#where that character isn’t even recognisable anymore

[metalcorebarbie]

i have come to the realisation that quite often when i have a hard time understanding some fandom takes and headcanons about characters it’s because i have a different way of approaching fictional characters and stories. i’m mostly interested in specific characters because they are like my barbie dolls that i want to put in delicious situations and watch them struggle through those situations… like sometimes it’s fun to be like ”he’s just like me fr” but most of the time? i don’t need to see all of my personality traits and struggles and traumas reflected in my fave characters. if i did i would probably read some self insert fanfiction. and to some extent? i get this need to do this but there comes a point where people are literally just forcing all of their personality traits to a character and at that point it just feels like actively misinterpreting the text and i will just end up finding it kind of baffling and little bit annoying tbh.

[byoldervine]

Writing Tips - Beating Perfectionism

1. Recognising writing perfectionism. It’s not usually as literal as “This isn’t 100% perfect and so it is the worst thing ever”, in my experience it usually sneaks up more subtly. Things like where you should probably be continuing on but if you don’t figure out how to word this paragraph better it’s just going to bug you the whole time, or where you’re growing demotivated because you don’t know how to describe the scene 100% exactly as you can imagine it in your head, or things along those lines where your desire to be exact can get in the way of progression. In isolated scenarios this is natural, but if it’s regularly and notably impacting your progress then there’s a more pressing issue

2. Write now, edit later. Easier said than done, which always infuriated me until I worked out how it translates into practice; you need to recognise what the purpose of this stage of the writing process is and when editing will hinder you more than help you. Anything up to and including your first draft is purely done for structural and creative purposes, and trying to impose perfection on a creative process will naturally stifle said creativity. Creativity demands the freedom of imperfection

3. Perfection is stagnant. We all know that we have to give our characters flaws and challenges to overcome since, otherwise, there’s no room for growth or conflict or plot, and it ends up being boring and predictable at best - and it’s just the same as your writing. Say you wrote the absolute perfect book; the perfect plot, the perfect characters, the perfect arcs, the perfect ending, etc etc. It’s an overnight bestseller and you’re discussed as a literary great for all time. Everyone, even those outside of your target demographic, call it the perfect book. Not only would that first require you to turn the perfect book into something objective, which is impossible, but it would also mean that you would either never write again, because you can never do better than your perfect book, or you’ll always write the exact same thing in the exact same way to ensure constant perfection. It’s repetitive, it’s boring, and all in all it’s just fearful behaviour meant to protect you from criticism that you aren’t used to, rather than allowing yourself to get acclimated to less than purely positive feedback

4. Faulty comparisons. Comparing your writing to that of a published author’s is great from an analytical perspective, but it can easily just become a case of “Their work is so much better, mine sucks, I’ll never be as good as them or as good as any ‘real’ writer”. You need to remember that you’re comparing a completely finished draft, which likely underwent at least three major edits and could have even had upwards of ten, to wherever it is you’re at. A surprising number of people compare their *first* draft to a finished product, which is insanity when you think of it that way; it seems so obvious from this perspective why your first attempt isn’t as good as their tenth. You also end up comparing your ability to describe the images in your head to their ability to craft a new image in your head; I guarantee you that the image the author came up with isn’t the one their readers have, and they’re kicking themselves for not being able to get it exactly as they themselves imagine it. Only the author knows what image they’re working off of; the readers don’t, and they can imagine their own variation which is just as amazing

5. Up close and too personal. Expanding on the last point, just in general it’s harder to describe something in coherent words than it is to process it when someone else prompts you to do so. You end up frustrated and going over it a gazillion times, even to the point where words don’t even look like words anymore. You’ve got this perfect vision of how the whole story is supposed to go, and when you very understandably can’t flawlessly translate every single minute detail to your satisfaction, it’s demotivating. You’re emotionally attached to this perfect version that can’t ever be fully articulated through any other medium. But on the other hand, when consuming other media that you didn’t have a hand in creating, you’re viewing it with perfectly fresh eyes; you have no ‘perfect ideal’ of how everything is supposed to look and feel and be, so the images the final product conjures up become that idealised version - its no wonder why it always feels like every writer except you can pull off their visions when your writing is the only one you have such rigorous preconceived notions of

6. That’s entertainment. Of course writing can be stressful and draining and frustrating and all other sorts of nasty things, but if overall you can’t say that you ultimately enjoy it, you’re not writing for the right reasons. You’ll never take true pride in your work if it only brings you misery. Take a step back, figure out what you can do to make things more fun for you - or at least less like a chore - and work from there

7. Write for yourself. One of the things that most gets to me when writing is “If this was found and read by someone I know, how would that feel?”, which has lead me on multiple occasions to backtrack and try to be less cringe or less weird or less preachy or whatever else. It’s harder to share your work with people you know whose opinions you care about and whose impressions of you have the potential of shifting based on this - sharing it to strangers whose opinions ultimately don’t matter and who you’ll never have to interact with again is somehow a lot less scary because their judgements won’t stick. But allowing the imaginary opinions of others to dictate not even your finished project, but your unmoderated creative process in general? Nobody is going to see this without your say so; this is not the time to be fussing over how others may perceive your writing. The only opinion that matters at this stage is your own

8. Redirection. Instead of focusing on quality, focusing on quantity has helped me to improve my perfectionism issues; it doesn’t matter if I write twenty paragraphs of complete BS so long as I’ve written twenty paragraphs or something that may or may not be useful later. I can still let myself feel accomplished regardless of quality, and if I later have to throw out whole chapters, so be it

9. That’s a problem for future me. A lot of people have no idea how to edit, or what to look for when they do so, so having a clear idea of what you want to edit by the time the editing session comes around is gonna be a game-changer once you’re supposed to be editing. Save the clear work for when you’re allocating time for it and you’ll have a much easier and more focused start to the editing process. It’ll be more motivating than staring blankly at the intimidating word count, at least

10. The application of applications. If all else fails and you’re still going back to edit what you’ve just wrote in some struggle for the perfect writing, there are apps and websites that you can use that physically prevent you from editing your work until you’re done with it. If nothing else, maybe it can help train you away from major edits as you go

[lopsicle]

Arcane season 2 spoilers

/////

I have been thinking A LOT about Jayce and Viktor, mainly the scene where Viktor is reborn out of his pod of Hexcore.

Mainly because it means a lot for Viktor’s character. On a fundamental level, he never seen much worth in himself, but he did see worth in inventions, the things he made, it’s how he could prove himself to the world. This is why he becomes so concerned with his illness and the legacy he’ll leave behind on the world; he needs the Hexcore to work because he doesn’t have anything else.

But now, he is literally fused with his invention, his invention that he has grown to hate because it killed one of the only people who truly saw value in Viktor, and not the things he could, partly due to his own negligence. Viktor put it best, in his pursuit of greatness, he failed to do good.

He doesn’t really know how to process what happened to him at all, he’s a smart man, he can clearly deduce that his body has undergone some cybernetic change, he can probably remember the explosion in the council room, but other then that, he’s just confused, hence why he asks Jayce, “what am I?” Viktor’s body is entirely different and unfamiliar, and taking into context that the Hexcore, his greatest invention which he tied all his worth to, has failed before this, it’s likely Viktor had lost sight of who he was, and his new body only served to further that descent.

Jayce can’t think about any of that though, he’s just happy that his partner is alive and who wouldn’t be, he’d been waiting for days, possibly weeks for him to wake. Viktor’s mortality is one of the things that Jayce has struggled with the most in the series, which is what makes his survivor’s guilt so much more pertinent. A lot of people claim that Jayce grew up rich and coddled, and I think that’s true to an extent, but they forgot his family were workers, tool smiths. Jayce seemed to grow up with the idea that he wasn’t that fortunate, that he was a working, middle class man who was going to change the world, and then he meets Viktor, a “poor cripple from the Undercity,” and then he sees what the Undercity is really like and the conditions people live in. And that’s when Jayce realises; he had it good. I believe this is what encourages part of his admiration of Viktor; he is what Jayce thought he was.

Tangent aside, I feel that their hug is a very, very important moment, mainly because of Viktor’s reaction.

He isn’t relieved or uncomfortable, it’s just…nothing. Given what Viktor says about how he doesn’t feel that it’s cold and just recognises that it is cold, I believe this is the moment where it fully sank in how much his body had changed. He couldn’t feel Jayce.

And like, first off, that is such beautiful symbolism for what he says later about how they’re relationship was only held together by affection. Viktor physically cannot feel said affection anymore and know has no reason to stick by the side of someone whose views have become so contrasted to his. But more emotionally, it’s representative of Viktor’s belief that he is unloveable, his new body is merely proof at that, he can’t touch Jayce, he couldn’t save Sky, he couldn’t make the Hexcore work properly, he couldn’t even get Jayce to destroy the Hexcore. To himself, Viktor is a failure who is unworthy of love.

But, he still huge Jayce back. Despite not being able to feel Jaycee’s warmth anymore, despite it feeling like his whole life has crumbled, Viktor wants to give Jayce one last act of service. Perhaps to prove that he still has use, or maybe this was the moment where he decided he would have to part ways with Jayce, and just wanted Jayce to remember his touch, even if Viktor couldn’t remember his.

Anywho if enough people like this dribble, I may post my take on the rest of this scene because it shattered me

[yuoimia]

OUR SUMMER DREAM

summary: beneath the radiance of cloudless skies, a summer memory is tied between the two of you. days with them - summer edition!

characters: wanderer, xiao, diluc, alhaitham, neuvillette, kazuha, ayato, zhongli

notes: gn! reader, soft and sweet, fluff, teasing, wc: 1.3k

soft splashes of aquamarine waves, sparklers in hand, the flash of a digital camera - wanderer, xiao.

“don’t wander too far.”

“oh c’mon,” you exasperated, tugging his arm a bit harder again, letting a humoured laugh escape from your lips. “if you’re so scared of getting lost, then you should hold my hand-“

“i know what you’re planning,” he replied knowingly, lightly elbowing your side with his free hand, a fierce gaze reflecting the flickering embers of the sparkler in his other hand, twinkling and incandescent with matching ferocity that was rapidly dissipating.

you sighed and shook your head with a tut, accompanied with a lazy gesture towards the horizon, now swallowed in breathtaking shades of rich indigo and navy, streaked with the last ribbons of daylight.

the waves tumbled one over the other, idly lapping at the golden shore sprinkled with pearly shells and tangled seaweed, each swash permeating a stinging scent of salt.

“i promise i won’t push you into the water,” you nodded solemnly, pulling him and his skepticism closer. “i promise,” you enunciated, putting on what seemed like a confident expression of benevolence before refocusing your attention on the smooth sand delivered by the ocean.

“that’s not what i was worried about,” he muttered under his breath, making his way down to where you were, seemingly inspecting something in the sand, two newly lit sparklers in his hand, softly illuminating a golden path.

“cute, isn’t it?” you grinned, smiling adoringly at the red crab, crouching down further. “look!”

he looked, trying to find what was so amusing, only releasing too late the trap he had fallen into.

“say cheese!” you exclaimed, pulling something out of your bag instantly recognisable by the quantity of cat stickers and its signature flash.

double cuteness. an upturned crab and a certain wide-eyed person illuminating them both with the light of burning stars.

low whirrs of a running fan, windows thrown open, a bowl of freshly cut watermelon between the two of you - diluc, alhaitham.

any agonising second now, you’d pathetically melt into a miserable puddle on the cool vinyl floor.

any second now, you’d make a suffering groan, thrust the electric fan closer, and aimlessly stab a fork into the bowl of perfectly cut watermelon and momentarily delight in its juice before staring disinterestedly through the sheer curtains of the opened window, hugging your knees with your arms. there wasn’t much to do on an afternoon in one of the most insufferable summer heatwaves ever.

“why does it have to be so hot,” you complained to nobody in particular, patting your cheeks and forehead. there’s hasn’t been a single breeze in the last five minutes.

“you should find something to do,” a voice swept from behind. snapping your head backwards. you revealed a look of contempt in his direction. “it’s too hot to move.”

he examined you from where he was dusting the bookshelf, his fingers tracing the books with great care. “you’re moving your mouth.”

“even talking makes me exhausted,” you turned to shove another bite of watermelon, a ghost of a pout resting on your lips. it wasn’t as cool anymore, but rather unpleasant now that it had reached room temperature.

“with a mind like yours, i’d expect you to be able to easily entertain yourself,” he cooed, now sitting on the end of the bed, just above where you sat. further tilting his head downward, he brushed the loose strands of your hair, eyelashes fluttering in your peripheral vision. “unless…” came a soothing whisper, “you wanted my attention all along?”

when met with no reply other than your tentative gaze and deep breaths, he laughed, removing his hand from your hair and sitting back on the bed. “i was just joking.”

from our favourite spot for sunsets, ice creams in hand, wistful thoughts and eyes - neuvillette, kazuha

if you could, you’d polish this memory until it was clearer and brighter than any bygone jewel and store it in a small box sealed within layers of dreamy clouds, tied with a chain of love.

away from the ambience of the blaring city, out into the forgotten outskirts that always looked so far away, hidden under vine-covered overhangs, between the sharp scent of evergreen pine trees, cold and invigorating. through blooming meadows and woods of delicate wildflowers, sometimes met with a plain of deer and foxes. up here, up high, breathing in the quiet beauty, the rays of sunset hugging you both in a comforting embrace.

“it’s been a while since i’ve done something like this,” he whispers before releasing a fond laugh, his face tinged with the slightest pale hue of cherry, spreading from the apple of his cheeks to the line of his jaw, either from the bountiful crispness of the fresh breeze whipping through the windswept grass you both laid on, adorned with dandelions, and the hum of the last hardworking bees.

“hm, really? we should do this more often,” you acknowledged warmly, turning to lie on your side, propped up with an elbow. pushing a loose strand of hair from his face, you watched with no particular intention but to just look. not in an uneasy way, something more unattached, more open for thoughts to run free and connect once again.

he smiled at the linger of your touch, bringing a hand to lock yours in place just below his ear, between his neck. “you always come up with such wonderful ideas,” he murmured, the gentleness far from innocent, chuckling at your sudden rapt attention. “your ice cream is melting.”

vibrant vivid lights, screams and smiles, the delicious aroma of buttered popcorn - ayato, zhongli.

one might assume that he was enjoying this more than you were.

“don’t you think it’s time to give up?” you proposed, eyeing him and the fluorescent vending machine with profound disapproval when he had simply sighed, the glass reflection exhibiting his contemplative face. “it’s been nearly half an hour, you know.”

he turned briefly to raise an eyebrow, his hand still on the joystick. “didn’t you say you wanted the panda?”

he’s concerned about that? you feel a sudden urge to burst into laughter, or maybe even slap his hand, still stuck onto the motionless joystick.

“i’ll be fine without it,” you shook your head, rubbing your forehead with a smile towards the ground. winning or losing, the earnestness with which he took your previous offhand comment made the butterflies in your stomach soar a bit too high for such a casual night.

for a few seconds, silence simmered in the cool air, your eyes scanning the striped tents, the constellations of bubbles drifting behind the faces of happy children, the cheerful vendors and their tied bags of coins, landing on a particular cluster of food stalls beneath an arched entryway lit by twinkling amber fairy lights, failing to notice the inconspicuous set of eyes still fixed on you.

“do you want to eat something?” he finally asked, easily noting your prolonged attention at the bustling entryway. he intertwined your hands together, before faintly tugging you forward, tightening his hold as you began to navigate the busy lane, stopping at the first stall.

“there are so many things i want to try,” you breathed, bending down to analyse the chalkboard menu with a cursive title reading: specials.

but which ones to pick? you chewed over it, edging closer to the list. which one..

“are you finished?” came a hushed voice behind your ear. “we need to find a table before they all get taken.”

“what do you mean? i haven’t-“

standing above to your left, he smiled with a small sense of pride, his hands filled with the menu of specials.

[vigilskeep]

give me the Sol good & bad endings in detail pretty pls 💖

sol as a character is defined by the crows and the blight, so here’s a spread of what i might have to work with

some bad sol endings:

crow version: the Widow Dellamorte. sol commits to being first talon lucanis’ right hand, but fail to protect him when the rest of the crows go to war with the ascending dominance of the dellamorte-de riva-cantori block. desperate to cling to whatever they have left of him, they allow themself to be possessed by spite—a fuller meld than spite/lucanis ever was, more in the anders/justice style—and become a vengeful winged monstrosity effectively haunting the dellamorte villa. black veil over golden heavy armour. for now, they still recognise their friends

blight version: the blight finally catches up. sol was intensely careful about fighting the blight right up until the final days, where there was nothing for it but to cut blindly into blight cysts. obviously it’s awful and pointless for them to suddenly die after all that, which is why i think we should at least explore the possibility. for awful and pointless drama. the ending they were kind of hoping for, just when they no longer want it??

alternate blight version: okay this isn’t an ending per se but i still think ghilan’nain should have gotten to turn them into a sick crow-themed blight monster at some point, as a special treat. this can also be a neutral or good ending depending on how much of themself they retain and how much of a monsterfucker lucanis is. sorry for saying that

some neutral-ish sol endings:

crow version: the First Talon’s Executioner. this is the version where sol goes back to the crows and it’s essentially business as usual. i can’t imagine this as good, but with their renewed appreciation for what they have and the lifetime of focus and activity ahead in order to just keep their heads above water, it could be survivable. and lucanis is there. but then i think about how permanently damning the step is where you start raising the next generation for it and i feel a bit sick

blight version: warden sol! sol finally gets up the nerve to cut ties with the crows, making the necessary choice for themself even if it means losing the people they love most. they take the joining and build what life they can alongside davrin, evka, and antoine, slaying darkspawn and finding a new path for the wardens following the tracks of a changing blight. it’s ugly and terrifying and hard, full of horror they never get used to, that will still be making their skin crawl until the day it kills them and drags them down, far from the comforts of home. but as a life, it is, at least, theirs to choose

some good sol endings:

crow version: a newly re-energised sol takes their place at lucanis’s side but considers things in ways they never could have before. why does going back to the crows have to mean they’re locked in place? they aren’t the underdog just clawing for survival that they once were, and they don’t have to act like it. they can do better! they have viago and teia and lucanis and people listen to them. if the dread wolf can change, can’t the crows? through a certain connection via the wardens, they make a contact who has very interesting ideas on the crows’ future

blight version: sol accepts they can’t stay with the crows, does a whole tear-stained confession to a shocked and distraught lucanis, and walks away. they settle into helping davrin, evka, and antoine against the changing blight. nobody actually requires them to take the joining because, hey, they’ve already gotten rid of more than enough archdemons for one person (showoff), and sometimes it is actually helpful for them to do their crow thing as the combatant the darkspawn can’t sense coming. maybe a year or two later, the world’s most miserable first talon (“they don’t even let me do my own assassinations anymore!”) quits his job, thoroughly disappoints his grandmother, thrills his demon, hands all his power to teia, and shows up somewhat nervously with as many antivan delicacies as he fears forgiveness will require

[crheativity]

Can we get a part three of This with riddle and Ruggie?? Thank you! 💜 it's fine if you can't do it btw!

SUMMARY: Someone's picked a fight with Prefect! But he isn't going to let anyone hurt you anymore. Not on his watch. Part 3! Part 1 w/ Cater and Azul can be found here, and part 2 w/ Vil and Silver can be found here.

WARNING: Riddle calls someone a coward. Also the words idiot and jerk are in his part. People get hurt in Ruggie’s part but it isn’t really gory or anything

COMMENTS: I’m so sorry this took so long, my hands have been in a lot of pain the past couple months and are only starting to get better 🥲 I hope you enjoy it! Ruggie and Riddle were super good ideas for this prompt, this was so much fun to write! Thank you for the request! Also, if anyone has any ideas for more characters they’d like for this series, feel free to send in a request!

It must be raining.

You were just out in a storm. That’s all.

That would explain the crack of thunder that collided with your face and gave you a throbbing headache. The warm liquid blurring your vision and dripping out of your mouth and nose was just the rain, not some unholy mix of blood and tears. The chills that froze you where you stood was just humidity and the cold, not adrenaline and raw fear.

And yet, even with your desperate brain trying to come up with some reasonable explanation, the only thunderstorm you could see in front of you was a student you couldn’t recognise. Not with your head pounding like this. Not with the thunder in your ears.

There was something about the boy that scared you. That wasn’t uncommon - this school was full of terrifyingly promising mages. But the scariest thing wasn’t how he wielded his magical pen with deadly accuracy, or how strong he so evidently was.

It was just how much he seemed to be enjoying the mix of horror and pain, of blood and tears, that must have been so evidently and delicately splashed across your face.

His smile twisted as he raised his pen again, something in those cruel eyes of his setting off alarm signals in your aching head.

“This’ll teach you not to meddle where you don’t belong.”

The pen glowed, pure magic surrounding it as he prepared to shoot. His sadistic eyes were alight with entertainment. He knew what he was about to do. He didn’t care.

You squeeze your eyes shut and braced for the lightning.

“OFF WITH YOUR HEAD!”

Your eyes snapped open just in time to see the lightning, arcing gracefully yet violently through the air.

Aiming straight for your assailant’s neck.

“What the- hey! Get this thing off of me!” The boy snapped, tugging at the heart shaped collar that had just appeared around his neck.

“I most certainly will not!”

Spinning around, you saw two boys making their way towards you. One was tall with short green hair, glasses, and a familiar symbol - a club - painted just below his left eye. He looked worried, his gaze flicking from you, to your assailant, to his companion and back again.

The second boy made your heart skip a beat.

His small frame shook with rage. His face, twisted with anger, had become as red as his hair. He marched straight past you, heading towards your assailant, his magical pen gripped tightly in his hand.

Uh oh.

The moment Riddle Rosehearts decides to get involved, heads roll.

“How dare you?!” He yelled. “Using magic in a fight is a clear violation of the rules! Did you think you could just shamelessly flaunt your rule-breaking and expect me not to see it?! And attacking the magic-less prefect of all people! If you really must break the rules, at least fight someone on an equal footing as you, coward!”

The courtyard was dead silent as Riddle verbally ripped into the student, chewing him out for several rule violations and other discourtesies.

“But the prefect started it-!” Your assailant protested.

“I don’t know what history you and the prefect may have, but in this instance you attacked without provocation and without warning!” Riddle huffed. “And don’t try to lie to me. I saw the whole thing.”

The boy visibly deflated. There was no getting out of this for him.

“I want to see your student ID. Now.” Riddle ordered.

The boy sighed, pulled his ID out of his bag and handed it to Riddle.

“Ah, Pomefiore, hm? Be thankful you’re not in Heartslabyul,” he snapped, handing the ID back to the student. “Although,” he added, “Vil Schoenheit is certainly not the most lenient of housewardens. He will deal with you appropriately.”

You felt a hand rest on your shoulder. Looking up, you realised Trey Clover had stopped next to you.

He gave you a small, strained smile. “Are you alright, Prefect?”

Riddle glanced back over at you, a little startled. It appeared he had forgotten you were here.

“I’m alright… I think.” You managed, sending both the dormleader and vice-dormleader a smile.

Riddle’s face somehow got even redder and he looked away. You would’ve thought it almost funny if the world hadn’t started spinning. You quickly grabbed Trey’s arm to steady yourself.

“Maybe not.” You added.

Trey reached over to support you. “Riddle, you know more first aid than I do. I’ll take him to Pomefiore and explain the situation to Vil, but maybe you should take care of the Prefect or something?”

“Very well.” Riddle made his way over to you, reaching out to support you. He gently led you over to a bench and pulled out a handkerchief.

“Please pardon me, I’m going to administer first aid to you now.” He spoke stiffly. You nodded dazedly, and then felt a pang of regret as your headache tripled in intensity. You focused on breathing steadily as he cleaned the blood from your face and examined your injuries.

“You’ll have a couple of bruises, but nothing serious, thankfully.” He sighed in relief and instructed you to apply pressure to your nose and angle your head downwards to stem the bleeding.

Slowly but surely, the bleeding stopped. Riddle sat with you quietly the entire time, silently supporting you. You got the impression that he didn’t quite know what to say or do, and just how close you both were wasn’t helping matters. That was alright, though. Just having him here was enough.

“Prefect…” Riddle spoke so quietly you weren’t even sure he’d spoken. He was looking away from you, his face a light pink colour. He seemed embarrassed.

“What’s up?”

Riddle took a deep breath, then slowly exhaled. “I… apologise for losing my temper back there. And also for not arriving and stopping him sooner. I’m truly sorry.”

You stared at him for a moment, then cracked a smile. “It’s alright. Although it would’ve been nice not to get hurt in the first place, it’s not your fault at all. You aren’t the idiot who tried to hurt me anyway.”

Riddle flinched at your ‘swear’. “Prefect!”

You grinned mischievously. “Wha-at? There’s no rule against calling someone an idiot, is there? Besides, you called him a coward earlier. If I’m going to get in trouble for calling someone an idiot then you should get in trouble for calling someone a coward.”

Riddle smiled and shook his head, his cheeks slightly pink. “Well then, I suppose I’ll have to watch my tongue. As Heartslabyul dorm leader, I simply must set a good example for my dorm members. Which means I must refrain from calling people… jerks.”

You gasped and clapped your hand over your mouth, trying so hard not to burst out laughing. “Riddle!”

His eyes lit up as you said his name. He looked at you so gently, so lovingly as you struggled not to laugh that you felt your face going warm.

Wouldn’t it be nice to stay like this forever….?

A yell of pain shot through the air, wrenching your eyes open in fear. Stumbling backwards, you drank in the scene in front of you before realising in horror what had happened.

Someone had jumped in front of you.

A beastman, to be more specific.

The boy stood protectively in front of you, breathing hard, hackles raised. He had dirty blond hair and an outfit much too big for him. His right hand was gripped tightly around his magical pen, his left was holding his right shoulder. Blood was beginning to fall at his feet.

Wait, blood?

Scanning him again quickly and you saw them: shards of ice crystals stuck out of his shoulder at every angle. Your stomach twisted and you felt the bile rise in the back of your throat.

“Prefect, go!”

“But-“

The boy turned at you and snarled. “Run!”

You stumbled backwards, stunned. A spell - another gift from your assailant - flew by your ear. Scrambling backwards, you cast your eyes around to find a place to hide.

There!

Sprinting over and sliding into the hiding spot, you peaked your head around and watched.

It was brutal.

The boy who saved you - the boy you now recognise as your crush, Ruggie Bucchi - fought viciously, yet his opponent was not the kind to give up easily. For every spell Ruggie had, this boy somehow managed to dodge or deflect almost every single one of them, and fire off a few of his own.

Come on, Ruggie. You thought. Please be okay.

Ripping your gaze from the fight, you pulled a packet of wipes from your bag and forced yourself to clean your wounds. Anything to distract from what was going on.

After all, there was no way you could help. You were magicless after all, so it was probably best to just leave things to those who could fight, right?

…Right?

A yell of pain forced your attention back on the fight. Both boys were now breathing hard, blood strewn across the courtyard. From the looks of things, neither boy could beat the other. Ruggie couldn’t break a hole in his defence and the other boy could barely hit Ruggie, who was sprinting and dodging like his life depended on it.

“Stay still, mutt!” The boy snapped, firing off spell after spell.

Ruggie didn’t even respond. His concentration remained on dodging and finding a weak point, but your assailant didn’t leave him time to cast a spell.

He just needed an opening.

Steeling yourself, you grabbed a rock and snuck around the two of them. You adjusted your grip on the rock.

Please, don’t let this hit anyone. You prayed, then stepped out into the open.

“HEY DIPSTICK, OVER HERE!” You yelled as loud as you could and then hurled the rock in his direction.

The boy whirled around and deflected the rock with magic in an instant. Seeing you, he seized his chance and prepared to fire off another spell. You squeezed your eyes tight and held your hands in front of your face.

“Laugh with me!”

No spell came. Opening your eyes, you saw the boy in front of you, clearly angry. He walked towards you rigidly, as if he was trying to do anything but that. He pulled his student ID out of his bag and handed it to you.

Then he turned around and walked away. Your eyes followed him as he walked a ways off, then stopped.

The boy whirled around, his magical pen aimed directly at you and began to cast-

And then was immediately knocked off his feet from a blast of wind magic.

Someone grabbed your arm. “C’mon Prefect, now’s when we run-“

Ruggie ran hard, tugging you along with him as you dodged through crowds of people, eventually slowing to a stop in front of some empty classrooms.

You gasped for breath and put your hands on your knees, trying to recover from your sprint. Glancing up, you saw Ruggie leaning against the wall, breathing hard.

He looked awful.

His shoulder looked worse, his uniform was singed and he smelled of smoke. He had countless scratches and scrapes. Yet despite all this, he caught your eye and smiled painfully.

“What… whatcha starin’ at, Prefect?” He panted, clearly exhausted.

“Your shoulder…” you managed. His smile fell and he shrugged - then grimaced.

