#welcome back my oily king

[ewanmitchellcrumbs]

[katedrakeohd]

Heartstopper (part2)

@kingliamappreciationweek

@tessa-liam @lizzybeth1986 @sazanes

@kingliam2019

King Liam Appreciation Week 2024

Read other chapters

Rating: Mature themes (angst, swearing, alcohol use, car accident, bodily harm, character death, betrayal, all the drama)

Cast: TRR - King Nicholas, Drake Walker, Kate Darling (MC), other characters.

-_-_-👑-_-_-

King Nicholas sat at the desk in his bedroom. It had been an hour since he'd seen Kate get slapped by one of his security guards and then get shoved into one of his own royal SUVs. He had sent Drake after her. But he hadn't heard anything from either of them since. He had called Drake several times and gotten no response. A bottle of whiskey sat open on the desk and the glass in his hand had already been refilled many times.

It was his Coronation night, and it should have been a joyous and monumental occasion. So far it hadn't been much of a celebration at all. He was forced by his own family to choose Madeleine Amaranth of Fydelia as his Queen. It was Kate Darling who had won his heart, and her unfortunate violent kidnapping had him feeling totally crushed and betrayed.

The phone on the desk started ringing and he coughed into his fist to clear his throat before picking up the receiver. He licked his lips and then answered, "Hello?"

"Your Majesty, Bastien here. The SUV carrying Kate Darling didn't reach the airport. Conner and Jax were supposed to meet Mark and Derek at the airport to ensure her deportation was successful. The flight to New York already left."

To Nicholas the only name he was familiar with in that explanation was Kate. And it infuriated him that the words 'deportation' and 'Kate' should ever be linked together.

"I see." Was the only response he could put together.

"Drake hasn't returned with the Ambassador's car yet either."

"Please extend my sincerest apologies to the Moroccan Ambassador and his driver. I authorized Drake to engage in risky behavior and I shouldn't have given him so much liberty to do so. If the vehicle comes back damaged in any way I promise to replace it."

"I'll inform you immediately of any new developments as they come to my attention."

"Thank-you, Bastien."

Nicholas hung up the phone and swallowed the remains of his drink in one gulp. It hit his gut with a scorching fire and the resulting cough burned his nostrils. He welcomed the pain of it, because the deep worry over Kate's disappearance had shifted toward one of dread. Where was she? And where was Drake?

..

The large puddles of water on the highway became spraying fountains as the silver Audi slashed through them. Drake was dangerously pushing the limits of its tires to keep traction. The other drivers had slowed down for safety and Drake hastily wove his silver dart around them. Come on people it's just a little rain.

But of all the vehicles he had passed, none seemed to be the black SUV that he was looking for. With a frustrated sigh he was forced to slow down as the vehicles became more erratically placed in his way. Are the other drivers moving at all?

When he took the car in the first place he had left the window open. He enjoyed the reckless freedom of hearing the engine growl as it accelerated. But once the rain began he had to close the window to spare the leather interior. Unfortunately ever since the window had closed he'd been struggling to modulate the car's internal temperature to keep his windows clear. He rarely drove anything other than the fleet vehicles, and driving in the rain at night wasn't helping either. The unfamiliar atmospheric controls and placement of the vents had him turning the fan up higher to compensate for the humidity.

The staccato rhythm of a random car horn forced him to look up at the road. Were they warning him of something? It was then that he smelled the smoke. It was the unmistakable oily smell of a car fire. Sweet Jesus, No.

The flashing hazard lights of the parked cars ahead were the next clue. He crept past them and then looked to his right. In the darkness, the flames and smoke boiling out from under the hood of the crumpled SUV didn't seem real. But the model of it couldn't have been more real to Drake. He quickly swerved to park his vehicle on the shoulder. The tires had barely imbedded themselves in the gravel before he threw his door open to exit the car. He ducked back in to jab at the trunk release. Hopefully there was something in there he could use.

Other drivers were standing by their cars and shouting at him to wait for the emergency crews. Help was on its way.

But Drake couldn't afford to wait. There was someone he cared about in that burning vehicle. As he threw the trunk lid open he felt a measure of relief at the bag of golf clubs that he saw. There was also an emergency tool kit and a first-aid kit. He dumped out the golf clubs and chose a nine iron. He bashed up his knuckles rifling through the emergency kit and found the tiny jack handle/pry bar. These would have to do.

In the garish flash of the hazard lights and the blinding headlamps of the other cars, he saw the path of destruction that the tumbling SUV had torn in the grassy hillside. He cursed the slick soles of his dress shoes as he slid and skidded his way down through the fresh mud. Having miss-matched metal tools in each hand added to the clumsiness of his endeavor; but who ever said playing the hero was pretty. It was still raining and that made everything that much worse. He quickly became soaked to the skin.

As he approached the wreckage he threw down his tools and tried to open the back door of the car first. The rollover had crushed the door frame and the hinges were jammed. Fuck.

The smoke burned at his eyes and nostrils and he covered his nose with his elbow as he assessed the condition of the window glass next. The fleet vehicles had tinted, reinforced window glass, but he hoped it wasn't shatterproof. The windows in the front were not tinted as darkly and he saw the crumpled bloodied remains of the driver and his seat belted passenger. In the dark backseat he couldn't see if Kate was moving.

"Hold on Darling, I'm coming for ya." He shouted as he bent down to get the golf club. He swung the club like a baseball bat and it harmlessly bounced off the glass. No damage to the glass, but it bent the shaft of the club and loosened the head. He swung it against the fender to break it off. Changing his grip on the slippery club he stabbed at the glass like an ice pick. Finally the surface began to chip. He jabbed at the edge of the window by the frame and punched a hole. Working the shaft around in the hole he tried to make it bigger. Smoke leaked out through the hole, but he still wasn't any closer to seeing the inside of the car. Fuck!

He dropped the club and picked up the crowbar. The wet dirty metal slid around greasily in his hands and his skin burned from trying to get a grip. He jammed the crowbar into the crack of the doorframe where the latch would be. He kicked at it as hard as he could, cursing his stupid shoes as the pain shot up into his ankle. He needed boots, heavy boots.

He could hear sirens approaching.

Come ..on! .He kicked harder in desperation and the latch popped. Smoke billowed out from the crack and he could hear coughing. She's still alive. Grabbing the bar in both hands he wrenched at the door and worked enough gap to get his fingers around the top edge of the door frame. He pulled with all his might and yelled out. "Kate?! Kate! Can you hear me?"

He heard her cough again, "Drake?"

"Are you injured? Help is coming. But damn it if I'm not going to try to get you out of there myself." He growled in desperation through clenched teeth as his hands slipped and slid along the edge of the door. His fingers were bleeding, but his pumping adrenaline masked any pain.

He jammed the bar into the top of the doorframe and levered with as much force as his tiring arms could manage. He coughed against the hot smoke that filled his lungs.

A loud voice boomed at him from behind. "Sir! Step away from the vehicle!"

He squinted over his shoulder at the bright flashlights of the approaching firefighters, " 'Bout time you guys showed up. Help me get her out!"

Strong hands pulled him out of the way, and he watched another firefighter jam a large pry bar into the edge of the door and wrench it open wider.

"Wish I'd had one of those.."

He looked down at the tiny bar he held in his hand and then dropped it.

Someone dropped a warm blanket around his shoulders and he held it closed like a robe. They tried to lead him away, but he resisted.

"No, not yet. I need to see if she's ok."

He watched them spray some sort of foamy stuff on the engine compartment and the fire went out. The hot metal sizzled and hissed as the rain pattered down. Two men pulled the backdoor open and then one climbed inside to check on Kate. He could hear the quiet assurances from the firefighter and Kate's sobs of relief and gratitude. Then she was lifted out in his arms.

Drake's heart sank when he saw the state that she was in. Her skin and dress were blackened from smoke. Kate's beautiful face was bloodied and bruised, and her delicate hands and fingers were scraped raw and bleeding. She was missing a shoe, and her shins and ankles were scraped up badly as well. They laid her down carefully on a stretcher and covered her with a blanket. She turned her head and looked at Drake as they carried her past him, and her terrified expression made him want to throw up.

Drake was led back to his car and sat down on the passenger front seat. A paramedic treated the scrapes on his hands while another one offered him an oxygen mask from a portable tank. He accepted the mask and took the deepest breath his sore lungs would allow. He coughed and then brushed the mask aside, shaking his head. His voice was hoarse, "I'll be fine. I was a smoker for years, this is nothing. Go look after her."

A police officer came over to ask him questions.

"Your name, Sir?"

He coughed, "Drake Walker."

"Did you witness the accident?" The officer scribbled on his notepad.

Drake shook his head, "No."

"What prompted you to attempt such a rescue? To risk your own safety instead of calling for help?"

Drake coughed into his fist, "I was ordered to follow them. Her safety is my job."

The officer frowned, "But you didn't see how the accident happened."

Drake shook his head again, turning in his seat to watch Kate being put into the back of an ambulance.

"I was several kilometers behind. I'm her bodyguard, and was giving chase to catch up."

The officer narrowed his eyes and looked him up and down, suspiciously. "You were chasing them? Did they know they were being followed? If you're her bodyguard then why weren't you in the vehicle in the first place?"

Drake pointed at the crumpled SUV angrily, "Because the bastards separated us and then forced her into it. They took her against her will. And if you're implying that I chased them off the road and caused the accident... That's fucking insane."

The officer scribbled details down on his notepad, and then repeated his question, "Why didn't you call for help when you came upon the crash?"

Drake's angry outburst had scraped his throat raw. He coughed painfully and then leaned over to spit black soot on the ground. He wiped his mouth on the blanket. "I am the help. Now if you don't mind I need to follow her to the hospital."

He got out of the car and gave the blanket back to the paramedic, "Thanks for helping me warm up and dry out."

He pushed past the officer, "And Fuck You very much and get the hell out of my way."

He sprinted back around the front of the car to get back in the driver's seat. He reached over and retrieved his phone from the floor and saw all of the missed calls from Nicholas. Untangling his suit jacket, he put it back on and then jabbed at his phone screen to call him back.

He switched the call to speaker and then restarted the car, honking his horn to scatter the people standing in the way. Nicholas's voice was frantic as he picked up the call.

"Drake?! .. what's all the honking for...Drake?"

He pulled out onto the road to follow the ambulance that had already left.

"Sorry, I had to clear the people out of my way."

"Where are you? What's going on?" Nicholas asked.

Drake took a moment to cough, his throat was still raw as he choked out a response. "There's been an accident, and I'm on the way to the hospital."

"You sound terrible, don't tell me you crashed the Ambassador's car."

Drake looked at his raw knuckles as they gripped the steering wheel. "Don't worry about me. No, the SUV was in an accident. Kate's in rough shape."

There was a long pause on the other end and Drake wondered if Nicholas was ok.

"Are you still th-.."

"Did you run them off the road?" Nicholas interrupted.

"Jesus Christ, No! You're the second person in the last five minutes to ask me that. And it's really starting to piss me off."

Drake coughed again, the painful force of it causing him to swerve and then correct his steering. He smacked the steering wheel in frustration, his heart racing. He'd never catch up at this rate. A sense of panic twisted his gut at the thought of Kate slipping further and further away. He suddenly felt overwhelmingly nauseous.

He opened his window and gulped at the fresh air, his skin felt clammy as he wiped the sweat from his face.

"Drake? Are you sure you're ok?"

Forcing the bile back down his throat burned his chest like acid. His eyes watered. No, he was definitely not ok.

"I'm ok," he lied. Sucking in more of the cool night air.

Nicholas' voice wavered with concern, "Can you tell me more about the accident?"

"I don't know how it happened... Just that the driver is going to be leaving the scene in a body bag, and the other guy with him didn't look much better. Dear God, Nicholas..." Drake's voice broke, and he coughed to cover it up. He couldn't stop the tears as they trickled down his face. "I tried so hard to get her out of there, the car was on fire and there was so much smoke. I..I don't know how she survived."

"Drake, maybe you should pull over."

Drake sniffed and then coughed again, wiping his nose on his sleeve. He made a black smear on the grey material. "No, I can't stop. I don't know where they're taking her."

"Probably Capital General. Thank goodness she survived..was she conscious? How bad did she look?"

Drake scrubbed his hand through his wet hair, "From what I saw, her outside injuries seemed to be superficial. But being trapped in the car with all that smoke and heat must have done a number on her lungs. I was outside the car and it fucked me up pretty bad."

"But She.. she's alive..." Nicholas's voice trailed off.

"I didn't really get the chance to talk to her before she was loaded in the ambulance, but yes she was conscious. And very alive."

"Thank-you Drake. If she pulls through you'll definitely be rewarded for your bravery. ..And if she doesn't, well..I.."

Drake shook his head, wiping the tears from his face this time. "I don't want to think about that scenario either."

There was a pause and then Nicholas continued, "Get yourself checked out at the hospital, and try to keep tabs on her the best you can. Don't leave her side if you can help it."

"I won't."

Drake heard Nicholas sigh on the other end of the phone call, he could tell their call was coming to an end. It was as if his sorrow had totally depleted him.

"I'll be in touch to discuss our next steps. Wait for me to contact you. Other than you, I don't know who else I can trust right now."

Drake could hear the nervousness in his voice, and he didn't like it.

"Understood," he replied and hung up.

[sunmarketing]

Best of Vermont

Welcome to Dr. Mary Travelbest:

In this episode: FAQ is how to deal with trouble in the streets when you are on the road:   Destination is Vermont, and who doesn’t like fall colors? The mistake and lessons learned is about poison ivy and the travel tip is about blood clots while traveling, especially on long plane trips.

  FAQ If I run into “trouble” like a strike, police in the streets, angry shouting mobs, what should I do?

My advice is to steer clear of this type of trouble. You are not geared for this as a traveler, so stay out of it. There is going to be unrest somewhere you go, sometime, but if you expect any trouble, get as far away as you can, quickly. 

As an outsider, you’re not prepared to deal with the cause or the results. Stay away and be safe. This summer, while traveling in Minnesota, I purposefully went away from the areas where there was civil unrest in the area around Minneapolis. I would recommend the same for you. You want to stay aware of this by listening to local radio and reading about the news in the area. Overall, be prepared for unexpected delays and have a plan so you can be safe.

  Today’s Destination- Vermont

  https://www.vermontvacation.com/

Air travel is more expensive and less convenient, with smaller airports and fewer direct flights. No McDonalds or Burger Kings here. The Green Mountain National Forest in the southern part of the state has some wonderful hiking.

It’s a state that is between New York and New Hampshire, and to the North is Canada. To the south is Massachusetts. During Corona Virus, there may be some restrictions on your travel in the region, so our show notes will have websites where you can check the latest on this. 

https://accd.vermont.gov/covid-19/restart/cross-state-travel

They do have the University of Vermont, in Burlington is rated one of the best college towns in the country. No public transportation, you need a car.

Life is mellow. In winter, shorter days and home cooking indoors. In summer longer nights and fireflies. Hobbies. People are older.

Work remotely from NYC.

251 cities and towns in 11 different regions. Skiing in winter, fall colors, bike in summer, hike in spring. 

https://www.foliage-vermont.com/

Killington, Manchester, Stratton Mountain Resort, Lake Champlain Valley, Stowe, Bed and Breakfasts, Vermont Inns, short distance to Boston, Montreal, etc. The fall colors is a great time of year to visit.

  Today’s Mistake- Poison Ivy

Poison Ivy is a mistake and I’ve finally learned my lesson. I got it bad. I was hiking in a National Forest in the middle of a sunny day in the summer. Little did I know that I had the oils on my hands and was spreading that all over my body. 

  Poison ivy rash is a type of allergic contact dermatitis caused by an oily resin called urushiol. It's found in the leaves, stems and roots of poison ivy, poison oak and poison sumac. This resin is very sticky, so it easily attaches to your skin, clothing, tools, equipment and pet's fur.

  48 hours later, my neck was full of red clusters, and I thought it was a heat rash. By the next morning, I had some terrible rashes all over my chest and back. So that was a big mistake. Further, I think that I had an allergic reaction that was not something good for me.

The next time I went hiking, I wore long sleeves, long pants, tucked in my pants and made certain not to touch anything that looked like poison ivy or other plant on the BAD list. 

Today’s Travel Advice-Avoid Blood Clots

  If you have or think you may have blood clots, you should see your doctor for advice. Here are some other things that are good, even if you don’t have blood clots. Get up and walk around often when you travel. On a plane, you can be sure to stretch your muscles, get up and walk around every few hours, and hydrate. Some people say you can wear special socks. 

https://www.hematology.org/education/patients/blood-clots/travel

https://columbiasurgery.org/news/2019/02/27/how-avoid-blood-clots-when-flying-advice-vascular-surgeon

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[devotedwaywardangel1]

The Night Guard

Arthur Pendragon x Male!Reader

Fandom: BBC Merlin

Word count: 1747

Warnings: Near death experience, little bit angsty

A/N: Yeah been working on this one a while, doing every Merlin character x male reader since there are barely any so request/suggestions are welcome.

~~~

Arthur is walking down the hall, Merlin not far behind, ready to head in for the night. He sees you wait for him by the door making him smile. You smile at him and wait patiently for Arthur to be standing in front of you before he began talking. “Good evening sire.” You greet.

“For the last time (Y/n) you can call me Arthur.” Arthur shakes his head.

“Of course Arthur, there is a matter of which I would like to discuss.” 

“Come on in then.” Arthur says as he deflates a bit.

You follow Arthur and Merlin into the room. Cracking your knuckles to relieve some of your nervous tension. Merlin was rushing around sorting Arthur out. “So… what is this matter you wish to discuss, (Y/n).”

“Yes, my sister is wedding her beloved and would like to inquire if I could spend some time with her and the rest of my family during this occasion.” You ask hopefully.

“Of course, give them my congratulations, how long are you thinking?” Arthur conceals his horror of the fact he may not see you for a few days.

“Three weeks.” You smile, excited at the opportunity to see your family for this long.

“Long time for a wedding.” Arthur blurts out.

“Well if you need me to not be…” You knew that for three weeks you were pushing it  mentally kicking yourself.

“No no that’s not the problem, it’ll just be odd since I have seen you everyday for a long time.” Arthur back tracks.

“Four years.” You smile fondly.

“Already?” 

“Yes, quite remarkable isn’t it, anyway I’ll be leaving tomorrow afternoon so I’ll be here tonight and I have found a temporary guard.”

“Okay, goodnight I’ll see you in three weeks.” Arthur nodded.

“Good Night.”

You leave the room to stand guard. While Arthur just stares at the door before Merlin nudges him and smiles knowingly. “Shut up Merlin.”

Merlin laughs putting out the candles as Arthur goes to bed.

True to your word you are gone by the afternoon, Arthur knows because he watches you leave from his window, he can’t deny that you look very appealing in civilian clothing. Enhanced by the fact it was a rare sight, unfortunately for Arthur, you were walking away from the citadel and he already misses you.

