#spiraled cane glass

[tragedyofoptimism]

[arolesbianism]

Remembered Wendy exists. Explodes.

[ancientcharm]

Roman glass bowl, end of 1st century B.C–1st century A.D

During the Roman Imperial period, the popularity of elite objects sculpted from colorful stones such as agate and onyx led to the development of a market in glass replicas. These affordable alternatives were cast or blown from multi-colored canes of glass and imitated expensive natural stones. Here, an ancient craftsman has created an abstract version of agate using brown and white glass.

To make the bowl, the artist heated a rod of multicolored glass and laid the molten glass onto a flat surface, spiraling it into the center in a serpentine pattern. While heating in a kiln, the glass would fuse slowly--each curve melding into the next--until it became one large, colorful disk. After brief cooling, the disk was placed atop a hemispherical mold and heated again, until it slumped into a bowl shape. In the final step, the completed bowl entered an annealing oven to cool slowly, a process that kept the glass from shattering.

Text by The J. Paul Getty Museum.

Public domain pictures. Getty's Open Content Program.

[actuallysaiyan]

Then You'll Make Him Happy(Scarred!Nanami Kento x Fem!Reader)

warnings: dark themes, yandere, breast play/nipple play, biting, marking, jealousy, paranoia, JJK spoilers, Yandere!Nanami, unprotected sex, creampie, rough oral sex(male!receiving), seriously dark content!!! word count: 2.2k pairings: Scarred!Nanami Kento x Fem!Reader summary: you arrive home late one night after Ijichi drives you home, and Kento has been spiralling. don't worry, he gives you the chance to prove to him how loyal and devoted you are! a/n: Scarred Nanami part 2! Sort of a sequel to this! Also a request for the wonderful scarred Nanami anon! art credits for the banner here

Dividers by @adornedwithlight

Taglist: @beneathstarryskies, @an-ever-angry-bi, @seireiteihellbutterfly @adharadotcom,

@heyitsd1yaa, @darkstarlight82, @melisuh123, @galactict3a,

@erebus-et-eigengrau, @aomi04, @isabelzoldyck, @cinnamon-girl-writes,

@felixmr, @typicalemo, @entirelysein-e,

@urfavmars24, @animediplomat, @menag-etroix,

@shycoconutt, @_thecoochirgirls,

@emmaiscool22, @ambiguouslady42, @mx-saph

After the Shibuya Incident, Kento wasn’t the same man. Through many sessions of physical and mental therapy, he became a bit more of the man you knew and loved over time. But there were still parts of him that would just never be the same.

The left side of his body didn’t function quite the same. His left eye didn’t have vision back, so it was a blur of shadows and lights and colors. His left leg would limp on particularly bad days, and most days he walked with a cane if he wasn’t completely bedridden. And the thing that affected him the most was the fact that he could finally be with you the way he wanted to.

Except you worried him. You always worried him. You had stayed to work at Jujutsu Tech to become a manager and a part time teacher. You often worked very late shifts. Kento disliked the fact that you thought you had to work this much.

Tonight was a night like the others. But for some reason, he had it in his mind that you weren’t coming back. He always seemed to spiral like this lately. He had been taking his medication, but the thoughts always came back. 

The thought of you leaving him for someone younger…more capable…less disabled. It hurt him to think these thoughts, but he just can’t seem to dispel them tonight. Despite your pleas for him to stop drinking, he decides it’s a good night to have a glass of whiskey.

It burns in his throat as he tries his best to push away all those thoughts of you leaving him. Tears sting his eyes when he thinks about you out with some other man. Someone younger and more capable, someone who could dance with you and fuck you better. Someone in the peak of their life. Not someone broken and discarded like him.

As the car pulls up to your apartment building, you thank Ijichi a million times over. Despite his close call in Shibuya, it was thanks to your husband that he actually ended up making it out alive. So for Ijichi, driving you home on the nights that he wanted to allow Nanami to rest more, it was nothing. This was just another way for Ijichi to thank his friend who saved him.

The minute you get inside, Nanami stands up so fast from his seat, you swear you haven’t seen him this stable on his two feet since before the incident. You try to help him back to sit, but he’s quick to push you up against the wall. You smell the whiskey on his breath.

“Who is it this time, huh? I bet he’s pretty cute. Does he fuck you just as good as me?”

Tears sting your eyes and you shake your head. You try to caress Nanami’s face, but he’s so quick to push you against the wall even more. He’s not wearing his eyepatch, which makes him look even more menacing.

“Are you going to answer my question, darling?”

You moan, “N-no! It’s ridiculous! How can I show you my devotion?”

Nanami snarls and he pushes himself off of you. He wants to believe you. But he saw you coming out of a car with a man in the driver’s seat. In his fit of rage, he didn’t quite make out that it was his good friend Ijichi.

“Who drove you home? Are you fucking him?!” Nanami asks.

“It was Ijichi-san! He wanted you to rest. This is why he drove me home.”

Nanami looks at you, trying to decide if you’re telling him the truth or not. Then he comes over to you, his hands gripping your blouse.

“If you’re devoted to me, then you’ll have to show it. Prove it to me. Prove to me that you haven’t lost interest in me,” His words are so dark and powerful.

You squeal the minute he rips your blouse open. Your cheeks burn as you realize the underwear you’re wearing under it. It’s a lacy, silky little thing. With you working so much lately, you haven’t been able to get on top of the laundry. So you found yourself with the decision to either go commando at work or wear the cute lingerie set you bought to surprise Kento so many months ago.

“What the fuck is this?! Why are you fucking wearing this?!”

You whine, “I-I didn’t have anything else to wear! I haven’t been able to do the laundry.”

He pushes you up against the wall, his lips pressing down on yours hungrily and in a possessive way. Kento desperately wants to believe you because he doesn’t want to believe the opposite. The thought of you wearing this cute and sexy lingerie set for someone else makes his blood boil. When he pulls away, you’re almost out of breath.

“Get into the bedroom. Strip your clothes.”

You do as you’re told. You make a beeline for the bedroom, opening the door and removing your ruined blouse. Nanami follows you, limping slightly. He watches as you strip for him. You were going to prove just how devoted you are.

“On your fucking knees. Keep those stockings on.”

The command makes you shudder from head to toe. With your blouse off and skirt resting at your feet, you’re left in only your stockings and garter belt. Nanami begins to palm at his erection as you get on your knees. The way you look up at him like he hung the stars in the sky for you, it’s making him throb in his pants.

“Are you my good girl?” He asks, grabbing your hair.

“Yes. yes I am. I’m your good girl.”

He loves the way you’re reacting to this. It’s exactly how he wanted it to go. But damn, those thoughts had very clearly clouded his logic. With his free hand, he unzips his pants and releases his heavy cock from the confines of his pants. He pumps his cock a few times, making it dribble precum.

“Suck.”

Just one word and it has need pooling deep inside of you. You open your mouth; saliva is already drooling out. Nanami loves seeing you so needy for cock like this. He thrusts into your mouth, making you gasp. You nearly choke on his length. His hips begin pumping and he holds you by your hair.

“Be a good girl. Suck daddy’s cock.”

He looks down at you. His eyes are dark. Especially the injured one. It’s always dark, but this time it’s even darker. You try to keep eye contact with him. It’s just too tough to do so. You’re trying to breathe and trying not to choke. The way you tremble under his gaze makes Nanami throb in your mouth.

His hips begin to snap as he fucks himself down your throat. You sputter and cough as you do everything you can to adjust to this rough sex. Your eyes are almost pleading for him to slow down, but you know you want to make your husband feel so loved.

Finally he pulls out and he uses the tip to tap your lips. He smears saliva and precum all over your face. Kento smirks at the mess of your mouth and face. He then releases you.

“I can see you’re still devoted to me.”

He helps you onto the bed, spreading your legs. His hands linger on your thighs, feeling the soft nylon of your thigh-highs. He leans in to kiss you hungrily, reveling in the way you taste of his cock and his precum. It’s so intoxicating to taste himself on your lips. He’s the only man you’ll ever treasure forever.

“You can be a good girl, huh?”

You nod your head eagerly. “Y-yes daddy.”

He smirks when he hears that word coming from you now. Kento leans in to kiss you hungrily again. He shoves his tongue into your mouth, penetrating your lips. You two make out for a few minutes. He loves the way your hips buck up to meet his.

Then his lips trail down your chin, down your jaw and to your neck. You cry out when he nips at your neck. He sucks on the skin for a few seconds, leaving a dark red mark. He then licks the mark, making you shiver.

“You’re mine,” he says as he slams his lips against yours. “Mine.”

Your fingers tangle in his hair as he kisses a trail down from your neck to your breasts. He licks softly at one of your nipples. Then he kisses the other. You sigh happily as he’s becoming a bit more soft with you. Then he bites down on your breast, making you gasp and whine.

“K-Ken…”

He looks up at you with sheer possessiveness in his eyes. He bites down a little harder, almost drawing blood. Then he begins to lavish your breasts in kisses, praising you for being so good to him.

“My angel…oh my angel.”

Then he spreads your thighs. Kento gets on his stomach and begins to lap at you like you are the only thing he ever wants to taste for the rest of his life. The moans and whimpers that are ripped from your mouth as he suckles and licks your clit are downright pathetic. You’re shuddering and thighs are clenching as he works you fast to the most earth shattering orgasm.

“Cumming! Cumming!”

He doesn’t need to hear more. You could easily suffocate him between your thighs and he’d die a happy man. Kento loves being able to make you cum so hard you nearly pass out. He looks up at you, loving the way your eyes are so rolled back he can only see the whites of your eyes.

Your release is intense. You desperately try to breathe, but all the air feels like it’s being knocked out of your lungs. Kento’s name is on your lips as your thighs clench and your cunt pulses around nothing. Nanami plunges his tongue into your hole; he’s eager to taste your nectar.

With you trembling and whimpering, he knows you’re ready for the next part. He grasps his cock, slapping your clit with it.

“Tell me,” Kento’s voice is deep. “Tell me who you fucking belong to. Who does this pussy belong to?”

You whine as you feel the tip of his cock slapping against your swollen clit. “I belong to you!”

He grips both your breasts, making you whine as his fingers dig into the previous bite mark. He loves hearing you whine just for him. It’s one of the sexiest sounds he’s ever heard. Kento dips down to suckle on your nipples, going from one to the other.

“I think I need to fuck a baby into you. Then you’ll stay for sure.”

The words make your stomach do flips. You know he’s been talking about this a lot since the two of you have rekindled your intimacy since the incident. Kento growls as he continues to suck on your nipples.

“Imagine how full your tits will be. You’ll let daddy suck on them, yeah? Save a little milk just for me?”

You look down at him and you notice how his expression has changed. His eyes are softer as he suckles on your nipples. You caress his face, making him whimper softly.

“Wanna get you knocked up.”

This is when he changes his expression once more. It’s dark and needy once more. Demanding and possessive. He spreads your legs, spitting on your already soaked cunt and shoves his cock into you. You gasp and try to reach for him, but Kento decides to intertwine your fingers together as he snaps his hips.

“I love you,” he growls in your ear. “I’m gonna knock you up. Make you a mommy,”

Your legs wrap around him, pulling him even deeper. With every thrust, he’s pushed even closer to the edge. He has to rest himself on your chest to try and ground himself. The fluttering and pulsing of your walls is proving to be almost too overwhelming. Every breath is shaky as he tries to desperately stabilize himself.

“G-gonna fucking cum inside you. Let daddy cum inside you.”

Another moan is ripped from you as Kento releases your hands and he grabs onto your hips. He slams himself into you harder, deeper and faster. Sweat slicks your skin, leaving a sheen on his marblesque body. You’ve never seen anyone as beautiful as him, even with his scars. 

“Cum inside me,”

Your words surprise him, but they please him. He brings one of his hands to your face, his thumb sliding into your mouth. You suck on it eagerly, making him throb and twitch inside you. Then he slides his hand back down to between your thighs, rubbing your clit.

“Cum with me. Please, cum with me!”

It takes so little effort for him to send you careening over the edge. A loud moan erupts from your lips, and the pulsing of your silky walls pushes Kento into his own release. He whines loudly with every sticky thrust that sends his cum even deeper inside of you.

And then everything comes down slowly. Kento slumps against you, and you’re quick to begin playing with his hair and gently rubbing his back. He sighs happily and then he looks up at you.

“I’m sorry,” he mutters. “I don’t know what came over me.”

“Shhh…don’t think about it just right now. We can deal with this together in the morning, okay?”

Kento smiles, “I’m going to make an appointment with my therapist tomorrow,”

You kiss his forehead, proud of him for overcoming something like that. Though you wonder…you really did enjoy him being possessive with you like that.

[cheerysmores]

Unfinished business

Pairing: Lucanis X Shadow Dragon Rook (named: Phyrra Mercar).

Word count: 3K

Summary: Post game. Some thoughts on what would happen if someone took a Crow contract out on Rook. Will most likely be added to a longer fic later.

***

If there was any amount of gold Lucanis could pay to not speak to his cousin tonight, he’d gladly part with it. He’d found a perfumed note slipped between a dozen missives from the other Talons. The five words were enough to make his stomach turn. 

Urgent business. Usual place. - Illario 

He crumples it again, fixing his stare to Treviso’s darkening horizon from his perch on the Villa’s roof. It was his favourite spot as a boy, one hidden by an ivy-strewn chimney where he could rub the bruises from his Grandmother’s cane or his own clumsiness. They both could

It’s been months since they’ve talked. He wishes it were longer, but there are only so many contracts he can throw at Illario to get him out of the city. There are longer, more incomprehensible jobs that would probably have him away permanently, but he can’t quite bring himself to waste Caterina’s training on those. His cousin is still a good assassin. It doesn’t change the fact that Lucanis would rather eat his own knife collection than have another conversation with him.

Spite flickers from tile to tile out of the corner of his eye, grumbling and restless. The demon had become insufferably impatient when Phyrra’s scent finally left his bedsheets. He’d chastise him more if he hadn’t been the same the second she’d left the city again. 

He rolls the parchments between his fingers. He wants her here, needs to talk to her. He’d kill any number of people for a working Eluvian so he could pull her back and spill his spiralling thoughts into the curve of her neck… then pointedly ask if the other Shadow Dragons had guilted her into rebuilding Minrathos brick by brick. 

He pictures her next to him, eyes bright, hair ignited with colour from the last stripes of sunlight painting the roof. She’d put her head on his shoulder, gently jab him in the side and say something along the lines of ‘If he tries anything, I’ll politely remind him that all the grease in his hair makes it especially flammable.’ 

He almost smiles. If anything the next conversation should at least liven up the next letter he pens.

***

The scent of cinnamon and old coffee greets him as he enters the kitchen. Before, it had always been their place to decompress, mainly because of the easy access to pastries and alcohol. Illario sits at the small table next to an open bottle. He’s as primped as ever, coat pressed, hair styled, lips dark from the wine. Only his slightly crooked nose ruins his carefully sculpted image–  a reminder of when they finally had it out at Caterina’s birthday party. It started as needle sharp words over dinner, ended with the least graceful brawl two Crows had ever been a part of. He’s not sure what stung more, his Grandmother’s icy stare as Viago pulled them apart or her short remarks on his sloppy form.

Spite lurches from the darkness. His anger is a bitter taste in the air as he glares at his cousin. “Finally. Let me finish this.”

Illario refills his glass. “Lucanis, I wasn’t sure you’d actually come.”

The way he stretches out his name makes his skin crawl. “I half expected to find your body down here with a thank you note stabbed through it,” he answers, firmly shutting the door behind him.

Illario’s smile doesn’t falter. “Disappointed?”

“Do you really want the answer to that question?”

A low muffled groan suddenly bleeds through the cellar door behind Illario. He leans back and kicks it until whoever is in there stops.

Lucanis runs a hand down his face. “Don’t bring work back here if you’re not prepared to clean the floor yourself.”

“It’s just some unfinished business. Don’t worry about that for now.” Illario pushes the second chair out from under the table. He sighs when Lucanis remains standing. “You’re always so humourless when you have to sleep alone. Convince Rook to leave Minrathos already and save the rest of the Talons a headache.”

Spite slinks forward, lips pulled back into a snarl. "You got to punch him. It’s my turn. Mine."

Lucanis shoots the demon a harder stare. “Not yet.”

“You never let me.” 

“I said no.”

Illario raises a thick eyebrow. “Oh sorry, I should have asked. Am I talking to you or him right now?”

“When he’s talking, you’ll know.” He’s fairly sure he’s the only man on Thedas that can confirm exactly how vivid a demon’s imagination can get. Spite had spent more than one evening painting an extremely colourful picture of all the ways he could tear out his cousin’s heart instead of letting Lucanis sleep.

“Well I’m fairly certain it was the demon who tried to stab me,” Illario says.

“The first time.”

“Yes. The dozen or so times at the Opera were very necessary after I was already on my knees. You could have–”

“Illario.” Lucanis interrupts sharply. “If there’s a point to this meeting, get to it faster.”

“Fine.” He produces a small package from his coat and pushes it  across the table. “I have a gift for you.” He takes a longer drink of wine as Lucanis takes it. It’s some deep Orlesian red by the smell. Far too expensive for everyday business.

He gestures to the bottle. “I’m assuming there’s an occasion.”

“Of course.” Illario raises his cup in a crude toast. “Celebrating your loss of virginity before ascending to First Talon. I’d say tell me everything but I’m assuming it’s a fairly brief account.”

Lucanis lets the sound of tearing paper fill the heavy silence. Two years ago he might have laughed at that, maybe even stolen his own bottle from Caterina’s finer collection. Back when it would have truly just been the two of them.

Spite eyes the package, nose wrinkling.

He finds a dagger nestled inside. It’s well-made but unassuming, one a thousand hidden up the sleeves of Crows across the continent. He can tell it was cleaned in a hurry, the surface smeared with a thin sheen of crimson and something darker–  a cheap poison he surmises. The good ones don’t leave a stain. His fingers stop as he touches the serrated edge. He knows the pattern. He’d traced the exact scar over Phyrra’s shoulder the last time she’d come to his bed. She hadn’t seen who it was, just heard their screams as she shoved them from the city walls. 

Spite inhales. “Smells like. Deathroot. Iron.” His sharp eyes narrow, snapping to Illario again. “Rook.”

Lucanis’ fist tightens over the handle. “Who was it?”

“One of the lower houses. None of the Talons would ever accept that contract– at least for now.” Another whimper comes through the cellar door. Illario kicks it harder. “I’m holding onto the name until I know you’re not going to do something stupid.”

The bite of Spite’s rage prickles under his skin. He can feel the demon’s words digging into his own tongue, desperate to be spat. 

‘Burn them. Burn them all to the ground.’

Illario puts down his glass and crosses the room. “You must know this won’t be the last time.”

“She made a lot of enemies. We both did. And the Houses can give up as many Crows as they can afford to lose.”

“Those contracts are not going to come from anywhere but Antiva.”

Lucanis doesn’t look up from the knife. “You cannot be sure of that.”

The words hang in the air, bitter as they are foolish. Illario leans back on the table, exhaling loudly when he doesn’t continue. “Fine, if you need an evil face to say the words, I’ll oblige you. What exactly do you think will happen when Caterina dies?”

“I’d want to see her body before I’d believe it.”

Illario huffs out a small laugh. There’s no warmth to it. “You have the title but she still holds the power with an incredibly tight leash. When she finally lets go, do you truly believe that the Houses’ hatred of me is enough to accept an abomination as First Talon? I might be banished to the shadows but it’s all the better for hearing things people are only brave enough to whisper in such dark corners.”

Lucanis closes his eyes. It’s not a conversation he needs now, never one he needs to have with Illario. He knows the knife’s edge he walks, a thousand Crows pecking at every step. They’ll kiss the ring in front of the Talons but he’s seen the way their eyes search for breaks in his expression for the demon to push through. He’s just one rung above the traitor in front of him. Neither would be standing here without the bloody weight of their surname to throw around.

“They can come after me themselves then,” Lucanis retorts.

“Oh come on. You know that isn’t the logical move. The Eight Houses still support you so any civil war would be over before it began. Even before Caterina named you, everyone knew you would be chosen, so plans were already being formed about ways to usurp. Except then, you didn’t have such a glaring weakness to aim for.”

The moaning behind the door pitches to a discordant wail. Spite continues to stare at the side of Illario’s face, shaking with hate.

"He hurt us. He hurt Rook. Let me finish it. LET ME."

Lucanis pushes down harder as the demon gnashes against his restraint. It’s relentless now, a hurricane clawing at a door that he’s holding closed with his bare hands. 

“Call her weak when she’s in the room and see how long you last,” he says. He can still see the burn scars from her staff stretching like rough plaster above Illario’s collar. Leaving his face unharmed was her own kindness.

Illario rolls his eyes. “I didn’t say weak. I said weakness. I’m certain Rook could fight off a small army of Crows if she needed to. It doesn’t mean they won’t stop or that she won’t slip up. I’m not the only one that knows she can’t swim.” The noise behind the door grows louder, mixing with Spite’s growling until Illario’s words are barely audible. “And what happens after that, cousin? We saw what happened when I killed Zara instead of you. How much worse is it going to be when something happens to her? See how long all those alliances last when you finally lose control and one of the other houses has the chance to take everything.”

Spite hisses next to him. ‘LET ME. FINISH THIS.’

Lucanis’ chest burns as Spite pulls harder. “I'm not going to let that happen.”

“Not even when they send you her body so neatly wrapped in the cape you gifted her?” Illario folds his arms, words softly measured. “Or maybe they’d stretch it out and you’d get her back piece by piece–”

The knife leaves Lucanis’ hand before he can finish. It sails past his face and slams into the cellar door with a thunderous crack. Everything falls silent. Spite stays still, watching with wide eyes as Lucanis forces his breathing back into a regular rhythm. It takes all his remaining strength not to punch Illario again when he smirks, the words point proven painted there like rouge. 

Lucanis looks away. He’s better than this. He should be better than this. Illario had been a pickaxe to the cracks of his patience for decades now and he can count on one hand the number of times it had actually snapped. The times his cousin was right.

He can still feel the wounds in his mind from Spite tearing through and lunging at Illario– his first taste of becoming a true abomination. It had taken every fiber of his control and the sting of blood magic to halt the knife. Even after he’d left Treviso he could still feel Spite’s teeth digging in, desperate for the revenge they were both owed. 

