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specialagentlokitty · 3 months

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Mr Evershed x teen!reader - weight of the world

Part 1:

Sitting on the step to the school, you ran a hand down your face, pinching the bridge of your nose as you tried to fight back a yawn.

“You’re late.” Someone spoke.

You grumbled a little, looking up at the man.

“Well no shit Tim, guess who was fucking up all night somewhere under Ackley bridge because I was sent on a wild goose chase!” You hissed.

He raised his hands, sitting next to you on the step.

“Look, I’m just the messenger here kid, I’m told to tell you where the words are, that’s it.”

“Yeah, well I couldn’t get all the way through so I have to go back down tonight, finish the last half. I found a passage to cut my time a little bit.”

He nodded his head.

Reaching into the pocket of your blazer, you pulled out some old paper and you opened it, taking the pen from you pocket as you drew along a path.

“This route here was pretty active, like a lot more than normal.” You explained.

“Do you know why?”

“My guess? Maybe someone else has recently been there, I’ve no idea.”

Tim nodded his head, taking the pen and map from you, and he circled a certain part of the map.

“We have reason to believe you’ll find the word here somewhere, or in the nearby area.”

You sighed, taking the pen and map, putting them back into your pocket.

“I don’t even want to do this, just send somebody else I don’t care.”

“You’re the only person who can do this kid, I’m sorry.”

“Yeah yeah the whole world rests on me, without me everything is gone. Yeah.”

You pushed yourself up from the step, and you looked at your phone for the time.

“I’ll go finish this now so let the old bastards know that their little pet is doing what I’ve been told.”

“(Y/N) seriously? Come on?”

You stuck your middle finger up at him as you made your way back towards the reception so you could leave.

“Hey! Hey!” Mr Evershed called.

He set the papers down he was holding on the desk, setting his cup down as well.

“(Y/N) you can’t just walk out of here.”

“Watch me because I can.”

“Let’s talk about this first, please?”

You waved your hand dismissively at him as you pushed the front door open, making your way out.

“(Y/N)!”

“I’m busy!”

“And you need to be in school!”

You didn’t reply, you just made your way to the gate, pushing it open so you could step outside and you carried on down the street.

It didn’t take long to walk to where you needed to be, and you held your hand out to open the doorway before entering.

You couldn’t be bothered to do this, and you didn’t want to do it but you had absolutely no choice at this point they were going to be on back for however long this took.

The one before you had died trying, and they had been training you since you were a kid for this whole thing.

It took hours for you to finally get to where you had to be, your body ached from being thrown around, you had numerous cuts and injuries, but finally you stood in front of the wall.

Your eyes scanned over the words until you found one drawing your attention and you stared at it for a few minutes, finally burning the word into your brain.

You left, making your way to the body of the creature you had killed, and you pulled the mask from its face, picking up the staff as well.

Did you need it? No. But it was pretty cool looking, so you took it, along with some other things you found.

You found the exit, and left, coming out on the other side of Ackley and you found it was dark.

Thankfully you lived closer to this side, so you walked home, making your way down stairs to your basement, you set the staff on the table, and you put the mask on the wall with the others.

Heading back upstairs, you took a shower, ignoring the stinging of your wounds, and you held your hand out, a small golden glow circling them, closing them and healing them into small scars.

Getting dried, you changed into some more comfortable clothes and headed back to your basement.

Looking at the larger map, you drew a small X on it where you just been, looking at all the others.

Pulling up a chair, you sat on your knees as you began to flick through some reports that you were given to read.

How they had managed to fuck up twice all those years ago was beyond you, now their problem was your problem and you didn’t want it to be.

Setting the reports down, you got up, taking the staff into a different room, and you set it on the enchanting table, flicking through the pages of a book to find the right one.

You grabbed a stone, and set it on the table as well, whispering the ancient language to transfer the power from the staff to the stone.

The staff broke, and you grabbed the stone, carefully placing it in a holder, taking a slip of parchment to write what it was and placed it behind it.

You tossed the bow broke staff in the corner with the others, and you made your way upstairs to the sofa to lay down.

The dog in front of the fire whined a little, his tail thudding against the ground and you smiled, patting your stomach.

“Come on Meeko.”

He barked, jumping up to jump on you, making you groan in pain, and he laid down, resting his head on your stomach as you ruffled the fur on his back.

You were always exhausted so for you sleep came easily, and you didn’t wake up until the morning light came filtering through the window, and your alarm resounded through the room.

You sat up, turning your alarm off and looked at the time.

“Come on Meek, let’s get breakfast.”

The dogs ears perked up and you smiled.

“You want breakfast buddy?”

His tail waged a little bit, and he peered up at you but didn’t move his head.

“Oh does the silly boy need his morning kiss?”

Meeko wagged his tail even more and you smiled, leaning down you kissed his head, and he sat up, stretching before lazily following you to the kitchen.

You made his breakfast first before sitting down with yours, nibbling at the bread as you gathered your other uniform from the dryer.

Putting it on, you let Meeko out the back for half an hour, sitting on the step as you watched him happily run around the garden.

“So, how did it go?” Tim asked.

You titled your head back up at him.

“Fine, I got it.”

“Good, you just need to practice it now. Which was it?”

“Aura whisper, pretty useless to be honest.”

“Well, anything helps. Let’s go, you’re in enough trouble as it is.”

You sighed, calling your dog back inside, and you grabbed your bag, swinging it over your shoulder.

It only contained one object, but that object was important, so you couldn’t let it ought of your sight in case any trouble happened.

“I still don’t get why I have to attend school.”

“Because you need to blend in. That’s what the greybeards said. You have to blend in while working here.”

“Still don’t get why it’s so important…” you grumbled.

You climbed into the car, putting your seatbelt on.

“Because this is going to be the site where the gate to the heavens is going to open, that’s the day you’re going to have to fight him.”

“I already know the prophecy.”

You turned your attention out the window.

“Exactly, so you need to take this seriously (Y/N). You are the chosen one, the dragonborn. This is your destiny.”

“I know, okay? Trust me I’ve been reminded of this my whole fucking life.” You snapped.

Tim sighed, glancing at you before turning his attention back to the road.

“I know this isn’t what you asked for kiddo, I know it isn’t fair and it’s not right, but I swear I did try get them to push this further down the line, but they’re insistent that it has to be done. You have to make sure you’re ready now.”

“We don’t even know when this event is going to happen… it could be weeks.. could be years… could be after I’m dead…”

“I know, but the greybeards want you to be ready. They want you to be fully trained for when it does happen. They’re thinking of you.”

“They’re thinking of themselves. You can speak the language why can’t you do it?”

Tim sighed again, pulling his car into a parking spot in front of the school.

You climbed out, and he followed you over to one of the benches in the reception, sitting down next to you.

“I can speak Dovah, yes, but not like you. You have the soul of a dragon (Y/N), which means you’ve got the power to end this.”

“So did the previous dragonborn, didn’t do them much good now did it? No, they just sent Alduin forward in time like the one before them.”

“That’s why I’m working on fixing whatever enchantment they used, okay? I’m going to make sure that I have all the pieces.”

You looked at your mentor, and he smiled at you.

“I know you want a normal life, and I’m really sorry you can’t have one.”

“I don’t even know why I’m disappointed, I should be used to it.”

“No, you shouldn’t. It isn’t fair, okay? It isn’t, no amount of pressure should ever be put on a teenager, especially not this. But the. The weight of trying to take lessons and pass exams? That’s not fair.”

You shrugged a little bit, resting your head back n the wall as you closed your eyes.

“It is what it is.”

Tim sighed, standing up as he took your bag.

“I’ll keep this in my office.”

You just nodded your head, listening to the sound of him walking away, and you opened your eyes, staring up at the ceiling.

You were angry.

Not with Tim.

He had been the only person in your corner for as long as you could remember, but with everything else.

With your ancestors for messing this up, with Alduin, with the mages running around, the secret communities who aren’t doing much to help you, the greybeards, yourself.

You just held resentment towards everything and anything.

You didn’t want any of this.

Taking a deep breath, you crouched down, leg bouncing up and down as you stared at your hands, covered in small scars, one large one going over the back of your right hand.

No teenager should have to carry this amount of responsibility, these amounts of scars.

“Good morning (Y/N).”

You looked up from your hands.

“Mr Evershed.” You greeted.

He pointed towards his office and you nodded, getting up to follow him.

Walking inside, you stand down in one of the chairs while he draped his jacket on the coat hook, setting his bag next to his desk.

“Are you ready to talk about yesterday?” He asked.

“Yeah I guess.”

He nodded, sitting down.

“So, would you like to tell me what happened? Why did you leave a few hours into the day?”

“I was tired, just wanted to go home and sleep really.”

“(Y/N) that’s no excuse to leave the way you did, I understand you may be tired but so are most of the students in this school. Not only that but you’ve been leaving most of your lessons, you never do your homework. You only moved here last year yet you’re quickly becoming one of the biggest red flagged students here.”

You shrugged a little.

“So what? My grades are fine right?”

“Yes but that’s aside from the point. You can’t behave like this, and I am going to have to place you in resolve for the day.”

“Fine, okay. I’ll go to resolve.”

“That willingly?”

“I did wrong, I know that. Why deny something I know I did and waste both our time?”

He sighed softly.

“Is everything okay?”

“Yeah, it’s fine. Why?”

Mr Evershed gestured to the side of his head.

“Because you’ve got a bruise here, if you’re having problems with a student, somebody at home you know you can talk to me right?”

You furrowed your brows a little, pulling your phone out so you could have a look.

He was right, you had a small bruise on the side of your head, going past your hairline.

You put your phone back into your pocket.

“I’m not having any trouble with anybody, I fell on the sofa so maybe my dog accidentally hit me with a toy or something, he does that sometimes.”

“This is a safe place (Y/N).”

“If that’s everything I’m going to resolve.”

You got up, leaving the room and Mr Evershed sighed to himself again.

You had been at the school for just over a year now, and yet nobody could ever get you to open up, you just weren’t interested, you had a cold hard stare that could rival any soldiers and he was sure of it.

Most teachers were concerned about you but with no hard evidence of anything they couldn’t help you or figure out what was going on.

All he could do was go to resolve later on to check on you, make sure that you were still there and working like you were supposed to be.

For now, he would just try get in contact with your guardians to see if he was able to hold a meeting with them about your behaviour and lack of interest in anything

#ackley bridge #ackley bridge imagine #ackley bridge x reader #ackley bridge x you #mr evershed #mr evershed x reader #mr evershed imagine #mr evershed x you

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fullmoondagger · 2 years

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WHAT I LEARNED FROM MY LATEST ART BLOCK ABOUT CREATIVITY AND EXISTING AS AN ARTIST:

Hi so Hi I'm Fullmoon and I'm a digital artist and a writer (@fullmoondaggers-art) and from last november/december to april/may I have been in a mortifying creative block that was AGONIZING to say the least. My art's back now although it's at a very small pace but . I'm free ! (or back into my cage?)

I'm making this post mostly for myself but also to share this experience with others because that may be interesting or helpful? Please do take everything uder the cut with a grain of salt I’m merely a creature spilling thoughts about my own experiences and ideas . Love and Light

Some people may scoff at me because 6/7 months of art block may be nothing to them but it was a LOT for me- I never had such a long period of no art juice and it was very disorienting and horrifying.

For as long as I've been able to hold a pen and had to survive through the torture that is school, I've been drawing. All day long, everyday. Doodles on the edges of my notebooks, on scraps of paper when teachers took away my notebooks, and on my arms when the teachers took away my scraps of paper. I drew my little characters, then my little ponies, and I will forever look back at how terrifyingly productive I was in 2016. How did I manage to put out a fully lined and colored drawing almost every day after school ? While gay?

Jokes asides I've always drawn, and fast. Everyone seems impressed with how fast I draw, myself included.

(WHAT do you mean you drew this in 8 hours? wtf Luke)

And I used to draw all the time. When I wasn't playing games or watching shows, I was drawing.

And all of the sudden, it stopped. Creativity juices stopped flowing. Might have been caused by some personal events, and me stepping out of a fandom to other interests that is feeding me less in terms of nooks in which my art fungus can grow (the BATIM fandom rules. Genuinely. Legacy of Kain also has so much to offer), but either way, I was entering a very uncreative moment in my journey as an artist.

It hit hard !

I was getting anxious about opening SAI. I was getting anxious at plugging my tablet in my laptop. I could NOT do anything creative. Even when I got short spurs of ideas I would just give up and close the program, because it wasn't worth it anyways, no one would care, no one would want what I had to give, because my art didn't look professional or didn't stand out as much as it should. I was very deep set in the idea that uploadable art was fully lined and colored, colored sketches could be acceptable under some strict criteria. Let's not even talk about fic, I'm still very much a beginner, and the topics I like to write about aren't very elevated anyways.

1- THE ART OF TRICKERY

Brains are mischievous little machines, but once you understand that you're above it, it's nothing but a roach under your heel. I had to redirect my creative drive to something else than art and writing, so I tried my hand at HTML, a tiny pathetic bit of 3D modeling, painting patches for my jacket etc.

SAI and Tablet were making me anxious? Well, What about mouse and MS Paint? Why not try Adobe Flash ? Pencils and watercolor makes you shit? Ballpen and scrap paper. Grow up. This cool artist uses Paint 3D to work, why not give it a shot? Try some new ways of sketching, new fun art styles to mess with.

(Animated on Adobe Flash as a little test, I had a lot of fun !)

It was baby steps towards some recovery, and it did help ! It took me a while, but I was finally able to open SAI and draw and ENJOY it.

2- THE ART OF SEEING YOURSELF

What do I create for?

I draw for myself, for my horny little ideas, my cool character designs, to get out some funny things that are inside my head, to put my favorite characters in situations, to make them look hot as shit. I draw for other people too, sharing is important and vital as a fandom artist on the Internet. I want my art to be seen and enjoyed by other people who also enjoy what I'm creating about. I make to share, I don't want most of my art to be seen by only myself. I don't draw for fame, although being mildly known in my tiny little niche communities would be nice! It's not something that I cling to too tightly.

What is my artist identity ?

Early 2000's cartoons, 90's Anime, 2010's Internet, Art Nouveau, 1930's cartoons, Symbolism, Medieval art, BDSM/Kink, some French Comics, throw it all in a blender, and you get a blurry image of me.

Things are a bit difficult here. I don't feel like I have an "art style". I love to try new things, new techniques, new shapes. My art pieces rarely resemble each other, which is something I'm very self conscious about and I'm learning to accept. The thing is, every other artist around me has that Thing that makes their work so recognisable, and I don't feel like my art has that "Oh, that's Fullmoon" spark. At first I thought something was wrong with me, but I think it's really only a matter of perspective, I don't see it because I don't have the step back from my work to do that.

I wish I knew what makes me unique as an artist, but also I don't think it matters that much.

3- THE ART OF NOT GIVING A SHIT

(Little edit I smashed together somewhere near the peak of my art block, just because I wanted to see Applejack and Arthur Morgan hanging out. I think they’d be besties)

Art block taught me to Let Go. I couldn't draw anymore, and I felt like I was free from something that had been cursing me for so long but also completely lost without my shackles. I didn't really have an outlet for my Needs to fidget and make things and share them, and I was feeling like I would never be back to where I used to be in art. But also I knew it was cyclical, just like everything else in life is, and everything would fall back in place in due time. Sometimes you need to not give a shit if something turns out ugly or unperfect or never gets finished ever. keep them tucked in a corner and pull them out when you feel like you could have a better shot at them. It's OK to give up ! If you don't feel it's right, if you're not enjoying the process, just Let Go. If you're enjoying it regardless, just keep on going, the beauty of creation is that it's about fun and discovery. Nothing is eternal, and projects come back from the dead.

(Original idea from my art block VS when I picked it back up when i got my power back, lineart done on Adobe Flash because SAI was still too intimidating to me, and also lining on Flash is FUN)

4- WHAT DID THIS BRING ME

I think I have a very different approach to making art now. I don't draw every day, but It doesn't weigh on me that much anymore, as it should. I make things for fun, I don't want to aim for a masterpiece every time I pick up my tablet and turn the music playlist up. I draw whatever I want to, because I'm in impossibly niche communities anyway, so whoever will see it will see it, and I love them for that. I'm able to let things sit for a while and pick them back up later, which is VERY HARD for me in general. Maintaining a brand is bullshit and will kill you.

I’ve been writing again as well, and while I don’t think it’s too important, it’s fun !!

I have fun making things and learning things, and I have discovered new things I probably wouldn’t have gotten otherwise;

- I can roughly animate on Flash !

- I have a website I wrote myself !

- Painting on fabric is very fun actually !

- So much anime and manga. God

- I can sit back and feel Okay about not being an art machine !

I say that as a horrid little hater, but I think it's so important as an artist to cherish and adore everything you make. Give passion to the world and it will give it back to you in other ways. Play Soul Reaver

#dagger.txt #ok to reblog I guess #very messy but its just raw thoughts

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bluefirewrites · 3 years

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i gotta Juke AU story

————

this is inspired by this one filipino movie i watched “para sa hopeless romantic” but julie and luke go to the same uni and julie writes a random line of lyrics on a schools desk and luke writes the next lines when he’s in his class. the next day julie sees someone finished her lyrics and they end up having a finished song throughout the week. they obviously end up falling in love with each other’s words but one day the desks in that classroom were thrown out so julie and luke try and find the desk and run into each other only for Luke to find out it’s Julie, his crush since the beginning of school, and Julie finds out it’s Luke, they boy who she’s been eyeing ever since she’s first seen him. honestly this is all over the place. this is just another random college au. tehe

I DID NOT KNOW THIS WAS FROM A FILIPINO MOVIE!

I have much more pride in my culture now you have no idea haha! But no really, Filipino movies can be the cheesiest, silliest, most cliche things I’ve ever seen. And I mean that endearingly.

So it makes total sense that this super cute trope that I see popping up in different fandoms came from a Filipino movie.

I think I’ve seen an iteration of this on AO3 and it was super cute! (But I think it was more like leaving a piece of paper on a desk).

But yes, yes , YES.

Juke is the perfect ship for this.

Hmm... I think it would be an interesting take, because my mind went to Luke first, if it was Julie who would start it- yes I agree with you.

It is canon that Luke helped Julie finish the song that she had been working on with her mom (’Stand Tall’), so might as well run with it.

Maybe during her quiet year, where she didn’t sing or play piano, she often found herself doodling a lot. She kinda threw herself into drawing. It was her creative outlet that brought her comfort during these rough times.

She’d have trouble paying attention in class sometimes, and so she would end up doodling.

Now, I used to have a history class that frowned upon doodling in notebooks. The notebooks would be graded, and if there is a non-history, non-relevant doodle in the margins or anything- you get points docked off.

So Julie, like me, tried remedying this by doodling on post it notes to avoid getting in trouble.

But one day, Julie forgets or runs out of post it notes, and she’s only got her history notebook and textbook with her. And since she has no qualms marking up her jeans and shoes, she thought she’d be discrete and doodle on the desks.

Not like anyone would have a problem with that anyway. These desks are old af and scratched up and had doodles on them already.

She would start drawing her usual stuff- funky creatures, bubble letter-ed profanities, etc.

But then she starts thinking about her mom, she starts doodling dahlias and even a rose in one corner. Memories start flooding back and she starts absentmindedly writing down a lyric of a song they never finished, just bits of pieces figured out:

‘Don’t blink...no, I don’t want to miss it’

She didn’t think to erase it. Just grabbed her stuff and went to her next class.

