#the uniform is too small for someone who is built like a brick

[tendafoot]

im living for scoops billy btw. you guys are geniuses

[deductionscholar]

Clothes: WEAR AND TEAR

The wear and tear on clothes comes in many wondrous and diverse ways. Though there are all these different ways for them to appear, the simple approach of noting on what item they appear and few simple deductions about the person they 179 are on, will clue you in every time to its origin. Another potent principal about clothes (and one that isn't often spoken about) is the crease marks that are prevalent and what they mean.

Now then, there is no particular stand out approach or tell tale signs that allow you to predict the identity of stains as they can come from anywhere. So with stains in mind (by this I mean anything that falls on to the clothes and marks it in any way) the way to ascertain its provenance is to look at the placement of the mark itself. For example, a mustard stain on the shoulder of a polo shirt is simply that. Until you look at the fact that mustard can only get onto the shoulder in a small number of ways, which would in essence come down to either falling from a higher level or placed there by someone else. Now as this hypothetical stain is quite small and collected only around the shoulder, this rules out the possibility of it coming from a higher shelf/location. Polo shirts are a popular work shirt of choice for fast food industries so the most likely outcome of a friendly altercation with food at their place of work.

Stains by themselves are not the tell tale sign but in conjunction with the clothes and then cross referenced with the placement add up to what has happened. White liquid stains that are dripped down the back of the shoulders of most clothes, is suggestive of new parents attempting to 'burp' their child. Mud stains on the boots are a normal sign for boots, but when they appear on the cuffs of shirts and knees they tell an entirely different tale of falls and trouble. Make yourself aware of uniforms and their details, and the amount and placement of the stain that appears as well. Bleach marks always appear in a contradictory colour to the clothing and frequently are a shade of orange. Dependent upon the style of clothing you will see them on, it will point you in the direction of cleaning clothes, sweats/house clothes or unknown accidents that have happened.

This forms part of the foundation of sound analytical reasoning and using the excessive knowledge base that you have built up in the recesses of your memory palace.

"Data! Data! Data!" he cried impatiently. "I can't make bricks without clay." Sherlock Holmes -The Adventure of the Copper Beeches 1892 The clay being the placement, amount and clothing, and the bricks being the end result. Now, wear and tear in the form of scratches, rips and other such holes follow the same approach. Pockets and misplaced buttons are always the first thing to go. Pockets get caught in desks and on tabletops, buttons fall off after excessive use and stress to the threads.

The first real tell here is the ferocity with which the hole has appeared. The threads that hold the material together will either fray or come apart naturally. The fraying of the thread implies force, which will suggest accidents and mistakes, linking to stressful days or scuffles. Naturally, this implies things like weak thread and cheaply made clothes and excessive use. So let me cite a few examples here to further prove that with the right clay you too can make bricks.

Example 1: Man in a suit but no blazer. You see in his car he is looking off into the distance with suffused lacrament glands.

Slight tear to the left shirt pocket and the shirt is slightly untucked on one side.

The Brick: Suggestive of a man who comes from money, vacant stares are indicative of an emotional response to stress and fear with a hint of a sadness. Add the visible tears to the clothing and the disheveled look suggests domestic scuffle.

Most likely cause is a spousal affair.

[alrightberries]

our sorry little hearts

❈ pairing: levi ackerman x fem!reader

❈ genre: angst. ❈ word count: 1.6k

❈ summary: Levi hasn’t seen your traitorous Eldian face in years.

❈ trigger warnings: profanity. war. mentions of blood, death, and violence.

a/n: you’ve heard of enemies to lovers, now get ready for... lovers to enemies. this takes place during the liberio invasion aka S4 E6. based on a love like war by all time low.

(also don’t tell anyone but this is me lowkey warming up after not writing for so long)

There’s something oddly nostalgic about seeing you again on the battlefield.

Levi recognizes your usual battle stance; feet a shoulder’s width apart and hands tightly clutching the handles of your sheathed blades. You’re wearing the scouting regiment’s outdated white uniform, green cape hiding the leather straps your missing brown jacket usually would. He’s not surprised you’re not wearing your wings of freedom jacket, though; he was, after all, the one who sliced it in half during your escape with Zeke on the Cart Titan’s back. He hasn’t seen it, but he’s positive that a long scar runs down the length of your spine.

“Levi,” he hears you murmur, and he pretends that his heart doesn’t ache after hearing his name slip from your lips for the first time in four years. “I—... Levi,”

He feels his chest tighten. You still look as beautiful as he remembers you to be, and the fact that you still take his breath away is something he hates. It’s been a long while since he last stood on a battlefield with you. Only this time, there were no trees to swing from or titans to kill; no reassuring squeezes on the shoulder or cheeky kisses when no one was looking; no small smiles or stolen glances across the field as your horses galloped through Titan Country. No— this time, you wore different colors and fought on opposing sides.

“Levi, talk to me,” your tone is airy, said in what seemed to be a mixture of built up anticipation and disbelief. But there was something in your voice— something he couldn’t quite place. Was it relief? Longing, perhaps? Maybe even regret. But Levi pushes those thoughts aside in favor of gritting his teeth and giving his traitorous wife a stone cold stare. “Levi, talk to me, please.”

He refuses to reply. His hands are shaking from how hard he was gripping the handles of his blades, and he swears his heart was going to burst out of his untrimmed chest from how loudly it beat at his ribcage. There are about a million and one emotions swirling around his head— betrayal. anger. sadness. melancholy.

And he doesn’t know which one takes over him when he charges at you full speed.

There’s a grunt followed by the sound of metal clashing against metal, and Levi’s not surprised to see that your reflexes are still as sharp as they were before. His own cape whips in the wind when he turns to land another strike. But then he hears sound of your hooks digging into bricks, and he’s quick to take your little fight to the air in pursuit of you.

He knows he has to be at the plaza to save Eren’s ass but he also knows that he had at least seven minutes before he had to go. He’ll make this quick.

“Levi,” he hears you call out. You’ve led him further away from the plaza— maybe intentionally or unintentionally, he doesn’t know— and he’s only now realizing that you both stood on the side of a building, the hooks on your gears the only thing keeping you up. “My love—-”

“—don’t call me that,” his heart twitches and he sneers. It’s the first thing he’s said to you in years and god did you miss his voice, miss him in general. “Don’t you fucking dare call me that,”

“Levi,” you breathe, but the deep growl that escapes his lips is enough for your words to die in your throat.

“Stop,” he says. “You’ve lost the right to speak my name; you’ve lost the right to wear that cape,” his eyes land on the silver chain you wore around your neck, a gold ring hanging in the middle. It matched the one he had back home, the one he secretly held at night and kissed sorrowfully when he felt like breaking down. His voice is quieter, almost pained as he speaks, “you’ve lost the right to wear that ring. You’ve lost the right to even look me in the eye after what you’ve done.”

His words sting and your throat tightens when you once again remember the look of pure and utter betrayal in his eyes when you confessed you were a spy on behalf of the Marleyan government. The way he froze, hoping you were lying; yet the tears running down your cheeks and the apologies that slipped from your lips as you got down on your knees and begged him for forgiveness left no room for contest.

“Levi, we don’t have to fight, please just hear me out. I’m still the wife you loved—-“

“No,” he cuts you off. “My wife is gone. She died in the battle for Shiganshina.” your lip quivers, and he continues to speak. “You? You’re an enemy. You’re as good as dead to me.”

Your words once again die on your tongue when he charges at you, and you just barely manage to leap away. The edge of his blade scrapes against your thigh, and blood paints your trousers red when your feet land on the cobblestone streets.

Every attempt you make after, any attempts at conversation is silenced with a swift swing of Levi’s blades, almost as if he were seeking catharsis through violence.

You grit your teeth. “You’re never going to listen to me, are you?”

His silence and steely glare is all the answer you need, and you sigh. Your stance shifts, and the grip on your blades changes; you were finally taking an offensive stance, Levi notices. Blocking his blows wouldn’t be enough— you couldn’t reason with him no matter how hard you tried, and you couldn’t win with just defense. You had to outsmart him; you had to win. You had to.

“I’m sorry, levi, but losing isn’t an option for me. Not this time,” you murmur.

You didn’t want to fight him, he could see it in your eyes. But you were fighting for something, for someone more important than him. Your eyes— the first things he fell in love with, the ones that were usually fiery and full of life— are soulless, almost solemn when he sees you run at him full speed, and Levi pushes down the hurt he felt at the thought of you loving another as he charges at you too.

A tear silently falls down your cheek. You loved levi, but you loved him more. You were fighting for him, and he was waiting for you back at home.

There’s a grey little building in the Liberio Intermittent Zone, somewhere between the gates and the plaza. The gunshots and explosions just barely reach the drab building, and the smoke rising into the air is the only thing visible to the naked eye of the chaos unfolding at the plaza.

A Marleyan soldier, donned in white and war medals, stands in front of an open window. She’s got binoculars in her hands, and she peeks through the eye piece to watch as two figures fight. Their capes create shadows of black where they flutter, and their silver blades gleam in the moonlight.

She smirks. Your negotiation failed, just like she said it would, and now you had no choice but to fight to the death.

Good, she thinks, that Eldian scum’s doing her end of the bargain.

She leans back and a satisfied hum leaves her lips. She turns to look at the little boy, no more than four years old, sat on the bed. The red Eldian arm band clasped around his arm brings a grimace to the soldier’s face. She can’t believe she got stuck with babysitting some lowlife scum.

“Is mommy doing well?” he asks timidly. He doesn’t even know that you were out there about to murder a man, but the kid was smart; he at least knew your job carried a heavy weight.

“For now,” she replies. The boy’s jet black hair bounces slightly as he nods, and his slanted eyes are downcast, staring at the floor. His silvery grey orbs dare not make contact with hers.

The boy looked almost nothing like you— if anything, she was sure he looked to be the spitting image of his unknown father. Strong genes, the father must’ve had.

She finds amusement in how tense the boy was around her; at least his whore of a mother had the decency to teach the kid his place in the world. He was worse than an Eldian, the lowest of the low— he was half Paradis demon. He should’ve never been born. They should’ve beaten you to death along with your unborn child like she’d suggested when you came back from Paradis knocked up.

“You can kill me, but spare my baby, please.” she remembers you begging. “I didn’t even know i was pregnant. Not even the father knows.”

Still, maybe it was a good choice to keep both you and the demon child alive. As much as she hated to admit it, you were a skilled soldier— one of the best they’ve ever had. Threatening your life meant nothing to you, but threatening your child’s? All they had to do was suggest it, and you’d follow their commands like an obedient dog chasing after a dangling treat.

“When’s mommy going to come home?” the boy suddenly asks.

“Soon,” she replies, eyes once again gazing through her binoculars. “If your mother does her job well, she’ll be back soon.” There’s a telephone beside the soldier, ready to make the call should you ever stop fighting. A sniper awaits her signal.

“If she doesn’t... well,” she laughs. The door to the small room you called home is locked, and the loaded gun hidden in the soldier’s pocket is a weight she’s familiar with. “Do you believe in god?”

“No,” the boy shakes his head. “Who’s that?”

“Tell you what, kid. if your mother fucks this up, i’ll personally see to it that you meet him soon enough.”

alrightberries © 2020. do not modify or repost.

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[jessiebanethedragon]

White Sands Warm The Cold Sea (pt 11)

Summary: the reader, betrothed to a disgusting Coruscanti Lord flees her home world and lands herself in a plethora of trouble, a ship of clones, and one pirate captain whose cold exterior needs much more than the tropical seaside sun.

Chapter one

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter four

Chapter five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter ten

Warnings: Swearing, takes place in time periods where women have dowery's and suchlike. The readers' dad and betrothed are asses.

Chapter eleven: The Fires of Kashyyyk

It was supposed to be so easy, the mission was so effortless all members of Clone Force 99 had grumbled about it being assigned to them.

Why the jedi were wasting resources maintaining the hold on the forests of Kashyyyk was a mystery. The separatists were in retreat according to recent intel and if they kept pushing them to the opposite coast there wouldn't be a reason to evacuate.

Not to mention that Wookies were stubborn as banthas and trying to talk them into leaving their homes was difficult even without having to go through brain numbing translator droids.

Hunter had felt the rumbling of artillery machinery before he or anyone else could’ve heard it. But even with his enhanced senses, there simply was not enough time to get to safety before the barrage started. It was cruelly timed, and maliciously targeted. Taking out the bridge that connected the schoolhouse to the rest of the community. Before lazily picking off those who tried to escape or reach their children.

“Get back to the ship!” Hunter all but screams at Crosshair, Wrecker and Tech. It is as if on cue that the heavens open up to send rain down in massive quantities. And what isn't on fire becomes mush under his feet.

“We ain't leaving you.” Wrecker calls as droids begin their assault.

“Get back to the ship-”

“Hunter…” Tech starts

“THAT'S AN ORDER” Hunter screams when the trees catch fire, from artillery or the lightning he cannot tell. He tries to dig his boots into the mud, but the wetter it gets the less traction there is. As the sky darkens, the separatists cut all power to the city.

Crosshair meets Hunter’s eyes and with a single nod the sniper yanks his brothers towards the Havoc Marauder. With one hand tight on his viroblade, and the other on the barrel of his blaster, Hunter takes off towards the school.

It’s a mess of rain, mud, and fire. He loses count of how many times his feet slip, and by the time he reaches the bridge to the school, Hunter is the only person left standing. Injured Wookies groan in the mud and when he calls into his com for medics an abandoned crackle replies to him. No one is coming to their aid, the separatists had them trapped.

Hunter can feel the young Wookies cry for help, his enhanced senses feel the wails in his bones.

The last bridge suspends itself precariously in the wind, and the thunder, or cannons, he can’t tell which, shake the ground. The schoolhouse sits in the strongest tree of the Kashyyykian woods. Like ewoks they live happily away from the ground, even the built up mud rests on wooden slats and clay bricks. The circular building cuts into the tree itself, housing the young ones protectively. The sturdy bridge sits unyielding in the storm. And by the time Hunter reaches the schoolhouse, he has to kick aside the steaming droids that lay in his wake. Soft calls of Wookies spur him on, but with the cut of electricity, the door doesn't budge, wedging his vibroblade where the latch meets the wall it cracks open, only to slam shut again as he dodges a blaster bolt from behind him.

More droids hit the wood with a resounding thunk.

And with his whole body weight thrown in between the wall and the door Hunter gets it open. And like a stream of water the kids run out and across the bridge towards the beach. One stays and calls to him while pointing back inside. And his rusty Shyriiwook understands there's someone else still trapped. Ripping off his helmet, he wedges that between the door and the latch to keep it open.

Inside the school house it’s dark, satchels and materials lay strewn about, and focusing himself, Hunter hears a faint call.

“scrascra, akraakra!” The child calls for his parents. “acwoanak cooscwooowhwo akanworacwo acwoanak!”

help someone please help!

Hunter has never moved faster in his life. And he finds the fawn coloured Wookie in the last room with their wrist caught under a fallen durasteel beem. Legs kicking feebly as they try to right themselves.

“It’s okay.” Hunter tells them. “I��m here to save you.” and with one arm under the shoulder blades of the child and the other yanking on the beam he lifts.

The small fuzzy child clings to him for dear life as they are freed. And even more so when another shell makes contact with the building.

Making his way back through the rounded hallways he shields the child from the dropping cracks in the wood. As he rounds the last corner, there is a man in an unmistakable separatist uniform looking down at the helmet that has allowed his entrance into the school house.

He’s young, too young to be wearing the general uniform that sits on angry shoulders. But the chopped hair and figure matches with legends and ghost stories that regular clones insist on repeating.

Volim Nython turns towards Hunter and the child with a sick grin. With a disgusting click and slurp of his tongue and mouth, he spits on the once pristine floor.

“I would suppose I have you to thank for the disappearance of my bartering tools.” He comments. Watching as the clone in front of him tightens his grip on the Wookie child.

“Children are not bartering tools.” He seethes.

“Of course they are, and I should commend your efficacy of dismantling the droids, but I'm guessing from the armour you’re no average clone.” If Nython was one thing, he was smart, wickedly so. Hunter braces himself as another bomb shakes the building.

“General, we’ve pushed the republic forces onto the beach, awaiting your order.” The comlink sparks to life.

“Pull back,” He says calmly, turning away from Hunter. “But torch the forest, I don't want anyone left.”

“Rodger rodger.” Comes the reply and Hunter hears the shells fire at an even faster pace now.

“Lovely meeting you.” Nython says, pulling a flame detonator from his pocket. “Tell me, was it worth it? Giving those kids the illusion of salvation for what? A few moments?” Hunter's jaw twitches in anger.

“I guess not then.” The monster says dropping the detonator and calmly sliding through the gap in the door, watching the clone dash into cover as the tree lights up. And he waits just long enough to see the tattooed man pick himself and the kid up again. He wants to look in the clone's eye, through the flames, when he leans down to pick the helmet up. And he wants to hear the man scream through the storm when the door slides shut.

Tags: @the-mandalorian-clone-lover @peacefulwizardfox @rex-meshla @s1st37 @and-claudia @kamino-mermaid @thelambandthewolffe @starwarsmeninhelmets

@bronvin @myeternalsin @sweetsunflowerkisses @loverofclones @beizm @gunsmoke-blu

@logina6 @wondergal2001 @lafy-taffy @lafy-taffy @m-o-o-n-s-g-o-o-n-s

@starskenobiwan @lordellbell @kaetavlos @violetjedisylveon @​​vergol @Lackofhonor

[psychovigilantewrites]

Don’t Call Me That (pt. 1)

Pairing: Jason Todd/Reader

Genre: Aftermath of torture, healing, and sex in later chapter hehe

Word count: 9000

Summary:  The new Robin and Batman stumble upon a cell in Arkham Asylum that was occupied by a very much injured, and very much still alive Jason Todd. Bringing him back, Bruce realises that Jason is unstable and keeps him locked in a room in the mean time. Reader helps Jason get used to being around another human being once more, and finds herself falling deeply with the damaged Jason.

A/N:  This was meant to be a one-shot, but I realised that it's a bit too long, so I'm splitting it into two chapters. Here's whatever I wrote so far. Psst, the sex will come later! I think this has got to be the most favourite one-shot I’ve written so far!! I’m addicted to this story, and I hope you guys will like it too! Let me know!

Masterlist

Kofi

Ao3

The light was getting dimmer and dimmer the further you strayed from the main building. The walls cracked, wallpaper peeling back to reveal brick and concrete. The air was getting thin, and the smell.

Rat piss, sewage, and that suffocating damp humid smell that reminded you of dirty laundry- except it filled the whole Old Wing of Arkham Asylum.

“Do youreally think the security breach was sourced from here, Batman?” you voiced out your doubts.

He was walking next to you, his steps hardly making a sound. “We need to make sure. Half of the East Wing’s cells were suddenly opened automatically. There is a main powerframe in the Old Wing that someone could have damaged.”

“Someone, as in..?”

“Not sure. Joker has been in his cell for the past 19 months since he broke out two years ago.”

You ignored the way his voice cracked at the end.

Two years ago, before you were involved with Bruce Wayne and his fight for justice, Joker had broken free, got hold of Jason Todd, your predecessor whom you had never met, kidnapped him, tortured him, and then killed him. After sending a video tape of his Todd’s death to Bruce, he went and created a drug that made people go crazy and kill each other. Bruce caught him then, broke half the bones in his body, and then threw him back in the asylum.

“Why did they stop using this wing?” you asked, your voice echoing back to you.

The two of you were walking down a corridor, with cells on either side. Each cell had a metal door with a rectangular slot at the top of the door to peek inside and another longer slot in the middle for passing inmates food. Some of the doors were opened ajar, nothing inside but old beds and overflowing toilet bowls, some were locked shut.

Your heart was racing. It was like you were in a horror movie. You stepped over the empty gas canisters and toilet paper that was strewn all over the floor of the corridor, walking around a rusty old wheelchair and made sure to follow Batman closely.

“Abandoned when a riot broke out five years ago,” he answered, “Something about hauntings.”

“Hauntings?” you widen your eyes.

“These are superstitious folk,” he explained, “The riot took a dozen lives. Violently. Some nurses got tortured. Rumour has it that this wing is haunted.”

“I don’t believe in ghosts,” you declared, though you felt chills run down your spine anyway.

“Indeed. Some of the security guards say they’ve heard screams coming from here. None dared to approach.”

“Screams? Please, I’m sure it’s just the-”

A crash came from one of the cells. You jumped so violently in shock that you tripped over a catheter on the ground. You and Batman looked at each other for one second, and then he raised his finger to his lips, making sure you kept quiet.

Nodding, you followed behind him as he investigated the cell the sound came from. He slid open the viewing window of the door, and despite the darkness you saw his expression twist to one you’ve never seen before.

Horror.

He took out a small explosive from his belt and attached it to the door. A small boom, and the door swung open. Batman rushed inside, and you were hit with the worst smell you’ve ever experienced. It made you gag, your eyes tearing up.

It smelled of blood and human feces and urine, and something that was decomposing, like the big trash bins lined up behind one of those dank alleys, overflowing with a week’s worth of disposal.

The cell was bigger than the others, and it didn’t have a bed. Only a toilet and a wooden chair that was toppled. Batman was next to the chair, kneeling on the ground over something, unmoving, as if frozen in spot, his back turned to you.

“B?” you whispered, “What is this place?”

There were scratches on the walls, some in blood. Little bones were tossed in a corner, lying in what looked- and smelled- like dry vomit.

You walked over to him, slowly approaching with caution. As you got nearer, your vision became clearer.

He was kneeling over an unconscious man wearing your Robin uniform.

Now, it was your turn to be horrified.

The uniform was tattered, cape dirty and stained with bodily fluids. The man?

Scars and dried blood littered his face and arms, his dark hair matted and sticky. He was obviously large, his frame almost as big as Bruce’s, yet you could see that he was malnourished, his cheeks slightly hollowed, his skin hanging loosely over the remains of his muscles.

And he was still breathing.

***

Alfred, Bruce, and you stared in silence at the man on the bed, now clean and hooked to an IV. None of you had said a word since you got back. Alfred was rigid the whole time he cleaned and examined him, with Bruce shadowing him closeby. You could do nothing but stand back, waiting for an explanation.

Now you were in the infirmary, the steady beat of vital signs machinery annoyed you.

“How is he alive?” Alfred broke the tension with a small whisper.

“There were small animal bones in his cell,” Bruce said with a strained voice. You knew he was doing his all to keep it together.

“Goodness,” Alfred responded, “But- the video-”

“Must have been a fake,” Bruce said, his voice now cracking, “I should have known. I should have- I- oh, God.”

Without warning, Bruce crumpled to his feet. You have never seen him like this. He was always strong, stoic, and he never let his emotions show.

The sight of him burying his face in his hands in anguish- it scared you.

“It’s not your fault, Master Bruce,” Alfred put a hand on his shoulder, “You couldn’t have-”

A grunt came from Jason Todd as he stirred awake. All three of you snapped your heads to him. You saw the way he opened his eyes, blinking at his surroundings as he tried to register where he was. Bruce rushed to his side.

That was his mistake.

Jason Todd started screaming.

“STAY AWAY FROM ME!” he roared, sitting up and crawling out of bed, ripping the IV from his hand.

“Jason-”

“NO!” he yelled, “YOU’RE NOT REAL. STAY AWAY!”

His voice was deep and hoarse, like someone who had been screaming his whole life.

“Jason, it’s me,” Bruce tried to slowly approach him. He was on his feet now, though he stumbled getting there. His expression was wild, his mouth downturned into a scowl, his eyes darting from Bruce, to Alfred, to you, to the bed, to the whole room, like a wild animal cornered.

“This is real?” he growled a question.

“Yes, son,” Bruce assured, “This is real. We found you. Please, lie back down. You’re hurt.”

“You’re… real?” his voice broke halfway.

“Yes, I’m real,” Bruce’s voice was the same.

Then, Jason let out a laugh. A loud, haunting, hysterical laugh that was absent of humor.

“Good.”

He jumped at Bruce and tackled him to the ground, his fingers around Bruce’s neck. You reacted quickly, rushing over and kneeing him in the face so that he let go of your Bruce and stumbled backwards. He recovered quickly and set his eyes on you.

He proceeded to attack you, but before anything, Bruce had him restrained, wrestling him to the ground.

“Jason! Calm down!”

“NO!” he shouted, “NO! NO! IT’S YOUR FAULT. IT’S YOUR FUCKING FAULT. DIE! DIE!”

He trashed about with surprising power, trying to get Bruce off him. Bruce got his arm around Jason’s neck, and you saw him clawing at his arm, attempting to break free. The younger man’s movements got slower, weaker, as Bruce cut his oxygen supply and eventually knocked him out.

Bruce carried his son to the bed.

“Alfred, please sedate him,” he instructed. “We’ll move him to the cell downstairs. He’s too unstable to be here.”

“Are you okay?” you reached out to your adoptive father.

“Yes,” he nodded, “He’s surprisingly strong.”

“He’s a survivor, Bruce,” you smiled at an attempt to comfort him, “I can’t imagine what he’s been through, but he’ll get through this.”

“I hope so.”

***

The cell Bruce had in the Batcave was less like a cell, and more like a room. It was a large square box with four walls and a roof on one side of the Cave, with high end security. It had double doors, each requiring a registered thumbprint to enter. Bruce had built it in case he needed to hold someone hostage there. The outer layer was made out of lead, and you wondered what had gone through Bruce’s mind when he added that feature. The cell even had a small bathroom with a shower, toilet, and a sink.

This time, though, he made sure the room with white interiors looked more comfortable for Jason. He put in a double single bed with fluffy sheets and pillows, a whole bookshelf full of classic literature, a cupboard, a desk and chair complete with a table lamp.

Jason was still sedated when all of you moved him to the cell. He had been sedated for a while so he wouldn’t wake up and rip off his IV. You helped lift him up, and found that he was heavy, heavier than you had expected him to be.

Then, Bruce went to the Batcomputer and switched on the security camera inside the cell and watched as he slowly regained consciousness and went all ballistic again. He toppled over the shelf, the chair, the desk. Threw the books around, ripped out the pages, punched the walls, and was screaming.

“Let me go!” “Fuck you!” “I’m going to fucking kill you!” were some amongst the many extremities he shouted at the camera.

And you watched as Bruce stared into the screen showing his broken, damaged son.

***

“He’s quiet,” you pointed out when you walked over to Bruce at the computers. It had been a week of watching Jason scream and thrash about in the room- which was a complete mess.

“Yes, he has been that way for a few hours now,” Bruce frowned.

You saw from the screen. Jason was just sitting down in one corner of the room, staring into space.

“Well, at least he didn’t throw the food down the toilet bowl this time,” you shrugged and sat down next to him. Alfred would bring a tray of warm soft foods and set it on the tray of the rectangular food delivery hole of the second, internal door.

