#probably shoddy editing

[hikiclawd]

shout-out to the one person who'll either get a jump-scare or a heavy bout of nostalgia out of this pairing

[gifti3]

[ramblings-of-a-chaotic-neutral]

Hello again everyone! It's time for another Merlin au! This time featuring Uther's propaganda and a healthy dose of misunderstandings and pain! :D

This au was inspired by an idea that I pitched in a reblog of one of @tamaha's amazing posts! (Also, shoutout to my awesome mutual @achillesuwu, since you asked to be tagged when I wrote this! :) ) You can find that original reblog here!

EDIT: You can find part two of this au here!

In canon, we know that Uther had children drowned for using magic, and that most of those children were likely warlocks who were born with their magic. However, we also know that most people in Camelot believe that magic is a choice and that it's impossible for someone to be born with it, so how did Uther justify to his people both the existence of child warlocks and the killing of children for something that they had no control over?

Well, Uther utilized his propaganda to justify killing young warlocks. He found some ancient text that hypothesized that warlocks got their powers from being reborn demons, and he used those very shoddy sources to justify his actions.

He spun stories about how warlocks looked human, but weren't human at all. He told the people that while those warlock children might have looked like regular humans, they would grow into powerful demons that would hunt down regular humans and eat their souls to gain more power.

Uther's propaganda campaign was successful, and soon, warlocks were some of the most feared magical creatures in Camelot. The people were terrified at the thought of a beast that could consume souls and blend in among them, unable to detected until it was too late.

Warlocks were a regular element of the nightmares of all of the children in Camelot, who would jump at every shadow and wonder if it was a warlock, there to devour them. Arthur was among those children, lying awake late at night, trembling with fear at the thought of any person he passed on the street being a warlock who would eat his very soul, denying him any afterlife and instead turning his soul into more magical power for the warlock.

And fast forward to some point after Arthur's become king, Merlin has a pretty painless magic reveal. Arthur and the knights were out hunting, they all get ambushed by bandits, Arthur takes a bad hit that would probably be fatal, but Merlin rushes to his side and, without hesitation, uses magic to heal Arthur's wound.

Arthur was, of course, very upset to learn that his manservant and best friend has magic, and they have a big argument over it, but no one physically attacks anyone (despite Gwaine's threats to kill Arthur and the rest of the knights and run away with Merlin).

So, everyone endures a rather tense and awkward ride back to Camelot, where Merlin is the recipient of many irate glares from Arthur and reassuring looks from the knights. When they reach Camelot, Arthur bans Merlin from his presence until he calls for Merlin again. He says that he can't stand the sight of Merlin at the moment, but Merlin will owe him a full explanation later. Merlin tearfully agrees and holes himself up in Gaius's chambers for a few days, while Arthur makes an ass of himself with his foul mood, snapping at everyone in the castle.

The knights try to point out to Arthur that while, yes, Merlin had magic and had lied to Arthur, he had only revealed it to save Arthur's life. Most of the knights used that point as a tool to comfort Arthur and ease his temper, but Gwaine used that fact to rub it in Arthur's face how terrible of a person Arthur was being towards the man who had just saved his life.

Finally, after the whole castle had to suffer through five days of Arthur's prattish and unpleasant behavior, Arthur summoned Merlin to his chambers, feeling calm enough again to actually hear whatever nonsensical reasons Merlin would give for turning to magic.

You see, what Arthur, the knights, and pretty much everyone in the castle had assumed was that Merlin had probably just picked up on some small useful enchantments and healing spells for Gaius's old study of that material. Arthur was angry at Merlin for turning to magic, but he could understand where Merlin was coming from.

Everyone knew that Merlin cared about his friends to the point of idiocy, so it made logical sense that Merlin, since he had the resources available to him, would resort to learning healing magic in case of an emergency. Arthur understood that aspect of Merlin more than anyone else.

Knowing that Merlin's magic was probably just the result of him being a loving and caring idiot did help ease the blow for Arthur, and truthfully Arthur didn't plan on punishing Merlin at all. To Arthur, hopefully confining Merlin to his chambers for a few days would discourage any future stupidity along these lines, and they could put this entire situation behind them.

So, when Arthur summoned a distressingly pale Merlin to his chambers and demanded an explanation, he expected to receive some stuttered response about learning a few spells from some of Gaius's spare books and to extract a promise out of Merlin that he'd never turn to magic again, and then everything would be fine.

However, when a wrought looking Merlin opened his mouth to explain, Arthur's heart plummeted to the floor. At the very first words of Merlin's explanation, "I was born with it," Arthur's chest went cold, and he took a few staggering steps backwards until his back hit the cold wall behind him, his eyes seeking out his blade.

Merlin was born with magic. That made Merlin a... a...

"Warlock," Arthur whispered, his eyes teary and terrified all at once.

Merlin stopped his explanation and tilted his head at Arthur, a small grin pulling on his lips. Arthur flinched back slightly at the sight of it, unable to form a coherent thought beyond the all-encompassing terror, dread, and sorrow that swirled around his mind.

"Ah, so you do know the correct word for it then! Yes, I am technically a warlock, but the distinction doesn't really matter that much anyways."

Merlin made a dismissive gesture with his hand, as if his words hadn't just completely shattered Arthur's heart. Arthur couldn't even listen to the rest of Merlin's explanation through the rush of his heartbeat and breathing in his ears.

The terror gripping his heart shouted at him to fight or flee, don't just stand there waiting for him to decide that he's feeling peckish for souls!

Arthur suddenly registered the pallor of Merlin's skin and the hollowness of his cheeks and came to the awful conclusion that he doesn't have much time, Merlin's already hungry and Merlin was stepping closer there was no time to escape nonono!

Arthur closed his eyes, unable to look at what must have been Merlin unfurling whatever demonic jaws he kept hidden and preparing to eat Arthur's soul...

But the sensation of his soul being devoured, whatever that was supposed to feel like, never came. Instead, he just felt a hand on his forehead, and after a few seconds another one cupped the side of his face.

Arthur hesitantly opened his eyes, almost not wanting to look upon Merlin's happy, friendly face that had always brought nothing but comfort. He didn't want those caring eyes to be that last thing he saw before he died at Merlin's hand!

Slowly, Arthur steeled himself and blinked the tears from his eyes, willing to at least face his death like a true warrior, looking at it head-on.

But, as his vision cleared from the tears, Merlin didn't look like his death, or like any sort of soul-eating monster. He just looked like Merlin, and by god wasn't that the worst part of it?

Merlin slowly smiled at him as his tears dried, coaxing him away from the wall and towards his armchair by the fireplace. Merlin gently guided him over to chair and helped him into his seat, holding Arthur's hand the entire time.

Arthur, once he was sitting, looked over at Merlin, still holding onto his hand and whispering comforting words to him, and Arthur felt like a small, scared child again, freshly awoken from a nightmare and jumping at every shadow.

It took what must have been hours for Arthur to catch his breath, stop his tears, and cease his body's terrified trembling, and Merlin sat next to him the entire time, drying Arthur's tears and comforting him.

Eventually, Arthur looked Merlin in the eyes again, and he could find nothing in them but love and care.

Whatever Merlin was, however hungry he must have been after going five days without being able to hunt for souls to devour, he apparently didn't see Arthur as a target.

Arthur took a deep breath, maintaining eye contact with Merlin. Alright, Merlin might be a soul-eating demon straight out of Camelot's worst nightmares, but he saw Arthur as a friend, not a meal. Arthur... Arthur could work with that.

He just... he needed more information before doing anything else. Merlin was still looking at him with love and concern, and with each passing moment, Arthur became more and more convinced that Merlin was still Merlin, warlock or not. And damn it all, that still counted for something. It had to count for something.

Now that his fear was marginally under control, questions swirled around Arthur's head. How did Merlin even eat souls before this? How often did he need to eat? Did he need to also eat food, or did he sustain himself and his powers on souls alone?

Before he could ask Merlin any of the pressing questions that were on his mind, Merlin had already helped Arthur out of his chair and towards his bed, readying a limp Arthur for bed whilst the king was drowning in his own thoughts.

Before Arthur even knew it, Merlin was pulling blankets over him and snuffing out the candles in his room. Merlin promised to visit Arthur again in the morning to tell him more, and Arthur barely registered his words over the storm of his own thoughts.

When morning came, Arthur couldn't even tell if he had gotten any sleep throughout the night or not, but he woke up exhausted either way. Only a few minutes after the sun had risen, Merlin burst into the room, still looking paler than usual and helping himself to one of the sausages that was supposed to be a part of Arthur's breakfast.

Just the sight of Merlin eating anything made Arthur feel slightly queasy, imaging some terrified soul being devoured at Merlin's hands. Arthur took a deep, steadying breath before getting out of bed, allowing Merlin to dress him as he normally did.

Merlin, much to Arthur's relief, was still acting like nothing had changed, like he was still the same harmless Merlin that Arthur knew him as before yesterday.

If that was how Merlin wanted to act, then Arthur was fine with it. Truthfully, even with all of the questions that Arthur had surrounding Merlin's nature, he found that he didn't really want answers to any of them. Answers would make this new reality, one where Merlin was never harmless at all and where there was a demon hiding under his best friend's skin, real for Arthur. If Arthur didn't have any answers, then he could just... pretend that everything was still fine, like nothing was wrong.

To keep Merlin by his side, he would gladly accept ignorance and pretend like nothing had changed.

However, there was still one issue that Arthur needed an answer to, to confirm that Merlin was still the man who Arthur always thought him to be.

As Merlin was cleaning up Arthur's breakfast plate, Arthur cleared his throat, getting Merlin's attention. Merlin quickly turned around to meet Arthur's gaze, but Arthur didn't feel scared meeting his eyes this time.

"Merlin, I'm willing to let everything that was revealed yesterday be forgiven, and everything can go back to normal."

Merlin gave Arthur a beaming smile at his words, and Arthur continued with a solemn heart.

"However, there is one thing I need to know. You've never..."

Somehow, the words eaten the soul of an innocent person were so vile that they refused to pass Arthur's lips, so he chooses an alternative.

"... hurt anyone who didn't deserve it, right? And you never will in the future? If we are to have any sort of trust between us, you must answer me honestly"

Arthur figured that, if Merlin was indeed forced to eat souls to survive, Merlin was probably feeding on bandits or enemy soldiers that Arthur and the knights would've killed anyways. It was the only explanation, as innocent people didn't mysteriously turn up dead regularly enough in Camelot to indicate that Merlin was feeding on them, and Arthur knew, deep down, that no matter what he was, Merlin would never do such a thing.

Merlin froze at Arthur's words, his smile falling. He lowered his gaze briefly, before meeting Arthur's eyes once more, determination shining brightly in his eyes.

"Arthur, I swear to you, anyone whom I've hurt with my powers were enemies of Camelot. Whatever I've done, I did it to protect you and your subjects."

Arthur nodded, satisfied and relieved by Merlin's answer. Nothing had to change then, Merlin was still his friend and manservant, albeit with powerful magic and an appetite for the souls of his enemies. Arthur could... tolerate that.

As the weeks went on, Arthur found himself thinking about this new side to Merlin less and less. Merlin was still acting exactly as himself, so there was no reason for Arthur to worry, let alone dwell on any thoughts of warlocks.

(And if he had a familiar nightmare from his childhood featuring a warlock, then that was Arthur's business and Arthur's business alone.)

Everything was fine, and months passed without any incidents. That was, however, until Arthur noticed Merlin becoming paler, his cheeks hollowing out again, and his eyes sporting heavy bags. As he took in the changes in Merlin over the past few days, he came to the sickening conclusion: Merlin was getting hungry again, and would need a soul to eat soon.

But Camelot was at peace, there were noticeably less bandits roaming the streets in the past year, and no assassins had come to the castle in the past months. Arthur could see that Merlin's usual... hunting grounds... had been drying up, and he needed to find a solution immediately. Arthur shivered at the thought of what devastation Merlin would unintentionally bring down upon all of them if his hunger ever got out of control.

After several hours of brainstorming on Arthur's part, he finally had an idea. It sickened him to have to consider, but he would do what he had to for the sake of Camelot.

Arthur called for Merlin to follow him as he made his way into the dungeons, where only one prisoner was currently being held. The prisoner was a minor noble who had killed several of his own servants and then used his status as a member of the nobility to cover up his involvement in the murders.

However, the nobleman was sloppy, and there was evidence left behind that proved his guilt without a doubt. He was set to be hanged for his crimes in two days time, as per Arthur's own judgement at the noble's trial, but... if he was going to be executed anyways... perhaps his death may be of use.

(What Arthur didn't know was that the real reason why Merlin looked so exhausted was because Merlin had spent every night for the past week searching for and compiling evidence that the nobleman was behind the murders, as the bastard would've gotten away with it otherwise.)

To Arthur, the criminal's death could be used to ensure that Camelot's only source of magical protection (and Arthur's best and dearest friend) didn't starve to death or go into a hunger-induced rampage, whichever came first.

Slowly, Arthur made his way to the nobleman's cell with Merlin trailing after him, where the criminal was bound to a chair on Arthur's orders. Arthur solemnly opened the door to the cell, gesturing for Merlin to follow him inside.

As soon as Arthur set foot in the cell, the nobleman started begging him for mercy, pleading with him to lower his sentence, not knowing what punishment Arthur truly had in mind for him. Ignoring the soon-to-be dead man, Arthur turned towards Merlin, who was startled by Arthur's intense stare.

"Arthur? What's going on?"

"Merlin," Arthur choked out, his voice rough with guilt, sorrow, and fear alike. Merlin rushed to Arthur's side at the sound, trying to urge him out of the cell, away from whatever issue was causing Arthur such pain.

Standing firm, Arthur cleared his throat.

"Merlin, I need you to... to do something for me."

Concern marred Merlin features as he reached out to Arthur.

"Of course, I would do anything for you Arthur."

Arthur swallowed roughly, trying to force his next words out of his throat. He'd ordered executions before, hell, he'd even ordered this man's execution before, but this was much, much harder than any of the other orders he'd given.

"Merlin, I need you to... take care of this man, as you normally do for enemies of Camelot."

Merlin reeled back with shock, looking somewhere between confused and hurt.

"Arthur, you can't possibly mean for me to..."

"I'm sorry, but yes Merlin, it needs to be done."

Merlin stared at Arthur for a few more moments, before slowly nodding his head and turning towards the bound criminal.

As Merlin stepped closer to the doomed noble, Arthur closed his eyes and turned his head away. Perhaps it was cowardice, but if there were ever a time for Arthur to show such cowardly behavior, it was here. He didn't want to see this part of Merlin.

He did, however, hear everything. There was a scream from the criminal, which was sickeningly cut off by a loud wet crunch that echoes off of the cell's walls, and then there was no sound in the cell except a very loud silence.

Arthur slowly opened his eyes to the sight of Merlin standing in front of a corpse and tried to believe that everything was still normal.

And that's a wrap on this au! Man, that got darker than I expected it to be.

Be sure to let me know if you'd like a continuation of this au!

And, as always, thank you for reading through my ramblings! :D

[imaginespazzi]

Part 6: Leaps of Faith

Masterlist - Part 1 - Part 2 - Part 3 - Part 4 - Part 5 - Part 7

I hope that you catch me, cause I'm already falling (you put your arms around me and I'm home)

(In which a writer who can see the end approaching starts building towards that ending)

Pairing: Paige Bueckers X Azzi Fudd

Themes: Angst and Fluff

Words: 8.0K

TW: Swearing, Alludes to Sexual Content

A/N: Good evening my lovelies <3. Happy Sunday and Happy Mothers day! First of all, I wanna thank y'all for being ever so patient with me. I know I've been pretty bad about updating lately and y'all have been so sweet with your asks and I really appreciate it. This fic is very close to its end. I probably could have ended it with this chapter but there's a very specific ending I want to write so this one is more of a self-indulgent filler but I think y'all will like this one. There will be one more chapter and then an epilogue of sorts. Once again, there are most likely logistical inaccuracies. I'm not even gonna lie, the editing on this one is shoddy so there are definitely grammar errors/typos. For now, ignore them and I'll go fix them later. As always, even if we're near the end, feel free let me know what you liked, what you didn't and anything you'd like to see before we get to the end. Have a wonderful week my angels <3

April 2024 

“It’s a little early for ice cream hon,” Azzi jumps at the sound of her mother’s voice, startled eyes following the direction of the noise to find Katie leaning against the kitchen door, with a raised eyebrow. 

“It’s a little early to scare the living bejesus out of me mom,” she says with a hand to her chest. 

If possible, Katie’s eyes roll even further at her daughter’s sarcastic tone as she makes her way over to the kitchen counter. She’s gotten herself a spoon and everything, ready to steal some ice cream for herself, when she notices the flavour. Next to her, Azzi stiffens. 

“You hate mint chocolate chip Az,” Katie says quietly. 

“I couldn’t find the strawberry ice cream,” Azzi defends stubbornly, her face taking on a guarded expression. 

Katie walks over to the freezer, opening it and pointing at the strawberry ice cream, Azzi’s favourite, that’s sitting in plain sight, “it’s right there.”

“Well,” Azzi splutters, “I’m trying something new,”. 

“You hate trying new things.”

“I’ve grown up I guess.”

“Azzi.”

“Mom.”

“Azzi, why are you eating ice cream you hate at 4 in the morning?” Katie finally asks in her best mom voice, sighing when she gets a mumbled response from her daughter, “in words Az, please.”

“Paige likes it,” Azzi admits slowly, and before Katie can say anything, before Azzi can dwell on what she’s said, she launches into a rant, “god knows why. Actually I know why because she’s stupid and weird and likes the dumbest shit. Who the fuck likes mint? Who the fuck likes mint and chocolate together? Gross. This shit is disgusting. It tastes all wrong. Paige is just-,” Azzi throws her hands up in the air, “she just doesn’t understand that some things don’t belong together. They can’t. They’re too different and it just- there’s a fucking balance to things you know? And she just- she doesn’t get that. It’s just- it’s not meant to be.”

“That doesn’t explain why you’re eating it right now,” Katie says carefully. 

“Because I miss her,” the truth bursts out of Azzi like an erupting volcano, burning itself into every crevice of her skin, “because for some fucking reason I don’t hate the taste of mint chocolate chip. Because maybe they do go together and maybe I’ve been the stupid one this whole time.”

Since she’d stepped out of the hotel in Cleveland, all Azzi could think about was going back, saying fuck it to all the useless logic she’d come up with and going back to the only thing in her life that had ever made sense her Paige. But as it often did in that clichéd battle between head and heart, her head had won out. And she’s never questioned why her head wins so much, why she’s always chosen to listen to the practical side of her brain, until now. Until now when the urge to turn back time, to make herself stay in that hotel room, is all that’s consumed her for the last week. 

“Azzi,” Katie wraps her arms around the younger girl, “what happened with you and Paige?”

Azzi hesitates for a second and then everything’s spilling out of her lips, the good, the bad, the inbetween, all of it tumbles out like an uncontrollable waterfall. There’s something freeing about being able to say it all out loud, something freeing about the tears Azzi finally lets roll down her cheeks. She grips the edge of the counter to keep herself from keeling over, starting to feel herself crumble under the heaviness of all these stupid feelings. 

“It shouldn’t be this hard,” Azzi whispers, “we used to be so easy.”

“Oh Az,” Katie rubs a thumb against her daughter’s cheek, “you used to be kids. You’re all grown up now. It’s always harder when you’re older.”

“Well, I don’t like it. I just want to be the way we were again.”

“So why don’t you?” Katie asks like it’s the most simple solution in the world and Azzi shoots her mother an exasperated look. 

“What do you mean? How do we even do that? We can’t be just friends again. We tried. Were you not listening at all?”

“Azzi, sweetheart, you’ve never been just friends.”

“That’s not true,” it’s a futile attempt at arguing against what’s become more of a fact than an opinion in Azzi’s life. It’s a truth she’d let herself acknowledge once and then buried deep within her, scared that once unleashed, it would ruin everything. Except, it turns out, even without it, things had still turned to dust.  

“Do you remember when you came home from Minnesota that first summer with Paige? You were either moping around or you were on call with her. There was no in between. It got better eventually, the moping stopped but the calls? I think you fell asleep on facetime with her almost every night. And you were tired every morning after, you barely had time to eat before school but every time I suggested that maybe you cut back, that was never an option,” Katie smiles fondly, “it’s when I knew.”

