#I am just chronically lonely. that’s what it is. I just want to hear another persons voice

[ina-nis]

"What can I do to help you?"

Can you love me? If yes, can you love me in the way I need to be loved?

Your answer will probably be "no," considering the nature of our relationship.

So the next best thing is therapy.

And I still will not receive the love I need.

Then I have to turn inwards with self-care, self-improvement, hobbies, a healthy diet and sleep and exercise.

And I still will not receive the love I need.

Then I turn outwards, and seek people and seek places and I keep on trying what I can despite how much it drains me and how much I'm forcing myself to do it because it's neither fun nor enjoyable.

And I still will not receive the love I need.

I have not attempted suicide in almost 3 years that I've been trying my hardest to follow the treatment and keep my head above water.

But I tried today,

and again,

and again.

"You can make this pain stop." my brain is practically begging me to stop.

It's like all the stop gaps end up having the opposite effect and only end up triggering me even more.

Who can I turn to? I don't trust my therapist or much of anyone, and the people I do trust, I can't talk to them because they can't help me, because they can't love me how I need.

It's as if I didn't really have anyone. How ironic.

I'm just avoiding them now.

I feel quite literally empty and it frustrates me that nothing can fill this but another person, I don't like it and hell, I'd not want to kill myself over something as fucking stupid as this but here we are, huh?

"What can I do to help you?"

"It's alright, thank you! Things will improve soon." That's what they want to hear, right?

I refuse to let my life be in someone else's hand and yet, the pain loneliness causes is just too big for me to take on all by myself. But I take it, and take it, and take it some more. There's really no escaping it.

How to go on when the pain is this horrible and nothing helps anymore?

Do I really want to prolong this torment for another month, and another year and another decade?

Why joy does nothing to help me feel better or ease the pain?

Why feeling happy and satisfied doesn't help either?

Why am I supposed to hold onto the good for my dear life while feeling so miserable and terribly lonely?

Why can't I see it's worth it despite the pain?

Why does the pain blind me to everything else?

I don't want to die but I'm exhausted. I'm tired of fighting this.

I've been trying to talk myself down from the overwhelm and get myself up but I just start crying. Every time.

I don't really know what to do. A lot of the answers and conclusions I came to help momentarily, but this is an old chronic problem. It's like trying to dry out the ocean with a towel.

I don't feel better after talking about it or venting.

I just feel numb.

[bpdbaddies-blog]

i’ve never shared my writing before so enjoy.

my pov:

i feel like i’m buried in the depths of hell

you can’t physically see the pain that’s lurking inside

it’s taken a toll on me and all i feel is numb

let me give you a glimpse of my life

i do my best hoping to be enough

longing for acceptance of all that i am

constantly told you talk too much

you feel too deeply

you’re way too much

i either talk too much or not enough

i see everything in black and white, there’s no middle path

i don’t think people love me

they love the versions of me i’ve spun for them

the easy parts of me, the easy parts to love

ive spend my life trying to please others

i tried to be the person they all wanted

i gave up my spirit and begged for acceptance

my very existence depends on your acceptance

i’m at war with my own body, my thoughts tell me to hate myself

i cannot look in the mirror for i fear what my brain will tell me

i don’t know who i am anymore

i stare at myself like someone i’ve never met

i’m trying to shrink myself

trying to become smaller, quieter, less me

i don’t want to be too much for people

i want people to like me

i want to be cared for and valued

i crave touch yet i flinch every time someone is close

i want to be wanted

i don’t want to hurt anymore

i’ve sacrificed myself to make others happy

i forgive over and over again and have never learned to let go

i obsess too much and pick everything apart

“i’m just a tragedy and a pity case to them” says my brain

i always feel inadequate and a burden to others

chronically unsure about life

i constantly feel so unworthy

i feel as though my life isn’t worth living

i constantly seek validation from others because i need to feel worthy

i’ll hurt you before you hurt me

“burn the bridge while they’re still on it” says my brain

i’m paranoid everything is against me

i feel trapped in my own body

i feel like i’m in a cage and it’s so hard to grow

i hate everything i am, i’m rotting inside

memories constantly flooding back

i was ruined from such a young age

they were the start of all my problems

they injected me with self doubt

i met evil when i was only a child

i was only a jester for your entertainment

i learned to be afraid as a child

harsh words stripped me of my freedom

i was just a well trained mutt

i didn’t want to be controlled

i wanted to be a child

but i never got the chance to be one

no one asked me if i was okay

why didn’t anyone help me

i must’ve deserved it all

everyone just watched me drown

i was just a child, you robbed me of my childhood

i’m too young to have these scars

i’m no longer a whole person and i never will be

parts of me died in the house i grew up in

please tell me when i will heal from your pain

i’ll forever crave an apology

but i’ll never forget the way you hurt the child i was

i was given the grab bag of mental illnesses

i wake up everyday trying to be a new person

how can someone feel so much but feel so empty

how can emptiness be so heavy

how have i survived so long when i’m so violently self destructive

you have no idea of the pain that runs through my veins

i feel so unspeakably lonely

i can’t manage all these feelings

sadness feels like suicide

distance feels like abandonment

joy feels weird and unknown

i’ll never feel good enough not even for myself

my mood was good, even great then it fell

up and down up and down like a constant roller coaster

there’s a constant battle of sad empty rage inside

i can constantly hear my heart breaking

my soul is broken in parts i didn’t know could break

i’m lonely in places i didn’t know existed inside me

i have the constant urge to run away

but i have no where to go

i’m just so tired of fighting a never ending war

i feel like i was born with tragedy in my blood

the world has drained me of everything i am

i want to dissolve into nothingness

sometimes i think i would be better off dead

but there might be another way out

but i wouldn’t know because i’ve been buried alive

[fangsup-cobrastyle]

Chronic Illness in Folie à Deux

I'm coming apart at the seams

Doc, there's a hole where something was

Butterfly bandage, but don't worry / You'll never remember, your head is far too blurry

Restrain that man / He needs his head put through a CAT scan

I'm a loose bolt of a complete machine

I'd promise you anything for another shot at life

Nobody wants to hear you sing about tragedy

We had a good run, even I have to admit / Life's just a pace car on death / Only less diligent

Even the young ones become irrelevant

Why, why, why won't the world revolve around me?

Head like a steel trap / Wish I didn't, I didn't, I didn't, I didn't, I didn't, I didn't, I didn't, I don't / Just want to be a footnote in someone else's happiness

Keep a calendar, this way you will always know / The last time you came through / Oh darling, I know what you're going through

It's a sign / What if you peaked early?

I gotta feel the wind chill again before I get old

You can only blame your problems on the world for so long / Before it all becomes the same old song

As soon as we hit the hospital, I know we're gonna leave this town

I can't explain a thing / I want everything / To change and stay the same/ Oh, time doesn't care about anyone or anything

Only get lonely when you read the charts

Oh baby, when they made me / They broke the mold

I will never believe in anything again

Said 'I'll be fine till the hospital or American embassy'

I want it so bad, I'd shoot the sunshine into my veins / I can't remember the good old days

My body is an orphanage / We take everyone in

Are all the good times getting gone? / They come and go and go and come and go

I'm not a crybaby / I'm the crybaby

A caterpillar that got stuck / Mr. Moth, come quick with any luck

I can make your heart slow / I can feel the weather in my bones

Not the boy I was / The boy I am is just venting, venting

I'm a young one stuck in the thoughts of an old one's head / When all the others were just stirring awake, I'm trying to trick myself to fall asleep again

Mama, if we don't take the medication / We won't sleep for days

Permanent jet lag / Please take me back

Give me a pen, call me Mr. Benzedrine / But don't let the doctor in, I wanna blow off steam

Don't feel bad for the suicidal cats / Gotta kill themselves nine times before they get it right

I'm a nervous wreck / The drugs just make me reset

Knock once for the father, twice for the son, three times for the holy ghost

[woman-moment-fr]

I like laughter, but I’d like to be a part of it

I have no friends. Yet. Well, technically I have one, and then my housemates are my friends as well I guess, though some of them are on thin ice. Either way it’s very lonely. I worry that I’m often making mean faces at people but that’s only because I’m holding grudges against the weather or shit music in clubs. I do wonder though, if that’s why no one buys me drink on nights out. 

I often sit alone in the living room, hoping that someone may come down to join me. Back home, I’d never leave my room, but here, it’s a great discomfort being there. In the past few weeks I’ve consumed any and all decent media Netflix has to offer, and still the only thing I can think about is the best way to say ‘hello’ when someone inevitably walks in. Sometimes they don’t though. I could wait for hours and hours and hours and see no one. Not a very fun or exciting Uni experience. Being incredibly poor also doesn’t help the social aspect, seeing as everything costs money. The whole ordeal of forming new friendships is also not that great but I can bear it, since in the long run it means I won’t spend most of my nights rotting on the couch wishing I had any sort of social life.

It’s a bit frustrating seeing everyone else have people. Even if it’s just work friends, you’re going out there and talking to another living soul and I’m still here, waiting for someone to invite me to go out. I’ve been desperately trying to get a job but it’s weirdly difficult. How is it that when I was 15, I had jobs handed to me where ever I went but now that I genuinely need money to like, live, it’s impossible to find anything. I just want to see and talk to people. Despite my crippling social anxiety and awkwardness, I am actually very fond of socialising. I’d love to go to parties and I love meeting other peoples friends. It’s scary but being around people is something I so desperately crave. 

I always assume that once you go to Uni, friendships are inevitable. You just meet people where ever. But it takes so much more effort. Maybe I’m doing something wrong. I do have a tendency to talk about stupid things and that are probably definitely not appropriate at times but I really do try to just be normal so what’s up with that. 

I’m tired of carrying this loneliness. I can hear other people, together, and it’s like looking through fog trying to find home again. I have so much to give. So much love and attention and care. I’m built for friendship and love. Whatever God made me from, it must have been something very broken. How can I be so perfect for love yet unable to find anyone to give it to? Bit of a sick joke if you ask me.

This is all very whiney, I’m acting as if my world is falling apart. I mean it is in many ways but honestly I just need to suck it up, I’ll get there eventually. Maybe I should start talking to strangers online again but this time actually become friends with them.

I guess growing up means getting used to chronic emotional damage because what the fuck my guy.

-Ana

[freckleslikestars]

I wanted to play battleships but I could find a nice, clean, clear 12x12 battleships grid out there (most people like a 10x10, but I prefer a little extra playing area and more ships - it’s just how my dad taught me) so because none of my friends were available I spent some time making my own sheet, and then figured I’d share it with the world in case anyone else wanted to play on a nice clean sheet

[delicioussshame]

[cries in fandom] I was supposed to work tonight and instead I wrote more of yesterday’s fic because I had the idea and couldn’t stop thinking about it. 

Shen Qingqiu isn’t an empty nester. He has plenty of disciples still running around the peak, eager to learn and keeping him very busy.

It’s just that the generation that was already there when he arrived, Ning Yingying, Ming Fan and the others, are now fully grown cultivators, spending most of their time roaming the world on their own quests.

They bring him pride each time they visit, usually gifting him with obscure artefacts and rare volumes he spends days pouring over. It doesn’t quite make up for their absence, but it helps.

Still, he would have preferred Ning Yingying gift him something else the last time she visited.

He, of course, knew she would eventually cross paths with Luo Binghe. She was bound to. After much pondering, he had decided not to interfere. Her occasional visits to Luo Binghe weren’t enough to hurt her cultivation, and anyway Luo Binghe was usually careful not to let Xin Mo gorge enough to leave traces, especially on trained cultivators. She’d be fine.

Plus, when Luo Binghe would tire of hiding in plain sight and reveal his status as leader of the Demon Realm, his fondness for her would protect her from the consequences Shen Qingqiu himself might face.

He would probably be fine though. He’d just have to take a less adversarial take than his predecessor, who had fought to the death to “protect his disciple from the beast”.

Or he’d thought he would, until Ning Yingying, with a blinding smile that radiated unblemished innocence, had told her she’d booked him a session with her A-Luo, because, to hear her say it, he needed it.

He had been tempted to expel her on sight. Don’t thrown Shen Qingqiu into the maws of the beast! He doesn’t have your youthful beauty or girlish charms!

He hadn’t. Ning Yingying is just too caring. She hadn’t realised that just because she very much enjoyed Luo Binghe, Shen Qingqiu might not feel the same. Wrong tree. Because if he were attracted to men, which he was not, what a ridiculous notion, he would have made a move himself. Luo Binghe is soft on his favorite clients. He’d have nothing to lose by endearing himself to him.

Too bad he’s not interested. He had to refuse him.

He’d thought he knew what to expect when he’d gone to reject the offer as politely as he could. It wouldn’t do to offend him.

Sadly, all the foreknowledge of the world hadn’t been quite enough to shield himself from his unnatural charisma. He’d made a fool of himself, practically running out to escape the protagonist’s aura. Luo Binghe, how terrifying! His poor disciple had stood no chance!

Anyway, he can admit he is occasionally lonely. He misses his dear Yingying and his first disciple, whom, for all his flaws, Shen Qingqiu had grown fond of. It wasn’t impossible for Ning Yingying to have noticed, and to have tried to offer him company. Totally misguided, but understandable.

When he hears a commotion outside, he instantly goes to check it out. Maybe it will break his monotony.

He immediately regrets it. Why, why on earth are Luo Binghe and Liu Qingge fighting with enough strength that they could easily kill his terrorised disciples here on his peak! It’s way too early for Luo Binghe to have come out of the demonic closet! And why is he even here!

Shen Qingqiu turns towards his closest disciple. “What is happening here.”

The poor girl jumps at his tone. “Shizun! I’m sorry, I’m not sure, we heard rumours that Luo Binghe was at the sect, so we were curious, but Liu-shishu showed up and it devolved into a fight. I don’t know why.”

Huh. So Liu Qingge made the first move? Quite possible. He might have wanted to protect his sister’s honor.

That should be manageable. He raises his voice. “Fighting on my peak isn’t allowed. Stop at this instant.”

To his surprise, both swords freeze.

Shen Qingqiu despairs for this world’s mob characters. How come no one wonders why a courtesan can keep up with Liu Qingge? Why can’t they notice how Xin Mo oozes with malevolence? Can they only see Luo Binghe’s fabulously handsome face and physique?

He wouldn’t be surprised.

“Shen Qingqiu! How dare you!”

Shen Qingqiu blinks. “How dare I what, Liu-shidi? I’m not the one who picked a fight on someone else’s peak.”

He points to Luo Binghe. “Him!”

Beside his general existence, there’s nothing especially offensive about Luo Binghe? “What about him?”

“I thought you’d outgrown such nonsense, but he shows up here!”

Shen Qingqiu has no idea what is happening. “I’m sorry if his presence offends you, but I assure you I have nothing to do with it.”

“I’m afraid that’s a lie,” says Luo Binghe as Liu Qingge seems close to death via outrage.

Shen Qingqiu turns toward Luo Binghe. “How could it be?”

In answer, Luo Binghe brandishes… the fan he’d completely forgotten when he’d visited, shit! Did he come here, on his peak, holding this incriminating evidence as a badge of honor!?

Shen Qingqiu feels himself blanch. How can he clear himself of these allegations? Liu Qingge thinks he’s trying to steal his sister’s man! Once the War God of Bai Zhen is done with Luo Binghe, Shen Qingqiu’s head is next!

Luo Binghe continues like he didn’t notice Shen Qingqiu’s obvious discomfort, which he must have. “You left this behind the other day, and so I have come to return it. Let it not be said I am not a perfect gentleman.”

Oh no. He can hear consternation from some of his pupils, and definitely less consternated exclamations from others.

Liu Qingge has now plunged on Luo Binghe again, who dodges with too much ease. How can no one notice something is wrong!

Maybe the renewed fight will distract everyone while Shen Qingqiu discretely dig himself a hole deep enough to never have to come out.

Oh well, there’s nothing he can tell but the truth. No one will believe it, but since no one ever believed Shen Qingqiu, how will it be any different? “Please stop this fight at once. Luo Binghe, I thank you for bringing my fan back to me despite my rude refusal of your services. It wasn’t your fault my student misconstrued my interests. Again, I am sorry for your wasted time. Liu-shidi, I understand your sister’s paramour might not be your favorite individual, but please don’t assault the sect’s guests. Think of our reputation. What will people say?”

Liu Qingge stares at him with… stupefaction? “You’re not his?”

Yeah, he’s nipping that train of thought in the bud. The last thing he needs is his disciples thinking he’s some pretty thing’s toy. They would never respect him again. “No. He’s not my type. No offense intended.”

Liu Qingge remains still for a moment, before he plucks the fan from Luo Binghe’s hand and shoves it toward Shen Qingqiu. “Keep track of your fans! There are two in my home!”

Ladies and gentlemen, Shen Qingqiu, a man being berated in public about his chronic tendency to forget things like an unruly child. “Why should I care when Shidi is always so eager to bring them back to me?”

Liu Qingge flushes in anger.

Shen Qingqiu gives himself a point.

_______________

Things were light-hearted before.

Now, Luo Binghe is serious.

Not only did Shen Qingqiu refuse his advance, but he implied Luo Binghe himself wasn’t good enough for him, in front of his whole peak, before ignoring him in favor of flirting with another man, right in his face?

Never has he suffered such humiliation.

He had intended to be kind. To soothe and seduce the man gently until following Luo Binghe to bed would seem like the only logical option.

He bets Shen Qingqiu would have paid him for the privilege, and paid him well, regardless of his disciple’s previous arrangements.

Now, those options are off the table. When Luo Binghe is done with him, pleasure will have robbed Shen Qingqiu of the last of his voice, and yet he’ll still be trying to beg him for more.

He’ll be ruined to anyone that’s not Luo Binghe; unable to live without his touch.

Anything less would be an unsurmountable affront.

Shen Qingqiu better prepares himself. The fight might have been lost, but Luo Binghe will be the one to win the war.

[spicysugar019]

Alrighty folks here's my pinned post.

About me:

He/him/male

Im 21 years old (born in 2000 baybeeee)

Not comfortable sharing my first name (even tho it's super common and you couldn't find me using it). So on here I'll go by Eugene (my middle name).

Im currently at the highest weight I've ever been at, litterally 100 lbs over my starting weight (when I was either 11 or 12 at 4 foot 2 I think?). So please be cautious when talking to me about numbers at the present moment (Feb 2022).

Gae 💅 though currently dating a nonbinary beast

List of disorders cause I find it funny:

EDNOS, PTSD, chronic MDD, Chronic Insomnia, SAD, Chronic Substance abuse, ADHD, Bipolar (aka manic depressive disorder), (fuck dude im making this at 4am so im forgetting so fucking many), GAD, Panic disorder, dysthymia (I group that in with MDD but it's still a separate diagnosis ig), Social Anxiety disorder, unspecified psychosis, codependency disorder, gender dysphoria, and lastly a thing im not diagnosed with cause I don't bring it up in therapy and I actually don't feel like disclosing because of stigma around it and I'm not in the place to be told I'm faking by random strangers who don't know me or being told I'm doing it on purpose for attention thanks very much assholes.

How am I not permanently in a mental facility? Negligence probably! Stick around to see if that fact changes I suppose.

God what else do I say?

Stats: (again I'm at my highest weight ever, please don't comment on this to me, I just found out about it yesterday legit).

Cw: 270

Hw: 270

Sw: 170 (I was 12 and 4"2)

Ugw: 98

Is it even possible???