Out of spite, Jason would take the food and throw it down the toilet before returning it empty. This time, you saw that it just sat there on the tray, untouched.

“I was thinking,” Bruce mentioned, “Of bringing in Dr. Leslie or Dinah. He is familiar with both of them. They could help with putting him on medication and giving him psychotherapy.”

“Yeah, for some reason,” you began, “I don’t think he’ll take that so well.”

“I… don’t know what to do.”

You stayed silent for a few moments. The past week, you saw Bruce in a light you had never seen before. Emotional, vulnerable, helpless. You appreciated that he trusted you enough to reveal that side of himself in front of you.

“Let him calm down a bit,” you suggested, “And maybe… Maybe I can help.”

“How?” he frowned.

“If you bring in Leslie or Dinah, he’ll know in an instant what you’re up to,” you explained. “And maybe it’s too soon for therapy. I think right now he just needs to get used to being around another human being.”

“Hmm,” Bruce considered, “Okay. We’ll go with your idea. How will you do it?”

Your heart swelled with joy. You loved it when he acknowledged you.

You waited a couple of days before trying it out. The whole while, Jason was just sitting down in his corner, silent and unmoving.

Nervously, you approached the first door on the external side of the box, pressing your thumb to the digital square on the wall and hearing it beep in approval. You opened the door and closed it behind you before approaching the second door.

You took a deep breath, felt for the taser on your belt, and then pressed your thumb on the second door.

The first thing you saw when you opened the door was Jason scrambling to his feet in surprise, his eyes vigilant. You lift both your hands up in surrender.

“Not here to hurt you,” you said slowly, “Just here to chill.”

He narrowed his eyes at you in suspicion.

To prove it to him, you sat down on the floor by the door, and took out your book. Heart beating in your chest, you tried to calmly open the book and stared intensely at the words, not reading anything.

In your peripheral vision, he just stood there, stiff and still like a statue, staring at you, analysing you. You had expected him to attack, but ten minutes passed, and he was still there.

Then-

“What do you want?” he croaked, voice harsh and gritty.

“Nothing,” you shrugged, eyes not leaving your book, “Just chilling.”

A momentary pause.

“Leave.”

“No,” you simply said, turning a page.

“Why are you here? Did he send you?” he demanded.

“No. I just want to read in silence, if you don’t mind,” you rolled your eyes.

You wished you could see his expression.

Another five minutes passed, and he didn’t say anything else, or do anything else, but stare at you in caution.

After an hour, you got up and left, leaving a very confused Jason Todd in his cell.

***

You continued that routine for the next three days without exchanging a word with Jason. He would just stand there and glare at you for an hour while you pretended to read. On the fourth day, however, there were more than just a few words exchanged.

“You again,” he growled at you as you entered.

“Hello,” you smiled warmly.

“What do you want from me?” he barked.

“Nothing,” you repeated, “I just want to-”

“Chill?” he cut you off, “I don’t fucking believe you. I don’t trust you. What is he planning? Is he trying to mock me?”

“Mock you?” you responded, taken aback, “Why would he do that?”

“Why wouldn’t he?” Jason grit, “He’s done worse. He just wants to see me suffer.”

“What?” you frowned, “No. He just wants to help you.”

“Well, he’s too late for that,” he spat.

“Look-”

“Get the fuck out. Don’t come back.”

“He thought you died,” you tried to explain, “Jok- He got sent a video. Of you getting shot. Dying. He didn’t know.”

“I don’t care,” he fumed.

“He loves you, Jason,” you said softly.

Then, a light flickered in his eye. “What did you call me?”

“Uh, Jas-”

You choked on your words when Jason suddenly had his hands around your neck, squeezing the air from your lungs. You didn’t have time to react, scratching away at his arm helplessly.

“Don’t call me that,” he growled.

You were going to reach for your taser, but then he let you go and went back to his corner. You sucked in a deep breath, eyes watering.

You ran out-

-and closed the door behind you to lean against it, trying to get your breath back.

“Are you okay?” Bruce worried, approaching you fast, “I’m sorry. I should have waited out here instead of at the computers.”

“I’m fine,” you panted, “He didn’t hurt me. Just scared me a bit, that’s all.”

“This was a bad idea,” he frowned, “We should stop-”

“No!” you hurriedly denied, “No. It was my fault. I didn’t know. I said his name. He didn’t like it and reacted to it, that’s all. I won’t say his name next time.”

“No, it’s too dangerous.”

“Bruce, please,” you insisted, “I want to help him. Please, let me continue.”

You looked at your father’s blue eyes, full of concern. “Okay.”

***

Despite the scare he gave you, you were ready to enter again the next day. There was something about Jason Todd that made you feel like you owed it to him to help. Maybe it was plain pity, or maybe it was the way that his eyes had a flicker of hope when he realised he wasn’t imagining things.

The digital screen beeped in approval as it registered your thumbprint, and you pushed open the door. Jason was already standing, muscles taut, ready to spring at the first sense of danger.

You didn’t say a word, but just smiled at him and sat down where you usually did, pushing over the fallen books and torn paper on the floor to create a little space for yourself.

Trying your best not to look nervous, you opened your book and stared at the words again.

“I didn’t think you’d come back,” he grit.

“Yeah, well. You’re going to have to try a lot harder if you want to get rid of me, my dude.”

“I’m not your dude,” he said in disgust.

You looked over to him and smirked. “Whatever you say.”

And you continued to pretend to read.

After several minutes, you heard a heavy sigh coming from Jason. Out of the corners of your eye, you saw him give up and slump back onto the ground, his knees up to his chest. He leaned his head back against the wardrobe and closed his eyes.

And for the first time in his presence, you found that you were actually reading.

***

You continued for a month. Entering and sitting down for a couple of hours to read before going back out. Sometimes with few exchanges of “Good morning” or “Miss me?”, mostly going unresponded. Sometimes he would sit down and glare at you, or stand up and glare at you, or sit down and rest his head and close his eyes. Always from a distance.

The first time you started picking up the books and rearranging them back onto the bookshelf, he looked like he was about to burst a vein in his temple.

“What the fuck are you doing?” he growled.

“I’m cleaning up,” you replied nonchalantly.

“Don’t.”

“What are you gonna do, choke me again?” you rolled your eyes.

You could almost hear him seething in his corner, vibrating in anger.

The next day you came back, the books were back on the floor, strewn everywhere.

But every time before you left, you would still rearrange them back.

Sometimes you would bring in food with you, simply leaving the tray on the desk. He did eat a little, but never when you were around, and never more than a few bites. He ate only to survive. In fact, the more you went to see him, the more you started to notice the little things.

His bed was unmade, the sheets pulled back and covers thrown about. But you knew he had never once slept in it. He never changed his clothes either. It had started to bother you, because he never showered, and his body odour was getting quite distinct.

His eyes were sunken and dark, his hair was greasy and messy, his facial hair overgrown. You wondered if Bruce left a razor in there for him. It was probably a bad idea.

One day while you were sitting down and reading, Jason was in his corner, curled up and eyes closed, Alfred entered the first door and slid in a tray of food from the compartment of the second door. You got up to take it, feeling Jason’s eyes on you as you walked. But instead of setting the tray on the desk like you usually did, you put it on the ground next to you as you sat and read again.

That day, the menu was pumpkin soup with toast. Alfred had always kept the food light and easy to digest. You picked up a piece of toast from the plate, dipped it in the soup, and ate it while reading.

“Are you eating my fucking food?” Jason fumed from the distance.

“Someone should,” you bit back, dipping the toast back in the soup and continued to eat.

“Stop it.”

You looked over at him with challenging eyes. “Why should I?”

“It’s my food,” he insisted.

Jason hardly ever talked to you. In fact, that was the most words you’ve heard him say in a couple of weeks. He was possessive over his food, apparently, which didn’t make sense because he hardly ever ate.

“But it’s not like you eat it,” you argued, curious as to where this would take you, “I’m making sure it doesn’t go to waste.”

He narrowed his eyes at you, and then shifted slightly closer, leaning in towards you. “Give it to me.”

You pretended to consider it for awhile. “No.”

He growled.

“Come and take it if you want it so badly,” you challenged.

Immediately, you regretted it. Because he got up, and walked slowly towards you, looming over you like a predator watching its prey. Your heart started to beat faster in your chest, your palms started beading with sweat.

He then crouched down and snatched the piece of toast from your hands, taking the tray away and walked back towards his spot on the floor. Setting the tray down, he immediately started to ravish the soup and toast, his eyes never leaving yours the whole time.

It was the most he’d eaten ever since he arrived.

“You shouldn’t eat too fast,” you warned, “Your stomach’s not used to that amount of food yet.”

“Watch me.”

He cleaned the bowl in three minutes as you stared in shock.

***

“Who are you?” Jason asked out of the blue.

It was your sixth week there. Six weeks of sitting down in silence and hardly ever talking. Occasionally cleaning up after him, just to see the room messy again. Occasionally trying to spark up conversation, only to be greeted by silence. But that time, it was him who started it first.

You told him your name, still pleasantly surprised at his engagement.

“I don’t give a fuck what you’re called,” he spat, “It doesn’t explain to me who you are.”

Frowning, you closed the book. You wondered if it was a good idea to tell him that you were Bruce’s newly adopted daughter. Would he feel betrayed? Jealous? But if you didn’t and he found out, wouldn’t that be worse? Plus, you didn’t want to lie to him.

After all, you were trying to help.

“Bruce adopted me a year ago,” you explained, “I’m officially his adopted daughter. I’ve only recently been Robin. When we found you, it was just my second month.”

Anger flashed in his eyes, his jaw clenched. “Typical. Lose one toy, find another one to play with.”

“I’m not a toy,” you defended heatedly, “He… saved me. I owe him.”

He didn’t ask, but you knew he wanted to, so you continued anyway. “He found me at a bid. A human trafficking bid. After my parents died, I ran away from the orphanage. I got kidnapped. After finding out I was a virgin, they organised an event to see who would bid the highest to own me.”

It seemed like Jason’s expression didn’t change, his mouth still in a scowl. But you saw the way his eyes softened. It was a good idea to explain, after all. He must have drawn conclusions that Bruce had replaced him with you shortly after his death.

“Batman crashed the party right before I was about to get sold off for… Five thousand eight hundred and fifty dollars,” you scoffed, “I guess that was how much I was worth. Could you even buy a car with that? I’m not sure. Maybe a used one.”

“Anyway, I was quite shaken up. He took pity on me, I guess. Maybe it was my puppy dog eyes that made me look so pathetic that he decided to take me in. Mom always said I had a pathetic look,” you shrugged, “That’s who I am I guess. Now I’m in my last year of highschool. I turn seventeen in two months! I'm only a year or so younger than you. You don’t have to get me anything, of course. It’s cool. I never really cared much for birthdays anyway.”

You tried to lighten the mood, but all you saw was Jason’s unchanging expression. You guessed that was as much as he was willing to say that day, so you got up and started cleaning again despite knowing he was going to just mess it up.

***

He did mess it up again, but what shocked you that day was not the mess, but the fact that he was actually on the bed. The bed was still unmade, and he was sitting unnaturally upright, but still. It was progress.

You sat down on the floor and read your book. After five minutes, he asked, “What’s the book about?”

Trying your hardest not to look surprised in case he took it the wrong way, you answered, “A brief history of mankind. From evolution, to the agricultural revolution, to the current day.”

He just blinked at you in response, and you wondered when was the day that he had stopped glaring at you.

You tried to break the ice. “Bruce put all the books he thought you might like on the shelf. I’ve noticed that they’re mostly classic literary novels. You like those, huh?”

Not a word.

“I never really could get into those. I tried, but it’s not my thing, you know? Or maybe I started with the wrong book.”

He closed his eyes instead of answering you.

Sighing, you decided not to push it, and went back to your book.

About fifteen minutes passed. And then-

“You like science and shit?” he spoke up, his eyes boring into yours.

“Uh, yeah,” you said, taken aback by the sudden question.

“Start with Jules Verne. Twenty thousand leagues,” he told you, then closed his eyes again.

“Thank you,” you smiled.

Silence.

***

“Why do you sit there?” Jason asked you two days later.

“Huh?”

“Why do you sit on the floor when there's a desk?” he repeated in annoyance, like an underpaid customer service worker at the mall.

“Well, I didn't want to intrude on your space,” you told him.

“You being here already intrudes my space,” he rolled his eyes.

Jason was more relaxed now. He was actually leaning against a propped pillow on the bed, one knee brought to his chest, the other leg crossed over it.

And he was reading a fucking book.

“...so you can sit anywhere you like. Doesn't make a difference,” he continued.

“Then can I sit on the bed next to you?” you teased lightly.

You had expected him to glare at you in contempt, to tell you to fuck off or get out, or even not respond to you at all. So you were very much surprised when he said what he did.

“Whatever,” he mumbled.

Despite trying your best to act neutral, your jaw dropped. You quickly recovered, and cleared your throat nervously, standing up and slowly walking towards him. Jason shuffled a bit, going upwards against the wall at the head of the bed.

You slowly sat down at the foot of it, still maintaining some distance from him for his sake. Bringing your bare feet up, you crossed them and leaned against the wall the bed was pushed against.

Getting comfortable, you opened your book and started reading. For two hours, you and Jason Todd sat on the bed next to each other, reading with no other sounds except the occasional rustling of a page being turned.

You closed your book once you were done, but before you could get up, he asked in a small voice. “How long was I… There?”

The way his voice was shaky, the way it came out in a harsh whisper, and the fact that it had taken him seven weeks to ask- it tugged at your heart.

“Two years,” you said objectively, making sure no emotions leaked into your voice.

“And he thought I was dead the whole time?” he grumbled.

“Yes.”

“That's why he never came?” he choked out.

Fuck, you tried not to let your tears fall.

“Yes,” you whispered back.

“World's greatest detective, my ass,” he snorted.

“He's killing himself over this,” you told him softly, “I’ve never seen him like that before.”

“Like what?” he demanded, looking at you with anger, with red eyes pooling with tears.

“Vulnerable. Clueless. Breaking down and crying next to you while you slept,” you elaborated. “You may not forgive him for now, and that's understandable. But Bruce? He’ll never forgive himself. Not in a million years.”

“Please leave.”

You didn't argue. You didn't hang around to clean up. You left immediately, because of the way he said his please, like someone who was tired, so tired. It was the way he told you to leave, it wasn't out of anger or spite. It was out of desperation. Because he was looking away when he told you, refusing to let you see the tear that fell on his face that you saw anyway.

***

“What are you looking at?” he grunted. “Close your mouth. You look like an idiot.”

You snapped your mouth close, not even aware that it was ajar.

The room was exceptionally clean- cleaner than when you cleaned it yourself. Jason had properly made the bed, fitted the sheets and folded the covers. The torn pages of paper were gone, and on his shelf were all his books, neatly arranged.

In alphabetical order.

Yet, Jason was still smelly, and he still hadn’t changed his clothes despite the wardrobe full of fresh t-shirts and pants.

“You clean up better than I do,” you grumbled, sitting at the foot of his bed carefully.

“That’s because you’re useless,” he snapped.

You tried not to smile despite his insult. The bickering was fun, and it showed that he was more familiar with you now.

Trying to push it a little further, you narrowed your eyes at him and started sniffing the air loudly.

“You smell,” you told him.

“If you don’t like it, leave,” he bit back.

“There’s hot water in the shower you know,” you reminded him, “You could go shower. I’ll wait right outside.”

“What for?” he eyed you suspiciously.

“For moral support!” you grinned, holding two thumbs up.

And whaddaya know?

He snorted a laugh, and rolled his eyes.

“Oh, come on,” you whined, “You really stink. You’d give Killer Croc a run for his money with that stench.”

“If you don’t like it,” he leaned closer towards you, “Leave.”

“Ugh,” you grunted. And then, you had an idea. Probably a bad idea. He would probably murder you.

You stood up and announced, “I’ll be right back.”

After ten minutes of running around the mansion looking for items, you finally came back with a bucket, a sponge, and a fluffy towel.

“What the hell are you up to?” Jason demanded, sitting upright.

“If you won’t go to the shower, then I’ll bring the shower to you,” you grinned triumphantly and went to fill the bucket with warm water from the shower. You set down the filled bucket on the floor and motioned to Jason.

“Well, get on the floor.”

“What?”

“I’m going to give you a bath, and if you stay on the bed, it’s going to get all wet,” you explained, “So get on the floor and take off your shirt.”

He stared at you with bewilderment in his eyes, and then suddenly let out a bark of laughter. “Why on Earth would I listen to you?”

“Because if you don’t, I’m going to splash all this water on you, and you’re going to have to sleep in a wet bed,” you threatened.

“I’ll sleep on the floor,” he bickered.

“Fine, I’ll bargain with you,” you said, “If you listen to me, I’ll tell him to turn that off.��

You pointed to the single security camera at the top corner of the room, always switched on, watching and recording.

He clenched his jaw, contemplating your tempting offer.

“Fine,” he conceded, and slid to the floor, taking off his shirt.

You smirked.

“If you wanted to see me shirtless, you could have just asked,” he smirked back.

You really didn’t expect him to mess with you like that, and in result, you felt your cheeks heat up.

“N-no,” you denied, “I- you just stink.”

He raised an eyebrow.

Rolling your eyes, you kneeled in front of him, bringing the bucket of water closer. You took the sponge and soaked it, but before you pressed it on his skin, you just realised the situation you put yourself in.

That close to Jason, with him looking up at you and waiting, you gulped. Because his body wasn’t as bad as you thought two years of starvation would have caused. Sure, he was definitely skinnier than he should ever be, and his muscles were barely there, but his overall frame, the structure of his body was still large.

You finally pressed the sponge against his rising and falling chest, not meeting his eyes. The warm water spilled from the sponge and trickled down his chest, onto his stomach. You moved your hand in a wiping motion, cleaning the sweat off the surface of his skin.

Scars littered his body, healed cuts of various sizes. Some were burns, some were bullet wounds, and some were the crescent shapes of bites.

You moved the sponge to his arms, wiping down the contour of the remaining biceps he had left, going under to wash his pits, then going down to his forearms, which you noticed had long rough scars running down from his wrists to the crook of his elbows.

Your chest tightened.

Despite the hell he went through, you still thought he was beautiful.

You felt your breathing start to quicken.

Moving to his stomach next, you noticed that the water had seeped into the fabric of his grey sweatpants, making it turn dark, making it stick to his skin, stick to the long cylindrical shape of his-

“Your pupils are dilated,” he pointed out.

Your eyes snapped back to his.

“Wh-what- I wasn’t- they’re not!” you sputtered angrily.

He looked at you with an odd expression. Well, any expression that wasn’t a hateful glare was odd, you supposed. But his eyelids were droopy, the corners of his mouth relaxed and not tight.

It looked like he was actually enjoying it.

“You don’t find me disgusting?” he whispered.

You frowned at him in question, bringing the sponge up to wash his neck. “Well, you smell a bit gross. But by the time I’m done with you, that’ll be gone.”

“No. I meant by me. My body. My face. You don’t think I’m disgusting?” he said in a voice so small, you could barely make out the words.

His body made you think things, but none of them were disgusting. In fact, if he looked like that now, you wondered how his body must have looked like before, when he was healthy. You glanced at his face.

He had scars there too. One at the corner of his upper lip that made him seem like he was permanently smirking, one across the bridge of his nose, another long one that cut from his temple down to his brow, barely missing his eye. And you didn’t even count the smaller ones, silver little lines that were scattered all over his skin.

His cold blue eyes had scars in them as well. Not physically, not literally. But when you stared deep into them, you could almost see how truly scarred he was, and that scar had nothing on the ones you could actually see.

“There is no way that I could ever find you disgusting,” you told him earnestly.

He stared at you for a while, and then looked away to the side. You soaked the sponge and wiped his face, pressing it to his cheek. He closed his eyes, taking a deep breath as he allowed you to travel up to his hair, wetting it, going behind his ears, and back to his nape.

With a plunk, you dumped the sponge in the water and then opened the cap of the soap you had brought.

In an instant, Jason recoiled from you, “No. No soap.”

“Just a little bit?” you pressed.

“No soap,” he insisted, pushing your hand away, “It smells too strong. Makes me sick.”

And suddenly, it clicked.

The reason why he left his room in a mess, the reason why he didn’t sleep on the bed, the reason why he never showered or changed.

Because it was all too much.

The sudden change from a disgusting, smelly, rat-infested torture room to a clean, proper, neat environment with a warm bed. It was too much for him, and he wasn’t used to it yet.

He wasn’t used to being clean.

And the smell of a perfumed body wash would most definitely be too much for him.

“Okay,” you nodded, setting the soap down. “Then I’ll wash you up one more time, is that okay?”

He nodded, still not looking at you.

You were back at his face again for the second time, and then you cupped his cheek, using your thumb to feel the roughness of his overgrown facial hair.

“Do you want me to help shave you?” you asked.

“No way in hell would I ever let you come near my fucking face with a razor,” he scoffed.

“Fair enough,” you mumbled back a reply.

Once you were done, you took the towel and wiped him dry, trying your best to avoid looking at his crotch because you knew his pants were absolutely soaked through. You got up and went to the wardrobe to take a fresh pair of pants- a black sweatpants this time- and a white t-shirt. You set them on the bed, and took the bucket to the bathroom to throw away the contents.

Once you were done, Jason was already changed into his new pants, and had just finished putting on his t-shirt. He looked much better, fresher, and-

“You smell way better now,” you chuckled.

“I did what you asked,” he said, “You better make that happen.”

He gestured to the camera with his thumb.

“I will. Promise,” you smiled, picking up his stinky shirt and wet pants before heading out.

***

“I don’t think that’s a good idea,” Bruce grumbled.

“He’s not an experiment, or a criminal, Bruce,” you argued, “There’s no reason for you to keep surveillance on him that way. He deserves his privacy.”

“It’s about safety. His and yours,” he explained, “I wouldn’t know what’s going on in there while you’re inside if the camera is deactivated. I wouldn’t know if he’s- if he’s hurting himself.”

“I trust him, Bruce,” you insisted, “And he trusts me too! Look at what happened! He let me give him a freaking sponge bath!”

Bruce frowned in contemplation.

“He’s finishing his meals, he’s reading, he’s actually having conversations with me,” you listed, “He’s improving. Fast. Next thing you know, he and I could be best friends.”

“Fine,” he sighed, “But next time you go in, you’re bringing a panic button with you.”

The panic button you kept whenever you went for patrol was so that you could trigger a silent alarm to Bruce if you were in trouble.

“Okay, that’s fair!” you nodded your head excitedly, watching him as he pressed a button on the keyboard, switching off the camera in Jason’s room. The last thing you saw on the screen was Jason lying down on the bed, sleeping soundly.

***

“Okay, so,” you announced, standing up while you opened the plastic bag, “I got you a few things.”

Jason was on the bed, but proceeded to get up on his feet and tower over you. For some reason, he had started sitting or standing closer to you.

“I got you unscented shampoo and body wash,” you looked into the bag, naming the items you got, “Unscented shaving cream, and an electric shaver! You can’t hurt yourself with this, so Bruce agreed to-”

You looked up and gasped slightly at the closeness of his face to yours. You didn’t realise that he had stepped over so close to you that you could almost feel his warm breath on your face. Almost.

He took the plastic bag from your hands, his skin brushing against yours, and for a brief moment, it gave you goosebumps. He turned around with the plastic bag now in his hands, leaving you in shock.

That is, until he started taking off his shirt.

“W-woah!” you called out, “What are you doing?”

“Taking off my clothes,” he simply said, now not wearing a shirt.

“Why?”

“Because I want to shower,” he looked over his shoulder to give you a smirk. “Why? Wanna join?”

“Wh-wh-j-join?” you stuttered, “Uh, no thanks. I’ll just. Leave you to it, then.”

You turned to leave. Then-

“Wait.”

You stopped in your tracks, turning back around to look at him, trying your best to maintain eye contact.

“Is that… diner in Gotham Village still around?” he asked quietly.

“The corner one on Vincent Street? Sure, it is,” you tilted your head in curiosity, “Would you… like anything from there?”

“The burger,” he said gruffly.

Your mouth widen into a smile. It was the first time he ever asked for anything, more so food. “Fries?”

“Sure.”

“Milkshake?”

“Yeah.”

“Chocolate?”

“Strawberry!” he looked at you as if you were crazy, and then disappeared into the toilet.

“I’ll be back in an hour!” you announced, skipping out in joy.

Vibrating with excitement, you opened the door to Jason’s room, not expecting to see a totally different man in his bed.

No, it was still Jason, but fuck.

Fuck.

He cleaned up well.

Finally showering after eight weeks, Jason Todd had transformed into an almost different person. His uncut hair that poked his eyes was no longer greasy. In fact, it had a slight bounce to it now.

He changed his shirt into a light blue V-neck, and most significantly of all, he shaved

Now you could see the way his angular jawline was cut into a shape as if some Greek artist sculpted it, the way his pink lips stood out against his milky skin - lack of tan from being kept indoors for so long, the way his cheekbones highlighted his facial structure.

And as if you didn’t think of it before, you thought about it again.

Jason Todd was a freaking hottie.

“Uhh, uhmm, uhhh,” you said, stunned and fully aware of the way your face was probably flushing.

He let out a chuckle, and walked towards you, reaching out to take the bags of food from your hand. All the while you were stunned in silence, unsure of how to react to the changed man.

“Anyone home?” he snapped his fingers in front of you.

“Uh, yes, sorry,” you shook your head, “I, uh, didn’t expect it, that’s all.”

“Expect what?” he set the bags on his desk, reaching in to take a fry. “Me to look so good?”

You were sure your ears were burning. “N-no! Not at all. Not that you don’t look good, but- uh- I mean- fuck!”

“I don’t understand you,” he took out the food and arranged them on the table. “My scars are more obvious like this.”

“I think your scars are sexy,” you blurted out.

He blinked.

“Uh, I mean!” you tried to backtrack, “Ugh, fuck it, let’s just eat!”

You took your own burger and went to sit on the bed.

“No food on the bed!” he barked.

“Okay, dad,” you rolled your eyes, settling with sitting on the floor.

To your surprise, Jason took all the food and put it on the floor in front of you, and then sat down opposite you.

Discreetly, you watched as he took the first bite.

He closed his eyes, chewing slowly, savouring the taste in his mouth. It was as though he was passionately making out with his burger, caressing the bun with love.

Smiling to yourself, you ate yours in silence, letting him appreciate the intimate moment he had with his food that he must have thought about while being forced to live on rats.

***

“What’s that?” Bruce asked curiously.

Ever since he switched off the camera in Jason’s room, he had been more agitated- or as agitated as he could get. He kept on asking you what you did, having you report back to him, demanding every little detail on his son’s wellbeing.

“My laptop,” you answered, “I was thinking we could do something different today. Maybe watch a movie. He’s missed out on so many.”

