#this was low-key a pandora fic in my head

[restricted-on-13th]

*peeks*

Hear me out....

Your long awaited art that i promised on ksss24 but got delayed due to irl (moving out for college). I'm sorry for the delay and the pain of the art (not really) but I hoped you liked it! @sa9vva

This is what I meant that I didnt realise it was one of your 'not it' on the list (made with love <3)

Adios people!~

*drops this and dips*

[whereireid]

low key based on your latest quaritch fic, but i want quaritch to just make love to me on the beach!

* ੈ✩‧₊˚ —𝐁𝐄𝐀𝐂𝐇 𝐍𝐈𝐆𝐇𝐓𝐒 | 𝐌𝐀𝐒𝐓𝐄𝐑𝐋𝐈𝐒𝐓

— warnings: soft!miles, nsfw content: , p in v, lovemaking, (nicknames - bunny + daddy)

summary: quartich makes love to you on the beach.

“Bunny, quit movin’ around. You’re gonna get sand everywhere.”

Despite Quaritch’s scolding tone, you giggle, your nose brushing against his as he flips your skirt up, his fingers softly massaging your thighs. The beach is abandoned, rid of any life, and when Quaritch had told you he had something planned, you hadn’t assumed this.

Your boyfriend isn’t exactly the romantic type - he’s known for being a scowling asshole, whose tail is always possessively wrapped around your leg, with his arms crossed irritably over his chest. Quaritch is quite literally known for being just short of evil, so when he’d surprised you with a date, which included watching the sunset on Pandora with a bouquet of flowers in his hand, you were more than happy to accept his invitation.

The flowers are tossed to the side now, though, barely visible under the rising moonlight of Pandora. You’re too focused on Quaritch to even care because his lips are peppering soft kisses against your face, his hands gently pushing your underwear to the side, his cock brushing teasingly against your folds.

“Goddamn, bun, this pretty little pussy is always nice and wet for it’s daddy. You been wanting this, baby?” Quaritch asks softly, grinning as he softly begins to thrust his hips, his cock gliding in and out of your cunt delicately.

“More than anything,” you whine softly, your legs wrapping around Quaritch, who watches you with soft admiration, his balls slapping softly against your cunt. “Been so long, daddy.”

His tail thrashes at your words, and your fingers claw softly at his biceps as he thrusts his hips deliberately slow, basking in the way your velvet walls clench down on him when his tip brushes against the sensitive spot inside of your cunt. Everything about Quaritch feels good, from his breath - which shudders slightly when your pussy involuntarily squelches from your slick - to his tail, which curls around your ankle lovingly.

“Been too long, bunny,” he finally says, his voice wavering, his strokes long and soft, watching as your nose crinkles cutely, your fingernails digging into his arms, barely making a dent in his skin. “Feels so good. So perfect for me, baby bun, you know that?”

Quaritch’s fingers graze against your face, his lips pressing softly against yours, his frame moulding against yours perfectly. His kiss sends tingles shooting down your spine, and you moan, the feeling of him being so close to you driving you crazy. Your cunt clenches down on him, your stomach pooling with warmth, arousal licking at every cell in your body, and you feel it.

Your coil breaks. You whine under Quaritch, your body trembling against his, your slick painting his thighs, and he groans into your mouth, his hips stilling inside of you, his cock spewing thick, white ropes of cum inside of you.

It’s so intimate. Quaritch’s lips press softly against yours, and his big hands palm your cheeks, his fingers gently grazing against your jaw. “You’re so pretty, bun,” he murmurs, his ears flittering on his head as you smile up at him. “My perfect girl.”

“When did you get so romantic, daddy?” you ask, your legs still gently shaking as you rub your nose against his, his fangs glistening as he grins down at you. “Flowers and dinner and then this?”

“Just missed you, bunny, ‘s all.”

There’s little light on the beach, now - you can only just see Quaritch’s face in the moonlight, his eyes filled with awe and adoration, his body curling up against yours. Your eyelids flutter shut, and you bask in the feeling of his warmth and his heartbeat, your fingers curling around the steam of your flowers.

It feels so good to be loved.

[resonating-kitty]

Dream/Schlatt/Wilbur Soot

:D

I wrote a fic for their threesome dynamic!

It's safe!

-

"Dream!"

Dream's jerked awake at the sound of his name, eyes flying open as he breath left him in panicked puffs. He struggled to get his arms under himself to lift himself off the obsidian floor. It was oddly quiet, his tired brain pointed out and he glanced up to find the lava no longer cascading down the front of his cell.

"Dream!"

His name again, louder this time. Dream was confused before he pitched up the rhythmic ticking of the bridge as it came over. His eyes focused, widening when he spotted Wilbur on the bridge with Sam standing on watch behind.

"No!" His voice cracked, hurt, as he yelled, "Wilbur no! Wilbur stay away!"

It was too late. Wilbur's brows were furrowed and his lips pulled down in a worried frown as the bridge came to halt and Wilbur stepped onto the obsidian floor of the cell.

"It's a trap," Dream croaked weakly as his arms begin to shake. His head hung just as Sam's dry laugh reached them.

Dream flinched as Wilbur turned around to face the Warden as he began to talk, "Wilbur you've been giving my business partner in Las Nevadas quite the trouble. I think an extended stay in Pandora's Vault might be in order."

"What ground do you have to lock me up, Warden?" Wilbur demanded, smirk on his face as he extended his arms, "I've done nothing wrong to break the law of the land."

"You're a nuisance!" Sam snapped, eyes narrowing, "A thorn in our sides and a obstacle that can and will get in our way. Besides," Golden eyes glanced to Dream's prone form on the floor, "you might be wanting to break that one out of here and we can't have that."

Dream whimpered, pitifully. Wilbur tilted his head.

"Well," he drawled, "you aren't wrong on any of those accounts."

A flash of blue fire suddenly erupted from the floor behind Sam. Sam turned, a startled "what" falling from him before something slammed into his head hard and he crumpled.

Dream, who'd looked up at Wilbur's words, stared with his mouth hanging open as Schlatt, dressed in his full Armani suite with a cigar hanging from his lips, kneeled down and started going through the Warden's pockets. Above him Wilbur was cackling.

"Nice work Schlatt!" Wilbur called, tickled, "Now find that key and get ready to bring the bridge back."

Wilbur turned to him and with a soft touch and gentle voice reached forward, "Come on Dream, let's get you out of here."

Dream remains pliant in Wilbur's grip as he is pulled carefully to his feet. Wilbur supports his weight as they ride the bridge back to the main prison block, where Schlatt is waiting.

"Here," Wilbur says to Schlatt, handing Dream over in exchange for the warden's keys. "You take him and let's get out of this place."

Schlatt effortlessly scoops Dream up and cradles him against his overly warm chest. "Jesus," Schlatt muttered under his breath, blood red eyes flashing with worry, "you feel like you don't weigh a thing. Were they feeding you in there?"

"Only potatoes," Dream answered, exhaustion creeping in along with the overwhelming relief and slight disbelief that he is soon going to be free of the prison.

Schlatt curses, turning to glare heatedly at the unconscious Warden.

"What are we going to do with him?" He asks Wilbur as they headed for the door. "I could burn him to death right now."

"No." Wilbur shakes his head, glancing back, "I'll lock him in here. It won't stop him but it'll give us enough time to get Dream to safety."