Im 5"4 (short kingg)

Things I struggle with due to mental health:

Eating (ok duh?), weight, body image, flashbacks, sleeping too much or too little no in-between, depressive episodes that usually land me in the hospital, hospitalizations (high score: 6 times in one year between December and March), major mood and behavior swings, Panic attacks that can last up to like a full fucking day rendering me completely useless, sometimes I see shit that isn't there, sometimes I hear shit that isn't there (they're thinking these are depression related psychosis mixed with not sleeping for like 4 days solid and not eating. Makes sense to me), I need people. No like I need them like I cannot be independent without trying to k!ll myself every single day, suicidal ideation, self harm, I have to get biweekly IM injections of boy juice into my ass-- and not the fun kind-- so I don't try to die constantly, and then other things I will not disclose ♡ and im poor.

At the moment I see 3 therapists and I'm looking for a fourth. Just therapists, this dosent include physical doctors or psychiatrists or psychologists or anything. One does CBT, another does EMDR, another is a nutritionist, and the one im looking for will be a DBT therapist. Gotta fucking collect them all am I right? (I'm not treating it like a game: I have to make jokes about it).

I am currently restricting and exercising (doing a piss poor job at it if I do say so myself).

Trying to stay below 800 a day currently.

Want to exercise daily but I simply do not have the time to. Will do it on the weekend tho! But right now I wake up I work I come home and scroll through tiktok and tumblr and then I "wake back up" again. I "sleep" when the gym is closed.

Wanna get to know me more? Please send an ask or message me im lonely and very open and honest about what I go through (except the disorder I will not disclose to anyone, thank you in advance for respecting that boundary!).

I love music and deeply enjoy connecting through music with people. I listen to anything I can understand the words to (this excludes country im sorry).

My favorite things to consume? Cigarette smoke and human hearts 💕

and taco bell 🥺

I like playing the cello, doing art (painting, sculpting, throwing, drawing, digital, animation, glass work, and a few lesser ones). I love and adore my partner they are the best thing that has happened to me. I like driving and singing.

I dislike showers (body dismorphia and gender dysphoria and ptsd, MIGHTY MORPHIN POWER RANGERS), and yeah.

Im getting tired fucking finally after 2 days so I have to act now and sleep or else it'll be 2 more. Please message me if you have any question, need advice, want to talk and chat, ect. Disclaimer: if you are asking for advice I reserve the right to refuse and turn you down. This is not personal. You issues are real and they are valid you're on fucking eddie tumblr for God's sake.

DNI: Pedo/pedo sympathizers, under 18, fat phobic, homophobic, transphbic, or a generally shitty person.

Ok off to bed I go. Thanks for reading even though I know no one did. Thanks for letting me pretend.

Goodnight friends! Good morning? Fuck off dude idk, it's 5am.

[ivanabaqero]

Since I just returned from rehab, here is my.. idk, emotional journey on my chronic illness + mental health or wtf ever u wanna call this. This is the most personal thing I have ever posted but I need to get it out. 

Before you read, I guess I gotta tw this for suicidal thoughts and descriptions of my symptoms.

I don’t even know where to start. It feels like all of this happened in one week and at the same in a span of several years. But no idea, time just kept passing and more shit happened. 

Last summer was pretty cool. I worked hard and made a fuckton of money - not really considering the consequences of the fact that I overstepped the boundaries of my body every single day. Either way, I regret nothing it was pretty cool and another experience I am glad I could make. Well, but when I came back home, I started to notice a few things. Among some weird shit nobody wants to know about, I noticed a change of my eyesight. There was a cloud right on the vision on my left eye and it got blurry. At first, it started with minutes and then it passed. But I knew my body responded to exhaustion in an odd way so I let it slide. As doctors have instructed me, only when it lasts over 24 hours it’s an actual episode/flare and I should go to the ER -- to elaborate this further, I have been diagnosed with multiple sclerosis in 2015 and have not had any bigger flares since, only the regular symptoms like fatigue, etc.

 I got treated with the regular medication; cortisone. This shit gave me some energy boost for a few days and then, things went back to somewhat normal. The blurry thing in my eye has changed into a weird ass thing called nystagmus. Basically, my eyeball was twitching. It was better than the blurry sight and my doctors told me that physical therapy was the only thing to help me with that, and up until some weeks ago this didn’t stop, at the moment it’s gotten way better though - a relief because that caused me mad headache and made reading really difficult.

Anyway, that was the smaller problem. A few months later, in December around Christmas, I have gotten really weak and have been constantly dizzy. As usual, I let it slide for some days. Up until that point when I couldn’t move from the bed or look at anything else but right up at the ceiling or I would get fucking dizzy. Back to the ER again, the same procedure began. Cortisone  resulted in a massive push of energy that lasted for some days, but after that, all the symptoms slowly returned. Not only that, but it started to get worse. I have been dragging and limping with my left foot since months but I still managed somehow to walk and get around. In January I had a major panic attack when I noticed that I couldn’t walk on my own to my doctors, which is merely an 8 minute walk away. I had to call my mom to bring me back home because I couldn’t go any step more. My doctor sent me to the ER but the next day, I decided that I was fine and being over dramatic and everything was perfectly fine. The whole thing kept getting worse, I could not walk anymore, I kept feeling dizzy all the time unless I was staring at only one spot: my laptop or phone. So that was what I did, ignore my symptoms. Adding to my chronic fatigue, dizziness, inability to walk and my eye problem, a sensitivity problem spread all over my body from the chest downwards. My hands hurt and my fingers cramped up and got stiff, I lost all feeling in my feet. I had an appointment at the neurologist thank god, or else, I would have let it gotten worse and kept telling myself that I am being over dramatic and nothing is actually wrong. Delusional? Maybe. I don’t understand myself there either.

The neurologist decided to keep me in hospital for a whole ass week, getting cortisone every day. I got in there with the ambulance in a wheelchair and left out of there walking again. Not perfectly, but I thought things were looking up. Of course, once the high dose of steroids begins to wear off and you slowly come down from it, you first catch sleep. Steroids this time have been given to me five days in high dose instead of three and in addition, I had to take pills that I had to reduce slowly over another two weeks. I did not sleep in those three weeks more than 3-4 hours per night and then I finally could. To make this more understandable; my brain was tired but my body was buzzing. I also had a tremor that has still not entirely left me as a wonderful side effect from the medication. 

That time stationary they finally put me back in a MRT and found 2 bigger new lesions. One of them in my cerebellum and the other in my spinal cord. Each of them causing me all those massive problems. Back at home I had physical therapy every day, but despite all of it, I had to rely on a wheelchair. I got my wheelchair in march and named him Otto because he is the best man ever. Next time in hospital, I was mentally and physically just fucking done and tried to just ignore how much my mental health was going downhill along with my body, the neurologist offered me stationary rehab at a very well known center where they treat several physical as well as mental illnesses. I said yes, and luckily got a place in July.

The initial plan was to stay there for four weeks, but the doctors suggested to extend to six. I did. And good that I did. I made slow progress. Very slow. To imagine, in twenty minutes at the first day I could barely walk 130m with four  breaks in between, with walking aid and what not - and my last day I made 640m in the same time with no breaks. I know this doesn’t sound like a lot but fuck -- I made it out of a fucking wheelchair. I am walking again. Not perfectly or any good, but my legs are used for their purpose again; to get me through this world. For someone who loves hiking and going for little walks alone, this was such a big deal to just not be able to anymore. 

The day I had the panic attack was the day I realized that in 2015 I made a promise to myself that if I ever have to rely on other people, I would end it. But I felt selfish for not wanting to end it. I felt selfish  for wanting to live and being a burden to people. I know, none of this is my fault and I am the first to give good advice, but am I good at handling my own shit? Absolutely not. 

With all the physical therapy I did for six weeks every day, I also had a psychologist that helped me understand myself better and deal with the trauma this experience brought me. I have to find another psychologist at home as well, because I didn’t feel the one I have helped me at all. I had to make a lot of promises to myself, such as accepting and asking for help and that it’s no shame in doing so. I feared losing my independence and I still do. But fuck, this experience was an eye opener in so many ways. I made new friends in rehab as well, which was one of the coolest things. And I got hit on by two attractive men - can you believe? I was in a wheelchair, dressed like absolute shit and not making any kind of deal of how I look! But yeah, my interest wasn’t really there to get involved in anything. I’ve got a lot of love to give but I need to give it to myself rather than pour it out on someone else.

I learned so many lessons, about my body and about my mind. My brain is an idiot and I have so many fears I was never even able to see until now. I thought optimism could beat everything and well... while it helps me a lot to get through every day life, every now and then I just need a slap in the face to look at things in another light. Not everything is fine if you tell yourself it is, no, you are not over reacting and you are allowed to feel sorry for yourself when life is dealing you a bad card. It doesn’t matter that other people have it worse -- it doesn’t mean your own shit is any less valid. And with that, I am going to wash my face and stop crying. I am still in a shock of reality state because I am  back at home now and everything is different. And I got to admit, I feel a little lonely. But I don’t want to reach out to my old friends at the moment with whom I felt like the “sick friend”. I want more friends in similar positions as me so I don’t have to feel bad for... well, feeling bad, and I don’t want to hear any more optimism monologues from healthy people who have absolutely no idea what it is like to have chronic pain, fatigue and overall; an illness. Whether it be mental or physical.

If you really read all of this, thank you. There was no need to, but I appreciate it. I honestly just needed to let it out. Because I haven’t done so properly since all of that started. 

[bubonickitten]

Fic summary: Jon goes back to before the world ended and tries to forge a different path.

Chapter summary: An examination of endings and how to realize them.

Previous chapter: AO3 // tumblr

Full chapter text & content warnings below the cut.

Content warnings for Chapter 24: brief claustrophobia; some RSD/fear of abandonment stuff; extensive discussion of death (this chapter’s all about Terminus, babey); allusions to past suicidal ideation on Jon’s part; mentions of eye gouging/blinding (not graphic); some internalized victim blaming; anxiety symptoms; spider mentions; swears. Let me know if I missed anything!

Chronic fear has been Jon’s baseline for so long, it’s difficult for him to conceptualize what he would be were it to abandon him. In some ways, he’s become acclimated to it. On the other hand, fear is a volatile, prolific thing, its many shades relentlessly coalescing and mutating to form new strains. It all but guarantees that the Eye will never truly be sated: there will always be some heretofore unknown species of terror to discover, experience, and add to its collection.

Sprinkled in amongst the more noteworthy moments of abject terror and the constant background pressure of existential dread, there are smaller fears: everyday anxieties; pervasive insecurities; acute spikes of panic and adrenaline. Each discrete instance may pale in comparison to life-threatening peril, but muddled together and given time to ferment, they compound. They feed into one another. Sometimes, they come to attract the attention of larger, far more forbidding monsters.

In this way, Jon is no different from the average person – and one of the oldest, most deep-rooted of those comparatively banal fears is his fear of rejection, of disappointing, of being seen and found lacking. It guided his path long before his first supernatural encounter, and in many ways, it still does. His self-awareness of that fact does little to dampen its influence.

So it’s vexing, but not surprising, that the foremost concern vying for his attention right now is whether this might be that final straw that chases Georgie away for good. She sits with her hands clasped in front of her mouth, eyes closed and brow furrowed as she gathers her thoughts. The longer she remains silent, the more time Jon has to run through all the worst-case scenarios.

It’s already difficult for him to capture a full breath under the crushing weight of anticipation. It doesn’t help that his intermittent claustrophobia has decided that right now is the perfect time to manifest. A tunnel collapse would probably damage the Archives above it, though, and there’s no way Jon would be so lucky. He isn’t sure whether to consider that a consolation or not.

Finally, Georgie takes a breath, opens her eyes, and leans forward.

“Okay.” She tilts her folded hands towards him in an indicative gesture. “Explain, please.”

“Right,” Jon says, rubbing one arm nervously. “S-so, Oliver –”

“I knew his name wasn’t Antonio,” Georgie mutters.

“No. That was an alias he used when he first came to the Institute to give a statement, back in 2015.”

“The prediction about Gertrude’s death?” Martin asks.

“The same.”

“And what was a harbinger of death doing looming over you while you were in a coma?” Georgie presses.

“I don’t know that I’d call him a harbinger –” Jon’s mouth snaps shut immediately when Georgie shoots him an impatient glare. “He wasn’t – he wasn’t trying to – to reap my soul or anything like that, if that’s what you’re worried about.”

“Then why was he there?”

“He was called there,” Jon says. “By the Web, according to him.”

“Oh, and you don’t think that makes him dangerous?” Martin says, throwing one arm out in a surge of exasperation.

“He isn’t allied with the Web,” Jon replies, fiddling with the hem of his jumper. “It just… got into his head, and it was easier for him to go along with it, rather than fight it indefinitely. Oliver tends to have a fatalistic outlook. If he sees something as inevitable, he’s not inclined to try to stop it.”

“So, what – he’s serving an evil power not because he’s sadistic but because he’s just apathetic?” Georgie couldn’t sound any more unimpressed if she tried. “How is that any better?”

“It’s, ah… it’s really not that simplistic,” Jon says, adopting a delicate tone. “And I don’t think I’d call it apathy so much as…”

“Acceptance,” Georgie says stiffly. “Everything has an ending.”

“Yes. Oliver is an Avatar of the End, and the End is characterized by its certainty–” Jon pauses when he catches a glimpse of Georgie’s hands, fastened to her knees and trembling with tension. “We don’t have to talk about this.”

“No, I –” Georgie sighs, relaxes her grip, and flexes her fingers. “Just – tell me why you invited him here.”

“It’s like I said upstairs – there were things I couldn’t tell him about outside of here.”

“Why do you feel the need to tell him anything?” Martin asks.

“I just thought… he might be able to help us.”

“Why would he,” Georgie asks, “if he’s so fatalistic?”

“Because, he…” Jon hesitates, biting his lip. “I suppose I thought that maybe – maybe he’s like me.”

“He’s nothing like you,” Martin says vehemently.

A flicker of a smile crosses Jon’s face. “You don’t even know him.”

“What, and you do?”

“Not well,” Jon admits. “But I do think I understand him.”

Martin crosses his arms, transparently miffed. In an attempt to suppress his amusement, Jon presses his lips tightly together. It doesn’t work, evidently.

“What?” There’s a flat, defensive edge to the demand, highlighted by a suspicious scowl. “What’s with the smirk?”

Jon already knows the answer to the question he wants to ask, but he can’t help himself: “Are you jealous?”

“No!” Martin yelps. “Why would I be jealous?”

Jon shakes his head, chuckling softly. “Well, you don’t need to be.”

“I’m not!”

“If you say so,” Jon says with a shrug and a sly grin.

“I am not jealous,” Martin insists – and now Georgie is snickering, one hand clamped over her mouth to (unsuccessfully) stifle the sound. Martin glowers at her, betrayed.

“Sorry, sorry,” she says. “Just – didn’t realize you were quite so jealous.”

“I’m not,” Martin says for a third time. “But – but even if I was, I would be completely justified.”

“Because he woke me up,” Jon says, toning down the smugness now.

There is an uneasy boundary between affectionate teasing and perceived mockery, and here in the past, he hasn’t quite mapped the shape of that line. Between seeing one another in the Lonely and anchoring each other through the apocalypse, he and Martin had been forced to confront long-held insecurities about themselves, both as individuals and as a unit. That shared history no longer applies. While Jon has no desire to repeat that chain of events – there are happier, healthier pathways to a relationship than bonding via trauma, or so he’s heard – it does mean that this version of Martin hasn’t yet had the same epiphanies.

Much like Jon, Martin struggles to take a declaration of love at its word. People lie; they mislead; they say what they think others want to hear – whether out of self-interest, sympathy, or simple social ineptitude, the results are the same. Sometimes they start out sincere, but little by little, their tolerance dwindles and they recognize their mistake: what they thought was genuine affection was at best a passing fancy for someone who turned out to be far more trouble than they were ever worth. Or worse: a caring façade born of pity or guilt or obligation, only to turn rotten and toxic when the burden grows too tiresome.

Add all of those deep-seated convictions to the lasting influence of the Lonely, and Martin needed proof before he could entertain the possibility of being loved. Following him into and then leading him out of the Lonely was a fairly convincing statement. Absent another life-or-death gesture to act as a catalyst, Jon suspects that this time around, building that confidence will come down to time, practice, and repetition.

“Okay, yeah, about that – what does that – what does that mean, he woke you up?” Before Jon can get a word out, Martin barrels on: “I mean, what makes him so special? I spent weeks – weeks – begging you to come back, and nothing. He visits you once and suddenly you’re fine?”

“I really did try to come back on my own,” Jon says – not accusing, not pleading, not even self-flagellating. Just plain, sincere assuredness. “I heard you calling me. Not at first, but – the last time you visited. It was the first time I’d heard your voice in… in so long, I – I never thought I’d hear it again, and then you were there, and I was – I was so relieved, so… so elated.”

Martin sulks quietly, glaring at the floor, but there’s a noticeable flush staining his cheeks now.

“And then – and then I heard you on the phone with Peter, and…” Jon swallows hard, the despair he felt in that moment still stark in his mind. “I tried to call out to you, but you couldn’t hear me. The Lonely was drawing you in, just like before, and there was nothing I could do. I wanted to wake up more than anything, but I just… couldn’t figure out how. I still don’t know why – I don’t know the exact mechanics of it all – but for whatever reason, I wasn’t able to wake up until Oliver’s visit. Same as the first time.”

At that, Martin seems to deflate somewhat, finally looking up to meet Jon’s eyes.

“If I could have come back sooner,” Jon continues, smiling sadly, “I would have. In a heartbeat.”

Martin pouts for a moment longer before surrendering, his rigid posture slackening as the rancor drains out of him.

“Yeah,” he sighs. “Yeah, I know.”

“So you think you owe him,” Georgie guesses. “For waking you up.”

“Partially,” Jon admits. “But that’s not why I invited him, really. He just seems… I don’t know. Lonely, I guess?” Georgie rolls her eyes. “He never – he never asked to be a death prophet. No more than I wanted to be a – a trauma leech. And arguably – arguably he was even less to blame for what happened to him than I am for what I’ve become –”

“Jon,” Martin says warningly.

“No, just – just listen.” Jon takes a measured breath as he puts his thoughts in order. “Oliver started having prophetic dreams several years ago. Just – out of the blue. As far as I know, he did nothing to tempt fate. Eventually, those dreams carried over into the waking world. Everywhere he went, every single day, he could see the evidence of imminent death. There was no escaping it.

“In the beginning, he tried to help people. But it never worked. When he was unable to save his own father, he stopped trying to change fate, for the most part. I think the last time he tried was when he dreamed of Gertrude. He saw how far-reaching her death would ultimately be, and he tried to warn her, even though he didn’t have much hope that it would make a difference. And he was right, in the end. He couldn’t save her, and he couldn’t prevent what came after.”

“So he just… gave up,” Martin says flatly.

“When you fail over and over again to do good in the world, when you witness horror after horror with no recourse to stop it, when you try again and again and again to escape and never even come close… at some point, you burn out,” Jon murmurs. “Lose all hope. It becomes your new normal. Exist like that long enough and you start to become numb to it all.”

“You lived through an apocalypse and you didn’t give up,” Martin counters.

“I did, though,” Jon says quietly.

Martin frowns. “What?”

“After I lost you.” Jon averts his eyes and folds his arms tight against his middle, holding his elbows. “I was lost. I couldn’t save anyone, I couldn’t change anything, I couldn’t even look away. I wasn’t allowed to sleep. I wasn’t allowed to die. So I just… survived, even though I wanted anything but.” When he glances up, he sees that Martin’s expression has softened. “You were my reason. Then you were gone, and I was alone.”

