#no last name yet but for archivings sake he at least has a first name

[nabaath-areng]

Moments of clarity are so rare I better document this At last the view is fierce All that matters is Who is open-chested And who has coagulated Who can share and Who has shut down the chances?

[modern-day-bard]

Worth The Feeling

Note: this is a completed project but I’ve had major problems posting on tumblr from my laptop! I’m not sure why. If anyone who sees this is interested, I also posted the fic on Archive Of Our Own 🫶🏻

Content Warning: 18+

This story includes explicit smut, intimidation, and an age gap relationship (MC is 26, Javi is in his 40s). Minors, do not interact.

Chapter 2:

Now, I've made some blunders before. Mostly calling talent by the wrong name, which is a big mistake when dealing with big personalities. But I've tripped a few times, spilled a few things, and I even broke a glass in the middle of a take.

Yet somehow, none of those things compare to this.

Treating the lead as if he was a PA? Telling him he needs to get a walkie ?

The thought makes me sprint even harder toward the sound stage. Once inside, I scan the area as quickly as I can. There's at least a hundred people in here now and the more I push past, the more I realize they are turning to look at me disapprovingly. I really should find a new shirt first, but it can wait.

"Lana!" I shout when I catch a glimpse of one of her classic colorful scarves. I can see the bright fabric tied in a bow on top of her curly head of hair, but she doesn't turn around.

"LANA!" This time several people, Lana included, turn around.

"Hey!" She runs up to me and sweeps me in a hug, before pulling back with an uncharacteristically miserable expression. "Why are you all wet? Ava, I can see your bra." She pokes my visible white strap.

I swat her away. "Just wait. That is the least of my worries."

I explain the situation, visibly cringing as I await her reaction.

In typical Lana fashion, she bursts into musical hysterics. She covers her mouth when she notices how pained my expression is.

"Lana, I am this close to panicking. You don't think he'll complain, do you?"

"No, no he won't complain. You said he was relatively cool about it, right?"

"Yeah, I mean, he didn't even correct me."

"Exactly. You know if it was one of the Marvel guys from our last picture, you might be in trouble. But from the sounds of it, he probably won't even remember it by tomorrow."

"Yeah..." Why did that idea not make me feel any better?

Lana is snickering again. "You know I sent you the cast list like a month ago, right? How do you of all people not recognize Javi Gutierrez?"

I lower my voice. "You know I'm not an indie movie fanatic."

"I know. It's your fatal friendship flaw. But he was on a bunch of shows, too!"

"I haven't had time for TV with school! Movies are less commitment. Don't scold me in my time of need." I wack her arm.

"Fine, fine," She holds her hands up in defeat. "But seriously Ava, unless you want to continue to give us all a free show you should really get another shirt. I have to get these mics up and running, but go to wardrobe and find Barb."

She's right. The first scene is at 8:00am, and as a sound assistant, Lana has to be ready to mic up the actors as soon as they're out of hair and makeup. I still have to print out scripts for the first few scenes, and I'm really starting to hate the sticky feeling on my stomach.

"Okay, thank you!"

Lana winks at me as I turn and head for the wardrobe trailer on the far side of the lot. Barbra has been on Norwick Productions sets since movies were invented. That is actually the answer she will give a person if they ask how long she's been working. She's the grumpy, tough-love mom I never had. And since Lana is pretty much the only person I hung out with during hiatus, I missed Barb dearly.

Barb's expression pales as soon as she sees me.

"Ava, it's only day one for god's sake."

"Don't worry Barb, Lana already scolded me for you."

"I do like that girl. And I'm guessing you came by to catch up after break, and not simply because you need my help?" She raises a knowing brow.

"Obviously." I flash her a very over-dramatic smile.

"I should give you one of the ratty uniforms from the end of this film for that."

"But you won't, because you love me." I batted my lashes.

"Uh-huh." Barb sighs, disappearing into the depths of the trailer before coming back out with a clean white t-shirt. No fuss, no fake blood.

"You are my guardian angel." I say after swapping the shirts.

"Bring me real coffee tomorrow instead of this crafty crap and we can call it even." She says in a flat tone, and I know she's not kidding.

I give her a quick hug. "It's good to see you Barb."

That makes her chuckle slightly. "You too, kiddo."

I check my watch again. 7:30am. Barely enough time to print out the scripts. I bid Barb a quick goodbye and head to the closest copier.

After kicking it a few times, and uttering several curse words, I got the copier up and running and several copies of today's script printed. I try to skim today's scenes while walking back to the soundstage. I'm beginning to grow curious as to watch is actually happening in this movie. Since we usually shoot scenes out of order, these few pages aren't helping very much.

Back on the soundstage, I spot Lloyd, our director, and walk over to hand him today's pages.

"Ava, welcome back." Lloyd says in his usual artistic drawl. He takes one of the copies from me, flipping through as though looking for something specific, though I know he is barely even skimming the pages.

Part of me is holding my breath, wondering if Javi would have complained to Lloyd or a production manager at this point. I'm not sure when he would have time for that between hair and makeup, but in a world where my mishap today costs me my job, he would find the time.

But, Lloyd is deep in conversation with a cameraman and doesn't spare me another glance. I take that as a good sign, and slowly slink toward the far corner of the room. This way I can still have a good view of the stage without calling too much attention to myself. I can see Lana across the room micing up one of the actors in the scene. Some older gentleman who I heard was popular on a cowboy show that I've never seen. I recognize his face more than I did Javi's, which embarrasses me further, even though the fact is only known to me.

Then, as though the gods of shame were looking down and laughing at me, Javi walks into the large room. I quickly open the first scene's pages to see if I can figure out whom he is playing. That, and so I can take my mind off of how he looks even more attractive in costume. I steal a glance up from the pages and see Lana micing him up now. He's smiling warmly at her, and she chuckles at something he said. Lana tends to laugh at most things, but I can't help but wonder what words were being passed between them.

The two men step onto the CIA set together, both dressed in impeccably tailored suits, making light conversation. Now is my que to bring them their copy of the pages for a final once-over before we roll the cameras. I inhale deeply and set my shoulders back.

Don't be intimidated, Ava. You can't embarrass yourself any worse than you already have.

Well, I know that last part isn't true. But I repeat it to myself all the same.

I walk up to the men, handing them each a copy with a smile.

The older gentleman gives me a friendly nod as he takes the script. Javi gives me the same smile he gave Lana a few minutes prior. I'm turning to leave, and I'm surprised when he says, "Thank you, Ava."

I pause, half out of surprise that he remembered my name, and half over the hesitation of wondering if I should apologize for earlier. But his attention is already on the pages, and there are so many people around to hear me admit my mistakes. I decide against it.

- - -

After we shoot the first few takes, I think I'm starting to piece together what the film is about. In the way that it is not unlike most other spy films I've seen. Older Cowboy, whose real name is still evading me, has a small role as the experienced head of the CIA who brings on Javi's character, a real loose cannon, despite his reservations. There is something about a kidnapping of Javi's lover that makes him "too close to the case," but he lies about his involvement with the woman to make sure he can be the one to save her. I'm assuming that is when we will be in Italy. Spy movies love a good ol' car chase in Europe.

I'm not blown away by the originality of the script or anything, but I'm still engaged in the scene even on their tenth take. I realize that Javi is actually quite talented. I'm only ever engaged in a scene if the actors are talented. That, or if Lloyd is having a breakdown.

I spend the rest of the scene trying not to notice just how well tailored that suit is on Javi. I never leer at the talent, but I always appreciate a good-looking man in a suit. Plus, there is something different about him. He has a kindness to him that I haven't seen with other actors. We've been working with a lot of big names recently, so maybe I've just become disillusioned. Even still, I know some lesser actors who would've complained about my assumption early, even if they painted it as a joke. They would never want me to fully live it down. But not Javi. At least, not so far.

When they call for a break, I decided it would be best to fulfill some of my other duties on another part of the lot.

The rest of the day goes by in a blur. I try to stay away from the soundstage, knowing that they will be working with Javi for the next few hours. I check my watch for the umpteenth today, and I crack a smile when I realize we only have about an hour left. My last stop is Emma Madden's trailer, our leading lady. And then I finally get to drive home and sleep.

I hadn't met Emma before, but similar to Javi, she isn't in the same celebrity category as our last film, so she seems much friendlier. I got a call on my walkie letting me know there was an issue with her food, and with not much else to go off of, I figured I might be in for a celebrity meltdown. However, when I got here, she let me know that she is severely allergic to mustard, and was afraid to touch the sandwich that had been dropped off to her. Sure, maybe it was a little 'Hollywood' for her to have me come and throw it in the garbage for her, but she was pretty apologetic about it.

"Thank you so much, Anna." She says with her knees brought up to her chest, as if she was shielding her center from the turkey sandwich springing back up out of the trash. Her expression is worried and her tone is so sincere that I don't correct her. Not that I would have otherwise.

"Not a problem Ms. Madden." I dust off sesame seeds from my palms.

"Oh please, call me Emma." She smiled at me now, and I couldn't help but like her a little.

"I know a mustard allergy is like, totally random, but it's actually pretty bad. I have an epipen and everything." I know she must be at least thirty years old, but her inflection reminds me of a teenager.

"I'll let crafty know. They should have sent you a food preference and allergy sheet to fill out months ago, that's the studio's fault."

"Oh, they did! I completely forgot about that. I figured it was just if you were a picky eater."

I resisted the urge to roll my eyes.

"Well, no worries. I'll let them know now." I reach for the doorknob of the trailer.

"Thank you again!" Emma called out as I closed the door behind me.

As I'm finally able to drop off my walkie for the day, I run through all the ways that Emma's Mustard Mayhem could have cost the studio hundreds of thousands of dollars. How did they start production without having her sign a waiver? Why did no one double check that all the talent had sent in their allergy lists? If she were a higher profile celebrity, this could have been a huge issue. But as usual, these are the scenarios I keep to myself. And as I drive home, I try to run through only mustard scenarios, and ignore any that pop up with another actor in mind.

Series Masterlist

[velvetbyrne]

The Hunt for Priceless Tears

What would you do if you tried to find something that is basically non-existent on the internet? What if you have searched the depths of the internet, wading through the old Geocities sites and Japan's National Diet Library's archive for a specific piece of work? When nothing came to fruition, would you lay down and say "There is nothing else that I can do."?

Many might've just stopped there and called it a day but, where there is a will, there is a way.

Context: Why I Started Looking

As an admin of the Bungō Stray Dogs Wiki, I try to make sure that all of our pages are up to standards. The pages for the Abilities for the series are there to give readers a better picture of what the characters can do and most importantly for myself, the origin of the work and how it represents the character in the series.

The Hunting Dogs were introduced in Chapter 60 of the manga introducing some rather obscure writers from Japan (in the western world at least) to a lot of new people. The four of them were:

Fukuchi Ōchi (福���桜痴, 1841 - 1906) an important figure who created Japan's first daily newspaper.

Suehiro Tetchō (末広鉄腸, 1849 - 1896) a politician who wrote political novels.

Ōkura Teruko (大倉燁子, 1886 - 1960) a detective novelist from the Shōwa era.

Jōno Saigiku (条野採菊, 1832 - 1902) a journalist who worked with Fukuchi with his newspaper.

The last figure was particularly interesting as his ability page was the only one with a severe lack of any information on their original work.

What can be clearly seen is a massive difference in the content for the three authors in comparison to Jōno. Perhaps this is because he was more known as a journalist rather than a writer for kabuki plays. Other than that, the other works exist on the online space under many different forms of media.

Mirror Lion was already a famous kabuki play with the script and summaries of the play online, the performance of the play was also on YouTube.

Gasp of the Soul's text has been uploaded to Aozora Bunko.

Plum Blossoms in Snow has an entire Wikipedia article along with a scan of the book being on Japan's National Diet Library.

Priceless Tears however, had nothing other than the information listed on Jōno's Wikipedia page.

For the sake of making the pages equal, I decided to look up any information on the plot for Priceless Tears so the pages follow to the Wiki's standards.

The Search Begins

A.K.A. How I Stopped Worrying and Learned to Love the Search

So I started looking first in kabuki21.com where the people can find summaries and information on many other kabuki plays.

This was where the wiki sourced its description for Fukuchi's Mirror Lion. As you can see the information about the play is quite thorough so it was my number one hope in finding something related to the play but alas, nothing regarding the play Priceless Tears or even anything on the author. My first reaction is just "Fine, it might be a pretty obscure play. Maybe it'd be on the Japanese internet."

Boy was I wrong.

Looking through the Japanese internet was equally arduous, looking up the name only lead to people asking about the ability from the series and wondering what it can do. Looking it up with the name of the writer did not help either, wading through the many articles there wasn't much. However, there was a slight salvation to the bad streak.

An fc2 blog page with some information on Meiji-era figures. The page listed the date that Priceless Tears was published. Meiji 22 (1889) in November. But this feels like it's not quote there yet in terms of enough information for what to look up.

I then decided to look up issues of the magazine it was published in, Kabuki Shinpō, specifically in the National Diet Library where many old books are are archived and digitized. However this did not yield any meaningful results since the edition that had Priceless Tears was not digitized yet.

Breakthrough

After clawing through websites, I somehow encountered an entry in the Kyushu University Library which immediately caught my eye. Not because it had a lot of interesting information but, because my friend goes to that university. Immediately I contacted him on Discord to check his university's library. A few days later we hopped on a call to talk about what I needed in particular for this.

This entire discovery was a complete coincidence, while my friend has mentioned the university library and hell we screwed around in Google Maps to see the thing but, really the thought has never crossed my mind that they would store Meiji-era books. This entire discovery kept me up at night and I could not handle what the future might bring at this point. It felt rather surprising to say the least because as far as I have seen, there are no digital copies of Priceless Tears, let alone the synopsis of the play.

A few days after the discussion, my friend hit me up and we decided to call through Discord to find the book. The first obstacle was unexpected however, it was the signal inside the library which is atrocious to put it lightly. At this point however, I was determined to get something out of this trip. At first we couldn't find the book at all until my friend found it in the shelves. Unfortunately, there were several volumes and not only that, these books were the original Meiji-era copy so they were fragile.

We then decided to talk to one of the librarians who gladly helped locate the book, after some amount of broken Japanese, we got through and we found the exact page where the story was located.

It felt like looking through a treasure trove but we came here for exactly one thing and that's when it was a little bit late when I realized that my friend had only took the picture of the synopsis. The other pages are those of other plays from the same edition of Kabuki Shinpō. Due to the book being fragile, we decided that it's better to leave things this way rather than risk the book being further damaged but, at the very least we had the synopsis which was better than zero.

At last, we have the synopsis. Again I forgot something very important at this stage and that is to look for a translator. A translator who understands the Kyūjitai kanji which was used during the Meiji-era. During this time I spent the time transcribing the text to preserve what we have at the very least. This was how it went for the next few months, the synopsis still in the back of my head and I couldn't do much about it.

A Little Help From My Friends

The Light Piercing Through the Shadows

Someone had pinged me on the Bungō Stray Dogs Wiki Discord that they were able to do translations, immediately the first thing I had in mind was to pull out the script for Priceless Tears. They were very kind and was very much happy to help which was a massive relief. After almost a solid year, we finally have a picture of what's going on.

It honestly still feels unreal and I am greatly shortening this entire search. I hope that one day the full script will be transcribed online so that it's easier to understand the greater picture.

Conclusion and thoughts

This entire search just made me feel so many emotions, I honestly am proud of the efforts and lengths my friends went through to help out with this silly little picture. At the same time this project reminded me about how important it is to archive archaic documents for future reference. Even if it's just something done for a manga series, I am still very happy that some glint of information exists now on the web about this play.

I really do hope this specific issue of the magazine will be uploaded to the NDL for easier viewing, if that ever happens then I'll be glad to update things on that front.

Special Thank You to

My friend Kevinoshita who helped track down the book to Kyushu University's library.

Other members of the SampleText Discord group.

Members of the Bungō Stray Dogs Wiki Discord.

Members of the Bungō to Alchemist Discord.

Pengumi from the Bungō to Alchemist Discord who helped with the transcription.

れぃ from the Bungō Stray Dogs Wiki Discord who helped with the final translation.

[nordleuchten]

so, I was reading some letters between Lafayette and Washington in the founders archive, and when I came to tumblr, I saw one or two posts of yours and now I'm curious, what are your favorite quotes from letter between the two of them??

Ty for answearing and gm/gn wherever u are!! <3

Hello there :-)

I have actually answered two similar questions but I never did that explicitly for the letters between George Washington and La Fayette. I find these questions always quite hard because there are just so many interesting letters that we know of - and even more letters that we may never knew about. In general, I like those letters the best, that show historical figures as persons, a real living breathing human beings with all their interests and feelings and flaws.

February 23, 1778: La Fayette commented on the failed invasion of Canada - he makes it sounds like he just discovered a great secret, but the suspicions expressed in the letter were more or less common knowledge.

“I fancy (betwen us) that the actual scheme is to have me out of this part of the continent, and general connway in chief under the immediate direction of general gates (…)”

January 11, 1779: La Fayette wrote Washington a last farewell before returning to France for the first time during the War.

“Farewell, my dear General, I hope your french friend will ever be dear to you, I hope I Schall Soon See you again, And tell you myself with what emotion I now leave the Coast you inhabit, and with what affection, and Respect I’ll for ever be, my dear General Your Respectfull and Sincere friend”

September 30, 1779: Washington being very playful with La Fayette and Adrienne.

“But at present must pray your patience a while longer, till I can make a tender of my most respectful compliments to the Marchioness. Tell her (if you have not made a mistake, & offered your own love instead of hers to me) that I have a heart susceptable of the tenderest passion, & that it is already so strongly impressed with the most favourable ideas of her, that she must be cautious of putting loves torch to it; as you must be in fanning the flame. But here again methinks I hear you say, I am not apprehensive of danger—My wife is young—you are growing old & the atlantic is between you—All this is true, but know my good friend that no distance can keep anxious lovers long asunder, and that the Wonders of former ages may be revived in this—But alas! will you not remark that amidst all the wonders recorded in holy writ no instance can be produced where a young Woman from real inclination has prefered an old Man—This is so much against me that I shall not be able I fear to contest the prize with you—yet, under the encouragement you have given me I shall enter the list for so inestimable a jewell.”

December 8, 1784: Washington wrote this letter just after he parted ways with La Fayette who was visiting the United States right after the conclusion of the war.

“In the moment of our separation upon the road as I travelled, & every hour since—I felt all that love, respect & attachment for you, with which length of years, close connexion & your merits, have inspired me. I often asked myself, as our Carriages distended, whether that was the last sight, I ever should have of you? And tho’ I wished to say no—my fears answered yes. I called to mind the days of my youth, & found they had long since fled to return no more; that I was now descending the hill, I had been 52 years climbing—& that tho’ I was blessed with a good constitution, I was of a short lived family—and might soon expect to be entombed in the dreary mansions of my father’s—These things darkened the shades & gave a gloom to the picture, consequently to my prospects of seeing you again: but I will not repine—I have had my day.”

December 21, 1784: La Fayette’s reply to Washington’s letter from December 8, 1784.

I Have Received Your Affectionate letter Of the 8th inst., and from the known Sentiments of My Heart to You, You will Easely guess what My feelings Have Been in perusing the tender Expressions of Your friendship—No, my Beloved General, our late parting was Not By Any Means a last interview—My whole Soul Revolts at the idea—and Could I Harbour it an instant, indeed, my dear General, it would make me Miserable—I well see You Never will go to franee—the Unexpressible pleasure of Embracing You in My own House, of wellcoming You in a family where Your name is adored, I do not much Expect to Experience—But to You, I shall Return, and within the walls of Mount vernon we shall Yet often Speack of old times—my firm plan is to visit now and then My friends on this Side of the Atlantick, and the Most Beloved of all friends I Ever Had, or ever will Have Any where, is too Strong an inducement for me to Return to Him, nor to think that, when Ever it is possible, I will Renew my So pleasing visits to Mount vernon.

March 17, 1790: The letter that accompanied the Key of the Bastille that La Fayette send Washington as a gift and that is still displayed in the front pallor of Mount Vernon.

“Give me leave, My dear General, to present you With a picture of the Bastille just as it looked a few days after I Had ordered its demolition, with the Main Kea of that fortress of despotism—it is a tribute Which I owe as A Son to My Adoptive father, as an aid de Camp to My General, as a Missionary of liberty to its patriarch.”

August 23, 1790: La Fayette had received news that Washington had just recovered from a very serious illness.

“What Would Have Been My feelings, Had the News of Your illness Reached me Before I knew My Beloved General, My Adoptive father was out of danger! I was Struck with Horror at the idea of the Situation You Have Been in, while I, Uninformed, and to distant from You, Was Anticipating the long waited for pleasure to Hear from You, and the Still More Endearing prospect to Visit You, and present You with the tribute of a Revolution one of Your fine Offsprings—for God’s Sake, my dear General, take Care of Your Health, don’t devote Yourself So much to the Cabinet, while Your Habit of life Has from Your Young Years, Accostumed You to a constant Exercise. (…)You may Easily Guess what I am Exposed to Suffer, what would Have Been my Situation Had I known Your illness Before the News of Your Recovery Had Conforted a Heart So Affectionately devoted to You.”

October 6, 1797: La Fayette’s first letter to Washington after the long years of his imprisonment.

“(…) in Vain Would I Attempt, My Beloved General, to Express to You the feelings of My filial Heart, when, at the Moment of this Unexpected Restoration to Liberty and Life, I find Myself Blessed With the opportunity to let you Hear from me. This Heart Has for twenty Years Been known to you—Words, that, Whatever they be, fall So Short of My Sentiments Would Not do justice to What I feel—But You Will Be Sensible of the Affectionate and delightful Emotions With Which I am Now Writing—to You, and I know also it is Not Without Some Emotion that after five Years of a death like Silence from me, You Will Read the first Lines I am at Last Enabled to write —With What Eagerness and pleasure I Would Hasten to fly to Mount Vernon, there to pour out all the Sentiments of Affection, Respect, and Gratitude Which Ever Bound me, and More than ever Bind me to You (…)”

December 25, 1799: The last letter Washington wrote to La Fayette

May 9, 1799: The last letter Washington received from La Fayette

… and I can guarantee you, as soon as I hit “post” I will realize that I have forgotten at least one other quote. Anyway - what are you favourites, if I may ask?

I hope you have/had a beautiful day!

[duhragonball]

[FIC] Luffa: The Legendary Super Saiyan (192/?)

Disclaimer: This story features characters and concepts based on Dragon Ball,  which is a trademark of Bird Studio/Shueisha and Toei Animation.   This is an unauthorized work, and no profit is being made  on this work by me. This story is copyright of me. Download if you like, but please don’t archive it without my permission. Don’t be shy.

Continuity Note: This story takes place about 1000 years before  66 years after the events of Dragon Ball Z. 

     [3 September, Age 749.  Earth.]  

One story ends with a little girl offering an apple to a king.    

The king used to be a monster, but now he's naked.   But at least he's not a monster anymore, so he's not that worried about it.    But he's so hungry.   As a monster, he couldn't satisfy his cravings, no matter what he ate.   He learned of the seven magic Dragon Balls, which could grant any wish.   He paid dearly to acquire them all, but in his desperate hunger he swallowed them, and then another summoned the Dragon, which burst forth from his distended, inhuman belly.  

He should have died in that moment, but somehow he still lived, and somehow he heard the little girl's wish:

"We don't need the Blood Rubies!   Just turn my land back to the way it was!"

And it was done.    

But the land was more than just earth and rivers and trees.    The land had a spirit too, and was that spirit not bound up with the people who called it home?    Villagers, farmers, merchants, and yes, even kings.   That was the only explanation King Gurumes could imagine for his survival.   Either the dragon restored him along with the land that bore his name, or the dragon lifted his curse by removing the Blood Rubies.    

Now, he is alive and human once again.    Even the hunger has changed.   It feels more like real hunger, and the craving subsides the moment he swallows the first bite of the little girl's apple.  

In that moment, King Gurumes feels the full weight of his shame.   He had nearly destroyed his own kingdom, all for the sake of the Blood Rubies, as treasure he didn't even need.    Now that the Blood Rubies are gone, he wonders why he ever wanted them in the first place.    

And yet, he can't help but look up into the sky, and wonder what became of those beautiful red stones.    Where did the Eternal Dragon take them, and what would happen to them?

And then, a short time later, it all comes to an end.    The land, the king, the little girl, the apple, all of it.    There is no prelude, no sense of climactic doom or relief.   No gentle transition, like a person drifting off to sleep.  There is simply the last moment, and then nothing afterward.   The ending.  King Gurumes, and everyone else in his world, is suddenly gone.

But not for long.  As this story ends, another begins.   The cycle continues.   The heart beats, and the blood of this tale continues another lap on its endless course.  

*******

     [6 April, Age 850.  Toki Toki City.]  

The dreams were a little different each time, but they always played out the same way.    There were so many nightmares that haunted Luffa, but then she came to Toki Toki City.   Then the dreams began to change.  

She would sometimes find herself in the dining hall of her old star-yacht.   Or she would be back on the colony on Dorlu Prime.   Or even in the habitat section of her parents' starship, where she spent her early childhood.   And she would be there, talking to her parents, like nothing had changed.   It would be dark.  

Sometimes the family's missions involved silent runnings, where her parents would reduce power to as many ship's systems as possible to avoid detection.  Luffa enjoyed these times.   There was nothing else to do but wait for the ship to coast towards its destination, and so her parents would sit in the habitat section for hours, sometimes days, and just be with her.   It was such a comforting experience that Luffa almost felt ashamed of herself for craving it.   Her parents were long dead, and that ship had been scuttled a long time ago.   But her subconscious mind allowed her to seek refuge there, and for a time, the nightmares would be held at bay.   At worst, Luffa would sometimes remember that she was no longer a little girl, and this would feel awkward in the dream.   Her mother and father would seem so much smaller by comparison.   And then she would recall that she was the Legendary Super Saiyan, but her parents' younger selves never seemed terribly concerned about it.  

"It just sort of happened," Luffa would mumble in a confused explanation.   Her mother would shrug, and her father would pretend to check the sensors.    

"You're probably wondering about her," Luffa would sometimes say, for she would suddenly notice her own wife in the dream, there on the ship with them, even though the real Zatte had never been on the real ship.  But the dream-logic made this discontinuity a mild faux pas at best.    

Zatte would say nothing, but snuggle up next to Luffa as they sat on one of the two sofas on opposite sides of the hab section.   Luffa's parents would sit on the other, and it was just the four of them.  

"I, uh... well, I got married.   She's an alien," Luffa would say.   "Well, you know her, Father.   Before you died...."  

This was when it became odd, as Luffa's mind tried to rationalize her memories with the dream.   She had killed her father a long time ago, but he was here, now, and everything was okay.   Her sleeping mind concluded that her blow must not have been fatal after all, and he was alive again, and everything was okay.

There would be a sort of rambling, one-sided discussion of Luffa's bisexuality.   She had never told her parents about this.   In the dream, no one seemed concerned about it, but she had always felt a need to spell it out to her parents, and this seemed like a good opportunity.   She vaguely heard her mother's voice, perhaps from the other room, saying she had always known.   But Luffa couldn't tell for sure.   Maybe she had imagined it.    

"Did you say you always knew?" Luffa asked when her mother returned.   Her mother didn't answer, and Luffa felt unwilling to press the issue.    Zatte was there, warm and fragrant and affectionate as always.    The scent of Dorlun sweat in her eyepatch mingled beautifully with the odors of the hab section.    It felt right.   It felt like family.  

"The Time Patrol wants me back for another mission," Luffa said to her.    "But it's not so bad now that you're back, Zattie.   I... well, it still hurts, you know."

"What hurts?" Zatte asked, staring up at Luffa, her left eye sparkling like an emerald.    

"When you died," Luffa said.  "I know it wasn't on purpose, and it all worked out."  How had it all worked out?    The dream didn't know or care, so long as it had.    "But it still tears me up inside.   All that time I thought you were gone."

"I am gone, Luffa," Zatte said.  

Luffa didn't understand that.   Later (How much later?  Minutes?   Hours?), Luffa would realize no one was in the hab section.   Zatte would be gone.    Her mother would be gone.  She would wander the ship trying to find them, or even check aboard the star-yacht, or in Toki Toki City.    They would be nowhere.    She would go to ask her father in the pilot section, but he would be gone too.   And gradually, the realization would set in.   They were all dead, and they were never coming back, and none of this had made any sense, because none of it had been real.    

And then Luffa would wake up.   Not to daylight, or chirping birds, or anything else that might take her mind off what she had just experienced.    It would always be the darkness of astronomical twilight, with just enough light through the window of her apartment bedroom to make it plain where she was.   The blankets would be tangled around her legs, and she would always try to go back to sleep, but never succeed.   She just lay there for a time, while the tears evaporated from her face.    

"Idiot," Luffa said to herself as she finally surrendered to the day.  "She's gone.   She's dead.    Leave her in the past.   It's what her culture demands.    I can honor that at least."

She rolled out of bed and went to the shower.    Once she was dressed, she knocked on her roommate's door to see if she was awake.  

"What is it?" Jayncho's voice called from behind the door.  

"Just checking if you were awake.    You want breakfast?"

"Whatever," Jayncho said.    

This was close enough to a 'yes' for Luffa, and so she headed for their small kitchen to begin.    She liked Jayncho, mostly because she was blunt and uncomplicated, but Luffa had begun to prefer it when Jayncho was asleep.   She had gotten into the habit of talking to the Majin woman while she slept.   Majins would pass out for days at a time, and they were very sound sleepers, and somehow Luffa found it easier to say certain things when there was someone else in the room who couldn't possibly hear.    If Jayncho hadn't answered the knock, Luffa probably would have entered the room and talked about her dreams.    As it was, she found cooking to be a good way to take her mind off her troubles, and making an extra serving for Jayncho helped extend that therapeutic experience.

After a time, Luffa carried a pair of plates to the table and set one at Jayncho's seat.   The Majin stared at it for a moment, then looked up expectantly at Luffa.

"What?" Luffa asked.   "Don't tell me you want more whipped cream on top.  You might as well just eat that stuff straight out of the container."

"No, it's fine," Jayncho said.  "It's just... aren't you going to set a plate for her?"

Luffa had no idea who she was talking about.   There was no one else in the apartment, and when she looked around to see what Jayncho meant, she didn't actually expect to see anyone.   And yet, there was an old woman sitting beside Jayncho now.   She looked like an Earthling, but her body suddenly changed, her skin turning blue, and her hair turning pink.

"Keda?!" Luffa gasped.  

"You don't have room for me anymore?" Keda asked.   Her body had now fully assumed Dorlun form, but she continued to change anyway, growing older and older.  In seconds, her wrinkled skin began to wither and flake off of her body.

Luffa took a step back and dropped her own plate.   "No..." was all she could say.

"Isn't she family too?" asked another familiar voice.   Luffa looked around to find her son, Xibuyas, standing in the doorway.   He had been raised to despise her, and she had tried to kill him on Nagaoka, but somehow he had survived, at least long enough to become the consort and general of...

"Aren't we all your family, Luffa?" asked Queen Seltiss.   She had been a teenager--Princess Seltiss-- when Luffa last saw her, eleven centuries ago.   Now she wore the finery of Saiyan royalty, like the painting she had seen from Dewar's historical files.   Somehow she and Xibuyas had both survived the destruction of Nagaoka, married, and assumed control of the Saiyan kingdom.  

Then Luffa heard the clicking, and the scratching.   She was accustomed to these noises.  During her months-long captivity, the insectoid Tikosi made such noises all the time.  They haunted her nightmares ever since.  

But this time it wasn't the Tikosi clawing at the walls of her apartment.  This time, when the multitude of grasping fingers came tearing through, they belonged to Saiyan hands.   Most of them were dressed like Time Patrollers.  Others wore the uniforms Luffa had seen on Frieza's soldiers.  

As they swarmed over Luffa, she looked back to find Keda reduced to dusty skeleton.  Jayncho was still sitting beside her, cutting her pancakes with a fork.  

"We're gonna need a bigger apartment," the Majin said glumly.  

Luffa struggled in vain.  There was no stopping the mob, no escaping them.  And as they crushed around her from every side, tearing at her hair, ripping at her flesh and clothing, she could hear Seltiss laughing from the doorway.

"Well what do think of your descendants, mom?" Seltiss asked.   "Are you proud of your brood?  Because you're nothing to them.   At least my generation hated you.   But these Saiyans?  They don't even know you ever existed."

Luffa tried to scream, but there were too many hands grasping at her mouth, strangling her throat.   What little air she could breathe was hot and stuffy.  She was trapped, completely trapped!   And just when it seemed like she would never escape--

*******

Luffa awoke with a scream.   The world around her was dark shadows held at bay by a bright yellow light.   She was hyperventilating.   She had no idea where she was.  

Years of dealing with trauma had forced her to learn how to react quickly to these situations.   The Tikosi had tormented Luffa with their cruel experiments.  The ordeal had led her body to achieve the legendary Super Saiyan transformation, but it had also scarred her psyche.  Luffa spent much of her life aboard spaceships, and the Super Saiyan power gave her the raw strength to cause a hull breach with a single, unthinking blow.  The only way to cope with the nightmares while traveling in space was to quickly come to her senses and begin the process of reigning in her power.  

She forced herself to control her breathing, and locked her forearms under the crooks of her knees.    Even though her every instinct pleaded for her to run, to fight, to move, she refused.   She had to remain as still as possible, until that thing inside her was brought to heel.

As she lay on her side, curled up in a ball, she reached out with her senses, telling herself again and again that there was nothing there, nothing at all that could harm her.   She curled her tail around her waist and stared at the end of it, watching the golden glow of the fur as she willed it to turn dark.   And finally, after long minutes, the glow obeyed her, and Luffa found herself in the gloom.

"Idiot!" she snarled to herself.   She took the nightmares personally, as if they reflected poorly on her character.  Those who knew Luffa would all speak highly of her great courage, but in Luffa's mind, she saw herself as a craven weakling, always fighting to rise above that status.  

Gradually, the realization sank in for Luffa that she had no idea where she was.  This was not her apartment, nor her star-yacht from centuries in the past, nor the hospital in Toki Toki City.  The odor of the room was more similar to the Time Vault, but not quite.  She was sitting on a futon in the center of a small room with stone walls.     She had noticed a small window while she was glowing, but now she couldn't see anything on the other side.  

She thought back to the last thing she remembered, hoping to understand what had happened.  Beerus, the God of Destruction, had come to the Time Nest, demanding to face Demigra, the Time Patrol's latest enemy.   As such a battle would have destroyed Toki Toki City and everything in it, Luffa offered to destroy Demigra on Beerus' behalf, and he reluctantly agreed to consider it following a demonstration of her fighting ability.  

It had been a tremendous honor.   Luffa had heard only brief tales of the God of Destruction in various alien mythologies.  To meet him in person was a thrill.  To see him fight Son Goku during a Time Patrol mission had been a privilege.  But Luffa could now say that she had sparred with Beerus personally, and perhaps even earned a measure of his respect.   At the end of their exhibition, she asked him to defeat her with a single strike, so that she could experience some small sample of his true strength.   Beerus had deigned to grant her request, and knocked her out with a single chop to her shoulder.  

Luffa didn't actually remember the exact movement of that attack, but her shoulder and neck still ached from the blow, and she couldn't remember anything after that.  So unless she had lost some other fight in her sleep, it all seemed to add up.   Someone must have brought her to this place to recuperate.  

Feeling calmer, Luffa decided to explore her surroundings.   She could sense no ki energy from anyone.   She had met beings that could conceal themselves from her ki senses.   Beerus was the most recent and noteworthy example, but her surroundings still smelled like Toki Toki City, which should have been bustling with powerful warriors.  

Luffa held up her left hand and concentrated until a ball of yellow energy coalesced above her palm.   She used it like a lantern as she took in her surroundings.   The room was mostly featureless.  There was a toilet and sink mounted along the wall, and a small desk with a stool. It looked more like a prison cell than an  infirmary.   The window she had noticed was part of the door.   She tried the handle, and was surprised to find the door unlocked.  Then she checked the handle on the other side and noticed it had been locked, but only from the outside.  A sign was posted which bore a pictogram warning people to keep out.  

Luffa shook her head and moved on to the hallway.   There were other rooms, but their doors were ajar, and with no sign of anyone inside.   Then, at the end of the hallway, she noticed another door opening, and a small figure emerged.   Suddenly, the room was illuminated, though Luffa could find no light fixtures.  

"Good, you're finally awake," Chronoa said.   "Maybe now you can help me get to the bottom of this."

Luffa had no idea what she was talking about.

*******

"So I was in my house, just minding my own business," Chronoa said, "I was trying to meditate on my past experiences with Demigra, and figure out how we should handle him now that he's back.   But then you suddenly showed up.   Just lying on my couch like you had been there all along."

The Supreme Kai of Time had led Luffa to a lounge area that was in the same building as the room she had been in.   There was a kettle on a hot plate, and the Kai used her powers to make it boil in a fraction of the time it would have normally taken.  

Like Beerus, Chronoa was a god, but it was harder to think of her that way.  The Kai was a very small woman, even shorter than Luffa, who was below average height among Saiyans.    Chronoa's rose-colored skin and pointed ears might have meant something to Earthlings, who were unaccustomed to dealing with beings from other worlds, but Luffa had dealt with far more unusual aliens.    And Chronoa was far less overbearing than Beerus the Destroyer.   The Kai commanded the Time Patrol, and she was responsible for the preservation of history itself, but she still treated her mortal subordinates like friends and peers.   It was hard to think of Chronoa as a god, much less a god who had lived for seventy-five million years.  

"So I brought you here," Chronoa said.   "And I've been keeping tabs on you for the last day or so."

She carried the kettle back to a conference table and began to pour it over a pair of mugs she had set out.   Luffa's mug bore the words "Multiverse's Best Supreme Kai of Time!"   Chronoa's mug had a print of the periodic table of chemical elements.   Between them was a  tray of crepes and tiny sandwiches, and Luffa helped herself.  

"Where is 'here'?" Luffa asked between crepes.

"I call it the isolation ward," Chronoa explained.   "Sometimes I get a visitor from a different time frame, and it might be dangerous to let them mingle with anyone else.   They might hear things about their own future, or reveal future events to others.   So I built this place underneath the Time Vault to keep them quarantined until I could figure out what to do with them."

"Quarantined?" Luffa asked.   "You and Trunks brought me here from the past, remember?  He used the Dragon Balls to wish for a powerful ally, and I got yanked across the centuries.   And you're only just now worried about what that might do to the timeline?"

Chronoa nodded patiently as she waited for Luffa to finish.   "Centuries are actually easier to deal with in these situations, believe it or not," she said.  "What makes this situation so sensitive is that you've been transported a few days through time.   Do you remember the date?"

"April 20," Luffa said.   "Well, you said I've been out for a full day, so it must be the twenty-first by now."

"No, it's not," Chronoa said.   "Here, in this moment, it's April 6.   You've gone back in time, Luffa."

"What?" Luffa asked.  "But how could that--?!"

"I sent you," Chronoa explained.   "Well, I will send you back, eventually."

"But how could you know it was you if you haven't done it yet?!" Luffa demanded.  

"Because I've done this sort of thing before, from time to time," Chronoa explained.   I always leave them on my couch when I do it, because that way my past self will notice it right away, and I'll know it was me.   I don't know exactly why my future self sent you, but you were in pretty rough shape when I found you, like you'd lost a fight.   So I'm assuming I needed you healed up, but there wasn't time to wait."

Luffa looked herself over for a moment.   Her yellow pants and black compression shirt were scuffed and damaged, but she couldn't find any of the scrapes or bruises she had sustained from fighting Beerus.   Her shoulder was still sore from Beerus' finishing strike, and she still a weariness from that battle, but it wasn't as bad as she would have expectd.  

"I guess you must have gotten someone to heal me up," she said.  

"No, I had to do that myself," Chronoa explained.   "I couldn't risk taking you to the hospital, or even bringing someone from the staff here.   So I used my own empathic healing powers to take the damage from your body into mine.  But I couldn't get it all in one go, so I had to do a little bit at a time.   And I'm still not done yet.   Someone must have really worked you over, Luffa."

Luffa rubbed her hand over the area where Beerus had delivered his finishing chop.   "Yeah, you might say that," she said with a wince.   "I'm still pretty sore, but I guess I got off pretty light, considering it was B--"

"No!  Shut up!   Stop talking this instant!"

Chronoa had suddenly leaped out of her seat and was now standing in her chair, waving her arms wildly.    Luffa hadn't seen her this upset since Beerus arrived in the Time Nest.  Although, if what Chronoa was telling her was the truth, then Beerus hadn't actually arrived yet.

"What's your problem?" Luffa asked.  

"You can't tell me what you've been doing," Chronoa insisted.   "If you do, then it'll create a paradox!"

"Didn't you already do that by sending me back in the first place?" Luffa asked.   "I mean, now you know you'll have to send me back on a certain day.   Wait, have I got that right?"

"Yes, but that's all I know, and my future self took that into account!" Chronoa said.  "But if you tell me anything more than that, it could upset that cycle.  We've got enough problems on our hands already, what with the Demigra situation and all.   Unless you've already defeated him in your time..."

Luffa opened her mouth to explain that she hadn't, but Chronoa cut her off before she could say anything.    

"No!  Don't tell me!" she squealed.  "I don't want to know!  Well, I do, honestly, but I can't!"

"All right, sheesh!" Luffa said.   "I got my clock cleaned, and we'll just leave it at that.   But I'm feeling better now, so why don't I just go back to my apartment and I can cook myself a proper meal and sleep in my own bed?"

"Because you can't," Chronoa said.   "Because you're already there."

Luffa could only offer a perplexed look.  

"From your perspective," Chronoa explained, "this moment in time is in your past.   What were you doing two weeks ago?"

"Working for you," Luffa said.   "I was training so I'd be ready for Demigra, and then I'd stop by the Time Vault to check up on things."

"What else?"

Luffa shrugged.   "I'd go home and go to sleep," she said.   "I'd eat.   Maybe hang out with Dewar or Mosh, or one of the others."

"Exactly!" Chronoa said.   "You can't just go back to your own apartment, because your past self is already there.   Do you remember meeting your future self on April 6?"

"What?  No!"

"Then there you go!" Chronoa insisted.   "Not only are you forbidden from meeting your past self, but we now know that it couldn't have happened!  You must have listened to me when I told you this, because you never went and found your past self."

"I think I hate this," Luffa grumbled.

"You hate it?" Chronoa whined.   "How do you think I feel?  I can't stand dealing with these kinds of situations!"  

"Well then why did you send me back in the first place?" Luffa asked.  

"I already told you, I don't know!" Chronoa seethed.   "I haven't done it yet."

"Okay, okay!" Luffa said.    "This isn't helping anything.  Look, I'm feeling better now, and I appreciate you taking the time to heal me up.  But if there's nothing else for me to do here, then why don't you just... zap me back to my present time?  I mean, you can do that, right?"

"Sure I can," Chronoa said.  "But it's not that simple."

Luffa planted her elbows on the table and buried her face in her hands.  

"Well, it's not," Chronoa said.  

"Then what do you expect me to do?" Luffa asked.  "I can't just sit in this ward of yours for two weeks and wait for everyone else to catch up."

"Normally, I'd agree," Chronoa said.  "Sending you back would be the most sensible option, because it would minimize any temporal contamination.  But I think my future  self had something else in mind for you, Luffa."

She began to reach into the inside of her purple coat and fished around for something.   Just as Luffa began to run out of patience, Chronoa finally withdrew her hand and held up a piece of paper, which she placed on the table.  

"What's this?" Luffa asked.  

"I found it stuck to your shirt when you showed up on my couch."

Luffa unfolded the paper and found two words written on it in big letters.  

'SHE'S READY'

There was also a heart drawn under the words, but Luffa ignored this.

"That's my handwriting," Chronoa said.   "I think it's safe to say that I sent this message to myself."

"I'm ready?" Luffa asked.   "Ready for what?"

"I have a hunch about that," Chronoa said.   "It couldn't be anything you were already involved in, because I already have a Luffa of my own working for me in this time period.  My future self wouldn't just loan me her Luffa for that.  It'd be redundant."

"Sure..." Luffa said.  By now she was prepared to go along with almost anything Chronoa said.  

"So I started thinking about other assignments," Chronoa said.  "To be honest, I had to get creative.  There's a lot of jobs that you just aren't cut out for, Luffa.  Shenron brought you to us to help us fight Towa, Mira, and Demigra.   And you've done well with that, but there's a lot of jobs that you just wouldn't be qualified for.  No offense, but you're kind of hard to get along with."

"Hmmph!" was all Luffa had to say to that.  

"Well, something must have changed my mind in the future," Chronoa said, "because I'm going to send you back to this point, with a note that tells me you're ready.   Ready for something that I wouldn't have considered before today."

"Look, if you've got a job for me to do, let's just get on with it," Luffa said.  "Point me at whatever you need beaten up, and I'll handle it.  Sorting out this time travel business is your end, Chronoa."

Chronoa smiled warmly.   "See, that's exactly the sort of attitude I'm talking about," she said.   "That's why I never would have picked you out for this mission.   But now that I've thought about it... well, it's  so nutty that it just might work."

She hopped down from her chair and gestured for Luffa to follow her out the door.   "Come on," she said.  "It'll be easier if I show you."

Luffa sighed and grabbed a few more sandwiches to bring along with her.  

*******

Fittingly, perhaps, Chronoa simply led Luffa back to the same room where Luffa had awakened.  Only this time, she kept going down the hallway, and pointed out a different room a few doors down, one which Luffa had not noticed before.  

"I don't get it," Luffa said.   There was a red glow from the window, but before, the room had been dark, and the door was ajar.  Now, it was locked, and Chronoa was inserting a key she had taken from her jacket.  

"It's a security measure," Chronoa said.  "In case anyone stumbles across this place, they'll have a hard time finding anything they're not supposed to see.   Each of these rooms is confined to a different time dimension.   You're only seeing it like this now because I'm aligning it with your perception."

"Sure, whatever you say," Luffa said.   She wasn't sure why she bothered asking questions about these things.  

"It's the same reason you can't sense any ki energy outside of the ward," Chronoa added.  As she unlocked the door, she pointed her other hand toward the ceiling.    Trunks is in the Time Vault, right above us, but he can't sense us and you can't sense him."

"Oh," Luffa said, glancing up at the stone surface above her.  

"So far, all of the missions you've done for us have involved bad guys trying to tamper with history," Chronoa explained.   "Demons like Towa aren't so different from the enemies you must have battled in your own native era."

"Pretty much," Luffa admitted.  "You're saying there's more to it than that?"

"A lot of temporal anomalies are naturally-occurring," Chronoa said. "You'd think they'd be easier to deal with, because there's no hostile actor behind the trouble.   And sure, sometimes they're not so bad, but every so often we find one that's not so easy to fix.    And then there's the ones where we have trouble figuring out what the problem even is."

Chronoa opened the door, and gestured for Luffa to follow her inside.   As she crossed the threshold, she saw a large red crystal floating in the middle of the empty room.   The glow she had seen earlier was being generated by the object.   It pulsed with red light, almost like a strange, inorganic heart.  

"I don't have an official name for this," Chronoa said.  "But over the years, we've had a few Time Patrollers study it, and a few of them came up with nicknames.   Most people, though, they just call it 'The Ruby Loop.'"

Luffa had no idea what it was, or why it was important.    And so she simply stared at the object, knowing that she would have to discover its secrets the hard way.

Perhaps Luffa was ready, but she wasn't sure that she was looking forward to it.

 NEXT: Cry Excitebike!

[xxkellsvixen19xx]

Spotlight: A Life Of A Troubled Celebrity Heartthrob Ch 9

Spotlight: A Life Of A Troubled Celebrity Heartthrob Chapter 9

Word Count: 3,432

We're going to skip the formalities Ashleigh," Colson strolled into the study and pushed Ashleigh's chair back, "Why did you you do it??"

"Colson I-" Ashleigh looked at him, frightened, "Slim said if I didn't do it then-it would have been me instead," she hung her head in shame.

"Hmm.." Colson held his chin and pretended to be in deep thought, "so you gave up Y/N instead..makes sense I guess," he shrugged.

"What?!" her head snapped up.

"Slim is a crackhead and is blazed half the time..what's your excuse for taking part in this Ashleigh," his eyes were fire and ice all at once.

"He threatened me-" she cried out.

"But you made conscious decision to help him f*ck my wife didn't you?!" Colson shot back, "you even spiked her drink with a double dose of the drug!" He shouted, "why did you do that? Huh?!"

"I was scared!" she said as the tears pooled her eyes,

"Ahhh..I see.." Colson stood up, " are you scared Ash?" Colson got up stared directly into her eyes.

"Y-e-ss.." she gulped and looked at the bodyguards that towered behind Colson.

"Good," Colson said with satisfaction, "it's good that you're afraid," he paced around her chair, "At least I've got the decency to plan this thing in front of you; and not behind your back like what you did to someone that considered you a friend," he stopped in front of her, "Now I'm going to get one of these guys to lock you in a tiny bathroom and have his way with you? How about that? Sound familiar?"

"Don't! Please! I'll do anything!" she fell at Colson's feet and grovelled.

"Guys can I have a volunteer to take this lovely lady into the restroom and do what ever you feel like with her? Actually I want you to go as far as Slim did with my wife..or further maybe? Rog? Andre? You're game?" Colson asked.

"Let me at her Col. I think I will do a good job than Rog over here," Andre motioned with his head.

"No, no, no. Please allow me Col? I will do a better job than Slim," Rog said smugly.

"Okay Rog you're our guy!" Colson patted Rog on the back, "don't worry Ashleigh I'll just turn a blind eye like you did and I hope, for your sake, there's someone that cares enough to come and knock the door down-like I did," Colson stepped away from her, "Hey don't forget to rough her up and spike her drink before-just like Slim did to my wife."

"Waaiiitt! Don't leave me! I'm sorry! Please! Slim made me do it-he-he threatened me," Ashleigh wailed.

"Why didn't you come to me?! You had a choice and you did the wrong thing Ashleigh! That makes you as bad as Slim!" Colson yelled at her, his blue eyes blazing. "By the way-enjoy your stay in prison," he informed her before he left the room.

"Take her away Rog and don't come out until she passes out just like Y/N," Jax looked down at her with disgust.

"Jax! Please don't do this!" she pleaded but Jax was having none of it.

"You saw it fit to do it to Y/N so why should I feel sorry for you? Take her away," Jax said.

"Noooo! Please!" Ashleigh screamed as Rog threw her over his shoulder; to carry out orders.

"How far do you want to take this Colson?" Jax asked as they walked to the car.

"As far as Slim took liberties on my wife," Colson replied tersely, "I want her to experience everything that Y/N went through. She should have a play by play version and we'll see how she feels being in the same shoes."

"So they're not going to actually...?" Jax raised his eyebrow.

"No! I gave them strict instructions not to take it that far," he reiterated.

"Okay," Jax opened the door for Colson and he jumped in.

"Please take me to the hospital? I need to check on Y/N before I lose my mind," Colson sighed heavily, "the doctor has assured me that he didn't..get very far."

"What a relief!" Jax sagged on the driver's seat.

"If he had-I was going to kill him with my bare hands," Colson clenched his fist.

"Not if I got to him first-with a bullet straight through his head," Jax said with conviction.

"I think we need to leave this place. Just me and Y/N," Colson said, "please make the arrangements?"

"Where are we going to this time?" Jax questioned, knowing he was part of the plan.

"Jamaica," Colson replied.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

"Good morning baby," Colson sat on the hospital bed and held Y/N's hand. Her eyes fluttered open and she groaned.

"You told him," she snatched her hand out of his grasp and turned aside.

"What?!" Colson asked, confused.

"I told you something in confidence," she cleared her throat, "and you told Slim so he could use it against me," she sniffled.

"Sweets.." Colson jumped onto the bed and lay in front of her, "look at me? Please?" he held her face tenderly.

"I honestly have no idea what you're going on about" his blonde hair flopped over his eyes and he tossed it back, "can you at least fill in the blanks so that we can be on the same page?" he stared at her intently.

"He knew," she whispered, "he knew about Bobby," she dropped her gaze.

"Who's Bobby baby?" Colson asked gently.

"My ex," she gulped as she twisted her hands nervously.

"I didn't tell him anything about it sweets. I swear. Maybe he overheard me talking to Jax the other day..I wanted him to help find him so you wouldn't have to worry about him coming back-I didn't want it hanging over your head," Colson explained "plus you never really told me his name.."

"Oh," her eyes focused on chest.

"You like my t-shirt?" Colson joked.

"I've always found plain white t-shirts fascinating," she rolled her eyes.

"This isn't just any white t-shirt babe-it's an original Levi," Colson held out the hem of the t-shirt and grinned.

"I'm sorry for spoiling your night," Y/N apologized.

"Hey..don't do that," Colson held her chin up and gazed into her e/c orbs, "I should be the one apologizing actually. I was supposed to protect you but-"

"Can we not talk about this?" she frowned and looked away.

"Sure," there was an awkward silence. "I'll go and check with the doctor if he's done with your discharge papers," Colson hopped of the bed and left the room.

Y/N looked up the ceiling and sighed heavily. How did she end up in this situation for a second time? If Colson hadn't kicked down the door when he did then-she didn't even want to think about it. She would rather keep it buried in her emotional archives.

"Good morning!" Jax stood at the door with his hands in his pockets, "is there room for one more?" he smiled.

"Jax!" Y/N gave him a genuine smile, "come in!" Jax got to her in two strides and engulfed her in a bear hug.

"You okay kid?" he leaned back and examined her.

"Yeah," she grinned.

"Good. The doctor has given you the green light, you can go home" he nodded with satisfaction, "did your husband tell you that we're going on honeymoon?"

"No Jax," Colson cut in, "but you might as well tell her."

"Tell me what?" Y/N asked.

"We're going to the Caribbean baby," Jax smiled.

"What?! Really babe??" Y/N gushed and Colson nodded with a smile.

"Let's get out of here I need to pack."

***********************************

It was a beautiful day; the birds were singing, the sun was shining and all was alright in the world. For now at least.

Colson woke up early and went to take his usual swim. The beach was deserted as he walked towards the water, in his shorts and his towel slung over his shoulder. He loved to take an early morning swim as part of his workout routine because it helped him to think; and he had a lot of thinking to do this morning.

At the end of this week they were going back to reality and he wasn't sure if he was ready for that. The press that constantly stalked him and pried into his private life unashamedly, his fake friends, the pressure of staying at the top and last but not least his dear mother in law. Mrs Y/M/F/N L/N had called him, breathing fire and threatening to castrate him as soon as his jet touched the ground of Cleveland. He would definitely chose dealing with the press over that any day.

While he understood that she had genuine concerns, Y/N was a grown woman and the only thing that mattered to him. The way he felt about her frightened him. After Dani he had promised to never fall in love again. Love was complicated, it was too intense and it made you vulnerable; but worst of all you could risk getting your heart broken. He had loved Dani more than was humanely possible-he could have done anything for her and he did, but after she slept with his best friend she did irreparable damage to his heart. He couldn't risk it again-and yet he found himself totally consumed by Y/N Y/L/N.

Her eyes captivated him and sent his heart spiraling to the ends of the unknown. When she laughed or smiled at him he felt like he could take on the world. Making love to her was an indescribable feeling..he couldn't put it into words even if he tried. She was always on his mind and he just wanted to be with her all the time. He was selfish when it came to her-he didn't want anyone else around when they were together; he wanted all her attention; all of her.

Colson swam back to the shore, his body was exhausted. He bent over and held onto his knees, trying to catch his breath.

"Smile," Y/N said and as he looked up startled she took a pic with her iPhone.

"Hey sweets," his face broke into a smile and his heart skipped a beat.

"I could wake up to this every morning..some girls have all the luck," she sighed and took a few more pics of Colson in his swimming trunks, water dripping from his gorgeous body.

"You know what Bambi..I think you need to be in the pic as well-"Colson lunged at her and grabbed her, making her wet. She was dressed in a short floral caftan dress which did nothing to protect her.

"Baker!" she squealed, "you're making me wet!"

"Just what I love to hear sweets," he crushed her against his solid chest and their lips merged, melting into each other. He wove his fingers into her silky soft hair and she in turn slid her fingers into his wet hair.

Jax stood behind them clearing his throat and got their attention.

"Just on time Jax-please take a video and post it on Instagram asap okay?" Colson handed the phone to him.

"A video??," Y/N asked. Before she got a response Colson swooped her off her feet and threw over his shoulder. He ran back into the water amidst Y/N's screams and protests.

She landed in the water with a splash and Colson laughed at her as she spluttered in the water.

"Baker you are dead!!" she jumped onto his back and they both keeled over back into the water. Y/N tried to escape but he caught her foot and dragged her back in. They continued a full out make out session and would have taken it further if Jax hadn't reminded them that they were in a public area.

"That's enough you two!" Jax yelled, "breakfast is served, let's go."

"Let's get changed first. Come one," Colson put his arm around her shoulder as they walked back to the villa. They had a quick shower and dressed up before going for breakfast.

"Can't we go out somewhere for breakfast?" Y/N suggested, "We're in the Caribbean so we might as well take advantage of it."

"As mi 'lady wishes," Colson bowed.

"Baker!" Y/N swatted his arm.

"But I went all out and made breakfast for you two?" Jax grumbled.

"Sorry Jax. Guess we will have to stay and eat," Y/N said.

"Killjoy," Colson muttered under his breath.

"Don't worry babe, we can explore after breakfast," Y/N squeezed his arm.

"Ooh, I like the sound of that.." Colson murmured and leaned in to kiss her.

"Can we eat now?" Jax complained.

"I would rather eat what I'm looking at right now.." Colson continued to suck on Y/N's lips and she giggled.

"Gosh! I think I'm going to throw up," Jax rolled his eyes, "I'm going to eat at my villa. I'll leave you kids to it." He threw his napkin on the table and stood up.

"Hey Jax," Colson said, "You're officially off duty. We'll call you when we need you."

"Thank you!" Jax said with a sigh of relief, "at least I won't have to witness you two sucking face any longer."

"Makes two of us," Colson replied. They laughed as they watched him leave.

"You're not a nice person Baker," Y/N said as she nibbled on a piece of bacon.

"I know but I'm still yours," he tucked a lose strand of hair behind her ear.

"Are you really?" she asked with uncertainty.

"Sweets-let's not do this? Please?" he raked his hair.

"So nothing has changed," she nodded and her gaze as she twisted her fingers nervously.

"I'm going for a walk!" Colson pushed back his chair and it screeched as he stood up.

"Fine!" Y/N shouted at his retreating back.

Y/N thought that things had changed. That somehow his feelings had changed and he was finally ready to admit that he loved her, that this was more than a casual fling, that they had passed the stage of testing the waters. She had hoped they had established their relationship on a solid foundation but his outburst had proved that they were still on ground zero.

Two steps forward. Two steps back.

**********************************

Y/N spent the day watching Netflix in the guest room at the villa. She had ordered room service because she didn't feel like cooking. She didn't feel like doing anything but wallowing in self-pity. Colson hadn't shown up for lunch or dinner and Y/N went into further depression. There was a fully stocked bar so she decided to take full advantage of it and drowned her sorrows.

She heard loud music coming from outside so she got dressed in her best outfit and headed out. There was no way she was going to sit at home while Colson was probably out there having a good time. She stumbled into a local club that seemed to be happening tonight and made a beeline to the bar.

"Can I have a cosmo?" she asked the barman and he nodded. She sipped on it slowly and watched the revelers grinding on each other; having a good time.

"Care to dance?" Colson came from behind and whispered in her ear.

"Get lost Baker," she retorted without swinging around.

"Look sweets, I'm sorry for walking out on you," he turned her around and he took her hands, "I shouldn't have done that-please forgive me?" he pouted.

"We can't make progress if that's what you going to do every time we have a fight," she said, "where have you been all day anyway?"

"I went scuba diving and surfing with Jax," he replied. "Can we just be Colson and Y/N tonight? For the rest of the week maybe?" he caressed her cheek with the back of his hand, "No fighting, no arguing-no nothing-good vibes only. Just me and you enjoying each other's company? Can we do that baby?" he implored.

"Okay Baker. I'm sold," Y/N rolled her eyes and picked up her drink.

"I know we need to do grown up talk soon but can it be when we get back home?" he asked, "for now I just want to enjoy my honeymoon with my beautiful and sexy wife," he took her drink and gulped half of it down.

"Hey! Get your own," she slapped his arm. He ordered another round for them and then a couple of more. She was feeling light headed and her face was tingling. The alcohol had clearly kicked in and she could feel it.

"Let's go dance!" Colson pulled her to the dance floor.

"I don't even know how to dance to this music!" she shouted into his ear. She looked around her and all she could see was people gyrating on each other. If they didn't have any clothes on it would have been x-rated.

"There's nothing to it sweets. Just follow my lead," Colson started grinding against her and she followed suit.

They got lost in the moment as their bodies intertwined as they moved to the rhythm of the music. He turned her around and fitted her back into the contour of his body, his hands slowly gliding down her thighs. She weaved her hands in his hair and pressed her backside into him and he groaned into her ear.

"You're killing me Bambi," his lust filled voice whispered into her ear, sending chills down her spine. He gripped her hips tightly and sucked her earlobe and she gasped.

"I learnt from the best," she said breathlessly, as she continued to grind against him.

"Bathroom-now!" he growled.

"What?!" her eyeballs almost popped out. This was so hot but she had to be the voice of reason here. He grabbed her hand and led her to the ladies restrooms, "Colson-you can't be serious?!

"This is Jamaica sweets. We can't come here and not have hot, spontaneous sex in the bathroom," he slammed the door shut and made sure it was locked.

"What if we get caught?" she asked breathlessly, as he planted hot kisses on her neck.

"Too bad-they will just have to hear you screaming my name," he said in a husky voice, before he pushed her against the door and took her right there and then.

Welcome to Jamaica.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The rest of the night was a blur and just when Y/N thought she was ready to head home, Colson told her the night was only beginning.

"We've been invited to an after party at Sean Paul's and I have been trying forever to get a collabo with him. This is my chance," Colson said as they jumped into the limo.

"Can you maybe drop me off at home? I'm totally wasted," Y/N groaned and leaned back on the leather seat.

"Not a chance sweets," Colson leaned in and kissed her until she was breathless, "better?" he asked with a smile.

"Hmmm," was all Y/N could day.

"We won't stay long. Promise," he assured her but they both knew it was a lie.

Colson kept her entertained throughout the night and never left her side. They danced, talked, drank and danced some more. Finally she couldn't stand on her feet any more so they went to sit down again. The people at their table were smoking a joint an passing it around and Colson pulled on it a couple of times before passing it to Y/N.

"No way!" she pushed his hand away.

"Don't tell me you've never smoked weed sweets?" he looked genuinely shocked.

"Never..not interested," she slurred, "I don't smoke."

"This is different. Besides-we're in Jamaica sweets. You can't be here and not experience this," he looked at the joint like it was gold, "come on just try it. Just one drag," he coaxed and his new found friends cheered her on.

"Okay, okay" she relented. Against her better judgement she took it and smoked it until she choked on the smoke.

"Yeah!" everyone cheered for her.

"Well done Bambi," Colson chuckled and rubbed her back.

To this day Y/N couldn't remember how she got home that night.

Colson teased her about it the next day. Apparently she danced on the table and almost did a strip show but he had stopped her just in time. He even got a lap dance.

"You're a bad influence Baker," she groaned and went back to sleep.

[yellow-faerie]

I would very much like to hear about your head canons for Findis and co! (if you're not busy, no pressure!) have a great day :)

Oh yes! Would love to! Sorry it took so long - I have exams and I had to go back through all my many, many notes I have accumulated over the last six months of headcanons and things and the post kept getting bigger!

OK, so, while I sometimes go by other people as Findis’ wife/husband, my personal favourite is Rilyanixë and together they have four children: two daughters and two sons. Of these children, they have six grandchildren (3 granddaughters and 3 grandsons) and (as far as I know so far) no great-grandchildren.

(I’ll put the full post under the cut)

So Findis is the eldest daughter of Finwë and Indis called Laurinalma by her mother (meaning Golden Flower) and Lintafinwë by her father (meaning Soothing Finwë) (and maybe Finwë is a male name but I believe -wë is a gender neutral name ending and I like the idea of different families keeping a naming tradition of sorts). The name Findis is actually her Cilmessë.

She dislikes Tirion immensely because of their general attitude to remarriage and everything really.

I have this headcanon that the children of Finwë were all very close until they really got into society and rumours and other people’s opinions really tore them apart - Fëanor to Formenos or Aulë’s halls; Lalwen to the wilds where she spends most of her time with her Maia girlfriend/wife (they aren’t sure which); Fingolfin to the isolation of court; and Finarfin to Alqualondë.

And Findis goes to Valmar and the Vanyar.

She takes on a healers apprenticeship there, returning only a few times a year to her family home where tensions are rising between Fëanor and literally everyone else - not yet about anything important, more about really insignificant things. (I think this post sums up my thoughts on Fëanor and the way I see his relationships with his half-family quite well)

And for her graduation, she goes to the Tirion library before returning to Valmar (this is as much to cool down after arguing with Fëanor over something inconsequential as it is to find resources for her theory exam/essay/things) and meets Rilyanixë.

Rilyanixë (a name meaning Sparkling Ice) is the quiet, middle child of the chief archivist of Tirion Archive. His father is a Vanya hunter (because, really, Findis isn’t going to marry someone who isn’t at least a little Vanya) and his older sister takes after him. His younger sister went down to Alqualondë to learn sailing because she refuses to take after either of her parents, but that’s another story.

They meet because he too is looking to get away because his mother - a staunch supporter of the crown and it’s ability to make sound decisions (thus trusting Indis) - threw someone from the archive for making snide comments about the royal family and Rilyanixë rather disliked the raised voices. It is technically his day off but he came here to put books away because that’s what calms him.

So they meet and get on well: Rilyanixë quite likes this slightly scatter-brained healer and Findis likes the quiet librarian with a small smile and brown hair that shines gold when the light hits it just right.

She agrees to meet him again when she returns the books in a month or two when she comes back to town.

And they go out for coffee and learn that they are both half-Ñoldo, half-Vanya. And they sort-of fall into each other, meeting up in Valmar and in Tirion and eventually they are courting and then betrothed and then they are married, three years after first meeting.

(The marriage does cause tensions to rise between Rilyanixë and his Vanya family who see Findis as too Ñoldor and have issues with that so they don’t end up spending much time with them - there’s a reason Rilyanixë’s parents don’t live together anymore)

Now, Rilyanixë married into this family so he is as veritably crazy as all of they are - except no-one notices until he tells Fëanor that his latest creation was ‘passable, he supposes’ because Fëanor insulted Findis and you just don’t do that. Basically, Rilyanixë is very uncrazy unless provoked at which point he will just provoke whoever’s closest, however ill-advised that is (if that makes any sense).

Anyway, they get a house halfway between Tirion and Valmar (because they can’t be completely separate from politics but...they don’t want to be anywhere near it at the same time) and live fairly peacefully, with occasional siblings just appearing or nephews and nieces and the like (from Rilyanixë’s side too it should be noted).

Everyone is beginning to think that they are not going to have children as Arafinwë is already married and with a baby when Findis declares that she is pregnant. A year(ish) later, she gives birth to a girl that Findis calls Findecurë (Tress of Skill - weird name, but I was trying to come up with a translation for Finvain) and Rilyanixë calls Nofernë (Under Beech Tree). Of the two of them, Rilyanixë’s naming is actually a bit more prophetic than his wife’s (because I find it odd that only women have prophetic visions and while I still think that women are almost always the parent (if either parent does have prophetic name-giving), I thought that men must even just a little).

Before Fëanor pulls the sword and everything finally collapses in on itself, they have three more children. A boy who she calls Findelaurë (I’m using this variation on Glorfindel’s Quenya name for the sake of familial consistency) and who Rilyanixë calls Indiltur (Lily Lord). Another girl that Findis calls Fanyanel (Daughter of the Clouds) and Rilyanixë calls Iþilmolótë (Flower of Starlight - and apparently the Vanyar still used the letter thorn? I might be wrong). And finally another son that Findis calls Finróna (Hair of the East) and Rilyanixë calls Aþumolor (Good Companion in Dreams). In order of birth, their Sindarin names (and the names I shall be referring to them by) are Glorfindel, Finvain, Faniel and Finrun.

At the darkening, Glorfindel follows Turgon (with whom he is close), Faniel follows Glorfindel (with whom she is close), Finrun follows his elder siblings and the other Finwean babies (Galadriel, Argon and Ambarussa), and Finvain follows her siblings.

When her children and family leave, Findis disappears into the wilds (very good fic about this here) and Rilyanixë, with no family, returns to his mother’s house in Tirion.

So Glorfindel we all know goes to Gondolin and dies and gets re-embodied, etc. I would like to add a bit to his story to say I am a big Glorestor shipper and they definitely end up married and they adopt Lindir and his sister Lindis (because no-one can stop me).

As of Erestor, he’s an Avar in my mind who ends up with Gondolin because the Avari keep being pushed from their homes and he knows he would be safe there. (He does initially say he’s a Sindar to try and avoid the general distaste everyone seems to have for the Avari and only tells those he really trusts). Also, he would get on so well with Rilyanixë and it’s such a pity that they don’t meet until the fourth age.

Finvain leaves ME because her brothers and sisters are going, not from any particualr desire of hers to go. She is protective at heart - even if she seems very cold - and loves her brothers and sisters a lot. She does a lot of what she does only grudgingly and eventually swears off killing even orcs as her actions at Alqualondë haunt her that much (she acts as a behind the lines medical assistant due to her knowledge of plants and herbs and is killed because of her oath when the camp is overrun).

She loves gardening. If she’s sitting in a patch of flowers, she’s happy (she would really love hobbits if she had lived). She had a garden in her family home between Valmar and Tirion but when she left it got overgrown, despite Finrun’s best attempts to keep it cared for (he’s busy and the garden reminds him too painfully of his absent sister). She can’t keep a garden in ME (she’s a messenger for Fingolfin, moving around a lot) but she does have a habit of planting flowers in odd places wherever she travels.

She does fall in love, if that is what you would call it. She and Morwen (and I have this headcanon that Morwen and Húrin were really good friends who were both hella gay and both really wanted children so got married for that while agreeing that they could see other people) spend time together and it would have developed further if Finvain wasn’t always being called away and she hadn’t died at Nirnaeth.

Finvain holds guilt over her brother’s death as Finrun died at Alqualondë and Finvain saw him die, still confused as to what was actually going on; and Lalaith’s death (who she thought she could save with her medicine but who died anyway).

When she is re-embodied - before her sister but after both her brothers, she returns to her family home - left abandoned by her mother who had vanished soon after the Darkening; her father, who had returned to his mother in Tirion; and her brother, who was now living almost permanently on the outskirts of Alqualondë. She fixes it up the best she can and tends to her garden as slowly, one by one, her family returns.

Faniel is the sort of person who has everyone wrapped around her little finger but doesn’t seem to know. Hella strong, hella kind, hella oblivious - a summary of Faniel’s character.

Faniel and Ecthelion are both bi (when Ecthelion was younger, there was a time he and Glorfindel were courting before they decided they were better as friends). She and Ecthelion have three children: a son, Elemmakil; a daughter, Meleth; and a child, Enerdhil. Meleth ends up as Eärendil’s nurse and marries Elwing’s nurse Evranin which is all I really have for her and I have next to nothing for the other two. But they exist.

Anyway, Faniel fights with a spear and actually lives to escape to the havens but she dies in the Third Kinslaying.

She is the last of her siblings to be reborn and ends up being the one to initiate the search for their mother.

And finally, Finrun. He dies at Alqualondë when he and a few others go into the city to see what the confusion is all about and gets caught up in the crossfire before he can really tell what’s going on. With no blood on his hands and practically no trauma, he gets re-embodied within a few years but everything is really different: all his family has either gone to ME, gone and secluded themselves somewhere, are exceptionally busy or Finrun thinks they hate him. As someone who thrived off of the familial love of his family (being Aro/Ace, this is one of the main forms of love that he experiences), it’s a jarring experience to say the least and ends up with him being really, really lonely.

He decides to deal with this crippling loneliness by throwing himself into his work. The only family who really talks to him is Finarfin but they mainly talk about work and he’s like, if it makes him happy then it’ll make me happy. (It is making neither of them happy, they’re just avoiding the problem). So he ends up in Alqualondë working towards restoring relations. No-one here particularly likes him (Maglor’s wife, Cantasië, does occasionally come and keep him company to be honest to her).

He is here he meets Elwing, singing and miserable who he promptly adopts. (It is not only the Fëanorians with adopting people on the spot issues). The rest of the Teleri are a bit sceptical of this girl however much they like her and she’s uncomfortable in palace having lived nearly her whole life in near poverty despite being a princess. And Eärendil, when he appears, reminds him of his cousins due to being Turgon’s grandson. There’s a bit more nuance to it, I guess, but basically he sees these two children with no family anymore and as he knows how they feel, he decides to give them that family.

It’s at the end of the First Age that Finrun realises that the Valar intend to keep the Ñoldor in Mandos and he basically becomes the advocate for their release. In his house by the sea, he is slowly collecting war orphans who lost parents far too young and came to these shores to try to heal hurts of their souls and Finrun houses them and loves them and tries to get the Valar to release the families they have lost (not realising that in the process he has become part of that family and the loneliness he has been feeling is lessened somewhat - not gone completely because his family is a different entity entirely but lessened).

Eventually, he convinces them and one-by-one, his family and the others trapped in Mandos are released upon their healing, rather than being kept there forever.

(When Glorfindel is reborn, Finrun is not told and meets him on the docks by pure chance before he must go to Middle Earth. And before he can really get over the shock and bundle of emotions, Glorfindel is gone again. Finrun genuinely thinks that this was a hallucination for a long time.)

It is one sunny day soon after Glorfindel has returned to Valinor that Faniel gets them together to go after their mother, who, despite everyone coming back and a tentative happiness and peace beginning, has not returned from wherever she ran to. During their search, they get to catch up for the first time really since they were all reborn.

Findis has just sort of made camp in a cave, not hiding but decided that society sucked and she didn’t want to go back. Her children convince her otherwise and they return and everything is good and happy.

Umm, so yep, these are my vague thoughts on this family. I hope you liked it!

[xivu-arath]

the taste of salt

for @synnthamonsugar! you requested, among other things, the possibility of savathun and lavinia conversing, and this idea just about consumed me afterwards (and shoutout to nem who managed to mention this exact same idea idly during lorechat and terrify me immensely). I also just associate these two with you at this point, as I think you were the one to point out lavinia had met savathun at the end of her journey to me!!

anyways, I think it’s only been this year that we’ve known each other but I’m very glad that we’ve met!

(AO3)

“My nephew died,” the witch continues, as if talking about the weather. “Just a little while ago.”

“Oh,” Lavinia says, before she can think better of it. “I’m sorry.”

Lavinia is in a cage. She worked that part out very quickly. But it is a cage made like a dream, and it works like a dream, and that makes it difficult to resent. Either the witch is not there, or she is, and might well have always been. Lavinia has tried thinking of her in other terms, even by the few names she can dredge up from pre-Golden Age myths, but they slide off as if oiled. The witch refuses all other titles.

Today – if there are days here, as the only way she can tell time is by the witch’s visits – the tea the witch pours for them both is a dark, smoky blend that she remembers from her time as a student, poring over every new secret and mystery in the archives.

It is also a blend that no longer exists; the plants, the supply chain that brought it to the city, the process and the knowledge behind it all lost, excised by a raid by one species or another. One infinitesimal loss out of trillions. Yet here it is, rewound, warming her hands. The flavour makes her eyes sting, and when she is done blinking the feeling away, the witch is watching her, smiling.

The witch’s eyes are very green, and pin her like knives.

“I really must thank you, Lavinia. You’ve been such a help. But you won’t mind a change in plans, will you?” she says, the question relentlessly rhetorical.

(Lavinia still wonders about Nasya. What things would have been like, if she could have gone with her. Would things have been different, or would she be a pawn in a different set of schemes?)

But at least someone is listening. Someone cares about the truths she has uncovered. Someone who very much does not want to be discovered.

“My nephew died,” the witch continues, as if talking about the weather. “Just a little while ago.”

“Oh,” Lavinia says, before she can think better of it. “I’m sorry.” The mention of family has jarred her out of any sense of caution, even with her thoughts scrambling for how long a while could possibly mean in such a place, what else she might possibly glean from such a short statement. She still has to say something.

“How kind of you.” There is something heavy and ill-fitting about the words as she says them, but the smile remains. “It wasn’t entirely unexpected,” she adds, almost confiding. “He was a clever child, but precocious. He took risks. It made him much like his father, though they would both have hated to hear it. You know how family is.”

Lavinia bites her lip, thinking of her mother, voice shaking through each syllable of her names when they argued. “I am sorry about your nephew, but I don’t see what this has to do with me –”

“We had made a great deal of plans, and it is up to me now to carry them through,” the witch continues, serenely ignoring her input, and her eyes glitter with what has to be laughter. “And it has occurred to me that you’ve been rather neglected here, after everything you’ve brought to my doorstep. You have been wasted for far too long, haven’t you? By your City, of course, and the Reef after that.”

Lavinia swallows, and sets her cup down. The flavour of home has encountered a large lump in her throat, and cannot seem to get past.

“I do,” says the witch, pensive, “hate to see waste.”

“I’ve told you so much,” she says, shying away from her certainty of how terrible a choice – was it a choice, really? – it was to do so. “I’ve told you everything I know. What more could you want with me?”

Maybe it’s still the thought of her mother, and the City, and an entire beautiful, ransacked planet she’ll never see again, that makes Lavinia fling the teacup right at her captor’s face.

The tea spills in a beautiful, gleaming arc. The cup catches on nothing as the air stutters, and she tastes salt and seawater for an instant – and then the world resumes.

They are sitting at the table. The wind howls and makes the branches of the trees outside tap at the windows. The fire crackles. The teacups sit, now empty.

“Feeling better, dear?” the witch asks dryly.

Her shoulders hunch. “No.”

“But you had to try it, anyways, didn’t you? Even though you’ve already learned the rules for this space.” She is still speaking more slowly, thoughtfully, and Lavinia finds she hates it. The conversational pleasantries and veiled condescension are... well, not fine, but they are a game Lavinia has a chance at keeping up with.

This is the witch slowly baring the blade of her intellect, and it is terrible – because of how deliberately she does it, because Lavinia is afraid and yet at the same time, she’s blundering towards trying to understand –

“You too are bound by your nature, after all.” The witch’s eyes are impossibly bright now, almost burning. She is reminded of the auroras over areas blasted by radiation, their very brilliance an implicit warning. “So our cycles continue onward.” She leans forward, and Lavinia scoots back without meaning to.

“If I had left you with the Nine, yours would have ground you to dust by now.”

“And captivity is so much better,” she says, desperately bold. If the witch needs her for something else, she’s scarcely going to get rid of her now.

The witch beams, and Lavinia knows she has somehow set her foot right back into another trap. “In this case, you’ll find it is.

“Tell me, Lavinia. How would you like to go home?”

All her fleeting bravado drains away. “Home? You can’t mean – I’m an exile. The City cast me out. I can’t go back.” It’s the first thing that comes to mind, even if this whole unfortunate journey started to fix that, to prove something so true and important the City would have to allow her to return....

“Oh,” the witch says. “I think your knowledge is exactly what they need right now. Your City will be grateful enough to welcome you back with open arms.”

Questions boil up with more than a tinge of urgency, and Lavinia chokes them down. Either the witch won’t answer them, or she will, and those answers will lead her further astray. She has to stay focused, clear-headed. Never her strong suit when cornered, but she rather thinks all the perilous situations have toughened her nerves just a little since she had crept into the Cryptarch’s vault. Would she have stared down those Guardians, maybe –

(Rambling again, Lavinia. Focus.)

It’s rather like phrasing the right question to get her master’s approval – not a task she was very good at to begin with – but the stakes are so much higher. Her pulse pounds in her ears. “Just sending me back for my own sake would be another waste, wouldn’t it?”

The witch smiles at her like the most terrifying grandmother she’s never had. “It just so happens that I am in need of an envoy to the City, since my last one was so rudely killed –”

“Killed?”

“Do keep up, Lavinia,” she says impatiently, and several pieces fall together in quick succession. Her nephew. Of course. “You’ll have a far more merciful reception than he did. There’s nothing to worry about.”

Lavinia almost wishes she had the simulated tea back just so she could busy herself while thinking very, very fast. Why would an enemy of the City – and she refers to the City and the Reef with such airy distance, like they are such small things – want to speak to it? There’s no question that going to the City on her behalf would be a bad idea. No question that, just as before, she has little choice.

So much for luck.

“And what would I be saying?” Her voice doesn’t quite waver. The witch is offering her what they both want. “As your envoy.”

“All sorts of things. Some of them may even be true.” The witch’s eyes narrow, and Lavinia feels the threat in her drifting attention.

“I’ll do it,” she says quickly, before she can think long enough to regret it. She can hear her master and Rahool and Ikora Rey all despairing of her in the back of her mind. So quick to make choices, so reckless. “Take me back.”

“First,” the witch says. “You must speak my name.”

She reels. “What? But – but you haven’t told me your name. I don’t know it.”

The look she gets is pitiable and mocking, a teacher exasperated by a favourite student. “Surely that shouldn’t be a problem for you. I’ve given you more than enough to find it.”

With growing dread, Lavinia realizes that this is true. How many enemies of humanity have notable relatives? The only ones she can think of are Oryx and his sons, all dead. But Oryx had sisters somewhere out beyond the solar system, circling with their armies and fleets out in deep space....

“Savathûn,” she whispers. “You’re Savathûn.”

“The pact is made,” Savathûn says, and her smile is decidedly sharp-toothed. “Let’s get you to where you belong.”

The warm and pleasant cage of a room shreds itself apart, and Lavinia tastes salt for the last time.

[vivifrage]

Hello! If you still taking promps can it be 199 with PK and WL?? And if possible with your archivist PK au??

I do like archivist PK, so I’ll let this one be the last one for the round. Thanks!

This one turned out long, so putting in a cut.

---

He’d not visited her since... since everything. Since she left, since he brought the palace into the dream realm, since his newly ascended child dragged his sorry corpse back to life as soon as his mind was whole enough to sustain it.

For the longest time, nobody dared to suggest it. Perhaps they supposed he would handle the matter when he was ready, or she would hear of his presence and request him. Or perhaps the couple were through. What would Hallownest face in the event of a godly breakup?

Not much, thus far.

The one called Ghost suggested it first, via pointed looks at the Queen’s Gardens whenever he spent a moment studying a map in their presence. As the new god ruling the domain of regrets (alongside their stolen dream realm), they certainly had reason to try and bring their parents together. Let the two sort matters out.

The Hollow Knight - Hollow was the next to suggest it. Also with many long, pointed looks. At one point, they skipped right by the botanists beginning to reoccupy the Archives, instead going right to him with a fresh-picked basket of flowers from her gardens, ready for preservation and study. Their motivations were rather more mundane than godly closure. No, he suspected they just wanted their parents to be happy, and to have some semblance of a whole, unbothered family.

It was when Hornet approached him, cool and collected but with anger burning low in her eyes (as always, around him), that he began to think perhaps he ought to let himself be swayed. He could think of no reason for her to come up to him and say the White Lady would likely be amenable to his visitation, if he ever elected to stop being a coward and face the matter.

Well, perhaps she wanted to be right about something, but what, he wasn’t sure.

One of his hands clasped the front of his robe as he made his way through the Fog Canyon, towards the recently rebuilt connection between it and the Queen’s Gardens. He felt like he’d swallowed a rock - whole, that was - and the knot in his throat contrasted sharply with the lack against his collar.

They had both given up their parts of the Kingsoul. Ghost had stolen his, but what of the White Lady? Did she disdain him? Hate him, even? Had she tossed it aside like a cheap, broken trinket? He would not blame her for such a thing.

The knot grew, and came to settle deep in his chest, as he crossed the bounds into her garden. His plating itched all up and down his back; he knew all too well the consequences of entering another god’s territory. She may have been no wyrm, but she was not to be underestimated.

A flash of red caught his attention, and his breath caught. But it did not reappear, and he continued on, towards the structure Ghost had marked on a map. (Pointless, he knew where she’d hide, he could have been left with naught but his claws scrabbling through the thorns and found it.)

So at least one of his children watched.

He saw no more sign of any of them as he continued deeper into the gardens, winding down passages narrowed by thorns, through an old gazebo marked with two graves outside it, and at last towards the overgrown structure.

The grave there gave him pause. He let the name carved into it weigh on him, and reaching out, he brushed his thumb over it, whispering his... his friend’s name. One more time.

He stared down the entrance, claws flexing nervously. This was it. His last chance to retreat, like the coward his daughter had accurately accused him of being. He’d deal with them later; this would only be one small slight against grievous horrors.

He thought he felt eyes upon his back. Tucking his wings in close, he sighed. So be it.

He climbed in, and sought her out, guided by the glow of her roots.

By the time he’d reached her chambers his heart beat against his chest, some primal thing. His throat went dry, words escaped him. He saw her, her glow, the tangle of her roots upon the floor, the healing wound where his children had cut an entrance big enough for Hollow to come in and visit their mother.

He wanted her.

By the earth and stars and rivers, he loved her, so much that tears filled his eyes, and an emptiness ached within him. How had he ever survived the lonely years without her?

She didn’t respond to him. Not yet.

So he took one unsteady step into her chambers.

Another.

And another.

One after another, his feet tapping against the dirt and old roots. He opened his mouth, found himself still unable to speak.

Her head turned, as much as it could all bound up, and his breath left him. It was her. Truly her, as beautiful as she had always been, as graceful and serene. The same supple yet strong bark, the same blue eyes - albeit cloudier than before - and the same perfect curves to each tendril.

“One approaches,” she said. Simple, guarded, on the defensive.

One.

Nothing could stop it. He gasped in a breath and found he could only cough it out as the tears welled and poured freely down his cheeks. She didn’t recognize him. Or she did not wish to.

He’d fallen so far, to be naught but a stranger to his own beloved wife.

He wished to speak, should have spoken, or maybe left. But he found himself frozen, sobbing until his eyes itched with the futile effort to dry his tears, his cheeks and jaw and mandibles wet, the taste of salt biting at his tongue.

He tried, a couple times, to say something, anything. Yet he couldn’t even gather his thoughts enough to press them into her mind, let alone coordinate his failing mind and mandibles.

He curled up, his tail wrapping around his body, huddled as small as he could manage. As if doing that would spare what little dignity he retained.

“Not my child,” she said with certainty. From what he could see through tear-blurred vision, she leaned forwards and squinted. “Nor is the interloper Hornet, she would have spoken her business by now. As would the mortals she now commands. This one has a striking familiarity, yet I cannot-”

“My Lady,” he begged, hands uncurling from his face to reach for one of her tendrils, to hold it and to kiss as far up its length as he could manage, in that way that always left her giggling. “My Lady, I-”

He froze. Who was he, to call her his? To put such a thing upon her, when she had already removed what little shackled her to him? For the sake of her freedom (what little could be gained, now she’d become so deeply rooted), he ought to be nothing.

The tears sprang anew. “I’m sorry,” he croaked.

Her blinking grew more rapid. Her head swung uselessly, and she shifted in her seat. Tendrils freed themselves, curving through the space until, at last, one cupped his chin.

And then, for a moment, it all stopped.

“My Wyrm?”

He opened his mouth, only for a rattling keen to come out. His tears dripped freely to the ground, stained grey with Void. Her tendrils found him and he clung to one as he collapsed, forced down by the weight of it all, left useless as he sobbed.

She stroked his back, the underside of his chin, his cheek. She brushed the tears away, accepted the clumsy, apologetic kisses he pressed to her tendrils when he could get a moment’s respite.

And she waited it out. All the tears, all the choked keens and sobs, all the undignified coughing. Like the patient, thoughtful being she was.

“Oh, my Wyrm.” Her tendrils drew him in, ushered him closer, closer, until he stood at her base, where her sightless eyes could peer down at him. “I’ve missed you.”

“My- dearest Lady.” His claws dug into the bindings wrapping her, so tight they threatened to break the sturdy fabric. Everything hurt, his head and heart and soul. “Why would you miss me? Why not be angry, at what I have done? Surely- surely it would be better than the grief, the tears.”

She sighed, like she did when he’d spent too long working on a project, and now could hardly walk back to their room without almost passing out on the floor. Like she had done many times, before she finally elected to leave. “It is not so simple a matter, my Wyrm. I myself grieve these acts, and must take my repentance for them.”

He shook his head, the side of his face brushing a tendril. “Please, love, know it was I who did this to all of us. Your grief is misplaced, let me take its brunt.”

“Oh, my Wyrm,” she breathed, “Such a solitary creature you are, to accept all the blame in the world. You alone did not consent to the plan, nor did you conceive and bear our children’s eggs singlehandedly. You were not even the only enforcer of the rules surrounding the Pure Vessel.” Her tendrils pressed into the corners of his jaw. “My love, you were not even the one to request our child take the plague into themself, to suffer as our Hollow Knight did.”

A tendril slipped from between his fingers. “But I- I-”

Another pressed his mouth shut. “Hush, my love. We have both made our errors. Let us grieve them together, cursed by hindsight.”

He sighed, all the air rushing from him as she drew him up onto her lap. “Anything, for my Lady.”

She stroked his temple. “It’s been too long since I’ve heard those words.”

[fullmetalscullyy]

the way it was - chapter 32

summary: what if riza never went to war? riza hawkeye has just married the man she loves. six months into their marriage, an unexpected surprise stops her from following roy to the military. a canon divergence au that explores what might have happened had riza been unable to join the military. there will be plenty of family fluff, angst, and royai.

rated: m | warnings: no archive warning apply

read on ao3

1914

yes you'll be in my heart

from this day on now and forever more

The day the newest member of the Mustang household was born into the world started out just like any other.

Riza, exhausted before it even hit nine o’clock in the morning, hurried their easily excitable daughter to get ready for school as quickly as possible after Roy left for work. They made it to the school gates just in time for Riza to give Mia a quick kiss and for Mia to give Hayate a scratch behind the ears in farewell.

Chuckling, Riza turned away from the school once Mia entered the building. Hayate was whining quietly, sorry to see his best friend disappear for the next few hours.

“Come on, Hayate,” she ushered, signalling for him to walk.

Despite his vocal despair, Hayate obeyed but kept looking behind him to see if Mia would suddenly appear. It had been years, but this was his behaviour every time. Riza didn’t want to see her dog suffering, however it was amusing and warmed her heart to know they shared such a strong bond. Nothing would ever tear those two apart and Riza was grateful for it.

They walked along the pavement towards the centre of town to the large park. It was slow progress. Most days, Riza felt like she was moving through honey, but the doctor assured her that walking was still good exercise and an activity she should be partaking in as much as possible. It may also move the baby on further, which Riza was completely in favour of. She loved their child and didn’t mind being pregnant in the slightest, but she wanted to meet them already. Her ankles weren’t too sore thanks to Roy’s foot rub that morning. However, the pain still plagued her and they were almost always in constant pain in the evenings. Her back pain had finally eased a little, thankfully. Instead of it being short and sharp it was a constant dull ache. Headaches became her most prominent gripe, but Riza felt that was more manageable. As least she could move around more easily with a sore head, compared to back ache.

If Riza could bend down comfortably and let Hayate off the lead, she would. She winced as she twisted, feeling a light cramp in the muscles of her stomach so opted not to push her luck. Instead, Hayate had to walk dutifully by her side on his lead, which he didn’t seem to mind. He wandered and Riza let him, sniffing the edges of the path and foraging through piles of old dead leaves that hadn’t quite disintegrated yet in the winter cold. He never once pulled.

He’s such a good dog, Riza thought fondly as she watched him stop and wait for her to catch up. Once she did, he continued onwards, and this happened throughout their walk like clockwork. Riza enjoyed watching his antics. She loved their little pup.

Once home, Riza sat down on their couch, spent. That discomfort in her stomach was still present but it came in short bouts. As time moved on, the bouts prolonged further, but it was probably just the baby shifting. She’d been warned that would happen as she reached her fortieth week of pregnancy, and the same had happened with Mia as well. Until the pain came, Riza would try not stress herself out too much.

It was really nice, Riza realised, not to have coursework to go through while Mia was at school. After achieving her certification, her days opened up completely. Riza didn’t know what to do with herself having so much free time. She’d need to find something new to fill her focus, but while waiting on Baby Mustang to be born, she allowed herself a break. Once the baby arrived it would be all hands on deck and she’d probably not sleep properly for months. Roy reasoned with her to enjoy the peace while she could.

The first contraction hit, waking Riza from the light sleep she’d fallen into on the couch. It was uncomfortable, the sharp pain lasting only a few seconds. Heart thudding inside her chest, Riza pulled herself off the couch just in time for her water to break.

“Uh…” Never had a more eloquent sound come out of Riza’s mouth in that moment as she stared down at the puddle of water on the carpet. “Oh… Shit.”

That was quick.

Hayate looked down at the puddle. Riza was afraid he’d come over and sniff or drink it. Then he looked up at her, cocking his head to the side.

Another contraction hit, painful and leaving her breathless. Clutching her abdomen, Riza breathed through it while Hayate whined at her feet. His ears pulled back as he stared up at her, distressed by Riza’s current state.

“It’s all right, boy,” she panted. Sweat trickled down her temple, making her swipe at it irritably.

He was hot in her heels as Riza hobbled over to the phone.

“Colonel Mustang,” Roy greeted professionally once Riza had made her way through the process of the operator.

“Roy,” Riza greeted. She opened her mouth to continue when another contraction hit. Riza gasped as a sharp pain shot through her. The timing was ‘perfect’ and she rolled her eyes before they squeezed tightly closed and grit her teeth.

“Riza?” He was instantly alarmed, proving Riza’s assumption correct. She would have liked to get out what was happening to her first before Roy heard her groan in pain. It would only make him fret.

“I’m fine,” she choked out, clenching her jaw hard. “I’m all right. It’s the baby, Roy. My water just broke.”

“Holy shit.”

Riza burst out laughing but it quickly turned to a hiss of pain.

“Oh, shit, um… Right.” He was flapping on the other side of the phone, flustered after her sudden announcement. Just like Riza had predicted.

“Roy, I’ll get you at the hospital,” Riza told him.

“What?” He squawked at her, horrified at her suggestion. “I’m coming home to get you!”

“I’ll get Chris to come. She’s closer,” Riza reasoned.

They’d already had this conversation, which Roy agreed to. When faced with the sudden appearance of his child Roy was freaking out. All sense of reason had gone out the window.

Riza’s breathing finally evened out as the wave of pain passed. Her shoulders sagged in relief. Riza tried to catch her breath as she leaned against the wall beside her heavily.

“Riza –”

“Go to the hospital,” she urged him, stressing the importance of that command. “I’ll see you there.”

“Riza!”

“Roy, for God’s sake, just go!” Riza cried. “It makes no difference who takes me!”

“But –”

“Go,” she almost growled. “You being there is more important than making me wait longer for you to pick me up.” There was a short, sharp stabbing pain once more. Her fingers dug into the skin of her stomach as her eyes squeezed tightly closed. “At this rate, the kid may be born here if you don’t stop arguing with me and get off the phone.”

“Right. Okay.” He sounded calmer now that he had direction. It also sounded like he was psyching himself up to make the journey. “All right. See you soon. I love you.”

“Love you too, Roy,” she smiled, hiding her gasp behind a harshly bit lip until she heard the click of him hanging up. Once he had, a loud groan of pain left Riza’s lips, but she still reached with shaking fingers to dial Chris’ number.

“Chris? My water broke,” Riza panted into the phone.

“On it,” Chris barked, and there was the sound of movement. “See you in ten minutes.”

She hung up.

Quick and efficient, that’s what Riza needed.

*      *      *

Riza batted her eyes open and was greeted with the sight of a hospital room. Every muscle in her body felt sore, strained and fatigued after the few hours of labour she’d endured. There wasn’t much strength left in her to lift her head off the pillow, so she rolled it in place, moving from one side of the room to the other.

In the chair by her bedside, Roy was snoring gently. He looked as exhausted she felt, head tipped over the back of the chair with his nose pointed straight up to the ceiling. He would probably have a crick in his neck when he awoke. His legs were sprawled out, hanging wide open, the muscles completely relaxed. Arms were hung over the sides of the chair.

Their new-born child rested in the tiny crib beside Roy. One of his hands gripped the railing of the crib as he dozed, desperate for that connection between himself and his son.

Son…

Riza smirked tiredly, remembering the mop of black hair she’d seen on her son’s head before he was whisked away to be cleaned up by the nurses. Their little one had given her such a hard time after her water broke, that once he was born, meeting him was a blur before quickly falling asleep in her exhaustion. The last thing Riza remembered seeing was their child resting upon her chest as Roy looked on, tears in his eyes but a massive grin on his face.

Throat dry, Riza cleared it, feeling a scratch of pain. Smacking her lips, she thought about how desperate she was for a glass of water.

Roy snorted, sitting upright and blinking tiredly. He muttered her name, still looking half asleep before eyes fluttered closed once more. A deep sigh left his lungs as he settled back into the chair with an uncomfortable grimace.

Unable to help herself, Riza laughed. However, her throat was so dry and irritated, it caused her to break out into a coughing fit.

“Riza?” Blinking blearily, Roy forced himself to focus on her.

Offering him a tired wave Riza silently reassured her husband she was fine.

“Riza!” In a flash, Roy was upright and leaning towards her. He grasped the hand closest to him tightly, rubbing his thumbs over the back of her palm as a comfort. “What do you need? Is there anything I can get you?”

“Water,” she requested.

His warmth left her hand as both reached towards her head, but off to the side. On the bedside table, apparently there had been a pitcher of water left. Riza hadn’t even noticed or seen it. Not that she had enough strength to turn her head that far to see.

It dribbled down her chin, pooling in the hollow of her neck, but it was cool and refreshing nonetheless. Roy wiped away the excess liquid carefully and settled back into his chair, a tired, yet immensely proud smile on his face.

Riza took in his appearance. Her labour had been relatively quick compared to Mia’s. Within a few hours she’d birthed Baby Mustang and brought him into the world. Still, Roy looked drained and Riza had expected as much. Upon her arrival, he’d been flapping again, both stressed for Riza and frantic on her behalf. It was his first time going through it so she still worried. He’d been working himself up into a frenzy as Riza rode out her contractions. Chris managed to keep him calm when Riza couldn’t which she was thankful for. She thought he might faint in the delivery room, but Roy didn’t. He managed to keep himself upright and present for her, patting the hand that was holding him in a death grip.

“How are you feeling?”

“Tired,” Riza answered, cracking a smile, “but I’m happy.”

“Me too,” he beamed.

“Where is he?”

“Right here, Riza.”

Roy wheeled the crib over to her bedside, moving it between himself and the bed.

Her head wouldn’t lift for long off the pillow, causing Riza to huff in frustration. But, after a quiet chuckle from Roy, he stood and leaned over, supporting her had as she gazed down at her child. Easily, he slipped in behind her and the pillows, taking all her weight. Riza’s abdominal muscles ached but she pushed through. Her child was more important than her pain.

Baby Mustang was perfect. His face and body were tiny. His little fingers were gathered into his palm, resting up by his face against his rosy cheek. His smallest finger twitched, elongating for a moment, before curling back in with the others. Riza’s entire body melted at the sight of him. That mop of black hair stuck up on end with static as it rubbed against the sheet in his crib. The white swaddle was tight against his tiny body, making him seem so much smaller than he was.

“He’s amazing,” Riza choked out. She laughed, wiping away a tear as she groaned.

“What?” Roy laughed along with her, tears in his own eyes as he gazed lovingly down at her and rubbed her upper arm affectionately.

“With Mia I was a sobbing mess after giving birth,” Riza chuckled. “It seems it will be happening again,” she sniffed.

Roy laughed. “You’re allowed to be, I think,” he murmured. “He’s worth crying over…” He trailed off and Riza watched as Roy stared down at the baby, completely in awe of what he was seeing.

“I’m glad you’re here,” Riza whispered, moving her eyes so she was staring down at Baby Mustang too. Her head tipped to rest against Roy’s cheek. A tight pressure on her fingers distracted her for a second.

“Me too,” Roy whispered, eyes shining as he lifted her hand to his lips. A hard kiss was pressed to the back of it.

“What shall we call him?”

They’d discussed names. One stuck out for Riza the most, but she wanted Roy to admit it and accept it completely himself before she pushed the idea. It was fitting, naming their son after their late friend, Riza thought. A lovely homage. Whether Roy committed to it or not, Riza wanted to see. She hoped he would because she knew how much it would mean to him.

Roy swallowed thickly as he gazed down at their son. He was silent, struggling to come up with his answer. Patiently, Riza followed suit and simply stared at Baby Mustang so she could marvel at his tiny fingers and nose, giving Roy all the time he needed.

“I know what you want to call him,” Roy whispered.

“Is it so wrong?”

Roy shook his head. “Not wrong. Not at all,” he reassured. “But…”

“What, Roy?” Her prompt was gentle. Before the birth she purposefully hadn’t brought it up because she didn’t want to upset him. However, they needed to get to the bottom of it before it was too late. Riza didn’t want there to be any regrets.

“I don’t know if I can name him after Maes,” Roy admitted quietly.

“Why not?” She was genuinely curious. What were his reasonings?

“It… I don’t know,” he admitted in defeat.

“You can tell me,” Riza urged.

“I know but…” His breath sounded strangled before he cleared his throat. “I don’t know… It feels like it’s too much,” he mumbled.

“We named Mia after your mother,” Riza reminded him.

“I know,” he admitted. “So it’s your turn to choose who we name him after.” He was trying a different tactic.

Riza shook her head. “There’s no one in my family worth naming our son after.”

Roy huffed.

“It will be a lovely homage to your brother,” she whispered. Riza gripped his fingers tightly to give them a quick squeeze.

Roy cleared his throat, his spine straightening. He blinked the tears from his eyes and sighed heavily in acceptance.

“Are you sure?”

“As sure as I’ve ever been,” Riza nodded.

Roy glanced at her out the side of his eye.

“I’ve known this would be what it would boil down to if we had a son,” Riza admitted. “I have no issue at all with it, so long as you're happy with the choice.”

He tried to cover up his tears by clearing his throat again. He shifted, gripping onto Riza tightly as he stared down at baby Maes. A choked sob left him, which Roy also tried to hide, but the second one was impossible to restrain. Soon, tears were falling down his cheeks.

Riza grinned at him.

“Welcome to the word, baby Maes,” she cooed quietly as Roy sniffed and nodded in agreement beside her. He was unable to speak.

*      *      *

“He’s named after Uncle Maes?” Mia’s voice was barely above a whisper as she gazed down at Maes in his baby carrier. Her eyes were wide as she tried to take in every detail of her baby brother. She’d already stated his tiny fingers were her favourite thing about him.

Riza nodded. “He is.”

“That’s so cool… Was I named after anyone?”

Roy cocked his head then grimaced. “You were,” he replied carefully, “but I’ll tell you all about that once we get Mum and Maes settled.”

Announcing that she was named after her grandmother would confuse their six-year-old, so Riza understood Roy’s hesitation. According to Mia, Chris was her grandmother and had been for her entire life. It wasn’t worth confusing her just now without an opportunity to explain properly so Mia would understand.

“Okay!” Her grin was back on her face as she skipped after her father. Since meeting Maes she hadn’t ventured far from his side, desperate to keep her eyes on him.

Vanessa helped Riza inside the house, grasping her elbow lightly for support just in case. She’d been too tired to reassure that she was fine and could walk by herself, so let her sister-in-law guide her inside.

“Do you want to go upstairs?” Vanessa looked at Riza expectantly, awaiting direction.

“The couch is fine,” Riza answered. She wasn’t quite ready to leave her family just yet.

Mia meeting Maes was one of the most adorable things Riza had ever seen. She’d gasped so quietly, creeping over to look at him, silent as a mouse, afraid to disturb him. Riza melted as she watched on, feeling tears prick the corner of her eyes. She was so considerate of him already. Now that they were home, she was hovering over his baby carrier once more in the centre of the room. All she did was stare at him in wonder.

“Need anything Riza?”

She shook her head before shooting Roy a grateful smile.

“Would you like a coffee?” Roy extended the offer to Vanessa.

“That would be lovely, thank you.” 

Riza was eased onto the couch with the help of Vanessa. Once she was seated, her sister-in-law flipped her hair out of the way before looking expectantly back at Riza.

“Do you need anything? Any more cushions?”

“No, I’m all right. Thank you though, Vanessa. For all your help.”

“Of course,” she beamed. “It’s no problem, you know that.”

Vanessa had stepped in to help them home from the hospital. It was no secret that Venessa and Riza had ‘become’ friends during their time frequenting the Ladies Night at Christmas’ Bar. It would raise no suspicion if a friend helped Riza and Roy make their way back home from the hospital. Chris had left after meeting Maes. Riza was sure she’d seen tears in the gruff woman’s eyes but didn’t announce it. Secretly, Riza grinned to herself with the observation. The woman loved her grandchildren very much.

Mia was silent as the adults talked in the room, completely focussed on her brother. But Maes started to fuss quietly as Vanessa was finishing off her coffee and Mia started to worry.

“Mum?” Her voice was full of fear as she stared wide-eyed down at him.

Maes swiped a hand at his cheek after he yawned, face screwing up as he made tiny noises of discomfort.

“I got it,” Roy answered immediately, standing from his armchair. His mug was placed on the floor as he strode over, crouching down beside Mia.

“What’s wrong with him?”

“Nothing bad, Mia,” Roy reassured with a light laugh. “He’s maybe a little uncomfortable.”

“Can I help?”

Vanessa cooed in the background.

“He might need to be changed, or he might be hungry. I’ll go and find out what he needs,” Roy explained. “Thank you for offering though, Mia. That’s very kind of you.”

Lifting Maes into his arms, Mia watched on, wringing her hands together.

“She’s adorable,” Vanessa leaned over to whisper.

“She is, isn’t she?”

“Mia Bear loves her brother,” Vanessa giggled. “Your kids are so adorable.”

Riza beamed.

“He needs changed,” Roy announced. “I’ll be back in a second.”

Mia walked to the door with her father but stopped on the threshold. Roy continued onwards to head up the stairs to Maes’ room.

“Mia?”

She turned, biting her lip.

“Come over here,” Riza beckoned, opening her arms.

Mia clambered onto the couch as her Aunt Vanessa scooted over. She cuddled into Riza’s chest, her hands clinging onto her shirt.

“What’s wrong?” Stroking her forehead always managed to calm her, so Riza brushed her fingers across her skin to try and ease Mia’s fears.

“I’m worried about Maes,” Mia admitted in a whisper.

“Why? He’s okay. There’s nothing wrong with him.”

“But he’s so tiny!” she exclaimed. “And he looked upset. I don’t want him to be upset.”

“Babies cry, Mia,” Riza explained, cuddling her daughter close. “Maes will be doing a lot of that from now on. He can’t speak yet so that’s how he tells us something is wrong.”

“Did I cry a lot?”

“You did,” Riza grinned. “You woke us up through the night all the time.”

She pulled away, horrified.

“That’s what babies do,” Riza shrugged. Lifting a hand to her hair, Riza reorganised Mia’s mussed up fringe and smoothed it down. Her hand trailed down to cup her cheek, the other booping her on the nose. Mia giggled, squirming away.

“Do you think he’ll wake me up?”

“We’ll try very hard to make sure he doesn’t. Maes will be sleeping in our room for a little while so hopefully he doesn’t. If he does, Dad and I will help him. You can just go back to sleep,” Riza reassured.

Nodding in acceptance, Mia relaxed against the cushions. Fondly, Vanessa patted the top of her head, running her hand through Mia’s ponytail. It was reorganised on her back, trailing down her spine. It had grown longer since her birthday, falling in between her shoulder blades now.

“Mum and Dad will do everything to make Maes happy, just like they do for you,” Vanessa reassured cheerily.

“They do make me very happy,” Mia agreed, assuring her aunt that was the case.

Riza laughed. “I’m glad, Mia Bear. You and Maes make us the happiest people on the planet.”

[hardygalwrites]

FanFiction.Net Link

(image source)

Anime/Manga: JoJo’s Bizarre Adventure (Part 1: Phantom Blood)

Characters: Jonathan Joestar and Dio Brando

Synopsis: A few days after Jonathan and Dio's big fight in the entrance hall, a few days after the tragic death of Jonathan's beloved dog, Dio finds Jonathan collapsed by the river, beaten and bloody. Seeing this as an opportunity to change his tactics, Dio helps Jonathan make his way back the mansion.

Jonathan reaches a small understanding about Dio.

Note: Originally written for Whumptober of 2020 - Day 10: They Look So Pretty When They Bleed | Trail of Blood

Set during the seven year gap in Phantom Blood. TW for a bit of gaslighting and also referenced child ab*se

—

It had been a few days since Dio’s fight with Jonathan in the entrance hall. George Joestar never did end up dealing out the punishment he had promised both of them, but that was likely due to the sudden and subsequent death of a certain mutt.

“I know that you two fought recently… Understand that I do not condone JoJo’s actions. To beat a man while he is down is unseemly, and JoJo will be apologizing to you. But as it stands, for now, I must ask that you be gentle with him.”

“I understand, sir.”

Dio scoffed at the memory, continuing his easy walk down the open country pathway. “‘Be gentle.’”

As if gentleness hadn’t been a luxury guaranteed to Jonathan at birth. Dario Brando had still seen it fit to punish Dio when his mother died, and that was for the mere fault of simply existing. JoJo might think his father hard on him, but George Joestar was nothing but a soft fool, and his son nothing but a pampered brat.

A pampered brat who had still managed to beat Dio to the ground.

Dio felt his jaw clench and his hands tighten in his pockets.

No. Calm down.

Dio forced himself to relax, uncurling his fists and easing his tightened jaw. He had already learned from that fight that he needed to control his temper. And already evened the score by killing JoJo’s stupid mutt. With how disgustingly attached JoJo had been to that thing, that more than made up for any humiliation inflicted, or even any punishments averted as a result.

“What to do now though…?” Dio murmured to himself.

Actively looking to tear JoJo down was now out of the question. Dio had pushed JoJo to his limits, and instead of snapping in two, JoJo had snapped back. Dio needed to change tactics. Endearing himself to the other boy, just as he had done with everyone else, would likely be the next best course of action.

Of course, the shift would not be without its difficulties. Dio despised the thought of even pretending friendship with the likes of JoJo, but he would gladly bear it for the sake of his ultimate goal. No, the difficulty primarily lay in undoing JoJo’s animosity towards him. Dio had greatly underestimated JoJo’s capacity for vengefulness, and trust was such a notoriously fragile thing…

JoJo had certainly not been making the change in tactics any easier. Dio had hardly seen the other boy since their last fight. JoJo seemed to be going out of his way to avoid him. Not like he hadn’t clearly been making those same efforts before now, but JoJo barely even showed up to meals anymore. Dio would see JoJo run off outside everyday, but he had yet to catch a glimpse of him at any of his usual hiding spots.

As he passed by the tree JoJo used to frequent, with no sign of JoJo in sight, Dio huffed in annoyance. “I know he was attached to that beast, but just how long does he intend to mope about it?”

He could easily find JoJo himself, or use his influence over the other boys in town to hunt down JoJo’s new hideouts, and with how damn long it was taking JoJo to get over himself, Dio was about ready to throw caution to the wind and do just that. What need had he to be cautious, anyway?

(The memory of JoJo’s righteous fury bit at the back of Dio’s mind, and he promptly silenced it).

“Oi, Dio!”

At the sound of his name, Dio paused his stride and saw a group of his followers running down the path towards him. A few of them, he noted with mild interest, were nursing bruises and bloody noses.

The first of them to make it to Dio had a black eye in addition to the blood pouring over his hand, which he had pressed up beneath his nose. “Cor blimey, he’s turned into a real maniac…!”

“Used to not be able to hit worth a damn!” another boy exclaimed, a magnificent bruise decorating the side of his face.

“But we still got ‘im!” a third boy chimed in vindictively.

“Got who?” Dio asked.

“JoJo, of course!”

“JoJo…” Dio had suspected as much.

“We found him down the river,” one of the group explained. “He just up and attacked us, the bloody maniac…!”

“We beat ‘im, though!” someone else cut in. “That stupid uppity rich boy still can’t win a fight!”

Dio ignored the comment. The wheels in his mind were turning.

“Where is JoJo now?” he asked with practiced nonchalance.

Everyone’s fingers pointed back the way they had come. “Where we left ‘im, ‘round where the river flows behind that fancy mansion of ‘is. ‘e’s probably lickin’ his wounds if ‘e isn’t passed out by now.”

Dio strode forward, and the group parted like the Red Sea to Moses, allowing him to continue his way down the path.

“He’s gotten a lot stronger, Dio!” one of the group called to him. “You should be careful!”

“Don’t be stupid...!” another snapped. “As if anyone could beat Dio…! Least of all JoJo!”

Dio felt his hands curl into fists again. He forced himself to keep his stride even and unhurried.

“Yeah, and in the state we left ‘im, JoJo ain’t gonna be beatin’ anyone.”

“Dio’s got this, easy! Come on, let’s go!”

The sound of running footsteps and rowdy talk faded away, signalling the group’s exit. Dio allowed himself an irritated scoff.

It did not take Dio long to find JoJo. He saw the blood first, a trail of it, decorating the riverbank with scattered smears of crimson. And at the end of the trail, not at all far from where the trail started, lay JoJo.

Stepping off the path and onto the grass, Dio approached the fallen Joestar heir. At a glance, JoJo looked like a dead man. Dio had seen plenty of those in the slums of London, hidden curled up in alley corners, propped up against the wall behind pubs, or simply lying prone against the cobblestones, just like JoJo did now in the grass. It was immediately obvious that JoJo was alive though, if the laboured breathing was any indication.

Pity.

The grass rustled beneath Dio’s feet as he approached. JoJo coughed and turned his head just in time to see the other boy standing over him.

“Dio…” Though hoarsely spoken, the name came out sounding like a bitter curse. “Come to kick me while I’m down? You would do that, wouldn’t you…? Damn… coward…”

A few more coughs sent another light spray of blood spattering against the grass. JoJo groaned.

God, how badly Dio wanted to confirm JoJo’s bitter words. On the ground, face covered in blood and bruises, fancy clothes torn and dirtied, literally crawling - throughout all the torments Dio had put him through, JoJo had never looked more pathetic and beaten than he did right now. And here Dio was, in the perfect position to revel in the younger boy’s misery, to dig his heel into his back and say, “And here I thought only dogs crawled on all fours.”

But…

“That would be unseemly,” Dio said.

“You would know,” JoJo retorted. He grunted as he attempted to get his arms under him and push himself up, only for his arms to fail him and send his face crashing back into the dirt.

JoJo’s body began to shake. His hands clenched at the grass, soft, muffled sounds leaving him in spite of whatever efforts he might have been making to hide them. Dio simply looked down at him impassively. Then, he bent down and grabbed Jonathan by the arm.

“Wh– Hey…! What are you–?!”

Ignoring JoJo’s protests, Dio slung JoJo’s arm over his shoulder.

“Dio, what do you think you’re–?!” JoJo began to cough again.

“Helping you back home, is that all right?” Dio replied coolly.

He started towards the nearby bridge, which would allow them to cross the river and cut across the field to reach the mansion. JoJo recovered from his cough and began to struggle against Dio’s hold.

“Dio… Let go of me…!”

They reached the bridge and made their way across.

“I said let go!”

Dio tightened his grip on JoJo’s arm and continued their trek towards the mansion.

“Dio, let g–!” More coughing, this time severe enough for JoJo to sag significantly in Dio’s hold, forcing them to a stop.

“What?” Dio looked at JoJo with no small amount of annoyance. “Are you planning on crawling the rest of the way?”

JoJo did not answer immediately, his whole body shaking with the force of coughing up more blood onto the grass. As Dio watched, though, the coughing morphed into those same muffled sounds JoJo had been making on the riverbank only a minute or two ago. Dio could not make out his face, but JoJo’s body continued to shake.

“...You never liked Danny,” JoJo said at length, after his shaking had subsided a bit, voice low and barely audible.

“...No, I didn’t,” Dio admitted after a calculated pause. “What of it?”

“You killed him, Dio…!” JoJo turned his head to glare at him, frantic fury no less palpable through the tears running down his face. “I know you did, I know it was you, you killed him!”

Dio met JoJo’s teary gaze with a carefully crafted mask of easy benevolence. “JoJo… That is rather unfair of you.”

In an instant, the fire in JoJo’s eyes was doused with a startled uncertainty. “What...?”

“So I didn’t like your dog,” Dio continued sensibly. “For that reason alone you think me capable of committing such a cruel act?”

JoJo averted his gaze. “Well, I…”

Dio sighed in disappointment. “Really, JoJo.”

He forced JoJo to straighten up, leaving whatever excuses or retorts the latter might have said to die wordlessly as Dio resumed their walk.

Everything was quiet for a stretch. The grass crunched beneath their feet, a soft wind rustled past the nearby trees, JoJo’s breathing remained laboured and audible, broken only by the occasional cough, but no words passed between the two of them. Dio just kept his sights set on the mansion, trying to ignore how heavy JoJo was beginning to feel against his shoulder.

At around halfway to their destination, Dio glanced at Jonathan. The younger boy appeared lost in thought, blood and tear stained face a picture of conflicting emotions.

Dio returned his sights to the mansion. “So, what happened?”

“Huh?”

“You’re hardly the type to get into fights needlessly.”

Silence. Dio could see JoJo out of the corner of his eye, staring at him with a puzzled frown.

“...Why are you doing this, Dio?” JoJo finally asked.

“Whatever do you mean?”

“This is another one of your tricks, isn’t it?” The accusation, though bitter, held no bite to it, weighed down instead by weariness and resignation. “You’re planning to humiliate me somehow, to drag me down even further.”

Dio shook his head. “Still so unfair, JoJo. I saw you were in need and chose to help you. Is that really so hard to believe?”

“Well–“

“What, am I not allowed to show even the barest amount of humanity?” Dio asked, allowing a touch of bitterness in his own voice.

“No…!” JoJo cried. “I-I mean yes, but– No, that’s not what I…”

The words trailed off. Jonathan looked more confused and conflicted than ever. Dio held back a smirk, and the rest of the walk was spent in silence.

When they finally approached the front of the mansion, JoJo began to pull back. “Wait...”

Dio looked at him in annoyance. “What is it now?”

“Father,” JoJo said quietly, not meeting Dio’s gaze. “I don’t want him to see me like this.”

It would have been so easy to mock JoJo. Being so caught up in the loss of a dog that he had actually forgotten about the whereabouts of his own father? It was beyond pathetic.

“He’s not here, remember?” Dio said. “He went out of town yesterday to meet with a potential business partner and won’t be back for another two days. Come on…”

He nudged JoJo forward, and after a few hesitant stumbles, JoJo allowed Dio to lead him to and through the front door, where they were soon greeted by a very concerned staff. JoJo attempted to wave them all off, claiming to be “just fine” and other pointless self-denying rubbish. Dio simply asked that a bowl of warm water be brought to JoJo’s room as he brushed past them and helped JoJo make his way up the stairs.

When they got to JoJo’s room, Dio kicked the desk chair out from in front of JoJo’s desk and dropped the other boy into it. JoJo groaned, leaning forward with his arms wrapped around his abdomen, and Dio removed his jacket, tossing it onto the desk beside the two of them.

“...I... don’t think you answered my question earlier.”

Dio glanced up from rolling up his shirt sleeves to meet a searching blue gaze.

“Why are you helping me, Dio?” JoJo asked, the question genuine but guarded.

“Do you not want me to, JoJo?” Dio responded easily.

The blue gaze dropped back down to the floor. “I don’t know…”

JoJo’s arms tightened around his middle. The frown on his face was marred by a deep discomfort, too vulnerable to be resentfulness or hostility. Dio regarded him for a moment, carefully indifferent, then resumed folding up his shirt sleeves.

One of the manservants soon arrived with the requested water. The man once again expressed concern over the two boys, but Dio assured him that everything was under control and that he would call if they needed anything else. The manservant left, albeit hesitantly, and Dio returned to JoJo’s side with the bowl in hand, placing it onto the desk.

After soaking the provided cloth in the warm water and wringing it out, Dio turned and pushed Jonathan upright, drawing a startled cry of pain from the injured boy as he instinctively attempted to curl back in on himself. Dio ignored him, keeping one hand against JoJo’s shoulder.

“Sit still.” He pressed the damp cloth against a cut running along the edge of JoJo’s hairline.

“Ow!” JoJo recoiled, trying to pull away. “Dio! What are you– Ow!”

“Even a cut can become gangrenous if not properly attended to,” Dio said, dipping the cloth into the basin again and wiping more blood from a cut down Jonathan’s temple.

“Ow! I know that, but–”

“Then what is the problem? Just sit still and let me clean those cuts,” Dio retorted. He brought the cloth to a remarkable split in the skin above JoJo’s eye.

“Ow…! All right, all right, fine, just…” JoJo clenched and unclenched his fists for a moment, as though unsure what to do with his hands, before finally and hesitantly settling on gripping his knees. “Be gentle, all right…?”

Dio grit his teeth, fingers tightening around the cloth in his hand. He resumed cleaning JoJo’s cuts as before.

‘Be gentle.’

What the hell? How, how had he lost to this? A pampered brat who whined and flinched at the slightest pain? JoJo had taken a thumb to the eye, even a knee to the head better than this…!

JoJo hissed, tensing yet again as the cloth pulled at the edges of the cut along his hairline. “Well… You certainly seem to know what you’re doing…”

The words were murmured, sounding like a light observation spoken more to JoJo himself than to the boy in front of him.

Despite that, Dio found himself saying coldly, “Of course. I’ve had to.”

JoJo’s eyes flicked upward to look at him, wide, confused, and naive, so infuriatingly goddamned naive–

“The slums of London are not so kind as the backwater countryside, JoJo,” Dio snarled, glaring at the cut he was currently cleaning.

“...Right. Of course, that makes sense.”

Dio paused, actually looking JoJo in the face. He nearly reeled back.

Dio did not quite recognize the look on JoJo’s face. There was no hostility in it, no defensiveness, not even a resignation. It was not pity, Dio did actually know what that looked like. No, it was something else. Dio hated it.

“Tch.” Dio looked away, managing to regain a fumbling hold on his temper as he continued tending to Jonathan’s wounds. “You know, you never answered my question.”

“What? Ow…!”

“What happened?” Dio asked, relaxing now that that look had disappeared behind a wince of pain.

“I… It was nothing.” JoJo looked away. “I simply lost my temper…”

Dio just barely managed to hold back a scoff as he wrung out the cloth in the, by now, blood stained water. Chances were, his followers had found Jonathan and verbally assaulted him until some slight violated his precious sense of ‘honour,’ and he lashed out physically. Considering how much more emotionally fragile JoJo had been as of late, it would not have been difficult.

“Dio.”

At the sound of his name, Dio turned back to JoJo with a raised eyebrow. “Yes?”

There it was. That look again, made somehow worse by the way JoJo sat upright in his chair, despite how much it obviously physically pained him.

“I’m…” JoJo hesitated, then continued certainly, “I’m sorry. For… making you cry.”

Never had Dio felt more like he wanted to hit someone.

That look, those words, something about them just… got under his skin, made him feel not like the veritable god he knew he was. Dio wanted to hurt Jonathan, to punch that look off his face, to–

run a w ay

 an d

 h i d e

“...I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Dio said through grit teeth.

JoJo bowed his head. “Right. Of course.”

Dio’s grip tightened around the cloth once again. “Good god, just sit still,” he growled.

The rest of their time was spent in silence, save for the occasional hiss or cry from JoJo.

[theirlesserchronicles]

Preface

A little book tucked deep in Turaga Nuju’s chambers contains the most important sentence, one that has helped make my profession easier.

The now-deceased Chronicler who wrote it claimed that he would’ve preferred not to be shy, since that would have freed him from writing stories down, that it was purer, he said, to tell a story to someone and let it die, fade, with the listener as the sole remaining record of the teller’s story. It’s very telling that the aforementioned Chronicler’s name has been lost yet his truism remains.

As we reached the end of history, we wondered what our future would entail. First it was when our universe was overtaken, since everything had changed and, I thought, needed to be written down, shared with others, a reminder that this was not our normal, that when it ended I would keep chronicling what would come next, because something had to come next, this couldn’t be how our story ended. Later, as I walked alongside a battalion following Toa Tahu a troop of creatures hungering for freedom led by that legendary hero on this Bara Magna planet, I followed, dreaming of victory, and of telling stories of victory that would remain timeless.

That was a year ago. Now, overlooking the giant robots and the moss that overtakes them, I realize history has continued, but with no events for me to chronicle, no grand makers or main characters to continue telling our struggles. I set camp by Mata Nui Lake, thinking that if any grand event were to happen, it would be at the resting place of our Great Spirit. Later I would learn to wait for people, since they were the ones that made events happen. But at the start no one came.

