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gastricpierrot · 3 years

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Title: Ships in the Night

Series: Genshin Impact

Relationship: ZhongVen

Rating: T

Summary:

Barbatos had always wanted to enjoy a Ludi Harpastum with Morax, making so many empty promises with him over the years to go together one day. A festival of fun and games close to his own heart, it’s a change of pace he always thought Morax could appreciate. They finally manage this after all these centuries, yet Barbatos just had to be an idiot at the very end.

He rests his arm over his eyes, exhaling a slow breath. He's such an idiot.

Also on AO3

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The sheer idea of festivities lasting two whole weeks sounds absolutely exhausting to Morax, yet even at the peak of the Ludi Harpastum, Mondstadt’s people do not seem like they are slowing down anytime soon.

Morax’s tugged along by the cuff of his sleeve, Barbatos in the lead as they weave their way through the packed streets. Songs and cheer fill the air, mingled with the scents of various food, flowers, and of course, the city’s beloved wine. Barbatos himself is already tipsy despite it still being rather early in the day, having downed almost every pint of free alcohol that’s offered to him by the countless vendors they come across. There's an occasional stumble in his steps, but his spirits remain high as he shows Morax around with wholehearted excitement, a bright grin across his lips, a lively blush on his cheeks.

Morax finds the myriad of sensations dizzying, too many sights and sounds and scents bombarding him all at once—and he holds on to Barbatos’ presence for balance. Barbatos, in contrast, seems to harbour no such qualms, flitting from one booth to the next with ease, only pausing to look back when he finds something he wants to recommend. The apples from this store, the handcrafted trinkets from another, the freshly made Mora Meat from yet another one. He isn’t shy when it comes to haggling—even though Morax did remember to bring his wallet for once (much to Barbatos’ exaggerated horror) and he’s certain there would be enough between them to last the day—but it seems to be a normal occurrence to the vendors. Morax watches their good-humored banters, sees how comfortable Barbatos is around these parts and in these situations.

It’s clear how much he loves Mondstadt, and how much he is loved in return.

They spend the rest of the afternoon like this, navigating the packed streets, Barbatos showing him his favorite spots, stopping only for the occasional breathers and snacks. Mondstadt’s festivals have a very different atmosphere to them compared to those back in Liyue, unique in a way Morax can’t exactly pinpoint. Rowdier, perhaps, with the people more comfortable when it comes to mingling with strangers. Morax has lost count of the number of times he’s been randomly approached to be given some sort of gift, or to be invited for meals or gatherings he politely declines. Perhaps the community here is simply tighter knit as a whole, as compared to the more family-centric people of Liyue.

Barbatos leads him to a park at some point, declaring it’ll be their last stop before he has to prepare for a performance after sunset. Morax notices how it’s mainly families and children in this area, not a single wine vendor in sight. There are booths for games instead, where players will have the chance to earn various prizes if they win. Each is packed with groups of youngsters, all vying for the best toys on offer. Shrill, excited voices cheered and jeered at one another; in a way inciting even more chaos here compared to the people crowding the market lanes.

“Why don’t you give one a try? Even adults are allowed to play, you know,” Barbatos suggests when Morax stops to watch a child’s attempt at a game of throwing hoops over cups marked with numbers. Morax glances at him, sees his wayward smile.

“I don't think it’d be fair to the young ones if I did,” he says, to which Barbatos only barks out a laugh.

“Show off,” he retorts, and even Morax cracks a smile.

“Um, excuse me.”

They’re just about to continue on their way when a voice calls out to them. Morax turns around, not seeing anyone until it occurs to him to look down. A lone young girl stares at him wide-eyed from below, a messy flower crown clutched tightly in her hands.

“Mister, please have this!” She offers the item to him, her words slightly rushed from her enthusiasm. Morax has turned down countless gifts throughout the day, but this time, at least, he knows better than to needlessly upset a child.

So he kneels down to be a little closer to eye-level with her. “It is an honor to receive your gift.”

She stretches out her arms, and Morax tips his head to let her crown him.

The child giggles in delight as she steps back. “You really are like a prince, mister! Bye-bye!”

Morax watches her run back to her parents a little way off, warmth blossoming in his chest as he waves his own farewell to her. He gets back on his feet, and finds Barbatos looking at him with an expression he’s never seen him wear.

“It suits you,” he says, like he actually means it rather than the usual sarcasm Morax’s expected he would go for. He supposes he must be quite the sight, a full-grown adult with a falling-apart flower crown perching lopsided atop his head.

“It probably suits you more, Bar—” he stops himself just in time, remembering that they’re here only as humans and nothing more, and that they should at least make a bit of effort to keep up appearances. Though, it's not like anyone within their vicinity would actually be paying attention.

“Venti,” he tries anyway, and immediately breaks into a frown. The name still feels strange on his tongue, no matter how much he’s tried to practice saying it.

“Gods, it does feel weird hearing you call me that,” Barbatos admits with a slight wince, but Morax could somewhat tell that he appreciates it, nonetheless. It's the way his features brighten at the sound of it, the way his eyes would light up ever so slightly. It is, after all, a name bestowed upon him by a beloved friend many years ago. Barbatos has not been called such for a long time. “But yeah, no, you should keep that. Have some fun, let loose a little!”

Morax doesn’t exactly see how wearing flowers in his hair contributes to “letting loose”, but he doesn’t argue.

They have time to go grab something for dinner just as dusk falls, and then Barbatos is bringing him to what he claims to be one of the main final highlights of the Ludi Harpastum: an event of all night drinking and fireworks. There are several spots around the city hosting such sessions, all offering endless streams of food and alcohol sponsored by Mondstadt’s major wineries. Barbatos will be performing in the one held at the city square—the main place, he boasts—first of the few bards invited there to further enliven the mood.

Dozens of chairs and tables are set up across the open space, most already packed with people by the time they get there. There’s a small stage at the very front, the sides of the venue lined with booths in charge of the food and drinks. Waiting staff donning bright uniforms dart from table to table, expertly weaving their way around the already half-intoxicated crowd.

It’s almost overwhelming; the energy, the pungent scent of food and strong wine, the sheer rowdiness of the people gathered around. Morax stops by a convenient tree a respectable distance away from the square, just far enough that the chances of a random drunkard stumbling over and dragging him in would be minimal.

And “I think I’ll stay here,” he says, when Barbatos turns to him with raised eyebrows.

“Don’t want to join in?” he asks, despite Morax’s answer already being obvious.

“I’m sure I can enjoy the atmosphere well enough from here.”

“Hmm, fair enough.” Barbatos shrugs after a quick gauge of the distance between them and the heart of the event. Then he smiles, hands on his hips. “Anyway. I’ll get going first, then. I’ll come find you when I’m done?”

“If I haven’t already left,” Morax says, because he genuinely does not know how much of this unbridled revelry he can tolerate. Even now, part of him wants nothing more than to walk off and find somewhere quiet to wind down for the rest of the evening.

Of course, his statement immediately gets Barbatos whining. “At least wait for me!!!”

“Just go before you’re late.” Morax shoos him off, though he doubts anyone present currently retains even the slightest sense of time.

“Fine, fine!” Barbatos relents, cheeks still puffed, “but I’m going to throw rocks at you if you really leave without me, alright?”

Morax halfheartedly assures he can throw as many rocks at him as he wants if it comes to it, then with a sudden rush of wind and a final harrumph, Barbatos turns on his heels and strides towards the stage, his people cheering his name the moment they spot him.

“Looking forward to what you have for us tonight, Venti!”

“Venti you rascal, you really made us wait this time!”

“Venti, you’re looking lovely as ever!”

Venti, Venti.

The descent of a god, unknown to his own people.

Barbatos takes his seat on the single stool placed on the stage, crossing his legs just so, his posture relaxed yet brimming with elegance. The wind carries the sounds of his lyre all the way to where Morax stands, clear and proud amidst the endless chatter of the crowd. He begins with a slow tune, a moment of calm cutting through the chaos. Demanding attention.

Quiet. Listen.

Morax too, catches himself holding his breath.

And then Barbatos strums another note and smoothly transitions into a new tune, and the crowd explodes with excitement. His next song matches more to the barely suppressed merriment around him, its melody upbeat and festive. He’s skilled at involving his audience, easily encouraging them to sing and dance along. Charming, radiant. He captivates all who behold him—even Morax, despite such genre of music never being to his tastes. It’s a rather belated realization to come to, but seeing him fully in his element like this, Morax can tell that Barbatos’ boastings indeed hold their weight, and that he truly has mastered the craft of a bard.

Barbatos leaves the stage around the middle of his fourth song, slipping into the crowd as he continues his performance. He sings and twirls and dances, one with his people—and somehow still, Morax spots him managing to down some drinks in between. His current song involves a back and forth; he sings one line, then prompting the nearest person to follow up. It seems to be a piece everyone’s wholly familiar with, all who enthusiastically join in barely stumbling on their turn.

Morax notices too, after a few minutes of observation, that it also seems to be endless; constantly looping around the chorus. He wouldn’t put it past Barbatos for doing this deliberately, for as long as it continued, he could drink.

And he does drink. He drinks so much that it’s almost impressive, since he only has a few seconds at a time to gulp down his alcohol. Morax wrinkles his nose from afar, already dreading the stench he would exude when he returns later.

Morax doesn’t see it, at first. He can pinpoint Barbatos’ general location based on the reaction of the people and when he hops onto benches and tables for some elevation, but he’s partly obscured from his sight most of the time. It’s only as Barbatos makes his way further towards the back of the crowd, closer to where Morax stands, that he notices how else some members of his audience interact with him.

People who take advantage of the general unruliness of a large-scale drinking session in a packed area, hands that touch places past normal boundaries. His thighs, his back, his neck.

Barbatos does not falter, either too immersed in his own performance or too intoxicated to realize and care. Or perhaps he is simply used to this, having been a bard for as long as he’d been a god. Morax does not know.

Fire flares in his stomach the longer he watches, filling his mouth with a bitter taste. It is truly an uncomfortable sight. Intoxication is not consent, nor is silence. Morax could not stand it for long, reaching for the flower crown on his head and tossing it aside before striding toward where Barbatos is lingering within the crowd.

He grabs a person by the wrist and wrenches their hand away from Barbatos, his grip hard enough to make them cry out. Barbatos must’ve heard the commotion, turning at the sound and eyes widening in surprise when he sees Morax right there behind him.

Morax glares at him—a misdirection of his anger, he admits—but he only breaks into a satisfied grin, and finally decides to move his song along. He leaps onto the nearest table, feet stepping delicately between the many glass mugs piled across its surface. His tune reaching a crescendo, his finale presented with flourish.

His audience, quite literally, erupts into cheers and applause.

Barbatos half stumbles down from the table amidst the cacophony of the reception, Morax moving to catch him just as his knees buckle beneath him and he loses his balance. He's trembling, his forehead visibly damp with sweat.

And before Morax can properly help him get back on his feet, he throws up all over his sleeve.

xXx

Barbatos supposes his age must finally be catching up to him.

Or perhaps he’d simply overestimated himself, thinking that participating in the Ludi Harpastum’s all-night drink session wouldn’t be too different from his usual gigs, only with a little more people.

Perhaps he shouldn’t have stepped off the stage in the first place, shouldn’t have danced quite so hard, and should’ve saved the drinking until after his performance ended. The lack of air, the thick haze of human odour mixed with the saccharine scent of alcohol, his own sweeping movements—Barbatos had not expected them to combine into an experience quite so nauseating, even for a god.

He vaguely remembers throwing up once more while Morax carried him somewhere, then a third time in a washroom he didn’t recognize. Then he draws a blank after that.

He stirs to find himself on a bed, his clothes replaced with a set of loose cotton pajamas and his body smelling faintly of floral soap. His head throbs with a dull ache, but he figures he’s seen worse days. More than anything, he feels dehydrated, his lips dry and throat like sandpaper. He braces his palms against the mattress, and slowly pushes himself upright.

He's in a dimly lit room, probably one in an inn not too far off from the venue of the drink fest. He hears the sounds of running water from behind the door opposite the bed; Morax is probably there cleaning up after the mess Barbatos made. There’s a jug on the bedstand, a fresh glass of water already poured out for him. Barbatos’ chest warms as he reaches for it, endeared by how fastidious Morax remains, despite everything.

He returns to lying down a little later, admittedly just a little bitter at how things have turned out. He’s had such an amazing day. He'd always wanted to enjoy a Ludi Harpastum with Morax, making so many empty promises with him over the years to go together one day. A festival of fun and games close to his own heart, it’s a change of pace he always thought Morax could appreciate, since he’s constantly at work. They finally manage this after all these centuries, yet Barbatos just had to be an idiot at the very end.

He rests his arm over his eyes, exhaling a slow breath. He's such an idiot.

The sounds of the shower eventually come to a stop, leaving a ringing sort of silence in their absence. The ruckus of the ongoing party not far off carries all the way to their window; people laughing, cheering, singing. Fireworks bursting in the sky.

He'd wanted to show Morax the fireworks too, damn it.

He lowers his arm and turns when he hears Morax stepping out of the bathroom. He’s wearing a similar set of pajamas as himself, though admittedly it looks so out of place on him that Barbatos almost lets out a snort.

“Hey,” he greets, because he’s genuinely not sure how else he should start. Morax meets his gaze from behind his damp fringe, his face betraying no particular emotion.

“Hey,” he returns, every bit as curt. Barbatos cracks a lopsided smile, and decides there’s no point trying to go around it.

“Listen, Morax, I’m so sorry things ended up like this,” he says, twisting to lie on his side facing him. Morax doesn’t respond to that immediately, and neither does Barbatos see much of a change in his expression.

“Barbatos, how many times do you think I've had to handle your drunk antics over the years?”

Barbatos winces at that. “Now you’re making me feel even worse.”

“You should,” Morax agrees, running a towel over his damp hair. “It’s about time you realize how self-centered and inconsiderate and – “

“Okay, okay, I get it!!” Barbatos interjects before his feelings are actually hurt. “I’m sorry!”

Morax only shoots him a meaningful look and says nothing else, knowing at the end of the day he’d do it all over again anyway. Barbatos supposes he can’t blame him; he’s more aware than anyone that he’s been the way he is for more than a millennium, never once giving even the slightest indication that he would change.

Maybe it’s time he considers, after all that’s happened today, but he decides he’ll mull over that some other time.

His eyes follow Morax as he steps away to hang his towel on a rack, his confusion growing when Morax proceeds to stand rooted in place, frowning slightly and arms crossed as though deep in thought. Barbatos stares at him for a solid couple of minutes before speaking up.

“What are you doing?”

“Thinking about what I should do next,” Morax answers, in all seriousness. Barbatos can’t believe this man is for real. He bursts into laughter, earning himself a puzzled look.

“You really don’t know what ‘rest’ means, do you?” he marvels, then scooting closer against the wall and patting the empty spot before him. “Come here and lie down, we’ve been up and about the entire day. Aren’t you tired?”

Morax’s frown deepens by a fraction. “But I don’t think there’s sp-”

“There’s more than enough space for the both of us!” Barbatos assures, chest light with newfound mirth. Morax really is too much of a gentleman at times. “This bed’s huge!”

Morax remains hesitant for a moment longer, but with just a little more gentle pestering, he relents in the end. “Then, if I may.”

Barbatos watches as he moves to take the space beside him, watches the way his long hair falls over his shoulders, the way the collar of his shirt shifts to reveal the hollow of his throat, a small window of his chest.

Morax fully lies down, and Barbatos realizes there really is just enough space for them to stay still like this. Huh. Has Morax always been such a big person? Or maybe the bed really isn’t that wide to begin with, and whatever alcohol lingering within his system is just messing with his perception of space. Not that it matters at this point. Morax still smells fresh from his shower, his uncharacteristically messy hair and comfortable clothes giving him an air of innocence Barbatos never expected to see on him. Unguarded, youthful. They’re a mere half-arm's length apart, close enough that Barbatos can almost feel his every exhale of breath.

“So how did you find the Ludi Harpastum?” he asks, voice barely above a whisper, perhaps part of him being rather conscious about the little distance between them. Did it live up to the expectations he set for him by constantly inviting him to one over the years, he wonders? Did Morax at least enjoy himself a little with all the festivities? Barbatos noticed he’d mostly followed his lead, trying the many things he’d recommended to him, visiting only the places he brings him. Barely making many choices for himself. It’s too late at this point, yet Barbatos still worries about being overbearing without meaning to. Could Morax really have had fun without as much as a freedom of decision?

“It was...” Morax trails off ominously, pausing to weigh his words while Barbatos braces himself for the continuation. “Different, I suppose.”

“A good different or a bad one?”

“Just different,” Morax affirms. “It certainly feels livelier than the celebrations in Liyue.”

“Then,” Barbatos perks up, a little more hopeful now with the way Morax has responded so far. “What did you like most?”

Morax hums to that, silent in a moment of contemplation. “If I were to choose, I quite enjoyed some of the places we visited.”

He goes on to recall the few locations he’d found a liking to, admiring the history and cultural significance of each that Barbatos had explained to him, the various architectural designs and artistic liberties that define Mondstadt’s trademarks. The motifs of the cobbled streets, the poems framed and hung inside windmills serving as charms for Barbatos’ blessings, even the theme of the patterns carved on many a doorplate—Morax seems to have been quite fascinated by them.

He wears a different expression when he talks about the things that strikes his fancy. A slight upturn of his lips, the faintest crinkles at the corner of his eyes. Even his voice adopts a different tone, laced with a smallest hint of excitement—perhaps even joy, because someone cares to listen.

Barbatos could listen to him like this for an eternity, if he had the chance.

“You’re staring at me,” Morax stops to say at some point, a slight knit across his brow. Barbatos supposes he must be wearing quite the expression, for him to look at him like that. But he could not help it; after all, who wouldn’t be utterly captivated by someone as quietly radiant as this god before him?

“I think I'm in love with you, Morax.”

Are the words that take form, a confession he’s surely taken long enough to make. He no longer even remembers when was the first time it’d dawned him, that his feelings for Morax had progressed into something that wasn’t platonic. How many years has it been since he started seeing him with a different sort of admiration, with the barely suppressible urge of wanting to be closer to him?

Morax blinks at him once, twice. Processing what he’s just heard; understandable, as it really had come out of nowhere.

Then he averts his gaze, reaching to cover his mouth as a wave of red creeps up his entire face.

“Why don’t you tell me that again when you’re sober?” he mumbles into his hand, and Barbatos effectively short-circuits for a moment.

“This is the most sober I’ve been all day, though???”

Morax is adamant, shifting to turn away from him as though to physically end the conversation. “That’s what a drunk person would say. Now stop talking and go back to sleep.”

“No, no, no, isn’t this a little sudden?? Morax??” Barbatos is half laughing now, seeing how desperately Morax is trying to deal with his own embarrassment. It is surprisingly contagious, though; even he’s starting to feel a little shy the longer he badgers him.

“Morax?? Heyyy, Morax? Rex Lapis?”

And yet he refuses to let it stop him. He can see how red Morax’s ears are even from behind him like this. Barbatos pokes at his back, a mix of fondness and mischief welling in his chest when the idea occurs to him.

He squirms forward, closing the little distance between them.

“Zhongli.”

Morax tenses at that, the slightest reaction that Barbatos would’ve missed if he as much as blinked. He's...really cute when he’s like this. Part of Barbatos refuses to believe that this is happening. Morax, the Geo Archon, the honourable Rex Lapis, Adepti Prime—has this absurdly adorable side to him.

“Zhongli,” Barbatos dares to say again, just to see what other sort of response he could elicit from him. “Zhongli.”

He leans out of the way just in time before Morax twists to face him once more, bracing himself for a well-deserved smack—but is instead pulled into a tight embrace.

“You’re so obnoxious,” Morax says, his exasperation obvious even in his quiet tone. Barbatos smiles as he returns the hug with just a much intensity, leaning into their contact with a sigh, a swell of his heart.

Morax is much warmer than he could’ve ever imagined.

xXx

They say that both the Geo and Anemo Archons are fond of disguising as humans, often descending from their divine residence in Celestia to mingle with the commonfolk of their respective nations.

No one knows what are their preferred appearances, as oftentimes they are indistinguishable from the everyday person. No one knows if they preferred to present as men or women or even children, or if the rumours of them taking human form even hold any truth. After all, who’s to say they wouldn’t choose to appear as an animal, a sprite, or perhaps a fragment of the elements they embody?

Not many in the nations of Liyue and Mondstadt have ever had the chance to see their respective gods, nor to realize that they’ve lain eyes upon them at all. It is something the people have accepted to simply leave up to chance, as there is no point to obsessing over the miniscule possibility of coming face to face with the deity they worship. There are enough mundane things worth paying attention to on the daily; the clarity of the skies, the specials available in the markets, the trees newly bearing fruit.

A particular sight has grown more common as well within the borders of the two neighbouring nations in recent years, one of a pair often spotted strolling together through the busy city streets, the bustling villages, and even the vast wilderness, when the weather is agreeable.

Should one have their stars aligned just right, they may just chance upon a certain bard and gentleman, both usually engrossed in jovial chatter or some lighthearted bickering no matter the location. Oddly out of place sometimes, seeming right at home the rest. Greet them if you wish, and they would usually respond warmly in return. But take heed, at times you may notice their hands linked and fingers intertwined, the pair lost in a world of their own—and that will be your sign to give space, for even gods would appreciate a little time to themselves.

#genshin impact #zhongven #venzhong #venti (genshin impact)#zhongli (genshin impact)#this was just named nghgh.docx because thats exactly how i feel about them #fanfiction

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deathisanartmetzli · 3 years

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Are You New? || Milo & Metzli

TIMING: Current

PARTIES: @wickedmilo @deathisanartmetzli

SUMMARY: Milo finds himself being saved by the most unlikely person.

CONTAINS: Alcoholism, Substance Abuse, Eating Disorder, Addiction

It wasn’t nearly enough. The blood bag they had received only quenched a fraction of the hunger they felt. At least Metzli found some relief from the spinning and fatigue the hunger strike they were on induced. Because of their state, they took to being more of a recluse and staying indoors as much as possible, not even taking to flirt with anyone online or in person. The activity took too much energy, and anything that was incited due to the flirting would not be satisfying, to anyone.

Amity Road had to have a place they could consume blood, but it still somehow felt off. They would consume blood-mixed alcohol freely before. That was then, this is now. Being different from the vampire they were was the goal. They couldn’t help but wonder if their new goal meant they couldn’t partake in the drinks they once enjoyed. Asking the bartenders how the business retrieved their blood supply seemed like too much as well, so they resolved to simply ignore the hunger until obtaining a blood supply was ethically sourced.

The parade of thoughts were quickly interrupted though, as a familiar hunter’s scent engulfed Metzli’s sense of smell. Ugh, it was Nicholas. A hunter that hated their guts. He wouldn’t attack out in the open though, there were too many witnesses and even beings that would step in and rip him apart. It appeared he was looking for someone, no, at someone. Looking down his line of sight, they caught sight and smell of the vampire up ahead. Moral obligation set by their clan kicked in, and they fast-walked steadfastly to Milo. “Hey kid, I think you’re being tailed by a hunter. Follow me and you’ll be fine,” They whispered and put an arm around Milo’s shoulders.

Louder now, they put on a show. “Hey! Long time no see. Where the hell you been?!” Metzli pulled him towards a road that led to an area full of trees.

Milo wasn’t sure how his body was still aching. Of all places, he definitely shouldn’t be back in a bar. Even he knew that, and he was notorious for trying to solve his problems with pills. He didn’t want to admit it, he petulantly refused to admit it, but Macleod was right. The crash had been inevitable, and with nowhere soft to land, he had emerged from it battered. Bruised, and broken. Alcohol wasn’t helping, and neither were his precious substances, but he didn’t know what else to try. How was he supposed to silence the voices in his head? How else could he ever be expected to move beyond the panic of being cornered by mimes, to forget the injury that had left him vulnerable, and weak, to bury the feeling of Alexander’s mouth, hot and teasing, against his neck. His chest tightening at the memory, he reached up to press a hand against the scars at the base of his throat. He hated how complicated things had become, he hated how damaged, and worthless his trauma was leading him to feel. Apparently he couldn’t even manage a one night stand without descending into fear, and anxiety. He only wanted things to be normal, but this was his normal now, so he swallowed his frustration, reaching forward to claim the shot the bartender had generously poured for him. At least he was still able to charm stronger drinks out of people, encourage them to fill his glass to the brim rather than the ridge.

Taking it back, he closed his eyes at the familiar burn of the clear liquid. It was the closest he ever felt to home anymore. He wanted to be left alone, to continue his attempts at fighting off the toxic mixture of a hangover and a comedown, now seven days in the making. But as always White Crest existed only to make him suffer. Flinching at the sound of a voice he didn’t recognise, his eyes snapped open, and quickly landed on a stranger. Their appearance wasn’t the first thing he noticed though, because their presence came with the distinct lack of a heartbeat, and a very, very familiar scent. Repressing any discomfort he still felt in the company of other vampires, he stared at them, taking a moment to register their words. Tailed by a Hunter. Maybe he should care, maybe he should be worried, or nervous, or look around to try and see who might be marking him for a second death, but all he could do was sigh. The air leaving his lungs, he didn’t put up a fight as an arm pulled him close, guiding him away from the bar and into the cool, crisp night air of his hometown. “Don’t lie to me,” he muttered, already craving another drink. “Fine is a matter of perspective, you can’t promise me fine.” Wincing as the stranger raised their voice, making a show of their non-existent friendship, he struggled to ignore the pounding in his head. “Where are you taking me?”