Jon hadn’t known that the world could end a second time, but there it was. With Martin gone, what little that remained of Jon’s own microcosm shattered. Yet the Ceaseless Watcher’s world dared to continue turning, to go on churning out horror after horror as if nothing at all had changed. And Jon was just another cog in that machine, going through the motions and fulfilling the purpose for which he was cultivated.

It wasn’t truly ceaseless, of course. Everything has an ending. But it felt like an eternity – and for Jon, indefinite waiting has always been a special kind of torture.

“So what changed?” Georgie asks, her tone gentler than before.

“For a while, nothing,” Jon says. “I sort of… drifted. Wandered aimlessly through the domains for… I don’t really know. When nothing ever changes, keeping track of time becomes pointless. The Panopticon kept trying to draw me in, of course, but I – I suppose there was still enough spite left in me to make a show of ignoring it.

“At some point, I got lost in a Lonely domain. Which was fine, really. Or – it would have been fine, had I been allowed to succumb to it. I wanted to just – fade into it, let it in, but” – Jon breathes a bitter laugh – “it wouldn’t take me. Wouldn’t let me go numb, wouldn’t let me forget – didn’t have the decency to let me disappear, no matter how long I stayed.”

No one got what they deserved in that future, but this was a rare exception to that rule: to be allowed to simply forget his role in creating that nightmare world, to sink into blissful ignorance, would have been a miscarriage of justice. Not that the Eye cared about what was just or fair, of course. No, it simply would not – perhaps could not – deign to relinquish its hold on its Archive.

“But the longer I stayed,” he continues, looking at Martin now, “the more I thought about you. In retrospect, maybe that’s why I didn’t want to leave. And maybe that’s part of why it wouldn’t have me – I couldn’t let you go. But being there, it kept reminding me of the first Lonely domain we came across after the change. We were separated, and I was – I was so afraid you wouldn’t come back to me. But you did.” Jon smiles to himself, remembering the relief and gratitude and awe he felt in that moment. “You rejected the Lonely all on your own. Found your own way out – found me, and… every time I thought about that, I imagined your voice in my head. Telling me off for wallowing. For giving up.”

“Sounds like I would have been justified,” Martin says delicately.

“You would have,” Jon confesses with a contrite half-smile. “I was in peak brooding condition. Eventually I wore myself out wallowing there, though, so I left to go wallow somewhere else. I needed a change of scenery, and – well, I got one. Stumbled into a Spiral domain. Ran into Helen, and… funny enough, that was the last straw.”

Jon can still recall the encounter down to the smallest detail.

‘Still drifting aimless, are we?’ Helen bared an unsettling number of teeth as her grin stretched – literally – from ear to ear. ‘Exactly how long do you plan on moping about, Archivist?’

Jon did not answer; did not even meet her eyes, instead staring vacantly over her shoulder. The incessant reel of horror scenes playing in the back of his mind made it difficult to focus on any one thing at a time, and there was nothing he cared to see so much that it was worth the effort it would take to grant it his undivided attention.

‘You know,’ Helen said, tapping an elongated, crooked finger against her lips, ‘I wonder what he would say, if he could see you now.’

It didn’t matter. Martin was gone. Those parts of the world that hadn’t already been thoroughly razed were slowly but surely withering. There was nothing left to salvage.

‘Disappointed, I imagine,’ Helen continued, distant and muffled by the din of a splintering world. (Somewhere deep below their feet, a man was screaming himself hoarse in a labyrinth made of mirrors and fog.) ‘But not surprised. It’s not the first time you’ve let him down, is it?’

Jon gave a listless shrug. Her words stung, certainly, but they were a far cry from some of her more artful jabs. A pointed insinuation to send him spiraling into his own self-destructive conclusions would always be more corrosive than outright disparagement.

(The man in the maze gazed into mirror after mirror, hoping to find himself within. In every one, his reflection had no face.)

That said, Helen wasn’t wrong. Even as a child, Jon had always been a burden. He never did manage to prove himself worthy of all the many unwilling sacrifices made on his behalf. Never measured up; never put nearly enough good into the world to balance out the cost of having him in it.

(The man in the maze had misplaced his name. Did he drop it somewhere? He checked his pockets only to find holes. Yet another eyeless reflection stared back at him from beneath his feet.)

‘You were always headed here, weren’t you?’

Yes.

(The man in the maze tried to retrace his steps, but everything looked the same: an endless, recursive corridor of mirror images. He asked one of the doppelgängers for directions, only to realize that the man in the mirror had no mouth with which to answer.)

‘To think – all that time he spent coaxing you along, and you crumble the moment you don’t have a prop to coddle you.’ Helen cackles, high and cruel. ‘What a waste.’

She wasn’t telling him anything that he didn’t already know.

(The man in the maze was scouring the mirrored ground, searching for… something he’d lost; he couldn’t quite remember, but he knew that it was important. He checked his pockets, only to discover that he had no pockets.)

‘Although, I guess the blame doesn’t fall squarely on your shoulders. He was naïve. It isn’t your fault he was foolish enough to hope for–’

The words jolted Jon back to the present like an electric shock. Whatever else Helen had to say, he’d never know. He tuned her out, and he started walking.

“She was having a go at me – nothing new there – but then she brought you into it, and…” Jon shrugs. “I don’t think it was her intention, but it nudged me back on track. You and I had a plan, before, and… honestly, I didn’t have much hope that it would work, but you had. That made it worth trying.”

It wasn’t like Jon could break the world more by parleying with the Eye. At worst, it made no difference, but at least Jon did something to honor Martin’s memory; at best, it put Jon out of his misery, one way or another.

“I’m glad I did, because… well, it changed things, obviously. You were right.”

“Sorry,” Martin says with unmistakable self-satisfaction, “could you say that again?”

“You were right, Martin.” Jon rolls his eyes, but the effect is undercut by an indulgent smile he can’t quite repress. “You often are. All of this is to say – I’m only here because you gave me a reason to be. If not for that, then… well, I meant what I’ve said before, about needing a lifeline in order to stand any chance against the Fears. I was – I am lucky enough to have one.”

More than one, he thinks with a sense of wonder. The support he has now is such a far cry from the ostracism he experienced the first time he was here. It still gives him pause every time he dwells on the contrast. Sometimes, it almost seems too good to be true.

“Oliver didn’t,” Jon continues. “It’s hard to begrudge him for resigning himself to fate, especially considering how the power that claimed him is defined by fatalism. He never asked to be chosen, he was given no hope of escape, and he had no one to reach out to, let alone anyone to reach back. It’s unsurprising that he would come to accept the inescapable when the only anchor he had was the certainty of oblivion.”

“‘The moment that you die will feel exactly the same as this one,’” Georgie says quietly.

Jon nods. “And without a dependable reason to see the moments in between as significant, it’s… well, it’s hard to see the point in anything. I’ve been there.”

As has Georgie, Jon knows. She exhales heavily, massaging her temples, visibly conflicted.

“I still don’t think you should trust him,” Martin says.

“I’m not suggesting we trust him wholesale,” Jon says, “but I’m certain that he isn’t an enemy. He might not resist the End, but he doesn’t work to end the world in its name, either. He’s… thoroughly neutral.”

“Then what makes you think he’ll lift a finger to help?” Martin asks.

“I doubt he’ll go out of his way to help,” Jon admits. “He might be willing to trade information, though. I just thought… Avatar of the End – he would have more insight into the limits of Jonah’s supposed ‘immortality’ than I do.”

“You think he can tell you something about the dead man’s switch,” Georgie guesses, rubbing at her forehead.

“That’s my hope, yes. He can see the route that a person will take to their end. Or, he can when their death is imminent, at least – I’m not sure how far into the future his foresight stretches these days.”

In the hospital, Oliver implied that he could see something in Jon’s vicinity. Whether that suggests Jon’s own end is near enough for Oliver to foresee it, Jon does not Know. Given his proven resilience, he suspects it’s just as likely to be a quirk of his strange existence. There’s no shortage of idiosyncrasies that may mark Jon as an outlier: he’s the Archivist; he’s traveled through a rift in time; he’s the primed and practiced focal point of the Watcher’s Crown, and the fate of the world hinges on his ability to keep that potential in check.

And if his situation is an exception to the rule, perhaps Jonah’s is as well.

“Maybe he’ll be able to see whether our routes flow into Jonah’s, so to speak,” Jon says. “When Oliver dreamed of Gertrude’s impending death, he saw how much of the world’s fate was intertwined with hers –”

“– the veins, whose domination of the dreamscape had only ever been partial before, had thickened and now seemed to cover almost the whole space of every street – the destination – into which all the veins flowed – The Magnus Institute – choked with that shadowed flesh – following that red light that would now pulse so bright that I knew were I to see it awake it would have blinded me – and every one of those veins – where they ended – a person sitting at that desk and it was them that all of this scarlet light was flowing into.”

“Gertrude,” Martin says.

Jon nods, then holds up one finger: Wait. The Archive has more to say; Jon can practically feel the words bubbling up his throat and crowding behind his teeth. As discomfiting as it is to have it hijack his voice, sometimes it’s easier to ride out that compulsion than to tamp it down.

“I have no responsibility to try and prevent whatever fate is coming for you – such a thing is likely impossible – but after what I saw I couldn’t live with myself if I didn’t at least try – there is something coming for you and I don’t know what it is, but it is so much worse than anything I can imagine. At the very least, you should look into appointing a successor.”

Statement ends, Jon thinks, working his jaw to soothe the unnatural tension that has taken root there. Happy now? Anything else to add?

As expected, it doesn’t answer. He’s well aware that addressing the Archive essentially amounts to talking to himself, but carrying on an internal dialogue with the more frustrating aspects of himself was a habit long before he took on the mantle of Archivist.

After a few seconds, he feels the Archive’s imposing presence start to recede, releasing him from the compulsion. It’s still there, of course – it’s always there, looming over him like a vulture, as impossible to ignore as a knife to the throat – but for now it seems content to fall back and observe once more.

Georgie sighs. “That’s why you’re sympathetic to him.”

“He tried.” Jon shrugs. “He didn’t have to, but he did.”

“That still doesn’t mean he’s going to help this time,” Martin says.

“No, but he has no incentive to hurt us, either. There’s no harm in asking him questions. He’s not going to run to Jonah to inform on us. The worst that happens is he says ‘no’ and goes back to minding his own business. But if he agrees to talk… well, it might be our best chance to determine how much of what Jonah says is true.”

Georgie chews on her thumbnail for a few seconds before looking back up at Jon, a pensive frown on her face. “Why’d he go out of his way to come here at all, if he has no motivation one way or the other?”

“Honestly? Curiosity, I think. But… I suppose I’m also hoping that there’s a part of him that might sympathize.”

“Do you really think there is?” Martin asks.

“I don’t know. In my future, probably not. He wasn’t enjoying himself like some of the other Avatars – I mean, he was feeding on the fear produced by his domain, but even then, he didn’t strike me as cruel. It was just… acceptance in the face of a conclusion at ultimately stayed the same regardless of the path leading up to it, and…”

And maybe it speaks to Jon’s mental state at the time, but there were a few points in Oliver’s statement that struck him as almost merciful. After all, in the face of seemingly endless torment, death was a covetable escape.

“I have no power to stop it,” the Archive recites, “and even if I did, I would not do so. For to rob a soul of death is as torturous as its inevitable coming – I fear the annihilation you would gift me as little as I desire it – perhaps once it might have horrified me, or given me some sense of pursuing the ultimate release of the world that you have damned – I am now, as the thing I feed, a fixed point, that has neither the longing nor ability to change its state of existence – even you, with all your power, cannot keep the world alive forever. All things end, and every step you take, whatever direction you may choose, only brings you closer to it.”

“That Oliver again?” Martin mutters tetchily. “Doesn’t sound to me like he’ll be particularly inclined to help.”

“Well–” The word comes out as a rasp, and Jon has to pause to clear his throat before continuing. “That was – that was the Oliver of the future. After the change, he was too much of the End not to live its truth, just as I was too much of the Eye not to walk its path and archive its world. We were both conduits, inseparable from the powers that laid claim to us. Here and now, though, I’m hoping he might still be…”

“What, benevolent?” Martin says incredulously.

Jon is quiet for a long moment, trying to find the right words to explain.

“At my most hopeless,” he says slowly, “I still cared, even though there was no meaningful way for me to put it into practice. I don’t think I ever managed to reach the level of acceptance that Oliver did – and sometimes I envied him for that. But embracing the End as a foregone conclusion doesn’t necessarily mean he’s completely unmoved by what happens in the interim. Not yet, anyway. And as of right now, whether it’s out of curiosity or compassion, obviously he still interacts with the world from time to time, even if he prefers to exist in the background for the most part.”

Martin and Georgie both look unconvinced.

“I’m not asking him to help us change fate,” Jon goes on. “In his view, there is no obstructing fate – not in any way that genuinely matters to his patron. Oliver isn’t particularly concerned about when the End will come – he’s just secure in the knowledge that it will happen eventually, with or without the interference of any mortal actor. Passive or active, nothing he does or doesn’t do will change that. But I’m thinking it’s been a long time since someone has asked him for help that he actually has the power to provide, and… I know what that’s like.”

Despite the immense power that Jon could exercise after the culmination of the Watcher’s Crown, he was ultimately powerless to change things for the better. It’s why he leapt at the chance to help Naomi in her nightmare: even a small, low-effort act of kindness after so long without the opportunity was overwhelmingly liberating.

It was insignificant against the vast backdrop of the universe, perhaps, but it still left a mark. It prompted a cascade of little changes that completely rewrote their dynamic; it curtailed some of the suffering in which Jon had previously been so unwillingly complicit; it's even acted as an inoculation against the loneliness that had permeated both of their lives during this stretch of time when Jon was last here. Those little changes mattered to him, and they mattered to Naomi – not only in that first moment, but in all the time since.

All of that had to count for something, right? It took fourteen ill-fated marks to end the world, after all. With any one of them missing, the Ritual wouldn’t have worked and the world at large would never have noticed. But that didn’t make any one of those marks wholly insignificant on its own. They scarred him and the people around him; every encounter changed him, whittled away at his sense of self, left him progressively vulnerable and set him up for successive marks.

The repercussions still linger. They probably always will.

In his sporadic moments of cautious optimism, Jon cannot help but wonder: If a series of little cruelties can create such a perfect and terrible storm, is it really inconceivable that a pattern of little rebellions could keep it at bay? And Jon has long since come to the conclusion that compassion in the face of unimaginable cruelty is its own form of rebellion.

“As much as Oliver talks about fate and inevitability,” Jon says, “he still seems to believe in free will to an extent. That we all make choices. When he last spoke to me, he offered me a choice. Now I’m offering one to him.”

“I can’t believe I’m saying this, but…” Georgie releases a weary exhale and tosses her head back to stare at the ceiling. “You’re sure this won’t come back to bite you?”

“We have nothing to lose by asking,” Jon says. “And he has nothing to lose regardless of what choice he makes, but… it feels right to at least give him the option. Whatever he decides, I won’t begrudge him for it.”

“Fine,” she says tersely. “Do what you want.”

Jon just barely suppresses a wince. “Georgie?”

“Sorry, that came off as –” Georgie heaves another sigh. “I’m not angry with you. I get it. It makes sense. I just don’t like it.”

“I know.”

“Just… be mindful, alright? You don’t owe him any answers you don’t want to give. And he doesn’t deserve the benefit of the doubt just because you relate to him.”

“I know,” Jon says again.

“I mean it, Jon,” she says sharply. She takes a steadying breath before continuing, more diplomatically this time. “It’s… sweet, I guess, that you want to empathize with him, but you have a tendency to…” Georgie pauses, weighing her words. “I mean, I’ve seen you compare yourself to Helen, too. And Jonah.”

“Well, I don’t think anyone would deny that there are certain… similarities,” Jon says, not quite under his breath.

“Yeah, you’re always going to have something in common with other people if you look hard enough. But sometimes you see the worst in people and you fold it into how you see yourself. Like you’re looking into a funhouse mirror, but you can’t see how the reflection is distorted.” Jon avoids meeting her eyes, shifting uncomfortably in his seat. “Look, I know you don’t want to hear it, but you have a history of comparing yourself to your abusers. Sorry,” she adds when he flinches, “but it’s the truth, and you need to hear it. Just… think about it, okay? Ask yourself whether this is compassion or if it’s just another way to dehumanize yourself.”

“I –” Jon swallows around the lump in his throat, his mouth gone dry. “Okay, I – I get your point, but – I swear that’s not what this is. With Helen, and – and – and Jonah, it’s – they’ve actually gone out of their way to – to manipulate, to cause real harm. Oliver is different.”

“You were marked by the End,” Georgie says pointedly.

“Yes, but that wasn’t Oliver’s fault. He didn’t hurt me, never tried to trap me or trick me – never pressured me into making one choice over another, even at the end of the world. I really don’t think he’s evil, or sadistic, or – or scheming, weaving some grand web. He’s just watching things unfold, because he had a crash course in the stages of grief forced onto him and the end result was… well, acceptance. He doesn’t fear the End, but he doesn’t worship it, either. He just embodies it, openly and authentically.”

Georgie is silent for nearly a full minute, scrutinizing Jon intently, before she capitulates.

“Alright. I’ll… trust your judgment, I guess,” she says, but she shares a knowing glance with Martin – who looks just as leery as she does – when she says it. “Still, be careful.”

“I, uh… I imagine you don’t want to be here when I talk to him?” Jon ventures, though he’s certain he already knows the answer.

“No,” Georgie says summarily.

Jon releases a breathless chuckle. “Fair enough.”

“I really should be getting home to Melanie, anyway. It’s stay-home date night. Pizza and a movie.” Georgie offers a tentative grin, her shoulders relaxing minutely. “She hasn’t seen the new Ghostbusters yet, somehow – something about having been preoccupied with real paranormal bullshit for the last few years – but I checked and the DVD version has audio description, so I bought a copy. She’d be cross with me if I stood her up for the grim reaper.”

“I imagine so.” Jon tilts his head. “Although, Oliver isn’t actually the–”

“Jon,” Georgie sighs, “I was being facetious.”

When the three of them leave the tunnels, they find Oliver still waiting awkwardly at the bottom of the stairs out of the Archives, Basira standing sentinel nearby. Daisy leans against a far wall, eyeing him from a distance.

Georgie gives a long, doubtful look at Oliver before turning to Jon and offering a hug that he gladly accepts.

“Text me later tonight?” Georgie says. “And keep me updated on your travel plans.”

“Will do. Tell Melanie I said hello. And tell the Admiral he’s a national treasure.”

Georgie snorts at that, shaking her head in amusement before turning towards the stairs. Oliver nearly jumps out of the way as she strides in his direction, but she doesn’t stop to confront him beyond a glare as she passes. A prolonged, awkward minute of silence passes after she leaves, charged with suspicion and tension.

“Tunnels,” Basira says eventually, her tone and expression giving nothing away. She doesn’t wait for a response before stalking off down the hall, Daisy falling in line behind her.

Basira barely waits for the others to take their seats before she launches into her interrogation. Although her eyes remain fixed on Oliver, her first question isn’t directed at him.

“Why is he here, Jon?”

“Like I said, I invited him.” Jon glances at Oliver, apologetic. It feels odd to talk about him as if he isn’t present.

“Why?”