“A laptop,” Bruce hummed, “Do you think he would like one? To occupy his time? Or a television? Or a phone? Or- a tablet? Or-”

“Woah there, cowboy,” you chuckled. Bruce seemed desperate to provide Jason with anything he wanted. Maybe as a way to push the guilt away, maybe as a way to reconcile.

Or maybe he was just being a father who wanted to spoil his son.

Whatever the reason was, you thought it was extremely sweet.

“He’s only now just getting used to being in a clean environment,” you explained, “All of that may overstimulate him, and I don’t want him to revert back to how he was.”

“I see.”

“But I’ll ask, okay?” you said, heading to the room. “We���ll see how he handles a movie.”

You opened the door to see Jason sitting on his bed with his legs spread in front of him, reading a book.

“Hello,” you greeted.

“What’s that,” he narrowed his eyes at you.

“My laptop!” you told him excitedly, “I thought maybe we could watch a movie today.”

“Movie?” he frowned, crossing his legs to make space for you on the bed.

“Yeah,” you sat down in front of him, “I’ve got a whole terabyte of illegally downloaded movies and shows. We can choose one together and watch, if you’d like?”

He contemplated for a while, eyebrows drawn together while you opened your laptop. “Fine.”

“Yay!” you cheered, “Okay, so what do you like to watch? Action? Drama? Thriller? Comedy? Or… Romance?”

“Put on your favourite movie,” he stated.

“What? Nah, you can choose something you’d like to watch,” you declined, “I’m cool with anything.”

“I want to watch your favourite movie,” he deadpanned.

You purse your lips. “Okay, sure. Scoot over.”

He propped two pillows up against the headboard of his bed and moved to the side so you can squeeze in between him and the wall. At first, you were not used to being in close proximity with him, and you wanted to give him personal space.

But after a while, Jason himself had sat next to you closely, stood in front of you or behind you closely- so close that the skin of your arms would brush against each other, or in this case, the heat of his thigh against yours as you balanced the laptop on each of your thighs.

The next surprising thing that happened, though, was when he put his arm behind your shoulder so casually, that anyone would have guessed it was a thing he did on the regular.

You were taken aback by his advances, but appreciated that he felt comfortable with you. It was such an accomplishment considering everything that happened, so you leaned into him snuggly.

You clicked play.

And then, he came in close to you, brushing his lips against your ear and said in the lowest whisper that made the hairs on the back of your neck stand.

“If this movie sucks, I’ll kill you.”

It wasn’t a threat, you knew it wasn’t.

But the heat on your neck from his breath when he whispered to you, the low tone of his voice-

You couldn’t help but clench your thighs together in arousal.

***

“I wonder if he’ll be okay,” you thought out loud.

“I’m so jealous that you’re the only one who gets to see him. When can I go?” Dick whined.

“Two weeks is a long time,” you ignored Dick, “Bruce, is the phone offer still available?”

“Of course,” Bruce said, cutting his steak as silently as he walked. “I already have one. It’s on my desk.”

“That’s great!” you scooped up mashed potatoes.

“Seriously, though,” Dick pressed, “It’s been like what, five months? I want to see him.”

You looked across the dining table to meet your older brother in the eye. It was rare that Dick came over and had dinner with everyone, but his visits had been increasing ever since Jason got back.

“We can’t risk overstimulation, Dick. The only reason why he probably accepted me so easily is because I wasn’t part of his old life. He hasn’t even mentioned anything about… you know. And he hasn’t brought you or anyone else up.”

“Yeah, I know,” he sighed, “It’s just- he’s my brother.”

Those last three words spoke volumes. A simple fact that carried so many emotions. Sadness, relief, longing, regret.

Dick was really special. You got the younger sibling treatment from Dick as well, and you only knew him for a little over a year. Even then you had formed such a bond with Dick Grayson you knew you wouldn’t have with anyone else in the world.

You couldn’t even begin to imagine his relationship with Jason, and how painful it must be to find out his little brother is alive but not allowed to see him.

“He just needs more time and space,” you said, “But he’s getting better, Dick. Much better. Even making jokes and teasing me. You’ll know once he’s ready. And I don’t think it’ll take too much longer.”

“You’ve been spending a lot of time with him, haven’t you?” Dick narrowed his eyes at you. “Like, every single day.”

“Well, yeah, he’s probably bored,” you shrugged. “It’s the least I can do.”

“A little birdie told me that you gave him a sponge bath a few months ago,” he wiggled his eyebrows.

You looked at Bruce accusingly, in which he responded with a simple, “Alfred.”

“He wasn’t showering at the time, and he stank like hell,” you explained.

“Sure, use that as an excuse,” he grinned, “Have you seen him shirtless since then?”

“Why?” you asked a little too defensively, feeling your cheeks heat up.

“Nothing,” Dick laughed, “I wanted to ask about his progress. Health wise.”

“Oh,” you calmed down, “Well, Alfred has him on a high protein diet now. He’s definitely filled up since then.”

“Filled up,” Dick winked.

“Grow up, Dick!” you snapped.

After dinner, you went to Bruce’s desk to pick up the smartphone and brought it downstairs to Jason’s room.

“Two visits in a day. A late one, too. What’s the occasion?” Jason mused when you came in.

“I have something for you,” you sat at the foot of his bed.

“Is it my birthday?” he teased.

“Shut up,” you rolled your eyes, “We got you a smartphone. It has internet access and my number. You don’t have to use it if you don’t want to. In fact, it’s switched off. I’m gonna leave it here on the shelf. And if you don’t want it, just ignore it.”

“Why all of a sudden?” he eyed you suspiciously from where he was sitting at the top of the bed.

“Well,” you started, “I’m going to be away for a couple of weeks. On a trip with my friends. Sort of a post-graduation celebration. And I thought that since I won’t be here to keep you company, you might like to… you know…”

He raised an eyebrow at you.

“Talk? Text? Call?” you winced at your own awkwardness. Why were you even nervous? “I mean. You’d be bored so at least you have internet. If you want, of course.”

“Are you implying that I’d miss you while you’re gone?” his lips turned into a smirk, “Or are you the one who will miss me?”

“Neither!” you huffed, “I just thought that you might want some other form of entertainment besides books.”

“I was locked away in a cell for two years without food, water, books, or the internet,” he scoffed.

“And look how great you turned out,” you bit back sarcastically, before realising what you had said. “Oh, no. I didn’t mean- I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have-”

“Jesus, calm the fuck down,” he complained, “It’s fine. You don’t have to be careful with me, I’m not a fucking baby.”

You knew that, but at the same time, you still couldn’t call him by his own name.

“Okay,” you nodded, “Well. I’m leaving in the morning. I’ll be back on the tenth.”

You glanced at the digital clock on Jason’s desk. It was one of the most important things in his room. It allowed him to keep track of the time and day- imperative to keeping one’s sanity in check.

“Tenth, twentieth, it doesn’t matter. It’s not like I’m going anywhere.”

“You’re not a prisoner,” you reminded him, “You do know that we’ve unlocked the door a couple of weeks ago, right? You’re free to go anywhere you want.”

Everyone had deemed him more or less stable. He wasn’t going to hurt himself or anyone else unless provoked or triggered, so Bruce decided to leave his doors unlocked, but Jason has yet to step outside.

“Doesn’t make a difference,” he mumbled, lying back down to face the ceiling.

Deep down, you knew what he meant.

It didn’t make a difference if you left the door unlocked, or threw him out of the room. Because at the end of the day, Jason was still being imprisoned by himself.

[faithbetryin]

Five Hargreeves X Reader | 2

(from my Wattpad: @FaithBeLovly)

Part 2

Pairing: Five Hargreeves X Reader

Word Count: 2,781

You find yourself sitting in front of the tv, watching the news broadcast of what happened at the cafe yesterday. You try to see if any information was said about the boy who saved you- shoved you, mostly. And he spilled scorching hot coffee all over you, but... all in all, he took a bullet while you were just peachy. You bite your nails a bit in nervousness. Hope was still in your mind that he didn't bleed out or get shot again and die or something. You don't get any information from the news channel and turn it off, tossing the remote on the couch as you walk out the door dawning a yellow rain coat and a pair of doc martens.

You walk along the damp sidewalk, stepping in every puddle you pass by. You grind your teeth with stress as you see the cafe not too far down the street. As you come closer, you notice detectives and caution tape surrounding the scene. You figure that whoever was in that van got away. You walk up to the tape and then start to backtrack away from it as you think about your chances of being questioned by gritty detectives if you stuck around in the open. You go towards the back door where you escaped from and try to open it. It was locked. You step back and remember the boy's school jacket. You remember it having some sort of umbrella on the patch on his shirt. It didn't give you any ideas about who the boy was or how to check on him. You walk away from the scene, pulling your hood over your head as it starts to rain again.

You start to wonder if this was just a small miracle, being saved by someone you'd never get to say thank you to. These kinds of things happened all the time right? It was just a world with everyone living their own lives, doing things without reward or consequence. You found the whole situation brave. No boy her age would have that kind of reaction if they were getting shot at. Maybe you were just lucky. Wouldn't it be some shit if you ended up getting shot the next day anyway? The world's cruel like that. An umbrella picture against stained glass windowed doors catches your attention. You walk backwards until you're in front of a big brick building. It seemed eerie and quiet. You see a bronze plaque on the outside of the building. You walk up the short steps to the door and read it, the distressed words engraved on it reading: The Umbrella Academy. You scrunch your nose, not hearing of such a thing. You wonder what kind of thing they teach here. Maybe making umbrellas, I don't fucking know. You look up at the doors in front of you and decide to knock on it with the brass knock-handles built onto it. You wait there for a few long moments, wondering if this place was abandoned or something. It seemed quiet, and dark. To your surprise the door opens slightly. A small eyeball peeks through the crack, a warm elderly man's voice welcoming you. "Can I help you?" The voice says.

You sit there, feeling dumb for not being prepared with something to say. You ask stupidly, "Uh, yes. I-Is this a school? The Umbrella Academy?"  

The voice sighs a little before replying, "I'm afraid it isn't anymore.."

"Oh.. Well do you know anyone who'd wear a uniform from this place or something? Maybe an old student?" The eyes peering out at you get a little bigger. You explain yourself further, "It's just that- I saw someone near here wearing this umbrella symbol on their jacket a-and they got shot trying to save me and I wanted to make sure he was okay." The eyes from within the shadows look down and then back up at you as the voice says through a sigh,

"Five..." The door opens more to reveal a shorter figure- well, a... a fucking monkey. You blink in confusion, but smile a bit to be respectful. He wore a nice formal suit and small little glasses upon his chimpanzee face. He held the door with one chimp hand, the other holding himself up with a wooden cane. He was quite cute actually. Weird, but cute. "I'm so sorry that happened. I'm sure you must be a friend of Five's." You shake your head a little with confusion.

"I'm sorry? Five, you said? Five what?" You were very lost. As per usual. The polite ape in front of you lifts his cane to direct you inside. You reluctantly enter, not even sure what this place is. She wonders if she'll leave looking like a monkey too.

"The young boy in culottes? Tall socks? Well dressed?" He says, starting to wonder if Five might've saved a stranger, which was unusual for him. You nod to him as you walk in, looking around. It was much bigger inside than it appeared from the outside. It had old floors, walls, and set of two staircases leading upstairs somewhere in front of you. The rugs decorating the creaky floor looked antique. You stand in the lobby area, unsure what to do.

"Yeah, that one."

"The name's Five." A voice echoes through the room as the same boy from yesterday was standing across the room with a coffee mug in hand. You were caught off guard. You felt like you were intruding. Your face gets hot with embarrassment. You pick at a loose thread on your jeans as you look at the boy's leg. He had a proper bandage around his leg, the wound appearing fine considering the way he's even standing now. The suited ape closes the door behind you and smiles at the two of you as he waddles away with his cane, leaving us to it. The boy-Five, takes a sip of whatever's in the yellow mug. "You were at the cafe, weren't you? Yeah, the one with a staring problem." You drop your head to look at your shoes as you are ripping at the seams with embarrassment. You take a deep breath of recovery and look back at him, your hands in your pockets to hide the way they were fidgeting. The boy smiles a bit and nods towards the room behind him, motioning that you should follow him. You reluctantly walk over to him and follow him into a large living room/bar area. The wall was decorated with expensive-looking paintings and head mounts of animals. Tall bookcases lined the room. You clear your throat and say nervously as you look around, "Private school much?" Five chuckles into his mug as he takes another sip.

"This isn't a school," he says, clearly enjoying talking to such a lesser knowledgeable individual by the way he smiled widely, his dimples appearing. You make a face. "It's my home." You take a silent breath as you look around with wide eyes. You then shake your head in even more embarrassment as you realize you're intruding his house.

"Sorry- I just thought that-"

"The Umbrella Academy,"  he says with a smile, lifting his mug as if the name was glorious. You realize it's sarcastic praise as he laughs at it afterwards. "Yeah no, this place was home to a brooding rich man who decided to raise 7 children he didn't have time or sympathy for. Although, we did study and go through lectures everyday growing up here." You try to process that whole story as you look at him.

"S-So you have seven siblings?" You start to wonder what they're like and try to imagine what they look like while examining Five.

"Adopted. And always scattered. Hardly in one place." Well there goes trying to imagine his siblings' appearances in comparison to him.

"Oh," You say, feeling overwhelmed with all this information. You shake your head and turn back to him, remembering what you came here to say to him. "I just came to say thanks..." Five lowers his mug down from his thin raspberry-tinted lips without taking a sip. You wait for his delayed response. He eyes you up and down with that serious furrowed eyebrow expression. He has his head tilted to the side a bit, his Adam's apple exposed along his long neck. His hair fell a bit from its swoosh as he tilted his head.

"Didn't need someone getting shot for my messes." he says, his voice serious yet... gentle and sincere. A silence drifts between the two of you as you hold your arm along your side, looking at his leg. He lowers his head a bit to match the way you kept yours low. He catches your eyes and says, "It's fine. I got it patched up." You nod, taking his reassurance as you start to look a little guilty. He sets his coffee mug down on the bar counter and starts walking past you, turning to look at you. "Come on, I have something you might want."

You look at him with uncertainty before nodding and following behind him. You gain some reassurance as he turned to wait for you to catch up to him at the bottom of the steps. He didn't want to leave you alone behind him. You walk up the staircase side by side, holding onto the railing to give your hand something to focus on.

"Why are you nervous?" He asks very calmly. His voice was consistently cool and collected just like his demeanor. Your eyes dart around the stairs underneath you as you try to think of what to say to that. How did he know I'm nervous?  You clear your throat as quietly as you can as you reply shakily,

"A-Anxiety. Kind of my thing I guess..." Five looks at your avoiding face, his brows lowered in a concerned, but understanding way. He keeps walking up the steps.

"Sorry." He says softly. The way his voice left his lips felt like a gentle warm breeze along your ears made you feel warm inside. You shake your head and laugh to diffuse the tension.

"Nothing to be sorry about. It's just something that's wrong with me." As you both reach the top of the steps, he looks at you with his hands in his pockets.

"Not a flaw. A quality." He says, reassuring you once again. You stand there for a moment too long as he walks where he's leading you, leaving you there in your thoughts. You never had anyone say something so honest and constructive like that. You didn't have anyone, really. You realize he's started to walk off and follow behind him quickly. You walk down the hallway past many rooms with closed doors. There were interesting laminated posters with self defense moves printed on them taped along the walls, low to the ground as if they were intended for kids to see. You stand behind Five as he opens his room door. You stand at the doorway respectfully as he walks in and fetches something from his closet. Lots of books and papers decorated the room along with a ridiculous amount of mathematical writing across every inch of the walls. You didn't recognize a single equation.

He comes back to the doorway, holding out a scarf. My scarf.  It was clean, the blood stripped from its fabric. You take it from his hands slowly, your hands barely touching as neither of you let go of the scarf. You look up to find Five's eyes of oceans focused on your face, almost as if they've been gazing at you this whole time. His brows weren't tense anymore while his eyes were gentle. You blush hard, lifting the scarf to your face to hide it. He lets go as you lift it and scratches the back of his head as he looks at the scarf instead of you.

"I thought you might want that back," he says, adjusting his tie. You giggle a little from behind the scarf and move it away as you say,

"It's not even mine." The both of you laugh a little as his eyes widen a bit, a smile on his face. You stole that scarf from a Walmart a few weeks ago. You look down again but then back up at him, feeling more comfortable looking directly at someone- at him. "Thank you anyway."  He nods and leans against the door frame, his hands in his pockets again. Must be a habit.

"So your name is...?"

"Y/N," you say quickly, just realizing you never introduced yourself back to him. "Sorry, I didn't mean to keep you on the edge of your seat to find out," you say, somewhat playfully flirting with him. His dimples jump out at you as he gives you a toothy grin. He scoffs with a slight chuckle.

"You do know you don't have to keep apologizing for everything." He says, his brows raised as he knows he got you there, proving it to him as you blush.

"Sorry-Agh fuck,"

"You did it again."

"I know, I know-" The both of you laugh, his actual laugh very pleasing to listen to. You shake your head and your smile starts to fade. He takes notice as he's now doing that thing where he lowers his head to your eye level and then lifts back up to encourage you to tell him what's wrong. "What was that...?" You ask, "At the cafe?" His smile quickly fades, his expression now that solemn, brooding look.

"Well, I've got a bit of trouble following me around lately." He scratches the back of his head. "Bunch of commission goons here to kill me." Your face immediately turns into concern and confusion.

"Kill you?! So they're gonna be back?"

"Yep," he sighs, lifting up on his toes and then falling back onto his heels. "And they're probably going to be coming after you now." You give him an even more concerned look.

"Me??  Wh- I don't even know what you're talking about! We gotta call the cops or something-"

"Cops are useless and very insignificant to this particular problem." He says. You shake your head and put your face into the scarf, your anxiety kicking up a notch. It feels like a slimy snake trickling up your throat, building pressure in your body. You try to keep it down and breathe heavily into the scarf. He shifts a little as he realizes what's going on with you, moving closer to you. He pulls your hands and scarf down from your face, looking at you. You feel exposed and vulnerable. He holds your arms and shakes them a bit to get you to pay attention.

"Listen to me," You continue to breathe more frequently, your hands shaking a bit. "No one's gonna kill you. You can stay here, I can protect you-"

"Protect me? I can't-"

"Listen, listen- I can. I can protect you. You just gotta calm down for me, alright?" He looks into your eyes, his grip on your arms becoming a little tighter to let you know he's got you. Your eyes dart back and forth across his face before closing, your head nodding quickly as you struggle to breathe regularly. He then puts his hands behind your ears, holding you gently as he tries to get you to focus.

"Breathe, take a deep breath. Come on, breathe." You nod to him to let him know you're trying as you close your eyes and take deep breaths, the break in between breaths letting your nerves calm down, your breathing becoming normal again. "There," he says, his thumb stroking the side of your face. You open your eyes, looking into his eyes. He was so close to you now, your faces inches away from each other. You feel your body relax, your head resting against his hands. You feel the tension between you both, the moment making your heart beat louder in your chest.

"Five has a girlfriend! And she's real! In the flesh!" a voice shrieks from behind them. Five immediately lets go of you and furrows his brows, his face showing complete agitated rage and annoyance. A lanky man in tight, suggestive hippy clothing watches you from the end of the hall.

"KLAUS, you are INCREDIBLY  infuriating!" Five shouts as he warps through a bright blue light, disappearing from in front of you and appearing down the hallway after his brother, Klaus screaming and laughing as he makes a break for it. "I swear, I will kill  you, you idiot!" You smile a little, feeling closer to the boy in culottes.

[seokiloquy]

Coffee Diet - Kozume Kenma

AU: Tokyo Ghoul 

Requested

Tags/Warnings: GN! Reader, Gore, some angst (Though both aren’t too heavy or graphic I think), probably a poor representation of the manga/anime cause I haven’t actually read/watched it all the way through despite wanting to

Word Count: 3.3k+

Kozume grunted. His kagune, the source of his inhuman power, made strikes at his cannibal attacker, forming a bone-like needle that stabbed down at the unknown ghoul. The concrete shattered like thick glass upon impact as the ghoul continued to dodge. 

Tokyo (especially its many outskirt neighbourhoods) had a ghoul problem. 

“You’re in the wrong territory if you think you can get away with that.”

The other ghoul only laughed, continuing his fast steps. The laugh itself was painful, scratchy and high pitched. It made Kozume wince.

The people of Kozume’s neighbourhood knew of the danger that lay waiting outside their doors, and thus an unspoken rule had been made among them. Don’t be outside past sunset. Those that did take a nightly venture typically were found mangled and half-eaten by morning. Broken bones peaking through bloodstained flesh, large bites taken out of their thighs, and torsos ripped open; delectable looking meal for a ghoul gone rouge. Kenma wouldn’t agree.

The dark alley that the ghoul had run into was walled off.

His opponent's black greasy hair hung over most of his face like a curtain, only letting a single black and red eye, and a sharp-toothed smirk poke through the strands. His hair swayed as he spun around.

“What does territory matter if there’s food to be had?” The ghoul screeched before his powered ghoul organ seeped out of his body and shot toward Kozume. It scratched his cheekbone, barely missing his eye, thankfully, but would take time to heal unlike any normal would.

Kozume hissed at the cut, willing his own kagune to slash at the ghoul who began climbing up the sides of the brick walls. The sharpened bone just missed the man’s food as he scurried over the ledge.

“See you later!”

The false blond stood there, yawning and rubbing his black and red eyes that were pinned to the building’s top. Heat from the rising sun began to warm his back. With the new light and extra heat, the tired ghoul raised his arms, stretching, as he took in his familiar surroundings. The port, or at least near it. Kozume stepped out of the alley to see the broken concrete that was left in his chase.

Another yawn escaped him before he tucked his hand in his red sweater’s pockets and walked the other way. He needed coffee.

Kuroo’s shop, as lovely of an atmosphere as it created, was in the middle of a garbage dump. It didn’t help that some of that outside aesthetic carried into the cafe itself. The bell pierced into Kozume’s ear canal as he opened the front door to the dingy sight. Stained counters, chipped porcelain, yellow lights that were so off-putting that they stayed off all the time. It’s always been dark and gloomy, until today.

“Welcome! Take a seat, I’ll be right with you.”

That’s new.

Kozume stood in the doorway, watching your form dance and sway behind the bar. He noticed the music playing, soft and completely unnatural for the cafe. Your uniform, definitely not assigned by Kuroo, was crisp and clean, black shirt sitting on your form nicely. It was modest and professional. Maybe not assigned, but definitely Kuroo’s style.

He watched as you placed a small cake at another regular’s table, patting the old man’s signature plaid jacket on the shoulder. Whatever you said made the man laugh and twirl his fork happily.

His golden eyes, now settled after his too-early walk from the destroyed park, were trained on you as he sidestepped over to his usual seat in the corner next to the window. He sat, and took his eyes off your bobbing head as you turned around. His brow furrowed. The table was clean. Kozume looked around the cafe, noticing the lack of dust and stains.

He didn’t see you drop off a cup of coffee at a table, or walk his way until you were right in front of him.

“Hi, what can I get you?”

He jumped in his seat, causing his bobbed hair to billow out for a moment. Oh no, the look in your eyes immediately told him that you could see his rosy cheeks. He coughed. “Black coffee, please.”

Your smile was perfect.

“Hey, Kenma!” An unlikely saviour with black spikey hair appeared from the doorway. Kuroo strode over and waved you down as he slid into the seat across from Kozume. “Ah you got a scratch,” he hissed, immediately putting pieces together in his head. His head turned your way. “Do you mind getting me a coffee too, (L/N)?”

Kozume’s eyes followed you as you placed your pen and notepad back into your pocket and walked toward the counter.

“(L/N)’s new, just started yesterday and all the regulars love the new energy already. So tell me, what happened?”

Kozume sighed, looking down at his hands. “More keep coming. One disappears and another shows up. I’m too tired for this.”

Despite his vague tone, Kuroo knew what Kozume was talking about and sighed immediately. He leaned back in his chair. “I’ll be able to help you out soon enough, (L/N) has gotten a good hand on things, but I don’t want to leave them alone in the shop too suddenly. You understand.”

Kozume did understand. You, the human behind the counter, were a breath of fresh air in the musty town. You didn’t know, you couldn’t have. The demeanour of someone in the know in this neighbourhood wasn’t that positive. He knew that he wouldn’t get any help until you knew of the cafe’s main purpose.

“Take your time, I can handle it for how.” Kozume yawned and gestured to his marred cheek. “This guy might be a pain to deal with though.”

Just as he finished speaking the TV that hung above his head began to rattle on about destruction occurring at their neighbourhood’s port.

Kuroo winced. “That’s a pain, all right.”

Two white cups of black coffee hit the table's surface. Kuroo thanked you as you stood straight and reached into your apron’s pocket. Next to Kozume’s mug, you placed a large band-aid as you ripped open a disinfectant wipe. “May I?” 

He nodded and let your fingers gently turn his chin in your direction. The wipe glided smoothly over his cheek but stung. He hissed and pulled his head back.

“Sorry, it’ll be over in a second, I’ll be quick. Can I finish?”

Kuroo stayed silent as he watched Kozume get cared for by his employee, only speaking when the barista left the younger ghoul’s side with a kind smile. “You’re blushing.”

“I will kick your ass,” Kozume sneered before lifting his mug up to his lips for a quick sip. “Why’d you hire a human anyway?”

Kuroo mirrored his friend’s actions and drank some of his well-brewed coffee. “They don’t hold any ill will toward Ghouls if that’s what you’re wondering, maybe a bit scared. But (L/N) is very kind.”

Kosume continued to yawn through their conversation, occasionally looking your way, only to immediately turn his head as soon as there was a chance of you catching his stare. He didn’t realize how long it went on until he heard your footsteps heading for the exit.

Kuroo twisted, resting his arm over the back of the chair to face you putting on your coat. “Walk home safe!”

“Will do!” Your smile glittered before you pushed the door open and walked through.

Kozume’s eyes continued to follow you through the glass until you turned out of sight. 

“Do they live far from here?” he asked Kuroo, questioning his warning.

Kuroo slapped his hand on the table twice, gathering the energy to rise to his feet. He grabbed the long since empty mugs, whose stray coffee had begun to dry on the sides. “Only a 5-minute walk. But (L/N) has to walk through alleyways to save time, and well, even during the day, you can’t be too concerned for one’s safety.”

“Ah, Kozume! Black coffee again? Would you like some food with that?”

Kozume’s stomach churned at the thought of putting something other than coffee into his system. “I’m alright, just the coffee is fine. Thanks.” Hands stuffed in his pockets, he walked to his corner. “And Kenma is fine.”

“Then, please, call me (Y/N).”

The cafe smelled cleaner than the weeks prior. Cleaning solution seems to sit right under Kozume’s nose and punch him every time he breathed. Taking his seat, he immediately noticed the lack of smudges on the window.