“‘S fine. Don’t need to worry, shishish-“ he cursed and winced.

You walked over to him and looked him over. His face was ever so slightly pink as he looked away. He shook slightly as you tugged off his jacket and rolled up his sleeves.

Pulling out your packet of wipes, you looked up at him. “This okay?”

He glanced at you briefly, his face still pink, his ears flat against his head. He looked away again. “‘S whatever.” He mumbled.

You gently cleaned up his cuts and scrapes. Looking at his shoulder injury, you sighed. “I can’t do anything about that one. I’m taking you to the nurse’s office.”

“But-“ he protested, but fell silent when you cut him off.

“No buts. That’s serious, Ruggie. I’ll buy you doughnuts if you let me take you.” You added, hoping the bribe would work.

He hesitated, then smiled at you. “Fine. Shishishi, if I didn’t know better, I’d guess you’d care for me or somethin’.”

You simply stared at him.

He went red. “P-prefect-? Got somethin’ you wanna say? Haha…”

“Come on,” you said with a smile and a sigh. “Let’s get you to the infirmary.”

“Okay.”

What a dummy. You thought as you pulled him along. I think I love him.

♥Thank you for reading!! I hope you enjoyed it!!♥

[yutarot]

WOUNDED: nakamoto yuta — written series 1/3

PART ONE. a truth that you weren’t looking for

WORD COUNT: 3.7k

GENRES; romance, angst, undergroundfighter!yuta, forced proximity, strangers to lovers, college au.

WARNINGS; mentions of cheating (neither main characters cheat), mentions of sex, mention of smoking, language.

DISCLAIMER; all portrayals of people are fake and from my imagination, in no way am i claiming that they act like this irl.

TAGLIST—OPEN!

NOTES; here it is!!! hope you guys like the first part ♡

the night was nothing like how you remembered. the cool air of your dorm's half broken fan, whirring around aimlessly as you attempted to sleep. there wasn’t any reason for you to be restless, you had just celebrated your two year anniversary with your boyfriend, johnny, your best friend had just moved into the apartment opposite yours, and you had just received an A on last semester's final assignment.

your room was dark, the dim light from the kitchen only slightly seeping under the door, a yellow hue which saturated the shadow and somehow, you blamed it as being the reason you couldn’t get yourself to sleep.

but nothing about tonight was worth sleeping for.

saving the effort of having to get up in the morning, you sat up in your bed, swinging your legs to the side and bringing yourself to your feet. you decided that if you weren't going to sleep now, you wouldn't sleep at all. you'd spent the day in bed anyways, all your friends busy at parties you didn't feel like going to, even johnny had called you out on it.

you walk to your dorm kitchen, silence tracing behind your footsteps as you read the clock hands ahead of you.

2:48am. could be worse. you make your way over to the fridge, the cold chill of it blasting in your face as you reach for a carton of orange juice.

but before you could even reach to grab a glass, something, no, someone makes you stop in your tracks.

your boyfriend.

“johnny?” you question, voice little over a whisper. he stumbles across the room to you. you had given him a spare key a few months ago, expecting him to use it only in dire emergencies. so for him to be standing in your apartment, a stain on his shirt and eyes half closed, you can’t help but be concerned.

you rush over to him, hand reaching up to his forehead and checking his temperature, you repeat his name in hopes that his attention will turn to you.

“yyeaaaass.” he slurs.

he’s drunk.

“what are you doing here? your dorms on the other side of the campus?” you express your worry, taking his arm as he crushes you with his body weight. slowly and, albeit with a struggle, you settle him down on the sofa. you sit next to him, the smell of alcohol, sweat and– strangely vanilla– flooding your senses.

he smiles, his eyes lighting up, “i wanted.. to see you!”

you laugh to yourself, knowing his vision is probably way too blurry to even recognise where he is and ironically, he wipes his eyes with his right hand.

but you notice something.

something around his right wrist, something that isn't yours and most certainly, isnt his.

a blue scrunchie.

in that moment, it's as if he had pulled your heart out of your chest, tying the scrunchie around it in a cold yet graphically ignorant act of betrayal. but you still feel it pump in your chest, your heartbeat rising and rising and–

“johnny?” you ask, and he blinks to look at you, struggling to keep his head up.

“what’s this?” you grab at the scrunchie, snapping it against his wrist. your face is one of disapproval, of accusation, and he notices your spite.

“owww!” he yelps, “why’d you do that?” he leans back, pouting in a way that you used to find cute, that you used to find endearing. but not anymore, like your trust for him, your view on him is ruined, corrupted.

“johnny.” you say more sternly this time. “who’s is it?”

you can see the struggle in his eyes, the struggle of him trying to act like he’s somewhere he’s not, like this conversation isn’t happening. he’s avoiding it and you don’t know why. except, you know exactly why, if only you could accept it.

but you don't have to, not until he accidentally opens his mouth.

“not yours.” he sighs. “there was…” he sniffles, “this girl.”

you pull away from him, the hand that you had rested on his thigh now by your side. you knew it, and yet some deep part of you wanted to act like it wasn't true. whilst you were here, at war with yourself, struggling to sleep amidst the stupid drill of your fan’s blades, slicing through the air, there he was. betraying you, losing you, all for a girl in a blue scrunchie.

“what girl?” you ask, eyebrows furrowing.

he can’t look at you. he knows he shouldn’t be saying all this to you, but he can’t help himself.

“not you.”

those two words crash into you, pulling you out of the final ounce of delusion you had left. it was really true.

“did you sleep with her?” you ask. you know you're going to extremes, but it was either now or never. johnny looked like he was about to fall asleep, and you would never get this out of him sober.

“sleep with herrr?” he slurs again, before laughing deeply to himself. “hellll yeahhh.”

and so that was how your relationship with johnny suh ended, over a blue scrunchie, accompanied by a carton of orange juice and listening to the annoying whirr of your broken fan.

what a perfect end to an almost-perfect relationship.

the next few weeks, you drowned yourself in the concept of finding a better man. you signed up to all the dating sites, you dressed yourself beautifully for every trip to the supermarket and you even asked your bestfriend to set you up on a blind date.

“oh, come on, eunji, you must know at least one guy who’d be up for it.” you whine to your best friend, her distaste in the conversation evident as she begins to walk away from you the moment you both stepped off the bus to the center of campus. you chase after her, “i haven't been looked at by a guy in weeks, let alone be spoken to by one.” you imitate crying noises, doing your best to get on her nerves.

after much of your incessant moaning, she finally turns to face you, arms folded. “yn. your ex-boyfriend is the college satan, everybody who knows him, knows to stay ten feet away from you at all times. it’s not my fault your ex is terrifying.”

“he's not that scary..” you reply, stepping next to her as you both begin your way to class.

eunji laughs, screwing her eyebrows in a look of doubt, “he saw a guy taking pictures of the campus and broke his phone because you just so happened to be in the corner of the photo.”

“okay yeah.. maybe that was a little extreme.. but he's not my boyfriend anymore!” you reply, “it’s not like he’s going to act like that now that we aren’t dating.”

eunji shrugs her shoulders, her action shortly followed by the unwelcomed entrance of your other friend, mark, as he swings his arm around your neck.

being nosey, as per usual, mark mockingly repeats your last three words, before asking what's going on. “whatcha talking about?”

both you and eunji answer immediately, “nothing.”

“oh come on, you always keep me out of your little girly conversations. what’s it this time? hmm let me guess.. yn wants a mani-pedi but she doesn’t know if her fingers should match her toes or if it even matters because no one will see them both anyways? because personally i think you should go for i-”

“okay, first of all,” you cut him off, “how the hell do you know so much about nail maintenance?”

eunji replies for him, pointing in mark’s direction, “younger sister.” he nods, letting you continue.

“and second of all, i was actually asking eunji if she, uh..”

“if she what?” mark asks, curiously. you look to eunji for help and she shrugs, letting you dig yourself out of the hole that you had created for yourself.

“..if she knew any guys she could set me up on a blind date with..”

in that moment, you watch as marks eyes widen, a look of shock, amusement and most definitely excitement, pooling amongst him. you had never seen him so exhilarated before, as if he was seeing light for the first time, muttering a million ‘oh my god’s before fully facing himself to you to elaborate.

“this is perfect, yn!” he yells, and your head tilts in question. “i have this friend in my engineering class who's just broken up with his girlfriend.”

“mark, i don't think i want someone whos fresh out of a relati–”

“shhhhh.” he interrupts you, eunji rolling her eyes, displaying every thought that's running through your mind. “it’s perfect. trust me.”

you look between mark and eunji and then back to mark again and you know it is a stupid idea, but maybe mark is right, maybe that's exactly what you need.

because a stupid breakup can only make way for stupid decisions.

marks idea of perfect, was definitely not the same as yours.

here you are, sitting in a run-down, chinese restaurant, walls plastered with a tinge of blue light, soaked up by the steam which drowns out the room. the stone floor is cracked and unstable, laying the ground for chairs which can barely hold your weight. you are the only people in here, not by any means of surprise. you and your blind date.

you haven't spoken a word to each other yet, just soaking each other in.

you don’t know if it’s simply just the contrast of the environment around him, but he is ethereal. dressed in an all dark, velveteen black shirt, paired with black pants and an almost-wrinkled yet perfectly tailored leather jacket, his form sits still ahead of you. but it isn’t just his attire that stands out to you, no, his face is far from anything you had expected, his hair falling around his forehead lazily yet in perfect shape, the dark strands reaching down to the base of his neck, the choppy yet gorgeous style making it impossible for you to draw your eyes away from him. it takes him 3 seconds of clearing his throat for you to realize you’re staring.

but how could you not, this man is incredibly beautiful.

well, that was until he opened his mouth.

“i’m not here to date you.” he says, his dark eyes shedding each and every thought from your mind until you finally realised what he was saying.

you furrowed your brow, “what?”

“i’m not here to date you.” he repeated, as if you didn’t hear him the first time. “yn? is it?” he says, holding his can of seven-up in your direction, his comedic attempt at a chivalrous joke.

“i.. uh… what?” you say again.

he laughs at your confusion and you only increase your expression further. there’s absolutely no way this man is sane.

“listen, i have a proposal for you.”

“don’t you think it’s a little too soon for that?” you joke, “it’s only the first date.” laughing, you pick up your chopsticks, finally attempting to dig into the meal in front of you, soggy and cold. but it takes you a moment to realise that he isn’t laughing along with you.

“you’re johnny's ex, right?” he says, putting a piece of kung pao chicken into his mouth, chewing on it as he looks at you, his eyes intense yet fearfully playful, making you feel on edge, unsettled.

“yes..” you reply, “wh-”

“he cheated on you, right?”

the question knocks you off your tracks, making you almost choke on your food. these invasive questions, his amount of knowledge of you and johnny, it made you wonder what he really wanted from you.

“you want something, don’t you?” you ask, putting down your chopsticks and leaning your head on your hands, subsequently making your face fall closer to his.

he looks up from his dish, surprised yet delighted to see you so close, a smirk lining his lips.

“and what if i did?” he smiles, “would you say yes to a stranger.”

the implication in his voice, the sensuality of his eyes on yours, it has you questioning so many things: what does he want? who is he? why is he so interested in your past relationship?

but each of those questions are answered as he leans back in his chair, lifting his hips up to adjust his body to make room for his legs below the shitty, plastic table.

“i’m just like you.” he says, “my ex comes home, drowned in the scent of my least favorite cigarettes, mind fried by alcohol. and here i still am, wondering who decided to mess with what’s mine, who she decided it would be a wonderful idea to cheat on me with.” his eyes are still at yours, studying your every reaction. he’s right, that is exactly how you remember that night.

“so?” you ask.

“so.. you're going to tell me that you don’t care who he did it with? who he took below him that night whilst you stayed at home, not a clue in the world? it doesn’t intrigue you the tiniest bit?” he finally sits up from his chair, face to face with you as he tilts his head, eyes travelling to each corner of your face, as if he is reading your skin like it’s the words on the page of a book.

you gulp, “i do. every day.”

he smirks again before leaning back in his chair, “atta girl.”

whilst he waves over the waiter to take your food away, you begin to think to yourself about yuta’s words. he was right, you do care, and it kills you that you’ll never know.

unless..

“your proposal.” you ask.

“my proposal…” he tucks a strand of his hair behind his ear, growing slightly damp from the steam in the air. “my proposal is that we spy on each other's exes. you befriend nari whilst i befriend johnny, our sole purpose being to find out who they cheated on the other with. that way we both get what we want.”

as you’re listening to the words leave yuta’s mouth, you do everything in your power to process them. as much as your mind is telling you how horrible of an idea this is, to meddle in somebody else’s business, there’s a voice in your head reminding you of that night, the cold air that surrounded you, the orange juice carton that laid out, still and untouched on the side.

the blue scrunchie.

“i’ll do it.” you say, “i’ll befriend her.”

his smile appears once more.

but for all you knew, you just made a deal with the devil.

and there was absolutely no going back.

that next week, you spent each hour of each day, cautiously walking round campus, awaiting a call, a text, anything from yuta, so as to begin his plan. but there was nothing. you contemplated asking mark, but from his cheeky remarks about your date and endless questions about what you thought of yuta, you had somewhat of an idea that yuta had told him that the very opposite of what had actually happened that night, had occurred.

you finish packing up your books and your laptop from the cafe table you’re sitting at, stuffing your papers in your bag and walking toward the campus entrance, deciding to cut through the engineering block in order to get to your car.

it’s raining outside, a horrific portrayal of the peace you were formally feeling, interrupted, disturbed.

for as you're walking, you notice the familiar sheen of dark leather, shining from the shoulders of someone standing horrifically close to someone very familiar to you.

yuta is standing, engaged in what seems like a deep conversation, with your ex-boyfriend.

but yuta’s eyes are seemingly fixated on you.

as soon as you notice them, you slide behind the back of a bookshelf, luckily situated on the edge of the hall and easily blocking you from johnny’s sight. yuta, however, had watched you hide, second by passing second.

you peep your head around the corner of the shelf, watching as yuta whispers something to johnny who immediately walks off. not once did his eyes leave yours, not once did he look away.

once he had left enough time for johnny to be far enough in the distance not to notice anything, he raises his eyebrows, lifting his hand to outstretch one finger, signaling you to come over to him.

hesitantly, but definitely not out of your own will, you do as such, walking closer and closer to him, like he’s an impending doom that is laid out before you, tempting yet horrifically wrong.

“i’m keeping my side of the deal. why aren’t you?” he questions, arms crossing over his chest.

“what?”

“you need me to speak up?” his eyebrows rise in curiosity.

you definitely didn’t mishear him, you think to yourself. but you definitely didn't understand what the hell he was talking about.

“why aren’t i keeping my side of the deal. that’s what you asked me.”

“oh so she can hear me.”

your eyes narrow at his, the disgust in your face at his jestering evident as he laughs to himself.

you sigh, “i don’t know anything about this girl, yuta. a little bit of help would be nice.”

“am i not helping you enough?”

“yuta.” you’re starting to get annoyed. as the lack of people in the hall, luckily for you, is starting to decrease, you exhale, pulling yuta’s arm and dragging you both into an empty classroom.

holding out your hand, arm outstretched before you in his direction, you present to yuta your phone, screen illuminated on the ‘add contact’ screen.

yuta looks between the screen and you, a smirk lining his lips.

“you already have my number, darling, is all this spying making your memory go foggy?”

rolling your eyes, you explain to him that it’s nari’s number that you want.

yuta takes the phone, typing in her number before passing it back to you.

“you have a week.” yuta says, “and therefore so do i. understood?”

you nod before yuta nods back, turning away from you and walking out the door.

it’s when you look down that you notice that yuta hadn’t just added his ex-girlfriends number to your phone, no.

he had sent her a message.

your eyes close in annoyance, a sigh escaping you as you process the words on the screen below you.

‘i’m in class 7B in the engineering block. meet me right now. - yuta’s secret admirer ;)’

oh how you’re going to kick his ass.

sitting on one of the tables, you wait for yutas ex-girlfriend, nari, to enter the room. after about 5 minutes of waiting, you hear a delicate knock on the door.

“come in.” you yell, looking up from your phone and placing it on the table beside you.

as she walks in, her light hair swinging behind her, you roll your eyes at the stubborn yet surprised look on her face. her eyes widen briefly before returning back to normal.

“and you are?” she says.

“i’m not yuta’s secret admirer, so you can wipe that look off your face.” you say, bluntly.

taken aback, she folds her arms.

“what is it? and how’d you get my number? is this about-”

“the student union board, you’re an ambassador so your number’s up there. though i’m sure you’re aware of that considering how many calls you must get.” you laugh, the sarcasm lining your voice. you know you should probably be a little nicer to her if you want to find out who she cheated on yuta with, but you can’t help but think about how you felt the night johnny came home, and therefore, how yuta must have felt. after all, this girl is just like johnny.

“i’m not yuta’s secret admirer,” you repeat, “but i am his friend.”

“right.” she says, laughing.

“what’s funny?”

“that’s what they all say. they all think they know him. they all think that he’s this perfect image of a person, no faults, no flaws. jungwoo is his bestfriend and even yet, he doesn’t know him. it’s funny, that’s all.”

you squint your eyes in confusion. “that’s easy for you to say, it’s not like you’re a perfect saint either.”

she scoffs. “so he told you, huh?”

“could have probably figured it out by meeting you if im honest, but yes, he told me.”

she steps closer to you.

“who told you? yuta? or was it johnny?”

“why would johnny tell me that you cheated on yuta?”

“so it was yuta? you want to know why i cheated on yuta?”

your brows are etched with confusion.

she stands, looking you up and down but your form stays sat on the table, one leg crossed over the other.

“that’s the only reason you want me? nothing else?” she says.

you nod before she continues, but you sense an odd feeling of relief trace her features. “all yuta did was lie to me. day in, day out. ‘nari don’t worry ill be back before you’re asleep.’ ‘im just going to the store.’ ‘i have an assignment due.’ every single lie he told me, every single excuse he made. he hid it all from me. he’s a liar!”

you can see she’s getting physically angry even talking about it.

perfect. get angry. that only makes this so much easier.

“hid what from you?”

slowly, but ever so harshly, you watch as her features contort from anger, fading into a smile as it rests on her face.

“no…” she whispers. “no, you don’t get to know.”

“what?”

“if i had to suffer, if i had to discover this secret of his the way i did, then no, you’re not getting this any easier than i did. if he lied to me, then he can lie to his new bitch too.”

and with that, she turned on her heel, swiftly pulling the door to a slam behind her.

her words echoed in your mind. over and over.

but one word stuck out in particular to you.

one word:

secret.

yuta was hiding something.

from you, from his friends.

from the world.

masterlist — next

notes; hope you enjoyed so far. this is just the beginning 😟😟 so excited for this plot to progress u have nooo idea. lmk your theories 😋😋

taglist; @sleepyvic @thegracerammy @jenohyun @spicyryujin @do-you-remember-summer-127 @pandagirl753 @flamingi @nattan127 @peterm4rker @lesuneczka @kongjjen-recs

[hayleysayshay]

I think I’m a bit disappointed for these episodes as I think I read a couple of reviews that implied the second half of the season was amazing and it’s just uh not so far.

I didn’t hate it, I liked a lot of it. I generally don’t really have an issue with the Thordak fight being done without Percy and Keyleth doesn’t have a vestige (did they just… forget). If they’re building up to Raishan, fine, I don’t really care that much about the order of fights or who’s doing what unless it is thematically weaker (Vex led the armies into battle and Vax got the kill shot! Fine by me).

Biggest problems:

— Why is Pike turning against the Everlight? S1 was about having faith in herself, her friends and the Everlight. Here it’s just like ‘fuck gods believe in yourself’ and I’m like ?????? Is this c3 influence? These episodes are from 2022 but this seems like a random concept. Like she doesn’t need the Everlight to do magic anymore, just her blood? Okay??? Weird. Like in a story where the gods are real, I like that we have some characters who choose to follow them and some don’t.

— Percy is just too fucking nice here. In the campaign he offers forgiveness but recognises that Ripley needs to die. Here he offers forgiveness and is killed for it. So like, don’t offer forgiveness? Is that what the show is saying? Instead of offering forgiveness for personal reasons but being pragmatic about it, Percy comes across as idealistic which is basic and too nice. And then he dies and Ripley escapes? Right now I don’t see why Ripley and Percy couldn’t kill each other, and Orthax still gets his soul — thematically stronger and we can be done with Ripley. I don’t really mind that they haven’t even suggesting trying to bring him back.

There’s also the continuous problem that has been there since s1 that platonic friendships have been gutted. Percy and Keyleth don’t get any moments so Keyleth barely cares about Percy. Vex just accepts Scanlan not being there, would have been more interesting if she was more annoyed because it felt like a betrayal. Idk.

Idk like I thought episodes 1-6 were really strong and this isn’t really it lol.

[jimmyandthegiraffes]

Where’s that post I made about Mike being the companion that broke under the horrors bc I’m still right. When I think abt the THINGS some companions have had to endure and have still seemingly been fine, and then I think of mike losing himself and his values to a festering psychological wound that left him open to radicalisation, it’s like he is the evidence that actually everything isn’t fine.

Which is why it’s so important that he should be next seen in meditation, in the seeking of peace, in quietness and healing because not only is he a character that needs it he’s also a character that knows he needs it and seeks it out for himself, because he doesn’t recognise who he is anymore and he wants, not to redeem himself in the eyes of others (he won’t even go near UNIT, not even when he needs their help, he goes through Sarah Jane instead!), but to become a better person, to stop being a threat, and to heal for his own soul’s sake.

And so he goes from someone who was willing to see the entirety of human history erased, to someone who will risk his life for one person and the fact that that ultimately saves his life always imo comes across as a bit easy if you watch planet of the spiders without this context in mind. But when you do think about where Mike has been, psychologically, from the green death through to planet of the spiders, it doesn’t seem easy at all but actually a significant if understated character moment.

[ii-meeple-confessions]

Cobs is obviously a terrible person and I hate him (As a character.but as you can probably tell I love his writing…ouu) But I think people aren’t really seeing the bigger picture.He’s a lot more than just some evil guy who is evil for the sake of being evil 

Well like yeah he’s absolutely awful but nobody really goes in depth about just how sad and hopeless cobs is. 

Cobs’ job is literally all he really has.He doesn’t have a good relationship with his parents, He doesn’t have any friends, no people he cares about, so all he can do (or at least all he thinks he can do) is dig himself deeper into a hole as he becomes more corrupt and powerful and just. more unforgivable.And that’s really sad.It really bums me out when a character is unforgivable because I know that it didn’t always have to be that way. 

Yeah to add onto that, just the thought of being deemed irreedeemable is absolutely horrifying because you literally cannot ever come back from that. 

Maybe cobs knows that he’s gone to far but recognizes that he can’t really ever be forgiven so he just doesn’t even bother.Or maybe he jus doesn’t care 

I wonder at what point in time would cobs have been able to actually better himself. Where he could even have been considered a good guy. A time where he could have been actually able to change and grow as a person and fix his mistakes. A time where he was just a corn that’s passionate about tech who had good intentions and wanted to be the guy to make these amazing advances in technology. That time was probably before he created mephone3gs because of everything that happened with the shimmers 

Since his job is all Cobs has, the thought of losing it must be horrifying to him because then he will have left nothing to do but face the consequences of everything he’s done and recognise just how terrible he is. And he doesn’t wanna do that. Kinda similar to how Mephone tends to hide his true feelings behind the reality show; so once everything was gone he began to finially kind of reflect on everything and start to really wallow in his guilt and misery. (Though mephone isn’t nearly as bad as cobs because he’s at least redeemable!!!) So when cobs started to be all scary and lash out at mephone after warning the shimmers I think there was also a lot of fear behind that anger.He’s sooooooooooo becoming desperate because he CANNOT lose the one thing (his job) that makes him feel like he’s still holding onto his sanity.his morality

Cobs is one million percent repressing every single emotion that could ever make him feel vulnerable. But those feelings of guilt and maybe even feeelings of longing for a sense of comfort or desire for things to turn out better would rise to the top once the company begins to flop. (Doubt he’d make an effort to change though)And as we see in the show, Meeple as a company was kind of falling off anyways!!!!!!And he didn’t like that!!!!!like dude nobody wants your products anymore!!!!!!!!!!!My guy even tried to yoink mephone’s show jus becsuse he thought it would help the business. EUGGHHHGHHH he was really becoming desprate 

Idk man I just think he’s sad 🙁 Typing this up in my notes app really late at night sso it may not make sense idk.proofread it like 3 times though so hopinv it’s an okay analysis 💔honk shoo mimimimimimi

Cobs makes me so sad though and I really wish people would think about his character a little deeper because he’s more than just some evol guy who just doesn’t gaf about anyone. (SAD evil guy who doesn’t wanna gaf) 

I really like to think about what makes bad people, well, bad people. Cobs makes me ponder a lot.Makes me have thoughts that i think about thinkingly

For the record NONE of this is AT ALL an excuse for what he’s done .Cobs SUCKS and i’m so glad he didn’t get a redemption arc because that would have been BORING and he doesn’t deserve it.Make that man evil and tragic forever ‼️‼️oh wait nvm he’s dead!!!!!!!!!!!!!(I yelled hip hip hooray when he exploded i hate that guy)

-Dreamer anon 

^ I have sent like a million katrillion messages on tbis blog so maybe i give myself a name

.

[bijouxcarys]

𝑻𝒊𝒆𝒔 𝑻𝒉𝒂𝒕 𝑩𝒊𝒏𝒅 (𝑹𝒐𝒎𝒂𝒏 𝑹𝒆𝒊𝒈𝒏𝒔 𝒙 𝑶𝑪) - 𝑪𝒉𝒂𝒑𝒕𝒆𝒓 𝑺𝒆𝒗𝒆𝒏

Masterlist

Character Profiles/Face Claims

Playlist

A/N: Okay, I'm super happy with how this one turned out, so my Satanist ass is praying y'all enjoy this one gahhh. And thank you for the kind words thus far. It means a lot that people are enjoying this since it's wayyyy out of my comfort zone and I've never written anything like it before!

Tags: @trippinsorrows @empressdede @thetribalqueen @heauxvibez @bigsimperika

@cyberdejos2 @keyaho @headoftheetable @jstarr86 @southerngirl41

@tshepisho @cry1nwhileimcumm1n @maeb99 @thedesireds @dzdndcnfsd

@expert-texpert @niknakbucks92 @sillyteecup @trentybenty

(let me know if you want to be tagged in future Roman fics)

January 3, 2014

SoHo turned into a mess tonight. Nate and Lana thought they could slip into one of those flashy clubs, but of course, someone recognised Nate. The bouncers gave the excuse that she’s underage—technically true at 18—but that’s not the whole story, is it?

Dimitri… God, his anger was something fierce. He ripped into her the moment she stepped through the door, calling her an embarrassment. Modern music, parties—he sees them as distractions, as if he’s forgotten what it’s like to be young and reckless.

But Nate isn’t a child anymore. She’s growing into her own, and it’s painful watching him treat her the same as he does Katya. Nate’s got that fire. That untamed spirit that’s as thrilling as it is dangerous. I worry where it will lead her.

I’m scared for them, for both my girls. Dimitri’s world is too dark, too consuming. I can only hope that they find a way out—a path that’s not as suffocating as the one I ended up on.

But hope feels like such a fragile thing these days.

Nate ran her hand through her hair, gripping it at the roots as she finished reading the same journal entry for the 5th time. She wasn’t sure why she was obsessing over it—probably something to do with the fact it was the only one she could find in her family’s library. Stuffed away in a drawer. 

It wasn’t even like it was that out of the ordinary, either. Nate was always aware of her mother’s reluctance when it came to family business. Which begged the question for her as to why she married her dad in the first place. Maybe he was different back then… Maybe he wasn’t always a stubborn, heartless, iceberg of a human being. 

Nate would begrudgingly gamble on her mother being beside herself, if she was to see how things were now. How her oldest was slowly morphing into her husband each passing day. Nate didn’t like it either, let’s get that straight. But when you grow up and remain in the presence of a parent, the chances are you’ll end up just like them.

And that was… terrifying as a concept.

Granted, Nate had a good 30-something years to go before she reached his age. But even so, if she were to travel back in time and come face-to-face with the 19-year-old version of herself, she wouldn’t recognise herself. In fact, she looked back on that time of her life like a stranger watching a soap opera. Memories were scattered, robotic, surreal. And she couldn’t pinpoint when the change happened.

Maybe it was the sick reality of losing her mother to such a tragedy, or the disillusionment of justice not being served. 

Or maybe there was simply a switch, hiding behind layers and layers of resilience, bullets, and blood, that remained in a permanent state of off when it came to facing the fact that her mother would hate the person she’d become.