~~~

It had been a week since (Y/n) had left and everything seems to have gone into shambles. There had been a rise in assassination attempts, Arthur hasn’t slept or eaten properly and Merlin is so close to passing out in exhaustion its frightening.  Arthur could not walk around the castle with one of the knights escorting him which was frustrating him further. He honestly didn’t know how they could last another two weeks without (Y/n), if anyone had known how much he did around the castle and how important he was to the functioning of the kingdom he would have never been able to leave.

~~~~

You are walking back to Camelot after a horrible feeling washed over you a couple of days after the wedding, you couldn’t get the thought out of your head so here you were walking back a week early. Many horrible thoughts rolled around your head. You’d never forgive yourself if something happened to Arthur, the very idea made you feel sick inside. It would be your fault for leaving for so long despite your better judgement. After years of stopping assassins up to fifteen times a month unnoticed by the higher ups. You walked up a hill in order to glance at Camelot from afar, and to your horror he saw the castle with charcoal smoke raging above it. Then you started to run.

~~~

Well this has been a great two weeks Arthur thought to himself while magically bound on the floor with the knights, Merlin and Guinevere. While they were struggling to escape their bounds the sorcerer sits lazily on the throne with a smug smile on their face. They were droning on about Uther and his genocide of the magical population, Arthur sitting there thinking that its getting harder to convince the council to lift the ban on magic when this happens all the time. (Y/n) would urge for diplomacy at a time like this but Arthur had never been great with words. But he figures it's worth a shot anyway. “What’s your name?”

Well that was definitely a start Arthur thought bitterly. The sorcerer narrows his eyes at him but answers anyway, “Romulus.”

“Okay, Romulus, why do you think it aids your cause by attacking us,” Arthur asks, a little too bluntly for his liking.

This angers Romulus greatly as he continues his rant about all Pendragons being tyrannical rulers.

~~~~

It only takes you half an hour to get to the citadel, but there are enemy soldiers everywhere. Getting into the castle would be the easy part but finding Arthur significantly harder. You cut off your thought process, knowing you had to actually get into the castle first. Raising any alarms could hurt anyone trapped inside. So you sneak round to the servant entrance. 

Once you get into the castle the first you notice is that the people he brought with them are trained fighters and decent mercenaries by the look of it. This is not going to be easy you thought to yourself. Quietly dispatching as many as possible before anybody notices.

You take all of the servant shortcuts to avoid slipping into the great hall unnoticed and you see everyone in chains, you hear the sorcerer rant about freeing the magical people of Albion you roll your eyes. Not because he is wrong, nope you agree wholeheartedly just his methods of course you don’t blame the man though so you decide to interrupt. “Hey man.”

His head snaps to your direction. “Who are you?”

“The weirdo who stands outside the King’s door every night.”

“Oh you're the guard everyone tells me to worry about.”

“Yep.”

“You had the perfect opportunity to kill me?”

“Yeah, but talking to you seems to be a better option.”

“How would you know?”

Shit you didn’t think this through. “Well…”

“He doesn’t, let him leave.” Arthur growls.

You groan internally as a devilish smirk lights up the sorcerer’s face, “oh this is just too good to be true.” He laughs.

You gasp as you were flung into the wall and the sorcerer continued to torment Arthur swirling a sword looking ready to kill him urging you to get up and unsheath your sword to engage with him. Shocking him enough to make him stumble back a little, “Hey never got your name.”

“Why?” He snarls.

“I like to know the name of the person I’m fighting.” You swing at him.

“Romulus.” He blocks.

You both exchange furious blows, but you are the superior swordsman. You slash his arm and disarm him making him hiss and vanish. Smiling you turn to face Arthur seeing his tired smile in return sheathing your sword. “Are you ok-” you breath hitches.

You felt as though you got punched in the back so spin around to see Romulus with a bloodied dagger, you grab his wrist but it's weak so he easily breaks free and plunges the knife into your stomach . He smirks as he pulls it out and you collapse on the ground. The world around you goes fuzzy, screaming muffles, a face appears above you but you can’t make out who it is. The world turns black. 

~~~

Arthur picks up (Y/n)’s body, bridal style, while ordering the other’s to sweep the castle for anyone more intruders and to aid anyone who needs it. “Merlin, Gwaine come with me, we need to get (Y/n) to Gaius.”

They got to Gaius’ chambers with very few hassles and put  (Y/n) on the cot. “Please tell me he’s going to be okay.”

“Sire I’m going to need you to leave the room.” 

“But-”

“Please sire.”

Gwaine pulls him out of the room to leave Gaius and Merlin to do whatever they need to do.

~~~

The first time you open your eyes you are in a dark room and there are angry whispers at the foot of the soft bed you’re resting on. You lose consciousness again.

The second time you wake up you see Arthur sitting next to you asleep. Observing him you notice tears stained cheeks and dark circles around his eyes. He looks worse than he did when you came to save him. You decide against waking him up and close your eyes again drifting off.

The third time you woke up you were alone and felt disgusting, dry throat, gunky eyes, oily hair and sweaty. Thankfully there is a cup of water beside you, so you shakily grab it and take a few sips. It was dawn from what you could tell, you groan as you try to sit up, your back feels like it has been stretched and your stomach stings. Pulling away the shirt you had on you see stitches that don’t look all that appealing, definitely going to leave a scar, you wince as you twist in an attempt to see the one on your back. Then Merlin stumbles in and gawks a moment and you open your mouth to say something but he runs out. You hear shouting and next minute Arthur is in the doorway. He strides over to you but halts suddenly like he doesn’t know what to do. You look up at him and part of yourself say go for it, then he moves eloping you in a gentle hug as if he thinks you’ll break. You couldn’t think of anything to say other than, “I’m okay, Arthur.”

“You nearly weren’t.” He whispers back.

That’s when the gravity of what happened hit you, you nearly died, the idea made your head feel fuzzy and your insides sick. You shake this off to comfort Arthur. “I know but your safe, I’m alive so all's good.”

Arthur breaks away and smiles. “(Y/n) I have a confession to make.”  

You don’t dare hope. “And what would that be.”

“I might quite possibly be a little bit in love with you.” He looks so scared at this moment.

“Good cause I’m head over heels in love with you.” 

Arthur laughs and kisses you gently, smiling into the kiss you lift hand up to caress his cheek. Arthur pulls away and sighs “I love you.”

“I love you too.”

[lilytriestoexist]

Erawan with Bangs: A Fanfiction

I hate y’all for making me write fanfiction for this goddamn series. This is not my best work, but I wanted to contribute to this extraordinary idea, and my lack of art skills would be a disservice to the EWB cult community. People mentioned by name: @crescentcitysux @croissantcitysucks @antisjmmemes . Obligatory tag: @erawanwithbangs . This was barely researched, so it’s probably inaccurate in places, but I refuse to devote precious time to this shitty world. This got a lot longer than I expected, and it’s also the first time I’ve actually written in a while, so forgive me for the low quality.

Erawan, King of the Valg, Ruler of Darkness, future Emperor of all Erilea, was taking a walk through Morath. 

Being such a powerful, dastardly monarch of evil was a tiresome job, and walking through his former vessel’s city and reveling in his power and authority was always an enjoyable past-time. All was silent as he strolled through the streets of the mountainside city, breathing in the crisp, cool air and surveying his territory. Even his fellow Valg, not that he shared any resemblance to them beyond origin, stayed away, sensing the power he possessed and steering their human hosts away, pausing only to bow in deference, wholly black eyes lowered to the dirt, before departing. As they should. He was King of the Valg, and he would not tolerate impudence. He was special, different, not like the hordes of common demons. His only equals were his brothers, his fellow monarchs, still barred from entering Erilea. For now.

He paused mid-step as his gaze spotted the edges of a cloak whipping around the corner of a crumbling stone building, eyes narrowing as he quickened his pace. There was something foreign about whoever he was approaching, he could sense it. They didn’t have that oily, hissing black aura that accompanied the Valg, nor the blood and iron scent of the Witches, or even the ashes and cream that followed the Fae. Whatever it was, it closely resembled that of humans, the stale white bread and salty tang of seawater, but there was something else. Something new.

“Hey, you!” he snapped as he rounded the corner and caught sight of the person whose species still eluded him. There were three people, and he caught a variety of different impressions: drying ink, old parchment, rain on pavement, dust-filled libraries. They were dressed in mortal clothing, but it was nothing like the modest, formal rags he was accustomed to. It was all short sleeves and denim, strange pictures covering their shirts. “I demand to know who you are and what your business is in my city.”

They blinked at him, turning to each other and conversing in hushed whispers before one of them spoke. “I’m Aelia,” she said, and then pointed to her companions. “That’s Lyn, and that’s Salty. We’re here on vacation.”

“...Vacation. Here. In Morath. In Valg territory.”

“Yes, that’s what she said,” the one called Salty said, rolling their eyes. “Our world got annoying, with all their bickering and pandemics and fires and refusal to stop perpetuating outdated views on race, gender, and sexuality, so we decided to come here.”

“You’ve got a very nice city here, Erawan,” Lyn said, a very serious look on her face. “Very evil-looking. I’m getting a ton of demonic vibes. Love it.” They exchanged conspiritorial glances and burst into peals of laughter. He exhaled sharply through his nose.

“I don’t know how you know my name, and I don’t know mortals like you got into Morath, but you will leave, and you will leave now, or I will make you.” He raised his hands, and tendrils of writhing darkness slid from the centre of his palm, winding around his fingers and up his arms. But rather than looking frightened or intimidated, they continued laughing, and the last of his patience evaporated at their disrespect. With a snarl, he flung out his hands, twin whips of shadow lashing out at the trio of mortals who dared make fun of a Valg King.

Aelia raised an eyebrow. “Chill out, Erawan. Take a joke.” They flicked their wrists, and his darkness dissipated. Furrowing his pale brows, he tried again, but they again vanished before touching the humans.

“Well, you’ve been a very impolite host, Erawan,” Lyn said, looking disappointed. “We were going to stay longer, but I suppose we’re not welcome here. Come on, guys.”

“By the way, your forehead is massive,” Aelia added as they span on their heels and began walking off. “Maybe you should get bangs to cover it!”

“Erawan with bangs!” Salty exclaimed, and with a final howl of laughter, they disappeared, leaving him standing in the middle of the street. He had never felt more insignificant, more powerless. How easily they had humiliated him!

Hours later, he was still fuming over the incident as he stood in front of his mirror, examining the ivory expanse of his forehead. It’s a perfectly ordinary forehead, he reasoned to himself, measuring the width of it and frowning. Those intruders were just trying to annoy you, to make you doubt yourself. But they had succeeded; he had never realised just how big his forehead had been until they had so casually told him. It was so large! The universe had made him beautiful beyond reason, but it had not deigned to give him a normal-sized forehead. He withheld the urge to slam his fist into the mirror, instead thinking of a better solution. 

With a wave of his hand, the hair at the top of his head began growing at an accelerated rate, and he brought it down to his lips, picking up the scissors on the table and leaning in so that his nose was pressed against the glass. He would have preferred for one of his brothers to do the deed, but they were not here, and he needed to remedy the problem immediately. His hand wavered as he figured out where to start, but with his scissors splayed open and readied at the bottom of his eyes, he began to cut.

A few snips was all it took, as well as a few more stylistic ones. Discarding the strands of golden-blond, he stepped back and grinned, admiring his new haircut. While before his hair had been slicked back, revealing all of his gargantuan forehead, now there was a healthy set of bangs concealing his greatest shame from sight. They reached his brows, thicker in some sections and thinner in others, creating a fantastic layering effect and breaking up what would be a horrific straight line. He nodded in appreciation.

But when he turned, a flash momentarily blinded him. When he blinked away the harsh light, he was greeted with the three insolent mortals, all holding a small rectangular contraption which had been responsible for the light. They were comparing something on the rectangles and giggling. His fingers twitched, but he refrained from trying to strike at them again.

“Oh my god,” Salty squeaked, flailing their arms. “Erawan! With! Bangs!”

“The people need to know about this,” Lyn declared.

“We’ve created a monster,” Aelia sighed, but there was no regret on her face.

“Hey,” he snapped, crossing his arms over his chest. “Are you making fun of me? I like my bangs!”

They quieted and stared at him, gazes penetrating, until he had to tear his eyes away. When he dared look back at them, they were nodding to each other in agreement.

“Bye, Erawan with bangs!” they said, giving him mocking, cheerful waves as they once again disappeared, just avoiding the scissors that he had thrown at them. They instead sailed through empty air and ripped through the fabric of his favourite shirt. He could practically hear Aelia, Lyn, and Salty’s jeers of laughter, their cries of “Erawan with bangs!”

When later the Valg princes asked about the screams of rage that had shaken the whole city, he would blame it on that sex-obsessed, fire-wielding nuisance of a queen. The searches he ordered to hunt down three strangely-dressed, rectangle-holding mortals turned up empty.

[demonprosecutor]

NEW HADES ONESHOT, TITLED: OH NO!

part 1 | part 2 | part 3 | part 4 | part 5 | part 6 | part 7 | part 8 | part 9 | part 10 | part 11

trouble comes in the form of bedraggled travelers - stinking with the scent of journey-sweat, the ghost of blood, and strong brows streaked with dirt. they stood on the the threshold of the door, intimidating and tall enough to block the sun with their heads. Some were injured, supported by his compatriots, and the leader, aegeus, did not look any better.

“My name is aegeus of athens. My men and i need aid, if you are amenable to helping?” as if there was any question, as if there were any part of you that would ever deny helping out those in need. (lady hestia had always had a soft spot in your chest, and something inside you pulses with a warm pleasure).

You dry your hands on a nearby cloth, draped over your shoulder, smiling close-lipped in welcome. “Of course, you will find safety in the lands here.” however, you do pause, turning your head towards the stairs that housed the slumbering god prince - much to your exasperation, he was too much like a cat, sleeping deeply whenever he did. If you had to wager a guess, he would rouse well-past noon, only coaxed to wakefulness by the smell of lunch.

(you spoil him awfully, plans to slaughter a cow in the name of the gods and prepare a meal of kings)

Aegeus smiles at you, teeth pearly, arch of his nose hooked and strong, dark eyes obscured by the boyish curls not tamed by the purple-dyed headband that pinned locks back from his face fruitlessly. Perhaps you stare too long; for his brow arches and you avert your gaze to stir into action. “Ah, erm, i shall set out cots out back and bring out my medical supplies. I’m afraid they are rudimentary at best, so cleaning wounds and binding bandages are the best I could do.”

The leader of the group waves a careless hand, corners of his eyes crinkling kindly. “Worry not, my men shall clean themselves up. We only desire more rest.”

Your head bobs in a single nod, directing the small motley group towards the back where they could find rest on hay bales, the straw cushioning. There was a strange magic in the lands that lady persephone tilled, a gentleness in everything she did that translated to the earth in equal. You hear them, ears pricked for danger, sigh at the truest sense of the word ‘reprieve’.

Much like the bees that buzz in the cradle of branches, you busy yourself with gathering the appropriate supplies - laying fresh fruits and baked bread into a basket before hurrying outside in lithe steps. You distribute your wares carefully, smiling with the slightest quirk at the corner of your mouth.

All the while, Aegeus watches with the simple delight of seeing his men resting and able to fully relax the hard jut of weary shoulders. He accepts the fruit and bread graciously, “we do not know how to thank you generosity, it is beyond what we had hoped for.”

You shrug slightly. modesty was in your blood and you are never someone who could ever find comfort in the gratitude of others, even if it was well-warranted. (the lands that edged the outskirts of lady persephone’s fields were wild ones, ones that lady artemis delighted in hunting in. it was no place for men). “no need for thanks.” you say after a few awkward seconds, at which you deigned to look up at aegeus who simply watched you in amusement.

shyness was not a part of your normal build, but something about aegeus elicits something within you - a certain flightiness that makes you want to shift in place and to run. brows furrow together before you start pulling out cots for the men to rest at during the night - the lady of the house was not due back to the cottage for a week’s time, so you knew that she wouldn’t protest against it. not that you were going to attempt to hide this whole affair in general.

although, something does strike you as strange. the briefest blink of action, or more accurately, action that should have been, that caught your eye. the same man who grimaced and groaned about an apparent head wound was laughing freely, tossing his head without a care, as though he were not injured at all. but suddenly, aegeus was in front of you - a flicker of movement that has you startling and clutching the basket closer to your chest.

“fair helper of the gods, would it be too much to ask for water to quench our thirst? we would drink the river water, but it is well-known to be the Styx, and we do not fancy an early journey to the underworld.” he looms over you somehow, face arranged in serene calm, yet eyes betraying a hardness that has you nearly taking a step back.

but when faced with wolves, turning to run is the worst one could do.

your mouth is dry, hands white-knuckling its grip around the handle, as you nod and carefully, with the awareness of deer - retreat to the the cottage.

instead of the empty kitchen with lentil soup simmering over the tripod cauldron with friendly licks of fire underneath the heated metal, you find the audacious prince of the underworld sneaking a sip! 

“zagreus! stop sneaking!” he peeks one eye open, the red one, expression torn between guilt and bliss. but you were never that good in remaining firm, even if firmness was warranted. how do you think the cats that prowled about stayed well-fed and plump? you try your hardest to frown, but the attempt shatters as you pass by him and throw a piece of bread at him from the pile, eyes crinkling at both the easy catch and the delightful crunch of food well-cooked. “if you’re going to sneak my food, at least try the bread with it.”

prince zagreus, scourge of the underworld wretches, snorts out a laugh, as he does what you instruct. while he may have the stubbornness of a bull, you find that he has the tendency to go along with what you say... well, majority of the time. his eyes widen before his features melt in orgasmic bliss that would have lady aphrodite cooing. “ugh, this is delicious. are you sure you aren’t the deity of cooking?”

it’s well-meaning and one that makes you laugh, thwapping him with a clothe. “ha, ha. flatter me all you like, prince zagreus, but you won’t be able to sneak food before the allotted time.”

the god pouts for two reason: “it was worth a try, and what did i say about calling me prince zagreus, it’s just zagreus.” he never did like reminder of his own status - found it to be isolating in ways he did not wish to revisit any longer.

you laugh and place a tray in his hands, loading cups onto it, while you carried a pitcher of water. “alright, just zagreus. come help me give water to our guests.”

“who?”

“just injured travellers that need a place to stay at before continuing on with their journey.” zagreus looks towards the back where you both can hear the boisterous laughter of men before nodding and walking to help give water. 

(it did feel awfully nice to be able to boss someone of zagreus’ personage around)

but he stops just a few steps away from the back door, suddenly enough that you bump into him and spill a bit of water on your chiton, nose mashing against his solid back muscles without remorse. involuntarily, you squeak, “ow! zagreus!----” 

before the ringing cries of weapons being unsheathed has you stiffening and zagreus dropping the tray of cups with a shattering echo that makes you wince. you try edge out from behind him, to peek around his bulk to see what the Hades is going on, but he throws out an arm to keep you behind him - protective. if you were terrified for your life, you would be endeared - but for the moment, you were terrified beyond reproach.

“what matter of god-abomination are you!” one of the men yelled, hefting an expertly-crafted bow in his hands, glinting arrowhead trained on the prince.

the prince growls, eyes glinting dangerously and hands flexing into fists. something battle-hungry swirled in the depths of his being, only stayed by your hands, curled tightly into the back of his chiton. leashed by your own fear. “who are you!?” he demands harshly, moving in such a way that you could tell he was herding you back into the cottage. 

however, you dig your heels in stubbornly, nearly folding yourself against his back. 

“it would bode wise for you to answer our questions, we are not merciful men.” the once-kind tone of aegeus warps into something oily, something that truly makes your skin crawl. a conniving fox who found rest in the hen’s coup and is preparing to consume all of the chickens. you, the fool who opened your doors for the predator. 

the implication of the tone was clear. alone, zagreus would have a chance to fight, but with you there? it would make it far more difficult. zagreus grinds his teeth together, “my name is zagreus, son of persephone and hades.”

you think that it would be the end of that, but suddenly, zagreus sweeps you up in his mighty arms and barrels through the back door - slamming it shut with his back. already you can hear the thud of weapons against the creaking wood and the cacophonous shouts of men hungering for something you didn’t understand. 

perhaps you are screaming, perhaps you are not. but in your tunnel vision, all you can see is prince zagreus holding your face as though it was the most precious thing he’s ever known, “--- listening, are you listening!” you blink before nodding as best as you could in his hands. “i want you to hide underneath the stairs, curl up into a ball and cover your ears. do not come out unless i get you, ok?”

your hands shake and curl around his wrists, “but what about you?! you-- you’re outnumbered and they look-”

he squishes your face until all protest ceases, face smoothing into confidence, “don’t worry about me. i got this, i’ve faced a lot worse. go. go.”

zagreus nudges you to the stairs where you curl up under it, pressing your hands against your ears hard enough to make them ring, as he runs upstairs to retrieve his weapon.

your heartbeat thunders in your chest in unrelenting thuds and you count: one apple, two apples, three apples, four...

by the time you reach eighty-three apples, something taps your back and you shoot up in alarm, bumping your head against the underside of a step. you yelp and zagreus hisses through his teeth, reaching over to rub the place where no doubt a bump was going to form.

through your tears you see him, splattered a bit with blood and... “zagreus! you’re--- you’re bleeding.”

he looks down at his side where an open wound was sluggishly bleeding red (don’t gods bleed gold? do gods bleed at all?), far too nonchalant for your liking, “it... would seem so.”

you crawl from your place and drag him into the only chair chair, ignoring the bodies laying yonder, swallowing down the bile that threatened to rise at the blood that caked his body. “does it hurt?” you look for your bandages, the kitchen remarkably intact despite the fact that the door was beaten down and had sword slashes and arrows sticking out of it. “silly question - it does.”

“not that bad. i’d had worse...”

there’s another pitcher empty nearby, and you fill it with warm water, snagging a clean cloth. tipping the pitcher, you start cleaning the wound, wrinkling your nose and ignoring the way your skin crawled. it was silent, the only sounds being the hisses of stifled pain, the whispers of fabric. you stand up, and grab another cloth and dip it into the pitcher of water before cupping the prince’s chin and wiping away the blood that found its way onto his face. it felt... intimate standing between his open legs, scrutinizing his face for anymore injuries.

you make it up to his neck before you realize just what you were doing. 

what in the gods’ name am i doing?

you clear your throat and take a step back, skin prickling for another reason from the look that the prince gave you, looking to the side. the cloth, stained with red, twists uncertainly between your fingers. “i’m sorry. i... i should’ve known better. i caused you to get hurt.” guilt saturates your tone, enough that zagreus reaches out, hand around your wrist carefully. 

“hey. hey, don’t talk like that. it’s not your fault. you were being kind and they took advantage of that.”

“but i should have been more wary!” you protest, yet allowed yourself to step closer, close enough that zagreus can pull you into a loose hug, shushing you gently. you don’t cry, lost the ability to do so for a long time, but it was close. eventually, the chaos lifts and you pull away, feeling more put-together (you suspect that a breakdown was in order later when zagreus wasn’t around). “... did you get all of them?”

the prince’s countenance darkens, hand curled into a tight fist against his thigh. “no, the leader got away.”

that makes you shiver. aegeus... was more than he seemed, and he appeared to be the type of man to not forgive and forget. but he was gone and that is what mattered. “oh.” you bite your lower lip and look towards the back, “what do we do about the bodies?”

zagreus pats your hand where it rested on the table, “don’t worry, i’ll take care of it.” uncertainly, you nod your head. frazzled by the day’s events. 

“well, i suppose... lunch is in order. go clean yourself up, you stink.” you manage to muster up a smile at the way he pouted and whined, helping him to his feet (although he did playfully make sure you couldn’t tug him up), and nudging him to get cleaned.

as you spooned lentil soup into the bowls, your troubled mind goes to aegeus, before you shake it violently.

it would bode well for you to banish that from your mind, nothing would come from it. after all, no one would dare to cross the gods. 

[nocturnical]

feb reading continued

I’m going to be meticulously documenting my reading of Metal Angel in the name of romance & sappy shit for Valentine’s Day.

chapter one — welcome to the jungle

Chapter one opens with the introduction of a man who is assuredly going to be a bandmate of our dorky, divine Dr. Doolittle.  Bob McCardle is best called “Texas” because Bob is vanilla af & so is Texas but at least it takes a second longer to say & forget.

He’s run away from West Virginia & his wife & kids, & that’s cool cause his wife has a solid job at the “air-conditioning factory.” I’m sure she’s heartbroken because this man cannot be replaced. He writes to her saying:

“Truth is I got the shits of everything and had to get out awhile or bust.”

A poet after my own heart. & friends you are free to turn to violence if I start saying ‘I got the shits of x’ because I can’t say I won’t.

Much of the next page is engaged in justifying his sometime-in-life crisis (not too sure on age with this one). & hey, I get it, I’m a bit of a rolling stone myself & ain’t this the truth:

“...But wished sometimes he was a kid again, gunning for trouble all the time. Looked at the stars and wondered about things. Hated to think of growing fat or old.”

But  you know you can be free to be an individual & not just take off in the middle of the night & dump your responsibilities on unwilling others right? Like I guess that’s not something that crosses the mind of a person who wonders about things but I’m not a fan of Tex here.

& in the next paragraph we hear that his relationship is this stagnant, passionless thing that happened because they had an oops baby as teenagers. Sir, you have the agency to just drop everything & run but don’t have the agency to just say ‘hey we both deserve better than this’ & like get on with your lives?

On the next page he’s rude to a sex worker & thinks shitty things about her eyebrows & the only thing that is legit in that interaction is him answering “I don’t know” to her question as to what he’s looking for.

Then Volos enters the scene & this man who had nasty things to say about the last person he interacted with instantly recognizes that indeed Volos had manifested a fine penis:

“The guy looked like a show biz hopeful, very young, very well hung, very pretty in the face.”

So he holds himself back from asking him about his dick somehow, but because he used to be a cop or some shit he watches him because he’s sure he’s headed for a fight walking around that neighborhood in wings.

Lo & behold three “homeboys” appear in an alley & start hurling f-slurs at the angel.

& Volos is a comeback king:

“‘You are strange people. You do fucking with men you do not like?’“

We experience the scuffle in Texas’ head & he continues to refer to the attackers as street punks and homeboys like the yikesy ‘90s boomer he is & eventually he steps in, but not until he gets the feeling that they’re going to execute the angel with the nice dick.

& the fight is boring tbf, but it ends with Texas realizing that the angel’s wings — which had appeared pearly pink before are now brick red.

After he addresses Volos & gets weird vibes of course. Dude talks about tasting himself & it being hot, & then asks if he’s going to die from superficial wounds.

Once he realizes that the angel is technically homeless he takes him in ofc.

OK, but why does he call ‘cowboy hats’ ‘western hats’? Is this an east coast or WV thing?

Now his wings are blue and bleeding & oh god he’s not just a freak in a weird costume, which is likely a striking revelation for this character who has booked it on his own life because he wondered about things.

Ok, the author aced this though:

“... Figure out what sort of hallucinogen he had been breathing in along with the yellow, oily-smelling LA air.”

Honestly, that was my experience in LA.

Okay, and the romance thread drifts in at the end of the chapter when Volos, confused about wtf sleep even is (I’ve been human for 35 years & I’m still stumped so fair enough), describes to Texas a voice in his head:

“A young woman far to the east, a silent woman, I can hear her. A shrouded woman. She is thinking, or dreaming, and sending me the dreams.”

Ok, well this character is dazed from a fight & non-human trying to deal with the human world so I should leave it there. But the editor in me wants to point out the sentence fragment as a perfectly fine part of the dialog I really wish was punctuated differently.

TLDR: Fights are metal, strangers noticing your dick through your pants is metal, so we’re still metal. \m/

[ewanmitchellcrumbs]

Ewan's forhead was glistening in the Italian interview. Long live our Oily King!

I SAW. WELCOME BACK, MY GREASY PRINCE 🥰

Glad to see the blotting paper was left in Brazil.

[robinskey]

The Hair (Steve Harrington x Henderson! Reader)

When Steve “The Hair” Harrington started hanging around your little brother, you were skeptical, to say the least. Steve was always a jerk to you in high school. Like, always. He rarely spoke to you, but when he did, it was to make some comment about your wacky shoes or frizzy hair, which you could never keep under control. You’d seen the way he treated girls. It was the exact opposite of the way you wanted Dustin to act when he started dating. But you figured you had time to counteract Steve’s influence on your baby brother. After all, Dustin hadn’t ever really expressed a whole lot of interest in the opposite sex. Thus, it came as a big surprise when he returned home from summer camp, talking nonstop about his new girlfriend.

“Her name is Suzie,” Dustin told you the next morning at breakfast, shoveling a spoonful of scrambled eggs into his mouth. “She’s Mormon, so her parents wouldn’t really approve of me-on account of the fact that I’m not Mormon and all. But she’s hotter than Phoebe Cate, and so nice, and, like, the smartest girl ever-ouch!”

Your mother eyed you suspiciously from behind her huge round glasses, but she didn’t question whether or not you had just delivered a sharp kick to your brother’s knee under the table.

“Hey, look, you’re smart, sis, but Suzie is, like, a genius.”

“Right,” you said, rolling your eyes. “She’s as beautiful as Cindy Crawford, smarter than Einstein, and as real as my college acceptance letter.”

Dustin glared at you, his thick eyebrows furrowed into a unibrow. “I thought you got a rejection letter.”

“Exactly.”

It was your turn to receive a painful jab in the leg. He angrily stabbed the last piece of sausage on his plate and shoved it into his mouth. 

“She’s real,” he said with a mouthful of half-chewed food.

“I believe you, Dusty,” your mother piped up, reaching over to pat your brother’s arm.

“I don’t.”

With that, Dustin stood. His wooden dining chair protested with a screech against the dining room tile. Under his breath, he mumbled something about how Harvard would probably be knocking on Suzie’s door when she turned eighteen. Then, he stomped down the hall, slamming his door shut. Rock music started blaring almost immediately. 

“Real mature, Dusty!” you called after him.

As soon as you returned to your food, you felt your mother’s tear-filled eyes on you. 

“What, Mom? We both know she’s not real,” you said.

Your mother removed her glasses, setting them on the tablecloth in front of her. She dabbed at her eyes with her napkin, then reached across the table for your hand. Her palms were calloused, wrinkly, and oily from excessive amounts of lotion. As it drifted up to your nostrils, the scent of sweet pea mixed with the odor of bacon grease.

“I know the last month has been tough for you, sweetie, but it’s been a rough year for Dustin. I haven’t seen him this happy in a while,” she said. Mom lowered her voice before adding, “Even if this girl is just imaginary, if she’s making Dusty smile again, isn’t that all that really matters?”

Jeez. Your mother knew exactly what to say to make you feel guilty.

That’s how, less than ten minutes later, you ended up at the door to your brother’s room, practically begging for forgiveness.

“Go away!” he screamed over the booming music.

“No. Not while you’re still mad at me,” you yelled back.

“Well, then you’re going to be standing there for a while.” Behind the door, you heard a few footsteps, and for a split second, you thought he might actually unlock the door. But then the already-eardrum-splitting volume of the music increased.

“Come on, Dustin,” you whined. “I didn’t mean it.” 

The lyrics of Bohemian Rhapsody was the only response.

“Please, Dusty. You just got home. I don’t want to be fighting with you already,” you said, pressing your hand to the door. It vibrated with the beat under your palm. “I’ll take you to the mall if you want. We can get ice cream.”

Faint footsteps, then a slight decrease in the music’s volume.

“Can we go to Scoops Ahoy?”

“I’m pretty sure that’s the only ice cream joint in Starcourt Mall, so yeah.”

The door swung open so fast that your balanced faltered, and you nearly fell forward. Your little brother beamed up at you with his not-so-toothy grin.

“Go get your wallet, loser.”

***

Thirty minutes later, Dustin held open the glass door to the little ice cream joint in the mall. You had already started rifling through your purse for change. Dustin could eat a lot, and he certainly wouldn’t worry about making a dent in your babysitting money. You were honestly just hoping you could make it out of there with enough to pay for the bus fare home.

As you entered the shop, the sound of children giggling mixed with the chime of the bell above your head. Though the nautical theme was a little obnoxious, the store had a cute aesthetic. Blue and white stripes lined the walls behind the backs of red booths. Once you walked in, it was a straight shot to the cash register. An off-white sign announcing all the ice cream flavors hung above a faux window. Two familiar faces were situated behind the tiled counter. The first was Robin, a freckle-faced girl and one of your fellow band geeks. She was chatting with a lanky boy in a hideous blue sailor’s shirt and a dorky white cap that smashed his infamous shiny locks. Even in such an out-of-character outfit, he was instantly recognizable. His eyes lit up when he saw your little brother.

“Henderson? Do my eyes deceive me, or is that you?”

“Steve!”

Your little brother completely forgot his manners and let the door go. You leaped forward, nearly avoiding getting hit as it swung shut. Dustin sprinted toward the counter, his blonde curls bouncing underneath his baseball cap. Steve practically leapt over the counter to greet him.

As you watched, they proceeded to perform the dorkiest handshake in the world, then indulged in a bro-hug. 

“How have you been, man? I’ve missed you,” Steve said, his hands still resting on Dustin’s shoulders. He turned to his coworker. “Robin, get this kid a sundae, will you?” 

“I didn’t know your legs were broken, dingus,” Robin said, but she complied with his request, anyway.

“We have so much to catch up on,” Dustin said. He slid into the booth nearest to the cash register. 

“Yeah, we do,” Steve agreed, taking his place across from Dustin. “Did you have a good time at camp?”

“It was sick, dude. I ate so many s’mores while I was there…”

You walked up to the counter. You didn’t really know Robin well, but you certainly weren’t going to join Steve and Dustin.

“Welcome to Scoops Ahoy,” Robin droned, her back to you as she poured hot fudge over a scoop of vanilla ice cream. “I’ll be with you in a minute.”

You hummed in response. Behind you, Dustin had launched into his Suzie speech-about how she was Mormon, a genius, and hotter than Phoebe Cate. Steve, who you’d never seen with his mouth shut for more than thirty seconds at a time, appeared to be listening intently. He mumbled a few comments, and you strained your eardrums trying to catch them. What was “King” Steve saying to your baby brother?

Robin turned around a few seconds later, clutching a styrofoam cup. The sudden movement startled you so badly that you visibly jumped. Luckily, Robin was too preoccupied to notice. It took a great deal of focus to balance an overfilled ice cream cup.

“Hey, Y/N. What’s up?” She set the ice cream on the counter.

“You know, just buying my brother’s love. The usual.”

Robin chuckled and called, “Order’s up!” Steve’s fluffy mane sprung into motion as he turned his head to face his coworker.

“What, you’re not going to deliver to our table?”

“They don’t pay me enough for that,” Robin said. Her bright blue eyes twinkled with mischief. She turned back to you, a faint grin still dancing on her lips. “Sixty cents, please.”

You returned to the depths of your bag to search for loose change. You managed to scrounge up a few pennies before raising your head once more. 

Steve studied you with a curious gaze. He scrunched up his face in what could have just as easily have been confusion or disgust. Then, a visible “lightbulb” moment clicked in his head.

“You’re Dustin’s sister, aren’t you? Y/N Henderson?”

“That would be me,” you said. 

Your heart beat heavily against your ribcage. Did intense hatred upset the cardiac rhythm? You didn’t think so-but then again, you never paid much attention in Biology. Steve was partially to blame for that. It’s really hard to pay attention to Mr. Wilson lecture about the functions of the sympathetic nervous system when Steve “The Hair” Harrington sits in the desk right in front of yours, and all you can think about is running your fingers through those thick, shiny curls. Regardless of its owner’s personality, hair like that is impossible to avoid fantasizing about.

“Can I have my ice cream now?” your brother piped up, jolting you from your thoughts.

As you opened your purse, Steve pulled out his wallet. Your lips parted in protest. However, before you could say a word, he passed three dollar bills to the girl behind the counter.

“This should cover the kid’s,” Steve said, “and, of course, whatever the lady wants.”

“No, you don’t need to-”

“You’re Henderson’s sister. I want to,” he said. “Does a vanilla milkshake sound okay?”

You couldn’t conceal the smile that tugged at the corners of your mouth. 

“I prefer chocolate,” you said.

“Smart girl,” he said with a wink. “Make that two chocolate milkshakes, please, Robin. I’m going to take my break now so I can catch up with Henderson, okay?”

“I thought you’ve been on a break for the last ten minutes,” Robin said with a roll of her eyes. The cash register popped open, and she inserted the cash. She held the change in her palm for a few extra moments, studying it. “I could probably cover for you a little longer, though, if you let me keep this as a tip. I’ll even deliver to your table.”

“Deal,” Steve said. Robin tucked the coins into her pocket.

Steve grabbed Dustin’s sundae and returned to their booth; the Suzie conversation automatically resumed. Robin ducked into the back room to use the malt machine, and you watched as the translucent door swung shut behind her. You hoped she would return promptly to save you from the awkwardness of lingering around your little brother and his newfound mentor.

“Hey, Y/N, aren’t you going to come sit with us?” a voice asked behind you. 

Steve had swiveled around in the booth. His lips were curled upwards into a sweet, unexpectedly shy smile. Your heart skipped a beat, and your feet carried you to the table before your head could tell them to stop. You barely noticed your brother roll his eyes. 

“Scoot over, dork,” you ordered.

Dustin swirled his spoon around the cup, turning the pure white ice cream topped with dark chocolate into a light brown mixture. He was clearly unhappy with you infringing on his “guy time,” but he would get over it. Your brother huffed in protest before sliding to one side of the booth to make room for you.

“Anyway,” he sighed, once you were all settled, “before we were so rudely interrupted, where was I?”

“I think you were talking about how she was the most beautiful girl you’d ever seen, and you couldn’t believe you didn’t notice her sooner,” Steve said, chocolate eyes still trained on you.

“Oh, right. So, it’s funny. There were so many campers there, and we were in different groups, so a week actually went by before I talked to Suzie for the first time…”

Dustin’s voice faded into the background. You were too busy thinking about how maybe, just maybe, Steve Harrington didn’t suck quite as much as you once thought.

[achieveandhunt]

live typing extra life 2019

warning: this a fucking LONG post. if you plan on reading it all, godspeed.

i typed all of this as it was happening on stream so this gets progressively less coherent as i grow more sleep deprived. prepare yourselves. i may or may not go off topic at some points

larry vehemently vomiting pure malic acid. we’re off to a great start

what the fuck the soggy ass popcorn in that ranch jesus christ

lindsay in the song from AH the musical. i love her so much

jeremy going YAAAAAAY after someone eats a cursed oreo

matt getting AGGRESSIVELY kissed by larry

“this kiss this kiss” before geoff and jack kiss

geoff “i’m from alabama” ramsey

THIS FUCKING RANCH SEGMENT HAS ME GAGGING

jeremy “the alcohol demon the whiskey goblin” dooley

alfredo “you wont believe what the white people did today” diaz

DUSK BOYS DUSK BOYS DUSK BOYS GET THAT DICK ESSENCE

wait why does it sound like wonderwall

they look like characters from the matrix

the speaking parts. make my teeth hurt

in conclusion: they weren’t kidding abt the tight pants 

okay everyone get ready for eric soundboard spamming YEAH BABEY

“hi i’m from broadcast and i don’t want to be here” they represent themselves well

also, let’s take a second to appreciate broadcast here!! they have a really tough job and don’t get a ton of credit. lots of love to all of broadcast!!! you guys are awesome

i am: foreseeing problems with this eric sound board

which one is eric?? will the real eric please stand up?? was the real eric the one we found along the way??

“i’m... just really worried that i won’t ever find love-” “i really don’t care”

WHY DO THEY HAVE THAT ON THE SOUNDBOARD (what does that apply to? whatever it is you’re thinking of, but mostly “daddy wants some”)

ooh someone’s about to get a fReE tongue piercing from a pineapple

god dammit i went to the bathroom for thirty seconds and now they’re eating chad’s chest hair

owie the shock collar and belly slap look painful, but drinking natty light from a shoe? that’s a true punishment

“and this roast was brought to you by meundies”

ah yes what better way is there to end a segment than people throwing up

“man action” oh no

THROBERT MULVEINY

K A R B is blind in T W O of her eyes

“my last name is cottagecheese”

I HAVE A PIECE OF METAL SHOVED UP MY A S S 

chris has somehow managed to lose 23 years of age and roughly 412 pounds

“just open throat like baby bird” who the fuck is writing this and why is it jeremy

jon. jon you’re breathing in adam’s ass fumes

a summary of this segment: ass and cottage cheese

BARB IS HERE I REPEAT BARB IS HERE

“to fitness” -starts choking-

final fitness coach: tad, here to workout your issues so they can beat you into submission

“will you buy my wet” well i don’t see that on the raffle items

we’re back folks & i’m loving this walk around segment

moonball wall and gavin&michael will soon be reunited can we get an F in the chat

jeremy getting a borderlands tattoo is very on brand

what’s extra life without a little satan

“starvation army, putting lead back into paint, increasing childhood obesity” people in chat: TAKE MY MONEY

chris “i’m doing a different hole” demarais

ah yes. the game we all play in hell: twister

nobody edit chris getting mustard shot down his throat. i’m scarred enough from the original clip

oh fuck. oh god. the mayo. oh god what the fuck is up with the misuse of condiments this year

this just in: a human soul costs roughly $12,700

D̷̯͑̆̈́͝Õ̸̲͎̥̬͈̬̙͕̲G̸̢̧̠͉͚̙̲̙̓̔̀̇S̷̥̀́͆̈́̇̀ ̶̣̞̗͚̬̭̖̦͇̈́̎̈́̿̓̈́͆̒̋D̷̙̟̩̫͉̺̐̊̚Ö̶̥́̋́̓ͅĜ̵̞̌͋̏̉̌̕͝͝S̵̤̹̣̫̮̻͛̍̑̕͝͝ ̷̧̨̞̙̥̟̜͍̉̍̑̏̇̀̾D̴̻̮̩̯͓͉̖͎̘͐̒͋̓̉͝ͅỎ̶̰͓̳̥͑̅͛͊̒͐͊͘̚G̵̩̻̦̥̠̃̔Ş̶̹͚̩̱͖̀͆͘ ̸̢̢͇̻͔̗̺̼͖̱̏̾̔̚D̴̨̨̫̙̃̾̋̾̆̓̓Ớ̷̡͓͎͊G̶̱̣̣̰̝̖̰̗̓͐̐̊͋̀͊̀̕͝Ş̷̩̺̬̖͙̺̟͗̈́͒͗̀̑́́̕͠ ̷̡͈̼̲͈̳̫̺̝̈́̋͌͗̒ͅD̸̨̬̞̪̗̘̄̑͆̿̈́͘͠͝O̸̡̡͇͕̻͎͍͉̅̌͗̄͌̑̉̔͂̎Ḡ̸͙̟̪̞̬̬͕͐̈̏S̶̝̪̼̮̠̜̭̳͖̘̑

urine: to help with aerodynamics

jon: maya, speak! maya: *the smallest arwoo*

today’s mvp: any dog. pick one. no matter which you pick, you’re right

how the fuck did blaine change back from satan so quickly

barb as a cat is... my new sleep paralysis demon

blaine: barbara speak! barbara: climate change is real

#dogsforkids

this just in: extra life killed my wifi

we’re back & kdin is in the business of killing people with spice. she is the spice queen

queue six thousand well-timed 1337 donations

HOLY SHIT THAT’S COLIN FROM WHOSE LINE IS IT ANYWAY

hmm “questionable liquids” is very... questionable

trevor: oh there’s four of them! we all get to join in the Fuckkkk

“what’s your favorite kind of candy” “any meat”

i like pickles and i would rather rip my eyebrows off than drink the juice so i feel for trevor

the only thing worse than drinking apple cider vinegar is shooting it out of your nose

“can you feel the love tonight” “i used to and that’s the problem”

“flubs every word man” damn, really missed the chance to say captain hair

jeremy not being able to intentionally flub his words is so fucking funny

OK BOOMER 

wow i can feel my blood pressure spike just watching these shots

Xavier Woods is here and he wants to know if it’s Christmas

miles doesn’t know what a question is

WHERE’S YOUR HAIR

oh no. oh no helping hands is next. everyone clear a splash zone

CHEF MIKE CHEF MIKE CHEF MIKE

miles bossing around chef mike is priceless

“you leave that fucking dough on the floor”

“you wanna slam your hands down on the table” *pizza sauce goes flying everywhere*

HOEDOWN HOEDOWN HOEDOWN jesus why do i keep doing that

“If Colin Mochrie is listening, I’ll see you here next year” OH FUCK YEAH

--- this is when i take a break so my soul can return to my body (aka i have work to turn in. college will never not be a pain in my ass) ---

oh god dammit i missed all of Always Open. fuck college who needs a medical degree

so... we have some very interesting things happening in family feud and i’m not sure if i like any of them

hmm. is now the time to get drunk

oily twist feels very... ominous

what do you mean you don’t remember gandalf having a taser in lord of the rings?

someone in the chat said “big stupid sleeping thing is what my parents called me in high school”

i think i’m blacking out what’s going on i don’t remember the past two hours

ah yes. voldemort and snape having a talk show together sounds exactly like something J.K. Rowling would make a spinoff book or show or porno of

can we just talk about how much shit chris has been doing this year? what a guy. what a dude

“coldy with voldy” actually means getting knocked the fuck out cold because you only got three hours of sleep last night and you don’t want to miss chef mike and lindsay cooking

this snape poem is summarized by one phrase: “that was terrible sit the fuck down” (sorry chris)

“let’s destroy a weasley” enter chad

fucking called it

“you smell poor” i need a caffeine drip

heh the wheel spins are at 69 heh nice

i’m a grown ass woman

welcome to a section called: we torture chad for your entertainment

“who wants us to kill weasley?” *massive cheers from the audience*

“wait weasley step away from the wideshot so i can masturbate to this later”

“i’m not gonna rub my eye mom”

oh they’re really gonna kill chad on stream huh

i felt that chest slap in my soul

i think i felt my own ribs crack

oh fucking

tumblr deleted my thoughts on the fanfic section

alright. fine. brief summary: my teeth are burning

my mom lindsay is on next and i’m so excited but i’m nearing the point of loopiness so things will go downhill dramatically from here

this is my fucking fourth extra life, you would think i’d be smart enough to sleep the night before

LINDSAY LINDSAY LINDSAY THAT’S MY MOM

JEREMY JEREMY JERE- wait a second... did jeremy get taller

oH CHEF MIKE CHEF MIKE CHEF MIKE

i hope Xavier comes back next year because he’s funny as fuck

m y a t t

oh god the mcdonald’s shade i’m rolling

lindsay “who’s the chef here” jones

chef mike mentioned mayo and i involuntarily gagged

chef mike clowning the big mac. i’m crying

he made the right choice with ryan bc i’ve seen his cooking stream(s) and it’s nothing if not great content

i heARD A MICHAEL JONES

“lindsay you haven’t done anything but warm up cookies so far” “yeah and?? you’re welcome”

you know that classic snack. slightly warm oreos

JEREMY THE LIQUOR GOBLIN DOOLEY IS BACK

oh god him screeching across set is making me cry laughing

why does it remind me of trevor’s voice cracks in the one minecraft ep where they’re singing the lion king

the biggest spoon for the smallest shot glass

i just realized we’re not even halfway through yet and i’m scared for the length of this list i’m gonna end up falling asleep involuntarily at some point

lindsay no your teeth are going to errode from that shot in your mouth

well timed leet donation #1829495

this gorden ramsey bit is so fucking good

jack: what do you think of the arugala? matt: i don’t even know what you said

iT’s NoT jUsT tWo CoOkIeS miCHeAL

jeremy and michael just chillin amidst the choas is exactly my demeanor at any party i’ve ever been to

lindsay scores: ryan = 7 because diet coke, matt = still eating lindsay’s meal so it’s a 10, xavier = also still eating it so it’s an 8. total: 25

“deep fry everything but a remote control”

chef mike scores: ryan = 9 for no death, matt = greens are present, words were said, score is 8. xavier = Gourmet Mcdonald’s, food is edible, score is 8. total: 25

oh fuck it’s a tie

now they fight to the death. death = doing as many shots as possible

i think we’re all going to need liver transplants after tonight

no jesus please don’t vomit oh goD oh fUc k please- oh thank god

okay i’m making a part two this is too much

[coeurvrai]

OKAY! Let’s get onto the actual book. Part I is referred to as “The Hollow”, which means it’s also split into parts. The more you know.

There was a wolf at the gallery door.

Which meant it must be Thursday, which meant Bryce had to be really gods-damned tired if she relied on Danika’s comings and goings to figure out what day it was.

Use a phone. Or a computer. Problem solved. Also welcome back to “gods-damned” being used instead of goddamned, I have definitely not missed you. Anyways, this is our heroine, Bryce, who works in antiquities and her best friend soon-to-be-murdered, Danika.

The heavy metal door to Griffin Antiquities thudded with the impact of the wolf’s fist—a fist that Bryce knew ended in metallic-purple painted nails in dire need of a manicure. A heartbeat later, a female voice barked, half-muffled through the steel, “Open the Hel up, B. It’s hot as shit out here!”

Honestly I saw “female voice” and my brain immediately was like “nope”. It’s not even the worst use of gendered terms I’ve seen Maas use, but I’ve just seen too many of them, mate. Also there’s also something so awkward, adding that little detail about Danika’s nails like that. And referring to her friend as “the wolf/a wolf” two times in like three sentences makes me lol

Anyways, Bryce is looking at Danika through the security feed at the door. Bryce has “wine-red” hair, not the pink hair like everyone thought from the Pinterest. Or maybe the pink hair is post-Murders Bryce, who knows.

“Why are you covered in dirt? You look like you’ve been rootling through the garbage.”

“What the fuck does rootling mean?”

“You’d know if you ever picked up a book, Danika.” 

I pretty much had the same reaction. According to Google, it’s British slang and means the same thing as “rooting”, meaning you’re rummaging around or searching through something. I have never heard that used in my entire life. Also why is Bryce making it sound like some kind of archaic word, it’s not, it’s slang.

Apparently the gallery doesn’t have any exterior windows, so it relies on security and surveillance equipment, and we get a mention of Bryce’s “sharp half-Fae hearing”. It has “unadorned sandstone walls”, with up-to-date technology and “grade A spellwork”, to protect the archives underneath the building.

As if merely thinking about the level beneath Bryce’s high heels had summoned her, a little voice asked from behind the six-inch-thick archives door to her left, “Is that Danika?”

“Yes, Lehabah.” Bryce wrapped her hand around the front door’s handle. The enchantments on it hummed against her palm, slithering like smoke over her freckled golden skin. She gritted her teeth and withstood it, still unused to the sensation even after a year of working at the gallery.

From the other side of the deceptively simple metal door to the archives, Lehabah warned, “Jesiba doesn’t like her in here.”

“You don’t like her in here,” Bryce amended, her amber eyes narrowing toward the archives door and the tiny fire sprite she knew was hovering just on the other side, eavesdropping as she always did whenever someone stood out front. “Go back to work.”

Here we have the infamous descriptor non-descriptor of “golden skin”, because why specify an actual skin tone when you can just say that. At this point, I’m imagining Bryce as a glowing shiny Oscar statuette with red hair and high heels. Also Lehabah is Hebrew and means “flame”, so that’s a fun fact. Lehabah goes back to guarding the archives and Bryce lets her friend in.

We get a bit more description of Danika.

Wisps of her silvery blond hair—normally a straight, silken sheet—curled from her tight, long braid, the streaks of amethyst, sapphire, and rose splattered with some dark, oily substance that reeked of metal and ammonia.

“Took you long enough,” Danika groused, and swaggered into the gallery, the sword strapped at her back bobbing with each step. Her braid had become tangled in its worn leather hilt, and as she stopped before the desk, Bryce took the liberty of prying the plait free.

She’d barely untangled it before Danika’s slim fingers were unbuckling the straps that kept the sword sheathed across her worn leather motorcycle jacket.

I have smelled ammonia and that shit ain’t pretty. Also Maas doesn’t specify what the “streaks of amethyst, sapphire, and rose” are, but  they’re also tainted by the dark oily shit in Danika’s hair. Is it paint? Is it literal amethysts, sapphires and roses in the braid? Your guess is good as mine.

Danika sounds like your average Gangrel, what with the whole biker aesthetic going on and stuff. Anyways, she says that she needs to dump her shit with Bryce for a few hours and Bryce is like “sure, if you want my boss to trash it like last time”

It was the mildest Hel Jesiba Roga could unleash if provoked.

A four-hundred-year-old enchantress who’d been born a witch and defected, Jesiba had joined the House of Flame and Shadow and now answered only to the Under-King himself. Flame and Shadow suited her well—she possessed an arsenal of spells to rival any sorcerer or necromancer in the darkest of the Houses. She’d been known to change people into animals when irritated enough. Bryce had never dared ask if the small animals in the dozen tanks and terrariums had always been animals.

And Bryce tried never to irritate her. Not that there were any safe sides when the Vanir were involved. Even the least powerful of the Vanir—a group that covered every being on Midgard aside from humans and ordinary animals—could be deadly.

Honestly, I actually like the Fridge Horror thought of animals being put on display possibly having been people. That’s neat. I like that. I mean, it’s still very Circe of her but still, I like the thought.

And so the mish mash of Greco-Roman and Norse myths continues. The Vanir in Norse mythology are a group of deities (alongside the Aesir), so this is... an interesting use, to say the least. Also, does that mean that the “Lowers” are also counted as Vanir? Cause it says that Vanir describes everyone except for normal animals and humans, not just the species that come under the “Houses”.

The supply closet opened, and Danika waved a hand in front of her face. “My gym bag’s stinking up the place?” With a black boot, she toed the sagging duffel that held Bryce’s dance gear, currently wedged between the mop and bucket. “When the fuck did you last wash those clothes?”

@spaceshipkat *Ding* *Ding* *Ding* We have a winner! Everyone gets $200 for calling this shit from the fucking beginning. It turns out that Maas is actually this transparent.

Bryce wrinkled her nose at the reek of old shoes and sweaty clothing that wafted out. Right—she’d forgotten to bring home the leotard and tights to wash after a lunchtime class two days ago. Mostly thanks to Danika sending her a video of a heap of mirthroot on their kitchen counter, music already blasting from the beat-up boom box by the windows, along with a command to hurry home quick. Bryce had obeyed. They’d smoked enough that there was a good chance Bryce had still been high yesterday morning when she’d stumbled into work.

There was really no other explanation for why it had taken ten minutes to type out a two-sentence email that day. Letter by letter.

That seems entirely irresponsible when you are that afraid of pissing off your magic wielding, turning people into animals, witch boss but okay. I think mirthroot is weed, if I remember correctly. Either way, still, going to work high seems like a bad decision all around. 

[ladylilithprime]

Boyking! Sam and Dean actually getting through to him?

DEAN WINCHESTER HATED Hell. It was full of the stench of sulphur, and demons, and bad memories of Alistair and the racks. Given a choice, Hell was the last place Dean would want to go into, even armed, and especially alone. But he was alone. Castiel was gone, maybe even dead again, and no other angel was willing to help a Winchester after the Apocalypse was thwarted.

So here he was, armed with the world's oldest and clumsiest knife in existence, literally cutting his way through a swath of demons who all seemed determined to get in his way as much as possible. It felt like he'd been fighting non-stop for weeks just to get this far, but he wouldn't stop. He couldn't stop. His arm burned with the power of destruction and rage as he sliced through yet another demon and shoved it to the side. He couldn't stop. He had a mission, and since he'd be damned one way or the other he was damn well going to complete it.

It felt like a small eternity before the doors to Hell's throne room loomed ahead of him, black obsidian and ornate gold. Two heavily armed demons stood guard on either side, but unlike every other demon he'd encountered so far these two didn't attack. It took some effort, more than he was used to, but Dean reined in the rage and growled tightly, "You gonna give me trouble too?"

"You look like you've had quite a bit of trouble already," the leftmost guard said, smirk audible even if the meatsuit's expression remained blank. "Why shouldn't we give you more?"

"Nobody keeps me away from my brother," Dean snarled, tensing in preparation. To his surprise, the rightmost guard laughed.

"Still the same old Dean Winchester," the demon purred. "Very well. The King will see you now."

Both demon guards slammed the butts of their glaives into the stone floor with a loud clang, and the doors to the throne room swung open. Dean eyed them both suspiciously, but when neither one made any futher move towards him he squared his shoulders and strode into the massive hall.

"Hey, Sammy!" he called out to the black-clad figure seated on the elaborate iron throne. "Quite the welcoming committee you put out for me!"

"You know how demons get, Dean," Sam sighed, his voice echoing with compressed power in the empty room despite the quiet tone. "To be honest, I kind of expected you to be here sooner."

"Yeah, well, had to make a quick stop first," Dean said. The First Blade spun in his fingers as he held it up, the light of hellfire glinting off the polished bone and enamel of the ancient donkey's jawbone that formed the crude blade. From the shift in Sam's posture, he recognized it.

"The First Blade," he murmured. He took a shuddering breath, then said in a painfully neutral tone, "That's for me, then?"

"Eeyup," Dean popped the 'p' on the end and, before he had to watch the pain on his brother's face deepen any further, he tossed the blade underhand to clatter on the floor before the throne. "Figured it's only polite to bring you a coronation present."

Crowley had not taken his deposition from the Throne of Hell very well, so when Dean summoned him for help getting his brother back the oily demon had been all too happy to tell Dean all about the First Blade, the original weapon of the Father of Murder, where to find it, and even how to use it. He'd taken Dean to Cain himself, waiting outside the door while Dean spoke with Cain, explaining that his brother had become the King of Hell and that he wasn't giving up on protecting Sam no matter what everyone else seemed to think. The Mark had burned when Cain gave it to him, as had the knowledge of what it could and would do to him besides give him the strength to weild the First Blade, but Dean had felt the price worth it. The Blade's first victim at his hand had been Crowley. The second had been Cain at his request, though not before Dean had gotten in the last word.

"You don't protect your little brother by killing him, dumbass!"

"Dean?" Sam asked, staring from the Blade on the ground to his brother. Dean rolled up his sleeve and showed him the Mark.

"Got a nifty little new tattoo, too," he said as casually as he could. "I die with this on me, I become a demon. Well... Knight of Hell, actually."

"I don't understand," Sam whispered, still staring at Dean as if he'd already grown horns and a tail or something. "You... why?"

"Because I don't understand either," Dean huffed, throwing up his hands. "I don't get why you went and took the Throne of Hell now of all times, but I know you. I know you wouldn't have done it without a damn good reason. So." He waggled his arm. "Kinda hoping you'll explain it to me eventually, but in the meantime this makes me your new most loyal subject, Sammy."

"You... really?" Sam actually looked like he might cry. "You're here to... support me? Not kill me?"

"Not killing you," Dean confirmed, folding his arms across his chest. "And I kinda wanna smack you for thinking I would. You want me to get on one knee or something here? Take my fucking oath of loyalty already and tell me the plan!"

And Sam did.

[zukofenty]

Sugar

➜ Summary: The one where there’s a former skateboarding photographer turned teenaged masked vigilante running around protecting the city from crime. Yet, Katara always knew she wasn’t meant to just sit a good fight out.

“Did you just fucking slap me?” Zuko is incredulous, clutching his reddening man tit.

“Yeah, what are you going to do about it? Be mad?” Katara bites back.

➜ Genre: Spiderman!AU, Modern!AU, humor

➜ Words: 3.8k

➜ Warnings: I love Zuko😩

AO3, My Zutara Month Playlist

@zutaramonth​ hi!!! this my late day 1 hehe

“Self care 2020 is officially over. We’re doing drugs again.” 

  Suki stares at Katara quizzically. “No, I don’t think that’s how it goes.” 

  “Are you sure?” Katara asks, puzzled. Suki just rolls her eyes, picking at her chipping manicure as Katara focuses on her biology homework. 

  “It’s only been like two weeks into the New Year. Yeah, I’m sure,” Suki deadpans. “What makes you think that doing drugs again is remotely going to-” Her rant is abruptly cut off at the sound of commotion coming from the courtyard. “Fuck, not Jet again.” 

  Katara jumps to her feet. Not this bitch again . Before she has to do more damage control than Camila Cabello’s publicist every time she opens her mouth and something stupid (and/or racist) for the 1000th time, Katara surveyed the scene before her. Freshman Aang, still prepubescent and so, so tiny was spared from having his face shoved in a moldy grilled cheese sandwich the cafeteria gave to kids who couldn’t afford lunch (yay public school!). He’s not facing Jet’s usual wrath inflicted on any short king 5’9” and under. Instead, a figure was gasping for air in an oversized black hoodie, hands clawing at Jet’s angular face. 

  “Hey Jet!” Katara yelps, pulling the tall boy up by his belt loops. He pauses in pummeling Zuko’s oh so pretty face, and grins unabashedly at Katara. The smile she knows is only reserved for her. 

  “Yes, Katara?” He smirks when he could almost hear pussies clench. He knows his power. 

  She smiles back at him, making it almost reach her eyes. “I did a little research, and guess what?” 

  “What?” 

  She pushes her bangs from her eyes, looking so sweet and innocent in her blazer and her signature knee length boots. “You’re a whore. A dumb whore.” He can’t help but let anger paint his face. “Leave these damn kids alone ! Don’t you have another class to ditch? A military program to join? A car to mod? Find a hobby. Go to therapy. Stupid.” 

  Her hair flows whips around as quickly as she does, flowing and bouncing effortlessly as she heads to AP Chemistry. 

  Zuko smiles, despite the pain in his chest from where Jet shoved his converse into. He thinks he loves her. Or what anti social kids like him thought love was because he doesn’t think she knows who he is. So polished and passionate about everything she does. Captain of the debate team, president of the Student Advocate’s club, and head intern at Phoenix Corporations in working on projects to mass clean polluted waters. She managed to do everything and still have kindness in her soul. The kind of love that you could almost feel surrounding a person. 

  He decides he likes staring at her, even if it’s the back of her head during chemistry. It was too easy to fall in love, when she was yelling at him to photograph the debate club’s photos in a certain light so they could post it on their Facebook for student recruitment season. He manages to always trip on his laces every time he’s around her, or stumble on his skateboard when she sends a small smile his way as they pass each other in the hallway of Ba Sing Se Academy. It’s always worth the detention Principal Pakku serves his way, if it meant he could get her attention. 

  In high school, guys like him and girls like her weren’t meant to be together. He’s impossibly clumsy, according to Uncle Iroh, and dangerously emo, according to everyone else. Katara, well she’s meant for bigger and better things, she’s meant to be out in the world and changing it. 

  She startles him, the way she turns so fast her ponytail narrowly misses his bruised face. “It was great what you did. It was kind of fucking stupid. But great.” 

  “Thank you?” 

  Katara beams impossibly wide. “You’re welcome. What’s your name?” 

  Zuko’s giving her a lopsided smile. “You don’t know my name?” 

  “Am I supposed to? You know I only keep up with Black Chyna and the lord.” Her wide eyes squint in a smile. His heart thunders, and he somehow feels as though Katara could sense it, with how much bigger her smile gets. 

  //

  “Welcome to the company single handedly transforming the genetic and biological industry. The future lies within!” The monitor’s voice announces repeatedly, Phoenix Corporation’s recognizable slogan. 

  Zuko’s in awe. He wasn’t meant for a world like this, with fancy lab coats and holographic presentations and people with glasses spewing larger than life terms. Hell, the revolving doors got him fucked up! That shit was too advanced for his liking. Science was his thing , but this was entirely out of his league. He donned glasses as an homage to a father he had never known, abandoning him when he was a baby on his Uncle Iroh’s doorstep. A labcoat was handed his way after the intern program directors approved with the badge of some guy named “Lee.” Zuko desperately tries to ignore the pleas of the real Lee coming from the lobby of the building. 

  “I swear I have a badge, I swear I’m an intern here!” 

  A guard shoves him out the door. “Can it, zit bitch!” 

  “I don’t think security guards are supposed to pick at people’s insecurities,” Lee whimpers. 

  He’s avoiding eye contact as Katara prattles away, taking the sweaty interns every which way through the company’s headquarters. “And here is Dr. Ozai, who will be discussing his cross elemental genetics project.” 

  He’s a formidable man. Tall, broad shoulders. He looks intensely polished, the type of man that always gets his way. The type of man who refuses anything less than what he wants. Zuko can’t help but stare. He looks different from the pictures Zuko found in Iroh’s basement. Meaner . Is this what he will look like in the future? He tries not to think about it too hard.  “Does anyone know the history of the firebenders are?” Zuko sees Ozai relishing in the confused faces of the teens, oily foreheads seemingly glistening in the fluorescent lighting. 

  “They were-”

  Zuko promptly interrupts him. “They were born with the ability to will fire any way they wanted. Legend has it that benders were born with abilities to manipulate all the elements: water, earth, fire, air. These people were invincible.” 

  Ozai smirks. A first for him, a student who understood his work. “Yes, all true. But the truly powerful ones were the ones who could firebend. This element is the most destructive, yet can bring beauty all at once.” He pauses to bring a holographic video to the attention of the students. “My goal is to recreate this ability that once came so easily to our ancestors. To bring humankind to be this powerful again. Where nothing will ever get in our way, no illness, no fear. Just us and the elements, joined together once more.” 

  As the fellow interns become increasingly enraptured by the presentation detailing his work, Ozai turns to Katara reviewing notes for the rest of the office tour. “Who was that kid?” She couldn’t help but feel pride in her soul. As she turns to introduce him to her mentor, her brows furrow in confusion. He’s nowhere to be found.

  //

  He hadn’t meant to sneak into the top secret chamber of research, he swears. One minute he’s looking for a bathroom because he downed one too many Fiji waters because they were fancy and he wanted to feel fancy. And then of course he’s distracted by pretty buttons, and of course the rebel in him is able to remember the passcode scientists used to enter this top secret chamber. (The password was “thrussy.”) 

  He certainly hadn’t meant to get burned. He hastily climbed into the empty tube to hide himself as security guards routinely checked the room. While trying to unlock the door, of course he just had to trip on his laces, and of course he just had to press some button. Next thing he knew, he was surrounded by rainbow colored flames, engulfing his body. He remembers the last thing he searched on his computer was “what are furries festival” and prays that the police spares that from the report when they investigate his death. 

  But, he’s fine. He’s more than fine. He’s fucking fantastic . He’s strong, he has the reflexes of a fucking ninja, and he can conjure fucking flames from his hands. From his hands! 

  He practices every night, after the day at Phoenix Corp. He singed his towels, accidentally broke open his medicine cabinet when he reached for his anti depressants, and exploded his Aveeno bedside lotion. There’s an abandoned building near his apartment, and he climbs to the rooftop every night to control his newfound powers. He’s not clumsy, and swears he can rival Tony Hawk with his skateboarding abilities.

  But the best part is how agile he’s become. He’s strong, noodle arms now muscular. His baggy shirts like a conscious fashion choice, and not just because they were the cheapest in the Walmart clearance rack. The kids that ignored him and continued to make out in front of his locker without any consequence? Pushed to the ground. The bully targeting petite kings? Basketball shoved firmly into his head. 

  “I’m trying my hardest to stop being mean. It’s really not my fault everyone is so fucking stupid.” Zuko petulantly stares at the suspension slip Pakku had written as he waits for Iroh to finish speaking to the principal. Apparently justice has consequences. 

  “Zuko!” Katara serious tone is heavily contrasted with laughter. 

  “Fine, you caught me. I’ve been ditching therapy to hotbox in the Denny’s parking lot.” 

  Katara huffs. “Denny’s? Really, bitch? You couldn’t have chosen, I don’t know, Target at least. Here I thought you were classy.” 

  Their collective laughter was interrupted by Iroh’s appearance, anger maring his usually gentle face. “We’ll talk about this later. Zuko, you know better than this. Why did you have to humiliate that boy?” 

  “He deserved it!” 

  “Enough! I’m have to pick up some later shifts at the tea shop today. Show up for yours today, too.” Zuko senses his uncle has more to say, more to berate him for. He just looks exhausted . Defeated. It’s all his damn fault. Iroh swerves to Katara. “He has you on his computer by the way! I’m his parole officer, nice to meet you.”  Zuko’s mouth falls open, trying to explain to Katara who is barely holding herself together with how loudly she’s guffawing. 

  “I love you,” Iroh says, moving to exit out the school.

  “I know.” Zuko starts to move away, before he pauses. “I love you, too.” 

//

  He thought, you get the girl, you get the firebending skills and you get hot and everything is ok. Everything is perfect. The universe has so many ways to fuck up your life, because serenity is just too easy. 

  Zuko’s heart clenches, staring at his Uncle’s body. There are tears that promise to slip, but never embark on their journey. A monitor nearby is noisily beeping, a tired nurse pats Zuko gently on the back. He’s becoming a recognizable figure, after all he does visit his Uncle Iroh two times a day. 

  It’s his fault . 

  It’s a thought that becomes permanent in his mind. It’s his fault that he lost track of training himself, and didn’t show up for his shift. It’s his fault that Iroh was running around the whole damn city looking for him. It’s his fucking fault his uncle was beat nearly half to death by robbers. 

  He grabs his uncle’s limp hands gently between his own calloused ones. “I’m going to make this right. I’m going to make you proud.” He slips away before he can feel his heart threatens to simply stop, unable to process the infinite pain he feels. 

  //

He glances at his watch nervous for multiple reasons. One, that he was going to miss his shift at the tea shop and get lectured again by June, his neighbor who has graciously taken over running the shop and housing Zuko until Iroh wakes from his coma. Two, that if he stares at the sea prunes any longer without actually eating them, Katara’s grandma would start laughing at him. Three, if Katara’s father kept glaring at him he would combust with how fucking nervous he was. It didn’t help he snuck in through Katara’s window and Hakoda had discovered him watching Tik Toks on her bed. 

  The dinner was a bust. Halfway through and he’s already gotten in an argument with the police chief over a certain masked figure. 

  “I think his name is The Blue Spirit.” Zuko admits, fighting to hide a smile. 

  Hakoda stares down at the boy. “More like Blue Dipshit. He’s destroying the city!” Katara quickly steps in as the argument grows heated, taking Zuko out to her building’s rooftop. 

  “Oh my god, you should be glad he didn’t shoot your ass up.” Katara clutches the railing, staring out to the city lights. 

  The same city lights he lives by, swears by. He remembers trying to seek out his uncle’s attacker. A man named Zhao notorious for his violent temper and attacks on the city’s elderly. He was able to run into his gaggle of minions on his nights long quest. While they had successfully nearly beat him to a pulp, he swears he’s set a few jackets on fire and managed to outrun them. Even if it meant he had fallen through an unbuilt building, tumbling down six stories before landing in the pits of a former fight club. He saw it then, the Blue Spirit legend. An ancient swordsman who dominated the underground scene. 

  He decided he was going to be the best damn superhero the world had seen. Even if it meant wearing an all black leotard every night. He designed it to best complement his firebending, resistant to the heat. The mask he slipped on every night, built to protect both him and his identity. The swords at his back that he’s been training with hours on end. 

“Are you a cop?” he remembers his uncle’s attacker questioning, his new target blocked by Zuko’s presence. 

  “Really? You think a cop is going to be wearing a blue face mask and black spandex?” He doesn’t remember much of that night, anger too palpable and blinding his senses. All he will admit to is leaving him in some police car. Not the bruises littering the bandit’s body. Or his missing pants. 

  “I have to tell you something.” He joins Katara at the railing. 

  She gasps. “I knew it! You listen to Post Malone unironically.” 

  “No, god no. I haven’t hit rock bottom yet to start doing that.” He’s proud of himself for making her laugh. 

  “What’s up?” She asks. He can’t back out now. Not when she’s looking at him like he’s the whole world, not when she’s become his whole world. 

  “I-I can’t” He stutters, breaking their eye contact. 

  She nods in quiet understanding, turning away from him to walk back to her apartment. Zuko sighs, rubbing a hand at his forehead. “ Fuck.”

  He conjures up a storm of flames to surround Katara. The force was enough to whirl her around and towards him, waiting to catch her in his arms. 

  “What the fuck was that?” Katara yelps, before being cut off with the feeling of Zuko’s lips pressed against hers. 

  “I just wanted to let you know. I Am. A. God.” He swears, the flames growing steadily from his palms.  

  “I’m kind of scared of you right now. Not because of the firebending or anything, just because the amount of testosterone is making me nervous.” She initiates the kiss this time. Her lip gloss tastes sweet, and he keeps kissing her until her lips become chapped. His hands can’t help but roam her body, her hands teasing and finding contact with his toned stomach beneath his hoodie. 

  “Are you kidding me!” Sokka calls from the rooftop’s entrance, hands covering his eyes. “I swear to Spirits above Zuko I am not afraid to castrate you right here right now. Katara, get the fuck inside!” 

  Zuko blushes. 

  // 

“Katara, you’re so incredibly mature for your age.” Hama insists. 

  Katara is beaming. “Thanks, it’s the childhood trauma!” 

  The chemistry teacher freezes, looking at the still smiling girl peculiarly. “Um, well. My point is, it’s not worth it. I-I know it’s none of my business. I just see so much of myself in you. Including the mistakes I know you’re going to make. Honey, it’s not worth mixing yourself up with a guy that’s only more trouble than anything else. You’re going to go to the best college in the nation, I just know it. You just can’t afford to lose your focus now. Been there, done that. It’s not worth it.” 

  She smiled seemingly understandingly, struggling to keep her mouth shut. If only she knew. 

  The Blue Spirit couldn’t fight all the crime in the city alone. As much as Zuko was convinced he was the shit, he really wasn’t. The Blue Spirit couldn’t dare match up to The Painted Lady. 

“You’re The Painted Lady?” Zuko questions, eyes closed in confusion while trying to process all the information. To be fair, he’s only gotten two hours of sleep a night ever since his life as The Blue Spirit began. He’s convinced the police really only sit around and eat donuts. If this was Law and Order: SVU , he just knew Olivia Benson wouldn’t need a masked teenager saving people. He opens his eyes when he begins to feel pulsating water near his wounds, Katara controlling its every movement as it works its way through his wounds. 

  After reuniting with his father and become an official intern at Phoenix Corp, he soon realized his father was not as occupied with cross elemental theories. No, he was much more focused on how to resurrect the dragons of the world. The true firebenders, he noted. Zuko had found hidden notes his mother had written before leaving his father. Partners in crime, they were working on their research together. Before his mother had left with the solution, before his father could understand the consequences of his work. Before his father had made himself a subject and injected their concoction into himself, become a half scaled half human hybrid roaming the sewers of the city. 

  He had found his father, bitter to no end as he continues producing the serum that was supposed to make the most powerful being on the planet. Zuko was left with gashes in his chest that made him wanted to vomit with how much blood was pouring out. He was left to die in dirty sewage water, his father cackling as he disappeared. Until she showed up. 

  The Painted Lady. 

  The city’s emblem, etched on coins and dollar bills. He’s heard rumors about her cleaning up the city’s rivers, healing patients doctors long gave up on. Her grandmother had told her their family comes from a long line of waterbenders, the last one born 400 years ago. She had her swear never to reveal her talents, never talk about it, never do anything about it. It was dangerous, the government would want to talk to her. She would disappear, the whole family would be in danger But Katara was never one to listen to directions very well. 

  “Did you just fucking slap me?” Zuko is incredulous, clutching his reddening man tit. She’s nearly healed all the cuts on his body at the hands of his father’s claws. The burn from a dragon is more painful than any other, and Katara’s upset. She can’t heal his eye, no matter how hard she tries. 

  “Yeah, what are you going to do about it? Be mad?” Katara bites back. She pauses the water disappearing from her hands and back onto the mug on her night stand. “I can’t believe you’re so fucking stupid.” She’s in his lap, clad in only a t shirt. Her hair falls in her eyes as she returns to heal his wounds, and he gingerly brushes the strand out from blocking her. 

  “I know.” Zuko couldn’t help but press a kiss to her cheek. 

  “Don’t return the sweatpants,” Katara throws out. 

  Zuko raises his eyebrow. “Why, doesn’t Sokka want these back?” 

  “He says, ‘I don’t want emo butt juice on them,’” Katara shrugs. 

  He blows a stray hair from his scarred eye out of frustration. “I consider myself chic punk more than anything else.” 

  She pauses again. “What if there’s more of us out there?” Katara uneasily peers up at his questioning stare. “More benders?” 

  Even with all the tests and insistence Ozai had for recreating this power, Zuko had been the only successful case. The only person to fully exhibit the power of his ancestors. “I don’t know. Wouldn’t they need to go through some sort of freak accident like I did?” 

  “What if your power was suppressed this whole time?” 

  He contemplates the idea, hands rubbing up and down her waist. 

  “I think my grandma used to say something like ‘One queef and this whole building could tumble down.’”

  He is glaring at her quizzically. “No I don’t think that’s right. What does that even mean?” 

  “It means, life as we know it will change forever. If we find other benders to defeat your father. If we expose what bending is. Hell, the city still thinks you use jetpacks to propel yourself around the city.” 

  He pecks chastely at her lips. She hates how easily she’s able to relax when he kisses away her worries. “You know, I used to think if I had a boyfriend I would simply go beat pedophiles to death with him as a hobby. I don’t know whether or not to be delighted this has come true.” 

  “As long as The Blue Spirit always has The Painted Lady. Everything will be alright.” 

  “You promise?” 

  “You rise with moon. He does, too.” Zuko’s staring at the mask in his hand. His other hand firmly around Katara’s. 

[clansayeed]

Bound by Choice ― IV.iii. What is a Trinity Without Three

PAIRING: OC x OC x OC (Valdas x Isseya x Cynbel) RATING: Mature (reader discretion advised)

⥼ MASTERLIST ⥽

⥼ Bound by Choice ⥽

Before there were Clans and Councils, before the fate of the world rested in certain hands, before the rise and fall of a Shadow King ― there was the Trinity. Three souls intertwined in the early hands of the universe who came to define the concept of eternity together. Because that was how they began and how they hoped to end; together. For over 2,000 years Valdas, Cynbel, and Isseya have walked through histories both mortal and supernatural. But in the early years of the 20th century something happened―something terrible. Their story has a beginning, and this is the end.

Bound by Choice and the rest of the Oblivion Bound series is an ongoing dramatic retelling project of the Bloodbound series. Find out more [HERE].

Note: Choice is the only book in the series not based on an existing Choices story. It is set in the Bloodbound universe and features many canon characters.

*Let me know if you would like to be added to the Choice/series tag list!

⥼ Chapter Summary ⥽

Cynbel tackles a new world problem with old world solutions, though Valdas and Isseya are less than pleased with the result. The world may seek to divide them but who would they be if they let it?

WARNING: this chapter contains sensitive themes regarding violence

[READ IT ON AO3]

“I wouldn’t go in there if I were you.”

The vampire laughs at the steady barrel of Moray’s pistol now level at his face. Laughs and laughs and watches that surety slip with every passing moment.

“If you think one crime less than another Lord Montes, let me assure you that breaking into the home of a detective of Scotland Yard and threatening his life is much the same severity as your current charges.”

“Current charges,” Cynbel feigns innocence and terribly so, “what current charges? I was unaware you had yet to formally accuse us of anything.”

He takes pity on the poor man’s mortal eyes; takes the withering end of his cigarette and tosses it behind him to the hearth and lets it flicker alight. The room is steadily cast in the fire’s warm glow and leaves Cynbel framed in shadowy silhouette before it.

The perfect spot to watch every expression that flits across the detective’s weary features.

“This madman’s act will give me more than enough credibility to do so.”

Oh will it now? Cynbel picks at his fingernails absently. “Fascinating, though, that you do not ask how I came to know where you lived, how I found my way inside, why I’m here…”

“In my experience there are men on this earth who act without reason. I assume you are — one… of them…”

Watching Moray’s revelation is a rare delicacy. How his pistol wavers to the left slightly when he turns his head so harsh Cynbel hears the crack of old joints at the neck. Lingering, then, on the closed doorway behind him.

“My wife —”

“She’s resting, detective, and rather uneasily so. I suggest you keep your voice down. If she awakens before she is ready you really won’t have any hope.”

Grief, it’s impossible to keep the glee from his words as he says them. If he won’t be placated with a war then this will do — however small a measure.

But Moray doesn’t listen and advances on the door. Which Cynbel can’t have — it will ruin everything. The moment Moray grasps the door knob the vampire is behind him, enveloping him. Holding him as intimate as a lover as their cradled hands slowly pull back from the metal. “It’s for the best…” he whispers; the last act before he pulls back.

When he recovers from his stupor Moray advances; presses the cold metal barrel between Cynbel’s eyes. As if it would do a thing.

“What have you done to her?”

“Didn’t I tell you to speak low?”

“What have you done to my wife?!”

Thunk.

The noise is soft but the silence echoes loudly. Quickly Cynbel bats the pistol aside. It clatters to the wooden floor and shocks Moray enough to take heed of his words and step away from one danger and towards the other.

He sighs. “Now look what you’ve done. She could have had a chance.”

The implication makes Moray’s eyes widen. “If you have harmed her I will personally see you hanged.”

“As if that would take —” Cynbel rolls his eyes as if to say really, this again and listens for any sign of life on the other side of the door.

There is. Faint, yes, but there. Smelling of rot and foulness and craving as only the newborn do. It skitters closer and closer, away from the bed where Cynbel had laid her to rest.

“You have only yourself to blame.”

“That lies with her killer!”

“Really? Do you think I could have gotten to Mrs. Moray had you been here with her; tonight, if at all?”

Moray’s voice falters when the first thud sounds at the door. For once the greater threat is not he, Golden Son of Valdemaras, but the thing on the other side. Some innate, mortal part of Moray knows this.

“Trust me, detective, I know better than most the toll years can take on a marriage.” Though if they were here they would ream him for such an implication — so Cynbel corrects himself. “Now of course I’ve never been married, myself — we always agreed such binding contracts were just that; contracts. Only recently have they become such tawdry affairs and those too we’ve deemed too much for our unique relationship. For what we are to one another.

“I can’t help but wonder, though, how different things would be had you taken the time to discuss and repair your relationship with your dear wife. And not just for you— We would not have this meddlesome investigation. My beloveds would not have their hard-earned dalliances in this lifetime ripped out from under them. Your wife would still be alive.

“All you had to do was talk. Which… for the likes of men like us—men of action, that is to say—can be the hardest thing in the world to do.”

“Really,” Moray scoffs and his voice is thick, emotive; tearing him between the impulse to act and the desire for that which is long gone, “I’ve found that you never shut up.”

It makes Cynbel laugh again, wagging his finger; “You know I’ll give you that one. You gentlemen think murder such a grisly business but I find it brings out my inner poet.”

To Cynbel, to the door. To Cynbel again, to the door again. Moray reminds him of frightened game. “You—You admit it then? You confess?”

“On the contrary; I figured you were so determined to pin murder on my lovers and I… that I might as well give you a murder to validate your claim.”

“Y-You —”

“What I did not do, detective, was murder the Viscount. Not I, nor Isseya, nor Valdas. Fucking ill timing, that’s all it was. I couldn’t give less of a fuck who actually did the deed — he deserved it for how he spoke to my darling.

“Your justice is linear. I’m here to show you the truth; that justice is like everything else in this world. It is a part of the eternal cycle. I’ve bent it into place for you — you’re welcome.”

The banging on the door resumes and with it the lowest, barest of growls. Something sharp eats away at the already thin wood on the other side and soon it will break free.

Sweat rolls down Moray’s temples in teardrops of fear. The sight of it is euphoric. “Turning these days is a trickier process than it once was. For everyone else, of course. I had thought that the purity of my blood would be enough to compensate for your wife’s tragically fragile willpower but I guess not.”

So many words he struggles to understand and piece together. Apparently Cynbel is going to have to walk him through it.

“When a Turning goes foul,” he continues, “it still takes — more than it should. It takes the soul, the mind, the things that make a person who they are. And the thing left behind is truly ugly indeed.”

With a crack the door before them begins to splinter. Moray jumps at the sound. Needle-thin shards falling to the floorboards growing in number. The creature on the other side smells the blood so close and only grows in determination and fervor.

Fear paralyzes him. It runs sour down his trousers but Cynbel holds on because this is the most fun he’s had since they stepped foot in London.

“What… what is left behind?” Moray asks, his voice a whisper.

“They call it a Feral.”

And so the time for words passes. Cynbel holds Detective Moray through every fit and spasm of his body; the humanity inside desperate to flee the void it can feel through the growing hole in the door. Large enough for a taloned hand to scrape through; greying skin and veins bulging black along the length of it.

The door doesn’t last much longer after that.

Given their recent trials he doesn’t expect to be welcomed home to praise, to affection, to lust. They are — for the first time in his memory — too weary for that.

Not so weary enough, though, that they are made weak.

Valdas backhands his firstborn’s cheek with enough force to send him flying. He collides with the far wall, feels wooden frame and plaster yield to the weight of centuries, but still falls.

Isseya looks for a moment as if to speak, but changes her mind at a glance from her God.

But Cynbel’s still riding so fucking high from the thrill of it all that he can’t understand why his Maker is mad at him to begin with. He can still taste Mrs. Moray’s blood on his tongue, feel the detective’s sweat oily on his palms. The memory of it makes him laugh — though it barely lasts when the same hands that caress him lift him up by the throat again.

“You would mock me now?! Insufferable, ungrateful —!”

“Ungrateful?!” Cynbel spits the word bloody on Valdas’ cheek. “It is born from gratitude that I would do this for you, for the both of you! As I would for no one else!”

“Don’t color your words so, Cynbel,” mumbles their darling from her chair and he can’t fucking believe the look she gives him is angry too—how are they angry with him?! “You may say you’ve done this for us but the root of them is a selfish one.”

Valdas grasps harder; pushes him into the wall until it, too, starts to crack like the hole beside it. “Do you never think about the consequences of your actions? That I have to clean up the messes you wreak on the world?”

“In your name, Valdemaras!”

“In no name but your own!” Blood runs down Cynbel’s forehead and stings at his eyes but not enough to spare him the anguish and hatred that ghosts over his beloved’s faces.

He seemingly comes back to sense. Enough to drop Cynbel to the floor and cross the room in a breath; yet not to Isseya and the wounds that choice makes show gaping and festered.

“You are not so deluded, Cynbel, that you can’t see it,” he continues low as he watches the other vampire ease himself off his knees, “and perhaps the fault lies with me that I humored you for so long. That I didn’t punish you enough — that you thought you could risk what is mine time and time again…”

He always thought no word could ever cause the same pain as a blade, and hates that it is now that he is proven wrong.

“Forgive me, but you punished me a great many ti—”

“No.”

He looks to his God confused. “What?”

“No, Cynbel, I will not forgive you this time.”

It leaves him gaping and confused. Angry, scared; alone on an island of his own making. One they have all made for themselves where they are, for the first time, apart both physically and… and everywhere else.

Isseya shifts in discomfort. “Valdas, brash though he is… Cynbel has always acted for us.”

“Has he?”

“I have tried.”

The laugh he gets in reply is harsh and clipped and choked in the throat Cynbel knows so well. “Tell me you tried to show restraint at the detective and I will have your tongue. You reveled in it; fear, pain and suffering. You have always reveled in it.”

Cynbel raises his chin not in defiance, but in pride. “And you have loved that about me before.”

“Indeed — but you’ve let it blind you. Do you think you’ve gotten away with this? That that man’s slaughter will not go uninvestigated and unpunished?!”

“There’s nothing left of him to be investigated.”

“And the Order will not seek answer for this, I assume. Because you took such great care in your actions. In your beloved actions.”

“Now you border cruelty,” snaps Isseya, but his red-eyed stare wilts her again, “my Holy One.”

Which isn’t fair, not in the least. Throw him against walls, into furniture, out into the sun for all he cares but to turn that ire onto Isseya as though she had led him to the Moray home by the hand…

Cynbel groans as he stands. Feels bones slot back together and something in his spine dislodge itself from where it ought not to be. He wipes the blood from his eye though the cut is already healed. “Do not look to her that way.”

The audacity leaves Valdas bewildered. “What did you say?”

“What else should I have done?! Should I have been content to watch you both suffer? For weeks I have stood idle while that feeble cretin has torn everything you’ve built here to pieces. I might as well have been drowning in your blood — and from my own hands! Hands that are yours, Valdas, now as they always have been.”

“I did not command my hands to act.”

“You have never needed to before,” Cynbel’s voice cracks as if to prove his heart is breaking even if they cannot see it, “just like I’ve never not done everything in my power and much beyond to ease your pain… to bring you joy.”

“Joy,” whispers Isseya, “would have been staying here. But we cannot now, Cyn’, you know that don’t you?”

“Our lives have never been stagnant, Iss’. Why would we not move on from here as we have from any other place in the world?”

“Because the world is no longer the same!” The Made-God’s voice booms through the house. It is something they feel down to their very bones and further still. It silences them, sees them scolded children not yet defiant enough to dare risk their lives should he continue.

“Perhaps a century ago, two, ten even this would have been the answer. I would have rewarded you for it. But as the world changes so we must adapt to it to survive. Have you learned nothing? This place has been our greatest trial so far and you, my darling Cynbel, have never disappointed me so utterly in your failure.”

So many firsts this wretched city has wrought. Their first blows, the first night without familiar comfort. Their first true human threat and one that Cynbel had felt warranted swift action to please them; to save them.

And now… this.

“I—I am… I am not made for civility, Valdas; my love. Please do not ask me to be anything more or less than what I am.”

“I love you too much to do otherwise.”

He doesn’t look up — he can’t. Head cast down shoulders bearing the weight of their loathing towards him in that moment. And he is not irrational—he knows this is not something they have harboured for him for a time. But it is not a knowledge that numbs the pain of it.

Valdas approaches him with even and measured steps. Mortal steps at mortal speed; as if to give him chance to run should he wish. He could never. He could never.

From the edges of his sight he catches when Valdas kneels—his Divinity on bended knee—and tries to take Cynbel’s face in hand. Neither man can tell who of them trembles more but they do so as they do everything. Together.

The sight of tears on his Maker’s face is agony still.

“I love you far too much Cynbel,” he repeats just as broken, just as wounded, “to sit back and let you burn yourself with the flames of the past. That is what lesser vampires do — that is what those who are not my blood do. They relish on days in glory and the world leaves them to history, to places like the Musea Sanguis.

“You are no relic of rust. You are mine; my Golden Son. And I would not see you join the ranks of those beneath us — not when I know it would lead to your death.”

The noise that tumbles from him is animal and wretched. But Valdas takes it with love; wipes his thumbs over tear-tracks and looks as if to kiss him for apology but he hesitates — unsure. And in the one thing they have always been certain of.

The shadow darkening his eyeline grows and Cynbel feels a much surer touch at his hands where they rest on his lap. Fingers the barest touch away from breaking.

“You risked your life tonight,” she chides lukewarm, “and even the thought hurts us.”

“It means nothing.”

“No —” says Valdas; firm like his kiss “— do not. You are my blood—our blood—and that makes you so much more than nothing. For what trinity is without three? The world will always seek to divide us, and men better than Detective Moray have tried. We have weathered them all, remember? And we will weather them still.”

“How can you be so sure?”

“Because we are better. And if we are to survive every time the world changes then we must continue to be better. Even if it hurts us.”

Isseya’s cool touch fixes at his hair. Valdas uses his tongue to wet his finger and wipe away the blood he spilled. Cynbel can feel the regret in every soft stroke.

He’s paralyzed by the freedom of burden from their love.

“But what does it change? I—I cannot bring Moray back to life or ease the complications he caused your public lives.”

“No, and even if his death remains hidden he’s taken too much. We’ll have to leave within the season.” Honey-voiced Isseya has never been one to sugarcoat the truth. She doesn’t now, either. “And it will take me some time to forgive you for that, Cyn’.”

“As you see me suffering now I too saw you. And… and I could not take the pain of standing still.”

“Justify it for yourself all you want. What’s done is done.”

His God drags a worshipful touch over Cynbel’s features. “But it will never happen again.”

Say it, says the press of a thumb against his lips, and mean it well.

“It will not, my love.” Because it is for them both.

They could not risk losing sight of such an important thing again.

But ideas are just that — there is nothing corporeal about them. Nothing they can hold in their hands beyond one another and what of when the world takes them far away again? Then how will they remember?

So Isseya suggests a portrait.

“We’ve never had the like before.”

“And for good reason,” Valdas blows the smoke of his cigarette up, up where it curls into the stagnant air above their bed and remains until it reaches the ceiling, “it has been in the best interests of our kind not to leave such permanent traces.”

“Tell that to Augustine.”

“I have. Of course he didn’t listen.”

“The gall of you.”

His laugh is rich as he offers it to Cynbel, but their minx takes it before he has the chance. Teasingly she holds it out of reach, though really if she insists on keeping her leg thrown wide over his waist she will always be in reach, but it is light and it is fun and most important of all it is the best and safest he’s felt in a long time.

“Then we keep it with us.”

Isseya flicks ash on his bare chest at the suggestion. “I forbid it. No doubt you would insist the youngest carry it for the first century or two.”

“You know me so well!” She hits him—hard—but it only makes him laugh harder.

“Don’t make me come over there and break you two up.” Valdas warns with little heat; though he is amused by the way his Golden Son tries to push himself deeper into the mattress as though to make his space between them permanent.

“I so rarely get this, don’t take it from me just yet.”

“And why do you think that is?”

“Because you know it’s where I belong?”

Valdas snorts softly into his blond hair. “More like there’s never enough bed. Pull your limbs in tighter, darling.”

But he is Cynbel, the Golden Son, so he does quite the opposite. Valdas and Isseya give matching noises of protest and struggle to fight for their rightfully-earned spaces.

He will always prefer their laughter to their tears.

Tobias catches them discussing the finer details of such a portrait come the next sunset.

Cynbel’s main argument — vanity. “If by some rare chance this thing turns out favorably I would hate to look mortal upon it.”

But Valdas only shrugs. “Rather mortal than that which could serve as direct condemnation. Shame Signore Da Vinci passed last year — he detailed Augustine’s grim disposition quite well if I’m remembering correctly.”

“I wouldn’t stand for it even if he were.” Isseya beckons for the teapot and Tobias comes round quickly, though his soft laughter catches the three vampires by surprise.

“Something funny?” she asks, though it’s clear she couldn’t give a damn.

“You remind me of my cousin afar,” but does not let his musings detract from his work clearing the dining table, “back home, I should say. You see I had the mind to portrait every member of our house in my youth. They were wretched about it — I wasted a dozen canvases on the hair alone. Perhaps I could have finished in time had they not demanded I try again and again…

“I think I had but a mere few left to do… such things happen in families of a hundred or more. But my exile put a stopper in it.”

“Is there a point to this beyond you withholding my tea?” asks Isseya clipped and curt. Tobias quickly rushes back to her side with the teapot.

“I would be honored of the chance to take up the brush and palette again. Should you find the whimsy for it, of course.”

They have their painter, and the subjects willing. His payment, they decide as one, will be the Montes Estate.

Immediately Tobias refuses. “I could never! What would I do with all… this?”

“We will find safe storage for that which we covet. As for the house and the rest… Sell it for all I give a shit,” the Made-God replies, “I’m coming around to the idea of this painting being the only memory we claim from this place. We shall stay until it is complete and not an evening more.”

The following silence draws their attentions; to the pointed look their Maker gives Isseya. “Is there a meaning to that I’m missing?” she asks.

“I trust you will find a way to expedite your collegiate business within the time frame.”

“And if I cannot?”

Cynbel shrugs. “We find another college for you to attend. Switzerland, maybe — or Auvernal, I’ve always been fond of the border of Cordonia and Auvernal, forests there remind me of back when.”

Three weeks pass. Isseya might just well finish on time. Time they are already hoarding — and much of it not theirs to steal.

Detective Moray sought to slander them and he succeeded. Feeble and easily devoured as he had been, he still joins the ranks of the very few who have bested the Trinity throughout time.

Their drawing room parties are no more than fancies of things wistfully remembered. Shared in secret among those who knew but when left to the wild imaginations of the growing generation they quickly grow out of hand. Whispers of ritual sacrifice and demonic worship and how one young lady is convinced she saw the Lady Isseya Montes eat a beating human heart with her own eyes.

Though that could very well have happened. None of them can rightly remember.

It is best they leave London. England too, for that matter. The entire ordeal may have been eclipsed by the London Summer Season but Isseya’s absence does not go undiscussed.

“We cannot leave this godforsaken island soon enough,” is the first thing she says after returning from her final examination of autopsy, “I was just accosted by two wretched little birds. Do you know what they said to me?”

They can hear her all the way up to the drawing room; her lovers exchanging uneasy glances while Tobias helps adjust her hair for the portrait before coaxing her between them.

“What did they say dearest?” asks Valdas as he takes a kiss from her.

Cynbel takes one of his own. “And do they still breathe?”

“Indeed, though not for lack of wanting to gut them,” she bats the pair of them away and back into position; the portrait was her idea but she loathes the process the most, “apparently the current word of mouth is that bastard Viscount yet lives and I ran away with him. To France.”

That particular sitting takes longer than the others. When it comes time to sleep she banishes them to the floor for their laughter.

But even with their combined years and experiences — though the Trinity did not know it they did not prepare themselves even the least for what it would look like when complete.

It is clear from the moment Tobias turns the canvas for their final critique that there is magic in every stroke.

They look…

They look exactly as he sees them, Cynbel thinks as he makes sure to mind the fresh paint and keep his touch just shy of them. His largest hesitation was that this portrait, like other likenesses of them over the centuries, would not show him what he sees with his own eyes. But today Tobias has proven it possible. More than that — he has made it real.

“Does it meet your expectations, Made-God? Is the trade fair?”

Valdas has to actually wrench his gaze away from it. “Indeed. Perhaps… imbalanced on our part.”

With amusement Cynbel watches how their darling girl’s mouth opens and closes, opens and closes. Whatever witty remark or critique she had planned (and to think she did not would do her a disservice) simply will not do.

Finally she manages a reverent whisper. “You look as you did… in my mind. How I imagined the great God of Death Valdemaras and his Lover Risen from Mortality all those years ago. When I fell in love with you.”

Of course they only see the others. The better parts of themselves.

“Your compliments do me no credit. I realize just now even in your years you’ve probably not come across fae art. It all looks like this.”

Odd little thing, their fae butler. Perhaps one day, should their paths cross again, Cynbel might take it upon himself to discover what exactly sent the creature into exile — how he came upon London and if it was on purpose or otherwise that he slipped his way in among their staff. Or perhaps he is just glad to have not met the same fate as the rest of them.

“Nothing looks like this,” says Valdas — his lovers who agree, “a fitting thing to be our only memory of this place.”

“I’m glad to know I’ve done you justice, my Lords and Lady.”

Odd little thing, indeed.

“Beyond so, Tobias,” imbalanced though he indeed agrees, “if ever the unlikely event that we cross paths again should occur… call upon us, the chance to even this debt would be nice.”

Odd and funny — Tobias who has served them for years now, who knows the lengths they would go for their together, and who has the audacity to say; “I think I should fit the Lordship Montes quite nicely.”

Ultimately the Trinity must suffer the sane decision of sending the few things they want to keep safe overseas to Isseya’s progeny and the Musea Sanguis. They pay handsomely for everything to be taken to the docks at night and care little of thieves. Anyone unlucky enough to steal from them won’t live long enough to enjoy the spoils.

Emptier and emptier, their house, until the painting is the last thing of theirs left.

When the paint has dried and morning light come to London, Tobias commits his final act under their service. He dons his hat and coat, tucks the painting rolled tight to rest in a display that once held Valdas’ champion sword under his arm, and summons the carriage to take him to the docks.

[1-1snailxd-art]

Libraries are for Meetings

Master List —– Chapter 9

Chapter 10 - A tale of the Lost

Warnings: negative thoughts, homophobia, death mentioned

Summary: Logan and Virgil share a pleasant meal before their pasts bring it to a tear-filled end.

Word count: 4419

Note: reading on mobile can remove the paragraphing sometimes. Use desktop site or visit my Ao3 page if it bothers you as much as it bothers me.

This chapter includes art by @the-pastel-peach​. Respect the artist and myself and please do not repost. Share this post or the artists original links only.

 ____________________

  Logan held the door open and gestured for Virgil to enter; pizza boxes securely in his hands. The apartment was rather deceiving; though it had appeared narrow from the outside, the inner layout made it feel spacious and welcoming. Stepping past the kitchen to the small dining table, Virgil set the boxes down and eagerly flipped them open to reveal the greasy pizza, garlic knots and chocolate brownie. It was a meal fit for a king in his mind and he eagerly grabbed a slice to start eating before Logan appeared with napkins; humming as the treat warmed his very soul.

   “I take it you don’t get pizza very often?” Logan inquired, raising an eyebrow at the others euphoric face.

Instinctively shaking his head, Virgil swallowed and sheepishly took a napkin to wipe his face.

“Sorry. I was in such a hurry this morning I skipped breakfast.”

“That isn’t a frequent habit of yours, is it?” Virgil shrugged and chewed on the pizza crust; causing Logan to sigh and reach for his own slice. “Though some research suggests skipping meals, such as breakfast, is good for weight loss, the more prominent effect is reduced energy levels. If you want to be able to function at your best, you should have regular healthy meals.”

“Thanks, Google.” Virgil grinned, licking the oil from his fingers. “I’ll keep that in mind for the future. How’s this pizza look in terms of health factor?”

“Well, it does cover most of the major food groups; so, I think you will be okay.”

 The pair laughed and continued eating; Virgil once again impressed that Logan could be both serious and easy going. It was a comforting balance and with each exchange, he felt himself relaxing more and more in their presence. They bantered back and forth overeating habits and better food options until Logan excused himself to collect the hard drive he needed looked at.

Virgil moved the remains of their lunch to the kitchen and took a cloth to wipe the table clean of any oily residue. Satisfied, he set up his laptop before pulling his phone out, almost thankful to see Ben hadn’t replied; though he did wonder what it meant in the long run. Anxiety melted away when Logan returned, and he eagerly took the drive from his hands to dive into work. Pulling up screens with strings of file names and codes, Virgil clicked and scrolled through windows with the confidence of a child turning the pages of a book. Logan was lost watching him; same as the last time he watched him work.

   “Your intelligence certainly exceeds my own, Virgil.”

“What are you talking about?” He scoffed in reply, not looking away from the screen. “Who’s the science major with, I’m guessing, a full academic scholarship in this room?”

“I actually had offers for my academic and athletic abilities from various higher education institutes; but that’s beside the point.”

“Humbling remark there, Lo.”

“Yes; but, you certainly best me when it comes to computers. I honestly have no idea what it is you are doing right now. It just looks like keyboard smashing to me.”

The laugh that shook Virgil’s thin body was something he hadn’t experienced in a long time. It was weightless, uplifting and pure; and he could feel that it brought fresh colour to his cheeks.

“Just know,” he gasped through stifled giggles, “I will only see this as a keyboard smash from now on, and I love the fact that you compared it to that.”

“You’re welcome. Now, can you please explain what you are doing?”

“Oh, I’m cleaning the files. You haven’t been ejecting the disc properly and there was a lot of rough data. You gotta take care of your files man, it’s a delicate system.”

“Right,” Logan nodded but looked even more confused. “Would you show me how to - um - eject this… disc properly, at a later date?”

“Sure, Logan.” Virgil beamed, shaking his head slightly at the man’s uncertain tone.

   Clicking a file, an image loaded on the screen and Virgil grinned at Logan in triumph. A small smile sat on his face as he inspected the picture from his and Patton’s high school graduation.

“Looking good there, Lo.” He mused, pointing at the obviously fake smile plastered on their face. “That is a brilliant smile if I do say so myself.”

“I didn’t particularly enjoy the public display, nor the outfit. Have you saved all the images?” As Virgil nodded, Logan shuffled closer and reached towards the arrow keys. “Would you mind if I have a quick look?”

“The laptop is metaphorically yours.” He replied, angling the device closer for Logan to reach.

   Shuffling through the images, Virgil watched Logan’s face light up as each image loaded on the screen. Familiar faces of Roman and Katie flashed up, as well as many selfies with Patton. It wasn’t until Logan must have shuffled into another folder that the tone of the moment shifted; nostalgic joys replaced with sadness as Jason’s face began appearing in each photo. Selfies, photos taken from a bystander of the two close together, and shots from track races slid across the screen. 

*art by @the-pastel-peach​*

A new emotion snaked into Virgil’s gut that he hadn’t felt in a while. Jealousy. The happiness that emanated from every photo of Jason and Logan made Virgil’s stomach churn. It was different to the smile he saw in the photos with Patton; a clear indication of how different Logan’s relationships with both were.

Logan paused on an image of Roman holding Patton bridal style with Jason hugging Logan to their left; the biggest smile Virgil had ever seen spread across Logan’s face.

“You look really happy there.” He noted, half smiling at the sad man beside him.

“We were… but it wasn’t enough for Jason.”

“What do you mean?” Leaning back in his chair, Virgil knitted his brow in confusion. “Everything I’ve seen, and from what you’ve told me, it seemed you were both very happy. He loved you.”

A breathy laugh left Logan’s lips and he pressed the arrow key again, causing a video to begin playing. “Not enough.”

   Virgil watched the recording in silence; Logan leaning back and staring at the screen sadly. Jason held the camera on himself in dim flickering light, the muffled thump of music in the background as he spoke.

   “Hey, Lo, you left your phone behind, so I thought I’d leave a little message for you. I don’t know when you’re going to watch this or if I’m going to be with you, but whatever.”

He took a breath to steady himself and looked straight into the camera with soft determined features.

“Logan, we met in the best way possible; beating up a homophobic asshole and getting locked in a cell together. You were the first person from school I came out too and, by default, I was the first person you came out to. We went from strangers on the track, to friendly competitors, and I relished every opportunity to take you on. I held your hand when you came out to your parents. You were there when my Dad passed away. You supported my move to help Katie and Roman. I watched you beat my school track record and handed over that title with pride and an embrace they’re still talking about.”

He rubbed the back of his neck and chuckled to himself.

“And shit, you’re a good hugger, Logan. I mean, 10 out of 10 better than Patton.”

      Logan let out a small laugh and swiped a tear that escaped his eye; ignoring the voice screaming for him to stop the video before it ended.

      “Anyway, what I’m trying to get at is, we’ve been through a lot together… and, I want to go through more. So, Logan Mars…will you marry me?”

Jason broke into a laugh and swiped his eyes, before steadying the camera again.

“Let me know at your earliest convenience. And if not convenient, let me know all the same. I love you, Logan. But I know that’s no mystery to you.”

       The video ended on Jason’s half smiling face and Virgil sniffed, not even registering that he had even started crying. He had no reason to cry, really. He didn’t even know Jason, and yet he was crying. Jason had proposed. Logan had been engaged to marry the man he’d lost. It made it even more jarring when Logan spoke next.

   “He didn’t love me though.”

“Are you insane?” Virgil gasped, gesturing to the screen. “He proposed. Isn’t that the very definition of love, Logan? I didn’t know him, but Jason clearly loved you a lot.”

“That’s just it, Virgil.” The man turned and met his eye, “it looked that way to everyone, but I wasn’t enough.”

“Wha- How?”

“Do you know what happened after he recorded that message?” Logan paused but he wasn’t expecting an answer; merely allowing himself the chance to take a breath. “E’s sister had thrown a party at her house for the science majors. I’d just left because Patton wasn’t feeling well and accidentally left my phone behind in my rush. After recording that message, a fire broke out in the house and Jason went in to help get everyone out.”

Silent tears slipped from Logan’s eyes as he spoke, but his voice didn’t waver as he continued; Virgil remaining transfixed by every word.

“He pulled E out of the flames because she passed out in the lounge room; dropping my phone as he left to go back inside. He went back into a burning building, Virgil. The man who just proposed and was safely outside, went back in because he couldn’t leave it alone. His need to save everyone outweighed his love for me.”

Now Logan’s voice broke; no longer holding back his emotions.

“I wasn’t enough. My love wasn’t enough. Why wasn’t I enough for him, Virgil? Why didn’t he love me enough?”

   The room froze and Virgil’s lungs stopped working as he was hit with déjà vu. His own voice asking similar questions.

Why wasn’t I good enough for him?

Why doesn’t she love me?

Am I not good enough anymore?

   “You are enough.” Virgil demanded, initiating a hug he never thought he would ever willingly engage in. “We both are. Regardless of what others say.”

The words weren’t his own; parroted from a voice of his past that Virgil struggled to believe most days, but today he needed to believe it for Logan’s sake. They both needed to believe it.

Hands gently rubbed each other’s backs, a soothing support for each as their breaths calmed. Silence filled the air the longer they remained pulled close; neither wanting to move while they were raw with emotion.