Both men looked at Dream, his eyes were closed and he was already out. Their hearts twisted at the sight of the other man.

"They'll come for him ya know." Schlatt mutters, his voice low.

Wilbur smiled, sinister and deadly, "I know and we'll kill every last one that tries to take him from us."

Schlatt grinned, turning his neck to crack it, "Now that sounds like a plan."

[fandomn00blr]

Fic Back Friday

Take an older fic (or art for our artist friends) from about a year ago or older even and talk about it, show it off and hype it up.

@cartadwarfwithaheartofgold and @noire-pandora tagged me into this today. I’ll tag some of my newer mutuals, whose stuff I’m less familiar with, @blarrghe, @musetta3, @irhinoceri, @hawkeish, @ziskandra​, and like, obviously, anyone else who wants to join in on this!

I just so happen to have an oldie that I’ve been re-reading recently to avoid later plotholes as I try to get back into writing my post-DA2 Lost & Found series (I also think the Samson & Delilah fic I’m not posting until it’s all the way done might end up belonging in this world state...).

Part II: Those Who Remain

AO3: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17281457/chapters/40643084

Warnings: violence

This is actually one of my favorite parts of that series so far, not only because it’s short and has a very defined structure / covers a single event (the lead-up to the fight with Meredith at the end of DA2). But because it only features NPCs, and mostly minor ones at that (i.e. none of Hawke’s love interests... they’ve all skipped town together or blown themselves up, leaving Aveline to lead the charge... whoops!). 

It’s also where I first met / introduced Ser Agatha, who got her own spin-off after this (In Violation) because I have no self-control when it comes to spiralling head canons about characters who are mentioned in a single minor quest or codex. There are some low-key Sullen vibes, too, that I totally planned to someday do something with, I swear!

The writing is probably a little clunky (action is not my strong suit, I’ve since learned, and this whole thing is meant to be action-packed, and I was also sort of brand new to reading/writing fanfic in general), but my heart was truly in this one. I was also dissertating at the time, so you will totally see glimpses of my academic brain overflow if you look real close.

Anyway, an excerpt, yeah?

“Guard-Captain! The First Enchanter sent us here to find the Champion!”

Aveline’s head snapped around to see the young mage who’d suddenly broken through the Templars’ Silence. He received a violent punch to the kidneys for his efforts. He doubled over, yelping in pain, and Aveline had to stop herself from drawing her sword.

Diplomacy. Right.

“The Champion is gone,” she said, with what she hoped was the gravest sincerity. Aveline was terrible at lying. So she had chosen her words very carefully. Hawke was gone. And even if she had been there, she probably wouldn’t have been able to help them. Things had gone too far in either direction, even for Hawke to talk her way around.

Donnic looked at her with guarded pity. She couldn’t bear to look back at him for fear of betraying Hawke’s secret with some wink or sparkle of hope in her eyes. She’d figure out what to tell him, how much to tell him, later. When things had settled down a bit.

“But the Knight-Commander... she is going to annul the Circle!”

Another mage had broken through the Templars’ anti-magic, and earned a kick to the back of her knees, as the Piece-of-Shit Templar growled, “That’s a lie! Do not listen to these mages! They are only trying to stir up even more chaos! THEY THRIVE ON IT!”

But the other Templars looked less sure, eyeing each other uneasily through the anonymity of their helmets.

Aveline knelt down next to the girl, and asked, “Where did you hear this?”

She shook her head. None of the other mages responded, either. Aveline looked at each of them, and they just averted their gazes, ashamed that they were too weak to overcome the Templars, even in such dire circumstances.

“For the Maker’s sake, please just let one of them speak?!” Aveline stood up. She was beginning to lose her characteristic cool-headed patience. She could feel the blood pumping into her cheeks, and her sword arm. She was tired of being diplomatic.

“We do not answer to you, Guard-Captain.”

Mettin. That was his name.

[antihero-writings]

Red and Gold (Ch1)

(Absolutely incredible cover art by _xstylyricax_ on instagram!! I’ll put a link to her profile in a reblog!!)

Fandom: Pandora Hearts

Fic Summary: Memories of a strange music box in Ada's occult shop intertwine with a present where she meets the equally mysterious pirate Vincent Nightray...

Notes: Originally written for phsecretsanta2018 for tumblr user @endoreon!!​ 

I'll put chapter 2 in a reblog, and links to both chapters in a reblog too!

Chapter 1: Whispers

Ada placed an old compass on the shelf, between an antique sextant and a dull crystal.

She turned to face the rest of the shop, smiling and putting her hands on her hips, proud of her work; she had just finished tidying up the place, putting everything in order, and could finally have a moment to relax, and admire the way everything gleamed.

Outside the sun always shone bright, reflecting off the white sand, sending green shadows onto the ground as it sifted through the palm leaves. Inside, the low light that filled the shop, emanating from candles, lanterns, as well as a few crystals hanging from nets, (and the occasional mysterious object), bouncing off the wooden walls, creating an atmosphere of dormant animation in the darkened place. Almost like the shop itself was lying in wait for something to happen, like if you broke a single object, all the spirits would come spilling out, and the place would live.

“Mew!”

Ada knelt down to scratch her cats’ ears.

She had had this shop for a few years now; for a long time, she had tried to learn about the occult, in attempts to bring her brother back from the Abyss, and in the midst of her research, had become a bit of an enthusiast, and had collected too many occult artifacts for the spare Vessalius house to hold. She didn’t use all of them, so she decided to start selling them to interested parties. From there she started collecting things just to sell. When she was at school, or otherwise couldn’t man the shop, she had servants watch over the place, (she warned them not to tell her uncle, or anyone who might not approve, or start spreading rumors). She had also hired someone to find more artifacts—(at sea, buried beneath the sand, anything)—both for her own fascination, as well as the shop.

Those who knew of her knew that she wasn’t just some collector, she was very knowledgeable in the ways of the occult, and novice practitioners, or fanatics, would come to her for advice on spells, or the authenticity of the objects they had found on their own. Some of them genuinely shared her interests—(she could talk to them for hours if she didn’t curb her excitement)—but sometimes people came in who were more…creepy than anything. Of course, by the nature of her hobby, often she herself couldn’t tell the difference.

“Now, now, you’ll have to wait outside. You’re not old enough to take part in the ceremony yet.”

Ada gasped, spinning around wildly. “Who’s there?!”

“Mew!” Snowdrop responded.

She petted her cat once more, looking around.

No one. Wooden walls and a breeze.

She breathed out. It wasn’t exactly unheard of that objects such as these could give off strange visions, or spill voices into one’s ears, and she was no stranger to the dark and the dangerous. It was surely just a particularly powerful object, which was simply doing its job, and someone would buy it soon enough.

Despite her mind’s attempts to reassure her, she probably should have been listening more carefully.

For the next few weeks, intermittently when she was in her shop, whispers would tread the air around her. Simple words, cries, accusations, voices that—dare she admit it?—she recognized.

Her brother’s, her uncle’s, her father’s, and—somehow worst of all—her own.

Her own voice, sounding so pitiful, so lost, and tiny.

Did she still sound like that?

After a while, it wasn’t hard to recognize what they were: memories. Memories of a past calling back to her. A sad and empty past that she had tried to forget. A past in which the Baskervilles threw her brother into the Abyss, and that place kept him from her for ten years.