Kozume tried to give you a kind smile as you set his cup of coffee on the freshly cleaned table. He could feel heat crawl up his neck and settle underneath the skin of his cheeks. He gulped, readying himself to separate his lips and speak.

“You seem drained, has work been alright?” You beat him to the punch.

“Ah ya, work.” He didn’t have a job. “It’s been alright, just a bit draining because of the night shift. How has school been?”

Kuroo was quick to get you both well acquainted after your first meeting. He carried conversations until Kozume was willing enough to speak for himself. The blond was thankful for that, knowing that if he had been left alone by your side no familiarity would have been built.

“Oh, the usual. I have a few assignments to finish but nothing too overbearing. I did read an interesting article about social relations and hierarchy of ghouls in society. It was a bit depressing but educational.”

Kozume choked on his coffee, hunching over the table as he lifted a fist to his mouth. Just as the ragged coughs began to subside he felt your hand gently rub his back, sending him into another fit of coughs.

“What’s the assignment about?” he asked, settling down.

He noticed the concerned look on your face as you pulled napkins out of your pocket and set them on the table. “Ah well, I’m studying public health and humanities, and my prof told us to choose a disadvantaged group to write about. Yada yada, so on so forth. I chose ghouls.”

He gestured for you to sit with one hand, waving at Kuroo with the other as he wiped down the main counter. You smiled and took the seat across from him.

“You believe ghouls are disadvantaged?”

Your brow furrowed, pondering. “Well ya, in some ways. Maybe not in strength and power, but ghouls are rather hated in society don’t you think?”

Once again, while preparing to speak, he was cut off by the overhead TV switching audio. Listening to the graphic words coming out of the reporter's mouth, Kozume sighed and raised a hand to push against his temple.

The distressed look on your face made him pause. A pit grew in his stomach as your concerned face turned to Kuroo, who was calling you back to your station. You were quick to bring back your smile. “Enjoy the coffee, and rest when you can.”

Kozume returned your smile meekly but was focused on the grotesque details the reporter listed, unable to stop himself from imagining you, defenceless, in that sort of danger. He couldn’t stomach the coffee.

“(Y/N), I really don’t think I should leave you here alone after dark.”

You sighed, looking to your boss with an unimpressed smirk. Kuroo squinted, lips pursing as he watched your knowing smirk turn humorous. 

“Testu, don’t you have work to do at night? My walk home may be a lot safer, if you get to that, no?”

Kuroo cursed, punching the wooden counter with a dull bumping sound. He groaned. “How did you know?”

You laughed, shifting the position of your hands on the wooden poll and continuing to sweep the floor of the empty cafe. “I study! It may not be so obvious but don’t you think I’d pick up on you being a ghoul after a few weeks?”

“I mean maybe, but I was hoping you didn’t know!”

A light scoff shot off your tongue and through your teeth. “I would think you’d be relieved, now you don’t have to be so cautious around me.”

Kuroo picked up the washcloth he had been holding earlier off the counter and began to wipe the wooden surface down again. “No harm in caution. Even if you do know.”

“Ya, ya, just don’t show me a severed limb. I can’t do gore.”

Kuroo laughed and tossed the damp towel onto the edge of the metal sink. His arms shifted to his back to aunty the black apron around his waist. “Are you sure you’re okay here alone?”

The TV’s sound changed to the news’ intro tune as you grabbed the remote and turned it off. You gave the ghoul a warm smile. “I can handle it. Go go.”

The sun was already over the horizon by the time you were ready to leave. You stood on the inside of the door, punching in the pin code to the security lock. It beeped, giving you the warning to leave and lock the door. Once done, you pulled your sweater a little tighter on your shoulders and shoved your hands in the pockets.

You focused on the sound of your rubber souls stepping on the concrete and the occasional tick of a pebble getting kicked. Street lights flickered, or at least the ones that were working did. Walking upon a burnt out light, you took the marker to turn down the neighbouring alleyway.

Two steps in was all it took before you lifted the collar of your weather over your nose. The putrid smell wafted your way from the dumpster. “Ugh, it’s not garbage day tomorrow is it?” Setting closer towards the opposite wall, you help your breath and face forward. Until the burnt-out light flickered on.

You halted, head frozen forward as you looked out of the corner of your eye. Immediately your stomach churned and your throat began to pulse uncomfortably. 

First, you noticed the pool of dark red blood that was slowly growing, nearing your shoes. Then it was pieces of loose skin and grey hair, stained as they floated in their puddle. Your heart seized at the sight of a ragged plaid jacket that was recklessly torn. You searched higher.

A single red iris surrounded by a black gloss stared at your profile. The rest was obscured by pin-straight greasy hair except for a large, inhuman smirk that showed off shark-like teeth covered in blood.

You cautiously removed your hands from your pockets, watching the poorly dressed skeletal like figure’s hunch move up and down as he breathed.

One beat.

You saw his claw-like fingers hold the wrinkly hand of the severed arm like a possessed lover. Your foot shifted.

Two beats.

The ghoul’s head tilted, revealing a tube-like pound of pink flesh hanging from his fangs. You gulped.

Three beats.

You ran.

Pulse already off the hertz, you sprinted with all your might to the flickering light at the other end of the alley. A stupid move, but taking the time to turn around wasn’t an option. Each step sent a jolt into your stomach. Your footsteps were much louder than before, but your blood was drowning it out. The lamp was so much slower now.

You froze suddenly. Stopped by a tug on your arm. Vertigo suddenly hit and the lamp was pulled further away. Then you recalled the tug, and noticed the increased pulsing in your arm, then felt your sweater become sticky and heavy. You looked to the side and down.

Were bones supposed to stick out like that?

You hardly registered it’s presence before the spike-like bone was torn from your limb, sending you into another fit of screams.

The light at the end of the alley flickered again, before going completely dark. 

His heart raced, blood pumping through his ears like crazy.

“Calm down Kenma! You can’t go crazy like this!”

“I have every right! You heard that scream, didn’t you? It was (Y/N)!”

The blonde’s kagune went wild, thrashing about and nearly knocking Kuroo over in the process. Said ghoul didn’t flinch, only brushing away the agitated organ with a push of his own.

“I know, but you have to—”

He was off, launching into the air and onto the rooftops, following the smell of your spilt blood before Kuroo could finish his sentence. The black-haired man swore, quickly following suit.

The sight was expected, horrifying, but not surprising.

Whoever’s intestines were falling out of the ghoul’s mouth, Kozume couldn’t tell, but he wasn’t gonna let the ghoul he had been hunting get another chance to make a meal out of your body if he could help it.

“GET OFF!”

Something cracked as the long-haired ghoul’s body flew off yours, smashing against the brick wall of the alley. Kozumes sharp-pointed kagune pinned him through the stomach to the cracking brick. 

He only gave you a glance. The sight made his stomach churn as if he were trying to eat a regular meal. Torn skin, visible bone, and blood everywhere. He wanted to vomit.

Behind him he could hear Kuroo’s feet land in the massive pool of blood, making it splash slightly. Their clothes would have to be trashed later.

Kozume gritted his teeth. Despite his boiling rage at you being injured, he managed to hold off his brutal assault against the bloodied ghoul until he heard Kuroo zip away with you in his arms. 

Even in your current state, you’d be safer away from the scene.

“I don’t think (Y/N) is going to be able to work for a while.”

“Some of the regulars are spooked, but relieved.”

Whatever was holding your arm like a boa constrictor was making sleep really hard. You groaned. Why did your stomach hurt?

“Ah, look who’s up.” Kuroo’s voice was as teasing as always.

Your sight was blurry when you finally came to. The first thing you noticed was the aggressive pulsing in your arm and stomach followed by a warm hand on your shoulder. You tried to shift.

“Ah stupid, don’t do that.” Kozume’s voice, despite a slight rasp, was as gentle as ever.

You sighed and squinted towards Kuroo who stood at the end of — what you were quick to realize—  was your hospital bed. His arms were crossed and the smirk he wore was humorous. “Kuroo, if you say a single word, I will gladly risk further injury to fight you.”

Kenma shut his eyes and rubbed your shoulder before reaching for a hot mug from your bedside table. Kuroo walked around to the opposite side to help you sit up. You watch a thick red sweater fall off your shoulders and onto your lap, in front of your bandaged stomach.

Kenma spoke quietly, “Your sweater was torn to pieces.”

“Like my body?” you joked, only to get a sour look from the man in return. “Sorry.”

He sighed again and handed you the steaming mug. “Here, drink this. You need food.”

Kuroo walked back to the end of the bed, letting Kozume take care of you from then on.

“Coffee is considered a food now?”

Kuroo let out a short chuckle, making you tilt your brow in his direction. Kozume coughed, placing the mug down quickly to lift his red sweater off of your lap. He draped it back onto your chest, tucking it between your shoulders and pillow, then slowly guiding your arms through the sleeves. 

You rubbed your hands together for warmth as Kozume offered you the hot mug again. You took it, thanking him with a shining smile. You once again failed to notice the rosiness of his cheeks, even if Kuroo didn’t.

“You won’t be able to stomach anything else, sorry.”

Why did this take me so long to write…. Oh well. -Bacon

Posted: 14/02/2021

[apothecarinomicon]

Spring week 3, part 1

I felt much better this morning. I suppose whatever sickness fairy visions impart is strictly transient—or maybe dealing with reagents has given me a good immune system. 

When I went outside, I found that I’d somehow managed to plant the foxsocks in the garden. I don’t know how I could have done it in my feverish state and I certainly don’t remember it, but there it is. The foxsocks seem to be thriving already, or at least to have a solid foothold. As I’d hoped, they should be reliably available from here on out.

As I stood there, sleepily puzzling over the garden, I heard a screech from above. Looking up, I saw what at first appeared to be a large bird circling down towards the ground. When she landed, though, I saw she was a woman with wings instead of arms, talons instead of legs, and a feathered tail, wearing a khaki uniform—a postal harpy. She greeted me while balancing on one leg and asked me to confirm my name. I told her and she introduced herself as Liùsaidh. She indicated I ought to retrieve my mail from her talon (it’s polite to wait for their permission). She asked if I might be sticking around and I said I thought I was. She said she’d see me next time I got mail and flew off.

What she’d brought was a letter, with a return address listed as “The Gleoclas J. Ledgerwood Muſeum of Magicke.” It was a single handwritten (actually, impressively calligraphed) page. The spelling and grammar was, shall we say, characteristic. It’s easier to just stick the letter in between the pages than copy it down, so that’s what I’ll do.

To whom it may concern:

It has come to our attentionne at The Friends of The Gleoclas J. Ledgerwood Muſeum of Magicke that ye are a practicing vvitch reſiding in the hamlet of Greanmoore. We would like to congratulate ye on your appointmente and hope you find the positionne both fulfilling and rewarding. We had brief correspondence with your predeceſsor and were glad to learn of yovr presence.

The Gleoclas J. Ledgerwood Muſeum of Magicke is among the premiere magical muſeums in northweſternne High Rannoc. It has one of the moſte exhauſtive collections of magical materials, svbſtances, and hiſtories native to High Rannoc in the vvorld. Academicks, travelers, and school field trips regularly reference and reſearch the Muſeum’s collections in their purſuit of more compleat knowledge.

As The Muſeum of Magicke does not have a repreſentative in Greanmoore or the surrounding areas, we have a requeſte to make of ye if you are willing to fulfill it. We pride ourſelves on the compleatneſs of our Magickal Components collectionne, but we are miſsing many of the species native to Greanmoore and its svrrounding locations. We humbly ask that ye help vs remedy this deficiency. If you are willing to do so, we woulde requeſt that ye send one of each magickal componente available in the area to the Muſeum, at the returnne addreſs listed above. Should you do so, ye will receive compenſationne.

We hope ye will partner with vs in this endeavor. Your contributionne to societal knowledge shall be greatly appreciated by generationnes of reſearchers, thinkers, and touriſts.

Eagerly avvaiting your reſponſe,

The Friends of The Gleoclas J. Ledgerwood Muſeum of Magicke

[A plain text accessible version of this letter is available here.]

Obviously, the spelling is horrendous. This might have been forgivable a few decades ago, but the shape of the ‘s’ (that is, it not being that odd ‘f’ looking thing sometimes) and the distinction between ‘u,’ ‘v,’ and ‘w’ have been standardized since before I was born. Not to mention, the Ledgerwood Museum is associated with the University of Arcbridge—so there must be someone there who knows better.

The thing is, for a long time the only people who could write were those who received higher education, so the vast majority of documents that exist throughout history have to do with academia. So, even as reading and writing became more accessible and spelling and grammar more standardized, that outdated irregular styling retroactively became associated with education, with decorum, with genius.

I’ve never really had much respect for that kind of posturing—I think that if you’re brilliant the content of your writing ought to speak for itself. You shouldn’t have to so explicitly climb on the shoulders of those who came before you, especially not by intentionally making the mistakes they made or using the outdated styles they used.

I sent back a letter inquiring about the specifics of compensation along with a sample of my foxsocks.

I’m going to the library.

 ────⊱⁜⊰──── 

The Greenmoor Public Library is near the center of town, not quite in the square but on Market Street directly off of it. It has some interesting architecture: it looks as if it was originally three separate buildings the size of single-family houses, that were all connected up at a later date by a circular addition between them so that the final building looks like a cog with three spokes. Each section of it is made up of a different material—exposed stone, lime render, and brick for the original houses, and cement for the central cylinder—but it all works together in a quirky, oddball way.

There are no internal walls in the library—even where there must have been external walls in the original houses. They must have knocked them down (I don’t envy that job). Every wall is lined with bookshelves from floor to ceiling, and in each of the spokes there are many close-set freestanding shelves besides, with only narrow aisles left between. At the center of the center is a circular desk, and around this are scattered tables with benches and clusters of armchairs for convenience of reading and research.

The library is owned and run by Donella and Saundra Glasford, an older couple. Saundra is actually the schoolteacher, but she helps with reshelving and organization on weekends. I know this because Donella explained it to me in detail. As soon as I walked in the door she stood from behind (within?) the circular desk and approached me, insisting that she give me a tour of the library. In addition to a survey of the entire space and what kinds of books it contained, this ‘tour’ involved a hefty amount of insight into the daily lives and routines of the Glasford family. 

They have a kid named Muiredach, who’s very interested in ancient things at the moment—giant skeletons and the like. Donella has lived here her entire life but Saundra moved here forty years ago. Saundra’s expertise is in thaumatology (specifically thaumatozoology, the study of magical animals), in which she has a degree. Meanwhile, Donella has extensive knowledge of literary and epistemological history, though she received no formal schooling past twelve.

After she finished showing me all the different sections and layouts of the library, Donella told me I should feel free to poke around as much as I wanted. She added that I wouldn’t find any secret passages or hidden rooms, and that they had nothing to hide.

I hadn’t realized before she said that what this was all about.

I told her that the rumors weren’t true, that I wasn’t some Government spy or anything like that (I heard Saundra mumble something like “well you’d also deny it if you were a clype, wouldn’t you?”). Donella quickly assured me that she believed me, but then said “better safe than sorry,” so I’m not quite sure she actually did. I told her I didn’t understand where all the suspicion was coming from. Saundra piped up, saying that I was a stranger who came to a small, isolated town I had no prior relation with to fill a position whose previous occupant had mysteriously disappeared, and asked if I understood how that looked (not in quite those words—her accent and dialect was rather strong). I told her I’d been summoned directly by Mòrag McKinney, and had the paper trail to prove it. I asked if she thought Mòrag was involved in some conspiracy, too. She shrugged and said she was just saying how it looked.

Donella said regardless that I should feel free to use the library—it was for the public, after all—and pointed me in the direction of the section on rune magic. Thus, the conversation ended, but my uneasiness didn’t entirely abate. Still, I’d come to the library for a reason.

The rune section was limited, but I didn’t need to know any more than the basics. I’d only ever been taught one way to create runes, and it was clear my predecessor used a different one—all I needed to do was to figure out which and I could reverse engineer the runes’ meanings.

I found that she used a combination of the witches’ circle and magic square methods, which are both apparently very popular. I wonder why I was never taught them. Both systems derive the shape of the sigil directly from the letters of the intentions they’re meant to invoke. It’s traditional to remove the vowels before doing so, but luckily for me my predecessor chose not to do that.

So, with a bit of work I was able to determine that the sigils I copied down meant: life, autonomy, gentleness, congeniality, and empathy respectively. It was clearly built to be a very kind golem. Now that I know that, I’m going to try to create my own sigils and charge them, and see if that helps.

 ────⊱⁜⊰──── 

While I was at the library, I also collected a few of the greatest works of modern literature—Lord of the Midges, Beathag’s Choice, To Kill a Gull-Drake, et cetera. The next morning I packed the books into the rucksack I’d used to travel to Greenmoor and set out to take them to Morna, heading to Hero’s Hollow by way of Moonbreaker Mountain.

As I skirted the base of the mountain, I heard a voice call out from above me, crying “hey, you! Groundling!” It was clearly far above me but somehow also quite loud. I looked up and saw, blotting out the sun, a great hot air balloon.  I’d heard vague stories but had never seen one in person before. The most striking part of it was the balloon itself, made of canvas patterned beige and blue and larger than a house. The top half of it (as I was informed later) was enclosed by a net, which had metal rings on its edges attaching it to a tangle of myriad ropes and cords. These in turn held aloft the basket, which was not the simple platform I’d seen described in books but rather looked like a small sailing boat, complete with railings, rotors, and a steering wheel.

The voice announced that it hadn’t seen me around before and that I ought to climb aboard. A ladder with metal rungs unfurled over the side of the boat, just low enough that I could reach it if I jumped. I did so after making sure my rucksack was firmly on my back and shut, and climbed up to reach the aircraft.

The man onboard was only slightly taller than me. His white shirt was rumpled and stained with oil, and his left suspender was fraying. The thick goggles on his forehead, held together with large bolts and screws, were the only thing keeping his thick black hair from whipping in all directions with the wind (mine, in contrast, had already become hopelessly tangled). His sleeves were rolled up, but his forearms were covered by brown leather fingerless gloves, with metal studs that flashed in the sunlight as he hauled the ladder back onto the balloon. He wore a mask over the lower half of his face, with a cylindrical chamber marked “O2” sticking out from each cheek. Directly in front of the mouth was a clear window, so that I could see his lips moving when he spoke. He offered me a similar one and I accepted—the air was rather thin so high up. I could see him say something that was drowned out by the wind, and then he beckoned me towards a door. Given the shape of the craft, I wasn’t surprised to discover that it led to a kind of captains’ quarters.

Inside, the wind wasn’t quite so brutally loud and I could actually make out what my host was saying. He introduced himself as Captain Akash Majhi, aviator extraordinaire, and asked if I needed a lift. I said it might have been a bit late to ask since I was already on the balloon, which made him chuckle. I said that since he’d offered, I was headed to Hero’s Hollow, and he replied that that would be no problem. I noticed as we conversed that he only made eye contact when he was speaking—when I spoke, he instead watched my lips.

As Akash turned to pull a lever on the wall, I asked where he was from. He didn’t respond. With the lever pulled, a large strip of the ceiling rotated so that a piece of what had been the floor above—the piece to which the steering wheel was attached—became the ceiling of this room. Akash then tapped what seemed to just be a wooden accent covering a swath of the metal wall above the desk and bed. The wood slid to the side, revealing a bay window through which he could see.

He took his place at the wheel, positioning me in his field of view, so I asked again where he was from. He told me he was a proud resident of the Cloud Isles. I told him I’d never heard of such a place, and he said I really must be new to the area. Belatedly, I told him my name and that I had in fact only moved here a few weeks ago. He told me that the Cloud Isles were just that: islands in the clouds, with wildlife, ecosystems, and culture. At the center was a great city that, yes, was attached to the clouds, but had mostly been built flying between and amongst them by generations of architects, donors, engineers, artists, and aviators like himself. 

I asked him where the city was located and he vaguely waved his hands. “Here and there.” He said that as the clouds drifted so did the Isles, but that the city itself never strayed too far from Greenmoor—otherwise, mapping and resource-gathering from the ground below would be difficult or impossible.

I asked him how I might visit the Isles, and he told me I’d need to be able to fly. He said the general ethos of the residents leaned towards mechanical solutions, but he had heard that there were magical ways of flight as well. I said I would have to look into that. He handed me a business card with his name, “balloonist | engineer | aviator extraordinaire,” an address, and a smoke signal pattern to use to contact him. He said if I was ever in the city he’d be happy to show me around. Then, he announced that we’d arrived.

We went back onto the deck and he unfurled the ladder over the edge. I  went to hand him the oxygen mask back but he told me to keep it—they were expensive, but he had plenty and I’d be needing it when (and he did say “when”) I visited the city. I thanked him, shook his hand, and started descending the ladder.

 ────⊱⁜⊰──── 

I made it back to the ground (the hop down from the ladder was smaller than the hop up had been), and smoothed my hair down before setting off into the Hollow. I’d only barely made it into the skull when my plans for the afternoon abruptly shifted.

It was just around midday, so the guards must have been on break or between shifts. Hurrying out of the dungeon was a group I recognized—it was the Lows, the mining family. Angus was carrying the son in his arms. The boy was clutching his thigh, and even from a distance I could see blood seeping through his fingers.

Crystal spotted me and immediately called out to me, thanking the gods for my arrival. I hurried to them and guided them back to the cottage, where I knew I’d be able to better determine how to treat the issue. Morna would have to wait—I had a patient to tend to.

⇦●〇●⇨

[ourplaceinthecosmosphff]

Chapter 16. Fight or Flight

‘I am healing by mistake. Rome is also built on ruins.' Eliza Griswold

“It’s a private street,” Harry explained as he walked me on quickstep towards the big black gates in red brick ahead. “Technically owned by the Crown Estate. Most of the houses are embassies or former embassies now owned by billionaires.” “Was someone supposed to have stopped me from just walking in?” I asked, already guessing the answer.

“A little weird to have a central London address mostly habited by dignitaries and rich people and forbid people from entering it, isn’t it?” He grinned. “So it’s open for pedestrians and cyclists twenty-four-seven. Cars only authorized. And, of course, they are free to kick you out if they think you’re behaving strangely.”

“Understandable.” I smiled.

“...So…” He started, shifting on his feet as he walked, adjusting my bag on his shoulder, “Where’s Christopher?”

“...Right now? Halfway to Canada, probably. On business.”

“Ah.” He nodded. “And… your security?”

I looked around at the street lights, avoiding his eyes. “It’s just me.”

“Right… but, should it be? Isn’t it a bit--?” Before he could finish -- ‘dangerous’ was probably going to be his last word -- I stopped, and looked at his, heaving a sigh. “This is weird. Isn’t it? I’m sorry, I can get a hotel.”

Under the moon and lamp post lights, I thought I saw his cheeks redden. “No, that’s not--! I don’t-- You’re welcome here, of course! I was just… worried. You shouldn’t be walking around on your own.”

At this charming revelation, said in an even more charming tone, I smiled, sheepishly. “Well, I am.”

“So, no… major changes after the…  new succession?”

I sighed, remembering Joyce, my protection officer that had been replaced, and Cadie. “Some. Not tonight, though.”

We were quietly ushered through a pedestrian steel door a few steps after the big gates, which magically opened when Harry approached. His protection officer followed after us.

“Uh, sir?” He called when we kept walking.

Looking back, Harry startled slightly. “Oh, that’s right. Do you mind?” He looked at me, “They need to sign you in.”

“Oh, of course.” We walked to the security cabin near the bigger gate, where another guard, this one in uniform, smiled at us.

“ID, ma’am?”

I handed him my passport from my coat’s pocket, which I had kept handy for the train.

“I’m sorry about this,” Harry said, worried, “It’s… bloody protocol.”

“It’s alright.” I smiled. “You do remember I live in a palace, too? If there’s one thing I understand in life is protocol.”

He smiled back. “She’ll already be registered.” Harry told the guard. “She was here last October.”

I remembered, distantly, filling up my passport in security forms before the tour, and we had come to Kensington for tea once. A lifetime ago.

The guard returned my passport and wished us a goodnight, so Harry walked me towards the palace, now unaccompanied by any officers.

We didn’t go into the main building, however, like when I visited William and Catherine’s house, we went around it.

“So…” Harry started. “I don’t live in the main palace. I don’t got an apartment. It’s… small, my place. Really small. Two bedrooms! So, should be fine, but–”

“Is this--?” I stopped walking, my mind finally catching up to where I was and what I’d done. “Should I not have come? This is weird, right? I didn’t mean to barge in and--”

“No!”

“I’m sorry, I can get a hotel–”

“No, really– It’s fine!” He assured me. “I just wanted you to be prepared, because it’s not a… big, fancy place like my brother’s house, or my father’s house. It’s just… a cottage, really. It’s tiny. I live alone, so it’s quite good just for me–”

I sighed, feeling relieved. Now almost amused. “Agani, fellow royal. I live in a palace? I know how it works. It’s not all a palace.”

He smiled. “Yes… It’s just that people always seem to think it’s all very glamorous.”

The house was nice, it was, as he had mentioned, smaller than most, but it made up for it with that warm, comfortable look of a real home. The front door led into what seemed like one room, with sliding doors separating the smaller half – a kitchen with faded yellow cabinets that needed upgrading, but looked nice. The other half had a blue three-seat sofa and a matching armchair in front of a wooden chest of drawers in which was propped up a flat-screen TV – the only thing in the room that looked like he had actually purchased and not inherited, or maybe borrowed from the Royal Collection.

“It’s nice.” I told him in the silence. He was still watching me from the front door, which he’d just closed, my bag still hanging from his shoulder. “I like it.”

“Are you hungry?” He asked, with a smile, moving quickly into the kitchen. “We could order takeout. I like thai food, there’s a nice place not far from here. Or, I have stuff to make sandwiches, if you’d prefer– what?”

I was smiling at the way my bag would sway around as he moved quickly around his small table to reach the fridge, looking slightly frazzled. “Nothing.”

He smiled, too. “Or!” Excitedly, he walked over to the microwave and opened it, removing a small plate. “Ta-da!”

I approached, realizing he was holding a plate of the entrées from the wedding. “You stole the entrées?!” I laughed.

“I asked! Politely asked if I could have some of the leftovers. You were right, they were delicious.”

We laughed. “Scandalous!” I said, grabbing one and moving to the sofas. “I’m not that hungry, actually, but thanks.”

I sat on the larger sofa, realizing the room also had a small, marble-top coffee table on top of a Persian rug and a corner bookcase with picture frames. I got up to look at his books, realizing it was a mixture of books, CDs and DVDs, even some vinyls. My eyes were first caught by Jurassic Park, by Michael Crichton, 1984, by George Orwell and Brave New World, by Aldous Huxley. He also had Fahrenheit 451, by Ray Bradbury, Catch 22, by Joseph Heller, and The Complete Calvin and Hobbes collection, which made me smile. I pulled out an orange spine -- The Subtle Art of Not Giving a F*ck, Mark Manson -- and he moved behind me, the only time I heard him since walking over.

