#the sides of the coin is the middle ground and sometimes I just spin the coin for shits and giggles

[koithebastard]

when I see art of pretty men I simply fold like a lawnchair and screech.

[chocsra]

"Take the Gun and my Heart, okay?"

15! Chuuya x implied fem! reader

A/N: im back again 😜😜 please send more requests and ideas! i wanna try writing angst for my next fics

content: you're the port mafia's best markswoman/sniper & chuuya goes to you to learn ur ways, oneshot, fluff, pre-relationship, mafia work 😱, guns, coworkers? to lovers, rich chuuya era, could be gn! reader bc there are no descriptions but used she/her prns 😭

thank you sm @soleelia for the idea!

Sometimes, regular days of being in the mafia felt boring.

Most of your life was inhabited by the four same walls of the mafia's firing range, your body was free of bruises besides the callouses on your fingers from the amount of steel pressing against your palms; it almost felt like your hands grew with a silver pistol rested upon them as if royalty was granted with a crown.

When you were younger, a tall pale man with the name of Paul Verlaine taught you all the ways of a markswoman he could.

Your work consisted of staying in the firing range, assisting criminals in their weaponry choices, dealing guns; and the off chance you could go on missions.

But when you did, shit was amazing.

"Nice one, [Y/N]." A boyish voice rang through the single earpiece of your left ear, repositioning yourself planted on the ground of one of the Port Mafia's rooftops; your index finger positioned off the trigger, taking your face off of the scope. "The pleasure's all mine." You thank teasingly; even if your 'partner' was kilometers away from you, you could almost taste the cruel smirk on his face from the other side; plotting a decimation not even a mafioso with 30 years of experience could pull off.

Dazai Osamu, the youngest mafia executive in history.

He was the craziest fuck you've ever met, but you did partake in his affairs with murder and crime; just from afar. Word says he got himself a new partner on the battlefield; a boy a year older than you, he was the supposed King of The Sheep, but his mentality and brutal force screamed nothing more than that of a wolf.

"Careful, pipsqueak - backup has already been granted." the lanky boy with bandages covered all around the midst of his tainted body said with boredom sinking in his voice; blood dribbled down his forehead, emerging in the facial bandages covering his right eye. Men with firearms and knives surrounded the two teenage boys; more than ready to shoot the children under the guise of their boss.

The ginger next to him barely turned his head in Dazai's direction, his tongue swiped behind his bottom teeth in irritation; though owning a petite stature, the King of The Sheep was more than confident that all these men, despite their bodies, would fall to their knees under the crushing pressure of gravity. "I don't give a damn about your shitty backup, I didn't join the Port Mafia to be protected." the redhead smiled cheekily, a red aura glowing from his body as his right leg lifted in the air - about to throw a powerful repeating hook kick.

Bang.

Several collisions shot through the air, Chuuya was sure it was the force of his ass-kicking skills; Dazai would have flipped a coin to see if it was you or the midget who landed a shot.

The redhead launched in the air, he twisted his leg just so that his shin hit the man's forehead. However, upon doing so - blood spluttered out of the man's head, falling harshly to the ground. The small boy landed successfully on the ground, shoving his hands in his pockets with a proud smirk. Until Dazai gently pressed on his earpiece to enable the microphone. "Again, thank you, [Y/N]," he says with a sigh, watching as Chuuya's face contorts in confusion. Spinning around on his heels, the man died not by his kick; but by a metal bullet pierced through the middle of his skull; along with all the other men perfectly striked in the forehead with the small bullets.

"What?" the ginger mafioso asked with surprise, "Who the hell did that?" he sharply turned to the bandaged brunette with annoyance laced in his voice. "[Y/N], you haven't heard of her?" Dazai asks boredly, striding over to the fallen man who was their leader. "No? Dude, where'd that even come from?" Chuuya spins his head in several directions, trying to find the source of the bullets. "Up your ass." the lanky boy teased, bending down to ransack the man's clothing.

"Shut up! Guns are a good for nothin' weapon anyway! Like hell we need them!!"

"Huh? I thought you didn't like guns."

You stood across from Chuuya in the stained room of the firing range, it's length was more than long, with rather narrow walls. Bales of hay were stacked at the end of the room, protecting the wall from bullets and missed shots. From the small distance of the door creaking open, laid the only walking point of the room; as the rest were hidden by pillars that seperated individual's gunfire; and nobody wished to get shot.

The teenager ruffles his hair, almost loathing in the awkward silence of the room; even with noice cancelling headphones on. He was wearing casual clothing, usual black sweatpants and some sort of red biker jacket; accompanied by a swift movement of his orange hair, tangling between his fingers.

"About that- 'kinda feel left out, ya mind teaching me?"

"You don't know how to use a gun?"

A more awkward silence entered the room as you stare at him in disbelief, the ginger's face remained somewhat sheepish; but by his piercing azure eyes, he was irritated by something, pretty obvious. "Nah," Chuuya replies, gently pushing his hands in his pockets, walking up to you. "was never a fan of guns - ain't bullets shoot better with your hands?" the boy smirked cheekily, causing you to scoff and take off your headphones. "You're talkin' like I can manipulate gravity." you reply dryly with a creeping smile, finishing to sweep the lose bullets on the floor.

"Exactly, that's why I'm apart of the mafia." the redhead boasted defensively, rolling his tongue across his inner cheek. "I think you're the only mafioso who doesn't know how to shoot." you reply with almost a whisper, his sharp glare at you made you question your lifespan. "I've dealt with swords thanks to Kouyou, I've gone to daggers and knives for the look and practicality - so lemme ask ya this, [Y/N], why would I ever turn to guns?" you heaved a sigh at his smartass answers, sometimes you hated his stupid delusions that he always had to be right.

"Well you're here now, so technically you are turning to guns." you swipe a sleek pistol off a metal table, discharging the magazine to see if any bullets were left. "Tsk," Chuuya crossed his arms in annoyance, "You're putting words and my mouth." he scoffed, causing little bits of laughter to escape your lips. "Just shut up and listen."

"Chuuya- you can't shoot a gun with one hand." you scold in annoyance, gently taking the same pistol out of the boy's gloved hands. "Why the hell not? I see it all the time." he brushes off some dirt off his jacket, blue eyes gazing at the addition of bullets in the chamber. "You watch too many movies," you mutter in concentration, redjusting the safety junctures. "a pistol's recoil wouldn't allow you to shoot it properly, and you'd miss like, 90% of the time as a beginner." you grin mockingly, causing Chuuya to smirk in irritation.

"But Dazai does it all the time."

"I don't know- Dazai's fuckin' crazy."

"You have a point."

You laugh as you placed the gun in his hands, "Always treat a gun like it's loaded, even if we're mafia." you said softly, the ginger nodded, readjusting his position into some kind of sharp-shooter. "Got it," he rasps, pointing the silver tip of the pistol towards the cardboard target. Your eyes scan his whole body and stance with predictability, he was standing like he was holding in a shit. "C'mere," you proceed with a click of the tongue, cupping Chuuya's hands over the pistol.

The fabric of his gloves saved you from some embarrassment, but you couldn't help but feel the way his soft hair poked your face leaning over his right shoulder. "Your hand that's going to pull the trigger should only use 30% of force, all the other should be with the other hand, using 70% to support it." you inform in almost a whisper, applying pressure atop his right hand for a more firm grip, Chuuya's eyes glanced to yours with a slight pink tint on his cheeks before nodding. "Alright,"

"So, why'd you come to learn from me anyway?"

"'Cause I wanna learn from the best, yea?"

...

"What?"

"What? You don't like being complimented?"

Trying to readjust his grip on the firearm whilst his breath was fanning your face and neck was so damn distracting, you don't even think he knows how close or what he's doing; especially with his trademark smirk and alluring aura. Chuuya's always been a bastard, but he wasn't all bad when you had a civil conversation; actually, maybe you two had one too many civil conversations. "Okay, think I got it, ima shoot." he nods with confidence, you take a step back as the redhead takes a few moments to reposition his stance and well, learn how to shoot.

"There's two parts of a gun that allows you to shoot: 1. the front, 2. the rear, match those two up and it's like a puzzle." you inform, pointing to the junctures of the firearm before yet again taking a step back. "And don't forget double action, it holds more trigger pull than all other shots."

From all the talking you just did, there was only one thing on your mind; Chuuya. A conversation so little that felt so heavy, were you that touch starved? Nobody visited you in the range, only older men who were practicing their skills. Infact, Chuuya hates guns; he believes that it held no value over him in the mafia and a machine used by non-ability users and non-ability users only. And yet, he still learnt from you, he could've went to anyone else; he could've went to another person to watch him fail.

Too much of your previous conversations filled your head; wine, motorcycles, cigarettes, music.. maybe you did share one too many conversations, you hate the way someone so violent could you make you feel huma-

Bang.

For the first time in your life, with or without headphones; the sound of a bullet puncturing cardboard startled you, even just a little. Damn it, that ginger did a number on you. You tilt your head up to see if the bullet hit, indeed it did not. "Fuck," the redhead groans, causing you to snicker a little bit, attempting to stiffle it with your hand. "Man, shut up.." he scowls in irritation, a small smile creeping on his face. "C'mon, the chambers not finished, you can do it." you cheer the boy on, patting his back lightly, Chuuya only chuckles with a shake of the head before turning back to the target.

"You wanna know why I think you're the best?" the mafioso continues to shoot, gritting his teeth everytime the metal bullet pierced anything but cardboard. "Why?" you ask curiously, watching as he finishes the chamber, setting the firearm down at the decently shot target.

"Have dinner with me and find out."

He smirks confidently, watching as you stare at the ginger blankly. "You wanna shoot up a restaurant?" you cock a brow in confusion, taking off your headphones. "No- what?"

"What I mean is, let's go out and enjoy some good food tonight, 'kay?"

[idlenight]

I'm curios- what are the reasons from the demo that you like hg? It can be under the cut if you want to avoid people getting spoilers!

I will use any excuse to blab about HG, you are an enabler anon.

WARNING: Public Revelations Demo spoilers (for route 4.2) under the cut

Secondary warning of a LOT of text lmao.

hgsib variable.... i am obsessed w/ u.

You are Hollow Ground. You wake up in the middle of the night because you're a little parched. You untangle yourself from your polycule to go to the kitchen and get a drink.

There, sitting on your kitchen counter, is the villain that had previously refused to show up to the meeting you invited them to and send their assistant instead. They are in full armor, you are in your robes (a little underdressed for this meeting).

They offer you a cup of your own coffee that they just made.

Personally? I would be alerting my bodyguards polycule to the intrusion. But no HG just, rolls with the punches. I respect that.

But to get into the actual nitty gritty and the Connections(tm) to sidestep, focusing on the friendly + mind conversation because that's what I saw in my run.

In the friendly conversation where sidestep takes their helm off you get so much insight into HG's relationship with their sibling.

"Believe it or not," you start, *if ((suit_terrifying) or (hgterrified))   realizing how absurd this must sound, "I do believe it will be more advantageous to work together than be enemies." "You have certainly proven that you would be a bad enemy to have," Hollow Ground admits. *if hgreveal   "And I'm glad you're being sensible about this." The smile is real, as is the relief.   *if hgmind     "I wouldn't want us to be at odds. Not now."

a boss or hunter also gets this piece of dialogue that im unwell about:

  "Oh I know exactly who would," Hollow Ground says, voice sharper than it has been so far tonight. "Lord Ember. That San Francisco fuck has been making moves on my territory. I wasn't sure if you were one of his plants until tonight."   *if hgreveal     ${hghis} ${eyes} meet yours. Certainty. You're on ${hghis} side in this.

'Certainty. You're on [their] side in this.' <- homie immediately willing to believe step is on their side because they're probably his sibling, why wouldn't they be?

With a thief step, this dialogue comes up

  "Sometimes I can't be bothered though." You stare ${hghim} down, seeing how much leeway you have with your little stunt. "With the whole research thing. Is that going to be an issue?"   "You..." Hollow Ground groans.   *if hgmind     "You really haven't changed one bit, have you?"   *elseif hgreveal     "This feels far too familiar."

and the mindtalk + being defensive:

    "So what?" Your tone matches ${hghis}, because you have never once backed down from an argument. "Are you seriously surprised?"     "I shouldn't be, you always were a little shit." The words are out, flat on the table between you, coins not heads or tails but on the edge, spinning freely.

HG's youngest sibling confirmed to have been a little shit. (this dynamic was made for River 'born to be a shithead little brother' Becker fr fr)

Although my favorite part of the mind talk is this:

  *selectable_if (protected) #"You saved me," I gasp, focusing on that. "Why?"     "You saved me," you gasp, trying to swallow the taste of blood and drowning. "Why would you do that?" $!{hghe} must have known what you were trying to do. You're not sure if Hollow Ground is a telepath, but there is some form of mental powers at play here, that you could feel. Something...     "Hell if I know," ${hghe} @{hgsv lies|lie} and you know that now. Can taste the lie, not because your minds are entangled but because you can see it in ${hghis} eyes.     *if hg_relationship = "dangerous telepath"       "I should have let you drown like last time."       "But you didn't," you retort, wiping your mouth. "You know something."     *else       "Liar," you retort, wiping your mouth.

"You don't know?" You can sense the disbelief, ${hghis} eyes narrowing. "Fuck. Of course. That makes sense. Too much sense." "No it doesn't," you protest. "Do you remember anything?" Hollow Ground leans forward, too insistent now, almost reaching out to touch. You lean back, putting space between you despite the protection of your armor. "About what?" Why are you the one being interrogated? What did you see in there? What did you feel? "Your childhood." The words land heavily, and you almost laugh. As if you were ever a child.

The way that i am obsessed with ["dialogue" he lied] in texts. ALso ugh, HG leaning forward, wanting to touch sidestep. To make sure they're real? to comfort them? to comfort themself? They want sidestep to be their sibling so bad, need it to be true.

In fact is sidestep dismisses it (our memories got entangled. it's nothing more than that), then HG begs them to answer the question anyway, and are very clearly unwilling to let it go even though they won't force the answer because they're at a disadvantage.

  #"No," I say, which is technically not a lie. "Why?"     "No," you say, which is technically not a lie. No childhood unless you count being newly decanted, fumbling your way through the world before your memory implant. "Why?"     "Because you remind me of someone." Hollow Ground looks directly at you, eyes narrowing. "Someone who I thought I had lost long ago. Someone who should be dead."     "Some people don't stay dead forever," you joke with your grimmest smile, but ${hghe} @{hgsv takes|take} it the wrong way, eagerly leaning forward.     "Could it be...?" A pause, ${hghis} fingers tapping nervously against the table. "You would have been in your early teens. There was an... attack. They called it an accident, but nobody was fooled. You had been arrested, they said you suffered an overdose. They never let us claim the body, so I always figured it was police brutality. Didn't want us to see the evidence. I never thought there was a chance that you were alive?"

You can feel the hope radiating from ${hghim}. An old wound, reopened. Someone who loved ${hghis} *if afab   little sister *elseif amab   little brother *else   younger sibling and is now hoping that ${hghe} had been wrong all along. That there is a chance there had been no death. No body. Just someone disappeared into the system for whatever nefarious purposes. Someone who might be sitting at the table across from ${hghim}. Maybe. Hope. The most powerful and addictive of drugs. *if (((amab) and (gender = "woman")) or ((afab) and (gender = "man")))   You know in your heart that it is wrong. Not just because you are a Re-Gene and never were a child. But because the child you saw in ${hghis} mind had been a @{amab little girl.|little boy.} And you never would have been. Not back then.

Hollow Ground loved their younger sibling, Hollow Ground hopes that they are wrong. They want to be wrong, they need to be. For a chance that their sibling can still be alive, sitting in front of them now, breathing.

I could go on but this is already long enough lmao. Thanks for coming to another one of my TEDtalks ✌️.

[juniperhillpatient]

thank you for tagging me @kiki-strike !! <33

10 characters 10 fandoms 10 (ish) tags!

1. Azula ATLA - she's a girlboss. she's a pathetic poor little meow meow. she's a manipulative mastermind. she's a socially awkward wreck. she's a child soldier whose mother left her & who's father treated her like a weapon. she's the most formidable villain the heroes have ever faced. i love her

2. Ashley Graves TCOAAL - a controversial pick MAYBE but I love to see a demon-worshipping cannibal queen winning (committing unspeakable acts but it's ok because her mom didn't love her & also she is baby have u considered that?) i think ashley should be allowed to commit all the atrocities she wants as a treat on the grounds that her parents were so awful they left her to starve to death & before that, pretended not to notice when she & her brother accidentally killed a girl in middle school

3. Natalie Scatorcio, Yellowjackets - 2 cannibal queens in a row I must have a type <3 I love a tragic hero who is also a violent, dangerous & unstable individual. forgiveness is a nice idea but my poor doomed antler queen will never live to see it... she was a gentle soul (ignore the atrocities) who never got to see a single moment of peace or gentleness in her life

4. Sam Carpenter, Scream - it was nearly impossible for me to pick between my best girls Sidney, Emma, & Sam for this list but I have to go Sam. she's the daughter of a serial killer. she enjoys stabbing people. she sees visions of her dead dad telling her to kill but she loves her friends & her sister more than anything. i adore my dangerous & violent but also oh so sweet babygirl

5. Faith Lehane Buffy the Vampire Slayer - listen, Buffy is the obvious choice for the best character in Buffy OFC. but have you considered. faith is broken & hurt & a little crazy with jealousy & obsession with buffy. she's the dark slayer. she has a dynamic with the wacky evil demonic town mayor that mirrors buffy's relationship with her wholesome (mostly. sometimes demon rebelly) librarian mentor as the dark side of the coin. she's never had anyone pick her first & it kills her but she pretends she doesn't care. i'd die for her

6. Baby Firefly - this time not a confirmed cannibal but my girl is into corpse desecration & necrophilia so I think this is a great list that proves I have excellent taste in fictional characters. "there is no wrong. if someone needs to be killed you kill 'em! that's the way :)"

7. Beth Salinger, Hostel 2 - fave final girl my bestie had a hot lesbian enemies to almost lovers to beheading you & playing soccer with the head dynamic with an evil secret society member who tried to lure her to her death. she also cut off the penis of the man who dared to fuck with her & fed it to a dog so like what more can you even want from a character <3

8. Dennis Reynolds IASIP - having dennis as my fave is soo embarrassing he's such a basic fave but genuinely he's SO fucking pathetic & sad beneath the layers of fake manipulative suave cool rich kid that he thinks he conveys (he doesn't). he's literally just a sad little girl who falls apart & curls up on he ground crying when things get overwhelming. everyone who doesn't understand him thinks he's a mastermind serial killer but they are FALLING FOR HIS ACT

9. Katherine Pierce TVD - THEY HATE TO SEE A GIRLBOSS WINNINGGGGGGG (I don't know Scarlet Witch but I think it's funny to steal the description for #9 for Katherine from the person who tagged me in this hehe) anyway it's funny for me to pick Katherine when I named my cat damon & I have a ginormous shirtless poster of ian somerhalder literally over my bed I'm looking at it right now BUT hear me out. Katherine is my real fave. unforgivable villain who always chooses herself first & also mirrors the protagonist & also she was just a girl once too, a pregnant, scared young girl. if the writers cared about me specifically at all we would've gotten a spin off of Katherine & her daughter instead of what we got

10. Annie Edison Community - much like with buffy the vampire slayer & buffy summers, there is a correct answer to which community character is objectively the best & it's obviously abed. BUT my subjective fave that I latch onto is annie. she's just so babygirl. she had a nervous breakdown in high school because she was always too perfect. she's just out of rehab for adderall when we meet her but it's mostly only referenced or flashed back to as a joke. we never meet her parents but the quotes she references from them are deeply disturbing if you turn off the laugh track & pay attention. she has a fucked up relationship with her good older male friend because #daddy issues. she is obsessed with true crime. there's a monkey named after her boobs. she's the ONLY member of the study group who could've EVER lived with troy & abed & incorporated herself into their dynamic the way she does in episodes like foosball & nocturnal vigilantism. my girl is so silly & a little crazy <3

anyway

thank u for the tag i love rambling about my fave characters!!

I tag: @missjessefantastico, @theowritesfiction @dont-leafmealone, @peony-pearl, @stalker-among-the-stars @bearsandbeansart @chasingfictions @hello-nichya-here, @lunaintheskyforever, @gathering0gloom, @jctko, @jet-apologistmybadhomies, @745voiceofthepeople, @prodogg, @matchamarshmallow

ok if you wanted to be tagged please just say I tagged you also no pressure to the people I tagged it's just for fun if u want :)

[nagito-kissmaeda]

Arcade - Komaeda x Reader

ミ☆  Just a silly thing I wrote about an arcade employee being baffled while Komaeda clears out all the machines lol ミ☆ I’ve been feeling kind of down about my writing so i just wanted to do something fun. It’s not very good haha. I’m tired and i can’t write good asjfkakd

Night shift at the arcade is usually pretty quiet. Most people start leaving around dinner time and while there are usually still some hardcore gamers lurking around until the AM, most of them only come in on Friday’s or weekends. So the job is usually easy breezy, most nights you lean up on the counter and browse the internet on your phone until your shift ends.