After beating him to a bruised mess, Illario was a matter he could mostly hold Spite’s back on. But if something happened to Phyrra…

Something colder curls around his heart. He’d already lost her once. It was a miracle that the kitchen in the Lighthouse was still standing after he’d finally let the cocktail of anger and guilt pull him under. He’d woken to bloody fingers, a mosaic of broken glass and the terrified stares of his remaining companions. It was a lie to blame Spite, another to ignore the fact that the demon is as much a part of him as each breath now. Lucanis can see the scars reflected on his face, his own anger bleeding into those sharp glowing eyes. They were forced together like oil and water, constantly fighting to see who would end up on top. It’s different now. Their alliance opened something between them, Spite twisting into every muscle until the lines where Lucanis ended and he began blurred into nothing. 

They’d both kill for her. Maker forbid the next person who tempted them.

Illario tugs the dagger out of the door. “What was it Caterina always said? ‘Feelings make you weak. Make you sloppy.’ She beat that into both of us and yet still favoured you for that heart of yours.” He flips the blade in the air and catches it in his other hand. “Forever doing Caterina’s bidding, even when you hated it. You never even wanted the title, always said that death was your only calling.”

Lucanis eyes the blade in Illario’s hand. “Plans change. People change.”

“I didn’t change and you're a fool if you think I did.” Illario takes a step forward, regarding himself in the knife’s reflection. “That’s why I made my plan. Antiva would be safe, I’d have what I wanted, you’d have gotten the end you thought you deserved.” He closes his eyes, frowning. “Fucking Zara.” 

Lucanis stays quiet, his gaze not leaving the weapon as Illario tilts it forward. 

“I’m not sorry for what I did. If you’re waiting for an apology then you might as well kill me now. This is how Crow business is done.” He runs his thumb along the metal, dark eyes boring into Lucanis’. “You’ll always be a better assassin than me. But I’d be the better Talon.”

Lucanis walks forward until the tip of the blade is pressed against his chest. “Then you should have used your own knife.” 

One thrust is all it would take to put him down. Whether or not Illario could push hard enough before Lucanis smashes his face into a wall is another matter entirely— one he isn’t sure his cousin is willing to bet his currently unbroken teeth on.

A long cold moment passes before Illario sighs and tosses the blade onto the table. “It would be easier to count the Crows who don’t want me dead so I’d like to avoid infighting as much as you. Either get Rook here or end it, right now we’re both just waiting for this fragile peace to shatter.”

Spite circles him again.  “Why not now? His back is turned.” He turns to Lucanis when he doesn’t answer, his form shaking with impatience. “We hate him. He made us like this.”

Lucanis ignores him. Maker knows it would be so much easier to hate his cousin, to ship him off on a glorified suicide mission like everyone, even Phyrra, expects him to. He just… can’t. Every time he considers it, the memory of them walking in tandem behind their parents’ urns swims to the surface. From then on, it was them against the world, two little boys facing the iron of their Grandmother’s stare and shouldering the endless weight of her expectations.

That little boy became the man that wanted Lucanis dead. Exactly as he was trained to. He’d heard whispers long before he was dragged to the Ossuary: House Dellamorte, a family tree with so many withered branches it’s amazing it hasn’t snapped under the weight of the rot inside. He’ll be damned before he uproots it entirely.

“If you hear anything else, I want to know,” Lucanis finally murmurs. He jerks his head towards the cellar when the muffled whining starts again. “And deal with whatever that is already.”

Illario strides to the door, fingers poised on the handle. “It’s another gift actually. As it turns out, Rook didn’t quite finish the job and I happened to find said Crow crawling back to Antiva.” His smile sharpens a little. “I may have told that particular House that you’d be more forgiving if they let you clean up.”

Spite is off Illario in an instant, staring through the door like a bloodhound zoned in on wounded prey.

Lucanis calmly takes off his jacket and plucks the knife from the table. He remembers the size of the scar ruining her back, the surrounding bouquet of broken veins where the poison had burned through. A target placed there because she chose to love him.

Illario watches him pull open the door, chin resting in his upturned palm. “It’s almost a mercy I suppose. You’re usually so efficient.”

“Yes, I am,” Lucanis quietly affirms. Spectral wings burst from his back, feathers curling forward like scythe-blades. The whimpering ceases entirely as he steps into the darkness, eyes flashing a brilliant violet. “He isn’t.”

***

Bonus Phyrra

[i-write-sometimes-maybe]

Obsessed- Lady Lesso x EverReader!

Synopsis: Lesso has this thing, but no one knows. Not even you…

Word Count: 643

Warnings: Dark!Lesso, no smut, non-consensual stalking, readers gender isn’t mentioned. (Lmk if there’s anything else!)

A/n: (You can kinda see her tie pin in this gif, which is not mine btw) Okay, yes, this is short asf. I’m sorry! I really wanted to get something out while I’m working on this other smutshot (that includes working up the courage to do it too 😅) I figured something was better than nothing.? I legit have had this forsaken OneShot in the drafts at 5-6k words FOR A YEAR NOW GUYS. I’m trying! I want you guys to have it too. I’m also SO sorry to the few requests I’ve gotten, believe me I have seen them and I do plan on writing them! I’m just once again working two jobs and I’m also plainly in the dumps with writing motivation :/. I’m working on it 🫶🏻.

☁︎︎☁︎︎☁︎︎☁︎︎☁︎︎☁︎︎☁︎︎☁︎︎☁︎︎☁︎︎☁︎︎☁︎︎☁︎︎☁︎︎☁︎︎☁︎︎☁︎︎☁︎︎☁︎︎☁︎︎☁︎︎☁︎︎☁︎︎☁︎︎☁︎︎☁︎︎

Obsession. It's a funny thing really. It usually builds from innocence, a simple crush maybe.

But then, it spirals.

Though, the obsessor most times doesn't realize the extent of said obsession.

Leonora Lesso wouldn't necessarily deny the fact she obsessed, of course, unless, she was asked.

It wasn't her fault. It was yours.

Yeah, that's it. Your fault.

You.

You with your bright smiles and warm being.

It really should make the Never woman feel sick.

But she watches you with a subtle warm fuzzy feeling, like how she would think it would feel if you made her soul smile.

Watching you at meal times with Dovey, laughing at whatever the conversation was.

She found satisfaction in watching you, joy almost, watching you teach. The passion you held was quite similar to hers, though you were an Ever.

And even now, her watching you from behind your balcony door. Enjoying the feeling that fills her as she watches you undress from the day.

No, she wouldn't say she's obsessed. Enthralled, sure.

Enthralled at the possibility you could see her in the reflection of the mirror you were standing in. Enthralled by your possible reaction if she chooses to make herself known, or maybe, if you were to catch her.

She often wonders what your reaction would be.

After all, she does this almost nightly.

How you haven't seen her at least once in the fortnight, Lesso wasn't sure. But she loved to think of the idea that you were aware of her watching you, and you enjoyed it as much as she did.

She continues to wait in the shadows, watching how you don't skip a single part of your routine.

She'd come to learn that you liked everything in a certain way, down to your showers.

As you climbed under the covers, your nightly steps coming to end, she never strayed.

She usually liked to stay until she knew you were asleep, loving how peaceful you looked.

Normally, it was enough.

Being 20 feet from you, a glass door in the way, it was close enough.

Normally.

Well, who’s to say what’s normal and what’s not.

Once again, you were peacefully in your slumber while Lesso hadn’t moved a hair.

But she needed more.

She carefully took her tie pin from the knot that she frequently adorned, using it to swiftly pick the door you always made sure to lock.

The first step into the unfamiliar, yet very familiar, space was enthralling for her. Your true scent, unbothered and unedited, hitting her nostrils so strong to the point she’s sure she would’ve faltered if she cared to pay attention.

But as always, her attention was elsewhere.

Neither her heels or her cane made their signature click as she entered, the carpet working in her favor.

Slowly she walked up to your bed, standing at the end and getting lost in your serenity.

But as realization set, she decided she wanted to learn more. No, needed to learn more about you.

Her painted nails just barely scraped the surface of your duvet as she slowly moved onto your bedside table.

Noticing the new book you recently picked up, she made a mentally note to look into it later.

She never stayed in one spot for too long, too afraid it would bring her a welcoming she can’t ignore.

Her final spot was your vanity.

The very same one you sat yourself at just mere moments ago.

Sitting in the same spot as you previously had could’ve made her head spin, she had to know that her heart was pounding, if she paid any mind to it.

But her mind was elsewhere.

Her eyes and her mind were on you, just like before.

But sitting there, seeing you, smelling you, feeling you….

She couldn’t help but think, just how much fun she’d have with you.

🝮🝮🝮🝮🝮🝮🝮🝮🝮🝮🝮🝮🝮🝮🝮🝮🝮🝮🝮🝮🝮🝮🝮🝮🝮🝮🝮🝮🝮

Taglist: @v3nusxsky @just-your-casual-nerd @pebbleswritessometimes @scream-queenlover @darkth1ngs @sgelessoanddoveykissing @hxzxrdous

(Okay, I’m def missing people on this list and if you’re one of them please leave a comment! 🫶🏻🫶🏻)

Part 2 maybe??

[rel124c41]

NARC. floyd leech

It’s a chance to prove yourself again … and to ignore this godforsaken craving for a burger.

tags: mafia au, blood and injury, mild sexual content, organized crime, emotionally repressed, food issues, nonconsensual kissing, & post-betrayal

word count: 9436

You pluck a glass of red wine from a tray. Shoulders gliding past a humanoid Cthulhu, you pour the blood-hued liquid down your snorkel and sample the taste of dry wine. It is a Pinot. Gratefully for this, you take care to pour a bit more in your snorkel. Though, just as you duck under the wayward stretch of a shark’s gesturing, cigar-holding hand, – smoke from a White Russian cigar furling out of his rubber lips like crisp, morning fog that a ship must part through  – Jesus asks, scandalized, in your ears, “Are you drinking on the job?”

The wine halts its descent down your throat. Holding (almost choking on) the liquid in your mouth, your eyes momentarily widen in surprise. You throw your head back and down what is left in your snorkel, because it is necessary to communicate with an empty mouth. “I thought you said you didn’t have any eyes in here.”

No one can really blame you for how your own eyes start to flutter around the room, like tracking an energetic butterfly.

“I took the precaution of sending Rook to plant S.T.Y.X. cameras in the ballroom. I, however, did not know I would have to take any precaution against one of my spudlings being inebriated,” Jesus chastises. 

Caught red-handed, you feel heat crawl up your face. “ …It’s just one drink, boss.” Even though it is soft, you can still clearly hear that admonishing huff of breath come through your ear-piece while your personal Jesus – your boss, Schoenheit – breathes with affront. You decide that you will hold the cordial glass for the rest of the night as decoration rather than drinking it.

“One too many.” The words are so cold that you feel a shell of frostbite coat your earlobe. “I expect your greatest performance, Potato. The audience is very bilious tonight.”

Bilious, as in bad-tempered. For a moment, it feels the weight of the world socks you in the ear. That you know too well. Whether they are actually watching through the S.T.Y.X. footage back home or are simply holding up an ear to tomorrow’s whispering grapevine, the audience is upset with you. 

If tonight’s performance does not go well, there will be no more stage for you. The next time you appear to the audience, it will be on your curtain call. You imagine Rook (under Schoenheit’s instructions) taking a knife to your throat with all the poise of a violinist playing its instrument, the red notes splattered across the leather seats. 

The thought makes you yearn to down the rest of the Pinot. 

Instead, you find an appetizer table to stand by inconspicuously. And though you have already been stricken by the sight (which caused you to even grab a drink!) you glare upwards with a furrowed brow, through the polycarbonate sheets of your swim-goggles, towards the second floor. 

Above the ballroom is a circular platform walkway, connected to the ground by two spiral staircases. Leaning on the golden railing that twists like interlocking peppermint canes, the left hand man of Ashengrotto fiddles with a single drumstick. It propels through his hand like a miniature helicopter blade, spinning effortlessly. Sullen and bored, his eyes flicker all across the ballroom to find a crumb of entertainment. In Floyd’s right ear, Ashengrotto is talking – yet most likely being ignored too. 

His outfit is … juvenile. (the sneer blooming on your face is natural) Unlike the other attendants, the eel-mer is simply dressed in a graphic tee – your HUF graphic tee with Spider-man and Venom on it – and sweats. There is a ketchup or tomato soup or blood stain on your shirt’s collar. A pair of Monty Python bunny slippers peek out from the pooling, gray fabric around his ankles. The ears flop as he squirms back and forth on his feet.

Ashengrotto is dressed much better – an expensive, freshly pressed notch lapel suit of cobalt and swirling violet – but it is still very different from the fool’s play that is happening below them. You survey the crowd wearing rubber fish masks, diving equipment that conceals their faces, and any other variation of deep sea disguises. The ocean tonight is full of sycophants..

Most people think an Ashengrotto masquerade is the zenith of high society. Tabloids have waxed poetry about the ‘nocturnal beauty of a deep sea labyrinth where desires are found in nebulous waves’ and how the masks give ‘a thrilling sense that we are all drowned, wayward souls brought together in harmony under his glorious might’. You know better. That flowery poesy is a mere facade in a game of facades. Ashengrotto likes to throw these masquerades so often because he likes to laugh at others who unquestionably follow his every whim or will.

Schoenheit has informed you that Ashengrotto is a schadenfreude. Not too fluent in German, you asked for the translation. The two jigsaw puzzle words of schaden, which is damage, and fruede, which is joy, connect to make schadenfreude. It means Ashengrotto experiences emotional pleasure at the sight of others misfortune. 

‘There is no better sight to Ashengrotto than the sight of some poor, unfortunate soul begging on their knees at his doorstep. You would do well to remember that, Potato.’

Remember it you shall and you have. One drink is not enough to send you to your knees or make you beg. However, to Schoenheit, sipping a drop of wine tilts the scale in favor of the one-out-of-ten chance of you walking up there, blowing your cover, and smashing the empty glass in Floyd’s face.

Instead of doing that, you ask conversationally, “When was a covenant struck with the Shrouds?” You wish Schoenheit would have more trust in you, but you are well aware you lost that trust. Waiting for an answer, your eyes search the environment for those mentioned cameras.

“When you were out of commission.” 

All of your limbs flinch at that, as if you have just taken a bite of the world’s sourest lemon. “Ah.”

How altruistic of Schoenheit to remind you.

Being out of commission was very unlike you. For five years, you have known Schoenheit; for four, you have worked for him. In that time, sick days were once-in-a-lifetime events. You pride yourself on how effectively you worked because, for three years, you have known Schoenheit’s face and for two years, you had been in the upgraded position from canon-fodder to information recon. 

Then, for one whole year, you had … well, you rather not say. Speaking it would be like swallowing a bouquet of roses but without the petals and solely the thorns. At the very least, you inform Schoenheit on new information, just in case he has not seen it on the cameras, “He’s here, boss.”

“Ah.” At least both of you are dealing with this in stride. After that faint whisper, the earpiece fixated tightly on your snorkel is quiet for a few moments. In that time, you stumble into a memory. 

As the kunai slams into the wall by the door’s opening entrance, emitting a sharp warning bang, you announce to your uninvited guests, “If it’s the mailman, you can leave the package by the grocery bags like normal. If you’re here to stop my heart, someone’s already beat ya to the kill.” With that said, you let your deceased arm drop and fall limp on your mattress. 

“And if it’s your boss?”

Wincing, you respond, “ … ah, I supposed you’re welcome.”

“Thank you,” Schoenheit says primly as you hear your apartment door close. 

Though he says nothing, you can hear Schoenheit’s eyes flickering across each item of a break-up vomited across your single room apartment. Ah, where to even start? The snow white vivisection of the beheaded bear that he made for you at Build-A-Bear? How about the dart board where a handful of porcupine quill darts stick out of a five-tiered photo of you and him squeezed tight in an arcade’s photobooth? Yet, who could neglect to look at the real ruins of the relationship which is you, spread out like a starfish on your bed, eyes raccoon-ed with running mascara and insomnia?

After scrutinizing over the heartbreak hurricane that has torn through the room, Schoenheit starts to make his way over to you. It only takes a second to recognize that he did not come alone. You hear a second pair of shoes. “Oh, mon cher,” Rook says sullenly.

At least you don’t have to turn your head to see who it is. Body comatose in dolor, you cannot be bothered to move an atom of yourself besides the hand that feeds yourself and your bunny a bowl of carrots.

You hear one of your two superiors seat themselves at your bar as Oswald nibbles an orange stalk from your fingers. “How long do you think you have been here?”

“Must be more than a couple days, three?” You put a carrot in your mouth as you wait for the reveal.

“A week and a day,” Schoenheit supplies the answer. Then, he repeats chastising, “A full eight days.” 

“Hm,” you hum, just as acknowledgement to let him know that you heard him. Eight days seems so insignificant. You press another carrot to Oswald’s lips as he takes it in his chattering teeth. As the ebon Havana whittles the vegetable down to nothing, you depress your fingers down onto his fur, feeling the vibrations of his nibbling on your chest. 

Eight days? If you had the energy to scoff, you would be up in Schoenheit’s face with the loudest, most scornful scoff he has ever heard in his life, a scoff that would have the academy sending you home with a performing arts award. 

Eight days is nothing!

Your apartment goes quiet for a beat. Unsure which one has previously sat down at the bar countertop, you listen to the single pair of footsteps that walks around the wreckage. Crunching glass murmurs in the air. Again, you are unsure on whether one of your two superiors has picked up a photograph frame you bludgeon to bits or has accidentally stepped on the skeleton remains of a ceramic plate you two painted downtown at some rickety pottery studio. 

You bloodlet a year worth of your time for him. He left. So, you broke everything that could be a reminder of stolen seconds, minutes, and hours – even though it does not reverse the clock at all – to cement the finiteness. 

No going back: that is what you wanted your destruction to symbolize. You know that is not where your feelings lie. Reversing time is all you want to do. All your love and longing is strapped to you like a huge hiking bag, and you cannot find it in yourself to shoulder off that paralysis-esque weight. Thus, it crushes you, much like how Oswald crushes down on your sternum when he starts to make biscuits. 

“Do you plan to make it nine?”

That rouses you enough where you stop looking at the ceiling and drop your cheek on the right side of the bed. Schoenheit is the one sitting at your bar. Plucked straight from a vogue magazine, your boss looks like Jesus himself with his shoulder-length hair. His halo is the light shining in your set of a dozen, upside down cordial glasses. Like sleeping bats, they hang from your iron mounted, wine glass rack and cover him in evangelical sunshine. Your personal Jesus who came to console you after a break-up. 

“I don’t know,” you verbalize. Moodiness makes you brave. “Why don’t you stay for the next twenty-four hours and find out?” You put another carrot in your mouth, intending to turn back to staring at the ceiling when, “Ew, bunny hair.” You flick your tongue up and down, trying to dislodge the stray black hair. 

Chuckling with a dangerous undertow, Schoenheit says, “I wish I could but I have much better things to do with my time than watch you eat your pet’s hair. Time should not be wasted. I know, Potato, that you can use your time more wisely than this.”

Oswald’s hair finally out of your mouth, you bite back, “No, I’m quite content doing this forever.” This time you take care to brush your fingers on the edge of your shirt to rub off pet fur before you reach back into the bowl. 

“Well, I tried to be gentle about it.”

Oswald is plucked off your lap. You give a noise of protest when the rabbit is handed to Rook. That noise is effectively silenced when a disposable syringe tip is placed on the skin folding over your carotid artery. Not yet pressing it, just a small apply of pressure to remind you of its existence. 

Your slow blink is confronted by the blink of awe that rinses over Schoenheit’s face, thoroughly shocked at your lack of reaction. In the grand scheme of things, eight days truly is nothing. And, in the grand scheme of things, death really is nothing. “I loved him, Schoenheit.” You have no idea what could possibly be in the syringe. Poison made by your boss has made men weighing two hundred plus pounds drop in seconds and has made others dissolve into a bubbling puddle of red. 

Thus, you continue on, bitter and thoroughly hurt, “I loved him like a garden loves the sun and rain. I loved him like a guitar loves making music. I loved him like … oh, I don’t know. More than anything really.”

“The sustenance from a kiss is a fertilizer like no other! From each replenishing embrace, a flower grows in the garth of our hearts! What a beautiful seraphim love is! A free spirited angel of our making! Some might even say finding love is like finding Heaven on Earth! Que c'est beau!”

“You’re not helping.”

“Ah, je suis désolé,” Rook apologizes, switching his energy outlet from an impromptu poetry slam to brushing Oswald’s fur in neat sections.

Schoenheit’s eyes are testy as they regard you. Two rich pools of orchid violet dissect you from the top layer of epidermis down to your bone. You are very curious to what those keen eyes could be seeing in the decrepit, disgraceful state you are in. Is there anything left to salvage from you or are you a lost cause (a potted plant, too withered to revive)?

You flinch when the syringe goes in. It feels like pinching skin between metal. As mysterious fluid flows through your carotid artery, you listen to Schoenheit’s lecture, “He has stolen from me something that was in your possession. Something that I trusted you to keep safe. That I cannot forgive.”

When the syringe is pulled out, you offer nothing more than a wince. You want to be a smartass and ask, no bandage?, but you continue to listen on. “Diligence. Excellence. Relentlessness. Those three values are what Pomefiore is founded upon.” The cap clips over the empty needle of the syringe. “I have full confidence in you that those are memorized in your mind. Yes?” Those orchid lakes seem to grow bottomless and nebulous. Which of the Greek Gods must you never look in the eyes?

Jesus pulls back from your coffin-bed. Oswald is put back on your chest like a bundle of flowers. 

“The heart is flexible. There is always a place to make new love.” 

You have no idea what is in the syringe but you sit up in bed, feeling refreshed like one does after a long shower or long nap. 

After they leave, on your countertop and under the hanging wine glasses is a ticket to Ashengrotto’s upcoming masquerade along with three vials of swirling colors that move like tiny lava lamps of blue, red, and yellow.

“Remind him, Potato.”

So caught up in memory-lane, you startle because who are you supposed to remind? And remind them of what? Jesus (the actual Jesus, not your boss), did a week out of commission really have you in such disarray? 

