#you never know what adventures await you beyond your anxiety

[bigboysdrinkmilk]

Oh hey, mostly done minus some minor editing;

No one can travel the Domains of Dread.

Not without great cost.

That is, unless you know the right people. And Iji knew the right people. Coins exchanged, mist talismans bartered and held dear until they were no longer of use, the company of an ever-changing host of adventurers and criminals who all knew the “right” people. Pirates, some might call them. Thieves, others. People of opportunity, they all seemed to prefer for themselves.

The current company was hosted in an abandoned riverside inn with moldy bread and rats the size of gremishkas. But, the stories were good, the friends fair, and the mead flowed aplenty, so no spirit was dampened in that backwater setting while they awaited their next charge.

The sun had already set for the night, its meager rays hidden behind the unending mists. In the lone light of the inn, friends and rivals sang and drank, arm wrestled and gambled, recounted the last mishap or the last heroic deed of their compatriots.

Perhaps the sound of its approach was merely muffled by the mists. Or drowned out in the merriment of the company. Or maybe it simply appeared, never traveling on the water at all but quietly manifesting on the riverdocks next to the inn.

However it arrived, no one noticed La Demoiselle du Musarde, The River Dancer, alight with magic and muse, until a knock sounded on the door.

Silence fell across the inn as all eyes turned to watch the door, half off its hinges already, before another knock sounded.

It simply was too dangerous to travel at this time of night for the typical person. No one can travel the Domains of Dread. Not without great cost. Whatever stood on the other side of the threshold was something terrible. Something dangerous. A wise man would ready his sword.

Iji was not a wise man.

He stood, approached, and with a trembling hand reached for the doorknob to open it. A third knock gave him pause, but he summoned his bravery and swung open the door to reveal what creature could possibly lie beyond it.

A woman.

“Larissa Snowmane, Captain of The River Dancer,” she introduced herself as she handed Iji her hat and peered into the firelight of the inn beyond.

Bright blonde curls cascaded from her head down her shoulders and back. She was lithe, with a dancer’s build, almost cunning looking. And beautiful beyond compare. Iji would never have guessed, until she revealed it later in an intimate and hushed conversation next to the dwindling fire after his company had long retired to bed, that she was in her 70s.

Iji took the hat awkwardly and looked around unsuccessfully for a place to hang it, but his eyes fell behind her, out into the lonely dark.

“Where is your crew? A ship that size can’t man itself…”

“Oh, The River Dancer is my pride and joy, but she is a showboat, darling, hardly takes any effort to man properly,” she said, brushing away his question, “But I was in the market to hire a new crew. Are you the proprietor of this establishment?”

With the talk of work in the air and anxieties settled, the bustling of the inn rejoined the night and each man returned to his tall tales or feats of strength.

“Excuse Iji, but he has no mind for business, ma’am,” interrupted an experienced journeyman behind him, “though this company is ready and waiting for a new employ and no doubt would be most willing to assist you—“ Larissa curtsied politely to the approaching man, “—let’s talk coin.”

Iji stood, still holding the hat, as the two sat at a far table.

Later, after the details had been ironed out and coinpurses emptied, the dimming firelight casting shadows on nearly every part of the room except where Larissa sat, Iji went to return the hat, with its soft white frills and small golden bells that glinted in the firelight.

She obviously needed friendship, not just a crew, and as he listened to her talk about her former lover, lost to a terrible accident right in front of her one tragic night on the river long ago, Iji saw past the facade of beauty and frills to the deeply lonely and hurt spirit that was this woman’s soul.

“But enough about me—tell me about you. After all, we’ll be spending an extended amount of time together if everything goes right and I’ve so rudely had you carry my hat for some hours. A Captain ought to know her crew.”

Iji didn’t know where to start at first, but then told her of the home he left long ago for adventure.

A bar, somehow more decrepit than this inn they were in now, but also more alive.

Secret passages into dark tunnels. Meetings and joyous celebrations, stories and song. The Tenth Hell, it was so cheekily named—a place of safety and comfort for tieflings like himself in a world that seemed poised to abandon them to the dark.

He hadn’t returned in some years, but kept the memory ever with him. Most members—family, really, he corrected himself as he spoke—kept a magic coin on them that could always guide them back to it.

But his had fallen overboard nearly a year ago when he was securing buckling ropes during a massive storm. The Domains were fickle… maybe he would return there unknowingly one day, without even meaning to, to laugh once more with friends and lovers he had left behind.

He had gotten lost in his story of home, watching the firelight as he told it, but when he looked up he saw tears in her eyes, some part of her touched in a way he might never understand.

“I swear to you, by my honor and by the heart of my breast, that we will find a way to return you there. When the time is right.”

They stared in silence at the coals in the fireplace for some time and then Larissa reached into a hidden pocket amongst the frills of her dress.

“Here, take this,” she said, handing him a gold ring inlaid with shattered pieces of amber, “as a… proof of my commitment.” He looked at the ring and something about the amber pieces set him on edge. It felt heavier than it should. Darker. “A woman my age hardly has use of a ring like that, anyway.” A glimmer like honey seemed to shine behind her eyes for a moment then disappeared, never to shine again. “Keep it with you, never leave it behind or pack it away. Just in case.” She motioned for him to slip it onto his finger.

“Just in case…” he said, putting it on. It felt… strange. But right.

And before he could say anything else, Captain Snowmane was on her way out the door, hat in hand, saying something about it being more comfortable to sleep on her ship than in this decrepit inn. “See you in the morning—we’re departing early. Be ready.”

—

“No one can travel the Domains of Dread, Iji,” Community had told him so long ago, “Not without great cost.”

She was old. Older than most suspected and closer to the grave than any of them would openly admit.

But her words flowed with the warmth of Neverwinter wine and her voice was always a comfort deep in the belly of The Tenth Hell. She rarely left anymore, instead devoting her time to helping new members of her little family that came and went in search of their own stories.

“But I know some people, they’ll get you on your way, if that’s where you feel your tale will be told.”

It seemed like ages ago now that she had sent him out on his journey, ages ago she had uttered that warning. No one can travel the Domains of Dread.

And yet, as the brisk night air flowed through his hair on the deck of The River Dancer, he knew his situation was different.

The River Dancer barely took any work at all to man, seemingly navigating itself through the dark tides of each Domain. Captain Snowmane was often up on the flybridge, soft footfalls following practiced moves through the many ropes and rigs and lines that cluttered the upper decks.

The first time Iji had seen it, he hadn’t quite believed what was happening. She controlled the boat by dancing. But sure enough, a footstep there, a twirl here, and the helm twisted and spun in turn.

He had met many bards in his time at The Tenth Hell, though the deep connection between audience and performer that connected each bard to the Weave had been distant from him, but he knew of no bards in or out of The Tenth Hell that could steer a ship with dance alone.

He had taken to watching her when he had the time. She didn’t seem to mind, and often asked for him to hum or play a tune for her to dance to. He obliged, but never had a song or note that could match the beauty of her movements.

The River Dancer and her Captain had guided Iji and his company through a dozen Domains in the past few months aboard. Each one, different. Each one, exciting. Each one, dangerous beyond measure. The next one? Who was to say?

Captain Snowmane reached the apex of her dance, finished with a soaring leap that seemed to have her float in the air for countless lifetimes, and then landed with a curtsy.

The mists swirled around them. The sky melted away. The water rippled. For half a second, a darkness so drowningly intense enveloped them. And then, as if nothing had happened at all to interrupt its course, The River Dancer was in a new body of water in a new land.

The air was crisp. The water deep and quiet. A lake. Above and around it on all sides soared immense mountains with snow capped peaks.

Captain Snowmane unfurled a parchment and read aloud, “On invitation from the Chamberlain of these esteemed lands and in pursuit of completion of the contract as agreed upon by the Lord of the Castle, The River Dancer comes bearing goods for import. Make yourself known.”

Silence.

“The River Dancer comes bearing goods for import—“ she repeated, louder this time, a hint of annoyance in her voice “—Make yourself known.”

No birds chirped. No fish splashed. The crew fell silent. The air was still.

��Well I’ll be, this is no way to greet a lady.”

She barely finished the sentence before a thud sounded through the decks of the ship. Something connected with the hull.

“ALL HANDS! SWORDS AT THE READY!”

A flurry of movement on the deck.

“Clear the flybridge. We’re getting out of here,” Larissa Snowmane said as she started dancing again.

Another thud. In the water below the ship, something was glowing an eerie purple. Larissa began her dance. Intricate steps and swirls among the chaos.

Another thud. Suddenly a shout sounded from one of the crew. Something was climbing out of the water, up the sides of the ship.

Another thud.

And another.

And another.

Iji saw one of them now, climbing up onto the deck near him. A ghastly skeleton, inscribed with purple runes. He drew his sword and yelled a warning to Larissa.

“Almost done,” she said and then leaped, floated, landed, curtsied.

The mists swirled around them. The sky melted away. The water rippled. For half a second, a darkness so drowningly intense enveloped them. And then, a snap sounded in the darkness. It sounded like the ship itself was suddenly cracked in half. And it had not moved. The crisp air, the lake, the mountains, their attackers all came roaring back.

The runes glowed on the skeleton near him. Iji could barely make out the infernal on the skeleton’s ribs as it approached but suddenly it dawned on him, “They’re enchanted! A chaining spell. We can’t leave while they’re in contact with the ship!”

Another thud.

Larissa gazed out into the water of the lake and saw countless shimmering purple points approaching them. Slow, but steady. And seemingly endless. They’d never be able to keep them all off. This was the end. She always hated this part.

“Show me your hands!” she shouted to Iji. Confused, he held up both palms facing her. On his left hand was the golden ring she had given him, its amber shards shimmering in the dark night. “Good!” And then she took his hands in hers and began to dance.

Iji had never danced with her before. In fact, he hadn’t seen Larissa Snowmane dance with anyone. Her dances were always more monologue than duet. He had wondered if maybe she ever was lonely when she did it. And yet, now, as she guided him through the motions of this dance, he swore he could hear a chorus.

“I’m sorry, Iji. I really am.”

The notes of the chorus suddenly became shrill. Iji realized that he wasn’t being guided anymore—his body was moving on its own, out of his control through the dance. He looked down at Larissa in horror and could not see her eyes. Blood was pouring out of them, trailing a slick of red behind Larissa as she danced around the flydeck.

Iji saw the reanimated skeleton nearby stumble and realized the chorus he was hearing was it and the others, all of them. They were being controlled by the dance, as well. Their bones shrieked and shrilled, harmonizing into the night until they began to shatter. Further down the deck, Iji heard his crewmates also join in the chorus, their flesh humming as they writhed in agony, an anguished dance of the dead and dying.

And he, too, was singing. The vocalizations of his intestines screamed into the night, welts of pain echoed through his vertebras, spine-chilling heat and numbness and pain. Blood vessels drummed out of his eyes, his nails began to rot on his fingers, he thought his skin would melt off any moment. He was going to die a thousand times over from the pain.

Suddenly silence. No more pain. No more agony. No chorus. No sound at all. Amber warmth radiated from the ring on his finger. Golden honey-sweet pleasure dripped down his body. Yellow. A figure in yellow. Yellow like the harvest-time sun. Yellow like a captured firefly. Yellow like piss. Like festering wounds and jaundiced eyes. Yellow like death. Yellow like ecstasy.

A voice that did not speak:

—WE ARE YOUR ONLY ESCAPE—

A mouth that did not move:

—DO YOU WISH OUR HELP?—

A conscience without thought:

—NO MATTER THE COST?—

Iji hesitated for a moment and as if to answer the hesitation, the pain began to creep back in. He couldn’t.

“Yes. YES!”

A contract without terms:

—IT IS DONE.—

Iji blinked and the world was back, the dance finished, the attackers slaughtered, the crewmates rotted and undying. And Larissa? Larissa? He felt his body rip back into his control and then his hand—His hand burned. The ring crackled with sickly yellow energy. Around him, screaming as they were pried from their bodies, he watched the souls of his company melt out of their physical forms and get sucked into the ring.

A whirlwind of screaming followed by sudden silence. An amber dread overtook him. And then the world melted away in yellow. Iji fell off the side of the deck, off the side of the world, not hitting water but hitting mist. And the Domain dissolved around him.

No one can travel the Domains of Dread. Not without great cost.

And, in another Domain, at another town, in another port, The River Dancer, crewless and quiet, docks.

What’s the DnD character you’re writing about? :0

Iji, a pirate/person of opportunity turned College of Spirits Bard after a fateful encounter with Larissa Snowmane in the Domains of Dread.

I write a little short story for all of my characters to help me kind of think about who they are and how to roleplay them. If it’d interest people, I can post Iji’s when I’m done.

[prettytoxicrevolver]

Dance Party | Dream SMP

Requested? No but I did 

Warnings? None? It’s long as hell 

Summary: You have a dance party with your best friends in the dream smp, with a little bit of revealed feelings at the end 

Word Count: 2,773 (It’s so long but so worth it i promise) 

Spring break was finally here and you and the boys had something big planned. It was your first meet-up with most of them and you were beyond excited. You, Quackity, Karl, Tubbo, Tommy, Wilbur, Dream, George, Bad, Ranboo, and Sapnap were all renting a place out for the week in California.

You had been planning it for months, rounding up the money, getting the details set, and now finally traveling to Cali. You guys didn’t have any specific plans for the week, just wanting to spend quality time together but you were excited nonetheless. 

Your dad offers to drive you to the airport, still weary that you were spending your spring break, hundreds of miles from home with boys you had never really met before. You promised him it’d be fine though, you had already met up with Ranboo, Dream, Sap, and Karl which gave your dad enough to let you go. 

The plane ride thankfully wasn’t super long, and it was a straight flight to California. You also had a plan to meet up with some of the boys at the airport so you could head over to the Airbnb together. Your nerves were beyond anything you had felt before, a mix between excitement, anxiety, and content. You just wanted to finally be with your friends. 

“Dream!!” you yell over facetime when you land. “Please tell me you’re in LAX right now.” 

You had just landed, turning your phone off airplane mode to see that Karl, Ranboo, Sap, and Dream had landed in LA. You grabbed all of your stuff, instantly pulling up Dream’s number and facetiming him as you made your way off the plane. 

“We all are!” Dream exclaims panning the camera around to show the rest of the boys. “Hurry up you’re late!” 

You giggle loudly as you make your way to baggage claim and where the rest of the boys are. When you get there and see the boys, there’s so much excitement coursing through you, you can’t even contain it anymore. 

“(y/n)!!” Karl yells seeing your first. 

He books it in your direction, and you start to run towards him as well. You both collide halfway to each other, falling to the ground in a mess of limbs and loud laughs. You’re definite the rest of the airport goers are staring at you like you’re crazy but you couldn’t care less. You finally stand up, Karl pulling you into a bone-crushing hug and you’re smiling so wide your face is going to break. 

“I want one!” Dream whines and you turn in Karl’s arms. 

You squeal loudly, moving from Karl to rush into Dream’s arms. The tall boy wraps you up in his arms, lifting you off the ground ever so slightly. 

You then turn to Sap, your heart racing erratically. You had only met him once or twice but over a million facetime calls, late-night text conversations, and those two meetings, your heart had settled on him. 

His smile is wide and bright when you face him and you rush into his arms, wondering in the back of your mind if he can feel your heart beating out of your chest. You tuck your head under his chin as he squeezes you tight and your smile is radiating. 

You then greet Ranboo in a similar fashion, the tall giant giving you the best hugs you’ve had in years, practically lifting you off the ground and spinning you around. You couldn’t help but feel the best you had in years though. You were so grateful to be around your found family again. 

After exchanging long-awaited greetings, you grab your luggage and the five of you head out to the Airbnb. The entire time you five catch up on life, upcoming projects, what you wanted to do while you were in LA everything. 

“When is the British Dream Team and everyone else getting here?” you ask as you pull up to the Airbnb. 

“I think Bad and Quackity are already here?” Karl says. 

“The rest of the boys should be here tonight,” Dream chimes in. 

Your heart is racing once more as you all climb out of the car and make your way inside of your home for the next week. As promised, Bad and Alex are inside, and you can hear them the minutes you step through the door. 

“Language!” Bad yells out and Alex’s signature laugh can be heard throughout the place. 

“We’re here!” Ranboo calls and the two emerge from the living room. 

“Guys!!” Alex greets. 

You make your way to him first, squeezing him tight and stepping back, in shock that you had never met him before. You head for Bad next, the older boy offering a quick hug and a shy smile. It was the first time you had ever met the two but you felt right at home anyway. 

As everyone gets settled, rooms are arranged, and dinner gets decided you suddenly get a phone call from Tommy. 

“Mister Tommyinnit!!” you greet and Tommy rolls his eyes but smiles. 

“Hey bitch! We’re headed to the hotel!!” Before you can respond, the phone is pulled out of Tommy’s hands and you’re faced with a smiling Tubbo. 

“Hi (y/n)!! I can’t wait to see you!!” you giggle at the younger boy, Tubbo always acting as a younger brother to you. 

“Get here soon! Dinner will be ready!!” 

As the seven of you wait for your British companions, you relax in the living room, getting to know Alex and Bad more and getting reacquainted in person with the rest of your best friends. Just as food arrives, you’re all swarming the kitchen, grabbing plates, silverware, food, the works when you hear the doorbell ring. 

“Got it!” you call dropping your stuff to head to the door. 

When you swing it open you can’t help the excited scream that leaves your lips. There in front of you was the British dream team, the boys you were beyond excited to meet for the very first time. Wilbur stands at the front, an excited smile wide across his lips and you tackle him in a hug. He catches you with ease, lifting you up into the air as you squeal loudly. 

You break away from Wilbur just as the rest of the boys have come to see what all the commotion was about. Wilbur walks through the door first, considering you were now pulling George into a tight hug, pushing your face into the taller boy’s chest. 

Everyone finally makes it inside, and before you know it you’re being tackled by Tommy, a loud laugh bursting from the two of you. You hug the younger boy tightly, love filling your heart for the kid who was like a younger brother to you. You look up during the hug to see Tubbo pouting, making you pull him in too, now hugging both boys who were hilariously taller than you. 

Sap stands at the kitchen doorway, a soft smile gracing his lips as he watches you finally meet Tommy and Tubbo. You had been talking about meeting the younger boys for ages, the two kids stealing their way into your heart and you had talked endlessly about how you had always wanted little brothers and how you’d do anything for the pair. 

Sap’s heart does a backflip as you look up at him, beaming wide as you’re finally able to meet all of your best friends. He knows how much this means to you, making his heartbeat fast at the mere thought of your happiness. 

As you pull away, your heart is soaring being around your best friends. Your little found family meant everything to you and to have them all in one place with you meant the world. For a moment you think about how in a week it would all end but you pushed the thought away quickly, knowing you had plenty of time to enjoy. 

The just-arrived boys throw their stuff in their assigned rooms, and finally, you all start to grab dinner. You had practically ordered enough to feed an army but once the boys grabbed their portions you realized it was the smart move. 

As you sit and eat, surrounded by your best friends the vibe was beyond immaculate. You had great food, your best friends, and this was going to last a week? Nothing could get better. 

It had been 2 days of adventures, memories, and storytelling between you and the boys. You guys had been going nonstop since you had gotten to California and while you loved every second you needed a slight break. 

On day 3, most of the boys were still out, some were relaxing in their shared rooms, and some went back and forth. You had decided to sleep in before relaxing in the living room for a bit. Your music played on shuffle through speakers set up in the room. 

You had skipped through a million songs, unable to settle on anything specific when it hits you. You head straight for your throwback playlist, hitting shuffle on the almost 200 songs. 

The first song pops up and you gasp in excitement. About You Now by Miranda Cosgrove starts blasting through the speakers and you can’t help but get up and start to dance. 

“There’s a mountain between us! But there's one thing I'm sure of!” you scream sing dancing around the room. 

“That I know how I feel about you!” 

You whip around to see Karl standing in the doorway of the living room, big smiles and wild eyes directed towards you. You giggle as he runs into the room and the two of you start to dance and sing along to the iconic Miranda Cosgrove song. 

“What the-, “ Wilbur asks emerging from his room. 

He spots you and Karl dancing around the room and you beckon him to come join you. The second the song hits his ears, Wilbur’s grinning and joining you and Karl in your obnoxious activity. 

As the song ends, Karl is immediate to want to continue your fun. 

“Dance party!” he declares. 

Quackity, Bad, Sap, and Dream book it out of their rooms excited to join the chaos, and you instantly grab Sap, a strange confidence coming over you, pulling him towards you so you can dance together. 

The next song comes on and all of you start to get hyped all over again, the throwback playlist working its magic once again.

Your head becomes dizzy as the proximity of you and Sap hits you like a train. His hands trail your waist, his eyes making their way over you before landing on your eyes. You slip your hands around his neck, trying to find that first boost of confidence again as he starts to sing the words. 

“You spin my head right round, right round!” Sap yells pulling you close and swaying with you. 

Sap didn’t know how either of you got into this situation but he’d keep you in his arms for the rest of the night if he could. He pulls you even closer, as you sing the next lyrics, your eyes trained on each other’s.

“When you go down, when you go down down!” you echo the next lyric back to him and Sap smirks at you as you dance with him. 

“Language!!” Bad yells as the lyrics dawn on him and you’re all left laughing. 

You turn back to Sap, your breath stolen the minute your eyes land on his beautiful green ones and you wish you could close the distance between you two. 

“(y/n)!” Dream calls as the song launches into its second verse. You turn towards him and he holds his hand out to you. 

You giggle, extending a hand and Dream pulls you towards him as you two start to dance together. You two make your way around the room, your dancing massively exaggerated but out of the corner of your eye you see Sap glaring at the older boy. 

The song keeps going, the seven of you officially popping off together. Just as the song is reaching its end, Tubbo, Tommy, Ranboo, and George finally emerge. 

“Were we all poppin off?” George asks and Dream nods. 

Your music keeps playing, another excellent throwback starts up and this time you and Ranboo are the ones screaming in excitement. 

“Guys, you are about to watch me embarrass myself.” 

The boys tilt their heads to the side in clear confusion but you don’t give them time as Can’t Hold Us by Macklemore is blaring through the speakers and the rap begins to play. 

“Get 'em, what it is, what it does, what it is, what it isn't, Looking for a better way to get up out of bed, Instead of getting on the Internet, And checking a new hit me, get up,” You rap the words flawlessly, a result of too much time in 2012. 

The boys hype you up as you continue to sing, Ranboo coming over to dance next to you. When the chorus hits you all jump around, screaming out the words. 

“Okay, my turn,” Ranboo says as the second verse starts. 

“Now, can I kick it? Thank you, Yeah, I'm so damn grateful, I grew up really wanting gold fronts,” He starts to rap with ease and your jaw drops looking at the younger boy. 

“Pop off!!!” Dream and George yell in unison and you laugh loudly before joining Ranboo. 

The two of you scream the verse together, pointing and dancing together as you do so. As you hit the peak of the bridge, you and Ranboo are practically screaming the lyrics, dancing around like idiots in the living room but you had never felt better in your life. 

The music and dancing continue, Wilbur requesting Love Story by Taylor Swift kicking off another round of giggles and loud singing especially from him, Karl, and Alex. 

Just as Hey There Delilah starts to play and the boys have another round of energy you can’t handle, you slip into the kitchen for half a second to grab something to drink. However, what you don’t notice is someone following behind. 

“They’re crazy,” Sap says from behind you, startling you slightly. 

“They’re the best though,” you tell him an unbelievably wide grin set on your lips. “I don’t know what I’d do without them.” 

“Without you,” you continue carefully and Sap’s eyes snap to yours. 

You look up at him, peering through your eyelashes and Sap keeps your stare. Something quiet passes between you two, and before either of you can say anything, Tommy comes bursting into the room. 

“(y/n)!! Come on I wanna sing with you!!” 

Tommy runs into the kitchen, grabbing your hand and pulling you out with him. You cast a quick glance back at Sap, an apologetic look on your face before turning and joining the rest of the boys once more. 

Sap’s head drops the minute you leave the room, wishing he had just admitted his feelings and gotten it over with. As he sits in the kitchen, kicking himself for not making a move, his mind races with an idea and suddenly he’s propelled out of the kitchen. 

“Can I see your phone?” Sap asks when the song ends and you break away from Tommy. 

You hand over your phone, watching as he scrolls through your playlist before deciding on a song. His smile widens when he hits play before handing your phone back to you. 

“Oh, her eyes, her eyes, Make the stars look like they're not shinin',” Sap begins and he takes your hand making you look at him. 

You smile watching one of your best friends singing, dancing around the room with him. But, as he continues your heart stops realizing what he’s saying. 

“And when you smile, The whole world stops and stares for a while, 'Cause girl, you're amazing, Just the way you are.” 

Sap pulls you close, wrapping an arm around your waist and you stare up at him in shock. He smiles wide at you and your heart has definitely stopped beating at this point. 

The song ends, and you’re breathless looking up at Sap. He smiles wides at you and you’re certain you’re reflecting it. 

His other arm wraps around your waist, dipping you back and before you know it his lips are on yours in a show-stopping kiss. You wrap your arms around his neck, pulling him even closer and when you break away, the boys cheer, making you laugh and push your face into his chest. 

“Finally,” Sap whispers and you giggle, unbelievable happiness radiating through you. 

[ddarker-dreams]

I Got The Blues. Yan Bruno x Reader [COMM]

warnings: implied manipulation, isolation, some paranoia. word count: 5k.

This isn’t how you were expecting your evening to go. 

Flashing by you in a dreamlike world of blurred colors, the city of Naples at night is a picturesque sight to behold. Gone is the sun that kindly lavished the bustling streets in shades of amber and marigold, moonlight and twinkling stars taking its place. How a city can have a clear enough sky to spot stars is a miracle beyond your own knowledge, though the lights of streetlamps and buildings do dull it some; it’s not enough to diminish the greater beauty. 

Butterflies dance around in your stomach, threatening to send you careening in your leather seat. Your exposed skin gratefully takes in the cool of the air conditioning that you’ve found yourself fiddling with, in hopes of quelling your inner anxiety. Every now and again, you work up the courage to look over at your date for the night. When knowing, cobalt eyes flicker to meet your gaze, all of the valiance it took to look his way melts like ice. Your muscles go taut, fingers curling into a fist atop your bare thighs, rose colored lips set into an unsteady smile to dissipate the uneasy air of your own making. 

You haven’t even made it to the restaurant, and you’re already on the verge of boiling over with excitement. 

Bruno Bucciarati is nothing if not a stunningly handsome man, eyes smoldering and raven hair perfectly framing his sharp face. There are plenty of mysteries in this world, now you’re able to add one of your own design. Why is it that Bruno had asked you of all people, on a fanciful date? What he had seen in you up until this point to have extended this invitation to you is up for debate. It’s not that you think poorly of yourself -- far from it -- but that Bruno’s beauty is so ethereal, that it’s hard to fathom his interest in you. Today isn’t the first time he’s expressed it, and far from the last, but you mistook it for friendliness. 

“I promise I won’t bite, amore,” Bruno’s rich, velvety voice invades your ears, senses incapable of processing anything other than his presence beside you. “There’s no need to be so on edge.” 

Your heartbeat increases tenfold at his good-natured teasing, a nervous laugh leaving your lips. Having conversation fill the air provides you with some much needed reprieve, a playful response of your own bubbling to the surface. “You say you won’t, but I get the feeling you may go back on your word.”

He returns your laughter with equal fervor, the skin underneath his eyes crinkling in delight. “I have to admit, it’s a tempting proposition. But I’ll save that for another time, should you let me.” 

There’s no getting ahead of his game, he’s too suave and adept. You look out the window to hide how your cheeks flush, but from the pleased hum he lets out, you’re certain he knows anyways. The banter is an enjoyable aspect of your time with Bruno, though there’s an underlying factor of honesty to his words. All the compliments bestowed upon you come from a genuine place. Your mind wanders to the first time you had encountered him, a fated meeting that you won’t be forgetting anytime soon. 

You had been jet lagged, searching frantically for a place to meet up that your native friend suggested. Directions went into your head without making proper sense, and before you knew it, you were lost. Your concerns of meeting up with your friend were soon replaced by wondering if you’d ever pinpoint where you were, the foreign area making it increasingly difficult to do so. It’s in this pitiful stupor that a well spoken man in a fine pressed suit appeared before you, asking if something was the matter. 

He hadn’t looked down upon you for the admittedly embarrassing plight, instead, he said he knew the area and wouldn’t mind taking you there as it was on his way. From that point onwards, you couldn’t thank him enough, praises stumbling from your tongue. He introduced himself as Bruno Bucciarati, and the time you spent with him was enough to forget your earlier problems. The long walk to where your friend awaited was filled with pleasant conversation and humor, with some light flirting that you enjoyed a little too much. From afar he looked serious, but had a coquettish nature that drew you in like a moth to a flame.

While it would’ve normally sounded terrifying to follow a stranger to a destination in a land you weren’t familiar with, Bruno put your heart at ease. He kept an appropriate distance and observed the theoretical line in the sand, never crossing it and using adequate charm to steady your frayed nerves. Upon hearing that you were a fresh arrival to Naples, he gave a brief overview of some culture tidbits that you might find useful during your stay. What was going to be an awful afternoon turned into a memorable outing, full of adventure and discovery. To say that you were grateful would be an understatement. 

Upon reaching your destination, all your anxiety from before was a thing of the past. Bruno was glad to see you off, refusing any monetary payments you tried to offer as thanks for his altruism. Instead, he asked if he could see you again at some point, to which you readily agreed. Thus began your pleasant friendship, and led to where you are now. On an excursion to a restaurant that, when you looked it up, seemed to frequent politicians and celebrities. How he managed to score a reservation at such a fine place is beyond you, but you’ll make the best of it. 

Fidgeting with your purse, you consider reapplying a touch of blush to your cheeks. Your outfit choice for tonight, a simple yet form fitting black dress that ends above your knees, was the best your closet could produce for such an event. Bruno looked the part of someone who would fit into high society, and you hope the same can be said for you. From how he complimented you earlier, it induced enough confidence to make it this far. 

The chauffeur pulls in front of the grandiose restaurant, and you watch as men and women dressed in designer clothing worth more than months of your paycheck climb out of sports cars. This is a large jump from the picnics and gelato outings Bruno had taken you out on before. Up until today, where romantic intentions could clearly be sighted, you only thought your relationship with him was friendly. The bouquet of deep, crimson roses he presented to you when you answered the door earlier made sure there were no confusing his intentions. 

He gets out before you, coming over to your side and opening the door. Accepting the hand that he extends out, the two of you stay close together while walking towards the front of the restaurant. Up until now, it felt like another world entirely, until you heard the familiar sound of waves crashing against the shore. The inside is as luxurious as you could imagine, fine glass chandeliers hanging overhead and classical music being played live. Candlelight dots the tables, the glow setting a romantic atmosphere. 

Bruno speaks a few words to the hostess while you gape at the surroundings. It’s hard to believe that just this morning, you had been eating a ham sandwich to save money for bills. Now you stand in one of the grandest spots in Italy, surrounded by socialites. No one pays you any heed, much to your internal relief, instead showing the utmost respect to Bruno. He turns back to you, smiling, and the two of you are led to a private room overlooking the ocean. 

“If I’m being honest, I feel a bit out of my element here.” A nervous laugh leaves your lips as you take your seat, smoothing out the bottom half of your dress. The fresh water on the table is a welcome excuse to have something in your hands, and you take the opportunity to steady yourself. Gingerly picking up the glass by the rim, feeling the coolness against your fingertips as you do so.

“You look the part,” Bruno responds in kind, steepling his fingers together and setting his head atop them. “I apologize if the atmosphere feels stifling, signorina. It isn’t my intention to make you uncomfortable.” 

Shaking your head, you place the cup down after a few sips. “Not at all. It’s beautiful, the view especially. I know I said it earlier, but… thank you for inviting me.” 

“It’s my pleasure. I’ve been wanting to take you out for an evening for some time now, but I’ve been preoccupied up until this point.” 

This catches your attention, an eyebrow raising in interest. Bruno has rarely spoken of his occupation, claiming the details would be a bore, but that must be what he’s referring to here. It was one of the few aspects of him that he didn’t delve into, and not wanting to seem invasive, you left it as is. Now seems like a prime opportunity to learn more about it, curiosity getting the better of you. You choose your words with care before proceeding.

“Is it a… busy season in your line of work?” You inquire with interest, hoping it doesn’t seem like you’re prying. The question is innocent enough, Bruno’s sought to learn more about your job, to which you readily answered him. His tone of voice and mannerisms, whether it be on purpose or not, always seems to command respect. It’s an aspect of him you and many others in his presence picked up on, always straightening their back in his presence and properly addressing him. Is he a politician or something…? 

“You could say that.” 

The opportunity is fleeting, a waiter coming over and paying great reverence to your dinner partner for the night. It’s a shame you won’t be able to push the topic further, having been interrupted and the conversation steering elsewhere. Bruno had asked beforehand if he could order in your stead. Seeing as he’s more familiar with the menu and charms of Nepotalian cuisine, you accepted, taking the opportunity to learn more about the food here. Some of the words he uses when placing an order for your antipasti you recognize, whereas others must be a dialect exclusive to this city. After the waiter hurriedly scribbles down and scurries off, Bruno’s attention is returned to you.

“So tell me, how are things with you? It’s been, what, a week or so since we last met in person?” 

You nod your head to confirm, nose scrunching while thinking back on your past experiences. Truth be told, it hasn’t been the best past couple of days. The other tenants in the apartments beside you have been obnoxiously loud at unholy hours into the morning, and no matter how politely you asked them to tone it down, it made no difference. Your landlord, to make matters worse, had been on about some special fee that you need to meet by the end of the month. When looking back on your agreement, you saw nothing of the sort. You wonder if he’s trying to take advantage of the fact you’re not a native Italian speaker, but finding a new place to live on such short notice would be a nightmare. This, and you’ve been having a difficult time aligning your schedules with your friends.

“It hasn’t been the easiest,” you confess with a sheepish smile, folding the napkin from the table onto your lap. That’s what you’ve seen in movies, so it seems like the right thing to do in this proper setting. “I actually wanted to talk to you about it, but it might not be the most proper dinner topic.” 

Bruno raises an eyebrow at this, before prompting you to continue. “Oh? I’d love to be of assistance to you.” 

The order comes out as you explain your sticky predicament. What appears to be octopus cooked alongside tomatoes and chili peppers, mixed into a leafy green salad with a zesty lemon dressing. The flavor bursts onto your tongue, spices complementing one another perfectly as you wrap up your woeful tale of adulthood. Bruno’s attention remains solely on you throughout, looking increasingly perplexed as you recount the problems, jaw tightening with agitation on your behalf.

“It might be in your best interest to end the lease then,” Bruno considers aloud with a sorrowful expression, shaking his head in dismay for your misfortunes. “The fee for doing so would still be less than having to pay that ridiculous sum every month.” 

It’s an option you considered with great displeasure. Shelling out all that money to end your lease early is a nightmare to think about, hundreds gone in the span of a second over an arbitrary bill, tacked on at the last second. The legality of it is up in the air, but your knowledge of the law surrounding tenants in Italy is… lacking, to say the least. Bruno’s affirmation of your idea serves to sour your mood, and you almost regret bringing up this grim subject on what’s meant to be a date night. Even though you planned to seek his guidance on it eventually, now may not have been the best time to do so.

