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imagine-darksiders · 4 months

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Cold Hands, Warm Heart.

Chapter 23 - Evading Sunrise.

Summary: Who better to know what a human needs than one who used to be human themselves?

[I'm still alive! Woo! Just overwrought! I'm playing in a sold-out show from Jan 16th and rehearsals have been 1900 to 2300 every night, bar the weekend, so my writing time is greatly diminished. I've also recently come into the family business, which isn't what I thought I'd be doing with my life, but hey-ho, I haven't got any other option, so I'm also bogged down with learning that whole setup. These little moments where I can write and read all your kind, encouraging comments are becoming more and more precious to me. xxx]

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There is a kindness that the Universe could easily grant you, were it so inclined. Just a small thing, effortless even, hardly a difficult feat for the Powers that be, if They had so much as a shred of empathy.

The Universe has taken much from you, and were it a little kinder, it would take one last thing.

… It would take your ability to dream.

Death knows all too well that for as long as humans have been unwitting players on the cosmic chess board, they’ve been left to stand utterly alone, un-helped and unacknowledged by an indifferent Creator.

Why should you be the exception?

Why should you be granted a tiny mercy by the very Being who gave you a mind to dream with in the first place?

It just seems an unnecessary cruelty, the Horseman supposes, that your own biology should stand in the way of your respite.

It’s been several, long hours since you rolled over and eloped into the un-waking world, and Death has only moved as far as the door, leaning his weight back against the bone-dry wood with an air of resignation that his journey is to be paused until sunrise, at the very earliest. No matter… There’s little sense facing the Chancellor’s dreaded ‘Champion’ in the dark, after all.

You might have smirked and called him paranoid about the rigid stance he’s taken in front of the room’s only entrance, but the soft yet not-so-silent footfalls that keep approaching the door reaffirm his decision.

He doesn’t know if it’s the Blademaster sniffing about or some other undead who has come to gawk at the living, breathing human in their midst, but there’s something undoubtedly amusing about feeling wood push against his spine for a few seconds before the presence on the other side meets the resistance of a Horseman’s immoveable body weight.

What follows is the distinct sound of those same footsteps hurrying off down the corridor, making every attempt to be stealthy, but failing miserably.

It would be less amusing if any of their attempts were to wake you up. In fact, the only reason Death hasn’t ripped the door open and threatened to skewer the nosy stranger is currently sound asleep just a few feet away from whatever ruckus that would cause.

Or you were sound asleep. At least until a few minutes ago.

Death’s forefingers tap aimlessly against his bicep as he frowns down at your face. You’ve scrunched your features up into a tight grimace, nose wrinkling and the corners of your mouth twisted south towards your chin.

You’re still asleep. Just not soundly.

The pitiable whimpers you’ve been uttering for a while now indicate a troubled mind, though the Horseman can’t say he’s surprised. It’s disappointing, to be sure. He’d have thought you’d be far too exhausted to be plagued by dreams tonight, yet evidently, you’re not that fortunate. Which is a crying shame, because while Death doesn’t believe in luck per-se, he thinks that if such a thing were to exist, you’re more than overdue.

“Hmm, mnn,” you murmur through closed lips, tossing your head to the right.

Above you on the headboard, Dust retrieves his beak from under an ebony wing and cocks a gaze at you, crooning out a soft, inquiring noise from his throat.

“Shhh,” Death breathes, earning a sleepy glare from the crow, though he does at least fall silent, contenting himself to simply watch as you throw a hand out to one side and clench your fist around an invisible force.

“….Mmn, eye…,” you mutter through slightly parted lips.

‘Eye?’ Death’s brow knots under his mask, yet he isn’t left wondering for long.

“… Eideard?” you suddenly croak, “… C’m’back!”

Ah… So that’s where your head is at.

Lowering his eyes to the ratty blanket, Death releases a sigh that’s been building in his chest for a few minutes now.

Your legs have been steadily working to kick the covers off the bed, never settling, as if you’re trying to run from something.

The clack of a beak draws the Horseman’s gaze once again to Dust, who now has a rather expectant look aimed his way.

Death can’t help but be reminded of that night in Tri Stone, when he’d remained stolidly outside on the bench whilst you stifled your sobs in the Makers’ Forge.

He recalls that Dust had been rather scathing about his inaction. The Horseman hadn’t cared for the bird’s judgement then, and he’s even less appreciative now.

What is he supposed to do? Wake you? At least if you’re dreaming, you’re getting some rest.

Sleep, he’s learned, is something that’s essential to a human’s sustained survival.

Not for the first time, he considers the benefits of having an empty chest, hardened and calcified through centuries of existing in an indifferent universe.

It means he has nothing to steel when you suddenly fling yourself over onto your side with your mouth hanging open, releasing a short, hitching sob that catches in your throat, and an arm that stretches out towards something unseen by the Horseman, your fingers spreading rigidly until they quake with the strain.

… The gentling of Death’s expression goes unnoticed, even by him.

He’s nearly shocked when his boot slides forwards ever so slightly, scraping across the floorboards as if to carry him away from the door and towards you.

Pausing, he cocks a brow down at his own leg, half expecting it to explain itself.

What he doesn’t expect – but perhaps should have – is the loud and jarring gasp that suddenly floods into the little human on the bed with the frantic desperation of one who’s been underwater for far too long, and you’ve only just managed to reach the surface to take a breath before your lungs collapse.

Death’s eyes flick towards you just in time to witness your silhouette lurching up off the mattress, a garbled shout tumbling from your lips as you clutch feverishly at your chest.

“Karn!?” you blurt out, whipping your head back and forth to search through the darkness of Draven’s quarters for a maker who isn’t there.

It would be easy for Death to remain still and silent, to wait until whatever grasp your nightmare still has on you to finally slip loose on its own… He needn’t step in.

It would be easy…

“…Hhh…” Grousing silently to himself, the Horseman pushes away from the door and takes a decisive step towards you before he can begin to overthink his actions.

“Y/n,” he mutters, not loud enough to be startling, but just loud enough to catch your attention.

Even still, you flinch, whirling your torso in his direction and letting your hazy eyes land on the pale, ghostly mask looming above you in the dark.

For several seconds, you merely stare up at Death, the hand on your chest crumpling your shirt as you gather the flimsy fabric into a tight fist.

Death doesn’t elect to break the silence again. After another moment or two of watching you gulp down another lungful of stale air, his patience pays off, and you swallow thickly, croaking, “Death?”

The Horseman’s chin dips down. “Yes.”

“Is… Karn here?” Your voice sounds so fragile, poisoned by a grain of hope.

Going very still, Death allows a beat to pass, giving himself time to think of an answer.

Perhaps… you think you’re still in a dream.

Quietly, he offers a concise response, one that hopefully doesn’t cause you any more distress whilst bringing you further out of the idea that this isn’t real. “Karn…” he begins, “…remained in the Forge Lands.”

He watches you physically deflate. Not from relief though. Relief doesn’t douse the sleepy kindling of hope that had momentarily lit the contours of your face.

Solemn, a little more awake, you slowly ask, “Is… Eideard…. Is he…?”

“… Gone,” is Death’s only reply.

A breath shudders out of you as you let your gaze drift down to your fingers, twining over themselves in twists and knots. “Oh…” you breathe, “I… thought I…” But your sentence trails off before you can finish it.

So, Death says it for you. “You thought you saw him,” he ventures, “In a dream.”

And with that, whatever strings have been holding you taut are promptly cut, sending you flopping back onto Draven’s mattress with a sorrowful ‘whump,’ still very much awake and positively quaking hard enough to cause the wooden bed frame to shudder in tandem.

That’s the thing about dreams, Death supposes, after a point, they’re the perfect nesting ground for ghosts.

His brother, Strife, would confide in him, many eons ago, that he could still see the faces of their fallen brethren behind his eyelids whenever he tried to rest. Death had only told him that it would pass, if given the time to. He hadn’t the gall to tell Strife that he too could see those same, hateful eyes and blood-filled mouths just as clearly.

Eideard isn’t the only person you’ve lost. He’s said it before, but it bears repeating; you’ve also lost your family, your friends and every other human on Earth.

Your dreams, much like Death’s, are full of ghosts.

Drawing your hands up towards your face, you press the heel of each palm to your eyelids and grind down hard until a kaleidoscope of colour sparks to life across your vision, not unlike fireworks blooming across a cold, November sky.

Shakily, you blow out a dry, unsteady whoosh of air and groan, “Fuck…”

Death purses his lips, privately concurring with your brief assessment of the situation.

Then, in a motion that’s steeped in tiredness, you drag your focus back over to the Horseman, rolling your head to the side and adding, “You’re still here…”

“Yes, I’m still here,” he utters, quiet as a breath, only to balk at the dulcet quality in his tone. Clearing his throat to rid it of the uninvited tenderness, he promptly tacks on, “I told you; someone has to keep an eye on Dust.”

Damp-cheeked, you crane your neck back to send an upside-down glance at the crow roosting on the headboard above you.

A single, glossy eyeball stares back.

You’re fairly confident that Dust hasn’t done a damn thing to warrant any of Death’s baseless assumptions.

With your gaze still locked on the bird, you sigh, “You two can go, if you want to…”

At that, the Horseman knows he’s going to refuse before he even gives you a verbal response.

This isn’t the first time you’ve offered him an ‘out,’ a convenient excuse for him to duck from the room and escape the burden of bearing witness to your downward spiral.

You’re asking, in as quiet a hint as you can manage, for the privacy to cry without an audience.

… If it weren’t for the mysterious footsteps padding about outside…

“It would be in your best interest for me to stay,” he offers, earning a weary sigh from your side of the room, as if you’ve by now figured it would never be that easy to get rid of him.

Already, his keen eyes have picked out the slightest gleam of tears gathering behind your lashes. The next breath you try to draw in sticks to the back of your throat, yet before your face can crumple completely, you roll yourself over onto your opposite side, facing the wall – deliberately angling your body away from the Horseman, who watches on in silence as you hike your shoulders up towards your ears.

Drawing his brows together underneath the mask, Death glides silently closer to your bed and peers down at the human-shaped lump quivering under the covers.

All is quiet for a time, until at last…

“… I’m sorry.” Your words seep out of you in a thick, watery whisper. “You didn’t sign up for this.”

‘You didn’t sign up for me,’ goes unspoken, but somehow the idea still hangs between you both like cold, falling snow.

It seems an odd thing to say, Death muses, considering that in a sense, he did sign up for this. Hell, he all but stamped his signature on that contract when he carried you through the portal to the Crowfather’s realm.

“Well… Neither did you…” he returns truthfully as he turns around and sinks onto the mattress at the foot of the bed, draping each forearm over a knee. The old wood doesn’t even creak as he settles down, nor does the straw bend beneath his illogical weight, much like the desert sand hadn’t swallowed him up to his calves as it had yours.

He hears the blanket rustle behind him as you twist your neck around to spare him a glance over your shoulder. If you’re at all shocked to find him suddenly sitting so close to you, you’re either too tired or too polite to say a word about it.

So, you turn back to the wall without comment, and although you attempt to bring a hand up to press a sweat-slicked palm across your mouth, such a meagre covering of skin isn’t enough to contain the grief that starts to pour out of you.

But just as you’d offered Death the unquestioned freedom to seek vicinity to you, the Horseman doesn’t try to interrupt or diminish this sombre moment with talk or awkward attempts at comfort.

It stirs a memory in him, of a much younger Nephilim, trudging through a silent, windswept battlefield alongside the only other three who had escaped the Battle for Eden. Not a word was said between them as they left the dead behind, but Death had offered them proximity as well. They said nothing of it, they hadn’t even accused him of hovering. There was an unspoken understanding, in that instant, one that passed silently between all four of them; Death would be there if they needed him.

With a slow blink, the memory fades, and he’s left frowning gently at the dull, rotten wood of the wall adjacent to your bed.

You’re an intelligent human… He wonders if you’ll be able to infer what he’s doing by sitting at the edge of your bed. Death may be many things, but he is not cheerful by nature, and cannot thusly cause cheer in others. He can only sit. And wait. Listening, watching, offering freedom from interference, both from himself and others who would seek to disturb you now when you need to grieve.

Dust, predictably, affords your need for privacy about as much consideration as could be expected from a bird. That is, none whatsoever.

A sleepy caw is all the warning both you and Death receive before the crow hops down off the headboard and lands on your pillow with a soft rustle of feathers.

Of course, you flinch, but Dust – undeterred – simply invites himself into the space between you and the wall, strutting surefootedly over the rumpled blankets until he reaches your chest.

Exasperated, Death opens his mouth and is about to openly scold the crow when Dust turns himself about until the tip of his sharp, grey beak is pointed down at your sombre face.

If you’re at all worried about having it so close to your eyeballs, you don’t show it, though Death knows the corvid well enough to recognise that Dust would never hurt his new human friend who coddles and praises him like it’s going out of fashion.

Birds…

“H-hey,” you warble miserably, swiping at your eyes with the back of a wrist and trying to pluck up the willpower to give a tear-blurred Dust your most convincing smile, “Hey, boy. Sorry, did I wake you up?”

In response, the crow cocks his head at you, and follows up with a gentle croon that raises the small, downy feathers on his throat. Then, without bothering to give any sort of warning as to his intentions, Dust gives his beak a single clack and stretches out his neck, gathering up a few strands of hair around your forehead and dragging them through his beak as if to smooth them into place.

Death almost slaps a palm to his mask.

You can’t help yourself. A wet giggle blurts out of you, momentarily disrupting Dust’s ministrations. He croaks down at you flatly before returning to his task of taking your hair and grooming it with a gentle beak.

“Dust!” you blubber out another laugh, reaching up to try and dissuade the crow by pushing your hand into his feathered breast. For your trouble, he pulls away and administers a soft nip to your knuckle, barely strong enough for you to feel it.

Offering him a watery smile, you prop yourself up onto an elbow, and in one, smooth motion, you raise your free arm and scoop the bird against your chest, burying your nose into the ebony plumage right between his wings. He’s large, far larger than any crow you’ve ever seen on Earth, so it’s more akin to hugging a small dog than any kind of corvid….

Wow… You miss dogs…

As if he can sense your sudden spike of anguish for a species who was likely wiped out alongside your own, the crow nuzzles his head under your chin, tailfeathers flicking back and forth several times as he contents himself with his new position.

Death’s brows shoot up his forehead at the display, wondering how he could have missed the moment you and his crow forged this bond without him even noticing. Was it during the brief few hours when Absalom pulled him into the Tree of Life?

Or perhaps it was always there, and he just hasn’t been paying attention.

“Of all the crows I could have been saddled with,” he gripes under his breath, aiming a half-hearted scowl at the little he can see of Dust’s beak poking out over your shoulder, “It would be the one without a single ounce of pride.”

“Oh, leave him alone,” you sniff, your voice muffled by sleek, black feathers, “He’s trying to cheer me up.”

The Horseman grumbles something to himself, then raises his voice to huff, “He has to be good for something, I suppose.”

When you don’t reply beyond giving a click of your tongue, Death hesitates, his eyes roaming in every direction except for your face as he clears his throat and asks, “Is it… ah, working?”

There’s a speculative pause, interspersed with the odd sniffle as you take a moment to calm yourself down and recover from the embarrassment of once again crying in front of the sepulchral Death.

At last, you take in a deep, weary breath and pull your nose from Dust’s back, gazing warmly down at the crow. “Yeah,” you decide with a small nod as he pulls his beak from under your chin and peers back at you, “Yeah, it’s working.”

If only a little, but sometimes a little is just enough.

Dust’s head swings around to peer at Death over your shoulder, smugger than a bird has any business being.

The heartache of waking up to a world without Eideard in it is just as fresh as the heartache you feel when you open your eyes and remember your world is gone. That sort of grief, unquantifiable, is hard to shift by the efforts of one, friendly crow, no matter how noble his intentions.

But for Dust’s sake, you try to shoulder the sorrow a touch more easily, even going so far as to sit up properly, still holding the bird to your chest and giving him a gentle squeeze. It’s a word of thanks, silent but poignant. Slowly, you place the crow down on the mattress beside you.

This time it’s your turn to clear your throat. Scrubbing tiredly at your eyes, you untuck your legs from the scratchy blanket and roll them over the side of the bed, pulling yourself forwards until you’re sitting beside Death, hands clasped daintily in your lap.

Amber eyes flick sideways and find in the gloom that your cheeks are still damp and blotchy from shedding so many tears.

Behind you, Dust flutters back up onto the headboard, head held high and proud, pleased with himself for a job well-done, and feeling he’s absolutely deserved another nap.