Tonight though, you have been acutely watching as this guy moves from machine to machine. Absolutely clearing them out. You’ve never seen anything like it. Presently, you are crouched behind a claw machine filled with Hello Kitty plushies as this guy slips two bucks into the Big Bass Wheel cabinet. Your eyes drift over to the last cabinet he used, the Wizard of Oz coin pusher. It is empty , you have never seen that happen in the whole time you’ve worked here. You weren’t even sure it could happen.

The guy spins the wheel, it spins and spins and spins. Jackpot. Your eyes narrow, a jackpot isn’t too uncommon, it honestly isn’t even worth that many tickets, but then he nonchalantly slides in another two dollars and hits jackpot again . This is starting to get suspicious.

The machine is spitting out tickets now, so many tickets. Even the guy looks surprised, you are definitely surprised. Two jackpots is not worth that many tickets, but they just keep coming and coming. Machine fault? Must be. The guy looks almost resigned at this point, sighing unhappily as the tickets keep spewing out, like they’re wasting his time and not like this was a superhuman feat of luck. Then, the machine starts smoking.

“Shit!” You hiss, jumping up from your hiding place behind the claw machine and dashing over to the guy before anything catches on fire. You’ve caught him by surprise, he probably didn’t realise you were following him around, “out of the way, please!”

He ducks out of the way, pulling his armfuls worth of tickets along with him as you switch the arcade cabinet off at the wall. The machinery inside stops whirring and the smoke calms down. You wipe your forehead with the back of your hand, you’ve never seen a machine fault this badly before, you were probably going to need to file an indecent report. What a pain.

“You okay?” You ask the guy. He is a lot taller up close, and the shock of messy white hair on his head only makes him seem taller. He sways like a palm tree in the breeze, clutching onto his massive wad of tickets for dear life.

“I’m sorry. I broke your machine.”

Oh...his voice is softer than you had expected it would be. The lights from a nearby Daytona cabinet are reflecting in his green eyes. You swallow, “You didn't break anything, machine fault, it happens sometimes.”

His eyes drift away from you and over to the cabinet, the smoke has stopped now, it doesn't look like there was too much damage, but he looks very upset about it anyway.

“Hey, seriously, dont worry about it.” You give him an awkward pat on his forearm, “The machines in here are really old, stuff like this happens all the time.”

“Oh...ah…” He bites his lip, “If you’re sure…”

You smile, “Yeah, don't even sweat it. You can keep the tickets by the way, once they're out of the machine it's a nightmare to get them back in again, so consider it an apology for almost setting you on fire.”

He laughs weakly, “Thank you.”

“Hey, uh…” You start, not so subtle eyeing his ticket collection. A decent chunk of it was from that Big Bass Wheel malfunction, an already exorbitant number was won legit. More than you had ever seen anyone win before, “are you a cabinet master?”

“A...what?”

“Like, you know all the sweet spots on the machines. Technically not cheating, but not entirely legal either.”

His eyes widen, “Did I do something wrong?”

“No!” You shake your head at him, “You just won a lot of tickets is all. I’ve never seen someone win that many tickets.”

“I’m just really lucky. It’s all i'm good at, honestly.” He’s fiddling with the tickets in his arms, “My friend’s birthday is coming up and i'm trying to win her that Sailor Moon statue.”

It is true that there is a coveted Sailor Moon statue amongst the arcade’s prize collection. It’s huge, beautifully painted and according to your boss, incredibly rare . It’s been sitting there on the shelf for god knows how long, still tight in it’s shrinkwrap. Generally the most any player is able to afford is three or four sticky hands and a glow in the dark spider ring, but this guy is getting tantalisingly close.

You cross your arms and smirk at him, “You’re really that lucky?”

“Most of the time.”

“Okay then. You’re going to play Monster Drop next, it's the hardest cabinet we have.” You start heading over to the machine in the back of the arcade, it’s huge, you always forget how huge it is. The guy is diligently following behind you, shoulders hunched like he’s trying to make himself seem smaller. The pile of tickets in his arms rustling as he walks, “I’ve never seen anyone get a monster jackpot on this thing. Also my boss filled it with a bunch of different sized balls, so it's basically impossible to get a standard jackpot too, even after practicing at other arcades.”

“Hm. Is that really fair?”

You shrug a shoulder, “Nope. It’s big and loud, so lots of people want to play it and Boss doesn't want too many people winning. there's a catch though, raise the difficulty and you also raise the ticket payout. So if you manage to beat it, you'll be able to afford Sailor Moon.”

The current ticket payout is displayed in flashing red lights, 72,483 . With every failed attempt at hitting the monster jackpot the payout just gets higher and higher, those tantalising numbers draw in more kids hoping to be the one who gets lucky. A number that big means the cabinet has never been won, a smart arcade goer knows that a number like that means stay away.

“How do I play?” He asks, dropping his ticket collection on the ground at his feet.

“Ah, it’s deceptively simple.” You grab his hand and tug him over to the machine, gesturing up at where the balls drop down from, “You just need to press the button to let out a ball, and that’s literally it. The base of the machine spins around to make it harder to get the balls in. Monster jackpot is in the middle, so you would think a straight drop down would jackpot you every time but-”

He smirks wryly, “it’s never that easy is it?”

“Of course not! We’d never make any money if it was.”

He laughs to himself, pulling another coin out of his pocket and clinking it into the machine, “Ah, only one turn?”

You hold up a finger, “Just the one.”

He laughs again, “Brutal.”

“Very.” You take a step back to give him room to familiarise himself with the machine. Most people like to observe it from a few angles, take some time, watch at least one cycle before using up their one shot, “Good luck.”

He turns to you and smiles, “Thanks, but like i said, this is the one thing i'm good at.” He pushes the button, he isn't even looking at the machine, the rotating base hasn't even finished half a cycle. This guy is ballsy.

Despite his gumption, the ball falls a little short of the monster jackpot, “Aw, bad luck-” you start saying, but then it starts bouncing. Once off the base, three times off the sides, up high into the air and then plonk . Straight into the monster jackpot. All you can do is stare. Not only did he get the jackpot, he got it in a rigged machine while he wasn't even looking .

He laughs politely, the sound barely audible of the cabinet’s furious ringing bells and sirens signalling an impossible feat just happened here, everyone look! The tickets have started dispensing, with over 70k to print, it's going to be a long wait, “Jeez, that was scary. I almost thought my luck had run out there!”

He looks completely relaxed as he starts folding the fresh tickets into the neatest pile he can manage, “Are you a god or something?”

“Huh?” He says, blinking down at you, “That’s such a strange thing to ask me.”

“You just beat Monster Drop without looking . I’ve seen professional cabinet masters come in here and still lose after examining the machine for a good two hours!”

“Oh, no need to be impressed. I didn't actually do anything.” He smiles sadly and continues collecting his tickets, “It’s not really much of a talent, but i suppose it comes in handy sometimes.”

You clap a palm to your forehead, unable to believe what you are hearing, “You’re going to have enough tickets for the Sailor Moon statue and enough leftover for like...unlimited sticky hands.”

He taps a finger to his lips, “Oh! I would like some sticky hands.”

“How many?”

His brow creases as he considers it, “Three or four, i guess.”

“Three or-” you start laughing, “Buddy, i could pour the whole box into your bag if you wanted.”

“I don't think i need that many sticky hands, but it's very kind of you to offer.”

“We also have glow in the dark spider rings, and a robust selection of slinkies. Oh! If you really want to splurge we have a pair of slippers that resemble a character from Rick and Morty.”

He grimaces, “I would prefer the slinkies.”

You hear the arcade cabinet’s ticket dispenser finally come to a stop, and despite his good natured effort to collect the tickets in a neat pile, they are still all bunched up around his ankles. You are about to ask him another question when you quickly realise that the Monster Drop machine is now also smoking.

He sighs, “I should have known.”

You don't have time to look into that comment, you are too busy scrambling around to the back of the machine so you can turn the power off at the wall. Much like last time, you catch it before anything actually catches on fire. This has been a very eventful day.

“Hey, uh-” you start awkwardly, pulling yourself up from the ground and moving to help the guy contend with his ticket pile, “I finish in like half an hour...if you need help carrying your miscellaneous arcade prizes back to your car or whatever…”

He blinks at you as you both reach the prize counter and deposit the monstrous ticket collection onto the bench, “I should be okay on my own...but if you want to come I wouldn't mind, though I can’t guarantee I won’t set anything else on fire…” he chuckles nervously and you give him a quizzical look.

You do want to go with him, you aren't sure if it’s just a morbid curiosity about his luck with the arcade machines, or a fascination with the soft halo of white hair falling into his eyes, but you want to get to know him better, “I’ll come with you. You don’t have anywhere near enough fingers for all the glow in the dark spider rings I’m about to give you.” You say as you round the counter and start organising his tickets into more manageable piles.

He smiles, “that does sound like a good idea. I don’t want to drop any of my brand new sticky hands, after all.” He leans forward on the counter, blinking up at you. He’s got really pretty eyelashes, “I’m Nagito Komaeda, in case you were wondering.”

You laugh, “Nice to meet you, Nagito. Now give me 20 minutes to count all your damn tickets.”

[mihidecet]

SBI d&d AU: Wilbur

So ... Here it is! I haven't published anything of mine here for a long time, and especially no fanfictions, so I really do hope you like this!

A special thank you to @whatimevendoinhere without whom this AU would have never existed!! They've been drawing references, expressions and a lovely campfire scene for this au, go check them out!!!

One doesn't get far being an adventurer without being a light sleeper, especially when you're travelling alone. 

For Wilbur, it is a blessing and a curse. It means he's able to survive multiple attempts on his life - he's not to blame for all of them, it's just that sometimes he writes songs about people, and sometimes he improvises, and sometimes he sings before he thinks. 

It also means, unfortunately for him, that it takes him a while to get used to travelling with other people. He loves everything about it, from the security to the companionship, but he can't for the life of him get a good night of uninterrupted sleep: whether it's Phil stoking the dying embers of their campfire, or Techno cleaning his throwing knives ... Heavens above, even Tommy mumbling to himself as he mends his own cape after getting almost-stabbed for the fourth time this week keeps him awake until exhaustion takes over. 

But this night, it's not the gentle humming of an elven song, or the rhythmic *schling* of a whetstone on a sword, that wakes him up: everything's quiet, then he feels something fly in the air next to him and land with a dull thud in the ground. 

Will's eyes are immediately open, hand flying to the small knife he keeps under his own pillow - just to be sure, just to be extra safe - and he rolls to the side. 

He thanks his darkvision, because it's still the middle of the night: right next to where his head was there's a knife, stuck in the ground and glinting in the moonlight. 

Wilbur's mouth opens to alert the others, but his call dies in his throat as he notices a lone figure sitting against the tree. 

Somebody just threw a knife at his head, and Technoblade, notorious thief, assassin and all around badass adventurer, is just ... sitting there. His eyes are open, Wilbur can see it clearly, and he stares at him for a moment before turning his head towards the rest of the group. He seems to be fiddling with something - for now, Wilbur only knows that Techno likes keeping his hands busy, and is apparently unable to keep still; give or take a couple of months of travelling together, he'll have learnt that Techno fidgets when he's nervous, and he's always nervous around new people. 

Techno turns back around, and gives a meaningful look to the knife still stuck in the ground. 

Wilbur sighs. He's awake now, thanks to the adrenaline of an expected attack, so he grabs the knife and wrenches it out, meaning to throw it back to the noisy assassin that decided to wake him up in the middle of the night for ... apparently no reason? 

But that night there's a gentle breeze blowing, so the moment the knife leaves the ground, whatever it was keeping in place starts flying away - it's only thanks to Wilbur's excellent reflexes that he manages to grab it. 

For a moment, he thinks he's dreaming. Mostly because he wishes he was, but also because he's currently holding one of Technoblade's throwing knives in one hand, and a bracelet in the other. 

He blinks. 

The bracelet is still there. 

He looks up, and manages to catch Techno quickly turning his head away from him, as if he hadn't been staring at him the whole time.

Wilbur *really* wants to sleep. 

The bracelet in his hand is hand made. Not because it's badly made, but because there are daisies woven between the yarn and cotton strings, and if he turns his head to the left he can see a path of those same light blue daisies - now slightly smaller than before. 

Now, Wilbur is not unused to having small trinkets. He has a bad habit of stealing small things to remind himself of where he's been, where he's played, things he's done. But this is definitely unusual. 

What is this supposed to mean? Is it to thank him for saving his ass earlier that morning, when Techno got too cocky and got himself shot so Wilbur had to jump from his vantage point to bring him back to life? Or is it because the bard had said he needed something to remind himself of their win against the drake that had been plaguing the surrounding forest?

Wilbur is too tired to think about it. 

"Cheers, Techno. Thanks." He says, voice slurring just a bit as he gives the thief a two fingered salute. Techno nods back silently, and Wilbur lets himself fall back onto his bed - being careful not to stab his pillow with his horns - and tries to fall asleep again. 

Wait. 

Wilbur's eyes open suddenly as his brain rather kindly decides to bring forth a memory of his first meeting with Techno. 

Back when it was just him and Phil, walking from town to town, looking for easy coin. They had been looking for a tavern in the middle of the night, because Phil had said he'd never had pumpkin pie, and the kind lady who had been hosting them - as a thank you for getting rid of the ghost hunting her scarecrows - had insisted they wait until she finished cooking and have a slice. 

It had been worth it after all, as they'd walked with an extra spring in their step with a stomach full of homemade pie and fresh milk, and travelling at night was not that big of a problem for an elf and a tiefling. 

Still, Wilbur should have known not to get too relaxed, because as they turned the corner into a ghostly empty alley, they had found themselves no longer alone. A lone figure stood, partly hidden by shadows, but there was no way to mistake their identity. 

"Hey there, friend!" Phil had exclaimed, tone amicable despite the evident tension in his posture - Wil could clearly see his knuckles turning white from his grip around his staff, and he hoped the assassin in front of them couldn't.

"Your Majesty." The infamous Technoblade had answered, with a slight head tilt that Wilbur had assumed was to be interpreted as a bow. Then, he'd turned his piercing light blue eyes towards him.

"Mr. Soot. I hear you're looking for companions. I'm looking for ... Colleagues. I have a job to do, and it requires more than one person." Wilbur's tail had swung wildly for a moment, both in excitement and indignation. On one hand, this was *the* Technoblade, infamous assassin, notorious thief, wanted in most reigns, the only being able to easily succeed at what most people would never dream of being able to do. 

On the other hand, there were surely less fear inducing ways of asking for help, right? Couldn't he have met them at the tavern, in the morning? Possibly surrounded by other people, where they could feel safe rejecting his offer, instead of fearing a knife in the back the moment they turned?

"What kind of job?" The bard had asked, steadying his voice despite how the thief's stare had seemingly locked him into place.

"A good one. Mostly a well paying one." He'd replied shrugging, seemingly uncaring of how tense the air around them was as he spinned a throwing knife in his hand. Wilbur dared shooting a look to his right, where Phil was now standing a tad more relaxed, and raised an eyebrow. This could be their big breakthrough, a chance to make a good name for themselves - they'd kept mostly to themselves for almost half a year now, doing odd jobs here and there, slowly making their way across the region ... How would it feel to sleep in a decent tavern for one night? What if they could finally afford a horse? Heavens above, did Wilbur wish he could buy a new pair of boots.

"We're in. We can talk in the morning to go over the details?" Phil had asked, sounding as tired and hopeful as Wilbur felt. The bard guessed that, as a king travelling for the first time in his life under false pretences, Phil was the one between the two of them who was less used to sleeping on the floor and eating "whatever". 

As the blade was thrown in the air, there was a sudden flash of pink light and then it was gone, vanished in the darkness. 

"Sure. I'll see you tomorrow." And then he'd disappeared too, hopefully not hearing Wilbur's scoffed "showoff" and Phil's chuckles. 

The next morning, slightly more rested, they were in the middle of greatly missing the previous day's pumpkin pie over their meagre portions of stale bread and warm mead, when the whole tavern went impossibly quiet. There was a beat of silence as every head turned towards the newcomer, then Phil leaned back with one arm stretched out and waved. 

"Techno, mate! Come join us!" The thief's ears twitched in their direction, then he immediately started walking towards them - pace steady and sure, despite how everyone was staring at him. 

In the bright light of the middle of the morning, surrounded by other adventurers and staring down in disgust at their breakfast, the infamous Technoblade looked a lot less intimidating, if one was able to look past the entire armoury he carried with him. If he hadn't been an actual, literal hellspawn, Wilbur would have been put off by the bright pink skin and pig-like features of his face, but the bard himself had horns, blue skin and a tail, so he couldn't really judge anyone based on looks. 

Technoblade looked like he was about to say something about their breakfast, but Phil evidently dissuaded him by stuffing his face with what remained of his loaf of bread - which was a chunk about as big as his fist, and even the thief looked slightly impressed. 

Wilbur took a deliberately slow sip of his mead as Phil munched away, eyeing the rest of the tavern as if to dare them to keep staring at the three of them. 

By the time he was putting down his drink, the bloody knife from the night before was back, this time being balanced on the tip of Techno's finger as he stared at it with a bored expression.

Wilbur placed his tankard on the table and the thief's eyes met his for just a moment before going back to looking bored with his balancing act - which Phil was rather enjoying, from what Will could see from the corner of his eye. Then, just as suddenly as the night before, Techno's eyes switched from light blue to a shining pink and his blade disappeared. 

"So ... What's your opinion on friendship bracelets?" 

Wilbur had reared back and immediately choked on nothing, while the utter bastard on his right burst out laughing.

"What?! What the bloody hell is that supposed to mean?!" Wilbur had demanded, still breathless, after Phil had half-heartedly patted his back. 

Techno had shrugged, seemingly awkward, Phil had laughed more before steering the conversation towards the topic of their job. Wilbur had thought it weird, a quirk of a lone wolf that was so unused to companionship that they would just say whatever came to their mind, but he'd always been able to switch his focus to business rather fast. 

Meanwhile, in the present day, Wilbur was currently biting his own finger in order to keep the hysterical laughter threatening to spill. Eyes almost tearing up, shoulder shaking - had the thief been serious from the beginning? Was this a joke, a callback? It couldn't be, it was too well made to be a joke! Not that Techno was known to do anything half-assedly ... A muffled giggle escaped him, and Wilbur quickly slapped a hand over his mouth, but apparently nothing flew past the infamous Technoblade. 

"Shut up." His gruff voice had come suddenly, still from his position against the lone tree in the clearing they'd chosen to rest in. 

Another giggle escaped him as he sat upright on his cot, his tail swishing on the ground excitedly - and probably filling his cot with dirt and leaves, but at the moment he couldn't care less. There was something, some warm, fuzzy feeling invading his chest, waking him up even better than the threat of an attack as he held the bracelet to his chest.

"Aw, Techno! But I thought we were best friends!" Wilbur protested in a fake offended tone, the warm feeling spreading as he heard the thief scoff and then chuckle lightly, shaking his head. 

"We are, it's final, you're not getting out of this." Techno replies, waving his knife towards him in a way that would have been menacing if he hadn't just said the sweetest thing Wilbur's ever heard - for now, because this is just a step into their friendship; Techno has a way of being devastatingly earnest about his feelings in the best and most unexpected ways, and Wilbur doesn't know really know what he's in for yet. 

Instead, Wilbur just clutches the bracelet to his chest and chuckles, thankful he's not choking on his emotions yet - he already knows he'll be writing a song about this, can feel the energy of it under his fingertips.

"You neither, man. I'm counting on it, you big nerd." 

Techno scoffs, waves him away.

"Do I get to keep the knife, too?" Wilbur asks, because he's never been able to shut up, and there's no way he's going to sleep after all this. 

"Sure, whatever. I have more." 

"Thank you, best friend!" 

Turns out Wilbur can actually fall asleep after all that, because the last thing he remembers before falling asleep is Techno's annoyed groan and the smell of daisies.

----

I do hope you liked it! If there are any mistakes let me know, English is not my first language ajdhwokl

Also if you want to come and ramble about this to us ,,,,,, you are all deffo welcome!!

[random-imagines-blog]

Vampire Town {Lestat de Lioncourt x Reader}

Requested by: I’m so sorry, I couldn’t find the conversation so I can’t remember. :( Wordcount: 2778 Summary: Happiness and Love can appear when least expected.

