#her tears are black and they do not stain they fade out like invisible ink but still singe a little bit

[cozylittleartblog]

hey. hey anon? youa re. so right,

#deltarune #rouxls kaard #queen #lancer #art #doodles #ask #anonymous #anon #comic #holds them up in my hands after not really drawing the m for a while 💙 #putting my clown makeup back on lads!! #cant remember if ive ever posted queen crying before. her whole eye mask thing drips like lancers does. for some reason #that seems like deltarunes brand of strange but whimsical #her tears are black and they do not stain they fade out like invisible ink but still singe a little bit #rouxls dont act like you didn't cry for four hours and eleven minutes when you got YOUR first 'i love you' from him. dont act like you d- #ok 2 tag shiiiiip u know i love me some blue dad club

[fleursdemeduse]

Remembrance AU: Everything Is Blue

I've been trying to post these every 30 notes, but that happened within hours on the last post, so I'm sorry for not being done with this sooner and for how rushed it feels.

Warnings: Arguing ; Mention of Death ; Mention of bombs ; Unrequited[?] Love ; Memory Loss ; Slight Stalking ; Angst

Words: 3.7k

You hadn’t spoken to him since that incident after the festival. You knew your harsh words you had all but screamed at him had driven a stake between the two of you. It hurt so much more to think about now. You had berated the brunet when you saw him. He had messed up and you needed to let him know just how much. But when all that had left his lips in response had been a sullen “I’m sorry.”, your anger at him just increased.

“For what? I want to hear you say it.” He didn’t have a right to suddenly look so morose when just minutes earlier, you had found him cackling to himself over plans. Your form had loomed in the doorway of where he kept the wooden desk. You didn’t dare step foot into the room where such a stranger waited. His smile hadn’t been the same one you had known all this time and you actually flinched at the sight of it. You felt like prey. And now, after he had chased after you when you had turned to storm off, he thought he was allowed to look like he had been caught doing something he knew he shouldn’t have been? He had already told you the worst, even if he hadn’t done it.

“Everything.” The answer had caught you off guard. You hadn’t expected him to be so earnest in his apology. At your lack of a response, he had just shook his head, rubbing his eyes. “I have so much work to do.”

He turned to walk back to his small “office” and you reached out for him. “Wilbur, please-”

“Don’t follow me.” His voice was firm. That had been the first, and only, time he had used such a tone with you, but this had also been the first, and only, time you had yelled at him. You tried to hold back the sound that escaped your lips. You wanted to chase him anyways, but you had a discussion with Technoblade that needed to happen.

It wasn’t like you didn’t want to talk to him afterwards. You wanted to mend the great divide that seemed to loom between you two. But he didn’t seem to. He never spoke to you after that. Communication always came from another member; Techno or Tommy, more often than not. And now? Now you would never be able to fix things.

You still remembered the look in Technoblade and Tommy’s eyes when you told them you were on both of their sides. Techno had never once lied to Tommy or Wilbur about never wanting to re-establish L’Manburg, but putting Tubbo in the position of president had been done so fairly democratically. If anyone had had a problem with him inheriting the position, they could have voiced it. Instead everyone had cheered. You couldn’t fight for either side you loved so much when they were both right. Not after watching the third person you held closest to you get slain by the man who was supposed to be his father. You couldn’t lose either of them too.

Techno was a comfortable constant in your world. He was warm, funny, and the friendship between you two only seemed to grow with each passing day. You could ask him for anything in the entire world, and he’d give it to you with very little questions asked. So you helped him leave after Tommy and Tubbo set to rebuild L’Manburg. He was ready to change, he had said so himself. So much violence and carnage had left his hands permanently stained with blood. The voices didn’t help at all. You knew that. If you hadn’t have felt the need to help Tommy and Tubbo with the next phase of their life, you were sure you would have stayed in the arctic with him, away from everything that had happened. He had been more than happy to share the cabin he wanted to build with you. There would be a farm, he said, and animals. Your company was so nice, he wouldn’t mind sharing it every day. But despite how wonderful that offer sounded, you could only remind him that Tommy and Tubbo were still children and required more guidance than he did. He didn’t look happy about it, but let you go anyway with the promise that you’d come visit often.

As if anything could keep you away from your best friend.

When you returned, Tommy had sent you back to Pogtopia to collect the loose odds and ends that had been left there. It wasn’t much, just things that he had thought would help. But he couldn’t leave the process to run the errand. You were more than happy to do it for him. You knew he wouldn’t want the reminder of Wilbur, his mentor and brother in almost every sense of the word, being gone so soon.

When you had descended down the familiar walkways, you marveled at all of the buttons still left there. It felt more like a museum exhibit now than the place where the rebellion had bloomed. Aside from what you pilfered, everything had been, and would remain, untouched. Lingering in each of the “rooms”, memories about all that had happened in such a short amount of time started to haunt the quiet base.

There was a small chest in the corner of your alcove, however. One that hadn’t been there when you had left the night before the final stand for reconnaissance. You had been supposed to report back what you had found, but you had chosen to send Wilbur a message over the comms instead and visit the old library you had once called home rather than return and deliver it orally. Your leader wouldn’t have noticed either way. You were still back in time, so it didn’t matter, even if he had.

You knelt beside the wooden chest, opening it carefully. A sword sat inside, wrapped in a faded and torn brown trench coat. You ran your fingers over the material gently. The one Wilbur had been in during his death was a darker brown and wasn’t as worn. Why he had left it here, in a chest in your room, wrapped around some stupid sword? You pulled out the bundle, carefully unraveling the blade so as to not tear the fabric that held so many memories. lore was inscribed on the handle and you watched the blade shine with purple enchantments. Why in the world was this here? Your lips trembled as you remembered hearing Phil’s murmured recount of what had happened in the button room.

Had Phil not been there, would he have asked you to slay him with the very sword you held?

You dropped the weapon, hands clutching at the fraying fabric of the trench coat now in your lap. You hugged it to your chest, wishing its owner were here instead. It smelled vaguely of dirt and ink and the smallest amount of sap. There was no trace of the gunpowder you remembered perfuming his skin last time you had seen him in it. Was this how he wanted you to remember him? A former president who smelled of the dirt and sap from the country he loved and not the TNT he’d destroyed it with? A poet who spilled ink on himself rather than betrayed his friends? An elder brother who left quiet gifts for his friends and loved ones even if he didn’t know if he’d be able to see them accept it?

Tears stained the fabric as they fell off your chin like the rain that hadn’t seemed to come. Not even the heavens would mourn your friend who had fallen victim to the corruption he had sought to eradicate.

For the first time in a very long time, you felt completely isolated and alone.

L’Manburg rebuilt itself steadily. Phil had been a great asset to everything, and with the efforts of everyone, the place was just as thriving as before. You had made more friends beyond those who had helped in the rebellion. Your relationship with Tubbo growing more and more as time went on. He was a bright spot whenever Tommy or Techno were busy or otherwise couldn’t see you. You may have been close during the time of Pogtopia, but now it felt like you had adopted another little brother. It felt like you had taken the place Wilbur had left.

Tubbo would come over for tea sometimes, advice others, but more often than not, he came with new conversation points and stories about his week. He had been holding out on you. He might have come across as smart before, but the child was a downright mad scientist when he was broken out of his shell. You were glad he had been chosen as the president, even if it kept him so busy. You just hoped the power wouldn’t corrupt him the same as the two that came before him.

A small smile crossed your lips when you saw the boy across the river separating the two of you. You didn’t know he would be out and about today. You had just finished visiting Tommy, in fact. You would have invited him along. You raised your hand to wave but paused. There, peeking out from behind him, was the faded visage of a familiar beanie. Nausea settled in your stomach. Everything suddenly too hot and too cold. That couldn’t have been him.

Cold and empty black eyes turned their attention on you and you were suddenly reminded of a sword wrapped delicately in a warm trench coat tucked safely in your ender chest. You fled before Tubbo could see you too.

You avoided the spirit for weeks. Niki told you of how kind the apparition was when you bought pastries from her. Tommy mumbled about how forgetful the man was whenever you two had your weekly dinner. Techno described to you the odd personality the ghost had taken on whenever around. But you still refused to see him.

He, however, wanted to see you.

He was determined. After you had run from him so many times when he had tried approaching you both directly and indirectly, he sought for alternative methods to see you. The former president found that invisibility potions were the easiest way. He could follow you through the streets discreetly, see the expressions on your face when you talked with your other friends, stare into your eyes when you daydreamed at the docks and imagine you were looking into his once more. If he tried really hard, he could imagine that it was all directed at him.

Ghostbur missed you and he couldn’t remember why you refused to speak to him. You two had been so close. Did Alivebur do something bad to you to make you not want to even look in his direction? You wouldn’t even let him ask.

The rain had finally come around once you had stopped actively mourning. It was ironic, really. You predicted that the storm would be around for at least a few hours. Which was good. Crops needed watering and the air had started to take on a dryness that made your throat parched even with vast amounts of water.

You hadn’t predicted he’d come around with the storm.

Raindrops fell in torrents against the wooden pathways and dirt outside. It was a calming sound. You almost wished for some soft guitar to play an accompaniment to the natural percussion. The thought brought a sour taste to your mouth. Tommy had the instrument now, but the thing was old. Strings were rusted from many nights in the rain without being properly dried and the bridge had shifted from so much neglect. You wondered if the ghost could still play. You’d never find out, but you still crushed the curiosity the moment it had crossed your mind.

A loud knock echoed through your home, disrupting the incomplete symphony and you removed yourself from the warm couch you had been curled upon. You opened the door a little, trying to not flood your home with the storm that unleashed it’s wrath outside. A yellow sweater and red beanie came into view, but they sizzled in the downpour and looked almost like they were melting. Tubbo had told you of his weakness to water, why was he out in this weather? Why was he at your door?

“It’s pouring rain, what are you doing here?” You hadn’t meant for your tone to be as icy as it was.

“I didn’t know where else to go.” You took a small breath, closing your eyes as you tried to talk yourself out of allowing him inside. The small hiss of rain hitting his jumper filled your ears and you released the breath in a sigh as you failed to convince yourself. The door swung open wider and you stood to the side. After a moment, you looked at him again.

“Get in here before I leave you out there.” You watched the ghost scramble to rush out of the rain, and you watched him silently for a moment before closing the door behind him. Brushing past the ghost, you walked to your kitchen. You hoped some tea would soothe your nerves and the ghost would be quiet. Phil had given you a small bag of chamomile herbal tea that had lavender buds in it. He said it was to help with sleep and reduce stress and you couldn’t help but think he had gifted it to you for this exact moment.

You waited for the water to heat on the furnace. Once the bubbles slowly grew and rose to the surface, you pulled the pot off and turned before startling. Wilbur had been right behind you, watching the water as well. You recognized the feeling of hot pain quickly grow on your chest and you gasped, setting down the pot on the counter as you moved to pull your shirt away from the scarred flesh to prevent further scalding. Wilbur had yelped as well, some of the water having sloshed onto him. You looked up to him, eyes wide when you saw his arm start to melt.

“Sorry, are you-” The words died on your tongue when his eyes met yours however. The feeling of crying immediately replaced your concern. You missed his brown eyes. The ones that looked into yours so attentively when you were talking. The ones that flashed with his emotions, even when they were kept off of his face. The ones that looked like melted honey in the sunlight and rich chocolate in the torchlight. You hadn’t realized your vision had become blurry with unshed tears until you watched the grey blob of his hand put something into your own.

“Have some blue. It’ll be okay.” You stared at the mass in your hand, the small blue pile growing darker and darker. You looked up at the ghost, confused. “It’s blue!”

“Yeah, Wilbur. It is.”

“No, no it’s called blue. It starts out translucent and then slowly turns blue as it absorbs your sadness!” You scoffed, setting it on the counter next to the pot.

“Obviously it doesn’t work.”

“It does! You’re not gonna cry anymore, are you?” You turned to look at him again, freezing when you saw his smile. That stupid smile that shouldn’t have been so wide on his ashen face. You shook your head, turning back to put the water into your mug. It had cooled a little, but that was alright. It would brew okay still.

“Why are you here, Wilbur?”

“I told you, I didn’t know where else to go.” You slammed the pot onto the counter with a little more force than was probably necessary.

“But why me? You finally want to talk to me now? After everything you’ve done?” You spun on your heel to glare at the ghost that floated in your kitchen. The water on your shirt was cold now and sticking to you, but your face felt so hot. His smile dropped from his face and he looked stricken.

“I did something to you?” You bit your lip, feeling your throat tighten. How could he not remember?

“You ignored me for so long, Wilbur! I tried so hard to make things up to you after our fight, and what do I get? A stupid sword and a coat with too many memories attached. Like that would ever make up for anything! You know what?” You reached into the ender chest that sat in on the counter, throwing the bundle at him. “Why don’t you have it back, then? Load of good it does me!” You sniffled, feeling tears prick your eyes. You laughed a little, wiping at them with the back of your hands. “I feel so stupid. I missed you so much and yet you’re right here in front of me. So why doesn’t it feel like you’re you? Why doesn’t any of this make me feel better?”

The feeling of something cold touched your cheek. It was like cool morning mist before the dew and it felt nice against your flushed skin. You felt your lips tremble when you realized the ghost was holding your cheek just like he had the night before the festival. They didn’t smell like anything this time.

“Because I’m not Alivebur. I’m Ghostbur. We’re different.” You heard the sound of your tears fall against his hand before you felt them, but he didn’t pull his hand away. “I don’t remember what happened between us before he died, but I do remember you were very important to him, [y/n]. You’re very important to me.”

“You don’t remember anything?” You sniffled, starting to move away from his touch. His hand dropped back to his side.

“I remember a lot of things, but I don’t remember why you’re mad at me.” A half-laugh tumbled from your lips, but it sounded more like air than anything.

“I wasn’t truly mad at you until you blew up everything and died, Wilbur,” You paused. “-Ghostbur. What do you actually remember, then?”

You didn’t miss how the correction made a smile bloom once more on his lips.

"I remember saying I'd die for you multiple times." A snort escaped you and you shook your head, pressing a hand to your mouth and looking away from the apparition before you.

"I didn't think you meant literally. That was always my job, wasn’t it?” You felt him pull away your hand gently and hold it. The feeling wasn’t unpleasant, but you didn’t like it. His touch lacked the soft tangibility it once had and it was just another painful reminder.

“Let’s go sit on the couch. I want to talk to you again. I want to catch up.”

You nodded, your tears starting to dry a little.

He guided you to your living room, perching himself on the sofa before waiting for you to sit as well. The air felt tense as he pulled you into a conversation. After a while, the wind and rain slowed and were a quiet hum compared to the easy laughter and sweet smiles you two shared. You avoided the heavy topics. The ones that would make this kind dream dissolve back into the harsh reality that awaited you later when you couldn’t pretend like nothing had happened. Once the lull on his side of the conversation lasted too long, however, you turned to look at him. You were met with a warm gaze that held the spark of something you didn’t even know could present itself in the dead eyes of your once dear friend.

“[Y/n]?” You hummed in response. “I’m so glad I came here. You make me feel alive. For the first time ever, I feel like I can breathe. It feels like everything was so devoid of colour, I didn’t know what it meant until now.”

You laughed a little. “That’s not my doing, ‘bur.”

Ghostbur stood and moved to look out your window, watching the sun slowly set. You hadn’t realized the storm had stopped until you saw the golden light wash him in a warm glow that made him a vision to behold.

“[y/n]?” You hummed again, reaching to finish your tea that had been remade over the hours. “Why didn’t you love me?”

Your heart stalled in your chest. You turned your head and watched the ghost slowly turn to you and you furrowed your eyebrows. What was he talking about? “Please don’t look at me like that.”

“Like what?”

“Like you didn’t know.” Your mouth was dry, but you set the mug back down.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about, Ghostbur. We were friends. Of course I loved you.” He shook his head.

“Not in the way that I wanted. I-” You watched him fish some blue out of his pocket and play with it. “I really loved you, [y/n]. I wanted you to be by my side through everything. But when you seemed to continuously choose Technoblade, I felt like I couldn’t say anything. Now, you’re hurt by what Alivebur did. I know other people haven’t truly forgiven me for what he did. I haven’t either. And I don’t like hearing about it, but it still hurts.” He looked so sad, the blue in his hands growing darker and darker. “We can’t even be together now because I’m a ghost.”

Suddenly his eyes lit up like he had remembered something. You watched him immediately turn and make his way to the door. Navy blue pieces forgotten on your floor. “That’s it! There’s so much work to do.”

The memory of soft apologies spoken in a ravine echoed in your ears. Your heart picked up speed and you stood, reaching out for him as if to stop him as he pulled open your front door. “Ghostbur, please-”

“Don’t follow me.”

How many times would you have to hear that before the words didn’t hurt anymore?

#RemembranceAU #dsmp au #dream smp au #dsmp x reader #dream smp x reader #wilbur x reader #wilbur soot x reader #mcyt x reader #unrequited feelings #tw: arguing #tw: death #tw: bomb #tw: memory loss #tw: stalking #angst

[aurabird]

Haunted Dreams

Sausage just wants to sleep...but trauma weighs heavy on the mind.

Tw: Nightmares, blood/violence, brief disassociation

Also on Ao3

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

He walked through Mythland, a casual stroll through the streets of his empire to see it in all its restored glory now that he’d removed the corruption that had overun it. His citizens greeted him as he passed and he made a point to at least try and speak with as many of them as he could.

Then the sky grew dark, thunder echoing as lightning split the heavens and suddenly, the citizens around him were gone, as if they’d never been there to begin with.

Sausage knew what the storm meant and he ran; fear in his heart and panic in his mind. He needed to get away, he needed to hide. He was fooling himself, there was no hiding from the harbinger of the storm, no matter how much he wished there was.

He ducked into a building as he was inflicted with a blindness spell, cowering in a corner like a frightened animal. Maybe...maybe if he pretended they weren’t here like Joel did then they’d go away. Positive thinking right? That’s what Gem always told him.

“Hello, Sausage.” Xornoth said with a wicked grin as he came into view, “You and I have much to discuss.”

“No! G-Go away! I don’t work for you anymore!”

The demon laughed, “Oh Sausage, did you really think I’d leave you alone? You will never escape me!”

The next thing Sausage knew was been teleported, now on a netherbrick floor where familiar crimson tendrils were quick to bind him.

The blindness spell wore off and he felt his blood run cold. He knew where he was, he’d been here before when he was still under the influence of corruption. Even now he could almost hear the agonized cries and pleas of those he watched Xornoth torture...that he himself even tortured. Sausage could almost see Fwhip, Gem, and Kathrine bound and helpless, their blood still staining the ground.

“Its a new perspective isn’t it? Being on the receiving end of something you once enjoyed?” Xornoth questioned, twirling a dark, bloodied dagger in his hand as he walked “I cannot let your insolence go unpunished, Sausage.”

Suddenly, the demon was in front of him, its gaze meeting his own. “I wonder how easy you’ll be to break.”

  Sausage jolted upright with a cry, pain radiating in his right arm. He quickly looked at it in panic, expecting to see pulsating crimson veins. Instead, all he saw were the web-like scars where corruption had once been seared in his flesh. His gaze followed them from where they started at his wrist, and ended right over his heart.

He grimaced at the permanent reminders of what he’d done and averted his gaze to the room he was in. It wasn’t a dungeon where he would be tortured, it was his bedroom...in his keep...in Mythland.

There was no storm outside, moonlight shining brightly through the window and casting a gentle glow on the floor and walls.

A nightmare...that’s all it’d been. A remnant of the trauma he’d gone through. Still, there was no going back to sleep, not after that. Maybe...maybe he could go on a midnight walk to clear his head?

He swung his legs over the edge of the bed and stood, going over to his wardrobe and grabbing a simple undershirt, pants, and a cloak. It was a casual attire, much different than what he would normally wear, but it’d work.

Once he was on the cobbled streets he began his walk. Mythland was stunning at night, lanterns lit the paths and fireflies flickered in the air. The sound of night wildlife was therapeutic as it was joined by his quiet footsteps.

The bleating of blood sheep made him smile, with the corruption tentacles gone the symbols of his empire’s culture had come out from hiding, no longer afraid.

All was fine until Sausage could have sworn he saw a shadow move in the darkness. When he turned to look, it was gone.

Just a nocturnal animal he told himself before continuing down the path towards one of the residential areas.

He’d helped design some of the houses here himself and the sight of them made him smile. Light shone dimly through closed windows, alerting him that the residents were safe.

Then, in one of the alleys, he caught sight of a shadow, but it disappeared seconds after he made eye contact with it. A stray dog or cat he thought, that was all, there was no one out on the streets at this hour other than him.

As he continued he noticed that the sounds of the night had gone quiet, his footsteps echoed by another set behind him. He turned, but saw no one, not even the particles of an invisibility potion.

He was tired, that was all. He was tired and just imagining things. He was alone out here...he should probably head back home to rest.

Countless times more on his way back did he swear he was hearing footsteps, close enough to be in earshot, yet far enough away to be unnerving. He also could have sworn the shadow he kept seeing was following him. He knew it was just paranoia, once he was back in bed he’d be fine.

Soon, his home came into view and he went inside, climbing the stairs back to his bedroom.

He discarded the cloak, hanging it on the railing to put away in the morning and made his way over to his bed, not even bothering to get undressed again.

As he passed the mirror by his wardrobe though he froze, the reflection in it drawing his attention out of the corner of his eye. The second he turned to look, he recoiled with a yelp.

In the glass was a man that looked like him, a man dressed in black and grey with piercing red eyes and black veins marring their skin that had a faint crimson light flickering underneath. A sinister grin crossed their face as their gaze met his own.

“Look at you.” his reflection began in a distorted version of his voice, “Pathetic and weak once more. You were so powerful Sausage, you were feared. Don’t you miss it? The strength flowing through your veins, the magic at your fingertips. You could have had so much more too, if you’d stayed.”

It clicked then who the reflection was, it was someone he never wanted to see again, someone that terrified him. “I’m not you. I’m not a puppet for someone to order around.”

His reflection vanished and for a moment, Sausage thought he’d beaten his subconscious. He’d been wrong as he felt a sword go through him, the blade dripping with ink black blood as it protruded from his chest.

“You’re right,” came the voice of his doppelganger once more, “Because I am what you should have been.”

The sword was yanked back out, and Sausage fell to the ground, hacking and sputtering as the life drained from his body. 

“All I have to do, is kill you and take your place.”

The black blade of a corrupted netherite axe tore through the flesh of his neck.

  Once more he awoke with a cry, his hands instantly flying up to his throat instinctively in panic. Once he realized that his head was still attached did he dare open his eyes.

Sunlight came through the window and lit up the room, birds sung outside and the wind rustled the leaves of trees. In the distance, he could hear the faint sounds of his people going about their lives.

Tears formed in his eyes and he began to cry, ugly sobs coming from his throat at what he’d witnessed in his nightmare.

Then it dawned on him...what if he was still asleep? What if he’d just passed into another part of the illusion his traumatized mind was inflicting upon him?!

What if...what if he wasn’t really in Mythland? What if he’d failed in the spirit realm and as punishment he was left to suffer a nightmare for eternity?!

Who was he? The King of Mythland? The servant of evil? The condemned spirit left to be forgotten by those he cared about?

The mental turmoil was maddening and Sausage clutched the sides of his head, “Stop...make it stop...” he pleaded quietly.

A knock on the door snapped him from his spiraling thoughts, bringing him back to what he hoped was reality.

“Sausage are you home? I know you said you wanted to rest but I’m worried about you.”

Gem’s voice was music to his ears and Sausage quickly regained his composure as best he could before heading down the stairs to open the door for her.

“Hey, Gem.” he said with what he hopped was a happy tone, he didn’t want to worry her any more.

The wizard’s smile faded, “Sausage you look horrible, I thought you said you were going to get some sleep and recover!”

“What are you talking about Gem? I feel perfectly fine!” he countered casually, “I’ve been resting like I said I would after all!.”

Gem wasn’t convinced, “Sausage, have you looked at yourself in the mirror?”

The question had been an innocent one, but the nightmare from the night before quickly flashed before him. “N-No, because I’m...I’m afraid of what I’ll see.” he admitted as he wrapped his arms around himself.

"What do you think you’ll see?”

Sausage grit his teeth, his body beginning to shake, “Him, Gem...the corrupted puppet of Xornoth...”

"He isn’t you, Sausage.”

“No...he’s not...” because he’s who I was supposed to be...

Gem broke the momentary silence that followed, “You’ve gone through a lot, Sausage and while I still don’t know if I can fully trust you yet, if you need to talk about anything then I’ll be right over alright?”

Sausage nodded and wrapped his arms around her just to make sure she was real and not another trick played by his mind, “Thank you.”

-

He had spent the next several days working, doing everything he could to keep himself from falling asleep, afraid of what would await him. He’d dozed off a few times and had found himself in several scenarios.

  Sometimes it’d been in the arena, the other rulers falling to his blade over-and-over again, bathing him in their blood while he smiled in sadistic pleasure.

Sometimes he’d be running from a shadow that would always catch him, its claws digging into his mind to puppet him around once more

Sometimes he’d see the wicked grin of his twisted doppelganger as they drove a blade through him, their words poisoning his thoughts and filling him with doubt and fear.

Sometimes he’d be laying helpless as Xornoth tortured him. Trying countless painful methods to ensure that this time the corruption taking over his body would be permanent.

  And when night fell he’d just lay in bed awake, guilt and trauma weighing heavy on his mind. The things he’d done were horrible and now that he was free, he would be hunted relentlessly by the one that had controlled him and the hybrid that still followed them.

Sausage was scared. He needed sleep...he needed help...

That had been the one word shakily scribbled onto the paper he’d tied around a raven’s leg before sending it to the Crystal Cliffs.

-

A knock on the door the following morning forced him to get out of bed and go to open it. Sausage’s movements were sluggish but he managed to succeed in his goal. Gem stood in the doorway, her expression morphing into a grimace once she saw the sorry sight he probably was. “Oh Sausage...what have you been doing to yourself...”

He collapsed into her, unable to hold back tears any longer, “I can’t sleep Gem! Every time I close my eyes the nightmares come, even if its just for a minute. Please Gem, sleeping potions...or even some kind of sleeping spell...just something, anything to help me fall asleep peacefully!”

Gem couldn’t think of any way to reply, only held the broken person in her arms.

“How about we get you inside? See what we can do?”

A distressed  but agreeing sound came from Sausage and Gem helped maneuver him upstairs and back into his bed. The Mythland king looked terrible, his clothes disheveled and his face pale enough that the dark circles forming beneath his eyes were extremely noticeable.

“Tell me everything, Sausage. Tell me about the nightmares and anything that is bothering you.”

So he did. Sausage spilled every detail about his nightmares and paranoia, about every little thing he feared and pondered. Gem listened intently as he spoke, never once interrupting, just letting him get his thoughts out.

By the time he finished Sausage felt as if a burden had been lifted from his shoulders, it was...nice.

The last of his energy had been sapped from his venting and the clutches of sleep tried to bring him into their hold.

Gem stroked his head, her sympathetic eyes meeting his own tired ones. “Go to sleep, Sausage.” he coaxed, “I’ll be here to wake you if I sense something is wrong.“

Sausage only gave a sigh, his eyelids slipping shut and lulling him into darkness.

But, for the first time in an unknown amount of days, the nightmares didn’t come. Sausage was at peace, finally able to rest.

#empires smp #empiresblr #empiressmp #My writing #mythical sausage #geminitay

[alexseanchai]

Fanfic 2020 in Review

I got tagged by @kasienda @noirshitsuji and @marvelousmsmol and I am tagging whoever wants to play!

1) List of fics completed this year in the order they were finished:

*filters own works to complete and updated in 2020*

1 - 20 of 57 Works by AlexSeanchai

nope. *adds filter to include only works of at least 1000 words*

unless otherwise indicated, these are all Miraculous Ladybug:

“don’t bake it lying down”, post-reveal Marichat vs Felix Graham de Vanily

“veracity”, canon divergence from “Ladybug” featuring Mister Bug and Verity Queen (so also Marichat, I guess)

“(no request is too extreme, if) your heart is in your dream”, in which Hawkmoth wins, for the thirty seconds or so before Emilie saves Ladybug and Chat Noir’s lives

“tell me you love me and make me believe it”, in which trans girl Chatonne Noire ropes Ladybug into helping plan her civilian self’s escape slash social transition

“kingmaker, oathbreaker”, in which Hawkmoth wins and Emilie watches her son remove himself from the family

“stay and let me watch you break it down” (Twelve Dancing Princesses), a modern setting

“set a course for winds of fortune”, in which trans girl Chatonne Noire has already escaped and Gabriel and Nathalie are trying to bring Gabriel’s son home

“we ground love in a hopeless place”, in which post-reveal Marinette’s attempt to remain resolutely not in love with her partner dissolves like sugar in coffee when they start a pun war

“ring the bells that still can ring”, in which Alya is deeply confused about why Adrien and Marinette are planning a wedding when last night both were single

“burning wishes at both ends (the cold wind and long loud wail remix)”, in which Gabriel made a monkey’s paw wish and Emilie makes another

“words cannot espresso”, in which Marinette’s OC roommate is justifiably worried for Marinette’s safety, and meanwhile Adrien takes care of Marinette

“the compromise of truth” (the chronologically second-earliest part posted to date of nine lives, snake’s eyes), in which Adrien tells his friends how he won some freedom and respect from his father

“At The Present Time”, the Ladrien/Ladynoir marriage proposal follow-up to @art-deco-shrimp‘s  “Your Presents Required”

“j'ai rêvé (so I don't have to dream alone)”, in which the events of canon must just have been a series of dream sequences, Marinette and Adrien both think, until they both arrive at Chloe’s Halloween masquerade dressed as themselves from the dreams

2) Number of words written:

ahahaha no. I am not counting all my scattered fic drafts and trying to figure out what I did and didn’t write in 2020. I refuse.

AO3 says I posted 162K in 2020. it is counting all of keeps you guessing (like any real love), which (a) I started posting in 2019 (b) is co-written by @galahadwilder​; it is counting all of my meta snippets collection, much of which was written in 2019; it is counting the Vimeo passwords for my vids. but I probably cleared 150K by a safe margin.

3) Your most popular fic:

“veracity” has a four-digit kudos count, wow, when’d that happen? this is also the 2020 work with the most hits and the most bookmarks, but “tell me you love me” has four-thirds as many comments as its nearest competitor.

4) Your personal fav:

“cannot break us, not with a thousand swords”, no question about it. this is the one in which Ladybug proposes marriage to Chat Noir via Princess Bride meme on Tumblr. (if you intend to download the work or otherwise to consume it with creator style off, you want the accessible version instead of the primary version.)

5) Your fav scene:

aaaaaaaaa

—okay so this is cheating and I know it, since Uncertain Humors (the one where Marinette/Adrien is both Orpheus/Eurydice and Theseus/Ariadne) is nowhere near finished, never mind posted (maybe I'll get “Sanguine” done to post on my birthday?)

but it is still my favorite of the year. as you might guess from that description of the story, this scene has content notes for character death:

Hell is a maze. Marinette walks.

This acrid passage has little to see but damp stone, seeming blood-stained in the dim carmine light. At about the height of her heart, the faintly glowing thread cuts through the not-clammy air; it ought to be pulsing at the same rate as the heart it's bound to. She might be able to see her own reflection if she looked down at the open sewage pipe, or at one of the puddles that now and again she splashes through, dampening the canvas of her shoes. She might see reflected what's behind her.

She remembers Mme. Mendeleiev lecturing on human physiology. In healthy humans old enough to have learned how, urination is a voluntary action: one may not know which muscles one tenses and relaxes in order to do so, and probably isn't paying attention to those details when one is doing, but one has conscious control over whether one does. Usually. Stress and anxiety mean some people are unable to relax the relevant sphincter muscle and others are unable to stop themselves. It's voluntary for cats, too: it's one way they mark their territories. Cat-boys have other ways.

There is a moment in every human life when all one's muscles relax at once. Some Parisians have had several such moments.

The thread is braided with itself around her left fourth finger, rows of tiny red half-hitch knots, and falls loosely over the back of her hand to loop twice around her wrist. She holds it wrapped between the fingers of her right hand to keep it at a constant tension, as though knitting with this insubstantial thread, so fragile for something two (two dozen, two million) lives hang from—too thin to sew with, no thicker than one strand of his hair. As she walks, she winds it around and around and around her wrist.

Between her ring finger and her right hand, it loops twice.

Marinette's shoe lands in a puddle she didn't see. The rainwater splashes soundlessly onto her bare ankle and on the stone.

(With cat-like tread, upon our prey we steal— It's a very loud song.)

She walks on.

6) A fic or scene that challenged you:

where the firelight fades, no contest. this is the second story I’ve ever been able to stick with more than a couple hundred words past the 20K mark, but it’s easily the twentieth novel-length I’ve begun. (though also, you know that kedreeva post? well, 90K later, I’m less than 15K from completing this 10K fic! I think.) and I have been learning so much about long-form fiction.

there has also been a lot of weeping and tearing my hair. case in point: I just trashed the chapter 15 draft because I figured out the reason it wasn’t going anywhere! I can probably keep the first few hundred words of that draft without any editing, and another few hundred with some revision...

7) A line of writing you’re proud of:

from “j'ai rêvé (so I don't have to dream alone)”:

Everything about their partnership is fragments of sentences in the dream diary Adrien writes in ultraviolet pen. Disjointed flickers of thought even when examined under the black light he hides in the snack cabinet under packets of Super Yoyo sandwich cookies and bags of cheesy Monster Munch potato chips and boxes of petit écolier butter cookies (chocolat noir)—none of which explains the gym-socks smell. All fleeting incoherent flashes, invisible between the mundane lines of La Modification shelved at his bedside between Leroux and Dumas. None of it is solid. Adrien has more proof his room's haunted.

okay let me break this down for you!

* Adrien started a dream diary to make sense of the memories

* in invisible ink, in a book that (according to Wikipedia) is thematically appropriate and won’t (if Gabriel sees it) look like anything other than Adrien developing an interest in French literature

* shelved between Phantom of the Opera and The Three Musketeers

* look I didn’t come up with the name “black light”

* or “chocolat noir” for what English speakers call “dark chocolate”, or “petit écolier” (that is, “little schoolboy”) for that sort of butter cookie

* also not my fault that “chocolat noir” sounds remarkably like “Chat Noir”, which, attentive readers may have noticed, is not a name that appears in the story after the header and before Miraculous Cure

* I found the website of a store in Boston, Massachusetts that caters to French expats, and the yo-yo cookies and the monster chips were right there in the photos, y’all

* the snack stash and the black light live in the cabinet where, in canon, the Camembert lives; yes, that cheese smells in the real world like gym socks

* this story’s akuma was not able to affect anything but squishy human memory: nobody affected remembers anything about Ladybug or Chat Noir or Hawkmoth, not in any solid way, not even when they read news articles about the subject, and this includes Marinette and Adrien not being able to see or hear or remember their own kwamis—but you know what Adrien’s Insta post about his poltergeist and Adrien’s Insta post with the floating sock don’t show and don’t explicitly refer to?

* I love this paragraph so much (my housemates may have been lovingly mocking me over it)

8) A comment that touched you:

there are people (y’all know who you are) who said y’all are studying my style. I ded of blush.

9) Something that inspired your writing:

by volume of fic drafts that can be blamed on any particular person, the winner is probably @norakwami​

10) Your proudest accomplishment (that one scene; finally finishing that one fic; posting your first fic; etc):

so that longest-story-ever-written record I set in 2007 with the 89.5K story that, till where the firelight fades, was the only story I’d gotten much past 20K?

I broke that fucking record!

and then I deleted the draft of firelight chapter 15 😭

11) Do you have any writing goals for the next year?

I’m starting work on a fantasy novel, a Sleeping Beauty retelling in which I explore (among other things) the economic consequences of the king’s ordering all the spinning wheels burned, and I want to make significant progress on that. and I want to not make my hands any worse; I kind of need those!

(breaking news alert: bodies fucking suck. so does giving yourself repetitive stress injuries in doing one and a half to two people’s worth of work for an organization that was never ever going to pay you more than one person’s worth of pay.)

#by alexseanchai #miraculous ladybug #tag game

[adashofniallandasprinkleoflunacy]

Angel y/n coming home to find demon harry naked on the bed reading. How smug he would be at the shock on her face

All Y/N wanted to do was show Harry the cute devil-horn pattern cooking apron she’d found at Target.

That’s all she wanted to do.

She just wanted to come home and hold it up proudly to see him break into that fond, giddy smile he gets whenever she does something that makes him extremely happy. She just wanted to hear that adorable boyish giggle he’d release while slipping the ribbon over his head and tying the back into a knot, snorting once he saw that the ends of the strings had little pointed peaks to symbolize devil tails. He’d say he loved it and thank her with a chaste kiss to her forehead, a pat on the bum, and probably some crude remark about how he used to own an apron with topless women on it.

Instead, she got much more than what she bargained for.

Granted, she should’ve announced that she was home as soon as she walked through the front door. It would’ve given Harry a heads up on her presence and she’s maybe about fifty percent confident he would’ve handled himself accordingly.  

But Y/N had wanted to surprise him, too excited to thoroughly think her plan through.

She swiftly sets down the rest of the groceries onto the kitchen island, kicking off her shoes and dashing up the carpeted stairs to their shared bedroom on the top floor of the condo, the apron whipping behind her.

Y/N bumps the door of the room open with her shoulder, already holding up the apron before her with an ecstatic`aura evident in her tone. “Harry, look what I found at—”

Her words lodge in her throat like a demon blade.

Laying on the bed is Harry, back propped against the headboard and legs crossed casually at his ankles, a worn, aged, wine-colored book propped easily against his thighs. The scraped up cover of the novel has its title engraved in reflective gold calligraphy, some of the letters stained with a dried, suspiciously dark liquid: Demonology et Transcendentalis Magia: Carminibus et Invocationes.

In smaller, copper-tinted print below the cursive is the title in English: Demonology and Transcendental Magic: Incantations and Invocations.

However, the satanic scripture isn’t what causes Y/N to release a strangled yelp.

It’s the fact that beneath the book, Harry’s thighs are utterly bare, as well as the rest of his legs, and the rest of his entire body. He’s completely nude.

Her choked sound of mortification pricks at his ears, his head snapping upwards in startled confusion.

The curls at the nape of his neck and around his ears are visibly damp, the rest neatly combed back from his face as to not disturb his immersion in the grimoire. His eyes flit completely black for a second and out of protective instinct, he mumbles a quick, simple defensive spell under his breath. “Ligaveris.”

Bind.

Y/N’s arms immediately slam down at her sides, an invisible force tightening all of her limbs together stiffly until she cannot move a single muscle. It feels as if she’s trapped inside a straight jacket, her whole body completely immobile from her neck down. In the spur of the moment, the apron had been ripped from her grasp and ended up strewn across the floor at her feet.

Harry’s eyes flicker from the silly article up to his girlfriend’s spooked face, apologetic familiarity dissolving away the alarmed contempt that had furrowed his brows and inked his eyes dark. “Oops.”

“‘Oops?!’” Y/N’s voice is strained and high, full of stunned fear that is slowly ebbing into annoyed range. “Get me the hell out of—”

“Solvo.” Release.

Her entire body slumps down as the rigidness in her muscles disappears into thin air. She takes in a slow, shaky breath, letting it out gradually.

She keeps her gaze focused down onto the ground, zeroed in on a faded stain in the carpet a few inches from her left foot. Her voice is full of irritated indignation. “What the fuck do you think you’re doing?”

She doesn’t have to look up to know he has a smug simper plastered across his tinted lips. His sly tone reveals it quite well. “Reading, obviously.”

She can sense him waving the book in the air haphazardly for emphasis, hearing it plop back down against his naked lap.

“Naked?!” Y/N nearly shrieks, still on edge from the sudden attack. “You’re reading naked?”

He shrugs carelessly. “I like to air dry.”

The snark in his remark causes her to shut her eyes in order to reign in composure, wanting to avoid smiting him into a black grease spot.

“You’re practicing satanic magic in our apartment, on our bed, nude?”

“Maybe so.”

Y/N snatches up the apron from the floor. “As if the nude part wasn’t bad enough?”

“S’not my fault you decided to waltz in here unannounced! You’re lucky I didn’t go with the spontaneous combustion spell.”

She indulges an exasperated sigh, the fabric of her gift crumpling in her fist.

The sound of the bed creaking echoes across the walls of the room, light footsteps padding across the carpet. Y/N can feel Harry closing in until he’s right in front of her, shifting her gaze from downwards to across the room to avoid an eyeful.

It lands on the small metal cross she has pinned to the lamp shade on her nightstand, which of course is now flipped upside down. She has to actively force herself to keep from glaring directly at him out of angry impulse.

It’s not helping that he smells of orchid apple shampoo and Tom Ford aftershave.

Harry ducks his head to the side and slides further left, trying to catch her line of sight, but she cranes her neck away just enough to avert a full frontal image of his unholy bits.

He leans forward, lips dragging along her stinging cheekbones and clenched jaw, his demeanor sultry and tauntingly persuasive, trying to coax her into looking. “Is that for me?”

Y/N jumps slightly when his fingers sift between her’s, prying the apron from her hold. He keeps his arrogant expression trained on her for a few more heartbeats, eventually tearing away to examine his present.

A preen of childish delight fills the tense air between them as he takes in the point of the gift. “Oh, I love this!”

Out of the corner of her vision she can see him slipping it on, releasing an amused hum (just as she thought he would) as he ties the ribbon around his waist. “The devil tails are a nice touch.”

“I thought you’d get a kick out of it.”

“You can look now, I’m decent.”

Y/N hesitantly abides.

The apron fits him well in length and width, though his broad shoulders are exposed for the most part. But it stops just above his knees, fitting the purpose of saving her from an uncomfortable situation she’s not really ready to face head-on yet (pun unintended, but there nonetheless).  

Not to mention he looks absolutely adorable.

Harry lifts his arms up at his sides expectantly, the edges of his lips jolting into a giddy grin.  “How do I look?”

“Like the cutest demonic chef I’ve ever seen.”

He poses with his chin propped on one of his shoulders, batting his eyes jestingly, dying them black for effect. “The only thing that could make this better was if it said something like ‘Expert in soul food.’ or ‘Summon the cook!’”

Y/N breaks into a heap of full-fledged giggles, his heart doing a summersault at the way her eyes flash with a holographic glint.

“I think…” He leans down and buttons his lips to her’s in a gentle kiss that causes her ears to crackle with literal electric energy, the tiny spurts of pastel blue lightning popping across the shells. He pulls back, pecking the tip of her heated nose. “I think I’m gonna go make us some dinner in my new nifty outfit.”

“I think that’s a great idea.”

Harry glimpses over his shoulder, eyes landing on his spellbook. “Venit.”

Come.

The novel suddenly lurches up from its spot on their bed, flipping closed as it flies through the air right into Harry’s awaiting palm. “I’m feeling some Italian tonight. Lasagna?”

Y/N nods distractedly, eyeballing the book with slight unease as he tucks it under his arm. “I got some fresh mozzarella.”

“Perfect. I’ll call you down when it’s ready.”

Harry brushes past his girlfriend, her eyes following him to the door. She should’ve known better.

Aprons only cover the front.

Y/N gets a wholesome view of Harry’s behind as he walks down the corridor that leads to the stairs; for some reason, she can’t look away. Her eyes trail down his taut back as it flexes with every step, following the line of his spine down to the swell of his ass and the curve of the backs of his thick thighs. He just looks so fucking good.

His voice breaks her little peep show, chiming from a few feet down the hallway with an air of self-satisfaction. “I can feel you ogling at my ass, darling.”

Y/N’s head lurches away, cheeks charring and eyes glowing faintly.

He throws a glance backwards, teeth digging into his bottom lip as it curves into a cocksure, pleased smirk; he pins her with conceited once-over.

“If you wanted to look at it so badly, y’just had to ask. It is yours, after all.”

#demon!harry #drabble

[asteraegis]

PART 2 to that evandra smut i wrote idk how long ago haha

part one here  (this is my deviant art link, you will need an account i know and i am sorry). Tags are: YEARNING FUCKING BIG TIME, told from Kassandra’s POV (first was from Evie’s), Kingdom AU (not modern day, not a game setting, just wanted Evie to be a princess I have no justification), cunnilingus, fingering, lmao accepting yourself. idk i tried to write something tender then just said fuck it kass eat out evie. 3190 words. if you wanna skip the yearning the pussy stuff is toward the end.

I breathed in slowly, my nervous gaze crawling up the castle's walls. My eagle companion, Ikaros, chirped at me, taking my racing thoughts back into reality.

"You're right, Ikaros. I won't know unless I speak to her," I sighed, peeking around the dark courtyard. Luckily the window was at a point invisible by guards. "Hopefully she is alone."

Ikaros chirped again then flew off to circle above the palace. I shook out my arms and cracked my neck. Here goes nothing.

Clutching each ivy coated stone carefully in my gloved hands, I was silent in my journey up to her window, aside from my anxious heartbeat. I couldn't stop thinking about her. Her name rang through my mind every second of every day since we met: Evie. Oh, how the name felt on my lips when I would whisper it alone, her voice still echoing in my ears like an angel's hymn. How her freckled skin felt in my fingers' grasp, how she tasted on my tongue...

I shook my head rapidly. Not now, Kassandra, I thought to myself. I had to get a hold of myself. We had only spent one evening together, there's no reason to be this desperate with a woman you barely know. What an evening that had been, holding her so close to me. I felt my cheeks warm and flush red. She really had infected my being.

As I climbed upwards, I noticed her window had a slight glow behind the stained glass. A light must be on. With luck that just means she's awake. My fingers grasped the windowsill but I couldn't seem to convince my body to move further. What if she's with her fiancé? What if she becomes angered with me for coming here? I hadn't been invited; she has the justified right to feel so. My heart sank picturing her scold me for my arrival this late. She'll definitely be mad. As I went to retreat back to the woodlands, a voice in my head seemed to whisper: You don't know that. I stared at the ground, a long way away from me here. That was true, Evie could be angry with me, but it was just as probable as she could be glad, dare I say it overjoyed. But still...

I looked up at the stars, Ikaros' shadow gliding under them and swallowed my fear. There was only one way to know her feelings for certain. I pulled myself up, resting a knee on the ledge, leaning my face toward the glass and peering through.

 My heart fluttered at the sight of Evie's bedroom. She had a large bed, much bigger than my own, adorned with burgundy silk sheets and satin pillows, both decorated by intricate golden vines. And the sparkling scarlet cloth draped over her bed, I was at a loss for words. A black fur rug stretched out from under her bedframe, leading my eyes to her desk. Despite having multiple bookcases with a few empty spots, she still had journals upon novels upon papers stacked surprisingly neatly on the desk, her chair pushed in and an ink well resting next to a lovely vase of stargazers. My heart almost leapt from my chest when I saw Ikaros' feather among the flowers, she must have noticed the tokens I slipped in her purse. My eyes darted about to find her, looking over an elegant partition with floral patterning engraved into the ebony wood, a daunting-sized tapestry of rough seas hanging behind it, and a wide wardrobe, presumably where her dresses are hung out of sight. My wandering gaze halted the moment I saw her, standing aside a lit fireplace.

Evie was rubbing a towel over her body; she must have just finished her bath. I gasped as she tossed the cloth over the partition. She was naked and although I had seen her like this before my heart still began beating faster and my face got hot like it was the first time. She moved to her wardrobe, taking a sheer silver gown out and sliding into it. From where she stood as she closed the wardrobe the fire's flickering light outlined her silhouette through the fabric. I felt lightheaded as she began brushing her hair, dazed from seeing her again. My chest ached. Oh, how I wanted to feel her against me again and have her scent on my skin once more. I leaned in closer to the window, my forehead against the glass now. I had to speak to her before I drove myself mad.

I took a deep breath and moved away from the opening so she wouldn't think I had been watching her. I knocked on the glass gently, waiting eagerly for her to open the window, my heart in my throat and my ears pounding. I saw a faint movement inside as Evie walked over to investigate the sound. She opened the window at first just to peek out, then her azure eyes got wide as her jaw dropped, swinging it open all the way now.

"Kassandra? Kassandra!" she gasped. "What—what are you doing here?"

I smiled at her, slightly worried my arrival scared her a bit. "I came to see you, my princess. Might I come in?"

She blinked for a moment, looking over her chamber. "Uh, um, yes! Yes! Of course! Come in!"

I thanked her then crawled through, taking my gloves off so not to dirty her hands as I took them in mine, lowering myself a little so I wouldn't intimidate her. "I apologize for my sudden appearance, milady Evie, but I simply could not get you out of my mind for the weeks we had been apart. I missed you dearly, despite my wishes not to mettle with your love life. I wish there to be no conflict between you and your true lover, I just must know one thing before I go."

"H-hold on, Kassandra, please, sit with me. I have some tea still in the pot, I can heat it for you while we talk," she said, pulling her hands away and rushing to lock her door.

I watched her take the kettle to the fireplace, her silhouette illuminating once again in the light. I shook my head. By the gods, I need to snap out of it.

I moved to her side, placing my left hand on her shoulder and with the right taking the kettle. "Please, dearest, allow me to heat the tea, you needn't fret to give me your hospitality."

Evie nodded, looking up at me. "Um, yes, if you're okay with doing it yourself."

She sat in her chair, braiding her hair back in a tight bun, loose strands framing her face. I couldn't shake the smile from my face as I poured the tea for her and I. My thoughts and heart were racing to quickly to control my expressions. We sipped in relative silence, low crackling from the flames being the only noise between us.

Evie set her cup down on her saucer. "Now then. You were saying, Kassandra?"

I placed my cup down as well. "Yes, uh, Evie. I must know if..." The words faded off my lips as she watched my eyes. I was freezing up, the fear of her answer holding my tongue.

"Yes?" she pressed on.

"I need to..." I was so tense. Why was this so difficult? I've faced loads of foes in battle and reigned victorious each time, why was I so frightened to speak to a kindhearted princess whom I had made love to before?

Evie touched my knee, her soft fingers caressing me. "Kassandra..."

I blinked away tears I felt swelling from her touch. "I... I must know if you feel it too," my voice cracked and I felt a tear slip out and cascade down my cheek. "If you think of me as much as I think of you. If you feel the tight ball in your throat when you do, like I do. If your fingertips ache when you catch a hint of my scent as you go about your life as I do whenever I smell rosemary. If you sometimes long for the day we met to happen again and again and again like me. If your dreams are clouded by my image as mine are of yours. My dearest Evie," I gave up controlling my eyes and began crying softly. "I must know if you yearn for my love as I yearn for yours."

Through blurred eyes I watched her face turn pink. I think I saw the corners of her mouth turn upwards, but I also think she had begun crying as well. Her hand moved from my knee to my cheek and wiped a tear.

 I pressed my face closer to her palm, closing my eyes. "Evie, I'm sorry, I—"

I flicked my eyes open, shocked by the sudden pressure against my lips. She had kissed me, pulling me nearer as her other hand also rested on my cheek. She held my head in her grasp, her fingers entwining themselves in my hair. My body was frozen, eyes wide. I didn't understand how what was happening was happening. Evie pulled away then wrapped her arms around my neck in a tight embrace, sobbing into my shoulder.

I hesitantly hugged her back, unsure what her reply meant. "Evie...?"

"Kassandra, I'm sorry. I'm such a harlot, I love my fiancé but yes, I do think of you constantly, even when he's beside me. I don't know what to do about it," she cried, tugging on my shirt's collar. "I—I know he's understanding and I'm sure wouldn't be angry if he found out about us, but I'm afraid his heart would break and I can't bare that. Kassandra, please know that while I am also in love with you, I'm afraid of what will become of my marriage."

I caressed her heaving back, nuzzling my head against hers. "Shh, shh, dearest. I understand your worries, but if you truly believe your betrothed would be understanding, you must also be able to see that he may not mind as much as you think he would. He quite possibly misses you dearly when he's away and wants the best for you, and if what's best for you is what your heart wants, then follow it," I pulled her away to look her in the eyes. "You are not in the wrong, my sweet, for you see more than just your own emotions in this affair. You're quite considerate in putting the feelings of those you love afore yourself. And you are not a harlot, many rulers have come and gone with more than one lover at a time, even the queen from my kingdom has her own harem of women, whom all are treated fairly and justly by her and her subjects. What matters is not the question of your polyamory being disgraceful for no such question belongs. What matters is you show respect and equal love to your partners, and they return it to you."

Her eyelashes fluttered as I wiped her tears off her cheeks with my thumbs. Her breathing seemed to be calming down, her hand moving to hold my arm. "You... you think so, Kassandra?"

I smiled at her, standing with her and pulling her head to my chest. "I know so, my dearest Evie. You are a good woman; good things shall come to you when you speak your truth."

She sniffed quietly. "Thank you, Kassandra..."

"Anytime, my love."

We stood like that for a while, clutching each other like we had become one. Evie was strong for being so vulnerable with me. I'm sure from how she sobbed this isn't how she typically sorts out her problems, likely keeping to herself and bottling things up alone. I stroked the back of her neck. Poor girl.

When we parted, Evie laid her hands on my shoulders and giggled, her tear-streaked cheeks blushing. "Would you mind staying longer, my warrior? I don't want to be left alone quite yet."

I'm sure she saw my eyes brighten but I didn't care to show her I was delighted. "Of course not, Evie, I'll be with you as long as you need and out the window once you've had your fill of my company."

She tittered, leaning into my chest to hide her face. I felt her smile against me as I adjusted my arms to pick her up by her thighs. I carried her across the room with her chin resting on my shoulder, both of us laughing as I backed onto her bed. I tilted my head in front of hers and kissed her neck up her jaw to her lips where she eagerly kissed me back. We both were grinning messes when our lips parted, but it seemed the princess was just getting started. Evie pushed me by my shoulders down onto her bed, holding my wrists down. She was much stronger than her size would have me assume, though if I wanted to, I could shove her off. But why would I want to do that?

Evie pressed herself into me as we made out again. Her kisses caused my stomach to stir, I could hardly believe how lucky I was under her. She moved a hand from my wrist to stroke my hair, playing with my braid as my free hand slid up and down her back over her soft gown. Evie laid herself on top of me, straddling my waist still between her thighs as she rested her head beside mine, facing me. I turned to look at her, a goofy smile spread on both of our faces. Her freckles dotting her pale skin reminded me of the night sky's thousands of stars. She was a galaxy against me and I were just an astronomer studying her magnificence with wonder. Oh, how I loved her.

I moved my hand to stroke her cheek. "By the gods above, how I wish we could lay here forever, Evie."

She nodded, resting her fingers on my arm. "I feel the same, Kassandra."

I could tell she was thinking about something, the way her eyes weren't meeting mine and the way her smile turned sly. She pulled herself sitting up right again, both her hands on my shoulders. The candle light flickering on her skin and eyes made her expression intense as she stared down at me. I was on the verge of fainting when I heard a shy chuckle from her.

"You wouldn't mind 'working your magic' again, would you? I've missed you terribly and upon your arrival here I can hardly contain myself," she cooed, not meeting my eyes.

I grinned, then tilted her chin in my hand to face me. "Of course, I wouldn't, my dearest Evie."

She laughed a little as I pulled her by the waist over to straddle my jaw. I pushed her skirt up, feeling a soft shiver travel up my body upon the sight of her clit in the dim light. Immediately, I tugged her forward by her hips like she was the first meal I'd been offered in centuries. I heard the wood of the headboard creak as her hands gripped it to brace herself over me. I kissed her inner thigh then wasted no time moving to lick my way up her lips to her clit. Her posture tensed for a moment upon my contact and I did my best to stifle a chuckle. I'm glad her body remembers me.

My hands clutched her smooth rear as my tongue managed a comfortable pace for her. I heard her voice heightened when I touched the left side of her clitoris. She must be more sensitive on that side. I smiled against her lips and moved to focus on that side of her. Oh, was I ever a great guesser.

Evie moaned louder and her pussy twitched, her thighs shaking slightly. Damn, like this I could finish her off in a matter of seconds. I decided to tease her a bit, licking the right side and center then down the slit. She was already sopping wet, practically sucking my tongue inside her. She did say she missed me, I thought as I sucked her back. Her pelvis began thrusting ever so slightly, more of a quiver than anything else. I adjusted my right arm so I could insert my middle and index finger inside her to replace my tongue, flexing them upwards and stroking her skin. The feeling of the grooves inside a woman against your fingertips couldn't feel dreamier, how the heart beat felt pulsating, how you could tell how into your actions she was just based on how much she dripped onto your palm. How her thighs clench up when she's really feeling it, how her moans seemed to echo in your ears when you were below her. It's heaven.

I flicked my tongue back over her clitoris, returning to toying with her left side as she rode my fingers. I might get a sore wrist from this but hey, it's worth it. The only thing that matters at this instant is that Evie is satisfied, I can fix up a brace for a sprained wrist later. She purred when she moaned, obviously biting her lip to keep from alerting any patrolling guards to her late-night rendezvous. Evie began to quiver more in my mouth and one of her hands wrenched my face against her as she grasped my hair. I spread my tongue fully against her, slipping my fingers out of her when I felt her tighten around them while she gasped. I licked her while her legs were shaking, savoring the taste of her on my tongue. Evie finally released my head and scooted over my chest, panting lightly with a gentle smile.

I tucked my moist fingers in my mouth and winked at her as I pulled them out. "So, how was that little trick?"

She giggled, swinging her leg over my torso to lay beside me. "Splendid, Kassandra."

I nuzzled her under my chin, flipping onto my side to hold her close, laying a quick peck on her forehead.

---

I haven't the slightest idea when I dozed off with her, I just remember one moment listening to her breathing then the next hearing Ikaros chirping outside Evie's window at me. I glared at the bird. Would he ever let me have some privacy? After Evie woke up, the two of us decided to write her suitor a letter explaining the situation at hand. A pigeon took the message off and Evie told me in one week's time to return. If he understood and was accepting of her truth, she'd leave the window open so I could just crawl through this time.

And sure enough, the next week, as I climbed to the windowsill, instead of being greeted by a stained-glass barrier, I had her lips planted against mine. At last, I knew her answer for certain. She did feel the same love for me as I did for her.

#i write #evandra #acs #acod #kassandra #evie #assassins creed barely #yes her fiance is henry #yes the queen of kass's kingdom is xenia #yes i yearn too #its 10:36pm #this one's title is Hiraeth

[mythicalmythology]

Cupid’s Bow

@a-prince-in-disguise encouraged me to write this

Fandom: Percy Jackson/ Heroes of Olympus

Characters: Ocs Kristen Jackson and Nick di Angelo (Percy and Annabeth’s daughter, Nico and Will’s son)

A/N: this is suppose to mirror/ be symbolic to Nico’s coming out that happened with Cupid many years ago cause Cupid is a bitch and we also just love symbolism:’))

.

.

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“Oh, I remember you…” the voice is raspy and low, it sends a chill in the air as the shadowy figure speaks from the dark. There are those heartless red eyes boring into Nick’s soul.

The temple is complete shambles as columns crumble and settle. Kristen rolled out of the way of one as she trained her eyes back to the figure in the shadows but was met with nothing. Nick was standing in the center, a small sliver of tinted red light cast across him. His chest heaving, eyes welled with danger and rage. He was looking for the mysterious voice as well.

There’s a whiz of an arrow that had her ducking to her feet as a sickening thunk lands in a toppled over column and shoots out limestone and marble everywhere. Nick had moved out of the way, stepping closer to the darkness. His hands gripping his bow tightly ready to shoot his own arrow into the shadows.

“Show yourself you bastard! Where are you!” Nick shouted as he sent an arrow flying only for it to come straight back at him and whizz inches past his face. A low, threatening chuckle cuts into the air. The eyes appear on the side of temple now, the figure looking like water swimming in the blackness of Hell.

“Testy testy. What a temper on you. I don’t remember you being so quick to shoot, Nico.”

Kristen blinked at that. “Nico? You have-”

“Nico is my father! Who the hell are you?! What does my father have to do with this?!” Nick shouted as he notched another arrow ready to aim. She rushed over beside him and took a stance, ready for what was to come. The unblinking red eyes squint at them both before another chuckle is let loose and they dissolve once more. The sound of footsteps echo on the title and nick sent an arrow flying yet never hears it lands as he footsteps draw nearer and nearer until Kristen felt a hand on the back of her neck that tosses her to the very ground a few feet away from Nick. Her back hitting against a jagged piece of marble as the temple floors shake and shower her with more limestone. The wind knocked of her made her head spin wildly and her vision blur as the sound of a whizzing arrow comes by her and nicks her cheek before landing inches from her head.

He’s going to kill us, Kristen thought, how is he doing this? Why can’t we see him?

In the very faint red light, she sees the arrows are painted a deep blood red with an arrow head in the shape of a heart that is painted black. It’s been stained by some of her blood.

“Kristen!” Nick’s panicked voice flooded her head as she turned to see him coming for her by by some invisible force, his feet are pulled from under him and he’s dragged back to the center of the room, his battered bloody body laying on the floor once again showered in the eerie red lighting.

“You're not him. No… you’re even better than him. You’re his son; Nick di Angelo. Oh, what a beautiful tragedy this is. You di Angelo’s have a habit of falling painfully in love don’t you?”

“Shut up! Shut up shut up shut up!” Nick sounded like someone had twisted an arrow straight into his heart. She hadn’t heard him sound like this since Daniel went missing. She struggled to look at him be held down by this invisible force of a being.

Kristen tried to stand to her feet and picked up her clattered sword from the ground and plucked the arrow from where it stuck. She examined it over as she painfully flashed back to visions that weren’t hers. No these were of ones of a much younger looking Nico, almost a mere split image of Nick. This younger Nico facing off against a man who was so beautiful it was frightening, down to his very pure white wings and ink black hair. There’s another man there, he’s blonde, has a scar on his lip like Piper’s. She never met this man before, but she knows this is Jason Grace, a wave of sadness came over her knowing this must have been him months before his death. The man speaking to Nico and Jason talks about Psyche and Aphrodite, about love and the monstrosity it was.

When the visions fade Kristen held her head as felt woozy again and fights to stand up right. She looks to where Nick is and swallowed painfully hard.

“You’re Cupid,” she choked out, “you’re no god to love you’re nothing but a monster.”

Her words are met with a mocking and menacing laugh as it echoes around them. Nick struggling to stand and sways on the spot as he tried to shake off what had happened. Cupid’s footsteps click against the marble but the sound echos too much it's hard to pinpoint where they’ll stop.

“God, monster, lover, I’ve been many names miss Jackson. You’re not a stranger to it. You’re easy. You’ve accepted your love and your downfalls with it. You remind me of my wife when she was young and foolish. You have done everything to have the man your heart aches for just as my darling little Psyche,” Cupid muses as the footsteps stop.

“Go to HELL! She gave you everything ! She did everything so she could be with you! How does she wake up next to a monster like you!” Nick screamed at him as he goes to grab his follow bow only for it to be pushed away.

“Love is blind, child. Love has no bound or ties to it; only pain. Pain of joy , of sadness and anger. Sometimes you love someone it just hurts so much. You understand, don’t you Nick? Though in your case, you love too much. Does she know Nick?” Cupid’s words are sadistic and have a bite of laughter to them. Mocking him and edging him on to confess.

In an instant a man, much like in Kristen’s vision, manifested before them. The white wings, the ink black hair and of course the painful red eyes piercing down at Nick. He’s handsome as he is dangerous and his crisp white shirt and jeans seem out of place for someone like him. He stands just a few inches away, eyes fixated where Nick's heart lay as if calculating the perfect spot to strike. Kristen stood where she did, a horrible feeling swelled in her chest and her heart ached as if Cupid was squeezing it too tightly. This was the last thing to get Daniel back, the third and final test was not meant for her it was for Nick. When Cupid casted his gaze to her another painful vision swam in her eyes of the younger Nico confessing his love for her father. The vision came as quickly as it went and left her whole body feeling nauseous. This was no normal confession; Nick had to confess his love.

Cupid circled Nick like a hungry vulture. Nick’s whole body trembling in anger and fear as Kristen longed to reach out and just touch him but knew she risked putting him in danger even more. Cupid plucked an arrow from his quiver and twirls it in his fingers, those murderous eyes going back and forth between the two of them.

“She doesn’t know, does she? How sad, di Angelo. And here I was beginning to think you were different from your father. Like I told you, your family knows how to love tragically don’t they? Now go on, tell her how you feel. Tell her who you love.” His lips curled into a sneer as his fingers grip the arrow tightly.

“Nick please just tell me! Just let me know nothing you’ll say is going to change my mind about you!” Kristen strained her voice to fight back tears. She watched Nick turn around to stare at her as Cupid continued to watch him in a hungry manner. Slowly and dangerously. In the stream of the red light it was very evident that tears leaked form the corner of his eyes.

“I’ve been in love with you, Kristen, I’ve fallen in love with you,” Nick choked out as Cupid stopped right behind him. A monsterous grin seeping across his face.

“And? You’re not finished yet. Tell her how you really feel.”

“Nick I… I don’t know what to say,” Kristen managed to say, “it will be fine everything is going to be okay.”

“Kristen if you knew the truth… you wouldn’t understand. You can’t understand.”

“Maybe I won’t Nick! But you have people who do! You’re not all alone!”

Cupid groaned and rolled his eyes. “Tick tock, di Angelo! Prolong and you are not closer to what you desire. Now tell her the truth.”

“Leave him alone Cupid!” Kristen shouted at him. “You’ve done enough to him!”

Cupid glared in her direction as he narrows his eyes but says nothing. He brings the arrow to his lips and seems to give it a light kiss before directing his attention back to Nick. “I know it’s killing you. You can’t come to terms with yourself, your fear outweighs it all. But what will it be? Your fears or your heart? In the end they both kill you, one is just less painful.”

Nick set his jaw tightly and held her head up. “I’m not fucking scared of you! I’m not scared of anything you tell me and I’m not-”

Nick’s words are cut short by an arrow being plunged straight through his heart and a blood curdling scream leaving him. He dropped to his knees clutching where he had been stabbed as Kristen watched on in horror of it dripping with some of his blood before it vanished into thin air and left no trace of injury behind expect for the small pool of blood on the floor. Hot tears of anger ran down his face as his hand clutches right over his heart. His screams are still echoing off in the Underworld as even in here everything runs silent.

“I will repeat the same words I told your father all those years ago: tell her, Nick di Angelo, tell her why you’re afraid of yourself, tell her why you fear your own love. Tell her your true feelings of who else you love aside from her! Tell her how your heart splits and beats for two not one! Tell her-”

“Because I love him too! I love Daniel Grey as well! That’s the big secret!” Nick screamed at Cupid as he raised his head and saw the god of love staring back down at him with a happy smile on his face at hearing his painful confession.

“Are you happy you sadistic mother fucker?!” Nick yelled at him through the tears.

Cupid casted him this almost sympathetic look and looked over to Kristen. “As I said before, love is pain. And you have finally faced the pain of loving too much as you have also faced your truths. That alone is how you beat me.”

Cupid vanished in a puff of smoke.

There’s nothing where the god once stood, all that was left was chunks of limestone, marble and drying flecks of blood. Nick was still on his knees eyes trained at the ground. Kristen was a whirlwind of emotions and feelings, though none were very negative. She looked down at the arrow she still had that Cupid had shot and let it clatter to the floor along with her sword. She carefully made her way over to Nick as she knelt down in front of him, her hand gingerly placed over his that laid over his fast beating heart. She slowly drew his hand away to find there was some blood on his fingertips.

“Kr-Kristen I’m—”

She threw her arms around him in a tight hug. Kristen felt him return with an equally tight squeeze as she allowed him to settle his head in her neck and cry. Just cry everything out and have someone to hold as she started off into the dark abyss of Hell as she played with his hair. Becoming entangled within her own train of thoughts and feelings.

#pjo #percy jackson #hoo #my ocs #ocs #kristen jackson #nick di angelo #annabeth chase #percy jackson fanfiction #cupid #my writing: old gods fic #writing: old gods #pjo fanfiction #nico di angelo

[thecrookedtower]

19. Dreams of Home

Campaign context: Morcego has been exploring the swamp, and has experienced all manner of horrors. The worst of which being the party’s encounter with a succubus. The fiend charmed several of them, forced Morcego to attack her allies, and gave her a draining kiss that almost killed her. Morcego’s dreams have been full of nightmares since. Vitor still stews over the letter from entry 15.

--

The wizard and the rogue, though separated by many miles, had both endured restless nights. High in his tower, Vitor sat, slumped in his chair. Quite uncharacteristically his hair was unkempt, and stubble roughed his cheeks. He had cleaned his desk, at least. Though, the letter that gnawed away at his mind was still there, folded neatly and tucked back in its envelope.

Vitor had penned a reply, but Morcego was unable to read it. She was off in some wretched swamp and had been for some time now. The tiefling seemed to be on route back to Saltmarsh, and he hoped that things might improve then. For now, he was left with her words and the sting of her absence. The stone walls felt hopelessly cold without her countenance to fill the halls of the tower with warmth.

Vitor reached for the silver mirror that seemed always at his side in these recent weeks, and one of the few things that brought him comfort. It was through scrying that he could at least know that she was safe. He had tried to give her space, though he yearned to visit her or cast a sending to hear her voice, he had refrained. Yet, each night since her departure he had checked on her before he went to bed, just to know that she still lived and breathed. Her new way of life was rife with peril, and he worried about her constantly. Not because she was weak, no, she was clever and quick... but from far away he could do little to protect her as he had for all those years. The injuries inflicted upon her by the hateful villagers were as etched into his memories as the scars that marred his lover’s beautiful wings.

“Show me Morcego.” Vitor whispered, his voice gravelly and tired. The silver mirror’s polished surface shimmered, seeming almost liquid, before it revealed her sleeping form. Alone, in a tent, unharmed. He breathed a sigh of relief. The moments between casting the spell and seeing her were always tense. He feared she would not appear, or she would be injured. Though he resented himself for it, there was the worry that he would see her with someone else. Yet, save for the time she had gone missing in the Azure sea, the mirror revealed her as it always had, safe.

Her sleep seemed plagued by nightmares, as it had for the last few days. She writhed and cried out softly. As Vitor watched her, he wondered the cause. Morcego had the occasional bad dream, but never like this. The duration of it concerned him, he had not intervened in previous nights out of respect for her privacy and wish for space…but something seemed off. What could be hounding her sleep? What had she experienced to make her so distraught? Tears slid down her cheeks as she tossed and turned. The wizard pinched the bridge of his nose, he could watch her suffer no longer. He let the image fade from the mirror.

Vitor’s eyes narrowed in focus as he tried to remember the location of all the items he would need. Crossing the room his fingers brushed against the handles of the many cabinets that contained a myriad of spell casting materials. One by one, he procured them: a small handful of sand, and a writing quill that had been plucked from a slumbering bird, and an inkpot.

He sat in his chair and spread the sand out on the desk. Vitor dabbed the quill into his inkpot, and then pressed the tip of it into the sand, whispering a small sequence of words as he did. The ink seemed to work its way into every granule, staining the sand black. With the wave of his hand, he scattered it. The sand rose to the air in a plume of glittering particles, light like dust. He felt his consciousness fade.

--

Morcego’s dreams were flashes of horrible images and stained with crimson. A terribly beautiful woman caressed the tiefling’s face and kissed her passionately. The entire dreamscape shook with the pain that Morcego experienced, and the horror of losing control of her body and mind. She was dying, she was watching her friends die, torn asunder by beasts or by her own hands. A spiraling cascade of fears and harrowing experiences seemed to crash through her mind, and she was wholly lost to them.

The wizard kept himself hidden as he watched the thoughts and memories play out for a moment, finally learning what had been eating away at his companion. Her mind was wounded, she had taken a startling amount of psychic damage, and the ghost of it haunted her dreams. No more, she would rest easy tonight. Using his magic, Vitor shaped the images carefully, banishing the terrors and replacing them with familiar locations.

Morcego felt the fear dissipate as her dream shifted away from the dreadful Drowned Woods to the homey interior of the crooked tower. She was in the small personal library, seated in a small alcove that held a small table and cozy chairs. The smell of chamomile tea and worn pages replaced the scent of blood, and she felt at ease. Vitor watched, as invisible as the spirits in the walls. How many times had he seen her read at that table? How he wished he could run his fingers through her hair, but in these dreams he could not act. He could only twist the images. He could speak to her, but he would not, not tonight. He manipulated only the surroundings, he would not show himself, he would not ask her the burning questions on his mind. She deserved peace.

Morcego felt content to leaf through the books and found that they were her old field guides. Filled with pressed flowers, illustrations, and descriptions that both she and Vitor had written. These were soothing sights, and as she turned each page the scenery around her shifted to the places that she had been while collecting the samples. Rolling fields of flowers, high mountains and open skies, then a small pond tucked away on the outskirts of the village. 

It was all so vivid, far more-so than her usual dreams. The way the pond shimmered with starlight, the crispness of the night air, the wetness of the grass and then scent of plant life. These images were not mere dreams, they were too real. Yet from each scene there was something-- no-- someone missing. These had not just been her experiences. She pushed herself up from the dew-filled grass and surveyed the pond that glowed in a soothing moonlight.

Morcego realized that if these were her memories, he should be beside her as he had been that night. The area was darker, the dim light cast its shadows longer. This was the glade seen through human eyes. This version of the memory was Vitor’s. A small smile pulled at the corners of her mouth, and she felt a warmth in her chest.

“This is your doing, isn’t it?” She asked of her surroundings. There was no response, save for the cool wind that rushed through her long hair. She reached out for it, wondering if he was there, somewhere among those dark woods, or if he was simply the fabric of the dream itself.

“Thank you.” Morcego whispered, and she felt the dream fade into the darkness of slumber as Vitor pulled away the tendrils of his magic.

--

The necromancer’s eyes fluttered open, the trance induced by the spell ending. He leaned back in his chair and loosed the breath he’d been holding. Vitor hadn’t expected her to realize the influence of his magic, but he was not surprised. Morcego had always been clever. At least she seemed thankful, and the dreams had calmed her. He tried to hold onto the sound of her voice and the sight of her, she’d reached out for him, should he have revealed himself?

The room was spinning slightly; the wizard was still a bit disoriented from being in the space of someone else’s thoughts. Being so sleep deprived probably didn’t help either. With an unsteady hand Vitor poured himself a short glass of fire whiskey. The warmth as it went down was grounding, helped him remember how to move his physical body.

Seeing and hearing her had brought him some measure of peace, but also impatience. Within a few days he’d have a response if she deigned to answer his letter. He felt a resentment towards her traveling companions for having dragged her through the swamp, having put her in constant danger. Rationally he tried to remember that it had Morcego’s decision to take part in it all, but he could not forgive them for how they’d let her suffer afterwards. Had she no council among them, no shoulder to lean upon? She spoke highly of this group, but they seemed just as unreliable as any he’d ever met.

Could her new friends really protect her if the threats continued to intensify? If Sebastian or the bulk of the Sea Princes decided they were too much of a nuisance? Vitor felt as he was walking on a tightrope. Morcego wished for him to relinquish the Princes as an unnecessary evil, but now more than ever he needed the power and sway with the pirates to help make this world safer for both of them. The goal at the end of his long pursuit seemed closer than ever now, but it could not be brought to fruition without the continued access to information and resources. The region grew more tumultuous by the day, and Morcego seemed hellbent on finding herself at the heart of it.

Vitor would find a solution, he always did. It was late, and for now there was little he could do but sleep. He took a small measure of comfort knowing that far away, his lover also slept soundly.

[megabadbunny]

if we let go (4/?)

He pulls her down for another kiss and he doesn’t mean it to be such a needy thing, so desperate and harsh and hungry, but the way her lips part almost immediately makes him suspect she’s every bit as starved as he is.

I.e., Rose gets a choice, even if she has to carve it out for herself. In this chapter, she and the metacrisis Doctor choose just how vulnerable they’re willing to be with each other.

***

rose x ten, rose x tentoo; a journey’s end fixit (of sorts), dedicated to @travelingrose , whose very good questions reignited my love/hate relationship with this episode/storyline, and to @goingtothetardis, who kept me encouraged while writing (thank you dahling!!! <3). (i believe this also fills some rose x tentoo / tentoo day / tenth doctor month prompts from @timepetalsprompts and @doctorroseprompts​ .) heavy angst, but also lots of flirting, fluff, romance, some adventure, and some smut; sfw versions on tumblr & ff.net, nsfw versions on ao3 and teaspoon. this chapter is where the nsfw stuff officially kicks in.

***

prologue | chapter 1 | chapter 2 | chapter 3 | chapter 4 | chapter 5

chapter four: what it is and where it stops, nobody knows

He isn’t surprised by the shrieks that pierce the night air. If anything, he’s surprised it took so long. He is, however, shocked at the sight of Rose, stumbling bleary-eyed into the galley, jacketless and bare-footed.

(Was she sleeping? Where? Just how tired is she?)

It’s not like he forgot she was here—how could he?—but the fact that she’s back onboard the TARDIS still gives him a jolt somehow, like plucking bacon straight out of the sizzling-hot frying-pan and managing to be astonished when it burns your hand.

“Can I help you?” the Doctor asks.

“Can’t sleep. You?”

“Can’t say I’ve tried.”

Rose blinks at him, confused, eyes narrowed against the bright galley light. “Oh,” she says, realizing. “You’re—the other you.”

The Doctor bites back the sarcastic response hiding behind his teeth. “That’s right,” he says instead, downing a gulp of his coffee. It’s black, bitter, and it might as well be jet fuel. He grimaces. “The other me.”

Another cry rings out, and Rose shivers, hugging herself against an invisible chill. “Actually, I wanted to ask—that isn’t Donna, is it? Making that noise? She’s…she’s not in pain?”

The Doctor softens a bit at that despite himself. For all her claims of change, beneath that tough new battle-hardened exterior, Rose is still Rose—tender-hearted and compassionate, sometimes to a fault. Gods, he’s missed that. She and Donna would have got on splendidly.

“No,” he replies. “She’s still in stasis. Can’t feel a thing.” He holds up his medscreen for Rose to see, the stats and figures from Donna’s wrist transceiver blinking across the tablet surface. “I’ll know the instant that changes, if it changes.”

Rose pales in horror at the sound of the next gut-wrenching shout. “Oh my god,” she says, instantly alert, all traces of sleepiness evaporated in a millisecond. “The other Doctor—what’s wrong with him?”

“Nothing’s wrong, it’s all to be expected.” He swallows another mouthful of the tar in his mug and frowns in distaste. Dreadful stuff, coffee, but tea seems just a little too indulgent at the moment. “Time Lord memories in a human brain, remember? Or human enough, anyway.”

“Is he gonna have the same trouble as Donna?”

“No, no, nothing like that. Got enough of my original genetic material to keep all his grey matter from leaking out.” He drinks in a deep breath. “Now, the nightmares, on the other hand…”

He trails off, because Rose has got that look on her face, and maybe it’s been a few years (or a few centuries, feels about the same), but he still knows that look, still knows it exactly, the someone-is-hurting-and-I’ve-gotta-do-something-about-it look. Which is a problem, because if he knows himself like he thinks he does—and unfortunately, a millennia is more than enough time to get to know yourself, your few good qualities and many, many flaws alike—this will not end well, not for anyone.

“Rose,” the Doctor says warningly, but already she’s padding out of the gallery, her footfalls echoing softly in the corridor.

The Doctor swears under his breath. “Wait,” he says, louder, pushing up from the table so hard his chair slams to the tiles with a thwack. He sprints after her, but by the time he reaches the hall, Rose is already meters and meters off—she’s faster than he remembers somehow, or is that just one more way that she’s different from before?—and he shouts, “Just leave it alone, Rose. Trust me!”

Not the most brilliant choice of words at the end there, he thinks when she doesn’t stop.

 ***

 Fire, fire everywhere and—

burning

(red-hot white-hot iron and copper and pennies, steel, metallic and cold-boiling in his mouth)

Skin, bonding in nano-increments, cells knitting together over bones grown solid and if he could, he would double over with the pain of it, the unbearable hurt of becoming real

“What are you whinging about?” Harriet Jones asks, arms crossed over a gaping black hole in her chest. “At least you got a new heart out of all this.”

(real isn’t how you are made, said the skin horse, it’s a thing that happens to you)

I’m sorry, he says, or tries to say, but he hasn’t got a tongue yet, just rows and rows of razor-sharp teeth tearing the insides of newborn cheeks

Laughter, and when he looks up again, past the blood-red haze clouding his fetal eyes, the Harriet-thing is grinning, skin stretched too-tight over a Halloween-store-parody of a skull. “Absolutely the same man,” she says, words dripping with disgust

and the faintest hint of something ruby-red—

“I never asked for it,” he spits out as soon as words can take form in his mouth. “I can’t count you amongst my many sins.”

Curling in on himself, a ribbon that twists and cramps and contracts, muscles rippling under the skin; raw fingers scratch themselves bloody and reach stretch break into the

(does it hurt? asked the rabbit)

(she opens her maw and entire galaxies float inside, suspended in midnight-black ink, rainbow-swirling like an oil slick)

“No, no,” he begs (wheezes; throat is parched and cracked and dry; xtonic radiation is a cruel and cowardly bitch)

(Please Susan please please please help)

“What do you expect her to do?” asks Rose, circling a protective arm around his granddaughter (what’s left of her, anyway, blurred and wet and staining Rose’s shirt). “She’s just as dead as the rest of them.”

Tear ducts form just in time for salt to well up in his eyes, burning his cheeks, holy water scorching clean in blistering trenches

(galaxies dissolve one-by-one and he can hear feel smell taste every one of them dying, rotting-sweet dead flowers dirty crumpled five-pound notes ash in his mouth)

Hand new and complete and he reaches out but Donna is there instead, and he watches, helpless, as she falls in agonizing slow-motion; it would almost be funny except wait it is funny he is laughing he is laughing he is laughing so hard he cries why can’t he stop

crawls over to her prone body, crumpled on the grating, dying over scattered galaxy crumbs and sputtering embers and he turns her onto her back, and something black is where her eyes should be, overflowing and staining fire-red hair

“I didn’t mean to,” he chokes out, but she can’t hear, the black stuff swells up in her nose and her mouth and her ears and it burns everywhere it touches, eating away at her skin and her hair and her cut-up leather jacket (and oh, the fit she would throw if she knew)

(it doesn’t happen all at once, said the skin horse, you become. it takes a long time)

(Doctor, she says, and her voice sounds funny and far-away)

“No, no, not that,” he pleads. “Anything else—”

She turns what’s left of her skeleton-face toward him and she screams

 **

 “Doctor!”

Air sharp in his lungs like a knife and the Doctor can’t get enough of it, gulping and choking until he thinks it might gash his throat.

“Shhh, you’re okay, you’re okay, it’s just a nightmare, it isn’t real—”

Hands on his chest, smaller than his but familiar, but they’re gone, she’s gone, all of her, and she’s never—

Frantic knocking against his ribs and he wonders if he’s ever been in a place so dark before, ever witnessed anything that ate the light like this. One of his hands slides beneath those on his chest, checking, and—yes, there it is. One heart, just the one. Damn.

“Doctor?” says the voice again, quieter this time. “Are you awake? Are you all right?”

Oh, god.

Impressions of the nightmare slowly fade, blinked away like the remnants of too-bright lights splashed across the backs of his eyelids, and the darkness in his room dissolves bit by aching bit. He can just make out the shape of someone else in his bed, silhouetted by the dim light leaking beneath his bedroom door. Too murky to make out any details, but she’s haunted his subconscious long enough that he would know her anywhere, unmistakable in any form.

“Rose?” rasps the Doctor, his voice rough from shouting (crying?).

“Yeah,” she says, fingers curling in his tee-shirt. “I’m here, with you. Remember? And everything’s gonna be…”

The Doctor doesn’t hear what she says next—blood rushes in his ears, pins-and-needles and a high-pitched whine and a thick thump-thump-thumping; cold sweat beads on his brow, and he fights the nausea threatening to wash over him. Forcing his breathing to slow, he pushes up in the bed. He can feel her staring at him, feel her concern. Relief and embarrassment rise up in equal measure, searing-hot fluid in a thin-skinned blister.

“Please get out,” he pants.

Her hands stall on his chest. “Doctor?”

“Please,” he says, brokenly, knuckles scraping the tears from his cheeks. He curses himself for ever letting anyone see him like this, for ever allowing himself to be so shamefully pathetic. “You never should have—I don’t need you here. Get out.”

The Doctor can practically hear Rose’s heart hardening at that.

Her next breath is tremulous, watery. “Fine.”

The bed jostles with the force of her movement, bedclothes twisting as she crawls over them and gropes semi-blindly for the edge of the mattress, and the Doctor realizes she actually listened to him this time. Really, properly listened—and she’s really, properly going. Now the panic rushes in, and the guilt, settling heavily at the pit of his stomach. Please no please don’t go please don’t leave please…

“Wait,” he calls hoarsely after her, but her feet have already reached the floor. “Rose—”

“No, it’s fine. I’ve got it. Tell a girl Get out enough times, eventually it gets through her thick skull.”

He springs out of bed just in time to grab her hand before it can twist the doorknob. “Rose, stop. Please.”

“Why? Planning to call up any other regenerations to come spit in my face?” she snaps, her back turned to him. “How about my first Doctor, the one who died on the Gamestation? Want to bring him on over so he can have a go at me, too?”

Her shoulders are tense, hard as flint as the Doctor places his hands on them, gently nudging her until she turns around to face him. Her entire body quakes beneath his touch and he suspects that, just like him, her shivering has got nothing to do with the temperature in the room.

“I fought so hard,” she says plaintively, and the Doctor doesn’t need to see or touch her face to know she’s crying now. He can hear the tears thick in her voice, feel the sobs wracking her frame. “It’s been years, Doctor, and I tried—I thought about trying, settling into a life over there, and I could’ve, there were times I wanted to, I had friends and my family and a good job and there were blokes and a girl and I could’ve—but I couldn’t—not after all the things I did, and if you ever knew—and I just missed you so much, god, I missed you, and I thought—if I tried hard enough—”

Laughing through her tears, Rose shivers even more violently. “God, I’m stupid.”

“Not true,” says the Doctor firmly.

“I am, though,” she says with a sniffle. “I don’t know what else I expected. I mean, it’s not like I thought I’d come back and you’d scoop me up in your arms, or, I don’t know, profess your eternal love for me, or whatever. I just thought, I hoped we could pick up where we’d left off, just the two of us, and Donna too if she wanted, back out in the stars, and I thought, maybe, one day, if I was really, really lucky, maybe you would—”

He cuts her off with a kiss.

She stiffens against him, body going rigid under his hands, and he knows he’s being rude, or unfair, or possibly terribly unchivalrous; definitely something Donna would smack him for, and he wouldn’t blame her. And it’s messy, salty, wet, her tears viscous and sticky on Rose’s cheeks and her lips and now on his as well. But it’s warm, too, in a way that makes him dizzy, his chest expanding, his blood thrilling in his veins. And hopefully Rose can find it in herself to forgive him, because right now he just doesn’t have the words. He can only hope, desperately, that his actions will speak loudly enough in their stead.

(And he would be lying if he said he hadn’t been thinking about this since these eyes first saw her.)

Eventually Rose relaxes in his grip, pulling back with a soft gasp. “You don’t have to do that,” she mumbles.

“Do what?”

She thumbs the tears off her face. “Give me anything out of guilt. Just because you think I want it.”

He nods. “All right.”

He kisses her again.

A strained little whimper rises in Rose’s throat and she snakes her arms around his neck and before he knows it, his arms are responding in kind, wrapping around her and pulling her body flush with his. She’s still shaking but it’s more of a buzz now, something he can sense in his skin, creeping into his skull like a rush of alcohol. His body floods with warmth as her tongue tentatively brushes his lower lip and a flash-vision pops into his mind, detailing how he could push her up against the door—

Suddenly he’s gone a bit jellylike in the knees and the Doctor breaks the kiss with a shudder. The room feels like it’s spinning around him.

(He’s relieved to hear he’s not the only one struggling to hide breaths gone ragged.)

“You…” Rose says, and swallows. “That’s cheating.”

“Never said I’d play fair,” the Doctor replies, step-stumbling back until his legs hit the bed. He sits down, grateful for the support.

Rose doesn’t budge from the door, so the Doctor holds out a hand—can she see it in the almost-black, can she tell he’s reaching out for her?—and after a few horrible moments of nothing, her warm little palm slides along his. She lets him draw her in, and he has every intention of wrapping his arms around her again, comforting them both with a solid, lung-squeezing hug, so he’s surprised when her hands reach out and cup his jaw, tilting his face upward. He wonders if, perhaps, her night-vision is better than his now, if she can see the nervousness and hope written across his features, but soon it’s apparent she’s seeing with her hands; her thumbs stroke the apples of his cheeks, tracing the edges of his sideburns and working up to his temples. His eyes flutter shut at her touch and he fights not to lean into it, like a cat. Fingers tangle in his hair and nails scratch lightly against his scalp and he can’t stop the hum that escapes in response.

He pulls her down for another kiss and he doesn’t mean it to be such a needy thing, so desperate and harsh and hungry, but the way her lips part almost immediately makes him suspect she’s every bit as starved as he is. She deepens the kiss and his tongue chases after hers. Dizzy with want, he clutches at her hips, he’s just got to touch her somewhere, anywhere she’ll let him, he needs to feel her, soft and solid and safe, but she’s still so far away, still oceans and oceans between them—

The Doctor doesn’t even try to hold back a sigh of relief when Rose clambers into his lap, pressing herself against him. The weight of her is warm and reassuring, the frantic pit-pat-patter of her heart against his a welcome rhythm.

“I don’t play fair either,” says Rose, and she kisses him fiercely before he has a chance to reply.

 **

 Afterward, she slumps against him, panting. Eyes shuttering closed, he wraps his arms around her, losing himself in the gentle rise and fall of their chests as their breaths slowly calm. But eventually Rose stirs in his arms, sitting back on his lap; the Doctor imagines if he could see her face in better detail right now, her eyes would be glazed, blinking heavily. He suspects his are doing much the same.

He feels like he should say something, but his breathing is too thick to allow any words out of his mouth. At least, that’s what he tells himself; the truth is, he’s still too stunned by the idea of Rose sitting in his lap to really register anything that’s happening right now, or anything that’s happened in the last few minutes, for that matter. A not-unpleasant buzzing sound has filled his head, pairing nicely with the numb feeling suffusing him below the waist, and it’s just a bit difficult to think past it all.

Rose wriggles off his lap, both of them wincing, and she walks off toward his en suite, fumbling for the light-switch in the dark. Soon she finds it (impressive, considering she’s never been in here before) and searing yellow-white light lances the Doctor’s vision, blinding him with its brightness. Moments later, the Doctor is surprised by the sensation of something soft hitting him in the face. He blinks out the light, confused, pulling a flannel from where it fell in his lap.

“Figured you might want to clean up,” Rose says from the doorway to the en suite. She’s not wrong, and oddly considerate—but something about her sudden frankness and neutral tone sets panic thrumming in the Doctor’s system all over again.

She’s not just going to up and leave after all that, right? Surely she wouldn’t?

The door to the en suite closes, leaving the Doctor alone in the darkness once again, frozen. Slowly, amidst the sounds of flushing and washing-up, he tidies up. The fresh, clean flannel is a blessing on his skin, but it isn’t enough to soothe the anxiety roiling in his skull, especially when the light turns back off and Rose comes out and, quietly, heads straight for the bedroom door. The Doctor wants to ask her to stay, but the words seem wrong, somehow, almost childish, and at any rate, they’re stuck in his throat.

Hand on the doorknob, Rose hesitates. “Did I push you?” she asks, her voice small.

“No,” he answers quickly, thankful that his tongue finally works again. “No, not at all.”

She sighs in relief. “And you, erm. Would you rather I left you al—”

“No.”

Another sigh. “Good.”

The mattress dips beneath her weight as Rose crawls back into the bed, and, his weary brain just a bit slow on the uptake, the Doctor follows after, sure to leave a respectable amount of space between them, just in case Rose wants it. But he soon learns he needn’t have worried; the second his head hits the pillow, Rose snuggles up against him, tucking her head beneath his chin and insinuating one leg between his. Surprised, but nonetheless pleased, the Doctor pulls her into his embrace, wondering how in the universe he managed to be the lucky sod she’s curled up against tonight.

“It’s not your fault, you know,” Rose mutters sleepily into his chest.

The Doctor startles out of his thoughts. “Hm?”

“What happened to Donna. It’s not your fault.”

It’s stupid, really, how quickly the tears spring up behind his eyes. He grits his teeth until the pressure fades, his fists clenching tightly in Rose’s tee-shirt. He has half a mind to untangle himself from her, to get up out of the bed and throw open the doors of the TARDIS and scream at the universe until his voice grows hoarse and his throat bloody, but the other half of his mind gently points out how Rose’s breathing has already evened out, how relaxed her entire body is next to his, how warm and soft she is in his arms. How she’s here, with him, now, despite everything.

With a tired exhale, he nuzzles into Rose’s hair. Fruity shampoo, expensive perfume, the faintest tinge of chemicals from her hair dye all greet him; marveling at how natural it all feels, the two of them close and quiet like this, he breathes it in, committing it to memory, just in case. He closes his eyes and, inch by inch, lets himself loosen.

She’s wrong about Donna, of course. But it was still nice of her to say.

***

Previous: Chapter Three | Next: Chapter Five

#timepetalsprompts #doctorroseprompts #ficandchips #tentoorose #tenrose #travelingrose #goingtothetardis #so for anyone who is concerned and doesn't mind mild and vague spoilers #i swear the tenrose stuff is coming on down the line #definitely some angsty setup to get through first but there will be payoff #rose loves all of the doctor and he loves her with everything he has #even if things are complicated between them right now #and even if there are two of him #lolol #but i wanted the story to be about choice--for everyone involved--and i wanted to show the events leading up to those choices #i promise this isn't going the route of 'ooh ten's such a meanie no wonder rose will choose tentoo' #everyone just needs time to adjust and ten in particular needs to pull his head out of his arse #also #like wow i just got so eager to start posting this that i did not plan things super well #apparently i repeated chapter titles? #so that's been fixed #and also i had a thought that i would split this up into two parts #it seemed to make sense at the time #but now i'm like #why? #so anyhoo thank you for your patience to everyone who's sticking with me and my weird edits and odd decisions and terrible update schedule #i love you all passionately! #<3 <3 <3 <3 <3 <3 #mbb fic

[dxngsichxng]

true love is closer than you think

pairing; yuta x taeyong

words; 8680

characters; yuta, taeyong, sana (twice), jaehyun, hansol

genre; angst, fluff

summary;  Yuta is just like anyone else. He wants to find his soulmate, be friends with them and probably fall in love. When his soulmate starts messing things up, he's about to lose hope, but Taeyong fixes everything up for him.

a/n; crossposted on a03 :3 since i have accounts for nct both on a03 and tumblr posting it on only a03 would be 너무 아쉬어워 hehe so i decided to post it here too

check out my a03 haha theres more nct fics (and some seventeen too) there :D

The concept of soulmates isn't difficult to understand.

Well, at least to children who are introduced to it when they are probably nine or ten, when they find strange scribblings or bruises on their arms which sure wasn't caused by them. It's simple. When a form of ink stains your arm, it appears on your soulmate's. Same goes with cuts and bruises.

Yuta didn't expect to be introduced to it when he was five.

Of course, the poor boy didn't understand a word of it back then. He was just quietly watching Frozen on the television when he shifted his gaze from the tv to his left arm, only to see a rainbow spectrum of colours painted on it.

He screamed like the tv suddenly caught fire and his parents came running to him, eyes as wide as saucers and questioning lil Yuta what had happened.

Not saying a word, the boy just pointed to his left arm, eyes filling up with tears. "I... didn't do this... but suddenly appear... not me, mom, dad, it appear like magic..."

Yuta's parents shared knowing smirks and his mom spoke up first, "come on Yuta, let's get this cleaned off and we'll explain it to you."

That was all the tiny and unused brain of Nakamoto Yuta could take in at that point of time. The rest were a blur of new and complicated words that he didn't bother to, or rather couldn't, remember.

Yuta went to sleep that night with an uneasy feeling in his stomach. But he didn't bring it up anymore.

In fact, he had completely forgotten about the incident until ten years later, when Yuta was walking to school like any other ordinary morning.

Wanting to check the time so that he could confirm he wasn't going to be late, he lifted up his left arm where his watch was wrapped around his wrist. Just as he was about to put his arm down and continue walking, he saw random black splotches of ink peeking out from the long sleeve of his uniform. Curiosity taking over him, he rolled up his sleeve.

You could say in that moment Nakamoto Yuta got the biggest shock of his entire lifetime.

Staring at his wrist that was tattooed with numerous characters that weren't even in his language, Yuta couldn't help but allow his jaw to drop to the ground. And the writings were continuing. From his wrist, down to his forearm, down to the crook of his elbow... Just when Yuta thought it was over, he flipped his arm over to see that the writings were continuing there.

For a solid ten minutes, Yuta stood there staring at his very own left arm like he had never seen it before, wondering what the hell was going on and why this invisible person was writing strange Chinese? characters on his arm. He took note of the handwriting, how each stroke was written fast, yet precise and neat, and how they made up to form one character. Yuta hated to admit it, but whoever's handwriting that was, it sure was pretty.

Yuta looked up from his arm and started to run to school so that he could show his best friend Sana what an invisible man was writing on his arm. Even while he was running, the writing continued and Yuta was amazed at how steady the man's handwriting could be even when he was flying down the streets to the neighbourhood school.

"SANA!" The Japanese boy yelled the moment he stepped into the classroom. The girls snickered at how terrible he looked, his hair all over the place from the speed he was running, and one with one sleeve of the school uniform up and the other down.

"What? What happened?" The called girl rose from her seat and Yuta immediately ran to her, showing her his left arm that had more ink than skin.

"There's this invisible man that's writing stuff on my arm! What he's writing I have no idea, but his handwriting is sure pretty! And his handwriting stayed stable even though I was running, isn't that amazing?" Yuta panted, still breathless from running such a long distance.

Sana stared at him in disbelief before bursting into laughter.

"What's so funny?" Yuta frowned, his arm retreating, "you don't believe that an invisible man is writing on my arm?" His face expressed genuine hurt and Sana had to stop laughing if not Yuta would start crying.

"No, it's not that," she smiled, taking his arm, "an invisible man is not writing these. It's someone real."

"Someone real?! Then how come I can't see them?" Yuta's eyes widened in shock, "am I the only one who can't see them? Can you see them?"

Sana giggled again, shaking her head as she rolled up Yuta's left sleeve and inspected the characters, "these are a bunch of biology terms. DNA stands for deoxyribonucleic acid... you get the idea."

"Wait this is in Korean?? I thought they were in Chinese!" Yuta exclaimed and Sana wanted to slap the boy in front of him because how. could someone. be so stupid.

"Urgh I give up on you, Yuta," Sana turned around and faced the front of the classroom.

"Noo! Tell me, who's writing these? And why biology terms? And why in Korean? And why am I so confused when you seem to know everything?" Yuta whined as he poked Sana's shoulder from behind.

The Japanese girl rolled her eyes and faced her best friend again, "God Yuta, you talk too much," she cleared her throat and slowly explained, "the person who's writing these words, is your soulmate."

"SOULMATE??!" Yuta hollered, gaining everybody's attention before apologising, "I thought those only existed in fanfictions!"

Sana fought the urge to roll her eyes again. "No, Yuta, soulmates are actually real," she told him and Yuta just gasped really loudly and covered his mouth.

"So... I have a soulmate? Who wrote these? In Korean? My soulmate's Korean? How am I gonna meet them? Wait, this is so cool, you mean I can actually see whatever they write on their arm?" Yuta rambled and Sana smiled at how cute his best friend was.

"Yeah, whatever your soulmate writes on their arm appears on your arm too. Including cuts and bruises. If they get it, you get it too," Sana stated calmly as she watched Yuta's jaw drop lower and lower.

"That. Is. So. Cool," Yuta's eyes sparkled as he said that, "no wonder I found cuts on my arm last night! I thought it was just me being careless, but it was my soulmate? And I can talk to them? By writing on my arm? And they'll see it too? And reply?"

Sana nodded to all of his questions, just as the teacher came in and lessons started.

Yuta couldn't keep still in his seat, staring at his arm every five seconds, which got him kicked out of the classroom. That didn't stop him from paying more attention to the foreign words than the actual class itself.

When the class ended and Yuta dragged his feet back to his seat after a good scolding from the teacher, Sana asked him again, "any changes?"

Yuta rolled his sleeve up and looked at the familiar sight of squiggly characters, shaking his head.

"Wait," Sana grabbed his wrist before Yuta could roll up his sleeve again, "the back of your arm. Look at this."

Furrowing his eyebrows, he flipped his arm over and, just like magic, the Korean words faded and eventually disappeared. Yuta looked back at the front of his arm and saw the words there had disappeared as well.

"What... is happening... Sana... why is it disappearing..." Yuta held his arm far away from him and squeezed his eyes shut, like it was going to explode any second soon.

Sana let out a breathy laugh before taking Yuta's arm and placing it back beside his waist, "it's not going to explode. Don't worry, it's just your soulmate washing off what they wrote. Their biology test must have ended. It's harmless, Yuta, don't look so scared."

Sighing in relief, Yuta opened his eyes and grabbed a marker out of his pencil case. "Should i talk to them now?"

Sana nodded excitedly as Yuta uncapped the marker and scribbed several letters on his left wrist.

konnichiwa

They didn't need to wait long before more letters, or rather symbols, appeared below Yuta's message.

???!!?!!!

Chuckling, Yuta wrote below the question and exclamation marks.

watashiwa Yuta desu

This time, Yuta's soulmate replied in actual words, but unfamiliar ones. Luckily Sana was beside Yuta if not he'd be completely clueless.

일본?

"He asked if you're Japanese," Sana translated quickly and Yuta's grin grew even wider.

hai. dare desuka?

They waited a little longer this time before the Korean words replied again, Yuta taking note of how pretty the handwriting was, stroke by stroke filled with beauty.

난 태용이야

Sana grinned. "Your soulmate's name is Taeyong."

Taeyong shoved his earbuds deeper in his ears, turned up the volume, and put his hands over them in order to block out the shouting that was happening outside his room.

Nothing was working.

The arguing between his parents had been going on for a few hours now, and if anything, it was growing wilder. Taeyong could hear stuff being thrown about and broken. He certainly did not want to know what were those stuff, but he still had to find out the next morning when he emerged from his hiding hole to go to school.

This was a regular occurance- normally they would start fighting over the smallest of things and it would end with either one of them storming out of the house and not returning until the next morning. Taeyong would usually not care, trying to block them out by blasting music in his ears that was so loud he's sure he's partially deaf by now.

Today was one of those days, but the poor boy had an important biology test the next day and had trouble cramming an entire textbook worth of infomation into his head. The racket outside wasn't helping.

Taeyong desperately wanted to get out of his room, yell at them to stop hating each other, stop making so much noise so that he could study for his test.

But he knew the consequences. So Taeyong stayed silent.

As the moon raised higher in the sky, so did the volume of Taeyong's parents' shouting. He prayed that one of them would give up and get out of the house so that at least he would have a few miserable minutes left before he had to get to bed. Or that his neighbour would call the cops and report them for creating disturbance, but his neighbours were currently out of the house, judging by the darkness that Taeyong could see out of his window.

A loud thump resounded against his bedroom door, followed by the sound of glass shattering. He hoped his parents had not escalated into throwing their plates and bowls at each other.

The shattering of the glass bowl seemed to break something in him. A tear slipped out of Taeyong's eye as he questioned himself the same questions everyday: why do his parents hate each other? Will they eventually divorce one day and leave himself with only one parent? What made them marry and have him in the first place when they were going to be like this? Why couldn't he have a normal and loving family like all his friends?

The last thought never failed to make Taeyong into a sobbing mess. He hated how he saw his classmates with their parents, joking around with them and looking as comfortable as ever, whereas when Taeyong was with his parents he remained as quiet as a mouse and flinched whenever one of them talked. He longed for a sibling- someone that he could share his pain with and understand him better than Jaehyun did. Sure, Jaehyun was the best friend that Taeyong could ask for, always healing his mental wounds and making Taeyong feel much better, but something was missing. Taeyong didn't know what.

Calming down from his fit of sobs, he eyed the penknife in his penholder warily before holding it in his right hand. He'd always thought of self-harming but never actually did it. Taeyong would change that today.

Pushing the blade out of its case, he pressed it against the skin of his left arm and dragged it an inch. Yelping in pain, he shot up from his chair and clutched his arm, the penknife clattering to the floor. He was weak, he thought, he couldn't even handle a blade gliding across his arm without gasping in pain.

Washing the cut until no blood came out anymore, he abandoned his studying in favour for his bed, crying himself to sleep with his parents' shouting as the background noise.

The word 'Taeyong' drifted around in Yuta's head for a very, very long while.

"Taeyong? Why does that sound like a boy's name? My soulmate is a boy?" Yuta had questioned Sana on the day they had found out Yuta's soulmate's name.

"Maybe your soulmate is a boy. I don't know, but does it make any difference if they're a boy or a girl? They're all the same anyway," Sana shrugged before walking away.

Sana was right. Yuta didn't care if they were a boy or a girl, but he did care that his soulmate wasn't living in the same country, nor speaking the same language as him.

But he wanted to talk to Taeyong, even if the other didn't want to talk to him. So Yuta did what he could: take up Korean lessons, in hopes of flying to Korea one day to meet his soulmate.

He couldn't believe he was learning an entirely new language just for his soulmate, because in a blink of an eye four years had passed, Yuta mastered the language and does Taeyong still even remember him?

Yuta went to bed everyday with that question in mind. He could've always simply just grabbed a marker and written on his arm 'hi do you remember me', but something was stopping him. Maybe it was the fact that Taeyong hadn't written any form of message to Yuta in the past four years. Maybe it was the fact that Taeyong didn't want to talk to Yuta. Maybe it was the fact that Taeyong had completely forgotten Yuta's existence.

When Yuta had graduated junior college and entered a university, Sana decided to move to another part of Japan to further her studies, leaving Yuta alone in Osaka. It was now safe to assume that Yuta had no friends anymore.

One night, when he had climbed into bed and asked himself yet again whether Taeyong remembered him, a sharp pain in his left arm made Yuta spring out of bed and shout. Rushing to the toilet, he rolled up his sleeve a sea of red greeted him.

Cuts were scattered all over his arm, and more were in the process of being made. With each new cut that began, Yuta had to bite his bottom lip to prevent him from screaming cold murder because, damn, it really hurt.

And the cuts didn't look so accidental either. They were all over the place, all in straight lines oozing out different amounts of blood, some vertical, horizontal, diagonal, in no particular order. Yuta didn't think an accident would have caused his arm to be in the state it was now.

Then it hit him. Taeyong. Taeyong was cutting himself. All the pain draining from him, he bolted back to his room and grabbed a marker off his desk, before hastily scribbling a few Korean characters on one of the few patches of uncut skin.

TAEYONG STOP

The cutting seemed to stop, and Yuta sighed in relief. But a minute later, fresh black ink appeared on his arm, diagonally below Yuta's message.

who are you?

Yuta's heart dropped.

Yuta. You don't remember?

A pause.

oh Yuta. I didn't know you knew Korean

Yuta let out a brearh he did know he was holding. So Taeyong never did forget him in the first place.

let's save that for another time. Why are you doing this?

Yuta waited. One, two, three minutes, the blood on his arm had started to dry up, and the only reply he got was the short conversation that he had with Taeyong vanishing into thin air.

He washed off the dried blood and winced at the ugly cuts on his arm, and waited somemore. Once Yuta couldn't take it any longer, he uncapped his marker again.

Taeyong? You haven't replied me

Yuta held his breath when he saw the beautiful handwriting appear on his arm again, but his heart sunk at the reply.

goodnight, Yuta

"Jaehyun?"

The younger boy stopped chewing on his sandwich to look at his best friend who had barely whispered his name. "Hmm?"

"Can you understand Japanese?" Taeyong inched closer to Jaehyun, looking for comfort.

"What's wrong?" Jaehyun abandoned his food and paid his full attention to Taeyong, who had his sweater sleeve pulled up and blinking at the unfamiliar language.

"Japanese suddenly appeared on my arm, I don't know what's happening, I don't know what this person is talking about... Jaehyun..." Taeyong frowned and Jaehyun just laughed.

"He said yes to your question. And asked who you are," Jaehyun replied and Taeyong promptly replied by writing 'I'm Taeyong' below the question.

After Jaehyun had explained the entire soulmate concept to Taeyong, the latter was equally as amazed as Yuta was. Waiting for a reply to his introduction, he kept his pen uncapped, expecting Yuta to say something more about himself and keep the conversation going.

Taeyong was patient. One minute passed, no reply. One hour passed, no reply. One day passed, no reply. One week passed, no reply. Eventually when a year passed and Taeyong had not been replied, he gave up waiting and concluded that Yuta had absolutely no interest in him.

When he turned 19 and Jaehyun left his side to go to a seperate university, Taeyong's living hell became even worse. Now with no friends to turn to when he was upset, Taeyong tried finding other ways to help him feel better, one of which was cutting himself.

It was another night when his parents were yelling the house down and Taeyong attacked himself with more of his destructive thoughts. Not hesistating unlike last time, Taeyong grabbed the penknife from where it had been sitting untouched on his pencil holder since four years ago. He extended the blade and just before he could push it in his skin, a name flashed through his mind.

Yuta.

Taeyong knew fully well that Yuta would get all these cuts too if he did decide to cut himself, but what was stopping him? Yuta probably forgot his existence judging by the amount of time he was waiting for him to reply. So without thinking anymore, the sharp blade dug into his skin and Taeyong closed his eyes for awhile, feeling the stress drain out of him.

He repeated the action, drawing lines all over his arm and smiling wearily at the blood dripping out of each of them. As he was filling up the empty spaces with more cuts, a very familiar black ink in very familiar handwriting appeared on his wrist.

TAEYONG STOP

That wasn't Yuta, Taeyong thought. The Yuta he knew spoke Japanese and was in Japan. Frowning at being interrupted, Taeyong put down the blood-lined penknife and picked up a pen instead.

who are you?

Yuta. You don't remember?

Taeyong froze. Now he had made Yuta think that he had forgotten him. Since when did Yuta know Korean? Or... did Yuta learn Korean specially for him? He shook the thought out of his head, that was impossible. Trying to make himself sound as unaffected as possible, he thought awhile before penning down his reply.

oh Yuta. I didn't know you knew Korean

let's save that for another time. Why are you doing this?

Taeyong bit his lip and winced, a wave of pain suddenly washing over him. Could he trust Yuta enough to tell him the real reason why he had done this? Who was he kidding, this was only the second time he was talking to him, but then again, Yuta was his soulmate, and they were meant to be together. Contemplating for a good ten minutes, he decided the best option would be to wash it off.

Taeyong? You haven't replied me

If not for that bit of ink that seeped into one of his cuts, Taeyong would never have known Yuta was waiting for his reply. He stared at the message, tears unknowingly started clouding in his eyes. It was all Taeyong's fault. His selfishness had led to Yuta suffering the same cuts as him. Now Yuta was demanding the reason why he dirtied his perfectly normal left arm with something he didn't even want. And Taeyong couldn't reply him. What a perfect example of a loser.

Instead of erasing the message like he normally did, he reached over and grabbed his pen, using the moonlight to scribble two messy words.

goodnight, Yuta

Taeyong cried himself to sleep once again, with the thought of the person whom he was meant to be with hating him forever.

Taeyong never once talked to Yuta again.

'Taeyong?' Silence. 'Are you okay?' Silence. 'Don't do anything silly like that again, okay? For your own good, Taeyong.' Silence.

If not for the fact that Taeyong had erased every single one of Yuta's messages about an hour after it had been written, Yuta would've thought Taeyong was dead.

On top of ignoring him, Taeyong went against Yuta's words as well. As soon as the cuts from that night healed, Yuta was awakened from his sleep to find out that fresh, new cuts had replaced them.

'Taeyong!' He tried, 'Taeyong, listen to me, stop doing this!'

The cutting stopped for a couple seconds, but Yuta's hopes of getting Taeyong to finally talk to him went down the gutter when his message vanished and cuts took over the patch of untainted skin.

Yuta sighed and tried to ignore the blood that was dripping down his arm and on his desk. He had to do something fast, something that would stop Taeyong from doing whatever he was doing. Not because Yuta was getting the second-hand pain, but for Taeyong's sake. At the rate Taeyong was going, his next step might probably be killing himself.

If he couldn't get Taeyong to listen to him through messages, what could he do to get Taeyong to stop? He thought hard, distracting him from the continuing slashes on his arm.

A lightbulb flickered on in Yuta's head.

Since his left arm was full, Yuta wrote on his right arm with his very terrible left hand writing.

Taeyong, if you ever think no one's there for you, think of me. I'm always here, a grab of a marker away. Even though we can't see each other, we're always in each other's hearts, and maybe one day, fate will bring us together

The cuts from that night closed up, healed, and never opened again.

Looking at the plane ticket and passport in his hand, Yuta regretted nothing.

It took him months of paperwork, but finally after half a year, he had secured himself a position in one of the universities in Seoul. Thankfully, Taeyong never cut himself anymore, but he had never talked to Yuta, and Yuta's messages all got ignored if he tried to initiate the conversation.

After awhile, Yuta gave up.

He was going to Korea in hopes of finding Taeyong and shake some sense into him after all. Not like Taeyong revealed which part of Korea he lived in, but Yuta just grabbed the opportunity and went to the first university that accepted his application. That was the main reason, the side reason being that Yuta was genuinely interested in Korea's culture. But mostly the Taeyong part.

When he landed in Korea and managed to find his way to the campus office, he was greeted by this really tall, frog-eyed blonde man.

"Are you Yuta?" Frog-eyes asked and Yuta nodded his head, "I'm Hansol, your roommate and your guardian."

"I'm 19. I don't need a guardian," Yuta huffed, "show me our room already, I'm tired."

"Fine, grouch, but don't blame me if you get lost on your first day of school tomorrow," Hansol shrugged and walked out of the office, leading the way.

Hansol was right. The campus was way bigger than Yuta's in Osaka and after his day of lessons he had trouble finding his way back to the dorms. Silently cursing under his breath, he walked and walked in whichever direction seemed sensible to him. But with every turn he made, the buildings seemed to grow more and more unfamiliar.

He ended up at the arts block, which, Yuta found out afterwards, was in the opposite direction where he was originally supposed to go. He heard instruments being played, booming sYSTEM UP UP music from speakers as students danced to it, and as he walked on, everything became quiet. Yuta knew he was at the end of the campus and was about to turn back when his eye caught a light shining from one of the many vocal rooms.

Normally Yuta wouldn't really have cared, but something about that room drew him to it. Maybe it was because his surroundings were so dark and quiet and that vocal room with the lights on stood out. Maybe it was because Yuta heard a voice that was beyond beautiful seeping out of the crack under the door.

Maybe it was because the most handsome being Yuta had even seen was sitting on the floor beside a red snapback, phone in hand, singing along to the music playing from it.

It was amazing Yuta found that guy handsome, because he currently had tears streaming down his cheeks and his voice cracked every few seconds. He wondered how many times more handsome he would look when he wasn't crying.

"I saw an angel, neol cheoeum bwasseulttae, haneureseo naeryeoon cheonsa gachi binnaseo," the guy sang with his eyes closed and damn, Yuta thought, his English pronunciation was also spot on. How boyfriend material.

Yuta slapped that thought out of his head. What the hell.

He leaned on the wall beside the vocal room so that he could still listen and be unnoticed. Yuta closed his eyes to indulge on the beautiful voice from an equally beautiful man-

"NAKAMOTO!"

His eyes flung open and saw Irritating Frog-Eyes at the end of the corridor, running towards him.

"God, I literally ran around the entire campus looking for you! How did your ass manage to find its way here?" Hansol reached him and rested his hands on his knees, panting, "see, I told you you'd get lost! This is what happens if you don't listen to Hansol The Great."

Yuta rolled his eyes and dragged his roommate out of the scene so that in case the hot guy comes out after hearing so much noise, they wouldn't be there. "I was going to turn back. Like, literally five seconds before you came."

Hansol scoffed, throwing his head back. "Yeah right, we all knew you were busy listening to loner guy's voice."

"Oh yeah," Yuta turned to Hansol, "who was that guy in the vocal room? What's his name?"

Hansol laughed, a forced sound that came out of his mouth. "Hah, no one knows, Yuta, no one knows who he is. We don't know his name, we don't know how he looks like... all we know is that he likes this vocal room and it's basically his. Either than that, he's just a loner with no friends. That's why we call him loner guy."

Yuta scrunched up his nose. "That's mean. No one tried to go up to him and initiate conversation?"

"Lots of people tried," Hansol shook his head, "all of them failed. Loner guy ignored all of them. I feel sorry for them."

"Loner guy, really? That's just really mean. Why doesn't he want to reveal his name? Even the teachers call him that during classes?" Yuta frowned. He couldn't apprehend the situation- he was a friendly person by nature and couldn't stand it when someone was left out.

"I don't know, maybe he's wanted by the cops or something. The teachers call him TY, but that can't possibly be his real name either," Hansol took a deep breath and exhaled loudly, "why are we talking about him anyway? It's not important. What do you feel like eating for dinner?"

But Yuta wasn't listening. He was busy thinking of how to get loner guy, or TY, to be his first friend.

Yuta knew exactly how when he walked into one of his classes the next day.

There he was, TY, or whatever, sitting at the back corner of the classroom, all alone. In fact, Yuta wouldn't even have recognised him if not for the red snapback he saw yesterday that was hiding all his facial features.

"Anyone sitting here?" Yuta asked and he shook his head. Smiling to himself, he dropped his books on the table and shifted his gaze to the man beside him.

Up close, he was undeniably much more handsome. Even though anything above his nose couldn't be seen, the guy's lips and jawline were enough to drive Yuta crazy. The handsome dude pretended not to notice Yuta staring and continued his work.

"Let's introduce ourselves. You first." Yuta tried, and as expected, his words got ignored. Yuta pressed on.

"Come on, I have to know you! Since we're gonna be sitting beside each other in this class, at least I need to know your name, bro," Yuta transformed his fingers into a stick man and made it walk all over the guy's paper, trying to disrupt him from his work.

"Fine, I'll go first, since you're scared," Yuta removed his stick man, "I'm Yuta, from Osaka, Japan, and I just started school yesterday. Your turn."

The guy's pen stopped in midair and his body remained in .jpg for a minute or so.

"Uh... you ok?" Yuta waved a hand under his nose and that snapped the guy out of his trance. He scribbled something on the corner of his paper and thrust it to Yuta.

What did you say your name was?

Reading the handwriting stirred up a sense of familiarity in Yuta, but he ignored the feeling.

"God, are you not listening? Yuta. Y-U-T-A. From Japan, where takoyaki is the best," Yuta explained and the guy's grip around the pen tightened. Did the guy have something against Japanese people?

Taking back his paper, the guy resumed his work, but all that came out were ugly squiggles.

"Hey! You haven't told me your name yet!" Yuta whined, "tell me your name, if not I'll give you the nickname I was thinking of."

The guy continued to draw squiggles.

"I heard you singing yesterday. Your voice sounds like an angel, so I'm gonna call you angel from now on," Yuta grinned when the guy stopped squiggling, grabbed his work, and moved further away from the Japanese man.

"Don't you like it, angel?" Yuta reappeared beside the guy, smiling teasingly while trying to look under his cap. He just turned his head away, tore out a page from his notebook, wrote something, crumpled it, and threw it to Yuta.

It's embarrassing

"Do you not talk or something? Why do you have to reply on a piece of paper?" Yuta questioned, "you refused to tell me your name. So I have the right to name you, angel."

The guy grumbled and snatched the paper back.

I do talk. I just don't want to. And I swear to god don't talk to me when the lesson starts. This is my favourite class

"You know, your handwriting seems really familiar, like I've seen it somewhere before," Yuta said to himself but he noticed the guy's hands clench into fists, "but I may be mistaken, I don't know."

Like the guy wanted, Yuta didn't bother him when the class started. They stayed silent, paying attention until Yuta decided to roll up his sweater sleeves to start on his notes.

The guy's eyes widened into basketballs, which went unnoticed by Yuta due to his snapback. Growing curious, he put down his pen and reached over to poke Yuta's scarred skin.

"Hm?" Yuta looked over at the guy who had his gaze fixed on Yuta's left arm.

How did you get these? They look terrible

"Oh," he saw the corners of Yuta's lips curve into a smile, "I never told anyone before, not even Hansol, but since you asked, I'll tell you."

"My soulmate did this. I know it looks horrifying, but I'm not angry at him. I know he has reasons for doing this. I didn't push him to tell me why, because he probably doesn't trust me enough yet," Yuta traced the scars with his index finger, smiling. "Wanna know something? I actually came to Korea so that I could look for him, and help him get over whatever's troubling him. He seems to have stopped this awhile back already, but I don't think his mental scars are fully healed yet. To fix that, I learned Korean specially for him so that I could talk to him comfortably. Do you think he's okay, angel? Do you think I can find him?"

The guy nodded quickly, turning around to focus on his work. Once he saw Yuta not looking in his direction anymore, a droplet made a wet splotch on his jeans.

The droplet turned into a waterfall. Suddenly, the lesson didn't seem interesting anymore.

The next morning, Yuta woke up to see a small 'thank you' on his wrist. He wondered why.

To Yuta's pleasure, he found out he shared majority of his classes with Taeyong. Though he was still communicating with him through a crumpled page of his notebook, and he still couldn't identify him without the iconic red snapback, Yuta enjoyed Taeyong's prescence.

And if Taeyong had to be completely honest, although Yuta was constantly teasing him or making too much noise, he enjoyed Yuta's company too.

Yuta would always take him out for lunch between lessons. Taeyong really appreciated that, though he didn't say it, because he normally skipped his meals as a result of no one to eat with. That was the cause of his terribly skinny figure.

Yuta would stand up for him too, when people around them would start gossiping about Taeyong being a coward. When he saw Yuta land his fist on someone's jaw after that person called him a loser, he made it a point to stick to Yuta from that day onwards.

As a result of spending so much time with Taeyong, Yuta gained the reputation of 'loner guy's friend', which really destroyed his image. Of course Taeyong knew about it and distanced himself from Yuta when he heard the words 'loner guy's friend' along the corridors. But Yuta's arm would always find its way back to its position around Taeyong's waist, pulling him closer to him.

"Why do you even hang out with him? He doesn't talk, you don't even know how he looks like, nor his name. Hell, it's deathly amazing you even got him to reply to you and your unnecessary questions. How did you do that? And why don't you hang out with more fun people like me?" Hansol asked him one night when both of them were in their beds, trying to sleep.

"Firstly, you aren't much fun either," Yuta grunted and ran a hand through his hair, "I don't know. All I did was tell him my name and he started replying to me already. Seriously, why did you make it sound so difficult to talk to him?" he chuckled, "and secondly, angel may be more fun than you think. He takes off his snapback and talks to me when the two of us are alone. He has a nice smile and laugh. And he's cute. Though he still refuses to tell me his name though, it's weird," he sighed and looked at the ceiling.

"Angel. Of all nicknames. Makes it sound like you two are a thing," Hansol laughed.

"I don't mind. Angel is handsome, sings well, smart, basically fitting every category of my ideal type," Yuta smiled to himself.

"Don't pass your gayness to me. Goodnight bro," Hansol rolled over and Yuta's smile grew wider at his comment. If only angel and him were meant to be.

Yuta hovered the marker over the skin of his left arm, contemplating on what he should write.

It had been months since he'd last talked to Taeyong, and ages since Taeyong ever talked to him. After thinking about it, Yuta just settled with a short 'i miss you'.

What he didn't expect was, number one, Taeyong replying him. And number two, Taeyong replying him literally three seconds after he wrote that. It was just two words, but at least it was better than nothing.

i'm fine

thank God!! hey, wanna know something?

what is it, Yuta

Yuta's heart pounded at the way Taeyong wrote his name. Beautiful like always, but Yuta swore he had seen his name written like that before.

I actually arrived in Korea not too long ago! I came here to attend a university, but also to find you ;)

Taeyong didn't reply for a very long time. Yuta thought he got ignored again, but the words 'that's fascinating' appeared below his message. Yuta paused to think what to write but Taeyong beat him. For once.

how's Korea? Your university?

Yuta smiled. This was his chance to tell Taeyong all about angel.

oh it's great. my roommate Hansol might be a bitch but he's the best bro. And there's this guy I befriended. I called him angel

angel?

His grin widened. Taeyong was interested.

yeah, he wouldn't tell me his name so I called him angel. People think he's the introvert who hates everyone and is boring and mysterious but he's actually a huge ball of fluff. He's cute

Another pause. Yuta thought Taeyong might be busy so he waited. True enough, the reply soon came.

you... like him?

I think I like him, I don't know... but you're my soulmate. I'm supposed to like you

This time, Yuta waited a full ten minutes. Taeyong must really be busy.

never mind me. I hope the two of you date

The space on his left arm was running out so Yuta grabbed a cloth and erased their conversation, creating more space.

I hope so too. How about you? You fine these days?

I made a new friend too. He was the one who helped me

That comment made Yuta's stomach lurch. Something in him didn't like the fact that he wasn't the cause of Taeyong's happiness now.

really? That's awesome. How's he like? His name? How he looks?

Fifteen minutes of waiting time made Yuta wonder if Taeyong was actually piecing together and drafting out the right words to describe him. Finally Taeyong replied, and damn, that's a long ass passage that took up half his arm.

he's like your guy. I don't know his name, but I call him Yukkuri. He face looks like it has been sculptured by the visual Gods. He's really annoying, talks too much, irritates me all day. But he's amazing. He stands up for me and makes me feel loved. He makes me feel things I never knew could be felt. I never told him all these, but I hope he knows. He's really important to me

Yuta cracked a sad smile reading the passage. How he wished he could be this Yukkuri guy.

that's sweet. You like him?

I... guess...

Yuta's heart ached.

I hope the two of you date too

Taeyong's pen hesitated on his wrist, the blob of ink growing and growing.

He grabbed a towel and wiped it off. Taeyong didn't reply.

Yuta sneezed into yet another tissue and cursed Hansol out loud. One week into school and his roommate officially made him sick. Now Hansol was completely cured and the bug jumped onto Yuta instead.

He sneezed again, so violently that he fell back onto his bed. The doctor instructed him not to lay a foot in school for the next week, effectively making him miss lessons. He had Hansol to take his notes for him, but then there was angel.

Angel. He's be alone for the next week and Yuta wasn't sure if he'd be okay. Being the idiot he was, Yuta never asked for his number and thus couldn't tell him he was sick. And also being the idiot Hansol was, he couldn't even do his roommate a simple favour by telling angel that he couldn't come to school for a week("I don't want my reputation to be ruined, unlike someone's")

Yuta groaned and pulled the covers over his head. He was such an idiot.

He managed to survive three days not seeing his friend, until his left arm started aching a very familiar pain.

Fearing the worst, Yuta pulled back the sleeve of his long-sleeve shirt and gasped at the sight.

Since the last time Taeyong cut himself was more than half a year ago, Yuta almost forgot the pain and the gruesome sight, but the way his arm looked like now brought a wave of memories crashing back at him.

Yuta scrambled off the bed and rummaged through his pencil case for the marker. 'Taeyong!'

The cutting paused.

he's gone, Yuta

who's gone? Your friend? Yukkuri? What happened?

he's not coming to school anymore. I think he hates me, Yuta, I think he hates me so he's not coming anymore so he won't see me

Yuta's heart cracked at the statement Taeyong had written. He wasn't cutting anymore, so Yuta presumed he was waiting for a reply.

i'm sure he doesn't hate you, maybe he'll come back soon? If he doesn't he's a jerk, give up on him, you're too good for him, Taeyong

The cuts didn't continue, and neither did the replying. Yuta watched his message vanish; he washed the blood away, and pretended nothing happened at all-

-until more cuts appeared on his arm the next afternoon.

Taeyong wasn't replying this time, no matter how much Yuta tried to convince him to stop. He started panicking because what the actual hell was going on, Taeyong wasn't like this yesterday, did his friend do or say something that triggered him?

When the cutting had stopped, Yuta wrote on his right arm with his left handwriting again, gritting his teeth and ignoring the pain pulsing from his left arm.

'Taeyong', Yuta attempted again, and cracked a small smile when a small dot of ink appeared below his message.

we have to talk about this. I don't care where you are, meet me at Switch cafe at 127 street, the one outside the National university of Seoul like, right now. Or as soon as you can

Another dot was the reply, and Yuta huffed in annoyance. Was Taeyong joking around or taking Yuta seriously?

if there's no reply with actual words, I'm assuming that you're already on your way there

Taeyong didn't reply. Not even a dot.

Yuta sort of regretted telling Taeyong to meet with him when he was in this terrible state. His nose looked like rudolph's from the excessive sneezing and his pockets overflowed with tissues. Then again, he was finally seeing the boy whom he had talked to for the past four years and a half, so how could Yuta postpone the date?

He barely made it to Switch cafe without dying from sniffling. There, he looked around for Taeyong, when he realised that, oh, he didn't know how Taeyong looked like.

And stupid Yuta, he had forgotten to bring a marker, so he couldn't ask Taeyong if he was already there or not. Looking around for an empty table to sit down and wait for him, a familiar red snapback caught his eye and a smile crept up his face.

"Angel!" Yuta exclaimed rather nasally and sat down at the seat opposite of him. Taeyong glanced up from his strawberry milkshake smoothie for a second before resuming his staring competition with it.

"I'm sorry I couldn't go to classes the past few days, as you can see, I'm still sick like hell," Yuta chuckled and noticed Taeyong grab the styrofoam of his cup tighter.

"Is everything okay? What happened when I was gone?" Yuta prompted and Taeyong just shrugged and shook his head, refusing to speak, like the old times.

Frowing at his friend, Yuta continued his monologue. "What are you doing here at this time? Don't you have classes starting soon?"

Taeyong swallowed the dry lump in his throat and shrugged again, taking a sip of his drink.

Yuta huffed and folded his arms. "Something's definitely wrong, as introverted as you are, you'd at least speak to me," he unfolded his arms and propped his chin up with his elbows.

"Anyway, I'm here because I finally secured a date with my soulmate! He recently began cutting again and he's not telling me what's wrong, so I told him to meet up so that I could comfort him and reassure him that he's not alone and I'm here for him," Yuta threw a glance at his watch, "I don't know if he's here yet. Do you have a marker on you so that I could talk to him?"

Taeyong started breathing more heavily, the rise and fall of his chest growing more prominent. The hands on his lap balled up into fists, and the message that Yuta wrote on his arm suddenly felt tingly.

Yuta sighed and reached out to grab Taeyong's arm gently, making the latter flinch over-excessively. "Are you going to tell me what's wrong or not? I don't like seeing you like this, I want to help, angel, and make you feel better."

Yuta expected him to relax and spill out his troubles, not to look up from his smoothie and stare into Yuta's eyes for a solid two seconds before dragging him out of the cafe.

"Hey! Angel! Stop, I have to wait for my soulmate!" Yuta shrieked and tried to wriggle out of Taeyong's grasp but he the latter just grabbed onto Yuta's wrist harder.

Yuta gave up, letting himself get dragged to wherever Taeyong was bringing him to. They ended up at Taeyong's vocal room, the one where Yuta first saw him, the one that Hansol claimed it was Taeyong's favourite. Taeyong removed his snapback and threw it to the ground, exposing his brown, fluffy hair. Gorgeous.

"What the hell? Couldn't we just talk about it in the cafe? My soulmate's probably waiting for me now, and-"

"No," Taeyong shushed Yuta up and the Japanese man halted his rant and looked at his friend questionably.

"No?"

"The answer to your question. No. I don't have a marker that can help you talk to your soulmate," Taeyong said, voice strained, and Yuta groaned.

"Seriously, you brought me here just to tell me you didn't have a marker? Do you have one in here somewhere then?" Yuta looked around but Taeyong grabbed his chin, forcing Yuta to look at him.

"I'm not done," he continued, "you don't need a marker to talk to your soulmate. You're already talking to him."

Yuta cocked an eyebrow and burst out laughing, hitting Taeyong's chest in the process. "You're that delusional? Calling yourself my soulmate? You like me, angel? You think we're meant to be?"

Taeyong pursed his lips and rolled his eyes, before reaching over and yanking Yuta's left sleeve up.

"What are you doing! Angel, stop it!" Yuta grumbled and rolled his sleeve back down, but Taeyong's hand prevented him from doing so. The Korean boy looked away and took a deep breath, closing his eyes. Yuta was genuinely confused now. Was Taeyong practising his acting skills, or...

Taeyong carefully rolled up his own left sleeve and all the air in Yuta's lungs was knocked out.

we have to talk about this. I don't care where you are, meet me at Switch cafe at 127 street, the one outside the National university of Seoul like, right now. Or as soon as you can

Period.

if there's no reply with actual words, I'm assuming that you're already on your way there

No reply.

There, the words that were written on Taeyong's arm was a cut-copy-paste version of Yuta's. The identical last conversation that they had, the identical scars, the identical wounds that were still in the process of healing... Realisation hit Yuta in the heart like a bullet train. Suddenly everything made sense. Why it was so easy for him to make friends with Taeyong. Why Taeyong never revealed his real name to him despite being so close to him. Why Taeyong's handwriting on the little notes they passed each other looked so familiar. Why Taeyong was so introverted and sensitive-

"Yukkuri," Taeyong broke Yuta's train of thoughts. Yuta looked up at his friend and saw the other smiling the brightest smile he had ever seen him smile.

"It's me, Taeyong."

Yuta ran into Taeyong's arms, the tears he was holding in unknowingly spilling out. "Taeyong," he wailed, unable to form any words either than the name of his soulmate, "Taeyong, Taeyong, Taeyong..."

"I'm sorry I kept it a secret," Taeyong returned the hug and his cheeks became wet as well, "I didn't know how to react when you first introduced yourself as Yuta, then I thought that going up to you and suddenly announcing that I was your soulmate was too weird, so I waited for the right moment."

Yuta shook his head, hugging Taeyong tighter. "Don't be sorry, I should be the sorry one that made you go through whatever problems you had alone," Yuta pulled away his right hand, wiping away Taeyong's tears, "don't cry, baby."

"Everything's okay now, now that you're here," Taeyong smiled at the feeling of Yuta's hands on his face, "remember what I said? Yukkuri makes me feel things I never knew could be felt. Yukkuri is important to me."

Yuta giggled, even more nasally. "What kind of a name is Yukkuri? It's cute though, call me that more often," he snuggled his head in the crook of Taeyong's neck, and the two of them stayed in that position until Yuta gasped.

"Wait, Taeyong, so that means..." Yuta pulled away from the hug and left a gap between them, "you... like me?"

"And you like me," Taeyong smiled and Yuta felt his stomach do flips.

"And we should totally date," Yuta ended and the two of them found themselves in each other's embrace again, this time with Taeyong planting small and light kisses on Yuta's cheek.

Yuta closed his eyes and enjoyed the feel of Taeyong pecking his cheek, and he couldn't feel any happier. Four years of communicating with his soulmate when he was right in front of Yuta, literally. His mind flashed back to the day they found out each other's existence, the day Taeyong first cut, the day he first met Taeyong. How Yuta's impressions of Taeyong changed over the years, from studious to depressing to introverted. They all led back to the same person, the cute and embarrassed boy that buried his head in Yuta's chest after kissing his cheek to his heart's content, Lee Taeyong.

Yuta shifted his gaze to his soulmate who was staring lovingly in his eyes and couldn't help but to press a kiss on his forehead. They might have taken things the hard way around, but they still ended up in the same place.

In each other's embrace, feeling the soft and gentle touches of their fingers on their arms.

#nct #nct 127 #nct scenarios #nct fics #yuta #nakamoto yuta #taeyong #yutae #written by me!!

[paper-ink-and-coffee-rings]

Black Shallows © Paper-ink-and-coffee-rings 2019

Placing the key into the lock didn't send a jolt of pain rippling inside me. It didn't fill me with a raw bitter anger nor did it launch the flight of a thousand butterflies.

It did however give birth to an almost viscous pool of bile.

I tasted the sourness on my tongue as it pooled; acidic and wretched with its burning touch.

My mouth felt slack from the sharpness and I felt it stab me in the back with an involuntary swallow.

The metal scratched along the aged door until the key found its way, sliding with a little force firmly into the hole it was made for, the hole that almost seemed to reject its touch after all these years.

The taste in my mouth continued to sour, sickly sharp as it spread from the tip of my tongue to the bones in my lower jaw.

I was too preoccupied to be disgusted. I wanted to feel something. Anything at all. But after 20 years all I felt was nausea from my own saliva. Not quite what I had in mind.

No tears fell and no sense of forlornness ripped my heart out.

The key just turned stiffly, a little pressure forming in my wrist as time resisted my self given invitation.

I felt cool rusted metal scratch my knuckles. Time had not been good to this place, and in truth, time had not been good to me either. Only my damage was on the inside.

The lock clicked somewhere inside the aged wooden panel and just like that I heard 20 years of abandonment and silence come crashing at my feet.

The key found a spot in my palm but I made no move to open the door.

I remained as I was, standing for a time just shy of an eternity; but in reality it was a minute, maybe two. I took a second to breathe, pulling the scent of decaying leaves and misted air deep into my lungs.

There were other scents too. Scents like pine and sawdust, but I paid them little heed as I stood there on the cusp of nostalgia.

How I longed to inhale the spice of Hugo Boss against a pressed white shirt. A shirt so pressed it was crisp.

Pristine and crisp. That's how he always dressed. Even in the house on lazy Sundays full of roast pork and apple sauce lethargy.

Everything about him was neat. Every re-attached button was sewn with care and not a thread nor fibre was ever out of place.

That's why it made no sense. The whole thing made absolutely no sense.

It just wasn't him. It was sloppy. The very thing my father was not. The man wouldn't even leave a coffee ring on a café table after himself.

Does that sound like the kind of man who would slit his wrists and allow himself to bleed to death on a carpet whiter than the shirts he wore?

I didn't think so. He had everything to live for. A loving wife and children, a successful career and legacy. More money than sense at times and so many more wonderful things coming.

I know what you're thinking.

'That's the thing about depression. It's a cold, heartless disease and there ain't a drop of love pure enough to fix it'.

And you're right. It's cold. It's evil. It's the dirtiest blackest cloud on the most gorgeous of summer days. It shits on you and in return you shit on those around you.

It cuts your air supply with an invisible rope and there's always one dumb fuck who says.'Just breathe, you'll feel better'.

And as you stand there and look at them trying to comprehend their absolute stupidity, they speak again.

'It's not like anything is stopping you. Just open your mouth and breathe'.

But he didn't do it. My father had the writer's disease of crippling writers block when he died, but he didn't take that blade to his own wrists. Somebody else did.

The breeze enveloped me, taking advantage of the fact I was off guard as it kicked me back through the decades.

How I longed to feel the fabric of his clothes against my cheeks. To have that almost God like protective embrace just one more time.

I shut my eyes and inhaled. I waited, I waited and hoped that the breeze would carry his scent. I hoped that I'd feel the warmth from his palms running down the length of my hair.

I almost prayed for the feeling of his gentle almost fearful touch.

I recall a time when my hair took a particular liking to the comb and refused to free it.

My father likened the sound of him disentangling it to a cat being exorcised in a bucket of ice water.

I allowed my fingers to stroke through the tied back strands, picturing those lazy mornings filled with coffee and silence.

I'd nestle in his lap, head tucked under his chin as he edited drafts from the typewriter.

It was how I learned to read, falling over the words with hesitant pronunciations that my childish inexperience butchered.

My fingers brushed my nape and I paused, hoping to go back and read his drafts, that he'd take me into the bathroom and take great care to run his mothers antique comb through my hair, one stubborn curl at a time.

It never came. Of course it didn't. It was never going to come. I didn't know then and I still don't know now why I had expected it to.

When I was younger I used to marvel at how big his hands were and at how calloused his fingers were.

It amazed me how rough his fingertips were. They made me think of my Grandfather, a carpenter all his working life.

He always smelled of sawdust and varnish. His hands were always cut and bruised, his nails bitten and chewed down to nothing.

But not my father. My father always smelled of cologne and paper.

There was often times when he'd have ink staining his fingers and shirt sleeves much to his annoyance.

The click clack of the typewriter would often keep me awake long into the night. But I would lie there and listen with wonder filled glee.

The sound of new worlds and fantastic beings in the process of creation filling my mind the whole night long were often the sounds that lulled me to sleep.

He often smelled like coffee and old books too, that sweet vanilla smell aged by time and hands.

There was times when his fingers looked purple, knuckles battered and blue from the beatings doled out by the typewriter.

I recalled how I'd place my palms against his, little fingers lost in the maps of life on his hands, maps cut short at 43 by a blade that rested on his thigh and the empty whiskey tumbler by his side.

But like I said earlier, my father didn't kill himself. I knew in my heart of hearts he didn't do it. But I could never prove it, and in some ways that hurt more than losing him.

'Home sweet home'.

My cheeks puffed out a breath, blowing a cobweb by the door as I reached for the doorknob. I went to give it it turn but stopped when I heard it.

I wasn't sure at first if it was my voice, or if it was the sound that followed. But something called to me just as I nudged the door open.

I turned my head and took a left out of memory lane as the sound came again.

It was distant but distinguishable. The sound of knocking came echoing from the rear of the house and I knew exactly what was causing it.

I'd know it standing in Times Square on New Year's Eve.

The sound of a boat rocking into the jetty half a mile down the dirt track filled my ears. It was a distant echo in the canals of time.

It was also a phantom that was physically too far for me to actually hear it even if the boat was sitting there.

I knew full well it wasn't. It couldn't be. It was just the 6 hour drive and my overdue medicines kicking in.

Shit. That was the 2nd time that month I didn't take my pills on time.

Dr. Bowford would hit the roof if she found out. Good job she wasn't with me any longer.

I could almost see the dust rising underfoot, clouds of yellow-grey bursting from beneath thick rubber soles. I imagined them, shooting like dirty insect soiled confetti into the air.

It knew I was here too. It sensed me coming, tasting my fears an anxiety as I drove down the dirt track, stone popping as the tyres rolled with a crunch.

The house knew. The house always knew when I was near and what I was thinking. It was inescapable.

You think me a mad woman who enjoys her ramblings as much as she likes her tipples. And it's true. I do like my tipples.

But as I sit here typing , black, blue and bloodied I assure you that I've never been more sure of my sanity or my sobriety despite the events of that summer.

A force held me back, not allowing me to grace the threshold just yet.

The sinking feeling in my core grew, spewing big black clouds as I looked at the broken exterior.

It wasn't fit for human habitation, which was just as well seeing as nothing human lived there to begin with.

A spider came crawling, dangling before me inches away from my face. It stopped, suspended by a single thread as it examined me.

'Boo' I whispered, blowing it by the thread into the path of its friends hard at work creating a crochet like web in the upper right corner.

A smaller series spanned the free spots, each one hosting an all you can eat buffet of insects and apparently a vegan course of blades of grass and dead leaves.

Quite the spread I thought, shame I wasn't hungry. Sweet of them to be the only welcoming party on this property.

I forgave them for their poor decorating taste.

20 years of misery and bitter-sweetness had been strewn in my honour. The welcome banner of cobwebs held a 2nd committee closer to the door.

I couldn't help but watch as they wove me garments of gossamer far too beautiful for human skin to adorn.

Morning sunlight split the trees allowing its warmth to touch the tips of my ears. They welcomed it, nestling mostly in my hair from the fading breeze.

The overcast morning was leaving, a brighter more hopeful afternoon was edging closer.

The need for stripping and repainting the aged porch could be seen when the light hit certain spots.

There was little light to be found once I made it inside. Light poured in from behind me, my shadow standing taller than I ever could in the doorway.

Particles of dust floated, wandering aimlessly in the beams of light.

I envied them. So weightless and carefree. There wasn't any expectations thrust upon them. They didn't have to carry the weight of a name, or carry the burdens that came with the pride.

They could be wiped with a finger and erased. They didn't have a mental breakdown being covered by social media and literary journals.

Dust doesn't get compared to Britney circa 2007 sans shaved head.

I don't know what I expected to see. The windows were still boarded up and the grey-blue wallpaper still looked just as ugly as the day it was pasted.

A single white sheet hung from the large mirror above the fireplace. I remember it being placed there by my older brother the night it happened.

'Don't ever allow a portal to stay open any longer than it needs to' he looked at me solemnly as he draped it. 'It's done its job. Daddy's gone'.

My family tended to be a superstitious bunch. Throw salt over your left shoulder, don't step on that crack, don't walk under that ladder. Cover the mirrors when somebody dies.

It was all bullshit. Every single one of it. Nothing bad ever happened to anybody for the want of throwing salt over their left shoulder.

I prepared myself for any surprises. As I neared the sign saying 'Welcome to Ashby Lakes. Population 2,400. Drive safe and don't litter!', the growing sense of unease within me sank, unable to support its own weight.

I couldn't turn back now, the final destination was near.

I didn't come all that way just to drive down the dirt track and exit stage left.

2,400 was a stretch and they knew it. The town hadn't seen such life since the coal mining days. The last functioning mine closed back in the early 70's.

The combination of the mining accident and the fact that times had changed saw the death of it.

It was more so the fact that they bled the land for all it had and then tried to continue in the hopes that other finite resources were available. There wasn't.

Some of the older generations that remained worked the land when it was full and plentiful. Some even moved their families across state and even farther just to mine.

They weren't so keen to stay after the mine collapsed.

15 men and 1 child were killed. Yes. Child.

One of the miners took his 14 year old son with him, or so the story goes. They mined from dusk until dawn, trapped down in the guts of the biggest coal mine in Ashby Lakes.

The story has been told by so many lips the words have changed but the tones remained hushed.

There'd been safety concerns. The mine would tremor without machines and tools in operation.

The earth above had become soft, loose stone coming down into the opening shaft a little more frequently until that fateful day.

Some say the boy lived for a short time after. That he managed to raise the alarm but collapsed and died in the arms of the site manager.

Other reports say his body, or what they could free from the rubble was the last to be pulled out. His spirit never left, becoming one of many fucked up fables the town had to offer.

Incredibly the land was only officially deemed unstable after a sink-hole opened and swallowed a farmer 3 miles from the mine 5 years after the collapse.

'There's bad blood in this town. The land is cursed. Every inch of this town has a piece of what happened. It won't go unpunished by those who have passed'.

I was 9 when I first heard that story. Wide eyed and frightened, I sat knee to knee with Flynn Stevens, his grazed knees brushing mine.

We sat on the carpet by the fire in his lounge.

His grandfather sat slightly hunched in in a chair pushed against the window, eyes flickering between our faces.

He struck me as a man of many lives and fates. I wondered if the lines on his face showed the paths he'd taken in life.

He was about to regale us again with the local tales when a scream came piercing through the night, shattering the silence outside.

It became a blur after that.

There was lights outside. Blue and red lights that swirled and blinked, blanketing the the trees in a light I'd never seen before.

It took me a few hours to register that the scream belonged to my mother.

It was her cries of anguish that had sent birds from the trees and lights turning on all over the road.

It left a gaping jet black hole where my heart should have been when I found out why. I wished that it had caused some physical damage to me, for physical damage can be seen and can be repaired.

Nothing would ever be capable of repairing the damage my father's 'suicide' left. All the time in the world would never be enough.

The light was slow to pour into the room once I finally swung the door open.

It trailed in, chasing the shadow that swallowed the open space.

White sheets covered everything bar the floors. An inch of dust caked the surface where footprints didn't trail.

My eyes lingered upon the scattered prints. At least 3 different pairs of shoes had walked here recently.

They crossed, dragged and wiped each other out in places.

My own two feet carried me across the threshold and into what would become the greatest story I thought I'd never tell.

It took me 3 long days and 3 even longer nights to make the house habitable again. 3 days spent on my knees scrubbing, brushing, scraping and disinfecting.

But I couldn't rid the house of that awful smell of decay no matter how much I scrubbed and aired.

My finger popped a marigold and hit a rusted nail that once held olive coloured carpet on the stairs.

I didn't notice the blood until it left a single crimson splash against the white bristles beneath it.

I threw my gloves down, wet soapy rubber flopping with a smack against the banister. The blood was running down the length of my finger and settling under the nail.

I could see it lifting a little but the pulsing sensation beneath pumped enough to cover the damage.

My eyes never lifted from the blood that was now trailing to my elbow, cutting across my lifelines to get there.

Until I hit the kitchen sink with my lower belly, I didn't realise that I'd left the stairs and it was then that it struck me.

I was home. No matter where in this world I went I would never know any other path as well as I knew the ones that made this house.

The kitchen window allowed a generous view to the back yard. I was going to need a landscaper to sort the mass of weeds and grass so tall it was reaching the lower windowsill.

The hanging tree hadn't changed. It amazed me how full and nourished the branches looked after all these years.

I looked down to see that the blood had blackened beneath the nail and that the bed had stopped lifting.

How odd. To be sure that it had really happened I pushed on the nail.

A searing dart of pain elicited a sharp shriek in response. I expected it to pump but there was nothing. It was almost like the nail had sealed itself back to the bed.

I shuddered to think of it. I made my living spinning tall tales, some of them macabre. But the sight of real blood always did make me feel faint.

Fingers of ice found me making my hair stand. I was alone. I was sure of it. But it was the hairs that stood and whispered in my ear that told me a different tale.

Shaking my hands in the basin I killed the taps and turned around. I half expected to see something there; a spectre born of medicated paranoia and wishful thinking.

But I saw nothing and that was the worst part.

I was about to put it down to the impending insanity that no therapy or pills could combine, but then the sound of knocking came.

No. Not knocking. Clunking. Like two hollow tubes colliding, again and again. Clunk. Clunk. Clunk.

So close yet so distant. It called to me, inviting me to take the search outside after my internal search turned up nothing but more areas that needed a good cleaning and airing.

The clunking continued to call but it was no match for the dominating hunger that inhabited my body like a wandering soul in search of the perfect host.

I caved, reaching for the softening fruit on the table.

My lips met warm soft flesh that wrapped and stuck itself to my teeth and gums. I tasted warmth and water rather than the sweetness of a ripe apple.

It deprived me of the crunch I craved, but I was far too hungry to care.

Two bites and I was at the core. It was brown and stared at me with deceitful glee. I could no longer accept the warmth and mush.

My hunger would just have to subside until I made the trip to town.

Setting the partially devoured fruit down I moved towards the rear door.

A chair sat against it seeing as well placed boot marks and splintered wood ensured that it wouldn't be closing again.

To my surprise it was still once the door opened. Not a bird in sight as I waded through the unruly grass. I found myself unable to to tear my gaze from the hanging tree.

The great white oak stood towering well over 100ft tall with branches longer than the summer sunsets. I reached out to touch it, the coarse bark pressing against my finger making it jump and pulse.

'Gallows Willow'. The words left me and for a short time I was unaware that it was I that had spoke them into the swallowing silence.

Ashby Lakes was a place of myth and legend.

One of them stemmed from this very tree. Local lore has it that long ago 2 men were accused of cutting down a Willow that stood in the very spot the Great White Oak stood.

Their punishment was to sew the seeds of a new tree, and that when that tree grew tall enough they'd be hanged to death for stealing the sacred tree.

They say it was planted by the Natives as a gesture of peace between Settler and Native.

Not believing that they'd be alive to see it grow so tall, the men laughed and sewed the seeds.

But to their astonishment, the tree sprouted quickly and was soon tall enough to hang the 2 for their crime.

Some say that it was the Natives, so angered by the action they used magic to appease the spirit of the felled tree.

The tree was often used after that to hang those found guilty in and outside of the law. It had earned the name Gallows Willow long before my family and I used the home for a summer residence.

I'd spent many hours climbing as high as my courage would take me.

The treetop swayed with a soft wind and that's when I heard it again. A little more clear this time. The clunking.

'Where are you?' I circled the tree, not daring to cast an eye towards the lake just meters away. It was unnerving. Even in childhood. The waters were still but always seemed so active.

When I was younger I used to gaze into the shallow parts. I'd stand, allowing my toes to burrow into the dirt and silt.

The water that pooled around my ankles was almost black.

The fear of the unknown called to me, as if something would reach up and grab me by the ankles and pull me deep into a watery grave.

'There isn't anything in this life that's scarier than yourself. It's not real. It's just you. Tell yourself that' my father once told me that as we sat on the jetty.

He towel dried my hair as I ate foil wrapped cake, shivering post swim as the sun set on our final day together.

I didn't know then what he meant and it was only in recent years that I understood his parting words to me.

I was halfway up the tree before I knew it, fingers and feet finding the well worn spots I'd mapped out years ago.

The clunking continued and I cast my eyes out in search of it.

A snap came underfoot and had I not been holding onto the upper branches I would have fallen down about 15 feet.

My heart pounded in time with the tremble in my knees. I'd lost a shoe, legs dangling as I held onto the branch.

A creak came overhead and I had never regretted a decision more. I no longer heard the clunking.

I just heard the sound of my body falling with a splat if I let go.

'Look up'.

I looked down before I looked up, looking for the voice that was not my own.

'Help me. Please!' I yelled back, unable to see somebody though the grass moved.

'Look up Heather'.

'Whose down there? I can't hold on' I cried out, fingers slipping, fighting to readjust as the slow dull ache burned my arms.

The air fell still and the world around me grew silent. I was sure to fall and break every limb if the fall didn't kill me.

Who would know I was there? I'd be animal fodder by the time anybody came looking.

'Trust me. It isn't real. There isn't anything in this life that's scarier than yourself. It's not real. It's just you. Tell yourself that'.

My blood ran cold as I let go, falling until I woke with a shriek, clutching the sheets around me with trembling hands and ragged breaths.

It took me a moment to catch my breath, scanning the darkness of the sparsely furnished bedroom.

I lay still, a pool of sweat and tears soaking the sheets. I was still white knuckling the sheets when I reached to pull them back.

Half moons of blood stained the sheets, my nails breaking the skin on my palms. The open air licked painful swipes, irritating the broken skin.

Scooting back on my knuckles for support, I swung my feet down and padded to the bathroom, the cold night air nipping at my skin as I walked.

I felt exposed in my shorts and camisole. The warmth and modesty of bed called to me but I left it calling in the dark, making my way towards the glow of a small unshaded bulb.

Outside the generator hummed. I really had to get people in if I was going to stay. A plumber, electrician and landscaper were definitely needed.

The gutters were overflowing with leaves and the small spell of rain that fell spilled out and down onto the already rotting porch.

The plumbing was outdated and the pipes groaned and squealed when you turned the taps on. I had no proper heating and the cold nights wouldn't stay away forever.

The only light I had came from the bathroom. It was dismal but it was enough to show the way there and back.

Every night for the past 3 weeks it was the same.A different dream. Each one ending in near or certain death.

A splash of water revealed the increasingly large dark circle under my eyes and the thinning face that held them.

My nail was still bandaged and tender which just added to the feelings of confusion of displacement.

I was so sure that I had dreamt of it, that the finger popping the marigold glove was part of the nightmare.

But it was bandaged now. Something it was not in the dream.

I wasn't sure what I had dreamed of any more. The lines between reality and my dreams were merging into the one. As it was, I questioned every bump and creak.

Every sound in the night and whisper in my ear was exhaustion. Every pin prickle and roused hair on my neck and forearms was paranoia.

I took a pill each time I felt myself slipping. I refused to acknowledge something that wasn't there.

If the past few months taught me anything, it was that you can't trust the things you can't see.

But when you can't trust yourself on or off your medication, your head turned and your heart stopped when unseen lips whispered your name.

The silence ticked away into the night but I couldn't sleep.

There is only so many sheep one could count before the need to sleep takes over.

But sleeping wasn't an option and neither was staying in that house.

I slipped on a pair or shoes and warm coat, quietly making my way downstairs lest I wake something from its slumber.

As I hit the bottom step I couldn't help but glance over my shoulder. The feeling of unseen eyes lingered upon me in the darkness.

It was constant. No matter where I went in this house I felt them. Watching and observing my every move.

I had yet to go to town. I went the opposite way once a week and drove into Willows Grove any time I needed groceries or something to fix the house up with.

No doubt they knew I was back. You couldn't fart in Ashby Lakes without somebody knowing about it. I just wasn't ready to face them.

The air outside was a lot cooler than I expected it to be.

I found myself wrapping my coat around me, nestling into the warmth of the inner lining.

I had no clear destination in mind, I just walked.

The other houses along the way were sparse but dark. It was well past the witching hour and the sun would rise soon enough.

My aimless walking saw me walk a mile in circles and broken patterns until I found myself walking down to the jetty.

The sun was beginning to rise, nestled snugly in the clouds over the valley behind me as I walked.

I came to a stop by the post that once held the little row boat I'd spent many a happy childhood in.

I sat down and kicked my shoes off, allowing my feet to dip into the baltic lake water. I shuddered and watched as the goosebumps rose.

The water was still but it lapped at my shins from gentle kicks.

Out there in the middle of the lake was the row boat. To be more precise it was at the bottom. I took some of my father's things and rowed all the way out to the middle.

And once I got there, I tied everything to the boat and poked it with the paddle until I had filled it with so may holes it sank.

I wanted it to sink me too. To take me down into the murky depths.

I held onto it as it went, eyes looking up to the window where my father would often stand searching for inspiration.

I couldn't bear to leave this place without him, and I wouldn't allow his things to be donated to strangers.

It took me down slowly. I opened my eyes and watched as the algae and fish swam past me.

Then the hands came. They came so quickly I though it was the hands of an angel, that I had drowned and they were carrying me to be with my father.

Flynn Stevens was always more devil than angel even as he pulled me back to shore and rolled me on my side.

'Do you want to die?' he screamed at me, voice cracking on the cusp of puberty.

'You can't just do that. Your family need you Heather'.

As I sat there and recalled the voice I struggled to recall the memory in full. I remember being wet, rolling from my side to my back and water hitting my face.

It probably came from Flynn. His long hair wet and dripping as he yelled words that went fight over my head.

I didn't even notice him at the shore or hear the splash as he dove in after me.

I was dried off and packed up later that day, Flynn Stevens just a small dot in the rear window until he was no longer in sight.

I never did see Flynn again after that. I couldn't bring myself to write to him.

I left him once my legs found their weight, mumbling a promise that I'd never do something so stupid again.

The water was far too cold to stay paddling in so I withdrew my feet and sat and watched the lake a little longer.

My toes curled, flexing in the hopes of regaining some warmth. I felt alone and exposed though I knew that wasn't true. I was never alone.

Something, neither living nor dead had been keeping me company since my return.

I felt its eyes on me when I slept and I shivered under its icy touch in the shower.

But it was always like that. Even as a child. It watched me, daring me to tell somebody when it moved things or whispered in my ear at night.

My eyes fluttered, struggling to stay awake in the crisp morning air. I drifted on the jetty, laying back nestled in the coat finally giving into the medicated tiredness.

The sun was high in the sky by the time I came to. But it wasn't the sound of birdsong that woke me. It was the sound of splashing water and feet.

At first I thought nothing of it, not registering the sound as water

It came a second time but it only really clicked once I felt water upon my skin.

Ice cold droplets trailed along my bare legs, dripping one by one until the iron like grip seized my left ankle. I kicked out, scrambling to stand but almost rolled off the jetty.

I looked to find nothing but still felt the unmistakeable grip on my ankle. The panic set in making my heart swell and sit in my throat.

It released me and I edged backwards, scrambling to my feet.

Whipping my head left and right, I searched for the cause. My leg was bone dry but my ankle still held the weight of my biggest childhood fear.

Remembering the footsteps I turned back towards the jetty gate. My shoes were still next to me, but that's not what my eyes focused on.

A trail of perfectly imprinted wet footprints lead all the way to the gate.

I felt my heart sink back into place but it did little to ease the hammering sensation that knocked my knees together.

There was no mistaking it. There was no medicine in the land that could make me hallucinate that strongly.

Trembling with every step, I walked back, shoes in hand as I studied the prints. Somebody got out of the water, climbed over me and I didn't feel a damn thing. It wasn't possible.

How does somebody just walk out of a lake and up a jetty without using the shorelines?

Each print was clear and soaked into the wood. Bare feet with the left a little wider than the right. Too large to be typically female yet too long to be average even for a male.

I followed them all the way to the door, observing in mild horror that the door I had closed was now wide open.

'Hello?' I yelled out, head peering in the door, eyes peeled looking for an object to defend myself with.

'What do you want? I know you're in here'.

I eyed the cast iron fire poker resting by the hearth and dashed across the floor to retrieve it. My grip was firm, not willing to take chances.

'One last time. Who is in here and what do you want from me?' my voice held an edge to it that I didn't know I could carry.

One by one I cleared each room, finding not a soul in sight.

Inching my way up the stairs I tightened my grip, white knuckling for the 2nd time in a few short hours.

There was one room that I hadn't cleared. It was also the only room inside the house that I hadn't yet been inside.

Standing at the top of the stares I focused in on the last door. It stared at me, hiding 20 years of secrets and betrayal behind it with pools of water leading the way.

A sucker punch to the gut came and knocked the wind out of my sails with every step. The weapon hovered in my hand, bobbing with nerves the whole time.

As I neared I heard it. The impossible. The sound of a typewriter in full swing, keys aggressively punching words into paper.

'It's not real it's not real its not real' I whispered, tears forming as I reached for the handle.

'Its not real. It can't be real'.

I turned the handle, gasping in surprise to find it click open.

The typewriter that I had sent to the bottom of the lake was there, but made no sound as I circled it.

A puddle of water surrounded it on the desk but that's not what made my knees weak. Reaching for the paper, I snatched it up and did as instructed. I looked up.

The last thing I remember before blacking out was a scream identical to the one that left this room 20 years before.

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[literarypsychobabble]

Maddox Mann

SPENCER

Gunshots. The hot, coppery taste of blood. Agonised howls and yelps like dying screams and squeals nausea jerked me upright and the room swirled into focus around me; a kaleidoscope of shattered stars bursting open the sky at the seams.

My eyes caught on Alice’s dazed face and then Jim seconds before I registered that the loud banging was far from gunshots or blows to my head, but was instead banging on the door. Loud banging, angry bagging that made all of my animalistic tendencies and characteristics threaten to twist and hurl themselves out into the open.

I gritted my teeth as I heard a hysterical commotion on the other side of the door. It was flung open, slamming into the wall and I heard the unmistakeable hysterical voice of Liam’s fiancée alongside loud and angry stomping. I tasted death; metallic and heavy and smelt the scent of chaos, destruction, death and blood.

A tall man with brown hair and sharp features wearing muddied clothes and carrying a gun with the ease of someone carrying a pen strode in heavily. His dark eyes shone manically as he focused on me.

“I AM SO SORRY.” Cora ran over to me and gently put her hands on my arms. I found myself staring up at her blearily, something was wrong. I felt unhinged, ready to explode and go crazy. Alice’s anxious face watched me from a corner. The air grew hot and heavy. My skin felt covered in blisters. “YOU’RE THE BLOODY ACCURSED SO CALLED WOLF TRAINER! WELL I HAVE A SURPRISE FOR YOU I HAVE!!! SOMETHING THAT’LL KNOCK YOUR IMMORALISTIC IDEAS INTO THE GUTTER BECAUSE EVERYONE KNOWS YOU CAN’T TAME THE WILD!” His breath was the air around molten lava and I could smell the telltale sickly sweet stench of an undiagnosed tumour creeping silently through his body but pressed my lips into what I hoped seemed polite. I forced myself to my feet. He took a sudden step back, momentarily seeming very small as he realised how tall I was. I focused firmly on his face, forcefully holding his gaze. “Lead the way.” “No!” I blanched when a fragile feminine hand touched my arm and turned to see the teary face of Liam’s fiancée. “You don’t have to listen to him you don’t have to go out.” She pleaded with me and I almost agreed. I could almost see the reality of what had happened in her eyes so I pulled on my invisible visor. “Don’t worry.” I made sure I sounded soothing and calm. “You should focus in resting right now.” I met her gaze and held it, making her flush even through her tears and I could see why Liam loved her, before I gently pulled away my arm and followed the gun swinging oaf out into the open.

The icy air ran soothing and calming fingers through my hair that smoothed a shudder down my spine that I suppressed. I stuffed my hands in my pockets and focused on the bandage white clarity of the sky punctured by the occasional black shapes of birds like ink stains darting around as though being swirled around by an invisible brush, unable to settle. When the sun finally appeared, sunshine bled into the day and was soaked into the sky, the warmth smoothing gentle fingers over my face as my wandering eyes meandered over to what he was trying to show me.

Nothing really prepares you for seeing almost dead struggling bodies shrouded in fur, marked by their own blood. Bulging eyes; copper and blue, brown and dark rowed in helpless agony through the stiff, stale air. Blonde fur, rust coloured fur, pale brown fur and silvery grey fur speckled and bejewelled by blood gleamed like ruby covered fur coats. Streams of blood flowed and blossomed like flowers around them.

My stomach twisted and I was almost left reeling but forced on my stoniest face. The eyes sought me out, one by one, pleading for help. I heard their agonised voices in a chorus of misery and affliction. “Tell you what this one’s got the most beautiful coat in my opinion!” He strode over and stepped on one of Thomas’s hind legs, drawing a helpless whimper from his parted, panting mouth painted red by blood as I heard the whimper echo maddeningly through my head. My legs threatened to tremble but I stood still, passive and defiant. “Would be a shame if it was wasted-” he gripped Thomas by an ear, yanking his head up and exposing the deep gash at his neck that suddenly gushed an entire stream of blood. I heard the gurgling bubbling sounds of his laboured breathing as he fought to breath around the blood and the pain. “CAN’T YOU SEE YOU’RE HURTING HIM STOP!” I hardly noticed Cora burst out of the house and roughly shove him away. He toppled over, landing heavily in a sitting position, mouth agape as he gawked up at her. “YOU DESERVE TO DIE! I CAN’T BELIEVE YOU WOULD DO SOMETHING SO GHASTLY! WHAT DID THEY EVER EVEN DO TO YOU?” Her voice wavered with rage and tears as she kicked him roughly and drove her heel down on one of his hands. I felt my eyes widen despite my coolness when it pierced his leathery flesh and angry red blood burst out like water from behind a dam. He cried out in rage and pain, heaving himself up.

I realised he was about to push her over and quickly moved. Using my feet I steered myself forwards and in between them, gently swooping her out of his path so he only got some of my shoulder and she was protected by me.

She looked up at me shakily. “This isn’t your fight.” I offered as I struggled to understand what to say to her. “He hurt them…” She sobbed as tears swollen by pain shattered glassily and slid down her face. ‘I know he did but we can’t fight him and expect him to-“ "What do you think about this all now then young man?” He roared at me from behind. I turned to look at him over my shoulder, amused to see he had wrapped some cloth around his hand. I opened my mouth to speak, but then my eyes fell on Bob and Barney and Jasper and I fixed him with my coolest stare. “I’m afraid I don’t really think much of you.” I finally offered. “The wolves could have easily taken you down.” My pack was strong and my pack was fierce. If they wanted to they could rip bones out of sockets with sickening pops. “So I would advise you that be careful from now on.” “Was that a threat?” He roared, scalding spit hitting some of my face and hair. I turned to face him, away from Cora and smiled at him. “I don’t threaten anyone….but that might have been your warning.” I looked around us then and made sure to draw his attention to the fact that we were on a road where anyone could see us. “I doubt the neighbours would be happy to see that you killed wolves and brought them all the way here.”

He uttered a growl that made one of my own rumble somewhere deep inside me before he turned and stormed off, thick soled boots squelching and huffing angrily against the pavement. I tried to prolong watching him for as long as I could, before I focused on the bloody bodies he had arranged in a meat line before me.

Four dead wolves. Four dead lost souls with wide open empty eyes, their empty bellies pressed into the summery warmth radiating from the pavement, their glassy eyes emptily watching me tower over them and their blood tainting the greyness of the pavement and matting their fur. I wanted to scream, or fight someone again, but instead I looked up ago see Jim watching me looking as sick as I felt and Alice with wide eyes staring down at them in recognition. Cora had managed to stop crying and sniffed, Drawing our attention to her. She had shoved a hand covered in her sleeve in front of her face and took a second to steady herself, closing her eyes before she sighed and looked at me.

“I should get going.” She said to no one in particular, and melted into the afternoon.

*

Jim sat alone, staring dazedly straight ahead of himself. His pale, delicate hands and his YSL boots were caked in mud. His eyes were bloodshot but he had not cried. His hands were twisted around one another in his lap, rings glinting in the dimming light. I had been hesitant about approaching him even when I had watched him help me dig up the heavy wet earth and lower the bodies in. His face had changed. The childish innocence had faded to become a sharp haunted gleam that settled in his eyes and made them seem darker than their pale blue.

He looked up and caught me watching him. I sat myself down, close to him but not too close and turned his attention towards the wall opposite us. “Are we all going to die?” He finally asked. “I thought we could heal anything-” his voice seemed sharper than usual. “We can heal anything.” I offered passively. “But we aren’t immortal.” His eyes gleamed as they met mine and something hard and sharp lodged in my throat but I swallowed it and focused on him. “My apologies about Jasper-” He just shook his head. “All of them…” I sighed heavily to myself and shifted, sensing him look at me again as I avoided his gaze. “I’m sorry about Bob. He seemed very close to you. Closer than the others.” I nodded quickly, quirkily and shrugged one shoulder, waiting to feel something but felt nothing instead. “I can’t begin to imagine how many times you must have gone through this.”

*

ALICE

I made sure I handled my clumsiness when I finally got him to the top of the stairs, to the room that felt right for him. I sensed he liked watching over things, and there was almost a full glass wall window that was curtained but overlooked the dense forest in a way that made it look as though it was right next to the house, pressed up against the windows as though it was trying to look in. There was a bed in the middle of the room with a wardrobe and a small black alarm clock with hot pink polka dots that I had forgotten existed. The room smelt faintly like lavender and when I looked at him I noticed he had picked up the alarm clock that seemed incredibly tiny against his huge long fingers and was staring down at its dead face. It no longer worked.

He put it down then and glanced up at the trees as I struggled to read the almost bored expression on his face. “You can bring your things in here and keep them around…or I could help you and stuff make you feel-” He finally looked at me, green eyes gleaming and face pulled up on one side into a half smirk as he blinked slowly. “You do know that you do not have to blabber endlessly at me as I am quite aware that you are trying to fill in awkward silences but really Ms Smith there is no need to try to hard to be chatty around me…how about we practise being unchatty a bit more?” His voice was curt and polite but closely chipped and seemed to be pushing me to the very edge of discomfort and unease. I flushed uncomfortably, amazed by how quickly he had become moody since that first day I had met him. I would not have minded not having met him as a human anymore. He walked over to look down at the bed. “Right…I’ll….go and see to the others…”

A sharp knock on the door made us both look up and turn quickly to see Liam standing in the doorway looking bemused, one eyebrow cocked slightly as he looked past me at him.

“There’s been a new change.” He offered simply. I watched Spencer look past him at the small lanky teenage boy with scruffy dark hair and wide hazel eyes who stank of fear and the cold. The boy seemed to shudder and wrapped his arms aground himself. Spencer strode surely and fluidly but softly over to stand before him, looking down at him intently. “This is the alpha.” Liam offered to the small boy who looked ready to curl in on himself. “He’s basically in charge of making sure we don’t rip ourselves or each other to shreds and stay alive-”

Spencer suddenly hunched over, huge shudders and ripples quaking through him as his hands and legs and feet twisted and contorted in on himself and his face jerked to one side, top lip curling over his lower lip as he emitted unsettling raspy sharp edged sounds of wheezy growls that scraped sharp blades of fear through my heart.

The boy looked ready to start crying. Liam rolled his eyes. “Spencer this isn’t even funny anymore. The poor kid’s about to wet his pants.” Spencer quickly slipped back into his normalness with a sharp, almost smile trapped on his face amusedly. “Welcome to the pack.” The boy nodded slowly, gulping audibly. Spencer waited, staring at him unblinkingly. Liam turned to the boy. “You might want to introduce yourself to him. He likes doing this whole creepy stare thing until you introduce yourself to him.” I felt my eyebrows raise in amusement. “M'name’s Rory.” The boy managed in a cracking voice. “Dad’s a hunter.” “How ironic.” Spencer almost smiled at him again. “So…when can I go home?” Rory looked eagerly at us all. “I can go and see my parents again and let them know I’m not dead!” Spencer glanced at Liam. “You can’t.” Rory frowned. “Why not?” “Because…you just can’t. There’s no explanation for why a dead teenager just came back to life.” Spencer offered factually. Rory turned pale. “But-” Spencer shook his head. “No. It just doesn’t happen.” He glanced at Liam. “Why don’t you show Rolland-” “Rory-” “-why don’t you show him how to hunt?” “But I’m vegan!” The boy cried out as Liam walked him away silently. “Are you always this mean?” I was shocked to hear myself ask when they had left. Spencer turned to me, face blank, lips pursed. “It’s just that you’re meant to be their alpha…the leader of the pack but you don’t really seem to be-” “Oh PLEASE tell me Ms Smith am I supposed to give him a hug and toffee? Am I supposed to buy him a teddy bear?!”

The excruciating silence that followed made my hair stand on end and my skin crawl hotly as I realised my heart was stuttering because I was so unused to someone being so callous and cold. The words I wanted to say perched atop the tip of my tongue, tantalising me and torturing me so I probably looked like I sucked a bitter lemon before they finally left my mouth.

“You were so much nicer as a wolf!” “Of course I was.” He offered. “Because of course a child unable to differentiate between the simplest of things would know all about that or would have memories of it…” I looked at him. He had his face fixed into a mocking expression that made me want to roll my eyes. “Trust me I have a great memory. You were this smaller dark chocolate fluffball whose fur would turn into flames in sunlight and you liked having your chin scratched and your paws stroked…you also liked mango juice so I would sneak some out for you and one day we snuck off together and fell asleep in some burrows and my parents thought someone had taken me.” I watched his green eyes blaze slightly as though they were taking in light from around us and my head felt funny. “And you…liked bringing me the tops of red plastic flowers for some weird reason and pinecones and yeah…one day I snuck you in because it was raining and you had to hide under my bed from my parents and we got away with it somehow…mamma and papa didn’t realise they had a stinky little wolf in the house.” His face seemed to soften, suddenly weary. “I’ll go now. You obviously must be tired so I’ll be downstairs….” His eyes stared through me when I finally turned to walk away, making sure to tug the door shut behind me.

*

LIAM

If anyone saw me they would call me crazy. I was far from crazy. I was stuck, and very very wet. Hunting with Rory had been like teaching a brick to walk. So now I stood in a torrential downpour, frozen on the pavement with the heat of car exhausts and the bleary lights of cars occasionally lighting me up and warming me up. I was soaked to the skin but the sound of the raindrops masked the throbbing ache somewhere inside me.

The horn of a dark car startled me. The door opened. Spencer looked out at me through a curtain of rain. “Awfully late for you to be wandering around outside Walters.” I hesitated outside the car, very aware of how wet I was. “Get in. This car has seen worse than just a few raindrops.” He continued to stare straight ahead of himself. I climbed in and closed the door behind me, shuddering helplessly as I thawed. He seemed to ignore me, casting another look at the curtained window.

I finally looked at him and as usual my mind was buzzing with questions; who was he? Where was he from? Everyone else seemed linked to somewhere or someone but he seemed permanently afloat, withdrawn and wary as though he expected everyone to attack him.

“Ms Hanbury is worrying.” I frowned at his use of Cora’s surname, wondering where he had picked up on it. He glanced at me quickly. “She presents an almost obsessive passion for wolves and I fear she may even take to wondering around which is far from safe in her….” he seemed to reconsider his words. “In the current state of things, we have armed oafs wanting to kill the wolves; us and a human like her is an easy target. Also as she is connected to the wolves or rather passionate about them some merciless folk will see it as a game to be played…making her watch them or rather us suffer.” “So what do you suggest?” I gave him a wry smile. “I fly out of her wardrobe singing It’s Raining Men and she realises the truth and agrees to come and stay with us?” His lips twitched up at one side. “Forget wardrobe Walters, how about door?” “I may as well just knock on her front door and wait for her to let me in.” “Perfect plan.” I looked over at him again, wondering why he never smiled properly. He looked back at me, face still gloomy. “So…what do you suggest? You know I….” I sighed. “Something feels so off when I’m around her…like she’s….her scent it’s….I don’t get it but something seems wrong with her….and…I get this crazy urge to wrap her up in my arms and lock her up somewhere for safety.” “It’s called being over possessive, Walters.” He offered over the sound of Jumping Jack Flash. I finally rolled my eyes. “That’s different. This is…..more intense.” “More intense.” A wildly tooting tiny green car that looked like a blurry leaf rattled past us. “Yes.” I realised everything around us was no more than a rainy blur. “I can’t really explain it but….it’s…..like this urge to just…like I need to be there for her….like I need to…to hold on to her because she’s not quite alright and I don’t understand.” “Ever heard of love, Walters?” Half of his mouth curled up again, not quite a smile; never a smile. “I’m pretty sure I know what that is.” I decided it was time to retort, finally even though he might rip my head off my shoulders. “I’m not sure you do though.” He suddenly stopped the car. I turned to look at him, ready for some sort of explosion. He turned to me, instead and smiled.

It was a smile that might have once cleared a sky but it was horribly broken; shattered stars in his eyes and his smile lines and dimples only accentuating how haunted it seemed. There was something eerily striking about it, until he stopped. His face froze back into its permanent mask again and he looked out of the windshield as thunder tore at the sky.

“You are right.” He finally offered. “I don’t know what love is or why people fall in love…it’s a waste of time and effort and energy…” “But you’ve got a lot going for you looks wise and I’m sure if you actually tried being nice to people they might be ok with you.” “I’ve seen many a woman and charmed many a soul but I fail to see what love is because at the end of the day it is just going to end in chaos and disaster and heartbreak.” He stared at me pointedly. “I was once so drawn into the idea of women that I…” he hesitated. “I wandered around like a dog really taking advantage of what I got and of course they adored me for charming them and then breaking their hearts and leaving….it made me feel invincible. Love changed that. She died. And that is all I have to offer.” He started the car again. “The storm has died, we should get going again.” “I have a question.” I eventually blurted after what felt like countless years. “Yes?” “You do know you can actually talk about things and people can actually listen to you and be ok with it? I know you used to tell Bob stuff and you two were extremely close but the rest of us are still alive and we can listen-” He stopped the car again. I opened my mouth to ask him why he kept stopping the car. “We have reached the house.” He offered tersely before getting out himself and starting the fluid walk up to the house. I found myself following him, as always.

Alice waited for us right inside the door, the despair in her eyes wild enough to drench me in a wild wave of fear and make me forget to keep on walking. Spencer gently pushed past me, stirring me again but I was stuck staring at Alice until she silently held out coloured pieces of paper for him to look at.

*

SPENCER

They found her. When I least expected anyone to do so, they found her. After all these years.

I was stuck staring at the picture but fought the urge to change my expression as I took in her face devoid of colour apart from the blush professionally painting her cheeks. Her full, naturally pouty lips were painted blood red, as were her nails, garish against the pallor of her delicate, dainty hands pressed closed over a bouquet of dead roses, wilted and weeping dead petals over her delicate torso.

I had waited four years for this. My mask was pushed onto my face again when I looked at Alice, then at Jim and Liam. “Alice, what happened?” My voice was clipped and precise. “The police arrived…suddenly. They found this woman, Maddox Mann in a rundown cottage in the forest today…she went missing four years ago but it seems her body somehow survived-” I shifted slightly, unable to deal with much more but nodded and slipped my hands, now clenching into fists in my pockets. “They don’t blame the wolves?” “Not at all.” Alice continued.

I realised no one could sense the vibrations of what felt like waves of feeling washing over me, bloating my mind, sickening my soul. Bitter sweet burning bile rose disgustingly into my mouth as I excused myself feebly and made my way as steadily as possible up the stairs.

Maddox.

I heard the bird-like titter of a laugh the would make my face light up. Dainty hands and feet; she was always cold and lost in a dream with her daisy chain and flower crown. At least they gave her roses. My soul sank into the darkness as my legs gave out and I stumbled, dropping like a dead weight onto the musky carpet, hanging my head and facing the bed, unable to actually lift myself onto it.

*

The sharp rap on the door stirred me enough to make me realise I was sat with my back against the wall behind me when the knock on the door stirred me.

Liam stood in the doorway with his hands in his pockets. I looked away from him. He hesitated. “So…can I come in?” The butt of his sentence was lost in his pursed lips as he toyed with the thought of getting close to me. “Can we all?” Alice stuck her head out behind him and I almost smiled at her but stopped myself on time when I saw Jim hovering awkwardly close to both of them. “If that’s ok with you?” She added. “If not…we can just…make ourselves scarce…” I almost smiled again. “If you want to? I’m afraid there isn’t much to be around here for.” Alice looked at the other two and then smiled directly at me. “We don’t really need much to be honest…we just wanted to make sure you were ok…you seemed a bit dizzy earlier on.” “Where’s our new recruit?” I tossed at Liam. “Oh he’s out with the others it seems he loves the thought of being hairy and wild.” I twisted my mouth in a lopsided dead smile. “Well…that does seem to have benefits at first.” “Who was Maddox?” Jim suddenly hurled at me, catching me off guard. The others stared at him in shock. “The first and only female wolf of the pack…” I offered lazily, looking at the cracks on the ceiling. “I found her wandering through the forest covered in blood and tears and she was in pain…a lot of pain and hysterically begging me for help.” The coppery warmth of her blood had threatened to rip the wolf out of my flesh until my heart heaved once and stopped when I fully focused on her face instead. “She had an abortion it seemed,” I glanced up at each one of them in term. Alice’s eyes were alight with pity. I quickly looked away. Liam’s eyes burnt my face. “Of course…I assume-” “She killed herself. Apparently she lay in position for a very long time and eventually died of starvation. Everyone thinks she died of a broken heart and her family-” “She was very much in love with someone but then she broke him. She vanished and he didn’t know where she went. It seems he finally knows now…where she went all those years ago though he couldn’t begin to forgive her even if he wanted to. She no longer really has a soul.” I was almost roughly strangled by the screaming silence before I ran my hands through my hair. “Love is more thorns and burnt roses than anything else.” “I’m uh, sorry you lost such a close friend…” Jim offered. “It must suck-” I shrugged. “It was Bob’s favourite story to tell. You can’t form connections if you want to survive…” my gaze lingered on Liam. “Life doesn’t favour lovers.”