You breathe a sigh, holding it in your lungs and then blowing it all out again, glad to hear that it’s devoid of further tremors. “So… I don’t suppose we can pretend you didn’t hear any of that?”

Death half turns his torso towards you and replies, “Any of what?”

Without thought, you smile appreciatively and lean across the bed, giving the Horseman’s thigh a companionable pat. “Good man.”

It seems as soon as you touch him, you’re pulling away again, the moment passing too quickly for you to feel the way his leg jumps underneath your palm.

Death’s eyes are wide beneath his mask and affixed to the spot on his thigh you’d just touched without ceremony, without a single remark, like it was an entirely normal thing to do.

Certainly, you’ve touched Death before, and he’s touched you out of necessity, mostly. But here, in this dingy room belonging to an undead, the Nephilim takes particular note of the casual gesture, and he’s once again reminded of who and what he is, and what an outlier you are to touch the Reaper without fear.

Is that all it takes? Pretending he hadn’t heard you pour your grief out onto a stranger’s pillow makes him a good man?

Is that… how you see him…?

No. It was just another throwaway comment, meant to lighten the solemn mood that had taken hold of the room.

For a distracted moment, Death wonders if he can really feel the warmth of your skin through the leather of his trousers, or if it’s just a figment of his imagination. Whatever it is, it robs him of any witty remarks that might slip out to disrupt this tender moment.

A good man…

“You should try going back to sleep,” he offers absently, tearing his eyes off his leg to look down at you. The imagined warmth in his thigh has travelled to his chest, which is odd, given that you didn’t lay your hand anywhere near it.

Heaving a sigh, you ask, “How long do you think until sunrise?”

“Mm, at least another several Earth hours,” he says, “Plenty of time still to rest.”

Your fingers clench into fists around the blanket beneath you. “Plenty of time to dream…”

The old Nephilim’s mask turns to face you properly, eyes of liquid gold and sunset orange illuminating the darkness of his sockets. “Dreams cannot hurt you,” he says with conviction, partly because he knows they can’t, and partly because nothing, not even a nightmare could hurt you with a Horseman keeping watch.

“But they can make you sad…” you point out.

Hesitating, he has to take a second to remember that sadness can be potent enough to hurt a human. “I suppose they can,” he concedes reluctantly.

“That hurts, sometimes,” you whisper, drawing your knees up onto the bed and folding your arms around them, clinging tightly, eyes downcast to the floor, “Waking up and realising the people in them aren’t here anymore.”

Shifting his weight to prop a hand on one knee, he leans forwards so that he can meet your faraway gaze. “That pain will fade, given time,” he offers, echoing a conversation eons past.

After a second, your eyes slide sideways and align with his, and he can’t deny the glimmer of triumph that raises his chin at the sight of your gentle smile.

“I hope you’re right, Death,” you reply, “I really do.”

“You’ll find I’m not often wrong twice in as many days.” He’s referring to his… miscalculation with the heart stones and the Guardian, of course.

Did that really only happen yesterday?

“Cocky,” you snort, swiping a finger under the still damp corner of your eye, “Nice to know great, big Horsemen can make mistakes too though.”

“Is it?” he scoffs. He’d have thought it’d be daunting that the Nephilim whose charge you find yourself under isn’t actually as infallible as he’d like to claim.

“Yeah,” you hum, giving him a thoughtful look, “I guess to err isn’t just human, after all.”

Death waits, bracing himself to balk, to feel a spike of offence run through his veins at being told he shares a – rather undesirable – quality with humans. He waits, and feels-

… Nothing. No contempt. No disdain or disappointment. Maybe just a touch of surprise.

“I’m gonna miss them,” you murmur, derailing the Horseman’s train of thought.

“The makers?”

“Everyone,” you stress, “The makers, Blackroot, Warden…”

Coughing lightly into a fist, Death has to peel his eyes away to avoid looking at you when he says, “I’m sure they’ll be…. of a similar mindset.” Honesty, vulnerability, words that have real significance don’t come so easily to the Horseman. If they did, he’d tell you that those makers are going to miss you more than you could possibly know.

Chewing on your lip, you idly kick an ankle against the side of the bed and ask, “Do you think I’ll ever see them again?”

In response, Death huffs out a short, soft laugh, tipping his head back to look at the ceiling. “Do I think you’ll see them again?” he echoes, “Y/n, I’m almost certain of it.”

“… Wait. Seriously?”

“Don’t I seem serious?” he blinks languidly.

“Yeah, it’s just… that sounded like optimism. And coming from you, that’s… I mean…” Squinting through the dark at him, you fold your hands in your lap and ask, “Are you feeling all right?”

The Horseman’s lips quirk up, though his voice retains a gruff and unimpressed melody as his shoulders jump with a brusque harrumph. “You must be feeling better if you’re already poking fun,” he grouses, assessing the miniscule glow of humour tucked around the corners of your mouth.

“I am, actually,” you shrug, flicking a glance over his mask and tipping your head with a knowing smile, “Maybe Dust isn’t the only one who’s good at cheering me-“

Three, gentle knocks on a nearby surface of wood break through your sentence like hammer blows ringing off an anvil.

From one blink to the next, the Horseman is inexplicably on his feet, flinging a strong, sinewy arm out in front of you, all at once alert and suspicious, whilst behind him, you scramble off the bed with far less grace, fighting to find stability for a moment before you square your feet and send a wary glance over his appendage at the room’s entrance.

“Hello?” you call, swiping furiously at your cheeks to rid them of what little trace of tears might still cling to your skin.

Death doesn’t turn to face you, but you’d be hard-pressed to miss the disgruntled sigh that slips out from under his mask at your tactical blunder.

You’ve all but announced that you – a human, need you be reminded – are in here.

A voice from outside calls out, muffled behind the thick layer of wood. “… Lady - Ah, I mean, Y/n?”

The tension doesn’t seem to drain out of Death nearly as fast as it drains out of you.

Draven.

Before the Horseman can stop you, you’ve already ducked underneath his arm, reaching up to distractedly smooth down your bedhead as you call out, “Oh, Draven, uh, coming!”

You hear your name uttered in a growl behind you, but you wave off the ornery Nephilim with a flap of your hand, twisting about to face him as you make for the door, hissing, “It’s his room, Death. If he wants to come in here, he has every right to.”

Realising your hand is reaching to pull the door open, Death surges forward, intent on getting to it before you – ‘just in case,’ a voice at the back of his head whispers – but he doesn’t make it halfway to you when you grab the brass handle and tug the rotting wood towards you, letting dull, green light spill into the quarters and creep up the opposite wall.

A familiar silhouette looms in the doorway, framing the space with broad shoulders and a tattered shroud that’s been pulled low to half cover a skeletal, ghoulish face. From your angle, standing at least a foot and a half shorter than the figure, you can see up underneath his hood.

You regret your haste to open the door, simply because you aren’t at all ready to witness the grim and ghastly visage of the Blademaster this early in the morning, but you stamp down on the temptation to reel back, and instead school your expression into a friendly smile. “Hi, uh, again.”

Draven’s luminous, blue eyes flare brightly as soon as they land on your face. There’s something held between each of his hands, though you hardly spare them a glance because, ever the gentleman, he’s already halfway into a low, sweeping bow when he suddenly stops short, bent so that he’s staring you directly in the eye.

It’s decidedly unnerving to have so much scrutiny on you, especially when the undead’s jaw suddenly locks up tight and his browbone snaps together as if you’ve offended him somehow without even saying a word.

“Uh-“ you start to say, only to find yourself interrupted when Draven rises to his full height again, unfolding at the waist and aiming a frigid glare over the top of your head. Coincidentally, an icy presence appears at your spine, pressing in close enough that you notice the hairs on the back of your neck start to prickle.

A growl rolls out through the gaps in the undead’s hollow cheeks. “Y/n,” he addresses you, his voice hard as stone, “Has this devil done you a discourtesy?”

“W…What?” you blurt.

Ferocity bleeds from his lipless mouth as he glares at the Horseman who drapes you in shadow, pale blue eyes aiming to douse the liquid fire hanging ominously in the darkness behind you.

“Her eyes are scarlet with salt,” he accuses.

Raising a hand to your face, you prod tenderly at the raw skin beneath your eyes and realise with a sinking sense of shame that you must still look like even more of a mess than you did when the Blademaster first saw you. “Oh, no. No, Draven, it’s fine,” you sigh, dragging a hand down your face, “Just… Look, it’s just been a rough night.”

The undead’s glower lifts the moment he rips his eyes off Death and returns it to you, his forehead puckering with concern. “But, you’re-“

“- I’m all right,” you reiterate, crooking one corner of your lips into a tight smile that all but pleads for him to drop the matter. You’re mortified enough.

The look on your face must be adequately pitiable, for Draven’s stance relaxes by a fraction, and as his arms slump from their guarded poise, you hear something clunk woodenly by his waist, rousing your curiosity and tempting you to lower your gaze to his hands.

If you thought you weren’t ready to see the Blademaster at your door, you’re doubly unprepared to see what he’s carrying.

Clearing your throat, you bob your chin at his hands and ask, “What’ve you got there?”

“Hmm?” Begrudgingly peeling away from the Horseman, Draven follows your line of sight, blinking down at a little wooden bowl and cup he’s clutching in each hand. Suddenly very sheepish, the undead ducks further into his green hood, “Forgive me, I was going to leave these by the door, but… then I heard voices.”

“And what were you doing skulking about so close to the door that you could hear us talk?” Death asks, hardly bothering to hide his accusatory tone.

You turn to give him a quick, pointed glare over your shoulder, one that he ignores.

“Just as I said, Horseman,” Draven retorts, “I thought the lady might be hungry, so…” He offers out the cup and bowl for you to see, giving you an apologetic look. “I’d have left it outside for you to find when you emerged, I… didn’t want to disturb you while you slept.”

Before you can reply, a voice at your back pipes up.

“You were going to leave it outside?” Death scoffs, “Where anyone could have tampered with it?”

Ignoring the Horseman, you peer down into the proffered crockery, your stomach gurgling eagerly as a waft of steam drifts from the bowl and rises into your nostrils. Never before would you have thought you’d be so excited about something so beige.

A simple, brown stew is balanced on one of Draven’s large palms, lumps of what you presume is meat bob about near the surface, and a single slice of fluffy, white bread floats at the centre, drawing a rather embarrassing flood of saliva to the front of your mouth. In his other hand, the small wooden cup is clasped like a chalice of ambrosia, though the only thing that wets its interior is crisp, clear water.

In your eyes, he may as well be holding out a gourmet dish that only the wealthiest of men would deign to touch.

“Draven,” you breathe in awe, reluctantly dragging your gaze off the food and peering up into the undead’s hollow face, “What’s all this for?”

Puzzled, he tilts his head at you, as thought the answer should be entirely obvious.

“It’s… for you,” he says, pressing the bowl and cup closer to your wringing hands, “I assumed you’d want to eat when you awoke. It’s not much, just some pottage I scrounged up.”

You begin to reach out, unfurling your fingers to take the unexpected gift when all of a sudden, chilly fingers wrap around your wrist, and before you can utter a sound, Death tugs you tidily back into the room, taking your place in the doorway, and peering down at the undead. “Where did you get it?” he asks, ignoring the disgruntled huff you aim at the back of his head, “Is this safe for human consumption?”

Draven’s lipless mouth pulls into a sneer. “Do you think me a fool?” he accuses.

“I think you an undead who we’ve only just met,” the Horseman replies coolly.

The Blademaster leans back on a heel, appraising Death with an expression that borders on impressed. “A fair point,” he concedes. Seconds later, Draven yields a nod. “It’s safe, Death. Believe it or not, the King entertains more than just the dead in his court, some of whom still rely on sustenance to get them through the day. Supplies are not as scarce as they would seem at first glance, and I may be far-removed from humanity, but I still remember my way around a cooking pot.”

Then, wordlessly, he holds the bowl and cup out towards the Horseman, tipping his head to one side with an expectant gleam in his fearsome, blue eyes.

Death’s attention flits between Draven and his handful several times, squinting dubiously at the dull, brown slop. For a few uncomfortable seconds, the Horseman subjects your potential meal to a good, long glare, and then at last, to your relief, you watch him raise his hands and grasp the edge of the bowl between his thumb and forefinger, doing the same with the cup.

He doesn’t take them immediately, too busy giving the undead a threatening growl. “If she eats this and something happens-“

“-I’ll be meeting the business end of your scythe?” Draven guesses, quirking a brow bone as he relinquishes the crockery and drops his arms to his sides again.

Death’s eyes narrow to thin lines of fire, prompting the undead to let out a chuckle and raise his hands up in mock defeat. “I understand, Horseman, I understand. I’d be overprotective as well if I had a lady like her under my care.”

Half hidden behind the Nephilim, you suck a breath in through your teeth as your grim companion bristles like a cornered cat, almost doubling in size with the amount of indignation that swells his shoulders. You’ve only known him a week or so, but in that time, you’ve already learned that being accused of caring is pretty low on the list of Things Death likes to Hear.

And sure enough…

“I am not overprotective,” the Horseman seethes, but with such an air of petulance that whatever threat his tone might have been trying to imply is completely undermined. Not to mention there’s something curiously un-threatening about the sight of him clutching a bowl of stew that - not thirty seconds ago - he was giving the stink-eye.

Even Draven doesn’t seem all that worried as he casts a knowing look at you around Death’s shoulder, his ghoulish features scrunching into a wink.

“No?” he asks, cocking his head to one side and sliding his gaze back to the wall of Nephilim standing before him, “Well, in that case, when the sun rises, I’m sure you won’t mind if I treat the lady to that tour I offered her.”

He’s chancing his arm, and he damn well knows it. And because he knows it, he’s already watching for the precise moment when Death recognises that he’s just stepped right into a verbal trap.

Unseen by the human in their midst, Death’s narrow eyes are now almost indiscernible within the congealing darkness of his sockets, and it’s only thanks to their preternatural, fiery glow that Draven can tell they’re open at all. They float inside the pitch-black pits that have been carved out of an ivory mask, unnatural and eerie, like two strips of flame streaking through the night sky.

If someone were to strike a match in the air between he and Death, Draven is almost certain the spark would set off an explosion that could blow the Eternal Throne clear through the stratosphere.

Two options lay out before the ancient Nephilim: Allow yo u to go with Draven in the morning, proving the smug undead wrong in his judgement of Death’s character. Or refuse the offer on your behalf and prove him right.

Begrudgingly, Death concedes that the undead’s tactics have successfully tripped him up. Rare as it is, it’s somewhat refreshing to be kept on his toes. Not that he’s in any way pleased to be cornered like this… Not least because he has a reputation he’d like to keep intact.

“She’ll consider it,” he says shortly.

There. It’s neither a yes or a no, and vague enough that Draven’s expectant gaze darkens with disappointment. Death is tempted to smirk triumphantly. Just because he stepped into the trap doesn’t mean he won’t know how to get out of it. He’s almost offended that the undead thought it would be so easy.

But the acquiescing look on Draven’s face doesn’t linger for more than a blink before it’s gone.

“I hope she does,” he hums, leaning sideways once more so that he can send you another secretive smile around the Horseman’s bulk, a smile that you find yourself readily reflecting. It feels like there’s a connection there somehow, between you and Draven. Human and ex-human. It’s something that Death isn’t privy to because he isn’t and never was human.

You wonder… Hell, you dare to hope that Draven might just… get you. There’s common ground in your humanity. The soul that sits lonely in your heart reaches out for the tiniest promise of companionship, softening you to the undead in a way you hadn’t anticipated. Right now, as you share amusement at the Grim Reaper’s expense, you find Draven just that bit more bearable to look at. Even the swords and broken blades that jut from his person like morbid adornments don’t seem so gruesome.

“I will consider it,” you promise, prompting Death to heave a disgruntled sigh whilst you breeze over his complaint, “Thank you, Draven. Really. This…” This act of immense kindness, though it might have seemed so mundane if it happened on Earth, has done wonders to warm your heart after feeling your very soul freeze over after your nightmare. But how could you possibly put into words the comfort he’s brought you? Rather than overthink it, you merely give your head a tiny shake of disbelief and let out a soft laugh, “This means… so much to me.”

Laying a hand across his concave chest, the undead dips his torso into a shallow bow and replies, “For you, it was no trouble at all.”

To your own surprise, the chivalrous little display turns you shy, and you start to fiddle with the hem of your shirt absentmindedly, avoiding his searching eyes as you smile down at the floor near Death’s boots.

Clicking his tongue, the Horseman shifts to stand sideways in the entrance, sweeping an unimpressed glance between you and Draven.

You may have averted your gaze, but the undead certainly hasn’t.