“Mutual curiosity, I expect,” Oliver cuts in, inclining his head towards Jon. “You have questions for me.”

Jon returns a nod. He has ulterior motives, and Oliver knows it. To pretend otherwise would be pointless, not to mention insulting.

“Oliver is an Avatar of the End,” Jon tells the others. “There might be a chance he could tell us how much of what Elias says is true.”

“And what’s the price tag?” Basira asks.

“He has questions of his own. He could tell in the hospital that there’s something… wrong about me. Obviously, I couldn’t talk about it where Elias could hear.”

“You shouldn’t disclose it at all,” Basira says. “If any of it gets back to him –”

“Oliver has no reason to betray our confidence.” Jon’s gaze flicks to Oliver. “Right?”

“Consider me a neutral party,” Oliver replies.

“You’re going to just… take him at his word,” Basira scoffs.

“The End has no Ritual,” Jon says, “and it has no reason to prevent any of the other Entities from successfully pulling off their own Rituals. No matter what happens to this world, the End will claim everything eventually. The when and how are irrelevant to it. In the meantime, the world as-is suits it just fine. It has no desire to postpone or hasten the end of all things.”

“Terminus is what it is,” Oliver agrees. “I have neither the power nor the desire to contradict it.”

“Then why would you help us?” Basira asks.

“I never said that I would.”

“I’m not asking you to actively intervene,” Jon says before Basira can offer a retort. “I just want to talk. That… is why you came here, isn’t it?”

Oliver hesitates for a moment before answering. “Your curiosity must have rubbed off on me.”

Unbidden, Oliver’s statement rushes to the forefront of Jon’s mind: I still remember the first time I tried to touch one…. I don’t know why I did it; I knew it was a stupid thing to do. But I just… maybe I wanted it this way.

“Don’t know about that,” Jon says quietly. “Curiosity is only human.”

And the worst part was that, somewhere in me, I – I liked it, the statement plays on. Underneath all that awful fear, it felt like… home.

“Perhaps,” Oliver says, noncommittal.

“So you’ll tell us what we want to know,” Daisy finally speaks up. Despite her veneer of calm – leaning back in her chair, arms crossed – her bouncing leg belies her agitation.

“It makes no difference to me.” Oliver shrugs. “Though I can’t promise my answers will be satisfying.”

“I still don’t like this,” Basira says, glaring askance at Oliver.

“Look,” Jon says, “this is the only way I can think of to figure out what stakes we’re working with. Jonah has been cheating death for centuries–”

“Jon!” Basira hisses.

“It’s important context,” Jon argues back. “And anyway, it’s going to come up when I tell him my story. It’s not exactly a detail I can gloss over; it’s central to the plot.” He sighs and looks at Oliver. “Elias is Jonah Magnus, the original founder of the Institute.”

Basira throws her hands up with a frustrated snarl. She turns to Daisy for support, but Daisy only offers a sympathetic grimace and a half-shrug.

“I thought there was something odd about him,” Oliver says blandly. “He’s long past his expiration date.”

Daisy snorts at that. Judging from the bemused, almost startled expression on Oliver’s face, he hadn’t expected to garner anything other than aggression from her.

“Whenever one of his vessels is… compromised,” Jon elaborates, “or nearing the end of its usefulness, he takes a new one.”

Recovering from his fleeting bewilderment, Oliver turns his attention back to Jon. “He wouldn’t be the first.”

“Maxwell Rayner and Simon Fairchild,” Basira says.

Oliver nods. “Among others.”

“Does that… I don’t know – offend the End?” Martin asks.

“No,” Oliver says. “They can’t outrun it forever, as so many have discovered firsthand.”

“Like Rayner,” Daisy says.

Once again, Oliver looks thrown off-kilter by Daisy’s diminishing hostility, but he does offer a wary nod in response to her contribution to the conversation. “And in the meantime, their fear of their own mortality ages like a fine wine.”

“Is an unnaturally long life somehow tastier for the End, then?” Martin asks. “I think most of the statements I’ve read about it involved somehow cheating death.”

“Perhaps. If my patron has a conscious mind, it has never spoken to me directly. Everything I know to be true is just… feeling.”

“So it’s as cagey as the other Powers, then,” Daisy says with a derisive chuckle. “Good to know.”

Oliver smooths his hands across his coat, draped across his lap, before glancing at Jon for guidance.

“I gave you a story,” he says reticently. “I would like to hear yours. Then I will answer your questions.”

“Fair enough,” Jon says – and abruptly realizes that he has no idea where to start. “You, uh… you don’t need to hear my whole life story, do you?”

“I did give you an outline of mine,” Oliver says with just a hint of amusement. “I admit I’m curious as to what led you here, but I imagine if you went into detail, we would be here for hours.”

“Much of it doesn’t bear repeating, anyway,” Jon says. “Just the highlights, then?”

“If you please.”

“Right,” Jon mumbles. He takes a deep breath. “Had my first supernatural encounter when I was eight, never got over it, and a combination of lifelong obsession and unchecked curiosity brought me to the Institute. After Gertrude died, Jonah chose me as her replacement because he knew I would be easily molded into the catalyst for his Ritual, and I was.” He looks up. “Is that enough?”

“Which of the Powers marked you first? If you don’t mind me asking.”

“The Web.”

“Ah.”

“Yeah.”

“I thought you seemed… entangled.”

There’s something… off about you, Oliver had told him when they last spoke. The roots, they look… sick. Wrong. And the threads are – tangled.

It’s possible that Oliver was speaking in metaphor – alluding to the threads of fate, so to speak – but the question has been simmering in the back of Jon’s mind for months…

“When you visited me before,” he blurts out. “You said the Web sent you.”

“Yes,” Oliver says candidly. “Not an explicit command, of course. It was more a… well, a feeling. A tug. The Web usually prefers subtlety, but there are times when it wants its marks to know the hand that moves them.”

“S-so, when you said the threads around me were tangled, was that figurative, or could you… see the Web’s influence?”

“The Spider might make its presence known sometimes, but Terminus doesn’t give me the ability to see the shape of its web any more than the Eye does you.”

“Not unless the Web allows itself to be Seen,” Jon says absently.

Despite how much he could See in his future, the Web always remained something of an enigma. It wasn’t until after his standoff with the Eye that he was able to follow the Spider’s threads.

But then, the Eye hadn’t been the only watcher lurking in the Panopticon. The Web had woven itself into the foundation of that place from its conception, and the Spider made no effort to hide. More than once, it stationed itself where he was sure to notice it. The more he thinks on it, the more he suspects that the ensuing ability to See its threads, to Know where they converged, was as much an allowance by the Web as it was due to his communion with the Ceaseless Watcher.

“When I spoke of threads, I meant more…” Oliver opens and closes his mouth a few times as he struggles with his phrasing. “Well, I’ve not yet found a perfect description for it. Think of a life and fate as… a jumble of intersections. Some people feel like thread-and-nail art. Others feel like a snarled ball of yarn. You,” he adds, looking at Jon appraisingly, “are something of a Gordian knot.”

“What is that supposed to mean?” Martin demands, a protective edge in his voice.

“It’s not a compliment or an insult,” Oliver says mildly. “Only an observation. Come to think of it, Gertrude was much the same way. The fates of many hinged on the routes she took. Less of a butterfly effect and more of a hurricane.”

“So you can see fate?” Basira asks. A genuine question, but the flat skepticism in her tone makes it sound rhetorical.

“To a limited extent,” Oliver says haltingly. “I see the near-future as it relates to death specifically. When people near the ends of their routes, I can make out the details of their–”

“Seeing those awful veins crawling into them, into wounds not yet open, or skulls not yet split – they sneak up and into throats about to choke on blood, or lurch into hearts about to convulse – webbed over the face of a drunk old man stumbling into his car – one snaking along the road, over towards the railing – I’ll never forget seeing a field of cows the week before they were sent to the abattoir…”

Jon trails off with a tired groan, rubbing his eyes furiously.

“You have a good memory,” Oliver says.

“Sorry,” Jon mumbles. “Archivist thing. Can’t always control it.”

“S-so,” Martin redirects, “if any of us were about to die, you would be able to see it, right?”

“Yes. But I don’t make a habit of telling fortunes,” Oliver clarifies before Martin can ask. “Knowing your end is coming does nothing to prevent it. It only ensures that you will live your final days in fear.”

“Wouldn’t your patron like that?” Daisy asks.

Basira immediately latches onto that thought. “We have a statement here about a book that tells you how and when you’ll die.”

“Case number 0030912,” Jon cites. “Statement of Masato Murray, regarding his inheritance of an untitled book with supernatural properties. Each time the reader rereads their entry, they’ll find that the recorded date of their future death draws closer and the cause more gruesome.”

“Thanks, spooky Google,” Basira says sardonically. “Who needs an indexing system when we have a walking, talking card catalogue on staff?”

“One of my predecessors in ancient times once filed a complaint with the Eye, aggrieved by all the terrible powers it foisted upon him,” Jon says matter-of-factly, not missing a beat. “Being a benevolent patron, it granted him and all future generations of Archivists a convenience feature as compensation.”

“Smartass,” Basira says, but it sounds almost amiable, and Jon allows himself a tentative smile.

His tolerance for making light of this part of himself tends to be variable. Unpredictable, even. On good days, shared gallows humor is a balm, bringing with it a sense of solidarity and camaraderie; on bad days, even the gentlest dig feels like a barb.

He also tends to be selective about whose teasing he can weather. Martin and Georgie are safe more often than not. Daisy can usually get away with it; she’s prompt to let him in on the joke whenever he doesn’t pick up on her sarcasm. Given how blunt Melanie can be, it at least tends to be obvious when her pointed comments are meant in jest or in umbrage; and anyway, he hasn’t yet spoken to her directly since she quit.

Basira, though – she’s always been difficult to read. They have a similar sense of humor, but part of his brain is still living in a time when she saw the worst in him. No matter how many times he tells himself that things are different now, he can’t quite shake that feeling of being on indefinite probation. Hostile attribution bias, he recognizes, but having a label for it doesn’t make it any easier to silence those perennial fears. It’s only recently that he’s been able to take such joking from her in stride. Not always, but sometimes.

“Anyway,” Basira says, looking back to Oliver, “I take it that book is affiliated with the End. It feeds on the reader’s fear of knowing the details of their death.”

“Almost everyone has some degree of fear regarding mortality – their own or that of others,” Oliver says. “For some, that primal fear permeates their entire lives. Others only spare it any thought when it closes in on them. Terminus feeds on all of it equally. I suspect that active encounters with it are more about…”

“Flavor?” Basira suggests.

“So to speak,” Oliver says. “Welcome variety in its diet, but not necessary to sate it.”

“Which is why its Avatars have such wildly different methodologies,” Jon says, nodding to himself. “Justin Gough was allowed to survive a near-death experience, but acquired a debt that had to be paid in the lives of others, killing them in their dreams. Tova McHugh was granted the ability to prolong her own life by passing each of her intended deaths onto others, adding their remaining lifespans to her own. Nathaniel Thorpe was cursed with immortality after trying to cheat his way out of death. He was only one of many gamblers who played such games of chance–”

“Jon,” Basira sighs, “you don’t have to go through the whole roster of personified death omens.”

“Sorry.”

“So what kind of Avatar are you?” Basira asks, looking Oliver up and down. “How do you feed your patron?”

“For me, Terminus has not been particularly demanding. I don’t know why. Perhaps it’s because I never attempted to cheat my way out of death. It simply… chose me – or I wandered across its path – and it never left. Thus far, it seems content to have me play the observer.” He glances at Jon. “You can probably understand that.”

“The Beholding isn’t satisfied to have its Archivist simply observe. It wants its knowledge actively harvested, recorded, curated.” Jon huffs, not bothering to contain his disgust. “Processed.”

The conversation lapses into a tense silence for several seconds before Basira changes tack.

“About Gertrude,” she says. “You tried to warn her about her death.”

“Yes,” Oliver replies.

“Why?”

“The evidence of her death snaked its roots all across London – as far as I could see, and perhaps further. At the time, I’d never seen anything like it. Such a sprawling web of repercussions stemming from a single death – I felt like I had to say something. As I expected, it made no difference in the end.”

Jon worries his lower lip between his teeth. “You said the roots surrounding me seemed sick.”

“You saw roots around Jon?” Martin says urgently, jolting up ramrod-straight in his seat.

“They’re… different from the ones I’ve grown accustomed to,” Oliver says slowly. “There’s no light pulsing within them, no life flowing to or from them. And looking at them, it’s almost like…” He frowns, squinting down at the floor as if it might offer up the words he needs. “It’s like they’re there and not there simultaneously. Faded, like an afterimage – one that can only be seen from a certain angle.”

“Okay, and what does that – what does that mean?” Martin asks.

“I don’t know.”

“What do you mean you don’t know?”

“I was hoping Jon could shed some light on it,” Oliver says, raising his head to meet Jon’s eyes. “I may not have the same drive to know that you and yours do, but I find myself returning to the question frequently over the past few months.”

“R-right,” Jon says. “Let me just, uh… where to start…”

Jon rubs at this throat with one hand, the other clenching into a fist where it rests on his knee.

“Jon,” Daisy says, “are you sure about this?”

“Yes, I just, uh –” Jon breathes a nervous laugh. “This never gets any easier.”

“Do you want me to say it?” Martin offers, schooling his tone into something approaching calm. His posture remains rigid, though, hands balled into white-knuckled fists in his lap.

“No, it’s fine.” Jon takes a few deep breaths and then looks Oliver in the eye. “In the future, I ended the world.”

Oliver raises an eyebrow. “I didn’t think the Beholding gave you any precognitive abilities.”

“It, uh – it doesn’t. I didn’t foresee the future, I lived it. For… for a long time, actually, so I –” Jon exhales a humorless chuckle. “I probably meet your definition of past my expiration date.”

Oliver tilts his head, considering.

“Hard to say,” he settles on. “You’re… a bit of a paradox. Feels as if you exist in multiple states at once, and it’s difficult for me to tell which one is true.”

“Maybe all of them are,” Jon says distractedly. “But, I, uh – I eventually found a way to come back to before the change – or, to send my consciousness back, anyway. But only as far back as the coma. I… I wish it had taken me back further – back to the very beginning, though I” – Jon huffs – “I suppose it’s hard to say what counts as the beginning.”

“It depends on how you want to define a beginning,” Oliver says. “In a way, the advent of existence marked the beginning of the end. Everything since then has been just another domino.”

“Well,” Jon begins, but Daisy cuts him off.

“Nope,” she says bluntly. “You go down that semantic rabbit hole and we’ll be here forever.”

“Fine,” Jon says with a petulant sigh. “Anyway, I couldn’t figure out how to wake up on my own, so just like the first time I was here, I had to wait for you to come along and help.”

“I still don’t understand why,” Oliver says.

“Neither do I, I’m afraid.”

“Not to encroach on your sphere of influence, but I think in this case, not knowing the answer might bother me even more than it does you.” Oliver releases a quiet sigh. “So you came back to stop yourself from starting the apocalypse.”

“It’s not like he chose to end the world,” Martin says, immediately leaping to Jon’s defense once more.

“Apologies,” Oliver says with an earnest nod in Martin’s direction. “I didn’t intend to imply otherwise.” He glances at Jon. “I’ve known of many who seek to bring on the end in the hopes that they will be able to choose what shape it takes. You don’t strike me as the sort.”

“No. But Jonah is.” Jon ducks his head as he speaks, fingers twisting in his jumper. “He wanted – wants to rule over a world reshaped in the Beholding’s image. He needed an Archivist with particular qualities to serve as the linchpin of his Ritual. So he created one. By the time he showed his hand, it was too late. I was the key, and Jonah didn’t need my consent in order to open the door.”

“I imagine it didn’t go as he planned,” Oliver says.

“No,” Jon says with a grim laugh. “No, it didn’t. He suffered as much as anyone else did in that reality. It all started because he was afraid of his own mortality, and yet – in the end, he met a fate worse than death.”

“Whatever it was, he deserved it,” Martin mutters.

“Maybe so,” Jon says. “But it was never about deserving. There was some poetic justice there, seeing him brought down by his own hubris, but… at the end of the day, he got the same treatment as anyone else. Just – pointless suffering, utterly divorced from the concept of consequences. Had a way of… diluting the schadenfreude, honestly.”

Martin’s spark of vindication appears to fizzle out as Jon speaks, his shoulders slumping and his eyes softening.

“Regardless,” Jon continues, “Jonah wanted to be a god, but at his core, he was no different from any other human. Fodder for the Fears. And the one he feared the most – it was in no hurry to finish the meal. I imagine by the time Terminus finally came for him in earnest, he would have welcomed it.”

“Those who seek immortality always come to see it as a curse in time,” Oliver says sagely. “When they come to terms with the fact that there is no such thing as a truly immortal existence, it comes as a relief.”

“I walked through your domain once,” Jon says after a pause. “You gave me a statement about the End’s place in that world. The domains were reluctant to let their victims die – they’d bring them to the brink, then revive them and repeat the process – but the Fears are greedy. Eventually, they would suck their victims dry –”

“– bones – every one of them – picked clean and cracked open – desperately gnawing – trying to reach whatever scant marrow might have remained inside – sucked from them to leave nothing but dry, white fragments – the hunger he saw in their eyes–”

Jon bites down on his tongue. That’s quite enough of that.

“You alright?” Martin says, leaning over and putting a hand on Jon’s knee.

“Sorry,” Jon says gruffly. “That one was…”

“Grisly?” Daisy says.

“Yeah,” Jon huffs. “But – not necessarily inapt? That reality was a closed economy. No new people were being born. The ones who already existed were destined to die, no matter how unwilling the other Fears were to grant that release.”

“As has always been the order of things,” Oliver says.

“You predicted that eventually the Fears would start poaching victims from one another’s domains – and they did. There were…” Jon grimaces. “There were a lot of territorial disputes, towards the end there. Domains encroaching on one another, monsters fighting over scraps. The Eye got its fill Watching it all play out, of course, but given enough time, it would have starved, same as all the rest.”

“And once the world was rendered barren,” Oliver says, understanding, “Terminus itself would die.”

Jon nods. “And until that happened, both you and your patron were content to let things play out.”

“Terminus is patient.”

Too patient, Jon thought at the time.

“I don’t think it was your intention,” he says, “but your statement did come as a relief. I already expected as much – that eventually it would all end – but having it corroborated by an authority on the matter was… very welcome.”

“People may fear death,” Oliver says, “but anyone who outruns it long enough finds that there is a much deeper fear hiding underneath – that of having the release of death withheld from them.”

“We have a lot of statements to that tune,” Basira says.

“I imagine so.”

“So,” Daisy says brusquely, “is that enough of a story for you?”

“I suppose,” Oliver says. “Although it raises more questions than it grants answers.”

“Our turn for questions, then?” Basira asks. She doesn’t wait for an answer. “The… veins, or… roots you saw around Gertrude. You’re saying they didn’t just foretell her death, but showed how it would impact everything else. So, what about the ones you saw around Jon?”

“It’s difficult to observe them for any length of time, but they do seem… more sprawling.” Oliver studies Jon for a moment, considering. “Like you are the heart of a watershed moment destined to happen.”

“So that’s it, then,” Jon says dully. “I’m still the spark for it all.”

Pandora’s box with a ‘use by’ date, he thinks to himself, somewhat hysterically.

He already knew it to be true, but that doesn’t make the confirmation any less harrowing. Everything hinges on his ability to keep his head above water, but the fate of the world weighs ever more heavily on his shoulders, pressing down, down, down –

“Does that mean…” Jon hugs his middle, slowly curling in on himself. “Does that mean it’s going to happen again?”