Was this just her mind playing tricks on her? Was it all in her head? Nothing real?

But, of course, these memories were real. She just didn’t think of them too often, because she didn’t quite like that fact.

What kind of an object could do this? Why would someone create such an object in the first place? What should she even be looking for?

She tried to block them, to find something else that would drown them out, to cover her ears, but the whispers seeped in through the boards she nailed over her mind’s doors, and the cracks between her fingers.

The murmurs followed her. They pooled in her brain when she left the shop, and didn’t drain away. They grew louder. There came a point when she tore apart her neatly polished shop in search of the offender, and found…nothing.

But as she turned to leave one day, she saw her reflection in the door window, and behind herself, the curtain to the back…She turned, and did something dangerous:

She started thinking.

Hidden away, back there, like a caged beast, was in an old chest, and within it, something she had been warned about, but whose purpose had never quite been explained to her.

Her hand shaking ever so slightly, she fingered the necklace she was wearing, pulling it from beneath her shirt, holding the end up before her eyes, twinkling in the low light; a tiny, old silver key.

*****

Ada walked out into the darkened school grounds. There was something about the cool night air that made everything seem less inviting, less pure. The person waiting for her, during the day, would—(if a little odd)—have been an ordinary student, but in the dark he was a figure, a mystery, harbinger of more mystic nights to come.

They weren’t supposed to be out after dark—and she was one of those adamant rule-followers—but there had been something about the plea to his voice earlier…

“Good evening, Leo-kun.” Her small, but strong, voice broke the silence.

Leo turned to her, half moonlight reflecting off his glasses, and bowed.

“Yes, Good evening, Miss Vessalius.” He smiled, though there was a twitch in the corner of his mouth that betrayed its reality.

“If I may, can I ask how you found out about my shop?”

He scratched his chin, looking around as if the courtyard had suddenly become more interesting. “I simply heard about it from some of our fellow students. You know how they can be prone to gossiping.”

Who knew about her? And why they wouldn’t say anything about it to her? How did they find out? How many people knew by now? Or, what if he was lying? If so, why didn’t he want her to know how he knew?

“Ah, I see.” She didn’t press the issue, but wasn’t completely satisfied with the explanation either.

She was surprised that Leo would even come to her in the first place; he only ever spoke to her through Elliot—and was always with Elliot in general—so she didn’t want to scare him off with extra, unnecessary questions. This was already the longest conversation they ever had. Though the question of who knew about her shop, and how, troubled her, what was important was this object he was giving to her. It was the reason for their meeting, after all. If she badgered him too much, he might decide not give it to her at all. Nevertheless, the simple fact that he had arranged this late-night meeting, alone with her—without Elliot—in the first place, meant that whatever he was trying to give to her was affecting him deeply.

Or maybe it was affecting Elliot.

“So…you have something for me?”

“Right.” He seemed relieved she wasn’t going to ask any more questions. He set his bag on the ground, and knelt down to fish something from it.

But once he retrieved it, the cloth-covered object gave her few more answers than questions.

She cocked her head to the side, leaning forward, puzzled, but intrigued, trying to keep her excitement from bubbling over.

Leo breathed out the answer to her unasked question. “It’s a music box.”

“Oh! I’ve heard of enchanted music boxes before!” her obsession started to peak through, “What’s this one called?”

She reached out her hand towards it, but he jerked it away from her.

He seemed to realize the suddenness of the action, and relaxed a little. “I…Sorry, I just…” the veiled agitation bled out from behind the curtain.

What was it that made him so jumpy? Usually he was quiet, but confident. Was it this object? Or could it be her? He didn’t seem very comfortable around most people who weren’t Elliot, so maybe her sudden movement just startled him a little? Although…if it was the object itself… should she be scared too?

She decided not to let it bother her. Once again, this wasn’t exactly the first time someone had acted strangely when trying to get an occult object off their hands.

“So…might I ask what its purpose is?”

He rubbed the back of his neck. “I’m…afraid I’d rather not say.”

“Eh? It’s going to be rather hard for me to sell if I don’t know what it does, you know.”

“Sell it?” fear came to the surface. “No, no, no, no, you can’t sell this! You can’t even open it!”

She blinked.

“So…you’re giving me something; you wouldn’t like to tell me what it does, and you…don’t want me to sell or use it? Forgive my rudeness, but why don’t you simply hide it yourself? Or destroy it?”

“I’ve,” he cleared his throat, “tried both.” He looked at the ground, rubbing the back of his neck, and she often wished she could see the look in his eyes behind those glasses.

“And?”

He stayed silent, but it was obvious both had failed.

“But you’re used to dealing with these sorts of things, right?” he spoke up again, “So I thought you might have methods of keeping it from…activating. Or be better be able to,” he mumbled the next few words, “tune it out.”

“I’m sure I can handle it!” She smiled, though she was losing confidence the more they spoke.

The same phenomenon seemed to be happening to him.

“Please listen to me, Miss Vessalius;” he placed a hand on her shoulder—and how afraid, how insistent, would the look in his eyes have been, if she could have seen it?—“I can’t force you to accept this, or teach you how to stop it. All I can do is give you a warning; do not open this. For whatever reason, if you start to hear things, cover your ears, if you see anything, cover your eyes.”

“Huh? But why?”

What exactly did all that mean? What sorts of things would she hear or see? Just how powerful was this thing?

He rubbed his temple as if that would keep his aggravation from spilling out.

“This is…dangerous. Maybe the most dangerous thing you’ve ever handled.”

“Well, I have handled—”

His expression shut her up.

“So…” She cleared her throat, trying to keep from getting annoyed herself. “Why do you have it in the first place?”

He shook his head, looking at the veiled box. “Just a mistake.”

He proceeded to pull on a chain around his neck, which ended in a small silver key. He pulled it over his head, pooling it in his hand, holding it out to her his head bowed (out of respect, or a desire not to look at it, she didn’t know)—though he did so as if it were a gun—“Please keep this with you at all times.”

This was more than she bargained for, or guessed the care of this object would entail. Usually if she got a call, even if it was something dangerous, they wouldn’t be so cryptic, and they often just wanted to get rid of it, they didn’t bother with warnings and precautions.

Still, nothing she couldn’t handle.

She nodded, taking it and slipping it around her neck.

He bit his lip, his grip tight around the box, his hands shaking a little.

“Please hide this in the most secure location you can find.”

He thrust the box towards her, though his death grip made it clear he didn’t really want entrust it to her. She wrapped her fingers around it, looking curiously at him as she felt his resistance, before tugging it away from him.

“I promise to take care of it.” she tried to reassure him.

“Promise me you won’t open it.” His voice was the most serious she’d ever heard of it.

She smiled, giving a curt nod.

“Promise.”

But what do people do when presented with a mystery, a curious object, and an unshakable warning about it’s volatility?

They do the very thing they’re commanded not to do.

*****

It was a few days later still, when she gave in.

She knelt on the floorboards in her back room, a battered chest before her, its hinges rusty, its wood splintering. The rug was folded back, and the trap door the chest had been heaved out of propped open.

Did Leo know, then, about the whispers? About how they nagged and poked and prodded at one’s mind? How they staked themselves there, laying claim to her heart? Did he know how powerful it would be? How much it would affect her life?