From head to toe, you’re all but poured over like a scroll of parchment in an angel’s library. Shameless in his observation, Draven’s cadaverous eyes carve tracks across your face and roam down the length of your body, whilst Death goes mostly ignored.

The Horseman is no fool. Though the very notions of romance and attraction have forever eluded him, he’s old and worldly enough to have at least encountered both in some way, shape or form. Besides, even a dunce would have to be trying exceptionally hard to miss what’s right in front of his nose.

You’ve caught the Blademaster’s eye.

And there’s the rub. Demons, he can put his scythe to, corrupted constructs and bloodthirsty bugs can be slain to keep you out of their gullets. Even Karn and his, at times, glaring attachment to you were innocent enough, as if the youngling was more starved for meaningful friendship than companionship. But an amorous undead? Death doesn’t have any protocol for manoeuvring around that particular minefield.

Once again, if there is such a thing as luck, the Horseman would be cursing his own. Isn’t it just typical that in such a vast and limitless Universe, his path would somehow carry you right to the Blademaster – the only other sod in Creation who shares your origins? Musing on that, Death can’t help but wonder if there truly is some unseen, omniscient hand guiding you along your journey.

Whoever the puppet master is, they’ve got a sick sense of humour.

Draven was Human – famously unpredictable species, a stereotype you continue to substantiate – but more to the point, he’s an unknown, and Death doesn’t especially like dealing with unknowns.

“Well then,” he announces abruptly, causing you to jump and reminding him that he’s allowed the undead to linger for a few moments too long, “If there’s nothing else…”

The skin around Draven’s jaw stretches as he opens it until the holes in his cheeks are thin and long, but before he can utter a word, Death says, “Wonderful,” and with a deft swing of his elbow, he bumps the door closed, giving the bottom of the wood a kick on its way to make sure it slams firmly shut. The room is once more plunged into that grimy, too-green gloom.

“Oh, that’s real nice, Death,” you snap, “The poor guy gives me a meal and lets me sleep in his bed, and you slam his own door shut in his face.”

“… That’s it,” he grumbles, turning to face you and pressing the bowl and cup into your hands, careful not to spill its contents as you splutter out a weak protest and fumble awkwardly with the woodware, “Tomorrow, you’re coming with me to the Champion’s arena. Not-!” he quickly snaps when you open your mouth to speak, “- to fight. You’re to watch from the sidelines.”

Looking down at you through the dark, he can tell you’re torn between continuing to berate him and diving into your newly acquired meal. Your eyes flit back and forth between him, the bowl, and the door, through which you can already hear the fading footfalls of your gracious host.

You’ve bulled yourself up at Draven’s expense, lips twisting into an unhappy frown, but it isn’t to last. Not with how desperate you are to fill your belly with something warm and cooked. Venting out a huff, you begrudgingly expel all the hot air from your lungs and lower yourself down onto the edge of the bed, lifting the stew to your lips to blow at the steam that drifts from it. “How do you know I’m not considering Draven’s tour?” you challenge.

It’s a good thing you’re pointedly ignoring the Horseman in favour of tipping back the bowl, because the look he shoots you is venomous enough that it would have stung had you caught it head-on.

“Just... Just eat the damn stew,” is all he bites out.

Well… You’re only too happy to oblige to that request.

You try not to wolf down the whole thing in one go, but as soon as the thin, watery gravy touches your lips and washes onto your tongue, you’re almost bowled over by the sheer influx of taste. At this point, after surviving on little else but water and the strange jerky Thane gave you, you could have eaten a rice cracker and called it filet mignon. Several bursts of flavour warm the inside of your cheeks and seep over and under your tongue. A piece of meat slides between your teeth as you slurp it up and you bite down on it hard, finding the strip tough and chewy, but oh so mouth-watering.

You spare the briefest of thoughts to its creature of origin, though the moment soon passes when you swallow, letting out a groan that might have been embarrassing if you weren’t so sure you’re justified in making such a sound. Privately, you make a mental note to thank Draven profusely in the morning, though whether that’s before or after you apologise to him for Death’s behaviour, you haven’t yet decided.

“Holy-“ Pausing, you lower the bowl and sweep a finger over the corners of your mouth, delicately removing the gravy gathered there, “-Shit, this is good.”

He almost asks if it tastes strange or off in any way, but with the Blademaster's words still ringing in his ears, Death stuffs them down with the rest of his wounded ego and begins to grumble nonsensically to himself. In fact, he's so busy muttering under his breath and glowering at the door that he doesn’t even pause to throw a withering glare at Dust when the crow hops onto the bed again and struts up to you with the confidence of a bird who knows you’re a pushover.

Only too happy to reinforce that confidence, you deftly scoop a chunk of meat into your palm and offer it out for the bird to peck at.

“Overprotective…” Death scoffs heatedly, “The nerve of that…” His mask abruptly whips around towards you, giving you pause with your cheeks full of stew. “Do you feel I’ve been overprotective?”

Putting aside the fact that you’ve never seen Death get this riled about a jibe before…

Swallowing thickly, you draw out an unconvincing, “No?”

The strange glow of his irises flicker for a second – a twitch of an eyelid? “Well, if I seem that way, it’s only because you’re so damnably adept at getting yourself into trouble,” he complains, crossing his arms and leaning back against the wall with a decisive thump, “And frankly, I’d rather avoid having an angry group of makers hunt me to the ends of the Universe if something were to happen to you under my watch.”

It’s not just a lie meant to preserve his pride. Not entirely…

“They wouldn’t do that,” you tut, bemused, tilting the bowl and taking another, long slurp of the stew, manners be damned. You never thought you’d eat a cooked meal again.

His chest rumbles moodily. “They would.”

A wordless peace lingers in the air between you then, disturbed only by the sound of you chewing through toughened meat and the gentle sloshing of stew as your fingers chase the pieces around their bowl. You pretend not to notice the quick, attentive glances being sent your way.

Dust throws his feathered head up towards the ceiling, his beak wide open around the hunk of meat you offered him. In a rather unappetising display, the crow gulps it down with a few bobs of his neck.

“Nice,” you grunt, pulling a face.

You don’t put your bowl down until every last piece of the stew is gone, and even then you have to fight back an urge to lick the interior clean, mindful that present company might find that habit a bit too uncivilised not to comment on. Even with the Earth and its civilisation far behind you, you can’t let go of table-manners. It would be laughable if the reminder of your lonely humanness didn’t carry so many undertones of despair.

Breathing a soft, satisfied sigh, you bend down and drop the bowl on the floor with a clunk, instantly exchanging it for the cup of water before you sit up again to watch Death glower at the doorway as though he hopes it’ll burst into flames.

There’s a rigidity to him that doesn’t suit the late hour and the warmth in your belly.

Casting your mind about for a way to free him from whatever monologue he must have rattling away in that enigmatic head of his, you take a swig of the water, regarding the Horseman ponderously over the rim of the cup.

“So,” you say, smacking your lips as the lukewarm liquid slides down your throat, “What do you think the chances are that Vulgrim’s delivered my message?”

Luminous eyes blink slowly, roving from the door to land on your face.

He visibly hesitates, then asks, “What would help you go back to sleep faster?”

Your deadpan stare is ruined by an unseemly snort and flutter of your lips. “Just humour me, wise guy.”

“Very well…” Death grunts, “Chances are slim.”

“… Don’t know why I bother.”

Despite your tone, you’re secretly pleased when his broad shoulders slacken as he chuckles, unfolding his arms and resting each hand casually on his hips instead. “Given how often you’ve surprised me so far,” he sighs with an air of begrudging acceptance, “I suppose it wouldn’t be so shocking to learn you’ve actually convinced the demon to go through with your favour.”

“I surprise you?” you smile.

“At every turn.”

“Aw~”

“That’s not a compliment.”

“Oh.”

It is. It absolutely is. But he’ll be damned if he lets you know what a luxury surprises are for a being who was confident the Universe had nothing new to throw at him. He’s already far too soft on you as it is. Paying you compliments paves a slippery slope towards irrefutable fondness.

Dust would be insufferable.

“Now then,” he coughs gruffly, more to disrupt his own thoughts than to get your attention, “You should… try and get some more rest. I’ll wake you at sunrise.”

All at once, what little levity had been draped around your shoulders sloughs away. He’s right. You should try and sleep a little longer. Moments like these, moments where you can stop to catch your breath, could well be few and far between in the coming days.

“Death? Will you…?” Your voice catches and you don’t finish your sentence aloud, working your jaw up and down wordlessly as a sudden but subtle wave of shame washes over you like an ebbing tide. ‘Stay’ is on the tip of your tongue. But you realise it’s a silly question to ask, even if a very small, very vulnerable part of you desperately wants to seek reassurance from the dour Horseman sharing this space with you. Death has given no indication that he plans to stray far from your side.

Bottom line? You’re afraid to fall asleep again, much as your overwrought mind craves a few more hours of unconscious bliss, and your arms feel heavy as lead when you lower the cup to the floor, setting it down beside the bowl.

If you sleep, you might dream, after all.

And your dreams are full of ghosts.

Fingers twist searchingly into the blanket you’re sitting on, squeezing and clenching until they ache. It grounds you, at least a bit.

You don’t really notice that Death’s mask is tilted to one side, watching your hands closely until he shifts, easing himself through the gloom until he’s only a step away from the bed. It’s sometimes convenient to forget what he is, when your heart misses home so badly that it wants to find humanity in everything around you, including Death. It’s easy to forget that he’s older than you could probably comprehend, that he’s wise enough to hear a human’s unfinished plea and be able to predict how it ends.

“I'm not going anywhere,” he assures you.

Relief unwinds your hands from the fists you’ve curled them into, like roses blooming from the bud.

Soon, you’ll be awake, and the tragedies of yesterday will be saddled to your back alongside all the rest, but you’ll carry them with you as best you can. You don’t have a choice, after all. You followed Death to the Land of the Dead.

When the sun rises, you’ll rise with it and face the consequences of your choice.

#I live #Darksiders #fluff #soft Death #jealousy #Draven x Reader #attraction #GOD it's late #But it feels good to post this #I'm still here

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adridoesstuff · 20 days

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DJKT JCS review (Apr. 2nd 2024)

Here's a short review (for my standards) of just what happens onstage during the recently premiered production of Jesus Christ Superstar in Pilsen. Cut is for length.

The main cast for the show on the day were: Pavel Klimenda (Jesus of Nazareth), Dušan Kraus (Judas Iscariot), Charlotte Režná (Mary Magdalene), Pavel Klečka (Pontius Pilate), Jan Holík (King Herod), Jan Fraus (Caiaphas), Radim Flender (Annas), Jaroslav Panuška (First priest/Company), Lukáš Jindra (Second priest/Company), Roman Krebs (Third priest), Martin Holec (Peter), Jakub Gabriel Rajnoch (Simon Zealotes), Apolena Veldová (Virgin Mary/Jesus' Mother)

Pre-show: The show starts all the way in the theatre lobby, where instead of DJKT’s usual ads for other of their shows, all the TVs show footage of the Roman in-show propaganda posters, which are sometimes interrupted with footage of Jesus and Judas. Once you enter the auditorium, you can see the set fully exposed, lights running left and right through the first few rows, the fog machine softly running and all the screens onstage showing in-show Roman propaganda posters, all of them talk about the strength and glory of the empire, how the empire protects It’s inhabitants and preserves the empire’s culture. On the graffitti covered metal fence are tacked on a few scrunched up posters with Jesus on them. All throughout, you can hear a soft mechanical whirring in the background. As the lights dim, Jesus and Judas slowly come onstage, followed by the apostoles, from the right offstage door and observe the set and the propaganda. Jesus raises his hand in a sudden motion and the mechanical whirring in the background stops and the overture starts.

Overture: During the first notes of the overture, you can hear a few women offstage screaming for help, presumably from Roman guards. Jesus pulls out a tablet from the backpack he’s carrying and starts tapping into it. The propaganda posters start glitching as Jesus evidently starts hacking into the system and are soon replaced with slightly glitchy footage of Jesus, immaculately dressed and presented as the ideal savior, complete with soft rays of sunlight in the background. The apostles start setting up camera equipment and ringlights around Jesus, preparing to shoot more footage. One of them starts fixing Jesus’s hair with a can of hairspray and adjusting his clothes, so that he looks immaculate, just like the perfect savior of the world should look like and not a single hair is out of place. Judas only looks on disdainfully as he once in a while takes a hit from his vape pen. During the middle of the overture, a Roman guard comes in from the other side of the stage with two women and forces them to take down the posters with Jesus from the fence. Jesus once again starts intensely tapping into his tablet, choosing which footage of him gets shown onscreen until the footage shown is without a single glitch and Jesus looks proudly at the work he accomplished.

Heaven on Their Minds: Evidently fed up with Jesus’s entire spiel, Judas takes away his tablet, turns it off and yeets it onto the ground in frustration. Jesus and all the other apostles give him a look of „Bro, what is wrong with you“ before Jesus takes his tablet again and gets back to working on it. All through the number, Judas looks longingly at Jesus and looks like he’s trying to explain and reason with Jesus that his entire plan is getting out of hand and dangerous. Jesus just waves off Judas’s warnings and runs offstage.

What’s the Buzz: Jesus excitedly leads onstage two ensemble women, presumably as new members of his team. He is evidently still innocently really excited about using his built up infuence to change the world for the better. The metal fence is drawn away, revealing the squat/campsite of Jesus’s followers. Mary Magdalene is already waiting there for the group to return. Jesus whips off his coat and gratefully lays his head in Mary‘s lap and croons in delight as she cools off his forehead and cards through his hair.

Strange Thing, Mystifying: As Jesus is lounging, Judas is evidently very fed up with all the attention that is not being given to him, but to Mary. He kneels down to Jesus and tries to reason with him that so openly associating with Mary as a former sex worker will only harm the entire image and brand Jesus is presenting publically. Mary is very hurt by this. Jesus jumps up from Mary’s lap, upset that Judas dares to offend Mary and as he lectures his apostoles that only one who is innocent should throw rocks into those like Mary, Judas picks up a crushed can and wants to throw it into Mary, but one „wtf bro?“ look from Jesus stops him. It’s evident that already here, Jesus is slowly starting to lose hope whether his apostoles truly mean things as seriously as he does

Then, We Are Decided: The apostle gang along with Jesus, Judas and Mary settle down around their tents in the dim further stage. The only thing breaking the dimness is the soft blue light from Jesus’s tablet as he continues scrolling through it. Annas pushes onstage a wheelchair-bound Caiphas and helps him wash up as they scheme how to get rid of Jesus.

Everything’s Alright: Attention back on the group. Mary notices a medicine seller in the background and taking off her silver tassel necklace along with snatching some small thing from the camp, she sells them in trade for an ointment. She takes Jesus away from the main tent camp (much to Judas‘ exasperation), but he still isn’t paying full attention to her, so she takes away his tablet and makes him lay down onto a pillow made out of his coat and backpack, where she can rub the ointment into his face. Judas starts off on Mary for both unwisely spending the group’s money and for being jealous of all the attention Jesus gives her. Despite Mary’s continuous attempts to get Jesus to rest, his attention is constantly drawn elsewhere, either to longingly staring at Judas or to a poor crippled woman upstage, who he runs off to heal with his touch. In the end, Mary gets Jesus to settle down next to the tents, but he still keeps on tapping into his tablet even as the lights go dim.

This Jesus Must Die: Caiaphas and Annas along with the priests appear up on a construction overlooking the tent camp, where Jesus and everyone else rest. They are now dressed in their full uniform and plot their next step as the screens show what looks like security camera footage of the group arriving in the half devastated city

Hosanna: Jesus and co are chilling in front of their tents when excited crowd of Jesus’s followers approaches them and sings praises for him. They take Jesus up on their shoulders and carry him to a pile of old bottle crates and other old stuff to preach to them from higher up, but he kneels down to them. Amid the crowd throughout the entire play can be seen Jesus’s mother, who is an added silent role within the production. She looks on what is happening to her son, offers a distant emotional support to him, but never interferes.

Simon Zealotes: After Hosanna, Simon is evidently not content with how conventional and tame it was, so with the words „You call THIS a hosanna?“ he leads the apostles and Jesus’s followers in a wild and energetic dance, singing about how they want Jesus to make love to them. Simon looks like has the full intent of destroying property as he sings of how Jesus can easily rule over Rome thanks to his influence. Jesus still stands on the spot he was raised up to by his followers and watches them with slowly escalating horror on his face. At first, he looks like he thinks all of Simon’s talk is just fun and jokes, but he slowly starts realizing that Simon is earnest about what he says and that despite all his peaceful and calm intent with only the hope to help perhaps help as many people as he can has started turning against him and his followers have started to radicalize and there is no way to stop them

Poor Jerusalem: Jesus calms down the raging mob of his followers and reflects on how not a single of them will ever truly understand him and the pressure that being known and famous brings with it. Judas wants to offer him consolation, but Jesus walks sadly away.

