#some of them feel pointy and dark gray and red or green and its way too much

[sadlynotthevoid]

One of those AU wiki reaction fics where the top quote on OG! Cale's page is:

"Maybe if i keep lying, I'll eventually trick myself too." - Cale Henituse, at age 15

or some other age idk

seems like good angst potential

I'm of the opinion that Og!Cale actually tries to be honest to himself as much as he can to avoid believing into his own act. But I can see him saying this refering to his own state. Like:

He's looking at his giant mirror in his bathroom, staring at his own reflection. His vision is too blurry to see himself clearly. He stares for a moment. A minute, ten minutes. Trying to force that paper pale and red colors to form into someone else's image. Someone else's memory. But—

He doesn't remember.

He doesn't remember how she looked like. How she smiled or what expressions she made. He barely remembers her voice. How did she use to say "I love you"? Did she used "sweetie" like other parents do? Or was something else?

He doesn't know.

The only memory he can bring out with that horrible white and more, more bloody red— He doesn't want to think on that.

It's okay.

"It's okay." He repeates to the mirror and himself.

"I'm fine." It sounds fake even to himself. That's fine too. He's a good actor, a better learner. He just has to say it until it sounds right. And then, well...

"Maybe if I keep lying, I'll eventually trick myself too."

He blinks. The water falls and the image now mirrors his own.

"Ah."

Turns out, there was really bloody red.

Is this angsty enough for you? To be honest, angst is easier to write for me, but I prefer low levels of angst (unless I'm in a Mood™) because sometimes it makes me a bit anxious. Like, "hurry up, someone help him/her/them. Ahhhhh. I don't want them to end bad :((((" sort of feeling.

Back to the wiki react thing, have you ever thought how strange it would be a TV Tropes page react fic? Some tropes are really not what you think, others are exactly what it says and others have just strange names.

Also, the random mix of information there. Sometimes you het a detailed description, sometimes it's just a "x character is this to y" and no more explanation.

I just think it would be fun.

[swan--writes]

BJ’s V-Day

In which BJ fucks with reader’s chocolate, and reader is Upset.

It’s still Valentine’s Day in some places, right? Shut up. It’s been a busy day.

Warnings: food, swan-typical language

It started at the coffee shop. (Of course it did.)

You ordered the same coffee that you always did, from the same barista you always saw, but something was different that day. The coffee was darker and colder, and more viscous than usual. It was almost sour, and the way it sloshed around in the paper cup made your stomach churn. When you frowned at the barista who had made it, he gave you a too-wide grin and an unnerving wink. (His teeth were so pointy, was that normal?) You scurried out of the shop and onto the street of your small Connecticut town. You had not been back since.

That was only the first of February.

Next came the florist’s. You had been to the florist every week since you moved to this small town. It was cozy enough that you didn’t feel pressured to place a massive order, and you preferred small business flowers to the grocery store selection. And you loved fresh flowers. (Everybody has their thing, this was yours.)

Now, you would swear that when you chose your bouquet, it was beautiful. The blooms were fresh, the leaves were perky, and the roses were vibrant.

By the time the florist had packaged it for you, it was a red and black mess right out of an early My Chemical Romance music video. Great for art. Kitchen counters? Not as much.

Of course, you were too nice to say anything. You simply had to contend with half-dead roses, wilting on their stems. They were all blackened edges, wrinkled petals, and falling leaves. The florist gave you an even wider grin than the barista had, and you walked out even faster than you had the coffee shop.

It was only day four.

After the roses – which had only lasted two days in your house before the blooms fell dead away (literally) – was the truffles. This was almost your breaking point.

All of the convenience store chocolate was discounted for Valentine’s Day, just five days away now. It was on your way home from work, and you couldn’t force yourself to just drive past it. So, in you went, and there you bought, and then you went home. You had gone through the self-checkout, but one of the cashiers kept giving you sidelong looks.

At the convenience store, you had tried to ignore them, but they were all you could think about when you bit into the first truffle. The chocolate shell was mostly fine, if a touch bitter. The filling was dust. (Literal, actual dust.)

So, like any rational person, you spent the next fifteen minutes gagging over the sink, then grabbed a knife. You sliced clean through every single truffle. Most of them crumbled from the pressure of your knife, and all of them were the same. Truffle after truffle – two full boxes – were all filled with dust.

Well, all but one.

In the center of the second box, there was one truffle that did not crumble. It was densely packed with a thick, old piece of paper. The paper felt leathery between your fingers when you picked it out of the chocolate shell, almost like parchment.

When you saw what was written on it, you all but stabbed your knife through it.

Bad coffee? Okay. Dead flowers? Fine. But nobody fucked with your chocolate and remained in your good graces.

The next five days only upped the ante.

Your trusty diner somehow dropped every single Valentine’s Day éclair on the floor as soon as you arrived. Your supervisor lost her box of valentines before she could hand them out at your office. Your set of Valentine’s decorated mason jars somehow fell from your entertainment center and shattered when you walked by. (A good four feet away from the table, because that made complete sense.) But the final straw came on day fourteen, first thing on Valentine’s Day. (Of course it did.)

When you opened the door to take the trash out, you felt it knock something over. It was mostly dark outside, and you didn’t fully see what it was until you brought it inside. Once you were under proper lighting, you saw that you were holding a black teddy bear about the size of your torso.

When you shook the bear to make sure there was nothing inside, however, the head immediately twisted off and flew away to who knows where? A foul-smelling green slime began oozing from the severed neck. You shrieked and dropped the bear. Slime and wet dirt spilled onto your kitchen floor.

“Oh my--no, y’know what? Fine,” you groused. “Fine! I give up.” You backed away from the decapitated bear and stomped through the kitchen to your living room.

Your house was old, and you could hear the creaking of the floorboards underneath the banging of your steps. You could hear the sizzle of whatever the slime was doing to your kitchen floor. And you could hear the wind that kicked up when you spoke the words from the parchment you had found in your discount truffle.

“Beetlejuice!”

Something in the house groaned – a low, ominous sound.

“Beetlejuice.”

A layer of fog covered your windows. (Several layers.) It crept in at your window corners with a draft, and a gray murk. It nipped at your ankles, and leapt at your wrists, and seemed to amplify the sizzling in your kitchen.

You swallowed. “Beetlejuice!”

Lightning flashed. You closed your eyes, but it didn’t do much good. The wind whipped around you. You tried to turn your face against it, but it was everywhere and coming from all sides. Without thinking, you covered your ears and stumbled back a step.

Then, all at once, it stopped.

When you opened your eyes, you saw your demon boyfriend leaning on the doorjamb with his back to you. Beetlejuice gave a low whistle when he saw the teddy bear he had left you eating a hole in your floorboards.

“Damn babes, you’re gonna have to get someone out here to fix that.”

Rather than humor him, you glared at his back. His suit jacket was barely holding together, and you could see a long, thin strip of his shirt through it. “The mason jars? Really? You know I loved those.”

Without moving his feet, Beetlejuice’s head turned fully around to face you, nose wrinkled in a grimace. “Those cheap old things? C’mon baby, you can find a hundred of them at literally any Purgatory yard sale.” His eyes lit up. “In fact–”

“Oh no, I’ve had enough of that place. And hey, what have you been doing in town this month anyway? You said you’d be tied up until March.”

“Oh I was, sweet cheeks.” Beetlejuice waggled his eyebrows at you. You walked up to him and slapped his arm. “Whoa, babes!” The force of it seemed to radiate through his entire body. (Corpse?) His knees wobbled, his hips jostled, and you could swear you heard rattling from somewhere near his ribcage. “Easy! I’ve been doing a lot of strenuous physical activity this month.”

“Oh yeah? Fucking with me almost every day has been strenuous?”

“Hey, you coulda just summoned me when I asked you to.”

“You didn’t ask, you ruined my bargain-bin chocolate.”

“Oh, forgive me.” You rolled your eyes at his tone.

Beetlejuice turned around on his feet, facing you with his shoulders. Then he groaned, reached up, and spun his head around. “Whoa!” he cried. His head rotated a few times on his neck before finally coming to a stop.

When he brought his hands down again, Beetlejuice was holding the oozing teddy bear’s head. He held it out to you.

“I’m sorry for fucking with you all month.”

You gave him a look, but melted when you saw the pink creeping through the roots of his otherwise green hair. “Fine,” you conceded. “But you owe me.” Against your best self-preserving judgment, you took the stuffed head from him. A few clumps of wet dirt fell from the bottom where it was still severed and onto the floor. You kissed its cheek anyway, and only winced a little from its coldness.

Beetlejuice took the head back, flung it back over his shoulder, wrapped his arms around you, and dipped you. You gave a very undignified squeak that you would never admit to later.

“Happy Valentine’s Day, babes,” he growled.

“Happ--mmf!”

.

.

please like and reblog if you are so moved

tags list: @missihart23 @ballerinafairyprincess @thewolfisapartofmysoul

if you would like to get on the tags list, please let me know!

[pl-panda]

To Marry a Vigilante: Part 4

MASTERLIST || First || Previous || Next

To Marry a Vigilante: Part 4

-----

The next day, Marinette woke up in her bed, still dressed. By the time her father brought her into her room, she was already asleep. The emotions finally caught up with her somewhere along the way. Remembering the end of the evening, her eyes immediately latched onto her finger, but the ring was not there. A mere second before a panic attack, she looked at the bedside table, where both the box and the ring rested. She let out a breath. She didn’t lose it. 

“Morning cupcake,” a voice startled her. “Are you okay?” Her father was looking through the repealed doors. 

“Yeah… Did yesterday really happen?”

“We are still at Wayne Manor and I seem to remember to have put the ring on the night table.” 

“I can’t believe he actually proposed!” Marinette jumped off the bed and started to pace around with a dreamy look on her face. “I mean I know we are married, but it was still so romantic! And in front of so many people! Oh, Papa! I’m so happy!” She fell back onto her bed. 

“I’m glad you’re happy, cupcake. Remember that your Maman and I will always be here for you.” His smile took a sadder shade. “I know you’re almost a grown-up with a job and all, but to us you will always be the same little girl that I used to fit in the palm of my hand.” 

“Don’t worry Papa. I won’t forget you and Maman.”

“Good. Now let’s go open the presents! Race you!” He ran out of her room and toward the big tree in the hall. Mari giggled at her father’s antics before following him; the ring shining on her finger. 

In the back, Tikki floated with a big smile on her face. Her chosen finally had a chance for some happiness. If only that ruddy alley cat did not run away with the miraculous. She could still feel Nooroo and Duusu active. She could wait one more day before telling Marinette though. The girl deserved a peaceful Christmas.

---------

By the time Marinette arrived by the tree, most of the people were already gathered. Dick was seated in a large armchair next to a pile of gifts. He was dressed in a full Santa Claus outfit, complete with a fake beard. The only reason she recognized him was because of his voice.

“Now that everyone’s here, who wants…” He started, but someone interrupted. 

“Before that, I need to apologize.” Johnathan Kent turned toward Marinette. “Yesterday, after you left, I made some unsavory accusations about you, for which I want to deeply apologize.” Just for a second, his eyes jumped toward Sabine. The girl noted that her mother was glaring at the older man. “I’m a simple man and this… secret world you all live in is strange for me. Please, accept my sincere apology.” 

“Oh… No problem Mr. Kent. To be honest I’m still getting used to it all myself.” She smiled at him. Marinette was not that oblivious not to guess what kind of accusations the older man had made. 

“With that out of the way, I think we can get started. Maybe let’s begin with the youngest?” Dick said, trying to imitate how the real Santa Claus would sound. Marinette would admit that he was close.

“Me! Me!” Mar’i started floating in the air until Jon pulled her gently to the ground. He really got into the ‘older brother’ role. 

“Yes, you, sweetheart.” 

Mar’i received several gifts from the pile. Marinette was surprised to see one from her family. Inside were several baked goods from their bakery. She didn’t remember her parents packing any, but maybe they made them here.

“Me next!” Jon was giddy. His pile of gifts was slightly smaller, but there was a box of sweets there too. 

After that, it was Marinette’s turn. She received probably even more than Mar’i. There were also gifts from her Nona, grandfather, uncle Wang, one without a name tag that she was pretty sure came from aunt Sandra, a giant box from Chloe, and a small one that she had no idea who sent her. It was wrapped with a paper with black cats that would look better somewhere around Halloween, but she was too distracted to question it. Damian was busy arguing with Jon about whether he would get the Kryptonite knuckle dusters or not. 

She started with the largest box that Chloé sent her. Inside, there was a giant chest filled to the brim with detective novels and a letter that she chose to read when she was alone. Next was the gift from her uncle, which turned out to be an intricately decorated stone bowl for mixing ingredients. 

Her grandfather got her a beautiful rolling pin made half from cherry wood and half from solidified resin. The resin was in dark green color that reminded her of Damian’s eyes. But Roland had no idea about that, did he…?

Many gifts were some nice fabrics, a gift card to Gabriel, which she was tempted to burn as soon as she got it, but out of politeness just put it back into the box for now. Finally, the gift from aunt Sandra contained a set of beautiful daggers, a Katana, and a hairpin that had a space to pour poison inside. 

Her parents gave her a new rope dart, this time with a sharp end that she could use in combat. The line it was attached to was made from titanium-carbon alloy that would be able to withstand point-pressure of at least two tonnes. The weapon itself was practical instead of good-looking. The blade was thick, looking a bit like a diamond. The edges were sharp and the tip very pointy. The grip of the weapon was wrapped in a red cord for a more comfortable grip. Mari thanked them both before pocketing the weapon into her bag for now. She would probably fashion a better place for it.

Finally, only one box remained. The mysterious cats. Mari was about to open it when Jon noted it and leaped at her. The bow came undone the moment he covered the small box with his body. Everyone waited, watching carefully what was going on.

Nothing happened.

“Tt. Kent? Mind explaining to us why you decided to smash my Angel’s gift?” Damian glared at him.

“Um… I might have accidentally scanned it. You don’t want to see what’s inside. I definitely don’t want to see what’s inside ever again,” he shuddered. 

“Show me,” Sabine demanded. She picked up the squashed box and opened the top before closing it. A small lighter made its way into her hand and before anyone knew better, it was aflame. Seeing people staring at her, she smiled. “Nothing to worry about. It was a terrible prank.” She wrapped the now-charred remains and some vaguely straight shape into the torn paper. 

“What was this Maman?”

“A very distasteful prank.”

Marinette looked at the shape in her mother’s hand and her blood suddenly ran cold. It was shaped like a knife. The knife.

“No… He knows?! He can’t know!” She panicked, but Damian quickly pulled her closer to him, immediately soothing her some. 

“No, Sweetie. That bastard thought he would appease you by offering a painting of a stabbed Ladybug.” Sabine’s expression was heralding God’s wrath.

Jason growled. “He is sick.”

Next to him, Tim muttered so that only Stephanie could hear him. “You gave B. a crowbar on your first Christmas back…” Superman heard it too, judging from his reaction. 

“So what now?”

“Well, I think it’s safe to say we won’t be coming back beyond ‘appearing’ at the airport when your class is scheduled to leave. I still can’t believe how incompetent your teacher must be to force you to travel with them.”

“I know it might sound stupid, but I think you will be safest in Gotham City.” Lois offered. 

Mari nodded sharply before cuddling into Damian. “Don’t worry, Angel. I will protect you.” He reassured her while hugging her close to his heart.

“I can protect myself.” She huffed but didn’t reject his hug. 

“That I don’t doubt.”

“There is a good chance he won’t be able to reach you in Gotham anyway. He is just one kid, which will make crossing the border much harder for him.” Stephanie pointed. 

“He has his daddy’s money. That will probably be enough.”

“Let’s hope not. I will send the warning to the border control that he might be trying to enter the country, but that’s the best I can do.” 

“Meanwhile I will go check if my guns are working…” Jason tried to leave, only for Tim to grab the back of his jacket and pull him back into place.

“There is no point worrying for now. Let’s just enjoy Christmas.” Sabine nodded for everyone to return to gifts. When no one was looking at her, she pulled Jon to the side and placed the knife paper on the stone floor. They didn’t speak, not to start another drama, but the boy understood. A short heat-vision later the knife was no more than a piece of smoking paper and molten steel.

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

A blonde boy walked toward the terminal. He was dressed in a light gray long-sleeved dress shirt underneath a dark gray vest. He also sported a black necktie, dark gray dress pants, and black dress shoes. His hair was combed back, adding to the impeccable look. The green eyes swept over the guards as they observed him closely. He presented the passport.

He noted that it took them longer than it should. His eyes fell on the wanted poster next to the guards. 

“I’m not my idiotic cousin if that’s what you’re worried about.”

“Ah… Um…” The guard that was speaking to him was clearly confused. 

“Really? Ugh! That idiot decided to play supervillain and suddenly I have to suffer for it! I am not Adrien Agreste.” He ruffled through his bag, not caring that several guards almost drew their weapons. He finally pulled out a magazine with him and Adrien standing side by side, modeling for Gabriel. When side by side, the difference in their styles was even more pronounced.

“Apologies, mister. You must understand thought…” The man started to back-track.

“Yeah yeah. Spare the prostrating.” He dismissed the guard and walked past the checkpoint. Once he was out of the hearing range, he grinned. “It’s not you that I want to see on the floor…” He whispered omniously. 

-----------

Marinette and Sabine arrived through a portal five minutes from the airport, with ten minutes to spare before class was scheduled to meet. The two did not carry any luggage so they would get past the customs much faster. An upside to having all your things brought through a magical portal the day before. 

The airport was buzzing with activity. Marinette and her mother quickly got past the checkpoint and met with Chloé, who awaited them eagerly. 

“Dupain-Cheng! How was Christmas with the Waynes?” She asked in a hushed voice, so the class didn’t hear her. 

“Well…” Mari grinned before showing the blonde her ring.

“What? Now that’s what I call a good Christmas gift.” 

“How did you like the belt?” Marinette asked. In response, Chloé showed her that she was already wearing it. It was white with some golden glitter around the elegant buckle. There was a barely visible MDC logo etched on the buckle. The designer worked on it for some time before repurposing it as a Christmas gift. She had to cut on the glitter decorations, but in the end, the more minimalistic design appealed to Chloé. 

Sabine watched the two girls talk. A year ago, the woman wouldn’t believe her eyes if Marinette and Chloé acted this friendly. Now though, they were cute. 

“Did you get my gift?” The blonde asked impatiently.

“Um… Yes. The books are great.” 

“What was under the books!” The girl whispered, hoping to avoid Sabine’s watchful eye and ear.

“What?” Marinette looked surprised and Chloé had to resist the urge to facepalm. 

“Honestly Dupain-Cheng! You’re ridiculous! Utterly ridiculous!”

And then the mood was broken when the rest of the class found them. 

“Good morning Marinette.” Madame Bustier greeted the girl. “Sabine.” 

The older woman did not return the greeting. “It’s Madame Cheng. We are here in the role of chaperones.” She almost seethes. “Let’s keep at least the illusion of professionalism.”

“Um… right. Moving on kids!” The slightly embarrassed teacher declared. 

“She is just as bad as Maribrat,” Alya muttered to Lila when she thought Sabine couldn’t hear her. The glare she received in response made it clear she made a mistake in her judgment.

After they got to the plane, people started to whisper when Chloé and Marinette didn’t join them in the economy class where they had their tickets. Instead, the two left for the first class. 

“Why aren’t they joining us!?”

“Because Chloé’s father paid for hers and I can afford mine.” Marinette normally would be against such blatant flaunting of wealth, but she couldn’t stop herself from rubbing it a bit into them that she earned the luxury. 

“She probably…” Kim suddenly lost his ability to speak when he was met eye-to-eye with Sabine Cheng. 

“Think carefully about what you want to say next.” 

He could almost see the flames of hell burning brightly behind her. “Um… she probably earned it?”

“Good boy.” 

“While I agree that Marinette earned it,” Caline started speaking and Sabine, Chloé, and the girl in question all had to resist the urge to groan, sensing there was more to that sentence. “I think it would be preferable if the girls joined the class for the duration of the flight. It would serve to strengthen the bonds between kids.” 

“And how exactly do you plan on fitting them when all the places in this place are bought out. Not to mention the price difference. Or maybe you thought money was not a problem?” Sabine asked, her voice dripping in sarcasm. 

Before Caline could answer, Lila decided to open her mouth. “Maybe Madame Bustier and you, madame could switch places with them. We know how hard our teacher worked and a bit of relaxation and comfort would do her good. You too could probably relax a bit from all the hard work in that Bakery.” 

Immediately after that, everyone started to agree and try to convince the chaperones to leave them alone. Sabine was about to protest when Caline spoke up. “Well, I think it would be acceptable, provided the girls agree.” She sent both a glare. 

Sabine’s blood boiled. She wasn’t sure if any normal girl would actually have the strength to stand up to a teacher in that position. Only the fact that Marinette looked completely unbothered stopped her from reacting. 

“Of course they won’t agree! They are too selfish!” Alya shouted. 

Some of the people on the plane started to stare at the group, with many gazes falling on Marinette and Chloé. 

The blonde scoffed, but her best friend grinned. “Sure.” She pulled her ticket and handed her to the teacher. “But we’re blocking the flight, so let’s move.”

Chloé handed hers to Sabine, smiling politely at the woman. “Marinette suspected this would end like that.” She whispered before taking a seat next to Dupain-Cheng. Both girls pulled out old-fashioned dictaphones and started recording what was going on with the class. Then Chloé gave Mari one of her detective novels and they started reading. 

Sabine shook her head. Her little girl had a plan and she would trust her. And after seeing Lila in action, she now had some idea how that liar worked. The way she manipulated people’s opinion reminded her in some ways of the assassin training she underwent. 

-----

The plane was already half-way to Gotham. Sabine did her best to ignore Caliné’s rambling about Marinette, switching between praising her and making her into the heart of all the problems with the class. If she didn’t know better, Sabine would think that the teacher had some sort of mental disorder. Beyond simple stupidity that is. 

Out of the blue, Caliné stopped rambling and Sabine saw her asleep, snoring lightly. 

“A strong sedative. It should give us at least an hour of peace.” A calm voice spoke from behind her. 

“Sandra.” Sabine greeted her sister politely, but without the usual cheerfulness. “Clever of you to choose here of all places to meet me. Don’t think that it will let you escape my wrath. You left that girl on the mercy of a monster.” 

“Cassandra was… I did regret what I did, but I couldn’t risk trying to reclaim her. Not until I was sure she could defend herself.” Sandra said, allowing emotions to enter her voice. Sabine could tell she was genuinely saddened by the situation. 

“You could’ve brought her to me. I would raise her along Marinette without a second thought. And you know that nobody would dare to come after me.” The older turned in her seat to glare at her sister. Two men at her side were both also sleeping, each with a small wound on their neck. They had complete privacy. 

“I… I’m sorry. By the time I managed to find her again, I… I was ashamed. I admit that it pained me to see what Cain did to her. But I couldn’t…”

“We will talk about it when I can scream at you properly.” Sabine cut her off. “For now I want to know what is so important you decided to show up personally, risking my wrath.”

“The boy has allies.” 

“Who?”

“I don’t know, but they are influential enough to shield him from many of my contacts.”

“Don’t worry. I’m sure you tried. As opposed to with your daughter.”

“I deserve it…” Sandra lowered her head. 

“Yes, you do.” Sabine huffed. 

“If I find the kid…” 

“He sent Mari the knife he stabbed Ladybug with. I have no idea how he got his sticky hands on it…” 

“You still have the bag, right?”

“Already waiting for me in Gotham.”

“I will try digging some more, but I’m getting blocked at each turn.”

“Meanwhile I will keep both our girls safe.”

“I got the picture of Talia by the way.” Lady Shiva allowed a smile to ghost her face. “I carry it framed and put it by my bed. She got a few copies too.” 

“Good. That might remind her not to trifle with us.” The sisters shared a laugh, but Sabine was still angry and it showed. She would give her sister a piece of her mind when the time came. 

-----------

A figure stood cloaked in shadows. The small screen showed a series of images. 

“Poison Ivy; Bane; Penguin; Riddler; Mr. Freeze; Two-Face; Scarecrow; Clayface; Falcone; Harley Quinn; Killer Croc; Joker…” 

“The previous Hawkmoth was a fool.” Another figure spoke from the shadows. Their voice was neither feminine nor masculine. “He stuck to a moral high ground, giving powers to untrained kids. Then again, he was fighting kids.” 

A small, butterfly-like creature floated in the air. “But that is precisely what the Butterfly Miraculous is supposed to do! Its powers will work best with the common people.” 

“Interesting.” The main figure grinned. “So my father wasn’t such a fool after all.” He laughed when another image appeared on the screen. “And I see that my trap is already working.”

Duusuu had to hide from fear. This was not the kind boy they knew. What could’ve happened to Chat Noir, the great kind Chat Noir that made him into… this.

-------

Masterlist // Next

[thejudgingtrash]

Invisible Strings (2,5k)

(Ruby Red!Percabeth AU and I hope tumblr doesn’t mess up things again 🙄 Not beta’d, this was just a random sprint for a scene)

“Mister Jackson!” yelled Mrs. Dodds as she was trying to chase after the taller student who unfortunately had longer legs, better stamina and much more urgency to get out of this situation. An unwelcoming combination and another chain of chaotic events that had unfolded.

“Come back at once!” Percy didn’t think to march back to that wretched woman that called herself a math teacher. Why now? Why me?, he cursed in his thoughts. Alas there was no time. He had to flee if he didn’t want everyone to witness what was about to unfold.

“Percy!” Grover huffed as his best friend had just shoved his backpack into his stomach. He was more than aware of Percy’s… condition, but that didn’t mean that Percy could just do what he wanted, whenever he wanted. That and he was much slower due to the cast around his foot and the tight pants from the mustard yellow school uniform.

But things took a different turn as Percy’s stomach turned and the feeling of the quick drop from a rollercoaster reappeared. 

“Argh!” Percy yelped. Nausea spread through his body like a mutated infection and he felt sick. Waves of heat followed, however, there was no fever. But it was no ordinary sickness that plagued him, no. It was much worse.