“How the hell am I supposed to know?” Metzli answered, surprised that Milo didn’t resist at all. They wondered if this had happened before. No time to wonder now though. “You’re depressing as hell, and you reek.” They looked behind them and saw that the hunter was following closely behind. Fuck. Okay, maybe they could just disarm and flee. “There’s a building a quarter mile that way,” a finger pointed, “Take a good whiff of the air. There’s ammo, cedar wood, and really bad cologne. A hunter. I’m gonna say hello, and you run, got it?”

Shuffled steps moved quickly, rising in volume as the hunter approached with a stake in hand. “Nick! How’s it going?!” Metzli pushed Milo forward and turned, opening their arms in a gesture for a hug. A stake swung right towards their chest, which they caught swiftly and flipped him over using his own weight. “Now that’s really rude. I was just saying hi!” They smiled, taunting the man who then tripped them and loomed above with the point right at their chest. “Hey!”

Metzli’s strength was waning and they felt so sluggish, but they knew they had to persevere. “You—” Several punches to the face with brass knuckles disoriented the vampire, and the need to get away rose. “Fuck you! I’m done playing nice!” Metzli twisted both hands, and with audible snaps, Nicholas fell over. They rose and ran quickly towards the abandoned building, their vision a little blurry. Making it only a tenth of a mile, they stumbled and fell. Fuck.

Milo felt a surge of annoyance, his fists clenching at his side, but he didn’t respond, choosing to hold his tongue in the hope of avoiding an argument. It was only as they began nearing the treeline that his nerves finally managed to grow in strength. This was incredibly moronic, allowing a vampire to escort him away from the safety of the public. But he wasn’t exactly in a position to fight back, and for all he knew they were telling him the truth. “Maybe I’m depressing because I’m depressed.” He bit out, stumbling a little as the arm around him suddenly disappeared. He turned to his company, staring at them as they started listing observations. They were right, he could smell all of the above, but he really hadn’t considered what that might mean. “Do all hunters wear bad cologne?” He asked, aware of the fact that he should probably be taking the situation a little more seriously. “Is that a thing?” He faltered, realising the vampire was too focused to listen to his nonsense. “Wait- what?” Suddenly more alert, understanding what their plan was, and what they were asking him to do, he very nearly groaned in response. But it wouldn’t be fair to throw a tantrum when they were quite possibly putting their un-life at risk for him. Who would do that for a stranger? Nothing made any sense, and he longed to be back inside the bar. Back where he felt comfortable, back where he knew how things were supposed to work. A quiet yelp escaping him, he tried not to fall forward as he was pushed, the unexpected contact catching him off guard. He turned back to protest and was shocked to find the hunter already upon them both. Jeez, he really needed to be more careful. No matter how many times he told himself that, putting the skills Harsh had taught him into practise was proving far more difficult than it should be.

He dazedly observed the scene, taking a few steps backwards to put some distance between himself and the brewing conflict. He wasn’t sure who to be more afraid of, but as he watched the vampire flip the hunter onto his back, teasing the man with the air of somebody who had done this far too many times, he decided he didn’t want to stick around and make a decision. For whatever reason, the vampire was helping him, they weren’t a threat to him… yet. He found himself resisting the urge to get involved. He wasn’t a fighter. He was hungover, and weak. Besides, he told himself, they seem to have it covered. Swallowing his pride, and his petulant desire to walk back into the bar, he did what he had been told to do, and made his way towards the supposed safe house. His gait was awkward, and tired, but he ran as fast as his body would allow, occasionally stopping to rest against a tree, his head spinning with the exertion. During one of his breaks, unsure of how far he had travelled, he heard footsteps following his path, accompanied by the familiar smell of the vampire who had helped him. “Hello?” He stage whispered, listening to his voice as it carried through the darkness. Before anybody could answer there was a rustle, followed by a thud, and he felt sure whoever was close by had fallen to the ground. Were they injured? Taking a deep, careful breath, he caught the subtle smell of old blood, congealed, and decidedly unappealing. Knowing he needed to find the vampire he scanned the foliage nearby, pushing away from his resting place with a vague sense of genuine concern. “Uh… you didn’t like… murder that guy, right?” He asked, as he tiptoed to where he felt they might be situated. “Are- are you okay?”

Metzli spit out blood, annoyed with themselves for being so weak. Their face was royally fucked, they could feel it. “No, I didn’t murder him. But he’s gonna be outta commission for a bit. Unless he gets some buddies. Which isn’t far off. I can hear him on the phone.” They sat up slowly, still dizzy and wobbly even as they got to their feet. God it hurt to stand, but they had to keep moving. Getting to the building was important. “He’s definitely calling his buddies,” Metzli spit again to the side and ran a hand through their hair. “Let’s get to the building. We can figure out what to do from there, depresso.”

It took a bit of stumbling, but the two arrived to the building, and walked in carefully. “Here,” Metzli pulled a flask from the inside of their suit jacket and handed it to Milo. “It has whiskey in it. I’m Metzli, by the w—” Their speech was slurred as black overtook Metzli’s sight. With the help of the wall, they managed to keep themselves upright and navigated further inside. “So much for that blood bag. Can’t be a proper vampire off of it. Puta madre.” Punching the wall proved to be both cathartic and extremely painful, but they didn’t regret it. Though the twitching smile on their face would say otherwise.

Continuing on, there was an empty room the two could hold out in for a while. “Are you new? ‘Cause you didn’t even smell that hunter at all.” Metzli asked, intrigued by the idea of a rookie. It had been a century since they’d been in his shoes. They sat, leaning against the wall exhaustedly.

Moving towards the sound of the vampire’s voice, it didn’t take Milo very long to find them. They were lying on the ground as predicted, and he felt a jolt of panic course through him as he realised they were undeniably hurt. He couldn’t exactly hold off a hunter, and even if he was grateful to hear the man was still alive, valuing his human life wasn’t going to stop him from trying to take his vampire one. Listening quietly, he couldn’t make out what was being said, but the quiet voices from beyond the trees were obvious. “Shit.” He muttered, his panic only managing to grow as the vampire who had saved him confirmed the hunter was definitely calling for backup. “I-” He broke off, debating whether to help them up as they struggled to get to their feet. But they eventually made it, their new height drawing attention to just how much damage had been done to their face. Milo’s hand absentmindedly moved to his side, to where Diedre had been forced to patch him up. The injury still ached as it continued to heal, but the process had been surprisingly fast. Hopefully some of the bruises on their face would begin to clear up as they made their way to their destination. “You still haven’t told me what building.” He pointed out. “The last time I let a stranger take me to some random building I ended up dying so…”

Watching them as they began to walk away from him, dragging their feet, slow in their progress, he let out a huff of breath before following them. They had saved him, after all. And he really didn’t like his chances against multiple hunters, even if one of them was temporarily out of action. Their pace was steady, and it didn’t take them very long to stumble upon what he could only assume was the building they were aiming for. It looked questionable, but he was very aware the entire situation was questionable. So he ducked under their arm as they opened the door, jumping as it eventually shut behind them both. For a brief second there was an uncomfortable silence, and then he was being offered a flask. Eyeing it carefully, he hesitated for a few seconds too long before finally taking it, sniffing at the contents to be sure it really was whiskey. “Milo.” He answered, only looking back up at Metzli as their speech noticeably began to slur. A frown creasing his brow, the flask was momentarily forgotten. He reached out to help them but they had already managed to steady themself. “What?” He asked, curious to hear more about a blood bag. Had they been poisoned? Could vampires potentially have a bad reaction to blood? Taking a step back, eyes widening, it was only as rubble and dust hit the floor that he realised Metzli had punched the wall behind them. “What- what was wrong with the blood bag? I don’t understand...” He asked, trying and failing to hide his distress.

Swallowing, feeling sheepish in the face of such an unexpected question, he lowered his gaze, staring down at his feet. “Seven months.” He admitted, as they both made their way into the next room, equally as dilapidated as the first. “Give or take…” He shrugged, hoping to expel some of his self consciousness. “Maybe I was distracted.” He added, attempting to ignore the sudden urge to defend himself. “Or are you going to be another person in my life telling me I’m not good enough? That I’m- I don’t know, throwing away my potential or some bullshit?”

“Nothing was wrong with it. It just wasn’t enough.” Metzli groaned from the pangs of hunger they felt. The pangs were getting stronger, but they had to ignore them. This became relatively easy thanks to the interesting kid in front of them. Depressed and has a complex. Should be fun. “Potential? Hell, you just became a vampire. Can’t be too little or too much this far in. I’m over a century old. If you were like this at my age, then maybe people would have the right to say you’re throwing away your potential.” Talking this much wasn’t typical, but it was better than acknowledging the pestering feeling in their stomach.

“You weren’t just distracted, kid. It’ll take a few years to learn. Ignore the idiots. After all, they’re just idiots.” Metzli waved their hand dismissively, rolling their eyes at the very idea that people couldn’t leave well enough alone. They didn’t understand why anyone stuck their nose somewhere if they weren’t gonna contribute anything of substance. And no one was helping Milo by treating him this way. “Listen, depresso, I mean, Milo, tell those guys to fuck off and keep doing what you’re doing. You literally have an eternity to live. Do whatever the fuck you want. Give up your soul like me. Or don’t. Just do whatever you want.”

The pain was building in Metzli’s body as they spoke. Each word getting more strained than the last. Without the proper amount of blood consumed, the healing process would not only be painful, but slower as well.

“Oh…” It made sense, though Milo had never starved himself to the point of being weakened. Thirsty, yes. Really, really thirsty, but always somewhat in control. It seemed Metzli was beyond that, and he had no idea how to help them. “Why aren’t you eating?” He asked, the question escaping him before he could stop it. He knew through Luis, Harsh, and so many other people he had spoken to that there were places in White Crest to easily source blood. He was lucky his roommate had access to the hospital’s blood supply, but even if Harsh decided to cut him off he knew he would be able to find more. Why couldn’t Metzli? What was stopping them? Faltering at his company's surprising response to his attitude, he found himself genuinely speechless. Watching them for any sign they might be lying, or telling him what he wanted to hear, he released with a start that they were being serious. They weren’t judging him, they had simply been asking a question. There were no impending lectures, no disappointed glares, or offhand remarks about his habits. They had accepted who he was without any form of resistance. “You- you aren’t going to tell me I should have noticed?” He knew he shouldn’t tempt fate, give them a reason to take back their words, but he was desperate to hear their answer. “Or that I should have been able to- to fight back?”

A tired smile tugging at his lips, he decided he liked Metzli. He didn’t know anything about them, not really. But he liked them. “Wait-” Breaking off, allowing himself to process what he had just been told, he realised they were the first vampire he had ever spoken to who had not only given up their soul, but was willing to talk about doing so. “You don’t have a soul?” He made no effort to hide his curiosity, knowing it would be pointless. Scanning the room as he spoke so that he could avoid actively staring at his new friend, he soon gave up on searching for fabric, taking a drink of whisky before shrugging out of the plaid shirt he had on, revealing an old Hulk tee Rio had once gifted him. “Then why did you help me? If you don’t have a soul… doesn’t that mean you don’t care about, you know… saving other people from hunters?” Tearing off one of his shirt’s sleeves, he folded it neatly into a square, pouring a little whisky onto it before setting down the flask. Approaching Metzli, he held the cloth up, almost as a peace offering. He doubted vampires needed to sterilise their wounds, but he didn’t have any water, and it would be good to get some of the blood off of their face. He wasn’t sure it would aid any healing if they hadn’t eaten in a while, but it would be worth trying at the very least. “So, uh…” He gestured with the cloth, silently asking for permission to approach them with it. “Do you have places like this all over town? Like… ‘hide from hunter’ designated buildings?”

It felt shameful to speak of it. To speak of Bex, and what she had done to them. To admit why they were preventing themselves from feeding. They felt disconnected from every emotion that stemmed from empathy, but the logic of it all built a wall between them and feeding from people or feeding from sources they weren’t sure of. “Pretty much testing myself thanks to someone I met. Her parents were pieces of shit even with souls, and she kinda just got in my head. Fucking Bex.” Metzli muttered her name to themselves and took the offering. It didn’t sting to wipe their face, in fact, it felt refreshing to have the blood cleaned off for the most part. “I’m pretty new here so finding sources of blood where I know exactly where it’s from has proven difficult. It’s stupid.”

Metzli felt embarrassed to tell a stranger this, but they figured why not. The two vampires would be stuck until it was safe enough to head out in their state. Taking on multiple hunters would not be ideal. “What? No. You just started a new fucking life. You’re basically a toddler with super powers. You’re dumb, yeah, but that ain’t your fault. No one has taught ya shit.” Dust bellowed about as their head leaned against the broken wall. Exhaustion was setting in now, and it was only a matter of time before they possibly fell into a trance.

“No soul. Just a firm set of habits ingrained from my clan. If there’s a kind that you attempt to even help, it’s your own. If I wasn’t able to save you and you died though, I wouldn’t have cared. Not my fault. I would have at least tried,” They chuckled, and rubbed their head. A headache was coming in. “I don’t have hideouts. I just notice places and keep track in my head. In case of shit like this. You should probably do the same.”

“Bex?” Milo echoed, shocked to hear his friend’s name in such a strange context. “You’re not drinking blood because of Bex?” He tried to imagine what Bex might have said to make Metzli think starving themself was a good idea. She had never told him to stop drinking blood, although he could still remember her hesitance upon learning he drank human blood. It didn’t matter whether it came from bloodbags, it obviously made her uncomfortable. “Did she say something to you?” He needed to know, needed to understand what had taken place between the vampire standing in front of him, and one of his closest friends. “Should you be testing yourself? Is that even safe?” He thought back to Harsh explaining what happened when a vampire didn’t drink blood. It definitely didn’t sound enjoyable. “Have you been to the market?” He couldn’t remember the name of it, but he could still see the market stalls in his mind, rows and rows of vials filled with different types of blood. “Someone took me there once…” But he hadn’t asked where the blood had come from, in fact he had intentionally avoided asking in case the answer was one that he didn’t want to hear. Watching with a grim sense of satisfaction as all of the blood was cleaned from Metzli’s face, it only made the bruises more obvious, and he had to stop himself from wincing as he looked back up at them.

“I’m twenty-two, I’m not a toddler.” He insisted, resisting the urge to frown. “And I do have help, I do have somebody teaching me. I’m just… reckless, I guess. It was pissing people off back when I was human so it makes sense that it’s still pissing people off. I just… I don’t know.” He brushed away his thoughts, unwilling to dwell on his insecurities. He wasn’t about to force an injured vampire to play therapist, no matter how tired he was, no matter how bad he felt both physically, and mentally. “You had a clan?” Moving to drag an old bedside table towards where Metzli was standing, he gestured for them to sit on it, hoping that might make a difference somehow. “I’ll pretend you would have fallen to your knees and screamed ‘no’ at the sky like a superhero, that’s way more preferable.” He half teased, attempting to lighten the mood. Glancing towards the window, he couldn’t see anything beyond it. Only darkness, and a handful of trees. Were they really any safer indoors? He wasn’t feeling very confident. “How do you know they aren’t going to find us here?”

Metzli’s brow raised at the recognition in Milo’s voice upon hearing Bex’s name. “I guess you know her, huh? No, she didn’t tell me to stop. She just…got in my head. Some bullshit about being good is a choice. So here I am, making a choice to see if I can be good with or without a soul. I don’t feel shit but I guess I’m being good.” Their voice grew quieter, feeling the pain rise and making it harder to speak. The subject wasn’t particularly one they wanted to talk about so they used whatever energy they had left to compel Milo to stop. “No more questions on that, got it?” The vampire sighed in frustration before taking a seat. “I don’t care if it’s safe. I just need to test the theory and be done with it.” Adjusting themselves, they laid down and rested their eyes.

“I said you’re like a toddler. With superpowers. You were born again, kid. It’s safe to say that you’re a toddler vampire. Not a bad thing. Just a fact.” Metzli’s eyes remained closed as they explained, enjoying the darkness behind their eyelids. “Had a clan, yeah.” A groan escaped their lips and they rubbed their damaged face. “Not the best thing to get into. Steer clear.” It was genuine advice based off of the awful experience they had many years ago. Those were days that weren’t talked about, only thought of in the dead of night because sleep escaped them, evaded them for the rest of eternity.

“If I’m being honest, I don’t know if they’ll find us or not. I just know I couldn’t run far. If ya wanna leave, go ahead. I’ll be fine.”

“I do.” Milo admitted, thinking back to the first time he ever met Bex. She had been arguing with a bartender refusing to serve her, and he had stepped in to swipe her a bottle of vodka. It was strange how such a seemingly inconsequential interaction could lead to a genuine, and meaningful friendship. “She’s not wrong, you know… about good being a choice.” He liked to think so, at least. Despite sometimes wandering into a few grey areas, he never intended to hurt anyone. “It’s good now, but it won’t be good if you lose it and end up tearing out someone’s throat.” He added, repressing the memory of doing just that in an alleyway after first coming to. He had been so confused, so lost and alone. Maybe this was his chance to make up for the pain he caused. if he could only stop it from happening to somebody else… But then Metzli was bringing the conversation to an end, their voice curt, and serious. They left no room for him to argue, so he fell silent, listening as they took a seat, and wondering vaguely whether his blood would offer any substance. He could only assume the answer was no, but he had never discussed the subject with Harsh. “I’m guessing my blood is useless?” He asked. “Last question, then I’ll leave it alone.”

Shooting his company a petulant glance, he turned his gaze back to the window. Walking over to it he tried to see through the glass but it was covered with dust, and moss, watermarks staining the sodden wood surrounding it. He could barely see out, which surely meant anybody passing by could barely see in. He definitely couldn’t hear any hunters beyond the walls of his new little sanctuary. What if they had decided to take their injured friend home? It would only be a case of waiting them out. “Clans are… bad?” He asked, sighing deeply before finding a table to sit on. He dragged it over to where Metzli was resting, pulling himself up onto it so that he could lazily swing his legs. “I’m not about to leave you here, you’re in this state because you were looking out for me. What kind of an asshole would I be if I bailed on you now?”

Eyes opened lazily to look at Milo. He had a lot of annoying questions. But that was a given, considering he was fairly new. Still, Metzli huffed in anticipation of answering his question, and in reaction to agreeing with Bex. “Your blood is utterly useless, so don’t bother. Listen,” They paused for a moment, trying to prop themselves up and wincing as they did. “I’ve been alive for a while, you don’t have to question whether or not I’ll survive. And even if I don’t, it’s whatever. I’ve lived my span of life. I don’t care either way. That’s why the theory is so easy to try and test. I don’t care about anyone’s life, not even mine.”

Silence sat between the two as Metzli’s words settled. Distaste for life, existence itself resonated, revealing how cynical they could be. Being alive had its moments, really good moments, but they were greatly outweighed by all the traumatic and mundane ones. Moments that the vampire carried so quietly. “Think of it like a cult. Masters can be major assholes. Fucking pricks.” Acid filled every word and they had to squeeze their eyes shut despite the pain of the black eye forming to repress the anger.

Lucky for them, Milo gave them an opportunity to lighten the mood. “Hey, you’d be an asshole I’d be proud of if you left. Baller move. Looking out for yourself is key.”

Milo’s legs stopped swinging in response to Metzli’s tone, and he glared at them from where he was sitting. “I’m only trying to help, jeez…” He muttered, lowering his gaze to stare down at his hands. It was strange hearing somebody be so open about not having empathy for others. They really didn’t care whether they hurt someone, or even ended up getting hurt themself. It was a difficult thing to understand, and it was only making him feel certain he never wanted to be that person, the person who gave up such an intrinsic part of himself. He didn’t know what Metzli had suffered through in order to make them let go of their soul, and it felt far too personal to ask, even by his standards. But knowing they had made him sad. He wondered who they would be if they still had their soul, whether they would seem like an entirely different person. Sometimes not caring, not feeling would be freeing, and potentially even enjoyable. But Harsh had promised him he could still be Milo, that becoming a vampire didn’t mean having to change who he was. Giving up his soul would be erasing everything that made him. Everything Milo Summers. The idea was unnerving, he didn’t enjoy it. Listening quietly as his company began to elaborate on what made clans so terrible, he sat in silence for a while, just allowing the time to pass. He no longer felt nervous, or on edge. His fear was steadily being replaced by a feeling of protectiveness, a need to make sure Metzli was okay.

He knew it was stupid, a twenty-two year old kid feeling somewhat responsible for someone who had been around for over a century, but seeing the older vampire so weak, tired, and at the mercy of their injuries, he couldn’t help himself. “Don’t join a clan.” He said finally, nodding as he mulled over the words. “Noted.” Only glancing back up when Metzli insisted they would be proud of him if he had abandoned them, his expression darkened at the thought. How could he ever? When they had clocked the danger, and intentionally removed him from its path. It didn’t matter whether they cared about him on an emotional level, he owed them. And with his soul still firmly where it was meant to be, his gratitude was quickly becoming an unexpected sense of affection. “It’s okay, I’m kind of used to disappointing people.” He admitted, a smile tugging at his lips. “You’re stuck with me. At least until we know it’s safe to get out of here.”

“If you insist, depresso,” Metzli mocked half-heartedly. Milo spoke so badly of himself that it was actually humorous, brinking on annoyance. All this talk of being a disappointment yet he was doing a noble thing. The very fact that Milo was willing to stay was baffling to them. They themselves had abandoned several people and even tricked others. Vampires were predators, they attacked, they ate. Plain and simple. There was no need to meddle with the emotions of it all. “On the clan thing,” They added, “That’s actually where I gave up my soul. My master convinced me. But I won’t get into that. If I see ya again, maybe I’ll tell you over a drink.”

Thoughts of whether or not Metzli would be similar to Milo if they had a soul jumped around their mind. He was kind, maybe a little too kind. Life had beaten him up a little, sure, but it hadn’t completely destroyed him yet. Or maybe it never would. Regardless, it mattered not to Metzli.

Opening their eyes, Metzli slowly sat up and began to stand. “Or if you ask really nicely, I’ll tell you now.” The older vampire smiled, now looking at Milo. An arm wrapped around their stomach. It hurt to be this hungry and made it even harder to concentrate as they listened. “We should be good to go, though. So you’re gonna have to wait for that drink. I don’t hear anyone even remotely close.” They sighed in relief. Both of them got seriously lucky.

“I guess you weren’t the worst person to be stuck with.” Metzli teased, now knowing he could take it.

Milo rolled his eyes, it was the first opportunity he had been given to really hear his new nickname and though he couldn’t argue against its relevance, it wasn’t exactly flattering. “I do insist.” He said, his voice firm so that Metzli would know he was telling the truth, he really was trying to help them. He wanted to. Shifting on his perch, he chewed thoughtfully on his bottom lip as they began to tell him more about why they had given up their soul. Feeling a pang of guilt for his previous assumptions, he realised they hadn’t given up a part of who they were, they had essentially been manipulated into letting somebody take it. This had nothing to do with their personal wants and desires. He wondered whether they ever missed the way things were, whether they ever regretted their decision, or even had the capability to wish they had done things differently. “Only if you’re buying.” He said, catching their gaze, his eyes shining with humour. Watching them as they began to stand, he hesitantly pushed away from his table, landing lightly on the floor so that he would be able to assist them.

Pausing briefly to listen at the mention of their being no sign of company, he was relieved to find he couldn’t hear anybody either. Maybe if they travelled away from the forest trails they would be able to make it back into town without crossing any hunters who were out to get them. “You know…” He said quietly, noticing the way Metzli was clutching at their stomach, “my roommate works nights, so he won’t be home… I could raid the fridge and share a couple of blood bags with you? They’re about as ethically sourced as you can get, I mean… people donated the blood, and it’s technically going to good use.” Taking a step towards them, he smiled. His first, genuine, unfiltered smile. When he had been human, every act of kindness had gone unnoticed, he had undeniably taken them for granted. Now that he was a vampire, as his problems seemed to triple in weight, and intensity, so did his gratitude. His acknowledgement of the fact that nobody was obligated to help him. People chose to. It meant more than he would ever be able to say. “Yeah, I guess you weren’t the worst person either.” He joked, mimicking their tone. “Even if you did drag me away from a bar just to waste thirty minutes in some dusty old building.”

The gentle air that danced around Milo was a little nauseating. Or was that what the hunger was doing? Metzli couldn’t tell. It couldn’t be denied though, Milo was being genuine and even a little protective. All this shown in the way he readied himself to catch them if they needed. As time ticked on, he continued to baffle them. From his kindness to his humor, he was someone they could tolerate to have around. Hell, Metzli needed more vampire friends. “You got a deal, kid.” They answered, fully committing to seeing Milo again. “So long as you don’t get me into this mess again. Otherwise, you’re on you’re own.” A raspy chuckle slipped through their lips, pain and exhaustion motivating their every sound.