Yet, you know each intricate circumstance that leaves your nerves so shot. Just like you know exactly where freckle is on his back, the exact hues that blend together to make up the color of his contrasting, gazing eyes, and just like you know the print his teeth leave behind when he bites down. All that information is left in high, extensive detail in the files of your mind. 

Luckily, Schoenheit was only beginning his sentence with Remind him, Potato. You listen to the rest of his words and commit them to memory. “That he is not the only one on the stage. You are there too. On the same stage.”

You inhale a tiny planet of air. Steeling yourself, you take one last glance up to the second floor. The only person who could recognize your face from the casting call of tonight’s performance stands up there, picking his nose with his pinkie like a child. Tonight is just: him, you, and this wire.

The objective of tonight – in order to proceed to the main objective – is to find someone to inject with a syringe. 

You have exactly three. Blue, red, and yellow. Three plastic vials that are hidden in a pocket professionally stitched inside the inner wrist of your suit. Nestled together like newborn bunnies nursing, they lie in that pocket and await the moment you take out the needle from your boutonnière. 

It is an impossible task to bypass security into an Ashengrotto masquerade. Without fail, guests are scanned down for metal lingering on their bodies. Thus, creative liberties need to be taken to complete Schoenheit’s wish. Underneath the rose pinned on your suit are three needles. They blend together with the metal found in a boutonnière, and that disguise allows you to perform on stage. 

A brief [Aside], they also do not check shoes here with their metal scanners.

Each vial has a different job for tonight. Blue, red, and yellow. All your primaries gathered together underneath the veins on your non-dominant wrist. 

If injected, blue will cause a seizure unlike the likes anyone has seen before, causing bones to climb into directions thought impossible of anatomy as the victim crawls upward for heavenly salvation. If injected, red will cause the punctured spot to dissolve, flesh dripping away to reveal bone that falls away like a melted jar of sugar. If injected, yellow will cause any wounds to heal, reversing all damage no matter how grotesque or twisted out of proportion. 

The best thing about them is there is no need for a syringe. As soon as the needle pierces something, the liquid is pulled out of the plastic by its own fate. Right now, you look around for a masked individual (anyone besides Ashengrotto and Floyd)  to empty the blue one into.

It has to be a distraction of magnetic caliber. Everyone’s focus needs to be pulled, even those of the most insignificant waiter to Ashengrotto himself. No matter what, it has to be compelling and spellbinding.

Which is why you chose a man wearing a diver’s helmet. So when his Herculean head inevitably falls, it will cause a loud clank! that is heard all the way from the second floor. 

It is why your conspiracy starts off delicate; the femme/homme fatale simply spreading out their influence in subtle ways. You only know you had him ensnared in your web when the arm you are running a hand upon relaxes, his previous flinch and tension melting like a peppermint in the mouth. You flutter your eyelashes at him from behind your goggles.

“My apologies. I didn’t mean to startle you; I was simply hoping to get the hors d'oeuvre in front of you.” You retract your hand but not without giving his elbow a teasing squeeze.

It is difficult to deduct any sort of thought from the impenetrability of his costume. Sealed away by blue-rusted brown copper, his ‘face’ is a tenebrous ebony with the words Anchor Engineering, 1913 as his temple and then as his chin. Unperturbed, you stare lovingly into the cold, lifeless circle. 

He side-steps but does not leave. That’s good. As you masterfully pluck a shrimp square off the lazy susan, you make sure to turn your victim. Act uninterested in the food. Look at him as if he is your next meal. 

“They always serve such extravagant, authentic seafood here. It feels as if I am truly dipping my hand into the Coral Sea and reeling in my meal from those very waters. Don’t you agree?”

The helmet sways up and down in a slow nod. His body underneath is like a statue.

You take half a bite of the shrimp square. It is an explosion of flavor; the bread, sauce, and meat combines into one sophisticated umami that excites your tastebuds. When you finish chewing, actually genuinely pleased with your bite, you hum out, “köstlich!”

And whatever fleeting interest this stranger has with you is amplified, if only by a slim margin. That flat black circle that reminds you of a bottomless fishing hole in northern ice tilts, curious at your words. A smile graces your face. 

“Do you speak any German?” The helmet goes back and forth in a negative response. “I’ve picked up a bit of German in my teens. A beautiful language. Köslitch, a pretty word, no?”

His body language is poised with interest. Thank Jesus, he must think you are something exotic and seductive. That intrigue will solidify his fate. “In German, it has a double meaning.”

You finish your shrimp then continue, “It means both funny and delicious. You would call a certain snack köslitch in the same way you would call someone that makes you laugh köslitch. I think,” — Here, you grab his hand. It is ungloved and a bit coarse. Meaty in your slim hand. Gingerly, you pull his hand up towards your mouth, making sure your breath hits across each of his knuckles — “, that you could fit both meanings.”

Then, mimicking a centipede with sharp pincers, you bite hard upon his index finger. And, with both hands cradling his single hand, you slip the needle piercing the blue vial into his exposed wrist. A crescent mark of teeth lingers on the top notch of his finger.

“I’ve always had this secret yen for funny guys.” The black hole leans forward, intense. “Meet me in the bathroom on the second floor in ten minutes.”

Yet, walking away, you know the diver only has five minutes of oxygen left in his tank. 

“Ya never had a burger?”

Even though, yes, you did just previously confirm that, Floyd’s awestruck words leave you wide-eyed. You are in disbelief over how … in disbelief he sounds! Lips on his cheek, lipstick-staining activity halting momentarily, you ask, “Is it really that hard to believe?”

“It’s almost impossible to believe!”

You chuckle with a dumb grin. Used to his dime-flipping moods, you lean in to continue peppering his face with kisses. Arms already around his neck, you pull him just a few more centimeters down so you speak into his ear. “Well, we just gonna have to order one after we fuuuck.”

Despite the chuffing link you have with your arms around his neck and with your legs around his waist – your crotch rubbing eagerly and teasingly up against his! – Floyd pulls back from you. It is almost comedical the look of sheer devastation of his lipstick polka-dotted face; would be too if you were not so astronomically horny. “Never? Like never never?”

Oh God, this is going to be a whole thing. “I don’t know. Maybe as a kid? Come here.” You tighten your legs around his waist when he tries to pull himself up from your apartment’s bed. Doubling down, you fasten your pace a bit when grinding down upon his crotch, feeling the familiar shape of his penis in his sweats moving against you so nicely. “Forget burgers. I want a different kind of meat.”

“I can’t just forget something like that! Who the hell grows up without eatin’ a burger!” 

How you desperately wish to reverse time when his steadyfast words reach your ears. There is a determined fixation in his voice. You let your arms fall by your head as Floyd’s hands squeeze your ass; he’s now no longer reciprocating in your grinding. Putting on your best pouting face like a young actor desperate for the role, you whine, “If I knew you were going to be like this, I would have said yes.”

“But seriously, how have ya not?”

“I don’t know. It wasn’t something my parents made and now I’m on this caloric diet that has me eating whole foods.”

“A hamburger is a whole food. It’s a whole cow.”

“Ugh, I don’t know! Can we please have sex!” 

You throw your head back in exasperation. Legs fall down by your side. Floyd had the munchies after coming back from your bowling date, so you thought it would be nice to brainstorm aftercare options for dinner together  — ping-ponging between the idea of ordering takeout or going somewhere. Curse you and your big, dumb mouth. 

“Nope! We’re goin’ out again!” 

Just like that, he is skirting around your apartment to pick up the graphic tee he shucked off. His Neckface dunks are already hooked on the edge of his fingers when you sit up, readjusting your wrinkled shirt. You need to fix your cosmetics. However, when your hand falls around the oyster-shell of your compact mirror, your other hand is grabbed.

“Let’s go! Let’s go!” Floyd cheers, half-dragging you to the door. He is ignorant to your distress as the compact-mirror slips from your grip, soap-esque. “Me and my brother used to go to this place all the time. They do this whole burger of the week thing; it’s like pun-based burgers. My brother kept going back for the jokes, but I just think the grub’s good. You’ll love them! The owner’s super nice and I met his wife and kids –!”

“Floyd.” Your feet digging into the carpet finally grabs his attention. His face is equivalent to a giant question mark. “I need to check my face.”

The blank look on his face is wiped by him moving his dual-colored eyes up and down, surveying the area. His reply is genuine. “Looks fine to me, babe.” A mischievous gleam comes to his irises as he chuckles, “It’s a real sexy face. Even sexier when it’s moanin’ my name.”

Hope flares up in you. Maybe, just maybe, you can drag him back to the bed. 

“Yeah, baby?” You slur huskily before pulling him into a deep kiss. 

Floyd always kisses well. Somewhere in the middle of it, he spins you. Towards the bed? Hope is dashed when you hear the click of your apartment door, realizing you two are on the opposite side of it. Your boyfriend giggles the entire way down to the lobby, having successfully duped you.

The burger joint is built like a tiny house or a big shed, depending on how you view its humble spot in the universe. With the sun starting to set, the owners have powered on the string of lights crawling like a march of ants across the tiny house’s soffit. The unique footprint of Floyd’s car engine is already recognized before you enter. And, when you are seated, the waitress already knows not to ask for Floyd’s order (“He won’t order anythin’. Just trusts the slobs in the back to bring him something good.”) and the waiter claps him so hard on the shoulder you are afraid Floyd’s thin frame would break (“Haven’t seen you in a whole month! Where you been?” – here, the waiter stops and looks at you – “… and you are trying to hide things from us now?”). The energy is so light that you cannot stop yourself from leaning over your shared appetizer, waffle fries. 

“You failed to mention you're a local celebrity here, you know? Warn a girl/boy before you bring them to somewhere where they’re rolling out the proverbial red carpet for them” you say, fishing a fry out of the greasy basket. You really should have done your face.

“What,” unlike you, Floyd talks with his mouth half full of words and the other half full of food, “everyone here is super lowkey.” 

“I think the entire world is lowkey from your perspective.” You dot your sentence by dipping the waffle fry in the shared ketchup. “I feel like everyone is dissecting me.”

Floyd looks back again at the bar where everyone seems to be oblivious to your conversation, so deep and entangled in their own. “Nah, I don’t feel it.” And before you can refute, Floyd reaches over and bumps your chin with his finger, causing you to miss your bite. Your worry is forgotten as you dabbing your face with a napkin, laughing threats about taking the entire basket if he plays dirty with his food anymore.

At an appropriate time, your food arrives from the kitchen. It is set down on the table and this time, instead of Floyd’s shoulder being clapped, his hair is ruffled. Juice spills over the edge of the lower bun, soaking into the yeast. The bun seems to radiate its own heat as you pick up your burger – Knife to Meet You Burger (comes with thinly sliced beets) – and bring it towards your mouth.

“You eat with your pinkies up?”

Lower jaw still hanging open, you glance at Floyd. He has already taken two large bites of his burger, a ketchup mustache decorating his face. My, he really does not care about his appearance. “Hmmm?” You look down to see that your pinkies are in fact raised like two little horns.

A laugh comes out of your mouth. It has been ages since you’ve eaten finger food other than fries or maybe some whole wheat crackers. “Yeah, I guess I do.”

Floyd smiles, fond. “Cute.”

The clang as metal helmet meets ground sends a shockwave through the masquerade. A woman shrieks; when a man starts to yell out if anyone shrouded in mysterious masks might just be a doctor by chance, you make your way up the stairs.

It won’t take you long to decipher the code. The potion Schoenheit gave you yesterday heightened your senses. Hearing each click of a correct turn on the safe’s dial will be easy. Like how elevated your sight and smell are, there is a certain air about you. 

Despite the entire prologue, you feel good. Heartbreak might be the costume cemented upon you in this masquerading parade but you are still capable. Pomefiore’s disciples always seek to be their best.

As you slip into Ashengrotto’s bedroom like a breeze, removing your snorkel, you forget in your joy of elevated sensations how your own heavy scent carries on the wind. 

Just as the safe opens, the door to Ashengrotto’s bedroom opens. 

It is a bit hard to shoulder your apartment door open with arms full of groceries, five ringlets of plastic hanging on for dear life on each of your forearms, but you still manage to do it. 

Today, the click of the door seems a smidgen louder than normal. It is probably because of how you need to use your spine and hip to push open the wooden slab. Blissfully unaware your key did not manage to unlock the door on the first try like you thought, you rotate yourself so you walk into your small apartment chest first. 

You would have flicked on the lights if you did not spot movement in a place that is definitely not where your bunny cage is. Five grocery bags sliding off your right arm, you hold out your second kunai, pinched in your hand. 

The first kunai you throw lands a few centimeters from the man who is crouching down by your slide-open closet door, piercing the birch wood. 

You take care to put down the groceries bags on your left arm. You have lettuce, eggs, and bananas in those. Hand still aimed, the point of the kunai trained straight at the spot where the intruder is, you take your non-dominant hand and turn on the lights. 

“Floyd?”

Standing up – the files detailing Schoenheit’s jury tampering where two of Kingscholar’s men were killed by Schoenheit’s men and then the failed narcotics conspiracy sentence to imprison one of Ashengrotto’s men (files that could get Schoenheit arrested in the wrong hands (his) and files that could get Ashengrotto arrested in the right hands (your boss’s)) in his dominant left hand – Floyd gives you a fleeting once over. He looks as if all of your time spent together was erased from his memory. As if he has successfully forgotten it.

“It’s nothing personal, Shrimpy. Just business.”

The door of Ashengrotto’s bedroom fully opens and knocks you back into the present.

He looks handsome. 

To be fair, his face has always looked handsome. He has looked handsome curling into your blankets, hair unbrushed and laughing. He has looked handsome picking you up in his car, cheek soft and squished on his steering wheel. He has looked handsome eating a burger with you, face dotted with a melange of sauce and crumbs. He looks handsome, staring down at you now. 

Shock – in the terms of upsetting events that surprise you like a deer in highlights – is something Schoenheit has trained out of your system. The only man who does not act is a dead man. So, when you launch yourself to your feet, you fully anticipate getting the first punch in.

Only to be caught so off guard when your ex-boyfriend cuffs both your wrists in one large hand and sends your face reeling back in whiplash due to the connecting embrace his other hand delivers. 

It feels like a spider blooming. That animal is all you can use to describe the sensation of being punched. The egg-shaped body of the arthropod is the spot where the nose lands – directly on your nose – and the spreading flame of pain is like a thousand legs stretching over your face.

A teardrop trails down the heated surface of your face as you gather your bearings. Or is it blood from a nostril? You cannot check the color of the watery drop because Floyd still has your two wrists prisoner in his single hand. With a grimace and hateful eyes, you turn so you may face him. Gaze upon his handsome face and deem it ugly. 

“Shit. I didn’t mean ta hit ya that hard.” The whiplash you are receiving tonight is like a rollercoaster! Full of so many ups and downs, just like you would expect of Floyd. Still, you cannot help the look of pure dumb shock that paints itself over your face as you are suddenly fussed over. 

When the hand that punched you tenderly touches your broken nose, you reel back with a growl.

“Get your hands off me!”

The files are still in your hand when you pull back. Like a magnetized magnet, Floyd follows in your desperate attempt to escape the bind he has upon you. You waste no time in clicking your heels, gaining an extra inch under your left sole. If that idiot won’t let go, you’ll force it. Left soles now sprouting a field of spikes, you bring your foot up and kick him hard in the abdomen.

Floyd falls back. The papers rustle. The click of your heels is like the tongue of a dragon sparking up a breath of fire. As his footing stumbles, you kick up and cut a long slash across his cheek and down to his lips with the knife sticking out the top of your right sole. 

“Shit,” Floyd shouts as his body collides and closes the door. 

When you pull your fingertips back from your face, you see that the drop from earlier was certainly blood.

Then, for a moment, you and Floyd observe each other. Intensely, both of your eyes take to tracking over the features previously known so intimately. Your eyes squint with so much vitriol that Floyd almost blurs in your vision. But, you are eating up the gourmet image of him, blood curling down the left side of his face much like the black strand curls down his right.

He smiles that familiar smile. “Hi, Shrimpy-baby.”

“...”

“Ya know, I never told ya this, but I always had this secret yen for the feisty ones.”

“Don’t spew that shit at me, you asshole.”

What a wicked game he played with you. To burrow into your life like a plump, devouring mite that took to digging deeper into the soil of your garden. A year of love is too convoluted of a scheme for a man of his ever-changing disposition to do, yet he did it. In doing so, he has destroyed your belief in the very concept of love. 

This time around, you are much more unsure if the drop falling down your face is a tear or blood. 

“Ya … You smell the same.” Confusion flickers over your face, so Floyd continues, “Didn’t think you’d be wearin’ the same perfume. Was almost positive I wouldn’t smell it again. Shit stinks.”

My, what a compliment. Like a practiced magician, you go to pull a syringe out from underneath your cufflink when surprise paralyzes you. Cheekbones burns as Floyd perfectly recites the French name – you distantly him saying how much he hated that language – of your perfume. 

“Comme Des Garçons Avignon.” Then he names the top notes. “Smells like Roman chamomile, elemi, and incense.” Then he finishes off with, “Ya spray like twelve puffs on yourself. And ya always make sure to get in on your inner wrist before rubbin’ it into your neck.”

“There’s something evil in you.” Disgust coats your tongue as you shake your head back and forth. Why can’t he just vanish off the face of the earth? Or at least walk back into the masquerade so you can finish your job. 

You cannot face the ugly truth that you still love him.

Floyd’s eyes flicker down to the ground … or perhaps only to analyze the files in your hand. All the same, a shadow falls over his features. It reminds you of each time his body shut down when emotions got too big, resemblant of powering off electronics. His next words are less confident than how he described your habits and perfume in detail. Whispering, he insists, “You should be in my life.”

What is he talking about? Your head continues shaking, almost stuck in that action. You were in his life. Both of you were so intimately entangled with one another’s life. That sentiment is now completely unrealistic; this cavern between you will never heal. 

“I hate you,” you whisper, just before closing the distance. 

There is a foreign sentiment you know pretty well despite the language gap. Bilingual because of Schoenheit and his right hand man, you pick up French and German much like how a child picks up alluring shells on the shoreline. You carry them in the pail of your brain. Naturally, you cannot stop one from floating to the surface as pallid plaster coats your knuckles.

Qui aime bien, châtie bien. Who loves well, punishes well. 

In its original meaning, it relates to the idea that as your love grows older, you become well versed in teasing. More comfortable in your aging relationship, certain barriers fall away from the heart. The nautilus shell falls away to reveal the soft, vulnerable body of slime. Teasing happens. Tough love is natural. Right now though, as your hand clenched around a syringe falls in a diagonal arch, you use the proverb in a much more literal way.

The popcorn wall dissolves under administration of the liquid. Red churns in the tube before magical magnetism pulls into the area of injection. Floyd ducks out of way just in time and makes a grab for the hand holding the files.

TITLE: THE TEXT MESSAGE ‘IT’S NOT ME, IT’S YOU’

INT. ASHENGROTTO’S BEDROOM

OPEN on two people fighting. One holds a stack of papers large enough to be a dictionary. The other is trying half-heartedly to steal those files back, but is mostly fixated on avoiding the onslaught of punches falling in his direction. The shuffle is a violent dance. Punches are thrown and dodged. Some connect and others miss. The only sound is the huff of measured breaths, exhaling when either FLOYD or YOU attack on offense. 

The room is full of three main objects; a safe, a bed, and a dresser underneath a large mirror. 

FLOYD. 

(exuberantly) 

You’ve been holdin’ back on me. I didn’t know you could fight like this.

YOU. 

…

FLOYD.

C’mon, Shrimpy, don’t be like that. Woah!

YOU

Do you ever shut up?

FLOYD. 

I’d like it if you made me. Aren’t little spiders supposed to neutralize their prey with venom?

YOU.

Aren’t little eels supposed to bite their prey with teeth? … Did it feel good? Building me up to tear me down?

FLOYD.

It was just business. It had nothing ta do with us.

A punch connects with the side of FLOYD’s face. As he stumbles, a swinging leg sends his torso falling onto the dresser. It rattles like a hundred bones in a coffin shakened like a child’s birthday present. 

YOU. 

(voice raising)

Don’t lie again. I’m sick of being lied to by you!

FLOYD.

I never lied to you. I haven’t been lyin’ about a thing. It’s not fair that Vil gets to have ya.

YOU keep throwing punches, ignoring his words. 

FLOYD, growing increasingly aggravated, abandons his position of defense. He pulls YOU in by the lapels of your suit, hoisting them up by sheer strength and slams them into the mirror above the dresser. Papers fall like autumn leaves and glass falls like snowflakes. Seen subtly behind them, a trail of blood coming from their pierced shoulders, rolling down the dresser’s side like one stretching snake of sanguine. 

YOU twist yet are unable to escape the grasp.

FLOYD narrows his gold and olive brown eyes.

FLOYD. (CONT.)

I know everything about ya. I know ya can’t blow a bubble with gum. I know each mole and freckle on ya. And I know no matter how hard you try, your pinkies always go up when you eat a burger! So, you shouldn’t be with a lover who doesn’t know ya. Give him up. I can put in a good word with Azul; we could be back to how we used to be. It’s not fair that Vil gets to have you! I should have ya!

YOU

(shaking their head and laughing, haggard)

You don’t get to have me. – No-Not after what you did. 

FLOYD

(angry)

You should be in my space! You should be in my life!

THE fight continues. A sharp sound much like a tongue clicking inside a mouth startles the audience. YOU press the left sole of their shoe into FLOYD’s abdomen and push back as hard as they can. A pained shout bleeds out his mouth. YOU, stumbling from the glass that managed to sink through their suit and into skin, goes to punch yet is blocked. 

WITH a rough tug on YOU’s biceps, FLOYD pushes them both down to the ground. Pain flares across their back like one crashing wave. EXIT SCENE.

“Kiss me. Kiss me,” he pleads, his fingers digging so harshly into your skin that bruises will be there tomorrow. His voice is turbulent with so many emotions. “Just one. Just kiss me again.”

Fist enclosed on his shirt’s sternum, you push against him and try to rebuild the distance between you two. “Get off! Get off me, you psycho!” Each time he attempts to close the gap, you violently twist your lips away. Your body squirms like a desperate fly caught in a web. His lips collide with the corner of your lip and chin. You push back as hard as you can. “Get off me right – fucking! Floyd!”