During the long span of your life, a lot of your nights had been sent in solitary. You wandered through the world, seeing the beautiful sights of history; the architecture, the music, the literature, the wars, but never had anyone to share that with. Until you came across the broken form of a blonde vampire - Lestat. “Oh, my dear, my dear,” You said, sensing the poor vampire. Broken, without a home, ready to give up on his life after his partner had left him. You sat on the stoop of a burned down mansion beside him, tore your wrist open and forced him to drink from you. He became greedy, which you encouraged. You had just fed on three mortals, willing victims who walked away just as safe as they had come, just a little anemic. You put your hand on the back of his neck and tilted his head back, letting the blood pour down his throat. You squeezed a few more drops, and he let you go, hanging his head upon your shoulder like a hungover human.

You took him to the abode you were staying in. Nothing so gothic as what Lestat may have been living in, but a home nonetheless. A three-story brownstone with a basement that concealed your coffin. You put Lestat into it before the dawn arrived, and looked down at him with a tilt of your head. He was a very handsome vampire, and would only look better with more blood flowing through his veins. He would need a trough-full, however. You would need to wake early to prepare that for him.

Your long fingers stroked his face, turning it towards the candlelight to get a better look. His skin was pale, his hair flaxen. He had been through a lot of pain - even his sleeping face showed that. It may take a dozen nights, perhaps, to get him to peak performance. But you did love a challenge, and were a sucker for a disaster of a person. Loneliness had grown old along side of you - why not try something new for once.

It took some time for the vampire, whom you learned to be named Lestat, to look alive again. Or, perhaps, a little less dead. He was far too beautiful to ever be considered a human being. Those dull creatures, though you were one of them once, bored you with their generic looks. You enticed a few of them towards the house, let Lestat feed. You found out one thing about him instantly - he was absolutely vicious when it came to feeding. Not at all as elegant as his demeanor might make it seem. And you allowed him to finish victims to nearly the point of death, then disposed of the bodies yourself.

“You seem to be feeling much better,” You said, joining him in your parlor. It was just you and he, as you knew no one else in New Orleans. You had only stopped here because it was where the first boat you came across was going. “How could you give up on your life like that?”

Another thing you learned about Lestat; he was very convinced of his own righteousness.

“It is my right to give up my life if I so wish,” He hissed, despite the blood dripping from his mouth. You did not say anything to contrary, just licked your thumb and plucked the droplet from his face. You let it rest on the tip of your tongue, savoring the flavor. “Who are you to try to bring me back?”

“You may call me y/n,” You said with a soft smile, ignoring his harsh tone. “I am noticing that you are alone, but you are well versed in talking to people. Were you a social one, Lestat?”

He was quiet for a little while after that, in some sort of reflection. He stared at nothing, and you left him to that, sleeping in a box rather than your coffin for you still allowed him to take over yours. That was the most intimate gesture that you had ever given to someone. You had shared your clothes with him, even, until you had gotten him some of his own. He looked as pretty as a painting in your white blouses, in your long dark skirts. In this world, for the first time, you had someone to share everything with.

His perpetually bad mood never bothered you. Nor did his dramatic nature. Because you knew that one day, he would either open up to you, or he would leave. You would prefer the first. But would have to quietly accept the second.

But after two years, a blink of an eye for someone like you, he opened up. He told you all about Louis, about Claudio, about Armand. About the reporter whom he had turned who was who-knows-where. About Marius, even, and how he had turned which was further back than you had expected him to go. And so in return, you told him about your loneliness, about how you had traveled from town to town and only run into a few like you. You did not know your maker. You didn’t remember him, or her. You didn’t even remember where it was that you were changed, only that you were high up in the mountains. Why you were there, you could not recall either. But you did not dwell on the mysteries of the past; only your present time.

And on Lestat, because for the present, and forseeable future, you were stuck with him. Lead a stray dog to a home and you have a pet, as you’ve heard someone say.

-

Half of the candles in the parlor remained unlit, for neither of you needed much light in order to see in the dark. Lestat had one of your hands in his as he lead you in a waltz around the room. You could not stop smiling - a facial expression that you hadn’t used too often over the years. A dance! You’ve never danced before, hence why Lestat was currently giving you a lesson. You were even wearing a gown that he had gifted to you - custom made in one of the best shops. He still had his connections in the city of New Orleans. A real vampire’s town, as you had discovered.

“You are a natural!” He praised with a smile of his own, showing off his glinting, sharp, white teeth. “Are you sure you haven’t done this before?”

“I’ve never had a partner. I haven’t met many of our kind before and dancing with a human just seems so...” You struggled to find the words. “Slow.”

“Very slow indeed,” Lestat agreed. He had picked a roses from the garden, and had them in a vase to add something living to the house. He now took one of them, and stuck it into his mouth, the thorns cutting at his lips but he did not have a care about that. You laughed at that - what a silly vampire you had ended up with.

“How is the pain, my darling?” You asked, licking your lips at the sight of that little bit of blood.

“Agonizing,” He droned, swinging you around into a spin, then returned you into his strong arms. The blouse that he wore, another thing custom made, was of a silk fabric, and felt soft upon your cheek. You suddenly remembered what it was like to cry, just from that light touch. Agonizing - you recalled what that felt like. It had been well over a century.

“The same as when you were betrayed by your love, Louis?” You questioned. Lestat cut the dance short, but he still held you.

“I don’t wish to talk about him any further,” He said, harshly. “There are more important things in my life now! I am free of him and his ... whining. I am being treated in the way that I deserve. And you - you are finally being treated as you deserve.”

Lestat wielded compliments as a weapon. He used them to distract you from asking further questions. And it worked, every time. You sighed contently as  he kissed your hand, then went up your arm towards your shoulder, then all the way back down. You could feel his cold lips through the fabric of your sleeves. It made you feel like a flower bulb in Spring, sprouting up for the first time from the damp dirt into the beautiful world above.

“You flatter me deeply, Lestat. You are better than I deserve.”

He spun you around once more, and you continued to spin in the middle of the room, arms outstretched as he watched you. Thanks to being a vampire, you did not feel dizziness like the humans did, and could outdance them all if you so wished. Lestat was a grand teacher. He then caught you, then dipped you low to the ground, so much so you could smell the dust of the floor.

“No, that is what you are to me.” His fangs were exposed as he smiled down at you, a fearsome image for anyone else, but not for you. You smiled back at him, and held him tightly as he brought you back up to your feet, humming along with the song.

“I should get cleaning this place, Lestat. It takes more than dancing to make a house a home.” You let go of him to go and grab a broom, but the blonde vampire grabbed you again. Ever since he had opened up to you, he loved to be in your presence. And it wasn’t something that you were going to complain about after being alone for so long.

“Don’t tease,” He said, holding onto your hands with his long fingers. “I’ll hire us a thousand maids, so you don’t have to get these wonderful hands dirty.” You let out a child-like laugh of glee at his amazing words. You were a sucker for them, mind the pun. “And a thousand more dresses for if you get a speck of dust on this one.”

“I don’t need a thousand dresses, Lestat. I could live in rags as long as I still had you.”

-

Five years later, you and Lestat still resided in New Orleans. It was a town of pleasure, of magic, of long nights - and plenty of swampland in order to hide bodies if you went too far with any victims. You did your best not to, but sometimes temptations swept in and you nearly drank to the point of death. But apart from that, you were living in a near-domestic bliss.

“Now, why are you doing this when you don’t get cold?” Lestat asked, walking in from the outside world with coins in his pocket and a well-fed look on his face. You were holding knitting needles in your hand, working on a shawl pattern that you had seen a woman working on last time you were out shopping. He kissed the top of your head and placed a bag on your lap before you could even answer him.

“I like to keep busy - it keeps eternity interesting,” You insisted. You set aside the knitting and started to examine the shopping bag that was on your lap. “What is this?”

“Why don’t you open it and see?” Lestat asked, with a cocky smile. You looked at him with amusement, then delicately opened up the bag. Inside was something ... something fabric. You pulled it out then stood with it in front of you. A long black gown - the color that you always wore, and which Lestat said you wore so well - and it was made of the softest velvet that you had ever felt. He looked pleased as you brought a sleeve to your face to feel the fabric even better. “Do you like it?”

“It’s wonderful, Lestat, thank you. What’s the occasion?”

“It is the anniversary of the day that you found me. The day that everything changed,” He held his hands up in the air as if he were an actor on a stage, something that you always found entertaining. You loved encouraging the odder aspects of his personality, just as he did the same for you, even when he could not understand.

“What a cheerful gown, I’ll wear it on our next night out.” You exclaimed, twirling with it. Though you would never be able to see yourself wearing it in a mirror, you thought that you would feel beautiful in it. And Lestat would tell you that you were. He was growing predictable in the most wonderful way.

“Why not today?” He questioned, approaching you and held it onto your body to emphasize how lovely you would look in it. “Wear it to bed with me. I want to feel it upon my cheek while I sleep.”

“I wouldn’t want it to get wrinkled... oh, alright,” You said, seeing his earnest expression. He helped you out of the simple dress that you were wearing, one that you had picked yourself. He was much more into the luxurious fashion of the day, favorite bright colors that made him stand out. You were not so flamboyant, and preferred to let him be the center of attention rather than yourself. It worked out well, though you did get occasional glances from other ladies, wondering how someone such as yourself had managed to gain the love of such a charmer.

You wondered the same thing yourself.

As his fingers tickled at your spine, as his hair swept against your face, you questioned how you could have grown so lucky. Were the years of isolation just a pre-payment for the years of happiness that you were having now?

You stepped into the new gown, and he pulled it up, over your thighs, your waist, your bust, your shoulders, and smoothed everything down so it draped you perfectly. He must have came home just in time, for a flash of lightning came through the windows, and the rumble of thunder. The sound of rain upon the roof and on the sidewalk. “Music to my ears,” You said, wrapping your arms around yourself.

“A most marvelous lullaby,” Lestat said, unable to stop feeling the fabric. The seamstress must have put a lot of work into this gown, for it fit you perfectly, emphasizing your waist and bust in a way you haven’t seen before without a corset, and fell to the ground without pooling at your feet. “May I take you to bed, beautiful?”

“Oh, you divine charmer,” You said, pressing your hand upon his cheek. He whisked you away, down to the basement where your coffin lay.

A while back, you had traded in your usual sarcophagus bed for something much better. It was Lestat’s idea initially, complaining about the long, cold days alone inside of a tomb. It had been an unexpected surprise when he actually did something about it, instead of expecting you to do so. When you came home from a feeding and a walk, he presented to you the double coffin. It was exactly as it sounded - two built into one, with room for both of you, and no inner wall to keep you apart.

He held your hand to help you climb inside, then followed you right in. Velvet dress on velvet interior; it felt both warm and rather sexual. With the lid closed, and the two of you in complete darkness, you felt confident, wrapping your arms around your blonde lover and pulled him close.

It took you some time to realize that this was the love that you deserved. That you were worthy of affection and love, despite all of the years that you had gone without it. And you were just lucky enough to find it with another vampire, so the only limit that you had was not time, but imagination.

As for Lestat, you had truly saved him from the misery that he had put himself through after Louis. He was ready to lock himself up for a hundred years or more, just to avoid the pain. To take the sleep of the immortal ones and awake in a brand new age. But this one still had a lot to offer, that much was clear with you. He never thought of that; only that he would remain in a state of purgatory, rather than a life of shooting stars and velvet gowns.

He was glad he stayed in this Vampire Town.

[passivenovember]

Tetherball : Harringrove April Day One

Also on ao3

--

Steve put his seatbelt on that first day, when Billy stepped out of his chariot across school grounds, taking inventory of things as they were. Life as Steve knew it.

Nancy in the seat next to him.

First period chemistry, English, Geology, lunch. Steve took note of the periwinkle tones in the sky, the rumble of the cafeteria on pizza day, the smell of the library and the way the books turned on you if there were late fees to be settled.

Everything fell into bullet points across worn pavement.

Then versus now. Before and after.

Steve said goodbye to planet Earth that day, whether he knew it or not. Whether he found it favorable. The rumble of an engine beneath his feet changed Steve's perception, and the weight of two blue medallions grew and grew until Steve had learned the facts.

William Hargrove went by Billy. And he had tumbled in from California, presumably naked on a sea shell, where Billy’s stepsister doused hatred like a flame in the ocean under skies full of seagulls and cotton candy wisps.

He wore elevens in converse and a large Hawkins Phys Ed t-shirt that popped seams across his biceps but went soft and wavy in the middle.

Not like it mattered, though.

William went by Billy and he called skins as soon as coach blew the whistle. His t-shirt never made another appearance after that.

--

That's all Steve needed to know, right? The basics. California and step sisters, William instead of Billy, and the sound of rubber on polished oak.

But that's the funny thing about revelations.

Facts are different when colored by opinions, and Steve felt them dropping like coins from the hole in his pocket. As he got to know Billy the bullet points that had taken over Steve's mind rippled and glimmered in the light of first period. Changing.

He observed.

Wondered.

Obsessed.

Developing thoughts about who Billy was and, eventually, the person he pretended to be. Steve wasn't interested in the line Billy drew around the two halves of a whole. Any of the masks he wore in the cafeteria around princesses and prom queens versus the man Steve saw in second period English, who was.

Soft spoken and thoughtful. Every pastel shade in the sky versus brash and heated sunsets over barley.

Flame and sea, like a burning ship at war.

Steve wasn't interested but he learned anyway. Took notes, eyes tracking the brush of Billy's thumb on his bottom lip, brows pinching in concentration as he deciphered the root of a poem in ten seconds flat. The curl of his lips when we took his paper from Mr. Terrine. How he always had an extra pencil for anyone who needed it.

Before long Steve aced his exam in AP Hargrove and failed where everyone else said it mattered.

Got himself a tutor.

Blue eyes to pin him in place, pink lips to seal the passage between worlds. Steve wasn't interested in spending his afternoons under a tetherball, smacking brightly colored plastic out of his face as Billy read to him from a textbook while his sister. Max (step sister, Billy's voice supplied), kicked some girls ass on on the skateboard during softball practice.

"Should we try it once more?" Billy's patient. Steve wasn't expecting that.

He smacks the ball away again. "I've learned a lot about you, but I wasn't expecting this."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"Y'know." From across the playground Max teaches her girl how to kick flip. Steve doesn't think that's right. He shrugs anyway. "Smarts. Like, AP biology, Valedictorian, Brain stew smart."

They've been studying together for weeks.

Four weeks. Seems like more with the slide of Billy's shoulder against Steve's arm, blonde ringlets dodging the tetherball as it swings overhead. Billy's fingers brush the open faced textbook, mouth serious but eyes soft. Sparkly, like a discarded bag of glitter.

"Maybe you should pay more attention to the prose."

"Maybe I can do both at the same time." Steve fiddles with the edge of the notebook, nodding as Billy grins. "Alright, goldilocks, tell your silly little story."

He does.

The green eyed boy in the powder blue shirt standing next to you in the supermarket recoils as if hit,

repeatedly,

by a lot of men, as if he has a history of it.

Steve leans back against the rusty iron pole, feeling the weight of the tetherball on one side of his head, and. The brush of golden curls on the other. He closes his eyes, feeling a voice more than hearing it.

That is not your problem. You have your own body to deal with.

The lamp by the bed is broken--

"Are you following?" Billy asks. He moves, knees drawn up so the book is balanced close to the curve of his chin. Close to the split in the universe. "We're getting into muddy waters here--"

"'S not that muddy."

"Sure it is." Billy's cheeks flush, pink paint across the bridge of his nose. He moves against Steve's arm, elbow knocking into ribs. "Tell me what you think is happening."

Steve thinks about it.

Knocks Billy's arm away gently, closing his eyes. "Read some more and then we'll talk."

Billy does.

The lamp by the bed is broken. You are feeling things he is no longer in touch with a nd everyone is speaking softly, as if not to wake one another.

The wind knocks the heads of the flowers together. Steam rises from every cup at every table at once.

Things happen all the time.

Things happen at every minute that have nothing to do with us.

Billy stops reading and Steve peeks at him through an eye half-lidded, curious. "Is that the end of the story?"

"Poem."

"Huh." Steve straightens, moving his legs this way and that. "Felt like a story."

Billy mirrors him exactly, closing the textbook and grabbing his pencil. "That's interesting."

And the way he says it. While flipping through his pea-green fivestar spiral, makes it feel wrong. Stupid.

Steve smacks distantly at the sky. "No it's not."

"Sure it is. Siken's poems are very lyrical. They paint images, vivid images, and sometimes I can imagine myself doing what the lines convey."

Steve grins. "You can imagine yourself in bed with another man?"

Steve isn't interested in the answer but he's interested in the feeling, the glint of emotion behind a wall of powdery blue. It doesn't seep through the cracks, though, it's contained. If Steve wants to find the center, he'll have to dig.

Billy doesn't miss a beat. "If that's what you think the poem's talking about, sure."

"Of course that's what it's talking about."

"How so?"

Steve laughs at that, rubbing against Billy's side. "You sound like a scholar."

"Is that so wrong?"

"No." Steve says thoughtfully. "'S cute."

Billy doesn't crack. Not in the way Steve's used to. No fingers in his hair, spinning spools of gold as he peeks at Steve through thick lashes. Instead he makes a note of it, whatever it is they're saying. Scribbling Steve's interpretation on one side of the blank page, dividing the two halves with a thick black line.

Billy intends to find the truth. "The protagonist is in love with the man at the supermarket? Is that what you're saying."

"I guess."

Billy rolls his eyes. "Your intent has to be clear. Poetry is all about interpretation; if you don't attempt to bridge the divide--"

"All right, Einstein." Steve plays along. "Sure."

Billy's eyes flash victorious as he clicks the pen trigger. "What makes you say that?"

"The way he's obsessed with him."

"The way the narrator is obsessed?" Billy leans forward, intent. "With the man in the grocery store?"

"What makes you deny it?" Steve wonders, folding his legs beneath him so they're crisscross applesauce.

Billy leans back against the pole, casual and easy. "I'm not the one failing English."

"No, but you are the poet." Steve counters. "Dude, I know you have an interpretation. I know you have thoughts, so. Just tell me."

Billy turns to face the playground.

Max skates circles around her girl, smiling in the way Billy does when he's got Steve pinned on the court. Like a predator. Pushing and pulling back just enough to leave the girl chasing after her, enough to catch herself before Max has a chance to get her claws out.

It's incredible, Steve thinks, how much Billy is just like his sister.

"I think he's using him."

Steve cocks his head, curious.

"The man with the blue shirt." Billy opens the textbook and reads the part about the lamp again, peeking up at Steve through frizzy curls. "The narrator says we are feeling things the man is no longer in touch with."

Steve leans forward. "Like love?"

Billy thinks about it. "No."

"Connection, then."

"If they're sleeping together it's more than just sex." Billy counters, "More than just carnality."

Which.

Steve frowns. "People fuck all the time without connecting."

"Really?"

"Yeah." Steve thinks about rattling down his list. The girls, the guys, the one night stands and bullshit post-game hook ups.

Billy fiddles with the edges of his notebook almost. Shyly. "People have sex because they're in love."

Steve snorts. "There's a million reasons to fuck outside of love."

Billy's eyes flash hard with.

Something. He bares his teeth. "Yeah? Like what?"

"I dunno. Breakup sex, makeup sex, sorry for burning a hole in your prom dress sex--"

"Gross."

"Point is." Steve looks at Billy. Studies him, the freckles across his upper lip, the scruff along his jawline. "Sex and emotion don't have to exist within each other."

Billy stares back at him, eyes wide and distant. Closed off.

He writes something on Steve's half of the notebook. "I disagree."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah." Billy tosses his pen to the ground. "Our narrator says the man in the blue shirt has a history of being hit by other men."

"So?" Steve has trouble following at the best of times, and this.

The way Billy is worrying the skin on his fingers, nails catching and tearing in places they don't belong, feels important.

Billy shrugs. "Why would he sleep with a man without knowing his heart?"

"Maybe he just wants to feel something."

"Or maybe he wants to connect." Billy turns to look out across the playground once more, fingers tugging at the edge of his notebook. "Maybe he's existing in this bubble, like. This silent world with a tiny room where everyone is speaking softly out of respect. Maybe he chooses the wrong person because it's better than feeling half alive."

Steve knows they aren't talking about the poem anymore.

He tugs the notebook from Billy's hands, flipping through a million and one handwritten theories and observations. Billy lets him. Lets Steve look through his life and into his mind before handing the spiral back and asking, "Have you ever picked the wrong person?"

Billy doesn't say anything and then; "Yes."

"How come?"

