#you would never know he's demented until you spent like a month with him

[todayisafridaynight]

Mine is not SUBTLE. He probably wears rainbow underwear that says I love Daigo Dojima written on them. Like I identified his character in Ishin purely based of off the gay vibes he was giving me. Mine is the gay disaster rep we deserve.

mine's a distinguished homosexual who relatively functions like a semi-normal human being until the second daigo takes a nap for two weeks THEN he's a category 4 disaster

[freelanceexorcist]

I mean it when I say I'm done with all things political and I'm no longer watching the news (if something big happens, I'm sure I'll hear about it somehow). So this is my closing argument on that front.

Cut for length.

Those of you who choose to continue to engage will be seeing a lot of blame assignment in the coming days and months. Every pundit will be weighing in with their ill-informed opinion on who's responsible for this. I'll save them the trouble.

Blame the men who hate women more than they love their country or even their own miserable hides. You won't have to look too far to find one of those.

Blame the white women who are desperate to be picked by these men.

Blame the media who spent the whole election cycle sanewashing that demented fucking monster while ignoring the very real accomplishments on the other side.

Blame the shitheads who thought it was safe to sit this one out.

Blame the turncoats on our own side who bayed for Joe Biden's blood because he had a bad night and didn't stop until he caved to them. Nah, scratch that, those people never accept blame for anything.

Blame the foreign-born oligarchs who would rather see the country burn to the ground than pay their fair share to keep it running.

Plenty more where that came from. Plenty of blame to go around.

And here's some advice if you're open to it. If you're not, consider this the end of the post.

*Puts on "old lady who's seen some shit" hat*

If you're terrified of what the future holds, don't live all four years at once (credit for this approach goes to user King Beauregard over at The Establishment Bar). Take each day as it comes. Each hour as it comes. We survived him once and we WILL survive him again unless he starts a nuclear war, in which case there was nothing any of us could have done to stop it anyway. I wouldn't worry about that, though. He's so far gone I doubt he remembers how to tie his own shoes let alone what to do with the nuclear football.

Take care of yourself. This is sacrosanct. Do what makes you happy and soothes your nerves. We have a limited amount of time on this rock, so don't spend it staring at a screen in anticipation of the next horrible thing he will do or say. Ride it out and be kind to yourself in the process. We have four years of positive progress ahead of us and we will go into 2026 and 2028 with strength and resolve.

Don't game out worst-case scenarios or catastrophize. We don't know what's going to happen tomorrow let alone over the next four years. About the only thing that can be confidently speculated upon is that he is very unlikely to survive much longer and will most likely not make it another four years. Yes, then we will be saddled with President JD Vance, First of His Fake Name, but not forever. Mike Pence was a bland husk who made the right patriotic face noises and was the personification of the word “invisible,” but JD is an obvious and glaring creep who is about as appealing as a broken toilet with a deuce left in the bowl and has achieved the near impossible goal of making Ted Cruz seem likable in comparison. He likely won't win a re-election bid as long as the Democratic party chooses the right white man.

Unplug. Dump Twitter and try a service like Bluesky if you want to continue using social media. Distance yourself from any site that's set up to allow engagement farmers to get maximum exposure by pissing off as many people as they can then letting human nature take its course so they can make a few pennies, turning the place into an anxiety-spiking hellscape in the process (looking at you, Twitter, TikTok, Reddit, etc.). Stick to sites that produce content that gives you joy.

If you choose to continue to engage, engage at the local level. Get school board members, mayors, council members and state Representatives elected. Those offices may not seem important, but they absolutely are. They could very well be the firewall between you and the United States of Gilead if the worst were to come to pass. Organize at the local level instead of attending some million-woman march that will almost certainly be co-opted by corporate, political and Hollywood interests who want to look like they give a fuck about you and abandon you once they get their narcissistic supply. A bunch of small fires are a lot harder to put out than one big one.

Don't conflate what happened in other countries with what could happen here. Attempts to break us will be made, but we are not Afghanistan. We are not Iran. We are not Nazi Germany or Franco's Spain. We are not Russia. Whatever may or may not happen here will happen within the framework of the systems we have set up, our current circumstances, our history and our people's resolve. He failed once, and now that he's in obvious cognitive decline, he will likely fail again.

I'm not going to tell you everything will be OK, because I don't know whether it will or not. The future is a huge question mark just as it always has been. But what I will tell you is that how you react to whatever happens is entirely up to you. If you find yourself ruminating, stop and apply the techniques used in cognitive behavior therapy (CBT). Reframe your thoughts in a positive or at least neutral way. Do breathing exercises. I ask you to trust me when I say these things help.

That's about all. We've got this. We didn't think we could survive the first regime, but we did. We've been on this road before and as The Boss sings, nobody's kiddin' nobody about where it goes. It sucks that we've been thrust into it again by people who really should have known better, but you play the card you're dealt. We can do this.

[vamp-orwave]

You have so many good blorbos! Cam I ask about Lex and Fennel? It seems like they're PCs you're currently playing? What's going on with them? :3c

I thought about this all night and couldn't find a way to convey any of this concisely, so I settled for an info dump haha 🙃

So, Lex was a former troubled teen and high school dropout struggling with depression and homelessness long into her mid 20s. She was just getting back on her feet when her new neighbour, who happened to be a Malkavian, became convinced that she was an inquisition spy. She abducted Lex one night, tied her to a chair, tortured and eventually embraced her.

You could say this was a pretty traumatic event, and as far as Lex is concerned, she's the only vampire around that actually reacts appropriately to having been murdered. As such, she's highly anxious around other kindred, will avoid getting to close to them, can't stand being touched by them, and doesn't do well in restraints.

unLuckily for her, professional help was available! After her sire was put to death by the Camarilla for the unauthorized embrace, she was taken in as a patient of her sire's sire, the Malkavian Primogen of Adelaide, psychologist Dr Philip Hayes, who treated her basically like a pet very well. Like many sires/childer, they had a very contentious but also deeply meaningful relationship until the Anarchs sprung her from his hospital several years ago.

Since then, Lex has;

* Joined her coterie, the therapy group Bloodsuckers Anonymous

* Somewhat reluctantly supported the Anarchs in their war campaign to take the city, mostly through her premonitions and brainstorming

* Slowly become more accustomed to being around other vampires (though she's still always on edge)

* Leaned into dementation and used it to break a Tzimisce's mind

* Really tried her best not to freak out, to mixed results.

Last year was when her arc really came full circle. Her coterie put on a charity concert that was crashed by the Sabbat, and the mass of casualties sent her spiralling. Dr Hayes used the opportunity to lure her back to him, and he blood bonded her under the guise of a new "treatment." She spent a few harrowing weeks navigating her conflicting feelings about safety vs freedom and love vs hate, before her friends rescued her again and blew up Hayes' office, destroying his work.

A few months later, she tracked him down to finish the job with the help of the Anarchs' geriatric war vet Caitiff, John. She confronted Hayes, kept him talking while John snuck in the back, had their first and last therapy session on equal footing where he announced the culmination of his research; to cure the clan's madness, he would have to kill Malkav. Sadly Hayes would never have the opportunity, as John staked him and helped Lex drive a knife through his spine until the final death.

Lex recovered what remains of Hayes' notes and research. She told him, as he died, that she wouldn't let his work be in vain, but she still doesn't quite know whether she was lying. At the very least, if an antediluvian comes to town, she'll be a little more prepared.

That's a lot for one post, so if you still want to know about Fennel, send me a separate ask lol!

[sylvie-writes]

Dr. Husband

word count: 5278

pairing: doctor steve rogers x wife reader

warnings: talks about heat exhaustion? there’s nothing graphic, but if the hospital theme bothers you, then this isn’t the fic to read!

prompts (from @/fluffyomlette): “Your pulse is a little high. Is it because I’m holding your hand?” and “You’re not supposed to pick favourites, doc.” “Trust me, if I didn’t, you’d be dead by now.”

a/n: this just popped in my head about a month ago and i had to write it for no explainable reason. i really couldn’t think of a title oops. if you all have a better idea please tell me so i can change it lol.

please excuse any mistakes!

Summer was finally in full force, blazing sun rays beamed down on the dry ground and once gorgeous flowers drooped in dire need of water. Sounds of children playing outside, pool water splashing as a result of cannonballs, while lawnmowers whirled to life and laughter from the watching wives resounded this afternoon. In your neighborhood, it was tradition that the women would get together every other Saturday and have drinks in the cul-de-sac while their husbands had unsaid competitions of manicuring their yards. Unfortunately for you, your husband was a doctor and that meant little time for him to do the yard, and you didn’t have children at the moment that could go play with the others. The women who were your neighbors were a bit too picky choosy for your taste. They only seemed to bond over their children and sitting around home, two of which you didn’t have or do, so you weren’t ever truly invited to their day-drinking. It was actually fine with you as these people were so hot n’cold and you were just tired of trying to fit in with faux friends. You had plenty of true friends and then your husband who was a child of his own.

For three weekends so far, Steve had told you he’d cut the lawn and as much as you wanted to believe him, you knew that he was so exhausted from work and being on call a majority of the time, that he would never find the hours to do so. That was okay with you because what he did was important and you weren’t gonna be on his ass like the feds about the yard when you could easily do it yourself. It wasn’t like he was just sitting around, no, he was working so you just decided to cut the lawn yourself, something you’d done plenty of times before. 

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Unfortunately the day you chose to do so, the sun was out blazing and a simple walk out the door was a trip to an off-brand hell. Instead of making a wise decision and waiting to cut the grass in the evening, you chose the latter and decided to cut the grass at noon, the very time the sun was in full shine. 

Dressed in attire for yard work and having already eaten a sandwich for lunch, you headed out the garage door to tackle the mess there in hopes of finding the push mower within. Steve’s father, Joseph, had given you both a lot of his lawn equipment, but the riding mower was broken at the moment and you (again) stupidly decided to push mow the almost two acre lawn. It took a good half hour to get the darned thing out on the driveway and while doing so, you noticed that your neighbors, the wives to be exact, had decided to come out for one of their occasional and somehow spontaneous get-togethers which consisted of unattended kids drawing with chalk as their mothers sat a few feet away dipping their feet in the small splash pool. You often found the idea both inventive and funny. 

For only a second more did you let your attention linger on the group before returning back to fill the lawn mower with gasoline. After doing so, you tossed on a pair of sunglasses and went full steam ahead with cutting the grass, disregarding the rising, and very unsafe, temperature. 

About an hour in, the temp had already risen to be above 100 and something no one should have spent any longer than half an hour in. Steve had always said you were stubborn at all the wrong times and boy was he right. You had just finished up half of the front yard and quarter of the back yard. It was mad that you were actually thinking about pushing mowing two acres, especially in this unruly weather. 

You were so determined and when your mind was set on something, you let all other matters slip away, including regards for your own health. The unusual amount of sweat on your skin seemed to go unnoticed by you as well did the growing headache. 

Finally, about half an hour later, more of the backyard was finished and your inner saboteur continued to influence your goals. 

“Just finish this half and you will be close enough to the end,” translated into “Just finish the whole yard, you might as well since you are this close.” 

This was the worst mindset to have, especially with the given circumstances as you had been out here for at least two hours, no drinks of any sort, no real breaks aside from fueling the lawn mower, and no cares to the worsening symptoms that now included noticeable dizziness. 

The lawn mower eventually ran out of gas and you went to refill it once more. Making your way through the front yard, your unknown adrenaline rush came to an end along with the machine’s power. It wasn’t until your vision started to star and blur that you finally noticed your decline in health, but by then it was too late and you were on the plush and groomed grass of the front yard. Ironically, you noticed the fruits of your labor since you were currently laying on it.

Five minutes had passed since your drop to the ground and one of the ladies out in the court, Genevieve, noticed your figure, quite the contrast to the viridescent grass. Despite that she thought you were “demented” for cutting the grass yourself, she knew you weren’t unhinged, so to say, that you would just lay on the grass as it would serve no purpose to do so. She didn’t take you for a nature lover either so this was not normal. 

Genevieve squatted down in the lawn, her sparkly sandals reflecting in the sea of green. Unknowing of what to do, the woman in a panic threw the back of her hand to your forehead and you burned hotter than a metal kettle. By time she stood, the other ladies had gathered around and were now circling in mass hysteria as if they were staring at a dead body and not your unconscious, yet breathing frame. Many long seconds later, Priscilla, who was Genevieve’s closest friend and who despised you as much as you did her, decided to call 911. The other moms then left to go usher their children away from what they described as a “traumatic experience” and back to their large homes for some sort of last minute luncheon. 

Eventually, an ambulance arrived in your usually quiet neighborhood, something that was clearly displayed as almost every neighbor popped their heads out of their houses in sheer curiosity. Their nosey nature often bothered you but was normally put behind some sort of service act such as a baked cake or bottle of wine just to be invited into your house. You didn’t miss the way your neighbors would study your house when they were finally welcomed in. Steve was much better at hiding his cross nature and would return some compassion of his own while you struggled to bottle your annoyance and sealed it with a forced smile. As luck would have it though, you were knocked out and couldn’t give them a piece of your mind for staring because heavens know this would’ve been the last straw and no one could have stopped your rant. 

It was when you were in the red wagon and being attended over by paramedics that you noticed you were on the way to somewhere that wasn’t home. 

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 At the hospital, the doctor and nurses hydrated you back to reality and suddenly you appeared in a bed, a doctor standing at the side with a clipboard in hand allowing your mind to draw up a million conclusions before you remembered what you had done last. 

The doctor spoke a fast introduction and he then moved on to fill you in on what had happened as confusion still painted your face although when he told you Genevieve’s account of what led up to your ultimate passing out, you visibly cringed at such carelessness that ended up bringing you here. Hundreds of falls, burns, and bruises thanks to your clumsy nature, but this had to be the one thing to send you to the hospital. Some sort of twisted joke it sure was. 

Moving to roll a stool to your bedside, the doctor passed you a cold bottle of water before bringing his eyes to give your IV a quick check as a nurse had put it in not too long before you awoke. 

“Luckily, Mrs. Rogers, your neighbors found you in time and you only experienced severe heat exhaustion. Had you prolonged your exposure anymore you could have experienced a heat stroke. For now, I ask that you rest and I’ll come back to release you.” The doctor expressed his reassurance with a kind grin before walking out of the plain and boxy room that could make one go insane with its lack of liveliness. 

Staring out the open doorway and into the empty hallway, you knew that Steve worked on this very floor, but honestly what were the chances that he’d see you? At one point he’d eventually find out about today’s mishaps, but that was a problem for later when you were more conscious and caring. Letting your worries temporarily go (something that was only happening thanks to your fatigued mind), you slightly shifted into a somewhat “comfortable” position on the stiff bed and rough cotton sheets. Albeit that there was an IV uncomfortably stuck in your arm, you fell into a much needed slumber. 

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Lunch break at last. 

That was all that had been on Steve's mind for the past three hours which had been extremely hectic. Granted, he was used to this fast-paced workplace having worked here for almost a decade, but today was absolutely out of control with injured patients coming in left and right. It wasn’t some sort of bad omen, rather just an unlucky day for many Steve had assumed. He had just finished up with a pediatric case and was now on his way to enjoy the leftover baked chicken salsa that you had made just for him last night and packed for his lunch this morning. You knew how busy his week had been and you took the liberty to make his favorite dinner dish to compensate for the work that had left such a toll on him. A smile immediately overtook his face when he walked in the house last night and that’s when you decided that you would gladly cook anything he’d like over and over again just to see that look of adoration. As Steve held you in his arms at that moment, he kept thinking how he really didn’t deserve you and little did he know, the same thought ran in your own mind. Yet, in reality, you both went together like a puzzle piece to a puzzle. Without the piece, the picture would never be completed and without the other, you and Steve would have never enjoyed life to the fullest. 

Strutting down the never ending hall, Steve passed many doors, some he had been in just a mere hour or two ago. As he walked past an open door and did a double take as he saw a patient asleep, but no sign of anyone else in the room. If he were that patient, he’d want the door shut for some privacy, something which the man highly valued, so he crossed the short distance and closed the door. He didn’t mean to look at the patient for so long as they weren’t in his care and that would be awfully creepy, but Steve could help but do a double take and noticed that the familiar face was, in fact, you. From first glance it didn’t even look like you and that was coming from the man who had studied your face just to commit it to his memory. In a loving way, of course. 

He slowly walked in your room, taking in the image before him of you lying in a hospital bed. His mind had assumed that the worst thing had happened to you and for a moment, Steve’s breathing ceased and his legs were glued to the ground. As his eyes scanned over your body again, his fears were calmed when there were no visible wounds and you just seemed to be resting. Although as a doctor, he unfortunately knew anything could be possible. 

Hunching over the top half of the bed, Steve smoothed your stray hairs away from your forehead and placed an awakening kiss there. You were a light sleeper a majority of the time and your spouse knew that this small action would wake, but not startle you. Every night he’d come home from work and do the same thing except then he knew you were safe and sound. Now, he was just filled with uncertainty. 

“What happened?” Those were the only words he was able to get out and you gave him an answer, just not one that he was looking for. You were already getting defensive and he could sense it.

“Genevieve saw me pass out in the yard and overreacted, Steven. You know they all don’t exactly have good track records with medicine.” You rolled your eyes at the last statement remembering how your neighbors have often nonchalantly tried to get Steve to diagnose them when it came to something as simple as a scrape. Then again, all of your neighbors were in the business industry so that explained their lack of medical knowledge or at least that is the excuse you drew up for them. 

“Nice try, (y/n), but you do have a medical chart and it’s over there,” Steve pointed over his shoulder and towards the doorway where a plastic chart holder sat mounted on the cream wall. “You didn’t just pass out, and the neighbors did not overreact. They did the right thing despite how much I know you hate that. Now, either you tell me the truth or I go read that file.” His tone was serious, but not condescending. Hidden in his eyes was a tad sprinkle of mischief.

Stubborn as ever, you didn’t respond and folded your arms over your chest in a form of defiance. 

Against what is probably legal, Steve picked up your medical chart to read what had happened as you wouldn’t disclose the information to him. Your husband was a worry-wart sometimes and while you appreciated how he doctored you when you were sick, he could be a bit overbearing. A great example would be the time when you were cooking dinner and burned your forearm when taking the casserole out of the oven. 

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“Babe, dinner is ready!” 

The timer on the oven was currently beeping and you walked towards it. Turning off both the oven and the timer, you grabbed a short oven mitt and reached in to grab the casserole dish off the top rack. As you did so, you lifted your arm a bit too high and hit the side of your forearm on the interior roof of the oven. The temperature was ridiculously hot and the pain was immensely strong that you immediately pulled your arm back, the casserole long forgotten. 

Steve came running in at your string of curses and came in to see you holding your arm and hissing a bit as if that would relieve the pain. He walked closer to you as you leaned up against the island. Your husband delicately took your arm in his hand, raking his eyes over the burn that was soon to blister. 

After a short inspection, Steve placed his other hand on the small over your back and led you to the sink, flipping on the cold water and running it over your burn. Out of the corner of his eye, Steve could see you squeezing your own eyes shut in pain. 

“I know, sweetheart, it hurts, I’m sorry.” He continued to rinse your scalded skin, but turned his head to sweetly kiss your temple. 

A few minutes passed and Steve was content with the rinse job as you had finally opened your eyes, even engaging in some of your jokes that were always said at the wrong time. From the kitchen, the man guided you down the hallway, through your bedroom and into your joined bathroom. He sat you on the edge of the bathroom tub while rummaging through your unorganized medicine cabinet. It was barely ever touched and when it was, it was often in a state of panic hence the messiness of it. Fortunately, Steve found a tube of bacitracin and some cotton dressings from God knows how long ago. At this point he could care less and would rather have you cared for. 

You curiously watched him as he dug through the cabinet and a loving smile grew on your face. How lucky were you to have this man. You were really appreciative of him in times like these especially. 

Said man returned and crouched before you, distracting you from your thoughts as he softly grabbed your hand once more. 

The doctor worked his magic and in no time was your arm wrapped up and lathered in ointment.

“Wow Doc, you did a great job.” Steve was still holding your hand as you quietly giggled in content. He placed a kiss on top of your knuckles and peered up at you with those gorgeous (and borderline seductive) sapphire eyes. Chuckling, Steve murmured against your skin, “Only for my favorite patient.” 

As always, you decided to play along with Steve’s playful banter. “You’re not supposed to pick favorites, doc.” 

Your husband knew your clumsy nature and seemed to have the perfect response, “Trust me, if I didn’t, you’d be dead by now.”

With your non-injured hand you went to hit his shoulder and he grabbed it in faux hurt. 

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“You know, Dr. Rogers, that is a violation and I can actually report you for it.” You lifted your line of sight to see Steve who looked back at you with his lips pressed in a fine line. He shook his head disapprovingly after reaching the end of the report and now looked like he was going to sit back in the seat beside your bed. 

“Hey, what are you doing? They already examined me and I am about to get released.” The man ignored you and instead leaned over the flimsy bed railing. Steve rubbed his hands together in a warming manner before placing two fingers on your next in an attempt to find your pulse. He unfortunately carried that common trait among doctors of having hands that were colder than that of a penguin’s ass. You knew very well this pulse check was useless as you were in conditional health and that he was probably doing this to annoy you. 

“Well I like to do a check of my own. It never hurts to get a second opinion, darling.” Blue eyes squinted at you and you returned the patronizing gesture. 

The free hand that was not on your neck had found its way to hold your own hand and when your husband pulled back, he wore a smug smirk on his lips. 

“Your pulse is a little high. Is it because I’m holding your hand?” 

“You know, your shoulders must hurt from carrying such a big head all the time.” Steve had the nerve to laugh at your elementary grade insult and even though you weren’t really mad, your face would have said otherwise to anyone else. 

“So I’ll take that as a yes then, wifey.” He then quickly dropped to press a chaste kiss to your lips before releasing your hand and sitting down in the chair. 

Looking to the clock on the wall, you focused your vision on the distant numbers to read that it was most likely Steve’s lunch break.

“Are you spending your lunch break with me?” Your tone was now sweet and soft as it usually was towards Steve and his heart leaped at the progress being made. 

“It seems that I am. ‘Was really looking forward to that chicken salsa, though.” A heap of blonde hair rested on your hand that Steve had now laid his head against, still holding tight with both of his own hands. You giggled at his dramatics and ruffled a free hand through his greasy hair. 

“I haven’t eaten anything, you think you could spend your lunch break with me?” His head popped up at this and his face held the eagerness of an energetic puppy. 

“Of course, sweetheart. We can head to the cafeteria. Hopefully they have something good for my girl.” It was now your turn for your heart to swell at his words. Not even a second later though, the sentimental moment was replaced with Steve’s usual sarcastic humor. 

“See, I love you so much that I am willing to sacrifice my precious chicken salsa just to have lunch with you. You should be grateful to have me as your husband.” Steve’s pearly whites beamed at you in a cheesy smile and you gave a dismissive wave of your hand. 

The two of you talked and enjoyed the rare time together for the next ten minutes until Steve noticed you shifting to sit up against the pillows. He thought nothing of it until suddenly you were throwing your legs over the side of the bed and making to get out of the so called cotton prison. 

Waving a finger, Steve tutted you and hurriedly scooped your legs back onto the bed. You looked absolutely peeved and Steve knew it was from the way that he was treating you like a child or better yet, a patient. His wife, the fighter and he, the doctor. Two unlikely personalities but ones that worked best together nonetheless. This made Steve laugh whenever he thought about it.

