#escaping from paradox space

[azullumi]

“lyra” ; dazai osamu

summary — the many times you felt loved by him and the one where a confession happened.

pairing — dazai osamu (w/ gender-neutral reader)

tags — fluff (kind of), utilization of the friends to lovers trope, slightly proofread, 2.1k words ; one-shot

tagging — @toorurs

note — i literally haven’t written for him for years now and i swear i lost my mind and pulled my hair,, i could have done this better !?

Dazai is unpredictable.

In more ways than one, he is erratic, able to conceal his intentions beneath that long trench coat of his, tucked in the loose parts of his bandages, hidden somewhere only he can see. He is the definition of an enigma, he is more than a puzzle, not just a paradox that continues to exist despite death being the only companion and comforting thing to him—a man of mystery that is better left unknown.

“My, you always look as ethereal and beautiful as a lotus blossom.” The dark-haired man says as he holds your hand in his, his finger delicately tracing the lines of your palm, and his eyes looked softer than usual, his gaze holding something that lies between the line of affection and seduction. Sparkles and flowers seem to bloom behind him, the background of the cafe fading and turning into a plain pink one with hearts that float around his figure.

(Flirty.)

He’s fluent in the language of amorous words laced with playfulness accompanied with gentle touches and slow caresses on your skin. He doesn’t hesitate in getting close, invading your space and going over the line, and maybe he’ll show that he is into you but only a fool would think of his words as genuine affection meant for you and only you.

“My eternal light to the darkness, would you be willing to—” However, he’s unable to finish his sentence as you take your hand back from him, offering him a smile instead as you subtly set a distance between the both of you—as if you were telling him to never cross the line, to stay at an arms’ distance.

“Good morning, Dazai. What brings you here to the cafe?”

Fortunately, you weren’t a fool.

“Ah, rejection again, I see.” The pink background that blooms behind me seemingly shifts into a dark one as the man’s expression contorts into a mix of sadness and disappointment, all displayed in an overly dramatic way; his form is slumped, faux tears brimming in the corners of his eyes, and his lips are in a pout. The sound of a short (mirth) laughter is heard from you—you’ve gotten used to this sight of him, of his dramatic expressions, and flirty approaches just to ask you something ridiculous.

“I’m here for you.” He says.

(And persistent.)

You have witnessed evidence of his persistence expressed in his words and actions every time he’s free from any of his work and he comes to the cafe you work at (his definition of free is escaping from his responsibilities and choosing to slack off). He’ll always take the opportunity to hold your hand, whisper such affectionate words only one would say to their lover, and he’ll kiss your skin so gently as if it was made from glass.

That was what happened in the first meeting between you and him—first day on your work in this cafe and just as you were serving the order of this loud group that the owner is acquainted with, you caught the eye of the man covered in bandages and dressed in a somewhat messy yet orderly way. Then you know how it went and from then on, Dazai doesn’t let the chance to bother you slip from his grasp.

But you don’t fall for it, never would you. You’re not supposed to and you’re not going to. He has said such similar things to other people who he deems beautiful or attractive, he has touched others and tainted them with his caresses the same way he did with yours, his lips have felt the softness of others’ skin, not only yours. You’d be stupid enough to think that there’s something more lingering in the depths of his voice, something different that tugs at his tone and threatens it to break.

The two of you are just friends, maybe even less than that.

“Where’s Kunikida?” You ask him, eyes roaming around to look for a single strand of golden but there was nothing. You failed to notice the falter in the expression of the man before you, tension seeping into his features for a moment before it eases at the mention of another man’s name. You continue, “Are you slac—” only to be interrupted by the sound of the door chime ringing followed by a set of heavy footfalls.

A loud shout of Dazai’s name is heard, echoing off the brick-patterned walls of the place, as Kunikida enters. There was a furious look on his face, nose fuming as he spotted the one he was looking for and as soon as he did, Kunikida smacked the back of Dazai’s head. There goes it, you know how this would unfold, how everything would happen—you’re used to it, having already seen this scene enough times to tell how it would end: Kunikida will scold Dazai, calls him with a new nickname (it’s President of Wasted Bandages this time), drags him outside but before that, he’ll apologize on behalf of his co-worker’s behavior, and you’ll wave at them as they leave.

“Why do you always come to ruin good moments, Kunikida? Do you not wish to see me happy?”

“Happy?! Maybe if you stop slacking off, you'll be happy.”

You could hear their distant argument and you heave out a sigh when they disappear from your sight, the smile fading from your lips as the loneliness looms over your figure. Silence rests heavily on your shoulders and you ignore the ache in your chest.

The cafe is located on the first floor where the detective agency is and you work alongside a waitress and a kind owner. Members of the agency are often seen frequenting the place, thus you’ve become familiar with their faces, memorized their names, and even learned some things about themselves. Honestly, it’s all simple for you; you have a nice and peaceful job (ignoring the chaos around you and the occasional disturbance from Dazai), and you’re being paid well. What else could you ever wish for? It was all serene for you.

Not this time though.

It seems like luck has run out for you seeing that you’re bound on the ground right at this moment, becoming a hostage to a small criminal group. Everything that happened prior feels like a blur, you remember men suddenly entering the cafe with guns and threatening everyone, you remember them hurting the owner, and you remember being taken away. They want to use you as bait, a guarantee for the detective agency so that they will bite and get lured into the criminals’ trap, or whatever they were telling you earlier. You weren’t listening—maybe you were but their words just passed from one ear to another—, hands curled into a fist as it trembled, the cold floor felt like spikes stabbing into your skin, and as the rope dug into your skin.

Afraid? Perhaps you were. It’s not everyday you get a gun pointed at you and a man threatening your life. Is this how you’re going to die?

You try to distract and ease yourself by thinking of other things, your mind drifting to somewhere else instead of staying at where you are—the cat that you occasionally see across the street, the passing cars you’ll see outside the window, the music playing from the vinyl in the cafe, the ringing of the chime as the door opens, and the dark-haired man and eyes that reflect the earth. Dazai with his never-ending tab, with his continuous ridiculous offers, his dramatic expressions, his stupid whims, the way he would always annoy you as if it was a daily requirement, his messy bangs that frames his face, his words that poke and probe at your being, and his—

You are snapped out of your thoughts, a familiar voice calling your name, coming into the stream of your senses, and pulling you out of the daze that you are in.

“Dazai?” Something is drowning in the pools of his eyes, lurking in the depths, and the way he looks at you is different. The usual calm in his expression is disturbed by a mixture of emotions—like rain droplets on a surface of still water—, anger, worry, care merging into the gentle lines of his features. Your hands that were once bound were free, though your wrists are left with marks from the rope bindings and you could still feel the way it burns on your skin.

“What happened? Why are you here? Are you hurt? Did you come alone? How did you find me?” Many questions came pouring out of your mouth but your voice trembles as you speak, tone unstable as the words fall and shatter on the ground. Dazai only lets you, your form crumbling and he holds your pieces in his hand, and he assures you: “Everything is alright.”

He continues, taking off his coat to wrap it around your form, “Were you scared?” And you meekly nod, knowing that your voice will only betray you. Dazai doesn’t say anything and only pulls you close to him, embracing you in his arms (“I’m sorry I took so long.”). There was the scent of his perfume accompanied with a trace of gunpowder when you buried your face on his chest—you feel a sense of relief, comfort and warmth that makes its way through your thoughts and the feeling of suffocation slowly leaves you.

He draws small circles on your back as he tries to soothe you, “You’re safe now.” He whispers as he kisses the top of your head, his lips lingering for a few seconds as he inhales the smell of your hair. (You’ve never had him this close before, this soft, this warm. It feels like the man you have known him as before were all fabrications from your illusive mind and the one before you is a different person.)

He brings your hand towards his lips and he presses a kiss on your pulse, right where the marks of your wrists are, ever so gently, ever so sweetly, “Nobody will hurt you ever again.”

You descend down the flight of stairs leading to a basement—a bar tucked away and hidden in plain sight. You’ve only known of it all thanks to a certain blabbermouth, he said it’s his favorite place to go. When you arrive, the interior shifts to a dimly-lit one with warm lights illuminating the whole place in contrast to the dark and foggy street outside. There’s the sound of jazz softly playing in the background, setting the tranquil ambience the whole bar carries.

And there he is, the man of the hour, basking underneath the golden glow. Sitting on the stool by the end of the counter, he has a glass of whiskey settled in front of him.

“I didn’t expect for you to actually come.” Dazai speaks, his voice molding into the gentleness of the song playing.

“I was curious. Though I didn’t know you'd be here at the same time.”

“Come sit.” He pats the spot beside him and you follow. You order something to drink as you sit and a glass is served in front of you after a few minutes. Silence crept up to the both of you as you didn’t say anything—and you wish you could read his mind at this moment, to know the thoughts that plagues his mind—and the stillness was an unbearable kind;

You begin, “Do you always come here?”

Dazai takes a sip from his glass before he answers, “Just often.”

“I see.” And before the silence could last even longer, you spoke once more: “You haven’t been coming to the cafe lately.”

“Why? Did you miss me? Are you finally going to take up my—“

“No.” He muttered a small “aw” at your firm rejection. “You still have an unpaid tab.” And he groans at that while you chuckle, finding amusement in the way his expression crumpled.

The sound of your laughter dies down after a few moments, trailing off to a gentle mutter of an: “Thank you.”

“For?” He asks, even if he already knows what you’re talking about.

“For back then.” For giving you his coat as he noticed you shivering, for assuring you that everything is okay and you’re not going to be harmed anymore, for blocking your sight of the men’s bodies that laid like lifeless corpses on the ground, for protecting you.

It has been weeks since it occurred but you could still feel the warmth of his body against yours and maybe his scent will linger no matter how much you try to wash it, and maybe you’ll have to forever carry the thought, the wishful thinking that maybe there’s something more. And maybe it’s the alcohol making him light-headed but three words are whispered to the air that settles in the space between you and him.

“I like you.”

© azullumi — do not plagiarize, copy, repost, nor translate any of my works.

[heich0e]

suguru's throat feels tight.

not in the nice way—like when someone pays you a compliment you aren't expecting, or you're given a thoughtful gift.

his airway is a vice; sticky and closing in on itself like a boobytrap in those terrible action movies that satoru always makes him watch, where the walls are slowly crushing inwards on the hero, leaving no obvious way to escape.

his face feels hot—too hot for the meagre amount of alcohol he's had to drink that evening. hot enough that he's sure his cheeks are flushed a vicious red. he looks down at his hands, still wrapped around the half-drained drink between them, and when he pulls one away from the circumference of the glass he sees the way his fingers tremble, moved by a force only he can feel.

he sets his cup down on whatever surface is within reach and looks for the nearest exit.

the bar is crowded, and every body that jostles him on his odyssey to the door makes him feel even more sick to his stomach—makes him acutely, and uncomfortably aware of just how many people are jammed into such a confined space. with every step he takes towards the fire exit (the one which at this point he just has to pray isn't connected to some kind of alarm) it seems to be growing further away, like his steps are a paradox he's trapped in.

finally, finally, his hands press down against the push bar of the door, and cold winter air hits his burning cheeks like a slap.

he's on his knees retching into the grimy snowbank that lines the back alley before the door has even fully swung closed.

"oh, wow,—"

suguru can barely hear you over the sound of his pulse in his ears. it was too noisy in the bar to make it out this clearly, lost in the thrum of the bass-heavy music and the spiral of his thoughts, but now it's unmistakable. it pounds in his head, under his tongue, trapped in the walls of his throat.

he lifts his head, his eyes bleary from the tears his exertion had sprung to them, and he sees a figure a few paces away from him with a cigarette lifted to their lips.

he blinks hard, willing the world to come back into focus. as it does (painfully slowly,) he can see you better. the first thing he can clearly make out is the oversized jacket you have wrapped around your frame (big enough that it can't possibly be your own.) his eyes flicker next to the bare legs that peek out from underneath it, and trail all the way up to the lines of your face as you watch him. but it's your eyes that make him falter for a moment: curious but strangely impassive at the same time.

"—rough night?" you ask, but you make no move to come any closer to him.

he's grateful for at least that small mercy, he can't help but think.

"sorry," he chokes out, spitting into the sludgy grey snowbank one last time just to try and get the terrible taste out of his mouth. he stands unsteadily, his hands braced against the brick wall of the bar to keep himself balanced. "i didn't even drink that much."

he's not sure why he feels the need to say it, or make any effort to save face when you've just seen him at what's surely one of the lowest points of his life. you're a stranger, after all. what does it matter, anyway?

you hum a bit, taking another drag from your cigarette. the sound is halfhearted, and it upsets him unjustly.

"i really didn't," he insists, wiping at his mouth with the back of his knuckles and turning to you properly. "i-i'm on these new meds and they've got me all fucked up."

your eyes widen a bit, and he watches the way the smoke slips out of your lips—painted a rich, ruby colour for the evening.

"no shit?" you ask him. "you shouldn't be out partying if you're sick, y'know. alcohol can really fuck up scripts."

"i'm not sick," he replies quickly. too quickly. too ardently to possibly be true. and the silence that follows is too heavy for such a cold, still night. he looks away, fixing his eyes on the road at the end of the alley.

"oh," you drag out the word, an understanding lilt in your tone. "those kinda meds."

suguru glances back to you.

"so," you take a step towards him, and it sets his teeth on edge. "what's your poison of choice then? paroxetine? fluvoxamine? good ol' fashioned escitalopram?"

suguru's head is still spinning from the liquor, but his pulse has died down a bit. now his mouth feels uncomfortably dry.

you keep going.

"are you taking it neat or did they give you a little chaser with it too for a bit more"—you make a little flourishing gesture with your hand—"oomph."

you're right in front of him now. close enough that the smell of your cigarette has finally reached him. suguru can't help but eye it covetously, longing for the pack in his own coat pocket, left somewhere in the bar. you follow his eyes and laugh a little, holding the half-smoked cigarette out to him. it has a lipstick mark on the filter, but he takes it anyway.

he sucks in a greedy, needy inhale.

the rush of nicotine hits him right away, comforting and familiar. his exhale feels almost rapturous.

he takes another little puff, then extends the cigarette back out to you.

"don't worry about it,"—you wave the gesture off—"you can keep that one on account of the whole... y'know..." your eyes flicker down to the snowbank where geto had just been retching.

oh, right.

"thanks," he mumbles appreciatively, wasting no time before he takes another drag.

the two of you stand side by side in the dingy alley while geto finishes off your cigarette. he crushes it under the heel of his boot, grinding it down into the cracked asphalt, once it's done.

"how'd you know?" he asks after a few more moments of silence. the cold is starting to get to him now—registering in a way that didn't when he first made it outside. the chill bites at his cheeks and his nose, stinging in its frigidity.

"know what?" you feign coyness, tilting your head a little to the side. he sees a flicker of something behind your eyes again that slips through the facade of composure—something mirthful, and maybe a little mean.

he swallows, and tastes tobacco on his tongue. "about the anti-depressants."

you laugh a bit to yourself, but the sound is strained like you're almost trying to bite it back. "don't take this the wrong way, but you just sort of look like the type."

he looks at you—really looks at you—then.

you're pretty.

he supposes he recognized that already, even if he didn't process it properly at the time. your lips look soft, your eyes draw him in, and in any other circumstance he thinks you might have been the type of girl he sidled up alongside in a bar just like the one he just fled and tried to start a conversation with.

but these aren't any other circumstances. you just watched him puke his guts up in a filthy alley and then guessed his SSRI prescription like the world's worst game show. and to make matters worse, his dick hasn't even been working right lately since he started these new pills.

as though life wasn't already cruel enough.

the fire exit flies open again, and all attention turns to it.

"there you are," shoko is standing in the doorway, half-in and half-out of the bar, cringing against the cool evening air. she frowns in suguru's direction. "we've been looking everywhere for you."

suguru watches as she ducks her head back through the doorway, but whatever she calls over her shoulder is lost to the music that's bleeding out into the alley from inside the bar. gojo appears behind her in an instant, his displeased expression brightening immediately upon seeing his friend. he pushes his sunglasses up atop his head, his white hair pinned back underneath them.

"suguru!" he cheers. "we lost you."

"i was just getting some air," suguru smiles blithely, in the way that he's perfected.

gojo shoulders his way out the door towards suguru, dragging him back towards the door with an arm slung around his neck. shoko's eyes flicker over to you.

"oh, hey," she says, nodding in greeting.

"shoko-senpai," you return her greeting politely.

"are you coming back in too?" she asks.

gojo and geto both pause in the doorway, turning to glance back at you.

"no, i'm heading home," you say with an easy smile, not unlike the expression geto had just shown. "you three have a nice night."

"get home safe," she calls after you, a lilt of curiosity in her tone. you lift a hand over your shoulder as you walk away, waggling your fingers in a lazy wave.

"who was that?" gojo asks as the door swings shut behind shoko. he leans in front of suguru so his voice can be heard over the loud music.

"she's a junior in my department at school," shoko explains, "don't you recognize her?"

gojo purses his lips as he contemplates it and then shakes his head definitively. it's not unusual for satoru not to recognize someone, especially a pre-med student instead of a physics student like himself, but suguru is a bit surprised that he can't recall meeting you previously.

satoru tugs suguru's arm back towards the thick of the crowd, and he braces himself for the oncoming barrage of stimulation. he freezes just before he takes his first step, whipping back around to the door.

"what's wrong?" satoru asks him, leaning over his shoulder. he's got his sunglasses on again, and now suguru can't through the lenses in the dim light of the bar, but he knows satoru well enough to picture the wide-eyed look of curiosity that must be behind them.

suguru's brow pinches in a bewildered furrow.

"was she wearing my coat?"

[orbital-inclination]

Moltendreams - Error Sans Alias - Static Pronouns: he/him, they/them Personality: Petty, holds a mean grudge, Big Tsundere, Complete Shut-in, Quick Tempered and Moody, fanatic with his interests, externally aggressive when in actuality he is quite shy. An absolute troll. His favorite passtime is messing with others. Paradoxically touch starved and suffers from haphephobia. Reckless with his own well being.

This variant of Error is capable of both love and compassion, he just hides it under a grumpy exterior and several layers of denial and self-destructive dogma. Other Notes:

Reluctant to harm Papyrus directly, though Static can't articulate why, and will generally avoid encounters Papyrus in any given AU.

Had a good relationship with his dad/W.D Gaster, actually.

Relates to "pest" pets; rats, mice, snakes, spiders, beetles, he loves them all.

Would have a pet rat of his own if he wasn't afraid of it shocking itself by chewing on his wires.

His favorite kind of chocolate is mixed with a hazelnut filling.

Views Frisk as a younger sibling.

Into Parkour.

-More Info undercut! -

Abilities: Static uses wire instead of string. Wire and summoned attacks can and do hold an electric charge. His presence alone messes with electronic devices. Residents of a particular AU may get a few minutes or seconds of warning as sweaters get staticy, computer screens glitch out, and anything with a battery spontaneously dies or gets super charged. By creating a circle of alternating RED and CYAN bones, Static creates a sort of reverse faraday cage. While Static can produce electricity, he can't directly control the voltage. He can only hope to direct it. The voltage of a charge is directly influenced by his emotional state. If you touch him, you will find his clothes zappy with static. Do NOT attempt to fight him in humid or watery environments for, hopefully, obvious reasons.

About: Static originates from a pre-Pacifist timeline that was followed by a looping Genocide Route. Through repetitive iterations, and an escalating instability in the timeline, the monsters of the underground began to recall events they didn't witness and memories they shouldn't recall.

Working together, Static, at that point still Sans, and Alphys were able to pin point the root cause of their timeline's instability. They made a plan to save the underground and separate Frisk from the Anomaly but when it came time to execute their plan something went catastrophically wrong. As a result Sans was torn from reality, and caught in the space in-between. Eventually, he escaped but not unscathed. Static has vague conflicting memories of his past, and to this day, questions if any of it was real. He can't find his original AU and secretly fears it may have been the first world he destroyed. He is still looking for it.

Outcode Politics: Static views all outcodes the same way he views every iteration of the original timeline that even slightly deviates: as glitches to be terminated. Bugs in the code he needs to hammer out before it all goes to hell. Static believes that by destroying deviating timelines and AUs, he is preserving the stability of the original. He is “saving’’ it from corruption by trimming the branches back. Despite his position as the self proclaimed Destroyer, Static is not above biases and making exceptions. 

Static includes himself on his long list of glitches in the code to be terminated. Static has a different view on the Spirits of Creation that Fable/Ink does. (Spirits of Creation are the in-universe term and stand-in for the creator of an AU). He calls them eldritch parasites. Abominations that should be avoided at all costs. And absolutely should not be encouraged or interacted with. Though he won't admit it out loud, Static is terrified of them. OG Error @.LoverofPiggies/CrayonQueen) Moltendreams @.me Edit: he has been named! Edit 2: revised his profile a bit

[thelakesuite]

Updated Content Warning Guides for Rusty Lake

Criteria based on doesthedogdie.com. Some elements excluded due to their omnipresence, namely the corrupted souls. Meters are subjective to myself, but hopefully still somewhat helpful. 'Drug mention' includes alcohol and tobacco, but not caffeine (i.e. coffee). Cube Escape releases except Paradox are also free on mobile devices. Check the notes for anything I may have missed.

EDITS: Suicide is major in Roots, but as you can see I ran out of space.

