely chalk this twist up to one of Gotham's best. If not for Season 5 preparing to introduce Bane, as well as keeping Jeremiah Valeska in the spotlight, I would raise my hopes much higher for the possibility that Riddler in fact is Season 5's main antagonist. It would keep in line with the showrunners' claim that the 'Zero Year' comic inspires much of Season 5, and I personally feel we haven't really seen Riddler yet as a force to be reckoned with, at least not since the end of Season 3.

The other subplot of 'Ruin' is Bruce and Alfred pursuing Selina, simply because Bruce believes if she kills Jeremiah, it may change her for the worse. It's another amusing detail for me that this is where Bruce draws the line in regards to Selina's internal metamorphoses, yet had no problem giving her a plant with atrocious side effects Ivy advertised quite clearly. Though Bruce and Alfred both get past goons working for Jeremiah, in a manner much like how Batman will ambush his foes in the future, they are too late to stop Selina from fatally stabbing Jeremiah. Or so it would seem.

This was the most irking feature of 'Ruin' for me, and it's not even a fault of the episode - it's a fault of the marketing. Early trailers and promos for Season 5 have clearly shown additional footage of Jeremiah that we haven't gotten to yet in this season, so I don't know why Gotham suddenly thinks they can pull the wool over our eyes, and try to convince us Jeremiah is as deceased as a girlfriend of Spider-Man's who took too hard a fall off the George Washington Bridge. Personally, my money is on Clayface actually being the one Selina made quick work of. He's been absent from the series since Season 3 as well, and would also be a welcome character to see return to the final season.

Right now, I'm still skeptical if the series can follow-up with an episode that lives up to the momentum that was 'Ruin', but I don't say that as if it's a difficult thing for Gotham to accomplish. You have an incredibly talented cast and array of characters that you understand in and out Gotham - savor that while you still can, because it's a fortunate feature for any show to have.

Other Thoughts:

• Gordon tackling Zsasz head-on is a pretty amusing visual, but also another quick and snappy showcase of his increasingly appealing valor.

• Will we ever get to hear Jeremiah laugh? We all know Cameron Monaghan is very capable of the deed, it's a talent that needs to be made the most out of. It'd be like a movie casting James Spader for a role that doesn't require him to talk - indefensible!

• 'Ruin' ends with a sudden cliffhanger showing renewed romantic interest between Gordon and Barbara. Not sure why these two suddenly have the hots for each other again, but with the revelation that Barbara will have some major news for Gordon in one of the oncoming episodes, I guess it's fair that the show needed to pave the road to Barbara Gordon/Batgirl somehow. I don't quite think showing a stork deliver her to Gordon's doorstep in a basket is going to cut it for viewers.

Aaron Studer loves spending his time reading, writing and defending the existence of cryptids because they can’t do it themselves.

[vitavitale]

drabble IV  —  Nightmare (At His Core)

It took me over a year to write about V’s encounter with Nightmare and I will genuinely not understand why. In any case, I’ve finally gotten around to it. Remember that this is all headcanon-based since my V isn’t, you know, canon. Except in my heart. Beware of 13,038 words, whew. I tagged it as “coming of age” because that’s how I interpret this event even if it may not play out that way. For easier reading, find this on AO3.

Trial after trial, failure after failure were not sufficient deterrents to a man driven by a greed that was unbecoming of him. He had never been so fixated, so stubbornly determined, so mad while he dedicated almost all of his time to the study and practice of necromancy. To resurrect life from death was a risk, and a business few had the guts or the aptitude for. This was a craft better left untouched, but he trifled with tests and from each failure he learned, improved, and tried again. The cycle continued for many nights; between jobs he would make the time for study, and of time he had plenty to dedicate to his obsession. A desire for strength was born in him from his apparent lack thereof. To have tasted power, however, in the aid of his familiars was almost like poison to the mind, for he had seen within his new means a potential for invulnerability. The illusion of becoming untouchable, undaunted, and subsequently intimidating and dangerous was too powerful for him to dismiss. Rather, he indulged in fantasy. Griffon and Shadow protected him as they attacked for him, and while he loathed his reliance on others he saw the opportunities such help would yield for him, and he saw value in becoming as threatening to others as others had been to him. There was something like revenge in his fixation on power.

It was not only his familiars he'd gained from, but he had conjured demons in the space of a couple of years from whom he would make further gains, draining their diabolical energies to amplify his own. Rite after rite he performed, drawing a demon to the mortal plane only to take from it before returning it to its Hell—or to slay it entirely. This really did appear to work, and every success tainted his expectations for himself. He saw his potential grow, day by day, until an idea was born—and this, he thought, would be the thing to make him more frightening than any demon alive in Red Grave City. This he sought not out of malice, but for self-esteem. Pride, worth, a need to be useful and effective when he believed himself useless and weak.

Perhaps Griffon had been at fault for the decision his master made. Indeed, it was from Griffon's mouth that V had learned of the demons dwelling in the underworld, those that lived and even those that had died. Among the deceased was one so destructive, so terrifying that even its name told of the menace it posed: Nightmare. Once in service to a devil of an emperor, the beast was slain by a man with only half the blood of demons in him. But it was this creature that haunted the warlock's mind for many a night, so it might have been only inevitable that the idea was spawned to return to it life, to conjure it for his own, and to his body bind it as he did Shadow and Griffon. V was only a child when he first heard of Nightmare, and then took only superficial interest in it. Years down the road brought it back to memory, for better or worse, and it was at the age of one-and-twenty that he'd decided to resurrect the demon. Necromancy was necessary for this, a skill not known yet enthusiastically learned while upon the idea the young man brewed.

So it was many nights, many tries and many failures later when it seemed a breakthrough was at hand.

Neither Griffon nor Shadow held very much esteem for their master's plan. His descent into obsession concerned them, but it was his decision to conjure so formidable a demon that worried them above all. While V may not have noticed, his familiars certainly had: the forces with which he surrounded himself had been detrimental to his body. He was far more human than anything, and his human body could only take so much that was well beyond its capabilities. Forces of a supernatural nature were hard on any human's body and mind, but V had gone a step further with his exposure to them. He would have more than enough on him, only now he sought to add too much to the load all too quickly. He was already frail of health, but he saw fit to weaken his bones and muscles as well. He had begun tiring as of late, and he tended to chalk it up to overwork, sleeplessness, and an almost nonexistent diet. But his demons knew better, and ultimately so did he. Or, at the very least, he had a hunch—one he didn't heed. That was his first mistake, but V insisted on making another. Griffon let him know as much, arguing that V had no need to take pointless risks, but men like him were not easily swayed. There was some kind of art to stubbornness like his.

Oh, but to be so young and foolhardy! The boy knew so little of the world, yet he'd known that it was rife with all manner of peril. Two familiars were not enough. He would head out into the desolate country under the cover of night to practice his black craft. A sigil was drawn up for the purpose of conjuring, a symbol of the demon he hoped to bring forth. Night after night, he tried. Tried and failed. But a step he'd been missing for weeks became clear to him. Infernal or otherwise, the soul was intangible. Its body had been destroyed completely, and V would not have been content to conjure a ghost. With magics old and new would he craft a body, and it would be with or without his demons' help that he would conceive of a form he hoped the soul, if in existence at all, would inhabit. Born in the mind's eye, but taken form in the flesh. V would resurrect the demon he sought, believing firmly in strength of will and the blending of techniques.