The hands that left tomorrow’s bruises on your upper arms move to grip your writhing, wrinkled in anger face. He holds you still with tremendous strength, eye to eye. Each atom of your skull shakes with frustration. Gritted teeth almost seem to vibrate in your mouth. Despite your desperation to tear away and flee, Floyd keeps you pinned.

“I love you so much,” he confesses, dual-colored eyes brimming over. Emotion crinkles his voice. You want to scoff at his well-improvised act.

The scoff lands in Floyd’s mouth as he pulls you into a perilous kiss. Teeth act like iron gates. Closing him off from your love, you try to use each component of yourself to escape. Knees and fists curl up and push him away with fruitless strength. Nose wrinkles as if you smelt something horrid. When he tries to French-kiss you, you take the hand shoving at his chest to wrap your hand around his throat. A thumb presses hard in his trachea.

Floyd pulls back immediately, hacking and his spit flying through the air. There, you think, is your opening for freedom. 

Your body rolls onto its side. You only get a shuffling inch or so away from him before he is laughing jubilantly, teeth gleaming in his mouth – Like he used to laugh at comedy shows, playing on your shitbox CRT, or like he used to laugh when breaking out into an impromptu dance, playing music and heartstrings in your kitchen. – “That’s my Shrimpy. Oh, I love you!” 

Your fruitless escape is squashed as Floyd pulls you back into another kiss. This time he manages to slip his mouth past those iron gates.

According to songs, sparks fly when a kiss happens. In this moment, you feel like those sparks are not from joyous, amorous fireworks but a hundred plane engines blowing their transmission. Screaming into his mouth, you pull back so hard that your head splinters a crack into the wooden dresser behind you.

Floyd’s hands protectively cradle the back of your head after that. He rotates his body so his weight smothers. Your rotated body is once more flatten like a pancake. Lying by the dresser, you kiss – well, he kisses you. You are actively still fighting against it.

Curses and potions, you know them well. They are frequently used in your work. It is not unheard of to utilize ancient, outdated methods of magic to gain an upper hand in this dangerous tango of organized crime. Just like the Shrouds excel in technology, the Schoenheits excel in potions and curses. No matter how many charms cloaked over objects or potions brewed inside bubbling cauldrons, you have never been under a curse or tasted a potion more dangerous than love. It is the most potent, poisonous curse.

A wet drop falling from Floyd’s face falls on your cheek; tear or blood, who can tell? The next motion you make, you blame it upon the brain damage you sustained when knocking your head into the dresser’s bottom leg. 

As you grab his hair and open those iron gates, you think, ‘Sorry Schoenheit.’

Slobbering into his mouth, like you are trying to fuse together, you explore the cave. Finding the familiar stalagmites of teeth and the moss spot where his canker sore from too many bedtime sodas or snacks laced with salt and vinegar. Teal hair is pulled at the root and your embrace feels more like a hook than a hand, yet Floyd still launches into the kiss with relief and excitement. 

He is an everlasting object of motion. Unstoppable and breaking laws of psychics. He pushes his tongue further in, entwines it with yours. Each pressure point of contact is seductively bewitching. Floyd lets out a long, stretching groan like a widow mourning. The sound reverbs in the grottos of your interlocked mouths.

Hands flurry about in wild motion. You open up your legs and hold him pelvis to pelvis. His hands do not stop running up and down frantically from shoulders to waist. It is only because of this endless stream of movement that Floyd does not notice when you draw a Z across the back of his skull. 

Pulling back from the kiss, you say a single word with closed eyes, “Somnum.”

Floyd’s own eyes fall shut and his body goes limp. 

Like pushing away fallen rumble, you discard Floyd’s body to the side and bring yourself up to sitting on your knees. A shaky groan exits you. Fingers trembling from adrenaline, you smooth the pads of them over your nose – it is definitely broken – over your back – the material is wet with blood – and over your bottom lip – it radiates a soft heat. Ducking your head, you sigh.

Bewitched Sleep is one of the least complex curses. Just a simple swish of a finger writing a Z and a single Latin word, the chosen victim will fall under a temporary spell of sleep. Those guarded enough will be able to resist it though; casting a glance over at Floyd’s slumbering body, you reflect upon the notion that his iron gates must have been open the entire fight.  

A glare passes over your face. It melts. Then, it comes back again stronger than before. “Such an asshole.” You bite at the air and push yourself up to your feet. One last time, you knock your heels together and the spikes underneath your left sole disappear. “You’re the most convincing actor of all, Floyd.”

It takes a while to gather up the mess of papers, shaking the glass off certain pages. Still, you pile them all back into the folder and check that none had swooped underneath the bed or dresser. As you go about collecting all the pages, you also pick up the snorkel you left by the safe. Holding it up to your ear, you say, “Have Epel send the car around to the back.”

It takes a while to receive an answer and, even when you do, the snorkel is held in your hand rather than by your ear so it is a very muffled answer. “Good work, Potato.” The praise feels empty as you stare down at Floyd’s body sleeping in a bed of glass.

He is not your problem anymore. He is not yours. Yet, it was only nine days ago that he meant everything to you and he had been yours. Just because it is over, that doesn’t mean it didn’t mean anything.

Like a sinking stone, your acid-coated heart makes itself a little elevator ride down to your stomach. 

“Fuck,” you whisper before fastening your snorkel back on your face. “I’m ridiculous.”

So, ridiculously, you find yourself hooking your hands under Floyd’s armpits. Dead-esque, his head slumps forward on a limp neck. It reminds you of those nights, coming home to the apartment from the bar, each of you shouldering the other’s weight. Experienced with it, it is a fluid effort and getting Floyd on Ashengrotto’s bed is no trouble. 

You shake the files in your hand. You stomp your feet to make sure each blade is inside the sole. Then, you go to leave?

Ridiculously, you find that your feet are hesitating. Shuffling indecisively on the carpet. Heavy as if cement has been poured in them. The window is only a matter of a dozen steps away yet you might as well be trying to trudge through glutinous quicksand towards a whole other planet.

Once more, your intelligent mentor’s voice rains down from the Heavens with his oh so introspective words of wisdom (this time imaginary). “Honey, ditch that loser,” Jesus-Schoenheit says.

‘Oh I wish I could. I really wish I could,’ you bemoan to the fake voice of your boss, face pinched in a grimace. As you turn around, you start to dig around in your slacks pockets. 

‘I should have that pen somewhere.’ Shoving the files under your armpit, fingers flutter through the snow fields of lint at the bottom of each pocket. Where is that stupid pen? You know you were carrying a permanent tattoo marker. If you had to make a run for it after getting the codes but before opening the safe, you brought along the writing utensil so you could mark down the numbers on the length of your arm … that is, if you can find it.

A breath of relief escapes you. Uncapping the pen, you take a short moment to observe comatose Floyd. Even with his clothes elongated and stretched from your hateful hands and his skin drenched in sweat and sanguine, he rivals the very concept of beauty. Individuals favored by Aphrodite, actors or actresses with faces that belong immortalized in marble, and a blond Queen who seduces men and women with a poisonous potency: these are the type of people you surround yourself with daily. Yet, all of them look hideous in comparison to Floyd who sleeps with a slightly parted mouth and tacky blood streaming down his face. How has he warped your vision so grandly?

Upset, you force your eyes to fall away from his mesmeric features and move down to his waistline. Most of your graphic tee is untucked like normal so you have little problem with wrestling his shirt above his belly button. On his navel, above the dusting of black hair, you place the tip of the marker. 

In quick yet eligible swirls, you write down your new phone number across Floyd’s V-line. A twisty six forms, an eight loops side to side, a soldier-straight one is born. You punctuate it all with a sharp dot, imagining that your very innocent pen is a dangerous knife. The stab of ink hits him so hard that he coughs in his sleep, pained. 

God, you want to make him feel so much more pain than that. 

Capping your marker, you pull down his shirt and pull the files from the crook of your armpit. Rereading the document’s identification, you feel just a tiny spritz of your frustration dissolve inside of you. The job is complete. Despite everyone back home thinking you would be a loose canon and fail tremendously, you manage to succeed. 

Yes, your nose will have to be snapped back into place. And, you doubt Rook (under Schoenheit’s instructions) will be gentle with the whole procedure. But, at least you did not run into Ashengrotto which you consider a huge, jackpot-esque win of a night full of many ups and downs, and much lack of faith from homebase.

The door clicks open just as you reach up to your ear. Startled, your fingers depress down on the still intact communication device, sending your desolate “fucking shit” out on radio waves back to that beloved homebase.

“(Name)? (Name), what’s wrong?” Schoenheit’s voice worries in your ear as you and Ashengrotto lock eyes across his wrecked, demolished bedroom. The absolute puzzlement in those blue eyes would be amusing if only you did not know the octopus’s exact next move.

“How close is Epel?”

“He’s only one block away from your location.”

“Yeah, I got enough time.”

“Potato?”

“I’m jumping out the window,” you inform your boss just as Ashengrotto unclips the gun from his belt. Confusion has long since drained from those blueberry hues; just as hesitation has vanished magically from your feet. “Tell Epel, proceed as planned, meet me at the spot.”

“Potato! Don’t you dare jump through a window! (Name)? (Name)!”

You have a nagging suspicion that Rook (under Schoenheit’s instructions) will not be gentle when taking the glass out of your skin. It matters very little to you as the wall by your head coughs out a dusting of white plaster. A decorative new eye in Ashengrotto’s bedroom wall is just another damage left behind in the mess you have made. Something else matters much more.

There has been a dormant craving in you for disgustingly greasy food for days.

That said, you need to keep your calories in check so you could definitely use some company to reach over the sticky table and paw at your share of food. The burger of the week at yours and Floyd’s self-established ‘joint’ is Poutine on the Ritz Burger. Comes with poutine fries. Probably will put a yellow, waxy clot of cholesterol in your veins. As you leap from the window, you can already picture it perfectly. 

Floyd, sitting across the table from you, licking gravy from his fingers, his shark maw gnashing back and forth noisily as he grinds down cheese curds and potatoes from your fries, looking as irresistible as a hung Da Vinci portrait. 

[knoepfl]

Mad Genius, Part |||

Hey there! I finally made part 3! I'm glad I made it because to be honest I really love the idea but I'm also not good at writing multiple part stories soo I hope this is alright? I'm already working on part 4 where it's about her only. So we can get a glimpse in the character more. If you'd like to see anything or have an idea feel free to tell me!

---

Characters:

- Viktor – A brilliant but physically frail scientist whose passion for progress often drives him to take risks. 

- Reader (You) – A chaotic but genius inventor from Zaun. Once rational and sharp, your mind has spiraled into madness due to overuse of experimental powders you created. Obsessed with Viktor, you break into his lab to meet him for the first time. 

Trigger Warnings:

- Mental instability and obsession 

- Self-harm (implied through powder effects) 

- Unsettling and erratic behavior 

Masterlist

Part 1: Mad Genius

Part 2: Mad Genius

Part 4: Mad Genius

Words: 1086

Then came the photographs. The first was of Sky, unaltered but serene, her face marked with little red hearts sketched in ink. The next, doctored and grotesque, showed her screaming, her eyes hollow and empty, her skin marred with sores. Viktor recognized your work—your powders. Finally, there were pictures of you. Some were disturbingly intimate, your smile innocent as your fingers toyed with a vial of Crimson Powder. Others were chilling: your face twisted in a mad grin, powder dusted across your lips like war paint, your eyes filled with manic glee.

---

It had been a month of hell. Viktor’s life had unraveled in ways he hadn’t anticipated, each day punctuated by your lingering presence—though you were nowhere to be seen. The letters began innocently enough, reminders of your obsession inked in looping, elegant script. But they quickly grew darker, their contents escalating with every message. You described dreams of your future together, blending them with threats that sent chills down his spine.

He had avoided confronting you for weeks, hoping you would simply disappear. But the last letter left him no choice:

“Viktor, my love, I’m growing impatient. You and I are destined to change the world together, but you keep ignoring me. Perhaps Sky will convince you to see reason? Meet me at the old factory by the river at midnight. If you don’t come... well, I’m sure you can imagine the rest. Don’t make me do it.”

The factory loomed in the distance, its rusted silhouette rising like a skeleton against the blackened sky. Viktor’s cane tapped against the cobblestones, the sound sharp and deliberate. His chest felt heavy, his breath shallow. He gripped the strap of his satchel, inside of which he had packed vials of antidotes—precautions he prayed he wouldn’t have to use. His mind raced with strategies, though he knew none of them would matter. You were chaos incarnate, unpredictable and dangerous.

The factory door creaked open, revealing a cavernous interior lit by the faint glow of dangling bulbs. Machinery stood like rusted sentinels, their shadows stretching ominously. The air smelled of oil, mold, and something faintly sweet—powder residue.

“Viktor!” Your voice rang out, high and melodic, echoing through the space. He stopped, his grip tightening on his cane.

“Where is she?”

“Oh, darling, don’t be so cold. I’ve missed you,” you purred.

You stepped into view, descending a set of metal stairs with theatrical flair. You wore a flowing, dark dress stained with colorful smears of powder, your hair disheveled in a way that only accentuated your manic beauty. In your hands was a small glass vial filled with a shimmering red substance.

Viktor’s stomach twisted. Crimson Powder.

“She’s fine,” you said dismissively, waving toward a shadowed corner. He followed your gesture, spotting Sky slumped against the wall, bound but breathing. Relief flooded him, but his fury quickly returned.

“You’ve gone too far,” he snapped, his voice sharp and unyielding.

Your face fell for a split second before twisting into a pout. “Too far? No, no, no. I’m doing this for us, Viktor. Don’t you see? Everything I’ve done—this powder, this work—it’s all for you.”

“For me?” He took a step forward, his voice trembling with controlled rage. “You’ve poisoned people, terrorized my colleagues, and now you’ve dragged Sky into your madness!”

You tilted your head, your expression softening into something almost childlike. “But Viktor... we’re soulmates. You and I are the same. Don’t you feel it? When I look at you, I see someone who understands me, who sees the potential in chaos.”

He recoiled as you reached out to touch him, his cane tapping against the floor as he stepped back. “I see someone who has lost their way,” he said coldly.

“Lost my way? No. I’ve found it. And I want you to find yours too.”

You held up the vial of Crimson Powder, its contents swirling like liquid fire. “Do you know what this does?” you asked, your voice soft and teasing. “It’s my favorite, you know. It turns love into rage, affection into destruction. Isn’t that poetic?”

Viktor stiffened, his knuckles whitening around the handle of his cane.

“And it’s not just Crimson,” you continued, your tone growing more animated. “There’s Sapphire—oh, the despair it creates is delicious. Emerald... well, I think you’d enjoy that one. But my personal favorite might be Magenta.”

You took a step closer, the vial glinting in your hand. “Would you like to see how it feels, Viktor? To be consumed by love so pure, so obsessive, that it hurts?”

“Enough!” he barked, his voice echoing through the factory. “This isn’t love. It’s madness!”

Your eyes narrowed, your smile fading into a grim line. “Don’t call me mad,” you whispered, your voice trembling with anger. “I’m not mad. I’m visionary.”

He met your gaze, his voice low and steady. “You’re alone.”

The words struck you like a slap, and for a moment, you stood frozen, your expression unreadable. Then you laughed—a sharp, brittle sound that echoed through the room. “Oh, Viktor,” you said, shaking your head. “You think I’m alone? No, darling. I have you.”

Before he could react, you hurled the vial of Crimson Powder at the ground. It shattered, releasing a vivid red cloud that engulfed the room. Viktor stumbled back, covering his mouth with his sleeve as the powder burned his lungs and eyes. The effects were immediate.

His vision blurred, his heart racing as a wave of uncontrollable rage surged through him. He gripped his cane so tightly that his hand ached, his mind clouded with violent thoughts he couldn’t suppress. His eyes darted to Sky, still slumped unconscious in the corner. Unimaginable scenarios played out in his mind—yelling, screaming, beating—acts of cruelty he couldn’t comprehend wanting, but couldn’t stop envisioning.

“No...” he muttered, his voice strained.

His body moved against his will, his legs carrying him toward her. Inside, he screamed against the urge, fear clawing at his sanity. He collapsed before reaching her, his cane clattering to the floor beside him as he gripped his head in both hands.

“Fight it,” he whispered to himself, his voice ragged. “You’re stronger than this...”

The powder’s effects began to fade, leaving him trembling and drenched in sweat. When he finally lifted his gaze, the room was empty, save for Sky, who stirred weakly in the corner. You were gone, leaving behind only the shattered vial and a note scrawled in your elegant handwriting:

“This is just the beginning, my love. I’ll be waiting for you.”

---

[averagewriter-inthedark]

The Old Therebefore 🐍🕊️ | A Six of Crows Imagine

Takes place after the events of S&B S2

My masterlists

Characters & Pairings: gang leader!reader x Crows (platonic). Kaz Brekker x reader (slight tension)

content warnings: profanity, mentions of violence and death, typical SOC themes. | female!reader (she/her) | wc: 4k

Premise: it’s not often Kaz Brekker needs assistance to a job involving anyone other than his Crows. Yet, there is always a first. When a job comes involving not only a high cash prize but also chances of coming out alive slim, Kaz accepts it is out of his skill level. So, what does he do? Take a risk by recruiting his top rival since Pekka Rollins was run out of town….she’s got the charm of a snake with a voice of a songbird. 

Note: so as you can tell by the title of the imagine and song linked, I saw the new hunger games movie (back in November) and literally could not stop thinking about this song/scene. Then of course my hyperfixations like to collide and wallah: here is the end result.

Disclaimer as always: the song and lyrics belong to Suzanne collins and all the SOC characters belong to Leigh Bardugo

---------

“You know, Kaz, I know better than to question you on most things,” Jesper scanned his surroundings, voice low with slight concern. “But I can’t help but wonder why you’ve decided to drag us to the ‘Snake Pit’ tonight.” The sharpshooter sipped his glass of rum after a close inspection, “mind telling us.” 

Seated around him, Inej, Nina, and Wylan expressions bore the same unease. All on high alert the moment Kaz led them through the doors and down the spiral staircase into the Barrel’s infamous Snake Pit. 

Located deep on the opposite side of the Crow Club, the Snake Pit was an underground bar/club. Home of the legendary crime gang, the Blood Serpents. They’d been around since Kaz was 15, their leader to have been the same age as him. Yet the public knew very little of the notorious boss. Only by their code name. 

The Snake Charmer

Of course, this information made Kaz lose his mind at times. Unable to identify his anonymous rival who’s bested him on multiple occasions. If the opportunity arose, Kaz would pay any amount of kruge to find out who the Snake Charmer was. It’d been well over a decade. His patience was running thin.

Finally, the wait would pay off in the form of a messenger boy. 

Knowing Inej was too recognizable, Kaz sent a young member of the Dregs--who was under the radar to the other gangs--to infiltrate the Snake Pit the week prior. The boy returned hours later to relay a crucial piece of information. Now, Kaz was to test that theory. 

Clutching his cane, the crime boss did not spare a glance to his fellow Crows the second they entered the Pit. Even when they took claim to a rounded booth in a far corner by the bar. His attention was occupied. Analyzing the club and its features. Mentally noting the Blood Serpent members, who were identifiable by their red snake tattoos on their hands. 

One of which was the bartender that served them drinks. A young woman about their age, she wore a maroon pin-stripped 5 piece suit although the blazer was forgone. The tattoo was on full display. Kaz assessed her lingering on him when she pushed the tray of drinks toward Jesper. Likely recognizing him and by default the rest of the Crows. The bartender didn’t say anything after, only giving a nod before moving to the next customer. 

To the other Crows, they thought Kaz’s intense stare on the bartender was either because he thought she was attractive or making note she was just another member of the Serpents. But, what they did not know was Kaz figuring out if she was the Snake Charmer.

“A woman?” he questioned the boy, narrowing his eyes. “You are telling me the Snake Charmer--leader of the Blood Serpents--is a woman and works under the guise of an employee at the Snake Pit. Are you positive?”

The boy nodded profusely, “Yes, Mr. Brekker. I can assure you it was no man singing that song. She sounded like a siren if I must say. She calmed the snakes like it was nothing-- I see why they call her Snake Charmer.”

So a woman was responsible for a lot of Kaz’s failures. Not to mention winning the territory he’d hoped to gain when Pekka was defeated. They’d come to a settled agreement through a middle man. An action that annoyed Kaz. But he knew better than to wage war with the Snake Charmer. 

So far the women in the gang he’s managed to identify besides the bartender were two serving girls, a door bouncer, and two poker dealers. A total of six. Of the men, most of them were standing on the walls and mingling along the floor. 

Bet she didn’t expect him to enter her den. 

The Snake Pit was exactly like what the boy described. Dark wood floors and walls up to the high ceilings. Dangling chandeliers, poker tables, two bars on either side. Booths aligned the walls. The most notable and unique trait, however, was the glass snake enclosure right smack in the middle of the floor. It was cylinder shaped at the bottom, lining the floor to the ceiling where it branched out on either side to resemble a tree. Plants and dirt filled it. 

As did ten serpents. Ranging from tiny garden snakes to a python.  

Jesper cringed when his eyes landed on it. Wylan looked deathly afraid. Nina found it amusing. Inej thought it was fitting. Kaz was pleased to see it. To him, that was ammunition.

Kaz answered Jesper with one word that told the whole story, “Business.” 

“What business could you possibly have with the Snake Charmer?” Inej questioned, hand on her side close to her knives. “Don’t you think we should be discussing the plan?”

“And we are,” Kaz rebutted, leaning into the booth with his gaze set on the enclosure. “We’re here to flush out the Snake Charmer.” 

Jesper choked on his drink, meanwhile Nina and Inej looked at Kaz like he was crazy. “You’re fooling us aren’t you?” “Boss, jokes aren’t really your thing--.” “You’re insane, Kaz, if you believe that’ll happen.”

“You see that enclosure?” He cut off their rambling. All responded with a look of, ‘Of course we see the ginormous Snake habitat in the middle of the club full of our enemies.’ Kaz nodded to it, “we need to destroy it.”

Once again, Jesper choked. This time on his saliva. “You’ve lost it,” he ignored the glare from his boss, “Did going through the fold change you, Kaz? Clearly you’re not actually thinking we let loose a dozen snakes,” he leans forward to whisper, “we don’t even know if they’re venomous. If their bites don’t kill us, surely their owner will.” 