The two boys fled as best as they could, Grover with his crutches and Percy’s backpack in his hands and Percy who tried to not trip and turn invisible in front of the entire few confused students in the hallway that were watching. Not to mention a certain crazy teacher that was chasing after them.

“Quick! Into Mr. Brunner’s classroom! The room should be empty, the sixth graders are on a field trip,” Grover remembered and took a sharp turn with his best friend following. Percy ran into the classroom; possible students be damned if they were in there. Luckily, his best friend had been right. The room was unlocked and entirely empty. Chalk dust and smelly remains of unwashed teenagers stood in the air.

Grover barely sneaked into room as it happened right in front of him. The student would have never thought that he would see it happening live in front of him.

“Take care of my-” Percy was unable to finish his sentence. His vision blurred and it literally felt like someone had pulled the rug under him. His feet didn’t feel like they were touching the hard floor anymore.

Grover’s jaw dropped as Percy seemed to have been pulled up by an invisible hand and pulled back into nothingness with force. Perseus Jackson had disappeared and Grover had no idea where he was. Or rather when he was.

For Percy it felt like a minor earthquake. His vision shook and his feet found the ground again. Instead of the bright daylight in the old castle that usually was his school, it was the middle of the night. The tall windows showed the moon in all of its beauty. But now there was no school. It was quite literally an old castle. Instead of neon tubes amounted on the ceiling there were dozens of candles trying to bring light to the room. Instead of two dozen wooden desks where students normally sat around to at least pretend to learn something and a blackboard in front of them, there was only one mighty secretary in the middle of the room. It overflowed with scrolls and books, coins and other instruments. An abacus? Swords stacked on the walls? Who knew.

Percy grimaced at the thought of the carelessly displayed candles that were a fire hazard as he was alone in this room. It was good for him for the moment to have a source of light but with his clumsiness it would be a matter of minutes until he would accidentally knock something over and set everything ablaze. 

Bookshelf after bookshelf was stacked against the wall, some with carefully crafted decorations, many books written in Latin and therefore nearly unintelligible for Percy. Taking Latin in class and understanding Latin on a whim were two very different things. The dim light did the rest as it was simply not bright enough to snoop around further. Percy walked around the desk and looked at the other items on the table. A fancy quill, dark ink, a couple of envelopes, a tricorn hat and an unfinished letter. 

Beloved mother, the person wrote and didn’t bother to finish the correspondence. July 17th, 1764 was marked as the date in the upper corner. What a lousy child, Percy shook his head. His eyes moved to the left where a finished letter remained. It had been written by someone else.

To my dearest son Apollo, the first line was the most Percy could read as the cursive was way too embellished and elongated for him to decipher in such a short period of time. Apollo! His heart swelled. The friendly school ghost was still alive, not a ghost yet and thriving in 1764. Technically that meant Percy could try to sneak out and look out for him…

A laughter erupted outside the door and the doorknob turned. Percy was lucky he didn’t scream. He was ready to jump underneath the table for all he cared. He wasn’t in the mood of getting chased through a house in a different time period yet again. The young student was lucky. He was able to hear the muffled voice of a woman say, “Oh no! Not in here Zeus! I do not wish to defile your son’s study yet again!”

“Alright, my dear. Let us make sure my wife shall not interfere this time,” sighed Zeus. The woman’s laughter slightly echoed as they moved further away.

Percy frowned. Yikes, Apollo was right when he said his father was a rake. Then he shook his head and carefully approached the door. The steps got quieter. The student inhaled and with all of his courage he turned the doorknob. A cloud of perfumes and spices hit him straight in the face. Then the sour and foul smell of sweat, urine and other unpleasant things followed.

Percy sharpened his senses. He could hear music. String music to be exact and a pianoforte in the background. More laughter, heels stomping on the floor. Or where people dancing? Dancing to the string music? Conversations tried to dominate and drown out the music but it was an everlasting fight of audience and musicians. Who could be the loudest?

The hallway that Percy was used to was no longer covered in its ugly orange coating, instead a lovely violet was illuminated by dozens of candles that hung around in the walls and standing still in candle sockets. Gone were the lockers, the corridor was filled with pompous vases and statues, expensive artwork which included a painting of Apollo smirking at the observer. Percy cracked a grin and shook his head. That was Apollo to you.

“Wait!” pleaded a young woman as someone else climbed up the stairs. It was a tall man and from his stance and body language he seemed to be more than just displeased. The young woman fought her way up the stairs with the hoop skirt and layers upon layers of fabric. 

“Please wait! Let me explain!”

The man she seemed to hunt down, didn’t bother listening to her and it was a matter of mere seconds until Percy got exposed. Panic spread through his synapses and the muscle memory forced his feet to go. He took a turn around a corner and approached the first door. The room was already occupied as the door stood ajar.

If Percy didn’t know any better it was that Zeus guy and his mistress as a middle-aged man in the finest robes was kneeling on the floor and taking the pair of tights that covered his lover’s milky legs. Oh my god no, Percy thought and approached the next door in a haste. He opened it and was greeted again by an empty room to his relief.

But the steps only got louder and louder. Percy looked out for a hideout. There was nothing but a couple of sofas, another row of bookshelves and a contrabass in the room. Oh no, Percy thought as the steps approached. He looked to the windows, only to realize they had been covered by heavy looking curtains. Better than nothing. He ran to the window and thanked the gods for the broad windowsills. Percy was scrawny enough to fit onto them.

“It’s not what you think it is!” The woman tried to explain as the man stormed into the room. 

“Oh yeah?” The man huffed. He sounded familiar. Way too familiar. Percy decided to pull a little bit of the curtain aside. He saw the broad shoulders of the man and the emerald green tail coat he was wearing. The man had long black locks that were tied into a pony tail. A proud stance that prevented the golden heels on his feet from looking utterly ridiculous.

“Also, it would be improper for me to run after you. It should be you defending me, in case something happens,” the soft voice of the lady demanded.

“Me defending you?! Anna, did you forget you carry daggers in your corset and had a goddamn sword hidden underneath there?” The 18th century man pointed to the wide skirt.

“I don’t think-” He had crossed his arms and spun around in an annoyed whiff only for his eyes to widen and his face to pale. Percy behind the curtain pressed his hand against his mouth as he was also shocked. The man standing in front of the other woman, was him. Him as in Percy.

It was weird looking at yourself for the first time without a mirror in front of you. Was your forehead really that wide? You really needed to visit the saloon soon again. Whoever that other Percy was, he made a waving motion with his hands, signalizing “Hide!” to student Percy.

“What are you doing there? Could someone be spying on us?” this Anna lady asked. The candle light brightened up her face and Percy saw her light gray eyes for the very first time. Her heart shaped face made him speechless. His heart stopped beating for a second or two. The pointy nose and rosy cheeks, white teeth and the light eyebrows. The way she bit her lip as she was calculating the next move, the slight worry in her eyes. She didn’t look as ridiculous with that huge red wig as most other people would. The green dress hugged her curves despite the ridiculously large amounts of fabric surrounding her. She didn’t seem much older than he was, but the authority her voice carried made her seem that way.

“Nothing, nothing!” the other Percy clearly lied.

“Did you already forget?” Anna huffed as she tried to place her hands around her waist without ruining the beautiful dress. Her eyes were glued to his back. “I can tell when you’re telling a-”

She did not finish her sentence as she had been cut-off by the other Percy. Cut off by his lips, to be exact. The Percy behind the curtain looked shocked at the scene in front of him. 

The strange girl and his other self separated. “I’m…” The other Percy harrumphed and looked to the side. “I’m terribly sorry, I don’t know what overcame me and-”

“Oh, shut up!” the beautiful young woman barked, grabbed the other Percy by the ruffled collar and pulled him in for another kiss. The pair kissed as if there was no tomorrow left. The Percy on the other side of the room had never kissed a person in his life. The truth or dare kiss five years ago from Nancy Bobofit did not count. But as far as he could tell… he did a great job. At least Percy assumed he did as the woman grabbed his hair and didn’t seem to want him let go. Oh wow, the large hands found her tiny waist and Percy hoped that both of them remained steady on their feet. From the swaying it looked like they would fall flat to the ground.

Then the wicked feeling came back. The dizziness, the spots in his vision, the rumbling ground. Percy’s fingers clung to the windowsill as he felt being spewed into his right time line. If he had been sorting his thoughts right, he would have disturbed the wood shop class by Ms. Minerva. Percy closed his eyes and shoved the curtain aside. No screams or gasps, no puzzled students. He opened the sea green eyes again.

Oh yeah, the kids are on their field trip, he remembered. Ms. Minerva otherwise would have reprimanded him further to Mrs. Dodds pleasure. The flabbergasted student quickly left the room. Percy had to lie to janitor Argus about why he was still at school and fortunately managed to get away with his lame excuse of forgetting his smartphone in a classroom. Said smartphone he just pulled out of his pocket and pressed the first number in his call logs.

“Grover!” Percy exhaled. “I just spent my time in 1764, I saw an unfinished letter in Mr. Brunner’s classroom.”

“You are okay! Where are you? Mrs. Dodds wants to murder you!”

“Just got out of school, I’m on my way home.”

“Oh, thank goodness!” Grover sighed into the speaker which created a little bit of static. “You were gone for almost two hours! I shoved all of your stuff into Jason’s stomach who was not pleased with you ‘skipping school’ earlier.” 

“Shit,” Percy cursed. Two hours? How? It felt more like five minutes, did he truly spent that much time lingering around? He should have picked up Estelle from band practice an hour and a half ago. His mother would kill him.

“There’s something else I need to mention,” Percy began. “I didn’t just land there in 1764… I saw someone…”

“Who?” Grover asked.

“Myself,” Percy answered. “It was clearly me… Or a twin brother I didn’t know I had and I was…” Kissing a pretty girl. “Having an argument… with some weird girl that I didn’t know either. I shooed myself away for her not to notice me! Grover, what the hell is going on?!”

Percy imagined how Grover’s eyebrows rose and how he was fumbling with the zipper of his favorite jacket as he always used to do whenever he was trying to connect new information. Someone else yelled in the background. It sounded like Mrs. Underwood.

“We need to talk about this later and strategize, mom needs me downstairs,” proposed Grover. “Percy, you have to speak to your mother about the time traveling! She knows more about all of this, she has to! Who knows into what time period you’ll jump next! Pretty sure that London in the 1940s seems more than just dangerous with world war two going on. Or… I don’t know. Any other year when vaccines still weren’t a thing yet. Catching the plague or medieval herpes sounds horrific.”

Percy winced. Both at the thought of more uncontrolled time jumps and also at the thought of medieval herpes.

Grover was right. He needed to speak to his mother and confess. It wasn’t his annoying cousin Jason who had inherited this weird time traveler gene. 

It was him, Perseus Jackson, the poorest bastard one could imagine.

I tried and I blame you for everything @marisolsnose 🤷🏾‍♀️

[nagia-pronounced-neijia]

w(h)ip wednesday

It's a surprisingly quaint little farm, the kind of thing some traveller from the far-away west might paint into his little journal and tell all the Belgians and Austrians and French about.  Green hills rise up in a gentle roll, with occasional stones that must have tumbled down from God-knows-where, looking pushed up through the grass and the barley like crooked teeth.  Sheep meander among the gray rocks, bleating occasionally to each other and munching on the plants.

As they step past the low wooden fence, Trevor spots a goat chewing cud in a pen.  It stares disinterestedly at them, eyes gleaming with that peculiar mix of cunning and stupidity native to goats.  If it was ever a person, their mind seems long gone, he thinks, replaced by a goat's determination to be the biggest pain in the arse it possibly can.

They keep going and find a yard full of chickens.  Here chickens, there chickens, everywhere fucking chickens.  Mostly roosters, judging by the wattles, which he finds odd, and when Sypha steps too close to a hen, one of the stupid cockerels jumps at her.  His wings flutter, feathers flying further than he can, and he seems determined to murder her with talon, beak, or both.  He makes the most insane noises as he does it, like metal screaming.

It's instinct to try and put himself between her and something trying to hurt her.  Even something as small and stupid and surprisingly vicious as a pissed-off chicken.  He raises his arms to block the pecks and scratches, glad of the fur-and-leather vambraces, thick enough that he feels nothing.

"Calm the hell down," Trevor says, and puts a boot to the bird, which doesn't improve his disposition, exactly, but does manage to make him reconsider attacking.  "I'll do it again," Trevor warns him, and immediately feels like an idiot.

But the rooster subsides, sulky, glaring at them both with beady eyes.

And the cabin door swings open.  The woman who steps outside isn't quite pretty, but she's striking.  He thinks her nose might have been broken, once, and her hair falls loose around her shoulders in a riot of deep red that catches in the sun.

But it's her hands he's most interested in, and, just like every family book always said, they tell the real story to him immediately.

Her face may look youngish -- certainly only of middle years -- but her hands, too pale, have wrinkles and liver spots, a sure sign of a witch.  The deep, nearly black bruising that extends from the nail to the second knuckle of her littlest fingers, however, is the mark of a witch who has embraced questionable magic, if not outright reveled in the foulest and blackest of workings.

Beside him, Sypha moves to wave one arm.  "You must be Sârșe," she says, and he can hear that she's smiling.

The woman inclines her head.  "I am.  And who might you be?"

"I"m Sypha, and this is Trevor."  She jabs at him with an elbow.  He doesn't jab back, but mostly because he's trying to figure Sârșe out.

"Hello," he says, about a second after Sypha's pointy elbow makes contact a second time.

Sârșe watches them both.  Absolutely no emotion colors her face.  Even her eyes look flat and lifeless, no more interested in them as people than the goat had been.  "What have you come to find?"

He sighs.  "Oh, we found it already."

"Trevor," Sypha hisses.

But Trevor ignores her.  "Look, we know you're a witch.  Well, Sypha suspects.  But I know.  And I don't care about the whole," here, he makes a sort of quotation mark with the fingers of both hands, "'demons into chickens' thing.  Not sure anybody should be eating those, but it's not my business."

The very furthest corner of Sârșe's mouth curls up for about a second before smoothing back down.  Her gaze remains flat.  "And what is your business?"

"I'm not saying I expect you to turn them all back, mind, because I know that's not how it works.  But how many of your sheep used to be people?"

He's a little relieved when, rather than hotly deny it, Sârșe licks her lips.  "All of them," she says, calmly, like she doesn't care at all.

Well, that explains at least one of her fingers.  Hell, he's a little surprised it hasn't spread further.

Sypha's the one to step forward and ask, "Do you have any plans to stop?"

Sârșe stares between them for what feels like several minutes.  It's probably not even a whole minute of its own, but it sinks its teeth into him and drags.  Her eyes look like empty wells, endless and awful.

"No," she says, still very calm.

"Told you," he mutters to Sypha.  "When they're this far gone, they don't really listen to reason."

That draws Sârșe's attention.  She snaps her head to look at him.  Something even darker stirs in her dark eyes, moving and shifting, and they bite into him.  He doesn't look away, but he wants to, because eyes like those see, and the brain behind them judges, and men are always found wanting in a gaze like that.

Found wanting and then turned into farm animals.  And then potentially sold at fucking market day, to be slaughtered and eaten. Christ.

"Do you think yourself such a hero, Trevor Belmont?"`

He lets out a short bark of a laugh.  "I helped kill fucking Dracula, sure.  But what I was really doing was helping a man kill his own father.  What kind of hero is that?"

She repeats the question back at him, emphasizing it.  "What kind of hero is that, Trevor Belmont?"

"No kind at all," he replies.

And, for the first time, she smiles.  It's terrible and pitying.  "Will you kill fucking Sârșe?  And if you do, what will you really have done?"

Sypha fields this one.  "We'll have stopped animals that used to be people being sold and eaten by those who once knew them.  You have to admit that's grotesque."

"I admit no such thing.  They know who I am.  They know the consequence of crossing me.  They know what I bring to market day.  They choose to buy from me regardless.  Their business is no business of mine."

God, witch logic.  It's all perfectly factual, but frustratingly circular in a way he can't put words to.  A sort of pure, unfeeling truth that leaves no room for honesty or humanity.  Infuriating.

"Yeah, done with you, now," Trevor says, and draws the Vampire Killer.  Consecration is little good against witches except in their hands, but the Morningstar would be worse than useless.

Where's a rowan branch when you need one?  Not that there would be a single rowan tree on this property; they would have all died the first time she took a piss here.  Hell, if he were half the Belmont that Sypha thinks he is, he'd have a fucking pouch of salt on him, and he doesn't.  Their salt is in the wagon with their goddamned cooking supplies.

Sypha conjures a ring of fire, driving away all the chickens and other animals from the farm, and Sârșe's eyes widen for a moment.  She looks between them again, gaze darting from Sypha to Trevor, trying to determine if the Belmont or the fellow magician is the bigger threat.

She apparently decides on him, because she flings an arm out and tries to drag him toward her.

Trevor, more used to this sort of thing by now than he likes, drops forward.  He lets himself fall, and feels the grip of the spell break as his weight pulls him away from it.  His hands hit the ground first, and he pulls himself into a roll, coming up on one knee.

He lashes out with the whip, half-turning to improve its force as he lets his arm flow then jerks his wrist.  The line sings out, tip whistling, and the metal end bites into her hand.

Her finger flies away, landing with a sort of wet, useless noise in the dirt.

Sârșe doesn't even scream.  She just looks between her now maimed hand and the finger on the ground.

"That was very stupid," she says, somehow wholly unbothered by the fact that he just tore off part of her hand, a part she probably uses pretty often.  She raises the same hand, even as it bleeds, and makes a curling gesture with her remaining fingers.

Once again something grips him, trying to pull him closer.

When she raises her other hand, Sypha slides sideways, colliding with one of the wooden fences.  It cracks with the force she hits it at, splintering.

He's not thinking when he sends the whip out again.  It's anger that drives him to it, and this time, he gets her in one of those tainted, blackened littlest fingers, and Sârșe screams.  At first it's just a gurgling sound of pain, thin and high, like any woman might make when a man reached out and hurt her because he could.

But then it turns to something else.  Something thick and strange sounding, that scratches at his ears and the air around him.

"I name you worm, that crawls in the dust," Sârșe says.  "I name you dog, that licks his master's hand.  I name you cock, that lords himself over nothing.  I name you buck-goat, that ruts and farts, and I name you pig, that wallows in shit."

Absolutely no imagination on the woman.  He supposes whatever demon she serves, or made a deal with, or whatever, has probably long eaten it.  "People have really got to find worse things to call me."

Sârșe laughs.  "What a strange worry," she says casually.  "But needless.  You'll call yourself all those things, in the end, and worse."  And she raises both hands, and this time, she really does manage to pull him in, mostly because he lets her.

Once he's close, she smears her blood on his cheek and smiles that terrible, pitying, dark-eyed smile, and the empty wells of her eyes stare at him, judgmental, even as he sinks one of his knives into her throat.

He pays no attention to the witch's body after that.  Instead, he runs for Sypha.  She'd fallen among the splinters, and he doesn't even think about kneeling, about passing his hands over her to feel for blood, for anything sticking out or misplaced.

"Are you alright?  That was some hit."  And fuck him, his job is to be the one taking the hits.  He still hasn't forgiven himself for the scars on her upper arm from their fight with Dracula.

"I'm fine, I'm fine," she grumbles.  "Help me up."

He does, splaying one hand under her back and supporting her under the elbow with his other hand.  He hefts her up, taking most of her weight, and she stumbles a little as she rises.  She leans heavily against him, and he lets her, wrapping one arm loosely around her shoulders.  "You're sure you're alright?"

"I'm fine," she snaps, predictably irritated, and waves a hand at him.  "Leave it be."

"Alright, alright, if you say so.  And, well, she's dead.  If we're lucky, some of these people might start turning back.  Do we want to be here for that?"  They probably should.  He thinks his uncle would have.  His father certainly would have.

[itstittycitybaby]

Let’s Go wlw! (Lin Beifong x fem! reader)

 A/N: I promise this story is more serious than the title makes it out to be lmao. Re watching LOK and seeing Lin and her character makes me go awooga. This is my first LOK fic and I hope you guys enjoy it!

Warnings: some sad thoughts but it gets fluffy!

The light hurt. Its rays blinded you as you fell. The warmth kissed your skin but it sunk its teeth and that’s when it burned. When you dreamt of flying, this wasn’t what you had in mind. A flightless bird soaring through the clouds was the idea. Hell, that’s what everyone thought right? Smoke flew after you; the tendrils leaving your pure white dress. Your hair was burnt as you fell from the sky. You wondered if this was a punishment. Fate and the gods had to be laughing as their angel plummeted to her death. It was a cruel way to die, but it’s what you deserved right?

Katara had tried to help recover your memories. Once you recovered from crashing into the water and almost drowning, you had been brought to her. Apparently the sky had opened up and spat you out. The white dress you wore had been scavenged and hung on the wall next to your hospital bed. It looked weightless; it was strapless and every time you walked it flowed after you. A symbol was embroidered on it. A symbol from the heavens. Though, you couldn’t remember a single thing. Just what was I sent here for?

The fire crackled around the group. Korra and her friends set marshmallows over sticks, cooking them with its flames. The flames felt familiar somehow. Tenzin and his family were there, too. Tonight was a celebration. Amon had escaped but at least the city was safe. For now, anyway. There was a bad feeling in your gut, one you couldn’t shake away. Chief Beifong sat next to you. She looked pleased as she sat there with the rest of you. Her bending was back again thanks to Korra. Chief Beifong wasn’t one to seem pleased let alone happy, but tonight she seemed contempt. The thought made you chuckle. Her gray brow raised in your direction almost as if she were prompting you to speak your mind. For once, she seemed at peace. With herself and the people around you. A vast difference from the first time you met her. 

“Who are you and what are you doing here?” The room you sat in was cold and dark. The table was metal and your wrists were cuffed to it. An older woman stood before you. Her hair was gray and her face strong. Her green eyes were cold as her gaze sharpened into you. There were two small scars on the side of her face. God, she was pretty. Next to her was a man. He was peculiar;a light blue arrow facing downward on his forehead and a brown pointy beard on his chin. He wore orange robes with a red looking shaw pinned over it. He was bald and at first glance looked pretty scary. But compared to the woman’s cold eyes and hard demeanor, there was a soft gaze in his eyes. Patience and kindness radiated from him. “I-I don’t know,” you sputtered, trying not to shrink away from her gaze. You felt like an animal being prodded and examined at. The woman sighed and her lips set into a frown. She seemed tired from the dark circles around her eyes and the paleness of her skin. You had the urge to reach out and touch her. The urge was strong but you didn’t understand. You didn’t know this woman. “I’ll ask again and one more time,” she hissed. You jumped as her palms slammed down onto the table. The woman’s green eyes turned into slits as she glared at you. “Who are you?” You weren’t sure how long you’d been in this dangy dark room. For the past few days you’d been in a hospital bed scared out of your mind. The looks of disgust and the distrustful glares sent your way hurt. Your eyesight started to go blurry. A tear fell from your eye and you sniffled. Lip quivered and the lump in your throat wanted to claw its way out. “Chief Beifong,” a voice said softly. The man beside her finally spoke. The woman’s gaze seemed to soften ever so slightly at your distress. Only for a second before her face turned blank. It was better than a death glare though. “I-I don’t know who I am,” you replied softly. “I’m sorry if I hurt anyone. I don’t remember anything at all. Just t-the light.” They stared at you. The man seemed more concerned while the woman mulled over your answer. “You’re not supposed to be here, are you?” The man’s voice was careful, almost like he was afraid you’d break. You shook your head. Your fists clenched and unclenched as you tried steading yourself. “I think I was supposed to die.”

You felt like an outcast. Tenzin had his family, Korra had Tenzin and her friends. Bolin had Mako and Mako had Asami. It was a circle of one big family, one you didn’t feel a part of. Tenzin tried to make you feel welcome as you worked to recover your memories. You could only gather bits and pieces but never the full picture. Everytime you tried you’d hear chanting and this big bright light. One time, you did see thousands of eyes all different shapes and sizes staring back at you. You woke up in Tenzin’s arms with light shooting out of your body. You stopped trying after that.

Bolin and the kids had sticky marshmallow pieces on their lips. Chief Beifong looked disgusted at the sight. You quietly giggled to yourself. A ghost of a smirk was on her lips at your amusement. Chief Beifong was known for being stern and harsh. Her cold demeanor had struck you at first. After the interrogation, you stayed out of her way. Though, she seemed softer with you than the others. Sure, she was still cold and distant but the little things Chief Beifong did for you didn’t go unnoticed. The soft gazes and the patience she held for you spoke louder. Even though she wasn’t chief anymore it still felt wrong to address her by her first name. You felt like you hadn’t earned it yet. Names have power, especially Chief Beifong’s. Being a respected figure and a good bender helped with the power she held. But it was the way she stayed strong throughout the bad and the good that made you admire her. Chief Beifong didn’t take shit from anybody, not even Tenzin. But, she still cared. She still cared about the city and its people. The past few months had been insane because of Amon but you and Chief Beifong’s relationship seemed stronger. “A budding friendship,” Tenzin remarked one night after the kids were asleep. It was raining that night; you couldn’t sleep from the visions of eyes peering down at you. The both of you shared a pot of tea. If it was a friendship, then what were these new feelings?