She told herself he didn’t.

When she knew full well he did; otherwise he wouldn’t have been so adamant, so tense.

The chest’s maw, creaking as she lifted the lid, revealed the veiled oddity sitting at the bottom. Waiting, like a black bride, for her groom.

Surely it wasn’t this object, so small and unassuming, that was capable of invading her thoughts so entirely?

It wasn’t such a big deal. Just one peak. Listen to a few notes. Keep the whispers at bay.

“Come on, Ada!”

She drew in a breath, and lowered her hands into the depths, as if into murky waters, and gently took the dark bride’s hand, pulling her from the waves.

It was light, as if she was holding the whispers themselves. Yet the longer the bride held her hand, the tighter her grip, the heavier the weight of their vows.

“Say, what’s Abyss?”

The voice was louder this time.

Just breathe.

It’ll all be over soon.

She pulled the cloth, unveiling the wretched face she was destined to kiss.

“Well it’s a sort of prison…”

The box was black, ornate silver designs, curls and borders on the sides and top. Other than that it was relatively plain. But holding it made her breath catch, and the room darker.

She told herself it was just her own fear.

Letting it sit in her hands for a moment, she weighed it, along with Leo’s words. Part of her brain begged her to listen to him, screamed at her to return it to its place in the ground.

But it was too alive to bury.

“for bad guys…”

A lump grew in her throat as she tugged on the chord to the key around her neck.

As curiosity often bids us, she did the very thing he demanded she never do. For the simplest reason as a few whispers, and a rickety past.

“Please, let me in! My brother’s in trouble!!”

She gasped, reaching her fingers gently to her lips, as if not quite sure if she had said it herself. The shout had sounded so real, less ephemeral, less there, more here…

Shaking, her hands sweating, glancing around as if someone would see her breaking into something that belonged to her, she fit the key into the lock.

Though the weather was perfectly calm outside, she could hear rain beginning to pound.

“Oz Vessalius, your sin is…”

The pronunciation felt like it was coming down on her own head, like the past-born rain.

She was that little girl again, soaked through with water and fear, begging to be let in. The rain breathed; it was talking to her with the fluttery voices of those she loved, and those she had grown to hate. Some words broke through the crowd—brushing shoulders and pushing others down, louder, stronger—but the memories were so many by now that the whispers seemed like a mob.

Hands shivering, shutting her eyes tight, she turned the key,

—It clicked—

Placed her fingers on the wood of the lid—

The rain was so loud….

“Your very—“

And lifted it.

The action was like a conductor bringing down his baton; those whispers, the breath of the wind and rain, were all simultaneously silenced.

She glanced around, as if she would be able to see their smoke dissipating in the air.

The silence was almost worse…Almost.

Because silence is empty, and can be filled.

When she tipped it open, no tiny dancer twirled around. No frilly art or pretty words decorated the inside. She could see the cogs beneath, like if a ship’s deck were glass, and you could see the rudders, all the working parts and windswept waves that kept it going.

Though the look of it was plain, and rather unexciting, the inside of the lid held a peculiar inscription:

To he who dares play this song

You may yet still know it wrong

If it’s for redemption that you’ve asked

And the answer, you believe, in long awaited past

Without map, without wind, in the end, no sign of treasure

Too late, the hands of time will show you your own measure.

Upon seeing the words, questions boiled in her thoughts. What could this mean? What was she looking for in opening it? If she wasn’t looking for redemption, did that mean it was safe to listen? What about the past? Why would she want to hear whispers of, look into, the past? But if she didn’t…what was she doing here? Could this be more than simple attempts to shut the whispers up? Was there real temptation behind her current actions?

Then, without warning, or winding, the music began to play.

Though the notes were slow and few, they plucked at her heart. They tugged on her veins and sent vibrations through her, like she was their true instrument.

She slammed both the lid and her eyes shut, breath heavy.

She peeked open an eye.

Just a music box. Nothing strange. Nothing to tell her it was capable of great and terrible things. Just an ordinary music box. No notes fell out unannounced.

Taking up the key to lock it again, she felt another presence in the room.

She turned to see—

[chris-evans-indian-fanfic]

Conversation

One-Shot

Description - Captain America and Batman have a conversation on a bench.

I tried something new with this fic. It is mostly based on conversation without any action scenes. Do give your feedback if you like this new format or if not, then how can I make it better? 

The only reason I am trying this new format is because the writing challenge set by @donutloverxo @captain-a-rogerss and @optimistic-dinosaur-nacho make me push my limits and step outside my comfort zone! This week, the challenge was to write a Marvel x DC crossover fic, something I have never done before. Check out the challenge here and participate now!

Warning - None

A/N - This fic is based on Steve before the first Avengers movie

My Main Masterlist

I don’t consent to have any of my work published or featured on any third party app, website or translated. If you are seeing this fanfiction anywhere but Tumblr and AO3, it has been reposted without my permission. In that case, please do share the link and let me know.

…

Bruce Wayne set aside his newspaper with a huff. After a lifetime of fighting with terrorists, aliens and freaking exploding penguins, he thought he had seen everything, until today.

Headlines such as; "America's Golden Boy Returns" , "Captain America Found Alive Under Ice" , "Brrr! Is that a Popsicle? Frozen Dessert? No! It's Steve Rogers!" graced the newspapers that morning, seemingly destroying whatever little amount of peace Batman had left.

Great, another man with superpowers who might be a potential threat that I have to take care of, Bruce frowned as he pulled up information on Captain America. "Alfred," he called out, "What do you remember about Captain America?"

"Are you asking me to recite today's headlines Master Wayne?" came the prompt reply from the other room. 

Bruce chucked, "Not what I meant."

"I will have you know Master Wayne that I wasn't even born when the Red, White and Blue hero went under the ice. The grey hair on my head may make me look old, but I am not a 100 years old," came the indignant reply.

"You don't say! Here I was thinking you didn't look a day over 120," teased Bruce.

"That's what happens when you worry about a future where you would be living without grandchildren to take care of," Alfred snapped, shutting up Bruce.

Bruce knew Nick Fury would be initiating Steve into S.H.I.E.L.D., his personal crime-fighting-superhero-club. Oh he knew Nick Fury very well. The  man with the eye-patch had proven to harbour more mysteries than the pandora's box, a quality that didn't sit well with Bruce. That's why, when Fury had invited Batman to join the Avengers, he had bluntly refused. Looking at the blue-eyed soldier, Bruce decided to pay him a visit.

Steve Rogers was scared. He didn't recognise this world. Everything was louder. The people, the machines, the cars. Colours were more vibrant and simple things were just too complicated to understand. It was as if everything in this new world was made to attack his senses. 

His Converse squeaked as he walked in the aisles of the departmental store. Converse was one of the few things still around from his time before the ice. One of the few things he still recognised.

He entered the milk aisle. He exhaled loudly as he read the options; Low Fat Milk, Full Fat Milk, Cow's Milk, Buffalo Milk, Camel, Donkey… Wait… People milked camels and donkeys? His face contorted with disgust at the thought. Moving forward, he saw more confusing options- Almond Milk, Coconut Milk, Cashew Milk… He looked on with horror. Had modern science found a way to put breasts on nuts now?! Where was normal milk? Did normal milk exist anymore?! 