Pilate’s Dream: Pilate’s bed, full of ornamental pillows, is raised up from under the stage and he wakes up with a sudden jolt and recounts his nightmare, as if slowly recounting it.

The Temple: The set is flooded with the ensemble offering their wares and dancing around. Into this wild scene arrives Jesus, closely followed by Judas, and is evidently horrified at the scene. Jesus pulls out his phone to document what is happening. Judas tries to reason with him, try to make him put down the phone and lead him away from the scene, but Jesus is firmly set on what he wants to do. He starts filming the sellers, running around the set to get each of them on video in detail before he yells them out. After everyone leaves, Jesus looks very guilty over what he did, both because he broke his principles of being the kindest person he can be, but also because this might hurt his reputation by not aligning with the persona he and his team created. Slowly, the sick people slither onstage from the shadows and beg Jesus to touch and heal/help them. Jesus tries to ignore them and emptily stares into the audience with a sad gaze, but as the pleas get more insistent and he realizes there is no way to Ignore them, but also no way to help all of them, he starts breaking down into tears and desperate screams. He runs away from the crowd far stage right after he yells at them to heal themselves and flops down onto the ground, evidently holding back tears and trying to hide them from anyone seeing them.

Everything’s Alright (reprise)/I Don’t Know How to Love Him: Mary, now with a shawl wrapped around her shoulders, tries to console Jesus, but he only hollowly answers her as he continues being huddled in the corner of the stage, hugging his knees. Mary Is evidently conflicted about her emotions towards Jesus, because she does visibly care deeply for him, but sees that he might never reciprocate her feelings. But, she bursts out into dance and appears to find happiness that she can be near him and his friend, and that thanks to Jesus, she has found a more fulfilling version of herself.

Damned for All Time/Blood Money: Judas looks very reluctant over his decision, pacing left and right over the set and looks rather scared of Annas and Caiaphas as they crowd around him. Annas holds out a red pouch of money in offer to Judas and only very reluctantly, Judas, with an outstretched hand under the pouch, but not touching it, tells them where to find Jesus.

Entr’acte: Jesus has one of his apostoles bring onstage a plastic foot basin and a gas can with water. He leads an apostole and then Peter to the basin and washes their feet. He then approaches Mary and helps her take off her shoes and stockings, while a few of the apostoles hoot as Mary takes the stockings off, and also washes her feet. Then, he approaches Judas, gently helps him remove one of his shoes and washes one of his feet.

The Last Supper: Judas helps set up a makeshift dining table out of crates and a wide board. The apostles sit around it and Jesus sits at the head, breaking up a loaf of bread into twelve chunks with his hands as the apostles pour one another wine. However, as Jesus sees his apostles eagerly bite into the bread as soon as it’s handed to them, without stopping to pray or discuss, a wave of melancholy goes over him. He sees that he himself is the only person there who actually cares about helping people and the world. He leaves the table to collect his thoughts, but even then, he is followed by Peter with a voice recorder, who is trying to catch everything that could be used for their campaign. He nervously paces around the set and throws off his coat as he says how he knows none of the apostles truly care for him, before quickly snatching up his tablet and to the protest of all the apostles deleting all files from it. When he says that he knows one of them will betray him, Judas steps forward, at first talking to Jesus very matter-of-fact-ly, as if he is trying to get this conversation over and done with as soon as possible, but he starts loosing his composure as the argument continues. Jesus is very hurt by the betrayer being Judas, seemingly berating himself for not realizing sooner that Judas would be the one to do this, and is trying to hold back tears all through their argument. Jesus tearfully yells at Judas to go away, but immediately clings to and embraces him. Judas embraces him in return and they sink to the ground, looking like they just want to stay in the embrace. Judas slowly separates himself and turns to leave, but as if trying to prove a point and justifying his decision, he paces around Jesus, who is still sitting slumped on the ground, eyes watery and unfocused. He tries to reason that Jesus was already hurling towards his demise and the broken state he’s now in is only a proof of that he Is not humankind’s savior, as if he’s trying to drive the knife deeper to mask that he doesn’t want to do this. Jesus once again brokenly yells at Judas to go and Judas reluctantly complies. The apostles lay down to sleep in their tents, leaving a broken Jesus alone onstage, who has been tearfully gazing in the direction Judas left.

Gethsemane: There are two stops intentionally included in the music. One as Jesus is about to start singing and the other before the first „Then I was inspired…“. Each time, the music stops as Jesus looks back towards where the orchestra is situated behind the set and he looks back almost in a plea that he doesn’t want to do this, that he doesn’t want to go through with the story and become a perhaps pointless victim all for wanting to help people. He starts almost pleading with God, but quickly turns spiteful and angsty over God deciding for him how his life will go. As he questions God what is the reason for him having to die, he climbs up the set structure, as If trying to get closer to him. Once he decides that he will do as God wants it and he will die, he screams in spite for God to watch on the destruction he’s about to cause. He ends the song bitterly resigned with tears in his eyes.

The Arrest: Judas arrives with guards in tow and approaches Jesus alone, talking to him in an almost mocking manner to mask his pain over what he’s about to do. The kiss is a gentle and brief one on the lips, as if Judas wants to get over with it as quickly as possible, but Jesus visibly leans into it with teary eyes. Jesus’s delivery of „Must you betray me with a kiss?“ with an emphasis not on the betrayl, but on the kiss and him putting a little pause before the kiss part, as it it’s hard to say out loud. The guards step forward and Jesus willingly offers them his hands to tie up. Peter tries to interfere and hits one of the guards on the head. Jesus immediately takes away his weapon while berating him and turning to the guard, he touches the wound to heal it. Annas and Caiaphas arrive. Through the scene, Judas has been trying to hide in the left corner of the stage, trying to look as if he had no part in this, until Annas directly thanks him for helping in arresting Jesus, upon which he frightfully departs.

Peter’s Denial: A few ensemble members are warming by a trashcan fire, when Peter goes by them, trying to hide his face with the hood of his yellow raincoat. He tries to play off the first denial with a smile and energy of „this Is just a stupid coincidence“, but his third denial is really angry and desperate. Mary appears at the back of the stage, worried over what Peter just did, but tries to comfort him when she sees how much it hurt him to deny knowing Jesus.

Pilate and Christ: The set changes to Pilate’s palace, complete with two green wall chandeliers made out of used bottles. Jesus is brought forth in front of Pilate, who is in his full opulent fur trimmed costume. For the questioning, Jesus is tied to the bars of a cage, which looks to be connected to electricity and made for torture via electroshocks, the guards bring forth. Mary and Peter can be seen in the background, being held back by guards. Jesus is unbound from the cage as Pilate sends him off to Herod.

King Herod’s Song: Into the earlier entry door of Pilate’s palace backs in a beaten up car with Herod sitting on the smashed in car hood. The entire song, Herod relishes in the destruction and chaos he’s causing and in traumatizing Jesus. Specifically, he pulls out the cut off head of John the Baptist from a fridge they have on set and throws it around with his minions like a ball, before rolling it onto the ground. Jesus immediately recognizes John in the head and breaks down onto the ground crying and whispering John’s name, as if trying to apologize to his spirit for being a contributing factor in why Herod executed him. Herod also very roughly slaps Jesus across the face before leaving.

Could We Start Again Please: The graffiti covered metal fence is drawn back over the set as Mary, Peter and the apostles come forth. Mary has her shawl drawn up over her hair and leads the group in a collective prayer, seemingly filling in Jesus’s place as the spiritual leader of the group. The motions the group pray with are similar to the way early Christians prayed, with both their hands raised to the sky. Mary is close to tears by the end of the number.

Judas’s Death: Judas runs onstage as the screens show footage of Jesus getting brutally beaten up by the guards, with repeated close ups on his bloodied and bruised face with tears pooling in his eyes. Judas looks very remorseful over what happened, but he tries to hold himself together all through the „I Don’t Know How To Love Him“ part. By the end of the number, he is bitterly and manically laughing up at God as he is about to hang himself. God might have had control over the narrative, but this way, Judas feels like he is taking his fate into his own hands.

Trial before Pilate: Jesus is once again brought forth, visibly weak and beaten up. Pilate circles him as a guard with a turned on phone walks in front of him and „livestreams“ the entire trial onto the big screens onstage. Mary can once again be seen in the background, being held back by the guards and looking on in worry. The crowd in the back part of the stage demands Pilate sentence Jesus to crucifiction, even when Jesus is visibly barely managing to stand and brutally beaten up. To calm the crowd, Pilate has Jesus flogged, where the guards drag him into the cage, tear away all his clothes and tie him to the bars facing away from the audience. With each hit, the lights in the room flicker. After 39 times of being hit, Mary manages to fight her way through the guards and as Jesus’s ties are loosened, she gives him a loin cloth to cover himself. As Jesus turns back towards the audience, his chest and face are visibly bloodied. Pilate tries to empathetically reason and come up with a way to somehow save him. Jesus barely, but chillingly whimpers the „Everything is fixed and you can’t change It“. The cross, which looks to be made of old iron, gets dragged onstage, with a blank cardboard plaque above the head. Pilate is handed a can of blue spray paint and paints on the Initials JC as he tells his verdict.

Superstar: A red cloth is placed around Jesus’s shoulders and a crown of thorns is forced onto his head as Judas, now wearing a red turban/headwrap instead of the previously gray one, and the soul girls, dressed as angels all in red and with giant wings, are rolled in onstage. Judas and the angels dance around and sing as the entire carrying of the cross Is recreated. Jesus falls under the cross three times, he is followed by a crowd of weeping women where he notices his mother, one of the apostles tries to help him carry the cross, he is offered a cloth to wipe his face into by Veronica. At one point, as Jesus is carrying the cross, Judas starts dancing in front of him and sort of leading him where he should go. During the final chorus, Jesus falls a third time, but away from the audience’s gaze.

Crucifiction: The cross is raised up, Jesus hanging on it with bright stage lights behind him. He whimpers on it, sometimes almost incoherently through the pain. He calls weakly his mother, who has to only watch from down below and can’t save him. All she can do is calm a weeping Mary in her arms. Jesus dies with a final whispered „Father, into your hands a commend my spirit“ and remains limply hanging on the cross.

John Nineteen:Forty-One: The cross is lowered and Peter with one other apostle take Jesus’s body off of the cross. They lay him into his mother’s arms in a pose similar to Pieta sculptures, so she can say her goodbye and then lay him on the ground, letting Mary say her goodbye. They cover up Jesus’s body with a sheet, but after they remove it after a few seconds, but Jesus’s body has disappeared. Everyone onstage lokes into the skies as they sing out the last notes.

#jesus christ superstar #jcs #djkt #djkt jcs #such an incredible show to witness #djkt once again proved they know how to make great musical productions #Adri rambles

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merlilica · 6 months

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@signoraviolettavalery @touchyourblood @nyx-aira

So uhhh. I may or may not have been thinking nonstop about how the wedding dresses are built to stop runaway brides.

I wrote a thing

Jan's life was one full of contradictions. A vampire hunter who was never taught to fight, a beautiful musician ordered to sing only for his future husband, a prized possession encouraged to take care of himself so that he could be given away to someone else.

A bride running away from a wedding he'd begged for since he was a child.

The lace caught on a stray branch as he ran, refusing to tear and break. He pulled. It wouldn't let go.

Fuck, he didn't have time for this. Any moment now they'd realize—

The deep, low tone of a bell sounded off in the distance.

They knew, they’d discovered his empty room, and now they'd be coming. He should've known he wouldn't be able to escape that easily.

With a final tug, the branch snapped off, weighing down the already painfully heavy skirts just a little bit more. Jan kept running. He dodged rocks and wove around trees, the skirt leaving a trail of upset earth behind him.

A shadow appeared, silhouetted by moonlight and blocking the path in front of him. Jan stuttered to a halt, his heavy skirts swirling around him.

“Hello, darling,” his would-be husband said in a deep, dangerous, silky smooth voice. He looked perfectly at ease, completely unconcerned about Jan’s running away.

He was right to be; Jan should’ve known he could never escape him anyway.

Breathing hard, he took a step backwards. His husband took two towards him.

“Come now,” he crooned. “We don’t need to make this harder than it needs to be, love.”

“No,” Jan whispered, trying to hide the trembling of his hands by grasping desperately at his skirts. “No, no, no…”

“We’ll go back, you’ll marry me like you’re supposed to, and I’ll see to it that your punishment is light.”

“Please…” he begged, voice shaking. He was so close. He could feel the freedom slipping through his fingers like the finest sand. “Please.”

His husband stepped towards him again, faster.

In a rush to get back, Jan’s shoe caught on his skirts and sent him tumbling to the ground, barely catching himself in time. He wanted to keep going, tried to pull himself away, but a single foot on his skirts prevented him from getting any further.

“Oh, love,” he cooed, kneeling down so that they were eye to eye. “Your fear is beautiful. They told me you were the best—top of your class, actually—but I must say, I wasn’t expecting to have this much fun with you.”

In a desperate measure, Jan went for the pin in his hair. Fight dirty, Nace had said. Someone in his position couldn’t afford to follow common law combat. Aim for the eyes. In one quick motion, he tugged it out and slashed at his husband’s face.

It was no use.

His husband laughed, catching his wrist before Jan could get anywhere close to striking, twisting it and forcing him to drop the makeshift blade with a muffled cry.

He nuzzled against Jan’s shaking palm, letting himself breathe in the scent of the slight perfume on his wrists, and sighed.

“They did a beautiful job, dolling you up for me.”

With a finger under Jan’s chin, he tilted his face up so that Jan was forced to look at him, still breathing heavily. From the running or the panic, he didn’t know. His husband’s hand was almost painfully cold against his warm skin as he moved to stroke Jan’s face.

He let go of Jan’s wrist and instead used his other hand to comb through his hair, almost gently. Sweetly.

His husband took a fistful in his hand and used it to pull Jan’s head to the side, exposing his neck completely. He ducked his head into the space as Jan tried not to even breathe, and took a deep inhale against his skin.

“Beg.”

Jan’s heart stopped cold in his chest.

“I want you to beg for me not to take it yet,” he commanded. “Show me how scared you are.”

He took a deep, shaking breath, and let his eyes fall closed, silently praying that he would somehow wake up from this nightmare.

His husband yanked harshly on his hair, pulling a whimper from Jan’s throat. A few unbidden tears fell from his eyes.

“I’m not kidding.”

“Please,” he whispered before he could stop himself. “Please don’t…”

His husband hummed against his neck. “I don’t know if that’s enough, love.”

He felt a nip of teeth against the sensitive skin of his neck and his breath hitched.

Pleas and begs fell from Jan’s mouth without even trying.

“Please. Please, no I—I can’t, please don’t do this to me, I’m not ready, please I’ll do anything please no, no, no I don’t want this, please, I can’t, don’t do this to me, please—“

His husband laughed as Jan kept going.

He smiled against Jan’s neck, took another deep, languid breath, and said simply, “No.”

Jan barely had a moment before the lace of his collar was ripped away, and the teeth sank into the tender skin of his neck.

It hurt, oh god it hurt.

They didn’t tell him it would hurt this much. The only preparation they gave him was just to lay still and take it, let it happen, it’ll be easier that way.

He didn’t know if he could do anything else.

The air started to get colder and colder as he convulsed. His husband held strong. Black spots danced in his vision and the world got blurrier and blurrier, melding into shapes and colors of light and dark.

The teeth at his jugular finally let go, and Jan collapsed to the ground as the world spun around him. His eyelids felt so, so heavy. It would be so easy to just shut his eyes and fall asleep…

The dizziness tripled as his husband lifted him into the air, he fell limp in his arms, lacking the strength to hold himself up.

Jan finally let the darkness swallow his vision whole, and barely heard it when his husband spoke.

“Remember, darling. I do this because I love you.”

Then, nothing.