Placing a forkful of steamed octopus into your mouth, you lament over the issue further. “I guess I should start looking for a new place. Everything else within range of my job is ridiculously expensive, though, so it looks like I’ll be walking a lot in the future.” 

The lighthearted joke does little to lift your downtrodden spirits, your gaze now facing downwards. How pathetic Bruno must think you are, incapable of properly navigating your finances despite being an adult. It’s embarrassing to think about, your cheeks burning in indignation. He never once chastises you, instead extending his hand over the table, resting it gingerly atop your own. A gentle action like this is enough to soothe your troubled mind, the coarse pad of his thumb rubbing reassuring circles into your skin.

“To think you’ve been through so much in this short amount of time… I’m sorry to hear about all of this,” Bruno’s words are soothing to your weary soul, maturity present in his visage. You feel better about talking to him already, sensing he has a great deal of life experience. “I’ve made up my mind. [First], why not live with me?” 

The sudden proposition sends your mind in a whirlwind, blinking rapidly while trying to gather your bearings. You’ve known Bruno for the time period of about three months, and while he’s been nothing but courteous towards you, there’s still a lot of secrecy surrounding him. You’d be pressed to say he isn’t charming, and that you don’t hold some form of affection toward him, but it feels so sudden. 

Sensing your apprehension, Bruno continues to explain in an attempt to smoothen other any concerns. “By all means, take time to think about the idea.” 

“I-It means a lot that you’d even extend the offer to me,” you stumble over your words truthfully, gulping to get a hold of yourself. “I’d feel awful to impose on you, especially on such short notice. You’ve been so considerate of me already…” 

“You could never impose. I hoped I’d made my feelings for you clear, [First]. Anything you need, I want to provide it. Please, allow me to do so.” 

He’s earnest, willing to overcome your apprehensions with thoughtfully crafted words and sentiments. Vacillating between two halves of yourself, you consider the options set before you. The romantic atmosphere from the restaurant is long forgotten, as you enter a reverie of contemplation. There isn’t a better option that you can think of, none of your friends living close enough or even open to the idea of a roommate. The time of splitting rent would be productive as well, letting you bolster your already deplenishing savings. Bruno has never given you reason to be alarmed, you trust the man before you. 

“In that case, I’ll continue thinking about it.” You answer after a moment’s deliberation, Bruno offering a nod of the head in acceptance. He retracts his hand from your own, and you can’t help but miss the warmth and reassurance it brought. Throughout your stay in Italy, you’ve felt like a stumbling mess at times. Sure, you’re capable enough, but wading through multiple decisions while balancing your job has been a lot to deal with. Bruno, on the other hand, feels so well put together. There’s never a moment in your interactions where he falters in his decisions, always full or resolve to see things through. He feels like a pillar of support in your life, a foundation that you cling to without even noticing it. This level of reliability is what you desperately need right now.

The air is silent for a moment, aside from the clattering of silverware against plates and muted chitchat from the other patrons. You look down to your lap, feeling the full weight of his stare set upon you. It feels like the evening has been getting away, running off in a direction you didn’t mean for it to go. After all the work he’s put into treating you to a nice night out, it feels impolite to ruin the mood any further. Putting on your best, brightest smile, you swiftly change the subject.

“I never realized seafood could taste so good,” you praise the meal before you, that’s been reduced to a shadow of its former self. Only a few crumbs remain in the bowl, a nice appetizer before the food to come. “A lot of the seafood I’ve had is either chewy, or just tastes strange. Whatever you picked out is amazing.” 

“A lot of it depends on the quality of the product itself. I grew up in a coastal town, so I know how to spot the difference. For octopus, the best method is the aroma. The same can be said for most seafood…” 

The remainder of the evening is spent in the throes of conversation ranging from lighthearted topics, to discussions about your plans for the future. Bruno revealed a bit more information about himself, but still not enough to sate your deeply rooted curiosity. His offer from before stays present in the back of your mind, but you do everything within your power to not think dwell on it. After having dessert from his behest, the two of you make your way to the entrance once more. You can’t fathom the bill after a dinner like that, but Bruno refutes any attempts to split it, following up his earlier offer of paying for it in full.

“Thank you for everything,” you express your gratitude while getting up from the chair, glancing out the window a final time. When you look back to Bruno, his attention is set solely on your presence, eyes softening considerably. It makes your heart flutter, how he looks at you. “I enjoyed my time with you.”

“And as for your offer…” 

There hasn’t been a great deal of time to think about it, but your chest feels light, like an invisible weight had been lifted. The man before you is an anchor that you never knew you needed, fastening you down in the wake of travesties. He’s well put together, offering you every courtesy known and making for delightful company. Whether what you feel is the beginning of love, or a platonic attachment, you’re uncertain. To discover things for yourself, and get a better bearing on your life, you’re ready to make a leap of your own. It reminds you of the time before moving here, this decision is minuscule in comparison to that… right? You’re not making a deal with the devil or anything. 

“I think… I think I’m going to accept.”

- - -

Anytime moving is involved, it’s a stressful endeavor. You know this firsthand, having come to Italy with a few things of luggage and starting off a new life with it. Much to your surprise, everything went far smoother than you imagined. Unlike your arrival, you had help in moving your boxes of belongings to Bruno’s villa, leaving you with little to do aside offering plenty of thanks. It felt like the start of an exciting new adventure, turning over a new leaf after a string of misfortunes. Leaving behind your old apartment building felt strange, but oddly right. Working through the manner of cutting your lease short was as awful as it sounds, but Bruno was by your side for all of it. 

What you can’t get off your mind, is how different your landlord acted in Bruno’s presence. When it had just been the two of you, you were treated with a complete lack of care, like your existence itself as a nuisance. There was a complete shift in demeanor upon walking into his office with Bruno by your side, like you were speaking to a different man. It reminded you of Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde, how he retained the same physical characteristics but adopted polite mannerisms. The whole exchange had been so jarring that you couldn’t help but ask Bruno about it, to which he offered a lackluster explanation. This haunting occurrence made you have more questions about his cryptic line of work, that you’re only fed spoonfuls of information at a time.

The two of them knew one another, but you don’t get the full spectrum of their relationship. It’s a gut feeling that it has to do with Bruno’s occupation, that he carefully skates around whenever brought up. 

Mostly settled in for the evening, you’ve been lounging on the balcony of Bruno’s home. It’s a quaint house, in the suburbs of Naples, further confirming that he’s well off to some extent. The ocean is within view, the house sitting in a gated community near the water. In the distance, you hear seagulls mixed with traffic over people coming home from their jobs. You hug your knees to your chest, staring down at your phone with a frown. It’s a mild summer day, the breeze from the ocean tickling your face, but not lifting your spirit. You had texted a few friends before your move in hopes of getting their assistance, only for none of them to return your calls or messages. 

It feels lonely. You feel lonely. 

If it hadn’t been for Bruno’s quick thinking and connections, it would’ve been the two of you moving boxes on your lonesome. This cold shoulder behavior hurts, and you can’t help but wonder if you did something wrong without knowing it. Had there been some sort of cultural aspect you were unaware of, that offended them? Is that why they’ve been ghosting you? It’s one thing if they were busy, but you see your friend group posting regularly on social media. A sigh leaves your lips, weariness from the week’s events getting to you. It won’t do any good to dwell on these things, but insecurities haunt you like a persistent cloud. 

“Is there something on your mind?” 

Your head whips around at the voice behind you, settling down when you recognize Bruno. He’s in lounge wear, and you flush at the domestic sight. He’s a sight to behold, lithe frame pressed against the door and awaiting your response. It almost feels like you two are a married couple, being this casual with one another. The thought serves to fluster you further, so you push it away. 

After all he’s done to assist you, it’d feel wrong to add friend troubles to the ever growing list. “N-not really, no.” 

Bruno frowns at this, coming out to join you on the balcony. He takes the seat closest to you, leaning forward and gazing deep into your eyes. A hand is pressed to your bare thigh, though it stops before it can travel up in a lascivious way. Feeling his cold hand against your skin sends shivers down your spine, his knowing eyes making you shrink back into your seat. Guilt seeps into you for the lie. He seems in tune with people’s feelings, you’re no different. Instead of calling you out point blank on the falsehood, he offers reassurance.

“Remember what I said,” his tone is almost chastising, face scrunched up in displeasure. “I care about you greatly, [First]. You don’t have to carry your burdens alone.” 

It comes before you can register. Tears sting the corner of your glassy eyes, silent sniffles leaving your person. As you think back to the images of your friends from last night, hanging out in one of your favorite spots with you, your lower lip trembles. Why is it that all this is happening? That you finally found a group of people that share your interests and passions, only to be left behind without an explanation? You despise how your throat clenches, each breath you take becoming more labored than the last. Bruno takes the opportunity to sit beside you, wrapping a reassuring arm around your shoulder and cooing into your ear.

All of it comes out like the floodgates of a dam, your head resting on his chest at his prompting. He holds you close, grounding you in reality, alternating between offering words of encouragement and peppering kisses onto your head. Your hands bunch up the fabric of his shirt, tears streaming down your face. No longer does shame occur to you, a forgotten thing of the past. You smell his rich cologne, that mixes in with the scent of the ocean. He’s been so good to you, too good. When the world has fallen apart, Bruno picks up the shards, placing them back together with tender care. Where would you be without his support? The thought is enough to bring a fresh set of sobs, self deprecating thoughts a mantra within your tattered mind. 

His warm breath fans across your face, soft lips making contact with the shell of your ear. “Amore mio, what is it that brought this on? Tell me, so that I can take care of it all.” 

“I have no one…! I don’t understand, none of it makes any sense,” you sniffle into his chest, voice muffled and waning. “My friends, even my coworkers! They act like I don’t… like I don’t even exist.” 

Large, reassuring hands cup either side of your damp cheeks, pulling you to look him in the eyes. His thumbs wipe away your tears, unblinking sapphire eyes steadying you. The world stops around you, nothing else registering other than his existence. How his skin feels against your own, the way his hair brushes against your face, how wonderfully close he is. He hasn’t left you, he’s still by your side. Your lips tremble, and you curse your wretched existence. A moment of clarity comes, and with it, your sobbing subsides. The two of you stay still, your face in his hands, until your hiccups are reduced to occasional sniffles. Even that fades with time, much to your relief.

You take a shaky, deep breath, hoping to gain better control of your fluctuating emotions. In the blink of an eye, Bruno leans forward, pressing his lips against yours in a chaste kiss. A noise of surprise leaves you, but before you can think to return it or move away, he pulls back. Looking up at you through heavily lidded eyes, dark eyelashes fluttering against his cheeks. The predetermined movement seems to have a physical effect on you, your face erupting into a blush. It’s been a rollercoaster of emotions that Bruno brings with him.

“You’re wrong on a single account,” he murmurs, his voice sweeter than honey, ensnaring you in a web of his own making. “You have me, and I’m not going anywhere.” 

It’s strange, you think. How like two sides of the same coin, so much can go wrong, but an equal amount can go right. For every loss, Bruno has almost made up for it in some other way, an equilibrium being maintained. Will one side tip over, ruining the delicate balance, and sending you into chaos? There’s no way of knowing, yet you can’t help but wonder. Your life is interconnected to his now, for better or for worse. No longer do you care for the innate selfishness of seeking out his warmth, canting your head into his hand and closing your eyes.

“Thank you, Bruno. You’re right… I do have you.” 

He seems content with your realization, a gradual smile spreading across his face. The sun has begun to set, warm colors dancing across his tanned skin. After a moment’s deliberation, he leaves your side, standing and looking towards the glass doors that lead inside.

“Let’s head inside for a cup of tea. It’s been a long day, so you shouldn’t stay up much later.” 

You nod your head lazily at his suggestion, using the back of your hand to wipe away at the wetness that remains on your face. A nice warm drink sounds wonderful just about now, even in the middle of the summer. Having a task to distract yourself with is an added benefit, so you get up, following after him to the kitchen. The brisk air conditioning feels like a welcome wake up call, and you look around at the tastefully decorated surroundings. Your new home, for the time being. Life is unpredictable, if anything.

It has been an exhausting day. Or more like an exhausting past few weeks, you think. For now, your attention remains solely on the person who walks in front of you. A bashful idea pops into your head, and you catch up to Bruno and walk by his side. He looks over at you with potent curiosity, and the opportunity is present to offer a confession. “I, um… I wanted to say that you have me too. I mean it.” 

Little did you know, there was never a time he believed otherwise.

[yeoldontknow]

Ciperion: 1/2

Author: @yeoldontknow​ as part of the Anchors & Arrows collaboration with @imdifferentshadesofpurple​ Pairing: Jaebeom x Reader (oc; female) Genre: fantasy!au; shipwreck au; jaebeom is a fisherman; romance; angst; elements of horror; ghosts; eventual smut Summary: Everyone on the Isle Indolon knows the story of Ciperon, though none believe it is true. Over centuries, the tale of the long lost ghost ship on the high seas has become little more than urban legend. In his youth, Jaebeom always thought the story was heartbreaking, and he did his best to avoid it - the same way he avoids the missionaries that have taken occupation on the island. On the anniversary of Ciperion’s ill-fated port date, you wash up on sea, and only you have the answers he’s always been seeking. If only you could remember who you are. Rating (this part): PG-13 Warnings (this part): angst; shipwrecks; references to head trauma; jaebeom does CPR; jaebeom rescuing an unconcious woman; allusions to sexual assault but it didnt happen, he just is protective and misinterprets everything; anxiety; ptsd; vomiting; ghost stories; graphic depictions of violence; mentions of blood; non-major character death; themes of horror; lots of grief; memory loss; jb doesnt really know what to do with himself; mentions of becoming a widow; it sounds really sad but i promise its not that bad; tbh oc is a really great sport Word Count: 17.5K

Three hundred miles off the emerald coast of Isle Indolon, Second Mate Ansil Green looks up at the shimmering night of the dark sky and feels a chill of apprehension burrow deep within his bones. 

There are only three days left to their journey, and for five months he has charted each with meticulous accuracy. It is easy to rely on the stars, he thinks. Their steadfast illumination and the reassurance found in their seasonal rotation have brought him immeasurable comfort throughout his life, and not once, not even on nights when storms threaten to eat their way through the ship’s bowsprit, have they ever led him astray. 

In the berthing hull, the missionaries say their prayers with tightly clasped hands, while others read their scrolls in preparation for new lectures once they reach the shore. Back in Indolon, Ansil’s wife and two children anxiously await his triumphant return, and everyone, every crew member and stow away rat, is eager to breach land. Even now, he can see it clearly - his wife’s pretty eyes as she laughs, small crescent moons that remind him of the night sky; the youthful, almost violent laughter of his sons as they play in the fields; the creaking if their iron bed frame as he rocks between her thighs, not unlike the ship as she rocks against the sea. 

Tonight, he wonders if these simple treasures have fallen too far out of reach, if they have slipped, imperceptibly, out of his grasp. 

Because tonight, the stars are wrong. 

Gripping the mahogany banister, he leans against the side and cranes his neck, angling his view slightly to the right in the hopes of correcting the pattern. Something about this is terribly wrong, wrong enough that the deepening doubt bites at him, heating his skin like a fever. Chewing the inside of his cheek, he does his best to swallow this worry,  attempts, rather meekly, to focus on the light flapping of the mainsail above him, on its rhythmic and soothing white noise that often helps him drift, hazily, through sleepless nights. Now, it offers him little comfort, the wind that moves the ship rustling through his hair, stroking against the shell of his ear, carrying whispers of splintered wood and rocky shores blackened by sea water mixing with spilled blood.

Heavy footsteps make their approach from behind, the purposeful strides and confident gait of Captain Grier L’Allante causing the heels of his boots to shatter the false sense of peace. Ansil does not move to greet his Captain, and while this would be considered an insult on any other crew ship, he supposes Grier has become used to his flippant and yet focused attitude when the stars are out, decades of manning ships alongside one another having reduced the rules of propriety almost entirely non-existent. Keeping his gaze on the sky, he feels Grier come to stand beside him, the heat of his closeness full of pride and awe; admiring the vastness of the sea before him, he exudes an energy that puts a sour taste in the back of Ansil’s throat. 

How he hates to ruin the evening.

‘We’re going in the wrong direction,’ he announces, feeling Grier stiffen rather than deflate entirely.

His captain hums in consideration, never one to give over to fear or uncertainty. ‘What do you mean?’

‘Look at the stars.’ Ansil corrects his posture and regards his friend with pleading eyes. It is, perhaps, the first time he has ever shown signs of fear with his captain, but Grier maintains his composure and presses his lips into a thin line. ‘They’re at the wrong angle by about twenty-six degrees,’ he continues to explain. 

Pointing up at the constellation Cassiopeia, he gestures a long straight line back behind him, back towards the foresail, in the direction of Hydra. Turning once again to look at Grier, he waits for some kind of flicker of emotion to pass over his features, and when nothing comes, he simply sighs, pressing his friend for more. 

‘This distance shouldn’t be this wide,’ he offers grimly, straightening his posture to stand at his full height. ‘Did we turn?’

‘No.’ Grier barks his reply with forceful authority, though, behind his eyes there is a storm brewing, a brief flash of concern that placates Ansil. ‘I helm this ship myself, and you know in your heart we haven’t turned. You said straight on until dawn, and the wind is steady at four knots to the South-West. We’re still on course.’

In unison, they turn back to the sky, and Ansil tightens his grip on the railing. ‘There’s something bad about this. I can feel it.’

Grier chuckles amicably. ‘What you’re feeling is five months staring at the same bloody lights in the sky.’ His gaze falls on Ansil’s profile, and he can feel him regarding his features with probing scrutiny. ‘You didn’t even take a woman at the last port,’ he states, nudging his shoulder with a force that makes Ansil lean to the side. 

‘They’re not precisely the same,’ he admonishes with a laugh. Grier regards him expectantly, but all Ansil can manage is a sigh of longing. He’d love to laugh at this kind of crude joke, and normally he would, but three days is somehow longer than five insurmountable months, the ability to count them transmuting the number into something brutal. ‘And you know I’d never do that to Mala.’

Taking off his hat, Grier runs a hand through the greasy black strands of his hair, grimacing through his laugh. ‘Too loyal for your own good.’

This is something Ansil can tease him about, and he offers his friend an impish grin, taking his own opportunity to nudge Greir’s shoulder roughly, revealing his hidden strength. ‘And your prick is too slippery for your health.’

It’s childish, the way they punch their fists into one another’s arms, the jovial nature of this making him feel as though they are teenagers once again. At once, he is nineteen and Grier has just convinced him to come out to sea, to stow away on his father’s vessel, and they are laughing at the reckless foolishness of this idea. But they are smiling, already hungry for the adventure, already wanting the spray from the waves and the salt that shall never leave their skin. They are young and they are hopeful, and now, even after the bloodshed and the violence and the horror they have seen among the ocean, he thinks they have never been quite as dangerous as they were then.

‘You need rest, mate,’ Grier advises once they’ve settled back against the railing. They look out over the ocean, the water as black as the night it reflects, light of the moon illuminating the peaks of waves and casting shadows behind them as long as the sea is wide. Releasing a deep sigh through the flare of his nostrils, he suddenly becomes alarmingly serious. ‘Otherwise, it’s scurvy.’

A beat of silence passes between them, a pregnant pause in which neither one of them breathes, the word hanging heavily between them both, unwilling to be touched. Until, they erupt into laughter, Ansil leaning against the railing to steady himself atop the wet baseboards. A wave hits the side of the ship and sprays gently against his cheeks, cooling his skin and for a moment, he is grounded in the happiness of this. For a moment, the sky is clear and he can see Grier’s warm, too kind smile; can see the way the ship is heading home, steadfast and unyielding in her journey.

For a moment, there is peace.

Calming his breath, he runs a hand over his face and nods. ‘What I would give for a peach.’ 

Ansil waits for the inevitable hum of commiseration, a sound of companionship in the memory of the juicy ripeness of Indolon peaches - the yellow of their fruit so moist it would leave their hands sticky for days. He can almost taste the burst of flavor in his mouth, tongue wet in desperation for something other than the salt and brine of oysters and trout, and finds the only consolation for this hunger is that they shall arrive in time for the peak season. 

Ansil waits for Grier, but the sound never comes, his captain watching the waves beyond the ship with lips parted in pale shock. Knotting his brow, Ansil takes his time turning to look where Grier’s focus rests, the tendrils of dread rising once more within his belly. The fear in him feels almost inhuman, taking full control of his joints as they stiffen, keeping him rigid and held firmly in place. Grier continues looking out to sea, blood rushing away from his cheeks, likely retreating within to service more important pieces in preparation of survival. 

When Ansil finally gathers his strength, he swallows thickly, and looks out to the water. He has lived through war - a great many battles on Naval ships both larger and smaller than this. He has seen dying men beg for both life and death, the fear in their eyes making it unclear which they crave more. He has seen waves rise taller than the ships he crews, seeking an immortal companion for her enduring loneliness. 

But he has never seen fog overtake the earth quite like this, or with such wrath.

It comes from nowhere and everywhere all at once, swallowing both sea and sky as it crawls across the horizon. From its center, an ethereal light seems to glow, a beacon to herald the nothingness that surrounds them, but even this light too is a half formed shadow, the core of its rays smeared across miles as it spreads within the clouds. The blood in his ears in unrelenting, the rush of his blood to his thunderous heart making his head begin to hurt as he watches it spread. Has anything ever been so fast? 

The fog works quickly to cover everything in sight, racing towards the ship at a speed he simply cannot comprehend. When he was young, and newly appointed to Third Mate Naval Officer, he sailed aboard the Cygnus, the fastest ship Indolon had ever produced - reaching a record breaking thirteen knots in the correct wind conditions. Somehow, this fog is so much faster, ravenous for absolutely everything it touches as the waves begin to still beneath its touch. 

The wind ceases.

The waves still, cannibalised by the fog.

And as he looks to Grier, their eyes mirroring the horror they find in each other, he realizes the ship has come to a full stop.

It is when the fog touches the boat that he hears it, the anguished screaming of men beneath their feet. Even at war, he has never heard such terror as this. The sound is born from men suddenly learning that they will die, this death an ambush to the unsuspecting and therefore all the more gruesome in its wake. He regards his feet with a disgust that taints his numbness, the abjection of this noise releasing a myriad of feelings within his veins - the urge to run, the urge to scream, a tightness in his throat so painful he fears he may suffocate on the size of it, and the overwhelming desire to cry. Yet, it seems his body cannot decide upon any of these, and so settles on none, rendering him absolutely and completely silent. 

They stand above the berthing hull, listening to the missionaries burst to life for one extraordinary moment before their echoes die one by one, their last breath a wail of anguish. As Ansil takes in a long, slow inhale to steady his growing panic, he can smell the acrid stench of blood and piss wafting up between the boards, bile rising to the back of his throat. The silence that befalls them in the aftermath is threatening, an eerie calm that raises gooseflesh along his skin. Bones brittle and mouth dry, he simply stares at Grier and takes in every detail he can, unfailingly certain this is the last time they will see one another. 

In the distant horizon a tall mast looms beyond the mist, the main mast taller than that of their vessel. The crow’s nest is empty, and if he focuses long enough he has the passing sensation he could look right through the wood into an empty, eternal void. 

‘It can’t be,’ he whispers, reminding himself it is just a legend and that legends are buried in the past.

They are buried.

His voice carries no echo, the atmosphere around them tight enough his voice lives and dies before him, reaching nowhere else but his own ears. Grier does not even react, does not make any movement at all, save for the shifting of his attention to the world behind Ansil, eyes trained on something that makes his adam’s apple bob in the effort of swallowing his trepidation. 

A bead of sweat glides down Ansil’s spine, and he can feel an angry shadow looming behind him. Burning like hellfire, he waits for the scent of his own flesh bubbling beneath his chemise to reach his nose, readying for immolation. Death comes slowly for people like him, he supposes. It likes to take its time weighing the worth of his soul and the value of his existence. He has made love and he has made life, but he has taken far more than he has created, and so he suspects this slow conquering of his person is deserved - retribution for the bloodstains etched into his palms.

‘Ciperion,’ Grier says, eyes widening in sudden, terrible realization.

It is the last thing Ansil sees and hears before cold hands wrap around his jaw, pressing fingers into his mouth and pulling until the pain in his bones, his skin, his muscles is so great the world turns black.

Standing on the old oak dock behind his home, Jaebeom stares out at the open sea and knows that, today, the water is ruthless. 

He can feel the rage beneath her waves, the violent and unforgiving aggression of the current guiding the water as it rolls up against the edge of the dock, shaking its legs as if testing the foundation’s strength. The first light of morning is unable to penetrate the intense cloud cover along the horizon, their peaks and valleys tinged with red shadows behind the murky green and black. Awake far too early to begin his descent to the jetty, he balls his fists in the pockets of his linen coat and eyes the gathering storm with suspicion. 

Once again, he’s been brought out.

Pulled from his feather bed by some unseen force, it has become a habit for him to spend his early hours on the dock, overtaken by a profound sense of longing. Rooting himself to the wood, he has grown used to the passage of time that drifts beyond him, and finds that he is unencumbered by these lost moments. It’s been happening more often as late, his sleep interrupted by the desire to see and to know, an endless stream of questions burning at the back of his mind that chase the sleep from his limbs. But, always, the words are garbled, the thoughts unclear. 

It is worse today - somehow, he knows this with all of his being. Even as he stands, completely alone and unseen, he feels naked all the way down to his nerves. Narrowing his eyes, he peers at the water, unblinking, taking hold of the ache within his chest. Something is missing, has been lost. Or, perhaps, it was taken from him, the intense longing in his chest delivering him a nostalgia too great to be expressed or understood. If he looks long enough, he can almost envision it emerging from the horizon, precariously balanced as though hanging on a thread. 

But the image never fully forms, never reveals its nature, and he is left bereft, hissing a sigh of frustration between his teeth. 

Gulls pass overhead, making way for the Southern shore. Their calls are the music of the morning, a siren song that only serves to mire him deep within his thoughts, and he blinks several times as he rolls his shoulders back, trying, and failing, to collect himself. The current sends a rough breeze through the thin fabric of his chemise, the uncharacteristically cool summer air nipping at his skin, and he bristles though he does not shiver.  Digging his nails into his palm, he struggles to gather the will to leave, every bone in his body telling him he must wait.

Each morning Jaebeom finds himself in this position, looking out to the open water and waiting - wanting to write love letters, wanting to write odes, often wanting to simply cry or curse the tide for what it has taken, but he remains mute, dumbfounded, lingering expectantly for an answer that will not come. And he is angry, muttering to himself that he must leave, that there is no purpose here, but the thought of missing it only serves to aggravate his insistence on keeping still, on looking and looking harder. 

‘Come on,’ he mumbles, as if willing a response from the sea.

When nothing comes, the muscles in his arms and thighs tense as he presses himself into the dock. ‘Show me,’ he hisses, emphatically.

Immediately he feels terribly silly, not even certain to whom he is speaking. It is not the first time he has made these demands, not the first time he has called out to the sea as if it would even deign to reply. The answering silence and empty air should neither surprise nor disappoint him, but as his posture curls and his chest deflates, he finds both of these things happen in quick succession. Something is out there, something beyond the place the light touches, and he thinks what frustrates him most is the endless unknowing. 

Voices along the shore break his concentration, a group of missionaries walking side by side, barefoot in the warm sand as they talk, sometimes laugh, amongst one another. The sound of their chatter breaks the magic of this hour, an unwelcome interruption to the morning solitude. At once he returns to himself, hands in his pockets relaxing out of the fists he’s been holding, and suddenly he feels rather neutral about his position on the dock, about the ocean, and the thick clouds overhead. 

The town has started to wake, the missionaries commencing their morning walk a sign that he is late - terribly late, and the time it will take him to prepare his sails and his nets will likely cause him to miss the golden fishing hour. Closing his eyes, he hangs his head and sighs, certain he will lose the best crabs of the day. 

Briskly walking along the shore to the jetty, he keeps a wide berth from the missionaries as he passes. Jaebeom keeps his eyes trained on the rocky jut of the shoreline, keeping his posture rigid in the effort of not being overtaken by the staggering sense of unease that gradually drops his feet to his stomach with each step he takes. He’s certain they must feel this, must feel the crushing weight of his discomfort, and he furrows his brow, swallows thickly, and grits his teeth as he prepares for conversation. 

‘Good day,’ they chime in unison, bowing their heads in greeting. The steely chill in their voices makes him shiver. ‘May Deus keep you.’

Jaebeom simply nods politely, but says nothing, finding no solace in their words. On instinct, his attention diverts to the slotted diamond shaped symbols on their rosaries, a sense of nausea rising in his stomach. Lifting his gaze to their faces, he focuses on their features - their eyes, their well practiced smiles, their royal blue square hats - but all the while, he battles against himself, soul willing him with all its might to look, once more, at the rosaries. 

Quickening his steps, he hurries past them, releasing a breath he did not know he had been holding. Running a hand through his hair, he chastises himself sheepishly for his disrespectful behavior. He’s old enough now, nearly thirty and well past the age of childish anxiety, to know they are harmless, it is harmless, but still he feels a rattle in his bones even after they have disappeared from view. He remembers the monthly service ceremony - his mother, her pleading eyes, and his frightened distress as she brought him along. Long into the night, he would be plagued with the memory of their long faces and their empty expressions, the fear and hatred in him making him feel sick with fever. 

Eventually, he grew out of this level of anguish but still his maturity and his logical reasoning do not serve as a comfort. In the numerous missionaries that occupy Indolon, he finds no refuge, no joy, somehow more sure now, in his old age, than ever of their wrongness.

His schrooning boat is docked at the base of the rocky cliff side, just below the lighthouse and pushed far away from the crowded wharf. As he makes his approach, he feels the eyes of other fishermen bore into his spine, their judgement of him, his lack of a First Mate, a crew, and his placement of his boat always deeply felt at this hour of the morning. But he does not mind. 

Since he was small, Jaebeom’s understanding of the sea, of her nature and her cruelty, has kept him at a great distance from his peers. As a child, he preferred to listen - to listen to the ocean and to watch it change, finding a deep affinity in her tumultuous loneliness. This kind of loving relationship, he thinks, has developed into a skill that keeps his family well paid, a roof over his head, and the bellies of many full. Maintaining a crew would simply distract him, his mind less on the water and more on the work of his members. 

And while he, too, might have agreed the placement of his boat against the rocks is reckless at best, it is placed where he would catch crabs as a child with his father - the best location to spot their lavender and purple shells as they eat the moss along the stones. And just below, the bright vermillion of the king crabs glittering as they sink to the ocean floor.

Stepping onto his boat, he sheds his linen jacket and cranes his head back to observe the large mast, its mainsail tied neatly at the base with a strong sailor’s knot. Rolling up his sleeves, he lets the sea breeze kiss his warm skin, heated and dewy with moisture from his walk, and watches light behind the clouds do its best to illuminate the land below. The rains will likely start soon, the hours left in the day for adequate fishing conditions dwindling, and so he hoists himself up on the shroud, untying the sail in quick, easy motions. 

Climbing up the iron ladder connected to the mast, he reaches for the rope at the center of the sail and latches his fingers, giving one large tug to set the sail free. It flaps loosely in the wind, releasing itself to its full length, and as he makes his way down in the cover of its shadow, he looks out to the lighthouse, admiring the way the tall grass is somehow more viridescent beneath the grey skies as it reaches upwards, asking for rain. Autumn is nestled in the branches of the trees, the peak summer season soon to give way to the burning gold of autumn, but as he regards the lighthouse field he finds it difficult to imagine the world any other way than this. It’s as though the earth has always been green, always been bright, too alive to ever fully be witnessed.

As he takes in the splendor of the earth, letting pleasure root itself against his ribs, he notices, rather curiously, a pile of cloth discarded amongst the rocks. Strewn carelessly across the sharp incline, the ivory cloth has been yellowed and torn, resting long forgotten in the shallows. Narrowing his eyes, he steps off the shroud and leans over the edge of his boat, glad that it is still tied to the fender and not drifting away with the sudden displacement of his weight. As he continues to look, the ivory gives way to the vitality of flesh and long limbs, and his mouth runs dry. 

‘By Deus,’ he whispers, the dread in his veins restricting the volume of his voice. ‘It’s a person.’

Limbs moving of their own accord, Jaebeom is carried back to the dock, hands working quickly to remove his boots. Gaze unwavering, he keeps his eyes on the body, transfixed and horrified, afraid of letting his eyes wander for fear of it disappearing altogether. His heart beats like thunder against his sternum, warring with too many emotions and unable to allow any one a victor. Behind the worry, the confusion, the terror, a curious sense of relief is building, a calm that would almost have him believe he is not in the process of coming undone. 

If he focuses on it, he gets the sense that this is what he has been waiting for - not just in the morning before the dawn breaks, not just in the crash of waves against his boat and their icy waters demanding his spirit, but for always. In this moment, the hollowed sensation in his heart, the sense of something long absent, is scabbing over with each breath he takes. 

Barefoot, he moves at a slow run, something like grief and hope mixing in his blood and putting a swell in the joints of his fingers. Jaebeom stifles these feelings, grounds himself in the reality that someone might be hurt, might be in need, and reminds himself, dutifully, that it is not the time to be carried away with his emotions. Still, there is a tingle at the base of his neck, an urgency that goes beyond humanitarianism, pushing him forward with exhilaration.

'Help.'

A female voice is carried on the wind, musical in its cadence and pleasurable in the way it sings its request. The ocean spray delivers it to him at the same moment the water bursts over the rocks, the sea mist rising up against his cheeks before retreating through the crevices in the earth, cooling the flush beneath his skin. Inside him, it burrows, reaching down and deep to nestle in the long empty caverns of his heart. As he moves over the rocks, carefully placing his feet to maintain his balance, he strains to hear it once more, certain it is a woman he is racing to help and she is begging to be saved. 

'Help heal.'

'I'm coming,' he calls out, voice as shaky as his legs and echoing over the ocean’s roar. 

He does his best not to cut his toes on the angular shards that have been eroded over years of rough sea water, but with each step he takes the water rises over the rocks with an aggression bordering on feral, demanding all of him within its foam. With each rush of water, he has the feeling it is reaching for his ankles, hands desperate to clutch at his person and drag him down, and down. 

Yet, the closer he gets, the more he feels as though he could weep - from joy, from desperation, from loss - and this alone is enough to make him want to rush, pushing through the erratic rhythm of his heart and beyond the lump in his chest that makes each inhale ache. Now, with a clear vision of the body, it is as though you have been spit from the ocean’s mouth, cast out for your transgressions and all the corrupted ways you have disappointed the ocean. There is tragedy in the way you are draped over the rocks, body poised at woeful angles for having displeased the gods. Now, you have been forced to greet the horror of your retribution. 

Only a few rocks away, Jaebeom allows himself a brief pause and takes you in, letting his eyes take their time in their discovery of your person. Hugging himself, he suddenly feels conflicted, as though he is learning your shapes while still becoming reacquainted with something long missed. This state of being is a paradox, and in the full emptiness of it, he has the passing sensation that he is learning the essence of love, and little else. 