“You can get up the minute you get released by the doc, okay?” Caring eyes now gave you a pleading look and you felt a small tinge of guilt crawling up your chest at how mean you had been to your husband when he has only been trying to help. 

A knock on the wooden door signaled a visit from the one person you had been waiting on for what seemed to be ages. 

“Speak of the devil.” Muttering the phrase so only Steve could hear you gave him an “I told you so” kind of look. 

The Doctor looked up from the same clipboard as earlier to greet you once he made it in through the doorway, but he was surely surprised by the figure sitting in the chair beside you. 

“Oh Dr. Rogers, what a surprise! So this is your wife I presume? I guess I should have put two and two together,” Your doctor of the moment laughed with Steve who added in a chuckle or two of his own. 

“Yep, this is Mrs. Rogers!” Steve didn’t look at you, but lovingly squeezed your hand that was resting against his, “We are quite the handful so I am surprised you couldn’t tell that she was my other half.” A snicker ended his words and you couldn’t help but do the same. 

Once the short introductions were over, the doctor walked over to do a speedy final exam on what was necessary as Steve watched from the sidelines still getting used to the idea of not being the one doing the examination. He hadn’t been in any other position in the hospital for such a long time that it took some time to get used to the fact that he wasn’t the one diagnosing and rather waiting for the diagnosis. 

The doctor pulled away from hovering over you and now sat back on his rolling leather stool, scooting his way over to the computer and desk. 

“Well I must say, (y/n), that you definitely live up to some of the stories your husband tells.” The other man in the white coat finished up his typing before turning back around to face you and his colleague. 

“Ah, I hope he’s giving me some good street cred,” You teased and from the side you saw Steve shaking his head and chuckling under his breath. 

“I assure you that they were all good things.” With that, the doctor formally released you, walking out of the room to give you some time to redress and such.

You went to get out of the bed for the nth time, but finally succeeded. Your legs felt a bit wobbly upon the first step, and Steve noticed this. He came up to stand beside you and placed a hand on your lower back with the other out in front in case you did fall. Placing your own hand on his scrub clad chest to steady yourself, you silently thanked him with a tender pat. 

With Steve’s guidance, you went to change out of the wretched paper gown and into your shorts and shirt from working outside. It wasn’t exactly the most flattering outfit but at this moment you could care less for the only thing on your mind was getting out of this room.

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The ride in the elevator seemed to move slower than a snail and almost stopped on every floor. You were so crammed by the time you were only on the fifth floor that you used this as an excuse to lean up against Steve. He rubbed your arm and enveloped you in a side hug and planted a kiss on your head. The two of you never cared for PDA but neither of you had realized the onlooking eyes. 

You found it mildly comedic when some of your fellow passengers seemed disgusted that a doctor was handling a patient in such a way. It was definitely gonna be a joke for later on. 

Eventually you made it to the first floor and begrudgingly pushed yourself out of Steve’s warm embrace when the smell of garlic bread hit your nose. 

“Huh, they never cook spaghetti around here. They must know we have a special guest today.” Steve pressed his lips against your ear to jokingly whisper to you as he ushered you out the elevator doors. 

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Standing in line with a plastic tray at the cafeteria made you have flashbacks to middle school lunch and you shuddered at the thought. The memories played back in your mind like a movie and were interrupted (much to your relief) when Steve tapped your shoulder.

“You want this?” Steve held one of the plastic salad containers in hand, the white sleeve of his lab coat draped on top of the other stacked bowls in the open air freezer. 

You nodded and he placed it on your tray, slightly bumping your hips as he walked past to grab a drink.

༻﹡﹡﹡﹡﹡﹡﹡༺

For a good twenty minutes, you and Steve sat in comfortable silence in one of the booths until clicking clogs came closer and closer. So close that a shadow loomed over your table conveying that someone was here to speak. 

“Dr. Rogers, I don’t think it’s entirely wise of you to have lunch with your patient. Actually, it’s quite inappropriate.” The older woman in burgundy scrubs pointed her gaze to the hospital band on your wrist and both you and Steve started laughing upon noticing. So that explained all the weird looks.

“Oh no, Dr. Williams! This is my wife (y/n),” You politely beamed up at the woman and set out your hand for a handshake. At this, her unenthusiastic expression changed to one of apologetic and she shook your hand with much grief as Steve continued on with his introductions. 

“(y/n), this is Dr. Williams. She is the medical director for my department.” 

“Wow! I’ve heard many wonderful things about you, Dr. Williams.” She went to return the praise before a beeping in her coat pocket signaled the time for her departure. 

“Duty calls, but I’ll have you know this one here never shuts up about you. It was nice to finally put a face to a name, (y/n),” You glanced at Steve and noticed he was sheepishly grinning and turning redder by the second. So much so that he was hiding his face in his palms.

““I hope you have a quick recovery as well, hon!” The standing woman gave you a nod of her head and then turned to your husband whose face had finally regained its color. “As for you Steven, I will see you later. You have another resident to deal with today.” Dr. Williams sighed at the thought, waving you both goodbye and soon enough she was out the double doors of the lunch room. 

“Ooh babe you’ll have to tell me how all of that goes.” Spooning some spaghetti into your mouth, you goofily raised your eyebrows at Steve. 

“Trust me, it is not fun at all. When I was a resident, I would have never acted like some of the people I’ve trained!” 

You snorted, “Uh huh. Sureee.” 

“No really,” Steve’s eyes widened and he leaned over the table like he was sharing some sort of secret with you, “The audacity of some of these people.” 

“I think you are just an old man now, Stevie, and can’t keep up with the times.” The blond screwed up his eyes and stuck his tongue out at you. 

“Oh hush and finish your food, Miss. ‘I am soooo young’.” A napkin flew at Steve’s chest and the two of you laughed at the childish antics that had just ensued. 

Just as both of your styrofoam containers became empty, an unpleasant ringer sounded in Steve’s pocket, just like the one of Dr. Williams’s departure. Once he gave the screen a swift peek, he looked back up at you with a long face. 

“You gotta go?” Golden strands bobbed up and down as Steve nodded and you grabbed his hand. 

“It’s alright! Thank you for spending the time with me today, though. I really appreciate it. Thanks for putting up with me, you know how I am sometimes.”  

The larger hand encompassing yours gave a sympathetic squeeze. 

“Oh darling, anytime, you know that. If you need anything, call me okay? I will try my best to answer.” 

The temporary silence that filled the room was now replaced by annoying buzzing from the device that Steve had silenced for the moment. He irritability took it out and shoved it back in his pocket. Normally this didn’t bother Steve because this was his job, but since you were here, having just been sick, he wanted nothing more than to drop everything and focus on you. Knowing that was impossible, he tried his best to juggle both yet it seemed that the world wasn’t gonna wait on him. 

“Do you want me to call Ma to come get you? I’m sure she wouldn’t mind. Her and Dad love your company.” For the moment, Steve appeared to look like he was ignoring the constant beeping, but you knew internally he was already out of the cafeteria and sprinting down the halls.

“No no, I’m fine, honey,” The doctor stared at you as if he didn’t believe you. “I mean it, Steve. I am fine. Now shoo.” 

Dr. Rogers shared another laugh with you before pecking your lips and running out the room shouting, “I’ll see you later!” 

He really was too good for this world. 

༻﹡﹡﹡﹡﹡﹡﹡༺

a/n: i really enjoyed writing for doctor!steve, so if anyone has any ideas that involves him and that you’d like me to write, send it in! <3

taglist (is open!): @memissbee @tricereads @buckybarnesthehotshot @bval-1 @tonystankschild @just-one-ordinary-fangirl @turtoix @kelbabyblue @jakiki94 @aubreeskailynn @calirindo @lady-elena-adeline @siriuslyslyslytherin @sushiinmidnight @patzammit @iwik3it

[marginalgloss]

It occurred to me recently that I haven’t posted here for about nine months, and that if you knew nothing about me except for this blog, you might think that it something of a cliffhanger that I ended it on a post about expecting the arrival of my first child. (Or perhaps that would have been an entirely fitting way to end it.) Either way: I am fine, and we are fine, and last November brought the arrival of my son Robin into my life. I have been very busy almost every day since.

There are a couple of cliches about parenting that remain indisputably true. The first is that they grow up so fast. And the second is that nothing prepares you for it. We thought we were entirely ready and pretty well informed but from his delivery onwards nothing went as planned. We thought we’d feed him when he was hungry, and we’d put him to sleep when he was tired; and change his nappies, and play with him, and love him; and what else was there to it, really?

It turns out there is a lot more to it than that. Before Robin I never realised how polarised, how strained and how political people’s feelings are about matters of childcare. We’ve ended up raising him in ways we had never previously considered, partly out of necessity, and partly out of the kind of habits that grow into paths of desire across the days. Consciously or not I judge people who do things differently, and no doubt they judge me too. In spite of the reams of available literature it turns out that for many things — perhaps even most things — there isn’t necessarily a right or a wrong way to proceed.

Here is a third cliche that turns out to be extremely valuable: every baby is different.

The question of literature is a tricky one. In search of assistance I read a few parenting manuals; some of these turned out to be better than others, but I’ve yet to find a good book about what it means to be a father. Most books aimed at new dads are of the ‘pull your socks up’ variety — the kind of thing where the author imagined it thrust upon some feckless deadbeat by a weary spouse. But, being reasonably conscientious, and looking for something with a bit more depth than a guide to how to change nappies, I’ve found most books about parenting have little of interest to say to new fathers.

Being a dad is an odd thing to write about. I’ve read and heard people talk about how new mothers ought to be proud to be joining a kind of grand universal maternal tradition, one which predates even humanity itself. (Animals surely know about babies; witness my cat Louie’s endless patience with Robin’s various attempts to pull his ears off.)

People do not generally talk about the grand traditions of fatherhood in this way. And for good reason: a lot of men today wouldn’t be happy to follow the example of their own fathers, let alone imitate the conditions of detachment and distance that defined fatherhood for centuries. I want to say that expectations of fathers today have never been higher; but this is only because for most of recorded history, we had no expectations of fathers at all. In the space of perhaps two or three generations we have gone from the idea that a father should only have to provide for a child’s upkeep (and not slap them around too much) to a very immediate understanding of dadhood as a central plank of parenthood.

Perhaps a lot of this speaks more to my own insecurities than it does to anyone else’s. Still, I feel like there’s an easy camaraderie between mothers that isn’t apparent between fathers. My wife has developed a little circle of local mums with whom she’s in constant communication, whereas the WhatsApp group we created for the fathers in our NCT group has languished in silence. I don’t really have anyone with whom to compare notes. And what would we say if I did?

The pandemic has put us in an unusual situation. Ordinarily I would have had two weeks’ paid paternity leave, plus any holiday time taken alongside that. So I took three weeks off work — but I’m still working from home every day, as I have been since March 2020. This means that instead of watching me disappear to work five days a week, my son has spent every day of his life together so far with both his parents. I don’t even know where to begin with writing about the way this has changed us; perhaps I won’t know how to talk about it until it comes to an end.

It does mean that parenting feels like it has consumed my life in ways that might not have otherwise been the case. Being at home for so long with a new baby was a remarkable opportunity, and in the early days — through winter and the Christmas lockdown — it didn’t feel like I was missing out on much. Things are a little different now. Every absence independent from my family feels like it requires a negotiation as much with myself as with anyone else. And I don’t only mean literal absences. Someone new has come into my life and they have no tolerance for anything else that might be meaningful to me. So many of the things against which I used to define myself have necessarily had to be neglected.

It goes without saying that I haven’t written much. Whatever free time I have at the moment is normally spent collapsed in an exhausted heap on the sofa, watching TV. I can count the number of books I’ve actually finished in the last eight months on one hand; I have started and set aside perhaps two dozen. I feel very remote from the person who spent several years documenting here every book he finished.

Games have fared a little better. In the early days, when I found myself with some late night hours to myself, I picked up the remastered Bioshock collection. It took me months, but I eventually finished all three: the first game is a masterpiece, the second is a very decent sequel, and the third is probably the greatest missed opportunity in all of gaming. (I ended up writing several thousands of words about the games, over the course of weeks — the only thing of substance I’ve written since Robin was born, in fact — which I since abandoned, in a fit of self-doubt and impatience with my own tortuous style.)

But I mean it when I say that the first game is a masterpiece. I had forgotten just how immensely absorbing it is — a journey into another world that’s less realistic than it is gloriously theatrical. Every time I think about it I feel like I want to replay it again. And it never really occurred to me before that Bioshock is about parenting as much as it is a picture of Objectivism in decay. It hits different now, as the kids say.

While driving over the weekend I passed the word ‘DADDY’ outlined in rich pink flowers, laid in memorial at the centre of a roundabout. It made me flinch. Every time I see that word in whatever context it seems to come with an intimation of departure. And in the same way every time I think about this game it seems laden with the feeling of a dying fall that nobody ever really seems to talk about. You play as a kind of genetically modified clone, returning home to his unwelcoming father and near-absent mother in a demented inversion of the Odysseus tale; and the only good you can do in this world is to rescue the handful of innocents left within it. You have to become a father yourself, in a sense. But your days are numbered.

The ending of the original Bioshock is often written off as a bit of a joke. You fight a deliriously incongruous final boss, and then depending on your actions through the rest of the game, you get to see one of two final sequences. In the bad ending, the denizens of Rapture somehow steal a nuclear submarine, and it’s implied that something very bad follows. But the good ending has more to it than that. You return to the surface, and it’s implied that you adopt some of the Little Sisters you rescued down there as though they were your daughters. There’s a brief montage of scenes from an assortment of lives. A graduation. A marriage. A child reaching for a parent’s hand. And then a death bed. The hands of your daughters reach out for you one last time.

After perhaps twenty hours of gameplay this sequence is perhaps less than a minute long. It feels rushed, awkward, sentimental. But as a coda, it also has the outstanding benefit of being perfectly real.

[zevlors-tail]

Depressed and touch starved Shigaraki crushing hard on y/n, a new recruit for the league/liberation front. He wants to be in a relationship with her, but is afraid of her turning to dust by his own hands. Little does he know, she feels the same way.

Warnings: Jealous Shiggy, bit of OOC/Yandere Toga? Knives, brief mention of villains/heroes fighting, heavy pining, tiny argument between Shig and the reader.

Ever since the day he laid eyes on you, Shigaraki had it bad. You had only joined the League of Villains a couple months ago, but within that short time span, you had completely captivated his heart. Maybe it was your quick thinking, or your reserved personality, or maybe the way your eyes seem to sparkle with mischief when he talked to you about future plans for the League. Whatever it was, it drew him in further every time he looked at you, brought out feelings in him that he hadn’t felt in a very, very long time; feelings that both scared and excited him to the point where he wasn’t sure whether to pursue something with you or run away.

At first, he chose the latter. A week in to getting to know you and he was terrified that he had feelings for you, so he pulled away in every aspect imaginable. He ignored you during missions, talked to you as little as possible, and barely even looked your way. You were lucky if he even passed by you in the halls of the hideout. He spent most of his time pent up in his room muttering and trying to scheme, although any plans he attempted to make were ultimately thwarted by thoughts of you. It didn’t help that even with the forced distance between the two of you and his giving you the cold shoulder, you were ever the friendly and kind person you made yourself out to be. You still tried to talk to him on the occasions he passed by you, still tried to get to know him without judgement or bias. Ignoring you completely just seemed to make the situation worse for him, so he finally had to face his newfound feelings and accept that yes, he, Shigaraki, had a crush on the new recruit for the League.

But with the acknowledgement of those feelings came another realization: as much as he cared about you, he could potentially hurt you with his quirk. Even if you returned the feelings, further disaster could ensue because of his existence, and that fact stung like no other. All he wanted- no, all he needed -was you. Your touch, your laugh, your whole essence...there was no part of you he didn’t like. He spent nights dreaming of your soft lips, of embracing you from behind and pressing kisses to the top of your head, of loving you without worry and limitations, and yet, he couldn’t have you. The world was continuously cruel to him still, relentless and ever inventive in the ways it found to torture his soul. You, on the other hand...you were the only good thing he had to hold on to in this desolate place.

As Tomura paced the wooden floors of the bar, he brought a hand to his neck, the familiar itching sensation driving him to scratch the same spot over and over again. He hated that damn habit of his, though truthfully he didn’t think he could stop. It kept him sane, gave him something to focus on other than the murky anxiety he felt welling up inside of him. He was like this whenever you were gone, but more so today than ever; he couldn’t stand knowing you weren’t here in his line of sight, that you weren’t under his protecting and watchful eye. Currently, you were on recon with Dabi and Toga, and he had a sinking feeling that something was wrong. His gut lurched whenever he thought about you, and he wouldn’t be satisfied until you were back at the bar in your usual seat, your familiar smile spread over your lips as you sipped on your favorite drink.

“Kurogiri. Any word from them?” This was the second time he had asked about you and the other two LOV members today. His patience was running out now, and he just wanted you back.

“They’re due back at any time, now. I’m sure they’re alri-”

As if fate wanted to prove the bartender wrong, the door to the hideout blew open mid sentence, and Dabi stumbled in with your unconscious form slumped over his shoulders, Toga hot on his heals behind.

“What happened?” Tomura growled out, immediately making his way toward you.

“Recon gone wrong, that’s what,” Dabi quipped. “We got spotted by some heroes on accident, not our fault. Y/N fended them off but she overused her quirk, and they almost got her.”

“Don’t worry, I sliced them up real nice! They were no match against my pretty knives...” Toga trailed off, a murderous glint in her eyes as she brandished a clean knife to look at herself in it’s reflection. “And I saved Y/N. I made sure to teach them not to touch what’s ours, Tomura! No one can have Y/N but us!” She let out a demented giggle.

Shigaraki wanted to correct her. Not ours, mine, he thought. His possessiveness got the better of him, and one look at Toga’s intense gaze was all he needed for jealousy to take root. He surged forward and seized your form from Dabi, careful not to touch you with all five fingers at once as he held you up. Dabi put up no fight in letting you go, completely understanding the situation and passing you over to his boss.

“Is she hurt?” he asked demandingly, giving you a once over for any obvious signs of distress or wounds. He found none apart from small scrapes and bruises.

“I don’t think so. Just unconscious. Side effect of her quirk, I bet.” His blue eyes stared off into the distance behind you and Tomura, gears spinning in his head as he recalled the fight from earlier. “I’ve never seen her quirk in action like that before. She’s strong, I’ll give her that.”

Of course you were strong, Tomura wanted to say. He knew the basis for your quirk, the basics of how it functioned and how it affected others, but new nothing of the drawbacks of it. This was new to everyone.

“Y/N’s quirk is so cool! Isn’t she just the best, Tomura?” 

Something about Toga’s smile annoyed him and made the itchy burning sensation return to his neck. Before anyone else could say anything, he turned abruptly and started towards your room to lay you down and let you rest.

“Kurogiri,” he called as he was leaving, “I want a full report of the recon mission later, no details spared. Make sure they understand that.”

“Of course,” he replied cooly.

Tomura supported your frame against his shoulders as he trudged down the hallway with you, every step he took careful and measured so as not to disturb you any more than was necessary. His gut feeling had turned out to be right, after all. If he had just gone with you, this wouldn’t have happened. Even better yet, if he had just kept you here with him, then you wouldn’t have been in that situation in the first place. This was his fault, wasn’t it? It was hard to stop his thought process once it was started, and from there it all snowballed. You would never know how he really felt, and even if he was getting to touch you now, even if for a brief moment just to get you to your room, who’s to say something wouldn’t go wrong? What if he accidentally touched you with all five fingers, and you turned to ash right there in the hall, and died in his arms?

His thoughts were becoming too much to handle, even with you right there beside him. He was pathetic. Leader of a revolutionary and important group of misfit villains though he may be, he still wasn’t brazen enough to tell you how he really felt. And as he pushed open the door to your room and gently laid you down on your bed, he decided it was for the best if he just left you be. Even if he wanted to stay, it would do him no good. He gave you one last soft look and sighed heavily before standing. His brows knit together in frustration as he stepped forward, but a light tug on his sleeve kept him from going any further.

“Tomura...?” you mumbled groggily. “What happened?”

His self doubt slowly ebbed away at the sound of your voice, his anguish quieting for a moment as he down on your bed and met your gaze to explain. Who was he trying to fool? He could never just leave his feelings for you be. “You overused your quirk and fell unconscious. Dabi and Toga-” he shuddered involuntarily at her name, “took you back to the bar after fighting off some scum heroes.”

You sat up as he spoke, your head throbbing but otherwise feeling fine. “How did I end up in my room?” you wondered aloud, looking around to take in your surroundings fully.

“I carried you,” he answered matter of factly. 

He couldn’t be completely sure, but he swore a faint blush appeared on your cheeks then.

“Thanks for that.” You smiled kindly at him, warmth radiating from your features and making his face feel oddly hot.

“Oh, sure.” It sounded sarcastic, bitter even. Not how he wanted it to sound. He was getting frustrated again; why did he have to ruin everything he touched, figuratively and literally speaking?

There was a small lull in the conversation, and you unexpectedly reached your hand out for his, resting it on top and caressing his fingers gently in a sudden move of boldness. He recoiled almost instantly, and the next thing you knew he was moving to get up and walk away.

“Tomura, wait-” you tried, desperately wanting his attention. He did pause, but he didn’t turn around, and once again his hand found it’s way to his neck. He really was getting irritated with himself. 

“What?” he snapped, pivoting on his heel to face you.

“I’m sorry, I think I misinterpreted something...I- I didn’t mean to...” you trailed off, the dejected tone in your voice stabbing through his cold heart. “I thought you were-”

His blood ran cold at what he thought you were trying to say. Surely you couldn’t mean... 

“Thought I was what?”

“I thought- No, I think it was just me hoping this whole time, but...I thought maybe you had...feelings...for me. You seemed so concerned a minute ago, and there was that moment where your face- Um, I could see it behind your hair-” You stuttered out your words, embarrassed to admit your feelings that you were now certain he did not reciprocate.

Tomura, on the other hand, wasn’t sure what to say. You had just openly expressed your feelings for him while believing at the same time that he didn’t feel the same for you, and he hated it. He hated it with all the burning fires in the world, with all the passion and drive he had left. And the worst part about it was that it was his fault. He should have told you. He wished he had told you. He could still tell you...but he wouldn’t. Not if it meant endangering your life, not if it meant that he could potentially hurt you. He couldn’t bring himself to say the words.

Lucky for him, you weren’t willing to let this go so easily.

You saw the tortured look on his face, saw the longing in his eyes and the way his fingers twitched, as if he wanted to reach back out to you. With newfound resolve, you stared him down, willing him to break.

“Don’t look at me like that, damn it.” Curse you. Damn you to hell and back. You did things to him that you had no idea about. 

“So you really don’t feel the same?” you pressed, doubt creeping back up your spine. 

Maybe you were wrong after all...

“It’s not that!”

Or maybe not.

“Then what-”

“Don’t you know I could kill you?” The words left his lips before he could stop them. “I could accidentally turn you to dust, Y/N. Doesn’t that scare you? Or are you really that stupid?”

“I know that.” You spoke with conviction, understanding finally dawning on you.

He was afraid to hurt you. That had been his reason for pushing you away, for not talking to you, for trying to ignore his feelings for you. He was scared. And rightfully so, with a quirk like his. The thought had crossed your mind before, but truthfully, it hadn’t really been anything more than a passing thought. Once you really got to know Shigaraki, once you saw him leading his small family, you had put all of your trust and faith into him. He was not to be laughed at or underestimated; he was calculated, thorough, and kept his family together at all costs. Even if Dabi sometimes was unruly, even if Toga creeped him out, even if Kurogiri failed sometimes, they all belonged together, and you were happy to be a part of that. You admired him for everything he had done, everything he was currently doing, and all of the great things he would do in the future. Maybe others couldn’t see it right at the moment...but this man was going to change the world.