#vampire!bojan #absolutely fucking not putting this in the main tags nosiree

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kpoptimeout · 3 months

Text

K-Pop Debuts and Comebacks for the Fourth Week of January and 2024 (Jan 22 - Jan 28 2024)

Jan 22

AB6IX - GRAB ME

Talented boy band AB6IX shows their seasoned stage presence in this smooth track!

youtube

EVNNE - UGLY

Popular BOYS' PLANET contestants EVNNE return to slay in this powerful track!

youtube

(G)I-DLE - WIFE

Popular girl group (G)-IDLE teases their comeback with this edgy pre-release track!

youtube

SUPER JUNIOR L.S.S. - Suit Up

Super Junior's 6th sub-unit returns for some chaotic good fun!

youtube

TWS - plot twist

PLEDIS' first boy band since NU'EST and SEVENTEEN debut in this sweet song which screams nostalgic and innocence!

youtube

Jan 23

I.M - Slowly ft. HEIZE

MONSTA X's I.M drops a mellow collaboration with top RnB soloist HEIZE.

youtube

IU - Love wins all

IU croons sweetly in the post-apocalypse with BTS' V in her pre-release single!

youtube

SEOLA - Without U

GWSN's SEOLA goes solo in this confident dance-pop ballad.

youtube

Jan 24

CIX - Lovers or Enemies

Dark-concept boy band CIX returns as android lovers in this smooth track.

youtube

KIM JAE HWAN - Ponytail

WANNA ONE's main vocal Kim Jae Hwan is back with with funky and vibey performance!

youtube

Jan 25

No releases.

Jan 26

No releases.

Jan 27

No releases.

Jan 28

No releases.

What is your favourite release of the week?

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lady-assnali · 7 months

Text

Happy Six Sentence Sunday, this is very inspired by one of the hundred reels I sent @sexynetra where she then hyped me up to write this ✨

—

“Oh, man.” Denali sighs, looking over her colorful stack of paper money wistfully. “Looks like I don’t have enough money to pay rent.”

Mik snorts, rolling his eyes as he watches the blonde start to flutter her lashes. Rosé straightens up in her chair, eyes scanning the Monopoly board and then Denali’s hands. She’s dropped the cash and is playing with the collar of her shirt, shifting it over just enough to show off her collarbone.

“Oh, come on! You’re going to pay your rent like the rest of us or you’re headed straight to jail. Sorry about it, maybe you shouldn’t have spent all that money on Park Avenue.”

She regards Mik’s stern tone for a moment, the look that’s fizzling onto her features one that has him wiping at his eye in (partially) feigned exhaustion. Denali runs her fingers through her hair, pushes it off to one side of her face.

“I just don’t know what I’m going to do.” She sighs again, pouting her pretty lips. She leans over to Rosé, resting a hand on her thigh. It doesn’t take long for the redhead to squirm under her touch.

“I think we can arrange something.” She cups Denali’s cheek, kisses her gently. The shudder of the blonde’s breath underneath her own lips is familiar now, but Rosé is sure she’ll never get used to the way it makes her stomach stir.

“You’ll pay half.” Rosé keeps close to Denali, who shakes her head at the idea.

“Half?” She lets out a breathy laugh. “I’ll pay one fourth and not a penny more.”

“You’re on Park Avenue, Dee. Do you know how much money I’d lose if I let this deal slide?”

“Oh my god, it’s Monopoly. Actually? Flimsy paper dollars.” Mik groans. His input rolls right over their heads.

“We can make a deal then, Rosie.” Denali croons. She cups her cheek, brushes her thumb along the flushed skin there. “Because I’m not paying more than that. I think I’m being more than reasonable here.”

“I think you’re sweet talking me into losing a huge paycheck.”

“But it’s working, isn’t it?” She winks, kisses Rosé hard before scooting her chair back over. She does some math by whispering and starts to count out the meager sum. Before the money can change hands Mik clears his throat and stands up from his seat at the table.

“This was a lovely game night.” He says pointedly, finishing his drink in one swig. He flies around the apartment, grabbing his jacket without even bothering to shrug it over his shoulders.

“Truly, so fun.” He pats both of their shoulders with heavy hands. “I’m just going to read the room and see myself out so you can keep…making your deal.” He lifts a finger to his throat, fake gagging noises accompanying the teasing light in his eyes.

“You don’t have to go!” Denali protests, standing up to help. There’s a piece of her that feels sorry-embarrassed, almost. (Almost.) He holds one hand out in protest, backs up a bit.

“Oh baby, I do. Take my money. Or don’t-it seems like you won’t even need it.”

From her chair Rosé laughs to herself, holding a hand up in the air.

“Yeah, probably not.”

“Rosie!” Denali hits her playfully, an adoring roll of the eyes translating to her own way of saying that of course, Rosé’s right. And of course, she’s forward.

“I’ll be sure to let Jan know that she was right-game night just isn’t my thing.”

“Wait, what did Jan say?”

“Oh, she just warned me that Clue was banned but she wasn’t sure how Monopoly would go. I’ll have to let her know that on a scale from one to ten the two of you are pathetic.”

He lets the door swing shut behind him, his playful tone ringing through the air as Rosé contemplates her best friend’s use of the word pathetic. As if reading her mind, Denali sneaks up behind her, wrapping her hands around her waist and nuzzling the bare skin of her neck with her nose.

“I’m not sure if the word pathetic is right.” Denali’s voice is a hum now, and Rosé shudders at the feeling of it reverberating against her skin. Her hands wander gently to the hem of Rosé shirt, fingers dancing their way up to her chest.

“You owe me money.” Rosé breathes. Denali laughs against the redhead’s back, kissing her shoulderblade.

“Let me pay you the right way first.”

#and Yknow what #I love little shit Denali #rosenali #the teacher au

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sparrowmoth · 1 year

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WIP Teaser: Untitled Wylan whump

I couldn't resist jumping into the deep end for this fandom, so here's an excerpt of the Wylan whump (with Wesper hurt/comfort endgame ofc ofc) I'm working on at the moment. The OC villain of this fic is a heartrender turned serial killer with a penchant for turning Barrel rats into living marionettes; that is, until a certain Jan Van Eck offers her patronage and points to Wylan as the ideal next muse for her work.

CW (for below): Non-graphic torture, brief asphyxiation, child abuse

“You are not ready for performance, mein kleiner puppenjunge.” She crossed two fingers, curled the rest, and took a step forward. Wylan’s hands flew to his throat as he whirled around to face her, then slumped back against the door—the door marked STAGE in faded white. Black edged around his vision. Curtains closing— “Soon,” the woman crooned above him. “Soon, you shine…” Like the lamps hung low from the ceiling on sturdy chains, their flames as bright as daylight, reflecting off the scalpels. This was a dream he had often, recurring through his childhood. He was laid flat on a table, stretched out like a frog with the white coats stood around him. His father, in the corner, was begging them to fix him. And they tried, with their scalpels, carving word after word into his naked flesh. He tried to scream, but they stuffed paper in his mouth, deep down his throat—tearing page after page from endless books— He couldn’t breathe.

If you're interested in reading the fic when it drops, you can keep an eye out for it here on Tumblr or via my AO3. This is my first attempt at writing for SAB, so it's a bit slow going as I feel out the characters, but I'm really excited for it! (I was up until 3 AM writing this last night lol) <3

#wylan van eck #shadow and bone #wesper #sab fanfiction #my fanfiction #my writing #this is a horror story let's be clear #I don't write gratuitous gore but it's still not for the faint of heart lol #poor Wylan #I do adore him #and that means he must suffer :)#thanks to everyone who voted on that little poll of mine by the way #sleep deprivation won that round #I'll write something for that eventually #but this idea started itching my brain so here we are lol

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destinedtobeloved · 4 months

Text

Cruickshank. Hansen. Jiang. Sujiadi. Tony- everyone else.

Died within the moments of what seemed like a lifetime. In what in reality was only really was only a couple of weeks.

He feels those memories inside him anytime he does anything.

The biting of Cruickshank’s foot as it hit him as she died- the splatter of gore Jiang was left of. Digging through the clumps of flesh and blood with Jiang, searching for something - anything to bring their brother back. Stacks unretreived.

Sometimes he’ll think about the others too.

Tony dead at his own hand- the wolf gene in him sobbing as he watches him go down with a look of shock on his face- maybe a look of betrayal as he watches from a third person perspective as he is killed.

The doctor who had known of his plans- falling to his knees crooning, ‘I knew it. I heard you, I saw you. Kovacs- I knew you’d do it.’ Over and over again, like the battle the Martian starship was replaying that infiltrated their heads to no end. And even Jan- thrown up into the abyss of what space claims to be- a deserter, and a traitor in all forms. A new sleeve. A fresh cut deal as the rest of them can’t control themselves from hurling over every ten minutes from the radiation. Regardless, Takeshi was guilty of making Schneider fear. Making him run away.

Hand.

A stupid son-of-a-bitch beliver, arguing with Takeshi on the roof of the corporate building days before their mission about religion. A stick permanently up his ass, a serious and boring corporate executive like all of the rest at Mandrake, being kicked down by Carrera for a bounty- his stack cut out.

Takeshi probably could have afforded to bring him along- but he wasn’t sure if it was worth it in the end. Someone would end up like Cruickshank again with his ass still there. The cooperation would track him. He doesn’t know if he could handle another set of nannodes.

Sometimes he misses hearing his hushed prayers from the barracks, though. He won’t ever admit it regardless.

Tanya wardani. Not dead, but sometimes she might as well be. They won’t speak again. Come, eleven years, maybe. The time they spent on the beach- the way he’d watch her work and the surge of what emotion he really couldn’t tell everytime he saw her inching back from the ledge.

She was a murder. A traitor. Killing her teammates souly due to greed, wanting to keep this one for herself. A coward. Siding with the terroists the Kempists were, just for the sake of her planet.

Still, Takeshi couldn’t help himself.

He’d grown a family with them. An envoy bond. A pack.

For each of them moments were shared- proving them human.

And now they were gone.

He remembers ribbing on Cruickshank. ‘Dead at 22,’ he’d said. Maybe he manifested it. She’d been dead before- but this was real. Takeshi almsot wants to throw up when he thinks about her- someone so young killed for nothing by nanodes for the sake of what? A fucking starship? The greed shared by two men- killing humans because they are cheaper than machines- not caring who is caught in the crossfire or who does not return.

Fuck Mandrake corporation.

For once he gets to latimer- he will notify her family of her death. He will save the details of how she was torn apart- the body bag she was gathered into not even resembling a human- the layout of gore on the turquoise sand- the way her head landed somewhere apart from everything else. Letting those words out alone would make him retch. She never even made it to the Tanya Wardani. She never made it to space. She never saw what they saw. She would never share the look of admiration and true shock at the sight of the warship- the Martian skeletons hanging there- captivating them. She never saw.

The crying of cruikshanks mother he will hear. The look of shock on her father’s face. ‘She was just a baby,’ he will mutter, ‘she was only 22.’ Takeshi will bite his lip and nod his head, giving the family news of her passing 7 years too late.

She was the first one dead.

Maybe that’s why he remembers it the most. Or maybe he was more alive when she died than he was when the rest of them went down.

Dying was a serious condition. Fucks with everything you do.

They were all supposed to die, in the end, regardless of their true survival of the mission. The explosion of Sauberville by the Kempists proved that true.

But that was different. Stacks intact- promised millions of credits and a passage to Latimer City where new sleeves were garuiteed.

Out of the 10 of them, only four of them had made it out- the wolf in him screaming and crying and scratching his eyes out with hands covered in blood that isn’t his over a graveyard with fresh soil laying above the land.

Even as he stays in that construct on the ship, making his 7 year journey to Latimer city- a journey to better jobs and newer sleeves, he thinks of them every once and awhile.

Their journey will always be apart of him.

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whimsii-cal · 2 years

Text

Chorus / Book I / Chapter I

It is Cold Outside.

masterlist

warnings: very mild language

significant characters: Tawkerr, Maggpi, Bowgart

summary: Strange things are afoot in the shattered world of Cantilyra, and a mysterious pair of siblings have appeared out of nowhere with no memories of their past. Tawkerr and Parlsona awoke on Plant Island together, but the distress of their situation is getting to them, and uncontrollable oddities seem to fellow the two wherever they go. Without explanation, Parly has fled Plant Island, and Tawkerr sets off to a wintry land across the sea in search of his sister.

snowflakes are gently falling,

each one on a journey.

~•~ ~•~ ~•~ ~•~ ~•~ ~•~ ~•~

Tawkerr • Jan. 1st

Tawkerr awoke with a start to the bite of bitter cold on his skin. Drowsy and disoriented, he drew his cloak tighter around his shoulders, fingers aquiver in the chilling wind.

For a moment he remained still, trying to collect coherent thoughts from the stirring slew in his aching head, and then he finally remembered just what he was perched atop and why he heard the roaring of waves all around him.

He lifted his weary eyes to meet the back of Bessie’s long, azure neck and sighed, leaning back against the saddle strapped to her shell. “Aye, sorry, Bess…must’ve dozed off.”

The lamphrie craned her neck back to peer at her rider and crooned softly, slapping her fins against the water. Tawkerr sighed sleepily. “I know, I know, ‘s not safe…hey, where are we?” With a rub at his eyes, he suddenly realized the dichotomy between the freezing sting of the air around him and the warm, floral winds he was familiar with. “…Good Galvana, we must be a long way from Plant Island. How long have we been moving?”

Bessie trilled once more and tilted her head to glare at him.

“You’re the one who agreed to take me!” Tawkerr shot back.

Bessie snorted in a manner more reminiscent of a bull than an amphibious sea steed.

“Okay, okay, my bad…” Tawkerr yielded. “Are we at least near land, ya’think? With civilization, I pray…?”

Just as he said that, squinting his eyes at the horizon, he noticed the faintest, blurriest shape on the distance, peering right back at him from the fog. For what he could make of its size relative to its distance, it had to be big enough to be a proper island. “Speak of the devil!” He said breathlessly, fixing his frost-glazed hair and gathering up Bessie’s reins in his hands. “Pick up the pace, Bess! This may be where Parly’s run off to.”

Perhaps Tawkerr’s entire form was shivering and fangs chattering as he reached the shore, but however freezing he felt, the heat of his determination kept him moving forward. Bessie finally came to a steady halt, the swishing of her fins on the waves evolving into repetitive impacts against wet, icy rock. Tawkerr swung his legs off the side of the saddle and let himself slide down. An icy slush of frozen mud and gravel crunched beneath his boots as he hit the ground, stumbling at the sudden weight on his feet. “AH! Geez! H-Haven’t actually used my legs in a while, huh?” He laughed shakily, leaning on Bessie’s slick shell for support. “I’d better find some kind of building before I become a bleedin’ ramsicle…you alright here?”

Bessie gave a quiet trill of confirmation. Tawkerr patted her on the fin, then immediately regretted getting his hand damp, as the cold now bit at it harder than ever. “See you…wait for me here, okay? If I dont come back in a day or two, then… I-I don’t know. Gosh, I’ve probably got the king worried sick, huh?”

The lamphrie blinked at him sadly with her dark, wise eyes, as if to say “yes, you do.”

Without another word, Tawkerr tugged his bag from the saddle and started off, stepping over rocks and chunks of ice jutting from the ground as he headed toward the center of the island, where mountainous structures of rock towered above the sparse wintry wasteland and converged in a peak.

It didn’t look too terrible a climb, especially for someone as agile as himself, so he supposed it would be worth taking a look…

The world around him was now cloaked in a cold, murky gray, as if it had been dredged in a fine layer of bleakness and shadow. He couldn’t tell if it was day or night, as the sky was dark and cloudy all the same. He only spotted the occasional tree, and even those were bare and blackened, looking as though they must have been long dead. The further he walked, the more uneasy he began to feel…the chill settling into his bones and singeing his skin didn’t help. Suddenly he wished he knew pyromancy.

He kept walking.

Had it been only minutes? It felt like hours.

Still walking.

He didn’t feel any closer to the mountains.

And still he walked. He walked until he felt like he couldn’t anymore.

And then he reminded himself of his sister, and it kept him walking.

~•~ ~•~ ~•~ ~•~ ~•~ ~•~ ~•~

Maggpi • earlier that day…

All evening, Maggie had been counting. She counted each swing of the axe, each loud, crisp crack of the logs splitting in two beneath its blade. She had split 47 logs, now, and made 94 pieces of firewood.

Keeping track of numbers usually kept her mind anchored and stopped it from wandering, but nothing could pry her thoughts away from the worries in the back of her head.

Crack. 48 logs, 96 pieces.

She only now noticed how badly her arms ached, the subtle shaking each time she lifted the axe again, but she didn’t allow herself to pause. She couldn’t afford to think about anything else. But here she was, mind still racing.

CRACK. 49, 98.

Maybe it was just the atmosphere getting to her. Everyone had been acting strange lately. Practically all of Cantilyra knew about it; Irrational decisions, casters’ magic acting up, ferality at an all time high…Everyone she had spoken to about it agreed that they had been affected by it too. But what was it? Some sort of arcane anomaly? And it wasn’t like it was a select thing— Elves, humans, centaurs and tabaxi alike felt this inexplicable off feeling. Something stirring deep inside their instincts, causing them to just act…strange, overall.