Note that paid releases are skewed higher than free ones because they simply have more going on (e.g. only one or two individual levels of Rusty Lake: Roots are as bloody as Cube Escape: Birthday, but the 30+ levels combined are bloodier.) Also, you didn't hear it from me, but Hotel and Roots are both free via Bluemaxima's Flashpoint as last I checked.

[melancholymetropolis]

Exchange

plot: In which a Bridesmaid finds out she accidentally got married in Vegas months prior.

pairings: Clan Leader!Gojo Saturo x Lawyer!Reader

genre(s): Second Chance; Accidental Marriage

warnings: unedited (mostly). Golden Retriever/ Fox Au. Gojo is a goofball and makes Y/N laugh a lot. She is very much anti-marriage, but open to love. COMEDY. Couple's Banter. Lots of fluff. Gojo fell first and hard. New Love.

a/n: this will be a mini series with weekly updates.

w.c: 3.5k

“You have gotten even more beautiful since the day you left me.”

My eyes immediately widen from the sentiment. The air in my throat had become thick and my hands had begun to shake. I almost didn’t recognize his voice. Its cadence was a distant memory; one I had left behind months ago. In Vegas, of all places. It was the way he said “beautiful” that transported me back in time. It was the first thing he said to me. In a dark club, under neon lights and a cloud of smoke. He didn’t use basic, sexually charged words to get my attention. He was respectful, I liked that about him. He had been the only guy to introduce himself and offered to pay for my drink properly. He called me things like “beautiful”, “gorgeous” and “breathtaking”. Those three little words had meant more to me than whatever bullshit the other guys were doing. 

His electric, blue eyes seemed to glow in the low light. They never wandered anywhere else but my face when we talked. He seemed genuinely interested in everything I had to say. From me saying that it was my first time in Vegas to how much I hated crowded spaces. I had only come to the club to celebrate a friend’s engagement and was labeled the designated driver for that night. If I recall, he said my job was “honorable” and applauded me for taking it seriously.

And, in an effort to make up for our lost drink, he gave me his number. Told me to call him when I was free. 

Gojo’s eyes were just as I remembered. So bright and powerful— almost inviting to look into. He wore a navy blue suit to compliment the intimidating orbs and brighten his pale complexion. His unruly, white hair had been combed back with a singular curl setting in the middle of his forehead. The silver watch on his wrist looked heavy and vintage— possibly a family heirloom of some sort. I had forgotten how tall he had been. Even though I had worn six-inch heels, he still was a few inches taller than me. And I definitely was not a short woman.

“I left you?” I said, finally coming back to earth. “I don’t recall ever doing such a thing.”

A sly smirk began to form on his face. “Oh really?” He replied, taking slow steps towards me. “That’s mighty convenient on your end.”

“How so?”

“It relieves you of any guilt.”

A painful silence fell between us. Our eyes locked in a heated exchange, while our hands remained by our sides. I couldn’t deny the connection we had—couldn’t forget the spark. 

“Bride or groom?” I asked, turning my back to him. 

The tall man grew closer to me. He took his stance about two feet away from my spot on the balcony. He placed his forearms on the edge and leaned forward. There was a painful aura lingering above his head. Something was wrong. It was more than simply not seeing me for a few months. It wasn’t my habit of escaping in the middle of the night. It was complicated and conflicting.

“Groom,” he sighed, looking at the beautiful countryside of Japan. “I'm guessing you're here for the bride, given the Bridesmaid dress.”

I hummed in disagreement. “I know them both, actually. We worked at the same law firm for a couple of years. I believe I introduced them to one another, all those years ago.”

“Oh, okay,” Gojo snickered. “A divorce lawyer playing cupid. And I thought I saw everything.”

A quiet giggle fell from my lips. “That's right. Consider me a walking paradox.”

“That you are,” he replied sweetly.

The tension from earlier had broken and was replaced with a sense of familiarity. 

It was nice.

A few breaths later, Gojo opened his suit jacket and pulled out a white envelope. He handed it to me. 

I gave him a questionable look. “What's that?”

“Open it and you'll see,” was all he said before placing the envelope into my hand. 

I lifted the tab and pulled out a folded piece of paper. At the very top was the letterhead for the Clark County Department of Records in Nevada State. The letter read:

  Dear Mister Gojo Satoru,

We are pleased to inform you that your marriage license has been processed successfully and your certificate will be arriving at your residence in 3 to 4 weeks. 

As of April 25, both you and Ms. Y/N L/N are legally m—

“Nope,” I said, folding the letter and shoving it back in the envelope. “No the fuck we aren't.” I handed it back to Gojo. “Over my dead fucking body.”

“You hate me that much, sweet pea?” he chuckled. 

“I don't know you to hate you,” I replied, stuffing the envelope in my clutch purse. “And I would like to keep it that way.”

“You're breaking my heart, Y/N,” Gojo replied. His tone was still playful but there was a twinge of sadness in it. “Surely being married to me couldn’t be that bad.”

I scoffed and plucked a flute of champagne from the waiter’s tray. I took a big gulp of the bubbly beverage and sighed deeply.

Fate must've had something against me. I must've done something extraordinarily vicious in my past life to warrant such treatment. Marriage? The whole thing felt like a nightmare. I spent my whole life running from the false institution that was called “marriage”. It's a contract that almost always ends poorly. From spouses cheating on the other to emotional abuse and gaslighting— I had seen the most stable of unions crumble after a few decades. Families broken apart by secrets,  betrayal and unfortunate circumstances. Men and women alike pleading  for one more chance to correct their mistakes. And if that doesn't work, greed takes over. The desperate struggle for power between the couple and how it always ends badly. 

Marriage wasn't something I was particularly fond of. I didn’t see my sentiment changing any time soon. Even if the tall drink of water before me was legally my husband. 

I finished the rest of my beverage and placed it on a different waiter’s tray. I took several more deep breaths and turned my back to the white haired man. 

The alcohol had sedated the raging storm of emotions swirling in my being. A somber feeling eased into my heart, but I quickly shoved it back down. The blasting music in the background had made it abundantly clear that we couldn't do this here. Not now. Not at my best friends’ wedding. 

“I just need time to think this over. Figure out my next move,” I reached in my purse and pulled out a business card. I placed it on the railing. “Call me tomorrow afternoon and I'll tell you how I'd like to proceed.”

“Wait, Y/N—”

“Goodnight, Mr. Gojo.”

I didn't even look back as I walked away from him.

“Come on, Jessica,” I practically begged. “There has to be a way to end this shit sooner.”

“I hate to break it to you, Y/N,” my colleague sighed. “But there isn't. As you could imagine, a lot of people accidentally get married in Vegas. The number is close to about 50,000 couples. And a little less than half of them get their union annulled. Meaning, divorce court is overloaded with requests, follow ups and cases. If you file your paperwork today, you probably won't get a response for 1 to 3 months. Even then, the annulment might not even go through.”

“Because I was already married to him for six months without me knowing?” I said, pinching my nose bridge.

“Yup. To the judges eyes, it might not look like a mistake. He can still deny your annulment.”

My head was pounding and my mouth dry. An unknown fear started creeping up my spine. When I thought of the goals I set out for myself, for my life, marriage was never on the vision board. Especially not an accidental one. And definitely not one with a white haired, blue-eyed, Japanese man. However, he seemed to be awfully giddy about the union. Gojo sent upward of twenty text messages asking me how I was feeling or if I needed anything. He, also, suggested having lunch together to talk everything over. 

I looked out the cab’s window, watching the restaurant come into view. The place was clearly exclusive and very expensive. The right side of the establishment was made entirely of glass, overlooking the ocean just below the cliff. The sun was high in the sky and the clouds danced across her warm light. Waiting patiently in the front of the establishment was a familiar flock of white hair. The taller man had been shrouded in black this time. His overcoat perfectly matched the crisp suit underneath. The stark white shirt seemed brighter in the light; it made his chest glow. 

He looked entirely too perfect. As if he wanted to deflect my attention from something else. 

“Okay, Jess,” I said, pulling my gaze away from him. “I would like to survey all my options before I make a final decision.”

“Take all the time that you need, Y/N,” she replied in a sympathetic tone. “I will assist you in whatever way I can.”

“Thank you,” I smiled. “I will ring you soon.”

The car came to a gentle stop at the restaurant’s doors and I quickly ended the call. I thanked the driver once more and opened the car’s door. I barely had time to place my high heel on the pavement before a flock of black appeared in front of my door. A pale hand flickered in the doorway with outstretched fingers. I could only see his glowing chest and black attire from that angle. Not his face. I swung my other leg out of the other vehicle and took hold of his hand. The taller gentleman takes a firm grip and aids me out of the cab. As I rise from the leather seat, my eyes ease up his glowing chest and broad shoulders. They cascade up his broad shoulders and slender neck. His sharp jawline was relaxed and his plump lips in a soft smirk. Round sunglasses rested on his nose, covering his electric eyes. His white hair was messily styled atop his head and, also, seemed to glow in the sunlight. 

With my bag resting on my shoulder, I used my hand to close the car door behind me. Gojo held my hand tightly as he started to walk to the restaurant. The fingers were warm against my cool ones. It felt nice and. . . comforting. I didn’t have the desire to pull away from him. The realization we were still holding hands didn’t dawn on me until he dropped my mine. 

“Let me take your coat, Mrs. Gojo.”

And just like that, the cocky bastard ruined a perfectly good moment with a couple of words. 

I allowed him to slip my trench coat from my shoulders and settled in the seat before me. The taller gentleman slips off his jacket and takes the seat across from me. A toothy grin plastered on his lips as he eased the round sunglasses off his face. His eccentric eyes were already glued to my face. His gaze was unwavering. It was almost like he was waiting for me to say something in response to his little comment. The white haired man was ready for battle.

Unfortunately for him, I left my bulletproof vest at home. 

“Do you come here often?” I asked, bringing a glass of water to my lips.

Those bright blue eyes flickered to my lips. They darkened at the sight of such glossy softness and lingered on them even after I had placed the glass back on the table. It was almost like he was in some sort of trance. Lost in a memory that he treasured and never wanted to part from. 

I cleared my throat. “Mr. Gojo?”

“What gloss is that?” He questioned, abruptly breaking his gaze from my mouth.

“It’s from Juvia’s Place,” I answered with a raised eyebrow. “Why?”

“It just looks so good on you,” he said, leaning back in his chair. “I want to buy you a lifetime’s supply.”

“You’re laying it on a bit thick there, don’t you think?

“That’s what you do when you’re on a date.”

“This is not a date,” I deadpanned. 

“Sure it is,” Gojo chirped. “I mean why else would we be in such a romantic establishment.”

The wife joke seemed to be a warning shot in hindsight. The taller gentleman was trying to test the waters to see just how far he could push me. I left him stranded the day prior. In mid sentence. He was not able to plead his case, explain his side of the situation. I had laid my intentions out to him loud and clear. I wanted zero parts in this relationship. Our union was supposed to be limited anyhow. A vacation fling that went on a little too long for anyone’s liking. At least for my liking. The marriage was clearly a mistake and one I wanted to rectify quickly. However, any time I clearly displayed my disinterest in our union, Gojo was quick to deflect with a quip. That meant he wasn’t going to take anything I said or did seriously. I would have to approach this matter from a new angle. 

I would have to play his game and play it well. 

The waiter walked over to the table and set down our menus. “Is there anything I could get started for you?”

I hummed sweetly and looked over at Gojo. “What do you recommend? I’ve never been here before.”

The man’s chest practically swelled at the sentences. A new source of pride pumping through his veins. A sly smile fell on his lips as the words started to pour from his lips. In Japanese. 

“What dishes do you have without shellfish? She’s allergic.”

The question caused my eyebrows to shoot up. 

I didn’t remember disclosing that information to him. At least, in the past twenty-fours that we had reunited. That could only mean that he remembered the little tidbit I shared all those months ago. Six months to be exact. He carried that information with him for half the year, almost like he intended to use it again. His memory must’ve been impeccable, which was why he was able to recognize me at first glance at the wedding. Looking back, I didn’t even notice him until he approached me on the balcony. I had been seated with the rest of the wedding party, practically on a stage overlooking the venue and I still didn’t spot him. He would be hard not to notice. He was one of the only people I knew with stark white hair and was under the age of eighty. Along with those electric blue eyes that pierced me like a needle. The chemistry we had was undeniable and I knew we shared a mutual attraction to one another. 

Would that be enough to have a fulfilling marriage?

The waiter skated away with our orders and Gojo’s eyes locked back with mine.

“So, how long are you in Japan for?” He asked, bring a glass of water to his lips.

“Originally, I was supposed to only stay two weeks for the wedding,” I answered, tapping my hand on the edge of the table. “But, a potential client just called and asked for a consultation. They are from New York but live in Japan temporarily. So, the answer is a little unclear for me at the moment.”

The taller gentleman sighed, amused. “It seems like I have a little bit of time before we part ways once again. The heavens have truly blessed me this time.”

“And just what do you intend to do with that information, Mr. Gojo?”

“I’d like to convince you to remain Mrs. Gojo for the rest of our days together.”

“As in for the time being? While I am in Japan?”

Gojo smirked at that comment. “As in for the rest of your life, sweetheart.”

I leaned back in my chair and folded my arms across my chest. “And how exactly are you going to get me to do that?”

Gojo leaned forward, resting his elbows on the table. His pink lips spread into a full blown smile. Those blue orbs sparkled dangerously as they flickered over my face. He seemed to be brimming with excitement. He wanted nothing more than to display his nefarious plan and keep me entangled in his spider’s web. 

“Originally, I planned on going the traditional route,” he conceded. “Showering you in gifts, expensive dinners and maybe a romantic weekend trip to Nokonoshima Island.”

“Buying a woman’s love? That is very traditional.”

“I know, but you are not a traditional woman,” he observed. “You are a divorce attorney. You are used to men attempting to buy a woman’s affection.”

“Very true.”

“So I came up with a proposal.”

“Do tell.”

“As you said, you don’t know me to hate me. Which means you don’t know me to like me either. And I, personally, think I am pretty fucking awesome.”

I chuckled, loudly. “You’re that confident, huh?”

“I am. Which is why I am suggesting that, for however long you are in Japan, we hang out.” 

“Hang out?”

“I would like to use this time to get to know each other. Continue what we started back in Vegas. Before you left me.”

“I didn’t leave you.”

The white haired man scoffed and leaned closer to me. “Come on, sweetheart. Let’s not lie to each other. You practically ran your pretty booty out of my hotel room the moment the sun came up.”

“That’s not true!” I interjected with a smile.

“It is true! And you had the nerve to leave me a couple of twenties on the nightstand like I was sorta cheap whore you met on the street. I never felt so violated in my life.”

A fit of giggles burst from my lips, shattering the remaining wall we had between us. 

“That was never my intention! I just felt bad for ripping the buttons off of your Armani shirt. So I gave you some cash for dry cleaning.”

“There’s no need to explain yourself, Y/N. Your message was loud and clear,” he sighed dramatically, leaning back in your chair. “I was just your sexy little secret for the weekend. No plans of marrying me. You just wanted to hit it and quit. Leaving me to deal with the pain of your absence alone. Not even a cover to keep me warm, just the memories of our last rendezvous.”

“You’re such a drama queen,” I laughed, shaking my head. 

“However,” Gojo replied, completely ignoring my comment. “Unlucky for you, I have decided to get revenge by blackmailing you.”

“Oh yeah?”

“If you don’t hang out with me while you’re in Japan, I am gonna tell everyone you snore in your sleep.”

“I do not!”

“And you are a blanket hogger!”

“Blasphemy!”

“And you got me pregnant while we were in Vegas.”

A slew of laughter erupted from my being and I could feel tears beginning to prick the edges of my eyes. “ That is not even scientifically possible."

"It is so!" He laughed. "Why else would I have morning sickness and swollen ankles?"

"Gojo, please. I cannot breath. . . !"

"How could you attempt to abandon your child, Y/N?" He crossed her arms over his chest and playfully shook his head. "I am not fit to be a single mother and take care our baby alone."

"Well," I paused and attempted to catch my breath. "You should've just kept your legs closed and this wouldn't have happened."

The taller man let out a dramatic gasp and placed a hand to his chest. "Did you. . . did you just try to slut shame me? After you basically paid for my services? How dare you?"

I lifted a glass of water to my lips; a weak attempt to calm my explosive chuckles down. I gulped the cool drink down and placed the glass back on the table. In the same instance, the waiter started to place our meal before us. There had been a collection of small plates carrying different items on them. Some had stir-fried vegetables and garnish, while others had different kinds of sauces. The bigger plates had anything between sashimi and grilled fish to sauteed pork and beef. Once the waiters were done plating, our table was suited for royalty. All the different dishes came together to create a marvelous spread and their aromas were simply magical together. 

“I didn’t know what you liked, so I got a little bit of everything,” Gojo replied, meeting my gaze over the food. “I hope that’s okay with you.”

Like a light switch, the playful (borderline pain in my ass) was tucked away from view and replaced with a dashing gentleman. Familiar feelings started to bubble in my chest. Ones I had tucked away months ago. A small wave of adoration danced between our beings. Along with attraction. The little exchange, our unorthodox banter, had lightened the tension that was between us since we reunited. It made room for why we were originally drawn to each other. His playful, almost youthful, side was almost like a cushion in my high-stress daily life. He breathed cool air into my hot tempered mind and gave me a sense of mental clarity I never experienced. It was easy for me to like him. To be attracted to him. To lust for him. But to love him?

That seemed like a different story. 

“It’s perfect.”

---------

Part II

a/n: don't fight me y'all! i've been adulting something fierce. as previously mentioned, this will be a series and i will post updates regularly. if you would like to be on the official taglist, let me know.

[bladekindeyewear]

HS^2 bloggin’ mainline 2024-08-24

(Previous post - current page 666)

Section 3 of page 666 is now upd8'd, let's check it out! And as you can expect very much from the topic it's almost certainly covering, they've warned us via the twitter "Content warning for references to themes of physical and mental abuse, flashing imagery, and mild gore". By the way, when Force Refresh didn't reload the game data enough to show the new chapter in Google Chrome for me, I had to go in settings to "Delete Browsing Data" > "Cookies and other site data" for the Time Range "Last hour", because just deleting "Cached images and files" or "Hosted app data" didn't help.

(EDIT: THEY WERE NOT KIDDING AROUND ABOUT THE CONTENT WARNINGS, IF YOU HAVE ANY PERSONAL EXPERIENCE WITH ANY SORT OF ABUSE PLEASE BE CAREFUL WITH THIS ONE.)

Although, before we get into it (AND WAY BEFORE I SCROLLED BACK UP TO EDIT THAT EXTRA WARNING UP THERE), I wanted to cover something that'd been on my mind since my last post, predictionways: How IS Vriska going to escape the Plot Point?

There seem a number of obvious answers that we'll get some combination of, but the last one might not be obvious to everyone, so I wanted to cover it and flesh out / examine the possibilities so we all can feel really smart if it pans out at all the way I'm thinking it could pan out:

(1) Vriska realizes the true power and relevance she'd attained as a Thief of Light never left her heart all along, and this singularity is Nothing, a realm Void of relevance where only she exists. (Very like the Neverending Story after everything was destroyed, maybe?) If she allows herself to divest herself of some of her relevance she's been so desperately clutching onto, she can 8r8k the Plot Point.

Callie hinted that this singularity-center might need to be destroyed, and the fifth section is an 8-ball, a type of container Vriska is famously known to break. It may make a degree of sense that realizing her own power, her ultimate freedom, might be enough to do just that and free her.

(1a) Vriska becomes her Ultimate Self, and is too full of Light for the singularity to contain. This could break it or otherwise get her out of it...

...but I'm not sure it's either possible or a good thing for her to consolidate ALL of herself from the rest of Paradox Space into herself while she's trapped in here? Those versions of her perhaps deserve to keep existing rather than falling into a sea of herself that would need to hold powerfully to the self-actualization and psychological progress she's made as THIS version of her instead of the versions of her that didn't. We're not certain of all the mechanics of being an Ultimate Self, so it's hard to say whether or not it's possible... or could even see her backslide from this Therapy Session, which I really wouldn't want to see because this has been so good, and would definitely make some sense of alt!Callie / AL's warning that what was inside the Plot Point was hungry, because an Ultimate Vriska certainly could be. This doesn't seem the right choice unless in combination with one of the other options:

(2) Vriska finds the collapsed core of the Green Sun's power here and steals it for herself, a hidden treasure that could be intensely empowering, whether via Light or even giving her fancy barrier-busting Black Hole powers similar to alt!Calliope's dead!Jade body. I... feel this option is unlikely. It'd certainly count as something "greedy" inside the Plot Point that "isn't salvation" and could hasten the fragmentation of the Candy storyline because there isn't a singularity vacuuming its power all together, which could apply to breaking the Plot Point too, frankly... eh, I just still think other options seem more likely and better foreshadowed. Especially this last one:

(3) Vriska uses the same communication-across-barriers ability she used to contact (Meat)!Terezi in order to message JOHN and ask the HEIR OF BREATH to free her from the singularity as I once long ago wrongly predicted. If John is the only one who can reach in and pull her out, it would require Vriska to overcome herself enough to realize she needs -- and has the power -- to MAKE a divestment of relevance (as (1) suggested) to John from herself, and let John be the hero in her place for at least a moment. The arms he once reached everywhere with using his ultimate power suddenly become an arm reaching for another hand to pull someone to freedom.