“I think I have it,” he said when he had his next epiphany. He was all enthusiasm, eager in the eyes, jotting instructions down in a notepad in an effort to preserve what he'd learned before memory would lose it. These would be looked over and memorized. It was late into the night, and he had the audacity to wake his slumbering familiars for the news. “I've finally figured out how to reconstruct the body!”

Griffon awoke with a start, though held on to his perch on the sofa's backrest. “Huh? What?” Barely gotten his eyes open and already V strode to his side, pad in hands, noticeably excited given the tone of his voice. “The what now...?”

“Nightmare's body, for its soul.” It'd been all V would talk about the past several days. It surprised him that Griffon had forgotten so readily, but that was like him. V had left the lights on through the night for his work, and the yellow glow to the sitting room was bothersome enough for his drowsy familiar. Nevertheless, the warlock would pester him to open his eyes. “I've been going about it the wrong way, but I think I now know what I must do.” His eyes fell upon the page he'd scribbled on. “I have to create it, shape it, with my hands. You know how Jewish folklore tells of mystics imbuing golems with life? Think of it that way, only I'd be...borrowing that part of the process. Then...I should channel the soul to the new vessel during a rite of resurrection. If I'm right, the demon should accept it.”

“Never heard of that part before,” the demon mumbled.

“I'll be improvising.”

“Oh, so that's your big discovery? That you've gotta make it up as you go?” Griffon was being sarcastic with him, likely because he was chafed that he'd been woken up for no good reason.

“I'm at least one step closer.” V was resolute when he countered, frowning his disapproval at the demon who'd appeared to think so little of V's ambition. “You could be a little optimistic.”

“I don't see why I've gotta go along with this utter fuckery. You're only hurting yourself.”

V didn't want to hear that. It was fortunate that he'd stepped beside Shadow, who was not dead to them but ignored their discussion while she rested on the floor, with his back to Griffon by the time the criticism was delivered. He would not acknowledge it, not even Griffon, and it was to his detriment that he kept silent. Though he did not agree, he also did not argue, and that must have been the plainest evidence of his conscience weighing more heavily than he'd let on. But he did think of something to say, and with it stepped into his own bedroom after turning off the lights. “Good night.”

V would sleep as peacefully as his subconscious allowed, for the few hours that were left of the night. But the sun was set to rise before long, and soon he would resume his practice until night again would fall.

He'd fallen asleep fast, curled on his side as was his habit. His study had exhausted him, both physically and mentally, but that didn't stop memories from reshaping themselves, painting themselves in fresh colors, and stitching together pictures that the sleeper had no desire to see. Still, they would appear to his mind's eye and wrench his heart from its boney confinement and wring it dry. There suddenly was the face of a demon with rows of pointed teeth, a short, stout abomination snapping mad like a rabid piranha. He fled from it, the white of his hair blurring his vision as he scrambled from its wrath. He saw a broom closet, hid in it and held on to the door knob for dear life. In his panic he could not grip it firmly, and his soul quaked from the snarling and the thrashing and the clawing against the door. His whimpering barred any screams for help, but all the same he heard his mother's voice outside. A great dread sickened him but fear left him petrified. He could not understand her. The door was left alone, he heard part of his name called and the sounds of flesh tearing and a thud on the floor—and he awoke with so violent a start that his heart raced, he cried out when he shot right up, and he caught the first light of the morn peeking through his window. His chest heaved with every labored breath, and he felt his eyes wet with sorrow. Just like it'd been the first time, like it was new, like he didn't see it coming.

But with the memory he was intimately acquainted, frequently re-introduced to it, and was fast to realize that it was yet again a dream. One of several nightmares.

A nightmare.

It almost seemed a calling at this point, to obsess over a demon so appropriately named. V hated to cry, but here his psyche took advantage of his helplessness to draw the tears forth. He wiped them away, sniffled through a stuffed nose, and sat silently as sleep was as good as forgotten. No use in trying again; he preferred to set to work, do whatever he could to forget that which haunted him for seven years going. But loneliness was not his safe harbor now, for a shadow had crept into his room to observe. To find that he had suffered no physical harm, the demon took form and joined his side on the bed. Like a cat she purred her concern, her inquiry and her comfort. V was not surprised to see her, he knew this was her way. Like a pitiful child he pouted and shed his tears, looking at her with some reassurance behind a curtain of grief. Guilt was too strong for so wretched a youth, and here he was sick with it. Seven years was virtually the same as seven months. With Shadow offering her comfort like a parent, V could not help but appreciate her—and feed his misery with memories of feelings he'd had once before, before even the seven years. It was a double-edged blade but, all the same, he ran his fingers through her crown to comfort her in turn. He whimpered, “I'm fine,” sniffling still. And she knew he would be: she'd seen this too often to assume different.

V would get up after all and give himself a good wash. He didn't care for breakfast but forced himself to eat a single slice of toasted bread. Over his routine, thought of his nightmare and his mistakes diminished, and while they remained present, they'd at least lost enough intensity to allow him to get on with his work. He could think about his goal, his rite, his approach to it all and how he'd shape the demon's vessel. By noon, he was all but absorbed in his crafting of the thing. A very simple shape was drawn among his notes, which would serve as the foundation for the model he sought to shape from earth. So, he would go outside, look for mud or deliberately make it, and wear down his haunches as he crouched from his secret labor. No devil-hunting or charm-making today. As desperately as he needed income, he seemed to need a new familiar even more. But he was wise to hide himself from his neighbors and had gone a distance to where no man should eye him and peg him as an unstable eccentric. V did very well wear the look of a youth who was touched, his hands deep in wet soil and incidentally rubbing some on his face whenever he had an itch to scratch.

Now, it didn't take long to make mud. To craft from it, however, was the tricky bit. V had never played in the stuff before, he'd never known what it was like. He thought he hated it the moment his hands mixed water with soil; the sensation was cause for repulsion. He should have brought a pair of gloves with him... Alas, he wasn't the sort to think things through, though that didn't stop him from pushing on. He was quick to learn how much water to use for the softness of soil he required. Once he'd gotten the hang of it, he knelt on the grass to alleviate the aches in his joints, more or less settling to mold the form that would be his golem.

Griffon had peeled from his master's body to observe him, sat almost right beside him beneath the canopy of a thin tree. If he had any criticisms or advice, V would largely ignore them. The frown on his brow was hard and it drew clear shadows beneath the deeper wrinkles on a face too youthful for any grimace. V didn't need his notes to begin forming the soil; he'd had the image clear and ever present in his mind's eye, and guided by little else but that and his drive he pressed and pinched and rolled chunks of dampened soil, and dunked his hands into the pond he'd knelt beside to wet the earth even more. He needed it all to stick, and if it wouldn't then he'd spend the entire day, possibly even night, out on the desolate field. Fortunate that the week had been so rainy, but if showers should fall in the middle of his work he would be foiled. But, weather notwithstanding, he'd gotten his pieces to stick. Very nearly mud, the consistency, while solid enough to hold form. V's fingers would easily become difficult, caking in dirt as long as he'd work over the forming vessel. Bits would come off and others would stick where they shouldn't, and V had constantly to dip his hands in the water.

“V, why the hell are you going to all this trouble?” Griffon watched him toil away, unimpressed by the boy's wasted effort. He couldn't approve of the way that warlock was tiring himself out, testing the limits of his own patience, and running headlong toward ruin. Because that was all the good Griffon saw coming out of this wild goose chase: a pained, miserable, defeated V.