Analyzing Kaz, Inej lowered her tone, “what are you not telling us, Kaz?”

Giving one last scan of his surroundings, Kaz addressed his Crows with the truth of why he brought them to the Snake Pit. “I have a lead on who the owner of this establishment is.” Their reactions were immediate, Kaz continued. “A week ago I sent a young messenger boy here to scout out the place--find anything that could help identify the Serpents boss. During closing he snuck into one of their storage closets,” Kaz attempted to locate said closet, somewhere behind one of the bars. 

Kaz paid close attention to the bartender and the poker dealers. “At some point in the night, one of the snakes got loose. Or,” he turned to Jesper and Inej, “my theory is they use those snakes as a means to get information on people.”

“Great,” Nina sighs, “you want us to free the Serpent's torture method. Well done, Brekker. Excellent plan if I must say.” The heartrender received a glare, but Kaz did not entertain it further.

“As I was saying,” his tone was stern, making the others hold onto any additional comments. “The boy overheard the panic of one of the Serpents. Turns out, the Snake Charmer doesn’t take kindly to her pets being mishandled.”

“I can see why,” Jesper mutters, glancing at the enclosure. 

Kaz gripped his cane, watching the female bouncer approach the bartender and exchange words. “He then heard a woman’s voice. Singing.”

Wylan raised a brow, “Singing?”

“Whatever it was, it calmed the snake. Allowed her to return the animal back to its case. The boy said he heard arguing between a couple members who hoped to clean up their mistake before the boss discovered it.” Kaz shifted in his seat, “didn’t end well for them.”

“Did you get a look at her face?” Kaz peered out his office window, facing the direction of the Snake Pit’s location. Moonlight shining down, almost as though the Saints wanted him to see the building. Behind him, he heard the boy clear his throat.

“No, Sir.” He stuttered, tensing at the sight of Kaz lowering his head. “The door didn’t have any cracks or holes I could see through. I tried looking underneath, but only got a glimpse of their shoes.”

Kaz pinched the bridge of his nose, deep in thought. “What happened after she finished singing? How’d you get out?”

“Once the snake was handled, she ordered them to her office. She sounded….calm, but you know how you just know when someone is masking their anger. That’s how it was when she addressed them.” Kaz hummed, indicating he understood the boy’s implication. Considering he was guilty of such.

“And then?”

“I waited a few minutes until I was sure they were gone. The direction they went sounded like it was the far left of the club--opposite side of the spiral staircase that’s both the entrance and exit. I think there's a secret back entrance where they were because when I came out it was completely empty.”

Kaz found the secret back entrance. Camouflaged as a bookcase. He was able to spot the hinges carefully placed to where the light made it difficult to see them. But Kaz Brekker knew the art of illusion in the back of his hand. 

“This is what’s going to happen,” he became serious. The Crows lean in to hear him while maintaining their alert. “We need to expose those snakes from their enclosure. They’ll be our bait. From there we wait. If my theory is correct, those snakes only answer to their master. Or charmer in this case.” Kaz paused to locate the female workers in the club. “Her act as an employee is a ruse.”

Jesper followed his gaze, once again becoming riddled with unease. “You’re implying the Snake Charmer is either the bouncer who let us in, the gal who served our drinks, the serving girls working the floor or one of the poker dealers?”

“That’s exactly what I’m implying, Jesper.”

“Why would she do that?”

Nina snorted, sipping at her whiskey, “Isn’t it obvious?” she didn’t wait for an answer, “no one would pay a second glance to a worker. They are either too drunk or too naive to assume the pretty bartender or serving girl is the boss of one of Ketterdam’s deadly gangs.” She gestured to the serving girl closest to her. “My money’s on her being the Charmer.”

Jesper scoffed, “no way. To be a ghost and retain anonymity all these years you have to have a great poker face.” He states the obvious, “it’s one of the dealers.” 

Inej rolled her eyes, “are you seriously making this a competition?”

“You don’t think it could be the bouncer?” Wylan asked, scratching the back of his neck to relax the tension he felt. 

“No,” Jesper replied with a wave of a hand, “that would be obvious, don’t you think? Although….,” he rubs his chin, “considering they let us in -- and we know how much you and the Snake Charmer have been rivals so to speak all these years, boss -- you don’t think by letting us through that we walked into some sort of trap?”

Inej immediately straightened, “Jes has a point.” Nina stopped munching on her calamari, waiting for Kaz. She too realized the potential threat.

Kaz, however, remained relaxed. “It’s not the bouncer, but I know the Charmer has already been notified of our presence.” Wylan’s worry intensified.

“What makes you think that?”

“As we’ve been talking I noticed all the women working the club have interacted at some point. Some making it obvious to point us out,” He was referring to the bouncer nodding her head to the one serving girl. “Others are more discreet.” That was to the poker dealer and bartender. 

“And yet,” Jesper groans. “You still want us to make a scene. We are literally in a place crawling with snakes--pun not really intended.” the table rolled his eyes at him, save for Wylan who found the joke amusing. “Point is….you want to unleash the Snake Charmer’s serpents into a club full of innocent people--.”

“Innocent,” Nina scoffed under her breath. 

“What if one of us gets bitten?” Jesper kept his gaze on Kaz with mild concern. “I don’t believe for a second the Snake Charmer will kindly hand over the antidote to save our lives. She’ll take pleasure in watching us suffer a horrible death.” Picturing the scene, the sharpshooter downs the rest of his drink, cringing in the process. “Saints, this is not how I pictured I’d die.”

Kaz rolled his eyes, “No one’s dying today. No mourners.” Everyone glanced at each other.

“No funerals.”

“Right then,” It was time to work. “Here’s what we’ll do….”

A prayer slipped past his lips before Jesper inhaled deeply and let the bullet fly. The sound caused gasps from around him, though he was quick to hide the weapon in its holster before one noticed.

“Who did that?!” came a shout from the bouncer. Patrons were already making their way toward the exit. Not wanting to get caught in a crossfire. 

Jesper occupied himself with his rum, glancing over his shoulder to Inej, who signaled to him the bullet did not penetrate the glass completely. Sighing, he downed the contents, waited until it was clear, and shot again. 

The second bullet hit the glass with a loud clunk. Once again alerting the occupants of the Snake Pit. Many searched themselves for any sign of blood for fear they were shot by an unknown assailant. 

“C’mon,” Jesper whispered, peering at the enclosure. He saw the evidence of his bullet, a chip in the glass near the bottom. If he could time it right, without someone getting in the way, he’d hit the mark. 

Meanwhile employees of the club were trying to calm the crowd, “everyone please remain--.” Another shot rang out, more shouts echoing. Kaz’s patience was running thin. Their door to escape started to close as he noticed the security begin to close in on the Crows. No doubt suspecting they were to blame for the chaos. 

Kaz Brekker coming to the Snake Pit with his most trusted advisors for only a drink? Yeah right.

Then, almost in slow motion, the sound best described as ice cracking filled his ears. All eyes turned to the enclosure. Fear surfacing as they witnessed spiderwebs painting the glass. Then all hell broke loose when the glass gave way, allowing the beasts freedom from their isolation. 

Screams ensued. People climbing from the floors onto tables and chairs. Hissing from the snakes intensified the hysteria. Kaz even found himself moving when the python pivoted in his direction. Jesper of course found himself on top of a chair the moment the glass shattered. Inej was high up on a balcony on the opposite side of the club. How did she get up there? No one knew. Wyalan was close to Jesper. He too found safety on a stool. Nina meanwhile was listening to the heartbeats around here. The number decreased each time a patron made it up the staircase and out the door. 

Seconds passed and no sight of the Snake Charmer. Kaz was getting worried. Fearing the plan was a failure. His worry increased when he found himself scurrying on top of a poker table. Distracted with trying to find the workers he suspected of being the Snake Charmer to realize the cobra had got close to him. Had he not acted fast, the man’s leg would’ve fallen victim to its fangs. Catching Jesper’s eye, they shared the concern evident in their expressions. Wondering just how the fuck they were going to escape the situation. 

Suddenly his prayers were answered in the form of an angelic voice. Causing the screams to disappear…..

“You’re heading for heaven, 

The sweet old hereafter, 

And I’ve got one foot in the door. 

But before I can fly up, 

I’ve loose ends to tie up, 

Right here in The Old Therebefore.”

Heads turned, facing the direction of the sound. Their expressions turned into pure shock. Kaz may have had his suspicions, but it still came as a shock to discover he was right all along. 

Ketterdam’s notorious crime boss, leader of the Blood Serpents….was the Snake Pit’s bartender. 

Walking around the bar, crunching against the glass of broken bottles on the floor from the hysteria of customers fleeing to get away from the snakes, the woman kept her gaze on slithering animals. The hissing continued as she inched closer, however she did not seem fazed at all. Her singing continued.

“I’ll be along, 

When I’ve finished my song, 

When I’ve shut down the band, 

When I’ve played out my hand, 

When I’ve paid all my debts, 

When I have no regrets, 

Right here in The Old Therebefore. 

When nothing is left anymore.”

The hissing got quieter. The animals turning so they were in line with the woman. Slithering slowly but surely toward her. Confirming to everyone she was their master. Their charmer.

Off to the side, a few of the Blood Serpents rushed in with crates. Pushing people aside. Meanwhile the woman got to her knees, leveling down to the snakes who were now moving toward her. Eyes locked, face serious. The Snake Charmer was obviously trying to keep herself together. But Kaz felt the rage seep off of her. 

“I’ll catch you up, 

When I’ve emptied my cup, 

When I’ve worn out my friends, 

When I’ve burned out both ends, 

When I’ve cried all my tears, 

When I’ve conquered my fears, 

Right here in The Old Therebefore. 

When nothing is left anymore.”

The snakes smaller in size slithered up her outstretched arms. Covering both limbs in a tangle of scales. One slithering up to encase her neck, almost like a necklace. The Cobra took claim to her waist. The python circled her, almost like it contemplated joining its fellow serpents. 

Around Kaz, he made out the faint gasps of customers who had yet to depart. Glancing around, he witnessed them all in states of shock and awe. Even his Crows were at a loss of words. 

As was he.

The Snake Charmer’s voice turned strong. Echoing through the entire club as she belted out the next verse. Bringing chills to everyone’s arms.

“I’ll bring the news, 

When I’ve danced off my shoes, 

When my body’s closed down, 

When my boat’s run around, 

When I’ve tallied the score,

 And I’m flat on the floor, 

Right here in The Old Therebefore. 

When nothing is left anymore.”

Rising from the ground, she was covered by the creatures. Her python has wrapped itself around her leg. Its tail was on the floor while its head perched by where the cobra had secured itself on her belt. From the neck down the Snake Charmer was a sight to behold. Revealing why the nickname was not only because she was the leader of a gang filled with snakes. 

It was because she was gifted with the talent of charming their namesake.

Moving toward her subordinates holding crates, no doubt to keep the animals contained, the woman passionately sang the final verse. Giving it all she had. 

“When I’m pure like a dove, 

When I’ve learned how to love.”

Tone dropping, she leaned to lower the snakes into the crates. Gently as though they were newborn babies. Kaz caught her stoke the pythons head, her singing so low it was good the place was dead quiet. 

Right here in The Old Therebefore. 

When nothing is left anymore.”

Finally, after what felt like forever, the snakes were safely stored in the crates. Lids dropping shut with the gang members hurrying from the floor to transport them to another room. No one moved. Any and all eyes focused on the woman in the pinstripe suit. Back turned to the Crows and other patrons, but from the fearful look of her door bouncers, everyone silently prayed they’d make it to the morning. 

Moving her neck in a circle, a low crack from the joints that had been stiff, she slowly turned to face the audience. A clenched jaw and fury in her eyes made it clear what was going through her mind. Especially to Kaz, who was fighting to not look away when she instantly met his gaze.

Oh, she knew alright.

“Well…” the Charmer’s tone sent chills along the Crows' bodies. “You’ve certainly got my attention, Mr. Brekker.” Her spite was evident. Complete rage. Likely planning every means of torture she wished to bestow on her rival and his comrades. 

It was so quiet. So thrilling. Nobody dared to move a muscle. Patrons watching the stare down between the King, and now the unmasked Queen, of the Barrel. It was captivating yet terrifying. Wondering who would make the first move, and if it will end in a blood bath.

Then she snapped, “Everyone out!!” The floor cleared in seconds. Leaving only Serpents and Crows. They knew better than to attempt an escape. Plus the moment their boss addressed Kaz, the Serpents had circled them to prevent any sudden attack. 

Kaz remained composed. Watching closely as the Snake Charmer moved to the bar to pour herself a drink. “Before I kill you, Kaz Brekker, and your little birds too,” she did not look at him, paying attention to the liquid filling the glass. He tightened his jaw. “I want to hear you explain to me why you brought yourselves to my club,” bringing the glass to her lips, she downed half the alcohol in one gulp. Drawing her eyes up to make contact with him, “And destroyed my babies' home.”

Her footsteps echoed, walking toward the center of the floor where Kaz stood. “You’re a smart man.” She took another sip, this time slower. “Not only did you manage to draw me into the light, but you knew exactly how to do so.” A smirk plastered on Kaz’s face. A bold move considering the threat lingering at displaying his smugness to the Serpent Queen. Her lips were in a thin line, “What brings you to my den?”

Straightening his posture, Kaz stepped closer. Their distance is only a mere foot from one another. Making everyone--Crows and Serpents alike--suffocating from the tension between the two. 

“You won’t be killing us tonight, Charmer.” If only he knew her real name. Only having her title felt like she had some reign on him. Superior in a sense. The whole Barrel knew him as Dirtyhands, but Kaz Brekker had his own reputation. For her, people can now put a face to the name Snake Charmer. A beautiful woman with the voice of an angel. So powerful it made snakes bend to her will. 

Also, people would be shaken by the fact the deadly gang leader served them drinks during their visits to the Snake Pit. Hidden in plain sight. Listening to them spill their drunken secrets. 

Kaz leaned closer, the scent of her perfume hitting his nostrils. Jasmine. A flower known to attract snakes. He understood why she wore it. The smell was alluring. As was her presence, but Kaz dismissed the thought as quick as it came. “Doing so will result in you losing an important job I’m willing to negotiate your assistance on. Believe me, the reward is more than generous--enough for the both of us to share.” Now he got her attention, confirmed by the way her head slightly tilted, brow raised. 

“Humor me, Brekker.”

“Have you ever heard of jurda parem?”

[going-to-ikea-for-the-fries]

What would your headcanons be for the 141 in nursing homes? As in old ass man.

Maybe some extra characters as well? 👀

I'm splitting this up into 3 categories: Physical appearance, personality/behaviour, and overall shenanigans.

John Price

Went bald but still has a killer mustache and a ridiculous amount of body hair and yet all the hair he has left has gone grey. Is SOOO wrinkly. His eyes are hooded/droopy beyond fucking belief.

He's 100% a "Back in my day..." old man. Has def gone half-deaf. Is both a flight risk AND a fall risk but refuses to use his walker/zimmer frame. Is the first one up in the morning, before the staff even changed shifts (consequence of early rising all his life in the military)

Insists on being called 'Captain' by the staff, gives everyone the stink eye if he gets called 'John' or 'Mr.Price'. Sometimes still wakes up dreaming of Makarov and/or Shepherd and spends all day grumpy. Staff hates him.

Simon Riley

Does not go wrinkly. Instead, his skin gets taut and he loses weight and muscle, and becomes skinny/frail. Is VERY hunched over.

Has def lost most of his hearing as well. Is impossible to talk to. A conversation between him and Price spirals from a topic to the next because they misinterpret each other's words. Blasts his fave TV shows (The Price is Right) at top volume all hours of the day.

Has dementia or some other brain degenerative disease, which means he's often lost/confused... So it's not uncommon to see him walking around carrying a cane or umbrella like it's a rifle because he thinks he's still a soldier. Has scared the shit out of night staff by sneaking up behind them with a mask on (where did he get the bloody mask?) and nearly stabbing them with a syringe-like it was one of his knives.

Johnny MacTavish

Does not make it to a nursing home, he's already dead.

Kyle Garrick

Has gone grey but not that wrinkly. Still looks surprisingly good for his age. Is very charming. Wears colourful shirts (Hawaiian and not), and has a nice style... but still wears that stupid bloody hat of his. Has VERY bad hip pain from falling out of helicopters so much.

Is SOOO sweet and polite, and charms all the old ladies AND the nursing staff, every kid that comes visit other grandparents LOVES him. Is the least annoying senior at the nursing home. Also has terrible hearing. Spends his time shouting at Price and Simon to have a conversation.

Still gets taken to veteran/war remembrance days by his family and watches the parades and such... only to look at helicopters with disdain in his eyes and curses them out with a fist.

Alejandro Vargas

Has not gone grey but is a healthy salt-and-pepper. Still keeps his little stubble OR an anchor goatee. Wears glasses now, but they're those types that transition into sunglasses.

His hearing is ALSO shot. Has very shaky hands so he keeps dropping things, especially his pills. Talks crap about everyone with Rodolfo (they gossip in Spanish so no one can hear him.) Is never grumpy. Loves playing cornhole and pétanque.

Is 100% a cougar hunter. Has a silver-tongue and is still so attractive that he just seduces ALL the old ladies. Some of them were still married to their husbands (who were ALSO in the nursing home) and he STILL flirted with them.

Rodolfo Parra

Rudy has gone chubby, wears glasses, and still stays clean-shaven. Wears cardigans and corduroy trousers. Is on a wheelchair.

Is very polite. Spends his time reading in the garden, and likes tending to flowers. Loves a good gossip with Alejandro. Loves playing cards because it's the one game Alejandro cannot play, is very smug about it.

Falls asleep suddenly after meals. Hates Philip Graves with a fucking passion. Hates him so much he still wakes up dreaming about the betrayal in 2022 and gets MAD about it. Wheels himself to Alejandro's room every time and complains. "Pendejo de mierda, Graves."

[auroravictorium]

question...? (k.b.)

Do you wish you could still touch her?

Summary: set prior to the midnights series, this is "you're on your own, kid" from kaz's pov! kaz spends much of his time at the crow club thinking about you, and he wishes he could do something other than think and watch from afar. Pairing(s): kaz x fem!reader (pining by kaz) Word Count: ~2.4k Warnings: violence [blood, stab wounds], death of unimportant character, drinking by jesper, inej and reader, mentions of past trauma [nearly drowning, death of sibling] and explicit mentions of kaz's haphephobia Genre: pretty fluffy until kaz finds reader

Author's Note: i have returned with a gift - "you're on your own, kid" told from kaz's pov, as promised! and happy trailer release day everyone! (i haven't recovered, how are you guys doing) only 26 days until the actual season comes out hehehe. by the way, HIGHLY recommend reading "you're on your own, kid" before reading this for more context! happy reading loves <3

you're on your own, kid (reader's pov) / grishaverse masterlist

Kaz hated patrolling the Crow Club on a good night, and he hated it even more when the patrons were rowdy and the walkways crowded. The Club was sweltering with the heat of the muggy summer and of moving, laughing bodies. Sweat dripped down the back of his neck, and he longed to be anywhere else; each time someone stumbled into him as they tried to move to another table, he wanted to either vomit or toss them outside for a dip in the East Stave.

He roamed the floor, eyes scanning for fake coins and card blunders. Right away, he knew tonight would be a good night for the Club: tonight's gamblers were eager, impatient, and careless. They slid kruge after kruge onto the table, hoping the luck would turn in their favor, only for them to wind up broke when they made reckless moves. Only the thought of money filling the Dregs' coffers kept him from spiraling into a completely terrible mood.

Every so often, his eyes flicked toward the bar, hoping to catch you at work. If he was lucky, you'd look his way, and he'd get the chance to see you offer him the ghost of a smile while you poured drinks or cleaned glasses. You were the patrons' favorite, and it wasn't difficult for Kaz to understand why. You offered each one a smile and made cheerful conversation while making their drinks; if they were inebriated enough to be making emotional confessions or trying their luck at getting close to you, you would reach over and give them a reassuring pat on the shoulder or hand, and you would pull away with a watch or necklace slipped under your sleeve. The patron would be none the wiser, give you a tip for the excellent service, then return to his table and continue gambling away his earnings.

Kaz couldn't have chosen anyone better to work the watered-down bar, except tonight, you weren't there. Your absence was unusual; rarely were you late or missing without reason, but he refused to consider the worst. You could handle yourself. Behind your kind smile was ruthlessness, and he knew what it could do. He'd recruited you for a reason.

He circled the Club again, trying to get his mind off you, but he spotted you hurrying inside and through the crowds of patrons on his third loop around the outer ring of tables. You reached the bar and immediately got to work, and Kaz's grip loosened on his cane when he saw you were unharmed. His knuckles ached, and he looked down at his gloved hand. Had he really held on that tightly?

Kaz crossed to the bar after a few minutes and tapped his cane against the ground to get your attention. You jumped and turned to face him. He scanned you from head to toe, taking in your mussed hair and slightly wrinkled clothing. He gave no outward reaction to your tardy, disheveled appearance, but again, the part of him that shouldn't have been concerned about you was relieved. "You're late," he finally said. 

"I overslept," you responded. Your fingers fidgeted at your sides, and Kaz could tell you were waiting for him to snap. It was the reputation he'd carefully tended and let grow, and he knew he should uphold it. He should tell you that it was unacceptable, warn you that he didn't tolerate even a moment of lateness. Lateness on a job would get you killed. Lateness in the Club would lose the Dregs money.

But, Saints damn him, he couldn't bring himself to say anything of the sort to you. As he surveyed you, that softness and concern he felt for you made itself known once again, just like it had each time he'd seen you in the past six months. At first, it was his heart beating a bit faster. Now, it was his breathing catching and his pulse roaring in his ears when you looked up at him. His palms got sweatier in his gloves, and he was struck with the sudden urge to gently dab away the bead of sweat that had formed on your temple. 

He didn't know what was worse, the sharp spike of fear that ran through him when he realized he wanted to touch you or the resulting nausea that twisted his stomach so harshly that he almost needed to step out of the Club right then. 

"Don't let it happen again," Kaz muttered. He turned and limped away as if he suddenly had something else to work on. He probably did, but he couldn't remember a single one. All he could focus on was his need to get as far away from you as he could before he thought about how beautiful you looked when your hair framed your face and the dim light of the Club sparkled in your eyes.