Now on top of everything I mentioned in the old Breath, Blood, and the Flow of Reality post about John being one of the only people possibly capable of freeing someone from a singularity that "not even Light can escape", there's a bunch of EXTREMELY RECENT evidence for this, too. In addition to telling us how surprising and unlikely they would have found it to learn that Vriska messaged Terezi past the barrier sealing Candy's timeline away from the rest of Paradox Space, Callie ALSO just got done asking John to break Vriska out of jail, reinforcing it with an open statement that Breath was the aspect of Freedom, and John embodied the concept. And more importantly, John HADN'T BEEN NECESSARY to break Vriska out at all, and ended up only tagging along for conversation and fun, not even needing to tell Serket where to go! Which makes the entire relevance and narrative choice of Callie asking him to break her out better suited as foreshadowing for this exact necessity while she's trapped in the Plot Point, and all Vriska would need to do to make it happen is pull a trick (communicating across the Breach) we've already seen her pull before in the Epilogues. To have the courage and stability of mind to realize she can't do this on her own, and know who to ask for help. (Roxy, as a Rogue of Void, might even be able to lend her power to the effort too.)

Apologies for the pre-update writeup, I just really wanted to make that last John call for y'all if you hadn't realized the possibility, y'know, before we potentially see it happen a few upd8s from now. :D

Alright, on to all the trauma that Doc Scratch helped inflict on Vriska, manipulating her into actions that only injured her psyche further and her friends moreso, and all the guilt and anger she feels over it. I suspect she'll have to finally at least PARTIALLY realize the trick that's being hinted at regarding "ultimate freedom" -- ie, the answer to the Ultimate Riddle -- and just how much Doc Scratch's talk of inevitability not only gaslit her into thinking her worst instincts were unavoidable, but that even as he was TELLING her that he was manipulating her, he was admitting that he HAD to manipulate her to make this happen, meaning the power had been in HER hands all along, not his. Without Vriska provoked into being the one to inflict the injuries in the entire Team Charge vs Team Scourge cascade, without the fact that this was all FRIENDS hurting FRIENDS, none of them would have experienced enough of the severe psychological trauma required for Doc Scratch's half-Gamzee chucklevoodoos to control them into unknowingly writing his DNA code, and leaving those like Aradia in an inverted, highly manipulatable state for guiding their session into creating the Tumor that would birth the Green Sun. Let's click the White Cueball and start watching Vriska painfully confronting some serious emotional abuse and trauma from her past at the hands of a very-Dirk-Strider-like pseudo-parental figure...

*CLICKING THAT DAMNED CUEBALL NOW*

Okay, NO TIMESKIP notice this time, she looks the same in her room-- it would make sense that Doc Scratch is next on the chopping block this time and I'd WANT to see her live first reaction to it. What's with this poppy hoppy fun music? We're definitely getting something more sinister for Scratch. (Also I have to say, the music so far this entire Vriska Therapy Session flash has been... okay? But not up to the usual Homestuck banger standards the original comic's run spoiled us with constantly, in my personal view.)

VRISKA: Whew. VRISKA: Long day.

Oh gosh I hope she doesn't go into the next one IMMEDIATELY and rests first--

Oh GCATAVROSPRITE is the music this time, I get it! And he's acting more catlike than ever w/ those paws lifted!

GCATAVROSPRITE: mAYBE, yOU SHOULD TAKE A BREAK, fROM ALL THE TOTALLY AWESOME PERSONAL BREAKTHROUGHS YOU ARE HAVING, GCATAVROSPRITE: aND KICK IT WITH ME AND ERISOL FOR A WHILE, ERISOLSPRITE: yeah, you kiinda look liike 2hiit.

THANK you, get her to relax at least a BIT before tackling something harder than her freakin' abusive mother(s). Also,

--just, Erisol looking unexpectedly fly as fuck, and more Dave-like than ever. Like, I'm just surprised he looks so cool. Good damn art.

VRISKA: Says Scarfshades McLopsided.

Hey!!!

ERISOLSPRITE: 2ay2 the bu2ted a22 biitch wwearin the 2ame raggedy jacket 2he2 wworn 2ince wwe wwere liike fiivve.

FUCKIN' OWNED, GOOD SNAPBACK.

VRISKA: Says the guy who literally can't change his clothes.

That's low AND not helping your case, fuck you! You're being incredibly disrespectful AND proving him right!

ERISOLSPRITE: ii cant be held accountable for my dii2cordant cla22-2wwag diichotomy, but here you are a 2weep and a half deep iin a per2onally raiilored realm of 2elf-reflectiion and you 2tiill choo2e twwo look liike thii2.

EXACTLY, that's what we're saying!!! --Not that it can be helped TOO much, from an emotional standpoint she sorta has to take forms similar to her past to face her past to an extent, so...

Also, let me do the math on that... (6/13)*4 ≈ 1.85, so if we're still in "YEAR 4" then 1.85 solar sweeps have passed for her since she entered the Plot Point. If anything, Erisol's being generous as fuck here by rounding down instead of saying "nearly two sweeps". (And this confirms we haven't timeskipped again-- or if we have, must not have skipped MUCH.)

VRISKA: Heh.

What, can't mess with perfection?

ERISOLSPRITE: heh.

Oh shit, they're actually getting on, look at his damned animated grin. This is just some black-vibey friendly jabbing!

ERISOLSPRITE: anyway, come chiill.

Please, please do Vriska for your own damn sake.

Oh no, Tavros, don't suggest cat things.

Yeah, get some R and R. (And pointless playtime.) So you don't burn out. Good advice Tav.

FUCK IS HE STILL ALLERGIC? :C

.....okay GCATavrosprite you make a good goddamned point, you're doing pretty well against the allergies all things considered.

Oh no, she thinks she needs to keep going. :( This is gonna be even less fun for her than she thinks.

VRISKA: I'm kind of on a roll here. Gotta strike while the iron is hot!

Intense trauma-release therapy does not work that way!!! Heavy revelations have to be PROCESSED and mulled over before you subject yourself to more psychological pounding!

GCATAVROSPRITE: [...] aND IT KIND OF FEELS LIKE THE FIRE IS ABOUT TO GET REALLY REALLY HOT,

Ooh, a serious warning from Tav and Erisol that this shit is about to be some fuckin' BUSINESS. Listen to them! (Exactly as you put it Tav, that iron is gonna MELT too long in too hot a fire. I hope this doesn't knock her back at first and then we get ANOTHER TIMESKIP so soon mid-section... D: )

VRISKA: Whaaaaaaaat?

Oh she doesn't fucking see it coming, does she. She thought she just conquered the worst of her abuse with her mother(s) just now. She is NOT ready.

VRISKA: Oh 8lah 8lah 8lah, don't be such a pussy. GCATAVROSPRITE: i LITERALLY CAN'T NOT BE A CAT,

PFFF

VRISKA: How 8ad could it even 8e?

How genre savvy could you POSSIBLY have lost track of being to make such a statement?

...Welp, she's gonna try it. Let's hope it doesn't make her backslide into being too afraid to touch it for another year or two. :C :C :C

ERISOLSPRITE: ok wwell fuck u2 for tryiin ii gue22, havve fun gettiing traumatiized.

PFFFFDHF okay that was pretty funny

VRISKA: I'm not gonna get traumatized!

Lemme guess, smash cut to a dozen and change clicks from now: "...I got fucking traumatized."? X'D

Oh here we go:

{ENTER SCRATCH'S PARLOR}

OH HERE WE GO WITH SOME PROPERLY OMINOUS MUSIC. AND I LOVE THE TYPEWRITER SOUNDS AS HIS TEXT TYPES OUT AGAINST THE PURE BACKGROUND. THIS IS DONE SO GODDAMN WELL

(Even if I still think this music still doesn't measure up to original Homestuck tunes, it's still FITTING AND WORKS GREAT for the scene, and the style and art choices are top notch, especially the pure backgroundless white font.)

Yep Vriska, a "perfectly predictable inevitability", you should have seen this coming. Did you know you'd show up here, or did you not and he's rubbing it in your face? Cause I'd bet it's the latter.

It certainly has been a while, Vriska. You seem to have blossomed nicely.

CREEPY ABUSIVE UNCLE VIBES ALREADY REACHING CRITICAL LEVELS THREE CLICKS IN

Care for a piece of candy?

GOD DAMNIT

VRISKA: Oh fuck your stupid candy, you glo8e-headed little freak.

Congratulations Vriska, you've successfully lost 99% of your chill five seconds in, have fun getting traumatized

Doc hinting at the inevitability theme by saying he'd know for a fact she'd enjoy the candy.

Although it was less the wary hunch of a scared little girl than the delightful certainty that you'd come crawling back to me, sooner or later.

FUCK THIS IS JUST RAW ABUSIVE RELATIONSHIP WE ARE FULL NON-WATERED-DOWN EVERCLEAR HERE

Holy SHIT are they pulling out all the stops with his awful phrasing here, no wonder they put so big an emotional abuse trigger warning on this update on the twitter page. And it's only going to get worse.

Of course I know. I'm always watching you.

Fuck, this is just. Exposing levels of vulnerability and awful fear that Vriska had to contend with in her youth that we hadn't even PUT TOGETHER back then. Every veil of silliness has been ripped straight off to show the gory mess of how this would have psychologically affected her while she was younger, here. I used to hate the epilogues and early HS^2 a little for doing this so liberally, for making clear how RETROACTIVELY FUCKED things were in ways that made my heart ache without any balm or healing... but unlike those earlier glimpses into their past attitudes, THIS time we are fucking going to goddamn RESOLVE the psychological issues and get some clear closure on them. That's part of why the entire p666 Vriska Therapy Session / Hyperbolic Therapy Chamber is already quite nearly my favorite part of all Homestuck so far, and I DO mean ALL of Homestuck so far.

VRISKA: You know what? VRISKA: I've 8een pretty damn good. VRISKA: 8een losing track of the sweeps I've spent in here fixing pretty much everything other than the thing I actually came in here to fix, 8ut it's paying off! There's a convenient timer for the express purpose of tracking that.

Oh god don't show her. Don't make her worry about how much time she's losing in here or how much it might be reflecting out there.

VRISKA: Yeah, and I never look at it 8ecause it pisses me off!

Phew. At least she's had TIME to come to terms with worrying about it.

VRISKA: 8ut it's fine. VRISKA: It just means I've had a lot of time to think stuff over. VRISKA: Stuff that was holding me 8ack, throwing me off-course.

I get the feeling he's about to do a pretty good job trying to convince you that you can't escape this so easily. To throw the wrong sort of doubt at you about what exactly you're barreling towards. About who the real "YOU" is-- he's going to try and convince you you're the one who hurts people.

I like to think that I'm far and away the most prolific contributor to your baggage.

Fuck. This won't be good.

VRISKA: Man, I figured may8e this place was working up to something really intense, 8ut instead all I get is Glo8ehead the Gru8toucher playing puppetmaster again.

Eueuuugh that nickname D:

...Is Vriska shaking or laughing? I think she's shaking. D:

VRISKA: You fucked with a 8unch of little kids and 8lew up, then you LOST.

Lord English might have lost, but I don't feel quite like Doc Scratch really did. He pretty much gave his master the Paradox-Space-spanning story he wanted, from beginning to end.

VRISKA: You could 8arely handle me when I was six, I'm supposed to 8e scared of you NOW?

It doesn't matter that you're not six sweeps anymore, that's-- you're visibly shaking. This is a big fucking deal. This is digging into the creepiest and most disgusting parts of what was done to you.

Well, you're shaking.

There we have it.

...Vriska is pulling out the whole-ass PDF File word. I... I hope she's just trying to taunt him for manipulating children, here, and playing the uncle angle. He's not-- I mean nothing actually happened, right? Please tell me nothing physical actually fucking happened besides the cueball-explosion physical-abuse-ways, I don't want sexual abuse retconned into existence here...

Exquisite. I missed that fumbling braggadocio. It's heartening to know that this place hasn't cured you of it yet. It makes you so much fun to play with.

Yeah... the parts of Doc Scratch that Vriska is going to remember most clearly are the times where he was condescending in ways that denigrated her and confirmed her worst fears about herself, intentionally. :C

WHOA DID HE JUST SPACE SHRINK HER??? IS HE GONNA PUT HER ON THE TOY BATTLEFIELD?!

{o} ==>

Matching the scale and visuals of the situation to how she always felt. :C :C

And SICK that the music is breaking down, I'll freely give it credit for shifting to action mode.

Now then, why don't we have ourselves a little game?

Just like Dirk and Caliborn, and their union in Doc Scratch, always love to do to people.

FUCK he glitched away the "WHAT WILL YOU DO?" prompt. This is DEFINITELY about the Ultimate Riddle and Doc Scratch's ultimate lie that Vriska never had any autonomy, a lie he poisoned her with from an early age to make her even easier to manipulate both then and down the line.

DAMMIT, changing her clothes by force?! D: D: D: D:

FUCK FUCK FUCK NO THAT'S EVEN WORSE HE CHANGED HER INTO KID FORM HUGGING HERSELF FROM WHEN SHE WAS ABOUT TO BE INJURED THAT'S CREEPIER AND MORE AWFUL THAN I EVER EXPECTED NO WONDER THEY CONTENT WARNING'D THE FUCK OUT OF THIS, I'm going up there and putting some EXTRAS on there.

I don't have personal experience with this sort of abuse but I do have experience with some who HAVE and some who WORK therapeutically with those who have so this is playing out like a critical hit to triggers I can only empathize from a distance with and it's STILL getting almost too much already. Wow wow wow wow wow they didn't pull any punches.

Ah, and there she is. My favorite piece.

AAAAAA

Thief to E4; Thief takes Page.

That loud BLAM just then and the brown blood knocking her back along with her injuries, so pithy yet so HEAVY and with the meaty SFX to go with it, just, brutal, auughh.... Vriska's NOT getting out of this one lightly. She's not going to want to come back here. She's going to be too traumatized for a good while isn't she.

Thief to F5; Thief takes Maid.

Oh god I don't want to screenshot each of these...

Another meaty THUNK and some rust blood splashing her. God.

Thief to Z8; Thief takes Seer.

Even after all Terezi taunted her and so clearly loved being blind, she STILL hates herself for what she did to Terezi?? :'C

Her blood too D:

Z8 ISN'T EVEN A F8CKING P8SITION, YOU HACK!!!!!!!

She didn't even get the number of exclamation points right...

All the world's my board.

No Escape.

Thief to ∫40; Thief takes pawn.

Wait what, who?

Is that Gamzee's blood or Eridan's? She only killed Gamzee just recently in Candy... (Checks with digital color meter--) That's #680768 blood, which is closest to... Eridan's, huh, weird. Maybe Erisol will be able to help her with this later after she's run away. IF AND WHEN she can finally run away. It looks like he wants to reinforce the impression that he can make her kill ANY AND ALL of the people friends she knows, COULD have made her do it. That's horrible for her to think of herself.

Now Equius's blood. She's swearing but can't make it stop.

He even calls Kanaya (and her blood splash) nothing but her killing a pawn of his choosing.

Thief to Ω413; Thief takes pawn. Check.

This is one of the first reappearances I can remember of the arc number 413 since we started HS^2, I don't even recall it in the epilogues. What's in Check here, the kids' whole universe, the one the trolls created? Is he getting her to blame herself for that, too?

KARKAT'S BLOOD AUGH that's always tough to see whenever I have to see it, it just makes you want to protect him when you know you can't.

Vriska calling him a cheap fucking karma ghost, this a stupid fucking charade... won't stop the fact that this is real emotional pain she's feeling and real pain that was already inside her for nearly her whole life up until this vision brought it out into the open.

VRISKA: AND I'M NEVER GOING TO 8E CAUGHT UP IN YOUR FUCKING G8MES EVER AGAIN!!!!!!!!

Then why are you so afraid you will be?

Of course you will. You think you're better than me? Better than fate? Vriska, I am going to put you in situations where you have the potential to do terrible things. I am going to make things ugly. I am going to corner you. I am going to pressure you. And no matter how much "better" you claim to be, all I have to do is catch you at the wrong moment. You're one bad turn from burning all your quaint little progress to the ground. One lapse away from being mine again.

Yeah, these are ALL just more and more of her deepest fears about herself. That she can be made to kill again, so easily, no matter how far she thinks she's moved past it all. Until she internalizes the answer to the Ultimate Riddle and realizes she has the power to make the better choice-- to ALWAYS make the better choice, and he was just fooling her into thinking she never did-- how could she possibly escape this sort of trap? She can't, not yet. And that abusive cueball asshole INTENTIONALLY made sure she felt that way, because that's what kept her easy to control. Learned helplesness.

VRISKA: Get me out of here.

Fuck, she's so defeated... so helpless. Please, PLEASE let this work. Please make it so she CAN escape this memory RIGHT THE FUCK NOW and confront it later. Because I'm very afraid it won't.

VRISKA: I want a do-over. Oh, please. You of all people should know that you don't *get* do-overs. The rest of these frivolous little vision quests may feel like sparing you the effort of getting things right the first time around, but the real world doesn't work that way.

FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK THAT'S EVEN WORSE THAN I EXPECTED

No, you'll just have to endure it. This won't take long.

LET HER OUT YOU FUCK

You had a good run out there, flying solo and swashbuckling around as if Light itself were yours to command. It'd be wise to remember that it's a borrowed blessing. You flourish at its whim. Continue to spit in its face and take it for granted, and it will abandon you once again, perhaps for good.

Back to the ultimate riddle shit again. Doc Scratch conning her into thinking "everything you've achieved, I made for you, or you stole from others".

Being a true Thief of Light doesn't mean being at the whim of Light, at the mercy of what she can borrow. Kanaya tried to teach her back when she wanted her to clean her room that anybody can make their own luck.

Instead Doc Scratch is playing the role of Demiurge, standing in place of the Sun and claiming all Light radiates from him, when there was plenty inside her all along.

Do you remember who you were, before it chose you? The choices you made when luck wasn't on your side? You were such a delectable little victim.

Bluh!!!!!!

Poor Vriska, with her voracious lusus. With her demanding legacy and her uncooperative, fickle little friends. So much was out of your hands, then; how could you help but mbe my lovely assistant?

Doc Scratch inherited every last ounce of Equius's nonconsensual creep factor from Arquiusprite.

And this is going into the relationship between Light and Agency again, Void and the Lack of agency-- when Vriska felt trapped, felt she didn't have a choice, that was Void hemming her in, her "bad luck streak". Agency is your ability to choose what you do next, and so is Light. That's the privilege sometimes but not exclusively known as Luck.

Vriska: You didn't fucking own me.

Still so helpless-looking, but at least a bit of defiance in her expression. Which I expect handily crushed, unfortunately...

Exactly.

Fuck! And yeah, that's his point-- he's trying to say she CHOSE to do the wrong thing when the chips were down, which is what she's most afraid she'll do again.

But she needs to internalize the fact that it was a choice... that it HAD to be a choice... is an important flaw in the way he gaslit and conned her.

But what matters is that I might as well have. You let yourself believe you had no option other than to take me up on my hard bargains, again and again. For all your talk of independence, all your combative posturing and insistence on your own freedom, you barely bothered to put up any actual resistance to my suggestions. You took the easy way out, swearing all teh while it was your move. What a phenomenal waste of your considerable talents.

Her psyche is playing against her with the cards face up here... she just has to read them correctly. This is what she's afraid of, but it's also the flaw in his logic, the source of his power over her. The idea that she never possessed Ultimate Freedom, even though he's practically telling her that she DID, just to convince her she's an awful person.

It was an insult, and a warning. You're a trump card, Vriska, but your potency is a double-edged sword. One you've gotten far too comfortable swinging around, in the past. What do you intend to fix, when you leave this place? What, I wonder, will you break? I'd encourage you to be mindful of both. Of course, you could always cast aside those pesky trivialities and go with the flow, smashing through circumstances with nary a thought for the consequences. It'd be easier. We could dance together again, just like old times. You choose.

This isn't the real Doc Scratch-- this version of him IS, in its sick perverse way, still helping her. Still giving her the hints to realize that true balance between embracing your role and yielding agency to others is CRUCIAL to make sure you're doing your best to do the right thing. Which is especially difficult when your role, your best methodology, is that of an Agency Thief. A dangerous role which must be careful with its moves so as not to gluttonously trample over the wills of others who deserve a say.

But in order to choose, to take up the mantle of Ultimate Freedom, Vriska has to TRUST herself enough TO choose.

Trusting yourself enough to entrust yourself with CHOICE is one of the hardest decisions you can possibly make. Few ever truly make that decision.

What'll it be, Vriska? Player, or piece?

Well?

Thief to ∞108.

Whoa, what now? What the fuck is this going to be?

I look forward to finding out. Good luck.

Oh, so it's sending her back to the Plot Point. ∞108, or 8108. Is this the elusive arc number of one of our timelines, of Candy? One of infinite... or 1 and 0, creation and destruction, sandwiched between two 8s, two Vriskas with perpendicular orientations, Vriska and Vrissy? Hmm...

Oh thank fucking god we're back...

HAH

thanks so much I needed that mood lifter XD

{Level Complete!}

Thanks for ENDING it too, holy shit. I don't think I could have taken much longer of something THAT heavy tonight. Wow, that was masterfully done... not dragged out, just enough to get to the true point. To a setup for her decision, for her personal answer to the Ultimate Riddle.