“But I believe in you, and I trust you would never do something like that to me, even on accident. I don’t think you give yourself enough credit.”

“Don’t patronize me.”

“I’m not. Your quirk doesn’t scare me. I mean it. And another thing,” you gave him a pointed look. “I’m not stupid,” you spat defiantly. For someone so reserved most of the time, you sure had an iron will. 

Tomura followed you with his eyes as you got up and attempted to walk over to him, but tripped in the process, still a little out of it from the overuse of your quirk. He was quick to catch you before you could hit the ground, and you smiled up at him once more while he just stared back at you, confused.

“What are you grinning like that for, hm?”

“I told you I trusted you. You didn’t turn me to dust, did you?”

“That’s not funny, Y/N.” Although, his words were all bark and no bite. What you had said was true, and it gave him a bit of relief to think that you were right.

He could make this work, after all. And for the first time in a very, very long time, Tomura Shigaraki felt calm. 

He helped you back to bed and sat down with you again, this time planning to stay. And when your hand once again found his, he let you keep it there, enjoying the warm feeling of your touch. 

“I know it’s not. I’m serious. I trust you with every fiber of my being, Tomura. I think I love you.”

He could have sworn his heart stopped, or maybe it was time itself that stopped. Either way, he never wanted this moment to end.

Instead of returning your words with his own, he layed down next to you and draped an arm over you. “You should be resting.”

You had once heard that everyone had different ways of saying ‘I love you’. For some, it was telling you to stay safe when parting. For others, it was asking if you had anything to eat yet. So when he spoke, you recognized the meaning behind Tomura’s words even if he wasn’t saying it outright. 

‘You should be resting.’

I love you, too.

A/N: WOW OKAY THIS GOT LONG. Also, I’m so, so, SO sorry this took so freaking long to finish. I literally sat down tonight and told myself I was going to work on it, and I got hit with inspiration and BAM it happened. Shigaraki is actually not on my list of characters that I write for, but because it was my first request and I wanted a challenge, I made an exception and wrote it. And damn, anon, did you give me one hell of a challenge. Holy FUCK. Idk why this was so hard to crank out before now, but I’m kind of in love with this? I hope you all like it as much as I do!

[petroltogo]

full disclosure, this got complete out of control (you’ll see that below the cut) and for those who prefer to read longer texts elsewhere I also posted the full story on AO3. @hopeswriting I hope you like it!

So Hana takes a step back. She let the stress of being field-active, of having to cover for Sawada and keeping their squad upright run her down and never once took a moment to breathe and think. It worked, for a time, but it can’t work forever. Hana won’t be around forever to pick up Mochida’s slack when he’s hesitating, to push Sawada down when he gets ideas about helping, to shoot down Miura’s more crazed ideas that she makes sound horrifyingly reasonable.

In other words, she needs to start working on a solution instead of being the solution. Which means approach the problem in a new way.

Since Vongola Inc.’s bureaucracy is as nightmare-inducing as Hana expected it to be, getting another member assigned to their squad is a spectacular failure. [Hana cannot believe the bullheadedness of people who have never even seen a gun in real life but somehow think they can tell her what she does and doesn’t need in a fight.] Unsurprising but it was worth a try.

Which brings Hana to Plan B: Get Sawada off the squad. He’s spent the past two and a half months flapping around on the field like a fish who’s jumped out of an aquarium only to realize that he does, indeed, need water to survive. He’s panicked and cried and thrown up [in Sawada’s defense, they all have, but unlike Sawada they usually manage to control themselves until after the crisis is over] — in short, he’s had his fun.

It’s time to end this.

[continues under the cut]

Since the last time Hana tried to hammer a rational thought into Sawada’s brain, she’s payed attention and realized that Sawada won’t ever get off his ass and do something to improve his life if the only thing to be gained is more happiness and less lethal danger for himself. Which, frankly, is a thought that boggles her mind but alright.

If Sawada refuses to make decent life choices, Hana will make one for him. She doesn’t usually meddle like this, this is 100% Kyouko’s bad influence on her, but Hana has spent too many months keeping this idiot alive. He’s not gonna die on her now.

So Hana files the transfer papers for Sawada.

She does it properly too. Researches Sawada’s high school grades — which range from passable to terrible, how did he make it into the Vongola Inc. attack squad training in the first place? — and interests — of which there are barely any, seriously, does this guy not have a life? — and pays attention to Sawada in action. Most of the time that’s like watching an avalanche come down on top of you in slow motion, but there are parts of their work where Sawada doesn't hold them back. Even — dare she say it — makes himself useful. Like the whole talking to witnesses and calming survivors down part. Especially when there are children. Sawada is awkward and too sensitive and gets too restless around the adults, but with children he’s actually— Not bad.

Based on those same observations, Hana fills out the appropriate forms to get Sawada transferred to Human Resources. Sawada will be fine there. Maybe even do well. Not that he could do any worse than an attack squad but whatever.

The request is denied.

Transfer requests out of attack squads aren’t denied. No one wants a well-armed operative who doesn’t feel stable and confident that they can handle their job running around.

At this point Hana has repeated the phrase so often, the words have lost all meaning, but in the face of such a monumental, senseless idiocy it bears repeating: What the fuck, Vongola.

*

Practice doesn’t make perfect but it does make better.

A week passes and then another one. With every successful and unsuccessful mission that they survive together, they get better. Their teamwork improves, their instincts sharpen, they learn to play off each other. They learn to navigate around Sawada. And even Sawada does improve.

He doesn’t panic as much or as obviously anymore. He’s getting better at not getting in the way. He’s getting decent at hand-to-hand combat, even if he sucks at applying those same skills in an actual battle. Hana still isn’t happy to have him at her back, but she can trust him not to bowl her over from behind anymore. And besides they all do their best to keep him out of the actual fights whenever possible. It’s progress.

Not enough but it is what it is.

*

In the end. It’s not unexpected. It’s the opposite of unexpected and even that doesn’t seem a strong enough word for it. Because Hana is a planner at heart. She’s imagined this very outcome too often to be slowed down by shock or surprise now that it's actually happening.

[Numbers don’t lie. They can’t show the truth but they reflect trends and probabilities and just because every human being thinks they are the exception doesn’t make it true. Numbers don’t work that way and exceptions mean there’s a majority there whose story is told in those very same statistics.]

Hana knows what it means to walk into a battle with a squad member that can’t handle themselves by her side. She’s gone over the dangers too many times to count at this point, both inside her head and out loud. They all have. They’ve been doing this job for four months and by some miracle they’ve been managing, but beginner’s luck only holds out for so long.

It’s a bad mission.

Not their first one. They’ve already had close calls — too many of those — have gotten injured, hell, Sawada has even gotten himself kidnapped once. None of that knowledge helps prepare them for another once though. None of those past terrors make it any easier to remain calm and level-headed in the heat of the moment.

Most importantly none of it prepares Hana for a super who can control electricity. Whose powers apparently aren’t stopped by their uniforms, going by the charred body of what used to be one of her squad member that's lying crumbled on the other side of the room. [What does it say about her, about this squad that Hana’s first hysterical thought when she watched Nakamura go down screaming is 'At least it wasn’t Sawada’s fault.'?]

Communications are down, she’s cut off from possible reinforcements, trapped somewhere in the lower levels of the building. She doesn’t have any smoke bombs left, doesn't have a paralyzer, doesn’t have an exit and her only backup now that Nakamura is dead is Sawada. Sawada who is cowering in the corner furthest away from her and Nakamura's body, back pressed so hard against the wall he’ll have bruises if he survives this, wild, panicked eyes fixated on the crazed super who’s staring at him like Sawada is the fucking North star.

Or his next meal, going by Sawada’s luck.

Hana’s drawn her gun like Sawada should’ve because he’s armed, Hana knows he’s armed. She can see the gun from across the room. And Sawada isn’t fucking drawing it.

"Stay back!" she calls out towards the super who's glazed eyes remain fixed on Sawada. "Or I’ll shoot!"

Sawada still isn’t moving. The lightning guy is moving slowly, a demented grin on his lips, blood caking the left half of his face. And Sawada isn’t fucking moving. Not to defend himself. Not to run over and seek cover behind Hana, where she could fucking reach and protect him.

"Why are you so surprised?" Hana can almost hear Kyouko’s voice ask her, curiously puzzled. "You always knew he would be a liability."

Hana fires a warning bullet, half hoping the insane super will miraculously flinch back and let himself be arrested, half praying it will shake some sense into Sawada. Both is too much to ask and when lightening guy takes another step, Hana knows she’s out of time.

He’s too close to Sawada. All he needed to burn Nakamura alive was one touch. [The room is still echoing with his screams. Or is that only in her head?]

Hana doesn't kid herself: She's known how this story would end from the start.

She shoots.

*

[As the daughter of a lawyer and a librarian who fell in love over their shared passion for justice in a society that sorely lacked it, Hana didn’t grow up with the system-friendly propaganda her classmates were fed every day. She grew up with heated arguments over human rights over the dinner table, with long-winded discussions about the failures of the system and where and how to best address them.

Hana didn’t grow up glorifying supervillain deaths and she never, ever wanted to take a life. There is a reason why Hana planned to stay no longer than six months with her squad and it’s a simple one: Hana never wanted to become a killer.

But who does?]

*

Kurokawa Hana has been an active Vongola Inc. operative on an attack squad for four months, three weeks and six days when she kills René Moretti during a sanctioned mission with a clean headshot.

The official investigation is an open and shut case.

A month after the incident and three weeks into her mandatory therapy, Kurokawa Hana is cleared for the field once more.

*

Mandatory therapy is a joke. Hana isn’t going to let a therapist on Vongola Inc.’s payroll get into her head and brainwash her into believing killing isn’t a problem as long as it is for the organization’s gain, thank you very much.

[That’s not quite what the woman said but Hana can read between the lines and even if she couldn’t, she doesn’t trust Vongola. How could she, at this point?]

But Hana is smart and resourceful and has supportive parents who get in touch with some old friends and give her the contact of a psychologist that at least won’t have divided loyalties from the get go. So Hana goes and hopes it’ll help.

In the meantime, she pretends Sawada doesn’t exist.

[He doesn’t thank her. The one time he approaches her, he stutters out an apology of all things as though that would somehow erase the brain splatters Hana can still see behind her closed eyelids. She doesn’t snap and she doesn’t kick him out of a window because Hana is better than that.

She grits her teeth and turns on her heels and locks herself into the bathroom and smashes the mirror until her knuckles are bloody and there are glass shards sticking out of her skin and the screams inside her head finally shut up because Hana is a murderer and nothing anyone does will ever erase that.

The worst part of it is that she doesn’t feel guilty about the life she took. Only grieves for what she broke within herself.]

*

Here’s one truth Hana has to live with every day: She has taken a man’s life. [And it was easy.]

Here’s another one: If she’d been in that room with anyone on her squad other than Sawada, she wouldn’t have had to.

*

Sawada stays out of her way whenever possible and that’s the way Hana likes it. It doesn’t help and at some point she grows used to the bitterness that still twists her insides up into knots at irregular moments when she catches sight of him, but she can bear to look at him again, to give commands and order him to back up and cuss him out for breaking the coffee machine without actually murdering him.

Which she could do. She’s done it once already after all.

*

That first time is not the last time. Of course it isn’t. The longer she stays in the field, the more chances there are for something to go wrong and probability theory alone will tell you that sooner or later Hana will find herself in a similar situation, having to make the same choice.

*

Not every person Hana shoots is to protect Sawada. Some are to protect a civilian or even herself. Does that make it better?

Hana doubts it, but she realizes she doesn’t truly know.

[If there’s one thing she’s learned in the last month and a half, it’s that Hana is a good killer. Enough conscience not to turn a machine gun onto a crowd of civilians or throw a child off a building, but not enough to feel bad about snuffing a stranger’s life out of existence. Just the way Vongola likes its operatives.

Hana never pictured herself in this gritty, bloody world of field work, never wanted to be, but she makes herself at home all the same.]

*

One slow Wednesday morning while cleaning up the mess on her desk, Hana stumbles upon the transfer papers she never handed in. They’re filled out already, even the signature is already in place. Have been for — over a year now, that’s how long it’s been. Back when she first planned out every step of her career at Vongola Inc.

Staring down at her own handwriting that reads like a strangers, Hana considers. She could still hand them in, she supposes. Get transferred to the legal department just like she planned. What’s a delay of a few months?

There’s no reason to think that she couldn’t do the job. In fact, Hana is sure she’d be good. Great even. Certainly she’d make a better lawyer than a field operative.

"Kurokawa, you coming?" Mochida calls from the briefing room. The rising impatience indicates it’s not the first time he’s called her and a glance at the clock tells Hana their daily team meeting was supposed to start five minutes ago.

"Yeah, one moment."

She gets up. Takes one last glance at those papers. Throws them in the rubbish bin underneath her desk and doesn’t look back as she crosses the room in sharp, determined steps. There’s no point to it.

[What she wanted to protect when she made those plans is already lost. And Hana might be a better lawyer but she’s a decent operative. She’s keeping her squad members alive, keeping Sawada alive, which is an achievement all on its own.

She’s already taken lives for the sake of her team, for the sake of the mission even. What’s a few more?]

*

In a strange way it makes almost sense. [Out of the two of them, Kyouko is the villain. But it’s Hana who’s always flirted with the darkness looming at the edge of every super’s consciousness. It’s Hana who’s cut out to be a monster.]

*

"Why are you here?" Hana asks Sawada on a whim, roughly a year and a half after they were first assigned to the same squad. There’s no deep motivation or reason, not even any real curiosity.

Sawada blinks stupidly at her. "You said the first one to go home and leave you alone with this tower of paperwork would be dangling from the Vongola sign on top of this building by a rope made out of their own entrails."

Hana rolls her eyes. "I meant why did you join an attack squad." You idiot, she almost tacks on but leaves it unspoken in the end. It’s nothing Sawada hasn’t heard before. Damn she needs coffee if her tongue is getting away with her again. It’s not even two in the morning yet.

"Huh?"

Sawada looks honest to god confused. He’s lucky that punching him would require too much effort. Now that Hana thinks about it, so would getting worked up.

"I mean," she says very, very slowly, "that you are the least violent person I’ve ever met, Sawada. You’re a terrible field operative. So why haven’t you quit and applied for something else?"

Sawada stares at her with those illogically huge eyes that are supposedly cute — if Kyouko is to be believed — but that Hana finds off-putting. Possibly because they look at her like that all the time. "Oh." Sawada says as though none of what Hana has just said ever occurred to him. "I’m terrible at everything. And Vongola Inc. were the only ones who offered me a job. So." He shrugs.

Which. Hana isn’t even gonna touch that one. Nope.

"Just get the damn coffee, Sawada," she groans and hopes she’ll have forgotten this conversation in the morning.

[She doesn’t know what she’d hoped to find here, what kind of revelation she’d been waiting for but the worst self-esteem in the history of self-esteem hadn’t been it. If she thinks about the fact that this entire shit-show could’ve been avoided if someone had given Sawada a proper motivational speech as a child, she is gonna burn something.

Probably Vongola Inc.]

*

[On bad days, Hana cancels her coffee and cake time with Kyouko, doesn’t look at Sawada unless it is to glower and locks herself into an empty briefing room or her own apartment whenever possible. Her hands don’t shake when she holds a gun or a knife or a rope — they never do — but sometimes when she catches sight of her reflection she breaks it until it breaks her.

On bad days, catching sight of Sawada makes Hana feel every drop of blood drying on her hands, chunks of skin getting caught under her nails, gun powder sticking to her fingers. On bad days, she hates Sawada for what he’s made her become.]

By the time they’ve all been working together as an active squad for two years, every member of the team except Sawada has become a killer.

They don’t talk about it. They don’t acknowledge it.

[The shots one of them took so Sawada wouldn’t have to — because he wouldn’t have. They don’t even send him out with a gun anymore because what’s the point of handing someone a weapon they refuse to use? The shots they took to save him. The tasks Mochida assignes specifically so Sawada won't have to see some of the worst they’ve had to face, won't be forced to make choices he isn't prepared for and has too much heart to make. The missions he’s been put on desk duty for that no one else came out of unscratched. It's not even always about blood and death, is the funny thing. There’s so many things worse than murder.]

There’s nothing to talk about.

[On good days, Hana is grateful that it was her behind that trigger. Because even at her worst she’s never wanted Sawada dead.

And. Being a killer suits her, them. That's why they were chosen after all. That's why they qualified. That's why Sawada should've never passed his entrance exam. And perhaps one day Hana will make her peace with that knowledge. But the unvoiced issue remains: Sawada isn’t like them. Sawada cares in ways no one on the squad does, no one on any attack squad should, and— It’s not concern that compels Hana to shield him. It’s certainly not empathy. It’s self-preservation.]

*

Sawada doesn’t thank her for any of the lives she takes on his behalf. Hana doesn’t expect him to. She doesn’t think he understands what she’s protecting him from and a large part of her — a part that pulls the trigger without flinching, that has nightmares about Nakamura’s burned corpse, the smell of his flesh, but never about the man she killed — hopes he never will.

[It’s not the life Kurokawa Hana thought she would want, certainly not the life she planned, but most of her original squad is still alive, Sawada is still alive, even though Hana still doesn’t know who within Vongola is moving against him. And though Sawada is still useless, he’s calmed down a lot over the past two years. Could almost be classified as an asset on his rare good day.

And it’s not always great, not even always good, but. It is.]

*

aaand i think that concludes hana’s POV. if you have any further questions though (or if there’s other characters you’d like to see more of, don’t hesitate to let me know in a comment or an ask)!

[graceverse]

An Unexpected Invitation: Epilogue / Prologue

Please note that this is post "The Final" movie. This happened around 2 months after Kenshin and Enishi's fight.

He hated paper works with a force of a thousand burning suns. That he had to deal with so much seemed like an unreasonable punishment for allowing himself to work for these Meiji scums. Not everyone in the government were tyrannical usurpers, true but a good number of them were despicably dishonest, using their position to amass wealth. Everyone was trying to line their pocket with money, from the smallest official to the highest-ranking member of the Cabinet. It was despicable. The bureaucracy had allowed them to steal in new and complicated ways.

There were two ways to go about punishing the corrupt. Swift death is the easiest and one that he wished he was able to employ. Reliable as this maybe, it wasn’t always the most effective. Killing is, alas temporary. Someone new will take the vacated position and it with Japan’s luck, it will either be some young idiot appointed by virtue of his father knowing someone in the Ministry or the usual unscrupulous, greedy politician.

Politicians are the absolute worst. Disgusting thieves, all of them. Espousing modernization, liberal-democratic rule, under which they could control things, with – the fucking irony – more paper works.

What was it that he had heard just the other day? It isn’t the severity of the punishment but the certainty of it. Justice under the Rule of Law and not by the sword. And yes, this was the second way to punish the corrupt. Mountains of documents and evidence, investigative work that requires time and resources that of course, were never given to them.

Fujita Gorō, follow this Minister, suspicious activities, provide paper trail, eyewitnesses, a crime scene.

But the moment he’d ask for budget, backing and support, he’d be brushed aside, told to wait for the approval of the officials: write off a request, fill up a form. It was endless, the things he had to when he could so easily just wait in the darkness and kill evil instantly.

Saitou could feel the mild pressure of a headache starting just at the base of his skull as he narrowed his eyes at the towering stack of paper that had accumulated on top of his table.

It’s a fire hazard, he thinks, uncaringly lighting another cigarette, shaking the match to extinguish the flame. He flicked it right on the of the pile that he was supposed to be working on. He watched as part of the cover page turned dark, about to catch fire – but the flame sputtered and died before it could spread and engulf his entire desk.

Saitou briefly wondered how well that excuse will fly with his superiors when they ask him, yet again, for the report on whatever it was that they fancied. He grimaced. It was getting late. He should probably head home or swing by at an izakaya, grab something to eat. He wasn’t much of a drinker but perhaps a cup of cool sake would help with this abominable weather.

He slowly rotated his neck, fingers deftly getting rid of the knots in his muscles. Already making up his mind, he abruptly stood up, surveying the almost empty office for the investigators of the Tokyo Metropolitan Police Department. The Ministry of Interior had been kind enough to give them a little corner where desks were shared by three, sometimes even four, investigators.

Technically, they weren’t directly reporting to him. After all he was part of the Department of Internal Affairs, but they were currently (always) short staffed and so he had been allowed to engage the police force. Saitou wouldn’t be allowed to take any one of them to China, of course – not that he meant to anyway, they didn’t have the experience or the skill required for such a delicate and dangerous assignment. He would, as always, do everything himself as soon as he steps foot in that godforsaken country.

And this only reminded him of the numerous forms he has to accomplish for that foreign trip under the guise of some diplomatic exchange of goodwill – he hasn’t read the official excuse they will be using to entrap those damnable Chinese criminals and the Japanese (shame on those bastards!) smugglers.

He had taken a great risk getting that demented Yukishiro out of prison. He was their only link with the Chinese Mafia (alive and coherent, at least) and in the brief moment that he’d spent trying to get any information from him, Saitou had already figured out the perfect way to manipulate the boy into giving him everything he needed.

Like a petulant child out for revenge, Saitou hadn’t been at all surprised when Battousa’s brother-in-law had taken the bait, crazed eyes glinting with no doubt, his own plans of sticking it to the clueless Himura. Trying to kill his giri no ani hadn’t worked (not yet, anyway) but here was an opportunity to make his life miserable. At least for a few weeks, until he could come up with a more permanent way to ruin him.

This was all so easily read from the way Yukishiro had readily agreed to the plan, no further questions asked.

I will annoy my murdering brother-in-law? What do I need to do?!

How boringly predictable. Of course, Saitou would have to expect the unexpected from Yukishiro. He would have to be very cautious and keep an eye on him. The boy didn’t crawl up to the top of the criminal underworld and gained the trust of the Chinese mafia if he hadn’t been wily. Yukishiro can be cunning, yes. Saitou was aware of that but he was also still young; ruled, just like his abhorred brother-in-law, by emotions and twisted ideals of revenge and redemption.

Proof of Yukishiro’s volatility: on the very day of his release, the idiot had burned the warehouse the government had confiscated. And for such obvious reasons, too. Saitou had wanted to strangle him for wasting the time and effort of Tokyo’s police force and the fire department something so unnecessary. He had managed to calm himself down when he saw Himura and the kid watching the fire, wide-eyed and suspicious of everyone.

Remember, this could also be fun. He had reminded himself as he left the minor chaos that Yukishiro had unleashed. Kami knows he hadn’t been able to have any sort enjoyment ever since he had started working for the government. And if it was at the expense of an old enemy, then he might as well grab the opportunity. He would have to talk to Yukishiro about subtlety. But then maybe that wasn’t something he was capable of, evident of the hot air balloon and the bombing of Tokyo for a personal grudge. Saitou could overlook that too. Since Yukishiro had gotten rid of Chou and for that, he was actually thankful.

Saitou picked up the jacket he had carefully draped over his chair. He should have kept Yukishiro locked up for another day as he called for the Kamiya girl to his office. There would be much protest from her, the kid, the Rooster, The Fox – why Battousai’s woman would want to turn her dojo into a proverbial zoo was beyond him – but they wouldn’t have any choice. He had, truth be told, wanted to look at the Kamiya girl in the eye as he proposed (ha!) the pretend marriage between her and Yukishiro.