He clutched the handles of the basket tighter, bending the metal. He needed to get away from here. He didn't belong in this time, this century. Steve slowly took a step back, and bumped into someone.

"Heeeyy watch wherrrre you are gooooing paaal," the large man behind Steve slurred as he dropped his box of cereal and tried to retain his balance. "I am sorry," muttered Steve, even though he could have sworn there hadn't been anyone behind him until a few moments ago.

Steve looked at the man. He was as tall and well-built as Steve, heck maybe even more muscular. His black hair was disheveled, his eyes swollen red and his breath reeked of cheep alcohol and cigar.

"You pussssshed me," the stranger slurred again, "hooow darrrre yooou?" he staggered, raising his fists.

Steve picked up the box of cereal and handed the stranger a new box, "I don't want to fight you sir. Instead, can I buy you this cereal?"

The man tried to punch Steve, which he easily dodged, "Fiighttt meeee," he insisted. Steve could only smile in response, "Believe it or not sir, but I am a senior citizen, and I am not looking to pick any fight. Please, can I buy you this box of cereal?" 

"Coff-feeee," the drunken man said. "Okay I will buy you coffee too," Steve agreed.

The way towards the billing counter was slow as the stranger kept stumbling into shelves and displays. Steve kept a strong grip on him and guided him in his way. 

Steve even helped the stranger as he puked his guts out on the street, helping him clean his mouth with a kerchief. They both sat on the bench outside the cafe.

"Why… you… help me?" the stranger managed to ask between his panted breaths. "Why wouldn't I?" Steve seemed puzzled, "You can’t take care of yourself now, you need help. So I am helping you."

"I don't need help from you punk!" the stranger spat as he shoved Steve forcefully on the bench. It hardly shook Steve. He smiled a small smile, "Everybody needs help at some point or the other, Mr Wayne. How long do you think you can operate as the sole hero?"

Wiping his hand on the back of his mouth, Bruce smiled, "As long as I hold the key to every answer."

"Fury is not that bad," Steve scoffed.

"You don't know what's going on at S.H.I.E.L.D., do you?" challenge Bruce 

Steve retorted, "I don't need to know. I am just a soldier who follows orders."

"Whose orders? And on what authority? We don't need soldiers as we are not at war. But that doesn't stop us from initiating them," Bruce stated matter-of-factly.

"I believe in people Mr Wayne. I have faith in the general good that resides deep within every citizen," remarked Steve.

"Huh," it was Bruce's turn to scoff, "Here I was thinking you are a threat, but you are just a delusional patriot. People have agendas Captain. And agendas change. People are still bad, corrupt and easily influenced. The world hasn't changed Captain. Don't let anyone tell you any different."

Steve considered Bruce's words in silence, "The world has changed Mr Wayne, in more ways than you can possibly imagine. And it's... hard to keep track of things and stay updated. But it's much more easier to follow orders, you know?" 

"People are still the same Captain. And they make up the world. As for keeping track," Bruce leaned back on the bench, "You can keep a list of things you need to learn."

Steve nodded, getting up, "That's a good idea. Let me get you that coffee and maybe you can tell me what can I add to the list?"

Steve turned around and entered the cafe.

"Hi how can I help you?" the barista greeted him cheerfully. "Can I get a coffee?" requested Steve.

"Sure! Which one would you like to have? A cappuccino? Americano? Espresso? Latte? Moch-" 

"Son, please just give me a normal coffee," pleaded Steve.

"Sure sir. Which size do you want? We have Tall, Tumbl-"

"Just. A. Normal. Coffee. Please," Steve gritted his teeth. 

He stepped out with the hot coffee, only to find the bench empty, except for the cereal box. He read the note stuck on the box, "I will keep an eye on you", the note promised.

Bruce settled back in his chair in his underground workshop. He laughed when he noticed the cereal box and the to-go cup of coffee, which was still warm. He laughed as he read the note stuck on the cup, "Tell Alfred I said hi. And please ask him if he will be willing to start a Barbershop Quartet with me?"

Steve returned home sweaty from the workout. He chuckled when he saw the carton of milk in his kitchen, with the words NORMAL MILK written in big, bold letters. He read the note that came with it, "Alfred expresses his apologies as he will be unable to join your Barbershop Quartet. However, he does have a recommendation for your list. He suggests you watch 'I Love Lucy', an American sitcom from the 1950s. It had been quite popular then."

"Sir, do you think Batman will join our forces if need be?" Maria Hill asked Nick Fury as he read Natasha's report on Bruce and Steve.

"I don't know," Fury said, "But it is always beneficial to have friends on the other side, should the situation arise."

__--__--__--__--__--__--__--__--__--__--__--__--__

Permanent tag: @donutloverxo

Chris/Chris' characters taglist: @onetwo3000

Taglist open! Just comment, send an ask or message!

[oodlyenough]

fic: your tide of bad decisions

“You woke up one day, and you were like ‘you know what, Righty, you’re not really pulling your weight, I think I’ll get you chopped off so that the evil murder company I work for can install something directly into my body’?” 1.5k. Humour and fluff, mostly gen with a little bit of Rhys/Sasha implied. Set during the episode 3 roadtrip, featuring pretty much everyone but mainly Rhys, Sasha, Fiona and Athena. Also on AO3 Notes: My friend @firstofoctober has been indulging me by watching me play this game, and she was really struggling with the pseudo-canon(?) explanation behind Rhys' cybernetics being "chop off your arm for fun and profit". So -- my gift to her! :P

“So… does that have any games on it?”

Illuminated by the flickering campfire, Sasha’s green eyes twinkled with curiosity as she looked from Rhys’ face, to his arm, and back again.

“Games?” he repeated, eyebrows creeping up his forehead incredulously. “This—” he wiggled his metal fingers “—is top-of-the-line, cutting edge Hyperion cybernetic technology, and you wanna know if it’s got any games on it?”

Okay, so it was a slight exaggeration; a newer model had been released in the last year. But she didn’t know that, and anyway, his point stood.

Or it should have.

Sasha stared back, unabashed and unmoved.

He sighed. “It… yeah, it does, yeah. Look.”

He held up his palm, projecting a display for her to see, and Sasha leaned closer, squinting at the grid.

“What game is that?”

“Minesweeper. It’s… not very good.”

That didn’t seem to mean anything to her, but she peered closely anyway.

“It also does Solitaire,” he added, and the display switched to a spread of cards.

Sasha reached up, poking at the deck with one finger.

“It’s not a touch screen,” said Rhys, frowning. “You know that, right? It’s… how could it be a touch screen? Have you ever used a computer, like, in your life?”

“Shut up,” she said, though her tone lacked the venom it once had. She pulled her hand away and he closed the display. “So are there lots of people walking around up there with one of those?”

“No.” This being a slight point of pride, he couldn’t help the way his chin rose a little higher. “Pretty rare, actually.”

“Why?”

He shrugged. “People are squeamish about having it installed, I think.”

A wrinkle appeared across Sasha’s normally smooth forehead. “What? Why would they be squeamish?”

That, too, made him feel worryingly smug. “Worried about the pain? Scared to commit? Now, I, on the other hand—”

“Hang on,” Sasha interrupted him, the crease in her brow deeper now. “Rhys. What did… what did you have before that?”

“What do you mean?’

“Your arm. Like, was it a different prosthetic, or…”

“Oh.” He blinked. “No. It was just... you know… an arm.”