Damn it. He needed a drink. If distance couldn't keep his head free of you, maybe alcohol could.

Kaz continued his scan of the Club, hoping it would distract him from the way his heart raced in his chest each time he thought of your name. He positioned himself near one of the busiest tables and looked over the cards each of the gamblers held. For a bit, the distraction worked, and then he made the mistake of looking over at you again.

Jesper had made his way over from the door and was ruffling your hair with a grin, and you were grimacing and swatting at his hand. The two of you looked happy to be bickering, and Jesper threw his arm around you and grinned with a shot in his hand. He teased you about something, and you shushed him before ducking under his arm and scowling.

Kaz forced himself to look away and unclench his jaw. Something had come over him when he saw the two of you. It burned beneath his skin so fiercely that it took most of his self-control to keep himself where he was instead of going behind the bar and shoving Jesper away from you. He didn't know where the urge came from. All he knew was that he wanted to be the one with his arm around you, but terror drenched him like ice-cold water, reminding him that he couldn't be that close to you. His chest tightened with panic, and he returned his gaze to the cards of the men in front of him.

The attempt to ignore you didn't last. He looked up again and watched as Jesper left with another ruffle of your hair and a smile. Fresh anger sparked within him, and his grip tightened on the crow's head of his cane. He took a deep breath and turned his back on the rest of the Club. What the hell is happening?

He had never felt like this, like any semblance of control he had over his emotions was crumbling. Kaz prided himself on his ability to keep his shit together, yet here he was, moments away from snapping. On the outside, he was as stoic as ever, all clenched jaw and sharp eyes. Inside, he was fighting a battle that should have been easily decided. The rational side of him knew he could not afford distractions, but part of him longed to be the one close to you.

The irrational side of him considering such things should have drowned with Kaz Rietveld in the harbor.

The rest of Kaz's time at the Club was an agonizing battle to keep himself calm and bring himself back to rationality. He firmly refused to look your way and even made a detour along the East Stave on his way home to clear his head. He moved slowly along the canal, partly to buy himself time to avoid seeing you with Jesper and partly because the damned humidity made the pain in his leg nearly unbearable. As he limped toward the Slat, he wondered what was wrong with him. Usually, he could banish thoughts of you without a problem. He'd been able to for the past six months since he became aware of a nagging tenderness for you in the pit of his stomach.

He entered the Slat in a terrible mood and intended to walk right past Jesper and Inej in the corner with their drinks. He wanted nothing more than to be left alone to plot a new job and get his mind off you. 

"Boss! Did you get the last of 'em?"

The Saints were laughing at him. He was sure of it. Kaz clenched his jaw and slowly turned. His eyes glinted with the promise of violence, but Jesper, bless him, either didn't notice or didn't care about Kaz's exceptionally foul mood. "What?"

"The men with the fake money." Jesper swirled his drink around in his glass and knocked the rest of it back. Inej passed the rest of hers to him, shaking her head. "I told Y/N-"

Something crashed into the floor above them, and Kaz's head snapped upward. He held up a hand to silence Jesper. Footsteps scuffled against the ground, and more thumps rattled the ceiling. Dust shook free from between the floorboards, which wasn't out of character for the dilapidated Slat. The loud noises definitely were, and the hair on the back of Kaz's neck prickled.

His gut twisted, but not with nausea. Later, Inej would call it a sign from the Saints, but Kaz preferred to call it intuition. He bolted up the stairs toward the attic, ignoring the agony in his leg and Jesper and Inej leaping up to follow him. Kaz knew. He knew something was wrong and that you were hurt, and he wouldn't let his damn leg stop him from figuring out what was happening.

A few Dregs peeked out of their rooms when they heard the commotion and saw Kaz, Inej, and Jesper rushing past to get up to the attic. Some followed, drawing their weapons, and they nearly tumbled into each other to follow Kaz through his office and into his room. Inej and Jesper readied their own weapons but stopped when Kaz held out his cane to block them.

You stood over a body, your clothing and face splattered with blood and your chest heaving. Your hand was red to the wrist, and a dagger dangled from your fingertips. Red drops beaded against your skin and fell to the ground.

You raised your blade again as Dregs poured into Kaz's room, your eyes darting nervously between them. For a moment, you were completely still, then you seemed to realize there was no danger. Your arm dropped to your side and hung limp, and your gaze went unfocused as blood spread rapidly through the shoulder of your shirt.

"Saints," Jesper breathed beside Kaz, taking in the scene. An assassin had gotten into the Slat and was no doubt going for Kaz. The Dime Lions were growing bolder. Nobody seemed quite sure what to do about that, and their utter shock at the incident rendered them unresponsive to your dagger hitting the floor.

"Get Nina," Kaz said, looking over his shoulder and scowling at the wide-eyed Dregs behind him. With some satisfaction, he watched them flinch. They deserved a lot more than a scowl for leaving you to fight alone. You idiots should have helped her. Maybe she wouldn't have been injured if you had. "Now," he added sharply, waiting for them to move.

They left, nearly tripping over themselves to get out of Kaz's line of fire. 

Kaz returned his attention to you and started to limp toward you. He looked between you and the dead Dime Lion, then his gaze lingered on the deep wound in your shoulder. His lips pursed with worry. "Grab her," he said, directing the order at Inej and Jesper and surprising himself with how softly the words came out. 

He wanted to reach out and hold you against him as if he could shield you from the man you'd killed. But the harbor, ever-present, threatened to sweep him away for even daring to think such a thing. He was suddenly nine years old again, clinging to his brother while bodies floated around him. The memory, cold and terrifyingly real, forced him to look away from you and down at the blood seeping into his floor. Why is blood easier to take in than the thought of touching you?

Inej and Jesper moved forward to grab you and led you into Kaz's office, away from the carnage. Kaz stayed, looking down at the Dime Lion and trying to think of a response to the events of the evening.

Yet, even as his mind spun with ideas for how to handle this and exact revenge on the Dime Lions in the most painful way possible, he thought of you. You had taken down a man twice your size without backup. You were wounded. You were covered in blood. You would have a nasty scar if Nina didn't tend to the wound soon.

You had potentially saved Kaz's life.

Kaz moved to the doorway to his office, leaning heavily on his cane. His leg seared with pain now, aggravated from his sprint up the stairs to get to you, and he bore most of his weight on his left leg as he settled against the doorway and examined you.

Nina was hard at work healing your wound, and you pressed one hand to your injured shoulder to keep it immobile. Inej and Jesper were starting to wipe away the blood on your face and neck and whispering back and forth. Despite the activity around you, you looked up and met his gaze.

Kaz's breath caught as you met his stare. He tried to think of something to say, anything. But words failed him, as they often did when you were involved, so he settled for a quick nod to acknowledge what you'd done. It wasn't enough, and he knew that.

But as he watched some color return to your face, his shoulders loosened. He would get the chance to thank you properly someday, and he would make sure it would be enough then.

TAGLIST: @tonberry-yoda, @b3kk3r-by-br3kk3r, @futurecorps3

[pureshimmer]

season 2 act 1 theory - spoilers ahead

tldr - is the corruption at the heart of the Hexcore Gemstone Mesh connected to Viktor?

okok, look. Viktor is now one with fhe Hexcore, so its more like the Hexcore is wearing Viktors body as a vessel to move and change even more. it is to a degree sentient, or at least learning and growing and aware of the materials it come in contact with. and given Jayces..... 'intelligent' decision to fuse it with Viktor when he was so wounded, ita now in his dna.

Now, Viktors touch is enough to change matter. not only do we see this in him curing the glasses guy of his shimmer related deformities, but even him holding his old cane changes its make up:

but this is common knowledge, yada yada .. what im curious about is, if this is true of Viktor, does his quest to cure the Undercity, as was his goal for Hextech in season 1, and he is now one with the Hexcore, would that be the root cause of the corrupt spot present in the Hexgate Gemstone Mesh underground:

if that's the case, it puts Viktors mission even more at odds with Jayce and Piltover entire. Viktors albeit slightly detached compassion for those in Zaun and his passion to cure them is born in episode 2, and he seems pretty devoted to ensuring he finally enacts and fulfills his mission to help the people of the undercity, and and if the Hexcore in his dna is connected to the Gemstone Mesh that Jayce takes Ekko and Heimerdinger to...

then the corruption he removed from glasses guy, absorbing seemingly into himself to replace with a pure hexcore dna would that "cured" him.

that webby spirally healing on Glasses' face, and Viktor's exhaustion after removing his ailment all happens before and coincides with the corrupted Gemstone Mesh hexcore Jayce, Ekko and Heimerdinger find themselves against

every action as an equal and opposite reaction. Viktors healing causes the hexcore to become corrupt. it feeds off of matter and biological materials, in season 1 we saw its power let the plant in Viktors office thrive for a moment before withering and dying away.....

so if the hexcore absorbed / fed off a disease caused by shimmer and Viktor is now unwaveringly determined to use the Hexcore in his system to heal the people of Zaun as he always wanted but was unable to because of Jayce's focus on 'progress for Piltover' instead but now can because they are seperated now... if he was to know about it (and if it's actually true), there's no doubt Viktors qualms about the consequences it would cause to Piltover are nullified... and the consequences would be equal and opposite in force....

but thats just a theory...

[shhtickerbook]

Hi, I really like the Wonka movie and love the idea of Willy being a regressor. Could you do a scenario where he's at his shop but suddenly gets trigger and regresses?

Bittersweet

thank you so much for the request! Sorry it took a while.

Trigger warning for panic attacks, mild injury description and detailed descriptions of a trauma trigger

This fic takes place where all of the The Scrub crew are all aware of Willys regression, post movie. Also in my own AU, Their found family decide to remain close to eachother and stay in town to help with the new shop / factory.

At last the rebuilt shop had been restored, it had taken time , much longer than it had previously. For a while Wonka could hardly bare to look at it, seeing everything he worked so hard for so destroyed. But with the help of his friends and new family, they managed to restore it to her former glory. It was even improved beyond its previous, with the chocolate cherry blossom bearing a prismatic array of leaves and petals. It was somehow even more perfect than before.

Everything was going perfect that day, sales were inclining everyday. Abacus becoming chief financial advisor of the store, with the Money he had earned he was able to move both his Wife and Granddaughter to come live with him here. They were all thriving brilliantly with this new future to come.

Noodle was attending a grammar school now, but every day she would come racing to the store to help out. She was busy stocking the shelves of chocolate boxes, when she saw Willy strolling down the lane, cane swinging. Sometimes he just had to take it all in around him again, grinning at this dream he’d made come true.

“We’ve only got a few of the deluxe boxes on display Willy, they were pretty popular and they probably won’t last too long.”

Willy hopped over to take a look, the truffles in question had been increasingly popular. But it shouldn’t be a problem, he had a machine upstairs that was busy pumping out more. They had been closed for some refurbishment for a little while, but at last reopening to the public, and he couldn’t be more excited. Willy made sure to make some a quick patrol around the shop, checking in with each of his friends who were working in their own stations.

“Willy get a look at this! It’s done”

Piper called over in a sing song voice, she was busy tinkering away at a panel by the moat that surrounded the chocolate tree. Before there was just the small boat that mechanically spun around in a circuit, but this time Piper and Willy had put their heads together to something much more magic. With her mastery in plumbing, she turned a wheel until a pipe burst open into the moat. Wonkas finest melted chocolate streaming out, this time the boat needing no mechanism to cycle around. It was a perfect chocolate river spiralling around the tree, Willy whooping in excitement.

“It’s perfect!”

With clasped hands and a grin, before Piper put her arm around the chocolatier with a firm pat on the back. It was great timing too, the clock rang for 9:00am. Abacus checking his own pocket watch to be sure before calling out.

“Alright, any minute now we’re going to be open to the public again. And if my findings are correct I think it will be even busier than last time! Oh and noodle, Uniform?.”

He looked over at her with a raised eyebrow, noticeably lacking the blush pink outfit. Noodle just chuckling before holding up her bag, a flash of pink fabric poking out like a flag. It had been Willy who designed such garments, everyone at first was a little unsure with how… flamboyant they were. But they quickly warmed up to them, even Abacus.

Willy just couldn’t wait for the customers to arrive, sitting himself by the glass to peer through into the gallery gourmet. In the distance seeing a cloud or people making their way up. With a smile he stood up, adjusting his new scarf over his coat, before opening the front doors.

“Welcome one and all again to the renewed Wonkas chocolate!”

-

The new grand opening was going splendidly, the chocolate river canal proving to be quite the money maker too. Only a sovereign a ride, and it created quite a line for it that wound around the shop. Which meant those waiting in line had a perfect view of everything they had on sale.

Willy had the opportunity to unveil one of his newest creations too, the everlasting gobstopper. A hard candy In which never gets smaller, no matter how much and how long you sucked on it. (Lofty had been testing one for nearly a month now)

The prismatic coloured candy was stacked into a pyramid in its new display, Noodle working the station. They were making the most money they had ever had, but that didn’t matter much to Willy. What mattered to him was being able to share his joy and magic with those willing to indulge. And this time he didn’t have the chocolate cartel to worry about, his shop was bound to become the star of the Gallery Gourmet.

“Oi Mr Wonka!”

Willy was alerted by a boy tugging on his tail coat, turning to see a familiar face. It was the young shoe shine lad he had been stopped by multiple times on his first day here.

“Where are them swirly chocolate things? Me Mam loves them.”

Willy chuckled, surprised that the boy wasn’t trying to proposition him with a shoe shine or a brush of his coat. He already had chocolate smeared across his mouth, clearly been at the free samples.

“The chocolate truffles I think you’re referring to, are just over by the display over there young man. But try and save some for your Mother though”

Willy pointed his cane in the direction of the now dwindling boxes of truffles. The boy giving him a doff of his cap before turning on heel, Willy returning it with his own top hat. He decided to go check in with Abacus, he was just finishing up with a customer. The cashier ringing joyfully as he dropped coins inside, Abacus just couldn’t believe how much they were making.

“I’d say we’ve already made double of what he did last time Willy, especially with the new gobstoppers.”

Willy grinned, everything just felt so perfect. With the extra money, he planned to raise his friend’s wages. And although she wasn’t aware, Willy had begun to collect a fund. One for Noodle, he had already promised her a lifetime of chocolate. But with the girls smarts and potential, he wanted her to have most in life. The money was for her future, if she wanted to pursue any kind of career. She had done so much for her, he wanted to do the very same for her own future.

Before he could respond, a scream cut through their conversation. The sudden noise startling Willy, almost feeling his stomach drop into his shoes. Over on the other side of the store, a crowd had grown around a young boy. A boy who was red in the face, spluttering and choking. The exact boy that Willy had spoken to just moments ago.

Abacus immediately dropped what he was doing, racing over and pushing through the crowd. Willy knew he should follow, make sure the boy was alright. It was his store, the owner.

But he didn’t, he stood there completely catatonic.

No, no. Not again, it can't happen again.

In preparation for the new opening, Willy had obsessively checked and taste tested each product. So much so that he’d gone to bed with an exceptionally sore stomach. Everything was safe, he was sure everything was safe. Abacus, Lottie and Noodle were all kneeling by the young man, Before Abacus called out.

“Call for an ambulance-“

The shop itself was spinning, and it wasn’t just the chocolate canal ride. Willy was sure that the ground itself was falling away beneath him. An ambulance? Before it had just been multicoloured hair growth or green skin pigmentation, nothing life threatening. Nothing ever in need of any medical attention.

What had he done? It’s not as if the chocolate cartel could be involved like last time. It was his fault, it had to be his fault. He felt sick, face turned white as a sheet. He lost track of how long he’d been staring, but Noodle had noticed him through the crowd and immediately ran to her elder brother figure once the boy was being taken away.

“Willy? Willy!”

She tried to get his attention, but the chocolatiers eyes were fixed ahead. His lips were trembling with his head shaking, it was scaring her. She tried her best to reassure him, knowing what he’d be thinking.

“It’s okay, Willy you didn’t-“

He broke eye contact with the scene, looking down at her with his head shaking even more violently. His eyes flooded with tears as he began to step backwards, almost like a frightened animal.

“No, nono. Not again it can’t happen- won’t happen again”

He started mumbling out almost psychotically, flinching away from noodle when she tried to touch him. Both arms up with his hands and fingers flicking in panic. It was all his fault, that young boy might even die because he had done something wrong. He had no one to blame this time, what would mamma think?

He couldn’t hear anything around him anymore, it was just static. Everything was spinning and blurring, stumbling and tripping over things as he continued to backtrack. He needed to get away, he was a coward. A coward in which had probably killed or seriously injured a child with his stupid dreams.

Noodle tried again desperately to get his attention, waving a hand in his face. It was terrifying, he didn’t look like himself. He just continued to mutter and whimper to himself, his head shaking so hard that it may pop off his shoulders. She tried to hold onto his hand again but he recoiled away in disgust like she was diseased. No matter what she was saying, it wasn’t getting through.

“Willy! You’re scaring me, let me explain-“

But he wasn’t listening, holding his hands close up to his chest protectively. His cane clattering loudly to the ground, now without his mobility aid as he kept stepping back.

He needed to get away, now. Gasping for air, he stumbled backwards, feeling for the door into the backroom of the store. But he felt into midair instead, losing his balance and crashing into one of the shelves instead.

He yelped out in surprise, the back of his head hitting wood as a one of the glass jars wobbled from its shelving before crashing down over him. The further stimulation only worsening Willys condition. Noodle screamed and attempted to grab onto him before he fell, but couldn’t in time. Shards of glass and candy fell about him like snowflakes, But Wonka hardly noticed, far too panicked and overstimulated to care about any pain.

The commotion attracted even more attention in the shop, customers looking over to see the owner sitting in a pile of glass shards. As quickly as it happened, Willy somehow managed to get back to his feet, splintering his hands and arms with the glass in panic. In a rush he managed to pull open the back door and escape from everything. Behind him he could hear people calling his name, but unable to differentiate whether it was his friends or angry rioting customers. Noodle just stood there, not sure if she should follow. Deciding instead to enlist some support before attempting to talk with him like this.

Willy’s legs felt like jelly, so he didn’t make it very far. Falling into a heap on the floor, before gasping desperately for air. He couldn’t breathe properly, tears pouring down his face before he burst into sobs. Every single terrible outcome and scenario was racing around Wonkas brain. Did he not check the ingredients correctly? What if the boy wasn’t the only one in distress? They would for sure close down the store, maybe even arrest him. It was all his fault, it was happening all over again and there was nothing he could do about it.

-

Once the child was loaded into the ambulance, the employees of Wonkas Chocolate thought it best to close up shop for today. Abacus had spoken with the ambulance attendant, who had assured him that the boy was going to be alright. It was a huge relief to everybody, and although fellow customers seemed a little unsettled by the event, it was no where near like the angry mob from before. The only irritation coming from the announcement of their early closure. Both Abacus and Piper were guiding shoppers out the front door when Noodle approached both of them, looking extremely distressed.

“It’s Willy, he’s- he’s not okay”

-

Wonka was still so deep into a panic attack, so that when the door opened and his friends entered, he hardly noticed.

Noodle gasped at the sight of him, his cut up hands from the glass had begun to bleed horribly over his hands and arms, ruining his velvet jacket. The chocolatier was curled up into a ball, hyperventilating between cries.

Noodle couldn’t help but hold onto Pipers hand, she wasn’t good with blood. Benz squeezed her hand back reassuringly, they all too often forgot she was still a child herself. So Abacus approached first, kneeling in front of the panicked boy.

“Willy, it’s alright. It’s not what you think. The boy is going to be okay.”

But It didn’t seem like Abacus’ words were getting through, He had to physically take ahold of Willys hands before he would any pay attention, his bloodshot eyes snapping up. It hurt his heart to see him like this.

“He— is. Okay?”

Willy managed to choke out between gasps, Noodle pulled away from piper to sit on the floor too, a hand comfortingly on his knee as she looked with concern. Willy Wonka was the strongest person she’d ever met, seeing him like this, it was scary.

“Yeah Willy, he just had a peanut allergy-“

Willy blinked hard, shaking his head again.

“Bb-ut I mmade a sign- i forgot to put them up?”

He began to spiral yet again, he did remember creating such labels, as it was Noodles idea. He thought it terrible luck for those who had such afflictions. But he wanted to include everyone to enjoy his creations as much as he could. With plenty of his other treats being free from such ingredients. They were even placed on the other side of the store especially to reduce any cross contamination. Had he forgotten to properly label something?

“Seems the young chap just wasn’t paying too much attention, just grabbing at any free sample he could find. It’s not your fault.”

Abacus gently rubbed the back of his hand with his thumb, before sucking through his teeth at the state of them. Willy was struggling to process this new information, his body and brain had already accepted the fact that this was all his fault.

“You need to breath Willy, in and out”

Noodle demonstrated, breathing in and blowing gently out onto his hot teary face. Willy looked up, still taking in short shallow breaths. He attempted to follow her guide, but halfway fell back into the hyperventilation.

“It’s okay buddy, try again”

Piper had come to kneel down too, smiling sadly at the sorry sight of him. It was strange seeing such a positive character so distraught. It ended up taking quite few minutes for the breathing exercises to help, with Willy leaning against Abacus as he did his best to follow his friends instructions.

At last the hyperventilation had slowed but Willy was still shaking. Biting down hard on his lower lip, tears continuing to cascade down his cheeks silently. Clicking his tongue sympathetically, Abacus pat his shaking knee. It was clearly going to take a little while for Willy to accept that this wasn’t his fault.

“You’ve had a bit of a fright, haven’t you?”

He couldn’t help but feel a little embarrassed by his overreaction. But even with the reassurance that the boy would be alright, the anxiety was still lingering like little bugs racing up and down his skin. He was also beginning to feel that fuzzy sensation in his head again. It was like the scare had flipped a switch in his head, so he just nodded mournfully.

“Oh you poor lad”

Abacus tutted sympathetically, turning his attention to the injuries too. Gently lifting his arms to peer at them, surface wounds thankfully yet still very painful looking.

At least those could be easily fixed. Then turned to Piper with a knowing look, both of them having the same suspicion of his seemingly regressive headspace.

“We best get him upstairs to the flat, would you mind Benz?”