Azzi does remember, remembers talking about everything and nothing, remembers laughing and crying, remembers when Paige’s breathing was the only lullaby that could relax her into sleeping. And she remembers battling with that voice in her head, the one convinced there’s something more, silencing it with I’d do this with anyone. But that wasn’t true then and it’s not true now because Paige has never been just anyone, never been just a friend. Because even if Azzi’s never been brave enough to say it out loud, Paige is and has always been everything.

Despite knowing the answer and maybe dreading it just a little bit, Azzi asks it to her mom anyway, “what did you know?”

“That she was your person. You were too young, I couldn’t call it love just yet but I knew Paige was different then, she was yours in a way none of your other friends were. You were different around her,” Katie nudges her daughter, “Azzi you’ve always been just a little bit in love with her and she’s always been just a little bit in love with you too. The two of you have just been a matter of time.”

Azzi closes her eyes, and unlike other people, she doesn’t see darkness or little spots of light, she just sees Paige. Her mother’s words wash over her, like acid in her self-inflicted fight the feelings wounds and yet, the idea of she’s loved me too feels like a band-aid being delicately placed on the scars of her heart. 

“And place,” she whispers, eyes still closed, “we never seem to get time and place right.”

“Why do you need to?”

Another exasperated look is sent Katie’s way at that question, “we live on different sides of the country mom, what do you mean why do we need to?”

“I mean the two of you have barely ever been in the same place. But you made it work, when you had even less, when you felt even less. But you’re adults now. You have other resources now. And I know timing is difficult but- it’s you and Paige. What are you so scared of Azzi?”

Azzi sucks in a deep breath, “what if Paige runs away again?”

“What if you run away again?”

“Excuse me?” 

“Who was the last person to walk away, Azzi?,” Katie sighs when Azzi is adamantly silent, “I know she hurt you by leaving. I know she hurt you by pushing you away. But you did the same thing. You chose UCLA,” Katie holds up a hand when a frustrated Azzi tries to interrupt, “and it was the right decision for you Azzi and she should have supported it. But that doesn’t meant you didn’t hurt her and then you chose Zoe-”

“I didn’t choose Zoe-”

“Yes you did Azzi. Sweetheart you’re my daughter and I will always tell you the complete truth even if it’s not what you wanna hear. And the truth Azzi is that Paige might have hurt you in 101 different ways but that doesn’t mean you didn’t hurt her back in 99 different ways too.”

“You think I don’t know that?” Azzi whispers, “that’s the problem mom. It hurts when she hurts me but it hurts even more when I hurt her. I don’t want that for us but I just- I just don’t know how to stop it without stopping us.”

“You haven’t even tried, baby. Paige held out a hand and you ran away.”

“She left first. How am I supposed to trust that she won’t just do that again," all that’s missing from Azzi’s stubborn whine is a foot stomp.

“Because she came back. It took her a little bit, I know, but she came back and she’s ready to fight, the question is, are you?”

“Why are you defending her?” Azzi splutters, “who’s side are you even on?”

“There are no sides to this sweetheart. The two of you are on the same side. So maybe instead of fighting against her, take that hand, fight with her.”

***

The WNBA draft is a momentous occasion this year. With a hyped draft class like no other, and the promise of even greater ones in the future, there’s a sense of celebratory hope dangling in the air. When the invite had first come in, Azzi had known the same one would be sent to a certain blonde in Connecticut as well. And a part of her had wanted to hide herself away from that possible collision, but every other part of her wanted nothing more than to get just a glimpse of the blonde.

One moment Azzi is surrounded by flashing cameras and the echo of her name on everyone’s lips, the next everything around her is fading away her eyes meet Paige’s on the other end of the WNBA draft orange carpet. It’s nothing new really. Since she’s met her, the blonde has commandeered all of Azzi’s attention whenever she’s nearby. Sometimes it feels like all of her other five senses fade away to give birth to a secret sixth one, one that’s solely dedicated to Paige, one that’s terrifyingly all-consuming. And yet, despite the heaviness of we’ve said too many goodbyes, for the first time in what feels like eternity, Azzi feels like she can finally breathe. 

And then Paige looks away. 

And Azzi’s back to struggling for air. 

It’s selfish of her, she knows, to expect something, not when she’d been the one to leave them stranded on different islands. But Azzi doesn’t seem to think logically when it comes to Paige and even as she tries to turn her focus back to posing for the camera, every inch of her body is dangerously aware of the blonde’s every move, just a mere few feet away from her. Her conversation with her mother is echoing in her head, giving rise to dangerous desires of what if i grabbed your hand and we ran away together. 

Paige is a natural on the orange carpet, all dazzling smiles and twinkling eyes. She glides through it, inching closer and closer to Azzi, but never giving away any sense of discomfort. And if it was anybody else, maybe they’d never catch onto the nerves hidden beneath Paige’s facade of calm, cool and collected. But once upon a time Paige used to be Azzi’s favourite puzzle and she has every part of the blonde committed to memory. It’s in the way Paige’s teeth gnaw at her lips for the briefest of seconds, in the way her right index finger is begging to tap a beat against where her hands rests on hips, in the way she’s blinking just one too many times. 

And then with one more heavy footed step from Paige, the distance between them is barely a couple inches and they let out identical breaths of air, both of them keeping their focus on the cameras in front of them. It’s loud, too loud, and still all Azzi can focus on is the sound of Paige breathing. The air around them is thick with tension. It feels a bit like they’re silhouetted against a sky made of words they’ve left unsaid and clouds of all the bitter mistakes they’ve made are hanging over their heads. And when their pinkies brush together, and a jolt of electricity sends shivers of I miss you more every day again her skin, Azzi questions if she’s ever made the right decision when it comes to Paige. 

“Wait wait wait,” Ari cuts in, as she squeezes herself in between the two of them, “I wanna get in between the two of you.”

A harsh cry of no sits heavily on the top of Azzi’s tongue as the older woman forces a break in whatever little bit of contact she’d had with Paige. She feels a little pathetic, the way every little inch of her skin is craving for that touch back. It had been nothing, a barely there moment and still Azzi thinks, when she goes to bed tonight, if that was all she’d get of Paige, then it’ll be the only thing that’ll feature in her dreams. 

“Alright one with just Paige and Azzi,” Ari directs the media, stepping out of the way and pushing the two younger girls together. And it’s laughable that a little brush of their pinkies had Azzi feeling any type of way because when they’re suddenly pressed together, every inch of Paige’s side fitting into Azzi’s like it belongs, the way the world suddenly bursts with light and colours makes Azzi wonder if every moment without Paige has simply been monochrome. 

It comes to them naturally how to pose together, arms winding around each other’s waist, heads involuntarily leaning against the other’s. And the smiles might be for the cameras but Azzi knows hers is the most real it’s been all night. It might be temporary, she might lose Paige in the chaos, but for now Paige is here and Azzi has learned how to be content with whatever little she can get. 

As the media moves to capture other people, the logical thing to do would be to separate, to let go of each other. But instead they stand there, still completely wrapped around each other, heart rates in sync as they breathe in each other’s presence. And then Paige’s hand falls from the small of Azzi’s back to tangle their fingers together and they let out identical sighs of relief, something so cathartic in the purposefulness of that touch. Everyone is too busy to notice that the two of them have fallen into a whole other world, one where there’s only two of them and every emotion that they’ve only reserved for the other. There’s no words exchanged as Paige guides the two of them out of the spotlight, somehow keeping their hands clasped together in secret, despite the ever growing crowd. And Azzi doesn’t know this building at all, doesn’t have the faintest clue where she’s being led to, but as long as it’s Paige pulling her along, she doesn’t care where, she thinks she’d go anywhere. 

Paige stops abruptly in a secluded corridor, turning to fully face Azzi. And the sincerity in the blonde’s crystalline blue eyes, as they roam every inch of Azzi’s body before coming to fixate on her face, steals the air away from Azzi’s lungs. Paige has gotten better over the years at building walls, but with every new lock she places on her emotions, there’s a key to open them that seems to always find its way to Azzi. In the delicate golden hue, Paige shines brighter than any star ever could and in the dim light Azzi can make out every bit of hurt and love and please can we just have this moment that Paige can’t put into words. 

“Hi,” Azzi whispers softly, hands itching to reach out and caress Paige’s skin. 

“Hi,” Paige says back, even quieter. She stares at Azzi as if she’s memorising every little detail and then her face crumbles. Azzi feels her heart drop at the single tear that trickles down Paige’s cheek as she lets out a broken whimper. And this, this unspoken power they seem to have over each other, the uncanny ability to just hurt each other without any bit of effort, is what scares Azzi the most. It’s too much. They shouldn’t be able to do this. 

“Paige,” Azzi’s fingers twitch but she hesitates, not knowing if it’s the right thing, “fuck- P what’s wrong?”

Paige doesn’t reply, eyes wandering down to where Azzi’s trying to keep her hands still against her sides and when she looks back up, her eyes are bloodshot, “what’s wrong? What’s not wrong Azzi? You won’t even fucking touch me.”

“I didn’t-” Azzi struggles to speak, “I didn’t think you’d want me to.”

“Can you just- fuck- can you just stop overthinking things for once in your life. Of course I want you to touch- you know what nevermind. This was a bad idea. You made yourself clear and I’m just- fuck- I should- I should just go.”

She sounds adamant enough but all it takes, when Paige moves to leave, is the strangled cry that leaves Azzi’s lips. The sound is enough to pull Paige right back in. She takes one look at the tears brimming in Azzi’s eyes. And then she’s pushing Azzi against a wall, hands on either side caging the younger girl between her body and the hard surface behind. She presses their foreheads together and Azzi feels like every part of her might just be a part of Paige too. 

“I miss you. I miss you so fucking much. It’s barely been two weeks and I- fuck- Azzi- I’ve missed you every single second and now you’re here and I still miss you. And it really fucking hurts.”

“I’m sorry,” Azzi whispers, finally letting her hands cup Paige’s cheeks, and it’s worth it for the way Paige seems to completely melt into her touch, “I’m sorry I keep hurting you. I keep thinking I’m doing the right thing but- I don’t know- I feel like I’m always doing the wrong thing when it comes to you. I don’t- I don’t know what to do.”

“Just let me be with you,” Paige’s voice is wrecked with desperation as she presses herself as close to Azzi as possible, “I’ll be your whatever- whatever you give me- whatever you want- I just- I just want you Az- whatever little bit you’re willing to give me- I’ll take it- and if you want me to wait- fuck Azzi- I’d wait forever- you know that right? However long it takes, baby. Just want you- just want us.”

Leaps of faith are scary. Azzi’s never been great at taking them, too cautious, too much of a worrier. She’s more of a step back from the cliff kind of person. If she doesn’t jump, she can’t fall. But here’s the thing, when she was fourteen, Azzi jumped off of her first hypothetical cliff. It had been on a plane, when after avoiding one too many deep questions, Azzi had admitted to a girl she barely knew,that maybe she could like girls. It was the first time she’d ever let herself acknowledge that truth about herself and the girl next to her was a stranger but there was something about her, something that screamed i’ll hold your hand and if you jump it’ll never be alone. And ever since then, that girl, Paige, has always been there. Hands outstretched, ready to jump off any ledge. Because if there’s hard ground underneath, then they’ll learn how to fly together and if there’s water, they’ll figure out how to swim. With Paige there has always been the promise that, whatever it is, they’ll figure it out together. And it’s with that promise in mind, that Azzi takes the leap of faith. 

“Me too,” Azzi whispers, heart beating erratically. 

“What?” Paige searches Azzi’s face, as if waiting for her to take it back. 

“Us. You. You and me. I want that too,” a ghost of a smile begins to creep onto Azzi’s face, and for the first time in god knows how long, she feels feather light, a little bit like she’s floating on a rainbow. 

“You mean it?” Paige asks earnestly, hands moving from the wall to clutch at Azzi’s waist, “don’t play-Azzi- okay- you mean it for real?”

“I do. I want this- I want this so much and I’m still- I’m still really scared and maybe it’ll be a disaster but I- I want to try. With you.”

Azzi used to think she knew all of Paige’s smiles. Her small, not quite fake, but only for cameras and people she didn’t quite know, smiles. Her just for my friends smile that was filled with mirth and childlike joy. Her basketball smile that transformed into a smirk when she got too cocky. Her only for Drew smile, soft and filled with so much adoration and pride. Her Azzi smile, the one only the brown-skinned girl gets to experience, a smile that made Azzi’s her heart swell with love. But the smile that stretches across Paige’s face now, is one Azzi’s never seen before. This one throws Azzi’s entire world of balance, so bright, so big, so full of emotions. If she could, she’d tattoo that smile onto her skin forever. 

“We’re really doing this?” Paige asks, still a little stunned. It wasn’t what Azzi had planned for tonight. She hadn’t really had any plans for what would really happen. But then Paige had walked in and all Azzi could see was forever she was tired of fighting against. 

“We should take it slow okay-” Azzi wraps her arms around the older girl’s neck, keeping their foreheads still against each other’s, “I don’t- I don’t wanna rush into things and fuck it up. I can’t- fuck- I can’t lose y-”

“You won’t,” Paige swears, squeezing at Azzi’s wait, “I won’t let you. We can take it slow. We can take it however you want- I just- we’re doing this?”

“Yeah,” Azzi can’t help the grin that fills up her entire face, “yeah we’re doing this.”

And as they surge forward to claim each other’s lips, and as they meld every inch of themselves into each other, and as they smile and cry into the kiss simultaneously, and as they etch promises into each other skin, and as they let themselves finally fall into each other, for each other, it feels a lot like coming home. 

***

July 2024 

The early morning sunlight casts a dark shadow across Paige’s face, causing the still asleep blonde to scrunch up her face in irritation. Azzi, who’s been awake for nearly half an hour now, can’t help the fond smile that creeps onto her own lips. She shifts herself to block the sun and Paige lets out a content sigh, burrowing herself further into her pillows. And the thing is every moment with Paige is special but there’s something about waking up to her in the morning. Azzi’s always awake first and it gives her ample time to just admire the girl in her arms, blond hair tousled all over her pillow, lips parted slightly open, and one arm always, always, splayed across Azzi’s torso, holding her close. Over the course of time, Azzi’s found out that the second she moves, Paige seems to feel her leave, waking up instantly. 

There had been an adjustment period if Azzi's honest. It had taken her a while to shake that fear of Paige not being there in the morning. The first morning, she’d been scared to open her eyes, even if she could feel Paige’s presence right next to her. That had been one of the few mornings that Paige was fully awake first, hovering above Azzi to wake her up. And when she finally did get the courage to open her eyes, the first thing Azzi had seen was Paige, blue eyes sparkling with unfiltered adoration, a smile filled with promises of every morning just like this. And that had been enough. 

Azzi reaches out to brush a hand through Paige’s soft blond hair, mesmerised by how pretty Paige looks in the morning glow. A lot of Paige belongs to the world now and Azzi’s not opposed to sharing really, because someone so fucking perfect, deserves to be celebrated like that. But there are some parts of Paige that belong to Azzi and Azzi only, some parts Azzi cherishes as being only hers. This is one of them and Azzi takes a snapshot of it, knowing she’ll need it to function in a few months, when she won’t get the real thing. 

“Are you watching Paige sleep?” Azzi almost jumps at the sound of Drew’s voice at the doorway, having been too immersed in Paige to have even heard the door open, “that’s kinda creepy Azzi.”

“Jesus Drew, whatever happened to knocking?”

“I forgot?” Drew grins, before he plops on the bed, the force of it making the whole frame shake a little bit. 

“Drew!” Azzi chides, “you’re gonna wake her up.”

Drew cocks his eyebrows, sparing his sister, who seems unphased by the sudden little bit of chaos around her, still fast asleep, an unimpressive look, “please she can sleep through anything. Besides, it’s already 9. I thought we were gonna do things. I been up for aaaages.”

“She’ll be awake soon,” Azzi smiles, ruffling the younger boy's hair. Drew rolls his eyes and it’s remarkable how much he resembles Paige, not just by face, but the mannerisms too. 

He huffs for a second before his eyes sparkle with an idea, “what if we pour water on her!”

“Drew!” Azzi chastises again, trying not to giggle. 

“Boo,” Drew crosses his arms across his chest, “you used to be so cool Azzi.”

Azzi laughs as she’s reminded of a younger version of herself, scheming with Drew on how to wake Paige up. And it’s not that she’s beyond that really, tucking the water idea for a rainy day, but Paige looks too peaceful this morning and she wants to preserve that look of serenity on the older girl’s face for just a little bit longer. 

“Hey Azzi,” Drew says after a while and Azzi hums in response, “when you and Paige get married, I can still be a groomsman right? Even if there’s no grooms?”

“Wha- where did that come from?” the brunette’s eyes widened at the question, sitting up a little straighter. 

Drew peers up at her with all the innocence of a pre-teen, “you are gonna get married right?”

“I don’t-”

“It’s too early for your yapping Drew,” Azzi’s saved from answering by Paige’s tired voice entering the conversation. She looks over to find Paige’s eyes already on her, a soft smile playing on her lips as she looks up at Azzi. If Drew wasn’t sitting right there, Azzi would lean over and kiss her and let Paige deepen it until they were both satisfied. 

“Oh thank god,” Drew cheers dramatically, “I thought you were gonna sleep forever.”

Paige scoffs, the arm that’s still wrapped around Azzi’s torso tightening its hold, “I wish.”

“Well you’re awake now so get up,” Drew whines, moving from his spot on the end of the bed, to flop on top of Paige’s body instead, “get up, get up, GET UP.”

“Get off,” Paige groans but there’s no real force behind it. Azzi watches with a fond smile, as Paige flips Drew over so that she can tickle him, eliciting rounds of laughter from the younger boy. Something in her heart flutters, her mind going back to Drew’s question. She’s never really been one to think too hard about marriage and children and that domestic suburban life, leaving it up to fate, but now- well, maybe. 

“Okay aight aight enough. Go get ready for breakfast and we’ll be down in a second,” Paige says, ushering Drew off of the bed. 

“You can just tell me you want me to leave so you can kiss Azzi you know?” Drew scrunches up his nose, “you two are gross.”

Paige sends him a stern look and gets a dramatic eye roll in return but as he always does, Drew does as he’s told, mock saluting the two of them and skipping out of the room. 

“He’s right by the way,” Paige says softly, turning back to where Azzi’s leaning against the backboard, “I do want to kiss you.”

Azzi smirks lopsidedly, “what’s stopping you?”

She squeals in surprise when Paige pulls her, the force of it causing both of them to tumble onto the front-end of the bed. Azzi ends up on top of Paige, hands resting around her neck, the blonde’s hands holding her waist in place. 

“Good morning,” Paige grins, clearly proud of herself as she chases Azzi’s lips to pull her into a searing kiss.

“Good morning,” Azzi whispers back, thumb caressing Paige’s left cheek.  

“Just so you know,” Paige pulls away, a determined glint in her eyes, “we’re so getting married one day.”

***

October 2024

Azzi’s mood has been rancid for the last couple of weeks. It’s terrible she knows; it makes her irritating to play with and a nightmare to live with. But even if this had been expected, that she would be on one end of the country and her heart would be on the other side, it doesn’t stop her from constantly being in a state of missing Paige. And it’s different from before, now that there’s a certain surety of of course i’ll see you soon but soon never really feels soon enough. 

“Azzi can you please get the door,” Kiki calls from her room when the doorbell rings. 

“I’m busy,” Azzi grunts back, snuggling further into her pillow with a book she isn’t actually reading, “you go get it.”

“Azzi please, I’m literally in the middle of getting dressed,” Kiki yells exasperatedly. 

If it wasn’t for the fact that she’s pretty sure her teammates are about this close to plotting her murder, and deservedly so, Azzi would sink back onto her bed and let the incessant doorbell noise continue. But she does love her teammates, thinks Kiki probably deserves to change in peace, and it forces her out of bed, grumbling away about annoying visitors. Until she actually gets a look at the visitor. Paige stands on the doorstep, confident as ever, a bouquet of roses and peonies and lilies in her hand. 

“You’re here,” Azzi breathes out, staring in awe. 

“And thank fucking god she is,” Kiki quips from behind her, “maybe we can finally get our old happy Azzi back and not this bitch.”

Paige laughs, “watch how you talk about my girl Rice.”

“You’re here. You’re really here,” Azzi whispers again. 

“I heard you missed me baby,” Paige says, her cocky smirk betrayed by the softness in her voice. And then Azzi is flying into her arms, throwing Paige off balance. 