It would probably end with a broken table and damn if that will be taken out of his already meagre salary. Speaking of which, he will be asking for a raise after this undertaking and more importantly, he will be getting it.

Saitou had started buttoning up his immaculately pressed jacket when it hit him. He clenched his teeth, hissing as he felt it slam into him. There was no holding back when that ki was released. It was a message specifically for him but it was uncontrolled enough to make some of the remaining lower ranking police officers squirm in their seats, nervously glancing around at what had caused that feeling of having their insides pinched with some inexplicable energy.

He smirked, pulling at his cuff before taking a long drag on his cigarette, narrowing his eyes as over the hazy smoke, he watched Battousai wordlessly step inside his office, stopping only when he had reached the edge of the worn-out, second-hand table (more budget constraints) that was now separating them. Saito exhaled slowly, noting the way Battousai’s eyes glittered dangerously amber. Ah, well this was at least a familiar sight. Kishikan. He couldn’t help the satisfied smile that stretched his lips.

“Saitou.” No formal, polite greeting. Even the voice was different, lowered into an almost growl.

Good. Saitou had no patience in dealing with the pretentious affectations of the ruruoni. It was always tedious dealing with all that de gozarus and senseless oro­-ing. It was a shameful, cowardly act that no former hitokiri should ever indulge in and yet, here we are.

It did, however galled him that the rurouni had the audacity to march into his office so late at night, like he had some power over him. Like he had expected Saitou to just be here, waiting for him. This was also exactly why he had greatly opposed letting Himura and his merry-band of delinquents become part of official police work. Officers and investigators have inevitably become all too familiar and friendly towards, what they now fondly refer to as, The Kenshin-gumi. Kami help him.

“Yoshino!” He barked, his voice loud enough to make everyone else inside the office start grabbing random papers off of their desks, suddenly pretending to be busy. Yoshino Kentaro was the youngest officer at the headquarter and had the unfortunate appearance of having a permanently frightened wide-eyed look of a boy. His name did not help him. Neither did his chubby, child-like face. As was often the case, he was bullied by the sophomore and junior officers precisely because he looked like that. Saitou had little sympathy, but that boy was rather good in organizing files which was why he had made him his unofficial secretary.

Yoshino shuffled into the doorway, bowing and then straightening up, huge rounded eyes looking almost tearful. “Sir?”

“What did I tell you about letting people come into my office?”

The boy gulped. “To always ask if they have an appointment with you,” his eyes flitted towards Himura, who would normally be making excuses for such a slip up, but clearly Battousai was not in a very charitable mood. He remained silent as a stone, fist clenched hanging useless at this sides. “It’s already late, captain --- I had assumed that --- at this time, you wouldn’t have any appointments….” He stammered until at the very end of the sentence, Yoshino’s voice had entirely disappeared, and it was just his mouth opening and closing but no sound was coming out of it.

Saitou rolled his eyes. “Ahou! Get out, now.”

With what sounded like a faint squeak, Yoshino scampered out of sight. Hopefully now the boy will remember his rule about unexpected visitors. Especially one who looked as dangerous as Battousai. The baffled look on Yoshino’s face was exactly what Saitou had felt when he had first chanced upon the rurouni almost a year ago. That he had been dealing with Himura for so long without having any possibility of finally ending their unfinished fight, grated on his nerves.

Although Saitou had to concede that lately, he had been seeing glimpses of the hitokiri. Perhaps an opportunity will finally arrive. But to be sure, the peace-loving rurouni was still very much present and in control, given the fact that Himura hadn’t thought to ambush him on the darkened empty streets of Tokyo or to wait like a dark shadow inside his home. That he had chosen to confront him at the relatively safer police station wasn’t lost on him. Even though it really didn’t matter where they were. It wasn’t as though the combined forces of the junsa and junsa-chō could stop Battousai if he wanted to draw blood. And with the glare Himura was giving him, Saitou wouldn’t be surprised if swords would be drawn. His eyes glanced over to where his katana was resting against the wall at the other side of the room. He saw Battousai’s eyes following his gaze.

Saitou would have to flip and kick his table to distract Battousai and grab his sword, but it could be done. He’d have the satisfaction of watching all of his paper works explode into disorder. The distance wasn’t so great. Battousai seemed to be thinking of the same thing, but he didn’t make any movement to indicate that he was bothered by it. “What is so important that you couldn’t wait until tomorrow, Himura?” He asked with a drawl, refusing to sit down, forcing the hitokiri to remain standing as well.

“Kaoru-dono.” Was the curt answer, an indication that there would no waste of words and phrases tonight, which he actually appreciated.

Saitou let out a long, drawn-out sigh. “If you’re here to ask for love advice you slow--” he began, but was immediately cut off when Himura leaned forward, hands placed flat on the table, eyes burning.

“This stops now.” Himura barely even moved his mouth with the way he was clenching his teeth.

Saitou was completely unimpressed. The simmering anger was there, probably barely held in check but it wasn’t even for him. He wondered if Himura even realize that. Probably not. The idiot. The reason for this particular rage was also so disappointingly predictable. He was even more sure now that the only reason Himura survived being a hitokiri was based solely on his speed. And yes, fighting skills. But he would not have lasted a day if he had to rely on his mental agility. Which would explain how, at such a young age, he had ended up with the Ishin Shishi. So easily manipulated by his own emotions. Then and still, now.

He flicked his wrist, the ashes from his lighted cigarette scattering and settling on top of the papers on his desk, the perfect addition to that burn mark he had inflicted earlier. “Had a visit from your brother-in-law, then?” There was an even more significant spike of ki. He twisted his lips, smirking. “One thing I’ve got to say about that crazy son of a bitch, he doesn’t waste time.”

Himura audibly growled. “You want someone to make sure Enishi will do as he’s told, use me. I will go with him to Shanghai. But leave Kaoru-dono out of this.”

The vehemence in Himura’s voice wasn’t at all surprising. There was hardly anything complicated about Himura. He was easily read and therefore, easily controlled. Battousai’s weakness wasn’t the people around him that he was desperate to protect, it was his inability to take a hold of his emotions. Constantly letting his feelings interfere with what needed to be done. What does guilt have to do with trying to catch a criminal? What does compassion have to do with punishing those found guilty of their crimes? What dose love have to do with trying to build a country that the gods would favor and be proud of? Duty first, always.

“Do you see these?” He asked, indicating the pile of paper on his table. He tapped the smallest pile with his finger, “These are all of Yukishiro’s official files. Signed witnesses accounts, all the meager documents the best investigators of this country was able to gather. This is enough to throw him in jail and he will never see the light of day ever again but everyone else he had worked with, goes away free.”

Himura’s eyes squinted disinterestedly. Saito then moved his hand to sweep across the tallest pile of paperwork that hardly spruced up his deck. “Unofficial. We can’t release them. We can’t use them. Half of them mentions you, Hitokiri Battousai. His sister and the bloody mess that you created in Kyoto ten years ago.”

The eyes that slid over to him glowed golden and threatening. And Saitou had to roll his eyes. “I have no plans of babysitting the two of you on a ship to Shanghai. I have better things to do. You understand the importance of getting those documents. You of all people should know what another war would do to this country.”

Himura was shaking his head. “You don’t get to use that excuse, Saitou. We both know what the government will do with those weapons. If a war is coming, it will come, nothing we do will stop it. You and I both know that.”

Saitou narrowed his eyes at him. Not so naïve, after all. But was Battousai even aware of the dissonance of his own beliefs? Or perhaps that was just human nature? After all, didn’t he fought against the founding of this very government and now here he was, working for it? “And Shishio Makoto? Was that just your pride?”

Himura’s face contorted in anger. “Pride?! No. That was my mistake. I had a hand in creating Shishio.”

“The size of your ego is astounding, especially for your size.” He snorted, looking down at Himura who visibly bristled.

“I have nothing to do with this war.” He insisted, hands clenched against his side. “Two countries fighting each other is different from two people born to the same motherland, who speaks the same language killing each other for peace and freedom.”

Saitou nodded, finally understanding. “I see. You’ve become selfish.” Himura made sputtering noises, but he ignored him, waving his hands to silence any forthcoming protest. “The government will get those documents one way or another.”

Himura straightened his back and even though he was indeed a small man, this completely changed his stature. He could hide as an unsuspicious, clueless wanderer but if he wished it, Himura can be intimidating with just the smallest gesture. If you knew where and how to look. “Is that a threat, Saitou?”

“It is what it is, Himura. You are only angry because, you’re right: this has nothing to do with you.” Saitou crossed his arms, tapping his lit cigarette in the process. Ashes silently floated down the floor and without looking down, he moved his shoes, deflt avoiding it.

Battousai’s face hardened. “And yet you would drag Kaoru-dono into this. I am getting tired of reminding people that she is neither bait nor pawn. If I have to repeat that one more time, it will be the last.”

"Is that a threat?”

“As I have told Enishi, I will not allow it.”

Tired of this conversation, Saitou walked towards the other end of the room to pick up his sword, turning his back against Himura. He slowly pivoted to find Kenshin still standing in his place, hands by his side. “Ahou!” Saitou roared, grabbing his katana and pointing it to his arch nemesis. “It isn’t up to you. That is why you’re angry. Because it isn’t your choice to make. You do not have a say in this at all. Only Kamiya-san can decide if she’ll go with to Shanghai or not.” He let that sink in even though he already knew that Himura had grasped the truth of this. “And you are wrong, it isn’t about being pawn or bait, it’s about insurance. That is what Kamiya-san is.”

There were no more snarling or glaring. Only the cold voice of a former hitokiri, announcing imminent death. “You can say it however way you want to, Saitou. We both know that you are lying. But you’re also right. It isn’t up to me. I understand that now. Thank you.”

That was completely unexpected, Saitou had to admit and he had to take a second to compose himself. He took a deep breath, bringing his sword to his side and securing it within his belt. “That’s it?” He asked just as coldly.

Himura nodded, deeply bowing. “Yes, that is it. Try not lose sleep over it, Fujita-san.” And with that he exited the room which had gotten darker and colder.

Kami-sama, Saitou thought, tossing the now useless cigarette that Battousai’s ki had extinguished. Bastard. He’s going to need that jug of sake, because he was already certain that things are about to become much, much more complicated.

----------------------------------------------------------

And that is the end of this story. Well, part of this story. If I will continue it, I'll be posting it separately. Give me your suggestions! I will love to know what you guys think.

Also, do they feel OOC? I think they do. I think I want a more assertive Kenshin and that’s why he’s like that? I don’t know. The dialogues wrote themselves. HAHAHA. But yes, no more parts for An Unexpected Invitation . Sorry and thank you in advance for reading and leaving a review. I appreciate it like you wouldn’t believe how much.

Notes and Terms:

Izakaya - a type of informal Japanese bar that serves alcoholic drinks and snacks Izakaya are casual places for after-work drinking

Giri no ani – older brother-in-law

Kishikan – déjà vu

Kentaro - "sharp; big boy"

Junsa – police officers

Junsa-chō - Senior Police Officer

Also, Saitou is supposed to be a special agent for the Meiji Government's Department of Internal Affairs, but I don’t think he’d make that official title known, so I went with captain. If that is incorrect, please let me know. I really can’t remember how he introduced himself as – I mean to the civilians in the manga/anime/movie. The Kenshin-gumi, of course would know that he wasn’t just some regular police man and Saitou probably had told them as much. But what does Tae know of him, you know? Like she probably calls him just officer or sir. But yes, if you have any inputs here, I would really like to know.

[whatisthiscontentyouspeakof]

A Cold Days Night  that Changes Everything

A03 | Previous | Next

Prologue Part 2

The Malfoys were a traditional family, a dark family and generally everything that Dumbledore and the light stood against in their own, so to say there were surprised when they received a patronus from their old Headmaster was a bit of a understatement. They made sure Draco was looked after, being watched over by his nursery house elf, before heading to St Mugo’s wondering why they were summoned but without the time or resources to get the answer in time for meeting with the elder wizard.

A healer assistant was waiting for them by the floo, leading them through the hospital to the Janus Thickey Ward. Narcissa slipped her hand through the crook of Lucius’s elbow, ever the more curious as to why she and her husband were being lead to the spell damage ward of St Mugo’s. As far as she was aware no one they knew, as in where friendly with, where patients there, nor had she heard of any of their aquantaces being injured in a way that would require hospitalization.

Lucius Malfoy patted his wife’s hand, his mask firmly in place. He would not show any concern or other emotion to any passerby’s. The only people he knew that were residences of the Janus Thickey ward were the Longbottoms, neither of whom would ever leave, and even if they did miraculously heal, they knew nothing that would affect any of the Malfoy’s lives.

The Healers Assistant bowed to them as they met up with Dumbledore and a Healer.

“Lord and Lady Malfoy,” the Healer greeted with a bow, showing her respect to the most ancient and most noble house of Malfoy. “ I am Healer Miriam Strout, the Head Healer of the Janus Thickey Ward. Thank you for joining us on such short notice. If you could sign these forms stating that anything you see or any information you learn while on the ward is kept to yourself. The privacy of our patients is of great importance of us. Once the papers are signed then Mr. Dumbledore shall fill you in on why you have been called here.”

“And if we do not wish to sign the forms?” Lucius asked.

Healer Strout smiled at him politely. “I am afraid that that isn’t an option Lord Malfoy. If you decide not to sign the forms then you will not be able to meet my patients until Christmas break when they are no longer patients of mine and thus you won’t need to sign the papers. I do believe that now would be a better time then later.”

Sometimes you had to take risks in life, and neither Malfoy liked the idea of information being kept from them for several months. The two read over their forms carefully, making sure they weren’t signing anything that could be used against them or that trapped them in any way, before signing their names. Healer Strout waved her wand over the forms, activating them, binding the Malfoy by what they had agreed to, before duplicating the papers so each Malfoy could have a copy of what they signed.

Dumbledore cleared his throat. “Some interesting events have happened that need your involvement Lady Malfoy.” he explained as they started to move to the private room section of the ward. Narcissa raised her eyebrow, all the more curious now. She, like her husband, had assumed they were summoned because Dumbledore needed something from Lucius, not her. “There is no easy way to say this. At the end of the war a lot of corners were cut, and laws excused so that we could get through all the trials and put everything behind us as soon as possible. One of those cut corners was not performing pregnancy tests on any females being held for trial. Unfortunately these pregnancy tests weren’t performed upon sentencing and thus it was missed that your sister, Bellatrix, was a few weeks pregnant when shipped off to Azkaban.”

Narcissa couldn’t help it, she placed her hand up to her mouth to stifle her gasp of horror. The idea that Bella had been pregnant when she’d been shipped off to Azkaban was a horror she couldn’t even imagine. It didn’t help that she was standing in the ‘Crazy Ward’ as several, less sensitive purebloods, referred to the Janus Thickey Ward.

“The child?” Lucius asked after a beat of silence.

“Children,” Dumbledore corrected. “Bellatrix gave birth to twins, Vulpecula Ursa Bellatrix Lestrange Black and Cassiopeia Delphini Lestrange Black. Both were adopted into the Black family by Sirius Black upon their birth. Both prefer to use Black for their family name instead of Lestrange.”

“Twins,” Narcissa repeated numbly. “They’re nine then?” the anger started to set in. “How in Merlin’s name did Bellatrix give birth to twins without anyone knowing?”

“Lady Malfoy I understand-“ Dumbledore began.

Narcissa interrupted the old wizard, ignoring her upbringing. “You understand? How could you possibly understand? I have just been informed that I have two nieces that were raised in one of the worst places, if not the worse place, in the Magical World, experiencing how knows what? By Merlin, they spent the last nine years surrounded by Dementers, something that would make any grow witch go insane, much less a bunch of children. So no Albus, I do not thing you understand. I do not think any of us understand what those children have gone through and how they are going to recover.” She took a breath, drawing herself up, putting back on a mask of calm concern before turning to the healer. “When can we see the girls?”

She and Lucius had already figured out why she had been called to St Mugo’s. As the only descendent of the most ancient and most noble house of Black that wasn’t dead, disinherited or imprisoned, she was the only one eligible to raise the twins.

“There is another matter we need to speak of first,” Dumbledore said before Healer Strout could say anything. “As the two of you are aware blood magic is illegal in Europe. Goblin magic isn’t however, even if it involved magic. Ten years ago, a talented young witch, worried that she wouldn’t be there to see her son grow up, used Goblin magic to make it so that, if her son was hurt by someone that was caring for him, that was supposed to look after him, that he’d be magically transported to someone else to raise and look after him, going down the same list she and her husband had included in their will, as long as the person was physically able and magic still accepted them as an acceptable guardian. When the child was one, his parents were murdered as part of the war and he was given to relatives to raise, one of whom hit him, trigger the magic and sending him off to his godfather, only a few months after being placed with his relatives. His godfather adopted him into the Black family months before the twins were born.”

Narcissa’s eyes widened. “Harry Potter.” she whispered. The only male Black imprisoned in Azkaban was Sirius and he only had one godchild.

The saviour of the magical world, or at least magical Europe, was raised in Azkaban.

“Take me to them,” Narcissa ordered, done with waiting around.

At the end of one of the hallways was a private room that was dimly lit, since the children weren’t use to bright colours and lots of lights, with faded colours to start getting the children use to different sights and sound since music was also playing softly in the room. Healer Strout spoke of her plan to slowly introduce the children to bright colours, different sounds, sights, smells, people and so on and so forth throughout the next month so that the three of them would be ready for Hogwarts. While Harry was the only one who was old enough to go to Hogwarts for schooling, it was suggested that the three siblings not be separated as they were being introduced to a whole new world and only knew each other, and had only had each other for their whole lives. For their mental health, the twins would be staying in private chambers with Harry being allowed to visit whenever, so they could alway know where each other are and were always in the same building. They could work on separating the three of them more and getting them used to be apart throughout the school year.

Much like with the twins, Narcissa was the only one eligible to look after Harry, meaning during the Holidays and summer the three children would be staying at Malfoy manor, though both Malfoys knew that was only until Dumbledore figured out a way to discredit them or find another way to get the children to be raised by someone else, someone light.

Until then, the Malfoy had three new children to get to know.

Draco Malfoy wasn’t too worried when his parents were summoned away, they were important people after all. He never expected that they would come back with news that he was about to gain three new siblings, one of which included the Boy-Who-Lived.

Before he was able to met his three new siblings, he first had to spend an hour every day for just over a week with his parents and Healer Strout going over how to interact with them, how to make sure they were comfortable and not overwhelmed and what signs to look for that they needed to get away or see a healer or where about to blow up at someone. They also went over the rough knowledge the three of them had about the wizarding world, all of which was ten years out of date, and how to catch them up on current events and the aftermath of the war as well as the political climate and what people are going to expect of Harry.

After that first week Draco was allowed to see the siblings for the first time, though he would have to wait another day to meet them as he had lessons to get to. The first person he saw was the youngest of the three, Cassiopeia Black as he was informed she preferred to be called, though her siblings called her Delphi, a shortening of her middle name.

She had silver white, not bright blond but silver, hair that fell to her shoulders in slights waves, the tips of which were a stormy blue. Draco realized it was probably the only blue she had ever seen and thus mimic with her Metamorphmagus powers. Draco couldn’t quite make out the colour of her eyes, just that they were dark, likely either a dark grey or brown since those were the two eyes colours that were most common in the Black family. She was tiny, even for what he imagined a nine year old being, he certainly didn’t remember being that small. And she was slim, her robes hanging off her lifelessly, more so then what was normal for non tailored robes.

After her, Draco noticed Cassiopeia’s twin whom was playing a game of one sided chess beside her reading sister. For being the older twin, Vulpecula Black was just a smudge shorter and smaller then her sister, making her appear younger. According to Draco’s mother, Vulpecula looked just like a younger Bellatrix with the same aggressively curly dark brown hair that went to her waist and delicate facial structure. The only different was the admiral blue eyes that stood out form the normal neutral tones of the Black family, standing out even from a distance. She was one of the palest people Draco had ever seen, her sister included in that, though he guessed that made sense since they wouldn’t have seen sunlight in their entire lives. Her robes hanged off her much like her sister, her wrists and hand so tiny and thin that he could clearly seen the bones of them poking through the skin.

Hardwin Black was the last of the three he noticed, the boy his age sitting off to the side meditating. Like his sister, he was pale, though he had a naturally darker skin tone commonly seen throughout the Potter family that made him less so then his sisters. His black hair was pulled back into a thick braid, several of which feathered out from the braid, refusing to be completely contained. He seemed to be taller then the sisters and looked older, which was good since he was two years older, but Draco never would have guessed that the two of them were the same age, Hardwin appearing to be nine while his sisters Draco would have guessed to be closer to six. Draco went to move from the observation glass, he did have lessons, only to stop as Hardwin’s eyes opened and bright green eyes met Draco’s own grey eyes, starring into his soul. A smirk slowly formed on Hardwin’s mouth before he closed his eyes and went back to meditating.

Draco turned away, heart beating, but even more excited to get to know his new brother and sisters.

Theodore ‘Theo’ Nott felt like an outside in his own family some days. Like many kids in his generation he was an only child. He had the chance to have many siblings, all sisters, but they ended up being still born or miscarried, usually from special treatment his father upon finding out the gender of the child. Tertius Nott, his father, was a man of great importance, not because of anything he did, but because no one dared to say anything against him. Theo honestly didn’t know how his father, who was ruthless and violet and openly a blood purist and Voldemort supporter, didn’t get charge with being a Death Eater when he obviously had been.

Tertius Nott followed the thought process of most of the extended Nott family, taught to him by his father, the current Lord Nott, that went back generations. Family ideals and rules included beat down and destroy anyone who got in your way or who was weaker then you, Muggles and Mudbloods were worthless and Half Bloods weren’t much better, You are a Pureblood, you will marry a Pureblood and your children will marry a Pureblood, etc, etc.

That's where Theo mostly found himself feeling like an outside, like someone who didn’t belong in his own family. He didn’t agree with what most his family believed, though he knew better to say anything. He was going to be Lord Nott when his father and the current Lord Nott died and then he would be able to start to change him family image. While he did believe some of the things his family believed in like the fact that Muggleborn and Muggle lovers were ruining the Magical World, destroying tradition and getting ride of many Wizarding customs, replacing them with Muggle ones and that was atrocious, he didn’t believe that Muggleborns were weaker then Purebloods in magic, or that Muggleborns were stealing magic from Pureblood children. He also didn’t believe in judging people by their family. He knew he was nothing like his father, and the Nott men before them, and thus other children couldn’t be exactly like their parents. Some, like Draco Malfoy, obviously mimic their fathers and aimed to be like them, while other, Theo knew, where already trying to be their own person. Theo couldn’t do that quiet yet for fear of his life, after all, his father was still trying to have another son, someone he could use to replace Theo with if he got out of hand.

Theo was excited to get to Hogwarts, to met new people, especially those he wouldn’t ever get to met normally, though he knew he wouldn’t be able to speak with them unless he was disagreeing, in case it got back to his father, but it would be interesting to see all the different view points and perspectives of the other students. He was going to study and learn from his fellow students and then he was going to mould and shape the wizarding world to make it better for all wizard kind, though through laws and government movements and not terror and bloodshed.

The twin sisters loved St. Mugo’s and meeting knew people. They were even more excited for when they’d be moving to Hogwarts in a week. They’d been told stories about the school and the wild, un-contained, lost magic that swirled through the place as common as the air they all breathed. Interesting things had to happen in a place like that.