The young man on his knees saw different. He spared Griffon a sharp glance to communicate his feelings. However, when his eyes settled upon the amorphous lump in his hands, he felt his confidence shaken. He stood to relax his legs, staring at the unfinished vessel that was crumbling in places, losing form beneath the pressure of his fingers in others; and though his snowy-white hair fell to conceal one half of his face, he felt Griffon's several eyes on him anyway. He knew what that bird was thinking. Still, he stepped back and took a seat very near the trunk of the tree to shade himself beneath its leaves. Against it would his back rest as over the muddy object his eyes would rake. It was half formed, the top molded more completely than the bottom; legs were harder to build than he thought, and the arms...were not quite separate from the body yet. Frustration suddenly dawned on him as he realized this may well go nowhere. But he'd lost hope so fast, after only a few minutes at work.

He had one deep frown come upon his countenance before getting up from the grass. “This is stupid,” he relented at last, exhaling irritably as he stepped toward the pond to set aside his craft and rinse off his hands. Griffon must have believed he'd finally gotten through, because he'd begun assuaging V's concerns with useless, likely hollow words of solace. V was perhaps cruel to ignore him, but something like the devil was in him and he knew that, one way or another, he had to have the one called Nightmare.

With his hands soaked and as clean as he could get them, he shook the excess water away to grab the shapeless figure of dirt—but not before he stilled where he stood, examining the thing and thinking a little more about it. While his hands dripped, Griffon watched him, blinking his golden irises at the perplexity of man.

“Uh, V? You're awfully quiet.”

He was thinking.

“Don't tell me you're mad.”

Mad? Funny. He'd certainly felt mad, at times, and he supposed he was. A madman. But even a mind gone beyond earthly bounds had its plans to complete and successes to achieve. V was not finished here, not by any stretch. When gray began to creep beneath the sun to steal away the blue of the sky, he knew his dirt doll would turn to pure mud. He'd have no use for it if it could not keep its shape. Time was, however, still his to act upon, the heavens clear and peaceful, affording him the chance to make refinements. His own impatience would not best him. To be so young and pressed for time—an oxymoron in the flesh.

“V, come on, you're gonna get soaked out here. That lump of dirt ain't worth it. You don't even really know what you're doing.”

The warlock had picked it up after all. “I think,” he answered while rounding out the form, “it's worse if I don't try. If I fail, it should be because...this simply isn't the way. I...don't want to have put in so little and that be the reason for failure.”

“Why don't you not look for this demon? There are about a zillion others—”

“That,” he snapped to cut off his friend, “is not an option.” At least, not for now. V frowned at Griffon, but any inkling of anger was a hollow one. The boy was determined, not angry, and he'd made that plain with a wistful sort of tone and some distant, far-off pain in his eyes. Griffon had no further argument. The pair descended into silence; but nature would not leave well alone. More gray crawled overhead, eventually ushering in the first droplets of another summer shower. When they tapped on V's nape and sent a chill through his paper-thin body, he shivered instantly. The decision to retreat had come and Griffon was returned to the warlock's skin. With his prize, however misshapen and incomplete, in his hands he abandoned the little pond to hasten home. Maybe to build there.

It was only a drizzle that speckled his clothes and hair on his walk back. But upon returning to the sanctuary of his flat, a proper shower broke that kept him homebound. He had mud on his face, on the ends of his hair, stuck to the soles of his shoes, and entirely in his hands. With his familiars retiring to the small living space, V set about a thorough cleansing of his person. Before he'd known it, he spent his day at home when he should have been out in the field; but the day was gray, even with the rain having cleared, and it matched his mood. Somber, morose. He'd gotten a dish on which to place his vessel and stored it in the refrigerator to keep fresh. Meanwhile, his bedroom was where he isolated himself, well cut off from the raptor and the jaguar lazing the afternoon away. He supposed they could afford it: what else had they to do? They could be so much like pets, obligated to nothing and owing no one.

The grimoire had been opened to the last page, where the original content of the book ended and his own notes began. Several sheets and scraps of paper, that's all they were; but on each were written spells, instructions, all manner of information he would have needed on call. Among these were his latest notes, the ones on Nightmare, on necromancy, and on golems. It should have made sense, yet here was his brain revolving around things anyway. With the book laid out before him, his legs folded on the bed and his knuckles to his cheek, he thought about failure. He thought about what it would mean, since his vessel was shit, and he'd never conjured life from death, if he couldn't claim the demon he sought. It wasn't only a matter of principle—he could get over botching a rite. It had more to do with what it would entail, the fact that he'd have dashed his hopes for acquiring the power he believed he needed: the power to protect himself, to turn the tables and prove that he was not all prey but predator, too. He was easily intimidated, easy pickings, and he loathed that with a bitter passion. It was why he needed another demon. He needed the strength, he needed the confidence, even if it came from beyond himself, but he needed it. And he loathed also to be as needy as this. He loathed his weakness, his appearance to others and how he was regularly perceived by them. If he wasn't a freak for his white hair, he was effeminate for his body, childlike for his behavior, stupid—

Weak to demons. But...if he had a familiar like Nightmare, he didn't have to be any of those things anymore. Didn't he? Quarry and foe alike could no more undervalue him or judge him a creature too meek to take them on, or to take from them: because one of their own made of seemingly unstoppable force, a weapon of mass destruction itself, would be doubtlessly perceived by them; and, if necessary, would annihilate them. According to what V had heard, Nightmare was beyond any lesser demon he'd known of. Incomparable to even Griffon and Shadow, combined.

How he would ever subdue and tame such a beast was rightly beyond his imagining. The boy had gall to think that he could dare at all. Or maybe it was that he didn't think.

He still didn't, even poring over his notes and mentally constructing the outcomes on his bed, he didn't think far enough ahead. But if he did, he would only shake himself up at the size of the task, and he didn't need that. He had to enter the rite undaunted, possessed by conviction, and wrench the demon from its lifelessness with that same vigor he'd conjured Griffon and Shadow. So he mulled over other things, and briefly considered going out tonight if the weather permitted. Frankly, he wanted to. To delay was pointless. Ready or not, his vessel was finished—and so was he. To live this kind of life, in the kind of shape he was in, was not something he'd been looking forward to for however many years remained for him. Even if he would die by the conjured colossus' retaliation upon resurrection, he would at least go out in a way that would not leave him feeling unfulfilled. If lightning was to strike him squarely, in a month, it wouldn't happen until he'd had Nightmare spread across his body. It may have been more a matter of life and death than even the warlock realized. Regardless of the circumstances or the consequences, V was a man of a settled mind. Sitting as idly as he did, boring himself over the information that'd become monotonous to read so repeatedly—well, he supposed he'd made up his mind at some point.

Grays and yellows colored the sky when V bothered to peek out the window of his sitting room. He'd had a whole two of them, one by the front door and another in his bedroom; but the blinds to the latter were always kept shut. Privacy concerns, as he lived on the bottom level of his building where his neighbors and his absent landlord would walk about. Birds drawn by the rainfall called out on the rooftops, among the trees beyond the property, and on the street. While the bulk of the shower had passed, still heard was the pitter-patter of rain drops just beyond the glass. The weather was clearing, the sun shining like a hunk of polished citrine behind the scattered cloud cover, bidding its radiant goodbye to the day that closed. The moon chased it not far behind, nightfall near.

Griffon and Shadow were at as much peace as afforded by the event-free afternoon, and they appeared dead to their master's arrival. When he turned from the window to get a look at them, he could only think that they were sweet to snooze on the sofa—one taking up all the seat, the other perched atop the backrest cushions. Such a shame that they were so against his endeavor.