No one of importance, at least. I have instead welcomed pilgrims coming from as far as the Southernmost Islands. I fed Thornax stew to a Glatorian who had many moons ago renounced violence though it hadn’t renounced him. I heard the incredible tales of a Matoran who claimed to have worked alongside the Great Beings in all their pride and folly. I provided shelter to a group of Toa who had been freed from experimentation pods during the Crash, only to realize it had been 10,000 years and the only thing they could still see alive was their shared trauma.

History became not about the big heroes and grandiose actions, but about the small Koro built atop a lake of pure Energized Protodermis or the Agori who would have died during a Baterra attack had it not been for the kindness of a passing stranger who would instead die in his place. “History” was every story that came to visit the last properly ‘great’ historical event, the day when Mata Nui left us by retreating into the Mask of Life. I was just lucky to be here and to be able to pen each of their stories. Their lesser chronicles, as it were.

Ice carving, even with tools designed for that, was never my strong suit. But I create, out of ice, a diorama for each tale told to me,, a single vignette showing that lesser chronicle. Now the guests stay an extra night to see my handiwork. All of them have so far rejected my offer for them to keep the sculpture (though the gift of someone’s story is the one that demands our eternal gratitude), and so this new wall of history is a collection of statues with very small blurbs beneath them. I add another one every week.

I’ve been told that Toa Takanuva has started spreading the word about this place (“the closest thing to the Great Archives we’re ever had!”, he apparently tells anyone who will listen). So as I prepare myself to be less shy, to tell a story and have it die in the telling, I will draft the stories out in full, purely for my sake, to make it a true chronicle, a hidden text, a brief story.

- Kopeke

[ollieofthebeholder]

leaves too high to touch (roots too strong to fall): a TMA fanfic

Tumblr tag || Also on AO3.

Chapter 36: Martin

It’s an interesting weekend, to say the least, partly because of the startling news Sasha uncovered that Jonah Magnus isn’t the only avatar to attempt to extend his life (Jon Prime apologizes profusely for not telling them that, but Sasha points out that it wasn’t exactly important at the beginning and they have to discover some things for themselves) and partly because Tim tells them, Saturday night, that he thinks he’s got enough of a handle on his abilities that he can focus on a single person or object and not risk being blinded by anything else around them. He thinks he can control it. Jon is apprehensive, but agrees that if Tim really wants to test it, he’s willing to let him try a controlled test on Sunday.

They call Sasha, who turns up around teatime with the Primes. One by one they sit opposite Tim in the living room while he takes a deep breath, relaxes, and lets his eyes go slightly unfocused. For each one, he describes what he sees to them while Jon Prime jots down the notes for him, then passes the notebook to Martin so he can stand before Tim. They all know Jon Prime has been marked by all fourteen powers; Tim says he’s hoping to just get clarification on one or two colors he isn’t sure about. It’s apparently too much for him, though, especially since he’s done all the others first, and he passes out. He comes around fairly quickly, but he’s still weak and shaky and both Jon and Martin declare the test at an end. Tim doesn’t argue, but he also won’t go lie down on his own, and the Primes and Sasha quietly let themselves out so the other three can go to bed early.

He’s still a little shaky on Monday morning, but seems in good spirits. Jon hesitantly offers him one of the statements they’ve been saving for Jon Prime; Martin lets them argue for a couple minutes about the recordings before interrupting gently to ask, “Do you actually need to record it for it to count?”

“What?” both of them ask, turning to him in surprise.

Martin shrugs. “I mean…the recorders don’t belong to the Eye, right? So it’s not the act of actually recording them that feeds it. It’s just the reading of them. The…consumption, I guess? If you just go back into the shelves or into the Cavern of Secrets or whatever and read it out loud, that ought to be enough, right?”

Jon and Tim look at each other. “That’s…actually a good point,” Tim says finally. He holds out his hand, and Jon gives him the statement. “Be back in a bit. I hope.”

He brushes off their offers of help and half-staggers towards Document Storage. Jon watches him go, then turns to Martin. “How did you think of that?”

“They mentioned once that…” Martin glances upwards. It’s hard sometimes to be precise without actually mentioning the Primes, so he decides to take a risk and hope Elias’ attention is elsewhere. “Your counterpart used to go out and pounce people to get their statements. But he didn’t record them, just…listened to them. And since we really don’t know what’s actually behind the recorders, except that it isn’t what’s feeding us in return, it just makes sense that he doesn’t need to make it ‘official’ for it to count.”

“God, I never thought of it that way, but you’re right. We really do have a…symbiotic relationship with that thing.” Jon sighs heavily and runs a hand through his hair. “I really shouldn’t let you three read any of these statements, but…”

“I don’t think there’s anything to be done about that now, Jon. We’re too tightly connected to it. We could none of us ever deliberately use the abilities it gave us again and I bet there’d be just enough…accidental occurrences to weaken us until we died. Starving ourselves won’t starve it.”

“You might be right, but I don’t have to like it.” Jon brushes his hand against Martin’s and changes the subject. “What are you working on today?”

“Um, we found another statement involving that space station, so I was going to see what I could dig up on that.”

“Good. Just be careful. I’ve got another backlog of recordings to do.” Jon grimaces. “Make Tim take it easy.”

“Easier said than done, but okay.” Martin smiles.

It’s easier than he expects, honestly. Tim is at least pretending to take care of himself, so when Martin tells him that both he and Jon want him to be careful, and Sasha makes it unanimous, he does. Apart from Jan Kilbride’s statement, everything else they’re looking into is something they all know is false, but they have to go through the motions. It’s oddly soothing, in its own way. Most of the morning passes with the three of them simply murmuring to one another when they find something interesting or mocking obviously false statements.

Tim and Sasha have a standing lunch date every Monday, something they’ve apparently done since they were in Research; Martin joined them once or twice, back at the beginning of everything, but bowed out after a while. It’s not that he felt uncomfortable or unwelcome so much as it is he feels like that’s their thing and doesn’t want to intrude. He waves them out absently, a pen clenched between his teeth as he tries to winnow down the list of Jenny Mackintoshes to a reasonable number that might be the one mentioned in the statement, false though it may be—they have to be sure, after all.

Less than five minutes after they leave, Sasha’s desk phone rings. Technically it’s for the Archives as a whole, and it used to be on Jon’s desk, but since that’s where he does his recordings and the relatively infrequent ringing forced him to have to redo a number of them, Tim managed to sweet-talk someone into installing it out on the main floor. Sasha’s desk is just the one closest to the connection. The ringing sounds more like a doorbell than a phone, and Martin’s still not sure it actually connects to the outside. He leans over and snags the receiver. “Archives, Martin Blackwood speaking.”

“Hi, Martin, this is the front desk.” Manal, as always, sounds slightly apologetic for having interrupted him. “There’s a Ms. Melanie King here to see Mr. Sims.”

“Thanks, Manal, I’ll be right up.” Martin hangs up the phone and glances towards Jon’s closed office door, then decides to just go get Melanie and let Jon know when they get back, if it’s important.

The front area of the Institute is a bit hectic, which it usually is this time of day as people pass back and forth on their way to lunch. He dodges around a few people, murmuring an absent response to the greetings of a woman who could almost be Quentin Blake’s drawings of Miss Trunchbull brought to life if she was a nicer-sounding person, and makes his way over to the front desk. Melanie King stands there, coat still on her shoulders and arms folded over her chest, tapping a foot impatiently against the floor, scanning the room as Manal looks up at her in amazement and adoration. Martin bites back a grin and approaches. “Ms. King?”

Melanie turns to him, eyes narrowed, and studies him for a second. “You’re—Martin, right? You used to work in the library?”

“Yep, that’s me.” Martin’s kind of surprised she knows that. “Martin Blackwood. You need to talk to Jon?”

“Yeah. You’d think at this point I wouldn’t need an escort.” Melanie says the last part almost under her breath.

“You’d think, but Elias gets his knickers in a twist about the oddest things sometimes,” Martin says. It elicits a surprised giggle out of Manal, who quickly covers her mouth with one hand and glances at the steps that lead to the first floor, to Rosie’s office and then the Institute Head’s. Sound travels oddly up those stairs from time to time, and now that Martin knows why the Institute was built, that doesn’t surprise him anymore. “Right this way…thanks, Manal.”

To her credit, Melanie waits until they’re halfway down the stairs before she says, “Does her mummy know she’s skipping school?”

“She’s almost twenty,” Martin says, briefly counting back to make sure he’s adding her age up right. “Been working here a couple years. I don’t think she was all that good a student.” He’s also fairly certain she pulled herself out of an abusive home life, or at least a shitty one, but he’s not going to say that out loud.

Melanie looks tired, but also determined. Martin feels like he’s got a mouthful of seltzer and bites his tongue to keep from asking her if she’s okay or what’s wrong; he knows by now what it tastes like when there’s a statement in the offing, and he doesn’t want to accidentally pull it out of her before she’s ready, or before Jon is. Something about her eyes says she’s only going to want to make this official.

Something about the way she looks at her wrist—take that, Tim, I’m NOT the only person under the age of forty who still wears a wristwatch—says she’s in a hurry, so he asks, as neutrally as he can, “Got somewhere to be? We can go faster if you want.”

“No, it’s fine. I’ve got a plane to catch, but not for hours yet.” Melanie sighs. “No sense in breaking our necks over this.”

“Sure,” Martin says softly. A plane to catch. Ghost Hunt UK only investigates domestic hauntings—it’s right in their name, for Christ’s sake—and they’re on something of an indefinite hiatus anyway. Either Melanie is getting out of the country for a while, or she’s continuing her research on her own, and he’s not sure which outcome he’s hoping for.

Motioning for Melanie to wait once they reach the Archives, Martin pokes his head into the doorway of Jon’s office and waits until Jon looks up. Jon gives him a short nod, finishes reading the statement aloud, and pauses the recording. “Is everything okay? Tim—”

“Tim’s fine. He and Sasha left for lunch a few minutes ago,” Martin assures him. “It’s Melanie King, she’s back to talk to you. I…think you might need the tape recorder.”

“Ah.” Jon’s face goes through an interesting series of emotions that would make Martin smile in any other circumstances. “I…don’t know if you can sit in on this one, Martin, I’m sorry.”

“That’s okay. I’m going to finish up what I’m working on and then head out to lunch myself, if that’s all right with you?”

“That should be fine. I’ll run to the canteen when Tim and Sasha get back. Assuming Tim doesn’t try to foist leftovers on me.” Jon smiles. “Send her in.”

Martin ushers Melanie in and shuts the door behind her, then heads back to his desk. Oddly enough—or maybe not so oddly—the break seems to have done some good, because it’s a lot easier for him to winnow down the list, and before long he has five possible matches. He makes note of them, saves his work, and closes his laptop.

He can feel the edges of a migraine starting up, so he shakes out a couple aspirin tablets and swallows them with the last of his tea, wincing at the powdery drag down his throat. Just as he stands up and reaches for his jacket, Jon’s office door opens, and Melanie comes out, all but slamming it behind her. She’s obviously in a bad mood and Martin isn’t sure if it’s something Jon said or just her general irritation. Something in him, though, can’t leave it be. Not that he wants to know what’s causing the mood…just that he doesn’t want it to linger. Not if she’s about to leave the country.

“Melanie,” he calls.

She stops partway across the floor and turns to look at him, arms akimbo. “What?”

Martin holds up his jacket, feeling a little foolish. “I was just going out to grab lunch. Want to come along? There’s a little sandwich place a few minutes away that does some interesting things with turkey, if you like that sort of thing.”

Melanie blinks at him. “You’re asking…me…to go to lunch with you,” she says flatly.

“Yeah?” Martin makes a show of looking around the Archives. “You see anyone else around here I could be asking?”

“Why?”

“Because you look like you could use a friend?”

Melanie’s eyebrows draw together in a frown. Martin is about to elaborate when she says, seemingly apropos of nothing, “I’m a lesbian.”

“Great! I’m gay!” Martin blurts. “See, we have something in common already!”

Melanie actually cracks a smile at that, and her shoulders relax. It’s only then that Martin realizes she thought he was hitting on her and wants to smack himself with embarrassment. Before he can apologize, though, she shrugs. “Yeah, okay, why not?”

Martin manages a smile back, shrugs into his jacket, and leads her out the employee entrance rather than the main steps.

The morning’s haze has burned off, and it’s sunny without being too warm for comfort. Melanie keeps her hands in her pockets as she walks, her shoulders hunched forward. Watching her, Martin is more and more sure he’s making the right call. She was agitated when she got to the Institute and talking to Jon probably didn’t help. It so rarely does.

There’s something off about the sandwich shop when they get there, but Martin doesn’t know what it is until they step inside and see it liberally festooned in paper hearts and glitter-covered cupids. Both of them groan in unison.

“Want to go somewhere else?” Martin asks Melanie.

“God, yeah. Is there anywhere that won’t be doing…” Melanie waves a hand at the decorations. “This?”

“Um…” Martin tries to think. “Curry shop or a pub. Two blocks’ difference in either direction. Take your pick.”

“The pub. I’ll have plenty of chances for curry over the next…however long. And I could use a pint.”

Martin lets the door shut and turns to the right. “Heading to India, then?”

Melanie nods once, but offers nothing further. Martin lets it go for now.

It’s a workingman’s pub, nothing fancy or pretentious. When the team goes out for drinks—more frequently than they used to—this is the one they usually come to, partly because it’s not too expensive compared to some of the others and partly because the barman has a sense of humor as well as a sense of adventure and will make all sorts of weird mixed drinks for Tim. Also, the rest of the Institute prefers going to one of the more ostentatious, upscale places��the sort that cater to the tourists and the businessmen, really. This one’s quieter, which is just the way they like it. The owner, a man about Sasha’s height but closer to Martin’s weight called Pat, nods as they come in; Martin nods in reply, waves two fingers, then gestures at one of the tables. Pat throws him a casual salute in acknowledgment and points at the stack of single-sheet menus on the table by the door. Martin snags two and hands one to Melanie as they drop down in their seats.

Melanie grunts as she studies the list of daily specials. “I can’t think of anything worse than being single on Valentine’s Day.”

“Getting broken up with on Valentine’s Day,” Martin says dryly, also scanning the specials. “Don’t get the stew. It’s basically just last week’s leftovers. The meat pies should be all right, it being Monday and all.”

Melanie looks up at him in evident surprise, but when Pat comes over with their pints, she orders the pie. Once Pat lumbers off, she says, “Jesus, did that actually happen to you, or is that hypothetically speaking?”

“It was a few years ago, but yeah.” Truthfully, he’s always hated the holiday, dating back to when he was a child and lucky to get a generic card from a single classmate whose mother forced them to bring cards for the whole class. It wasn’t much better when he did start dating. By the time his mother waited until he got back from the disastrous date that culminated in his then-boyfriend storming out of the restaurant, leaving Martin with the check and no easy way home, to inform him she had decided to move into a care home effective immediately, he was pretty much over the whole concept.

“You’re well rid of him, then.” Melanie picks up her glass and stared at it. “Dated someone once who broke up with me three days before my birthday. Came back three months later, told me she was so sorry and wanted to give it another chance. I said yes. Like an idiot.”

Martin can’t help the bark of laughter that slips out. “Let me guess. Your birthday’s at the end of November?”

“Third of December. And I didn’t get it!” Melanie slaps her palm against the table. “She pulled the same stunt again that year, but this time I’d already bought her present. It was while I was returning it to the shop that it hit me she was breaking up with me to avoid all the gift-giving…stuff. God. Teenagers are so stupid sometimes.”

Martin raises his glass. “Cheers to that.”

Melanie clinks her glass against his, then takes a sip and relaxes back in her seat. “So…seriously. Why are you doing this?”

“Seriously, you looked like you could use a friend.” Martin takes a sip of his own beer. “And you looked kind of miserable. Didn’t want you going out of town like that.”

“Hmm.” Melanie studies him for a minute, then sets down her glass and holds out her hand across the table. “Melanie.”

“Martin.” Feeling a weird sort of relief, Martin accepts her hand and shakes it. They’re both smirking when they settle back. “How’d you get into doing Ghost Hunt UK, anyway?”

“Started back in uni. One of the buildings on campus was reputed to be haunted,” Melanie explains. “It was one of those stories that get told to first-year students at the beginning of term, you know? Everyone knew someone who knew someone who’d seen a ghost there. Either you believed it and stayed away from the building after dark, or you dismissed it as a story told to frighten gullible firsties.” She shrugs. “Me, I was somewhere in the middle. I was a lot more skeptical back then, you know? But I wasn’t ready to dismiss it altogether. I wanted proof.”

“So, what, you set up a hidden camera?” Martin asks.

Melanie shakes her head. “No, not exactly. I did research. Lots of it. I wanted to know if there’d really been a fire that someone was trapped in, or a student who jumped off the roof during finals week, or a murdered cleaning woman or whatever. And the thing was, there were a couple of events that tallied with some of the stories I’d heard, but, you know…”

“There’s still that question of whether or not it’s just got enough truth to be plausible so people stop looking.”

“Exactly! You get it. Anyway, I was studying Media and Communications, so when the opportunity came up to do our first student film project, I suggested to Andy—we were in the same class and he was my partner—that we do something regarding the alleged haunting. It was….um, actually, it was originally fiction. To be honest, I don’t think either of us really believed it at that point. But…well.”

Martin nods in understanding. “You found something, I take it?”

Melanie’s eyes sparkle. “Boy, did we ever. It turns out there were two ghosts. One of them was pretty harmless—the one that had jumped off the roof. Turned out it was a student who’d been on the verge of failing out and didn’t want to face his family. Mostly he didn’t appear, you’d just hear him crying in odd corners late at night, especially close to finals week. The other one…well, we weren’t quite sure which one she was, but she definitely didn’t die easy, and she wasn’t happy about it. We got some good stuff on camera and beat feet out of there. Our teacher complimented us on our brilliant script and asked how we’d done such good special effects, and…well, we kind of lied to her, but it worked out. After that I think we both knew we were going to make a career out of that. It was just such a thrill.”

She’s genuinely passionate about her work, Martin thinks, and it makes his heart ache for her that she’s not been able to do it for so long. “I talk with students sometimes—more when I worked up in the library, but one or two come down to use the Archives. Had more than a few cite Ghost Hunt UK as the reason they’re studying the paranormal.”

Melanie flushes. “Yeah, well…yeah.”

Pat brings their lunch about then. Martin’s about to prompt Melanie with another question when she throws one at him. “What about you? How’d you end up doing what you do?”

“Do you mean working at the Magnus Institute in general, or winding up in the Archives?”

“Either. Both. How’d you get interested in the paranormal?”

“Honestly? I just needed the job,” Martin admits. “My mum’s been…she’s been sick for a long time, but she suddenly got a lot worse. I was desperate for a job and the Institute was the only place that would hire me.”

“Oh.” Something in Melanie’s face changes. “I’m sorry. What—if it’s not too invasive, what’s…wrong with her?”

Martin shrugs, feeling the familiar prickle of uncertainty crawl up his spine. “Dunno. They’ve never quite been able to figure it out, actually? I’ve been given a big long list of what it isn’t. It’s not MS, it’s not Parkinson’s, it’s not ALS…and so on and so forth. At this point I’m prepared to say she’s got Liliana Blackwood’s Disease.”

Melanie winces. “God. That must be hell on both of you. The whole not-knowing thing.”

“Worse for me, honestly,” Martin says slowly. Something prickles in the back of his mind; he tries to shut out the feeling, but the Eye—he’s sure it’s the Eye—shoves it through his barrier like someone pushing an envelope under a door. “I think she has some idea what it might be, actually. Or why it suddenly got worse a few years ago. But I also kind of think maybe she enjoys it a little. The attention, anyway. Not the actual being…I-I mean, nobody wants their kid to have to take care of them like that.”

“Yeah,” Melanie says softly. “I don’t think my dad would have, either.”

Martin looks up sympathetically. “He was sick?”

“Dementia. Early onset. Mum took care of him until she died, and then—the job, and I just—I couldn’t be his full-time caretaker, and it wasn’t safe to have him at home alone. I had to put him in a home.” Melanie stares into her half-empty pint glass. “Wish I visited him more, before…”

“He stopped remembering you?” Martin asks gently.

Melanie shakes her head. “He remembered me up to the end, but he died a few years ago. I, uh…is your mother still at home or…?”

“No, she asked to go into a home a few years ago.” It’s a polite way of phrasing it. She hadn’t really asked so much as told him she was going.

“Then maybe you know about…not many people really paid attention when it happened. Even the crew at Ghost Hunt UK didn’t really…” Melanie hesitates, crumbling a bit of pie crust in between her thumb and forefinger. “Did you ever hear of a place called Ivy Meadows?”

Martin’s blood runs cold. “Oh, no.”

“Yeah,” Melanie agrees. “Dad was still there when it burned down. The official story was that it had closed down months before and all the patients transferred, but…I never quite got why they did that.” She sighs heavily.

“Corruption,” Martin says under his breath.

Melanie, unfortunately, hears him. “You’re saying the staff was corrupt?”

“No. Well, yes, but…” Martin hesitates. “Look, there’s…let’s just say someone connected to it made a statement to the Institute. It’s—it was a lot.”

“And you believe it?”

“Yeah. See…okay, look.” Martin picks up his glass and downs about half of what’s left in one go. He’s going to need it. “It’s a really long story, and I don’t think either of us have time for it right now, but…all of us who work in the Archives, we’ve got—we’ve developed these kind of…weird abilities. Powers, you might call them even. And one of them is that we can tell when a statement we’re listening to is something that actually happened—I mean, something that actually happened and really does have a supernatural or paranormal explanation—and something that’s fake or the result of a hallucination or anything like that.” He pauses. “It’s stronger for some of us than others, and we all get it in different ways.”

Melanie cocks her head at him. “Really.”

Martin nods. “Yeah, like—when I saw you at the front desk today? I knew you had a statement and I knew it was something that—uh—wouldn’t go on the laptop. You had to use the tape recorders, right? We only use those when it’s a proper spooky statement. Everything else will record digitally.”

Something about Melanie’s posture changes. “So that’s why he believed me.”

“Yep, that’s why,” Martin affirms. “If you want to know what we know about Ivy Meadows…I’ll tell you about it when you get back from India, maybe?”

“I don’t know that I will get back,” Melanie says frankly. She shrugs out of her coat and pulls aside the collar of her Ghost Hunt UK t-shirt, showing him a wicked-looking scar slashing down from her shoulder towards her heart. “These ghosts I’m chasing down are pretty nasty. It’s why I came to gave my statement—in case I get killed by one.” She lets the shirt fall back to its natural position. “I don’t want to die not knowing the truth. Go ahead and tell me.”

So Martin does. He keeps it as bare-bones as possible, but it takes a serious effort; the static gets louder in his mind and the pressure builds behind his eyes as Melanie gets paler and paler. The Eye wants her fear, and while Martin’s role is usually the comforter, the therapist, the let-it-all-out vent switch, in absence of anyone else to give Melanie the information to devastate her, it appears to be settling. Somehow, he manages to get away with telling her no more than the basics.

“Please don’t ask me for more details,” he mutters at last, breaking off a piece of the meat pie. “I won’t be able to not give them to you.”

Melanie visibly struggles to pull herself together, grief and rage mingling in her eyes as Martin tries to cope with the too-big bite he shoved in his mouth. Choking here in Pat’s pub wouldn’t be the most brilliant move in the world, but it was better than laying out someone else’s trauma to give Melanie more. He manages to swallow at last, about the time Melanie takes a deep breath and straightens.

“I want to see that file when I get back,” she says baldly.

“Deal. Anything to get you to actually make the effort,” Martin says pointedly.

Melanie looks slightly embarrassed. “I’m not suicidal.”

“No, but you don’t care if you die or not. I know what that looks like, Melanie. I’ve been there. You think you’ve got nothing left to live for and nothing to lose, so you’re willing to throw your life away on the off-chance it’ll improve things for someone else. The only difference is you’re not going to do it yourself.” Martin waits until she looks him in the eye, then says, “Whatever you’re looking into, Jon’s going to want to hear about it—we all are. I bet you want to know what’s going on at the Institute. And I really would like to actually get to be friends with you instead of—of speed-bonding or whatever we’re doing here.”

Melanie actually laughs at that. “Same, actually. Okay. Deal. I do my best to survive whatever’s waiting for me in India, and when I get back, drinks and I tell you all about it.”

“Sounds like a plan. Wait, here.” Martin grabs a pen out of his pocket—they seem to be almost as ubiquitous as the tape recorders these days—and scribbles his number on a napkin, then pushes it over to Melanie. “In case you need anything. Or just want to chat or whatever.”

“Thanks.” Melanie pulls out her own phone and types busily away at it. A moment later, Martin’s phone pings, and there’s a text from an unknown number: [Here’s mine back. Same deal.]

Martin saves the number and glances at the time to confirm he’s got time. “When does your flight leave?”

“Four. I’ve got to run home and grab my suitcase.” Melanie checks her own phone. “In fact, I should probably finish up eating here and call a cab.”

���Fair. I need to get back to work anyway.” Martin signals to Pat for the bill and hands over his card before Melanie can object. “It’s fine, seriously. I invited you, it’s my treat.”

“Fine, but the drinks are on me when I get back.”

“I accept those terms.”

Outside, Martin holds out his hand; Melanie starts to shake it, pauses, and then bypasses it and goes in for a hug. It startles him, but he hugs her back. In the back of his mind, he wonders when the last time someone touched her in a friendly manner was.

“Thank you,” she murmurs. “You’re right. It feels a lot better heading off with having spent time with—a friend.”

“Good.” Martin hugs her tighter for a second, then lets go as a cab pulls up. “Safe travels. Let me know when you get back.”

“I will. You be careful, too.” Melanie winks at him. “Good luck surviving Valentine’s Day.”

“Enjoy a year without it,” Martin snipes back. She actually laughs and waves before getting in the cab. He waits until it pulls out of sight, then starts the walk back to the Institute, feeling oddly better about a lot of things. It’s nice to have a friend. He just hopes she means what she says about being careful.

[kmseokjins]

Twisted Tails (Chapter 1)

Fandom: BTS Pairing: BTS x Reader / (Future) Poly!OT7 x Reader / Hybrid!BTS x Human!Female!Reader Warnings: angst (Jimin is upset) Words: 5.5k words (GOOD LORD.)

Summary: When you meet with your later sister’s lawyer, you’re not expecting to suddenly own two hybrids. Of course, things end up being a tad more complicated than that once you get to the shelter. Upset Jimin inbound.

Hybrids: GermanShepherd!Namjoon, BirmanCat!Jimin, more to come later!

Notes: Well, looks like I’m jumping on the Hybrid!BTS train. For now, this is mostly Jimin and Namjoon centered, but the other boys will be introduced down the line (feedback depending). I hope I didn’t make Jimin too clingy or anything. I’m so excited yet incredibly nervous to post this fic tbh. I hope y’all like it! Depending on the feedback I get, we shall see if there’s future chapters on the horizon! ;)  Special shoutout to @mygsii for help with this fic title! <3

Archive Of Our Own || Next Chapter

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“Your sister left her hybrids to you.”

“Wha-? I’m-I’m sorry, what?”

“Her two hybrids. She left them to you.”

“There has to be a mistake, I...I don’t know how to take care of a hybrid.”

“Her Will states it so, there is no mistake.”

You’re downright flabbergasted. When you had received the call from some lawyer’s office last week about your late sister’s estate, you hadn’t been expecting this. On top of the fact that you’d been shocked to hear that your sister had a Will; she was only four years older than you, for Pete’s sake! Leave it to your sister to give you grey hairs from beyond the grave. She’d left everything to you, including her two hybrids.

You knew about hybrids, of course. One would have to be living under a rock to not heard anything about them before. It had been a wild craze for decades now: “Own your own Hybrid! Companionship, pets, and more!” It made your stomach queasy just thinking about it. You heard the horror stories about hybrids being forced to participate in underground fighting (more often than not, to the death), subjected to hard labor, or used as sex slaves. You literally shuddered, and not in a good way.

Hybrids were half human, exhibiting the physical traits of whatever species they were crossed with in the form of tails, ears, claws, and eyes. Usually hybrids displayed one or two of those traits, although it wasn’t uncommon for them to display all those traits. In addition, hybrids also displayed the instincts of said species, some more than others.

You were somewhat familiar with your sister’s hybrids; you had met Namjoon and Jimin several times. They were both sweet and docile, and despite the fact that you had never owned a hybrid before, you were certain you had lucked out with the two. At least you weren’t bringing home two hybrids that didn’t know you..

“Where are they?” You straightened from your thoughts as you realized you hadn’t seen the hybrids yet. You hadn’t thought to ask about them last week when you’d been asked questions by the police; you had been too upset, wallowing in the grief of losing your big sister. How could you have been so heartless in not inquiring about Namjoon and Jimin? They had surely been grieving just the same as you at the loss of your sister.

The lawyer sitting at the desk in front of you glanced up at you over his thinly rimmed glasses, eyebrows furrowing slightly before he relaxed when he seemed to know what you were questioning him about. 

“They’re at the shelter downtown, the police too-,”

“What!?” You shot up from the chair you had been uncomfortably perched in, barely aware of the man jolting slightly at your sudden movement and your shout. They took them to the shelter? While most shelters weren’t bad, you could only imagine the stress Namjoon and Jimin were going through right now.

You were almost to the door when the lawyer stopped you, “Wait! You have to sign some things. I have documents and folders for you from your sister. Please, Miss L/N.” 

Your shoulders slumped before you whirled around and hurried back to the desk, hoping this signing wouldn’t take long.

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

“It won’t take long, Miss. It’s only a few signatures and then you can be on your way.” 

You grumbled sarcastically under your breath as you drove through downtown, fingers tapping impatiently on the wheel. What you thought would take ten minutes ended up taking twice that. The few documents and folders from your sister ended up being a box full. The said box, black and heavy, sat in the passenger seat of your SUV. The thin folder resting on top contained the papers for Namjoon and Jimin.

You wanted to look through the box, but you decided you could do that later after you got Namjoon and Jimin from the shelter. They didn’t need to be there any longer than they already were, it had been at least a week or so, according to the lawyer. God, what if someone had come in and adopted them!? Your sister would be rolling around in her grave if that were true. You’d seen how much she’d loved the two hybrids, if anything happened to them under your watch...she would come back to haunt your ass, you just knew it.

Your heart was fluttering in your chest as you pulled into the parking lot of the shelter and pulled into an empty parking spot, turning off your vehicle before taking a moment to survey the building. The parking lot had a few cars, which you assumed was mostly workers. The building was nice; a little too nice, if you really thought about it. The concrete walls were painted beige, the sign printed with the shelter name was big and neat, like it had just been put up to hang on the front of the building over the set of glass doors.

Taking a deep breath, you snag the folder on top of the box before sliding from your SUV and shutting the door, pressing the lock button as you made a beeline for the glass doors.

As soon as you stepped into the front lobby, you shivered slightly at the coolness. Someone apparently had the air cranked down. The lobby was a decent size with white walls, a few aesthetic paintings of flowers, and a row of chairs along one wall. The main desk was directly ahead, and you frowned at the sight of an empty chair. Clutching the folder in your hands, you approached and peered around.

“Hello?” You called out, wishing there was a bell or something you could ring. You jerked your attention towards the door behind the desk at several muffled shouts from behind it. Tilting your head curiously, you jerk back slightly when the door suddenly bursts open and a tall, blonde woman steps through.

“Oh! Hello!” She greets after a moment of silence, clearing her throat before she quickly takes a seat in the chair behind the desk. “I apologize if you’ve been waiting too long. Can I help you?” She flicks her dark eyes up to you expectantly for your answer.

“Oh, um, well,” You fumble to place the folder down on top of the desk as you also stumble for words, “I’m here to pick up two hybrids that the-,”

“You’re here for hybrids? Wonderful! Is there a certain species or gender you’re looking for? We have several prey hybrids and a few predator hybrids. We have deer, squirrels, wolves, cats, dogs…” She flips her hand around as she explains, “Most of our hybrids are males, but we have a few females if you would prefer them!”

You gape at her for several moments before you’re shaking your head, “No, no. The police brought in two hybrids last week, I think? Namjoon is a dog hybrid and Jimin is a cat hybrid. If I had known they were here sooner, I wouldn’t have let them stay so long…” You inch the folder towards her, “I have their papers right here.”

The woman tugs the folder from your grasp and flips it open, eyes scanning the documents within for a few moments before she glances up at you, “I know these two,” She offers you a look of sympathy, “They’ve had several interested parties, and they’re currently being visited by one of those parties now.”

“You can’t adopt them out, I have their papers and they belong to my sister-,” You choked on the words, clearing your throat, “I mean...I...they’re...they’re in my care now, and I have papers to prove it,” You gesture at the folder the woman still has clutched in her hands.

“We give owners 72 hours to claim their hybrids before we make them available for adoption, Miss,” She offers the folder back towards you, “If you leave your name and number, we can contact you if their adoption doesn’t go through..?”

You felt sick as soon as the words passed her lips. You couldn’t leave without Namjoon and Jimin. You didn’t know the first thing about taking care of hybrids, but you couldn’t let your sister down. She had trusted you with them. Not doing everything in your power to make things right didn’t settle well with you. You wouldn’t give up that easily.

Squaring your shoulders, you offered the secretary a beaming smile, “Actually, can I be shown some hybrids? I’m not sure what I’m looking for,” You grit the words out as sweetly and innocently as you can to the woman, who has her eyebrows raised slightly at your sudden shift in demeanor.

She must not dwell on it too long because she straightens after a moment with a smile, “Of course! Let me call Jackson and get you set up for a look around.”

You hoped you could lay eyes on Namjoon and Jimin during your tour. You wanted to make sure they were alright and that they were actually here. You didn’t want to disrespect your late sister’s wishes, but you knew that such matters could already be out of your hands. If worse came to worse, you suppose you could call your sister’s lawyer and get his help with this mess.

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

“Amanda said you weren’t sure what you wanted, is that right? We usually recommend a breed of dog or cat hybrids for first time owners….you are a first time owner, right? I’m assuming you’re not interested in our more exotic hybrids? We recommend more domestic hybrids to first timers.”

Jackson, it turned out, was a very happy and excitable person. He’d been rather enthusiastic ever since he’d come barreling through the doorway five minutes prior, a wide (and rather blinding) smile plastered on the tall brunette’s face. You’d been startled enough at his entrance to not put much effort into fighting him off when he’d rounded the desk and hugged you. You had tensed up immediately at the contact, eyes wide at how little he respected personal space. The hug, thankfully, was quick and brief before he’d offered out his hand to shake. You’d stared at his outstretched hand for several moments, perplexed that he hadn’t offered his hand in the first place. You would have preferred that.

You followed him through the door he had emerged from behind the secretary (Amanda apparently), folder tucked safely away (mostly) in your purse. “Yeah, first time owner,” You answered him, looking back and forth at the various doors that lined the brightly lit hallway. All the doors were shut, but a window in the doors offered you glimpses into the rooms beyond; the beds, desks, toys, and personal items you’d seen indicated they were the hybrid’s rooms.

“Most of them are out in the social area right now.” Jackson gestures to the door that you’ve both approached as he turns the handle and pushes it open, urging you through into the room, “I can introduce you to a few if you like?” 

You had been expecting to enter a room that was entirely too small and lackluster to be the social area for hybrids. You’d seen the pictures before of poor environments of shelters and adoption centers, little to no care for the enrichment of the hybrids that stayed there. You were, for lack of a better word, quite speechless at the room you stepped into.

The room was huge and brightly lit, walls painted an off white. It was filled with several tables, beanbags, and benches throughout, along with several enrichment items (including platforms that resembled trees) and toys. Hybrids of all kinds dotted around the room, most playing, sitting, or lounging around. You caught sight of several cats perched in the tree platforms. At the sound of you and Jackson entering, a few hybrids glance your way curiously before resuming what they had been doing prior. 

The surprise that filters over your face as you take it in causes the man beside you to laugh, “A lot of people have walked through that door with that same look on their face. Impressive, yes?”

“Very.” You agree, “I’ve heard so many horror stories over the years about how some shelters look and treat the hybrids there. It’s...nice to see something like this.” You continue honestly, catching the slight bob of his head in agreement with you.

Over the years, you had heard countless stories on hybrid shelters: poor living environments, sick and ill hybrids, very little enrichment tools afforded to the hybrids housed there. A poorly cared for and neglected hybrid without the proper tools to keep them happy often lead to hybrids falling ill, and some cases, even brought about their death. Unhappiness really could drag them down. Of course, hybrid shelters weren’t the only ones with a bad rap: the horror stories coming out of breeding centers were even worse.

“We try to keep the hybrids in our care as stress free as we can.” Jackson urges you further into the room, earning a few more curious looks from the hybrids in the social area. “Of course, it comes with challenges, especially when hybrids are brought back.” He sighs softly at the admission, “We are strict with the hybrids that have been returned more than three times, adopting them is much more rigorous than a hybrids that’s never been adopted or only returned once. We’re rigorous regardless, but you can never be too sure…”

You’re half listening to him as you look around, desperately trying to catch sight of Namjoon and Jimin, but your shoulders slump when you don’t find them. You’re disappointed, even if the shelter did appear to be great keeping hybrids happy. You glanced sideways at Jackson, wondering if you should ask about the two hybrids and let him know that they were, legally, yours. Then again, what if they were adopted by someone nice, who was much more qualified to take care of the two rather than you? What had your sister been thinking?

Apparently she hadn’t been thinking at all.

Turning slightly to face Jackson, you opened your mouth to question him about the two hybrids when a commotion from the doorway opposite the one you’d entered caught both of your attention. There’s a muffled commotion behind the door for several seconds before it’s hastily shoved open by a short, brunette woman who looks rather stressed before her eyes land on Jackson. She immediately seems relieved, mostly.

“Jackson! Thank god, can you spare a few minutes to help?” She glances behind her down the hallway, a shriek echoing behind her before she’s jerking her head back to Jackson. All the hybrids around you are tense and looking towards the woman and the commotion behind her. “Jimin is very upset, he-,”

At the mention of Jimin, you’re immediately perking up, tilting your head as you attempt to figure out what exactly is going on behind her. She could easily be talking about another Jimin, but your gut is quite certain she’s talking about the Jimin you know. A hand pats your shoulder, muffled words reaching your ears before you take note of Jackson hurriedly moving towards the woman. He moves quickly, but it's more of a fast walk, no doubt to avoid stressing or startling the hybrids in the room more than they are now.

“I don’t want to! I can’t! You can’t!” Your eyes grow wide at the familiar voice of the cat hybrid that you’d known for the two years that your sister had owned him. Why was he so stressed out? What was going on? Unable to stop yourself, you followed after Jackson, trying to keep your strides even, barely able to catch the door he and the woman disappeared behind before it could close behind them.

You knew that you probably weren’t permitted back here with permission or an escort, but damn the consequences. You had a soft heart and you had never heard the panic and fear in Jimin’s voice like that before. Surely they weren’t hurting him.

Slipping through the door, you let it close behind you as you stopped to survey the scene further down the hallway. In addition to Jackson and the woman, four others were present, including a young woman standing near the wall directly across from three males. One of the men was obviously staff, if the uniform similar to Jackson and the woman’s was any indication. He was halfway between the woman and the other two males, hands raised slightly in surrender as he murmured softly to the males. You couldn’t make out what he was saying to them and instead focused on the two hybrids.

You instantly recognized the two hybrids: Jimin and Namjoon. The black haired cat hybrid was practically wrapped around the back of the tall, brown-haired dog hybrid. You couldn’t even see Jimin’s dark ears, no doubt laid flat enough to blend in with his hair, and his fluffy dark tail was flicking back and forth in clear agitation with the situation. The male he was clinging to was just as tense, his larger ears straight and rigid. He had one hand gripping hold of the cat’s arms around his neck.

“Jaebum, what’s going on?” Jackson asks the question you’re trying to piece together, catching the attention of the four standing further down the hallway as he approaches.

Jaebum, the staff member standing between the two parties, looks away from the two hybrids towards Jackson as he lowers his hands and gently gestures in the direction of the woman against the wall, “Miss Yeri had an appointment to meet Namjoon and Jimin today. Everything was fine until she expressed that she only wanted to adopt Jimin,” He gestures towards Jimin now, who vehemently shakes his head, “I told her that I would have to check with you before we made a decision and Jimin just freaked out.”

“You can’t separate us, please,” Jimin whines, tightening his arms around Namjoon’s neck in the process. Namjoon grunts at the tighter hold that the Birman cat hybrid grips him with, sliding his attention towards Jackson as he nears.

“No one is going to separate you two,” Jackson soothes as he nears the two hybrids, apparently ignoring the young woman by the wall at her soft noise of protest. “I promise, Jimin, we don’t do that here, okay?” He stops advancing towards the two when Namjoon shifts slightly in place, nostrils flaring as he leans forwards slightly towards Jackson, sniffing at him. Jimin makes a soft noise by his ear at the action, but follows the dog hybrid in also sniffing.

It takes only seconds for a pair of blue eyes and brown eyes to meet yours. You can’t help the small and nervous smile you offer, hand raising nervously with a wave. The last time you’d seen the two hybrids had been at least three weeks ago. You gulp as the humans turn to see what’s caught the two males’ attention.

“Y/N-,” Jackson starts, but his voice is drowned out by the cat hybrid.

“Y/N-ah!” The lithe cat hybrid detaches himself from Namjoon, easily darting past Jackson and the short woman before they can stop him. He quickly closed the distance, practically bowling you over when he reaches you and attaches himself to you.

“Jimin-,” You squeak at his tighter-than-necessary hold as he buries his face against the crook of your neck, stumbling slightly at his weight, eyes wide as you look over his shoulder at the audience down the hall. You reach up to loosely clasp your arms around the hybrid, feeling a little awkward at doing so. The humans are all wearing dumbfounded looks, not making any effort to stop Namjoon from slipping past them to follow Jimin to you. He doesn’t move hurriedly, but his longer strides cover the distance almost as quickly.

“I knew you’d come, I kept telling Joonie!” Jimin pulls back slightly to search your face, “You’re here for us, right?” He doesn’t hesitate to bury his face against your shoulder, the ears atop his head no longer flattened like they’d been before. Noises of contentment rumble from his chest as his cheek rubs against your shoulder.

“Yes, I planned on it,” You tell him truthfully, glancing over at Namjoon as the German Shepherd pauses beside you both, “But I’m not sure how easy that’s going to be.” If there was already a claim on them, you weren’t sure how things would proceed if you tried to fight it. You were certain you had a good case, but according to Amanda, the ownership rights to the two were no longer in your hands.

You had doubted whether or not the two would want to even go home with you, despite your sister’s wishes. You’d visited them enough over the years for them to be familiar with you, but you had never really been subjected to such affection, especially from Jimin. The dark-haired male with his brilliant blue eyes was a sweetheart, but his affection had mostly been reserved for your sister and Namjoon. To be smothered against the cat right now was quite shocking. Was he really happy to see you because of you, or because you were the last connection he had to your sister?

Your eyes desperately searched for Namjoon, silently begging the dog hybrid to help you. Namjoon’s lips twitched slightly at your expression before he reached out to slip an arm around Jimin and peel the male away from you, much to the male’s protesting whines at Namjoon. Just when you thought you were free from suffocating from affection, something soft wrapped around your wrist and tugged. Unprepared for the tugging, you stumbled sideways slightly, bumping into the two hybrids.

You chose to ignore the cheshire-like grin on Jimin’s face as the three staff members approached, followed hesitantly by the young woman, Yeri. She didn’t look too happy, if the stormy look on her face that she sent you was anything to go by.

“I’m sorry, Y/N,” Jackson apologized immediately as he approached, eyebrows raised as he took note of Jimin’s tail wrapped around your wrist and your close proximity to the two; you could barely feel the brush of Namjoon’s chest at your back. “Jimin isn’t normally like this. He usually prefers to keep his affections to Namjoon,” Jackson indicated the German Shepherd behind you.

“It’s fine,” You assure him softly, meeting Jimin’s stare before quickly focusing back on Jackson, “Actually, I’m interested in Jimin and Namjoon,” It’s another nervous smile from you, a little uneasy with all the attention focused solely on you. Jimin’s tail tightens slightly on your wrist and you can feel Namjoon’s chest crowd slightly closer to your back. Obviously they can smell your distress with the situation. You do your best to relax and shove aside your nerves.

“What?” Jackson seems taken aback, “Are you sure? You’re a first time owner and handling two hybrids is a lot of work. You hadn’t had time to look at the other hybrids..”

“Yes, I’m sure. Actually, I have their paperwork right here with me.” You reach with your free hand to pull the folder with their papers from your purse and offer it towards Jackson, “Jimin and Namjoon belonged to my sister. She signed them over to me in the event of her death in her Will. I would have gotten them sooner, but the lawyer’s office didn’t contact me until recently.” You explained as quickly as you could as Jackson flipped open the folder to look over the papers within, “Your secretary, Amanda, told me that owners only have 72 hours to claim their hybrids when their brought to the shelter, but I wasn’t informed that I was their owner until literally an hour ago.”

Jackson hummed and nodded along as he listened, “The proper paperwork is here, but...we’ll have to discuss it with the Director and see how we proceed with this from here. The two have had several interested in them, including Miss Yeri.”

The mentioned woman straightens, “She can have the dog,” She says stiffly, sliding her attention from you to Jimin, who refuses to acknowledge her, head tucked under Namjoon’s chin, his ears camouflaged in his hair once more. “I’m only interested in the cat.”

You furrow your eyebrows at her balant disinterest in Namjoon, appalled that she thought she could separate the two. They’d been together since before your sister had adopted them, at least that’s what she told you, and despite the fact that cats and dogs were notorious for not getting along, the two surprisingly had very few spats. Jimin’s display of distress at the thought of being separated from Namjoon hadn’t seemed to make the woman change her mind; how many people had been interested in them, only to want one of them? Had Jimin or Namjoon been thrown into distress more than once since they’d been here?

Had your sister been here, you had no doubt she would be threatening to throw hands with Yeri. The mental image almost made you crack a smile. You, on the other hand, bit your tongue and said nothing. At least, for now. Where your sister was quick to anger, you had a much cooler head on your shoulders.

“Like I said before Miss Yeri, we don’t separate hybrids that are bonded.” Jackson repeats, not even looking towards the woman he’s speaking to, “Doing so causes untold stress on the hybrids and diminishes their quality of life.” He closes the folder and looks at you expectantly, “Let’s go to the director and get this sorted out, yeah? This is a bit too complicated for me to deal with.” He offers a smile before turning his attention to the two hybrids, “Namjoon, Jimin. Please let Jaebum return you to your room?”

“But-,” Jimin starts to protest, reaching out to loop through yours and tug you closer. You reach over to brush your fingers over his arm in an attempt to comfort him, frowning as he trembled against Namjoon.

“Jiminie,” Namjoon’s voice was low and soothing as he speaks for the first time since you’d come across the commotion, “It’s alright,” You glanced upwards to look at him, watching curiously as he rubbed his chin against the top of Jimin’s head, the cat still tucked against him. Namjoon reached out to gently disentangle Jimin’s arm from yours and carefully unwound the younger’s tail from your wrist. “C’mon, let’s go take a nap, okay?” Jimin whined at the loss of contact, but he slowly nodded, wrapping his arms and tail around Namjoon.

Jaebum took a step towards the two, but immediately froze at the rumbling growl from Namjoon. You didn’t have the heart to blame Namjoon; Jaebum hadn’t helped the situation earlier.

Namjoon gently pulled Jimin away from you, his tail brushing you as he passed, murmuring softly to the smaller male tucked against him as they moved slowly down the hallway, Jaebum cautiously following behind.

You watched them quietly before Jackson clearing his throat brought your attention to the three humans still standing in the hallway with you.

“Shall we?” Jackson asked, gesturing towards the door behind you that lead back to the social area. You nod slowly, stepping aside to let Jackson lead the way.

“I’m coming with as well,” You turn to look at Yeri with furrowed eyebrows as she immediately stomps past you to follow after Jackson. She’d been repeatedly denied her request, but apparently she was far from giving up. You had a feeling that she was more than willing to play dirty to get what she wanted.

Surely if what Jackson said was true, this Director would shut down her request to separate Namjoon and Jimin and send her on her way. You didn’t particularly feel comfortable with even the slightest possibility of Jimin going home with her. Perhaps she would be a better owner than she appeared to be, but could you really let Jimin go home with her if it came down to it?

No, you decided. Your sister would haunt your ass. Scratch that, she would become corporeal and kick your ass.

Straightening, you sent one last look down the hallway before turning and following after Jackson and Yeri.

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

You were ready to throw hands at Yeri fifteen minutes into the meeting with the Director.

Calm thoughts. Margaritas on the beach. Warm towels fresh out of the dryer. That carton of Rocky Road ice cream waiting for you at home. 

“Suri will just love him, Jimin can bond with her.”

God, she was still talking. You closed your eyes, chin propped on your hand as you sighed deeply for the fifth time in the past ten minutes. After your first dramatic sigh, Yeri had taken to promptly ignoring you, focusing solely on the woman sitting behind the desk in front of you both. 

Mrs. Choi, the Director, didn’t seem quite impressed with Yeri either, but she had yet to tell the woman to shut up and leave. She remained quiet, aside from the initial introductions and a soft, “Our policy states that we don’t separate bonded hybrids” directed at Yeri once the woman had started in.

Of course, Yeri was either too stubborn or too daft to even care. She started to talk about her other hybrid, a ragdoll named Suri, and how well taken care of and loved Jimin would be once she adopted him. She had everything ready for a new hybrid and you had sworn her eyes got all teary-eyed when she explained how taken she was with Jimin at first sight.

You wanted to punch her. She kept going and going and going, and even now, she hadn’t taken the hint to close her mouth. 

“I’ve owned Suri for five years and she’s been my only ever since. Jimin would be so perfect for her and gosh, the cute little kittens they’d-,”

Jerking upwards in the chair, you slammed your hand on the arm rest, startling the woman beside you enough to actually make her look over at you in shock.

Satisfied you had her attention now, you fixed her with a glare, “You are not separating Jimin from Namjoon. You saw how distressed he was at the mere thought of it, but apparently you don’t care. Are you really that heartless?”

Your sister would be so proud right now. “My sister adopted them together and that’s how they’re going to stay.”

Yeri stared at you, mouth agape for almost a minute before she seemed to get over her shock on your outburst, “Well, where’s your sister? If she cared about them so much, why are they here in the first place?”