Vulpecula Ursa Bellatrix Lastrange, Vulpa to her family (except to Sirius who called her his little Lula Lupa), was the eldest of the two of them. No one knew how much older she was, time was hard to keep track of in Azkaban, days really being the only thing they could keep track of consistently, resulting in her and her twin knowing that they were born the same day at the very least. Like both of her siblings, she preferred the Black name as her last name, knowing it was more of a blank slate for a new beginning then Lestrange or Potter. Sirius had adopted all three of them into the Black family within moments of them finding themselves in Azkaban, when Harry had arrived and she and her sister had been born. Besides her mother, Vulpa knew she was going to miss Sirius the most, even more so that her father, whom was nice, but often found himself trapped within memories and the grips of insanity from the Dementers and thus wasn’t really there and thus in her life as a real person.

She was nervous being away from the only home she’d ever known, knowing that she’d never step foot there again, and a part of her felt like the entire world was crushing down on her. Aside from that, she was quite excited for all the new things she was undoubtably going to experience, all the knew places she’d get to experience and things she’d find and the people she’d meet. She couldn’t wait until people got bored of her and her siblings so she could go exploring without worrying about anyone following her or keeping track of where she was going or getting in her way. She wondered what secrets the depths of Hogwarts hid.

Cassiopeia Delpini Lestrange was the youngest of her siblings, though often she was the most mature, at least compared to Vulpa, and Sirius but everyone was more mature then him. Much like with both her siblings, she preferred a shortening of her name, or in her case, her middle name, choosing to be called Delphi by her family. Unlike both her siblings who were fine with being called their shortened forms of their names once they were comfortable enough with a person to get past last names, Delphi knew she’d first let them call her Cassiopeia first, probably because she’d get tired of hearing someone say Black and not know if they were talking about her or her siblings, her full first name still having a level of formality and distance to it for the person to know exactly where they stood.

Delphi felt weird living outside of Azkaban. She like meeting knew people, knowing what made them tick and how that could be used to her advantage or as a way to protect her siblings but the outside world felt…different. She couldn’t explain it. There were things that were obviously different, how warm and dry and light everything was for example. But there was a difference in the air, and it wasn’t the lack of despair, pain and insanity. She couldn’t place her finger on what it was and it unnerved her, made her feel on edge. She couldn't help but wonder what it was and if it was important.

The Weasleys were a large and energetic family. With six boys and one girl, Molly and Arthur Weasley had their hands full. Not to mention over the years, especially during the war and right after, they acted as a safe house for the Order of the Phoenix members between missions, their home a collection of protection charms that prevent people from noticing it, not necessarily preventing from attack as both believed that it best their enemies not find them then rely on shields that may one day fail under strenuous attack.

As the heads of a large family, Arthur and Molly felt the need to protect their children, their children's future and their children’s rights to live the lives they wish to live, as long as they don’t harm other people. As such, it made sense for them, as a ancient light family, to stand against Voldemort during his reign of terror. In times of peace they found themselves to be less busy with anything to do with Order business, allowing them to focus on their children and own hobbies.

They were able to find friends to help teach their eldest son, Bill, the skills he’d need to apply for his curse breaker apprenticeship when the time came, skills he couldn’t get at Hogwarts. Molly had time to bring Charlie to the closest Athenaeum to study and research different creatures when he became especially interested with care for magical creatures, while Arthur spent time with the other kids on his days off. Percy they collected extra money to buy him notebooks and other studying supplies to help him with all his studies, both for school and for personal reasons, to help him expand his knowledge. The twins, well there wasn’t really much they could do with their little trouble makers to reward them, after all they didn’t want to promote behaviour like turning their brother’s hair blue or causing their housemates to speak in rhymes for a week. Instead of rewarding them or helping them specifically, they went easier on them when they got in trouble then they would any of their other children and they turned a blind eye when they pranked one of their siblings in a way that everyone found funny. With Ron, well they didn’t really know what to do with Ron. They got him a second hand wizarding chest set that he seemed happy enough with. Ginny got new clothing that she often got to pick out herself, something the rest of her siblings couldn’t say. She also got her own space the boys couldn’t barge in on and a level of privacy none of her other siblings got.

As happy as they were with spending time with their family and taking care of them and just enjoying life, they knew that should anything happen, they wouldn’t hesitate to help the Order or any of its members out if they needed it. That was why, when Dumbledore stepped through their fireplace, they didn’t hesitate to send their children out to the field for the day to speak with the old wizard in privacy.

They were horrified with what they heard, that Harry Potter, the wizarding world saviour and innocent boy, had grown up in Azkaban, raised by Death Eaters and other monsters. Dumbledore assured them that he was not lost, that the boy still had good in him and would be a figure of the light should he be introduced to the right influences. Unfortunately the Malfoy’s currently had custody of the boy, along with two innocent girls who’d also been raised in Azkaban, and was likely to turn them to the dark much like his old ‘colleagues’ tried to do. Of course, Harry was the one they’d really have to focus on, as he was more likely to turn to the light considering who his parents were until like the girl who parents were Death Eaters locked up with them.

Of course to turn Harry to the light they would first have to get close to him, and the best way to do that… well they did have a lot of children.

Ronald ‘Ron’ Weasley couldn’t wait until he got to Hogwarts. Finally he would have a chance to prove himself and step out from behind his siblings shadows. He’d be the perfect Gryffindor, the star Quidditch player, even better then Charlie and his parents would have no choice but to pay him the same attention they did to the twins or buy him new or special things like they did with the rest of his siblings. Sure he got that Wizard Chess set but he knew not only it was second hand, but he only got it because it was cheap, even for a second hand item, and his parents felt guilty about not giving him anything when they gave his siblings stuff.

Hogwarts would change all that he was sure, maybe even once he learned some magic he’d also be able to stop the twins from using him as their person prank tester without his knowledge or permission. He was willing to serve some detentions if it meant no more teddy’s turned into spiders, or waking up in the nearby river or any thing else that the twins found funny in a given moment

He didn’t realize how quick things would change for him though, how soon he’d get an opportunity to prove himself to his family. No one had really thought too hard about why Dumbledore had come to visit, at least not at first. Then Ron had been called in to speak with his future Headmaster and his parents and since then his siblings wouldn’t stop hounding him to find out what they had spoken about, but Ron refused to say anything. Partially because he’d been asked not to, and partially because it was nice to be in the know about something while his siblings sat in the dark.

Harry Potter, the boy who lived and hero to the Wizarding World, had been raised in Azkaban, surrounded by evil dark wizards who had probably tried to taint his mind and turn him dark like they were. Dumbledore assured him that Harry was still light and that Ron was in charge of making sure he stayed that way, of becoming his friend and keeping him on the path of good, to not give in to the temptation the dark hung over him.

Ron happily agreed. After all, he was a Weasley and Harry was a Potter. It was going to be easy.

Next

[serararku]

Dust to Dust

The magic and allure of seeing dragons had long vanished. The entire trip to Ishgard was spent fantasizing about the great scaled beasts, soaring low over the earth while they belched fire and fury. She wanted to bring back the head of a slain dragon she felled herself, and perhaps a pack filled with its scales; mount that skull on the wall in her apartment, and bedazzle R’zevi with her fancy dragonscale cloak. Now, S’era would be a happy woman if she never saw another flying lizard ever again. 

Maybe if she was lucky she could find a handful of scales on the bridge and make a cute necklace.

Worst still, Ishgardian Index was… smaller than S'era expected. She's heard tales of great labyrinthine libraries stuffed to the brim with forbidden and long forgotten knowledge, rows upon rows of aisles housing countless books, grimoires, and tomes, and terrifying guardians that would make short work of any intruders foolish enough to tempt fate with their damnable curiosity. Yet when she arrived at the Index, it was no more than one curved hallway and maybe half a dozen rooms; still, with her reading level, this alone would take her a lifetime to peruse. The Barghest would return to Ishgard to pick her up in just over a week, and frankly she had neither the time nor the desire to sit here and practice reading for much longer than that; she had a purpose to fulfill, questions that needed answers, and a Tia waiting for her return. Thankfully she had a way to narrow down her search to better accommodate her time frame. 

S’era was nodding off in front of her recent book on Ishgard history. Thanks to the lessons of R’zevi and Pherond she was able to actually read the words, which in itself was exciting, but these books were insufferably boring. Page after page of fighting the Dravanian Horde, recuperating after their retreat, storing up supplies for the next attack decades later, and one again, fighting the Dravanian Horde; if it were up to S’era, she would have packed up and abandoned Ishgard after the first attack. 

Scraaatch… scraaatch… scraaatch…

Her ears perked up to the faint sound of something scraping against wood. She followed the sound to the adjacent wall, where all the books of the Ishgardian Index gathered dust. When her gaze drifted to the fourth shelf, the peculiar scratching stopped. “Rats?” S’era thought, perking a brow. “Would Ishgard even have rats?” Just as she returned to perusing this dreadfully dull book, the scratching returned- with a vengeance.

That terrible noise scraped behind almost every book and on every shelf, traveling up and down the curved hallway until it was almost deafening. “Huh?!” The Samurai slowly rose to her feet once the books began to tremble and fall out onto the floor, and her heart skipped a beat at the rhythmic mumbling coming from the walls.

"Shol uun. Veshe uun. Saal aneem-othola uun."

The shelves burst open with a piercing shriek- black talons and scaled fingers ripped through the wreckage and pulled the wall apart! Red twinkling lights flickered in the dark before the faces emerged into the light, the dragonkin snouts and malformed Elezen heads grimacing and gnashing their snaggled jaws! "NO! AAAH! AAAAAGH!" S'era stumbled back out of her chair, but the monster's outstretched hands caught both arms and pulled her toward its many hungry mouths. The largest dragon head opened wide as a tormented Elezen face shouted with a bone-chilling voice.

"MAKE US WHOLE!"

"BWAH-!" S'era snapped up from her nightmare and nearly jumped out of her skin. Frantically she looked around for any sign of that aberration, but there was none; only the pool of drool soaking into the wooden table, and the array of books she had combed through caught her attention. That, and the Librarian.

"I'm sorry to disturb your nap." The Elezen gave her an apologetic and empathetic smile. "This is all I could find to help your research. There are no books on this artifact you described. However, the late Alfont Vauvois mentions a gold disc in his journal here." 

“Late?” S’era asked, running her hands along her bristling tail under the table. “What happened to him?”

The woman set the weathered leather bound journal beside her, before calmly saying, “He went to investigate Bleakpoint Village about a month ago. Since he hasn’t returned, we have to assume the worst.”

The Samurai swallowed dryly as the Librarian walked off. “If he left for Bleakpoint before us…” She thought, grinding her teeth together while she plucked the journal off the table. “Was he a thrall in robes? Did we kill him? Was he one of those fused to that monster?!” Thinking about it only made her skin crawl; she could speculate all week if she wanted to, but the only way to know for sure is to return to that demented village. That wasn’t going to happen.

Instead, she slowly opened the journal and quickly skimmed the pages. Most of it was unreadable- sloppy handwriting, smeared words, and more than a few stains- hopefully from coffee. It was only the last few pages that truly piqued her interest.

I- -ust as I feare-. A c-lt devo-t in wyrm wo--hip resides in the --- If my calculati--- are correct there is - signifi--nt aether shift s---where in the snowy hills. These ---lots must be plannin- someth--g huge. I must ---d out -hat th--’re up -- before it’s -oo lat-!

S’era gulped dryly again, vividly recalling what those freaks had conjured from the depths of hell. She slowly turned the page and continued reading.

The Dragons--g War is finally over! This was supposed to be a time for c---bration! But cultists managed to sn--k in durin- the Dravanian Horde’s final --sault on Ishgard to steal the remains of Halault?! What else did Ar--bishop Thordan VI- keep secret from his --ople?! If w--- gets out that a ---ter necromancer’s corpse is back in the clut--es of his f--lowers…

No. I can’t let this stand. I will not let another tragedy befall my kin after a millennium of suffering! Someone h-- to do s-meth--g!

The Samurai looked over her shoulder at the random passersby and their quiet conversations; could any of them secretly be a cultist? Her paranoia crept up her spine and made every hair on her neck stand. She didn't want to draw any suspicion by constantly looking around, so S'era instead kept her ears pointed to the open area behind her. 

Several pages were completely unreadable, like someone came in and smeared something to destroy the ink. Yet they didn't account for a Miqo'te to use her heightened sense of sight to bypass their schemes; why they didn't just tear out the pages or burn the whole journal altogether was another mystery for another time. 

Bl--kpoint! Hidden in plain sight! With a hand--- of seasoned adventurers at -- side I'm conf-dent we can --d this horror before it be---s! Must use discretion. Must r-turn ---ault's corpse to the pit it belongs. I w--l --way- lov- --- Amette. -f I d-n't -ake it ba-- I-

The message suddenly cut off from a brown stain, but when S'era reached the last page, her heart dropped into her stomach. 

Blessed blood! Blessed flesh! Drink and feast for thou art blessed! Blessed blood! Blessed flesh! Drink and feast for thou art blessed! Blessed blood! Blessed flesh! Drink and feast for thou art blessed!

S’era slammed the journal closed and shot up from her seat. “Oh gods- that’s what they were chanting…!” She whispered with the slightest breath. “They were going to…?!”

“Is everything alright?” The Librarian asked, reappearing on the other end of the hallway. The Samurai managed to stifle her shock at her sudden return, but only barely; a part of her wondered if this Elezen was a cultist too.

“Y-yeah… but this journal doesn’t mention anything about a golden disc…” 

“Ah, I think I have something to remedy that.” She gave S’era the most disconcerting smile she had ever received, turned on her heel, and disappeared into the darkness behind the door. Now S’era was certain something fishy was going on around here.

“It’s time to get the HELLS out of this place!” Her conscience tugged on her tail and hastened her steps. S’era didn’t even bother putting the books back where she found them- all she feared now was the Librarian returning with a handful of ‘helpers’ to escort her to a grisly end. Staying in Ishgard alone was a terrible mistake- and now she was too paranoid to be of any use to the Ashen Wolves.

Her only choice was clear- continue her research away from potential harm, somewhere she would feel much safer. Preferably surrounded by people that would protect her whilst she slept.

---

Brief mention: @rzevi-tia-ffxiv​

[yandere-ac]

Whitney’s here

Whitney had never seen herself as the jealous type. Way back when she and Apollo were a thing, she never really got to overbearing or controlling. Neither of them where to be perfectly honest. It was a normal and healthy relationship. But all good things must come to an end. For whatever reason, they had broken it up. And even after so many years, Whitney still despised the memories of that time in her life. What a fool she had been, to let such a good one go. At first she didn’t really care much about their breakup, sure she was sad about losing Apollo but they still remained as friends. But then, the eagle started getting more and more distant from her, and shortly after, they had stopped talking all together.

This was the mark of Whitney’s rapid decline into delusion. She had tried to keep her feeling bottled up, keeping a calm and graceful exterior around everyone else. But what happens late at night when there’s no one to distract her from her own thoughts? Well, that’s when it gets complicated. That’s when all the regret came clawing out from underneath her skin. Creating an itch she couldn’t scratch, why’s she let him go? Why would she do such a stupid thing? No matter how much she tried to smirk and flaunt when outside, she could never escape from her own head.

After a while she had stopped blaming herself, no, she had instead started blaming Apollo himself. He was deranged to have left her, she wasn’t the problem here, he was! She would never let anyone see it, but she had been affected by the breakup hard. She was sure that after the hurt she’d been through with Apollo, she could never even muster the thought of getting into a relationship again.

But then, she met you. She had heard the rave about a new island, it’s reputation was starting to grow and she had only heard positive things about it. About how nice it had looked, about how peaceful island life was, about how nice all the residents where. And so, when she saw that there was an open plot of land there, she made sure to move in. The day when she arrived she was greeted by an old acquaintance, Tom Nook. He had shown her around and led her to her new home. “Just a heads up, some islanders may stop by to say hi and welcome you, it is a very friendly island. But if you’d rather take your time to unpack we can add that information in the upcoming morning announcement” The tanooki informed her whilst helping her carry her boxes into her home. “Oh no, that’s quite alright snappy. Thank you anyhow” she responded with a gentle smile. They really weren’t kidding when they said the people living here were friendly huh?

Soon ,Tom nook has left the white wolf to do her unpacking. And sure enough, every once in a while a villager would pop in, say hello, talk a little and go away. Whitney appreciated their effort to get to know her. But then, you came along. It had been a while since the last villager had greeted her and she though there was no one else that would come. But then she herd a subtle knock on her door, followed by someone opening that door and stepping in. As she turned around to greet whoever had visited she almost lost her breath. The person who stood before her was none other than Y/N the island representative. She had heard about you but didn’t know you were the representative of THIS island. And now that she could see you up close, you looked even cuter than in those magazines of island living! She could feel her heart skip a beat as you smiled at her and greeted her. You had even offered her help to unpack, help which she gladly accepted. Not because she needed it, but because she wanted you to stay with her a little longer.

Sure enough, you two stayed at her house for a couple hours, unpacking and talking with each other. As she was trying to set up her bed she could hear you ask: “Where should I put this?” She turned around to see what you were referring to, but when she saw what you were holding she could feel her heart stop. It was a framed picture of her and Apollo. And you were touching it. “Don’t touch that!” She barked out as she snatched it out from your hands. Instantly, the easy going atmosphere had turned tense and dreadful. As soon as Whitney relized what she had done her eyes filled up with regret. “I’m...y/n i-“ she had tried to explain but was quickly interrupted. “No no, it’s fine. I’m...I’m really sorry that I just went through your stuff, that was very reckless of me” you had Said and Done a little bowing gesture with your head. “It’s alright i...hey, how about this? Once I’m done unpacking we could go out for some tea or coffee? See it as an apology for me lashing out” Whitney had said with a sheepish smile. You felt the ends of your mouth perk up as you nodded happily. After that you said your goodbyes as it was starting to get really late. Whitney couldn’t help but feel all giddy as she thought of you.

That was your first interaction with her, and there had been many more after that. In fact, you and her had become very close friends, and while that may sound good, to Whitney it was the complete opposite of what she wanted. During the time she spent on the island she had grown very attached to you, she had relized that this wasn’t your average crush, no, this had gone much MUCH deeper than that. It honestly kind of scared her at times, that was the saner part of her, speaking against all of her demented thoughts. But in the end, it wasn’t strong enough to hold back the billions of “bad thoughts” she had about you everyday. She wanted to be so much more than friends! And while she could get away with many deep affections with you seeing as a lot of people thought you were just two gal pals, she couldn’t exactly kiss you and say it was a friendly gesture. She wanted to hold your hand, give you small pecks on the lips, cuddle and wrap her body around your smaller one, kiss every part of your beautiful body, be on top of you as she made you whimper and squirm-

“Whitney? Are you okey?” Her thoughts where interrupted by you. The two of you were sitting in a field of beautiful flowers, just relaxing and talking about life. It was by then that Whitney had realized that she had started drooling slightly. This made her face redden with embarrassment, she was suppose to be the mature one yet her she was, acting like a little puppy. You chuckled as she quickly turned away from you. Looking at the flowers surrounding her you got an idea. “Hey, turn around Whits?” You asked her, and as she obliged you placed one of the flowers between her ears. But this soon backfired as you looked at her, getting lost in her gaze. “What is is y/n? Does it look weird snappy?” She asked you, but you quickly shook your head, denying the notion as if it was unthinkable. “Oh no, not at all Whits. You look-“ you were about to continue but you stopped when you felt a light blush creep on to your face.

Well, here goes nothing.

“So uh...Whitney, there was something that I wanted to tell you...” You had waited for a long time to tell her about your feelings, trough is. You liked her, you had been so afraid that she might not have liked you as much as you liked her. Whitney scotched a little closer to you and was giving you her full attention. ” Yes snappy?” She said, looking deep into your eyes. My god, her blue eyes was even more gorgeous up close. You told her directly and blatantly about your feelings. You wanted to rip the bandage off as soon as possible, these past weeks had been tortuous as the only thing you could think about was “what if she didn’t feel the same way?”

“If you don’t feel the same way, I hope we can still be frie-“ You were quickly interrupted by Whitney who had tackled you into a hug, you could see her tail wave excitedly. “Oh y/y darling, why didn’t you say so earlier. I’ve had the same feelings since the day I moved here!” She exclaimed as she turned to look at you. She started nuzzling you with her snout and you let out a small giggle as she did so. “Well, if that’s the case. Would you like to join me at Brewster tomorrow for a date?” You had asked and Whitney gladly accepted. That night when she went home, Whitney could barley sleep out of pure joy. Finally, she had you. She didn’t have to worry about anyone else taking you away from her ever again!

But that previous joy soon faded as she looked towards one of her shelves. It was that dreaded picture of her and Apollo. She felt a pit in her stomach. She hadn’t even thought of the fact that you could break up with her just like Apollo did. She couldn’t let you leave her. That night she made up a plan to secure that you would be hers even if you tried to break up. If all good things comes to an end, she had to make sure that it didnt happen to you and her.

“Congrats on the new upgrade to your home Whits!” You said as you embraced your now girlfriend of several months. Your and Whitney’s relationship had gone really well. Or at least at first. Whitney always wanted to hold your hand whenever you where around anyone else (as well as when you were alone). She was a very affectionate partner, taking any opportunity to cuddle or kiss. That’s was all well and fine, however, all good things must come to an end. After some weeks into the relationship she had started to get more possessive over you. Sometimes when you would talk to someone else she would come up behind you, wrap her arms around your waist and put her head over yours. Making sure to glare at the other person until they left. Not only that but if you ever brought it up she would start crying and ask if you hated her. Of course you insisted that you loved her and you always ended up loosing the argument, hugging her whilst comforting her. But what you didn’t know was the fact that while you sat and have her words of comfort, she was smitning, ear to ear. Knowing that you wouldn’t leave her.

Recently she had expanded her home to have a basement. You were excited for her as you met up with her. Lately, you had no free time as Whitney had always wanted to see you. You had tried to bring it up but like always she would either refuse to talk about it or it would become a big argument in which you always lost. You both knew that THE conversation was gonna come up sooner or later as you really felt less happy in the relationship. Sure, you loved Whitney, with all your heart. But Whitney had some issues that she had to work out before she could date anyone.

The two of you sat on her bed, drinking tea and talking. You laughed and blushed as the two of you talked, you were gonna miss this. But it had to be done. “Hey...Whits? I...I have to...to” you could feel yourself grown more and more tired and sick. You tried to hold up your tea cup but soon your hands started shaking. You let go of the tea cup as you fell into Whitney’s arms. “....so..rry” you had said, feeling your eyes become more and more heavy. “Shhhh, shhhh. It’s okey y/n dear. You can go to sleep, I’m here” Whitney told you as she make gentle circle movements on your back. And so, you went out like a light. Whitney Held you close to her body, stroking your hair peacefully as she looked at you. My god, even when you were asleep you still looked just as ravishing.

Whitney wasn’t stupid, she could read a room and it was obvious that you wanted to break up. Of course she wasn’t gonna let that happen, she’s not gonna loose you. But even then she didn’t blame you, she was certain there was someone else involved. Some other villager who had sweet talked you into leaving her, just so they could have you. But as long as she had you, it was all gonna be alright. She wasn’t going to let the person that did this get away with their crimes, she didn’t care who came into the crossfire. She wanted to snuff out the life of the monster that tried to take you away from her.