V had his supper early and offered to his familiars scraps of old cold cuts he didn't want. It was clear to them that he'd intended to do something, because he was all astir in his bedroom as he'd dressed himself for the night. Only, he was donning not sleeping clothes but something else entirely. On his legs were a pair of utility pants, slim, and a belt around the waistband; a wallet chain consisting of skulls of a silver tone; on his feet were gladiator sandals with straps that were thin along the length of his feet, and bore buckles at the ankles; leather cuffs adorned his left wrist, an unconventionally long, silver-plated signet ring the middle finger; a fingerless leather glove covered his right hand; and, in a daring move, he chose to garb the upper half of his body with a sleeveless, knee-length coat held together only by laces affixed to the garment's inner lining across the abdomen. No shirt, no nothing underneath all that leather: only his skin and the tattoos that adorned it. It was brave of him, to cover so little of himself—he partly regretted it already, looking himself over in the bathroom mirror—but people would change, and tastes would evolve, and V was just another one of the many young adults on the Earth who would experiment with fashion. Still, he'd never before worn anything so revealing, and his chosen outfit was quite modest in that as it stood, but it felt comfortable and that had to be the most important thing when it came to clothing. His qualms notwithstanding, he thought he liked the way he looked. His signature choker remained where he'd always worn it. His hair was the only contrast to all the black he'd dressed himself in. Every single article was black, as was the string of his choker, but his hair seemed to...set things askew, a little. So white like freshly fallen snow while all the rest of him could easily blend into shadow. Well, that wouldn't be a great issue tonight: he sought to walk out the door under the cover of darkness. He wasn't sure he'd wear such a get-up during the day.

When he emerged from the bathroom and walked into the sitting room, Griffon was the first (and, in fact, only) to voice his impression of the night-clad youth.

“Whoa-ho! What the hell is all that?” For the sake of a better look, the hellion descended from the sofa to hop right up to V, and eyed him up and down in a very rare moment of silence. “You gonna go out slumming or what? You look like hell in those rags.”

“Don't we already live in one?” V reminded, bored with his critique. He was messing with his collar, undecided whether to flatten it down or wear it upturned.

“Not only that, but don't you think you're gonna catch a cold walking around with your, uh, chest out?”

“It–it is not,” V argued bashfully, suddenly tugging on his lapels. “You can hardly see it.”

“No, I see it. Think I see your nipples too—”

“No you don't!”

“Oh! So I guess all six of my eyes are wrong. Am I wrong about that thing being too big on you, too? I think you gotta tighten those laces, kid.”

“Are you finished?” V was completely flustered when he had no need to be. Suddenly, the styling of his collar was unimportant. He had a blush he fought hard to suppress tinting his face, and he thought he would resent Griffon for the rest of his life for spoiling what little confidence he'd managed to scrounge. If Griffon could see such unflattering things, others were likely to see the same. But V wasn't about to change his clothes. Night had fallen, he had no time to waste now before the sun was up again.

Out of sheer defiance, the warlock marched to the kitchenette. His treasure of dirt had been taken from the fridge and given some water to keep from crumbling some little while ago. He hadn't needed the thing too fresh; he would water it like a plant, only with drizzles and drops intermittently. To little effect, however, as it would, as if out of spite, continually chip away regardless of his efforts. Looking at it again made his subconscious frown. He still hated it. Maybe he hated it more than he did at the start. He hated himself for being impatient enough to hasten his work on it. It could have turned out better if he'd learned, gone through trial and error, in due time; but he felt he didn't have that same time to lose. The impetuousness of youth, the desire for instant gratification—it ruined him thus far. But he needed supplies, and he at least had the wisdom to gather them beforehand. Even if Griffon had utter shit to say, V would walk all around him and dodge his bullets.

Thankfully, the raptor did not moan for long. He was left to loiter in the center of the room, watching V dart in and out. Shadow couldn't have cared one way or another; or, perhaps, she was wiser to simply let the boy be. Lounging on the sofa suited her. Ruby-red eyes blinked every so often. V had made a little pile of materials by the front door: a lantern, a canister of salt, five wax candles, a matchbox, a vial of ritual oil, an athame, and of course the grimoire.

Oh, and the vessel in its dish. It was the final item V had retrieved, and with it collected he was prepared to head out. Ultimately, he didn't give a damn about the state he was in, his appearance to demons either allies or foes. It was not his dress that would determine his success but himself: spirit, drive, skill, smarts. All materials minus the dish were placed in a rucksack. V slung it over his shoulder and carried the dish in both hands the minute he'd locked the door to his flat, familiars dissolving into soot-like particles and attaching to the warlock's body as if ink. He wore his coat's collar upturned after all.

A terribly long walk would see him to his destination. It was the same spot he'd been going to for the past fortnight, every night he wanted to try to conjure Nightmare. He'd memorized the path by now, and he would always go in shadow, at night. The poor, unfit thing would have to trek from beyond property grounds to a hilly area backed by a meager woodland out onto the fringes of town. The border, as it were, between named places. Red Grave City was one, to which V lived closest, but the means to move cities were not his. It was always a long walk anywhere for him. Tonight, he would benefit from clear skies and quiet townsfolk. While midnight had not yet struck, the residents around here were generally of mild manner and disinterested in goings on. They would be in their homes, doing as country families do. If they should spy a lanky young man traversing beyond their overgrown yards and vacant lots, they wouldn't give it a second thought. V realized he went through a lot of trouble for a whim, but what was one more night to try?

It might not have been midnight when he set off, but once he'd arrived at the designated spot he was certain that it could not have been earlier than eleven. The exertion tired him out, so all he took was a short breather with his eyes full on the patch of dirt and grass on which he'd made his previous attempts at summoning. He could certainly recognize it under the cover of night; but of course he'd been here countless times already. He remembered where, upon the hill, he would stand, and where the forested wall opened to the east. He remembered the trampled grass underfoot made by his coming and going, and the placement of lit windows in the town in the far distance.

Surrounded by such perfect seclusion, Griffon and Shadow could emerge from their hideaway. Of Griffon this was expected, but not so of Shadow: she was not in the habit of being present during her master's rites, and for her to suddenly sit beside her infernal comrade was a genuine surprise to the young warlock. Her reason was understood, however, and it filled him with some palpable regret. Shadow may not have been as vehement in opposition as Griffon was toward his goal, but her feelings were the same, and still she would let him know with scarcity and subtlety. As evidenced by his being here, he was not swayed by their shared concerns. For her, more so than for Griffon, V had a look of nigh-unreadable apology. In the darkness, her eyes were almost luminous rubies. A contrast to his dimmed peridots.

The dish was placed on the ground by his own trodden path. He fetched the lantern from the sack and switched it on—nothing quite so archaic as an oil lamp, but battery-powered for ease. The rest of his materials were laid out before him; and taking the dagger and lantern, he stepped carefully about the area to find the precise spot where he'd cast his prior circles. They were not hard to find, the etching in the soil still visible even after days of rainfall. V cleared away any debris that'd fallen during the day before setting the lantern between both the circle of summons and the circle of protection. He didn't want to think about the potential pitfalls he'd encounter once the rite would begin, but he would call himself a liar if he'd ever claim he wasn't nervous. He had never before practiced necromancy and there were about a dozen ways his inexperience—along with his deliberate improvisations—would foil him. This was not merely a game of chance he was playing, but one that involved real risk to his flesh and soul. He may not have anticipated failure, but he did fear from it nevertheless.