"That was a gift." He explained, in a justification tone.

I smiled back at him, returning the book to its place and noticing a white one with large black letters next to it, Why I'm No Longer Talking to White People About Race, by Reni Eddo-Lodge, which had a summary that regarded it as 'the essential handbook for anyone who wants to understand race relations in Britain today.' I returned it to its place, smiling.

“So you like fantasy.” I concluded, when I found The Hobbit and at least two Harry Potters.

“More like sci-fi.” He replied. “I like The Hobbit, and I made an exception for Harry Potter, which is iconic.”

“I liked the movies.”

“You haven’t read the books?”

“Could never really get into it.” I shrugged.

He closed the distance between us, my bag still on his shoulders, and stared at me from up close, seriously.

“You didn’t like Harry Potter?!”

“What I said was I couldn’t get into it.” I repeated, fighting a grin.

“That’s what people say when they tried something and didn’t like it.”

“Well–” I reflected on the option. “You don’t have any evidence that’s an universal truth. Surely not that that’s how I meant it.”

“Okay, counselor,” he sighed, impatiently. A grin made its way into my lips. “Did you or did you not like reading Harry Potter?!”

“I believe I have a right against self-incrimination in Britain, I certainly do as a Savoy citizen, so I will be evoking that right at this moment.”

He took in a long breath, running a hand through his hair, “Wow.” He sighed, making me laugh. “Just… wow. I am… outraged. As a British man, as a human being–”

“Okay, calm down.” I laughed.

“Harry Potter is incredible!”

“It was just… really childish for me.”

“The first book was written for children! The tone changes as the books go along!”

“Yes, there’s like ten of them. It’s a lot.”

“Seven, and you went to Harvard! You can handle seven children’s books!” My bag fell off his shoulder at his exasperated arm movements, but he was quick to grab it by the handle before it hit the floor.

“And why are you still carrying that?”

“I just…” He shrugged, walking over to the armchair to put my bag there. “I imagine you’ll need it.”

He looked back at me, pulling his long sleeves up past his elbows.

“I--I imagine your protection detail will be ‘round shortly to collect you.”

I chuckled, nervously. “What–? Why? I told you, it’s just me tonight.”

“Yes, and you’re the next in line to the throne of a country. I can’t go anywhere without security, and I know my brother has at least two at all times, so I’m assuming you have at least one person looking for you out there by now.”

There was an awkward silence as I shifted on my feet, hands still in my coat pockets, mouth agape, searching for what to say. He didn’t look upset, and it wasn’t like I’d just committed a crime by omitting what happened, but it still felt as if I had done something incredibly wrong, and the more I looked at him, the more uncomfortable the thought of continuing to lie was.

“It’s–It’s… It’s not like they’ll rush in here screaming that you kidnapped me or something.” I said, nervously forcing a giggle at the thought. “I don’t even know if they’ve noticed I’ve gone yet.”

“Ah.” He nodded, slowly, sitting down on the larger sofa. “So you ran away when they weren’t looking.”

“They were asleep.” I corrected, feeling my whole body warm in embarrassment. “And I would object to the word ‘ran’, I very calmly walked off the train when it stopped in London. It’s not my fault they didn’t notice.”

“They were asleep?!” He asked, his voice going higher than I’d heard before.

“It’s a long journey… Especially from Northern England.”

“Well, it’s their job! That’s… that’s so unbelievably unsafe!”

“I’m here, aren’t I?” I raised my hands, in a placating gesture. “No harm done.”

“Well, you couldn’t have known that, could you?!” He asked, eyes widened. “But they sure should have, it’s their job! What if someone walked into the train and pointed a gun at you and forced you to leave?”

“What– I’m– I don’t even–” I sighed, frustrated. “Harry, I’m sorry, okay? Do you–? Would you like me to leave? I can get a hotel–”

“No!” He got to his feet. “I just–” He sighed. “I know how important security is, and… you… you’re a bigger target now, aren’t you? Your security profile must have changed since… you know.”

“I don’t.” I admitted. “They don’t really tell me much these days.”

I walked over, took off my coat, and sat down on the sofa. “Really, Harry, if this is a lot, I can get a place to stay, it’s no trouble.”

He walked over and sat next to me, laying his head back to rest atop the back of the sofa. “I don’t want you to leave.”

Relieved beyond understanding, I started to relax. So I sat back and laid my head next to his.

“So you didn’t miss the train.” He said, and seeing as it wasn't a question, I thought it would be best not to incriminate myself again.

“Marie? Did you?”

I looked at the ceiling. “Technically, I did. But I missed it because I got off.”

He let out a quiet, nasalized chuckle. “Why?”

I heaved a long sigh, and turned to look at him. “I don’t know… I just… I was in the train. And I couldn’t stop thinking about things. And I wanted to. And then we stopped in London. And I grabbed my bag and went to the bathroom, just to walk a little, to distract myself. But then I saw the doors opened. And my protection officers were asleep, so they didn’t even see me get up, so one second I was just fantasizing about how I could just… walk off, and the next I just… did.”

“I still think your security is incredibly irresponsible in this scenario.” He said, on a low tone, in which a hint of anger was only just noticeable.

“They have a right to sleep if we’re on a moving train.” I protested.

“What were you thinking about?” He asked.

“I just… I don’t know, okay? I just… The door was open and there was this colder breeze coming in, and I just… I just wanted to feel more of it. I don’t really understand it, either.”

“I actually mean… What were you thinking during the journey? That you said you didn’t want to think of anymore?”

“…Oh.” I looked back at the ceiling, biting my lower lip. “Everything, I guess. I just…”

I thought back to the train ride, the sound of the tracks, the dimmed lights as everyone seemed to either be asleep or blissfully entertained by their phones. To my heart, full of questions and… anger. I couldn’t tell him half of it.

“I just… I can’t–” I felt my voice break slightly as a knot found its way into my throat. “I can’t be in Savoy right now. I just… I don’t even– Sometimes it just feels like… Like–” I sat up, clearing my throat and turning to look at him, folding one leg to sit on top of it, facing him. 

He’d opened his house to me out of nowhere. I knew how chaotic this must look. He deserved some explanation. 

“It’s like they’re all playing a game and I’m the only one who wasn’t told the rules, but I’m still… part of it, you know? I’m the… I’m the game.” I said. “And I’m just… so tired of it.”

He was quiet, brows furrowed. He sighed… and then nodded.

“Okay.”

“Okay?”

“Okay. I’ll… I’ll go give security a call, and tell them if someone comes asking for you to say they haven’t seen you.”

My mouth opened, in astonishment, but I didn’t know what to say.

“And you… what do you want to do? Shower? Movie? Pizza? Sleep?”

I was still astonished, but I started to smile now. “A shower would be nice, I guess.”

“Great, let me show you to the bathroom and I’ll get you a towel.”

He got up, quickly grabbed my bag and smiled when he asked me to follow him. The guest bathroom was just around the corner from the living room, beyond the narrow, carpeted staircase up.

“This is the guest bath. You can use the one in my room, though, it’s better water pressure and you’ll be closer to the guest room.”

Upstairs, there was just a small hallway with three doors, one of which was a closet where he got me two towels. The one at the other end was his room.

The bed was made, but looked like it had been slept in recently. Another flat screen TV was mounted on the wall in front of it, with a paused Netflix movie displayed.

“Do you have pajamas, or–?.” He asked as he left my bag on the bathroom floor. “I can find you some of my clothes?”

I had a clean set of pajamas I’d brought to stay in the hotel overnight, but for some reason I smiled, sheepishly, and said, “That’d be great, thanks.”

“Sweatpants good? I’ll leave them in the bed. You can change here, I’ll wait downstairs.”

“Okay.” I smiled.

Inside, I got out of my travel clothes, brushed my hair down slowly, taking deep breaths, avoiding my reflection in the mirror. When I was done, I put my hair up in a tight bun, and finally looked at myself, but I couldn’t help but smile.

“You’re ridiculous.” I told mirror-Maggie.

As I showered, I tried to better answer the questions he had asked. I’d been thinking of Christopher, of his family ring, of why he would have decided to propose so soon after we got back together. I thought of why my father would say yes without consulting me. Of why my father would continually make decisions about my life without consulting me.

When I turned off the shower, I knew a couple of things for sure: I didn’t plan to run away. I just wanted to go to the bathroom on the train, to distract myself from my own thoughts. When I saw the door and realized that I could leave without my security seeing, all I wanted was to run. To feel… free. To be somewhere I wasn’t expected to give people the nice and polite answers they expected. For some reason, my heart decided this was that place. But this freedom also brought me guilt. What did that say for my relationship?

I wrapped myself in the towel and opened the bathroom door to find a pile of clothes in his bed. I brought them inside and got changed into a much too large for me black sweatpants and dark green shirt. Luckily – or maybe Harry had predicted this – the pants had drawstrings, so I could adjust them to my waist. I folded the bottom as best as I could.

When I did, my eyes fell on a bottle on the lower shelf of his cabinet. It was L’Occitane Cedrat Spray Deodorant. The name was familiar. I got up and realized there was another bottle on the shower caddie with the name – this one a shower gel. So I reached for the deodorant and sprayed a little of it in the air.

The smell almost knocked me to my feet. It was the smell Harry always had, the smell I remembered from London. The smell that brought me right back to an otherwise boring State Dinner, on a red dress, dancing barefoot in a room in Buckingham Palace where we weren’t supposed to be, his face leaning ever so much closer to mine, chills going down my spine, warming up my skin, getting on my tiptoes hoping to close the distance… before we were interrupted by my protection officer Joyce telling us it was time to go.

The smell took me back to flirty, happy texts planning a date. Running after Lourdes after she stole my phone. Waiting for a reply when Auguste and Montennon walked by with death on their faces… before everything changed.

I shook my head. I couldn’t add more things to the archive of stuff I had to think about.

Down the stairs, I found him in the kitchen. He bit down a grin when he saw me in his clothes. “Well, you look…”

“Ridiculous.” I smiled. “It’s a bit big.”

“No! You look cute.” He said, making me blush. “Security has been informed, by the way.”

“Right.” I sighed. “Thank you so much, Harry. I don’t think I said that yet.” He avoided my eyes, shrugging. “It’s not a problem. You’re always welcome here.”

“I know it’s... Weird… and I didn’t mean to interrupt your night.” I added. “I saw the TV on in your room.”

“Oh, I was just watching a movie. The new Transformers.” He told me. “It’s… not great. But in a good way? Does that make sense?” I smiled. “Kind of, yeah.” “Wanna watch it with me?” He asked. “I’d practically just started it. And it’s early-ish, still.”

“Sure.”

“Awesome.” He clapped his hands together and found a packet of popcorn in the kitchen cabinet.

A little while later, he handed me a bowl and a salt shaker. “Madame.”

I salted the popcorn as he walked around, grabbing napkins and a bag of M&M’s from a cabinet. “Chocolate or peanuts?” He asked. “And bear in mind, there is a right answer.”

“Dealer’s choice.” I returned.

“Coward.” He half-coughed, half-muttered, making me chuckle. “I have coke, orange juice, and beer.”

“Coke.”

“Right answer.” He nodded, approvingly, before turning to me with a slightly more serious expression. “I have… further questions.”

I pulled a chair and sat down, pushing the popcorn away. “Okay.”

“So… who knows– Did you tell Christop–” He sighed. “How many people know you’re here?”

I did the math in my head. “Five, or six, maybe?”

“Plus me and the security officers we walked by?”

“No, I– I mean you and the security officers.”

“Oh. Okay.”

“And the cab driver, but I don’t think he knew who I was.” He was quiet for a while, biting his lower lip. “Any other questions?”

He sighed. “Shouldn’t you tell someone?” At the way my face responded, he continued, quickly pulling up a chair and sitting next to me. “I mean, just that you’re okay, at least. They’ll think you were kidnapped!”

“If I turn on my phone they can track me.” I confessed. “All our phones are tracked by security headquarters.”

“Don’t you have a chip?” He asked, seeming genuinely surprised.

“Those tracking chips that go into your skin?” I asked, “No. The idea gets floated around every couple of years, but my siblings and I always hated it. And my mother thinks it’s too weird.” He nodded. “Do you have one?”

He smiled widely, teeth closed, and pointed at the right side of his jaw. “Just under this tooth here… But don’t tell anyone.”

I laughed. “Right, lesson one of anti-terrorism training. Your teachers would be very disappointed in you.”

He groaned, grinning. “Don’t remind me. Those guys are impressive, but they’re terrifying.”

“Do you ever get refresher training?”

“I think my last one was after my brother’s wedding, due to ‘increased media attention’.” He quoted, annoyed.

“Yeah, they made us take a refresher when Lourdes was born. It was awful.”

“Weren’t you, like, ten?!”

“Yes!” I confirmed, nodding enthusiastically. “That’s what made it awful!”

We chuckled, together.

He scratched his beard, looking at the ceiling. “God, we live weird lives.”

The TV in his room was bigger, so we took the popcorn, the cokes and the chocolate M&M’s – his favorite – upstairs where he started the movie from the beginning.

Admittedly, I didn’t pay as much attention as I should have, but I understood enough of it to know he was right: it wasn’t great. Great was the popcorn, the ice cold coke, and the chocolate M&M’s.

Eventually, though, my back started to hurt, so I slid down to lay on his pillows instead of sitting against the headboard, and my eyelids grew heavy, and the sound of explosions grew dimmer as I fell asleep. I shook myself awake a few minutes later, apologizing, but he only smiled and said, “It’s okay”, as he hesitated slightly, before reaching over and resting his hand by my head, brushing my hair so lightly I was asleep again in seconds.

When I woke up, the room was darker than before, the movie was over and the TV now displayed the long list of credits on a dark screen to a slow instrumental track. Harry nowhere to be found.

I heard steps from the hallway, and closed my eyes instinctively, just as I heard him come in. Slowly, I felt a warm blanket cover me, just at this moment realizing how chilly I had been a second before. I breathed in deeply, realizing how much his pillow smelled like him, and settled in to place to sleep again before I heard him step away. Opening my eyes, I realized he was leaving.

“Harry?”

He stopped at the door, and looked back. “Hey.” He whispered. “It’s okay, you go back to sleep. I’ll take the other room.”

“You should sleep in your own bed.” I said, forcing myself to sit up.

“It’s fine, Marie.” He smiled, approaching to gently tuck me back in, pulling the blanket up to my chest. “I promise, just go back to sleep. I’ll see you in the morning.”

He was almost leaving again, but my heart couldn’t take it.

“Harry?” I called, whispery, holding on tightly to two fistfulls of the blanket to stop from reaching out to hold his hand.

“Yes?”

I thought of his girlfriend, of my boyfriend, of the imaginary crown looming over my head, and yet, I couldn’t stop my lips from uttering, “Stay.”

He stared at me for one, two, three seconds before getting up. He walked around the bed and laid down, fluffing his pillows slightly as I stretched the blanket out to him.

We laid in silence, his warmth reaching over to me under the covers – or maybe my skin was just warmer than usual. I flipped over to lay on my stomach, hugging the pillow under me. When I did, my fingers hit something that felt like a needle. Carefully feeling it out, I realized it was a bobby pin. ‘This must be the side his girlfriend sleeps in when she’s over’, I thought, feeling suddenly sick to my stomach.

Turning to look at him, I breathed:

“Truth or dare?”

I heard his body move in the dark, and felt his knee brush against my leg as he turned to lay on his side, facing me.

“Truth.”

“Okay…” I held out the bobbi pin from under his pillow, pointing it at him. “Now, be honest… Do you curl your hair to sleep?”

His head raised from the pillow to look at what I was showing him, confused. “What–? Oh.” He smiled as I chuckled. “That’s–ha-ha, hilarious.”

He picked the bobby pin, and turned around to place it carefully in the bedside table next to him.

“Or does that belong to a lady-friend?”

He laughed. “A lady-friend?!”

“You never explained if you and Cressida broke up or not, so I wouldn’t want to speculate.”

“No, of course.” His tone was a mixture of sarcastic and teasing. “You’re just being respectful.”

There was a nice, quiet silence before I whispered, “You never answered the question.”

We laughed again. “No, Marie-Margueritte, I do not curl my hair before bed.”

“So how, pray tell, do you explain the evidence?”

“Objection, your honor,” he said, and I could still hear the giggle in his voice, “No follow-up questions, remember?”

I sighed, “Oh, right, that bullshit rule.”

“Enough stalling. Truth or dare?”

I smiled, sighing. “Truth.”

“…Do you think Clara could have done better than John? Be honest.”

I laughed. “You’re terrible.”

“Come on, we’re all thinking it.”

“Who’s ‘we’ in this scenario?”

“Every guest at their wedding.”

“You’re a terrible friend.” I giggled.

“Hey, I didn’t say that to him! I’m saying it to you, in confidence.” He justified, “And I can’t help but notice you’re avoiding the question.”

“Alright, fine. Admittedly, yes, she has dated guys I think were objectively better looking in a traditional way. But that’s not everything!”

“No!” He said, in an exaggerated way. “Of course not… that’s why your boyfriend looks like that.”

“What do you mean with ‘like that’?” I laughed.

“Oh, you know… the big, moussed up hair, the fancy suit, be honest, does he wear makeup?”

“Oh, my god!” I laughed. “You’re the worst. And you already asked your question. So, truth or dare?”

He sighed. “Truth.”

I considered for a long time what to ask. Long enough that he called out, “Marie?”

“I’m thinking.”

“Oh.”

Gulping, I tried to make the question sound as casual and playful as possible. “Who’s the mysterious owner of the bobby pin?”

“…oh.”

He was silent.

“Go on.” I laughed, nervously. “You must answer truthfully.”

“I–” He sighed. “It’s… It’s you.”

“I–” I startled. “What?”

He sighed, again, deeper now. “That day, my last day in Savoy. On the stairs. You were trying to remove your hat… I helped. I tried to give them back to you, but you– were distracted, I guess.”

“Oh…”

“Sorry.”

“No, don’t.” I turned around, laying in my side, facing him. “Harry, I’m the one who’s sorry… that day I was–I was acting completely insane.”

“Don’t apologize.” He asked. “You were going through so much–”

“Yes, but that doesn’t excuse hurting someone–”

“You didn’t hurt me.” He reached out, holding my hand in the space between us.

“I mean–”

“I know what you mean.” He assured me.

Breathless, I closed my fingers on his hold. I couldn’t know what he was thinking of, but I was thinking of the kiss. Or, more accurately, the almost-kiss. I could still feel his neck on my lips, his smell, right there on his pillow, had lived in my mind for the past five months. That‘s what I was apologizing for, but couldn’t say. I couldn’t speak of it. Speaking of it could lead to questions I had also been avoiding for five months like my life depended on it.

“Truth or dare?” He asked, without letting go of my hand.

Breathing in, deeply, and knowing I still wanted to talk about it, but it may not be the right time, I said, “Truth.”

Quietly, I felt his fingers brush mine, slowly.

“Why did you ask about my ex?” He asked, whispery, barely audible.

“…I…” I gulped. “I was curious… I guess– I guess it feels… sad? That we lost touch. I wanted to know what– you know, what you’ve been up to.”

He was quiet. I ventured a look past our hands, to his face, where I could almost see a smile on his lips.

His finger slowly traced mine. His next question came even lower than the first, as if scared to make it even a little bit more real than it had to be. “Were you jealous?”

I felt my heart jump on my chest. His soft touch on my hand, the guilty knot of anxiety in my stomach to be laying in bed with him, as platonically as it was… it all made it impossible to lie.

But I was a lawyer.

“No follow up questions, remember?”

A silent second. And then I heard his nasalized chuckle. “Wow…”

“Your rules.” I shrugged, painfully pulling my hand from his while I still could, and turning to the other side. “Goodnight, Harry.”

He let out another low, appreciative chuckle. “Goodnight, Mary.”

I fell asleep smiling as the name echoed in my thoughts: ‘Mary’.

--- ---- ---

[A/N: heeeeeeeeeeey. how ya’ll doin? I really wanna write something cute and funny here about the chapter or about how much I appreciate you reading but its 4 am on a monday and i spent all sunday working on overtime and i am exhausted so... just know I appreciate you A LOT seriously thank you so much for reading!!! let me know what you think???????? the end of this chapter made me smile when i wrote it and the next chapter made me cry so you have that to look forward to. THANKS BYEEE]

[but-master]

Closed Starter for @douxie-casperan

Hisirdoux Casperan was very, very anxious, and very, very confused. He could tell because nothing looked right. Gone was the idyllic city of Camelot— in which he’d actually begun to feel at home— and in its place was… not Camelot, that much was for certain. He’d landed somewhere in between two buildings, and at first, he’d been sure he had simply fallen asleep in the streets of his home city, and was just disoriented from waking up. That impression had lasted as far as stepping confidently out into the sunlight …only to be nearly run over a man on wheels! …Sort of. He had been perched on a seat between two in-line wheels, like someone had taken just the side of a cart and… ridden it. Somehow.

That had been the first of many, many more shocks, as clues that this wasn’t even close to his own home began to add up. For one, there was no castle. For two, the place was huge. The streets were enormous, and everything was so spread out, and there was no easy landmark to help guide him through the city. How could anyone know which way North was, without Arthur’s castle to guide them? What sort of a town was he in…?

There were huge metal carts, enclosed, moving without horses— it must have been some form of magic, no doubt— barreling very quickly down the street— faster than he’d ever seen anything move. There were people staring at small rectangles, or aiming them at a certain thing, or some people who were smiling, pressing something with their thumbs, and then looking satisfied, and moving on. There was clear glass in many of the buildings, which showed off what he could only assume were things for sale, though none of it looked familiar to him.

Oh Merlin, not even things that should have been familiar looked familiar. The streets were black and smooth, and the buildings were somehow so perfectly built— not a single brick was even out of place, or too large or too small for where it fit. They were all so indentically uniform, that even though it was hardly the biggest shock of this town— the metal carts chief among the many, many shocks he’d taken— it frightened him. It was just… unsettling. Everything looked so perfect and neat; there was no market, there were no knights roaming the streets, there was no castle or grand church in sight… all of the streets were aligned in what seemed like a boxy maze, and no one seemed the slightest bit lost or bothered by that. The only thing that he could claim familiarity with was the throng of people walking along, bustling to some business or another. Even that looked odd, though— what was everyone wearing?

He scurried back into the alley he’d come from, utterly terrified. His breath was coming up short, so he forced himself to focus; think. What would Merlin do…?

Merlin… If only he was here. He’d know exactly what to do.

But, whether Hisirdoux wished it or not, he wasn’t. So Douxie had to adapt. Step up. He’d been on his own before, in unfamiliar towns. He could do it again.

His first order of necessary business would be to figure out exactly where he was. If he could obtain a map of some sort, he could figure out just how far from Camelot he was, and could then deduce the best way to get back. While he wasn’t entirely sure how he’d arrived here, he was sure that he needed out. What if Merlin was worried that Douxie wasn’t there? What if he was angry that he’d missed his lessons? Hisirdoux had to escape this place.

So, he set off, then, with determination in his step, as he looked for any indication of a vendor that would offer a map to him. Or perhaps even just directions. Anything would help.

The search itself turned out far, far more difficult than he expected. Some of the language was unfamiliar, and nothing gave a good indication of what it was— none of the buildings had easy names to decipher. What was a Lucia? He passed that one and kept moving, past a Magellan’s Antique Mall… past a storefront with a gnome skull in the wind-

Hisirdoux froze. Backed up. And looked again.

Yes, that was definitely a gnome skull…

He glanced up at the store’s sign properly this time: GDT Arcane Books.

Arcane…! That had to be a good sign, right? Besides, the store felt… odd. Familiar, for some reason. He shook his head, trying to clear that feeling. Nothing should have felt that way in this town. Still, deciding that this was likely his best option for right now, he pushed open the door and hesitantly wandered in, trying to catch his bearings in the building before he was noticed. He wanted a good look around first, to temper his anxieties in case something in here set him off again, the way the metal carts had.  

When the place didn’t immediately overwhelm him, he relaxed a touch. Plus, there was even a Camelot suit of armor here! He couldn’t possibly be that far out from his home, then! Relief flooded him, to see it. A piece of something he recognized, something from home… His shoulders felt far less tense than before.

He didn’t see anyone present, yet, though, so he called out cautiously, “Um… Hello…? Is anyone here? I was wondering if you had a map of this town…? Or perhaps one that shows the best way back to Camelot?”

[athingthatwantsvirginia]

A Patti Smith Envelope

PART THIRTY-FOUR OF THE DO YOU SEE HER FACE? SERIES

Pairing: Jess Mariano x Original Character (Ella Stevens)

Warnings: anxiety about future, plentiful pop culture references

Word Count: 4.1K

Summary: Ella and Jess move into their new apartment.

A newspaper ad circled in red ink had led them to the cozy one-bedroom four blocks over from Truncheon and six blocks from campus. It was only late April, earlier than Ella was expecting for them to find something. But she had finished finals, had booked gigs working at the art camps at the college over the summer. She had a few weeks off to make art, and hopefully help out in Truncheon. After touring the place, it felt right. An excited tightness in her stomach. Jess, too, had squeezed her hand in elation as soon as they walked through the door. The place had built-in bookshelves on the far wall, the bedroom on the other side. Ella didn’t believe in signs, but even she could agree it was as close to perfect as they were going to get.

Luke had offered to help without even being asked. Chris, Matthew, Leo, and Mabel were all participants to different degrees of willingness, and they hardly needed any more bodies. But Luke insisted the minute Jess had told him the moving date over the phone. It was likely he needed some sort of distraction since April had moved to New Mexico anyway. She wasn’t going to be back until the summer. And it seemed neither Luke nor Lorelai had come to their senses about each other yet.

He rolled up to Philadelphia in his truck two hours before they expected him. He claimed moving wasn’t moving if there wasn’t a truck to help out. Packing up all the stuff in the apartment was easier than Ella expected, just as it had been when she moved out of her childhood home. Jess could be cluttered sometimes, but nowhere near the level of Chris, and most of Jess’s belongings consisted of old band t-shirts and marked up books anyway. Ella, likewise, had most of her records stuffed in the back of her car. The dresser fit in Chris’s SUV after a fair amount of squeezing stuff in. The bed was the real challenge. It turned out Luke’s truck wasn’t such a frivolous vehicle, after all.

A drizzle was just beginning to fall from the gray, cloudy sky as they finished moving all the boxes inside. The apartment, on the second floor of some ancient building, was not exactly up to twenty-first century standards. The pipes were old and cobwebs gathered in the corners. A splinter or two jutted out from the worn down wood floors, golden brown under the dim lights. But the bohemian rug and many lamps they’d scouted out from the thrift shop a week earlier were already proving helpful. Boxes, labeled with mostly Jess’s scrawled, cramped handwriting, were stacked high in the corner of the living room, others gathered on the cracked tile of the kitchen counter.