“So fucking much,” Azzi admits into Paige’s neck, eliciting a giggle from the blonde, “Kiki’s right. I have been a bitch.”

“Just a little bit,” Kiki calls out again but there’s a new fondness in her voice. It’s funny how her team, even the haters, have slowly become Paige fans. They’d been hesitant at first, just like the UConn girls, but now well, it seems the basketball world’s Montagues and Capulets have learned to accept their star players’ relationship. 

“Missed you too Az,” Paige’s tone is vulnerable as they break away, “alright, go get changed, I wanna take you somewhere.”

“Or…,” Azzi presses her lips to Paige’s neck, leaving a trail of open-mouthed kisses, “we could stay here and do something else.”

Paige shivers under her touch, stepping away to keep some semblance of control “n-no I have plans,” but she can’t help but kiss Azzi’s pout away, “it’ll be worth it, I promise. Besides,” she bites at Azzi’s ear, “there’s always later.”

***

“Your big plans are to bring me to the supermarket,” Azzi cocks an eyebrow as they walk down one of the many aisles, “you turned down sex for this? Should I be offended?”

Paige doesn’t say anything, concentratedly looking at signs, trying to figure out a specific section, before an aha! moment dances over her face, and she pulls Azzi with her, the younger girl going willingly, despite the eye roll. She stops triumphantly in front of the sushi section and Azzi looks at her quizzically. 

“I’m getting you supermarket sushi,” Paige says pointedly, “and then you can get me mac and cheese.”

And if you brought me sushi I’d have brought you your favourite mac and cheese. Oh. The realisation of what Paige is doing trickles around Azzi a little bit like rain after a long summer drought. She thinks back to the bouquet, everything suddenly making sense.

“You’re such a dork Paige Bueckers,” Azzi says softly, tapping the older girl’s nose. 

“Your dork,” Paige grins cheesily, “now hurry up and pick one. I don’t wanna miss the sunset.”

***

Once she catches on it, it doesn’t surprise Azzi to find that Paige has everything planned out perfectly, down to the exact spot in the park- the one by Paige’s recovery airBnB, the one they’d taken countless walks in trying to repair their friendship- where the two of them can be away from everybody else, in their own little bubble. And she has a picnic blanket, that’s a little small but they don’t really want space from each other anyways. They lean against a tree, food set up in front of them, Paige’s laptop, carefully piled on top of a couple of books to be the perfect height, set a little bit further away. 

“So what NBA game are we watching?” Azzi asks with a smile and Paige groans, “what? Was that not part of the plan?”

“Dude come on. It’s the beginning of October. Please tell me you know the NBA season isn’t happening yet,” Paige rubs her temple, only a little endeared by the comment, “are you sure you’re a basketball player?” 

“There are games in October. I swear I’ve seen them before,” Azzi says sceptically. 

“Yeah at the very end of the month, not right now.”

“Well then close enough,” Azzi says indignantly, “I don’t need to know the exact day.”

“Whatever you say baby,” Paige acquiesces with a smirk and it earns her an elbow to the stomach, “what the fuck? That shit’s domestic violence you know?”

“Big words Bueckers, didn’t think you knew them,” Azzi teases, placing a kiss against Paige’s offended expression, before settling herself against the blonde’s side, sighing contentedly when she gets a kiss on her temple in return. They’re cliché enough to put on Love and Basketball, but Azzi doesn’t really end up watching much at all. In between slow kisses, she almost falls asleep a couple of times, the comfort of Paige’s arms like a blanket wrapping her in the warmth of this is my fairytale. 

“THE POLAROID,” Paige’s shout breaks Azzi out of her haze as she feels her body being shaken off, the blonde rummaging through her bag for the camera, “we have to take the polaroid. My wall needs it.”

“Oh yeah a tiny polaroid picture of us inbetween all your Lebron posters, a perfect fit,” Azzi drawls only to be met with a scathing look from Paige. 

“It’s for important things and Lebron is the most important of them all,” Paige explains with complete seriousness, as she finally finds the polaroid camera and shimmies back to Azzi with it in hand. 

The sunset is beautiful. Pink, purple, orange and blue, all blending together to create the perfect picture. But Azzi thinks it’s not nearly as beautiful as the girl in front of her, not nearly as beautiful as the date Paige had planned, not nearly as beautiful as the future she can so clearly see now. Her mind drifts back to the night of the phone call, and she can almost hear Paige’s sobs again, can still hear her own voice breaking. Back then, they had seemed impossible, a butterfly like dream that danced out of their grasp. 

“Hey,” Paige captures her chin with two fingers, “where’d you go?”

Azzi shakes her head, “nowhere. I’m right here. With you. Where I should be.”

“Sappy goof,” Paige snorts but she kisses Azzi like she’ll take those words and hide them in the labyrinth of her mind, protect them there forever. 

Taking the picture is a task, both of them bickering about angles and lights. It’s unnecessary arguing, in true Paige and Azzi fashion really but there’s something so mundanely domestic about it that Azzi finds herself wanting to memorise this moment too. They finally get the frame just right, somewhere in between what they both wanted. Azzi smiles at the camera, her Paige smile, as the blonde in question presses her lips against her cheeks. 

Click. 

And Azzi hopes, that however many years later, when they have a home of their own, amidst all the photos that they’ll take over the next years, this one will be hung somewhere on their wall, a testament to finally realising every dream they’d dared to dream together. 

***

December 2024 

There are pebbles being thrown at her window and Azzi has to stop herself from laughing when she peers down to see Paige, freezing cold in the Virginia December air, staring up at her with a goofy smile. She shakes her head when her phone rings, knowing it’s Paige and answers it with her own foolish grin. 

“What exactly are you doing?” Azzi asks, “come back to bed.”

“You said I was unromantic. I’m trying to be romantic,” Paige’s teeth chatter in the cold, as she balances her phone in one hand, still throwing rocks with the other. 

“I didn’t say that and throwing rocks at my window is supposed to be romantic? You’re going to wake the whole house up.”

“That’s what they do in all the good rom coms. And you said and I quote ‘we’re kind of boring’. You might be boring Azzi Fudd but I most definitely am not.”

It had been a throwaway comment Azzi had made at dinner with some friends from high school. One of her friends had been going on and on about some adventurous trip that she and her boyfriend were going on, and then asked Paige and Azzi if they had any of that planned. To which Azzi had replied that they were a little too busy, considering they were college basketball players still in season, and besides they were “kind of boring” people. She hadn’t meant it in any type of way. Personally, Azzi likes boring. Paige however, seemed to have taken the comment to heart and Azzi had woken up at 2 a.m. to an empty bed and the sound of something being thrown at her window. 

“Okay I’m sorry. I’m sorry. You're really interesting baby and the most romantic person in the world. Now will you please come back to bed,” Azzi concedes, already missing the feeling of being cuddled up in her blankets with Paige’s body heat keeping her nice and toasty. 

“No,” Paige says indignantly, “come down here.”

“Paige, it's freezing. It’s gonna start snowing any minute.”

“Exactly. That’s exciting.”

“Sleep is exciting,” Azzi whines, but she’s already padding around her room looking for a warm sweater, grumbling under her breath about the warm California sun she’s missing. She tiptoes down the staircase, wincing at the one step that creaks just a little too much, before pushing herself out the door. And it’s freezing cold, there’s sleep in her eyes, but it’s all worth it Azzi thinks, it’ll always be worth it, just to experience Paige’s smile. 

“Knew you’d come,” Paige grins cockily, mittened hands pulling Azzi into her.

“Yeah yeah. What are we even doing?”

“Azzi Fudd,” Paige bellows dramatically, “may I have this dance.”

Azzi stares at Paige’s outstretched hand wondering if this is some sort of cry for help, but one look at Paige’s face tells her that the girl in front of her is being absolutely serious. 

“This is your idea of exciting? Dancing in the street while it’s freezing with no music?” Azzi raises an eyebrow, but she takes Paige’s hand. 

“It’s spontaneous,” Paige says the last word with a flourish, as she spins Azzi, “why not dance in the street when it’s freezing with no music?”

And well, that’s a fair point. If anyone were to look out their window that night, they’d probably think the two girls were somewhat crazy. Laughing and giggling and tripping over each other as Paige hums a melody and Azzi occasionally joins in. It’s ridiculous and corny and cliché and perfect. And then the first little bit of snow falls, white drops circling around the two dancing girls, snowflakes catching on their eyelashes. The dim glow of the streetlight is enough to catch identical smiles on the two girl’s faces as they revel in each other. 

“You know some people say if you make a wish during the first snowfall, it’ll come true,” Paige whispers, still waltzing the two of them around, cheek pressed to Azzi’s, “you wanna try?”

And the thing is Azzi doesn’t really believe in all of that, in magic but something about Paige, something about this moment feels magical. It makes a believer out of Azzi. 

“Yeah,” Azzi smiles, “let’s make a wish.”

They stand still, holding hands, eyes closed, both a little breathless, as they make their wishes. And when they open them, if it feels a little bit like maybe their wishes have already been granted, well they’ll share it in a secret smile but never out loud. After all, wishes don’t come true if you speak of them. 

***

April 2025

7 seconds to go in the National Championship and Azzi’s UCLA Bruins are down by two points. It’s her last chance, having already declared for the 2025 WNBA draft, to win a national championship, to bring home their first basketball national championship since the 1978 team that had won the AIAW championship, to win their first NCAA championship ever. It had taken some sheer luck to get to this point if Azzi’s honest. As a two-seed in the Spokane region, they’d benefitted from their one-seed having been eliminated early and then getting to face a Cinderella six-seed in the final four. On the other side of the bracket, UConn, the favourites coming for a repeat, had been stunned by another team, the team that UCLA was now facing. That had caused a bit of a second-hand sting and Azzi’s not really trying to take revenge for Paige, but it'd be a lie to say the get back at them for me babe from earlier this morning isn’t ringing in her head. 

The play is simple, set screens for Azzi, get her open, get her the ball. A two would get them to a tie and three would win it outright. Either will do. It’s a little too reminiscent of last year when Azzi had failed at tying the final 4 game and she can still feel that loss on the tips of her fingers. They break out from their last timeout, breathlessly running to their spots on the floor. The whistle blows, Kiki inbounds the ball and everything is a blur. All Azzi knows is the shot clock is winding down. She runs off of what feels like a million screens. And then she’s open on the wing, for a millisecond. A perfect pass from Kiki makes sure the ball lands straight in Azzi’s hand. And she doesn’t think, doesn’t breathe, doesn’t even notice the defender put up a hand, she shoots the ball. There’s two people on the court that know for sure that ball is going in the minute it leaves Azzi’s fingers, the shooter herself and her biggest fan in the stands, who’s been just a little bit in love with that shooting stroke, since before anything else had even begun. 

With a delicate swish, the ball falls through the net, the buzzer sounds around the arena, the crowd explodes in blue and gold, as the UCLA Bruins win the 2025 national championship. 

Everything stills in Azzi’s brain for a second, her thoughts taking a second to catch up to reality. She’s never really been one to emotion on the court, keeping herself steely guarded through most games, even at the very end. But now, triumph and pride and just utter happiness at finally achieving one of her biggest dreams, comes roaring to the surface, manifesting itself throughout her entire body, as she lets out a scream of joy. Her teammates engulf her and she gets lost in a sea of hugs and tears and bright, decadent smiles. 

As thing start to calm down, there’s really only one thing on Azzi’s mind and Paige’s words echo in her ears, because if I’m gonna end up fucking crying, then I want it to be on your shoulder. And if I’m gonna end up celebrating, I want it to be in your arms. And Azzi thinks maybe Paige had discovered one of the biggest truths of their life with that, the truth that at the end of day, in any moment, big or small, happy or sad, the one person Azzi wants next to her, is her Paige. It’s been that way since she was fourteen, and too young to really understand the meaning of wanting someone forever, and she thinks if she has her way, it’ll be like that for the rest of her life, the rest of their life. 

Paige is beaming in the crowd, standing next to Jon and José, a #35 jersey proudly adorning her torso. She waves when she catches Azzi’s eyes, always her biggest cheerleader. And Azzi throws caution to the wind, fuck it, not caring that there’s still a large crowd or that cameras are likely to follow her every move. She pushes her way into the stands, stopping right in front of the blonde. 

“On a scale of one to ten, how bad would kissing you right now be?” Azzi asks, still a little breathless. 

A myriad of emotions flicker through Paige’s face before settling on a mischievous smirk, “probably pretty bad but you should do it anyways.”

Azzi grins before merging their lips together and everything else fades to the background, until she’s consumed by nothing but Paige. They break apart far quicker than either of them would like and Azzi expects to feel just a little bit of fear at what she’s just done, likely given the media a spectacle they could run a million and one stories about but instead, with her forehead still pressed against Paige’s, she feels nothing but calm. 

“I’m so in love with you,” Azzi whispers and Paige’s eyes widen. They’ve known it for a while now but it’s the first time either of them have said it. 

“Say it again,” Paige demands. 

“I’m so in love with you,” Azzi says again, grinning so hard, she thinks it might become her permanent expression, “like really fucking in love with you.”

“I’m so in love with you,” Paige whispers, pulling Azzi into a bone-crushing hug. 

And this might not be the moment where everything finally comes together. There’s still so much life left to live, so much that they still need to work through, so much they’ve yet to deal with. But for now, Azzi has a national championship and she has the love of her life, the rest will work itself out, or so she hopes.

[house-of-vandernacht]

To everyone freaking out over NM S2 premiering a wee bit later than expected. The amount of time/effort R&F put into this is colossal. They constantly and consistently pull 60-70 hour weeks. Week after week with no break, upwards of a year and longer, to the point they flirt with burnout like Leo/nore flirts with Annabel. That to me is the exact opposite of lazy. Over the last year, I and others have witnessed this mind-blowing work ethic first hand. Its insane the amount of work they put in. Often eps are well over the minimum panel amount, they don't have to do 10-20 panels more than the minimum, but they do it as they want to tell a good story with each episode ending where it feels natural. The next thing: Nobody is entitled to any creator's time, or gets to dictate how they spend their personal time off. A hiatus is merely an opportunity to create buffer. R&F are under no obligation to use it that way. It is their choice to. It is also a time for them to regroup, recover from fatigue -- as any artist or writer knows headspace is important to the creative process -- attend to the shop, catch up on any admin that needs doing, and a litany of other things that people need to do to go about their daily lives. This break -- because lets call it what it is, if this were a normal 8-6 we'd call it UPTO -- is for them to take time to themselves, same as any other job. If they want to play Star Dew Valley to relax or decompress or ruminate on an idea, who the heck are we to deny them that? They're two human beings, not machines.

Thirdly: Please consider: There is so much more that goes on behind the scenes of a comic of this calibre that we as readers don't see. (Think of an iceberg, how they are so much bigger than the tip that pokes above the ocean's surface.) R&F don't just make it up on the spot. There's script writing, planning, research, editing, more planning, rough storyboarding, more research, tests, and probably a heck of a lot more pre-production stuff than I can even guess at before sketching can even be considered commencing. We don't know their creative process, nor are we entitled to demand an explanation of their process, or that they use their personal time differently. (Personally, I listen to music and walk but what is one person's jam, might not be another's.) Nevermore S2 premiering a little later than expected is not some big drama its being made out to be. Its perfectly normal. I cant count the amount of times I've heard some comic/ book/tv series/movie has been delayed for whatever reason. (I've been waiting seven years for one book I won't mention here, as an example.) I don't know about you, but I know Id much prefer to read something that has been well thought out, with attention to fine detail applied to it than something rushed and shoddy. Give them grace to cook! I know we might be a wee bit disappointed, especially when we're so eager to find out what potential horrors might befall characters we've grown to know and love on the eve of one heck of a tantalising cliff hanger, but I ask that you all show a little patience and, more importantly, understanding.

[toskarin]

what warband mods would you rec? I only ever played vanilla warband years ago and that was probably on fairly low AI settings, but I'm definitely intrigued by getting the full feudal clusterfuck experience as well as indulging in some nostalgia.

there's a few qualifications to these, because I usually like them for different reasons and I have something wrong with me, but...

< ! PREEMPTIVE WARNING ! > you should be running modules in Warband Script Extender even if they don't say they need it! people have historically been really bad about clarifying when it's expected

Bannerpage - vanilla for people who want More of it, and then more after that. it reminds me of a spiritual successor to Floris Modpack. an enormous expansion that's also a bit of a tongue in cheek what-if for "Bannerlord, except as continued development of Warband" with increasing complexity. this one will probably spoil you a bit on other modules just because of how many little enhancements it pulls on the native systems lol

Prophesy of Pendor - the premier feudal fantasy rpg experience. this one is brutally difficult and throws some battles at you with genuinely bewildering enemy force sizes. I'd feel fairly confident in calling this the most difficult of the major total conversion modules that maintain core M&B gameplay

Touhou Gensokyo Warfare~the Castiron Flame - this is straight up glorious kusoge and I love it dearly. it often breaks so severely due to its own design decisions that it creates a unique high-skill gameplay expectation that exists in literally no other mods, but also it can't really be called "core" M&B gameplay anymore. this module actually consists of three chinese mods (Touhou Tinder, Touhou Origin, and Touhou Beat), one of which is derived from a fork that was extended by /jp/, another which was just translated by /jp/ (a shoddy translation but not distinctly a 4chan translation, if that's a concern), all of which were merged into one mod and managed by a passionate and cool chinese mod team. none of this comes to a consistent artistic vision. every single character looks like kigurumi cosplay and they all look like they're from different manufacturers. this is my favourite module. I could play it for years.

Perisno - a strange bird of a module that I don't see mentioned much anymore. a shame, honestly, because it's quite fun if you like higher fantasy settings. a bit overconfident with its own setting lore at times, but that really just makes it more authentic as a high fantasy setting, doesn't it? anyway they funnelled the mod development efforts away to a standalone game in the setting because of that, and I wish them well, but you know how it goes with that sort of thing

Gekokujo Daimyo Edition - a modification of an older warband module that was originally a touhou hijack that was originally a mod for the non-Warband game made by japanese players annoyed that nobody in the western playerbase was making mods with a japanese setting. it's buggy, it's incomplete, it will explode at you randomly, but it's still pretty neat. there's really no other mod out there that gives you such a thorough "I HATE THE TANEGASHIMA I HATE THE TANEGASHIMA" experience. Sengoku Era, a successor mod, will probably replace it on recommendation lists when it eventually releases.

Warsword Conquest - this is the Warhammer Fantasy mod. it has all the problems you'd expect from that. that being said, the sheer level of detail in this mod makes it more than worth dropping in to check it out. some of the environments are gorgeous enough to make Warband feel like an entirely different game, and with a surprising variety of firearms, the average campaign ends up being a pretty wild ride

Brytenwalda - I'm not recommending Brytenwalda as an experience, because it's actually not that good a very interesting moment in M&B modding history. Brytenwalda is the birthplace of a lot of mod tropes that became standard in mods going forward, namely most culture-related systems and the modern standard for module graphics. it also introduced tripping and represents the moment people started making really annoying attempts at jury-rigging balance into the game before Warband Script Extender came around and actually allowed them to modify the lower systems of the game. still kinda neat if you like historical settings, and definitely foundational enough to warrant a look

Last Days of the Third Age - infamously hard-headed in a way that only a mod for a feudal warfare simulator rpg made by Tolkien nerds who insist on book>movie aesthetics could pull off, this isn't really core M&B gameplay and is very rigid, but it's another case of something being so detailed and passionate that it's a fun experience anyway.

Solid and Shade - this is actually the best hardcore survival horror experience made for Warband, which is a bit like saying that Harvester is the best FMV game ever made about waking up in a town named Harvest. the Harvester comparison is more than surface level. the writing often feels like Harvester. this is one of the only modules (hell, one of the only games even!) I've ever seen that successfully pulls off the concept of corrupting players with the promise of immortality. it's a horror mystery where every single character creation option affects your longterm gameplay... but to provide a fair warning, reading the developer's commentary on this mod will sour you on it. the developer is an edgelord who just kinda kitchen-sinked horror elements in a way that reminds me a lot of Revolution of Terror (the old Well of Souls mod). the compelling esoterica and atmosphere seem to have been achieved largely on accident

[akingdomscrypt]

Make a Mercy Out of Me

Part Four

Pairing; König x male!reader (slow burn)

Word Count; 11.7k (I almost died editing this)

Warnings; dehumanization (of reader), drowning (nightmare?), slight panic, mentions of past torture (of reader), implied human trafficking (of reader)

A/n; Was going to have both chapters out on Halloween buuuuut this one ended up far longer than originally anticipated.