All those other instances when he'd failed to conjure the demon were failures only because the demon was deceased, and had no physical form with which to manifest. But now V would provide one for the spirit to inhabit, and that was entirely new to him. What's more, he hadn't bothered to practice at any point prior to tonight. His first shot at necromancy would also come as the real thing.

He didn't think about much, as a matter of fact, apart from the steps he was to take and the outcome he so desired. It was his intent that he should, and would, focus on, with nothing more to distract him. So, he cast his circle with salt before casting that of the demon, using his athame to carve the circle in the soil, its blade lightly coated with the necessary oil. It also carved an inverse pentagram within the circle, and the five candles were then arranged to sit on each point of the pentagram. The wax was dabbed with oil as well, and the candles were thus lit. Before the young sorcerer would enter his circle, he set what he'd need within it, and his familiars were wise to sit by the rest that was unnecessary so as not to interfere with the rite and its air. A strange stillness came upon the three, the wind dead and not one of them uttering a sound. Perhaps they knew it: what was about to take place would either ruin him or free him from his obsession.

It was also possible that such freedom could ruin him. Maybe he didn't consider that, but the raptor and the shapeshifter did. They watched their master outfit his circle, blade and oil left of center, grimoire and dish right. The vessel he'd prepared was taken into his hands, its dish abandoned beyond the circles as he had every intention of needing the molded dirt no longer after tonight. If the rite didn't work, he'd try another way. He was already decided on that.

Before V would step into his circle, he gave the lump of soil his final attentions. It wasn't like mud anymore, and it hadn't ever been since he'd brought it home; he knew that was the first mistake, remembering that golems took life from mud or clay—but both came of the Earth, were earth, and V would believe that plain soil would serve its intended purpose. So, he was satisfied before long with what little he'd managed to do with it and gently placed it in the middle of the inverted pentagram. Hands were wiped off, he took in a long breath, and entered his own circle at last.

“V.” Griffon.

“What?”

“Just... Watch yourself with all that, all right? We're right here if shit goes to shit.”

Gratitude needn't come across verbally. V felt it, his familiars knew it without knowing it, and nothing else was said between them. Eyes closed and incantation in mind, palms turned upward at his sides, he steeled himself and spoke words which were new. The candle flames did not waver, and neither did V. “To the lords of Hell and its kings and masters, I ask that a soul stripped of form and life hear my voice, and I implore unto thee, most fair and wise and powerful, with all of my humility, to send unto me thy lost and lifeless kin: that which is singularly named and so bears the name of Nightmare, once brought into being and commanded also by thine banished emperor-kin Mundus; and to this soul I offer life from death, death to rebirth, all powers and wisdom restored, and a vessel for its material form, and every liberty to refuse my supplication.”

His voice was loud and clear, firm and mature; he thought he felt electricity round his fingers. The young man did not yet open his eyes as he honed on the name, the image of the demon in his mind's eye, and the essence of the very thing he wished to will into being. His body was numb to the world around him, his mind ignorant of all things in existence apart from himself and the vessel, and the demon to inhabit it. Not a draft caused the grass to stir or the trees to wave their limbs, not a part of his body seemed alive but the easy rise and fall of his chest. But something had changed, something between the circles, and V felt it like a great oppressive eye, watchful from above. He did not lose his nerve to it but remained focused, knowing and feeling the adjudicators who had come to assess the sorcerer. From the very outset he sought permission to restore one of their fallen. He'd come to learn that it was sound practice to offer every respect to the forces he'd bargained with, and to resurrect an infernal spirit was no different. If V should open his eyes, he would find the flames twitching in the deadened night. But with his body so faintly tingling now, shoulders to waist, he knew it right, only then, to put into sweet, soothing words more of his modest, magic, flattering intent; and for this, he spoke gently as a poet recites to one who is beloved.

“How sweet is the Shepherd's sweet lot! From the morn to the evening he strays; He shall follow his sheep all the day, And his tongue shall be fillèd with praise.

“For he hears the lamb's innocent call, And he hears the ewe's tender reply; He is watchful while they are in peace, For they know when their Shepherd is nigh.”

He meant himself the shepherd, the demon he sought his flock—or a member of it, and while he was aware of the religious symbolism loaded into Blake's poem, he hadn't a fear of dashing his hopes as he had used these very words to summon in his presence a score of other, lesser demons. He needn't his grimoire to check his memory: he remembered every line, every foot, syllable for syllable. In this, V was experienced. He had come to learn that infernal creatures quite enjoyed poetry, often as much as he.

If the demons were decided in his favor, the spirit of the deceased should find its way to the proposed vessel. But V need only open his eyes if he wished to spy weird, dark miasma twist and dance about the earthen offering; and if he had, he'd have disrupted the flow of things and his concentration would break. That which went unseen was surely felt, however. In the subconscious were sensations translated into images before the mind's eye, sufficient communication that informed the sorcerer of what went on around him. He could feel the darkness, the infernal curiosity and diabolical greed filling the space within the summoning circle. While it was all aware of him, he'd protected himself expertly to allow no evil thing any passage through his barrier. The anticipation was beginning to find room in his mind, and that was a flaw to be entirely avoided. But while he tamed his own spirit, focusing on his intent and his breathing, the energies swirling above the dirt vessel were joined by another. A faintly thing to V's tuned senses, and when left alone it was far weaker than anything he'd sensed before. Lifelessness!

“The demon, Nightmare,” he acknowledged politely, “I bid thee come.” Truthfully, he couldn't have known what it was. The boy clearly was not beyond taking such liberties; but if he should be welcoming, peaceable, and respectful, the spirit should take to his voice—his vessel most importantly. His will remained strong, his intent clear, and with both combined he visualized with all of his psychic prowess the soul pouring into the desired golem. This, too, was new to him, but he sensed it came without challenge. Through mental murmurs he invited the soul to find its comfort and refuge within the earthen form. His hands had begun to move toward one another, palm to face palm but never joining when they hovered before the warlock's center. Calm as he could manage to be, now was when he opened his eyes. To his surprise, a diluted mist hovered above the crafted soil, black like smog but flecked as if with glitter of a violet hue. That was his own magic at work. A heartening sign.

His power, small as it was, had a color to it.

There was more to V's work than will. The closing of his hands was not plain pantomime. Envisioned between them was the soul and its designated vessel, and by drawing his palms closer together he suggested he'd been helping merge the two. The power of suggestion, backed by the power of will, could have been an unstoppable force if executed correctly. If V were any master sorcerer, he'd have doubtlessly infused the vessel with all of the demon's soul in less time than this. He could be patient when it mattered, however, and in this instance he was collected and determined not to fail. The oppressive air that'd permeated the environment amplified the nearer V's hands drew to one another, and there came a point when wind began to stir and blow against the warlock, pushing his hair from his face and disturbing his garments. This tipped him off against pushing any further: he remembered he had to be respectful, to allow the soul a chance to refuse him. He'd never forced his will upon the demons he wished for familiars, never felt it right, and he would not make that mistake now. Griffon and Shadow were his by choice, by mutual agreement, and they'd become friends, even like family for it. V remembered this, knew said friends' eyes were on him all through the rite, and he was prompt to correct himself—and thus the pressure was eased off the miserable spirit, as yet undecided about the offering of renewed life. Perhaps it wasn't impressed with its gifts, with him. That...had to be all right, to the conjurer. He'd have to accept that and let the spirit return to its plane, free.

With the slow separation of his hands, a curious shift in air tickled at his consciousness. He hadn't realized he'd been frowning, but the moment he did he softened immediately. The phantasmal wisps before his eyes, along with their violet glow, had begun to bleed into the misshapen vessel.