 “What?”

She yelped it loud enough, emphatically enough, that he flinched away. Across the fire, Fiona and Athena’s heads whipped in their direction.

“Sorry, sorry,” Sasha continued, not sounding sorry at all, “you mean you just had two—two… flesh arms—”

“Flesh arms?” Rhys repeated, pulling a face. “That’s a disgusting way to—”

“—two regular, human arms, and you just, what? Hacked one off?”

“I—”

“You woke up one day, and you were like ‘you know what, Righty, you’re not really pulling your weight, I think I’ll get you chopped off so that the evil murder company I work for can install something directly into my body’?”

There was a second of silence as Rhys registered the three pairs of eyes trained on him.

“That’s… I mean, that’s…” He floundered. “Okay, technically, that’s the correct sequence of events—”

“Wow,” chimed Fiona with a low whistle. “That’s the dumbest thing I’ve ever heard.”

“—but it is not an accurate representation of my thought process, thank you very much.”

“Right.” Fiona had one eyebrow raised, and a dangerous smirk on her lips. “So what was that thought process, exactly?”

Rhys scowled at her defiantly. “I… thought it would help me do my job.”

Fiona gave a short bark of laughter.

“You’re pathological,” said Sasha.

He glared at her, too. “It was a career move, okay? And it worked.”

“Define ‘worked’,” said Fiona. “‘Cause, right now, you’re sitting in the dirt. On Pandora. Fancy arm and all.”

Rhys opened his mouth in order to illustrate for her all the ways she was personally responsible for his recent career failure, but Athena spoke first.

“It’s not that weird,” she said.

“Yes! Right! Thank you, Athena!”

Athena was unfazed both by his praise and the sisters’ stares. She shrugged.

“I know people who’ve done way stupider things to their bodies for cash,” she explained.

“Well…” Rhys rubbed the back of his neck. “I mean, it wasn’t… they didn’t pay me to do this, I paid to have it done.”

“Oh.” Athena blinked. “Never mind. That’s weird, then.”

Fiona smirked triumphantly. “And how much did that cost?”

Rhys hesitated; he doubted the truth would be well-received.

“Well, it was the best model they had, so…”

Fiona considered it. “So what you’re saying is if we’re really in a bind, we could sell your arm.”

He knew she was kidding—well, she was probably kidding—surely she was kidding—but he crossed his arms protectively just in case. “No, no, no, that is not what I am saying. At all.”

Fiona grinned like a cat with a mouse.

“I like your arm, Rhys!” declared a cheery modulated voice; Gortys zoomed over from where she’d been sitting, conserving power, with Loader Bot. “It’s like we’re related!”

Rhys smiled at her. “Thanks, Gortys. Gimme five.”

“Okay!” Gortys considered his outstretched hand carefully before she pressed three fingers of one hand and two fingers of the other to the centre of his metal palm. Then she whizzed away back to Loader Bot.

Rhys pointed at the empty space where Gortys had been and looked at the others. “Come on. That was adorable.”

But Sasha was shaking her head.

“I can’t believe you paid to have Hyperion put something in your brain,” she said, with an expression of mingled disgust and pity. “All the money in the universe wouldn’t make me agree to that. What the hell is wrong with you?” Her eyes widened, suddenly suspicious and paranoid. “What if they can, like, control you remotely? Turn you into a —a slave drone or—”

“Okay, they can’t do that, and that is not how it works.” He wrinkled his nose. “Seriously, you need to take, like, a class or something.”

Sasha huffed wordlessly. He suspected she didn’t fully believe him.

He rolled his eyes.

“All right, well, look, I really appreciate all your incredible support for this irreversible decision I made. Super helpful and productive feedback for me to be receiving now, years later. So, that’s great. Thank you, everyone.”

“Any time,” said Fiona.

“But might I remind you,” Rhys carried on, pointedly gesturing with his right arm, “that it has actually been super useful to us, so, you know, you’re welcome.”

Sasha had the decency to look somewhat mollified, and Athena was as impassive as ever, but Fiona made a noise of doubt, tilting her head like she was deep in thought.

“Mmm, that’s debatable,” she said. “If that EMP hadn’t set you off, Sasha and I would be ten million dollars richer right now.”

“Yeah, and Vaughn and I would be dead because we’d have brought a fake Vault Key back to Helios,” he shot back.

Fiona shrugged. “Not my fault.”

“Not your—not your fault? How is that not your fault? That is directly your fault!”

Sensing a fight, Sasha intervened. “Hey, speaking of Vaughn, where was he when you were getting all this done? I’m surprised he let you go through with it.”

“Okay, for starters, I didn’t need Vaughn’s permission—”

The women looked at each other.

“—and secondly, he was totally on board. We planned the whole thing.” He called over his shoulder to where Vaughn sat frozen, propped against the caravan. “Right, bro?”

Across the way, Vaughn grunted incoherently.

Fiona looked over at Vaughn, then shook her head. “Huh. That’s disappointing. I thought he was the smart one.”

“Hey!”

“Maybe that was a grunt of remorse,” suggested Sasha helpfully.

“Yeah,” said Fiona to the others, an answer to an unasked question, “you know, I think that settles it.” She looked back at him. “Rhys, you’re not allowed to make decisions anymore.”

“Excuse me?”

“She’s right,” said Sasha. “Your judgment is impaired.”

Rhys glared at her. “Oh, come on.”

“Your choices are questionable,” agreed Athena.

“Can’t be trusted,” insisted Fiona. “Nor Vaughn, apparently.”

“Mmhmm,” Sasha hummed. She was grinning now, her face shining with mirth in the firelight. “Good thing we’re around to look after you from now on.”

In the split second it took her to realize what she’d said, Rhys raised his eyebrows, and then her smile fell, replaced by a closed-off expression that bordered on embarrassment.

“Until we find this Vault, I mean,” she said hastily, looking away to the fire. “Then you’re on your own with your poor choices.”

It might have been his imagination—or maybe it was a trick of the light, the strange combination of campfire and Pandoran dusk—but he thought her cheeks looked redder than normal.

“...Right,” said Rhys.

Sasha resolutely avoided his eye, but Rhys watched her for another moment, until the weight of Fiona’s stare forced his attention away. Fiona changed the subject—something about food, or fuel, or both—but Rhys tuned her out, leaning back on his elbows and staring up at the sky.

Even from this distance, Helios looked stark and cold. As long as he'd lived there, and as sorely missed as its various creature comforts were, no part of the station had ever really felt like home—it was unwelcoming by design, every inch intimidating. At least Pandora was a deathtrap by accident.

He turned away, gazing around the fire instead: at Gortys and Loader Bot, huddled up as if they had body heat to share; at Fiona, trying to win a smile out of Athena by telling a highly improbable and undoubtedly untrue tale of daring; at Vaughn, who’d followed him from college to Hyperion to Pandora and would probably go just about anywhere Rhys lead; at Sasha, who glimpsed him from the corner of her eye before feigning interest in the drawstrings of her sweater.

Rhys stretched out, hands behind his head as he laid on the ground, watching Elpis with a small smile.

They could say whatever they wanted. In this particular moment, he was surprisingly satisfied with his choices.