Waking up, hours later, you suffered from an intense headache. At first you couldn’t even stand up from the room spinning and the stinging feeling you felt in your head. But after a while you managed to lift your head up and take in your surroundings. You were in some sort of...basement? You were stuck behind metal bars, making it seem like some sort of jail cell. But, for whatever reason, you didn’t feel cold or uncomfortable. As you looked down you could see that you were laying on a big fluffy mattress with a big silky blanket. Around you on the ground was a bunch of pillows, making sure that there were no hard and cold areas in your “cell”. There were no lights in the basement except for one wall mounted candle that had almost burned out. What is this? Why were you here? You could feel yourself get more and more panicked as you tried to remember what had happened...Whitney? Where was Whitney?! Where was your girlfriend?!

Suddenly, you could hear a key unlocking a door from upstairs, followed by footsteps that soon led down into the basement. Oh god. You began hyperventilating as a figure stood by the end of the staircase that led into the basement. You couldn’t quite make out who it was since the weak candles light didn’t reach their figure, you could only tell they were tall. Your head started to fill up with worry, who was this person? What where they gonna do to you?

“Y/n?” The voice cut through the tension as a hot knife through butter. Was that...That was Whitney! All of the worry that you previously had was gone in a flash. “Wh-Whitney? Help! I’m stuck!” You called out, desperate for help. Suddenly you heard a soft yet menacing chuckle break through the air. You could feel the previous tension start to build up again. “This isn’t funny! Come on! Knock it off and come help me!” You yelled. “Oh but darling, of course your stuck, i tightens the chains pretty hard” She said, now approaching you. As she got closer to the light you could see her much better, but you wished you couldn’t. She was covered with blood, bruises and cuts. You could feel your breathing become heavier. “What happened?! Are you hurt?!” You asked. This only made her laugh harder, okay now you were definitely afraid.

“Oh y/n~ No I’m not hurt, this isn’t my blood after all...” she answered, treading off at the end of her sentence. “What do you mean...who...who’s blood is that!?” You could feel your heart beating faster, you was this? What had they done to your girlfriend? “It’s the blood of that pesky villager you seem to LOVE so much” Whitney said, rolling her eyes at the “love” part. Her voice was full of revulsion and hate. You felt tears well up in the corners of your eyes. She couldn’t have...she wouldn’t hurt your favorite villager, would she? But the blood on her blue dress said otherwise. You put your hands over your mouth, looking down at the floor in disbelief. You didn’t want to look at her, not like this!

“Anyways, how are the chain? Is it too tight? I can soften it a little if you want snappy. I got a little paranoid whilst fastening it” she said, walking into the cell, closing it afterwards. You didn’t respond. You couldn’t respond. To this, Whitney only let out a small sigh. “No, no. You need time. It’s okey, I understand. If it makes you feel any better, the others are fine. As long as no one tries to take you away from here, they won’t get hurt” She told you as she sat down next to you. She wrapped her arms around your small body and pulled you down, wrapping her tail around your leg as she spooned you against her chest. Not being able to handle it anymore, you let your tears fall out of your eyes. Feeling utterly helpless as the woman who you once loved licked the salty tears off your cheeks. “Shhh shhh, it’s okay. I’m here, I’m here”

You didn't want to believe it. This wasn’t the woman you fell in love with. She used to be so loving and caring, you never thought she would cage you up and kidnap you. But unfortunately for you, all good things must come to an end. And she was never gonna let that happen.

[fallen029]

Untitled

I’ve sat on this since the summer. Y’all think we should finish it? Or scrap it? 

.

He proposed to her in the most beautiful fashion.

A trip, just the two of them, out to the coast. With sunshine glinting off the water as they overlooked the ocean from the balcony of the little cottage he rented for the week. Over dinner, during their glasses of wine, with a knowing look in his typically dark eyes, but they were just as alight as her own that early evening. And of course, there was a diamond ring to top off the event, with the slayer bowing to her, the only woman, only person he ever would.

It was perfect. Everything Mirajane could have ever wanted. It took place during the middle of their trip though so it was hard, she found, to stay away from her siblings and friends awaiting the good news back home. She chastised Lisanna and Lucy both for keeping it from her, as they both had assisted Laxus in picking out the ring, but they each laughed and it was so perfect.

They’d be married in the Magnolia Cathedral, in front of all their family and friends, and it would be the event of the year, no doubt, not only for their guild, but the higher ones as well, and it would take a lot of planning, a lot of work, but Mirajane couldn’t wait.

But…

There was still something that they needed to do first.

“I want to meet your mother.”

Laxus snorted some, when Mirajane brought this up over breakfast one morning. He was glancing over the paper while sipping at his coffee, mostly trying to plot out what he was planning on doing with his next week entirely free. There were no new S-Class jobs, but the Thunder Legion were still out on their lower level one, and that meant, to him, that he was going to be able to do whatever he wanted for the next few days.

Until, of course, his woman spoke.

“Can’t,” he replied simply. “She’s dead.”

“She is not.”

“Is so.”

“Laxus-”

“What are you on about anyways?” he griped as she came to drop a plate of food in front of him. Piled high with eggs, hash browns, and greasy sausage, the sigh of the plate was enough to get the man to immediately drop his newspaper. Stealing a glance over at where his girlfriend was fixing her own plate, he kept up, “What’s up with you and my mother?”

“You mean my future mother-in-law?”

“Mira-”

“I know she’s not really dead,” she told him bluntly. “That you just tell people that.”

“How do you know? Huh? That you’re not really dragging up some deep childhood trauma for me? And aren’t being really insensitive right now?”

“Because I went to Master.”

“Why did you talk to that old geezer,” he griped, “about my life? Huh? Where do you get off?”

“Uh, I get off at my fiance sending checks to another woman every few months,” she told him bluntly as, returning to the table, she only raised an eyebrow at him. “Would you rather I have called off the engagement when I noticed you writing the letter? Or asked Master who Elise Dreyar is?”

“How are those my only two op- And hey.” He glared this time. “How did you even find the checks, huh? Or letters?”

“Laxus, come on.” She gave him a look of her own. “You know I’m going to snoop through your things. Without a doubt. Don’t play dumb.”

“You’re tricky.”

“And you’re avoiding the question?”

“What’s the question?”

“Why,” she insisted then, “have you been hiding the fact your mother is alive from me?”

And…

It wasn’t an easy thing to talk about.

At all.

People who’d been in the hall for decades probably didn’t even know the full story. Not really. It was just as well assumed that Laxus’ mother, whoever she was, had passed away at some point during his childhood and left him without the demented Ivan and the very busy Makarov to raise him. It was such an easy story to recount, such a common troupe for the numerous kids who’d been raised in the hall, that it needed no questioning.

Would would you even question?

The allusive Makarov? Or the agitated Laxus?

It was a topic that seemed to be buried and done with and very few people wished to dig further.

But Mirajane was hardly just anyone. She was the soon-to-be bride of the guild’s most cantankerous slayer and there was a lot of ceremony, she felt, to be had in being inducted into the Dreyar clan. They had a rich history in the Fairy Tail guild and while she had more than made a mark for herself under her maiden name, the idea of now being forever entwined with the guild’s first family gave her a further cementing into the hall’s lore.

If she was going to become the future Mrs. Dreyar, then she didn’t see how it was outlandish to request access to the former.

The woman had the dragon by his tail anyways and, at her request, gave in with only a tad bit of griping. She wanted to meet his mother? Was she completely sure? Absolutely sure? Because he wasn’t going to write her saying they were coming if Mira was only going to chicken out.

But she was no coward. And though she had some hesitance over the fact she was potentially leading Laxus into an unfavorable situation that he wasn’t prepared for, she also also steadfast in needing this for her own confirmation. One last piece of the puzzle of the Dreyar family before she knew, with absolute certainty, that she was meant to be one of it’s members.

She expected the worse.

Considering Ivan’s known insanity, she imagined the woman was much the same. Perhaps locked away in one of those dreadful asylums. Or, oh, what if she was a terrible recluse? Living out in the woods somewhere, all alone? Maybe a wicked old woman, living in her ivory tower on the edge of the continent, scowling and smiting anyone who got near?

Mira’s many thoughts and fears were proven all for not as, when they boarded the train, it was headed to a small town a few hours away that, from all she knew of it, was just a cozy little beach town. Unremarkable.

She didn’t know why she was so disappointed, but she truly was.

Laxus, equal parts his motion sickness and not really wanting to make the journey, spent the time white-knuckling and trying not to barf. His soon-to-be wife was very concerned with him, as she usually was in such situations, but he was still rather pissed about the whole thing and didn’t pretend for once as if her measures were doing anything to aid him.

She was the one causing him pain this time.

And he wasn’t going to pretend otherwise for her own benefit.

The man had refused to give her any true info on what they were going to be presented with, once they got to his mother’s place. He claimed that, if she wanted to go, she’d have to see it all firsthand. And while Mirajane knew he was doing this as one last fail safe, she found she liked it better that way.

Whoever Elise Dreyar was, it was only right that she got her chance to tell her side of the story, before the man raised by Ivan and Makarov got a chance to interject.  

Laxus wasn’t completely certain on the directions, when they got off at the train station. While Mira remarked on how nice it must be, his mother living in such a bustling city, he only retorted that he’d only been a few times.

“:When I was younger,” he went on as he looked over some directions he’d scrawled on a piece of a paper. “And c’mon. Left up here.”

His mother actually lived on the outskirts of town, in a tiny little yellow house. The grass was a bit overgrown and Laxus grumbled about it, just a bit, as they walked up the porch steps to the door. Knocking his knuckles against the white door, Laxus was still annoyed, it seemed, when a middle-aged woman opened up.

“I give you enough money to get your grass cut,” Laxus complained with a glare, “and you don’t use it? And look at your bushes- Someone needs to trim them. If you’re not going to do it-”

“Laxus,” Mirajane remarked with a frown and a glare up at the man. “What is your-”

“Fuck off.” The woman who opened the door stood there with a glare, her eyes the same auburn shade as the man before her. “The boy who comes around to do it’s sick, huh? Is that what you wanna hear?”

“I wanna hear,” Laxus retorted, “that you didn’t spend it all on booze.”

“Laxus!” Mirajane tapped his arm then, but he only continued to glare at his mother, the woman snorting then and turning to walk off further into the house.

“Come in then, I guess,” the woman griped and there was a bit of a roughness to her voice, raspy-ness, maybe. As Laxus did so, Mirajane hesitated for a moment, finally doing as the slayer had hoped; second guessing herself.

Still, she came forward, walking into the home expecting the worse. But she was greeted to it. Just quaint, maybe a bit dusty and cluttered home that she could imagine just about any single person living in. There was an overflowing ashtray though, a cigarette still smoldering in it, and as she went to retrieve it, Laxus only snorted at their surroundings.

“Clean for my arrival, Mom?” he questioned, but the woman only rolled her eyes, running one hand through her stringy blonde hair while the other plucked the cig right back out of her mouth.

“Gonna introduce me to your woman?” she asked instead, glancing Mirajane over now. In response, the barmaid stood to attention, giving the older woman the best smile she had. It was the one that landed her the slayer, after all (and nearly every other man she wanted), but her fiance’s mother only seemed to look right through it.

“Mom,” Laxus finally grumbled, “this is Mirajane. Mira, this is my mother.”

“Hi!” Mirajane bounced some, standing at the man’s side with her shining blue eyes at their maximum pop. “It’s so nice to-”

“That’s what I am, huh?” the woman cut her off. “Laxus? Your mother?”

“Fuck, you better be,” he complained then. “All the jewels I’ve sent you-”

“That is the second time,” she kept up, “that you’ve brought that up today. I never asked you to keep sending me money, Laxus. I asked you, once, to help me out-”

“How would you pay for your bills?” he retorted with a huff of breath through his nose. “If I didn’t? You don’t work-”

“I have,” she cut him off, “a bad hip.”

“Oh, yeah, sure.”

“I do.” And it was to Mirajane that she looked now. “His father pushed me down a flight of-”

“Don’t bring Ivan,” Laxus growled then, “into this. That nearly thirty years ago.”

“And I’m still hurting from it, so what does that tell you?”

“Um,” Mirajane finally spoke up, reaching a hand over to pat gently now at the arm of her seething slayer. “I think maybe we should all just take a breath. Okay? I’m really glad to meet you. Laxus… Well, he hasn’t really had a chance to tell me much about you, but-”

“That’s because of his grandfather,” the woman offered with ease and Laxus huffed, but didn’t rebuke this.

“Master?” Mirajane questioned with a bit of a frown. “You think that Master doesn’t like you?”

“Master.” And she mocked it, the woman did, as the word left her mouth. “So you’re one of them, are you? A Fairy Tail member?”

“An S-Class one,” Mira kept up. “Yes.”

“You’re speaking to the Demon Mirajane,” Laxus said then, glancing down at his fiancee before back at his mother. “I’m sure you’ve heard of her.”

“Can’t say I have,” his mother remarked, crossing an arm over her chest as she tapped her foot, as if thinking. At Laxus’ snort though, she added, with a hint of sincerity, “I don’t keep up much with wizards these days. Not really my thing.”

“W-Well, I really don’t go out on jobs that often anymore, anyways,” Mirajane assured the woman. “I actually work in the bar.”

“The bar?”

“In the hall. Master gave me a job there, serving the drinks after… After I had an accident, out on a job.” Mira looked off then, still a tangled mess, deep down, over the early days surrounding that transition. Blinking away the thoughts, she said, “It was many years ago though, now.”

“Yeah.” She paused to take a draw then, Elise did, before remarking, “Makarov really has a way of helping out young women. And girls. Doesn’t he?”

“Mom.” Laxus was the one that took steps then, towards her, and when he reached out, it was to rest his palms on her shoulders. “Let’s just take a seat, alright? You can… Mira wants to hear. From you. About whatever you want to tell her. So let’s just do that and then we can go back to normal, okay? How things have always been.”

How things had been.

She nodded at that, turning away from him before gesturing towards the couch and loveseat.

“Make yourselves comfortable, I guess,” she said then. “Don’t got a lot, but-”

“It’s very nice,” Mirajane insisted to her as she went to take a seat on the couch, the slayer having to take a deep breath before following suit. “How long have you lived here?”

“Oh, what’s it been, Laxus?” Elise perched herself in a nearby recliner where, on a side table, another ashtray sat. Stabbing out her smoke in it, she questioned, “Not twenty years, yet, has it? Since your grandfather ran me out of Magnolia?”

And he swallowed it, this time, whatever he was going to say, instead sitting back in his seat and staring straight ahead. Mirajane, after glancing at the man, leaned forwards, eyes on the woman in question.

“I’ve never had a problem with Master,” she told the woman simply. “He’s only ever taken care of me and everyone I know. And the guildhall. What-”

“Makavor’s an old man. Was then too, I guess,” she sighed, thoughtfully, before shaking her head. “But now he’s a weaker one. A remorseful one, maybe. Wouldn’t surprise me. Laxus says the same things about him. Don’t you, Laxus?”

Focused completely in a painting then, across the room, Laxus imagined himself there. In the little row boat encapsulated forever there, on a quiet pond, with a surrounding still forest. How nice it seemed, then, to the typical active man, to just be sitting somewhere quiet, somewhere scenic and implying solitude. It had been a bit, since he craved something so fully.

“Gramps took care of me,” he told her simply. “While you and Ivan couldn’t.”

“Couldn’t.” She made that same kind of snorting noise as her soon, looking away as well as she say, “Your grandfather wouldn’t let me.”

“I don’t understand,” Mirajane said with a frown. “What happened? I mean, I know that Ivan-”

“You don’t know,” the other woman assured her, “Ivan.”

“But I do. I mean, I haven’t met him, but-”

“Ivan is a terrible person,” Elise began and though this was hardly up for debate, Laxus still found himself huffing and shifting uncomfortably. “And his father spent years, literal years, defending him and protecting him from the consequences of his actions.”

Mirajane, who’d never seen the man have anything, but contempt for his only son, frowned some as she sat back. Slowly, she asked, “When were you and Ivan together? And for how long?”

“I met him when I was young. And stupid. And thought that mages were all the rave. They were.” She waved her hand. “Ivan and I were together, off and on, for five or six years before we had Laxus.” She paused then, but her tone was different now and, as it was her tone to shift, she only shook her head. “Things were always hard, because it is hard, for a wizard. On them and their family. But with Ivan… He wasn’t always so bad. But when he was bad… And then Makarov, when I finally, truly, decided to get away from him, he decided that I wasn’t fit-”

“So you’re not going to tell her?” Laxus questioned then, eyes finding his mother once more as, clearly, he wouldn’t be able to hold his tongue. “About how youw ere sleeping around? And you fucking left, Ivan, fine, but you left me too and told Makarov you weren’t coming back.”

“I did,” she told him harshly, “come back. And you have no idea what Ivan-”

[maruzzewrites]

Every breathe you take. - 7

Feeling ungrateful, on top of all the worries that weighted you down, was the last of your wishes. Your fiance proposed to go live together, but that wasn’t the problem. You’ve known him for years, shared your life and your plans with him for so long that this proposal was more a matter of when rather than if. Yet, you couldn’t help the feeling of extreme uneasiness, bordering on anxiety, and you simply told him you needed time to inform your parents. You really didn’t want to refuse the offer, but you had to work around it with skill and with careful preparation. Your fiance agreed with you, and was cautious enough not to outright say why he did so; you sighed deeply when the phone call ended and you were left alone with your own thoughts, house empty and silence reigning around you.

You didn’t even notice, in your detachment, that the clock ticked away, minutes passing with slow rapidity. Your face in the mirror was blank, and you got to know every pore, and every wrinkle, and every discoloration; yet you couldn’t see at all, staring at the reflection with a racing mind that couldn’t stop and relax, leaving you restless in your frozen body. Then, all of the sudden, a noise from down the hall: a key turning, coming from the silence and entering the bathroom from the half-closed door. Like an alarm clock, that sound aroused you from your reverie, with the wrong feeling washing over you; apprehension was quick to take hold of your consciousness as you were drowning in the ocean of your thoughts, still anchored down by that vague feeling of doom over your head.

Luckily, your mother’s voice came to call your name, and you crashed down from that suspended feeling to feel all the exhaustion of tension. Your head was pounding, your heart was tearing itself apart, but you had to step out on shaky legs to greet your mother. She commented on your pale face, and you felt like you didn’t even have enough air in your lungs to sigh out your frustration. You simply told her you were a bit tense, because you had something important to reveal your parents that evening, and you could already see her nosy nature come up to ask about this mysterious announcement. You avoided all questions, attempting to seem as cheerful as you usually were, and returned to your room to breathe in relief at your solitude.

You hoped that your personal space, a place that shielded you for years against the world just outside your door, would be enough to soothe your fears for the little time you were granted in there. For the first time in your life, however, you were facing the reality of such a naïve wish, in front of the knowledge that a simple room wouldn’t protect you from something so much bigger than you. They knew your address, and if they wished to kidnap you one night, a mere door made of wood wouldn’t block them; did they know the floor you lived on? Maybe even the apartment? Maybe your mother opened the door, one day, while you were away and unable to turn them away with pretenses and excuses. They probably knew your last name, written on the intercom, easy to access.

You really didn’t know what to do, those thoughts were enough to stop you on your tracks and make you want to feel your mind go blank. You did meet some odd, creepy men and boys before, but the implications of their job and the fact they were seven different people ready to torment you enough to interfere in your private life, it went beyond what you were used to. If it wasn’t enough that those lowlifes haunted your thoughts and your time, there were clues ready to taunt you with their memories right in your room, invading your space and your safety just with the same persistence and resolve as the men themselves; those gift they left you and you didn’t have the bravery to toss away, deep in some trashcan away from your home, were ready to chant mocking words of praise and endearment at you.

They were left, forgotten, in a drawer of your desk that you never really used and never really opened besides the time you shoved them in. Now, another piece of the collection was ready to be added to the collection, yet you remembered Formaggio’s words about how he hoped to see you in the new piece of clothing he made you buy. If you thought it was a plain and creepy gift at first, you had to concede he was smart enough to choose something that would be easy to wear and easy to detect on you. And you hated yourself for not stopping him, not arguing with him about any other garment or accessory that could be unfitting for the job you had to do in their house. Would he get annoyed if you disregarded his wish? More importantly, were you willing to face his probably anger at your disobedience?

You bit your lip at that thought. Labelling your legitimate resistance at their disturbing requests as disobedience was a deformity in your judgement; you weren’t disobeying, you weren’t acting up against rules or orders fairly laid out to you. You were fighting back again malicious actions of demented men, you had to remember they were in the wrong and no matter what they were playing, what they were doing, or who they would drag into this mess, you were simply doing what you could to survive a frightening situation. The stress of these months were really eating away at your sanity and your well being, if you were really starting to rationalize their actions, getting used to them to the point you would consider appeasing to their desires just to avoid the confrontation, or the punishment, or whatever would come with contrasting them.

Would you still avoid confronting them directly, for your peace of mind? Of course, going against a criminal syndicate was a path for walking corpses. But you had to think of it in those terms, as a way to survive and preserve yourself and those around you, not as an act a teenage child would put up to rebel against a parent or an authority figure. They were in the wrong, you weren’t disobeying, you were simply doing what you could to go on with your life with the most peaceful outcome you could reach. So you spent the rest of the time you had in your room chanting such thoughts in your head, building up the lost confidence and the worn-out resolve that they managed to destroy with subtle work. Eventually, though, you were called for dinner, and you faced both your parents at the table, your mother excited to know the announcement you teased earlier.

You sat down, right in front of them, to announce your fiance’s proposal. On the premise that you were still thinking about doing it, you revealed that his asked you to move in with him and live together after some considerations and some happenings in your private life. You refused to answer their questions about what happened, but guaranteed them you were fine, nothing major happened, just something that made your fiance think he wanted to make the next step in the relationship. Your father seemed a bit saddened, even confused, but not opposed at all at the notion; your mother was positively happy, if a bit misty-eyed at the prospect of losing her child for good, after having them under her roof for so long. You were glad they were so distracted with complimenting and encouraging you to take that opportunity, because you were starting to understand that their approval didn’t help to give you relief over the possibility of living with your fiance.

You stayed in relative silence as your mother talked about plans and tips on how to keep the house, how to compromise with a partner, egged on by your occasional and tentative smile that you showed simply to soothe her worries. Your father kept quiet too, but dared to throw in some recommendations on how to repair things and how to avoid being scammed by people who would be knocking on your door to sell you that or recruit you for this. Usually, you would be offended by the fact your parents tried to baby you, as if you weren’t already an adult, but this time you couldn’t allow yourself the luxury of petty emotions like that. You were too stunned by your lack of happiness, where an empty and cold feeling was choking you with its iron hold around your lungs.

Dinner passed, and you retired to your room with a buzzing in your mind that couldn’t be turned off. You walked the path of these few months you spent in that house, around those men; each step back, it made you remember the sentiments of terror, anxiety and doom that made your muscles stiff and your words tremble. Yet, as your memories started to become more recent, you could only see yourself react less, without losing the fear. You felt numb, and useless, and you had the worst epiphany of your life right on your bed, that evening: their presence in your life was becoming routine, just how things were, you were getting used to their treatment. Even if you repeated to yourself, earlier, how you couldn’t let yourself fall into the pit of despair with this train of thought, you couldn’t help the anguish and the mourning you were going through in your privacy.

No matter who you told this to, that couldn’t help the situation. Venting and seeking support, it was useless when facing something so much greater than you, than your family, than your connections. Was it even fair to this situation on anyone, especially loved ones? You let out a sob, low and restrained, that felt like burning in your throat. You didn’t care, though, as you didn’t want to pain your parents if you could help it and you could keep them away from this situation, even if it meant that you had to keep your breath even and steady despite the tears. Your mind started to race with even more speed, accompanied by the sound of your soft crying, until your thoughts landed on your fiance.