Everyone was asleep. The grass crunched softly underneath your sandals as you stood outside. Korra threw a concerned glance at you before she went to bed. You were always timid and well reserved, but she could tell there was something going on. You shook her off and gave her a reassuring smile before you snuck out. The grass felt soft as you sat in it. Your white dress pooled around you and the gold arm bracelets on both of your arms glimmered in the moon. The quiet night felt peaceful and comforting. The feelings you had for the older woman seemed to be getting stronger. Your heart fluttered and your tongue became tied every time you saw Chief Beifong. Sometimes the two of you would run into each other and have a morning chat. But lately, you have been avoiding her. She didn’t seem to care;if she did you knew she would’ve said something by now. “I take it you couldn’t sleep.” Speak of the devil. Chief Beifong stood behind you. She looked tired; the dark bags under her eyes were more prominent now. She wore a white tank top and some black harem pants. It was weird to see Chief Beifong in something so casual. “Something like that,” you replied, softly. The grass spot beside you flattened as she sat down next to you. The pace of your heart quickened. She was sitting so close that her warmth radiated off of her. “Are you alright, Chief Beifong?” She scoffed, “How many times do I have to tell you? Call me Lin.” You froze; she sounded annoyed with you. Dread tore at your gut at the thought of her being upset with you. “Sorry L-lin,” you whispered, eyes down trying to avert her gaze. The woman beside you let out a sigh. “It’s alright. I shouldn’t have sounded so harsh.” Looking up at her, you tilted your head.

 The sight made your heart flutter. The moon’s soft ray’s shone lightly on her skin. Her green eyes twinkled as she sat there. You began to love the moon and its presence more than the sun and under it, Lin looked beautiful. Her eyes moved to the corner of her eye. Your cheeks flushed once she caught you staring. The corner of Lin’s lips quivered a bit, almost as if she were fighting a smile. “It’s alright,” you replied softly. Your hands were folded into your lap. Lin thought the dress always looked great on you but now did you look like an angel. It billowed and laid around you as you kneeled there. “I’m sorry if I offended you, Ch-, Lin,” you said sternly, correcting yourself. “It wasn’t my intention. I felt like I hadn’t earned the sentiment of calling you by your first name.” Lin’s brow arched, out of interest of surprise, she didn’t know. After everything the both of you and the rest of the group had been through, she had thought you knew. You were always soft spoken and rather timid, but she realized now you felt like an outcast. Even with Tenzin, who treated you like his own daughter. Lin had always appreciated your soft nature and your respect to everyone around you. But now, Lin finally understood. You felt just like her. An outcast, the black sheep.“Don’t apologize,” Lin said after collecting your thoughts, “You meant no harm. I appreciate the thought.” Your heart warmed at her words. Lin was a strong woman. She was confrontational which scared the shit out of you but you also admired her for her bravery. Her courage to protect those she cared about. Even now Lin still cared about Tenzin and his family after they split up. The tips of your brows furrowed in irritation and a surge of anger spread through you. The snide looks and sometimes remarks Pema gave Lin had always stood out to you. Lin seemed to brush them off with a stone cold look but you wondered if even she had her breaking points. Even shields break.

“Can I ask you something,” Lin asked as the two of you stared at the moon together. Normally people didn’t come to you for advice or ask anything personal about you but you agreed nonetheless. You were a bit surprised, in fact. “Every time someone asks about your past or the things that you know you dodge the question. You isolate yourself from the rest of the group and put everyone’s weight on your shoulders. Why?” Silence. Lin watched you from her peripheral view. Your brows furrowed together as you mulled over her question. Why? “I’m not sure,” you whispered. The sadness and the loss you felt was evident in your tone. “I don’t know who I am. I still don’t. I have hints and clues but...they’re not a solid answer.” Lin hummed, “So you’ve given up?” Her questions were ones you asked yourself. They taunted you at every corner and their laughter was loud. Sometimes it was too much. The silence. It felt like you had sunken into the depths of the cold water around Republic city again. Every answer tried to scream at you but they were muffled by the water. The slowness of it all made you tired as you tried dragging yourself out of it. “In a way I suppose. Last time I tried I almost hurt Tenzin,” you muttered. “After that I didn’t feel useful anymore. I can’t do anything but put up a force field. The least I can do is try to take on the weight others can’t carry.” 

Your brightness reminded Lin of an angel. Even with her harshness and her steel cutting words you always treated her kindly. An angel sent from heaven. She looked over when she heard you steady yourself from the ground. The tall and strong stance you held never wavered. “It was nice talking to you Lin,” you smiled softly at her. “I hope you can rest soon.” The underlying message made Lin feel calm. Even if she wasn’t strong enough to pull herself out of the powerful tides of her mind you’d be there watching over her. Just like a guardian angel. The thought made her chuckle. Her eyes widened at the soft feeling of your lips on her cheek. Lin’s pale cheeks turned pink and her heart pounded wildly. You smelt like roses and your hand was soft as you steadied yourself on her shoulder. A wave of disappointment washed over her once your soft lips pulled away from her cold cheek. The loving warmth you gave left her quickly and the cold swept over her instead. As quickly as you came, all your warmth left with it. She was up on her feet quickly. Before she could stop herself, her hands encircled your wrist. Lin’s hand tugged, making your figure turn to her. The concern in your eyes wavered as you looked into her strong gaze. The vulnerability in them was bare. You liked her. God, how did she not notice. Lin was sharp and observant but for some reason you fell through the cracks. You had hidden yourself from her view; the shadows of your affections were clever. They hid will and stayed that way. You shifted your feet at her stare. She snapped out of it and pulled you to her. The tips of your ears and cheeks burned red as her chest brushed against yours. Lin felt something she didn’t think she’d feel again. A want, the need to be surrounded by your presence. She ached for your comfort and your love. She wanted you. 

You gulped nervously. Lin’s piercing green eyes searched for something. But what was she searching for? Weren’t your intentions obvious? A little squeak left your lips as her pink ones touched yours. A huff of laughter escaped her lips. Lin was soft; her hands calloused from years of work and bending. You liked them. They were a bit tough but still soft like her. Your eyes fluttered shut as you placed her hands on your shoulder lightly. Lin’s hands were gentle as they cradled your face. Both of your hearts were pounding fast. You sighed, allowing Lin to swipe her tongue gently across yours. A soft smack left both of your lips once she pulled away. Lin smelt like leather and earth. You couldn’t get enough of it.

Lin pulled away quickly. You swallowed nervously and your heart sank. Did I do something wrong? As if reading your thoughts, Lin reached her hand to stroke your cheek. Her thumb brushed across it gently. You nuzzled her palm and gave it a soft kiss. She hummed. “Make sure to be ready by nine,” Lin said, a rare smile gracing her lips. Your brows furrowed, confusion evident on your face. “Do we have a mission?” She chuckled, “No we don’t. Tomorrow I’m taking you out to breakfast.” You lit up, a grin stretched across your face. “Alright,” you responded enthusiastically. Lin laughed, intertwining her hand with yours. Things started to look better. Finally, she had you.

[redevenir]

living alike (pt. i)

joshua x reader

wc : ~ 3800

a/n : It all started with @tearsofsyrup ‘s suggestion for the made-up title fic game and here i am... So thank you! I took the liberty to use the title again, hopefully it’s ok with you? Otherwise just tell me! I have said it before, but I think  shua and dark au... it is the thing, you know. Which is why I strongly encourage you to read paradigm shift (apocalypse au) as well as you hide; i’ll seek (both sexy titles by the way) and to check on these two writers’ other work because they’re excellent.

« I feel entirely dehumanised by the sun now and wish for fog, snow, rain, humanity. » from a letter to Edward Sackville-West, Virginia Woolf.

The soft clunks of water droping from the leaking sink behind you make your hair stand on end. You should be used to it by now, but you aren’t. Like everything else, it makes you uncomfortable. You wanted nothing more than to be buried deep in the swamps of the Administration. Hidden. Except you were a little frog on a desert, except everyone has seen you, and will remember your face. Hiding is no longer an option for you, the only way out is to disappear.

You take one last look at your ransacked room. You break a window for good measure, and head out, living the door open.

The soft thuds of rain against the cars’ glasses. Tight heart, empty lungs, he is the silent audience of an artificial show. A shadow wandering around the streets, the ghost of a ghost. Counting his footsteps. Counting the people on the sidewalk. Counting the cars. Counting the officials around the Prefecture. Thirty more steps to go. Joshua takes a deep breathe into his scarf. It seems no one is paying attention to him. Grey car, blue car. His hands are soaked, buried deep inside the pockets of his rain coat. Nothing can protect him from the summer rains. He takes a brief look above the ground, checks out the position of the sun, goes back to his feet. He needs to move faster. He cannot afford to be out during office hours. Twenty steps. He spots the door to his place and restrains himself from going faster. One excruciating step at a time. All around him, people move, people go from places to places. They listen to the speeches, they read the speeches, they learn the speeches, they believe the speeches. It is already hard for Joshua to breathe, let alone act. A small field mouse trapped in a gigantic machine. There is no room here for him, he feels it, fears because of it. Knows that in an instant everything could spin around him. Field mice are preys. There are so many predators around him, it is only a matter of time. Light turns green, the cars stop. He goes his way. Unsure, uneasy. Five steps. He reaches his door, doesn’t look back, and goes down the stair to his tiny underground studio.

Once he’s inside, finally, he lets out an exhale he didn’t notice he was holding. Double locks his door, puts the chair against it, and turns the light on. Here, underground, there is no sun light to warm up the air. He crosses the only room as he gets undressed, leaving his soggy coat for the clamminess of his quarter, and rummages through his clothes to find a change, replaying his stroll of the day. Nothing new. They are still agitated. Until they calm down there is no need to contact anyone, he decides. He reheats some unsavory stew for the fifth time this week, cleans up his plate, and crashes on the single bed, hoping for time to pass quickly.

He spends an agitated day, running after sleep, running from his thoughts. Even though he never sleeps well, there is always a part of him which foolishly hopes for a good rest. Remembering the kind of sleep he relished as kid, when he didn’t have to think about falling asleep. When laying down in bed was enough to dive deep in a warm unconsciousness, full of foolproof dreams. No matter where his drowsy mind takes him, he feels overwhelmed, on the edge of being assaulted. Faceless and formless assailants gathering in the dark to slaughter him.

Rising up, he picks a bottle of drinking water, ignores the remnants of the garbage stew, plans his wandering for tonight. He never follows the same path twice, in case someone might notice him. He puts on his parka which hasn’t dried, shivers when it brushes against his neck. There is nothing to do about it. Most of the time, Joshua tries to ignore his apartment. It is a disgusting place, filthy the minute he finishes to clean up. It is never warm, nor dry, nor hot. He never sees the light of day, never feels a breeze, for there are no windows down there. It is the best he can afford this close of the Great Palace. A miserable rat hole, nothing close to a nice burrow. It is the price to pay for a night cashier to get involved in bigger schemes. His eyes are priceless now that he has sold their sight. It is the only comfort he has found in doing so. The thrill of being useful – for whom? He has no right to know. But every morning after his shift, he goes out for his stroll, looking for anything out of the ordinary, and when there is, he reports it. One of them comes to the shop every week. Usually, though, Joshua tells nothing to his contact. Things do not change that often. But recently there has been movement. Why, he does not know, but they’ve been agitated, walking faster. Even though no one, of course, will tell him why, he knows something has happened. Something bad enough to be noticeable, bad enough that there has been no announcement on TV.

This is life now, he knows. Waiting and waiting and waiting for something which might never come. Joshua hesitates, then goes out without looking back. Maybe today, he’ll see something worth reporting. It’s raining as usual, but the sun is still up, somewhere behind the gray sky. The street lamps are not lighten yet. As usual, he goes right, then waits for the traffic lights to let him cross. He could not live closer to the supermarket, yet the path still bothers him – the ugliness of the streets, the noises of the city, the sickening smell of corruption and silent violence. He goes his way to the store, spends his night registering meaningless shop lists for night owls craving sugar or salt. His curved lips draw an empty smile to every customer while his mind goes through various scenarios of what might bother the authorities. He has no clue. What could indeed bother them? He is as ignorant when his shift ends as he was when it began. It is not a life. He could find out more, if he were a bit more audacious. But any step out of his supposed way is a risk he might pay with his life. Maybe, walking around the Palace’s streets is enough for now.

He puts his hands deeper in his pockets and waits for the lights to turn green. From the corner of his eyes, he notices a figure running in his direction. They storm before him, and throw themselves on the road. The sound of the car hitting your body is horrifying.

You spend an eternity drowning. Lungs full of mud, every living minute is a suffocation. The crushing weight of an undisturbed blackwater river is grinding your bones into mush, entangled between the roots of indifferent trees. You barely see the light, on the rare moments you emerge from your drowning, vision blurred by silt burning your eyes. You fight and you fight, and every new moon, every new tide brings you a new death.

In flashes you see faces, and you try to remember who pushed you into the river. A thin string of lost rooms and half forgotten conversations torments you, sending you in every direction. You lose yourself into a labyrinth of bewildered and electrifying memories. You try to scream for help but the dark water suffocates you more.

You cease to fight.

You let yourself flow, descending quietly in the abyss, a faint contentment when you touch the ground. An unusual corpse for shellfish and crustaceans to feast on. The soft pulse of your heart clawing his way out of your defeated chest. Far above you, you feel the lazy current going its way, ignoring you. There, cocooned in a silence older than a lifetime, it is easier for memories to come back to you. Faint lights above the school’s playground, burnt smells from the overcooked plum jam, a terrifying voice on the intercom freezing you to the core. You remember the pointy hat of the master, the piles of administrative sheets in his warm office, its walls painted of a deep, ancient red. You remember his whispers in your ears, which you tried so hard to ignore. His discreet threats disguised as indecent offers. Your remember going for his grocery shopping every four days, in the late hours of the quiet city. You remember knocking one of the piles over, and reading them against your best will. A pale breeze of rage brushes your cheek, unable to harm you.

You remember taking it with you, the vivid proof of the crime, on a hasty decision. You remember destroying your dorm. You remember the streets.

The moment you wake up you immediately regret it.

Every inch of your body is aching a thousand burn. You cannot open your eyes, the throb in your head makes you nauseous. Your throat is parched, and the feeble whine you manage to cry out is a pain in itself. Miles away you feel movement, in the distance you hear a voice filled with concerned, asking you words which you can’t separate from each other. It seems a worried litany of disquiet. Suddenly you feel cold and wet on you forehead, a divine relief to the pounding. The voice comes closer and takes your hand. You feel your hand. You have a hand. Panic rushes through your body like it never felt it, you try to move away, to get out, how can it touch you, what is touching you when you can’t even feel yourself?

Weirdly the voice seems to understand. It becomes quieter, soothing almost, ushering things you don’t understand, but it appeases you nonetheless. You feel it close to your hear, you feel its breathe against you. You’re sensitive and it has you tensed immediately, but it doesn’t last for long. A few seconds, the promise of safety. You pass out again.

The next time you wake up, everything is much clearer. You manage to open your eyes despite the soreness of your head. What you see when you do has you freezing up again, afraid you might have lost part of your sight. It is all black and gray. Gray ceiling above your head, a worrisome pattern of cracks. Gray walls, empty of any embellishment. Even the duvet cover is a dirty white. You try to straighten yourself, leaning on your elbow. It has you wincing but it is worth it. You take in your surrounding, even in the darkness of the unlit room. Someone has put your right leg into a splint of fortune, and did the same to your right elbow. You hold your breathe a minute, until you are assured to be alone. Nothing about it is familiar. There is a strong smell of menthol ointment that might come from you – the scent is overwhelming, and you cannot be sure. Your attempt to sit properly ends up worsening the piercing pain in your brain, and you resolve to wait until someone brings you water or food. Without any indication of the passing of time, you lose all notion of it, examining each clue of the room. You have never come here, and it makes you uneasy. You are facing the door and it reassures you a bit, whoever comes here will not have you at their mercy. At last, you hear the creaking of a key into its hole, which makes your heart racing. The door opens behind you in a squeak.

The man is tall, his shoulders wide as he bends a bit to come inside. The youth of his face strikes you the most. He might not be older than you are – and you are rare. The both of you belong to the last generation of children – it is also why, now that all of you are grown-ups, the officials are monitoring each and every one of you carefully. The last trace of unpredictability in the country. And, well, looking at the current situation, maybe they are right. It takes him a while to notice you, and you quietly observe him locking the door, putting a chair against it. Breathing, eyes closed, he relaxes before you. When he turns around, you see him immediately checking on the mattress – checking on you. And his face lightens up when he sees you facing him, rushing to you.

« Oh! You’re up! Are you okay? Do you need anything? Water? Hungry? Space? He chuckles. Take your time, he adds with a smile. » He exudes relief. Your throat hurts too much, so you mimic drinking and he’s on it, handing you a full glass of water. Then you point at him.

It is not going well. Your convalescence is endless. Your are weak and shattered to unclean pieces and every morning he comes back from work wondering if you will still be in this coma or if he’ll have to dispose of your body. In retrospect, it was a mistake, but even though he thinks it over again and again he does not see any other outcome. He would never have left you there to rot. What if you weren’t doomed to die? Suicide is forbidden by law. You are suffering enough as it is, despite Joshua’s best efforts to take care of you, he cannot even imagine the tortures the officials would have given you, had they been the ones to find you.

Yet here you are, at the end of a frustrating shift and a lousy stroll. Sitting up in his bed, watching him coming back. An unmatched joy floods through his body as he comes to you, taking a good look at your conscious face. A belligerent stranger, eyes empty and circled of mauve. Clearly distressed and looking weak. Joshua thinks that you being awake is a wonder, he remembers the poor bag of raggedy bones and torn flesh you were when you arrived. When he brought you to his basement. The clothes he has given you hide most of your skin, but he knows your body looks just like your face. A battlefield of bruises and scars and a timestamp to the day you met. For weeks, he has imagined what your first words would be, were you to wake up. What you would do, what your voice would sound like. He would fall asleep to the sound of your haunting rattles next to him, praying they wouldn’t stop before his wake. Nonetheless he has outdone himself. He has brought you back to life. You look bad, but you’re looking at him and he can’ t help but smile in satisfaction. When you point your finger at him, two things hit him.

You can’t talk and you haven’t lived with him for the past week. You know nothing. You don’t know him. He feels foolish to realize it just now. He sits down by your side, filling up an another glass for you. Ponders a bit – in your place, what would be his priorities ? But you’ve thrown yourself under a car and he never has, so he has no fucking clue.

« All right then I’m Joshua. I live here, obviously. Alone. Well, not anymore, since you’ve been there for a while now – the surprise in your eyes aggrieves him. I work at a supermarket down the grand avenue. I brought you here after you… You know. Wait, do you remember what happened to you? You answer him a simple nod. Okay, then, this car hit you, and, well, I brought you back here. You forget your soar throat but he doesn’t need to hear you to read the only word on your lips.

«Well… I know, I know, we are not supposed to interfere but… His eyes roam you, looking for all the mending he has done you. His voice is only a whisper when he finishes his sentence. How could I leave you there? » You clear your throat with pain. Clearly, the water did you do good. Joshua looks up eagerly, to see what you might say first.

«Who else knows I’m here? » Your words are a cold shower. You don’t trust him one bit. He tries to reassure himself, of course you don’t, you’ve just met him.

« Only this one guy – you scoff. I’m serious! There was barely anyone that day and, the driver died, I believe. I didn’t stay to check on him. But, turns out, something else happened that day and we managed to… slip through the cracks, I guess. »

«What? What happened? » He picks his words carefully.

« Someone bombed the Blue Palace. » You remain silent at first. Eyes closed, you take a deep breathe, then another one, until you look at him again, your facial expressions are still too knew you for him to read them. So he asks you. «What? What? »

« You’re saying someone fired a bomb on the Blue Palace? Quick, the shadow of a smile crosses your face. You close your eyes once again, licking your lips as if it’ll help you collect your thoughts. A bomb. On a palace. A bomb. On the exact day I had an accident? He hums in agreement. You lay back on the wall – he hadn’t even noticed how you had bent yourself closer to him, eager for news. Who did it? »

« I don’t know. »

«Wait, you’re saying someone attacked the blues and they haven’t been caught? »

« I don’t know, that’s what I’m saying. You may have not noticed yet, he gives a brief look around him. But I have no TV here. All I know is that they haven’t made any announcement about it. But if you ask me… » He bites his lips, unsure how much he can tell you yet. You give him a short moment, expecting him to go on. You let out a sigh when he doesn’t.

« Listen, Joshua – that’s it, right? From what I see, you could be sentenced to death as much as I do. I have spent hours in the dark, waiting for someone to show up. I don’t care if you did it, I don’t care if you work for the Palace, but please give me something. I need to know. » He comes closer to you.

« I think they have no idea who did it. They’ve been on the lookout for weeks. If they knew, there is no way someone could hide from them that long. He stays quiet, letting you register the information. And I didn’t do it, I swear. »

« I’ve been there... for weeks? » There is no use in lying to you but he hears the miserable realization in your tone and his heart aches too.

« Seven, to be precise. You’ve been really sick, you know. I patched you up as good as I could, and goodness! That DK guy knows a thing or two but even he can’t put a splint on your ribs. You say nothing. You don’t have to tell me everything, but I think it’s better to tell you right now. You… Said things when you were sick, he says. You work, hm, worked for the governor. You were his maid or something. You did his groceries. I have seen you before. » He is not asking.

« That’s right. » You ignore the elephant in the room that is the question on the tip of Joshua’s tongue. Maybe it is too soon. Maybe he doesn’t need to know now. Maybe your action was self-explanatory enough, and the details don’t matter. For today, Joshua decides he won’t push you.

« Who’s that guy you mentioned? » The way you don’t miss a word he says reassures Joshua – at least your head is fine.

« DK? He’s… Well, I don’t know much about him, I give him my reports. » You frown.

« What reports? You need to make report at a grocery shop? »

« I… Joshua shifts. It is going too fast to his liking. You should take it slow, and so should he. He wished to get to know you, and to make both of your comfortable before diving into such matters. He takes a deep breathe. I… Watch the Palace. Well, no, he stutters, I, hm, well, I go for walks around the Palace. Every day. Well, I work night shifts, so, after that, I go for walks. Every morning. And, hm, once a week, more or less, someone comes to the supermarket, and if I’ve seen something interesting I tell them. Usually it’s DK but sometimes someone else comes. I asked him for help when I saw how sick you were. » You chew the inside of your lips for a while and just when you’re about to speak again you close your mouth right away. This goes on for a few minutes, until you hum in acknowledgment. The silence between the two of you is only broken when Joshua hears your stomach grumble and jumps on his feet. « You should have said something! Of course you’re hungry! » He walks the few steps separating him from the cooking area of his quarter – he decided long ago he could not give the name kitchen to it. Kitchens were warm and full of promises. This was neither, just enough to eat some tasteless soups. He swears to himself he feels you watching him as he fumbles in his cupboard. When he turns back to ask if the soup is indeed fine for you, he notices the life back on your cheeks.

You eat dinner together for the first time. It is not quite lively but it is comforting and Joshua pretends he doesn’t notice the few quiet tears on your cheeks as you savor it. You fall asleep shortly after and as usual he lies down by your side, replaying his day.

No one can ever find out about you, he realizes. Not the officials, not his contact. He is playing a wild card which could backfire in so many wrong ways. The easiest way out would be to run away from the city, but it would involve so many people just to get you out, not to mention he has no idea of what he might find there. Joshua is dubious, but even he somehow believes the Palace’s tales. Maybe it is just a desert outside. Then what? What good would it do to them, to die of ignorance on foreign lands ? How much better would it be, to make all this vain efforts, when you might as well be sentenced to a much quicker death, without the discomfort of plotting an escape? Even if it is miserable, and he has even less room that before, Joshua still finds it better to sleep in his own bed. He is good at keeping secrets anyway.

Times passes slowly.

[ashintheairlikesnow]

Like Love: Dex

CW: Incredibly mentally messed up but still perfectly consensual and sweet spice! PG-13/Mild R spice levels, non-graphic. Referenced past abuse. Pet whump and some dehumanization (not during the spice).

Tagging the #FreeDex2020 Crew: @whumpiary, @iaminamoodymoodtoday, @whump-it, @neuro-whump, @spiffythespook, @redwingedwhump, @burtlederp, @brightside-blue, @pepperonyscience, 

See end of piece for a special note.

The only person who allows Dex his voice is a man he hates so deeply, and fully, that somewhere in the past twenty years it has begun to feel like love. 

Each visit, every moment alone was another break in the iron wall Dex had built between himself and the hell on earth he was living. 

Each time the man’s fingers skimmed his skin with expert care not to hurt him - and every time they even more expertly did hurt him, in exactly all the wrong and right ways - every direct command or murmured suggestion… 

Every soft you’re fine, Dex and gentle darling or good boy has built, in him, a solid foundation of feeling that started as loathing and, at some point, became something else. The man broke down the wall but had rebuilt something else in its place. 

He goes to the man by her design - with her allowance - at her command. 

Dex cannot lie to her; his ability to deceive her disappeared long ago, under the downward swing of her discipline and the endless days of blaring, featureless white that live in his memories from training. 

Dex drifts through his life in a dream he cannot wake from, but he jolted to awareness when she told him the man was in a hotel room nearby. So close, after five years apart.

“He asked about you. Do you want to see him, Dex?” Madam had asked, looking up at him from her seat at her desk in the home office, looking over some papers with her half-lens reading glasses perched on the end of her nose. 

Madam has gray starting to grow into the roots of her hair that she dyes away. Dex has gray, too - a scattering of pale hairs beginning to speckle through the dark. His is left as it is, to filter in a little more each year.

He was nineteen when she took him for her own. He was twenty-two the first time the man was alone with him and crooked his fingers, murmured, Come here, Dex, and he went. 

By twenty-four, he was lost.

When she asked, Dex had stood there staring at her, too aware of his idle fingers, the way his shirt felt shifting over his skin. He told himself absolutely not - the man deserved prison, or worse, had done terrible things. Dex had stood by and watched him do terrible things.

On occasion, Dex was the person he had done those terrible things to.

Still there was a part of him, the small tiny warm bit that he had wrapped deep inside of himself, held for his very own and away from her cold, all-seeing eyes, that had whispered he asked about me.

He had merely signed to her, in response to her question, that he would allow her to decide as always. He did not dare let the bit of him that did not belong to her show.

She wouldn’t like it, to know that there was a part of him that might belong to anyone else - the part that still felt anger, and loathing, and defiance, and the hate like love. He hid these things under a placid surface that no stone could disturb. The perfect pet, the picture of serenity. He could be fully trusted. He was so perfect for her that he was avoided even by Madam’s other Boys, because he would tell her anything she asked… anything, of course, but this one small thing.