Metzli thought about Milo’s offer, albeit briefly, before quickly saying no. “Nah. I’m gonna be fine. No sense in going into another vamp’s territory, and I don’t take handouts anyway.” Pride was something of a fault of theirs. They could dish it out no problem, but the second someone tried to help them, it was a no-go. It felt off, it felt wrong. “You’re lucky I dragged you in here. That dude almost staked me. It was the best thirty minutes of your life and you know it,” They barked back playfully.

Taking a few steps, they managed to finally get their stride steady enough to feel like they could get home. “I’m heading home. Got a cat waiting for me,” Metzli said tiredly. “Try not to get into too much trouble, all right? Keep the flask. I got more anyway.” Using the wall momentarily, they navigated themselves toward an exit.

Milo pointedly raised his eyebrows, crossing his arms over his chest when he was confident Metzli wouldn’t need his help to stay standing. “Excuse you, I was just innocently enjoying a drink, okay? If anything you dragged me into this.” Pleased to hear a laugh escape them, he still wasn’t entirely sure they were well enough to make it home, but he was in no place to demand to escort them. He hated to admit it, but that really would be like a toddler trying to babysit an adult. Unable to understand why anybody would ever turn down an offer of something they were craving, especially something that was being offered free of charge, it hit him that if maybe he was able to do what Metzli was doing right now, he wouldn’t have been killed. After all, the only reason he had been chosen by the asshole who decided to turn him was the fact that he had a rather reckless habit of saying yes to anything, and anyone. It was for that reason he decided not to argue with them, not to try and force the bloodbags on them and pull them back to his apartment. They deserved to keep their agency, he refused to disrespect that.

“Hm, territory.” He laughed, unable to help himself. It sounded so ridiculous, he was still struggling to get used to the animalistic terms that seemed to be so popular among the vampire and werewolf communities. His apartment definitely didn’t feel like his territory, he wondered vaguely whether Harsh ever viewed it in such a possessive way. “No shit he almost staked you, but I distinctly remember you deciding to take him on. You didn’t need to be such a drama queen, you know.” His smile growing, becoming an outright grin at the mention of a cat, he thought of Summer, and Quinn waiting for him back in his bedroom. No doubt they would start begging him for food the moment he wandered through the door. “And I have two mice waiting for me.” He admitted, swiping the flask from where he had set it down, more than happy to accept the drink. Hurrying to fall into step beside Metzli as they began to make their way towards the exit, he pointedly linked his arm through theirs, surprised to find the physical contact didn’t feel awkward, or uncomfortable. “I’m making sure you get out of this forest, and then you’re free to do whatever…” He insisted, making it clear they weren’t allowed to say no to him. As soon as they reached the town he would begrudgingly be forced to let Metzli go, but he was beginning to see the vampire as a friend, and as much as he could let his friends down sometimes, he did his best to look out for them.

The support Milo gave Metzli startled them a bit. Usually on the first meeting, they fucked up enough to get either yelled at or completely dismissed. Every little quip they made did nothing to deter the young vampire from being around them. “Fine,” they muttered, reluctantly accepting the help. Just this once, they’d accept it. Just this once. They were too tired to protest anyway.

Slowly, the two managed their way back so they could say their goodbyes. Long before they arrived, Metzli had already decided they would make an effort to see the kid again. Whether it was for fun or for another encounter like this, they didn’t know. White Crest had a way of surprising them in that regard.

#are you new?#wickedswriting #substance abuse tw #addiction tw #alcoholism tw #eating disorder tw #milo & metzli

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sleepless-in-starbucks · 4 years

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Falling for You has Never been So Literal

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Summary: Virgil's too gay for this shit. He's outie. (Or Virgil saw a hottie. What's he supposed to do? Stay conscious? Unrealistic) Warnings: Fainting, gay too much, swearing, breaking promises (but in the best way possible don’t worry) Parings: Romantic sleepxiety, platonic prinxiety

Inspired by @tulipscomeinallsortsofcolors being just Too Gay and also fueling my inability to not write Too Gay

It had been a long day. Nothing new, of course- it was retail. What did Virgil expect? To be shown basic human decency? Unrealistic.

His shift only had an hour left to it, however, and Virgil was just hoping that his next customers could not be dicks. Was that too much to ask?

Speaking of demons, Virgil heard the sound of clicking approaching his stand, a lovely little spot shoved near one of the back corners of the store. There wasn't much to actually purchase here, so if someone was coming, it was almost definitely a customer approaching.

Mental fingers crossed for some very basic interaction that did not involve asking him to lower prices or any other crappy thing someone could come up with, Virgil ducked his head and waited for the customer to start handing over their soon-to-be purchases. A little awkward, yes, but what could he say? He wasn't a big fan of eye contact.

"I hope you found everything to your satisfaction." Virgil mumbled. Company policy to ask. He thought it was a little stupid, given customers who had a problem had a tendency to just tell you that, but it was still policy, and Virgil still didn't want to be fired just yet.

"Everything was just fine, darlin', thanks for asking." The customer replied as Virgil scanned through their purchases. Mostly just coffee beans and a few bottles of nail polish.

"That's good." Virgil said back, slightly more cognizant of the conversation. Responding wasn't strictly required, but it was preferred. And, well, he wasn't just going to say the customer had a nice voice, that would be weird, but, well... he was definitely thinking it.

Caught up in his totally not gay thoughts, Virgil finished the bagging automatically, pushing the groceries to the side as he punched in a few more things on the register. Finally, he actually looked up at the customer, about to ask how they planned on paying today.

His voice dried up in his throat before he even had the chance to use it, however, which probably had something to do with the fact that idling at his station was arguably the prettiest man he had ever seen.

The customer, aka Hottie McHottieFace, was sporting the absolutely most basic jeans, shirt, and (leather) jacket combo Virgil had ever seen, but it looked very, very good on him. Sunglasses were criminally hiding eyes that Virgil was relatively sure would kill him if he saw them, and his dark brown hair was pulled into a braid over his shoulder.

Worst of all, the customer was smirking at Virgil, intent probably harmless, but the consequences most certainly not.

Virgil wasn't sure how long he stood there, wordlessly gaping, face steadily turning into a cherry, but eventually the customer asked, voice teasing, "See somethin' you like, hun?"

Words, that's right, Virgil had to say words while looking at someone or it was rude. But upon moving his mouth, Virgil found that was apparently not a thing he could do anymore. He was fairly sure he was making some noises, but they were definitely not building themselves into any thing understandable

The whole 'clearly trying to speak and failing' thing wasn't going unnoticed by Hottie McHottieFace, who propped their sunglasses up with a frown and oh Virgil is not making it out of this alive, not when those sparkling green eyes were watching him, even if they were looking very concerned.

"Hey, uh... are you alright?" The customer asked, and Virgil would have loved to tell them absolutely not, please either leave or hold me, but then he reached over the counter to lightly place a hand on Virgil's arm, seemingly worried Virgil was going to fall over, and that was it. Virgil was out.

Virgil didn't completely remember how he went from standing and dying at his stand to lying, assumedly dead, on the floor, but he did remember the cause of it.

He reached a hand up to pinch the bridge of his nose, groaning. Great. Super. Couldn't wait to explain this to his boss. 'Fainted because of gay.' He should get himself a sign. 'If you're cute do not shop here, please and thank you, the cashier is liable to fainting like an absolute fool if you do.'

"You up, babes?"

Oh. Virgil knew that voice.

Was it possible to faint again if you were already on the ground?

Instead of doing that, Virgil settled for shooting up like he had heard free money was being handed out. More black spots danced across his vision the minute he did that, something he really should have seen coming, but it was already pretty clear his brain was functioning on 'fried-by-the-gay' mode, and his common sense was severely lacking.

"Woahhhh, let's slow down there." Hottie McHottieFace said, gently pushing against Virgil's chest to get him to lie back down, as if he had already forgotten the exact reason why Virgil fainted in the first place. Hottie smirked. "I know I sound like an angel, but I really don't want to see you have another fainting spell. Especially considering you've already stuck me here for five minutes with your first one."

Virgil cringed a little at that, going to apologize, but Hottie waved him off before he could even open his mouth.

"I'm kidding, I'm kidding. I'm not 'stuck' here." He said, smirk turning into more of a genuine smile. "I just figured it was pretty bad manners to just leave you." The smile turned smug once more, "I apologize also for the angel bit. I know I sound like one, but it really isn't fair to say that without pointing out you look like one."

Dead.

Virgil was dead.

Right?

This simply could not be real.

Grasping for literally anything he could use to stop the blush that was beginning to regrow across his face, Virgil finally noticed that Hottie, who was sitting next to him so that he didn't have to sit up to see him, was now only sporting his jeans and shirt.

"J-jacket." Virgil said. He hoped it sounded like a question. He also hoped Hottie just didn't hear him, because if his first words to him after all of this was 'jacket' he might as well just die of embarrassment right now.

Hottie raised an eyebrow, however, looking confused for a second before realizing what Virgil meant. "Where's my jacket?" He asked in confirmation, and Virgil nodded. Hottie's smirk only grew. "Did you think you were laying on a bag of flour, or...?"

Now it was Virgil's turn to look confused. Laying on... oh, there was something under his head.

Oh.

Kill him now. Please.

"Oh, good. Your processing skills are still intact." Hottie pointed out helpfully, glancing off towards a different end of the store. "Your boss said that was a thing I should keep track of, or something." Hottie glanced back at Virgil. "He's worried you gave yourself a concussion."

The salty part of Virgil would have loved to inform Hottie if anyone had given him a concussion, it would have been Hottie himself, since Virgil certainly hadn't planned for it. But the salty part was still barred by the fact he was currently working with one word per minute speaking wise.

"EMTs got called, too." Hottie added. "I mean, I assume you already saw that coming, but a head's up probably can't hurt."

Shit. Other people. If anything was going to stop him from being 100% a flustered mess, it would be the thought of having to interact with people he preferred not to tell the exact cause of his fainting spell.

Of course, he was still going to be roughly 94% flustered, but it was something.

Virgil moved to sit up, slowly this time, still gaining a very worried look from Hottie that he waved off. "I'm fine." He said, and his voice sounded like he had been screaming for an hour, but it was working, and that was pretty good if he did say so himself.

"Uh huh." Hottie said, disbelievingly, even as Virgil managed to get himself into a sitting position without falling back over. "Just be careful. I think your boss is going to kill me if he finds you fainted. Again."

"Why would he kill you?"

Hottie shrugged. "Beats me, sugar, but he seems to think I sabotaged your ability to remain awake. Don't know why, though, since that's a little ridiculous sounding, don't ya think?"

Ridiculous sounding, yes. Accurate? Also yes.

Virgil coughed. "Uh. Yeah. Ridiculous."

Luckily, Hottie didn't seem to pick up on his obvious bluff, holding out his hand instead. "Remy. Remy Starbucks."

Virgil raised an eyebrow as he took the hand. "Virgil. Is your last name really...?"

Remy laughed, and Virgil had to focus very hard on the fact that EMTs would be coming soon and he could absolutely not be flustered again, because Remy laughing was... nice just leave it at nice Virgil, damnit, if you start waxing poetic about him you're never going to stop looking flustered for the rest of your life.

"Nah, babes." Remy said as he released Virgil's hand, sitting back. "While it has been a spectacular ten minutes with you, you have spent half of them doing a very good impression of me without my coffee, and the other half mostly failing to speak. I'm not supposed to just hand out my last name to every good looking stranger I meet, now am I?"

Virgil fought down the sudden urge to give Remy his last name. He was 100% certain it wasn't nearly as sly of a move as he thought it was... but it would be a move.

Virgil was saved from making a decision on just how disastrous he wanted to be by the sound of someone approaching, quickly followed by his manager coming up behind Remy. He crouched down when he actually got to them, offering Virgil a bottle of water he readily accepted. "How are you feeling?"

Virgil shrugged as he drank the water. "Fine."

His manger frowned. "Yeah. That's why you fainted. You just felt too fine."

No, I fainted because the customer was too fine. Virgil thought in annoyance. Get your facts right.

"Listen, I am fine." Virgil repeated. "I just..." He glanced over at Remy, who was apparently also interested in the reason behind him fainting. "Just, uh... tired."

"You were tired?" His managed replied.

Virgil nodded his head as seriously as he could. "Just didn't get enough sleep last night, I guess." He said, hoping the lie wouldn't be too obvious. Probably helped his case he always looked tired, at least.

His manager didn't look entirely impressed, but it was deemed good enough. "Alright. Well, you still have to wait for the EMTs to make sure you don't have any serious head injuries from your fall, but assuming they clear you, consider your shift off for the day. Actually, take tomorrow too." The manager threw in. "Take a nap. I can't have my employees fainting on me become a common thing."

Virgil gave him a mostly sarcastic salute as his manager stood back up, glancing towards the nearest doors as the sound of sirens approached. "I'm going to go grab them." He said, heading off once more.

Remy watched him run off before turning back to Virgil. "So, can I assume you've got this all under control?" He asked, adding, "Under control as in you don't need random customer who's done nothing but sit around and be snarky to stick around?"

"You don't have to stay, no." Virgil answered, immediately panicking barely a second after the words were out of his mouth, rushing to continue with, "But, uh, my manager might, um, want to give you something as thanks for, y'know, sitting next to me." He said, angrily fighting off his once-more rising blush.

"Yeah. I'm sure that's the only reason I should stay." Remy said, voice lilting and wow here Virgil was, a dumbass, really thinking he really had a chance to survive this experience when he had a million dumb gay brain cells. "But as nice as a five dollar coupon would be, I have a meeting I can't miss, so I'm 'fraid I'll have to skip it."

"Oh, yeah, of course." Virgil said, trying not to sound disappointed. "You should, uh, you should really go then. Don't want to be late or anything."

"I'm already late, doll, don't worry about that." Remy said, winking at Virgil before he flipped his sunglasses back over his eyes. "Fashionably so, of course."

"Of course." Virgil echoed automatically.

Remy scooped up his bag of groceries, which had been lying next to him, and snagged his jacket from where it was sitting, folded up and at the moment useless, behind Virgil. Before standing up, however, he reached into his pocket, pulling out a receipt paper and handing it to Virgil.

"I know I'm supposed to keep that, but it was the only paper I had on me." Remy said with a smirk as he stood up. "If you really need to fulfill your cashier duties, though, well, I hear you have tomorrow off. Call me. We'll make a date of it." Remy said, blowing Virgil a kiss before turning and walking away. He stopped right before the doors, taking a moment to look back one last time and add, "Oh, and feel better, sweetie," before he was truly gone.

Virgil moved a hand to his face, unhappy but not in the least surprised to find it burning. Hand still on face, he looked down at the receipt he had been given, only to find some very swirly writing declaring the number scrawled across it to be Remy's. Virgil didn't know how, but somehow his face got even warmer.

Virgil was still busy trying not to die when he heard a group approaching, glancing over at the doors to see his manager returning with two EMTs. Stuffing the receipt in his pocket, he tried to look as alright as he claimed.

He considered it quite rude the first thing they mentioned was how red he looked.

Twenty minutes later and too many questions about why he had fainted (complete with one of the EMTs asking him suspiciously if being tired was all that had caused it in a tone Virgil didn't care very much for) and Virgil was finally free to go home.

Well. Free to go home as soon as someone picked him up, since apparently being tired enough to faint at random posed a serious risk to his driving ability and he wasn't allowed to do that. He was tempted to just drive home anyways, but his manager apparently didn't want anymore liabilities on his watch, and had helpfully taken Virgil's keys away.

So he was waiting.

Eventually, after ten minutes that had felt like forever, a car pulled up to the curb in front of the store, stopping in front of him. Even if he didn't already know what his roommate's car looked like, the Disney stickers plastered over literally every surface of it was all the identification Virgil needed.

He pulled open the passenger door and slumped into the seat, not surprised to find the Frozen soundtrack playing. After a minute where the car didn't start moving, Virgil glanced at Roman in annoyance.

"Are you going to go?"

"Not until you buckle-up, buttercup." Roman replied, sing-song.

Virgil sneered. "Why?"

"So I don't get a ticket just because you're lazy and angsty." Roman replied. "And don't say you're not being angsty, because I just know you were about to say you're not going to do anything that'll increase your chances of remaining in this 'dark, joyless world.'" Roman said the last bit much more dramatically than Virgil felt he had to, leaning back and putting the back of his hand to his forehead with a melodramatic sigh.

"I don't talk like that." Virgil said defensively.

"No, you just say those words." Roman agreed. "But not with nearly enough emotion. I'm just trying to make you seem exciting."

"That goes against everything I stand for."

"Just put on your seatbelt."

Virgil grumbled some more, but he did as requested, happy when Roman actually started them moving. For a few minutes, everything was fine, Roman's music a little loud but Virgil having long since learned that trying to turn it down only resulted in Roman singing it louder.

When Roman reached out and turned it down, however, Virgil knew he was in for twenty questions, a game he really didn't want to play when the final answer was 'fainted out of gay.' Roman would literally never let it go.

"So." Roman started, trying to sound casually conversational and failing entirely. "You fainted."

"No shit, Sherlock."

"Fuck you, Watson." Roman replied before pushing on, "You don't do that a lot."

"Thank you, Capt' Obvious."

Roman rolled his eyes. "I just wanted to ask why, Fainting Beauty."

Virgil shrugged non-committedly. "'Tired."

Roman side-eyed Virgil. "You don't faint when you get tired, though. You get more and more grumpy until someone wrestles you to bed." Roman said, only speaking a little (read: a lot) from experience. Suddenly, his eyes lit up. "Which means you're lying about why you fainted, which means the real reason must be-"

"-Unimportant." Virgil cut him off. "Something happened, I fainted, and I don't have a concussion. End of story."

"I don't think it is." Roman said, grinning. "Come on. You know I'm not going to let this go. You might as well tell me."

Virgil glared at Roman, annoyed that he was right. Roman wouldn't drop the matter for weeks if that's what it took to figure out the real story. He sighed. "Promise you won't tell anyone?"

"I swear it on my brother's grave!"

"Your brother's not dead."

"I swear it on my brother!"

"You're just going to take the name of Patton in vain like that?"

Roman huffed in annoyance. "No sense of dramatics in you at all." He complained. "I promise, alright, just spill the tea already."

Virgil hunched in on himself a bit, feeling silly as he admitted, quietly, "It was a cute guy."

"What did you say?"

Virgil cleared his throat and said again, louder, "It was a cute guy."

"I'm sorry, you're really going to have to speak up-"

"I SAID IT WAS A CUTE GUY."

Roman smirked. "Heard you the second time."

Virgil punched his arm. "Jerk."

"I know." Roman said smugly. "Now, details!!!"

"What details?" Virgil asked, annoyedly. "I saw a cute dude and I fainted because of it."

"Yeah, you swooned over him! How romantic! How magnificent! How gay!" Roman exclaimed. "You have to give! Me! The details! How cute is he? Can you see the universe in his eyes? Did he smile and you went weak at the knees? Did he introduce you to a world you didn't know existed?!"

"Our interaction lasted for, like, ten minutes Roman." Virgil pointed out in exasperation. "And I was busy being gay-dead for five minutes of that."

"Five minutes conscious is all you need to fall hopelessly in love." Roman assured him.

"I did not fall 'hopelessly in love' with him."

"Surrrrrrrrre." Roman drawled. "At least tell me you got totally-your-true-love's name?"

"Yes...?"

"Perfect!" Roman said excitedly. "Now you just keep an eye out for him, ask other cashiers to look for him, all that, and eventually, when you find him again, with my careful wingmanning we will get you the best second-meet-cute that can be artificially created!"

"That sounds really excessive and borderline creepy." Virgil pointed out.

Roman pouted. "Well how do you propose we get you and your soulmate properly matched together, then?"

"Well, I could just call him." Virgil responded, so caught up in being snarky that he forgot that sometimes, keeping secrets was helpful.

Roman squealed loud enough Virgil thought he was going to go deaf and, yeah, this was one of those times. "YOU HAVE HIS NUMBER?!"

"Yeah, I do." Virgil confirmed as he snapped next to his ear, a little relieved to find his hearing was, in fact, intact.

"Why didn't you tell me sooner?!" Roman exclaimed, much too loudly for the confined space. "You have to call him right now!!"

"I think I will not do that." Virgil responded. "Not with you in the car, anyways."

"Why ever not?!"

"Because you'll take the phone from my hand and set us up before I have a chance to say so much as 'hi.'"

"Blasphemy!" Virgil looked at Roman, unimpressed. Roman sighed. "Alright, maybe a little accurate." Pause. "Alright a LOT accurate. But still! You have to at least text him!"

"And why do I have to do that?"

"So you can be together and have literally the cutest getting together story ever. Duh." Roman responded like it was obvious.

"Invalid reason."

"And why's that?"

"Because you're the only one who knows about this." Virgil answered. "And you are never, ever going to tell anyone else that's why I fainted."

Roman looked scandalized at this new information. "But Virgil!"

"Nope. No buts." Virgil cut him off before he could say more. "You are not telling or so help me I will throw his number right out the window."

"You wouldn't dare."

"Try me, bitch." Virgil threatened. He left out the fact that the number was already saved in his phone, Remy's contact name stereotypically followed with a heart.

Roman sighed. "You live to torture me." He bemoaned. "But fine. If you promise to actually text him and at least schedule one date, I'll keep your gay secret."

"For real? And for ever?" Virgil checked. "This better not come up later, Princey."

"For ever and ever." Roman said with a flourish of his hand. "And if I so break your trust, you can dump him and blame me."

Virgil knew the promise was good. If there was anything more important to Roman than sharing embarrassing gay moments, it was actively supporting the gays in his life. "Deal."

"Magnificent!" Roman said. "Now, go be a dear and get! That! Boy!"

Virgil smirked. "We're already having lunch tomorrow."

"You already set up a date?!?! And you used having a date as blackmail against me?!?!"

"Yep."

"Touché, sir, touché." Roman said, before grinning mischievously. "You know I'm going to get you back for that, right?"

"I'd expect nothing less from you." Virgil replied. "Hence the whole protecting my secret first thing."

"Oh, don't worry Virgil." Roman assured him. "I'll figure something out."

And with that slightly ominous warning, Roman turned the music back up, immediately jumping into singing, the Frozen soundtrack having moved into Little Mermaid.

Virgil tried not to take it to heart that the song now playing was "Poor Unfortunate Souls."

~Time skip of roughly a year and a half~

Virgil was starting to have some doubts about making Roman best man.

It wasn't like he really had a choice- Roman was his closest friend, and given Roman refused to drop the idea he had, in some way, been a deciding factor in keeping Virgil and Remy's relationship going, Virgil doubted Roman would have even allowed himself to be anything other than best man.

But looking at Roman now, Virgil was almost certain he was up to some sort of trickery, and Virgil was pretty sure it was going to be very, very bad for him.

He had been nothing short of perfect throughout most of the ceremony, making sure everyone was in their places, showing people to their seats even though there was an usher, worrying over everything at a level to rival Virgil's worry. You almost would have thought it was Roman's wedding.

But now it was the after party, Virgil still mouthing the word 'husband' to himself over and over like it was unreal, and Roman was grinning like the Cheshire cat.

Virgil didn't know what he was planning, but he was planning something. Virgil was almost tempted to demand answers from him, but before he could properly work up the energy to stand up and move in a direction that didn't bring him closer to Remy, Roman was standing at the front of the room, tapping a mic to get everyone's attention. Apparently it was time for the best man's speech.

"Hello guys, gals, and non-binary pals!" He said, loudly, proudly, dramatically. "For those who have lived their lives in shameful ignorance of true talent and beauty, I'm Roman, and I will be the most entertaining part of your evening."

"Rude." Virgil murmured to Remy, who just chuckled.

"You knew this would happen."

"Doesn't make it less rude."

"I can hear the criticism from here." Roman said, once more gaining the grooms' attention. "Though I may, for exactly once in my entire life, deserve it."

"The best present you could have gotten us: a little, tiny bit of humility." Virgil called back, the crowd of guests laughing.

Roman shrugged, grinning. "What can I say? I, of all people, am not blind to neither love nor beauty. And it would be a crime against both to not acknowledge that the true show-stopper of this evening, this day, and likely this entire week will be our two handsome new husbands." He said, sincere. "They are, honestly, the cutest couple I have ever known."

The crowd 'awwwwwww'-ed at this, turning to clap once more at the newly weds. Remy happily took the excuse to wrap an arm around Virgil's shoulders, pulling him closer.

Virgil smiled around his blush. Turns out not even more than a year's worth of dating could change the fact that Remy was the finest man Virgil had ever seen, or cure his Gay. Virgil was just content with the fact he hadn't fainted while they exchanged vows.