Your darling, the man you wanted to keep close. Selfish, disgusting, you didn’t know how he could bear the sight of you after you dragged him into this mess, ruining a perfect life before he could even start to really build it. The fact he worried about you and didn’t walk away as soon as he knew what you were facing did nothing to help your guilt, and you had to really bit your tongue to stop the next sob that threatened to escape your lips. Did he deserve this fate? He really didn’t, not when he could easily find someone better, someone who didn’t allow him to risk his own life just for a stupid error. It wasn’t right for you to move in with him, your place wasn’t at his side anymore and you had to decide if you could endure the thought of endangering him to the point of fearing for his life.

You owned it to him, to those who loved him, and to yourself. Selfish, again, but you wanted to be able to breathe again. Maybe you couldn’t get rid of those men, but you could try to bear with their treatment until they got bored and changed their target. You could keep up the act, be kind enough to let them relax around you, as if they didn’t have to worry about you escaping, but with the usual nervous coldness that would eventually annoy them enough. Cordial, like the servile help you were paid to be, so that their bosses didn’t have anything to complain about either. Yet, in this plan, you couldn’t involve your fiance; he deserved so much better, and so much more, and you couldn’t ask him to see you crumble as soon as you crossed your potential shared house’s threshold.

With the exhaustion overwhelming your body and, especially, your mind, your thoughts started to slow down. That way, in order to find closure and resolution with your own guilt and slip into the unconsciousness you yearned for, your brain settled on the first idea it could find, the easiest solution and the less likely to end up in tragedy. Your fiance had to understand, he will understand; you knew he wasn’t a fool, and you hoped he could set aside his nobility to do the smart, right thing as you asked to separate. Because nobility wasn’t bulletproof, it couldn’t protect you more than words could, and you would tear yourself apart if you were responsible for the suffering and death not only of someone you loved, but of a good and honest man who could have a choice.

With that thought in your head, calming and damning at the same time, you drifted to sleep. Your slumber was empty, yet restless all the same. Despite the lack of dreams, you felt like you could count each single minute separating you from the next morning. Waking up, tired and washed out, dull ache in your buzzing mind, you set yourself in motion to continue your days as usual until you had to go back in that house. You wanted to wallow in the last days you could label yourself taken, before you left behind one of the last things that could bring a little sprinkle of calm in your life. For his sake, for his safety, but eventually you had to call him and let him know that you couldn’t accept his offer, and that it was better for the two of you to separate definitively.

It was a difficult call, one you couldn’t do face to face. As a coward, you thanked that phone that was tormenting you with continuous calls and messages, because it allowed you to avoid seeing his face. Because if it was even just half as pained as his voice sounded, you would have hesitated and stepped back, never truly ending it. With his pleas still in your ears, you turned off your phone and dropped it on your bed. You were numb for the rest of the day, and when your mother asked you the reason, you simply told her. Omitting the backstory, it sounded like you were a capricious brat, unable to commit to someone who was too good for you; you could read the confusion and the disappointment on her face, but she didn’t say anything besides the usual condolences and her suggestions to do something together to help you get over the break up. But this wasn’t her doing, you didn’t want to worry her further. You simply said you needed time, but everything heals and you were still fine, as you were the one who decided to break off the engagement. Didn’t matter if you didn’t have time to grieve the relationship, or if your heart ached at the thought, she didn’t have to know every sordid detail of your situation. You could only deal with this alone, or everyone else would have to pay the consequences.

With another night spent in agitated sleep, you woke up with little energy to deal with the workday you had ahead. You had the break up weighting you down, besides the familiar anxiety settling in the pit of your stomach, which prevented you to get ready as usual. Not that it mattered, with your bare face, your hardly tamed hair, the bags under your eyes, everything was the portrait of misery, and you hoped repulsive enough to make those men rethink their obsession. Not that you would get your hopes up, but the prospective of their interest vacillating because of superficial details was comforting for your fatigued brain.

Getting out of the bathroom, you were definitively early to go out, and staying more than needed in that house was the last thing you wanted. So you settled to sit, in silence, in your room as you heard the sound of life outside your door, your parents steps as they continued their routines as if it was nothing; outside, with your window open because of the soothing air of spring, there was the murmur of the people walking, and chatting, and enjoying the new warm weather. And you were simply staring at the wall, where your desk was, where the tokens of those men’s craze rested mockingly. You didn’t have the courage to throw out those trinkets, not even after so much time, and you didn’t want to really use them. Your mother even asked you where you got them, and you simply said they were things you bought a long time ago and forgot in your bag. It was obvious she didn’t believe you, but she didn’t argue with you.

Then, your eyes wandered to the washed shirt, the one Formaggio made you buy. On the chair, not even folded, and you bit your cheek in order to prevent a groan. You stood up and took it in your hands; it was a good item of clothing, something you wouldn’t really wear to clean, but you feared what it would happen if that guy didn’t see you wear it. So you simply put it on without giving your brain time to have second thoughts. The fit was horrible, because it was perfect. It was awful how observant that man was, if only because it meant he looked at your body enough to understand how it would look on you, because you surely didn’t try it out during that creepy shopping trip you took with him.

You had to walk away from those thoughts, you had to move and forget everything. Go on autopilot, let it pass, then collapse in your bed to recover enough to function the next day. You threw another quick glance at the other gifts they left you, and grabbed the first hair clip you could find, glad that most of the other stuff were useless when working as a cleaner. You threw what you needed in your bag, leaving your phone behind, and told your parents that you were leaving when you were already out of the door. The car ride was agonizingly slow, but when you saw the roof in the distance, you wanted it to stretch out even more so that you never had to reach your destination. Alas, you got out of the taxi you were riding, and looked over the car you had to leave behind last time because of the slashed tired. They were new, and you grimaced at the expectation of thanking them for the thought – even if they did it, in the first place.

You got in, left your things in the usual place, secured your bag so that they couldn’t pry it open and stalked inside as soon as you were back on your feet. You met some of the men around, but the rest seemed to be absent. You hated being so self-adsorbed that you had to presume they were out to do something regarding you, but you couldn’t help the assumption as you greeted the others with mechanical politeness. For the most part, they stayed out of your way – as much as you could count pestering you for useless things staying out of someone’s way – and you were relieved for that, but you couldn’t help the worry from surging up when the sudden idea that they were plotting something started to surface in your mind.

But you could appreciate this. You could live with a wandering eye, or a hovering hand, if it meant they would keep their devious schemes away from others. With some of the other men out, you were submerged with less requests, and even those who were there seemed to be rather tame with their needs. Formaggio seemed satisfied enough with the fact you were wearing the shirt he got for you, and shot Ghiaccio a winning grin before leaving the premises with a wink; Ghiaccio seemed pissed off that his wasn’t the only gift you decided to wear, so he left you alone with the probably intent of giving you the silent treatment, not understanding that it was simply heaven for you; Pesci was as hesitant as ever, but insisted to help you with cooking when lunch came around, so you let him; Illuso was the only one who had more demanding requests for you, making you clean his room with more attention than usual.

When you came down to notify him you were done, you found him laying down on the sofa, fast asleep. He did seem rather tired when he talked to you, the dark skin under his eyes matching your own, and his usual smirk crooked and not as smug. The sofa was obviously too small for him, with his legs not fitting comfortably. He was curled up, and you wondered how he could be cold with the warm wind that was starting to blow outside those days. You didn’t allow yourself to question it too much, simply fetching a blanket from one of the armchairs nearby to cover him up and avoid him waking up cold, if you couldn’t prevent his probably stiff neck.

It was a simple gesture, something that you were doing more out of habit than because of actual consideration for him. So used to being kind to your loved ones, doing things for them when you knew you could trust their affection and their gratitude, you didn’t stop to think about the consequences of your action. Because you didn’t want to think in that situation, because thinking when you were inside those walls of that house with those men meant that you had to wreck your mind as much as your nerves and emotions. You were supposed to move like a robot until you were out of there, let it all roll off your back until you were safe in your make-believe safe space, and then let your mind torture yourself into letting them take over your life. But there, you had to be stronger, you had to endure everything because then they would lose interest and live you in the dust, if you waited patiently.

Yet, that wasn’t what you did. As soon as the blanket covered his body, you saw Illuso’s eyes shot open and his head turned to look at you. As if drunk on sleep, his face didn’t contort immediately to his usual look, the derisive grin that taunted you every hour you spent in that building, but he looked confused and lost. It was because of the fact he woke up so suddenly, from a very short nap, yet the lack of usual danger didn’t allow your brain to reach the conclusion that you had to step back before he could take advantage of the situation. No, in that moment, when your brain was relaxed by the unusual calm and his odd, spent looks, you stayed still and let the blanket fully fall over his shoulders. He followed the movement with his eyes, lazy and slow.

Then, it came. His lips pulled and moved every muscle of his face, splitting it into a sinister look that promised trouble for you. It went beyond his usual grin, too, hungrier and more malicious, but maybe it was the bias your brain fabricated as soon as it set on fire because of the urgency. The reality of your action crashed on you all at once, the gesture too soft and kind to be interpreted in any other way that wasn’t romantic in that twisted mind of his. It was like time stopped, yet you saw him sit up and almost grabbing your hands in his, if it wasn’t for the hyperactive attention you had in that moment; you backed up, stiff as a pole and feeling your muscles tremble for the strain and the tension. He seemed disappointed for a short moment, before the smirk returned again. He even opened his mouth as if he wanted to talk, but you started before him.

“You looked tired! I just wanted to be useful!” Your voice was too shrill, your tone too high, and you could see the tell-tale clues of amusement shining in his eyes. He knew you were trying to deflect, even if the reasons you gave were actually your true intentions. But it didn’t matter, not to him; you weren’t useful, you were shy, you were nervous, you were just prey. It disgusted you how you could understand the line of thoughts that was racing in his delusional mind. Did it matter, though? He would think whatever he wanted anyway, he could read your actions however he pleased, because you were under his thumb for the next few hours.

“Do I?” His question was simple, lacking the context to make your terrified brain really understand what he meant. You searched his face for more, to see what you should really answer with in order to avoid him being angry or upset, as you couldn’t deal with one of them as much as scoffing at you in that moment. But nothing came from your inspection, if not an uncomfortable feeling settling in your stomach with the minutes you spent observing his smug grin in complete silence. When he saw you gave up on your research, he offered you the answer, “Do I really look tired?”

You hesitated before nodding, just slightly, enough to make him notice. His face moved again, in a false pout, contemplative and thoughtful. His eyes weren’t on you anymore, but you didn’t dare to move or make another sound until he said you could go, or made you understand he didn’t want you around anymore. Illuso was an authentic mystery to you: the others, you came to anticipate their movements as you saw how they acted around you, it was easy enough; Illuso was seldom in your space, yet he seemed to be there when it would be the most annoying or creepy, when he was sure to catch you unprepared. You had no idea how he did it, but it amused him and you couldn’t stop him, because you had no idea where he’d come out from behind you.

“Wait there.” He stood up, startling you. He walked out of the room, with strides that are too rushed for something so mundane, and you were sure he’d simply come back with frivolous things to torment you. That’s what these men did best, they ruined routine for you. They made you dread simple days of the week, they made you abandon your darling, and they were working on scary you out of your usual activities. Was there a reward, at the end? They were so different, so incredibly contrasting, you couldn’t imagine them sharing anything that wasn’t a living space. The complexities of their characters didn’t reach their emotions, stunned in childish obsession paired with threatening, mature fantasy. And you were caught in the middle of their need for affection, it seemed, but you really didn’t want to know what came after, what came when you couldn’t run anymore. So, if it meant liberty sooner or later, you could endure the destruction of your world, until it got better.

Your musing was interrupted by Illuso’s steps, coming back. In his hands, something that you couldn’t identify immediately, until he was closer and sitting on the sofa, again. It looked like a make-up bag, evidently expensive, and you wondered what he wanted you to do with it. He motioned with his hand for you to come closer, and grinned wider when you obeyed with no resistance and full of anxiety. When you were right in front of him, almost touching his knees with your own, he patted the seat near his own and waited for you to get enough courage to sit down, rigid as a piece of wood. He turned his body in your direction, looking you over before speaking again, “Do you know how to apply make-up?”

You contemplated what to say, how to respond, then nodded with hesitance. It seemed like he was satisfied with your answer, and he dropped the bag on your lap with no real care for your nerves. He went on to explain that he had something important to do later, he had to go out, and he couldn’t allow himself to look so disheveled and lethargic if he had to meet people. You grimaced at the words, but stopped yourself from showing your obvious suspicion about his true intentions, or his true commitments for the day. He turned to you after a while, still smug, still annoyingly terrifying, and he gave you the final blow with a sentence latched in delight, “Can you help me apply it?”

Your eyes widened at the question, just like his smile, now showing teeth. You opened your mouth to protest, saying it wasn’t needed, that he was presentable enough to go out, but something dangerous flashed behind his eyes when he noticed you opening your mouth in a hurry, so you sealed your lips and looked away for a long second. You could feel his eyes on you, burning and scratching, and you knew he was awaiting your confirmation, no matter how difficult it was for you to say the words. You were forced to nod when you heard him clearing his throat.

He asked this because of his tired looks, so you assumed simple concealer was enough. But he reached out with he saw you were already closing the bag, fishing for the foundation and the blush, leaving them in your hands when he sat up again. In doing so, he shot you a knowing look, and you were quickly filled with unease when he stretched his neck to expose his face to you. He was a tall man and, with this position, it was impossible to really reach his face without kneeling on the sofa. When you motioned to do that, he stopped you, citing the possibility of ruining the pillows or the cushions, and he dragged you over his lap.

He made you straddle his legs, sitting directly on his thighs. Only then, he lowered his face and smirked down at you, before closing his eyes in a silent encouragement to start with your ministration. You tried your best to blend in the make-up you had, applying it right under his eyes to cover the dark skin. No matter how much you pressed, the color didn’t quite match his skin tone, too pale for the product. It was easy to understand that the bag belonged to someone else, and a quick glance at it revealed green lipstick sitting right on top of the other cosmetics. You frowned at the newfound revelation, but couldn’t really refuse as your trembling hand continued to work.

Eventually, you reached his neck, an attempt to even out the color and not make it stand out too much, and you saw Illuso open his eyes slowly, his long eyelashes fluttering open. He was looking down at you, and you froze instantly; his grin widened even more, reaching his ears, and he leaned back against the sofa, his arms extending over the edge of the backrest. He crossed his legs under you, making you lose your balance and gripping his shoulder to avoid falling on him, too close for comfort, just as you shot up to kneel and avoid further contact with his legs. He threw his head back, cocking it to the side and letting his long hair fall back, exposing his face further. He spoke again, and you heard the biting tone of mockery, “How do I look?”

Before you could answer, assuring him you did what you could and he was decent enough to walk out of the door, you were interrupted by the door of the room opening, Pesci on the doorstep catching the two of you in that compromising situation. He frowned at the scene in front of him, noticing your hands holding his make-up while you were way too close to his teammate to explain fully what happened, not in your conditions. You felt cold sweat tickle down your spine, caressing your hairline, and your muscles froze in place as if you didn’t want to stand up and run as fast as you could. You didn’t know what was worse: if being caught with a mobster’s belongings in your hands or in his teammate’s lap while both harbored sick, twisted feelings for you. Illuso didn’t even bother to turn his neck, simply throwing his head as far back as his flexibility allowed to look at the intruder.

“Oh, hello there,” his smirk could be heard in the notes of his voice and you were close to chocking on your own spit when you saw Pesci’s frown deepen, unable to process the possibility of safety in such a situation. You could manage a single mobster, if you bowed your head, but two conflicting people who demanded the same type of attention, undivided, was a prospect that frightened you. Maybe they wouldn’t directly harm you, if only to pretend they were able to get on your good side, but you felt bile raising in your throat if you imagined what kind of fight could break out if you didn’t manage to calm them down. And if they wouldn’t hurt you, you were sure their superiors wouldn’t think twice about showing you your place for compromising their subordinates’ relationship. Your worries were only helped when Illuso continues with his taunts, “They were just helping me, I hope you don’t mind.”

With smug satisfaction, Illuso grabbed the bag left on the seat near him and waved it in the air without thought. You panicked even more at the sight of Pesci’s surprise, soon turning in annoyance mixed with anger, a rumbling feeling of anxiety washing over you and nearly drowning you. You couldn’t bear with the fear you were enduring in that moment, uncertain about how to react with these circumstances; too big, too menacing, it made your blood freeze in your veins because of the scenarios flashing before your eyes, to the point in hurt for the tension that shook your arms and legs.

You suddenly stood up, bringing their attention to you, now under the spotlight for the few moments that took you to run from your position near the sofa to the door, then down the hall, towards the bathroom. You heard the faith sound of screams, hushed by the terror that took reign of you, and you didn’t even register if those voices were directed at you, at each other, at someone else, if they were even real. You slammed the door shut, pressing your weight against it so that you didn’t fall down, your legs weak under you. The only sound reaching you were your deep breaths, shallow and heavy, but you didn’t fully register the extent of your panic until you stumbled towards the sink and looked at yourself in the mirror. You were pale, you looked horrible, disgusting, and you sickened yourself; weak, pathetic, frightened, you allowed all of this with your passivity, and they could take advantage of your state so easily.

Your legs gave out and you had to push yourself up long enough to sit down on the toilet, curling up almost instantly to breath deeply. You minded your respiration this time, forcing each exhale and inhale to be deeper, while you imposed to yourself to avoid crying. You couldn’t let them see any more weakness, not when you compromised yourself already with your behavior, with your run, and you weren’t sure how you’d face those men out there when you were ready to get out. You raised your eyes, just to take a peek at your surroundings and anchor to something to stay present, when your eyes caught glimpse of something. On the sink, near the various products and the toothbrushes and the cologne, sat a bag. A make-up bag. Oddly familiar, it made your stomach turn, as you replayed the few minutes that you spent in that bathroom. You didn’t hear the door open, you had no idea how that bag was there.

Did you bring it there? Did you take it from Illuso’s hands as you escaped? Was it another, identical bag? Your breath started to get uneven again, and you stood up to approach the object of your fear. Your hand hovered over the zipper, doubt getting stronger as you debated with yourself the need to confirm your concern. You raised your eyes just for a second, to see something in the mirror in front of you, something elusive that disappeared as soon as you saw it. Were you finally losing your mind, for the stress, for the grief? You refused to believe it, but you didn’t know what to do. But you did know what you wanted: to get out of that house, from that nightmare that was your life.

You opened the door, not even checking if someone was in front of you, and you run to the entrance. You didn’t bother with your stuff, just exiting and getting to your car, mockup of the safety you were looking for. You gripped the wheel, resting your forehead over your fingers, and closed your eyes to ignore the world around you. You didn’t care if there would be consequences, or if you will face something worse for walking away before finishing your job fully. But what did you care? Those men didn’t want you to actually clean, they didn’t want you there to be their help, or to cook, or to make their beds. Sure, they wanted that, but they wanted it with conditions; was the condition a wedding band? A piece of paper from the govern that legalized a union you didn’t want?

How would that work, you had no idea. There were seven of them, all demented, in their own special ways. What were you supposed to do, and how did they plan to divide their time with you? You bit your tongue at the thought, your brain too conditioned by their abuse that you were thinking about the actual prospect of ending up in their claws. Yet, you couldn’t help yourself from pondering on that, on how they could even think of sharing you. Were they thinking of sharing you?

They were so different, and you saw conflict among them. You didn’t know if they got along, if they could trust each other, but they were mobsters. Their job didn’t allow for trust, and they surely didn’t seem like an affectionate group. Then, it dawned upon you. If they could play with your relationships, you could use their to your advantage: they all had one objective, and you shivered at the thought of it being you, but they had to face the reality that you were one person. And they were seven. Of course, you had to do that, without regrets or guilty; you had to hope they were obsessed enough to destroy each other in order to get to you, or throw you aside in order to maintain their cohesion.

You didn’t stop to think about the nuances of that plan, too glad because you finally found a glimmer of hope in the gloomy nightmare that your life had become. You tentatively got out of the car, tiptoeing towards the house to retrieve your bag and your jacket. You closed the door behind you, and returned to your vehicle.

You didn’t allow yourself to think about them anymore, not for that day. But during the drive back home, you were breathing a bit easier.

[kevindayprotectionsquad]

Demons

A look into Jack’s (my oc) mind, based pretty heavily on my experience with my mental health. This is not meant to be a glamorization of mental illness, butsimply a way for me to project how I personally feel. Writing has always been an outlet for me (as with many people), and I prefer to write fiction so this is the product. I love sharing my writing my characters and my writing with the world, but this is a new style for me, but I think I like it and I hope y’all do too :)

Jack wasn’t always like this, unable to function like people expected him to for days at a time. Unable to function like he wanted to for weeks at a time. No, growing up he was quite the opposite. His parents described him as a handful when they were trying to be polite, and as a hellion when behind closed doors. The castle servants called him disobedient and a menace. None of it bothered him, in fact he thrived on being the menace prince. All the punishments he got for tormenting his younger sister, or sneaking out to play privateers with Matthew in the woods behind the castle without telling anyone first all validated him. Prince life was mind numbingly dull to his young mind, and he couldn’t just sit and let all the fun skip past him.

Young restlessness turned into teenage recklessness. Living life on the edge wasn’t enough anymore, and Jack looked for trouble where ever he could find it. After a night consisting of stolen wine, Matthew, and a few destroyed statues, his father sat him down to deliver a grueling lecture about not taking his responsibilities as prince seriously and how actions have consequences, and his consequence was increased security to ensure he took his duties seriously.

It was a game at first, seeing how much it would take to annoy his guards, or how long it would take to make his father upset with the lack of work he was doing. During royal family meetings, he would joke around, leaving Skylar to pick up his slack just to keep the peace. It didn’t bother him, his sister had actual interest in running the kingdom.

Jack wasn’t sure where his interested laid.

He laid awake the night after a meeting, pondering what he wanted in his life. He knew being king was out of the question. Being prince barely interested him. Yet, he couldn’t come up with a single interest, hobby, or passion. That moment he felt something awaken inside him, and it wasn’t necessarily good.

He spent days locked in his room, questioning everything about himself, and ignoring the world around him until he couldn’t think of anything else. Then he spent days thinking of absolutely nothing. The only thing he could bring himself to do was stare at the ceiling and count the bricks over and over. His body ached and his eyes burned, and yet it was impossible to simply roll out of bed and stretch. Matthew had come to check on him after the second day of pondering, but Jack had ignored him along with the rest of the world. Despite that, Matthew had come to his room everyday, trying to talk and find out what was wrong. On the fifth day, Jack finally let him in. He had started to feel a little more like himself that morning, and hoped Matthew wasn’t too upset.

Matthew was upset, which caught Jack off guard. Matthew came in ready with a speech about how messed up it was of Jack to just ignore him for days, and how angry he was with him. Jack didn’t know if was Matthew’s raised voice, or the simple fact he was upset with him, but it was suddenly all too much. He felt the burning of tears forming behind his eyes, and spilling over before he could stop them. They stopped Matthew mid rant. Jack was never a crier. That was the first time anyone had asked him what was wrong and meant it. If only Jack knew.