“I cannot say.” If Jon’s not mistaken, Oliver sounds… almost sympathetic. “This is unprecedented. I can only theorize. It’s possible that you’re like Gertrude, and what I see is a premonition. Or maybe the reality you came from still exists, parallel to this one, and it still clings to you. Perhaps it’s a Schrödinger’s cat, and it both does and does not exist, right up until the point where you do or do not bring it into being. Or maybe it doesn't exist, and the roots I see are only… imprints, so to speak. Echoes of a time and place that this world will never overlap.”

“Like trace fossils,” Jon murmurs. “Ghosts.”

“If you like.”

“Could you – could you follow them?” Jon can feel his pulse quicken, his heart thrumming in his throat. “See where they originate?”

“They originate from you.”

“O-oh.” Jon’s gaze darts uncertainly around the area before fixing on Oliver again. “Then, uh – can you see where they end?”

“You have a suspicion,” Basira says, watching Jon carefully.

Jon swallows around the breath caught in his throat. “What if they go back to Hill Top Road?”

“As far as I can tell, they reach out in all directions,” Oliver says. “There may not be a single end point. Regardless, I have no desire to visit Hill Top Road.”

“Oh,” Jon says despondently. It’s not like he expected Oliver to go out of his way to help, but…

“Would it really tell you anything of value anyway?” Martin asks.

“I don’t know,” Jon says, running a hand through his hair, one finger getting caught in a knot and pulling hard at his scalp. “But – but it feels like something I should at least check –”

“To what end?” Daisy asks. Jon looks at her blankly. “No offense, Sims, but the most likely outcome is you get no real answers, you lose yourself obsessing over theories, each more catastrophic than the last, and you spend the next few weeks compulsively checking yourself for spiders. Some things aren’t worth chasing after.”

“I just – I feel like I should know one way or the other –”

“Is that you or the Eye talking?” Martin asks.

“What’s the difference?” Jon says flatly. He immediately regrets it when he glimpses the expression on Martin’s face – a very familiar mixture of concern and frustration. “I’m sorry. Just… I don’t know. I don’t Know.”

Jon tugs on his hair once more, focusing on the dull ache it produces. He’s always had trouble letting things go. Letting questions go unanswered; letting mysteries go unsolved. The Beholding just nurtured that obsessiveness, encouraged that impulse to proliferate in his head like a weed and choke out his inhibitions.

“You’re here now,” Martin says firmly. “You can’t go back, so you may as well go forward.”

“Yeah,” Jon says, guilt heavy and searing in his chest.

“Like I said,” Oliver says, rubbing the back of his neck, “my knowledge of the future is narrow. I can’t tell you anything about parallel universes, or branching timelines, or the ability to alter history. The only certainty is that anything that begins will have an end, one way or another. All the rest is just… details.”

Martin folds his arms across his chest, examining Oliver with narrowed eyes. “You say that like the details are irrelevant.”

“I wonder about that,” Oliver says softly.

“Well, I think our experiences matter,” Martin says. “The fact that we were here at all, it’s… it’s not nothing.”

“Even those who make the greatest impact are forgotten in time.”

“So what? It will always have happened, even if no one is alive to remember it. And – and you never know when something little will have an impact on someone, which contributes to them doing something that makes a greater impact – that changes history.”

“Even time itself will end eventually. History will be forgotten, and nothing will remain to register its loss.”

“And?” Martin persists. “We won’t be around to see it. In the meantime, we’re here. We’re alive. If we’re going to end no matter what, why not make it worthwhile? Sure, there are no equivalent powers of hope and love to counter the Fears, but – but who cares? That just means that we have to make up for that absence.” Jon smiles to himself as Martin builds momentum – shoulders pushed back, chest thrust out, head held higher, speech growing more impassioned as he argues his point. “If a few mistakes and some asshole with a god complex can end the world, who’s to say a few deliberate kindnesses can’t save it?”

“Am I the asshole with the god complex?” Jon says drily. Judging from Martin’s disapproving scowl, he is not in the mood for self-deprecating humor. “Sorry, sorry. But, uh – in all seriousness, I think it was more than a few mistakes on my part–”

“You know what I meant, Jon,” Martin snaps. “And – and fine, maybe a few kindnesses can’t save the whole world, but – but they can save someone’s world. They can save a person. Doesn’t that mean something?”

“Yes,” Jon says with a small smile. “Yes, it does.”

“R-right.” Martin blinks several times, momentarily stunned by the lack of resistance. “It doesn’t change the world – except for how it does. Just – the universe might not care, but we can, and that’s exactly why we should. It’s… it’s what we owe to each other. That’s what I think, at least.”

Martin goes quiet then, arms still folded with a mixture of self-consciousness and sullen defiance.

“How long have you had that rant queued up?” Daisy teases.

“A while,” Martin says, rubbing his arm sheepishly.

“You’re quite the romantic,” Oliver says. He says it like a compliment, albeit somewhat wistful.

“Yeah, well.” Martin blushes at the praise in spite of himself. “Someone has to counter the fatalism around here.”

If you ask Jon, there are many reasons to love Martin Blackwood. This is doubtless one of them.

“Besides,” Martin recovers, apparently on a roll now, “it seems to me there’s as much evidence for fate being changeable as not. Yeah, sure, eventually everything dies, but who’s to say that the details are set in stone? Like – like that book, the one where the details of a person’s death change every time they read it.”

“But does their fate actually change, or is it just the book messing with their heads?” Basira says, tapping her fingers against her lips and looking down at the floor pensively. “If the End has foreknowledge of a person’s death, maybe the last entry a person reads before dying was always their fate, and all the previous accounts were just lies intended to seed fear.”

When Jon opens his mouth to chime in, the Archive seizes the initiative, unceremonious as ever.

"When did it change?” comes the cadence of Masato Murray. “Was it when I turned back to read it again? Or perhaps when I had made the decision to never visit Lancashire? If the book knew the future, then how much did it know me? My decisions and choices were my own, so was it responding to them or simply to the fact that I opened the book again? Perhaps it changed every time I opened it, even if I didn’t read the page, every interaction changing my fate…. When I close the book I wonder: are those same words still there, squatting and biding their time, or have they already changed into some new unknown terror that I can neither know nor avoid, waiting to spring on me.”

Jon holds his breath in anticipation. After a few seconds of suspense, the pressure recedes, the Archive having spoken its peace.

“Archive’s talkative today,” Basira observes.

“Apparently,” Jon grumbles. “What I originally meant to say was that I’ve wondered the same thing – whether the book was really telling the future or simply playing on the fears of the reader.”

“Maybe offering textual support is another convenience feature?” Daisy keeps her tone carefully neutral, gauging his mood.

“The Beholding is known for being exceedingly generous,” he retorts.

Basira ignores the banter and speaks directly to Oliver. “Do you know?”

“I’m unfamiliar with the book in question,” he replies. “All the deaths I’ve personally foreseen have come to pass so far. That says nothing about whether or not the End always reveals the truth to all who cross its path.”

“Right.” Basira shakes her head. “Not sure why I expected a straightforward answer.”

“Maybe there isn’t one,” Martin says. For a fraction of a second, Basira tenses. Jon suspects she’s just as repulsed by such a prospect as he is.

“Whatever,” she says curtly. “It isn’t important right now. What I want to know is how to deal with Jonah Magnus. So” – she pins Oliver in place with sharp, unblinking eyes – “what can you tell us about his mortality?”

“In short? He won’t live forever, regardless of how much he wants to deny that reality.”

“Yeah, you’ve said,” Daisy says, tossing her head back with an impatient groan. “Him dying eventually doesn’t help us now.”

“I’m not a mind-reader,” Oliver says. “If there’s more to your question, you’ll need to elaborate. What are you actually asking? How to kill him? For me to tell you whether his death is on the horizon?”

“Jonah claims that he’s the ‘beating heart of the Institute,’” Jon explains. “He says that if he dies, everyone else who works here dies as well. You were able to see the ripples created by Gertrude’s death. I suppose I thought – maybe you could tell us if there’s something similar with Jonah.”

“If his death was imminent, perhaps.” Oliver averts his eyes as he twists a ring around his finger, growing increasingly tense under such concentrated scrutiny. “But as I said before, I don’t make a habit of telling fortunes.”

“So you won’t tell us,” Martin says.

“To be frank, this place is rife with potential.” Oliver casts his gaze around the area, as if seeing something the others cannot. “It would be… difficult to untangle it all.”

“Fine,” Basira says tartly. “Then can you tell us whether it’s possible for him to set up a dead man’s switch in the first place? Seems to me something like that would be the End’s domain, wouldn’t it?”

“It would.”

“Then would he be able to exercise any real power over it?” Basira persists. “There’s nothing inherent to the Eye that suggests its Avatars should be able to bind others’ lives to them. Even the Archivist doesn’t work like that – we’re linked to Jon as far as being unable to quit goes, but we won’t die if he does. I think it’s more likely that Jonah did something extra to bind the Institute to himself.”

“Assuming he’s even telling the truth,” Daisy says.

“So, is there an artefact that could let him do it?” Basira asks, still staring Oliver down. “A ritual? A favor from an affiliate of the End, maybe?”

“Terminus has a variety of ways in which it operates,” Oliver says cagily, “same as all the other Powers. I don’t seek out instances of those manifestations. Given the sheer number of statements collected here, it's likely you’re all more familiar with the breadth of its influence than I am.”

“You’re very helpful,” Daisy scoffs.

Oliver hunches his shoulders, chastised. It’s an odd sight – Jon wouldn’t have expected him to be particularly affected by such an accusation. Oliver never promised to be helpful; does not owe them his cooperation. Before Jon can pursue that thought any further, though, Oliver continues.

“I will say that Terminus is its own master. Those who believe they have tamed it are only fooling themselves. Orchestrating their own misery. The moment in which they finally realize that fact – that they have never had the upper hand, that the entire time they have never strayed from the route to which Terminus binds them…” Oliver chews the inside of his cheek, considering. “The existential terror that moment creates – I wonder sometimes whether it’s a delicacy to my patron.”

“Sounds a lot like the Web,” Basira says. The suggestion must pique his interest, because Oliver sits up straighter and leans forward ever so slightly.

“Except the Web reviles its extinction as much as the other powers, and as much as any mortal mind,” he says – not quite excited, but more engaged than before. “Terminus, on the other hand – its eventual oblivion is part and parcel of its existence. It does not fear the conclusion of its story. The Web will never surrender to such a fate. It will always seek an escape route, some way to appoint itself the weaver of its own ends. Its threads can never stray from the confines of the routes dictated by Terminus, but the concept that it may itself be under the guidance of another… such a thing is incompatible with its definition. Still, the shape of the Spider’s web will always mirror the blueprints of a greater architect.”

“And you think the same is true for Jonah,” Jon says.

“I know it is.”

“Okay, but – but Jon changed fate,” Martin protests. “In a million little ways – some we probably don’t even know about – and some big ones, too. So who’s to say that every step of the route is part of the End’s blueprints? What if – hold on.”

Martin stands and moves to Jon’s makeshift desk, rummaging around for a few seconds before coming up with a pen. He snatches one of Melanie’s therapy worksheets from the top of the pile and turns it over to the blank side.

“What if the only things set in stone are – are certain points along the route,” he says, scribbling a scattering of dots across the page, “but all that matters is that the route eventually intersects with those points?” Martin connects two points with a wavy, sine-like line. “Maybe it doesn’t even matter how convoluted” – he draws another line, this time with several loop-de-loops – “or long” – yet another line, this one traveling all the way up to the top of the page and making several winding turns before plunging back down to connect with the next dot – “the path is.” He holds up the finished product for everyone to see. “As long as the dots connect, the rest is free reign.”

“I like to think that choice plays a role,” Oliver says. “That fate is less of a track and more of a guideline. But honestly, there’s no way to know for certain. I only know the end point. The rest is speculation.”

“It’s also possible that the rift brought me to an alternate reality,” Jon says, eyes downcast. “If the reality of my original timeline still exists, I haven’t changed fate at all. I’ve just jumped to a different track.”

“Okay, and if that’s the case, and this is a different dimension,” Martin says heatedly, “then that means it has its own timeline and its own future, and whatever happened in your future has no bearing on ours.” Martin glares, daring Jon to argue. He doesn’t. “So it’s a moot point. If we can’t know one way or the other whether the future is already written, then let’s just act as if it isn’t. Prepare for the worst and hope for the best. At least then it will feel meaningful.”

“The worst isn’t something you can prepare for,” Jon says darkly. “Trust me, I know.”

“If I want ominous proverbs, I’ll let you know,” Martin immediately counters – and Jon loves him for it. Daisy chokes on a startled laugh; Martin ignores her, instead pivoting to face Oliver. “We want to kill Jonah Magnus. Or, at least make it so he can’t perform his Ritual. But preferably kill.”

“Never realized you were so bloodthirsty, Blackwood,” Daisy says approvingly.

“The world will be a better place without him in it,” Martin says without a hint of indecision, not looking away from Oliver. “Jonah’s original body is in the center of the Panopticon. Except his eyes, because apparently transplanting them into innocent people is how he cheats death, because of course it is, why wouldn’t it be some messed up–”

“Martin,” Basira sighs.

“Okay, fine, moving on,” Martin sasses back. “It makes me wonder, would destroying his original body hurt him, or do we need to destroy his original eyes as well, or would destroying just his eyes be enough? And – and would it kill him, or just – blind him, disconnect him from the Beholding? Or – or would that kill him, because the Beholding is what’s keeping him alive?”

“Your guesses are as good as mine,” Oliver says. “Much of this really does come down to speculation and thought experiment, and it seems you’ve done plenty of that amongst yourselves already. I’m afraid that the only certainty I can offer is the certainty of an ending, and I don’t think that’s as much of a consolation to you as it is to me.”

“No, it’s not,” Martin says.

“But, uh – thank you for your honesty,” Jon jumps in. “For trying.”

“I really do wish I had better answers for you,” Oliver says, not quite meeting his eyes. “The End is… somewhat of an echo chamber at times. When you’re already on the inside looking out, it can be… difficult, to shift perspective.”

“I wouldn’t be able to offer many straightforward answers about my patron, either,” Jon admits.

“Wait,” Martin says. “Could you… could you at least tell us whether you can see anything about our deaths?”

Oliver draws in a deep breath and releases it slowly. “In my experience, there’s nothing to be gained from such knowledge.”

“Tell us anyway,” Basira says.

“Why?” Oliver says tiredly, his hands curling into loose fists. “Why do you want to know?”

“Because if you can see something, it could help us narrow down possibilities,” Basira replies. “If you see all of us dying in the same way, maybe it means we all die when Magnus does.”

“Or it just means you all die in the same freak accident.”

“Wait, do we?” Martin asks, his voice pitching higher in alarm.

“It was just an example,” Oliver says, scrubbing one hand down his face. “I’m just saying that this kind of knowledge doesn’t tend to give people the answers that they want.” Met with nothing but four determined stares, his shoulders sag in defeat. “Are you all certain you want to know?”

Everyone nods. Oliver equivocates for a full minute, rubbing at his forehead in complete silence. Eventually, he releases a long, low sigh.

“Right now,” he says, “I don’t see death closing in on any one of you.”

“Shit,” Martin says on a heavy exhale. “The way you were putting it off, I was sure you were going to predict a massacre.”

“Honestly,” Daisy mutters. “Bury the lead much?”

Jon ignores them, preoccupied with the implications of Oliver's revelation. If they were planning on killing Jonah tomorrow, it would say nothing about whether they were to succeed, but it would suggest they don’t die in the process, which would at least offer some reassurance going in. But Jon has no idea when they’ll be able to execute any sort of plan. This only confirms that none of them are likely to die in the next few weeks – and that’s assuming that Oliver’s premonition is accurate. Up until now, his predictions have come true, but there’s a first time for everything.

Judging from the contemplative frown on Basira’s face, she’s running through the same calculations.

“How far out can you see?” she asks.

“It varies,” Oliver says. “Weeks, usually. Sometimes months.”

“And it could change in a few weeks,” Daisy says.

“It could change tomorrow. It could change an hour from now.” Oliver looks between the four of them with a faint, melancholy smile. “I did warn you that it wouldn’t offer much sense of security. It only makes you want to know more.”

“Look where you are,” Basira scoffs.

“Point taken,” Oliver says with a startled laugh. “But honestly, ask yourself whether it’s all that different from Masato Murray and his book. If it’s worth living your life around the question of when and how – especially when the answer, should you receive one, will never put your mind at ease.”

“Just to be clear, ah – was I included in that prophecy? Or do you still see the veins around me?” Jon asks. Oliver raises his eyebrows. “I know, I know – the answer won’t satisfy me. Just – humor me?”

“Yes,” Oliver sighs, “I can still see them, if I look for them, but as we covered quite exhaustively, they look atypical and wrong and I don’t know what to make of them.” A tinge of indignation breaks through Oliver's characterisic mild manner – and then the moment passes. “I don’t think they indicate an imminent demise, but much about you is an enigma.”

“And there’s nothing else you can tell us about Jonah Magnus?” Basira asks.

“It isn’t a matter of if he can be killed, but how. Unfortunately, you’ll have to figure that part out for yourselves. As for whether or to what extent he could bind his fate to the rest of the Institute… there are any number of strange phenomena and improbable feats in this world. I would never claim to be an authority on the scope of it all.” Oliver offers another wistful ghost of a smile. “I’m afraid you might just have to take a leap of faith.”

Again, Jon thinks with an inward sigh.

But at least he can say he’s had practice.

End Notes:

Citations for Jon’s Archive-speak are as follows: MAG 011; 011; 168; 121; 156; 070. The “I still remember the first time…” & “And the worst part was that…” Oliver quotes are from MAG 121.  

Yes, “what we owe to each other” is a nod to The Good Place.  

So. This… was a beast of a chapter, and the last half of it really kicked my ass, which is why it’s taken so long to finally finish it. Still not sure how I feel about it – it’s a bit of a digression, but I’m hoping it still fits in thematically. Either way, next chapter we’re moving on to Ny-Ålesund.

Hopefully it won’t take me an entire month this time to write the next chapter, but… we’re down to two episodes left, folks. Chances are, next time I update, we’ll have heard the series finale. Are you all ready? Because I categorically am NOT. aaaaaaaaa

(That said, I already have a handful of epilogue standalone fics planned for this AU once the main story is done. Because hurt/comfort and recovery fics are going to be at the top of my hierarchy of needs once Jonny Sims destroys me in two weeks, I s2g.)

Thanks for reading!

[therem-harth]

For the meme! Norwegian Angelica, Pincushion, Pink, Primrose, Sunflower

Heyo! :)) Thanks for asking, and so many! I like sunflowers! And don't recognize any other flowers here! :D Norwegian Angelica: Tell us about your mom.