The thought made her skin crawl. She pushed the piece of paper away, as if distance could somehow sever the connection between her and the woman who had given her life. But the truth was, no matter how far she ran, she couldn’t escape the blood that ran through her veins.

Nate rubbed her temples, trying to ward off the headache that was beginning to form. She needed to get out of her own head, to focus on something tangible, something she could control. Her mother’s death had been a tragedy—one that had left scars too deep to heal. But this… this was something else entirely. This was a reckoning.

And if there was one thing Nate Volkov knew how to do, it was to survive a reckoning.

Even if it meant momentarily blocking it all out and pretending like it wasn’t happening.

So, she did the only thing she could think of to bring her out of the slump. She whipped out her phone and sent a not-so-cryptic message to the only girl on the planet who knew how to throw life out the window, even for 12 measly hours.

Nate: my lovely lana babe…😁

Lana: My gorgeous Natalka

Nate: how do we feel about X tonight??

Lana: …😏

Lana: Do you even need to ask?

Nate: 🥂🥳

⋆༺𓆩☠︎︎𓆪༻⋆

Roman was mid-rep, the barbell hovering above his chest, when the familiar sound of the FaceTime ringtone cut through the steady rhythm of his workout. He paused, muscles tense, debating whether to finish the set or take the call. But as the ringtone persisted, and he cast a subtle glance over at the contact number, he sighed, carefully racking the weights before grabbing a towel to wipe the sweat from his face.

With one last deep breath, he grabbed his phone and hit “accept” to Maria’s call, but the sight of Ava’s beaming face and gap-toothed grin instantly brightened his mood.

“Hey, baby girl,” he greeted.

“Hi, Daddy!” Ava’s enthusiasm was potent, the excitement in her voice nearly bursting through the screen.

“Whatchu doin’?” he asked with a paternal smile, pulling up a chair and sitting down.

“Me and Mommy made pancakes.” Her chestnut curls bounced around her head as she practically vibrated with energy. It was obvious she was experiencing some kind of pancake-induced sugar rush, and the idea warmed Roman’s heart somewhat. He was just glad that she seemed to be enjoying her childhood whenever he spoke to her. The last thing he wanted was for her to be in an environment that felt unsafe, or made her feel the slightest bit uncomfortable. 

“Oh, Daddy, guess what I did today!”

Roman chuckled. “What’s that, Princess?”

“Italian! Mommy got me a teacher. She’s a nice lady!” Ava looked over at Maria, who was busying herself with some dishes in the background, before focusing back on the call. “I learned so many new words! Wanna hear?”

“Of course, I do,” Roman said, leaning in and giving her his full, undivided attention. “Lay it on me, girl.”

Ava straightened up, her little face scrunched in concentration. “Ciao, papá! Come stai?” she announced proudly, her pronunciation careful and slightly off, as one would expect for someone her age.

Roman grinned. “Molto bene, grazie! E tu?”

The small child giggled, clearly pleased with herself. “Bene! Bene!” she echoed, clapping her hands.

“That’s great, Ava,” Roman praised, his heart swelling with pride. “You’re getting really good at this.”

“Mommy says I’m a… na… na-tu-ral…natural,” she added, glancing back at her mother in confirmation, as though asking if she’d said the word correctly. Roman saw Maria smile, but she didn’t look up from what she was doing.

“You know,” he continued, his demeanour thoughtful. “Maybe next time I see you, I could teach you some Samoan.”

Maria’s subtle scoff in the background didn’t go unnoticed by Roman, and it thankfully went straight over Ava’s head, but he ignored it, focusing on his daughter’s wide-eyed curiosity.

“What’s that mean? Samoan?”

“Samoan is my family’s language. It’s part of your DNA, baby, that means it’s in your blood. Who you are.” His voice remained gentle and calm.

Ava tilted her head, still trying to grasp the concept and wrap it around her developing brain. “What’s DNA?”

He smiled, choosing his words carefully. “DNA is what makes you… you. It’s like a recipe, like with the pancakes you made with Mommy. It says you’re my daughter, and Mommy’s daughter too. Half of you is from your mom, and the other half is from me. That’s why you’re so special, baby girl. You got two strong families in you.”

“So…” her face scrunched up in thought. “I’m half Samoan?”

“That’s right,” Roman affirmed tenderly. “And that means you’re strong, just like all the Samoans before you. You got heart, soul, and a lotta courage. Never forget that.”

“But I thought Nonna was Italian?”

“She is. Which means…” a playful smirk spread across Roman’s face, “I’m also half Samoan, half Italian,” he added with an exaggerated whisper.

Ava gasped, her little face lighting up at the mere thought. “I’m just like you, Daddy!” she squealed.

Roman half-expected Maria to come out with some sarcastic comment, but even she knew it was wise to keep her mouth shut in front of their baby girl. It still gave him some sick kind of satisfaction, knowing she couldn’t say a word to their daughter’s excitement over being more like her Daddy than she initially thought.

“I wanna learn Samoan too, Daddy!”

“I promise you, you will, baby. But for now, let’s start with this… Oute alofa ia oe.”

It took Ava multiple tries to get a hang of the pronunciation, and she still wasn’t grasping where to correctly emphasise syllables. But as she managed to repeat those words back to her father, he, for the first time in years, felt that strange tickle you get in the back of your throat that usually precedes tears.

He wasn’t prepared for how extraordinary it was to hear his little girl speak Samoan.

“What does that mean, Daddy?” she asked with an innocent tilt of the head.

“It means I love you… And I never ever want you to think I don’t.” Even though the weight of Roman’s words were too hefty to be considered by such a young human, he still felt the need to proclaim them. At any chance he could, he’d always remind Ava of how much her daddy loves her. Because he never knew if he’d still be here tomorrow.

“Keep practising your Italian, baby. You keep it up, and soon you’ll be able to talk to everyone in Italy.”

Ava’s eyes widened in amazement, as if the idea of speaking fluent Italian to an entire country was the most exciting thing in the world. “Really?”

“Really,” Roman confirmed with a chuckle. He glanced away for a moment, checking the time at the top of his phone screen and the smile on his face faltered a fraction. “Uh, listen, Ava, Daddy’s gotta go…” His heart broke at the saddened expression on his daughter’s face. “I’ll call you tomorrow, I pro–”

“Oh, you can’t call her tomorrow, Roman,” Maria finally interjected, taking control of her phone and picking it up, subsequently removing Ava from the picture. “She’s at school a little longer, and then she’s got dance class until 8. She might be able to say goodnight, but that’s it.”

Roman’s brows narrowed in confusion. “Why she at school longer?”

“Because,” Maria huffed, “I have things to do, Romano, doing some work on the house, and she’s gotta stay a couple hours with some other kids. Va bene per te?”

Roman closed his eyes momentarily and slowly ran a large hand over his beard, the disdain for Maria’s clipped tone laying dormant in the pit of his stomach. 

“Lemme say goodnight to her,” he deviated before he said something that landed him further in the shit with his ex-wife than he already was. Maria didn’t argue, for once, and tilted the phone so Roman could see Ava.

“Night night, Daddy!” she reached up to wave at him the best she could. “I love you!”

“Love you too, Princess. G’night–”

“Gotta go, bye, Roman,” Maria interjected, and before Roman could process what was happening, the call ended.

He stared at the blank screen for a moment, letting out a long breath. He knew he should have been thinking about planning his next visit to Florida. Ava needed to see him in person. If there was one thing Maria was right about, it was that, at least…

⋆༺𓆩☠︎︎𓆪༻⋆

Roman headed back upstairs, his body still buzzing from the workout. He could hear the faint hum of conversation as he approached the living room, and as he stepped inside, he spotted Naomi lounging on the couch, her legs tucked under her. She looked up from her phone and smiled when she saw him.

“Hey, big man,” she greeted warmly.

“Trin,” Roman acknowledged her with her middle name and a nod, a faint smile tugging at the corners of his mouth, before looking over at the two over-grown kids that seem to squat in his house on occasion. “You two ready?”

“Almost,” Jimmy replied, a grin spreading across his face. He was leaning against the arm of the couch, looking relaxed but with that familiar spark in his eyes. Jey was pacing the room, clearly itching to get out and get the night started.

“Y’all actin’ like it’s the first time you’ve been to a club,” Naomi teased, rolling her eyes playfully.

“Just tryin’ to keep up with you, girl,” Jey shot back, his grin widening. “You know I’m gonna need some pointers on how to get these girls to notice me.”

Naomi laughed, shaking her head. “Please, the only thing you need to do is enter. Trust me, they’ll see you.”

Roman headed towards the stairs, chuckling to himself. “You might want to tone it down a notch, Jey. Don’t need you scarin’ off every girl in the place.”

Jey smirked, eyes gleaming with mischief. “Who said anything about scaring them off? I’m just lookin’ to bring one home tonight. Maybe two if I’m lucky.”

“Boy, you wild,” Jimmy chimed in, cackling. “Just remember, you ain’t got Roman’s kinda pull. Don’t get in over your head.”

“Trust me, Uce,” Jey gave his brother a pointed look. “I got this.”

Before he could continue his ascension up the stairs, Roman paused and looked back at him. “Just finish gettin’ ready, man, we’re hittin’ X, of all places. I don’t want any bullshit. We’re there to scope it out, not to start a fight.” 

Naomi raised an eyebrow. “That place? You really think it’s worth the hassle?”

“More than you know,” he replied without looking back. “But let’s not make it obvious. We’re just there to have a good time.”

“Right,” Naomi said, though there was a knowing look in her eyes. She knew better than to question Roman’s judgement, especially when it came to business.

⋆༺𓆩☠︎︎𓆪༻⋆

The plan was to hit up Madame X, a well-known nightclub in SoHo, where the Volkovs had their dirty little fingers in the pie. It was more than just a night out; it was a recon mission, though Roman had made it clear they could have a bit of fun too—within reason.

He wiped the condensation from the mirror, studying his reflection, determined to unwind—at least outwardly.

He stepped into the master bedroom, heading straight for his walk-in closet. He wasn’t in the mood for the full suit treatment tonight. This was SoHo, not a boardroom, and they needed to blend in while still looking like they belonged there.

Shifting through his clothes, he eventually settled on a pair of dark jeans that fit him just right—snug enough to show he had some muscle packed under there. He pulled on a black Henley shirt that clung to his broad chest and shoulders, the sleeves rolled up to his forearms, showing off a little bit of the tattoo on his arm. Over that, he grabbed a leather jacket, adding just enough… edge to the look. 

He wasn’t dressing to impress anyone, but he wasn’t going to look like shit, either.

He paused at the mirror for a minute, running a hand through his hair, pushing it back off his face with a healthy accompaniment of leave-in conditioner. Satisfied, he headed back downstairs.

“Damn, Uce,” Jey whistled as Roman made his presence known back in the living room. “You lookin’ to break some hearts tonight?”

“Nah, that’s your job, remember?” Roman teased with a side glance.

“Y’all already know I ain’t goin’ home empty-handed…” he trailed off, his words translating in a kind of sing-song cadence. 

“Please don’t get us thrown out,” Naomi sighed exaggeratedly, standing from her position on the couch and brushing herself down. Outfit on point, as always, reminding Jimmy that he was one lucky son of a bitch.

“Alright, let’s roll out,” Roman clapped, grabbing his keys. “Remember, we’re there to keep an eye on things. No wild shit, ua maua?”

Throwing his arm around his cousin’s shoulder as they walked out, Jey grinned. “You know me, Uce. I’m just there to enjoy the view… maybe get a lil’ closer to it, if you know what I mean.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Roman muttered, though there was still a hint of a smile there. Somewhere. “Just don’t bring any trouble back to my place. I’m serious.”

“I hear you, big dog,” Jey replied, but the smile on his face said otherwise.

⋆༺𓆩☠︎︎𓆪༻⋆

Roman pushed through the entrance of Madame X, the low, steady beat of the music vibrating through his chest as they stepped into the club. The space was a mix of modern sleekness and old-school decadence, with plush velvet booths and chandeliers casting a warm, intimate glow over everything. The walls were adorned with dark wood panelling, and the air was thick with the scent of expensive liquor and perfume.

His eyes swept over the room, taking in the scene—the couples huddled close in booths, the groups at the bar laughing too loudly, the women dancing with an effortless grace under the dim, red lights. It was a place that exuded a certain kind of danger, the kind that made people feel alive.

No wonder the Volkovs had shares in the place.

The Head of the Table’s presence didn’t go unnoticed. As they moved further into the club, he could feel the eyes on him—some curious, some appreciative, and some just plain hungry. He had a magnetic pull, the kind of energy that practically ordered you to stop and stare. It was a part of who he was, and he had learned long ago how to wield it to his advantage.

The group approached the bar, Roman taking the lead with Jey by his side. Behind them, Naomi and Jimmy stayed close together as a way of making a statement. Together, they exuded a commanding presence in its own right. She had a way of holding her own in any room, and Jimmy was… well, he was Jimmy. Charming, funny, and relentlessly protective over his woman.

Roman leaned against the bar, his eyes catching the gaze of a brunette a few stools down. She was gorgeous, with dark, wavy hair that framed her face perfectly, and lips that curved into a knowing smile as she met his stare. He felt that familiar rush of adrenaline, the one that always came when he was out in the wild, playing the game.

Before he could consider making a move, the bartender came over. “What’ll it be?”

“Whiskey, neat,” Roman replied, his voice low but clear as sin over the music. “Macallan, if you’ve got it.”

The bartender nodded and moved to get the drink, and Roman turned his attention back to the brunette. But before he could say anything, Naomi nudged him with her elbow, smirking as she and Jimmy leaned against the bar themselves.

“Eyes on the prize, Roman,” she jested just loud enough for him to hear. “You’re supposed to be scoping the place, not the women.”

“Can’t blame a man for appreciating the scenery…”

Naomi laughed softly. “Just don’t get too distracted, big man.”

“Business and pleasure, though right?” Jimmy chimed in. “Doesn’t hurt to mix the two.” He poked at Naomi’s ribs, encouraging a jolt and a swat on the arm from the woman in question.

Roman’s drink finally arrived, and he lifted it in a casual salute to his family. “Have a good night, but do not forget why we’re here.”

Jey received his own drink, and he turned to his cousin with the same playful glint in his eye. “You sayin’ we should keep it low-key, but I’m pretty sure if we wanted to, we could own this place tonight.”

Roman sipped his whiskey, letting the smooth burn slide down his throat. “Let’s not go that far. We don’t need the attention.”

“How ‘bout you focus on findin’ a girl who won’t run for the hills when they find out you’re still living off Roman’s coattails?” Jimmy swatted his brother away so he could order his own drink.

“Fuck off, Jimmy. Just ‘cus you married to ol’ Naomi here, don’t mean I gotta be tied down.”

Pushing himself up from the bar, drink in hand, Roman glanced over at the brunette once more, firmly deciding to shoot his shot. He rarely failed, anyways. But he didn’t leave without one last word to his cousins.

“Don’t do anythin’ that’s gonna make me have to bail your dumbass out later.” He turned to Naomi. “I am putting my trust in you. You have my full permission to whoop asses if they ain’t behavin’, a’ight?”

“You got it, Chief,” Naomi playfully saluted up at Roman, but she knew to take the request as seriously as anything.

Once again, Roman’s eyes locked onto the brunette a little further down the bar. He could feel the pull between them as her eyes met his, and she tightened the way her leg crossed over the other in the figure-hugging dress that drew more than his gaze. With a confident stride, he made his way over to her.

“Buy you a drink?” he offered lowly, carrying the weight of someone used to getting what they wanted. 

She looked up at him, a playful smile curving her lips. “Depends. What’s a girl like me gotta do to deserve a drink from a guy like you?”

Roman leaned in slightly, closing the distance between them. “You’ve already done enough, just by comin’ here.”

Her laugh was soft, provocative. “Is that your best line?”

He shrugged, allowing a grin to overtake his features. “Maybe. But I’m more about actions than words.”

“Is that so?” Her voice held a challenge, and Roman knew he had her hooked.

He ordered her a martini, sliding the drink her way. Their fingers brushed briefly, the contact sending a jolt through him.

“You don’t seem like the type who needs to chase,” she said, keeping her focus solely on him as she sipped her drink.

“I don’t,” he replied smoothly, “But sometimes, it’s about findin’ someone worth chasin’.”

Her breath hitched, the chemistry between them bubbling to the surface. He was allowing himself to get drawn in, and the possibility of taking her home became more prevalent with every second.

But just as the conversation was heating up, the music abruptly shifted. The pounding bass of an obscure European—Roman guessed Russian by the few words on the track—filled the room, pulling him completely from his focus.

“How you go from radio pop to this?” he muttered, not entirely impressed with the choice of music.

The brunette chuckled, taking another sip from her drink. “They take requests sometimes… depends if someone important enough requests it.”

Roman glanced around, spotting Jey shooting his shot with a couple of girls over at the booths, and Jimmy glued to Naomi on the dancefloor. But one little shift of his eyes, slightly to the left, allowed him to spot a familiar figure that he really wasn’t looking to encounter tonight.

Natalka Volkov, of all people, stood on a table at the other end of the room, her drink raised in the air. She was dressed in a sapphire blue dress that gripped onto her body in a way that made it impossible to ignore. Her usually composed demeanour was gone, replaced by a carefree, almost wild energy as she danced to the beat, clearly drunk but still wearily in control of her actions.

Next to her, a blonde woman—her friend, Roman guessed—cheered her on. The sight of her like this, so uninhibited, twisted something in his gut. She was a complication he didn’t need, didn’t want, tonight, yet here she was, intruding on his thoughts once again.

The brunette noticed his distraction. “Something wrong?” she asked, tilting her head curiously.

Roman forced a smile, shaking his head. “Just saw someone I didn’t expect.”

But even as he tried to focus back on the brunette, his mind was still on Nate. She looked like she was in her element, completely at ease in the chaos of the club, and Roman found the image burning into his mind. His frustration continued to simmer beneath the surface, her wild dance moves and carefree attitude completely throwing off the sexual charge he’d been building with the brunette. The heat from the club, combined with the tension thrumming through his body, made him crave an outlet for all the energy she’d so unwittingly disrupted.

An idea struck him, though: Nate was drunk, maybe too drunk to maintain the fierce walls she always put up. This could be his chance to get some answers. If she was this loose with herself, maybe she’d be loose with… information, too. The thought of outsmarting her, of getting the upper hand, spurred him on.

And when she finally hopped off of the table, damn near exposing herself in the process, that was when Roman made the decision to follow her toward the club’s dimly lit side area. Her movements were less calculated, swaying slightly with the alcohol coursing through her. This was his chance.

Turning around, Nate’s eyes clocked him approaching her and her expression swiftly shifted from carefree to guarded. And perhaps a hint of recognition, curiosity… interest?

“Volkov,” Roman called, pitched just enough to be heard over the music. “Didn’t expect to find you here.”

Nate raised an eyebrow, glancing to the side as she swayed on her heels. “What, you following women to the bathroom, now?”

He smirked, stepping forward to allow a few girls to pass them by, the proximity between the two decreasing. So close to each other that he could smell the scent of her perfume mixed with the alcohol on her breath. “Just curious what brings you to somewhere like this. You don’t strike me as the party type, Princess.”

Rolling her eyes, Nate took a sip of the drink that remained in her perfectly manicured hand—a vodka tonic, from the looks of it. “And you don’t strike me as someone who cares.”

“Maybe I’m just tryna figure out why you’re so dead set on blaming my family for somethin’ we ain’t done,” Roman shot back, clipping his tone at sharp. He impatiently waited as she took yet another sip from her drink, faced with the image of her plump lips curving around the edge of the glass and leaving a slight lipstick stain in its wake.

Nate’s eyes flashed with irritation. “Oh, so now you’re the victim?” She leaned up a little, her voice a bit slurred but still carrying that edge of defiance as she spat her words venomously. “You and your family have always taken what you wanted, so why should this be any different?” She let the question hang in the air, resting the weight of her body back against the wall.

Roman chuckled, running his tongue over his teeth before exhaling with an air of irritation. “Why don’t you tell me,” he started, opting to rest his hand on the wall beside her head, “just why is your Daddy so convinced it was us?” He didn’t even care that his way of wording his inquiry lacked his usual sophistication—he did have a level of leniency with her less-than-sober state.

She giggled, a rare sound that came across surprisingly light and entirely too blithe. “You think I’d spill all that just because I’m a little tipsy?”

Then, in a complete and utter moment of indiscretion, her hand brushed against his chest, pointer finger gently jabbing  just where the last button of his Henley sat. He tensed, entirely unhappy with the reaction her touch elicited. The warmth of her fingers burned through his shirt, searing into his skin. She was so close to him, too close—closer than sober her ever allowed herself to be. And he had to remind himself that this was an opportunity, not a distraction.

“C’mon, sweetheart,” he pressed, lowering his voice further, and boldly dropping his head just so he could be within inches of her ear. “Why not just give me a lil’ somethin’? You know I’ll figure it out eventually.”

Nate bit softly on her lower up, craning her neck upwards to look at him with an almost childish expression. “You’re so confident, Reigns. Always so sure of yourself…” she taunted through a sigh, but there was that underlying truth to them that caught Roman off-guard.

Before he could respond, Nate’s hand slid further up his chest, up to his neck, where her thumb brushed against his thick beard. Her lips pursed, almost as if she were cooing at him like a toddler. “You think you’re so smart… but you don’t know half of what’s really going on, do you?”

Roman felt his pulse quicken, not from the fact that Natalka Volkov, of all people, had her hand on him, but from the way she seemed to be teetering on the edge of saying… too much.

He needed to keep her talking.

“Enlighten me then, Princess.”

Nate’s eyes fluttered, half-lidded as she took a deep breath, the action only emphasising her chest to him. God, that dress… looks too damn good on someone so scheming.

“You think I’ll spill everything… about my dad,” she smirked, “When you know just as much as I do.” Her eyes locked onto his, the subdued lighting causing a menacing shadow to cast under his eyebrows and shield half of his eyes. 

“I might… despise my father,” she recklessly, and finally, admitted. “But even if I did know every little thing about whatever it is you’re trying to uncover…”

She attempted to push herself up from the wall, but only succeeded in anchoring her lower half forwards, causing one of her bare legs to brush up against Roman’s jeans. It shouldn’t have caused his arm to give out, even slightly, but it did.

“I still wouldn’t give anything like that,” she hummed, “To a man like you.”

Roman pulled back slightly, looking down at her straight-on. There was something in her expression, something that told him she wasn’t bluffing. He thought he’d gathered everything he needed on the Volkovs themselves. He thought he knew their dynamics, that the reason for their almost immortal, untouchable status in New York City was down to the very core of their operations: an unbreakable familial bond.

But this was one of those rare moments where Roman Reigns could definitively, and humbly, admit that he was wrong.

And in this situation, that made her either the most dangerous individual out there… or the most valuable.

Without breaking eye contact, Roman reached into his pocket, fumbling for anything he could write on. He pulled out an old receipt, ripping off a scrap and pulling a pen from his jacket. He quickly scribbled down his number, not wanting to think too much into his decision, and then looked at her with a hint of a smirk.

“Call me when you’re sober,” he said, holding the piece of paper between his fingers. Then, with calculated boldness, he slipped it down the front of her dress, making sure to tuck it right between her cleavage, the act intimate yet authoritative.

Nate’s breath caught in her throat, her eyes widening slightly at the cold touch of her enemy’s fingers, but she didn’t pull away. Instead, she watched him with a mixture of surprise and amusement. “You Samoans love playing with fire, don’t you?”

“I know,” he replied, before lowering his head one more time, his whisper close enough to allow Nate to embrace the heat of his breath, the combination of whiskey and mint potent. “Almost as much as the Russians, baby girl.”

With that, he clicked his tongue twice and winked, before pulling back. He gave her a once over and turned on his heel, hands making their way into his jean’s back pockets as he headed back to the crowd. But even as he walked away, he could still feel her eyes on him, the knowledge that she had just unintentionally given her family’s number one on their hitlist, priceless information.

But she’d figure that out soon enough.

[silverview]

alright i’m shifting back into tlw mode. i'm finally writing a fic from chas's POV and it's sticking a little bit. i know i can never actually do justice to him but the attempt is being made and i have a lot of thoughts, i'm just going to throw them all down in one place

chas might be my all-time favourite in9 character. reece has described the performance as being basically the same as he gives in sardines, which is a fair comparison honestly – the difference isn’t really in the performance or the character as much as in the circumstances. as in, stuart doesn’t do much relatively speaking and he never really has to shift gears onscreen. whereas chas is what you’d get if that character went through literally the full spectrum of human emotion onscreen in the space of half an hour, including an extended closeup on him experiencing the most extreme betrayal and mortal terror it’s possible to imagine, while covered in gunk and immobilised from the neck down. it's an extreme exercise in humanising/complicating a stock character, and it's an extraordinary performance. chas’s vulnerability and humour and courage carry the entire episode. and his little dancey dance. i love him for his defence mechanisms and the pain and heart that's underneath when he lets them drop. i love him for losing his dream, and coping with it terribly, and being forced to rebuild his life and his sense of self. i love him for being a bad person and a good person

and YES i love him for being camp!!!! i watched the original boys in the band recently and recognised so much of chas in some of those characters, especially emory, both as written + performed. crucially the humanising/complicating of a comedy stock character for pathos. tlw is only two seasons out from how do you plead and i think that contributed to some negative reactions about reece's camp performances being too exaggerated and/or too frequent. i don't think many people really noticed that urban explicitly, intentionally speaks & acts that way as part of his job. he is a man who is explicitly playing a character for most of his screentime. why exactly he does it in that particular way is not clear to me. i am desperate to understand that episode & character better, partly because i feel like unlocking it would also provide a key to better understanding their overall handling of gay characters & themes

i've talked before about chas and simon being linked by the experience of death by parasocial rejection. lately i've been thinking about how this strand of rejection (in a less fatal but still tragic form) also runs through reece's characters in merrily merrily and plodding on. "i never responded in kind" = *suffocates you with a pillow* = "move on" = "i don't even know if we are friends anymore." why is he always the one who loves too much, discovering that his feelings are not reciprocated? and why is this tendency punished so much more violently in episodes where it's figured as explicitly gay, hmm? if you read the end of plodding on as resolving the rift in that episode, then it's also resolving this long-running meta arc; if you read it as unresolved then it is also leaving the meta arc unresolved

anyway here's my tlw timeline. i have joe & chas being born in 1965 + 1975 respectively. that puts chas in his early 20s in the late 90s when atlantic 5 was active, 30 when olivia attempted suicide, 39 when he met joe, and 48 when he died. if you listen to the audio described version it literally does differentiate them as being "the younger one" / "the older one," even though that's not explicit in the episode. they do need a bit of an age gap to make the backstory work. idk, i know they have a small age gap irl – it's just funny to me that they managed to turn that into a more noticeable/significant age gap through sheer looks and vibes

and here is my tlw playlist and here is my dedicated chas playlist, which has some overlap and is still evolving and is a mix of songs about him + pure vibes. i get really emo thinking about him listening to eternal flame as a sad teenager and dreaming of finding love someday :/

[ethereance]

“We wanted to be a pilot!”

“And I did that. On Voltron. And now I’m tired and done.”

In a dream that isn’t, Lance reunites with the boy he used to be.

Sometimes it takes you to remind you of yourself.

***

ʀᴇᴍɪɴᴅ ᴍᴇ ᴏғ ᴍʏsᴇʟғ

Lance doesn’t remember a time when his dreams weren’t a plague of terrors infesting his dreams with ceaseless torment, over and over, every night one of regret and grief. The past does not leave him through his sleep.

But something feels different now as he takes off his shoes and toes at white sand, soft and grainy, texture tangible in a way that feels all too real and pleasant for a dream. 

But it’s a dream. He knows it, a conscious thought that is integral to this dream’s setup. And yet, in the way dreams don’t anymore, it brings him peace. 

An escape. 

This beach is so close to the real thing in Varadero. And yet, even with the sun out, sometime around midday, not a soul other than him stands on this beach. 

“Dude, are you meant to be me?”

Lance whirls around, and where once there had only been his footprints in the sand, a second him stands. Not identical. For one, most obvious, the twin altean marks that now reside upon his face—a feature even now he’s still adjusting to—are absent from his doppelgänger. 

He’s also wearing Lance’s green jacket. Lance hasn’t worn that one recently. It’s a nostalgic sight. 

“Huh?” Lance says intelligently. 

“You are!” the other him says, pointing towards him accusingly. Other him takes a step forwards. “It’s weird seeing yourself from the back, but I’d recognise my handsome face anywhere.”

Lance blinks. “Wow, weird dream.”

“You’re telling me,” says other Lance. Lance is starting to think he’s going to have to come up with a name for him. Other Lance is just confusing. And not to mention boring. “When I’m dreaming, I’m always looking out of my own eyes. I’m me, y’know? But I’m here, and you’re also here, and something tells me that I’m not just dreaming you up. You feel real. So what is this? Some kind of crossover? Are you a force ghost? A clone?”