I want to see him.

She had simply looked at him for a moment, in the silence, with a smile he could not read but did not like. He did not like any of her smiles, not even the ones that meant relief for him, or that the worst was over. It was only a matter of time before the worst came around again, after all. 

“Obedient as always, Dex. You have always been a particular favorite of his. I’ll make the arrangements.” She had paused, tapping her pen on the papers in front of her. 

Dex had tilted his head to see, unobtrusively. It was some kind of sketched-out jewelry design, perhaps - little metal circles with stones set into them, what looked like silvered thread or wire stringing them together.

She had tapped louder until his eyes jerked back to hers.

“That is not your business,” Karen Renford said coldly to the man she had kept kneeling at her feet for twenty years. There were days she spoke to him more like a friend than what he was - but in this moment she was as cold as ever. “He is your business now. I don’t care how you feel about him. You’ll go.”

He nodded, slowly, and it was only when he was back in his bedroom that he had allowed himself a smile - because she would have cared so much if she had known what Dex’s feeling actually was.

He was not going for her. Not this time.

“Good evening!” The clerk working behind the desk greets him as he enters the hotel, automatic doors sliding open on either side of him. If he were anything else, Dex thinks with no small hint of bitterness, they might have added sir.

He looks the part of a sir, after all - tailored black pants and a custom-made deep green sweater that the man had bought for Dex himself during a visit maybe ten years ago. 

Dex had kept it immaculately cared-for, and it had been wrapped and packed away while the man was in prison.

Five years. It has been five years since he has seen him except for over Karen Renford’s shoulder, with thick panes of bulletproof glass between them, in the prison the man was meant to stay in for life. The hate twists in him, only it’s not really hate any longer. 

Or if it is, then maybe Dex has lost track of which feeling is which.

He looks the part of a sir… but the small, brightly colored blue booklet he holds in one hand - and the band of green leather around his neck, dyed to perfectly match the color of the sweater - ensures he can’t pretend to be anything other than what he is. Not that Dex would even know where to begin feigning freedom he doesn’t have.

He walks up to the desk with a small, placid smile on his face, sets the duffel bag he carries in one hand down and the blue booklet on the counter of the desk, open to the page with a photo of his face. When he turns forty, he’ll need a new one - and Box Boys his age are so rare that he watches the clerk’s face move from a blank lack of recognition to bafflement to a slowly dawning understanding.

“Oh… oh… oh! You’re one of, of, those-… um… oh, okay. So you have your passport, um, do you… what name is the room under?”

Dex holds up one finger, and presses it against his own lips, then mouths, mute.

The clerk only stares at him.

Dex sighs and holds out his hand for the pen and pad of paper he can see on the other side of the desk, pointing at it politely. The clerk stares down at his own hands, blinking, then back up at Dex.

“I swear to God,” a second, female voice says from the office door hidden just to the side behind the desk. A woman with bright red hair leans slowly out, only her head visible. “He’s telling you he needs to write it, Brent. Oh my god. If you get us another customer complaint, I will murder you. And it will be slow and it will be messy, you cretin.”

“I’m pretty sure you get fired for murdering your coworkers,” The clerk - Brent, apparently - snaps, his face flaring red with embarrassment. “I’m, I’m sorry, sir- uh, I mean I’m sorry, pet… I haven’t dealt with-… just a second-… don’t tell your owner, okay?”

Dex’s smile doesn’t change - but it stiffens somewhat. He nods.

If it weren’t for the blue book and the collar around his neck, they would call him sir. Before he was ever old enough to be a sir, that possibility had been taken from him, and he knows no other way of living.

The clerk hands him the pen and paper, and Dex neatly writes the room number he was given over the phone, in the pointy, angular handwriting that he sometimes wonders about… did he write like this before they took his identity away? 

Was he a child, once, with pointy handwriting, struggling with the swirling, rounded shapes of cursive? It’s hard to think he ever was a child. That he hasn’t always been this.

He hands the pad back over the desk, to the clerk who looks at it, then up at him, and then turns to the computer. He doesn’t thank Dex, the common overly-sincere, totally false customer-service friendliness that Madam often bemoans as so uniquely pervasive in America. No, Dex is a pet and so the moment the name is given, he is dismissed until they have to speak to him again.

His hands do not tighten into fists. They stay neatly, calmly at his side. He has lived like this, after all, for his entire adult life, the only life he knows.

He is not quite human… except with the man he hates. Unless the last five years have changed them both too much. But Dex is fairly certain he has never been allowed to change at all, except for those ways the man himself is responsible for.

“Oh! Looks like your owner’s already checked you in. Cool, cool. Okay. All right. Okay, Earnshaw, you head right up, Mr. Heathcliff is waiting for you.” Dex blinks - once, twice - at the names. 

It’s only after a full second has passed that he realizes two things simultaneously… the clerk has no idea that those names are references to one of the most recognizable love stories ever written… and that if he used such blatant names, the man must have thought the clerk was the stupidest creature he’d ever had the misfortune to lay eyes on.

A smile twitches, just slightly, on Dex’s serene, nearly-expressionless face.

That, at least, he and the man he hates agree on.

He takes the keycard he is given and his passport back, ignoring the stamp that marks him as PET and prints his Box Boy number and barcode along the bottom edge… as if they weren’t already tattooed into his left wrist, like all the others. He’ll be forty soon and it won’t matter at all, he’ll still be marked PET on his passport until the day he dies.

His stomach starts to twist in knots as he walks across the lobby to the bank of elevators. The man is on the top floor, because of course he is - nothing less for him, even on the run, even having just escaped from a prison that had given him multiple life sentences.

He deserved those life sentences.

He deserves worse.

But still Dex’s stomach is in nervous, excited knots as he presses the number 14, notes absently the missing thirteenth floor between 12 and 14. Superstitious hotel owner, maybe. His heart is beating hard inside his chest, and he tells himself it’s fear… but it isn’t.

In five years, he has not seen the man he hates, and five years is long enough to admit to himself that he misses him. The man he hates - hated - gives him his voice back, will wait to hear it, bring it out patiently, and afterwards whisper into his ear I want to hear you again, darling.

Each time the elevator moves past a floor, the light changing number by number, Dex’s eyes jerk to it, as though he can make it happen faster simply by staring. Faster or slower, he doesn’t know which he wants it to be, because he can’t stay long.

Madam will want him back.

She’ll want him to report to her if there’s anything he sees that Madam doesn’t know about. Karen and the man have been friends since just before Dex came to live with her (before she broke you, he thinks, and then he locks that thought down as tightly as he can) and still Karen has plans, and thoughts, and a purpose she doesn’t always share.

She wants Dex to share that purpose with her.

He is here for his own purpose - and the man’s - not hers.

Fourteenth floor.

The elevator beeps once and he balances through the final drop as the elevator stabilizes.

He takes a deep breath as the doors open, trying to steady himself as he steps forward and out into the hall. Hotel carpet - swirling abstract geometrics in vibrant nonsense patterns of reds and yellows and blues, textured walls in a simple cream color. Mirrors hang across from the elevators, and Dex looks right at himself when he comes to a brief stop to check the sign to know which way to turn.

He checks one more time to ensure that his hair is combed just to the side, that his sweater hangs just right on him still - the way it did when the man first gave it to him - that he… looks good.

If they were any other people, he might be a man going to meet a lover.

But they are who they are, and he is a human pet sent to give his body as a welcome home present to a convicted murderer. They are a broken man who isn’t even legally considered a full citizen… and a man who tortured people for decades until he was finally caught.

And still he wants to look good for him, to live up to what he expects.

I was broken before you, Dex thinks. But I am broken for you, now.

He turns left into the hallway following the numbers on the doorways, feeling with each step a little dizzier, breathing more shallowly. The sound of his own pulse is deafening inside his mind, in his ears, at his wrists and neck. 

Dex floats down the hallway as the human wreckage he became a long time ago, intent on his purpose - not Madam’s purpose, his. He’s a man made of drifting boards from a shipwreck, floating boxes and crates. He is the twisted coil of rope that washes up along the coast of Madagascar months after a volcano erupts in Polynesia.

But the man is the coastline that wants the wreckage, just as it is.

He stops in front of the door - room 1432, and Dex wonders absently if there was ever a Box Boy given that number, before they had to keep adding digits.

Finally, he takes a deep breath and knocks - two long knocks, three short raps. Just as Madam said to.

When he hears steps, he takes in a breath and forgets to exhale. 

The doorknob turns and Dex stands there like any other man - except for the leather around his neck, except for the very foundations of him that were shattered and remade.

Except that he is not any other man, and neither is Wright Farling.

For the time Dex’s breath is held - the door swung open - he and Wright simply stare at each other.

Wright had always looked young for his age, but time, it seems, has caught up with him. The shift from forty - the last time Dex had seen him without the orange prison jumpsuit - and forty-five has taken its toll, etching new lines into a handsome face.

They’re smile lines, mostly - the same ones that had been forming before he was locked up. Wright was always smiling, always joking except for when he wasn’t, always ready to listen to another’s joke… even ready to laugh at Dex’s humor, when he signed his own wry commentary to the movies they watched or the music they might listen to.

There are other lines now - on his brow, around his mouth - that indicate not humor but an increase in ferocity.

“Dex, darling,” Wright says, and there’s an edge to his voice, something that brings a twist of some terrible, wonderful anticipation in Dex’s core. “I’ve been waiting for you.” 

His whitish-blond hair is whiter, the change in his easy former lifestyle to prison life and his exposure to the other inmates has left a harder set to his features… but the confidence is still there, the hint of winsome pleasantness that suffused his expression.

Dex drops the duffel bag at his own feet without thinking and holds up his hands to sign, I have been waiting, too.

The smile he receives in return is brighter than any he’s ever given him before. There was something genuine, there. Wright leans down to pick up Dex’s bag and tosses it behind him carelessly, and Wright Farling is never careless.

He looks like a man who has gone five years without something precious, and has suddenly remembered how important it really is, how much he had appreciated having it.

Dex knows his own face must look exactly the same.

I hate you so much, he had mouthed once in Wright’s arms. He has said it a thousand times, a thousand different ways, and now he can’t find it in him to say it at all.

Wright tilts his head, his eyes dropping from Dex’s to his mouth, taking in the first hints of lines at the corners. Dex smiles so rarely that laugh lines struggle to etch themselves into him. 

He smiles now, for Wright. What do you want me to do? He signs, and Wright grins.

An old song and dance, and they both know all the steps.

“Come,” Wright says in a low, soft voice, and crooks two fingers to beckon him forwards.

Dex moves to him and the door has barely closed behind them before Wright grabs him and slams his back into the wall, Dex huffing silent laughter and Wright not even bothering to keep his own laughter quiet as he kisses him with all the desperate intensity that five years of loneliness has built. 

Dex’s arms are around his waist, and his hands are up on either side of Dex’s face and the kiss is nearly painful but neither pulls back or away.

Wright is a drowning man and Dex is air - or the other way around, he is drowning and Wright is the air, or he is drowning in Wright… he doesn’t know, and he doesn’t care.

The press of lips, tongues sliding against each other, the pressure of Wright’s hips pushing hard against his - and Dex shifting so he can press back, making a low soft sound in his throat at the dim pleasure already beginning to coil into real heat, the way he comes to life immediately at his touch - it’s everything he’s been missing.

He missed the convicted murderer in his arms, a man who has cracked him apart a thousand different ways, but the man who wants to see the cracks.

“Dex, you wore the sweater,” Wright murmurs when they break apart, rocking his hips forwards until Dex’s own knees buckle just slightly. Wright’s fingertips slide down Dex’s face and to the sides of his neck, almost as though he would choke him. He lingers over the green leather there, the sign of Karen’s total control of him. “Did you do that for me?”

Dex nods, leaning forward just slightly to brush his nose against Wright’s. For you, he mouths, and after twenty years Wright reads his lips as well as he reads every other part of his body and mind.

“Did you miss me so much…?” Wright asks, and for a second there is something like a real vulnerability on his face. By the time Dex blinks, it’s gone, and back instead is the winsome smile. “Of course you did. Let me get this off you, darling.”

His fingers slide along to the back of the leather collar, and Dex tilts his chin up to make it easier for him, arches his back. One of Wright’s hands stays on the buckle and the other slides up into Dex’s short dark hair, twists around the strands. 

“Haven’t felt your hair in five years, either,” Wright says, more to himself than Dex.

Dex lets Wright pull his head back and back by the grip in his hair, breathing harder, jolts of pleasure straight down his body from the fingers that run along his scalp.

“Good boy,” Wright says in his ear, and Dex nearly moans. “Still such a good boy for me.”

Wright’s fingers deftly undo the buckle, making quick work of Karen’s symbol of ownership, and he drops it to the carpet with a soft thump, as if it’s nothing. As if Karen doesn’t control him at all.

Wright taking off his collar isn’t meant to mark him as free - it’s a reminder that he belongs to Wright in deeper ways, ways that cannot be marked with a strip of leather and a metal buckle.

His marrow belongs to Wright Farling - his bones, his nerves, his heartbeat, his mind.

Karen Renford only owns his skin. He gave everything else to Wright so long ago, and she has never noticed.

“That’s better.” Wright’s smile is nearly a smirk, and his hands slide down over Dex’s chest, down his sides to hook into the belt loops of his pants and pull their hips back together. “Much better. Will you speak for me, Dex?”

Once, there had been humiliation in Wright forcing him to speak, pushing him to an edge where his desperation, despair, or anger pushed him past the conditioning and pulled it out against his will.

That has changed, too.

Now, Dex only smiles at him - I am helpless for you, I will do anything you say, anything, forever - and nods. Wright tells him to speak and, despite twenty years of what they have made of him, he tries.

In a life surrounded by evil, Dex will choose the evil that wants to hear his voice.

“Wr-… Wright,” Dex says, hoarse and guttural. He has not spoken in more than five years, since the last time he saw Wright before he was caught at his evil, before they locked him away for it. It’s not a beautiful voice - it’s an ugly sound, and Dex knows it, but Wright never seems bothered at all. He still isn’t.

“There it is,” Wright breathes out, and Dex doesn’t know if he’s happy to hear the name or happy to know that none of his control is gone. Maybe both. “Come, darling. It’s been so long… I’m not letting you off the bed until you can’t leave it.“

What happens when Wright takes him by the arm is less like allowing Wright to lead him and far more like falling into his inevitable gravity, once more, down and down into the darkest parts of himself.

“God, I missed having you, Dex,” Wright says, and he pushes Dex hard in his chest until he falls onto his back on the soft, warm white comforter, hands already at the hem of the pretty green sweater to pull it up and over Dex’s head, mussing up the hair he’d combed so carefully. Dex wriggles to try and help him, Wright sitting on him straddling his hips and holding him down.

Not that he’d run. Not now, not ever again, not from Wright.

“Missed you, Wright,” Dex croaks out, forces from beyond the conditioning that has kept him mute with everyone else. “Missed me?”

Wright pauses, looking down at him with his head tilted, lips parted. There is some analysis behind the smile on his face, the way that his eyes always bare the deepest parts of Dex, pull them out to the light. “Do you need me to miss you, Dex? Do you need me, now?”

“Yes.”

Wright doesn’t answer the question Dex had asked him. Instead, he only watches him for a moment longer and then says, softly, “Beg for me.”

“Please.” In his hoarse, grinding voice, rough from disuse, he begs without hesitating. There is time to hesitate, to think too much, for Wright to tear him apart, later. For now, he runs his hands up over Wright’s thighs to his hips through the fabric of his soft pants, lets them settle there, feeling the heat coming from his skin, and bucks his own hips up to show Wright how ready he is. “Please. I need you, Wright.”

“Good, Dex. That’s very good,” Wright says, and his smile widens. He drops down to hold his weight on his hands, leaning down to kiss him again. “I love hearing you say my name. I’m gonna make you scream it.”

It is when Wright calls his name later, while buried deeply in Dex - when they are both so tangled in each other that Dex barely recognizes he is anything more than an extension of Wright at all - that Dex realizes that it isn’t that twenty years has made the hate feel like love.

It is that, after twenty years of this man’s voice whispering through his blood, his bones, his mind… what he feels for Wright is love.

ENDNOTE: Wright Farling belongs to @spiffythespook. He is used with permission, and Spiffy collaborated with me on Wright’s actions and dialogue!

[takerfoxx]

Blood Island Fanfic (pt. 1)

magic5ball submitted:

(Well, long story short I started writing a little headcanon about one of your OCs and like last time, it kinda spiraled into a full fledged fanfic. Really not sure what to do with this, so I figured why not post it here, if only to see how much I got right. Anyways, enjoy.)

                                                    .   .   .

Ever since she was little, she knew something was wrong with her. Mama always insisted otherwise, that she was fine the way she was, and the others never made a fuss about her, but she could tell from the way they looked at her they thought she was a freak. From the way her eyes glowed green in the dark to her too pointy teeth to her too long tail; dark grey with fins sprouting all over the sides, instead of the triangle fin at the tip of the other mermaid’s tails, there was nothing normal about her.

She had a twin, once. A twin she had eaten in the womb. The matriarch had insisted there was nothing odd about that- these things happened sometimes- but she knew the others whispered about it behind her back. And her twin wasn’t entirely gone, either. Sometimes, her twin’s ghost whispered in her ear. You’re a demon, she would hiss, a depraved monster who ate her own sister. Why don’t you eat your own mother while you’re at it?

That was the hunger. She could feel it, always, deep in her stomach, gnawing at the edges, crying, demanding FOOD. A demon, the matriarch insisted, but one that could be forced out. So it came she was fed only jellyfish, kelp, and sometimes, bitter concoctions that would make her cough up all the contents of her belly. Mama promised it would make her better, that she would be cured. Mostly, though, it made her feel weak, and confused. Why couldn’t she eat fish like the others? Yet even without food, as years passed she grew longer, her body stretched thinner and thinner with each passing day.

But worse was when the others came after Mama, blaming her for infidelity and other sins she was too little to understand. She would yell at them to stop, but even her own Mother demanded she stay out of things while the grown-ups screamed at each other.

It wasn’t all bad, at least. There was Mama, who sang lullabies and told stories of the Papa she never met. Mama who made her a belt of sea silk and shark teeth while assuring her that she was wonderful as she was. Mama, who always hugged her when she was scared and pulled her along when she was too exhausted to swim.

 There was also, at times, flotsam. She loved looking through the strange wooden debris as it bobbed across the surface of the ocean, heading for an unknown destination. It would always be covered in strange barnacles, snails, and other hard shelled things she would try to collect, only to forget about later. If she was lucky, there would be things clambering across the top, too: brown hairy creatures with no fins and long tails, scaly green things that licked the air with forked tongues, and the things Mama called BIRDS!, which came in so many beautiful shapes and colors. These discoveries would always lead into tales from Mama about the things that lived out of the water, which were always her favorites because they were always, so odd, so strange, so DIFFERENT from her life of following currents across the ocean, even if she was certain Mama made them up.

The end began when Mama had a second baby. A precious little merboy with inky black hair, just like hers. A new baby for Mama to sing lullabies and tell stories too. A new baby for Mama to adore. One without a demon inside them. From that day forward, she swam a little further away from Mama, so she didn’t think of eating him, too.

Then came the fateful day her pod discovered a sunken ship. One by one the mermaid’s lithe bodies slipped through a crack in the ship’s hull, entering dark rooms coated in grime. The pod huddled together, weary. But her? She was FASINATED. What creatures had made this thing? Where did they live they? Did they have tails, like them? Or have hands where their tails should be, like the fuzzy things she’d seen on the driftwood? What did they eat? What were their families like? An older mermaid shushed her up real quick, saying they were to get a few important items, then GO. She nodded, but did not stop staring at everything they came across, until at last they reached a room the Matriarch referred to as the ‘Captain’s Quarters’. The mermaids ransacked the place, grabbing any seemingly useful thing they came across and jamming them into makeshift bags made of discarded shark eggs. But while the other mermaids made themselves busy, she sensed something… off. At first she thought it was just her- that sunken ships always felt this way, but then she smelled something odd, something… tasty. The walls of the room shimmered, revealing the largest octopus she had ever seen. The beast unfurled its’ tentacles, forcing the terrified pod into a corner, save one terrified individual who, trapped in the vice grip of a meaty red tentacle, found herself being drawn towards the beast’s massive beaked mouth. But while the others stared terrified, with a burst of speed she didn’t even know she had, LUNGED at the befuddled cephalopod, gripped the tentacle holding her podmate, and.. bit down. Later, the others would recount how they had seen a ten year old start ripping chunks out of the giant octopus with her teeth and swallowing them whole until, bewildered by this turn of events, the would be-monster had fled into the ocean. For her part, she mostly remembered the taste: a chewy and meaty texture, satisfying to bite into, with a clean, savory flavor. Afterward, she’d felt a soft, warm sensation radiating from her belly. So THIS was what feeling full felt like!

Victory, however, was short lived. From that day forward the rest of the pod kept a great deal of space between her and them, even the mermaid she’d rescued. Despite this, the Matriarch monitored her relentlessly, ensuring she only ate jellyfish and kelp. It was strange, really: even as they starved her, her tail grew longer and longer, her body thinner and thinner until, from head to fin tip, she was a full foot longer than Mama.

Face it freak, her sister whispered, there’s no place for you here. Best head out before Mama ends up in that belly of yours. And under the cover of night, that’s exactly what she did.

.   .   .

            So began a life of following the rich, fragrant smell of fish, travelling from island to island after vast silver schools, getting just enough energy to keep her going. She had mixed feelings about her predicament: on one hand, it was nice to be away from the judging eyes of her pod; never accidentally hurting someone she loved. And she liked travelling from island to island, seeing all the strange creatures she never would have seen if she’d just stayed with the pod: slugs the colors of rainbows, fish that jumped out of the water when she got too close, sharks with too long tails, just like hers, they snapped to stun their prey. Those were exciting.

But on the other, catching fish was much more difficult on her own than she had imagined. They were just so fast! It took all her energy just to snatch the tiniest morsel, and by then she’d be so exhausted she couldn’t hunt until the next day. At those times she’d sleep free floating with one eye open, so sharks couldn’t get her. There she would stay until her hunger woke her up again. Sometimes, a passing pod of dolphins would offer her something to eat, but their pity stung.

That all changed the day she found the sea turtle. The scent of mackerel had brought her right into a cloud of jellyfish, and as much as the things brought up bad memories, she was really in no condition to pass up a free, slow moving meal. Neither, it seemed, was the largest sea turtle she had ever seen. First she saw the head, easily big as her torso and wrinkled with age. Enormous black eyes gazed at nothing as it casually munched on jellyfish. Then the rest of the body revealed itself as it parted the cloud with massive gray flippers covered in large, stony scales. From these she carefully swam away from, lest a stray paddle accidentally shatter her bones. At first, she marveled at it- the thing must have been ancient! - and before long an idea popped into her head. Grabbing onto its’ barnacle coated shell, she consigned to letting the giant take her wherever it went. Tired, she let out a yawn, drifting with a barnacle grasped firmly in her hand.

.   .   .

She awoke to a very familiar, irresistible smell.

Octopus! Her stomach rumbled from the memory. Parting from the turtle, she sped off in the direction of the scent, licking her lips at the thought of her meal-to-be-! But she didn’t quite expect a school of some of the oddest things she had ever seen. Not octopus at all, but squid. They had tentacles, but these were short and close to the head. Bad for grabbing things (thank goodness) though opening and closing them seemed to move them through the water. And on top of their heads, they had a long, conical shell, perfect for cutting through the water. Or anything foolish enough to stand in their path, no doubt. Carefully, she navigated around the school, until she was directly behind one. With a kick of her tail, she lunged-

Only for the creature to shut its’ tentacles, darting away-

Right into the open maw of an even stranger creature.

When she saw it, her breath caught in her throat. They were in the open ocean! How could something so massive stay hidden?! Like a whale, it had smooth grey skin with a white belly and a long, sinuous body that ribboned up and down as it swam, like an eel’s. Opening a mouth of curved fangs (just like hers!) it bit down on the octopus-thing’s shell, shattering it into a thousand pieces. At the sound the rest of the shelled squids darted out into the ocean.

Great.

It wasn’t long before the whale-eel, sated by its’ meal, turned its’ attention to the strange intruder on its’ territory. She took the hint, swimming in the opposite direction of the beast as fast as she could go. Not fast, enough, apparently, because five seconds later the beast was ribboning after her, open jaws drawing incredibly close incredibly fast. She forced her long tail up and down as hard as it could go, but it wasn’t enough: the whale-eel was gaining. But desperation has a funny way of breeding ideas, and this moment was no different. Looking at the surface, she recalled the strange fish she had seen on her journey. With one final kick of her tail fin, she broke the surface of the water and launched into the air! Her heart beat quickly as, for the first time in her life, she felt the strange sensation of air on her skin. More importantly, though, she could see an island ahead of her, covered in lush jungle with mountains toward its’ center. And where an island was, there was bound to be shallow water. Too shallow for something the size of the whale-eel. Plunging back into the deep, she breached the surface, keeping up her momentum until, at last, the island loomed over her, vast and mysterious. But it wasn’t until she was nearly on the beach she finally checked behind her to find the whale-eel, thankfully, nowhere in sight.

She should have felt safe. She should have felt relief. But mostly she just felt exhausted. Exhausted, and hungry. With what little strength she had left, she swam across the shallows, trying to sense something moving through the sand.

.   .   .

For once, luck was on her side. Granted, the thing she uncovered scuttling beneath the sand- a flat oval with far too many eggs underneath- didn’t have much of the way of meat, but food was food, and there were more than plenty of them scuttling just beneath the sand. Now that there was food in her belly, and no danger in sight, she could let her situation sink in. Or rather, her sister.

So here you are, in an island full of ravenous monsters. Maybe one will eat you. Wouldn’t that be fitting?

She tried so swim, which usually helped her shake off bad thoughts, but these were firmly lodged in the back of her head.