Shaking himself free from his idle reverence, he takes a few steps closer and notices the silk of your dress is ruined, perhaps permanently. His jaw drops slightly at the still gleaming shine of the fabric, the most expensive silk he has ever seen. It clings to your skin, dampened and tarnished, fraying at the ripped edges but still doing its best to hold you delicately, clinging to you in the effort of keeping you safe. Something about the cut of the dress triggers a memory he cannot quite reach, a familiarity in its lines and shapes that make him recall there was a purpose behind this outfit, a reason that it is both extraordinary and unforgettable, but it vanishes from him as quickly as it came. The fog in his mind is heavy, muddling his thoughts and pulling at the edges of his concentration and he knits his brow together to keep himself grounded.

In the aftermath of this brief recollection, he bites a whine of longing burning at the back of his throat, a pathetic sound of loss, regret, mourning. Your hair spills over the rocks, eyes closed and skin bruised though not scraped to bleeding. Flickers of recognition press at him, mind racing around the image of your soft lips, the high angle of your cheekbones, and the delicate elegance found in your wrists. Struggling to recall your name, Jaebeom approaches gently, coming to a kneel at your side, unsure what to say at all.

Pressing two fingers to the pulse point in your neck, he feels a dull, yet ever present, throb of life beneath your skin and releases a breath he did not know he had been holding. Alive, though just barely and unconscious, lungs likely full of sea water. Everything about you is soft, the warmth of life fading quickly beneath his fingers and rendering you terribly fragile, and he retracts his hand for fear of his touch giving bloom to more marks along your flesh. 

Glancing around the cliff face, he looks for signs of wood, other bodies, ripped sails or bent iron, but finds nothing. No signs of shipwreck, no signs of a waiting party to receive you. You are alone in this torment, rejected by land and sea, and forced to exist within the limbo of life and death. 

Before he can stop himself, he lifts you to his chest, cradling you close as he rises to a stand. If you were awake, you would be shivering, would tremble in the chill that means to overtake your very bones, and he hurries as best he can back to his boat and the woolen blankets he keeps in case of cold summer rains. Moving quickly over the shore, he stumbles slightly, feet tripping over themselves in surprise as he feels you burrow into him, seeking warmth with a low moan, and brow furrowed in what he hopes is simply the effort of healing. 

Finally aboard once more, he takes you into the small cabin beneath the helm and tucks you into the straw bed he keeps for nights when the winds are threatening and violent, remaining on the boat in case the waves should do their best to reclaim the wood. Draping several blankets over you, he crawls close enough the heat from his chest could radiate into your skin, encouraging a rush of blood in your veins. His fingers twitch, wanting to brush stray strands of hair out of your eyes, but he presses the flat of his hand into the bed, resisting his urges. 

The medic will need to be informed. This realization hits him with a bitterness that speaks of separation, chest restricting and tightening against the air in his lungs until it hurts to breathe. Against his bones, his muscles battle the urge to hold you close and he shuts his eyes with a grimace as a headache blooms at the base of his skull. Yet, as he strains to focus in the quiet of the cabin, he is acutely aware there are no traces of your breath, no labored wheeze no even inhalation, and so he resolutely declares that he will ferry your oxygen, coming to sit up on his knees as he plugs your nose and presses his lips to yours, opening them slightly. 

Cradling your chin between his thumb and forefinger, Jaebeom exhales deeply, letting the strength of his breath travel into the limit of your lungs. Squeezing his eyes closed, he exhales for as long as he can manage, giving everything within himself to you before, all at once and all over again, he feels as though he has stepped out of himself. 

Once more, voices materialize at the back of his mind, these new sounds more like echoes that erupt from nowhere and no when, fingerprints of a bygone era carried to him on wings. Their words are a garbled mess of sounds, undeterminable cadences lacking diction or emphasis, but he hears the sound of a man, low and gentle and wondrously tender.

He hears a man, and the man is unmistakably, unfailingly, him. 

Opening his eyes, he drinks you in, and surrenders to the notion he is being conquered by the mere sight of you. One word from you, and it would be as violent as a new beginning, a great shattering of all the comforts he knows of the world. And he would welcome it, knows, as if by magic, that he has given over to it before, would give over to it again, the power in you so great only ritual could contain it.

Blinking several times to clear the shock from his mind, he quickly moves his hands to your chest and presses against your sternum in the rhythmic way his sister taught him when he announced he wanted to be a fisherman, just like their father. Her eyes had glazed over then with the memory of loss and strife, and so she laid him on the floor and promptly taught him how to save a life should the sea threaten to claim a man as her own. The muscles in his harms strains as he continues pressing, and he thinks maybe he will need to press his lips to yours once more, bracing, instinctively, for more voices to fill his head, but a rush of water bursts from between your lips and he quickly moves back, turning you to your side to let it drain completely.

Falling back on your side, you release a cough but you do not wake, the small puddle of water between you both at once threatening and sacred, a reminder that everything Jaebeom has seen and felt is real, tethered to this moment. Tethered to you. 

‘Who are you?’ he murmurs, but even as he says it, even as the words leave his mouth, he knows this is not the right question. 

In the oncoming silence, the correct words swell on his tongue, nearly tumble from his lips, but, instead, he chews the inside of his cheek, aware that the right question will insight a riot in him he is unprepared to endure. 

When Jaebeom carries you into his home, he closes his eyes and takes a deep breath, overtaken by the staggering weight of deja-vu. 

He’s been in this position before, holding you against him in the center of his small kitchen as the elasticity of his emotions stretches outward for an eternity. There is an awakening occurring at the very center of his soul, bursting like a new star as its white heat slithers down his spine. Glancing down at you, your soft lips, your closed eyes, and your limp frame, held so closely to him, he feels the earth move beneath his feet, the shifting tectonics of his life all leading to this single moment. 

Shaking his head, he releases himself from this, moving to his bedroom with focused steps as he places you in his bed. Igniting the oil lamps, he works quickly to bathe you in warm light, covering you with his down comforter before moving to the furnace tucked in the corner of the room. In summer, he keeps little coal and kindling but he uses the last of the brush wood he’s saved from the recent winter to ignite a small fire that burns red and gold behind the latched closing.

He regards your still form with a frown, running a hand through his hair in distress and grits his teeth. The last several days have been almost unbearably hot, but it seems August’s heatwave has been broken by the cool wind of the day, the overall gloom breaking the humidity and blocking the sun from her usual path. Of all days, it pains him that this would be the day the sea released you from her clutches, sent you from the cold depths of her darkness back to the shore where the sun refused to keep you. 

From his kitchen, he takes a small linen cloth, inspecting it for cleanliness, and folds it into a long rectangle. Warming it in front of the furnace, he rotates it in circles before he feels it is sufficiently heated, just enough to ease tension in your muscles and restore heat where you need it most. It warms his hands, palms already swollen and grown clammy, room becoming relatively stuffy as he slides the cloth beneath your neck while you sleep. Already, a pink flush has begun to settle within your cheeks, the relief in him not unlike a rapture.

What will you say when you wake, he wonders. How will you sound when you look him in the eye, unsure of where you are? More importantly, he worries if you will wake at all, if perhaps the rush of blood beneath your skin is the last tour it will take before it stills altogether, heart too sluggish to keep a steady flow. The thought sends a tremor of heartbreak into the base of his spine, and a pained gasp tumbles through his lips, scorning the very notion of the thought. 

He needs an occupation to distract, needs a purpose to feel as though there is progress being made, and so he turns on his heel and grabs his coat, supposing that when you do wake, he should at least be ready.

The walk to his sister’s cottage is not long, one that he usually relishes in the spring when the path is lined with blossom trees and the foxes play around their dens, their ruddy tails bouncing amongst the high grasses. Today, his strides are long but the journey feels endless, the path reaching well beyond the limits of the land, his mind thinking only of arrival rather than enjoying the view. 

Another group of missionaries passes him along the dirt road, and he crosses to the other side to give himself space, freedom, liberation from their watchful eyes. Offering them sidelong glances, he studies the way they regard him conspicuously, whispering to one another as though he cannot hear the faint sounds of their voices, the conviction of their stares a judgement he feels with all of his body. Do they somehow know that he has found and kept a woman? Have they heard the voices too, the echoes he is resurrecting just by being near you? 

He finds he cares little for the answers to these questions, deeming their existence as something infinitely less important or significant in the light of resolute purpose. 

Byeol answers the door after three hard knocks, her face a picture of confusion that still does nothing to mar her beauty. She stands just shy of his height, one hand on the door and the other on her hip, the laugh lines along her cheeks carrying a secret smile within them. 

‘Jaebie,’ she announces, more a question than a statement. Arching a single brow, her brown eyes bore into his with the chastising admonishment only an older sibling could manage. ‘Shouldn’t you be fishing?’

Jaebeom nods, a noncommittal gesture of affirmation, and presses his way through the doorway, past her slight frame. He wastes no time slipping off his boots as he fumbles for an explanation. 

‘Sorry for the unexpected arrival,’ he mumbles, only partially apologetic. ‘Something’s…’ his voice drifts away, eyes looking everywhere but her face as he searches for the right words. To tell the truth means he must tell the whole truth, unable to hide anything from her, and so he settles for one single, vague word. ‘Happened,’ he says, finally.

Immediately, he regrets it.

Byeol’s eyes widen, hands raising to gently cup his face in her palms. Satisfied he is whole, they run down his shoulders to his arms, searching. ‘Are you hurt?’

‘No, no.’ He pulls himself from her grasp, hands raised in surrender, offering her a sheepish smile of amiable regret. ‘Nothing like that. I, uh, need to borrow some of your clothes.’

She takes a single step back, brow knit together in bewilderment. A myriad of emotions pass over her face, and Jaebeom does his best to count them all, the youth of her features rising and falling between her fear, her amusement, her apprehension. Eventually, she settles on curiosity as her eyes rake him up and down, one hand resting on her chest, perplexed yet surprised.

Rolling his eyes, he turns away from her and moves through her home, heading towards the wooden staircase. ‘They’re not for me.’

Byeol follows close behind, hot on his heels. ‘You’re telling me you…’

There’s too much excitement in her voice, the sound and volume of it making him close his eyes as if bracing for a storm. In one fluid motion, she rounds in front of him to block his path, eyes wide in delight as she makes an inappropriate gesture with her hands. 

‘No!’ he scolds, though he finds he must swallow the early threads of a laugh. ‘Not that either.’

Resting his hands on her shoulders, he feels a slight flush creep into his cheeks as she giggles in childish glee. Gently easing her to the side, he continues up the stairs with heavy thuds of his feet. It always amazes him how easily, and how quickly, Byeol can manipulate the atmosphere in the room, her energy always barely contained and always terribly infectious. Questions are burning at the back of her throat, and she follows closely behind, the bounce in her step echoing around the house behind him. 

Just like their mother, she will not let this go until she is satisfied, will not let him leave until she has received at least one answer, and so he releases a silent sigh as he reaches the landing, turning down the hall towards her room. He should be commended, he thinks, for the bravery he must assume to endure her interrogation.

‘There’s a woman -’ he begins slowly, only to be cut off.

‘You bastard!’ she exclaims delightedly, slapping his shoulder blade with enough force to make him stumble. 

She takes his slight hesitation as an opportunity to run ahead of his once more, the glee in her eyes wild and bright, a look he once found vindictive in their youth. Spreading her arms wide, she presses her hands into the frames of her bedroom doorway, full of impish joy as she stares him down. The love he feels for her blurs together with his frustration, the affection in him rising like a tide.

‘Would you stop?’ he pleads, though now he does not bother to stop his laugh. ‘I just need some stays. A chemise and some trousers, too, if you have them.’ 

Standing to her full height, she raises her head elegantly, full of self-importance and authority, swallowing her smile for a serious expression of warning. ‘You can borrow them on the grounds that you give me her name.’

Exasperated, he looks away, letting his gaze move to the side and into the small rectangle that is Sun Hee’s room. It’s messy, the bed unmade and several books piled onto their mother’s antique rocking chair. Atop the books, her stuffed crochet kitten rests, presiding over the chaos like a queen. Along the walls, sepia portraits of his mother and father hang beside cross-stitch pieces his sister did while pregnant: one a rabbit, another a bundle of wild flowers, one a vestige of the sea. In the center of the wall, above her small wrought iron bed, a portrait of her father is framed and hung, the frame a silver gilded edge that catches all the light, even when the clouds threaten to block the sun.

When he looks once more at his sister, he sees how his silence and avoidance has riled her further, her wry grin returned once more with all its damning inquisitiveness.

‘Do I know her?’ she presses, narrowing her eyes.

He shakes his head, and offers a small shrug of his shoulders. ‘No,’ he explains, ‘I actually don’t know it.’

Jaw dropping, she reaches forward once more and slaps his arm. ‘Jaebie!’

Dropping his head, he presses his fingers into his eyes and wishes, with all of him, that her assumptions of his perpetual loneliness and solitude were not such a concern. Wishes, more than anything in this moment, that Sun Hee did not frequently ask for an auntie to play with, her lack of a father rendering her wishes for a sibling obsolete. For any other man on Indolon, a woman in his home, let alone his bed, would hardly be news, would hardly warrant any discussion at all, but Byeol has watched him try, and fail, over the years to find a woman who loves as ardently, as openly, as intensely as he does. 

She has watched him resort to his life by the sea, watched him spend days alone on his boat, returning at sunset and smelling of brine and salt. All her life she has watched and she has worried, alluding to the full weight of her concern only in jest.

‘Can I please just have them?’ he groans weakly.

Lowering her arms from the doorway, she steps to the side and welcomes him through. ‘Yes,’ she acquiesces. ‘Take what you need from the closet, but this isn’t over. And be quick, I’m on my way out.’

Jaebeom tosses her a silent expression of gratitude over his shoulder, moving through her room with quick steps. ‘Where are you going?’ he asks, sliding open her wardrobe and taking things he knows she keeps but does not often wear, certain she will not miss them. ‘Isn’t Sun-hee already at school.’

Byeol moves behind him, gathering her headscarf from atop her bed and tying it with a hum of confirmation. ‘I’m going to Mala Green’s. Her husband’s ship was meant to port two days ago. It never made it.’ 

Jaebeom stills, clothes draped haphazardly over his arm as he turns to greet her eyes. Together, they regard one another in silence, a cold chill seeming to overtake the room. He remembers the look he sees in her eyes now, remembers the bone deep anxiety and the way she did not sleep for weeks, not even months. In a single moment, it is four years ago and they are both bereft.

‘The Pyxis?’ he murmurs, remembering how he and his sister and his niece, and all the town had watched it sail away from port eight months ago, waving until it disappeared from the horizon. 

She nods minutely, a small motion almost imperceptible had he not been watching her intently, looking down at her hands where she nervously picks at her fingernails. ‘She is thinking the worst.’ 

Dropping the clothes to the bed, Jaebeom takes a few strides and comes to stand before his sister. Letting his hands rest on her shoulders, his thumbs press idle, reassuring circles into her muscles, hoping his expression looks hopeful, at least. ‘It could just be delayed.’

Taking in a shaking breath, Byeol nods but does not lift her eyes to his, gaze trained instead on the unsteady  motions of her hands.‘We always like to think that, but…’ Falling quiet, she glances towards her vanity, a distant expression of longing painting her features. He knows she is looking at her wedding photo, but he does not mention it. ‘A woman always knows, doesn’t she?’ she finishes, finally looking at him with an empty smile.

And just like that, in the length of the shallow stretch of her lips, they fall back in time to Port Vela. She clutched his hand as the Aquila departed, the strength in her grip enough to turn both their knuckles white. The intensity of this touching reminded him that to love is to open the heart to grieving, that to love means to welcome the notion of losing, and so he pressed his fingers against hers with the same force, joining her in solidarity. 

Even before the missionaries declared him dead, she knew he was lost. The tears she shed in childbirth were not those of bodily trauma but those of heartbreak, once more holding his hand and begging for him to tell her why Dong Hyun wasn’t there with her, why the missionaries were forcing her to believe he was still alive. She said it hurt to know they were teasing with the heart of a widow, that moment perhaps the last time he ever feigned trust in the gods and their mortal vessels. 

Dong Hyun had left to deliver a group of missionaries from a nearby port, and they were angry for weeks at their failed return, citing a growing population that needed more help. Jaebeom never knew why they didn’t come to the funeral, his sister and his newborn niece crying in unison against an empty coffin while he pressed his feet into the wet grass. He wanted them to see what their selfishness had done, the rage in him putting a sheen of sweat on his neck, the most angry he had ever been. 

‘He’ll be okay,’ he states, pulling them both out of the darkness of their thoughts. ‘They will all be okay.’

It’s a nice thing to say, he thinks, something that sounds reassuring and optimistic, but he wonders, quietly in the back of his mind, to whom he is offering this confidence.

Byeol startles slightly, eyes glassy and slightly glazed over with memory as she takes him in. ‘Yes, well,’ she begins, stepping out his hold to gather her things. ‘It will be good to be there for her.’

Jaebeom watches her move towards the door, hands balled into fists and pressing his nails into his palms. It’s more visceral now, somehow more tangible than ever, the unease he feels when he thinks about their blue cloaks - their endless, royal blue. 

‘Launder those when you’re done please,’ she says, coming to a halt and pointing her long index finger at the clothes piled on the bed. ‘I don’t want to be wearing any of your remains -’

Jaebeom’s eyes widen, the spell of his thoughts broken by Byeol’s teasing giggle. ‘Byeol!’

She simply steps into the hallway and moves down the stairs, her laughter carrying through the house as though the sadness had never been let in. 

It was only when you said you were leaving, announcing the date of your expected departure with wild eyes and ink stained hands, that he thought maybe, horribly, he had not told you he loved you enough. 

You showed him the boarding papers, the crew notes, the bonds list and you were laughing, disbelieving that good fortune could shine on the persistent. Years of work had culminated in this opportunity, and you could not tear your eyes away from the King’s signature, it’s black script so formal you pressed your fingers to your lips to hide the ferocity of your smile. He loved you most then, burning in silence and struggling to find the right way, the best way, to tell you that his love for you demanded he become monstrous, too many hearts in his chest to contain the totality of this wanting.

‘It will be the longest we’ve ever been apart,’ you said, chancing a look at him, and the briefest flickers of grief walked across your face. In an instant, you tucked them away, smoothed your smile over and put the light back in your eyes, hiding from him the very thing that could bring him to his knees.

‘I’ll send a hawk to woo you,’ he offered, the smile tugging at his lips only half genuine, only half true. 

He was certain you knew it, too, but you simply chuckled, arched one perfect brow and pressed a kiss to the corner of his mouth.

‘You’ve already done that.’

He only had a week to show you that he loved you beyond reason, beyond the human capacity for emotion. One week, and you would be gone, drifting away from him at sea, and he would be waiting, always waiting. 

‘Then I’ll do it again.’

Again and again he would do his best to win you over, holding you tightly against his chest and reminding you there was nowhere as safe, nowhere as sacred as against his skin, against his heart. You leaned up to kiss him, always eager and impatient for the things you wanted most, but he breathed against your lips, let your twin exhales unify your heartbeats and reminded himself that you were still here.

He could feel you. You were still there.

Jaebeom wakes with a start, hairline dampened with warmth, stress, and confusion. 

The dawn breaks through the sheer curtains of his bedroom window, the heat in the room oppressive and stifling as the embers within the furnace strain to match the gleam of the sun. Curled in a ball atop the lambskin carpet at the foot of his bed, the joints of his knees and elbows are aching, having been forced into one position too long. Tentatively, he stretches his limbs with a low groan, elongating his back against the floor and does his best to remain quiet in his relief. 

When he’d returned home, you were still sleeping. Unchanged and in the exact position he had left you, a brief anxiety overtook him at the sight of your too relaxed face and the weakness in your limbs. There was a fragility in you that frightened him, a treacherous sort of quiet that promised great annihilation consuming the room and reaching down, deep within his ribs, compressing his lungs. He would have shed tears for you, would have unleashed an expression of grief so holy and so silent it would have broken worlds - but you moaned, almost regal in your suffering, and, for a moment, he was weightless.

In the tense tranquility that followed he slumped into the reading chair beside his bookcase, head buried in his hands, and sighed. With his eyes closed, he could pretend things had not changed, that he was still himself, that he still belonged to himself. It was as though there were two of him, battling within his blood - the one that knew nothing, that craved the assurance and predictable simplicity inherent in the life he had built for himself. 

But the other is violent, a torrent against his bones reminding him this life is not his, that you are his life, and the passion in him is pushed into madness at the notion of not being able to follow where you have gone.

‘All this?’ he lamented into the rough skin of his palm. ‘All this over the desire to be loved?’

The moon was midway through its journey across the sky when he fell asleep, nestling into the rug at the foot of your bed - at your feet, though still giving you the distance, giving himself the distance. And all night he had seen you, felt you, let his whole world become enamored with you.

Pressing the base of his palms into his eyes, he groans, letting the dark become coloured with reds, whites, and purples under the pressure. Rustling from somewhere in the room makes his heart stutter in its rhythm, motions still and muscles tense with the effort of not moving, simply listening. His is not the only breath in the room, and when he takes his hands away from his eyes, his vision adjusts to see you - your face framed by your hair as you lean over the bed, regarding him curiously. 

Startled, Jaebeom sits up, head dizzy with the sudden movement, and he presses a hand to his temple though he does not close his eyes, fearing he might still be dreaming. A dark night lives in your irises, hungry for everything that comprises his very being, and even as he lets his vision focus, lets himself recline into the intensity of your stare, he feels as though you are burning inside him, tearing your way through his sinew, the most voracious thing he’s ever seen. You regard him, unblinking, studying every detail and nuance of his features with tension in your brow and parted lips. 

Briefly, he wonders how long it has been since someone looked at him like this, looked at him as though he is both the universe’s greatest secret and its most coveted answer.

‘You’re awake,’ he manages, throat dry and voice constricting beneath such coveted attention.

Instantly, he curses himself for such a simple and obvious statement. All night he had imagined hundreds of first conversations with you, knowing his first words with you would ultimately be the most important, and already he has betrayed himself. You’ve taken all the power from him, left him in such a state of shock, he supposes his words have withered, nothing in the world as sacred as your eyes on him. 

But the smile you offer him at the sound of his voice could combat the sun, the world brightening around the fullness of your cheeks and the pleasure you keep at the corner of your lips, like a secret. A blush burns at the tips of his ears, and he is glad it does not immediately live in his cheeks, pleased he has learned, somehow, to not give himself away all at once. 

‘I am,’ you nod in affirmation. A chill walks down Jaebeom’s spine, the sound of your voice an echo of his dreams, exactly as he heard it all night long. ‘You found me.’

Seconds stretch between your bodies, an infinite eternity between your last syllable and his first breath, his eyes on yours like a pledge of loyalty. 

‘Were you looking for me?’

Hope invades his words without his permission, helpless against their desire to be the thing you sought most, to be lucky enough to be your prize. His fingers press into the soft strands of the carpet beneath him, and he watches as you fall back against your legs, shoulders slumped as you look around the room. All at once, emptiness overtakes you, the light in your eyes dimming as you search within yourself for an answer.

‘I don’t know,’ is your whispered reply. Looking at him once more, he feels as though you are rooting within his soul, continuing the expedition within him. But still, you are lost, voice adrift and lost at sea. ‘I can’t remember.’

He smiles encouragingly, wanting you to know, more than anything, that it is okay. For himself, he reminds you both that everything is okay.

Inching along the carpet, he clears his throat as he rests his arms on the bed, gazing up at you as though he is making wishes on the moon. He wants to be close to you - more than he’s ever wanted anything, Jaebeom wants to be in your orbit, close enough he could taste the salt that still lingers on your skin. Biting his tongue, he swallows all his rushed, messy emotions and clears his throat, choosing instead the words of logic, the words of practicality. 

‘What is your name?’

Little by little, your smile slowly fades, burned by this simple question. Still, you remain calm, perplexed and unsure of how much of you has truly been misplaced. ‘I don’t know.’

‘That’s okay,’ he reassures you gently. ‘My name is Jaebeom.’ In saying his name, he waits for a flicker of recognition, a response that would confirm all he has spent the night feeling, but you simply regard him blankly, glad for the conversation. Shaking his head, he sighs. ‘How did you get here?’ he tries, keeping his voice calm so you find no reason to panic or run.

Now, your smile disappears completely and all that is left behind is you, your sadness, and the way it clings to your body like a shadow. The smallness of you in this moment puts an ache in his chest that feels like an inheritance - something he has been owed, that you owed one another having vanished in the completeness of your unknowing, and, together, you grieve. With a slow shake of your head, you confirm there is a void surrounding the nature of your being and the reason for your arrival, and the longer he looks the more he sees how this torments the deep desire that quakes inside you.

He knows nothing of you, knows only that you are here and you are tangible and you are emptied, but still he can sense you are a wild, impossible beast of a woman. The storm in you could tear the world asunder, and so he tries a different tactic, choosing to ask what is felt rather than what can be recalled, wanting to hold onto as much of you as he possibly can.

‘Are you hurt?’

For a long moment, you consider his question, as if thinking through the concept of hurt, the very notion of it, rather than the truth of it. Running his eyes over your frame, he notices that some bruises on your arms have already faded, as if the midnight sky was your healer. You are far healthier and far more whole than the person he found yesterday, but there is a strangeness to the way you look at him, to the way you think through his questions that gives him the passing sensation that you are not there at all.

He fears, all the way down to his marrow, that if he were to look away, you would disappear completely.

‘It does hurt, yes,’ you admit finally. Offering him a small nod of confirmation, your eyes grow wide as though you yourself are surprised by the experience, the ability to truly hurt a clandestine experience.

Jaebeom had feared this. Always, the most lethal of wounds are the ones not worn on the skin. ‘Where?’

Slowly, you lift a hand to your chest, right above your heart. Pain etches itself on your face, the turmoil of bewilderment and confusion, the misery of things long lost, making a home of your soft features. He watches your brow knit together as you regard him, a slight downturned frown tugging at your lips as you silently beg him for answers. 

Reaching a hand forward, his fingertips nearly graze the smooth skin of your knee, exposed between the ripped threads of your silk dress. When he’s close enough he can feel the warmth from your skin, he remembers himself, retreating back to curl his hand into a fist.

‘Did a man hurt you?’ 

He hates the way the words taste, sour and acrid on his tongue, but he supposes this dress is your wedding gown and he’s seen more than his fair share of broken hearts around town. This, of course, would be the worst he has ever seen, but he chooses not to worry you further, keeping his voice soothing and calm.

‘No,’ you shake your head, looking beyond him into a distance that is both contained within and expanding outward. ‘Not one,’ you continue with a dark whisper. ‘Many.’

Jaebeom does not think himself a man prone to violence or aggression but, in a single moment, he feels his heart is a weapon. His spine straightens as he rears back slowly, relying entirely on the support of the floor beneath him. His hands are no longer his own, knuckles taught with the desire to tear his way through flesh and sinew. There is no limit to the monstrous creatures he would face standing up for you; he’s burning, fully ablaze alongside you, and it surprises him how quickly kindness can burn away.

‘We can report it when you are well enough,’ he announces, clearing his throat in the effort of remembering himself. As much as he would go to battle for you, he similarly does not want to frighten you. ‘When you remember the details we can report it. They won’t get away with it.’

Shoulders relaxing, your hand falls away from your chest as you find comfort in his words, and a small sense of pride prickles at his ears and neck. With anyone else, he’d be sheepish that he is giving himself and his emotions away so quickly with you, but he can’t help it, he thinks. Not when you look at him like this, like he’s the part of summer you’ve been anticipating most and are pleased by the mere sight of him. People don’t look at him like this, especially the people he wishes would look at him and want to continue the mere act of seeing him. You make him feel like someone, and he is more with you than he ever has been on his own. 

Keeping your eyes on his, you shift so you rest on your hands and knees, crawling across the bed towards him. Jaebeom leans back, pushes himself away from the bed and it is only when the heat from the still burning furnace threatens to sear his chemise that he pauses, looking over his shoulder to pout at the proximity. Your hand presses against his foot, stopping his movements and he returns his focus to you once more, all breath and blood flow halted in his veins. 

You’ve climbed off the bed, settled on the floor with your hand on him and a glimmer behind your eyes that says you know he has longed to be touched. Has he been real before this moment? Has he truly existed until the moment you placed your hand on his skin, a paradoxically cold warmth that sends a chill up his legs and into his groin. Until this moment, he has been afflicted with the strangest sense of object permanence, but only of himself - himself and his relation to you, the only thing that has ever truly mattered.

‘You won’t come close to me,’ you explain, sounding terribly sad.

Deflating, he leans forward and places his hand on yours, finally, running his thumb along your knuckles. The salt from the sea has turned your skin into the softest thing he’s ever touched, and he applies just enough pressure to remind himself you are tangible, real, present. 

There’s something familiar and, simultaneously, ephemeral about the way his hand moves over yours. He finds it impossible to look away as he explains, ‘I wanted to give you space.’

‘I’ve had enough,’ you counter, and the sharpness in your words has him taking in your lips, your cheeks, your face in wonder. You are every bit the tempest he knew you would be, and he smiles, amused and gladdened by your confident vehemence.  

Pulling your hand out from under his, you raise it to the side of his face, tucking strands of hair behind his ear and letting your fingers glide along his cheekbone. The intimacy leads him, momentarily, to believe that he is completely naked, exposed to you in all the ways that could truly break him. Once more, he feels you searching within him for something you can almost grasp. Words live and die on his tongue, answers he too craves fading before he has the chance to truly process them.

You are unified in this complex looking, the act of remembering both a mysterious and a fact.

‘You’re familiar to me.’ Cocking your head to the side as you speak, the childlike curiosity you exude has him pressing his hands into the carpet, reminding himself it is still too early to take hold of you, too early to hold you against his heart as he had done in his dream.

‘Have we met before?’ he offers gently.

Excitement colours you, has you straightening as you pull your hand from his skin. ‘Do you know me?’

It’s his turn to shake his head, his turn to smother hope with little disappointments. ‘No.’

‘Then I suppose not.’ 

With a slight shrug, you return your hand once more to the side of his face, palm cupping his cheek to trace the contour of the bone. Little by little, your eyes soften and a silent yearning overtakes your features. Jaebeom wants to tell you everything when you look at him like that. Things he’d never breathe to another person, things he had long since forgotten rise up in his throat and he nearly chokes on them, wanting you to have absolutely everything.

Running your thumb over his bottom lip, a blissful sigh escapes from the center of your chest, eyes slightly glazed as you luxuriate in the texture of his skin beneath your finger. ‘I don’t mind, though. I like looking at you.’ 

How like a child he feels when he is with you - suddenly restless and impatient and young, the boundaries and the calculated logic he has spent years cultivating in his adulthood dissolving the moment he learns you are pleased with him. In his dream, he somehow knew your kisses were a hurricane, all raindrops and wild winds that made his skin feel electric. The way you seem to tear through him now is a confirmation he was correct, the summer in you so immaculate he thinks it is always the bloom of July in your soul.

Were he to look elsewhere in the room, he is certain it would be a betrayal - the treachery of looking away from the gods’ sky. Jaebeom is calmed by the sight of you, the anxious itch in the back of his mind dormant simply because you have decided he is worthy of being adored. He wonders where he has been looking all this time, if he has truly seen anything at all until this moment, the colours of the world infinitely more rich because of how you choose to wear them. 

Clearing his throat, he looks briefly at your hand where it holds his foot like a cross and trembles. ‘I like looking at you, too.’ It feels so silly and unimpressive, repeating your words back like a parrot, but he means it - there is more conviction in those small words than any other promise he has ever made and, when he looks at you again, he hopes you can feel it.

Your answering smile is so rich and full, he finds his thoughts are rendered unintelligible, and so he lowers his gaze to the ripped dress that does its best to maintain the echo of its former shape.  

Clearing his throat, he slowly pulls his foot out from your grip, skin tingling from the loss of contact. The warmth from your hand still lingers, and he frowns, regretting his decision even through his commitment to the choice. Pressing his hands to the floor, he rises to stand and brushes off his trousers, looking for ways to keep his hands busy.

‘Can you stand?’ You look up at him, expectant and congenial. ‘Are your legs strong enough?’

Copying his earlier movements, you press your hands into the floor and, unsteadily, lift yourself to a stand. For a moment your knees wobble, but you keep your eyes on his, shoulders rolling back as you take in a slow inhale. Finding your balance takes focus, brow knotted together with the effort of standing on weakened muscles, but you keep your feet planted, hands spread at your sides to aid in maintaining your center of gravity. And when you stand, stable and sure, at your full height, you nod proudly, delighted you have surprised yourself.

‘Good.’ The most natural thing in the world, he finds, is praising you; a long dormant habit awakening once more ‘I’m actually not sure what I’d done if you couldn’t,’ he admits sheepishly.

Amidst your infectious giggle, Jaebeom finally has an opportunity to truly take in the state of your clothes. He wonders what torment you have seen, what hell you’ve walked through that has torn the silk and chiffon down to the essence of their threads. The bodice hugs your waist, but the whalebone corset is torn at the ribs, threatening to expose your skin. There will be no saving the sleeves that hang limply off your shoulders, falling behind your back like a ragged cape. Sea water has stained the silk to a tarnished, bleak yellow, the sand of the seabed nestled deep within the folds of your skirts. 

Still, too much of your skin is visible to him. The skirts have pulled away from the bodice and a large portion of your thigh remains bare, the other leg free of clothing from the ankle to just above your knee. Standing before him, he sees you as a survivor of a slaughter that bore no claws, and he aches to pull you close, to keep you safe, to remind you that you are whole.

Perhaps, he thinks, the reminder is mostly for himself.

‘I brought you some clothes,’ he announces gently. Gesturing vaguely to the wardrobe in the opposite corner, his nerves get the better of him, words becoming bashful. ‘You look like the size of my sister, so they should fit.’ Running a hand through his hair and gripping the strands to alleviate the tension in his wrists, he pulls himself out of your orbit and heads toward the wardrobe.  ‘We need to go into town anyway to see the medic, so I can get you some if these don’t fit properly. I just…’ 

Opening the doors, he pulls out the clothes he borrowed from his sister- stays for night time, two pairs of trousers, a woolen skirt he remembers buying for his sister one solstice that she has never worn, and three chemises he hopes will fit you. He lays them out delicately on the bed, arranging them into outfits he hopes you find comfortable. Fixating on the trousers, he looks at them too long as his stomach drops. Indolon is one of the few islands where women wear trousers, their propensity for skirts just as enthusiastic and common. He hops the sight of them will not offend you.

‘Thank you.’ Approaching the bed with light, careful steps, the smallness of your voice does little to mask your immense gratitude, hands coming to graze the myriad of fabrics he has selected. 

Something about the feel of them between your fingers astounds you, a stunned silence turning adding a weight to the room that did not previously exist. 

‘These are beautiful.’ Your hand moves to the skirt, the difference in its texture putting a glee in your eyes that makes his heart swell. ‘Thank you for caring for me,’ you finish, finally looking up at him once more.