Lance shivers at the mention of a clone. “I’m not a clone. I’m just… me. And you’re you. Whoever you are.” 

“I’m me. Lance,” says Lance two because that makes two of them. Okay. He’ll workshop it. “The one and the only. Or so I thought.”

“Eh, there’s a whole multiverse out there. We’re not as one and only as you’d think.”

“Oh cheese. For real?”

Lance nods. “Uhuh.”

“So you’re another me.”

“And you’re another me.”

“Dude,” says the-Lance-who-is-not-him. Quiznack. What’s a good name? “And I thought all this alien stuff was insane.”

“You get used to it,” Lance says. As with most strange occurrences these days, one learns to take it all in stride. Super long strides. Giant steps. Like he’s ten feet tall and not showing any signs of slowing down. 

“You do this often, then? Talk to other yous in the Lance-verse through dreams?”

“Nah. This is a first. I’ve never met another me before.” It’s an unsettling experience. His voice sounds different when it’s being spoken back at him. “Only another Shiro.”

“Woah,” says Pike, because what’s a pike but a lance by another name? No. Now it sounds like he’s talking to his m&m character. This other him lacks the fluffy ears for that. “So if it isn’t you doing this, and this isn’t me. What are we even doing here?”

And other questions Lance asks himself when the existential terror seizes hold of him in the early hours of the morning. 

“Could be the beach episode?”

“But I’m not even in my swimming trunks,” laments Tailor—um, Taylor, you know, because of how he threads the needle. Yeah. He thinks this other him would appreciate the name.      

Taylor closes his eyes and starts pulling this constipated looking face. It’s not very flattering. Lance has to wonder what he’s trying to accomplish with this. “Am I in them now?”

“The trunks?” asks Lance. 

“Yeah!”

“Nope.”

A pause. “How about now?”

“Still no.”

“So thinking them up doesn’t work,” says Taylor, sounding a little put out. He opens his eyes and flops onto the sand as if it is a mattress. Lance shrugs and joins him, sitting down. “Eesh, this dream can’t even dream right.”      

It is a weird one, Lance can’t deny that. The ocean breeze, the salt in the air. Had he not known he’d fallen asleep, he could call it all real. 

It certainly looks like it should be.

“I miss this beach,” says Taylor, and that’s something else that seems too real. The mournful look in his eyes as he stares out seaward, at the lapping water Lance had many a time body-boarded in. “And just. Beaches. In general. I miss Earth. I don’t even know when I’ll be able to see this again in real life.”

Homesickness is not a foreign concept to Lance. He knows the feeling well. But it has been a while.

“How long have you been in space?” he asks. Taylor still seems young in the ways he just doesn’t feel anymore, still riding into that oncoming storm blissfully unaware of the wreckage he’ll be left in, never quite managing to emerge whole. There’s still fog in his vision. His future is unclear.

“Not long. We saved this planet of rock people not too long ago. The Ball… ball. Balm something or other.”

Lance sucks in a breath. Okay, so. They’re going that far back. “The Balmera. That’s nostalgic. Almost forever ago now.”

Taylor regards him with a strange look. “Anyone ever tell you you talk like an old man?”

“Excuse me?!”

“Unless… wait. Are you an old man? Like, what’s the deal is with—” Taylor waves around his hand, gesturing to the entirety of Lance’s face. “—All of this. The markings. Don’t tell me you were secretly part altean or something where you’re from?”

Ah. 

This isn’t the first time someone has brought up Lance’s markings, nor does he see it being the last. Often he’ll get mislabelled as an altean and he’ll simply roll with it, finding too much hassle in correcting them if their conversation ends there. Others who know better ask questions, of course they do. He lacks the ears and the right colour hair, but has the markings every altean is born with. 

He’ll tell them they’re a gift, but alteans don’t have a history of handing them out on birthdays. 

It shouldn’t be possible.

But Allura always managed to challenge what was. 

“Oh. No. I’m not—I’m not any part altean.” He’s a hundred percent human. Always has been, always will. That’s just who he is. “It’s a long story.”

“Long because you’re old,” teases Taylor like there isn’t only four years of difference between them. 

Oh.

Are four years all it really takes?

“I’m only twenty one!” 

Taylor looks taken aback. He gives Lance a pitying look. “Yikes man. You’ve been skipping out on our skincare routine for sure. I thought you looked good for thirty. Or whatever the altean version is.”

“Please stop talking.”

“And please start using moisturiser! You’ve got tired wrinkles under your eyes, and eye bags to boot. You realise how bad they have to be if you’re sleeping now and still have them right?!”

Lance buries his head in his hands and groans, suddenly wanting to be anywhere but here with himself. He does not appreciate the company. “I can’t believe you’re the version of me that everyone wants back. Holy crow, we’re so annoying.”

Silence. Even the sea seems to have lost its voice, stunned out of motion. Lance slowly takes his head out of his hands, his eyes meeting those so similar, yet not his own. 

Regret churns in his stomach. 

He shouldn’t have said that.

For all his younger self’s bluster, there’s a kid beneath it all who wants so desperately to live up to it. Goofball, dumb one, annoying, it all sticks in his head, doesn’t it?

“Um,” says Taylor weakly, the damage dealt. He’ll pick himself up off the floor, so to speak, he always did, but that doesn’t mean the impact didn’t hurt. “What?”

“No. Sorry. I didn’t… mean that.”    

Really, Taylor had just been looking out for him. 

Lance knows that. He does. 

And yet.

“Sure you didn’t.” And it’s like all the boundless energy Taylor gave off has been sapped, leaving nothing but limp disappointment. Taylor frowns. “Hey, what do you mean I’m the version of you that everyone wants back. What happened to you?”

Lance is quiet a long moment, his eyes closed as he lets himself fall away from this constructed expanse. The sea almost sounds like a roar.

He sighs, wistful. 

“The war takes out a little more from us than we expect,” he admits, looking back at Taylor, this piece of him he’d lost along the way.

For better or for worse.

“Oh.” Taylor bites his lip. “Are you still… fighting it?”

“No! Quiznack no,” Lance says, because all of this sacrifice has to mean something. It has to. “We won.”

Taylor’s relief is as short lived as a mayfly, dying before his very eyes. He asks, tentatively, suspiciously, “Why doesn’t that sound like a good thing?”

“It is a good thing. It is.” Why does he sound like he’s convincing himself? Well. He guesses he is. Taylor is him on a technicality. “I mean, I get to see this.” Lance throws his arm out, wide, gesturing to the whole beach. “You’ll get to see this. Sooner than you expect, too. We don’t have to spend our whole lives fighting an intergalactic war. And our family, they’re okay. Dios, you should see Nadia and Sylvio. They’ve got so big.”

Taylor’s slight smile that appears at the mention of his family doesn’t quite reach his eyes. “But?”

“… Lance,” he starts, already feeling weird about this. But for one reason or another, Taylor’s here. He shouldn’t let it go to waste. “We’re gonna make a lot of mistakes in our time. Sometimes it’ll cost lives. Sometimes it’ll come close. So if you want any advice, take it from the guy who’s made a million mistakes so you don’t have to. Trust your instincts.”

(Don’t fail where he did.

Then maybe—)

“If you think Shiro’s acting off,” Lance continues, something tight in his chest. “Something’s off ‘cause he’s a clone. If you can’t trust Lotor, don’t. He’s harvesting the alteans he hid away in the quantum abyss for quintessence. If you think that dark entity is dangerous, then... “ He trails off, swallowing down his grief. “The what ifs will keep you up at night.”

Taylor stares, baffled. “Shiro… clone, alteans?! What the heck.” Taylor cards his hand through his hair, the baffled look never leaving his face. “Jeez, what is our life? Okay, so backtrack, backtrack. Lotor, huh? Don’t know that guy. Who is he?”

“Bad news. Tall, purple, and totally using you,” Lance tells him, because maybe, just maybe, if they had the upper hand on Lotor, it wouldn’t have cost so much, that pretty penny of life. “When we fight him, we end up losing three years of time. Earth gets attacked whilst we’re away. It’s a lot.”

“Quiznack. Hope I never have to meet him.” Taylor seems to brace himself before asking about the next one, “What about the alteans? What do you mean there are alteans? I thought Allura and Coran were the only ones left.”

“So did we.”

“Uh. Okay. What about the clone thing. Is your Shiro a clone or something?”

“Or something.” Lance elaborates, “I mean, yeah. His body’s a clone. But his mind isn’t. When Shiro died—”

“When Shiro what?!”

Okay, maybe not the best choice of words. Even if they’re true. “When we lost Shiro during a fight against Zarkon, his mind went into the Black Lion whilst the Shiro who returned to us was a clone.”

“That… so.” Taylor’s brows furrow. “So I have to look out for clones, Lotor, and I’m missing something. Oh! What about this dark entity?”

(“—Path of darkness—”

“—I don’t like—”

“—Messing with powers we don’t fully understand—”)

“The greatest mistake of our life.”

It was not his own decision, no. But they had all decided as a team to go on, to take the risk to see things through. 

Lance regrets his inaction. Does not regret his trust in Allura, or his confidence in her strength of will, but regrets misjudging just how selfless she could be, the lengths she would go, how much of herself she would give if it meant preventing the suffering of others. He regrets not looking harder for another way. 

Accepting the dark entity had been the beginning of the end. 

And maybe he wouldn’t have been able to change things. Maybe it was never to be. Maybe Allura would have been forced into going it alone, and they all could have suffered more for it. 

But there’s also the chance that he could. 

And it would have changed everything.

“Oh. Heavy stuff.” Taylor clears his throat. “But it all works out, right? ‘Cause you said we win.”

“Just don’t let Allura accept the dark entity,” Lance says, tired and aching. It’s a bittersweet dream. 

He hopes Taylor can be that change. 

“Wish I could write all this down. It’s a lot,” says Taylor, injecting the flounce of laughter into his voice. It almost sounds like a joke. Almost. “I guess I was expecting something more like ‘Don’t worry Lance, you can do it. And then they’ll throw you a bunch of parades and stuff. And you’ll go down in history as the coolest most razzle dazzle paladin ever.’”

Lance rolls eyes, something amused entering the lilt of his voice, “Life’s not all about parades, you know?”

“Are you sure you’re me?” Taylor asks with a scepticism Lance feels he doesn’t deserve. “You’re all so…” Taylor makes this vague gesture to all of him. 

Lance narrows his eyes. “So what?”

“I don’t know.” Taylor shrugs it off. “Are you really telling me there’s no grand parade after this is all over?”

“Well, there are a few.” The war was over. Of course people wanted to celebrate. “We don’t go to any though. I couldn’t. I just… It didn’t feel right.”

People had a difficult enough job of getting him to leave his room. 

A parade? No chance. 

“That serious, huh?” Taylor observes, looking a little disheartened. 

“Hey, chin up,” he says, trying his best to be encouraging. He tries to think of what he, the Lance of some years ago would need to hear. What Taylor wants to hear. “You can do it, sharpshooter. You’re a part of Voltron.”

“Sharpshooter. Huh. I like the sound of that,” Taylor muses, visibly perking up. Taylor frames his chin with a v shape using his thumb and index finger, and there. That’s the Lance he used to know, the one he glorifies on his better days, and demonises on his worst. The Lance the others miss, and he just doesn’t know how to be, having slipped out of his skin like a suit, never quite able to button it back up again all the way. 

He’ll fake it ‘til he makes it, but these days, he’s starting to forget what the fake is meant to be like. 

Maybe he can learn a thing or two from this guy. 

“Just think,” continues Taylor, “Lance Serrano: Blue Paladin and cool ninja sharpshooter. I’ll make it catch on.”

‘It does,’ Lance almost says, and oh how he’d revelled in that, the way Shiro said it so earnestly, honest faith in Lance’s aim, and Allura, easing his worries, trusting he’d have her back, but his thoughts catch on Blue Paladin and he freezes. 

It has been a while since he was a paladin, even longer since he was in Blue. 

He feels the absence of her connection starkly, a gaping void of something there used to be. Now not even his connection to Red fills it. 

Either lion is no longer even here.

(But oh, how incredible Allura had been as the pilot of Blue. Not a natural, no, but a swift learner, a blue hurricane of determination, adapting with the change as fluidly as the water Blue so loved. 

Allura fit right in amongst the team. 

Now Lance is left missing them both.)

“Other me. Dude. Spill. You’re making that face again,” says Taylor, giving him a gentle nudge. There’s concern in that expression, soft and sad, as he cares more than he should, in a way that’ll only get him hurt. “You can talk to me, y’know? Lance to Lance. I don’t mind lending a listening ear.”

“It’s nothing,” says Lance, not that it is. But they’re not going into that now. “Don’t worry about it. We’re probably running on limited time here.”

“From the way I see it, we’ve still got time.”

“Time we can talk about absolutely anyone else.” So many wonderful people he knows, and the only topic they can think of is him? That doesn’t sound right. “You’re good with spoilers, right?”

Taylor blinks, stupefied by his one eighty. “Uh—”

Lance doesn’t wait for a response.

He won’t be talked into discussing his problems. No way. 

“Like Rachel! She’s back at crocheting again. Her room’s so full of all these tiny crochet animals that we’re calling it a zoo. They’re awesome though. You should see the lion she made me.” 

The lion sits proudly next to Lance’s other one. The one he’d bought on Clear Day for— 

“Or Marco! Heh. He’s got another boyfriend again, and uh, turns out they were a closeted Voltron fan. Guy absolutely lost his mind when he realised we’re related. Marco’s down bad though ‘cause they’re still together and he even asked me to autograph his boyfriend’s birthday gift. And get Shiro to as well.”

Travis—that’s Marco’s boyfriend—is very much a Sven fan, as it turns out. Lance is pretty sure that name rings a bell, a super distant bell, but it turns out he’s one of the characters from the show. The show he has yet to watch.

Travis is very determined to change that. 

“And Luis tried baking again the other day and the kitchen still smells like it’s burning. I knew I shouldn’t have left that book out. Uh—right. Hunk had given me an early copy of his new cookbook he’s working on—and man, Hunk’s doing great these days. It’s good to see. He’s just so confident in what he does now, you can tell. I’m happy for him.”

He is, genuinely so. 

But Lance hates the petty surge of jealousy that resurfaces every time he scrolls through his social media pages. Hunk has earned this. 

He shouldn’t be feeling this way. This is on him.

“And Pidge’s making some kind of robot army at the garrison as well as setting up some kind of vehicle-tron. A lot of it is classified though, so there’s not much I know about it. Pidge is kind of getting taller now, though. It’s weird thinking that she’s nineteen now.”

Lance had been that age during their last stand against Honerva.

Dios, Pidge had been young. 

“Shiro’s still with the garrison too. He’s got this ship—the ATLAS—and he’s still helping out around the universe. I think Hunk mentioned something about him going on a date last time we called? Don’t know with who though.”

Whoever they are, they’re one lucky person.  

“Um. Keith’s doing alright too. He’s got this humanitarian thing going on. He seems happier when I see him. And Coran is… well. He’s Coran.”

Coran’s doing better than he was, at least. When Lance visits Coran as he often does, it’s easy for him to see there’s something more worn in the older man’s eyes, having found another name to quietly grieve behind closed doors. But as the days go by, he finds his groove, keeping spirits high and smiles wide.

Coran’s Coran.

(Taylor doesn’t say anything about him not mentioning Allura. For that Lance is grateful.

Or was, because instead he goes—)

“… and us?”

Lance stills. “What about us?”

“What do you do?” 

He hesitates. Tries and fails at diverting the subject away from him again. “I can’t give you all the spoilers. You’ve gotta figure out what you want to do with your future.”

“C’mon. Just tell me. Pretty please?” Taylor makes a show of batting his eyelashes. “Do it for me?”

Because the dream shows no sign of ending, and Taylor shows no sign of quitting, Lance concedes. Begrudgingly. 

“I… I help out where I can,” he says softly, staring down at his two hands, usually caked in dirt. “Around the farm, usually. I bought it back. We’re trying to help regrow Earth again, and it turns out I have a knack for growing plants. Who’d have thought, right?”

Taylor gives him a blank look. “… Plants?” he reiterates, slow, incredulous. “What the heck happened to flying?!”

(Flying was his dream, he knows. 

A younger him had set his eyes on a plane, and never once looked back, not to the ground, and not to the farm.

He knew where his future had to be.

Now he isn’t that sure anymore.)

“I travel. Sometimes.”

“Seriously man?”

“Seriously.”

“But why?” Taylor looks at him, eyes desperately searching his face for an answer. “We wanted to be a pilot!”

“And I did that. On Voltron,” Lance says, firm. He’s had this argument before. He knows the ground he stands on. “And now I’m tired and done. It’s a quiet life. Maybe not the one you wanted, but things are different these days.” He pauses. Then quietly, painfully, “I’m different.”

“Yeah… I can tell.” Taylor looks off to the side, slumping. “To you I’m just some cocky, annoying kid you used to be.”

“Oh quiznack. No. That’s not—no,” Lance fumbles with his words. “Well. Kind of. It’s complicated.” Not helping, not helping. “The truth is… I miss you.”

“Huh?!” Taylor stares, and stares, and stares. 

“I miss being you,” Lance admits. “Sounds hard to believe, yeah, I know. The guy who did it all and made it out the other side missing his life from before. ‘Cause yeah I made mistakes, and I still had far to go, and I’ll look back and cringe at how I used to think I was the greatest pilot in the universe.”

“—Hey—”

Lance gives him a pointed look. “We’re really not. Deep down you and I both know that.”

Taylor wrinkles his nose. “Speak for yourself,” he grumbles. 

“I am. Don’t get me wrong, you’re a good pilot. But we’ve got a lot to go if we wanna be the greatest. And maybe it’s okay if we never get there.”

“You gave up before you could get the chance.”

“Maybe.” Lance sighs. “Maybe that’s why I miss you. And who you were becoming. A few years later, at nineteen, I think I was finally starting to be happy with who I was as a person. I realised that being a hero didn’t necessarily mean being in the spotlight, and I think I found my place on the team. I did it. Quiznack, I even put my differences aside with Keith and made friends with him. Keith.”

“Keith?!” Taylor splutters. Lance regards him with subtle amusement. 

He remembers Keith and Lance neck and neck before it became back to back. 

“He’s a good guy. Maybe he doesn’t always… stay. But he came around in the end.” It takes a lot of resolve to voice this next part. “And then there’s Allura. She… She was incredible,” he breathes. His eyes sting. “You just need to get to know her. Stop flirting with her. You’ll see. In your time, she could do with a friend round about now.”

“But I haven’t even used my best line on her?”

“Lance,” he urges, desperate. Taylor’s mouth snaps shut. “I mean it. However things go, you’ll find something great with her. She’s…” His best friend. The love of his life. The girl who deserved more than the universe gave to her. 

(If only they had more time.)

“Just that amazing,” Lance settles on. “Back when I was you, I was part of something. We all were. And now it’s… it’s like time’s moving for everyone but me. I don’t know how, but somewhere along the way, the fight became easier than the peace. At least back then we all had each other. Mostly.” Again, Keith. But he had his own stuff going on so Lance isn’t going to hold it against him. “I guess I’ve been Lance the paladin so long I’ve forgotten how to be just. Lance.”           

Lance meets Taylor’s eyes, sincerely apologetic. “I’m sorry I called you annoying.” 

“It’s okay,” Taylor offers, warm, holding no grudge. “We’ve just got stuff to work out. That’s all.”

“Yeah.”

“I’m still figuring out who Lance the paladin is. I know I’m meant to be some sort of hero, and that’s what Allura and the whole universe expects from us. And I mean, I’m totally up for that. This is what I wanted?” Taylor pauses. “I think. But right now I’m just me.”

“So am I. Just Lance.”

“I thought you said you forgot how to be him.”

“You got me there.” Lance exhales, rubbing the back of his neck. “I guess I grew up. In some good ways, and some bad. And eventually stopped recognising myself in the process.”

“I see you,” says Taylor, a small, encouraging smile in place. Lance wonders if this is why the others sought him out when they were troubled. He isn’t so bad at the whole listening thing. “You’re a version of me who did what I never thought I could. You’re a hero. Sometimes I lie awake at night wondering if I’ll ever get to see my family again, but you’re living proof it’s possible. We can end this.”

Lance swallows thickly. “… It cost Allura.”

The colour drains from Taylor’s face, the news a bloodsucking horror, and maybe Lance shouldn’t have told him, maybe it was a bad idea, but then Taylor steels himself, determination setting in his jaw. 

“I won’t let it,” Taylor resolves, a promise. Lance knows he’ll try to keep it.

And that’s all he can ask.

“Good.” Lance nods, feeling something close to a smile settle on his face. There’s peace in knowing that, somewhere out there, another Allura gets a chance. Somewhere out there, she can live. “Good. She deserves her happy ending.”

“So do you.”

“Mine’s…” Lance exhales, this weary thing. His half smile slants. “As happy as it can get. Hold onto yourself. Don’t lose that smile.”

There’s a boy in his family’s old photographs, a boy who smiles like the height of summer, brightly beaming with an unrestrained light. It’s genuine. 

When Lance smiles, it’s like he’s trying to convince his family that the ghost of this boy is alive. 

“I’m being serious. You deserve to be happy,” Taylor says, as earnestly kind as he would be if Lance were anyone else. “So… so don’t forget me. Maybe we’re not the same anymore, maybe you can’t go back but.” Taylor levels his gaze. “There’s gotta be a piece of me still left in you. You’ve just gotta remember how to find it. You may not be able to change the past, but you still have a future ahead of you when you wake up.”

(Sometimes Lance wishes he didn’t, because never waking up again would be so much easier than facing the day. 

But he’s been open enough with this seventeen year old. That’s some extra baggage he doesn’t want weighing Taylor down too.)

“If you want to farm, then that’s fine I guess,” says Taylor, resigned. “But I don’t think our dream has really changed, and I don’t think you want to be stuck on that farm forever.”

“Okay.”

Taylor blinks. “Okay?”

“Okay. I’ll try,” Lance agrees, so casually you wouldn’t think it to be such a big deal. But there’s weight to this promise. A promise he doesn’t quite know himself why he’s making, so sure that the farm would be it. And yet, seeing himself here, younger and bolder, and so so sure of his dream, it reignites a spark in the part of him he’d forgotten. “We’ll both try finding the Lance we want to be. It won’t be perfect, but it’ll be good enough. We’ll be good enough.”

(He wants to earn his place, standing among them. 

All these years, and even after coming close, once, he’s never quite felt it.

Maybe—)

Where there had been disappointment and confusion, hope begins to twinkle in Taylor’s eyes like the very stars he once reached for. He nods. “Sounds good to me.”

***

“You think there are any sharks out there?” asks Taylor. 

Lance squints into the distance, using his hand as a visor. He isn’t sure how much time has passed here, seconds could be minutes and minutes could be seconds in reality, but it’s been long enough for them to get to exploring. Now they’re both wading ankle deep in an ocean that’s merely a figment of their imagination, the laws of reality meaning nothing here. Like the sand, it’s an ocean that could go on for an eternity. 

Or there could be nothing past that horizon. 

“Maybe. Depends how far out it goes.”

“Wanna check?” 

Lance almost agrees, wanting to swim forever in an ocean that won’t let him drown, but something in his vision blurs, and for a moment, the world around him becomes smeared by a veil of light, the gentle waves fading out to background noise. He blinks back to himself.

Ah.

“I would,” he says, and looking at Taylor’s expression, he knows he experienced it too. “But I think our time is up.”

“Huh. I guess it is. Do you think we’ll remember any of this when we wake up?”

“I hope so,” says Lance, otherwise what would have been the point of it all if only to forget? “It was good to see you again.”

The boy from a thousand yesterdays past. 

He’d thought he wouldn’t be able to stand him.

But really, it’s like reuniting with an old friend, now on a path separate to his. 

“Other me,” Taylor starts, looking a little nervous. “Is this it?”

(Will we see each other again?

Lance hopes not. When Taylor’s twenty one, and he looks at himself in the mirror, it had better not be him staring back.

He’ll have his own victories. His own regrets.)

“You said it yourself, we’ve still got a future ahead of us.”

***

(The dream fades, but the memory is a lingering one.)

[nonsensefromtheabyss]

Hello again! A question I've been meaning to ask you, between the Vizion aliens, do you have a favorite? Someone who you like writing for, their personality or just as a character.

Oh. Now that is a good question… I can’t possibly be normal about this one.

The short answer is that they all make me bite things for different reasons, and because of that I think I’d struggle to pick a clear favourite. They mean different things to me: one is blurring the line between monster and god when you really shouldn’t be either; one is inescapably doomed by the narrative; one is just a little guy. They’re all fuck ups in their own special ways and they all belong in the shredder <3

The long answer involves me rambling for forever about the characters themselves, and there is no way for me to escape from that looking sane because this is the sort of shit I’m using my literature degree for these days. We will go for the medium answer!

For writing specifically, there are different things to explore that make them interesting to me. The contradictions! The drive! I love that, despite everything, Viz is still something of an optimist who wants to do good, but his idea of ‘good’ is so deeply wrong it’s impossible for it to help anyone. I love that Diz had the potential to be legitimately brilliant but reduced himself to a snarling mess of an attack dog and wouldn’t know how to stop if he tried. I love that Quiz is a selfish coward who, when it comes right down to the wire, will stand against horrific odds for the mere hope that it will help. They all have positive traits that are ultimately so warped they loop back around into being their worst qualities.

(I think I’d say I like the ways the characters intersect the best rather than picking any one of them. Idk, man, it’s the triangle of it all: Quiz as the one the other two defend and manage, one of the few things they still team up for with no question; Diz as the lynchpin Quiz and Viz both knew separately before they ever met each other and who they both no longer understand; Viz as the leader they trust implicitly even when he’s horrifically wrong because there isn’t anyone else. And then they all have their own individual intricacies and concerns within this mutual framework.

Currently I’m switching between how they reacted to each other in the past and how they do now in the present, and Viz and Quiz are fascinating me. There’s a scene early on in their V.I.Z.ion era where Viz teaches Quiz to shoot properly. They get into an argument (because Diz is basically catatonic and tensions are high) and Quiz recognises for the first time that this isn’t a piece he’s moving around on a battleground anymore—it’s a guy. It’s the first time he breaks out of the Enquirer mindset he’s been trained in to and recognises Viz as a person. And for Viz, teaching Quiz to defend himself is an acknowledgment of him being part of his new, three-person crew, something he really didn’t want to have to accept for a lot of difficult reasons. The whole thing is just… not sweet, exactly, because look at who and what we’re talking about, but… it’s close. Especially after the outright dystopian shit I’ve written about their homeworld at this point. Anyway, unrelated ramble over.)

For drawing? My favourite is Diz. He only has two arms to deal with and therefore I only have to draw two hands! The silhouettes for the other two are also harder to work with. Sorry about your trauma buddy, but I can’t deny the convenience!

[misspearly1]

When Two Worlds Collide Series

Chp1 || Chp2 || Chp3 || Chp4 || Chp5 || Chp6 || Chp7 || Chp8

Pairing: Joel Miller x F!Reader x Arthur Morgan

Chapter Eight: Home

WC: 10k

Warnings: 18+ Content. Minors DNI. Alternative TLOU & RDR2 Universe. M/F/M Relationship. Story events relating to in-game missions (Our Best Selves & Red Dead Redemption). Dutch being scary, intimidating and unhinged. Graphic Violence (death/murder/robbery. The usual rdr2 stuff). There’s some angst and tension between Joel, Arthur and Reader in this chapter, but I promise it isn’t what it seems. I don’t want to give away too much in the warnings lol. Light smut. Kissing & mentions of sex. Angst with a happy ending and some fluffy vibes. 

Spoiler Warnings in the AN notes below the cut. Please read carefully. 

AN: There are mentions of character deaths in this chapter. If you haven’t played RDR2 and do not wish to know about who dies, then don’t read this chapter, my loves. Otherwise, if you don’t mind reading about that, then you can continue with the story. I hope you’ve enjoyed this series, and while there is such a huge amount of plot that I’ve missed out (bc the game is humongous), there will be future one-shots to fill in the gaps. Thank you so much for reading <3.

There’s a lot that can happen in the space of twenty-four hours. A lot of good things, and a lot of bad things that you cannot control no matter how much you try to. Some things aren’t meant to be controlled and that’s just, unfortunately, the way life goes. It’s plain and simple. You can try to go against fate, but what’s meant to be, will be. 

You could, however, try to plan something to perfection, but it’s bound to go wrong somewhere along the way. In one moment, you could be fine, and in the next, you could be so neck deep in shit that you don’t even know if you’ll make it out alive. A flawlessly executed plan cannot be achieved, especially not when it involves a mad-man who’s surrounded by a small group of paranoid men. 