Ella blew the stray hairs away from her eyes, otherwise pulled back in her black bandana. Her bangs were growing longer, and she was just becoming able to fully tuck them behind her ears. Roses of flushed color bloomed on her cheeks, her skin hot and sticky. Chris had already sprawled out on the dark gray couch, Leo on the arm. The couch, too, was secondhand, bought for ten bucks at the ReStore off the interstate.

“You really should be paying us,” Chris huffed, throwing his arm across his eyes.

Ella scoffed from where she was helping Matthew and Mabel unpack the kitchen. There was actually not much to be done, as Jess and Ella were planning on getting most of their supplies in the following days. There were a few mugs, bowls, spoons. “Consider it payback for the amount of times I’ve made you pie.”

“I was under the impression those were ‘no strings attached’ pies,” Matthew chimed in.

“Or, at most, ‘friends with benefits’ pies,” Mabel added.

Ella rolled her eyes. “Fine. I’m taking advantage of all of you. I’m eternally in your debt. But I think we got everything, if you guys wanna get outta here.”

The four of them exchanged glances, eventually coming to a consensus they were exhausted enough to leave and retire to the cold pizza in the fridge at Truncheon. Ella suspected they were excited to have their own rooms for the first night in forever, as Chris had already made work of moving his stuff into Jess and Ella’s old room, before they had even finished moving out. She gave them sweaty hugs and salutes goodbye, finishing with unloading the meager contents of the new fridge.

“Hey, Jess, we’re outta here!” Leo called.

Jess’s head appeared from the doorway to the bedroom. “Good. Better to save yourselves now before World War III breaks out in here.”

From beyond the bedroom door, Luke could be heard grumbling obscenities and fighting with the new bed frame he was struggling to put together.

“See you on the other side, then,” Matthew said, smiling. “Also known as Monday.”

“We’ll see if I make it until then,” Jess shrugged, offering them a small wave. “Thanks, guys.”

“You are not welcome,” Chris grunted, trudging out the door.

Mabel gave Ella one last hug before exiting the apartment, shutting the door softly behind her. A grin broke out on Ella’s face. She and Mabel had gone on more than one lunch together, had even gone shopping once. It was new and Ella was still a bit worried the timid woman would be scared away from a friendship with her, but they were slowly getting to know each other.

As Jess continued grappling with Luke, who went on grappling with the bed frame, Ella finished with their groceries. The kitchenware was more or less unpacked to a decent level. The books were next on her list, followed by the records. Rounding the corner of the counter into the living room, she stopped short of the book boxes.

She put her hands to the hips of her jeans. There were a few water spots on the popcorn ceiling, reminding her of Truncheon. The air smelled cozy, but more of lemon Pledge than anything else. Someone had dusted the built-in bookshelves in the initial flurry of unpacking. During the walk-through of the place, Jess had pointed out the corner next to the couch as the perfect spot for an easel. Looking over it, with familiar furniture moved in, the place seemed more real. Less like a dream for the two of them. The terrace past the small sliding glass door was empty, but she thought maybe they could fit a few chairs. It wasn’t as though the view was spectacular, just a vision of the city street below and the other apartment building opposite. But it was more than enough for two people who had both lived out of their cars for extended periods of time.

An odd sense came over her, one of total novelty. Never before had she had a real say in her home. Her parents lived in the blue house in Stars Hollow before she was born, Lane had moved into her house with Zach and Bryan long before Ella started sleeping on the couch, the apartment above Truncheon had been a simple convenience to everyone involved. But she and Jess had chosen the apartment together. They had admired the cheap price, the proximity to work, the odd seashell tiles in the bathroom. The place seemed to have been built before the contemporary requirements of architectural uniformity. It had a mind of its own inside: a leaky sink and a brick exterior and shag carpet in the bedroom. Not altogether a surprise, considering it was in the artsy housing district near the campus.

“Dammit!” she heard once more from the bedroom.

Heaving a tired but cheerful sigh, she crossed her arms over her Clash t-shirt (borrowed from Jess) and entered the bedroom, to the left of the living room and kitchen, opposite from the tiny bathroom. Luke and Jess were both hunched over the metal frame, trying to hold both the headboard and the footboard up and attach the middle section. Their faces were angry and red, frustration radiating off of them.

“Hey, so, it’s past seven,” she announced, eyebrows raised at their trouble.

Jess jumped slightly, his back to her, at the sound of his voice. The footboard slipped out of his grip.

“Oh, for the love of-” Luke began.

“It’s fine,” Ella interjected calmly, going over and placing a hand on Jess’s upper back. He panted but said nothing as his uncle continued fussing.

“Where did you even get this? There’s no damn instructions!” Luke said, readjusting the hat on his head.

“The discount store,” Jess answered, glaring down at the frame and over at the mattress, which stood leaning against the wall near the dresser. “Not all of us have diner money to fall back on.”

“Anyway,” Ella continued, “I bet we could all use some food. Jess, maybe you could drive Luke down to that place on Birch and get some sandwiches? I can finish with the bed.”

Luke shook his head. “Ella, I don’t think-”

“She probably can,” Jess interrupted dejectedly. “I don’t know what it is. Maybe it’s those sculpture classes. But she can fix anything. Not just showerheads and cash registers.”

“I’ll believe it when I see it,” Luke said, raising his hands in surrender and leaving the room. He went to grab his coat from the messy pile by the front door.

Ella stifled a laugh. “My god, he’ll never change.”

“Why is he coming with me to get the food?” Jess asked under his breath.

“Because I think he’ll have a stroke if he doesn’t stop with this bed. And he doesn’t know where the place on Birch is. You do,” she explained, giving him a peck on the cheek before going to try her hand at the bed.

Shoulders sagging with fatigue, Jess gave a begrudging nod, then glanced back over his shoulder. “Fine. Hopefully he’ll be less Vesuvius and more Mauna Loa by the time we get back.”

“Not everyday you hear a good volcano metaphor,” she quipped, assessing the middle section of the bedframe and deciding to take it apart altogether.

“I know. Imagine how dull your life would be without me,” Jess shot back, a small smirk tugging at his lips despite his frazzled state. “Turkey?”

She nodded. “You know me too well, James Dean.”

“Agreed,” he said with a teasing laugh.

“Fuck off,” she replied through a chuckle.

Jess’s smirk grew as he turned on his heel to leave. “Love you back, Stevens.”

.   .   .

The windshield wipers of Jess’s rust bucket screeched against the glass as he rolled down Birch Street, away from the sandwich shop. A white paper bag full of subs sat in the passenger seat atop Luke’s lap. In one hand, Luke held a bouquet of deep red tulips. Jess hadn’t remembered the florist shop where Ella had worked the previous summer was right down the road from the sandwich place. He’d stopped in for the bunch of blooms as they waited for their order to be filled. The plastic wrapper around the bouquet crinkled in Luke’s fist as he braced himself, Jess rounding a damp corner.

“I told you we should’ve taken my truck,” Luke grumbled.

Sighing, Jess fought to keep his jaw untensed. “My car’s fine. It’s driven us across the country more than once.”

“Before or after it broke down on the highway and Coop had to have it towed back to Stars Hollow?” Luke asked, his voice tired and strained.

“Not sure. I know for a fact it was after you stole my car, though,” Jess retorted, eyes on the slick roads. He wished the radio was on, but the memories of Luke whining about his album choices were still too recent in his mind.

Heaving a large sigh, Luke gave a shake of his head. “Fine. I give up.”

“Thank you,” Jess muttered.

“You’re welcome,” Luke shot back irritably.

But then he looked over at Jess. His hair was no longer greased, his clothes fit better, his eyes were clearer. Most of the time, his brow was no longer drawn in anger or his face a scowl. Even his posture was different; straighter, brighter, more self-assured. And then he thought of Ella. She looked much the same as she had during her last few weeks at work, with her wide smile and loud laugh. The smiles were more frequent, though, and she seemed so relaxed around her friends. Even around Rory she had sometimes seemed a bit nervous to Luke, as though she were worried over a misstep.

Luke couldn’t contain the small grin on his grizzled face. “I’m really proud of you, Jess.”

Snorting a laugh, Jess spared Luke a quick glance before turning back to the road. They were only a few minutes away from the new home, but Philly traffic was never reliable, even on a Saturday. “Let’s put away the pom-poms for now.”

“I’m just sayin,’” Luke began with a shrug, “got your own company, your own apartment with Ella. You really seem to be doin’ great.”

Jess gave a short, humble nod, but took a long pause before he spoke another word. “Lorelai proposed to you, right?”

Luke’s brow crinkled. “Yeah?”

“But you proposed to Nicole?”

“Yeah.”

Humming under his breath, Jess gave another nod. Red brake lights glowed in the rainy evening darkness. “When did you know...how you wanted to propose?”

“Jess, are you gonna propose to Ella?” Luke asked, eyes going wide and smile growing.

“Never said that,” Jess answered nonchalantly, shaking his head. “Just never really delved into that part of your personal history. Figured I’d ask. Maybe I wanna get to know you better, uncle dearest.”

Rolling his eyes at Jess’s old patterns of behavior, Luke didn’t let his smile waver. He looked down at the bouquet in his hand. “Well, considering it was an impulse cruise ship marriage, not a lot of thought went into it. It just sort of happened. If you’re asking me how to propose to Ella-”

“Which I’m not.”

“-then I’d say she loves you and she’ll say ‘yes’ no matter what. And I’d say that you know her better than anyone in the world, and you shouldn’t...second-guess yourself. Do what feels right.”

“And did an Elvis impersonator marry you two on that cruise?” Jess continued.

Luke bit back another sigh. “No, wiseass. It was a regular minister.”

“Huh,” Jess chirped wryly. “You learn something new everyday.”

.   .   .

Patti Smith spun on the record player as the rain grew stronger outside. Though it was a pain in the ass to unpack the record player, Ella decided it just wouldn’t truly be home without the grace of music on the first night. Luke had left about an hour earlier, though they insisted he could stay over. He said he was nervous enough leaving Lane and Caesar in charge of the diner for one day, and he didn’t want to be late for the morning shift the next day. It made Ella roll her eyes, but eventually she gave up trying to convince him. It wasn’t as though she expected Luke to change his ways. The tulips sat in a mug of water on the kitchen counter, to be placed in something fancier and on something fancier once they actually had a makeshift dining area. For the moment, only the big pieces from the old place and the bed were filling up the small apartment. Ella had to bite her lip to keep from laughing at Luke’s face when he saw she had put the bed together all by herself, finished before they got back with the sandwiches. An expression of extreme frustration had slowly melted into pride. Both were memorable.

Between Jess and Ella, who sat cross-legged on the floor on either side of the coffee table in the living room, was a half-eaten pie. One of the few leftovers from Truncheon they had lugged over to put in the fridge before an actual grocery run. The apple crust was a bit soggy, but the filling was surprisingly good cold. She found herself so wholly content as they sat together: eating pie, listening to records, in the dim lamplight of the first place which was solely theirs. It all struck her with a force she wasn’t expecting. She chuckled to herself as she grabbed another forkful, eating away at the half they had not even bothered to cut but just dug into instead.

“What?” Jess asked through a sweet mouthful, furrowing his brows at her.

She shrugged. “I don’t know. Doesn’t this all seem a little...surreal to you?”

“Does what seem surreal?”

“Just...we have an apartment together. And you own a business. And I only have a year left of grad school. I just...sometimes I can’t believe it’s happening. I can’t believe it turned out the way it did. You don’t feel that?” she asked, lowering her eyes sheepishly.

He cracked a small, crooked smirk. “I don’t know. I always just sort of thought I’d end up where I’d end up. And here I am. With you. Not a bad place to be.”

She rolled her eyes, a blush coloring her cheeks. “I know about your Kerouac philosophy. But just...when you first met me, did you ever think in a million years this is where we’d be now?”

“I didn’t know exactly where we’d be. But, I knew I’d land somewhere. I didn’t know if I’d land with you, but I wanted to. Maybe it’s a little surreal, but it doesn’t surprise me,” he explained, leaning his elbows onto the scratched wooden surface of the table with arms crossed.

Snorting a laugh at his insouciance, Ella finally locked eyes with him again. “It just feels a little too good to be true, I guess. I mean, you go to school your whole life, you work towards something your whole life. Once it happens, once you’re near the end...I just never thought it would actually happen. I don’t know what’s next.”

She tugged at her earring with her right hand. Jess noticed the chipped blue polish on her nails, though they weren’t bitten down. He couldn’t quite decipher her mood. Not that she seemed sad or distant, but he could tell she was having a hard time articulating herself. And he could tell she was letting an old worry creep up on her; she was waiting for the other shoe to drop.

He allowed his smirk to grow into a full smile and dropped his fork into the pie tin. “C’mon, you’re gonna figure it out. You know you are. I’m the directionless one. You’ve always been able to do anything. You’re plan girl.”

Ella gave a mirthful scoff. “You’re not directionless, Jess. And I’m not plan girl. Rory was always plan girl. I was try-to-make-it-to-the-finish-line-without-tripping girl.”

Jess hummed thoughtfully, about to reply. But she spoke again before he had a chance to.

“I thought you had a thing for her, y’know,” she said, taking another bite of pie.

“Who?”

“Rory.”

“Really?” Jess asked, and he couldn’t hide the bewildered amusement in his tone. “When was this?”

She shrugged and narrowed her eyes for a moment in memory. “Just when you first got to Stars Hollow. I mean, you hated Dean, and you like a lot of the same things, and you seemed to get along with her.”

“No. It was pretty much always just you,” Jess said, shaking his head slightly. “Maybe we liked a lot of the same stuff, but...I didn’t ever feel like she...got me like you do.”

“Oh, she didn’t, Kurt Cobain?” she teased, raising her eyebrows. She put her fork down in the tin next to his, her stomach full. Her eyes were beginning to get tired, her body starting to ache from the day of moving. She was glad the bed was put together.

He raised his hands in joking defense. “Hey, I know it sounds cheesy, but it’s true. Remember that night she was tutoring me?”

“The night you crashed her car? Yeah, it rings a bell,” she replied.

“Yes, that one,” Jess continued, smiling sardonically at her. “We were talking about the future. And she kept getting on me about how I had to do better and I had to go to college, just like she did, or else I would have no life.”

The smile which tugged at Ella’s lips was slightly bitter but mostly fond. “Sounds like Rory.”

“Everyone in Stars Hollow thought I was the antichrist. Maybe Rory didn’t, and maybe we were friends, but she definitely wasn’t okay with who I was then. Maybe she thought, with enough Schoolhouse Rock videos, she could get me to shape up,” Jess continued, taking small glances out the sliding glass door as he spoke. He could see a sliver of the city lights past another building on the right side. It was better than the bland brick wall and the dumpster which served as his view from the room in Truncheon.

“Hey, she is an amazing tutor. If there was anyone who could’ve converted you to the Ivy League conveyor belt, it was her,” Ella said.

“Yeah, but you and I both know school was never the way I was supposed to go. It was the way you were supposed to go, but you didn’t try to get me to be anything other than what I was,” he told her, voice light but eyes sincere.

Ella felt her heart skip a beat, but shrugged again. “I don’t know. I definitely tried to get you to ditch those CDs.”

“The exception that proves the rule,” he replied.

“Speaking of, I figured out how I’m gonna organize the books,” she said, tossing a look past his shoulder at the empty shelves.

“How is that a ‘speaking of’?” he asked, a confused smirk coming over his face.

“I’m doing genre, then alphabetical order by author. The way you used to do your CDs when we were in high school,” she explained.

“Oh.” Jess had his eyes trained on her, watching as she undid her bandana and ran her fingers through her mess of blonde hair. He chewed on his bottom lip. Then, after a pause filled only with Patti Smith’s poetry, he blurted out: “Y’know, you were the first person I ever said ‘I love you’ to. The only person.”

Her gaze softened and she nodded. “Me too.”

“No, Stevens, I mean anyone. Not just Nora Ephron kind of love. Not family either,” he said, most insistent, though he did his best to keep his tone nonchalant. As though it were just a run-of-the-mill fact about his past.

She stopped for a moment, brow crinkling. “Your mom never said it to you? Not even hippie dippie Liz?”

“No. We weren’t that kind of family. She wasn’t that kind of mom.”

A crease of concern deepened between her brows. Every time it had come up before, she assumed both of them meant romantic love. Familial was a different beast. But she had to remind herself never to assume with Liz, no matter how she seemed. Jess had arrived when Liz was a binge-drinking nineteen-year-old.

Before her brief interlude in the ‘love doesn’t exist’ frame of mind, before her mother’s death, Ella’s world had been filled with ‘I love you’s. Mostly from her mother, in her soft voice, with her delicate perfume. Some from her grandmother, and even from her father. And after, Lorelai had sometimes said them in passing. Rory, too. The three words, no matter how commonplace they could sound, were important, she knew. Especially when they weren’t uttered, or stopped being uttered.

She opened her mouth to say something, then bit the inside of her cheek and hesitated. Rising from her place, she rounded the corner of the coffee table and went over to him. Jess tilted his head at her in askance, but she only answered him by sitting down in his lap, straddling him as their noses drew only inches apart. She wrapped her arms around his shoulders and simply hugged him. For a moment, he sat motionless, his muscles tense. It wasn’t the reaction he’d been expecting, if he’d been expecting one at all. But then, he circled his own arms around her waist. They sat there, breathing slow and clinging to each other, for a long time. Patti Smith droned on around them, enveloping them.

Eventually, she pulled away and ran her fingers affectionately through his hair. He looked up at her, unsure of what to say. Fortunately, she took the lead, gaze unwavering as she spoke in her quiet, husky voice.

“Jess, you’re the fucking best. You’re my favorite person. And you’re gonna be hearing ‘I love you’ every day for the rest of our life,” she assured him, matter-of-fact. “So, I suggest you get used to it.”

“Right back at ya,” he replied after an awestruck pause, just before their lips met.

In spite of the fuss over the bed frame, Jess and Ella ended up spending the night on the worn rug in the living room, nearly naked underneath the first throw blanket they could find in the boxes around them.

[spookyold-saintjm]

I [Don’t] Wanna Be Free - Part 5

AHWM Yancy x female reader

Part 1

Part 2

Part 3

Part 4

Warnings: Swearing, violence, mentions of death, and shit that just doesn’t make sense sometimes because that’s how the AHWM world operates. ~just some angsty fluff~ DESCRIPTIONS OF BLOOD AND VIOLENCE IN THIS ONE!!!

A/N: The big finale! Thanks oh so much to everyone who has been following along; I wasn’t quite sure where this was going to go, just that I wanted to try my hand at finally writing about the egos, and what better way than our boy Yancy? I definitely want to write more, but I’m still deciding how I want to approach it (taking requests or whatnot). I have some prompts that I’m working on next, but I definitely want to do more of my own Yancy stuff soon! Let me know what you thought and if you have any other ideas! My asks are always open :) Much love.

_______________________________________________________________________

Oh. Oh, no.

How had he known? How had he gotten in without either of you noticing? You cautiously walked toward him as he simultaneously made his way toward you, the both of you stopping only inches from each other in the middle of the yard.

“You lied to me.” he said simply, tapping the small backpack you were wearing. You let out a long sigh, nodding, and reached behind you to remove the box from your bag. You held it tightly with both hands, as you took a few steps back from Mark, whose eyes were now flashing between you and Yancy, now next to you.

“Wait, I remember him…this is what you’ve been doing this whole time?!” Mark’s voice rose quickly, and you tried to rest a hand on his arm, to calm him down, but he jerked away from your touch. “We managed to get out of this place, after your stupid decisions, and you’ve been coming back to fuck around with some brick-headed bastard with a fake accent?"

“The fuck did youse just call me?!” Yancy’s fists clenched tight at his waist, and you saw from the corner of your eye that he was essentially positioned to tackle Mark to the ground if he made the wrong move. 

“I don’t want no trouble in my home, y’hear me?” he said through clenched teeth. “Youse best get outta here.”

You stepped between them and spoke up, telling them both to calm down. Trying to explain to Mark you were sorry for not turning over the box sooner, that you’d didn’t know what had gotten into you.

Mark shook his head. “We’d built up years of trust, y/n. We’ve always swore we’d have each others’ backs, because we both know what it’s like to be in this shithole life alone. But you lied to my face over and over about the absolute biggest thing we’ve ever done! Do you have ANY idea what I, what we, are capable of doing with that box??”

You frowned and narrowed your eyes at him. It was about more than having the key, wasn’t it?

“Of course it’s more than the key!” Mark seethed. You felt Yancy protectively grab your hand and start to pull you behind him. You planted yourself firm, hardly let him budge you, and instead took a step forward to glare back at Mark and question him further.

“It’s my chance to START OVER!” Mark was all but shouting, and you knew for certain that security guards will be on their way any moment to end this for all of you. You’d never seen Mark like this. You forced down the bile rising in your throat and started to shout back, with no point in hiding, demanding that Mark tell you what the hell was talking about.

“Everything was ruined for me! Some time ago. My life was suddenly meaningless, thanks to those bastards—well, it doesn’t matter who they are now.” Mark’s voice lowered as he let out a short sigh. “The point is, sure there's the key, but that’s only one piece of the puzzle. The box itself a device that can, if in the right hands, manipulate time as we know it. We can go back, go forward, hell, we can jump to completely different timelines and planes or reality if we want! Don’t you want to fix the mistakes you made? All the shit you did that got you here?? You know damn well this isn’t where we belong."

The creeping fear you’d always had of him had finally broke to the surface. It took all you had not to begin to tremble. Whatever had happened to him, whatever he was trying to do, it definitely wasn’t good. You instantly regretted every little thing you’d told him. He’d discovered it all. And you suddenly knew exactly why you’d never fully trusted him.

You shook your head. No, you’d ended up where you were for a reason. You knew he was hurt, but tampering with time and space was so, so dangerous, and neither one of you were qualified...

“You don’t get it. I have to go back.” Mark wrung his hands together. "I have to fix it. I wasn’t supposed to be on this side of things, I wasn’t supposed to be here! I was supposed to be with her, and they—"

“Look, buddy,” Yancy had waited long enough and now jumped in, suddenly face-to-face with Mark. “I may not know what the goddamn fuck youse is talking about, but you sound like youse is one authentic, grade-A screwball.” Yancy stabbed a finger into Mark's chest. “So why don’t you back off my girl n'shove that box up youse’s uptight little—”

You heard the sound before you saw it. Mark knocked Yancy to the ground, hard. Blood was spattered across his nose and along his cheek. Yancy groaned but quickly recovered and was standing again, but Mark had turned his attention back to you, lunging at you to grab the box from your hands. You swerved and turned just long enough to chuck the box as far across the yard as you could, launching yourself back at Mark in retaliation. The both of you hit the ground, and you screamed for Yancy to take the box and get rid of it.

“I’m not going anywheres!” Yancy yelled back, but stumbled the first couple steps he took towards you, his head still spinning. In the meantime, you and Mark were in a struggle, the sound of fists connecting with bones crackling through the air as the two of you struggled for an advantage. You battled back and forth, exchanging blows. Eventually Mark had flipped you onto your back, prepared to swing the final hit that would knock you unconscious, but you managed to knee him in the stomach and quickly stand before he could touch you. You kicked your leg upward as he rose, but your timing was just barely off, your boot only narrowly missing his neck. 

You begged Yancy to go again as you threw a swift right hook to Mark’s jaw, knocking him back a bit. He turned back to you, the both of you now a few feet apart.

“Y/n, I don’t want to hurt you. You know that, right?” Mark said between heavy gasps for air, and you saw his hand move just enough from behind his back to reveal the knife he’d kept concealed in his back pocket. “But I need that box.”

You gritted your teeth at him, tasting the familiar copper of blood that had smeared across your face from somewhere on your head. You could only barely see out of your right eye, and a strange sensation in your ribcage told you something wasn’t right there, either. And you had nothing to defend yourself with. Not this time. 

Stupid. Stupid. The two of you stood still, assessing what the other’s next move might be, when suddenly you realized…

Where was Yancy? You weren’t foolish enough to look around, but you prayed to anyone who might be listening that he’d gone to do something about the box. You had to buy him some time.

You tried to talk to Mark one last time, tried to convince him that there was still a way to get out of this. They could end it here, go home and start over in the morning. They could figure something out.

Mark shook his head and let out an amused sigh. “No, it’s too late for that. You know what we have to do, y/n. We have to get out of here."

As he spoke, you prepared to strike.

You lunged toward him, swinging your legs to knock him off his feet again just as you felt the sharp sting of the blade slice along the length of your arm. You had no time to process the sharp pain, only to grab Mark’s arm that held the knife and hold it back as hard as you could; he had managed to pin you down. Your hands were shaking with the force of restraining him, and he didn’t budge as he dangled the knife over your throat. You knew that, while you were more agile, Mark was stronger than you by far, and you couldn’t hold him much longer now that he’d managed to overtake you. You begged your body to find the strength to do something, anything, but you were losing your grip, fast. You closed your eyes and willed yourself to attempt to shove Mark off of you with a final push of adrenaline-fueled strength.

But you didn’t have to. 

You suddenly heard Mark suck in a loud gasp for air, followed by several sputtering, choking noises. His grip on you loosened, and his knife fell to the grass beside you. You didn’t dare move, not even when Mark was flipped over onto his back by someone standing overhead, not even when that person stood over you with a switchblade just small enough to conceal in a prison uniform, and his arms came back down to shove the blade into Mark’s chest, again, and again, and again.

You let out a cry and forced yourself to your feet, pulling Yancy with you, pleading him to stop, stop, that’s enough, ENOUGH.

Yancy didn’t take his eyes off Mark, as if he were making absolutely sure he wouldn’t move again. You yelled his name, and shook him by his shoulders to try to snap him out of it.

Yancy shook his head, as if he were suddenly waking up, and turned to you. He sucked in a sharp breath and dropped his weapon to the ground. He grabbed you by the arms as his eyes frantically scanned over you. “Y/n, are you okay?! Oh God, you got a lotta blood goin' all over youse. We gotta go. Can you walk? Can you—"

You shoved off of him and spun back around to stare at the ground below you. Mark’s breaths had stilled, blood still running from his chest.

Yancy seemed to realize just as you did what had happened, and panicked breaths began to force their way out of his throat. 

“Oh no, oh fuck, I did it again, it’s happening again…” He sunk to the ground on his knees, frantically searching Mark’s body for any sign of life, all the while muttering to himself in panic. “The warden’s really gonna be mad at me now, I gotta go tell him it was an accident before he—"

As if on cue, a horde of security guards with flashlights and guns drawn stormed the yard, shouting at you and Yancy to put your hands on your head and lie on the ground. What choice did you have?

The box, you asked Yancy before the guards could make it over, the both of you lying on your stomachs on the cold, blood-stained grass. Had he gotten the box? Where was it?