--- "trojan horse" ---

Lights out was over several hours ago. And yet here König was. Watching. Straining his ears to catch every small hitch in your breath, every twitch of your exposed fingers.

Making sure you didn't suddenly die off, really.

That would be inconvenient.

Going through all this trouble catching you just to have you die under his supervision? That would be all of the team's–all of his–time washed down the drain. And he couldn't have that, now could he?

Which is why he had dealt with your antics this morning. You had refused to eat, refused to even drink in front of him. He had assumed it to be the mask–a gross, filthy thing you still haven't removed–that kept you from putting valuable nutrients in your body. König could understand that, he wasn't the most enthusiastic about barring his deformities to strangers either.

Would it aid in the healing of your various wounds right now and probably lessen the time he had to spend categorizing every out-of-place movement you made? An obvious yes. But he wasn't your friend here, he wasn't in charge of making sure you were 'comfortable'. König was here to make sure you didn't kill anyone, yourself, or escape.

Besides–though probably sped up with how much of a beating your body had sustained–you could most likely go for another day or two without it before starvation kicked in. So he dropped the subject and let you sleep some more.

He was regretting that decision now. Somewhere after 1400, you had succumbed to one of the worst fevers he'd seen in his time. Panting like a dog and sweating buckets despite the cool air of the compound. Eyes glazed over and unfocused, you didn't even respond to your name. Not unless he shouted it in your face and snapped his fingers.

Even that was shoddy at best.

It was now somewhere between 0000 and 0100. König had decided to wait until morning to see if your fever lessened, or at the very least improved. Sure, you were a subject of interest, high interest even, but he wasn't about to rouse Colonel Vargas's medical staff for something that ended up not being an emergency.

His hesitation definitely had nothing to do with how terrified you'd looked yesterday when he had first mentioned it.

The sun had risen and you hadn't. Fever broken? Not yet. Though you were.. semi-conscious. You had been switching between mumbling words under your breath that he didn't understand–and was pretty sure was a language he didn't know–to looking like fresh roadkill; cold, limp, and staring blankly at the ceiling.

He thought you had died a handful of times. You'd even halted breathing once or twice. Then, like magic, as soon as he'd go to page Price about your near comatose state, you'd go back to drawing in deep, exaggerated breaths–if a little wheezy on the exhale.

König had decided to give you until noon before he finally called someone in to check on you.

It would be pointless, he reminds himself, if he brought someone in just for you to snap out of it when they arrived.

So he took to treating your wounds every other hour. The source of your fever, he determined, was likely infection. Surprised? Not at all. König had gotten a front-row seat to how downright filthy your injuries were when he stitched them up.

Each fresh bandage would come away just as soiled as the last when he switched them out. Coated in specks of blood here and there, yes, but an overwhelming majority was yellowish-green goo. After he'd gotten that to be somewhat manageable, König had started to apply an antiseptic over the sloppy sutures after each cleaning.

So far, under his own wishes, no one else had come into the room. He's pretty sure at some point one of the team had come by with breakfast.

König hadn't opened the door.

He, himself, wouldn't be too fond of enemies visiting him while he was so vulnerable, so why should he subject you to that? Because you are the enemy here. Because your comfort shouldn't matter.

König had only left the room a handful of times since they brought you in. Mostly to fetch a quick snack or just stretch his limbs–to get away from the stagnant, suffocating air of the room. It was, technically, his job at the moment, and wasn't at all surprising no one had come to drag him away. Which meant less time spent around crowds of soldiers he was unfamiliar with, so he wasn't complaining.

It's not until just before dusk, on the third day, that your fever finally breaks. König notes how you've stopped shivering so excessively, how the bandages he just disposed of were considerably less full of gunk. Still an angry reddish color, still a little swollen, but much less than it had been.

Another hour passes before you regain consciousness. Your words are still a bit slurred and there's a certain haze of confusion consuming your eyes, but it's much better than you've looked since they found you.

He doesn't rush to your side, doesn't make any move to assist you in figuring out where you are, or help you orientate yourself. No. He sits in the chair he's been stuck in for a little over three days and waits for you to notice him.

He doesn't coddle you when panic flashes through your irises or try to explain who he is. He doesn't even speak.

König simply stands up and makes his way to the small, en-suite bathroom and fills up the same paper cup he's offered you multiple times over. By the time he is at your side and offering the cup, he picks up on the recognition now replacing that fear.

And a hint of apprehension, but that's not his problem.

"Drink." When you give that firm shake of your head once again, he's not exactly overflowing with shock. Not even a little miffed. König just urges the flimsy cup closer and repeats himself, though a little more firm this time, "drink."

You–finally, for fuck's sake–take the cup, shaky hands and all. Then proceed to do that weird squint of your eyes at him that he's come to associate as something you do before spouting your typical bullshit. It had happened when he'd interrogated you. Then again when you pulled that little stunt in front of Price–König had still yet to deal with all of that.

Some would call it avoidance, König preferred to call it self-preservation.

And that is why this time König cuts you off before you even open your mouth.

"I'm not taking no for an answer, Maus. Drink." Too friendly. "You're of no use to me if you are delirious from dehydration. Drink."

This would all be much easier to deal with if you would just stop looking at him like that.

"What. What is it?" König grits out, letting the irritation that's been welling up inside him since day one finally seep into his tone. He hasn't even gotten more than maybe a few hours of sleep because of you! He's tired, and, yes, maybe he's a little more on edge than usual. But if you could just- stop looking at him like that.

"My bag." It takes König a little longer than he'd like to admit to realize you were even speaking. A little more to decipher what you just said. It sounded more like 'ma bach' to him.

"And? What about it?" König vaguely remembers you dropping an overstuffed duffle when he'd restrained you in that rundown complex.

"Need it." Again, it sounded more like 'ned ehh' to his ears.

"For what?" What could you possibly do with that? The team had not left it behind. Had brought it with them in case there was some decent evidence in there. Something to incriminate you with so they could keep you longer. There wasn't. "To drink?"

A nod. Alright. That's progress. He can do that.

"Wait here." Ha.

It's funny.

Because you can't leave.

König thinks he's hilarious.

It takes very little convincing on König's part to get Soap to hand it over to him. After all, they had not found anything to convict you with inside the bag. All that was required was the removal of many, many sharp objects, both hidden and not–seriously, how did that even fit there?–, before Price gave the okay and Soap handed it over.

Not before their charming Scotsman made a snide comment of, "what, he think ye poisoned it or somethin'?" But that was irrelevant.

With nothing more than a shrug, König was on his way back to you.

You sit up when the door opens then clicks shut again, lightly panting behind your mask. The little cup of water had been abandoned on the floor beside the cot. Useless to you at the moment.

You don't look up at the other man until the heavy bag is placed at the foot of the bed and, subsequently, your legs. You send him a brief glare before reaching down to pull the duffle into your lap.

While you rummage around through the mess they had made of your bag–praying to a god you don't believe in that they didn't take it out, that would be extremely inconvenient right now–König retrieves the water.

"You know," he says at the same time that white paper cup enters your peripheral. "Would be a lot easier if you just took that off. It's filthy."

You look up with your eyes only, narrowing them as your fingers finally wrap around the cool piece of metal you'd been searching for–not even close to the little pocket you'd left it in.

You don't take your eyes off of him as you pull it out–a thin, reusable straw–other hand reaching up to take the cup. Placing the metal straw inside, adjusting the height of it so it doesn't fit inside too awkwardly.

You would take the damn thing off if you could.

One hand holding the cup, the other deftly keeps the straw in place as you bring it to your face. Slipping it under the small slit in your mask, just below your mouth.

There was only one problem.

You can't.

The cloth was filthy; coated in mud and plant matter, bodily fluids and the sort. You'd give anything to have it removed.

Removed.

Because you couldn't simply take the damn thing off. Couldn't replace the ratty old thing. Not unless you paid a visit to your home base, and you'd rather fucking die than do anything of the sort.

You could tell him. König would probably remove it, or have someone else take it off for you. Not because he was interested in your comfort, no, but because it would be beneficial to his cause.

Something inside you, some mental blockade, keeps you from uttering those words. Keeps that freeing phrase lodged in your throat.

Besides, it wasn't always this dirty. You cleaned it.. sometimes. Whenever you could. It was awkward and involved a lot of water being sprayed at your face–and after nearly waterboarding yourself the last time, you weren't too eager to do it again.

"Thanks." You mumble when you finish off the small cup. You mean it; the cool water was refreshing after being deprived of it for so long. Soothing your sore throat and filling your empty stomach.

"More?" König asks, reaching out a gloved hand–bloodied, worn glove. Your blood.

All you can do is nod and pass it back to him; you are parched. It would take a lot more than a tiny cup to make up for days without proper hydration.

You end up having König refill the cup a few more times before you finally just place it on the ground again. Then you fold up the straw into a smaller stick, tuck it into your pocket, and lean back against the wall.

You're hit with a wave of exhaustion as you do so, muscles still sore and injuries aching. Distantly so, your shoulder burning, thigh throbbing, but infinitely better. You made sure to make a conscious effort to keep your previously relocated shoulder in place; still feeling a dull pain where the bones interlocked.

Being pretty experienced in the realm of having your body manipulated and pushed to its limits, you knew keeping the joint as immobile as possible was your best bet for a speedy recovery.

You just wanted to get some fucking sleep.

Having been surviving off an hour or two of sleep every other day, your body was fully prepared to take advantage of the lack of action. To finally catch up on all the rest you'd been missing out on.

Sleep deprivation was nothing new to you, you were built and molded to withstand far worse–you just didn't want to. Not if you could finally take a moment to yourself; even if that meant spending it in enemy territory.

König would probably let you sleep; more about keeping you in a decent enough shape. A part of you resisted the idea still–even if another insisted you should take advantage of healing as much as you could before torture was inevitably introduced. Your mind is just barely present enough to keep you from letting your guard down anymore than you already had.

Vaguely, you recall the other man hovering over you once in a while while you were delirious from the fever. The memories drift in and out of your half-conscious mind, just barely out of reach, but you get the impression König was tending to your wounds as you slept. Keeping you alive and in just barely good enough shape for whatever he and his crew of misfits wanted from you.

Hell, you couldn't care about that right now. Couldn't muster any part of you to give a single fuck about what they wanted you for; when you'd offered yourself up it had been out of anger. Desperation. Wanting to get some petty revenge on your handler. Now you were.. not necessarily regretting it, but you weren't fond of it anymore either.

"Should get some sleep." König's voice breaks your quickly spiraling thoughts. Looking up, you notice the man is still standing. If you didn't know any better, you'd almost said the behemoth of a man appeared nervous. Standing there, hovering by the door, bright blue eyes locked on you, bloody, gloved fingers twitching now and again.

You only give a soft hum of acknowledgment, keeping your own gaze pinned on his. You notice how the literal giant mass of muscle and cloth shifts his weight now and again. Anxious, you'd say, awkward.

"It's late, and you need to heal." König continues when you don't say anything. You'd find it funny–seeing the intimidating pillar of a man acting so skittish–if you weren't so fucking tired. "I'll leave you to it then."

And with that, König leaves. You had half a mind to call out to him, to ask him to stay. That, for once in your life, you didn't really want to be alone.

That this room too closely resembled the one that haunted you still, even after all these years. Too cold, too dull, too sterile.

But that would ruin whatever picture of you he held in his mind. Would look too much like cowardice. Because you should be able to handle it, you shouldn't be so damn terrified when confined within four walls. Should be better than this.

So you don't raise your voice, don't ask him to stay. Can't force the vibration into your vocal cords, can't help but feel that doing so would make you look weak. Instead, you watch as König turns on his heel and opens the door, shutting and locking it firmly behind him with a dull click.

At least König had left the light on. You're almost certain you would've spiraled if he hadn't.

Silence ate at you when alone. Only indoors, though. When you were outside and could smell the fresh air through your mask, the wind against your exposed skin, and hear the crunch of leaves and foliage under your boots; that was a whole other story.

Tolerable. Comforting, even. Not this. Never this.

It is better, when you take a look at the bigger picture. Better than that smaller, dark room. Pitch black, unable to even see your own hands in front of you. Can reach out an arm but only extend it halfway on either side before your fingers brush cold metal.

Better than the water.

Frigid liquid starts in a slow trickle from the four corners of the box–The Box–and gradually fills it up. Until you're drowning. Until you're forced to take that final breath, bitter, freezing water–was it even water??–leaking into your mouth. Staining your tongue; having to choose between risking spitting it out, taking the chance of more replacing what is dispelled, or holding it in your mouth until you're free again. But not swallow, never swallow.

You can hear her. Hear all of them. Talking, whispering, laughing. Not the other Predators, not them, not the ones like you.

Her. You've never seen her. It's her and a few of her associates, then your handler. Your handler doesn't laugh. She's silent. But you know she's watching, know she's counting down each second until your release.

Your chest is seizing, trying desperately to force you to take a breath, to draw in air. You have to ignore it, ignore the impulse, even as your chest screams, your lungs burn, as your brain begins to grow fuzzy from lack of oxygen.

You can hear every vile word spoken, every taunt and joke made at your expense. The implants permanently placed into your skull allowing you to hear every rustle of clothing, every dehumanizing spat. No matter how badly you'd like to tune it all out.

They know you can hear them. Can hear the whisper of her adding more time, the surprise that you haven't fainted yet, the mutterings calling you it, the scribbling of pen on paper.

They know you can hear. And that's exactly why they do it. Why they call you it, a thing, nothing more than a tool. An object. A product made to be contracted, be rented out to greedy generals, but not a person. Never a person.

Only a thing.

Made to be used. To be trained. To take orders without question. Like a dog–like a mutt.

You're failing. You can feel it. The lack of oxygen to your brain is starting to affect you, exhaustion weighing heavily on your submerged body. Your limbs have long since lost feeling, numb where they lay somewhere in The Box.

You can't hear them anymore. Only your own hazy mind, your own pounding heart. You're failing, falling, giving out.. can't last,

Slow heartbeat, dull, harsh thuds in your ribcage,

Numb, tingling limbs,

Soaked body, soaked mind, soaked and heavy clothes,

Weighing you down,

down,

down,

down.

You wake with a start, sucking in a sharp lungful of air, eyelids snapping open. Adjusting to a bright, bright room.

You're not in The Box. You're here. Where exactly here is, you have no idea.

You don't even remember falling asleep.

The first thing König does when he leaves you is take a shower. He's absolutely filthy. Or at least that's how he feels after not having the chance to wash away the sweat and blood from the day of your capture. For almost a week.

He feels gross and sticky in his own body, and König finds himself even more relieved than usual that he hadn't had to interact with many people. Didn't quite feel like burning their sense of smell out for good.

Sure, he was a soldier. Sure, there were times when he had to go a few days without a proper shower. That didn't make it any better.

His mother had taught him good hygiene, amongst other important things, and he'd be damned if he didn't listen to her. Even from across the globe.

The water–though lukewarm and lacking pressure–feels good on his unwashed skin. König had to duck down a bit to clean his shaggy, russet hair and upper torso, but that wasn't anything new. Majority if not all showers and other everyday things were often too small for him.

With the exception of the one in his mother's home. The two of them had broken down and reconstructed his small, personal bathroom in ninth year, when he hit a sudden growth spurt and it was clear he wasn't stopping anytime soon.

König had always been a tall, lanky child. This fact had been the source of his insecurity since he started school–the other kids latching onto this fact and using it against him. He stood out, and that, coupled with his chronic social anxiety, only made him an easy target.

He had been ashamed of his height then–often hunching in on himself in a vain attempt to seem smaller than he was–, but that was not the case now. König's height was an advantage in his line of work, something he had grown to be proud of over the years. Especially now that he put so much time and effort into turning his body into the perfect fighting machine through bulky muscle and healthy fat.

König still didn't particularly enjoy standing out, but it was better when what was once an insecurity for him was met with a healthy dose of fear and awe.

Thankfully, no one was there but him. The majority of the other people on the base are most likely having dinner around this time.

So he secures a towel around his waist and, feeling thoroughly refreshed and almost like a new man after his shower, he steps out of the tiny, curtained-off room and into the main part of the communal locker room.

Having no one else around gave König the opportunity to pull out a clean, sharp knife and delicately carve away the scruffy stubble along his jaw and upper lip–the hairs always poked through the layers of fabric on his face and it bothered him.

König's work was quick and efficient, much like most of the things he did. Running the smooth blade over and between the rises and dips of his skin. Scar tissue didn't grow hair, obviously, but the annoying spaces in between marred flesh did, so that's what König was shaving off.

Seeing his own face didn't bother him, despite what most would probably think. König sometimes thought the scars were cool; it really added to his scare factor. Then again, so did the hood he wore.

He didn't wear the fabric draped over his face because he was insecure or ashamed of his scarring–König actually considered himself a pretty average-looking man, minus the scars. It was more for anonymity and he really, really didn't feel like dealing with all the stares it would garner everywhere he went. It also helped König with his social anxiety to have that thin cloth separating him from everyone else. And he'd be damned if he was going to let his scars become the new target instead of his height.

It's still too early to return to you or go to bed himself when König finishes. He ends up throwing on the fresh clothes he'd brought with him, tugging on a more everyday mask in place of the hood, and pulling his still-damp hair into a loose low ponytail. Keeping the wild, wavy strands out of his face–the ends of it just barely brushing his shoulders.

Then König gathers up his filthy clothes and gear and makes his way into the hall. This facility isn't exactly new to him, had been here a few times with the rest of the team, but that didn't make it any less confusing to be in. Still a bit foreign to him.

Even so, he manages to find his way back to the room he'd left you in, drop off his clothes–and hide his gear somewhere he knew you couldn't reach–, then to where his teammates sat chatting in the common room.

Ghost sat on one side of the room, the furthest end of the couch, with Soap squeezed in right next to him. The two communicating in low rumbles and small chuckles. Rudy sat on the other end of that same couch; talking in soft mutterings to the man sitting in the chair to his left.

Gaz was, surprisingly, not currently present, but Price was. Sitting tense and deep in thought in one corner of the sofa opposite the other, scrolling through something on his phone.

Shit. Price. He doubted the captain would bring up that little stunt you pulled a few days ago in front of Alejandro and Rudy, but König couldn't be too certain.

He's about to back out of the room when Soap calls out his name–damn him. Not really, but König was hoping to leave undetected. A little difficult for a man of his size, but still.

"König! There ye are, haven't seen ye in ages."

König freezes in his tracks, sending the Scot a small, professional smile from behind his mask.

"You saw me this afternoon, Soap."

"Righ', righ'." Soap waves off, giving König a more playful grin than the taller man had put on. "S' wha' the lad need with the damn thin' anyhow? He pull out somethin' 'tae test it or..?"

König, resigning himself to his fate, walks over to take a seat on the same couch as Price. On the furthest end from their captain.

"A straw."

This gets Ghost's attention. "'M guessin' he didn't take the mask off for ya then?"

"Didn't expect him to." Price looks up from his phone then, all three of the other men giving him a deadpan stare.

"Do not look at me like that." König grumbles, attention tuning in to the approaching footsteps.

"Don't look at who like what?" Gaz says as he enters the room, several random snacks in hand, giving them all a curious look. When his gaze lands on König, Gaz gives a small, half-grin and chucks one of the snacks at him. "What are you guys on about?"

König fumbles a bit, but catches what looks to be some type of protein bar? He gives Gaz an appreciative nod and replies,

"Nothing important."

At the same time, Soap says,

"König's wee fixation."

König sends Soap a glare, tearing open the package. Gaz shrugs, walking over to seat himself between König and Price. Nonchalant, as if none of this is new to him. He throws a few snacks at the other men as well as he sits.

"It is not a fixation." König grumbles, sounding more like a petulant child than the grown-ass man he is. He spares a glance towards Rudy, who seems amused by the whole thing, then Alejandro, who is now tapping away on his phone. Neither of them seem to be paying any special attention to him specifically, so König decides to tug the mask down.

He's hungry, dammit, and, out of all people, this little group right here were the last ones König would expect to make jabs at his scars.

"Oh, it's not?" Price. The man looks a little amused. König is not. "Then what would ya call him, hm?"

"A subject of interest." The first bite of the protein bar unlocks a ravenous hunger in König that the man hadn't been anticipating. Made sense, really, considering he hadn't been taking the greatest care of himself while watching over you these past few days–had a habit of forgetting when he got involved in something. Food included.