In order to survive, there are risks you must be willing to gamble on, sacrifices that you need to take and life-saving decisions that need to be made in the heat of the moment. Freedom isn’t something that can be bought with money, even if you were the richest person in the world. It has to be paid for in blood, but the questions are: whose blood will be spilled, and who will survive? 

Well, there is a shortened version of what happened to the Van Der Linde gang in the last twenty-four hours, but the longer version would begin last night when Joel, Arthur and John returned to Beaver Hollow after blowing up Bacchus Bridge… 

You hate this place; hate living in a camp where the air reeks of decayed flesh and rotten bones. It’s an ugly environment, and smells twice as bad as it looks. The gang moved here many weeks ago to avoid the law patrolling Saint Denis and the surrounding area, meaning you could no longer hideout at Shady Belle. That camp was no better anyway. The crocs made an appearance everyday and reminded you of your place in the food chain, which would depend on how good you are with a weapon or how fast you could run. 

Though, here at Beaver Hollow in the wooded area of Roanoke Ridge, you are reminded of the previous settlers that used to live in this camp everyday. The Murfree Brood gang. They are a homicidal group of individuals, territorial and just down-right inhumane. They were feared by many, and the locals told you of the horrifying things they used to do in these neck of the woods, hence the reason for that lingering smell of decayed flesh and rotten bones. It still remains in the air, and it burns the hairs in your nostrils and makes your stomach churn. 

You hate this place, but most importantly, you hate what this gang has become over the last several months. You hardly recognise some of the people anymore. Many are depressed and ready to call it quits, whereas others are just getting started with the savagery. It’s been many moons since you’ve felt a slither of peace and serenity, but hopefully, that will soon change. 

At the sound of hoofbeats drawing near camp, you snapped out of your thoughts and rose to your feet. “What the hell took ya’ll so damn long? Do you have any idea how worried I’ve been?” You stormed toward the edge of camp as Joel and Arthur approached on their horses. The anger was palpable in your tone of voice and it caught the attention of many curious eyes within the gang as they all looked in your direction and watched the dispute unfold. 

You crossed your arms and waited for either of them to answer your questions, but all you got instead was some incoherent mumbling under their breaths as they rolled their eyes. This, of course, pissed you off even more and you went on to berate Arthur and Joel for their actions today. “Neither of you told me where you were going, nor did you even say goodbye. I had to find out you were blowing up a goddamn bridge from someone else!... Why didn’t you talk to me before you left?” 

“Because of this attitude right here.” Joel pointed to you, sighing. “Because you’ll complain about it and try to stop us from leaving. We have to blow up that bridge for the train robbery tomorrow.” 

You argued further and asked. “And why does it have to be you and Arthur? Why couldn’t someone else go with John? There’s plenty of people around here who're more than capable of handling explosives… I don’t even get why you have to blow up the fucking bridge in the first place.” 

“Darlin’, you must understand. It’s all part of Dutch’s plan to get outta here and gone for good.” Joel tried to calm you down, but it didn’t work as you waved your hands around and replied acidly. “You think I care about him? I don’t give a fuck about his goddamn plans!” 

“Check your tone, Y/N.” Arthur cut in now, his voice firm and his brows wrinkled with a mild warning. “I understand you worry for our safety, but we’re not little boys that you can boss around… We can take care of business without getting hurt, so don’t doubt, Dutch. He knows what’s best for us.” 

“Oh, so almost dying on many occasions now is ‘taking care of business’, right?” You made a gesture with your fingers when quoting him, and emphasized your dislike over their secret decision making. They went ahead with this job without talking to you about it first. “I thought we were a team, but apparently not… You left in the dark, and I don’t like that at all so don’t fucking do it again.” You concluded your argument before walking off, leaving them both to think about the mistake they made. 

Once you were out of their sight and had entered your tent, they turned to each other and shook their heads frustratingly, expressing just how much they couldn’t be bothered with another war of words. It was exhausting and they were just simply too tired to argue again tonight. As they dismounted their horses, the sound of snickering could be heard from the back of Beaver Hollow near the cave entrance. It was evident that Dutch and Micah found the altercation hilarious, whereas everyone else remained quiet and went back to what they were doing prior. 

Dutch was smirking as he watched Joel walk towards your tent, “Going to reconcile with the nag, I imagine.” He sneered, then rose to his feet to chat with Arthur and John as they came forth to report how they got on with the job today. “Well done, my son.” He clasped a hand over Arthur’s shoulder, praising him for how he handled the situation with you just now. The man simply enjoyed watching him put you in your place. It was entertaining indeed, but most importantly, the loyalty was most appreciated. 

“Ahh, she’s just frustrated, Dutch. Pay her no mind.” Arthur brushed off the compliment, grinning devilishly. “I’ll take care of that later tonight anyhow.” He uttered with a wink, insinuating that you needed some sexual attention and that was the reason for your outburst. The comment made the men chuckle amongst themselves, but the sound of your voice shouting in the distance cut through their laughter, causing each of them to turn and look towards your tent. 

“Hm.” Dutch hummed, then speculated confidently. “That doesn’t sound like frustration, my boy. It’s more like she’s ready to kill you both.”

Micah added to that, saying. “I don’t know how you put up with it day n’ night… Must be some good pussy, Arthur.”

“The best there is.” Arthur stated when turning to face them again, still wearing that devilish grin on his lips. “You need me for anything? I gotta go lend a hand before it gets real ugly in there.” They laughed with each other once again before Dutch shook his head, confirming that he didn’t need anything further. They’re all set for the day now and all that’s left to do is to wake up tomorrow, rob the train and from there, they can hop on a boat and flee to another country. 

Dutch doesn’t really care for the ongoing quarrels between you, Arthur and Joel. It doesn’t keep him up at night. He could care less, so long as you don't get in the way of his plans or take two of his most trusted allies away from him. Even if you do complain and kick up a fuss about it. To put it simply, Dutch is happy; everyone is happy. “Good luck in there. We’re rooting for ya, son.” He waved to Arthur as he walked away. 

Micah couldn’t resist the urge to provoke the man and suggested crudely. “If ya can’t handle that woman, send her over to me. I’ll shut her up for ya.” 

Arthur, however, didn’t give any reaction Micah was hoping for and simply shook his head with a quiet chuckle escaping his lips instead. Since his back was turned to them as he walked towards your tent, they couldn’t see the look of disgust on his face or the blind rage behind his darkened eyes, so they were none the wiser about how he truly felt at this exact moment. 

If there was a chance that he could get away with it, he would empty his gun into Micah and beat Dutch to the ground for their foul-mouthed remarks towards you this evening. It was sickening words to say about any woman, let alone the woman he’d lay down his life for and that pissed off Arthur beyond comparison.

Stay focused, he told himself as he exhaled calmly, trying to release some of that anger locked away deep within. It didn’t really work as well as he hoped it would. He was still angry, disgusted, and most of all, he was disappointed too; disappointed that it’s gone this far. 

Every day and night, Arthur wore a mask in front of everyone, but when he opened the tent and stepped inside, the man he truly is inside was revealed. “Are you ok, sweetheart?” He asked in a whisper, swallowing the lump of regret in the back of his throat. 

“Of course.” You nodded. Furrowing your brows with worry as you reached out to take his hand, you could see the way Arthur was appalled with himself for how he spoke to you a few minutes ago. He doesn’t like talking to you like that, but it was absolutely necessary and he had to make it look real. There was no other way to do it. “Wipe your eyes and come over here before anybody sees you, baby. It’s ok.” You reassured him quietly so that no one else could hear. 

“It’ll be over soon, tough guy.” Joel murmured as he, too, reached out for Arthur and pulled him into a hug. “We won’t have to keep this up for much longer. I promise… It’ll all be over soon.” 

Together, you lay down in the darkness of your tent and held each other closely. You kept a tight lid on your emotions as now wasn’t the time to break character, otherwise this ruse that you’ve worked hard to create would crumble in a matter of seconds. You weren’t mad with Arthur, nor was he really warning you to watch your tone about Dutch earlier. It’s just part of the plan to escape tomorrow. 

Tomorrow when Dutch isn’t around Beaver Hollow to stop the gang from leaving with his chest full of cash.  

The chattering twitter of a bird reached your ears when you awoke at the crack of dawn. Nature singing its morning song was most soothing and you opened your eyes to find a beam of light shining down on your tent like it was a sign of good luck. You hoped it was a sign of good luck because you’re in dire need of it. As a matter of fact, the whole gang needs it because today is the day you finally make your escape and there’s only one shot at this. It has to be executed perfectly or else innocent people could die. 

Tilting your head and gazing across the beauty of Arthur’s face as he rested deeply, you managed to smile through the intolerable levels of hardship in which you’ve all endured. You wished that he looked peaceful, but even in repose, he looked plagued with a mass amount of concerns eating away at his brain during the night. The man was just so exhausted, mentally and physically, and it was starting to show too. His eyes were heavy and sunken, and his face marred with worrying 24/7. 

None of this is fair, you thought while gingerly tracing your fingers across his face. It wasn’t fair that he had the weight of the world on his shoulders all the damn time like this. Nor was it fair on Joel either, or anybody else for that matter. It wasn’t fair on you and the gang, and it certainly wasn’t fair at all for those who were killed along the way. There were so many, and all of them died in vain. 

“I love you, Arthur Morgan.” You leaned in close to say softly, paranoia keeping your voice barely above a whisper in case someone was eavesdropping outside of your tent. It wouldn’t be the first time something like that has happened, hence your reasoning to be so secretive about how much you truly love each other. “I love you too, Joel Miller.” You added to that whilst palming your hand across his muscular arm draped over your stomach. 

It’s been a long, hellish journey so far together. This world and the life of an outlaw gang is cruel to those who least deserve it, but you won’t be suffering for much longer now. We’re almost there, you said inside and gave yourself the push you desperately needed to get moving. After planting a kiss on Arthur’s lips and turning to Joel to kiss him too, you climbed out of bed and continued with the ruse you’ve been playing for months. 

As much as it pained you to do so, you couldn’t let yourself get carried away when displaying your affection towards them. Someone could see and they’d quickly piece together that you’re lying. Dutch or Micah could see that Joel and Arthur are pretending to be loyal. It’s just part of the plan, and it’s been working flawlessly so far. Hopefully it continues to be flawless, you thought. 

Getting dressed and mentally preparing yourself for the enormous task ahead, you try to stay in the moment rather than thinking about the future. It would be silly to indulge in the hopeful thoughts of what happens after you escape because you need to escape first. Then, and only then, you can be free to think about what happens next. Besides, you don’t want to say it out loud, or even think it in your mind, but you already know where you’re going when all of this is finally over and done with. 

Once you were ready to leave, you grabbed your light summer jacket and draped it over your arm, but one step forward is all you took when suddenly, a hand was placed on your hip, urging you backwards. You closed your eyes to fight the oncoming tears and savoured the tender embrace you’ve missed so dearly. Arthur and Joel sat you down on the edge of the bed, cradling the back of your head gently as they kissed your neck. They moved upwards in a delicate manner, tickling your skin with their beards before placing their lips against the shell of your ear. 

“We love you too.” They breathed in unison, their voices heavy and laden with nothing but lust, endearment and devotion. The beautiful moment in which you shared together was short-lived as you slipped away from their grasps. You couldn’t let yourselves get carried away. It’s too dangerous and risky, today more than ever. 

Jerking the tent open and marching your way outside, you angrily put your jacket on whilst walking to the edge of camp. “Fucking useless idiots…. They will never understand,” you complained under your breath, and it’s just as well that you did because Dutch was also awake and he was watching you carefully. You could see him in the corner of your eyes as he stood by his tent, observing the camp like he does everyday now. It’s become a daily occurrence since he’s become an unrecognizable paranoid monster of a human being. 

With the timely fashion of Joel marching out of the tent as well, and Arthur right behind stopping him from chasing after you, it sold the act perfectly as Dutch grinned with delight. He believed the performance and puffed on his cigar like it was a victory to have them on his side. You wished it was possible to see the look on his face when he realizes that he’s lost everything, but you’ll be long gone by then. The man can’t be forgiven for the things he’s done. Too many people have lost their lives and many more have suffered for too long. 

Instead of standing around the edge of camp like you initially planned to do, you decided to walk further away and hopefully clear your mind a little before getting to work. Arthur however, also decided to play into his character a little more by yelling out. “I don’t have time for your games today, woman. If you leave and get lost, hurt or taken away somewhere, don’t count on me to come get ya… I’ve fucking had it with your childish behaviour.” 

Shaking your head at the man, you stayed within eye distance and sat down in the grass, your head plopped between your hands like a spoiled brat who was told ‘no’. You closed your eyes and smiled on the inside, thinking about what Joel and Arthur were truly saying in their minds right now. It’s probably something to do with worrying for your safety. They’re always worrying these days. 

You sat in silence for a short while until someone came along and disturbed your peace. You would have welcomed the company, but the man who approached is not who you were expecting. “Good morning, Y/N.” Dutch greeted you, and his smug tone of voice had your eyes rolling behind closed lids. 

“Morning, Dutch.” You opened your eyes and turned to look at him, your lips pressed together with detest. “What can I possibly help you with today?” You asked, to which the man chuckled deeply before crouching to the floor to be at your eye level. It was an intimidation tactic, and you certainly felt intimidated, but you didn’t show it. 

“You can help me understand what the big issue is.” He elaborated with a deep sigh of annoyance. “Why must you insist on giving Joel and Arthur so much hassle? They’re doing their best for all of us.” 

“Because I don’t want them to die like the others.” You retorted, then went on to list those people who died and really emphasized just how much he has lost because of his madness. “Jenny, The Callander Boys, Kieran Duffy, Bill Williamson, Molly O’Shea and Hosea Matthews. You remember their names, right Dutch?” 

“Of course I remember their names.” His jaw clenched in reply, but he missed your point entirely as he added to that. “They didn’t die for nothing. They died fighting for our freedom from the law. Can’t you see what we’re all trying to do here? It��s just one more job, then we are gone for good.” 

You closed your eyes briefly and shook your head over the mention of Hosea. He would’ve died for nothing — he would have died if you didn’t fake his death and get him away from Dutch. Nobody knows that he is alive. Not even Joel and Arthur, but it was all part of your own secret little plan all along. The old man will be coming here to Beaver Hollow when most of the men leave to rob that train, and he will be the one convincing the remaining members of the gang to escape, not yourself like Joel and Arthur believe. 

After a long pause for thought, you couldn’t hold your tongue anymore and expressed exactly how you feel towards Dutch. “Yeah well, there’s always one more job though. Always one more big score to take and we’ll be gone for good.” As those words sank in, you rolled your lips together and nodded. “That’s what my big issue is. You don’t know when to stop until it’s too late, and we’ve lost too many innocent people along the way, so forgive me for my lack of trust in you, but it’s really hard to trust someone that’s going to get the people I love killed.” 

Dutch also took a pause for thought. He took your words into account and processed them before replying. “Well, my choices haven’t exactly been the best these last couple of months, so that lack of trust is something I can understand.” He empathized with you, and you don’t know why he’s even trying to in the first place. Empathy isn’t his forte. It’s not like him to be understanding and reasonable like this at all, and that worries you more than his intimidation tactic of leaning in so close that you could feel his breath fanning across your face. 

You wanted to look to Joel and Arthur for some guidance through this unfamiliar territory, but you’re supposed to be angry with them. So rather than crumbling under Dutch’s pressure, you simply asked. “If you can understand my lack of trust, why don’t you try to get it back? You had my faith once before. You could have it again if you didn't do so many foolish things.”

“Foolish?” He raised his brow in a way that offers you a chance to take back what you said, but you didn’t. Perhaps it was the rush of adrenaline you got when finally speaking a piece of your mind to Dutch, but you nodded to him and confirmed that you meant it. And he didn’t like that at all, not in the slightest. There was a difference in his demeanour that made the hairs on the back of your neck stand up. The difference was subtle and barely noticeable to the eyes, but you felt the shift in his energy. 

You were instantly put on high alert and felt queasy. It was alarming to see such a sudden difference in the man. You watched the wickedness take over his eyes when he grinned, and it was an ominous looking grin. The kind that displays a glimpse of his soul within, which was dark and sinister. Dutch didn’t look at you. He looked through you with a cold, empty stare and his unbroken gaze sent a chilling shiver down your spine. 

“You seem to have misunderstood, Y/N.” He lowered his voice to a dangerously low octave. His tone was calm, but make no mistake, he was revealing his true colors. They were malevolent and hostile. “ I do not care for your faith in me. I care for your blind obedience… Do you understand that?” 

By now, you were sure that Joel and Arthur were watching this interaction very carefully, and it was reassuring to know that they’re quick with drawing a gun from their hips. Quicker than you’ve ever seen before, and should Dutch do something reckless such as raising his hands to you, it would be the last thing he ever did. The man would be dead before he’d even think about drawing his weapon.  

However, back-chatting him right now and endangering the lives of other people in camp was not a risk you were willing to take. He wanted your compliance, so you gave it to him. “Yes, Dutch.” You nodded. “I understand that loud and clear.” 

“Good.” He rose to his feet quickly, the rapidness in his movement startling you. “Oh, don’t be afraid. I wouldn’t do something so… foolish to you now, would I?” The man mocked you, and it stung. He patronized you for flinching, and it hurt. He teased you and ridiculed you for being frightened with one simple word, and it boiled the blood in your veins to a level in which you’ve never felt before. 

Dutch Van Der Linde is a monstrous person. He, who caused the death of Jenny, The Callander Boys, Kieran Duffy, Bill Williamson, Molly O’Shea and countless more innocent people in his lifetime, cannot be forgiven. He, who left Joel and Arthur behind for dead, cannot be trusted. He, who uses fear and intimidation to bend people to his every beck and call, is a cowardly man. You harboured nothing but hatred for him, and it physically pained you to give a satisfactory answer. 

“No.” You shook your head and fed his sick, evil, twisted ego. “No, you wouldn’t do something so foolish to me.” 

“That’s better, Y/N.” He concluded before walking away with a boastful gait, as if he were so proud of himself to make you fall in line like the rest who ever dared to question him. You looked at Joel and Arthur briefly, and merely because of the fact Micah was watching, you made a point to scoff and look away, acting like you were offended that they didn’t step in to help just now. 

You couldn’t communicate that you were fine because Micah would see that you’re trying to reassure them. He is as extremely paranoid as Dutch was and you have to be careful around those sorts of people. You opted to look beyond the camp and tried to enjoy the comforting scenery of nature instead. Joel and Arthur could visibly see that you were okay and that’s all they needed to be reassured. 

As the morning breezed over and the gang geared up to leave, you stayed around the edge of camp and kept a lookout for Hosea. He said he wouldn’t get too close, and you trust that he’s capable of keeping himself hidden amongst the trees in the wooded area of Roanoke Ridge. Freedom was nearing and you could almost taste it when Dutch finally left Beaver Hollow. He took ten people with him, including Joel, Arthur and John, and left ten people behind – all of whom you could trust. 

Just for safety measures and extra precaution, you waited twenty minutes for the ‘all clear’ signal from Hosea and rose to your feet with a smile on your face. It felt so victorious and overwhelming to actually express your joy. It was nice to let that mask slip away and stop acting like you’re so damn angry all the time. You turned to the camp and looked across the many miserable faces that people wore, feeling giddy and excited to reveal everything you’ve worked so hard for. 

“Everyone! Gather round everyone… Gather round.” You called out happily, capturing their undivided attention. “I have good news to tell you and it’s really important that you all listen very carefully.” 

“Oh God.” Mary-Beth and Karen gasped simultaneously, and Abigail finished off voicing their immediate concerns. “Oh no… Please tell me you're not pregnant. You can’t be pregnant at a time like this, Y/N.” 

“What—no, no. Jesus, no. I’m not pregnant, ladies. Settle down.” You barked out a laugh, and felt the tension leaving your shoulders as they all sighed with relief. Hell, even Miss Grimshaw was relieved to hear that, and she’s the one who asked Joel and Arthur to knock you up. Albeit, that was months ago when she was full of booze, but it was nice to see the gang smiling again, and they felt a shimmer of happiness because Dutch wasn’t around to ruin everything like he always does. 

You tried to explain what you so eagerly wanted to tell them, but the words never passed your lips as they all gasped at the man approaching the camp behind you. That man was Hosea, and everyone ran towards him in a flurry of panic. There was complete pandemonium as he was surrounded by the men and women remaining in camp. Abigail and Jack hugged him tightly, then Susan, Tilly, Karen and Mary-Beth moved in afterwards to convey just how much they missed him. Charles, Mr. Pearson, Reverend Swanson and Uncle also shook the man’s hand and held him close. 

It took a whole fifteen minutes just to calm everybody down before you could even begin to explain what happened. Time was ticking fast and you didn’t have very long to retrieve their belongings, steal the savings chest from the cave and get gone before Dutch came back. You and Hosea had already amassed a large sum of cash by yourselves anyway, and so has Joel and Arthur too, but the savings chest would ensure everyone had a head-start in their new lives. 

Once you gave everyone a quick rundown of the plan and why you both went through all the trouble to help them escape, nobody refused to leave or opposed the idea of getting out while they still had the chance. This was their only chance and they snatched it up without hesitation. You were more than relieved to hear their reactions. Words simply couldn’t portray the unfathomable level of joy you felt, and without wasting anymore time, you all got the work right away, which didn’t take very long in the end as most were willing to leave everything behind and start fresh. 

When everyone was on their horse and ready to leave, the next order of business was heading towards the Grizzlies East region of Ambarino. There’s a hideout called The Loft, and you are to wait there for Joel and Arthur’s return with John, Lenny, Sean and Sadie – the last members of the gang needing to be saved, once and for all. 

Everything went wrong. The plan went south… In the space of hours, the plan went horribly wrong. 

This morning when Joel and Arthur watched Dutch get in your face, their hands balled up into fists at their side so tight that their knuckles turned white. The urge to break character was strong. They were ready to jeopardize everything they’ve been working towards and kill anyone who tried to hurt you or the gang. But they couldn’t. No matter how hard it was for them, they couldn’t break character. 

It was a bad day for Joel and Arthur right from the moment they opened their eyes and couldn’t hold you like they really wanted to. It hurt and cut them deeper than any knife could when they shared a kiss with you for no longer than two seconds. They wanted to tear your clothes off and make love to you, but they couldn’t. They haven’t been able to for weeks. But when they left camp and couldn’t say goodbye how they really wanted to either, they knew that you’d be out of there the second that they left. 

That train robbery is where everything went wrong. They made it to Saint Denis without a problem and boarded the train without any further issues as well, but later down the tracks when they made their intent known to the passengers on board, that’s where it started going downhill rapidly. There were many army guards to kill and twice as many more chasing them on horseback. 

The train was a slaughtering machine on wheels since the gang were aboard. They killed each and every one of those men hunting them down via horseback. Except there was one more hiding in the treeline who shot John in the shoulder and caused him to fall off the back of the train cart. He would be dead or captured, but just in case there was a chance that he could be saved, Dutch, Micah, Cleet, Joe and Javier went back for him while the rest stayed on the train to fight yet another patrol of army men. 

Determinedly, the army didn’t give up and continued pursuing the gang. There were too many to fight all at once. The train was never supposed to be this heavily guarded, therefore Arthur was forced to get behind the maxim gun. He mowed them all down until the coast was finally clear, then they moved up the train and blew a hole in the armed carriage before grabbing everything they could. It was packed full with sacks of army payroll, and they took it all.  

At the end of the line, everyone quickly hopped off the train before it rode over Bacchus Bridge. The very same bridge that Joel, Arthur and John blew up to smithereens yesterday. It was a spectacular show watching the train fall down the gap in the tracks and smash into the canyon below. The job was done and they did it. Joel and Arthur did it. They got the money and had the opportunity right there and then to take Sadie, Sean and Lenny out of there for good, but it would mean leaving John behind. They couldn’t do it–wouldn’t do it. 

Rather than snatching up the opportunity to escape with enough money to supplement the gang's new life, Arthur and Joel made their way back to Beaver Hollow instead. It wasn’t supposed to go down this way. John wasn’t supposed to get shot and fall off the back of the train, but they couldn’t control the situation no matter how much they tried to. 

However, it only got worse from that point onwards as they approached the path leading into camp and found Charles waiting for them. He wasn’t supposed to be there either. He should’ve been at The Loft with you and the rest of the gang, but he stayed behind to alert Joel and Arthur of Abigail's predicament. She was separated from the gang when they left Beaver Hollow and taken away by Agent Milton to be put on a boat and tried for murder. 

Arthur had to save her. He couldn’t leave the woman behind and make her child an orphan. So he and five people that he could trust with his life stormed their way through Van Horn, killing the Pinkertons stationed there, including Agent Milton. Rescuing Abigail wasn’t an issue. The issue was making the decision to go back for John, or go to The Loft and be reunited with you. 

Even if Marston wasn’t alive, they had to be absolutely sure before they left without him. But this time, Arthur and Joel weren’t taking anyone else with them. They strictly ordered the others to take Abigail and go to The Loft to wait for their return. They would go back to Beaver Hollow and finish this thing once and for all. Besides, they wanted to have a little chat with Dutch anyhow, and let him know who the real rat in the gang was. That person was Micah Bell. He was selling out the gang at every chance he could get, and maybe, just maybe that information would buy their freedom. It could give them a chance to get out of there alive. Well, that’s what they hoped for. 

Arthur was naïve enough to think Dutch would believe him over the rat, but he was sorely mistaken. The confrontation finally came to a head and Joel drew his weapon first, pointing it directly at Micah. Everyone else drew their guns too. There was a standoff between two people against five, and all of them were ready to shoot each other, but when John suddenly emerged from the trees, yelling at Dutch for leaving him behind, it alerted another squad of Pinkertons roaming around Roanoke Ridge. They had no choice but to fight the wave of detective agents closing in. 

Of course, Dutch being Dutch, it came as no surprise that he left John behind for dead and it came as no further surprise when he ran away with Micah, Cleet, Joe and Javier, leaving Arthur, Joel and John to defend themselves at Beaver Hollow. The camp was completely overrun and they were surrounded by Pinkertons. It was so dark and misty in those woods that they could barely see two feet in front of them. So trekking through the cave was the only way out. 

That cave had always spooked Joel and Arthur. It was a torture chamber for the Murfree Brood Gang when they used to live there, but today, they were chased through the tunnels by agents instead. Once they eventually found their way out on the other side, they whistled for their horses and only had a moment to catch their breaths before taking off again in a hurry. The chase continued and they were hunted down by Dutch and the Pinkertons at the same time. 

Having been chased up the mountains, the fight was inescapable. They couldn’t out run them any further and decided to stand their ground. Maybe it was meant to be or maybe it was just a long list of things going wrong today, but Joel, Arthur and John couldn’t avoid one more battle. Arthur drew his gun and shot first, dropping one of the agents firing from the treeline in the distance. They were everywhere. 

Bullets came from all directions and whizzed past their bodies. It was miraculous that neither of them got shot. John had already taken a bullet today. He couldn't take another. Eventually, all the agents were killed and the coast was clear to keep going forward, but when Micah came out of nowhere and tackled Arthur to the ground, they fought each other viciously. He managed to land a few punches before Joel raised his gun to kill him, but then Dutch called out and put a stop to that. 

“Let them handle this like men.” He said at the time, and lowered his weapon to show that he wouldn’t interfere with the brawl. John and Joel kept an eye on the man, their fingers steady on the trigger of their weapons in case he tried anything while Micah and Arthur continued to beat each other up. It was a fight to death, and it was brutal to watch unfold. They’ve seen Arthur fight many times in the past, but not like that before. He managed to get the upper hand on Micah, and he didn’t stop striking him with his bare fists until he was dead. 

When Dutch saw a copious amount of blood spilling from Micah, he didn’t utter a single word and ultimately accepted his defeat. It was over. He lost everything and it was finally over. There was nothing left for him and he walked away, completely and utterly broken. John stood back with a sickened stomach as Joel pulled Arthur off Micah’s lifeless body. And finally from there, all three of them walked away too, leaving a trail of death behind in their wake. 

As unfortunate as it was, their horses were killed during the chase up the mountains and they had to walk the rest of the way. It would be a treacherous hike through the Grizzlies East region of Ambarino, locating you and the rest of the gang hiding out in The Loft, but it was a journey they needed most. The time they spent together was serene, but freedom didn’t feel real to them and it took a while to actually believe it. There were a few moments today where they didn’t think they’d make it out alive. 

But they did make it out alive, and here they are now. 

Joel and Arthur were walking along a trail when the silence was broken, and it was from John speaking about taking Abigail and Jack far away from here to settle down someplace that he can call home. Suppose that’s when it finally settled in that he was free from Dutch, and the first thing he thought about was his family. It was a heart-warming thing to hear, but Arthur made him promise to never look back once he does leave to find his forever home someplace far away from here. 

Arthur made John promise to never return to the old ways of being an outlaw as it would bring nothing but harm to him and those he loves. He just wanted the man to make use of this fresh start in life and live out the rest of his days in peace. He deserves it. They all do. And that’s something Arthur can’t wait to give each of the remaining members of the Van Der Linde Gang – a new life filled with peace and security. 

When climbing over the peak of a hill and The Loft finally came into view, they could see a couple people standing in the watchtower above the lodge. The place was divine and beautiful, purposefully located within the mountains to provide a set of eyes in all directions. Arthur smiles upon remembering the first time he brought you here, and it really didn’t come as any surprise that you suggested this place as the meet-up point. 

Perhaps if this was a perfect world, he’d live out the rest of days here in Ambarino with you and Joel, but that could never happen because someone, from somewhere, will eventually come for that bounty on his head. Further, Arthur thought to himself, someplace further away from all this. As they neared the lodge and watched the gang in the watchtower scrambling around anxiously, they saw the door down below open up and two people barrelling outside. 

Those two people were you and Abigail. You both ran along the trail so fast that Joel, Arthur and John stopped walking to brace for the impact. You came hurtling towards them and they held their arms open as you crashed into their chests, the sight making them smile and laugh as they held you tightly. “We’re alright, sweetheart.” Arthur murmured, his lips pressed against your forehead. “We did it… We survived.” 

You grabbed them both as hard as you could and sniffled through an apology, “I’m sorry. We tried to save Abigail but…There were too many and I’m so sorry I put that on your shoulders.”   

“S’okay, darlin’.” Joel shushed you gently when burying his face into your neck. You could feel the man’s tears against your skin and it made you cry with him. It was an equal mixture of happy and sad tears. You were so profoundly happy to see that they’re alive, but you’re still grieving over everything that’s happened in the last few hours. God only knows what they’ve been through together, but you could see the blood splatter on Arthur’s clothes, and his knuckles were black and blue. 

You could also see that John was shot in the shoulder, and he winced plentifully when sharing a few loving words between fervent kisses with Abigail. They broke off and looked at Joel and Arthur, nodding appreciatively. “Thank you.” Whispered Abigail as she took them into her embrace. “I could never thank you enough for bringing him back to me… And you,” she pulled back to look at you now, crying. “There’s nothing to be sorry for. You did everything you possibly could to save me, but Jack was your first responsibility first.”  

“Thank you for taking care of him, Y/N.” John added, his tone deeply grateful for everything you’ve done to help his child and the gang. You felt a little more at ease upon hearing their gratitude and wiped your teary eyes. It was rewarding to know that you did something right at least. There was so much that went wrong today, and you fought for a way to save Abigail, but Jack and the rest of the gang would have been put in danger. You had no choice. They had to be taken care of first, and Charles offered to stay behind to save her instead. 

“I’m glad we’re all together now.” You breathed with a ghost of a smile on your lips, then took Joel and Arthur hands in your grasp before leading them both toward The Loft. “Come with me and Abigail. There’s someone very important here to see you three.” 

“Who?” Joel, Arthur and John asked in unison, the sound of their curiosity making you laugh softly. It was so sweet and endearing to hear them in suspense about whom you're referring to. Their minds were boggled, and your heart was leaping out of your chest when you reached the door to the lodge because the man who so desperately wanted to see them would be waiting inside. You and Abigail entered first, then stepped aside to make room. 

There were thirteen people inside the lodge all together and it was cramped. Most were up-top in the watchtower, but Hosea sat on the bed in the corner, sipping on a hot tea. “Howdy fellers.” He smiled as he rose to his feet. “Long time no see, eh?” 

It was uncertain how they would react, but when John rushed forward and stumbled straight into Hosea’s chest, it made you gasp with joy. And when Joel moved across the floor, also taking the man into a tight hug, it made you grin with delight, but when Arthur stood in the doorway, his face as white as a ghost, you held your breath. He didn’t move an inch because he feared that what he was seeing wasn't real. He couldn’t feel his heart beating and didn’t blink at all, only stared at the man he believed to be dead for weeks. 

“Is that any way to greet me?” Hosea made a joke and chuckled, but his laughter quickly faded once he saw the tears welling up in the corners of Arthur’s eyes. It was a heart-rending and tragic sight to witness. The old man approached him carefully and reached out to hold his shoulder. “Take it easy, my son. It’s ok, just take it easy.” He whispered in a soothing tone of voice, hoping to ease Arthur’s distress. 

“W-wha… How…” Arthur tried to speak, but couldn’t properly form the words. It was astonishing and miraculous, unbelievable. But once he felt Hosea’s hand holding his shoulder, his knees buckled beneath him and he fell into the man's arms, heaving a heavy breath of relief. 

For a moment there, Arthur truly believed that he had died and gone to heaven. It would explain why he’s able to see the old man again, but with the sudden realization that he wasn’t dead, and he was in fact, very much alive, the comfort and reassurance flooded his veins rapidly. He just couldn’t express how insanely happy he felt to see Hosea again and simply held him instead. 

Crying is not something you see Arthur do very often. He’s shed a few tears here and there in the past, but for the most part, he’s generally quite emotionally guarded. Right now though, he let the tears fall freely from his eyes and sobbed in Hosea’s arms, releasing all of the emotions he’s kept bottled up inside for weeks and months. The sight was incredibly upsetting to witness and you moved towards Joel to bury your face into his chest, hiding your own tears. You’ve never heard such agonized cries before and it was painful to listen to. 

In spite of how distressing it was, they needed this moment together. Arthur needed to hold the man who raised him since the age of fourteen. He needed to be given that very specific kind of consolation that only a father figure like Hosea could offer. They spent hours in close proximity to each other. You couldn’t pry them apart even if you wanted to. They were inseparable. 

Hosea explained everything that had happened and why he needed to fake his own death while you stayed outside the lodge and helped Susan put together a small encampment. The gang needed somewhere to sleep for the night, possibly several nights, and you wanted to keep yourself busy anyhow. It was a great distraction from this whole mess with Dutch which helped to ease your mind. 

Later, when the dust eventually settled and everyone felt a sense of normality again, you sat around a small fire with the gang and enjoyed every passing moment in their company. Jack was resting on your lap while Abigail was tending to John's wounds in the lodge with the help of Susan and Reverend Swanson. They know a thing or two about stitching up a bullet hole in the shoulder, and he should be back on his feet in a couple of days once the pain eases off. 

Joel leaned into your side and whispered in your ear. “Have I ever told you how beautiful you look with a child in your arms, darlin?” 

“No actually. You haven’t.” You felt your cheeks burning and smiled a flattered kind of smile under his playful gaze. It felt so good to be yourselves again. “Don’t be getting any bright ideas, Joel.” You returned the teasing banter, to which Arthur joined in now and asked. “Why not, sweetheart? Haven’t ya thought about it before?”

“Oh no… Not this again.” You shook your head and laughed at them both. 

“C’mon gorgeous… Enlighten us with how you feel about having our babies.” Arthur chuckled deeply, his tone seductive and fun-loving. He isn’t being serious about having kids. Surely he isn’t. But you have to admit that the topic of conversation would be a whole lot better than talking about all the shit you’ve just been through today. You zoned out for a moment and thought about having kids with Joel and Arthur at some point. The answer to that question wasn’t an immediate no. You could see yourself round and plump with their babies, but not now and not anytime soon. 

“A penny for your thoughts?” Joel looked at you with a smirking smile, his beautiful hazel-coloured eyes exhibiting a hint of lust. “It’s okay if you don’t wanna talk about it, but it’s just something me and Arthur think about from time to time.” 

“Really? You and Arthur think about that?” You asked, shocked to hear that they are, in fact, serious about having kids. You didn’t think they’d want to, especially not after everything that Arthur went through when he lost his son, Isaac. It hurt you so much just hearing about what happened to the young boy, and you can only begin to imagine how he felt during that time of his life. He only ever talked about Isaac and his mother Eliza once, and once was more than enough, but… Maybe someday when he's ready, he could open up a little more and allow himself to heal. 

You didn’t know at which point you started crying, but Joel and Arthur instantly put themselves to blame and apologized for bringing up the subject about having kids again. They mentioned it months ago when Susan asked them for a grandbaby, and the way you feel now was the exact same way you felt back then: deeply flattered, admired and honoured. 

“No, it’s okay.” You wiped your eyes and refused their apologies. “You haven’t upset me, I promise. It’s just that I um… Ok, I am a little upset, but it’s not for the reasons that you think.” 

“You wanna talk about it?” Joel offered an outlet; offered a way for you to attain some release by talking out your feelings, but you politely declined and shook your head. “No, not yet, handsome… But I think that, for now I’d just like to hear what you and Arthur have been thinking about from time to time.” You laughed sweetly, your eyes glossed over with a pretty tint of love and affection for them both. 

They blushed a little and explained in their own ways why they wanted to have your children at some point in the future. It’s simply because they love you so much and they can see themselves living a long life with you as their lady. ‘Our one and only gal’, they often say, bringing you nothing but the best of compliments. Even now as they lean in close to whisper those words in your ear, it consumes your whole entire being with love. 

After exhausting the idea of having kids with them, you concluded. “I suppose that when we’re ready, I’ll remove this implant in my arm.” 

“I never quite understood how that thing worked.” Arthur looked down at your arm, his finger lightly gliding across the little flexible plastic rod beneath your skin. “How does that stop you from getting pregnant?” 

“It releases a hormone in my bloodstream.” You shrugged. Laughing with the vulgar thoughts popping into your mind, you covered Jack’s ears and whispered to Arthur. “Besides, don’t you think it’s nice to pump me full of cum without consequence, sexy?” 

“Oh.” He looked away from you, blushing a lot more this time. The man’s skin was flushed with a rosy red colour as he thought about what you said and how it made him feel.  “Yeah. I do think that’s really nice, sweetheart. And it’s also something that we’ve not had the chance to do in a little while now either.” He looked back into your eyes and smirked, his gaze dropping to your lips briefly. “Why don’t you and Joel go wait for me in the tent? I’ll take Jack back to his momma and come see you both after.” 

“Yes sir.” You winked with the authoritative term, knowing exactly how that makes Arthur feel. Carefully handing Jack over and kissing him on the head, you whispered goodnight to him and took Joel’s hand before heading towards your tent. It wasn’t placed too far away from the rest, nor was it too close either, but one thing you’re certain about is that you’ll have to be quiet. 

And that would be difficult to do, just like it always is when Joel and Arthur make love to you. 

“Is there anything else you’d like to come clean about, sweetheart?” Arthur turned to you and asked, as if he were annoyed, but his facial expression said otherwise. He smiled at you with a twinkle in his eyes and shook his head, shocked and disbelieved. You not only kept a secret about Hosea from him and Joel, but you also kept another secret from them too; a secret that brings you right back to the oak tree on the hill. 

“No, that’s everything. I promise.” You giggled in reply, the sound so sweet to his ears that it made him laugh with you. “I didn’t like lying to you both about these things, but I had to because you already had so much going. Besides, it all worked out in the end, right?” 

They both sighed. “Yeah,” and Joel added to that. “I suppose you did the right thing by keeping all that mess with Francis from us. We’d just worry about yer and make it worse.” 

“M-hm.” You hummed in agreement with that. They certainly would have worried for your safety all those months ago when you freed Mr Sinclair from rotting away in that jail cell. The reason Arthur never got a written response from the man is because the law picked up the letter from the post office. Francis addressed the letter with Arthur’s full name instead of his cover name, Tacitus Kilgore, and he, of course, was pulled in for questioning. The law, however, didn’t release him right away and decided to keep the man in lock up. 

Six months ago exactly, when you sat around a small fire with Hosea outside of Shady Belle, he brought good news about Francis. The old man had found where the law was keeping him detained and had already devised a crafty little plan on how to break him out too. You had a lot of fun that day. It felt like a breeze to work alongside Hosea and the act of breaking someone out of jail wasn’t all that hard in the end. Perhaps it’s because of good planning, or maybe it’s because Hosea is the wittiest con-man there is, and he can bluff his way through just about anything. 

You were admired by the man's work and it was a pleasure to work with him each and every time after that point. Francis was freed from his jail cell and once you made it someplace safe, he finally showed you the way back home through the mirror. That was months ago, but now several weeks have passed since escaping Dutch and it’s time for you to go home now. The gang was taken care of and their safety was ensured. Joel, Arthur, Hosea and yourself made sure of it. 

John took his family out west and bought his very own plot of land, where he will build his own ranch with the help of Charles, Hosea and Uncle to live out the rest of his days. Sadie lives close by so that she can visit regularly too. Mr Pearson and Miss Grimshaw are currently working in Rhodes. They bought their own stores there and will live a happy life in proximity to each other. Karen and Sean left the country via boat. They’re going to Ireland and maybe even travel across Europe. Lenny is heading home to find his mother and be reunited with her. Mary-Beth resides in Valentine where she’s taken up the hobby of writing romantic novels. Swanson moved to New York to become a preacher and Tilly moved to Saint Denis. 

Everyone has been taken care of. Arthur wouldn’t be leaving this world behind if they weren’t. You remember asking him a long time ago to come with you and Joel, but he declined the offer to stay and protect his family instead. You understood his decision back then, but didn’t truly see just how devoted he was to ensuring their safety until you became a part of the gang as well. It made a lot of sense once you became a part of the family, and you, too, became determined to secure a better, safer, future for them. 

However, the time has come now for you to go home and start a new chapter in life. It’s for the best since Arthur still has a large bounty on his head. He doesn’t want to flee to another country across the seas, but with some persuasion from Hosea, he agreed to go with you and Joel instead. It’s going to be another tough adjustment for each of you to get used to. A whole year has passed since you’ve seen your home, and Arthur isn’t familiar with the future of course. There’s a lot that you’ll need to go when you get back, but for now, you’re taking it one step at a time. 

“Are we ready?” You ask them both excitedly. “It’s going to be hard for the first couple of days, maybe even weeks, but I can’t wait to go home with the two men I love most.” 

“Who are these two men you speak of?” Joel teased with a smirk on his lips. “Surely it can't be a pair of fools like us.” He said, and his remark made you slap his chest playfully as Arthur chuckled beside him. After a moment, Joel took your hand and Arthur’s hand before leading you both towards the tree. “Yes, darlin’. We’re ready to go home with the woman we love most.” 

You smiled and leaned in to plant a kiss on his lips, before turning to Arthur and kissing his lips too. The adventure you all went through was frightening and difficult, but you managed to find love along the way from two beautiful men. You got the best of both worlds when those two worlds collided. 

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[gingerbreadmonsters]

have and hold

or: take my unfinished life, and make it complete.

gn!reader, warning for major character death (...sort of), somewhere between hurt/comfort and angst with a happy ending? an odyssey, a hero’s journey, the actual fixing of the fix-it fic. this is the follow-up to reeling - i highly recommend that you read that first, or this isn’t going to make a huge amount of sense! spoilers for… death, i guess?? TOGETHER IN EVERY UNIVERSE. defibrillation, by any other name, would be as uncomfortable. inspired by moonraker by shirley bassey. ????? following the moonlight trail in just over 15,400 words.

a handful of warnings: fear of drowning (although it doesn’t actually happen), non-fatal electrocution, injury description, gore, dead bodies, mutilation mention, extended discussion of death and grieving. i know it sounds like a lot, but don’t worry - there is a happy ending, i promise!

this fic contains graphic content that may not be suitable or appropriate for readers under the age of 18. reader discretion is advised. 18+ ONLY. MINORS DNI. thank you.

if you missed part 1, you can read it here <3

series masterlist

There’s a part of me that’s convinced I’m going to wake up any second.

It’s so dark.

So dark, in fact, that it seems like there’s nothing there at all. So dark that it doesn’t feel like there’s anything, anywhere. Which really shouldn’t be a surprise, seeing as you don’t exist, and therefore probably can’t feel much of anything anymore.

Wait. That’s going to be a problem.

Because if you don’t exist, then how do you know it’s dark?

Hold on. It’s definitely dark, though. You know that because… well, it just is. So you must exist, because otherwise, you wouldn’t even know what darkness is, let alone what it looks like, which is to say nothing. Because you’re certainly looking at a whole lot of nothing right now. Or are you? Is there something there that you just can’t see? If you can’t see it, is it really there? Does it matter?

And anyway, if you really do exist, then who are you?

Fine, whatever - you’ll cross that bridge when you come to it, never mind the fact that bridges and crossings shouldn’t really matter to someone who shouldn’t really exist. If it actually is as dark as you think it is, then that means one of two things must be true.

Possibility one: your eyes are closed. Or you don’t have eyes. You try to open them, these eyes that you might have, and you feel something, but… nothing changes. How strange. You do it again, then once more - somehow you recognise the sensation of opening your eyes, that tiny movement of muscle somewhere in what you’re assuming is a face.

Okay, so moving on down to possibility two: there’s so little light here that opening your eyes doesn’t make a difference. Unfortunately, this option seems like the most likely one, which is a bit inconvenient because you still don’t know where here is, much less how to turn the lights on.

It would be really great if you didn’t exist enough to feel afraid, but it looks like that’s not the case. Don’t think about it. Even though the fact that you’re able to think about anything should probably be more of a concern than you’re making it out to be.

So it’s pitch black. But on the bright side, if you can’t do anything about it, then there’s no need to worry. Is there something else you can do instead?

Well, if you have eyes, then you might have a face. And if you have a face, then you might also have a head and a torso and arms and legs and all the other bits and pieces that some strange familiarity, deep down inside whatever you are right now, tells you that you ought to have. You can blink, possibly, which means you might be able to control at least some muscles. How about moving your-

Oh. That’s weird. As soon as you thought about having hands, you remembered that they were there. Yes, of course you have hands. And look - well, not look, it’s still really very dark - there are your feet, your knees, your chest and your hips and your back and every single bit of you that you’d apparently forgotten that you had.

How could you have forgotten something like that?

As all the newly-remembered parts of you blink back into your consciousness, you’re struck by another sensation. It’s movement - but not on purpose. How are you moving? Vaguely, you can tell that you’re lying down, but it feels like whatever you’re lying on isn’t stable. You’re sort of rocking from side to side, up and down, and your loose arms and legs aren’t bumping on anything that might be supporting you.

Hm. Maybe you were too quick to assume that something would be supporting you from underneath. Awkwardly, you try to twist round, flailing slightly as you try to feel if there’s something touching you, but there doesn’t seem to be anything there. Running your hands over your body, you - okay, you’re wearing clothes, that’s new.

You can’t quite figure out what type of clothes they are, but they feel pretty comfortable. As best you can tell, it’s some sort of t-shirt, a soft pair of trousers, socks, and shoes. The shoes seem quite flexible, and the ridges on the top might be laces - you’re probably wearing trainers, then. Yes, you can feel the treads on the soles. How athletic of you!

In any case, you couldn’t find anything touching you, so how are you staying in place? Or are you falling and you just can’t tell? Is there gravity here, in this place? Maybe you’re floating in space - oh, maybe that’s why it’s so dark! No light, and no gravity.

Actually, now that you think about it - and again, let’s not get into the philosophical implications of a being who shouldn’t exist even being capable of any sort of complex thought - isn’t there something wrong? You’ve got a body (yippee!), but that must mean that you’ve got all the things inside a body, right? Like a brain, and a heart, and a stomach, and lungs, and - wait, how are you breathing?

Unfortunately, you’ve thought about it now. Turns out you’re not in space, after all.

Water, freezing water in your mouth - your throat - your chest - an instinctive gasp, but all it does is make it worse. You’re floating, you’re floating, you’re drowning, you were underwater this whole time. Underwater? No time. You’ve got to get out, get out, but how? Thrashing, kicking, clawing at the water with weak, tingling limbs towards what you can only hope is the surface - is there a surface? There has to be, there has to be.

Some sort of muscle memory kicks in, or maybe you’re just naturally talented at trying not to drown. You must be going the right way, because soon the endless blackness around you starts to lighten. Bubbles floating up, up, up, and you follow - the current tries to beat you back, slamming you back and forth as you try to swim, but you have to breathe, and you can’t give up now.

It burns, it burns inside you, but it’s so close. Black gives way to grey, churning froth on the surface of the water - and you’re breathing again.

…Well, you’re mostly coughing and hacking up water, but once you’re finished with all that, then you’re breathing again.

Blearily, you rub the water out of your stinging eyes with one hand as you tread water. It’s a waste of time to fight the current pushing you along, so you let yourself be mostly carried by that. Luckily, there don’t seem to be any rocks sticking out of the water that you might hit, and you can’t see any animals swimming around that might hurt you.

To be honest, you can’t really see much of anything.

It hadn’t really occurred to you to wonder what sort of water you were floating in, but in the low light of wherever-you-are, it’s unmistakable. A black river, stretching out as far as you can see in both directions, sloping banks of black sand on each side and a cold, eerie mist hanging over the water. It twists and turns in the distance, swaying gently across the dim horizon with no end and no beginning in sight.

As long as it is, it doesn’t look all that wide. The wind is getting stronger, and you can feel your nose going numb from the chill. Maybe two or three hundred metres across, if you had to guess? Which, to be fair, is quite wide considering that you’re probably going to have to swim out of it, but it could be much worse. There’s a storm gathering overhead. Aren’t there rivers that are, like, tens or hundred of miles across? That would have been pretty bad.

Your fingers have gone all wrinkly. It’s probably time to get out now.

A swirling trail of white froth follows you, carefully trying to swim to shore without absolutely exhausting yourself. It hurts - you’re mostly swimming with the current, but the closer you get to the banks, the stronger the current gets. That’s weird. Isn’t it meant to be the other way around?

Onwards, onwards. The water gets choppier, surf and spray kicking up into your sore eyes and plastering your hair to your scalp. Is it just you, or does it feel like the water’s getting heavier? Like it’s getting denser, thicker, the weight of it dragging you back into the stinging depths. Tired legs, all the muscles in your stomach burning as you refuse to let your head dip under the water again. It’s clinging to you, tugging at your shirt like a child. Does it not want you to leave?

The thought makes you sad - yes, that’s it, you’re sad. That’s what that feeling is. Why are you sad? Are you lonely? Yes, you’re lonely, so lonely. But why? There’s nobody else here. You’ve never met anyone else before. How would you know how it feels to be lonely?

High above, the clouds flicker with light. The water swirls around you, and if you didn’t know any better, you’d say it seemed… nervous.

It’s probably worried for a reason, though. And why would you have any reason not to trust it? It’s been nice to you, right? It’s the only thing you’ve ever known, and maybe it’s the only thing you’ll ever need to know.

Costs are complicated, my precious listener. And wishes take many forms.

Perhaps you should stay. The River is lonely, can’t you see? It needs you, and you need it too, and you should give in. The storm is so close, thick, dark clouds barely distinguishable from the dim sky. Was that a voice, just now? Please, stay. You’ll be very happy, if you just let go. Trust the River, float along the River, dissolve into the River. It’s where you belong.

You’re on the wrong side of the mirror now.

Where you belong…?

Something about that strikes a strange chord inside you - dark movement in the corner of your eye, a song turning sour. You don’t belong here, do you? Is this really all there is for you?

It can’t be true. It can’t be. Because it’s cold - and you know it’s cold, so you must have felt warmth before. And it’s dark - you know it’s dark, because you know what light is. You know what clouds and shoes and sand are, you know how to blink and breathe and swim for shore. This water didn’t teach you that. You already knew.

The faint smell of ozone. This isn’t right. There’s more, there’s got to be more than this.

There’s something you should be doing. Something you can do. What is it? What are you forgetting? Water, water - what is it about water that you can’t recall? Something small and scared and shaking, curled up inside of you, shrinking back from a greedy hand in yours and a greedy heart that reaches out and - and - and-

A wave, breaking over your head in a shower of froth and foam. Coughing, hacking, spitting out water. What were you doing, again?

Cool water, sloshing over you, lapping at your - ah, that’s it. You were floating. It’s such a relief, to give your cold, aching body a rest. Hazily, you smile up at the strange not-light-not-dark of what might be sky up above you, and you don’t have to fight any more.

Well done. That’s good. Doesn’t this feel good? It’s starting to rain, splash-splash-splashing on the surface of the water. There are no voices here. Join us. You did the right thing. It’s going to be okay.

The tiniest itch in the back of your brain, words balanced on the tip on your tongue. Was there something you were supposed to remember?

I won’t let anything touch you. Nothing will stop me from keeping you safe.

Of course not. There is nothing else to see. You are meant to be here. But if that’s true, then how - why - what is this? Stop it, stop it, there’s something wrong - but what? The rain pours down, and down, and down. The River is the place you were always meant to be.

Sloshing, splashing, swimming - that’s it, you were swimming to shore! It’s so far away now, but you’ve got to try. Sodden clothes weighing you down, and the smell of ozone getting stronger and stronger. The current fights you, beating you back, but you won’t stop struggling, won’t stop fighting it.

This place has taken enough choice from us.

Stay with us. Your body burns cold, freezing slashes all over you, sharp claws tearing you apart under a black sky - but something inside you flares warm in your chest. It’s taking you apart, you’re bleeding, you’re gasping, you’re falling to the ground. The River will miss you if you go. No, no - that’s not right, that’s not right -

We’ll take the choice back. Together.

It’s too much - the air grows heavy in your lungs and your head spins as the waves crash over your head, as the pressure spikes and the rain falls and static electricity sparkles in the air around you. The reflection of your face in the water, the reflection of the sky in your face. It’s coming, it’s coming, and there’s no escape - thrashing against the weak weight of your body, struggling for shore.

The weight of the world, the glaring eye of the swirling storm staring right down through you. Things to hold on for. It’s going to hurt when it hits you, and you know it’s going to hit you. Here it comes, here it comes, the storm and the sky and the end, the end, the end-

Hold onto me. We’re getting out of here.

Lightning splits the sky with a scream.

You remember.

The world, your world, alive with sun and earth and steel. Running towards, running away, the smallest seed of bravery fed and watered until it became a beautiful flower. Warmth and joy and aching sadness. The smell of toast, slightly burnt - the sting of lemon juice in a paper cut you didn’t know you had. Dizzy mornings, cherry flavoured afternoons. The bolt of lightning strikes from the sky and forces its way into your heart, and gives you back to yourself.

The memories flood your brain, pouring in and filling every crease and crevice of your helpless form - names and faces and feelings that soak into all the soft parts of you, warm and bright and tender, swirling into the thick, dark blood. Darling Caelum, pink curls like soft candyfloss, mouth smeared with chocolate and giggling as he chases after the pigeons in the park. Huxley, sweeping you up in a great big hug, whiling away the afternoon over a game of Smash that just goes on and on and on. Damien - of course! - queueing up behind you in the cafeteria and pulling out his little bottle of that hand sanitiser he buys that smells like strawberries, carefully writing down everyone’s ice cream requests at the beach so he doesn’t forget anything. And Lasko, lovely Lasko, absolutely soaking wet after that summer fete when he accidentally volunteered for the professors’ sponge throwing stand, happily munching away at his box of pick and mix while you’re waiting for the film to start.

Your friends. Your friends, your wonderful, gorgeous, incredible friends. Lightning wracks your body in its burning grip, and you remember them.

Are you screaming? Does it hurt? A single instant, back bowed in a screeching arch and numb fingers clawing at the water. Power coursing through your body, electricity shredding through your bones and spilling out into the water, static sparks sent flying. Skin, muscle, bone - the storm sears a scorch mark straight through you, speared in place by a lightning bolt that cracks you open, rushes in and in and in-

Deviant!

A shock to the system - and your Core comes howling back to life.

If anyone asks, you’ll say you don’t know what happened next. All you know is the light, the seething, screeching light pouring out of you, and the sudden stomach-drop feeling of falling.

When you wake up, you’re alone. It’s dark again. You’re at the bottom of the River - and you’re completely dry.

Lurching to your feet in a daze, smeared with coarse, black sand that scrapes against the palms of your hands and gets stuck in the soles of your shoes. It takes a moment to sink in, and even then it still doesn’t really make sense. The dark water’s all around you, dizzyingly fast as it rushes over your head, but it’s like it doesn’t dare to touch you - when you take a tentative step forwards, it shrinks back in reply.

How rude. Was it something you said?

Never mind that - you’d better get out of here before it changes its mind. You start to walk, carefully perpendicular to the current, getting faster and faster until you’re properly running towards the shore. Before long, the sand underneath you starts to get steeper - above you, the water slowly gets lighter and lighter. You’re getting closer.

Reassured, you press on, thankful for the grip on the soles of your shoes as the damp sand and pebbles underneath you threaten to trip you up with every step. Come on, come on, just a little bit more! Falling over yourself in your scramble for the shore, you’re forced to catch yourself with your hands a few times when the sand slips out from under your feet, but you barely notice. There are more important things going on.