The woman nodded, before patting Noodle on the shoulder. Who was still staring at Willy with concern and anxiety.

“Hey noodle, how about you go help Larry and Lottie wrap up the store? We’ll take care of Willy”

Noodle wasn’t sure at first, looking back at her friend who was still in quite an upset state. but she was a little grateful for the opportunity. Seeing Willy so traumatised and bloody wasn’t an easy thing for a 13 year old to look at, especially when it was somebody she loved so much. So she quickly lunged forward to hug him tight, bearing in mind to be gentle around his arms. Even in the hug she could feel him shaking still, Willy only managing to weakly return it. When she stood up to leave she hesitated for a moment, watching as Abacus helped him onto his jittering legs.

“We’ll get him all sorted dear, you go help with the store..”

Abacus reassured her, Nodding after one more hesitant glance. She trusted them to look after Willy, they all cared for him so.

“Now then, let’s get you upstairs.”

Piper held the chocolatier up, watching how his legs were knocked kneed like a newborn fawn. Holding an arm over him to help him move on forward.

“Mmsorry”

Willy mumbled. Although he could sense the obvious regression taking its hold, he felt like such a silly burden. But when he they came up to his spiral staircase to his flat, he couldn’t help but moan. His stupid legs felt completely useless, almost like they were made from gummy candy.

“It’s okay buddy, but I don’t think these stairs are gonna be the smartest plan for you right now”

Before he could respond, he yelped as he was lifted up, then being settled on the plumbers hip. Seeing her grin mischievously as she held him steady. Willys face burning in surprise, but the action just made him feel even more fuzzy.

“How can someone who eats mainly chocolate be so little? He’s like a bird?”

Piper hushed over Willy to Abacus, who just chuckled at the comment.

“Little I think is definitely the correct adjective for right now, the poor boy's had such a fright"

There was a part of Willy that wanted to object to the accusation that he was feeling little, but even he knew they were likely right. He needed it terribly. And now that the adrenaline of everything was fading, he could truly feel the pain in his arms. Eyes widening in fear when taking actual sight of them, he didn’t like blood.

So he just squeezed his eyes shut right, pushing his head into pipers shoulder. The woman in question looking over at Abacus at the action, lips pursed at just how adorable this was. If it weren’t for such a bad situation, she would be skipping in joy. Why Willy had decided to implement such a fancy staircase (when he often needed his cane) was beyond them. Sometimes the chocolatier forgot about practicality, always wanting the extravaganza.

-

At last they made it upstairs to a landing, Abacus opening the mahogany door into Wonkas flat. The inside was extremely cosy, its interior inspired from his old canal boat home from when he was a child. A sloped curved ceiling with lots of warm colours and carved wooden decor. It was pretty simple and homey, the kitchenette and lounge taking up the room. A very large window looked down below to the gallery gourmet, with a small workshop set up against it, an ornate machine churning out singular chocolates. Then finally Willy’s bed up a few steps to an upper level of the room itself.

There was were two other doors on either side of the reasonably size room, one normal one leading to a bathroom. The other door abnormally small? Only around a metre in height. But that didn’t matter just now, the pair walking further inside before Piper settled Willy down on the couch.

“There we go, home and safe now.”

She comforted, hating how fragile and anxious he seemed. The presence of his home brought some comfort though, Willy reaching out to stroke the ribbed corduroy fabric of his lounge. Not before Abacus quickly lifted his hands away in alarm.

“Ah-ah! I’m sorry Willy but I will not have you smearing blood into that furniture”

He chastised only gently, the pale pink fabric being very easy to stain, and even harder to wash out.

“Wasn’t gonna..”

Willy mumbled, but his eyes did widen when he peered at his injured hands again. They were starting to really sting now, and he could catch the shiny glint of glass that was still imbedded.

“I should hope not, that chaise lounge just so happens to be one of my favourite pieces of decor in this accommodation”

A sharp pertinent voice cut through, not before Piper let out a yelp in surprise. Standing between them was a very small orange man, who just rolled his eyes at the reaction.

“Oh please Ms Benz, you have squealed many times at my presence. I’m tired of being revered like a mouse around a circus elephant”

The Oompa Loompa was holding an empty teacup in hand, he was only departing from his own room to tidy it away. Not expecting the flat to suddenly be busy with uninvited guests.

“Well if I’m the ‘circus elephant’ in that analogy, I’d be careful I don’t send you through that window with the kick of my boot.”

Piper threatened, stamping her foot in his direction. She wasn’t so keen on Lofty, his uptight attitude drove her up the wall. And she still hadn’t got used to his small presence, maybe it was because when he was a child she used to have nightmares and a very irrational fear of gnomes of all things.

Abacus himself also was a little surprised by the little orange man’s entrance, but was able to behave more tactfully than Piper. He’d only spoken with Lofty very little, the Oompa Loompa preferring much more to stay to himself with his job in the tasting department.

“Now would somebody care to explain what has happened here?”

Lofty came to the front to peer at Willy, grimacing at the sight of his injury. But he was even more curious about the strange manner that Wonka seemed to be in. Willy had tucked his knees to his chest as he anxiously flicked his fingers, he certainly wasn’t his usual overly positive and often irritating self.

“We had a bit of a situation in the shop, poor lad went into anaphylaxis. He’s going to be alright, but Willy here got quite the fright”

Lofty raised his eyebrows, it still didn’t quite explain the bloody arms though. But the possibility of that lounge being stained was his main concern.

“I’ll go fetch my first aid kit before he gets blood on anything else in here that I have the slightest attachment to.”

Lofty said with mild disgust before turning on heel to his room. Willy himself still looked pretty miserable, but more exhausted than anything. Piper just wanted to scoop the boy up into her lap and squeeze him tight, although she wasn’t sure if it would be appreciated right now. The group was then startled for a moment from a noise clearly coming from downstairs, a creaking metal noise.

“BENZ! WE TRIED TO TURN THE CHOCOLATE VALVE OFF BUT ITS NOW STUCK AT MAX PRESSURE”

A whiny yell came out clearly from a distressed Larry chucklesworth who had turned the chocolate river valve in the wrong direction, doubling its pressure as it pumped out melted chocolate.

“For Petes sake! I’m coming you idiot!.”

Piper sighed out in exasperation, pinching her brow. She had specifically told everybody not to touch it, she was still sorting out all the kinks. She did catch a small giggle coming from Willy though, happy to see at least it had made him smile.

“I better go sort out that mess downstairs, you be good for Abacus and that sunburnt gnome”

She leant down and gave him a peck on the cheek, wishing she could spend some more time with the little chocolatier. Turning Willys face bright pink, unable to hide a smile at the affection. As Piper turned to leave, she had to quickly jump at the arrival of Lofty yet again. Whom arms were filled with a leather first aid kit, rolling his eyes at the woman who quite nearly flattened him beneath her boots.

“If you could please move to the floor, I’m not risking anything with that lounge.”

Lofty demanded, Looking up at the two remaining men as best he could from behind the first aid case. Willy obeyed and slid down to the floor, sitting crosslegged. His head was feeling very fuzzy now, and he looked up at abacus with whine, wanting him to sit too.

“I think I’ll just sit here if you don’t mind Lad, I don’t think I could get back up from the floor if I sat down”

Abacus chuckled, perching instead on the couch. But still kept a comforting hand on his shoulder, gently massaging back and forth to soothe him. Lofty had been watching the interaction with a raised brow, something was certainly going on. So as he began to unpack some supplies, he bluntly questioned.

“Alright, if I could be informed of what’s going on right here, it would be very much appreciated. I’m quite positive this reaction is far beyond than a child choking on a peanut, especially with those injuries of which still nobody has explained how they came to be.”

He curtly asked, whilst pulling out some bandages, gentian violet and some tweezers for those glass shards. Abacus awkwardly cleared his throat, looking over at Willy whose face had darkened. Although the Oompa Loompa had been residing with him for a while now, his regression was something that he hadn’t yet disclosed with him. Although all his friends had been amazingly supportive and loving, it was still a very peculiar topic to try and explain. Lofty was already quite judgemental most of the time, what if he found this weird and gross?

Willy brought his knees up to his chest anxiously, staying silent in a panic. He didn’t want Lofty to hate him. But he felt a gentle squeeze on his shoulder, Abacus smiling kindly.

“Would you like me to explain?”

He suggested, especially since it seemed the boy wasn’t feeling so verbal right now. Willy looked up and thought about it for a moment, before giving him a nod. He didn’t know how to put his words right for this. All the while Lofty has continued to observe the interaction, shoe tapping on the floor impatiently.

“Alright, i believe you should know regardless as you share a residency with Willy. Sometimes when he gets overwhelmed, Mr Wonka finds it a little hard to stay grown.”

Abacus carefully explained to the little orange man across from him, who frowned in confusion.

“Grown? I can’t see any sign of him shrinking in size, he looked to be the same height as before since I last checked.”

The Oompa Loompa positioned both hands into a viewfinder over the chocolatier, nope, still the same size. Abacus couldn’t help but laugh at the misunderstanding, wishing this could be easier to explain.

“No not in physical size, more like he feels a little younger. Where he needs a little extra care and support, like a child.”

At this point Willy wanted to sink through the floor, not daring to check the Oompa Loompas facial expression. Instead picking at the fabric of his slacks, the small bigger part of him wanted to end this conversation and say that Abacus was just talking utter nonsense, but he didn’t have the energy to do so. He was tired, all he wanted was for his arms to stop hurting and for someone to hold him for a while.

“So what you’re saying that Mr Wonka here regresses to infancy when unsettled?”

Lofty questioned the man, it was difficult to discern his tone. After all, most of the time when he spoke it sounded as if you had offended him in some way. But when he looked at the mannerisms and body language of Willy, he certainly seemed very different than usual.

“Well, when you put it bluntly. Yes you’re correct, but I hope that you won’t be too judgemental. This is something Mr Wonka cannot help, and we shouldn’t be cruel about it.”

Abacus’s voice began to become colder as he finished his sentence, it wasn’t something Willy was used to ever hearing, looking up in slight alarm. Abacus was staring down at the Oompa Loompa almost threateningly, daring him to respond. In response, Lofty snorted after a pause.

“Hm, very peculiar I must say, but I suppose he already acts rather immaturely most of the time regardless.”

Was all he said before completely moving on, returning to prepare the first aid equipment. Acting as if Abacus had just requested he pass the sugar over to him. Both Willy and Abacus were surprised by well, the lack of reaction.

“Now then, please take off that coat show me your arms. I need to know what I’m working with here”

Willy paused for a moment, still expecting some kind of response, insult or anything. But let Abacus carefully ease him out of the blood soaked jacket before displaying his arms outwards, with the Oompa Loompas only sign of disgust so far being directed at the injuries.

“Goodness you’ve made quite the mess of yourself haven’t you?”

Abacus nodded in agreement, before wincing when seeing the state of them properly in the light.

“Indeed, he took a bit of a tumble into one of the displays. One of our crystal chocolate jars paying the price.”

Lofty just sighed, typical Wonka behaviour. He’d never met a person so terminally clumsy sometimes and foolish.

“Of course he did, now I’m going to need you to stay very still. I’m going to remove these glass shards before they get infected.”

He held up the tweezers, Willy shrinking away in alarm at the metal instrument. He didn’t want it to hurt. But Abacus rubbed his back supportively, assuring him it would be fine. As promised, Lofty was impeccably careful as he removed each tiny shard from his arms and hands, his very small hands working in his favour for the task. Back in Loompa land he had a friend whom was the islands herbalist, so he only had some experience when it came to medicine.

He placed each glinting piece into a dish by the table, and once satisfied there was none remaining he reached for the little purple bottle.

“This is an antiseptic I assume?”

Lofty questioned the mathematician, handing the violet bottle up to him. The man pulled a face when reading the label, knowing from experience that this stung viciously.

“Alright, this may sting a little”

-

It did in fact sting quite a lot, as soon as Lofty applied the purple tonic. Willy yelping and flinching away. The pain had just begun to settle when they’d reached upstairs, but now it felt as if someone had set a match upon his skin. And with how sensitive he was already feeling, fresh tears began to spill over and he did his best to squirm away.

“Now i understand it hurts, but it will feel a lot worse later if you don’t allow me to finish Mr Wonka”

In the end Abacus ended up having to retreat from the couch, Willy positioning himself into his lap for security from the horrible anti-septic. He was perhaps feeling the smallest he ever had, and even with Lofty there he didn’t have the willpower to mask it. Eventually with enough comforting words and support from Abacus, Lofty had successfully painted either arm and hand with the bright purple medicine.

“See, we’re done now. There was no need for that silly nonsense”

Lofty chastised as he screwed the cap on the glass bottle again, but he still didn’t seem very fussed about the dramatic change in headspace. More irritated by what he deemed was a bit of an overreaction. Next reaching for the roll of bandages, but this time Willy was much more reproachful about offering his arms back over to the Oompa Loompa, scowling at him best he could.

“I don’t appreciate that expression directed at me, I was just going to wrap your arms up. Unless of course you would prefer Mr Crunch to do so?”

He spoke with crossed arms, but found the grumpy expression slightly entertaining. Especially with his forlorn tearstained face which worked against his attempt to be threatening.

“I could if you’d prefer, but that would mean i would need to tip you from my lap to do so.”

Abacus explaining his options, thanking heaven above regardless that the man was very light and he was only losing partial blood flow to his legs.

“But you are certainly not welcome in my own, I’ve been in danger of being crushed once too many times today.”

Willy thought about it for moment, finding the embrace around him far too comfortable to give up quite just yet. So reluctantly pointed at lofty rather rudely.

“He do it”

“Can Lofty do it please would be much politer thank you very much”

He corrected with a firm expression, but began to unroll the bandages regardless. Carefully he applied the bandage around each skinny arm, all the while Willy just back leant into Abacus throughout the process. He was so tired, all he wanted was to sleep. By the time Lofty was finished, the boy was practically half asleep.

“That’s you done now, very brave”

Willy dozily inspected his new bound arms, before letting out a big yawn. Even lofty finding it a little endearing, revealing out a small smile before quickly replacing it with his usual frown.

“I think we best get you tucked up for a little rest, shall we?”

Willy nodded, and reluctantly allowed Abacus to tip him off his lap so he could stand again. The poor gentleman groaned in pain as he stood up, he was certainly far too old for this.

“Mm-head hurts”

Wonka mumbled out, his skull feeling as if it had been stuffed with cotton wool. Infact most of his body was starting to feel very sore and weak.

“Well no wonder it hurts with all that silly crying, but I give you permission to return to that lounge. Now that it’s no longer in danger of being stained by bodily fluids.”

Lofty said distastefully, motioning for Willy to get up and move. Kindly Abacus helping him up to his feet again, which was desperately needed as he had forgotten his cane downstairs in the store.

He practically collapsed back down onto the couch, sighing in relief to finally be lying down. His entire body felt as if it had been put through the laundry ringer at scrubbits. A few moments later he felt Abacus tuck a thick blanket around his frame, the one that had been stretched across his bed.

In his dozing state, he instinctively reached out for something. Face screwing up a little when realising it obviously wasn’t going to be there.

“What on earth are you looking for?”

Lofty questioned, clearly seeing the man feeling around in complete thin air.

“Chester”

Willy mumbled out , he was so tired but he still needed his companion, especially right now. Lofty’s slow blink was practically audible, shaking his head before turning to the mathematician who had busied himself with folding up the velvet jacket. Planning on taking it back personally to soak it out, even though he’d left the laundry business, it still stuck with him.

“Would you mind translating what on earth he is requesting?”

Abacus just smiled, remembering that name very clearly. So he just pointed up at the bed, knowing it would he the most likely location.

“Check underneath the pillow of Mr Wonkas bed.”

With a raised eyebrow and a lot of confusion, the Oompa Loompa reluctantly followed the direction. Only feeling more lost when lifting the pillow and finding the contents beneath.

“Is this some kind of rag?”

He held up a small knitted bird with an extended arm, its head lolling to the side rather unsettlingly. Willy spotted the item immediately though, lifting his own head up from the couch with a whine.

“Chester..”

Loftys confused frown remained, able to put together the clues that this amalgamation of wool must be “Chester” Mr Wonka did seem very concerned about it though, so he quickly handed it over to him. The little bird being clung close to his chest, with its misshapen beak poking out under his chin. It was all so ludicrous, it was just a silly inanimate object.

But he saw how the boy began to settle again at its presence. Eyes closing at last as his breathing became slower and deeper. For the first time since he’d seen the man that afternoon, he looked genuinely at peace. From behind him he heard the accountant approaching, who was holding two cups of tea, one being marginally smaller.

“Think we could both do with one”

Lofty accepted the offer, the pair sitting in the kitchenette. Both of them looking over at the now fast asleep chocolatier on the lounge. A comfortable silence between the two as they just took the time to wind down, the scene would probably look extremely strange to an any outsider if they happened to wander inside. Abacus smiled fondly as he noticed the knitted toucans wing being gently chewed on as Wonka slept.

“Thank you, for being understanding about this. This is a part of him that not many know or care to understand, but I believe it’s something very special to be trusted with”

He said to the Oompa Loompa, who had also been observing the chocolatiers behaviour. It was rather fascinating.

“But, I won’t hold it against you if this is a little too strange for you. This manner of coping is certainly unconventional”

He continued, wanting to assure him. He remembered that Noodle had been a little apprehensive about it all when he first explained the regression to her. And Willy had been extremely firm in the fact that he never wanted to be a burden to anybody or make them feel uncomfortable. Lofty stayed silent for a few moments, draining the cup of tea before answering.

“You are speaking with somebody who comes from a tropical island populated only by 2ft tall orange men. I think you would find good reason to label me as a hypocrite if i were to judge Mr Wonka negatively for this.”

He paused in his statement, looking over again at the boy with the smallest of a smile

“Is it a little peculiar? Definitely, but I suppose we all must learn to be open minded when it comes to things we don’t quite understand yet.

And on one hand, I may find it a little endearing too, at least he’s less irritating than usual, aside from all the tears.”

And with that, he turned again to the man across the table. Nonchalant as always.

“Anyways, how about you go hunting for some of those truffles. I’m sure Wonka always hides them out of my reach”

[erose-this-name]

The Lone God and the Loneliest God

⋅∴∵∴∵∴∵⁂∵∴∵∴∵∴⋅

Narinder opens the heavy door of the temple, it’s hinges creaking through the empty pews. His footsteps echo through its hall.

Lamb greets him, head down over their desk in their office, clawed fingers running through tangled wool between their horns. “... Hello, Nari’.”

“Evening, Lamb. What still keeps you up, after the sun is down?” Narinder says. 

The Lamb yawns, “Accounting, for the year’s grain crop.”

“You gave such tasks to Heket, did you not? You are not quite a god, yet. That body still requires rest.” Narinder says.

“She’s behind on the paperwork, it’s quicker if I just finished it myself… That’s not why you’re here, is it?” Lamb says, still hunched over the desk, not looking up from their work.

“No. But, I suspect you know already why I am.”

“... We can get by without that sacrifice, Narinder. Don’t worry about it.”

Three eyes are narrowed at the Lamb. “You make me your disciple, yet you refuse to let me perform the duties entailed. You ask me for advice, yet you refuse to listen. The Red Crown needs death, Lamb, let him die.”

Lamb sits up in their desk, staring at the stained-glass before them, “You know, I’ve been running the cult with pretty minimal bloodshed ever since you chose me, it’s worked out just fine. You underestimate the alternatives.”

Narinder crosses his arms, “This fear of getting your hands dirty is unbecoming of the god of death. You should revel in it! Even after slaughtering hundreds, thousands, in your crusades… To think a mere sacrificial lamb has become the last god, still frightened of the headsman’s ax.”

Lamb croaks, "... a 'sacrificial lamb’? … ‘sacrificial’ ‘lamb’? ... Is-… is that really all you think of me, Narinder? S-still?”

Narinder rolls his eyes, “Well, I have not said you were a very good one-”

Lamb turns around, pain across their tired face, “We used to just be sheep… But, I don’t even remember that time. Running and hiding from genocidal sacrifices, in the name of YOUR prophecy, is all I’ve ever known. Because of YOUR rebellion! … T-they forced me to watch my family die, Narinder, and then they killed me. And you didn't even have the decency to let me join them… But… But I DID die, Lambert died. And no matter how many times you resurrected the Lamb, I’ve only ever come back as this… lifeless shell. Devoid of choice, of freedom, of rest. All because of this accursed prophecy. Even as a god, I’m even less free. I have nothing but responsibility, can change nothing. Death can not flow backwards…”

“Why not??”

“I DON’T KNOW!” The Lamb yells.

The cat crosses his arms, “You may blame nothing on me, Lamb. You chose to steal the Red Crown. You chose to betray me. Were you to obey me, you would be with them now. And I would have the Crown.”

Lamb screams, “THAT WASN’T A CHOICE! That was an ultimatum, at best! At worst, igniting years of nightmares… You’re no better than the bishops, not one has thought a word of remorse... I was loyal… I trusted you… I didn’t betray you, YOU BETRAYED ME! Yet… in my infinite benevolence… I saw fit to spare you. AND YOU HAVE THE NERVE TO COME INTO MY TEMPLE, BUILT BY MY CULT, AND CALL ME A ‘SACRIFICIAL LAMB’? I AM YOUR GOD. WITNESS ME AND DESPAIR!”

“VESSEL, CALM DOWN!”

“SILENCE !” Bellows the God of Mercy, what was once known as Lamb.

Narinder, through his third eye, sees standing before him not a little lamb, but a towering Bishop. A glimpse of the New Death, the future order, here and now. Summoned by the wishes of the Red Crown.

And that God stares back at former death with four eyes, each smoldering with restless hatred. A predatory ram, the Red Crown between Their spiraling horns. Wool and fleece from the neck down stained black by Their own ichor, and red by the blood of the yet-to-die.

In place of chains, They bear a broken sacrificial blade, symbol of all They will abolish. And in Their hand They wield not a scythe, but a shepherd's cane. Not a harvestman, but a guide. Not an end, but an oscillation. Not a judge, but a jailer, a slaver, a tyrant from which not even death will be an escape from Their flock.

And Mercy’s coming will be heralded by the tolling of church bells hung around Their neck, and the chanting and pounding of war drums of a bloody crusade of the undead and deathless, forever matching across a land where no divine laws of nature will ever again hold sway except for decay and stagnation.