"Everybody's wrong if you squint hard enough."

Steve nods, looping his arms around his knees. "And I'm assuming you didn't sleep with any of them."

He doesn't expect Billy to answer. It's not like they owe each other anything, honesty or otherwise. Billy leans back against the pole once more. From where their bodies are pressed together Billy feels feverish. Incendiary.

Billy clears his throat. "Or the opposite."

Which catches Steve off guard.

Billy watches him for a moment, eyes dark and serious. "I don't think the narrator sleeps with the man in the blue shirt. Maybe he intends to. Take the guy home, make a couple drinks, blaze trails into something previously unknown to him or maybe just. A feeling he hasn't felt in a while. But intimacy isn't always about sex."

Steve snorts. "I can't think of anything more intimate than being inside another person."

"But you are inside them, just. Not in the way you expected."

Steve glares out over the playground. The sun will be setting soon, blacktops and brown fields painted in shades of red and orange. The whole world will catch on fire but Steve feels the beginning, coals glowing bright red under the line of his ribcage when he turns to find blue eyes on him.

Dousing the fire, or maybe.

Raising the stakes. His eyes flit across Billy's forehead, brushing over his lips and coming to rest on his eyelashes. Feathery and soft, like the arms of a teddy bear. Steve licks his lips, going up in flame when Billy's eyes track the movement.

"I lied." Steve says.

Billy doesn't look away. "I'm not sure what you--"

"The first time a boy ever kissed me." Steve says. "When a boy kissed me because he wanted to, that was more intimate than anything I'd ever felt before."

Billy's gaze falls impossibly lower, tracing the swell of Steve's lips. "How did it feel?"

And he says it like.

He couldn't possibly know.

And Steve says, "Like my heart was taking root," like.

Let me show you.

Billy takes a deep breath. "I don't think I've ever felt like that."

"Never?"

"Not once."

From across the playground Max's answering laugh makes Billy's skin turn gold. Caramel, ice cream topped with sugar. Steve feels his body inching closer, mouth opening as if to taste love on the air.

[navigatrixnarrations]

Sometimes Always, Part 5: Thief In the Night

Catch up here

Warnings: Canon-typical violence, language

Word Count: 2841

The night is moonless and the road is blocked by branches and debris. From out of the gloom, a rasping voice rumbles “Stand and deliver! Your money or your life!” The coachman’s lamp reveals a broad-shouldered man standing beside the makeshift barricade before the stopped carriage, completely swathed in dark clothing, face hidden, a cutlass at his waist, aiming a pistol.

The adrenaline sings in Charles Vane’s blood; he’s missed the thrill of the plunder. This promises to be a rich prize, one that will assist in repairing the Adventure. One that may make Margaret see him as a partner rather than a burden, an obligation, or worst of all, an object of pity.

The coachman is older, with a soldier’s bearing, but seems disinclined to put up any resistance. In the coach, a man made rich off the blood and toil of those he claimed to own. His shaking hands are trying to load a pistol, which Vane snatches from his hand. To think this sniveling, scared weakling who would call him a scoundrel had the confidence to travel unguarded with this amount of coin — there’s the difference between those who dwell on land and those whose home is the sea, he supposes. The ocean is unforgiving and even wealthy men cannot stay sheltered in its domain.

Vane hoists the sack of coin over his shoulder. A pistol shot rings out, but misses, and despite the snow on the ground, he’s into the trees and out of sight before the coachman or the mark could reload. By the time he pushes his skiff from the riverbank, he almost feels like a proper pirate again.

The night is bone-achingly cold, even more so on the water. If he hadn’t botched things so terribly, he’d be warm in the West Indies. He’d be known and feared, not a thief in the night with his face and name hidden. He’d have a crew, and he’d be sailing under the black with Margaret at his side...

Can he pinpoint it, the moment he started to trust her? Perhaps it was when he awoke aboard the Revenge and she told him he was free.

“What kind of weapon made that?” She pointed at the brand on his chest.

“Hot iron.”

“Why?”

“So the person who owned me” -- he felt his face twist as he said it -- “could tell I was his slave. Find me and take me back there.”

“I won’t let him,” she said with a ferocious scowl, her voice surprisingly dark for one so young. “I won’t let anyone.” And he believed her. He was right to believe her.

He shakes himself from his reverie. He’s got to focus on the task at hand. There’s little traffic in the harbor tonight, but still enough for him to blend in as he sails around the horn of the Battery and makes his way back to the garret. With his hair tied back, a woolen cap pulled low and his laborer’s clothes, with the sack of coin slung over his shoulder he looks like any other longshoreman coming home from a long shift of loading and unloading cargo.

He imagines the look on Margaret’s face when he shows her what he’s robbed, and smiles as he climbs the stairs.

His smile fades as the door handle is jerked right out of his hand by her, her expression one of worry and anger. “Thought you’d have been back hours ago. Was out looking for you.”

“I told you I’d be back.”

“I was afraid someone recognized you! I was afraid you’d been captured or killed!” Her chest heaves under her coat, and he feels his body warm more than the small fire in the hearth should have allowed.

“Well, I wasn’t. And look what I’ve brought us.” She was worried? About him? He drops the sack on the table and opens it. “Coin, Magpie, more than enough to complete the repairs to the Adventure.” When she doesn’t respond, he repeats “It’s coin. We won’t even need to fence it.”

Margaret sits down heavily and wrestles her temper. “Where the fuck did you get all this?”

“A bit of highway robbery.”

“Charles. Next time, if there is a next time, take me with you.”

“Didn’t want to put you in danger.”

She narrows her eyes and her lower lip juts out stubbornly. “Says the man whose life I’ve saved how many times now?”

They stare at each other, neither willing to back down.

“I’ve got things to do besides make sure you don’t get yourself killed,” she informs him. And then, more quietly, so quiet as to be nigh inaudible, “I lost Sully. I can’t lose you too, not again.”

“You won’t.”

The table is between them, and he’s about to upend it, coins and all, just to get it out of the way, when Margaret gets up to stoke the fire. “It’s not that I’m ungrateful, Charles. But you’ve a recent history of getting yourself nearly killed to help friends.” She pauses. “They’d never say so, but Anne and Jack are beside themselves with guilt about what happened.”

“How the fuck do you know about that?”

“Idelle told me.” Margaret fixes Vane with a fierce stare as she returns to her seat across the table. “She loves you dearly, you know.”

“Idelle is a good woman.” He’d sensed sometimes that she did, and not only because she didn’t always charge him in full for her services, though at the time he’d mostly put that down to being one of the few who took care to make sure she enjoyed herself as well. And he respected her directness and sharp mind -- traits she shared with Margaret. Yes, there was the rub.

“She almost broke when you shook your head no from the gallows.”

Vane doesn’t reply.

“I wouldn’t have thought you’d be one to give up, regardless of your pretty speech about fearing death being a choice.” He can almost hear in her accusatory tone the words Margaret once cried out: I thought I knew you, Charles! More fool me.

“Didn’t want to risk more of us getting killed trying to save me. Thought my death would drive a rebellion.”

“It wasn’t at all because some part of you no longer wanted to live?”

Sometimes he swears the blasted woman has the ability to see into his mind. Though if that was the case, perhaps things between them would have taken a different path. “I was worth more dead than alive. Had to leave Nassau. Fucked over your father a second time to help Flint fight England. And…” he trails off and stares into the middle distance.

“And?”

“The woman I was in love with loved another.” Vane’s voice is low, confessional, but there’s an edge of challenge in it.

“The woman you were in love with loved only power. Control. Wrapping her soft, weak little hands around whatever bits of influence she could grasp,” Margaret says waspishly.

Vane’s thin lips curl back, baring his teeth. “I’m not talking about Eleanor.”

“No?”

“No!” Vane slams the palm of his hand into the table for emphasis. Fucking hell, why can’t she understand what he’s telling her? He’d stopped loving Eleanor well before her final betrayal, well before she battered his face in his cell as he awaited hanging, well before he saw the sickening, smug look on her face as he stood at the gallows, though that certainly drove the point home.

His arm tremors, and from the slight furrowing of Margaret’s brow, she noticed. He wonders if she takes any satisfaction in seeing him like this, broken and brought low. He can’t say he would blame her if she did. But her lips part in concern, and her eyes are worried. She wraps a hand, callused and graceful, around his forearm.

“I need you to know that I took the shot the moment I was able; I didn’t delay or let you hang any longer than necessary.”

“I never doubted that, Magpie.” And he didn’t. Margaret never struck him in anger, never lied or broke her word to him. The scar on his brow is his own fault for startling her when she was holding a marlinspike; as for the scars on his heart, well, perhaps those are his own fault too.

It was barely dawn when Sully staggered shirtless out of Margaret’s tent, reeking of drink. Vane, up all night on watch duty in the Revenge camp, wanted to gut him. How dare he go to her drunk like that? Vane felt sick to his stomach, as though he’d been sucker-punched while nauseous. Hearing him approach, Sully turned to him with a grin. “Morning Charles…” His smile turned to a look of surprise when Vane shoved him, knocking him over backward into the sand, his long plait flying over his shoulder as he fell.

“Charles!” Margaret yanked on his arm, spinning him around to face her. She was fully clothed, though she looked like she just woke up, and she was livid. “What the fuck did you do that for?”

“You’ve a right to fuck any man you wish to, Magpie, but you at least deserve one who isn’t stumbling drunk.”

“Charles.” Margaret’s voice was patient, as though speaking to an idiot or a recalcitrant child, “I didn’t fuck Sully. I’ve never fucked anyone, of any state of sobriety. I’m likely the only virgin in Nassau.”

He didn’t smell sex on either of them, it was true, and Margaret didn’t even smell of rum. But even so. “What was I to think, when he stayed the night in your tent?”

“Not that it’s any of your business, but he decided to drink on an empty stomach, and I dragged him in there to sleep it off.”

Sully hauled himself to his feet. “I was a perfect gent to our Maggie-Pie, I was,” he announced. “And I’ll knife anyone who isn’t.”

Margaret whirled on him. “If you call me Maggie-Pie, I’m going to call you Mick.”

“I hate it when you do that,” Sully said cheerily. “Look sharp, here comes Hands.” The three of them straightened their postures; it was important to present a united front before that bastard.

******

The first year after Sully was killed passed in a haze of agony. The second year, Margaret was mostly numb. By the third year, the grief had become sneakier, creeping up to knife her when she least expected it. She could go days feeling what now passed for fine, and then something -- the scent of the tobacco he’d favored, a snippet of a song he’d liked -- would rip open the wound.

What a fool I am, thinking Charles might care for me, Margaret berates herself. Her flirtations the night of the skiff race went uncommented-on, unacted-on. Of course she should have expected that: the moment there was a girl fawning over him whose body was unscarred by blades and musket balls, whose hands weren’t roughened by rope and salt, whose face wasn’t bronzed by the sun, he’d stopped paying her any attention, hadn’t he.

He’s finally asleep, and she can weep. Quietly. She forces herself to stay silent despite the sobs wracking her body. Then a hand, Vane’s hand, reaches for her in the dark, finds her own, and holds it. She glances at him, crouched beside her bed so as not to loom over her. She hadn’t even heard him come into her room.

“Turnabout is fair play,” he says. She sits up, and he sits beside her, using his free hand to wipe her tears. Margaret tries to affect a steely dignity, but his voice, honey over gravel, cuts through. “You held my hand in the dark. I was a fool to have let myself ignore that. A man should never forget who held his hand in the dark.” She lets him gather her in his arms; it’s been so long since the last time she’d been held. She feels the stubble of his cheek pressed to the top of her head, his long hair hanging over her arm, the deep inhale he takes. She allows herself to lean into him, to nestle her face into the junction of his neck and shoulder and inhale the smoky scent of him. “Now,” he continues, “do you want to tell me what this is about?”

“Of course I fucking don’t.”

One of Vane’s hands is stroking her hair while the other rests between her shoulder blades, heavy and warm and anchoring. “I recall,” he says, his voice a purr reverberating through her torso, “a smart girl once telling me that there is nothing wrong with accepting help from people who care for me. That I’m not alone in the world.”

Margaret raises her head and looks at him sharply. Did he just say he cares for her? She had been telling herself that she’d laugh in Vane’s face if he showed any signs of being sweet on her. But here, in this moment, in his arms, she can’t bring herself to be cruel to him on purpose, not when his gaze is so gentle, so uncharacteristically unguarded. God knows they’d caused each other enough pain already, however inadvertently. “And turnabout is fair play, Charles?”

The strong shoulder that her cheek was just resting upon lifts in a shrug. “You ought to take your own advice.”

She leads him into the main room, where it’s warmer. Brings out the rum bottle. Vane is leaning toward her, letting her have her silence, but his own silence has a questioning quality to it.

“I’m thinking of the nature of promises. How to keep them. What it means to keep them.” Vane is simply watching her, waiting for her to continue. She takes a swig of rum; she wants liquid courage for what she’s about to tell him. “When Sully got killed, I threw everything he owned overboard. Any reminder of him was too much to bear.” She’d been certain she’d lose her mind with grief if she saw a shirt of his on someone else. She sees Vane trying to connect what she’s saying. “He once made me promise if he should die first, that I wouldn’t spend my life in mourning. That I’d find a way to be happy again.” And someone to be happy with, Sully had emphasized, though she’s not ready to tell Vane that part. “But I can’t see a way forward.”

“You were happy, though. With him.” He isn’t asking a question.

“Yes.”

Vane nods to himself and stares down at the coin he’s rolling back and forth between his fingers. “That’s all I ever wanted for you, Magpie. For you to be happy.”

For a moment, Margaret is afraid she’s going to burst into tears again, and she forces her expression into one of stoicism. “Were you happy? With her?”

The coin ceases its glittering dance across Vane’s knuckles. “I thought I was, for a time.”

“Do tell.”

He raises his face with a scowl to meet Margaret’s eyes, but his expression softens when he sees the real curiosity there. “In the beginning, she pursued me hard, lavished me with what I thought was love. Then she’d withdraw her affection, and I’d try to regain it. I see now that was her strategy.”

“To hear Idelle and some of the others tell it, Eleanor had you dancing like a puppet on a string.” Vane recoils as though she’d slapped him, and Margaret wonders if she pushed him too far, twisted a knife in him that she hadn't meant to insert, truly she hadn’t. “Charles, I…”

He cuts her off. “I assure you that I’ve got long-overdue clarity about the manner of woman she is.” He closes his eyes for a moment and sags slightly in his chair. He huffs out a short, mirthless laugh. “She’s a shit and everything you told me was correct.”

Margaret stands with an unstifled yawn. Damnation, but she’s exhausted. She considers telling him it took him long enough to figure out what she and Sully saw from the start, but what purpose would that serve? “I’ve got to be up early. Tide’s coming in about five, and the Adventure should be coming out of drydock with it. Got to move her to a proper slip.” Vane rises as well and they stand for a moment, looking at each other with uncertainty. He looks like he’s about to step towards her, so she simply says “Good night, Charles.” In response, he reaches out to squeeze her hand, ever so briefly.

As she settles herself back into bed, she smells him brewing coffee; he’s gotten in the habit of fixing a pot of it so that it would be ready when they woke, something she appreciates. If she could see through the door, she’d note him sitting before the fire, elbow on his knee and chin in his hand, staring into the flames, a man lost in thought.

Tag List: @whenimaunicorn @n3rdybird

[epiphany-of-a-madwoman]

The Last Dragon | The Witcher & Game of Thrones

Chapter 10 | Cintran Ale and Lingering Ghosts

Summary: Visenya Targaryen is the eldest and only surviving child of Rhaegar Targaryen and Elia Martell. When Robert Baratheon’s rebellion was won, instead of being slaughtered by the Mountain like her mother and siblings, she was saved by Ned Stark and taken as his ward. Years later, after she’s killed at the Red Wedding, she wakes up outside Blaviken. Now she finds her destiny intertwined with the White Wolf on her quest to go back home.

Word Count: 5029

Note: Click here to read the previous chapters ♡  Also I finally decided on a faceclaim for Visenya and to no ones surprise I chose Katheryn Winnick. She does Targaryen too well to not!    

💕 Shout out to my Beta: @thisbreakableheaven, I stan you so much! 💕

Splash.

The water pours out of the wood bucket, falling over Geralt’s hair and onto his body. The selkimore guts, now floating in the tub, the stench not nearly as burning as it had been previously. Like a dog, he shakes his head, droplets of water hitting the walls and Visenya. Without moving her gaze from the novel in hand, she wipes it away, turning the page immediately after.  

“Could you be a dear Jane, and grab me more of that soap?” Jaskier asks, setting the bucket down on the ground, wipes away the water on his forehead, and pushes his puffed sleeves to cuff around his elbow. 

“No.”

Flick.

“Isn’t she just lovely, and so helpful too?” Jaskier exclaims, sticky sarcasm coating each word like honey as he glides across the room, only two paces away from Visenay’s left side. He reaches up, standing on the tips of his toes- despite the shelf being within comfortable reach -  and grabs a bar of soap, a distinct lavender scent following it. He twirls, like a dancer on a stage, his large sleeves lightly smacking Visenya’s cheek. She reaches up to swat him with the palm of her hand, but he’s already danced away from her, twirling and spinning his way back to Geralt. 

“Oh I’m helpful alright, I help you empty your coin purse.” she mutters, pursing her lips into a tight line.

Flick. 

Geralt snorts, a smirk on his lips as he watches Visenya, his amber eyes practically glowing in the dim light. Their eyes meet for a second before Visenya snaps her gaze back to the book. 

“You know, maybe the two of you should travel together, you’re both so angry, like a pair of old people - you moreso, Geralt.” Jaskier says, his tone similar to that of a spoiled child groaning about not getting its way. “At least Jane cracks a joke and a smile once in a while.” He picks up the wooden bucket, filling it with clean water. 

Geralt grunts, glaring at Jaskier, his white hair slick against his face; Visenya just shows Jaskier her middle finger.

Flick. There’s only ten pages of the book left, yet Visenya can’t remember the name of the leads in the story…, or even it’s plot.

“Now, now, stop your boorish grunts of protest.” 

Water hits Geralt from above, his hair nearly clean of monster innards as they get washed away from him. The water pooling in the tub ripples, small waves flying out as new water takes its place. Instead of shaking his head, Geralt scrubs at his face, nearly growling as he does so. 

“It is one night, body guarding your best friend in the whole wide world, how hard could it be.” Jaskier says, turning around, and tosses the diary rag from his hand onto a bench, before circling around the tub until he’s standing on the opposite side of his previous spot.

“I’m not your friend.” 

“Oh, so you normally let strangers rub chamomile on your lovely bottom?” Jaskier’s tone is teasing, a smirk on his lips. 

Geralt turns towards Jaskier, arms on the side of the tub, lips set in a thin line with eyes burning like hot coals.

Visenya bites her lip, and despite her desperate attempt to hide the smile that’s pulling at the corners of her mouth, laughter escapes from her tightly pressed lips. Immediately after, she coughs, a fragile and ill attempt to disguise the noise. Even a mute with a bad left eye however would see through the coverup. Jaskier turns and meets Visenya’s gaze, flashing her a wink before looking away. 

“Right, that’s what I thought.” 

“I thought you were paying Jane to make sure you don’t get stabbed or robbed?” Geralt asks, tone low and raspy. 

Flick, eyes scan the book, only retaining every other word carefully written in aged black ink, keen ears intently listening to the conversation. 

“I am, and she does a very good job at that. The only wounds I’ve sustained since hiring her are the ones she inflicts onto me. But this isn’t just any old party, my friend. This is a betrothal feast, hosted by the Lioness of Cintra herself! There will be suitors from all over the world, powerful lords vying for the chance at winning the hand of her daughter, who I hear is very beautiful.”  

“And?” Geralt asks, raising a single ashen brow.

“And Jane won’t agree to go...but if you go, I’m sure she’ll agree to it!” Jaskier says.

“I’m right here.” 

“Yes, reading a book you claim is stupid and frivilous. So pointless, in fact, you haven’t put it down all day.” Jaskier says, turning to face her, a smug grin on his face that’s short lived.

Smack.

The book flies across the room, narrowly avoiding Jaskier’s face by only a few inches. It hits the wall with a resounding thud, pages crinkling as it falls to the ground. Geralt curses under his breath, grip on the wood tightening enough that veins begin to faintly pop out. Jaskier however, remains unphased, simply turning away from her to face Geralt once more. 

“Don’t mind her, she's just a bit cranky, she’s been having nightmares I think.” Jaskier says to Geralt, tone nonchalant and even, as if a book wasn’t just thrown at him. 

“Shut up.”

Geralt levels his gaze to Visenya, raising both his brows at her, an unspoken question in his eyes.

‘Are you okay?’