"And speaking of cute, every good couple has an amazing meet-cute." Roman continued, his grin turning mischievous, and suddenly Virgil realized exactly what his plan was. "And with our lovely couple here, well, rest assured when I tell you they have the cutest meet cute. Care to hear it?" He asked the guests.

The crowd cheered him onwards, giving Roman time to glance at Virgil, who was desperately trying to telepathically send Roman death threats if he continued onwards. Roman just winked at him.

"I'll take that as a yes." Roman said, turning his attention back to the crowd. Virgil groaned and turned to stuff his face in Remy's side.

"Kill me now."

"You're gonna have to speak up, sweetheart." Remy said, the arm around Virgil's shoulder shifting a little to comb through Virgil's hair while still holding him. "Despite common belief, my ears are not located in my sides."

Virgil moved his head just enough to put his mouth in the air, his voice not muffled this time as he said, "Kill me now."

"But I just got married to you!"

"Roman hates our love."

"How so?" Remy asked, still amused. "I know how we met, darling, I was there."

"You don't though." Virgil moaned.

Remy raised an eyebrow, something Virgil could actually see since Remy had agreed that, for their wedding, he could briefly lose the shades. "Maybe I should listen in, then, huh?" Remy teased, and before Virgil could beg him no please do NOT you'll kill me on our wedding day and that would suck, his husband had kissed him and turned his attention to Roman.

Unfair, Virgil considered in silence, that Remy could still fluster him into silence with something as simple as a kiss.

"Most of you know that Virgil and Remy met in the most romantic place possible: a grocery store." Roman's voice fell flat for a moment before he went back to sounding excited, "And they were brought together by the magic of Virgil fainting. Though the swooning was most certainly romantic, the fact that he fell onto the floor instead of into Remy's arms was a fairly huge detriment to their cute points.

"But there is a very important part of this story that you, my fine folks, are missing out on, an overlook that cannot be allowed to stand. The reason behind Virgil's fainting spell was not caused by common sleep-deprivation, as he claimed. The real reason behind it all was..." Roman paused, dramatics winning out over his desire to say it as quickly as possible, and Virgil went back to hiding his face in Remy's side as if that would block out Roman finishing his sentence with, "being too gay to function."

There was an oooh from the crowd, and Roman nodded in faux sympathy. "It's true! Virgil, poor, sweet, incredibly gay Virgil saw the absolutely stunner that is Remy and found not a single one of his brain cells could cope." Roman smirked. "Though he did walk away from it with pretty boy's number in hand, so maybe he's got more game than all of us combined."

"Got married faster too!" Remy called out, and Virgil wasn't sure if he was going to die of embarrassment or if he was going to die of love for Remy.

Was both an option? Maybe he'd go with both.

Roman's grin just grew as he pointed at Remy. "That he did, sir! That he did!"

Roman let the guests stop laughing again before he continued, "Now, I wish to assure you all that if I wanted to make this a good ol' fashioned best man speech, I could. If you think the dude who met his husband through gay fainting doesn't have more embarrassing stories to be told, you've never met Virgil. I could sit up here for another five minutes and go on til the cows came home.

"But, I do have a little pity for my former roommate, and given that I haven't seen his face for a full minute, I'm thinking he's already as embarrassed as I need to make him to fulfill my job as best man, so I think I'll cut him a little slack and stop it here." Roman said, laughing at the disappointed sigh from the crowd. "I'm sorry to leave you unsatisfied, but I'm not here to make dear Virgil's wedding day his funeral as well."

Too late for that. Virgil thought bitterly. Very much too late for that.

"So with that in mind, I'd like to propose a toast!" Roman said, grabbing his glass from where it had been sitting on the table in front of him, raising into the air. "To Virgil, the gay that went all in on the 'gay disaster' aesthetic, and made out incredibly successfully!"

The guests raised their glasses, echoing the chant exactly, as if they were all there not to see Virgil wed but to have a hand in his murder. Virgil was fairly certain Remy joined in as well, which was complete betrayal on his husband's part if he did say so himself.

The noise died for a brief moment, everyone silenced with their drinks, and when it came back it was quieter, murmurs around the room. Virgil still stubbornly refused to remove his face from the safety of Remy's side, however, only scooting closer when his husband tried to pull away and reveal him.

A pair of footsteps approached them a moment later, Virgil able to discern them from the crowd only because he was good at hearing traitors. They stopped in front of him and Remy, their traitorous cause laughing.

"Aww, did I get him that bad?" Roman asked Remy.

"He doesn't want to show his face." Remy answered, ignoring the muffled gasp Virgil gave when Remy dared to positively interact with the betrayer. "Which is unfair given I'm sure he looks adorable just about now."

Remy just chuckled when Virgil mad angry noises into his shirt. "I can't hear you, babes."

Virgil continued his angry mumbles without an attempt to explain them.

"He really is cute, ain't he?" Roman agreed. Virgil made an extra loud angry noise.

"And so angry." Roman added, voice still teasing.

In pure annoyance, Virgil tilted his head up just enough to free his mouth, muttering to Remy, "Throw a fork at him."

There was a slight clang noise and than an 'ouch!' from Roman. "What'd you do that for?!"

Remy's shoulders moved as he shrugged, and Virgil smirked, "It was requested by the cutest person in the world."

Virgil finally pulled away from Remy at this, openly gaping at Remy as he hit his arm. "You're supposed to be on my side!"

"And I am!" Remy assured him, arms shooting out to grab Virgil's hands before he could get them away. He pulled them close to him, lifting Virgil's left so he could plant a kiss over Virgil's new, shiny ring. "But that doesn't change the fact that you are, inarguably, the cutest most amazing man I have ever met, and I refuse to remain silent about this fact for even a second, love."

Virgil's face turned red so fact he was surprised his hair didn't literally start to smoke. "I hate you." He mumbled, though any heat to it was busy turning his cheeks redder than roses.

"Bullshit." Remy said happily.

"Gaaaaaaay." Roman helpfully commentated, gaining a glare from Virgil and an amused look from Remy.

"Enjoy it." Virgil bit at him. "This will be your last chance to see me gay and happy."

"And why's that?" Roman asked with a smug grin.

"Because I'm going to die of embarrassment in five minutes." Virgil said solemnly. "Now that not only everyone, but also my husband, knows I am a weak, useless gay in every single way, I have no choice but to perish."

"Babes, I can tell this is heartbreaking for you, so I'm not one hundred percent sure how to tell ya this..." Remy paused for a moment, mouth quirking into a smile when Virgil looked distrustfully at him. "Well you weren't exactly subtle about it."

"No." Virgil said instinctively.

Remy nodded sadly. "Yep."

Virgil blinked at him a few times, ignoring Roman's barely withheld laughter, before saying, "Change of plans. I'm going to die one year and many months ago, after I fainted. Saves me a lot of trouble."

"Nooooooo." Remy whined. "No dying. I just married you. You're not allowed to die on the day of our wedding. Or to time travel to your death on the day of our wedding."

"Unfair. And I thought you loved me."

"It's because I love you and your cute, adorably weak gay heart that I refuse to let you die."

"You're too sweet." Virgil complained, leaning forward to kiss Remy before resting his forehead against his. "Which is why I hate to tell you that if I'm not allowed to die, I have to divorce you."

"You can't blackmail into letting you die."

"This isn't about blackmail." Virgil told him, turning to glare at Roman. "This is about Roman breaking his promise to never tell. I told him if he ever broke the promise I'd break up with you. And I have to be a weak gay of my promises. If you have a problem with this, I invite you to throw more forks at Roman."

Remy picked up another fork from the table, raised it, and aimed it. Roman turned away defensively, waiting for the projectile to hit…

But then Remy put it down.

"Nah. No problem for me, sugar." Remy said slyly, gently cradling Virgil's face with one hand and turning Virgil's gaze back towards him, smiling softly. "'Cause if you divorce me, I'll just have to chase you down, probably date you all over again, fall in love with you all over again, marry you all over again." His smile grew as he cupped Virgil's face now with two hands. "Twice the perfect memories sounds pretty good to me."

"I- You can't-" Virgil laughed, sounding a little watery, which might be because he was a few more sweet words away from crying in joy. He reached forward, wrapping one hand loosely around the back of Remy's neck and carding his fingers into the base of Remy's hair with the other, ignoring as Roman discreetly walked off. "You're going to make me faint again, Rem."

"That's alright, too." Remy assured him, scooting forward with his chair, pressing their legs together as he leaned forward to kiss Virgil properly, still smiling so softly, so adoringly, so lovingly as he pulled away and once more pressed their foreheads together, trapping them in their own little world, where all that mattered was each other, blocking out the guests and noise outside of their little bubble. "Because this time?

"I'll catch you."

#anyways turns out I'm an awful liar #because like #two days ago #I said I don't write plotless fluff #yet HERE WE ARE #what can I say?#I like the gays #the cryptid speaks #ts virgil #ts roman #ts sleep #ts remy #sleepxiety #platonic prinxiety #ts sides #sander sides #fanfic #fanfiction #violet

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in-tua-deep · 5 years

Note

How different do older!Five and baby!Five act? Do the rest of the family ever figure out a way to tell them apart? Do they ever get different names (for in public at least and being mistaken for twins)? Or is it just an ongoing argument about them both keeping the same name?

OKAY so they are both very very different and also similar??

Baby Five hates coffee. Five mainlines it. Baby Five is better with people and talking to strangers, Five isn’t always patient enough for conversations with people who aren’t Baby Five (this is because they read one another well enough to not always need clarification, which Five is more used to thanks to the apocalypse and Dolores)

Baby Five is more restless and bouncy than Five, who trained himself out of that at the commission for sniper missions. Five is more likely to conserve jump energy and take a cab/taxi/walk than Baby Five is, who uses his powers for everything just because he can and because he doesn’t have the same terrifying “run out of jump energy” experiences Five has

Five has PTSD and trauma involving fire, smoke, ash, rubble, being alone, and plenty of other triggers that the whole family is learning about. Five has odd habits, like boiling water or forgetting that electricity exists or frowning at baths because there’s so much water waste.

Baby Five has issues as well, which revolve more around the fact that he hates being treated as a child (because at his age he was on dangerous missions and using deadly force) while also reclaiming his childhood and wanting to do all the fun childish things he was never allowed, and both of those sides warring with each other.

Baby Five has a bit more of a sweet tooth. Five writes on the walls. Baby Five isn’t as good at maths as Five, who spent decades purposefully refining those skills. Five is less likely to resort to physical violence, but more likely to use threats. Baby Five is less likely to resort to deadly force. Five thinks the bed is too soft and more often than not spends his nights on the floor

Baby Five is more at ease with Vanya than Five is, because even though he still loves Vanya there’s still a lot of trauma wrapped up there from the apocalypse week. Five is more at ease with Ben than Baby Five is, because Five is used to thinking of his siblings as being dead and also never saw Ben’s body so tbh he’s better with Ben than a lot of the other siblings

But tbh they have more in common than they have differences. They both think “Mr. Pennycrumb” is a perfectly good name to give to a dog. They both think peanut butter and marshmallow sandwiches are food’s crowning achievement. They have a love-hate relationship with thunderstorms (they love the blue lightning flashes which remind them of their powers, they love the sound of the rain, but they’ve always been a little bit afraid of the booming thunder)

(They both have issues with restraints. They both have authority issues. There are certain rooms in the house neither of them will enter if they can help it, because bad things happened there.)

They have the same sense of humor, though Five’s can turn into a bit more gallows humor. They both find it difficult to stay still or be patient (Five is better at the former, Baby Five at the latter). They both climb on cabinets and tables and refuse to accept help from the others if they can’t reach something. They both will insult their siblings and then turn around ready to throw down if anyone dare do the same thing.

They have the same favorite color. They use the same mathematical shortcuts. They both use their left hand to write. They share the same faux innocent expression with the slight widening of eyes. When they laugh really hard, they both snort. They get the same little furrow between their brows when they’re stuck on a problem. They both jump out of a conversation that gets too personal. They have the same awkward little wave when they’re caught doing something they’re not supposed to. They both wrinkle their nose when they’re disgusted.

They’re competitive. They both dislike romance movies. They’re always willing to try anything once and like to try weird food combos that gross out their siblings. They like to tease the others and play tricks. They like to be dramatic (though neither of them stab the table anymore).

of course, this doesn’t take into account when they actively impersonate each other or pick up the habits they don’t have because they enjoy confusing their siblings tbh so half of their being unable to be told apart is very purposeful

as for names, both Five’s are very insistent about being called Five. They chose it. Neither of them wanted names. They stayed as Five while their siblings got names and whatever. They spitefully chose to have Reginald address them by name by reclaiming their number. It’s important. It’s symbolic.

It’s confusing.

the only one who has even approached a compromise is Klaus who called them Five and Five-o (Baby Five), as in 5 and 5.0 which is acceptable. None of the other siblings have caught onto this and even if they did it’s entirely possible they wouldn’t accept the nickname from anyone but Klaus

to be fair, neither of the Fives are puzzled when addressing each other?? and if someone yells “FIVE” all they have to do is point at which one they mean. Or they can clarify using descriptors?? like if they specifically want apocalypse five then they can yell “OLD MAN” and he’ll pop down to see what you want

yelling “COFFEE” is also guaranteed to net you old five but not baby five (unless they’re together and having a discussion in which case just find the one that actually drinks the coffee)

Luther has just resorted to bellowing “YOU” when he spots one of them doing something they Decidedly Shouldn’t Do, kind of like the owners of identical pets end up doing when one of them is chewing on plastic

Klaus is the least awkward about it tbh which is probably why they let him get away with Five-o. He’s just out here like “hey look you and your eviller twin need to come down to dinner” or “alright double trouble get your asses in gear” or “time for the terror twins to take a goddamn nap” or even just “hey whichever one you are can you fuck off for a second i need to have a brotherly talk with Mr. Doom and Gloom over here” like it rolls off naturally and he does it for everyone so they don’t take issue with it

in public it’s more like “oh this is five and five they decided to have the same name as kids and they didn’t give us a choice. no, you will not be able to tell them apart. no, you shouldn’t try. just embrace death and call them five and you’ll never be wrong, it’s an efficient system.”

(”Hey Fives since we’re making you legal people do you want to like, pick names?” “What no we have names.” “You can’t both be Five.” “Why not, people named their kids the same name back in the day.” “Pretty sure that only happened when one kid died.” “Is it illegal? No? Then get off our dicks.”)

i mean,, no one is ever able to tell them apart anyway so they might as well have the same name tbh. even if one of them DID pick another name, they would still constantly get called Five anyway when they were mistaken for the other one. It’s only irritating when they’re both there and someone is trying to get only one of them’s attention

(Klaus walks into a family meeting and points at each in turn and is like “Thing one and thing two” and then proceeds to use whatever dubbed name he bestowed upon them for the whole meeting - since it’s not permanent they don’t mind)

but like I said sometimes baby five will grit his teeth through drinking coffee with a straight face and five allows himself to smile just a little wider and bounce on his heels and basically even if the siblings think they’re talking to one twin it might actually be the other SO

#double trouble au #five hargreeves #number five #klaus hargreeves #luther hargreeves #thirteen year old five and fifty eight year old five are actually at about the same level of emotional maturity just with differing trauma #and some of the same trauma #the fives are increasingly both unimpressed and amused at their siblings attempts to differentiate them #there are no physical differences between the two bc they're the same person and old five's body literally reset #i didn't mention it but also baby five is more chill with calling grace 'mom'#tua #the umbrella academy

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halfcafhaibun · 6 years

Text

A Look Into Lookism

She did not seem afraid of me, but that she might have to talk to me. I'd never met her, and I only wanted to say hello, thank her for coming to my school, and tell her I appreciated the inspiring message she gave to our students. But after several minutes of waiting, and watching her shuffle away three feet for each foot I stepped closer, I finally got the message that she had no interest in speaking to me, or to any male for that matter. I got out of line, and left as quietly as I could.

Inside I felt a mix of anger and sadness. This person was, and is, a local celebrity, a news anchor, whose job requires her to meet and talk to all sorts of people. She didn't owe me the few seconds of conversation I hoped to have with her, but her fearful looks at me and her clear attempts to avoid me made it difficult for me to take her message of tolerance and persistence seriously.

To a degree, I get it. She's a young, attractive professional who needs to be conscientious of what she says and does, and who she interacts with. And I'm a fat, middle-aged, white male, who looks, I guess, like someone who has been the understudy for the guy playing the big, bad wolf. I've had students mention that I look angry when I'm not, that I have a kind of resting bitch face.

And with the #MeToo movement in full swing, I understand that many women are more skittish, and more men should default to giving more space. That's fair. And any man who, like me, has expressed himself outside of his bedroom or the freeway, is scary. However, this has happened so many times -- women either deliberately avoiding me or speaking to me as if they expected problems -- that I'm left thinking I should crawl under a bridge where all the other trolls are, and stay there where I belong.

When my oldest was small, and taking ballet, I noticed that I was the only father who regularly picked up his child. I was in graduate school, and later teaching, and my schedule made it simple for me to do much of the domestic driving for our family. Usually, I would drop her off, and with a half-dozen moms waiting for the class to end, I sat in the small waiting room.

None of the mothers spoke to me. Ever. They chit chatted with each other, even with others they did not know. If I tried to engage someone in conversation, I was looked at with scorn or suspicion. This is not me being sensitive. I saw the knit their brows and pursed lips of resentment or the wide-eyes of fear that shouts, "Stranger danger!" so often over so many years of dance, soccer practice, and even cub scouts, that I am afraid to look in the mirror to find out what beast has been hidden from me, but revealed to every person not making eye contact or shaking my hand.

If this is what happens to me, not every day, but enough to make me concerned, then imagine what it is like for people of color, for women who are not model gorgeous, for people with disabilities or deformities, for anyone who is part of a group looked upon not only with fear, as if all members of that group are terrorists, or that interaction with said person would cause cancer.

People who do not go through incidents like this say, "Don't take it personally. You are probably just oversensitive." I wonder why the same thing isn't said to people in groups whose belief system is fear of outsiders, a group that can include anybody at any time, but generally does not. And how can I not take it personally if I am singled out? People could say, "Just move on. This doesn't always happen to you," and those people would be right. And as I stated above, it catastrophically worse for people in groups I don't belong to. Typically, the worst that happens to me is I get my feelings hurt; others get the police called on them, get assaulted and/or shamed, and sometimes die.

However, just because my bad situation isn't as bad as other people's does not mean it does not affect me. A study published a couple years ago in the Journal of General Psychology concluded that students learn more from attractive teachers than those who they deem unattractive. The study seems to have some limitations, so one should consider this finding carefully. Further, plenty of research before this study found the opposite: that teachers give better grades to physically attractive students. I believe there is much more to both ideas, and that there are plenty of other factors involved. Cause and effect are rarely so one sided.

However, it is the second conclusion that we all should take steps to reverse: Students perceive that attractive professor are more effective. So, it matters less that an instructor have any other positive qualities, such as competence or expertise or good communication skills: if you are good looking, you are good; if you are not, then you are bad. For college students, who take their cues more from Rate Your Professor than any desire for learning, there is no middle ground.

How does this affect me? First, I'm old, at least in comparison to most of the people in my department, and to most of the students my school serves, old equals ugly. Second, I'm fat. Not a little overweight, or a bit chunky. I am freaking obese. And even if more and more Americans join this category every day, it doesn't mean fat students wouldn't prefer a thin teacher. Third, I just don't have the face that launches a thousand essays: I wear a beard and have bags under my eyes for starters. There is little I could do to even look "distinguished," whatever the heck that means.

Granted, there are many elements of my appearance I could change. I am losing weight, but that's for my health, not to appeal to young adults. I could shave off my beard, cut my hair, and maybe get some product or drug to help me grow hair over the bald spot. I could purchase more expensive clothes that would help hide or make less noticeable my "flaws." I could, if I didn't shave the beard, color out the gray.

But I won't do most of that. Instead, by mutual decision, I will retreat to a completely online schedule, where I hope my looks won't matter. I could even use an avatar to avoid people finding out what I look like altogether.

Perhaps as you read this, you think, "Wow, that took an odd twist," and you would be right, so let me come back to the original thread. Fear over what people think about someone different drives their reality, not what is real. It is the instinct for self-preservation on meth. It takes more time to get to know someone or even have a brief conversation, than to play the better-safe-than-sorry game, or even to question such approaches to life. It has been suggested that the "stranger danger" lesson so frequently drilled into the heads of children has done more harm than good, but few people want to have that conversation. Well, Stranger Danger has grown up, and isn't pretty.

#lookism #prose #essay #fear #stranger danger #college students #college professors #what are you looking at?

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mynameisbriggsycakes · 6 years

Text

“Nobody is That Stupid”

Men are trash.

I say this with a relative amount of experience under my belt and knowing full well that despite this statement, I am undeterred in my quest for that D. That being said, that D still belongs in the bin.

Yesterday I had to take my motorcycle skills evaluation test. For the second time. This was after taking a two-day class during Thanksgiving weekend in which the denouement was saturated with my own frustrated tears. The first day ended with me as gray as the clouds in the sky. I panicked, shut down, and almost burst into tears. The second day took a sheer amount of willpower that I hadn’t tapped into in months for me to return. Not even the instructors expected me to return.They even said so. They are very encouraging people, I swear.

Anyway, along with all the other craziness that I was dealing with, including, but not limited to job relocation, people sucking, my fear of flying to the point of insanity, money, no D, I was obviously under a bit of stress. But while I was so used to crawling back into my misery, as it is warm and familiar, I had to try to get out of it. I had to stop. So I listened to my friends and my counselor this time and turned away from that doubt and tried to pump myself up, get confident, and ace this skills test. I played music, and I even decided to leave a bit earlier so i could be sure to get there on time, under the impression that I could just take the test and leave.

And then...there was Bruce.

Bruce drove a Chevrolet. Bruce had a 4.9 rating on Lyft. And Bruce picked me up at around 12:47 to take me to my test. And Bruce didn’t waste any time.

He immediately offered me some lip gloss that was left by a customer. I politely declined, saying that using a stranger’s lipstick is not the most hygienic thing to be doing. He looked shocked. Then he asked if I heard about the woman who brought a lawsuit against Sephora due to her contracting herpes after trying one of their samples of lipsticks. I did, of course, and he asked for my opinion. I stated that while I do give a personal side-eye for anyone willing to put used lipstick on, it’s still completely irresponsible for Sephora to allow this sort of practice as it defies all common sense. I continue:

Me: And despite the country being very litigation-happy--

Bruce: Especially California.

Me (with internal red alerts humming): --it seems fair that she would sue for damages and her request is reasonable.

Bruce: So let me ask you this.

Me (internally): Please don’t.

Bruce: So I’m trying to return to working in the office, you know, I’ve been doing this for two years and I really want to go back.

Me (internally): Oh, no.

Bruce: So when I go back, I just wanted to know...you know...since there’s gonna be women there..how do I approach them? I mean, ANY one of them, at any time, could complain that they are being sexually harassed.

Me: Uh...that’s not how it works?

Bruce: So let’s say that I get into a relationship with someone at at work, right? It’s consensual and what not, and then it ends. Then she could go to HR and complain that it’s sexual harassment. Any woman could do it.

Me: No. Any woman could not do this.

Bruce: But listen--

Me: Here we go. If you’re asking me personally if I will date someone I work with, the answer is no. I don’t shit where I eat, but with that being said, I know plenty of people who were able to have loving, stable relationships with people they met at their job. They simply have to go to HR and tell them first.

Bruce: I know, but if she goes to complain--

Me: The point of HR is that it protects both parties. If there’s any sway to one side or the other, there is usually a reason. Anything else? (don’t say this ever to a Bruce)

Bruce: (dumb silence is dumb) So what do you think of the Harvey Weinstein scandal?

Note: I figured out later on that his line of questioning is deliberate and I am almost entirely convinced that he probably purchased that lipstick on his own specifically to start this ridiculous conversation with all the women he picks up. This is seven shades of fucked up.

Me (don’t answer don’t answer you are in a trap): I believe the woman and Weinstein is a pig who deserves to go to jail for the rest of his life.

Bruce: Yeah, but NOBODY is that stupid.

Me (snared in the trap): What?

Bruce: If I were a woman, and my boss told me to come up to his hotel in order to discuss business, why would you go? You can chose the hotel bar, the hotel lobby, a restaurant. Why would you go there?

Me (begins to see red): Because men of power have fostered a culture of fear specifically to subjugate women in order to keep them down and to keep the patriarchy alive. The power involved is usually sexual in nature. Women fear that if they do not acquiesce to sexual demands, their lives will be over.

Bruce: But NOBODY is that stupid.

Me (actively She-Hulking out): You’re actually victim-blaming? Are you actually serious right now?

I wanted to get to my class early. I wanted to actually meditate on the course and eliminate all of the fear and anxiety in my heart so I could pass. Instead, I get a sexist, ignorant Lyft driver who unfortunately has all the control in the car and I am now wanting out.

The rest of the time, I just heard more excuse after excuse. And all I could think of was hearing those same words by people who said they loved me and told me it wasn’t the same thing as they molested and tried to rape me.

And I had enough.