When he was feeling himself again, Jack knew he never wanted to feel like that, or make Matthew feel like that again. Matthew had suggested finding a hobby. When they were young boys, their favorite time of the year was tournament season, especially getting to watch the jousting. So, Jack decided to take up jousting. The knights were skeptical to help him at first, but he threw everything he had into learning the ways. Training soon took up the majority of his schedule, and he loved every minute of it.

But hobbies can’t keep demons quiet forever. This time it started as a creeping feeling. Jack didn’t know it at the time, he just thought he’d lost interest jousting. It was a hobby after all, and people lose interest in hobbies all the time right? Matthew couldn’t understand how he could just drop months and months of hard work, and inquired about it.

“It just doesn’t make me excited anymore,” Jack explained, because it didn’t. Nothing did.

And he was back to questioning his whole existence. This time, his mind and body felt completely detached from each other. Like they were on two different dementions, and he was looking down at both. He was no longer in control. His mind still had his thoughts telling him to get up and do anything, but something else was in control.

Matthew still didn’t understand, and was upset being ignored again for days while Jack suffered in silence. Jack had let him in once he was feeling closer to his normal self again, and sat together in bed.

“You’re worry me, Jack,” Matthew admitted after a long bout of silence.

Jack couldn’t bring himself to look at him. He worried himself too. “I don’t know what’s happening to me,” he confessed.

“This isn’t the Jack I know,” Matthew whispered. “The Jack I know is so free willed it’s almost annoying, and is always busy causing some kind of trouble. I’ve never seen you lay around without the intention of sleeping. And now that’s all you do.”

That’s the Jack he knew himself as too, and he wished he knew how to get him back. “I’m not allowed to cause trouble anymore, remember?” He said bitterly. “I have to be a prince.”

“Then why are you hiding?” Matthew questioned him for answers he didn’t have.

It was a struggle to find words that made sense. He couldn’t expect him to understand the feeling of being totally separated from his mind and body, watching his world fall apart. “I don’t know, Matthew, lately it feels like being drunk. For awhile, I feel like I can do anything, then I start to crash. Things don’t feel right at first, but I can ignore it and still be myself, but it creeps up and then it’s like I’m not in control anymore. I know I should be doing things, but I can’t force myself to.”

Matthew only nodded, and the was the last they talked of it like that. He noticed Matthew watching him closely when they were together, trying to observe the subtle changes. If he noticed anything off at all he would check in with how Jack was feeling. Jack was grateful he didn’t hate him, and even more grateful for the support.

His family on the other hand, offered no understanding. He got lecture after lecture from his father telling him the kingdom comes first over silly feelings, and he needed to stop being so disconnected from reality. He was never good enough for his father.

His mother tried bargaining with him, telling him he could do this or have that if he just did what his father asked him to. Jack tried to explain to her the way he felt like he had with Matthew, only to be told to get over himself, and everyone feels that ways.

Skylar had come to him late one night, saying she over heard their parents talking about him, and what he had told his mother about how he felt. Jack watched her as tears fell from her cheek when she explained to him she feels the same way sometimes, but their mother forces her to ignore her feelings. She didn’t understand how he could just ignore their parents. Jack knew though, she cared about their opinion of her, while he did not. He didn’t tell her that, instead, he hugged his sister for the first time in a long time. When did she stop being his annoying little sister?

Over the years, the demons get stonger, and for a while that really damaged Jack, but Matthew and Skylar reminded patient with him. At some point, Jack got stronger too, he started to be able to identify when the demons were coming out of hibernation, when they were at their strongest, and when they were starting to go back into their slumber. Being able to tell what was happening, helped him regain some control over himself. The demons may pilot his mind, but he still gets a say in their destination. That doesn’t mean they always listen, and those days are the scariest. He’s had a few close calls, but by some miracle he’s still here. Demons and all.

[samgwrites]

Locked Doors

Fandom: The Magnus Archives 

Chapter 1 of 2 What happens when your who is returned to your what.  Written for the TMA Season 5 Countdown day 3: Spiral, @pilesofnonsense

Read on AO3

“It’s locked,” The archivist said, sounding uncertain and scared. 

“It’s not,” It laughed, softly and terribly. It enjoyed the archivist’s confusion, even if it was slightly annoyed at the fledgling avatar for wasting time. Even if such a concept did not apply to it. 

“Why is it locked?” The archivist spat, and the lie could tell that he was not lying. 

“It can’t be!” It said, tension seeping into its voice. 

“Well you try it!” The archivist stepped away from the door, motioning for the entity to try for itself. 

“That- that’s not-” Something clicked. After years of spirals and distortion and broken minds, something clicked inside of Michael. “Oh. Oh no.” 

And then he was screaming. He hadn’t felt this sort of pain in so long, or perhaps he had never stopped feeling it and the twisting in his mind had simply caused him to forget. He was unwinding, separating. Was he still holding on to the door knob? He couldn't turn the handle, but that couldn’t be right. The handle was part of him, as was the door, and his ending twisting corridors. But were they? 

When did he become himself again? 

With that thought, he let go of the handle, tears streaming down from eyes that no longer saw impossible colors, and he was gone. 

Michael Shelley woke up on a sidewalk in the middle of London with a splitting headache and a broken hand. The sky was overcast as he looked up from where he was lying, the gray clouds twisting and rolling above him like the sea. Laughter bubbled up inside him, but fizzled and died as a strange choking sound. A few passers by seemed to notice the sound and went from simply avoiding or ignoring him to glancing down worriedly and hurrying quickly along. 

Michael sat up, groaning slightly as he did so, clutching his hand that could no longer pierce through flesh and bone. He stood slowly, before quickly making his way over to the steady brick wall on the other side of the path and leaning against it, taking deep breaths. The world had stopped spinning. The world was still and hard and constant, and all the people around looked like people, and for a single moment Michael could almost convince himself that his memories had simply come from a drunken nightmare. But he had spent so long lying to himself and to deny himself the reality that he hadn’t experienced in so long felt like a betrayal. 

He needed to figure out where he was. Yes, yes, that was it. He could figure out where he was, and then try to find his way home.

He realized, however, as he had this thought, that it would be impossible. He had been gone for so long. He had certainly been declared dead, his flat sold, his dog adopted. Gertrude was never one to forget to tie up loose ends. And even if he hadn’t been confirmed dead, he had at least been missing for nearly a decade! Nothing would be the same. Hell, everything would’ve been gone if he’d been missing one month, much less seven years. No one was there to look for him; no partner, an estranged family. It’s not like Elias would call Gertrude out on what she’d done. Even if he hated her too, he’d become such a bastard after becoming head of the Magnus Institute. 

When he realized he would need to go back to the institute, he almost started crying. He didn’t want to go back to the institute. He loathed the place. In fact, he’d hated it so much that the hatred had stayed with him while he’d been an unfeeling eldritch horror. 

He supposed it was why the spiral had finally seen fit to spit him out.To many feelings unrelated to its own goals. To much clear hatred burning through the haze of being a living distortion, it almost made sense that he was evicted by someone better. Like being sacrificed to for being an annoying employee. 

He had seen Gertrude again while he was Michael. She hadn’t been alive, but it had seen her corpse in that dark room in the tunnels. And it had laughed and laughed and laughed, unendingly pleased that the woman that made it had finally gotten her due.

Now he just felt sick. And confused. And so restless and irritated that he didn’t even realize that he had been walking until he looked up and saw that bloody owl looking down on him. 

Oh how he hated the eye. 

He introduced himself as Michael to the woman at the front desk. She hadn’t worked here when he had, and it was a common enough name that he doubted it would automatically be related back to a mysterious figure that occasionally terrorized archive employees.

“I’m here to see Jon,” He said with a nervous smile, one that he’d worn thousands of times in the past but felt foreign in this context. She returned the expression, but it looked odd. Like she couldn’t quite believe him. That, or she assumed it was a prank.

“Jon?” She asked. “Really?” 

“Yes?” He replied, cocking his head to the side, “I’m sorry, is there an issue? I- I haven’t heard from him in awhile, he said I was free to come visit his work. He’s not too busy, is he?” The lie slid easily off his tongue, but not as easily as it once would have. 

“No, no, of course,” She said, waving her hands in the air gently, as if trying to placate him. “Jon doesn’t get a ton of people coming to visit him at work is all. And he has been gone for awhile, some bad sickness or other. You can head down now no problem, I’ll just have to give you a visitor’s pass. What did you say your name was?”

“Michael.”

“Last name?” He almost hesitated.

“Shelley. Michael Shelley.” She just nodded and typed it in, before smiling and handing him a name tag. 

“Have a nice visit,” She said cheerily, and Michael headed down.

It was amazing what he remembered, both from being a monster and working here. Michael the distortion never really had a need for directions or a good memory of proper turns. Michael Shelley on the other hand, was great when it came to navigating the twisting halls of the institute. Perhaps that’s why the spiral had become him instead of digesting him. 

But he clearly remembered how to find the stairwell leading down to the archives, and from there the way to the head archivist’s office. He didn’t pass many people in the halls, which wasn’t too surprising. By the time Gertrude had seen fit to be rid of him he’d really been the only one to make any noise down here. Even if Jon had more assistants, he doubted they would want to be wandering the halls. Not alone anyway. 

He came upon the door leading to Jon’s office. Boring some unknown piece of him laughed. He reached for the handle. 

“Hey!” He flinched, his hand falling to his side. He took a deep breath, before turning to meet whoever had discovered him and smiling his nervous crooked smile. 

“Hello, um I’m sorry I’m just here to talk to your archi- Jon. I’m here to talk to…” Michael could hear his own voice fading into nothing as the man who had been locked in the distortion’s corridors for a few hours (or weeks, depending who you asked) stormed toward him.

He really should have seen the punch coming, but damn did it hurt. 

Tim was shouting something at him, but it just sounded like noise. Michael waved a hand at him, the other being used to hold his now bloody nose. 

“I just need to talk to Jon,” Michael bit out, interrupting the other man in the middle of his tirade. 

“Yeah? And why are you going this way, huh? Don’t you have your own fucked up methods of travel?” Michael shook his head almost sheepishly.

“I don’t anymore, and I really need to talk to your archivist so if you’ll just let me-“ it was Tim’s turn to cut him off.

“Oh what so you just decided to stop being a monster, that it?” In the past Michael had rarely been one to get annoyed, but the longer he stood, bloody in the hall of the Magnus Institute, the closer he felt to snapping.

“Not exactly, though honestly I wouldn’t say that’s exactly a negative development, and if you want to punch me again or yell at me for the things that it- I- we did to you feel free but can you please wait just ten minutes?” 

Tim looked pissed. Michael realized that, and he let out a deep say, fully accepting that after surviving becoming the muscle of an otherworldly being of fear he was now going to die at the hands of a ticked off library science major. 

And then the door opened.

“Tim I thought I heard…” Michael stared at the archivist. He looked different then he did the last time he’d seen him. Less beat to hell, obviously, though his skin still looked relatively great. He had different clothes on, ones that weren’t torn and bloody from a month in a demented wax museum. 

But more than that he just looked… normal. When the spiral had looked at Jon, it had seen twisting thoughts, confusion and doubt. Fear wrapped in a tight package of green jumpers and too many eyes. But to Michael the man just looked human. Tired sure, with his eyes still a bit too bright to be normal but not really enough to be noticeable. 

For a second he almost felt jealous that the man’s beholding characteristics were so concealed, but he tamped that feeling down and locked it away. Jon spoke first.

“Michael?” He asked softly, as if talking to a scared child or a rabid dog, “Michael Shelley?” Michael didn’t know how else to respond to the question other than to nod. He noticed Tim looking rapidly between them, so he decided to speak.

“Can I come in? Is that alright?” There was a moment when no one said anything, but soon Jon was opening the door to the office wide, ushering him inside. 

“Ah Tim, I’m not sure you should…” Michael heard Jon say once he was in the room and out of harm's way, so to speak.

“You can’t keep doing this, Jon, you need to tell me what is happening. It doesn’t matter to me what happens to you, but I’m not going to be blamed for you getting snatched by another monster!” Michael couldn’t make out Jon’s response, but he couldn’t find him to involve himself in the conversation. He glanced around the office. 

It had been here recently, a few months ago at the most, pestering the archivist about something or other. He couldn’t remember what it looked like. Surely it hadn’t changed much, it’s not like Jon was suddenly inclined to change the decorations, but it seemed so much less… colorful. Like a strobe light had been turned off. The last time he had been in this office with it looking anything close to how it did now had been when he had excitedly come to inform Gertrude that the cab was here to take them to the airport. How thrilled he had been to be of assistance, how excited to have been going on his first ever international trip, and with a woman who he respected so much no less. What an honor, what an opportunity, what a… mistake. 

He’d been so focused staring holes in the desk chair that he hadn’t noticed Jon saying something. When the other man gently laid a hand on Michael’s shoulder, he spun around, causing Jon to jerk back as a look of panic overtook his features before being schooled into academic normalcy once again. 

Michael supposed some fear was to be expected. After all, something with his mind and body had threatened to kill Jon not too far in the past. 

“Would you like to sit down?” Jon asked, gesturing to one of the chairs. Michael suddenly remembered how tired and sore he felt, nodding and collapsing into the chair, careful not to hurt his injured hand. Michael smiled at the archivist, even if it felt a bit forced.

“I would say it’s nice to meet you, but I’m afraid that would just add to the current confusion.” Jon went over to sit in his own chair, watching Michael, but not exactly meeting his eyes. Tim was inside the now closed door, with his arms crossed. A poor imitation of a security guard. 

“How are you… here? The distortion said you were gone.”

“The distortion isn’t exactly the most truthful of beings, don’t you think?” Jon made a noise of affirmation. Michael watched as the archivist glanced quickly over to Tim, the door, and then back to Michael. 

“Michael, I… I want to help you, but I need to ask you first… do you still want to kill me?” Michael shifted in his chair. No was the obvious answer, and it was the truth, he didn’t want to kill Jon. But he would be lying if he said he could no longer feel the writhing thing in his stomach urging him to leave the archives, lock the doors, and burn it down with everyone still inside. 

“No. When I was… merged with the distortion, the only thing I could recall was the betrayal I felt from Gertrude. The Michael you knew was aware that she was dead, but saw you as only The Archivist. Her replacement. The small piece of me in control could only see you as connected to the person who didn’t care about me. I was angry. I am… really sorry.” Michael let out a nervous laugh, but stopped when he saw both Jon and Tim freeze at the sound. He felt cold.

“And are you still connected with the distortion? Can you still feel it?” There came a slight buzz with the archivist’s word and Michael’s nervous expression quickly transformed into a frown. 

“I do not know, archivist,” He said the word with some contempt, “and while I respect you and your assistance, I do not appreciate being Beheld, Jon.” In response to this, Jon jerked slightly, shaking his head and bringing a hand up to pinch at the bridge of his nose, like he was trying to shake off a headache. Tim was now staring at him with something akin to disgust.

“I apologize, it’s hard to tell when I’m doing it or when it’s… nevermind, this is not about me. Is there anything that you think is important regarding your recently regained humanity?” 

Michael thought for a moment.

What an odd question. What he thought was important, what a subjective thing. What he thought. He was just getting used to thinking linearly again. 

“It’s hard to say… I feel... fuzzy. You know when you’ve just woken from being sick? You’re warm and confused and there's a jittery feeling in your fingertips. I feel like I am fully here for the first time in years, but I’m afraid that in a moment I will fall back into that… twisting. Isn’t that terrible?” He giggled on the last word again and choked on the sound. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m trying not to laugh. It’s not funny and I’m not that thing, I promise I…” Tears had sprung from his eyes, and through his cloudy vision he could see the discomfort clearly on the two men’s faces, and he looked down, and suddenly he stopped, “Oh right,” Jon straightened in concern.

“What?” He asked seriously. Michael glanced up sheepishly. 

“I think my hand is broken.”

[jeejee-the-snek-boi]

The Urban Kraken

TMA AU

Tw: mild/moderate horror depending on tastes, drowning, facial distortion/shapeshifting/camouflage

Statement of Logan Sanders, regarding his time as a marine biologist working in Birmingham. Original statement given January 13th, 2012. Audio recording by Janus Dee, Head Archivist of the Thomas Headscape Institute, London.

Statement begins.

-

I'd recently moved to Birmingham to help out at the National Sea Life Centre. It wasn't particularly an interesting job, or even one appropriate for my level of qualification as a marine biologist, but we'd had reports of some kind of squid spotted in the local canals. There'd been otters and even dolphins who had managed to find their way into canals and rivers that would be outside of their normal habitat, so whilst a squid sounded unusual, to boot, I was naturally curious as to how it had got there. My colleague at the time- a rather very annoying yet charming man called Roman who worked in the gift shop- had warned me not to investigate. I found it… odd, to say the least. He couldn't have known much about marine biology- or, at least, I assumed he didn't, given the fact he was unable to distinguish between a shark plushie or a dolphin one, although perhaps he merely needed glasses.

I, of course, didn't heed his warnings- I had no need to, at the time, of course, although he did seem rather familiar. 

It took me a few days to realise that we had the same face, only… he wore it more expressively than I did, and he didn't seem to wear glasses either. I merely assumed it was a coincidence, or some long lost relative, so I didn't give it any thought.

I was working behind the scenes mainly, although I did occasionally try my hand at being a tour guide. I happen to have a special interest in marine life- hence my profession- so I found joy in teaching people about the animals we housed there. The children particularly liked the sharks, which wasn't a surprise to me, although it wasn't uncommon for people to label my commentary as unnecessary and boring- I tried not to let it get to me, of course, although occasionally it did.

On one such day, I found myself going for coffee on my break, where I ran into Roman. I didn't particularly mind his company, although I still found him a little odd. I knew everything about his dreams and ambitions- and he had a lot- but very little about him personally. He would talk for hours about his dreams to make it as an actor, and I gained a fair few insights of his insecurities too- the man seemed riddled with them. 

And, whilst I'll admit, none of that is particularly unusual, he'd ask everyone about their families or their kids- he made it a point to learn as much as he could about people and to include those facts in his daily interactions, but we never learned anything about him. Most people where I worked had written him off as shallow and selfish, superficial even, but I suspected differently.

 Anyway, Roman and I talked for a number of months, and I still hadn't learned a single thing about his life. I still didn't know why his face was so familiar to me until I found myself people- watching at the gift shop one day, and I noticed that, alone, his features seemed to… shift. I couldn't pinpoint what colours his eyes were, and his skin had taken on an almost… iridescent quality, if that's even the right word for it, as though he had chromatophores. It reminded me of a cuttlefish, or other cephalopod. 

I'd put it down to some form of shiny make-up, or perhaps a face mask that he'd forgotten to remove in the morning properly, and it wasn't until a few weeks later and more people watching that I finally noticed what detail I had been missing- his features seemed to shift and change to match those of each customer.

I was alarmed, of course, because there was no logical explanation as to why a human would possess such qualities.

Which… for some strange reason, drew my attention back to the so-called squid in the canals myth that had been circulating for a while now. 

There had been some… rumours circulating, asides from the existence of the squid. There'd been a few scattered suicides and cases of drunken misadventure down at the canals, a few dead bodies, all drowned. Some were intoxicated, and almost all were alone- although the time of death wasn't always at night as you might expect for a spate of murders. So, naturally, people started to link the deaths with the squid. 

I was curious, and wanted to see the squid for myself, so I spent several days observing the canal. I sat on the benches with my notebook and camera, although apart from the odd family of mallards, or a troublesome Canada goose, there was nothing in the water. I eventually concluded that there wasn't anything in the water, but now I was invested in the mystery.

The deaths were relatively spread apart, although almost all of them had been within the city centre. I observed for longer anyways, deciding instead to people watch- if there was a murderer, the murderer most likely frequented the area, although as more deaths occurred, I found myself struggling to find a connection to any particular person's commute and the times or locations of the murders.

I remembered Roman's odd ability to camouflage, although I knew his commute took him to the other side of the city.

That was… until I saw him down by the canal. He seemed to be talking to the water, so I kept myself hidden behind one of the bridges. He left, and, as far as I'm aware, didn't kill anyone. 

I took to following him after work, watching him frequently do the same thing again and again. It was… odd, but he wasn't the murderer. Although, I was beginning to suspect that, if Roman wasn't human, and was some form of… I wouldn't go as far as to call him an aquatic mammal- but sea creature, perhaps, then perhaps he was communicating with the squid. 

So the next time I visited, I brought my scuba suit. I must have looked a prat walking through the streets in scuba gear in the middle of an urban area, but I was intent on getting to the bottom of this mystery. 

It took several days before I had the courage to jump into the murky water- the amount of waste products thrown into the canals ranged from the odd box to shopping trolleys to knives- and there were a lot of knives in Birmingham- anyway, I wasn't planning to jump in just yet, until I saw a thick tentacle pull Roman into the canal.

I panicked, and dived in. I'd had experience working with squids- it was stupid of me to dive in without chain mail, given how sharp the beak of a squid can be- but I was only thinking about saving my colleague from the canal. I knew how to make the squid let go, and I intended to do that.

I couldn't see very well, but I could make out their shapes, and Roman didn't seem to be having any trouble breathing at all. The squid was half person, like a mermaid- although perhaps a little demented, but they were hugging Roman.

As soon as the squid person- for comedic purposes, I'd named them squidward- noticed my presence, I attempted to swim away, although they grabbed me before I could do so.

I was sure I was going to die, so I squeezed my eyes shut- only to find myself being pulled to the squid person's chest in a hug. It was… strange, to say the least, and awkward. But soon, the squid person let go of me and allowed me to swim away. Roman joined me, although he seemed reluctant to look me in the eye. 

I confronted Roman, who explained to me that the squid person was his brother, Remus- or, more accurately, his sort of twin. The two had once been one being, but both had very different desires- Roman wanted to live on land, whilst Remus was content in the water- so they had simply… split, into two.

I asked about the deaths, and Roman explained that Remus didn't understand that humans couldn't breathe in the water. He was lonely, and whenever he saw somebody else lonely, he wanted to hug them. They usually drowned, and Roman didn't have the heart to tell him that they had died.

I… went back, in my scuba suit, and kept Remus company with Roman for the best part of six months- and the deaths diminished greatly. Of course, we couldn't keep it up forever, so we had to find a way to help Remus to understand that humans couldn't breathe. We didn't find a way, so I came up with a solution. 

Roman had quite a bit of money saved up, and the two of us had become… close, to say the least, if the evenings spent in his apartment were anything to go by, so we brought ourselves a patch of land up in the Yorkshire Dales, and dug up one of the fields entirely. We made a pool, a deep pool, and I borrowed one of the moving tanks from the aquarium and we transported Remus up to his new home. 

He loves it there, content to splash about, and free to hug Roman and I without fear of drowning anyone. And Roman and I managed to hold down our jobs back in Birmingham thanks to rail travel, even if the long commute was taxing, at times, and eventually decided to get married.

I decided to submit my story to the archives to keep a document of the existence of such creatures, and to put word out that they are not harmful and are not to be killed.

-

My initial reaction would be to discredit this statement as a rather elaborate prank, but nonetheless I had my colleague Virgil do some digging, and he found that Logan Sanders had a doctorate in marine biology from Oxford University. He did work, and still does work, at the Sea Life Centre in Birmingham city centre, and was willing to talk to us again. Virgil requested pictures, which Logan was happy to provide us with, so I had Patton check to see if the photographs are real. Again, the photographs checked out, and Logan and Roman allowed us to visit. After said visit, I can confirm that the squid man, and indeed Roman's cuttlefish-like camouflage, are more than just urban myths.

Recording ends.

@needscaffeine @patton-birdie @sanderssideburns

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