Hmm, it's hard to be concise as I've had a complicated relationship with her to say the least. But I'm sort of trying to reach out intermittently (once in a couple months hah) again so that's something. But my mother is someone very in touch with nature and animals, she grew up in the countryside and is still very much a country girl as she now keeps goats, ducks, chickens, turkeys etc. She has told me that she has no need for antidepressants because she can just go to the forest, for example, which, well, shows both her medicine-hate and nature-love hah. She used to be very hardworking - she almost got a PhD in chemistry like my father but three kids and the house and a business was a bit too much to also write a thesis. Because of this and other things, she's.... currently I'd best describe her as horribly burnt out and depressed and self-depreciative. But she is easy to talk to, she will carry the conversation and she will tell her side eagerly and at least listen to yours - she both is probably lonely and has this need to be always presentable and talk to her family a bit like we're business partners she needs to convince which I used to hate, and she will tell you about how horrible she has it at the drop of the hat. When in a room with others, she will most often stay silent and listen, however, she used to say that she liked to just listen when me and siblings would talk. She has her own, mostly non-explicit ways of showing she cares, and you know, hey I managed to write a p alright summary that wasn't just unprocessed anger, yay for me. Pincushion: How do you deal with pain?

Mm, I assume this deals with physical pain. I've been quite lucky thus far and have no chronic pains except the normal millenial achy knees sometimes. Since I already mentioned above that I grew up in a pretty anti-medicine household, I didn't use an ibumetin or paracetamol for anything not mirstamā kaite (dying sickness) until I was like... 19. So I just kinda, uh, waited it out I guess? Which is largely still the mode of action for me nowadays, though now I usually take ibumetin, that's about it. I always thought I deal with pain p well and have a high tolerance and I definitely am quite good at pushing myself through it when needed but really I'd rather I didn't have to feel that toothache while having to focus on the paper or smth. I actually had pretty strong period cramps a week or so ago that I usually don't get and then I just... took one ibumetin, finished off the research paper, took another ibumetin because holy shit, complained to friends, played assassins creed until the pain faded a bit and got back to studying :D Also re: mental pain, well, I've had 2 years of therapy to sort of help with that, and I find the thing that works most reliably to me is the schema therapy caring parent/vulnerable child thing, I just sorta. Listen to the pain and hear it and then console it. Be your own parent 2kforever.

Pink: Where is home?

Here!

It's quite a cozy flat in an... hm, middle class neighborhood, the owner never shows up and we just pay the rent in his debit card, he's chill with us paying it late and when our stove sort of implodes he comes and buys a new one! I also live with sis which is p great, since, as my therapist pointed out, we've been negotiating how to live in each other's spaces literally since birth so we know how to co-exist (I like my space perhaps more than others - I don't particularly enjoy having friends over and I like that we have sort of come to an arrangement of kitchen is talk space and our rooms are less so). I used to think I didn't get attached to places but now with potential talks of moving that didn't end up anywhere I got so afraid of losing this sense of stability, a place to jump from that I didn't have as solid before. It's my gremlin cave and yes there's mold growing in places that we're too lazy/tired to try to deal with, and sometimes we play chicken about who will cave and wash the dishes or take out the trash, but hey, it's my gremlin cave.

Primrose: Describe your ideal life.

Hah, I've actually been on and off daydreaming about winning a million euros in lottery (a pal's gotta dream, alright :D). And then the scenario goes a bit like buy a house with a garden that me and sis and poosssibly my friends would live in, get a car and driving license, travel a bit, stop working at my current job and just vibe for a bit before either moving to the deep countryside and being a farmer or working in businesses as an anthropologist for sense of accomplishement. In the 99.99% case I do not win the lottery, however, I think working in a place where I can both excercise my brain and feel smart and appreciated about doing it would be great, I'm lowkey considering working as an anthropologist if I can wrangle a vacancy in some place. I think I'd like to either continue my slow, slow ventures into writing, or, since I've realized I'm pretty fucking amazing at realizing other's mistakes instead of my own and giving constructive criticism :D go into editing work. But who knows. I mostly want to get enough money to have a bit of property and a garden and be able to sometimes travel, and then a nice job is a luxury. Still sometimes thinking of moving just deep deep into the countryside and buying chickens. But I won't really make much money that way alas. Sunflower: What is something you don’t want to imagine life without? Mm, well the obvious basics of a roof over my head and food in my tummy tum tum, but besides that, I'd probably say my friends. Be weird old people together. Even if I do move or somehow lose my current friends, I still want to make connections with close friends bc well I find them neat. I don't make a great lonely person.

[theskyeandsea]

Do You Wanna Be My Roommate? || Rio & Skye

Timing: December 10th

Location: Nic & Skylar’s Home

Tagging: @3starsquinn & @theskyeandsea

Description: In the wake of Winson’s departure from town, Skylar and Rio reclaim weeb night!

Warnings: Drug use mentions, chronic illness symptoms mentions, addiction 

Tugging at the sleeves of her shirt, Skylar looked around the house-- it looked normal, right? The last time someone had been here, she’d been caught off guard and hadn’t had time to try and make the place look presentable. But, she had invited Rio here, wanted to be here to support him. Because that was what a good friend did, and they, they were still friends. She wanted to be there for him because break ups were hard. She might not know much about them, but she remembered how much it had hurt when Shiloh had left town, in much the same way to Winston. Just a quick word and then Skylar was left with the other woman’s absence.

Swallowing, Skylar hooked her hearing aids in and turned them on. Dundee was sitting on the edge of the couch, watching her from his nest of blankets. He used to like spending time in her room, but lately he spent most of his time out in the living room. Maybe he was waiting for Nic to come home? Before she could fall too far down that rabbit hole, the doorbell rang and she hurried to the door. “Rio! Hey--” Her eyes flicked over his appearance and she blinked. “Are… What happened to you?”

Orion and Skylar had made plans, he didn’t want to cancel those just because he had almost been murdered and spent a few days in the hospital. He hadn’t seen her in awhile, his own life being too caught up in the trauma and the drama. As if the Lydia situation hadn’t been horrifying enough, Winston’s departure and the werewolf attack had to add a little extra disaster to Rio’s life. Just in time for the holidays. But despite the solemn mood Rio had been stuck in, he had no plans in continuing that tonight. He was hoping to enjoy his time with Skylar tonight, where the both of them could take their minds off of everything keeping them down.

When Skylar answered the door he could see that she had her hearing aids in, but he signed anyways as he greeted her. It was mostly out of habit, but he enjoyed the practice regardless. “Oh. These” Rio grinned nervously, he supposed he couldn’t ignore the fact that it happened, no matter how much he wished he could pretend he had never seen any of those dead bodies. Or heard their screams. “There was an… incident a few nights ago. A werewolf attacked a cafe that I was at.” Though his hoodie and jeans worked to block the main injuries that he had suffered, bruises and cuts all over his face and hands were still far too visible. Realizing that he was a hunter who just told Skylar about a werewolf attack, Rio thought that he should specify, “I didn’t kill it. Just uh- so we’re clear. I just tried to stop it from hurting others.” He did stab it. But he remembered how scared Skylar had been about hunters. He didn’t want to freak her out, “It’s alive. And hopefully back to human and not hurting anyone.”

Stepping out of the way to let him in, Skylar did her best not to stare at the cuts as he explained. An attack? A werewolf? What had happened to them? Not that Skylar knew many werewolves-- just Ulfric, the man from the coffee shop with all the tattoos, and Ariana, who she’d only known as a student until recently-- but they’d both seemed… in control. The thoughts slid through her mind like water, though, slipping from her mind as she led the way to the living room. Dundee was still curled up in the pile of blankets, little tail wagging as he caught sight of Rio and stared at the young man with his beedy, unblinking eyes. “It? You mean… them, right?” Skylar said, the words coming out before she could stop herself. But, werewolves, they were people. Maybe not human people, just like she wasn’t human people. But they were people, right? “I-- sorry though. That something like that happened to you. I’m glad you didn’t need to hurt anyone badly, though.” She nodded. 

Sliding through the front door, Orion was surprised by how long ago it seemed that he had last been here to hang out with Skylar. Despite that, it came with a surprising familiarity to follow her down the hall and into the living room. As per usual, Dundee stared at Rio as if staring directly into his soul. The dog was cute and incredibly uncomforting at the same time. “Hey buddy!” Rio went over to the pet little guy regardless. At Skylar’s words, Rio froze. His hand hovered to his bottom lip, barely pressing against it almost in shock of what had just come out of his mouth. “I-uh” It. When had Rio ever talked like that? He had spent his entire life trying and failing to convince his family that there was humanity to supernatural creatures. Especially werewolves, who weren’t destined to be murderous monsters their entire lives. How had that same person become the one that casually referred to a living person as it? “Sorry. Yeah. Them.” He pulled his hand away, shoving both of them into his pockets and refusing to make eye contact with Skylar for a moment. The word kept repeating itself in his head over and over again. “It’s okay. The werewolf, I don’t know who they were. But they didn’t have control. I don’t know if they woke up remembering everything or completely ignorant. That’s scary stuff.” A chill shot down Rio’s spine and he readjusted his stance a bit too quickly, catching his breath at the sudden pains. He slowly stretched out before forcing a smile back onto his face. “Sorry, I want this to be a fun night. All this’ll be gone in a few days anyways. Let’s just try to have fun.”

Skylar barely noticed the way that Rio went stock still-- it was the way his hand moved that caught her attention. He hadn’t even realized he’d said it, had he? Tilting her head slightly, she did her best to peer at him. But, the trace amounts of Bliss kept her floating, just floating on by, and it was always a little hard to grab the finer details. But, she could tell that he was upset. And she didn’t want him to be upset, she really didn’t. Rio was a good guy, a good person. “I hope they’re okay. And the other people who were hurt too-- and you too! Obviously. But. I hope they’re okay.” She said, knowing all too well how much it hurt to have gaps in your memory, to have entire parts of yourself locked away. Noticing the way his chest caught, Skylar blinked. “You’re not still hurt are you? You didn’t need to-- we could have cancelled if you’re still hurt. Sit down, sit down.” She said, urging him to take a seat. She could still take care of people, she could still do this. She could be the Skylar everyone wanted her to be. 

Orion nodded his head, maybe a bit too enthusiastically. He didn’t need Skylar too worried about his wounds. She had already helped him before when that evil watermelon thing had bitten him. Just like that time, these would heal. “I’m okay. I’m still sore, but it’s not too bad. I’ll heal quickly anyways.” He still hated his hunter abilities. Not because they weren’t useful, he had been attacked way too many times for him to try to claim that. It just didn’t seem fair that he got this advantage while others around him were put at risk. “Seriously, I wanted to come over here. I’m happy to be here, sore or not.” Rio grinned, slowly easing himself back and onto the couch. “If I had cancelled I would have just ended up lying in my bed at the house all night anyways. I definitely didn’t want to do that. So you’re doing me a favor.”

“If you say so.” Skylar said as Rio took a seat on the couch. Walking to the fridge, she pulled out a bottle of water and a can of Mountain Dew. She’d remembered that he liked them when she had been wandering down the aisles at the store, running her fingers against the shelves. “Want a drink? There might be some beer left over from when Nic was here, if you’d like. I don’t really keep beer here.” She said as she scanned the shelves. “I’ve never really been able to do the whole… post-break up ice cream and cookie dough thing that you see in movies, but I have both if you’d like.” She offered. “But, ah-- sorry. That might be too soon to say.” At Rio’s words, Skylar nodded, a smile spreading on her face. She was helping him. “Of course. I’m glad I can do something to make you feel better. And hey, Yuri on Ice is a great show, it always cheers me up.”

Skylar disappeared in the kitchen for a moment and came back with a mountain dew. Orion sat forward enthusiastically to reach for it, trying to be careful not to stretch too many injured muscles. It was only partially effective. “Oh you’re the best thank you so much.” He had been so tired recently, he needed some caffeine. The mention of Nic was a sudden reminder that he had been her only roommate. He knew about him no longer being in town but he hadn’t exactly connected the dots. “Oh right. You don’t have any other roommates do you? You have this whole place to yourself?” It was a big house, something that could either be a lot of fun or really lonely depending on the person. “It’s been weird at my house too. Ricky’s always so busy at the workshop that it was usually just Winston and I. Now that he’s not there it’s just a whole house to myself with all the things Winston and I used to do.” Rio shrugged. Admittedly, it had bothered him how much time he spent noticing small things that Winston left behind. But there wasn’t much he could do about it for now. “I have no experience with post break up junk food, but am assuming that it tastes similar to regular junk ice cream and cookie dough. Both of which I’m a huge fan of.” But more than sugary distractions, Rio was mostly excited for another reboot of their anime night. Hopefully this time it would be without the snooping or weird tension that was present the previous times. “I cannot wait, I am so pumped for this it’s been on my list forever.”

“Of course.” Skylar beamed as she handed him the soda before settling down on the couch with some space between them. Dundee glanced over at her, as though waiting for her to do something, but when she flipped on the tv, he plopped his head back down on the nest of blankets. “Nope, it’s just me.” This place had been Erin’s home for a bit too, but the memory of their last encounter came back to her mind-- No. Smiling wider, she pushed the thought away. Now wasn’t the time to think about that. Erin wasn’t coming back here. “Mhm, that’s… That sounds hard.” Skylar had never lived with Shiloh, hadn’t even really reached the stage where she spent much time at the other woman’s home. But, she felt for Rio. Being in a place where there was just the constant presence of someone who he’d cared about, who was so very much not here? She dealt with that some since Nic had left, the little knick knacks and knives tucked around the house hammering home the fact that he was gone. “Sounds good. Let me just get Netflix up.” She said, scrolling through the lists with a slightly clumsy hand. She skipped around until the familiar ice-skating anime popped up. “I’m so excited for you to watch this, I think you’ll really enjoy it.”

Orion stretched across the couch as much as he could to scratch on Dundee’s head before returning to his original position. Skylar was navigating the tv to find the show and Rio studied her as she did so. Outwardly, she seemed fine with living alone. Nothing in her initial statement indicated that she hated the idea of living alone. The place did seem pretty sweet, especially considering it had the pool for private sessions when she needed to change. On paper, he probably seemed perfect. But speaking from his own experiences, Rio knew that a place like this would be incredibly lonely. He wondered what Skylar thought of it. Right now, he wasn’t sure if it would be rude to ask. “I’m so excited” Rio clapped his hands together and leaned back on the couch to settle in when Skylar pressed play.

The rest of the night passed without anything weird or out of the ordinary happening-- a rarity that Skylar honestly hadn’t expected. It was nice, to watch anime and pretend like there was nothing wrong. They could pretend like this town wasn’t awful, like this place wasn’t terrible. As Yuri took a victory lap around the ice rink, Skylar let out a sigh, stretching. The motion sent a slight twinge of pain down her back, but she ignored it. She could handle a little pain, just for now. She had wanted to be present for this, to spend time with Rio. And, once he was gone, she would be able to slip back down into the haze of Bliss. “Such a good show. Did you like it?” She asked as Dundee padded across the couch and leaned against her, his head resting against her leg. “I’m glad you were able to come over for this, I missed having anime nights.” Skylar said, a little surprised that it was true. 

They had truly binged out with this one. In what was probably their first fully successful attempt at an anime night the two both watched the show in relative quiet. Every now and again one would speak up or they would both laugh at something. But other than that, the two had seemed perfectly content with simply being in each other’s company. The show was exactly the sort of feel good emotion that Orion so desperately needed. Watching their relationship slowly grow into what it became by the end of the show was enough to bring a tear to Rio’s eyes. By the time the last episode finished, there was a stream of tears running down his face. “No. It was awful.” Rio lied, a single laugh bursting through his tears. Even then, Rio crossed his arms and grumbled grumpily, “The show had no right ending like that. I hated it.” A small smile split across his face though, and he eventually conceded, “Nah. I’m kidding. That was amazing and I’m so glad we started it back up. I miss them too.” Even for the drama they had once been. “We should definitely get back into the habit of doing them.”

Looking over at Rio, Skylar blinked in surprise-- she hadn’t realized he’d cried. She must have missed that, must… not have noticed. She swallowed, pushing the thought side and smiled back at him. “Good! I’m glad that you did, it’s such a great show. The characters are all so good and you really kinda root for all of them by the end of it.” She said with a nod. Running a hand through her choppy hair, Skylar looked over at the television, the screen darkened. She could see the two of them reflected, sitting back on the couch. Two lonely people, just a little less alone for the time being. Biting the inside of her cheek, Skylar thought to the spare key that was tucked away in her room. She trusted Rio. It had taken time, but she knew that he was sorry for what he’d done, he’d promised to never pry into her things after their disastrous first anime night. And… it was lonely. “Hey, Rio.” She said tentatively, not really sure how to broach the subject, “I know that things at… Ricky’s must be weird. Things here are weird too, with all of Nic’s stuff being here, but him being gone. And, like I said, I can’t really imagine what it’s like to have to deal with, everything else on top of it.” She said, skirting around the words “break up” as best as she could manage. “But, if you wanted, you could stay here?” Skylar asked, looking hopefully over at him. Maybe having someone around would help. Someone who understood, at least a little, what it was like to not fit into the role that the world wanted her to be.

The question had taken Orion by surprise. He paused for a long moment as he tried to understand exactly what Skylar had meant by ‘stay here’. At first he had just meant for the night, which Rio was ready to thank her for the offer but also assure that he didn’t live too far away. It wasn’t like he had been drinking or anything. But she had mentioned Nic’s things, just as Rio had talked about Winston’s items that were left behind. But he had never said any of those things in an attempt to guilt Skylar into asking him to move in. Even with the awkwardness, Rio hadn’t considered moving out of the house. “Are you… serious?” Rio finally asked, his voice soft and curious. “I don’t want to like… put you in a weird place. Where you feel like you have to offer.”

Was she serious? Skylar wasn’t entirely sure, but, the idea of not being totally alone, of having someone around-- at least part of the day-- was tempting. And she liked Rio. She trusted Rio. He was good and he knew about that side of her, which meant she wouldn’t need to hide it from him. Not that she’d ever needed to with Nic, but, having one less secret from her roommate would be nice. And just, having a roommate, maybe that would make things better. Maybe it would lessen the ache inside her. Nodding, Skylar gestured to the space around them. “I know I don’t need to offer. But, I never really wanted to live on my own. And, I trust you.” She said with a small smile. “In a town like this, that’s… hard to find. You don’t need to say yes, and you can definitely think about it. But, the offer’s here.” 

The offer was tempting. The more Orion thought about it, the more he realized how lonely his house felt now. With Ricky constantly working and Winston gone it felt like he lived in an abandoned home. Too big for him. He missed Winston, but he had no chance of taking his mind off of them when he walked past their bedroom door every day and was constantly reminded of all the memories they had there. But Rio wasn’t truly convinced until Skylar told him that she trusted him. It had been a rocky road up to this point. Rio had lied and invaded her privacy. He hadn’t deserved her friendship at all, let alone her trust. But somehow, here they were. “Yes.” Rio nodded quickly. “I mean, I don’t need to think about it. If you’re one hundred percent sure then the answer is yes” Rio laughed in relief, a pressure that had been in his chest all week finally beginning to lift. He hadn’t even realized that it had been there in the first place. “I- Thank you so much. I seriously can’t describe what that means to me.”

The way that Rio laughed, the genuine sound of relief-- before tonight, when was the last time Skylar had heard that sound? Since before Nic had left? The memory came back to her, fuzzy around the edges in the way that most of her memories were now. It was one of the nights when they’d both shared a meal, idly talking about their day and then, out of nowhere, Dundee had hopped up onto the table and stolen a steak right off her plate. The two had sat in startled silence for a minute as the little dog scarfed down the piece of meat, T-bone and all, before bursting into laughter. And tonight, she and Rio had been able to laugh and talk and make this house feel a little less lonesome. It felt a little more like the home that she had hoped for. But, Skylar shifted on the couch, the sharp rush of pain pushing just a little bit harder. “One ground rule, though?” She said, a small smile on her face as she stuck out her hand, “No more poking around in my room.” 