 She shakes her head, lips in a tight line as she rolls her eyes, not willing to delve into all of her childhood trauma that’s reared its ugly head since that first dream all those nights ago. She’d been successful, nearly all the memories locked away in that same box in the darkest corner of her mind, yet just enough remained to taunt her in her dreams.  

Lingering only a second longer, Geralt shifts his eyes back to Jaskier, who bounces on the balls of his feet, watching the two of them as if they were the only entertainment he’s had in weeks. 

“How many of these lords want to kill you?”

“Hard to say. One stops keeping track after a while: wives, concubines, mothers - sometimes.” 

Both Geralt and Visenya look up at Jaskier, looks of equal incredulousness and annoyance painted on their faces. 

“Oh, yes, there’s that face --” Jaskier sits on the small stool that’s pushed up against the tub. “-- scary face. No lord in their right mind would dare come near me with you there!”

Geralt’s jaw clenches just a hair, his eyes twitching ever so slightly that it could be written off as a trick of the light. He reaches over and grabs his mug of ale, bringing it to his lips, but Jaskier intercepts him, pulling the cup away from him as if Geralt was a child. 

“Ooo, on second thought, might want to lay off the Cintran ale, a clear head would be best.” Jaskier pats Geralt on the shoulder, stands from the stool and moves towards Visenya.

“A gift for My Lady!” Jaskier exclaims, lowering into a deep bow as he passes Geralt’s mug to Visenya, amber liquid spilling over the brim as he carelessly carries the cup. Face void of any emotion, she grabs the cup...pouring out the entirety of its contents on the ground, far enough away that the liquid won’t touch her feet. Jaskier just huffs, feigning anger as he turns around and moves towards the small vanity pushed up against a wall. He grabs a jacket that’s dark blue, the fit and fabric suited for a party rather than travel, distracting himself by holding it up and then setting it down, only to repeat the cycle. 

“I will not suffer tonight sober just because you hid your sausage in the wrong royal pantry. I’m not killing anyone, not over the petty squabbles of men.” 

He sets it down a final time, refolding it, and turning back to Geralt.

“Yes, yes, yes, you never get involved. Except you do, all the time.” Jaskier says, huffing as he moves towards Geralt. “Is this what happens when you get old? You get unbelievably cantankerous and crotchety. Actually, I’ve always wanted to know, do Witchers ever retire?”

“Yeah when they’re slow and get killed.” Geralt says, his tone aggressive but lacking the usual ferocity and fire found in it. 

“Come on, you must want something for yourself once all this monster hunting nonsense is over with?” Jaskier says, pressing the conversation further and further, fiending for anything Geralt will tell him. 

“I want nothing.” Jaskier looks down at his nails, then moves his gaze back to Geralt. He walks forward, leaning down so his elbows rested on the edge of the tub, facing Geralt. 

“Well who knows, maybe someone out there will want you.” Jaskier’s eyes flash to Visenya, but she isn’t looking at him, too busy pretending to be occupied. 

“I need no one, and the last thing I need is someone needing me.”

“And yet, here we are.” 

It's silent, each moment dragging on as the three of them wait for the other to break it. Geralt breaks eye contact, looking left and then right, eyes burning in the dim room.

“Where the fuck are my clothes, Jaskier?” Geralt says, snarling like a rabid animal.

“Oh, I had them taken to be cleaned, they were covered in selkimore guts, but you’re not going to the feast as a Witcher tonight.” Jaskier says, a mischievous glint in his eyes, ever present when Geralt is around it seems. 

Geralt opens his mouth,a stinging response on the tip of his tongue, but Jaskier interrupts the words before they can fully form. 

“But no need to worry about that.” Jaskier waves his hand, straightening his postures and gliding around the tub, and moving towards Visenya. “Now my dear Jane, will you agree to go with me now that our mighty, heroic Witcher--” Visenya just looks at Jaskier, face hard as stone.

“No. I already told you I’m not going.”

“But why not! Please, your presence is absolutely necessary with me!” Jaskier practically throws himself onto his knees, face like a begging puppy.

“I don’t like parties or weddings or betrothals.” She maintains the facade, not willing to break or show any weakness; cold and unfeeling, anything less and Jaskier will never let it go. 

“Why not.”

“Because I was murdered at one.” the words are like oil on her tongue, always just a few seconds from slipping out, but they don’t. She won’t let them. If she says the words out loud, it means they’re real, and if they’re real...she doesn’t know what she’ll do. 

“I just don’t.” It’s a lie, but an easy one, one she’s gotten good at telling. 

“Leave her alone Jaskier, I’ve already been pulled into your mess, no need to drag Jane into it, I’m sure she’s dealt with her fair share of predicaments, thanks to you.”

“Whatever, I'll have you know all of my messes, both intentional and not, are lovely.” Jaskier tilts his nose into the air, sniffling like an injured child playing into theatrics for attention. “I’ll leave you two grumps to it, maybe you can convince her with a smoldering gaze or something.” 

With one last teasing grin towards the both of them, Jaskier quickly exits the room like an actor leaving the stage after a staggering performance. The door closes behind him with a soft click, the sound echoing in the otherwise silent room. 

Visenya looks at Geralt, who looks at her, neither moving an inch. 

“Jane.” 

In that moment, with Geralt saying the fake name she gave herself all those months ago, it makes her realise just how much she misses hearing her real name. And she wonders how it would sound coming out of his mouth, whether the word would be like honey, sweet and smooth, sticking to her brain for the rest of her life. Or would it be harsher, his tongue having difficulty wrapping around the Old Valyrian name she stole from Queen Visenya I, like a petty thief. She remembers how Renfri would say it, somehow making her own name, something she’s heard a million times in her life, like sweet Southern sweets melting in her mouth. 

She remembers how...nice it felt, being able to be completely open and honest, when her life has been nothing but deceit and shadows for so long. And she almost breaks, pouring out everything from the moment she came into the world, banishing away the darkness that hung over King’s Landing, screaming and crying as she did. But she doesn’t. Fear claws at her mind, doubts that he would think her crazy or a deranged monster trying to work into his life assaulting her all at once. And it’s dizzying, so much so she nearly faints from the feeling.

“Jane.” Geralt says again, firmer this time, banishing away her inebriating fears and worries, everything clear within a single second. 

“Geralt,” 

She smirks at him, but it’s awkward and strange, looking more like a grimace than anything. 

“You alright?” he asks, and even in the dim light, she can see the lines in his forehead, brows furrowing. And for the second time that day, she considers telling him everything. But the same fears hold her back. 

“Aren’t I always?” she tries to joke, her voice going up three octaves as she tries to keep out the heaviness that always seems to follow her. 

“Hmm.” 

Silence washes over them, unspoken words and questions ricocheting off the walls and making everything feel smaller. 

“Thanks for the broach by the way.” Visenya breaks the silence first, motioning towards the broach that’s pinned to the left side of her tunic, hanging above her breast. 

“It looks better on you than it did me,” Geralt says, a smile that shows all his shiny white teeth on his face. Visenya nods her head, standing from the bench she perched herself on the moment Jaskier pushed them all into the room. Slowly and calculated, she begins to walk towards Geralt, each footstep ringing in the room until she’s by the tub, sitting on the stool Jaskier previously claimed. 

“I know, does wonders for my eyes when the light reflects off the gems,” she teases, crossing her left leg over the right. “It was the least you could do after leaving me to wake up by myself.”

“I didn’t realise you wanted me to stay.” Geralt rebuttals, raising a brow as he waits for her next move. 

“Oh don’t flatter yourself, I just wasn’t happy to deal with Jaskier’s prying questions alone. Do you know how many times I had to threaten to stab him, rob him, and then leave him for dead until he shut up? And even now he still makes subtle jokes about it.” Visenya says, rolling her eyes, resting her elbow on the edge of the tub, only a few inches away from Geralt. 

“My apologies for leaving you in such a dire situation.” Geralt leans forward, mimicking her light tone. 

“For shame Geralt, for shame.” 

“Is there anything I could do to make it up to the Lady?” he asks, leaning just a hair closer, and like there’s a magnetic field around him that pulls her to him, begging her to close the gap and feel his steady breaths fanning over her face. 

“The broach was a good start.” she replies, trying to not sound as breathless as she feels. 

She’s burning, her body all over electrified in a way it hasn’t been since the last time she saw Geralt. 

And then it’s suddenly cold, all the warmth being forcibly ripped from her body. The water hits against the tub as Geralt moves back, his body pressed against the other end of the tub, all coy smirk and smug eyes. 

Payback for last time it seems. 

Visenya rolls her eyes and straightens her back, eager for the flush that covers her body to disappear as quickly as it came. 

“Yeah whatever, you're naked and vulnerable, I could take you.” she says, waiting a moment before her eyes widen a fraction, Geralt smirk widening. ‘With my sword, that is. I could stab you with my sword and leave you dead. That’s what I meant, nothing else.” 

“Hmm, is that so?” Geralt’s eyes glint with amusement, the candles reflecting like roaring fires in his eyes. He’s beautiful in the dim glow of the flickering flames, skin glistening with droplets of water sticking to his body, further accentuating his rippling muscles and broad shoulders. 

“I hate you and Jaskier equally, just so you know.” Visenya says, huffing like a child, rolling her eyes and glancing at the bare wall, eyes tracing over the wooden panels, counting each grain as she does. 

“I’m sure. So what’s the real reason you don’t want to go to this feast? Jaskier drags you around to all his other parties, why not go to this one?” Geralt asks. Visenya’s eyes flicker back to Geralt. Her mind is blank, yet brimming with a million different words and phrases that jumble together until she can hardly find any words to speak. 

“I guess I’m not a fan of weddings or anything related to them.” is all she can say. “It’s not a big deal, just a weird tick I guess.” She nods her head, trying to make the words seem convincing to both her and Geralt. But it’s impossible to swallow the lump forming in her throat, nearly suffocating as Westeros hits her mind, the calamitous memories physically painful. 

“Bad experience?” 

Her face still sour from the fight with Robb, nearly breaking her jaw from how tightly she kept it clenched.

Lady Catelyn looking shrewd and nervous, but slowly softening to Talissa and Robb’s relationship.

Everyone celebrating and getting drunk in the room. 

“I’ve never been a good dancer,” she says, the words are soft and light, a tentative smile forming on her face. 

Robb falling to the ground, like a pincushion for crossbow bolts, choking on his blood despite being dead the second he entered the keep.

The camp burning.

Everyone around her dying. 

“And if I promised you wouldn’t have to dance?” Geralt says, leaning towards Visenya.

Her heart dropping when the slaughter started, frozen like a statue in the dead of winter, bolted to the floor and unmoving. 

Screams lighting up the room, ricocheting off the walls as they were stabbed, bludgeoned, and strangled. 

Greywind locked up outside, unable to help and dying alone, butchered like a pig.

“You seem desperate for my presence there, Geralt of Rivia.” Visenya teases.

The wail that ripped through her throat, leaving her drinking her own blood and tears.

The pit in her stomach as her legs gave out.

Their snears and taunting words as the world grew dark.

“If I have to suffer the night sober, I would prefer good company.” His lips pull into a smirk that’s lopsided, making his left eye crinkle an inch further than the right. 

And that little piece of her who wished she had died with the rest of her family 17 years ago. 

“And you couldn’t think of anyone else?” Visenya replies with a smile on her face that grows, eyes bright as Westeros and all it’s demons dim, leaning her chin onto the palm of her hand. 

“Well I’d bring my horse, but I don’t foresee them allowing Roach into the palace.”

“No, I imagine that wouldn’t go over too well.” 

Visenya sighs deeply, closing her eyes as she does, resolve breaking with each passing second that Geralt looks at her. 

“Do you think Jaskier would give me any say in my dress?” 

The door flings open, crashing into the wooden wall and causing it to shake for a moment. 

“Have no fear, My Lady, I’ve already got the perfect one!” 

                                                   o0o0o0o

The water is scalding hot, steam rising from the water and dissipating into the air. But it doesn’t burn, not in the way it should, instead every muscle in her body relaxes the second the it touches her skin. Small waves ripple through the water as her body twists and turns into a comfortable position. A small sigh leaves her mouth, echoing in the smaller room only to be swallowed by the door opening and closing.

“I don’t need help bathing.” Visenya says, weaving annoyance and mild anger in each word. 

Just one moment alone would be nice.

“And I’m not here to offer it, I just wanted to quickly discuss a few things,” Jaskier says, completely ignoring any warning signs and moving further into the room. 

“And then you’ll be out of my hair?” Visenya says, water splashing out of the tub and onto the floor as she pinches the bridge of her nose. 

“Well funny you should say that, actually…” She doesn’t need to turn around to see how his brows are furrowed, eyes unsure and a touch afraid that Visenya might fly off the handle. He’s never fully learned all her triggers yet, but to be fair, neither has she. 

She groans, loudly, sinking as far into the water as much as the tub would physically allow, wishing to be swallowed into an abyss. Always something with the hair, whether it’s pleads to let him style it or to tell him why she keeps dyeing it. 

“No.”

“You don’t even know what I was going to say!” Jaskier exclaims, in an attempt to defend himself, feigning innocence he doesn’t possess when it comes to meddling. 

“I don’t have to. The answer is still no.” Visenya’s voice is firm and stern, unmovable like a stone wall. 

His footsteps echo in the room, the heels on the boots clicking against the wood flooring as he approaches, each step tentative and slow. 

“Well that just isn’t acceptable, you won’t even give a gentleman the simple opportunity to--” 

“Just tell me what you want so I can tell you no again” Visenya interrupts Jaskier, breathing heavily through her nose. 

“Alright, alright, tough crowd--”

“Jaskier!”

“Okay, alright, your hair! I wanted to talk about that.” Jaskier says, voice raising in volume as many octaves it did. “How do I say this while still keeping my life… it looks, well-- like a wild animal lives there and has lived there its whole life.”

The water splashes and ripples as her hand breaks through the stillness, joining the rest of her body beyond her head and the tops of her shoulders underwater. Jaskier holds his breath, waiting for Visenya to either tell him to fuck off or pretend he doesn’t exist at all. 

“I know.”

Jaskiers loudly exhales, physically deflating. 

“So I was thinking, what if we made it not look like that for the feast? You really should look your best before a monarch.” Visenya turns her head and glares at Jaskier. “I know you dye your hair, heavens know why, so I was just thinking what if you...washed it out.” 

“So you want me to wear my natural hair color for the feast?” Visenya clarifies, her voice not indicating anything she’s feeling. 

“Yes, exactly!” Jaskier exclaims, tone becoming more jovial and ecstatic, bouncing on his feet as he does. 

“No.”

“But--”

“I said no.” 

“Why not?”

“Because I don’t want to.”

“Come on, it can’t be that bad.”

“I said no Jaskier.” Visenya growls, the edges of the wooden tub crack under the pressure of her grip, splitters getting pushed under her nails. 

“Don’t be so dramatic, let’s see what color your roots are--” Jaskier moves closer, hands outstretched, desperate to see the silver hair shining under the dry brown. Visenya grits her teeth, anger pulsing under her skin, mind going white as all the sound in the room silences for a painstakingly long moment. 

“I said, no!” The words are piercing and sharp, nearly leaving both of their ears bleeding. The walls shake, the structure of the building itself rejecting the shrill words rolling off of Visenya's mouth. Her eyes flash like fire, burning anything in its wake; it’s dangerous and untamed, wildfire barely contained in two eyes.

Her hand flies up in the air, palm nearly meeting Jaskier’s cheek, but he manages to duck out of the way, stepping back far enough to avoid the slap, the residual heat radiating from her hand nearly singeing his hair. With wide eyes, baby blues watching her with bewilderment and a small tinge of something else- something she never wants him or anyone else to ever look at her with again. 

Fear.

Visenya inhales sharply, simply staring at her own hand with dazed eyes. It’s still hot, she’s still hot. The previously scalding water that had begun to cool, heats up again with a vengeance, boiling wildly around her. Small beads of sweat form at her temple, the room growing smaller with each sharp breath Jaskier takes. 

“I’ll just-- I’ll just leave you to it, just… forget I asked, I guess,” he says, the words jumbling and melting together, nearly disappearing into the wooden walls that seem to close in.  

Click.

Just as quickly as he entered the room, he exits, leaving behind nothing but the faint smell of his perfume and hair styling product. The room is silent, unbearably so. Visenya turns, water languidly splashing, her back facing the door as she stares at the bare wall, eyes glazing as she attempts to focus on every small detail of the wood. Her mind is blank, yet at the same time it’s a storm, ferociously raging in her head, until her ship is pulled under, thoughts drowning her. 

“Fuck!” The palm of her hand smacks against the water, a barrage of droplets sticking to the sweat beads. A growl of anger and frustration leaves her mouth as she thrusts her hands forward, creating a wave that forces a large amount of water to spill onto the ground, forming a small puddle of anger and guilt.  

Regret weighs heavily on her, like wearing a suit of full plate in the middle of the ocean. She shouldn’t have snapped at Jaskier that way, she wishes she hadn’t. He’s just trying to help, to pull Visenya out of this hole she’s happily buried herself in, clawing at the dirt with perfectly manicured hands and a velvet outfit, humming a sweet melody as he digs. She’d yelled before: threatened to hurt him in every way imaginable, screamed so loud her voice nearly vanished. She’d smacked his chest and shoulders under the guise of seriousness with a sly smirk playing on the corner of her lips. And he took it in stride, laughing it off with a charming smile and a witty quip, bouncing back instantaneously, because she never fully knocked him down. 

She tries to believe this isn’t any different, that she’ll walk out of this room, only to be bombarded by Jaskier’s incessant teasing. But no amount of rose-tinted lenses can bury her in that delusion, because this time is different. She could see the way he looked at her, the way he crumbled under the fire in her eyes and rage simmering under her skin.

Her fury in that moment was harsh, but true, and very much directed at him with intent to harm. All because he wanted to see her hair. How could he ever understand that it’s more than that to her. How does she explain how the same silver strands that crown her a Targaryen princess, something that marked her a paragon of her ancestors, but a pariah to the living. She’d never be able to explain how it was the one unmistakable trait that marked her as the daughter of the man who stole away Winterfell’s princess, staining her a traitor to all of Westeros. 

No one here knows who House Targaryen was or what her ancestors did -- both horrible and great. And maybe it’s better that way. To wipe her home and family name out of her memories, drown Westeros and all the hurt and pain and misery that came with it until she can’t remember anything prior to Blaviken. 

Because what did they achieve, what did any of them really achieve? Aegon the Conqueror along with Rhaenys and Visenya Targaryen formed the Seven Kingdoms. They brought war and then peace, only for that to be lost 300 years later due to the madness of a single man, that apparently bled into his eldest son.

With Fire and Blood, they took what they wanted and bathed the rest in dragon fire as they reigned calamity upon their enemies. Some were kind and fair, but most were cruel and callous, seeing themselves higher than the rest because their eyes shone like amethysts with hair threaded from silver.

What did being the daughter of Rhaegar Targaryen ever give her, except for despair at the loss of the family he abandoned to the whims of a madman. What did being the granddaughter of the Mad King Aerys give her, beyond the crippling fear that would leave her awakening in the darkest part of the night covered in sweat, fears that she’d descend to that same madness that haunted him. That she’d lose the ability to control her own mind until she was put down like a dog, something Robert Baratheon would’ve done happily as the people whispered ‘What a shame she went mad.’

What did being a Targaryen ever really bring her if not scars and lingering ghosts? 

The last time she fully embraced her blood, standing as tall and regal as a Targaryen should, how she believed they would, she burned down half a village.

No, it’s better this way.  

Even if it’s just hair. 

She sinks further into the boiling water, breathing in the steam like the smoke from a fire, praying and hoping she would just disappear. She continues down until her shoulders and underwater, then her neck, until the back of her head touches the bottom of the tub, eyes closed as her water floats around her face. And surrounded by the boiling water, washing away the day and all her mistakes, salty tears leave her eyes, being swept away into the water. 

                                                    o0o0o0o

Tags: If your name is crossed out, it means I wasn’t able to tag you. Also I’m not 100% sure if most of y’all still want to be tagged, since it’s been so long since I posted a new chapter, so feel free to message me if you no longer want to be!