The following day however, she pulls out her post-notes (after getting more) and is about to doodle when she sees a new scribble on the corner of the desk where she wrote her lyrics.

Squinting, she realizes those are words (geez, the penmanship sucks). But she was able to make it out:

‘One thing, and it's back to the beginning’

It’s written right under her line. And she reads them together-

Wow. This sounds... pretty good.

She quickly jots this mysterious new addition to the song in her post-notes, but not before giving writing another shot and provide another line. Curious, if she would get another response.

She does.

And it’s perfect.

It’s been a year, a year since she felt the urge to write, to think about music- but, when all the lyrics fall into place, Julie is suddenly inspired to continue.

She spends the entire class thinking about how to reply, how to keep the momentum of this song going.

When she gets it, she writes it down underneath the new line. And waits.

And like clockwork, next day she sits down and there’s a new addition.

First verse done- Julie couldn’t believe it.

Smiling, she records it all and had to erase everything from before to make more room.

‘Thanks’ she writes ‘Keep going?’

The reply the next day has her grinning from ear to ear:

‘I’m game :)’

And that’s how it goes: Another day, Another killer line.

Julie would rush from her next class, confusing Flynn who did not think she would be so excited going to history, smile on her face, anticipating another message from this mystery writing partner.

Sometimes, she gets too caught up in her head, eagerly thinking up new lines that she often doesn’t watch where she’s going. One time, she pretty much embarrassed herself while bumping into the cute Luke Patterson in her rush to History.

(She practically fell on him and he tried to talk to her after, but she jumped out of his arms before whatever awkward conversation that was bound to happen if she stayed).

Julie and her pen pal would keep working on the song, even came up with a system to let each other know if they’ve finished a verse.

And sometimes it’s not just lyrics. Julie draws her normal doodles next to her lines, and she’s delighted to find even more ridiculous ones waiting for her when she gets back.

There was one time when she’s had to stifle a laugh because a crude caricature of their History teacher in their corner, yelling out the next lyric:

‘I'm goin’ out of my mind!’

(Glad to know someone else shares the same sentiments about their strict history teacher.)

They finish her mom’s song and Julie’s glad... grateful even. But she couldn’t help but feel disappointed... assuming it’s over.

But come Monday the following weekend, her pen pal decided to leave another line-

‘Running from the past... Tripping on the now’

and a new comment:

‘My turn now?’

A new song, and Julie grins, already coming up with ideas...

She loves writing again, especially music. Sparked by this exchange, she eases herself back into listening to music again, looking for inspiration to use for the song she and her mysterious partner are working on.

And writing with this person... is really something else.

But Julie’s favorite part of the whole experience really is the comments written on the upper corner. Stuff like:

‘This part is killer!’

‘Mindreader, much? :P’

‘Wrecking ball at it again. So talented :)’

and her favorite:

‘You make me a better writer...’

She ducks down so no one can see her blush as she writes back:

‘I think we make each other better...’

Flynn one day tells her straight up she’s got a crush on her pen pal, to which Julie denies because how could she have a crush on someone she doesn’t even know.

But as she thinks about it.. she feels like she does. Or at least know enough to establish this sort of connection that feels like they’re in each other’s heads, know how the other person thinks, inspiring the other.

It was... special.

Flynn suggests that she needs to figure out who is leaving these notes. But it’s hard seeing as though Julie has the class in an earlier period, a bunch of other classes are held in the same room after she leaves.

(Flynn tries a sting operation, but ends up getting caught ditching class before she could solve the mystery).

Julie’s worried though. As much as she wants to figure out who this great pen pal is, she wonders if they would be disappointed to find out they’ve been writing her. And not someone as cool and as pretty as Carrie Wilson or her friend Kayla. It’s hard to live up to those expectations.

In the end, she wants to know. At least so she could maybe thank them in person, for helping bring music back into her life and for making history class the highlight of her day.

She decides this right before they break for Thanksgiving. She writes down:

‘I wanna meet you. Can we talk?’

And she’s on pins and needles the entire break, just wondering what her pen pal would say back. ‘Yes’, ‘no?’.

But what she finds when she comes back from break is so much worse than the fear of rejection.

They got new desks.

Their school finally got their shit together and replaced their old, worn down desks.

‘No, no, no, no, no’.

That means she’ll never know what her penpal end up replying...

She runs out of class and finds Flynn, panicked, she tells her what happened. And Flynn does some digging, and she’s able to find out where the janitors dumped the old desks.

Julie totally underestimates just how desperate she is in finding out the identity of her pen pal because she finds herself sneaking back to school at night with Flynn, seeking out the lot behind school where the dumpsters were piled high with the old desks.

Flynn, the ride or die she is, armed with a flashlight, starts taking out the desks along with Julie, and there are... a lot of desks.

They go at it for an hour, and the situation starts to look hopeless, especially when Flynn discovers a whole new set of dumpsters with desks that they haven’t even checked yet.

They’re about to throw in the towel-

But then they hear voices.

Quickly, they hide behind a dumpster right when three guys, with flashlights, come onto the scene.

“Dude, I can’t believe we’re here at this hour-”

“Oh my god. There’s like a boatload of stuff here-”

“Guys. Can you not? And please help me? It’s gotta be here somewhere”.

They sound... familiar. They were definitely not the custodians.

Risking it, Julie leaves her hiding spot-

“Luke?”

Luke Patterson jumps and whips around to face her, “Julie?”

Behind him are his bandmates, Alex and Reggie. Everyone looks at each other confused.

“What are you doing here?” he asks.

“I...uh, I’m-” Julie stammers, “Well-”

Flynn cuts in, “She’s looking for something,”

Luke nods, “Really? So are we.”

Alex scoffs, “Nope. Just you, dude. But we’re helping.”

“Maybe we can help you too?” Reggie offers, “What are you looking for?”

Julie sighs, “... a desk?”

“Well... you came to the right place...” Luke laughs, shining his flashlight on the dumpsters, “Funny enough that’s what we’re looking for too.”

“One in particular?”

Then the guy gets all clammed up, “Uh... yeah. I think... I might have... left something... in it. Something important.”

“How about we all look together?” suggests Flynn, “Help each other out?”

And so they exchange the descriptions on the desk, with Julie leaving out the glaring obvious detail of the note.

They’re surprised to find out that they’re looking for the same kind of desk. The ones they used in a particular building at school, the same one her history class is in.

So they break off and search. And she ends up in the same dumpster as Luke.

“So what’s in your desk?” he ends up asking.

“Huh?”

“You know... that’s so important that you’re here on a Friday night, digging through a dumpster,”

“Right... uh,” Julie scrambles for an answer, “There’s something on- I mean, in the desk... that really helped me. I was going through a hard time. Lost my mom last year-”

Luke stops his search, “Oh, I’m so sorry-”

“It’s okay. I just...” she sighs, finding another desk that looks like hers but not quite, “I just want to find it...”

“I get it. Hopefully we can find your desk.”

“Hopefully we’ll find yours too,”

After another 20 minutes searching, Julie finds it. At the very bottom of the dumpster. Luke’s face lights up once she brings it out.

“Oh my god, you found it!” He exclaims, hands gripping the edge to take it off her hands.

She tugs it back, “Yeah... I found it... my desk,”

“Your desk? But this is my-” he breaks off, eyes widening, “Wait. Are you...?”

“Am I what?”

Luke drops the desk, clears his throat, and starts reciting:

‘I believe... I believe that we're just one dream...’

Julie gasps, then continues:

“Away from who we're meant to be...”

Then together: “That we're standing on the edge of...”

“...great.” Luke finishes, in awe, “You! You’re ‘Lyric Girl’!”

“You’re my pen pal?” Julie says in disbelief.

Luke Patterson has been her pen pal this entire time? The cutie with the cutoffs? It makes total sense. He’s in a rock band and the songs she’s heard from them have amazing lyrics.

Wait... she has been lowkey crushing on Luke Patterson through his words...

“Wow, it’s you! Luke... wow...” she honestly has no words. They used to come easy to her when she talks to him via the desk, but now, after finding out that the local heartthrob is her writing partner, she’s super nervous.

“Look... if you’re disappointed that it’s me... I get it. I’ll give you an out, and you won’t ever have to talk to me again-”

“Julie-”

“-like this is weird- this is weird right? But I mean what we had was nice and all-”

“Julie, can you-?”

“-we don’t ever have to talk about this if you don’t-”

“Julie!” He reaches for her hands and intertwines their fingers, shutting her up.

“Yeah...?”

He takes a deep breath before saying: “Why would I ever be disappointed that it’s you? I’ve... got like a mad crush on you since freshman year...”

Julie choked, “Wait, what?”

“Voice of an angel and wicked beauty to boot? How could I not?” he smiles, “And... finding out that you’re my mystery muse is just... you don’t know how happy that makes me.”

His smile drops and he’s all the sudden bashful, “Wait... are you disappointed that it’s me?”

She shakes her head, “No, no! That’s not why! It’s just... you’re this rockstar in the making! I didn’t think- I didn’t think you’d ever pay attention to me.”

“I do... I do pay attention,” he looks down at their desk, “Well... maybe not enough attention, otherwise we would have met sooner.”

She laughs, “Totally,”

They stand there for a while, grinning at each other like idiots.

“So...” Julie decides to jump the gun, “Do you... maybe wanna grab something to eat?”

Luke raises an eyebrow, “Are you asking me out, Julie?”

She blushes, “Maybe,”

“Interesting,”

“So what’s your answer?”

He leans in, “Might wanna look down,” he whispers.

She does, right on their desk and finally reads the reply she’s spent weeks thinking about.

‘Tell me where and when...

I’ll be there...’

Needless to say, but that from that day on- they don’t need to use their desk to talk anymore...

#this... has been sitting in my inbox #and finally I have answered!#I LOVE THIS CONCEPT #giving me the same vibes as my imaginary friends penpal juke idea #i guess this means i just... love Dash & Lily #julie and the phantoms #jatp #julie and the himbos #juke #palina #juke-box #julie x luke #luke x julie #julie molina #luke patterson #how many times am i gonna sneak in 'wicked beauty' in whatever I write?

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beerecordings · 3 years

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Okay, here is part three of the latest Marvin's Cage story. Find the whole story so far here Let me know if you enjoy! Thanks for reading. Tws for mentions of possible cannibalism, mentions of past torture, panic attacks, and imprionsment . Light through the side of his box. “Marvin, Marvin,” he mouths, soundless, tears in his eyes. “Brother, brother.” Marvin does not come. “Jameson,” the soft voice is calling. “JJ. We won't hurt you, I promise."

No. This is not right, not right! This has never happened! He clutches at his hair and bites down on the collar of his shirt, tears racing down his face. They need to go away! They're not supposed to be here! They're not supposed to know! Marvin will be so, so, so angry! He can't do it again, can't go back to being alone alone alone alone. His skin so untouched it hurts, so he scratches at it, at his lonely skin, his lonely bones. Marvin will not touch him hold him call him little brother. He can't go back. Makes his brain so numb and then so crazy. Can't can't can't. “Jamie, breathe, Jamie – ” “Give him space, dude! He's scared of us. Jameson... just... he's really just – ” “Marvin did this to him!” He flinches at the loudness of the voice, biting his collar til he feels thread tear. No, no, no. This is Marvin's worst nightmare. His brothers know about him, and they're angry at Marvin. Angry at Marvin who was just protecting all of them, who takes care of him and loves him. This can't be happening. They need to understand. How does he make them understand? How does he even try to explain when his heart is beating so hard it hurts all the way up to his throat and he can't stop crying? This is why you can never fight Anti off, sneer an old pair of hands in his head. You're the most pathetic little creature ever to walk across the earth. Of course Marvin locked us away. Him and Anti are both right. “I'm sorry, I'm sorry,” he signs desperately. “Brother, brother, M! Please! I want M!” “It's been so fucking long since I took that BSL course. I'm the worst brother.” “Don't start, Jackie, shit. I don't think I ever bothered trying to learn for more than, like, two Youtube videos. Schneep would know. He learned it in about three days and he doesn't forget things.” “Brother – that was brother, I remember! Yeah, JJ, we're your brothers, dude. I mean, if you want us to be. Can you just – please, breathe.” No, they don't understand. These are not JJ's brothers. These are Marvin's brothers. It's a term of endearment more than anything technical: the relationship does not transfer. Marvin always made that very clear and JJ understands. Chase and Schneep and Jackie are not dangerous like he is. Chase and Schneep and Jackie do not have to live in cages, and they get to come find Marvin whenever they want, and they can have things like their own money and lots of friends. They can walk around the city at their leisure. See the sky. Have jobs. Walk around stores and talk to girls and make friends. They pick out their own food and books and toys. They're nice people who have never killed anyone or stabbed each other or made Marvin so upset that he burned their faces on accident and left them alone for days at a time. Schneep is even a doctor who saves lives, and Jackie is a real-life superhero, and Chase has babies who love him. Of course Marvin had to keep them safe from JJ. He's just grateful that Marvin never listened to him when he would beg to get out. Marvin even took care of him when he could have so easily left him to rot like he deserves. “JJ, JJ, please. You can trust us. Didn't you say you remembered me? Please, please, I'm begging you – come here.” Yes, of course he remembers Jackie – remembers the warm voice trying to calm him for hours, and the gloved hand in his own, and the presence watching over him as he drifted close to sleep, the safe and loving presence. How could he forget it? Some days, it is all he thinks about. But it's not something he can have. No, he won't come out. He won't risk making Marvin angry, and he certainly won't let Marvin's brothers get hurt because of him. He will stay here alone like he has to. He is a good boy like Anti told him, like Marvin told him. He is good and he is not hurting anyone ever again. He is staying right here. “Fine, I'll go to him,” comes a vehement voice, and then someone is pushing at the broken wood around his door. Jameson sucks in a wheezing scream and darts behind the curtain over his little bathroom, shoving himself between the wall and the toilet

and squeezing himself into as tight a ball as he can manage around his little stuffed dog, the first present Marvin ever brought him. Jackie can't come in here – neither of them can! Anti will kill them! “Jackie, he's freaking out, stop, stop!” There's a low howl of frustration, but no one comes any closer. His box falls quiet again with nothing but soft murmuring from Marvin's brothers as JJ sobs, biting at deep scars in his palms, the result of being possessed on repeat by a demon with a passionate love of any kind of blade. His hands raise the knife – no hilt. The blade goes down, goes into his palms, goes down, goes into his palms. Goes into her chest. He can hear her screaming. Can hear himself laughing. There's blood in his mouth that isn't his. His birds are already picking at her as she suffocates around the silver of the knife. The bugs are creeping onto her flesh and crawling up his shirt. No, no, no! If Marvin would come – if Marvin would quiet the memories like he always does – But Marvin does not come. Marvin does not come find him. Alone, alone, alone. “JJ, JJ,” they are calling to him, begging at him, but this is not something he can let himself have. He'd rather die right here. No, no, no, no. He is not going anywhere. Ever. His little stuffed dog is licking at his face. He closes his eyes and rubs its fur til the panic fades. His good dog, good boy. He drifts in his head. He's playing with his dog in the yard. Marvin is on the porch reading. The sun is warm. His dog licks his face. He is staying right here... everything is okay... there you go, JJ. There you go. There's a good little brother. You know how much I hate to see you cry. Cut it out, okay? I don't want to hear that anymore. Be good and I'll come back tomorrow. Be good and stay right here. Yeah, he's good. He's good. And when he's good, Marvin comes back again. Marvin will come back. . The soft scrape of cardboard on wood wakes him. He sits in the darkness behind his privacy curtain. Things are quiet again. “I wish he would just...” “I know. But you can't stay here all day.” “Well, neither can he!” “Shhh, keep your voice low. He obviously does, I mean...” The voices devolve back into incomprehensibility, too soft for him to understand. He wipes at his ruddy, weary face and sniffs, curled up against the side of the toilet. He's a little germ freak, as Marvin says, but he doesn't have to worry. He cleans everything every morning so Marvin will not think he's messy. The decorations are always dusted and straightened. He wipes the toilet and his little mirror down, and the sink too, so it's clean when Marvin comes in to shave him on Wednesdays. He isn't allowed to have a razor in here – Anti will try to cut him up again – but Marvin takes care of him anyway. The bathroom smells like their shaving cream and the lemon scent of his cleaners, stacked neatly on the shelves in his back-left corner next to his laundry: Marvin's clothes and some old t-shirts and sweatpants. He isn't allowed to wear anything that isn't Marvin's. Marvin has to be the one to put it through the wash, and if his brothers saw it, they would ask why he was washing things that did not belong to anyone in the house. JJ lets out a tired sigh, a little soothed by the quiet and the reminiscing. Marvin takes care of him. Still, he wants to know what that sound was. When Jackie and Chase's distant voices stay distant, he squeezes his dog for courage and creeps out from behind the curtain, blinking at the light of his sun lamp. The leaves of his plants and the lead in the drawings on the walls gleams quietly in the yellow glow. His place, his things, his presents from Marvin and pictures of Marvin and his shared space with Marvin. Maybe when he comes to see him, they can lie down on the mattress and have a nap, or play some games, or watch pictures on Marvin's magic screen together. Yeah, he feels better. Yeah, there's my tough guy. Stop crying, JJ, I mean it. He gets to his feet and sneaks over to the sill of his box where Marvin sometimes leaves him

things. There's a little pad of paper on his shelf, the sort of book you might use to make grocery lists or notes to pin up on the fridge. He pulls it towards himself, looking right and left for one of Marvin's brothers to leap out at him, but nothing happens. Hi, JJ,reads the first page, in messy, crooked handwriting. My name's Chase (I'm the one in the grey shirt) and Jackie is the one in the red hoodie. He doesn't know what a hoodie is. He glances down the way Marvin usually comes from and can still hear them talking. I'm sorry if we scared you. We're still figuring out what's going on. You don't have to get close to us if you don't want to (but I promise we won't hurt you if you do). I thought it would be easier for you to have a pen and some paper. Is there anything you need? Or anything we can do to show you we are on your side? Do you remember us? I also left some food by your door. It's perfectly safe, I promise. I will eat some with you if you want. Please don't be scared. We aren't with Marvin right now, or Anti. We are not going to let anyone hurt you. If there is anything we can do to help please tell us. I hope you do remember us a little bit. If you don't, though, we want to say hi! Maybe you can write me back? The paper is all for you. - Chase There are some smiley faces and even a little drawing of the plate of food on the paper. JJ glances over at his door. A dish with rice and meat is tucked on the plate alongside fat slices of oranges, a neat line of bright green cucumbers with ranch drizzled on, and a big sweet-looking roll with pecans. His mouth waters. He listens for Marvin's brothers one more time, and when they're still far away, he steps over to pick up the plate and brings it back to his mattress, sitting down and eating with relish. It's hot and fresh and home-made, better than he remembers food tasting. Most of the stuff he gets is take-out from a restaurant or leftovers. Not that he minds! It's just a lot of tasty food. He's eating faster than he means to, scooping the rice up with his plastic silverware and tearing the soft bread of the roll between his teeth. Meat between his teeth – hot flesh, red blood – Anti's smile is crimson and beaming, his own eyes are wild with delight – cannibal – No, no. He hugs himself for a few minutes and goes through the breathing exercises Marvin taught him. He's okay. He does not eat all the beef, but he eats everything else, scooping up the leftover ranch with his spoon and licking his fingers clean of the orange juice and sticky frosting from the roll. His stomach hurts with how full he is. It's a good feeling. “Jameson?” He jerks upright, pupils blown. A figure leaps back from his window. “Sorry! I just – I was just checking if you wrote me back or – sorry, I'll give you some space...” He backs away again. Jameson grabs at his chest, shuddering. Sudden voices in his box only ever mean Anti until today. And Anti – Anti hurts him. Even when they're playing. He doesn't think Anti ever learned how not to hurt someone. He thinks that's why he plays like that – testing his limits. Interested in human suffering as a primary characteristic. He plays with the edge of Chase's note, trying to think. He hasn't talked to anyone but Anti and Marvin in so long. What would Anti say? Pet, look, he's almost as pretty a present as you were. Oooh, but already a scar in his head. Who wants a scar on him I did not put there? Hm. Still pretty though. He looks like my master. Tell him to come over here and snuggle with us, Jameson. I will wrap my hands around his throat and see if he chokes the same way Jack does. Jameson chews on the end of his pencil, sighing. They need to stay away. What would Marvin say? Who, Chase? He's my baby brother. I guess I was always pretty attached to him. I was all jealous when Jack added Schneep, and I do snap at Jackie a little when he ticks me off. Chase, though, he's my – he's my little brother, you know? He's a special person. Well, anyway, it was him you stabbed the night I had to lock you up. Within about five