As König had expected, no one even bats an eye at his revealed face, and König feels as though a weight has been lifted off his shoulders.

Much like Ghost, the others had all seen him before–Price especially, the man had his file after all–and still didn't look at König differently. Which had also been a great relief, knowing he didn't have to hide his disfigured skin from what had become his, fairly close, teammates.

"Riiight." Soap drawls, opening the small bag Gaz had thrown at him. "Tha's what we're callin' this then?"

"There is no this, Soap." König says after he swallows his last bite, crumbling up the wrapper and shoving it into his pocket to throw out later. He was still practically starving, but he figured he could find something else later. He pulls the mask back up.

"He is needed to further our investigation."

"An' tha's why ye stayed with 'im fur several days?"

"Without once leavin', I might add." Ghost tacks on, a slight crinkling in the corners of his eyes that tells König the man also finds his suffering humorous.

It's not entirely true. König had left. Once and a while when you seemed mostly stable. Not that the others would know this considering he never crossed paths with them.

"Had to make sure he didn't die."

"Speaking of the him in question," Alejandro–the fucking saint that he is–interrupts, flicking his eyes around the room and pocketing his phone. "Just who exactly did you guys bring onto my base?"

"Yeah," Rudy tacks on. "Into our country, no less."

König, a little more than surprised Price hadn't informed the two men who were currently housing them and their prisoner, sends Price a look that says just as much.

"I was going to have this discussion a lot sooner," Price rumbles, "but I was waiting for you to join us, König."

König frowns at this, a slight pull on his eyebrows as he observes his Captain.

"Waiting for me?"

"Ye did kinda ignore us fur the past few days."

"Too occupied with his, mm, subject of interest, 't join us." Ghost adds, still not out of his playful mood, it seemed.

Gaz sends König a brief, amused glance before turning away again.

König ignores the two bastards on the other side of the room and keeps his own gaze on Price instead.

"Why did you need me, Captain?" König really was a little confused.. he had only been with the bunch for almost a year. During the tail end of the team's hunt for literal missiles and so on. He wasn't exactly a.. to put it bluntly, a vital part of the team.

"You shared a few words with him before we came here." Oh no. This now felt more like an intervention than anything. "I need to know what those were."

Alejandro looks between the two with a puzzled expression of his own. "Were you not with them, Captain?"

"I was," Price doesn't take his eyes off König. König suddenly finds a spot on the floor very interesting. "They weren't speakin' in a language I could understand."

This only confuses the two men further, both of whom share a quick glance. A silent conversation between them. Then König feels both of their eyes on him.

His skin crawls, he feels exposed, he shouldn't have come out here, he should've worn the hood.

König's words suddenly feel stuck in his throat, and he clears it subtly.

"It wasn't relevant to the mission, sir." He mumbles, still refusing to tear his gaze away and look over at his captain.

"So you say." Price replies easily. "And yet you still won't tell me."

"He.." König hesitates, starting up a nervous bounce of his knee. "He asked me if I had considered his- his.. offer."

"His offer?" Price asks at the same time Gaz says, "Did you?"

"He is here, isn't he?"

"Is there anything you all know about the stranger you've brought into my home?" Alejandro says, drawing the conversation back onto its track.

There's a small, tense pause before anyone speaks up.

"We, uh.. we know he was abandoned..?" Gaz says, turning to Price. "..right?"

"As far as we know, yes."

König takes that moment to glance up, catching the slight widening of Rudy's eyes.

"Is that all you know?"

Another silence.

"I'd ask if he's dangerous, but I feel that much is obvious." Alejandro deadpans, sighing before continuing, "How long have you been on his tail? Do you have a file?"

"Yes."

"..is there much in it?"

"..no."

Another sigh, Rudy this time, before the same man asks,

"What exactly did you all expect to gain by keeping him?"

Soap lands a very pointed stare on König.

"Don't you dare, Soap." König mutters quickly. "It is not a.. fixation, it's a-"

"A subject of interest, right." Ghost huffs, mood dimmed a little more back to his usual self to König's great relief.

"He said he could help-"

"Yes, an' help with what exactly-"

"-d'ye think he'd-"

"-pretty sure he'd be able to if we asked him-"

"Ay!" Rudy barks out, snapping the other men's focus towards him. "Does this guy even have a name?"

Oh. Right.

"Mouse." They all say in unison, sans Price, before returning to their conversation.

"Mouse?" Alejandro muses. Then he turns and mutters a few quick words to Rudy in Spanish, the other man snickering in turn.

König couldn't blame him, they'd all been pretty amused by it when they first heard it, too. Made only more entertaining once one noticed how small you were. Not just when compared to König, but all of them.

König was pretty certain he'd seen literal children much taller than you.

"Strange name and what-ifs aside," Price sighs, then looks over at König. "Is he stable?"

"Yes."

"Alive, stable, or able to do a quick run with us, stable?"

".. I would give him a few days more," König answers, taking a second to think it over first. "Then he should be able to walk straight."

Pride nods. A tad confused, König asks,

"Did we get a hit, sir, is that what this is about?"

"We do have.. something."

"And?" Ghost this time, their tiny conversation having drawn the attention of all the other men in the room.

"And." Price emphasizes. "Laswell and her fiends of informants have given us an approximate 't the bomber's possible location."

"Here?" Alejandro says at the same time Soap says, "where?"

"It is nearby..ish," Price says. "A border city. I don't have any of the specifics right now, but we will know more within the week."

He then gives König a pointed look, "A few days from now. That should be plenty 'a time for Mouse to recover, yes?"

"Ja," König agrees, not knowing if it was true but, well, they just needed you to not pass out every other minute and be able to walk on your own. "Can I ask what we need him for?"

"You said it yourself he wanted to help." There were two types of Price smiles; warm and welcoming or deceivingly threatening. This time was one of the latter. "I say we bring him along as a sort of.. test. See if his story holds up under pressure."

"Not to overstep, Captain, but couldn't you use.. other tactics to get the truth from him?" Alejandro asks. "If you want, I'm sure I could get some of my men to-"

"No." König cuts in before Price can respond, the former giving the Colonel what could only be described as a death stare.

"Why not? Certainly, it would help speed things along-"

"I appreciate the offer, Colonel, but there is a sort of.." Price narrows his gaze at König, silently conveying a clear command for the other man to shut his mouth. König huffs, looking away. "An unspoken agreement against using the more traditional methods of gathering information."

"Cannae be harmin' König's wee fixation, now ken we?" Soap's light jab dissolves the slight tension that had been building in the room.

And, for once, König finds himself grateful for the tease. Though he still gives a bemoaned,

"It is not a fixation!"

You're tense, König can tell. He also gets the feel it has more to do with something other than the fact you were.. well, not in a cell. But a confined room. Definitely not the same thing.

König visited you less often now that you weren't at risk of bleeding out or dying of infection in your sleep. The man had assumed you'd be, maybe not ecstatic, but relieved that he wasn't around as often. It appeared that his absence had caused the opposite effect.

You ate.. some, and when he wasn't around. Drank, too, whenever you felt like it. Your injuries were healing spectacularly as well; no longer open, leaking wounds, but instead slightly irritated, closed lines. Would definitely scar, but König knew that was probably the least of your worries.

It frustrated him to no end that he couldn't figure out what was wrong with you–it wasn't physical, that much was obvious. You were a puzzle he couldn't decipher, and that left an unpleasant taste in König's mouth.

He was about ready to burst after two days of dealing with your attitude–not at all playful like it usually was–and bitter mood. Mentally preparing himself to just ask you straight out–even though it wasn't at all guaranteed he'd get an answer–when it all came to a head on day three.

You are about ready to combust when the door clicks open; breathing quick, heavy gulps of air while you pace the length of the small room. Having pulled on your gloves–finding an extra pair in your bag–for the first time in over a week, you were now using the familiar feel of rough fabric to ground yourself. Rubbing it over the skin of your forearms in quick, aborted motions.

Why did she leave? She abandoned you. The full weight of your situation was just now hitting you– she abandoned you.

Were you really that much of a fucking problem? You tried, you really did, tried not to be too much of a drag on her–but you had a habit of racking up stacks of paperwork like they were trophies.

You had always been her most problematic subject; having the blood of one of your own squad mates on your hands didn't help either. But you tried, you tried so hard to make up for it–that's one of the main reasons you had gone on this years-long solo operation.

To take a bit of the weight, the workload that was simply you, off your handlers' shoulders.

When did you become too much? When had she decided she didn't want you anymore?

Was it the murder? The attempted escape–a foolish thing really, you'd never felt so stupid–, the snarky attitude? The way you pushed and pushed and pushed and never let up?

What were you even supposed to do now? You'd never been without that voice in your ear, telling you what to do and when to do it–you didn't know what to do with yourself without it.

"Maus?" Shit. Right. You'd forgotten König was there.

"What." You grit, not even bothering to look up as you continue to pace. Back and forth, back and forth- Repetition, now that was something you knew.

"Sit down. All this pacing is.. stressing me out."

You pause, feet anchoring to the ground as you lock onto the other man.

"Oh?" You huff, feeling the panic begin to morph into the more familiar, welcomed burn of anger. "You are stressed?"

"Ja," he deadpans, giving you that familiar blank stare you'd come to associate with the other man. Irritation, arrogance, boredom– or all three. "I am. Because of you."

"Well my sincerest apologies for the inconvenience." You say, plastering on a fake smile beneath your mask; sarcasm oozing through every word. "But you're not the one who got fucking abandoned, are you? Zasraný bastard!" (Fucking bastard!)

You spat the last part, seething as you turn the rest of your body to face König head on. Slowly, you stalk closer until you're within touching distance. So close you have to nearly snap your neck in half to look up at the giant.

"You do not understand, do you? You arrogant fuck." Your tone is considerably low considering the harsh words spilling from your mouth. All the emotions that had been building up inside you since that day everything went to shit finally breaking free. Manifesting as misdirected anger–or maybe justifiable, according to you. "You and your rag-tag group of fuckin' misfits do not know the first thing of me. Know only what you are told."

This is probably the most you've spoken since your capture. When you were loopy from blood loss.

"So do not come in here, come to me and tell me that I am the problem. That it is me causing the stress." You're too wound up to care about reading whatever fucking emotions flashes through König's eyes. Too pissed off to worry about deciphering his unnecessarily complicated feelings. "You are not the one who was left. Left by the person who has been with you for your entire life. I am not weak, I am not your pet, so do not talk to me like I am- kurva, a damn idiot." (Fuck.)

"Maus."

"What."

His tone is a lot calmer than you had been expecting. You have half a mind to curse him out about not listening to a damn word you have to say–then you remember who you're talking to and quickly bite your tongue.

In lieu of saying anything, König simply reaches into his pocket and pulls something out. A piece of paper. Then he holds it out to you, you recognize the worn parchment and stains.

Oh.

The paper.

You don't take it, flicking your eyes between the folded note and the other's gaze. Anger quickly melts away into confusion.

"Why are you giving me this?"

"Scheiß. Und er nennt mich den Idioten." König mutters under his breath. The words spoken too fast for you to pick up on much more than the familiar curse.

"Take it." König brings the paper closer, pressing it to your chest and giving a light shove. "And read it again."

With an annoyed huff and a glare, you take a step back, distancing yourself, and snatch the folded note from his hand.

Carefully–not wanting to accidentally tear the poor thing that had already lost the majority of its structural integrity–you unfold it.

Holding the fragile thing between gloved, delicate fingers, you squint. Trying to see past the mud stains and water marks. After more than a little staring, you finally catch the vague, washed-out red.

At first, you assume it's blood–your blood, more specifically. Then, upon closer inspection, you realize that the color is just slightly off. Even watered-down blood would retain some of its darker undertones–would turn a brownish color instead of pink.

The words are too blurred to make sense of- but you know that red. None of that hot, burning anger flows through you now. Molten lava converting into frigid, paralyzing recognition.

König seems to take your silence as a good thing and murmurs a triumphant, "I will go inform Captain Price that you are ready, see you later, Maus."

And just like that, König leaves you with another little fact that shatters your entire worldview.

Only it's not the clue he probably thinks it is.

An hour. That is how long you are given before one of the only two men whose name you didn't know comes to collect you–short hair, dark brown skin.

You are given a set of less dirty clothes to slip into–not a shower though, irritatingly enough–then you're being corralled down multiple twists and turns until you are forced into a meeting room of some sort.

There are several men and women you don't recognize seated around and standing near a long, rectangular table. The man who had brought you here urges you into a seat near the center of a row of chairs, Ghost–you had heard the name in passing when König was rambling to your semi-conscious body–and the other man whose name you did not know stood directly behind you.

The man who'd brought you here sits on your right.

All eyes are on you, you can feel it, burning holes into your mask. You chose to ignore them, keeping your gaze locked firmly on the metal table in front of you. Analyzing and taking note of every flaw and imperfection; man-made and not. Natural wear from years of use and manufacturer error.

Much to your relief, it's not too long before König and the captain enter the room; followed by two men who, surprise surprise, you also don't know.

One taller than the other, tanned skin and dark hair. One with scruffy facial hair and the other clean-shaven.

The shorter one instantly locks onto you, doing a quick once over of your hunched form before trapping your gaze with his own.

After what feels like an eternity, the man's eyes flick from you, over to König, then back to you. He frowns, then turns away.

Only a few seconds have passed and now Price and the two new ones are seated at the head of the table. König takes his place on your left.

Then the meeting begins.

A loyalty test. That's what the captain calls it. Gaze locked on yours when the others, apart from the little crew surrounding you, leave the meeting room.

And now you're here, unarmed and on the outskirts of a strange city you didn't even know existed until now.

The buildings are tall and tightly clustered together. Streets empty and windows–at least the ones not shattered–boarded or blackened out. Not a single ounce of movement or sound besides the rustle of wind now and then; blowing around loose papers and other trash.

The whole thing is eerie; every nerve in your body is alert, muscles tense and ready to spring into action at any notion of a threat.

Movement flashes in your peripheral somewhere to your immediate right and your hand instinctively reaches for the knife you keep stashed on your hip. Only your fingers curl around nothing, hand coming up empty when you bring it back up. You frown slightly at the lack of weapon in your gloved palm.

"Relax, Mouse." Gaz–you had finally been properly introduced to everyone, learning new names and confirming the ones you'd already known–, having been the source of the disturbance, says. "It's just me."

A small grunt of acknowledgment is your only response, returning your attention to the city looming ahead. Gaz's words weren't exactly comforting–and likely weren't meant to be. You were still their prisoner. They were your enemy just as much as whoever lay within the limits of this city was.

Which is why your nerves are not only shot to high hell for whatever the fuck was going on in the city, but also keenly analyzing and tracking every minuscule twitch of the team around you.

"Alright, boys," Price speaks up, coming into view on your right, standing beside Gaz. "Just like we discussed. Soap and Ghost on me, Gaz, you're with König. We'll split, clearing out each side, and regroup in the middle."

He completely disregards you. As if you were nothing but an accessory.

"Keep your eyes peeled for anythin' out of place. Intel says target should be in center building, sixth floor, but we shouldn't rule out possible interference. Living or not. Expect resistance, 'specially as we get further in."

Being a passive object in an operation was nothing new to you.

Ghost and Soap come to stand off to your left and König is an unmistakable presence behind you.

"RV 'round back, Nik'll be waiting for us. And, Gaz?"

"Yes, Cap'?"

Price's eyes flick to you, then behind you to König. The captain gives a small, pointed tilt of his head to Gaz.

"Keep an eye on the cargo, will ya?"

"'Course, sir. I'll make sure 't keep the," now it's Gaz's turn to spare a glance to the man looming behind you, a small pull at the corner of his mouth. Gone in an instant. "Subject of interest in clear view."

You bristle slightly at the choice words, it felt like you were missing out on something. An inside joke, perhaps? About you?

"Alright then, let's get on with it."

There's a chorus of 'yes sirs' around the group, sans you, and then a nod from Price. Ghost, Soap, and the captain split off to head off to the right, using the blanket of night as their only cover.

You turn away as soon as they're out of sight, redirecting your attention to the other two men now on either side of you.

"You heard the captain," Gaz says. "On with it."

You find yourself wishing you doned the original gear given to you when you became a Predator. The hooded cowl, full black outfit, and, of course, all your weapons and tools, would be extremely useful right now. Perfect for this little mission you lot were on; would let you blend into the dark of night much more seamlessly than the oversized clothing you'd been given.

There was that, and then there was the only piece of equipment you were handed. A throat mic; a snug piece of elastic that was always on, listening to every breath you took and every word you didn't say. You wouldn't be surprised if there were a tracker inside it as well.

A collar, ironic, really, but fitting. Adorning you just like the dog object you had always been. It was nothing new to you.

As a Hatchling, when on any operation, solo or not, you had been made to wear something similar. Only it had more of a.. bite to it. Sewn into the nape of your neck and would emit a stinging shock if whoever was overseeing your progress deemed you uncooperative.

This was an upgrade in comparison.

The clothes, however, were not, and you were glad you'd been able to keep the boots you'd been captured in.

König, the giant bastard–you had no clue why he had given you that note, was there a more malicious intent behind the act?–, was surprisingly good at keeping a low profile. Moving through the shadows with a kind of efficiency some second-year Hatchlings couldn't even manage–they'd have to do better if they wanted to survive.

Then again, the only lighting was the waning gibbous of a moon in the sky, an array of stars, and the dim, flickering street lights.

So, really, not that difficult of a feat.

It also wasn't hard to be silent with one's strides when only sand was underfoot, so you couldn't give props to König for that either.

Oh, now look at that, your little trio had finally made it to the first building. It's about damn time.

Slow, the two of them. Like sloths.

That was an insult to sloths around the globe.

The side door is jammed shut, not budging under either of the two's weight, and the idea of kicking it in was quickly abandoned; that wouldn't help at all with keeping a low profile.

Instead, you all have to resort to slowly yet efficiently peeling the piece of cloth nailed into the window frame to get in. Only after that are you three able to climb through the window and into the first building. König radios in your all's progress and is met with a similar update from Soap.

There is a quick sweep of the ground floor before Gaz splits off to investigate the room on the left, König dragging you to one that veers off to the right.

You three regroup at the base of the stairway and slowly work up to the next floor, Gaz leading and König keeping up the back, squishing you between the two.

It doesn't take long to clear out the first building–three floors total and a roof–, having been met with zero resistance, and soon enough your group is infiltrating building two.

The city is so closely knit, each alley only about a meter apart, that the transition time from one building to another may as well be non-existent. The amount of floors on each varies, but the layouts of each are pretty much the same. This makes for an even faster clearing time.

The three of you continue the same method of sweeping each floor and building–Gaz going solo on one side of a hallway, you and König working through the other–for the next few buildings and soon enough you all are halfway through.

"Bravo Six 't Gaz, how's it on your end?"

You're on a transition between another grouping of buildings, working on breaching the next. Gaz doesn't look away from where you and König are meticulously picking at another window covering when he radios back.

"Dead silent, sir."

There's a brief moment of static before the captain's voice cuts through again.

"Keep pushing, there's gotta be something here. Out."

"It has been very quiet." König speaks up as the last shreds of cloth are peeled back.

"Too quiet." Gaz agrees.

Then you three are climbing through the vacant window frame, rubber soles landing soundlessly against another tiled floor.

The immediate atmosphere is.. different from the other buildings you all had combed through. Stagnant and full of dust? Yes. Though it was the underlying energy of the structure that sent your nerves alight, a sense of foreboding crawling up your spine.

You can tell the others had registered the change in ambiance just as you had; a tension in König's broad shoulders and a deep frown settling on Gaz's lips.

The search of the first floor comes up empty; the small half bath, living space, kitchenette, and tiny closet not hiding anything spectacular within their walls.

The second floor yields the same results, this time with two minimalist bedrooms and another half bath.

Gaz sends König a look, having a silent conversation with the taller man, then the two of them turn to you. Gaz steps away from the stairway, eyes flicking over to you now.

"Maus," König says, voice low as he breaks the heavy silence. "How 'bout you take point?"

You know it's not a question but an order, a test to see if you'll follow any command given; even with the unsettling undercurrent of the atmosphere. If you'll take it in stride or cower behind like the mutt you are.

You briefly analyze the two with a look of your own before nodding and quietly stepping to the front.

It's not until you're halfway up the stairs that you hear the ticking. A faint, almost unintelligible sound you probably wouldn't be able to catch if not for your enhanced hearing.

You pause, holding up a hand for the others behind you.