Me: You know what? You are part of the problem. All you’ve done is victim blame and make excuses for what is obviously disgusting behavior. I’m getting out of this car and you have a nice day, sir.

I jumped out of the car at a stop light. I didn’t know where I was at first, but thankfully, I was only five minutes away from my destination. He muttered something at me, I’m sure an insult or something, I don’t give a fuck, but he sped away and canceled the ride. I made a mental note to report his ass later, but the damage was done. Instead of coming into my test relaxed and ready to go, I’m now worked up because of the not-so-gentle reminder that men are BASURA.

I went onto the course muttering to myself again, but it wasn’t an anxious muttering. It was more just exhaustion. I just need to remind everyone here that it is almost impossible to be positive in a world so fucked up like this. I am trying...SO HARD.

A minor highlight was when I finally arrived on the course to see someone else taking it with me. And not only that, he was supportive and kind and gave me tips. Just watching people ride on the course gives me a zen that I haven’t felt in a long time. And I thought with the lessons that I took on Saturday, I had a decent chance to ace this nope.

I hit a cone. My feet hit the ground. I stalled. My gears went to neutral. Objectively, I did worse than I did the last time and I fucking failed. But at no point did I decide to give up. I sucked up all my mistakes and I decided that no matter what, I was going to stay positive and not let my anxiety and nerves get me down. I did my best and I faced it.

Finally, it was the quick stop. I practiced this and nailed the heck out of it. So when the instructor called us over to tell us how we did, I almost broke down because I saw only one card in his hand, meaning that my classmate passed but not me nope.

There were two cards. I passed.

I PASSED.

I am now officially a licensed motorcyclist in the state of California. Granted, I need a TON more practice. A literal ton. I need to be more comfortable with riding and if I’m going to able to handle the new Ninja 300 I want to buy next year, I have to give it my all. But the instructors were kind and helpful and made sure I was able to take the next steps. I mean, we are talking about not only an extremely dangerous sport that could kill me if I don’t practice, but an activity that actually takes up so much of my time and makes me so calm that I’m addicted. I have to take this seriously and show all the Bruces of the world that I can outmaneuver any bullshit they throw my way and will protect those who can’t defend themselves. Why not? NOBODY is that stupid.

Until next time, guys.

#harvey weinstein #men are trash #lyft #motorcycle #california

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lookatthisdork · 6 years

Text

Meditations of Jason Todd (Draft)

In the spirit of NaNoWriMo, I’ve made several attempts at drafting different fic ideas, which inevitably meant blocks of Batfam fanfic drabbles that don’t have any coherent plot, flow or continuity. They’re all basically unfit for internet consumption right now, except for this first attempt at writing in Jason’s voice.

(Um, I’m still reading Pre-Crisis and 90s comics in my free-time, so the only canon Red Hood I have is his single animated movie. Since this is set significantly after that in his character arc, I’m not super confident when writing him. I have a problem writing characters I haven’t read the canon for, honestly.)

The problem with trading and selling drugs in a city like Gotham is that no matter how careful you were with recruitment, no matter how high your people’s morale and loyalty, you inevitably have to get your hands dirty to keep the money flowing. There are always incentives for both defectors and saboteurs to take pot shots at your stake. Offing a boss could mean a bigger piece of the pie for yourself, better job security (in the short-term, if your employment was tenuous), averting your boss throwing you under the bus for a job gone wrong. If the guy up top doesn’t maintain an aura of invulnerability, a willingness to crush any dissent under his boot, he quickly finds himself faced with with mutiny.

Dealing in drugs always ends in blood, one way or another. Jason was well aware of this. He was also aware of the fact that if you wanted to finance something really expensive quietly and quickly, drug money was the most sure-fire way of getting what you wanted.

(Actually, well-done white-collar fraud was the most sure-fire way, but if there was one thing he’d absorbed from watching Oracle, it was that fraud was never as secure as people made it out to be. It only took one individual with a computer and more skill than you to blow your operation to bits. Maybe it was old-fashioned, but at least drug-money was a physical object that couldn’t be “lost” with a few keystrokes.)

(Also, fraud was boring as a sole source of income. Too much time behind a screen, not enough explosions and punching people in the face.)

The Red Hood had been a damn-good drug lord, Jason liked to think. He’d run a tight ship, and the “severed heads in the duffel bag” shtick had quickly established just how out-of-their-league everyone else in the game was. Sure, he hadn’t stayed in business all that long for several good reasons (only one of which was Bruce), but extorting organized crime bosses was like riding a bicycle – really hard to forget. There was no practical reason for why he shouldn’t just recycle his old plan in a new city for some fast cash. Wasn’t like the shit-hole he was stuck in had anyone equipped to take him down.

Of course, striking fear into the hearts of criminals by decapitating their peers wasn’t the best strategy to use when your little brothers had front row seats to the carnage via helmet-cam.

He could just disable the cam for that part, of course. But the brats would definitely put two-and-two together and hatch some plot in response. An unnecessary headache when there was no Dick to foist them off on.

And...Jason wasn’t the best role-model in the world. He could admit to that. He used the phrase “little brothers” to refer to Tim and Damian very, very lightly in deference to the uncomfortable number of murder attempts among the three of them. Nowadays, he did regret all the stabbing and shooting and general dickery. Even though Damian was genetically engineered to be the most aggravating child on the planet and Tim kept stealing Jason’s alter-egos out from under him (unrepentantly now, the little shit). They were still better than uninterested-and-unhelpful-unless-I’m-sending-you-to-Arkham Dick and fucking Bruce. They didn’t deserve half the shit they were dealing with.

But his regret didn’t magically fix everything. There were 100-to-1 odds that neither kid saw Jason as anything more than “that one fuck-up that we don’t discuss in polite company.” Fair enough. Still, didn’t mean that the Red Hood had to live down to their expectations. He could do better – be the responsible adult, make sure they were fed and watered regularly, maybe (maybe) address their allotted emotional-expression-of-the-week.

Jason blamed his previously non-existent brotherly streak on Cassandra. She’d not only spoiled him by re-familiarizing him with friendly human contact, but she also subtly planted in his mind the idea that hey, you know who else would appreciate Jason’s company when Cassandra was busy? Tim and Damian. And you know who would benefit most from Jason’s unique perspective on life? Who needed a reprieve from Bruce and Dick and all of their frankly impossible expectations? Who could always use another person watching their backs, making sure they end up in an early grave?

(Honestly, Dick should watch Cass in Big Sister Mode and take notes.)

A soft huff of static came through the comm in his ear without warning, followed by the ridiculously-identifiable Damian’s click of the tongue. (Bruce was trying to train him out of doing it in costume so people wouldn’t catch on - with no success, of course.) “Todd, have your remaining neurons finally ceased to function? You’ve been standing outside the warehouse for five minutes. Are you ready or not?”

“Yeah, yeah, hold your horses,” he said as he checked the indicators for the explosives one last time. (Still all green, ready and able to wreck a certain someone’s next fiscal quarter.) “I was just reminiscing about the good old days, back when we all hated each other’s guts and I still blew up drug dens with the dealers inside instead of out. Ever miss those times?” he asked, heavy on the sarcasm.

Tim’s voice was dry as a desert, even with the slightly-tinny reception. “I miss them as much as I miss the knife that was embedded in my spleen.”

“Well, you have to admit, a knife in your spleen was probably the most exciting thing that happened to you that week, even if it was bad for your health long-term.”

“Clearly Todd’s mental dysfunction is worsening,” Damian said. As usual, his tone gave no indication if that was meant to be a joke or an insult.

Probably both, actually. Kid got a kick out of riling people who weren’t Dick up.

At least it was a joke clearly aimed to get a chuckle out of Tim instead of a joke at his expense. If there was one thing this months-long jaunt into the multiverse was doing, it was driving the boys together through their shared survival instinct and the fact that Jason deprived them of all baked goods whenever he had to break up their fights.

(Bribing his brothers with freshly-made cakes and brownies in exchange for good behavior was really the only reason they were three months into this shit-show with no major casualties.)

“Ain’t that a shame,” Jason replied. “It’ll just be you and Tim, stuck all alone in Not-Gotham. What a perfect opportunity for you two to bond.”

No,” both boys said at the same time.

Then the sound of Damian trying to land a hit on Tim (and failing judging from the lack of a pained grunt) filtered through Jason’s headpiece. Because Damian couldn’t stand to agree with Tim on anything for more than 10 seconds without ruining the moment.

Well, whatever. The brotherly-bond was a work in progress. “Stop fist-fighting so we can finish this,” he said. “I’ve got Falcone’s heroin wired up to an irresponsible amount of explosives, and I’d like to get our racket money before dawn.”

What I just wrote makes no sense out of context, but since this is the only thing I have written for this AU, I’ll just explain here:

This is from the “Jason-Tim-Damian get stuck in Flashpoint” AU I mentioned at some point, a few months into their impromptu stranding. How they got there isn’t super important, and I’m handwaving intervention from standard Earth not being able to get them back home in a timely manner. (Note: Bruce, Dick, Cass and everyone else aren’t trying really hard to get them back; it’s just not working for Reasons.)

After thinking about these three in a strange Not-Gotham for a while, I came to the conclusion that they’d lay low and avoid drawing attention to themselves instead of trying to approach Thomas-Batman or Alt-Cyborg or someone else. Things might be different if Dick or Cass were the oldest sibling on the ground, but Jason’s much slower to trust, as are Tim and Damian. A virtual stranger that also happens to be Batman would be the last person Jason would trust with his and his brothers’ safety.

Naturally, that means the guys need to find a source of income and a place to hole up. The former, Jason gets by extorting the local organized crime - charging money to sabotage competitors and charging money to not sabotage his employers. Lighter on the murder than his first return to Gotham, but Tim and Damian noticeably don’t bring that subject up anyway. I imagine they picked a spot that was an auxiliary batcave on their Earth and fix it up as a temporary base where Tim is trying to engineer something to send them back to their Earth (funded by Jason’s extortion racket). Damian is stuck as the odd-jobs kid, which he handles with as much patience as he can. (Hint: he’s not a very patient person.)

It would be a waste of the setting not to get the three of them involved with Thomas-Batman and possibly even the main plot of Flashpoint, so this scene would be a sort of in-between-scene prologue before the status-quo changes. I’m leaning towards either Red Hood crashing one of the Cyborg-Batman scenes because he needs tech only Cyborg has or one of the guys interrupting Martha-Joker’s last crime.

Of course, this premise requires a long-form fic, which I’ve never written before. This is all wild speculation, really. I’ll probably never write all of this out. ¯\_(ツ)_/¯

BUT IF I DO, you can count on Jason finding out that in a world with no Bruce and no Robin, he STILL ended up dead and resurrected. The multiverse just has it out for him, clearly.

#batman au #au #fanfic #mine #jason todd #tim drake #damian wayne #flashpoint au

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fantisci · 7 years

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Voltron: Keith, Lance and their roles on the team

There seems to be a bit of a kerfuffle recently over these to with regard to Keith’s likely leadership in S3, mainly between the “Keith is clearly leadership material and Lance fans are just crying over their fave’s inadequacy!” and “Keith is an accident waiting to happen who shouldn’t be left in charge of a houseplant!” factions. This argument usually involves a degree of involvement from the “Shiro plays favourites” debate.

I’ll admit that I’m not sold on Keith’s magical-intrinsic-leadership-abilities myself, simply because (a) he seems happy in the role he’s already got and (b) I don’t like Red Ranger Syndrome - the assumption that the only way to find a leader is to find the most hotheaded (and usually most stereotypically “masculine”) member of the team and give them all the power, because charging in head first with blind faith is the only way to lead. It’s normally done to appeal to a young male audience, and it works to the point that it’s become cliche. Personally, I think that there’s a lot to be explored with the Paladins in their current roles, rather than giving Keith a promotion and the dealing with the domino effect that this would entail. Say what you like about Shiro, but he averts that in a believable way - he’s calm, he’s tactical and he’s diplomatic.

On the other hand, I’d argue that Shiro’s probably a massive contributor to the problems that both Lance and Keith have, for entirely opposite reasons.

First of all, is this a narrative or a writing issue? It’s hard to say: Season 1 was the worldbuilder, and occasionally it became the Pidge and Shiro show. Season 2 was the Keith and Shiro show. When you‘re rotating the character focus, it’s hard not to make it look as though absolutely everything and everyone is obsessed with that character. Therefore, the accusations of “favouritism” could be because of the writing: the writers are “favouring” a character, Shiro is facilitating the spotlight on that character, and therefore it’s going to look like Shiro favours the spotlight character too.

That said, Shiro is a character in his own right. He’s mid-twenties at most, in charge of a very small, very young team, and at the forefront of a cosmic war. And that’s before you factor in his massive trauma. The man has a lot on his plate. The odd thing is, while Shiro is constantly lauded as the perfect leader, I don’t think the viewers are mean to see him that way. I think we’re meant to notice his flaws – and favouritism in these circumstances would be a very believable flaw. He has a personal bond with Keith, and he was close to Pidge’s family, so it’s natural that he understands them, hears them out and wants to protect them - he’s lost everything else, arm included, so his bonds to them provide some comfort. Hunk and Lance, by contrast, are relative strangers. He cares for them, but keeps them at arm’s length– particularly Lance, who, from Shiro’s perspective, makes life more difficult and keeps niggling at Keith, who Shiro is more personally invested in. He’d take a bullet/laser for Lance or Hunk, but doesn’t seek them out to spend any personal time with them.

Yet I think his different approaches to Keith and Lance have given them the same problem: insecurity about their place on the team.

Shiro, Pidge and Hunk are given their proper place on the team. Their strengths are validated and valued by the others: nobody is seen telling Pidge that she has to work on becoming more physically powerful if she wants to be an asset to the team, nobody tells Hunk that he needs to be more agile, and nobody questions or challenges Shiro’s role as the leader.

Keith and Lance, on the other hand, don’t get this reassurance. As the series progresses, Shiro repeatedly tells Keith that he has to be more – start thinking tactically, calm down, you’re going to be my successor as the leader of the team, so start acting like it! The implicit message, then, is that Keith’s actual position in the team – the front-line charge, the DPS muscle, the speedster – isn’t enough. In order to be a True Asset to the team, he has to become something else. Keith’s “weaknesses” – impulsiveness, suspicion, battle hunger – are all assets in his current role. But because Shiro wants him to be Leader, not Fighter, these are parts of his character that he’s told he needs to get rid of… the characteristics that made him appealing to the Red Lion in the first place. For an additional headache, what he’s picking up is “you have to be more like Shiro”. Keith looks up to Shiro, and probably can’t imagine any way to lead except The Way Shiro Leads – and so he’s probably not realised that Shiro’s leadership style, while sensible and effective, has its own inadequacies. For example, while he does seek group consensus at the start of the series, as the story progresses Shiro often defaults to “because I said so” when questioned.

The show, I suspect, will deal with Keith finding his own style of leadership, but it’d be a letdown if all we get is Keith proving to be a “natural leader” and the usual “you were born to lead!” nonsense that Red Ranger types often get. The problem is, Shiro doesn’t really do much to actively prepare Keith to take over, other than selecting him for the Mamora mission. You can repeat “patience yields focus” until you’re blue in the face, but it doesn’t address what Keith will really need to take over. To give an obvious example: how is he going to handle Lance? Lance is almost certainly not going to be happy about answering to “Mullethead,” so how should Keith deal with that? Put his foot down and demand respect as leader? Boot Lance from the team (and then try and explain that to Blue)? Distract Lance by assigning him elsewhere? Adopt a co-operative leadership approach? Shiro never tells him, and it doesn’t seem to occur to him that Keith can’t bank on the things that make Shiro an automatic choice for leader (experience, rank, reputation and age). “Shiro said so” isn’t much to go on once Shiro’s not around to enforce it. It’s also worth noting that Shiro says NOTHING about his intentions for Keith’s leadership to the rest of the team - he could have discussed it with them and dealt with that problem himself, rather than leaving Keith to deal with it.

In short? Keith’s having a barrage of expectations fired at him, with little to no support to enable him to meet those expectations.

Lance the opposite problem but with much the same effect. His current role, like Keith’s current role, is undervalued – if the others even realise that he has a role at all. However, unlike Keith, who’s suffering under the magnifying glass of Shiro’s attention and expectations, Lance is just left to it until someone needs a spare wheel. No-one sees a problem and thinks “Let’s get Lance, he’ll handle it.” Tech problems go to Pidge, mechanical/culinary problems go to Hunk, diplomatic issues go to Allura, castle/culture issues go to Coran, battle offensives go to Keith, and anything else goes to Shiro. Lance is not seen as the solution to any problem – more often than not, he’s treated as though he IS the problem. That’s why “Escape from Beta Traz” is such an important episode for him – the final shot was something only he could do, and is one of the few times he’s had something to physically show for it (the other being his saving of the mermaid planet, but no-one seems particularly impressed or even bothered about his exploits there). His “day job,” if you like, is one that’s easy to undervalue: look up anything on “emotional labour” and you’ll see why. Lance’s real role in the team is communication: talking to people, lightening the mood, hearing people out and generally reminding everyone that they are people as well as soldiers. Unfortunately, that’s not a role that has anything concrete to show for it (like Pidge’s new gadgets or Keith’s pile of dead Galra). It’s the sort of skill that only really becomes apparent in “It’s a Wonderful Life” -style episodes where the audience are shown what would happen if so-and-so wasn’t around.

Shiro never bullies Lance, and certainly doesn’t intentionally put him down, but I think it’s fair to say that he sees Lance as an afterthought – slot everyone else in according to their skillset and throw Lance in somewhere to make up the difference. Shiro’s far from the only one guilty of this - even when they’re not on the clock, Lance’s activities, concerns and preferences are seen as being unimportant. In “Crystal Venom,” the Paladins get bored waiting for the pod to open, and wander off to their own projects. Lance sticks around the longest, but when he finally moves away, declaring his intentions to rest up, he’s immediately retrieved for cleaning duty by Coran, who says that whatever Lance is doing isn’t as important as what the others are doing. This is very arguably true – Hunk is making breakfast, Keith is training, Pidge is on techie-duty – but at the same time, the other three are trusted to manage themselves. Rest IS important for four teenagers who just came away from a battle, but because Lance isn’t in war mode all the time, he clearly needs to be given something “productive” to do.

Lance is the non-obsessive in a team of obsessive people, so by their standards he’s a goof off. However, by ignoring the things that Lance values, such as teamwork, camaraderie, fun and communication, the team is missing out. Half of their problems are psychological, and usually compounded by keeping secrets and not talking to each other. But because their work – invention, engineering, leadership and battle – is seen as so much more valuable, their psychological well-being takes back seat. I suspect the Blue Paladin’s role is as mediator and emotional support, but Voltron’s (in-universe) creators probably didn’t bank on an insecure, homesick teenager who still has a lot of growing up to do himself to fulfil the role of team therapist – and because Lance’s role isn’t seen as particularly important (or even recognised as a Thing in the first place), he, like Keith, isn’t given much in the way of support to build his skills. Rather than being encouraged to use and hone what he’s got, everyone would rather he’d just grow up and basically become a different type of person entirely.

Result? Two insecure Paladins – one because he feels that he can’t meet the astronomically high expectations set for him, the other because no-one has any expectations of him.

#vld keith #vld lance #vld shiro #voltron legendary defender

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onlyjihoons · 7 years

Text

dream knight; l.j.n

a/n omg guys,, it has been so so long since i have written something, and im so sorry omg,, my school term is getting more hectic than it was before, and also i would like to sincerely apologise to akutagawahakuryuunosuke im so sorry for taking so long to complete your request bb im almost done and i hope its not too shitty asnsosfo

and also this is a spinoff from @cremethorns Hydrochloric Acid,(i hope you don’t mind!) except it doesnt involve spillage of liquid on jeno and a shirtless jeno bc pg13, also highly based on true events that might have costed my innocence, i couldve caused an acid spill on my classmate lol.

disclaimer: this fic has nothing to do with royalty. or knights.

genre: in the context of The Inheritors,, fluff

synopsis: your crush had to see you at your worst, fainting in home econs, and spraining your ankle at dance, and you thought it was only one sided, and only jeno’s duty as a student councilor to bring you to the infirmary, it all changed when you nearly spilled acid on your crush’s oh-so-perfect face.

Lee Jeno. Student Councilor. Member of the school’s dance team. Visual. Most sought after chaebol, also heir to one of Korea’s biggest broadcasting companies. He had connections and friends, lots of them, from idols to even influential friends abroad, he has everything.

And you? Heir to your mom’s clothing brand, you had your fair share of inheritance to your name to be honest. But you were low-profile, only making friends with the people you trust. Everyone in your school was either filthy rich or a heir to some company or both. And most of the people had connections, not friends. Even the poorest student in your school lived in a swanky condominuim complex. You were pretty decent looking if you were compared to those of neighbourhood schools, but if you compared yourself to your classmates, you would be one of the less-better-looking ones. Make-up was part of it, plastic surgery is another.

Your crush and yourself were sort of polar opposites. Jeno was friendly and kind-hearted, making girls stop by his classroom just to marvel at his annoyingly good looks, one of the minority that hasn’t gone under the knife and yet this beautiful. He was also a talented human being, he can dance, sing and rap, and on top of that good grades and an mouth-watering amount of inheritance when he graduates from college. You had decent grades, looks and money, but your eyes shot glares at strangers, and the queen of comebacks. Last but not least, the formidable ‘ice queen’. You cursed at your genes for making your resting bitch face really bitchy, you got it from your mom. But under that ‘ice queen’ title was a really really really kind-hearted Y/N, which people failed to believe as they only made connections. You haven’t gone under the knife yet, as your mother chose to believe in au naturael. You didn’t want to either, not like you had to use your face in any kind of situation. You weren’t a model anyway.

Ever since you set foot into the school, you were classmates and tablemates for homeroom with Jeno, not like you were complaining. You easily made friends with Jeno, as he found you really nice to hang around with and one of the few not making connections. Exchanging smiles whenever you passed by each other, a simple, platonic friendship. At least that’s what you thought, at the beginning of high school.

Slowly, your teenage hormones got the better of you and you found yourself constantly looking at Jeno. Your heart started beating at the thought of the boy, and you were practically his partner for every single practical lesson for every subject in school. “Stars align and zodiacs match”, smirked Chenle, your cousin and closest friend in school.

There was once you and Jeno were paired up for home econs, you thought you would make a good team, as you guys were already comfortable with each other. The school’s kitchen was incredibly humid and hot, while stir-frying the pasta, you passed out due to heat exhaustion. The humidity and the added heat from the gas stove was overbearing for your weak body. Being your partner and a member of the Student Council, (you were too, the both of you are the only student councils in your class) he kindly carried your limp body on his back, and constantly worrying about you. It was super sweet of him to even stay in the infirmary with you until you regained consciousness, recalling his big, brown worried orbs staring into your own. Black locks disarray and sweaty, and then flashing a relieved smile which melted you once again.

4 months later and your crush on him only deepened, you hit yourself mentally for choosing the same co-curricular activity as Jeno. He shot you a big grin when he saw you warming up on the first day of dance, offering to help you stretch, which you politely declined because you didn’t was to scare him off with your flexibility. But alas, the instructor decided to have some weird ‘flexibility evaluation’ which you vowed not to fail, due to your pride and reputation of a ballerina of 11 years. Contrary to your expectations, Jeno only eyed you with adoration? respect? shock? You didn’t want to get your hopes high.

Your instructor was impressed, placing you in the ‘top’ team. Your team bravely chose Gfriend’s Fingertip, also a choreography you had wanted to learn in the longest time. Jeno was in the ‘top’ team for the boys too, they chose BTS’ Not Today. You bit your lip, your teammates voted you to be the centre, SinB. You were flattered, they thought so highly of your dance skills, but you were also pressured to grasp the choreography fast and right, so that you could look the best and also help your teammates too.

While learning the dance break, your legs moved faster that your body could react, the inertia sending you to the laminated wooden floor, producing a small thump on your ankle. You groaned as the excruciating pain shot your ankle like a bullet, srunching your nose. Your teammates rushed to your side, worried as the team’s ace got hurt. Jeno’s team heard the commotion, and rushed to surround you as well. Jeno pushed through them, picking you up bridal style, causing ooh-ahhs, swoons(from the top teams) and glares(mostly from the girls) from the other teams. You instinctively wrapped your arms around his neck, afraid to fall again. Your instructor was puzzled when Jeno approached her with you in his arms, but she then hurriedly waved the both of you off lest your sprain got worse.

“Put me down, Jeno, I can walk,” You tried to wriggle out of his arms, but to no avail as Jeno suddenly ‘dropped’ you, producing a surprised yelp from you and curious gazes from students.

“Your sprain will worsen, princess,” Jeno whispered almost flirtatiously, sending shivers down your spine, “and I’m not Do Bong Soon, you’re not that light either.”

You scoffed, “I’m underweight, Jeno, how could you--” You gasped as Jeno’s faced inched slowly towards yours.

“I’ll kiss this pretty face of yours if you can’t stop talking till we get to the infirmary.” Jeno’s eyes darkened, causing you to gulp.