Finally, your head breaks the surface - well, the surface breaks for you. You’re still gasping for breath this time around, although that’s probably on you rather than the water. Gratefully, you stagger out of the water and up onto the riverbank, falling awkwardly to your knees in the sand, before admitting defeat and just sitting down properly with a relieved huff.

God, you’re tired. You could almost fall asleep right here and now, if it weren’t for the fact that you’ve seen way too many horror films to know that this is always the bit where the final girl thinks she’s safe and leans back, exhausted, against the door she just slammed shut, only for a dramatic camera change and a sudden violin stab as she gets dragged right back in by the killer.

(On an unrelated note, you scoot yourself a few metres further back from the water’s edge until you’re comfortably outside ankle-grabbing range. No reason.)

In front of you, the water carries on, as peaceful as ever. A gentle stream of blackness, a dark and winding trail that carves across the endless sands and disappears over the horizon. The storm has cleared. If you didn’t know any better, this would be a lovely spot for a picnic.

A minute passes. Then another, then another after that.

You made it. You’re alive.

Which is funny, because you remember dying.

Not very well. But enough. The Ward, sealing shut just behind you, a still black sky that could almost have been peaceful. Screeching, pushing, shouting - carnage as the field descends into writhing, churning massacre. Hard concrete under your feet, washed in eerie yellow light from inside the stadium. A cold, grim hand, crushing your terrified body in its grip. Blurry, bloody, dizzy. A scream.

Gavin.

Gavin.

Did he make it?

The question is enough to make you feel sick. Of course he made it. He must have. You can’t even begin to imagine a world where he’s not there. It doesn’t exist. It can’t exist.

You don’t know how - but you know it, utterly and irrevocably. He’s alive, somewhere out there, and you’re going to find him.

Who could stop you? What could stand in your way? Because you are alive, and you’re determined - even death was not enough. Whatever this place is, whatever the water did to you, it doesn’t matter. You’d tear reality apart for that man - no laws of space or time or matter could keep you from him now. You’re getting out of here, and you’re going home to him.

Pushing your aching body to stand, you can’t see a thing. Just miles upon miles of the same black sand, infinite in all directions, and a quiet, lonely river. Should you follow it? You’ll have to - there’s literally nothing else that you could follow, even if you wanted to. But upstream or downstream?

Well, it must be going somewhere. And if it’s good enough for the water, then it’s good enough for you. Maybe there’ll be someone there who can tell you what’s going on.

Before you go, you reach down and press a handprint into the sand. Proof, that you were here, that you ever existed in this place. A memory. A picnic that never was.

Then, the walk.

On, and on, and on.

To tell the truth, you’re not really sure how long you walk for. Years, probably. Decades. Or maybe it’s more like an hour? In all this nothingness, there’s really no way to tell. Trudging on, trainers sinking slightly into the sand with every step, it feels like time isn’t passing at all.

It’s possible, of course, that it isn’t. Time, that is. Passing. You’re dead, or you were, and it doesn’t take a genius to figure out what that implies about this place. Do they even have time here? If you turn around, you can see the long trail of footsteps behind you that definitely means you’re going somewhere, but beyond that you’ve got no idea how far you’ve walked.

Well, at least you’re wearing trainers.

(If you don’t laugh, you’ll cry. Of all the outfits you could have been stuck in as a ghost forever, why does it have to be that god-awful Games uniform? It’s comfortable enough, yeah, and it hasn’t got any blood on it or anything, but you don’t really want to spend eternity in joggers and a t-shirt. What a waste.)

Shifting sand, rushing water. The journey carries on.

The rhythmic crunch of sand under your feet is almost like a lullaby now, and as you walk, you dream. Every moment you can remember, every tiny part of him you know, everything you can possibly think of that reminds you of him - you dream it all.

In your mind, he’s more beautiful than ever. He’s sprawled out on the sofa in your living room, gaze following you around the room like a cat as he watches you fruitlessly search for the TV remote he’s hiding behind his back. He’s waiting for you outside the restaurant, shifting his weight from foot to foot every now and then, fiddling absentmindedly with the necklace you bought him. Gavin, your Gavin, elegant fingers covered in soap and hissing under his breath as he tries to extricate the bubble wand from where it’s fallen down inside the little bottle of bubble liquid.

Does he know where you are? Does he know that you’re coming? In your head, he does, he smiles and he laughs and he waits for you the way you’d wait for him - forever. A thousand million years might pass, but nothing changes.

Look at him. There he is - snoozing in the afternoon sun and holding Caelum’s hand and shielding you from Vega with his own body and using up all your hot water and whining about brain freeze from eating his ice cream too fast and blowing kisses at next door’s cat and the last thing you see as everything goes cold and your body hits the concrete and all your insides fall out.

Home. With every step, you remember him.

Speaking of steps, they’re getting very difficult, and you’re not sure why.

You’re not really sure how to describe it, but it’s like… static? Like interference on the radio, or something. That sort of fizzing, hissing, crackling sound - you don’t remember when it started, but it seems to have been getting louder the further you’ve gone. The world, too, is different - getting blurrier, fuzzier, the longer you look. You turn your head and it takes a minute for your eyes to catch up.

Five minutes and fifty-nine seconds.

Is it getting harder to breathe? Maybe the air is turning into static, too. But you can’t stop now - whatever this is, it must mean that you’re onto something. You must be getting close. Every now and then, you can almost make out the shape of words in the haze of noise that fills your brain.

Perhaps they’re calling to you. You push on for as long as you can, as the fog of static surrounds you like a sandstorm, the dullness of the black world becoming a flickering, glitchy grey. It’s heavy, pressing back against you like you’re swimming through tar, and it’s making something ache deep in your skull. No need to adjust your TV sets. Is this what they mean by an ‘electrical storm’?

Strangely, though, you’re not scared. If you listen carefully, you can almost hear his voice.

I haven’t even rung the bell yet.

It hurts, but you stagger on - and when you can’t do that you crawl, falling to your knees with a groan as the horrible fuzzy ache in your head gets worse and worse. Dissolving into static, splintering and blowing away in the breeze. The world isn’t so dark, now, but rinsed in colour - flashing and sparking, the smell of smoke. Red and blue, red and blue, red and blue.

The storm’s in you, now. Warm sand scraping your palms, it’s a struggle to drag your shuddering, flickering limbs deeper into the haze, but even as your strength starts to fail - as your mind starts to fade - as the pieces of you begin to disappear into this strange, stuttering world -

You’re going to have to go in blind.

- it’s fine.

Isn’t that fun?

It’s nothing. It’s nothing and it’s fine, and it’s so, so easy. It’s easier than dying, in fact, and you would know. A blissful smile, dissolving into static. He’s here - and you’re so close. That voice, half-remembered and always familiar. As your buzzing, glitchy body crumbles into the sand, the deal is sealed.

Somewhere, hidden deep within the realm of death, a door opens.

Have fun with Gavin. I suppose we’ll find out if it was worth it.

-

God, you’ve really got to stop falling asleep like this.

Thankfully, it’s not dark when you wake up this time - although, as the bright white world swims nauseatingly in your blurry vision, you almost wish it was. Wincing, you peel your face off the hard floor beneath you and push yourself to your feet, only to find that-

You’re in a…. museum?

Whatever you’d been expecting to see, it certainly wasn’t this.

It looks like you’re in the middle of some kind of gallery - painted eyes peer down at you from all over the room, where the walls are covered in paintings. There are two doors, one at each end of the room, and both seem to lead to more of the same.

How bizarre.

The painting to your right catches your eye, and you wander over to have a look. It’s huge, maybe two or three metres tall, and incredibly detailed - the focus is clearly the figure in the middle, outlined in moonlight as they stare out of the canvas. Staring up at them like this, you’re struck by how beautiful they are, the care that must have been poured into creating such a painting. Austere yet benevolent, solemn yet playful. They must have been loved very much.

They look to be standing on the beach, ankle-deep in dark seawater, and for a moment you’re reminded of the water you woke up in, not that long ago. Perhaps whoever painted this… no, they can’t have. It’s impossible.

Smiling slightly, you turn to look at the next painting.

Then the next.

Then another, then the one after that - then your smile is replaced by confusion, because all of these paintings are of the same person.

It’s a little unnerving, if you’re honest. Always the same eyes looking down at you, the same hands reaching out, the same face wearing the same smile. Who was this person, to have inspired such devotion? Where are they now?

A twinge of paranoia - you glance quickly up at the ceiling, checking for a camera, but finding something different. A big, rectangular skylight keeps the room bright - but when you look up at the glass, you’re not sure that it’s actually daytime. The light seems almost too white, no sign or sense of clouds or depth or a sky. And perhaps it’s just a sign that you haven’t been to as many museums as you should, but why are all the windows covered in netting?

Is it to keep something in? Or keep something out?

This is weird. Rattled, you make a hasty beeline for the door.

It’s not much good, though, as no matter where you go, the exhibit continues. It must go on for miles - you walk past what must be every sort of artefact a museum could possibly hold, and several more that it probably shouldn’t. Masks, friezes, clothes, photographs, maps, dolls, perfumes… This place is absolutely enormous, and the exhibit shows no sign of coming to an end.

For such an immense space, it’s beautifully kept, with not a speck of dust or stray fingerprint anywhere. And yet, somehow, it feels like the loneliest place in the world. A maze without a centre. An altar without a god.

Perhaps not.

Without really noticing, you drift to a stop in front of a statue - somewhere in the back of your mind, you realise that for all the many, many artworks you’ve passed, this is the only statue you’ve seen. It’s marble, perfect and pristine, and you can’t help but be utterly transfixed by its gaze.

It’s the same figure as everywhere else, but the pose is unlike any other you’ve come across. They’re standing and sort of leaning forward slightly, head tilted to one side and lips slightly parted. One arm curves inwards at about chest height, as if they were holding a mixing bowl or a beach ball or something, and the other reaches outwards, following their eyeline down to you.

For some reason, you have the strangest sense that they’re calling to you, one outstretched hand beckoning you forward into the cold cradle of their arms.

Dazedly, your feet carry you towards the statue, and you just catch a glimpse of the small, golden plaque that adorns the plinth it rests upon.

VENERATION.

The marble is hard and cold against your skin as you settle yourself awkwardly into the statue’s hold, but it doesn’t last - soon enough, it warms with your body heat until you barely notice it. With the way it leans forward, it’s difficult to keep your balance, but you manage. One arm comes up to hold the statue’s waist, and you loop the other around its neck, gently cupping the smooth, sculpted hair at the nape.

Proof of devotion. A hand presses into your back, and there’s only one thing to do.

Your eyes close as cool marble lips press against your own, leaning up into the statue’s kiss as you clasp it ever tighter, and something warm flickers to life inside you. Passion, rich and strong and full of joy. Like this, you’re reminded of another lover - another face, another hold, another kiss-

- and just like that, you’re somewhere else.

What?

The statue is gone, and the whole room too - your empty hands freeze in surprise for a second, before falling stiffly to your sides once it sets in. Was it a test? Did you pass? You must have, because this place is certainly no museum.

It looks to be some sort of control room, or perhaps a security room? A set of screens cover the opposite wall, and the room is full of computer desks and filing cabinets and all sorts of office paraphernalia - it would almost be boring, if it weren’t for the fact that it looks like a hurricane came through here about twenty minutes ago.

There’s paper everywhere, cracked monitors and overturned chairs, the alert board smashed and barely hanging onto the wall. What happened here? Cameras dangle limply from broken fixings near the ceiling, and when you take a step, the thin carpet feels like it’s - yep, that’s definitely soaked with water.

The room is bitterly cold and almost completely dark, lit only by the black and white buzz of static that covers every screen - even the smashed ones. That’s probably why you don’t notice it until you’re much, much too close.

Rounding one of the desks, you’re met with -

“I - oh, shit!”

- fucking hell, are they dead?

Stunned, all you can do is stare. There’s a woman’s body lying on the ground, soaked in water, and with some sort of thing, sticking out of her chest. Blood leaks from her eyes, her nose, her mouth, crystallising slightly in the cold. Singing static, humming away.

She’s not moving. Oh god, oh god, there’s a dead body on the floor, there’s a dead person literally right there - what the fuck do you even do? After a second, your hand flies to your mouth as you turn away, clutching the printer next to you in a graceless attempt to keep yourself upright. You’re very, very glad that there’s nothing in your stomach.

Idly, you notice that there’s a sheet of paper sitting in the output tray. For some reason, it only has one word printed on it.

SACRIFICE.

Well, that’s not ominous at all.

After a few deep breaths, you’re feeling slightly more settled. Luckily, the door is just a few metres away - keeping your gaze carefully off the floor, you pick your way through the mess of office junk to try the handle.

Nope. Nothing. You try again, a little more forcefully this time, but the handle refuses to budge. It must be locked, which is weird because there’s no keyhole or card reader or anything that might be able to unlock it. And anyway, why would you be able to lock a security room from the outside in the first place? You’re no expert, but that seems like a bad idea.

So the door’s locked. Fine, it’s fine, you probably should have expected that. A cursory glance around confirms that there are no windows, and no skylight either. So then, how…?

Fuck. It’s got to be something to do with the - the, um…

Unsurprisingly, she hasn’t moved when you turn reluctantly back towards her. You’re still not happy about having to get any closer - can you get diseases from dead bodies? Isn’t it true that they can make you sick? - but upon closer inspection, the thing in her chest isn’t a weapon. You’d thought she’d been stabbed or staked or something, but no.

It’s a flower.

A peony, unless you’re very much mistaken. The low light makes it difficult to tell, but it looks like it might be pink with big white stripes. The stem is long, maybe two or three feet tall, and the flower is enormous - about the size of your hand, petals all soft and fluffy-looking.

How does a flower kill someone? Unconsciously, you take a step closer, entranced by its beauty. Will it feel as soft as it looks?

Utterly mesmerised, you don’t even spare a glance at the dead woman’s face. The feel of the firm stem in your hand, the rich smoothness of the petals - the peony is just so utterly gorgeous that you can’t look away. It feels special, like a sacred offering to a god, or the delicate centre of a bride’s bouquet.

Something about it makes you want to cry. Something about it makes you want to kill. Something about it makes you hungry.

Wait, what?

Too late - just as the question registers in your brain, your thumbnail splits the stem with a sharp snap. Quickly, you catch the flower before it falls, cradling it in your hands as your mouth waters and your stomach growls.

“Mm - mmm…”

It tastes… good? No, more than that - it’s delicious, sweet and light and full of flavour. You’re suddenly starving, filled with this strange new craving that curls up in your throat and begs to be sated. Before you really know it, you’re burying your face greedily in the flower and stuffing your mouth with the delicious petals - you barely even notice the blood dripping from the forgotten stem, or running down your chin with every mouthful.

Chewing, chewing, swallowing. Your eyes flutter shut as a lovely stamen bursts between your teeth. You’re sure your bloody, pollen-covered smile must look absolutely monstrous, but you don’t care. Why should you? From confusion, comes pleasure - and you’re very, very pleased.

When you open your eyes again, wiping the tacky, sticky mess from your face with the back of your hand like a child, you’re not in the security room any more.

A great big hall stretches out in front of you, standing up on a sort of stage that looks out over what appears to be a ballroom of some kind. The floor is all dark wood, beautifully polished and the walls are adorned with beautiful portraits and enormous long mirrors, each in an elaborate gilt frame. Everything seems to shine in the half-light of sunset that floods in through the tall arched windows all along the left wall, deep red curtains opened wide, and the golden light of the chandeliers illuminate the painted ceilings high above your head.

It might be the most beautiful place you’ve ever seen. You go as if to take a step, to go down and move further into the room, but something stops you - a bizarre compulsion that tugs you backwards and turns you round.

Oh. You hadn’t noticed the throne.

It’s stunning, raised up on a beautiful wooden dais and surrounded by tall, elegant banners that seem to be embroidered with a kind of insignia, or maybe a crest. One of the patterns that repeats the most looks almost… familiar? It’s like a sort of double S-shape, one stacked diagonally on top of the other, with a thin, curving diagonal slash slicing through where they join. If you look quickly, it looks almost like rope, or maybe barbed wire - and does that shape in the middle look a little bit like an eye? Or is that just your imagination?

The throne itself is shorter than you were expecting, wide and rectangular in its base, and made up of intricate layers of scarlet lacquered wood and gold. An opulent golden screen towers behind it, decorated with carvings of dragons, flowers, phoenixes, mountains, stars, and so many tiny details that you’d be here all day if you tried to count them all.

Perhaps it’s a silly thing to say, but the throne seems to sing with power, even empty as it is. It looks like something from a storybook, the seat of a great king - no, a grand emperor.

It wouldn’t be right to actually sit on it, but maybe you could just… go up to it? It’s okay to look at it, right? It feels like it’s calling you, like it wants you to come nearer - and if it’s what it wants, then it must be fine. Probably. Yeah.

Hesitantly, you climb the stairs leading up to the platform, slow steps leading up to the throne until you’re right in front of it. Up close, it’s even more incredible. Mother-of-pearl curves along a dragon’s back, and a heavily-embroidered cushion sits neatly in the centre of the seat. Who on earth could such a magnificent throne, such a spectacular palace as this, even belong to?

That pull, tugging deep inside your chest, urging you towards the throne. Maybe it would be okay for you to sit down. Just for a little bit. There’s nobody here to tell on you.

You nervously settle yourself onto the throne, one hand clutching one of the armrests for support as you sit down. You’re half-expecting a big axe blade to swing out of nowhere and chop your head off for treason, or for some sort of trapdoor to open and drop you into a big spike pit for your heresy, but nothing actually happens - slowly, you find yourself relaxing just a little.

Hold on. That wasn’t there before… was it?

You must have missed it somehow - but now that you’re sitting here, it’s as plain as day. A square, marble platform in the centre of the room, black shot through with white lightning, maybe six feet across. A pile of wood surrounds a tall, sharp stake, scraps of rope dangling from about halfway down the sides, and oh, God, you know what this is.

You don’t want to do it. There has to be another way.

The pull in your chest thinks otherwise, though - it practically drags you down from the throne, tripping over your own feet as you stumble towards the unlit pyre. As you go, staring up at the stake in horror, you can see a word carved into the wood.

SUBVERSION.

You go, the unwilling executioner, climbing up onto the platform with a feeling like your heart is full of sand. There’s nobody here, so it shouldn’t really matter, right? More than anything, you’re hoping that this won’t hurt anyone.

(And even if it did…)

(Didn’t you say you’d do anything, to see him again?)

There’s no delaying it. You take one last, longing look at the beauty surrounding you, breathing it in for just a moment more, before crouching down and placing your hand on the pyre.

The familiar magic surges beneath your skin. Delicate flame catches dry kindling, and even as the fire swallows your vision, as the flames swallow you whole, you don’t look away. You wouldn’t want to miss anything.

Snapping, crackling, soft fat melting and dripping off the bone. Warm light sears your eyes as the fire grows and grows, brighter and brighter until it’s white-hot and blistering - helpless against the pain, you’re forced to squeeze your eyes shut and press your palms against your face to block out the brightness. Sunlight on your skin, sunlight in your skin, and just like that-

- it’s morning.

It’s changed again. Slowly, the world comes into focus as you blink the blurriness away. Gone is the grand ballroom of before, replaced by a dark, messy bedroom. The curtains are shut, but the gaps between the edges of the fabric and the windowframe let little stripes of sun fall over the navy blue bedspread.

Hope flutters in your chest for a moment, but it quickly disappears. It’s a bedroom, but it’s not your bedroom - the bed is the wrong size, and the walls are the wrong colour, and the door should be behind you when it’s actually to your left. Someone else’s house, then. Someone else’s home. You won’t cry.

It feels a little bit uncomfortable, poking around in a stranger’s bedroom, so you just take a cursory glance around before heading for the door. It’s clearly lived in, bed unmade and towel still slightly damp where it’s hanging over the back of the desk chair. You pull the door open, carefully avoiding tripping over the pair of slippers sitting innocuously on the floor, and head out into the rest of the house.

Upon closer inspection, it appears that you’ve arrived in someone’s apartment, though they don’t seem to be home. Peeking out through the living room curtains, you don’t recognise the skyline, so it can’t be Dahlia, though the architecture doesn’t look that different. It’s decorated in a fairly conventional, American style, too. You can’t be that far away from home.

The thought makes you ache, but it’s no use trying to leave. The front door remains resolutely locked, no matter what you do, and the windows are the same. You can’t even break the frame, or smash the glass. For some reason, you’re reminded of a fish tank.

A single toothbrush in the bathroom, a single glass of water on the coffee table. It’s funny - from all of the stuff you can see, it only looks like one person lives here. So why, then, do you have the uncanny feeling that it should be two?

The story is the same when you go into the kitchen. It’s tiny, more of a kitchenette than anything else, and if you didn't know the place was empty, you could almost believe that whoever lives here had only just left the room. A faded plastic cereal bowl sits on the kitchen table, spoon propped up against the rim, next to a plastic cup that presumably used to have orange juice in it.

The open cereal box on the table catches your eye - big, cheerful letters on a colourful box. What an unusual name for a brand of cereal. Maybe it’s new.

DEVOTION.

You reach for the box, printed cardboard all smooth and shiny. Curiously, you turn it over in your hands, looking for anything that could help you figure out what’s going on, but there’s nothing. And not nothing as in ‘none of the information is helpful’, but nothing as in ‘there’s literally no other text on the box’.

There’s not even a sell-by date or anything. It suddenly occurs to you that you haven’t seen any other writing at all, anywhere in the apartment.

Fuck, this is too much - you need something to eat. Or maybe drink? Now that you think about it, you’re really thirsty. When was the last time you drank anything?

(Before you ask, the answer’s no. Weird black water from the death river in the endless desert hell dimension doesn’t count.)

Yeah, something to drink would be nice. Something warm, something comforting, that reminds you of home in this place that isn’t quite right.

Funnily enough, there’s a kettle just behind you on the counter when you turn around. How fortunate! The familiar rhythm kicks in, filling up the kettle and putting it on to boil, although it takes a moment to find a teabag in the cupboard. Two, actually. You always make two cups of tea - Gavin’s been getting really into it lately, and he always insists that you two match.

To tell the truth, you’re not actually sure why he’s so fascinated by tea. He likes hot chocolate because it’s nice and sweet, but not coffee - even when it’s practically ninety percent milk and sugar, he still won’t drink it. You can almost see him now, glaring disdainfully down at the cup on the table like it’s radioactive or something. No, no - too bitter! Deviant, why does anybody drink this stuff? It’s horrible…

Absent-mindedly, you reach up and take two mugs out of the cupboard, one blue and one purple. He says it’s because he never used to drink hot drinks, which sort of makes sense. From what he’s told you about his life before you met, he wasn’t really spending time at the sorts of places that serve Darjeeling as a matter of course.

Breathing in the steam, the smell of home. He likes it with lots of milk and a little bit of sugar. The teaspoon clinks against the side of the mug, and you know that when your eyes open again, you won’t be here any more.

The thought makes you sad, in a weird, cold sort of way. Even if this place isn’t home, it’s close enough. The world you’re fighting to get back to, the life you’re trying to find again, slipping through your fingers like sand. Will you ever come home again?

This can’t all be for nothing. These places, the things you’ve seen - it can’t all be for no reason, can it? It’s a test, it has to be. You have to believe that there’s a reason for all of this. Have faith. A familiar, staticky hand in yours, your demonic Eurydice, and you won’t look back.

You’ll be home soon. Sleepy, dizzy, muscle memory. And when you’re home, when you find your way home to him, you’ll make as many cups of tea as you could ever drink.

You open your eyes to complete and utter darkness.

The first thing you notice - well, other than the fact that you can’t see - is the chill. It’s cold, but not like you’re outside. There’s no breeze. It’s more like someone’s left a window open, or forgotten to turn the heating on.

The second thing you notice is the breathing.

There’s no way to tell where it’s coming from, but that’s definitely what it sounds like - something breathing, quiet and shallow and much too close for comfort. You freeze, looking left and right like you might be able to see it, but it’s no good. It’s so dark that you may as well be blindfolded.

Clumsily, you stick your hands out in front of you, gingerly feeling around for something to guide you. An involuntary shock goes up your spine when your left hand hits something hard, but you quickly realise it’s a wall. Are you inside a building, then? Your right hand quickly finds the opposite wall - you must be in a corridor of some kind.

After all of that, your eyes have ever-so-slightly adjusted to the dark, and you can just about make out a faint brightness about ten feet or so in front of you. Is something there?

Your steps are stilted, awkward as you shuffle forwards into the dark, left hand pressed firmly against the wall to keep you steady while the other fumbles stiffly in front of you, ready in case you bump into something. And maybe it’s just virtue of the friction between your trainers and the floor, but doesn’t it feel kind of… sticky? Tacky, like something hasn’t quite dried yet?

Gritting your teeth, you keep on inching forwards until suddenly, the wall under your hand disappears. Panic flares in your mind and you gasp involuntarily, clumsy fingers grasping at thin air until you find it again.

Feeling around, it seems like the corridor is about to turn a corner. That must be where the light is coming from. Taking a deep breath, and pointedly not thinking about whatever else might be breathing in here, you creep slowly around the corner to find -

- oh, thank goodness, it’s only a door.

Well, you think it’s a door. You can see two thin, rectangular windows that look about the right height and width to be set in a door, and the pale light that filters through the stained glass hints at what might be an entryway. You must be in a house, and this corridor must be the hallway.

Relieved, you start walking a bit faster. The light is still very low, but you can’t see any obstacles or people in front of you, so you should be fine. Anyways, you know where you’re going now, so hopefully you’ll just be able to unlock the door and-

“Shit - ow, ow!”

In your haste, you don’t notice it - you trip over something on the floor and it sends you sprawling, arms instinctively reaching out in front of you to break your fall. Luckily, it’s not that bad of a tumble, and although it knocks the breath out of you, it doesn’t feel like you’ve broken anything.

Whatever it was you tripped over can’t have been very big, maybe the size of a football or so? And judging by the way you fell, it must be behind you now. Blindly, you twist around to try and peer into the dark, before realising far too late that you’ve had a source of light all along.

A handful of fire flares to life in your hand, warm and comforting, to show you Alexis Solaire and her dead, empty face.

Horrified, you can’t scream. You can’t even move, paralysed at the sight of the Solaire princess lying dead in front of you, still wearing her elegant, golden tiara, delicate pearls tangled in her hair. No, no, that’s not even all of her - numbly, you realise that she’s not - she’s been - her head, she’s - fucking hell you just tripped over her head-

Your body floods with delayed adrenaline, and it knocks you out of your daze. You scramble backwards as fast as you can, trying desperately to put as much distance between you and her as you can. Fuck, that must have been why the floor was so sticky - oh, God, that’s not funny, it’s really not, but you almost want to laugh.

How is she even here? Gavin’s mentioned her before, something about a fancy vampire party and a very sharp ornamental cane, but only ever in passing. Although you’ve never met her, you’ve seen pictures, and there’s no mistaking that face.

God, it feels like your limbs are made of lead as you scrabble to get away, only for your hand to brush against something cold behind you. What is - shit, what is it, it’s cold and it’s wet and it’s-

This time, you do actually scream. Dark hair, sharp teeth, thick blood. Fire dripping from your palm, low light reflecting off the dark wooden floorboards, and glittering in the unseeing eyes of Vincent Solaire.

He’s just lying there, soaked in blood - you have to clamp your hand over your mouth at the sight of him, soft insides gleaming in the firelight where his stomach is torn open, flesh sliced to ribbons and neck barely keeping his head attached to his body. He almost looks like he’s smiling, though maybe that’s just the claw marks gouged deep into his pretty face, tearing messily through his eye and down across his cheek.

You must be in hell. This must be hell. How else could he be here? Vincent, wonderful Vincent, good sweet kind Vincent - who could have done this to him? He and Gavin have been very good friends for years, and ever since you were introduced, you’ve always liked him. He’s funny and charming and endlessly devoted to his partner - the four of you get on like a house on fire, and you’d been planning on going out somewhere to celebrate after the Games.

Please say it’s not true. This can’t have been what happened - he can’t have met the same fate as you, can he? A useless death, body shredded and soul gutted by a Shade? He’s a vampire, for God’s sake, he’s miles faster and stronger than you ever could have been. He must have made it out.

You swallow a shuddering, gasping sob, finally managing to rip your eyes away from the mangled corpse in front of you, and that’s when you notice it. Torn, ruined fingernails. Scratch marks in the floorboards, clawed painfully into the wood by desperate, dying hands.

BLINDNESS.

That’s it, that’s it - you’ve got to get out of here. Scrambling to your feet, you stagger past Vincent’s body and drag yourself to the door, trembling fingers struggling with the latch - the blood makes them slippery, but eventually you hear it click. Hurriedly, you go to push the door open, but - but-

You can’t just leave him.

This probably isn’t real, and you know it perfectly well. Whatever you do here likely doesn’t matter, and once you’ve left, chances are that nobody will ever know what you did.