Time bleeds past him as he falls into you, falls beyond himself and into a love that consumes him. Around your body, light seems to vibrate, uncertain how to hold you and so it holds all of you, and none of you, at once, bending around your back until he wonders if the very nature of this conversation is merely an illusion. Should he look away, he worries you would vanish, that he might forget, and so he steps near enough that he might touch you. 

Keeping his hands forced at his sides, he drowns momentarily in his wanting before he speaks. ‘Anyone would do it.’

Lowering the skirt, you reach up to cup his face, forcing him to look at you. A shiver walks down his spine, followed swiftly by an unfamiliar heat in his blood as you speak. ‘I don’t remember much of the world, but I do remember that is not true. Not everyone would do as you have done.’ You lean into him, close enough your breaths touch between your bodies, his entire existence narrowing to this single moment. ‘I’m grateful for you.’ 

All of him craves giving in to the boundless lust that rages within his chest, memories of his dream resurfacing to haunt his bones. There were other memories within that dream, memories of your body wrapped beneath his, memories of your lips and the way you always pressed hard against his mouth, ensuring he would feel you long after you had departed. Jaebeom wants to live in those memories now, wants to force them into his reality so badly his hands and his sides start to shake.

But in those memories, lives the texture of your skin and the way his fingers have mapped every node of your spine. And it is only when he recalls the distant blur of this experience, so foreign to him it is as though it belongs to someone else, that he remembers there is nowhere in his home for you to undress.

When he had selected this house by the sea, he had assumed his life would contain the dawn, the dusk, the ocean, and little else in between. His home is merely one large square, the kitchen bleeding into his open bedroom and the sitting area tucked into corners he felt would be comfortable. There is, fundamentally, no element of privacy, and this is the only thing, he thinks, that gives him the strength to pull away - the desire to keep you comfortable and to be polite his only saving grace.

‘Sorry,’ he mumbles, taking one small step back. It is enough for his head to become clear, enough for the sadness in your eyes at the separation to not sting like a bullet. ‘I can leave you to change.’ 

He moves around you, not really certain what he would say should you inform him you will need assistance with your bodice and corset. They are torn enough and ruined enough he imagines they will not be a problem, but the mere idea of his fingers accidentally caressing the smooth expanse of your back puts a tightness in his chest the magnitude of which has him both frightened and bewildered. 

Jaebeom does not want people like this, certainly does not want them this badly and with this much conviction, and so he walks through the bedroom and into the kitchen, the cool metal of the doorknob a balm against his skin. And it is only when he is outside, eyes closed as he lets the breeze overtake his heart, his spirit, his soul, does he feel like himself once more.

It is only when he is in an entirely different location, far enough away from you he cannot feel you, that he remembers to breathe.

The walk to town, by your side, is among the most eventful experiences of his life. 

Having roamed the island roads all his life, he has grown used to the view, the unchanging scenery resulting in him finding it to be rather dull and grey. He cannot remember the last time he saw this world with fresh eyes, the last time he took in the trees, the slope of the land and felt joy - the last time this world brought him pleasure. You however, combat the very essence of his ennui with your inherent enthusiasm, taking in every sight and every sound as if it is, not the first time you have witnessed them but, the first time you have reunited with them after many years away. 

In you, a language of reconciliation is being cultivated - one that only you will be able to understand, and one that makes Jaebeom cast you curious side long glances as you press your hands together in consternation. Your scrutiny of each detail slows the walk considerably, your presence somewhat distant and hollow as you struggle to define the essence of familiarity within you. Each time, it fades miserably and quickly, leaving you momentarily disheartened only for new wonder to replace the frustration once more. 

Through you, he begins to see the town as something eternal, something so long lasting and sacred that, even if it is forgotten, it is still unchanged and important enough to be missed. Selfishly, he ponders what place he held in your old life, if he held any place at all, aware that, sometimes, you look at him with this same questioning fixation. In his own life experiences, you appear missing, but the way you look at him and touch him assures a small, needy piece of his heart that he is remembered, and therefore not ephemeral. 

Still, he is certain you have been here, on Indolon, that this is your home and nowhere else. Having decided to forgo the shoes he had taken from his sister in favor of your bare feet, claiming it felt more natural to feel the earth beneath your toes, your steps are confident as you walk. Your eyes take everything in with too much intensity, but your steps are sure, certain of the placement and used to the cracks and the gravel that line the journey. When you are not focused on a building, a face, a view, you do not follow behind him. Instead, you are perhaps just a hair’s breadth ahead of him, relaxed in your inherent certainty. 

‘Is any of this triggering your memory?’ he quietly tries, hoping he does not completely disrupt your train of thought.

‘Yes, but at the same time no.’ Your lips continue moving even as your voice dies, murmuring mysteriously to yourself as you look around. ‘It’s like I’ve seen this before in a dream, but then anything can look like anything if you want it to badly enough.’ Offering him a sly smirk, you peer up at him through your eyelashes. ‘I still like looking at you the most, though.'

Heat paints pink smears along his cheeks, and he glances down to his feet momentarily to smile at himself, flattered and, helplessly, twitter-patted. With you beside him, so close, his fingers dig into the pockets of his coat, gripping the cloth in the effort of stifling the desire to reach for your hand.

'Thank you,' he begins, his smile unwilling to fade. Still, he does his best to warp his features into a serious expression. 'I'm glad I'm more interesting than trees and brick.'

The music of your laugh is an eruption, the juicy fullness of it breaking over his tongue and filling his mouth with unprecedented gladness. You are unshy with your laughter, endearingly liberal and letting it echo through the air, demanding everyone hear your pleasure. Jaebeom swallows thickly, feeling almost as though he can taste you on the wind, in his mouth, and he holds his breath wanting to keep you inside him just a moment longer.

'I'm serious,' you tease, nudging into his side

Passing the field of pink and blue wildflowers, you become transfixed by a group of small children playing amongst the grass. Holding hands, they jump and dance in a circle, their laughter interrupting the song they are singing in broken unison. He recognizes the nursery rhyme of Ciperion immediately, remembering how his sister and some of the older children would make him play this game with them, dancing in a circle until the song ended and they had to remain completely still. Always, one of his sister's older friends, usually the boy she had a crush on, would play Ciperion, choosing a victim to steal away from the group. Only then would the circle continue dancing over and over until only one player remained and they had to outrun Ciperion to win.

He chuckles at the memory, how petulant he always felt at being the first one out - always, and without fail. Now, he realizes it was merely because of his strong reaction to being taken that made it more entertaining for his sister's friends, his cries and yells something they would tease him about for days.

‘What are they singing?’ you ask softly, interrupting his thoughts.

Jaebeom hears your voice and looks to his side, finding you are no longer with him. Turning, he finds you have come to a halt alongside the edge of the field, watching the children with a dark fascination that runs a chill down his spine.

He approaches you slowly, looking between the children and you, finding the tether of your fixation to be unbreakable. ‘The song of Ciperion,' he explains gently. 

When you look at him again, your inquisitive expression is marred by such a sincere sense of aloneness his throat runs dry. Your prying eyes demand more from him, demand explanations and answers, so greedy and so painfully hopeful he wonders what the word wounded in you. 

‘It’s an old urban legend on the island,’ he begins, looking back at the children who have now stilled, a little girl roaming behind the group with her hands raised like claws. ‘Everyone knows it, primarily because we grow up hearing it from friends or parents. It’s really just a ghost story. Parents tell it to make sure their children don’t go too far near the shore if they can’t see them, and kids tell it amongst friends just to see who is the most brave.’

Mystified, you keep your eyes on the group of children. ‘And it’s a song?’ 

He shakes his head, meeting your eyes on the raised arms and laughing faces of the children, hoping this contact of just your twin gazes is a comfort. ‘Not really, no. It’s a story, but it’s so old it’s become a nursery rhyme.’

‘Tell me.’

Jaebeom hums, trying to remember the way his mother told him this story when he was small. ‘Centuries ago, there was a ship called Ciperion that was meant to arrive at Port Vela.’

At the word Ciperion, you bristle, eyes widening slightly, though if in terror or recognition he cannot tell.

‘It was commissioned by the King, back when there were Kings,’ he continues, watching your reactions in the corner of his eye. ‘In those days, it was the fastest ship ever created, and had been assigned one of the largest crews - they called it the jewel of the sea. The crew was composed of experts in every field - cartography, cosmology, anthropology - and the ship’s sole mission was exploration.’

When you finally look at him, the heat from your gaze puts a fire in his veins, the sheer fervor and earnestness of your attention making him shudder. Swallowing thickly, he continues. 

‘Legend says that they reached an island and saw how corrupt the Indolon King had been, how far reaching his power and torment really was.’ In the field, a little boy is taken by a young Ciperion, his scream of surprise mingling with the relieved laughter of the other children. ‘They rushed home to stop him from destroying their land, but the ship never made it. No one knew where the ship had gone, especially because the waters had been calm the night of their intended arrival.’

‘So they all perished?’ Even as the words leave your mouth, your focus turning back to the children, he knows this question is not meant to be answered, a small voice in the back of his mind advising him you already know this answer. Its rhetorical nature is anguished, lost, full of a yearning he presumes no language could ever express.

Coughing to clear his throat, Jaebeom nods knowing you cannot see him, and continues. ‘The lighthouse stayed on for weeks, even on clear nights. But still, Ciperion never came back.’

The silence in you is a sea, and once more he presses his fingers in the fabric of his jacket, warring within himself to keep his hand still. Your own hands look lonely, hanging limply at your sides as though you have been defeated by something much larger, and much more complex, than just your lack of memory. As he studies your changing expression, he counts the emotions that swim over your features - anger, fury, loss, grief, and, strangely, happiness - before you settle on none of these, choosing instead to remain empty. 

But the magnitude of this choice renders you disheartened, tears pooling in your eyes, and he watches you swallow, fighting them back to the depths within your heart.

‘There’s never been any proof that Ciperion was real,’ he offers, hoping this will aid in bringing you comfort. It was never real, he supposes, and so there is no need to mourn the loss of made up things.

Yet, this consolation does not help, only serves to insight frustration, hands at your side curling into small fists as your eyes narrow. 

Looking back at the children, Jaebeom combats the ever creeping flush at his neck and ears with the rest of the story. ‘Some say that every twenty years, on the anniversary of its port date, you can see the ghost ship Ciperion sailing along the horizon, looking for ways to dock. Only if the night is clear, that is.’

‘And if it isn’t?’ you question, a bitterness biting at your words that takes him aback.

‘If it’s cloudy,’ he offers delicately, ‘the fog along the water is so thick it blocks the lighthouse altogether. It moves up from the water onto the shore, looking for ways into houses or into town as if it has a mind of its own. And if it touches land, you can hear screams in the clouds themselves.’

As if they never happened at all, as if, all along, you nothing of this story had touched a bleeding wound within you, the tears in your eyes seem to dissolve. Your hands unfurl from their fists, and a touch of pink warms your cheeks. There is contentedness all over you, and you turn to face, a pleasant smile tugging at your lips.

‘That’s a nice story,’ you say, simply, blinking up at him in genuine interest.

A laugh bursts from his chest, one that comes from nowhere at all and instead is a bark of surprise rather than a logical expression of amusement. Furrowing his brow, he laughs to himself through the fear and the confusion, waiting for your earlier expression of grief to overtake you once more. But when it does not come, when you giggle along with him merely because it is something to share rather than an honest or sincere experience of humor, he silences himself with a low grumble and kicks the stones at his feet.

‘Yes,’ he agrees quietly. ‘It’s just something we grow up hearing, but nothing ever comes of it.’

‘Is it the anniversary, then?’ You smile up at him, seeming happy to be included in a story, happy, too, to be sharing his company, and you press your bare feet into the stones, making little shapes with your toes. ‘They’re singing with so much fervor.’

‘Yeah,’ he hums in confirmation, watching you draw circles into the earth. ‘Actually, I think it’s tomorrow.’

‘And will you look for the ship?’ 

Cocking his head to the side questioningly, he studies your face as he speaks. ‘Would you like to?’

‘Are you asking me?’ you press, tilting your head to the same angle as his. The sight of you makes his breath catch, your beauty always somehow the most arresting, the most bewitching, but watching you mirror his position creates an uncanny sense of unease in his belly. ‘I’m not sure what I would be looking for,’ you finish, uncertainty lacing your tone.

‘I’m not either,’ he laments, furrowing his brow as he takes you in. There are so many things he’d like to say to you, only to you, so many things he’d like to ask, but starting feels painful, complicated, as though he’s attempting to speak a language he does not yet understand, so he swallows, drawing the same circles as you with his shoe. ‘I haven’t gone looking for it since I was a kid.’ Your circles are so clean, while his are oblong, and he is unsure why this matters, but he is excited, fundamentally, that there is so much he can learn from you. ‘The last time it was here, I was eight, and even then we didn’t see anything.’

Nodding in understanding you hum, knitting your brow together in consideration of his words. ‘It would be...fun?’

‘If you want to, we can,’ he chuckles, peering at you through his lashes, still waiting for another response of sadness, of melancholic heartbreak to rise up in you again. The legend of Ciperion stirred something in you, touched pieces of your spirit denying access to all else, and he thinks, perhaps, it is the tragedy of lost life and torn wood that triggers memories of spilled blood. Anyone would weep at the horror of this, and so he clears his throat, remembering true horrors are the ones humanity can touch.

‘But,’ he begins, loud enough the children in the field turn to look at them, worrying their play will be halted before continuing to sing once more, ‘you washed up on the rocks.’ Looking at you fully, he feels his chest tighten, remembering the shredded silk and the way your hair wound over the rocks, latching into deep crevices just to keep you safe. ‘People don’t just come from the sea. If there’s a shipwreck somewhere, we’d have to tell the medic and the council. That’s a more pressing ship to be looking for.’

Biting your lip, your eyes grow distant and glassy as you retreat inward, mind racing towards shadowed images that render your voice small and soft. ‘I don’t remember where I was before this.’

‘Sometimes that can happen with trauma,’ Jaebeom advises, and it strikes him that your admission does not bring despair, only annoyance at your failing memory.

Through all of this, not once have you expressed fear at the notion of death, unafraid for your own mortality even after the very essence of it has been threatened and challenged. It hits him now that the only time you have ever been afraid is when confronted with the notion of others experiencing a fate meant for you. One tale of a shipwreck, and so soon were you unmade into a dark beast, woven together by sorrow. 

Kicking the stones away from his feet, he tilts his head encouragingly, wordlessly advising that you continue alongside him. ‘The medic is one of my old school friends,’ he explains with a small grin, readying for Stefan’s loud laugh and teasing sarcasm. ‘He’ll be able to tell you more once he can run a few tests. You’ll like him. He’s quite funny.’

Walking beside him, there is a bounce to your step. ‘I remember that I like funny people,’ you announce, tossing him a playful smirk. ‘Maybe I will like looking at him as much as I like looking at you.’

Jealousy tightens itself around his ribs, the selfish desire for him to be the only thing that brings you pleasure rising in his throat like bile. It is an entirely new experience for him, the notion of love that one must remember its fragility, the sacredness of a lover's admiration more divine than the gods. Already, every breath he takes is heavy with you, body and soul hypnotized by your existence, and, in the effort of appearing aloof and affable, he grits his teeth through a humorless laugh.

‘Better not,’ he teases, though the jovial nature of it is almost nonexistent. As soon as he says it, he becomes upset with himself, the statement alone so preposterous and out of his character he shivers to shake the sound of it off his skin.

You, however, do not seem to notice, nudging into his shoulder once more as you continue on the journey.

Jaebeom has not seen the entirety of Isle Indolon, his ability to travel limited by his small income and the availability of everything he needs being centered to the town. However, he has never truly felt the need to explore, their small city of Sunridge Keep the capital of the island and therefore so full and bustling with activity he finds it impossible to muster the desire to leave. Orange red brick buildings decorated with limestone columns line the road, the gravel and dirt of the path turning into smooth cobblestone, warmed by the light of the blazing sun. 

Hissing slightly as your toes touch the warm stones, you pull your foot back in surprise, only to place it back down with careful movements, mind racing once more as you take tentative steps forward. Immediately, your eyes are everywhere, touching everything all at once. You are hungry for absolutely everything, reading names of shops, studying faces of strangers as they pass, watching the florist hand out daffodils from her wicker basket as though nothing has ever been so marvelous. The bread maker offers you a warm sticky bun, and you look instead to the man’s face, not to the pastry held in his large palm, studying him as though his name might arrive on your tongue.

Jaebeom guides you away, offering the vendor a dismissive wave of his hand, only to find your eyes latched onto something else. He grows light headed watching the trajectory of your focus, your wild discontent and ravenous hunger gnawing you into a frenzied state of almost savage inquisitiveness. There is not a single thing your gaze does not touch, and occasionally you stop in front of shop windows to look in, eyes searching ever deeper for something familiar. 

The center of town always smells the sweetest to Jaebeom, and so he leads you in this direction, hoping that the star shaped expanse and its wide angles will ease some of your tension. Childishly, he plans to acquire some roasted chestnuts, certain their candied deliciousness will provide you comfort even if it does not inspire remembrance. The throng of people eases as he approaches town center, the citadel bell chiming the late early hour, and you pause, looking up into the sky in awe. He’d always loved the bell tower - even if he did not trust the missionaries, even if he made himself believe it was deception that lurked behind their irises and not concern, he always appreciated their music. 

Leading you to the large fountain directly in the center of the star, he settles on the warm marble and gestures for you to sit beside him. The rushing water calms his erratic heartbeat, and, yet again, with his eyes closed he can pretend he is small, little more than a boy who belongs completely to himself and to his mother, the whim of his will the only thing that stirs his reason.

‘We have a bit of time to rest here,’ he says, leaning back and closing his eyes as the sun cascades over his skin. It warms him from within, the magic of his childhood returning on the breadth of a sunbeam. ‘I always like to sit here a while before I run my errands. One can never deny music, can they?’

Jaebeom awaits your response, what feels like his very spirit existing in anticipation of you. But when it does not come, his skin begins to tighten amidst another wave of unease, and he opens his eyes to find you have retreated so far within yourself the shock of it lives on your features.

Hands in your lap, your back is rigid and straight, gaze flicking between the citadel tower and the people mingling at its base - up and down and back again, rushing between each as though you will never have your fill, teeth chewing at the inside of your cheek. Your fingernails pick at your skin before pressing crescent shapes into your palms, adrenaline putting you in a state of anxiety so severe he finds he, too, is sitting up straight and watching the crowd for familiar faces.

‘Do you recognize something?’ It takes work to keep his voice calm and soothing, doing his best not to startle you.

‘There’s something wrong with this,’ is all you whisper, and Jaebeom scours the crowd for a sign of injury, panic, even an out of place cart, but he comes up empty, finding nothing untoward in the surroundings.

Once more, he studies every face that passes, every horse drawn carriage that moves past, wondering which of these is the culprit for your turmoil. It is only when your hand moves to his thigh, gripping tightly enough he comes to see your grip as a vice, that he notices what it is that has you so undone. 

At the base of the citadel, the crowd has started to dissipate, the smiling faces of mothers and their children departing after receiving their blessings. A group of four missionaries stands, handing out pamphlets and greeting passerby with neutral, unreadable expressions. Their royal blue cloaks catch the late morning sun, the velvet of the fabric gleaming in all their expensive glory, putting cerulean shadows on the limestone behind them. In this way, they are glowing, ephemeral visions that at once are otherworldly and oppressive, the sort of power in their light that would bring one to their knees.

As always, he shivers at the sight of them, but your grip on his leg tightens and when he looks at you again you are murmuring to yourself and he feels his jaw go slack.

‘Murderers,’ you hiss, softly enough that only he can hear but you say the word over and over, voice rising in pitch until your voice dies altogether.

You watch them, unblinking and repulsed, the fear and loathing in you so great he sees you now as a mere apparition of the woman you once were. A great tremor has started to creep through your limbs, body rocking back and forth as though you are at sea, your center of gravity warped as you continue to look and look. 

Running his hand up and down your back in an effort to calm you, Jaebeom feels his own voice start to waver. ‘What is it?’ 

You say nothing, merely shake your head, unwilling to speak for fear that they may hear you. All his question manages to do is inspire another round of mumbling, calling them murderers only to yourself and only to Jaebeom, simply because he is close enough for your voice to reach. His eyes scour the crowd for a discreet way to remove you from the fountain, looking in the direction of Stefan’s practice only to drop to a disappointed frown. In front of the pathway, at his end of the star,a group of people have gathered to inspect a vendor of Veruvian silk.

‘Murderers,’ you say again, and this time it is loud enough that a young boy passing by hears your voice, his eyes widening in surprise. 

Jaebeom grimaces apologetically, waving the boy along as he pulls you into his side, holding you close. Even in his state of panic, his heart breaks that this should be the first time he holds to him, the first time you would be able to remember, the comfort his arms reduced to merely a time and a place, and not a feeling. The trembling in your muscles is palpable, tangible enough his hands feel as though they are gripping something monstrous, something absolute in its knowledge and power. In a single moment, you have become something Other, shaking against his ribs with enough violence he fears you may tear the marble of the fountain asunder. Your hand leaves his thigh and comes to grip your seat, fingers pressing against the stone until your knuckles turn white. 

He’s certain the missionaries must see you, certain this will turn into something holy and something wholly unwelcome, but they seem to pay you both no mind, their attention devoted instead to the good and to the whole.

And just when he thinks he may be able to ease words out of you, the noise of you reduced to slow, deep inhales between your parted lips and the shaking in your muscles coming abruptly to a halt, you bed over, eyes wide in shock, as you vomit sea water, seaweed, and, most horribly of all, blood at your feet.

Author’s Note: lord god, im telling you i thought this was going to be a very short story but here i am...all this with so much more to go. im just really in love with this world and actually really proud of it? ive never done anything like this and ive been in love with fisherman!jb ever since the dye preview pics came out. ive had this in my mind since i messaged @imdifferentshadesofpurple​ in may about it and im just so glad it lives. did i make an entire story out of that one promo pic and the oyster dress by alexander mcqueen? sure bet but you cannot blame me.

tag list: @red-exo​ @heatofmyexoheart​ @majci​ @yehet-me-up​ @lamichellee​ @ahgishaman​ @softly-savage-mint-yoongi​

[friendlyunclej]

Baician Memoirs: A Wealth of Curses

Prologue

     Being the only child of a business tycoon, I've always had a path laid before me to follow. From etiquette classes to study halls on conducting business amongst every race on Kalldor, my father has placed me on a path towards his "perfect future" for me. It's a life where I wouldn't want for anything in this world or the next. A destiny where the entire world of Baicia holds its breath at my beck and call. Now that I've come of age, he's been desperately trying to provide me with a suitor that can provide me with it. Every single person he has brought have bored me each date as they speak only of themselves, trying to sell their own worth to me. Some bring gifts, others bring gold, and they all lack the curiosity to get to know me. All they care for is to better their station in life. All I care for are the relics I can find and the only man I trust to help me.      I’ve always been interested in what the lives of those we’ve left behind had been like. When I wasn’t learning what correct dress to wear to appease business partners according to their heritage, I was desperately trying to collect any relic I could get my hands on. My hands grew coarse as I spent my free time excavating. There were many times I would get lost spelunking through the caves of the mountain, discovering ancient tomes, dilapidated bones, and primordial relics. There were even a few times where I lost track of time in my hobby. If my memory is sound, I once became lost in what was an abandoned labyrinth for twenty-two days. During that time, I collected bones, fossils, relics, and even a few ancient weapons. I was so enraptured with the amount of history I was surrounded by that I hadn’t realized I ran out of rations. I was lost for nearly three more days before collapsing with the exit in sight. Waking up staring up at a wooden ceiling, I thought that my father had saved me. Thankfully, Dig found me instead.      Digleby Eversharp has been my best friend for as long as I can remember. I met him thanks to our fathers having served together during the Great War. My mother disappeared shortly after my birth and my father would leave me with Uncle Hellock and Aunt Lorrh the days he had business to attend to. Thankfully, that meant growing up alongside Dig. He’s not the stockiest dwarf in the mountain, but I’m grateful for that. He relies more on his wits than any brawn he possesses. Because of that, he’s actually been the one to help me identify the many relics I’ve been finding. We’ve spent nights together, going over what each relic, fossil, or item was. When we couldn’t, we would instead play a fun game where we would craft our own fiction as the artifacts’ history. I would usually craft a story of romance, speaking of the artifacts as a long lost lover’s attempt at reconciliation or a gift that never found its way to the proper recipient. He would always craft these astonishing stories of the many adventurers and criminals that the artifact has transferred between, being stolen and fought over as this omnipotent item from societies long since dead. We’ve been enraptured by each other even before I realized that we could be more than simply friends. However, my father would never allow it. As sharp as Dig is, my father demands that whoever I am betrothed to be wealthier than he is. As Cudgel Keep is a city dedicated to a goddess of combat, there aren’t many wealthy options for those who are more intelligent than strong. The few that exist in this city isn’t the most moral. Although my father and I have had many enraged arguments about what I would want for my future, he’s made it clear that Digleby will only ever be beyond arm’s reach. When I told Dig about how virulent my father is on the topic, he assured me that he wasn’t going to simply take a no. I suggested that we simply run away, but he’s certain that he has a way to convince my father of his worth. As much as I love him, I do wish that he didn’t care for my father’s approval as much as he does.

A Gnome and a Deal

     “Alright, Digleby,” I say to myself, trying to bring whatever courage I have to the forefront of my mind, “All you have to do is go into his office and tell him that you wish to have his daughter’s hand in marriage. A simple conversation, is all it is, my dear me.”

     As I turn towards the door, the smile on my face swiftly washes away as my anxiety makes the dwarven-sized door stretch to the mountain ceiling. My courage swiftly washes away as a sense of dread replaces it.

     “There’s always tomorrow, right?” I say as I try to convince myself to abandon ship.

     Taking a deep breath, I center myself while stating aloud, “It’s only a conversation, Digleby...we can handle a conversation.”

     My hand tremors as I reach for the brass handle to Sir Ironfist’s door. I start to lose my breath as I relinquish control of my heartbeat to my impending panic attack. Every footstep from the nearby alleyway sends shivers down my spine. My fingertips barely find purchase on the door as it swings open, courtesy of Sir Ironfist’s guest.

     “I suppose that I’ll leave you for the gods to deal with, Fallond,” the stocky and scarred Dwarf said as he held the door open, paying me no mind yet.

     “Once your gods come around to me, perhaps they’ll have more sense than one of their so-called ‘Venerated’, Baldor,” Sir Ironfist responded with a tinge of annoyance.

     As Baldor turns around, he stops just before bumping into me as he regards me with a joyous, “Oh, by Nadari’s breastplate, if it isn’t Digleby! I thought we discussed about you needing to be a bit louder in your life at our last consultation, lad!”

     Pulling me in for a boisterous hug, it’s almost difficult to breathe as I respond, “Ah, of course, Sir Baldor. I’ll continue to work at i-”

     He swiftly places me back down before interrupting me to say, “I believe we also spoke about you dropping the ‘sir’ as well, young Dig.”

     Straightening my back and hearing a few vertebrae pop, I respond, “Right, sorry, Baldor, it’s just...there’s a lot we talked about last consultation. A bit difficult to work on all of it at once.”

     Slapping his meaty palm against my shoulder, I nearly stumble as he continues, “Don’t worry, my dear boy! You have all the time in the world ahead of you to work on it. Besides, if it was easy, it wouldn’t be worth your time, now would it?”

     I try to continue the conversation just as Sir Ironfist exclaims, “If our business is done, I would prefer you two take your discussion out of my realm.”

     “We’ll be done in a moment,” Baldor retorts, barely turning to glance at him, “Just rub your sacks of gold in the meantime.”

     Sir Ironfist frustratedly drops the two pouches of gold he’s palming as Baldor gently places a hand on my shoulder before leaning in to whisper, “Are you here for the other thing we discussed?”

     Nervously, I answer, “I am, Baldor, but, perhaps it’d be best if-”

     Shaking his head as he interrupts me, Baldor places both hands on my shoulders as he says, “Listen to me, boy. You’re destined for great things. Wonderful things. A life of adventure, excitement, treasure, and, most assuredly, love.”

     Hearing words of encouragement, I feel my heart calm for a moment as he continues to say, “But, every grand adventure starts with a single step. This is your step, kiddo. Take it and seize what glory awaits you.”

     As soon as he finished his short speech, I felt a surge of courage form within me. It was as if a furnace which was long abandoned had finally been given fresh coals. My anxiety and concern left as all that was left inside of me was steadfast determination. Baldor gave me one last nod, smile, and pat on my shoulder before leaving the room. The aggravated glare of disdain painted across Sir Ironfist’s face swiftly clung to me as soon as the brass and wooden door to his headquarters shut.

     “Eversharp,” Sir Ironfist regarded, voice filled with antipathy.

     “Sir Ironfist,” I respond, holding a calm look against his, “If I could trouble you for a moment of your time-”

     Interrupting me, he places his hands behind his back as he retorts, “Oh, you’ve bothered me for far longer than that, boy.”

     My brow drops to a perturbed scowl for a moment as he continues to glare at me. I take a deep but quick breath to control myself as I take in his attire.

     “Sir, I understand that you are a busy man, but I can assure you that what I have come here to discuss is well worth your time,” I respond.

     “Worth my time? Worth? My? Time?” he mocks, poking my chest with his left hand covered in gold rings and rubies as he enunciates each syllable, “What would you know about my time?”

     Taking a breath, I try to retort but my moment of hesitation simply invites him to continue, saying, “A minute of my time afforded me the gilded mithril armor upon my chest. An hour of my time had me obtain the golden filigree floor you’re feeble body is desecrating right now. A day of my time fetched me three wives and the fate of Netton Harbor to toy around with. A decade of my time gave me half of this city as payment for my service to it during and after the Great War. Would you like to know what all my time in this realm is NOT worth, Diggsy?”

     Having spat on my glasses during his vitriol, I calmly pull a small handkerchief from my vest and begin cleaning them before trying to say, “I would-”

     “It’s NOT WORTH a sad excuse for a Dwarf to demand my time to hear desperate pleas for that which will never happen,” he says to me as he pushes me up against the door before walking back to the center of his golden theater, “My daughter and I have already discussed your desires.”

     “Well, if Nel has spoken to you, then you know that she wants the same as I,” I return, placing my glasses back upon my nose as I while walking towards him, “We would be happy together, away from your businesses, making our own way and treasure about the world of Baicia.”

     “Happy? How would my only daughter be happily married to a man who can’t even earn a single gold piece a day?”

     My heart sank a bit, causing me hesitate as he flicked his satin robe aside.

     “You know why I took you in a decade ago, Eversharp? After your parents succumbed to Abbathor’s Poison.”

     Knowing where the conversation was heading, I felt a hot rage flush over me as he continued, slowly pacing around his golden auditorium.

     “Because of the pity I felt knowing that one of my brothers-in-arms had fathered a child that couldn’t take care of himself after his passing.”

     Trying to keep myself from doing something drastic, I attempt to interrupt just for him to speak over me again. My teeth began to grind as my anger continued to grow.

     “Your father was one of the strongest men I ever knew before his misplaced faith corrupted him. I saw your father fend off entire droves of Duergar from our city walls single-handedly. I watched him, as a humble shop owner, gain the respect of the entire city. He was a dwarf worthy of any realm’s fear and admiration. But you...”

     Turning back around to look me in my face, Sir Ironfist slowly stepped towards me as he continued his insults while brandishing his golden teeth.

     “You’re a dwarf who can’t keep gold in his pocket, much less provide it for his future wife. My daughter deserves someone who can shower her in enough presents to bury her boredom for a life time. All you have ever brought her was old bones and painted stones.”

     “As is her desire, sir,” I speak up, stepping towards him.

     “My child deserves a dwarf who will actually protect her with more than sickly sweet begging. All I’ve ever seen you do is talk your way out of altercations, in fear of the damage that may come to you.”

     “Because my father’s dying wish was for me to rely on my mind rather than my brawn, sir,” I retort as my hand begins to ball into a fist. 

     “All you can afford her is a life of false promises and shortcomings. A false promise of love which will never be fulfilled. A shortcoming in worth and life, just as you fell short attempting to take your own the night your parents perished. No daughter of mine will be left in debt because her supposed husband can’t provide for her. No daughter of mine will be left alone because her supposed beloved can’t live long enough to love her.”

     I have no retort as he continues. My mind goes blank as I simply wait for him to get closer.

     “You’re godless. You’re gutless. You’re penniless. You’re not worth your father’s name. You’re not worth the past decade of time I’ve afforded you. Most importantly, you’re not worthy of my daugh-”

     As he gets within arm’s reach, I finally muster up the courage to interrupt him. However, my frustration closes my mouth as my fist instinctually flies into his jaw. Before my second punch could land, I’m nearly blinded by a flash of white magic as I’m sent flying into the stone steps just below the door. Barely able to feel my back, I desperately pat out the small fires on my chest as there’s now a smoldering boot print on the front of my tunic. Sir Ironfist slams his right foot down onto my chest to pin me to the ground. I feebly struggle as he slams a halberd next to my cheek, splitting the stone floor. 

     Standing over me with the spite of Altcher coursing through his weapon, I say to him between staggered breaths, “You know that Nel loves me.”

     “I know that she’s a delusional young lady who grew too attached to her childhood pet,” he replies, grinding his halberd.

     “Don’t you want,” I struggle, trying to breathe as his boot grows heavier, “Your...daughter...to be...happy?”

     “She’ll learn to be happy when I find her a proper dwarf,” he claims, raising his halberd above his head.

     Just as he swings his halberd towards my eyes, I squeak out, “You’re...a...liar.”

     Coming to a halt just an inch from my face, he asks, “What did you call me?”

     His boot pushes harder against my ribs but I manage to answer, “Liar...sir.”

     Picking me off the ground by my collar, Sir Ironfist slams my back against the door as he asks me what I mean. Knowing that the only chance I have now is to target his pride, I return his vitriol with my own as I catch my breath.

     “With all due respect, you’ve never been able to see past your wealth. Nel has never wanted your business. If I’m being frank about it, she’s never even wanted your name. All you’ve ever done is lie. You lied to her every time you’ve told her that you know what’s best. You lied to me from the moment I entered your home, claiming that I was always welcome but even back then I could almost retch at the stench of dishonesty coming from you. You even lied to yourself when you said that you still worshipped the old Dwarven gods. Your most heinous lie was to your wife, when you promised her on her death bed that you’d put her daughter above everything else.”

     After breaching the subject of Nel’s mother, Sir Ironfist nearly electrocutes me to death before shouting, “You have no RIGHT to speak on such matters, child!”

     With only one last attempt at possibly ever obtaining Nel’s hand in marriage, I wheeze as I tell him, “But the worst lie you ever told yourself...is that you actually convinced yourself that I would never have your daughter.”

     Slamming the shaft of his halberd into my throat and lifting me off the floor by it, I can barely manage to speak as I continue to say, “I’ve had...Nel...since the moment...you left...her...for your shops. She was nev-never as important as...your...pockets.”

     He tells me, “I could crush your windpipe and have you fed to a forge as kindling without anyone raising an eyebrow,” before releasing me to the ground and continuing with, “But, instead, you’ve convinced me to bestow you a worse fate.”