As much as you wanted his lips on yours, you shook your head profusely, Jeno’s eyes immediately crinkled into crescents, lightheartedly walking towards the infirmary.

In the end, stupid Jeno stayed to help ice your sprain, luckily not serious. The both of you missed dance, but none of you cared, you two were two busy giving each other playful banter to keep track of time.

“Your grades are gonna drop at this rate you are daydreaming in class because of Jeno,” Chenle snapped his fingers, startling you from your daydream.

You rolled your eyes, “Who was the one that got 16/20 for her math test and who was the one that got 12/20 for his math test?”

Chenle raised his hands in defeat, “Serves me right for not studying,”

“Neither did I,” You batted your eyelashes innocently as Chenle glared at you.

The school bell rang, signalling break time.

You and Chenle actually made the effort to pop by the snack shop to get some snacks together, usually it was decided through Rock Paper Scissors to who was the unlucky one to pay for the snacks and make the unwanted trip down. Neither of you actually bothered this time, as Logarithms sucked up all of the brain juice you had replenished during recess.

“Did you hear?” Chenle sipped on his banana milk, “We are getting our permanent lab partners for Chemistry today.”

“Mhmm,” You hummed as you munched on a churro snack, “I’ll probably get Jeno again, what’s new.”

“You see, Y/N, that’s the problem with you!” Chenle snapped suddenly, shocking you.

“P...problem?”

Chenle pinched the bridge of his nose, and hissed, “The reason why you’re always complaining that you can’t get Jeno to be your boyfriend, lies in the actions you do yourself, Y/N. At this rate, your crush on Jeno will be brought to your deathbed, the whole world knowing except him.”

You frowned, “So what is your point here, Chenle, do you want me to splash hydrochloric acid on him so i can see him shirtless? Hmm? Then after that expecting him to sweep me off my feet and plant a kiss on my lips? Like the ones in dramas and fanfictions?”

“Just... confess to him.” Chenle resumed sipping on the artificially flavoured drink, “I mean like, you have been liking him since forever, and besides, he has so many girls going after him. This is your golden chance, couz. And I highly doubt that your feelings for him are one-sided.”

You blinked your eyes, slowly absorbing Chenle’s words. You sighed, Chenle was right, even though you aren’t sure about the one-sided part.

“Y/N and Jeno. Alright class, please take your seats beside your partner at the designated tables and wait for further instructions.” Your teacher waved the class off, and girls bursting into whiny sobs as they failed to get Jeno as their lab partner, again. It was a simple acid-base titration with hydrochloric acid and sodium hydroxide today, your teacher demonstrated the previous lesson and she wanted to let the class “have a go at it” as she believed in the whole “practical sessions helps with understanding” thing. It did help, in a way, but it was an opportunity for you to stare at Jeno up close, other than homeroom lesson.

You hid your face in your hands as you saw Jeno approaching your seat with his signature eyesmile, you knew you were a stumbling mess in front of his smile, and your plans of confessing to Jeno would go down the drain.

“Y/N-ie~”Jeno sang as he settled down beside you, “We’re lab partners again.”

Don’t look at him, Don’t ever look at him, you chanted a silent mantra to yourself as you closed your eye in case you spilled your feelings too quickly.

“Y/N?” Jeno called out to you worriedly, “Are you alright? You look very out of it today.”

“It’s just the Logarithms that make me feel very blank in general,” You excused clumsily, “I’m just really tired.”

“Do you want me to be in charge of the burette or...”

“Actually, Jeno, I have something to tell you, and--”

“Alright class, please start now.” Your teacher instructed as students began to measure the amount of acid needed.

“Using a pipette, transfer 20.0cm3 of sodium hydroxide into a cornical flask. Add 2-3 drops of methyl orange into the sodium hydroxide. Describe the colour of the methyl orange.” Jeno read, “Do you want me to do it?”

You nodded slightly, recalling your phobia of handling equipment. It was in middle school, where you kindly helped the teacher to wash the petri dish, but your hands turned butter and the petri dish shattered, startling you. It was a measly petri dish, but it was kind of a big deal to the then you, and from then on you were very cautious around the cleaning of equipment.

“Y/N?” Jeno’s voice snapped you out of your reverie, “Its your turn to add the methyl orange.”

You unscrewed the cap carefully, then cautiously dripping exactly 3 drops of the indicator. So far so good.

“Sodium hydroxide is an alkali,” Jeno noted as he wrote the answer down in the instruction sheet, “Do you want to pour the hydrochloric acid?”

You complied, feeling bad that Jeno had to see this vulnerable side of you today. You poured 30.0cm3 of hydrochloric acid into the beaker, then placing a funnel at the top of the burette. Unfortunately, the burette was taller than your height of 5″2, and you needed to stand on the footrest of your stool to reach to that height.

You carefully poured the acid into the burette, heaving a sigh of relief as you emptied the beaker. Your ‘good’ day shattered when you lost your balance upon descending, and you expected to hit the hard concrete floor of the science lab.

But you didn’t. You were in fact supported by a pair of strong arms, and those arms belonged to none other than your crush, Jeno. His eyes bore a worried look as you hoisted you upright and rubbed your back soothingly.

“You must’ve been really tired Y/N,” Jeno sighed. “I think we should get back to class once we complete this.”

“O-okay.”

“So what is it that you wanted to tell me at the science lab?” Jeno rested his chin on his hands, expectantly waiting for an answer.

“I-I...” You wrung your hands nervously, Jeno nodded for you to continue, “I like you, Jeno-ah.”

Jeno’s eyes widened, but his face was unreadable, “Since when did you begin to like me?”

“I don’t know... since we cooked pasta i guess?” You smiled sheepishly, then slumped in your seat, “Its okay if you can’t reciprocate my feelings, Jeno. I’m fine with it.”

“But I’m not fine with it,” Jeno’s expression darkened, a side you have rarely seen.

“Wh-why?”

“Because I want you to be my girlfriend.”

You blinked your eyes, and also attempting to dig whatever earwax you had out of your ears. Did you hear him right, Lee Jeno wanted to be your boyfriend.

Jeno’s face inched closer to yours, then softly placing his hand on your cheek, “May I...?”

You nodded slightly, and without hesitation, Jeno leaned in and placed his soft lips on yours, an immense feeling of euphoria erupting in your chest. Your hands magically found its way to Jeno’s black locks, pulling him slightly closer to slightly deepen the kiss.

Seconds later, you pulled away, a faint red dusting your cheeks, “I’m sorry I shouldn’t have done that.”

“Its alright, like it was my first kiss so...” Jeno looked away shyly.

“It was mine too.” You confessed, immediately regretting your words as Jeno smirked, “Can I be your last too?”

“Maybe,” You shrugged.

Jeno brought you into his chest, red dusting your cheeks again, “What about now?”

“...Okay.”

Well, no one said that your dream knight has to be in shiny armour, he could be in school uniform too.

#i died numerous times in my death #ok i didnt sign up for this #lee jeno #jeno #nct dream #nct scenarios #nct fluff #fluffy writes

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selenelavellan · 7 years

Note

I'm sorry, aaaa--i forgot to do a [1] cos i ran out of space. ye, it a prompt, a companion selene prompt! to piss off dirthy

Cool! This is…probably not what you had in mind but I have had a day, and it is kicking off from your previous writing which was incredible (and also largely inspired by ‘Dirthy’, sorry my brain latches onto weird things).

Companion Selene AU

Dirthamen and Inquisitor Kel(mentioned) belong to @feynites

Lieslingered on his lips as he kissed her. She wasn’t her. She wasn’treal. A part, separate, long reduced to ash sang out from thedistance of time; lies remain lies, no matter how sweet. He swallowedthese truths, and kissed her lips to disguise the taste of bilerising. Honey made even the most disgusting medicine go down.(x)

Nightafter night, Selene has watched this scene play out in LordDirthamen’s dreams. It had seemed only fair, after his own intrusionsinto hers.

Sheis still struggling to make sense of it.

Thisimage who is her but is not her. She laughs in a way that suggests anease Selene has never felt. Smiles at him in a way Selene has neversmiled at anyone. And when she tries to think of such things, triesto remember if in all her millenias of life she has ever feltanything like what she is seeing, she finds only emptiness. Holes,where she should have memories. If she presses at them, there areflashes. Bright lights and a feeling of warmth before it is rippedviolently further from her.

Andwhen she thinks on her own memories, of the wars and the fall and herLady and her fellow Sentinels, they falter. Faces that are blurs withnothing beneath. Fabric fraying apart beneath her fingertips, abattlefield where she is the only one for miles, but stillshe is bloodied and angry and tired. Pushing, fighting, forsomething. But when she tries to think of what she was fighting sodesperately for, she finds…

Nothing.

Shediscusses the matter with Abelas, during the day. He and the rest ofthe Sentinels still adjusting to the way things are done withinTarasyl'an Te'las, or Skyhold, as it is now called. He has hadsimilar issues of his own, apparently. He admits it was one of thereasons he did not resist when the Inquisition asked to separate herfrom the others. Admits that neither he, nor the others, have anymemory of her that predates their last awakening.

Itmakes her question herself.

Shehas seen the looks from others, of course. The pitying looks, thehalf spoken words. ‘People’ looking at her as though she is onlyhalf-there.

Selenefinds it very frustrating; half of the community seems to be scaredto approach her for fear of what may happen to them by their higherups, and many of their higher ups are afraid to speak for fear ofwhat may happen to her. Asthough she is made of some delicate glass that could shatter andbreak if mishandled, and not flesh and bone and magic and things thatcould render this world apart if she could reach across that blastedveil and take it.

Soshe wanders alone. Taking in her surroundings and wondering if shemight not be better off outside of these walls.

“SELEEENE!”

Selenepauses in her steps. She…did someone just call her name?

“SELEEEENE!OI, GET YER HEAD OUT OF YOUR ARSE AND GET DOWN HERE!”

Sheblinks, and moves to the edge of the rampart, trying to find thesource of the noise. An arrow whizzes just past her head and sticksin the stone beside her. There is a pair of red undergarmentswrapped around the shaft.

Seleneseyebrows raise, as she removes the arrow and attached lingerie, andmakes her way down to the blonde woman who keeps waving.

“Isthis how your people court now?” Selene asks. It seems ratherblunt, but she can’t really knock the effectiveness of it.

“Heh.What? Your Dirthy’d knock my head if we knocked boots. Knock…wellnot knock like we’d be knocking, but knock like pain, yeah?”

Selenetilts her head and tries to make sense of that sentence.

“Ugh,that elfy shite really messed up your head. Still you though.”

“Whoelse would I be?”

“Dunno.A Sentinel shit maybe. Thought Solas’d be getting all fluttery inyour space like he did with everything else at the temple. S'justavoiding you though, which is weird but good. I guess.”

Selenefrowns “I am aSentinel.”

“Pfft.Yeah ok. You’re a Sentinel and I’m a friggin’ mage.”

Seleneblinks, and holds out the red fabric to the strange elf “Are theseyours?”

“Nah,they’re Vivvy’s but she won’t miss ‘em.”

“Right…'Vivvy’…Andyour name again was…?”

“Sera.Don’t forget it again, third time you ask I have to start charging.Or make a new one.”

Selenejust nods, even though she doesn’t remember asking a first time. “Ok.Sera. Do I know you?”

“Yeah.All of us. Rumor is you forgot though, so I won’t take it toopersonal this time. Wanna go blow stuff up?”

“Isthat permitted?”

Sera’seyes narrow and her nose squinches up in distaste “What? No.Doesn’t matter. S'fun.”

Seleneconsiders her options; a God who seems determined to claim her, thepitying looks of strangers that claim they aren’t strangers, herfamily that doesn’t recall her existence, or this strange elfinviting her to join in something she claims is fun.

“Iwould love to 'blow stuff up’, Sera. Thank you.”

–

Blowingstuff up turns out to be a lot of fun, although short lived when theprivate cooks in the kitchens aren’t thrilled with the 'flower flourbombs’ Selene and Sera rig to go off whenever a new bag of flour isopened. Selene maintains the petals look very pretty, and it wouldhave been deemed an acceptable loss for the sake of aesthetic before.Sera looks at her funny when she tries to use it as a defense though,and insists that they should both go and get 'hammered’ instead.

Seleneis concerned her carpentry skills will not be up to par.

Itis a relief then, when 'hammered’ turns out to mean drinking copiousamounts of alcohol. Selene is verygood at that, she discovers. Some of the others in the tavern look ather and Sera curiously when they walk in, but after a few pints, theyare all singing along to something about 'horns pointing up’ and sheis laughing with something called a Qunari.

Sheis not sure what that means exactly, but his horns are veryimpressive. Apparently his name is The Iron Bull, and Selene spendsseveral minutes arguing with him about stronger metals he should havechosen instead of something as soft and pliable as iron.

Sera just laughs, and declares “Still her!”

“Who-whoelse would I be?”Selene asks for the second time. “Everyone keeps acting like theyknow me but I don’t know you and the people I thought I knew don’tknow me and it is all very…” She makes a motions with her handsto indicate swirling energies and conflicting forces and threadstangling but mostly she just gets strange looks in return.

“Still got your Dirthy though, right?” Sera asks with a teasingtone.

“What the frig is 'Dirthy’?” Selene yells at the ceiling.

“Y'know,Dirthy! With the mask and cloak and the giggles and then you’d do themoaning and push your squishy bits together. Friggin’ loudlytoo.”

Somewherein Selene’s alcohol soaked brain, she manages to put together 'mask’and 'squishy bits’ and the repeated scenes in the fade, andpractically shoots straight up from where she had been reclining onthe table.“Wait, is 'Dirthy’ Dirthamen? LordDirthamen?”

“Euch,don’t call him a 'Lord’ outside of your games, else I gotta startsneaking eggs under his birds again.”

“Iknew him?”

“Loudly,”Krem reiterates from his chair, and it sends most of The Chargersinto a drunken laughing fit again.

Selenefrowns “I don’t remember any of that.”

“Kiddingright? You used to be trying to sell me some past life soulmate shiteand now you don’t even remember him?”

“Notsince before I woke up in the Temple, no…”

TheIron Bulls empty tankard drops loudly onto the table, and Seleneshead turns toward him in alarm.

“Youtalk to him about any of this?” he asks.

Seleneshakes her head, but pauses. “Talking is…the wrong verb to use, Ithink.”

TheIron Bull lets out a heavy sigh and mumbles to himself beforespeaking loudly enough for her to hear him “This is why you don’tget involved with DEMONS. You got a kink? Find a safe space andpretend like the rest of us.”

“He’snot a demon,” She feels inclined to point out.

“Frigginacts like he is…” Sera mumbles before taking a long swig from herown mug.

“Youshould talk to the Inquisitor,” The Iron Bull says “She knew youway before any of this weird magic shit started.”

Selenefrowns, but nods. She still doesn��t remember anything anyone seems tobe pointing out to her, but for now it’s…nice, to feel like peoplewant her around. Even when Sera passes out face down in Selenes lap,and has to be carried back to her rooms.

#Answered #Companion Selene AU #Selene lavellan #Dirthalene #A very silly response to a very beautiful submission I'm so sorry #I read Dirthy and my mind just shot to Sera #Thanks for the prompt <3

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bwicblog · 7 years

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> HADEAN

Sip made you all pretty while you chatted about beating Emerel's ass in. It was... Fun in a way you've never gotten to experience before, really. And hey, you were pretty enough to pull of anything.

And Sipara seemed sure that this goo wouldn't melt off your mug. She would know better than anyone else... You hope. Back in your normal clothes it seemed right to head to the fighting rings and see about scouting out your opponent. You'd had your fun at the faire, gotten to meet a bunch of trolls and have enough quality bonding time to last you a few sweeps...

That meant it was time for business. You absently tapped your staff against your shoulder as you walked, eyes sweeping over the trolls assembled. Honestly, you had no idea who you were looking for! Just that he was jade.

"Siiip. Which one of these dirtbags is Emerel? Fucker was hella rude, not even sending me a picture. He's not actually hideous or something, is he?" You had thought Pheres had taste. But... With what he was wearing... Maybe not.

> EMEREL

You walk back into the arena, sweat dripping down your forehead that you can't be bothered to wipe off. Besides, it's kind of attractive. You had some rage to let out and you feel a bit better now. There's a bit of blood streaked across your garb and you're not sure if it's yours or that blueblood you took a quick drink from while he was knocked unconscious with a very rude halberd pole. Ironically, you're pretty sure that's the same blue you drank from during the faire where you meant Pheres. Small world. You decide you'll hang out on the benches with your waterbottle for now, thoroughly overheated and in need of something for your throat. Hadean will make himself known when he gets here, you're sure.

> SIPARA

Hadean's pretty as a goddamn picture, and you _absolutely_ crammed your phone full of 'em. Between Pheres's horn-shining and your work, there's something deeply satisfying in how positively _glam_ he looks. And he'll look even better when he's kicking someone's ass in it. Empress, you miss being in the ring. "Ha~aaaaads," you drawl back, squinting at the crowd. "He's the mossball over --" You bounce up on your toes, peering at each troll in turn, before you jerk your chin towards Emerel. You've only seen him in person once or twice, but with as many pictures as Pheres's put up, he's kind of hard to miss. "There! And - eye-dee-kay, dude, he's not _my_ thing. You like 'em long and gangly and nubby-horned?" "Because if you do.. looks like you might have competition. Haha, holy shit, did he fuck around with a teal before he's _fighting?_"

> HADEAN

Huh. First thought it he looks like a sweaty gross nerd. Second thought is woww, was he really fighting before your bout? "Looks like it. Hella rude, doesn't he know he was supposed to save himself for me? Might start bawling as soon as I try talking to him, I can already feel myself getting choked up." Well if he wanted to tire himself out before his fight, fine. You were used to being looked down upon for your blood color, obviously he didn't think you were worth his best. His loss, it'd just make it an easier win for you. You stroll your way over to the benches, whistling loud- like you would for a woofbeast. "Oh Emerel~ Are you always this sweaty and dirty, or was this your attempt at cleaning up for me?"

> EMEREL

You're quietly minding your own business, drinking your waterbottle on your bench, when you're whistled at. It's not the first time someone's whistled at you, so you can't say you're bothered. You love it when strangers pay attention that kind of attention to you, usually. When he calls your name, however, you pause with your bottle still at your lips. You don't look towards the source of the sound and your only response is to tap your fingers on the bottle. "You could say-" You look over to him, snorting when you notice how prettied up he is. Even you know better. "-That I simply look the part of a man who just went to war." You HAVE been doing reenactments all day, after all. You stand up, setting the bottle down to look Hadean over. He's not much taller than you, horns notwithstanding, and the only thing about him that's really concering you is that dumb floating horn. You're sure you should be wary of that one.

> HADEAN

"A man who went to war. Sure, buttercup." You make sure your voice is as dry as possible. War? Is that what he thinks fighting trolls one on one for a while is? Man, he's a dramatic one... But you guess it comes with the territory of being a fucking. Historical nerd. "Well, you need a little more time to freshen up, or are we fighting now? Because I came all this way to this stupid faire to beat you up. Might as well get it over with." You lean against your staff, giving him you best cocky smirk. You didn't have to get serious about it until you were actually going at it, after all. Let him think you the cocky lowblood who was getting in over their head. You could play stereotypes to your advantage any night.

> MAIDEL

You’re sitting in the stands with Sipara, watching Hadean and Emerel anxiously, but then Prisma really does come over! You beam at the yellowblood. “Hi! Are you excited for the fight? I’m a little worried, but…” You trail off and look at the two trolls. “…they both seem pretty capable.”

> EMEREL

"I'm ready when you are. Question is, Hadean, just how good are you at putting your money where your mouth is?" You look to his face, a wide smirk crossing yours as you summon your halberd to your hand, copying his lean. For all your talk, you're making all sorts of immediate observations about him: Face tattoos. High pain tolerance. Floating horn. Some type of psionic bullshit. You probably shouldn't get too close. Staff. Another indicator that he keeps a distance. Cocky. It's a trick you know quite well. Tall. Inherently on the tough side. Long hair. Doesn't spend too much time in close range fights if he's not worried about getting his braid yanked on. You think you might try fighting close to him and seeing what happens. "But, you know, if you want to apply a little more makeup before we get into it, I'll wait. Be my guest."

> PRISMA

"I am marginally excited. I am more excited to see Hadean destroy this mysterious jade blood," You remark simply, cocking your head lightly at Maidel. "You found time to get away from the booth, finally?"

> VATRRA

You've locked up your shop in favor of wandering around until you find where you need to go. And it's not hard to spot the familiar face in the crowd once you remember what to look for. The greenblood and goldblood next to Nzinga are unfamiliar, but based on the chrome in the chat these are probably the other people you were just talking to. You walk over and take a seat at the end of them, nodding in greeting.

> HADEAN

"Oh my god, clearly you've been watching way too many shitty movies with Gliese is you're going to spew that line and try to look cool doing it." You roll your eyes at him, but you're taking note of him while you trade jabs. But let him try to compartmentalize you! As much as he likes to think how good he is at fighting, you've just had a lot more time alive to fight. And you're used to fighting trolls that are physically stronger than you. "Now don't go tossing Sip's skills or she might give you a good kick when you're down. Are we going to stand around all night, or are we going to fight?"

> LOKKIC & CO Somehow, all of you have managed to sit on the bleachers without causing a scene. Of course, it helps that you have yourself, your lusus, Nikola, AND Desmon in that order between Natali and Daiyel. It seems to be working as far as keeping them seperated goes. You're so glad. Your arm still hurts and you hope it's not infected. Where even is the med tent? You never were able to find it and you gave up.

> EMEREL

"You say that, but I think you're just pissed that you're missing out on the movie night food. Too bad, it's good stuff too. Oh well. Sucks to be you." You shrug at him, twirling your halberd once and hoisting it on your shoulder as you approach the ring. You think you have a strategy worked out for this guy, at least for the first few minutes. You'll have to see what other surprises he has up his sleeve. "You're the only one still standing, Hadean." You look over your shoulder, winking at him. "Be sure to get a good look at my ass while you can because this is the last chance you'll get to see it."

> MAIDEL

“Well, Pheres will be here too!” You say. “He’s hardly going to miss his matesprit…so I think we’re just closing for a bit.” You say, shrugging, then realizing Prisma doesn’t know who Emerel is. “Oh, Emerel’s not mysterious! He’s very nice, really, and he’s a military history expert.” You wave to the redblood who you assume is VA, and you feel bad that you don’t remember her name. “Hi! You’re VA, right? Good to see you!”

> CANELA Fight, fight, fight! You're so glad you found the fighting rings. You love watching people beat each other up! Especially when there's blood involved. And that is exactly why you're polyp-levels rooted to your bench, happily tapping your feet as you rest your chin in your hand. Your other one is reaching into your box of tasty fried crabs. You were so glad you found a seadweller food booth at the faire! She was such a nice girl, too. And she makes tasty crabs. You can't wait for the killing to start.

> PRISMA

A military history expert... You raise an eyebrow at this, pursing your lips somewhat tightly. This is an increasingly odd collection of people. Even more so with the newcomer, and you look at the redblood appraisingly. They must all really believe in comraderie. "But then why are they fighting? For the sake of it?" You ask Maidel, turning your gaze back to them.

> LALEDY

Even front row seats don't manage to make this a fight worth bothering to try and actually view. You're kind of having fun with the rest of it, though - Sipara's done up your face in a way that actually makes you want to preen, and you can already hear Hads and the other guy talking shit to each other. It's like a bad drama, and you're snickering into your left-over pizza plate as you wait for the real theatrics to start. You're probably not going to see much of it, but you're fully prepared to make fun of the crowd.

> VATRRA

You give the greenblood a small, slightly awkward wave, "Aye. You're AC, right?" You catch the tail end of the yellowblood's question and hope that it gets answered. You're not so sure why there's a fight either, and it seems a little rude at this point to ask if it's a deathmatch or what.

>SIPARA "Because it's _fucking cool_," you declare, looking up briefly from your phone to grin at Prisma, at the same point that Pheres huffs, from down against the fence: "- because they're a pair of _morons_, that's why."

> LALEDY

You were right, the crowd is totally the best part. You lean over so you can raise an eyebrow at Pheres. "Ain't one of them your, like, matesprit?" you ask.

> MAIDEL

“Um.” You say. “I think they think it’s fun. Hadean really likes fighting in general, and Emerel does re-enactments.” It’s not your thing at all. “Oh! And I think some trolls bet on it, too.” You remember, then laugh a little as you look at Sipara. “Maybe Sipara will make some money!” “Yes!” You say, smiling at the redblood. “But my name’s Maidel - what’s yours?” You have to restrain giggles at Sipara’s statement - it’d be rude to laugh! Unfortunately a few escape past your hand on your mouth, your floppy ears flicking.

> PRISMA

You can't help but grin at Pheres's reply, looking away to keep it politely hidden. It is strange they would let their matesprit get caught up in all this -- you're confused still by the connections everyone has. It seemed like too much to take in, and you sigh briefly. "Hadean likes competing. Emerel's interest seems more skewed, based on that," and then you quiet as Maidel reels to the other troll.