Then again, better you get eaten than you hurt someone else.

But at the same time, she couldn’t just hide out in the tidal zone, she couldn’t just hide out in the surf scavenging for oval shaped crab-things forever. And so what if she died? Not like anyone would miss her. Which is how she found herself just a few days later, tepidly swimming back where she had come. The squids with shells were long gone, in their place a school of fishes whose heads seemed to be covered in hard bony plates she’d never seen before. They brushed past her, indifferent. Tailing them, she thought back to the squids, recalling their strange shells, and the odd crabs she had eaten near the shore. Seemed armor was a popular thing in these parts. Though considering what kinds of things they shared the sea with, it wasn’t hard to imagine why.

Speaking of the devil, surely enough the whale-eel couldn’t resist such a tasty looking school, and burst in, this time from the side to snare a hapless fish, biting down until it ceased struggling and then swallowing it whole. Part of her wondered what it must have tasted like, but at the moment she had bigger priorities. She screamed, and at first the beast ignored her, almost deliberately so. For better or worse, it didn’t. Soon they were squared off: on one side, a sharp toothed mermaid with an unusually long tail. On the other, an impossibly long killing machine that could easily shatter every bone in her body with a single flick of one of its’ flippers.

And they weren’t alone. From behind the mother happily swam another whale-eel, maybe a quarter a size of the other, staring with round, black eyes.

Her heart sunk. Mama.

The mother whale-eel tried to push her curious child away, to no avail. After all, who could resist the strange new potential playmate that had just come into the area? Of course, her mission had just become that much more complicated. It was one thing to face a monster, it was another to face her knowing she was a mama just looking after her baby. The scene was enough to make her consider going back to the seashore, when she noticed something rocketing out of the ocean depths. Like the whale-eel, it had flippers, a long tail; a pointed head full of teeth. But whereas the whale-eels were long and thin with smooth skin, this thing was covered in scales and absolutely massive. So much she felt herself being pushed upward by its’ movement. And it was headed right for the baby. Without a moment’s hesitation, she lunged for the baby, pushing the bewildered thing out of the path of danger. Once she slowed, she released the young whale-eel, who swam, panic-driven, away. Mama was nowhere to be seen. As for herself, she felt the glare of two baleful yellow eyes on her back, turning around just in time for the scaly monster to lunge again. But whereas she had qualms attacking a mother, she had no issues attacking a child hurting demon from the deep.

You’re a monster. Might as well act like it.

She charged the demon, stopping just before its’ wide, hungry jaws. Then, with breakneck timing, she spun around, flicking her long tail with a Snap! Right in the creature’s eye. An ocean-shaking howl rang out of the demon’s throat as she gripped its’ massive, muscular neck and bit down. HARD. The meat was too tendony and firm for her liking, breaking a few of her teeth, but she got her desired effect: blood seeping into the water.

Just like that, the energy left her body. It shouldn’t have been surprising, really, with how little food she’d been getting compared to how much energy she’d been using. Getting worn out was inevitable. And what better way to get worn out than by becoming part of the food chain? The last thing she felt before going unconscious was something powerful pushing against her.

.   .   .

            When she awoke, it was to the pleasant realization she wasn’t dead. Rather, she was being nuzzled by the very same baby whale-eel she had rescued earlier. Shoving its’ poking face away, she found herself riding on the back of none other than the mother. Somehow, the beast had carried her away from the scaly demon, into yet another strange school of creatures. They were not unlike the shelled squids, but their ridged shells coiled into a tight spiral rather than pointing forward. Her rescuer tossed her a dead one, its’ shell crushed by massive jaws, which she eagerly inhaled, the soft flesh sliding smoothly down her throat and into her belly. Sated, she clung to the back of the Mother whale-eel as it took her to the shallower waters on the coast of the island, where she’d (probably) be safe and sound. Letting go, she felt almost… sad to leave the majestic beast behind. Then again, maybe she didn’t have to. An idea raced through her head as she recalled her life back with her pod; how they would work together to catch fish.

But how to tell the whale-eel? She called for the creature, directing her attention to the sandy seafloor. Then, taking her index finger, stabbed it into the sand, drawing a picture of herself and the creature. The whale-eel and her child stared intently.

They understood. Good.

More drawings. Shelled squids. More whale eels. Herself.

They still looked, enraptured.

More complicated things. Movements. Ideas. Formations.

.   .   .

The dark grotto rested at the base of the island, and it was here she hesitated, its’ mouth ominous and disturbing. Still, this was where the whale-eel had directed her, and it was too late for her to back out on her word (metaphorically speaking). At the top of her lungs, she bellowed, surprised by how her voice vibrated off the grotto’s walls. It was strange, hearing her voice again after so long. Soon, another sound followed, this one the rapid movement of water as something vast as any whale but far more bloodthirsty surged through the grotto and eventually rocketing into the open sea. She did not wait for this moment to pass before she darted away fast as her sinuous tail could take her.

Long, tense moments passed. Maybe seconds, maybe minutes. She didn’t dare look behind her.

Justkeepswimmingjustkeepswimmingjustkeepswimming…

Until, at last, curiosity got the better of her, and she turned her head around to see those cavernous jaws wide open.

Now!

With a shriek she jerked upward, each flick of her tail rocketing her ever so close to the surface until-

Splash!

Her skin went cold as she popped into the open air. It was amazing how much she could see from her height, the vast ocean stretching out below her, birds circling some unseen prey above. Her heart beat ever so more quickly, all breath leaving her breathless. Crazy, how different everything looked from above!

A sharp pain rang out from the tip of her tail, dragging her away from ecstasy.

Oh. Right.

The force of a tidal wave dragged her back into the blue, no dount with the intent of swallowing the pesky girl whole.

It never got the chance.

From all sides lunged a quartet of whale-eels, the Mama and three others that had been coaxed into joining the plan. Normally, such a maneuver would have been reckless: the scaled demon would have easily ripped one of them to shreds. But with an adequate distraction, the four normally solitary predators rended the flesh of their adversary without mercy. A great bellow shook the ocean as the demon fled, massive plumes of blood spewing from its’ wounds.

Now, she wasn’t an expert on big, scaly demons, but she had a strong feeling it wouldn’t be coming around anytime soon.

As for the whale eels…

They formed a ring around her, staring intently in a way that made her nervous.

How fitting an end, to defeat monsters only to be betrayed by others. Can’t say I blame them; probably frightened to death of your grotesque, horrid…

But the whale-eels made no effort to devour her. Instead, they bowed their triangular heads, and went their separate ways, like friends at the end of a playdate.

.   .   ,

When the astonishment wore off, a single question bubbled to the surface of her mind:

What now?

Well, for starters, there was the vacant grotto, and it would be nice to have a place to hide out…

The floor of the dark cavern was littered with the pale bones of a thousand different types of sea creatures. Amongst them, he noticed several crab-things skittering about, picking what flesh they could from them. She smiled ever so slightly at this. Exploring the dark cavern with creepy crawlies was better than being alone. Fortunately, it seemed these would not be the only things keeping her company: there were fish here too, albeit ones with something… off about them. Maybe it was their large, fleshy fins, of which there seemed too many. Maybe it was their broad, spade-like tails. Maybe it was their scales, black peppered white like the night sky, or their large, milky eyes, round as a full moon. But they moved rarely, content to float in place, so she let them be.

The bones, on the other hand…

She had never seen so many. And from so many different creatures, too! Turtle shells and squid shells, the skulls of whales and of fearsome, carnivorous fish, it would take weeks to sort through them all. An especially large skull of some toothy predator caught her attention first, and with all her strength she dragged it to the entrance of her newfound home. She could already see those empty eye sockets gazing fiercely from above the grotto’s entrance. It was going to look awesome!

No sooner had she reached that point, however, than she noticed someone had beaten her there. Scattered about were large, colorful shells, along with hunks of meat from all a matter of creatures, so fresh their blood was still seeping into the water.

Her eyes lit up as the scent entered her nose. A moment later, her instincts kicked in.

.   .   .

A few minutes later, a very full and satisfied mermaid let out a belch; a fat, lazy bubble escaping her mouth and wobbling ever so slowly to the surface. As the effects of a food coma set in, she shut her eyes and grinned. Crazy as it seemed, even with all the monsters around, maybe, just maybe she could make a home in this crazy place. 

There’s some real good stuff here. Admittedly I don’t have much planned for the mermaid and thus haven’t given much thought to her backstory, but while I can’t promise that I’ll use all of this, some might make its way in.

[darksunrising]

Sola Gratia (3/?)

Masterlist

Rating / Warnings : General Audiences, no warning.

Fandom : Bram Stoker’s Dracula, BBC’s Dracula, various Dracula and vampire lore.

Part 3/? (2262 words)

Author���s notes : Eris starts to explore, and starts to understand castle and Count both hold some mysteries she is not sure she wants to resolve.

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My eyes fluttered open, and it took me a second to make sense of my surroundings. Sitting up with some difficulty, the soft mattress seemingly trying to keep me in, I set the covers aside, and threw my legs over the edge of the bed. The room was bathed in a strange light, almost green, and if the rain had stopped, the sky was still low with bulging clouds, threatening to burst open at any moment. The fire in the hearth had died out, only leaving a few red coals to shimmer softly.

I changed back into my new outfit. My usual clothes might have dried out overnight, but I had to admit I really loved the skirt. It had pockets, for hell’s sake. I had no idea what time it was, the dark skies making it impossible to assess the position of the sun. I figured if I were going to do anything, I might as well go check on the damage in my bag, which I decided to forget about last night. I left the room, trying to find my way back to the main hall. After a few hesitations and turnbacks, I finally found the main stairs, and reached my bag, still sitting near the door. As I feared, most of everything was soaked, even the food I’d taken with me. Had to throw that out, at some point. I found my phone, that I had miraculously put in a waterproof case. Still working, though on concerningly low battery, and had no signal. I sighed, and set it to extreme batter saver mode, hoping it would last until I could get back to civilisation.

I grabbed my remaining clothes to have them dry with the rest, and went to the dining room. There, the fire was still going strong, with a couple of fresh logs. At the end of the large banquet table, I was surprised to see a steaming pot of tea, and a plate of something close to scones, I believe. It was accompanied by a sheet of thick, high quality paper, folded in half to stand on its own, marked with my name in a neat, graceful handwriting.

“Dear Eris, I expect you had a pleasant sleep. I have left for the most of the day, and will certainly not return before dark. Please enjoy some breakfast, as you must surely be famished. Feel free to explore should you wish it, as I have left the keys for you along with this letter. I hope you will forgive me for my absence, and trust you will find the means for distraction. Your devoted host, Count Vlad Balaur.”

As I read the letter in a half hushed voice, warmth spread across my chest as I finished on his name. A glance at the table confirmed the presence of said keys. If I had to fumble through all of them every time I wanted to open a door, exploring just might take the whole day after all. I slipped them, along with the letter, in my pocket, and poured me a cup of tea. It was a different blend, black, yet flowery and soft. Perfectly well infused. The scones seemed to be fresh out of the oven, which made me wonder if he baked them himself, or had staff. I didn’t see anyone last night, but then again, it was late. If he was as rich as his house suggested, he just might. I figured I would look out for them. If anything, I had to compliment the chef. I don’t know if it was because I hadn’t eaten since yesterday at lunch, but eating these scones felt somewhat close to a religious experience.

After I became physically unable to eat any more, I decided to follow the Count’s idea, and explore. The castle was old, that much I could tell. I wasn’t an expert on architecture, but I was more or less convinced that the most ancient phase of construction had to be around the 13th, 14th century. The village probably built itself around it, so that would make some sense. Obviously, it had been updated, rebuilt, but the main structure was still visible. A lot of the rooms seemed almost… Stuck in time. A bit messy, crowded, as if the people who last left could come back any moment. Even so, the thick layer of dust dulling the colors made it clear that wasn’t going to happen.

I couldn’t help but feel some nostalgia. 15-year-old me would have been thrilled exploring a place like this. Not that I wasn’t, but at that time, I was so into urban exploration that I almost got dragged to the station a couple of times for tresspassing. My parents never knew, and just thinking of their reaction if they ever had had to go bail me out of jail for being a bastard goblin made me go into hysterics. Couldn’t help but picture my father, stilted up into some sad brown corduroy suit, mouth pinched in a lip-less line, having to pick up a ratty kid who just could not, would not, keep her grubby hands out of dangerous, rat infested abandonned houses. Or shut down psych wards, that one time. Pretty anti-climatic, that was. 

I stifled a laughter, and shut the door behind me. Most of the rooms were boudoirs, spare bedrooms and such. There was one large room, covered in hunting trophies and animal skeletons. This one interested me the most. Inside, I noticed it was close to a cabinet of curiosities. Glass and wood shelves hosted a variety of skeletons, egg and sea shells, fossils, even some weirdly misshapen baby animals, floating in yellowed jars. The taxidermied animals seemed almost real, and at any moment, I expected them to start moving around. One shelf, built along the whole length of a wall, was dedicated to various skulls, ranging from standard game, elks, boars and whatnot, to more exotic things. One in particular caught my eye. At first glance, I thought it might be human, but I was very quick to change my mind.

The skull seemed fine, strong jaw still attached to the cranium, even a bit of mummifies tissue still attached in some spaces. However, the teeth… The teeth made no sense. Too many, too sharp, like they had been filed into curved, pointy shapes you only see in great apes, or carnivorous animals. Reviewing every strange cultural rite that could explain such a bizarre thing, I started to feel more and more uneasy. I almost felt like it was staring at me from the shadows, behind the hollow eye sockets. Not necessarily wanting to linger any more, I slipped out of the room, and locked the door after a few tries. Just to be sure, you know.

I had visited most of the rooms, but still one was pinching my curiosity. If I understood right, I could see its windows from those of the corridor leading to the dining room. Tall windows, almost church-like. I passed its door a few times, but was never able to find the key that unlocked it. The mind works like it works, and by the thrid time, I was almost ready to find a way to pick the lock, or break it down. Frustrated as ever, I gave a kick to the frame, that made me repress a cry of pain.

“Well now, what has that poor door done to deserve this ?”

I nearly jumped at the sound of the Count’s voice. He was standing behind me, a manner which seemed to have become a habit on his part.

“It was resisting my best attempts to pierce it’s secrets, which is a grave offense in my book”, I replied.

“Ah, I am afraid it was entirely my fault”, he admitted, and produced a key from his pocket, twisting it between his long, slender fingers.

A mischievous smile playing on his lips, he unlocked the double doors, and pushed them open, dramatically turning back to face me, his coat flaring around him, arms open.

“Welcome to my library.”

The room was filled with the last rays of the sun, setting on the mountain ridge, under the clouds. It caught the dust the Count must have raised as he entered in golden specs, floating up all around him. Everywhere, bookshelves stretched out up to the high ceilings, accessible by ladders and small bridgeways. The floor was covered in richly woven carpets, and at every comfortable corner sat armchairs and reading tables, agremented with chandeliers. There had to be a lifetime’s worth of reading within these four walls, and for a moment, I was unable to even walk in.

As I finally regained control of my limbs, I stubled inside, jogging to the nearest shelf. Leather-bound books, stacks of rolled parchment, gilted, worn, intricate, small, large, I didn’t even know where to look first. There were so many different languages, I couldn’t even recognize half. I let my fingers trail along the backs of the volumes, deciding on which to pick first.

“Do you like it ?”, the Count softly asked, as if not to disturb my frantic search.

I turned towards him, unable to stop smiling. He looked almost surprised, almost moved. The sun caught his eyes, revealing their deep blue color. I noticed his hair was now dark as night, cascading on his shoulders. Not a single gray hair in sight. He looked almost exactly like his portrait in the dining room, now that I thought about it. He must have noticed my internal trouble.

“Is there something wrong ?”, he asked, stepping closer to me.

“Nothing”, I replied, shaking my head. “You seem to be… Well, for lack of better terms, younger than yesterday.”

“Ah, a bruise to my ego !”, he exclaimed as he carried a hand to his heart. “I know I have left my younger days behind, but I have yet to be an old man.”

It had been a dark, stormy night, and I figured that by candlelight, my mind could have played tricks on me. Maybe I had been expecting a lonely old man so much, that he appeared that way, in my slightly frostbitten mind. I decidedly turned my attention to the shelves, and picked a volume. A bit worn, but the dark green of the leather, and the tiny golden patterns still vivid on the spine. As I read the title, it had me laughing to myself. Ὀδύσσεια, Homer’s Odyssey, in the “original” speech.

“Do you read ancient greek ?”, the Count asked, now looking over my shoulder.

“I have had the misfortune of learning it. Since then, I fell out of practice, I think.”

I turned over the pages, the familiar words coming back to mind without having to really read them. It was with this story, and the Illiad, that my parents taught me. I knew them almost by heart at that point. His tall silhouette, behind me, felt almost protective. I was nearly tempted to let myself lean back against his chest. I could feel soft strands of hair brushing past my shoulder, making a shiver run down my spine.

“Are you cold ?”, he asked. “I am afraid these walls tend to not hold the heat very well. I could have a fire lit here, if you want.”

His tone was almost tender, concerned. I had no time to answer, before I heard the rustling of fabric, and felt the weight of his coat placed over my shoulders. His hands lightly slid down my arms, flattening the soft, tightly woven wool over me. The sudden warmth did nothing for my shivering, and I nervously turned another page. My finger slipped on the edge, which cut right through the soft skin.

I cursed under my breath, watching red bead at the cut, and run toward my palm. The hands of the Count, still over my shoulders, suddenly gripped them tight, almost enough to hurt me. I could swear I heard a growl from deep inside his chest. He took my hand in his, examining the wound. A slow stream of red came trickling down his own fingers. He was leaning closer to me, so much that I could feel his breathing on the nape of my neck, heavy, trembling.

“You should be more careful”, he told me, his voice barely more than a whisper, deep, and dark.

I turned back, freeing myself of his grip, and tried to step away. My back hit the shelves, my injured hand held up to my chest, the other still holding the book so tight my knuckles went white. He once again took my hand, this time holding a cloth to the cut, red slowly seeping into the white cotton. He kept his eyes riveted to the makeshift band-aid. They didn’t seem so blue anymore. He took a deep breath, which sounded almost like a snarl as he let it out. He whispered something in romanian I couldn’t make out, let go, and suddenly, he was gone. Leaving me breathless, confused, holding the now mostly red cotton square to my hand. The edges of the shelf dug into my back. I inhaled sharply, as if I’d been holding my breath the entire time, which could easily have been the case.

I closed the book, and slipped it back onto the shelf. The library was silent, if it weren’t for the faint sound of a crackling fire, in the hearth.

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Taglist : @carydorse @angelicdestieldemon @bloodhon3yx @thewondernanazombie @battocar @moony691 @mjlock

[menswearmusings]

After You Buy All the Essentials, Then What? My Personal List Moving Forward

Switching focus from the urgent to the important is a vital practice in the business world. Have you ever worked somewhere where it’s clear that instead of thinking critically about the core of the organization’s mission for ways to grow and improve, the focus is instead on whatever the newest, shiniest idea is (or often, whatever the latest crisis is)?

I always had a sense of urgency about buying clothes, because my goal was to dress in cool tailoring every day of the week in ways that I would consider meaningfully different. But being constrained by a budget meant I had to think carefully about what I bought, so I wouldn’t end up with something because it was a great deal, only to discover I had very little use for it. So I created a list of clothes I wanted that I imagined would comprise a complete wardrobe (for my tastes and needs). That helped me stay focused on my goals when sale season started and there were so many awesome things to buy.

Now, though, having largely built that wardrobe I imagined, I tend to get distracted by the new, shiny thing much more. I’ll find some product on eBay or in a shop on sale and become obsessed with it, going back to look at it over and over again. Without that hit list of must-buys to bring myself back from the brink, I always have a creeping sense that whatever it is I end up actually purchasing is maybe the wrong choice for me and I should instead be saving that money for some other, better purchase down the road. I’ve picked all the low-hanging fruit, but I have no personal guidance for reaching higher.

So, in an effort to try and refocus myself on buying what I can consider important purchases—not just those with the urgency of desire—here’s my list of next must-haves.

(By the way, if you’re just starting out and want some help building a wardrobe from scratch, check out my “Guide to Building a Tailored Wardrobe.” In it, I explain just that—how to have the right mindset about buying clothes, plus specific advice for versatility in clothing. Check it out here.)

More cotton-linen trousers for summer

Since becoming a dad—but even before then—dress trousers in wool just don’t get much wear from me. Primarily that’s because pants need cleaning more often, and I hate dry cleaning bills. But it’s also because I prefer a silhouette that just doesn’t work with dress pants, at least in wool. Jeans or even chinos made of denim or cotton twill drape differently and thus can work in the tapered cut I prefer. My previously perfectly fitting flannel trousers with that ideal taper from Spier & Mackay are now too slim because my calves got too big. So I have to go fuller. I’m fine going with that in a drapey wool, but day to day I prefer a slimmer knee and slightly tapered opening at the hem.

This is why cotton-linen trousers exist. Cotton-linen seems to have that perfect balance of cotton’s stiffness with linen’s drape, so they hang well but are forgiving if the fit isn’t bespoke-perfect or your proportions make things difficult. Pure linen just doesn’t give off the vibe I’m looking for typically (it feels a little more louche the way it hangs and rumples than I as a person am). And other options like wool-silk-linen blends are beautiful and amazing (I’ll get those below), but what I like about cotton-linen is I can usually machine wash it myself to no ill effect. Currently I have one pair, so it’d be nice to get another 2-3 to rotate through (much as I have with flannel in the winter). My list would be: 

A second pair of off-white 

Tan / khaki

Deeper brown

Maybe a light blue or mid-navy

Options I have for buying these: Spier & Mackay’s dress trouser fit is still my best bet right now, and I’ve been told they’ll have a crop of 7 colors of cotton-linen trousers in mid-April. That said, I also just purchased some pairs from Brooks Brothers’ Red Fleece line that arrive soon, made from fabric by the same mill as Spier’s, for $37 a pair that might work, too.

A rotation of good chinos and a pair of light wash jeans that fit

Chinos are nice because they dress up or down pretty well (you can wear a tie with them without it being weird, unlike five-pocket pants, but on their own without a jacket they’re good too), and if you get them in the right fabric, they’re pretty hard-wearing.

Finding chinos that 1- don’t have stretch, 2- are made from material that’s a good mid-weight, and 3- fit the way I want is extremely difficult. You wouldn’t think so but man it’s hard to find good chinos. And finding good, faded jeans with similar qualities is likewise hard without spending $200+. That said, if I can find them, what would make my wardrobe happy would be chinos in:

Off-white

Stone

True khaki

Possibly a pair in fatigue, which is a good color when it’s too hot to wear a jacket

Options for chinos are tricky. I like the idea of what fellow menswear blogger Ian is doing with his new shop Lost Monarch; $125 is hefty for chinos, but I suppose if they fit really well and the fabric rules, the investment might be worth it. I also always forget about classic chino maker Bill’s Khakis, which was always hailed as having the highest quality back in my early Styleforum days. They introduced a number of slimmer fitting styles over the years and are still fairly easy to find on eBay. Spier & Mackay’s chinos are a great deal but each time I’ve tried them, the fit’s been off for me in some way or other. I might try them once again this spring. 

As for light wash jeans, I’ll be looking probably at American Eagle, Polo RL, Abercrombie, Banana Republic, and other mall brands. Much as I’d like to get some 3-Sixteens or even Naked and Famous, they’re hard to get ahold of where I live and trying jeans on is critical.

A dark navy blazer in both single and double breasted configurations

I have seasonally appropriate navy jackets—one is wool/cashmere for winter, and one is raw silk for summer—and last summer I added a dark blue double breasted jacket for summer as well. When I recently tried on No Man Walks Alone’s Sartoria Carrara jackettried on No Man Walks Alone’s Sartoria Carrara jacket, which was a dark navy twill, I remembered why dark navy jackets exist: they’re classy as heck. All my navy jackets are slightly lighter shades of navy, which is great, but a good, dark navy blazer brings some gravity to an outfit, looks great in the evening and dresses up very well for more formal occasions.

That said, it’s gotta be the right texture. Hopsack wool is a good option; I would also be interested in some kind of blend like wool-silk-linen or similar. I’m not a fan of mohair, so I wouldn’t do that, and the high twist fabrics are tricky because they tend to look fairly smooth, while I like a little more surface texture. Given how much I like my SuitSupply Jort blazer, I’m hoping they release a double breasted jacket that might fit the bill this spring/summer. As for single breasted, I really, really liked that NMWAxCarrara jacketNMWAxCarrara jacket, so something closer to a 3-season fabric from him would be amazing. Of course Spier & Mackay has staple hopsack wool blazers in both their Neapolitan cut and regular cut, which sold out quickly in my size.

A dark navy double breasted blazer by Ring Jacket (model 6) I tried on at The Armoury in New York City. Click the image to see the product page of this actual jacket at their site.

A pair or two of summer trousers in a nicer fabric

Cotton linen trousers and chinos are as dressy as I need them to be most of the time in my life, but it’s still nice to have a pair of classier dress trousers in summer for occasions that call for it. I’ve had gray hopsack and fresco in the past, but those were more corporate than I was looking for.

Summer is the time for levity in the color palette, so I really like the idea of a light or mid blue (maybe a petrol blue). Every time Greg at No Man Walks Alone does spring pre-orders for Rota, they offer these beautiful wool/silk/linen blend fabrics, including petrol blue in the past, and every time, I love how they look but always stopped short of ordering for various reasons. A sufficiently textured, interesting blend in a light gray would also be nice and would be better than a corporate looking fresco or tropical wool. In the swatches below, which were for this season’s Rota trouser made to order options, the blue and gray at the top hold appeal, and even that green at the bottom.

Swatches for Rita wool/silk/linen trousers From No Man Walks Alone.