“You are the first person I’ve shown that video,” Logan whispered; breaking the silence. “I kept his proposal to myself this whole time.”

“Why me now?” Virgil said in confusion, shifting slightly as his muscles ached from being still so long.

“I’m not sure.”

“Do you regret showing me?”

Logan shook his head against Virgil’s shoulder and breathed deeply. Despite his response, part of him posed the same sort of questions - why did he show Virgil? Why was he so eager to share everything with someone who was still an acquaintance? As his mind wondered, the silence stretched on again until a sigh cut through the still air.

“I’m no stranger to loss, Logan.” Virgil whispered; all fear washed away with his tears from earlier. “My only family is an aunt that I’m paying back for bailing me out, so I know what it’s like to feel alone…but you are far from alone.”

As each word was comprehended, Logan found his mind clearing; accepting the words of the man that felt far from a stranger to him.

“You have Patton, and Roman, and Katie, and E and…”

“You?”

Virgil chuckled and gave him a squeeze, “Yeah. I guess you can have me too.”

   They stayed together for a moment longer before slowly separating so Logan could grab something softer than the napkins they had on hand to clean up. Virgil picked up his phone and saw his dishevelled face in the reflection, before setting it down on the table and requesting directions to the bathroom.

“Upstairs. It’s pretty easy to spot.”

“Thanks. I’ll, um, be right back.”

   Logan sat back down at the computer and continued clicking through photos. He still didn’t understand why he allowed himself to get caught up in the images and reveal so much to Virgil. He was suddenly very aware of how impolite it was to meet someone and show them videos of your deceased partner so you could cry on their shoulder. Confusion aside, he felt a lot better in doing so and Virgil had even opened up slightly. The younger man had obviously lost his family in a way Logan could only assume was outside of the norm, and he was thankful they opened up slightly.

Watching the images flick by, he jumped as Virgil’s phone vibrated on the table. On impulse alone, Logan tilted the phone up to look at the illuminated screen before realising it wasn’t his own. Quickly setting it back down he moved into the kitchen and opened the fridge just as Virgil made his way down the stairs. He hadn’t meant to read the message, but he couldn’t take it back now and Logan knew he couldn’t broach the subject with Virgil. It left him silently shuffling through the kitchen in silence as he mulled over the message’s meaning while Virgil tapped away at the laptop keys.

   “Um, I’ve cleaned the drive and it should work fine for you now.” Virgil proclaimed, packing up the materials on the table.

“Thanks…for everything.” Cheeks heating with embarrassment, Logan took the drive from Virgil’s outstretched hand. “I got a little caught up in the moment and wen-”

“It’s fine, Lo.” As Virgil looked up from his bag, a genuine smile spread across his face. “Really. It was…nice and - um - I-I have a question.”

“Oh, sure. What is it?”

Pulling his bag up and over his shoulder, Virgil fiddled with his bag strap nervously and forced his mouth to cooperate.

“I know you’ve got a busy few days ahead, but…would you like to hang out again? At some point.”

“I’d like that.”

   Looking at Logan had Virgil’s heart racing and suddenly the voices were back. The woman’s voice disgusted at the idea of a man loving a man. The young men joking and teasing. The woman’s screams of anger. But then there was another.

I will still love him regardless of who he loves. He’s my son. Nothing will change that.

   "Logan?" Virgil's voice was suddenly small and quiet, and Logan peered over his glasses in confusion by his sudden change in demeanour. "Can I... Can I hug you? Again."

Though initially taken aback, Logan nodded and closed the gap between them; Virgil dropping his bag strap as he wrapped his arms around Logan’s torso. Their heights weren’t close, so Logan lowered himself slightly to allow Virgil’s head to rest comfortably on his shoulder. The hug was different from what Logan had previously experienced. Not awkward and full of sadness like before. Not dainty like his past girlfriends. It was hardly snuggly like with Patton and nothing like Jason. Jason had been a rock. Firm and supportive. Virgil was... Sturdy and soft. Like he would hold him up but could also crumble at any moment.

   The instant Logan’s arms embraced Virgil, he felt safer. The negative voices were silenced and all he heard was the voice of his grandparents. Supportive, accepting and kind. It felt right and for that time, he felt truly safe.

The sound of Logan's phone broke the peace of the moment and Virgil quickly drew back; not wanting to keep the man from checking it. With a sigh, Logan looked at the message on his phone and then back to Virgil.

"I need to go into work for a bit; Maggie isn’t well. I'm sorry, Virgil. This was meant to just be a nice lunch and I-"

"Thank you, Logan."

"What?"

"I think. I think I really needed today."

"Oh. Well, you’re welcome, Virgil."

Lifting his bag back over his shoulder, Virgil smiled up at Logan. "I should get back to the library and do some work befo-"

He was cut off by his phone ringing; Logan noticed Ben's name lighting the screen and the way Virgil’s hands immediately began to tremble. "I've got to go."

"I just have to grab my uniform and I'll drive-"

"It's fine, Lo. I'll walk, I really need to go."

There was a significant shift in Virgil’s tone and demeanour that had Logan very concerned about the message he’d seen earlier.

"Virgil? What’s wrong?"

“Nothing. I’ll catch you later, Lo.”

The door accidentally slammed shut as Virgil rushed out, swiping the screen to answer Ben’s incoming call; leaving Logan alone with seeds of worry taking root in his stomach.

   *************************

    "Bless you." Patton maintained a smile as he offered the tissue box to the student that had just covered their worksheet in a spray of saliva. "Cover your mouth next time, please."

"Yes, Mr Smiles."

Ignoring spit and snot was all part of the job in Patton's eyes as he continued to read the questions on the slightly soggy sheet. Working with children was something Patton had known he wanted to do since he was in middle school. It was one part wanting to encourage creativity and another part wanting to be better than some of the teachers he had had. The volunteering he did at the moment did nothing for his bank account, but Patton found he was learning a lot more in those few hours he could manage in a classroom compared to the hours spent on campus.

   As the final bell rang, the small group farewelled Patton with hugs before racing out the door and, after bidding the supervising teacher farewell, he soon followed behind. Despite being eager to leave, Patton did make the effort to stop by the staff bathroom and smother his hands in disinfectant; knowing how crippling a cold was for Roman in more ways than one. Leaving the bathroom, the school echoed with the students' yelling and laughter as they flooded the sidewalks to begin their journey home. When Patton finally exited the building, he found himself quickly dodging the kids to reach the man leaning against a tree to the side. Pocketing his phone, Roman looked up just as Patton wrapped their arms around his neck; teasing him with a kiss.

"I come to pick you up and all I get is a lousy kiss on the cheek." Roman pouted.

"There are children present, Ro, and I don't see your valiant steed anywhere to take me away." There was a wicked gleam in Roman's eyes at Patton's words that made him giggle in anticipation. "Unless you've got your car hidden nearby?"

"My car wasn't coming anywhere near these little door bangers." The comment got an eye roll in response, but Roman stepped back and grinned regardless. "However, I will still be picking you up." "Oh no, no, no." Red bloomed on Patton's cheeks as he realised his partners plans. "I can't do that here, Ro." "Why not? It's just a piggyback, Pat. No one will even notice if you don't screech like a banshee. Now hop on."

Patton glanced around nervously as Roman turned and braced himself for him to jump on. Part of him knew it wasn’t professional to behave in such a manner; however, his inner child could not be denied for long and Patton was soon on Roman’s back. Ignoring the few looks of distaste, Roman strode down the path as Patton recalled his day happily in his ear.

  It wasn’t long before Patton noticed the change in Roman’s pace; tiring from early morning rehearsals and a shift at work. Knowing he would never admit to his aching muscles, Patton turned his head to whisper towards Roman’s ear.

“Time to put me down, dear prince.”

“What are you talking about?” Roman huffed, shifting his arms to rebalance the weight on his back. “I could do this all the way home.”

“I know you think you can, but you shouldn’t.” Patton said, giving him a kiss on the cheek. “Now, put me down, please.”

It took a bit of wriggling on Patton’s part, but eventually Roman admitted defeat and let the man down. Standing beneath a tree, Patton shook his head as he watched his partner run through a series of stretches.

“Maybe it isn’t a good idea to do stuff like that anymore, Ro. I don’t want you getting hurt.”

“Are you implying that I am too old to give piggyback rides?”

“No,” Patton fidgeted with the hem of his shirt as he spoke; feeling guilty as Roman continued to stretch. “But I am. And I know I haven’t kept as fit as Logan sinc-“

“Don’t you dare go there, Patton.”

  The use of his name in such a serious tone, had Patton gluing his gaze to the ground. Roman was no stranger to his partners train of thought, and they were about to jump onto a negative track he didn’t want them travelling down.

“Age is but a number and you know how I feel about body image.” Straightening, Roman reached out to lift Patton’s chin and make them meet his soft brown eyes. “I want to carry you around until we’re old and grey.”

“And even then, you will probably still try.”

“You bet I will, because I just love the way it makes you smile.”

Dropping his eyes, Patton smiled as he pictured an elderly Roman trying to lift him from a wheelchair. His thoughts were pulled back as warm lips connected with his own. Lifting his arms to wrap them around Roman’s neck, Patton lent into the kiss and allowed himself to get lost as they automatically responded to each other’s movements.

  The serenity of chirping birds was broken by rolling wheels clacking on concrete and children’s laughter was carried through the air. As the noise came closer, a smile pulled Patton’s lips away and he pressed his forehead on Roman’s; breathing deeply as he watched his partners eyes shift behind closed lids.

“I can feel you staring.” A wicked smile spread across Roman’s face and one eye slid open slightly. “You like what you see?”

“Not really,” eyes snapped open as Patton lent back with his own mischievous look, “I’d prefer to see it with a hint of powdered sugar.”

With a wink, Roman knew exactly what Patton was insinuating; they had baking to do.

“What are we waiting for? We have some sugar to acquire!”

Grabbing his partners hand, Roman practically dragged him down the path in excitement; quickly overtaking the group of children that had just past them.

    ****************

    As the afternoon began its shift into evening, the meeting members each prepared themselves for the emotional catch up ahead. Ethan finished boxing up mixed sliders for the group just as Roman messaged that he was parked around the side of the diner. The couple had changed clothes following a messy baking session at Roman’s house; kitchen quickly wiped clean to hide their shenanigans from Katie. The sugar scent from the cookies filled Roman’s car and was soon mixed with the diner’s aroma as Ethan climbed inside. Keeping their greetings brief, the music was turned up as the group made their way to the library.

    Collecting a cooler bag from the passenger seat, Logan locked his car and headed into the library through the back door. He was surprised to find Katie alone and setting up a picnic rug in the middle of the reading area.

“Hey Katie. Where’s Virgil? I thought he was helping you set up?”

“I was going to ask you about that.” Katie said as she straightened and followed Logan towards the kitchen area. “He called and said he had a friend to visit and he’d do the clean in the morning instead. But, I’m not sure about that.”

“What do you mean?”

“Something was off.”

Logan placed bottles of drink in the fridge and looked over to Katie’s thoughtfully knotted brow.

“How so?”

“Something in the way he spoke. I can’t quite put my finger on it, but something definitely wasn’t right. Did everything go okay with you two today?”

“Well… it didn’t go bad.” Sliding the leftovers he had forgotten to give Virgil into the freezer, Logan turned and shrugged at the woman behind him. “There were some… low points. But, otherwise, it was a rewarding experience.”

It didn’t feel right to disclose all that had occurred, and he didn’t see any reason to share the private message he’d seen. Katie didn’t seem convinced and Logan sighed as he took out his phone.

“If you give me his number, I can send him a message and check in.”

“Thought you would have exchanged numbers by now.” She commented, setting her phone to send Logan the contact information he needed.

“I’m not going to feed your little fantasy and respond to that comment.” Logan smiled and sat on a nearby chair to type out a message. “Why don’t you go finish shutting up the front of the library and I’ll set up back here.”

“Sure, Lo. I’ll give you and your phone some privacy then, shall I?” With a wink, Katie headed towards the libraries front to lock up and shut the main computer down for the evening.

Alone at the back, Logan typed out a brief message and waited patiently for a reply.

  Logan: Hi Virgil, this is Logan. Thank you again for your assistance today. It was very much appreciated. In our rush this afternoon, I forgot to pass on some additional payment for you. Could we possibly meet at the library tomorrow for me to exchange it?

Virgil: let it go Logan. I don’t need anything else from you.

  Logan was unsure of how to interpret the tone of Virgil’s message. There were multiple ways he was able to hear it in his mind. Left to dwell he would have fixated on the negative connotations, but Patton, Roman and Ethan’s entrance pulled him away. Sliding the phone into his pocket, Logan shifted his focus to the friends he had in his company. An overdue meeting was ready to occur.

____________________

End Note

Wow, it has been over a month since I updated. Jeepers that’s a bit of a wait. Sorry about that. It may be a similar thing for the next chapter because my idea of updating fortnightly just hasn’t worked out in the long run. Too much untamed creativity and not enough time.

 I have mixed feelings about this chapter. I love my analogical, but the royality just isn’t flowing for me at the moment. Not quite sure why.

 Anyway, hope you enjoyed the chapter and the art by @the-pastel-peach. Now you can get a bit of an idea of how I see Jason. The red streaks were my way of connecting him to Roman (red, Roman, fire – it all relates). I think that might do for commissions for this for now though. I haven’t really got any scenes that stick in my brain (even though I would love to see E and Katie). Don’t forget to like and share Peach’s post if you enjoyed their artwork. Please don’t repost the art yourself, only share posts by Peach or myself.

 Thanks again for reading. Happy timezone, friend 💜🐌

Tag List (let me know if you want to be removed)

@notalwaysthebadguy​      @thequeensphinx​    @ollyollyoxinfree​   @celeste-tyrrell​     @pumpkinminette​    

_____________________________

Chapter 11   — MasterList

What else have I done:

The Perfect Ring (oneshot - analogical proposal)

You Promised (oneshot - prinxiety angst/injury/near death)

Sides of a Hero (Completed Fic - sides are fusions of impulses and aspects of Thomas. Virgil has a depressing past that he is forced to face thanks to Deceit and Rage. Was canon compliant at the time of completion)

The Shield to your Sword (WIP - A fantasy/magic au - Prinxiety (Royal Roman and orphan Virgil - they’ll admit to their love eventually), Virgil angst, non binary, healer Logan, *spoiler* Patton)

Writing Master Post

Check out my other blog for random fandom reblogs and stuff @snail-giggles​

[dw-writes]

Light[s] - One.

Hey there everyone, and welcome to Light[s]. This is a Kingdom Hearts original story, featuring Riku x Reader! I’m really excited for this story, and I’m introducing a LOT of different ideas and worlds that haven’t been visited in the Kingdom Hearts franchise yet! So, I really hope that you guys enjoy this? Let me know what you think, and if you’d like to be tagged!

Thank you~

The bookstore was something of a mystery to you, despite the fact that you worked there. It had always been in your city, perhaps there before the city even existed. You remembered, during school, that everyone had rumored that the city popped up around the bookstore.

Did that stop you from applying? No, of course not. Nor did it stop you from accepting the job and IMMEDIATELY making your way up to a keyholding position, AKA, one of THREE managers that worked the ancient two story building. Because of that, you knew the building inside and out, all of its nooks and crannies, the best places to read, all of the inventory.

So…when you found a leather bound scroll you didn’t recognize in the hands of a curious student, you had to take it. “I’m sorry, we can’t sell this, I don’t even know where it came from,” you admitted to them. They just shrugged and went on to find something else, leaving you to examine the object. It was a solid scroll, carefully wound with a supple leather strip and tied with a bow. The bow itself was held together by a metal, circular charm, like something on the end of a string. You spun it around the knot of the bow, searching for a way to take it off.

All you discovered was that it was silver, a little tarnished, and held the engraving of a heart, its single looping line forming curls in on itself, each curve carefully touching to form a deep indentation. You set the scroll in the top drawer of your desk, locked it, and returned to work.

But ‘out of sight, out of mind’ didn’t stick. You kept thinking of the scroll as you worked, wondered just what it could be and why you had never seen it before. You sent associates home, counting the tills, locked up the safe, and all the while wondering what the heck was inside that leather.

Finally, at eleven pm, you stood in front of your desk and stared at the drawer. Heaving a sigh, you unlocked it and yanked it open. The scroll smacked against the front, tilting until it couldn’t anymore, and from the back of the drawer you heard a gently ‘tink’. Pulling the scroll out, you reached it and patted until your fingers hit cold metal. It was a pin, maybe an inch long, and as thin as a needle. You thought back to the charm as you picked it up, the indentation right in the middle of the heart.

“No…” you whispered to yourself as you took the pin and stabbed it down into the heart charm.

It fell apart. You yanked at the leather ribbon until it was on the floor and the scroll was rolling across your desk. There were…outlines? Trails? Of different, oddly shaped planets that moved around the aged parchment. Some lines overlapped, others didn’t even touch. You leaned closer to it as one moved closer to the front…of…the perspective? You squeezed your eyes shut and shook your head. It was like looking at a video? But on paper. Drawn onto paper, and moving? You rubbed your eyes and looked at the parchment again.

The orb closest to the surface of the page was your city, with the bookstore in one spot, and the spire of the university in another. There were other landmarks of your hometown: a wrought iron clock, a stone bridge across the deep set lake, the single largest coniferous tree that was always in red and oranges no matter the year. You stared until you were cross eyed. The sketch took up the entirety of the parchment.

You rolled it back up into the leather and shoved it into your bag.

The world was quiet as you walked home, with a warm breeze and a clear sky. You clenched the straps of your bag as you walked, looking around at the neighborhood you found yourself in. If you looked at the map, would it be on there? Was it actually a map? The thought slowed you down.

It was then that you heard a sound, a scuttling, like shoes dragging on concrete, only faster, like a little kid running too fast. You looked around for the source There weren’t even any cars on the road. But, from beneath a bush, crawled a slender rainbow white creature, with ears that twitched in the air like a cat, head twitching from one side to the other. It clung close to the ground as it moved towards you. Another appeared on the wall beneath a window flower box, then melted into a white that dripped towards the sidewalk. The street lamps cast oily, broken rainbows against their white fur.

You turned in a circle. More, and more, and even more started to appear. The wind started to gust around you. Thunder roared in your ears and you looked up see a storm in the once clear sky.

The ground shook. A massive creature unfurled from behind the narrow townhomes around you, stretching so far into the sky you thought it might touch it. You gripped your bag until your fingers went numb and your stomach dropped.

It was, in all honesty, the last thing you remembered before waking up in a brightly lit courtyard, curled up on your side. Someone leaned over you, gently shaking your shoulder. You couldn’t hear a word they said as you stared up at them, struggling to bring your eyes into focus. There were large round things on the sides of their head and a massive, gloved hand lifted your head from the stone ground. You squeezed your eyes shut, counted to three, opened your eyes. His face came more into focus and you found yourself staring into a massive, now smiling, mouse man.

“You’re okay!” he squeaked.

You promptly rolled backwards and out of his grasp. Your head thonked against the stone beneath and you groaned. “I’m something.”

The mouse man followed you as you rolled again and onto your knees. “You should be careful! You took a pretty nasty fall there.”

“From where, I was on the street?” you groaned. You looked up and watched as he moved closer. “Who are you?”

“You can call me Mickey!” he answered. He shrugged, hands opening at his sides. “As for where you fell from, well…you fell from the sky!”

You lost your balance and rolled onto your butt, staring up at him. “The sky?”

“Yup!”

You thought of the storm. “Was there a storm here? Like at home?!” You climbed to your feet as you spoke, touching your shoulders. “Where’s my bag?!”

“Woah, now, hold on!” He held his hands out as you spun around, stumbling. “Take a deep breath, you’ve been through a tumble!” As you stopped, raking your hands through your hair, he balled his hands on his hips. “What storm?”

“There was this storm, and these little – well not little – little white cat things and this massive thing and the storm came out of nowhere—”

“Oh no…” Mickey’s hands flew to his mouth.

You stared at him. “ ‘Oh no’?” you asked. “Do you know what happened?”

“Well, it hasn’t happen in a long time! But, it sounds like your world was swallowed by darkness!” His hands waved as he spoke.

You just stared at him. “Michael—”

“It’s Mickey!”

“Mr. Mouse,” you continued, “My…what, did what?”

As he opened his mouth to explain, a chorus of voices rang out through the courtyard, “King Mickey!”

You stared at him, eyes narrowed, mouth agape, trying to figure out if this or the map in your bag was more disorienting. You rubbed your face. “Okay,” you mumbled, “Can we start from the beginning? Please? It’s been a very long day.”

“Of course we can,” he said as he turned to you with a brilliant smile. You tried your hardest to return it with one of your own. “I’ll explain whatever I can!”

“Thank you, Mickey.”