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[sky-squido]

16, 21, 30, or 34? ALSO HAPPY BORTH YOU WONDERFUL PERSON 'yeets a cake at you'

*gets cake yeeted at me*

MORPH ILY

it's really funny thought cuz my parents actually got squido WRITTEN ON THE CAKE AAH

anyway *coughs*

here's where you can find the answer to 16! ^^

21. Favorite pairing to write for? (platonic or romantic!)

all of these are gonna be platonic cuz ew romance ((post was made by the probably aroace gang)) and FOUND FAMILY IS THE BEST

okay so i write a LOT of downfall duo,,, like a LOT. it might be my favorite pairing, but it feels a little too easy sometimes. i'm a total sucker for rarepairs like sky&legend, four&legend, wind&legend twi&legend—I'M A SHAMELESS LEGEND STAN OKAY

oh hyrule&sky is fire, too

okay but in all seriousness i ADORE writing twi-sky parent gang and wind&twilight also gives me SO MUCH LIFE. my favorites are legend, sky, and wind, and i feel like the latter two especially are just really underutilized. the most fun i have in my fics is like, yes there's a storyline and Serious Things Are Happening but they're still a buncha kiddos going on an adventure together and i feel like the more banter and rarepairs a fic has, the more real it all feels

enough rambling okay YES i love downfall duo with my whole heart but also i think the beauty of LU is the diversity of interactions you can play with and anything with a soft legend or a badass wind and/or sky in it is a recipe for a VERY happy squido. just,, sky and wind, and twi, too, i feel, are often the "recessive" characters in an interaction, if you will. it feels like they're usually not the main characters and tend to be a vehicle for the plot of whoever's talking to them so when THEY'RE stepping up and taking a role, it just makes me so happy! ^^

as i mentioned here, they're all the main characters of their own games so watching them all step up and take charge, especially the traditionally timid ones is just YES

okay enough rambling what was the other one? ah yes

30. Tooth-rotting fluff or merciless angst?

yes.

no i’m kidding.

well only sort of.

the way i see it, angst and fluff, hurt and comfort, they’re like push and pull. it’s a dance, my friends, a dance of hurt and healing and you need both to feel satisfied. fluff fics are nice, but they’re not food. angst fics are great, but i always leave them feeling sort of empty. but both, the angst sets up the conflicts and the fluff resolves it. i think you really do need both to have balance in a fic. obviously fics don’t have to show you the whole picture and authors can write whatever they’re comfy with and sometimes you want a fluffy comfort fic and sometime you just want pain—i’m by no means trying to say that my way is the only, or even the best, way to write a fic. it’s just my personal preference and that intertidal zone between the soft yet stagnant sands of fluff and the roaring, turbulent waves of angst is where i make my home. the tides come and go, waves crash and pull, but life flourishes in the cracks in the rocks and the burrows in the sand and sjghsfjghfldkgsehfjgsd i really just went off didn’t i

tl;dr:

yes

34. Copy and paste an excerpt you’re particularly fond of.

ohh this one's hard.

i had a big ramble here before i remembered two excepts that just take the cake and these are probably my favorite things i've ever posted on ao3

this one’s from Burns:

 “Tell me, do you ever feel a strange sadness as dusk falls?” The man said that like it was somehow supposed to explain something. Like it meant something.

 Wind thought for a moment. “No, I can’t say that I do. Sunset… it’s beautiful.” Wind smiled despite himself, gesticulating excitedly. “The sky lights up a million colors and the ocean turns to molten gold. The sea stays warm even as the wind grows chilled and the first stars begin to blink into the sky, a welcome sight to any navigator. Sure it’s sad that the day ends, but the night is beautiful in its own way. I welcome them both. Two sides of the same coin, you know?”

 The man remained in silence for a moment. “But what about the twilight? That time when the world hangs precariously between the two, balanced on the coin’s edge. What about that time?”

 Wind felt his brow furrow in confusion, but he indulged him nonetheless.

 “Yeah, it’s nice. That time when the first star blinks into the sky, the bravest and the brightest, a beacon of hope guiding sailors on their journeys. It’s like the dawn, but not quite as still. It’s like… it’s as if the day is an inhale and the night is an exhale and twilight is that little time in the middle when the world holds its breath. Is that what you mean?”

 The man’s gaze shifted to the ground, a bittersweet smile on his face and his eyes suspiciously wet.

 “Yeah. That is what I mean.”

 Wind opened his mouth, but was interrupted by the man saying: “call me Twilight.”

:D

This is from What Hyrule Hadn't Seen chapter 10 and it’s both spoilers and kinda long and i don’t want this post to be five miles so

 “Wind, we need to get you out here. You can barely stand.”

 “Bullsh*t! I’m not leaving you behind!”

 “I’ll manage,” came his reply, the blade of his spin attack passing above Wind’s crouched head.

 “No you f*cking won’t! I’m not going to leave you out here to die!”

 “So you’d rather we both died instead?!”

 “You admit that this is a suicide mission, then!”

 “Stop wasting time and get out of here!”

 “NO!”

 “WIND! As your commanding officer, I am ordering you to get to safety!”

 Wind finally rose to his feet, his right leg bleeding and clearly supporting none of his weight, his sword unwavering in his determined arms.

 “The day I submit to your authority when you're being an ass is the day I f*cking die.”

 Warriors let out a small whine, a sound Wind never could have imagined the captain making. He spoke in a low, slicing tone, his eyes like his blade—cold, steely, and far too wet—as he faced the sailor.

 “I’ve stood over far too many corpses. Don’t let yours be one of them.”

 Wind straightened his posture and said nothing, pulling his bow from his back, his gaze like fire—hungry and bursting with life—and wordlessly turned his back to the captain, knocking an arrow, brilliant luminescence collecting on its head as he aimed into the blackened forest that seethed with darkness.

 “Come on, tactics man, use your head. If you fall here, the town won’t be safe. Nowhere will be.”

 He smiled a smile that had no right to cover the face of a child.

 “If we’re gonna die, we might as well do it together.”

 Warriors’ shoulders heaved in a silent sob, but he quickly quelled it, regaining his composure as best he could, brow furrowed and sword quivering in his hands.

 “I just can’t f*cking win with you.”

 “No, but you can lose with me one last time.”

 "So be it."

 Warriors said nothing more, diving into battle once again.

 Wind fired his arrow.

 A halo of light burst through the forest, shattering shadows into dust.

 And a sword slipped past the captain’s wavering guard. 

read it here uwu: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25993870/chapters/68195218

[parasite-core]

The Magnus AU, Statement 2

Statement of Umber Vozianov, Head Archivist of the Magnus Institute, London. Regarding…the infinity of space, and an ill-advised gamble. Recorded direct from subject March 2nd, 2021. 

Statement begins.

“I told you once before that I used to work for Roscosmos in Moscow. Not a prestigious position, but I had ambitions to work my way up back then. I…loved space. The stars. The *idea* of how unknown it was. My mother had always encouraged it. She was a bit of a hobbyist in the subject. It was…one of the few things we had in common, really. So, you can imagine I was incredibly eager to have any position with Roscosmos.

It started out great. It wasn’t exactly everything I’d ever dreamed of, but it was a step in the right direction. I met a couple of the right people, and they let me see some of the first-hand shots of distant galaxies. Even use the equipment once. It was…probably the best time of my life. But…well, things like that don’t really last. Not for me.

I was helping to clean up late one night. We’d been celebrating…something. The launching of a research satellite I think? I remember I’d stayed behind to help clean up. The building was mostly empty. So, I decided to take a peek at the telescope. See if it was still set up to see the satellite. I knew how it worked by now, it wasn’t like I was toying around with something I didn’t know anything about. But when I looked at the screen with the digital image of the distant stars…I felt almost like I was falling in. And then I *was* falling in. I found myself floating in the vacuum of space. It should have been impossible, obviously. I should have frozen to death, or suffocated, or been killed by the vacuum itself. But instead I floated there, unable to breath, my lungs burning, but never actually suffocating. Just floating, at the edge of infinity. For hours. For days. It was impossible to say how much time passed, without the sun or the moon to keep track. Then…I was back. Exactly where I’d been. Exactly when I’d been. But I knew. For a fact, without a doubt, that it happened.

And the next night, when I left work, and stepping out under the open starry night sky, it happened again. This time it felt like longer. Like a week or more had passed, before I found myself outside of work again exactly where I’d left, my coworkers still talking about the same weekend trip they had been. They asked what was wrong, but I couldn’t explain it. Couldn’t begin to tell them that I’d just lost an impossible amount of time in the span of seconds. So instead I excused myself and went home.

And this kept happening. Night after night, every time I caught sight of the void of space above us. Sometimes, I managed to get all the way home without looking up, and I’d be safe for the evening. But, usually I caught sight of it before I thought about it, or I’d see the reflection in something, or even a few times the *pictures* of the stars at my work. It was longer each time, until…I swear I was there for over a year one time. Just…floating there, with the infinite expanse of space stretched out before me. Stuck in the complete and utter nothingness between stars and planets. There’s nothing in the world that I can begin to compare it to, on Earth even if you’re trapped in complete darkness you have air or the ground beneath your feet. In space, there is *nothing*, and you are the smallest most insignificant thing floating in the middle of all that nothing. I don’t know how I didn’t lose my mind entirely. For a while I thought I had. But…honestly I’d had one other run in with the supernatural before…maybe I’ll give that statement as well someday. So, I knew that it wasn’t out of the question. And besides being tortured, I felt like my mind was as sharp as ever.

It was after a month of this that I met him. I was once again in the suffocating infinity of space. Too close to some distant star, its radiation scorching my skin in a way that also should have been impossible to survive. And then he was there. He was this skinny almost scruffy looking blonde fellow, not someone you’d normally look twice at, except for the fact that he was floating in space with me. At first, I once again thought that I had to be losing my mind. As if floating and burning in space for weeks were somehow less strange than his appearance there—but at that point it was.

When he spoke, it was with a thick German accent. He introduced himself as Lucien Anasia, and he offered to play a game. Suddenly, I could breathe again. And we were away from that burning star, instead floating in the complete void between everything. I blinked, and then he was directly in front of me, close enough for me to reach out and touch if I hadn’t been so terrified by him. Every time he moved it was like that. One moment he’d be one place, and the next another, with no actual movement in between.

This Lucien fellow, he said he’d had his fun, and now he wanted to…end the game. He said if I took his bet and won, then he would release me from this cycle I’d been suffering through. I knew I couldn’t trust him, whoever or whatever he was. But I also knew I didn’t have a choice in the matter. If I refused, I was certain he’d just leave me there…and that I wouldn’t be returning this time. Maybe he’d have even thrown me into one of those stars, for good measure. I don’t know. I’ll never know, and for once I’d be happy to keep it that way.

Anyways. I took his bet. He showed me a coin. This big heavy golden thing, some kind of doubloon. On one side was a crescent moon, and on the other the sun. He told me to choose a side. He’d decide my fate on the flip of…a *goddamned* coin. The very idea made he angry, made me wish I could just punch him in the nose. But he held my fate in his hands, so I bit back my first reaction, and I chose the crescent moon. The moon, the symbol of humans’ escape from the planet and into space. My symbol of escaping back to the planet, being drawn back into the gravity of the Earth and allowed to wake up with my feet on solid ground once again.

He flipped the coin. It spun in the vacuum, spinning and turning for far too long, until Lucien reached out and plucked it from the air. When he opened his hand, the coin rested in his palm. A crescent moon was there, clear as day. He looked…dispassionate. I don’t think he even *cared* what would happen to me. This was just…some distraction or something for him.

Then I felt like I was falling, and I was back. Back on the street at night, halfway home, where I’d seen the reflection of the night sky in a car window. I ran the rest of the way, didn’t stop until I had a door and closed blinds between me and the sky. I didn’t trust that this man…this thing…would keep his word. I still don’t.

I tried to keep working at Roscosmos. I…really did. But I couldn’t stand the sight of stars anymore. Seeing galaxies and the void of space, even in pictures…it started giving me panic attacks. I left…quit. My mother didn’t understand. Got angry for my…lack of ambition. I couldn’t begin to explain it to her. She wouldn’t have believed me, anyways. She didn’t the first time. So…eventually I left. Left home. Left Russia. Left to a place with more light pollution…a dimmer night sky. And I’ve never been pulled into the void again. Or seen that man, Lucien. And…more than anything else, I hope I never do.”

[cinaja]

Before the Wall Part 3

For the entire series and the summary, click here

Is anyone reading this? If so, please give me a sign! This is my first time posting a story and I'd love some feedback

Disclaimer: characters, world etc. belong to Sarah j. Maas

----

There is another desert. Great. Simply great. Sometimes, Miryam wonders if fate hates her.

But in a small town on the edge of the sand, a Fae female with a bad cough that she is treating tells her about the human rebels who have set up their camp just on the other side of the sand. The female means it as a warning, but Miryam has to lower her head to hide her smile.

"I mean it", the female insists, "You may be part human, but you are also half Fae and these people won't like that."

This worries Miryam more than she wants to admit. But she swore a vow to save her people and another one to be kind, to help others - and for both, she needs the rebellion.

So she spends her last coins on a camel and sets off.

On the first day, she runs into a pack of Martax and almost gets eaten (again). On the second day, there is a stabbing pain in her lower body. Closer inspection reveals that she is, apparently, on her period. (Of course. Of course she gets her first bleeding while stuck in the middle of a desert. It`s just typical.)

On the third day, she runs out of water. She was supposed to reach an oasis that day, but it is dried out. She guesses it is a side effect of thirst (or maybe of the heat) when she starts seeing strings of light, running through the air and over the ground. She blinks and they are gone.

On the fourth day, she falls asleep in the shadow of a sand dune and wakes up in a small cabin. Miryam jumps to her feet - and slams into a wall of hard air. Around her, there is are symbols drawn on the wooden panels. Forming a perfect circle and trapping her within.

Miryam has seen those symbols before. For a moment, she thinks that she`s still asleep and this is another nightmare. But something tells her this is very real.

"You know", a voice drawls behind her, "this would have been much easier for you if you had stayed unconscious.

Miryam spins around and comes face to face with a High Fae female. In her hands, she holds an ancient-looking book bound in black leather.

The female is a witch

Fear shoots through Miryam. This can't be happening. Not when she was so close to reaching the rebellion. For a moment, Miryam thinks that she sees the strings of light again, wrapping around the witch, running through the air. But they vanish as quickly as they appeared

The witch raises her hands and smiles at Miryam. "You should consider it an honour, girl. Your life will be used for something greater."

Miryam doesn't beg for mercy. She knows there won't be any and spent her entire life on her knees - she won't die that way, too.

The witch begins chanting

Miryam can feel the magic, wrapping around her body. Burning, searing. (This is what her mother must have felt in her last moments). She raises her hands, like she might ward of the looming death.

The lights are back. Strings of light, wrapping around her. Miryam pushes against them and something inside her rises up, up, up.

Burning pain.

Her body is on fire. It hurts. Hurts so badly she thinks she may be dying. She leans to the sides and retches up blood.

Somehow, she manages to sit up.

Around her, the house is reduced to cinders. Where the witch stood, there is nothing but a pile of ashes on the ground. The book is still there, untouched, but everything else is destroyed. But the strings of light are still there, fainter but clearly visible.

It is impossible. Miryam should be dead - worse than dead.

She wants to laugh, but she only manages a broken sob. She knows enough about witches from her time in Ravenia's court to understand what it means that the female is dead and she is still alive. What those strings of light mean and why they appeared just when she bled for the first time.

Miryam is a witch.

It has to be some kind of sick joke by whoever decides these things - maybe the Cauldron. She has seen such unspeakable horrors inflicted by witches and witchers - on humans, on her people - and she...

Stumbling, Miryam gets to her feet. She doesn’t know why, but she takes the book when she staggers outside. (Maybe she knows it is too dangerous to just be left lying around. Or maybe some small part of her understands that she will still need it.)

Through some stroke of luck, the stable is still standing and inside, she finds her camel standing next to two horses. The animals look up when she enters. They stand frozen, staring at her.

She puts the book into the saddle bag next to the one on healing. It feels wrong, death and life together. The animals still watch at her, without an inch of fear. It`s not natural. But Miryam once heard that witches can talk to animals. Maybe it is true, after all. She unties the horses.

"Go north", she tells them, "that's the way out of the desert." Then, she climbs into her camel's saddle.

She decides right then and there that those powers might be evil, but she is not. And she won't use them. Not now and not ever. So she locks them away, right alongside all that pain and the memories she cannot face, the past she chose to leave behind

(Years later, Miryam will look back and wonder what would have happened if she had chosen differently. If it would have saved her all the pain that later came with realising that there is no way to lock away parts of yourself forever - or if it would have broken her to face these things right there.)

During the following days, she begins to understand that choosing that she doesn't want to be a witch doesn't mean that she stops being one. The strings are everywhere. She doesn't understand what they mean, but they. Drive. Her. Crazy. Then, there are the animals. Snakes, hares, even bugs - all of them suddenly approach her without an inch of fear.

"Go away!", Miryam yells at them, "I don't want this!" But if they do understand, they certainly don't listen.

Finally, burning sand gives way to soft grass and trees. Miryam ties her camel to a tree and runs her fingers through the grass. She smiles. Now, she just has to find the rebellion, then everything will be fine.

She takes the rest of her food out of the saddle bag and sits down, back leaning against a boulder. Just as she is about to take a bite of the hard cheese, the forest around her goes silent. Miryam is on her feet, knife in her hand, in a second. Quickly, she climbs onto the boulder.

Three Naga burst into the clearing. There is a dark shimmer around them, like an aura. The first Naga takes a step forward - and collapses, the tip of an arrow pointing out of his throat. An Ash arrow.

Another arrow goes flying and hits a second Naga in the shoulder. The faeries whirl, snarling, just as three people appear out of the bushes. Two men, one woman.

And all of them human.

The Naga, surprisingly, don't stand a chance. A few seconds and they are all dead. One of the human men, old enough that his blond hair is already streaked with gray, is down as well with a nasty slice over his stomach. His companion, brown-haired and handsome, kneels next to him, while the woman now has an arrow pointed at Miryam

"What is a pretty little faerie like you doing here?", she asks sharply.

But the brown-haired man looks up. His eyes slide from Miryam's face to her arm, where here sleeve slid up to reveal the brand on her arm. His eyes widen slightly, but his tone is light as he says: "You know, Tia, sometimes you can be shockingly blind. Can't you see that she is partially human?"

He stands up und jerks his head at the woman - Tia - who lowers her bow and takes his place at the injured man's side.

"Are you going to come down from that rock, or do you need me to help you?", he asks mockingly.

Miryam scowls at him and clims down. Her camel is pulling at its rope, but as soon as she puts a hand on its side, it calms down.

"Thank you. For your help", she says.

"You`re welcome. Although I do wonder what you are doing here. This isn't the safest region." He is younger than Miryam thought at first, five years older than her at most

"I survived worse”, she says.

The man glances at the brand on her arm again. "I can imagine."

But Miryam's attention goes to the injured man, who is now groaning in pain. "Someone needs to take care of that wound or he won't live another hour”, she says and starts searching her saddle back for her supplies

"You know anything of it?", Tia asks, but her eyes are full of hope

Miryam nods and kneels next to the injured, inspecting the wound. "I need some water", she says and Tia goes running

"I was looking for the rebellion", Miryam adds, in answer to the man's earlier question, "You wouldn't know anything about it, would you?"

He laughs softly. "Oh, I most certainly do. I just happen to be the leader of this particular group." He sketches a mocking bow. "Jurian, at your service."

----

Note: Like I said, more action this time. Miryam being a witch (or having any power at all) is not canon, but this headcanon is a particular favourite of mine and it doesn't contradict any of the information we have on her. Actually, there are some hints about her having certain abilities that I might just do a post on later

The next part will be about the beginnings of the War in other places: In the Night Court, Rhysand's father visits his son in the Illyrian camps for the first time in centuries and on the Continent, tensins are running high while Prince Drakon tries to deal with the fallout of his broken engagement

Edit: It just occurred to me that I don't think I ever specify Jurian's age later on (kind of forgot, oops), so I just wanted to make it clear here that he is NOT actually five years older than Miryam. I thought they'd have an age gap of 1.5-2 years, no more.

[dracoqueen22]

[CR] Sharing Space

Universe: Critical Role, Campaign Two, And Other Virtues series Characters: Caduceus/Fjord, The Mighty Nein Rated: K+ Description: Of all the weird shit the Mighty Nein has encountered, Caduceus and Fjord accidentally swapping bodies has got to take the cake. For FjorClay Week, Day Four, Class Swap "It wasn't my fault this time," Fjord says. "Are you sure?" Beau asks, squinting up at Caduceus' body, only it has Fjord's familiar vocal patterns and not the steady drawl of Caduceus’. It's fucking weird, is what it is, Beau thinks. Caduceus has this nice, slow drawl, and to hear Fjord's cultured tones in Caduceus' voice is just weird. Plus, he stands all wrong. A bit hunched, awkward, like the armor doesn't fit right, but of course it does, because it's Caduceus' armor on Caduceus' body. It's the person inside the armor who doesn't fit right.