CRACK. 50, 100.

Maggie paused. Her trembling arms let the axe fall to the ground without further prompting, and she plopped down clumsily against the side of the toolshed. Sweat trickled down her face, despite standing amongst snow and ice.

…Or maybe she was just sad and scared. Maybe she just wanted to know who she was, why she was here and where the hell Stoowarb was.

“Maggie?” A quiet voice piped up, piercing her thoughts. She lifted her head to see a familiar four-armed, blue-coated figure standing in the gateway of the yard. Bowgart gave her a nervous wave with three of their arms, using the fourth to fidget with their coat button. “Uh, hey. I…saw something?”

Maggie squinted at them, wiping her forehead with her sleeve and rising back to her feet. “What is it? You sound worried.”

“Well, I was just collecting berries for dye over by the edge of the woods, and I spotted somebody coming up the mountain from the east side. They didn’t look familiar…I know they may just be a traveler, but we never get travelers up here!”

Maggie furrowed her brow. “Odd. What did they look like?”

“They were a small fellow, with horns— sort of like you and your brother, but more thick and curly like a ram’s— with silvery hair. They were far off, so I didn’t see much, but they looked awfully young…”

Maggie felt a painful pang at the mention of her brother, but didn’t let her expression betray it. “Ah. I-I’ll go check it out, it’s probably nothing to worry about.” She picked up her axe and stuck it into the thick stump beside her, moving to step past Bowgart and out of the yard.

She stared ahead at the snowy landscape with hesitance, and for a moment the anger and fear crept back into her mind. She hated this. She hated everything about the present.

But once again, she told herself it would be alright, and it was just this weird phenomenon affecting her mind. She set off toward the edge of the thicket.

~•~ ~•~ ~•~ ~•~ ~•~ ~•~ ~•~

Tawkerr

Tawkerr had been told many times before that he was too stubborn, but now he was starting to see it himself. As he threw himself against a wall of rock with an exhausted groan, nestling into his cloak that seemed to provide no warmth, he finally realized he had probably bitten off more than he could chew.

…probably.

His numb fingers found their way up to the brooch around his neck, circling the insignia pressed into the gold plating, and he felt his throat tighten. He had to keep going. He was so close to the top.

But before he could rise, he went still, ears twitching at the sound of something, or someone, approaching. He didn’t know whether to be hopeful or terrified, so he just shuffled back against the rocks and stayed quiet.

“…I see you, you know.” A gruff woman’s voice sighed from out of Tawkerr’s view. An accent he didn’t recognize roughened the edges of her words, making them sound somehow coarser and growlier.

Tawkerr squeaked and stiffened, peeking out from behind the crags. Standing cross-armed before him was a stocky woman with a serious expression laid across her fierce green eyes. She had mahogany horns and fuzzy ears like him, but other than that, it felt like staring straight at his polar opposite.

She had warm dark skin and wild, silvery-mint hair that fell over her face messily, swaying slightly in the wind. She was dressed far more warmly than Tawkerr, probably because she actually knew what she was doing in this environment. She looked over the tiny boy before her and clicked her tongue. “You lost?”

“Maybe,” Tawkerr answered curtly.

“Care to explain how you got here? Hardly anyone visits this place willingly.”

“…Uhhhh. Is “big turtle thing” a valid answer?”

The woman sighed heavily and pinched the bridge of her nose. “Do you want help or not? You’ve got snow in your hair and look like you’re about to collapse. Look, I’m in a bad mood. Tell me your name and why you’re here or I’m leaving.”

“Fine, fine!” He scrambled to his feet and scrubbed his hands through his hair to find that there was indeed a fine film of frost coating it. How much could he even say about his situation…? He decided to keep it simple. “Name’s Tawkerr O’Charo. I’m looking for my sister.”

“Really?” The woman quirked her brow and looked to the side briefly. For a moment she looked genuinely surprised, but it faded into a scowl just as quickly. “You seem to be far from home.”

“…I’m…not all that sure where my home is.”

She was silent for a moment, then her head bobbed just barely in a short nod. “…Me neither, Tawkerr. Me neither.”

Tawkerr shifted uncomfortably. What was that supposed to mean? He rubbed his forearms anxiously and decided to throw in another snide comment to wave away the tension. “…You gonna tell me your name? Or was that just a one sided thing?”

“Maggpi.” She said briskly, then added “…call me Maggie. If you want. I don’t care. Now, as much as I’d like to leave you here, I’m shackled by sympathy. Follow me to the castle. We’ve got warmth and food, at least…or freeze to death, if you’d prefer.”

Tawkerr perked up. A castle! Maybe this place wasn’t all that different from Plant Island, after all? “The former sounds…mighty favorable!”

“Then keep up.” Maggie spun on her heels and started off into the crop of spindly trees that speckled the mountaintop.

• • •

Neither Tawkerr nor Maggpi spoke a word for the entire walk. Tawkerr’s throat was burning even more than usual with the cold, and Maggie simply didn’t seem like much of a talker.

Soon, though, Tawkerr spotted icy, crystalline spires shooting out above the treetops. The two broke out of the thicket and into an open space of pure white snow, riddled with footprints and shoveled pathways snaking between buildings. The bright expanse was mottled with many small cabins made from dark mahogany wood that stood out starkly like an arctic fox’s eyes amongst the white, along with a few larger buildings boasting colorful string lights and soft, warm glows pouring from their windows.

But most prominent, front and center of the town, was the castle— a breathtaking mass of sparkling, spiky sky-blue spires that appeared as though they were made from pure ice.

While not even a quarter of the size of Plant Island’s castle, It was a centerpiece that stuck out strongly amongst the more quaint cottages that surrounded it. Tawkerr stood for a moment, admiring the strange structure, before scrambling to catch up with Maggie. He felt a tug of hope somewhere inside him.

As they approached the castle, a four-armed figure in a blue knit coat came into view, standing stiffly by the central door and fidgeting with ten of their twenty fingers.

“Bowie!” Maggie called ahead to them, gesturing to Tawkerr. “This the guy you saw?”

“That’s him,” the Bowie person squeaked in a soft voice. They regarded Tawkerr with worried brown eyes and a small frown. “Is he alright? What’s he here for?”

“Told me he’s looking for his sister. We’ll get to the details later. Either way, he’s freezing out here. Let’s get him inside, okay?”

“Ah, yes!” Bowie agreed, pushing open the castle doors and scurrying inside. “You two, sit down in the lobby. I’ll get you some tea.”

“Oh. Thank you,” Tawkerr murmured, feeling a little safer already at the stranger’s kindness. Maggie led him inside as Bowie set off to another room.

The castle lobby was, again, rather small compared to Plant Island’s, but still a lovely sight. Gazing up at the center of the lobby allowed a view all the way up to the dome at the roof’s peak, with crystalline chandeliers hanging from either side of the ceilings formed by the second floor. At the back wall, a pair of symmetrical stairways overarched a massive hearth and met at the second level, where he could see many doors lined up— presumably guest rooms.

Along the sides of the lobby were carpeted areas filled with chairs, couches and coffee tables, a cozy sort of contrast to the striking and sharp beauty of the rest of the castle’s interior.

Maggie sat him down at one of the couches closest to the fireplace and handed him a thick, bundled-up blanket that had been sitting on a nearby ottoman, then plopped down with a sigh on an armchair across from him.

He muttered another thanks and buried himself in the blanket hastily. The inside of the castle was already much warmer than the outside, with the heat of the nearby hearth steadily seeping the chill from his bones, but the blanket was like a warm hug. The chunky knit material felt thick and fluffy on his pawpads, and the subtle flaws but visible care in the knitting led him to suspect that it was handmade. How charming.

Tawkerr leaned against the arm of the couch and let his weary eyes fall shut for a moment, comforted, even if it was just for the time being. He only shifted again when he had to restrain a purr from forming in his throat.

Maggie just stared off into the hearth’s flames distantly as Tawkerr basked in the newfound warmth, eventually turning to him. “Any better?”

“Yeah…god, ‘s cold out there.” Tawkerr rasped.

“Well, we are on Cold Island.”

“…this place is just called…Cold Island?”

“It’s an island that’s cold.”

“Ah. I suppose you’re right. I can’t say anything when I’m coming here from Plant Island.”

“…Let me guess, it has plants?”

Tawkerr chuckled quietly. “How’d you guess?”

“Hm. Just had a feeling.” The corner of Maggie’s mouth turned up just a tiny bit. Tawkerr feigned a gasp. “What? You have a sense of humor? Never woulda guessed that!”

“Are you usually this irritating?”

“Mhm.”

Maggie grumbled and crossed her arms behind her head, her fluffy, mint-tufted tail curling up beside her. “Well…welcome to our little town, I guess. I haven’t…been here that long, but as secluded as the island is, it’s a fairly nice community. Small, but close. And better than being stranded in an icy wasteland by a longshot.”

It was then that Bowie reappeared and set down a couple of ceramic cups filled with steaming, golden-brown liquid. “Here, that should warm you up. Let me know if you need more.”

“Thank you,” Tawkerr said again, but didn’t touch the glass. He eyed it cautiously as Bowie slipped back into the room beyond the seating areas. As much as he felt it would help warm him up, he couldn’t bring himself to take a sip for some odd reason. Why…?

“Hmm.” Maggie lifted the cup to her lips and closed her eyes, seeming to relax slightly for the first time. Slightly, but not completely. She sat back up and set the cup on the table with a soft clunk. “You said you were looking for somebody?”

“My sister,” Tawkerr affirmed. “We were on Plant Island before, but things have been…weird. Tense. Got into a big fight, she didn’t want to talk to me, and after I went looking for her the next day I found nothing but the fact that there was a hot air balloon missing…so, y’know. I took a lamphrie from the docks and decided to search, because the king couldn’t send out an immediate search party.” He didn’t mention the…other things. He couldn’t mention that.

“Jeez.” Maggie furrowed her brow, visibly concerned. “Does she even know how to fly a hot air balloon?”

“Probably not. She’s only 16. That’s most of the reason I’m terrified.” Tawkerr clenched the edge of the blanket to stop his hands from shaking. “…I’m really, really worried. I don’t want to think about what could be of her right now.”

Maggie nodded silently. “Well, we haven’t seen anybody new in town in the past few days except you. Especially not anyone in a balloon.”

Tawkerr felt his heart sink. “Oh. Okay…”

“…But we can ask the chief here to contact the other councilmen and see if she’s been spotted on any other islands.”

He sprung up again. “Really? You’ve got a quad council member here?”

“Sure do. Not the most influential, but he’s got connections. I imagine king Entbrat has started a formal search by now, huh? …why did you even go yourself if you know he’d send people looking anyways?”

“Because I knew it wouldn’t be immediate…? I guess. Ugh, my…my reasoning sounds stupid now that I think about it.” Tawkerr hid his head in his hands. “I-I sort of freaked out, okay? I was in a rush and it was all I could think to do. I’ve just been feeling—“

“Off?” Maggie finished for him.

“Yeah,” Tawkerr said slowly, giving her a bemused gaze. “…Off. How did you…?”

“Making quick decisions without thinking, being suddenly more short tempered and aggressive, bouts of confusion and distress…” Maggie went on, listing each point on her fingers. “…everybody in Cantilyra has been feeling it. There’s something out there that’s disturbing everybody’s instincts, but nobody knows what. It just started a few months ago, apparently. I’m surprised you haven’t heard of it.”

Tawkerr leaned back on the cushions. “That explains a lot. God, I…what’s going on?”

“We don’t know. Nobody knows.” Maggie folded her hands in her lap with a small shake of her head. “But it can’t be good.”

“Ah.”

“…Anyways, we’ll talk to Deedge. He’s the councilman around here. Since we’re such a small community, he’s fairly easy to contact and is close with the people, so it shouldn’t be too much trouble.” Maggie said. Tawkerr managed a small smile, glancing at his untouched tea. Something was off. “…Maggie?”

“Hm?”

“What did you mean earlier? When you said you didn’t know where your home was either?”

He noticed her tense slightly, gripping the arm of the chair a little tighter. “What did you mean by it in the first place?”

They locked eyes for a moment, both of their gazes skeptical…but slowly fading into recognition. Something about them both felt too similar. Different, but the same, like two sides of a coin. They both seemed to realize it— so many things that were far too alike. The plating on their horns, the gold undertones in their eyes, all their specific features that they didn’t seem to notice on any other creature in Cantilyra except one another— and most of all, their apparent situations.

Somehow, it felt like they were one in the same. A moment of mutual understanding dawned on the two, beyond words.

Maggie let her hands relax again. “How long have you…been here?”

Tawkerr’s eyes widened. There was no way she was referring to anything else. There was no way that was a coincidence. “You’re like me.”

Maggie straightened in her seat as well. “…You woke up a few months ago somewhere with hardly any recollection of where you were. With nothing but—“

“My sister.” Tawkerr finished.

“And for me, my brother.” Maggie murmured.

“…Wait, did your sibling—?”

“Go missing too? Yes. They— They’re on the lookout for him right now. His name is Stoowarb.” For a second, Maggpi looked as though she might cry, but she blinked it away quickly and pursed her lips. “I nearly did the same as you and ran off myself to find him, but the townsfolk have been monitoring me since I appeared here. Can’t blame them.”

“…What the hell, Maggie.” Tawkerr said blankly. Not a question, just an expression of pure bewilderment. How were they so similar? What was this? “…Who are we? Why is this happening?”

Maggie’s eyes told Tawkerr that she was equally baffled. She chugged down the last of her tea in one gulp before speaking again, and when the cup left her face, her eyes became cold, determined and steely again. “I don’t know, but it seems like we’re in this together. I don’t know if that’s comforting or disturbing.”

“Comforting, I think.”

“…I guess so.”

Silence.

“Alright.” Maggie started to get to her feet. “Let’s go talk to Deedge. Maybe then we can find out what’s going on.”

to be continued.

Glossary

Aurochian- a race of horned humanoids, which Tawkerr, Maggpi, Stoowarb and Parlsona belong to. Not many Aurochians still exist after the Worldwipe. Aurochians are split into two main groups, the Eldos and the Illmi. Eldos carry bovine and canine aspects and are known for their larger and sturdier builds, strong senses of smell, physical prowess and adaptability. Illmi are smaller in comparison, appear more ovine and feline, and possess high agility along with keen senses of sight and hearing.

Bessie- one of Plant Island’s transport Lamphries— Tawkerr and Parly’s favorite. Loyal, but has an attitude. Can be bribed with lettuce.

Cantilyra- the world that the Cantilyric Saga takes place in, currently in a state of repair due to an catastrophic incident that occurred 25 years before the events of Chorus.

Cold Island- a small island nation, aptly named for its chilly climate. While seemingly a hostile environment, Cold Island’s small but close-knit community is very warm and welcoming, watched over by Chief Deedge.

Feral- a term used for when certain inhuman species of Cantilyra, such as satyrs, tabaxi, aurochians and the like revert into a temporary state where they behave more animalistic and instinctively, sometimes to the extent of becoming completely confused and nonverbal. This can be caused by stressful situations, overexertion or person-specific triggers. The frequency, intensity and effects of ferality differ from person to person, some not experiencing it at all.

Lamphrie- a large species of aquatic reptilians characterized by their long necks and thick shells, commonly domesticated and used as water transportation.

Maggpi Hermeas- one of the mysterious aurochians who appeared in late 24-post. A no-nonsense woman with a versatile skillset, sharp of mind and tongue. She’s tough to crack, but is soft-hearted and caring deep down…though she’d knock you flat sooner than she’d show that.

Plant Island- A large island nation known for its temperate climate and fertile land, ruled by King Entbrat. Despite its size, it’s towns are scattered and large portions of it are uninhabited, making it the second most populous nation next to Earth Island.

Quad Council- (Not to be confused with: Quarrister Council) also referred to as the Council of Quads, informally as “The Bosses” or simply as The Council, the Quad Council is a group of prominent island leaders— referred to as Quads or Councilmen— who banded together around the start of post with the goal of unifying their nations and rendering the rule of Cantilyra more coordinated and peaceful. The primary members of the Council currently consist of King Entbrat, Chief Deedge, General Riff, Princess Shelby and representatives from the Quarrister Council (yes, a council within a council.), with several lesser-involved members from the fire islands.

Tawkerr O’Charo- one of the mysterious aurochians who appeared in late 24-post. A charming and princely yet rather roguish fellow with a knack for getting up to no good and little tolerance for being bossed around. Has some sort of chronic illness affecting his respiratory system and voice, but still manages to never stop talking.