"What's wrong?" Gaz whispers.

You bring that same hand down to tap your forefinger against your ear instead, still not taking your eyes off the entrance of the third floor that looms ahead. You hear König mutter something to Gaz, likely transmitting your actions to the other man.

A passive thought passes through you; that the others most likely didn't have the same enhancements you did. Couldn't see in the dark or hear the chitters of mice from a mile away like you could.

This, though, this wasn't mice.

You knew deep down, really, what it was. You still found yourself hoping you were wrong.

When you don't move Gaz speaks again.

"I don't hear anything." Well I do, you think bitterly.

Still, you push yourself to move again, forcing each foot in front of the other as you climb up the remaining half of the steps.

You don't even have to look in the other rooms to see it.

"Scheiß." König breathes out from behind you.

The two now standing beside you could probably only see the vague outline of it, the flashing of red bulbs on top, but you.. you can see the whole thing.

You don't follow Gaz as the man steps forward, bringing his flashlight over the literal ticking time bomb. A mess of wires and tubes, crisscrossing over the faded shades of grey of what is clearly some type of explosive.

Many explosives, wrapped up tightly together into one mega bomb by duct tape and wires.

"Told you I heard something." You grumble.

"Yeah, but how-" Gaz shakes his head, sighing. "Nevermind."

Then Gaz brings his hand up to the radio strapped to his vest, holding down the small button.

"Captain," he says, voice stiff. "We have a problem."

There's a brief opening and closing of the other line, a short wave of static, and Gaz takes this as a sign to keep going.

"Explosives. Sixth building, third floor."

It only takes a few seconds before a response comes through. "Say again?"

"They've got fuckin' bombs, sir."

There's another pause, brief chatter, then Soap speaks over the radio waves next.

"Seems we've both got tha' problem."

Your own feet stay rooted to the ground as the two others investigate the bomb, trading clipped words with the other half of their team. Trying to figure out how to defuse it–if it can even be defused. Soap says it's possible, but there's an edge to his tone and you can hear exactly as to why.

The ticking, the underlying buzz of energy snaking through the wires, is steadily speeding up.

You don't have time.

In a split second, you make a decision, turning on your heel and charging out of the room. Down to the bottom floor, through the side door, and ramming into the next building. It doesn't matter if you make noise now, whoever set these explosives up obviously knew someone was coming.

Heavy footfalls behind you–reminiscent of your days' capture–, you know you're being followed. You don't care, you have to be sure.

The ticking is louder this time, you barely make it halfway to the second floor before that rhythmic beat is making itself known.

Identical to the one before, in the center of the building, the center of the room.

"Mouse, what the hell- oh."

You turn again, rushing out of the room and down the stairs once more. Passing a startled König halfway down who hurries to turn and catch up with you.

"Captain, we've got another-" Gaz is still upstairs, now making his way down, and you hear him as clearly as you would if you were standing right beside him.

By the fourth confirmed bomb, only a singular building out from where all six of you were supposed to meet up, everything is starting to add up.

Why the building you all had swept through had been completely empty, abandoned even by its invasive occupants. You wouldn't be surprised if the target wasn't here at all–only their lackeys to set up the charges.

Whoever had informed Price had received either incorrect or intentionally deceiving intel.

A trap, and now all six of you were stuck in it.

"König, Gaz, forget the damn explosives an' get the hell out of there-!" Price shouts over the comms and you hear it before you feel it.

A low hum, faint ticking, a final, louder click before the noise stops altogether.

The three of you are at the bottom of the last building you'd investigated, the ground rumbles beneath you, accompanied by an ear-splitting crash and boom of the bomb going off.

The first only sets off a chain reaction, beginning from the one above you and working backward from where you came–leaving no option but to continue on forward.

Shouts and panicked voices continue to crackle over the radios attached to König and Gaz, that is the least of your concerns when the walls around you are starting to crack and crumble beneath their own weight.

Running purely on instinct, on nothing but the need to get out and survive, you don't look back. Leaving the two nobodies behind as you leap and crash through the nearest window. Charging through empty streets and weaving between the debris that rains from above.

You think you hear someone calling your name but it's drowned out by the overwhelming sounds of falling buildings, brick against cement. Shattering glass in the few windows that still had them, metal support beams narrowly missing you by a hair's width.

A yelp, a sound foreign to you, rips from your throat as something snags on your pant leg, tripping you over your own feet and sending you tumbling.

You're up again and rolling for cover just in time before a large chunk of concrete slams into the ground in the exact spot you had been mere seconds ago.

There's no time to catch your breath, no time to check behind you or look for your captors–you have to go.

And go you do, until you're unsure which way is left and right, up and down; lost in a maze of broken streets and the remnants of fallen structures.

Dust and other particle debris have created a dense fog over the wreckage, clouding even your enhanced vision and you once again find yourself grateful for the cloth that tethers you–protecting you, even if just temporarily, from the polluted air.

Methodically, you find the wherewithal to analyze and catalog every inch of your person. A small bit of relief soothes your frantic mind as you find no new injuries–only a burning in the older ones from the strain of being on your feet for so long.

You find an odd comfort in those, the ache in your thigh, the throb of your arm, they remind you that you're still here. That you're alive.

You let your weight drop heavy against the broken half wall behind you, tipping your head up towards the blocked-out sky and panting.

They're probably wondering where you are, if you're even alive- then it hits you,

What if you just.. didn't go back?

They wouldn't know if you were alive or dead, if you had run away or gotten trapped under the fallen scraps of cement.

This was the perfect opportunity. The perfect time to get up and shamble away. Find a way out of what remains of this city, out of this damn country–whichever one it was–and..

And what? Where would you go?

Viktória–your handler–had made it clear you weren't welcomed back when she left you to rot in enemy hands. She likely assumed you were dead anyway.

Even if you resented her, even if she'd been the cause of your suffering over the expanse of your life–twenty-two years and counting–; you still couldn't find it in yourself to.. hate her.

She was the one to tend to your wounds after a particularly bad session, to be the one to call off ones that went too far. The ones that pushed you to the point of blacking out.

The blare of a phone cuts off your internal monologue, causing you to flinch against the sudden spike in the beginnings of a budding migraine.

A phone? You didn't.. you don't have a phone. Have nothing more than the strap around your throat–the tracker around your throat.

It takes your overstimulated ears a prolonged moment to pinpoint the source, and when you find it your confusion only grows.

Slowly, you push yourself up to a half crawl, half walk, making your way for the incessant ring of a payphone.

Dirt-encrusted gloves grapple for the handset of the worn phone, other hand stabilizing yourself on the plastic lip of the box.

Not really expecting a response, and clueless on how the damned thing even survived the explosion, you hold the receiver to your ear, muttering a scratchy, "hello?"

"Myš." Comes the voice in the other line, sounding almost.. relieved?

Your muscles immediately tense up at the sound of your handlers' voice, fingers gripping the phone tightly.

"Vik." You force out, words stilted. "What do y'want?"

"You're still alive." She states the obvious and you know better than to read the surprise in her voice as anything more than it is. "Good."

You consider revisiting that shouting match from the day you'd been captured, feeling that warm anger bubbling just beneath your skin.

You don't.

"I see you've gotten well acquainted with your targets. They trust you, yes?"

"Not quite." Where the fuck is this going? She abandoned you, so why is she acting as if nothing happened?

"I trust you can rectify that."

"What do you want, Vik?"

"Predator-107, that is what you are," She starts, a familiar resolve in her tone. "And I am here to properly debrief your current ongoing assignment."

"So.. you meant for me to get caught?"

"That we did. Had to make it believable, make those men think they had the upper hand. Any injuries you sustained were a necessary sacrifice, to cement the idea that you were helpless."

The clinical, logic-based words sunk their claws deep into you–a certain calm drowning out your previously panicked thoughts. This was something you knew, could latch onto, this you could handle.

An assignment. You hadn't been abandoned after all.

"What do you need from me?"

"Intel. Gather it. We need every scrap of information you can dig up on these soldiers. I want every word they speak, every action they make, transcribed and sent to me."

"May I ask why?"

"You may not." Is her immediate response. "But I will tell you."

"These men who call themselves heroes, who claim to be the ones to make the enemy scared of the dark, have been.. causing problems." And problems required immediate pruning, that was lesson number one. "Tailing us. Getting far too close for comfort, one could say. She wants them gone, but we need to know them from the inside out first. All previous attempts have only encouraged them."

"And that's where I come in?"

"Yes, 107, that is where you come in.."

Looks like you wouldn't be making a run for it after all.

"We need you to collect data, do anything you can to gain their trust. Infiltrate and collect, that is your assignment."

"Got it." A pause, then you ask, "how did you know I'd be here anyway?"

"We didn't." Ah, so it was purely luck-based. Lovely. "We always have your location on hand, it wasn't difficult to devise a method of contact after that."

They were still tracking you? After all these years, you really shouldn't be surprised.

The note König had given back to weights heavily in your pocket, burning a hole into your thigh. You neglect to mention it.

"Received." You mutter. "I better get back before they think of me dead."

Or, worse, that you left.

"On the other side, 107." Then the line goes dead, not even static or a dial tone. Completely severed now that it had served its purpose.

Just like you'd be one day.

The trek to find the others is long and exhausting and you're a bit surprised to see them there, waiting for you. König pacing about while Price talks in a hushed voice to a man you'd never seen before.

You suppose this must be the fabled Nikolai you'd heard so much about. Namely by Gaz.

Soap is the first to spot you, perking up and elbowing Ghost who stands beside him.

The two of them turn to look at you in a synchronized flick of their eyes, Ghost muttering something that sounds like a call for attention under his breath.

"Mouse." Price says when you get within, what the other man probably assumes is, hearing distance.

"Ay." You breathe, regarding each of them with a tired glance and tilting your head in greeting towards the presumed Nikolai.

"Thought you'd bailed on us." Price continues.

You can do nothing but give a small shrug of your shoulders, grunting. "Not like I got anywhere else to go."

You catch König's eyes doing a quick once over of your worn body, searching for any new injuries. When he comes up empty he gives you a brief nod.

"This is the new one, then?" Nikolai asks. The familiar, distinct Russian accent that tinged his words freezes you where you stand.

You drag your gaze back up to him, forcing the rigidness out of your body one muscle at a time.

"Mouse." You say in lieu of a formal introduction.

"Nikolai." He parrots back. There's a tense moment where you two regard one another and you briefly consider him a possible spy to make sure you stay on task. Doing a mental catalog of all the people you've met before and coming up blank, to which you immediately drop the idea.

He looks at you like there's something recognizable in your voice–no matter how much effort you put in to keep it as neutral as possible.

You turn away first, walking over to take your place beside Gaz and your assigned babysitter, König. Price and Nikolai exchange a few more words before the captain waves a hand and turns, the man's words drowned out by your turbulent thoughts.

The flight is quick and uninterrupted, the subsequent landing much the same. When addressed you merely respond in clipped words and hums of acknowledgment, strangely enough, wanting nothing more than to return to your unofficial cell.

The debrief is postponed in favor of treating the few injuries sustained by the others and soon enough König is escorting you back to said room.

On direct orders himself to get checked out after securing you in your cell, König leaves. Locking the door behind him.

His absence isn't the drag it usually is and you immediately beeline for the tiny desk pushed up against the far right of the room, nestled into the corner of the same wall shared by the door.

Sitting down in the creaky chair you shove a hand into your pocket, gloved fingers curling around the flimsy paper you've looked over many times before.

You unfold it, reading the same unintelligible red once again. Just to be sure.

Viktória hadn't mentioned the note, so neither had you. Now that you thought about it, the paper was likely intentionally left blank. To make you assume the worst; make you think you'd been left behind–which you had.

The washed-out red, nearly pink now, is familiar. A color you've come to associate with your handlers' usual messages.

The handwriting, however, doesn't belong to her–far too jagged compared to the neat, curved lines you were used to.

___

One | Two | Three | Masterpost | Next

___

@cptg00s3 @ruthgrimxiao @20nerd04-blog @gloma08 @mikahrh @in-down @hauntedapplefarm @mello-life69 @unkn0wnd3ad @tayaisback @starre-eyes @ravage-reposts @suhmie @lazyrel

If you want to be added to the tag list, let me know in the comments!

[jommycham]

Spirit Hunter NG Radio Drama Bonus CD [Ultra Rough Translation]

[Spirit Doctor Yashiki Kazuo's Consultation Room]

An honest attempt at a translation of the bonus drama CD that came with the purchase of NG: Extreme Kaidanchi. Beware of some minor spoilers if you have not played through all the Spirit Hunter games.

Note: Only did this for fun, and I am not fluent in Japanese, so inaccuracies are expected.

Disclaimers:

This bonus CD is an edited version of Yashiki's Consultation Room that was originally broadcasted on the EXP channel. Some questions sent in by viewers have been altered. What occurs in the Consultation Room should be treated as a parallel universe to the main storyline— therefore all comments made in these sessions are NOT canon.

(btw, Yashiki's title here is "Kai Ika" (怪医家)— or literally "Strange Doctor," which is probably where the "Spirit Doctor" came from.)

✄--------------------------------------------

I did my best with my (admittedly) shoddy translation, and cleaned it up a bit to have it sound more coherent. Again, I do not speak or understand much Japanese, so despite my best attempts, portions can be wrong (though most of it should be reasonably correct). I will highlight those unsure sections accordingly. There are also very small parts I've omitted, either due to it being too difficult to understand (for me) or to smooth the flow of the translation. 🙇‍♀️Thank you very much for your understanding and putting up with my impulsive DM brain rot.

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

This CD features Yashiki and Mashita answering the audience's concerns/worries. Yashiki receives these burning questions through occult magazines. This time, however, Yashiki specifically calls Mashita in due to a request from OOPArts, much to Mashita's chagrin.

☕︎ Late for School Reader: This question is basically taken from EXP 4th Season #3 Voice Drama (where it's Yashiki, Moe, and Mashita) regarding the viewer who couldn't get up early.

Yashiki: Moe has answered this before, and I suggest rather than buying a cat, to take supplements, don't accumulate stress, go to bed early, get plenty of sleep, and have yourself plenty of coffee and sugar as soon as you wake up.

Mashita: Well, I guess that's the sort of advice you'd give. At my previous job, I'd take a shower or wash my face with cold water.

Yashiki: Even if someone else wakes me up, I still have to put in majority of the effort through the rest of the process.

➥The answers to this question are a lot more fleshed out in the actual livestream VD, such as the cat thing, the supplements being part of Mashita's answer, and Saya mention for the "someone else."

☕︎ Bug Hater Reader: Also a question taken from the above mentioned Voice Drama about a reader asking about how to handle cleaning the house while bugs are roaming during the summer.

Mashita: You're the type of person who doesn't hesitate to pick things up and put it in your bag. You (the reader) can also try hiring someone or contacting a cleaning company.

[Yashiki is concerned that Mashita also doesn't really like touching gross things and asks if he's okay.]

[Mashita explains that both of them are basically in the same line of work, so it's not like he hesitates either to touch things.]

Yashiki: That's true.

☕︎ Summer vacation is almost over, but my eldest daughter hasn't finished her homework. What should I do, Mr. Yashiki? What did you do with your homework during summer vacation?

Yashiki: The Kujo Family already finished their homework early into summer vacation. How about you, Mashita?

Mashita: Well, it's kind of a hassle, so I tried to finish it early. But I always remember not being able to finish my literature essay/book review until the last moment. It was the only part I didn't fully understand.

*TERROR SOUND EFFECT*

Yashiki: I loved reading books and I don't remember having difficulties with them. Shou doesn't do his in the first place. Moe and Tsukasa seem to be the types who get it done first thing. Suzu seems like she'd get it done unexpectedly early. Eita probably does it early, too. Ai seems the type to get it done and put the rest of her energy into her hobbies.

Mashita: If your parents are willing to help you, it might not be a bad idea to plan your hobbies and leisure activities for the latter half of your summer vacation and finish the homework by then.

Yashiki: And if you don't finish your homework...

*dramatic sound effect*

Yashiki: ... you'll die at dawn. Well, if you can imagine a curse like that/wouldn't be surprising if there was a curse like that.

Mashita: Tch, I wouldn't want that.

➥ The term Mashita uses here is "Dokusho Kanshoubun," and I am not familiar with the specifics of what summer homework consists of, so the closest thing I went with was a book review of sorts.

➥ I got kind of lost on his descriptions, so I honestly wasn't sure who was being described, so the details may be mixed up.

☕︎ I'm waking up in the middle of the night with the need to go to the bathroom. But there are times where I get scared and don't want to go. What should I do in times like these? If you have any tips or advice, please let me know!

Yashiki: Actually, come to think of it...

Mashita: Wait. Just turn on the lights, that's the answer.

Yashiki: What's the hurry, Mashita? I was just trying to...

Mashita: I'm trying to keep you from making an ill-advised comment.

Yashiki: Was it going to be that terrible?

Mashita: No doubt. With this, we're done with the question.

Mashita: Tch, who was the one who chose this question? Maybe they were half-asleep at the time. Well, off to the next one.

➥ I could not tell if Yashiki was asking if his answer was going to be that awful or he was saying "that's terrible (coming from Mashita)." I went with the former to be safe.

☕︎ One afternoon, I was taking the bus to the hospital, and the bus stopped at a bus stop. It was on a main street with only cars and a few pedestrians passing by, making it look quite deserted. The bus driver opened the doors and stared outside. I watched from the back seat as the driver repeatedly, with an impatient tone, asked someone if they were getting on or not. The driver gave up on asking and started driving off. As the bus drove away, I kept looking outside, but didn't see anyone at the bus stop or on the sidewalk of the main street. I wondered who the driver was talking to, or if he had talked to anyone in the first place.

I suddenly remembered this recently— what exactly happened, and how would you interpret it, Mr. Yashiki?

There's a section where Mashita goes into a short explanation in regards to this particular question. I am not sure if he is talking about the reader's question or their reply— but basically either this question has been submitted before (didn't make it into the actual Consultation segment) or it has been replied to, but the reply was not published. Therefore, the editorial department has requested this question be submitted/replied to again.

Yashiki: I remember this question. My original reply was that since it was the driver's actions, it's technically not a paranormal phenomenon.

Mashita: Well, if we can't be sure, we still need to interpret it from that angle (?). What do you think about the situation?

Yashiki: I think it might be someone from the future who came to your rescue, and thanks to them delaying the bus' departure, a major accident was avoided.

Mashita: You're still naive as ever, but worse. No matter who that person was, in the end, you're the one who created that anxiety. You shouldn't willingly go with their plans.

Yashiki: By interpreting the situation in a way that doesn't make me anxious, it allows me to avoid getting swallowed up by fear.

➥ The specific phrase Mashita uses is "お花畑," or "ohanabatake," which means a field of flowers. It seems to be used to describe someone who is carefree or blind.

➥ The answer sort of starts leaning into the more philosophical side towards the end? At least on the basis where my interpretation of "that person" is the imagined time traveler of Yashiki's explanation. If not, I'm terribly sorry.

☕︎ At my previous workplace, there was a tree (?) that always made a ringing noise at night. It was close to a residential area, with an apartment building and a small community center in its parking lot. For some reason, it doesn't bother me on my way to work, and I only hear it on the way home. It also doesn't bother me during early shifts, so I assume the noise only occurs at night. The sound is different every time, ranging from the metallic sound like that of gold or a sandstorm. On bad days the ringing in my ears causes headaches and anemia. I had heard from a friend that the place was haunted/visited by spirits; so I started wondering if it was a paranormal experience.

Yashiki: I answered this question at the time it was originally submitted, but it remains the same. I can't deny the possibility [of it being a paranormal event]. I'm pretty sure the advice given to you was to sing a song. There's also the option of keeping an omamori and listening to your favorite music through earphones. I don't know how effective it is, but as I have said previously— try to avoid feeling anxious as much as possible.

☕︎ I'm an idol who loves the occult, and I love reading about them. I want to consult Mr. Yashiki, as there have been many instances of paranormal sightings in H City. There are also rumors of new sightings circulating on message boards as of late. I'm a bit nervous about investigating it by myself, so can you please help me out? I wonder if the rumors are true or not...

Yashiki: I don't recommend investigating it, because there's a chance you could die.

Mashita: But I guess they can't just leave it be.

Yashiki: This is a difficult question...

Mashita: In any case, I would like to have some more information so I can do some research on this.

Yashiki: I'm sorry, but I'd appreciate it if you could send what you know to the editorial department. I recommend you never investigate matters like these alone.