"It was my fault," Caduceus says, and that's less weird, his vocal pattern coming out of Fjord's mouth, because Fjord changes accents like some people change their underwear, so it's less disconcerting. He stands weird though. Cranes his neck like he's trying to see over their heads, not that Fjord is short, but well, when you're used to seeing the world from a certain height, Beau supposes that it would be weird to be a foot shorter. "Wow," Jester says, her hands on her cheeks, her eyes darting between them. "Couples really do start to act alike, don't they? Caduceus, you should know better than to touch weird buttons." "To be fair, it’s not technically a button," Caduceus says, and he tugs on the bottom of Fjord's chestplate, making a face Beau has never seen Fjord make. It's fucking weird. Fjord's staring at his hands, wriggling his fingers, as if fascinated by them. Which he shouldn't be. It's not like he's never seen Caduceus' hands before. They've probably been all over his body and-- Nope. Beau's just gonna stop that line of thought right there. "How do we fix it?" Veth asks as she circles Fjord-inside-Caduceus and looks way, way up at him. "This isn't the way to get stronger, Fjord." "Shut up," Fjord-inside-Caduceus says, and his ears flick up and down in a way that’s a lot more animated than when Caduceus does it. "What did you touch?" Caleb walks a slow circle around both of them, fingers tracing symbols through the air before pulling out his spell book and flipping through it. "Nevermind. Be quiet and let me have a look." And by be quiet, he means keep on chattering while Caleb himself focuses and does his wizard thing. "It's Fjord. The real question is what he didn't touch," says Jester. "Hey!" Fjord-inside-Caduceus rears back, indignant, and his ears rear with him. "I already said this time I didn't do it, and even Deuces said he did. Stop blaming me." "It was probably that thing." Caduceus-inside-Fjord points to an object lying on the ground between them. Beau bends down to look at it, but Jester grabs her shoulder and yanks her back. "Don't touch it!" she says, sounding panicked. "What if you get body swapped, too, and then all three of you are mixed up! That would make kissing even more awkward for them." "That's fair," Beau says, and the object suddenly levitates itself into the air, except not on it's own because Veth stands nearby, concentrating. "Mage hand!" she sings, and as the object lifts, Beau realizes it's a coin, but it's not made of a metal she recognizes. Veth turns it slowly over and over, so they can see it from all sides. There are two faces -- one is a human and the other is some kind of monstrous thing with too many eyes and too much teeth. There's writing on it, too, but Beau can't read the language. She's guessing it's some kind of magic language. Probably a form of Draconic then. "Hey, Caleb, come look at this," Beau says. "Where did you get it, Caduceus?" Yasha asks, sounding the calmest of all of them. She tends to take this stuff in stride. The coin wobbles midair and then falls back to the ground. "Oops. Mage Hand only lasts for a minute," Veth says. "Maybe leave it there for now?" "Everybody back off." Caleb plops down in front of the coin, book in his lap. "I need ten minutes of quiet." He starts to trace his little circle around the coin, and well, that's that. Beau gestures everyone to give Caleb his space, and they kind of form a circle around him, too, so no random person interrupts Caleb's concentration. They’re standing in the middle of the street as it is, and people are flowing around them. If they don’t hurry, they’ll attract the attention of the Zhelezo. Caduceus-inside-Fjord scratches at his jaw, then winces when he realizes he cut himself on a talon. "Ow. You should trim these, Fjord." "I've been meaning to," Fjord-inside-Caduceus says. "Especially because... um. Never mind." Jester giggles. "Because it's safer for you if he does," she says. "You didn't answer Yasha's question," Beau points out as she starts to pace. She wants to do something and sometimes, it's torture waiting for Caleb to finish his ritual. "Where'd you get it?" "Oh!" Caduceus-inside-Fjord blinks and grins, and wow, that's a little creepy right there. "I found it at the Sea Floor's Bounty. She gave me a great price for it." Veth narrows her eyes. "How much?" "Does it matter?" Jester asks. "No offense, but Mr. Clay's concept of how much things cost is a little skewed. She probably ripped him off," Veth points out. "That's fair," says Caduceus-inside-Fjord. Caduceus and Fjord, standing next to each other in their swapped bodies, are giving Beau the willies. Because they aren't standing right, and they don't look right, but they're still doing that thing where they lean into each other, and exchange heated glances, and make it pretty damn obvious all they want to do is kiss. It's pretty gross. Not because, you know, of what they are. Just... Beau doesn't like being around all that lovey-dovey crap, and it's weird to see Fjord being so lovey-dovey, and they're kind of like her family, not that Beau has really seen her parents be lovey-dovey. Gah. Bad thoughts all around. "It's fine. Caleb can fix it," Veth says with a sense of certainty. "Or we could ask Essek, I suppose," says Yasha. "He could help." "Destroying things seems to work. We could try that," suggests Jester. "That might not be a good idea," says Caduceus-inside-Fjord, and well, that's at least not weird. Fjord is sometimes the voice of caution. "What if destroying it makes us stuck like this?" Fjord-inside-Caduceus makes an alarmed face, which goes back to weird because it's very rare for Caduceus to look alarmed unless they're in the middle of a battle that isn't going so well. "No destroying it! I don't want to be stuck like this. I mean, no offense, Deuces--" "None taken, Fjord. I like your body just fine, but I like it from the outside, not from the inside. I want to be me, not you," Caduceus says, and then they're looking at each other in that soppy way, and Beau fights the urge to gag. "But think of how kinky it could be," Jester says, and she's got her sketchbook out now, frantically scribbling down her thoughts in one of the pages. "I bet it'd be super weird to kiss like this. Why don't you try it?" "No," they say in impressive unison. Veth giggles. "You're right," Yasha says. "Couples do act alike." There's a snap as Caleb closes his book and sighs with an air of grievance. "Scheisse, it's amazing I can concentrate at all with the six of you chattering above me." "Were you able to complete your spell, Caleb?" Jester asks. Caleb tucks his book away and says, "I did," before he bends down and picks up the coin, slipping it into his pocket without a single hesitation. Nothing happens. "Good news is that we can pick it up right now with no ill effects," Caleb says, and that's definitely a smug smirk. He’s such a little shit sometimes. "And the same person can hold it without activating the magical properties." "All right. What about us?" Fjord-inside-Caduceus asks. "Yeah," Beau says. "What about them?" Caleb gives them all a look that faintly feels as if he's chastising them before he says, "The better news is that the effect only lasts for an hour. Unfortunately, it can't be ended prematurely." "Can we use it again though?" Jester asks, leaning in toward Caleb, and Beau can already see the ideas brimming inside that beautiful head of hers. Jester's no doubt imagining all the chaos she can wield with that coin. Caleb's smart enough to recognize that, too. "The magic has been expended today, but yes, it could be used again tomorrow." He pats the pocket where he'd tucked the coin, and leaves his hand over it. "I think I'll keep it. For further study." "Aw. But I want to look at it," Jester says. "I don't think that's a good idea," both Fjord and Caduceus say in an eerie unison which makes shivers crawl up Beau's spine. "Gross," she says. "Now it’s just getting creepy," Veth says, speaking for all of them. "Stop doing that." Fjord-inside-Caduceus harrumphs and folds his arms, which is such a non-Caduceus thing to do, it once again hits the realm of uncanny valley. "It's not like we did it on purpose." "It's an unexpected bonus," Caduceus-inside-Fjord says, and then his forehead crinkles, and he looks like he's thinking very hard. "Can you hear my thoughts? Does it work like that?" "No, it doesn't allow you to read thoughts," Caleb says with a sigh. He pinches the bridge of his nose. "There's nothing to be done but wait it out, which we can do elsewhere." Beau looks around. They are kind of blocking traffic and attracting stares. Then again, they'd do that anyway, given their colorful bunch. Still, Caleb has a point. "We could go to the beach," Jester says, and her eyes light up with excitement. "Let's do that!" "Water? No, thank you." Veth spins on a heel and starts off in the opposite direction. "I'm going to go back to Yeza and Luc instead. You guys have fun." She waves over her shoulder. "But we haven't even settled on the beach yet," Yasha says to Veth's departing back. Yeah, but Jester said it, and everyone knows if Jester wants to do it, everyone else will eventually agree as well. It's impossible to say no to her. Beau, in fact, had not even considered it. "I think we'll head back to the chateau, too," says Fjord-inside-Caduceus, sharing another glance with Caduceus-inside-Fjord. They haven't been together that long, but they've already got that secret glance thing down pat. "Wait this out." "Sure," Beau drawls, folding her arms. "A completely innocent wait in the privacy of your room. I'm sure that's all that's going to happen." Jester giggles. Caduceus-inside-Fjord looks confused. "What else would--" "Come on," Fjord-inside-Caduceus says, laying a hand on his own shoulder and spinning him in the direction Veth had gone. "If you get her started, the others will join in, and then I'll want to tear my ears off." "I feel like I'm missing something." "I'll explain later." Off they go, Caduceus-inside-Fjord with this weird, loping gait like he's trying to compensate for a height he no longer has, and Fjord-inside-Caduceus taking wobbly steps like the length of his legs makes it harder to gauge how to move. "What do you think they're really going to do?" Jester asks. "I haven't any interest in speculating," Caleb says, and turns to go the other direction, briefly looking up at the sun to orient himself. "Let's go to the beach, ja? That is what you wanted." "I'm fine with the beach," Yasha says. "Sure, why not." Beau shrugs. Jester cheers and off they go. At least, Beau hopes, the day can't get any weirder. ****

a/n: Feedback is absolutely welcome and appreciated! I’d love to hear from you! 

[amieyhko]

Escapril 2019

escaprilday 2019 // 1: a fresh start

two Costco bags full of

umma-certified clean clothes,

“unpacking cannot begin with wet clothes”

Taipei humidity is unkind.

coins clink,

white noise revs

drowning out the drizzle

as heart somersaults

to the rhythm of the cycles:

what — tum — am I — ble

doing — tumble — here?

the darks tumble its final spin

as the lights

click —

into a stop.

a whiff into a warm towel

warns me the comforts of home,

promising

of munchies, blankies, and speedy wifi

of cushy floor space where crafting

and writing past midnight can be done in secret

but —

fold — maybe — toss — I changed —

yellow blouse — or gave up too easily —

fold — or could it be —

toss — I’m listening to all the wrong voices? —

red turtleneck — no — flick —

wait, this is so soft now, I guess the washing machine in that guest house in Seoul was indeed really terrible —

fold — yes, this is how it should feel on my skin —

toss – my heart knows, though —

fuzzy sock — maybe home is where I need to be right now —

into basket — there’s nothing wrong with —

grab — starting over again.

escaprilday 2019 // 2: april showers

you said all memorable moments

include an unexpected deluge

I nod and laugh

as the metro ac pierces through

my drenched jacket

I shiver as I feel my clammy socks

cling onto my not-rainproof Docs

("they're not?" you ask in shock)

ears ringing still

from speakers booming

throat scratchy from scream-singing

at the top of our lungs.

still, you smile, shiver, and say,

with half-dazed eyes,

all good memories

end in rain.

escaprilday 2019 // 3: incorporate music

“Hope I’m not tired of rebuilding”

at this in-between

this time of heating up lukewarm lattes

and microwaving soggy french fries,

a surrendering of old and new

kindles a familiar tune:

“not what’s easy, what do you want?”

at this in-between,

the seconds between a squat and a jump

or the hours during an endless free fall,

a whisper sings an awakening:

“even a phoenix dies”

so at this in-between

muster up the strength to

inhale blue

and exhale gold.

escaprilday 2019 // 4: anxiety

lacuna

¡amiga!” he chimes like clockwork

with a sonrisa that has probably charmed plenty of hearts.

my fist bumps his and I walk toward the dark halls

where they tilt their heads forward and say

“안녕하세요” they grin,

some fake, others genuine,

mostly muscle memory.

“哈咯“ she greets as I turn the corner—

a sound of familiarity.

the velcros on my lips finally relax

till we part ways to our stations

“how are you?” their words flow dry

they probably don’t want to find out

my tongue lands on one syllable:

“good”.

escapril 2019 // 5: back to nature

I’ve a secret spot for seeing stars in Taipei City.

after a day downtown,

blasting my headphones at damaging decibels,

fixing makeup with samples at drugstores,

and chasing after buses,

I skip down the announced “platform two for Taipei Zoo”

and gaze down at the light show stage named Zhongxiao Fuxing.

as the red greens, a rush of headlights streams at me—my eyes

lose focus, my heart

leaps back into my chest just as

the home-bound metro approaches.

//

I’ll always remember the yard at Tiszavasvári

where we lay to see a starry night drawn by the Creator

after a day of listening to screaming children,

braiding their hairs,

and chasing after the impossible ones,

we stood in awe, jaws dropped, then soon learned

our necks weren’t strong enough

so we lay down, evening breeze

accompanied by the crickets sang a lullaby—

my eyes played a senseless game

of connect-the-dots, my heart skipped several beats

as I let go of the memories of beds and blankets.

escapril 2019 // 6: nostalgia

missing you is easy.

remembering you creeps

up in little mundanities

like a cup of fruit tea

a bottle of Clorox

or an inappropriately loud laughter--

to my consolation, yours is unmatchable.

although,

the sound of your laughter rings

quieter

till I can whisper:

escapril 2019 // 7: start with a time of day

3 a.m.

why wait

for dawn when

we can set yesterday

up

in flames

over this river?

escapril 2019 // 8: love poem

I cannot recall the exact words uttered

but something in my heart fluttered:

our eyes met for a millisecond

we cracked, till our breaths weakened.

our words, lost in the waves

transformed into safes

I open in my heart of hearts

to feel at home within the laughs of your loves.

escapril 2019 // 9: focus on the color

chorok hadn't found its form in

korean of old. fields of

grass and evergreens,

little plates of herbal banchan,

lush of summers,

and squirming caterpillars

all existed as paran-- that same

color ascribed to vast oceans,

and sunny skies

then one lively spring, chorok

creeped its way into our tongues,

demanding to be seen on

street signs,

the mountain tops, and

cross walk lights

though some still speak "the light

turned paran",

and the incorrigible children's tune

singing of spring

blossoming into paran,

chorok sprouts an entrance

undeniable to out naked eyes.

escapril 2019 // 10: femininity

the bus,

back slides down on the uncomfortable bus seat,

fingers stroke through my freshly buzzed head,

while many eyes fixate above my eyes,

asking:

"is she a boy or a girl?"

"is she a lesbian?"

"what happened to her… hair?"

eyes read their faces,

mouth struts a big yawn with no reflex system telling me to conceal it.

imagination floats to a stadium,

feet stands on the podium,

voice declares:

I'm still so-very-much a lady--

just not fair like Audrey,

nor dainty like a stereotype,

or as brave as Joan,

and definitely not as attractive than most

but maybe more like

the ones writing history

now.

escapril 2019 // 11: not from your perspective

most of the time I sit beside the maroon sofa

where you watch tv and transform into a potato

I wait and wait for that sweet moment

you grab my handle

travel me to a flat desk

wind me up with thread

hook me up to a pedal

switch my light on

smooth out a piece of fabric

pinned up in zig zag

then

zoom, crackle, buzz,

your hands sync to my rhythm

you pray I don’t jam

or break your thread

then you announce with pride

“et voila!”

escapril 2019 // 12: spring cleaning

it takes two countries

few cities

thirteen houses

fifteen boxes

thirty trash bags

and an infinite repetition of

"do we need this?"

for a soul to grasp the spider web line

between a desire and a necessity.

then a decade teaches the

same soul

sometimes,

spectrums soften

escapril 2019 // 13: celestial bodies

if only

seeing you was as easy as

some nightly glow at your half

reflecting off

a big blazing ball of light on my half

escapril 2019 // 14: make it rhyme

a sonnet-full of embellishments, fake

notions of how lovely you are like some

weather in summer or spring, homemade cake

that tastes like cheap flour and rotten eggs, numb

from clichés, the love songs that never shut

up, posed photos of arms around my waist,

a let-me-take-that gentleness, so what

are you doing? leaving sour aftetaste

in our hearts. no, this sonnet is not for

us. we don’t need guidelines to fall in love,

nor the recipes known to prevent war

(it cannot be all fair in war and love),

so stop. steep in this silence as your hand

finds mine in this complicated quicksand.

escapril 2019 // 15: describe a smell

a dash of prickliness:

prickly, like appa’s beard attacking my forehead as he plants a kiss.

then an overwhelming sense of saltiness:

salty, like that time I accidentally used the spoon side of the seasoning bottle

or tasting my own sweat or tears.

something rotting at slow decay.

fruit flies feast.

my nose shoots me back to

halmoni yelling something in dialect, umma replying.

I stand in the middle of the market square, I’m ten.

they promised me jjajangmyeon,

my nostrils can hold out just a minute more.

escapril 2019 // 16: any dreams?

five—

I was to be a Pokemon trainer by day

and Sailor Moon by night

but adults hung my creativity dry

seven—

a singer-songwriter

but music chose me not

ten—

fashion designer,

draw designs, sew coutures, walk the runway myself

but whispers yelled discouragements

fifteen—

couldn’t care: I was a realistic teen

now—

I tip-toe about my heart

trying my best not to pick on scabs,

unable to answer any questions

albeit an I-don’t-know

has never sounded more

comforting and clear.

hear the wounds heal

to the beat of the unicorn hooves.

escapril 2019 // 17: body as friend or foe

I was born in Guatemala,

but my father’s from Georgia

he’s a musician, he produces

K-pop albums and we travel the world

searching for the next big deal,

my mother paints apples, she’s from Zimbabwe

she also writes Chinese poems.

It’s all true—

my body deceives every bit of reality within me.

escapril 2019 // 18: a happy place

hear nose tickle

with the sound of lavender feathers

fluttering by

eyes will open up to inhale

the golden hours spent

under Your glorious dance

escapril 2019 // 19: without your name, who are you?

if an utterance of a name

can form a heart,

her name has been called by many

if each spoken word forms

a vibration into what we are,

she's a someone

whispered into a myriad of paradoxes:

she's an asteroid, crashing fast,

uncontrollable, unexpected.

she's a cup of tea, calm,

idle, ready for nothing.

escapril 2019 // 20: a liminal space

this amorphous ground feels comfortable,

excuses acceptable:

the excruciating humidity,

drowsy rain, busy friends,

false pride, miscalculating time.

they say:

Prufrock measures his life in coffee spoons,

but Zeno says nothing ever reaches its destinations.

the Knight holds his tongue

yet his heart flutters a violent beat.

I’m just another contra, letting my feet skip away

as each step echoes heart beating somewhere

back.

escapril 2019 // 21: it’s the end of the world

no zombie apocalypse,

the sun still functions,

stars are still, hearts

unbroken, no one

escaping to Mars,

no fatal goodbyes.

one silent pink noise

a purple glow,

“welcome back home”

it said.

escapril 2019 // 22: nourishment

last month, I met a little

potted plant.

I took it back to my little

suffocating room

and named it little

foggy star.