     As I try to gather myself, Sir Ironfist kneels down next to me and wrenches my head to the side as he says to me, “What little work you could obtain in this city will be cut off. Any possible shelter will be extinguished. Whatever form of joy you had will be unavailable. You won’t be allowed to walk this city without its occupants pleading to keep you away.”

     He pulls me up by my head as he continues to say, “You will have NOTHING within this city. No options. No possibilities. No chances. No treasures! You will BE NOTHING to this city! You ARE NOTHING to this city! YOU’RE WORTH NOTHING TO THIS CITY!”

     Coughing up a bit of blood, I give my best smirk as I murmur, “Claims the heretic.”

     I feel him slam my back into the door so hard that it falls off of its hinges while hissing, “YOU’RE! POOR! YOU! ARE! NOTHING! LEAVE!”

     Holding my throat in pain, I stumble over my feet as I swiftly dash away. Cudgel Keep’s residential area is full of slim alleyways and cramped corridors that only a single person can traverse. It’s a perfect place to force out a cry to clear your mind. I make sure to finish doing so before exiting the labyrinth of corridors to the center of the forging district.      The sounds of iron crashing against hot steel has always provided some comfort for me. It’s almost cathartic to hear the smiths of the city all cool their works of art at the same time as a soothing sizzle resonates from every direction. I support myself on the edge of the city’s massive fountain, built into the base of a magnificent statue. It’s the symbol of Cudgel Keep’s goddess, Nadari. As she is Baicia’s deity for combat, smithing, and courage, it’s almost too fitting that it’s flanked on all sides by blacksmiths and forgers. Staring at my own reflection as I wipe the last tear from my eye, I take out the only gold piece I’ve had for the past week and flick it into the water, praying for any amount of courage that could be bestowed upon a wretch like me. My coin is caught just before it hits the water by a black gloved hand. I turn to see that the hand leads to an odd gnome with short, stark white hair that is slicked back from his face and comes to soft points at the back of his head.

     With an oddly calming yet piercing voice, the man says, “I would save your coin, Digleby Eversharp. I can assure you that Nadari doesn’t listen to gold.”

     “How would you know? Are you a cleric?” I ask, confused to see a gnome this far from the verdant forests south of the mountains.

     “Oh, I most certainly am,” he replies, turning to face me before continuing, “Just not for her.”

     Weary from just dealing with one old man who claimed to worship an old god, I question, “Please, don’t tell me you follow the old gods?”

     Almost playfully acting offended, the gnome returns, “As a matter of fact, I do. And, even better, one with actual power in Baicia still. Unlike your adoptive father’s poor excuse for a ‘god’.”

     Chuckling a bit but still concerned, I continue to pry with, “I’m sorry, but have we met before?”

     “Oh, I must have misplaced my manners. My apologies,” he responds, flicking my gold coin back to me, “Zook Nackle, hoping to be at your service.”

     His smile distracts me, causing me to fumble as I grab the coin. There’s a disturbing sincerity behind his smile yet it’s not of joy or pleasure at the possibility of making an acquaintance. It almost feels deviant, somehow. Sir Nackle’s teeth are whiter than his hair. His eyes are dark and just barely large enough to prevent me from calling them beady. He’s wearing a completely black hooded cloak with seemingly no visible texture. Even his voice is a bit off as an odd, almost whisper-like echo follows his words.

     Cautiously, I inquire, “Uh...how do you know of me and my ‘adoptive father’, Sir Nackle?”

     “Wow, it has been a long while since someone has referred to me as ‘sir’,” he replies, “I’d rather you call me Zook, if I may be so bold to ask.”

     Squinting at him in bewilderment, I’m trying to decide whether he seems like a safe man to conversate with or not as he continues to say, “But, to answer your question, my goddess told me about you and your plight. Bestowed upon me the knowledge of your situation and told me to offer you my aid.”

     “So...you worship Aratuna, then? The Ornate Lady?”

     “Oh, dear no. No one so gaudy.”

     “Then, perhaps, the Silver Silhouette? The Moon Weaver?”

     “I’m not much one for helping others keep secrets, Digleby.”

     “Uh...well, then perhaps the Iron Judge of Justice?”

     “Syr? By the Nine Hells, I hope not. Haven’t you heard the rumors that she’s blind? I don’t know about you but following a blind woman has never ended well in my experience.”

     “Then, Zook, I’m rather stumped on who you might be in the service of.”

     “All you need to know is that my goddess is a benevolent, merciful, and loving deity who wishes you to obtain that which you want the most.”

     Nervously folding my arms, I stammer, “What would that be, precisely?”

     Sir Nackle reaches into his robes and presents to me two ancient rings covered in Primordial, Celestial, and a script that I couldn’t discern just before saying, “Whatever you need to get you and Nel Ironfist that happily ever after you deserve.”

     Immediately tempted, I take a deep breath before reaching for the rings and request, “How would I be able to trust you?”

     “You wouldn’t until you found out,” he speaks back, beginning to levitate and spin the two rings around each other, “I have made no deals with anyone before, so a referral is out of the question. There are people I’ve worked with before, but they’re scattered around the world, enjoying their best lives. The only thing you have to vet me is my word, but, Sir Eversharp, do I sound like a charlatan to you?”

     As he completed his sentence, I felt this odd wave of trust and familiarity exuding from him, as if we had known each other my entire life, so I respond, “No, you don’t.”

     The rings vanish into his fist while I’m reaching for them, as he shouts, “Good to hear! So, what do you need to win over your beloved’s heart, huh? A love potion? A chance meeting? A night alone, you sly dog?”

     “Oh, none of those,” I reply with a graceless smile, “We already love each other. Deeply, actually. Have for a long time, my friend.”

     The excitement in his eyes swiftly vanished before continuing with a bothered voice, “Well...what is it you need then?”

      “Her father...I need her father to understand my worth,” I reply, opening my arms as my cautious mind comes at ease. 

     His disgruntled look turns into a perplexed glare as he pinches the bridge of his nose before demanding, “So how would you want to do that?”

     With Sir Ironfist’s last words to me echoing in my brain, I feel a demand for vengeance rise from within as I say, “I would want to take from him everything.”

     Upon hearing that, Sir Nackle’s eyes slowly came up to meet mine as a sickly grin continued to grow on his face as I continued to say, “I want his stores, all across the Frigid Peaks, to be mine. I want his customers to betray him for me. I want him to be worth less than nothing. I want him to be...”

     Stopping before I continued, I felt an unfamiliar tinge of wrath almost push me to say something drastic, but I stop myself just for Sir Nackle to finish it for me.

     “Gone? You want him to be gone, yes?”

     Taken aback by what the implication may mean, I nearly rescind my request before hearing Sir Ironfist’s words clearer than before slam my head again, pushing me to confirm my intentions.

     “Yes, I want him gone, so as to never bother me or his daughter again.”

     Sir Nackle’s face turns almost devilish as he says, “Oh, I can certainly manage that for my dear friend, Digleby Eversharp.”

     Holding me in an awkward hug, I keep my hands to myself as I request, “Um...Sir-”

     “Zook.”

     “Right, my apologies. Zook?”

     “Yes?”

     “What would you want in return?”

     “Oh...I’m so glad you asked,” Zook Nackle says after sighing so deep that I feel his lungs expand as he continues to hold me tight within his arms.

     Releasing me, I fix my shirt, glasses, and hair as he recites what he would want in return. He speaks of a mine nearby that was left abandoned after the Great War. He promises that if I go into the mine, explore it, and make certain that an artifact is still within then he’ll make it so that Nel and I will never have to worry about Sir Ironfist again.

     “That’s all you need to do, my dear friend. Just go in, confirm that the artifact is still there, leave it where it is and then report back to me. Anything else you find in there is yours to keep, if you’re so inclined,” he finishes, leaving a crudely drawn map in with a minor illusion on the ground between us.

     “I won’t be,” I assure him, recording the map to memory, “Nothing in there is worth what you’ll be giving me as payment.”

     Nodding joyously in agreement, Sir Nackle asks, “Any concerns?”

     “Two, if I am to be frank,” I respond, “First, what does the specific artifact look like? If there’s other items in there that are just as aged, it’ll be hard to know I’ve found what you wish me to find.”

     “Right, of course. It’s a simple armored breastplate with an odd leather inner lining,” he describes as he waves the map away with his foot, “Should have rust, covered in scarring and dents. It should be the most mundane looking armor you can imagine, especially compared to Dwarven artistry.”

     Nodding softly, I then lock eyes with him as I ask, “Second, is there anything dangerous in the mine?”

     With a coy smile, Sir Nackle swiftly responds, “No worries, my friend. It’s abandoned.”

     Hesitant to trust him, I feel another rush of faith and confidence in his words as I simply agree to our deal before asking, “How are you going to-”

     “Oh, Sir Digleby Eversharp, you worry too much, my dear friend,” he interrupts, with a wide smile and twinkle in his eye, “You stay focused on the mine. By the time you return, Fallond Ironfist will be an inconsequential footnote in your story that will never be brought up again.”

     Sir Nackle gives me one last pat on the back before turning around and walking off towards Sir Ironfist’s residence. After that final slap of his hand against me, all feelings of worry or possible concern I had after meeting Zook Nackle for the first time had dissipated. It was almost as if that final touch from him lifted the weight of the world from my shoulders, confident and secure in the deal we made together. Without any time to spare, I rush back to my apartment to gather what I can to aid me in the mine.      My apartment is a tiny, single room loft built above a bakery. Although waking up to the scent of freshly baked pastries is a dream, the reality of living in the same room with my ice box, my bed, and only a bath to wash with but no toilet to use makes the rest of my time there a nightmare. However, it’s far more tolerable with someone to share the misery with. Thanks to Nel being the only company who tolerates me, I sometimes forget about how sorry my situation is. Sadly, this isn’t one of those times as I enter my apartment to see Nel waiting in a chair.

     Caught off-guard, I slowly close the door as I ask, “Hey, Nel. How was the pie?”

     Wiping the crumbs from the corner of her lips, she slowly stands up as she says, “The pie was great. Where’ve you been?”

     “Oh, you know me,” I respond, trying to figure out some way to keep her from asking about how my conversation went with her father, “Just walking the city to clear my head.”

     “Is that so?” she asks, raising her eyebrows as she pulls a cigar from the inside of her tunic, “Do you want to guess why I don’t believe that, Dig?”

     With her about to pin me between her and the door, I shimmy to the side and open the one window in my apartment before attempting a lie with, “Uh...you were smithing again and saw me praying at the fountain?”

     Walking back over to me to smoke by the window, she gives a cocky grin as she says, “Wow, two lies. It’s cute that you’re trying, Dig, but you’ve never been a liar. That’s why I love you.”

     She hands me the cigar and I smile from the compliment while taking a few puffs as she continues to say, “What I don’t love is being left in bed, asleep, so that you can talk to my father alone when I told you that I wanted to be there. What I love even less is seeing dried blood in the corner of my boyfriend’s mouth.”

     Not realizing that I still had blood in the corner of my mouth, I hand Nel the cigar as I go to my sink and pour some water on the rag in my pocket. I begin rubbing the corner of my mouth vigorously to scrub off the blood as I hear her put the cigar out and walk up behind me. Ashamedly turning around to face her, I expect a furious glare and a bit of shouting. Instead, she calmly places a hand on my chest and another on my neck as vibrant golden magic softly warms where her hands are touching. I feel the pain in my throat slowly melt away, as if turning into a small pill that I’ve finally managed to swallow. The issues I’ve had with breathing since Sir Ironfist’s boot caved my chest in a number of hours ago simply alleviate as I take in a full breath.

     “Thank you for-” I try to say as she punches my arm, “Ow, I thought we discussed no knuckles. I bruise easily.”

     “I know you bruise easily, Dig! You’re accident prone and have a knack at rubbing people the wrong way,” she returns, now slapping the same spot on my arm with her open palm, “That’s why I wanted to go with you to talk to my father.”

     I start trying to walk around the room to escape some hits as I say, “I thought that it was just going to be a calm conversation, Nel! How would I know that he’d not want to discuss it?”

     Now chasing me around the room, she fires back, “Maybe you’d know after last night! You know? The night I told you about how much he hated the topic when I, as his only daughter, brought it up with him!”

     Holding a seat between her and I in the center of the room, I say back, “To be fair, you told me that during the first part of what became a six-part night. Many men would get a pass for not recalling information.”

     “ ‘Many men’ aren’t able to recall the entire history of five different societies, four different languages, and seventeen legends during a six-part night, Dig,” she shouts back.

     Cockily standing and hoping that flirting would calm her, I arrogantly release the chair as I try, “Perhaps my mind slipped because of how good you were. Ever consider that?”

     Putting her hands on her hip with an unimpressed expression, Nel responds, “Flattery isn’t going to save you, Dig! If that were the case, you would have slept for just as long as I did.”

     “That’s fair,” I manage to express just before she tackles me to the ground.

     We wrestle and roll around for a bit, but it swiftly ends when I tell her that I figured out another way. She let me up to continue talking, but I pause for a moment as something dire dons on me.

     “What’s wrong with you? You’re wearing that face you get when you experience a bad epiphany,” Nel tells me, taking a stroke from the cigar.

     Realizing that I had a magical influence placed on me while making the deal with Zook Nackle, I begin to say, “I met a...uh...gnome when I went to the fountain built in Nadari’s honor. He and I made a deal.”

     “A deal?” she asks, concerned at the sound of hesitance in my voice, “What kind of deal?”

     I’m still struggling to decide if I should tell her about my decision possibly being skewed by a charm as I say, “Tit for tat. He wanted to help me with my troubles in trying to convince your father to allow me your hand in marriage. I offered a trade in favors. That’s it.”

     Over the next twenty minutes or so, I explain to Nel everything I recall about my encounter with the gnome named Zook Nackle. From his odd attire to his disturbingly approachable visage to his side of the bargain, I told her everything I remembered but omitted the magical assistance Zook Nackle could have used on me.

     After hearing me speak about it all through incoherent and worrying amounts of uncertainty, Nel started packing her own spelunking gear as she said, “Well, I’m coming along into the mine, then.”

     “Look, beautiful,” I say, trying to place my hands over hers to get her to stop, “He said that it’s abandoned and all I need to do is confirm that the piece of armor is still down there. It should be a cake walk.”

     “Like speaking with my father was supposed to be?” she shot back, packing her things faster, “Face it. If you don’t trust his word, then I’m coming along to make for damn certain that you’re safe and I have my husband with me. If you do trust this Zook Nackle’s word, which you shouldn’t but if you actually do, then I’m still coming because you owe me for seeing my piece of shit father without me.”

     Unable to keep a smile off my face, I’m reminded that Nel is the only person who can fill me with enough confidence to face a whole pantheon of deities and not bat an eye. I try to thank her for putting up with my difficulties but she simply bats my hand away as she tells me to save my thanks for when we’re married. I nod and finish packing up my own rucksack before leading the way to the edge of Cudgel Keep, where the entrance to the mine is. We grab each other’s hand and hold on tight as we descend into what will be our final spelunking adventure as anything less than spouses. Although the mine swallows any light from around us, it’s the only light at the end of an arduous journey. The only concern now is if Zook Nackle sticks to his word.

Epilogue

     “Well, that was easier than I expected,” I say to myself, calmly making my way to Fallond’s home away from home.

     “The Dwarf isn’t a necessity to my goal,” my goddess’ voice rings, echoing through my mind.

     “I know,” I reply, turning down an alleyway, “But removing one of the last clerics from the old gods eases the process.”

     “He doesn’t serve Abbathor. He serves the Ascended named Altcher,” she informs me, much to my surprise.

     Having been caught off guard, I shrug as I say, “Well, even better then. That confirms that Fallond Ironfist has forsaken the old gods as well. He was the last cleric to clear out. If he’s switched pantheons, then that confirms that no old god has a strong enough hold on this realm to be a trouble for us, then.”

     “That also makes killing him a fruitless endeavor. The Ascended Pantheon of this realm are too weak to oppose me after their recent war,” She explains, pushing me to focus on her release rather than making it easier.

     “I beg to differ. Killing a cleric still weakens their god. I know that we could put this entire realm under your rule any time, but why not teach the ones here a lesson along the way?” I state, wishing to hide my true intent.

     “So you aren’t actually doing this simply to kill Fallond Ironfist? The man who originally incarcerated you before the Great War?”

     “I often forget the extent of the knowledge you wield,” I reply, “My apologies for trying to deceive you.”

     “I’ll forgive you if you send this ‘Fallond Ironfist’  to me malleable,” She scorned, releasing a bit of fire within me.

     Now supported by my goddess, a pleasant smile creeps from ear to ear on my face as I retort, “As you wish, so it shall be.”

     Opening the door to his auditorium, Fallond’s eyes immediately stick to me, interrupting his discussion with seven other business owners. He desperately ushers the other people out of the room as I simply share a warm smile with my old friend. As he locks the door behind the final leaving guest, I see that the color in his face has washed away as he cautiously approaches me.

     “Hello, Fallond. It’s been a long time since last we spoke,” I say, walking over to his throne on the opposite side of the room.

     “Zook, you’re not supposed to be here,” he replies, desperately trying to gather his thoughts.

     “Oh, I know, but I escaped incarceration thanks to the help of my goddess,” I tell him, finding his halberd behind the desk in front of his throne.

     Seeing him starting to sweat, I pick up his weapon and sit in his chair as I jab, “I see you’ve done well for yourself! Living a life of regalia and regrets, no doubt.”

     “What makes you think you have the right to-” he attempts to say as I interrupt him by filling his body with hellfire.

     “I’m sorry. Were you about to give me one of your famous speeches about what I have the right to do in accordance to your wealth? Were you going to tell me about how a lowly gnome has no right to belittle the self-proclaimed ‘Dwarven Dragon’?”

     I stop for a moment to stroll over to him with his halberd in hand, taking my time so as to enjoy the musical tones of his pained gags and retches as necrotic sludge begins to pour from his eyes.

     Kneeling down next to him with his halberd in my hands, I whisper, “There is a certain lady I know who takes offense to such claims, Fallond.”

     Kicking him over to lay on his back, I gently place the end of his halberd into his mouth as I say, “Here, I’ll introduce you.”

     With both hands on his halberd, I surge fire through my palms and turn the weapon into molten iron sliding down his throat. As his grunts are quickly silenced by the liquid metal solidifying in his throat, I stare down at him as a wave of peace washes over me while the last bit of life fades from his eyes. A flash of orange flicks across his pupils and my smile grows wider.

     Standing up and fixing my robes, I say, “Now, I should take care of the legal matters. The boy did say that he wanted every bit of Fallond’s wealth as his.”

     Pulling a long bag from my robes, I begin peeling the clothes and jewelry off of the corpse. After stowing its personal belongings away, I move back over to its desk. I find the multitude of deeds and property papers then proceed to change the ownership over to Digleby Eversharp’s name. For the following few days, I teleport around to every person who had sold the property to the corpse and convince them that Digleby is the one who approached them about it. For those who refused or resisted, a simple modification to their memory solved that issue. I went through all the trouble to make for certain that all was set for Digleby Eversharp’s triumphant return and the fool wound up getting himself and his wife-to-be cursed. They left the mine forgetting who each other were and quickly began to age and wither, both physically and mentally. Seeing our deal as complete, I simply handed him the proverbial keys to his kingdom and left. I even left him the rings as a parting gift, but if he’ll ever get to use them is anyone’s guess. After all, it’s not as if some group of heroes would befriend a crazed Dwarf to try to lift his curse. There hasn’t been a group of wandering heroes walking Baicia since the end of the Great War. Most people are smart enough to know that heroes end up deader than door nails. I mean, honestly, what kind of psychopath would want to try to save a dying world?

[howtodrawyourdragon]

Uneasy Are The (Woman's) Shoulders That Wear The Chief's Cloak

Summary: Lesbean Hiccstrid. The line of Chieftains on Berk has always been predominantly male. Either the chiefdom was passed from father to son or the usurper at the time happened to be a man as well. That changes when Stoick names his only born child, a daughter, his heir. After his passing, Hiccup struggles with feelings of anxiety and Astrid is there to whisk them away.

Rating: General

Characters: Hiccup, Astrid

Pairing: Hiccstrid

Words: 2 113

Author’s Notes: At first this was going to be called "In A Man's World", but then I thought of this title last minute and I liked it better. Even if it's a mouthful.

Inspired by a friend.

Constructive criticism is appreciated!

Enjoy!

Ao3

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Her hands are usually so steady. When mapping their known world, they do not tremble as she places every careful detail. In the forge, as every beat of the hammer meets hot metal, the force does not make their grip falter. Even high in the sky, when she and Toothless are one with the clouds, they are firmly rooted on the saddle. They do not give in no matter how wild their tricks and rolls may get.

But now, her hands tremble.

Just weeks ago, in the aftermath of Stoick's passing, his daughter and only child has succeeded him. It is exactly as he wished would happen when he named her his heir shortly after her birth.

It means Hiccup bears a big responsibility from now on. One she'd always hoped she would never need to call hers. She'd pushed the mere notion of her as her father's successor so far away that she'd fled in a panic the morning Stoick the Vast decided that his daughter was ready.

But her fears have come true and she has become Berk's most recent Chief. Having actually arrived at this, to her unexpected, chapter in her life, she would've preferred to have had her father here to guide her. She is completely unprepared. Neither mentally, nor emotionally.

If she knew fleeing from Berk that morning would've lead to this outcome, she might have chosen a different path. Not that she regrets having Eret, Son of Eret, or Valka in her life now. Or the entire pack from the Sanctuary.

In her eyes, she isn't her father and she can never live up to him. How can you become someone that great when you're not? The people of the Hooligan tribe loved him and, up until five whole years ago, they despised her. How can she lead a people she isn't sure will even follow her?

And then there is also the matter of having an heir.

She has always envisioned having a child someday in the future. Her, Astrid, and whoever the Gods decided to gift them. Not that she is the religious type. But it has become an obligation instead of a dream she wishes to have come true.

So much in her life has changed, is changing, or will change in the future and it's terrifying. This isn't something she can simply turn away from when it gets hard and it's bound to get hard.

But then there is another thing

There have been other Viking chieftesses in the Barbaric Archipelago before, the Berserkers have Heather after Dagur stepped down to be with Mala. But it is a bit of a new change on Berk and that is what makes her so nervous, too, what makes her shake.

This is because their chiefdom has always been passed from father to son. Man to man. Even on those occasions that someone simply took the position by force, it was a man that took it. Just like with Hamish the Second, who had his position stolen from his family by her own grandfather.

Just thinking about it makes her feel a little bit ill. Not just because she doesn't approve of that sort of violence, but also because Hamish was a runt. Just like her.

Another insult to injury is that she isn't a man either. She's a woman. Usually unbothered by her gender, except on a few occasions, as Astrid always imbued her with pride and confidence to the best of her ability. She knows of how insecure her betrothed is. Ruffnut, too, has always been so adamant in being prideful of her womanhood.

And speaking of which, Hiccup isn't alone.

"You are trembling like leaf." Astrid is here in her home with her. She speaks up to break the silence that's been plaguing this household for the better part of an hour already. She gets up after having watched the other get ready for tonight's event in an agonizingly slow pace full of obvious second guessings.

Astrid grasps her shaking hands to still them at last.

"I-I was trying to... The cloak." Hiccup attempts to explain that she was attempting to pull on the cloak the seamstress had made just for their Chieftess to wear for today, but she finds it difficult to do so.

There is to be a celebration tonight and her cloak is made to resemble her late father's. It is so that he may be with her as she cares for the village he left her, but it is a surprisingly heavy thing to wear.

This cloak, it is a symbol of her father and her new duty. And having this responsibility thrust upon her before her time makes it hard for her to simply put it on.

For many long minutes, Hiccup's been standing at the large chair on which it hangs, the furniture that is also so connected to Stoick. He used to sit in it almost every evening with a mug of ale in one hand, Gobber sitting on another stool with his own mug. The air in the room would be jolly and both her dad and her mentor blacksmithing would share stories and victories past with her and Toothless. Sometimes the other Riders would be there as well.

Letting go of her, Astrid faces the chair and takes the cloak from the back of it. She holds it out in front of her as if to inspect it. A bit big for her, but then, Hiccup is tall. Still, she finds herself wondering if it won't drag on the ground for her, too.

"I get it." She then claims with a shrug of her shoulders, her thumbs running through the fur.

"You do?"

"Becoming Chief is such a big responsibility, Hiccup. And scary, too. And the way it happened... I know your dad had envisioned it a little differently." She says as she turns back around and Hiccup sighs.

Bundling up the thick fur in both of her arms, Astrid walks behind her to help her pull it on. Two metal claps are there to attach to her ceremonial chest piece, each with Toothless' likeness made into them.

"And I know that the how you got your new role and the meaning of it aren't all that weighs on you." She hesitantly continues. She's been wanting to bring this up, having watched Hiccup struggle with this matter for much longer than just these past few weeks.

"Oh?" Hiccup isn't much for conversation at the moment, so nervous that her words are failing her. A feat considering how talkative she usually is. Her everything is quite muted as Astrid throws both clasps over her shoulders.

"I'm not going to lie," Astrid smooths the fur on Hiccup's person.

"Most of Berk will accept you and some will give you trouble. Some of our allies will accept you and then others, both ally and hostile, will not. Just because you're you." She moves to her front again to put one clasp in place. She glances at Hiccup's troubled face before she turns her attention to the second one. Hiccup attentively watches her hands.

"It's going to be hard. Even if you were a man, this would be hard. But a woman... And after three-hundred and more years of fathers giving their seats to their sons..." She clasps the other, pulling just to make sure it's sturdy, and gazes back up at Hiccup.

Astrid knows that she believes chiefing is not for her. For years she'd tried to tell her father this, but if there wasn't something he still didn't want to hear even after their relationship had been mended, it was certainly this.

She didn't know if being Chief was right for her. She didn't know if it was right for Berk, having grown up with the seemingly unachievable standards Stoick has set before her.

Because she is a runt, because she is still so out of place even after having found her calling with dragons, because she didn't know if she could make it with the body and sex the Gods had decided to give her on the day of her birth.

In any other unknown that she has jumped into so far, there were at least some securities she could latch onto. When she decided to confront her entire village for Toothless, she could rest easy knowing that Astrid would do her best to keep him safe. When she faced the Red Death, she knew she would be saving at least her father and her village. When she trained the dragons, it was with Toothless and her friends by her side and with her father's approval. Even when diving into the Great Beyond, it was with the hope that adventure and new dragons awaited her on the other side of the fog bank that isolates them so.

But now...? What can she hold onto now?

The knowledge of Berk's long line of chieftains who were all men? The fact that she's been challenged and underestimated just for being a runt alone? Let alone for being a woman? That she might need to live up to expectations so unreasonably high that it might be easier to just give up?

Astrid watches her silently for a moment. Hiccup is an open book to her and she can see the growing despair.

"You won't be alone. You know that, right?" She asks her girlfriend, who looks back at her with an uncertain look.

"You know Toothless will stand by your side no matter what. And no way the Dragon Riders are going to let you go through this on your own. Gobber will conk anyone who dares challenge you over the head. Valka is here now. And... you have me." After attaching the cloak to her chest piece, Astrid grabs Hiccup's hands again as she finishes. The former's calloused by years of training in combat, the latter by years of blacksmithing.

A small smile appears on Hiccup's face as she finds her to be telling the truth. There are plenty of people who will support her no matter what.

"Snotlout would hit someone if they give me trouble." She says with a sure nod.

"Snotlout? Fishlegs would hit someone!" Astrid responds and Hiccup chuckles breathily.

Astrid smiles, too, and cups her cheeks.

"You are going to do amazing things, Hiccup! You've been doing amazing things for the past five years. Berk is better because of you and we'll be doing even better with you as Chief." She states with such conviction and maybe Hiccup doesn't quite see it the same way, but she appreciates her words.

"You really think so?" She asks, the hint of a more positive outlook in her tone.

"Yes, I do. You have changed so much. The reason we're here today is because of you. We went through some bad times, but we also went through a lot of good as well. And I need you to know that, no matter what comes, you'll make it as Chief." Astrid tells her, hoping Hiccup will see what she is telling him.

Hiccup takes her hands and removes them from her face to hold them in her own.

"Thank you, Astrid." Maybe she doesn't quite believe Astrid yet, but Astrid believes in her, that is all she needs right now.

"We should get going. Your people might be wondering what's taking you so long and you know how we, Hooligans, are. We can't wait to party." Astrid jokes and Hiccup lets out another laugh.

"I think Toothless is waiting outside for me, too." She says and Astrid briefly stands on her toes to press a brief peck against her forehead. Still holding one of her hands, she then pulls her towards the front door, one metal prosthetic foot thudding somewhat loudly against the wooden floor.

Hiccup's smile is more genuine as she follows her soon-to-be-wife outside. The second they leave the house, Toothless is there to greet them, purring as he sees his Rider and stands up from where he was lying.

"Hey Bud," Hiccup strokes the top of his head, a touch the dragon leans into. Astrid, meanwhile, deftly scratches him behind an ear.

He's been waiting for her to get ready for Berk to finally celebrate their new, and first, Chieftess. It took some waiting for the ice to have methodically been cleared from the village, but the day has come and Hiccup feels at least a little bit more prepared now.

The cloak tugging on her shoulders still feels heavy with burden, but with Astrid by her side, Hiccup believes she may be able to take whatever the future might throw at them.

[heli0s-writes]

VII. Blessed Be the Mystery of Love

Pairing: Steve Rogers x Reader x Bucky Barnes Summary:  An epilogue. Six months later. A/N: The last chapter! And with that, Mystery of Love has concluded :)

A large hand paws lazily at your back as you fix the blouse you’d just slipped on. It had taken you almost an hour to get out of bed and even longer to get ready today, so you’re in a bit of a mood when the same hand starts walking itself up your shirt. You slap it with a sharp thwack and it retreats with a sniveling whine.

There’s a rumbling of laughter that follows as you slip your blazer over your shoulders.

Rolling your eyes, you land them on the bed where your two lovers lie. Steve is nursing his offending hand under his cheek as he peers up with his signature ocean gaze. Bucky is lying on his back, inoffensive limbs tucked neatly behind his head, telling you: look at me, I’m a good boy.

They’re both shirtless, taut chest and abs radiant in the chiaroscuro light your vanity table provides. The striped comforter comes up to reach just beneath their waists and you know for a fact Bucky’s completely nude this morning, but avert your gaze.

“Brat...” You shoot at Steve instead, who pouts even more. In the mirror, you swipe on a quick layer of mascara before slinging your purse over your shoulder.

Crossing your arms at the foot of the bed, you regard the men lying in it, eagerly awaiting your attention. It’s such a comical sight, you think, as you step from one heeled foot to the other, blazer fixed neatly and buttoned. You, nearly 70 years younger than them, look like some kind of sugar-momma or dominatrix, in complete command of two compliant subordinates.

As naughty as they were, keeping you up last night after they returned from a three-day-long mission, you couldn’t help but melt under their coquettish-bitten lips and puppy-dog sulking eyes. You’d been woken up past midnight and weren’t able to sleep until nearly three in the morning, and they both knew you had to be up at six.

It wasn’t entirely their fault, of course, since it only took half a mischievous bite to your neck from Bucky before your clothes were completely shed.

“Boys, this is ridiculous.” You want to be stern, but their absolutely endearing expressions melts your mood right off. A tiny quirk of your lips appear and they quickly match your countenance.

“Does that mean you forgive us?”

Your smile says more than enough. Yes, of course. Always.

“Good. I’ll drive.” Steve rises from the bed and Bucky follows. They head into the restroom to brush their teeth before pulling casual clothes on in a rush, eager to spend as much time with you as possible. You’d been taking the car by yourself for the past week, but you do love it when Steve drives. They’re much better company than what your radio can give you.

At the car, Bucky pinches your bottom and climbs in before he shuts the door.

“You know,” Steve grumbles, squinting at the rearview mirror image of Bucky nipping at your ear, “I thought you’d sit up here with me.”

“Nah, pal. I’m much better company. ‘Sides, you don’t need any distractions while you’re driving. But me? I’m a free agent back here.” He starts peeling your skirt upward, “How bout you, hon?”

You only laugh, catching Steve’s eye before intertwining your fingers in Bucky’s and kissing him, leaning your head against his shoulder. Steve puts on a song and starts singing along.

The drive is a lengthy one, and it gets even more tiresome when you get into the city. Steve is in bumper-to-bumper traffic as you gaze off in contemplation.

The last six months of your life have been the absolute nuttiest, you think, watching the streetlights go past against a gradient of orange, pink, and blue hues. Sunrise has started coming up a little bit later, now that it’s well into fall, and the chilly morning air lets Steve roll the windows down a bit.

He’s taking you to work, and it’s a procedure that you’re still trying to get used to.

You started two months ago at Cooper Union- just a visiting artist position, but still one that you take very, very seriously. Byrne kept good on his promise after the show and had given you a list of opportunities to interview for. It’s all by choice, anyway, since the profit from the show totaled more than enough to set you up comfortably for at least five years. And that’s saying quite a lot considering that you live in Manhattan of all places.

You wanted to start your job with baby steps to avoid overwhelming yourself in an academic setting. Being a visiting artist gave you a lot of freedom and just the right amount of responsibility.

The position entailed no more than three public speaking events, your own studio to develop a show at the end of the semester, and the opportunity to work closely with a mixed group of graduate and undergraduate students as their mentor. You were required to be on-campus at least once a week, but you usually went in twice just to keep your office open.

So far, it had been smooth sailing.

You look from Steve up front to Bucky at your shoulder, sighing happily and nuzzling deeper into his chest, flicking his nose with your finger. He growls playfully in response.

This had been smooth sailing too, save for a couple of rainy days and one very turbulent storm. All natural and expected aspects of being in a relationship. The biggest fight you’d had so far was a furious row after a mission where you were so cross afterward that you didn’t speak to either of them for an entire night.

You had sat in on the debriefing out of curiosity and learned that they’d taken an impulsive risk that had put their lives in more danger than the mission anticipated. Even worse, this was a regular occurrence. Tony called them the “Super-Annoying Soldiers”.

That night, you slept in Bucky’s room and ordered them into Steve’s.

The next morning, they both came in, stammering, apologetic, promising that they would never, ever be that careless again. The make-up session lasted four hours and you emerged around noon thoroughly convinced and dog-tired.

 The three of you learned new things about each other every day.

For example, Bucky religiously ate bad Chinese take-out and Steve danced in the shower. Steve loved it when you pulled his hair and Bucky loved pulling your hair. The three of you spent nights fumbling all over each other when they had time at the compound, and if one of them happened to be away, the other two would Facetime when possible. It wasn’t a necessity, by any means, it was more of consideration; they were also content to let each other be with you privately.

Jealousy never arrived to bother any of you.

In fact, you often let the boys have time to themselves. Especially on your days at work. There had been many evenings when you’d come back to the compound after dinner and they were cuddled up on the couch, enjoying a movie or a nap. It was the sweetest thing. Sam and Clint took many pictures and both turned red after you casually mentioned that they should see pictures of what else the Steve and Bucky get up to when you’re not around.

“Because... they get up to a lot. I’m not always a necessary part of the puzzle, you know.” A single wink was all it took for your friends to high tail it out of the room.

It was a running joke with the team that the three of you had a very adventurous sex life together- as predicted by Tony. Admittedly, yes, it was exciting, but beyond the sex (and there was quite a lot of it- so many positions and scheduled water breaks), you were more than happy to just sit with a cup of tea and a board game, or going for walks, or watching them spar. You had even started to go on short jogs and spent time working out with them as well. It was painful at first (leg day was fine, chest day was the devil’s invention), but the showers together afterward really made up for it.

Every day brought something new to the table.

Last night, after Bucky fell asleep on the edge of the bed a little past three, Steve settled in the middle and you laid your head on his chest, kissing the sweat-slick skin beneath your lips.

“Hey...” You began slowly, pressing your mouth to his neck.

“Mhm... Hey back,” he parroted, slurring through the sleepy fog. “What’s on your mind?”

“Honestly, kind of a lot...?” You felt yourself come down from the high peak of love and marching up a peak of anxiety. You had started to babble about the mechanics of domesticity because the television prompter in your brain began to marquee way too fast. This ritual of sleeping together and waking up together had been blossoming into some future fantasies that you’re not sure how to bring up. You supposed this was as good of a time as any.

Steve was a bit stunned from your sudden outburst, “Hold on honey... Let me wake up for this.”

“Sorry... But Steve,” You rambled onward, “What about being Captain America? And how does that I don’t know- what does that mean when it comes to a family? Marriage? Children?” Your face burned at the thought of a little blue-eyed toddler running around by your feet, perhaps fair-haired, or rowdy and cleft-chinned.

You’d been dreaming about it at night, blanket forts and stuffed animals, a nursery, and a crib, and a mobile full of stars. The rational side of your brain chastised it- you were too young, you wanted to keep exploring the world, getting used to your position, and your relationship. The rational side also continuously brought up the fact that the father of your children would be one of two Super Soldiers- Jesus, maybe both, whose lives were always precariously balancing on … God, you didn’t know what.

Underneath you, Steve buzzed awake—as much as he could.

“Well… I’d love that.” He exhaled a deep breath, arm coming up to rub your shoulders. “Always wanted to be a dad, but let’s start with uh, maybe sleep for now. What do you say?”

You mumbled against him, “I didn’t mean to sound like I’m rushing you into those things, by the way. I suppose it was just a natural discussion to bring up.”

“I know, sweetheart,” Steve had rubbed his nose against your ear, breath warm and inviting. You distinctly felt a smile grow on his face. “I also know Bucky would appreciate being in the loop. Let’s save it for the morning.” He placed a hand on Bucky’s bare back, drawing circles along his spine as he groaned in his sleep.

You kissed your man sweetly, and before you knew it, you’d fallen dreamlessly asleep in his arms.

-

“Ready, honey?” Bucky squeezes your thigh, snapping you from your daze. He’s a little concerned that you’ve been so quiet for the whole trip, and grumpy that he’d been subject to Steve’s awful bellowing. The car’s parked on the street, about a block away. “You okay?”

“Yes, sorry... just thinking about our conversation last night.”

Bucky’s eyes light up delightedly, “Kitten, I don’t know if dirty talk counts as a conversation... but I’m all ears.”

“Buck, you fell asleep early. We talked about havin’ kids, pal.”

“Mhmmm—what?” After a pause, with you and Steve exchanging concerned looks, Bucky grips your hand so tightly it almost hurts, “Babe, I... I... wh-” The expression on his face changes from shock to concern, then finally, it knocks the air from your lungs when he looks at you.

“I can’t... I can’t.”

You see the storm over the horizon in Bucky’s eyes. His blue fades into grey, and billowing clouds have cast a shadow over the sloping mountain of his nose and the sharp plains of his cheeks. You can only console him with a sad smile and kisses along his jaw. He’s lost, now, in the past of his actions, in the raging tempest of thunderous roars and lightning strikes in his mind. It’s all scorched earth and barren wasteland to him. It’s filling your chest up with embers—not for yourself, but for him, and you are struggling to speak calmly.

“It was just a thought, Buck. For the future. Don’t think about it too much.”

You exit the car, kissing both your Soulmates softly. Steve gives you a final lingering look before you disappear down the campus street, starting to fill up with student bodies. Bucky is motionless in the back as Steve shifts gears and takes him back home.

-

They spend the next hour arguing in the bedroom, taking their squabble from the car to the garage, to the common area where Natasha raises an eyebrow too sharply for Steve’s comfort. Bucky’s pulling his hair and stomping, Steve’s sitting with both fists clenched on his knees, head leaned back in frustration. It’s moved beyond just the possibility of children, and deeper into the territory of Bucky’s repentance.

It’s a conversation Steve is sick of having because he doesn’t think Bucky needs to repent for anything. Steve has physically fought for this; he’s bled for this. But every time it seems like he might have pushed his boulder to the peak of the hill, it rolls back down on top of him.

“Buddy, you gotta stop.” Steve admonishes, feeling the aggravation building, deflecting a glare from his friend, “We’re not talking about if you deserve kids, Buck. We’re just … talking about kids. That’s it.”

“Look at me, Stevie, what th’ fuck am I gonna do with a kid?” Bucky sputters and waves his arms around, and then he takes his flesh one and points it to his cybernetic one. “Look at me!” There’s a panic in his eyes- the same one that’s lasted for over an hour with no sign of quelling. “She... sh-she can have your baby. I’m not... I can’t be a part of that.”

As soon as the words leave his mouth, he feels himself clench up with a devastating truth that hurts too much to imagine.

Steve crosses his arms and stands, using his full height to stare down at Bucky. He’s not that much taller, but it’s enough for Steve to say with his body I’m bigger than you and you need to listen to me. Bucky flinches at the hard stare and puts both hands over his face with a groan.

“There is no that without you.” Steve says firmly, arms tucked under each other so tightly his biceps bulge like boulders against his chest. He’s trying not to get angry because he knows it would be like squirting kerosene into a burning building. He needs to smother the fire, not encourage it.

“There is no this without you. We are Bound, all three of us. Buck, this isn’t happening tomorrow, or even next year, or even the year after that. We just talked about the possibility of it in the future.” His voice grows softer the longer he talks, and Bucky’s fear begins to slow to his pace, fizzling out like a candlelight.

“Pal, can you blame her? She’s twenty-three. She’s in love... with you of all people. Gee, Buck. Someone’s in love with you so much they think about havin’ a baby with you... And ya run for the hills.” Bucky mulls it over as Steve approaches, and there’s regret sinking into his stomach as he thinks about your sad eyes in the backseat of the car. He thinks about how you still kissed him before you left.

“Shit. I screwed it up, didn’t I? God. We got the sweetest girl and..” He grimaces, eyes flickering with anxiety.

Steve pats him on both shoulders before pulling him into his arms. Bucky is hard, tense muscle and warm breaths as he leans into Steve and they embrace until he calms down again.

They’ve always been happy to give and receive hugs as friends, often patting each other on the back fondly or comfortingly. It’s been moreso as of late- a result of spending more time together intimately. The hugs are more tender, more loving.

When Steve wakes up in the middle of the night in-between two bodies, he often looks over at Bucky, too, admiring the way he looks when he’s at peace. It’s something Steve’s wanted to see since he found Bucky; it’s something he sees more of every day. He wants to keep it that way.

“Think she’ll forgive me?”

Steve can only laugh as he brushes the hair out of Bucky’s face, rubbing his knuckles over the bristles along his jaw. “Yeah, Buck. Of course.” The sigh against his shoulder once more is a response all on its own.

Steve thinks back to the night he woke up and you were sitting on the sofa crying. It was your first time without Bucky since the three of you had started sharing a bed together. It was the first time you hadn’t slept with both in almost a month; it was long enough to pine for and ache about. You were used to being in the middle, he had thought, so maybe piling pillows on the empty side to simulate a presence might help. You stirred anyway.

He quietly sat down next to you, kissing your bare shoulder that peeked out from under the throw blanket. There were tears in your eyes as he cradled you in his arms.

“I miss him too. He’ll be back soon.”

“It’s not that…” You sniffled, “I was just thinking about... something Pietro told me.” You turned to him, crossing your legs and opening up the blanket to invite him in. Steve wrapped the edge as much as he could around his large frame and pulled you into his lap.

“What’s that?”

“Remember that day I came back, and you saw me by the pool?”

He nodded. Of course he remembered. He had spent three days in agony, feverish at night, freezing in the morning, waking up dripping in sweat. His chest hurt every waking moment and only ached even more in Bucky’s presence as if it was the Binding’s reminder to them that there was a missing piece that wouldn’t be forgotten. Seeing you by the pool that day extracted all of Steve’s pain in a single scoop. He had almost slipped running out of the room to catch you.

“Pietro said... There are two meant to love you. You never have to wonder, it is wonderful.”

He didn’t understand why you looked so sad until you glanced over to the bed where the pile of pillows had been kicked off, exposing the vacancy. “Do you think… Bucky knows that? I don’t wonder about the future and think that either of you will leave me, and I don’t think about me leaving either of you.”

You paused to wipe your cheeks, “But does Bucky know? Does he still think that he’s unlovable? He never tells me the truth, but I see it when he’s just looking at me. It hurts, Steve. I’m so worried all the time. I don’t want him to wonder about us.”

Steve Rogers kissed you that night with the intensity of a lover leaving for war. He held onto you so tightly you thought you might sink inside of him. He made love to you on that sofa in the darkness and caressed the tears on your cheeks so sweetly you cried. He had seen more and more of your heart every day, and it filled him with so much love it sometimes hurt. You loved them, together, equally, and separately, with their individual flaws and quirks.

And God, Steve thinks, there are a fucking lot of flaws.

“Buck,” Steve says, taking his friend’s face in his hands, fingers running through the dark mane. “She loves you. She loves you more than she knows what to do with. You can’t treat yourself like this. It hurts all of us.”

Another silence envelopes them as Steve holds onto him, massaging the back of his head tenderly. They break apart after another long moment before sending each other half-smiles and understanding nods, affirmations exchanged through smiles and blinks. Bucky speaks first.

“I love you too, Steve.”

 -

The boys arrive around two to pick you up and wave from the car, parked outside of the Art Building. The students surrounding you eventually let you go but stare open-mouthed at the shiny classic Mustang and Bucky’s vibranium-black hand holding your favorite drink. It’s his own personal white flag. The conversation is casual throughout the whole ride as they sit up front and you in the back. You tell them about your day and the work you’ve been up to, mentioning a few favorite teaching moments with students. They listen intently and coil their intended conversation slowly around your own, reading your mood with prudence.

At the compound, it’s turned up many notches when Bucky falls to his knees and lays his head against your tummy.

“I’m s’rry, babe.” He mumbles “S’rry I jumped t’ conclusions and... I’m such an idiot. Please don’t be mad with me, even if I deserve it.” His twang comes back when he’s emotional. The slurring of his ‘r’s and dropping his vowels brings a slight pinch to your chest when you think about all of the things he’s been through and how he could have so easily have just been another soldier returned from war, living out the rest of his days as a Brooklyn boy. But the path he’s been on has led him to this moment, to this darkness inside of him.

You pat his head gingerly, watching the smile grow on Steve’s face as he stands beside you. You know this is his doing, pulling Bucky from his own trap and bringing him back out. You’ve spent enough time with him to know that without help, Bucky will torture himself for days, biting off his own tail in a box of his own design.

“Bucky, the problem isn’t that you jumped to conclusions; the problem is that you think you’re an idiot. And that you think you deserve it.” You’re stern with him but continue to pet his hair.

He nods, over and over frantically, but you’re not sure if he really hears you. He wants this moment to be finished, you think, and so for now you’ll let it be. Sometimes you had to pick the right battles to fight, and for now you were content with this battle ending how it will. You don’t mind repeating it later, you know Bucky needs more assurance than most, and you’re happy to a part of that constant thing for him.

For now, he wants to be touched. It’s how he knows you still love him.

So you do. You kiss him all over. Steve latches on to his wrist and takes him to the bed. You both undress him and then yourselves. Bucky lies on his back, still sorrowful and regretful, but as the two of you hang over him, fingers intertwined, he feels his sadness vanish into the sheets.

Between your soft hands and Steve’s firm grasps, Bucky falls apart completely.

When Bucky goes to starts the bath, you spend a few minutes lying in bed with Steve just to caress him. You want to let him know too that he’s just as important, that you care just as deeply and passionately for him.

“You’re amazing.” He says, eyes dancing under your gaze, “He’s just stubborn. Always has been.”

“Mmm,” you smile back, “Reminds me of someone I know.”

“Who’s that?”

You pretend to contemplate it before planting countless kisses on his lips. “Come on, he’ll get fussy if we’re late.”

He gives you a piggy-back ride to the tub.

They take turns lathering you up and each other in the water, in-between playful splashing and affectionate touches. The three of you are a sight to behold, all covered up in soap suds with mops of wet hair. Steve dutifully washes the shampoo from Bucky’s locks as you lean your head on his shoulder, patiently waiting your turn. They start getting into a powwow about whose turn it is to do the laundry next and you space out, smiling into the mass of bubbles when you feel Steve’s fingers spitefully leave Bucky’s hair and go to yours.  

You know he’s stubborn. Steve is too. And so are you.

It doesn’t really bother you when Bucky gets into one of his moods, because you know he’ll always come back. It doesn’t bother you either when Steve’s impulsive on missions because he always comes back too. They both know that they must… simply because you’re home expecting them. Unless they’re acting dangerously- which, they’ve promised that they’d stop- you give them all your trust, just like you’ve given them your heart.

You have the rest of your life with them to figure the remainder of it out.

It sinks in, like the soap and bubbles, like the perfume of the shower gel and the gentle motions of Steve’s hands on your body. It sinks in that for the rest of your life, you’ll have them, both of them. No matter where your paths take you, you’ll be walking hand-in-hand with two perfect Soulmates by your side.

In the background, Bucky and Steve nag and jab each other with their sarcastic taunts and jibes of past embarrassments. There’s name calling and noogies, pinching, and snapping of teeth against fingers. Bucky blows bubbles in Steve’s face. Steve flicks droplets in Bucky’s eyes.

You lean forward against the edge of the porcelain tub, draping yourself over it and grin at them.

“What’s on your mind, sweetheart?” Steve asks, quieting the chatter and rubs his hand against your spine.

The look you give him melts him on the spot. There’s an unfathomable light in your eyes, swimming in something unspeakably loud but necessarily silent. He wants to pull apart the puzzle of it, finding the pieces that you’re keeping to yourself, but something keeps him immobile. Bucky splashes as he leans forward too, intrigued by the look on your face.

Saying nothing, you turn back around, humming a tune and motioning for Steve to continue. You’ll let them contemplate, you think, because eventually they’ll arrive at the same ending that you have. Bucky might take a while longer than Steve, but that’s okay too.

It’s kind of funny that you’d gone through so much of your life fearing love to the point of near madness and physical ailment. It’s so strange to think of how in the span of six months, you’ve transformed into a person so far removed from who you were then.

At 23, you had once rejected love.

But also, at 23, you’ve solved the mystery of love. Its disarray of angst and apprehension that’s long gripped your mind has been untangled by your dutiful hands. It’s Gordian Knot has been completely dissembled, slipping away into the depths along with your fear and anxiety.

You now tread over its strands, blissfully following the trail leading to your lovers’ embrace.  

[writemoment]

A Pick Me Up

Writer: Ellie-Mae (Pen Name)

Parts: 1/3

Summary: {Request @incorrect-artist} “I was wondering if you could do (maybe a series) about the reader moving to a new town and almost getting mugged but newt saves her and becomes her bodyguard but falls for her or something like that.”

Pairing: TMR Newt x Reader

Warnings/Rated: Brief violence (mentioned during a mugging scene), lightly feeling insecure and minor fluff.

Word Count: 2,726

( Reader ) P.O.V.

This was finally my chance to take control of my life.

I had lived in the same house, the same place with the same people, for all of my life. There was never a great unknown that I hadn’t already known. Now that I’ve managed to take charge and decided to move to Glade, I’m so stoked to embrace this change.

My flat was already filled with my boxed up belongings, waiting to be unleashed. The apartment walls were blank and white, a perfect canvas to color with my own individuality. It felt like a metaphor for this new chapter of my life; blank and awaiting new memories.

Everything around me was filled with new and drenched with the unknown. It was both exhilarating and terrifying. Before this change, I fell into a cycle of doing the familiar and tempting the edge of getting too close to something different.  However, it was always just testing the limits before shying away.

Now I’m diving headfirst into something I am not completely comfortable with. Because there’s something out there in the world that’s calling me to explore further past that line. Something that I feel in my core-being that’s telling me to push forward and make my own way. 

The only familiar sight in this area was my friend, Brenda. We had met each other in middle school and had become quite close before her family moved away. Despite this, we kept in touch through all these years. I hadn’t seen her in person for some time but when she told me that she, too, lived in Glade, it made me take that final leap into this brand new world. 

Now she’s working beside me, helping me to bring in what’s left of my stuff from my car. She looks exactly how I remembered her. Though it’s been many years, she didn’t grow much taller and continues to have a kind smile on her face. Even with her small stature, she tosses boxes onto her hip with surprising strength.

Once everything is brought in, I begin unloading my things; pulling, pushing and tugging boxes to their designated areas. Opening each flap of cardboard at a time, the flat begins to look more like a home. That very thought tugs wildly at my lips and I give into a broad smile. This is my home.

Brenda and I catch up as we file through the cardboard cubes. Laughter and miscellaneous chatter fills the air. I believe that having a friend here makes the unfamiliar appear less bizarre. It takes away some of the anxiety that comes with the irrational fear of new.

Hours go by and we’re finally dwindling down on what’s left to do. Brenda’s phone buzz’s and she snickers at her illuminated screen. I question her with a raised brow, curiosity peaked. “It’s just Thomas and Newt. They’re friends that I want you to meet sometime.”

My mind swirls around the idea of settling into this town and getting to know new and interesting people. I nod at Brenda with a smile playing at my mouth. My hands resume whatever I had previously been doing but my thoughts get lost with prospects of learning what Glade has to offer. 

Truth be told, I was very inexperienced when it came to being a quote-on-quote “adult”. Though I tried very hard to exude a confident persona, I often felt small, unskilled and clumsy on the inside. It’s something I have become accustomed to hiding, covering it up with sarcasm and jokes mixed with laughter. I never wanted to feel like a failure at what I was doing but, at times, it seemed as if those feelings were inevitable.

As evening set into night, I thanked Brenda profusely and bid her a goodnight as she left my place. Being alone brought a wave of nerves as I wondered what my next step was to be. The apartment was still scarce of furniture and lacked a lived-in comfort. I made a mental note to go into the city to shop for items to reverse this feeling.

My hands fumble over light switches, switching them off as I slug my way up the stairs to my room.  Once inside with the door closed behind me, I sag into the naked mattress and drag a comforter over my exhausted body. Sighing deeply, I let the night pull me from my restless thoughts.

****

By the third day of living in Glade, I’m so beyond thankful to have Brenda living in the same complex. Brenda has always had a sure kind of personality that I’ve envied since we were younger. She was a leader, she was supportive. When I’m unsure of what I am doing with myself, she’s there with just the right words and suggestions. It’s never in a derogatory way.

That’s why I deflate a little when she says she can’t join me in the city to shop. I quickly brush it off with a smile but going into an unknown city by myself has my nerves jumping. Still, I mentally encourage myself, hyping myself up before I make the thirty minute drive in. I chuckle lightly at my behavior.

Look at me, being all adult-like and stuff.

The ride felt longer than thirty minutes and I felt silly at the pounding of my heart. “Get a grip on yourself...” I scold underneath my breath. There was a few things I wanted to do in the city and I wasn’t going to let my anxiety ruin those plans.

I take a deep breath and try to calm down as I pull into the parking lot of my first destination. I am in control of my own life now. This is what I want and no one but myself can stop me now. 

****

My laughter fills the vehicle and I smile excitedly. Brenda called me just as I was pulling into the lot of the home store, the last stop I had planned before calling it a successful day. She had a way of instantly bringing joy bubbling inside of me. I told her about my day, mentioning all the things I had done and found.

“Well, I just wanted to check up on you! Hopefully I’ll be able to join you on your adventure next time.” We exchange our final words before I close my phone, slipping it into my back pocket before clambering out of the car.

This home store was sure to have the type of furniture I was seeking. It was getting dark and I had already spent many of my hours exploring the city. There was so much to look at inside since it catered to my exact needs but I knew I needed to focus.

When I had entered, I asked the worker at the front how late they stayed open. He told me that I had an hour before closing, which gave me enough time to browse the aisles.

Making haste, I cart around and pick out what I want. By the time I’m checking out, I have fifteen minutes to spare. This gives me enough time to wheel my purchases out to my trunk and jog the cart back inside the building. They lock the doors behind me and I internally fist-bump myself for managing my time well.

Now the night has set and the adrenaline of the day starts to wear off. I’m so looking forward to going home. Just as I plop into the seat and go to turn the key, my car refuses to start. Try and try again, it wheezes angrily at me.

Trying to not let panic set in, I whip my phone out and dial Brenda for help. Only- she doesn’t answer. By the third time I dial her and after the dozen of texts I spam, it’s become nearly impossible to not freak out.

I’m sitting in an almost empty parking lot, in the dark of a unfamiliar city with no contact to help me out. My mind races as I attempt to think rationally of how to go about this situation. I try to search for someone to come tow me but none of them are loading. Groaning, I lay my head against the steering wheel.

That’s when I recall a deli around the corner, just a few minutes walk from here. It’s not the ideal solution but my phone is already running low on life and I decide to risk it. Still, I linger a few more moment in the comfort of my car, hoping and praying that Brenda will call me back.

She doesn’t. So, I walk.

Focus. Just focus and you’ll make it there in no time. Stick to yourself and everything will be fine. That’s what I keep telling myself. And it works, mostly. My feet step steadily, one foot following the other in a rhythmic pattern. I focus on the thumping of my soles contrasting between the beats of my erratic heart.

The bouts of darkness pockets in the corner of my vision and down ominous alley’s. Still, I am determined to prevail. Well, until I hear footsteps slapping the pavement behind me. It’s quiet but prominent in my ears. 

Clutching the strap of my bag closer against me, I try to increase my pace subtly. My mind is heeding me: don’t run, don’t run, don’t run. I try to remain confident and unperturbed. The neon lights of the deli are within my sights and I can feel the tension in me unwind a bit only to build back up.

There’s a pinch twisting around my shoulder as something yanks on my bag. This can’t seriously be happening to me right now. A part of me is in denial that this is reality. It seems like something straight out of a nightmarish movie. I fight back against the rough tugging, crying out to alert anyone nearby of my struggle. The figure is hooded and hidden in the shadows of the night.

I kick my legs out and punch wildly, not giving in without a fight. I would honestly just let them have my bag if it weren’t hooked across my body. Pain radiates up my arm, spreading from where my knuckles had connected to flesh. I feel my skin tear as it swipes harshly against my target. There’s another set of running footsteps approaching.  A scream rips through my throat and my attacker lets go.

So much happens at once and adrenaline still courses through my veins. The next hand that lands on me, I wind my arm back and punch blindly in that direction. I can feel it sting, the raw of my skin exposed from the impact. There’s a muffled grunt before I hear a voice.

“Hey, hey, hey- I’m not going to hurt you!”

My eyes frantically search the darkness for the face I hit. It lands on a guy, lit up by the glow of the neon; a tall, lanky man with a cut on his cheek. A welt decorated his face from me punching the wrong guy.... His eyes leave me to search the shadows for my attacker. He must not see anyone because he ushers me forward and into the deli. He calls loudly for someone to get a hold of the police, his voice leaving no room for questions.

“Are you okay?” His voice is soft, though thick with an accent. Finally seeing him properly in the light, I spot where I had hit him. He doesn’t seem overly concerned but I feel a pang of guilt as I stare at the drying blood.

“I’m alright, I think. Are you? I didn’t mean to hit you- I’m really sorry. I was just so caught up in what was happening...” My explanation is awkward as I stumble over it with a lousy apology.

The corner of his mouth tilts up in a ghost of a smile, though he flinches a bit at how it pulls at his injury. “No worries. I was quite impressed with how much power was behind your punch. I’m sure you left the other guy with a good shiner. Well deserved.”

His words are light-hearted but I’m still shaken from the encounter. There’s a tremor in my hands and a dull throb spreading through my bloodied fist. A worker from behind the counter says the police are on their way and I feel myself ease a bit.

He thanks them before turning his attention back to me. “My name’s Newt, by the way. Is there anyone I can call for you?”

The name is unique and it rings a familiar bell in my head. Surely my phone is dead by this point, so I’m quite grateful for his offer. “I’m Y/n. I’d like to get a hold of a friend, if I can.”

****

Brenda didn’t call back until after the police left. She spoke to Newt in hurried, frantic words through the phone. Turns out my suspicion was right; this is the Newt she wanted me to meet sometime. Knowing that Brenda trusted him automatically calmed me down. I wasn’t with a complete stranger. 

Newt offered to drive me home since it’d be more convenient than making Brenda come get me. “What about my car?” If I were being honest, the thought of sticking around any longer made me sick to my stomach but I still didn’t want to leave my things in the lot.

“We can come get it tomorrow. If you’re not comfortable with me driving you, we can make other arrangements. You’ve been through a lot tonight.” The thoughtfulness strikes me with shock. I mean, I did punch him in the face... He has every right to be irritated at this whole scenario. Yet, he’s showing me nothing but kindness.

“Thank you, Newt. Can we grab my stuff from my car before heading to my place?” He nods in agreement, his eyes softening.

So after getting my purchases from my trunk and loading them into Newt’s vehicle, we start the thirty minute drive back to the apartment. If I thought the drive in to the city felt long, it was nothing compared to how it feels on the way back.

Thankfully, Newt helped pass the time with small talk. He asked about my feelings on Glade and my decision to move there. We conversed about Brenda and how we’ve both come to know her. It was light and felt comfortable. The complete opposite of how I felt previously.

There’s an unfamiliar scratch in the back of my throat aching to ask him questions, to learn more about him. Yet, I don’t voice any of them due to an overwhelming shyness.

When we arrive back in Glade, he parks in front of my flat. Brenda is awaiting us and comes bustling over to make sure we are alright. I try to reassure her but she’s apologizing profusely at not being available when I needed her.

Newt helps load my things into the threshold of my apartment. Brenda disappears inside while I linger at the front door with Newt. “Thank you for tonight. I can’t tell you how much I appreciate you running over to help. Or how sorry I am about that.” My digit points at his swollen, bruising skin. 

 He waves me off and looks into my eyes. “I’m just glad you’re alright. Though, from the looks of it, you put up a decent fight.” His lips spread into a playful grin and it warms my cheeks. “Here, let me give you my number- in case you need someone in the area to call again.”

We exchange information and he tells me he’ll swing by tomorrow so we can retrieve my car. Once we’re in agreement, I bid him a goodnight with another ‘thank you’ tacked onto the end. 

Newt doesn’t start up his car until he’s seen that I’m inside my place with the door closed. Brenda is in the kitchen fixing a warm drink, “I’m so glad Newt could help you. It’s actually pretty lucky that he was there. Amazing, really.”

I watch his vehicle disappear around the corner. There was still particles of fear lingering inside me but something else floated in the pit of my stomach as I watched the night stand still. “Yes. Amazing.”

****

Part Two Here

Masterlist Here

A/N: I’m so sorry this has taken so long! I’m still working on the rest of the story but wanted to post this anyway. Hope you enjoyed it! Stay safe out there, everyone. - Ellie-Mae xx

[queenbirbs]

find you in the night | Mal x MC

Pairing: Mal Volari x h!MC (Elwyn)

Word count: 2600+

Summary: A little conversation at sixty-three feet in the air. Or: Mal invites Elwyn to see the abandoned wonder of Westavia Woods.   Title taken from Andrew Belle’s “In My Veins.”

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“This is a lot less fun than you said it would be.”

“I dunno. I’ve got a pretty spectacular view from where I’m standing,” Mal counters from where he leans over the edge, no doubt getting an eyeful.

Though she can’t see the smirk on his face, given that she’s too busy climbing up the side of a castle, Elwyn knows it’s there. The handhold she chose gives way under her palm, tearing her attention away from the man above. She digs through the vines and finds another, her nails scratching at the stone in a way that sends a shiver up her spine – and not in a good way, either.

“A little help down here?” she calls up.

In the span of a second, Mal straddles the turret’s wall and waggles his fingers for her to take. Elwyn frowns up at him, even as her boots slip across the protruding stone blocks. “There’s no way that’s safe. Throw me a rope or something.”

“It’s perfectly safe!” he defends. His confidence dims when he eyes the distance between them again. “Safe-ish. C’mon, kit, we haven’t got all day. Sun’s gonna set before you manage to inch your way up here–”

“Fine. Give me your damn hand, then.” She huffs, grinning all the while – he answers in kind with his own as he leans down and grips her hand. His skin is warm from the sun-baked stones, his palm rough from spending a lifetime scaling such structures for treasure.

“That’s it,” he coaxes. “Up and over.”

She climbs the rest of the way up and throws a leg over the wall, drawing in a breath to calm her nerves. She sucks in another when she takes in their view.

“Oh, wow.”  

“I know.”

The castle they sit atop, formerly owned by some pompous asshole (Mal’s words, not hers, though she tends to agree with his sentiments regarding the upper class), sprawls across several acres.

Or, at least, it once had. Now, some hundred or so years since its abandonment, much of it has fallen into disrepair. The gatehouse and several of the towers are nothing more than moss-coated rubble. Dense sheets of vines crawl their way up and over the remaining towers and keep. The courtyard is now an extension of the forest, trees and shrubs filling the neat square where people once bustled about.  

What’s left of the castle towers high above Westavia Woods. The name is a bit of a misnomer, considering the massive spread of forest between Undermount and Whitetower. After leaving the elven city and winding down through the Salus Mountains (while battling a few trolls along the way), they’d stopped here to rest. Tyril had called the area Tel’ eath, which roughly translated to ‘the endless.’ Elwyn didn’t need him to expand on that one.

The view before them is an ocean of green, the forest stretching as far as the eye can see. Already low in the sky, the sun traces the line of the horizon a brilliant gold. Birds soar across the landscape, their forms thrown into sharp relief.  

“I thought it’d be nice to get away.” Mal glances her way and lets out a sigh of content. “Glad to see I was right.”

“Like an adventure from our adventure?”

“Exactly.” He reaches down into his bag and produces a small bottle. The golden liquid inside almost shimmers in the waning sunlight. “Swiped this from the winery while you were grabbing the mangy cat-bat his own bottle.”

Popping out the cork with the tip of his dagger, Mal hands it off to her for the first sip. The taste is sweet, almost to the degree of too much, before the mellow hint of herbs emerges to soothe the dulcified liquid. If the Celestial icewine was sunshine-and-snow, the honey-wine is a gentle wind through a willow tree, or the first bite of autumn. Elwyn thinks of the field of meadowsweet on the eastern edge of Riverbend. How she would spend afternoons hidden in the dense thicket, her nose in a book of fantastical places like Cordonia, or La Huerta, or Lykos, or Brooklyn.    

“I can see why Threep likes it,” she says, taking another sip before passing it back to Mal.

Rolling her shoulders to ease the muscles now sore from her ascent, she indulges in the scenery. From this height, she can easily spot camp, where the steady stream of smoke from their fire snakes up through the tree cover. Their friends’ voices are nothing more than a distant thrum, indecipherable on the wind.

“I’ve never climbed something so tall. There was an old fortress south of Riverbend that I went to the top of, but it was only three stories high. And the view was nothing like this.”

“All by yourself?” he teases, making a show of licking his lips clean of the wine. “And here I thought you hadn’t taken part in a single adventure until I came along.”

“It wasn’t much of an adventure. And I went with the town blacksmith.”

“Ah. What’s his name, then?”

“Her name is Simona.”

Mal hums a tone of interest, one eyebrow peaked. “You’re just full of surprises, aren’t ya?”

She levels a look of her own at him. “You did see me make out with that mermaid, didn’t you?”

“It’s not like I was ogling you two,” he points out with a scoff. “Not that you’ll ever hear me admit it again, but I was jealous.”

“Oh, I know. You’re not exactly subtle about it.”

“I’d try to hide it, but you seem to see right through me.” He’s grinning as he says it, but there’s a softness in his gaze that wasn’t there weeks ago.

It’s his only tell that she’s been able to spot. Maybe because he lets her, she considers, and the thought warms her, oddly enough.

Turning from her companion, Elwyn scans the farthest edge of the forest as best she can, looking for the age-old sign of civilization: right angles. Even far beyond her sight, she knows that the great city of Whitetower is still many, many miles away. The thought of visiting the capital city has her torn in two.

On one hand, it’s somewhere she’s always wanted to go, after seeing a painting of the sparkling, white castles rising high into the sky, the cobblestone streets below filled with the smudged outlines of its citizens. After living most of her life in a tiny, backwater town, she longed to experience a real, bustling city filled to the brim with people.

On the other hand, she knows that it’s the last stop on their adventure through Morella. Elwyn has no doubt that they’ll find the last shard; has no qualms about fighting the Shadow Court; has no objection to doing whatever it takes to get her brother back.

She can only hope that her friends make it out alive.

A quick tug on her braid brings her out of her woolgathering.

“Penny for your thoughts.”

“Wondering what awaits us in the city,” she answers, trying her best to hide the anxiety she feels.

Mal rolls his shoulders in a lazy shrug, exuding a carefree appearance. It’s a good act, she’ll give him that.

“Destruction, devastation… death. But that’s the usual for Whitetower.”

“I know you don’t want to return, but I’m glad you’re coming.”

“It’s not that,” he says with a shake of his head. “I’d always planned to go back, of course, what with my sister still living there. But that sort of visit would be a quick in-and-out, do a bit of business, and be off before anyone who cared to know even suspected.”

Squinting out at the horizon, he sighs before flashing her a wry grin. “I have a feeling we’ll be making quite the entrance for ourselves this time.”

She watches the grin fade away as his brown eyes search hers.

“I have few memories of my village,” she tells him, “but not all of them are good. And I’m not only talking about the night it was destroyed. So, I understand about wanting to leave the past where it lies.”

“I’d be lying if I hadn’t thought about it burning down to ash. Parts of it, at least,” he amends. “I don’t wish any harm on the citizens.”

“I’m guessing those parts would be the castle.”

“Yeah,” he murmurs, something dark flashing in his eyes. “Just those.”

Before them, the sun has disappeared. It throws its last light out across the treetops, a vain attempt to keep its hold on the day. The night arrives like a deep, blue blanket thrown over the sky. High above them, stars twinkle into existence, materializing in droves. It’s as if someone has flicked a white paintbrush across the heavens. A cool wind rushes past; Elwyn shudders along with the vines.

She thinks of Kade and the realm he’s trapped in. Can he see the night sky from wherever he is? Can he keep himself sane by listing off the constellations, something that used to annoy the piss out of her growing up? Can he even still be alive?

She thinks of Kaya, frozen in death, her fear sculpted across her glass form, all alone at what seemed like the bottom of the world. Of all the terrible thoughts that bubble up, Elwyn thinks the worst might be her hands. How they were raised to shield herself from the attack, how that same instinct of survival runs deep in everything, no matter the species. Had she known what was coming? Or was there surprise hidden somewhere behind all that fear?

“Should we have… done something for Kaya?” she asks, hating how small her voice sounds.

“She was beyond our help.”

“I know that. But it still feels like we abandoned her. We left her down there.” Elwyn scrubs at her eyes, wishing she could banish away the immediate well of tears. “I keep thinking about the last time I saw Kade. He had that same expression. What if he thinks there’s no rescue coming? What if he does, though, and we can’t? What if–”

“Hey, hey,” Mal cuts off her worried rambling. He cups her face and drops a kiss to her forehead, and then another just under her eye. Something squeezes tight in her chest at the gesture. “You’ll worry yourself in circles like that.”

“I know,” she whispers, her hand covering his. “But I can’t–”

“Help it. I understand. And I wouldn’t lie to you, not about this. Kade… he–”

“May be lost forever,” Elwyn finishes for him.

He winces, but gives her a quick nod.

“I know that,” she tells him. “After all we’ve seen of what the Shadow Court can do, I can only run on blind faith at this point that I’ll get him back.”

“Hey, now. It’s not only faith. You’ve got the four of us.” He pauses and frowns. “Well, five if you count the cat, but he’s at most a glorified stomach with wings. But that doesn’t mean that we won’t fight like hell for your brother.”

His thumb sweeps across her cheek, steadying her. She turns her head and presses her lips to his palm, wishing she could express the gratitude she feels that they’ve all stuck beside her this long. Instead, she shifts to take another long look at the world as the night closes in on them.  

“I feel like I could see Riverbend from here.”

“If it weren’t for the curve of the world, and if your eyes were as good as mine, you probably could.”

She gives his thigh a light smack.

“My eyes are just fine, thank you.”

“Very fine indeed,” he agrees, that familiar smirk of his firmly in place.

She realizes that she would like to wipe it right off. Sliding her hand down along his arm, she wraps it around his bicep and hauls him down for a kiss.

He’s quick on the uptake, his arms coming around to circle her waist and drag her closer. His tongue runs across her bottom lip, asking for entry; she acquiesces with a tilt of her head and deepens the kiss. The taste of him is a concoction of aged leather, a rain-soaked forest, and a spice she can’t seem to put a name to, something that seems to be uniquely Mal.

His touch dances across her back and up along her ribs, one hand around her waist to keep her steady while the other sinks into her hair. She hooks a leg up and around his hip, drawing him flush against her. Her move is met with a satisfied hum. Pleasure travels through her veins, slow and steady like treacle. It’s dizzying, the effect of him. If he asks, she’ll blame it on the dangerous, sixty-foot drop mere inches away, but they both know a lie when they hear one.

He breaks their kiss to trail his mouth down her neck and across her chest.

“If you wanted to get me all alone so you could have your way with me,” he pauses, his tongue tracing the lines of her collarbone in a way that makes her breath hitch, “you could’ve just said so.”

“I thought our resident rogue and self-proclaimed ‘king of stealth’ would enjoy my attempt at subtlety.”

He laughs, his beard tickling at the sensitive skin of her throat. Some deep, tucked-away part of her would like to hear the sound every day of her life.

“Elwyn, I’ve seen you flirt with every living thing we’ve come across. You wouldn’t know subtle if it was branded across your forehead.”

Dragging her hand down his front, she treats him to a hint of her nails, pleased when he sucks in a breath as she continues lower.

“The way I see it,” she murmurs, “why waste all that precious time and energy when I can be as brazen as I’d like and get there even faster?”

Sliding her touch back up his body, she fits two fingers under his chin and urges him to meet her for another kiss. Her toes curl inside her boots at the heady slide of his lips against hers.

“Would you like to know my next idea?” he asks, nipping a path along her jaw to below her ear.

“Mmm-hmm.”

“Once we can get away from our merry band of misfits for more than two minutes, I plan on taking you to bed.” He bites down at the soft skin below her ear, a breathy chuckle escaping him when she bites her lip on the end of a groan. “Once there, I plan on coaxing out all these lovely noises you’re keeping bottled up.”

Shivers dance up her spine, but in a good way this time.

“What a coincidence.” She grins up at him when he pulls back to return to her mouth. “Because that’s exactly what I plan on doing with you.”

He gazes down at her with something akin to wonder. “Great minds think alike, then.”

At the horizon, the sunlight empties out the last of its parting glass. The dark blue of twilight seeps across the canvas before them. “We should probably get going,” he sighs, the disappointment ringing through his words. “Especially if we want to eat something before Threep hoards it all for himself.”

Elwyn concedes his point and casts a wary glance down the side of the castle.

“Um, how are we going to get back down?”

“Like any normal person would. By the stairs.”

She would wipe the shit-eating grin off his face if she wasn’t worried she’d knock him straight off the turret.

“There are stairs? You told me the only way up was to climb!”

“The only interesting way up. C’mon, El, what’s life without a little adventure, hmm?”

“Don’t call me El.”

“I think it suits you, but all right, fine. How about Wynnie?”

“I will throw you from this castle, I swear.”

“Ah, but you’re laughing. Admit it, you like it.”

“You’re absurd.”

“You know what, you’re right. But it’s a shame you can’t come up with a nickname for me, what with my name being so short.”

“I’m sure I can find something that suits you.”

“Oh, surely you must know by now, Elwyn. It’s you – you suit me right down to the ground.”

+

+

+

AN: Me, ending a story with lines of dialogue instead of giving it a proper send-off? Truly unprecedented.

References: a line from Syfy’s Alice and the Roman goddess Salus that I named the mountains after.

Was I inspired to write this by the fact that Mal Volari is essentially the whatever-century-this-book-exists-in version of Nathan Drake? Yes, thanks. Was there ever any doubt I would love him the moment he opened his smart mouth? Nope!

Honey-wine is actually another name for mead, though there is a chance they could be different drinks depending on the region (thanks wikipedia). No matter what, though, I imagine the drink tastes a lot better in the Blades universe than my only taste of it at a pub in Pitlochry.

[scientificphilosopher]

Mental Health and General Life Advice Gained Over the Years

Here is a list of some things I’ve learned over the years that have, I think, helped me live a better life

Be flexible in my narrative. When I say things like ‘I’m just an anxious person,’ or ‘I suck at confrontation,’ then I risk fixing onto this narrative rather than managing it in a healthy way. I become unwilling to recognize instances where I’m not anxious. I ignore opportunities for growth. Instead, I find it better to foster a flexible narrative. I know it’s important to acknowledge, normalize, and even embrace my identities, but I don’t want to mistake an aspect of my identity for my identity wholesale. I’m not my anxiety. Rather, I struggle with anxiety. I’m not Depression. Rather, depression has had a formative influence on my sense of self. This, too, goes for my social identities. Identities are real, and they have very real impacts on our world and our experience, but they are not everything. To paraphrase James Baldwin, identities are like garments that ought to be worn loosely so that our nakedness—and ability to change—can still be felt.

Steep in my fallibility. The more I’ve learned about my personal fallibility—which is prodigious—the healthier my relationships and general approach to the world has become. Embracing my tendency to be biased and make mistakes has, I hope, fostered a strong sense of humility. Thank goodness, since this world is messy and complex as shit, and we are often—so very, very often—wrong about things. Or at least overly-simplistic. And because things are so goddamn complicated, it can be hard, even impossible, to see nuance. Our limited and parochial natures can lead us to ignore complexity, especially if that complexity doesn’t cast a favorable light on our beliefs about the world. I’ve developed an almost fetishistic obsession with learning about cognitive biases and the seemingly infinite number of ways my psychology leads me astray (as evidenced by the persistent string of posts I’ve made on it, like here, here, here, here, and here). Paradoxically, fully embracing and seeking out my fallibility has led me to have a much deeper understanding of the world around me. As Simone de Beauvoir says, ‘It is in the knowledge of the genuine conditions of our life that we must draw our strength to live and our reason for acting.’ My genuine condition is that of a mistake-prone, biased, and mercurial ape. (And that’s pretty cool.)

Get in touch with the messiness. Why is it important to have a flexible narrative and to embrace our fallibility? Because shit’s complex! Incredibly, intensely, bone-chillingly, awe-inspiringly complex. Our brains have evolved as taxonomy machines where we carve up the world and separate everything into nice and neat little boxes. If only things could be so simple. As it so happens, though, the world is, as William James wrote, ‘multitudinous beyond imagination, tangled, muddy, painful and perplexed.’ I have found it to be very helpful to reflect on the complexity of everything, even the seemingly simple and straightforward. 

Mindfulness exercises. ‘Mindfulness’ has, like ‘empathy,’ become a pop-psych buzzword over the last several years. This is partly because mindfulness is a very potent tool. It can fundamentally alter our day-to-day existence. There is no shortage of ancient schools of wisdom that have prescribed mindfulness as key to a meaningful existence. I’m partial to David Foster Wallace’s construction of mindfulness when he said that it is the true aim of a good education. With mindfulness we cultivate the power to choose where to focus our mental energies, to choose what has meaning and what does not. With practice, ‘it will actually be within your power to experience a crowded, hot, slow, consumer-hell type situation as not only meaningful, but sacred, on fire with the same force that made the stars: love, fellowship, the mystical oneness of all things deep down.’ In short, continued Wallace, ‘you get to decide what to worship.’

Thinking about thankfulness. Gratitude exercises are a form of mindfulness I’ve found to be especially beneficial. When I have the mental energy to do so, I try to get creative about my gratitude. I try to find gratitude in the mundane, the trivial, the invisible. It’s much too easy to be grateful for grand adventures and emotionally rewarding escapades. It can be much more difficult—but equally meaningful—to find gratitude in the humdrum, or to appreciate the infinite number of shitty things that didn’t happen to me, or to embrace the vast confluence of luck that has led me to this single moment of unadorned contentedness. This is another subject I’ve written about to a near-obnoxious extent (see some here, here, here, here, and here). I sometimes feel reservations recommending gratitude exercises, since, when things are really awful, as they so often are, it can feel patronizing and hurtful to have someone tell you that you should just be grateful. This is not my intention. The world is capricious and fucked up, far more often than it should be. This is why I try to access gratitude in the moments where things are okay. I try to seize moments of grace and calm and squeeze out those drops of thankfulness. This can add water to the reservoir that I will need to pull from when I’m thirsty and in pain. In my better moments, then, I can find gratitude, or some semblance or peace or perspective, even when I’m suffering. I can, as Nietschze wrote, ‘throw roses in to the abyss and say: “Here is my thanks to the monster who didn’t succeed in swallowing me alive.”’ And, ultimately, this has helped me get to a place where I can, more often than not, remain in a ‘contented dazzlement of surprise,’ to use Lewis Thomas’ turn of phrase.

Me and everyone I love will die. You know what else I’m grateful for? This breath. And this one. And this one. It’s pretty wild to be alive, to be a self-aware extension of nature itself. What a stunning convergence of necessary circumstance needed to randomly grant me such a privilege. And, just as it came, so it will go. Randomly and inexorably. Death awaits. There is no stopping it. Dark, suffocating, oblivion. This can be scary, of course. But it’s also motivating and contextualizing. Death is not yet here, after all. And that makes each and every breath, smile, kiss, and laugh a priceless cosmic treasure. Indeed, it is precisely because of our limited time that life is so meaningful. Emily Dickinson, as she was wont to do, summed it up eloquently when she said, ‘That it will never come again is what makes life so sweet.’

I am not free. At the very least, I am not free in the way I’ve long thought. I am a physical being, subject to the laws of nature, of cause and effect. My thoughts are not authored by some mystical volition or unrestrained willpower. I am thoroughly restrained. I am, indeed, destined to write this sentence from the very moment the cosmos silently but extravagantly whispered itself into life. Some people recoil from this idea, thinking that if our thoughts and actions are determined by external factors, then life is meaningless, and change is futile. These conclusions do not follow. Change is occurring constantly. Our actions have consequences. What we do chaotically reverberates into our surroundings. We are determined, but not fated. We have power, even if it is not free. Instead of catastrophizing and fearing the implications of our lack of freedom, I like to reflect on what this means for how I treat myself and others. A lack of freedom motivates in me a deep sense of compassion. It demands forgiveness for both my mistakes and those of others. None of us asked to be here. We are, as Heidegger said, thrown into existence, awoken to a set of determined circumstance. I am the type of person who has been able to receive an education, to have supportive loved ones, to have a functioning moral compass, a disposition for moving and meaningful emotional experiences, and to want to work to make the world a better place. But I didn’t choose to be or have any of this. This is all luck, luck, luck. From my country of birth to my balding head and hairy back to every last neuronal blast fashioning my inner life—not one atom or twist of the genetic braid was chosen exclusively by me. So, if I find myself as the type of person who doesn’t want to harm others, who doesn’t have unmanageable compulsions, who doesn’t suffer from debilitating isolation, who isn’t disproportionately oppressed by the unconscious machinations of social systems, then this, like everything and all of it, is luck, luck, luck.

Interpersonal stuff. I’ve been very lucky to have had resources in my life, including access to healthcare, a support system, and loved ones who happen to be badass psychologists and counselors. I’ve gleaned invaluable life advice from these dear friends of mine. And thank the cosmos, as such advice has proven to profoundly improve my interpersonal relationships. A couple of quick ones: avoid ‘Shoulding’ on people. When I’m upset and in pain, I typically desire a compassionate and patient ear rather than practical advice. When people come at me with ‘Well, you should do this…’ I often just feel misunderstood or further alienated. Even worse is the ‘Nike Advice,��� where someone says ‘Just do such and such…’ This often feels invalidating because if it were a matter of ‘Just’ doing something, I would’ve already done it. Things are rarely so simple. Similarly, I’ve found it helpful to listen rather than problem-solve. I will commiserate and look for solutions if that is what the person asks for, but usually, I will try to be simply present for the other person, to sit with their pain and offer my compassion and understanding. 

Meta-advice. Here’s some advice on my advice: take it with a fat, ballpark-sized soft-pretzel’s worth of salt. I am a philosopher, not a psychologist. I try to be very science- and research-driven, and I’ve been lucky to enough to draw from the hard-earned wisdom of other experts, but, nonetheless, I am not an expert myself. I try to live well. I try to be smart and kind and humble and patient, and I often fail. I am human, all-too-human. This is simply meant to be a sloppily-rendered summary of some helpful pieces of anecdotal advice I’ve gathered on my never-ending journey toward eudaimonia. Nothing more. It is non-exhaustive (this post is, like me after a night at home with a book and a DiGiornio, far too bloated), and I’m sure I’ll regret leaving out many pieces of pivotal information. But the above advice has (so far) been useful in my life. This does not mean it will be helpful for everyone. I hope, at least, that it would not be harmful. Do with it what you will, my friends, and good luck.

[cameron-malkin]

but always keep ‘em on a leash || Cameron selfpara || 6.14.20

  As the couple approached the house at the end of a cobblestone street, crystalline hues met with the oddly familiar bright red door. Vaguely, Cameron could recall the layout of the million-dollar home that awaited them. Small, but cold in its pristine quality, each item was placed perfectly on a shelf, as if out of a magazine. In spite of its kitschy decorations, these additions only added to the already unsettling atmosphere. The Bostonian home was, in a word, unwelcoming. The unrelenting grip of his fiancée’s hand was an apt precursor to an unnerving adventure as Cameron felt a crushing wave of anxiety wash over him at the prospect of meeting his future in-laws. Running his free hand down the front of his best white shirt, he tugged at the hem of his well-worn and well-loved leather jacket. Frazzled for what felt like the first time in his life, the reassuring smile gracing his features looked out of place as they entered Lexus’ childhood home. The 28-year-old half expected the Hales to greet them at the door with smiles but was left dumbfounded by empty halls, combat boots trailing behind Lexus as she searched for her parents, eventually finding them on the patio.

Their dispassionate welcome left a foul taste in his mouth, vacant smiles and muttered greetings speaking volumes. Not only did it strike him odd that they refused to greet their only child, but Cameron knew immediately he was not accepted by her parents as the cold but familiar feeling of being unwanted set in. Leather jackets and tattoos made rich people nervous, which was perhaps the reason why he wore it so well, but an uncharacteristic sense of optimism clung to him. Maybe if I could just talk to them, he thought, I could change their minds. He didn’t know what to do with his hands, shoving them in and out of jean pockets as he desperately wished for a smoke, though part of him was worried he’d combust at the mere sight of his lighter, the sticky humidity of the East Coast coming to reclaim him with vengeance. Frazzled fingertips began to peel at the cardboard carton of smokes, hoping that would be enough for now, just knowing they were there. Judgemental stares and awkward exchanges cemented the fact that he was not what was expected — or maybe he was exactly what they had expected and that’s why he was such a disappointment — but he forced himself into a permanent gesture of nonchalance, back slumped as he draped himself in a chair beside Lexus.

“You have a really nice home,” He managed to cough out a compliment with an apprehensive smile drawn across full lips. Had it not been for the palpable tension in the air, the smile might have seemed genuine. Or maybe it was the way it was almost impossible for him to meet their stares, electric orbs focusing intently on the hanging light fixtures instead. Although his statement was true, he couldn’t stop listing the similarities between their home and the extravagant houses he’d plundered in the past. While it was one of the nicest homes he’d been invited into, fingers drumming soundlessly against his trusty Marlboros, he almost wished he was on the other side again. He occupied himself with musing about thwarting their security system.

Dinners were exhausting, the beast that lurked within all too aware of Lexus’ discomfort. It was obsessed with her, restless with her paranoia, her swirling feet driving it mad with each sign of her growing anxiety. Fleeting fingertips brushing against the bare skin of his wrist brought some comfort, made him feel a little bit more…Cameron. He was sure to take advantage of this fleeting solace and on more than one occasion (okay — twice, but he figured any further attempts would be far beyond the call of duty), offered topics of pointless conversation. Rich people like the weather, right? Wrong. He learned the hard way, as only Lexus responded.

Cameron’s favourite parts were the nights after dinner, finally alone as dusk fell over Boston’s city streets. Lexus showed him the secret places she’d hide as a teenager, his favourite of which being a particular blind spot on the roof. It was one of the only places he felt safely alone with her, the pink teddy bear in the corner of her room staring daggers at him all night long.

On their final evening, Cameron had finally broken the ice. Instead of talking about the weather, he studiously complimented Mr Hale’s collection of books in the living room. Better yet, it wasn’t far from the truth, the poet in him genuinely in awe of the pristine collections of classic poets’ works. Although the heavy focus on materialistic possessions irritated him, he was quite proud to have broken the everlasting silence. Even Mrs Hale was happy to join in, the few crystal glasses of expensive wine (the beast counted five, a number Cameron hastily downplayed) loosening her lips. The most vicious part of the evening was how carefully they observed Lexus, their target. Each of the vertebrae in Lexus’ spine went rigid, not unlike the beast lurking within Cameron’s chest, as she sat with extraordinary posture. Both watching, both waiting. Though her parents said little to her, its glowing azure eyes watched their reactions closely, the bronze hues of her mother cold and calculating. Noticing her daughter on edge, the bottle blond finally pounced, her brutal attack slurred from between faintly wrinkled lips.

“I see rehab is clearly working for you.”

A sharp intake of breath caused his lungs to cry out, the beast now a battering ram as it slammed against his chest. Cameron nearly spat out his drink. Rarely caught off guard, the 28-year-old’s gaze fell to the matriarch once more, promising the beast he’d misheard the slur. Yes, Lexus had been drinking but not that much and not nearly as much as her mother. Surely her mother wouldn’t criticize her, a woman so eager to prove her superior intelligence would understand the hypocrisy of such a statement. Better yet, knowing their daughter’s medical history and uphill battle with mental health, Cameron refused to believe they’d abuse her in such a way. Were they not the ones that sought help for her? Wait, he plead with the beast inside. He set his jaw, squeezing uncomfortably as he fought for dominance in a battle he’d yet to win.

“Well, mother,” Lexus sighed, a flicker of pain registering on her features before her expression grew uncharacteristically hard, “At least I tried.”

“Did you? Because you’ve been in a mental hospital for a simple drug problem for, what, a year now? Year and a half? And you’ve made no notable progress. Picked yourself up a hooligan in the process to feed your diluted dayd—”

Wolfish teeth tore at the cage of his skin as if it were tissue paper. In a flash, snarling lips parted with a roar of a warning, “Enough!” 48 hours’ worth of pent up fury released in one statement, he was numb to the fingertips that constricted his thigh in what was perhaps admonishment, perhaps fear, though both inconsequential in a sea of red hot rage. Her father leapt to his feet, the wolf happily rising to the challenge as Mr Hale’s booming voice ricocheted off the old walls.

“Oh, I’ll tell you what’s enough! You dare to raise your voice to my wife—” He threatened, fist slamming against the table as he leapt from his seat. The beast sneered a laugh, recognising the ineffective scare tactic from a previous argument with Lexus. So that’s where she got it from. The thought only angered him more, wondering how many times that fist had frightened her in the past. Mouth parted to continue his tirade; Cameron’s swift interjection cut him off.

“Oh,” His gravelly voice chuckled darkly, eyes magical and radiant with the promise of violence. “Please, go on.” The threat hung in the air, a purposeful look in Cameron’s eyes just daring her father to speak another word. Hesitating, his features paled upon abruptly confronting the danger he’d unknowingly encountered.

Cameron will never forget the quaking of her voice, rough with fear. Fleetingly, he wondered if she feared him — of what the feral beast would do — but there wasn’t enough time to lose himself in such introspection.

“What are you doing? What are you doing? What are you doing?” Ears back, eyes glued to burning ember hues, both the beast and Cameron were lost. “Can’t you see he’s the only one that had any fucking hope here? You fucking monsters! Who does this? Who actually does this?”

Adrenaline coursed through his veins, his heart hammering between his ears amid being suddenly thrown into the height of a family fracturing. The beast took off, whimpering as it took cover from an unintelligible situation. Cameron struggled to process his thoughts, the hazy red glare of anger fading slightly as his eyes remained transfixed on the beauty of a breakdown. Seeing Lexus unravel somehow brought him back to a place of marginal restraint and, although it wasn’t as much as he would have liked, he was thankful for any improvement. Struggling to keep the tight grip around his self-control as the rope meant to leash a beast turned into a silky band of ribbon caught between clammy palms.

The dark flame of anger illuminated his pale features, a deep breath expanding his chest as he broadened his shoulders. Taking an intentional step towards the figurehead of the household, balled fists clenched at his sides.

“You might think you can do this to her because she’s your daughter, but when she’s my wife, think again,” He seethed, tightened jaw strangling his words. Years of torture suddenly made clear, both he and the whimpering beast prioritized their return to Lexus. Nerves turned his stomach, nauseous as he took the stairs two at a time.  

How long ago had she disappeared from the room? The image of her fury, from the shape of her grimacing mouth to the wild look in her eye, haunted Cameron. Would he greet a similar sight? It struck the fear of God into the non-believer, letting out an oath, “Fuckin’ hell.” Leather boots pounded across hardwood floors, following the cacophony of crashing and thudding up the staircase to the second floor. In passing, he noted with disgust that her parents remained seated at the dining table, motionless. “Lex!” Desperation clung to his tone as he called up the stairs, wasting no time invading the sacred privacy of her childhood bedroom.

Raven hair flew back at the sight of an open door, clearing the path for blazing mahogany hues to burn through azure eyes.

“Don’t.” She warned, one hand positioned in front of her, as if to dissuade him from coming closer. Again he wondered, had he frightened her? “Don’t, Cameron, don’t. I can’t, okay, I can’t. I can’t!” Tears slipping down her cheeks, he followed the instinctual tug towards her, unable to bear their separation. Stubbornly brushing past her idle warning, strong tattooed arms pulled her small frame to his chest.

“Shhh,” Although his heart was pounding, he eradicated all sense of fear from his voice, swallowing his own chaotic mix of emotions in order to ease the pain currently afflicting his fiancée. Gently, Cameron threaded his hand into her strawberry scented locks as she pressed an ear to his heart, “Shhh, it’s okay.”

To his astonishment, she began struggling against his chest, bracing against his forearms as she insisted, “It’s not! Fuck! I’m sick of this fucking — fucking — preformative bullshit! You know? I’m sick of being treated like a fucking pariah the minute — the absolute minute — they perceive me to be out of line. And what the fuck are their fucking lines? I mean, for the love of God, what the fuck did I do in there that warranted that? I mean — fuck — I just want something real, like, is that so much to fucking ask for?”

“Hey, hey,” Tattooed hands cradled her face, tone sharp and steady as he made it clear to her there would be no room for refusal, “Look at me.” Guiding a hand towards his heart, he continued, “This. This is real.” And like every time before, upon uttering the sentence, nostalgia stabbed him in the heart. His tone softened as full lips pressed gentle kisses to her temple, “Okay?” In his arms, she became undone, sobs tearing through her delicate frame as Cameron held onto her tightly, each muffled cry calling forth the searing hot pain of guilt.

As slow, steady breaths returned, spiteful words lingered on the tip of his tongue. Faced with the foreign territory of family dynamics, while Cameron knew the beast would gladly lend its voice to curse the people downstairs, he wasn’t quite sure it was best for Lex.  A harsh sigh pushed free from lips drawn into a thin line, a pitiful attempt at repressing the beast struggling to break free. Gently, he inquired, “What do you need from me?” Harsh truth clung to his throat. I don’t know what to do, but silent seconds ticked by as he wrestled the words out of his mouth. Muttering his defeat, he confessed, “I don’t know what to do, baby.” Lost and without answers, blood-red lips pressed apologetic kisses to her crown.

“I don’t know,” She shook her head, voice trembling in a way that alerted Cameron to her weeping. It broke him, soul aching at the sound. “I just — I just don’t wanna be here.”

Fine, he nearly answered in a gasp, that’s fine! We’ll leave! In fact, he was almost surprised by the level voice that answered her, “Okay, let’s get out of here.” As if it were nothing in the world, and in a way, it wasn’t. Heart pumping with increased regularity as he was faced with the need of an escape plan, Cameron recalled the nearest airport. They’d need a car. With a ghost of a frown, it became abundantly clear he couldn’t hot-wire a getaway car. Did she still have that credit card?

“What?” The voice from below squeaked, a mere echo in Cameron’s mind as he continued to work out the logistics of their escape. The credit card would allow them to purchase new tickets for an earlier flight. It was only six o’clock, surely there would be more flights to Seattle. Fuck, what about the ride back to Thornewood?

“Get your things,” He stated more plainly as he remained deep in thought, “We’re leaving.” Plan B, the ex-con decided, they’d stay in a motel until morning. It wouldn’t be much, but he had enough cash on him to at least afford that.

Cameron wasn’t aware of the silence stretching between them until she broke it.

“But how?” She wondered, large brown eyes peering up at him as her chin rested on his chest. Heart swelling with affection, Cameron fought the smirk flirting with his lips, instead pressing a kiss to her hair with a light chuckle. Times like this, doe-eyes wide with questions, assured the 28-year-old he still dazzled his fiancée.

“We’ll figure something out,” He cooed, self-assured, “We always do…you still have that credit card, don’t you?”

Her lips trembled, opening and closing as she stammered, “But, they pay for that.”

All resolve was broken, full smile gracing his lips as Cameron laughed heartily. Torn between the desire to confess his love for her and knowing he didn’t quite deserve to, he opted to dispel her disbelief. “Babe,” The New Jerseyan chuckled, “So? Fuck these people.” Stealing from the rich to give to themselves felt reminiscent of Robin Hood. They were poor enough, right? Besides, although Cameron would never voice his theory out of hurting Lex, he wondered if the Hales cared enough to check their daughter’s bank statements. Judging from the outburst tonight, it was clear she was “out of sight, out of mind” — regardless of how repugnant that behaviour was. Shaking off his thoughts and the beast that growled lowly from a place deep within him, with a few moments of encouragement, the couple were off.  

Blacked out windows hid exhausted features from pedestrians walking the streets of Boston, buildings and faces blurring as the sight of the city faded into the distance. Safety returned in the heat of the night. This he remembered. Nights so black that the darkness clung, sticking to his bones like a second skin. It was only then, in the midst of this familiarity, that he noticed the city streets red with blood, shimmering in the dim glow of the streetlights. The sickness struck him in the gut, twisting his insides without remorse. It wrenched the air from his lungs, chest tightening with an emotion unrecognizable.

Fear.

Sharp teeth tore into his bottom lip, resisting the urge to bark directions at the taxi driver. Faster! But it was worthless, already made aware of the ashes left in his wake. Another family destroyed, perhaps the only one that mattered.

Hers.

Wading through the murky waters clogging his thoughts, the river of guilt and disappointment ran deep.

“Talk to me,” A quiet whisper broke the silence, her soft touch along the back of his knuckles brought him out of the never-ending downward spiral. The only acknowledgement of her words was the whisper of a sigh that met the quiet command. Full lips hummed false happiness, hoping she would assume he was tired and leave it at that. Expectant eyes lingered. Fuck. This time, he shot for aloofness.

“About what?”

“About that, that look.”

There was very little fight left in Cameron to deflect the conversation away from the sea of doubt he was drowning in, no clear escape from the litany of thoughts corrupting every retort sitting on the tip of his tongue. He exhaled a large sigh, running his free hand through his hair.

“I’m supposed to protect you,” Hushed and delicate confessions caused his face to almost flush from the embarrassing fragility of his statement, had it not been for the A/C fanning his face. “Last time we were here, I promised you, like it or not, I’d protect you. Because I loved you. And — Lexus — I’ve only fallen more in love with you. Everything I felt for you back then...it doesn’t even scrape the bottom of the barrel. It’s not even shallow, it’s almost — I don’t know, it feels fuckin’ dumb,” A laugh, rueful and facetious, escaped his lips before continuing, “Like the way I imagine stupid fuckin’ 17-year-old little kids feel. And with that feeling, the way I feel about you now, I only wanna protect you more, y’know? And I know I’ve told you that, but...to know that this is my fault…” Grief-stricken hues shrouded by dark circles were painted a brilliant red by the colourful array of Boston’s nightlife. Briefly glancing across leather seats to Lex, he caught the unfamiliar sight of her unbuckling the seatbelt to crawl onto his lap. Forehead resting against his, he sighed, eyes slipping closed as a hand knotted into her hair. Gently, two hands caressed the sides of his face as if he were just as fragile as she, the pad of her thumb skimming over his tired features.

“Cameron,” She breathed, “You’re always saving me. You’re always protecting me.”

“Yeah?” His voice cut through the air in a low snarl, self-hatred dripping from every word, a pent up rage threatening to spill over and drown out her consolations with the tidal wave of his failures. “Is that what I was doing in the library? Huh? Let’s not forget I pushed you. Not Casey, you.”

“Because I jumped in the way—”

“Sweetheart, tonight. What do you call tonight?” His demand left exasperated lips. Hatred swelled with every syllable, lashing out against the feral beast that raged within his chest. There was no way to describe the near-constant power struggle between a man and his demons, both with an equally thin grasp of emotion. He continued, “If I never got involved, if I never stuck my fuckin’ nose where it didn’t fuckin’ belong, let’s be honest, you wouldn’t’ve been here. Y’know, I got so wrapped up in thinking that you were missing out on this great opportunity for a happy family — something I never had — I didn’t even realize I was walking you right back in to all your shit—”

The forceful guiding of her hand against his neck pulled cerulean hues to honeyed chocolate orbs, deep flecks of gold that seemed to emphasise the haunting notion that Lexus saw Cameron for what he truly was. In moments like these, as rare as they were raw, Cameron longed to see himself through her eyes. Flaws, mistakes and faults plagued his soul, yet she continually accepted and understood them. “What you did was admirable.” Despondent, Cameron attempted to turn away, until two stubborn hands held him tight, steadfast in her conviction. “No, honestly, Cameron. Listen to me, I’d rather you advocate for me and be wrong a million times than stand by and let me fall for everything like I used to. I mean, that’s what I’d do for you, y’know? And, let’s flip the tables — would you just want me to keep my fuckin’ nose where it belongs or whatever?”

He almost corrected her, you wouldn’t if I asked you to, instead he sighed in agreement. “Yeah,” He relented, thoughts inexplicably brightened by the tremor of her voice, weighty with truth. If all else failed, Cameron decided, at least she loved him. Fingers slipped beneath the fabric of her shirt as they skimmed over the sensitive skin of her hips, purposefully tickling her sides as he flashed her a devilish grin attempting to dispel the plague of unresolved frustrations, “But I’m right all the time.”

“You are not!”

“Oh, come on,” Came his teasing hum of disapproval, full smirk settling onto his lips as he affectionately nuzzled her strawberry scented locks before continuing to tickle her sides in the never ending quest to restore her infectious laughter. Ocean eyes found her, parted in the joy of laughter, suddenly irresistible. Catching her lips in a kiss, Cameron guided Lexus towards him, tattooed arms pulling her closer. For the first time since arriving in Boston, he felt Lexus relax against him, further encouraging their passion-fueled kiss — probably to the chagrin of the taxi driver, much to Cameron’s amusement.

Strong and profound worthlessness pulled him away, rejecting the joys of  pleasure as the city streets still ran red with the same blood coating his hands. “Lex,” The voice sounded strange, mangled in a way that made him wonder if it was his own. “If I were to tell you I’m sorry...would you know what I mean?”

Though his arms held her tight against his chest, he knew her brows furrowed as the quiet question slipped into the night, “What do you mean, ‘would you know what I mean?’”

Silence swallowed them all at once, tired eyes slipping closed with his nose pressed into her hair. For a moment, he imagined it seemed as though he intended to leave it there. Allow the question to be just that: a question, unacknowledged and unanswered, but he could never resist the temptation of her inquiries. Sighing against the crushing weight that fell onto his chest, constricting each breath that attempted to force its way free from his throat — now drier than the Sahara — Cameron was forced to confront the nature of her question.

It had been easier, once, to answer the onslaught of inquiries from his curious companion. Eyes wide with intrigue, Lexus’ thirst for knowledge was insatiable. For a quiet man, he never seemed at a loss for words, reveling in the power it gave him — that she gave him. Each answer was taken as gospel, as if he were the most trusted authority on every matter that came to mind. For the first time in his 28 years of existence, Cameron was taken seriously, his intellect not only trusted but praised.

Now, in the backseat of a taxi with her expectant eyes upon him, Cameron was speechless. Navigating blindly through the mess of residual anger, confusion pounded relentlessly between his temples. Something new lurked beyond the surface, tugging at him from below, endlessly dragging him ever closer towards the ghosts of his repeated failures as they rose beyond their desolate graves. Among that sad sea, three were freshly dug, all bearing the name of Hale. Heart pounding as if he had run a marathon, Cameron squeezed his eyes shut as chapped lips finally parted. Incoherent strings of syllables broke the silence first, until he found the semblance of a voice he made his own, “They’re just words.”