Afterword

Yashiki: Alright.

Mashita: I think this is enough, about 10 minutes.

Yashiki: I’ll hand the audio recording to Moe later today.

Mashita: I'll leave it to you.

Yashiki: I hope this helps someone with their troubles.

Mashita: Perhaps.

Yashiki: Will you be willing to help out next time?

[Pause]

Mashita: ... Tch. Hm.

Yashiki: Please look after me./Thank you in advance.

➥ The phrase is "yoroshiku tanomu yo," which I've seen can be translated into "please look after —" or just used generally for requesting a favor. I was debating using "I'm counting on you" since it sort of made better sense in this context, but Yashiki ended it with "よ" which is much more casual/polite than "ぜ." I ended up opting for a more... gentler way of phrasing this? I genuinely didn’t know how to write it in a way that conveys how he spoke other than this ( ´_ゝ`).

Spirit Doctor Yashiki's Consultation Room: In addition to our regular consultations, we are also accepting everyday troubles. Please contact us here.

Thank you very much for sticking til the end here. ヾ(´ー`)ﾉ゛ I've been going through some pretty severe rot and this helped to alleviate it somewhat (despite how piss poor my efforts are). It's interesting to see different sides to characters even if it's not entirely canon.

As a lil bonus, I want to show those of you who haven't watched Nezuka Ryo's voice over for the entirety of DM1— Kawabata Yoshiaki's (Mashita's VA) introduction! The gap is... actually really cute in a way???

[sigmaleph]

it used to be the case that every time i tried to write something longform, i would go for a bit, the words flowed easily for a while, then eventually i hit a block, it's not obvious what happens next, it stops being immediately rewarding to sit down and write, and therefore i stop and abandon the project.

my last writing project was in some sense a test: can i just force myself past that feeling? Can I say 'ok, you have to write something today' and keep going past the point where it's easy through like, willpower? the answer, and i 100% wasn't expecting that when I started, was yes, that's a thing i can do. i have an existence proof of a complete draft of a 68k word story.

it's not amazing or anything. the character work is shoddy, the worldbuilding is thin, the pacing suffers horribly, the locations are barely there. probably other flaws i can't even notice yet. it needs thorough editing i am not really in the mood to give it now.

but still, i want to keep working on my weaknesses, so the theme of the next project, beyond 'ok you got all this practice now keep the momentum going', is going to be worldbuilding.

(why specifically that? well i don't exactly know how to improve my character work yet. I'm hoping raw hours writing characters helps along the way, if it doesn't i'll have to figure something else out. but i do have some idea how to work on my worldbuilding skills)

this one was very much not compatible with the last one; 'i need to sit down and figure out exactly how this aspect of the world works in a way that holds together past cursory examination' requires, well, time, and research, and thought dedicated to it. whereas actually pounding out some words regularly required telling myself 'i don't know just make something up on the spot and keep going'.

I don't know exactly how i'll fit it into my writing routine yet. worldbuilding is not necessarily amenable to a simple quantifiable words per day goal. i am more willing now to take good faith effort, to say 'ok i spent half an hour reading this book about ancient mediterranean trade networks and that was furthering my goal so i can mark that as my worldbuilding effort of the day' and trust that i am not procrastinating indefinitely, given that i've proven i can stop myself from procrastinating. but, y'know, do still have to keep myself somewhat on task

[mysticmellowlove]

yan streamer being delusional

a/n - bro i need someone to pick me up, tell me why i had three back to back assignments and it's the end of the semester. STOP PUTTING ALL THE ASSIGNMENTS AT THE END OF THE SEMESTER!!! also I'm getting there with the requests! swear to god I'll put more stuff out soon, i want to leave these stupid lab reports behind and get back to fucking submissive men.

warnings; gn reader pronouns, yandere behaviour, yandere streamer, yandere male, sub yandere, kinda a joke but not really, not edited at all

word count; 1544

If fifteen year old you were to look into the future you probably wouldn't have liked what you saw. As a freshly graduated student with a bachelor's degree the whole world expected you to be some professional business partner but here you were... modding for a popular twitch streamer.

In all honesty it wasn't that bad, and the environment around job hiring was insane at the moment anyway. You wouldn't have been able to find a job even if you tried. The streamer paid well enough, especially considering all you had to do was flag underhanded and inappropriate comments. It was lucrative... for someone who didn't have a home loan to pay off.

A sigh left your mouth as you watched the chat scroll by. You had been watching this guy before you even got a job underneath him, sometimes background noise was good while you were studying. His content had taken a turn from those quiet streams where he talked about daily life to what he was doing now though. Now he was much more popular and he played only the newest games.

Did you wish sometimes he would go back and check up on his old game profiles? Yes. Did you care enough to suggest that to him? No. Life moves on.

Your eyes trained on a particular comment, distasteful as usual, and you got rid of it. Flagging and banning the commenter so your streamer could look into it later.

"Thank you Sugar." Your lips pursed. The job pated well, the content was interesting and you didn't have to leave your home. The chat filled up with heart emojis and kissy face emojis. Some of them were even customised to look like your discord profile picture (designed by the other person who had seen it; the streamer himself).

There was just one downside, both the streamer and his chat were weirdly into you. Or you as a mod you guessed. Still, you didn't mind it, at least not usually. Human interaction was good, even if it was through a screen.

The rest of his stream went well, thanks to the effort of you and the other mods. As soon as the screen had closed you pushed your chair make and groaned as your stretched your muscles out. It was pretty late and you were kinda hungry. There was a little restaurant that stayed open later than usual on the ground floor of the apartment building you lived in but the quality was questionable.

After deciding that your stomach was going to eat itself you threw on a jacket and grabbed your wallet before leaving the apartment. It would be nice to get some furniture soon. University debt couldn't last forever right?

As soon as you left your apartment the sound of someone coming down the stairs made you turn your head. The exact second you looked at them though your head snapped back to your door. Eyes wide, mouth open... that was the streamer! Your mind ticked, did he live here! In this shoddy building with the rates too high for what it was? But he was... relatively well off. His room was decked out in those fancy led lights and he had a really comfy-looking chair. His PC set up was apparently wild from the small glimpses you had gotten and yet he lived here. In the same building as you did.

It was in that moment that something clicked in your mind, people had lives outside of the internet. A resolute nod made you finally leave your doorway and join him on the trek downstairs. Half the time on the way down you wondered in he thought you were trailing him, the other half was spent wondering if he was hungry too.

There was no way he knew it was you though. You were faceless online and even though you knew him there was no way anyone would peel that information from you.

"Hey, I like your sweater." Your face went white as you saw him stop at the bottom of the stairs, a boyish smile on his face. Your sweater... his merch. Your lips pressed into a thin line, the world was playing with you today. You cracked your knuckles, this could go two ways.

"Yeah, haha... nice stream tonight boss man." His eyes widened. Tonight was just supposed to be you getting off from work and then grabbing some food. You had an interview tomorrow and yet here you were revealing yourself to your employer.

"You're one of my mods! It's nice to meet you in person, I can't believe I live in the same building as one. You getting food as well?" You guessed it wasn't all bad. Talking with him like this reminded you of his old streams, when he had only a couple hundred viewers.

"Yeah, crazy right." You commented as the two of you made your way to the restaurant. Since it was so late at night there wasn't a line to get take away so you made it through in record time. In the restaurant and even on the way up you chatted with the streamer until he basically dropped you at your door.

Before you went inside he asked you one more question, which one of his mods were you. After you have him the answer and watched him walk away you went inside and began to eat. Today wasn't as bad as you thought after all.

His door slid shut with an audible click as he gently rested his food on the counter. What were the chances that he'd meet his favourite person of all time tonight? His beloved mod, Sugar. A short wheeze left his mouth as his smile spread into a wide grin.

He didn't know what it was about you but just getting to know you before he hired you made him feel giddy. You two were a match made in heaven. You had wit, jokes and a kind side as well. Basically you were everything he had ever wanted and more.

And you lived in the same building as he did.

Now he had an excuse to talk to you outside of the work you did for him, he'd be able to get to know you better. Maybe he'd even manage to make you fall in love with him just as he had for you. Just thinking about it made his heart flutter and his blood run hot. His cheeks grew warm as he forgot all about his late night dinner. Instead, he wobbled over to his couch and fell onto it.

Your profile picture had been of a stereotypical soft edit, a practical joke from your friends that you hadn't bothered to change. He was ashamed to admit that he had jerked off to the picture before, sometimes he even took your chats out of context and used them to fuel his fantasies.

But, you looked nothing like how he thought you would. He was expecting some sort of catfish who went onto discord to try and get middle-aged men to give them money (he hadn't minded that fantasy either, there was something so hot about not being able to freely do anything without your partner's permission.) but you were completely different.

You were a burnt-out graduate just like he was.

Soon he found his hand resting on the outside of his underwear, pretending it was your hand. Would you be soft and embody your online persona or would you be so pent up that you used him to your content? His hand tightened in response to his thoughts, sending a wave of pleasure right to his stomach.

A short groan left him as he closed his eyes and stroked. He pulled his clothes down and circled his tip, trying to keep his hips still as he envisioned you sitting before him.

He finally had a face to the name and now his imagination was running wild. Was your skin unblemished? Did you have tattoos, what was the colour of your underwear. His heart beat faster as he realised he'd finally be able to find all these things about you out. You lived on the floor below him, he could sneak in anytime he wanted!

Maybe he'd take some of your clothes, dress himself up in them and pretend that you were making him parade around as some sort of doll. Did you own any toys? He'd take those two and revel at the closeness. You had used them on yourself...

He swallowed, it was getting harder to breathe. His hand worked furiously on his cock, the sensation more punishing than pleasurable. Surely that was what you would do if you found out about all the dirty things he had thought of you doing to him.

As soon as he had started he found himself cumming. His mouth dropped open in a silent scream as the pleasure rocked through his whole body while he came down from his high. As soon as he was able to calm himself down he shut his eyes and grinned.

This was going to be fun.

[all-pacas]

the FANFIC DIRECTOR'S COMMENTARY: no mystery left

(because this is the one i was thinking about. bc reddit.)

OK, no idea how to do these things. Part of me is really tempted to pretend this is an actual director's commentary, you know, make a fake script, like here I am in a booth and we're doing a little watch along together. Right: Hi, I'm Helen. (We're doing the RP, ya'll)

So this was the first story I wrote for House. I think I did it in about two hours; most of it in one burst and then finishing it up. I have the bad habit of doing editing after posting, I'll just sit and re-read it until I spot errors or wording issues.

no mystery left alpacas

I kind of regret the title of this fanfic. It's called after a lyric from Portions for Foxes, which is kind of just my general Chase Soundtrack Song, which is why I chose it — except I kind of feel like I could have used it on something else, or picked something more fitting. But I don't hate the title either. I can never think of proper titles, I'm always stealing from songs. I've been trying to use as many Portions for Foxes lyrics as possible in my House fanfics.

"Who," House says grandly as Cuddy approaches, "ever heard of a diagnostics fellowship?" He's sitting in the hall by the elevators, ready to pounce. "Who ever heard of a diagnostics department?" she retorts distractedly. She slows. "You're hiring a fellow. Maybe even two, if you can find that many people who can stand you. This is a teaching hospital." House doesn't retort. She looks at him suspiciously and he twists his expression as if to suggest he has no idea what she's suspicious about. "Hire a fellow," she repeats. "That Treiber kid -"

This is a continuity error!! House actually did have fellows before Chase. This exchange really bothers me, but I've let it stand. I guess my excuse is that neither House or Cuddy say Chase will be your first fellow; House is just at a moment where he doesn't have any (also a continuity error, btw, Chase mentions meeting one in All In).

I… hadn't actually completed my watch of the show when I started this fanfic, which is where the error crept in. You'd think referencing S8-only Trier would imply I'd at least watched most of it, but no. I skipped ahead. I watched it coz the summary implied Chase Backstory.

He watches as she tries to enter before the doors close. A blond kid sticks out his arm to block them, flashes a thousand perfectly white teeth at her when she says thanks. Interesting.

I never have House refer to Chase by name in the story. This is meant to be the first time House sees (or hears of) him, and what he sees is Chase on a Charm Offensive towards Cuddy. Enough to pique his curiosity.

"I don't trust nurses." House keeps staring over Wilson's shoulder. The papers are too far away to read, but he can just make out the logo on the cover sheet. "Who does immigration paperwork in a hospital?" he asks.

This is still meant to be an accidental run-in. This is also shoddy immigration law, although I reference it in another fanfic too: as much as I like the idea Chase leveraged a 3 month holiday visa into a work visa, I'm pretty sure there is no way the department of immigration would let him. But I like how careless and sort of arrogant it seems. (very Rich Kid) Chase just assumes it'll all work out for him.

House flips a page in the rheumatology textbook he's examining. Trier tries not to fidget. "Classic power play," he blurts. "Read a book to show how little you care." House glances up.

Now House is actively researching Chase, probably because he also knows he's playing it fast and loose with his visa, and by implication is trying real hard to get a job by sucking up to Cuddy. I wish we'd had Trier more. I love everything about him. I love the idea that Chase just has a Nemesis in pathology. Like that one episode where he has to biopsy a dead baby? So funny if you imagine Trier is just off-camera and pissed Chase is in his department.

You're Dr. Thomas, aren't you?" the kid asks as the elevator starts to move. "Oh - I'm not a patient, don't worry." He smiles, sticks out his hand. "I'm interviewing for the surgical residency. Dr. Cuddy spoke highly of you. Rob Chase. Fantastic to meet like this - we're due to interview next week?" "Dr. Chase. Of course." Thomas clearly has no idea who the kid is but shakes his hand. The elevator dings. "Nice to meet you," the kid says, oozing charm, as Thomas exits. "Nice trick, Doogie," House says when the doors close. The kid jumps, noticing him for the first time. "Repetitive, though. Do you just hang out around the elevators waiting for your future bosses to climb aboard?"

I went back and forth on how Chase would introduce himself. We know his sister, at least, calls him Robbie, and even though the show itself is pretty consistent on calling him Robert, boy, can we agree that doesn't suit him? In my head, he started using his full name to "sound professional," but before House usually called himself Robbie or Rob. So he's not quite polished yet.

House is making a power play here, obviously. He's figured out Chase's game, and inserting himself into it just to let Chase know he's been caught: Chase is trying to "accidentally" charm his way into being hired. Also, something about him asking if Chase waits for his future bosses on elevators, House being on an elevator…

He turns on the kid, who stops short, uncertain. "Say," House asks, mock innocent. "Is my photo on the website?" The kid recites obediently: "You're Dr. House. Head of diagnostics. Double specialty in -"

Chase did research House, but didn't think he was a useful person to stalk. Trying to imply here that Chase really is being quite cynical and calculating about this — he isn't just targeting the specific folks he needs to hire him, he looked at every possibility and then chose who to seduce.

At House's office, he hesitates until House waves him inside. "The way I see it, Dr. Chase's only son could get a job in any hospital down undah he wanted, no matter how mediocre his grades."

Honestly, biggest argument against Chase being a lazy nepobaby, imo. He seriously could have done this in universe. Instead he moved across the world. This is one of the reasons I am so Interested in this idiot: he's so unambitious but he does wild things like this.

"Surgery and intensive care," he says. He turns to the counter behind him, picks up the resume he'd had Wilson procure. "You must love saving lives." "I do," he says, eyeing the resume and the copy of his father's book House had strategically placed under the manilla folder. "How sweet." "I like them when they're dying," the kid says, leaning forward. "When you have a bleed and ten seconds to find it. When they crash and you don't know why and you have less than a minute to fix the problem." "And that's why you're a perfect candidate for my fellowship?" House mocks. "You tell me. You're courting me, aren't you?" "Sudden attitude shift. Trying to appeal to the nearest authority figure by imitating his grizzled charm?"

I don't love this exchange. I think it's pretty decent banter, it flows nicely, but I do think Chase is too aggressive, even if I handwaved it with him doing in intentionally, trying to match House's energy. House revealing he's been tracking Chase's job hunt, and showing off Rowan's book, proves that he's interested in Chase and has been paying attention. So Chase notices this, and he's trying to imitate House.

I don't think (she says, having written it) that Chase's explanation for his specialties is necessarily true here. Or not the whole truth. He's just trying to say what he thinks House wants to hear. From his perspective, this dude he hasn't seen before just walked up to him and told him "I know everything about you, sit in my office, let's look at your resume." House mentioned Chase's immigration winging-it, that he's hoping to charm his way into a job. So Chase in turn is making his specialty sound sort of reckless and seat of his pants, too.

From House's perspective, he's seen this kid stroll into the hospital and attempt to manipulate

He skims the kid's file again. Looks up at him over the top of the folder, then tosses it down. "Have your dad give me a call." "What?" he blinks. "You want the job, I'd like a character reference." "I have references." "Yeah, but I'm such a fan of daddy. Shouldn't be a problem. Not like you fled England rather than live in his shadow or anything." "Australia." House waits. Finally the kid stands up. He offers his hand to House to shake. He doesn't take it. Rowan Chase calls the next morning.

This is the reason both the story and this commentary exists. It's a power play. House wants Chase to demean himself and do something he doesn't want to in order to prove he wants the job. Chase, meanwhile, realizes that House is pursuing him. So the real question is "will you do something you don't want to do because I asked you?" House has seen Chase is manipulative, and observant, but is he willing to do this?

Chase, meanwhile, knows House is interested in him and pursuing him. He doesn't know how much House has been tracking him, but clearly House wants him. This is enough to get Chase, naturally, to abandon his other plans to charm his way into a job: he might be able to get Thomas to hire him, but House is taking the initiative and showing an interest, which makes him way more valuable. (ie: daddy issues. It's always daddy issues.)

"I want to hire Bobby," House says, cornering Cuddy Friday morning.

[…]

"One's black and the other has milk and sugar. Did - did my father --" He blinks, losing his confidence. House takes the black coffee. Chase throws the other cup in the trash.

House calls him Bobby to mock him, obviously, but it's not until the last paragraph of the story the narration (and so, House) thinks of Chase by name. Now that Chase is in Diagnostics, he Exists.

Further useless headcanon director's notes:

I think Chase introduced himself as Robbie exactly once in New Jersey, and House heard, and it was also the last time he ever used that name.

For some reason, I feel like Chase drinks coffee black with sugar. So neither of those cups were ever going to be from him. He's blatantly sucking up here.

Finally, in an earlier scene:

"Do you even have an interview with Thomas, or were you planning on kissing his ass until you got one?" "I'll have it by the end of the week," the kid says defiantly. House smirks.

And in the last scene:

He passes her the manila folder. Cuddy skims it and looks disapproving. "Dr. Chase is the new surgical resident. Dr. Thomas specifically asked --"

I just liked this bit. Chase did end up getting the other job, he just picked the boss who wanted him over the one who didn't. From Dr. Thomas's brief appearance in S6, he seems to have Issues with Chase and Chase as an extension of House. I think it makes sense on its own, but it makes more sense with this context. He offers the kid a job, the kid rejects the job, four years later Cuddy makes Thomas hire him again, and Chase still pays more attention to House?? Lowkey Chase has as many enemies in the hospital as House and I think that's great.

[blueikeproductions]

The first episode tease goes a little more into why the Decepticons are back to being evil.

The long and short of it is they largely still think the Terrans are freaks, and they want to use the Emberstone “properly” to make new Transformers to help take over Earth,

Ergo Aftermath and Spitfire.

I don’t know why some people are confused by this, Shockwave viewed the Terrans as mutant creatures unfit to live. The Decepticons as a whole are inherently racist, cruel, battle hungry, and just plain mean. Most of them are quick to blow up non mechanical life without a second thought, and then blow up a mechanical life form for not bending to the Decepticon Empire.

It’s rather disappointing that it has to be more punctuated that the Decepticons are evil, that’s kinda their deal unless it’s Shattered Glass.

EarthSpark did a terrible job communicating how the Decepticons work, coupled with aborted plots and vague retcons on what I assume were partly Catt’s doing to make the Decepticons’ sympathetic. It’s the same problem as Cyberverse where they parted themselves on the back with Megatron, but explained his character on Twitter, not using it in show, and still showing us a twitchy and dangerous driven by pride, his own ego, and his inability to let the war stop. Megatron had to die twice so the Transformers could finally move on in Cyberverse.

Starscream meanwhile in EarthSpark was shown to be petty and vindictive against Megatron like he always is, he doesn’t have a high opinion of Autobots, humans or Terrans, and naturally after being locked up by GHOST, of COURSE the first thing he does is want to take over Earth after Mandroid is killed.