I loved it little

by little

I gave it little

droplets of water,

spoke little

words of compliment,

took it to my little

window sill

the sun peeped through

a little.

it grew a little,

I did too.

escapril 2019 // 23: when the party’s over

recollect spilled laughters —

this, for unworthy jokes,

that, for suave comments,

maybe one for someone dreamy —

bottle them up,

keep them fresh

for the next sea of

stragglers,

mutual someone,

you-look-quite-nice,

wow-so-interesting.

escapril 2019 // 24: liar, liar

how to be a compulsive liar

one: disregard empathy, embrace despondency, think selfish,

my life doesn’t have to tell truth tales, no one needs to know.

two: rehearse recollections, think practicality, use names they’d never check,

let myself believe in each detail, each sight, smell the scenario

three: speak the perfectly fabricated phrases into existence,

no need to bat an eye, stutter a detail, overthink a loophole.

for example: “yeah, the party was fun. we walked around the park afterwards.

who? oh no, he wasn’t there. he had an important family dinner.”

four: remember the lie, inform reliable partners in crime if necessary,

never bring it back, stick to your guns.

promise yourself: they can’t hurt, they’ll never know.

remember: truths hurt, they’re inconvenient, it’s none of their business.

dig: until your shovel breaks.

drown out: every kindness the world has to offer.

die: in the said dug hole, climb out just to

repeat: until trust is a pair of cracked glasses, refuse to see a redemption until

die again: learn that these walls must go —

invite: the uncomfortableness that is vulnerability

repeat: until system reboots.

escapril 2019 // 25: pick an animal

my giraffe friend

shades me when the sun’s high

and warms me when the wind’s rough,

meeting her eyes pains me with

an aching neck,

she will always stand tall in a room,

there’s no shelf too high for me,

when she’s close by.

escapril 2019 // 26: girlhood, boyhood, childhood

when I was older, I had a pair of

very pink sneakers

they'd glitter in the sun,

glamoured in gemstones for dignity

velcros loud enough to turn heads

when it was time to take them off

I glanced over my neighbors' shelves:

ugly. blue. brown. ugly. mine trampled over all.

then my eyes stood silent

as I zone in

on her pair of Gundam sneakers

secretly jealous, mostly confused,

extremely frustrated of rule-breaking

girls, defying pink, watching animation

for boys only

now, I wear boring black or white shoes

so do most humans with feet.

escapril 2019 // 27: the state of it all

“you're it!”

a harmless push from their arms

my chest thrusts back

limbs under a spell

all bones removed

“catch me if you can”

why don't you save me

'cause you can?

escapril 2019 // 28: reflection

memories retraces a blur

crooked smile

red dye fading

cigarette between your fingers

standing mostly on your right leg--

you let out a puff as i tell you “i’m imaginary.”

you say you couldn't have

so i tease you more with a kiss

“that wasn't real

that was you imagining it all

new school

a manic pixie

the loneliness got to your brains

that's all”

you flick away the cigarette

eyes reflecting my face

you kiss me back and say

“please don't do this to my brain

you're real

far too real for me i'm not smart like that”

i snicker

the buzzing bus terminal is real

you and i are real

but i'm not

you're no more

escapril 2019 // 29: may flowers

she died a few days ago—

flew off the rooftop

fallen against teeming

reborn lives

the most beautiful of flowers

only last a day or two

you said we are beautiful

because we’re ephemeral

but what happens when

fleeting moments like

a crash kilometers away

pain for someone I never knew?

escapril 2019 // 30: catharsis

yesterday, I cleaned out my room

bugs infested each and every corner

I tried to catch them but they

hid away between the nooks and crannies

whispering schemes to each other

learning the dustiest corners I’ve ignored

waiting for a perfect time to kill

so I dusted out the corners

rearranged the furnitures

repainted the scratches

thinking cover-ups should make anew

yesterday, I cleaned out my room

praying for the bug spray to kill,

I felt seventeen, rearranging photographs,

filling up a space with desired personalities,

she would have been proud

there’s nothing I’d tell her, but to say

yesterday, I cleaned my room, for another hundredth time

they say an odyssey is a cycle

ending with a catharsis

where you come clean

but yesterday, I cleaned my room

again

[mrneighbourlove]

Evil’s Bane: Ch 9. Everyone has Something to Lose

The wrath that filled Leere was unfathomable. Separated from her allies, she had no reason to believe that they might still be alive. Everything in Inferos and the Tower of Death had pushed her limits so quickly. Time felt off and she had no grasp of her spacing around her. Was she in the middle of the tower, transported close to the ground, or not even in it anymore? The very least she could process she was in what looked like a massive hall. It held rows and rows of pillars from the ground to the roof, and down each end it appeared the room was endless. About a couple fields of distance away, there was a massive obelisk, illuminated by the moon piercing its light through very large glass windows the size of small fields. Using her staff as a cane, she ventured forward, wondering if she could use the Obelisk as a magical conduit to bring the entire tower down.

"So you finally arrived." A smooth voice called out from the dark. Destroyer was there in the endless hallway, standing in the Obelisk's shadow. "I was beginning to wonder if you'd show up at all. Aren't princesses taught to be on time?"

Leere stopped walking, her staff echoing far as she planted her hilt into the floor. “Perhaps. But a Sage is never late or early. They arrive precisely when needed. And they hate cliches. Such as the Dark Lord waiting at the top of his tower.... step in the light.”

"Now, now, you should know that family sometimes share traits, especially since my brother loves to make an entrance... or more specifically, his host." Destroyer was actually not so terrifying. He was beautiful; an array of scales that reflected the various colors of the ocean. Two navy horns sprouted from his head which was coated in silver hair, and a pair of blue wings adorned his back. He was a long, lost creature of legend... a Drakkan; the fabled half-dragon, half-human. A long tail flicked behind him as his clawed, raptor-like feet gently touched the steps as he descended to Leere. "Though I'm sure that I am not what you expected. There was a slight... well... mix-up with our hosts, you see."

“Is that right?” Leere was alarmed by the appearance at first, but then steeled her will. Appearances after all could be deceiving. “Is it because you deserve the title of a snake who slivers in the dark?”

"Very perceptive of you." Destroyer chuckled, very amused by her expression. "You see, thanks to Tzitzimime, I obtained the host everyone adored; an innocent healer of his kind." He then held up one hand. "Then my dear brother inherited the host who everyone would fear and abhorred; a snake who would devour and use others."

“I’ll ask this once. Why? Why join forces with the Devil? Because you feel so hurt and alone at the loss of your long-lost love? Is that why you want to destroy this world? You can’t mature and grow up like everyone else in the world?”

"Oh, trying to get all psychological on me? Make me feel guilt? Admit my mistakes and repent? Perhaps I should reflect upon these actions... yet, I care not for the opinions of a meager human." Destroyer pretended to be offended, clutching at the center of his chest. "My only goal is to be rid of everything my brother created. When he is gone, when his creations are gone, then it shall be just Kaksa and I. No more interruptions, no more work, nothing but the void and us. Tzitzimime can have this little planet for all I care."

Leere looked at him with contempt and fury. “Then that makes you the most dangerous being I’ve ever encountered. Your insanity dooms all of life. For my family, my country, and all of life, I’ll do what I must.”

Taking a battle stance, Leere activated the blade on her scythe. Her staff she gripped glowed a soft red, and the plasma of her blade shined a mighty blue. Both colours basked her image with a fierce light.

"Oh, why do you look so worried, 'tiny princess'?" Destroyer mocked Leere with the title that Bonegrinder had given to her. "Surely you must know that the Mortuus aren't of my brother's work. Your kind are the result of Tzitzimime trying to sow some of his seeds in one of my creations. Tempting them, warping them... making them better. I quite enjoy the madness and bloodlust." He then snickered when she took an offensive stance. "You think you can defeat me with a gardening tool?"

“I will defeat you. And I’ll take your head too.”

Leere’s eyes filled with bloodlust and she began her first strike. With a swing of her scythe, she charged a sickening red energy, throwing an energy slash at him. The blast missed when Destroyer ducked, but it cleaned right through the obelisk like it was a bullet traveling through butter.

"Impressive for a human that earned the title of Shadow Sage." Destroyer glanced at the ruined Obelisk. "Now, it's my turn." The deity only had to touch the ground with his hand and the floor started to disintegrate. His objective was to bring Leere closer, putting her in a difficult position.

Leere ran forward, hopping from tile to tile. He wanted her to get close? Fine. But she’d make him see that only made her more ferocious. As she drew closer, she summoned a wall master from behind him. The flying fist struck Destroyer in the back of the head. As he was off balance, if only for one second, Leere drew in close enough to make a clean cut across his chest. The plasma of the scythe burned incredibly well against her opponents’ skin.

Plink, plink, plink... a few scales scattered across the tile, sounding like falling coins. Following another cut, flesh fell with a wet plump on the floor. Yet, the Destroyer was hardly fazed. While effective, he simply stood upright, his body healing. The God could push through any pain, for he had no fear of feeling it. It seemed he possessed that same ability to heal his host, just like Prama did for Bonegrinder. Both of the brothers refused to let their host die until their work was complete. "Didn't your mother teach you any of her wisdom?" Destroyer sneered at the princess with a sinister grin. "In battle, aiming for the head is the most affective move... yet, here, that wouldn’t help you anyway." With his giant wings, Destroyer gave a mighty 'whoosh' of wind and knocked Leere backwards, before purposely grabbing the burning scythe right on under the blade, spinning her around with it, and slamming her down three times against the tile floor.

Leere felt her head spin and blood spurt from her mouth. He was just like her brother. She doubted that even if she had a bomb, she could kill him. Klinge couldn’t do the same to Bonegrinder. So that left Leere with one option. The one thing she knew that she could affect Bonegrinder with, so maybe it could work against this prick. Blood magic. Grabbing his arm, she immediately started to leech him best she could. “Die you Bastard.”

"Ah... blood magic. One useful thing that I managed to pull from the discarded shadows of my brother." Destroyer's movements were suddenly slowed, fighting against her control. "Unlike you, though, 'tiny princess'... I am not alone."

“You are the one alone. You’re a pathetic pile of death worshiping garbage! What’s the matter? Scared of dying? Like all of the people you want to erase?”

Both hands of hers reached up to squeeze up around his neck. She had to focus. Even if it meant sacrificing her life, she’d snuff the life out of him.

"Heh, the Goddess Zarazu would love it if I did worship her but she has the God Ba'puu to do that." As Leere reached for his throat, he then said, "You can try to kill me, it won't work... though, I'd be more concerned about Tzitzimime.I think he has something of yours."

“...What?”

Suddenly, a tentacle with a blade tip stabbed from behind Leere and through her stomach. It wouldn’t kill her, but it was enough to stop her concentration on the Destroyer. Now that her hands dropped to her side, he could clamp his own around her throat. The Shadow Man whispered behind Leere, planting a finger on the back of her head. He drained her of magic, leaving her powerless. “Take her. The ritual will begin with her suffering and torment.”

Leere’s mind went fuzzy, and her body fell into the arms of the Destroyer as if she was some poor roofied girl. “N-no. Bonegrinder....” The Shadow Man grabbed her scythe, impressed by its build. “Think I’ll keep this. Top of the tower. The little meat bags are waiting for you to put her in place.”

"Now, now, why are you calling for the host of my brother?" Destroyer asked the princess with a snide chuckle. "After all, he tried to warn you and you wouldn't listen. We can sense each other, you see, 'tiny princess'. He desperately wanted to save you, but now... he's as trapped as you are." When the chaotic deity gave his order, Destroyer unfurled those huge wings and started to fly to the top of the tower. "You should have listened to him while you had the chance."

~

The section of tower Bonegrinder and Black found themselves in was eerie. The hallways were slimy, with hard black walls that were very nest like, as if they were shrunk down to a wasp’s catacomb. This flesh was growing over what used to be a metal hallway. The only light sources were windows still uncovered, moonlight still peaking in.

Black was sure that Bonegrinder would be furious with him for not choosing to go to Leere. Yet, the woman made her choice. She wanted to try to save some of these already damned souls. Personally, Black was beginning to question her sanity as well. True, Bonegrinder had his moments, but at least he admitted he was somewhat insane, mainly due to two souls sharing one body. Leere was... something else. Fortunately, Bonegrinder was still alive and well, but... out of his rational state of thought, mumbling to himself. The Wraith was certain he could hear Prama's whisperings, trying to help the Anagari get a grip but failing to do so. What the Wraith did not know was what Bonegrinder was seeing... the corpses of his family.

In the not too far distance, someone stumbled out of a door. A Mortuus cultist, walked a few steps forward, until finally his top half fell backwards as his legs fell forward. Something had cut him in half on the other side of the door.

"Bonegrinder, you need to come with me." Black had knelt down beside of the Anagari, trying to get his attention. "Leere will require our aid if... she's not already dead, but we need to get out of here. Destroyer is very close and... I believe that Tzitzmime is as well."

Bonegrinder did not even hear Black. All he heard was the words of his deceased family. His daughter with her birdsongs. His son requesting to go hunting. And his beautiful wife... his Brightscales, as he once called her... was asking why.

Voices whispered out to Black, as if the tower itself was taunting him. ”You can’t save her. She’ll make us whole.”

The Tower of Death could feel its purpose about to be realized. The walls had glow of red go up and down its walls. Suddenly, the corpse that was collapsed not too far away quickly mutated into one of the ghouls seen before. Hissing, it sniffed the air, until it saw Black and Bonegrinder. Angrily, it clawed its way back into the way it came, as if wanting to escape them.

THWACK!!!

Black cut off the head of the ghoul quickly, so it would not go and find friends to bring back later. Prama, meanwhile, was fighting like mad to Bonegrinder. Between all the suffocating darkness and using much of his magical excess to heal the Anagari, the deity was struggling.

"You big, fat, lump of flesh, get your scaley ass moving! Modoc!!! Move it!!! Leere needs you!!! Black needs---oh thank me, he's here."

Black tried again, moving the Anagari's head to look at him. "Bonegrinder, come on, you can't let old ghosts haunt you! What happened back then was not your fault!!!"

Behind the door, Black could hear someone hacking apart more ghouls.

"...? Hades? Is that you?"

No answer. Just droplets hitting the ground. Followed by a thick splat.

On the other side, Bi-Hanzo was still trapped within his own personal hell. He learned the “truth”. He could see it with his own eyes. And it was all so, so terrible. Grasping a map off a wall, he was reading it carefully. As one last remaining ghoul grabbed his leg, he lurched back. With a quick kick he knocked its head right out the door.

"... Hanzo?" Black did not expect the man to make it this far alive. While his magical talents were impressive, many others of the 'good' Mortuus had succumbed to these monsters.

Bi-Hanzo didn’t hear him, tearing papers off a wall and rummaging through them. “It’s all connected. They have every location of our villages down to the coordinates. Our bodies. They’ve been kidnapping and harvesting our bodies. For what? For this tower? For their precious gods?!!!” The man sounded unhinged.

"That's an easy answer, it's because these people are demented and Tzitzmime is their deity." Black was not in the mood for a mental breakdown at the moment. Once more, he tried to rouse his master. "Bonegrinder, please, we need to leave. This place is getting fouler by the minute and I am concerned for all of our sakes.”

When Black turned to go back to his master, he paid for his lack of human understanding. A massive block of ice encased his body from behind, and Bi-Hanzo brought his attention to Bonegrinder. “You. This is just as much your fault as Destroyah! You vile god of creation.”

"....!!!" Black was not expecting for Hanzo to turn on him. The ice trapped his movements momentarily, but he was able to slip his physical form into the shadows to break free. Before Hanzo could touch the Anagari with his magic, Black had shot out from behind the man, getting him in a headlock. He held a blade at Hanzo's throat. "Try that again, and it will be your head rolling."

Bi-Hanzo had more then enough time with Black’s threat to turn into mist, and phase through him. Solidifying behind him, he thrust his arm forward, using physical contact to steam Black’s body to a boiling point. As the Wraith swiped at him, Bi-Hanzo broke off. Taking a stance, the guardian was ready to kill. “No. I will take yours.”

Black underestimated exactly how much magical knowledge Hanzo had. He yelled when the steam scorched his skin and leapt backward from the Mortuus. This man was trouble. He should have killed him earlier.

"I've lived lifetimes. You're a child compared to me." Black growled at the Mortuus. "You will not touch my master."

“I’ve killed plenty of undead and mad Echidnans. You’ll be no different.” Cooling the air, Bi-Hanzo fired off large icicles at Black, but in the direction of Bonegrinder.

"I'm not an undead and I'm not an Echidnan. Not fully, at least, of either..." The Wraith managed to deflect the shards of ice and kept a defensive stance. Nothing would harm Bonegrinder, not while he could still roam this earth. He stomped one foot to the ground, causing the shadows to shift underneath Hanzo, latching onto the man. "You won't win."

“I’ll kill you both! You’re a follower of the fallen god Proxamus! He only creates suffering!” Struggling off the shadows, Bi-Hanzo froze the floor underneath them. Slamming his fist on the ground, more bladed icicles shot upwards to stab into both Black and his master.

Black reacted quickly enough to swallow Bonegrinder in the shadows and spit him out, but did not possess the energy to avoid the ice spikes the same way. He managed dodge most of them, but was still sliced by the frost. The Wraith was done with this nonsense. Maneuvering through the ice, he blinded Hanzo with one of his flash bombs before sinking the sword into the man's heart. "I serve no one but Bonegrinder."

Once again, on instinct of being blinded, Bi-Hanzo turned himself in a mist form. If he could see an attack coming, he could avoid the damage. Stepping away from Black, he rubbed his eyes as he solidified. “You serve the God of Creation trapped in flesh. He could save my people, but he only cares for himself! Kenshi. Lang. All the others. I will avenge them!!!”

Ranting, Bi-Hanzo kept put up a solid wall of ice between himself and his targets. Only in his mental struggle, their were a few openings now. Suddenly, as if a spell ended over him, he gripped his head. The image of Black and Bonegrinder was groggy behind the ice. “... Wait. What’s going on? My head....”

Black saw that Hanzo was distracted. He took this as a chance to strike. Throwing his dagger at the man, the Wraith hit Hanzo right between the eyes.

Black gasped, stumbling backwards. The dagger didn’t pierce enough to kill him outright, unable to reach his brain. But none the less he screamed. “W-what are you doing?!?!”

"You attacked my master and myself, I should be asking you, you damn idiot!"

Parts of his body were solidified, others were misty, such as his head. It didn’t look like he’d last long. “I what? Oh god. Oh god not yet.” The ice wall broke apart, starting to turn into vapour, another sign of Bi-Hanzo dying. “Where’s the sage?”

"If I knew that, why the hell would I tell you?" Black stood over Bonegrinder, hoping the snake would be rousing soon from his nightmares.

“She was right.” Bi-Hanzo’s breakdown was starting to come back to the man. Pointing at a map in the room over, he breathed heavily. The knife had fallen out when his head turned to mist, but the blood was still pouring down his face. “There’s a map with our villages. If you gave a damn, you could save them before...” His eyes slowly widen, as if he came across something truly horrible. “Oh no. They have her. Spirits save us. Can you hear them? Taunting us? They have her.”

"You are wrong in assuming that I would care about the people who once hurt the only person who gave a damn to help me." Black watched as Hanzo started to fade into nothing. "It's hard to feel guilt in this state. If you're worried about the Shadow Sage, then pray to your fallen god to save her. Or for a miracle. I'm no god."

“Please. You must.”

Suddenly, from the darkness, a monster as large as Hades stepped out behind Bi-Hanzo. It was a creature with a head of six bulbs for eyes, legs as thick as tree trunks, and six clawed arms protruding from its body. To be blunt, it was the most alien looking thing Black had ever seen. The man turned to it, in an almost suicidal trance. “An Angel...”

It looked like he was about to hug it. That was when the Abomination stabbed into his body, it’s arms sharper than any blade Black held on him. Bi-Hanzo was shredded as if he was simply a pig for the slaughterhouse. This would be a good moment to run.

"...!!!" Black stilled, feeling a sense of absolute dread wash over his being. How could he fight this... this thing? It was not a creature he knew how to kill. Was it a hellspawn? It had to be; he knew of nothing else it could be.

"... Modoc..." The Wraith muttered under his breath, eyes wide and trying not to make any sudden movements to agitate the monster further. "Wake the fuck up or we're both going to get eaten."

Inside of Bonegrinder's head, the Anagari floated in a void. He had withdrawn from his physical surroundings and was trapped inside of his own mind. There, Prama was suspended in front of him, in all of his glory. The Maker, the creator of all light and creatures of it, tried to console, Bonegrinder. "You cannot give up yet, Modoc. There is still much to do and to be done."

"He is so tired, Prama, so tired. Please, please let him sleep the eternal rest and be with his family again. Let him die."

"And what of your precious friends? The ones you call your 'children' and look after?"

"They will all be fine."

"What of Leere?"

"The tiny princess no longer listens to him. She will not listen now."

"She is in danger. Will you not help her?"

"How can he now?" The Anagari looked so defeated. "If he goes, you will be at risk. Without you, the world will descend into madness. If he stays away, Chaos could become whole sooner yet either way, the prophecy will be fulfilled."

"If Chaos forms into a whole from a fragment, then everything could be lost. This world, myself, and Kaksa. I do not want to risk her... would you want to risk your beloved Brightscales?"

The Anagari's eyes narrowed. "Don't call her that. That is his name he gave her, reserved for him to call her alone."

"Would you?"

"... no. He would not. He could not imagine it."

"Then you need to wake up and go."

The Abomination made no hiss, no scream, no roar like any of the ghouls or cultists in the tower. It simply strolled up to Black calmly to tear him piece to piece.

Black stood his ground, ready to fight... yet before he could, Bonegrinder's massive tail thwacked the Hellspawn away from the Wraith. Surprised, the Wraith did not expect the Anagari to recover so soon. "...?! Bonegrinder?! Are you---"

"He will be fine. We must find Leere. We've not the time to deal with this thing."

The Abomination cracked its neck back into place as it picked itself up from the ground. With the pace of a silent killer, it kept walking at a modest speed towards them, all its limbs ready to grab the next tail or person that drew too close.

"Do you have enough reserve to use your shadows to move us to her?"

"That... would be a stretch. But I will try."

"Then do so."

With that... the two disappeared from the shadows.

The Abomination nearly missed grabbing them. No matter. The Tower of Death had a mind of its own. It had to keep Bonegrinder and Black away from Leere. And it would send its Angel in the right direction to catch them once more. Nothing good would escape this hell.

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