Some dress shirts from Anglo-Italian

It feels like I’ve been banging on about this for years at this point, I know, but their reverse stripe OCBD is great and I need to just pull the trigger and buy it. But beyond that, Anglo’s house dress shirt model is essentially the perfect shirt: the collar shape is an ideal wide spread with no tie space and that isn’t too stiff; the fit is comfortable but not baggy; and the details are all there both quality and design-wise. The back shirring is maybe a bit out there for many people, but these shirts are meant to be worn under a jacket, which is how I’d wear them. I’d buy white first then probably their blue end-on-end and maybe the bengal stripe. They’re expensive at $175, but that’s less than other comparable Italian dress shirt companies like Finamore or Borrelli.

A couple additional pairs of suede shoes

I love suede for its versatility in dressing up or down. What I wear 95% of the time are snuff suede penny loafers, snuff suede chukkas and tan suede tassel loafers. I’m looking to get more dark brown suede, which, sorta like true dark navy blazers, brings some gravity to an outfit. My penny loafers have been through some rough times; I plan to resole them (which they badly need), but it’d be nice to have a pair that aren’t so beaten up. I prefer a sleeker last shape most of the time (not pointy, maybe almond shaped) to the round lasts you see from classic Ivy brands like Alden, which are more casual and carry a lot more of that Ivy feeling (something I’m always trying to temper with more rakish aesthetics). That said, a rounded loafer of some kind to wear strictly casually is something I’d like to get to help share the load with the other shoes. I’ve also been really into the split toe derby look the last year or so. I tried The Armoury’s on when I visited there in 2018, and really liked it. 

So, the list would be:

Dark brown suede penny loafers

Dark brown suede Chelsea boots

Brown suede split toe

Dark or mid-brown suede beef roll or similar more casual loafers

I’ve noticed that the most comfortable shoes I love wearing the most are all made by Allen Edmonds, so I’ll be looking at those for sure. The Sea Island in particular looks awesome for that casual loafer. Beckett Simonon has some suede boots and given how comfortable their shoes are, their Bolton Chelsea looks nice. Meermin of course is another option for suede boots, and they have a penny loafer that might fit the bill for me, too. Spier & Mackay’s shoe offerings look very good, including this suede penny loafer. And of course the Armoury’s split toe derby is the one I’m most looking at for that category as I’m sort of picky when it comes to split toe shoes.

So there’s my hit list moving forward. I’ve already deviated from it this season by purchasing an excellent but not-on-this-list jacket from Spier & Mackay in 100% linen by Sondrio in a mid-brown glen check pattern. It surprised me how much I loved it, so I’m letting myself deviate from the list, guilt-free. And at the end of the day, the clothing hobby is all about enjoying life anyhow, and what could be more important than than?

(Help support this site! If you buy stuff through my links, your clicks and purchases earn me a commission from many of the retailers I feature, and it helps me sustain this site—as well as my menswear habit ;-)  Thanks!)

Read more at Menswear Musings

[gnoodle-studios]

The Grim: Chapter 1

In a small town, steeped in myth and superstition, a man was on the run. 

Not from bandits, or the law, but from something more… nefarious. The people around him can tell; by the way he always looks over his shoulder, by the way he says he’s only staying for a few days before he needs to move on. 

The local gossips say he’s running from the devil. 

They’re almost right. 

Technically, he’s running from the afterlife, after cheating death and hell in one fell swoop. If you wanted to get really technical about it, he’s currently running from a hellhound with no particular name, and one of the many demons assigned to handle the hellhounds, who got handed his particular case file. But the man doesn’t know this. 

All he knows is that if he runs far enough and fast enough away from that town, he might get out of all this alive. (He’s almost right)

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Miles on miles away, in a field, a pair of glowing red eyes open. 

The hellhound has never seen land before, at least not like this. 

In the afterlife, there was just quite a lot of rocks, and quite a lot of fire, and even a substantial amount of firey rock, and rivers of lava and sharp, jutting edges that would skewer you if you weren’t careful enough. 

But this place was.. soft. And green. 

There was no fire, and no large, black, pointy rocks, just stretching horizons of blue above the hellhound, and below it; long, green… soft rocks? 

It watched as a large buzzing… something (flying rock?) landed on some nearby Green (with some yellow at the top? These were strange rocks indeed) and danced around for a bit before flying away to another nearby Green (this one had blue bits?). The hellhound nosed forward to follow it. The small, flying rock noticed it had something stalking after it and took off, ducking between the bendy green bits. The hellhound, excited, chased after it. It couldn’t really generate any kind of logical reason to go with this, but dismissed that fact as irrelevant and continued prancing on.

It got bored with the flying rock after a few minutes and started sniffing around. All of this flying and being green and yellow and soft business seemed very uncharacteristic for a rock. It could be fire, perhaps? Fire tickled like the Green when hellhound was standing in it, and fire could be blue sometimes. However, the hellhound had never seen fire be green before, and it wasn’t warm like fire was. 

The hellhound paced worriedly in a circle and eventually came to the conclusion that maybe there was more to life than Rock and Fire. 

Eventually, after the hellhound had come to grips with this world-shattering realization, (and rolling around in the not-rocks, just to be sure) it remembered that it was here for a reason. 

Missions like this were rare. Few humans saw the point in bothering to enter any kind of deal with the afterlife, and those who did weren’t stupid enough to break it. Except for now. The hellhounds were mostly used as security, patrolling borders between life and the afterlife, making sure nobody escaped. But now that there was a deal-breaker loose, it fell to one of them to track him down.

Sniffing the air, it could tell it’s target had been in the area recently. Following its nose to where the scent was stronger, the hellhound stumbled out of the not-rocks (grass seemed a good name as any) and onto a path. 

Now, this was familiar. This was definitely rocks. Just very, very small rocks. That were somehow so small they were almost soft? 

Hellhound didn’t think it would ever understand this place. 

However, hellhound wasn’t there to understand, it was there on a mission. (...A mission that didn’t necessarily prevent it from taking a second to roll in the small almost-soft rocks). 

Finding the scent once again, hellhound trotted along the path, occasionally stopping to sniff some of the “grass” that had other strange colors on top. 

At some point, a small creature jumped out in front of the hellhound and froze. Hellhound looked at it. It was white and had fur that looked somewhat similar to his own, but also with a small round tail and larger, rounded ears that twitched as the two creatures watched each other. 

Hellhound waited for the inevitable claws or pointed teeth to reveal themselves, but they never did. The creature relaxed and hopped forward to butt against one of his legs, before moving back into the grass. 

The hellhound, thoroughly confused by this, elected to keep moving. 

He hoped he wouldn’t have any other strange encounters while he was here. 

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Down in the afterlife, a certain demon could feel himself beginning to develop a headache. Previously unaware that demons could have headaches, he couldn’t help but think maybe this was a bad sign. 

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After following the path for a while (and discovering all sorts of things that weren’t rocks), the hellhound found a road. The target’s scent moved east down the road, so it went east. There were other people moving on the road, but most gave it a wide berth or ignored it completely. Some stared in fear and whispered at each other worriedly. 

The hellhound figured this must be because it had messed up its fur rolling in things. After all, it couldn’t have anything to do with its glowing red eyes or general aura of darkness! 

Every hellhound had those, after all. 

The loose, small rocks turned into solid, large rocks as the road passed through a town. The hellhound looked around with increased dubiousness as it was revealed to it how much of this world wasn't rock or fire.

There were houses made of stone, large smooth gray ones, but also others made of something he couldn’t quite place but decided to call ‘wood’ for the sake of his internal monologue. There were also market stalls built out of ‘wood’, littered with many things the hellhound couldnt even fathom the use of, much less the material. 

The target’s trail eventually picked back up on the road leading out of the town, but something made the hellhound hesitant to follow. 

It.. couldn't hurt, could it? Just looking around? 

It was being thorough! That was it. Just.. really checking that the mark had left for good.

It sniffed the air, finding itself (not for the first time) distracted by a smell. The smell promised warmth, like fire, and comfort, like not-rocks, and maybe even a slight dampening of the darkness-aura. 

And while, in theory, hellhounds were tireless tracking and killing machines that could go without sleep or food or shelter, that didn’t stop it from wanting at least one of those things.

The hellhound moved closer. 

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The woman who owned the bakery and was currently manning the outdoor stall side-eyed a large black dog as it moved closer. She was a large woman, with broad shoulders and solid arms from years of kneading dough. She intimidated most who came to the bakery, including the occasional animal hoping to steal a loaf of bread. 

This did not appear to be the case for the aforementioned dog. Side eyeing harder, she realized the dog had something that looked like glowing red eyes. The town had a few long-standing myths about grims, evil spirits who would wreak havoc and destroy entire livelihoods. However, the baker was not one to buy into such foolish stories. 

And even if she was, she had had stranger customers. 

However, she was less forgiving when it came to thieves.

The black dog moved forward, considerably faster than it should have been able to for something of its size. 

But not fast enough. 

The woman growled and snatched away the loaf it had been going for. The dog whined and rested its head on the table where the bread had been and looked at her like it hadn't quite decided whether to threaten or beg. 

“Bad dog,” She said firmly, gently pushing its head off the table “Get lost.”

The dog accepted this without much of a fight and moved off, head down.

It looked like a well-fed dog, the baker rationalized. 

Surely it’s owner would come to retrieve it soon.

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

In the afterlife, the demon rubbed roughly where temples would be on a human as a dull ache took up residence behind his eyes. 

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

Bad dog? Bad dog? Bad dog?

The sentence repeated in the hellhound’s head like a mantra. It shouldn't stick as much as it did, hellhounds technically weren’t even dogs!

And she had growled at it! That was its move!

As the hellhound pondered, clouds that had been gathering overhead darkened, and it started to rain.

What could she have possibly meant by ‘bad do-’...

There was something falling from the sky. 

By all accounts, this should be a bad thing. 

When it happened where the hellhound was from, it was usually fire falling through the sky, and any humans down there always seemed terrified by it. 

But here… now… they just seemed… annoyed? Like it was some minor inconvenience at best? The hellhound looked up and a drop of whatever it was landed on its nose. 

This was not fire.

Fire was warm and nice and dry. This was the opposite of what fire was. This was cold and wet and was already seeping into its fur. 

It looked around and ran towards a small covered shelter with nobody else inside, and shook off, splattering the not-fire everywhere. It paced in a circle and curled up, listening to the sound it made on the roof.

Bad dog. Bad dog. Bad dog. 

The words seemed to echo with the drumming noise.

The hellhound curled tighter.

It did not want to be a bad dog.

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

“Oh, you poor thing.”

The hellhound looked up at the voice. It was an elderly old woman, short with a bob of gray hair and a small army of scarves wrapped around her neck. She was holding some sort of contraption that caused the water to slide off of it and not touch the woman at all. Like a mini, portable roof. 

“You look so cold! Where is your owner? He shouldn’t leave his dog out like this!” 

The hellhound lifted its head to watch her. 

She paused. 

“Or do you not have one? I suppose that would make sense.”

She contemplated the dog before her, apparently deep in thought

With strange timing, it’s stomach growled. This seemed to offend her, in the sense that ‘how dare anyone be hungry in her presence’. 

“That won’t do at all! Come on, pup, let’s get you somewhere warm and dry and get you some food.”

The hellhound reluctantly uncurled itself and moved to the edge of the shelter. 

“Good boy,” said the woman, moving away and beckoning further. 

The hellhound’s tail moved suddenly and with a mind of its own, rapidly going back and forth. 

Hesitantly, it moved away from the shelter and followed the old woman home. 

The not-fire continued to fall from the sky and drum patterns into the surrounding roofs. 

It seemed to have a different melody this time. 

Good boy. Good boy. Good boy. 

The hellhound didn’t mind that one so much.

[kay-is-krazy]

Literally No Title

Please help

Idk what I’m doing

This is a fanfic

Deanxreader kinda

It needs work sorry

I will hashtag

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Damp. Everything that surrounds you is damp. As you start to come to, you smell the stench. Sulfar. Confused, you try to open your eyes, brows furred as the light tries to chase away your sight. Your adrenaline pushes you to figure out where you are. Looking around weerily, you notice the familiar iron door. Your parents old farmhouse storm cellar. Opening and closing your eyes making sure this is what you're actually seeing. It's been years. Decades even since you've seen these walls. Theyre different now. Moldy, but with cobwebs. You start to realize you're strapped down on the old iron table you used to eat spaghettios on when the tornados hit. No use in trying to squirm your way to topple over. Your father bolted it down in the cement. How did you get here. As you push and strain yourself to remember, the door opens. A tall red flannel emerges, and you go cold...

Life wasn't always fighting monsters, and saving people. You had a family of your own, until the vampire mafia ripped in to town destroying everything in their path, including your home and everyone in it. You still remember their screams as you fled into the woods. Revenge is a choice you have to make, and it sure was a hell of a ride. In this life, you run into auhtorities, but very little hunters like yourself. After bumping into the Winchesters working a werewolf case, they sort of took you under their wing. Noticing you needed guidance, before you ever could. You were in constant rage, before meeting the boys. Searching for answers, and never being satisfied with the kill. It all blurred into a blood bath of vengence. A lot of trust, losses, and whiskey, but you found a new family. You need them as much as they need you. And just recently, it was Dean needing saving.

The mark had completely consumed him. Being the hero, the guinea pig, has led him to be desperate in saving the world. You knew he was always staying strong, putting on a good face for Sam, but deep down, he is slightly broken like the rest of you. His hope depleted as the mark's strength took over his judgement. He was like you were before they saved you, scared and fuming with anger. You're just trying to return the favor before he hurts anyone else, especially his brother Sam.

After months of research, you found something. Slight chance of hope in fixing Dean. Confiding in Sam, he decides to look for it himself. The word of God. Once touched by a demon, it is said to purify them. No one has seen it in over 100 years, but you got a lead. The only thing that's near impossible is finding Dean. So time to draw him out... He wants a fight, you'll bring him a fight.

Scrounging up as many demons as possible, making sure they're alive but bleeding, you make a devils trap and wait. You heard through demon grapevine, that Dean can sniff them out. He's the big bad now. Being a demon himself, he hates them even more, if that makes sense.

But your plan didn't work. There have been plenty of close calls while working on the job, but this wasn't just a regular monster case. It was so much more, and there's a lot at stake. You realize why you're scared. You're in a situation even you can't get out of alive. Fear sets in as Dean walks closer. Each step like a predator closing in on it's prey. That red shirt, being even more red than usual.

He smirks, “Welcome back sunshine. Thought I killed you too soon”.

Your head is pounding as you try to look at your body. Realizing its broken, bruised, and bloodied, you must have put up a fight.

“Oh that, sorry, I couldn't help myself. After I knocked you out, I had some fun.” Your heart is beating so fast as if it is going to jump out of your body. The last thing you want is for him to see you afraid. You try to muffle out his name, but your voice is hoarse. “Please don't speak, I don't want my ears to bleed as you plead with me.... or on the other hand, I'd love to hear you beg for your life”, he whispers the last part in your face.

Wincing at his words, you turn your head, and say “You're not you right now. We'll fix this, Dean.”

He puts his hands on your chin, for a second you think it's him. His oversized, warm strong hands that wouldn't hurt a fly unless it was unnatural.The ones who taught you martial arts, and the ever so famous air guitar. But looking into his eyes, noticing they are lacking the softness, they flicker, and those green eyes are no longer. Black eyes, and his hands smell of sulfar. “There's nothing to fix sweetheart, I'm better than ever.” he jerks his hand away making your head turn to face him. As he walks to the door to open it, you yell out, “Just get it over with and kill me already!” He stops, turns his head just so you can see his profile, and scoffs. Walking out, and leaving you alone once again.

Wondering where Sam is, you try to squirm free from being tied up.Your fastens on your wrist have some wiggle room. Using the pointiness of your sister's ruby class ring on your left hand, you try to cut the leather bands. It's going to take hours, but you're not giving up yet. You know there are only two ways out of this, and you'll be damed if you don't fight.

'Pour some sugar on me' plays from your cell phone. Sam's calling you, the signature ringtone for drunk, fun Sam. Reminding you of the nights at the roadhouse, playing the same G43 on the old jukebox driving Dean insane. While Sammy and you sang until your voices were unrecognizable.

The door opens, and you straighten up, not making a move to let Dean know you've been trying to break free. There's a cart that he's pushing inside, full of old kitchen utensils, some tools from a shed, and a few of Dean's things from the trunk of his Impala that have been missing since the mark took him over.

“I know you and Sam have been looking for me, trying to save me. I'm going to show you how much I don't want or need you two around. Lets send Sammy a message, hm?” He walks over to your jacket with your cellphone in it. Dean throws it in the air and catches it. Holding it like a gun, making fake noises pretending to shoot you. “Glad to see you havent lost your adolescent behavior”, you say, “I know you're still in there Dean”.

He puts your phone down on the cart, picking up a rusty knife used for cutting fish. “But I'm not, and I'm going to prove to you just how wrong you are about me.” He cuts your cheek, and you feel the skin break open, stinging.

“You can hurt me all you want, you'll just be hurting yourself.” You say and spit in his face. The dark smirk scurries from his face, and you know what's coming next is worst.

The torture that he tortured you with only stems from Hell. Picture after picture taken and sent to Sam. The laughing, the darkness, and the insults coming from him, you start to lose hope that Dean is even in there. You keep reminding yourself that demons lie. Not believing anything DemonDean says, even though you desperately want it to be true. The remarks about how he used to think about you like a little sister until a couple years ago when you got stood up on a date with some guy named Brett. Thinking back from a different perspective now, you realize Dean was the one there who saved you from getting kicked out of the restaurant for using up a table. Waiting for some loser you met online, but seeing Dean sitting down across from you, feeling a sense of clarity and sureness. But now ever since he's turned into something evil, he doesn't feel a thing at all for you or Sam.

In and out of consiousness, you decide you wouldn't give up on him. Even though your body is mangled, you keep pushing.

“Dean, this isn't the path your mother would have wanted. You have to know that. You don't want to let her down or she'd died for nothing.” You plead and try, but he slaps you hard in the face. The hit seemed personal, as if you were getting somewhere with him. You reason, “Isn't family what brings people together, it's what brought us together. Aren't we family, you could let me go, and Sam and I can help you see the light again. Just like your mom used to say right? The light will guide you home. Come home Dean!” Another blow to your head. He knocks you out again.

As you come to, Dean is reaching for the blade. He's actually going to use it on you, kill you. Coming to terms with your fate, you start to hum and mumble 'simple man by lynryd skynrd'. It was always your favorite. It was everyones favorite. You figured it was a good enough song to go out to. You peek open your eyes as much as you can. Throbbing and seeping blood, you're finally able to see Dean stop and stare at you. He drops the blade, looking down at the mark and then back at you. His face twisted, unsure of what is reality. You don't stop singing. Second verse, he's closer now. A single tear rolling down your face; knowing if he ever came back, got the mark off, he wouldn't forgive himself. Even when he's unable to save someone on a job, he's hard on himself. You can't imagine what he'll feel like, so you pity him.

He's closer now, hands around your throat. He's trying to fight you and himself. The pain and anger in his eyes turns black, then normal again. You look him straight in those familiar faint green eyes, and say your final words, “I forgive you.” The world goes dark.

Heaven was always described as 'your own personal paradise'. You're wondering why yours is in a hospital. White walls and curtains. The coldness in your nose suprises you. Who knew paradise would be so cold, gray, and foggy. Nothing was easy to make out, but you could definitely tell it was a hospital. You hate hospitals, confused as to why you're heaven isn't what you expected, you look around to see if there is a recognizable face. Hoping for maybe your Dad, Mom, or sister.

No one. There's a loud beeping noise and you look up to see a monitor. Looks like the vitals of a dead man. You start to wonder maybe God put you in the wrong paradise. So you pray. But words don't come out, and you drift back into the dark.

Blinking once, then twice, then several times. The light is bright. You can tell it's daytime. Still the same Heaven as before, but this time you feel everything. The pain, the tenderness. You remember, and know that you're not dead. Relieved, but still uncertain, you try to move. Expecting straps to hold you back, your right arm goes flying in the air. Not used to being free. You look down at your body. It's bandaged and braced. A mountain of a man peeks through the curtains. You have instant relief when you recognize Sam. He has the 'poor puppy eyes' look, and you put your hand on his. He grips it tight, but gentle enough. The gentle giant. Trying to let out a smile, a shadow lurks behind Sam. Instant fear as you realize it's Dean. Panic sets in, and your body cannot handle it. The monitors go off, you see Sam try to calm you down, and Dean sneaking away, head down, disgraced with himself. Nurses rush in with the Doctor to make sure you're okay. Tears well up in your eyes. You somehow cannot forget what Dean has done to you.

Weeks in the hospital, the only visitor you had was Sam. Trying to keep your spirits up, he shows you all of his research following up on possible cases. Between playing cards, reading books, and making fun of the new Taylor Swift song, you ask Sam, “How is he?”, and each answer is the same. “No better, no worse,” Sam replies. After the panic attack, Dean thought it best if he didn't show his face anymore to you. Once healed, you were allowed to go home as long as you didn't saw off the leg brace, and practice using the crutches. Knowing how stubborn you are, Sam rolled his eyes, and promised to watch over you.

Happy to finally break out, you laugh as you fumble with the crutches. Sam lets out a worrisome smile. “I'm fine Sam. Really.” You look up to him and give him a carefree toothy grin. Throwing all of your things into the impala, because Sam refused to drive “that stupid pink truck”, you beg Sam to let you pick the music.

Pulling up to the bunker, your stomach sinks a little. You know you'll have to face Dean eventually. Fogiving is easy for you, but forgetting is a whole other learning curve. Never being the one to admit you're wrong first, or facing real problems, you know it's somehting that needs to be worked on. Staring off into the distance a bit, Sam pulls you out of it as he opens the door. “We're stocked up on all your favorite foods, drinks, and even have Netflix!” He says, nudging you arm and attempting a playful laugh.

Weeks of healing, you finally are able to get up into your truck. You need some air, and desperately needed to get away. The outside world was calling your name, so were the pink wheels on that old ford. First hours, days, then weeks went by, and not a single glance from Dean. No words, no contact. Ignored you completely. Anytime you tried to reach him, asking to grab a drink at the dirty bird bar, to researching a simple ghost job, he pushed you away. You spent so much time in your room with your thoughts. Trying not to think about the event that almost ended you, and most importantly the relationship with Dean. Even Sammy has started treating you differently like you're broken. After Sam telling you to stay home again, while they hunt monsters, you'd had enough. Weekend getaway to a cabin in the woods. You leave your phone on your nighstand and decide you need some peace to clear your mind.

“Fill her up,” you say shutting off your truck to get gas. Getting out to grab snacks from inside, a long lost friend appears. Not able to look away from the light, he shields your eyes for you. You forgot how enchanthing the bright white was. “Cas what are you doing here?” You ask as you looks at you stearnly.

“I was told to keep a tab on you, and you left the bunker. So I'm here to bring you back.” He says reaching for your arm.

“Under who's orders?!” You demand. Not letting him answer you back away and say, “The boys? Really can't even get some fresh air!” Clearly angry, you hit your tailgate. Cas immediatley lays his hands on you to heal you. Being an angel has it's perks. But you wanted to feel something, Cas didn't exactly understand what being human was really like.

Brushing his hand away, you try to reason with him. “Go back to the bunker, grab my phone, and bring it to me. That way I have it on me in case I need anything. I'm still going on my very needed trip. What I don't need is a babysitter” Before you could blink twice, Cas had your phone in hand. “Do not turn this off and always keep this on you.” Rolling your eyes you respond sarcastically, “Thanks Dad. Can I leave now?” Clearly unsure of his decision, Cas side eyes you, but finally nods, and leaves you to your road trip snacking.

The cabin is the same as you left it two summers ago. A couple empty beers scattered, but the rest of the place in neat tidy order. Your mom always liked everything in a specific spot, and you try your best to remember that while staying there. Picking up the bottles to recycle them, you smile and remember the good times spent here with your family, both families. Thinking about the boys, you let out a sigh of relief. Thanking the angels that Sam showed up when he did in the storm cellar that day. The word of God being forcefully put in Dean's hands, purifying him instantly. A bright gold light shining through the brick like object, blasting Dean into Sam. His brother holding onto Dean as he comes to and realizes, he's saved. Sam's words will stay with you forever, that story will stay with you forever. You smile as you remember, you were the one who stalled Dean as Sam had come to the rescue.

“Oh shit!” You say as your line tugs and gets stronger. You were too busy admiring the cotton candy sunset to see your fishing line got a bite. It was a warm afternoon, but turning brisk fast. Fall was settling in, you could tell as the wing picked up every now and then. The trees leaves turning the auburn colors. Setting your beer down, you reel it in, but your bait is completely gone.

“You never were good at fishing.” You quickly stand from a lousy folded plastic chair, and turn around to find Dean, smiling at your loss. Clearly shocked, you ask “What are you doing here? Cas told you didn't he. Lousy friend.”

You put your pole down, and open the cooler to offer Dean a beer. He takes it and slowly sits down on the edge of the dock, feet dangling. You sit down next to him, opening your own beer. “Where's Sam?” you ask.

“Working the case still.” He notices your cocked eyebrow from a side glance. As if he would ever leave Sammy alone, he continues, “It's easy, just some pyscho vengeful ghost.” He sips his beer, straring at the now setting sun.

Getting straight to it, you ask, “Why are you here Dean?” Staring at him, you notice the weariness.

He lowers his head, gripping his beer tight. You see his shoulders move up and down slowly. Sighing heavily, he looks at you, completely looks at you for the first time. It catches your breath, because you have never seen a man so broken, Dean so vulnerable. You can tell he's been fighting with himself, beating himself up over the events that took place. Defeated, face full of hatred for himself, he doesn't say a word. You see his jaw tighten, his temples twitching. Reaching for his shoulder to show trust, but he pulls away shaking his head. “I don't trust myself with you” He musters, as he stands up to walk toward the cabin. Thinking about chasing after him, forcing him to talk, but you can't move. Like cement, you stay planted in your spot. The sun finally sets, but you still sit there, listening to the sound of the frogs.