[antihero-writings]

Red and Gold Chapter 1: Whispers—Pandora Hearts Fic for Phsecretsanta2018 (Vince/Ada Pirate AU) (Full Chapter)

Fic Title: Red and Gold

Fic Synopsis: Memories of a strange music box in Ada's occult shop intertwine with a present where she meets the equally mysterious Vincent Nightray...

Notes: This was my Phsecretsanta2018 gift for @endoreon!

Chapter Title: Whispers

Chapter 1: 

Ada placed an old compass on the shelf, between an antique sextant and a dull crystal.

She turned to face the rest of the shop, smiling and putting her hands on her hips, proud of her work; she had just finished tidying up the place, putting everything in order, and could finally have a moment to relax, and admire the way everything gleamed.

Outside the sun always shone bright, reflecting off the white sand, sending green shadows onto the ground as it sifted through the palm leaves. Inside, the low light that filled the shop, emanating from candles, lanterns, as well as a few crystals hanging from nets, (and the occasional mysterious object), bouncing off the wooden walls, creating an atmosphere of dormant animation in the darkened place. Almost like the shop itself was lying in wait for something to happen, like if you broke a single object, all the spirits would come spilling out, and the place would live.

“Mew!”

Ada knelt down to scratch her cats’ ears.

She had had this shop for a few years now; for a long time, she had tried to learn about the occult, in attempts to bring her brother back from the Abyss, and in the midst of her research, had become a bit of an enthusiast, and had collected too many occult artifacts for the spare Vessalius house to hold. She didn’t use all of them, so she decided to start selling them to interested parties. From there she started collecting things just to sell. When she was at school, or otherwise couldn’t man the shop, she had servants watch over the place, (she warned them not to tell her uncle, or anyone who might not approve, or start spreading rumors). She had also hired someone to find more artifacts—(at sea, buried beneath the sand, anything)—both for her own fascination, as well as the shop.

Those who knew of her knew that she wasn’t just some collector, she was very knowledgeable in the ways of the occult, and novice practitioners, or fanatics, would come to her for advice on spells, or the authenticity of the objects they had found on their own. Some of them genuinely shared her interests—(she could talk to them for hours if she didn’t curb her excitement)—but sometimes people came in who were more…creepy than anything. Of course, by the nature of her hobby, often she herself couldn’t tell the difference.

“Now, now, you’ll have to wait outside. You’re not old enough to take part in the ceremony yet.”

Ada gasped, spinning around wildly. “Who’s there?!”

“Mew!” Snowdrop responded.

She petted her cat once more, looking around.

No one. Wooden walls and a breeze.

She breathed out. It wasn’t exactly unheard of that objects such as these could give off strange visions, or spill voices into one’s ears, and she was no stranger to the dark and the dangerous. It was surely just a particularly powerful object, which was simply doing its job, and someone would buy it soon enough.

Despite her mind’s attempts to reassure her, she probably should have been listening more carefully.

For the next few weeks, intermittently when she was in her shop, whispers would tread the air around her. Simple words, cries, accusations, voices that—dare she admit it?—she recognized.

Her brother’s, her uncle’s, her father’s, and—somehow worst of all—her own.

Her own voice, sounding so pitiful, so lost, and tiny.

Did she still sound like that?

After a while, it wasn’t hard to recognize what they were: memories. Memories of a past calling back to her. A sad and empty past that she had tried to forget. A past in which the Baskervilles threw her brother into the Abyss, and that place kept him from her for ten years.

Was this just her mind playing tricks on her? Was it all in her head? Nothing real?

But, of course, these memories were real. She just didn’t think of them too often, because she didn’t quite like that fact.

What kind of an object could do this? Why would someone create such an object in the first place? What should she even be looking for?

She tried to block them, to find something else that would drown them out, to cover her ears, but the whispers seeped in through the boards she nailed over her mind’s doors, and the cracks between her fingers.

The murmurs followed her. They pooled in her brain when she left the shop, and didn’t drain away. They grew louder. There came a point when she tore apart her neatly polished shop in search of the offender, and found…nothing.

But as she turned to leave one day, she saw her reflection in the door window, and behind herself, the curtain to the back…She turned, and did something dangerous:

She started thinking.

Hidden away, back there, like a caged beast, was in an old chest, and within it, something she had been warned about, but whose purpose had never quite been explained to her.

Her hand shaking ever so slightly, she fingered the necklace she was wearing, pulling it from beneath her shirt, holding the end up before her eyes, twinkling in the low light; a tiny, old silver key.

Ada walked out into the darkened school grounds. There was something about the cool night air that made everything seem less inviting, less pure. The person waiting for her, during the day, would—(if a little odd)—have been an ordinary student, but in the dark he was a figure, a mystery, harbinger of more mystic nights to come.

They weren’t supposed to be out after dark—and she was one of those adamant rule-followers—but there had been something about the plea to his voice earlier…

“Good evening, Leo-kun.” Her small, but strong, voice broke the silence.

Leo turned to her, half moonlight reflecting off his glasses, and bowed.

“Yes, Good evening, Miss Vessalius.” He smiled, though there was a twitch in the corner of his mouth that betrayed its reality.

“If I may, can I ask how you found out about my shop?”

He scratched his chin, looking around as if the courtyard had suddenly become more interesting. “I simply heard about it from some of our fellow students. You know how they can be prone to gossiping.”

Who knew about her? And why they wouldn’t say anything about it to her? How did they find out? How many people knew by now? Or, what if he was lying? If so, why didn’t he want her to know how he knew?

“Ah, I see.” She didn’t press the issue, but wasn’t completely satisfied with the explanation either.

She was surprised that Leo would even come to her in the first place; he only ever spoke to her through Elliot—and was always with Elliot in general—so she didn’t want to scare him off with extra, unnecessary questions. This was already the longest conversation they ever had. Though the question of who knew about her shop, and how, troubled her, what was important was this object he was giving to her. It was the reason for their meeting, after all. If she badgered him too much, he might decide not give it to her at all. Nevertheless, the simple fact that he had arranged this late-night meeting, alone with her—without Elliot—in the first place, meant that whatever he was trying to give to her was affecting him deeply.

Or maybe it was affecting Elliot.

“So…you have something for me?”

“Right.” He seemed relieved she wasn’t going to ask any more questions. He set his bag on the ground, and knelt down to fish something from it.

But once he retrieved it, the cloth-covered object gave her few more answers than questions.

She cocked her head to the side, leaning forward, puzzled, but intrigued, trying to keep her excitement from bubbling over.

Leo breathed out the answer to her unasked question. “It’s a music box.”

“Oh! I’ve heard of enchanted music boxes before!” her obsession started to peak through, “What’s this one called?”

She reached out her hand towards it, but he jerked it away from her.

He seemed to realize the suddenness of the action, and relaxed a little. “I…Sorry, I just…” the veiled agitation bled out from behind the curtain.

What was it that made him so jumpy? Usually he was quiet, but confident. Was it this object? Or could it be her? He didn’t seem very comfortable around most people who weren’t Elliot, so maybe her sudden movement just startled him a little? Although…if it was the object itself… should she be scared too?

She decided not to let it bother her. Once again, this wasn’t exactly the first time someone had acted strangely when trying to get an occult object off their hands.

“So…might I ask what its purpose is?”

He rubbed the back of his neck. “I’m…afraid I’d rather not say.”