“Because she’s dead. Murdered.” You’re surprised you keep your voice steady, although you can feel the fresh burn of tears in your eyes. Tilting your chin up slightly, you force yourself not to let the tears fall, “You’re not separating them. I won’t let you or anyone else. They’ve had enough grief since losing my sister, and I sure as hell am not going to subject them to more.”

“Ms. Chae,” Mrs. Choi’s soft voice filters into the silence that falls over the room and Yeri slowly turns to look at her, “The two hybrids in question will not be separated. Either you are willing to adopt them together or not at all. That is final.”

Yeri opens her mouth and closes it several times before she huffs and abruptly stands before stomping dramatically from the room, slamming the door closed behind her.

Good riddance.

“Ms. L/N,” Turning sharply back to the woman behind the desk, you straighten in place, “There has been another party that has shown interested in both Namjoon and Jimin. They have filled out the necessary paperwork this morning to begin the adoption proceedings for the two.”

You deflate almost instantly at her words, sitting heavily back against the backrest of the chair. That was it then? You had been too late by mere hours. “I...I see.”

“However,” Mrs. Choi continued, and you glanced up at her curiously, “Since this is..a unique situation, along with the fact that you know the two hybrids in question, we’ve decided to make an exception.”

“Really!?” You perch at the edge of the chair at the prospect.

“If you fill out the adoption paperwork today, we would like for you to come back tomorrow for an interview.” She smiled ever so slightly, “In cases where more than one party is interested in a hybrid, we conduct an interview with the parties and then have them to meet with the hybrid in question and see how they interact.” Mrs. Choi paused to gauge your reaction before she continued, “Ultimately, the decision is up to the hybrid, but the interview and paperwork does help us weed out the...less-than-desirable applicants. Is that alright with you?” She prompts gently, leaning forward in her chair.

 You’re nodding almost immediately in answer, “That...that would be great!” Were you really doing this? There wasn’t even a guarantee that it would work out in your favor.

“Where can I fill out the paperwork?”

TAGLIST: N/A

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[loreleywrites]

The Gateshead Engine

If you bought the itch.io game bundle for racial justice and inequality a month ago, one of the games it contains is a single-player ttrpg called The Gateshead Engine by Adam Roy (Follow the link to buy and play yourself!)

The basis of the game is simple: It is Victorian England, and you have been commissioned to built a steampunk mech. You flip cards from a tarot deck to give you situations for your diary entries, and you can finish...basically whenever you want.

I enjoyed it greatly, and wanted to publicly share my game. Content warning for a bit of body horror and minor surgical stuff at the end? It’s not like, explicit though. Anyway, I haven’t stretched my horror muscles in a while, and I love how this game started vs where it ended. Hope y’all enjoy!

Starting Questions:

—Who are you, and why did you agree to build the Engine?

I am Loreley Weisel, German thermodynamicist on the brink of bankruptcy. Europe is corrupt, and my will careens towards destruction.

—Who is your patron, and what, if anything, do you know about them? Why did they tell you they wanted the Engine?

My patron is an English aristocrat, Thomas Boroughshire III. All I know is that he has deep pockets and a fascination for thermophysics. He wants my Engine as a mechanical marvel, a party trick for a boy with too many years behind him.

—What is your community like? What do they value and what do they fear?

The community is wealthy. Large estates line a well-kept road. Dogs are bred. Horses are shoed. Foxes are hunted. Gardens beg for release from their clipped restraints. The air itself is made of brick. They value stability, power (or the projection of it), and greed.

—What will the Engine do when it’s completed, and what will it change? (This may shift during play; for now, decide what you think the answer is when you agree to build the Engine.)

My Engine is a herald of death. The aristocracy will be beaten into submission, and England will follow France in the march towards the guillotine.

My Engine:

Diary:

Monday, April 26, 1880—

I do not belong here, in this kingdom, in this estate, in this…garage. Hope’s Paradise is far from the largest house in this community, and His Highness can barely provide enough space for me to work. He does not respect me, nor does his staff. Dinners will be cold on nights I work late. There will be no hot water when I go to draw a bath. They do not want me here.

Fitting enough; I do not wish to dwell here any longer than I have to.

The neighbors are no better. Squire Duncannon of Blah Blah Blah invites me to speak German whenever he harasses me with what he calls conversation, but refuses to use the tongue himself. His wife has never uttered a word beyond her scowl. When I pass by Covington Place, the children stop and watch, twittering among themselves. I wonder what the Duke and Duchess have told them about me. I would not know, for I have never been allowed inside their gates.

England will burn, and this wretched grove of greed will be the tinder.

Wednesday, April 28, 1880—

That godforsaken child has entered my workshop again. Grease smeared all across the floor. Handprints of coal dust cover every box and bench. Every fire hazard should come at the cost of a finger. The little brat will have nubs by week’s end.

Friday, April 30, 1880—

Saturday, May 1

A song. Melancholic, but strong. Thunderous, but ephemeral.

How many hours have slipped by tonight? Dream grips my mind like a starving urchin with hardtack. Maybe these gears and pipes are singing me a lullaby.

Oh for heaven’s sake it’s half two. To sleep with me.

Tuesday, May 4, 1880—

Fucking Third of Family horseshit-brained fool. Every thief with deep pockets thinks themselves a scientist just because they bought opium from one once. I know how to build my Engine. Fuck off with this talk about gas compression. My math is sound, and changing one element means redesigning the entire boiler system.

His Highness has been placated with some minor aesthetic downgrades that better cater to his asinine tastes. For now.

Wednesday, May 5, 1880—

Fucking Third of Family horseshit-brained fool. If it weren’t for the coal dust handprints, I’d think he was the child ransacking my workshop with relentless fervor. Instead, he has simply decided to rearrange my supplies to the garage entrance. My ankle will heal in a few days, but I cannot work on my Engine until it mends. Time is money, and he has more money than I have time.

Sunday, May 9, 1880—

The ankle works.

Monday, May 10, 1880—

His Highness invited his dearest, most important friends to dine in his atrociously cultivated garden. The Wells boy snuck off and found me in my workshop. I have never met another child like him. His curiosity is insatiable, and he knows more about thermodynamics than most learned men I’ve met.

He asked me a question I could not answer: “If this machine is meant for war, how can you fight a navy with it?”

I suppose this will be a larger problem when the revolution hatches from England and threatens the mainland. For now, I must keep focused on this single-minded task. If we make it that far, I will find an answer.

…Perhaps I am naïve and misguided.

Wednesday, May 12, 1880—

The entire community has decided to roll their porcine asses to the south of France for holiday. Such a shame I contracted a bit of a cough and elected to stay here to recover. The travel would have been much too hard on my delicate frame.

Two weeks of uninterrupted work begins tonight.

Friday, May 14, 1880—

For. Fuck’s. Sake.

Her Highness fainted at the pier moments before they were to board a ferry across the Channel. Feared she had come down with the same pestilence I had contracted. Now the entire extended Boroughshire rabble is returning posthaste.

The quiet? Gone. Their need for attention? Only I can sate it. My Engine? Still incomplete, and will be for some time.

If I drown myself in enough whiskey, the mystery of my death should keep their tiny minds occupied for at least a week.

I intend to refill my lamps and work as long as I can tonight. May their arrival home tomorrow wake me at noon for all I care.

Saturday, May 15, 1880—

I was awoken at nine in the morning. Forty minutes of unrestful rest.

Tuesday, May 17 18, 1880—

Knocked the fucking lamp looking for my pen. Lucky I didn’t burn this entire estate to ash.

…Perhaps unlucky.

He even haunts my dreams, touching my Engine and reducing it to rust at the moment that should have been my victory. What Hell of idiocy have I gotten myself into? Fucking aristocrats standing in the way of their own downfall by sheer incompetence. Back to sleep with me.

Tuesday, May 18, 1880 (again)—

I’ve read a number of fascinating papers that I received in the mail today. While I admit I know little of the burgeoning field of electrical engineering, the work being done in the States is fascinating. I intend to take a short trip into London to seek more research (And get a right stein of beer; this house and its occupants are worthless.)

Friday, May 21, 1880 (London)—

I have been granted access to ~~Royal~~ archives. Despite my distaste for locking knowledge away from the public, I am nonetheless grateful for this opportunity. All the kingdom’s brightest minds (what few there are) have recorded years of research on every possible thread of science.

Galvanic principles are fascinating to me. To think, all these thousands of years, we have had electricity inside us! Thoughts percolate, but I do not yet know to what end.

I shall return to the cursed Golden Land in the countryside tomorrow. Between my notes and a few papers, I have been allowed to abscond with, I am reinvigorated with hope for my work.

Saturday, May 22, 1880—

I should extricate and boil every last one of their tongues!

The entire community’s patriarchs were waiting in the living room of Hope’s Paradise (Clearly not my hope.)  Word got out of my project, and every cock-waggling primitive decided that this was a matter that required ending their holiday early. While their offspring splash in the Mediterranean, their sagging eyes are now fixed on that fucking garage.

I don’t know who is merely curious, who else feels inadequate enough to lie about their scientific credentials, or who wants to break my Engine merely because I’m a woman. Too many men in my workshop. Had I less restraint, an axe may have been all I needed to solve this annoyance.

Hopefully the dullards bore sooner than later. I may need to beat Mr. Duncannon with a German dictionary regardless.

Tuesday, June 8, 1880—

Between the constant need to shun nosy men from my workshop and the actual work itself, I have not had the constitution to keep my diary.

But today…ah, today! The control platform appears to be totally functional! I have toiled too long to have failure spring from my fingertips. Rotational velocities are stable, cranks and gears are greased and mobile, the Gatling guns are…gatling.

For the first time since I began my work here, I feel like I have accomplished something great. The aristocracy’s days are numbered.

Monday, June 14, 1880—

Work continues to sap my focus. Boiler…not cooperating. I fear I will lose all the work I’ve done on it due to some unforeseen flaw. A redesign at this stage would be costly, but so would continuing with a faulty boiler. Either way, I’m taking tomorrow off from work to clear my head.

Thursday, June 17, 1880—

Time off has proved productive. I finally finished reading the documents on loan from the ~~Royal~~ archives, and there is a fascinating bit of research by a man by the name of Frankenstein. His work on galvanic sciences from earlier this century are far beyond anything I’ve found from English archives in the last decade. This even only seems to be his initial work; perhaps I can track down his true masterpieces of intellect. Maybe I don’t even need to redesign a boiler…

One blight on my day over lunch: that coal-handed bastard child has returned. I think it’s Constance.

Wednesday, Jun 23, 1880—

The Andersons down the way lost one of their bitches last night. She was a beautiful hound, but her memory will live on in my diary. I wanted some hands-on experience with Frankenstein’s work, so I was able to procure the corpse for a small fee (to His Highness who is paying my bills).

Wondrous! Such are the things I learned. A body, made of muscle, controlled by electricity. I suspect I may need to seek out an anatomist or some other scholar of the biological sciences to continue this research.

My mind is alight with so many ideas…

Wednesday, June 30, 1880—

June ends and takes the boiler with it. My Engine shall have a grand new design. Thomas has been placated by promises of surprise. “The most groundbreaking work in thermodynamics!” I lied. His is a mind easily led astray by spectacle.

Sunday, July 4, 1880—

Constable came round today. Mr. Duncannon hasn’t been seen in three days. He left for an important business meeting in Paris, but missed his boat. Coach is missing too. It’s all very curious. I did everything I could to keep that sniveling pig out of my workshop. Given the way his nose recoiled into his skull, it seems the stench of grease and ozone was enough.

In more academic news, I received notice that more of Victor Frankenstein’s research papers are being released from an archive in Switzerland. I should have them by week’s end. My excitement radiates like the sun.

Friday, July 9, 1880—

Wolfgang. Heinrich. Fuchs.

At my forsaken door. With my forsaken research papers.

How the fuck did he find out I was working on galvanism? Who is he still connected to? Which one of my friends betrayed me (besides him)?

He was in this fucking house asking me fucking questions about my fucking work. Fuck him. He better not stick around. After what he took from me…fuck.

Tuesday, July 13, 1880—

Chaos reigns.

Wolfgang has shacked up with the Andersons. He swings by almost daily. When I’m not actually busy, I try to look it.

Constance has gotten her hands into the coal again (I haven’t disposed of it for appearance’s sake.)

The Duncannons are planning a funeral for…whatever his name was. I don’t think I ever bothered to remember anything about him other than when he would finally leave this hellish corner of England.

Thomas has been migrating in and out of Hope’s Paradise. Something about a trade deal in India. It sounds very important for a man who makes riches off the backs of foreigners.

I could use a big stein at a small biergarten.

Sunday, July 18, 1880—

Widow Duncannon speaks! Her first words spoken to me in the months I’ve resided her are accusations that I have something to do with the death of her husband and his driver. Utter nonsense. The police found the driver at the bottom of a pint in a pub last week. The way gossip echoes around these families, however, I won’t be surprised if they begin to turn on me.

My work must accelerate.

Thursday, July 22nd, 1880—

Widow Duncannon, Duchess Byron. Mrs. Boroughshire. All the Andersons. None of them will speak to me. They glare if they see me, so I try to keep to my room and my workshop as much as possible. I’m lucky Her Highness is so subservient to Thomas. This house would be unbearable if she had any willpower over it.

Tuesday, July 27, 1880—

Celebrations are in order! I have poured over work by Golgi, Frankenstein, and Schwann. Every guide I could find on electrical engineering. Trial after trial, failure after failure. And yet…

And yet.

It’s not that I have hope my Engine will work, it’s that I have knowledge that it will. My designs are so clear to me. My protypes are all working as planned. The path to revolution has been laid out before me. Now it is up to me to walk it.

Tomorrow is the beginning of the end.

Wednesday, July 28, 1880—

Coal hands. Inside my workshop. Inside. My. Workshop. And this time, ha! This time, I have a culprit.

I made it very clear to Constance that she will not be loitering in my laboratory anymore.

Saturday, August 7, 1880—

What have I become?

Why did I begin building my Engine? Something about a war? Who can say. Time marchers onward. My Engine will march with time. Every experiment has made it clearer to me that I have stumbled upon the greatest discovery of this era.

No one celebrates with me. Not Thomas. Not Her Highness. Not Constance, nor the boys, Timothy and Franklin. Even Wolfgang is silent (at last).

The neighbors have stopped visiting. I wave when I pass them by, but they just sneer and hurry past. Finally, I can work in peace and silence. Finally my genius can become reality. Finally all of Europe will know what Loreley Weisel is capable of.

I have become the herald of great change, a conduit of the very building blocks of existence.

Tuesday, August 10, 1880—

A toast to the Duke and Duchess! May their patronage live forever in my greatest work! Soon I hope to bring the Andersons into this project as well.

Wednesday, August 18, 1880—

The Engine lives! The support of this community has been invaluable as the final construction has occurred. Everyone has poured their hearts into my work, and it’s truly a masterpiece that could not have been built alone.

My galvanic calibrations have been finalized. My circuits have been tested. It is nearing time for me to put all of myself into my work. I will see success.

Saturday, August 21, 1880—

The loneliness is getting to me. Not even the dogs bark anymore. I talk to my Engine, but its flesh is silent.

Monday, August 23, 1880—

The constable returned. With six policemen. He had questions about His Highness and the Duke and Duchess and Widow Duncannon. I told him the truth: I could help him find them.

I cooperated.

I have a surplus.

Wednesday, August 25, 1880—

Why shouldn’t I? It worked for them. Shouldn’t it work for me? All the principles are the same. They’re muscle. I’m muscle. They’re electric. I’m electric. Why shouldn’t I be in control?

Thursday, August 26, 1880—

Wolfgang, that bastard! He said he knew everything that I had been up to. That is outrageous! He knows nothing!

I have destroyed my room in rage. Fucking Fuchs! What does he think he knows? Who has he told? I should have killed him. Why didn’t I kill him? He doesn’t deserve it. He doesn’t deserve my creation. He covets it. He wants it for himself. I know it. He got me kicked out of university, he got me run out of Germany. He is jealous. Jealous! He knows I’m better. He knows I’m smarter. He wants what I have, my Engine, my child. He can’t have it. He can’t. He won’t. Where did he go? Fucking Wolfgang I will fucking kill him. He knows nothing. He’s bluffing. He just wants my success. My genius. He is nothing. He will be nothing. Nothing. Nothing. He nothing. Nothing. nothing nothing nothing noth

Sunday, August 29, 1880—

This will be the final entry to my diary. The morning air is heavy with the musk of summer. It’s strange to me how calm I am given what I am about to do.

My Engine has come so far from its days as a sketch on a piece of parchment. Veins of red pulse behind the metal. Sinew, steel, and lightning working in harmony. Every stitch and every suture as perfect as the one before it. So many died for its creation, and so many more will die when I am finished today.

I expected my hand to shake more as I inked the incision lines across my skin. I expected my mind to be foggier as I tried to remember every nerve that would need work. Even the pain I am about to endure has not shaken my resolve.

I am uncertain what the scientific community will think of my work. Of the sacrifices I made. But I have proven a radical truth: All the money in the world does not stop one from being built from the same parts as another. And that’s all we are: Animals with organs and muscles and electricity surging through us. If machines can harness that energy, why can’t we? If new machines can be invented, why not new humans?

All I can hope for now is that my composure holds through the entire procedure. Once I am integrated into my Engine, I will command a mind and body unseen by man. Unparalleled by any of God’s creation. Magnificent in its genius. My genius.

Today I will change humanity forever.

[captainkurosolaire]

J2. who makes them happy? K3. if they could kill anyone without punishment, would they? who? R1. do they follow rules?

J2. who makes them happy?   CKS: “Making me bring out th’ list aren’t ye...” He’d sigh before bringing out a literal scroll from his pocket of every person he’s ever encountered. “Strap in we’ll be here for a Summer.* A clear of his throat began before formulating his uncanny pitch . “Guy #1 who let me rail his wife whether he was influenced or not. Guy #2 who let me steal his Chocobo without his knowledge.” The list went on and on and on like that for many bells. Finally, he’d get to the people who he actually knew their names and actually surpassed just mentioning them by also their ‘wearing and appearance.’  “There’s ye of course Nini! Then there’s Naviah, Lady of Lavender, Sivir, Ayla, Masao, Shinji, Saya, Yuina, Bryte, Mishi, Seiwind, Pheli, Tempest, Sparrow, Faye.” A couple more bells passed without him relenting and stopping. “There’s Subetei, there’s Neyuki, Rose, Cheche, Endora, Fray, Verrine! Sol, Gark, Haelgeim, Roxi, Yuki, Shur, Silvana, A’yi, Kya, Little Abby, Kahn’a, Sun’ra.” He’d finally take his first-breath and then exhaled, “Veleda, Yvaine, Ufah, Valde, Eligos, Sol, Shiro, Fusumi, Sha, Chanai, Zhu, Sashana, Crowie, Cinna. ” No one was left out in expense. Every single person was recorded and written he’d even elaborately briefly put the summary of how they encountered in various situations. It eventually got so bad he’d eventually being reciting them without any scroll because the parchment didn’t go that far. He had literally collected them all closely to himself every piece they offered and he also once gave them for the shortest memory and tracing.   “All these. They’ve given me once happiness. Every last one of em’ no matter how small, how faint. It’s meeting and encountering. Whether they scarred me, they’ve almost killed me, they left their prints on me, n’ fondness or anger. They are what it means t’ LIVE. And I’m leaving out so many more... There’s still more to meet and encounter! That’s what it mean’s to be treasured by a pirate! Ye aren’t ever forgotten or thoughtless or least this is my code.” OOC: I’m probably personally missing some people but that’s a fault OOC, not an IC thing. I’ve eventually got to make a for-real list and go through all my archives. But yeah. This is sorta yet a glimpse or sneak-peek of what his real-ability and power stand as and when the story narrative gets to it. It’ll be more impactful and expansive. Though we’d literally be writing 300000+ stuff in one ask if I continued, which it no prob, it’s whatever and easy. But we’ll save it when I can give it polish in properly meaning. K3. if they could kill anyone without punishment,    would they?   CKS: “There’s no killing that isn’t ever without its punishment. Ye eventually are succumbed to pay fer it sooner or later. Whether a consciousness allows it, or something finds it. Doesn’t matter how hardened or emotionless intact ye may b’ if kill the wrong individual, it’ll have repercussions. However... Let’s assume I had this ‘magic solution’ without any ramifications and punishments, without any pain without any say or words. Where pain wasn’t an issue... Th’ person I choose is.” He’d bring his index finger out as if thinking and brainstorming before drawing it languidly to his own-face. “Myself.” May’ve sounded like a joke or him distastefully messing around but his tone and delivery weren’t without any delay. “If I could kill someone. As dark, as strange, emotionally, it sounds, it’d b’ me. Luckily. I don’t have yer power and that doesn’t exist. Think about what’d that’d mean? Who’d that affect? The people who’ve sacrificed and paved and cost risked, their lives, they left me with only scars, they’ve stitched me together even when I threw myself into hell-pit dens changing thing’s larger than life when I tried my mightiest to take an easy-outing.” “How fair would that be? Who the hell am I to call it to quit? There’s many people I’ve wronged. I’ve harmed, It won’t be the last. It’s their right to one day find me and exterminate me. But depending on the situation, I won’t lay down either. Because that implies, I’m not factoring the others who’ve came and paid the way to form me. All the tolls paid. The costs they’ve built me. I was more broken before than can be accounted for or attributed too. I’m a Seeker this is a fact. I find treasures. But -- people like ye, you’ve found me. I’m against myself, I’m an enemy in the cruelest parts and corners of myself. Though not all parts of me are this way. Another side of me watches and if I fall. It’ll know and If that comes out, that part. It’d still bring misery fer I’ve lost and abandoned all principals all morals and accepted becoming hollow. Death isn’t a type of freedom we should get t’ dictate for ourselves the one of only of ours in possessions that shouldn’t be ours. I sorta ov’ agree th’ obsidian scales in their warrior-like ways, they’ll fight n’ die until combat or battle takes them and then even still that doesn’t spell their end. Since I encountered and seen literal miracles happen with them that breaks all normality functions, I’ve met people only ye could fathom!” “I’ll die fer sure. I’m a’ make it happen with a contest and a slew of challenges if I can’t help it! I end after I’ve been bested n’ a lay, or t’ a slay. One-day someone’s going t’ strike true and when that time finally happens. I’ll b’ ready like my Captain prepared me for. T’ live to point ye can smile at yer death. Considering though at this rate all those that are counting on me to get t’ shores. T’ provide pleasures, to fulfill our quests, to solve our pacts, I’ve got a steep load to supply. In the event, I die without being able to issue anything I just mentioned, I’ve already won still. Cause to be the truth, I’m already smiling!” “Always.” OOC: His psychology is deeply a labyrinth of underline insanity and distortions, there’s no logic. No sense. No rhyme. It’s part of fabric and existence bent and warped and destroyed, repaired, destroyed, over and over because of mistreatment, neglect, and the most misfortune event of acquiring unintended something ancient that destroyed halve his soul. Inside him is already a place wicked enough for him when he tries to sleep. That is where his Tormented Planes exist because of these strange circumstances. Nightmares and mental anguish, fortitude, these are things that demolish him. But in living? When he’s awake. It’s all child-play. He’ll go out everything living to the fullest and if he’s trying to get some rest. That’s where all the vices come from. He can re-balance it all out by exhausting himself past nightmares and dreams. To a limited degree, he’s become somewhat a scuffed immortal almost practically a cursed one. He’s not invincible though. So he can’t stop inevitable turning events to change and dictate a stoppage of his life but his willpower has become its own entities the fractures between spirits, souls, mind everything that indifference's the comparison to ‘whole’ is like a mirror being shattered into many pieces of glass. With the right circumstance, advisory, conviction and truth behind a killing blow, eventually one of them will encounter all the plights and if they do it, they’d just learn. It was better off letting him live. He’s in more anguish and pain by this method. Though he’s not aware though just the levels of how easy it would be to kill him or what can do it cause he’s still receiving injuries and wounds like anything averagely would. Eventually, he’ll stumble probably against the wrong hole and it’ll be as they say, GG. ---But it has to happen organically and creatively with integrity without any odd attachment behind it. As this is a character literally who started off me trying to murder him in the beginning but for all six years other characters have invalidated those advances and together made complexity in evolution and progression with him and since he’s so brazenly open and free has become able to adapt with others to keep him aflame. I literally at this point he’s writing himself, I’m sort of just reading alongside you the next stupid or equally pro-founding stuff he says and does.  R1. do they follow rules?   CKS: He’d not even retort right away just laughing and cracking a rib.“...Sure.” He’d make an evident lie about it. OOC: This one is easy. He doesn’t follow any rules, ever. Humoring it sometimes maybe he’ll wear a shirt or something for a wedding for someone meaningful to him but depending on the levels of the rule of severity it’s taken and presented he’ll act minimum as possible or outright just piss on it.. Literally. ((Thanks for the ask @under-the-blood-moonlight I appreciate it. Lot of these questions would’ve been a lot less detailed and wordy if wasn’t for the established connection of who possibly and potentially could’ve asked this. Assuming IC she’d ask any of these. <3 <3 <3 Hope you’re well beauty. Shout out to a lot of the mentions. I disservice and downplay a lot of his reactions and abilities as a character, but eventually, slowly the mun is getting better and caught up to his level-sake.