Grabbing your things from the dock, you head inside. What could you say to make him believe you. Would you believe yourself if you said, “Everything is okay.”? Is it? Inside, you notice Dean is cleaning up what seems to be like the bathroom mirror. Understanding what just happened, you bend down to help and he stops you. Gripping your hands tight, he says “No. You don't need to clean up my mess. Any of my messes.” With a dustpan, he walks to the trash to dump the shards of glass.

“What's that suppose to mean? Am I not allowed to care? To try to save you from yourself?” He winces at the last part.

Turning around to face you, but leaning against the kitchen counter, he looks at you cold and promises, “You will never have to save me again. I will never hurt you or anyone else again.” He looks down and then back up into your eyes, moving towards the door, “You wanna know why I'm here? I came here to say goodbye.”

Stopping him dead in his tracks, you look up at him wondering how you and Sam could even survive without Dean. You start to cry. It's not like you to let anything out, but you stand there, tears pouring out of your face. “No.” was all you could muster up. Very stearn, you said it again, “No.” He grabs you and pulls you in close. Hanging on to eachother, as if it's the last time.

You both stay like this awhile, not realizing it's way over due. “You're not leaving us. We won't let you.” you say confidently, and at this he lets go. He tenses again, trying to be strong, and insists “You and Sammy have to let me go. I've been nothing but trouble. I'm bad. I'm not worth your lives.” Clearly needing reassurance, but not knowing how, you yell, “I went through all of that for nothing?!” Talking with your hands like usual, brows furious now, you continue, “After everything, you still think you're not worth it? Sam and I have done everything for you, for us, for this family.”

He turns his back on you holding back tears, but instead letting out his frustration, “You don't what it's like to need constant saving. I need control of myself, I don't have control.” He yells as he punches the wall. It startles you.

“Oh, I don't know what it's like?” you start, “You don't think that I was ever at a low in my life. What losing my family did to me, the things I did in return. It wasn't until you and your brother, that I finally found solace!” you scoff, “Please you're not the only broken one around here.” Realizing that anger isn't the route to go down, you quietly move toward him. Pushing back the fear that has been dormant, you hold his hand. “We are family.” you say softly. “Family doesnt end in blood.” You wipe away the blood trickling from his knuckle with your shirt.

His hands are shaking now, as he holds them up inching closer to your neck. You flinch, and he tries to pull away. You immediatley grab his hands, and put them to your cheeks, making his squish them together a little. Tears welling up in your eyes, you let out a low, “i'm a little guppy...” It was something you two always did to cheer eachother up. Getting the other to laugh when you're both at a low point has been almost like a game. So far, he's beeing in the lead. Before you can finish, his lips are on yours. Waves of heat roll from your head to your toes, your wet cheeks brushing his scruff, and you give in, even being scared and uncertain. Dean pulls away, looks at you stearn, and says “I'm going to miss you.”

You're still standing not sure of what just happened, and you hear the door slam shut. It seemed as though your feet wouldn't move, but then you finally took a deep breath, turned around and bolted out the door. He was getting in the impala, but before he could jet off, you opened that door and ripped him out. Standing toe to toe, you slap him. That bottled rage unleashes. Then you connect your fist to his face. Unprepared, Dean fell against the car. Shocked at how hard you hit, he starts to realize you're not going to stop, so he holds your hands down. Red in the face from anger, and him red because well there's now blood pouring from his nose, you finally relax so he loosens his rains on you.

“What was that?!” You ask. “Who do you think you are? That is not okay. I am not okay.” Turning around, hands on your hips, shaking your head. Instantly defensive, you gasp, turn to face him, and make sure he knows, “I am not like every other girl. I don't deserve to be treated like any other girl.” He opens his mouth to say something, but you immediatley talk over him, “You're going to have to kill me.” Dean looks at you clearly confused. “Why do I have to kill you?”

Walking back and forth now, you respond, “Over my dead body...You're not walking out on us. Not Sammy, not me. Not our future. People need us, they need you.” Stopping, and turning to face Dean, you say, “I need you. And if you get in that impala, you better have shot me first because I won't stop looking for you.” Walking toward him now, pointing your finger in his chest, you end with “I refuse to give up on you.” At that, he looks down at you, smirks, and responds, “You're stubborn, you know that?” You break a smile, and say “I learned from the best.” Throwing you over his shoulder, he walks into the cabin.

Completely surprised as to what took place last night, you turn around and look at Dean's green eyes. Understanding now, the feelings that were dormant for so long. Realizing now that DemonDean only told the truth to hurt you.You put your hand to his face, brushing his cheek with the back of your finger, and he closes his eyes to just feel your touch. “You're not allowed to leave.” He nods, reaches for your hand with his, and lightly kisses your fingers. “I will never forgive myself...” He says, and you respond instantly, with your pointer finger shooshing his lips, “I forgive you, and will continue to remind you that you're the good guy.” Closing your eyes, thinking about the first time meeting these boys, not knowing how they would change your life for the better, you smile. He rolls you over with ease, and tucks you in close to his warm naked chest. Deep, and grunting, he says your name into your hair. You lift your head a little to let him know you're listening, “hm?” “I don't deserve this” he says, “I don't deserve you.” You respond while picking his hand up moving it closer to your chest, “Neither do I.”

[whirlybirdwhat]

East Sea of Monsters - Chapter 5

Franky starts. to notice some weird shit about his crew.

Read the entire series on Ao3 for better quality and authors notes! Gen, creepy, featuring all of the Straw Hats, multi-chapter story.

“The East Blue has a different nickname to those in the Grand Line, and those who hail it as home have a few… unique traits.”

-----------

Creepy - Franky

Now, Franky had seen some weird stuff. The Franky Family’s weird, Water 7’s weird, hell, he’s weird.

But he has to say, the Straw Hat’s take the cake on how weird, how crazyyou can get.

And he’s not just talking about the way the Captain’s made of rubber, their doctor’s a reindeer, their swordsman wields three katanas (one of them is supposedly cursed), and the latest member of their crew is a talking skeleton.

Nah.

That stuffs pretty SUPER if you ask him, the kind he can roll with.

It’s the other things that get to him.

The creepy things.

-

He first notices these creepythings when he goes into the kitchen to restock his cola and grab a midnight stack after working all night, and finds two pairs of glowing eyes staring at him from a top the counter, accented by a sharp-toothed mouth and far too much glistening red wet stuff for him to handle.

Like a man, he assumes he’s gone far too long without sleep and back tracks out of the room as quickly as he dares before his mind can fool him further.

The eyes follow him every step of the way, and even the thing starts shifting unnaturally to follow him out of the room before Franky gives up on acting SUPER and just sprints away.

The next day he thinks it’s just a nightmare, before realizing he was most definitely awake, his eyes are alwaysperfectly functional, and Luffy just thanked him at breakfast for not ratting his midnight snack out to Sanji.

Hell.

What the fu-

-

Thriller Bark was creepy for a number of reasons, most of them relating to the island itself and its inhabitants – zombies, shadows, ghosts and SUPER talking skeleton dudes – but Franky can handle that.

It’s the othercreepiness that really stands out to Franky, makes him feel like that time before on the ship – the kind that he thinks isn’t real but knows later it most definitely was.

He first notices it as Brook boards the ship. He seems positively delighted to be there, to be among human souls again, but all the same he appears to… lean awayfrom certain members of the crew. Franky would dismiss it if he didn’t know that A) Brook leans towardother members of the crew and B) Luffy, the most welcoming to the skeleton, is the one that makes the skeleton the most nervous.

(Franky is sure that if he asked the man, he would say something along the lines of They make my hair stand on ends – not that I have any hair – Oh wait! I do! Yohohoho!

He doesn’t ask though. He isn’t sure he wants to know what he thinks Brook knows.

But he’s a builder, a shipwright, however. It’s in his nature to poke around for a potential problem.

Not that his crew is a problem, of course.)

The next creepy things he notices are more Zoro related. It’s subtle, wouldn’t really be an eye catcher if Franky hadn’t been looking for it already.

You see – ever since he met the swordsman, he feels as if he isn’t actually seeing all of him at once. There’s always been a haze, sitting about him, as subtle as they come, like a cloud on a misty day.

Seemingly normal, but with a closer look, it’s like it doesn’t match the rest of the world.

So, he keeps recalibrating and recalibrating his eyes, keeps looking for the odd moments when Zoro seems to just – fadefrom existence, like he slips out of sight and just doesn’t come back until one the crew drags him to where he’s supposed to be.

(Franky entertains the thought that maybe this is why he’s always lost but dismisses it almost immediately.)

And here – on Thriller Bark, when life itself is being torn asunder by humans playing devils and gods – that chain tethering him to thisrealm seems to solidify, and the cloud resting about his shoulders fades away…

Leaving Franky to catch glimpses of limbs coated in shiny green scales, and eyes that flicker red from the back of a green head. They wink at him when Franky stares too long, and fade away the next moment, as if there was only ever cropped mossy hair on the man’s head.

The cyborg would think it was Robin’s handiwork if the eye wasn’t distinctly beast like, and Robin concentrating on using a hundred other summoned limbs to defeat an enemy.

The fading veil like thingover Zoro is even pointed out by the monster that has Luffy shadow of all things and that’s when Franky knowsthis stuff isn’t justin his head.

Because if that idiot can say Hey you guys are little demons (meaning it literally, Franky thinks) and why are you so foggy green sword guyand make Robin smile that scary knowing smile of hers, Franky is definitelysane.

He hopes.

However, the creepiest thing by faris Zoro’s smile, toothy, bloody, and with more thirst and death than Franky has ever seen before.

But maybe that’s just Zoro. He can never tell with the guy.

(So yes, Zoro is creepy. And Franky doesn’t like the way when he shouts Three Thousand Worlds!The world seems to split for just a second, as if a man just stepped and sliced through three thousand places at once and still managed to dissect an enemy with three clear strokes of sharp (cursed, haunted) blades.

No - Franky doesn’t like it at all – because, on stormy nights at Water 7, Tom would give in to Franky’s pleas for the scariest stories Tom knew of, as it fit the mood and would be SUPER during the storm, c’mon Tom! and those stories would oft feature tales of a man – a monster – with a dark hole for a heart, and a pitch of tar for a soul.

The man had a penchant for flashing across seas with a single step, havoc in his wake, as if the barrier between realms had no hold on him, as if space bent to his will and not the other way around.

It reminds him of Zoro, sometimes, when he casts a look at the swordsman in battle.)

-

The third incident is, funnily enough, with the third member of the ‘monster trio’, Sanji.

Franky thinks he finally knows why they’re called the monster trio, beyond them being simply ridiculously powerful.

The incident occurs when they are in the New World, after two years of training and a heartbreak so deep it cuts all of them to their soul.

(Franky does not like the rumors of Marineford. They say it was the War of the Best, that only the most powerful walked its bloody path, but Franky has heard that there was more than men fighting there –

And that there was a suspicious plume of fire at Ace’s grave, three days after Luffy rang the bell, a horrific mimicry of the fire that was said to have warred over the dead man’s father’s grave three days after his execution.)

Franky’s finally back in his workshop, with the sound of his crew, his family, surrounding him with a cacophonous yet beautiful noise and a new idea under his hands, and he couldn’t be happier.

But the next bit requires a bit of balancing if he wants to make it work – he has to lift the glass panel into the eye of the ring, but he can only reach it if he uses one hand, leans on his tiptoes, and stretches the other arm out for balance.

In hindsight, he should have added this bit first.

Oh well.

Almost there…. Almost got it – easy, easy alri-

“Franky?”

“AH!”

CRASH!

With a thunderous sound, Franky whacks his had around, turning his head as he does, letting the glass shatter to the floor and nearly hitting the tray of Cola out of Sanji’s hands.

And that wouldn’t normally be odd, Franky can be clumsy especially when he’s focused and someone startles him (he supposes he needs to retrain himself in that regard, before their little… break … Luffy had taken to jumping up on Franky’s shoulders while he was working to see the new creation, and Franky had learned not to startle – Luffy will probably continue to do that again (at least some things stay the same…)) however it’s what happens in that second of chaos that freaks Franky out.

Franky’s hand, big and metal as it is, should have grazed Sanji’s side. But it didn’t – and not because Sanji dodged away either.

Instead, it is as if there was a giant hole in his side, gaping and wide yet perfectly ordinary, so that Franky only touched a black silk suit instead of the skin underneath.

That’s not all – in the flashing second, with as focused as Franky’s eyes were, he could see a wisp of smoke and something sparking flickering from the cook’s pointy mouth, as swirly eyebrows stood out against literal ash-gray skin.

He doesn’t know how to react, doesn’t even know if what he saw was real, only gives a small, high pitched laugh and ‘yeah, what about you? You startled me!’ when Sanji asks if he’s okay.

He sits in a kind of stupor, cold cola held in a metal (shaking) hand as Sanji takes his leave.

What did I just see?

Franky casts a glance at the shattered piece of glass on the ground, and the empty space in the machine it was supposed to go in.

Guess I’ll know soon enough.

-

Thankfully, beyond shadows in the corner of his eyes, weird hazy visions, spooky feelings and flashing eyes in the middle of the night, Franky only has one more major …. freakyevent before he gets the (terrifying) answer he’s looking for.

Nami’s yelling at him for bringing the Watcher (named by Chopper for its big eyepiece after he came down to see if any glass had gotten in his foot after the accident with Sanji) up on deck, as its apparently ‘Too big! I can’t get a proper tan with that in the way!’ and ‘What does it even do’but he doesn’t particularly care.

After all – she’s one of the five reasons he brought the thing up here.

(Brook had been uneasy around her and Usopp too – despite the fact that Usopp was more scared of him, and Nami was a woman (damn bony pervert.)  Both were relatively weak and lacking any freaky power like the Monster Trio had, so it had buggedFranky for ages why Brook was tense around them andthe Monster Trio, but not the cyborg or the talking reindeer.)

He turns the machine on just as a dark cloud passes over the sun.

Suddenly – the world is cold, and dark, and dreary, and Franky knows his eyes look far away as he peers through the lens at his comrades.

Wait, what… what?

They aren’t there – only Robin, sitting on her lawn chair, is.

Instead of the others, Franky views a shapeless form of wind and cloud and bursting yellow eyes, and something crouching in the corner of the deck, feathery, shadowed and whimsical.

It has far too many joints to be human.

Franky pulls away as a smashing, sparking noise emits from his left, and a crashing from his right.

The suns shining on them again, and the chilling song Franky swears he must have heard is already nothing but a distant memory.

Nami’s hand rests on the right side of the machine (is Franky imagining the little claw-like scrapes just before her nails?), denting it gently, while faint smoking (a bullet?– no, it smells far too much like Usopp’s Stars to be that) wisps from the cracks of the mention to his left.

“Franky,” Nami smiles, all knowing and terrifying, as her eyes seem to glow a particular shade of molten gold (weren’t her eyes brown?) “I suggest you stop.”

Usopp looks over and cocks his head like a bird, as if his place hadn’t been filled with feathers a second ago. He doesn’t say anything, and that is somehow scarier than Nami’s words.

“Okay?” She prods.

“Okay,” Franky agrees, and promptly begins to dismantle the machine.

“Good.”

The spare parts find a home in the bowels of the ship where only Luffy treads normally, as Franky can’t stand the sight of them, even if it was good metal (can’t bear to throw them out either, something tells him they’ll cause more trouble in the ocean depths than on the ship).

He feels all cold and empty when he looks at them.

He shouldn’t feel that way on his ship of dreams, surrounding by loving crew members.

-

Robin is the one to finally give him the answer to all the freakiness his crew has going on. He thinks she was amused by it before the Watcher mishap.

(She too avoids the metal when she can. It isn’t like her at all, and it’s the final tipping point in her observation of his interactions with their less… human campanions.)

It’s the day after said mishap and Franky’s still all jittery, feeling like he’s seen something taboo, when Robin glides up to him in the aquarium, where Franky’s relaxing with some Cola Floats (Who knew cola could taste so good with ice cream?).

“Did you know that five of our crew hail from the East Blue? The Going Merry did as well.” She says simply, and hands him an old but cared for book, with pieces of paper – newspaper clippings? And some notes? – sticking out of it. “Read that. Make sure it comes back to me in good condition” She finishes with some grabbing motions, taking Franky back to the time he first joined the crew which results in him nodding vigorously, and the woman disappearing into the hall with a satisfied smile.

The title is East Sea: Devil Waters, and Franky gulps.

Inside, the freakiness is explained, and something in him relaxes with it. At least he knows whythey’re all freaky now, and that all the rumors he’s heard are true.

(His questions are answered and somethings he didn’t even know were strange had an explanation.

He had heard of Klabautermann before, he knew Merry had one, and he knows Sunny does as well. But – this explains the extra presence he felt in Sunny’s hull some days.

He’s glad he created the Mini Merry – who knew ships could have restless ghosts? He’s happy the lamb has a final resting – haunting –place, safe in the cradle of her comrades and out of the ocean’s depths.)

[chibinightowl]

Clowns of the Corn

For my friend @spazzterror, who has been waiting for this story for well over a year. Can be read as a sequel to The Great Minivan Escape, but that’s up to you. 

~*~*~

“Jesus fucking Christ! I swear to fuck, Dickie, when we get outta here, I’m gonna kill ya.” Jason emphasizes his point by firing into the dark corn field again, the hushed laughter of the yet to be determined creatures rising into a shriek as one of them collapses. Dick isn’t normally one for killing but whatever these things are, they’re hell on the livestock and are creepier than anything he’s seen in a while, so he’s more willing to make an exception. Small wonder Clark asked if he would come out to visit his parents and poke around while he was off-world. At this point though, he thinks Zatanna would been a better choice. “Why blame me? You came of your own free will.” He cracks another glow stick and holds it high. The creatures don’t like the light at all, even lurid green that it is, and scramble back a couple of rows. There’s barely a moon at all tonight, and if it weren’t for the starlight lenses in their masks, they’d be completely blind. “Come to Kansas, he says. There’ll be pie, he says,” Jason snorts mockingly. “Fuck this shit and fuck your mother.” “Language,” Dick tries but Jason laughs at him and releases a stream of profanity that would make even a sailor sit down and take notes. Okay, so maybe he was a little too eager for some one on one time with Jason. They rarely see each other except for patrol and the last time they did meet up, it was after their adventure with that minivan where Dick made his brother watch the movie he’d borrowed some moves from. Needless to say, Jason loved it. And so did Dick. Time with Jason is a treat, so when he randomly tossed out the invite to join him in Smallville, it surprised him that the other man said yes. Clearly, he’s regretting this now. The vitriol slows down and Dick takes a chance. “These things have to hide somewhere during the day. They completely avoid the light.” It works. “Gotta be somewhere other than a barn. A tunnel? One of those grain stacks?” “You mean a silo?” “Yeah, that.” Dick wishes he’d thought to ask Uncle Jon about possible places to scope out before he and Jason wandered out into the cornfield earlier. This is so much more than he signed up for. “You know what this means, right?” “We’re pulling an all-nighter that would make the Pretender proud?” 

“No. We need to capture one of these things and stick a tracker on it.” 

Jason laughs again. It’s a good villain laugh, really. “If they’re in one of those grain thingies, I’m gonna light that sucker up and send it to the motherfuckin’ moon.” Dick can’t help but notice the more stressed his brother gets, the more his original lower Gotham accent makes a reappearance. “You know what this kind of reminds me of?” he asks instead. “What?” Jason asks warily. “Children of the Corn.” “I already died once, I doubt He Who Walks Behind the Rows will want me.” The chittering laughter around them quiets completely. Not a sound can be heard in the cornfield aside from their ragged breathing. Instinctively, Dick and Jason press closer.

“That can’t be good,” Jason murmurs. “No shame in a strategic retreat.” “That’s what you’re calling it?” Jason is already moving, shouting and shooting as he charges back down the row. Dick is hot on his heels, still holding up the glow stick. The laughter starts up again, louder than before. In the rows beside them, small dark shapes keep pace. It’s now or never. Dick slips a tracking device out of a compartment in his gloves and throws it hard to his left. This one is designed to catch hold on any surface and he utters a quiet prayer that it does what it’s supposed to. “I see the lanterns!” Jason shouts. The Kent’s have taken to leaving torches and camp lanterns around the barn, the chicken coop, and their house since these things appeared. If Clark hadn’t been on his way to mediate a peace treaty between two planets when his parents called him about the strange happenings, Dick doubts this would have escalated the way it has. As it is, he needs to call Raven.  

Something catches hold of Dick’s foot, yanking hard. He stumbles and twists, trying to spin and regain his momentum, but the weight on his leg grows heavier. The ground is hard beneath him as he slams into it with a loud grunt. Dick spits the dirt out of his mouth and doesn’t stop moving, rolling and kicking hard at the dark little... he raises the glow stick he still grips tightly and blinks.  

Clown.  

It’s a little clown the size of a garden gnome. One with sharp pointy teeth and a dark stain around its mouth.  

Dick does not want those teeth on him. Nope. Not happening.

He doesn’t have to worry. The creature’s head disappears in a spray of blood, bone, and brain matter from Jason’s well-placed shot.  

“Get up,” he snarls, and Dick is back on his feet in a flash, scooping up the little body to analyze from the safety of the patio.  

“Did you see that?”  

“Yeah and I can never unsee it. Now move your fat ass!” Jason shouts and shoves Dick in front of him, snatching the glow stick. “My ass is not fat!” Dick puts on a final burst of speed and launches himself out of the cornfield and onto the mowed lawn of the Kent farm. In his arms, he can feel the body of the little whatever it is disintegrate as the light from Jonathan Kent’s lantern hits it. So much for his evidence.

“What on God’s green earth was that?” the old farmer asks, holding the lantern high against the dark and angry laughter that emanates from his cornfield. A few steps back and to his left is Martha Kent, shotgun in hand and covering him.

“Fucking demon clowns,” Jason swears as he lurches out of the field. Dick spots a bloody gash on the outside of his brother’s leg that hadn’t been there before.

Well, this is a rather ignoble ending to their adventure tonight. Sighing, Dick flops down by Uncle Jon’s feet. “Your cornfield is infested with little demonic clowns.”

“That’s new,” Aunt Martha comments blandly. “How do we get rid of them?”

Jason turns and takes another shot into the darkness. The laughter crescendos before disappearing with an angry hiss. “I don’t know what Dickie has planned, but I’m headin’ to church in the morning to stock up on holy water.”

~*~*~

After a long night of keeping watch, the sun finally rises and Dick is able to grab a few hours of some well-earned sleep. When he comes stumbling down the stairs just before noon, he spots Jason on the sofa in a pair of shorts that probably belong to Clark or Kon with his leg carefully propped up on the coffee table with the help of a few throw pillows. The white bandage runs almost the length of his thigh, ending just above his knee.

“Are you supposed to be sitting like that?” Dick asks around a yawn.

Jason lowers his book and glares. “It gave Aunt Martha something to do.”

There is no way either of them can refuse a request from the old woman and they both know it. She fussed mightily over the wound last night even as she calmly stripped Jason out of his pants last night to get a better look at it. Dick is pretty sure he’s never seen his brother’s ears get that red before and wishes he’d dared to take a picture and send it to Alfred for posterity.

Rather than pick a fight that Jason is clearly itching for, Dick tries a different tact. “The tracker move at all since dawn?”

The little bug he’d tossed into the darkness last night stuck. Just before sunrise, the creatures surrounding the farm retreated, leaving to protect their own hides from the sun.

Jason picks up the tablet sitting beside him and swipes at the screen. “Nope. Same spot. You hear from Raven yet?”

“Yeah. Got a text saying she’ll be here in a few hours.” Dick sits down next to Jason. “Where are Aunt Martha and Uncle Jon?”

“Town. I gave them Bruce’s black card from your wallet and said to have fun with it.”

Dick rolls his eyes. “You do know they’ll use their own, right?”

“They better not be considering how much ammo I asked them to get for me.” It’s plain to see the thought of Bruce’s card being used for this amuses Jason immensely.

This is an argument to save for later. “How much sleep you get?”

“About the same as you.”

“Still need to go to church?”

“Just waitin’ on you.”

There are a number of small churches in the community, but Dick drives their rented SUV to a very specific one. He’s never been all that religious, so it comes as a surprise that Jason kind of is. Vaguely, he remembers reading in Jason’s file that Willis Todd was raised Irish Catholic, so he supposes this is where it comes from.

Considering what Jason lugs into the small church with him, Dick can’t blame him. Holy water versus demon. He’s seen the effects that the power of belief holds over creatures of hell, at least in the hands of the right person. Whether Jason’s belief is firm enough, Dick isn’t certain, but he can tell right away as Jason makes his way out of the church about half an hour later that his brother is at least happy with what he’s got on him now.

The gym bag with the six gallons of holy water is carefully placed in the backseat and Jason gingerly takes his seat next to Dick up front. From the pocket of his dark gray hoodie, a strand of beads peeks out.

“You know the rosary?” Dick asks out of reflex and instantly wishes he hadn’t.

But Jason doesn’t lash out like he expects. “Yeah. Misspent youth.” He’s quiet for a time as Dick drives back toward the Kent farm, idly fingering the wooden beads. “I know it’s kinda stupid, the fact that I believe this shit will work. Especially since that also means I’ve got a one way ticket to Hell when I kick it a second time, but some things just stick with you, whether you want them to or not.”

This is something Dick knows all too well. “For what it’s worth, I believe the holy water will work. Better than your bullets.”

Jason grins sharply. “Well, then that means you get to help me stockpile a bunch of little holy hand grenades.”

“Only if they’re from Antioch.”

From the way Jason laughs, Dick knows this is one movie reference he gets.

~*~*~

The tracker leads them to an old, decrepit barn a few miles away from the Kent farm. Crumbling foundations of a demolished farmhouse are nestled in the tall grass, leading Dick to suspect the home may have been abandoned after a tornado and the land sold off to the surrounding landowners. Well, it just means there is no one here to witness what’s about to go down or to get caught in the crossfire.

In the late afternoon light, the red from Jason’s helmet shines darker than what Dick is used to. Then again, it’s not often either of them are dressed in full gear during daylight hours.