So...it had accepted! But of course, the allure of life was irresistible. V did not think for a moment, instead focused entirely on his work. He was absorbed by the sight of the soul feeding into the lump of earth, to fatten it up with life and grant it the gift of sentience. V's hands would come together only when the last of the entity entered the vessel, and this he did to signify the finalization of the first phase. He'd eased off on his psychic influence only for this step so that it would be Nightmare's decision to enter the vessel, not his. Once that was done, however, V would wait. To observe the outcome, to see what would go wrong. His hands rejoined his sides as he watched with, now, apprehension, the vessel illuminated only by the dancing candle light. As he understood it, he was not to engage yet, not until the demon was fully formed and in control of itself. Only then could he attempt to tame the beast, and then bind it to him through the awaited rite of bondage. His heart was as strong as he could have made it, but it still alarmed him to watch movement within the inverted pentagram. The soil once lifeless stirred and shifted, and before his very eyes began to deform itself. It was abrupt, violent, and it had stricken V with genuine nervousness with every motion across the ground, fidgeting left and jerking right, and sometimes nearly flipping itself over—and all the while changing shape, gaining mass, growing. The flames snapped wickedly in the air, and even V could feel it, a sudden explosion of demonic energy that flooded the circles and the area surrounding. It was smothering, but V held fast. He fought it like an ocean, as if wave after wave crashed down. If he'd lose his footing, he'd be pulled into the sea of darkness and potential malevolence, and forced to suffer the torment of a likely vengeful spirit. How was he to know that it was not already at peace, and that he'd come only to disturb its eternal slumber?

Uselessly, he put his arms up like a shield in front of his face as if that would have any effect over the whipping winds. Griffon and Shadow could only watch while on pins and needles, but they were in agreement that the second things turned south, they would charge in to his aid. That young man could get himself into such messes, but he hadn't quite learned to learn from that. One could call him stupid for it, but he preferred to think of it as drive. The grit to stand firm and unflinching was necessary in the face of adversity, and it was proven to him now that such a necessity came twice as strongly when dealing with a demon of so much size and power. Based on what he knew, Nightmare was built like a tank and commanded like one, an annihilating force V should have been wiser not to play with. And when he saw just how large it'd grown, taking on an amorphous form that exceeded even that of the vessel it claimed and turned inside-out to make it unlike any useless heap of anything he'd seen before—and when he realized it hadn't stopped expanding—he understood, finally, that he'd bitten off more than he could chew. And he paled a little at the sight of it now, beyond the obfuscation of his arms, stretching to a height far beyond his own and eclipsing the circle it should have fit into.

Large and bulbous, glossy and flowing as if wet, black as tar, no more resembling the dirt in which it was reborn. It claimed a human shape, as much of one as V could have crafted out of earth, but appeared to re-imagine itself of its own accord. Parts of it were not as V had built, but he didn't have a care for the shape. He supposed he never really did. He simply needed the thing alive, and here he'd achieved it. His golem, his golem, alive! And in the center, toward the top of its...whatever V would think was a head, glowed an orb like a great violet eye, and like an eye it darted in all directions as if it saw for the very first time. Like a human it stood upright on two legs, two disproportionately large arms hanging at its sides. No digits, but broad, round ends like clubs for “hands.” By the candle light, he could note several hooked claws protruding from the thing's arms. Parts of its body looked craggy, almost unnatural, as if shrapnel or rocks had wedged into its hide. This was the demon he'd brought to life from eternal death. This titan called Nightmare, a thing of destruction. It towered above the sorcerer, a dark and hulking thing that could easily snuff him out with its weight alone. His heart was fast in his chest.

It jumped at the sight of the demon's sudden movement and V felt he'd almost folded to the instinct to step back. Ungainly on its smaller legs, slow and heavy, the beast lumbered with every dragging step forward it took. Forward, unto the protective circle!

With its restless eye it perceived him, his body language and the demons not far from him. All things were new to it, like it had the whole of life to relearn. When V's arms came down and his eyes pierced the dark, it was perceived that there was no defense, no offense, and full attention. Ah, but here it seemed to remember—some memories had not gone, and with them had also come the memory of mercy. If Nightmare had remembered any more, it would have likely tried to kill him for his intent. But the demon was almost like a newborn: it knew too little of others, and itself, and regarded the black-clad warlock beneath it just as an infant would fix its indeterminable gaze on a thing of interest.

If V had had the opportunity to savor the success of his first resurrection, he might have. He might have patted himself on the back for once, admired the golem as a thing of beauty, but as he was uncertain and on high alert, he could not think of anything but the very real chance that the demon might retaliate after all—or go berserk. But he remained in the circle, watched the demon hesitate before the uppermost grains of salt on the ground, and felt his heart skip a beat. The demon stalled, right outside the protective circle, and stood motionless as its eye looked in all directions. Perhaps it wondered what stood in its way. V needed to find his nerve or he'd lose the demon to its untamed instincts: he could not afford complacency now that he'd gotten so close, with work still needing to be done in order to claim the demon for his own. So, he would appeal to it, with a voice that came across more meekly than he'd intended. “Nightmare...?”

His voice surely caught its attention. If only he knew it was perceived as only noise.

“Do you understand me?” he probed. “You are alive. You've come back from death.” That stirred nothing. “It was my voice you heard that guided you here. To me.” He was gentle with his words, cautious as he assessed how they'd affected the golem—but no indication of its awareness, of its comprehension, gave him next to no encouragement. He wondered if Nightmare had ever understood spoken language. But, if that hadn't gotten through to the demon, then he supposed something physical might. Much to the horror of his watchful familiars, V pushed himself forward to extend an arm, to reach out his bare hand, to...touch.

“V, what're you doin'?!” The raptor could not have left well enough alone.

Violet pulsated.

The small warlock had stepped beyond the perimeter of salt. He broke his protection and exposed his vulnerable soul to infernal powers for the sake of connection. And he sensed it. At the back of his mind, a tingle; at his fingertips, something sentient and...perceiving, at least, cool to the feather-light touch but so very warm with devil's blood at its core. The silence might have unnerved him, but to know that he was not dismissed gave him heart. “You can feel me?” he wondered with his eyes cast up, searching that deep and indecipherable purple for his answer. Whether or not it was a product of psychic communication, a sense of calm ran through his fingers, and comfort grazed at the very door to his mind. That dark and obsessive demon within him smothered itself the instant man touched demon, demon touched man, and in its place was born a tender affection. His hand was soft over Nightmare's arm and free from its claws.

Now...he admired it, just a little.

But if he could get inside that titan's mind, he'd know what he looked like to it. And to be acknowledged by the thing that gave it new life was new, also, in this way: because it was novel to feel warmth, respect, and to sense that no subjugation would come from the pale little hand that seemed also to lay claim. And it was a strange contradiction. Nightmare seemed to remember something familiar, something like dominion and disregard that came with a claim of its own over the newborn. But these impressions were faint and centuries distant, and Nightmare was not roused to belligerence by a perceived wrong but remained placid and curious before the human boy it almost, almost could have known as a father. It felt, it understood, in its own innocent way, and therefore it sought. But why, why did the black-and-white figure that so kindly welcomed it suddenly peel away in retreat? The demon only wanted to know him, experience him, and mimic his gesture with an arm of its own. It tried to graze him with the claws on its arm, but the human stepped back with a change in his demeanor. Was this rejection? Was this human false?

V's circle was breached by inhuman hands and feet, its protectiveness nullified when V had broken it. He found that his salt did not burn when the demon walked through it. He was swift in collecting his grimoire and scrambled out of the circle entirely, ignoring one familiar's calls to cease and desist as he still so stubbornly held his ground to win favor he didn't know he already had. “Nightmare!” he called with firmness, attempting to command its attention. He was so sure he'd angered it. The grimoire was opened to the page he needed and he, in utter darkness, recited more from memory than from print. “How sweet is the Shepherd's sweet lot! / From the morn to the evening he strays; / He shall follow his sheep all the day, / And his tongue shall be fillèd with praise.” He glanced to find Nightmare had stilled before him, within his broken circle. That's good. He inhaled a breath to steady himself, to soften, to finish. “For he hears the lamb's innocent call, / And he hears the ewe's tender reply; / He is watchful while they are in peace, / For they know when their Shepherd is nigh.” In a maddening mix of apprehension and anticipation, V watched the violet orb spin: the demon was thinking. Even if such a creature could not understand the human, artful tongue, he knew that a creature could still sense emotion, and from within words so delicately crafted and sweetly delivered, emotion was the only intent he'd meant to convey. Like music soothed savage beasts, poetry soothed soured demons.

Nightmare appeared to like the sound of those words. Its confusion was dashed for a moment, and now only watched V with its same curiosity. When a fleeting moment of broad silence passed, Nightmare wanted to inch closer to him—and was again stilled when another string of pretty words touched its consciousness. Was it meant to stand still when the human talked so affectionately? It decided not to move again.

And this, V determined, was a sign of domestication. He thought he'd tamed the beast, at least halfway, so quickly!

“V,” the raptor persisted, “I don't like this! That thing's an accident waiting to happen!”

“Quiet! I know...it knows.”

“It knows you're a chump—!”

“Shhh!” V pressed a finger to his lips when he'd turned to Griffon but donned a friendly, inviting air when again he faced the colossal golem. He smiled, his eyes glimmered, and he approached it with calm. “Nightmare,” he said quietly, intimately, “will you...be my demon? Will you bind to me?” Predictably, no response, so V reached his hand out again to connect—and tried again, focusing on intent rather than speech with a harder, genuine look over his countenance. “I need you, and I...hope...you need me, too. Will you be my familiar?” His palm was firmer on the demon's flesh this time, but not at all merciless or pressuring.

V never believed he was telepathic, but with Nightmare on the other end of the communication, he could have sworn his feelings had been answered. The demon stood still, as did he, and here he would perform the rite of bondage. His technique evolved, every time, and he'd come upon the simplest form of claiming a familiar to date. If magic was all about intent, then for ceremony there was little need. Through incantation and intent, and mutual agreement, the warlock would bind the demon to himself as effectively as he'd ever done. Griffon swallowed every last complaint to let his master be; Shadow had been wise from the start to observe.

Nightmare was still as it watched the little creature who'd given it life. His words it understood vaguely, but his touch was the easiest language it'd ever known. The golem it came to be was nothing at all like the machine of chaos in its previous life. Whether or not that had something to do with the man who'd willed it into being would ever be a mystery. But it, like him, was calm and patient, and listened to a language it largely heard as noise. He uttered words on and on, and some were pretty while others were fair, and some were soft while others were hard; and when he would speak the same word, “Nightmare,” he was warm with his intonation. And the demon, within, felt a warmth as well that had come upon it quite suddenly. A whole change in the air confused it. But so long as the giver of life held his touch and gave it comfort, the golem would be peaceful in its trust.

Magic leaked into the air from his lips, every syllable of incantation imbuing the forces of life and nature, Earth and Hell, those that were human and diabolical—all, combined, alive with the distinctive violet hue of his art, would grant the warlock that which he sought in all fairness of practice. There was power in the atmosphere, a presence of miasma that was inherent in all demonic dealings, but V was no stranger to the forces whirling about his body or the sensations bouncing and dancing all across his skin. This was a power only he could wield, which only he understood in the way that was so personal and individual, his and his alone. His eyes had been closed for concentration; and as he felt the demon's spirit closer to his own, he bridged the gap by granting the demon knowledge of his sacred name. “My name is Vitale.”

Vitale, not V, who he really was, whom he would always be. All his familiars knew it, and now, too, did Nightmare. He'd forbidden anyone else the privilege—to such an extent that he would forget a moniker was only a moniker.

And maybe, with the bond formed and the final pledges made, he could be less of V, more of Vitale.

“Come, on wings of joy we’ll fly To where my bower hangs on high; Come, and make thy calm retreat, Among green leaves and blossoms sweet.”

It shot through him—power, life, trust, a connection. All of Nightmare, all at once, vanishing from sight as the finest black particles to join with its master on his body, new markings alongside those previous, fitting snugly between each one to fill more of his skin, claiming him for itself in so doing. But this demon took more than the warlock had counted on. It cloaked hair so white in its embrace and painted it black, a deep, true ebony that could have contested even the darkest of shadows. It startled him when his eyes opened, and he grabbed at the strands and his scalp as if to make sense of what had just happened. With the demon finally bound to him, the air fell flat. Magic, left; power, absorbed; spirits, gone. Only V now, and his familiars.

The changes in him were not only skin-deep. Somehow, in some way, he felt Nightmare's weight on him. He felt its strength, too, albeit faintly in his psyche; and he felt his strength, greater than it had been minutes ago, spiritually, but still quite subtle materially, in presence. It was like Griffon's or Shadow's, but Nightmare was a demon on an entirely elevated level. And it must have been for that sole reason that V could feel his body suddenly so tired—and this to such a degree that he slouched a little as a result. His two familiars neared him, relieved to see that he'd survived his experiment.

That's right... He'd succeeded. He hadn't even remembered what hell he'd put himself through for the past several weeks. It all paid off. But he didn't think of it. He used his foot to clear away the casting on the ground, the salt spread in all directions as it was rendered ineffective anyway. When he took one solitary step forward to pet his doting shapeshifter, he felt a weakness in the knees that nearly downed him. It was a stumble, that was all...! No one pointed it out to him, and he was thankful for that.

He'd never felt that before, not even when he'd run himself ragged.

“I gotta hand it to you, kid,” Griffon praised, “you stuck to your idiot guns and got what you wanted. You've gotta be feeling so good about yourself.”

V couldn't help answering distractedly. “Yeah.” He ran his hands through Shadow's fur all the while she circled him, offering fond nudges as though to comfort him. “It's...kind of strange.” He did not eye Griffon.

“What? Too much power for you?”

Was that it?

The answer had to wait as V spent a moment collecting the candles, pouring salt over the area, and defacing the inverted pentagram. This circle, too, was cleared away. But his silence often spoken volumes, so he did not doubt that his demons were already forming conclusions in their dark minds. Their eyes were certainly fixed on him as he had his back turned. When he should have been feeling joyous and fulfilled, he found that, instead, he was...undecided with his feelings, ultimately.

“What about your hair, anyway? I've never seen that happen before.”

“It's strange. I don't know if I'll get used to it,” the warlock admitted, knitting his brows as he caught sight of a strand of black hair falling in front of his eye. What a change—and now he was as if a perfect shadow, black on the bottom and black on top. God, that must have screamed something about him.