> HADEAN

Ugh. Is he showing off to intimidate you, or to piss you off? Doesn't he know the brat section of this fight belongs to you? Well, he'll probably lose it when it gets to the actual fighting. No one can play dirty quite like you. "What, is getting to look at your ass a scare tactic? I mean, it is a pretty sorry sight." You stroll over to catch up to him, giving him your least impressed look.

> VATRRA

Sipara's answer tells you that it's probably NOT a deathmatch, and the other rust's answer cements the idea, which is sort of a relief. Jade is kind of up there, but it would still be a shame to see them or a rustblood murdered in the pit. You lean forward, trying to not make the greenblood- Maidel switch between talking to you and the goldblood. You look between the two of them. "I'm Vatrra". "So, they're just gonna duke it out for the fun of it?"

> EMEREL

"Well, if you want a better look to make a decision on that, all you have to do is ask~" You put your finger to your lip, giving him a one-finger blown kiss before stepping past the circle into the ring. You know he gets weirded out from shameless flirting. And that's something you're very, very good at. "Now are you going to fight me or weep mascara on my face?"

> PHERES

Being mean to Laledy would be dreadful, given how much Sipara chatters about him: she clearly _likes_ him, and that's rare enough. And you're fond of him, too. And it wouldn't do anything to stop your sulking. "Mm," you say, not quite an agreement, and watch Emerel spin in the ring. "He's the jade. Who're you betting on, Laledy?"

> HADEAN

undefinedUgh. You keep you unimpressed look up, tapping your staff on the ground as you look around. "Oh, we're fighting. I just wanted to make sure we didn't have to do anything like cross weapons or bow or any of the other fancy shit that only historical losers would do!" Hah. You're throwing jabs and making constructs at the same time. Under your clothes where no one can see it, hardening your energy to take blows for you. Your psi are sneaky- there's some sparking of your horn, but not much to show for it. For all he knows the flames dim and flare naturally.

> MAIDEL

“I think Emerel likes showing off.” You say fondly. “He’s good at it! And aha, yes, Vatrra. They both seem really down for it, they’ve been talking about it for nights.” You smile at Pheres, and oh, there’s another jade! What unusual hair. Laledy? Huh. You don’t want to interrupt

them, but you’ll have to say hi at some point. Any friend of Pheres’s is always worth talking to.

> LALEDY

You blink. Well, that's not exactly the answer you expected. Pheres's words don't say much, but his tone speaks volumes. Did you say something? "Nah," you tell him, "Ain't bettin' nothin'! And it's totes cos I'm a respectable and carin' friend and ish and not, like, cos I ain't got nothin' but pocket lint and pizza to bet. You doin' aight, pal?" You pause, debating, and eventually resign yourself. "... Got pizza if you want some," you say proferring your plate. You've still got two perfectly respectable slices on it. You can probably spare one, at least.

> EMEREL

You chuckle, taking another look up and down him. He smells like he hasn't showered in a while. Or at least like he doesn't do it nearly as often as he should. Does he spend a lot of time sweating? Because old dirt and sweat is what it smells like to you. You vaguely recall that he travels. Talk about traveling on foot a lot. But that means he's probably got some good muscle built up, at least in the legs. So avoiding them is a good idea for now. Your most likely target is going to be his front: The face, neck, and chest. But you promised Pheres no lethal blows, so you think a good crack over the head and a kick out of the ring might work out here. "I only bow to people who aren't named Hadean, I'm afraid. So unless you change your name, that's out of the picture." You raise your weapon, tapping the handle on the ground twice. "We do do this, though." AKA, only you do it. But he doesn't have to know that. "Let's go."

> HADEAN

"Oh wow. Did you stay up all day thinking of quips for me? Managed to rub those two functioning circuits in your thinkpan long enough for that one, good job." Huh. You just tap your staff twice before you shift it in to both hands. Your energy is a low hum against your skin, familiar- ready to spread when you're ready to reveal your hand. "Hope you can use that pig-sticker." You don't like pressing an attack, not at first. You set your stance a little bit, waiting to see what he'll do- if he thinks he's naturally got the advantage and come charging in.

> EMEREL

This is going to be interesting. Since you don't know yet what Hadean can do and all your observations have indicated that you shouldn't take him lightly by any measure, you're playing the safe route at first. You ignore your buddies at the side yelling out their bets, deciding you'll try and fake him into making the first move. "You know, they normally wear something a little different in the ring." You shrug, tapping your fingers on your halberd which is still balanced on the sand. You note the tightness in Hadean's muscles and try to figure out where he's the least defended. "We normally wear a lot more padding. Even if we didn't, where's the fun in your jeans?" Before you've even finished speaking, you've made use of how long your weapon is, the tip of the axe aimed right at his face.

> PHERES

You would really rather dig holes into the fence post and seethe. But Laledy's trying to be kind, so you roll your eyes and slog up to his seat. Your smile's crooked, but at least you manage it. "I'm fine! Disappointed, but. Ah. We'll see how it goes. Thank you for asking, though. Sipara, scoot over," you demand, and as soon as she shifts, you cram yourself onto her lap. She's got her phone. It'll be _fine._ And you do steal a piece of pepperoni off of his pizza. Well, if he's _offering..._

> HADEAN

Ah, the old keep them distracted with talking while you swing at them. Good to know he's not above using tricks! Means you can't rely on him playing by the rules, which is fine by you. You feint back and let your staff come up, trying to sweep his halberd- a test to see how much he'll fumble, knowledge of how long you might have to strike in the future. You don't press an attack now, you're still using a staff after all! It's a defensive weapon and you're going to take your time when you can get it. Build up some energy weapons under your shirt to play with. "Jeans are comfy. The fun is in beating you. Duh."

> MAIDEL

Pheres doesn’t look happy, but you can’t help smiling as he scoots onto Sipara’s lap and takes a piece of pepperoni off of Laledy’s pizza. You look down at Emerel and Hadean, wondering when they’ll actually start fighting. You’re nervous - naturally - but also excited and a bit curious - Ooooh, there goes Emerel. You suck in a sharp breath, until Hadean swings his staff up to meet him. Your eyes are still wide, though.

> LALEDY

You can't quite read Pheres's face even when he gets closer, aside from a general smile. His tone is still stiff, though, until he shoves Sipara over and grabs a slice. Well, if the food's gonna help get the stick out of his ass. He's probably worried his boyfriend's going to get shanked, you figure, but it's not like these things are to the death. Besides, Emerel's green - and hasn't been living on fumes and duct tape for the past quarter-sweep like you. He's going to be fine. You nab the last slice of pizza for yourself (anchovies: not actually as bad as everyone has been making them out to be, but hunger is the best topping) so Pheres can't grab it if he decides he wants another, and lean back to munch on it as the fight starts. Well. "Fight." It's still mostly posturing, which is more fun if anybody asks you!

> EMEREL

You shift your grip on your halberd and turn it, trying to use it for something resembling its proper purpose as you attempt to catch his staff with it. If you can disarm him, the better. There's a loud cheer from somewhere to your left as the weapons clash together and you admit you love the sound, even if this is a bad time to comment on that. "Comfy and also boring. No wonder someone had to fix you up for this. It's not like you can take care of yourself~"

> HADEAN

Well, looks like he can use his halberd some. He probably thinks he's clever catching you, but you put your strength in to it as you clash, trying to lock your weapons together as a plan forms. You let him talk, it gives you enough time to hopefully hold your ground and let your energy gather, teeth bared as your shirt rips. RIP one of your three shirts. But you've got another arm now! Does an energy tentacle count as an arm? You think it does when it's armed with a knife. It's just like using any other limb for you, a little will springing it around you to lash at his middle while you hopefully keep his weapon engaged with your own. Thank god for buying the staff with a lead core in it, it's probably the only thing keeping your staff in one piece.

> EMEREL

Well, your plan to disarm him isn't working. If anything, he's trying his best to make sure you can't move either. What's he planning? Your immediate instinct is to disengage and step back and when you hear the sound of ripping cloth, you feel like that was the right choice. Your weapon, however, is locked hard in his and you're going to have to make a gambit to tip things in your favor here. You hold your breath and hold still until whatever the hell he just made actually punches you staight in the stomach. You cough, holding tighter to the chapped leather on your handle as you use those locked weapons to your advantage. Hopefully he won't be expecting you to counter so quickly after being basically sucker punched. Which means he hopefully won't be expecting you to immediately swing yourself around via your trapped weapons and sweep your legs under his to knock him down.

> HADEAN

Oh fuck, did you just straight up shank the fuck out of him. Oh yeah, that's the sort of flesh ressiting and then submitting to a razor edge that signals that your knife went riight in. He was supposed to dodge! What kind of troll stays locked in with a guy and just takes a gut shot!? The same kind of idiot who just sweeps a guy when he's still got a knife in him you fucking guess. You instinctively use the tentacle coming out of your back to try and catch yourself somewhat, to not leave yourself completely defenseless. The staff is gone, but you've still got psionics, and- oh yeah, your tentacle was still knife-ing him. You really hope your trying to catch yourself didn't slice him open even more. You focus on keeping your head and arms protected if he comes in for an attack while you're still trying to regain your footing, purposefully leaving your armor-protected legs and chest there for him to try and stab at. Unlike him, you don't just take a gut shot like it's no big deal.

> EMEREL

You cough again, louder as blood pours over your lips and your chest burns and throbs. That fucking hurts. That hurts like hell, why did you do that? You hear what sounds like a distressed goat screaming somewhere and you think that might be Pheres. This is a weird time to want to laugh and you're going to stop chuckling now. You think you'll be just fine, though. You've been dealt a literally fatal blow and this isn't nearly as bad as you remember. Holy shit, you were not expecting those powers of his. At all. What are you supposed to do about them? You'll figure out something, damn it. You refuse to lose without a hell of a fight. At least it looks cool for the crowd, as they're getting louder. You stumble back, finally getting that damn tentacle out of your chest and that hurts even worse now that it's out. Okay, this is hurting as much as you remember now. "Fucking hell-" You mutter. "That's impressive." Your voice cracks and you promptly step on that stupid shitty braid of his, aiming the butt of your halberd at whatever gap in his guard you can reach, fully intent on butting his his eyes out if you can. He's lucky you're using the blunt end, honestly. Of course, this would be easier if you weren't busy watching the tentacles for more shenanigans.

> HADEAN

Oh man you fucked up. How bad did you fuck him up. He's bleeding from the mouth, so... You're gonna err on pretty fucking bad. But hey! He's still talking. Is that good? You're counting that as good. Otherwise you're going to feel really bad at that screaming from Pheres. Okay, he's stepping on your braid. Less pity now. Especially when he's aiming for your face, fuck that. You raise your arms to block it and yeah, that hurts like a son of a bitch. You're used to pain, you can do this. Just gotta ride that adrenaline high and hope that nothing is fractured. ...Something is probably fractured. You whiz the tentacle at him again, just trying to force him to give you enough distance to get up. You're slashing at his legs, because step number one is trying to convince the guy who just took a gut shot that he needs to fucking move holy hell.

> EMEREL

This time, you actually move. A second stab from that thing might legitimately kill you and you quite like being alive, unlike your sadsack of a brother. You spit a bit of blood at his face as you move your legs away from the tentacle before they end up shredded, quite content to see your blood dripping all the hell over him. Hot. The bitch can have something to remember you by for a while if he insists on not showering often anyway. Wait a second, how much juice does he have? You date two psionics, you know they get fried after a while. You grin rather darkly at that, realizing you know exactly what your plan is. "Hey, Hadean! Is that the best you've got?" You call out through your blood-choked breaths. "I'm still standing and I'm still winning that sweet prize!" It's a taunt, plain and simple. You put your foot in position, waiting for the second that he takes his arms down to kick sand from the arena at his face. "Why don't you get back up already and make my night a little more fun?"

> HADEAN

Good news: He moved. Bad news: He fucking blood bukkake'd your face. Good god, he better not be diseased. If you catch something from his shitty jade blood you'll be pissed. You've got some distance, but he's still there, waiting. And taunting you. "I just had part of me inside you and then you blood bukkake all over my face and don't call that fun? God Emerel, at least buy a guy dinner first." You don't rise to his bait, not when you're already on the ground like this and he's looming so close. But your tentacle has him edgy and you can take the moment to draw some energy up your poor injured arms to shield them from the next hits, forming a shield as well to hold in front of you as you stand.

> EMEREL

"Yeah, give me something I haven't tried before and we'll see about fun. Bitch, I'll make you dinner." You shoot back, weapon at the ready. You need to keep this plan going. But that means getting close again and not taking stupid shots that involve you getting stabbed. Your plan worked, but now you just look dumb. Oh well. You'll recover. You like yourself enough for everyone else anyway. As soon as he stands up, you're running forward fast to kick the sand up at him. It's not much, but it's some degree of a distraction. And sand blows, so you're not worried about his shield saving him from it. As you charge in, you keep a close eye on the tentacle. And that whole damn light show he's putting on right now. You can't afford to get hit by that thing again, or anything else he might have on him. You make like you're going to make a right step and slash at him, only to stop at the last second and slide left and swing your axe at his shoulder. It's time to see just how goo of a shield he can make.

> HADEAN

"Oh, you blood bukkake everyone? You perv." Fucking sand. You were raised in it and this is how it repays you. Dirty trick though, you should have been hurling sand at him! If you weren't busy. Stabbing him. Yeahh..... Oops? At least it's a momentary distraction, because you have a axe coming at you. You get your shield up but not enough- thank god for the armor you constructed under your shirt that takes most of the blow. But you can still feel blood welling up, not enough to stop you from getting by unscathed. Shoulder wounds are so nasty- did he slice your tattoo? Fuck, you'll need to get it redone. The pains are adding up, but you press an attack with the tentacle at the same time you go for a shield bash, pulling your mangled shoulder away. It's pretty deep, but you've had worse. You switch hands that the shield is in and let the tentacle swing to your injured side to take over, hoping you've got enough time between attacks to form another one.

> EMEREL

"What can I say? A man has needs. And mine include blood bukkake-ing everyone." Your chest is squishing with the blood and you deeply regret that gambit. It played out so much better in your head. That was a bad time to mess up that badly, but whatever. It is what it is, you guess. On the bright side, you think it's starting to heal itself already. Thank goodness for speedy healing. At the very least, you can make Hadean bleed to make yourself feel better. When you see blood bubbling up around where you hit him, you decide to go for a second opening while you have the chance before that tentacle gets you, jerking hard on his braid which is dangling in your arm's reach and aiming the blunt end of the staff at whatever unprotected point you can reach.

> HADEAN

Boy, you're starting to hurt. Your arm is definitely protesting all this moving around you're making it do, and your body is already pulling energy away from your constructs to worry about the damage done. Stupid shitty psionics, not realizing you need to win the battle before you worry about repairs. Your hair is getting a lot of yanking today, you don't like it. You pull the shield in against his staff hit but the injuries make it flimsy- instead of absorbing the hit it shatters and you still get a nasty hit that will no doubt leave a mark. You don't like this, you're starting to get angry- your shield is gone so you just reach out to grab the arm wielding the halberd with one hand while you blindly let your tentacle form a projectile, flinging it at Emerel's face. Well, it's the right color for a brick at least?

> EMEREL

His defenses are weakening. You can see it. He's moving more slowly and even his powers are having trouble keeping up. You're winning. You just need a few more good hits and you can finally knock his ass right out of the ring. You raise your knee, getting ready to kick him out of the circle the two of you are inching closer to, when you suddenly wraps his hand around your halberd arm. You twist your body and move your arm to break it out of his hand past the thumb. You're already pulling back to kick at his chest while you're at it. What you didn't expect, however, was the light coming at your face. You immediately duck, but it's too late; there's a searing pain in your face and the pain is shooting through your eye and all the way into your neck. You let out a shout and swing your halberd blindly at Hadean, your pan frantically trying to figure out what the hell even just happened. "What the fuck are you doing?!" You snap at him, finally going through with that kick to the chest you were trying for in the first place.

> HADEAN

Haaaa, sweet sweet face contact. Followed by nearly getting gored by him flailing his halberd, but you dodge that by the skin of your teeth, riding high on his shout. Well, until he fucking kicks you. Oww. You nearly buckle, your poor torso is really not doing alright, but he sounds so pissed. "Just improving your face a little bit Em! Fans might find a facial scar charming! And you'll get to look in the mirror and remember this fight for the rest of your life." Was that too much? Fuck it, who cares? You got to hit him in the face.

"Uggh, you-" Oh, now you're mad. You're shaking mad. You've been hit in the face before during these fights, but it's specifically when Hadean does it that you're pissed off. This was supposed to be a no kill fight and that's the second blow that could have legitimately killed you, even if the first one was your own damn fault. undefinedImproving your face a little bit, Em. He says that that's it. That's just it. You grip your weapon so hard that the leather is digging into your palms. You hiss as him, loud and sharp and more animall than troll. Your fangs are bared and you're lunging at him, one hand aiming for his throat, the other raising your weapon (which, miraculously, is still set to the blunt end) to hopefully stick in his skull

> HADEAN

Oh. Ohhh he didn't like that, did he? That's a nasty noise coming out of him, and a nasty look, and- fuck, he's gonna try to kill you. You knew that look just fine, makes your pumper skip a beat before the survival instinct kicks in. He's got a hand on your throat and it's enough, he's going to try and kill you? He's dead. If only you knew how dead he really was. It's just a light glow, outlining his hand around your throat as your psionics open up and swallow his lifeforce in. It's always such a heady feeling- you imagine this is what being high might be like, might be trying to capture this euphora. To be able to hold the stuff that lets a troll breathe, let them love and grow and be- and to take it away. To make it so you breathe. But the euphoria fades about the same time as your body jerks, eyes and horn jerking from rust to jade. Something's wrong. Why do you feel cold? What is this? What did he do? You can't identify the anti-life, the death trying to spread through you- not while your pan is screaming that you're dying. You crumple in to the sand and you can't move, your body is spasming but you aren't controlling it. It feels like there's acid in your veins, but instead of burning it's freezing. You might be making noises, you don't know. All you know is that it hurts. In other words, you're fucked.

> EMEREL

You really don't know what you're doing. Somewhere in the back of your head, Pheres' worries about your temper flash and you get a cold feeling as you realize just how well he actually had you pegged there. You're about to let go of Hadean's throat and punch him or something instead when he starts fucking glowing. Oh no. Shit. Instead of the sharp, piercing pain that you were expecting, however, you get a hollow, light feeling. Your head feels light and fuzzy and all at once every muscle in your body feels like it's made of lead. You shake and tremble, clutching vaguely at your chest as you literally lose your ability to breathe. Hadean is seizing up like he's having an attack and all you can think is that something has gone very, very wrong. He's screaming. Are you screaming? You think you're screaming. You collapse to the side of him, shaking hard and gasping for air before you finally feel too heavy to struggle anymore. You feel warm blood on your face and then nothing else as your eyes close and the sweet embrace of...something...takes you over.

> GLIESE

You were running toward Hadean even before he fell. Before _both_ of them fell. These _stupid fucking morons._ You hate both of them! You’re going to skin them and use their hides for _leather!_ You don’t know what just happened, but it doesn’t take a genius to realize it’s bad. Hadean’s rust. He’s in more danger. You feel a stab of guilt - but Emerel has Pheres, he has caste on his side, and something really bad just happened to your lowblood friend. You pick him up, struggling under his lanky form, but you put him over your shoulder regardless with blueblood strength and start marching off, looking for a mediculler, looking for somewhere you can keep him so that nobody tries to _cull his stupid ass._ He deserves it. Fucking idiot. But you drag him to the mediculler’s hut anyway, and the yellowblood doctor there immediately starts working on him. You get up, worrying, worrying, guarding the door in case anyone gets a bright idea. You’d attack almost anyone right now if they tried anything - Hadean’s _yours._ He’s stupid, he’s reckless, but he’s _your_ friend and damned if you’re going to let him die from some stupid fucking fight.

> PRISMA

The fight seems to be turned on its head within seconds, and with that you're standing up and looking over the ring with confusion. What the hell was going on? You'd known this was foolish, and turning quickly into a furious blood bath, but at the sight of Hadean seizing you feel like you should act -- before that, though, a blue blood is darting out towards them You reach out briefly, brows furrowed, and then you're physically hit by something. It causes you to suck in sharply, covering your mouth and causing your heart to contract in -- fear? You aren't sure. It's not something you're familiar with. It blooms quickly from your chest, turning into a horrific split of lightning through your head that blurs your vision and sends shocks through your map of the area. Everything is alive, and then suddenly it isn't, and when you are able to fight through the feeling, you push through to follow after the blue blood snatching Hadean. Was it Hadean? Where did the other... Emerel...? Why couldn't you feel what they were... It didn't matter. Someone should have broken them up -- you, actually, should have broken them up. Inhibitor be damned. It's strange feeling... anger? Why were you able to feel this suddenly? You arrive at the hut, clutching at your eye as if that would stop the pain behind it. There wasn't really anything you could do but wait. You aren't foolish enough to try to get in the middle of this -- and you aren't foolish enough to see what touching Hadean would do to you -- or him.

> BUDINO

You watch the fight in pure shock and horror, your mouth hanging slightly open as you watch Em let out that unnatural hiss. You feel the chill race down your spine when you realize that the fang bearing and screaming that he's doing, that leap, that choke attempt...they're all things that you've done before, when you were a different person. Is this really some type of genetic lineage bullshit? Regardless, you're on your feet and racing at top speed to Emerel when you see him convulse and fall to the ground. What did Hadean do to him? Whatever it was, it clearly hurt him too. Whatever. That's not what you're worried about. You kneel next to your 'brother,' trying hard and failing to shake him away. "Emerel, get up. Come on." When that fails, you at least pull your apron out of your inventory to wrap around his chest. You could at least try to help with the bleeding.

> HADEAN

You're in too much pain to really register that you're moving- but you do notice that you're being carried by someone just spilling over with energy. You can judge it as blue- gliese, some frazzled corner of your thinkpan provides. But you're on cloth, you can feel the energy but it's trapped away from you. You're put down, the energy retreating to be replaced by a candlestick, burning down to nothingness much quicker. Again, a barrier. You want to scream as you realize they're trying to heal you. You didn't have energy, they were going to be working on a corpse soon! But then, there's a hand against your shoulder, wonderful skin. You can't help it, you need it- you slip some of her life away before your thinkpan provides gliese again and you force yourself away. It's enough, you think. The pain is ebbing back, you don't feel like you're being frozen alive. Your psi sputters back to rust as you raise a hand to feebly wave at the mediculler. "Getchur pawsof me." Well, you tried.

> GLIESE

You snort at him. Dumbass. But your ears raise and your eyes tinge orange as someone else arrives at the entrance and you lift your hand off your friend’s shoulder, ready to defend yourself and him, but it’s just Prisma. “You said you were his friend, so I’m gonna give you the benefit of the doubt and not stick you with my scythe.” You say curtly. “Don’t make me change my mind.” You watch him carefully as the medic does their work, ears slightly lower but still wary to any sound, any rustle of movement. Before your fleet training you might have been tempted to take an occasional anxious glance at Hadean, but if the military’s good at anything it’s taught you discipline. You’re focused like a good soldier.

> PRISMA

You manage a heavy sigh, unconvering your eye briefly as you lean against one of the poles before you glower somewhat at Gliese. You're too frazzled by Hadean's twisting emotions to do much more in retaliation, though. In your state, it wasn't like you could take her. He wasn't dying, was he? You just met him... It's an empty feeling, though, replaced by a torrent of frustration, terror, breathlessness, help? Lock, trap, blue, trap, trapt, trapped, blue -- You inhale sharply and shut your eyes tightly. And suddenly it's gone. You hold your abdomen and look worryingly over to the rust on the table. You just met him... You can't even be frustrated. You just stare for a few moments until he moves, lacking the ability to feel proper joy or relief so much as the hollowness leaving you briefly. "Hadean?"

> SIPARA

Red-faced, annoyed, you'd helped Pheres move Emerel from the sandy field to the stands as Gliese - _Gliese_, of all fucking people - hauls Hadean off. "He'll be _fine,_ he's _jade_," you tell him and the jade alike, your flaps all the way back. "Pheres, Maidel - you can spark 'em to the cart, but for fuck's sake, don't _lift him_. Wrap the torso, stick one of those bloodsacks on him, don't _jar the wound_ --" It takes longer than you'd like to actually wrest yourself free! It's a guilt thing, mostly. Pheres is furious and shaking and dry-eyed in that way that means he's contemplating murdering something, and you ought to pap him down - but he _dumped you_, and you're more concerned about Hadean's life right now than Pheres's emotional _fit._ At least Prisma's there to keep Gliese from doing anything stupid. "Pri!" you yelp as soon as you're at the hut of the mediculler, shoving your way through the door. "Is Hads okay? Like, what the fuck happened out there?"