#whimsys writing #writing #chorus #cantilyric saga #chorus chapters #my singing monsters #msm #msm au #msm fic #tawkerr #maggpi #parlsona #stoowarb #bowgart #bowie

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clarklovescarole · 1 year

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January 1937: Parnell Sideburns

Jan. 1, 1937 – Pittsburgh Post Gazette

Clark Gable’s Christmas gift to Carole Lombard a thoroughbred three-gaited saddle horse.

Jan. 1, 1937 – Austin-American Statesman

Carole Lombard’s intention to give up breakfast in bed and do more riding (on the horse Clark Gable gave her for Christmas).

Jan. 2, 1937 – The Kansas City Times

Lombard, usually voluble, is in the midst of a real romance. Her case with Gable is progressing, one might say. She knows the whole world knows it and doesn’t care. She does suffer a rise in temperature when she finds herself quoted concerning it.

“I’ve never discussed the matter,” she says.

Jan. 3, 1937 – Democrat and Chronicle

The arrive of Carole Lombard on any set where she happens to be working is no casual incident. Things may be dull and routine before she comes, but the moment she bursts in upon the company one begins to hear the crackle of electricity. The whole set seems to come to life.

Amid the shower of good-mornings Miss Lombard makes for her 8-by-12 dressing room on the sound stage. The dressing room is green outside, white inside; always, in the mornings, is fragrant with freshly-cut flowers.

Sometimes the flowers come from Clark Gable, sometimes from Mitchell Leisen, the star’s director in her current Paramount picture, “Swing High, Swing Low,” sometimes from herself.

Jan. 4, 1937: Unusual gifts

An after-Christmas survey of starry gifts discloses the fact that among all the diamond and sapphire bracelets and gorgeous cars and houses and lots exchanged in Hollywood this bumper year, the most unusual gift was received by Clark Gable!

Gable’s present from his “girl friend,” Carole Lombard, was a two-wheel buggy, with whip and all equipment, together with a trick cane that opens out and measures a horse’s height. A sort of follow-up gag for the old broken-down automobile she gave him several months ago, which Clark had dolled up with white paint and college boy gadgets. He drove it, too.

So we fully expect to see Mr. Gable dashing down the boulevard in his two-wheeler with his race horse, Beverly Hills, hitched thereto!

Carole and Clark are the village cut-ups. Mitchel Leisen, who is directing the current Lombard film, “Swing High, Swing Low,” expressed a desire for a horse this year to race at Santa Anita.

C and C gave him a hobby horse wearing a holly wreath for bridle. Zeppo Marx fared a little better – his Christmas gift from the pair of cut-ups was a decrepit donkey, which he found standing in a forest of hay on his front lawn Christmas morning!

Jan. 4, 1937 – The Boston Globe

Jan. 4, 1937 – Asbury Park Press

The boy who takes around the plug-in telephone from table to table in the studio restaurant is a literal table-hopper. At Metro, only commissary where the meal-disturber can get right into your soup, Robert Taylor, Clark Gable and James Stewart get the most calls (most of the stars lunch in their dressing suites). When Taylor, Gable or Stewart is on the line, romantic gossips figure that Barbara Stanwyck, Carole Lombard or Virginia Bruce is on the other end.

Jan. 5, 1937 – The Gaffney Ledger

Clark Gable has been lunching with Mary Anita Loos, who used to be Francis Lederer’s best girl. But don’t come to any false conclusions. Carole Lombard is still head-woman in Clark’s life.

Jan. 8, 1937 – Standard Sentinel

You draw a blank if you ask Bing Crosby to discuss, for instance, the importance of crooning. He’ll talk golf and horses, though. Carole Lombard is mainly interested in people, but if you ask her what she thinks about one in particular, you get no place fast – that person is Clark Gable. It must be love.

Jan. 9, 1937: New godparents

Jan. 9, 1937 – Los Angeles Times

Carole Lombard and Clark Gable were relegated to supporting roles in a one-act playlet last night when Dennis Clark Moriarty “stole the show.”

For it was Dennis Clark’s christening and neither film stars nor anyone else were going to take any honors from the month-old son of Mr. and Mrs. Patrick Moriarty. The father is a screen actor.

Gable and Miss Lombard acted as godparents for the baby at its baptism by Rev. John Conlon, pastor of St. Mary Magdalen’s Church.

The baby, born December 6, was named Clark in honor of its godfather.

Jan. 9, 1937 – Los Angeles Times

Jan. 9, 1937 – Chattanooga Daily Times

(Sheilah Graham)

Mrs. Rhea Gable is telling people that the reason she does not give Clark Gable the divorce he desires is to prevent his marriage to a certain film star. Is she referring to Carole Lombard?

Jan. 11, 1937 – The Bristol Herald Courier

When Clark Gable stands beside a roulette table, the other players watch him and forget to bet. Carole Lombard is the coolest of feminine gamblers.

Jan. 11, 1937: Sideburns for Parnell

Jan. 11, 1937 – News Journal

What! Sideburns on Gable? Clark Gable growing sideburns for his newest role, Parnell, Irish freedom leader, aids Carole Lombard by lighting her cigaret. The camera caught them in an off-guard moment at a Hollywood function. Clark has been linked romantically with Carole recently.

Jan. 13, 1937 – Pittsburgh Sun Telegraph

Honors now rest about even in the Carole Lombard-Clark Gable practical joke contest, but Carole shortly will prove herself the arch-ribber of the two by carrying the fight to the screen itself. With the aid of Director Mitchell Leisen, she is pulling a gag at Clark’s expense in her new picture, “Swing High, Swing Low.”

There is a scene in the script where Fred MacMurray and Dorothy Lamour go to a race track and put all their money on a certain horse. The dialogue has been switched so that you’ll hear them yell:”Come on ‘Beverly Hills’! For once in your life, win!” Beverly Hills is the name of Gable’s race horse. He has been kidded plenty about the fact that it never wins. The horse in the picture won’t either.

Jan. 13, 1937 – The St Louis Star and Times

Where there is Carole Lombard, there is tomfoolery – and most of the time, Clark Gable. The night Clark was to broadcast his “George Washington” skit over the radio, Carole beat him to the studio.When he arrived for work she had decorated his dressing room fit to startle a circus press agent. On the wall hung a huge picture of Washington, and beside it an equally enlarged photograph of Gable. Beneath was a placard which read: “Fathers of our country.” Miss Lombard had also brought in two small fir trees, on which she and a property man tied scores of preserved cherries. Two small hatchets completed the ensemble.

Jan. 16, 1937 – The Ithaca Journal

Carole Lombard, Hollywood’s No. 1 gagster, has started an epidemic of ribbing which includes even a scene in one of her pictures. Clark Gable is included in the ribbing, too, and it was to him that she recently sent a two-wheeled trash cart, presumably to be driven behind his race horse. She also sent a ton of hay and an $8 mule to Barbara Stanwyck and Mrs. Zeppo Marx, who are operating the Marwyck horse-breeding ranch in San Fernando. Mitchell Leisen, Miss Lombard’s director in “Swing High, Swing Low,” got into the feud innocently enough merely by stating that he wished he owned a race horse. Mr. Gable forthwith sent him a wooden hobby horse.

Leisen topped the rib by getting all dressed up in jockey clothes of the Gable pattern and colors, and having his picture taken on the hobby horse. The photo, framed and sent to Gable, was captioned: “Jockey Leisen Up on Beverly Hills” – Beverly Hills being the name of Gable’s non-winning nag.

Jan. 17, 1937 – The San Francisco Examiner

Hollywood Gossipers Hit Low Score in Guessing Romances

The batting average of the Hollywood gossipers, who see a romance in every mixed twosome, is notoriously low and it’s getting worse every year… Carole Lombard was practically engaged to writer Robert Riskin – until she started going about with Clark Gable.

Jan. 19, 1937 – The Owensboro Messenger

Carole Lombard is still incapacitated, and Clark Gable is running for her.

Jan. 20, 1937 – Monrovia News

Clark Gable and Carole Lombard visited a phonograph shop not long back, and bought one of those newfangled machines that combine radio, home-recording, loud speaker, and play twenty-four records at a time. Gable watched its performance, then said to the salesman, “The darn thing does everything but cook.” At which Miss Lombard snickered, “You might say the same of me.”

Jan. 25, 1937 – The Los Angeles Times

A new thrill was discovered yesterday by Clark Gable and Carole Lombard. They “truck” in the moonlight. No, it isn’t a dance.

Gable bought a new, up-to-the-minute station wagon, with radio, upholstered seats and everything. It was delivered to him at Metro-Goldwyn-Mayer.

With his makeup still on, he climbed into his new toy and headed for Carole’s home. She was in the midst of her dinner, but Gable couldn’t wait. He loaded her into his shining new wagon and away they went – to go trucking in the moonlight, cold or no cold, and it has become a nightly habit with them now.

Jan. 31, 1937 – Star Tribune

Carole Lombard is suddenly stricken deaf if some new writer lands in our town and asks her when she expects to marry Clark Gable. Carole, one of the grandest scouts in the world, can freeze up to a temperature as cold as California orange groves have been this last week if that question is put to her.

On the other hand, Clark is equally noncommittal and frosty if he is asked about La Lombard. The subject of his friendship, he feels, is nobody’s business and he is probably right. Both of them have learned publicity can ruin any prospective romance.

Jan. 31, 1937 – St. Louis Post

Jean Muir and I were having lunch at the Vendome the other day, Jean perfectly turned out in a black velvet suit and the smartest looking cape of the same material falling to the hip line. …

While we were sitting there Carole Lombard and Clark Gable came in and sat at a nearby table. Carole immediately attracted the attention of all with her large picture hat of black alligator skin and a bag and gloves to match.

We stopped to speak to them as we went out and Carole told us that when she finishes work on her picture she is going to take a six weeks’ vacation and not go away any place, but just spend her time driving about in a racing sulkey which she has just ordered, and riding the horse which Clark gave her for Christmas.

The day after I saw them, Gable went to bed with the flu. He is the major casualty of the epidemic so far as the studios are concerned.

Jan. 31, 1937 – The Des Moines

Amazing! Probably it’s a romantic gaze Carole Lombard is giving Clark Gable – they’re one of Hollywood’s current romances – but it looks almost as though his sideburns startle even her.

#1937 #clark gable #carole lombard #old Hollywood

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1ddotdhq · 3 years

Text

Sun 31 Jan ‘21

Happy Walls Dayyy!!!!!! Today was the first anniversary of our #1 fave debut album of 2020, and we all celebrated, Louis included! Last but best thing first: WE GOT A DEMO!! Louis ended the day by publishing a dreamy clip of a demo of the title song ‘Walls’. His clear voice croons over beautiful sliding electric guitars and background reverberance- if that’s his FIRST draft then he is, as we knew, a GENIUS! AND, the King Himself came on twitter to interact with his “loyal” (his words) subjects (that’s us!). He popped up at first to say that his tour, when it comes around, will be “fucking unbelievable...this is our day!”, and talked about his favorite part of the last year (“the two shows I played”), what he noticed most when performing solo the first times (“the space on stage” ughhhh all the tears), what he was looking forward to after COVID (“everything”) and getting through these times- “remember that everything is going to be better when normality sets back in.” He also explained that while he was gonna put out merch today, he “didn’t want to market the day”, but rather make it “a celebration just for us”. But, uh, the merch will be coming eventually! He then replied that there were “too many greedy fuckers out there” who try turn celebratory events into a “cash grab” (to quote the fan), and harries then got mad at that because THEY were like this must be about Harry (lol uhhhh) and assumed he was shading him and Jeff rather than, I don’t know, his OWN FORMER LABEL?? Cool cool cool, but it’s still Harry’s moth on Spotify, so cope. He told us that his proudest moment on the album was recording the strings for the Walls the Single, that he wouldn’t have approached the process differently because he’s still really proud of the album, that he was most looking forward to us hearing KMM or Walls, that Doncaster is his fav place (to no one’s surprise lmao), and, asked what song he likes to rock out to off HIS ALBUM was like oh hey have I got a rec for you: “Maybe Tomorrow” by the Stereophonics. It goes, “think I'll walk me outside and buy a rainbow smile, but be free” and “maybe tomorrow I’ll find my way home” (huh is there something happening tomorrow that could be linked to... OH. Right. Huh. Well all that is just a coincidence I’m sure, it’s not like Louis ever said he likes to rec songs because he wants us to read into the lyrics or anything... oh wait.)

LTHQ did a insta quiz over on their stories (I only got two questions wrong!) and they did the promised virtual listening party and tweeted along to each song and retweeted fans’ reactions (and all the usernames, larries everywhere, we SEE YOU). Friends of Louis joined in the celebration- Only The Poets, Ashton Irwin of 5SoS fame, Helene Hornyck (“all the love,” she said!), Isaac Anderson and more, and All On The Board made one of their lovely Frankenstein poems which mashing up a bunch of LT1 songs, but in keeping with the theme of the day (and COVID I GUESS) did it as fanart rather than the usual in person board. And all of that was the BORING part of the day, can you BELIEVE?? The FUN part was the Walls Fanart that was chosen to be the new Spotify cards on the official Walls album. As in, they are up right now if you want to go check them out, but I’m gonna tell you straight up: they’re half Harry tats! The Defenseless card, especially, as it is just straight up fanart of Harry’s moth tattoo, especially fun when he had JUST got us talking about its Papillion origin with his finsta! The artist had been worried that Louis would be mad at them for submitting ‘Larry art’, and was overjoyed to learn that, uh... apparently, he was NOT. That was not all! The ‘Too Young’ art card is H’s rose tattoo, ‘Habit’ and ‘Fearless’ were both different variations of H’s anatomical heart tat (the ‘Habit’ one even included the word kind :{) ), and the We Made It rainbow wheel did, in fact, make it to Spotify, just like we thought! “Perfect Now” was Louis standing under a rainbow spotlight—they made that one black and white for spotify but the artist shared the original version. Harries were beside themselves, and tagged Jeff (Azoff), Ben Winston, and Gemma Styles (what?), demanding that they make Louis take the art down because it was clearly Harry art, which 1.) how much more blatant can you be if even ANTIS are noticing and 2.) what sort of control do they think Jeff, Ben, and Gemma have over Louis seeing as, uh, none of them currently work for him??? Weird, are they thinking there might be some kind of link... between Harry and his team and Louis... tell me more antis, truly, I’m fascinated!

One would think that’s more than enough for one day but WAIT THERE’S MORE Zayn is in EXCELLENT quirky Zayn form having fun with his own merch—he posted a gremlin (from the old RL Stine movie ‘Gremlins’) in a NIL beanie captioned “one size fits all humanoid shaped heads” late last night, haaaaa. Yes, I agree! The red stitching really makes the gremlin’s red eyes pop, and his fangs have never looked this good! And the question arose, is Harry’s finsta actually just his side account for following nothing but gay meme accounts? Evidence—the discovery of a second follow, of the openlygayanimals account-- would suggest yes! Well that’s valid, imagine having to not only navigate the internet AS HARRY but also without funny memes of your choice, that’s no life to lead. And Niall complained on twitter that people didn’t understand his sense of humor because SARCASM! He also tweeted about golf, which I’m sure was cool for people who understand it.

#louis tomlinson #zayn #harry styles #niall horan #lmao @ all the people who were like LOUIS JUST SHADED HSHQ #like uh NO HE DIDNT YOU DID #lajdflkdajfsd #also COULD LOUIS BE MORE ON LA TIME??? NO HE COULDNT #i love this today was fun and much needed!#to celebrate im gonna rewatch the liveshow tonight!#anyways!#song of the day!#maybe tomorrow by the stereophonics! bc LOUIS

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hannahdra-ws · 3 years

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Could u do 16 and 11 fluff for janus and remus please!!! I discovered your blog today and loved your writing (i apologize for any mistakes English is not my first language)

your English is great don't worry !!!

-------

"God, Janus," Remus spoke quietly, something similar to awe in his voice as he gently held Janus's face in his hands. "You're so fucking pretty. Do you think the moon gets jealous of how pretty you are, Jesus Christ-"

Janus flushed a pretty pink and shook his head, looking down with embarrassment as he gently held Remus's wrists. "Oh, shush."

"I'm serious, Jan, holy shit." Remus gently tilted his boyfriends head back up, thumb rubbing gently across the smooth scales on the side of his face. His breath caught in his throat just at the look in Janus's eyes, it made his chest feel like pop rocks and soda.

"You are temptation incarnate, I swear to God, do you even see yourself in the morning? You're so pretty Janus, it makes me feel like I'm going to burst." Janus did a clumsy little facsimile of a nuzzle into Remus's palm, turning to kiss it, and his heart did a few flips like it was jumping off a cliff. "Janus," he spoke, reverently, like Janus was something holy.

"I think-" Janus spoke, low baritone and soft and just a little cracky, "I think I'm in love with you."

Remus's heart sored and before he knew it he was crooning wordlessly, stepping closer to Janus and picking him up. With a shriek Janus quickly held on to Remus's back as Remus started spinning them in circles, and no one would be able to tell you if Janus's exclaims were from excitement or fear.

After Remus started to get dizzy, he set Janus down on his feet, and Janus looked up at him, and God Remus loves him so much he's a little scared sometimes that he'll explode with the force of it.

"Jesus, Jan-" He said, his voice just a little thick, a little overwhelmed, "You've got rhinestones in your eyes, gorgeous,"

Remus didn't know who started the kiss first, all he knew is that they were kissing, and even though it wasn't for the first time it sure still felt like it was. Janus tasted like cinnamon and coffee and just a hint of vanilla, and his hands were running through Remus's ratted hair, and Janus was standing on his tiptoes to be able to kiss him, and, and, and-

And when they finally ended up on the bed and kissed the breath out of eachother, even though his hands were pinned to the bed,

Remus felt like he was flying.

#sanders sides #thomas sanders #dukeceit #romantic dukeceit #demus #ask game #remus sanders #janus sanders #god i fucking love them so much #i wish this was longer tbh

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wisherbysharlight · 3 years

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My God if I could only say, I'm holding every breath for you

Description: Patton Hart has been pining for his best friend's twin brother and his boyfriends for as long as he can remember. Word Count: 3067 Ships: Patton/Remus/Janus/Virgil, background Logince, established Remus/Janus/Virgil Warnings: Remus being Remus, twins squabbling AO3 This is a gift fic for @sunshineandteddybears for the @sanderssidesgiftxchange. The “summer romance” piece kinda got away from me, but this is definitely found family! I hope you enjoy!

Patton was wiping down the counters, about 15 minutes after closing, sunset shining through the windows as he hummed along to the radio, a sense of peace radiating through the store.

Of course, that’s when chaos erupted.

“Pattycakes, you gotta save me!” Remus cried as he threw the door open so roughly the windchimes actually smacked against the window above the door before falling back down and jingling merrily to announce his presence. He ran behind the counter with no hesitation, gripping onto Patton’s waist. (Patton only shivered because of the burst of adrenaline. That was the only reason. No other possibilities. Nope.) Remus angled them both towards the doorway just as Roman came bursting in with the same amount of urgency, fire in his eyes and shirt dripping wet and seemingly tinted a particularly garish shade of greenish-brown.

“Remus, you can’t hide behind Patton forever, you bastard!” he seethed, and Logan, Janus, and Virgil came through the door behind him, much more calm, almost to the point where Patton would call them bemused. Logan took a seat at one of the small tables along the wall, pulling out his phone with a very evident intention to simply wait the whole debacle out, while Janus and Virgil both leaned up against the glass case in front of Patton. “Get out here and face me, you coward!” Roman bellowed again, clearly not giving up anytime soon.

Patton grabbed an empty paper towel roll from next to him and turned at the waist to whack Remus in the head with it, “Remus you cannot use me as a human shield, go answer for your crimes.” “Kinky. I’d much rather have you issue my punishment,” Remus joked with an eyebrow wiggle, then cackled when Patton made a strangled noise and shoved him back to the other side of the counter. However, as soon as he was in range, Roman grabbed hold of him and pulled him into a headlock and his laughter turned swiftly into a shriek of “Oh shit!”

They were 12 years old, tearing through the woods in a dual-friend-group game of manhunt the summer before 7th grade. Virgil was hot on everyone’s heels and adrenaline was coursing through their veins. Patton leapt over a log and turned a corner, hunting for a good place to hide.

He heard a curse of “Oh shit!” echo through the woods before the sound of three branches breaking in succession, a huge crash, and a subsequent groan. He quickly pivoted and went sprinting back towards the house, and the sound, easily finding Remus splayed across the forest floor even in the dim light of the moon.

“Why would you climb a tree, silly goose? Don’t you know the branches are weak that high? Scared me half to death!” he chided as he fell to his knees beside him, already pulling band-aids out of his wallet in his pocket.

Remus grinned impishly up at him, and Patton felt his breath catch in his throat, fumbling with the wallet briefly in a way he prayed the other boy didn’t notice. “What’s a lil fear in the face of a bunch of excitement, Patty?” he crooned, and Patton shoved a handful of band-aids at him with little delicacy in his haste to move past the tease. “Besides, I have the best nurse in the world to patch me up when my fun does go south, apparently.”

Patton flushed and turned away, positive Remus could tell even in the weak light, but he couldn’t keep the earnestness out of his voice, “I’ll always patch you up, Ree. Promise.”

Remus didn’t get a chance to respond before Virgil burst through the bushes and tapped them both on the shoulder to get them out and a loud, extended debate began about the validity of the “injury time out”.

Janus leaned on the counter in front of Patton, jolting him out of his reverie. He pointed at the menu, with three shiny new additions at the bottom, “You finally manage to find a flavor sweeter than you, sugar?”

Virgil shoved him out of the way with an eye roll and a fond grin, thankfully distracting from how Patton felt his cheeks would melt the freezers. “He can’t stop flirting even for two seconds, I swear.”

Janus gasped dramatically, swooning against the counter and batting his eyes at Virgil like a starlet in an old black and white, “Maybe if you and Remus gave me the attention I deserve I wouldn’t need to hunt it down in beautiful, endearing ice cream shop owners.”

Remus snorted despite the way he was currently trying to claw his way out of his brother’s hold while being noogied like they were still teenagers and not fully grown and employed adults, “We could give you all the attention in the world, Janny, it would never stop you from flirting with Patton.”

Janus sniffed derisively at them, then cocked his head to the side as the song changed and smiled softly, “Hey, I know this song.”

Patton smiled brightly back, “Yeah of course, have it on all the playlists for the shop!”

“Simp!” Remus called over just as brightly, and Patton glared back at him, assuming it was aimed at him.

“Ok, you look miserable,” Janus said, making Patton jump from where he was staring down at his water glass watching the liquid swirl around the glass as he moved it in little circles and maybe lamenting his singledom a little bit in the face of a dance floor full of sappy teenagers in fancy clothes enjoying the crisp June night and each other as their last hurrah before graduation.

Patton plastered on a smile, “Oh Jan, I am perfectly hap-”

Janus arched a brow at him, tsking lightly and just loud enough for Patton to hear and stop speaking. “Don’t try to lie to me, I know what you look like when you are actually happy, Patton. And also you’re a god-awful liar.”

“...yeah ok. I’m a little bit lonely, maybe, with Ro and Lo gettin their dance on for the romantic stuff. But I’m not mad, they’re in love, and I told them to go hang on their own. We’ll hang out at the beach house after!” He couldn’t help but glance at the dance floor, where Logan was leading Roman in a waltz that was perfectly on time with the music, lost in their own little world.

“Well Ree and V bailed for the beach early. Not exactly their style of music or dancing, or my vibe to make them do something they don’t enjoy just to get my feet stepped on. Why don’t we be miserable together?” The song changed, to a song with a more Latin-inspired beat that Patton knew only one of every 10 words to, and Janus smirked, “Maybe you and I can even make the most of it and I can score a salsa partner.” Janus ended his proposition with an exaggerated wink and bow, and Patton took his offered hand with a genuine grin.

Janus didn’t miss a beat, switching eye contact to Roman on a dime, “Hey, did you know Remus was the one who’s been screwing with your guitar’s tuning?”

“NONONO HE’S LYING,” Remus cried as Roman tightened his hold and doubled down on his attack, this time poking at his ribs and making Remus shriek in laughter.

As Janus watched Roman wrestle Remus down to the floor of the shop, clearly satisfied with the reaction he managed to get, Virgil nudged him over with his hip to take his place leaning across the counter and whisper conspiratorially, “I bet it was actually Logan. Bastard can get away with murder, I just know it.”

Patton couldn’t help but giggle, with Virgil’s playful smile and dancing eyes across from him, so open and trusting in a way he never was unless it was just the group of them. He smirked a bit, nibbled at his lip in consideration, then leaned in to say in an equally conspiratorial style, “Logan’s only involved to see how long it’ll be before anyone catches on. My record stands.”

“You are a trickster Patton Hart,” Virgil gasped in mock-scandal. He wagged his finger with his hand on his hip in a not-half-bad impression of Patton during a lecture, though he was unable to match his Patton-ted Disappointed Frown while he was grinning, “I’d never expect my partner in crime to be doing something like this without telling me, shame on you. You know I always have your back.”

It was their last weekend of freedom before they started high school, and as per usual both twins had both their friends sleeping over. Patton woke before Logan and Roman, also as per usual, and snuck out of Roman’s room down to the kitchen, only to jolt as he found the light already on and Virgil sitting on the kitchen counter.

“Whatcha doin?” Virgil asked, legs kicking in the air in front of the cabinets lazily.

“Gonna try to make pancakes! I’m positive I won’t burn them this time, I just know it,” Patton enthused, then squinted suspiciously at Virgil, “What’re you doing?”

“Oh just hanging around, keeping an eye out in case anyone tries to burn the house down again so I can help out. Figured they might need a partner in arson crime, ya know, and I could let them know I’ve got their back,” Virgil teased, nudging Patton’s leg with a sock clad foot. He looked so precious with his sleep mussed hair and eyeliner from the night before smudged under his eyes that Patton couldn’t even bring himself to argue that he really didn’t need a babysitter. Honestly, he couldn’t even begin to pretend he didn’t want the excuse to spend more time with him.

The twins’ argument grew more heated, finally managing to distract Patton from where he was a bit lost in the way Virgil’s eyes lit up when he was amused.

“You fucked up one of my favorite shirts!” Roman screeched as he attempted to give his brother a wet willy.

“You put red koolaid in my shampoo two weeks ago, you baby!” Remus cried back, shoving at his shoulder to try to get him off, and succeeding rolling them only for Roman to roll them straight back.

“I know you were the one who put my script out of order,” Roman fired back.

“You should have been off book anyway! And you broke bro code and told Virgil I was the one who deleted his X-Files off the DVR. You are just as bad as me.”

“You gave mom’s computer a porn virus and blamed it on me!” Roman protested, and everyone else seemed to simultaneously sigh as they descended into their usual back and forth of dredged-up pettiness.

“Oh you're still - you squashed my bug collection.”

“You left me stranded in the yard after Remy’s homecoming party senior year.”

“That was absolutely justified, you made me listen to you wax poetic about Logan’s fucking lips for 3 hours.”

“You made me listen to you wax poetic about Patton’s EVERYTHING for 13 YEARS”

Everyone in the shop simultaneously went silent in a blink of an eye. Virgil went white as a sheet and swung to look at the twins with wide eyes, Janus gripped the counter white-knuckled and looked at Patton with a similarly stunned expression, and Remus turned nearly as red as the sash on Roman’s favorite Prince Charming costume. He shoved Roman off of him for real, a more severe growl to his voice as he seemed to realize there was no way to play it cool, “You are such a fucking dick!”

Roman stammered for a moment, clearly trying to digest the change in tone and the weight of what he’d said, before waving his arms above his head in apparent bafflement, “It’s not like he didn’t know you all were into him!”

“Roman,” Logan spoke up suddenly, gesturing at Patton and what Patton knew had to be a completely shell-shocked expression.

Roman looked up and went just as wide-eyed as the others, “Pat… did... did you not know?”

“...all of you?” Patton asked, then winced as his voice cracked in shock. He watched Virgil flinch and seem to retreat into his hoodie out of the corner of his eye, and Janus’ face smoothed over into a perfect mask of calm in the blink of an eye. He felt his heart break just a little bit at the disappointment in both of their eyes at what he was sure they saw as a rejection.

Logan grabbed Roman’s arm and yanked him away roughly, though Roman followed easily, “You all clearly need to communicate. I will handle this one.”

“Don’t wanna know about you handling my brother, poindexter,” Remus joked hollowly, sounding almost like it was a reflex with none of his usual cackle behind it.

Logan rolled eyes and headed out the door, tugging behind him a Roman who was fervently whispering, just barely audibly, “He didn't know, how did he not know,” to himself over and over again.

There’s silence in the shop for a while, just the sound of the radio faintly playing over the loudspeakers echoing off the walls as they all just stare at each other, not knowing how to start. Then Janus took a deep breath and spoke first, “Patton, I refuse to speak for these two clowns, but I will absolutely tell you that I, at the very least, have had feelings for you for many years, feelings which i was unaware I was not making perfectly clear, or that there was a chance of any sort of reciprocation.”

“Around 7 years for me, give or take. That first morning we made pancakes together,” Virgil added quietly, fiddling with the zipper on his sleeve.

Remus averted his gaze, looking nervous in the way Patton had only seen the day before he confessed to Virgil and Janus in high school, and admitted in the quietest voice Patton’d ever heard him use, “I don’t know exactly when, Pattycakes. You’ve always been there and as far as I’m concerned I’ve loved you just as long. And-and I just assumed it wasn’t returned.”

Patton swallowed thickly, trying to push back tears because he knew these boys and knew they would take them for disappointment rather than the joy they were. He dove at Remus first, vaulting the counter the way he always scolded Roman against and sliding to his knees next to the other man on the floor before crushing him in a hug. He flailed back at Janus and Virgil with one hand to pull them in as well, “Come here, all of you, we’ve lost so much valuable cuddle time!”

Patton was pretty sure Janus broke the sound barrier with how quickly he was plastered to his side and burying his face in his hair, and Virgil wasn’t far behind, wrapping an arm around his waist and burying his face in the crease of his neck and shoulder. Patton took that moment to be a bit daring himself and press a kiss to the corner of Remus’ lips, then giggled brightly when Remus grabbed hold of his cardigan and used it to pull him back in to kiss him full on the mouth with just as much passion and impulsiveness and laughter as Patton had always imagined. His mustache tickled Patton’s nose a bit but he leaned into it, humming happily in the back of his throat and feeling like a puzzle piece clicked into place.

Virgil only gave them a minute before he untucked his face from Patton’s neck and grouched that he wanted a turn. Remus let Patton go with a very put-upon sigh that didn’t match his playful grin, flicking Virgil on the nose lightly. “You gotta give him his kisses or he’ll never shut the fuck up,” he fake-whispered.

Patton grinned and turned readily to Virgil, and his lips met Patton’s in a much gentler dance. His kiss was no less deep or passionate for its caution, and his hands cupped his face like he feared Patton would float away if he didn’t hold tight. His fingers curled and twitched upwards like they wanted to bury themselves in his hair but didn’t want to overstep, so Patton took the initiative to grip the back of his neck and tilt his own head to encourage Virgil to do what he wished.

Janus was more patient, waiting for them to part for breath a few minutes later before taking hold of Patton’s chin from Virgil without a word and gently but firmly turning Patton towards him. Janus’ kiss could only be described as a caress, light and teasing and peppered with soft nips to his bottom lip before building up to something more solid. His warm hands rubbed calmingly up and down Patton’s spine and over his shoulders like he couldn’t figure out where he wanted to touch first.

Remus soon demanded he get another shot, then Virgil wanted another, then Janus again, leaving Patton so beyond cloud 9 he could barely think any more. They spent at least 20 minutes there on the floor, lost in each other, rotating kisses that were long overdue, letting their actions make the confessions their words hid from for years, not daring to move and break the spell of the moment.

Then a camera shutter sounded, paired with a bright flash of light that made them all jolt and look up in surprise.

“I said communicate you know, not make out on the floor,” Logan sighed, digging through his wallet to pull a 20 out to hand to Roman, who was grinning victoriously.

“I’m sorry for being a dick, but I had to do something and I told Logan the “accidental slip” would work,” Roman said as he pressed a triumphant kiss to Logan’s cheek and pocketed the 20, “But you have to admit it was a pretty great performance on my part.”

“Can’t believe I was betrayed by my best friends, I don’t know whether I owe you a scolding or a fruit basket,” Patton lamented playfully, cheeks hurting from how wide he was smiling. Janus ruined what little remained of the facade even more as he shifted slightly and pulled him into his lap and Patton clung tight to Virgil and Remus’ hands, with no intention of disconnecting any time soon.

#IntruAnaMoCeit #patton/dark sides #patton/remus/janus/virgil #polyamsanders #ts fic #i had no idea how to tag this #all sides #remus mention

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