Soft and slow, it was a confession he admitted to no one. Two words he never spoke because they meant nothing. However, now, with the weight of a family crushed on his shoulders, Cameron was left nothing but those two empty words, uttered too often by people didn’t even mean it — or worse yet — had nothing to apologize for.

Alarms were ringing, red lights flashing as the startling realization smacked him with unrelenting force. How would he ever face himself now? Beyond every well placed joke that highlighted a fictitious sense of vanity, Cameron knew the truth: no amount of broken mirrors could ease the disgust he felt upon leveling his gaze with the two darkening hues that followed him throughout his entire life.

The black cloud of a stained reputation was nothing — a minor grievance or, most often, a badge of honor. The rumors weren’t unfounded, nor had they only surfaced in Thornewood. The talk surrounding him in Washington paled in comparison to the legend of his name in Camden. His name locked doors and drew shades. His hometown shrank from him. That was his job — better yet, it was nature. A door slammed as he walked down the street and Cameron smirked, which seemingly only terrified the town more, not unlike Mr. Hale’s paled features as he confined himself to a singular room of his own home, afraid of what monster accompanied his daughter upstairs.

For the first time in his life, Cameron regretted it. The pale features, the trembling voice — he longed to erase all signs of fear. The beast had gotten the better of him, and destroyed the Hales as a result. Lexus could never return home with him in tow.

“I don’t know how to make up for this — for any of this.” In a whisper, he voiced the sentiment bleeding from his open heart, “But I want to.” Opening his eyes, sapphire hues burned bright with exhaustion as he met her gaze. “Lex, you have to believe me, I never wanted this to happen. I just wanted to give you something I never had…and I blew it. I’m sorry isn’t enough. It doesn’t cover it. I—I don’t know how to fix this.” He shook his head, denying the arms that wrapped around him as his fiancé squeezed him. Rejecting his refusal, Lexus held him tighter, and he suddenly understood what she meant when she said sometimes it felt like he was trying to keep her together. Now, as Cameron unraveled under the cover of darkness, Lexus was the glue that held him together.

[gentleladyaims]

boris x theo

The Kids Aren’t Alright ~Fall Out Boy

“Fall to your knees, bring on the rapture. Blessed be the boys time can't capture On film or between the sheets. I always fall from your window to the pitch-black streets.

And in the end I'll do it all again. I think you're my best friend. Don't you know that the kids aren't al-, kids aren't alright?”

Just two flawed kids, each with their own demons. Tumbling through the crazy rollercoaster called life and trying to get by, just to survive. Theo finding a kindred spirit in Boris and Boris feeling like he could trust someone for the first time.

Happy Little Pill ~Troye Sivan

“Like a rock I float Sweat and conversations seep into my bones Four walls are not enough I’ll take a dip into the unknown, unknown… My happy little pill Take me away Dry my eyes Bring colour to my skies.”

Theo and Boris getting high together on life and drugs- petty crimes of shoplifting, devouring leftover food that Xandra brings home, trusting each other beyond belief. They become each other’s guiding star and their friendship becomes unbreakable.

Little Secrets ~Passion Pit

"My face blew up at such a casual sight The smattered colours of ecstatic fright The rush above me to oblivion Outlining wet sidewalks in halogen...

Let this be our little secret No one needs to know we're feeling (Higher and higher and higher)."

Tripping on acid together by the swings, Theo and Boris experience new highs and philosophize... 

Young God ~Halsey

"But do you feel like a young god? You know the two of us are just young gods And we'll be flying through the streets with the people underneath And they're running, running, running..."

Theo and Boris are attractive both in their own ways- Theo, a more classic, Upper East Side kind of preppy, academic charm, whereas Boris was a dark, almost gothic and mysterious type of bad boy. Together, with their combination of knick-knack talents and appetites for hedonism, they could either rule the world or destroy it. 

Atticus, In the Desert ~Kishi Bashi

"Oh in the desert, we tried to Love like they do in movies Face to face end of story

As twins we created an era Two souls in prime Sahara Swallowed by sand and time we play What began as an epic Ended a parched pathetic Arid and vapid like our attachments

I was in love with you, you're all I ever knew."

The two boys only have each other to hold on to and lean on in the desert. They were invincible, unbreakable, fearless- as long as they had each other. Theo regretted not convincing Boris to come back to New York with him, the instant he left- the unspoken “I love you” lingering in the air.

The Louvre ~Lorde

“Our thing progresses I call and you come through Blow all my friendships To sit in hell with you.”

Boris finds his way back to New York and Theo. Eventually he asks Theo to make a big decision and to leave his engagement party to go to Amsterdam right away with him. Theo gladly leaves behind Kitsey in a heartbeat and puts his lackluster life behind him, having no idea what horror and intense adventure awaits him...

I'll Be Alright ~Passion Pit

"I’m so self-loathing that it's hard for me to see Reality from what I dream and no one believes me No not a single thing My brain is racing and I feel like I’ll explode...

Well I’ve made so many messes And this love has grown so restless Your whole life has been nothing but this I won’t let you go unless I’ll be alright..."

After the plans in Amsterdam go awry, Theo locks himself up in his hotel room, exploding with anxiety and paranoid thoughts. He’s fucked up, he’s made mistakes, but the only thing he’s certain about is Boris. Theo starts drowning in his demons and the dark thoughts, but Boris won’t let him go and shows up. They’re both going to be alright, despite everything that happened.

Man to Man ~Dorian Electra

“Man to man, hand to hand One on one, friend to friend Are you man enough to soften up? Are you tough enough to open up? Man to man You gotta let me in.”

Theo is mad at Boris for all the things that happened in Amsterdam and how it all went down. He’s furious at Boris for showing up at his hotel with piles of money and no painting. But Boris pleads with Theo to just listen to him and to trust him- that things are going to be okay, that he made things right. That he wasn’t going to abandon Theo amidst all this chaos or leave him alone in Amsterdam. Boris just wanted Theo to trust and confide in him. 

White Mercedes ~Charli XCX

“Don't say you love me 'Cause I can't say it back Don't say you're sorry 'Cause you've done nothing bad

You know it's so hard to admit it But the only good inside of me is you, I take all of these blue and yellow pills But nothing seems to last like you...”

Theo realises that Boris has been trying to help him this whole time and risked so much to get the painting back to him. He’s amazed, incredulous at how much Boris cared about him and how they’ve survived so much. He’s been shutting everyone out, putting up walls around his heart, messing around with girls just to keep up an act- but Theo knows deep down that Boris is the one he really desires and wants to keep in his life. After everything. 

The Last of the Real Ones ~Fall Out Boy

“I am a collapsing star with tunnel vision But only for you But only for you My head is stripped just like a screw that's been tightened too many times When I think of you When I think of you

'Cause you're the last of a dying breed Write our names in the wet concrete I wonder if your therapist knows everything about me I'm here in search of your glory There's been a million before me That ultra-kind of love You never walk away from You're just the last of the real ones.”

Theo and Boris are kindred spirits, separated, torn apart, and reunited again. Somehow fate keeps bringing them back together.

[carriagelamp]

October Book Review pt1: Spooky Month

I made the conscious choice this month to try to read some “spooky” books, and honestly it’s been a really fun way to get into the Halloween spirit in a way I haven’t in years. So pt1 of my October posts will go up on Halloween, and pt2 will come after with the non-spooky books.

Scary Stories To Tell In The Dark

A classic from my childhood that I obviously had to reread the second I decide to do this. Thanks to the movie (which I also watched last August) there’s copies of these books everywhere again and I was able to pick one up cheap. Nothing “scary” for an adult reader, but some of them still gave me delightful little chills when I was reading them every night before bed! Also they’re tons of fun to read out loud -- getting to scream ME TIE DOUGH TY WALKER at my cousins was a goddamn delight.

Goosebumps: Escape From Bat Wing Hall

Readers beware. You choose the scare. 

My friends and I played with this book tons as kids, and was another delightful one to reread. I read it out loud for my girlfriend (who had never read it before) and I got to watch her die miserably multiple times in her attempt to win. OBVIOUSLY you don’t lean INTO THE MUMMY SARCOPHAGUS, fool.

Goosebumps: Wolf Skin

Last Goosebumps book I’ll mention, promise. But I was actually surprised by what a well put together story this was. The characters were nothing to write home about, but it built tension really well, and the plot twist at the end delighted me. The story starts when Alex, aspiring photographer, goes to stay with his aunt and uncle in the small community of Wolf Creek. Except he runs into something truly terrifying when he’s in the woods trying to get a good picture to submit for the Halloween Photo Contest, and strange sounds and sights seem to come from the reclusive neighbours’ house...

 Honestly, if you want to revisit you childhood Goosebumps phase (or just want something chill and “spoopy” to read that won’t take you long, since that was what I needed) I would totally recommend going with this one.

Hilda and the Mountain King

I am eagerly awaiting the second season of the show, so obviously I had to get into the comics. After the cliffhanger that Hilda and the Stone Forest left us with, I was dying to get my hands on this one. The sudden shift the story seems to take from misadventures to a greater plot was fascinating, and as always the art was gorgeous and the world so enticing I never want to leave it. After a fight with her mom, Hilda finds herself stuck in the troll mountains with no way to escape as she is right now. While Hilda learns more about troll society and her own predicament, her mom is frantically trying to find Hilda and get her home. Stunning, but don’t read without reading Hilda and the Stone Forest first.

ParaNorman

The novelization of the Laika film, and about what you would expect. If you liked ParaNorman, this is a fun, quick novel that does the movie justice, though without delivering any other real surprises and bonuses. It tells the story of Norman, a normal boy with the unusual gift to be able to speak with ghosts that no one else in town sees or believes in. Life is tricky enough, but then on the eve of the great Witch Trial that the town is famous for an ancient curse is reawakened and Norman finds himself wrapped up in the middle of it all.

I Spy: Spooky Night

Falling into my Read For Joy category of books. I loved I Spy books as a kid but was never allowed to buy them. Well, I’m an adult now who is fully capable of buying I Spy books! I spend about a week gradually solving all the riddles and it was such a wholesome joy I can’t recommend it enough. I just love looking at how the pictures are put together!

Alice Isn’t Dead

The story is about a woman who suffers from anxiety, and who recently experienced the loss of her wife, Alice. Except Alice has started appearing all over the place, in news casts, at the edge of the screen, and Keisha is compelled to follow her missing wife’s trail, taking the job as a cross-country trucker and finding herself thrust in the midst of horrors she could never have imagined.  I’m not finished this one, but so far it is unfortunately disappointing. I really enjoy the podcast, but the novelization leaves something to be desired. Switching from the original spoken person framing device to plain prose means a lot of the chilling, unsettling, and beautifully poetic descriptions have been dropped, and the the writing feels a lot flatter and less compelling to me. I wish they’d done what they did with the Welcome To Night Vale adaptation and just kept it in it’s original script format. Still, it’s intriguing story, and I always enjoy some queer lit.

Warren the 13th and the Whispering Woods

It has a similar heart to The Series of Unfortunate Events, though a little less melancholy and a bit more fantastical. This is the second book of the series that follows a young boy, Warren, the 13th in a line of Warrens who have always run the hotel. Once the hotel fell into his uncle’s care though, after his father’s death, it became increasingly run down and dilapitated, though Warren worked the hardest he could to keep it running. Filled with secrets, riddles, witches, monster, and off-the-wall adventure, it’s a engaging, easy read. The biggest highlight though? The pages are all SO MUCH FUN TO LOOK AT

xxxHolic

One of my old manga that I reread this month. Not true “horror” by any means, but I’ve always loved stories that play with a just-beyond-your-vision, cosmic sort of spookiness. Filled with lots of ghosts, a spirits, and forces working against Watanuki, you get a story of a high schooler trying to deal with mundane problems like friendship, a difficult boss, as well as his place in the universe and exactly how dangerous that place might be. One of my favourite manga, tbh, and there are definitely better descriptions out there. Story, art, the way stories seem to start as very benign until all of a sudden the stakes shoot up? Excellent shit.

The Witch Boy

A comic series about a family in which the boys become shapeshifters and the girls become witches. Everyone knows how dangerous it is for a boy to learn witchcraft or a girl to learn shapeshifting -- that sort of hubris can have fatal consequences. And yet Aster wants nothing to do with shifting, and does everything he can to sneak around his family and learn the witchcraft secrets the rest of his family is learning, he knows that this is his calling. Beautiful art and a great exploration of gender norms through the lens of fantasy; I can’t wait for the next book in the series.

The Okay Witch

Another cute graphic novel about witches. This one about a girl who is shocked to discover that not only does she have magical powers... but so does her mom! Something that’s been kept a secret from her for her entire life. This one also has lovely art, though the story is nothing particularly new. It’s worth the read, but between the two Witch Boy delivers the stronger adventure in my opinion.

Deltora Quest

Another one that isn’t necessarily “Halloween-y” but the covers of these books always scared my brother too much to read, so I figure I can include it. This was my favourite children’s series growing up and to this day I still genuinely love the story. It’s the epitome of an adventure quest, and Emily Rodda went hard when it came to the monsters and horrors she populated her books with. One of the best series out there for grade two or three readers in my opinion, as it really introduces the idea of a continuing narrative that builds from book to book and can have plot twists not just within a single book but within an over arching series.

Liō

A cutely dark comic strip series about Liō, a Weird Kid, and occasional mad scientist, necromancer, world destroyer, and prankster. Almost entirely visual, with minimal text, it’s such a charming comic there’s no excuse for not reading it. Go find some of the strips online, they’re a delight.

[vestsfriends]

Divided But United (an Andi Mack HP AU Fanfic) Chapter 3: “A Common Enemy”

Pairings: Jonah Beck/Cyrus Goodman, Andi Mack/Walker Brodsky, Buffy Driscoll/Marty, Reed/Kira, Amber Kippen/Iris, and many more to come.

Characters: Andi Mack, Jonah Beck, Cyrus Goodman, Buffy Driscoll, TJ Kippen, Amber Kippen, Walker Brodsky, CeCe Mack, Bex Mack, Bowie Quinn, Pat Driscoll, Iris, Reed, Lester, Kira, Kaitlin, Kip, Natalie, Gus, Leo, Libby, Dr. Metcalf, Coach Rez, Mr Coleman, and many original characters.

Word Count: 2578

Taglist: @andimackshitposts @pastelnightgale @dociousjonah

“Jonah?”

“Wait- huh?”

The four teens faces were absolutely dumbfounded. They all remained jaw-dropped, staring at each and every one of them with confusion written all over their faces. The silence soon became quite unbearable so Buffy took the initiative and broke it.

“You guys,” she gestured her hand over to Jonah. “He’s the guy I was telling you about yesterday, he was the dude I met outside of the Quidditch supply outlet!” Buffy enthusiastically waltzed over to where Jonah stood, punching his shoulder in a friendly way.

Andi followed after her friend, her dark copper eyes sparkling in the morning sunlight as she made her way over to Jonah with his overloaded cart of items. Andi pointed to the young owl sleeping soundly inside of its small cage. “And I met him inside of Eeylops Owl Emporium, I helped Jonah pick out his new pet owl right here.” She smiled and raised her head proudly.

Cyrus lifted his eyebrows. “Really? It’s such a weird coincidence that we all met Jonah yesterday in different parts of Diagon Alley.” The dark-haired boy shifted to face his childhood friends and add on his own story of how he met Jonah. “Remember when I told you guys last night that there was someone in Ollivanders who was able to get their wand after only just the second try?” Cyrus’ compliment made Jonah feel a light blush begin to creep onto his cheeks. The green-eyed boy started to rub his lower neck, which, fortunately, nobody seemed to notice him doing.

Andi and Buffy nodded their heads in unison, signaling Cyrus to continue. “That ‘someone’ was Jonah,” he smiled at the blushing boy who was relieved to hear that Cyrus didn’t touch on the part when Jonah’s entire face was covered in ashes. “And I was lucky enough to see him again today.” Cyrus’ eyes now remained fully on Jonah’s even after he finished his recall of their first meeting. The girls took notice of the loving gaze Cyrus was giving Jonah, but they decided to not mention it.

For Jonah, he found the current situation oddly strange, but quite beneficial on his behalf that he had already made new friends before even entering his new school. He never felt so at ease, to him it felt like a huge weight had been lifted off of his shoulders. The few previous months leading up to the present had been beyond nerve racking for him. In past years, Jonah had a continuously rough time with making friendships and sustaining them, so he did not have that many. Yet, despite his bad luck, his parents always reassured him that he would “meet the right people” at Hogwarts. Jonah was now definite that the people standing before him fit the description perfectly.

Jonah’s trip down memory lane was cut short by Andi. “I think it was destined that we all meet,” she predicted, confident that their meetings were not just a mere coincidence. “The universe set us up so we could all be friends.”

Buffy rolled her eyes in a huff. “I think your dad is rubbing off on you too much.” She crossed her arms and raised an eyebrow at the short-haired girl. “He literally thinks everything on the planet is spiritual, including plants and inanimate objects.”

Andi shrugged, a chuckle escaping her lips. “Well, he is the professor of herbology.”

“Your dad is one of the Hogwarts professors?” Jonah asked. “Cyrus was just telling me about that earlier.”

“See, I told you, I don’t lie,” Cyrus chirped.

Jonah was opening his mouth to retaliate before all four teens heard a loud rumbling sound echoing in the distance that began to come closer and closer to the platform. A horn sounded, the volume rising quickly as it traveled on the train tracks. Jonah, Cyrus, Andi and Buffy saw a huge puff of smoke leave the smokestack before they brought their attention upon a large rusty red and gray lined express train exit through the smog. The Hogwarts Express was such an old vehicle that the paint along the sides of it were wearing away, giving the train a very filthy and chipped exterior. Nevertheless, the four soon-to-be-Hogwarts-students jumped to the front of the line before any other students could.

“We’re going to find a compartment together, right?” Jonah was a little shy to ask. He definitely did not want to mess up his words around his new friends, but he did not want to seem too clingy either.

Cyrus turned to look at Jonah. “No, we’re all going in separate cars.” He stared blankly at the anxious green-eyed boy and blinked very slowly at him before his expression altered. “Of course we’re gonna go together!” Cyrus shook his head and laughed, gripping Jonah’s shoulder. “We’d never leave you by yourself.”

“All aboard!” The conductor announced from the train.

The four teens carefully stepped onto the old fashioned train, overwhelmed with excitement that in a few hours they would be arriving at Hogwarts. They each handed their train ticket to the conductor politely, then all walked together to find a car for themselves. Any other passenger riding on the train would say that the four adolescents looked like a pack of animals, seeing as they were walking side by side as if they had been inseparable since birth.

“Here, do you guys want to bunk in this one?” Buffy pointed to a train car that was clean, and appeared to be slightly more expanded than the others, which was perfect for the four of them and all their luggage.

“Yeah, sure.” Jonah agreed as he followed Buffy’s lead.

The four friends set down their bags onto the floor of the train car and sat on the cushioned seats. Buffy sat by the window with Andi sitting silently on her right, and across from them sat Jonah, eagerly peering out the window, with Cyrus to his left. Although it didn’t seem like it from how calmly Jonah sat down, the green-eyed boy was more than delighted to have Cyrus sitting so closely to him on the cushion. And because of that, only Cyrus noticed that Jonah’s ears had turned red.

“So, guys,” Buffy broke the ice. “What Hogwarts house do you guys think you’ll get into?” She glanced upon her friends with a wild grin.

Andi replied to her friend first. “Mmm maybe Gryffindor or Ravenclaw for me.” She looked up at the ceiling deep in thought.

Cyrus nodded his approval. “I think I’ll probably get into Hufflepuff,” he wasn’t exactly sure. “I don’t think any of the other houses fit me honestly.”

Buffy, Andi, and Cyrus all turned to Jonah, who was staring intently at the dusty floor, awaiting his response. He snapped out of his thoughts and quickly apologized. “Oh, uh, I’m s-sorry,” He avoided their eyes and his attention fell on his hands, which were visibly shaking. “I don’t really know.”

“Hey,” Cyrus spoke softly, carefully inching his body closer to Jonah and placing a hand over his. “Are you alright?”

Jonah sighed, closing his eyes for a brief moment. “I wish I was.” The boy paused before continuing, “I have really bad anxiety, so whenever I make even a small mistake, my mind freaks out.” Jonah gripped his hands tightly, as he opened his eyes again. “I just want to impress you guys but I’m just not cut-out for making friends.”

His confession seemed to simmer in the air before the other three teens registered it. Jonah turned to see a pained expression written all over Cyrus’ face. Buffy and Andi shared a glance with each other and a faint smile appeared on their lips along with a glint of solemn in their pupils.

“Jonah,” Buffy’s voice was gentle and comforting. “You don’t need to impress us, we already like you for who you are. It doesn’t matter if you have anxiety or not, everyone has their own issues that they have to deal with.”

“Hell, I used to have panic attacks too,” Cyrus chimed in, wrapping an arm around Jonah’s shoulder and pulling him closer to show his support. “I used to become a literal human waterfall, I looked so soaked.”

Jonah cracked a small smile. “Thanks you, guys.” The three teens nodded in return, their conversation now shifting back to a much lighter topic. They chatted about their home lives and caught Jonah up with all the crazy adventures Buffy, Cyrus, and Andi had experienced in their youth. They all bonded, the four of them growing closer despite only meeting Jonah the day before.

Many minutes soon passed by, the four teenagers unaware of how long they had been talking, and an announcement sounded over the speaker from the conductor. He informed the passengers on the train that the they would be arriving at Hogwarts very shortly.

Jonah immediately perked up. “Woah, has it been two hours already?” The green-eyed boy was shocked at how fast time had flown.

Buffy raised her eyebrows in disbelief. “Psh, apparently. Wow, who knew that talking about our insane backstories would take so long.” Next to her, Andi held back her laughter.

“Guys, we’re literally going to be at Hogwarts in a few minutes…” Cyrus told his friends. “How are you not freaking out right now?”

Jonah patted his friends’ shoulder and chuckled. “Trust me, I am. But I’ve been ready for this moment for a long time.” He gazed off into space, starry eyed. He was recalling the time when he told everything he wanted to do at Hogwarts to his parents. The green-eyed boy sighed happily.

Suddenly, the Hogwarts express train came to a halt. The moving lands of green trees and bushes that they had seen during their trip were now gone, the only color that filled the space outside of the train was black except the dim yellow light escaping the crescent moon. It was now late evening, and the sun had long set, but the first-year students hadn’t lost any of their energy.

Andi, Cyrus, Jonah, and Buffy filed out of their compartment, following the other first year students who were exiting off of the train. They remained in a huddle, until a staff member from Hogwarts escorted the kids down a shady pathway until they came to a fleet of small boats.

The four teenagers’ attention drifted away from the sparkling lake up to the large school that stood behind it. Jonah audibly gasped, drawing in the cold air that was surrounding him.

What they saw was extraordinary, nothing like any picture they had ever seen in The Daily Prophet. Hogwarts was even bigger than they imagined, it’s pillars standing wide and tall, nearly scraping the tops of the clouds. It appeared to be illuminated from the inside, a multitude of colors beautifully bouncing off its bricks giving the school a bright exterior. The gigantic building didn’t even seem like a school, more like a castle for a royal family to live in.

The Hogwarts gatekeeper motioned the group to keep moving as the students arranged themselves into the many small boats. The four teenagers rode across the lake in silence, but occasionally grinned at one another with excitement.

~

After a short while, the boats stopped at the shore. The students were ordered back into a group as they followed the gatekeeper of Hogwarts down a twisty path to the entrance of the school. Many of the other first-year students within the group started talking quite loudly behind them, slowly separating from the rest of the group.

“Can you believe it? We’re going to be Gryffindors together, Natalie!”

“I’m going to become a seeker as a first year, just like Harry Potter!”

“We haven’t even been sorted into our houses yet-”

“Becca, you can’t be serious…”

“Hah! Like they’d pick you to be seeker, I’m the one who’s had three years of flying camp on my resume.”

Three male students that Buffy, Cyrus and Andi were unfamiliar with laughed at a student in a mocking manner. But Jonah had found something strangely familiar about the three boys.

Those were the guys from outside Eeylops Owl Emporium...

Jonah immediately felt his face constrict. He realized that the three boys must have been making fun of the girl, and despite his major anxiety, he was never a bystander when someone was being bullied.

Jonah marched straight over to the three bullies without any second thought. “Hey! Stop it, you’re making a scene for no reason. You shouldn’t make fun of other people for what they want to be.” The green-eyed boy glared at the three bullies.

A blonde-haired boy who appeared to be the leader of the three, stepped forward. “Oh yeah? Do you even know who I am, kid? I’m Reed Greyson, and you’re going to regret saying that.” His mouth formed a smug smile as he glanced down and looked over Jonah’s hand-me-down robes. “Plus, the last time I checked I didn’t take orders from a low-class child who can’t even afford decent clothes.” He high-fived his two friends while cackling.

Jonah opened his mouth to fight back before his three newly-made friends came up from behind him to back him up.

Cyrus grasped Jonah’s shoulder and stared very intensely into Reed’s eyes. “Congrats Reed, you have a lot of money, so what? Just because you’re wealthy doesn’t mean you can buy yourself a better attitude.”

Cyrus’ comeback earned many “Ooh’s” from the other students, along with a few kids laughing. Reed was not pleased in the slightest.

He walked up to Cyrus, his clean sleek shoes roughly stomping against the dirt. Nobody knew what he was planning on doing because his revenge was cut short by the gatekeeper telling the students to quit fooling around and catch up with the others.

Reed slowly backed away from Cyrus, but not before letting out a grunt and glaring daggers at him and Jonah.

Andi, Buffy, Cyrus and Jonah turned to each other after Reed and his friends walked away. Jonah buried his face in his hands.

“I can’t believe I just did that.” The green-eyed boy was angry with himself. “I haven’t even taken a step inside the school and someone already has it out for me?” Jonah groaned.

Buffy came up on Jonah’s left side. “Don’t worry dude, we will won’t let Reed touch you,” she assured him. “And if he tries, we’ll beat him up.” The curly-haired girl cracked her knuckles.

Andi and Cyrus nodded at Buffy’s claim. They were ready to defend their friend’s honor no matter the cost, as long as Jonah was okay.

Cyrus went over to Jonah’s right side. “Also, I’m pretty sure that idiot’s getting into Slytherin anyway,” he predicted. “He’s more cunning than anyone else I know. Plus for some reason all the bad people end up in Slytherin.”

“True,” Andi agreed, turning to Jonah. “So you should probably avoid any Slytherins as best as you can.” She squeezed Jonah’s shoulder once she saw the frightened look on his face.

“No need to worry, Jonah,” Buffy chuckled. “The only times when you’re going to see any Slytherins are in your classes and in the hallway.”

Jonah exhaled the breath he was holding in. “You’re right. I just hope at least one of you guys end up in the same house as me.”

Cyrus shrugged. “Well, even if we don’t, we’ll still all hang out, right?”

“Right.” The other three responded in unison.

[razberryyum]

Gintama manga chap 704 (spoilers)

Part 1 of 3

~

Dear Gintama gods and Sorachi-sama,

For the past week, every time I’ve tried to write to you, my fingers would inevitably come to a stop within the first sentence because I would have difficulty committing words to the page. Right after reading this chapter, my mind was flooded with so many thoughts that I thought I would end up writing at least a 10-page letter to you. But oddly enough, each time I would start this letter, I would almost immediately be at a lost as to what to say since the only thing that kept on coming to my mind was THANK YOU. You have made me so unbelievably happy that whenever I think about this chapter, I would smile, tear up, and mentally repeat the words “thank you”. As a result, after numerous failed attempts at composing this letter, I decided to exorcise my writer’s block demons by channeling Yamazaki and commit my thank yous to paper: 704 times for the 704 joyous chapters you have blessed us with for the past 15 and a half years.

You have to understand, for what seems like forever, I’ve been so utterly scared and nervous about Gintama ending: I would worry about when it would end and how it would end, so much so that every time you even mentioned the word “final” anything, my stomach would drop and a sickening feeling of dread would wash over me. Even now as I recall the feelings of overwhelming anxiety I would experience my stomach would still perform little sommersaults and I can practically taste bile at the back of my throat. In retrospect, the last six months have been especially torturous since your threats of ending Gintama started to feel more real. And yet, somehow, every single time up until now, we would miraculously dodge the happiness-ending bullet. The relief always drove me to tears. It’s really been one heck of an emotional rollercoaster...but of course one I would gladly get on it again and again, especially if this is the end result.

I had three fervent wishes for Gintama’s finale: three humble requests that I’ve been desperately hoping you would fulfill even knowing full well that I had no right in even asking you to consider them. I figured if, by pure luck, you granted even ONE of my wishes, I would be so utterly grateful that I would probably pass out from joy. What I never, EVER could have imagined was that not only did you grant just one of my wishes, but you would actually go and fulfill all fucking three of them. Honestly, I still cannot fully believe the bountiful fortune you’ve blessed me with. It feels like I’m still dreaming. What did I do to deserve this? I’m sure nothing whatsoever so perhaps this was a mistake? Either way I am deeply grateful and if I’m going to be honest, a little frightened as well since I feel that your granting my wishes might have caused a cosmic imbalance so now I will constantly be worried about what needs to happen in order for the natural balance to be regained.

If I’m going to be honest, I think my first wish, that none of my beloved characters are killed off, is a bit of a cheat. While I was worried about the emotional fall-out a death scene would bring about, I’ve never really been worried about death as an actual fearful concept in Gintama since you’ve long established that there is an afterlife. That, in fact, ghosts and spirits and even demons have been happily living side-by-side with human beings, so death is not the actual end of existence. Even as I shed a tear over someone’s passing, a part of me would think, but it’s ok, they can now reunite with their loved ones or maybe even come back as a force ghost if the mood strikes you one day. My faith in the afterlife in Gintama is so strong, that even if everyone had actually perished in that Altana flash, I would have been at peace with it because now they’re all together in the great beyond. In fact, I think one interpretation of everything that followed the flash could be that the entire gang is actually in their afterlife.  It’s not the most desirable interpretation, because there is of course a degree of sadness to that idea, but I think there is some evidence to support that notion: Gintoki’s almost melancholic expression through most of the post-blast scenes, and your words about the scale of what was lost over the image of the Yorozuya home. Not to mention the fact that most of the scenes following the Altana blast were so meta and silly that it’s hard to take them as anything but a device for you to reassurances to us about Gintama’s immortality.

And that’s really what’s so beautiful about this ending, because it’s open to interpretation, you have given us HOPE that Gintama can continue to live on, whether in our hearts, memories or even in reality, if you so choose to pick up the story where you left off all over again. You’ve inserted enough loose strings to run with: I personally would love to see what new adventures await the Yorozuya and the rest of the gang in modernized Tokyo. Or, how they would react to baby Takasugi, Shouyou or Utsuro, whoever that is (or maybe the kid is an amalgam of all three of them, with some Oboro thrown in). You can literally bring them back in any timeline and setting, and that’s why I found your beautiful words of our Yorozuya breaking through worlds, eras and panels to be here to wipe away our tears especially poignant since it’s absolutely the truth. You have ended the current story in a way where it doesn’t even feel like an ending, but rather just a pause and a breath before a new beginning.

Continued in Part 2 (posted)...

[make-it-mavis]

Anchor

Wreck-it Ralph/Ralph Breaks the Internet AU 800 words Characters: Make-it Mavis, Red (Turbo duplicate) Content warnings: Grief, anxiety

Premise: A little while into the Internet AU, after getting to know and trust Red just a bit more, Mavis sits alone in her (presumably) temporary living situation, gripped by age-old anxiety, desperately missing her long-lost quick solution.

Make-it Mavis grew up in a world that seemed smaller to her than it did to others. To most, the world ended where the arcade ended -- there was nothing beyond the building's walls, or even if there was, it was nothing for them to worry about. But the idea of it taunted Mavis. It kept her awake at night, thinking about all the colors and flavors of life that could have been just outside her shrunken world.

The one thing she never accounted for was how devastatingly lonely an oversized world could be.

In her peculiar little hotel room, Mavis sat alone in the center of the bed. The air was the perfect temperature, as always -- just cool enough that blankets were nice and cozy. Everything smelled clean, clear evidence of the housekeeping sprite that had come by in her absence. The bed was spacious, the bathroom was impressive, and the view over the hectic, criss-crossing roads of the world-wide web was otherworldly. But it was… empty.

Even with all the lights on, it was too dark. Even with the TV turned full volume on a YouTube playlist of the internet's loudest, most outrageous gamers, it was too quiet. Even with her arms tightly wrapped around herself, with her eyes straining from staring at the bright screen, with an old familiar song humming in her throat, she felt… unsafe. As if everything around her could have crumbled away at any moment, leaving her to fade into the void, alone.

The internet was proving to be everything she had ever hoped for in her early years, but… its wonders dwarfed her, blinded her, turned her reality upside down and shook out the loose bits. Keeping her feet had been harder than she imagined, and she had always been so remarkably nimble. It may have been that the one whose hand would normally steady her had gone out of her life long before she ventured out. He was the one she could always count on. He was the one she did everything with. He was, in so many ways, her partner.

He was her anchor.

He should have been there. He should have lived to see it all. Going at this adventure without him felt so wrong, and she scarcely missed him more than when her seemingly random anxiety attacks would hit. Just one touch from him could start to bring her down to reality again. But all she had left of him was his scarf and goggles, and the faint scent of him left in the fabric was not helping that night. She needed more.

She looked at her “cell phone” sitting by her feet. She could not call her dearly departed, but… with someone's help, she could almost pretend that she was. The whole world of guilt she felt for her actions was crushed under the weight of her anxiety. She needed relief more than anything.

Snatching up the phone, she opened her tiny list of contacts and found “Red.” Swallowing hard, she hit the button for a video chat.

Her heart pounded as the dark screen awaited his response, but before long, her device was lit up with a face. A familiar, smiling, uniquely handsome face, with ashy grey skin and darkly ringed, molten yellow eyes. It was the very same face of the man she missed so dearly, but it was not him at all.

“Hey Mav,” Red said to her, his smile disappearing at the look on her face. “What's goin’ on over there? Is that your TV?”

“Yeah, yeah, I'm just watching Let's Plays,” Mavis told him, her voice hoarse and dry. “Uh, listen, are you busy?”

From somewhere off screen, she heard one of his brothers call, “Yes, he's busy.”

“Guys, c'mon,” Red scolded them. “No, I'm not busy. Why? D'you need somethin’?”

Even though his tone was sweeter, his voice sounded just like the departed love of her life. Just hearing Red talk made the original Turbo feel so close to her. It was distracting enough to cause her to pause, practically holding her breath.

“Mav, are you-- are you okay?” he asked softly, his face filling with worry.

“Yeah,” she sighed, combing a hand back over her hair. “Yeah, I'm just-- I just-- I need-- uh… Can you come over?”

“Well-- Now?”

“Yeah.”

“Yeah… yeah, totally. Just gimme ten minutes, and I'll be there,” he smiled reassuringly. “Hang tight, ‘kay?”

“‘Kay,” she nodded. “‘Kay. Seeya soon.”

The video call faded out to her phone background of a raccoon covered in rainbow birthday cake, and she tossed it to the end of the bed.

Maybe she really could not feel the touch of her loved one again. But the very closest she could get was on his way.

She could hate herself for it later.