> HADEAN

God, this is so not your night. Everyone's showing up now, are they there to gawk? They're going to have questions that you... Really don't want to answer. But hard to avoid it now, isn't it? Hard to focus on them when you hurt so much. Especially your damn shoulder. And your arm. Breaks suck. Stupid shambling corpse jade bastards suck. As nice as it would be to just sleep, you don't know if you can. You still need an actual meal sometime soon- Gliese was enough to balance out the spiral that that undead energy had sent you down, but you still feel like you're running on fumes. The glow of your horn is probably a sad sight, sputtering flames as you try swatting at the mediculler again. "Need to go." You try to rise, and it doesn't- go well. Your body sends up a chorus of pain that lays you flat for a moment, choking on a curse. Getting the shit beaten out of you is never nice, being so fucking drained is just the cherry on top. But you're stubborn and you try again, baring your teeth at the mediculler. Hey, at the very least you might diffuse any hot tempers from flaring up in the tent.

> PRISMA

You look immediately to Sipara when her burning presence bursts through the tent. Shaking your head, you can't even process what to tell her. "Hadean had some sort of reaction. I don't know, but I felt it. It may have been psionic, there is no telling," you attempt, at least, to offer something up. "But he was very hurt. And very scared. I didn't feel anything from Emerel, though. Nothing at all." It's stated like a report, as if you're coolly relaying a dispatch to an officer. As the laid out red blood begins to fight against the doctor, you take a step closer with a wary eye on Gliese. Clearly he didn't have enough energy for something - it didn't take a genius to figure that out if his horn was sustained psionically. It certainly couldn't be physical. "Go where, Hadean?"

>SIPARA

ou like Pri, you decide. Unlike everyone else, he just rattles off information without even needing you to threaten him with it. It's for the best, because as soon as Hadean tries to sit up and chokes, you kind of want to kill something. "Thanks, dude. And what the actual fuck," you complain instead, stalking closer. Gliese might shank you for getting this close, but whatever, you don't care. "You can't even get up, dude. Where the hell would you be going? Is he feverish?" Being rude to the mediculler never helps. That doesn't stop you from trying to lay a hand on his skin, though, just to check.

> HADEAN

Right, Prisma was an empath or whatever. He's feeling your shit. You might have felt bad for that- you probably will, later- but right now you're just focused on getting your sorry ass up. Easier said than done when you're getting a bunch of well-intentioned jerks butting in. You'd feel touched, but. They're interfering in stuff they didn't know about and didn't have to understand. "I just need to go." Man, even talking hurts. You just had to find someone, get them alone. You wouldn't be picky right now, even a maroon would do. Speaking of maroons, Sipara is coming closer. She touches you and there's the urge to drain, but no. She's a friend. ...But the parasites are another story. They're a shitty meal, really. Like trying to gorge yourself on fortune cookies. But it's the best you have at the moment without losing a friend, isn't it? You can't stop yourself from making a low sound as you take the energy, a mouthful of water when you're blistering in the fucking desert. Hopefully Sip can get the bastard off before it goes for her blood.

> PRISMA

"Of course," you reply, just before Sipara launches into her spiel. Lord... "That doesn't make sense, Hadean. Your body can't sustain movement right now..." you say quietly, remaining at a distance with the other three tending to him. "You have to stay. If you go the injuries could tear again..." You're at a loss for words and action, instead looking with worry between Sipara and Hadean. You can't feel anything else from him, so he must be fine...? No, that's not right either. And what was with the noise... "What is it you need to leave for, so badly?"

>SIPARA

You're not expecting him to touch your arm. You're definitely not expecting the flash of colours that means your prosthetics levels are plummeting - - but this time, at least, you've got the sense to snap off a _disconnect_ before the fangs dig into retaliation. The worm goes limp as the fangs pull out, sliding down your arm in the process, and you hasten it by half-yanking the rest off. It's already stiffening into a defensive curl when you drop it on his lap. "Don't be so fucking petty," you snap. "If you don't wanna be touched, you can just _say! _

> HADEAN

Oh my god, you're dying and she's whining like you're killing her worms to spite her. You groan and try to force yourself up, slightly more successful this time- you sit up, even if you wobble. Your head is spinning, but you swallow against the dizziness. There's a worm in your lap and you grab it to see if there's anything left in it for you before you weakly shove it off. "Need energy." You squint at the floor, trying to judge if you can stand. How are you expecting to get past all four of them? You weren't planning, you just know you need to. Damn them for caring.

> PRISMA

You flinch somewhat at the sharp reprimand, curling your hands at your side. What did he do to her... arm? You don't understand in the slightest, watching in some horror as she pries this grotesque something off of her arm. In another life, you might be somewhat nauseated. This time, you move to try to help Hadean steady themselves, "You should stand against someone, or the table. You could black out," You said hurriedly, "What sort of energy?" You look to Sipara, as if she might be able to produce an answer for all of you. Psionic energy? But... that was an extension of will. He said his was... no, he denied it was metabolic. So what was it? The puzzle is irritating.

>SIPARA

His horn is a little brighter, is the first thing you notice. That's a relief; the way he isn't even bothering to bite back at your snap deflated you, quick as anything. Maybe he's feeling better? No. He's swaying just from sitting up. And Prisma's looking at you. And there's a dead worm on the ground, same as your last one. (When did he zap that one? When you said you wanted to fight him...?) "Tyrian tits, dude." You hate taking the prosthetic off of your bad arm, not least of all because it hooks in tighter: there's those pinprick flashes of pain as it disconnects from your nerves, but at least it's made to come off easier. And if you roll your shoulder after it's free, it looks like it's just asleep, not dead. At least, it better. You toss the freed prosthetic one handed at Prisma, trying not to frown too hard. You're settling a theory, that's all. "They've got psi, " you deadpan. "Let's see if he wants to cull that one, too.

> GLIESE

You decide to sit down and curl up into a ball as Prisma and Sipara talk. A sudden apathy washes over you. You’ve done everything you can. You can only wait. Though you do frown as Hadean…what did he do? Sipara’s bug is just…dead. At least the mediculler doesn’t seem at all perturbed by Hadean’s insistence and keeps working, sanitizing, bandaging, and packing, cleaning him up. “He’s not feverish.” says the yellowblood quietly. “No warmer than a maroon should be.” “If you need psi - “ You finally say, hoarse. “ - take mine. My bloodline’s stupid strong, it won’t do anything.” Even if it did, you wouldn’t care. Hadean’s life is worth more than some lousy mind control.

> HADEAN

Well, Prisma makes a good brace to just sort of lean yourself against. You tell yourself you'll just give yourself a minute. Then you'll stand. That sounds good. "I'll black you out, hush." Yeah. Keep acting tough, even when you're feeling weak as a half-squashed grub. You frown at Sipara when you notice she's doing something, then her arm is off. Huh. Neat. She tosses it to Prisma worm and all, and you might grab at it a little eagerly. Fuck the eyes watching you, you'd deal with it somehow... Later. For now you just focus on that little burst of energy you get from the worm, leaving it to have its death throes in Prisma's arms as you close your eyes. At least it's enough to give your horn a faint little constant glow, you're not just coughing up sparks for the moment. But you know it'll come, you have a lot of damage to repair. And oh, they're talking. "I don't eat psi." God, look at her just offering up her powers to you. That's the only thing that gets her that fancy desk job later in life, isn't it? Jeez... "Uh. Thanks for the offer." Hey, you can try to be polite. Even when you're three-quarters dead.

> PRISMA

"I will see it coming. I do not recommend that, friend." You resituate how to support Hadean when Sipara tosses the... creature... to you. The last thing you wanted was to hold this in your bare hand, but you don't actually have any complaints-- at least until Hadean's touch causes it to seize and crumple. You drop it to the floor, staring down at it numbly before your attention is pulled towards Gliese's offer. If it's not psi... but it can be sustained by food... You purse your lips, eyeing Hadean beside you in silence and waiting for Sipara's authority. Until then, though, you are determined to either keep a grip on Hadean or keep them in arms length.

>SIPARA He doesn't eat psi, but he's murdering all of your worms. And he fucked up Emerel fairly bad. And, yeah, now there's a glow worth noting in his horns again, and... You blow out your cheeks, trying not to look as alarmed as you're starting to feel. It's Hadean, he's _fine_, and besides, you're totally going down murder hive lane for no good goddamn reason. You've never heard of psionics working like that. They expel, they don't _siphon._ "Sit the fuck down, Hads," you say, curt. This is his deal. You don't need to shout it to everyone in the room, especially when one's blue. "You don't need to _hold_ him, Pri chill already. You need energy, Hads, we'll get you some." "How raw do you want it? "There. You're the queen of subtlety.

> GLIESE

If he doesn’t eat psi, what the fuck is his deal? Oh. Energy. Weird. But whatever. And now Sipara’s offering, and you roll your eyes a little but don’t comment. At least she’s helping. …wait. Was that why - did he try to pull that on Emerel, and - ? Your eyes narrow, but now’s not the time. Though if he did, why did it fail on the jade? Emerel’s as energetic as anyone. You feel a stab of guilt for abandoning him, but he has Pheres and that greenblood to fuss over him, plus caste on his side. He’ll be okay. You’ll visit him later. “Yeah, Hadean. Name it. We’ll get it.” You say, wry.

> HADEAN

Sip's smart, you have to give her that. But then of course she is, growing her worms and doing all that lab shit. You've given her enough information now for her to make a calculated guess. You're not sure what you expected of her when she started putting the dots together, but... This wasn't it. You just stare at her, wondering if this is a trick. Or if you're more fucked than you thought you were. Do trolls hallucinate when they die? Maybe. You settle on the bench, licking your lips as you try to figure out what the fuck you do. But there's not much choice now, is there? They all know enough. "Fuck. Fucking. Raw as it gets. Colder the better." You turn your head to stare down the mediculler, because they're an unknown in all of this. Would they blab? Maybe it was best to take care of them.

> ULLANe

Your only response to the redblood glaring at you - Hadean, you’ve gathered, from everyone saying his name so much - is to raise one eyebrow. “Your powers are none of my business.” You say, shrugging. “Culling me is ill-advised. I can leave you all deathly ill with my psi before you do, so why bother.” The blueblood makes a frustrated noise. Too bad. “I’d like to test that - “ she says, going for her scythe, but before she can she chokes, her own esophageal cells multiplying and blocking her air intake before you cut them off again. “Don’t.” You say. “I shan’t tell. As far as I’m concerned - “ You say, looking around. “ - this was a normal treatment, and nothing unusual happened. I left you to go check on the jade.” Saying so, you pack up your gear and leave to do just that. Whatever they get up to now is none of your business.

>SIPARA

The mediculler flounces with a flick of her fingers that sets Gliese to choking. It is manners alone that keeps you from grinning until you're out of the tent, and then you're fairly cackling as you walk away. You hate walking without your prosthetic. Your bad arm jangles next to you like a weight you can't feel, startling you every time it brushes your thigh, but luckily Pheres's cart isn't that far. The stall is still attached to the front, even, for all that the doors have all been shut and the curtains on the van proper drawn shut. And there's Lal, right where you left him. Well. Not quite. "What, he wouldn't let you in?" you ask, sympathetic. "Soz. Hey, wanna help me steal a goat?"

> LALEDY

In your defense, you did try to get into the cart - but no amount of pizza peace offerings are going to calm Pheres down from the mood he's in. Understandably: you're pretty sure his matesprit is dead. That doesn't stop you from being anxiously restless as you strain to hear inside the cart and wait for someone to show up before a fairgoer decides your loitering is getting suspicious. Thankfully, Sipara comes loping over to your rescue. No worse for wear despite what you're sure was a tense situation, though with a little less volume on one side. "Depends," you declare, shoving yourself off the side of the cart, "That, uh, Pheres, on accounta the attitude and, y'know-" You gesture at your own horns- "Or the one that up and ate your frond?"

> SIPARA

"Neither! We are stealing, like, a totally unrelated hoofbeast that's innocent of all crimes. Shit's gonna be wicked." He doesn't look chill. He looks, actually, pretty much the _opposite_, and you catch yourself looking at the van like you can peer inside. "So. Uh." God, you shouldn't ask. "Is he, y'know -" _Croaked it_ isn't a good term, not when Pheres might hear it. "How's he doing?" you say instead, twisting your mouth to the side.

> LALEDY

"Well," you concede, hoping Sipara doesn't ask. "So long's I ain't gonna get short, mad, and fluffy on my tail. Cos, uh-" She asks. Damn it. So much for getting away from the death and angst card immediately. You lean back against it, shoving your hands into your hoodie pockets. "- I ain't a medical professional," you say carefully, awkward and a good bit quieter. "But, uh - green dude ain't, like. Aspiratin' or nothin'."

>SIPARA

Laledy looks like it's _his_ clademate that just croaked it. You should feel worse, you think. But it's not you know Emerel! And it's not like Pheres's even known him for _long_. Still, he's still going to be frothing, so you puff out your cheeks, and with great reluctance, rap hard on the door. You barley get to a second knock before a window cracks open, and Pheres's voice drifts out. "He's fine," Pheres snaps. His voice's gone all _throaty_, in a way that makes your ears pin back at the sound of it. "And you're not allowed in, so just - _fuck off._" A moment later, the window snaps shut. "Well," you say, turning around. Your cheeks are warm. _Goddamnit._ ".. uh. Shit. Um. Thanks.. for staying? Y'know. During that."

> LALEDY

Pheres sounds like he's either been crying or is about to, and that's just about more emotional vulnerability than you can tolerate from a guy that you're barely friends with. Sipara doesn't sound much less comfortable when she turns her back, and you're relieved at the chance to jog a few steps to catch up with her. You duck around until you're on the side of her good arm, pressing your fingers to her elbow so she can lead you to wherever you're going to... catch a goat, apparently. You shrug awkwardly. "Ain't no big. Gotta make sure a guy ain't gonna go nothin' - y'know, right?" Well, that's certainly a sentence that made sense. "He'll be fine. Pher, I mean. Ain't so sure 'bout his boo, but..." There's not really a 'but' that follows, and you're not entirely sure how to even have this conversation. The one boon to being stuck outside listening to make sure Pheres didn't, like, hurt himself or snuff Emerel was that you didn't have to talk to anybody about the potentially dead guy in the van. "Why're we gettin' a bleatbeast?" you blurt.

> PHERES

You have no idea what to do. It's a good thing that Budino's being quiet in the corner, because right now, you'd cull him if he said a word. It didn't work. He looks like he's sleeping, with scarcely a dent in his face to show it was ever injured, and he's not sleeping: he's _dead_. The saw is still lying where you left it. If you have to, you'll cut off his head. But.. maybe you'll just wait, first. It can't hurt to wait. "Maidel," you say, and you hate the way your voice rasps. "You should go. _Please._ Thank you, but.. Go."

> MAIDEL

You completely understand. You fixed Emerel - mostly - but it doesn’t seem to have done any good. You don’t understand. His body responded to your healing, but…he’s still… You don’t even want to think about it. You hang your head and don’t say a word, going out at Pheres’s orders, floppy ears sadly drooping even more than usual. But then those ears flip up slightly as you see Sipara and Laledy walking off, and tilt your head as the jade asks why they’re getting a goat. “Why ARE you getting a bleat beast?” You ask curiously. Maybe it’s none of your business, but you need something to do, and - wait, where did Sipara’s prosthetics go? You’ve _never_ seen her without them before. You hurry over to them, concerned. “What’s going on?”

>SIPARA

Maidel looks like someone shot Kabiir in front of him, and then started eating. It is entirely too fucking depressing. "We're getting a bleatbeast to impress he-who-must-not-be-named," you murmur, quiet enough that Pheres won't hear. "C'mon, Maidie-baby, you're getting conscripted to help us out, on accounta the fact, like, I'm _totes_ down an arm." "And how else are we gonna carry it, if you don't come with?"

> LALEDY

You suck in a breath through your teeth and realize - well, shit, you've now got one friend that's culled another friend's quadrant. At least Sipara doesn't seem to have forsaken Hadean - or you think so, anyways. Maidel catches up the few steps to the two of you, and you wave an awkward hello, briefly considering letting go of Sipara's arm before you decide you don't currently give a fuck. "Where we gettin' it?" you ask, "Cos, lemme tellya, it ain't been smellin' near's bad as I'd've figured for a place what's up and got bleatbeasts to spare. And, like, why's Hads want a goat?" You suppose it's better than him not needing a goat, on account of being dead.

> MAIDEL

You blink as Sipara tells you why, and you don’t really understand, but she is your boss, so you shrug and go along with it. Pheres would probably want you to keep an eye on the pair of them anyway, just to be safe. Besides, you kind of like the nickname. “I can take care of it.” You say, confident. You don’t even have to carry it - you can just stick it in a safe plane and retrieve it. That way you don’t have to worry about it getting loose. “Um, one second - “ You take your fair map out of your sylladex, looking it over, and then showing it to Sipara, waving a freckled finger over an area labelled ‘authentic historical food, slaughtered fresh!’. “They’ll probably have one, or something like it.” You walk with them, and even though you’re further away now, you still lower your voice to ask. “Is Hadean okay?”

>SIPARA You give Laledy a long look. "Do you _really_ want to know why he wants a goat? Like, really? Really?" "And - yeah, we'll get it from there. Sounds good." Lal's clinging to your arm, and it's.. actually, weirdly sort of endearing. You need people on your arm more: if it weren't currently being dead-weight, you'd probably loop your others through Maidel's. "Hadean's.. aright. Why wouldn't he be?" "He's not the dumbass that walked into a fucking _knife._"

> LALEDY

You stare at Sipara. "Pal, the way you're goin', there's like a 50% chance you're about to tell me he wants to pail it, and a 50% chance you're gonna say we're summonin' the Demoness, and, gotta say, there's zactly one a'those options I ain't down for." Then she calls Emerel a dumbass for walking into a knife, and you bark an incredulous laugh. "Wait, for cereals? Even I ain't that shit at fightin'! Uh, crap-" You just insulted a dead guy and somebody needs to tape your mouth shut- "Then what'sa matter with 'im? I wan't half-sure he wasn't, like, also dead."

> MAIDEL

Your face knits in worry as Sipara questions Laledy, but you nod as she agrees. Then you’re puzzled again, but from her tone, you figure it’s better not to ask, and you wince at her last comment before trying to withhold slightly horrified laughter at the jadeblood’s remarks. “I don’t think Hadean has the energy for the first one.” You say, bemusedly. “And I think we’d have to offer the Demoness better than just a goat, probably.” You give the jade an alarmed look, but he seems to have realized his mistake - besides, you have no idea how well he knows Emerel. Maybe he hasn’t even met him properly. “He’s probably just recovering, I imagine.” You say, partially to help Sipara out. “Those wounds looked nasty.”

> SIPARA

"Look, what I'm _saying_, Lal, is that we're gonna walk in, drop off a goat, and close our eyes to whatever fucked up shit goes down before we manage to get the fuck out. Why do you have to go 'n make it weird?" A beat. "'sides, why can't he do both? Hadean's, like, _talented_, dude." .. are you supposed to fight Laledy over him insulting Pheres's quad? He's dead. He can't exactly _object_, and Pheres isn't exactly here to _hear_, so... nah. "He's fine! He's just gotta sit, take a breath and then walk it the fuck off." You shrug. "You saw the braid thing, dude, 's just woozy," you drawl, light, and then you nudge Maidel with your shoulder. Thank god she's so tall. "Hey, babe, you leadin' the way? 'cause beeteedubs, I have _no_ fucking idea where this is."

"Uh, right." The braid thing, whatever that was. "Ain't impugnin' Hads's many talents, pal, just wonderin' what choice I made in life that's let to this demonic cult I just joined, and also how you know the Demoness goes in for that kinda ish. Like, pal, if we're gettin' her a bleatbeast, seems kinda shit to get her a used bleatbeast!" You thought that maybe if you talked enough, it would somehow eliminate the awkward, but you forgot that you opening your mouth absolutely never entails a lowering in awkwardness. At least Sipara is half as lost as you are. You snort at her - the blind leading the blind.

> MAIDEL

You make a lot of faces as the two of them talk. You’ve lost count of how many different emotions you’ve been running through. “Oh! Yes, I’m taking us there. It should only be a few more minutes.” You reassure her. You keep switching between the map and the landmarks, anxious to keep the three of you on the right track, and you’re pretty sure it’ll be coming up soon. You laugh a little at Laledy’s comments. “I’m about…ninety percent sure, there will be no heraldic figure of doom summoning.” You say. “Oh! Yup, there it is, uh…hm.” You come up on the place, and you can tell by the smell and sound of it. There’s a very menacing looking yellowblood with a butcher knife, slicing a bloody haunch of meat at a stand, but peering around that you can see stalls from where bleating and mooing is coming. “Hm.” You say again, more quietly, thinking. “I think one of you might want to distract the stall keeper, while I get close enough to grab the bleatbeast…that part’s easy, I just need to make sure I won’t be getting a blade in the neck.”

>SIPARA

"Dude, the fuck is your thing with demon summoning? You got _practice?_" You jeer at him: "-'cause if you do, don't tell Queenie. Pretty sure she's the only spoopy thing allowed in the shop." You lace your fingers through Laledy's, then use that to tug him forward. "We'll distract him," you declare. "C'mon! It'll be just like the musical dude, In Which Seven Young Signmates are In Need of Kismesises (And One Case of Auspisticism). You've seen that, right? Or - shit." You pause, peering at Maidel, your ears pricking forward. "Can you even carry a goat by yourself?"

> LALEDY

"Duh," you tell Sipara, sticking out your tongue, "Ain't you heard? It's, like, emogoth chic, I gotta be true to my identity-!" You were going to keep going, but then Sipara actually grabs your hand, winding her fingers through yours like you're in a romcom, and now you're walking together instead of behind her, hands swinging between the two of you. Well, that's one way to shut you up. You're pretty sure you've gone green up to your ears. The last time you'd held someone's hand, Cateex looked at you like you'd rotated your head 360 degrees. "Well," you manage, though not without missing a beat or three, "If there's precedent - and, shit, pal, who's up and questionin' peeps' talents now? Maybe she can, like, carry two bleatbeasts, even! One for Hads, one for the Demoness."

> MAIDEL

You laugh, letting a few lime green sparks off from your eyes - not too noticeable unless you’re looking closely, but apparent to anyone within a few feet. “I don’t have to.” You say, smiling. “But I _am_ going to vanish with it, so we’ll have to meet up somewhere else. Pheres’s cart?” Aww, Laledy’s blushing. It’s kind of adorable. Are he and Sipara quadrants? Well, none of your business, you suppose. Maybe your bosses just like jades. “I could grab two, but I think one is enough to worry about.” You say dryly. “Unless you really want one as well, Laledy.”

>SIPARA

"'sactly! And -" Wait, Lal's blushing. Why? .. over-exertion, probs. For fuck's sake, why'rne you always surrounded by a bunch of waifs? But you slow down, obliging up until Maidel chirps off that line. "Holy shit, _no_, not Pher's. You -" You pause, completely serious: "- you, Maidie, keep the fuck away from the cart for awhile, 'kay? 'til he says he wants you there. Like, either of us pops back up, he's gonna eat our fucking faces. Let him cool off." "Take it to the mediculler tents! Hads in the fifth one down."

> LALEDY

"So he is effed up!" you accuse, "What's he gone to the mediculler's for? And what's the bleatbeast for?" To be clear: You are totally down for stealing a goat. You're just incredibly fucking confused, have no idea what went down the entire fight and how and why everyone is so injured, and this is, like, the one thing you can probably get a decent answer for so by the Mother Grub, you're going to get it. "And shit, pal," you tack on, midlly disbelieving, "The more the merrier! Just pop on over with one on each shoulder like it's nbd, yeah?"

> MAIDEL

You wince, but of course Sipara’s right. Even if you didn’t go in and just stopped by before taking the goat away with you, Pheres might be mad, and you don’t want to deal with that. “Right.” You say, nodding. “I’ll see you there then.” You snort. “Not really…but it’d take me too long to explain. The point is, I can do it and leave no trace. It’s a psi thing. Anyway. I’ll wait until they’re focused on the pair of you, and then I’ll dart in and get one. It shouldn’t take me more than a few minutes.”

> BUDINO

You've been quietly sitting in your corner of Pheres' cart, not particularly wanting to say anything even if it didn't look like Pheres might eat you if you so much as breathed too loudly. You keep your knees drawn to your chest as you stare down at the floor. This is way too familiar to you and you hate it. This is why you try not to like people. It always ends up like this and you're starting to think your existence is just fatal luck to everyone else. You stand up, slowly padding over to Emerel's body when Pheres isn't looking, staring down at his face. This is distressing, how much he looks like you. Is this what you'll look like whenever something finally finishes you off? Somehow, the thought is...it usually comforts you, but now it just fills you with bubbling terror when you're actually looking your double in the cold, dead face. You keep expecting him to wake up and yell at you to get a new sign, but he won't. You know he won't. You sigh loudly, your shoulders slumping as you rest your arms on the table next to him, letting your forehead fall on them. Fuck. Everything.

#C:MAIDEL #c:budino #c:pheres #c:sipara #c:hadean #c:prisma #c:gliese #c:vatrra #event:cascara fair

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