The Femjets willingly follow Mandroid and happily cause mindless destruction so they can get Energon and get revenge on Megatron. While they briefly contemplate being Autobots mostly for the Energon, they’re disgusted at the idea.

Shockwave wanted to kill everyone to get the Allspark, and he especially wanted to kill Megatron.

Like I don’t get it, the writing was terrible and the messaging was muddled, and while the Decepticons teeter tottered due to bad story editing, it was still pretty clear letting them out of containment was a bad idea. The second season is telling us why GHOST keeping them locked up was at least the better alternative.

I think the semi abrupt about face to a more traditional Autobots vs Decepticons conflict was potentially due to the bad ratings of the S1 drop. Hasbro probably saw the terrible performance, Hasbro/Paramount/Nick fired some creatives and forced a course correction for S2’s plot because normies and kids weren’t tuning into the contrived messaging. Skybound and now EarthSpark trying to go back to basics, with ES borrowing Animated’s Allspark Shard plot, are signs that Transformers (among other series) are continuing to shed the unpopular with normies, casuals and kids stereotypical Tumblr-IDW rhetoric.

The Decepticons being racist to the Terrans at least makes more sense from a simpler perspective. It’s like Mudbloods from Harry Potter, the Terrans aren’t pure Transformers because they aren’t native to Cybertron… Which likely doesn’t paint a pretty picture on how they feel about Velocitronians, Antillians and the like… The Decepticons basically are going “Slag you guys, we’re gonna use the Emberstone right! Stupid shoddy Protoforms made of dirt and fleshy bits.”

[literaticat]

Has the stigma against indie authors improved at all in the last decade or so?

Stigma from whom?

I think from the general reading public, probably they don't much know or care who a publisher is -- they care that the book is something they want to read. So they mostly care about the genre/content of the book itself and that it looks profesh, and to varying extents that the book is well-written, edited properly, yada yada. But an indie-published book might well be all those things, and I don't think that random readers would care (or even necessarily notice) at all, particularly in the e-book space.

From booksellers, there probably is some "stigma" -- but this is really not meant as stigma against ALL indie authors. Booksellers are well aware that there are great indie-pub authors doing their thing and I'd say by and large they have nothing against those people whatsoever. They just don't have much to do with the bookstore, because those highly successful indie authors are usually in the e-book space!

The "stigma" part comes from and is aimed toward a SMALL percentage of people with quite shoddy physical books who come in demanding that they be carried in-store.

(In my experience, if an author is VERY LOCAL to the store and will direct people to come in and buy it there, or if the topic of the book is very local-interest -- ie, a mystery novel set in our neighborhood, a beautiful nature book about our area, or a nice looking picture book about a specific regional holiday -- the store will happily carry copies on consignment. However, self-pubbed books can be difficult or impossible for us to order from wholesalers and if we CAN get them they are not returnable, which is problematic for carrying in the store -- that's why the consignment model exists, and there are only certain books, like those examples above, that we'd WANT to carry on consignment. So when Rando McGee who doesn't even live here comes in to yell at us about why we don't have a stack of their book -- WHICH HAPPENS -- that's not great.)

From agents and editors, well, I am certain we all know and like people who are killing it in the indie pub world, that's not an issue. Some of our clients indie pub some books and trade pub other books, that's not an issue.

I do think there still is a certain amount of snobbery but if you broke it down, actually, it wouldn't be toward the people who are making profesh looking books and really putting their all into it (RESPECT TO THEM!) -- it would be more toward people who are doing a sub-par job at it, just throwing half-baked things up on Amazon because they get bored of querying or don't want to edit. So again, that's definitely not ALL indie authors.

[mecachrome]

omg that video was amazing!! any chance of doing more like showcasing landoscar relationship development? I feel like we came so far since the start ahhh (also by no means any pressure I know this must be crazy hard work to do, just expressing how lovely that video was and I would eat up more!)

wahhh thanks anon i appreciate the kind words and your enjoyment of my very shoddy video work :3c 🧡 and i was actually thinking of making something like that before but then i was like well i already post too many self-indulgent gifsets / wrote that semi-primer and then there are like a million tiktok edits out there that probably do the job much better HLDFSKH but i will circle back to it because there really is sooo much material!

[qilingxiong]

I couldn't find the bts footage but here is a still shot of it. I think it made it in but at a sideways angle so it looked like a chest strike --- but it seems like throat strikes are dfs thing. Makes sense, though. Throats are a lot more disabling than punching the chest. Very economical.

alright, i made a quick shoddy gif of the moment and slowed it down slightly to observe:

so yeah this makes sense, it IS a throat strike— di feisheng was poisoning fang duobing with the gang qi— and that tracks for his character, but it only made it in at a weird angle. it was probably tricky because for this moment they were editing together on-location footage, which you can see with zeng shunxi on wires in that bts photo and the other clip you sent, and bluescreened studio footage for that bullet time shot (you can see how the lighting changes slightly there in contrast with the rest of the fight). it's a very cool sequence but unfortunately the sacrifice was missing the full view of fang duobing getting choked 😔 sad!

(you can see the 360° camera setup they were using for the latter here, this screencap is from a li lianhua vs shan gudao fight but they employed the technique for multiple scenes):

[tickle-bugs]

For the warmup prompts can you do Beetlejuice and Lydia (platonic! I do not ship them romantically in any way whatsoever) with the dialogue of “I bet I can get you to say my name.” If not, I totally understand!

So for people who haven’t seen/listened to the musical the vibe is completely different from the movie LMAO less “this is our weird uncle beetlejuice the family won’t talk to him he’s wanted by the feds and can’t come within 500 feet of the house” and more “cool but still weird cousin beetlejuice who collects strange rocks, is always in danger of being actively actively on fire, and is wayyy too into dark humor”. It’s a good show! If you like comedy musicals with a rock lean to the soundtrack, you’ll probably like it. It’s got a Little Shop of Horrors sensibility to it, I think. 

If anyone tags this as ship w/ Lydia and Beetlejuice I will crawl out of your screen like the girl from the ring and gnaw on your bones I’m so serious

AU where the plot of this show doesn’t take like. A week LMAO. Basically Lydia hasn’t said BJ’s name yet but she also hasn’t decided what to do with her dad yet. So they’re at an impasse. Lydia regularly goes to hang out in her haunted attic and lament because Delia won’t go up there, thus making it safe. Beetlejuice keeps doing Say My Name-style ad pitches to get Lydia to summon him properly but he’s not very good at it. 

EDIT: FORGOT THE BODY HORROR WARNING OOPS!! It’s very mild but just in case anyone needs it <;3

Full-Time Spectres

Lydia’s life is far from conventional, perfectly so, but she’s started to adapt to the strangeness in the walls of her house. She doesn’t have the one ghost she wants most of all, but she’s got three that do just fine for entertainment and scheming purposes. She’s gotten used to the cold spots, the occasional flicker of the lights, and Adam’s habit of walking through walls rather than doors--he figured out that he could and never wanted to stop. 

Some things she’ll never adjust to, though, like her attic being strewn with scraps of brutalized board games.

Monopoly’s been pinned to the wall with a knife, Ludo sits perfectly still on a shelf with suspicious-looking green liquid in the shot glasses, and a chess board hovers in the air, eternally aflame. It’s a massacre and she doesn’t know where half of these things came from. 

“What’s, uh…what’s happening here?” Lydia kicks the door shut behind her. The door creaks open. She kicks it closed again with a frown.

Adam looks up and squints at the door. His eyes dart around as if he can see the schematics of it and diagnose the problem from halfway across the room. Lydia allows herself a tiny smile. 

“Adam’s teaching me to play checkers.” Beetlejuice beams, which is unsettling in itself. 

“Well, I tried to reach him to play chess, then a few other things…it didn’t go well.” Adam pushes his glasses up his nose and surveys the board in front of them. He captures one of Beetlejuice’s pieces with a triumphant little ‘aha!’.

Beetlejuice takes a long, pensive look at the board. Very thin tendrils of smoke curl out of his ears as he tries to decide which piece to play. Adam, sweet Adam, goes to help him make an advantageous move, but Beetlejuice shushes him. 

“What are you doing?” Lydia sidles over to Barbara, who fumbles with an old lamp. She sets it down before she can shatter it. 

“Well, it was going to be a surprise but…” Barbara gestures excitedly to a small nook in the attic. She’s rearranged various boxes of her former belongings to build a shoddy sort of booth. A heavy, ugly floral curtain hangs precariously over the doorway. 

“It’s a dark corner!” Lydia gasps sarcastically. 

“No—well, yes, but it’s supposed to be a kind of mini dark room? I don’t know much about them but I know you’re always taking pictures.” Barbara shifts awkwardly.

Oh. Oh. 

Lydia cradles her camera in her hands, running her thumb along the outside. The pebbled texture is a kiss to her fingertips. If she concentrated hard enough, she can remember the feeling of her mom’s warm hands over her own, showing her how to hold the camera. 

“If you don’t like it—“ 

“You made this for me?” She whispers. She tries to swallow the lump in her throat. 

“Still workin’ on it, but yes.” Barbara gestures lamely. 

“You…didn’t have to do that.”

“Yeah, well, I’ve got nothing but time. Might as well use it right.” Barbara shrugs. Lydia bounces on her toes.

“I’ve still, um, gotta clear out all of our junk. Adam and I don’t need it anymore, not really, and you need room to breathe. I know it’s not much, but--”

Lydia crashes into Barbara for a hug. She’s icy to the touch, but her touch is the most comforting thing Lydia can imagine. Barbara pulls her in close, cradling the back of her head with her cool hands. There is no heartbeat in her chest, but Lydia can feel that it’s not empty.  

A memory of her mother prickles at the back of her mind. She pushes it down. 

“Do you want help?” Lydia pulls away and looks towards the dark room, ignoring the twinge of grief in her gut. She can see its potential around the edges.

“It’s your surprise! You can’t help with that!” Barbara gasps, affronted. 

The curtain falls heavily from the hooks and thumps into the ground. A plume of dust kicks up and Lydia coughs. 

“Okay. Maybe you can.” Barbara scratches her head. Together, she and Lydia hoist the heavy curtain back into precarious-looking hooks embedded in the wall. As they back away from it, silently begging it to stay in place, Beetlejuice sits up ramrod straight. 

“Adam, Barbara’s throwing away your coin collection,” Beetlejuice gasps and points over Adam’s shoulder.

“What? They’re vintage!” Adam whirls around. Beetlejuice moves a bunch of pieces around, making a bunch of captures, and eats a piece for good measure. He winks at Lydia. She fondly rolls her eyes. 

“You know I would never.” Barbara says. Adam deflates. She kisses his forehead. He grumbles a little but accepts it.

When Adam turns back to the board, Lydia has the express joy of watching him go through the five stages of grief in real time. He looks from Beetlejuice to the board in sheer despair. 

“Why do you keep eating the pieces?” Adam puts his head in his hands. 

“Because, Adam dearest, it makes you mad.” Beetlejuice pats his shoulder solemnly. Lydia snorts.

“Well, I’m officially out of games.” Adam pats his thighs and stands. He ambles over to Barbara and appraises the curtain. He puts his hands on his hips and starts muttering about supports and tracks. Lydia tries to follow along but her eyes near-instantly glaze over. 

“Sooooo, Lydia.” Beetlejuice slides over to her. “Have you given my offer any more thought?”

“You still haven’t given me a convincing argument. Calling yourself ‘the worst of the best’ isn’t exactly a glowing review.” Lydia wrinkles her nose. 

“These two like me!” Beetlejuice points at the Maitlands. Barbara gives a teasing ‘meh’ gesture just to see him splutter in offense. She laughs softly. 

“I’ll admit, I’m coming around on him.” Adam chuckles. 

“Thank you, Adam. Mwah.” Beetlejuice blows a kiss in his direction. Adam turns a little pink and goes back to working on the curtain. Barbara whispers something in his ear that makes him turn even pinker. 

“They like anyone. I’ve met cardboard with stronger opinions than them.” Lydia scoffs, then turns. “No offense.” 

Adam and Barbara both shrug. 

“Fair point. Counteroffer: you hate your dad, I hate your dad, let’s kill him.” Beetlejuice gives his most enthusiastic jazz hands. Lydia stares at him blankly. 

“Denied.” She pushes his hands out of the way. 

“On what grounds?”

“On the grounds that you suck. Your fate hinges on me and you can’t even get me to say your name. You spend all your time cheating at board games because you need me more than I need you. That’s pretty lame for a big, scary demon,” Lydia says mockingly, curling her fingers into claws. When Beetlejuice gives her the finger, she gives two right back with a smirk. 

“Lydia, be nice,” Barbara chides, goosing Lydia’s side. She yelps and smacks her hand away. 

Beetlejuice gasps. Lydia slowly meets his sparkling eyes. 

“No.” Lydia points at him. Beetlejuice smiles slowly, wicked and full of mischief. 

“I’ll kill you. I’ll bring you back to life just to kill you--”

Lydia steps back, Beetlejuice steps forward, and all hell breaks loose. Lydia springs over a pile of Maitland junk and ducks under Adam’s arm. She shoves him into Beetlejuice’s path.

Beetlejuice simply picks Adam up and deposits him elsewhere like a Maitland mannequin. He squeaks and leaps out of the way of their chase.  

The two of them circle each other around an unbuilt dining room table kit, Lydia just barely keeping out of arm’s reach. She bolts past a dilapidated spin-your-own-yarn kit and dives through Barbara’s legs to hide behind her. 

Beetlejuice stops and visibly considers the consequences of doing the same. Barbara gives him a withering look. He tries to circle around her, but Lydia’s excellent at moving her around like a meat shield. Beetlejuice visibly starts scheming. 

Barbara looks at Lydia, looks back at him, and slides out of the way. 

“Barbara!” Lydia screeches in outrage but there’s not enough time to screech and run. He grabs her and pulls her into a bear hug. 

“Thank youuuu, Babs!” Beetlejuice grins at her. She shakes her head fondly and honorably discharges herself from the battlefield. 

“Hey Lydia…I bet I can get you to say my name.” He cackles evilly. Lydia hisses at him, but damn it, she’s already giggling nervously. He swoops his hands over her stomach, wiggling his fingers but not quite touching. 

“B-Beetlejuice!” She squeaks and rocks up onto her toes in lieu of running. 

“That’s one!” He singsongs, finally touching down on her stomach. She folds into his hands—unwise, really—and curses Beetlejuice to the high heavens and below. 

“Think we should help her?” Adam leans over to Barbara. They both watch Lydia worm around in Beetlejuice’s arms, not making much of an escape attempt despite the volume of her threats. 

“Nah.” Barbara moves a crate of nearly-unused embroidery hoops out of the way with tender care. The curtain collapses again. Both Maitlands sigh. 

“Beetlejuice, you fucker!” Lydia growls, but quickly loses it to laughter. He’s doing this infuriating little pinchy-thing to her sides, one that makes her leap clear off the ground each time. She tosses her head back and cackles, her whole face scrunched with the force of it. 

God, she hasn’t laughed like this since…well, it’s been a while. She’d forgotten that she could. 

“Eh, that probably counts. One more!” Beetlejuice finds a deathly spot on her lower ribs and decides not to leave it alone. 

“Beeeeeeeeeeeee--AHHH!” 

“Hm, yeah. See, now we’re gonna have to start over.” Beetlejuice tasers her sides, right at that spot, and feigns disapproval. Lydia makes a noise at a pitch audible only to dogs and demons. 

Crunch. 

Lydia’s foot connects directly with his face in a frankly-stunning high kick. He drops her roughly. Something goes flying across the room and hits the wall with a quiet thump. Barbara gasps sharply and covers her mouth in shock. 

Beetlejuice touches his nose—or rather, the space where it used to be, and a thick hush falls over the attic. Everyone’s eyes drift to the nose, now fallen among jars of the most rancid-looking kombucha on the face of the earth. It twitches plaintively. 

He laughs, loud and boisterous. His lack-of-nose whistles as he does. Adam picks up the fallen nose and gags before tossing it to Lydia and wiping his hands on his shirt. 

“Got your nose,” Lydia giggles weakly, depositing it into Beetlejuice’s hand. 

“Nice shot.” Beetlejuice chuckles, uncomfortably nasally, and shoves his nose back into place with an awful crack. He takes a long, wheezing inhale and gives her a thumbs up. 

“So…” He sidles close to her, bringing back the jazz hands. 

“No.” 

“Yeah, that’s fair.” He sighs. 

“Lydia, are you alright?” Delia’s voice curls faintly up the rickety staircase. She climbs up, but not all the way—Lydia can tell by the shuffling of her awful shoes. 

Everyone freezes.

“Lydia?” 

She opens her mouth to answer Delia and Beetlejuice squeezes her sides. She yelps and whirls around, but he doesn’t even have the decency to feign innocence. He just does it again, waiting for the precise moment she goes to speak. 

“Y-Yeah, I’m o-okay.” Lydia wrestles with Beetlejuice’s hands, her voice shaking with barely-restrained giggles. 

“Oh god, please don’t make me come up there.” Delia’s ‘whisper’ is anything but. Beetlejuice snorts. 

“I’m fine! Just, uhm, doing spring cleaning.” Lydia calls back, stomping on Beetlejuice’s foot. He doesn’t even flinch. 

“Okay.” A long, heavy pause from Delia. 

“You can go now!” Lydia yells. Delia’s heels click quickly down the stairs, back towards the dreary living. 

“You’re insufferable,” Lydia hisses at Beetlejuice, punching his shoulder. He holds his hand over his heart and gives a grand, sweeping bow. When he stands up, he smacks his head against the dagger in the wall. Lydia snickers at him.

He turns around like a penguin, never one to do things normally, and makes a delighted noise at the pierced Monopoly board. He pulls the knife out of the wall and pokes his finger with it a few too many times, fascinated with the sharpness of it. 

He stretches, makes a bunch of vague measurement and aiming gestures, then lobs the knife straight upwards. It lodges into the ceiling with an enthusiastic ping! The blade warbles with the force of it.

Beetlejuice slaps the Monopoly board down on the floor and plops down in front of it. Adam bemoans the state of the attic ceiling as Barbara consoles him. 

“Wanna play?” Beetlejuice snaps his fingers and the board changes, shifting into black, whites, purples, and greens. Graveyard moss creeps along the edges of the board. Monopoly components spawn into existence on the board, appearing in puffs of fog and comically-quiet wails of the damned. 

“Sure.” Lydia sits opposite him. She pokes at some of the moss. It sprouts to meet her touch. 

“If you get stabbed, you lose?” Beetlejuice casts a cursory glance to the still-wobbling knife. The blade shifts slightly out of the ceiling. 

“Deal.” Lydia sticks her hand out to shake. Beetlejuice takes it with gusto. 

“You guys wanna play?” Lydia turns to the Maitlands. Barbara and Adam look at each other, communicating in that telepathic way of theirs. Barbara grins and leads Adam over to the board to sit. 

“I call thimble!” Adam reaches for it. Beetlejuice swats his hand. Adam reaches again. Beetlejuice swats him a little harder. 

“You can’t have the thimble. I’m the thimble.” Beetlejuice pinches it between his fingers. 

“Can I have the thimble?” Barbara leans close to Beetlejuice and looks up at him through her lashes. Lydia never would’ve guessed that a demon could blush, but sure enough, Beetlejuice’s face takes on the slightest bit of color. 

“I sense that I’m being manipulated.” He narrows his eyes. 

“Is it working?” Barbara smiles. 

“Yep.” He slaps the thimble into her hand. She passes it to Adam. He beams. Beetlejuice rolls his eyes but his gaze lingers on them for just a bit too long. 

“Well played, Babs. Well played.” Beetlejuice scoops up the racecar piece and frowns at it. Its tiny metal form melts and reconfigures into a small hearse. Satisfied, he places it right next to the cat piece—Lydia’s, of course. Barbara takes the top hat with pride. 

When Beetlejuice jumps Adam for his extra get out of jail free card—of which there are a suspicious amount in Beetlejuice’s version of the game—Lydia laughs and swipes a bit of Beetlejuice’s money. Adam’s hiccupy cackles are the backdrop for Barbara robbing the bank in broad daylight, taking as many bills from the tray as her heart desires. 

Lydia’s life is certainly very strange and painfully unusual, but she wouldn’t trade it for the world. She can only hope that her mom will love being part of the attic’s menagerie of ghosts and ghouls as much as she does.