And chief lost amongst those eternal legions and hordes will march a cat, Narinder, forgotten. The lone god and the loneliest god, as much trapped ghosts as the rest.

The Shepherd of Souls will speak back to Their once master, in voices not Theirs, “Nar-in-der?… I remember you, yes. Do you know why I spared you, and the other bishops? Why I continued to allow you five… to live?”

Narinder’s resolve breaks, for only the third time in his eternal existence, he is afraid. “Lamb, I beg of you, calm down. Your body cannot take this… You are not ready, yet…”

“It was not an act of my m e r c y, cat. I wanted to see you five humbled. I wanted you to understand the hope, and the love, and the mourning, and suffering, and the despair of ‘mere mortals’, I wanted you to understand all you’ve done… Were I to slaughter every cat, every worm, every toad, every squid, every spider, I would have been justified. That would have been equal. But no, that is not enough. Perpetual torment would not be enough. No punishment can ever be enough. I will never let you go, One Who Waited. Your soul is mine. Now, bow.”

“… I-… I’m s-sorry…”

“BOW.” The deep command reverberates through the cathedral, shaking it to its foundations.

The former god plummets to the floor, kowtowing before the demon.

“Good… kitty…”

The Shepherd of Souls deflates, retreating back into their physical form, into the Red Crown, into time and possibility. 

The little lamb sways before the cat, spent. The Red Crown sated. Tears roll down their pale, trembling face, over dark bags from twinkling bloodshot eyes. 

Dying words and sobs slip through dry lips, between their pointed teeth and a bleeding tongue, “Nari… s-save me, please…”

The lamb faints, falling into Narinder’s arms.

Narinder sighs, looking down at the wretched creature in his lap. “You're an idiot, Lamb.”

⋅∴∵∴∵∴∵⁂∵∴∵∴∵∴⋅

[butternutt613]

Peep the first chappie of this new fic I put together:

In The Shadow Of The Serpent

It's has dark!Ominis and post-azkaban!Sebastian

*edit* ahhhh emphasis on the dark...... these boys need a hug

I hope you enjoy!

~~~~~~

Ominis Azrael Gaunt died at fifteen. He died the moment he heard the cold clink of metal shackle his best friend. He died the moment Sebastian Raguel Sallow was sentenced to life in Azkaban.

The echoes of the courtroom had followed him for weeks afterward, a symphony of guilt and regret. The sharp, authoritative voice of the Chief Warlock. The hushed voices of the onlookers. The low, choked sob that escaped Sebastian’s lips when the verdict was read. It all blurred together into an unrelenting hum that Ominis could never silence.

But the boy who walked out of that courtroom was not Ominis Azrael Gaunt anymore.

The man called Ominis Azrael Gaunt was a creature bound by duty and blood, forged in the crucible of his family’s darkness. He was a master of the dark arts, a Gaunt in every sense of the word. The laughter of his youth, the warmth of friendship, the fleeting dream of escape; all had been snuffed out like a candle caught in the wind.

This man sat in the shadowed halls of the Gaunt Manor, his pale fingers tracing the smooth divots and ridges on his wand. The manor was quiet as death, save for the faint crackle of a low fire that brought no warmth. The cold, unyielding marble beneath his boots reflected the man he had become. Hard, cold, and unfeeling.

And yet, even without sight, the world around him was never truly dark. His father’s magic burned like a deep, sickening green, pulsing faintly in the edges of his awareness, a constant, oppressive presence that marked every room.

“Ominis!” That voice, sharp and demanding, cut through the suffocating silence. “Come.”

Ominis stood as his father’s magic flared brighter, its oppressive heat pulsing in the stillness. The quiet shuffle of his boots barely broke the silence as his hand instinctively found the smooth, ornate serpent carved into the head of his cane. Guided by the faint ripples of magic that marked his father’s path, he moved forward.

He did not need sight to know the way; the corridors of the manor were etched into his mind with the clarity of years spent treading their lifeless expanse. Each step was a descent, spiraling deeper into the suffocating abyss of his family’s expectations.

The heavy oak doors of the ritual chamber groaned open as he approached. The air here was thick, brimming with the metallic scent of blood and the sickly sweetness of burning herbs. He felt the heat of the flames licking at his skin before he heard the crackle of the fire that illuminated the room in shifting shadows he could never see.

“Your brother failed me again,” his father began, his tone sharp and unforgiving. Ominis felt the heat of his gaze, sharp and cutting. “And so, as always, I turn to you.”

Ominis did not flinch at the words. He stood still, his head slightly bowed, an unfeeling statue in the presence of the man who had shaped him into this hollowed creature. A faint, sticky warmth brushed against his fingers as a vial was pressed into his hand. The faint pulse of green within it vibrated against his fingers. A fragment of his father’s magic, raw and unrestrained. His blood.

“You know the incantation,” his father said coldly. “Do it.”

The vial’s weight was insignificant, yet in his hand, it felt impossibly heavy. The liquid inside sloshed faintly with the movement, its scent filling his nose. A coppery, vile promise of power. He hesitated, his mind flickering with distant memories of another life. Laughter. A voice full of mischief. The echo of Sebastian’s footsteps as they raced down the cobblestones at Hogwarts.

But it was only a flicker. A whisper drowned in the thunderous silence that now consumed him.

“Ominis,” his father snapped, his voice like shattered glass. “Do not disappoint me.”

He snuffed out the memory.

The vial was warm in his hand, pulsing faintly as if alive. Ominis felt the tendrils of his father’s magic unfurling, brushing against his own aura like the touch of a blade. He walked to the altar, each step guided by the vibration of ancient sigils carved into the stone floor.

The altar itself radiated an eerie, sickly green light, faint and shifting, alive with whispers of long-forgotten incantations. His fingers traced its cold surface, feeling the grooves where blood had run for millennia. He uncorked the vial and poured its contents onto the altar. The thick, viscous liquid spread in uneven lines, pooling in the carved runes that began to glow with hungry light.

The green aura of his father flared in response, its tendrils growing sharper, faster. They reached for him, curling around his own faint, pale magic, constricting and coiling as he began to chant.

The words came from deep within his chest, a low, guttural incantation, older than time itself. The air around him grew heavy, each sibilant sound pushing it tighter and tighter against his skin. He could feel the vibrations in the magic itself, the way his father’s aura pulsed eagerly, its tendrils slithering closer, wrapping around him like a serpent tightening its hold.

He did not stumble, he did not falter. His voice was steady, practiced and devoid of emotions, as the words spilt out of him like venom.

The pain came slowly, at first. Sharp pricks along his limbs where the tendrils coiled too tightly, seeping into his veins. But Ominis did not stop. He could not. The incantation grew louder, the chamber trembling as his father’s magic consumed the ritual entirely. The oppressive green bled into every corner of the room, casting jagged shadows that even Ominis could sense, a chaotic storm of power that left no room for anything else.

When the final word left his lips, the green snapped tight around him. He gasped, his knees smashing to the floor as the magic consumed him from within. For a moment, he thought it would devour him completely. But then the tendrils released, slithering back into the altar with a satisfied hiss, leaving only silence in their wake.

A hand gripped his shoulder, firm, cold, and possessive. “Well done,” his father said, his tone quivering with power. “Perhaps you are not as useless as your brother after all.”

The hand lingered for a moment too long, squeezing hard enough to bruise, before it was gone. The absence left a faint, throbbing ache, but Ominis did not react. He did not speak. He did not move as his father swept out of the room, his footsteps echoing down the hall like a death knell.

He was alone again, standing in the thick silence of the ritual chamber. The air was still warm, the scent of blood and ash clinging to his skin like a shroud. He ran his fingers over the altar once more, feeling the grooves of the sigils beneath his touch.

They were sharp, cutting into his skin, but he did not care. The pain was a faint whisper compared to the void inside him, a void that had grown wider and deeper with every passing year.

He had bled for his family, killed for them, become the creature they wanted him to be. And yet, standing there in the suffocating silence of the chamber, he could not escape the truth.

Ominis Azrael Gaunt had died at fifteen. What stood in his place was nothing more than a hollow vessel. Empty, obedient, and bound by blood and duty. As cold and unfeeling as the marble walls of the ancient house he called home.

[aesopsharpmybeloved]

To Leave the Abyss

Professor Sharp hates to recognise himself in your eyes.

&

A thirty something Auror Aesop Sharp is failing to come to terms with his predicament.

This was supposed to be a part of one of my WIP. But then I got into it and thought; oof, that's heavy. So it's a standlone. Gif amateurly made by me.

Note: Sharp, Hecat and Ronen knew each other in school. Ronen was oldest, Hecat was youngest and they were in the "I hate PNB" club before it was cool.

TW: Depression, Self-harm, suicidal thoughts, swearing

Sharp wasn’t usually fond of going to the Astronomy tower - the amount of stairs! Tonight however, he felt a certain pull towards the place, and he was glad that he did. It took him a long time to finally climb that spiral staircase, but once he managed to do so, he immediately noticed that he wasn’t alone there. Standing just ahead was a student, and he didn’t even need to guess which student it was. You were shaking like a leaf, your hand holding the handle of your broom in a vice grip, and you stood with your back to him. “What do you think you’re doing here?!” he asked loudly, making you flinch violently and turn around to face him.

The look on your face terrified him, haunted him, because he knew it all too personally. That wide-eyed panic, tinged with chaos and madness. You reminded him of a wounded, caged animal and he could almost feel you considering whether to just throw your broom away and toss yourself off the tower without it.

He remembered that look so well. 

—

He saw it in his own eyes, shortly after he was released from St Mungo’s. He moved around mostly on a wheelchair, using his cane only when absolutely necessary - to dress himself, get into and out of bed, sit on the sofa, use the bathroom. He drank heavily that evening. Like he did everyday since he got home, actually. He was just washing his hands, trying to balance himself on his good leg, the strong liquor making it even more difficult, when he made the mistake of looking up. He saw himself in the mirror. He saw the look. He saw his scar, red and angry and fucking painful. He saw his face. His face was overgrown, scruffy, and his eyes were red, the circles under them so dark they were nearly purple. His hair was a mess. He was a mess. A cripple. He’ll never be able to do his job again. He’ll never see his partner again. He’ll be forever haunted by the memory of seeing her with her wife and son, together in an embrace. He lost everything. He lost everything.

The pain in his leg seared, raw and agonising, and Aesop screamed. He brought his arms up in unhinged madness and he lunged forward, bringing his fisted hands against the mirror. There was a cathartic sound of glass shattering and he nearly felt relieved when he felt pain somewhere else than his leg and face. Blood. Blood was falling freely from his shaking hands. A few hard hits later, he was covered in it. He was trembling. With a final hit, he let his head join in on breaking the mirror. He saw red. Hot wetness ran down his nose, his cheeks.

Pain. His leg cramped up and with a shout he felt it give up on him, sending him plummeting to the ground. He sat there covered in cuts, in shards, in blood. He screamed. Aesop screamed as loud and long as he could, tears streaming down his face, red from exertion. He screamed even as his throat began to hurt, screamed until he no longer physically could. 

He didn’t know how long he sat there, head hung low, shards of glass all around him, some of the smaller cuts having stopped bleeding. The blood was drying up, becoming crusty. Tears still streamed down his face. He was filthy, his clothes were beyond salvation. His leg hurt like shit, so much he barely felt the glass cuts anymore. His hands were a mess. Two of his fingers were broken, protruding in odd directions. He was still shaking. 

One of his hands picked up a larger piece of what used to be his mirror. He observed the sharp edge of it. How long would it take to die if he was to slit his throat? How long would it take to bleed out like the pathetic animal he was, if he was to sever an artery. He unconsciously lifted the glass.

“Aesop Theodore Sharp, you put down that shard RIGHT NOW! ” He startled so much, he gripped it harder, cutting it into his palm. He winced and his hand released. It took a while before it hit the ground, having got stuck under his skin. Fresh blood started running down his arm.

Dinah Hecat stood before him, the look on her face terrifying. Her work injury years ago left her looking like an old woman despite being younger than him by two years. However, Aesop knew very well that she would have been able to take him on when he was in full health and strength. This was not a woman to be trifled with. “What were you thinking?!” she roared. The former unspeakable, current teacher observed him. He must’ve looked positively pitiful. “We’re going to St Mungos. You’ll be staying there until term ends, even if I’m to personally shackle you to the bed. And I won’t let you out of my sight during the summer. Aesop Sharp, heed my words, you are going to hate me before September comes!”

He didn’t argue. There was no point. He was as weak as a kitten right now and whatever Dinah wanted to do, he wouldn’t be able to stop her. 

He could not speak, when a healer in the magical hospital inquired about his injuries, his sore throat only producing strangle gurgling sounds. He drank so many potions, he felt as if his taste buds were permanently burned away. Wiggenweld, Blood-Replenishing potion, Skele-Gro, Calming draught, Draught of peace and of course Dreamless Sleep. A dose larger than he ever had before. 

When he woke up, he realised just what he’d done. He remembered everything. He sat up in the pristine white hospital bed, his whole body sore, his leg positively pulsing with pain. He put his face into his hands. He wept again. A warm hand touched his shoulder. Watery brown eyes looked up into the kind face of his former ministry colleague. Dinah stroked his shoulder, before moving her hand up to his face, to his hair, petting him softly. 

He cried into her shoulder that day, his hands laying limp in his lap. He heard a clock ticking somewhere to his left. He heard Dinah’s soft shushing sounds. He heard movement on the corridors - nurses, healers, patients, visitors. He heard his own heavy breathing, and he heard the beating of his own heart.

“Listen to me, Aesop,” she spoke later. He wasn’t sure how much time passed, but the sun was taking on an orange colour. Her hands were on his shoulder. “I am choosing to believe that yesterday-” her breath caught, but she recovered quickly, “yesterday was a moment of madness. Never again do I want to find you like I did. You have to realise that your life is not your own to take. Once you do, you’re not the one who’ll hurt. Everyone around you, your family, colleagues, your friends, they’ll be the ones to bear that pain. Think of your mother. You would really make her bury her son next to her husband? 

“You would have her suffer all alone until the end of her days? You would have her, and me, and Abraham, and your partner’s wife stand at your funeral? How could you be so selfish?” Her words were harsh, but Aesop felt he needed to hear them. He felt them grounding him. He felt ridiculous and pitiful. He wept on.

“Aesop… you won’t stay in this darkness. I know you won’t, because you won’t be allowed to. You’re one of the strongest people I know and you never knew when to give up. And now, giving up so easily? That’s not you. Get yourself together. I want to see that Aesop I know, that witty, brave, sarcastic, strong man, who’d always find a way to do what he felt was right. Even if it meant breaking a rule or two.” The broken man held his hands together in his lap, rubbing them slowly. Old habits die hard.

“What if-” he started, his voice still hoarse from yesterday. His throat felt numb. “What if I’m not able to… remember that man?” A smaller hand closed around his rugged ones. “Then you’ll have me to remind you. I’ll do everything in my power to help you, and if I’m unable to help, then you can be sure I’ll stand by you, every step of the way.” Aesop could have cried all over again.

“Okay,” he said instead.

–

Dinah did good on her promise, and really checked in on him every day of the summer. She was driving him up the wall, actually. She threw out every bottle of alcohol she found, and regularly made sure he didn’t buy any more. He started eating more, because not doing so resulted in the former unspeakable giving him an earful. He decided fairly quickly that it’s simply less of a hassle to get something into his stomach, than having to endure her wrath every day. He gained back some of the weight he lost, no longer looking so gaunt. 

She forced him to start walking, using his cane for support. It hurt like hell. It made him determined. He was not going to give up. Slytherins don’t just give up. Dinah made him go outside, being so obnoxious he was almost glad to get out of his house. The first breath of fresh morning air made his sore body buzz appreciatively. He didn’t walk far the first day, choosing to just sit in his little garden. The DADA teacher appeared with tea and sat next to him, looking awfully proud of herself. With a flick of his wand, he disposed of the dead plants on his herbology table nearby.

The next day he walked around the little hamlet. He tried not to notice the stares he received from his neighbours. He tried even harder not to notice their pity. He pushed his chin forward, proud and defiant, as he made his way to the merchant nearby. He needed new seeds. 

—

He wasn’t entirely happy to be in the Three Broomsticks, if he was being honest. But, once more Dinah pestered him until he agreed. That is, until he gave her his worst angsty-teenager ‘Fine!’ . He knew people were staring. The curious glances were easier to handle than the winces. A girl appeared at their table, taking their orders. She could have been fifteen, maybe sixteen. She didn’t look at his scar, didn’t look at his cane. She observed him as if he wasn’t a cripple, who’s obviously in pain. She just smiled and took their order. He was grateful for it. “That’s Sirona Ryan, one of my Ravenclaws,” smiled Dinah, “wonderful girl. She really came out of her shell once she embraced who she is.”

—

Having grown tired of spending his compensation money and the little sick leave pay he received every two weeks on buying potions for his pain, he soon started brewing his own. Wiggenweld, for a start, but also various other potions, as well as salves, each of which have had various success in diminishing his pain. He forgot how much he always loved this subject. He started experimenting, too, trying new ingredients, new combinations. The healers in St Mungos may have been convinced there was no cure for his ailment, but Aesop wouldn’t give up. 

When summer ended and Dinah could only visit him during the weekends, he was equally glad and disappointed. He thought he looked forward to being alone again, alone with his thoughts, alone without her constantly pestering him to eat something, to go outside, to shave, to cut his hair, to dress in fresh clothes. He found himself slightly lonely now.  

However, he found a rhythm, a routine. He’d wake up in the morning and go about his day. Aesop would do his morning hygiene. He’d make and eat his breakfast. He’d tend to his plants. He’d have lunch. He’d go for a walk, leaning on his cane. The pain never went away, but it was more bearable now. On most days, that is. He’d be hunched over his potions station long into the evening, brewing and brewing. He’d run his experiments. He’d fall into his bed, but not without taking either Dreamless Sleep or Draught of Peace.

Rinse and repeat. 

He ate, he wore clean clothes, he took care of himself and his home. He visited his mother, who always fretted over him. Then there was Dinah who would also fret over him when she came over. He saw Abraham a few times, the jovial man always full of stories. He let his hair and stubble grow in defiance. He was offered a different job in the Auror office. Auror recruitment programme… the very thought made him shudder. To think he’d be buried under parchment, dealing with children straight out of Hogwarts, who thought they were some heroes who would save the world, only for them to soon realise how horribly they were mistaken… Often brutally. Bloodily.

He didn’t want that. Such a job held no appeal to him whatsoever.

Aesop Sharp retired from the Auror office at 34 years old.

He still received a small amount of monetary support from the ministry every month, and he started selling some of what he brewed. It wasn’t much, but it was enough for Aesop. In any case, it was enough until he found something better to do, some new job that could fill him with fulfilment. Dinah came around, sometime during April with a smug smile on her face. She found him the perfect job, she claimed.

Four months later, Aesop stood before Hogwarts.

He found it rather funny. He didn’t want to deal with children straight out of Hogwarts who pursued an Auror career, only to deal with them in the school itself. If anything, he could make sure they were well prepared, that they were humble, that they knew everything they needed. That they wouldn’t end up like him.

He also thought about the vast expanse of Hogwarts library, of the Greenhouses, of the ingredient stores. If he was to find a cure somewhere, it would be here.

With every limping step towards the castle, he grew more and more sure that this was the right decision. That this was fate. 

—

The worst time of his life flashed before Aesop’s eyes. He saw your sorrow, your desperation, your pain. He saw you, entirely, and he saw himself, too. It was raw and painful and he hated it. He hated to see someone so strong, so ridiculously brave, so kind and selfless like you feeling this way. Damn ancient magic, damn the keepers, damn Ranrok and damn Eleazar for leaving you like he did.

“Come here,” he said, his voice so quiet you almost didn’t hear it. Not knowing why, you obeyed. Your broom hit the floor. You moved slowly, still shaking violently, tears already appearing in your eyes. It was Aesop who took the final two steps to you, and, without further ado, closed his arms around your smaller form, pressing you to him entirely, imprisoning you in his warmth. You’ve grown during the year, but being as tall as he was, he easily tucked your head under his chin. Sobs soon started leaving you. Gut-wrenching and raw like his screams were before. It seemed like a lifetime ago. 

He made it on time, he made it before you did something stupid. Like he did. He wouldn’t let you be like him. He held you tightly, stroked your hair, let you cry on his shoulder. He made soft shushing noises. In the distance he heard bells, it was midnight. You clung onto him, your hands gripping the fabric of his coat so tightly, your fingers went white. He was a solid, steady warmth against you, and you felt safe, protected, and you weren’t alone. When your sobs began subsiding, you felt utterly exhausted, numb, your throat was sore from crying so hard, and your head was starting to ache.

Two large lean hands grabbed your face, gently, yet insistently. The potions master pulled you back, tilted your head and looked into your eyes deeply. His face was so close, his large nose almost touched your own.

“You listen to me, (F/N)(L/N), and you listen well,” he started, his tone soft, yet very serious, “I know your pain. I know the darkness - you won’t stay in it. You won’t be allowed to. I won’t let you, your friends and teachers won’t let you, and you definitely won’t let yourself.” He remembered what Dinah told him, all those years ago, word for word. He never forgot. He never stopped being grateful to her. She pulled him out of that void and now he had to do the same for this young witch.

“You’re stronger than you know. I simply won’t accept you giving up, not after you single-handedly defeated Ranrok, after you saved this school. That’s not you. I want to see that absolutely brilliant girl, who excels in school by day and rescues beasts by night, who’s untamed and unafraid, and who’s always ready to defy anything and anyone, even me, in order to do what’s right. Whatever you need, I’m here. If you cannot bear to be alone, I’m wholly prepared to give you detention every evening until you graduate. I intend to pull you out of that abyss, even if you hate me for it.”

At some point your hands covered his own on your cheeks, and fresh tears rolled from your eyes. Aesop pulled you close again, grounding you, letting you fall apart in his arms and putting you back together with his quiet comfort. “I could never hate you,” you whimpered and clung on tighter, not wanting him to let you go. He wouldn’t. Just like Aesop was not alone, he wouldn’t let you be alone either. You were not alone. He was not alone.

Hello, I hope you enjoyed reading. You can also find this story on AO3. I appreciate your feedback!