But you’ll know. You’ll know what happened here, and you’ll know that you left your friend’s body to rot, forgotten, in the dark forever. And most of all, you’ll know that you can never forgive yourself.

Slowly, you pull the door open, turning with it to face back into the hallway as the hinges creak. You’ll need both hands for this next bit.

Pale light seeps around the new gaps in the doorframe, painting most of Alexis’ face and Vincent’s back in cold, white light. Somehow, it doesn’t make it any better. You try not to look as you carefully hook your arms under as much of Vincent’s body as you can, and you don’t want to think about why he’s so light. You don’t want to know what that awful, wet sound of something falling out of the gash in his stomach is, and you don’t want to know what that cold liquid soaking into your shirt is.

The world blurs unexpectedly in front of you, and you realise that you’re crying. It doesn’t matter, nobody will know, but you’re crying anyway. His head, lolling too far back against your arm - glistening bone peeking out between snapped tendons and sliced muscle. Hot tears pour down your face as you nudge the door open with your foot, weak light blinding you after the darkness of the corridor.

Gently, you make sure he doesn’t hit his head against the doorframe. The taste of sweet toffee. As the weight of Vincent’s body dissolves in your arms, you just cry, and cry, and cry.

Head aching, you’re vaguely aware of the hard earth rocking beneath you. At least there’s a nice breeze out here. The smell of salt, and the sound of the sea.

Wait, what?

Rubbing the tears from your bleary, tired eyes, you can see that you’re not outside a house at all - although you’re definitely outside. Wood, rope, iron. Flags flutter joyfully atop a towering mast, cream-coloured sails bright against the blue sky, and you realise what that rocking feeling really is.

It’s not the earth at all. Somehow, you’ve ended up on the deck of a ship, in the middle of the ocean.

It’s not even a particularly modern ship - it sounds ridiculous, but it really does look like one of those old-timey pirate ships from a film or a book or something, with rigging and a crow’s nest and one of those big wooden wheels with the spokes that you use to steer. Maybe it’s some kind of historical recreation? Or maybe you’re a time traveller! That would be cool.

(You are aware, of course, that it probably isn’t time travel. This is almost certainly an elaborate fantasy induced by an unknown supernatural entity, or a figment of your dying imagination, or some sort of weird liminal space between states of being. Even so, it’s nice to dream, you know?)

Something about this feels different. You’re not really sure how to describe it. All those other places - that weird museum, the empty apartment, that ballroom with the throne - they all felt strange. Not just in the sense that you didn’t know what was happening, but more like you… like you didn’t belong there?

It’s hard to put into words. Like you didn’t fit, a puzzle piece not just in the wrong place but in the wrong box entirely. Does that make sense? Out of place, not quite right, like poles repelling. Unsettled, as if the world wasn’t made for you, wasn’t ready for you to be in it. But here, on the deck of a ship you almost recognise, you feel like you’re back in the box again.

You can’t see anyone around, which is mostly a relief, but does make you a little bit uneasy. Didn’t ships like this need a crew, to keep it running and everything? How are they steering - is anybody steering this thing?

You climb the short stairs up to the quarterdeck, wooden bannister smooth under your palm. From up here, you can properly see the whole deck, and yeah, there’s nobody here. Nobody at the helm, either. It should probably worry you more than it does, but the wheel doesn’t seem to be moving at all.

Does that mean it’s fine? It’s probably better than if it were just spinning freely. Oh, whatever - you’re no sailor, and anyway, there doesn’t seem to be anything around that you might crash into.

In fact, you can’t really see anything at all. Just endless sea and cloudless sky, bright sun shining down, and the ship beneath you.

You’ve got to stop just calling it the ship. Does it have a name?

It must be written somewhere. They normally write the name on the side of the ship, don’t they? If there’s anywhere on the ship you should be able to see it from, it should be up here.

Hesitantly, you walk over to the railing to check, boards quietly creaking under your feet. This is the port side of the ship, isn’t it? Yeah, port means left and starboard means right. Wait, but is that left when you’re on the ship, or looking at the - you know what, it doesn’t matter. The important thing is that you can see something.

It’s a little bit tricky to actually read, seeing as the letters are upside down and also several metres directly underneath you, but you can see it as clear as day. Ah, of course. You probably should have guessed.

FAITH.

It makes sense. By which you mean it doesn’t, but that’s kind of what you were expecting.

The sea is getting choppier, spray kicking up against the side of the ship. For a second, you could swear you see something colourful moving under the water - but just as quickly as you see it, it’s gone.

Now, the sensible thing to do would be to go back down onto the main deck, try to get into the interior of the ship, and have a look around for anything there that might help you. That would probably be a good idea, seeing as you’re literally stranded on a seemingly-abandoned ship in the middle of nowhere in a dimension that might not actually exist.

Unfortunately, that plan assumes that you’re going to be sensible about this.

Are those bells you can hear, ringing wide across the ocean? You don’t know, and you don’t want to - the sea sloshes around inside you, bubbling and swirling in your brain until it’s all you can think about. It always seems to come back to water, these days. Will it be warm, when you break the surface?

It’s a terrible idea, so naturally you’re already halfway through doing it. With a grin, you push off the railing and run, as fast as you can, towards the other side of the ship. If you’re going to do it, you might as well do it properly.

Church bells, wedding bells, far away across the sea. Stepping up onto the side of the ship, breathing in the sea breeze. This is how it goes, in stories - emerging from water, shorthand for a baptism. Pushing off, floating through space, speared halfway by the golden line of the horizon. Revival, rebirth.

A leap of faith. If you’re fated to reject your fate, then does the universe cease to exist?

Down and down and down, falling into the shadow of the ship above you. Feeling rather than seeing the splash. One last gasping breath, eyes slamming shut just as you hit the water, and for some reason, you have the strangest urge to say hello.

Dark water, once again.

I’ll hold on.

Soaked and sodden and tumbling towards the ground.

I’ll make all this pain worth it.

Things to hold on for. Black earth and the crumbling concrete, getting closer, breathing out, closer, breathing in, falling falling falling until -

Hold me?

- you're awake.

Of course.

You should have known.

Lying down again, enveloped by the crushing dark, you know exactly where this is. Where else would the water take you?

Slowly, you reach up and dig your fingers into the ground above you, pulling away a handful of the soft, damp earth. Then again, then again, greedy hands clawing at the dirt like an animal. It's warm, down here in the suffocating smallness of the ground.

You want to scream, but you think better of it. Then you think about it again, and you change your mind - so you open your mouth, and something pours out.

It's impossible to tell what it is. Perhaps it's noise, something liquid between a howl and a sob, thin and watery as it runs down your chin and soaks into the earth. Bubbling up through your throat, staining your lips and teeth with pain - you tear viciously at the stifling earth, each breath a howl, each howl a weak, stuttering keen that burns your lungs and twists your insides into knots.

Soil rains down with every handful, in your eyes and your hair and your mouth, but it doesn’t stop you. The taste of sweet earth is sickly and bitter. Your perfect cavity is ruined, neat edges and sharp corners crumbling away, a fish trapped on the hook as you thrash your way up and up and up.

You’re almost there. Finally - finally! - your fingers break through, grasping and clawing at the grass, and you dig yourself free of your grave.

The cold air of a winter night hits your skin, and you breathe a sigh of relief. You must be a pitiful sight. Spitting out soil, covered in filth, picking the packed earth out from under your fingernails, and it doesn’t even matter, because you’ve just -

Oh, God.

You’ve just realised where you are.

Your grave. The backlit shadow of the stadium looms above you, blinding against the black sky of a ward that will never come down. You were wrong about why this felt familiar. Not the place you were buried. The place you died.

Is it bad to say that it’s exactly how you remembered it to be?

Well, not exactly. There aren’t any other people, and you can hear the low buzz in the air that the ward generates, fizzing against your skin instead of being drowned out by shouts and screams. But other than that, it’s very, very close.

Standing still, a perfect bubble of a snowglobe, frozen in the moment that your life came to an end. The air doesn’t move, your heart doesn’t beat. If you look closely, you can almost see it - the Shade, throwing itself towards you as you scramble away, unearthly claws tearing cold through your body, shrieking in its feast as your mind slows and shudders, until it just… stops.

Beneath your feet, grass becomes familiar concrete. Numbly, you stare at the wide, dark smear that your blood painted on the ground as you fell to pieces, and you want nothing more than to never know anything ever again.

It’s… bigger than you thought it would be. Hm. You never even knew you had that much blood inside you.

There’s a word, stained into the concrete, finger-painted through the flaking pool of your blood left behind. In your mind’s eye you see the hand shaking, the heart bursting, the tears pouring down the perfect face, contorted in agony.

PERSISTENCE.

An extended existence, continuation in the face of defiance. A haunting. Love, that doesn’t realise it has died. The quality of being kissed by a ghost.

Time passes.

You’re not sure how long, and you’re not sure what you do while it happens. Mourn, perhaps. You did die, after all.

A strange sort of grief swirls inside you like a storm, and you cry for a very long, or maybe a very short, time. You’d never really imagined mourning your own death, and you’d not really expected to have to come to terms with it. After all, you’d… well, you’d be dead. Dead people don’t generally have to come to terms with anything at all.

You probably ought to revise that hypothesis, come to think of it. You’re definitely dead, and you’re definitely having to deal with it, so presumably it must be wrong. Or would you say that you’re the exception that proves the rule?

At some point in the endless present, the storm subsides. It doesn’t disappear, but you walk and it doesn’t stop you. The entrance to the stadium beckons, and despite the fear of what you know is inside, you’re helpless to resist the yawning mouth of the anglerfish.

Two halves, sewn together. The only way over is through.

A bloody trail of footprints follows you, though you never turn around. Plastered with dirt from head to toe, a tiny figure at the foot of the stadium, you leave your aching death behind.

Your hand closes around the smooth, square handle. The door opens with a cheerful ding!

Rebirth, a new old beginning. Without even realising it, your face splits into a beaming smile.

You know where the machine is - you’ve been here a million times before. Left, then straight on, then turn right and it’s halfway down the aisle. The floor is uncomfortably sticky around this bit, but that’s not really a surprise, and you’re so used to it that you barely even notice.

The stark white brightness of the square ceiling lights is no more flattering than ever. Neatly, you take one of the clear plastic cups from the dispenser, scanning the machine for which flavours there are.

There's no point, of course. All of the labels are blank, just brightly-coloured squares, and muscle memory is all you need to guide your hand to the single tap that has a name.

FORTUNE.

Fizzing, sloshing, bright pink fills your cup, bubbling up inside and making the plastic cold in your hand. When it’s full, you take a lid and a straw from the holders next to the machine, and the sound of the straw punching through the cross on the lid sounds like home.

Yum. It’s been a while since you’ve had a Big Gulp.

It’s kind of a delayed reaction, but as you're walking back up to the front, you’re suddenly aware that there’s actual writing in here - more than just a single word, although not exactly back to normal. The shelves are laden with their usual fare, but the names aren’t quite right - your curiosity gets the better of you, and you decide to have a look around before heading to the till.

It’s very bizarre. Condensation slides down the side of the cup and drips onto the floor as you examine the rows and rows of colourful energy drinks in the fridge cabinet, Blood or water, baby? printed on the side of every can. A row of chocolate bars says You’re looking good today, sweetheart, as the shelf of chewing gum declares That’s you, by the way.

The aisle on your left catches your eye, crisp packets plastered with words you feel you ought to remember. For my sunshine. BE MINE. Fancy seeing you here, hmm? Three-flavour multipacks, thick stripes of colour, labelled High ceilings, smooth stone, stained glass.

It’s utterly bizarre. Packets of biscuits that say One last miracle. Bottles of water declaring that Perhaps it really is impossible to outrun your own nature. Bags of sweets with CHOOSE WISELY, DARLING printed on them, cereal boxes that say Tell him we’re gonna be late, soft drink bottles that ask Is that a threat or a promise, my love?

The words make you feel funny, like your head’s too heavy and your heart’s too light. The shelves of shiny instant ramen packets reflect the white lights overhead, covered in questions - It is said that as long as a person is loved, they are alive, is it not? Are you playing Heart and Soul? What happens to love, when it’s forced to die?

Before long, you find yourself gravitating back towards the till at the front of the shop, idly taking in the posters that line the walls and windows. They, too, are just as weird as the rest of this place. May fate find you kindly, child of land. I will move heaven and earth for you, and you will never be afraid again. Aren’t you forgetting something?

It’s so dark outside, but you can just about see the stars. The air-conditioning is slightly too strong to be comfortable.

Ah, here’s the till. After all, you can’t leave without paying.

Unsurprisingly, there’s no queue. You place your cup on the counter, and when you stick your hand in your pocket, there’s a single note waiting there. It’s unexpected and entirely what you thought would happen.

It’s all folded up - carefully, you flatten it out on the countertop and hold it up to the light overhead. The design is just as unusual as everything else in here, and the text across the top says I was there when it was invented, you know. The face on the note - oh, you really should have guessed. Your beautiful, wonderful, ridiculous idiot, smiling back at you. Of course he’s on the five dollar bill.

The back is different, too. Instead of the Lincoln Memorial you’re used to, there’s a picture of… some kind of statue? Six stone figures, all in a line. The detail isn’t all that great, seeing as it’s printed on a banknote and all, but you feel like you recognise them somehow. Printed above their heads are the words Together, or not at all.

There’s no cashier to give it to, so you just kind of… leave it on the counter. Five dollars should be more than enough, right? You’re only getting a drink. The display screen attached the till says What’s mine is yours, love. The post-it note taped to the front of the tip jar has no words, just the imprint of a red lipstick kiss.

Oh, you should probably leave a tip. Do you have any more money?

Checking your pockets again, there’s nothing there. Damn. You don’t really have anything on you at all, so you’re kind of at a loss.

Actually, there might be one thing. Quickly, you nip back over to the self-serve machine and take one of the paper napkins from the dispenser. Then another one, just in case, before going back to the till.

Well, you’ve always been good at following instructions. You fold the napkin in half, then in half again, before closing your eyes and pressing a sweet, happy kiss to the dry paper. Without lipstick it doesn’t leave a mark, but as you reach over to drop it into the tip jar, it’ll have to do.

Cold plastic, condensation. When you walk over to the door, it won’t open.

Puzzled, you try again. Is it locked? It certainly feels that way, but who locked it? You’ve not been in here that long, and you haven’t seen anyone who might have had a key, which means that it’s probably something else the door is looking for.

The confusion only lasts a moment - you’re starting to think you know how this works, which probably means it’s nearly over. You look down at the cup in your hand, and finally read what’s printed on the plastic.

Sleep well, lovely deviant. I hope you dream of me.

A beautiful afternoon in the sun, a nightmare at its end. Smiling, you close your eyes and knock three times on the door, just like normal. Your hand presses flat against the glass, and it’s not glass any more. A key turns in the lock, and you step over the front doorstep of home.

Home.

Home.

Finally. At last, at last you’re here, and you could almost cry with relief at the sight of your brilliantly familiar, wonderfully normal, perpetually messy hallway. Shoes litter the left hand side of the corridor, scuffs all over the skirting board, and the coat hooks are as overburdened as ever. The picture frame on the right is slightly crooked, and the ceiling light needs a new bulb.

It’s a fucking mess. You’ve never been happier in your life. Afterlife. Whatever. You’re really happy, is the point.

You can’t be bothered to unlace your trainers, so you just kick them off, one hand on the wall to steady you. Hm. Your drink must not have survived the trip from the 7/11, because it’s not in your hand anymore. Did it disappear when you crossed the threshold or something?

Gently, you push the door into the living room open, but there’s nobody there. Everything is just as you left it, though, from the blanket hanging over the arm of the sofa to the pile of old receipts cluttering up the coffee table. Of course! You’d forgotten about those. They’d been taking up half the space in your backpack, so you’d just emptied them all onto the side and said you’d come back later.

You can hear something moving. Is that the tap running? It must be something in the kitchen. There are fresh flowers in the vase on the mantelpiece - your favourite kind, deep pink and beautiful. Trying not to get your hopes up, you follow the sound deeper into the apartment.

The kitchen door is slightly ajar. Someone must be in there. You lean in to peek through the gap between the door and the frame, and - and - and-

Numb fingers reach for the handle, pulling it open. Ever so quietly, you knock three times against the doorframe.

“Honey, I’m home.”

The water stops.

It’s completely silent.

The demon standing in front of the sink looks like he’s seen a ghost.

You smile, tears already starting to fall. “Did you miss me, my love?”

You’re not sure how it happens - maybe he rifts to you, or you run to him, or something in between. Whatever it is, you barely have time to blink before you’re in his arms, swept up in the lovely rush of him, and you’re really, properly home.

“Deviant,” he sobs, claws digging into your skin as he clutches you close like he’s terrified you’ll disappear. “Is - you’re - oh, God, deviant, I-”

Somehow, he’s ended up with his back to the island in the middle of the room, leaning against the cupboards. The kitchen tile is cold against your legs, sprawled against him as you are, but you barely even notice.

What a pair you make, hm? Curled up on the kitchen floor, wailing into each other’s shoulders, clinging to each other like the world’s about to end. At last, your drowned odyssey comes to a close.

Gavin, pretty Gavin, precious Gavin. He’s here, and he’s here with you - he’s alive and he’s okay and you’re never going anywhere without him ever again.

“Say it’s real. Say you’re here.” His voice cracks as his fingers twist into your shirt, hands roaming your body in hopeful disbelief. “Please. Tell me it’s not a dream again.”

“It - it’s not a dream,” you choke out, clumsily brushing the wetness from his cheek with the heel of your hand. “Promise.”

It’s all he needs - you can’t help but smile as he drags your face up to his, until you’re laughing and kissing and crying all at once. Your impatient hands trail across every part of him you can reach, from the pointed tips of his horns to the spade of his tail, relearning him, remembering him.

“How did you - you were-” He cuts himself off by kissing you, one hand in your hair and the other pressing against your back. “You were dead, my love.”

“I know,” you say. You were there when it happened, after all. “I remember.”

“But - but how?” Above you, the sound of water dripping from the tap. “How did you come back?”

“I-”

You go to answer, but the words don’t come. “I don’t know,” you say, haltingly. You’re not actually sure. “I was just… awake.”

He looks between you and the door, baffled. “Here? Just now?”

Tucked against his chest, you shake your head as best you can. “No. Somewhere else.” The memory makes you shiver a little. “It was like a desert, I think. The sand was black and the river was black and I swam to shore.”

“A river?” He sounds confused, before his voice turns strangely frantic. “You woke up in the River?”

“Yes…?” you reply. Why does he seem to recognise it? “There was a storm. The lightning hit me, and I remembered you.”

He looks a little stunned, if you’re honest, though you can’t tell quite why. “So you came here…”

“I don’t know how,” you admit, a little embarrassed. “It looked like a sandstorm, or like static on a TV. I fell asleep again, and then it took me to all these - all these places.”

“Oh - oh, um…”

He trails off, hiding his face in your hair. “I think that may have been me.”

“The - wait, you what?”

The double-take you do is almost comical. That was… not what you expected him to say.

“You - it - how?”

He takes a deep, shaky breath.

“Deviant, this place… It’s not actually home.”

Clearly, you look as confused as you feel as he babbles on. “Well, it is, but not, like, the place it looks like - although, I guess, er, I mean - it’s - there’s not, uh-”

“Gavin.” He’s very sweet when he starts rambling, but it’s not really the time right now.

Thankfully, he startles out of it, instinctively leaning into your hand as it settles against his face. “Yes? Oh, um - we’re not actually in Dahlia, right now.”

His tail flicks behind him, and a pulse of psychokinesis pulls the blinds over the kitchen window open. In shock, you stare up at the night sky, full of stars and with absolutely no city in sight.

“This isn’t the same… reality, I guess,” he says, like it’s nothing. “I made this place.”

“You-”

He made it?

It sounds like a joke, a really fucking awful one, but you know he wouldn’t lie to you about something like this. “Say it again?”

“You died.”

The tap drips.

Once, then twice, then three times.

“You died, and I - I just - I couldn’t.” His eyes squeeze shut as he rests his head on yours, and your heart feels like it’s breaking in half. “You were gone, and it wasn’t right, and I had to do something.”

God, he sounds so tired. “When I said I’d keep you safe, I meant it. I always mean it. When that - that thing-”

He stops, and you can feel the muscles in his chest flutter as he tries to suppress a sob. Desperately, you wrap your arms around him and press your face into his neck, trying to give whatever silent comfort you can.

“I knew that something was wrong,” he eventually declares, voice thick with tears. “You and me, we’re not meant to just… die.”

“I’m human, Gav,” you say, as softly as you can. “That’s what we do.”

“No.”

He’s unexpectedly serious, almost scarily so, and it catches you off-guard. “No, it’s not. You’re not. Nothing gets to take you away from me again.”

What the hell does he mean by that?

He smiles sadly, looking down at the floor. “That’s why - well, I guess that’s why I did it.”

“Did what?” Everything he says just seems to give you more questions and less answers - frustrated, you push back slightly so that you can look directly at his face. “Gavin, how are we here?”

“I don’t really know how. I didn’t even know it was a thing I could do,” he says, with a weak, half-hearted laugh. “My magic must have… I don’t know. I guess it tried to reach you, and when it couldn’t find you, it - well, it…”

He gestures around vaguely at the apartment around you. “We’re not on Elegy anymore, deviant. It’s not Aria, either. I don’t really know how, but we’re outside all of that now.”

Considering everything else you’ve seen, this probably shouldn’t surprise you as much as it does. “Like another - what, like another dimension? Another plane?”

“I guess.” He shrugs apologetically, like he’s ashamed he doesn’t know. “I’ve been thinking about it like a kind of… observatory? Or like a control centre, maybe.”

“So you can see Dahlia from here?” you ask. “Why haven’t you gone back - can we go back?”

“Not - not yet,” he says, carefully measured in a way you really don’t like. “There’s something I have to fix, first.

“Hm?” Oh, this doesn’t sound good at all. “What is it?”

He doesn’t reply immediately, fangs digging into his lip like they always do when he’s nervous, tail swishing back and forth across the floor on his other side.

“Gavin?” Even if he couldn’t feel your nervousness, you’re fairly sure he doesn’t need his fancy demon senses to be able to hear your heartbeat speeding up. “Gavin, what did you do?”

“It’s fine, I think,” he mumbles, pointedly avoiding your gaze. “I just - look, I think I know how you came back to life.”

Doing your best Damien impression, you try to stare him down. It mostly works. “Explain.”

“When I said my magic tried to reach you, I think it - I think it worked,” he admits. “The lightning you mentioned - it wasn’t on purpose, but I think that was me.”

What?

“Magic is just what comes after emotion, isn’t it?” he says. “The way I felt, knowing you weren’t there…” Shaking his head, he gathers you up even closer, resting his chin on your head. “I can’t describe it. I just… needed you.”

Like this, he sounds a thousand years old. Tired to the bone. “Every part of me, all the magic I had, pouring out into the universe to find you. That was the storm.”

“But how - how are you still alive, then?” You’re sure the incredulous look on your face is stupid, but you don’t really care. Demons are made of magic - surely he’d have died, if he’d really used it all? “And how did you get here?”

“Well…” He shifts slightly underneath you, hands rearranging your body with familiar strength until you’re sitting up against his side a bit better, your head resting on his shoulder and your legs across his lap. “I have a theory, but it might be wrong.”

With one hand, you gesture for him to continue. “I’m listening.”

“My magic must have created a sort of… fault line, I guess. In the universe, or in our reality, or whatever it is - to reach you, it must have split something that was never meant to be open. It made a crack, or a splinter of some kind - a gap that I could find you through, that isn’t meant to be there. Does that make sense?”

“I think so,” you reply, hesitantly. “So you came through that gap to get here, then?”

“Sort of,” he says. “I think we’re inside that gap right now. Between life and death, outside of Aria and Elegy.”

“Outside of…” If you didn’t know any better, you’d say he’s completely lost his mind. “Woah.”

He huffs quietly, amused. “Yeah.”

“So how do we get home?” you ask. “There must be a way, right?”

“That’s what I’ve been trying to find.” Absentmindedly, he curls his tail loosely around your ankle, wrapping and unwrapping it again and again. “When I arrived here, I was… different.”

That doesn’t sound ominous at all. “...Different how?”

He sighs, low in his chest. “Humans aren’t meant to be able to come back to life. When I brought you back, I think I broke some rules I wasn’t supposed to, and now…”

“I said it was like a control centre, right? I was telling the truth.” His voice gets quieter and quieter, a soft confession that only you can hear. “Home, the place we came from - it’s like I can see everything. I can change it, however I want.”

“They don’t know I’m there, but I’m in control. It’s like - I mean, it’s like being a god.”

You…

You don’t know what to say.

“In the world we came from, you’re dead, my love,” he whispers, and it feels like an admission of guilt. “If we go back, what if - what if you-”

He swallows harshly, cutting himself off. “I can’t take that risk.”

“I know, love,” you murmur quietly, eyes closed. “I wouldn’t, either.”

For a long moment, neither of you says anything. You just hold each other, the way you always have, and it’s fine.

“So what now?” you say into the silence, as evenly as you can. “Are we just trapped here forever, then?”

“What? No - no, of course not!” he stutters, a worried expression crossing his lovely face. “There’s a way to go back home. It just… won’t be the one we’re from.”

He’s probably expecting your look of confusion, as he quickly tries to explain.

“This power I have now, I can make whatever world we want. Anywhere you want to go, anything you want us to be - I can give that to you, my deviant.”

The tap drips slowly into the sink. “Whatever you want. Forever.”

Curved small against his chest, you feel like a child asking, but you have to make sure. “Including home?”

“Especially home.” His voice is so nice and warm, that wonderful way of his that always makes you smile. “It can all go back to the way it was before.”

“And you’ll save me from the Shade.” It’s not a question.

“I’ll save you from a thousand shades, if that’s what it takes” he says, all nonchalant, like he’s not just told you he’s some kind of reality-bending dimension hopping demigod. “Whatever you ask for - it’s yours.”

“Anything?” It sounds utterly ridiculous, but… you’re kind of flattered. Not everybody has a boyfriend who’ll tear universes apart and remake the laws of physics to resurrect you like him. “Like, actually anything?”

“Anything,” he says, warm hands holding yours. It feels like a promise, or a vow. “Anything for you. I’ll make you a million universes, if that’s what you want.”

“And if I don’t want any of them?” you ask, deliberately challenging. “What then?”

“Then they won’t exist.” He sounds so calm. A statement of fact. “We could stay here forever, if that’s what you want. We don’t have to go anywhere, ever again. Nothing will exist, if you don’t want it to.”

“What about you?”

He looks down at you, puzzled. “Me?”

“Will you be there?” you ask, voice small and nervous. “In my million universes, will I have you there too?”

“Will you - oh, baby…” He laughs, and it feels like soft sunlight on your skin. “Of course, my love. Where else would I be, that isn’t by your side?”

You don’t say anything, burying your face in his neck as he gently kisses the top of your head. You know he understands.

“It’s been a long day, deviant,” he murmurs into your hair. “It can wait. We ought to go to bed.”

The thought of sleeping sends a sudden jolt of fear through you, but he already knows what you’re going to say. “It’s alright, it’s alright. I know. I’ll be here when you wake up.”

“Promise?” You cling tight to his shoulders as he stands up, curled up in his arms like a bride, the warmth of him pressed all against you. You’d almost forgotten how strong he is.

“I promise,” he says solemnly, kissing your cheek. “From now until forever.”

It’s strange, getting ready for bed. It’s also the most natural, normal thing in the world. Gavin carries you through the apartment to the bathroom, then the bedroom, and you’re content just to float happily in his lovely orbit.

Familiar pyjamas, soft and worn. Before long, you’re safe under the covers of your own bed again, the taste of toothpaste in your mouth, and you can almost imagine that this whole thing was just a dream.

“If we go home, will…” Laying on his chest, you don’t have to speak very loudly for him to hear you. “Will we remember this?”

“We might. I’ve never tried it before.”

“Then how do you know?” you say into the darkness of the room. “How do you know we’ll be together?”

You feel him laughing quietly, one hand stroking gentle circles into your back. He’s so warm.

“Because it’s true. I’ve seen it,” he says, one hand gently guiding your face up towards him. “It doesn’t matter what changes. In every universe, I always fall in love with you.”

The angle is a little awkward, but you kiss him anyway. He tastes like cherry.

“I love you.”

He smiles, eyes soft in the low light, and your journey is complete. “I love you too, my deviant.”

A dream, a promise, a handprint in the sand. Stars freeze and planets crumble in a world that has no end or beginning, while in a million universes, a million times, a million love stories happen all at once.

The River flows on.

And somewhere, in the empty space outside the universe, a demon and a human fall asleep.

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missed part 1? read it here

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this is an original work by @gingerbreadmonsters - please do not repost or misattribute