Which makes plenty of sense why the NEXT section seems like it's likely a weird colorless version of one of Davepetasprite^2's feathers. They're the perfect person to talk to about her Soul/Heart, the greater self and the meaning of Ultimate Freedom, just as they hinted at during their last big talk in Homestuck.

--Yeah, she didn't get as much help from that as she would have wanted... and now the candle is ABSOLUTELY burning down.

The glimpse of the next unclaimed tiers, here... are these hinting at the start of the next section? We have her inhibitions bound, then a reference to a child development psychologist, then a somatic spark-- physical contact?! Then Deja Vu, a flash of the past (or possibly even meeting her GHOST self from the ghost rain, the more vulnerable (Vriska) inverted to Page of Void mode that she BERATED TO TEARS back toward the end of Homestuck to prove how much more (Vriska) had grown than Vriska before leaving her crying and for Ghost Terezi from the pre-retcon timeline to meet)... Heuristic Grace, getting her luck back possibly... burning, getting hotter, and then a transcendental gleam? No, no that's got to just be a candle and it burning out the rest of the singularity... I still don't think Ultimate Vriska is the solution to all this, could it be?

Oh shit, I forgot about how the BLACK CANDLE is burning down due to VRISKA'S blue flame.

Recall my proposals at the beginning of this post? I completely forgot about yet one more opportunity for her escape:

(4) That Vriska's Light has been burning away at the singularity of the Plot Point this entire time, and will naturally destroy it no matter what, especially if she embraces her Agency and her inner Light. The Green Sun was not just a symbol of Light but an ultimate manifestation of Space power... and collapsed into a singularity, it could indeed also have been not just a Void but an ultimate manifestation of Time power. The years, sweeps, that Vriska is spending inside of it could be wearing it away all on its own, rapidly exhausting a reservoir of Time that alt!Calliope preserved at the center of the singularity just to give the noncanon timeline more time to exist than it otherwise would have had?!! Instead, Vriska is burning it up, and the sprites and ghosts who fell into the Black Hole during the Ghost Rain and concentrated themselves in this singularity are helping her use that naturally limited Time to arm herself and become the best version of herself she can be, so when the Plot Point collapses and shit really starts hitting the fan for the Candy timeline, they can execute a NEW plan to breach into the Canon/Meat timeline and do something so incredibly important that it reseats the timelines outside Paradox Space in new relevance stolen out from Canon. Something incredibly important, like unexpectedly facilitating Sburb's creation in what Dirk and Rosebot are trying to do, or sendificating the kids the final frog they used to create this Universe, or something, which came from somewhere we've still never resolved...

So many interesting possibilities here. And only two or three more updates until we'll know for sure what and how!

I'll probably continue to be too busy the next week or two to be in the mood to chew through bonus material or commentary. Talk to you next upd8 instead, most likely! :D

[tossawary]

I mentioned before that I think DA2 is perhaps the most appealing to me for a Time Travel AU. This is in part because Hawke as a protagonist doesn't have to worry about an impending apocalypse in the same way that the Warden and the Inquisitor do, so there's arguably more space for slow-moving character work, and I think it would be fun to explore Hawke's relationship to Kirkwall.

You can take Inquisition-era Hawke, sacrifice them in the Fade, and then handwavy magic happens there that sends Hawke back for a Time Travel Redo. (If it's irrelevant to the rest of the story, let's skip going into depth on the time travel method! It does not matter!) If you want to avoid time paradox concerns, given that time magic actually exists in this series, this can actually be a Dimension Travel AU as well, sending a Garrett Hawke back in time to another dimension where there's a Marian Hawke instead or something. Two Hawkes!

I prefer sending a mage Garrett Hawke "back" into this alternate dimension because he is absolutely going to look like his own father, Malcolm, to the young Hawke family trying to escape Lothering. And that's some delicious angst.

Another reason that I think Hawke in particular would be interesting is that I think it would be interesting to have a time-traveler (dimension-traveler) be upfront about what had happened to them. A tired Garrett Hawke reveals at least the basics of the "future" to his friends and family (all of whom are strangers to him and it hurts) because he wants to keep them safe, and then the butterfly effects of canon divergence ripple out from there.

There are so many time travel fics where the protagonist confides in no one or only does so very late in the story. There are often reasons for this. 1) They will not be believed. 2) They are surrounded by enemies. 3) They are focused on changing a very specific event and do not want things to change before that. 3.5) They are unwilling to share their knowledge and give up some measure of control over the future. (These control issues are often in-character!)

Sometimes, I am persuaded by these reasons and find them compelling and sympathetic. Sometimes, I find the protagonist's insistence on doing everything alone frustrating and even cruel.

I think that if Hawke had the chance to do a Time Travel Redo, it would be incredibly cruel if they did not at least TRY to share some of their knowledge with their companions. I don't think Hawke's companions would believe them immediately, of course, but they live in a world with strange magic. If Hawke was willing to be calm and vulnerable, they could at least give their future friends some potential leads in their individual quests (being open about the fact that this world may be different to their own).

Like, let's look at Fenris. Fenris would not trust some strange mage talking about fucking time magic, of course. But after knowing each other for a month or so, Hawke might be able to approach Fenris and say, "Hey, I have a really weird story to tell you." And then Hawke could share what they know about Fenris' past according to their own world, so that Fenris can maybe look into that and prepare himself. Because keeping that information away from Fenris is a dick move! Fenris deserves to be able to decide what to believe, what to investigate, and what to do for himself.

I also don't think I could suspend my disbelief if Hawke let Anders and Justice just... play out again over the course of years. I think most Hawkes wouldn't be able to resist confronting Anders in some way! Even Hawkes who end up saying, "I'm going to personally murder Meredith this time." Is a mage-friendly Hawke just going to let characters like Karl Thekla be made Tranquil and be killed again?

Do Merrill and Isabella and Varric and Aveline not deserve to try and avert some of the tragedies in their own lives?

Like, it is totally reasonable for Hawke to be focused purely on their own family or the companions they like, rather than try to save every person in the city. I think it's more than fine if there are tragedies a protagonist just doesn't care about averting. Hawke is not even going to remember everything.

And it is VERY normal for people not to want to give up some measure of control over their lives, especially someone as traumatized as Hawke. I do often find it realistic that a lot of time traveling characters in fanfiction are kind of "control freaks" who don't want to be vulnerable, even if it's "safe" to be. I'm imagining that this future-sharing from Hawke would stem in large part from 1) exhaustion, 2) loneliness, and 3) Hawke being used to celebrity, due to the "Tale of the Champion", and somewhat blasé by this point about all the fucking shit they've been through.

And I think that spilling everything (or even just the basics) would not necessarily go well for a Hawke. I think Varric would take even limited information about Bartrand's future very badly. As strangers to Hawke, I think all of the companions would be upset and disbelieving. (I'm currently imagining a mage Garrett Hawke who previously romanced Merrill, so that he and Past!Fenris were barely friends, because Fenris didn't like this mage Hawke hanging out with a blood mage and Hawke kind of thought Fenris might turn him in to the Templars someday. Past!Fenris was more Isabella's and Varric's friend.) I think these new companions might go on to make some BIG mistakes trying to avoid the future that Hawke has described, as much as they might avert tragedy.

I also imagine that Hawke's relationship with this new Hawke family might be very strange and awkward, even if both Carver and Bethany live. Garrett looks like Malcolm and everyone thinks it's weird; Leandra is probably the happiest and most practical about it, but Garrett can't forget how his own mother died horribly and also blamed him for his own Bethany's death. Neither Garrett nor Marian know what to do about each other; Marian doesn't like some new person waltzing in and taking control of situations. Garrett unconsciously treats this Carver as older and Carver loves it, but Marian doesn't like it. Bethany likes having a mage sibling, but Garrett is awkward because he's used to Bethany being the Hawke family's perfect dead sister. And Leandra's shitty brother is not fucking helping any of this!!! And what's that about Leandra maybe getting murdered by a serial killer in the future???

By saying all of this, I mean to make clear that I really don't think "communicating" would immediately fix every problem for a perfect "Time Travel Fix-It". I do think it would fix SOME problems. Emotional conversations and immediate canon divergence also appeals to me because I like reading those things.

What I mean to make clear is that I think it would be fun to write something that explores autonomy, authority, agency, and control. There are many issues in the world that stem from people unwilling to give up control of a situation for a variety of reasons, and other issues that stem from people believing they have the authority to dictate other people's lives.

What right would a new Garrett Hawke have to withhold information and try to manipulate all of their strangers' lives? Especially from people like Anders and Fenris, whose stories are so deeply concerned with freedom of choice? To conceal backstory information from someone with amnesia, like Fenris, is a choice, and I think it's a cruel one, even if Fenris might not like what he hears and might react badly. Can Garrett Hawke really claim that he "knows best"? What if he doesn't know what's going on with this version of the world? What do you do when freedom means standing back and allowing some of the people you like and love to make "bad" choices?

Some time travel fics seem to me to be incredibly lonely. The protagonist trusts in no one. The other characters can be written as predictably following a timeline to the point of being shallow caricatures of people. It's just not to my taste.

It could be nice to explore Hawke finding new sides of companions that they missed in their previous "run" (which was very much not perfect and full of strife). It could be nice to explore an exhausted Champion learning to trust in other people and have them step up to help solve these shifting problems. DA games are so much about making choices for everyone around you: on behalf of your companions, on behalf of entire kingdoms, on behalf of the entire world. It might be fun to explore an exhausted older Hawke giving up some control and being pleasantly surprised on some fronts as paths diverge.

[world-in-a-nook]

Prediction : the tragedy of Amorpheus

Welcome one and all to my theory crafting around the next HSR planet !

For this, we will use Black Swan's lines about Amphoreus and try to analyse and probably theorize on what Amphoreus' story will be about.

I hope that you pardon my english, it isn't my first language.

I- The story of the planet II-The three paths

I- The story of the planet

A- The state of the planet

First of all, we have all the flags abount an antiquity inspired planet : the name of the achievement, the planet's name and so on.

We also know that the planet is only accessible through "the light from the mirror of the Garden of Recollection" and that Akivilli never reached Amphoreus.

So here is my theory : we are going to use the Graden of Recollection's miror to go back in time to when Amphoreus existed/was in better shape.

The keywords from Black Swan are "reached" and that it "only" possible through the Garden of Recollection. We know that the Garden's task is to gather memories to make sure that the universe is remembered after the Destruction. We also know that their members can "freely traverse between worlds, unconstrained by physical limits." (Data bank ; Factions)

We have seen that with Black Swan and the dreamscape : she can freely go from the dreamscape to reality. So that means that they aren't affected by space. But what if they aren't affected by Time either ? Then, only people unaffected by time from the Garden of Recollection could access Amphoreus, and such Akivilli would have never reached Amphoreus.

This would also explain why the Astral Express would never need fuel after that : it would make it a timeless machine, that goes beyond time and space, a paradox. In a more darker turn of events, it could also be the planet's destruction that fuels the Astral Express.

B- The plot

Since the planet must be either destroyed or in a very catastrophic way. I would imagine the story based on the tragedy : the Astral Express will tell the people of Amphoreus that their planet is destroyed, everyone will try so that it doesn't happen but everything has already happened and it will end up destroyed. This mixed in with a "Fall of Rome" kind of context.

Why am I thinking so ?

First, Rome is known for its political history being a mess.

Rome and Ancient Greece are known for their tragedies. Those have usually prophecies that are trying to be escaped but ended up happening anyway. And by the Astral Express coming from the future, they would be the ideal prophetic role.

The japanese name for Amphoreus is Omphalos. And Delphi's was known to be the center of the world, according to the greeks. Delphi is well known for its oracles.

"Eternal Land" isn't used to be literal. Black Swan is a Memokeeper and as such believes that all "world will eventually perish, but they can live on in another way — through Remembrance." (Databank ; factions). And such, Black Swan would be basically using some dramatic irony (mostly used in tragedies) to mock Amphoreus' people. It is how we view Rome's Fall : there were the signs that Rome would fall, yet nobody could stop it.

The planet's destruction would be a political crisis from the three paths (a word of them ahead) with a stellaron at play. My theory would be that one of the paths would want to exploit the stellaron for power linked with the hybris theme (the theme that men always try to be as powerful as gods but end up punished). We could also link it to Cesar's deification signaled by a comet.

Post Scriptum : If the Astral Express aren't the one announcing the planet's destruction, we could have an apparition of the Omen Vanguards, Terminus' followers (since they "They are dedicated to drawing prophecies from Terminus's obscure words.").

II- The three paths

"Human behavior flows from three main sources : desire, emotion and knowledge" - Plato

Erudition - Mourning Actors- Enigmata

Erudition :

For the fact that Ancient Greece had an immense impact on today's intellectual (look at Dr.Ratio's design).

The Genius Society, Nous' followers, are already known to be quite prideful so it would made sense for the hybris theme.

We don't know Nous' creation and ascension to aeonhood. So we could have Nous' followers in that point in time.

"Knowledge comes at the price of suffering." (Fu Xian voiceline Chat : Third Eye) and so, following my idea, it would be the knowledge that the planet will end up destroyed/dead that makes the Trailblazer and the Astral Express suffer.

We need another path for the trailblazer

Mourning Actors :

Their performances are akin to greek tragedies

Like Nous, we do not know when Aha arose to aeonhood.

Despite doing greek tragedies, their philosophy is closer to Pascal's (“Distraction is the only thing that consoles us for miseries and yet it is itself the greatest of our miseries.” ; replace Distraction with Elation and you have it.). And Pascal also has some quotes about truth. I wouldn't be surprise if we see Mourning Actors get inspiration in Amorpheus.

Enigmata :

Purely out of opposition to Erudition, first and formost.

The romans were well-known to copy the greeks (even in their mythology) yet hate them. So Enigmata being opposite to Nous would fit the bill but also Rome could be replaces with Enigmata : taking history and changing it.

There is the sentence of erasing someone from History known in ancient history and it would fit the Enigmata pretty well.

Enigmata has been hinted through Gallagher in Penacony and Hoyo doesn't show us something just for the sack of it.

Enigmata could be seen as an easy antagonist for the arc. (And if we follow my idea, Nous' followers would be the one creating their demise)

Side note : Beauty is a path that I have seen mentioned in theories and could be (since Aeneas, the founder of Rome, is seen as the son of Aphrodite, goddess of love ). Though I have to say that it wouldn't fit with the idea of "balance" because it doesn't have a counterpoint.

Thank you for reading my messy theory ! Have a wonderful day/night ! (It is 2AM when I finish writing this).

[otomes-world]

"Under fantasy disguise" part Pomefiore (1)

Fantasy AU “Under fantasy disguise”: world lore (prologue) heartslabyul savanaclaw octavinelle scarabia trigger warning: some self hate, reader in really bad state (but there is nothing grafic), barrely edited text.

At some point, the clouds flying past completely erased the idea of time and space. Slowly brightening sky marked the beginning of a new day. The lump in throat, the approaching nausea and self-loathing merged into one large layer, settling like a burden in your chest. A heaviness that radiates unpleasantly throughout the whole body.

You wanted to pry open chest if only it could give at least a little peace of mind.

However, the much-desired peace would not come. The subconscious told you, or maybe you yourself understood that you couldn’t let go of the situation. Frankly, what happened - all at once - was not your fault. It wasn’t, but selfishness and the banal desire to survive stuck needles into such a subjective concept of conscience, which you didn’t even suspect. When you live in a world of technology - when you don't have to make tough decisions - the world seems simpler.

You didn’t know where the carpet was going. Perhaps it was simply obeying your unspoken impulse to get away. Anywhere. To a place where it will be at least a little easier.

However, during the time you spent in this world, you managed to come to terms with the thought: it won’t get better. The further you plunged into unfamiliar lands and got to know its inhabitants, the harder the blow to your mental health. At some point you thought that the happiest time of your forced journey was wandering in the mountains.

Taking a shuddering breath, you froze abruptly, noticing movement out of the corner of your eye. Something flew past at incredible speed. Glancing briefly at the sleeping cat, you clenched your fists, your nails - or what was left of them - digging into the skin of your palms. The pain helped calm down a little and focus on surroundings. A moment and something flew by again, this time very close.

It didn't seem to you.

Waking Grimm up with your left hand, you tried to look down. The carpet did not slow down, and therefore it was difficult to try to see anything. The barely brightening sky did not help at all. Suddenly the fabric shook and you felt something cold millimeters from your other hand. Imagining the worst, you looked down, noticing the thin scratch on your skin and the arrow.

Everything inside you suddenly stopped.

Heart began to beat sharply, making already labored breathing difficult. The mind tried to come up with a solution, an escape, something, but apparently the third arrow was the last warning. The last one before something incomprehensible collided with the carpet, paradoxically sobering and frightening at the same time. Intuitively stretching out your hands towards the sound of meowing, you realized in horror that you were falling down. The carpet, which had saved your life several times, was flailing in the air, trying to extinguish the flames that were engulfing the fabric faster and faster.

You closed your eyes and prepared to fall. The sharp blow, it felt like it, knocked out the remaining oxygen on the branch, as did a further fall onto the wet grass. The pain darkened vision. You wanted to scream, but you didn’t have the strength to unclench teeth and utter even a sound. Bent over, you still clutched Grimm to your chest, simultaneously trying to think about something good.

Heartslabyul still caused waking nightmares, but there were incredibly beautiful roses there. Flowers. Pleasant baking aroma. The softly shining sun.

A slow, careful breath literally created a storm inside. The lungs protested, the muscles tensed to the limit. It would be so easy to close your eyes and plunge into darkness if it weren't for the adrenaline still flowing through your veins. Your attacker was still somewhere nearby.

Sitting up with an effort of will, you could hardly resist so as not to fall back. Your side was burning, and the notorious stars were flying before eyes. What kept you from giving up was the realization that the breathing of the cat, limp in your arms, was becoming weaker. The fear of being alone in this world turned out to be enough of an incentive to go against everything: fate, a tired body and, possibly, broken bones.

A rustling sound came very close, and you tensed, preparing for the worst. Having spotted a dry branch nearby, you wondered how much time and effort it would take to grab it. There was a rustling sound again, and this time the steps took him by surprise, but a child appeared from behind the bushes. Even in the semi-darkness, you noticed his light gray hair and pointed ears. Gradually, two more appeared behind him: one with burgundy strands sticking out to the sides and a gloomy expression on his face, and the second, ready to fall asleep at any moment.

The very first, apparently the main one of the trio, took a step forward, raising his hands in a calming gesture, "How are you feeling? How many fingers am I showing?"

You just shook your head, closing your eyes. The voice of reason insisted that you had to run, but fear for Grimm did not allow you to take even a step..

"Us.. can.. help.. you.. "you didn’t recognize your own voice. It sounded so quiet and muffled that you doubted whether you were heard. Your throat burned, but you opened your mouth again to repeat the request as many times as necessary.

"Dominic, it’s not a good idea to bring someone you don’t know home, is it?" The gloomy child spoke, and for a second you again started to panic. "If we bring everyone we meet and cross, we ourselves will soon become the King’s target."

King? That's all you needed. Previous territories also had heads, but facing the “royal family” sounded much more terrible and problematic

"..only a night.. I can.. stay in the forest.. only Grimm.." It seemed like torture to pronounce every word. Your vision was blurry, but you were obliged to hold out.

“Another guest won’t be such a problem,” Dominic answered. "Can you get up?"

No. Even if you wanted to, you wouldn't be able to get up. You couldn't even lie to yourself. You didn’t even have to answer, the main one came up and extended his hands to the cat. With trembling hands, struggling not to pull them away, you allowed the cat to be taken away

"Groom, stay and look after last one. Shelpi and I will go get Neige"

The one who was called Groom grumbled without ceasing, but still approached you. Watching the children disappear among the greenery, you allowed yourself to relax. At least Grimm was safe.

"Hey. Hey! Come to your senses!"

You felt someone shaking your shoulder, but you couldn’t make out anything else. Only at some point did you hear someone’s worried voice, but you couldn’t make out what exactly he was saying.

You came to your senses, then fell into oblivion again. Voices, sounds, light caused dizziness and rejection. The only thing you remembered throughout the entire chaotic state was that pleasant voice and someone’s warm hands.

"You woke up!" Someone voiced it before you even realized it yourself. It’s just that at some point you stopped distinguishing between reality and a dream, but it seems that this time you were definitely in reality. "Wait, I'll call Dominic"

This name fluttered familiarly in memory. That's right, that was the name of the bright child. Following with an unfocused gaze the young man - although now in your eyes he was just a colored spot - who quickly rushed off somewhere, leaving you for a minute.

Closing your eyelids, you tried to focus on the present. You weren't abandoned in the forest, that's a plus. The attacker didn't show up yesterday, or maybe you just weren't found. The questions “Who” and “Why” remained unanswered. It would be possible to close your eyes and not chase your tail, as before, but your intuition suggested that this time it would be different. That this was just the calm before the next storm. But you no longer had the strength to look for shelter so as not to be carried away to the mercy of fate.

A quiet knock brought you back to reality. It was strange, the young man didn’t seem to lock the door. Opening your eyes slightly, you squinted, trying to make out the newcomer. As you thought, it turned out to be the same child. Next to him stood someone your age - maybe a little older or younger - with a friendly smile. The corners of your lips slightly twitched upward, but they couldn’t become the same full-fledged smile.