“Can’t I just set off a few pounds of C4 in there?” Jason is saying as they pile out of the SUV. Raven had met them at the Kent’s a short time before. “That’ll solve most of our problems. Let in some light and whoosh. No more clown gremlins.”

“If only it were that easy,” Rave replies, her attention already on the creepy barn.

The disgruntled noise from Jason is answer enough. “If the Pretender were here, he’d let me. Timmy likes a big boom.”

There’s the faintest hint of a smile on Raven’s face. “He does,” she agrees. “But I think your explosion would just be a waste if we set it off too soon. A portal has been opened here.”

“To where?” Dick asks. The thought of some underworld gateway so close to the Kent’s makes his skin crawl.

“I’m not sure yet.” Raven starts walking through the high grass.

Jason pops open the trunk and hands Dick one of the buckets full of their holy hand grenades. His wounded leg seems to be giving him some trouble, but he refused to stay behind. Wordlessly, they follow after Raven.

The barn door doesn’t close properly anymore, the painted wood splintered and cracked from the elements and neglect. At a signal from Raven, Dick sets down his bucket and grabs hold of the door, sliding it open on rusted tracks that resist less than they should considering the state of disrepair. A foul scent of rotting meat drifts out.

Dick has unfortunately smelled worse. “I hope that’s the missing cow.”

Raven is already shaking her head, even if she hasn’t set foot into the barn yet. “Look,” she says, pointing inside.

Jason peers over her shoulder and shakes his head. “This is right out of a bad horror movie.”

Peering in, Dick has to agree. Blood and gore and bone are everywhere, too much for just the cow. It could be a trick of the light that gives the floor an illusion of moving, but he knows better. The warmth and the rot is a breeding ground for maggots and flies.

“Those symbols on the wall…,” Raven says, trailing off as she levitates into the air and enters the hellish space to get a better look. “I’d hazard a guess and say that not all is well here in Smallville.”

“A cult?” Dick asks, standing in the doorway, but not yet willing to walk inside. There is plenty of daylight, so he’s not worried about the creatures sneaking up on them, but the wariness of a trained detective has been instilled in him since he was a child. Out of the corner of his eye, he catches Jason hefting a couple of his water balloons to cover them.

Raven shrugs, floating toward a darker smudge on the floor. “Or just a bunch of kids who got their hands on the wrong kind of book.” She points at an object that is surprisingly clean of blood. “Like that.”

Dick has a feeling that as soon as this particular case is over, he’s going to burn this particular uniform entirely. Blood magic. It never ceases to amaze him how powerful it is and the kind of evil that can be wrought when used by the wrong person. He removes a large evidence bag from a compartment in his boot and enters the barn, stepping carefully. The air is thick with the metallic tang of old blood with an undercurrent of old hay that’s been left to rot.

“Where are the garden gnomes hiding?” Jason calls out as Dick carefully picks up the book and bags it for Raven. She makes it disappear in the folds of her dark blue cloak.

“They’re in the storm cellar,” Raven replies. “Waiting for us.”

“Geez, like that’s not creepy at all.”

“They’re creatures of utter darkness,” the young sorceress answers. “Light of any kind is an anathema to them.”

“Is the portal down there too?” Jason asks.

“Yes.”

Dick sighs and gags silently as he gets hit with a fresh wave of decaying flesh. “Let’s get to work then.”

They all have their parts to play. Raven prepares herself for the magics she’ll need to unleash while Dick takes copious amounts of pictures of the interior of the barn and tries to preserve any evidence that could provide a clue as to the identities of the people who died in here. He finds five skulls and bags each one, hoping dental records will reveal their names. Jason makes his way around the perimeter of the barn, carefully avoiding the entrance to the storm cellar, and sets his bombs. This place is going up in smoke as soon as that gate is gone.

It's almost sundown by the time they’re done and gather at the wooden slats covering the stairs leading into the storm cellar.

“This is gonna be great,” Jason chortles as he hefts his water balloons again. “A little light, a little holy water, some magic, and then it all goes boom.”

“You were singing a different tune last night,” Dick says, standing as he finishes lighting the camping lantern Uncle Jon purchased for them earlier in the day.

“We didn’t have holy hand grenades last night.”

Raven chuckles in that quiet way of hers. “I like that movie.”

“It’s a classic.”

“Are we ready?” Raven asks, holding her hands up.

“Let’s kill some clowns.”

The wood covering is torn away with a sweep of Raven’s hand and Dick holds the lantern high even as mage lights race down the stone steps to light the way. Familiar laughter and hisses echo up and around them as they make their way down into the storm cellar. In the center of the floor is a swirling pit of darkness that seems to swallow anything that touches it.

Just as it was last night, the creatures are difficult to make out as they dart from shadow to shadow, hiding from the light. Jason takes careful aim and throws one of his water balloons into a dark corner. A piercing wail meets their ears, even louder than the ones they’ve heard previously.

All hell breaks loose as the pit emits a pulse and more of the miniature clowns appear. Most disintegrate immediately under the powerful camp lantern and Raven’s mage lights, but a few manage to sneak away into the shadows. Dick’s one job is to keep the light steady and that’s what he does, covering Raven as she works her magic and Jason as he lobs colorful water balloons into all corners of the cellar.

“They just keep coming!” Jason shouts over the loud laughter that circles around them, shrieks and cries from over a dozen different little mouths, each one wanting nothing more than to tear them apart. One bucket is empty and the other is getting dangerously low. “What’s Raven doing?”

Dick knows better than to distract her unless she’s directly under attack. “Working, just like you.”

“While you just get to stand there all nice and pretty.” Jason tosses a water balloon directly at the inky portal and Dick swears it hiccups.

“Anytime you want to switch…” Dick knows his brother won’t. Jason has better aim and loves to lord it over him.

“Hard pass.” Another water balloon is thrown into the portal and Raven’s eyes blaze.

“One more, Jason. And then we need to get out of here.”

Jason picks up his bucket and throws the rest of his holy hand grenades into the gaping maw.

“Shit,” Dick swears as the portal erupts, strands of searing cold wind lashing out and whipping against anything that moved. It reverses in a heartbeat and the suction is strong, causing the three of them to stagger under the force. Even the remaining little clown demons aren’t exempt, and their chittering laughter turns into wails of despair as they’re dragged back into the darkness.

Raven grabs hold of Dick and envelopes him in the folds of her cloak, using her soul-self to protect him. The cold is numbing, worse than anything Mr. Freeze could ever come up with, and tears at his very soul. When Dick falls into the grass outside, he can’t help but be grateful once again that Raven is on his side.

Next to him, Jason is curled up in a little ball and mewling. This must have been the first time he’s ever felt the full force of Raven’s magic before. There isn’t time to comfort him though, and Dick scrambles for his brother’s belt where he’d tucked the detonator before. Destroying a crime scene goes against every instinct he has, but Dick refuses for the good folks of Smallville to see this.

A heavy glove lands on his and Jason sits up, detonator in hand. “I fucking hate clowns,” is all he says before the barn goes up in a flash, wood and hay igniting from the explosives and raining down around them.

Raven’s shield drops once the worst has passed. “Well, that was fun,” she says dryly. “Thanks for the invite.”

Dick laughs weakly. He’s pretty sure that was a piece of scorched bone that just landed next to him. “Anytime. Want to come back to the Kent’s for some pie?”

“I’m good. I have a paper to finish tonight.” With that, Raven disappears.

“Well, fuck.” Jason sighs heavily as he leans back in the grass and watches the fire. “Why didn’t you ask her if the gate was closed?”

“Because I trust her. If it wasn’t, she wouldn’t have left.”

“Fair enough.”

They watch the fire for another minute or so before Dick hauls himself up. His whole body hurts and all he wants is to soak in a tub full of hot water until he passes out. “We need to get gone too.”

He offers a hand to Jason, who accepts it without a word. His leg is bleeding again, Dick notices as the younger man limps back to the SUV.

As they drive away, Jason removes his helmet and gloves and tosses them into the backseat, rubbing blearily at his eyes a moment later. “I’ve decided something,” he announces.

“What’s that?” Dick asks neutrally. This could be anything considering Jason’s penchant for the dramatics.

“I hate the country. Gimme the city any day of the fucking week.”

“What about all the fresh air and sunshine? And the pie?”

“Fuck the air. Fuck the sun… And I can make my own damn pie.”

Dick laughs loudly. “Yeah, sure you can.”

“I’m serious. You’re never getting my ass out here ever again.”

His retort is on the tip of his tongue when the deer jumps out of nowhere and Dick swerves hard to avoid hitting it. “Son of a bitch!” he swears as the SUV spins wildly. His ears start ringing as both the deer and Jason scream at the same time. It’s hard to say which is louder.

The deer disappears into the field on the other side of the road and Dick gets the vehicle back under control, heart pounding loudly in his chest. He’s had enough adrenaline today, thank you very much. Jason is clearly just as done with everything as he flops back against the passenger seat, breathing heavily. “Jesus fuck, get us outta here, Dickie. My city boy ass wants back where it belongs. Where there’s no cornfields anywhere.”

“Does that mean you don’t want to watch Children of the Corn with me tonight?”

“I fucking hate you.”

[jimbersquish]

Willowden

By Jimbersquish

Rating: M 

Genre: Romance; a/b/o dynamics; Alternate Universe--Wolves; Bonding; Mating Bond; Soulmates

Other notes: Some original characters

Pairing: Jeon Jungkook/Park Jimin

Summary:  Jimin is an ordinary high school student. Around school he’s pretty much ignored—and he likes it that way. He doesn’t need the added drama that these angsty teenagers deluge on anyone involved. Been there, done that freshman year, and he’d really not like to go back. He’s content with his small group of friends and their regular shenanigans. They really keep him entertained, and he needs the entertainment, because if there was one word he’d use to describe senior year so far, it would be borrrr-ing. But he doesn’t remain bored for long. One night on the way back home from a party Taehyung and Co. talked him into crashing, he finds himself kidnapped and taken to a strange place.

Chapter 1: Obsidian (3449 words)

“So Hamlet was just really bad at making up his mind, and that led to his death?” A student from somewhere in the class asked. “Yes,” the teacher answered, “it was his fatal flaw.”

“Isn’t that a little…melodramatic,” the student replied and Jimin rolled his eyes.

“What do you think Shakespeare was trying to say by making something so simple, Hamlet’s fatal flaw?” The teacher asked to the class. There was a long silence. Apparently none of the students knew the answer.

Jimin was staring at the clock with bated breath. He had his chin in his hand and his elbow on the desk as he watched the staccato movement of the clock’s second hand. The ticking was even audible in the quiet of students probably staring at the teacher with blank expressions on their faces.

“Shakespeare, was trying to highlight an occurrence that we face every day,” the teacher explained, “making a decision. Sometimes it can be difficult to do certain things, but they need to get done. You shouldn’t put off the difficult things just because they aren’t easy. For example, homework,” She continued, “Right, Youngjae?” and the rest of the class laughed at this. It was common knowledge that Youngjae would rather ask around for the answers the period before, than actually try to come up with them on his own.

Realizing that the clock wasn’t going to move any faster, Jimin turned his eyes towards the window. He sat on the edge of the class right next to it. He was eternally grateful that his assigned seat allowed him to be so close. It was the closest he would get to the outside before the bell rang, signifying the end of the school day.

The sun was barely out today, and the slight overcast made the afternoon look later than it actually was. Jimin noticed that there was a large black dog outside, sitting some distance away. It really looked more like a wolf, with its big pointy ears and fluffy mane, but what would a wolf be doing out in the suburbs? Maybe it was a Husky with the opposite of albinism, he mused and laughed internally at his own joke.

The longer he stared at it though, he couldn’t help but feel like it was staring right back at him with its piercing green eyes, the only part of the animal not obscured by dark fur. It was blacker than night, and so shiny. The sunlight reflected off of it like obsidian. Even with its unyielding gaze, Jimin never felt afraid. The animal didn’t seem threatening, it felt more like curiosity than predatory stalking. Its stance was strong, alert. It showed no sign of caring that it was being watched right back. It wanted Jimin to see it.

The bell ringing caused Jimin to jump a little. He stood up swiftly, ready to get the hell out of that place, and stuffed his books into his gray Jansport backpack. He put one strap over his right shoulder as he started to walk out, falling in behind the mob of students trying to squeeze through the door. When he looked back at the window the wolf was gone.

“Agh!” The force of something big and heavy jumping onto Jimin’s back caused him to grunt at his misfortune.

“Hello, Jiminie.” His friend’s deep saccharine voice sounded right next to his ear. Jimin shook him off and yelled, “Why would you jump on me? I’m small.”

“Now you admit it?” Taehyung teased.

“Shut up.” Jimin rolled his eyes. He just couldn’t seem to do it enough. So many things in life warranted his eye roll.

“You know you love me.” Taehyung wrapped his arms around Jimin’s chest a little too tight.

Their interaction was interrupted by the honk of a car horn and they both turned their heads toward a light blue Mazda 3.

“Winner gets to sit shotgun!” Taehyung shouted before running off in the direction of the vehicle.

“You fucking…,” Jimin said under his breath and took off right behind him. Despite his slightly shorter legs, he caught up quite quickly and even reached the passenger side door first, but by the time he realized that Hoseok was already sitting in the seat, Taehyung jumped into the back and slammed the door behind him.

Jimin tried the handle only to find it locked. “Come on, open the door.” He could practically hear Taehyung snickering. He shook his head and crossed his arms over his chest, and stood there on the curb until he heard the click of the lock. It must have been unlocked by Seokjin, because Jimin didn't see Hoseok move a muscle.

“Hoseok,” he started, “you couldn’t unlock the door?” He asked as he climbed into the car and buckled his seat belt.

“I’m sorry, Jiminie. You just look so cute when you’re mad.”

Jimin scoffed. “Hi, Jin. How was your day?” He asked with mock politeness, “Since you seem to be the only sane person in here.”

“It was fine. College you know,” Jin answered, as he pulled away from the curb and got behind the line of cars on their way off the school grounds. After school traffic was the worst. Congestion caused by the surplus of parents coming to pick up their kids, buses on their way to drop off others, and high school students lucky enough to have a car, made getting off of Oakridge Road a fifteen minute ordeal.

"Hey, Jin," Taehyung said, "I kind of gave Mr. Thompson your number, and told him that you were Dad."

Jin sighed with exasperation. "Seriously?!" He griped. "What did you do this time?"

"Nothing! I swear. He just doesn't like me," Taehyung said.

"He told him to go fuck himself," Hoseok announced. Then Taehyung leaned between the seats in order to smack Hoseok a couple of times on the arm.

“Put your seatbelt on!” Jin yelled.

“We’re in a school zone!” Taehyung yelled back. "We’re barely even moving,” he added before reluctantly buckling himself in. “And that wasn’t what I said. My exact words were, “You should just ask someone else”, after he demanded that I give him the answer even though I kept saying that I didn’t know."

“He was only doing that because you told him last week that he did the math wrong in front of the entire class.” Hoseok retorted.

“THANK YOU, HOSEOK. You’re really not helping,” Taehyung replied.

“I’m just saying, if you want to stop getting in trouble, you should stop doing things to make him hate you.”

“More than he already does,” Jimin added

“It’s not my fault he has a superiority complex and got offended just because I tried to show him a shorter way to get to the same answer.” Taehyung huffs and slouches down in his seat.

“Hoseok’s right. You should just leave him alone, for your own sake. I am not picking up the phone every time he feels the need to tattle on you,” Jin said.

Taehyung feels bad about having to subject his brother to the long, and most likely stupid, conversation he was going to have to have with his teacher, but it’s better him than their parents. "I didn't want to give him Mom or Dad's number because they'll believe anything he says. You’re the only one that knows what I’m actually dealing with,” he explained.

“I know he’s an asshole, but please try not to get into any more trouble, Taehyung,” Seokjin said. He does know what his brother is going through. He complains about it almost every day that he gets in the car after the final bell, but enough is enough. Sooner or later the battle that’s been going on between Taehyung and his teacher would reach a tipping point, and when that happens, the results won’t be good. Taehyung could end up facing suspension or worse, and that won’t be very appealing to colleges.

When they finally made it back to their neighborhood, Jin stopped in front of Jimin's house.

“I’ll text you, Jiminie.” Taehyung called from inside the car, and Jimin waved before shutting the door. The car drove off as he trudged up the empty driveway to his house. It was a Tudor style place with red trim and cream, sunbaked panels. It had a red door to match and the window sills had small flower beds—his grandmother’s idea. She was to blame for the house’s over all cuteness. All the homes on the block looked essentially the same, but his was the only red one.

He shut the door behind him and threw his keys carelessly onto the table near the door. Then he poked his head into the living room where his grandmother was watching TV.

“Hi, Grandma,” he said.

“Hi, Jiminie. How was school?” Her sweet voice asked.

“The same,” he said over his shoulder as he walked past the stairs and into the kitchen. He opened the fridge and scanned his eyes over its contents before grabbing a water and shutting it again.

“What was the same about it?” His grandmother was now standing in the opening just past the threshold that led back into the foyer.

“Oh, you know. Teachers, class, Shakespeare. Wash, rinse, repeat.” He spun his hand in a circle. “It’s just an endless cycle until graduation.”

“You want me to make you something?” His grandmother asked seeing how he closed the fridge, seeming disappointed in what he found.

“Yes, please.” He said with a smile. “I love you, Grandma.”

She laughed and said “I love you too, Jiminie.”

Jimin sat at the counter and watched his grandmother pull out ingredients from the fridge and then start to busy herself at the stove. He really did love his grandma. She was such a sweet woman. Always spoiling him. She was thin but not that tall. Jimin was taller than her, thank God. He didn’t think he’d be able to live with himself if his own grandmother had a few inches on him. She stood over the stove with a slight hunch that probably came from being hunched over while gardening, and cooking like she was now. She wasn’t that old, about sixty-something. Jimin can’t remember. Every year on her birthday he asks, “How old are you this year, Grandma?” He says that it’s just to see if she remembers, but really he had stopped keeping track after she hit fifty-five. It’s not like he doesn’t care, he just doesn’t like to see her getting older. So once she tells him her age, he forgets by the next year.

Hyeji had her peppered, dark hair pulled back into a loose bun, the way she usually wore it. Jimin hoped he inherited those genes. He would love to only be sporting a few gray hairs by the time he reached her age. She was wearing a pink sweater with the sleeves rolled up to her elbows, and a pair of white trousers cropped at the calf. She normally wore pastel colors and light neutrals. It really matched her sweet personality.

“Here you are, Jimin.” She placed a very thick grilled cheese with fried vegetables on the side in front of him. “Are you just going to have that water? You should have tea. It’s better for the digestion.”

Jimin didn’t even bother answering, stuffing his face with the sandwich. She was already at the sink filling up the kettle and she probably wasn’t going to take no for an answer anyways.

“I know peach is your favorite.” She said while rummaging through the cabinet full of boxed tea. When she found the one she was looking for, she took out a bag and placed it into the mug that was already sitting near the stove.

Jimin swiveled in the stool at the sound of the door shutting, followed by the rhythmic clunk of his mother’s high heels on the white marble floors before she appeared.

“Mom.” She greeted. “Jimin,” she said as she dropped her purse on the counter beside him, before giving him a kiss on his greasy cheek. Then she walked around to her mother still standing by the stove.

“No sandwich for me?” She asked to which her mother retorted, “Would you like one, Jane?”

“That’s okay. It’s a little fattening.” Jimin looked down and pouted at his sandwich when the kettle started to whistle.

Hyeji came over with the mug in her hand, steam swirling out of the top. It would be a while before Jimin could drink it without getting burned.

“Don’t listen to your mother,” Hyeji started after seeing the way Jimin was eyeing the sandwich dejectedly, now laying half eaten on the plate. “Grilled cheese is not fattening for cute little boys, with pinch able cheeks.” Jimin squirmed away from his grandmothers eager fingers. She was always trying to cop a feel. “They’re fattening for skinny women in stilettos and pantsuits.”

Jimin giggled at his mother’s offended expression. “I’m not little and I’m not cute,” he said. Both Hyeji and Jane looked at him with an unconvinced expression and then said at the same time, “You’re cute.” The way their tones were dressed with certainty, made it sound like they were speaking the truth, and nothing but the truth.

Jimin grabbed a broccoli off of his plate with his fingers. There’s no way he’s taking another bite of that sandwich with the pretense of getting fat hanging over his head. “I’m going up stairs,” he said and then picked up his backpack from its place on the ground by the legs of the stool.

“Wait,” his mother called, “It’s your birthday soon. What do you want to do? We can throw a party.”

Jimin snorted. “I only have like two friends.” He followed his mother’s hand down to his plate and watched as she brought the half-eaten grilled cheese to her mouth.

“Okay, no party. Then what?” She asked with a mouth full of food.

Jimin walked away with a shrug. “I’ll let you know. I have homework.”

Jimin went up the stairs and skimmed his eyes across the family photos that lined the walls of the staircase as he climbed. Most of them were pictures of him from when he was little. There aren’t many current ones because he never seemed to smile in the pictures anymore. His mother complained that scowls weren’t attractive to guests, even if he was still handsome anyways. There were two photos of his father. One was his parents’ wedding photo. The ever cliché kissing pose taken somewhere outside. The other was a picture of his father holding him in his arms. He thinks he looks a little like his father. He’s smaller than him, more lean than beefy. He has his jaw line, and maybe his eyebrows, but that’s about where the resemblance ends. He got his mother’s everything else, small sloped nose, thick lips, and her eyes. He can’t complain about those because he’s always been proud of his eyes. They’re his favorite feature, that and his hair. He’s always had great hair. It’s soft and bouncy, and it falls around his eyes beautifully. That’s probably one of the reasons why he likes his hair as much as he does, it frames his most defining feature.

His mother doesn’t talk about his father much and whenever he asks, she closes up and then he just feels bad, so he stopped asking. She won’t even tell him his name. What she has told him, is that he passed away when Jimin was still a baby, but that was as far as the story went. Jimin still wonders what it could have been like if he was still around. Would his mother be happier? Would his father love him? Would he teach him how to do things like throwing a football?—or how to date because that is still a mystery to him.

Jimin walks into his room and drops his bag onto the floor. Then he turns his back towards the bed and lets his knees give out with a sigh, free-falling into the mattress.

“I miss you dad. I never knew you, but I miss you.”

There was a faint knock on his slightly ajar door. “Hey, Jiminie.”

“Hey, Hoseok.” Jimin didn’t have to look, he knew his voice, and Hoseok was the only friend that showed up unannounced around this time of night. He walked in and closed the door behind him before jumping into the bed next to Jimin. He wrapped his arms Jimin’s neck and rubbed his cheek against Jimin’s face like a cat. “You smell good.”

“I just got out of the shower.”

“That explains your cold damp hair,” Hoseok said pulling his face away, “it’s ruining my hug.”

It wasn’t strange for Hoseok to be this way towards Jimin. It was how he always was. He’s been clingy ever since they were little, and he just never grew out of the habit. Hoseok actually lives in the house behind Jimin’s, and he’s mentioned the fact that Jimin’s house is way cuter than his multiple times.

“What are you watching?” Hoseok asks still clinging to Jimin’s neck like a koala. Jimin was laying on his back, more listening to the noise than paying attention to what was on the screen.

“Nothing really. I’m about to turn it off and go to sleep.”

“Oh,” Hoseok sits up and brushes Jimin’s hair out of his face. “I just came to say good night.”

“You could have sent me a text.”

“I know. I just…worry about you sometimes.” Jimin looks perplexed and asks why.

“Because you’re my little Jiminie.” He answers. Then Jimin picks up the pillow next to his head a swings it into Hoseok’s face.

“Hey!” The pillow get snatched out of Jimin’s hands and before he knows it, he’s being suffocated by his own best friend. “Don’t start something you can’t finish.”

When the pillow is finally lifted away, Jimin sits up feigning his difficulty breathing with fake gasps of air. “I can’t believe you just tried to kill me!”

“Tried?” Hoseok asks, “Oh, you haven’t seen attempted murder yet. Give me that pillow.”

“No, no!” Jimin shrieks, “I don’t need a demonstration.”

Hoseok laughs and starts heading for the door. “Goodnight, Jiminie.” He says and then he leaves with the click of the door.

Jimin shuts off the TV and then the lights. He lays on his side in bed, covers pulled up to his face, and he closes his eyes. Lately, every night it's been the same thing. Jimin tries to sleep, tries to get comfortable. He changes his position throughout the night, flips his pillow. Goes from having the blankets on, to blankets off. Nothing works. Every attempt at sleeping is done in vain, but he still has to try. Even when he does drift off by some miracle, he ends up waking just a few hours later, only to repeat the same restless ritual all over again. Tonight is no different.

With a frustrated huff Jimin throws the blankets off of him and moves with heavy feet to the sliding glass door in his room. It opens to the night air, and it is fitful tonight. The cold wind whips against his face and combs through his scalp like icy fingers. It only gets stronger as Jimin makes his way onto the roof, a process that does require some light parkour in order to reach it. Up here is Jimin's favorite place in the whole house, maybe in the whole world, but it's not like he would know. He hasn't seen the whole world yet. Up here is his favorite place because, here, perched on the apex of shingles, is the closest he can get to the stars. They are like a billion tiny freckles in the face of the endless sky. This place on the roof is where the moon keeps him company while everyone else is asleep, missing out on the wonders of the night. He receives a strange comfort from it, and he feels like it sees him, knows him, and understands him. He has a weird feeling that it's watching him but he is not afraid of it. The moon is his guardian angel that floats above him to spot any dangers advancing from afar. A watchman at the top of a fortress.

Jimin's eyes flutter shut and he tilts his head trying to listen. He's trying to hear the moon. It is saying something, but night after night, no matter how hard he strains, all he gets is silence. Silence and a faint howling being carried over the wind like a whisper.

A/N: So this was chapter 1: Obsidian. It’s an excerpt from an ongoing fic that I post on Ao3. If it interests you, please come on over and check it out! Willowden