“Eh? It’s going to be rather hard for me to sell if I don’t know what it does, you know.”

“Sell it?” fear came to the surface. “No, no, no, no, you can’t sell this! You can’t even open it!”

She blinked.

“So…you’re giving me something; you wouldn’t like to tell me what it does, and you…don’t want me to sell or use it? Forgive my rudeness, but why don’t you simply hide it yourself? Or destroy it?”

“I’ve,” he cleared his throat, “tried both.” He looked at the ground, rubbing the back of his neck, and she often wished she could see the look in his eyes behind those glasses.

“And?”

He stayed silent, but it was obvious both had failed.

“But you’re used to dealing with these sorts of things, right?” he spoke up again, “So I thought you might have methods of keeping it from…activating. Or be better be able to,” he mumbled the next few words, “tune it out.”

“I’m sure I can handle it!” She smiled, though she was losing confidence the more they spoke.

The same phenomenon seemed to be happening to him.

“Please listen to me, Miss Vessalius;” he placed a hand on her shoulder—and how afraid, how insistent, would the look in his eyes have been, if she could have seen it?—“I can’t force you to accept this, or teach you how to stop it. All I can do is give you a warning; do not open this. For whatever reason, if you start to hear things, cover your ears, if you see anything, cover your eyes.”

“Huh? But why?”

What exactly did all that mean? What sorts of things would she hear or see? Just how powerful was this thing?

He rubbed his temple as if that would keep his aggravation from spilling out.

“This is…dangerous. Maybe the most dangerous thing you’ve ever handled.”

“Well, I have handled—”

His expression shut her up.

“So…” She cleared her throat, trying to keep from getting annoyed herself. “Why do you have it in the first place?”

He shook his head, looking at the veiled box. “Just a mistake.”

He proceeded to pull on a chain around his neck, which ended in a small silver key. He pulled it over his head, pooling it in his hand, holding it out to her his head bowed (out of respect, or a desire not to look at it, she didn’t know)—though he did so as if it were a gun—“Please keep this with you at all times.”

This was more than she bargained for, or guessed the care of this object would entail. Usually if she got a call, even if it was something dangerous, they wouldn’t be so cryptic, and they often just wanted to get rid of it, they didn’t bother with warnings and precautions.

Still, nothing she couldn’t handle.

She nodded, taking it and slipping it around her neck.

He bit his lip, his grip tight around the box, his hands shaking a little.

“Please hide this in the most secure location you can find.”

He thrust the box towards her, though his death grip made it clear he didn’t really want entrust it to her. She wrapped her fingers around it, looking curiously at him as she felt his resistance, before tugging it away from him.

“I promise to take care of it.” she tried to reassure him.

“Promise me you won’t open it.” His voice was the most serious she’d ever heard of it.

She smiled, giving a curt nod.

“Promise.”

But what do people do when presented with a mystery, a curious object, and an unshakable warning about it’s volatility?

They do the very thing they’re commanded not to do.

It was a few days later still, when she gave in.

She knelt on the floorboards in her back room, a battered chest before her, its hinges rusty, its wood splintering. The rug was folded back, and the trap door the chest had been heaved out of propped open.

Did Leo know, then, about the whispers? About how they nagged and poked and prodded at one’s mind? How they staked themselves there, laying claim to her heart? Did he know how powerful it would be? How much it would affect her life?

She told herself he didn’t.

When she knew full well he did; otherwise he wouldn’t have been so adamant, so tense.

The chest’s maw, creaking as she lifted the lid, revealed the veiled oddity sitting at the bottom. Waiting, like a black bride, for her groom.

Surely it wasn’t this object, so small and unassuming, that was capable of invading her thoughts so entirely?

It wasn’t such a big deal. Just one peak. Listen to a few notes. Keep the whispers at bay.

“Come on, Ada!”

She drew in a breath, and lowered her hands into the depths, as if into murky waters, and gently took the dark bride’s hand, pulling her from the waves.

It was light, as if she was holding the whispers themselves. Yet the longer the bride held her hand, the tighter her grip, the heavier the weight of their vows.

“Say, what’s Abyss?”

The voice was louder this time.

Just breathe.

It’ll all be over soon.

She pulled the cloth, unveiling the wretched face she was destined to kiss.

“Well it’s a sort of prison…”

The box was black, ornate silver designs, curls and borders on the sides and top. Other than that it was relatively plain. But holding it made her breath catch, and the room darker.

She told herself it was just her own fear.

Letting it sit in her hands for a moment, she weighed it, along with Leo’s words. Part of her brain begged her to listen to him, screamed at her to return it to its place in the ground.

But it was too alive to bury.

“for bad guys…”

A lump grew in her throat as she tugged on the chord to the key around her neck.

As curiosity often bids us, she did the very thing he demanded she never do. For the simplest reason as a few whispers, and a rickety past.

“Please, let me in! My brother’s in trouble!!”

She gasped, reaching her fingers gently to her lips, as if not quite sure if she had said it herself. The shout had sounded so real, less ephemeral, less there, more here…

Shaking, her hands sweating, glancing around as if someone would see her breaking into something that belonged to her, she fit the key into the lock.

Though the weather was perfectly calm outside, she could hear rain beginning to pound.

“Oz Vessalius, your sin is…”

The pronunciation felt like it was coming down on her own head, like the past-born rain.

She was that little girl again, soaked through with water and fear, begging to be let in. The rain breathed; it was talking to her with the fluttery voices of those she loved, and those she had grown to hate. Some words broke through the crowd—brushing shoulders and pushing others down, louder, stronger—but the memories were so many by now that the whispers seemed like a mob.

Hands shivering, shutting her eyes tight, she turned the key,

—It clicked—

Placed her fingers on the wood of the lid—

The rain was so loud….

“Your very—“

And lifted it.

The action was like a conductor bringing down his baton; those whispers, the breath of the wind and rain, were all simultaneously silenced.

She glanced around, as if she would be able to see their smoke dissipating in the air.

The silence was almost worse…Almost.

Because silence is empty, and can be filled.

When she tipped it open, no tiny dancer twirled around. No frilly art or pretty words decorated the inside. She could see the cogs beneath, like if a ship’s deck were glass, and you could see the rudders, all the working parts and windswept waves that kept it going.

Though the look of it was plain, and rather unexciting, the inside of the lid held a peculiar inscription:

To he who dares play this song

You may yet still know it wrong

If it’s for redemption that you’ve asked

And the answer, you believe, in long awaited past

Without map, without wind, in the end, no sign of treasure

Too late, the hands of time will show you your own measure.

Upon seeing the words, questions boiled in her thoughts. What could this mean? What was she looking for in opening it? If she wasn’t looking for redemption, did that mean it was safe to listen? What about the past? Why would she want to hear whispers of, look into, the past? But if she didn’t…what was she doing here? Could this be more than simple attempts to shut the whispers up? Was there real temptation behind her current actions?

Then, without warning, or winding, the music began to play.

Though the notes were slow and few, they plucked at her heart. They tugged on her veins and sent vibrations through her, like she was their true instrument.

She slammed both the lid and her eyes shut, breath heavy.

She peeked open an eye.

Just a music box. Nothing strange. Nothing to tell her it was capable of great and terrible things. Just an ordinary music box. No notes fell out unannounced.

Taking up the key to lock it again, she felt another presence in the room.

She turned to see—