"Are you feeling better now?" Asked the child, who continued speaking after a nod from you. “You’re probably still confused, so I’ll try to speak more slowly. My name is Dominic, my dwarf brothers and me have been living in this forest for a very long time. And this,” he pointed at the young man, “is Neige. Although you may already know him. Let me know what happened to you?"

"…if.. I knew.. someone attacked us while we were flying on the carpet.. we turned over and fell, Grimm.. Grimm! Where is he?" An attempt to sit up abruptly was unsuccessful, causing more circles under the eyes and weakness. A brunette who appeared next to you prevented you from turning over and falling out of bed

"Your friend is okay!" The dwarf immediately answered hastily. "He, like you, needs to rest. But you need to do this first. During the fall, you broke a rib" you immediately touched your burning side. “It will take time to heal.”

Having given a short thank you to him and the boy, as a sign that you were already feeling better, you began to hastily rebuild your plan of action. It was impossible to linger, but on the other hand, going in the current state was no less stupid. You understood that the fall could not have happened without something - there was a limit to luck and the capabilities of the human body - but the awareness did not brighten up what was happening.

"Do you know who could have attacked you?“ The young man asked softly, holding out a glass of water that had come from nowhere. However, you weren't complaining.

“No.. No, this is my first time in these lands,” after a couple of sips it became easier to speak. “We were flying… yes, we were flying,” you strained your tired memory. "…someone shot! I remembered the arrow!" Looking hopefully at Dominic, you saw a worried look. As if he realized who exactly attacked you and the Grimm. For some reason, you doubted whether it was worth finding out the truth. "This is not someone from the royal family, right?"

You tried to laugh, but it sounded pathetic even to your own ears. For some reason, the duo didn't appreciate your joke.

“It might have been Rook,” you frowned, another new name. “He works as a hunter and serves Vi,” the young man tried to keep the conversation going with the same light laugh, which came out better than yours. However the impression he made was the same - he did not inspire confidence.

“Vi?” You asked carefully, afraid to confirm your fears.

"Exactly, you don’t know. That's what I call Vil, he is the king of these lands. We saw each other quite often at the castle!"

You were doomed. You could see the world literally crumbling before your eyes. This is exactly what was needed for happiness. Purely to confirm what you already suspected, you turned to Dominic, "What is the probability that… how did you call him, Rook?.. Reported everything to the king?"

Silence was a convincing enough answer.

Despite the chance of being discovered, you remained in the dwarves' house. It was inspired by the hopelessness and persuasiveness of Neige, who took upon himself the responsibility of your personal doctor. Although this was too strong a word, the process was still more led by the chief of the dwarves. Gradually you got to know the others.

Groom and Shelpi were part of the company that day. Although the first one was rude and hot-tempered, you couldn’t call him bad. It just took some getting used to. Shelpi was his opposite. A dwarf with a perpetually sleepy look, although you could understand him. In your current state, all you wanted to do was sleep.

There were four more gnomes: Timmy, Toby, Snick and Hop. You saw Timmy only from afar and only in someone else’s company. Perhaps he was just nervous around strangers. Toby was a sweetheart whose memory failed him more often than usual. Hop was a classic example of a cheerful child, and Snick's specialty was his perpetual allergies.

Watching their noisy but cheerful routine was a pleasant change from the nightmare that was happening in your life before. Nevertheless, you remembered Heartslabyul’s experience and were in no hurry to relax.

The more time you spent in their friendly company, the stronger the feeling of guilt grew. Understanding that they would come for you. Now or a little later didn't matter. Just like how many troubles befell the cat’s head for the company. Asking to take care of Grimm was another breaking through the ceiling called “selfishness,” but… that incident made it clear that problems were pouring down on your head more and more often. Their consequences were becoming increasingly difficult to correct.

Living with guilt was unbearable.

So much so that you were unable to look into the eyes of your faithful friend, who has literally gone through thick and thin with you, and you decided to leave him.

You didn't even hope for forgiveness. Deep inside you understood that this was just an attempt to come to an agreement with yourself, a struggle for the opportunity to hate yourself a little less. Looking at the recovering cat, this thought took root more firmly in consciousness.

The pathetic excuse “it will be better this way.”

Gradually you were allowed to take short walks. Your side still hurt, as did the wounds on back, but the fresh air helped to distract you and not drown in self-flagellation. The only activity for which you always had the strength.

Hoping to find your things, you tried to find the crash site from memory. It was stupid, especially since those trinkets were of no value. To some extent, they simply gave an imaginary sense of belonging. Reminders of your home world, which seemed farther and farther away day by day.

Moving aside the branches, you were finally able to find the desired clearing. It was like all the others, but some internal awareness did not allow you to pass by.

Check and leave.

Simple plan - simple implementation. Searching among the bushes without bending down was another challenge. Having sat down, you rose to your feet again with great difficulty, the shooting pain in your lower back made itself felt every time you tried to find your treasured things.

Breathing heavily, you leaned your hand on the trunk of a nearby tree. A little break won't hurt anyone, that's for sure in your condition. Taking a deep breath, you glanced around the clearing once again, making mental notes of where the bag might have been thrown.

There was not a soul around, or at least it seemed so. Perhaps over time you became too suspicious, but at the moment you could not leave the feeling of being watched, no matter how stupid it may sound. Who could be in the deep forest, right? Unless… who attacked you and the Grimm that day. You tsked and took another breath, trying to calm down.

It was dangerous to return to the house: you didn’t want to let Neige and his friends down. Trying to escape in an unknown direction was reckless. You didn’t know these places, one wrong turn and Robinson Crusoe will appear in this forest. Although you doubted that this world had heard of him. The possibility of becoming a discoverer was not encouraging.

"Ma cheri! What a rarity it is to find such a beautiful creature in such a dense thicket,” a voice that came out of nowhere took you by surprise.

Turning towards the sound at a speed you didn’t know you were capable of, you saw a strange blond-haired young man.

“Are you… talking about me?..” You asked carefully, simultaneously looking for a way to escape. Now the suspicions no longer seemed groundless.

"Oui! Yes and yes! A triple "yes" is not enough to prove the sincerity of my words. How brave and reckless are walks in the wilds, where every animal and people poses a danger. I had already decided that knowledge, Fata Morgana, which had darkened my mind and revealed such a fragile angel in human form!"

He spoke a lot and not very clearly, sometimes you lost the thread of the story. In your best times, you didn’t like such conversations, let alone today. However, this was a good opportunity to look at the blond. He was wearing a cream-colored tunic, loose pants and a hat with a fluffy white feather.

It was necessary to come up with an excuse and as quickly as possible. Perhaps you would be able to wander around, wait for him to leave, and return home without consequences. However, this would be too loud a statement. If there's one thing life has taught you, it was not to think ahead of time.

"Thank you, I guess?.. Did you want something?" You decided to ask directly.

"Oh, that's right. Wandering among the flora and fauna, I found one interesting little thing,” he sadly shook his head while you did everything to prevent doubts from showing on your face. "Obeying the will of my heart, I am trying to find the owner."

Emphasizing the last word, he smiled, narrowing his eyes. The nature of the emotion that flashed through them made you shiver.

"Well, I wish you good luck in your search, sir.."

"Hunt! But you can call me by my name, just Rook,” digging your nails into the palms, you kept a friendly expression on your face through an effort of will. The blond raised his hands in a surrendering gesture, and then also calmly began to close the distance. "I don’t dare to hope that you have heard of me. However, like me about you. His Majesty, Roi du Poison, has been wanting to meet you for quite some time, and who are we to refuse him."

Looking ahead at the outstretched hand and the unshakable figure of - as Neige said - the hunter, you doubted that you had any chance of escape.

[gilverrwrites]

Michael/Reader, 1.6K words Established vee dynamic: Michael/Adam & Adam/Reader, which will evolve into a triad. [1/3] Four things you explain to Michael, and one thing he explains to you. [X][2][3]

Chapter 1: Buffy, Bussin', and Kiss-Cams.

It took a while to get there but telling the differences between Adam and Michael had been easier than expected. Like now for example. If Adam was manning their body he would have slouched beside you on the couch, helped himself to your snacks, and asked you about your day. Instead, Michael stood, looming in the doorway of the living room. His stance is like a soldier at attention, head high, shoulders straight, watching you with no expression. 

“Hello, Michael.” You greeted. “How are you today?” 

“I am well.” He approaches, situating himself between you and the TV screen. “What is this?” 

“I’m good too, thank you for asking.” Social queues will likely never be his thing. “This is a TV show.” 

“I am aware.” His shoulders sag briefly, unamused by your sarcasm. Whether he understood that you were teasing is a mystery, he likely thinks that you’re an idiot who thinks he’s an idiot, which is arguably funnier. “I meant, what television show is it?” 

“Buffy.” You answer. “It’s actually really good, it’s about a teenage girl who is the chosen one-“ 

“Chosen?” He interrupts, but you let it slide. You wonder if he’s thinking of how he was once ‘chosen’, and now he’s here, metaphorically sandwiched between his partner and his partner's partner in a tiny apartment in Minnesota. He could leave at any time, commandeer their body, or escape it entirely and take off, but he doesn’t, he hasn’t. Which really speaks to how much he cares for Adam. 

“Yeah, she’s the one true slayer, kind of. So, she has to juggle killing vampires and stuff with normal high school things, like homework and boys.” 

He’s looking at the screen, not at you, but you can see his eyes narrow. You think he might be scrutinising your choice in vapid human media, but his response surprises you. 

“Yes, I recall Adam used to watch this show with his mother.” His probing glance falls back to you now. Adam is there, they’re both always there, but it still feels like you’re discussing him behind his back, so you awkwardly attempt to move on from the subject. 

“Oh, well… Would you like to sit and watch it with me?” You shuffle over, making space for him beside you and patting the pillow. 

“No.” Michael is just a blunt person? Being? Angel. So, you don’t take the sting of his rejection to heart. 

But despite his rebuttal, he makes no attempt to move. Instead, standing stock still in the middle of the room. Occasionally asking questions as the time passes. 

“Who is that?” 

“That’s Angel. Buffy’s sort of on again off again boyfriend.”

“Angel?”

“Yeah, he’s not an angel, he’s a vampire.” 

“How paradoxical.”

-

“That one reminds me of you.” 

“Who? Cordelia?”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

“She talks too much.” 

-

“Why does Willow simply not confront this Xander boy about her, albeit inadvisable feelings for him?”

“Teenagers are stupid.”

“Humans are stupid.” 

“Thanks.”

Four episodes later he remains unmoved, you’d tried not to speak to him unless spoken too, afraid you might scare, or more likely annoy him away, but your stomach is starting to grumble. 

“I’m gonna order takeout, do you want anything?” It’s not addressed to Michael, and he knows that. 

Their posture falters as Adam takes over. Adam also moves with confidence, but his is far more relaxed, comfortable in his own body. The couch pillows dip under his weight as he sits beside you, arm casually draping over your shoulders. He greets you with a familiar boyish grin that makes your heart flutter. “Pizza?”

Something is wrong. That much is evident by Michael’s uncharacteristically expressive face. He’d been silent when he’d returned home from the store, a chore he and Adam had taken up since their return from the cage, a familiar, easy task that helped to ease them into modern society. 

You could tell it was Michael because he’d been ignoring your presence since he returned home, quietly, and strategically putting away the shopping bar a solitary; “Hello.” 

Now he was eyeing a single can of Monster Energy Drink that sat alone on the kitchen counter. The intensity of his stare had you worried it might explode. You certainly would not be cleaning that up. 

“Something on your mind?” You ask, keeping your tone calm, and pleasant. Not letting on to your amusement at his one-sided staring contest. 

He spares you a scornful glance, before looking back at the can. Then he seems to have a light bulb moment, body perking up as he turns to you once more. He might actually think you’re useful for something other than Adams's enjoyment. 

“Yes. What is ‘bussing’?” The word sounds so comical coming from his lips, and you suppress a laugh, not wanting to patronise him or dampen his curiosity. 

“Bussin’?” You repeat, ensuring you heard him right. 

“Yes. ‘Bussing’. We heard a boy at the store use the word to refer to this. Adam nor I have heard the term used in this context before.”

Adam had filled Michael in on a lot of modern and pop culture things, but having been locked in a cage for the last decade meant that he was a little behind the times. You made a mental note to ask him later if not understanding the latest slang terms made him feel old. 

“It just means something is really good.” You explain, and his face drops.

He picks up the can, swaying it back and forth as he examines the label. It hisses as he eventually cracks it open, and his face scrunches when he gives it a sniff. 

Adam only eats and drinks to maintain a feeling of normalcy, Michael’s grace dissolving any actual need for human bodily functions. Michael never eats or drinks, so the prospect of his first taste of human food being a sip of Monster excites you greatly. What a terrible introduction. 

He must sense your anticipation because he turns, body shifting completely to face you. His face remains stoic, excluding his eyes which watch you hopefully as he extends the drink to you. “Would you like a taste?” 

“Uh, sure.” You take the can from him and allow yourself a mouthful before handing it back to him. It’s sugary, and sour, and abhorrently fizzy, just as you’d expected, but you try not to let your face give anything away. “It’s fine. Your turn.” 

“Fine.” He repeats under his breath, hesitating as he brings it to his lips. He takes a quick sip before slamming the can forcibly back onto the table, gritting his teeth, clearly repulsed by whatever is going on in his mouth right now. “That is not bussing.” 

Michael hadn’t exactly taken to human pastimes like a fish in water, preferring to take a back seat and let Adam enjoy himself. He had, however, found a great appreciation for war films, books about astronomy, and sports. Particularly, sports that had a strategy aspect to them. Which is how you’d found yourself in the bleachers of an ice hockey match beside him. 

Adam liked sports too, but not to the same degree. Michael sat, hunched over, weight on his knees as he watched the players glide across the ice, batting the puck this way and that. The match was tense, and the atmosphere lively, so you didn’t really mind his silence. You knew he wasn’t ignoring you, just focusing on the game. Even the quarterly breaks were filled with music, the big screen displaying funny accidents and lookalikes, which kept you entertained. 

All in all, you were having a good time, and when the kiss-cam popped up, you watched, amused as the camera crew zoomed in on different couples. You watched an array of different kisses, some cute, some awkward, some a little R-rated. It was all fun and games until you recognised yourself on the screen. 

Panic rushed through your body as you turned to look at Michael. You’d come around to the fact that Michael was always there. Always. Even for the intimate moments. But there was a massive difference between Michael being there during a kiss, and kissing Michael. 

You’re not sure if your sudden nervousness or the cheering crowd watching him from every angle clued him in, but Micheal takes notice, looking up at his own face on the display and asking; “Why are we on the screen?” 

“It’s a kiss-cam. They want us to kiss.” You hope that filling him in will bring Adam front and centre, but to no avail. Adam doesn’t want to play right now it seems. Probably revenge for implying he was old. “I’ll wave them away.” 

“Don’t.” He instructs, and before you can process what’s happening his lips are on yours. 

He tastes like Adam, like sugary cereal and cheap cola. He feels like Adam, clean-shaven and soft lips. But he does not kiss you like Adam. 

Adam kisses you like he might never see you again. Like it’s been a thousand years since he’s last laid his lips on you and he wants to commit every micro-movement of your body, every inch of your mouth to memory. His kisses are intense and passionate.

Micheal is the opposite, surprisingly. This might be the gentlest he’s ever been, he presses his lips to your delicately, like he might break you if he uses too much pressure. A hand cups the side of your face with the tenderness one would show a wounded animal. He kisses you like you’re made of glass and must be cherished. 

When he pulls away you feel completely flushed and unsure how to proceed. The kiss-cam is gone, and the screen counts down the seconds until the game continues. Micheal, in preparation, has resumed his watching position, leaving you to stew in your own emotions, likely oblivious to the many, many thoughts flooding your mind. 

Please remember: Being sensitive is not a weakness.

[kipsels]

Cross-Pollination

Dan Heng x Stelle

ft. Dan Feng

There is a great level of expertise required to safely navigate the galaxy. There were things like wormholes and neutron stars and black holes that skewed charted courses, plus a bunch of other things Stelle didn’t really understand.

But what she did know was that when Himeko and Mr Yang started talking about the nuances of the Astral Express’s flight through space, her brain started to go all fuzzy like it had been filled with the static sound of white noise.

She regretted not listening to them more, sure. But even if she had she doubted it could have explained this.

A man who looked suspiciously like Dan Heng was standing in her bedroom, casually perusing his surroundings like he belonged there. Except Stelle was pretty sure he wasn’t Dan Heng, and he definitely did not belong there.

“Who are you?” She blurted out, unable to comprehend the fact that there was a strange Vidyadhara man staring back at her.

“I see someone has decided to redecorate The Express,” He said in lieu of an answer.

“Uh? Wha-?” She intelligently replied, her jaw lost somewhere on the floor from the shock.

Some small part in the back of her mind that wasn’t paralysed by the strange situation politely pointed out that his regal clothing looked like that of a high elder. Except he also wasn’t Bailu.

At least, she didn’t think that was Bailu.

She watched as he combed the lengths of his black hair behind one pointed ear, a small smile lighting up his handsome features.

“You must be a new member of The Nameless,” He said as he approached, picking up her limp hand from where it hung by her side. “My name is Dan Feng, I'm the High Elder of the Xianzhou Luofu. And… Baiheng’s friend.”

Dan Feng… High Elder of the Xianzhou Luofu….

Huh!?

Stelle gaped at him as he bowed low before her, his lips brushing against the back of her knuckles. She’d barely recovered when he straightened, his bright aquamarine eyes idly perusing her from head to toe.

What in the ever living space-time continuum was happening right now?

“And what is your name, my fair lady?”

“Uhh… Dan Heng?” Stelle called out loudly.

Dan Feng blinked at her, his eyebrows raising in surprise, “Your… name is Dan Heng?”

“N-no my name is Stelle– Wait, no! What am I doing? DAN HENG!?”

“Stelle,” He mused, unfazed by her flustered cries, “A beautiful name for a beautiful woman. I am disappointed Baiheng has not seen fit to introduce us beforehand.”

Stelle stumbled backwards, Dan Feng’s grip on her hand the only thing keeping her upright. Her mind raced as it tried to reconcile the fact that Dan Heng’s predecessor was standing before her, very real and very alive.

And very forward.

“Your scent, it’s rather beguiling… I’d like to get better acquainted with it,” He purred, and a squeak escaped Stelle’s mouth.

“Dan Heeennng!?”

“It’s Dan Feng, my dear.” He pulled her closer, Stelle’s hands coming up to press up against his firm chest to keep him away.

“Stelle? Is everything okay? I thought I heard you calling my n–”

Dan Heng appeared in the doorway of her bedroom, his eyes bulging out of his head in shock.

“You did not tell me there was another Vidyadhara male aboard this ship,” Den Feng spoke tersely, his arm wrapping around her waist.

“Save me,” Stelle mouthed silently to Dan Heng, who looked like his sleep paralysis demons had come to life before him.

The analogy was probably not all that far off.

Dan Heng shook himself out of his stupor, his hands raised as he cautiously approached. “How is this even possible? How are you even here?”

“I am here at the invitation of The Nameless, while you are…”

Dan Feng seemed to pause, his eyes running over Dan Heng in consideration. Time seemed to slow as he registered the mirror image reflecting back at him, the youth in Dan Heng’s features unable to hide the truth.

“A temporal paradox…” Stelle heard the two of them mutter in unison.

“I did not think I would ever be presented with the opportunity to look my own reincarnation in the eye, but such blessed opportunities should not be overlooked,” Dan Feng continued, his head tilting to the side in curiosity.

“Tell me, boy. Did I find a solution to the Vidyadhara’s plight in my time?”

Dan Heng’s eyes hardened, barely biting back a scowl. Stelle's heart panged with sympathy, unable to stop herself from reaching out to him for comfort, only to be tugged back into place by her High Elder captor.

“It could cause irreparable damage to tell you the future, you know that,” He growled.

Dan Feng’s eyebrow quirked, “So I failed.”

Dan Heng screwed his mouth shut, opting to simply glare at Dan Feng in silence.

Stelle remained frozen in place by the bizarre reality of the situation while wishing she’d taken more time to learn about the laws of physics.

“And you? Have you continued my endeavour?”

“I am not the High Elder. It’s not my problem.” Dan Heng bit back.

Stelle flushed as she felt Dan Feng’s chest press against her back, his hands stroking down the length of her forearms before threading his fingers through her own. Her stomach fluttered as he nosed at her hairline, breathing in her scent like a fine perfume.

“Then, if you are not willing to fulfil your duty to the Vidyadhara and seek the longevity of the draconic bloodline, I shall do it for you.”

Stelle squeaked.

Dan Heng gasped.

And Dan Feng pressed a lingering kiss to her temple, faint laughter brushing against her skin.

-Fin-

[lime-bloods]

Homestuck's Gnosticism: The World / The Wheel

Everyone knows Homestuck is "a Gnostic story".

Wait, why does it feel like we've had this exact conversation before...?

AH. SO NICE OF YOU TO JOIN ME.

If you followed along with the first post in this series, you'll be familiar already with the Gnostic nature of Homestuck's central conflict between the spirit world and the flesh. And even if I say so myself, I think that post is pretty definitive; if you're ever unsure what a particular character's motivations or end goal are, the Conflict will tell you. But what's conspicuously absent from the post is any explanation of what actually happens in Homestuck. We've covered the why, but very little of the how.