minutes of finding you, you stabbed one of us. I started to imagine what would happen if we just let you roam free and... you get it, right? Why I had to? Yes. Of course he does. This is what he needs to express. He clears his throat and sets his pencil shakily to paper. Dear Chase, Thank you for my dinner. It was very tasty. You are a good cook. I do remember a little of that night you all found me, but not much. I was rather unwell. I am dearly sorry for stabbing you and I hope your shoulder has healed well. I should not like to stab you again, but I do not always have a choice. Unfortunately, despite Marvin's best efforts to find a way to help, I still fall victim to possession against my will. Please leave me alone so I do not stab you or your brothers. If you will get Marvin for me he will know how to fix the box. I am not bothered by your presence but the thought of what might happen to you is very alarming. It would be in the best interest of you and your family to kindly exit this place and leave me to my own devices. There is no need to be concerned about anyone hurting me, though I appreciate your worry on my behalf. Thank you for your time and understanding, and, again, for the food. Sincerely, Jameson Jackson There. That's okay, isn't it? Maybe? P.S. I would like to see Marvin very much. Is he all right? Thank you. Okay, there. Then he will not have to wonder. Hopefully everything's okay and Chase can go bring Marvin for him. Then things will go back to normal. Things will go back to... To normal. Normal is good. Normal is... His box is quiet. The light gleams on the leaves and the lead. There are scratchmarks in the wood where he has tried to claw his way out during breakdowns. He closes his eyes. Things will go back to normal. He can never leave. He lets himself drift off in his mind again, walking in circles around his box with his eyes closed. He's on a beach with his dog and a big family... little kids come running up to him and he picks them up and plays with them in the ocean, yanking them back from the waves or ducking them under the water while they shriek in delight. The sun is so warm and the sand is hot between his toes. Marvin is suntanning on the beach while Chase and Jackie play in the sand beside him, and everyone is laughing. His box is dead quiet. Not even the wind to keep him company. Alone, alone, alone. . “I'll kill him, I'll kill him.” “Jackie. Breathing.” “I'll – oh, he – I'll tear him to pieces, look at this, he – I'll kill him, I'll destroy him, how could he...?” “Jackie. Jackie.” Chase is so tired he doesn't even get to his feet to try and calm Jackie down. He's slumped across the couch of the living room with Queenie on his stomach, kneading her claws into his t-shirt and purring. Her belly's all swollen with kittens, but instead of becoming more reclusive like a normal cat mother, she has decided she wants to be on top of someone twenty-four hours a day. Chase scratches her ears and sighs. “How could he do this?” groans Jackie, for perhaps the hundredth time today. Chase still doesn't have an answer. Jackie is clutching JJ's note in his hands tightly enough that he's definitely torn a hole or two in it. “He made him think he has to be – he has to be in this box. He – he won't come out to me. He won't come out to me.” Chase reaches for Jackie's jacket, catching his sleeve, and tugs his brother down onto the couch beside him. “Jackie. This note – it could be good news.” Jackie looks at him like he's finally lost it. “Hear me out! I know it's... not great that he seems to think he really does have to stay in there. But Jackie, look, he's not scared of Marvin! What if we jumped to conclusions about how this went down?” “He locked my little brother in a box,” says Jackie flatly. “But what if JJ asked him to do that?” Jackie blinks and looks down at the smudged note. “He... does seem to think he's dangerous.” “And, well, he is, isn't he?” “Don't say that.” “Jackie, it's just facts. Er, not JJ, I mean. Anti is the dangerous one, but he uses the

little man like a weapon. That's not his fault, but it's the truth. He did stab me that night.” “Anti stabbed you!” “Yes. But he used JJ's hands. Jackie, is it so wild to think that maybe JJ was just so scared by the things Anti has made him do that he actually asked Marvin to help him protect us from him?” Jackie's eyes water. He shakes his head. Chase sighs and touches his brother's shoulder. “It still wasn't right of Marvin to do what he did. He definitely should have talked to all of us about it and not left us thinking something terrible had happened to him. But if JJ really came to you and begged you to keep him away from us – well, maybe, as a temporary solution, you might take him somewhere safe and secluded, and take care of him yourself, right? Maybe not a little locked box, but... somewhere. It's not – Jackie, it's not unthinkable.” Jackie just shakes his head, staring down at that note. “What's wrong?” asks Chase softly. “Wanted to make him feel safe,” croaks Jackie. “I should have – if I had made him feel safe, he wouldn't have thought he needed to be locked away. And Marvin – yeah, should have told me. Even if JJ did beg. My baby brother.” After a long day, the tears are finally coming dripping down Jackie's face. “I know, man,” whispers Chase. Jackie falls against his shoulder. Chase wraps his arm around him. Queenie nudges her way into their laps and sits contentedly down, purring like a little motorboat. “Maybe JJ and Marvin really were just working together to protect us,” mumbles Jackie. “Maybe he did take good care of him. If he had told us, maybe it is... thinkable.” “I shouldn't have told Marvin we weren't brothers anymore.” Chase rubs at his face. “I was too quick to think it was the worst scenario.” “No, it's not your fault,” replies Jackie softly. “It's his for not telling us, so it really did look like the worst scenario – and my fault, for exploding on him instead of listening. I should have been calmer.” “I honestly think you were surprisingly restrained for the situation,” says Chase, a little amused. “If it were true that he just locked JJ up against you will, you oughta have kicked his ass.” Jackie snorts, rubbing at his face. “Yeah. I guess. I don't know, though. There's just... there's something really off about that box. The kids' toys and the – I don't know. I get a really bad feeling. It's hard to describe.” Chase hums and nods. “Well, what we need to do is talk to JJ more, right?” Jackie perks up, glancing over at him. “Right. Figure all this out.” Chase smiles at him. The weight on his chest is so much lighter than it was a few hours ago. This – this makes so much more sense than what they thought before. Of course it was unimaginable that Marvin would lock JJ up like a prisoner against his will and abandon him in there, unloved. What he did was still wrong, but this alternative is so much lighter than that one. Maybe they can still fix this. Marvin could come back with Schneep, and once they were all on the same page Marvin would apologize for leaving them out of the loop. Together, they'll all be able to find a better way to keep JJ safe from Anti. Then they can all be together like they're supposed to be. Yeah. He can see it now. Marvin and Schneep will come back home, and JJ will come out of the box, and everything will be wonderful. Just a few hours ago, that seemed so impossible. “You're crying again,” says Jackie, touching his face. “Chase?” “No, it's okay,” chuckles Chase, wiping at his face. Happy tears. He's so relieved it hurts in his chest. For a few hours there, he really thought Marvin might have done something that cruel. But not his brother. Not his Marvin. No wonder it didn't make sense. It wasn't true. He should have known Schneep was right. Schneep is always right. Chase chuckles, shaking his head. “Just a rollercoaster day, that's all.” “No fucking kidding. I'm going to go write back to JJ. Do you want to come with?” “No, no, I think I'll get started on dinner.” Chase has already moved on to their reunion meal in his head. He'll cook

something Marvin loves and make JJ so much good food they can't even eat it all. Bread, ice cream, pasta, casserole... there's so many options. Maybe he'll just make everything. His heart is light again. It's going to be okay. “Okay, then,” says Jackie, heading back towards the mirror. “I'll be in there with him if you need me.” “Got it,” Chase replies, getting up to head to the kitchen. “Oh, um – Chase?” “Yeah?” He turns back towards his brother. Jackie smiles at him in the evening light. “I'm really glad you're here.” Chase smiles back. “Me too,” he says.

Things are going to be different. But surely, surely - they have to turn out okay. Just this once.

. Dear JJ, I don't really know how to right to you. This is Jackie. I'm glad you remember me a little. I'm your older brother. You don't want to come out of the box? When did that start? Was it your idea to be locked up like that? I guess I can see how you would think you could be dangerous. Trust me, I've encounterred Anti enough times to get it but if you give me a chance I promise I will keep you safe. JJ there has to be a better way then you being locked up like that! I don't even care if you and Marvin thought it was a good idea it's terrible. You do not have to be a prisoner you are my brother. I really want you to come stay with me. What can I do to get you out of there? I will do anything to make you feel safe, JJ. I promise I will keep you safe. Marvin is okay. He's just staying at another house right now. He knows I am talking to you. I'm worried about how he might have treated you, can we talk some more before you talk to him? Tell me about how he treats you. I want you to be able to make your own choice. Don't worry about him, okay? Who decided you should be in that box? I want you to be here with me. I really want you to be here with me and I promise I will keep you safe. Maybe we can talk face-to-face? Even though I'm bad at sign languge. I have wanted to see you for a really long time. I love you. I don't care if you hid from me or if Anti has used you, that doesn't matter now, none of us ever blamed you for Chase's shoulder. I've been looking for you, JJ. I've been looking for you this whole time. I thought about you every day. I would have looked forever if I had to. Every day of my life. If you think you have to stay in that box, please tell me why. I need to understand. I won't lose you again. You won't lose me too. I'm your big brother and I really want you to be here. I promise I will keep you safe. JB . Dear Jackie, Please, just go. You weren't supposed to know. I will be in trouble and I will hurt you. It is my fault. I'm not like you. I can't fight Anti. I'm not what you think I am. I'm sorry. I'm sorry you looked. He said maybe he would tell you I was dead, but he knew you would not stop looking unless there was a body, so he couldn't even though he wanted to. He loves you. He didn't want you to be in pain. But he didn't know how to stop it either. He cried over it so much. Maybe now that you know, you won't have to worry about me anymore, and you and Marvin can be happy again. I'm happy here. Marvin has taken such good care of me. He treats me very well. Please go home to your brothers and don't think about me. I'm sorry I made you all so sad for so long. Sincerely, JJ There are patches of wetness on the pages. . JJ, who decided you should be in that box? Tell me. . This time, there is no answer. Big blue eyes look up at Jackie from the corner of the cage, and all he wants is to go in there with him. But when he moves forward, JJ flinches and flees back to the bathroom, and all Jackie can do is sink down beside the cage, hold his head in his hands, and try not to think about the words he wanted to tell you I was dead. . Chase: Schneep you ok Schneep: Yeah. We're at Stacy's Chase: Did you tell her Schneep: Kind of. Still not sure really what happened Chase: Us either dude. Marvin say anything more? It sounds like maybe he and JJ both decided he should be locked up or whatever Schneep: He is all freaked out still. I gave him something to calm him down and he fell asleep. I am worried though. He insists the Jameson must be kept in the box. I think Anti is pulling strings Chase: I don't have any idea what's happening at this point Schneep: How is he? Chase: Very shy. Scared of us. He also thinks he has to stay in the box Schneep: Healthy? Chase: He kind of hides. Won't let us in to see him Schneep: I come by tomorrow and check on him Chase: Ok, sounds good. Tell me if anything changes? Schneep: Yes I will Chase: And say hi to the kids for me. Maybe not a good idea for me to have them this weekend after all Schneep: No worries. We will figure everything

out, my friend. Take care of JJ for me Chase: You take care of Marvin. I think it's going to turn out alright. Schneep: Yes, it will. See you tomorrow, love you Chase: Love you . There's blood in his mouth. JJ circles his cage, using a rag to clean the walls and wipe down the boxes and sink. When it's clean, he sits down again, reaching for his violin. There's blood in his mouth. He gets up again and wets the rag. Circles the cage and wipes down the walls and boxes and sink. He sits down and rubs at his face, exhausted. There's blood in his mouth. No. The box is clean. He's not going to clean it again. There's blood in his throat. He covers his face in his hands. Stop imagining it, JJ. Distract yourself. His dog licking at his face, warm sand between his toes, Marvin is holding him – Blood in his throat. In his teeth. He picks flesh out from between his molars. Copper tang against his tongue. He feels the weight of the blood settle in his stomach. He bites into flesh. Jameson. I am not going to listen to this story again. That's fucked. Anti isn't here. Stop crying, okay? The corpse is going cold beneath his fingers. Anti is laughing. The blade swirls around in his hands. He is torn between hoping Anti will stop possessing him so he can have even a minute alone in his own head and praying that Anti never leaves again, because when he does, that is when JJ becomes the victim of his curiosity. There's blood in his mouth. JJ gets up and wets the rag. Circles the cage and wipes down the walls and boxes and sink. “Jameson,” murmurs Jackie. “Are you okay?” He's standing just outside the box, looking at him. JJ avoids his gaze, scrubbing the clean right wall with vigor. Jackie doesn't seem to want to hurt him. He supposes that makes sense. It's not Jackie JJ should worry about – it's what Anti might do to Jackie that's concerning. He wishes Marvin's big brother would leave. “Can you show me your stuffed animals?” asks Jackie. “Or your puppets? Why do you have all those?” JJ pauses, chewing on his nails as he glance at his animals, arranged neatly on his mattress. The finger puppets are in their box by the barred window. They're just for fun. For distraction. He knows each of them intimately. All the puppets have names and families and jobs and aspirations. All the animals have their own place in the world in his head. It's just a game. It's just a game he plays for hours at a time. He tells the same stories on repeat. The important part is that he knows they're not real people right now. Marvin was so relieved. There's blood in his mouth. He circles his cage. Cleans the walls and boxes and sink. It's already clean. He knows it's already clean. “Do you play the violin?” JJ pauses again, eyes flickering over to Jackie. Yes, he does. For hours a day. “Would you show me?” asks Jackie gently. JJ hovers. He's not sure he should. But he never gets to show anyone except Marvin and the toys. It would be nice. He never got to show anyone Marvin's birthday song. It's not going to hurt Jackie. It's just his music. He picks the violin tentatively up. Sets it back down again. Jackie is looking at him uncertainly from the window, smiling a faint, confused smile. Fuck's sake, he's – he's weird, isn't he? Not Jackie – JJ. He turns away from Marvin's brother, biting at his nails again. It's been so long since he interacted with anyone other than Marvin and Anti. What must he look like to Jackie? He's treating him like he's so fragile. Maybe he is. But this is how he lives. This is how he has to live. He used to fight. Does Jackie know that? Does Jackie know that there were days that he would come out of possession kicking and striking at Anti, spitting at him and writhing before Anti could stuff him back into whatever hiding place he had found to contain him? Does Jackie know that JJ used to curse at Marvin and demand to be let go? That he eventually crumpled beneath the isolation and the monotony and just collapsed in on himself, sitting mindless for days at a time no matter how much Marvin begged at him to

get up? Does Jackie know that he hates this? There are tears dripping onto the violin set beneath his chin. He can't think like this. This is where he has to stay. He can't go. He can't leave. There is blood in his mouth. This is what he has to do. He can't tell on Marvin, can't tell Jackie that Marvin dragged him into this box and locked him up while he cried. This is what he deserves because he's done so many bad things and he will do so many more if he is released. Oh, there is blood in his mouth. He can't get out. He has to be a good boy – he has to stay – he has to – “Major freak-out,” he signs to himself. This is what Marvin calls a major freak-out. Yeah. Okay. “Have to stay calm, JJ, you can't come out of your cage. “Come hold me, Marvin, please! “If you calm down I'll come in there. Okay? “Please can I come out just for a few minutes? Oh, God, I want to see a priest. Are you going to keep me here my whole life? I'll die here! I'm going to die here? I can't take it anymore! I can't take it! Oh, God, I want to see the sky, I want to hear birds, oh, God, our father, who art in Heaven – “JJ, be good. Penguin, stop that. You know you can't come out. So be calm. I'm working on finding a solution. “But you never do, you never do!” “JJ.” And now the voice does not sound like Marvin's. JJ isn't sure why. He keeps signing to himself, circling his cage, chewing on his collar. He talks to Marvin. Marvin isn't there, but he knows what he will say. Yes, Marvin is here. They're talking and hugging each other, yes, Marvin is making it better. Marvin isn't here. “Jameson, hey. Jamie, can you look at me? Jamie, can I come in there with you?” Yes, yes, he wants that! He hates to be alone for freak-outs. They last hours and sometimes he slams his head against the wall so hard the light hurts his eyes for days. Sometimes he scratches at the wood til his nails split. Sometimes he clings to Anti and begs him to take him away from this place, because even the torture and the killing would be better than sitting in this same – fucking – spot – for the rest of his miserable existence. He hates to be alone. Alone, alone, alone. “Please, please,” he begs. “Please, please.” “Okay, I'm coming, Jamie, I'm coming.” Marvin doesn't call him Jamie, but it doesn't matter, because a moment later, there are arms around him. There's no torture quite like the touch-starvation, and JJ is someone who knows torture. When Marvin started touching him and hugging him and sitting with him, it changed everything. And the most wonderful part about it is how those months of his skin crawling and his brain going numb and foggy with a bizarre and visceral sort of insanity as he rubbed at his own skin and rocked and day-dreamed about being touched til he could hallucinate it – they all just fade into the background when someone puts their arms around him. He latches on like a cat in a tree. Octopuses himself around their body. And in return – joy of joy, he is being squeezed back, squished against their body and rocked. He is scooped all the way off his feet, making him giggle. He buries his head in their shoulder and shakes, pressed so tightly together it's a little hard to breathe. “My little brother, my little brother,” someone is singing. “My JJ. Here you are. I have you back again, I have you.” He's grabbed by the waist and spun in a circle before he's drawn back to their chest. He laughs weakly and hears them laughing back. “Here you are. Chase was right. This is all that matters. You are everything that matters.” Kisses along the side of his head. Hands on his back and cupping his head. He's rocked back and forth, back and forth. Steady and strong. Gloved hands. A red hood. The smell of rain and sweat and coconut on the jacket. And that feeling – that feeling of safety... Yeah. He remembers. How could he forget? When this was what he dreamed about for so long? Jackie is holding him. His awareness comes back to him in pieces as he comes down from the second or third panic attack of the day. Jackie has crashed down onto the

mattress with him. He's being held like a little kid, but Jackie doesn't seem bothered by his weight or his neediness. Jackie just clings to him. Clings to him as tight as he's clinging to Jackie. JJ cries quietly as he comes back to himself. Jackie wipes at his face and hums to him, nonsense music in the air. “My JJ, my JJ.” He doesn't seem bothered by the crying either. “I missed you, JJ.” His voice breaks. Jackie coughs and kisses the side of his head one more time, his voice fading away. “Have to go,” signs JJ, crying into his chest. “Have to go, before he hurts you!” “I'm so sorry, James, I never really got to practice with the sign language, I should have worked harder...” “Go, go!” He points to the door. “Go away!” Jackie shakes his head at him. JJ should push him away, but he just – he just can't. Marvin will kill him for this. Anti will kill Jackie for this! “Nothing's going to hurt you anymore,” whispers Jackie. “Never, you're never leaving my sight again. I'm never going to let anything happen to you ever again.” And he wants it to be true so badly it hurts. He just clings to Jackie, shaking. “Oh! He let you get in there with him!” A new voice in the expanse of the mirrors. JJ feels Jackie nod. “Do you guys... do you want some space?” “Yeah, please,” whispers Jackie. “Maybe he'll let you come in too in a minute, but if we could just... just get a minute...” “Just text me if you need anything.” And it's just him and Jackie in the quiet of his box again. “Nothing matters but this,” sings Jackie, brushing at his hair. “My baby brother. I love you.” Love, love, love. He closes his eyes and holds to Jackie, and just for one moment of weakness, he lets himself have this.