[werevulvi]

Hi, could you tell me more about your autism and diagnosis and how you deal with it, how old you were diagnosed

I don't know a lot about my autism, tbh, as I never bothered to read up on it and I was never properly informed on it. But what I do know is that I learned slowly as a kid, learned to walk at age 3, was very clumsy (like medically abnormally clumsy physically, could barely run at all and couldn't climb, etc) required special treatment to learn how to eat as a toddler because I hated the sensory experience of solid food and chewing, I was incapable of understanding sarcasm, interpreted everything literally, I was stimming a lot, had monotone body language and speech, etc. I was very obviously "different" according to my parents already from around age 1 or 2, and required literally constant attention for the first 4 years of my life. Started daycare at age 4, in small groups.

Then as I started school at age 6, apparently the school nurse had told my parents that I'm probably autistic, so I consider that my "inofficial diagnosis" but they decided to ignore that and didn't tell me (until 10 years later.) I was bullied in school for being "the weird kid" by both classmates and teachers who thought I was a retard and annoying, basically, I guess. I was called a freak and weirdo a lot. But like I was proudly a weirdo, and resented normativity.

As I got up into ages 10-12 my depression and DID symptoms (alter) kinda took over and became more prominent than my autism symptoms, as I wasn't as physically clumsy anymore and started learning social cues. My mental health continued to decline over the next few years, until I sought out therapy on my own at age 16. It led me to doing my first few suicide attempts, which led me to ending up at a closed psychiatric ward.

While staying there for a few weeks, I got evaluated for autism (without knowing that's what I was tested for) as well as a few physical things, such as my hearing impairment and chronic headache. And those tests led to an official Asperger Syndrome diagnosis, when I was 16, by the very end of year 2005. I also got diagnosed with borderline psychosis and mild depression, and got pumped full of anti-depressants and anti-psychotic (neuroleptic) drugs. Then my mom finally told me that she basically always knew about my autism, and I was really pissed at her for not having told me before. I resented my autism diagnosis right from the start, and the older I got, the more I resented it. Never identified with it, only ever saw it as a huge burden.

Then throughout the rest of my teens, I went to a school for neurodivergent people (basically upper high school) but still flunked it. I was a complete and utter mess, and got little to no actual therapy. They just kept shoving me around from one psychiatric department to another, due to my comorbid issues, no one could help me, it seemed. Every once in a while I'd make another half assed suicide attempt to make them take me seriously, which only worked for a few months at a time. In total, I've made 19 suicide attemps over 12 years. Oh lord, psychiatry was so bad!

Adulthood came along and I got benefitted with sickness compensation, and got my first apartment at age 20. It didn't go great. I accidentally flooded it and had to move out, and didn't manage to keep it clean or anything while I lived there. I was barely functional and alcoholic, constantly self-harming, just to try to manage attending school. Despite getting help from caretakers offered by the state (?) weekly, I was really dysfunctional. I switched apartments several times, and kept flunking school while trying to live my miserable life, always hanging by a thread. Until I moved back to my parents at age 23. They had moved to a miserable island far away from all my friends. Got an apartment on that island close to my parents, but my issues continued being the same level of awful, up until about age 27.

What this has to do with my autism is that... uh, I basically understand it as that it impedes on my executive function really dramatically, and like although I can physically do pretty much anything, mentally I just somehow can't. Especially repeatedly, and often enough. Like I can't keep any routine for the life of me, not even simple shit like sleep cycle, eating habits, brushing my teeth, etc. Let alone school or a job, or even hobbies. Everything is infrequent and too seldom, if at all. So everything in my life keeps falling apart as I basically have no foundation to stand on, and I get sensory overload suuuuper easily. So like just going shopping/cleaning/laundry/hobbies/school/anything for half an hour can drain me significantly and make me incapable of managing doing anything else for the rest of that entire day. It's very hard for me to explain, but it's like I only ever have 3 spoons per day, but most things requitre 10+ spoons, so I go backwards on my energy resources a lot and end up having to rest for DAYS after just one hour's activity.

At age 27 I ditched the social service caretakers, as they were seriously depriving me of my privacy while being largely unhelpful, and I began to finally try to pull myself together. I still get a lot of help from my mom, with anything from paying my bills and grocery shopping, to driving me places and dealing with soul-sucking authorities for me. This takes off a lot of the burden and allows me to manage doing at least a few things on my own, like working out, cleaning (yay I manage keeping my apartment clean nowadays!), laundry, occasional shopping, art projects, online socialising, etc. I still go to therapy biweekly but it's still largely unhelpful. At least I managed to make them stop tossing me around between departments like a football though, and I'm still gonna try to get some proper trauma therapy, and maybe also look into that adhd group I was promised last year, if it'll ever resume again post-corona...

I've still never had a job in my life and still have incomplete grades. But I got permanent sickness compensation now, so that's neat. At least I don't have to worry financially. I'm also trying to get started with some "work training" stuff which is basically "pretend work" for people who can't work, just to have something to do. I'll most likely be granted acces to that. However, it seems irony is that most of those are located out in the middle of nowhere where no buses go, and I can't afford a fucking car or driver's licence because I can't work. Mom probably won't drive me several times a week for that. Fucking fantastic. Makes me almost wanna kill someone... argh! Those little things really piss me off.

Life is absolutely not going the way I want and I blame my autism for it, mostly. I am drowning in frustration, and my anger issues making me scream my lungs out in pure despair, shows that. I'm considered offically disabled due to my autism, and it just fucking sucks ass. How lonely, under-stimulated yet easily over-stimulated, bored, meaningless and unfulfilled my life is. There are far more severely autistic people out there who somehow manage to live far more functional lives, and I'm jealous of that. I dunno how to break free from this misery. It feels like the only thing I've ever managed to accomplish in life is transitioning genders, and making art that I don't wanna sell. I wanna have a "normal" job, a car and driver's licence, I wanna have cats and a social life, I want parties at night clubs again, I want hobbies outside of my home; hookups, friends and lovers; I want to be able to have a functional romantic life with someone I can marry and start a family with.

But is any of that ever gonna happen? I hope so, but it feels bleak. Because my autism feels like such a huge burden on my life, and a huge hindrence to my dreams and goals... like I'm over 30 already and still a disabled and having my mom living half my life for me, miserable mess and not given any useful therapy, I'm left to my own vices to figure out how to adult... Because of all that, I hate my autism and I wish there was a cure, I swear to fuck. So for your question, how I deal with it: not fantastically. Not sure if you wanted a relay of my entire life, but I hope that’s okay! Didn’t know how else to answer your questions.

[furyfought]

abernathy is a small town, surely you’ve met AGATHA KLEIN ; they can be a little IRREVERENT & OPPORTUNISTIC but have no fear , the TWENTY SEVEN year old definitely makes up for it by being IMPISH & SENSITIVE . most of the time anyway .  they’re usually seen around KLEIN & ASSOCIATES, LLC , as a CRIMINAL DEFENSE ATTORNEY . you know, i hear they’re affiliated with the local mc, iron kings as an ATTORNEY . they’ve got this vibe of A HEART GROWN RAVENOUS, A CYANIDE CENTER ENCAPSULATED BY SACCHARINE FRUIT, AND A SOUL IN THE FORM OF A SCRIBBLE WITH FANGS going on , makes them easily recognizable.

loosely inspired by jennifer check (jennifer's body), wendy byrde (ozark), ginger fitzgerald (ginger snaps), elizabeth sloane (miss sloane), john silver (black sails), & BBHMM.

+ pinterest, stats.

hey, friends. i’m devin (or dev) & very tickled to be here. agatha’s a combination of two of my favorite muses, and i can only hope that you’ll love her as much as i do. 🤎

"𝐇𝐄𝐑𝐄, 𝐈 𝐀𝐌 𝐆𝐑𝐀𝐂𝐄𝐋𝐄𝐒𝐒. 𝐍𝐎. 𝐖𝐎𝐑𝐒𝐄 𝐓𝐇𝐀𝐍 𝐓𝐇𝐀𝐓."

agatha’s story isn’t one that she likes to tell anymore. she feels it’s useless: to be defined by the actions of others, to attempt to battle the preconceived notions that run rampant regardless of what one says or does. she doesn’t want to beg for understanding anymore, or to claw her way from beneath the filth she’s made of her life. all that most know is all that she can bear to have known. the rest? it’s confetti; a meager concession in a game of chess. if you know her, is that a fact or a weapon to be used against her?

when it comes to the stories that can be told, however.. perhaps the most important is background. agatha’s an abernathy native: raised in grandiose park, flew the coop for college, only to settle back down in bordeaux apartments. klein & associates, llc. has been in her family for generations, each forefather serving increasingly questionable clients. agatha’s life, like that of many kleins before her, was already planned before she’d ever even been a thought in her parents’ minds. under her mother’s rule, there wasn’t any room for straying from that path. agatha would be smart; she would be clean; and she would be, without fail, someone. in other words, she would be her perfect replica. imagine the disappointment when agatha was anything but. 

agatha’s childhood can be summed up by three things: a door slammed shut in her face, an ear-piercing howl, and the chronic longing to go home — wherever that was. it’s another thing she doesn’t talk about, another thing she tries not to think about. those three things have followed her into adulthood, but they’ve taken different forms now. no longer is agatha a child screaming her throat raw — no; now, she cries out in other more productive ways. if you were to ask her, she’d tell you that she’s a woman grown; the past is behind her, buried in the sand where it belongs. the truth is trickier, less absolute. agatha is a child in the form of a woman; forever in the midst of a metamorphosis, unsure if for better or worse. she lacks foresight & lives largely in the now. she can’t imagine a future for herself and her choices in life reflect that.

agatha succeeds because she’s pretty, powerful, and convincing. wherever she falls short, her father is sure to more than make up for it. it’s amazing what people will do for the right price, and when they want to keep certain secrets from ever seeing the light. nepotism & immense privilege have done wonders for her, but she does.. actually work hard, too. she has an incredible memory & is really good at digging for more information & making her case. if she tells you that she’s going to do something, then she’s going to do it right no matter what. she’s dogged in that way, blinded to the outside world by her stubbornness. she works long hours & values her career above all else. she thinks it’s the only sure thing she has & views it as the one stable, secure thing in her life.

agatha is lonely to the point of defect. she lacks a sense of security in her life, which is why she’s so career-focused. she genuinely thinks that the only person ever looking out for her is her dad. she becomes very predictable once you realize that she will always pick the winning team; that she will forever follow the money; and that she is always going to make the decision that most benefits her. that isn’t to say that she doesn’t have any friends omg, but.. she doesn’t really trust easily. if she trusts you and considers you near and dear to her heart, then she’ll choose you. but until she has that reassurance? you’re on your own, bro. 

but like.. you literally would not know that unless you got burned by her. agatha is really good at listening and really good at playing parts for people. the thing with having no story is that she’s free to create her own. if you need a hero, she can be that. if you need a villain, she can definitely be that. she’s eerily good at getting chummy enough to make people think she’s close, only for them to realize.. they don’t actually know anything real about her? fun stuff. 

i think.. her entire life is a vie for power while also wanting to let go of that desire while also being afraid of what might happen if she were to let go of that desire. she’s not tht bad. she can play decent, be a guy’s guy. and she does come off tht way. it’s jus.. underneath there’s tht like .. tht rot tht she can’t scrub away. n it rears its ugly little head smtimes. but. :^) she can be cool n shoot the shit u kno.. heheh.

anyway.. lighter stuff<3 puts the gaslight and gatekeep in girlboss. talks just like her daddy, except for when she’s in the courtroom. egocentric without ever meaning to be. (spoiler: it’s a smoke screen.) she can, must, and will find a way to twist your words into something she can make sense of. believes in mixed drink supremacy. will absolutely smoke all of your weed + play dumb about hogging the blunt. plays dumb a lot actually, until it’s time to be smart. she’s touchy-feely, but freezes up whenever someone touches her. stares — a lot. can’t ever be the person to pick you up after a rough night out, because she’s likely there with you egging you on to do one more shot. every event is a tits out event / she has to be the most overdressed person in the convenience store at all times. can, must, and will be your unsolicited sugar momma. YOU SPIL-DBFDHFDJHBF LIPSTICK IN MY VALENTINO WHITE BAG? energy. thinks everything is a competition because it is. if she loved you once then she loves you forever. thinks going 20 over the speed limit isn’t speeding, actually. a bit of an emotional anarchist. can’t actually take what she’ll dish out. teases u if she likes u. teases u if she doesn’t like u. doesn’t care abt the feud as long as she’s gettin’ tht shmoney. big fan of an emotional sucker punch. 

"𝐌𝐘 𝐖𝐀𝐍𝐓𝐈𝐍𝐆 𝐒𝐄𝐄𝐌𝐒 𝐋𝐈𝐊𝐄 𝐈𝐓𝐒 𝐎𝐖𝐍 𝐀𝐍𝐈𝐌𝐀𝐋, 𝐀𝐍𝐃 𝐈 𝐀𝐌 𝐀𝐋𝐑𝐄𝐀𝐃𝐘 𝐀𝐍 𝐀𝐍𝐈𝐌𝐀𝐋."  + below are some ideas open to any & all muses no matter the age, gender, affiliation, etc !

i’ve left how she got involved with the mc totally absent from this intro bc i was hoping to plot it out! i’d love it if someone wanted to be her “in”. could be they were a childhood friend in need of help, a client she got close to, jus smth tht happened by chance.. whtever we come up with works! <3

if anyone needs an evil ex gf .. She’s Here. she will lie, cheat, scam, trash yr car, empty yr bank account.. whtvr you need, baybee<3

conversely.. not-so-evil ex gf? agatha can be nice & caring without there being a catch sometimes. maybe they still talk. maybe they’re friends. u tell me.

fwb / ex fwb? she do be sending them ‘u up?’ texts. 

someone tht agatha only got close to bc she wanted them to testify/be a character witness in court oopz<3

omg actual friends pls.. ppl tht Know her. tht See her. ppl tht she cares abt n would actually do anything for. friends!!!!!!!!!!!!

agatha has “get off my lawn” energy so i think it would be very funnie if someone needed a place to crash n she let them stay at hers thinking it was temporary n then they jus.. did not leave. n she’s like 🤨 hello?

an almost smth? anything weird n awkward n unspoken tht maybe fizzled out or maybe still lingers under the surface?

agatha doesn’t have a budding drinking problem but if she does no she doesn’t but if she does then<3 drinking buddy? someone that she’s gotten into questionable shenanigans with? poor bartender tht has to deal w her trying to “help” them as she waits for her uber to come? the possibilities are endless.

agatha’s all bark n very little bite but i still think it’d be funnie if she had a hateship. jus putting tht out there<3

if yr muse wnts an ego boost via unrequited crush.. lmk. i’m willing to hulk smash all of agatha’s dignity jus for u.

omggg a dealer? >.> who said tht omg #hacked.. 

on n off again thingz? lorde wrote tht "i am my mother's child i'll love you til my breathing stops / i'll love you till you call the cops on me" line abt her</3

budding friendships!!!!!!! ppl tht she goes to pilates or yoga with; people she gets brunch with; ppl she keeps running into n its like heeey u :); little platonic crushes jus . all of the cute platonic thingz tht make her go wtf is this 🤨. 

i mean.. if anyone wants a sugar momma.. I MEANNN..

college friends!! law school friends!! ppl she met over the summer while interning somewhere!! i left tht purposely vague, hint-hint.

tinder dates gone wrong. ghosted tinder dates. tinder thingz.

agatha’s been attending galas / banquets / office partiez for ages now so if anyone wants to be her plus one or her lil fake date... :^) could be cute. cld be angsty. world is our oyster. 

speaking of which.. coworkers n maybe even a lil personal assistant would be so sexie.

[bittybattybunny]

You know what? This has been on the back of my mind for awhile, but PLEASE EITHER POST A LINK TO YOU GOING OF ABOUT YOUR SOUL EATER WORLD BUILDING HEADCANONS, OR RAMBLE AWAY HERE BECAUSE I WANT TO HEAR YOU TALK, ESPECIALLY SINCE PART OF ME WANTS TO KNOW WHY YOU LOVE THE TRASH SWORD!!!!!!???????

KLFSJKFJKDSFKFD

THIS

THIS IS NOT THE ASK I AS EXPECTING TO GET

UMM

UUHHH

I DONT HAVE IT ANYWHERE ONLINE ABOUT WHY I LOVE HIM UM

I NEVER

THOUGHT SOMEONE WOULD ACTUALLY WANT TO KNOW??? UM UM IDK IF I CAN PUT IT ALL IN LIKE ONE POST??? IT'S UM

well, I have a lot of headcanons but the long-short is I just think he’s neat.

Um alright so since you specifically asked tho about Excalibur I can ramble a lil on my thoughts on him??

Alright buckle up; I have no idea how long this will get. Please understand I have been a member of the soul eater fandom since yen plus started translating it into English.

I do not really interact with the fandom (not really sure why I never did/do. I guess it’s just cuz when I got into the fandom I didn’t really have access to fandom spaces and by the time I did I wasn’t really sure about it.)

however, I have cosplayed as both Eurka Frog (and I met Todd Haberkorn!!! I chased him to an elevator and threw a fanart at him and then ran away. I did get him to sign a piece the next day. he’s super nice. I am very distressed I missed a chance to get a signed piece by Troy Baker and I really cannot express how upset I am by this. Like honest to god I am so upset. I had been in line I was ready I was so pumped-- and then my friend was like hey let's go he has a thing tomorrow you can do it then and like an idiot, I did and guess what wasn’t the next day? a troy baker signing. Sighs. He’s not been at any cons I've attended since so I’m so disheartened I will never get my annoying sword autograph) As well as Maka Albarn (IDK if I posted photos or not but I think it’s on my cosplay blog or on twitter)

Anyhow onto Excalibur and why I think he’s a pretty neat character.

We’re going into a read more cuz this is LONGGGGGG

Also Obviously I am going into spoiler territory

I pull info from both the anime and manga when it comes to my personal SE HCs. This is more evident in my Shinigami-Sama/Kishin headcanons but I’ll save those for another post if there’s actually an interest in it (as well as my Chrona is a Genie hc. that one is a shorter HC but yeah.) My friends who’ve sat and listened to me (and my sister who knows the show but isn't invested like I am. Like fun fact is even tho I don't do much fanart; anytime I see soul eater cosplayers or merch I like to get it.) say I’m pretty convincing so lol.

So Excalibur as a whole is set up to be this hella annoying, talks over you, egotistical, member of the great old ones, warlord of anger, most powerful weapon.

(ﺧ益ﺨ) 

in both the anime and manga he’s shown to always seem to stick to the same points when he talks. His legend begins in the 12th-century blah blah.

And his ridiculous list to become his meister.

Which set him up to be as you put “trash sword”

But I think it actually helps open something up.

So I, myself am a rambler when I’m nervous or excited. I will reiterate points when I’m frightened or upset (for my I tend to ramble on stupid factoids like octopus or my chronic illness)

And I kinda see this in Excalibur. Not a nervousness per se but that he’s purposely putting up a barrier between him and others.

He’s lonely.

He’s willing to cut down on the list of requirements for Kid and Black Star. Even with Ox he was asking to be taken. And He did partner with Hiro for a time.

He’s been in that cave for a long time. Since Asura pretty much.

How does a weapon who can pair to anyone and is as powerful as he is get shoved into a rock and left there just because he’s “annoying”

This always bugged me.