I left us off on the "synonymous goals" that spring naturally from this conflict between flesh and spirit; attaining ultimate knowledge, and escaping the confines of Homestuck itself. Eagle-eyed readers probably spotted what was lying between the lines, there: the comic is called Homestuck because it's about being stuck in a house, so the ending is about escaping the house. But what does that really look like? And how did they get in that house in the first place?

Let's return very briefly to a quote I used in the previous post. "[Y]our ultimate self [...] unlike god tiers or bubble ghosts or whatever, it really IS immortal". Two assumptions naturally grow out of this fact. First, and probably most obvious: when John dies, he's not really gone. The idea of him still exists out there, somewhere, and in our minds, so he still exists. Second, though: if the idea of him is eternal, John obviously didn't start existing when he was born. So again we ask, where did he come from?

How did John get here? Where does he go? The answers to these questions are like the four sides of one hypercoin, in that Homestuck is a time loop... of a sort.

To begin to understand this, we need to reiterate what was basically "the point" of the first post: Homestuck operates on two distinct levels, a spiritual plane consisting purely of ideas, and a "literal" physical dimension. What happens on these two planes often mirrors each other, and because Homestuck itself is a work of fiction which operates in the realm of ideas, they can even intersect. But ultimately, what "literally" happens to the characters in Homestuck is not the same as the ideas the comic is expressing in its spiritual metanarrative.

The fact that a physical time loop is impossible is something Homestuck inherits from real-life physics: to put it simply, John being born can't be the physical John from the end of his timeline, because that John would be way too old to be a baby! But ideological time loops are not only something sanctioned by Paradox Space, but essential to its very being; they are where it gets its name, after all! To repeat another lynchpin quote from the comic: there is essentially nothing new in paradox space. Any idea that seems new necessarily must have just come from somewhere else.

"SbaHJ has the distinction of being the symbolic language of [Dave's] subconscious." (Homestuck: Book 3: Act 4, p. 282)

Frequently we see this expressed in the rooms representing characters' dreams, which, as discussed, sort of transcend the character's physical form and represent the broad ideas that characters are made of. Dave's dreams (pictured above) are covered with drawings of Sweet Bro and Hella Jeff, characters he seemingly invented as a child after being inspired by a drawing Terezi sent to him. But Terezi's drawing was based on Dave's own illustrations she saw later on in his timeline; so which of them truly "invented" Sweet Bro and Hella Jeff? Neither of them did; SBaHJ exists as pure subconscious ideological matter floating through Paradox Space, only sometimes being picked up by a character's conscious mind. Similarly, Gamzee tries to manipulate this subconscious realm when he uses his psychic powers to place a terrifying effigy of Jack Noir in John's dreams, as punishment for the destruction of the trolls' session. But as we know, Jack Noir only took that form because of the nightmares this doll caused! So again; neither John or Gamzee thought up the demonic clown "first". It existed in the realm of ideas before either of them ever had the chance to invent it.

These kinds of ideological loops are the bread-and-butter of jujus. We're told their origins are untraceable and that they can't be destroyed, but neither of these things is really true; these superstitions exist only to obfuscate the true rule that jujus "emerge spontaneoUsly from the void." Rather than be erased from existence, a juju can only be banished to that same void of nonexistence where disembodied ideas live, and then pulled back into the world of dreams by a prospective psychic.

With these rules established, now we can really delve into with appreciation the ideological time loop that underpins all of Homestuck. And like all good time loops, the best place to start is at the end.

ACT 7 (Are you tired of seeing it yet?)

Let's not insult anyone's intelligences here: you know and I know that Caliborn's little house juju looks like the Homestuck logo because it is Homestuck; when he wins it from Yaldabaoth, he takes control of it, and when he sucks the heroes inside, he's trapping them in the confines of his material world.

What's essential to keep in mind here, though, is that the power of a juju is the power of the idea itself. It's easiest for us to think of the word juju in Homestuck as a concrete noun, referring simply to a magical object. But the word's real-life origins, referring more abstractly to magic or enchantment, are still relevant in this fictional framework. Lil Cal isn't just "a juju", but is "FILLED WITH BAD JUJU." Magic in Homestuck has always really been about the idea that believing in something can make it real, and the purpose of all Homestuck's dealings with chucklevoodoos and jujus is to evoke the anthropological concept of the "fetish"; an item whose power comes from human beings ascribing supernatural qualities to it. Jujus are all part of the "game" the cherubs play, with all its rules and quirks; breaking an enchantment is like breaking a rule, in that it changes nothing about the real world: you've just infringed upon an idea. The juju isn't the object; the juju is the power, good or bad, ascribed to the object.

All of this is really just to say one thing: Caliborn's home juju can't trap the flesh versions of John and his friends; as we established, you can't send old John back in time to become young John. But what a juju can trap is something far more important; the ideas of John and his friends. This is why it doesn't matter if the heroes who travel back to the beginning of everything to beat Lord English while he's still a kid are the "main" timeline versions of those heroes from some point in the future, or if the Epilogues' version of events is truth and they're some "irrelevant" offshoots: because all of those characters are represented by the same idea, and that's what Caliborn puts in the box. No matter what timeline John is from, he's from Homestuck, to Homestuck he must return, and as such Homestuck is what he must be forced to escape. Refer again back to the previous post: Caliborn can't create or destroy, only take pure ideas and alchemise them down into a form he can control.

And that's why Act 7 so enigmatically features two different white home-doors (above), seemingly so interconnected yet effectually unrelated. Because Act 7 takes up the hefty role of concluding two storylines simultaneously: allowing the "real", flesh-world versions of John and his friends to escape Lord English's reality through one door, while also concluding Homestuck's metanarrative by setting the ideas of John and his friends free of their prison through another door.

So far, most of this is probably stuff you'd have either figured out on your own or at least heard from someone else already. And if we set aside such distractions as run-ins with radioactive imps and omnipotent dog-gods, the "whats" and "hows" of the heroes' story are probably the easier parts of Homestuck to figure out. What's more difficult to fully comprehend on a first pass is how Lord English himself fits into all of this.

If you've been following me for any stretch of time, you'll notice in my analysis of Homestuck I've returned to the topic of black holes frequently. I've lost track of how many versions I've published of what I call "Black Hole Theory". And I won't link to any of them here, because ultimately Black Hole Theory was a corkboard to which I could pin the evidence that would eventually, piece by piece, lead us to where we are right now:

If the home juju is a white "hole" leading out of the confines of Homestuck as a story, then black holes are the doors that lead back in. An early clue to this comes in the form of Calliope's stage in the heart of a spiral: these spirals are Calliope's visions of black holes, which she uses as "dark pocket[s]" from which "no information can escape" - a literal description of a black hole - and that stage is the very same one Caliborn stages his story on when he takes full control of Homestuck's narrative. The meaning here should be clear: Calliope creates black holes, and it's the center of these black holes where stories can take place.

But for all the evidence we need to suggest that Lord English's fall into a black hole leads to something more complex than just his destruction, we need not look further than conventional science:

In the quantum world [...] information cannot be created nor destroyed.

Lisa Zyga, on the conservation of quantum information.

This rule that "ideas" are truly immortal, and that any time an idea seems to be destroyed it must have merely been transported somewhere else, holds true even in the scientific world of black hole physics. This has been played with in MS Paint Adventures before; theoretical physicist Stephen Hawking's take on black holes was that some stuff could in fact escape a black hole, contrary to Calliope's assertions, in the form of Hawking radiation. But Hussie's own version of the story was always a lot more to the point: something gets sucked into the center of a black hole, it gets shot out somewhere else. In hypothetical physics this is called a white hole - no doubt you can see where this is going.

So Lord English's final moments in Homestuck see him not destroyed, or killed, or defeated in combat in any traditional way, but sucked right back into Homestuck. What exactly does that mean?

Homestuck, p. 8105

As long as we're talking the power of ideas and symbols, possibly the most blatant a symbol can get is in the form of a gesture; and the thumbs-down is possibly one of the most ancient gestures there is. Dave gets one, Tavros gets one, and, so they say, even the Roman gladiators got them. This precedent makes the meaning of the gesture clear: "you're going down." And it makes sense, too, that Hussie, the "good author", would signal the "evil author's" demise in such a way. But some might question the effectiveness of the power of gesture at such a pivotal point in the comic. Are we really to believe that English's defeat was, even in part, the result of another author merely willing him away like a tyrant doing away with an entertainer who has fallen out of favour? Or did the Hussie-character actually have some kind of plan to deal with his Hulk-like alter ego?

Of course he did.

...now Caliborn has hijacked the property of his experiential continuum which he has reason to believe is called "the narrative". Little does he know you recently made the shrewd decision to purchase(?) the ACT 6 ACT 6 SUPERCARTRIDGE EXPANSION PACK! Just plug it into any in-universe console port to unlock a variety of exciting new gameplay features and proceed through remaining canon unfettered, while Caliborn muddles through six new sub-sub-acts of infantile "subversive parody" targeting the very tale he inhabits, none the wiser!

To allow our heroes the chance escape their narrative prison, English isn't just to be trapped in their old cell; it's to be trapped within an infinitely-recursing cell, not just reliving one story over and over again but forced to live out infinitely many different stories. Not just a narrative loop; a narrative spiral. That's what being sucked into the black hole means for Lord English.

When Roxy - the Hero of Void whose very symbol is that of the black hole - banishes Caliborn-as-Cal into the void, he becomes one of the very wandering ideas with which English plays like dolls. "Instances of [Doc Scratch] have spawned in countless universes", and they have "never once failed to complete [their] objective": whether he wants to or not, Lord English will always be born again. In a new universe, perhaps, maybe even in a different shape, but his role always the same. Caliborn thinks that by filling the supercartridge with special stardust and corrupting the story, he's won, but looking at the bigger picture the truth is clear: he's only playing by somebody else's rules.

Just as Skaia uses lotus "seeds" to store items away for later use, and employs meteors as "Seeds" to send important elements back in time to set up the beginnings of new stories, so too are English's cue ball "seeds" only a means of transporting his essence from one place to the other; the black hole and the Rapture are, after all, only Skaia and the Reckoning sized up to a truly macrocosmic scale. The cue ball is able to be a font of endless knowledge because it is the "white hole" at the other end of the black hole! No information can escape a black hole, and therefore there is no information that escapes Scratch's attention -- he is limited only by his "pockets of void", which exist only to, in time, be filled, as more and more falls into these black holes like a multiversal game of billiards. Not only is this a transparent allusion to one of the most fundamental representations of the paradoxical time loop as a concept, but it is also the ultimate insult to injury: despite having lived an infinite number of lives, and being cursed to live out an infinite number more, Lord English cannot know what his fate will be until he literally falls into it. This is what forces him to lose, over and over again for eternity, while our heroes triumphantly escape Homestuck onto greener pastures.

[meraki-sunset]

What are the fussion kids classpects?

I gave the black haired ones, the StriderLalonde aspect and the HarleyEgbertEtc class. And did the oposite for the white haired ones, HarleyEgbertEtc aspect and StriderLalonde class.

That way the beta session is still viable, with time and space gods, but the alpha isn't, and they need the beta players to win. like in canon

Jase is a Seer of Space not only to make the session viable but because space players are always green in some way, so it fits canon and also the black clothes look cool with the ears. She can see space. She can percieve everything around her and really far away from her. detect her enemies aproching from a universe away and that kind of thing, you can never surprise her, because she always knows where you are (you also can't escape her)

Dahn is a Heir of time, again, because it was nescesary but also because i think it fits him better than a knight of breath. A heir is suposed to change and manipulate, they're the ones who come to change the previous order. So a heir of time would be able to alter event's using his time habilities with a lower chance of causing a paradox. They go all out when it comes to molding the timeline to their advantage. He will create a perfect balance with his sister's aspect and together they'll scratch the session and head to the alpha session.

Rany is a maid of Void, it's hard describe what her powers do. maids are creators, so she would be a creator of nothing. she can most likely sustract things from places, turn them into nothing, maybe she can create tiny blackholes. It's kind of a dark power. Maids create and regenerate, so she could fix things that have been broken to the point of mising parts or slowly regenerate lost limbs, sumoning the missing pieces from the void itself.

Jark is a prince of hope, therefore hopeless. He got the short end of the stick when it comes to classpect. He started the game in a pesimistic mood, but put on a cool hero facade to hide his doubts about the game being a good idea, after godtiering he couldn't hide his true feelings anymore. He was completely hopeless about the future and had given up on the game (most likely eager to end it) Princes are destroyers, they destroy either their aspect or with their aspect, wich means that Jark can be the one to doom the timeline if he get's out of control or be the one to save it. he needs to be able to focus his destruction not towards hope itself, but towards the enemy, using hope as the fuel. Like Rany, he has kind of a dark power, that's why they'll have to rely on eachother to understand their powers and grow into heroes, not leting those new powers consume them

[pluralcollector]

it takes two to make a story: one to deliver it and one to receive it

a toh emperor acolyte au fanfic.

(emperor acolyte au by tumblr user pespillo.

warning for allusions to and discussions of child abuse, both physical and psychological / emotional. assuming you're familiar with the emperor acolyte au that this is set in, you can expect similar heavier themes.

king is humanoid in this story.)

“every story has a happy ending if you wait long enough. death is only the end if you assume the story's about you. wouldn't you prefer to escape stories and endings altogether?”

--paraphrased from an episode of “welcome to night vale” by joseph fink and jeffrey cranor (but then we added some inferences)

“i’m the hero of this story, don't need to be saved. (hey, open wide, here comes original sin.)”

--quoted from “hero” by regina spektor

“how does our story end?” king asks, his voice rippling through the previous quiet like the chiming of a bell that signals the termination of one thing while shepherding in the next -- a clear and clean distinction that hazards no space for ambiguous twilight.

king’s been watching the collector read for well over an hour, a habit he indulges in not infrequently (though he prefers to avoid describing it as frequently -- such convoluted employments of language help keep king’s paradoxical state of being just slightly more palatable, and he's never counted with much of that to begin with).

usually, the collector interrupts their reading swiftly anytime king makes his presence known within the same space (the same applies to some instances of the collector noticing king's presence without king intending to, but at other times the collector can prove remarkably adept at discerning when king, like a feral cat or a skittish rabbit, wishes to be in the collector's proximity without directly engaging them), greeting him amicably before inviting him to hear about whatever fabulous and fantastical adventures they're reading through this time around.

king, in turn, tends to promptly acquiesce, though he is usually more interested in just hearing the collector talk than in the content of books themselves. it works out for both of them this way: the collector gets to ramble enthusiastically about something they're really interested in, and king gets to be soothed by the continued production of the voice he's grown simultaneously most familiar with and in most need of hearing.

today, though, there is a slight modification to that routine: the collector has delved into a particularly engrossing escapade, and thus has refrained from immediately reacting to king’s presence. that's fine, king thinks: he'll wait; just being able to see the collector is almost as good as hearing them, and he's in no rush anyway.

king can discern the outward signs of the collector struggling between the gravitational pulls of king's presence and the book in their hands, their gaze periodically flickering towards king for an instant before scrambling back to locate whatever sentence they were in the middle of reading, reminding king of a compass that's been placed by a magnet and thus lost all sense of orientation, floundering in erratic pirouettes as if every direction could somehow be pointed at simultaneously (as if pointing at every direction simultaneously could communicate some secret, meaningful logic, and not merely an unhelpful paradox). this fortifies king's resolve to remain patient, but desires often clash unsettlingly within him, and, as time drags on, king starts feeling like a piece of furniture that has become so old and commonplace that it no longer elicits any reaction from whoever selected it as a suitable addition to their household, and this proves too disconcerting for king to not immediately attempt to dissolve.

hence king’s question: “how does a story like ours end?”

he phrases it differently the second time around, having become embarrassed -- as well as alarmed -- by the potential implications of the question he's rather carelessly blurted out in his haste to entice the collector to pay attention to him. both versions encapsulate feelings he's been mulling over for quite some time now, though he's unfortunately just now figured out how to parse them with deceptively effective concision -- unfortunate because he would have much preferred to have put that question to himself in the privacy of his own mind before alerting the collector to its existence.

at least the collector is paying attention to him now.

the collector sets down the heavy, leather bound tome they've been perusing and quirks a quizzical eyebrow, regarding king with surprise. this has the (presumably) unintended effect of making king feel like a bug that's unwittingly wandered into a glass jar and is now being scrutinized closely by the owner of said jar, which is hardly any improvement on the unnoticed furniture scenario.

king meets the collector’s gaze with steady solemnity, endeavoring to expose none of the loud, messy feelings presently thrashing within him like a shark hauled out of the water by a pair of inexperienced hands that hold on despite understanding viscerally that it will lead to getting bitten and the shark escaping back into the sea anyway (perhaps putting up the appearance of struggling, like refusing a gift before capitulating to the giver’s insistence purely as a pretense of politeness, is important in some interactions, but king does not think this is one of them -- now that he's dropped this load unexpectedly and unceremoniously onto the collector, he'd rather pretend that's always been his intention).

the collector stares at king silently for a handful of seconds, understanding dawning on his complexion with a steady slowness that reminds king of flipping through pages of stop motion illustrations, appreciating both how they must all play out in more rapid conjunction and how distinct and essential each individual snapshot is. king isn't sure if other people also experience this clarity while interacting with the collector or if it is yet another curious quirk of king's special closeness to them.

“i don't know, king,” the collector answers honestly, both eyebrows furrowed with obvious concern now, their pupils darting almost imperceptibly as they take full stock of king’s appearance. they vocalize with a seriousness that mirrors king’s, though king suspects theirs is more genuine. “i’ve never read a story like ours.”

there's a pause in the conversation, the collector raising a thumb and index finger to frame their chin and tilting their head sideways as if to examine a painting from another angle, their mind clearly churning with the effort to provide their best friend with a satisfactory or at least worthwhile answer. but, strive as they might, they have to admit when they're stumped, and they'd rather say so to him than pretend otherwise.

king waits a breath’s length longer for the collector to muster something further -- only once he realizes he's been holding his breath for an uncomfortably long period does he exhale -- another bell ringing to signal a transition.

“you really don't know then,” king remarks, trying not to sound disappointed while also feeling that concealing how he really feels might prove a dire mistake in this situation -- the conflict between not hurting the collector's feelings by exposing his own feelings and not hurting the collector's feelings by withholding his own feelings as present and alive as ever.

“i don't,” the collector confirms, apparently uninjured -- but not unbothered -- by king's disappointment. their eyes are swirling with growing worry, gray clouds gathering into each other’s embrace and steering steadily towards a downpour.

the last thing king wants is to make the collector cry, but perhaps he doesn't deserve to ask a question like this without being punished a little -- it is, he recognizes now, a bit cruel of him to even confront the collector with it.

what other answer could the collector possibly give king without lying? did king just need to hear directly from the collector what he already knew to be true? is this just another one of his petty, ill-mannered attempts at making someone else feel as bad as he does because he's so self-righteously indignant by being completely alone in his grief? or was some part of him -- some awful leech of a part of him -- actually hoping his best friend would lie to him?

if the collector had lied, king is now forced to wonder, would he have been relieved and pretended to believe them? or would that have been exactly the excuse that leech part of himself always seems to be seeking out like warm blood to stage a vicious and melodramatic upending of their entire relationship, claiming -- as he'd surely claim to have been certain of all along, even though he is presently not -- that the collector does not trust him enough to award him the truth, and, adding insult to injury, thinks king could ever fail to slice through such a shallow farce? (this hypothetical scenario somehow coexisting with the one where he is eager to be lied to and to internally gaslighting himself into believing he really does not know he is being lied to and what both of their behaviors suggest about their relationship).

“that's worrisome,” king states flatly, more to avoid saying nothing at all as he feels himself start floundering in his own internal ruminations and dissociating from the reality presently surrounding him, as if he really does believe he can just drop these potentially highly distressing things on the single most important person in his life with neither warning nor explanation, then silently retreat into himself without a care for its potential consequences.

king spent too much time alone with his own thoughts when he was younger, blurting things out aloud because there was no one around who could or would answer, slowly and effectively desensitizing himself to any and all severity that they might carry.

numb to his own feelings then, and, now, also numb to how his feelings make others feel. it's a hard habit to smother.

“more worrisome than feeling yoked to a predetermined destiny?” the collector inquires, smiling slightly in a fashion that clearly conveys that he intends the question in a lighthearted, theoretical, thought experiment sort of way -- not in relation to any specific real world situation.

yoked, king thinks, finding it, for a moment, exceedingly amusing that anyone would use that word in a conversation not about cattle or some other beast of burden type -- an effect of just how much the collector reads, this aspiring literati tendency to season their otherwise perfectly ordinary statements with the occasional poetic lingo.

but then king considers the actual implications of being described as yoked, even in a metaphorical sense, and gets the dreadful sense that maybe he is a beast of burden type -- he's certainly a beast, and he was certainly raised to shoulder burdens, so what really sets him apart from an ox physically yoked to the plough they will someday collapse next to, dead from the exhaustion of doing nothing throughout their life except dragging it along for someone else's benefit?

king tries to muster some compassion for the collector's careless misstep by focusing on how profoundly apologetic they look after quickly realizing the potential implications for him, but, alas, it does not succeed in softening his tone when he next speaks.

“at least back then i knew what to expect, and i could prepare myself,” king snaps sulkily, seeming to shrink into himself as he wrinkles up his dirt smudged nose, but with the careful calculation of a snake that only withdraws to aim better upon lunging. “but a story that doesn't adhere to a formula is sure to be filled with unexpected plot twists, and how am i ever supposed to get comfortable with how things are when i’m always expecting them to change?”

despite the tension boiling between them like a cauldron of soup that's seconds away from spilling over if the heat isn't quickly and dramatically toned down, the collector smiles with pleasure (and a dab of pride) at king’s reference to literary tropes -- proof he's been paying attention during their rambles.

the collector decides to try continuing the conversation through this lens -- perhaps it can help king feel less antagonized if he is not so obviously

being discussed.

“surprises are good in a story! they can lead to something entirely new, which has never been experienced before!” the collector proclaims, perhaps a tad too enthusiastically to be entirely credible, but king does find the ease with which they deflect his animosity without anything like an equally acerbic retort quite the relief (as well as a target of envy).

at times like this, king gets the intoxicating sense that there is no insult, argument, or otherwise hurtful remark either of them could make that their relationship could not somehow survive -- intoxicating because it occasionally tempts him to recklessly test the collector with an egotistical need to prove to himself just how valuable he is to them (too valuable, he hopes, to be permitted to push them away so easily), but also because it might someday actually lull king into a false sense of security.

“besides,” the collector adds, waving one hand in the air with such fluidity that a cornucopia of tiny, prismic stars burst like confetti from the tips of their fingers -- an entirely unconscious and -- to king -- entirely endearing use of magic. “a story with no surprises isn't much fun to read!”

king’s mouth twists sideways to land somewhere on the spectrum of smile to snarl, his upper lip curling back in that characteristically animalistic fashion that he is simultaneously proud of and disturbed by, without quite reaching the point of exposing his fangs any more than they normally protrude from his mouth -- a compromise between the desire to backtrack to explicitly addressing himself and following his best friend into this detached anonymity, as if either of them could ever mistake this conversation for anything other than what it has been from the beginning: king’s -- and now, as king has so selfishly dragged them in, also the collector’s -- anxiety over the future of their relationship.

“it can be… reassuring,” king tries, as cautiously as a hiker that is as noisy as possible in hopes of scaring away any nearby predators, king’s halting words and darting gaze an implicit plea for the collector to gently steer him away if he wanders too close to territory that might prove too treacherous for even the two of them to navigate at this stage in their shared and individual development.

the collector waits quietly for king to continue, patient and expectant as a hound plopped down at the foot of their human companion in anticipation of the occasional, much relished head scratch -- a comparison king instantly detests and chastises himself internally for even conceiving of, certain it's just him who keeps projecting his weird hierarchical complex onto the collector, and any mention of any of this to them would leave them utterly baffled (and serving as further proof of how out of touch with reality king has become that he can not even be friends with another person without constant anxiety over either being exploited or him doing the exploiting).

“to not have to be guessing all of the time. to not have to struggle to understand what is happening and why,” king offers by way of explanation, gripping both of his hips so he can tap his fingers nervously against them, his tail swishing just as restlessly as a dog that thinks there might be a reason to wag happily but isn't quite convinced they won't be disappointed by the complete withdrawal of the hoped for reward. king hates exposing uncertainty, but this, naturally, only heightens the outward signs of it.

“to be able to just go along for the ride, without doing any additional work,” king huffs, sounding -- to himself, at least -- exactly like a child that knows he'll  be told he's correct if he's just petulant enough about it, because no one else wants to deal with arguing with him anymore.

sometimes, it feels simply impossible to turn off the urgent sense -- which instilled in him years ago -- that he has only ever earned anything through coercion and domination, through the bullying of people that would rather give him his way than deal with the wrath and cruelty that they're certain -- that eveb king is certain at times -- would follow any failure to do so. in king’s mind, he is always only ever a tiny emotional flare away from reverting back to his most bestial qualities, a monster whose vision turns red with fury and can no longer distinguish between an acceptable and drastically disproportionate response to any perceived slight. even in a casual conversation between best friends, king does not feel safe to be around.

“as a reader,” king clarifies quickly. “a reader doesn't always want to deal with the emotional whiplash of surprises. it can be pleasant to not be surprised.”

the collector watches king pensively and he can tell that they agree with him, both in a literary sense and, more pressingly, in regards to life itself: there is comfort to be distilled from mundanity, from the repetition of routines and the fulfillment of expectations, from a seed planted in the ground and watered regularly growing into a sprout and following the steps laid out in a manual building a functional radio and eating lunch together with a best friend being filled with fun chatter and laughter and the same sense of revival and renewal that the rare good night’s sleep provides but by far more easily and more reliably.

“besides, king blurts out, continuing with an urgency that suggests if he does not share it now he might quickly forget it forever and then no one will ever know about it, “nothing is ever really new. even the unexpected relies on expectations, which means it also follows a formula, albeit a more hidden one. but it can still be cracked.”

the collector raises their eyes from the spine of a book they had been idly tracing, affixing king with the excited glimmer that he recognizes from invitations to go exploring and play grudgby and dance together. even if the collector’s lips have not moved, king can see that their eyes are already smiling.

“what's your strategy then?” the collector asks eagerly. “do you try reverse predicting outcomes? figure out what the obvious cliché would be and expect the opposite?”

“i’m afraid i may already be doing that.”

there it is: king once again making explicit that he is still thinking -- still talking -- about himself, that this entire conversation, to him, revolves around him (even as he knows an equally critical part of it is entirely about how the collector fits -- and will fit -- into king’s life, choices, future). does it make king seem honest and vulnerable, in that peculiar manner others sometimes find compelling, or is he just coming off as hugely egotistical?

perhaps all deliberate vulnerability is, to a degree, an egotistical act: to expose -- to offer -- one's vulnerability is to assert it is of value, that one’s struggle matters not just to oneself but to someone else, too.

what if this doesn't matter to the collector like it does to king? what if the collector doesn't care about king’s anxiety regarding the future, doesn't deem it worth attention, or -- worst of all -- finds it laughable? has king just lost respect in the mind of the collector, has he been diagnosed as weak, ridiculous, neurotic?

while king is agonizing over the potential disaster he may have deliberately staged, the collector is doing their own calculations, peering at their best friend as if through the wall of a cell, wondering if enough pressure has swelled around them to permit the process of osmosis that might lead the collector straight through the barrier and into the shell of an abode that king has sequestered himself within. too much pressure, and the collector may well be forced back out -- but it might be worth the journey if they can reach king through that distorting blockage for even a brief moment.

the collector decides to try.

“would you prefer to still have everything laid out for you by someone else?” the collector asks at point blank, eliciting such a choking gasp from their best friend that they feel the impulse to take it all back, apologize, and promise to never bring such things up again, but they muscle through their own defensive barrier and determine to endure the stabbing discomfort exuding from both of them. “it might seem like it was easier when you thought you didn't have any options, when you thought no decision you made was your own, but…”

the collector trails off, biting their tongue from the embarrassment of having lost their nerve at the most crucial moment. king, however, has heard enough to draw his own conclusion.

“i’m a coward, then.”

king spits out the words like a bullet he hubristically thought he could catch between his teeth but instead let jam into his tongue, resentful yet matter-of-fact, accepting of something else he has failed to hate into nonexistence.

astonished, the collector’s eyes go wide as he shakes his head, trying and failing to muster any verbal opposition.

as for king, his eyes roll towards the back of his head, an arc as smooth and graceful as it is dismissive. the collector cringes reflexively.

“to miss being controlled, to want to go back to it, to think it's the only way i can be -- i’m a coward for that,” king continues, crossing his arms over his chest and shooting his best friend a defiant glare -- a misdirection of the contempt he feels for himself.

the collector, to king’s surprise, does not answer with any trace whatsoever of anger, instead reaching for king’s hand -- which, upon registering the familiar and coveted warmth of the collector’s skin, immediately releases its grip on his arm and capitulates to being cradled by the collector’s like a wild animal that knows there is no point even trying to swim against the river’s tide, that, wherever it might lead them, they are better off submitting passively to its will.

there can be great comfort in such a giving in, but king is not quite ready for it yet.

“being afraid isn't the same as being a coward,” the collector says softly, taking a step towards king so they can stand closer, so their fingers can thread freely through king’s claws while their equally warm breath sprinkles his face like the misty spray from a waterfall -- gentle, refreshing, and agonizingly ephemeral.

it doesn't have to feel ephemeral, king thinks, then nearly laughs aloud at the notion: like he'd ever have the courage to tell his best friend how intensely he longs to feel that warm breath on his face, those warm fingers cradling his hand, this warm proximity between their bodies -- without having the entire experience dampened by the certainty of its brevity, by not being able to simply say -- with words or otherwise -- please just stay this close to me for a while longer. king really is a coward.

“but it leads to the same,” king contends gruffly, like he's refusing some medicine he knows will help him feel better because he's determined to just weather the symptoms until the illness resolves itself (while also knowing this particular illness can not resolve itself on its own).

“i can't imagine ever thinking of you as a coward, king,” the collector counters, correctly ascertaining that king’s anxiety balances precariously on the collector's perception of him but managing, unknowingly, to set off a different source of said anxiety. “not after everything we've been thr --”

“so you don't have any expectations for me, then?” king challenges with blatant hostility, his upper lip successfully retreating into that dastardly snarl that makes him look and feel like an old and battered beast that just doesn't know how to stop picking fights with everyone and everything. “i’ve already fulfilled my role as poor, sacrificial lamb -- suffered enough to earn eternal adoration, regardless of everything i do after!”

king is shouting and he knows it's alarming the collector, tightening their muscles and quickening that normally pleasant breeze of a breath of theirs, but king has moved squarely into wanting to see the same despair that consumes him reflected in someone else -- it suddenly feels like the only way he can ever come even close to being understood.

the collector, king knows, is highly empathetic, and with none more than king himself. king really is a monster for doing this to them.

“i could do nothing for the rest of my life and you'd keep on loving me just the same, no more and no less than if i’d done any number of other things instead!” king yells. he knows he's gone too far, burdened them both with this terrible experience, but he can't stop, not when every despicable feeling he's ever harbored for himself is suddenly bubbling up his throat and no one but him seems willing to state aloud the veracity of it all -- if his best friend won't condemn him, he can do the work for both of them.

“it's all the same to you, even if i were to - were to - to -!”

king is sharply cut off in the same instant he realizes he is entirely out of breath, his eyes widening with a trickle of panic as his unoccupied hand clutches the area across his chest that guards his heart. he wheezes for a smattering of seconds, gaze lowering to the library floor with a melangé of shame and despair.

the collector remains silent for a spell, which feels as eternal and bewitching as actual magic, their eyebrows furrowing with the agonized consternation that only encountering king’s pain can elicit in them. the collector sucks on their inner cheek, eyes darting across the covers and titles of the various books scattered across the table, as if their recollections of how the stories contained within them were resolved could provide the collector with some answer, with some formula to carry the two of them safely through the trials before and between them.

king stiffens as he feels the collector lean closer, but otherwise restrains himself from reacting. slowly and gently, the collector cups their palm around king’s cheek, and nudges him towards meeting eyes with them.

king’s breath catches in his throat like vomit he refuses to expel, striving with feverish impotence to reverse the process and fill his lungs with enough carbon dioxide to force him to pass out and thus escape this situation altogether.

unfortunately for king, life has honed him into far sturdier material, and he's disappointed by the sharp inhale that parts his lips like a knife prying open the shell of a still living oyster. he's still panting slightly, trying to recover from momentarily depriving himself of oxygen, when the collector speaks.

“i love you, king,” the collector begins simply yet intensely, hitting king quite like he has never heard such words from his best friend or really anyone else before and thus proportionally deluging his nervous system with both ecstasy and terror, the sort of whirlwind thrill that he imagines must keep recreational skydivers hooked to periodically flinging their lives in death’s direction. he wants terribly to hide his face behind his hands and run away, find some niche he can crawl into and expire without ever being found again, but he is even more intensely transfixed by the delectable sound of his best friend’s profession and, like with the echoes of a bell that continue to ring in his ears long after the bell itself has stilled, he can do nothing to rid himself of it.

“loving you doesn't mean i don't expect anything from you,” the collector continues gently. “but it does mean i won't stop loving you just because you diverge from those expectations. you're full of surprises, king, and that's a big part of why i love you!”

the collector’s words taste so sweet to king that he is reminded of those excessively elaborate confections that the collector is so fond of indulging in: whipped cream and meringue and sugar cubes that melt on his tongue the instant they touch it -- so ephemeral he can only continue to enjoy them by eating copious amounts of them, and even then they eventually run out and he is left with a yearning for their return.

it's that kind of yearning that king feels for the collector, a need for company and conversation and closeness and comprehension that is never fully satisfied, that always begs for more. king is like a child that failed to develop object permanence, but with his relationships: anytime the collector isn't actively paying attention to him, the strength and certainty of their friendship might as well never have existed.

“besides,” the collector adds, a suspiciously mischievous sentiment tugging one corner of his mouth into a lopsided smile, like they've just orchestrated a marvelous heist or other such plan to get the two of them into a lot of fun and a lot of trouble. king envies their ability to find such carefree joy in the midst of this situation.

“it's not like there's a limit to loving someone. there's no set amount of love you can either gain or lose forever. i’m constantly finding new reasons to love you. and if there's ever trouble between us, well, we can work it out -- and then maybe our love will be even stronger because we got through that together!” the collector says, seeming quite convinced by this theory.

king wants so profoundly to also believe it that, for a moment, he allows himself to imagine a future where he does -- it's a fleeting vision, like reading an especially fanciful science fiction story, but even implausible stories reveal something of what is plausible.

“love evolves as relationships do,” the collector concludes with an air of satisfaction, as if they have indeed reached the conclusion of a particularly stressful story, one in which, despite the greatest of odds, everyone ends up happy. “it's not quantifiable. it's qualitative.”

king is so shaken by what the collector has said to do much besides stand there, rigid as a mouse that knows moving in any way will give its position away to a nearby predator and thus seal their demise -- though he does manage to lift his gaze when he feels his best friend’s fingers brush against his forehead, watching utterly transfixed as the collector guides a lock of dark, curly hair away from his face and tucks it behind his ear.

“you really are cute when your hair gets all over your face,” the collector murmurs, with such naked tenderness that king thinks they must certainly mean those words only for themself, having only accidentally -- and, judging by the unperturbed serenity that frames their facial features, unconsciously -- uttered them aloud. “you have such gorgeous hair…”

and there it is, king thinks: the possibility of a different kind of love -- a love that makes room for the sort of physical and emotional intimacies that king daydreams of but dares not make known with any sort of declaration or request; a love that can encompass and account for the fervent intensity of king’s feelings for the collector; a love that requires no secrets from either of them and instead demands a radically transformative honesty in all matters; a love that might entail king finally placing his own hand on the collector’s cheek and feel comfortable in the certainty that this gesture can only ever be a welcome and pleasant caress, and not the dangerous proximity of his claws to his best friend's throat. but whether the collector is thinking -- or, indeed, has ever even considered -- this sort of love, king has no way of judging for certain. and so, with a regretful resignation that has become entirely too familiar to him, he lets the moment -- the opportunity -- pass them both by, offering his best friend nothing beyond a steady and attentive gaze.

even if king can not express his true appreciation for the collector’s proclamations, he will, at the very least, ensure they know he's paying attention to each and every word.

the collector smiles with a serenity that king finds himself perplexed to be the target of, fiddling with the strand of his hair and managing to wrap it around their finger -- a sight that elicits a soft chuckle from deep within the collector’s throat and a ricocheting heartbeat from king. it all looks to king like nothing more and nothing less than an excuse to remain this physically close to king, and king, despite his outward guardedness, hopes against hope that the pleading within him for the collector to just continue this way indefinitely somehow permeates through his petrified expression and reaches his best friend.

despite his yearning -- or, perhaps, perversely, because of his yearning -- king can not bring himself to say anything back to the collector, so the moment, once again, goes no further.

king tried not to visualize punching the petulant muscle that is his heart.

“here, why don't i tell you a story?” the collector offers, breaking a spell king is now fairly certain both of them are pretending to not be aware of.

the collector performs a small jump to propel them into the air, pirouetting on their way up until they're hovering next to one of the shelves in the bookcase that are too high to be reached by king. he watches anxiously as his best friend runs their index finger across various spines, considering each title for a moment before moving onto the next.

“i’ve read some pretty fun ones lately!” the collector exclaims, shooting king an amicable grin before seeming to decide none of the books presently within reach will do for their best friend and instead churning up something from memory -- king always prefers when the collector gives stories their own personalized spin, after all.

when king doesn't respond, the collector adds hopefully, “it might help get your mind off what's bothering you. and, if not, well… at least we'll spend some time together, and that's always nice, right?”

the question feels, to king, entirely rhetorical, but he nods his assent anyway, which -- mercifully -- broadens the collector’s smile to the point that the dimples in his cheeks become visible, like beautiful islets that only rise above the water when the tide is at its lowest.

“is it an allegory?” king asks, more to force himself to start using his vocal cords than anything else, though it's also true that he's hoping to dispel the residual anxiety that buzzes around him like a flock of gnats that just won't give up on their quarry.

“every story is an allegory if you're willing to put yourself in it!” the collector answers breezily, sweeping aside the various books scattered across the table with magic so they can take a seat right at the center of it, legs crossed and hand beckoning at their best friend.

king finds himself unsettled by this response, but climbs onto the table anyway, plopping down in front of the collector with a pair of eyebrows that remain stubbornly -- and frustratedly -- scrunched.

“okay,” king concedes. “let's find out what allegory we can find in this story then.”

the collector beams, then reaches for king’s hand again, meeting no more resistance than the first time around. king swallows with noticable difficulty.

“i’m glad you said we,” the collector says, drawing attention to something king had neither consciously intended nor noticed until then.

king thinks, but doesn't say: i’m glad there's a we to speak of, and i keep having to say we aloud just to remind myself we are a real thing.

king stares blankly for a moment, then nods. the collector squeezes king’s hand.

“once upon a time,” the collector begins, swirling their unoccupied hand around to conjure a small bubble of iridescent magic, which projects objects from the scene they describe. “there was a sea, and on that sea there was an island, and within that island there was a jungle, and inside of the jungle there was a temple, and at the heart of the temple there was an egg.”

the collector pauses -- clearly for dramatic effect -- the magic bubble swelling to accommodate a rendition of what this mysterious scene might look like, each couple of words uttered by the collector compelling it to zoom closer and closer, until king can see the white marbled walls and platinum statues and obsidian pedestal where a single egg balances precariously.

king squints at the image, wondering how much of it is due to the collector’s imaginative creative license and how much faithfully adheres to the descriptions they read in whatever book they are now paraphrasing for him.

then the hair on the back of king’s neck starts to stand up and he swats at it reflexively, like it's some kind of bug he can just scare away. unsettled, king turns away from the magic bubble.

the collector, mistaking king’s behavior for disinterest or -- worse -- displeasure with them, tries making the narration more interesting.

“the egg was the last of its kind, and it had waited, for a very long time and all on its lonesome, to be ready to hatch,” the collector continues, nudging the magic bubble towards their best friend so it's once more within his line of sight. king realizes with a start how he's made them feel and opens his mouth to muster something like an apology -- or, at least, a plausible explanation -- but nothing comes out. he briefly considers just fleeing the scene.

“the egg might have well hatched with no one around to witness it,” the collector says solemnly, before adjusting to a far cheerier timbre: “were it not for a young witch that happened upon the mysterious temple and its egg at precisely the right moment!”

watching the peculiar egg in the illusion start to crack, king feels his stomach contract painfully, like he's being warned about having just ingested something poisonous.

“the witch decided to take the egg back with her to her home, where it was able to hatch in her company. and the name of the creature that emerged from that egg was --”

“stop,” king says, the word almost too quiet to be heard by even himself, but with all the telltale alarm of someone trying to stop another person from stepping right in the middle of ongoing traffic.

the collector feels that alarm constrict around their chest like a rubber band snapping back into its smallest size, but their mouth is already open and words are continuing to spill out of it, until --

“stop!” king yells, fury nestled like a cuckoo's egg amidst his every effort to have a nice, normal time with the collector, to not burst with a pyroclastic flow of emotions that suffocate everything before even becoming aware of its approach.

the collector, apprehending the intensity of king’s command, slices through the word they were in the middle of uttering and adds no more from the story, but they can not help sputtering out puzzledly, “what? why?”

“this story could never happen,” king states, firm but with a pleading that he hopes the collector can discern just well enough to heed.

“stories aren't only about what could happen,” the collector counters, still struggling to understand why their best friend’s demeanor has shifted so drastically, what has upset him so clearly and profoundly.

king lowers his gaze in lieu of offering an answer, so the collector also stares down at the ground, as if this could somehow lead them to perceive whatever is troubling king.

after a tense pause, the collector offers hopefully, “it's an allegory, remember? what happens isn't what's import --”

“i don't care about the allegory in this story,” king mumbles. the implication -- that king himself doesn't want to become part of the story -- goes unaddressed, but king has spoken with a finality that the collector knows well enough to respect.

the collector nods in comprehension and contracts the fingers of their hand into a fist to make the magic bubble burst. king expects to only feel relief at its disappearance, yet discovers a strange yearning alongside it, like nostalgia for something he can't be certain he ever experienced.

“where did you even find a story like that?” king huffs angrily, more an admonishment than an inquiry, which he immediately realizes is cruel of him and wishes he had the magic to make disappear like his best friend did with the bubble.

the collector, however, seems less perturbed by king’s acerbity than intrigued by the prospect of answering. their lips twist into a pensive frown as they scratch the back of their head, seemingly genuinely stumped by the task.

shrugging their shoulders, the collector states casually, “somewhere in the restricted section of the library probably! it's a pretty big place, and there are so many old journals from long dead witches and demons in there. i tend to forget what happened in which.”

this information does nothing to assuage king’s unease, but the possibility that everything the collector just told him was an entirely fictional composite of multiple different sources does, on an intellectual level, relieve him: it is truly a story that could never happen, that never has happened.

there's another uncomfortable pause, king trying half-heartedly to come up with an excuse to leave that won't further injure his best friend, the collector fidgeting by running a hand across their forearm while chewing on their lower lip.

then the collector has an idea, and blurts out brightly, “hey, i know! why don't you tell me a story? that way, you can decide what kind of story it is!”

king stares at his best friend perplexedly for a few seconds, as if this has never even crossed his mind as an option -- which, he's equally baffled to realize, it hasn't.

“i,” king stammers, feeling like he's just been pulled onto a stage and told to dance in a style he knows nothing about (a real scenario he has ample experience with, also thanks to the collector). “i don't know any stories… besides the ones you've told me, i mean. and you already know all of those better than me, so…”

king deliberately trails off, hoping that will be the end of it -- but also, mysteriously, delightfully, relieved when it isn't.

the collector can be quite insistent, and, despite the chagrin at being dragged out of his comfort zone, king is glad the collector deems him worth dragging along.

“really?” the collector asks, with a surprise that bears no judgment, only curiosity. “you didn't hear any when you were little?”

a bout of sweat breaks out across king’s temples as he's forced to -- however briefly -- consider a truthful answer to this question -- he arrives at nothing so concrete as images or even words, but there are a lot of feelings that he instantly realizes he can not allow to proliferate for even a nanosecond.

“i don't remember anything from when i was little,” king states decisively, as much for his own ears to hear as the collector’s. he starts repeating it in his mind, like some kind of warding spell (knowledge of what he needs to ward away at all costs being part of what he is warding away), even as he utters different words aloud: “if i ever did hear any stories, they're gone now.”

like everything else from when i was little, king could add, but doesn't. it's not true, anyway: nothing’s gone, not entirely -- he just prefers to believe every recollection he ever has from his childhood, whether merely a vague yet arresting emotional aura or a full-blown, multi sensory hallucination, is some fantastical fabrication, the manic misfirings of his twisted, knotted, broken neurons, and not in any way reflective of any real past experiences.

to the collector, it's like the sound of a door slamming shut in their face before they ever even tried to open it. they sigh wearily, but elect to push no further.

both friends descend into a silence that feels like a scab that's been scraped all over again and bleeding anew, and king thinks maybe the time has finally arrived for this entire interaction to come to an end.

but king just sits there, making no attempt, either verbal or physical, to leave. he's stuck remembering something the collector once said to him, not long enough after the day of unity for him to not feel like it was somehow part of the same, uninterrupted event.

this can be a new beginning, the collector told king. you can start over -- with me!

king wants to believe in that vision more than he can recall ever wanting anything else in his life, to feel that this -- where he is sitting right this moment -- is part of a new beginning, with none of his past attached to it: no preface, epitaph, or prologue -- just the first chapter in what will certainly sprawl into a vast and exciting epic.

with the collector. a new beginning for king’s story, with the collector by his side this time.

the question that keeps tormenting king is whether a new beginning, even with the collector as part of king’s story, is enough for a new ending as well -- it's always possible they are merely rehearsing for the same grand finale that marked the end of his past, violently aborted and still aching life.

king is so deep in the labyrinth of his own ruminations that he doesn't notice the collector’s face brighten.

“so invent one!” the collector exclaims, looking proud to have come up with what seems to them the perfect solution. “make up your own story, one you want to tell!”

king isn't sure about that. the things he comes up with that make it onto his tongue and through his lips are rarely things he wants to tell. and so he can only imagine that any story he could come up with would amount to much of the same, like being betrayed by the inadvertent flushing of his face or poisoned by a beverage he brewed himself.

the collector says every story is an allegory if you are willing to put yourself in it, and king can only hope he would be positively unwilling to put himself in any story he concocted.

yet the collector is staring at king expectantly, full of a love-laced conviction that he is capable and willing to step up to this task, and he feels he has reached the limit of times he can disappoint his best friend in one afternoon.

so, worn down by fatigue and a desperate desire to prove his best friend’s faith in him is not ill-founded, king sucks in a deep breath, and begins.

“there was once… there once was,” king mumbles, uncertain how to even open a story he has not thought out ahead of time, a story he is now determined to somehow improvise in its entirety -- and all it takes is the slight widening of the collector’s smile to muster the foolishness to continue.

“in the beginning… that was not the beginning,” king starts over, enunciating each word slowly and clearly. “there was… a child from the stars… and there was also… a titan.”

king pauses to swallow anxiously, a disruption probably only noticeable to himself.

“they were both very young when they met... and they were both very old when they were still friends… at the end… that was not the end…”

king stops, feeling that the story has reached its natural conclusion after only those couple of lines (isn't it the collector who once said, brevity is the soul of wit?), but the collector is still watching king expectantly, eyes wide and sparkling, lips arched into an enchanted grin, like a child that's being given a special treat for behaving so well all day long -- and, king knows (oh, how he knows), the collector has been very, very good to him, and not just today. it'd feel cruel to withdraw such a prize at this point, and king is willing to believe many things about himself, but cruel… well, cruel is one he certainly doesn't need to be collecting more evidence for, so best to avoid it whenever possible.

so king tells the kind of story he thinks the collector would enjoy -- full of silly characters, ridiculous problems, and absolutely chaotic adventures -- because, as it turns out, the kind of story king wants to tell is one that the collector wants to hear.

[eksvaized]

Part Seven König / Ghost / Reader [ Previous 〡 Next ] ︱AO3 ︱Wattpad ︱ taglist (if you want to be added - let me know!): @strawberrygato, @ghostslittlegf, @eskalotte, @abcdbleh, @yawning-grave81, @liamwholover, @valira-demaur, @idek101-01, @mizu-bozu, @pinkslaystation

As the first rays of daylight gently filter into the room, you slowly awaken, your eyes fluttering open. Yet, the sheer intensity of the vibrant morning sun proves overwhelming, causing you to instinctively shield your face with your arm. It’s as if a spotlight has been directed straight at you, momentarily blinding you and making it challenging to adapt to the sudden burst of brightness.

Slowly, the sun’s rays pierce through the window, gradually filling the room with a stifling heat. As you lie under the layered blanket, you can feel the warmth seeping into the fabric. The sensation of being wrapped in the blanket is akin to being enclosed in a suffocating woolen coat during the hottest days of summer, compelling you to forcefully remove it and toss it aside. A sigh of relief escapes from your lips as you do so.

You lie there for a moment longer, allowing yourself to adjust to the temperature and bask in the comforting stillness that only the early morning hours can bring. However, this moment of peace is shattered when you blink a few more times, forcing your eyes to adjust to the light. As your gaze roams the space, drinking in the details of the unfamiliar surroundings, it eventually settles on the bed you’re laying in. More specifically, it settles on the sleeping figure. Simon. He’s laying there, right next to you. Lightly snoring, he has his back turned to you, completely undisturbed by your sudden awakening and the turmoil of emotions that have come with it.

Fragments of last night’s memories seep into your mind like tendrils of fog curling around your thoughts. You recall the moment you kissed Simon. And he kissed you back. Yet, a single kiss was not enough. It failed to quench the overwhelming desire that had been steadily accumulating over the many months. Nor did it manage to diffuse the palpable electric tension that had settled between you two, like an unspoken challenge waiting to be met. Even the heated make-out session that followed, a whirlwind of passion and urgency, did not satiate your shared need.

Like a starved man, Simon impatiently clawed at your clothes. He tugged at the fabric insistently, as if each second you remained clothed was a second wasted. He peeled away it all, leaving you bare and vulnerable before you could fully comprehend the gravity of what was happening. His hands, coarse yet gentle, began a deliberate exploration of your body. His fingers traced the contours of your curves. They dug into your flesh, as if trying to etch every inch of you to memory. In that moment, you were damned—you were aware of his intentions, and yet, you found yourself unwilling, or perhaps unable, to put a stop to it…

In a vain attempt to clear the tumultuous clutter that is your mind, you slowly close your eyes, permitting the darkness to envelop you. You draw in a long, deep breath, feeling the air fill your lungs, holding it there for three agonizingly long seconds. As you hold your breath, you feel the tick of each second, each one seeming longer than the one before. The world, with all its noise and chaos, comes to a standstill. Eventually, you allow yourself to exhale, releasing the air in a slow, controlled manner, trying to mimic the calm you so desperately seek.

You sternly tell yourself, almost commanding your mind, not to think about it. You must forget what happened; it was a mistake, a momentary lapse in judgment that you can’t afford to repeat. You try to convince yourself that it was just a moment of weakness, a one-off aberration that doesn’t mean anything. But deep inside, in the corners of your heart, you can’t help but not regret it—it’s a paradox, a silent war between your mind and heart.

Turning your head, your gaze falls on Simon. In his sleep, he rolls over, his heavy arm sneaking around your waist. With a slight tug, he pulls you closer to him. There’s a serene expression on his face, as he nuzzles his nose into the crook of your shoulder. In this quiet moment, you suddenly become aware of the fact that your clothes are discarded somewhere in the living room.

You try to extract yourself from Simon’s embrace, intending to retrieve your clothes and dress up, but he stirs in his slumber. He mumbles something unintelligible under his breath. His grip tightens around your body, drawing you back into the bed. With a sigh of resignation, you allow yourself to settle back against him. Your body naturally gravitates towards his, like two magnets drawn together. Your tension, once as rigid as a tightly strung bow, melts away under the gentle caress of his fingertips, dancing over your skin. It’s a delicate touch that sends shivers down your spine. His hand then settles on your hip. Despite the guilt and shame, that gnaws at your conscience—a lingering aftermath of your actions—you find a sense of comfort and security nestled in Simon’s embrace.

You don’t have your phone, but you’re sure it’s flooded with messages and missed calls from König. He’s likely wondering where you are, considering you left without a word. The thought that he may have spent a sleepless night worrying about you crosses your mind, sending a pang of guilt through your heart. But you try your best to push it away, choosing instead to focus on Simon, on the gentle rise and fall of his chest, and the soft rhythm of his breathing.

After another hour of waiting, Simon finally wakes up. He unwinds his arms from your waist and rolls onto his back, yawning. You stand up, pulling the blanket off the bed and wrapping it around your shoulders. Despite the room being heated more than necessary, you don’t care. A sudden wave of modesty washes over you, prompting an unexpected desire to hide yourself from his gaze. This feeling strikes you as somewhat absurd. Especially considering that after the events of yesterday, there is barely anything left to hide—he has seen it all.

You tiptoe out of the bedroom to the living room, clutching the blanket around you. A moment later, footsteps follow you. Simon leans against the doorway, his eyes fixed on you. He watches as you dress with an unreadable expression on his face. You find yourself grateful for his consideration in putting on a pair of loose sweatpants.

Despite this, you can’t help but catch glimpses of his bare chest, your eyes fixated on the way his muscles ripple with every movement. As you steal these quick, furtive glances, your cheeks flush, getting brighter and brighter each time.

“About last night...” Your voice cuts through the silence, shattering the silence like a stone through glass. You speak up since neither of you have dared to say anything yet. “Us. Together. It was a one-time thing. We can’t... we shouldn’t repeat what happened. Ever again.”

Simon makes no objections. He simply nods, accepting your words without argument. His unexpected silence takes you aback, but you don’t question it. You are afraid that further discussion might change his mind or, worse, reveal more than what you’re prepared to confront.

You even make him promise. No, it’s actually more than that. It’s a vow — an unbreakable pact that Simon will not tell a soul about how you ended up in his bed. You want him to keep this secret, to forget about it all. Your greatest fear is for König to find out: it’s not that you regret sleeping with Simon, but… but you also don’t want to lose König. It’s a selfish thought—wanting to have them both—but you decide this is a problem for another day. For now, you don’t want to be forced into making a choice. The fear of making the wrong one scares you.

* * *

As you return home, the quietness of the house engulfs you. You pull off your shoes, throwing them off to the corner. The erratic rhythm of your heart, pounding like a drum in your chest, echoes in your ears, amplifying the stillness surrounding you. You find König in the kitchen. His eyes are fixated on something outside the window. You feel a sinking feeling in your stomach. It’s a dreadful gnawing sensation that refuses to subside as you tentatively follow his gaze.

Your eyes land on the house across the street—Simon’s house. The sight of it sends a shiver down your spine that has nothing to do with the morning chill. Could König have seen you leaving? Your breath catches in your throat, a lump forming that you find difficult to swallow. You stand there, frozen, rooted to the spot, your mind buzzing with a million thoughts, a million possibilities.

But you force yourself to regain your composure, to steady your hands that have unconsciously started to tremble. After all, you hadn’t brazenly strutted out through the front door; you had been careful, meticulously so. You had snuck through Simon’s backyard, even taking a meandering route around the neighbourhood, winding through side streets and alleyways, before daring to step foot in your own home.

Your attention shifts to König’s hands. He’s fiddling with his phone, his fingers brushing over the screen absentmindedly. Even from where you’re standing, you can see your image displayed on his screen, your name and number underneath. You contemplate retreating, thinking a shower might buy you some time before you have to face him, talk with him. But just as you’re about to slip back into the shadows, he senses your presence, like a predator catching the scent of its prey.

His head swivels towards you with a jerk, his eyes widening in surprise at your sudden appearance. The phone slips from his grasp, clattering onto the countertop. His reflex response is to pull you into a steel-trap embrace, his hold so unyieldingly tight that you fear your ribs might splinter under the pressure. His hands roam over your body, running over every inch as if he’s assessing for any signs of injury. It’s an instinctive need to ensure you’re alright. Then, his palms cradle your face, gently tilting your head from one side to the other.

Eventually, König pulls away. The deep lines of worry etched in his features slowly fade away as he realises you’re unharmed. Fine, perfectly fine.

He finally breaks the silence. “Where have you been?” His voice is low, tinged with a harshness you rarely hear.

“Out.”

Clearly unsatisfied with your evasive response, he presses further. A sense of urgency creeping into his voice. “Where?” Despite his insistent questioning, you remain silent.

He launches into a barrage of inquiries, a torrent of words that batter against your defenses. Each question is met with either your silence or brief, vague responses. You’re afraid that if you say too much, you’ll trip over your own web of lies.

“... and you didn’t think you should tell me, or at least take your phone with you?” He asks.

You respond with a simple shake of your head.

As König continues to push, to probe, to accuse, you feel your patience wearing thin, slowly being eroded like a cliff under the relentless assault of the sea. The familiar heat of anger begins to simmer within you. You want to retaliate, to shout back, to let loose the torrent of words that have been building up within you. You want to confess that you had called Sarah, to accuse him of cheating, to hurl the same accusations that have been ricocheting around your skull like bullets in a steel drum. But you hold back, biting down on your tongue, the metallic taste of restraint filling your mouth. You want to prevent this argument from spiralling into a full-blown fight, from escalating into a war of words that neither of you would win.

Because, as much as you hate to admit it, you aren’t oblivious to the bitter irony of the situation — you are no different from König. You had accused him of cheating, of betraying your trust, of being the villain… Yet, here you stand, guilty of the same crime.

[pinkhairswagtourney]

please give a warm welcome to the 128 contestants of the pink hair swag tourney, part three !!

we have 57 new contenders and 71 returning competitors vying for the crown !! starting on 06/21/2023, we'll start voting to determine which of these pink haired characters is the swaggiest of all time !!

ROUND ONE MATCHUPS

PART ONE - 06/21 Iris Lovefeather - Tales of the Rays VS Lightning Farron - Final Fantasy Molli Pop - Candies n’ Curses VS Lily Tabacchi - Lily’s Well Yuyuko Saigyouji - Touhou Project VS Kasen Ibaraki - Touhou Project Madoka Kaname - Madoka Magica VS Aya Maruyama - Bang Dream! Vivian - Paper Mario: The Thousand Year Door VS Anne Faulkner - Paradox Live Reona West - Prism Paradise VS Mirai Momoyama - Sparkling Prism Channel Crona - Soul Eater VS Chibiusa - Sailor Moon Satsuki Momoi - Kuroko no Basket VS Alice Asmodeus - Mairimashita! Iruma-kun

PART TWO - 06/22 Meninas McAllon - Bleach VS Neon Nostrade - Hunter x Hunter (1999) Shima Renzou - Blue Exorcist VS Szayelaporro Granz - Bleach Ln'eta - Sucker for Love: First Date VS Miyako Shikamori - Shikamori’s Not Just a Cutie Hot Pants - Jojo’s Bizarre Adventure VS Yasuho Hirose - Jojo’s Bizarre Adventure Sheena Murphy - Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles VS Scary Girl - Total Drama Cleo - Dragalia Lost VS Amy Pile - Grand Chase Mashiro Nijigaoka - Hirogaru Sky! Pretty Cure VS Nodoka Hanadera - Healin’ Good Pretty Cure Rina Tennoji - Love Live VS Mei Hatsume - My Hero Academia

PART THREE - 06/23 Mizuki Akiyama - Project Sekai VS Utena Tenjou - Revolutionary Girl UtenaSakura Miku - Vocaloid VS Goku Black - Dragon BallRose Quartz - Steven Universe VS Bonnibel Bubblegum - Adventure TimeLilim - Puyo Puyo VS Harpy - Puyo PuyoUlala - Space Channel 5 VS Jerrica Benton - Jem and the HologramsKohaku Oukawa - Ensemble Stars VS Ramuda Amemura - Hypnosis Mic Sara - Tales of Link VS Meido - Heaven’s Design TeamNatsu Dragneel - Fairy Tail VS Marluxia - Kingdom Hearts

PART FOUR - 06/24 Popuri - Harvest Moon VS Lyla - Harvest Moon Ramsey Murdoch - Epithet Erased VS Yoomtah Zing - Epithet Erased Trixie Roughhouse - Epithet Erased VS Giovanni Potage - Epithet Erased  Estellise Sidos Heurassein - Tales of Vesperia VS Sophia - Stardew Valley Expanded Clover Field - Zero Escape VS Zizel - Witch’s Heart Nikki - Love Nikki VS Zero Two - Darling in the Franxx Nana Hiiragi - Munou na Nana VS Amu Hinamori - Shugo Chara! Maggie Pesky - The Buzz on Maggie VS Jinmay - Super Robot Monkey Team Hyperforce Go!

PART FIVE - 06/25 Reo Maruyama - Paradox Live VS Kazuichi Souda - Danganronpa Seraphine - League of Legends VS Violet - Arcane Jewelry Bonney - One Piece VS Koby - One Piece Perona - One Piece VS Shirahoshi - One Piece Minato Aqua - Hololive VS Himemori Luna - Hololive Mina Ashido - My Hero Academia VS Anya Forger - Spy x Family Kaoru Sakurayashiki - Sk8 the Infinity VS Nadeshiko Kagamihara - Yuru Camp Molly - Bubble Guppies VS Toadette - Mario Series PART SIX - 06/26 Hitori Gotoh - Bocchi the Rock! VS Mitsuri Kanroji - Demon Slayer Hinako Mishuku - Your Turn to Die VS Nao Egokoro - Your Turn to Die Riamu Yumemi - The iDOLM@STER Cinderella Girls VS Miyu Sakurada - Dig Delight Direct Drive DJ Sucy Manbavaran - Little Witch Academia VS Chuatury Panlunch - Gundam: The Witch from Mercury Ran - Urusei Yatsura VS Akira Kogami - Lucky Star Ilima - Pokemon VS Pastille - Starry Flowers  Kumatora - Mother 3 VS Amy Rose - Sonic the Hedgehog Setsuno - Toriko VS Genkai - YuYu Hakusho PART SEVEN - 06/27 Aubrey - OMORI VS Iris Sagan - AI: The Somnium Files Muku Sakisaka - Act! Addict! Actors! VS Tori Himemiya - Ensemble Stars Ribbon - Kirby VS Strawberry Crepe Cookie - Cookie Run Cotton Candy Cookie - Cookie Run VS Rambutan Cookie - Cookie Run Narciso Anasui - Jojo’s Bizarre Adventure VS Diavolo - Jojo’s Bizarre Adventure Yanagi Hanabusa - DREAM!ing VS Shion Mikekado - DREAM!ing Delta - Honkai Impact VS Elysia - Honkai Impact Kory Anders - Titans VS Gamora - Marvel Cinematic Universe PART EIGHT - 06/28 Sakura Haruno - Naruto VS Euphemia Li Brittania - Code Geass Kipo Oak - Kipo and the Age of Wonderbeasts VS Tom Lucitor - Star VS the Forces of Evil “Big” Jack Horner - Puss in Boots VS Princess Poppy - Trolls Machi Komacine - Hunter x Hunter VS Chika Fujiwara - Kaguya-Sama: Love is War Slurpuff - Pokemon VS Tinkaton - Pokemon Hilda Valentine Goneril - Fire Emblem: Three Houses VS Yae Miko - Genshin Impact Ortega - Pokemon VS Nurse Joy - Pokemon Tenebria - Epic Seven VS Tecna - Winx Club