“I…it was gone. It was gone, and I turns around and sees, he was gonna hurt you real bad, y/n, and I—oh, god.” He squinted his eyes shut and kept muttering. You closed your eyes too, and just hoped that whatever was going to happen, it would all be over fast.

“Yancy m’boy, what the goddamn hell is going on out here???” It was unusual for Murder-Slaughter to be at the prison at such a late hour, but his recognizable drawl carried through the night as he and the multiple security guards formed a circle around the scene.

“Warden!" Yancy started, what almost sounded like a nervous laugh escaping his chest. “There was a misunderstanding, you sees, and we, well, I, this guy was gonna—”

“Wait a minute, wait a MINUTE.” The warden leaned down to look scan your face, his eyes lighting up in recognition. “You’re the one that got away from us! And he’s—“ he turned to Mark’s body, wincing slightly, “well, was, your little partner in crime! I couldn’t forget either of your faces if I tried!"

Your chest was so tight you were struggling to breathe, but you remained silent and unmoving as you heard Yancy speak up again, trying to explain what was going on.

“I don’t wanna HEAR it, boy!” the warden nudged Yancy in the ribs with his boot, a warning. “Yancy, son, I had hopes for you, you know. I really did. But you just had to keep on lettin’ me down.” 

“Warden,” Yancy’s voice broke, growing more quiet the longer he talked “I’m sorry, I really am, but youse just don’t seem to understand—”

“I understand just fine,”  the warden looked at a couple of the bigger guards in the circle and jerked his head toward Yancy, a silent order to restrain him. The guards lifted him onto his feet as he’d finally grown quiet. You felt the sudden jerk of arms lifting you as well, and the now-familiar sensation of handcuffs snapped across your wrists behind your back. Orders were exchanged that you didn’t quite understand, but you suddenly realized you and Yancy were being pulled away from the scene.

In opposite directions.

“No, no! Where are youse taking her?! She didn’t do anything! Please—“ Yancy was still shouting, begging the guards to let him go, to let you go.

“Y/n! Y/n, I won’t let ‘em hurt you. I won’t! I promise. I’ll find a way outta this, I always do!”

The tears in your eyes were falling freely now, and you didn’t dare look away from him, but you remained silent. You knew there was no use. You simply watched him struggle against the pull of the guards dragging him across the yard...

Until they suddenly weren’t. 

In fact, they weren’t moving. No one was. It was as if…time had stopped, for everyone, but you.

“It’s a shame, isn’t it?”

A low voice echoed through the night air, the syllables drifting down around you. A low buzz began to thrum through your ears, and you slowly scanned the yard in front of you to find the source.

You nearly jumped out of your skin when a man in a white suit suddenly appeared in the few yards of space that had grown between you and Yancy. His raven hair was messy, his eyes dark underneath as if he hadn’t slept in some time. Yet his appearance otherwise was almost regal, and otherworldly. Your eyes could have been playing tricks on you, but he seemed to be fairly outlined in an aura of red and blue.

Although the guards on either side of you were wholly frozen in the spot, their grip on you remained strong despite your efforts to pull away, to run.

The man took agonizingly slow steps toward you, and you eventually scrounged up enough power in your voice to ask him who he was. The man stopped short, and frowned. He appeared almost…disappointed.

“You don’t remember me?” His head tilted to one side, and his form seemed to abruptly fade in and out of your vision. “Perhaps you have spent too long here, after all.”

You said nothing, too taken aback by the very sight of him.

He eyed you up and down for the quickest instance, waiting for you to respond. When you remained silent, he let out a sigh and slowly shook his head. “No matter. I suppose I expected as much."

Suddenly he wasn’t no longer in front of you, but was standing beside Yancy, his body frozen as well, mouth open in the middle of calling your name. The man reached a hand out toward him, mockingly tracing a finger down the cut on his cheek, under his chin. “Handsome, isn’t he?” the man mused, leaning to peer into Yancy’s eyes. You mentally willed Yancy to move, to snap out of whatever trance he was under, but of course he remained still.

“If I would have known you would have fallen for him so easily,” the man stated, peering at you over his shoulder, "I would have arranged your meeting so much sooner. Admittedly, I'm a bit…jealous. Don’t worry, though. We can keep him around, if you’d like."

You wanted to scream, but the sound wouldn’t come. Your throat was on fire, and your chest felt like it would cave in at any moment. You managed to ask the man what he wanted, what was going on. Was this about the box?

He was now only a few feet away from you, his hands behind his back. He let out a soft chuckle. “You mean this silly thing?”

He pulled a hand in front of his body to reveal the box. With his other hand he turned the lid, lifting it with a light click. A faint glow from the inside illuminated the man’s pale face.

“It’s a nice little toy. Useful…” He softly replaced the lid. “But not nearly as useful, however, as you.”

With a snap of his fingers, the box vanished. You suddenly felt the urge to look down, and gasped when you saw Mark’s dead, bloodied body resting at your feet, his eyes open and staring blankly into the sky overhead. 

“You see now, that your friend wasn’t who he always said he was. That he wasn’t to be trusted.” 

You suppressed a cry of horror as Mark’s body disintegrated in front of you, flesh and bone fading to dust, then to nothing at all. 

“Believe it or not,” he added, “this isn’t the first time you’ve come to that realization.”

He stood directly in front of you now and the guards disappeared from beside you. Your handcuffs were gone as well, but you were locked into place as the man in front of you gently took your hands into his. 

“My darling y/n…” he leaned forward, his mouth mere inches from yours, a long smirk dancing along his lips. “…we have so much to discuss."

_______________________________________________________________________

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[sootcloak]

Crow’s Shadow: Repair Required

The first part of a short, serial-style work I’ve been cranking away at for far too long. This is part one of a (planned) three-part series. You can find the second part, Carrion Circle [Here]. I’ll add another link to the third part once it’s up. Beware of some major spoilers for Stormblood if you’ve not gotten through it yet, and some general spoilers for the MCH quest kinda. Lastly, if you’re a purist when it comes to in-game lore, you should be warned that I take some creative liberties in regards to the character around whom this blog is centered. Also I hate this hellsite’s text post coding, it makes the formatting look so goddamned wrong.

3064 words, featuring Hilda the Mongrel, Rostnthal the Reborn. Centered around a wounded OC, a tense cross-country trip, and the looming specter of a dangerous foe.

    Hilda stares with a rare, dumbfounded expression on her face. Curled in a ball on her old, ratty armchair is a familiar, Lalafellin woman. Her sickly, pale skin, greying blonde hair, and scarred face were unmistakable. Vavara had become a common sight around Foundation ever since the gates were opened after the Dragonsong war. Her work alongside the Manufactory and Lord Stephanivian was shrouded in some level of discretion, but it was no secret that she was an expert in Garlean-style magitek.

    But the whispered words which surrounded the woman seemed an understatement, if her eyes were to be believed. It was rare to find Vavara out of her usual Company-style overcoats. The few times she was caught out of uniform, she was in battle-ready armor instead. Now Hilda understood why. Her body, small and compact as it is, is almost entirely mechanical. Covered in intricate layers of dull, grey plates and brassy webbings of cogs, she looks not unlike the tools and machines of Idyllshire. Like clockwork muscles and cable tendons, her body is simultaneously relaxed and completely rigid. Here and there, where the metal fades, she can still see skin. Sickly, near-grey, and oddly textured like a doll’s porcelain, but still skin. Tangled in a blanket, eyes shut, and body snoring in strange, buzzing whirrs, it takes a few moments of shock to realize two more things.

    First, Hilda hadn’t ever told Vavara where she lives. Nor had she given permission for the huntress to remain with her.

Second, one of Vara’s arms is missing. Just gone. A bare, brass socket lies exposed to the air where it would meet her left shoulder. Hilda glances around, but the limb is nowhere to be seen. There is, however, a note on the end table besides the table. The messy, big letters on the page are of an immediately recognizable hand.

        Hilda,

    Vavara was out testing one of Stephanivian’s new gizmos last night. Something went wrong, it’s all a bit fuzzy until we can look at the damned equipment, but it blew up in her arms. She soldiered on as well as you’d expect from her, but when we caught up to check on her we found her in shambles. We were all as surprised as you probably are - what with all the metal bits and all. Save for Stephanivian, that is. Seems he was already aware of her illness condition state whatever you call that. She was adamant that she not be seen like this, so we needed a place to keep her where untrusted eyes wouldn’t find her.

    So I borrowed a key from Joye and let her in. She should be asleep until tomorrow morning, or at least that’s what Stephanivian says. He’s making replacement parts for her damaged bits, but he couldn’t give me an exact time to give you as to when they’ll be done. I’ll have Joye run over as soon as he has an estimate.

    I know it’s a good bit to ask of you, but we all owe her and hers a solid turn. This is a good chance to make good on that. Please look after her for a bit, and don’t let her run off and do anything dangerous, no matter how angry she may look. She’s too busted up, at least based on how we found her, to really argue with you.    

    Keep her safe for now,

    Rostnthal

    Hilda’s hands crease the paper, her eyes drifting back and forth between it and the sleeping woman. 

    “Well shite. There went my plans.”

    Vavara’s eyes open to the dim, flickering light of a nearby hearth. Her body hums with angry, buzzing pain. As she takes in a ragged, grinding breath her eyes scan around the unfamiliar room. She can feel the damage all throughout her body. She can feel the way her breathing hitches every three-and-a-half seconds. The way her right arm can’t rotate exactly as it should. The way her eyes won’t focus. Her ears are ringing, ever so slightly. 

    There’s dust in the air, quite a lot of it. The furniture strewn about the stone room is old, patched, and covered in a thick layer of dust. The armchair she’s nested in leans to one side, one of the legs having been replaced by a few stacked stone bricks. The wood floor is rough, coarse, and looks like the kind which would give splinters just for standing on it. The hearth, a simple stone fireplace built into one wall, is surprisingly clean. The ashes are swept, the firewood is fresh. The fire is painfully bright. The heavy rugs thrown beneath some of the seating in the cramped, dusty living space are all torn and resewn. Her eyes trail to the bare walls, where a series of hangers stand.

    Through blurred sight, she can see a leather jacket and a rimfire hanging in it’s harness. From color alone, it’s clear they’re neither Vavara’s old service overcoat or her custom revolver. A wave of cold anxiety washes through her, her feet finding the floor and stumbling towards the door. 

    She only makes it a few feet. One of her legs crumples at the knee with a disheartening, metallic crunch. She bites her lip, forcing back a whimpering cry before it can rise in her chest. Instead, she takes a few gasping breaths, each huff sounding like a music box turning through broken cogs. Finally, she gets up the strength to push herself up to her feet again.

    She dully registers quick, urgent footsteps coming from behind her. A steady, insistent hand finds its way just beneath her arm. The tense springs fused with half-dead, ceruleum-greyed skin have a sickening texture, like that of a corpse held together by staples and rope.

    “You’re too hurt to be runnin’ about. Ye’d best come along.” Hilda says, hiding the way her throat closed in a queasy, silent gag. Vavara’s remaining arm twists back, trying to grasp at Hilda’s arm. It clicks and creaks, something inside the joint protesting with quiet, metallic groans.

    “Hey.” Hilda pulls and twists her around. Their eyes lock for a brief moment. Vavara’s dull, foggy eyes sparking with a quick moment of recognition.

    “Hilda?” Her voice is a surprisingly deep rasp. The  grasping hand goes still, it’s steel claw-tipped fingers relax. “Is that you?”

    “Who else? Let’s get you back to the chair.” They shuffle back to where Vavara woke. After grabbing an old crate and dragging it in front of the worn armchair, the two sit next to each other. Hilda sucks in a breath, and breaks the brief, momentary silence.

    “I imagine things feel a bit rough. Been on the bad end of an explosion once or twice myself. Here, read this. It’ll do some of the explainin’ for me..” She hands the crumpled letter from Rostnthal to her, waiting quietly as it’s opened back up. Vavara’s eyes slowly, carefully track across each messy line of text. When she looks up to Hilda again, the other woman is already speaking.

    “Joye came by earlier today, while you were still out. Said parts were being manufactured, but some things needed to be brought in from out the Holy See. It’ll have to get cleared by the Temple Knights, checked for contraband and the like. All said and done, it’ll take about three weeks for them to get all your uh… Parts?” She looks to Vavara for confirmation. There’s a single, quiet nod.

    “Yeah, it’ll take about three weeks for them to get all your parts made. Till then, you’re gonna need someone to watch your back, I’d imagine. I know one of your friends has an arrangement with Count Fortemps, so if you’d prefer-”

    “No. I’ve no intent on relying upon his charity. I have not earned it.” Vavara’s voice is a steady, rasping hiss. No malice or ill-will is born in the words, just a stubborn, quiet kind of pride.

    “It’s not always about whether or not you’ve earned it, just-” The glare Hilda gets before she can finish is petrifying.

    “Fine, fine. You can stay here, then. Can’t promise I’ll be here all day, but you’re resourceful, and so long as I get you a cane you could even get around by the looks of it.”

    “No.” Vavara shakes her head.

    “What? Then where will you stay?” Hilda says, eyeing her up with concern. Vavara’s face is a knitted, frustrated mess barely concealed by her usual stoicism. Her narrowed eyes, knitted brow, and curled lip speak volumes. It was rare for her to emote at all, let alone so clearly.

    “I was only meant to be in Ishgard for two days, at most.” A strange, tense note rides in Vavara’s voice. Concern, or outright fear? Hilda hadn’t seen her like this since she’d returned from Ghimlyt, spending days on end beside the Warrior of Light’s bedside, waiting for him to awaken. Guilt-racked and uncertain. When her voice picks back up, it’s a mess of anxiety and fear. Each word comes out faster, not raising in volume but in intensity.

    “I cannot stay here. I have to return. I need to-” She stops herself, coming to a sudden and abrupt halt. With a clenched jaw, squinted eyes and a tense neck. she pulls a breath in. The tension does not leave her, resting on her shoulders and in her jaw.

    “Thank you for watching over me.” Vavara says, opening her eyes to match Hilda. “I will need that cane. I have a journey to make. Please tell Stephanivian I will return to collect the parts when I am able.”

    “Now hold on.” Hilda squares her shoulders. Her eyes unwaveringly stare into Vavara’s. 

“You’re barely able to see straight. It took you near a full minute to read through a half-page letter. You had to ask if it was me. I don’t remember looking much like another half-breed.” A potent frustration rises in Vavara’s body, but before it can exit in a shout, Hilda continues, Brume accent kicking into her words as she grows more insistent.

    “I’ll be coming with ye. I’ve deputies with the Hounds for this exact kind of situation. And before you try and tell me I’m not, I’d remind ye that I’ve already seen why yer always either in battle-gear or a great-coat. Whatever secrets yer keeping still, ye can keep them. None of my business. But yer health? All the Hounds’ve had their skins saved by ye at least once, meself included. I owe you this much, at least.” Hilda stands as she finishes speaking, walking across the room to wear her jacket and rimfire are hung. She snags them in one hand, turns and gives a confident smirk.

    “So let me just run and get that cane.”

    She’s out the door before Vara can muster a reply.

    Later that evening, the pair stand outside the Gates of Judgement. Vara’s shrouded in her overcoat, her usual brimmed cap pulled tight over her head, greying blonde hair spilling out of it in messy tangles. Beside her, Hilda holds the reins of two birds as they’re hooked up to a small wagon. Some traveling supplies, a small smattering of goods, and some specialized supplies Stephanivian rushed to prepare all sit in nondescript, covered bundles.

    “You shouldn’t come with me. You have work here.” Vavara says. For perhaps the first time, Hilda notes how her breath doesn’t make mist in the cold air. She can’t help but wonder if her instinct was right, if the woman she’s known for years now, who’s saved her time and time again, is just a corpse pulled by metal marionette strings.

    She casts the thought from her mind.

    “And I’ve pressin’ debts to settle with you. It took no small amount of talking to convince Joye not to tell Rostnthal we were goin’. Else you’d have two peepin’ nannies.” Hilda’s forces a grim laugh.

    “It’s dangerous.” The statement hits like a sack of bricks. There was little anyone within the Warrior of Light’s circle deemed worthy of such a warning. Least of all the woman who frequently gives him a run for his money. 

    “Always is.” Is all Hilda can muster in response.

    “You should stay. I don’t want you hurt.” The words come out slow, still rasping with that metallic hiss under the wind. Barely audible.

    “I can’t protect you.” Vavara’s hand goes to the empty sleeve on her left. She looks up with foggy, dull eyes. Were they always so dim? She’s one of the Dunesfolk, aren’t their eyes supposed to be like glossy gems? Again, she casts the thought away.

    “Please. Stay.” Vavara’s words sound pleading.

    “Eh- ‘Ilda?” A deep, rumbling voice smashes the growing anxiety in Hilda’s chest. Heavy, crunching footfalls grow louder from behind. Both she and Vavara turn to look at a familiar, salt-stained face.

    “An’ it is!” Rostnthal reaches them in no more than three strides, his excitement plain on his face.

    “An’ Vavara’s ‘ere too, I see.” He briefly glances to the cart, still being loaded.

    “Ye headin’ somewhere?” It’s not really a question. His eyes fall onto Vavara’s. “Ye sure yer fine to be travelin’?”

    She nods.

    “Good!” He guffaws, a single loud bark of a laugh. “If yer good enough to be out-n’-about, then so am I! I’ll keep with ye. After all, it was cuz I was too drunk to test the prototype cannon that you ‘ad to. I get hurt like that, chirugeons patch me up over a couple nights. You?” He gives an awkward, knowing shrug.

    “So, it’s my fault yer in this mess. I’m comin’.”

    It isn’t really negotiable. Even as Vavara’s takes a rattled breath to retort, he’s already stepped up into the cart proper. 

    The chocobo-hand stands up from besides the cart,

    “All good to go!” He shouts over the wind.

    The three step up, and Hilda spurs the birds on towards Gyr Abania.

    “Ye packed some booze, yeah?”

    Vavara shakes her head. The groan he makes can be heard from the Gates.

    Rostnthal’s voice echoes along the snowy paths of Coerthas, oft-untrodden paths suddenly as lively as a back-alley bar. He’s taken mindful, measured swigs of his flask. He snagged some few supplies from Dragonhead at a painful price, but he had very little considering the length of the journey. Sensing the growing tension, Rostnthal had sung every diddy he knew at least twice from his spot lying in the back of the cart. He’d sung the one about the slaver at least four times, and the one about the Admiral more than eight.

    “So what’s all the urgency about?” Hilda’s question breaks through the bars of off-key song. 

    “I left someone in the wild mountains, where I take my rests between work. He is unskilled, though his training has shown promise. An old enemy of mine resurfaced during the Ala Mhigan Rebellion, and has since been hunting me, and I him. Should I leave my student in one place too long, he’ll be found. And he’ll be killed.” Her words are clipped. Rostnthal’s singing stops.

    “Y’took an apprentice? So the ever-cold Lady Ashenheart does have some warmth left in ‘er.” He sounds genuinely perplexed. “An’ here I thought ye were all business and bad blood with the Empire. Rumors’d’ve me believe ye’d never have time for teachin’.”

    Her gaze towards him could curdle milk. He just laughs his guffawing laugh, gently slapping her good shoulder with one hand.

    “My strength comes at a cost, unlike that of my peers. It requires that I rest for long periods of time after difficult excursions. In recent times of repose, I took to training three such students in total. Two of whom have long passed beyond a need for my guidance, if they ever truly did need me at all.We have not spoken in some time, I have no fear for them. The man who hunts me will not seek them. My current student, though, is untrained, reckless, young, and a danger to himself more than his opponents.” Her voice lapses in and out of nostalgia and strict concern as she speaks, eyes shutting as she speaks.

    “Sounds like a handful of a kid. An’ this ‘unter. Ye think he might meet us there?” Rostnthal’s voice dips into a grim resolve.

    “I do.”

    “Care to share, or are we just going in blind as newborns?” Hilda says, eyes locked on the road and her surroundings. The sun is low, and shadows stretch across the road cast by trees and stones and looming mountains. It will be dark soon.

    “His name is Llain. He and I were once… Compatriots. He is possessed of a strength similar to mine. I will admit freely, he is better suited to it than I have ever been. He took to steel, ceruleum, and magitek as a bird does to flight. He has done so more safely, and more efficiently, than I have. We have not crossed blades directly for too long, to make any assumption on his methods now as opposed to the man he once was would be dangerous. All I can say is this: A direct confrontation is something we will not win. He is a worthy and cunning foe for even the mightiest among us.” Vavara says. Each word is slow, methodical.

    “So we just grab the kid an’ make dust?” Rostnthal thumbs at the cap on his flask, glancing up at Vara with his good eye. She just nods. It’s enough.

    Vara’s hand rests uneasily on the grip of her revolver. In her nostrils she can smell smoke and oil and flame. In her eyes, though snow and tree and stone race past her, all she can see is a burning Castrum and a vengeful shadow in the fire.

    How simple her escape felt then. How powerful those first, few, small implants made her feel. Her clockwork muscles tense. Perhaps if she’d been more careful. If she hadn’t allowed herself to become so gravely wounded so frequently, she would still-

    A tap on the shoulder shakes her out of the old memory. She looks up at Hilda, whose eyes are still locked forward.

    “We need to go through the night, or should we rest?” She asks, tone all business.

    “You rest. I’ll drive.” Vavara answers. Hilda just groans, before stepping awkwardly, carefully into the back next to Rostnthal and snagging a fur blanket from one of the many bundles.

    Rostnthal waits a while, and then starts to sing again. Fewer lively, old tavern diddies, and more of the songs skalds would sing when night came to call.

[jenovahh]

The Honey Pot - Ch. 5 - My Name is Honey

“Welcome to the Galvus Estate.”

The words of the Hyur chauffeur pretty much pass in one ear and out the other, for you can’t keep your jaw from dropping at the sight of Zenos’ home.

Wrought in hauntingly beautiful metal, the Galvus Estate sits primly upon the hill that you are at the base of. Well-manicured gardens sprawl out what feels like for malms before the opulent mansion, showcasing a variety of flora which you can tell isn’t native to Hingashi. Multiple fountains of varying styles are sprinkled across the garden, the miniature shows eye catching as the car slowly pulls down the hand laid brick road.

Dark in color, the architecture of the estate differs greatly from any home (or any building in general) of that in Kugane, leaving you to wonder if it’s design hails to their Garlean heritage. As far as you knew, Varis himself was not a native to Kugane; that he immigrated from Garlemald as a child and that for someone with so much power, most of his origins are shrouded in mystery.

Chewing on the inside of your cheek, you try to not look too shocked; the very vision of a have-not being brought into the world of the haves. The chauffeur seems to realize he’s lost you and continues his drive to the front of the estate. Once there, he puts the car in park and steps out so that he may open your door for you.

He’s a bit late however as you’ve already done the job for him, ignoring his reserved sigh as he reaches to steady the door as you shakily climb out. “Ma’am, you still look very hurt,” He murmurs, holding out his other arm in offering.

“I’m fine, I’m fine.” You huff, standing on unstable feet, willing yourself to stand upright. A pain shoots up your right leg and you begin to go down, but thankfully the chauffeur’s reflexes are somewhat fast enough to catch you before you collapse entirely.

“Obviously.” He drones, pulling you back up and clutching onto you. “While I’m sure you have your pride Miss, I ask you to remember I too, have a job to do.” He speaks softly, giving you a knowing look. “Not all of us are...built to receive punishment for failure.”

Catching his grave meaning, you nod silently, allowing a bit more of your weight to rest on him. “I’m sorry.” You whisper, watching as he gently closes the door. With a gentle nudge he urges you toward the grand front doors, the brick beneath your soles somehow managing to feel just as fine as it looks. Just as you reach the door it’s opened by a housekeeper, who gives you a slight bow.

“Also for the record...I wasn’t punished. I fought Zenos,”

The chauffeur grips your side tight and you yelp in pain. “I do not know much about your relationship to Lord Zenos, but I advise you against addressing him so casually in public. People like me have only heard hearsay of your coming. You don’t want to give anyone the wrong idea, should it leak out to the public.” He hisses underneath his breath, guiding you past the grand staircase that is in the foyer. “One might guess you are quite close. Employees certainly do not stay within the estate.”

You purse your lips as he guides you through another door, deciding to heed his words. Like it or not, this was the path you were given, not the one you had chosen. From the tone of his voice, you wonder if the chauffeur has seen employees leave work to go home; and never come back.

“Why tell me this?” You ask, curiosity getting the best of you.

“None of us want to work here. But no one wants to struggle either. And just looking at you...I can tell this is the last place you want to be.” He smiles easily, accenting his already handsome features. “Also...you’re the first person to ever thank me. I’ve been workin for these guys for about three years now.”

That brings a smile to your own face. “I hope I get to see you around more often then.” You beam at him, watching as his cheeks tint red.

“You might. I’m Lord Zenos’ personal chauffeur.” He murmurs bashfully, leading you down another hallway. The estate certainly didn’t look this big from the outside, but you did only see the front of it to be fair.

“Got a name?” You ask, eyes wandering over the expensive artwork lining the walls. It seemed Varis certainly wasn’t above flaunting his very obvious wealth.

“Ardbert.” he answers, finally coming to a stop at a door. “We’ve arrived at your rooms. Just give me a moment,” Fishing what looks to be a credit card from his pocket, he presses it to the access point on the outside, the device chirping happily much like the one at the highrise. Leading you in, it is far grander than you ever expected.

“This is the wing where Lord Zenos stays. His room is the floor above this one. Your uniform,”

Ardbert’s words once again become background noise as you look around slack jawed. The walls are painted in a striking red with an elegant, black design strewn across it. Your bed sits against the far wall, now situated in the middle instead of tucked against itl. A canopy sits on top of the bedposts, your mouth forming an “o” as you can see a beautiful landscape painting on its underside.

Your room has a desk tucked against another wall, along with dressers and a walk-in closet. There’s a door that leads to your personal bathroom, which you are ecstatic to get a look at were Ardbert not doing his best to walk you to the bed as you try to crane your neck to look at everything.

“Ma’am,”

“Honey.” You interrupt, flashing him a smile. “None of that ma’am stuff.”

He gives a small smile at that. “Only when we are alone.” He concedes, giving you a none-too-gentle nudge to sit upon the bed. It almost feels like it’s trying to drag you into its cozy grasp as soon as you make contact. “While I don’t know how you managed to get so banged up, I am under strict orders to make sure you rest until the resident doctor is here to check up on you.”

Deciding to not make his job harder on him, you nod and allow the bed to draw you in. “All right. But only ‘cause you asked.” You snicker, appreciating how he always seems to return your smile.

“I appreciate it. And...take care of yourself.”

With that, he makes his way out the door, shutting it behind him.

You lie there and stare absentmindedly at the painting on the canopy, wishing you knew more about brush strokes and techniques to appreciate it better. Instead, you just lie there and let your bones relax, the pain mostly a distant soreness. They had given you some pretty strong painkillers, and from the look of the doctors’ faces, you’d think you had come from the brink of death and not a little spar with the Galvus heir.

That bastard.

Just thinking about him sets your blood to boiling, wishing you could land another fist in his face. And in his stomach. A swift kick in the balls to add insult to injury.

The train of thought pulls your lips into a sadistic smile, imagining taking advantage of your newfound position to get some good payback on Zenos yae Galvus. Even he himself said your place as his bodyguard was merely for show; nothing but pure looks. He gave you a position where you could be kept close with little question as to why, free for him to use you as he wished.

Even though the situation had not turned out exactly as planned, you still could find some humor in it. You could already imagine the look on his face when you finally did him and his father in, wiping their crime from the face of the star.

A knock on the door jolts you from your plotting, shouting for whoever is outside to enter. The Miqo’te doctor you saw yesterday strolls in, stethoscope hanging loosely around his neck. “Greetings.”

“Hello.” You return, eyes fixated on him as he moves to stand beside your bed. Did everyone who worked for the Galvuses speak so properly?

“How are you feeling?” He asks, hands pulling his stethoscope from around his neck, placing them in his fuzzy ears.

“Not too bad. Bit sore, but nothing another night’s rest won’t fix.” You reply, watching his expression turn into one of pure confusion as he conducts his light examination.

“A bit...sore you said?” He asks, eyebrows furrowed.

“Yeah. Why?”

His features pinch together as much as possible, before he pulls away. “Nothing. Don’t worry about it. Though I must say...you have quite a few people in shock.” He finally answers, relaxing his face.

You tilt your head in confusion this time, watching as his eyes dart toward the door.

Leaning closer, he begins to whisper, “I know you’re new here, but I don’t think you grasp what you did.” His ears twitch nervously, as if searching for any foreign noise. “That you faced Lord Zenos is shocking enough...but that you lived to tell the tale has anyone who knows absolutely floored.”

“What? He doesn’t have any lackeys worth sparring?” You question, shifting to sit yourself up, forcing the doctor to sit back.

“There are very few....very few people who have dueled Lord Zenos. Not all have lived. And those that have were instead given to Lord Varis, to protect him.” The doctor explains, constantly glancing at the door. “You’ve fought him, lived, and walked away with bruised ribs at the worst. Others have had their bones entirely broken,”

“Speaking ill of me, are you?”

The doctor freezes up with fear, tail frizzing as Zenos steps into the room. Somehow he seems far too large for it, despite all the ceilings being noticeably higher than Doman architecture. “O-Of course not, Lord Zenos,” the doctor trembles, sparking your anger.

“He was telling me what a shitty employer I have.” You interject, meeting Zenos’ cool gaze with a fiery glare, inflamed further as his lips pull into an easy smile.

“I see your time in bed has done little for your tongue.” He drawls, looming closer. Your body rises naturally, kneeling in the plush covers so you may jump up at any moment.

“I’ve enjoyed my time in bed. It means I don’t have to deal with you.” You sneer, teeth bared as he stands at the foot of the bed. Something flashes across his eyes, something akin to interest as his eyes drink in your battered form.

“Luckily for you, my bodyguard is of no use to me broken and bruised. How much longer until she’s healed?” Zenos asks, settling to ignore you instead. The doctor nearly jolts at suddenly being addressed, his ears pressing flat against his head.

“Her vitals seem to be in stable condition, however,”

“That is not what I asked.” Zenos states coldly, that apathetic edge back to his voice. The glare he fixes on the shuddering doctor would kill him if it could, and it’s at that moment you decide you’ve had enough.

Standing atop your covers, you drag his attention back to you as you fist your strongest hand in his shirt. It’s soft to the touch, designer probably, for how plain it looks. But that’s not what matters right now. “I’m feeling just dandy.” You growl, hating how he places that stupid grin of his back on his face.

“Are you now?” He purrs, his eyes dipping to how your arm trembles. In a flash he makes a move to punch your side but you catch his fist with ease, wincing at the pain that shoots up your arm, unable to hide the cry of pain. “You are still unfit to serve me quite yet.” In a show of speed he frees his fist to grab your own, yanking hard to disrupt your balance and spin you around, pulling you against him, front to back.

You grit your teeth as he locks your arm behind your back, unable to move unless you feel like dislocating your shoulder. It rankles that he knows you know that. As if the doctor still isn’t in the room, he rests his chin on your shoulder, his hair tickling what bare skin is exposed to the air, drawing a gasp from you. For someone with such a cold demeanor, he is surprisingly warm. “Let me go, you overgrown, insufferable,” Your tirade is cut short as you stop to jerk away from his face as he presses closer.

He chuckles at your insults, the sound rumbling through you in the most delicious way. “Don’t stop on my account. Snarl and bite and gnash. Hate me if that’s what you must do. So long as you never stop fighting, living for that rush of blood, my beast.” His breath rolls across your skin, the sensation cool to the steadily rising warmth you feel. The man is a furnace. “I have found your strength and it is now mine. Deny my words all you want...but even now…” He pauses to laugh low and deep, and your teeth unconsciously bite down on your lip. “I can feel your pulse racing in my hand.”

You fall forward as he releases you, huffing indignantly as you flip yourself to face him. He studies you in silence for a moment before finally looking to the doctor. “She is to remain in bed until she is fully healed and ready for combat. Until then she doesn’t leave this room.”

“I’m right here, you know!” You hiss, glaring at his condescending smile.

“And here you shall stay. I look forward to you unleashing all that pent up anger when I see you next, my beast.” Done with the conversation, he turns with a flash of golden hair and strolls out the door.

You would kill him.

Well you wouldn’t. Couldn’t. Then you would be no better than he was.

Somehow that fact hadn’t sunk in...your doctor looked nearly ready to pass out from fear. Was Zenos’ reputation truly that horrible? Was there truth to the myth?

Had he really meant it when he said he would leave Nael there to die…

The thought that someone could be so heartless, so callous about another’s life, that they felt they could snuff them out whenever they inconvenienced them…

It’s what fueled your irritation as you were escorted across the estate grounds to Zenos’ personal training room, your fists flexing in the freshly bought fighting gloves you were given. Your favorites were stashed away in a drawer where hopefully no one would think to toss them out, or so you hoped. The fact that you were given an entirely new wardrobe without being asked or at the very least measured, concerned you a little less than it should have. ‘These damn rich people.’ you mumble internally, wiggling your toes in your brand new tennis shoes. Top of the line like nearly everything else in this Twelves damned, oversized house.

You’ve already made a decent map in your head back to your room, that way you can start walking yourself around the estate, and hopefully, snoop around in the future. The escort stops before an elegant metal door and you whisper a quiet word of thanks as you watch him press his card to the access point to let you inside.

The training room certainly is a lot more personal indeed, lacking the size and space of the gym at the high rise. The walls are painted a glaring red like the majority of the mansion, multiple weights of varying sizes lining one wall. A miniature fridge sits in one corner filled with a multitude of beverages, from water to what looks like sports drinks considering they have no label. The room is almost somewhat barren in comparison, save for a wall holding multiple training weapons on its racks.

Oddly enough, Zenos is seated in the center of the room, legs crossed in meditation, the pose looking strangely natural and effortless for someone of his bulk. His hands rest upon his muscular thighs, face completely relaxed as he controls his breathing. His breathing is so controlled, one might think he is not breathing at all.

“I’m here.” You announce, walking further into the room. His eyes slowly open to land on you, fixing you with a solid stare. “So you are.” He murmurs, giving you a once over. “And looking almost presentable. Enjoy your rest?” He asks and you have to remind yourself it’s not out of genuine concern for you.

“It ended far too soon.” You huff, watching as he stands to his bare feet, towering over you once more. You find yourself wishing that the only time you were taller than him wasn’t when he was on the ground. He is dressed much the same as you, a simple workout shirt loosely clinging to every bit of muscle he had, with equally form fitting pants. Had you already not pegged him as an apathetic narcissist, you’d think he was doing it on purpose.

Then again…

“So. You hired me as your bodyguard, what now? I just wake up and follow you around like a lost puppy? Hit anyone who calls you a mean name?” You snark, beginning to do your warm up stretches. He watches your every move like a hawk, and even were the situation different you weren’t sure if you would find it flattering or creepy.

“If that’s your prerogative. You are under my employment and my father’s by proxy. Therefore, there are rules you still must follow.” He explains, moving closer to you. His hand reaches out to grab your arm before you can jerk away, guiding it to a more comfortable position in a way that is strangely gentle. “I will explain the terms of your employment, after we have dueled.”

You mutter a begrudging thanks, finding the position much easier to stretch in. His eyes never leave you as you go through your motions, and it is clear he sees you as something to move and touch as he wishes; but thankfully he’s not handsy. His nudges and adjustments are purely instructional, his eyes completely analytical. “You are clearly trained, but have not studied anatomy. Most of your forms are off.”

“What kinda street rat knows anything about anatomy?” You retort, coming up from your final stretch. He’s finally backed off, walking back to the center of the floor. You watch his back muscles flex as he swoops his curtain of hair into his hands, elegantly pulling it into a ponytail.

“A street rat indeed…” He murmurs more to himself even if the words make it to your ears. “Your training does not speak of someone who has lived their life on the streets.” He observes, hawk eyes watching your every step as you come to meet him on the floor. You do your best to keep your expression in check, realizing that Zenos is not just a wall of muscle. He’s obviously smart.

“Are you gonna stand there yappin’ or what?” You spit, raising your fists to guard yourself. He sees your diversion for what it is by the glint in his eye, but is willing to let it slide as he brings his own arms up.

“You won’t hold back on me this time will you?” he asks, excitement glittering in his gaze as he slowly starts to circle you. You release a rude snort, unable to keep your lips from quirking upward. “You sure you want that? I handed your ass to you pretty good from what I recall.” You taunt, flexing your fingers.

“I would love nothing more.” He purrs, stepping in to make his first strike. You dodge him easily, able to weave your smaller form underneath the wide arcs of his punches. Deciding that it can’t get much worse from here, you don’t hold back, unleashing the full force of your schooling upon the eccentric heir. His face is pinched in concentration but the thrill never leaves his eyes, his exhilaration shining through in each strike. His blows seem to carry more force and it is with mild offense you realize even he was holding back on you that day.

How dare he.

Sweat drips down your back, your shirt clinging to your form as the two of you fight, adrenaline and excitement flowing through your veins like a delicious cocktail. Still, he will not let you get a hit in, his guard too solid, and he knows by now you’re willing to take a hit to get in one of your own. You’ve not had to think this hard about an opponent in so long, that you can’t help keep the smile off your face as you catch his fist in your hand.

He returns it, eyes gleaming brightly as he makes to grab you by the arm, but you are too swift, weaving out his grasp. He’s far too sturdy to nudge, and only a full fledged grab will do. You gasp as he manages to grab your arm and hold fast, his smirk downright feral. You tug and you pull to wrench your arm free, struggling to fight against his brute strength. He tries to pull you closer and you plant your feet down trying to twist out of his grip but he keeps step with you, smirk shining with victory.

Time to wipe it off his face.

Giving a sharp tug, you force him to move his weight with yours if he wants to keep you held. His free arm moves to grab hold but you grab him first, quickly turning your back to him and pulling him close. Bracing your legs you crouch down low and pull, yelling with the effort as you topple his weight and flip him backwards over your shoulder. He manages to twist himself to where he lands on his knees but he is on the floor regardless, and you grasp him by the collar in victory.

“Nice try.” You beam, chest heaving as you look down upon the Galvus heir. He stares up at you in disbelief again, his eyes wide with bewilderment and...wonder?

A trick of the light.

“Truly...there has been no greater prize I have won from my hunt…” he heaves, and you notice that he’s actually broken a sweat. His shirt hugs his chest tight, leaving little to the imagination as he gazes up at you, his blue eyes jumping across your features. “You are something else, my beast.” He purrs, despite how you clutch his shirt tighter and near your face to his.

“I told you. My name. Is Honey.” You bite out, for what good it does you.

“So you have said. But I find it a much more fitting name.” He croons, his cool breath slipping across your face. “A rat, plucked from the streets of savages--”

He doesn’t get to finish his sentence as you slam him on his back, digging your knee into his chest. “I will end you.” You hiss, wishing anything you said would have the proper effect on this man.

“You might be able to back up such claims, my little savage, but you lack the conviction.” He laughs, the sound growing louder as you sock him in the jaw.

“Shut up!” You snarl, praying he doesn’t notice your fist shaking.

“Do it then, Honey. Kill me, if that’s what you want.” He challenges, his body going completely lax beneath your own. He holds your gaze in a solid, unwavering stare, his tongue darting out to lick his lips.

You could do it.

You could end him right here.

Your hands around his neck, he’s clearly defenseless; you’d just have to make a break for it before anyone could come check on him. You’d already be gone.

Your hands circle around his neck, and he has still yet to do anything to stop you. You squeeze, squeeze hard, feel the muscle and the veins cave under your hands. He hasn’t stopped staring, hasn’t stopped smirking even as you try to force yourself to add more pressure, to crush his windpipe--

“You disgust me.” You seethe, rising off of him and heading for the door, leaving the Galvus heir alone in the room.

[in-tua-deep]

How do you think things would have changed if Five has come back even younger than in canon? Like if he came back as 7 or 8 or even younger? Also, I love your writing. You’re an amazing writer and I love reading your stuff.

first of all that would be hilarious because as much as media has tricked you into thinking older child actors (who are easier to work with) are younger (I mean case in point, Five is supposed to be thirteen but the actor is fifteen and those two years can make a big difference at that age) or animated movies can’t decide on a size for their character, but for real seven-year-olds in real life are BABIES

that’s like. the equivalent of a second grader?? I think i was about to go into year three living in the netherlands. I thought the year six kids were ancient. I didn’t care about bodily harm and would just hurl myself into cartwheels and handstands (nowadays not so much)

That was about the age I was losing teeth for the Very First Time and also the age I almost gave myself a concussion playing on the playground equipment (I blacked out and woke up in the nurses office lmao) and I thought the singing talents of Sandy from Hamtaro were the greatest in the world (the twirling ribbon song was formative for me)

seven was also the age for me that i realized that romance was The Worst because my best friend george decided that the pulling pigtails version of bugging me was a sure fire way to get my attention or something like that. but like,, george and me had chicken pox together. we pretended we were cheetahs in our treetop bunkbed nest together (we had a very loose grasp of the difference between cheetahs and jaguars and other big cats, admittedly). He was my best friend he didn’t need to pull my hair or anything rip

like can you even IMAGINE if five came back as a second grader?? yeah like maybe someone would serve thirteen-year-old Five black coffee but no one is going to just hand this baby child anything with caffeine are you kidding me

his feet wouldn’t even be able to reach the peDALS OF THE CAR

wow this would inconvenience him so much

i can’t even find a picture of my brother that young smh but here’s him and me when he was? probably about nine or ten and I was actually probably about six and smiling with a closed mouth to hide the fact that i was missing teeth or something smh

that is TWO WHOLE BABIES right there i’m just genuinely dying at the thought of Five popping out and he’s just. a gradeschooler. that suit would have been swimming on him and he’s got little chubby cheeks built to absorb shock and whatever atrocious child haircut he had at that age 

(i have posted before about my genuine shock that five was ten in the comics. ten!! that’s a whole baby! a child! W H A T)

but?? does he pop up from jumping through his portal and look in the mirror and find that he’s missing some teeth? Can he whistle air through the gaps? i’m just picturing seven-year-old five getting socked in the face and losing some teeth or something and diego is right there to patronizingly tell him that it’s okay they’re probably just baby teeth and five is about to punch diego’s teeth out in a second if he keeps that up by jove

imagine five jumping and standing on the counter and he still can’t reach the marshmallows because they’re on the top shelf of the cupboard do you know how angry that would make him?? he would have about 60% less time for his siblings bullshit than normal because his small stature can only hold so much emotion at any one time and he has decided to go with seething rage for the foreseeable future

can you imagine how difficult that would be for Allison though?? Five at thirteen was bad but Five-at-around-Claire’s-age??? a billion times worse and she’s probably going to either be super avoidant because it’s painful or full on protective mama bear

it would definitely change a lot of plot stuff because i mean. no one’s going to let this tiny child drive. he can’t reach the pedals, duh. however, he might persuade one of the siblings (diego and klaus, probably) to drive him to griddy’s instead? Because with the options being “so help me i will walk there myself. alone. at night. as a small and innocent looking child” and driving him and keeping him company i think the latter wins out

(i’d nix griddy’s altogether but i’m way too invested in hazel and agnes getting together tbh)

hey wait does being that young mean that five doesn’t have his umbrella tattoo?? huh. well regardless if diego and klaus accompany him then the plot point of agnes telling the assassin squad about the tattoo can still happen so i guess it’s a moot point

but honestly the drama of having this tiny child just. completely annihilate the hit squad is hilarious to me, and it would also hit home the fact that hey! five might be telling the truth about everything and isn’t messed up by time travel! i mean whomst the fuck else would walk into a room and zero in on the seven-year-old no one else knows exists or is assumed dead by literally the whole ass world (and even if they didn’t he’s supposed to be 29) and demand he come with them and shit like man

Klaus: hey five what do you have

Five, stabbing his own arm to take the tracking device out: a knife

Diego: NO

other fun points include: the siblings bodily picking five up and five behaving like a very aggressive small breed of dog while simultaneously being super touch-starved and secretly appreciating being carried but would never admit it (whilst sober that is)

either they kept the old uniforms and five wears that or they have to scrounge up whatever they can find which means that five is dressed in some of claire’s clothes allison found stuffed in the bottom of her suitcase until they can go shopping and i’m not sure which is better tbh

hazel and cha-cha assuming that five is actually either diego or klaus bc those were the two adults in the coffee shop with the umbrella tattoo and eventually being confronted with the fact that their legendary adversary is a gradeschooler

five just being. so tired. all the time. my bedtime at seven years old was probably like. 8:30PM. kids need a lot of sleep!! so just five trying to keep himself awake because he has important stuff to do!! but doing the nod and bob because he can’t keep his eyes open

the trying-to-be-helpful but mildly-condescending strangers who stop five or talk down to him increase by tenfold. Teenagers out an about on the street along? eh. a seven-year-old? five is going to get so many concerns “where are your parents, sweetheart?” that he IS going to snap and kill a well meaning middle aged woman in the middle of the street

in a similar note the number of people who assume that he is the child of whatever sibling he happens to be in proximity to also increases tenfold and five does Not Appreciate This (and neither do half the siblings tbh bc now they have to pretend that they are responsible for this tiny feral child)

“FUCK” five says, loudly, prompting gasps from the delicate natured passerbys. 

“you can’t fucking say that, dude, you’re like. a baby.” klaus says, equally loudly and making everyone in earshot 70% more scandalized

“I am not associated with them” diego informs the masses with an edge of desperation

luther is just. so massive next to this tiny version of five. he could hold him in like, one hand. and maybe luther at one point was really good with kids but with his new body he’s awkward and it’s very sad

no one bats an eye at child Five toting an Entire Half of a Mannequin that is probably as big as he is around. Billy’s kid is currently emotionally attached to a brick he found in the alley behind his school. Gertie’s granddaughter refuses to leave the house without an old sock filled with pebbles tucked under her arm. Gary’s stepkid found a piece of driftwood on the beach and now it’s in their bed every night. Kids are weird and at least Five’s has a face for him to talk to i guess??

instead of luther threatening dolores he just looks at five with this gun that is way too big for him to have a hold of really and just. reaches out and scoops five up under his armpits and he’s just furiously wiggling and growling and luther is like “nope not putting you down until we agree that murder is not a solution”

every interaction with the handler is probably about 112% more creepy honestly but also what about the job?? either five a) gets an appropriately child sized desk like the ones you find in an actual gradeschool or b) he gets some kind of boosterseat for his chair and just has to sit at this desk that is comically oversized for him

the squad go to a restaurant and the server brings over the menus and hands five a children’s menu. without a word klaus just plucks it from five’s hands and substitutes it for his own because they have been kicked out of six whole restaurants and he is willing to eat the children’s chicken nugget meal if he had to god damn it

the apocalypse doesn’t happen because vanya is literally incapable of hurting a grade schooler right in front of her regardless of how pissed off at her family in general she is. that is a whole child. vanya works with children for her job. she can’t hurt an entire child in front of her?? like she can destroy the world and all the abstract children but this one child right in front of her? who is also her long lost brother and former sole confidant as children who wasn’t there for any of the general bullshit she just went through?? not so much

but like. even after the stop the apocalypse there’s still the issue of what to do with this entire child. like at least as a teenager five would be able to be somewhat independent but seven-year-old five can’t reach the sink to wash his hands without a step stool 

just the squad coming together to look after five without quite letting five know that’s what they’re doing because they don’t want to wake up to a knife in their chest or anything smh

five and claire meet and become an unstoppable duo of terror. patrick is an actually competent parent who is so exhausted 24/7 from raising his daughter that he just accepts five immediately because?? his brother-in-law being a time travelling 58-year-old in the body of a grade schooler who is partially feral from over forty years alone and probably has untreated ptsd? okay might as well happen

patrick “i didn’t trust allison with a child and yet i still trust her way more than the rest of you so i’m going to schedule five a doctor’s appointment or something because god knows he’s probably not up to date on his vaccinations and he’s hanging around claire and i doubt any of y’all even thought about that” hargreeves

the hargreeves all go to an amusement park as a family bonding activity. the mistake becomes clear when it’s revealed that five is too short to go on half the rides. the resulting meltdown gets them all kicked out and Diego just has five tossed over his shoulder still hurling insults at the ride attendant as they hoof it out of there

the family has to figure out everywhere they can go within walking distance because there’s still a cold war going on between allison and five over whether he has to be in a booster seat for any car rides or not

it’s basically just shenanigans with the family and five trying to figure out how to coexist and compromise and also look after one another when it’s been every man for themself pretty much all their lives

[wifeofkimtaehyungofbts]

Chapter 5

>> Pairing: Taehyung x Y/N, Taehyung x reader

>> Words: 1057

>> Notes: I’m going to upload a new chapter whenever possible until I feel like I have built up enough thrill to leave my readers curious and desperately wanting more 😉

Synopsis: You run into a rather strange man one night. He seems terrified, as if fighting battles only he can see. He seems detached from the world, talking only to a voice inside his head. Oh, another strange fact: he keeps talking about angels. You discover later that you were the angel he was praying to.

>> Previous / Next

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My back hurts from bending to keep my grumbling stomach folded in. It is too warm. The warmth suffocates me, boils me underneath all my clothing. I do not remember all the turns I took and roads I crossed to get here. All I remember is running. Running away. From the voices. From the murder of Park Jimin, my best friend and only family.

My head feels heavy, the voices fuzzier now because I am no longer paying attention to their harsh words. I can faintly hear people whispering. “Who is that?” “What’s his deal?” “Disgusting” “Looks like a pervert”

I haven’t asked for a lot of things in life. I asked for happiness, but I’ve never known happiness until I met Jimin. The only moments I was happy were moments I spent with him. However, the bittersweet feeling of knowing someday Jimin and I won’t be able to spend so much time together because he’ll get busy with life seeps into my thoughts, making the happy moments less happy.

And now the angels have taken him away and I do not know for how much longer I can pretend to be alright before the voices get their way. Before they convince me that death is the only solution for my condition of endless misery.

Just then, I hear footsteps approaching me. I am afraid to look up, assuming it is the shop’s manager or a night duty cop. I have no where else to go and I’d rather be seated here dying of hunger than being interrogated at the police station. People with power always frightened me. I have personal experience of being abused by a man who misused his power.

I slowly lift my head and take a peek at the feet that approached me. Red canvas shoes.

Seems like it belongs to someone very young, because the feet look small. Like Jimin-ah’s.

I immediately shut out memories of me teasing him about his small feet out of my head. The person standing before me suddenly bends on their knee and holds something out to me. “This is for you” the person says.

I painfully lift my head, my neck aching from having it bent all this time. The girl before me seems young, dressed in some kind of uniform. I spot the McDonald’s logo on her shirt and suddenly realize the big shop I was leaning against was the McDonald’s. No wonder people looked at me weirdly. Which beggar roams in front of the McDonald’s? I thought to myself.

“Here, have this. It’s not much, but you can count is as dinner” the girl spoke again. “Oh, and you don’t have to worry about paying me back or anything like that” she smiled brightly. My heart picked up its beat at her words. Is everyone around here this kind? Is it something in the air they breathe? Or is she just different? I wondered.

I reach out for the brown paper bag in front of my face, when I see her eyes move down to look at my out stretched arm. Her eyes visibly widen at the sight of my bruises and the blood.

Blood.

I stand up as quickly as I can and sprint before she can even try calling the authorities on me. I run until I can’t anymore. Which is not long after because the hunger makes my head spin and my vision blur. People are looking at me in a weird way and it’s making me feel detached from the world.

Like how you should be, the voices whisper.

I grab onto my hood and drag myself to a narrow space between two buildings. I lean against the brick wall and sob. I can’t do this anymore. I haven’t eaten since before I ran into Jimin that horrible day, which was like 2 days ago. I’ve not had a shower; I’ve soaked in the rain and dried in the sun in the same clothes. My hair was sticky with sweat and dirt, and the wounds on my hands have continued to bleed over the 2 days.

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Something rubbing against my leg woke me up. A cat. A white cat with black and yellow spots was purring softly as it rubbed against the soft faded denim I wore. I smiled as I patted it. “Hey little guy” I purred. “Are you alone? Me too!” I exclaimed in pretentious cheeriness. I stood up and was about to lift it up when it ran over to someone who had approached our location.

It’s that girl!

She bends down and pets the cat, a soft smile playing on her lips. I can’t make out her features clearly, but from what I can see, she looks very pretty. She seems to notice me in the shadows because she stands up abruptly, scaring the cat away.

Oh no! My only company, I think miserably. I guess I don’t even have the luxury of having a cat by my side let alone a human for too long.

“Oh, I’m sorry! Take care!” the girl shouts after it. A soft smile forms on my lips as I look at her sincerely apologetic face towards the cat. Cute.

What she does next, shocks me.

She bends down and places something on the ground. The brown paper bag she held out to me earlier! I realize.

“I’ll leave that there. Please do have it” she says and with that, she walks away hurriedly, without sparing a glance back. I wait till she is out of sight and pick up the bag. I open to find a single burger inside. Extra cheese.

My mouth waters at the sight of it and I gobble it down in 4 big bites standing up. As I bite on it, tears stream down my face and my cheeks heat up. I don’t know who she is or what she wants with me, but I am grateful for the angels for sending someone so kind my way. I suddenly wish I knew her name so I could thank her in my prayers.

Daffodil. I’ll call her Daffodil, I think to myself.

I wipe at my eyes and go deeper into the shadows. I lean my head against the wall and close my eyes, Daffodil’s smile being the last thing I see before I fall asleep.