“It's not that bad on you, actually,” the chatty demon observed, his tone impressed. But he wanted to know about Nightmare, and he wanted to know that V was satisfied and had finally gotten over his obsession with it. “But we're avoiding the subject, aren't we? Tell us how you feel. I mean, after everything you went through, was it worth it after all? Sure, the big lummox agreed to entering the rite and all—and I'm still shocked it didn't go berserk on us—but it didn't exactly strike me as the intelligent kind. I'm not saying you gotta talk to be smart, but—”

“Sometimes talking less masks stupidity.” V flashed a fleeting smirk. “I guess...I feel all right. Exhausted, but...all right. I think the pressure's just finally catching up to me.” A soft breeze rustled the canopies some feet away. What time had it been? He packed up his materials as Griffon continued to talk his ear off. V blocked him out for the most part, concerned by the strange sensation in his legs. It wasn't tiredness, it wasn't pain. He knew the difference. Lacking a better idea, all he could compare it to was weakness; and all he could figure was that it was his fault in the end, because he'd been so desperate and power-starved that he threw all caution to the four winds for the sake of summoning a demon that was potentially out of his league. Maybe what Griffon had said, about “too much power,” was right. Maybe it had been too much for V, but he'd never given that the kind of thought it deserved. All he wanted was some semblance of self-reliance, the knowledge that he could really hold his own and fold in fear to no one, not man nor demon. It was all he wanted and he'd found it. He had it. Nightmare was his. A demon once under the command of an emperor was now in V's bony hands, and it should have gratified him more.

If anything, he came to realize that he was in error for believing that he could just take from demons as much as he'd wanted, without repercussions. The essence that was Nightmare's which he'd felt through his touch was felt in the back of his mind, only now it was perpetual, and he thought that demon might read what he was thinking, might even influence him if he was not careful.

Because he did, he did feel different. Physically and psychologically. He felt the weight on and the weakness in his body. He felt an intangible strength, and with it an unusual sway to his psyche. While his thoughts remained his own, and he felt himself his own man, he too sensed that there was suddenly more to him. In heart and mind where his inner demon dwelt, he felt it with more clarity than ever. All that was demonic in him, purely of him and from which he was born, seemed more alive now, so suddenly, after Nightmare joined with him to serve him as intended. But it was not Nightmare's doing: V knew, with every familiar claimed, that the demonic blood in him which was so diluted had gained some amplification; and after every demon bound to his skin, more and more of the devil liked to play. It was no wonder that he'd gotten so much more impertinent and stubborn and dark-humored, and that he more and more enjoyed slaying the infernal interlopers who had no place upon the Earth so long as they posed as threats to it. It was no wonder that V was more and more a devil in his own right. Puberty had brought that on, but surrounding himself with demons helped it along. And even that was no such concern for him, because he still believed he could stand a change in character. He hated his meekness.

Maybe there was something more to it all. A change in character would suit the change in his fashion—he'd forgotten he'd been wearing something new, and only when he slung his filled rucksack over his shoulder had he remembered that he'd not worn sleeves. He felt good in what he wore, and comfortable, and he liked that the loneliness of the field afforded him a peace of mind with which to walk freely. No one around to judge him, watch him, or try to break the ice with him. And even if there had been, he liked to believe that the devil inside shouldn't have to care anymore. When he used to be a boy who'd been too frightened to make decisions and take first steps, tonight he'd proven that he was dauntless and relentless, and impossible to sway when he'd had his mind set; and though he showed recklessness, he often paired that with a quick resourcefulness and the ability to rebound. In his teenage years he was too shy to function, but the coming of age brought about a kind of daring that was, more than anything, born from his own distaste toward himself and a desire to mature, evolve, improve. And he had. Every year that passed, he grew up a little more, learned better of the adult world, and adapted more nimbly to things that were outside of his control. And though he had still a ways to go, he was getting there. He was only twenty-one, still too naive and fresh-faced, inept and awkward with people, and continually healed where his trauma was concerned. Emotional scars ran deeply, and they hadn't quite closed. They didn't. That's why the young man, though still a boy for all intents and purposes, bled from his hidden wounds to the present day.

Perhaps there was something more to be gained from Nightmare than simply its alliance. V had finally realized that he'd met his goal—probably his hardest one to reach yet. He'd resurrected a demon from death! He formed a vessel for the spirit to inhabit, to use as its own body and reshape it as it pleased. He tamed the demon with the art of the spoken word, nothing more, and successfully bound it to him, himself to it. Things that he had not even practiced before had all worked on his very first attempt, and if that in itself was not a sign of growth and experience, then nothing else could be. Before his own eyes he improved upon his craft, gained a new skill while mastering older ones, and granted a second chance to a soul which, in its previous life, had been used as a tool only to be slain by its master's foe. That couldn't have been any kind of life to live and it certainly wasn't any kind of afterlife. Here, V showed he was merciful, too; and it may have been by sheer coincidence that things had turned out that way, his intent originally to bind the most powerful demon he could host on his body, but ever since he'd laid eyes on the thing—touched it with heart and soul—he felt differently. He wanted more than what he bargained for, and in several ways he'd gotten it. Nightmare was to be as much a friend to him as Griffon and Shadow, as much a part of their small family unit as anyone else in it. More than power and bravado, he wanted connection, and comfort, and someone more to trust, and someone to trust in him, to need him, to value him as he'd value them. And he found it in Nightmare. He found a lot in Nightmare. When the demon joined with his body and the cloud of maddened obsession lifted from his psyche, the warlock could finally see it all: his mistake, mistakes, his flaws and talents, his honest needs, what he was and who he thought he wanted to be, should be, and how he ought to be it. There was a truth revealed to him in bonding with Nightmare and in everything he'd done to get there in the first place. Everything from his devotion to his dress, from his guts to his tenderness.

V thought he'd found himself, through this. He'd found at least a part of Vitale—and he'd chip away at himself to find even more until he was all out in the open. Still so young, he had so much time for it.

As he walked back the path he'd taken, Shadow had melted to darken his form along with Griffon shortly after. There was no conversation to be had between man and devil; and V got away with leaving many of Griffons' questions unanswered. Fatigue, he'd explained. Partly true. Already was he tiring himself out, pushing more than he was used to just to keep on the path. If he expected to stand on his own two feet with his head held high, confidence on his brow and the steadfast backing of his infernal friends, he wouldn't do it looking and feeling so tuckered out. But he'd done wrong to reflect on it now. V had inevitably seen himself home.

Griffon and Shadow were freed to sleep where they pleased the moment V locked the door. Sleep was not often something that he looked forward to. Given the frequency of his nightmares, he would start in the middle of the night with his traumas and insecurities brought to the forefront of his mind as if he'd lived through every painful experience all over again. But he was too tired to care when he flung himself on his bed, and he likewise did not fight the fading of his consciousness when he slipped right off to sleep. He always would, and horror would reliably wake him. Only, tonight, it didn't. He didn't wake. He'd slept in unintentionally when dawn broke. It was strange to him that he'd felt mildly rested in the morning, when he would oft feel sleepy. He didn't remember any disturbance in his sleep. But the black of his hair made him wonder; and, still, the tiredness in his body hadn't left him. He would go to the same field that night in an attempt to call Nightmare from its hideaway for the first time, but the demon did not come. Try as he did, driven to worry and exasperation, thinking even that he'd betrayed his new friend in some irreversible manner, the familiar would not emerge. Griffon suggested a thousand things to try, and those that were sensible resulted in failure.

But...V did think of one thing before quitting for the night. He thought to be playful, as if coaxing a child from its hiding place, when he poured his will and his warmth into a snap of his fingers. From the sky came crashing down a meteorite, V's hair suddenly white.

Ah, so that's how it is.