#marvin's cage

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queenofwerewolves · 3 years

Text

Future Hope - chapter 2 - Starting something new..

They were almost ready, all they needed was the one thing every revolution heroes needed: Badass outfits. For that, they counted on Griff to make some patterns to stick on their outfits or whatever weapons they carried, Kip suggested to make stickers to glue them around the city whenever a crime occured and they came to the rescue, to leave a message that something happened. Everyone loved that idea, and eitch one got to work in making their outfits, stickers and whatever else they needed to start the revolution for real...

With stickers and acessories settled, now they needed the main thing: The outfits. But.. No one knew how to sew or make clothing.

"Wait!" Maria shouted. "I know someone! Ya'll remember Maggy yeah?" She added with a tone of excitement.

"Ah, isnt she the one who draws the Metal Werehog and how you joke she refuses to tag you in them?" Togekiss answered with a tone of sass. Maria blushed and pouted her lips.

"Yeah yeah. Anyways she's visiting here for a local con, selling her drawings and prints, did you know she actually sews and knits clothes?" Maria added with a tad of admiration.

"Really? Well shit badass then" Blink added with a soft smile. "How do we get in contact with her?" She asked.

"She should be at the event center setting up her booth stand. If we leave now we'll have plenty of time to talk to her." Maria answered with a confident tone.

"What are we waiting then?" Kip added. "Let's go!"

Everyone nodded and made their way to the local event center.

At that same event center, Maggy was setting up her booth, putting her prints up on the sides and on top of her desk, showing the kind of work she does and displaying her various pieces she drew herself, whether it was her OCs, Silent Hill or Sonic theme, eitch was individually beautiful and unique. She also set up a small cashier and some paper and pens for possible requests on the fly, or a doodle with an autograph, you can never be too prepared.

She was organizing her papers when a small hand knocked on the wooden booth to call her attention, she looked up to see the entire Future Hope crew, with Maria in front and smiling confidently.

"Maria!" She exclaimed happily, going around the booth for a hug, who Maria happily accepted the hug.

"It's so good to see you!" She said with an excited tone, she pulled apart from the tone and looked at the remaining others, many she didnt recgonize. "And.. Who are these?" Maggy asked.

"Ah, Maggy these are some of my Tumblr friends, like you! Im sure you know Griff already" Maria said referring to Griff, who had a hand behind his hand and sheepishly smiling. "But you see.. We kinda need a moment to talk to you, if that's OK" Maria asked, practically whispering to Maggy.

Maggy nodded, and leaded them to another area of the convention center which was emptier, so they could have some privacy. Once they got there, Maria explained as basicly as she could about her and Future Hope, the wishing fountain, their new powers, their intentions.. Maggy listened quietly, but intriguied as anyone would be.

"Woahh.." Maggy said, finally hearing the end of the story. "You guys really are gonna be super heroes?" She asked with a spark of excitement. "And I get to help?"

Maria nodded with a smile. "We need you to make outfits for us, whenever you have the time of course. None of can sew but we have the designs here for you. That is, if you-"

"Yes!!!" . Suddenly being cut off, Maggy got up with smiled with pride, her eyes twinkling with excitement. "I'd be honoured to help! This'll be so cool!! I'll have those made for you as soon as I can!" She said taking the designs from Maria.

Maria smiled and pulled her in for a hug. "I knew I could count on you.." She said softly. "Of course" Maggy responded. "After all: Nós portuguesas têm que contar uma na outra né?"

"Haha! Falou e disse amiga!" Maria responded in portuguese, both laughing together while leaving the others clueless, but nonetheless happy for them.

"Well." Maggy said. "I should head back, the con will start soon". Maria nodded and looked at the others, who agreed it was time to go home and wait, with a final hug, they said their goodbyes and headed back to Maria's house.

They werent simply gonna stand around and wait for the costumes to be ready, until then, they decided to fix up the one thing every SuperHero group needed: An HQ. A place to reunite, plan, organize and discuss strategies whie also knowing about whatever recent crime could be going on.

But of course, they were only a couple of young and very, very broke adults. Griff's Youtube Channel was starting to blow up but nothing too extreme yet, but he will get there soon. Same for Maria and her animation channel, they were started to get discovered but they had a long way to go. But it'll happen.

In the meantime, Maria does have a big and very spacious basement, they decided they would settle there for now. Blink and Kip started brooming the floor, Muffin and Spooks were dusting the walls, Muffin used her wings to reach the roof and corners, and Spooks enjoyed the darkness of the basement to summon her Dark Hands to help the job go quicker. Rooko and Rooki decided to go to a hardware store and get some new materials and give the basement a better fixer upper, install some new lights, maybe install a window...

Spike and Togekiss were out looking for things to decorate the HQ, a table, a rug, some chairs, a new wallpaper perhaps.. Meanwhile Maria and Griff were online shopping for some cool props to decorate the HQ as well, using Maria's laptop, they scowered the internet.

"Oo!" Exclaimed Griff, pointing at the screen. "This life-size Master Chief would really spice up the place!" He said excitedly, Maria shook her head with a soft smile. "Griffy we're only looking for small decorations, not turning my basement into nerdvana" She answered.

"Oh.. Right.. Sorry.." He sort of mumbled out, Maria raised a brow in concern and set the laptop next to her, placing a hand on his arm. "Is something wrong..?" She softly asked..

".. It's just.." Griff started to answer. "You know how overly-excited I get. You know how hyped and impacient I get for these things.. Im just worried that... That.."

"Yes..?" Maria asked.

"... What if I blow it?" He asked, with a tone of sadness. "What if my powers arent as good as I thought? What if instead of helping everyone, I just make everything worse..?!" His voice tone got louder as he started to slightly panic. "Im a big, musculent WereRabbit, that HAS to be scary in a way isnt it? Im practically a Mons-"

"Dont you dare finish that word!!!" Maria shouted at him, gripping his shoulders hard, looking at him straight in the eye, her black eyes glimmering like a starry night without the moon.. Glimmering with worry.

"Listen to me very, carefully. No matter what you are, or what you do. You.. will never, be a Monster.." "Monsters arent the big unknown creatures we see in movies, they're out there, looking like us, gaining people's trust just so they can take advantage of them, taking or ruining innocent lives, people who have their heads so far up their asses they've become blind and see nothing but themselves. THOSE ARE MONSTERS!!!" She raised her voice, shaking a little bit. Griff only stared at her, shaking a bit as well, until suddenly Maria placed her head on his chest, pulling him in for a hug..

"You're not even close to being like them, and your physical appearance doesnt define your heart.. Please, never doubt yourself like that again.. Because you are better then this, and you know it.." She quietly spoke, waiting for a reply.. Which she didnt receive. Griff embrace the hug back, and that was all that needed to be said, without words whatsoever. Between those two, the message was clear:

Monsters are the ones who cause darkness around them, and not them, or their friends are even close to being them, they are the opposite. They will be the light, a new beginning, a new..

Future Hope..

#THE INTRO IS COMPLETE #NEXT CHAPTER BEGINS THE PLOT LET'S GOOO #Future Hope #Queen's Story

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bracefacefreak · 3 years

Text

So I just finished the first fic I have written in AGES and the first thing I’ve ever written for TMA, so I thought I’d post it here.

It’s an alternate take on S3 from about MAG 98 in which Nikola kidnaps Martin, not Jon. Basically very angsty with some realisation of feelings and implied canon-typical violence because I like to make my boys suffer apparently. May write more if I feel like it but for now this is just a peek at my idea.

CW: implied violence, knife violence, strongly implied graphic violence, implied blood, implied skinning, captivity and kidnapping, restraints, stalking.

I cut you a piece of me

also available on ao3

“Martin? Tim?”

Jon pokes his head out of his office, tired eyes squinting through murky lenses to try and make out anything moving amongst the shelves and teetering boxes. A chill creeps up his spine, the sensation akin to the slow tickle of spider’s legs over his skin. It makes his stomach turn; the sour taste of bile rises at the back of his throat. A light flickers somewhere on the other side of the archives. It is brief, likely nothing more than some dodgy wiring - or a plastic body passing in front of a bulb. Jon bites down, catching his tongue between his teeth.

His fingers twist in the wool of the cardigan he wears, tugging at the well-worn fibres as if they are some sort of lifeline. The garment is too big on him, the fabric spilling over his shoulders and bunching in thick folds around his wrists. He had found it shoved under a shelving unit in document storage, the crumpled, butter-yellow lump too inviting to ignore. It has quickly become a comfort for him during long nights in his office poring over statements, something soft and warm to counteract the increasingly dark world he finds himself inhabiting. He pulls it tight around him, but finds today it offers little more than a thin veneer of safety.

CLUNK.

He starts.

His eyes flick towards the stacks to his left, scouring the shadows that rest heavily between the shelves. The noise comes again, more drawn out this time and followed by a series of metallic taps. It doesn’t take much imagination to hear the snap of huge, mechanical jaws in the rhythmic sound.

Jon swallows thickly.

“Martin? I-is that you?”

The hollow clang comes again; this time Jon is able to trace it to somewhere above. Lifting his eyes, he half-expects to see a grinning plastic face staring down at him from the highest shelves. Instead, he is met by the sight of decrepit pipes, quivering slightly as the ancient heating system struggles against the pervasive chill. His shoulders droop as the pipes rattle in reassurance.

Slowly, he turns back to the original source of his suspicion, staring down the narrow walkway that leads to the assistant’s office and break-room.

Beneath the occasional clang of the heating, the archive is silent, still.

But he could have sworn he’d heard footsteps earlier: the soft shuffle of shoes over carpet and the squeak of the bottom stair that no-one seems bothered enough to fix, despite the numerous emails Jon has sent to maintenance. He had been recording a statement, one from the early 2000s about disappearances from a travelling funhouse, when he had heard it. He was certain. But then again…He takes a shaking breath; could this just be his rearing its ugly head?

No.

NO.

He was over that.

He knew what he had heard. Jon squares his shoulders, knowing that his small stature and bright yellow cardigan will hardly strike fear into the heart of any evil creature that has managed to get into the Institute. He pulls the pen out of his hair anyway. It will not be much use if it comes to a struggle, but it is better than nothing.

Measured steps lead Jon across the archive floor.

He calls out in a tight voice, rising to shrill at the end.

“Melanie?”

His pulse thuds in his ears.

“Tim? Basira?"

Sweat coats his palms and pools in the well of his clavicle, turning cold and tacky.

“Martin?”

He rounds a corner and is greeted by three empty desks.

Since arriving, Melanie has settled at Sasha’s old desk; it no longer bears its previous look of organised chaos but is strewn with shredded paper, a few crumpled fast-food wrappers, and pages covered in black scribbles that are indecipherable to Jon. It sends a pang of grief through him that echoes around the empty space where Sasha’s memory should be.

Tim’s desk is clear, no work having been done there in months.

And Martin’s is….

Jon frowns.

Next to an empty mug and a collection of pastel fine-liners Martin sometimes uses to make notes, is a cassette tape. It is unmarked, the brand different from any he has seen before in the archive. Jon reaches for it, hesitates, and then snatches it up. He turns it over in his hands, the shape and weight familiar. Something is building beneath his skin, fizzing, crackling, a flurry of static that rises and rises the longer he holds the tape. It calls to him. The white noise is a siren song drawing him in until he is moving towards his office and the tape recorder he keeps on his desk. His hands shake as he pushes the tape into place and snaps the recorder shut. For a moment the world narrows down to the feeling of the play button beneath his finger, its weight as he presses down, the soft whir-like a sigh-as the tape begins to play.

“Hello, my dear archivist.”

The saccharine voice that spews from the tape washes away the frantic desperation that had sent him scurrying to his office like a starving dog. He shivers, the memory of hard plastic hands around his throat making it hard to breathe.

The Eye drinks in this flash of terror, consuming it with abandon.

“It’s so luvely to be able to talk again. I was hoping to see you in person but ….I’m sure we’ll get to that later.”

There’s a tinkling laugh; the sound of fairground chimes, or blood dripping on porcelain.

“I thought now would be a good time to check in about that old skin you’re supposed to be getting for us. Not that I really need to. I am having you followed. It’s not because I don’t trust you but…well, I don’t trust you and I want to be sure that when you find it you don’t do anything silly. It is very powerful after all. I have to say, little archivist, I’m mighty….disappointed….by your lack of progress. It’s been a week now and nothing and I am on a bit of a deadline, you know. The world won’t dance itself new on its own.”

Nikola stops with a breathy gasp.

Jon waits, fingers clenched in the sleeves of his too-big cardigan.

He can make out the creak of plastic, followed by what sounds like a heavy door being opened. He leans in, straining to hear the dull thud of feet on stone. The jaunty melody of carousel music lingers in the background, ever-present and just flat enough to set his teeth on edge.

“Unfortunately for you, that means I need to up the stakes a little. We can’t have you getting complacent, that just won’t do.”

Another grating sound, metal against concrete and then a jumble of muffled grunts, almost as if someone is trying to speak against restraints.

“Do try and keep him quiet.”

Nikola hisses to someone whose response Jon cannot hear.

Something coils in his gut, cold and heavy.

“He spotted one of us outside the Institute one evening, tried to follow us. A rather stupid move if you ask me. You may want to rethink your hiring strategy.”

The mumbling intensifies.

Jon feels sick. His stomach churns, a deep sense that something is very wrong knotting up his insides.

“He seems awfully fond of you, I must say, putting himself in all that danger to try and keep you safe. What on earth did you ever do to deserve such devotion, little archivist?”

He shakes his head, trying to speak around the hard lump in his throat even though he knows Nikola can not hear him.

“P-pl…”

“Would you like to say hello?”

There is a painful ripping sound, then a scraping and a few ragged breaths.

The cold dread in Jon’s gut begins to unfurl, spreading out, freezing him to his chair.

“Jon?”

His heart stutters.

“Jon, p-please….please…d-don’t…”

Martin’s familiar voice, shaking and edged with panic, erupts from the speaker like a scream.

The copper tang of blood spills over his tongue. He looks down, realising he’s been biting his knuckle so hard his skin has split. Even as he watches the blood pool and trickle down his fingers, he feels no pain.

Nikola laughs again, something knife-sharp behind the sweetness.

Jon is cold, so cold, even beneath his tea-scented cardigan. His hands are like ice as he claws at the tape recorder, smearing blood over the plastic casing. He is not sure what he’s trying to do, his thoughts too muddled. He thinks he may be trying to reach through to wherever they are, to wherever Martin is.

“You see archivist, now we have some collateral. So, if you don’t manage to find that ancient relic, well….shall we have a demonstration?”

A strangled whimper is all Jon can manage as he listens to the squeak of plastic fingers, the tearing of fabric, the clear zhing of a blade. His eyes lock onto the tape recorder, transfixed with horror as he hears Martin grunt and then…..

Jon has never heard screaming like that before.

It cuts through him, reverberating down to his bones and settling in his marrow, so deep he will never be rid of it.

At the same time, it drowns him. Each new cry washes over him, relentless, never giving him time to breathe. He is suffocating beneath the sound, helpless and guilt-ridden, hands twitching as if trying to pull himself up for air. He can’t think, can’t speak, can’t breathe – chest too tight, pulse racing. His vision swims, blackness creeping in from the edges as Martin screams and screams and screams.

Jon squeezes his eyes shut, cold tears spilling down his cheeks. He presses his hands over his ears, but no matter how hard he tries he cannot escape it.

It feels like a lifetime before the screaming begins to quiet and an eternity until Nikola speaks again, high and airy.

“Impressive. That was even through a gag. What fun we’re going to have!”

A sob fills the silence, faint and broken. Jon matches it with his own.

Somewhere the Eye swells and glows in gluttonous satisfaction. Jon can feel it preening, brimming over with stolen terror. He shoves it away in disgust.

“Lucky for us there’s plenty of him to use.”

Something slaps wetly. There’s a squelch, like fingers being shoved into dough.

Jon retches.

“This will make a luvely pair of gloves, don’t you think?”

He doubles over, heaving dryly into his wastepaper bin, for once glad he didn’t have lunch. Sweat beads at his hairline, spots dancing in front of his eyes as he gasps around the convulsions of his nauseated body.

“Now now archivist, no point getting upset. The sooner you find us the gorilla skin the more of your assistant there will be left. I wouldn’t wait too long if I were you. Goodbye.”

The voice fades, leaving only panting breaths and pained groans before the recording ends with an abrupt click.

Jon lets it run on while he struggles to find a rhythm to his breathing. The background whir is a comfort, something to dampen the horrific shrieking that still rings in his ears.

Guilt sits heavy on his shoulders, a deadweight. First Sasha and now Martin. How many more people will he fail before the end? Who else will have to suffer because of him? He curls himself up in his chair and tries to consider what he should do, but his thoughts either will not come or fly past too fast to crystalise into an actual plan. Eventually, he gives in to the lingering heaviness of his limbs and the hollowness in his chest and he cries.

---

He isn’t sure how long he sits there.

The tape finally finishes and cuts off with a burst of static and the pop of the play button.

He is sat in silence when Basira finds him, folded up and trying to ignore the screams in his head. Her firm footsteps alert Jon to her presence as he can barely see out of his tear-swollen eyes. Her breathing pauses as she takes a moment to assess the situation.

Jon can picture the scene clearly: he sits, knees to his chest, hands tangled in his greying hair. The tape recorder perches haphazardly on the edge of his desk, smeared with blood that has dried a rich, rust colour. There are gouges in the surface of his desk and matching splinters beneath his fingernails.

“Jon?”

He thrusts out an arm, knocking Basira’s hand out of the way. The tape recorder falls to the floor with a crack, the cassette flies out, magnetic tape spooling on the floor. He stares at it for a moment. At least now she cannot….will not….and he does not have to either.

“Jon!?”

Her voice is clipped, hard. There is no room for argument or bullshit, no hint of concern. He would expect nothing less of Basira, and he has always respected her bluntness and the ability to bury her emotions so she can get the job done. As much as he would like to believe he can do the same, he knows it is a lie. Today has just proven that.

“Jon!?”

He opens his mouth to answer but only manages a strangled whine, which devolves into a sob. He takes a shuddering breath before trying again.

“M-“

It hurts. His throat is raw, almost as if he has been the one screaming. He is not entirely sure he hasn’t been. No one would have heard him all the way down here. He thinks Elias meant for it to be that way.

“Ma-“

The name sticks in his throat, coats his tongue with a sour taste, and lodges itself behind his teeth. He can not say it….does not deserve to say it…Nikola’s words repeat in his head, over and over.

What on earth did you ever do to deserve such devotion?

Jon thinks of all the times he has berated Martin, the mornings he has purposefully left his tea undrunk just to spite him, the cold manner he has used to decline every offer of help or comfort. And still, Martin had smiled, had rinsed out his mug and stubbornly left another on his desk made to his exact taste, had even pushed himself to research the Vittery case, almost risking his life just to try and get a good word out of his boss.

Martin, who writes poetry that overflows with tender melancholy. Martin, who had stayed up into the early hours with Jon while he had been staying in the archives, somehow aware that Jon was alone and afraid. Martin, who had persuaded the ECDC to hand over a jar of Prentiss’ ashes so he would feel safe. Martin, who had made it his mission to ensure Jon got at least one hot meal a day. Martin, who had lied on his CV to help his ailing mum. Martin, with his mop of curls and goofy smile and stupid hipster glasses and…oh…Martin....

Jon buries his nose into the yellow wool at his shoulder, inhaling the faded scent of Early Grey and spearmint toothpaste and lavender laundry detergent. It only leaves him feeling emptier.

Nothing, he wants to shout in reply to Nikola’s question, less than nothing!

“JON! What's going on?”

He sniffs, lifting his eyes to stare blankly down at the ruined tape recorder.

Basira’s gaze flicks to the device, before landing back on Jon.

He shivers, licking his parched lips and forcing the words out, voice cracked and tight.

“M-Martin….I-I need to f-find Martin.”

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flipomatic · 4 years

Text

Closed Book Chapter 1

Author Note: Here I go, off into a new fandom. This is going to be 4 chapters, I think. I have it all blocked out but am writing it as I go.

Summary: She didn’t know much about Mittens at all, when she thought about it. Sure, she knew she was a star student who got good grades, though not as good as her siblings, and had a surly streak, but what were her interests besides reading? What kinds of food did she like? Did she have a crush on a witch in her class? Emira should’ve been able to answer these questions, but she couldn’t. Maybe she should ask, that might be a good place to start.

5 times Emira tried to get Amity to open up and one time when she didn't have to.

______________________________________

Emira would’ve loved to put all the blame for what happened at the library on Ed, but it had been her idea too. Sneaking into the library after hours, inviting Luz to come along with them, planning to steal Mittens’ diary to post the pages around school; Emira had helped plan each step. One even could say she masterminded it, but she didn’t want all the blame.

Even though the plan didn’t fully come to fruition, she still got a good laugh at Mitten’s expense in the end. The whole adventure cost her and Ed dearly when they got home. If only she could’ve just blamed it on Ed, that would’ve made things much easier.

The entrance way of the house was quiet when the twins slipped in, as expected for this time of day. Most members of the family would be still asleep in the wee hours of the morning. Almost all lights were off in the mansion, all except the study in the rear of the house. Emira assumed her father was up working early, since many days of the week that study light remained on all night. The only way to the stairs was past this room, which would’ve made it tricky to sneak in if the twins weren’t masters of illusion magic.

After Ed closed the door quietly, Emira signaled for him to follow her and then cast a low level camouflage spell. Ed followed suit as they crept towards the stairs, careful not to make a sound. The spell would only aid in being spotted, not in covering up any accidental noise.

It didn’t matter though, because nothing could get past their father.

“Edric. Emira.” His voice stopped the twins dead in their tracks, their camouflage snapping with a crackle as he stalled them right in front of the study door. “We require your presence.” He spoke evenly, his tone not giving away any clues of what was to come.

Emira didn’t need any clues, she knew what this was about. Ed clearly did too, as he shook his head rapidly and pointed rapidly at the stairs. He wanted to bolt for it. If Emira thought they could get away from it, she would join him.

But no, no matter how fast they ran they would never escape. Emira knew this and she knew Ed did too.

With a shake of her head, Emira pushed open the study door. While she expected to see her father there, she was surprised to see her mother and Mittens as well. Father sat at his desk, writing on a piece of paper in front of him. To the right there were a couple chairs for guests, where the other two sat.

Their mother was dressed in a bathrobe, which gave Emira a twinge of guilt as her mother may have been sleeping before all of this. It was quite early in the morning, after all. Mittens was frowning, as usual, as she watched her siblings enter the room.

Emira and Edric stopped just inside the door, closing it behind them. They waited with bated breath as their father stood up, casting his gaze over his elder children.

“Would either of you like to explain what happened tonight?”

Ed grit his teeth next to her. “We were just teasing, Mittens needs to lighten up. We didn’t even get to read it.” His hand twitched at his side, but stayed there.

Emira backed his story up. “Yeah, we barely looked at her diary. We were just going to put it back anyway.” A little white lie to smooth things over never hurt. Mittens wasn’t buying it, based on how she had one eyebrow raised. Their father, on the other hand, looked quite irritated.

“So you are not aware then,” his voice rose in volume, “of what happened after you abandoned your sister at that library.”

“I’m sure she was fine.” Ed’s smile was clearly forced as he tried not to buckle under the pressure. Emira nodded alongside him.

This was the wrong response.

“She was almost killed by one of the creatures you created.” Her father’s voice was like a judge’s gavel, banging guilty. Emira felt the blood drain from her face.

It was all in good fun, they had never meant to actually harm Mittens. It looked like she had made it out unscathed at least. Again, her father looked between the twins, casting judgement upon them. “If not for her quick thinking, Amity might not have come home.”

That was odd, why not mention Luz? Emira thought the other teen had stayed behind to talk with Amity. Certainly she would’ve been caught up in this as well, but her father didn’t seem to know of her. Did Mittens hide her presence from him?

Ed came through again, “We were just having fun.” He persisted in the defense, lightly elbowing Emira and refocusing her on the conversation. “And we didn’t think anything there was dangerous.”

“That’s right.” Emira lifted her chin. “It was harmless fun.”

“Well, whether you believe that or not, the fact is the two of you brought serious harm upon your sister.” Her father seemed done with listening to their excuses. “You will apologize, and you are grounded for the next month. You will only be permitted to leave the house to escort Amity. Am I clear?”

Emira hung her head forward as she and Ed responded in unison. “Yes sir.”

Her father didn’t seem satisfied, as he gestured towards Mittens with one hand. “And?” he prompted them.

“I’m sorry…” Ed said quietly, trailing off at the end.

“Me too. I’m sorry Mittens.” Emira brought her gaze back up to meet Mittens’, a blank expression meeting hers.

“Thank you.” Was all Mittens said, in her usual tone.

Her father nodded once. “Good then.” He turned back towards his desk. “If you hurt your sister again or bring more shame upon this family, you will never see the light of day again.” She knew him well enough to know he would make good on that promise.

Emira and Ed both muttered that they understood.

“You are dismissed.” Her father sat back down at his desk, picking up his pen to resume whatever he had been doing when they arrived.

All three teens slipped out of the office, shutting the door behind them.

They walked in silence up the stairs, out of their parent’s earshot. Once they reached the peak though, all bets were off.

“Why’d you tattle on us?” Ed immediately turned on Mittens, his lips pulled into a distinct frown.

Mittens crossed her arms, “You had to be stopped.” She had to look up to make eye contact with her siblings. “Otabin tried to kill me!”

“Are you sure you’re not exaggerating?” Emira cut in; Otabin was a sweet little rabbit he wouldn’t do something like that.

Mittens stomped one foot. “Yes I’m sure.” She seethed. “He had big claws and he tried to sew me into a book so I would be his friend forever!”

“We were just having fun.” Ed said in response, but Emira couldn’t really hear it. What Mittens said finally clicked in her mind. Ed had drawn the claws on that rabbit. When Luz dropped the book they assumed it was closed, apparently they should’ve checked better. They really had almost killed their little sister.

“I’m sorry we left you alone with it.” Emira interrupted whatever Mittens was saying in response, drawing two surprised stares to her. “And it won’t happen again.” Neither of them had anything to say now; they just looked at Emira as if she had grown a second head. “I’m going to bed, so should you.”

Without waiting for a response, Emira brushed past the pair to go to her room. Once inside, she collapsed down onto her bed. The weight of what happened and what nearly happened that day pushed down on her shoulders.

Had she always been this bad of a sister? The answer was probably yes. She had teased and played pranks on Mittens since they were very young. It was like a hobby for her and Ed.

Well, no more of that. It was time to stop picking on her little sister, or at least pick on her a bit less, a very small bit less she still loved to tease her, and be a responsible older sibling. No more putting her in danger, especially not mortal peril like today. She also should try to protect her, though she wasn’t sure from what.

Emira wondered what kind of danger Mittens got in on her own, since most of the time she was off at school or doing uh… Emira didn’t actually know what Mittens did in her free time. What kind of trouble did she get into out there?

She didn’t know much about Mittens at all, when she thought about it. Sure, she knew she was a star student who got good grades, though not as good as her siblings, and had a surly streak, but what were her interests besides reading? What kinds of food did she like? Did she have a crush on a witch in her class? Emira should’ve been able to answer these questions, but she couldn’t.

Maybe she should ask, that might be a good place to start. Tomorrow could work, or next week since Mittens might not forgive so quickly.

With that simple plan in place, Emira went to bed with the conviction to be a better sister in her heart.

Even though she had been up all night, it took a very long time to fall asleep.

Chapter 2

#the owl house #the owl house fanfiction #fanfic #amity #emira #emira blight #amity blight #edric blight #this fic will have lumity but not until later #flip writes #fanfiction

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bbyx · 4 years

Text

ripple effect - part three

Summary: During her fourth year at Hogwarts, (y/n) Deauxville falls for none other than Cedric Diggory. But it's not easy when you have to deal with protecting your family's fortune, keeping your father's illness a secret and having two of your closest friends catch feelings for you.

Pairings : reader x cedric, reader x draco, reader x harry

With help from some of the Ministry's interns, your tent was finally up. It was lilac purple with a beautiful satin finish. Walking inside always took your breath away just because of the sheer size of the tent. It smelt brand new and didn't have that homey feeling like the Weasley's tent but it would do for a couple nights.

(y/n) plops down on the bed. She opens up and rereads the letter that Minister Fudge had sent her father two months ago. You had started reading your dad's mail and answering for him since he was no longer capable of doing it himself. Your father had a very formal way of writing so it had been easy enough to imitate his handwriting to answer the Minister's letter.

You open the creamy beige envelope and pull out a sturdy white letter with gold embellishments. It reads:

Dear (f/n), I hope this letter is finding you in good health. I've heard that you have recently been traveling Europe in search of new properties. Barty and myself were wondering if you would be so kind as to join us for a meeting during the Quidditch World cup. The time is nearing and we must finalize the deal. Looking forward to seeing you, Cornelius

You tried remembering what you wrote in the answering letter. It went something like this.

Dear Cornelius, I am currently in Romania for business and I unfortunately will not be back in time for the Quidditch World Cup. However i've left my daughter (y/n) in charge of my business affairs while I am away and she would be delighted to join you. Barty and yourself can finalize the deal with her. Wishing you the best, (f/n)

Your father had started a real estate company when he was twenty four and it had grown into one of the most successful businesses in the wizarding world and in Britain. You assumed that the Minister and Barty Crouch wanted to buy a property but you didn't know anything further. It was a very secretive affair and you had searched your father's files extensively but there was no mention of this mysterious deal anywhere. You were essentially going in blind.

The meeting was going to be over dinner in the Minister's box during the Quidditch Match. (y/n) had time to kill so she walked back to the Weasley's tent.

You arrive just in time to see the Weasley twins and Ludo Bagman betting on the games.

"Personally I have to agree with Mr.Bagman, my money is on Bulgaria winning" You tease and the twins shake their ginger heads.

You hear sirens that signal the stadium has opened. You head over with your friends. The inside of the Quidditch stadium is just as breathtakingly festive as the outside. Red and green coats everything, it is filled with headshots of various Quidditch players and drunken voices singing national anthems.

"Blimey how far up are we dad!" Rom complains.

"Well, put it this way, if it rains you'll be the first to know." You turn towards the familiar cold posh voice. Lucius Malfoy.

You had grown up with the Malfoy's and practically spent half your childhood at their house. Narcissa has become a second mother to you after your own mother's death. (y/n) had her suspicions that her parents and the Malfoy's were hoping their children would get married but (y/n) cringed at the idea. It wasn't that you didn't like Draco but your relationship was more like cousins. He was like that one favourite cousin everyone has that makes all family gatherings fun. But you couldn't stand the snobby facade Draco put on whenever he was around other people. Like now.

"Father and I are in the minister's box. A personal invitation from Cornelius Fudge himself."

"Don't boast, Draco" Lucius says while nudging him with his cane. " There is no need with these people."

You rolled your eyes so hard it felt like you could see the back of your skull.

"Ah miss Deauxville, I believe you'll be joining us in the Minister' box." Lucius says in a respectful tone.

You hated how he talked to your friends like they were lower than you. Lucius nudges Draco with his cane and Draco immediately offers you his arm. You look back at the trio and mouth help me as you take Draco's arm.

"Have fun" Hermione says sarcastically.

The Minister's box is filled with house elves carrying trays of little delicacies and wizards and witches dressed in overly formal clothing. You immediately felt underdressed in your sweater and tennis skirt. But to your delight you could see the sweat glistening off their skin, after all it was still mid August.

A curly haired blonde woman in a ridiculously tight plum dress and green glasses walks over to Mr. Malfoy.

" Ah Lucius, darling, I see Draco has brought his little girlfriend along." She sneers at you, clearly not recognizing you. However you knew exactly who this was, Rita Skeeter, a slimy idiotic gossip columnist with worms for a brain. " Hope she enjoys this once in a lifetime opportunity to dine with such fine people."

You feel a hand on your shoulder.

"Miss Deauxville, so glad you could make it. The Minister would like to talk in his private room."

Rita Skeeter's face blanched when she realised you were a Deauxville and you follow Barty Crouch through a curtain into a smaller room with a round table and a huge window.

Seated at the table was Minister Fudge, you took a seat just as the team mascots stepped out on the field. The beautiful Bulgarian veelas danced on the field while the Irish leprechauns bounded with their gold, this angered the veelas who in turn transformed into demon-like bird creatures. The teams stepped out on the field, national anthems were played and the snitch was released.

"Well let's get this over with quickly so we have a chance to enjoy the game" You say.

Cornelius Fudge starts.

"Yes, yes well as I'm sure your father mentioned, the Ministry would like to lease a property for a couple months."

Just then Percy walks in holding a stack of papers.

"Here are the papers you asked for Mr.Crouch." He says importantly.

"Ah thank you Weatherby. You may go now."

You almost choke trying to stifle your laugh, earning a glare from Percy as he leaves. Mr Crouch hands you a stack of papers.

" The contract." He simply states. You're too distracted to notice the house elves bring the meal to the table.

You take your time to look it over for any loopholes. Normally your father would have his team of lawyers draw up his own contracts but this would do.

"You want to lease lot number 637? The two acres in the Black Forest, next to Hogwarts? You're sure?"

"Yes" The Minister replied looking uncomfortable.

"There are a few modifications we would like to do to this property." Barty Crouch cuts in.

"What kind of modifications?" You ask, eyeing him suspiciously.

"Well first we would like to cut most of the trees off"

You squawk.

"What! You realise that property will lose all value without the trees."

"Indeed but the ministry is prepared to compensate you for the trees and any fire damage." Mr.Fudge adds.

"Fire damage! What on earth are you planning on doing there!" You blurt out, you're voice rising several octaves.

" Miss Deauxville, we would tell you if we could, trust us it would make this so much easier, but unfortunately you are still a Hogwarts student and therefore we regretfully have to keep our lips sealed."

You decide to let it go. After all your father had done plenty of suspicious deals before he fell ill.

"How much are you offering?"

"370 000 galleons for eight weeks" Barty answers. You knew that property in the middle of the Black Forest was essentially worthless because of the aggressive centaurs that lived around it. They were offering a lot more money than expected so you quickly grabbed your pen and signed the contract. The two other men did the same. You got up to shake their hands and left the room.

(y/n) sat next to Draco and Lucius Malfoy for the remainder of the game. They made small talk but she couldn't focus on anything other than that property in the Black Forest.

Why the hell would the ministry be so eager to lease that dump? Why would there be fire damage? Why cut all the trees? Questions were swarming your mind like bees.

You look up when you hear the tremendous cheers coming from all the Irish fans. The game was over. You smile to yourself.

Those bloody Weasleys predicted it. Krum caught the snitch but Ireland won.

Both teams came up to the Minister's box to shake his hand. Everyone got up and clapped when the Irish team proudly walked in. The Bulgarian team stomped in with it's sulking seeker Victor Kum leading them. You started shaking hands with people you barely recognized just trying to get out of there as fast as possible. You shake Viktor Krum's hand and give him a warm smile, after all the guy had just lost the biggest game of the year, and he gave you a smile that never completely reached his eyes. Suddenly a bright flash blinds both of you. When you regain sight you see Rita Skeeter standing there with a camera.

"Beautiful photo" She says with the phoniest widest smile.

You finally join the Weasley clan and Cedric Diggory around a campfire later that night after the Malfoys had insisted that you have dinner with them.

"Where were you? I was getting worried. I mean. We. We were getting worried" Harry says quickly. The others give him strange looks.

"Stuck at a dinner with the Malfoy's." You sigh "If anyone mentions politics or the stock exchange one more time I will slit all your throats ok?" They all laugh and explain that they're playing truth or dare.

"Give me a dare! Give me a dare!" Ginny pleads.

"That's not how it works Ginny, you have to get picked." George explained.

"We've been playing for an hour and nobody's picked me !" She whines.

"Fine, eat this" Fred says, handing her a candy.

She pops it in her mouth and her tongue starts to swell enormously. She runs to find Mr.Weasley.

"She asked for it." Fred says, throwing his hands up.

They all keep playing, (y/n) not really paying attention. She was distracted by the Minister's words: "we would tell you if we could, trust us it would make this so much easier, but unfortunately you are still a Hogwarts student and therefore we regretfully have to keep our lips sealed."

"Cedric, truth or dare." George asks, smirking.

"Dare."

"Very well, your dare is to go ask one of those veelas on a date." He says pointing to a group of breathtaking creatures. You feel a pang of jealousy as Cedric gets up. Instead he comes and sits next to you.

" (y/n), how about a date?"

"Sure" You smile and turn red as George gets up, flailing his arms around..

"No no no. I said a Veela."

"George, are you a bloody idiot, everyone in Great Britain knows (y/n) is a quarter Veela." Hermione says.

Fred and George look at you puzzled.

"Really?" Asks Fred.

"Can you do that cool demon bird shit?" George looks at you suspiciously.

You laugh. "No! It would be kinda fun though if I could. But no, I can't turn into a bird or enchant men into falling hopelessly in love." You say making dramatic hand gestures.

" I don't know about that" Mumbles Harry. You shoot him puzzled looks.

As the night goes on the group keeps talking and playing various games. Your eyes start to feel heavy.

"I think I need to go to sleep." You mumble.

"You can always sleep with me." Fred purrs. Ron hits him with the back of his hand. Cedric's jaw stiffens as he glares at Fred. He looks like he's about to say something when Hermione cuts him off.

" I'll walk you back to your tent (y/n)"

You agree and say goodnight to everyone. As you're walking back you hear screams and see dark figures with masks levitating and torturing a muggle family. You and Hermione run towards the forest where you catch up with Ron and Harry. Ron trips. Lumos Hermione whispers and a bright glow appears on the tip of her wand.

You spot Draco leaning calmly against a tree close to you.

"Better go Hermione, unless you want to show everyone your underwear, if so stick around it would be tremendously funny" He sneers while gesturing to the levitating family.

How can he be so freaking calm when people are literally being tortured less than fifty feet away?

Harry and Ron start defending Hermione and question Draco about his parent’s whereabouts. Meanwhile, you're stuck in a trance watching the family of muggles being tortured and feeling helpless.

"Have it your way, Potter" Draco grins maliciously. "If you think they can't spot a mudblood, stay where you are"

Anger ripped through your body at the sound of those words and you were about to tear his vocal cords out and jinx him within an inch of his life when someone gently squeezes your hand.

"(y/n), let's go." Cedric says, his eyes pleading.

#cedric diggory #harry potter #draco malfoy #hp and the goblet of fire #cedric diggory x you #cedric diggory x reader #cedric x you #cedric x reader #harry potter x reader #draco malfoy x reader

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sablegear0 · 3 years

Text

My “Best Sketchbook”

An artist I follow on Twitter posted a general question; how old is your main/favourite OC and how have they changed since their inception? Suddenly I was possessed of the irresistible urge to dig up my old high school sketchbook, knowing that was where I first scribbled out the creature that would become Cat Toy.

This sent me careening back over a decade into my memories as I flipped through what I privately hold is my “Best Sketchbook.” Allow me to explain in the form of a long-winded storytime blog... (lots of images and story under the cut!)

I found this particular book in a desk in the art room of my high school in maybe grade 10 or 11. Being a notorious stationery vulture, I was instantly tempted to claim it for my own. Realizing, however, that someone probably just forgot it, I waited until my next class to check and see if it was still there. Sure enough, it was. It was already beat up and the first page had been used, but the rest was blank and it was clearly abandoned. So... I adopted it.

(Here’s the drawing on the first page, kept out of respect for the original owner. Signed, even, but I never found anyone by that name. FWIW, if you somehow bumble across this blog and recognize this marker drawing from high school, this is where your sketchbook ended up!)

Anyway, this sketchbook went everywhere with me, in and out of school. This was also around the time I discovered felt-tip pens were far superior to ball-points and was in the habit of doing my lineart with them. Naturally this book became full and festooned with felt-tip scribblings and sketches in both black and coloured pen.

But it wasn’t just sketches. I did everything in this book. I’m talking writing, both personal and for school. I found snippets of original stuff, old fanfic, and notes for school projects, written in all different colours in shockingly level lines despite the blank paper. The fic snippets even had messy “illuminated” first letters because why not.

There was finished art, unfinished art, doodles, geometric scribbles, song lyrics, in-jokes from my friends, everything in this sketchbook. It was a mess, comparatively, to my usual books full of finished drawings. But, frankly that’s what I miss the most about it.

(Name that song! Also horse and cubes from prior image on the reverse side)

(Still plan to redo this guy some day^. He’d look fantastic in digital form)

(Literal bugbear)

Something about the found, scrappy nature of this notebook made it a magical place where I could just put anything, professionalism, degree of finished-ness, technique, media, or sensibility be damned. (Notably there also exists a contemporary sketchbook of finished/refined pieces, so this wasn’t my only outlet at the time!) To this day I struggle to recapture that freeform magic. I’ve tried, but the fact is I can’t break away from the idea that a sketchbook is reserved for finished pieces (or attempts at finished pieces) only.

Maybe it was because this was high school, and I was drawing openly, so it became a kind of canvas for my friends’ thoughts as well as my own. Maybe I’ve grown up in the “wrong” direction and need to work on breaking out of strict habits. I don’t know. But I remember this mess fondly because it was something uniquely free.

By the way, since you can see him on the back page of the previous image, here’s Original Cat Toy

As you can see his design hasn’t changed much into the present. I’ve dropped the half-and-half “skeletal”/mitten paws, preferring the skeletal look because they’re easier to pose and more expressive. But beyond that, he’s remained pretty much unchanged. Why mess with perfection, right?

I don’t really know if there’s a takeaway from this. I guess it would be that you don’t need to feel constrained to refined, “finished” art in a single book. Art is whatever the hell you want it to be, and a notebook is just paper. Put whatever you want on it, however you want. Make it messy, use different media (not pictured, but there are a couple pages where I used India Ink because that’s what was available in art class).

I know It can be hard to designate a book to wreck. Currently I have a few different pads/sketchbooks (mainly for different paper types) and an actual journal for daily stuff, I rarely write fic by hand anymore. Maybe I need a change.

Anyway, I just wanted to share this weird slice of my creative history with the internet. Hopefully there’s something inspiring or liberating about it to you. Until next time!

#long post #sable has a take #daily life #sketchbook #high school #high school art #cattoycharacter #open for questions #open for discussion #cattoyandfriends

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youarejesting · 4 years

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Suspicious

Rating: Teen and Up Genre: Mystery, Romance, Drama, Action, Angst, Paranormal. Pairing: ? x Reader Summary: In Bightville there is never any nonsense, the scariest thing one might face is tripping at the roller-disco. But, when you move to the small town, crazy things start to happen. Suddenly people are going missing without any leads. It’s when your neighbour Seokjin goes missing that things get serious because now his friends suspect you!

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Jungkook took his bike across town with Taehyung and the two parked their bikes out the front of the store not bothering to lock them as everyone knew everyone so stealing wasn’t an option. But getting caught surely was.

The two pulled their shirts off their backs and pulled on the black and purple arcade polo shirt, Jungkook headed inside and stepped out back he was looking at the new roster, Jungkook sent a very long text to his mother wishing there was a way he could just take a picture and send it over the phone. Jungkook always made sure his mother would know his work hours and he painstakingly sent the same message to Namjoon as he kept a calendar with everyone's work days and hours so they could plan events around there school and shifts.

“Hey, I just cleaned up slushie off the pinball machine, I swear I am sick of these kids making a mess” Taehyung sighed “I hate when I am on cleaning duty”

“Hey man, I got it today you can take the counter,” Jungkook said pulling out the cleaning trolley.

“No, it’s groovy man,” Taehyung took the trolley, “You can’t offer to take the hard jobs all the time stand up for yourself”

“But you don’t like it?”

“No, I just like to complain,” Taehyung grinned, taking the trolley out onto the arcade floor. “Jungkook sighed taking the rubbish bag Taehyung had left behind and stepped out the back, he was going to put it in the big bin in the alley when he heard two people talking.

Jungkook saw the new girl. She was looking suspicious and was seemingly arguing with the school outcast. Jungkook had tried to help him before but the kid thought he was pitying him and started to shout.

Jungkook sighed and headed back into the store, there was plenty of snot nose kids who wanted to complain that the machines were faulty and Jungkook happily proved them wrong.

“Hey isn’t that the new girl?” Taehyung said the shop was closed up and the two grabbed there bikes. She was walking around in an almost daze holding a jacket in one hand and a phone to her ear with the other . Squinting Jungkook could see it was the outcasts jacket, the same one he was wearing in the alleyway behind the arcade.

Jungkook watched her look left and right before spotting a vehicle and walking to the edge of the sidewalk, jumping in as it slowed momentarily before speeding off out of sight.

The whole sight seemed a little out of the norm, that Jungkook filed it away to bring up with the boys later. They seemed very lively talking about the new girl's rude demeanour at lunch earlier that day.

But as Jungkook rode home alongside Taehyung and the two parted ways at the top of the hill, he couldn’t shake the feeling that there was something suspicious about the odd behaviour. He barely even cracked his usual smile as Taehyung took off down the hill down the hill howling.

Jungkook saw half way down the hill two heads pop out of two different houses and howled back and in the distance a few more howls like a chain reaction.

Jungkook howled along with them and rode to his house, he felt like he was being watched and couldn’t shake the feeling, but he pulled up at his house propped his bike against the front porch and ran inside slamming the door, his mother smiled “are you okay darling you look pale?”

“I just feel funny” Jungkook shivered “got a little afraid of the dark on my way home”

“You used to mention the dark a lot as a kid always saying there were creatures in the dark that steal people away. You had such an active imagination, you used to call them something” his mother pondered.

“You used to call them the, Uh what was it…” unable to recall despite her best efforts she shrugged, “I can’t remember, you drew some scary picture of them though”

A chill went through Jungkook as he remembered the eyes that rushed through his head. It was jarring nostalgic and terrifying memories he had repressed and couldn’t quite recall in detail.

He did however remember where he placed the book he would draw in, hidden in a shoe box in the top or his cupboard. Jungkook walked to his room, the feeling fading away quickly as he remembered a paper due for tomorrow’s class that he needed to finish writing.

Glad he did most throughout the week at his desk and began writing the closing paragraph with a small static radio playing in the background.

He finished the last sentence and put the papers in his folder and into his bag, he didn’t want the man damaged he reached up to pack up his pens when the radio static overtook the radio tunes and he frowned wiggling the antenna.

When he heard a voice that sounded like his name, coming from the radio it sounded like the outcasts voice. He was sure, he had spoken to him once or twice in an effort to help him and it was a distinct sound.

What was his name?

Everyone just called him the outcast so it was hard to remember. Jungkook had been scribbling in thought with one of the pens he was packing up while thinking on this the voice called his name through the radio making him look at the radio confused.

He packed up the last pen and went to turn the radio off and as the switch turned he heard “help” he froze looking around wondering if it was a prank but he sighed.

“It’s just your overactive imagination Jungkook. Just go to bed” he stood up and looked at the paper on the desk. There was a scribbled figure looking back at him and paled with terror.

With the likeness of a spider and a bear, six thick legs bent above the body and each leg had sharp talons and two sharp eyes cut like vertical slits. The snout was long and wide teeth sharp and curved and dripping in venom. It could almost be a brother of the creature no face from the old animated film he watched with the boys.

Head spinning, he was out of breath heart drumming in his ears, sweat dripping from his form. This was your everyday panic attack and yet it felt almost like an old friend giving him a too tight too cold hug filled with dread.

Lowering himself to the bed as he passed out gaining solace in a dreamless void.

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wintersongstress · 5 years

Text

Do Not Touch the Artwork

Summary: Arthur draws you during a stolen moment–one in which he reflects on the feelings he keeps hidden inside in regards to you.

Pairing: Arthur Morgan (High Honor) x Female Reader

Word Count: 8.4k 🙇‍♀️

Tags: Mutual pining. Denial of feelings. Angst? Tending an injury. Stargazing. A dash of hurt/comfort. Some smoking and drinking. No major content warnings apply.

A/N: Its not perfect, but if I proofread this one more time I’m never gonna post it so

Tagging: @obsiidio // @veravia // @hindarsfjall // @deviantramblings // @dicax-asina // @thomasscresswell // @porkchop-ao3 // @sethrine-writes // @alistairsrosa // @a-shakespearean-in-paris // @honest-good // @shethenightwolf // @nordic-breeze // @0ik4wa // @miusmius // @lavenderstages // @mulanisms

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He often woke when the world did.

At the hour in which dreams fade and the cock crows, when the tide of easterly light sweeps away the stars with obligation, Arthur would blink at the receding border of night and allow himself to sit still; a silent witness to each dawn as it was destined to be.

He spent a thousand sunrises this way—pausing with his feet reluctant to touch the cool, damp Earth, and it became a cherished time, one of deep reflection. The brew of the sky offered a clarity for rumination, providing the moments in which he would think to himself about the horizon—the path his life had taken to see a new one each day, and, subliminally, if he would live to see the next.

This tradition never grew old, for no two sunrises were the same. Most days, the sun’s far arrival was a hopeful blush into the dark blue, while others were portent with shades of red that bled into the low, conspiring clouds. Nevertheless, his keen artist’s eyes would gratefully follow the lines of the landscape—the grasses jeweled with dew, drinking the sun’s honey, and the shafts of sunlight striking through the trees—all the while recognizing that the colors beyond were not a wonder to be captured by pencil.

On this day, as the dark came away, a rare and dreamlike shade welcomed him in his matutinal contemplation. A color he was patient for, one that fell his eyes shut in its presence—lightening to a pale in the space of that blink.

The sky was violet.

No dreadful red, no storms to come. Violet, to him, symbolized his deepest dreams of peace. Brief and surreal, yet lingering. Mornings of this color foretold brighter days.

Arthur sits up from his cot, soothing the aches in his neck as the yolk of the sun slides up from the horizon. The wind rises with the gold, rustling the gilded treetops, and within their emerald branches the songbirds awaken and impart their sweet music above to encourage the creatures below.

His consciousness blearily begins to return to him, reminders of his duties creeping back in. The quiet of his mind wanes and he gives one last lingering glance to the fire in the sky as it spreads across the landscape, glowing like the ends of his cigarette, orange and burning.

With a departing flick, he affixes his hat, withdrawing from the shade of his canopy with the comforting weight of his satchel and revolvers beside him.

The girls smile up at Arthur, soap suds caking their arms as they vigorously scrub at the laundry in the wash buckets and their brows sheened with sweat as they work under the sun’s glare. He tips his hat as they bid him good morning, and he continues to exchange polite greetings to the familiar faces that pass him by as he makes his way to the communal coffee percolator.

A flock of geese flies low through the early morning mist that still clings to the water of Flat Iron Lake. Hosea and Dutch stand before the placid surface, hands clasped behind their backs as they discuss something amongst themselves. The dull, rhythmic scrape of Charles’ sharpening his hunting knife drowns out their voices, and his gaze meanders around the perimeter of the camp. Between the cheerful whistles and the curls of wood smoke floating through the air, all is as it should be—the sun beaming bright. However, despite the passing faces, and the flick and swing of horsetails as they grazed, a noticeable absence strikes him and leaves his daily picture incomplete.

It was unlike you.

Most mornings he would listen for the papery scrape of onion skins across a cutting board and find you at Pearson's wagon, knife in hand dicing vegetables for the afternoon stew with precision. With a glance towards the water's edge, he finds the sunlit flaps of your tent undrawn, and his unease abates. He smiles to himself easily as he fixes a cup of coffee, pouring another to bring to you.

Chickens cluck past him as they squabble over scatterings of barley in the trampled grass. For the time being, he knows that this peace is temporary, that the day ahead was sure to be filled with hard riding and gun smoke that would ultimately leave him exhausted. The thought makes him grateful for the bitterness of the brew he swallows. Your presence alongside him would alleviate his doubts about the robbery tip you were both set to investigate—supposedly at first light. And so, he savors the calm of morning during the short walk to your tent; the untouched halcyon surrounding him instilled by the water with its gentle laps against the shore and the ribbit of frogs that dwell along it.

He inevitably reaches the canvas entrance, his eyes cast down to the clover grasses while he collects himself. As he steps inside, the familiarity of the outside world disappears and he is forgetful of all as the flaps close behind him.

The sound of fabric sliding against itself lures his eyes to the waves of your sheets and quilts. Feet glide along legs and he stills as his gaze and the sunlight falls upon the rest of you.

You were dreaming—and perhaps he is, too. Deep in a pleasant sleep, you lay in a nightgown of a feather-white, the gauzy sleeves unconsciously pulled down your shoulders to escape the nascent summer heat. The laces over your collarbone had loosened, and the first instinct he has is to avert his widened gaze at the realization that this is more of your skin than he has any privilege to see.

Arthur was no stranger to your sleeping form. Between the frequency of long journeys and the unavoidable togetherness that followed, the companionship he formed with you was organic; as natural and intrinsic together as the bond between a wolf and the moon.

However, he had another steadfast companion in his life. Uncertainty. The lingering presence of it was one of the reasons why he stole moments for himself to draw what he saw humbly. A desire dwelled within him whenever he observed the natural world around him. One to forget. To appreciate what might be taken for granted. His journal became his sacred place to find his words and to pen the hard truth of present circumstance—a circumstance that left no room for delusions, especially amorous ones. The reflective act highlighted the importance of trust and loyalty, why it mattered most to him in this life, and why family was what he fought for.

The family he surrounded himself with was bonded by something stronger and less accidental than blood—by choice. A choice not influenced by obligation, but by promise and principle. Those of which were no mild oaths to him.

Watching over another sleep—a time when one is most vulnerable—was different when all that existed between Arthur and you was that treasured trust and loyalty. He never anticipated the roots of your bond burgeoning as deep as it has, into something unspeakable, unthinkable—into a feeling far from easy friendship, and laying further in his subconscious than a dream. A dream that a man like Arthur, living the life that he led, was not meant to possess. The sight of you in such a deep sleep unearths a familiar pit of dread over something he thought he long accepted about himself.

Frozen in step, a deliberate breath fills his chest as he considers how awkward it would be to wake you in this state. He should leave. Find an excuse to busy himself with or—

He allows himself to look at you, and he softens at the sight. The honest and innocent nature of your face allays his hesitation into a longing to capture it.

Your honest values he appreciated daily, but he was only reminded of your innocence in quiet, untouchable moments like this one. Because, despite you good intentions and sweet nature, bad luck swept you into this life—as it did to many others, including himself. All of you survived under an irrevocable circumstance, one filled with gambles. You only had the power to change the way you played the hand, not the cards you were dealt. And in the swift game of chance, innocence lost in a cold roll of dice.

Luck seldom favored Arthur. Although, it was the bad kind that lead your paths to cross in the first place. A part of him is thankful for that.

With a resolved twitch in his fingers, he wanders away from this uncharted territory and decides to indulge you in a few more minutes of rest.

Careful not to disturb you, he eases himself onto the crate across from your cot and retrieves the worn leather journal from his satchel. The pages flutter past his thumb, a blur of cursive and penciled drawings—some of you, tucked safe in hidden corners—until his sketches of rare flowers flash by and he pauses.

The petal soft appearance of your eyelids resembles the graceful and soundless bloom of an orchid on the page before him. Deciding that this is where the image of you belongs, he smooths the parchment anew.

He rolls his sleeves past faded scars and a balmy breeze enters the enclosed space, rustling the dark hairs on his forearms. A perfect peace befalls in its wake, whistling through the trees and flapping the laundry on the line outside. Set adrift, he inhales the bliss deeply to fill his lungs, clearing his head before he deems himself ready to begin.

His steadied hand is mindful not to wrinkle the paper as he studies his subject in earnest. His thoughts, the outer dissonance of dishes and pots clattering, and Miss Grimshaw’s subsequent scolding—it all vanishes as he seeks the blessed stillness of his mind. The point of graphite meets the cream page, and the elegance that follows is a contradiction to the weathered hand that guides it.

The drawing begins as all drawings must: with thin, light lines that build off of one another. Through quick glances and sharp attention, the map of your frame comes into existence, and the lines of your proportions follow. It is unrefined at first, only a basic outline, a fact in which he is unconcerned. The time for details would come when he earned them, for the pursuit of art took practice and patience with one’s self, he learned.

The essential shape of you, the curves, the contours, are precisely measured with a hand driven by his concentrated gaze, and the further he draws, the farther he falls into the deeply thoughtful nature of himself he likes to be alone with.

He often found that sacred place when he drew you.

The first time it was a thoughtless sketch; an afterthought rippling in his memory like the creek water beneath your toes on that blistering afternoon.

He remembers it slowly; the noonday smell, the vibrant green stretches of grass spotted with yellow flowers, how the doves had departed from their perch on the power lines as you both rode past. That day had been filled with the radiant sunshine of spring. Butterfly wings had fluttered in the meadows as you crossed through vast fields and wildflowers, riding against the wind carried down from a cloudless sky wheeling with vultures.

The tall grasses had moved gently in the breeze and insects chittered loudly from the wavering stalks. As your steady hoof beats coincided, a trail of dust rose in his wake as you coasted through the Lemoyne countryside together.

His hands sweated into the leather of the reins and he eased up when the sun rose high, the dirt beginning to settle as you slowed your mare to a trot alongside him. She whickered and tossed her head, and you hunched over to console her with reassuring pats and murmurs.

“There looks to be a forest up there, might be a good place to stop and rest the horses for a while.” His announcement broke the comfortable silence between you.

“I had the same idea.” You replied, relief in your tone as you wiped your brow and glanced in the direction where he pointed. He shook his arms loose and followed behind you, rolling his neck and flexing his hand.

Hooves clomped softly in the dirt as you veered off the path and headed into the luxurious shade. The heavy, drooping branches of sumac brushed over your shoulder blades and you ducked low in your saddle, a sight that bemused him as he trampled through the undergrowth behind you.

Arthur remembered overhearing you talking with Kieran one night out by the hitching posts at Horseshoe Overlook. It was after dinner, and the horses toed the crabgrass whilst the moths fluttered around the buttery glow of the lanterns, looking for a place to settle.

You stood beneath the looming pines, fishing a shawl out from your saddlebag when Kieran had come up beside you and nervously asked if your saddle needed polishing. With a kind smile, you accepted his offer, and sat beside him on a log as he worked. Arthur eyed him with distrust from the poker table and lingered on you with a budding curiosity, taking a sip of his beer as a conversation began to flow between the two of you.

Kieran asked you about your horse beneath his hat; a comfortable question for him. You leisurely recalled a time when you were desperate, on the run, and in need of something fast to take you far away when you came across a herd of wild horses roaming through the plains of Dakota. Singling her out and taming her was no easy feat, and when you did, you had named her Nisha. When Kieran asked for the meaning behind her name, you told him it came from an ancient holy language in India, and that it meant “night”.

Arthur supposed it was as good a name as any for a black horse. Although, as time passed, he came to admire your choice more for its uniqueness, and, for a perplexing, unnamable reason, he wished he had been the one to ask you about it first instead of learning by eavesdropping.

Deeper within, a gurgling stream wound throughout the woods. With a click of your tongue you led your faithful mustang to its mossy edge on foot. The water ran pure as quartz, and the mica shimmer of the rocks beneath glinted iridescently, silver and twinkling like starlight in the sun. The horses dipped their heads to drink.

“Thank you for bringing me along with you today. I—“You had passed a brush over Nisha’s oil black coat, pausing your grooming to consider him and the day you spent together. “It was nice to get out for a bit.” You finished shyly, attention fixated on removing a leaf from your horse’s mane. He straightened from refilling his canteen and turned back to you.

“’Course.” He glanced at the prize pelts rolled up behind your sun-bleached saddlebags and gestured to them with his thumb. “You can come along anytime if you keep catching game like that. I ain’t one much for tracking but you sure have a knack for it.” They would fetch a fair price. A surprised hint of pride lightened his voice and your eyes lifted to find his encouraging smile.

“I appreciate that, Arthur. I think I’ll take you up on that offer sometime.”

With a nod, he took his distance to recline against a tree, respecting your privacy as you settled on a rock to tug off your shoes and dip your bare feet in the creek.

Overhead, the sunlight threaded its warmth through the foliage, dappling your skin with the shadows of leaves. Beneath the brim of his hat, he safely marveled at how they drifted over you darkly in the sway of the wind, his hands slowing as he cleaned the brass barrel of his hunting rifle.

With a book in your lap and an apple poised in hand, the hour passed idyllically, and you hummed to yourself as you admired the wild roses that grew along the embankment. The bristled branches stretched over the water, offering their beautiful dark magenta petals to the ripples, where diamonds of droplets beaded the blooms. Little yellow bees buzzed over them.

He decided he liked the sound of your voice, for you sang a song far sweeter than the water’s.

With mesmeric motions, you swilled your feet in the cool brook, mindlessly soaking the cuffed hems of your pants. And when you closed your eyes against the incoming wind, a grateful smile graced your face and Arthur looked away.

Later that night by his lantern’s light, a rigid hand recollected the image of you in the mirror of the water. He tried to capture the bliss on your face and the harmony of the Earth beside and above you, but his sketch was uncharacteristically restrained, as if reluctant to focus, lest he awaken the softer, slumbering animal of his body. Regardless of his ingrained abnegation, a dim flame flickered within thereafter.

Something began to change in him. Something ineffable that ignored the hard lessons he learned and tempered his reluctance to let it lay forgotten as he drew you presently. Light scratching sounds fill the quiet space of your tent as he devotes his focus absolutely, practicing the diligence he savors the occasion for.

The coffee beside him grows colder as the silver pocket watch on your side table ticks by; the only reminders of the passage of time.

Memories and the fondness they collected guide his hand as he begins to add shading to strengthen the realism. The image of you massaging your feet in the water that day lays in the back of his mind as he darkens the arch of your foot and suggests the subtlety of your ankles amidst the sheets.

With a delicate stroke, he follows the smooth curve of your calf before it disappears beneath your skirt.

It was an acquired skill to apply varying pressure to create a shadowed effect, especially in the folds of your clothing as he pronounces the edges of your knees through the material. He thinks on how your knees are a place often caked with dirt, and also a place you tapped nervously when crouched beside him with your rifle. In a brief exchange, your jittery fingers would brush over his whenever he passed his binoculars to you. The passage was smooth and brief, like the feather fletching of an arrow before it releases.

Your hands are relaxed, one against the cotton of your pillow and the other draped lazily over your waist. While he cannot capture their delicate warmth or the assurance they lent, he depicts their gentleness, the nimble curl of your fingers and the poetic spacing between them, and he faintly pencils the crescent tips of your nails. He uses the sides of the graphite instead of the tip to create a lighter, more discrete effect. The folds and creases of your underdress congregate around the curves of your hips and bring an unbidden tightness to his throat. Still, he pursues the soft shapes of you and the curvature of your form honestly.

Although, it is the lines of your arm, the bend of your elbow, the gentle swoop of your collarbone and the following curve of your shoulder that tarries his hand and awakens a deep wellspring of feeling within him. These parts of you stir a more intimate significance within him as he remembers that night.

One where the world’s existence and his responsibilities faded as you slept beside him, and the one in which he first began to lie to himself.

………….

“Hold still.”

“It’s just a scratch.”

“It’s a bite. At least let me look at it.”

With a relenting sigh, he settled back against a driftwood log and you had knelt beside him in the firelight. Aside from the incense of burning wood, the less fond but equally familiar tang of blood filled his nose and sharpened the twilight air.

The blood was his.

The tattered blue fabric of his sleeve came away wet and scarlet as he rolled it up for you, and the sight it unveiled firmed your mouth into a worried line.

Several rings of angry bite marks had scored his arm, and your curious, gentle hands held his wrist in a light hold as you examined the wounds while you sat beside him on the lakeside. Your fire-warmed fingertips traced over his skin, drifting over where his pulse thrummed and lulling his eyes to a close at the residual warmth that followed their dance.

“They don’t look too deep, but they should still be disinfected.” You had concluded after a few moments of study, your tone quieted by concentration. Arthur began to protest, but his words caught in his throat at how the color of your eyes softened with concern before they trailed away with your voice. It became clear to him that you needed something to do in order to get your mind off of what happened. So, he swallowed what he was about to say and agreed to let you get started on dinner and dress his injury.

The cry of coyotes bid the night to fall as they howled in the far off mountains, the pale pink of the sky deepening into rose and further on into a lasting crimson. As the sun slowly sank behind the snow-capped peaks, the teal glass of the lake was painted with the colors of a sanguine sunset, rippling and bleeding with the warmth left by the rays of fading sunlight.

Laps of water soothed the pebble shore and the summer wind had sang through the susurrus of cattails whispering along its edge. While he often drank in nature's tranquil reward for a long day, Arthur's eyes shifted to you, to your clothes—spattered grimly with wolf's blood and torn by claws and teeth, to the blank expression on your face as you basted the meat roasting on the spit over the fire.

You absently added salt to a pot of water set on the iron grill to boil.

It worried him; the slight tremble in your hands before you tucked them under your arms, the sightless look in your eyes as you stared out at nothing, thinking.

You were far, far away from him and this place.

The water pot began to bubble and your gaze cleared. Arthur stayed quiet, lost for the consoling words you needed to hear. He let the crackle of wood devour the absence of conversation.

You returned to him with the pot of cooling water, setting down a roll of gauze on the log behind him while keeping a bundle of clean cloths in your lap. Wordlessly, he held his arm out for you again and you angled it diagonally towards the ground. A tin cup scratched against the bottom of the pan as you dipped it inside.

While he had been in this position as your patient before, you had never been so quiet. You liked to talk while you worked. He tried to think of what he should say, what would take your mind off of everything, but he came up empty and frustrated with himself.

A strange, plaintive call echoed across the water, and another answered it. His curiosity spoke for him.

“You know,” he looked out to the edge of the lake, where the willow trees practiced their art of weeping and the night shadows crept out unseen like the ghosts of the land. “I always wondered what kind of bird makes those sounds.”

At the curve of your lips, he realized with no small amount of relief that he said the right thing, for your slight smile was one of fond remembrance.

“Those are loons. There’s a pair out there.”

Bloody water soaked the rocks as you began to irrigate his wounds, the water stinging about as pleasantly as soap in the eye as you poured the cup. He tensed and flexed his hand as you went on.

“There was a lake near where I grew up. It was one of my favorite places to go, actually.” With your head bowed and your eyes narrowed in concentration, you sensed his discomfort and asked if he was alright or if he needed anything.

“No, I’m fine. Go on.” He mumbled softly beneath your careful touch.

Shaking your head, you laughed through your nose. “More whiskey for me then.”

He pointedly stared into the sapphire heart of the fire as your breath fanned over his skin and you shifted imperceptibly closer, your knees brushing his thigh.

“Anyways.” You cleared your throat and bowed your head once more. “In the summertime, when the day was at its end and the lake water went absolutely still, you would hear them. I used to sit out on the porch and listen while I watched the sun go down and the bats come out. No other time was more peaceful to me.”

When the water began to run clear, you gingerly dabbed the violent edges of the teeth marks with a cloth. Katydids and crickets chattered in the lulls between your pauses and the sky began to darken in earnest.

He eagerly listened, drawn to the happiness recalling a simpler past brought you. More than that, he cherished you sharing this story with him. This was the facet of you that drew him in intractably and seized his heart the most.

The part of you that had so much to say, and no one to say it to.

“One day, I was at the general store and I picked up a field guide. The shopkeeper told me it was his mother’s, a gift from her father after they spent a summer camping together in the Adirondacks. I thought that explained why the pages smelled so wonderful, like oak trees and memories. But from it, I learned that a pair of loons mate for life, and every day before they can return to their nest, they have to find each other again. That’s what that sound is. A beacon to one another. I began to think of it as a call to a lost love,” You mused as you wrapped his forearm in gauze. “And I realized that the reason why it resonated with me so deeply was because it echoes with a fear we all share.”

His surroundings dissipated until all that was left were your words. Each syllable ensnared him, hooked him on their reminiscent edges precariously, and left his complete attention clinging to you. They carried him away from his great reluctance, left him helpless with longing, for he profoundly understood the nostalgia that laced your dulcet voice—regardless if it was for a foreign place to him.

“And what’s that?” He genuinely wondered aloud as he watched the firelight flicker over your face. Thoughtlessly, he leaned into the lovely shadows they cast. Your eyes lifted at his intimate tone, and the golden moment in which they met his open gaze and considered the diminishing distance between, something changed. Irrevocably.

The hairs on the back of his neck prickled. The same way as when he was caught in a thunderstorm and sensed the imminent crackle of lightning in the air.

Once more, that poignant, lonesome wail rung throughout a land that grew cold and dark beneath the mountains’ shadows, revealing the answer before you did.

“The fear of being alone.”

The tangent of that thought led you back to reality, interrupting your hands as they tied off the gauze for your fingers to curl over his wrist instead. The absence of words spoke more.

It was a strange, heady sensation, to be filled with the sight of each other and watch as eyes fall to lips, a tacit desire blooming to have them touch, each to each.

He realized that you were lost in thought, not him, as your eyes glistened with tears.

“Arthur, if you hadn’t—if you had—“

You closed your eyes against the unthinkable end to that sentence. In the dark of your thoughts of loneliness and death, one of your teardrops fell, gently and silently—as snow did, and Arthur went wordless at the sight.

An urgent wave swept over him, lifting his large, calloused hands to tip your face back into the luminance of the fire. Unimaginable, how soft-hearted his inured hands became as they cupped your cheeks to swipe away your needless tears. His thumbs passed over the pores of your skin to efface your uncharacteristic sadness raptly, concerned with the sad brightness of your downcast gaze.

“Hey,” he shushed you gently, his voice softened by a tone he seldom used. “It weren’t a big deal.”

“I was irrational and you got hurt because of it. I put both our lives in danger.” You argued. “All of this is my fault.” Bitter resentment and shame dipped your chin low and Arthur raised it once more.

“None of that was your fault.”

I’d do it again and again. In a heartbeat. Don’t you know that? Those were the words he meant to say, though he dared not to. They were too soft for his gruff voice, too foolish in their candor. But also, being the kind of man who kept hidden what mattered most to him, a steadfast principle held him back. Their unuttered echoes rippled within him all the same, holding the clear beginnings of a confession, and he lost track of himself as a new fear dawned upon him in their wake.

He was stricken by the cold terror of losing something he would never have.

The truth confined itself, yet his eyes implored you, the roughness of his thumbs caressing over the softness of your tearful skin.

Nothing to be heard and everything to be seen, all that lay unspoken between you was said in another way—with his hands cradling your face lovingly, and yours still curled over his wrists, clinging to him.

As you swayed in his grasp and in your despair, he ached for you. He sought to soothe the pain in your brow; the tips of his fingers trailing over your temple and the back of his knuckles following the curve of your cheekbones thoughtfully. You leaned into his reverent touch completely, and when the apples of your cheeks no longer gleamed with fresh tears, he was left with you and him and the open. Alone. Two forlorn souls holding one another while the stars flowered above.

The watery smile you gave him was true, and the feeling that fluttered within him was the same. It was not the first smile you graced him with, but it was the nearest.

In his careful hands he dispelled your previous sorrows as he had hoped, and an overwhelming gratitude took its place. One he shared. As much as the encounter rattled you, it frightened him far more. How fast it all happened. The distant gunfire. Your screams. Coming across your startled horse on the road and racing through the thicket to find you.

His relief came after you were safe. After he had finished the last of the pack off with a clean shot to the head, he pulled you up from the ground and you splayed a bloody hand over his heart in disbelief. He covered it with his own to keep its place. While you were profusely grateful to him for coming after you, he shushed your frantic apologies and set off to find a place to camp before nightfall.

You had been quiet while following him the rest of the way, troublingly so while you gathered the driftwood along the pebbled shore for the fire.

Your smile began to wane in the bronze glow of the firelight, your expression fading as neither of you intended to let go of one another, this closeness. The endearingly soft expectancy in your eyes drooped somberly as you awaited his decision to pull away. He realized with dismay that you knew he would.

A threshold stood before him.

A lifetime of his mistakes, misfortunes, bad decisions and bad luck blurred past him in an instant like the pages of his journal. Deep down, he knew the ending and where his fate would ultimately lead him. And yet, those hardships shaped him into the man who knelt before you.

An unfathomable sense of unworthiness washed over him at the fact that despite the route his life had taken…it lead him to you. In spite of everything he had done, he allowed himself to believe that perhaps his last chance of finding someplace safe with somebody good had yet to be squandered. The prospect of you sharing this dream loomed before him, and the more he looked, the more he wanted. Senselessly and without abandon.

One final revelation begged its divulgence before this became a pleasant memory to add to the few. He had to find a way to disclose what you meant to him, and not with his meager words.

His thumbs trailed down, paused on your lips—

Your life matters more to me than my own.

—and a man he would never be held his breath.

With a slow, dawning wonder, the seam of your mouth parted and beckoned him, the fan of your lashes lifting slow. All he wanted for you, of you, awakened a thirst for a goodness he would never possess, unfurling in his heart with the same forbiddance of a rose blooming in moonlight.

You blinked once and looked at him anew.

And this.

This was the reason why. This was the moment in time when he knew.

Arthur needed to pull away. He needed to end this before it began.

He was a fool when he bitterly convinced himself that Mary Linton was the type of woman he would never fall out of love with. He never prepared himself for the possibility that one day he would be less wishful of the past and more hopeful for a future that would never come to be. The consequences would cripple him if he was careless. It was better if this secret of himself was kept buried. In his dreams, his drawings, his journal, in all of the places where the unsung desires of his soul echoed.

Although, these truths….he found that they may hide in all except two places. In silence and in reflections.

The silence of fading twilight held it when he drew closer, his eyes unclosing, and the mirror of you held it as your graceful shadow moved to join his upon the Earth.

The tip of his nose brushed along yours.

And all was still.

Beneath the night blue, within the whispers of a breeze, his dreams called to him. The ones forgotten, too impractical to keep—however far in the dark of his sleep. A murmuring slinked through his thoughts, pleaded him to reach forth, aching for nothing be between. He listened, wavering as the leaves in the trees surrounding him did, and he leaned his brow against yours as a final restraint. Over and over again, the wish desperately returned to him each time he shunned it away.

He clung to the last of his hesitations; his sensibilities begging him to turn away and never learn if your mouth was as sunshine warm and honeysuckle sweet as he imagined it to be.

The fleeting space between lessened, filled with the wild leaping of his heart thudding in his ear and the blurred sight of you until his eyes no longer wished to see. He soaked in the moment long enough to realize what he was about to do, what he was about to ruin.

Your name, it burned as he whispered it breathlessly. It was the cold wind that threw open a door long shut in his mind. Thought dead, what lay within the shadows merely slumbered; a heap of ash gray embers protecting a glowing heart, one that the merest breath may stir awake and fan aflame.

At the plea in his voice, your hands fell to his collarbone, seeking the fact of his pulse as they curved along his neck, shyly slipping beneath the buttons undone on his collar.

Soft and divine, the glide of your fingertips found his chin and stilled, a helpless shudder leaving his lungs. You were lingering on his scar, acknowledging with an inquisitive stroke that he had earned it on his unimaginably harsh journey through life. A life lived beneath a merciless sky, yet had taken him down paths that strayed far from sunlight.

The delicate skip of your touch wandered warmly. You coaxed his bottom lip apart, and for an elusive instant, all of his doubts vanished, crumbling like shale and slipping away like sand when you looked at him in a way no one ever had. The caring tenderness you returned lifted the shadows of his doubts, eclipsed them with the luminous glow of your gaze. He believed, in that sliver of absolute peacefulness, that none of this unfolding intimacy had anything to do with worth. Only this once, he told himself. And at last, he relented.

Sharing your quiet sigh of elation, his brows softened, rose with his hopes, and the devotion swelling in his heart became a flood that rises. To be so near the thread of your pulse and the splendor of your eyes, to share your breath and breathe in the faint perfume of lavender enchanting your skin, it was all the closest to heaven he would ever be. Never before had he known such a nearness to another soul.

Lips began to press—

No—

At the last second before delirium claimed him, he rested his forehead against yours like a man seeking respite. He took your hands, each in his own, and tucked them back into your lap as if to deny the truth before him. You had a wide look to your eyes—as if you had done something wrong—as he made the shattering choice to pull away from your warmth.

It was the last thing Arthur wanted to do.

Offering you this hope and to kiss you with all of the promises he wished to make was cruel and unfair of him. He knew better than to indulge this fantasy. For it was the same as gnawing on an old bone with only a trace of meat left; it would only leave him hungrier than before, like all illusions. Especially ones involving you. Dwelling on it gave him the same tender ache as pressing on a bruise.

It was best if the sensation of kissing you would remain known only to a dream. After all, what choice did he have? It was too late for him. But for you…

His voice returned to him in a whisper. “Just don’t go running off by yourself like that again, okay?”

I don’t want to lose you more than I already will.

When all was said and done, you would find your way out from this life. Away from all of the robbing and killing and running. Away from him.

You nodded, tugging your earlobe self-consciously as you fixed your gaze to the ground.

“That scratch might scar, but it should be fine. Just keep it clean.” You mumbled before turning away in a rush.

The intimacy that transpired was lost as you quickly rose to your feet and walked back to the campfire.

After a hard swallow to muster his composure and subdue his guilt, he rolled his sleeves past the neat knots of the gauze you nimbly tied. “Now, didn’t you say something about whiskey?”

The corner of your mouth quirked up at his attempt to lighten the mood, followed by a renewed sparkle in your eye from across the fire. After dinner and with a grin around the lip of the bottle, the rest of the evening passed by in a blur.

Arthur rarely spoke much of himself. That changed when he was alone with you.

With you, he told stories he never shared with anyone. Not from a sense of shame or secrecy, but because you asked curious questions that required a deeper part of himself to answer; a part of himself left in the past. You unwittingly unearthed his stories from a time before he knew how to write the happenings of his life plainly for the sake of recollection in his journal. Events that were unimportant to him in the past, yet mattered the moment you smiled and laughed when he recalled them.

He had darker stories, too, and you listened well, letting him find the right words, your expression full of empathy as he talked about his father and the conditions he grew up in. A lump formed in his throat when he reminisced about his mother, and he welcomed the touch you spared to his shoulder when he told you about his son.

As the night continued on, his chest grew warm with something other than liquor as your arm aligned with his and your head rolled onto his shoulder contentedly.

You both looked to the sky, as dreamers often do, and together you admired the galaxy of stars above. Before those jeweled heavens of light, the embers of the fire danced through the eddy of smoke and moths to join the night. Arthur leaned back on the log with you curled up beside him, his jacket tucked underneath your chin.

Your arm reached forth to point out familiar constellations, and you explained to him how the Greeks believed their gods cast images in the stars so that the memory of their people and their mythos would persist for time immemorial. Hercules and Pegasus, Andromeda, the Chained Woman, and Perseus, the Gorgon Slayer. You told him all of their stories, ending with Orion, the Hunter, with his belt of three stars that served as a guide to many heroes on their journey home.

He followed your hand as it connected the imaginary lines between them all and he squinted at their obscurity. A natural wonderment quieted your voice as you observed the boundless magnificence of the sky. For a time, silence stretched. The wood from the fire crackled and you stayed at his side, gazing up above.

Before long, you began to maunder aimless thoughts aloud, signaling your descent into sleep. “I wonder if the stars know how fondly they are looked upon…” you yawned and Arthur watched the path the moonbeams made through the high branches. His inherent cynicism lay forgotten at your innocent rambling, for those words resonated within him the deepest.

He wondered the same as he looked back down to you.

“I’m sorry,” you laughed. “That was…” the fan of your lashes lowered with a smile. He was losing you and your unfinished conversation to exhaustion. “My train of thought seems to have hit a cow.” He withheld his laugh and smiled instead.

With your hand against his ribs and the soft of your cheek pressed over the beat of his heart, you dozed off and he began to follow. As his arms found their place around you, he looked up to a sky still blue despite the loss of light. Through a night so dark, fell a star. He made one wish upon it. To stay. His final, drifting thoughts were of how the moon found her place in the stars, watching over all, oblivious to the light she lent, and how the wolves in the distance still yearned for her brightness.

He rested his head against your crown, filled his lungs with the memory of how you smelled of petals in the night breeze.

Arthur fell into the first untroubled sleep he had known in years.

His dreams were moonlit and of you, as always. In the dawn, he woke with the robins and found your fingers threaded through his. He loosened them. You hummed in your sleep as he tugged off your boots and tucked you into your frayed bedroll, unbuckling your gun belt before he did.

As the sun first came and all was bathed in pink light, he sat before the dying whispers of the fire, his journal in his lap as the mountain wind whistled through the pages.

The calm of the water soothed him with their cold, golden ripples between the pond lily leaves, but the image that caught his eye that morning and guided his pencil was not one from nature.

He drew your hand in his.

………….

The sun has moved higher in the sky.

A ray of brightness warms your face as it slips between the cracks of your tent, interrupted briefly by the swoop of a bird’s wings, and you stir in the light.

Along the journey of his drawing, smudges of gray color Arthur’s hands as they have traveled over the page. A few details still remain. His eyes wander over his work, searching for the aspects he needs to add before he considers his portrayal of you thoroughly complete.

Through deep talks on a dark night, Arthur knows how perfectly the curve of your shoulder fits to his side, and he lightly scratches his pencil backwards and forwards to form a rounded effect. Inside a bed, inside a dream, he would trace the bare lines of your shoulders with his knuckles instead.

In the present, his pencil flicks replicate the ridges of the fabric of your nightshift down your arm, and he uses slight gaps to suggest the highlights of the translucent folds of the material. His shading carefully fades to nothing as he continues along.

The memory of your arms pressed against his, and the bend of your elbow as you leaned back to stargaze rests in the back of his mind and guides his hand, his attention deeply focused.

The bare skin of your collarbone glistens in the humidity, perspiration beading in the wells of your clavicle. He darkens the shallows that lead to the elegance of your neck, and he shadows the fragrant hollow of your throat where he knows the scent of lavender lays. The shell of your ear comes last before he reaches your face. The platonic press of it against his chest as you drifted to sleep is an idle thought he always holds on to.

That night by the lakeside, he memorized every detail of your face. How the moonlight left your softer. How the firelight left you warmer in the cup of his hands.

At the feather light brush of your lashes along his face, his heart stilled. He traced the slope of your nose with his after, and you closed your eyes.

No words captured the profoundness of that intimacy to him. He draws it instead—that softness of your eyelashes against your cheeks as you rest. The dreamlike way the light falls upon you. He draws, and draws, until one aspect of your visage remains. The one of most importance to Arthur, and the one he imagines to be the gentlest part of you.

The vulnerable, soft space between your lips where your breath ebbs and flows with sleep.

His familiarity comes not from the ghostly touch of your mouth against his—so soft, and so hesitant, he may have imagined it after he pulled away from you that night. But rather, he knows your smile. One often rare in genuine nature, given the current predicament of the lifestyle you adopted.

The memory that prompts him to finish the drawing is of the first time you smiled at him.

It was the time of spring when the lilacs were sweet and full of rain—the good kind that washed the bricks anew. As the gang settled in to the new camp, the warm showers the clouds spilled overhead were a welcome change from enduring the cold snow of the mountains for weeks on end.

Church bells rang as Arthur’s steps creaked off of the gunsmith’s porch and into the muddy main street of Valentine. He ran his thumb over the new snake carving on the pearl handle of his pistol, taking a moment to admire the craftsmanship before he tucked it away and looked up to wonder where you were.

You had offered to help him that morning on a supply run in town. The corner of his eyes had crinkled at your eagerness and Arthur agreed to bring Jack along to get him away from his parents’ arguing. Overall, it was an uneventful trip. He helped you load up the wagon with bales of hay and sacks of grain before you headed off to the store with a list Pearson gave you, insisting you would be able to handle everything yourself.

A peal of laughter drew his eyes to the churchyard, and he found you stooping down to meet little Jack Marston’s height in the damp grass. The boy presented you with a handful of flowers, giggling as he tucked a flimsy violet behind your ear. You accepted it graciously as Arthur approached.

At the clink of his spurs, you looked up, the light of thankfulness shining in your eyes as you gingerly touched the bloom. Dandelion seeds floated through the air on a wish-bound journey, and the crescent moon of your smile as it faded demurely plucked his heartstrings.

You were—

Something he was not ready to admit to himself, not yet.

That bundle of violets Jack picked for you lays dry and withered in an embroidered handkerchief on your side table. He stares at them, the pencil in his hand stilled with the shock of completion.

Arthur came to a realization long ago when it came to you; admiring you from afar was like observing art in a museum.

Meant for the eyes, unspoken and at a distance, not the hands. Not to touch, or hold, or keep.

He closes the cover of his journal. Drawing you was a mistake. The leather strap ties and binds everything back inside and he returns to his stoic self, rolling his sleeves back down over the bite mark scars. He leaves all of his thoughts of you behind in your tent as he steps out and searches out Charles to accompany him for the day rather than face this. The thought of spending time with you no longer eases his uncertainties.

He does what he can to survive, always has, and he has to do what is best for you, as well.

And so, Arthur buries his feelings for you with the same metaphorical dirt he used for his mother, hoping it would make everything easier if he stayed far away.

Inside, in that hidden heart of his, he knew the feelings he buried for you were only seeds.

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thegodshavehorns · 4 years

Text

A Study in Maltheism

Atheos: Greek. Meaning “Rejecting the gods, rejected by the gods, godforsaken.” From which we derive the modern “atheist.”

“This world could not have been the work of all-loving beings, but that of devils, who had brought creatures into existence in order to delight in the sight of their sufferings.”

- Freddie Mercury, probably

Your name is Rose Lalonde, and you are the most-hated student to ever blight the halls of Our Lady Who Is Without Mother or Father Academy for Girls—or Our Lady Without, for a title that’s less of a mouthful. Those less well-read in theology are sometimes confused by the school's name, since the Book of the Zodiac teaches that all the gods are motherless and fatherless. However, the Seer of Mind, patron goddess of the Academy, is considered an orphan in a more ecclesiastically profound way than the others, although you're not sure why. Regardless, you can safely say that you spend the majority of your time at this prestigious institution in the engaging study of just what it is that you have to do before the administration has no choice but to expel you.

As of yet all of your efforts have been fruitless. Your blasted mother is far too influential of a figure for anyone here at the school to want to cross her. She is an alumnus of the school herself, an orphan girl who went on to take her higher education at the Canon Order of She Who Measures, and now she is a high-ranking admin for SkaiaNet Laboratories, which everybody knows—but nobody says—carries out research for the gods.

She is, for all intents and purposes, untouchable, and she has made it clear on other occasions that she intends for you to finish out your education here no matter what you do. Even if you should manage to burn the whole campus down, you would no doubt spend the rest of your childhood in some solitary schoolfeeding cell but you would still get your education. This came much to the disappointment of the principal, who once slipped you a box of matches during a parent-teacher conference when your mother caught the action and told you both that it would do no good.

You and the principal don't exactly like each other, but common goals have a way of making allies out of the blackest enemies. Not that you’re actually black for her, of course. Even if you were so... affected by the gods, you’re sure that you wouldn’t be directing caliginous feelings in her direction. Or anyone’s, really. You think that you'd deny yourself a kismesis just to spite the gods.

That kind of attitude is exactly why you’re in detention, of course. You wrote an admittedly scathing essay, well-constructed and thoroughly-argued, that couldn’t have been more scandalous had you named it Ninety-Five Proofs that the Teachers Are Engaging in Lewd Acts with the Students, with Details of Their Exact Activities and nailed the pages to somebody’s door.

Actually, now that you think about it, that doesn’t sound half-bad for Round Two, and you get out your pen and paper to begin drafting an outline when there is a crackle over the intercom. You ignore it, more interested in your burgeoning next project—you’ll have to make some adaptations to account for the switched sexes, but you think that you’ll be able to draw on some material from your last creative piece, The Circle of the Sword, whose sleaziness was matched only by its blasphemousness. It was about an all-boys school, and one for wizards, but you can fix those details. It helps that you were inspired by some of your peers at Our Lady Without to begin with.

Your thoughts are interrupted when you hear your name through the speaker, spoken in a uncharacteristically tight and anxious tone, and look up.

"-TO THE PRINCIPAL'S OFFICE. I REPEAT, MISS LALONDE, DO NOT KEEP HIM WAITING."

...Odd. You haven't done anything new that is worth calling you to the principal's office. And who is 'him?' Still, hope springs eternal, in this case hope of being expelled, so you sigh and pack your things up to go to visit the principal. You know the way there by heart.

The principal's door at the end of the well-trodden corridor is ornate and heavy, but it swings open while you are still several feet away, revealing Principal Garland, her forehead shiny with perspiration and her eyes looking half-crazed. "Finally, you're here. Come in, Lalonde." The principal reaches out for you, and lips curl into a fearful smile as she looks over her shoulder. "She's here, my Prince."

Prince? Curious, you peer around Principal Garland to see who it could possibly be, and your bookbag drops from your hands.

You are so, so dead.

You haven’t seen a god before in person, only a recording of a speech by the Mage at one of your mother's work functions, but you still don’t need to think about it to realize who’s standing in front of you. Despite your best efforts, the school’s theology lessons and your mother’s own drunken rants and recollections have sunk deep into your mind, and his names and titles start spilling into your awareness almost by reflex. Standing there, casually leaning against Principal Garland's desk, is The Stormcrow, He Who is the Evening and the Morning, The Aquatic, The White, Thrice-Formed Eridan Ampora.

And though your lizard brain wants to vault out the window and run for the hills, you manage to stay calm. You compose your face. You quiet your mind, as you learned to do in morning meditation. If you mess this up you won’t get a second chance. There’s a reason they call this one The Wrathful.

You stand there, bookbag at your feet, and keep your voice as steady as you can. “Hello, Prince of Hope. To what do I owe this honor?”

He scoffs in your face. “Don’t give me that bullshit, Rose Lalonde. That’s not you at all.”

He's not wearing his god-hood. You know from your mother that most of them hate that kind of formal and ritual attire. Instead he is dressed in the most ridiculous and ostentatious get-up that your eyes have ever suffered to behold. You know for a fact that he doesn’t need those glasses, much less a slightly-cracked set, and his yellow-and-white scarf is almost longer than he is. Emblazoned on his frilly purple shirt is the Aspect of three sets of stylized, curling wings, the symbol of his divinity.

You feel the blood drain out of your face, because you just noticed what he’s holding. It's a stapled sheaf of paper, and it has your name, signed in your distinctive loops, across the top.

Principal Garland drags you into the room, your mind reeling and your every instinct screaming to run, not to go closer. How did he get your essay? Did...did the school send it to him? Why, why would they—

"Lisa," he says, and it takes you a moment to realize he's addressing the principal. "You can go, now."

Principal Garland gapes at him, mouth flopping open like a fish. "I, this is... Yes, sir." She bows stiffly, then straightens and leaves, but before she shuts the door behind her she spares you a single look of pity.

You are now trapped in the principal's office with one of the most feared of the gods.

“I read your paper,” he says. "I liked it. Every last word.” And then he flips through the pages and begins to read from one of them. “As was well-said by John K. Roth, ‘Everythin' hinges on the proposition that the gods possess—but fail to use well enough—the power to intervene decisively at any moment to make history’s course less wasteful. Thus, in spite and because of their sovereignty, these gods are everlastingly guilty and the degrees run from gross negligence to mass murder.”

He smiles, teeth sharp, and you want to run away. Maybe...maybe if you throw something, if you distract him, you might be able to get past him, away from him and the school both. Run away, change your name, never think too hard when the gods are present in your mind… They’re not omniscient. You could do it.

But all your plans fall apart and you can only stare in horror as he continues to read, at first pacing back and forth, then walking behind Principal Garland's desk and sitting in her chair. “The gods, those Supreme Fascists, as Paul Erdos called them, are nothin' more than despots and liars. They are powerful, but Euthyphro demonstrated that power alone does not a god make. They made the universe, but like a clockwork device it now runs on its own, and by their own admission it would continue to function without their interference. They are landlords who charge too much rent, they are authors who don’t know that they should step back and let their work speak for itself. They are not inherently good, as anyone can realize after thirty seconds of meditation on the Dark Carnivale, and they are not worth worshippin'.”

Shit. The gods don’t make a habit of killing heretics, but…sometimes there are deaths. Sometimes they make exceptions to their unspoken rule.

You swallow, and glance around the room again for anything you could use as a weapon or distraction. Certificates of scholarly excellence? The landline phone? A lamp? At least you have the desk between you and him, but—

“Breathe,” he says, but you barely register the sounds. “I said to fuckin' breathe,” he says again, and your frantic thoughts are swept aside by violet. You’ve never heard the Tinge before, but you understand it now, how deeply it cuts to your core. The purple in his words is like nothing you have ever experienced, and all of a sudden you could not deny, even if you wanted to, that what is talking to you possesses a wholly different nature than your own. You take a deep, shuddering breath. “There you go. Much better, Rose. Your mother raised you wwell.”

You are such a mess. You would have liked to have at least died with dignity, but no. You sit down in one of the upholstered chairs reserved for prospective parents and turn away, hyperventilating.

“You seem to be missin' the part where I said that I liked this.”

“You are as c-capable of sarcasm as the rest of us,” you reply.

“You’re thinkin' a' Sollux. I guess I can dally in it once in a while too, but I don’t deal in lies.

You know that. I particularly liked the part where you deconstructed Richard Dawkins, by the way. Sometimes I wish we could pick our theologians, but we try not to interfere that much.”

“Then what d-do you want with me?”

“I want to take you under my thrice-formed wings,” Eridan says, opening his arms and gesturing grandly. “You’re a very special girl, Rose. I don’t make a big deal out of it, but people like you are my soldiers. There’s more to this game than you know, but you and I, our job is the same— we tell the gods when they’re fuckin' up.”

“So… I’m not going to die?” You're special? And not only is he not going to punish you for your heresy, but he's going to reward you? It seems too good to be true.

He smiles and shakes his head, steepling his fingers. “I’ll bet you’re tired a' this school. Am I right?” You nod vigorously, and he continues. “I can teach you more than these schoolmarms ever dreamed of, if you want.”

Ah, there's the catch. “You want me to be a disciple. Like my mother.”

“Consider it a partnership, more. Even the scientists and the teachers, they look up to me.” He stands and leans forward over the desk, suddenly taller than seems natural. He looks you square in the eyes, pink meeting purple. “But I want somebody to look at me. Keep me honest, as I do for the other gods. I’ll teach you everythin' I know, just as fast as you can take it in, and in return you promise to speak your mind about it all.”

Eridan looks away, and you blink. You hadn’t realized how hypnotic his gaze had been until he was no longer fixing you with it. You close your eyes and breathe, the deep violet afterimage still dancing behind your eyelids.

When you look back up, he's at the door. “Just consider it,” he says, and then he leaves you to your thoughts.

#rose lalonde #eridan ampora #first meetings #our lady without academy #homestuck #fanfiction #revised #godstuck fic

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