More so when we get moments later on when he’s like chatting with Death or Kid and he’s actually really serious. Like there’s no pretense, no interrupting. Like yes he does slightly interrupt when they aren’t listening or say something dumb but for the most part you see a completely different side to him.

This is what cemented in my head the fact the whole “annoying” bit is an act he does. He’s capable of emotions. He shows attachment to things like his legend.

Specifically that bit always made me think he really misses King Arthur. Like why else would he always fixate on that? like his legend begins sure but there’s more to it right? he never talks about his time with Shinigami and the old ones. Only his legend and then how he was such a wild child. but it lacks substance. The guy is over 800 years old there should be more he can ramble about.

So here’s where my headcanon takes a weird turn

but I think Excalibur.

Is the sorcerer Merlin.

A man born with a Grigori Soul and the ability to use magic. It’s shown Eibon and Excalibur tended to not get along. and Eibon based the demon weapons on Excalibur but wouldn’t tell him.

Excalibur isn’t counted as a demon weapon. he’s a holy sword.

There is no other record of a weapon like this.

I think Merlin, in an attempt to help his dear friend Arthur with his battles, turned himself into a powerful weapon to aide him. He’s an old one with the power of Madness of Anger. Anger can take many forms including possessive love. Wouldn’t it make sense for someone who knows they are strong to do everything they can for their loved one? I know I’ve been angry enough to kill for the ones I love. Like nothing makes me angrier than someone hurting someone i care about.

I think he was heartbroken to outlive the king. Clearly he doesn’t age and is super focused on the 12th century. I think it really hurt him.

Moving to another point

he’s selfish. Egotistical. but i think it’s another front. Like yes he has some pride obviously. But all his stories involve other people. Shouting fool at anyone who who deems worthy of the name.

People won’t care if you get hurt if you’re a dick.

You can’t get hurt if you aren’t close to people.

If not evidenced by my AHIT oc Eclipse and my baby Kai; I’m a sucker for self sacrificing in the name of love because you don’t see yourself worthy or love. (this is more self projecting than anything but I’m not gonna unpack that here)

I think Excalibur is the same way. he demands to walk in front of people. he wants to be the center of attention. But he won’t get close to others. He’ll take the burden on of being annoying and strong so people focus on him and others can sneak around.

So to sum up my personal headcanons:

Excalibur is a sorcerer named Merlin who had a powerful grigori soul and turned himself into a weapon to aide the man he was close to (and yes I’m 100% suggesting he had romantic feelings for Arthur. but Arthur was for Guinevere so he stood to the side and let them be) He plays up being an asshole because he doesn’t want to lose another person since he outlived Arthur.

Also i didn’t clarify the reason I say he has a grigori soul is due to the facts we know about them. Wings, Halo, purifying, rare. these traits are shared by Excalibur when he’s wielded. I think it’s a pretty cut and dry reason for why I say this ya know?

So Why do I like him?

I think he’s a character who gets written off as a joke superficially but when you sit and reread the manga or rewatch the anime and pay close attention to him; there’s actually a lot there to unpack and enjoy. I think he’s a deep character who puts up a front to protect himself but slowly warms up (I mean heck he’s clearly running around by the end of the manga. and people aren’t screaming)

So thanks for coming to my ted talk I love Excalibur and I don’t care if I’m the only one who does.

Also if curious, my fanstory “Fuller” which has my oc Mira and Excalibur as the main focus actually takes place post Manga and stuff.

Um I guess tho if you want to hear my two cents on anything else soul eater you can ask too I have a bunch of other theories like how Kishin are actually a race not just demonic souls and how soul types show there’s more in the world than we get shown (like look at Free. He’s an immortal werewolf. what’s up with that? and Maka had a Genie hunter during a resonance which means those exist and then there’s teh thing with witches and then blair is a weird existence and just. look. I have a lot of feelings for this even tho I don’t post much on it.)

I just love soul eater okay

[legendofzeldaalinktothepast]

Pathetic, Clinging Poetry - Chapter 1 (of 25)

After escaping from the control of her mother, Pearl struggles to adjust to her new life. Her main source of comfort is an old composition notebook of poetry about her ex-girlfriend, and the possibility that she can find her again. 

Human AU. 

Trigger warning for implied abuse. 

Next Chapter 

*

When you embraced me, I felt like my feet could sink into the earth, And I was a flower who'd just sprouted. Yet I'd never been more free. 

*

Anxiety bubbled up in Pearl's chest as she glanced over to the backpack sitting in the corner of her room. She let out a sigh; she still couldn’t believe what she was about to do. Her heart ached for Peony, who she'd tried to convince to come along; but her sister insisted she couldn't bring herself to leave their mother all alone. Every now and then Pearl had considered staying behind just so Peony wouldn't suffer alone -- but she shook those thoughts off right away. She couldn't put this off any longer.

She rose to her feet and stretched, and then went over her mental checklist one last time. She'd packed just about all of the necessities, and enough bottled water and snacks to sustain her for the long car ride ahead. She'd deleted every photo and every last app on her phone; bringing it along only made it easier for someone to track her down, so she planned to leave it behind. All that was left was the tattered composition book Pearl stored beneath her mattress. Once she'd fished it out and slipped it into her bag, Pearl took a deep breath. 'This is not your fault. You wouldn't be doing this if you didn't have to. If she wanted you to stay, she wouldn't have given you so many reasons to leave.' Pearl silently reassured herself.

Slinging the bag over her shoulders, Pearl pushed her bedroom door open and tiptoed down the stairs as quietly as she could manage. A stair inevitably creaked here and there, but not loudly enough to wake anyone.

Pearl froze up once she reached the front door. She tried to reach out for the doorknob, but couldn’t bring her hand to move. Instead, she pressed her head against the door and let out a tiny whine. 'God, I wish I didn’t have to do this… Too late to change my mind now, though.' she thought, brushing a tear from her cheek. After finally pulling herself together, Pearl slowly turned the doorknob and pulled the door open -- flinching as it squeaked -- and stepped out into the chilly spring night. She locked the door behind herself -- hesitating one last time -- before she hurried out to her car and drove off.

*

The first night was unbearable; Pearl knew she shouldn't complain, though. Compared to many others in her situation, she was fairly lucky; she at least had a place to run away to. The couch wasn't even particularly uncomfortable, either; just the unfamiliarity of her surroundings and the chronic cold sweat from her anxiety made everything around her unpleasant.

She sat upright, smoothing out her matted hair; at least she was far away from her mother. That was what mattered more than anything. The sun began to shine through the window, and Pearl whined and buried her face back into her pillow. She'd probably gotten an hour of sleep, if she were to stretch it.

"You alright?"

Pearl flinched at the sudden voice, but she relaxed once she realized it was only Jasper. She was watching her from the doorway of the living room, a somewhat concerned expression on her face, a cup of steaming tea in her hands. "I wish I could say yes." Pearl responded, her voice just above a whisper.

Jasper reached for the string on the tea bag, moving it around in the cup. "Yeah, that's what I expected. And don't take this as me trying to bring you down, but don't expect to feel better right away. You're probably gonna feel like garbage for a while." she said; she took a sip from her cup and winced. "Ouch. There go my taste buds." she mumbled, blowing on the tea in an attempt to cool it off. "Anyway, once it passes –and it will,— you're gonna be glad you got yourself outta there."

Pearl sat upright, putting her head in her hands. "I really can't thank you enough for doing this." she said in an attempt to change the topic. "When I asked you if I could stay with you, I didn't think you'd say yes. I'd just been planning to live in my car until... I don't even know." she continued. "So... when you said yes, I really felt like I’d been blessed.”

"Pfft, please. I'm just doing what any decent human would if they could." Jasper said, setting her mug on the coffee table and sitting down beside Pearl. "Besides, it gets lonely around here. Sure, I've got my sister, but still. I've missed you."

Pearl couldn't help but blush. "Is there anything you'd like me to do while you're gone?" she asked.

Jasper shrugged. "I dunno. Don't burn the house down. Make some brownies or something."

"No, I'm serious! Give me a list of chores or something, I don't want to stay around here and be a burden on you!" Pearl insisted, clasping her hands.

"Pearl, just relax. You haven’t even been here for a whole day, and if I remember anything about you from high school, it's that you're clean as can be and eat like a bird. I don't think you're going to be a burden on either of us." Jasper said, resting a hand on Pearl's shoulder. "Just... chill."

Even though it should have been comforting, Jasper's stubbornness only frustrated Pearl. She got antsy when she didn't have anything to do... Even if there wasn't anything Jasper wanted from her, perhaps she could find something to clean or organize after she left… "...Alright. I'll focus on myself today -- or at least try to."

"Good. That's what I wanted to hear. I don't want you to do a single chore today, alright?" Jasper said, standing up and heading out of the living room. She stopped right in front of the doorway, glancing back at Pearl. "Except brownies. You should make brownies."

Pearl smiled and rolled her eyes. "Of course. I'll make my special recipe."

"Who the hell are you talking to at six in the morning?” a voice called from upstairs.

"Really, Ame? You forgot Pearl was here?" Jasper called. “I’m just making sure she’s comfortable before I go to work.”

"Oh, right." Amethyst peered into the living room from the top of the stairs, her hair a tangled mess. "Welp, I'm going back to bed, then. Nighty night, nerds."

"Nighty night, butthead." Jasper said. Once Amethyst had retreated back to her room, she turned back to Pearl. "On top of not burning the house down... Try to be quiet for Amethyst. She usually sleeps til noon and gets unbearable when she doesn't get her full twelve hours."

Pearl smiled. "I don't think that'll be a problem."

"I didn't think so either." Jasper said, continuing into the entry room and grabbing her coat from the closet. "Well, I gotta work now, as much as I'd rather stay here. Feel free to help yourself to whatever food we have. See you around four."

"See you later!" Pearl said, waving to Jasper as she headed out the door. Once she was gone, she flopped back down onto the couch and buried her face into the pillow, hoping to block out the sunlight that way. Talking to Jasper had helped her relax a bit, so maybe she’d be able to get a little sleep... The more she laid in silence, however, the more her mind was free to race, and she definitely couldn’t afford that. So she dragged herself to her feet and rubbed her eyes, groaning as she forced herself to stretch. Perhaps she could perk herself up with a little tea and catch up on sleep later...

* 

The sweet, chocolate scent of brownies filled the house; Pearl hummed to herself as she put on a pair of oven mitts and pulled the pan out of the oven, placing it on top of the stove.

"Oooh, watcha making?" Amethyst asked, her mere presence causing Pearl to jump in surprise.

"J-just some brownies." Pearl said, trying to hide just how much Amethyst had startled her. She didn't want to make her feel bad when she’d meant no harm… "They're for Jasper, but you're welcome to have some as well."

"Aw yeah!" Amethyst said with a grin. She grabbed a knife and cut out a huge slice of the brownie, attempting to scoop it onto a plate; but because it was still hot, it all fell apart into a pile of mush. She simply shrugged; "What matters is the taste, even if it's ugly." Amethyst said. She grabbed a fork from the dishwasher and sat down at the table, taking a bite. "Ouch, fuck, hot!"

Pearl stifled a giggle; what was with these two constantly burning their tongues? Did it run in the family or something? "Yes, well, it did just come out of the oven."

Amethyst rolled her eyes, taking a sip of water to cool her mouth off. "Yeah, yeah. Anyway." she began once she recovered, giving Pearl a curious-yet-teasing look. "So uh, what's your deal?"

Pearl was startled by the suddenness of her question; what was that even supposed to mean? "My... deal?"

"Yeah. I mean, Jasper didn't tell me jackshit about why you're even staying here. At first I thought you guys were banging or something, but then I wondered, why'd she make you sleep on the couch? Is it some obscure fetish I'm not aware of?"

Pearl blushed, cupping a hand over her mouth. "Dear Lord, no!" she gasped. Amethyst burst into laughter at the reaction, which only flustered Pearl even more. Amethyst apparently had no filter whatsoever... "She... Jasper allowed me to stay here because I needed to get away from where I was living. She was kind enough to give me a couch to sleep on."

"Mhm." Amethyst said once she recovered from laughing, wiping a tear from her eye. "And where were you living before?"

'She sure is nosy...' Pearl thought. "With my mother. A few states over. She was... very controlling. I couldn't stand to live with her any longer, so I ran away." Pearl said.

"Aw, that sucks." Amethyst said, taking another bite of her brownie; she looked a bit uncomfortable, as if she hadn't expected Pearl's answer to be that serious. "Sorry you had to deal with that shit. Also, these brownies are good as fuck."

Pearl tucked a strand of hair behind her ear, sitting down at the table across from Amethyst. She was somewhat thankful for the awkward change in conversation Amethyst had proposed. "Oh, thank you. I came up with the recipe myself! Or, well, I took another recipe and altered it until I thought it was perfect." Pearl said, resting her arms on the table and twiddling her thumbs. "Lots of chocolate chips is what makes them so gooey."

"I can tell. You're way better at this than Jasper." Amethyst said, resting her elbow on the table. "She always either burns or under-cooks her shit. You should give her cooking lessons." she teased, pushing her plate aside once she'd finished.

"Aw, well... I wouldn't want to be condescending." Pearl said, glancing to the side.

"Pfft. Not like she's never condescending." Amethyst said. "Also uh, I'm being super nosy again, and you can tell me to shut up if you want..." she began; Pearl tensed, praying Amethyst would have some common sense and not ask anything too intrusive. "But how do you know Jasper? Like, she's never mentioned you before. I mean, she barely tells me anything about her life, but I feel I’d at least have heard your name at some point. But it’s almost like she just pulled you out of thin air.”

Pearl couldn't help but let out a tiny sigh of relief. That wasn't the type of question she'd been expecting. "Oh, we used to be very close friends a while back. In high school, to be exact. But when I started doing home schooling instead, we sort of drifted apart. We hadn't really talked for years, up until a few weeks ago when I found her on Facebook." Pearl smiled softly. "As soon as she accepted my request, I explained my whole situation to her. I thought my chances were slim, that I'd have to just live in my car or something -- and it would have been completely reasonable for her to tell me no, so... I was really thankful when she said I could come stay with you two."

"Hm… That’s kinda weird of her. She never seemed like the type to just let an old high school friend come and sleep on our couch.” Amethyst said. "That said, she hasn't kicked me outta the house yet. But I guess I have an advantage because I'm her sister."

Pearl rose from her chair, tiptoeing over to the cabinet and grabbing a box of plastic wrap. "It's strange, because I don't even remember Jasper having a sister. How much younger are you?" she asked, covering up the tray of brownies.

"Like, three years. But I got adopted when I was fifteen and she was in her senior year of high school." Amethyst said.

"Ah, that's why I probably never heard about you, then." Pearl said, trying to hide her surprise; that would mean she was twenty three! Amethyst looked far younger than that, but perhaps she shouldn't have assumed. "I got pulled out of high school in the middle of my junior year -- I was a year ahead of Jasper."

"Lucky!" Amethyst said. "High school was absolute hell for me. I begged my parents to let me do home school, or at least go to a different school, but they insisted I stay right where I was." she pouted.

"Well..." Pearl began, but trailed off. She'd already overshared enough to Amethyst; she wasn't sure she was comfortable telling her the actual reason she'd been taken out of high school. "At least it's over now. I know high school can be hard. It wasn't exactly easy for me, either -- but I won't compare it to your experience, because I don't know what it was like for you. Still... I went through quite a bit of bullying for being a lesbian, among other things as well, b-but it was mostly because I was a lesbian. Jasper and my girlfriend, Rose, were the only friends I really had.”

"Yeah, I get you.” Amethyst said with a shrug. “I got treated like shit for being bi, too. Maybe not as bad as it could've been, though, because everyone knew Jasper was my sister and would beat the shit out of anyone who went too far. Still though, girls in my gym class always thought I wanted to fuck them whenever I breathed in their direction." She snorted, rolling her eyes. "It was so annoying... and honestly creepy. What's with homophobes thinking they're so hot?"

"Ugh, I know! That happened to me, too!" Pearl said, giggling. "It was plain ridiculous, honestly. The fact that I already had a girlfriend wasn't enough for them to believe I wasn't interested, I guess." Pearl shrugged, putting the tray of brownies in the fridge. She wasn’t sure where Jasper would prefer she put them, but she didn’t want to take up too much space on the counter. After that, she grabbed a wet wash cloth from the sink and began to wipe off the counter.

"Aww, look at you, cleaning up the kitchen like a good house guest." Amethyst teased. She peered into the sink, noticing it was empty. “You even washed the dishes already, dang.”

“Of course! I wouldn’t want to leave everything a mess.” Pearl said.

As Amethyst watched her, she tapped her fingers on the table for a few moments before speaking again. "So, what are you planning to do today?"

"Probably just... Focus on relaxing, I guess. And cleaning. Not that your house is messy, it’s very nice, it just – it distracts me from worrying." Pearl blushed, hoping that didn’t come off the wrong way. "After that, I might do some reading, and maybe even some job searching online if I get the chance."

"Pfft, that sounds kinda lame." Amethyst said. "You wanna hang out with me and some friends instead?"

"Oh, certainly not today. I don't think I would do well with a crowd... I'm still adjusting, I suppose." Pearl said, shyly wringing her hands. "But I appreciate the offer. Maybe another time we could work something out."

"Alriiiight." Amethyst said, as if she didn't fully believe Pearl's response. "But if you change your mind, just lemme know. I'll be up in my room now." she continued, going up the stairs.

"I'll certainly let you know if I do!" Pearl responded, but she had no intention of doing so. Amethyst seemed nice -- although a bit nosy at times, but with good intentions -- but it had been a little over a decade since she'd done anything close to "going out". If she were to ever consider doing something like that, it would have to be long after she'd adjusted to her new environment... 

[the-storyteller-and-her-soldiers]

Basics About My Persona 5 S/I

So what I have right now is that I am an American transfer student to Shujin Academy. They give me honor student 'privileges' because of the grades I had back home and they think a feel-good story about a girl recovering from her chronic illness and thriving in Shujin will boost their reputation.

I live close to the school in a tiny apartment with my best friend Ace who goes to college and acts as my guardian, should anything happen! (My mom's on a trip.) People often mistake us as sisters! We're so close I sometimes call her my sister!

I'm still my excitable and explorative self but due to being in a completely new environment I am very formal. (As in I may call someone the same age as I 'Mr/Ms.')

I then get embarrassed because that's American etiquette! But I brush it off and still make friends and try to be nice to those who may not! (Like Ryuji and Ren when he first transfers)

Ann is my first real friend in school because she can still somewhat understand what it's like to be an American transfer despite being in Japan much longer. Plus I really admire her in how she confronted Kamoshida during the assembly but didn't want her to be lonely beforehand due to the rumors!

I end up becoming a member of the newspaper club and act as a student reporter for Shujin as an extracurricular.

When the phantom thieves become popular I act as a confidant and help Mishima run and translate the phan-blog!

I only stumble upon the Metaverse once which is Kamoshida's palace but Ryuji and Ren just throw me out since they don't want me hurt (since everyone knows about my condition) and make me swear not to tell! That's how I become a confidant and am able to hear Morgana!

I tease Morgana about his appearance in the metaverse since it's ADORABLE! I also love to tease about adopting him!

Outside of school I'm much friendlier and outgoing since I don't feel as pressured! Which earns me the nickname of social butterfly from Ace.

Ace is usually almost always with me outside of school at least until I'm settled in, as a protective sister!

Another reason why Ace is always with me is because I will end up getting distracted by kitties and will end up following them until I get lost... whoops!

Here's my s/i:

And as a bonus, here's Ace: