#it makes time stretch in such a horribly infinite kind of way

[feroluce]

Coming back to this previous ingo×irida-ish post because my job gives me an unfortunate amount of time to think and anyway, an alternative version:

While in the modern day, maybe Irida sees something online, or maybe some kind of traveling history museum exhibit visits Pasio etc, but the point is she sees old historical photos of Warden Ingo. And most of those photos aren't anything new or super surprising for her- hell, she literally remembers Laventon taking these exact ones. She's even in some of them.

The part that surprises her is that there are photos from later years that include Emmet.

Because at the point in time that Irida left Hisui through the rift, she had no idea who Emmet was. Ingo had told her about his Man in White, but that was all they knew. Emmet wasn't in Hisui.

But judging by these photos and documents, he eventually will be.

So Irida still takes Ingo's hands and promises to find him later. And she still sadly tells both brothers to make the most of their time here together, and make sure to live life without regrets.

Irida goes through the closing rift back to Hisui, and she tells Warden Ingo what she learned from her trip to the future. Ingo can't thank her enough; he just needs to wait, and they'll be reunited...eventually. At some point. Just no idea when.

And it lasts years. Irida goes out to the highlands one day, and she can tell this is a Bad Day because Ingo is just kinda sitting there, up near the peak, staring out over the vastness of Hisui and dissociating. Like he's trying to watch for something, just waiting for it to happen. Irida almost regrets telling him on days like these, but it's not as though she can take it back now.

Ingo doesn't particularly acknowledge her greeting, so Irida sits next to him. Still nothing, so she sidles over and presses up against Ingo's arm until he finally presses back a bit. He never stops watching the sky, though. Close enough.

"This waiting is...difficult."

"I know." Irida follows his tattered black sleeve down from his elbow until she can find his hand, grips his cold fingers between hers and squeezes. She's sure he'll arrive soon, though. As much as it hurts to see Ingo like this, watching him give up would be so much worse.

"Just keep waiting patiently...just hold on a little bit longer, ok?"

[daeamour]

@milobelladonna​ HORSE TIME: There comes a low, soft scraping sound, on the other side of Sawyer's door. Like teeth. Like nails. Slowly they push in, and drag slowly downwards, digging deep into wood and grit as they push ever deeper, surely trying to gouge into the other side.

There's no way for them to see who this visitor is. Or what.

There is no way to describe a sudden, animal fear that fills the air like the air before a thunderstorm, crisp and clear and pooling beneath the tongue with sparking anticipation.

There is no way to describe the utter soundlessness that this presence inflicts upon the world around it, like a wound, fetid and plastered with layers of old blood that have since scabbed over and dried and opened again. A hatred of sound. A hatred of life. A hatred of movement.

The infection seeps in and it deprives the living flesh of oxygen, lets it choke and writhe in its own prison, traps it beneath for the crime of denying the nature of this silence. This stillness.

The scraping is still there, but it does not break the silence. It does not provide comfort from that infinite, terrible yawning that stretches around and around them like an open mouth, breaking its own rules and leaving the senses in ruination.

There are no words for what terrible finality sits on the other side.

Answer the door, Sawyer. Answer the door, Sawyer. Answer the door, Sawyer.

Answer the door.

They’ve been here before, haven’t they? Last time they snuck home when Susanne was with them. Just before they found that thing... That horse. If it could even be called that. Since coming to the ranch Sawyer had met all kinds of horses. Friendly horses, angry horses, distrustful horses, but none like the one they saw in their bathroom that night at home. None so full of hatred for the entire world that it left an echo of it’s feelings around the very room it resided in. None that wanted them dead as badly as they assumed this one did. They haven’t even seen it but they think it’s there. On the other side of the door, it’s waiting for them.

Their hand shakes above the door handles to the barn. They know they need to check on the horses before they go to bed. They know they need to sacrifice themselves for the care of these beautiful creatures. But fear has settled so deep into their soul that they’re too terrified to even open the door. Many times before they’ve been eye to eye with death. Flirted with them, dragged their hand along death’s hand silently asking to be taken away. Yet only now do they believe that death really stands before them. If they open that door death will find them. They will take them and if they are lucky that is all that will happen. For what feels like the first time in their life though they fear death.

“Go. Please go.” They beg but their voice is eaten in the silence. Only the scratching of wood interrupts the silence. Offering no comfort, no solace or relief. Only the reminder that they are no longer the hunter. Once more they are the prey. This is how it feels when the tables are turned. When they feed on others this is what others feel. An unimaginable fear that lingers far longer then what should be.

They don’t move their hand remaining hovering over the door handles as tears well in their eyes. They try to will themselves to move, to run and make an escape. But the silence traps them in their place. Once again cold freezes them where the are at. Do they open the door? Unleash the horror upon the world in an effort to save the horses that are trapped with the beast on the other side? IS there a beast on the other side? Is there another side?

How do they know they will find the horses on the other side if they open the door? For all they know that thing could be there by itself with only darkness to accompany it. Only the vast nothing that can hold the kind of horrible animal it is.

‘It is but a horse.’ They try to reason while ignoring the demands to open the door. ‘It is but a horse and nothing more.’

Yet the demands chill them to the core making it near impossible to move. Much less open the door. Could they really unleash this wretched creature upon the world? Perhaps it would be better to leave the doors shut. Go back to their room, pretend nothing happened. Act as though-

“Sawyer!” A voice breaks the endless silence and the vast darkness that had wrapped it’s way around them falls apart. Once more they can see the grass that surrounds the barn, the open fields where the horses play in the day and the fences that keep them in. A cyclops stands behind them, looking at them with deep concern. “Everything okay? You’ve been out here for over an hour. Is something wrong with the horses?”

Sawyer stares at the other in shocked silence, chills running through their entire body. Processing the interruption from the terror. Unable to separate what is real from what they were imagining. If they’d been imagining anything. “I... It’s nothing. I just... Got distracted is all.”

They lie hoping that will make everything better. If they pretend nothing happened perhaps they’ll be able to sleep that night. It’s only an act however and an act can do nothing to hide the scratch marks on the door when they finally open them.

[angelicyoongie]

the crimson shell (II)

— pairing: jungkook x f!reader — genre: mermaid au, yandere au — w.c: 3.5k (drabble series) — warnings: mentions of death, mentions of drowning — notes: well, it wasn’t supposed to take four months to write the second part but here we are lol. still, mermaid jk works well for spoopy season too!! the next and likely last part of this drabble series will be inTEnse, so you better prepare yourself!

Part I / II / III / IIII

— summary: you had always found comfort in being at the beach, often spending hours just watching the waves lap against the shore. but unbeknowst to you – something had been watching you back.

You wake up with a gasp, your chest burning as you begin coughing up the remaining saltwater in your lungs. You stare down through bleary eyes at the pearly white sand beneath your fingers as your whole body heaves, your limbs shaking with exhaustion. You let out a choked cry as something wet laps at your toes, sending you scrambling further up the beach to escape it. The fresh water on your skin brings back memories of the night before, of how helpless and trapped you had been underwater, and how the ocean had judged you as unworthy and left you to drown – to die.

You roll onto your back, squinting up at the blue skies as you attempt to catch your breath. There’s no sign of the storm that threw you overboard, no dark ominous clouds looming on the horizon. Only an endless blue, stretching on infinitely. You groan as you push yourself up, your muscles aching and protesting as you test them all out to make sure nothing’s too badly injured. Your arms are blooming into hues of blue and yellow from where the ship knocked you around during the storm, but for a person that was thrown off the side of a ship and almost drowned, you’re surprisingly .. fine.

Maybe you have a guardian angel out there. The thought makes you snort.

You twist around, letting your gaze sweep over your surroundings. Although you can’t say it for sure just yet, you’re fairly sure you’ve washed up on a deserted island. Judging by how vast and empty the ocean is, and how untouched the beach and the vegetation behind you looks, you don’t think there’s a high chance of running into anybody else here. But even if you aren’t alone, is that really any better? You have no guarantee that the inhabitants of the island won’t just kill you on sight.

Suppressing a shudder, you try your best to will your thoughts away from all the horrible scenarios running through your mind. You'll just have to be extra alert until you’ve made sure you’re actually alone here.

Something digs sharply into your thigh as you shift your weight. You let out a gasp as you scramble to push your hand into your pocket, your fingers closing around the shell you had tucked away before the storm started. It’s still intact. You look down at it with wide eyes as you pull it out of your trousers, the crimson hue still looking as pretty as ever as you run your fingertips over the ridges. You have no idea how it managed to stay in one piece, but then again, you’re not sure how you managed to do that either.

“We must be lucky,” You mutter. You gently tuck the shell back into your pocket, dusting off the sand that’s clinging to your clothes as you gingerly get yourself up on your feet. You bury your bare feet into the cool sand, thankful that the sun hasn’t managed to warm it up just yet. There’s no sign of your shoes on the shoreline, so you think you’ll just have to resign yourself to the fact that they’re a lost cause. They probably won’t do you much good here anyway. You furrow your brows as you see something sparkle a little further down the beach, your curiosity getting the best of you as you make your way over on shaking legs. You don’t know how long you’ll be here, so you might as well indulge your whims and keep yourself entertained.

Your eyes light up in amazement as you realize what the object is; the fine layer of sand not managing to cover the sparkle properly. It’s gold. And real gold too, judging by how heavy the coin is in your hand. It doesn’t look like it’s been here for very long, so maybe it washed up along side you? You don’t think any of the other travellers were rich enough to carry it, but it’s not like it would be wise to flaunt it around either if they did have some money.

You tug at the chain around your neck, lifting the pendant up from underneath your shirt. The village crest looks almost burnt in the low sunlight, the edges turning black from the prolonged exposure to the ocean. You frown at the simple design.

Your initials are pressed into the surface alongside the name of your town, and the outline of a fish. You’ve always had an inkling that the pendant was never made from gold, that your village head was overcharging you for something you had to have to live in your village. Turns out you were right. Seeing it side by side with the real deal leaves no doubt in your mind that he’s skimming off the top for himself. If you ever get out of here, you’re going to give the village head a piece of your mind. You swallow thickly, tucking the pendant back under your shirt.

Right. If you get out of here.

Frankly, the silence on the island is unnerving. You’re used to the hustle and bustle of a busy town, and the only sound you can make out here is the waves gently crashing against a nearby cluster of rocks. It’s too silent. You can already feel the panic festering in your stomach, the emotion only growing stronger the longer you stay still to dwell on your predicament. You clutch the coin in your hand, feeling the smooth circle dig into your flesh as you tighten your hold. You’ll get out of here. But first – you’ll have to figure out how to survive.

You throw one last look at the terribly open ocean, lips pressed into a firm line as you turn your back on what will with no doubt become a horribly familiar sight. It’s with newfound determination that you start walking towards the thick vegetation, the sand underneath your feet giving away to grass the closer you get to the tree-line. You don’t need to look back to know that the vastness of the ocean is mocking you, that it doesn’t think you'll ever survive as long as it’ll take for another ship to sail past. It’s fine, you think. You’ve always had a thing for proving others wrong.

The island is surprisingly big. Judging by how high the sun has risen in the sky, and how the trees and underbrush continue to stretch on for as far as you can see, you don’t think you’ll be able to reach the other side before nightfall rolls around. It’s hard to tell, but you think it’ll likely take you around two days worth of walking to get to the other side. You let out a tired sigh as you rest against a fallen log, your feet bright red from the continuous walking. The ground is unexpectedly soft despite the variety of plants and grass growing here, but that’s probably the least curious thing about the island. There are no animals to be found here. Not even birds. Had this island only been a stretch of sand in the ocean, you wouldn’t have questioned it, but the thing is, this island is thriving. Logically, it should be bursting with some sort of wildlife. So far you’ve walked past a plethora of bushes so heavy with berries that should be able to sustain a whole array of animals.

As if that wasn’t enough, you even managed to stumble upon a deep pool of water that appeared to be fresh. Considering the island is surrounded by the ocean, by salt, it shouldn’t be possible. But somehow, it is. And that’s not even the weirdest part. The island is littered with gems and gold. You gave up hours ago on collecting them when your pockets became too heavy. You shake your head. This whole place is just bizarre, you’ve never heard of anything like this before. Jimin’s words did tickle the back of your mind, but you quickly brushed them off. There’s no way that this is the island he found, not when you still had one more week left to sail.

You push off the log, hoping to retrace your steps back to some of the more familiar looking bushes. You don’t have the luxury of being afraid of poisonous plants, not when it’s the only thing that might sustain you while you’re stuck here. Your stomach is rumbling obnoxiously by the time you make it back to the berries, and it’s with all of your self-restraint that you manage to hold back from finishing a whole bush in one go. You need to be smart and ration it so that it can last for as long as possible. You plop the last berry into your mouth, savouring the sweet taste as you begin the trek back to the beach. Despite not running into an ounce of life beside yourself, you can’t help but be vary of the parts you have yet to explore. So for now, you decide that the beach will serve as a good place to set up camp.

By the time you make it back to the beach, the sun is barely hanging on to the horizon. You squint against the fiery red, noticing a small lump resting on top of the flat rocks on the shoreline. A pang of joy travels through your body when you realize what it is you’re looking at. It’s a fish. It’s food. The fish is completely still, so the poor thing must’ve somehow jumped out of the ocean on its own. A voice in the back of your mind reminds you that the ocean is too calm, the waves to quiet, to throw the fish up on the rocks, but it’s quickly muffled by the sheer joy you feel of having something proper to eat. Who are you to question Lady Luck’s kindness after all?

You just count yourself lucky that you at least learned how to light a fire with minimal resources when you were younger. Once the fish is roasted and resting in your filled belly, it’s time to tuck in for the night.

You lay down as close to the fire as you dare, mindful to keep enough distance that any stray sparks won’t catch on your clothes. The island has grown chilly alongside the arrival of the moon, so you’re thankful for the extra warmth the fire provides. You empty out all the little treasures you collected into a neat pile, placing the crimson shell carefully on top of it. It’s strangely comforting to look at the flames dancing across the scalloped ridges, the gems and gold glittering in the low light. You keep watching until your eyes grow too heavy, exhaustion finally pulling you under into a deep sleep.  

It’s been three days, and the fish keeps appearing on the rocks like clockwork. You’ve taken to exploring the thick vegetation during the day, but there’s always a new fish waiting for you when you return to the beach. You would call the whole thing weird, but you’ve come to understand that most things on this island are. So, you quickly stop questioning it. But you shouldn’t have. That was your first mistake.

You shove a branch out of your way with a little more force than necessary, huffing in annoyance as you trek on deeper into the greenery. You’ve started to lose hope that you’ll ever get saved. You’ve run through every possible scenario in your head hundreds of times, but the heavy feeling in your gut tells you that it would only be foolish to hope. You’re not even sure that anybody knows that you’re missing.

“There you are,” You grumble under your breath as you finally spot the pool of fresh water, the large pond surrounded by beautiful orange flowers. You sink down to your knees in front of the body of water, eagerly scooping up the cold liquid to quench the dryness in your throat. The water is clear enough that you can make out the smooth stone lining the pond, but not enough that you can gauge just how deep it really is. The bottom is too dark, almost pitch black, and it always sends a shiver down your spine when you stare into it for too long. You’re about to take another sip when you swear you see a flash of red zoom past, your hands freezing above the water's surface. What if there’s something lurking down there?

Your eyes search frantically around the pond for another glimpse, but there’s nothing. You shake yourself out of your thoughts, scoffing at your own stupidity. It’s likely just another gemstone reflecting the light back up from the depths of the pool, nothing more and nothing less. You ignore the weak tremble in your hands as you rise back to your feet, your steps a little more hurried than usual as you begin the trek back to your beach. You must be starting to lose your mind.

When you return to the beach, there’s no fish waiting for you. You shrug it off easily, chalking it up to your luck finally running out. It was probably just a strong current that dragged some unsuspecting fish close to the island, and had enough force to throw them up on the rocks. Probably. It sounds plausible enough. With the absence of the fish, you just thank your past self for already having eaten some berries on your walk back, so that you won’t have to go to sleep hungry.

As morning rolls around, there isn’t a fish that catches your attention, but rather something else. Resting on the rocks is a massive pearl, the sphere so large your thumb and middle finger barely manage to meet when wrapped around it. The colour is mesmerizing. You roll the pearl around in your hands, watching as the deep red colour shifts into lighter and darker hues as you move it around. Come to think of it, haven’t you seen this exact colour before? You sprint up the beach to your little pile of treasures, carefully holding up the shell next to the pearl. They’re identical.

Your brows furrow in confusion as you twist and turn them around. How can a shell you picked up in your village match a pearl found over a week’s travel away? That’s impossible. You gently place both of them down on the ground, nibbling on your bottom lip as you turn around to face the ocean. A ripple in the surface catches your attention, but it’s too far out for you to see what could’ve caused it. A fish, you decide. That’s the only thing it can be after all. You sink down into the sand, running your fingertips along the smooth surface. It’s a pretty pearl – and you decide you’re going to cherish it just as much as your shell.

That's your second mistake.  

After you pick up the pearl, the fish miraculously return. In the following days there’s an abundance of fish greeting you on the rocks, some even showing up before you wake up. You can’t remember the last time you were so well fed. Not even your life back in the village kept you this sated every day. Maybe your fleeting luck has returned. Slowly, the days begin blending together as you keep exploring, picking up little treasures along the way and adding them to your ever-growing pile at the beach. It’s not much, but it’s keeping you sane.

You poke at the blazing bonfire in front of you, making sure that the fire is burning steadily before you venture down to the shoreline. Little gems keep washing up every now and again, so you’ve made it your nightly routine to go pick up those you can find. You halt as you reach the flat rocks nestled between the beach and the ocean, another ripple in the quiet surface a little further out making you curious.

Your third mistake.

You walk carefully over to the edge of the rock, peering down into the dark water. Dusk has started to settle in, but the last rays of light clinging on to the horizon are enough for you to notice something bright underwater. It looks like it’s leaning on a ledge in the rock, the item long and pale. You can’t really make out what it is – a long shell maybe? – but since you’ve already committed to picking up everything around the island, you might as well retrieve this too.

You get down on your knees, one hand curling around the edge of the rock for support as you lower your other arm into the cool water. You frown as fingers only graze over the top, not quite managing to reach it. Your arm is already drenched, so you figure it doesn’t matter if the rest of your blouse gets a little wet too. The fire will dry it quickly enough.

You lower your body further, your face nearly flush with the ocean as the last little push finally lets your hand finally close around the item. You smile, starting to pull yourself back up when something slimy wraps around your wrist, a harsh tug forcing your upper body down under water before you can even think to catch your breath.

Your eyes open in shock as the cold water suddenly surrounds you, and you swear you heart stops as the bubbles settle enough for you to see the creature in front of you. It has a human face, a handsome face, with long dark locks framing it, but the pupils in its eyes are unnaturally wide and blood red – and you can see your own terrified expression reflected back in them. Your eyes fly over the exposed skin of the creature’s torso and arms, your still heart dropping to your stomach as you notice that its skin starts transitioning into crimson scales around its hips, and that there’s a fucking tail where its legs should be. The pressure around your wrist tightens, and you snap your attention back to the creature’s face just as it opens its jaw to let out a series of clicking noises. It barely parts its lips, but it's enough for you to see the rows of sharp pointed teeth lining the inside of its mouth, a forked tongue moving around as it speaks. It’s a man, but it’s also not– it’s .. it’s a monster.

Your heart finally jumpstarts as your lungs begin to burn from the lack of oxygen, adrenaline shooting through your veins as you begin trying to pull yourself back up to the surface. The creature’s face seems to grow confused at your sudden struggle, another series of clicking noises leaving its mouth. A webbed hand comes into your line of sight, clawed fingertips reaching out towards your face. You’re sure your face will be mauled if they come in contact with your skin, so with newfound vigour, you finally find the last push of strength you need to rip yourself away from the hold around your wrist.

At the first breath of air, you scramble away from the edge of the rock, your trembling legs stumbling and folding underneath you as you race up the beach. You collapse against the sand besides your bonfire, barely hearing your own ragged breathing over the blood pumping in your ears. Your whole body freezes up in panic as you watch the creature’s head pop up over the edge of the rock, blood red eyes finding yours immediately. The low clicks that fill the air makes the back of your neck feel tight, your skin prickling in terror at how the noises seem like a warning. You don't dare move your eyes away until the creature sinks back down into the ocean, and out of view. You don’t know how long you stay there, warm tears streaming down your cheeks as you silently stare out at the calm water. You’ll never get away if that creature is out there.

It’s only when you’re sure that the creature is gone that you allow your attention to shift downwards, to the item still secured tightly in your grasp. You slowly open your hand to study it, eyes growing wide as you realize what it is.

A human jaw.

Choked sobs rip through your chest as you fling it into the bonfire, the smooth white surface even brighter in the midst of the flames. You furiously rub your hand on the fabric of your trousers, your stomach turning as the fire crackles louder around the bone. The gems, the fish, the bones, they wouldn’t have just ended up here alone. That creature must have brought it all here. It must have brought you here.

It dawns on you that you haven’t been lucky at all, no, instead you’ve only been surviving because the creature has wanted you to. Your fate is in the hands of a monster – one that seems furious that you ran away from it.

“Fuck,” you whimper pitifully, burrowing your head into your shaking hands. You have a feeling your time might be up.

a/n: hope you enjoyed the second part to the crimson shell! i would really appreciate a comment/reblog if you did! the next chapter will be the most spicy? disturbing? whatever you want to call it hhh. (ps. i’m not doing a tag list for this mini series!) as always, see you all soon and stay safe! and in case you enjoy my stories and want to buy me a coffee, you can do so here! 💖

[itsallyscorner]

positions with chris evans (smut implicit if you feel comfortable) he is her new bf and her ex was a horrible guy. Now she is happy with Chris and is all, fluff

I haven’t written for Chris in a while now and I miss my bubba🥺 Thank you for the request lovely, hope you like it!

💌.

positions

a/n: (f/n) ~ friend’s name

warnings: I’m a bitch for back stories so the beginning is like long....enjoy:) also smut**

Heaven sent you to me

I'm just hopin’ I don't repeat history

You were never good at relationships. You weren’t a horrible person to date; relationships just never worked for you. One ex cheated, another drifted apart, and the last one canceled your engagement. You’ve had it rough. Though, you were confident in yourself and believed that you were an independent woman; you ARE an independent but you just needed some love. You could manage to be on your own. However, you didn’t know how long you’d last until the loneliness got to you.

You were spiraling down a hole of self pity and insecurity after your ex-fiancé called off your engagement. You’ve isolated yourself from your friends and spent more time at the bar. Not to look for some rebound but to wallow in your self pity even more. As if the world knew you needed a pick me up, you bumped into Chris.

You were in one of those lowkey bars in LA drinking a Seagrams. Why a Seagrams? You came alone to the bar which meant you had to drive yourself home. So no getting shitfaced drunk for you.

You were sitting at the bar sipping on your drink as you ate some fries. There was some random football game on the tv but you didn’t pay any mind to it. You were scrolling through your phone when a tall man sat into the seat next to you. You glanced at him, meeting his blue eyes for a second, before you looked back to your phone. Chase, the bartender, asked the stranger with the blue eyes what he wanted.

“Just a beer.” His voice was thick with hints of a Boston accent in it. His large frame settled into a small dainty chair that looked as if it were going to collapse underneath him.

“It’s pretty quiet here for a Friday night.” The man said from beside you. It took you a moment to realize he was talking to you. You shut your phone off and turned your attention to him.

“Um yeah, it’s always like that around here.” You answer with a tight smile. His face makes an “oh” kind of expression.

“Ah, it’s my first time around here.” He nods to Chase as he finally gets his beer. You nod at his answer and go back to your phone.

“So do you come here often?” You hear him ask. You sigh as you turn to face him again.

“Yeah, I’ve been going here for a few months now.”

“Alone?” He questioned you as his took a swig of his beer. You didn’t know what his deal was but you just weren’t in the mood for it.

“Yeah, alone.” You stifle a fake laugh as you turn back to your phone. He goes silent for a few minutes, making you think he was done. Until he asked you another question then another. This continued for half an hour. He asked you some random question and you replied with a short half assed answer. He just couldn’t catch a hint.

“Look, if you’re trying to get into my pants, I’m not interested.” You interrupt him as he was asking another question. A smug look made its way onto his face as he held his hands up in surrender.

“Well I wasn’t trying to get into your pants.” He started, “Something seemed to be bothering you so I thought I’d start a conversation with you and you could vent to me.” He defended himself as he shrugged his shoulders. You felt your face flush in embarrassment as guilt took over your body. You cringed at yourself and groaned into your hands.

“Gosh, I’m so sorry. You were just being nice and I had to let my ego get in the way.” You apologized as you took your head out your hands. The man chuckled as he waved off your apology.

“Nah, you’re all good. I should’ve been straight to the point.” He rolled his eyes at himself as he leaned forward.

“So, is there anything bothering you? You were literally spaced out while you went though your phone.” He crossed his arms together as he rested his head on his bicep.

“Stalker much?”

“Nah, just observant.”

“I don’t wanna waste your time.” You tell him. He shrugs once again as he leans closer to you.

“I’ve got all night. Tell me what’s wrong.”

Boy, I'm tryna meet your mama on a Sunday

Then make a lotta love on a Monday (Ah, ah)

Never need no (No), no one else, babe

The bar became a frequent meet up place for you and Chris. The first night you told him about your troubles and he listened without any interruptions, only asking a few questions here and there. The second night you learned about him and his job. Turns out he was Captain America, you still don’t know how you didn’t recognize him. Third night you guys shared an order of fries as he tried to explain a football game to you. The fourth night you listened to him talk about his anxiety and how much he missed his family. The fifth night you two finally took it to his place and spent the early hours of the morning between his sheets.

Now six months later you were still spending the mornings in his sheets but now you were his girlfriend.

The sun was warm against your back as you woke up. You could feel Chris run circles soothingly onto your back making you sigh in content. You felt him press a kiss onto your temple as he pulled you closer to him.

“Mornin’ sweetheart.” His voice was gravelly still laced with sleep. You finally open your eyes and see his bright blue eyes staring down at your (e/c) eyes.

“Hey bubs.” You sleepily smile at him as you rub the sleep out your eyes and stretch. Dodger was resting at the foot of the bed, his nose bumping into your or Chris’ foot occasionally.

“You got any plans today?” He asked as he laid on his back taking you with him. You traced the Dodger tattoo on his chest as you thought for a second.

“Mmmm, not much. It’s a lazy Sunday for me.” You shrugged as you glanced up at him, “What are your plans for today?”

“Well my family’s coming over, so we might head to some restaurant and hang there.” He mentioned as he carded his fingers through your hair.

Suddenly an idea popped into your head, “Why don’t they just come over for dinner?” Chris’ head snaps down at you.

“What do you mean?”

“I’ll cook and they could come over for dinner. Plus aren’t they just coming from the airport? I’m sure they’d want to be comfortable instead of going to a restaurant.” You explained as you flipped over to rest on your elbows. Chris looked at you adoringly as you waited for him to reply.

“You’d do that for me?” He asked sounding a bit shocked.

“Yeah, of course I would, Chris. They’re you’re family and you’ve mentioned that you’ve been missing them for a while. So whatever makes you happy.”

Chris says nothing before he leans forward to catch your lips into a passionate kiss. You giggle against him as he turns you over so you’re resting on your back.

’Cause I'll be

Switchin' them positions for you

Cookin' in the kitchen and I'm in the bedroom

I'm in the Olympics, way I'm jumpin' through hoops

Know my love infinite, nothin’ I wouldn’t do

That I won't do, switchin’ for you

“Chris. If— If I’m going to be cooking—“ you begin to say but Chris just keeps interrupting you with his lips. You laugh as you push his face away from yours. He opens his eyes and looks down at you upset.

“Baby, if I’m going to cook for your family, I need to start now. I don’t even know what I’m gonna make yet.” Chris hangs his head down as he huffs.

“We can figure that out later, right now I just wanna show you how much I love you right now.” He moved your hands off his shoulders and used one of his hands to hold both your wrists above you.

His pupils were dilated as he gazed lovingly at you. He turns away for a second to tell Dodger to leave the room. When you hear the pitter patters of Dodger’s nails down the hall, Chris slots himself in between your legs. He presses his hard on against your clothed mound making your breath hitch. His lips meet yours again, but this time they moved slower as if they were savoring the feeling of you against them.

You wrap your legs around his torso and push his hips down to meet yours as you grind against him. The feeling makes you moan as his bulge rubs against you. You could feel yourself starting to get wetter and wetter as Chris’ tongue slips into your mouth.

You whine as you try to get your wrists out of his grip. You bite down on his lip as you pull away to stare up at him with your hazy eyes. The action causes Chris to groan and rut his hips against you even more. You let go of his lip and kiss down his jaw to his neck.

“Take those off.” You whine as your feet kick at his boxers.

“Impatient, huh?” Chris chuckles before he listens to you. You feel his length brush up against your thigh making you want him even more.

“I want you in me, Chris.” You moan against his ear. Chris uses his free hand to remove your panties and toss them to the side. His cold fingers run past your folds as he spreads your wetness. The coldness compared to your warmth made you flinch.

“Look at that, baby. Got you all wet and I haven’t even done anything yet.” He tsked huskily as he brings his fingers with your juices to rest on your lips. You wrap your lips around his fingers and swirl your tongue around them as you taste yourself on him.

“I love you so much. Do you know that?” He asks you through gritted teeth. He takes his length and starts to stroke it. You bite your lip as you see his red tip glaring up at you. You could see the pre cum drip from his slit and onto your stomach. You take some of his pre cum and bring it down to your pussy to mix with your arousal.

“Fuck.” Chris groans as he sees your fingers scissor your folds making you writhe underneath him. Your head felt like it was in a haze as you stroked yourself while Chris sucked and toyed with you nipples. Chris began to move south but you stop him.

“Baby, as much as I would like to have you eat me out, I really need to get a head start on cooking.” You painfully tell him. You really wanted him down there but it was nearing the afternoon and you wanted to make sure the food was perfect for his family. Chris sighs knowing you’re right.

“Alright, alright. But my head’s going to be down there all day tomorrow. Wanna see you cum all over my face and drip down the sheets. You’re not gonna be able to walk for weeks.” He declares before lining himself up with your entrance. You lazily smile at him as you peck his lips.

Perfect, perfect

You're too good to be true (You're too good to be true)

But I get tired of runnin', fuck it

Now, I’m runnin' with you (With you)

“I love you, Chris.”

“I love you too, (y/n).” He says before plunging himself into you. His length stretches you out, the burn of pain and pleasure made your back arch.

You’ve had sex with Chris many times, but the feeling of him entering you and stretching you out would never get old. You loved how your walls just molded around him and how he perfectly filled you up to the brim.

He begins to move out before plunging back into you. When Chris noticed that you’ve gotten comfortable with his length his thrusts began to speed up. You moved your knees to rest against your chest so you can feel him deep inside you. His rough thrusts made your eyes roll to the back of your head as you moaned Chris’ name out loud.

“Hey, hey, no. Look at me.” He tilts your face at him so your eyes are connected. He rests his forehead against yours as his hands rest on your legs for leverage.

When he feels your walls tighten around him he brings his thumb to your clit and rubs tight circles and figure eights on it. You let out a high pitch moan as the tightness in your belly gets tighter.

“C—Chris I’m gonna cum.” You say through labored breathing.

“Yeah, I know. Come on, cum, I’m right behind you.” He tells you as he thrusts into you a few more times. Your orgasm takes over your body as you arch against Chris. He emptied himself into you, riding out his high.

The two of you laid beside each other on the bed as you caught your breath. You turned your head to look at Chris, to find him already looking at you.

“So, uh steak sounds really good for tonight.” He says making the two of you burst out in laughter.

This some shit that I usually don't do (Yeah)

But for you, I kinda, kinda want to (Mmm)

'Cause you're down for me and I'm down too (And I'm down too)

Yeah, I'm down too

The dinner went by like a breeze. You took Chris’ advice and cooked some steak and pasta. You made sure to throw in some fries and chicken nuggets for the kids.

You were now in the living room, sitting with his mom and sisters as they told you old stories about Chris’ childhood.

“I swear that boy kept me on my toes. He was a good kid but always up to something. Poor Scott had to always cover for him.” Lisa mused as she shook her head.

“Yeah poor Scott!” You all heard Scott yell from the kitchen. You all laughed as the two brothers entered the room, a bottle of wine in Chris’ hand as Scott held multiple glasses.

“They haven’t been embarrassing me too much, right?” Chris asked you as he helped you off the couch to sit in your spot. He guided you to sit on his lap as he wrapped his arm around your torso.

“No, besides the fact that you’re a troublemaker and slept with diapers till you were like five.” You teased him.

“Oh come ‘ahn, ma!” He groaned throwing his head back. Lisa put her hands up as she pointed at his sister, “It was Carly!”

They began to talk about how the kids were growing up and caught up with each other’s daily lives. You sat against Chris’ chest as you listened to them.

“You alright?” Chris whispered into your ear as he noticed you get quiet.

“Yeah, are you alright?” You asked turning to face him.

“I’m perfect. Thank you, by the way. I really appreciate it.” He tells you quietly so only you can hear. A small smile is on his face as he rests his chin on your shoulder.

“Anytime, hun.” You kiss his forehead and tune back into Carly talking about one of her student interactions at work. You felt Chris relax against you as he leaned back onto the couch.

This was why you did the things you did for him. To see him visibly relax around his family and let him feel like he was home. You loved the way his eyes lit up when his niece or nephews would tell him about something new they learned. Or how happy he gets when Scott tells him about some new adventure he and his boyfriend went on. You adored his happiness and you’d do anything in the world to see him like this everyday.

[sevi007]

Baltheir must've seen Fran go ballistic like that once, knows that Mist can have a pretty strong effect on Veira, so this is probably isn't much of a surprise for him now. But consider, first time he saw her like that, wide eyed and feral, he's trying to calm her down cause she looks like she's scared or in pain, hugging her close until she calms down not caring about the wounds she's causing. When she comes to Fran tries to apologize but Baltheir wouldn't have any of it. 1/2

once he's done dressing his wounds, and hers, they have a long conversation about how Mist can effect a Veira so they can be better prepared next time. And Fran apologizes once more for that "ugly display" and Baltheir scoffs, "Fran, dear, you're a lot of things, but ugly? Never." She stares at him in shock for a moment before she smiles. and then, "if anything, you were even more beautiful, now that I have a chance to look back on it, you're very pretty when you're mad" she pinches him. 2/2

@rex101111 is absolutely my greatest enabler, and nobody should be surprised anymore when I take one of the prompts he gives me and just write an entire One-Shot out of it. Like I did here. In a rush.

(It is not quite what you had in mind, Rex, but I really had only so much influence over where this story went. I think the FFXII characters just possessed me halfway through and wrote this themselves. I hope you still like it as much as I liked writing it!)

Enjoy!

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ XII ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Fran knows it was a mistake, following Balthier’s lead. It does not matter what treasures awaited them, or how sure of their success he was; the moment he had told her their next trip would take them to the fallen city of Nabudis, she should have turned heel and walked out on him.

And yet, here she is; breathing in mist rather than air, feeling it claw at her throat and her mind, while she follows the hume man through this laid-bare bones of what was once a glorious city. Because it is Balthier who asked, and Balthier who lead the way. And Fran always, always followed his lead, ever since they had met each other. This, she knows, is a weakness.

She should have known better, than to let herself be weak. The forest taught her that. Life taught her that. Weakness means death.

The thought thrums through her, clear like a bell. It is the last clear thought she has before the burning of the mist ignites inside her, explodes in an inferno, and her head feels like it is being split in two. She thinks she screams, but she cannot be sure; the next thing she knows she is on her knees, doubling over onto all fours, and she is burning alive as the mist rages through her, her world tinging red.

With blurry eyes she watches her fingers curl together and her nails elongate, and tries to choke out a warning, but it never comes. Her head tips back and she catches a glimpse of Balthier, whirling around towards her with his eyes wide, before she opens her mouth and screams.

It is every nightmare she ever had, combined. She has feared such a moment for several reasons, and only one of them being what will he think of me, seeing me so unhinged?

The other, much more potent fear, was for his fragile hume life.

She is Viera; hers is the strength of nature, of the very forest which gave birth to her. With the mist clouding her mind, there is nothing to reign in that strength. She is a storm, an earthquake, a beast let loose. Her nails are claws slashing, her limbs like whips clashing, and her power enough to shatter stone and steel, so, so easily crush bones into dust.

And Balthier, the brave fool, takes one look at her twisted features, at her trembling body ready to pounce and rip him to shreds, and does exactly what she feared he would do: He runs towards her instead of away from her.

Fran wants to scream at him stop, you foolish boy, stop, but all which comes forth is another heart stopping howl and then Balthier is already crushing into her at full speed.

Instinct moves her; her body bucks and rears and tries to throw him off while she snarls and hisses at him. His arms come around her and he holds on with all his might. To her, it might as well be paper stripes trying to hold her back.

Not that he is trying to hold her down. It is from far away that the tiny part of Fran which is still her, which can still think, notices this. He is not holding onto her arms, trying to contain her. He simply cradles her protectively wit no care for his own wellbeing. As if her claws are not at present tearing into his shoulders, cutting through cloth and skin alike. And he is talking; a low, gentle murmur which should have gotten lost in her own thunderous roars but somehow rings louder still in her ears.

“… this why you did not want to come here? Forgive me, Fran. I should have listened to you.”

Perhaps it is the proximity to him. Perhaps the surprise of him being the one apologizing filters through. Whatever it is, her mind clears, if only a little, even while her body is still wildly out of her control. The rush of blood in her ears takes second place to the horrible sound of cloth tearing, skin ripping, and her own monstrous roars.

And over it all, Balthier’s voice, right there. “I will listen better from now on, I promise on the Strahl I will. You won’t have to endure this ever again.”

The hand which finds her cheek, thumb stroking infinitely gentle and too close to her sharp teeth, is a glaring contrast to her own vicious movements. Even in her rage, her body stiffens in surprise at the perplexing kindness of the gesture.

“You have every right to be angry with me, Fran. But right now, I need you to come back, you hear me?” The arms around her tighten as if trying to hold her together. “I know you are still in there, Fran. I know you can come back. Come back, please.”

Please.

It is that little word, the tremor of it, which stills her completely then. Fran is still breathing heavily, nostrils flaring, a mutinous growl rumbling in her chest. Yet she is no longer lashing out against the hume in her arms, her claws lying uselessly against his torn shoulders.

There is two equally strong urges fighting inside her - to destroy, and to protect.

Hurts. Pain. Lash out, her body burning under the mist thrums. The warm body pressed against hers is a nuisance. A danger, in her state. An enemy. Rip. Tear. Crush.

No. No. This is not an enemy. Fran clings to the blurry thought, as viciously as her inner beast, refuses to let it go again. This is no stranger. This is not any hume. This is the boy turned man who had taken one look at her and decided to reach out and give her a place to stay. This is her friend and partner who always has her back, no questions asked. This is Balthier.

Her Balthier. Who would hold onto the beast she had become to comfort it rather than cut it down in self-defense.

He has seen me, and he has not ran from me.

I will nothurt him.

She howls once more, but this time there is another sound wrenched in between; a sob. A mixture of fear and relief. It is like a rain drop onto a wildfire, but it is a start. It repeats itself, again and again. Her hands loosen, relax into something more natural once more. She drops in Balthier’s arms, slumps over like a puppet with its strings cut loose. She does not even notice when the world tilts around her and her back meets the ground.

The last thing she sees is Balthier’s face above her, pale and horribly young, mouth moving silently; or can she simply not hear him? His eyes look red, she thinks and moves to reach out and do something about it – but her body feels far, far away. Her arm simply will not do as she wants.

She cannot even worry about it before darkness takes over her senses and she knows nothing anymore.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ XII ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

“I am quite sure a potion would have done the trick just as well-…”

“Be quiet, Balthier.”

He tries, for her sake. Even from behind, Fran can see him try valiantly to bite back the words, jaw working, before he does finish just like she expected, “You should save your energy.”

They have been going back and forth on this for a while now, so Fran decides it is best to let it be and simply do her work. In the silence, she focuses on drawing the tiniest bit of mist from the air and spin it into the most potent Cure she is capable of at present.

Fran understands his worries, she does. After all, she had needed to be carried back all the way to the Strahl after her breakdown and even then it had taken several hours before she had come back to consciousness once more. She knows he caresand that that is why they had nearly started wrestling with each other when she had tried to get up at first, and once more when she had started to tear at his shirt to try and assess the damage shehad done to him while he protested and tried to wave it off as nothing.

Fran knows all that. But as is usual with them, Balthieralso understand that she needs to do this without needing to hear it, and so he lets her, despite his grumbled protests and all his eye-rolls. It is for her peace of mind that she spins the magic and pours it into his body. Each bit of skin which knots back together and smooths out is a tiny piece of her own heart healed, a weight lifted of her shoulders as she watches her sins be wiped away slowly.

Once she is done, her hand hover uselessly over Balthier’s back for a moment, torn between reaching out and touching the skin there. As if to make sure it really is healed and hides no further injuries.

Injuries I caused.

“All done?” Balthier’s voice startles her. Humming in answer, she watches when he pushes to his feet and stretches his arms over his head with a relieved sigh. “Ah yes, so much better. Remind me to ask you for white magick lessons again. We save a fortune on potions that way.”

“I will.” Her gaze follows him while he moves about, checking the range of his motions, shooting her a distracted smile as he does. She means it; it will do him good to know healing magic himself, should she not be around… or lose herself once more.

“Thank you. Now. How does it look?”

At the prompt, Fran instinctively finds her gaze rack one more time over his bare skin, counting blemishes which are not there anymore. A few shadows remain; places where a Curaga would have done more than a mere Cure. But those were mere bruises, and a lot less than pains Balthier was more than used to.

Still the knowledge of the source of these shades sits as a knot in her belly, and she clenches her traitorous fists tightly.

A throat being cleared snaps her out of it. When her gaze meets Balthier’s, his eyes are dancing with laughter. “My dear, you are welcome to look all you want of course, but I was talking about my shirt.”

Despite herself, Fran feels her eyes crinkle with her own smile. Somehow he had always had the ability to make her smile once more, no matter what. With only a little derisive snort at his peacocking – he never grew out of that one, did he – she holds up the stripes held together by mere thread, lets the remains of the shirt dangle from her fingers. “Beyond all rescue.”

Balthier pulls a disgruntled face as if, somehow, this is the worst thing that has happened to him all day, and sighs deeply and dramatically. “A shame. That was my best one.”

The knot in her belly tightens once more, but before it can get too much, Balthier already keeps talking with a flourish of his hand. “Well. Once we’re both well-rested again, it seems to be time for another shopping trip. What would you say if you charter the course after getting a good night’s sleep? I will follow your lead.”

Fran blinks, and feels her ears swivel forward, as if she has somehow misheard him. “… me?”

“Why, yes,” Balthier is already up to his shoulders in the closet he has pilfered as his wardrobe and his voice is muffled, but she can hear his amusement clear as day anyway. “Who else should I ask? Bless his heart, but I would not trust Nono to steer us right. He understands the Strahlwell enough, but reading a map, well…”

“Why not pick a course yourself?” Fran interrupts him without thinking, still baffled. This is unpreceded; it has always been Balthier who led, and she who followed. A role-reversal feels much more significant than Balthier is trying to make this seem. After all… “Are you not the leading man in your story?”

“Our story, Fran. Ours.”

Balthier is busy pulling on a new shirt – of much lesser quality than its predecessor– over his head once he resurfaces and thus Fran has an unobserved moment to school her features and make sense of this grand declaration, handed to her so casually.

She barely manages to get a grip before Balthier smooths down the cloth and runs both hands through his unruly hair to tame it. He is still not looking at her when he continues, voice suspiciously light and casual.

“I had time to think.” While you were unconscioushe does not say but it rings loudly between them. “I might be a master thief and an even better pilot, that much is true, but I do not seem to have a knack for picking the our next destination. So I will leave that honor to you, and no one else.”

He turns, then, and whatever astonishment she has not gotten under control must show plain as day, for his smile spreads easily over his entire face, chasing away first hints of apprehension there. He has the gal to wink, this man, eyes bright. “Every good sky pirate needs a good navigator, after all.”

Something settles in Fran’s chest then, and suddenly, she understands. Understands that this is not only him apologizing again, but also a sign of trust. A reassurance that whatever happened today has not shaken his faith in her.

Fran is not prone to great outbursts of emotions. No Viera is. And yet. Once the real meaning of this gift Balthier is handing her with a boyish smile truly sinks in, she finds herself looking down at the torn shirt in her hands, blinking rapidly and struggling to keep her breath even.

The decision is a laughably easy one. Once she feels more in control again, she does not hesitate to push the shreds of cloth aside as far as possible and looks up at her friend. “No need to charter a course. Let us head for Nalbina next.”

Surprise flickers in Balthier’s features before he is already smirking again, head tilting. “To restock, I assume?”

Fran smirks right back, gestures at him; at the shirt with the too short cuffs and yellowing from age. “To get you something proper to wear.”

His crooked smile blooms into real delight and he throws his head back in a startled, happy full belly laugh, just like she had hoped he would. The sound fills the room and unravels the knot inside her completely, and she finds herself smiling at him much less smug, much gentler than she had wanted to.

“Why, Fran, don’t tell me you don’t like what you see!”

“Not particularly. Once you look into a mirror you will agree with me.”

“Ouch. You do know how to pick your words,” Balthier presses a hand to his chest, his eyes still laughing even while he has quieted down to mere chuckles. “But fine, as the lady wishes. Nalbina it is. Now?”

“Nothing is holding us here,” Fran points out. Knows that he will hear what really means. Let us not stay here any longer.

Sure enough, his expression turns serious ever so briefly before he smooths over it once more and dips low in a bow, hand outstretched. “Shall we, then?”

“We shall.”

Reaching out for him is easy. It always is. This time, Fran takes a tiny moment longer to admire her long-fingered hand in his shorter one. Hers is so very different from his. So very dangerous. Now, he knows that all too well.

And still, he does not hesitate to take it, hold it gently, and draw her to her feet so they are eye to eye once more.

He really is a marvel, this Balthier.

She is smiling with her entire face when she teases, “Choosing our course… Will that not make me the leading woman, then?”

“Please, Fran.” There is too much fond warmth there to make it sound like a reprimand, and they both know it.

She laughs, and says nothing about it anymore. It is simply not necessary. They both know that between them, there is no leader, and no follower.

There is only them, together, moving in tandem wherever they went.

And Fran would not want it any other way.

[bubblegumbeech]

Time Just out of Reach

Prompt fill for @sailor-toni and @ghostlyhabato

Pssst hey, hey you. Ship this with me.

He didn’t have his crown when he awoke. It was the first thing he noticed, and it had confused him as he blinked back flashes of fighting, desperate and vicious as cloaked figures, all too familiar yet made strange and unknown, locked him away. Relying on ancient magics and powerful spells, the traitors had been unable to defeat him properly, as warriors, and Pariah curled his lip at the memory.

But he’d still had his crown then and it took him a moment, having stormed away from the accursed coffin and it’s nauseating sleep, before he remembered the first time he’d awoken. There had been a child, incredibly powerful and with the kind of support Pariah hadn’t had since the peak of his reign’s popularity. He’d been the one to defeat him in the end, alone, in a battle that no ghost could say was anything but fair.

It settled something in him, almost. It was frustrating, naturally, to be defeated by a child. But in the Infinite Realms such things were rarely as they seemed, and it was unlikely that despite everything the one who had defeated him was truly as young as he looked. And he had defeated Pariah, unlike those before, in a proper fight.

The loss of his crown was only a natural progression of such, and while Pariah knew somewhere in the back of his mind that he would have reacted differently had he awoken earlier in his sleep, or even with the crown still atop his head, it was clear there was little to do either way. His ring was gone as well and there would be no commanding of armies this or any day. 

Instead, he decided to work on himself. To stretch out half formed and aching muscles from their prolonged and unnatural sleep and to walk once more throughout his own keep. 

There was much to be done, frankly, the castle itself had fallen into a horrible state of disrepair, and the grounds had become entirely overrun with all kinds of ghostly and dangerous plants. 

Once, just to see what would happen, Pariah had tried calling upon his skeletal army, but no matter how much power he pulled into the spell or how much he strained his core to its limits, the ground slept beneath him. It was almost freeing, knowing there was nothing to be done but to work and ready himself.

He spent the mornings getting reacquainted with his form and its abilities. The ectoplasm of the zone felt cleaner than he remembered it, and it helped energize him. It wasn’t long before he slipped easily back into his previous exercise routines and the strain was pleasant after so long sealed away. 

There was so much he missed, in the little things. Taking the time to prune and shape the weeds and vines around his grounds helped him to feel accomplished, like he was finally doing something after so long doing nothing. So much so, that going into his castle, using the energy he had to restructure and rebuild where it had started to decay and fall apart, felt worthwhile. 

It was nice, learning how to exist all over again. Without the need for conquest or dominion, there was a focus on the mundane and simple. Pariah had hardly remembered what that was like. If he had ever known at all.

The feelings and moments of quiet, by himself in his own keep brought back memories. Memories of certain people, certain events, things he’d lost long before. But like everything else that caused pain or bitterness to build back up within him, he pushed it aside and got to work, releasing the feelings out into the realms and focusing instead on what was before him, what he could touch with his own two hands. 

One day, as he was carving a particularly sturdy vine into a new possible weapon design, he was interrupted. Rather rudely in fact, by someone who thought it somehow acceptable to storm into his keep. 

Fortunately for the ghost, Pariah’s isolation had gifted him an unusual amount of patience and he’d let it live, if barely.

That had, naturally, been a mistake.

It turned out that ghost was only the first of many, many, ghosts that thought to challenge the great Pariah Dark for his title and crown. A title and crown, Pariah thought with no small amount of annoyance, that he’d already lost.

The ghosts were rare and few between at first, a momentary interruption in the mundane rebuilding that had become Pariah’s world. As such, he took those moments to remind himself what it was like to spar again, his core humming in his chest at every cross of blades, seeking challenge.

Rarely though, did the ghosts that had the blind courage to attack him, Pariah Dark, the first and only High King of the Infinite Realms, also have the strength to back up their bravado. So he’d held back. 

Another mistake.

It led to some of the more foolhardy ghosts returning to challenge him again, barely any stronger than they’d been when they first attacked. It was pathetic truly, to be so constantly accosted by those so clearly weaker than him. Then again, someone strong enough to match his strength would know better than to challenge him, would know better than to want that crown on their head. 

Pariah sighed, he was expecting the dragonling to arrive at any minute now. She was excitable and easily riled in a fight and Pariah had been using it against her in an attempt to desensitize her for a true battle. Soon, he’d move on to teaching her how to block more quickly and then how to use her powerful transformation abilities more smoothly in combat. It was a beginner’s mistake to think that the larger you are the greater your advantage at all times.

After he defeated her he’d have enough time, he thought, to start exploring the far tower. He’d been avoiding it so far, the memories present in that place were strong and could be overpowering, but there was only so much more work he could do on the rest of the castle while leaving it untouched as it was. Pariah disliked leaving a job undone, it itched under his skin, grating. 

“Behold Pariah Dark! I have come once more in my eternal quest to defeat you!” ah, there she was. He unsheathed his sword, it was time to see how much she had retained from their last bout. 

Pariah was cleaning the tower, starting with the bottom and working his way up. Not avoiding anything, just… prolonging the moment where he would reach that room. The one that held enough memories to start a flood, dammed only by Pariah’s firm refusal to open the door just yet.

He should have known that wouldn’t work.

“It seems out of character for you,” said an achingly familiar voice from just behind him. Pariah didn’t turn around, he didn’t know what he’d do if he met those eyes, and he couldn’t risk it. Not against this fragile peace that had formed in the time outside of his coffin, as short in comparison as it was. 

“You sent them to me didn’t you?” Pariah realized, pulled a particularly stubborn purple weed that had been growing through the cracks of the elegantly carved stone that made up the inner walls of the room. “This is another one of your schemes.”

It had been some time since they had last spoken and longer still since they had done so with no swords or weapons between them, and Pariah refused to allow it to affect him. He’d felt the burn already that came from trusting that voice. It was better, certainly, to keep the door locked.

“What makes you think I had anything to do with it?” his uninvited guest said. His voice was closer and Pariah flinched, quickly turning around only to see him there at the door, Clockwork. 

He was, unfortunately, still achingly beautiful. His features fine and chiseled, though his hair was hidden entirely by his hood, a practice he’d kept up after one too many comments about his unnecessarily alluring appearance. Many times he’d contemplated simply cutting his hair or doing something else equally horrid, but every time Pariah had talked him out of it, mumbling soft compliments as he combed through it in the mornings or tangled his hands into it at night. 

Had he cut it then? Since Pariah was locked away?

Since he locked Pariah away?

“It’s always one of your schemes” Pariah hissed. He walked deeper into the tower to get away, but it was useless. Clockwork simply glided along behind him, not acting at all like the bitter enemies they were, “you conniving, backstabbing pawn of those who watch and never act.”

Clockwork rolled his eyes, they were red. When had they become red? They used to be a deep purple, soft and mischievous and full of knowledge that even Pariah would never hope to match. Pariah had thought, once, that they were equals. He wondered now, if Clockwork had ever thought the same.

“I am simply visiting an old friend, surely my leash is long enough for that?”

His leash. So it was true then, Clockwork had been tied to the Observants’ will, just as the rumors suggested. It explained, Pariah supposed, why he had not been there when he had woken up before. “Is that what I am then? An old friend?”

Clockwork took mercy on him and shifted forms into his older self. His eyes were just as sharp, just as keen, but the urge to touch, to take for himself, lessoned as he watched muscles deteriorate and a beard grow long and knotted from the other ghost’s chin. “How would you describe it then, Pariah? Enemies?” Clockwork chuckled, “no, of course that’s how you would describe it.” 

Heart of the Realms he needed to get away, there was too much between them and the small moments of interaction he’d had sparring with random ghosts or seeking out current knowledge of the realms were hardly enough practice to deal with someone like Clockwork. 

But he didn’t stop following Pariah further into the tower and the familiarity of walking these halls, Clockwork at his side, was enough to force him into a stop. Why was he here? Just to make Pariah miserable? That seemed something he would do, conniving as he was. 

“It’s rude, you know, to enter a ghost’s lair uninvited,” he tried. 

Clockwork smiled, tilting his head in the way that meant he was being obnoxious on purpose. Pariah had, foolishly, assumed it would not be the kind of thing ever aimed at him. How bitter, to be proven wrong in such a way.

“I was under the impression that I had a standing invitation,” because he had. Because if anyone, Pariah had trusted this bastard the most and had not wanted even a day separated from his side. 

“I am not the one who betrayed his King.”

The time around them stilled, the realms silent in their entirety for just a moment. Clockwork’s expression was sheltered when Pariah had turned to look at him and he smiled bitterly, “The realms were never meant to be tamed Pariah. Not even by you.”

A familiar argument, one they’d had countless times, one that Pariah had thought unimportant in the scheme of things. He’d thought at the time, that if he could get the entirety of the realms under his control, infinite and expanding as they were, he could make Clockwork understand. It was his duty, it had been entrusted to Pariah. Just as the time stream had been entrusted to Clockwork. 

He should have known better really. 

“Then I rescind your invitation, you can leave now.”

Clockwork bowed, deep, formal, and it made Pariah grit his teeth. He’d never bowed to anyone but those pathetic eyeballs and Pariah knew what it truly meant to receive formalities from an Ancient. “Then I shall take my leave.”

Finally. Pariah refused to watch him go, and instead turned back to the walls he’d been so studiously clearing of their overgrowth before he’d been interrupted. 

The weeds had returned, covering every single inch of the room, just as they had before Pariah started clearing them away almost a week prior. Damn him. 

Pariah had finished the entirety of the tower’s first floor when he had returned, entirely unwelcome. “I don’t recall inviting you in,” he said, focusing on his work. He was restitching a cloth that had once been beautifully embroidered. Pariah’s own hands were hardly any good for delicate details but he made do through endless trial and error. He had all the time in the realms afterall, and it was in his nature to complete a task in its entirety. 

“No?” Clockwork said, his voice dry and purposefully pitched to piss him off, “so you don’t have an open door policy? You seem to have so many ghosts that come and go.”

He scowled, “they are fools, young and easily excited. They hope to defeat me and earn the crown for themselves. I am simply teaching them the error of their ways.” This stitch was particularly difficult, and in order to do it properly he’d need to focus. Something unlikely to happen with his current guest.

There was something uncertain in the ambient ectoplasm around them. A gentle wave gliding back and forth between a tentative hope and a deeper, darker mistrust. Pariah ignored it. There was no reason he should be so intune with another ghost’s moods, especially not this ghost.

Unlike Pariah, who wanted this conversation finished and to be left once more to his peace, Clockwork was an instigator, clearly here only to frustrate. He floated closer, just out of reach, “teaching them? It’s been some time since you bothered to take an apprentice.”

Pariah set down his work and stood up properly, Clockwork had shifted into an adult form since showing up and the mischievous tilt of his lips left Pariah frustrated and frazzled. There was no reason for him to be here, except to torture with his presence, precise and devastating. 

“They aren’t apprentices, you of all ghosts should know better than to think I would ever be so patient as to take someone under me.” as King, he‘d always been too busy, too easily frustrated, too stressed. Clockwork had been there, the nights where Pariah had wished he could give it all up, had spoken in whispers about what could have been if only he’d refused the crown. 

Clockwork smiled, a show of his fangs, and Pariah clenched his fist to stop from reaching out. If he tried, he could close the distance between them quick enough to pull Clockwork towards him entirely. Perhaps he’d end this game if Pariah called his bluff. Pariah wondered how many futures he saw, where Pariah did just that. He wondered how confident he was that those futures would not be his own. 

“I just thought to inform you,” his smile only stretched wider and Pariah wondered what had him so delighted, for surely it meant nothing good, “that I have taken on an apprentice myself.”

That had not been what Pariah expected at all. Clockwork was rarely around children or younger ghosts in the time Pariah had known him, and while many of the more powerful inhabitants of the zone spoke often of their desire for children, he had not heard such from Clockwork in the times they had known each other. 

Was that simply another truth that had been hidden from him, was the ghost he’d known nothing more than a lie, perfectly catered to Pariah’s own desires in order to trick and to trap him?

He looked over at his unwanted guest, unease threaded through his core. The mischievous smile had yet to fall and as much as Pariah wanted to bite it, he turned away instead, “are you hoping for us to meet? I should think you wouldn’t be so foolish to bring someone you care for anywhere near me.”

“Not at all,” Clockwork answered easily, floating closer once more, “besides, you’ve already met.”

Already met? Surely Clockwork wouldn’t have taken one of the foolish, eager ghosts that thought to challenge him in his time awake as an apprentice. They were hardly suited towards him and his subtle manipulations. 

But he hadn’t met anyone else since waking, few ghosts that remembered his reign wished to meet with him, and there was little reason for someone that had caught Clockwork’s discerning eye to seek out a failed king. Unless he had come to spy on him? No, there was little Clockwork did not know, and even less that he could not simply discover for himself using those accursed mirrors. 

Clockwork tilted his head, a mischievous smile still in place, “you don’t want to know his name?”

So it was a him, that narrowed it down marginally, “I wouldn’t know it either way.”

“I suppose you wouldn’t have known the name of the ghost that defeated you, too busy getting stuffed into that coffin of yours.”

Pariah reached out, a blast built in his palm, to attack. But Clockwork, as always, had expected it and floated easily out of his reach, dodging the ectoblasts Pariah released after him as he fled the keep.

Good riddance. 

The next visit, Pariah had been the first to speak, “where is my crown?” he asked. 

Clockwork had shifted into his older form and gently stroked his beard, pretending to think about the question Pariah had asked. As if he didn’t know the answer, as if he didn’t know everything. 

“Would you really like to know?” He didn’t. Not truly, but he had wondered, if he asked, what Clockwork would say. He should have known it would be something cryptic and aloof. He’d never once bothered with straight answers before, it was unlikely he’d start now.

Pariah walked over to him, his steps steady and measured. He stopped just out of reach, as Clockwork had been doing to him in their visits and wondered, fleetingly, if it affected him at all. Surely not, as aloof as he’d been. If he felt as tortured by Pariah’s presence as Pariah felt by his, there would be no need for these games. They would simply avoid each other and that would be that.

He grabbed a book from a nearby shelf, they were in his study, private as it once was, and Pariah had been reading with the intention of catching up on the things he missed. Such as Clockwork’s new ward, the Half-ghost child that had been dead hardly a year before defeating Pariah. 

“Does your ward have it? Has he been claimed king? If so I’ll be sure to tell the fools that still visit to go after him instead.”

Humming, Clockwork floated over to Pariah’s desk. It was freshly carved, intricate designs by Pariah’s own hand. “There are some that do so already, but no, Daniel doesn’t have your crown Pariah. No one does.”

So there is no king.

“I see,” he said, opening his book to a random page and feigning interest. It was difficult, to be sure, when the most interesting thing in the whole of the infinite realms was here, sitting on Pariah’s desk. “You haven’t gotten any better at answering questions.”

Clockwork laughed.

And Pariah left the room. 

The next time Clockwork came to visit, it was just after a spar he’d had with one of his regular guests. It had been an improvement on her part, her control of her natural abilities was getting better and she had actually attempted to use technique instead of her admittedly limited brute strength.

But it had also been one sided, as all these matches were, and Pariah found himself itching for something more exciting. For a fight worth the effort of keeping his core lit. 

“Your teaching methods could use some work,” Clockwork had said, his voice smooth with an echoing touch of gravel, as he leaned over Pariah’s shoulder to see the weapon he was sharpening.

Pariah almost knocked him away, but as always, Clockwork was a moment ahead. Somewhere in the future. Never truly there, where Pariah was, always waiting instead where he would be. He growled.

“Then it is for the best I was not teaching.”

Clockwork smiled, “my mistake.” 

There was little doubt in Pariah’s mind that Clockwork had never made anything as simple as a mistake. There was too much that he knew, too much he could see. The decisions he made might not always lead to exactly what he wanted, his obsession unwilling to compromise the free will of others, but Pariah had no doubt that each and every one was perfectly calculated to the smallest minute detail. Mistakes were off the table.

He grabbed the weapon he’d been working and felt the weight and balance of it in his hand. His core, fresh from an unsatisfactory fight just moments before, hummed with energy. 

It would, Pariah mused, be enjoyable to catch Clockwork in a fight. But it was not something he did lightly, his powers, as grand as they were, were rarely suited for battle, and Pariah found himself wondering if he attacked now, would Clockwork fight back? Or simply stop time and flee, coward that he was. 

“The scar suits you,” Pariah said, stepping closer. Clockwork didn’t back away, but his expression twisted into something cruel. Pariah didn’t think about how well suited his features were for it, didn’t think about other expressions Clockwork might make and how Pariah had once made it his mission to see every single one. 

“Admiring your handiwork?” he said, his tone brittle and biting. 

Pariah was within an arm’s length now, “I had aimed for them both. I suppose it’s fortunate that I failed, seeing that you gave as well as you received.”

There was a tense silence and Pariah felt it almost like a physical barrier built between them. If he lifted his sword now, would it shatter? 

“I like to think I gave much better,” he said, nodding at Pariah’s eyepatch, “seeing as out of the two of us, I succeeded.” 

He lunged, but by the time the blade struck the ground, Clockwork had long disappeared. 

“Sever yourself from the observants,” Pariah demanded once he’d seen Clockwork again. 

There was a beat, a moment of time, and then Clockwork sighed, “and what, put myself into your less than merciful hands?”

He was in his youngest form, by all rights he should look vulnerable, weak, but he only looked tired. An expression Pariah had grown all to familiar with in the twilight of their relationship. Pariah scoffed, “better I than those useless snakes, they know not what they have. I’ve heard what they call you now, pet, attack dog. It’s demeaning.”

Clockwork looked up at him, his eyes deep and endless, “you are no longer a king Pariah. You hold no sway over the realms any longer.”

Said as if it were a gift, a token granted to him for his service. Then again, in the eyes of one such as him, it may very well be. Clockwork had always been bound in core and form by the duties required of him. 

“What hold do they have over you?” He asks, in need of an answer. Of something. Why would someone so powerful, so immeasurable, bend to the yolk of another? Especially those slimy optical wastes of ectoplasm. 

But he wouldn’t get an answer, not from Clockwork, and they both knew it. “The realms exist as chaos, those who seek to find order, or try and force their will upon it seek to destroy chaos. Everything that exists, exists with a sense of its own self preservation.”

Yeah, in no way was that an answer, and judging by the soft smile on Clockwork’s youthful face, he knew it too. “Yet you ally yourself with those things?”

Clockwork hummed, “everything is the way it’s supposed to be.”

Because of course it was.

“If you take a picture it will last longer,” Clockwork said nonsensically. 

Frustratingly, he was here, again, in Pariah’s keep, his personal lair, floating just an arm’s length away from him. Out of reach. “Is that supposed to make sense?” Pariah growls.

But Clockwork remained aloof, “you’re staring.”

Of course he was. Clockwork was in his adult form, all well-formed muscle and casual strength, soft skin blemished only by the scar Pariah had given him that fateful night. The claim he had carved.

“I’m admiring my handiwork as you said.” 

Clockwork tensed, “are you now? Looking to repeat the performance?”

He had been reading a book. Just, casually there, near Pariah in his own lair, reading a book. As if he owned the place himself, as if it were his. As if he were welcome here, to sit there carefree and out. of. reach. 

“Perhaps, if you wish to spend all of your time in my keep, I can leash you here.” he said, taking a page from Clockwork’s own book and ignoring the question. He stepped closer. 

Clockwork floated away, casual as ever, infuriating as ever. “I’m afraid I do have duties to attend, outside of babysitting you.”

“Is that what this is then?” Pariah growled, “your new masters sent you here to keep an eye on me? To make sure I am truly beaten, unwilling to rise again?”

“Something like that,” Clockwork drawled, “are you, Pariah?”

He crossed his arms, “Beaten? Am I not?”

Clockwork frowned, Pariah wanted to grab him by the chin, tilt his head up towards him and pull that infuriating hood away so he could no longer use it to avoid Pariah’s gaze. He held himself back, the other ghost was too far out of Pariah‘s grasp for now. Reaching for him too soon would only cause him to float away.

“You exist still,” he said, ignoring Pariah’s scoff, “you exist. Is that not what matters?”

Yes, he existed. He spent his days sparring with ghosts too weak to give him proper challenge, fixing a crumbling castle one single brick at a time, and waiting, with unwanted anticipation, to see if the ghost that had taken it all from him would bother to visit. 

“And what a glorious existence indeed,” he spat.

Clockwork was a child again, floating around and above Pariah’s head. He’d asked him once, if the changes were voluntary or natural, and Clockwork, true to himself as he ever was, had given a vague answer that hadn’t actually answered the question at all. 

“How is your ward?” Pariah asked, his eyes never leaving Clockwork as he circled above him. 

He hummed and gave a noncommittal answer, likely unwilling to speak too much about the young phantom, unwilling to place him in the line of Pariah’s sight. It was an unnecessary caution, Pariah held no interest in the boy outside of his relationship with the Ancient. 

The crown held little interest either, with how much Pariah had lost to keep it the first time. 

“I’m sure your new masters are thrilled you have taken in such a powerful ward,” he had meant it with mostly dry sarcasm. It was clear, in all the actions of the observants before, that they disliked things that were different, things that didn’t fit neatly in their pathetically limited labels. 

He hadn’t expected Clockwork to growl as if it were a threat. It caught him off guard. He'd known Clockwork was hardly loyal. It was, if anything, the most predictable aspect of who he was. A being created in chaos was not going to ally itself to any one doctrine for long, and especially not to the doctrine of another. 

It was why, Pariah thought, the observants kept him chained so thoroughly with responsibilities and rules, unable to go against what they demanded and busy with pointless, petty tasks. Had he been wrong?

 “He is my responsibility,” Clockwork scowled, aging into an adult, “as he is meant to be.”

So they didn’t know. It was likely, knowing Clockwork and his propensity for twisting language to his advantage, that they had said something threatening or demeaning towards either Clockwork or the boy and he had simply taken it to mean what he’d like. 

It also meant that it was something he was keeping hidden from them. An advantage, Pariah thinks, that a better man would refuse to take advantage of. But Pariah was no king anymore, there was no proper way to get what he wanted, no code of honor and chivalry. And what he wanted, was kept tantalizingly out of his reach. 

Why shouldn’t he grab what he could, to pull it closer to him?

Pariah had not slept since he awakened the second time from his slumber. The idea, while once a pleasant excuse to ignore his responsibilities for the sake of rest, was no longer appealing to say the least. He would not admit, even to himself, the fear that crept upon him at the thought. 

He was not scared to sleep, he did not lie awake, staring at the swirling mist and ectoplasm of the realms around him in fear that if he closed his eyes they may never open again.

“You should sleep Pariah.”

“Clockwork,” he greeted, not bothering to stand, “you of all people do not get to tell me that.”

There was a soft shuffle of fabric and Pariah felt the subtle change in the ambient ectoplasm of the zone as Clockwork sat beside him on the ground of his once grand courtyard. It had taken some time, but Pariah had managed to tame the plants and vines that had claimed the land for their own. 

In his impatience he had sheared more than was perhaps necessary, leaving much of the ground barren and lifeless entirely. There was nothing to be done, but to keep the plants tamed and wait for the rest to grow again. 

“It was supposed to be the merciful option,” Clockwork lied, “You always liked to sleep in, if I remember correctly.”

Pariah refused to look up at him, he didn’t know what he would do, should he see him, softly glowing and silhouetted against the sky, close enough to touch, and he was unwilling to test his own resolve. “I had a reason to stay in bed then, if I recall correctly myself.”

Clockwork didn’t rise to his bait, “if we had planned instead, to take your core… we would have failed. You would have won and gone forth to take more of the realms as your own.”

Because of course he would have, fresh from Clockwork and the other Ancients’ betrayals. He would have been angry, vindictive, the scar he had now would have been nothing in comparison to what Pariah would have done in retaliation for such betrayal from those he’d trusted so thoroughly. 

“You would have lost your resolve. And without it, the others would have fallen to my blade.”

Clockwork didn’t answer, of course. But he didn’t need to. One didn’t need the ability to look into the branching paths of the future in order to know someone else well enough to predict. And Pariah felt the truth in his words hit as Clockwork hesitated.

Without thinking, Pariah reached towards him. His hand had gotten almost close enough to grab the edge of that damned cloak before Clockwork was once more out of his grasp. 

The weeds around him had grown back, his work entirely undone. Petty bastard.

“Fright has yet to bother me as you do.”

Clockwork floated towards him, grabbed the book from his hand and floated away. Pariah didn’t resist, any hope of actually reading had fled at the other’s sudden appearance. 

He hummed, flipping carefully through the book. It was on gardening, Pariah had read through to the section on encouraging natural growth, methodical as always in any task he undertook. “You can hardly blame him, with the pumpkin and all.”

Pariah scowled, “he can’t still be trapped by that.” It was rare, quite frankly, for his royal knight to be trapped for long at all in that thing. 

There was always some foolish ghost or other entity that wanted to test their courage, and it only took one before Fright would be freed to roam the realms under his own power. The sorcerer that bound him in the first place had learned that lesson quickly and was now spending their time trapped in a tailor made dimension of their own. 

“He’s not.” Clockwork answered easily, then he paused, mused something over, and said, “he’s been training with Daniel. But he won’t come see you after your last time awake, not after what he and Vladimir did to trick you.”

That was a new name, “Vladimir?” Pariah asked, voice deceptively soft, “am I supposed to know who that is?”

“You are,” Clockwork smiled, never a good sign, “he was the one who woke you up after all.”

Frowning, Pariah walked over to grab his book back, Clockwork let go of it easily, not having read a single passage and for some reason this frustrated Pariah further. Why grab the book at all if he wasn’t going to even pretend to read the damn thing? 

“I suppose you were behind that as well then?” He asked.

But Clockwork just shook his head, that infuriating smile still on his face. Pariah could have fixed that once, wiped that damn smirk away with naught but a touch or a well spoken word. He held his ground instead. 

He was clearly enjoying this somehow, basking in Pariah’s torment, “not every aspect of your existence is meticulously planned I’ll have you know.”

“I’m sure,” Pariah said dryly, “there’s many decisions I’ve made in my time that have led you in unplanned directions.”

“As was your goal,” Clockwork floated back, away from Pariah. He stepped closer in response, unwilling to allow the distance. 

Pariah forced his posture to relax, it wouldn’t do to look the part of predator stalking prey. The goal, after all, was not to scare him away. And Clockwork had always been skittish, in moments like this. 

It had taken time, in the beginning, to get as close as he had. It would take time again. 

He had all the time in the realms. 

“It gave me great pleasure to see you flustered,” he was almost within reach, almost close enough to touch. 

Clockwork’s back pressed against the wall, Pariah stepped forward, caging him in. “Surely there were easier ways to seek your joy.”

Humming, Pariah stepped even closer, naught but a moment between them. “When has a challenge been anything but enticing to me?” He reached up to finally pull away the horrid hood that had been obscuring the other’s face, but his hands closed around empty nothing.

Clockwork had once again slipped through his fingers. Damn. 

Vlad Plasmius. 

A stupid name that reeked of a grandiose sense of self importance and naivety. And, knowing that he was the one to wake Pariah in a foolish, short sighted attempt at his crown, it was likely apt as well. 

He’d turned one of Pariah’s most loyal against him. Stolen what was Pariah’s and had yet to see due consequence. 

“I’d warn that your face might become stuck if I wasn’t so sure it already had, is a scowl the only expression you can make these days?”

Pariah’s scowl deepened, “what is this Plasmius to you?”

Clockwork blinked, a moment of genuine surprise flickered across his expression before it melted back into his typical neutral expression. 

“A nuisance mostly. His exploits tend to disrupt the flow of the realms and he rarely thinks about anything as dull as the consequences of his actions,” he tilted his head, allowing his gaze to wander, “and his determination to steal Daniel as his own has become grating.”

Pariah’s scowl lessened, he’d thought for sure, with the Half-Ghost’s penchant for chaos, that Clockwork would have a more favorable opinion of him. Often, it was the most obnoxious, frustrating, logic defying, gremlins of the infinite realms that caught his eye, and his affections. 

Things that existed beyond the simple calculations of his sight, wrenches in the works of otherwise well laid plans. They were Clockwork’s favorite, his desire for mischief surprisingly genuine for one so ancient and omniscient. Though, perhaps that was why. The Ancients may not be chaos themselves, but they had certainly been born from it.

“You haven’t thought to share custody?” Pariah asked, curious. It was uncommon amongst ghosts, as obsessive as they were, but not unheard of. Especially when obsessions were involved, it was difficult after all, for a ghost to let go of something their core had claimed as their own.

Clockwork’s smile was tight, “I don’t think I have it in me to share.”

Pariah looked over at his companion, the ambient soft blue of his glow and its contrast against the shadows of his hooded cloak. He watched as the watches, clocks, and other time keeping devices embedded and decorated throughout his form ticked, discordant from each other; each one a slightly different pace from the others. 

He watched as Clockwork’s face, as handsome still as it was the day he locked Pariah away, softened from sardonic and annoyed to something more gentle as the silence stretched on.

“Neither do I,” he said. 

“You shouldn’t seek me out, if you have any desire at all to keep what limited freedom you have,” Pariah warned.

He had walked down one of the winding stairs in the far tower only to see Clockwork there, halfway down and leaning out of the window. His legs were fully formed for once and Pariah had to bite back a remark involving just how long it had been since he’d last seen them. 

It was novel, to see Clockwork in his entirety. 

“I have little choice, my duties as they are,” he lied. It was unlikely the Observants had any desire for him to leave his tower, poised at their beck and call. If they had demanded he keep an eye on Pariah at all as he claimed, it had been with the intention of using his screens. There wasn’t much that could be hidden from them after all. 

Pariah stepped close, just enough to look out of the window beside him. It was like standing beside a lightning storm, as static and electric as the space between them had become. 

“They do not fear I’ll steal you away from them?” He folded his hands behind his back, held them there, clenched tightly in restraint. 

Clockwork’s smile was bitter, as it often was nowadays when he was reminded of his bindings, “there is little you can do.”

“There is little I would not do,” he countered. 

He stepped away, his legs fading once more into a familiar tail and Pariah bit back disappointment. 

“You assume I would return here? Should I be relieved of my duties?” Clockwork asked, snide.

“You assume I would not chain you here myself?” He would, with no hesitation at all, if he thought it would hold. If something as simple as chains and binders could keep something like Clockwork.

He walked towards him, internally rolling his eyes when Clockwork kept level at his height even as they descended. It was a small, petty thing, him not allowing himself to be vulnerable in any way, and it was very Clockwork. 

“You could not hold me.”

“I could try.”

Pariah, finding more and more time to himself as the Castle’s restoration saw its completion, was looking into the observant’s laws. And their prisoners, and their actions after Pariah himself had been locked away. 

It was boring, tedious work to shuffle through the information given to him. The countless detailed notes of the Observants countless boring meetings were beginning to blend together in his mind. It would be easier, he knew, if he simply skipped to the parts that were important to him. The ones that involved Clockwork and their claims to him.

But that was against his nature, so he read, and read, and fought down the rising urge to simply fly over to their courts of judgement and raze it to the ground. It would be quicker, and more enjoyable as well. But it wouldn’t give him the answers he needed, and it wouldn’t guarantee Clockwork’s release from his duties. 

He continued reading. 

“You’re calmer now, without the ring,” Clockwork said, once more stating the obvious. 

Pariah put down the papers he was staring at, the words had long blurred together and there were more pleasant things here now to keep his eyes occupied. “I should hope so, with all the trouble you went through to separate me from it.”

His companion nodded, the hood shifting slightly with the movement to cover his face even further and Pariah frowned. 

“You would have been more successful in your conquest had it never been gifted to you,” Clockwork said, “it is perhaps for the best, that you fell to its charms and lost your patience.”

Pariah doesn’t know why he brought this up. It could be to agitate or remind him of their animosity. It could be one of those strange roundabout explanations Clockwork used instead of apologies, or it could be his attempt at distancing himself. A reminder of how far Pariah had fallen in the end. 

“Carefully planned no doubt,” Pariah said, his voice light. “A gift given to disrupt what goals I had, to speed up my fall and more quickly end my reign.”

“A necessary evil, to lessen the cost.”

Pariah smiled, sharp, “are you saying I’m a larger threat without it?” 

Clockwork turned his gaze away, “you're certainly more meticulous. It’s terrifying really.”

“What do you see in those futures of yours?” He asked, not expecting an answer. 

He didn’t get one, “many things. Different branches and paths, some brighter than others, some barely there at all…” Clockwork floated to the window and looked outside, “it would be easier, Pariah, if you bothered to be predictable.” 

Ha, Pariah smiled, “If you truly struggled to predict my actions, we would not be here now. At least not as we are.”

Clockwork gave a hum of agreement, “it is what you are going to do next, I think, that I struggle to see.”

Pariah had taken the chance, with Clockwork’s back to him, to get closer. To crowd himself near without touching and spoke in his ear, “I disagree. There is no doubt in my mind you see exactly what I am going to do, what I have planned. What you fail to see, my dear timekeeper, is how to stop it.”

He disappeared before Pariah could get his arms around him. 

But no matter, Clockwork had been correct when he’d called Pariah meticulous. 

“I’d rather you not call me your ‘dear’,” Clockwork said, appearing far enough away that it was a wonder Pariah had heard him at all. 

They were outside, the weeds and plants of his courtyard finally, properly tamed and pleasant. He lifted the petals of a particularly pretty purple plant to his lips and kissed it gently before replanting it into the ground. 

“I could,” he offered, “call you by the name of a flower instead.”

Clockwork clicked his tongue, “I do think pet names are beneath you. You’ve never used one before.” That was certainly true, but he’d also had an image to uphold before, and many other ways to see Clockwork flustered. 

If he had known how well something so simple had worked though, he would have started using them an eon ago. Ah well. 

“Perhaps I grew romantic in my forced sleep?,” Pariah said, his expression slipping into a smirk. Clockwork’s careful distance was a set back and a hopeful promise tangled together and he didn’t bother trying to move closer. He knew better than trying to corner a startled animal, trying to corner a skittish Ancient would unlikely end any more in his favor. 

There was movement out of the corner of his eye, ah, Clockwork had shifted to his younger, child form. Was that a defense mechanism of some kind? Or did he do it out of spite? It would take some time, and likely some subtle experimentation, if Pariah ever wanted to truly solve that particular mystery.

But he was finding he didn’t mind the thought of taking his time, slowly unwrapping all of the things Clockwork had long kept hidden from him. The imperfections and jagged edges. Patience was starting to become second nature, in his dealings with the other ghost. 

“Are you saying you dreamed, Pariah?” Clockwork asked, disbelief coloring his tone. Pariah wondered, if he refused to answer, would Clockwork ever know? He could not read minds, would he simply look at a branching path where Pariah was less inclined to be petty and seek his answer there? Would there be one?

Pariah was stubborn afterall. 

The silence stretched uncomfortably and Pariah reveled in it. How novel, catching Clockwork off balance like this. He wondered if he could make it worse. If a gentle push would break the tension or heighten it.

“Afraid that you’ll fall for me again, if I should be endearing towards you?”

Clockwork made an incredulous noise, something between a cough and yelp, and Pariah had to bite back a smile. Much of the fun would be lost, should Clockwork realize he was being messed with. 

His form aged as he started to rant, his low, deep voice colored with irritation and sang like music to Pariah’s ears. He didn’t even bother listening to the words, content instead, to feel Clockwork’s frustration in the ambient ectoplasm around them. Perhaps this feeling was why Clockwork had started these visits, marveling in Pariah’s own flustered discomfort. His mistake. 

“-An obsession with conquest, control-“

“Obsessions change,” Pariah interrupted softly. 

He was met with only silence, and when he looked over again towards Clockwork, the ancient had frozen entirely. His gaze was locked on Pariah himself, before he broke it away, looking instead at the keep around them. The rebuilt castle, the carefully manicured courtyard, the area set aside for his spars with the younger ghosts that returned so often, so ready to prove themselves. His posture softened.

“Yes, I suppose they do… if you allow it.”

This time, when Clockwork left his presence he didn’t bother to stop time and sneak away. There was no need likely, Pariah had not bothered to get close enough to stop him from simply flying away. 

He leaned back into the grass, his core humming in satisfaction and anticipation. 

It had been some time since Clockwork’s last visit. Too much time. 

The visits had become regular, expected disruptions to Pariah’s rather dull afterlife, and their absence soured on his tongue. He tried not to let the frustration show in his lessons with his students, hitting one harder than necessary would hardly teach a ghost how to better dodge, and attacking faster than they could keep up with would hardly help them plan their next move. 

So he put all of his frustration towards renovation once more. Sure, the castle had been properly rebuilt and looked as grand now as it ever had, but Pariah had learned of more modern comforts in his studies, as detailed and meticulous as they were, and desired to have some for himself. 

He just needed to figure out how to implement the overly complicated designs to something that had long been simple. First he would start with an aqueduct of some sort. It would be nice to have regular access to more purified ectoplasm with which to bathe or shower himself, and the well in the center of the courtyard that dug deep enough to access the steady supply at the heart of his lair only allowed for him to pull up so much before it would be depleted.

If instead, he built some kind of purifier, something that could take ambient ectoplasm or even throwaway energy from the realms around him, he could imitate the water systems mortals had invented for their own homes. Perhaps he could create something similar to this ‘sauna’ he’d read about. A room packed full of purified ectoplasm for the sole gain of sitting inside to relax. 

There was nothing more rewarding, Pariah thought, than working towards a goal and seeing that work bear fruit. Patience and perseverance were all a ghost needed to succeed.

Pariah worked as he waited for Clockwork to return.

“You seem to be in a bad mood, your majesty,” the dragonling said. She had long learned to use the most advantageous aspects of her abilities without fully shifting her form, but her speed at doing so needed work and Pariah had started leading her into Katas specific to each trick she had developed. 

He glared at her, “I don’t have moods,” he lied. “But if I did, it only makes sense that I would be irritated to find my day interrupted by your foolish challenges.”

There was another young ghost there as well, a small dokkaebi that looked like it had once been a broom or something similar. He had attacked Pariah alone multiple times himself and had apparently convinced the dragonling to team up with him in their next attempt at Pariah’s nonexistent crown. 

It had been nice, the extra bit of challenge it took to defeat them both without causing serious damage to either of them. 

The dokkaebi scoffed, “if you really didn’t want us here you wouldn’t have this time in your day set aside.” 

Pariah frowned and threw a gentle ectoblast towards him. It grazed his shoulder and he yelped in response. That should teach him not to sass his elders. “It is a foolish decision for a ghost to make plans when those around him seek to ignore them so entirely.”

The dragonling chuckled at the dokkaebi’s misfortune and Pariah snapped at her to concentrate on her own training. It was a poor showing of his self control, that even ghosts as young as they had noticed something off. 

He was building a blueprint for the aqueduct’s filter when a feeling not unlike that of being covered entirely in slime settled around him. He scowled, “I don’t remember inviting you into my keep, watchers.”

“We are the Observants,” Pariah rolled his eyes, “we have come to judge you for your deeds.”

Entitled bastards.

They likely thought themselves more powerful than they were, Clockwork having lowered himself as he did for whatever nefarious, long term plan he was no doubt biding his time to implement. But Pariah was not bound by contracts or schemes, and even without his crown a handful of inactive ectoplasmic waste such as these were hardly a threat. 

An annoyance though, considering what would happen should he actually shatter their cores. The last thing he wanted was for them to send Clockwork in their stead, even if it would break the impasse he’d caused with his prolonged absence. 

“I have done nothing worth being judged,” Pariah said, his knowledge of what was and was not mentioned in each of the Observants’ ridiculous laws was encompassing and complete. There was somehow, despite their likely efforts, no laws against rebuilding one’s own lair or meeting challenges set against oneself. 

Even in the rules of their contract with Clockwork, there was nothing that confined him permanently to his tower. It was stated, quite plainly, that he could leave in the performance of his duties as given by the Observants themselves. 

Clockwork had stated many times that one of those duties had been to watch over Pariah. 

The Observants, predictably, disagreed, “you have left the realms in terror and abandoned your duties as King.”

“What I did as king is not under your jurisdiction, and you know well that I was dethroned. You wouldn’t be here now, attempting to threaten me otherwise.” He stood to his full height, towering over his uninvite guests. 

They wavered, giant, bulbous eyes that never blinked, Pariah held back his revulsion in favor of allowing his fury to take stage instead. “The clause of the King, as I remember it, was right by conquest. The fate of the realms to be given to the hands of whomever defeated me under their own power. The crown is no longer mine, it does not heed my call. I have no duties to be found in remis of.”

“Your reign of terror-”

His remaining eye twitched, “I did as King. To whom such laws do not apply.”

It was tedious, dealing with their repetitive denials, their attempts at enforcing laws that did not exist to their standards. But Pariah calmly shot down every accusation, every mentioned offense, citing written laws and countless examples of other ghosts and their versions of compliance. He had done nothing since he awakened, and it was this nothing that both infuriated them and protected him now.

“How does it feel, I wonder, to have been so thoroughly outsmarted by a child? Less than a year dead at the time, as I’ve been informed. Did your council throw a fit, when he absconded, erasing the position of High King from the realms until someone else should attempt to take up the mantle from the start as I had? Did it affect your plans? Were you hoping, when I awoke a second time, that I would start once more on my trail of conquest, crown or not?”

One of the Observants glared daggers at him, a nerve clearly struck, “we had hoped you’d stay true to what we believed you were. You left the task incomplete.”

Pariah grinned, “I don’t know what you mean, are the lands of the realms not united now?”

It squawked, “in what way?!”

“Why, against me, of course.”

The conversation with the Observants had been long, tedious, and mostly fruitless for both sides. They could not make anything stick against Pariah, not without breaking their own vows as they stood and making themselves powerless entirely. Yet all the same, it would not stop them from attempting to pass new laws and regulations, with the sole intent of catching Pariah out on it. 

They would fail, of course, he had painstakingly sorted through every record and law, every court decision ever made since the foundation of the Observants’ Order. There would be no ghost, Observant or no, as thoroughly knowledgeable as he, in what could and could not be done. He was meticulous like that. 

It had been a flaw, in their eyes. Made him slow to action. And the reason, he suspected, he had been gifted that ring. They had thought to use his rage, to falsify impatience, to more quickly advance their plans. 

Their mistake. 

Taking a moment to relax and stretch his limbs, Pariah stood to leave.

“Pariah!”

He had opened the door to see a flustered looking Clockwork on the other side, easily within reach. His hood had been mussed, likely caused by him rushing over to Pariah’s keep after so long purposefully ignoring him, and Pariah could see wisps of long white hair peeking through, no longer completely hidden. He’d kept it long.

“Where- I- I couldn’t see-,” Clockwork’s eyes darted around the room, looking for something that had long left, before settling on Pariah, an embarrassed flush spreading across his cheeks. 

Realization dawned quickly as Clockwork noticed just how close they were to each other and attempted to create space between them. Not quick enough though, as Pariah curled his hand around a gloved wrist. 

He stepped close, Clockwork moved back, almost like a dance, until the stone wall of the corridor blocked his retreat and he had nowhere left to go but Pariah’s arms. 

Marveling in the feeling of finally, finally having Clockwork exactly where he wanted him, Pariah purred. When he looked down to admire his prize, Clockwork had ducked his head further beneath that damned hood, avoiding his gaze still. Annoyed, Pariah lifted his free hand and tugged it forcefully away. 

It was a view easily worth the wait, Clockwork’s flustered expression, framed beautifully by soft white hair, even longer than Pariah last remembered and tangled in a mess by the constant presence of his hood. Pariah longed to card his fingers through it, to gently brush away the knots and feel the silky strands beneath his fingers. So he did, drinking in Clockwork’s gentle shiver like fine wine as he leaned closer, trapping him against the wall. 

Once he was done, he allowed his arms to lower, circling around a tapered waist and pulling the other ghost closer to him. Even stopping time, it would be impossible now, for Clockwork to disentangle himself and escape. Pariah’s grip was as gentle as it could be, but it was unyielding. 

“You did not tell me they could block your sight,” he muttered gently into Clockwork’s hair.

“It is not my job to tell you things you already know.”

Pariah hummed, trailing his hand along Clockwork’s back, documenting in his mind every soft hitch of unneeded breath, reacquainting himself with the more sensitive places now available to him. “Once I destroy that useless council of theirs, I will have to find a way to cage you for myself,” he mused.

Clockwork bit him, fangs sinking into Pariah’s unarmored shoulder. 

Well, he would at the very least attempt it. 

Final comments

[pleathewrites]

Candles in the Sun

chapter 1: the one who drives all evil away

When Ryomen Sukuna was born, the ground shook.

A weeping mother cradles her baby in her weak arms. The sweat cools off her skin with the gusts of rain-scented wind pushing past an open window. Her baby’s heart beats - she can feel it through the pads of her fingers - and she sighs.

Her eyes do not betray her.

She looks at her child and begs the Gods for mercy to be given - for this world to treat her child as kindly as she vows to because she cannot feel anything but infinite gratitude as her baby looks up at her with bright, red eyes.

Both sets.

Her child has been born with a gift - the blessing of 4 eyes and 4 arms.

*

When Itadori Yuuji is born, his first breath matches the last of his mother’s.

A weeping father holds his daughter’s baby to his chest and begs for the Gods to bring her back.

His prayers are futile, as his daughter’s unblinking eyes remain downward towards her belly, awaiting the arrival of a child she never got the chance to hold.

With the tips of his fingers, using the gentlest pressure, he lowers his daughter’s eyelids and lets her rest.

Her baby cries.

He prays for the strength to give this child the same love and protection he had for his own. He feels the ache in his chest, lungs rattling with every inhale.

He begs his body not to give up on him.

*

It’s an odd feeling, Sukuna’s mouth stretching over his cheek.

He was in the middle of packing up the extra things that had been left behind in his move to Jujutsu High when he had stumbled across the frame that had used to stand upright on his grandfather’s dresser.

“Oh, is that a baby picture? Let me see,” Yuuji feels the words before he hears them.

His knee-jerk reaction is usually to deny the curse, for whatever he’s asking.

“What, no -”

“Let me see or I won’t leave you alone this whole day,” The King of Curses demands, rather childishly.

Yuuji sometimes forgets this guy is supposed to be a thousand years old.

He stares at the picture between his fingers. It’s a capture of one of his earliest memories, a blurry thing that Yuuji only really has random flashes of. He doesn’t remember what the occasion was, but he remembers the exhibit of huge dinosaur fossils and the vibrant green of grass against a rough picnic blanket. He doesn’t remember what they ate for that lunch, but he remembers his grandfather asking an elderly to take a picture of them in front of the museum entrance.

This maybe-five-year-old Yuuji has his mouth open in laughter while his grandfather swings him up to sit on the concrete pillar of a staircase.

His heart mourns.

Sukuna starts to let out whining noises that pull irritatingly at the skin under Yuuji’s eyes. Yuuji grumbles and holds the photo up for the curse’s eye to see.

Sukuna lets out a coo, “You were so cute. Fat,” and just when Yuuji feels the side of his lips tilt up in a smile at the comment, Sukuna continues, “You’re so ugly now.”

Yuuji squawks, “Fuck you!” and slaps his hand over the offending mouth.

The sting against his cheek lingers, though the curse does not.

*

Sukuna is five years old the first time he levitates.

The boy had stomped into his house with muddy shoes, and his mother had asked him to take a bath. He said he didn’t want to. She told him to take one anyways.

He screamed.

And the next thing they both knew, he was 5 feet above the ground, his feet dangling uselessly beneath him, and the tips of his shoulder-length hair brushing the ceiling of their home.

He sees his mother’s eyes widen, and his own breath stutters in the childish fear that maybe he’s doing something bad, and just when he’s about to try and return to the ground, the expression on his mother’s face changes.

She’s laughing.

The first laugh is blurted shock, the second disbelief, and the rest are consistent peals of happy - proud - laughter.

On that day onward, Sukuna’s mother discovered her son’s curse energy bleeds into his temper tantrums.

*

Fushiguro Megumi makes Yuuji’s soul wiggle, Sukuna observes.

The first time Sukuna notices, they’re in an abandoned school and the brat is about to get himself killed by a Special Grade curse that Sukuna could pulverize with a flick of his finger.

He tells Yuuji as so, tells the boy that he could easily help him out, but that he won’t hesitate to kill anyone who gets in the way.

Sukuna’s no hero, after all.

When Itadori Yuuji tells Fushiguro Megumi to run away, the energy of Yuuji’s soul seeps into Sukuna’s domain and messes with the physics of the place - and for a split second, Sukuna feels breathless.

Sukuna smiles, ‘Could it be?’

After defeating the Special Grade, Sukuna decides to test something out.

He beats Megumi within an inch of his life, and when he has the boy’s full attention, he rips Itadori Yuuji’s heart straight out of his chest.

Megumi's soul cries.

Sukuna lets out a manic laugh, ‘So it’s true.’

His plan will succeed.

However, when Megumi begins to speak, he foolishly speaks directly to Yuuji about why he had saved him and Sukuna feels the same watery jolt of the brat’s soul and he is immediately sucked back into his Innate Domain.

*

Sukuna burrows further into his cloak as he rummages through the village market.

He huffs.

He hates the townspeople. They always gasp at the sight of his arms and chase him away with their brooms.

But his mother grows weaker every harvest, and the walk from the mountain to the village center takes her nearly half a sun cycle, whereas Sukuna can make the trip in a third of that time.

He tries to recall what was written on his mother’s list when he’s pushed roughly from behind, a gust of wind and scrape of cotton breezing through his side. When he regains his balance, he opens his mouth to yell in complaint only to stop when he notices the person who pushed him is another kid, perhaps around his age, sprinting.

He looks behind him to see an older man - horribly familiar, especially with that stick of his - running toward the kid’s direction.

Sukuna sends a small wave of curse energy aimed at the man’s feet and trips him.

When the man falls flat on his face, Sukuna hurries in the direction of where the kid had run.

It only takes him a few seconds to locate the other kid.

One glance around the area with his four eyes confirms their privacy. Sukuna brings two hands to cup near his mouth and yells, “Hey!”

The kid freezes, at both Sukuna’s voice and the fact that they were running into a dead end.

They turn around, and Sukuna swears his chest rattles.

Stone green eyes shine back at him.

Sukuna swallows, “I know a place you can hide, but we have to go now. That old man won’t stay down for too long.”

The kid nods quickly, and Sukuna leads them through several back alleys of the town until they reach a rundown temple on the outside edge of the village. The two climb up jagged rocks that stick out the sides of the temple, and they don’t stop until they reach the highest floor, climbing through the window into the building.

The kid slides down the wall and tips their head back, swallowing the much-needed air back into their lungs.

When their chest stops heaving, they turn their head towards Sukuna and narrow their eyes at him. Their voice cracks when they ask, “Why did you help me?”

“Why were you being chased by the tomato vendor?” Sukuna counters.

Their lips close and tighten in frustration.

A gust of wind pushes through the temple’s window and knocks back the hood of Sukuna’s cloak, revealing the face he forgot he was hiding.

Emerald eyes widen.

Sukuna’s heart jumps to his throat. He knows he should run, but he’s frozen in place, waiting for a reaction. He can’t help it - his mother told him, time and time again, to never care what other people think of him, and, usually, he listens, but something is rooting him down in his place, faint and inaudible whispers behind his ears, telling him to, ‘Wait.’

“So, you are the boy,” are the next words breathed into the air.

Sukuna doesn’t know how to respond. He both knows and doesn’t know what this other kid is talking about - yes, he is the village monster, but the words, ‘the boy,’ have never been uttered like that.

Like sanctity.

“My mother used to speak of you,” the other continues, using their hands and knees to crawl closer, and closer, until they are close enough to block out the evening sun from Sukuna’s view, “But, we thought you were a myth. In the past ten harvests, she’s never seen you, but she always stayed firm. How odd, that only a year after that she - that I…” they leave off, and Sukuna doesn’t even notice the hand inching towards his face until they stop themselves, their shadow-tinted hand hovering in the air.

He startles backward, head thumping painfully on the stone wall.

The kid retracts quickly, “I’m sorry!”

Sukuna rubs his throbbing head, and the motion lifts his cloak, revealing the second arm that rests beneath his primary, “I-It’s ok,” He tells them, watching the way their eyes stare at the two arms on his left side with something that looks like wonder. He continues after another moment of silence, “What - uhm, I mean… What did your mother…?” He doesn’t know how to ask.

When the child looks back up, kind emerald eyes greet him, “A blessed child, birthed eleven harvests ago. Born with a soul four times as bright.”

Sukuna gasps.

(“Why do I look like this, Mama?”

His mother pauses, before setting her threaded needle on the table. She beckons her son with an outstretched arm, and he follows all the way up to her lap. She smiles warmly as Sukuna repositions himself atop her knee to face her. He waits.

“Sukuna, my boy… You are blessed. A child born with a soul four times as bright.”

The ruddy pink of his eyebrows furrow, “... four... times?”

His mother nods and thumbs under his lower left eye, “Four eyes,” the same hand slides down in a quick movement, and when her fingers wriggle into Sukuna's side, he shrieks in laughter, the sight causing his mother to let out a few giggles of her own, “and four arms!”

“M-Mama, s-stop it!”

Her hand stills and she presses a kiss to the crown of her son’s head.

“A soul brighter than four souls put together.”)

The child assumes his surprise to be fear and reaches out to hold the hand of his lower arm.

“Do not worry, I will not hurt you, or decieve you. I… I would like to be your ally.”

Sukuna thinks he would like that, as well.

“What is your name?” He asks. His mother told him once that he could, ‘obtain a glimpse of a person’s soul by the way they wear their name.’

The child beams, a missing tooth mirroring the one he had lost himself earlier that year, “Chiyoko! You can call me Chiyo, though. I think it’s cute.”

Sukuna thinks so, too.

“My name is Sukuna.”

SUKU - NA: The one who drives evil away.

CLICK TO READ REST OF CHAPTER

[kar-krashew]

life could be a dream [AO3]

Alec navigates first dates, second dates, and general panic, while accidentally making a friend along the way. He's not sure how to feel about any of that, but it seems to be going okay.

Rated T for language and implied sexual content.

@arsenic-creator for you, my lovely ❤ This is an interlude, of sorts, between the Cars AU and the planned Cars 2 AU :D

Alec is ninety percent sure whoever came up with the concept of first dates was a sadist; who else would devise a concept so nerve-wracking and excruciating? Currently, he’s in a random hotel in Spiral Springs, aptly named as he’s spent the last hour spiraling into insanity as he tries to figure out what normal people wear on first dates with people like Magnus Bane. He can’t even call Izzy, because she’s off on some “important work trip” with Jace. (That basically means that they’re going to be mysterious and vague during phone calls the whole time— and that’s only if they answer. He knows better than to ask.)

Thus, Alec has two options: suffer, and show up to his first date with Magnus in his normal shitty worn-out jeans and shirt, or suffer more, and ask someone in town for help. Unfortunately, the only other people available to him are Raphael (Alec is pretty sure he’d be found dead the next morning if he asked Raphael about dating advice), Ragnor (the man dresses like a reclusive British hermit, Alec really doesn’t think asking him will help), and Simon.

Shit.

“Do I really need someone else’s help?” Alec asks his own reflection in the mirror, “I look fine, right? And it’s not like Simon’s got a better idea of how these dates work.”

He looks great, honestly! Probably. He’s fine, as long as he ignores the suspicious fraying of his collar and the faded white patches on his jeans, and okay, he lied, he does not look fine.

Also, Simon’s had like three pretty steady girlfriends already. The kid must be doing something right.

“Shit,” Alec groans again— out loud this time, for intended effect— before taking a deep breath and grabbing his phone.

Fine. If it takes talking to Simon, he’s going to talk to Simon. Besides, how bad could it be?

---

Really bad. Like, really fucking bad; Alec had forgotten how annoying Simon is, and he’s regretting this decision wholeheartedly now.

“No one’s really asked me for dating advice before, you know,” Simon says from where he’s rummaging through Alec’s suitcase, “And of the people I would expect to ask me, you’re, like, last on that list. Not in a bad way or anything, it’s just weird, you know?”

Alec does know. This is the third time Simon has said this.

“Sure, totally,” he grits out, watching Simon carelessly toss his neatly folded clothing onto the hotel bed. Alec is going to have to reorganize the whole case after this is over, because these sorts of things have systems and the kid is ruining it. This was definitely more trouble than it’s worth.

“Yep. Anyway, wow, I’m no expert, but you really don’t have a lot of options in here.” Simon whistles, pauses for a minute, then upends the entire suitcase onto the mattress before Alec can intercept. God, Alec’s going to strangle him. “That’s better! So, you seem to only have, like, one decent button-down, and those always look nice. Maybe pair it with a tighter pair of jeans? Your jacket would look nice with this, too, though I’d leave it out in this weather.” Simon tosses the articles of clothing towards Alec as he speaks, hitting Alec squarely in the face, but he’s already been distracted by something else before he can register the glare being sent his way.

“Okay,” he says after another moment, “Show me what you got.”

Alec’s skeptical, to be frank, but he decides to indulge Simon anyway, so he heads to the bathroom and tries on the outfit and—

Oh.

Simon’s really not bad at this thing. Izzy probably could’ve picked something a little more flattering, but this is way better than whatever Alec was wearing earlier; he didn’t even know he’d remembered to bring this shirt when he’d packed his bags.

“Hey, man, you look great!” Simon beams. “I wasn’t totally sure that would work out, but you look awesome! Magnus is going to love it.”

“Thanks, Lewis,” Alec replies, and he’s surprised to realize he means it. Simon’s grin stretches out wider, somehow, and Alec doesn’t even feel that annoyed.

(Oh no, does this mean he tolerates Simon now?)

“It’s gonna go great, Alec, don’t worry about it,” Simon responds, oblivious to Alec’s internal turmoil— Alec is seriously having a breakdown over the fact that Simon has somehow made it onto the short list of people Alec doesn’t want to punch on sight, because what the fuck does that say about Alec’s standards? His reputation is on the line. “Magnus has lived here for a while, which means I know him well enough to tell you that you make him really happy.” Alec stares at him blankly.

“I— That means a lot, actually,” he manages, then they both just kind of. . . stand there for a minute. Alec isn’t sure how to process the fact that they seem to be having a moment when he was preparing to initiate anti-Lewis measures just seconds ago, so it’s almost a relief when Simon ruins it with the next thing that comes out of his mouth.

“I feel like a proud mother sending her kid to prom. Do I need to give you a sex talk? No one actually gave me that speech when I was younger, but I did improv in highschool, so I could probably work something out.”

Scratch whatever he said earlier; Alec hates him.

---

The trauma Simon inflicts on him is almost completely worth it when Alec sees the way Magnus checks him out for a moment. The other’s standing outside the entrance to some obscure Chinese restaurant, smiling warmly and turning Alec’s knees to jello with his low-cut blue tunic and shimmery eyeliner (not helped by the fact that he has managed to find pants that are even tighter than his usual leather ones— Alec’s going to die of a heart attack before they can even enter the establishment).

“Hey,” he says, trying not to look stupidly overwhelmed at Magnus’s answering smile, “You, uh, you look amazing.”

“I could say the same, Alexander. This shirt is definitely doing you favors,” Magnus replies, and Alec blushes.

“Would it be completely unattractive if I admitted Simon picked it out for me?” he asks, half-serious, but Magnus just laughs, taking Alec’s hand in his own.

“Of course not. Remind me to thank him next time we meet.”

The rest of the night goes by in a blur: Alec’s sure that the restaurant and everything was amazing, but it’s hard to notice things like ambiance and food when one has a front row seat to the wonder that is the gentle tilt of Magnus’s mouth. He spends the night being regaled with far-fetched anecdotes in between shameless bouts of flirting and giggling, and it’s nice, it’s really nice; alone, away from cameras and parents, just the two of them tucked away in a cozy little corner booth together.

It’s kind of the best fucking thing that’s ever happened to him.

Maybe first dates, Alec thinks, lying in bed later that night, the taste of lip gloss still faint on his tongue, aren’t too bad after all.

---

“Oh my gosh, are you going on dates and making friends? I’m so proud, my baby brother is all grown up,” Izzy sniffs over the phone, “Do we need to talk about safe sex?”

“Why is that the conclusion everyone draws? Do I look that repressed?” Alec groans, thinking back to Simon’s earlier pursuit to educate him on the carnal pleasures of the world. He’d managed to cut the kid off after the first use of the word “penetrative,” but it had been enough to fuel his nightmares for a solid two days afterwards. “Also, I’m older than you.”

“Details,” Izzy dismisses. “Speaking of which, spill! How was it? I still can’t believe you ran off to Spiral Springs without telling anyone. Mom must be absolutely livid, I just wish I was there to see it.”

Alec rolls his eyes, even though she can’t see it over the phone— the sentiment is there, and that’s what matters. “You would be here to see it if you weren’t off doing lord-knows-what in god-knows-where every other week with Jace,” he replies.

“Import-export business, Alec,” Izzy says, “I’ve told you this.”

“Right, the same way you’ve told me you can cook without poisoning everyone. We both know it’s a load of bullshit.”

“We’re getting off topic!” his sister exclaims, which is Izzy-speak for “We’re not talking about this for another year or so,” as she artfully changes the subject. “I believe I asked for specifics about your date with Magnus, hermano. You are not getting out of this.”

Luckily for her, Alec is easily distracted by even the vaguest thought or mention of Magnus, because he’s a total fucking sap and Izzy knows exactly how to use it to her advantage. He would say he hates her, but, well: he’s thinking about Magnus now. That’s infinitely more important, obviously.

“I wouldn’t know where to start,” he sighs. The exhale’s got this kind of pathetically lovesick quality to it, but he barrels on, praying Izzy won’t comment on it. “We ate, then he walked me back to the hotel and kissed me at the door before he left. It was amazing. God, Izzy, I like him so much.”

In a perfect, normal world, this would be an opportune time for Izzy to realize that Alec is kind of horribly vulnerable and honest when it comes to Magnus, and for her to be gentle and supportive about it. However, because normalcy is a pipe dream that Alec’s siblings are hellbent on crushing, he is treated instead to an inhumanly high-pitched squeal, followed by frantic shuffling before a voice that sounds suspiciously like Jace’s floods the phone speaker. Given that the most-definitely-Jace-voice is currently yelling something about condoms and endowment and the logistics of same-sex intercourse, Alec decides that hanging up is the appropriate course of action here.

(God, they’re the worst. He’s never going to talk to them again. Or at least, he’s not going to pick up their calls for the next week. Okay, maybe, like 3 days. Probably.)

Great, he thinks, mentally patting himself on the back. Now that that’s settled, he can get back to other matters, like fucking losing his mind because he had totally forgotten to ask Izzy how to plan a second date so he’s now screwed but he’s definitely not calling her back especially now that he knows Jace has her phone and that means he’s been left to his own resources to plan the perfect second date for Magnus and he’s going to have to do it all by himself and he’s going to fail spectacularly because he’s never had to do anything like this before and no one can help him unless—

Unless. . .

“Shit,” Alec says— out loud, for intended effect again, as a horrible flash of deja vu strikes him— which is how, minutes later, Simon ends up sprawled out on the hotel bed next to him at 4 pm on a Wednesday afternoon.

Alec should really start looking into better coping mechanisms before this becomes a problem.

“Okay, so the first thing about this is that you’re approaching it all wrong,” Simon says, sitting up to peer at Alec over his glasses. “Dates are about spending time together, not about being perfect, so don’t stress! What did you initially have in mind?”

That’s the issue: Alec didn’t have anything in mind, because when he had said that he’d organize the next date, he wasn’t exactly operating on full brain function. Impaired thought processes tend to be a common side effect around Magnus, now that Alec thinks about it— he should probably get that checked.

“I really have no clue,” Alec groans. “There’s so much that could go wrong! What if I take him somewhere that reminds him of his ex? Or I stumble and spill slushie all over his shoes and they’re brand new designer ones and he ends things with me on the spot? Or he hates the food there and realizes that my tastes are shit and he decides to cut his losses instead of being forced to eat shitty food everyday that he hangs out with me? Or—”

“Alec, jeez!” Simon interrupts. “Man, you’re kind of a mess about this, huh?”

Okay, rude. Just because it’s true, doesn’t mean it needs to be pointed out. Alec just groans louder, and lets his head fall heavily against the headboard. “I’m so fucked.”

Simon shakes his head, standing up to pose solemnly. “Don’t lose hope yet, young padawan! Come on, you gotta have something. What do you know he likes?” he says, and because Alec is a sucker when it comes to talking about Magnus (as established earlier), the tactic totally works.

“Okay, well,” he starts, “I know he likes expensive wines with names I can’t pronounce. He likes late nights and old classical music, but his ringtone changes every week to a different Britney Spears pop song. He’s kind of a horrible romantic, but I really like that about him. I. . . like a lot of things about him.”

Simon blinks for a moment, and Alec hurries to wipe the besotted smile that’s inevitably found its way onto his mouth. It’s too late, though— Simon’s already grinning back at him, looking too excited for his own good. “That’s so cheesy,” he coos, “But in, like, totally a good way, I promise.” He pats Alec’s shoulder, once, then stands up. “I think I have an idea of what would work. Any ideas in terms of the venue?”

“Oh,” Alec says after a moment. He’s still thinking about Magnus, which means he’s thinking about their previous meetings, which means he’s thinking about—

“Yeah,” he replies, “I have the perfect place in mind.”

---

“So, where are we headed?” Magnus asks. He’s beautiful like this, in the light of the passing streetlights, silver chains glinting like stars, silk tunic flowing like water, hair mussed from the wind. If Alec didn’t have a plan for this evening, he’d probably do something very dumb like slamming the breaks on the car and kissing him senseless. It’s not the first time he’s had the thought, not by a long shot.

Maybe he can fit that part later into the evening.

“You’ll see,” Alec replies, beaming a little at the pout it brings on Magnus’s— stupidly kissable— mouth. “It’s meant to be a surprise.”

“I don’t like surprises,” Magnus frowns, but he still leans forward as they pass by a familiar waterfall. Alec can see the moment he processes what that waterfall means, his face lighting up completely as he does so. “Are we going to the Dumont?”

Alec shrugs, trying to be mysterious, but he’s grinning too wide for it to mean anything but a yes. It’s fine; if ruining the surprise means that he gets to see Magnus’s bright smile an extra few moments earlier than planned, it’s totally worth it.

When they finally pull up next to the old sign, Magnus has already noticed the changes to the hotel. “Oh,” he gasps, stepping out of the car, “Alexander.”

Lights are strung up around the outdoor courtyard, with a singular table in the center, a candle and plates arranged across its surface. Simon’s standing there, dressed in a black dress shirt, grinning at the two of them as music plays softly from some unknown corner. It’s horribly cheesy and romantic, and, judging by the way Magnus is excitedly clutching Alec’s hand as they approach the table, it’s worked like a charm.

Alec could marry Simon after this; the kid’s a fucking genius.

“Good evening, sirs!” Simon grins, “Welcome to the Hotel Dumont. We’re so glad you could join us this evening.” He bows, pulling out a chair from behind him, and Magnus laughs delightedly.

“This is absolutely lovely!” he exclaims, settling down. “Did you come up with all this?”

Alec blushes, sitting down right beside him. “Well, Simon did most of the work,” he replies, and Simon shakes his head.

“He’s totally lying; he did, like, all of the decorations and set up, and most of the plan, too. I’m just glad to be of help, man.” He hands them menus, then steps back. “Alright, I’ll leave you two alone for a moment while you decide. Don’t do anything too scandalous!”

Alec rolls his eyes— because really, what could they get up to sitting like this?— but then Magnus places his hand on Alec’s thigh as he leans closer and okay, maybe there’s a lot they could get up to, and maybe Alec is now thinking about all those things in a setting he really should not be, and maybe he should’ve let Izzy give him that talk after all.

“Alexander,” Magnus smiles, leaning closer still, “All of this is amazing, I don’t know how to thank you enough.” He tilts his face up invitingly, and Alec’s helpless to the pull of it, pressing his lips against the other’s. It’s supposed to be just a light brush, but then Magnus shifts nearer and opens his mouth up a little further and fuck, Alec’s libido is suddenly making a desparate appearance in this very public locale. That’s an issue, probably. Whatever. He can’t really bring himself to care right now.

“Mm,” he hums between kisses, “we should really decide on what to eat— hm, before Simon comes back,” but then he chases after Magnus’s mouth right after saying it, so that undermines the message a little. Though no one can really say it’s his fault: kissing Magnus is temptation incarnate, and Alec is a weak, weak man.

They do, eventually, unfortunately, break apart, which is exactly when Simon finally shows up with some expensive drink that he’d sworn Magnus would like. It seems to fill the has-an-impossible-to-pronounce-name quota that Alec had mentioned earlier, so he’s rolling with it. He’s also rolling with the menu, because Alec had planned on pre-planned meals for this thing, so he has no clue where Simon had managed to get proper menus with a selection of food (though the Spanish-themed cuisine on the menu and the passive-aggressive text he receives the next day from Raphael might be able to explain that).

Simon’s left them and they’re finally finished with their courses when some even sappier song starts playing on the speakers, and Alec, being a total dork, stands up and invites Magnus to dance with him. Alec’s kind of shit at dancing, so he’s not sure why he does that, but they end up pressed against each other, swaying slowly, and he can’t even regret it, not even when Magnus laughs at him for stepping on his toes.

It’s perfect. Alec has no clue how he’s going to live up to this on future dates. He’s also, like, halfway to proposing on the spot.

“I reiterate my statement from earlier: this is absolutely lovely, Alexander,” Magnus murmurs after a while. His head’s pressed against Alec’s shoulder, so the words brush Alec’s ear softly as he speaks. “I have quite a bit of planning to do for our next date if this is the standard we’re setting already,” he teases.

“We could eat takeout on my couch while watching some boring regency-era movie and I’d still love it,” Alec replies bashfully, “I got a little nervous this time and went really big, but I promise you don’t have to go this hard to impress me.”

“And you thought you did?” Magnus asks. He pulls away slightly, looking Alec in the eyes. “Darling, the same goes for me. This is stunning, but I genuinely just like you and your company, and that takeout thing sounds more than enjoyable. Though we might have to revisit your opinion on regency-era movies.”

Alec grins. “Why, Mr. Bane, don’t tell me you enjoy watching such long-winded pieces of media, filled to the brim with such stuffy, superfluous dialogue?”

Magnus gasps, seemingly affronted. “How dare you!” he exclaims, “It’s about the drama, the yearning! I’m sure you just haven’t seen the right ones. Next time, I’m making you watch my entire collection.” Alec laughs in response, and it seems to soften something in Magnus’s eyes, because he pulls close again, tilting their foreheads together.

“You know, Mr. Lightwood,” he murmurs, “I’m not the sort of gentleman to invite someone into my home on only our second evening together, but I’m sure I could make an exception for someone of your stature, especially given the amount of time we’ve spent together outside of these official meetings.”

Oh fuck, this is really happening. “How scandalous, Mr. Bane,” Alec somehow manages, then Magnus is giggling and kissing him, and yeah, Alec is so on board with this plan. He’s even more on board with the plan when Magnus leads him to the car, and then leads him up the stairs to his loft.

He’s not even annoyed when he wakes up to Simon’s strangely supportive “Congrats on the sex!” text, because there’s a man lying against his chest who he thinks he could easily fall in love with, and literally nothing else matters right now. It’s him and Magnus against the world: everything else can wait.

(Alec replies to Simon with a single middle finger emoji. He likes the kid, but Simon doesn’t need to know that.)

(The Star Wars movie marathon the two of them end up doing a week later kind of gives it away anyway.)

[herinsectreflection]

I’m obsessed with these parallel shots right now. They both come right at the end of their respective episodes, which themselves are each kind of series finales - Chosen being the actual series finale, and The Gift being planned as a possible endpoint in case they weren’t renewed (and in fact they weren’t renewed by the same network at this point). Both show Buffy turning and looking at the path ahead of her, and realising something. The latter is bright, sunny, and she’s looking at the metaphorical sunset she’s about to walk off into. The former is soft and dark, and she is looking at the dawn.

In The Gift, Buffy has just worked out that she can kill herself to save the world. She is looking at the dawn, realising that she can save Dawn. The path she is looking at leads to only one place - off the tower, and into the portal. She still has a choice here - she is stood between Dawn and the dawn, and she can choose either. She can die, or she can kill her sister. It’s not a good choice, but it’s still a choice. It’s in this moment that Buffy realises this, and she makes what the show is very clear is the correct and heroic choice. Giles says as much to Ben - a hero would not make the choice to kill an innocent. 

Buffy makes this choice, and so reshapes her destiny. She was told earlier in Fool for Love that she would inevitably die, and that she would probably die alone and pointlessly, killed in a back alley by some random vampire “having a lucky day”. She was told in Intervention that death was her gift, suggesting that what she brought to the world was bloodshed and violence and trauma and death. Here, she reforms those predestinations. Yes, she dies young, but her death has meaning and purpose; it literally stops a God’s plan and saves the world. She dies surrounded by friends and family, and her and her achievements remembered by them (’Beloved Sister. Devoted friend. She saved the world a lot’). Yes, death is in fact her gift, but it’s a gift of love, a gift of life to her sister and to the rest of the world. It’s a gift to end the deaths, and to ensure that others can do the hard thing and keep on living. In Chosen, Buffy has just activated the other slayers, and I think this is when the implications of that beyond just winning this current fight sink in. As Willow says soon after, she hasn’t just saved the world, she’s changed the world. And more importantly for a show named after Buffy, she’s changed her own life. Her destiny is now open-ended. The path in front of her literally stretches out into the distance, the end unknown and the potential directions infinite. She’s no longer the One Girl In All the World, who must fight the forces of darkness. She’s just Buffy, a vampire slayer. Now, Buffy did always have a choice in the matter. Her choice was often between walking away and letting demons take over the world, or sacrificing some part of herself to save it, but that’s still a choice. I think the show is very clear on that.  “You have a choice. You don't have a good choice, but you have a choice!” - 2x07, Lie to Me “So what are we, helpless? Puppets? No. The big moments are gonna come. You can't help that. It's what you do afterwards that counts. That's when you find out who you are.” - 2x21, Becoming part I “I hate this. I hate being here. I hate that you have to be here. I hate that there's evil, and that I was chosen to fight it. I wish, a whole lot of the time, that I hadn't been. I know a lot of you wish I hadn't been either. But this isn't about wishes. This is about choices.” - 7x22, Chosen

However, that choice was always within very strict parameters. Fight and suffer, or lie down and suffer. It was a choice, but not always a meaningful one. Buffy herself struggled with this back in The Gift, stating that she didn’t know how to live in this world if these are the choices she has to make. There, she does find a third option to the particular horrible choice she has to make at that point (killing her sister or letting the world die), but that’s always going to be a temporary fix. Killing herself solves this problem, but it doesn’t solve the core problem of Slayers always having this bad choice where they suffer either way. And so, instead of reforming her destiny, she revolutionises it. She doesn’t find a clever new way to fulfil the prophecy, she looks prophecy dead in the eye and says “you’re stupid. shut the hell up”. She denigrates the core premise of the show as bullshit made up by crusty old men. She destroys that premise, and forges a new one, one now filled with infinite choices and destinies. She looks into the distance, and see’s not just a third, heroic choice, but an end to the limits on her choice. The hardest thing in this world is to live in it - and now she finally gets to do that. 

[friendandphoe]

okay the formatting on this is gonna be a lil weird bUT!! have this figuring it out/something to last revamp that’s been sitting in my brain for the last few weeks @ahbonjour @museumlad @creativeskull95

There’s no way in hell she’s ever looking Professor Keelson in the eye again. “I’m sorry,” she croaks for the thousandth time, and finds a tissue being pressed into her hand.

“Quite alright, my dear,” Professor Keelson says soothingly, leaning back in his chair with his hands folded over his round belly. “Wipe your face, now, there you go. I’m — well.” And he rubs the bridge of his nose, just under his round wire glasses. “I can’t say I wasn’t expecting this, unfortunately.”

She nods numbly, ice trickling down her spine.

You ruined everything.

“I’m sorry,” she tries again, because it’s all she can think to say, but the professor waves her off with a weathered hand and pushes himself to his feet, leaning heavily on his cane as he makes his way to the mini fridge he keeps under the bookshelves.

“Now, now,” he says, almost scolding, and pulls out a clementine, a bar of chocolate, and a bottle of water. “Don’t you start that with me, Ms. Ochoa. This is not the first time I’ve had students crying in my office, I daresay it won’t be the last.” And he sits heavily back down in his chair, setting the snacks in front of her. “Eat, drink. Now, I won’t press on what’s been troubling you, but you know, these tired old eyes of mine do still catch a few things here and there, and I have seen you — well. I don’t like to use the word struggling, but you know, perhaps it is a bit more apt than anything else I could think of.” And she knows he’s looking at her, knows those beady black eyes well, but just focuses on unwrapping the chocolate bar as quietly as she can.

What makes you think we want you around?

“You’ve had a rough time of it, this year.”

It’s not a question, but she still finds herself nodding confirmation. “I don’t know what happened.” She says hoarsely, and reaches for the water bottle.

Leave us alone.

“I’ve been wanting this for years, I worked so hard to get into this program, I just—” and she has to press her mouth shut to keep the lump in her throat from escaping.

Leave us alone!

“Some… stuff. Uh, came up, I guess.”

They sit in silence for a minute, then softly: “The human mind is a wonderful, confusing little thing.” Professor Keelson says. She dares a glance up at him, finds him — thank god — staring out his office window. “It tends to block out anything unpleasant we might not want to hear, and often that negativity will build and build and build until, one day, the weight becomes too much to bear.” He sighs and scrubs a hand through his short white beard, messing the hairs out of their orderly style. “And then we must face the unfortunate truth that sometimes what we thought we wanted is, in actuality, not at all the path we should be taking."

She drops her gaze back down to her bouncing knee. “Is it stupid?” She blurts out, watching her leg blur under her rising tears. “I just — this is a good school, a good program, and I’ll have so many job opportunities when I graduate—”

A weathered hand stretches out across the desk, just reaching to where her pinky would've been. “And yet,” Professor Keelson murmurs. “It won’t make you happy.” He sits back in his chair, looking every inch the benevolent Santa Claus his students know him to be. “And given how miserable you’ve been this year, Ms. Ochoa, I daresay your ultimate happiness is worth far more than any graduating job offers.” His smile drops for a half-second. “Though I can’t say I won’t be sorry to see you go. You’re already one of my best students, you know.”

You're an embarrassment to my name and reputation.

A wet little giggle chokes out of her throat, and she wipes down her face one more time. “Don’t tempt me, I’m half-considering staying,” she admits. “Even with all of this.”

“Ah, but if you do, what sort of state will you be in once you graduate?” Professor Keelson says, raising a bushy brow. “All you young folk are the same. You’re young, you have that wonderful, limitless energy, but you must learn to take care of yourselves now, while you have the space to do so. Won’t do you any good to drive yourselves into the ground every night when you’re my age, you know!” He looks at her appraisingly, then smiles wide. “And you know, my dear, there’s great strength in being able to admit you were wrong. I’ve always admired people who are strong enough to chase their dreams instead of following the easy path. Do you have an idea where you’re going, yet?”

Don’t ever come back here, you little— 

“There’s a performing and visual arts conservatory,” she says hesitantly. “River Park, downstate. They’ve got really good photography and filmmaking programs, and, um.” She pauses, unsure how to explain how right it had all felt when she’d been reading about it online. “Well, I have an interview on Wednesday, so.”

Professor Keelson’s smile widens. “River Park! My partner studied illustration there, years ago when we were both young. You’ll do wonderfully.”

She can��t help but feel like his faith is ever-so-slightly misplaced —

I didn't want you.

— maybe it’s just the existential crisis talking, who knows —

Do you understand me?

— but she can’t quite bring herself to argue against the sparkling excitement in the professor’s eyes. She lets him press another chocolate bar and tissue combo into her hand as he shuffles her out of his office, with strict, cheerful instructions to come see him before she leaves for her interview.

You were a mistake.

Tuesday night comes in the blink of an eye; she’d barely dumped her meager wardrobe back into the suitcase she’d kept under her bed and her sticky notes are still haphazardly slapped to the wall above her desk. She’s not exactly sure where the time went — it’s not like she went to any classes. Or ate much. Or was sleeping, really. Granted she did try, but the third time in the same night she woke up sobbing because her blankets had twisted around her leg, trapping her in an all-too-familiar heat vortex—

window won't break it's too hot it hurts to breathe window won't break it's so fucking hot she can't think window won't break but it'll slide get out of this goddamn heat get out get out crunch fuck ow hurts hurts ow fuck hurts her toes shouldn't be ow fuck fuck fuck pointing that way hurts hurts fucking hurts can't feel her knee fuck fuck where's papá—

— she kind of gave up. She doesn't even bother pulling out her shitty, half-broken headphones to try and watch something on Netflix to try and pass the time, she just lays in bed and listens to Rebecca softly snoring five feet away. The ceiling is infinitely more interesting than anything else she could’ve been focusing on, anyway.

Except maybe her portfolio. Which. She hasn’t really. Looked at.

She’s so fucked.

Still, she drags herself out of bed nice and early at 7 am Wednesday morning, beating her alarm by the customary 4 minutes, and actually manages to gather the energy to sift through her remaining clothes to dig out something — well. She doesn’t really have anything “nice,” per say, but she does have an oversized sweater that’ll pass as a dress once she puts on some makeup and a belt and ties her hair up, and that’ll have to be good enough.

You show up to my door looking like that?

River Park is going to laugh her right out the door.

Everything she might need is already shoved unceremoniously into her backpack — wallet, keys, wrist brace, student ID, laptop, flash drive (in its place of honor in the tiny pocket), knee brace, fruit snacks, water bottle — but her eye catches on her DLSR just as she’s finished tying the laces on her most comfortable boot, and she hesitates. She hasn’t really looked at her portfolio much recently — she knows she’s got some old pictures from Manhattan, and maybe some from various campus events that might be good, but it’s been a little hard to go out and take nice shots when she’s been drowning in depression soup for the past four months. Four years. Whatever. Either way, she doesn’t have much to show for herself, and inspiration hasn’t really hit lately.

But River Park is — well, she has no idea, really, she hasn’t seen it in person yet, but the photos online are gorgeous, all glass-and-brick buildings framed by forests and gardens. Very much a college town, from what she can tell, the campus map isn’t really a map so much as a general directory pointing out which buildings were associated with the conservatory, but there was something that felt weirdly homey about seeing those pictures. Maybe it was the layout of the buildings, maybe it was the way they described their classes and professors, maybe it was just the simple fact that everyone in those pictures was genuinely smiling, but she’d gotten this weird, longing ache just below her collarbone that had made her close down all her other college-related tabs and email River Park’s photography and filmmaking department.

Something feels good about that campus. And maybe, if she gets there a little early, she can—

You don't get to come into my life and — and ruin everything I have here.

It’s only seven forty-two. Her interview’s not until one, and the train ride downstate should only take an hour. She’s got time.

Which is how she finds herself knocking on Professor Keelson’s office door, DLSR hanging around her neck, about two hours earlier than she’d been intending to be there, praying to who and whatever might be listening that he’s actually in and she didn’t just horribly fuck this up like she’s been fucking up, oh, who’s to say, just about everything she touches these past few months.

You’re not a part of this family. You never will be.

“Come in, come in!” She hears just beyond the door, and she cautiously peeks in to find the wizened old professor crouching over his printer, staring at it suspiciously as it slowly spits out some document. “Hello, dear. Wasn’t expecting you this early!”

I think you should leave.

“Sorry,” she manages, hovering in the doorway. “I just — change of plans.”

Professor Keelson nods, collects his papers, and creaks over to his desk. “Yes, very good.” he agrees, shuffling the papers into two piles. “Take a seat, I promise I won’t keep you very long. You look nice, by the way.”

She sits, already relaxing in the warm familiarity of Professor Keelson’s overstuffed office. Maybe this is why he’d wanted her to visit before she went, just to make sure she wouldn’t vomit on the interviewers. “Thank you, sir.”

“You’re very welcome. Now,” he says, stuffing one pile of papers into a folder. “These are all your important documents: transcripts, transferable credits, disability accommodations, et cetera. Pardon my overstepping, but you did seem a little, ah, frazzled, shall we say? Last you came to speak with me and I was almost positive that you wouldn’t have thought of pulling the paperwork together.”

Which is absolutely true, she hadn’t, and she can’t even bring herself to feel insulted that he’d assumed she wouldn’t. “Thank you very much,” she says, trying desperately to seem calm and cool and collected and not crush her very expensive, very precious camera in her white-knuckle grip.

A mess. You're a mess.

Professor Keelson’s face crinkles into a smile. “You’re very welcome. You’ll be happy to know that, since you’ve already completed all your core classes and general requirements, all of those credits will easily transfer between the schools. There may be a class or two you’ll have to make up, but you should be able to jump right in with your major-specific classes. Now, this,” he says, folding the other papers into an envelope. “Is your letter of recommendation. I’ll put it in the folder with everything else, but I wanted you to know that you had it.”

Oh, fuck, she might start crying again. “Professor—” she starts, but he’s already slid the folder across the desk to her.

“Ms. Ochoa, if I may.” Her mouth snaps shut, and he continues: “Our time together has been short, yes, but you have been one of my favorite students to ever come through these doors. Barring your obvious intelligence, passion, and work ethic, you’re also relentlessly kind, despite everything you’ve gone through.” His gaze fixes on her cheek for the briefest of moments, tracing over the lumps and bumps of her scars, but his eyes are as soft as they’ve ever been. “I don’t presume to know your history, but I know bits of your present, and the person I’ve seen would make a valuable asset to any school she goes to. If you approach your new classes and projects with as much determination as you did mine, I’ve no doubt your new instructors will be as proud of you as I am. I let them know as much.”

 ...

She numbly takes the folder, desperately blinking back tears. “Th-thank you, sir.” She manages, thick in the back of her throat. “I-I’ll do my best.”

Professor Keelson takes up his customary position, hands laced neatly over his belly. “You will.” He agrees, smiling. “Now, you should be heading out soon. I’d hate to make you miss your train, especially if you want to get there early.”

“Yes — yes.” And she gets up on autopilot, sliding the folder into her backpack as carefully as she can manage. “Thank you. Thank you so much, professor, I can’t — I can’t tell you how much this means to me.”

She’s halfway out the door when she hears him call: “Ms. Ochoa, one more thing?”

She turns.

The professor smiles benevolently at her from his chair. “Don’t give up on yourself before you’ve even gotten started.”

And with that, she’s on her way.

Get out.

So, update: maybe deciding to take her portfolio pictures on her way to her college interview was a stupid idea, but to be fair, a lot of her stupid ideas have worked out pretty decently before, so. It’s fine.

Probably.

She definitely doesn’t almost miss the train by snapping shots of the mostly-empty station, but in her defense, the morning fog hadn't quite dissipated yet, and the spooky air of possibility that the tracks had been extending and disappearing into was just begging to be captured. And she absolutely doesn’t continually hop seats throughout the hour-long ride to get different angles of the seats, the blurry towns and roads whizzing past, or even a couple of self-portraits here and there. It’s not like there are people around for her to bother, anyway, so it’s fine. (Probably.) It’s a little hard getting a satisfyingly dramatic shot of her staring out the window, but she thinks the one where they’re passing through a tunnel and she’s locked eyes with her shadowy reflection might be a winner. She won’t really know until she opens them up on her computer, which will probably end up being just before the interview, with her luck, so. Who knows, she might just be wasting her time and battery life.

It’s the most fun she’s had in a while, though.

And. Fuck, maybe it makes no sense, but she's still got that feeling in her chest. It's creeping up to her ponytail, at this point, tugging on the ends of her curls, ordering her to pay attention.

Capture this.

It's important.

Last time she felt like that, she won an award, so. Y'know. Fuck her if she's going to ignore it.

She cuts herself off when there’s ten minutes left in the journey, just to be sure she’s not scrambling to put herself together as she’s pulling up to the station, but ten minutes, it turns out, is both much longer and much shorter than she thought it’d be. Just enough time to run down the list of all the possible ways this could (and would) go wrong, but not enough to steady her racing heart before the train’s slowing down.

You're delusional. This isn't one of your little fairy tales. This is — it's not going to happen.

Don’t give up on yourself before you’ve even gotten started, she remembers, taking one last breath to steel herself, and swings herself up onto her feet and out the doors.

The station is nice enough, but not terribly different from the one she’d started in besides being a little cleaner, so she shoulders her backpack and makes her way down the stairs and into the town proper.

Which.

Wow.

Maybe it’s just a seasonal thing, maybe not, but all the buildings she can see are draped with hanging lights, and even the curving street lights have extra strands hanging over the sidewalks. She almost wishes she’d scheduled her interview later in the day, just to be able to get a shot of those lights against the dark sky, but contents herself with snapping pictures of the incredibly aesthetic sidewalk and shops. She spots an art supply store with a cheerful blue door sandwiched between a movie theater and an apartment complex that frames up nicely, and there’s a coffee shop with swirling, festive winter-y designs painted on the window with pots of poinsettias framing the corners that’s a — no pun intended — picture-perfect paragon of coziness. She stops maybe a little too long to zoom in on the red leaves and flawless paint, making sure to keep the actual inside of the shop out of focus, because as cute as the beanbags and mismatched armchairs are, she doesn’t really feel like going in to ask if it’s alright for her to take pictures of the small handful of people both in front of and behind the counter.

One last shot of the poinsettias and she moves on, turning her lens to the last few, dying flowers in their garden beds, then to the display window of a bookstore that proudly announces its support of the LGBT community with various painted flags, then to the churning river that cuts through the town and the elegant bridge that arcs proudly above it.

There’s not a lot of people walking around right now, but she can definitely see kids around her age up the street, chatting and laughing amongst themselves as their breath puffs out in front of them. A cute dog bounces over to say hello before its owner tugs it away with a sheepish smile, and even without their leaves, the trees interspersed along the sidewalk stand tall, proud, and lovely.

She’s got that weird ache in her chest again — stronger this time — that indiscernible pull that draws her to stay, and she puts her camera down, puffing out a shaky breath.

What made you think we want you here?

“It doesn’t matter.” She tells herself sternly, leaning up on the sides of the bridge. “It doesn’t matter unless you get in.”

Speaking of. She pulls her phone out of her pocket, fully intending to double check the email she’d been sent with instructions on where to go, but her eye catches on the time.

Twelve forty-six.

So. Maybe not the best idea to go gallivanting around a campus she doesn’t know, especially when she has an extremely important interview to get to, but even as she’s scolding herself, she knows the pink flush in her cheeks isn’t just from the cold, and she’s got more energy now than she’s had in months, so.

Worth it.

Thank god E.A. Archer Hall is straightforward enough to find; Google Maps tells her it’s a seven minute walk in a mostly straight line from where she is on the bridge now, which she just about manages even though it’s cold and her stump is starting to ache. The building is emblazoned with the name right on the side, so it’s impossible to miss, but she needs a keycard to get in, and somehow she thinks her current school ID isn’t exactly going to fly here.

But someone, somewhere, is smiling on her, because she’s only just gotten to oh, shit before a tall woman with vitiligo and long box braids strides towards the door, pushing it open.

“Alejandra Ochoa?”

“Yes, ma’am,” she says as smoothly as she can behind her chattering teeth, and the woman smiles.

“You're right on time. Come on in, let's get started."

[starr-fall-knight-rise]

HASO, “The Veil.”

More things are slowly being revealed about my universe, and I hope you like it. This was an interesting exercise in writing. 

Deus

...

Adam freezes in place.

The red mist swells and churns around him as the monoliths tower high overhead.

The word echoes and repeats down the vast streetways and up into the high reaches of the cavernous spaces overhead blending with the moaning of creaking metal.

He turns in a sharp circle and immediately begins a broadcast to the ship, “Omen one this is admiral vir calling for immediate backup. I am not alone, I repeat, I am not alone.”

He got only static back.

Frozen in place and staring into the res haze, he becomes very unsettled as he notices a thickening in the clouds, great billowing resthat presses downward from above, covering the monoliths where they had once been rather visible.

He couldn’t see more than a few feet in front of him now, and hugs the wall tight with fear gripping his chest. He reaches down to his hip and unholsters the gun that is strapped there.

The advanced sensory systems in his gloves transfers the feeling of hard metal directly into his fingertips. He kept his finger outside the trigger guard, worries being jumpy would lead him to doing something stupid.

He looks up and sees nothing but resmist.

It continues to billow around his feet, and now it is getting hard to see his hands.

He presses his back against the wall as he scoots back in the direction he had come following the map on his wrist indicator.

The Geiger counter on his wrist blinks to life and inside his helmet he begins hearing the slow rattling clicks as he is given an audio indication of the radiation. It seems to be rolling in with the fog.

That hardly makes sense as he hasn’t been detecting any hint of radiation before this, but he supposes small concentrations of smoke is nothing like the billowing mist that now surrounds him. He keeps his back against the wall as the clicking grows faster.

The radiation is rising, though he isn’t much worried about its effects on him. The suit was designed to withstand radiation in the direct light of a star, so it doesn't much concern him.

What concerns him is the slowly invading ressmoke, and how he can no longer see his own hand in front of his face.

His breathing comes hard and fast inside his helmet creating a surprisingly humid environment inside the climate controllessuit.

He turns off all of his lights as the billowing smoke keeps interfering with his line of sight, and he has a horrible feeling that the light is only giving him a halo effect, and making him more obvious to whatever could be watching him.

That voice hasn’t spoken in some minutes, and in a way he almost begins to believe that it was some sort of hallucination. Perhaps it was all a figment of a torturesimagination on a strange alien world, and nothing was watching him after all. Maybeit was some sort of auditory hallucination brought on by an imbalance of atmosphere inside his suit.

He looks down to check his wrist indicator, but pauses halfway there. If that isn’t the case, he isn’t sure he wants to know. The thought of the voice being real scares him more than he would like to admit, so he stays quiet and keeps his way along the wall.

If he can just make it back to his ship, then he knows he ill be fine.

He feels better in the air than he does on the ground after all.

He is a pilot, and any issues he could run into while in the air are things than he is comfortable dealing with.

He has reached the edge of the monolith now, feeling it’s cold steel pressing against his back.

The red mist swirls before him so thick that the scattered light reaching through to him is no better than the last fingers of twilight.

He stares into the abyss.

He is breathing hard and his fingers tingle inside his gloves with his back pressed against the wall.

He takes a deep breath glancing quickly down the side passage as he hears a deep and low groaning. He knows it is probably just the metal monoliths creaking overhead, but he can’t help but think about the Ancient Greek Labyrinth and the minotaur that wandered it's corridors.

Quickly,he kicks the gravity fields on his boots to life,and presses back against the wall in preparation to launch himself forward into the mist.

He is just readying himself to push off the wall when...

Suddenly his fingers are touching nothing.

His breath catches in his throat, cutting off a scream as he silent pitches backwards into darkness.

His hands flail and his feet kick for a second before a hard impact reverberates through his suit, knocking the wind from his body.

His vision is completely obscured by blackness.

He can’t breath.

Adam rolls onto his side gasping and choking mouth opening and closing like a fish as his stunned diaphragm struggles to take in air.

A warning light on his suit begins going off as his blood oxygen content takes a sharp downward spike.

He rocks from ide to side in a panic trying to find his breath again, and finally gasps in a loud wheeze of air.

The warning light in his suit slows down before finally stopping.

He lays on his side in the darkness gasping and taking long, slow deep breaths groaning slightly as he regains his breath. The suit’s warning lights fade and then vanish.

He is left alone in the dark breathing heavily.

Adam rolls onto his stomach and then onto his hands and knees. The sensors in the suit’s gloves can detect the hard smoothness of the metal under his hands. He doesn’t see anything else at first, and is about to turn on his lights when a soft resglow begins out of the darkness. At first, he thinks it is just a hallucination or his imagination like he assumes the voice had.

But the light continues to grow, and, as it does, others join it. 

A hundresmaye even be a thousand glowing resorbs about the size of his fist or a little bit bigger.

They line the hallway before him clustered on the walls and on the floor in groups that reminde him, not so comfortingly, of alien parasitic spores from popular science fiction.

He tries to crawl backward, but his foot hit something hard, and he turns to find a dark metal surface slick and impenetrable lit up by reslight.

He swallowes hard.

He was alone, 

He tries engaging his comm though nothing works, and he was simply left alone in the silence.

Inside his chest, his heart pounded, and he does his best to breathe slowly and evenly.

With some trepidation, he stands and begins forward into the hallway.

The one mission he had actually wanted to bring other people on, and he couldn’t. The shuttles were to clunky to handle an atmosphere like this and far too large to navigate all of the strange obstacles that he had spotted on his way down. It had been a one man job to make it here, and it looked like it was going to be a one man job getting out.

Sure the marines could take the pods down at his request, and they probably would if they receive his transmission, but he would rather they didn’t it is far too dangerous.

Red light spills in through his face mask and glows off his skin.

The little red orbs pulse slowly brighter and then fading away giving him the foreboding impression of a beating heart or blood rushing through veins. The very thought itself sends shivers up his back as he makes his way down the dark hallway.

He doesn’t realize it at first, but the expanse was much larger than he had thought, and the hallway in which he walks spannes quite wide, across a great entrance hall -- or so it seems to him.

As he walks, the hallway seems to morph until it is no more a hallway but a large room.

Pillars rise up at the center, covered in the clusters of little red pulsing orbs.

The room is massive, so large in fact, that he can barely make out the ceiling in the darkness aboe, it seems to rise up into the very tops of the monolith itself.

The vastness of the room makes him feel very small, but he continues walking, knowing there is no point in going back.

If he is going to find a way out, it is going to have to be forward.

His heart continues to hammer in his chest as he passes massive pillar by massive pillar.

Again he is struck by how large the room is, and consequently, the size of the pillars, which are larger than redwood trunks and spout the little red obs like barnacles sprout on the bottom of a boat.

He doesn’t realise it until he exits the forest of pillars that he has not even reached the center of the room yet. He is just at i’s fringes and now that the pillars are gone, he can see across the vastness of the room to where an alien structure stands dormant.

He shivers as soon as he sees it.

Whatever it is…. It is wrong…. alien …. And unknowable.

His eyes try to follow its outline, but make it only a few feet before becoming confused and going nowhere.

It is a mass tangle of metal, constructed like a strange alien protein or some kind of warped sea creature.

The more he looks at it, the more his eyes churn in confusion.

He tires to look away, but that doesn’t help much.

He shakes his head.

The weird tangled structure sits at the center of the room, all alone.

He wants to stay away from it, but at the same time he feels pulled towards it. He knows it is completely irrational, like all of the teenage girls in cheep horror movies going into the dark places instead of following their instincts.

He had always thought that those were unrealistic, but now he can see that he was wrong.

He understands the feeling as he is pulled across the open floor and towards the structure.

Like everything on this strange planet, he has immediately underestimated the size of the structure. As he grows closer, it towers over him, a massive twist of wicked metal swirls, infinite and completely unfathomable in the human eye. 

Its almost two, maybe even four stories tall, and stretches out far enough to completely encompass a small building or even a house.

His skin prickles.

The same feeling as if he is being watched.

He glances over his shoulder but sees nothing.

He then looks towards the structure wonderin if something could be hiding in it. Is it some sort of alien nest? Are hose things on the wall its offspring.

Is he going to die here.

He stands there for many minutes, unsure of what to do or where to go.

Where is he going to find a way out?

He turns back to the structure.

It sits quietly.

He shivers.

Its a strange feeling, it seems as if it is watching him, in the same way a person watches you or an animal, but as if you know that the animal can speak but is simply choosing to withhold that ability.

Like it was being INTENTIONALLY silent.

He takes a step back but stops.

Krill would kill him if he knew.

He always warned adam against the kind of impulses he is getting now, but he cant seem to help himself.

Before he knows what he is doing, he reaches out a hand his fingers splayed wide as he reaches towards the strange object.

His fingers remble a little.

And then they make contact.

At first he feels nothing until a sensation registers through his gloves.

The object is soft…. And warm….

…

Organic

….

He only has a split second to register this feeling before he is assaulted by a force so powerful he can barely comprehend it.

Knocked out of his mind.

Completely out of space and time.

His vision is obscured by blackness, though he feels as if he is spinning, his body whirling repeatedly end over end in some sort of eternal cartwheel. Though he cannot see he can sense a void of eternal blackness all around him stretching out to infinity on all sides 

He cannot fathom how long he spins it could be a simple moment or it could have been a thousand years. His body does not register time in this palace, almost as if there was no time to register.

He is simply a conscience in a void of eternal darkness. 

And then…. Light. 

All around him an eruption of light, a massive expansion outward that begins from everywhere and nowhere all at once. His vision is filled with blistering heat though there is no pain. He is simply enveloped by a wall of white. And where there once was eternal darkness, there is only light.

It fills his vision and spills through him like a river of molten gold, rushing through his veins with a wave of fire and ecstasy incomprehensible by the human mind: a feeling no drug could ever touch.

He can feel it burning at his fingertips and toes, pushing his skin till it seems to burst and light leaks out through the cracks.

He is one with the light.

Part of it.

Enveloped completely.

There is no time, and no space, just the burst of light.

Then before him the light begins to condense, collapsing inwards to show the darkness once more, but, this time, instead of just one or the other, the points of light cluster together on a backdrop of blackness, sharing the space neither one dominating over the other.

The light continues to unfold, curling outward like a swirling sinuous body before outstretching great wings of stars.At once it seems like a massive dragon is stretched across the sky before its silhouette fades and it is gone, its body fading backwards into the illuminating mass.

He can finally comprehend what he is seeing as he watches stars form inside fields of gas at billions of times the speed. He watches them swirl together in great spiraling forms.

His body is shot through space at what must be trillions of times faster than the speed of light, though it seems to be no more than a gentle float through the vastness,, passing by towering spirals of stars and gas making galaxies and trails of stars hung like ribbons. 

He reaches out a hand, feeling though not seeing and feels hot embers of flame across his fingers as he takes his hand through a field of stars causing them to burst away from each other like scattering dandelion fluff.

Infinity continues on below him and above him and to all sides of him.

The stars spin and so does his mind.

His thoughts are still even as they race, held together simply by the gravity of his own consciousness.

Stars take up his vision.

His mind can neither comprehend or begin to comprehend what he is seeing, but instead of confusion or collapsing inward on himself, he feels.

At home.

A warmth begins in his chest welling up into his throat and then behind his eyes. 

The relief of returning home after a long journey,

Of seeing loved ones again.

Of returning to ones childhood stomping grounds and lifting their head to the wind as memories come rushing back on the breeze.

He takes a deep breath, though there should be no air to breathe.

The vacuum of space has no hold on him.

He is immune.

Powerful.

He is carried across the universe pulled towards it’s edge watching as stars fly past on either side.

A pinprick of light, just like the others, and then it expands filling his vision.

His eyes widen as brightness envelops him, and he can sense something just beyond the veil of light.

He feels as if he could reach forward and cast the veil aside like a gossamer curtain.

And then.

Nothing.

The light stops, and he is no longer moving. The curtain seems to wave before him, and he can sense shapes beyond, or at least he swears he can.

He reaches out desperately.

But is pulled backwards.

His heart shatters.

Like a glass sculpture thrown to the ground with violent intensity The pain of it is immense and incomprehensible, and he doesn't understand why, which only makes the sensation all the worse, all the more confusing.

He is a child, lost and alone, left outside cold and alone.

Unprotected.

He is lost in a well of agony.

Until a soft voice.

You Are Not Ready 

The voice is, gentle, filled with concern, as if consoling a child.

It is not unkind, quite the opposite, and it acts upon him like the soft caress of a mother or father. Though he has no body, it almost feels as if he is enveloped, wrapped in protective arms, or a thick blanket during cold winter as the snow falls from above.

The veil fades back into darkness.

His body hurts for what he is leaving behind, but the arms lead him gently away, and where they touch he feels heat and light just as he did when approaching the barrier.

He can no longer understand what he is seeing.

Tears leak from his eyes, spilling outwards as points of white light to drip down and join the stars.

Then he stops moving.

Hands, gentle, and consoling cast him backwards to float out into space.

As soon as the fingertips are gone, the light vanishes with it.

He wants to stay.

He desperately wants to.

But the voice comes again.

You Are Not Ready.

And then blackness. The voice echoing in repeated circles around inside his head.

He hits the ground hard, and is knocked breathless for the second time. Eternity collapses in on itself back to a pinpoint focus so tight it seems claustrophobic and crushing.

He gasps for air feeling as if he is dying for a moment, though his body soon regains control over his own senses. The limited pinpoint of consciousness and sensation being his own, very limited body.

He is lying face down on cold metal, and the sensation of what he has lost wells up even more. He curls into a ball, his hands around his chest, knees brought up. Tears roll down his face and drip onto the screen of the helmet.

He sobs quietly, unable to control the overwhelming feeling that something profound and irreversible has been taken from him, though he doesn't know what.

Through his tears, and through the face screen he can see the swirling mist of red. The structure is gone and so is the monolith.

The ground rumbles below him though it is a distant thing, only a rattle.

He lays there for a long time as his consciousness slowly squeezes itself back inside his skull feeling confined and cramped in a sensation he would never be able to explain in words or in writing.

More vibrations though these ones are uneven.

“We found him!”

“Omen respond, we have found the admiral.”

“That doesn't make sense! How did he get here.”

“What do you mean.”

“This is nearly thirty miles from his last broadcasted position.”

The voices help him stitch his mind back into place.

A hand on his shoulder, barely noticeable through his space suit.

“Admiral, admiral can you hear me…..” he has forgotten where his mouth is, “Adam!” More mumbling voices, “His vitals are clear, heart rate is elevated, reparation elevated.”

“Picking up some abnormal cerebral activity curving towards normal.”

That’s Krill’s voice.

He remembers now.

“Adam.”

Ramirez?

Arms grab him around the chest and force him into a sitting position. His head lolls to the side.

A hand catches him and holds his head up. He leans heavily against Ramirez as he tries to remember how to move.

“Adam, can you hear me.”

A light passes through his mask and onto his face.

He cringes away from the light. It hurts much more than the other light he remembers.

“Come on, buddy, talk to me.” Ramirez pats the side of his helmet.

He blinks hard and takes a deep breath.

“Ramirez?”

“I’m here, I’m right here.” 

His tongue feels like lead and the insides of his mouth are coated in sandpaper. He coughs.

“Adam, what happened.”

His vision spins, “I…. I don’t remember I…. I was…. Inside, and then…”

“The monoliths collapsed, they just fell out of the sky and…. We thought you were dead.”

“But I…. I was inside and then…. And then I was everywhere.”

The marines looked at each other in some confusion.”

“Your GPS cut out almost ten hours ago and shortly after that the monoliths began falling from the sky and collapsing in on the structures. It was chaos, destroyed everything. And then an hour ago your GPS coordinates appeared here…. Did you walk?”

He looked up confused, “No…. I… I don’t know how I got here.”

“Someone get him up and into the shuttle. He probably hit his head in the collapse.”

“Good idea.”

Two marines moved forward and helped to drag him to his feet. 

His legs didn’t work, so they had to drag him to one of the ground shuttles and then back over the open planes of the planet before they were able to find an atmospheric opening that would allow a less experienced pilot to fly out.

His head continued to spin.

He stared down at the planet and it’s red haze as he was carried away.

In the back of his head a soft whisper.

You Are Not Ready 

[wh0reforthemarauders]

TRYING TO BLEND IN (PART 2)

WARNINGS: cursing??? WORD COUNT: 1500 A/N: I didn't edit this at all (pls keep in mind that english is not my first language) I just wanted to post it today because it's full moon tonight lmao enjoy (hopefully there will be a part 3 some day)

It took Sirius a while to recover from the initial shock. This random stranger he had just met at a muggle campsite minutes ago was also a wizard. What a coincidence it was, and how lucky he was that it wasn't a muggle who saw him use magic, he thought.

Sirius stood still for a few moments, looking around the place, then finally he turned to the boy.

"How come you've never met a wizard before? Are you muggle-born?"

"No." said the boy, and then went silent. Sirius expected a longer answer than this so he decided to keep asking questions.

"Have you gone to Hogwarts?"

"No"

"But you know what it is?"

"I do. But I was homeschooled."

Uncomfortable with the direction in which their conversation was going, Remus quickly changed the topic and suggested taking Sirius's things into his new room and then make dinner for them both. Sirius was curious to find more about this unusual boy but he didn't want to seem rude so he simply nodded in agreement.

The two of them spent the next few days at the campsite together. Sirius had told Remus all about the wizarding world, his best friend James, and their adventures at Hogwarts. He could tell Remus was kind of sad now that he realized what he had been missing out on, but for some reason he still avoided the topic of why he has been isolated from other wizards his whole life.

As Remus had plenty of experience with all things muggle, he eventually taught Sirius to set up a tent and use muggle appliances to make food, but they silently agreed that Sirius was not going back to his own tent. They were simply having too much fun together and Remus felt like he was finally making up for all the years he didn't go to Hogwarts with other wizards of his age.

-------

Ten days have passed and Sirius and Remus still had plenty of topics to go through while they were roasting barbecue in front of their tent. It was a pleasant summer evening, and Sirius had been staring at the darkening sky which was mostly clear, except for a few clouds. Suddenly, he felt the urge to tell Remus the origin of his name.

"Wanna hear a story about how I got my name?" He asked out of nowhere, tapping his friend on the shoulder.

"Sure"

"You see that star over there?", he said pointing up at the sky. "The brightest one..."

As he was speaking, the soft wind blew and moved the cloud which had been hiding the moon. The moonlight instantly brightened the scenery. It seemed almost full.

"Well, although I myself am not quite as bright, as you've had a chance to..."

Sirius cast a look in Remus's direction and, seeing his worried expression, he didn't finish the joke he was about to make. It seemed as though Remus wasn't listening to him anymore. He too was staring at the sky, but not at the bright star Sirius was showing him. He was looking at the moon instead.

Sirius hesitated a moment, not knowing what to say. "What's wrong, have you never seen a full moon before?"

"Oh I've seen it" said Remus scornfully, before shaking his head and getting up quickly. "I have to leave tonight. You better pack your things. We're not gonna see each other again."

Sirius remained on the ground, following Remus with his stare as he hurried into the tent. He was pondering whether to go after him and ask him what's up when Remus emerged with a bag full of Sirius's clothes in his hands. He set it before him and proceeded to pack his own tent into a backpack, when Sirius finally stood up and approached him, grabbing him by his arm.

"What the hell is wrong with you? You're just gonna leave me here in the middle of a muggle campsite?"

Sirius stared at him, not understanding the reason behind this sudden change in behaviour. Moments ago they were having a great time, talking about their favourite flavour of Bertie Bott's Beans, and Sirius couldn't imagine what he had possibly done to cause this.

"I have to be alone for a while, that's all." he shook his arm free from Sirius's firm grip.

"Did I do something?" Sirius asked but it was too late. Remus put on his backpack and hurried towards a dark forest that was surrounding the campsite.

Sirius stood still, enraged that this guy whom he had just started to consider a friend, has left him among muggles, knowing how helpless he was without magic.

"Fuckin idiot!" he yelled after him.

A few seconds later, he felt once again the piercing stares of the muggles around him. All eyes were on him and everyone at the campsite must have seen this embarrassing scene. He faked a smile he thought seemed polite enough and sat down to finish his dinner. He was determined to leave the campsite that night and go to James's house for the rest of the summer.

------------

As soon as he finished a cigarette that he had lit after dinner, Sirius got up, took his bag and headed through the same forest that Remus had disappeared into earlier that night. Now that he has calmed down a bit, he couldn't think of a reason why he even ended up at this stupid campsite. He could've gone to James's place right after leaving home, and he would've avoided 10 days of ridiculous drama.

It was somewhere around midnight and he was nearing the edge of the forest. The path he was following has now become broader and pebbled. Just as he was passing an abandoned shack hidden behind some trees, he heard strange screeching noises coming from inside. The noise didn't sound human and he was curious to find out what it was, so completely fearless, he walked up to the front door and tried to push them open but it seemed they were barred from the inside. He walked over to the window, peeked inside but it was so dark inside that he couldn't see anything. With an inexplicable amount of determination, fueled by his infinite curiosity, he pushed aside a couple of planks from the already broken window, shattered the few remaining pieces of glass, and climbed up and into the shack.

Instinctively, he took out his wand, performed the lighting charm, and in the light of the wand he could finally see where the weird screeching was coming from.

In the corner of the dusty, cobwebbed room was a curled-up, shaking figure. Who would've thought. The sound was human after all.

Sirius stepped closer with his wand hand stretched out, his step making the floor boards shriek. The figure lifted its head. Sirius barely recognized him in this horrible state, but as distorted and animal-like as his face now was, without a doubt it belonged to Remus.

"Go away, Sirius!" he screamed.

"What's going on?? Why are you here? Do you... live here?"

"Oh for fuck's sake Sirius, how stupid can you be??? LOOK AT ME"

"I'M A WEREWOLF!"

Sirius was still very much confused. He didn't understand what being a werewolf had to do with hiding out in a ruin like this.

"It's full moon! Get away from me! I really don't want to hurt you but so help me god if you stay here for one more minute..."

"...Why would you hurt me?" asked Sirius trying to sound as calm as possible.

"BECAUSE THAT'S WHAT WEREWOLVES DO!" screamed Remus desperately. "We are dangerous! We attack people! We... we hurt them."

Remus was desperately shaking and crying. Tonight's transformation was already very slow and painful and now he had one more thing to worry about. He had completely forgotten to track the days until full moon while he was with Sirius, and he hated himself for allowing to forget what a monster he was. What he wanted most at the moment was to be left alone. He could deal with this by himself, like he always does. He knew he made a mistake. He never should've befriended Sirius. He always scares friends away. But this time, he also risked hurting one.

To Remus's great surprise, however, Sirius didn't seem scared at all. Shocked perhaps, caught off guard, but not scared. He sat on the floor next to Remus, putting an arm around his shoulder, patting him comfortingly.

"It's ok." he said. Noticing that Remus winced as he approached him, he decided to try to lighten the mood the only way he knew how.

"You couldn't hurt me if you wanted to."

Remus turned to look at him, eyes still glossy from the tears.

"You're literally skin and bones, Remus. And I trained Quidditch for 6 years. You stand no chance against me."

At this, Remus's face finally brightened, and he barely managed to suppress a chuckle.

"Come on. I know a place where you can be safe... you know, while you're doing your... wolf thing." Sirius said, standing up and offering Remus a hand to help him stand up. "Remember my friend James?"

[songfell-ut]

Happy birthday to:

@venelona! I set out to prove that I could do a gift on time, and even if time zones have come between us, it’s totally the 4th right now for me, dammit. So here you go, stolen directly from your conversation on @lailosh‘s server and based of course on these comics.

(Omfg, I told my daughter I was happy I finished a birthday gift on time and now she’s nattering to her class on Zoom about how today is her mom’s friend’s birthday and the teacher is asking if we’re doing anything)

Anyway

The bedroom was quiet. Not too quiet—the air conditioner hummed and traffic noises filtered in from the busy street outside, as usual. It was just the quiet of an early-evening bedroom with no one in it yet, sleeping or playing on their phone or doing you-know-what…

…Not that the room’s usual occupant ever did much know-what. In fact, she never did any of it. He definitely would’ve noticed. He noticed everything.

For example, he knew the moment the sun’s last rays finally died out and warm, sweet darkness began sinking into the room, pooling under her bed and creating the ideal space for someone – something – like him to emerge.

Nightmare permitted himself a tiny grin, letting his tentacles writhe in anticipation. He’d been resting and gathering his power for over a month, building enough strength to invade the waking world. Let her think he’d grown tired of trying to reach her again after…after that, her shocking indecency, showing him all that soft warm naked skin and touching him with no he had to focus

Yes. She probably thought she’d won and driven him off with her horrible wiles! Well, what would she say when he came for her—no, when he completely platonically attacked her in her own world, where she thought she was safe? There was nowhere to run from him in her nightmares, but she could always wake up. Here, though…

Nightmare took the magical equivalent of a deep breath, running his tentacles along the barrier between his world and the reality inhabited by humans. It was a delicate process, but he used the barest touch of power to find the barrier’s weak spot, nudge the folds of subspace aside and insert his tentacles one at a why did this feel so inappropriate time, until he was through!

The space under her bed was…not spacious. In fact, if he hadn’t been so viscous, Nightmare could well have found himself stuck. It was enough to make him contemplate giving up and slipping back into his own world, where an eldritch being could stretch properly and not think terrible, untoward things from something as innocuous as penetrating into her wo—

No! As a being of infinite cosmic horror who fed on the suffering of lesser creatures, Nightmare had no intention of backing out now…not the least because he couldn’t back up any further without hitting the wall. What kind of pathetically undersized dwelling was this?

At least he knew her routine, and that she’d be in here soon enough: she was doing the dishes, and then it was time for her shower. Should he strike while she was rummaging in her closet for her favorite cotton robe, the one with the stupid pink flowers? Or lie in wait until she came in afterward, threw her towel off, and eventually got into her pajamas? …Assuming she bothered wearing any. He never watched that part, no matter how much he…well…

Nightmare squeezed his eye shut. Things would be different after tonight, he vowed. Once he’d given her another glimpse of real terror, she’d never taunt him again! He would unleash his most hideous abominations upon his not-scantily-clad victim, and her fear would make him strong enough to finally see—

—a set of dainty black paws wandering in through the half-open door. The skeletal creature froze, slipping a little further back under the bed. Since when did Frisk have a damned cat? And where was it going?! Surely the beast wasn’t stupid enough to approach him?

The cat took a few hesitant steps, then stopped and growled under its breath, tail lashing. Good! Let it make all the noise it wanted. If it got close enough to grab, he’d—

Nightmare was so busy thinking of ways to make the cat sorry for existing that he didn’t notice one of his tentacles eagerly creeping out from under the bed, reaching to grab the little animal…until the cat’s paw went whapwhapwhap and smacked him with needle-sharp claws. “Oww!” he snarled. “You…!”

The kitchen was just down the hall; to his alarm, Frisk had turned the water off. “Nero?” she called. Her footsteps drifted toward the bedroom, and Nightmare crammed himself back against the wall. “Ne—geez!” she yelped as the cat came rocketing out of her room. “What’s wrong with you?” the young woman demanded, her voice trailing after him. “Come back here and answer me, you little…!”

That was too close. Nightmare breathed a sigh of relief, and considered reaching across the room to shut the door; his powers of telekinesis had all but vanished as his…other talents developed. But no, she was an intelligent young lady, and she’d wonder why it was suddenly closed. Besides, the substance coating his limbs would leave telltale greenish-black traces. He just had to hope she wouldn’t notice the flecks of it on the carpet that had been whacked off—that had been forcibly removed by the cat clawing his tentacle.

So the skeletal abomination settled himself to wait, very patiently, as befitted a creature of his age and magical stature. He was always happy to pass the time devising new tortures to inflict upon his victims. Frisk never failed to disappoint him, provided she had clothes on, and once he’d had his way with—once he was finished platonically terrorizing her, she’d never say any ridiculous things about naked or marriage ever again!

Only a minute later, Frisk came back down the hall. “I know, Mom,” she was saying, presumably on the phone. The hall light came on; Nightmare steeled himself for the bedroom light, but to his intense relief, she went to the bathroom instead. “Yeah, I’m gonna go to bed early tonight. I’ve got new contacts, and they’re giving me a headache.” There was a rummage through her medicine cabinet, then some vaguely cloth-sounding noises. “Of course Nero’s doing fine. He just got his wet food, and…he’s already heading to the litter box again. Goody.” Sigh. “Are you guys having fun on your amazing cruise that you wouldn’t take me on?”

Ah. That explained the cat’s presence. And it was also excellent nightmare fuel: he could make her see her parents out on the ocean, having a wonderful time until, say, the walls of the ship split open and grew teeth to begin devouring the passengers, or some kind of disease started spreading that made people turn inside out…Frisk was always susceptible to body horror. Oh, yes, he knew how he could take advantage of her. …Platonically!

“Thanks, Mom,” she said loudly, breaking in on his definitely-not-filthy thoughts. “Have fun. Love you.” He heard her set something down in the kitchen, then sigh, padding back down the hall.

Nightmare settled down to wait again, only to flinch at the sound of sudden, rapid footsteps: Frisk burst into her room and leapt onto her bed with a little “Whee!” The mattress flattened beneath her weight, mashing into his skull; he cursed silently in the tongues of a thousand mortal worlds as Frisk flopped onto her back. “Oh, man, what a day,” she muttered. “Stupid contacts.” Yawn. “Don’t care about the shower, do it in the mornin’…”

That was…remarkably cute, Nightmare thought, then tried to un-think it as she rolled onto her side, relieving some of the pressure. If only they were in his realm! Her mind would be an open book, and he could effortlessly seize her subconscious and steer it in any direction he chose. In this world, he had to wait till her breathing slowed, then grip the carpet and glide out from under the bed on a layer of the noxious stuff coating his body.

Once his torso was free, he silently eased his legs out and rose to his knees. His tentacles quivered with eagerness as he started to turn toward the b—

“Gotcha!”

…If Nightmare had had any friends, and one of them had asked him the likelihood of his next victim not just taking him by surprise, but grabbing him by the neck with rubber kitchen gloves? He would have laughed, and then killed them, because they were clearly insane and he didn’t have any friends.

But by all that was unholy, his theoretical dead friend was not insane. Instead of giving Frisk a (perfectly chaste) glimpse into her own personal Hell, Nightmare found himself being scruffed like an indignant kitten and hauled toward the light switch; instead of latching onto her and ripping her flesh from her bones, his tentacles had just enough time to form a protective seal over his eye before the room was flooded with foul, searing light.

“Oh my God, shut up!” Frisk shouted over his wails of pain. “It’s just one lightbulb!” She shouldered the door open and began dragging him down the hall. “You’re not melting or anything! But if you want to, go for it—it’d probably be an improvement!”

“How dare you!” The eldritch skeleton flailed with both arms and kicked at random, to no avail. “Release me now!”

“Why?” she snapped. Nightmare made another series of agonized noises as she pulled him all the way into the brightly lit bathroom. “I’m not letting you go till you apologize and we get everything cleaned up!” She slammed the door shut and locked it for emphasis. “Got it?!”

He still couldn’t bring himself to uncover his eye. “How? How did you know—”

“The cat had a bunch of gross slime all over his paw! Who do I know that gets gunk everywhere and smells like a hot dumpster? Gee, let me think!” Frisk still had an iron grip on his neck, fingers digging between the vertebrae. With her other rubber-gloved hand, she banged open the linen closet and began pulling things out, piling them on the toilet lid. “I had to scrub it off him so he wouldn’t eat it and die or something. So then I thought to myself, Wow, Self! I already had to wash one dumb thing I didn’t want here! Why not go for a double?”

The implication hit him as she yanked a knob and started the shower full-blast. “You wouldn’t dare,” he hissed.

Frisk stopped dead. For a moment, Nightmare entertained hopes of mustering enough strength to break loose and reach the light switch. When one tentacle eased free, though, she pivoted until he was fully facing the vanity lights, holding firm as he writhed in agony. It felt like miniature suns burning into his slime and bone…

…but only for a moment. The next thing he knew, Frisk had turned him away again, leaning over to shield him from the light. “Believe it or not, I don’t like hurting you,” she said severely. “But you’re in my world now, literally, and you’re not Mr. Big Scary Hentai Monster. You’re more like a vampire in a crappy horror game—all I have to do is turn the lights on. So, you’d better behave. Got it?” Her grip somehow tightened. “Here we go. Hold your breath!”

Nightmare didn’t have time to request any further details, because she was already ripping back the shower curtain and stepping into the tub with him, holding him under the water as she pulled the curtain shut. “There! I’ve been wanting to do this for a while,” she said cheerfully, patting his topmost tentacle. “Doesn’t that feel nice?”

It did not feel nice. The hot water felt like…like…it was bad and he hated it. Yes. It was terrible, and not oddly pleasant or soothing once he got used to it, not at all like being massaged by a thousand tiny hands. In fact, he hated it so much that he relaxed, telling himself he was tricking her into dropping her guard.

Behind him, Frisk hummed in satisfaction and reached out of the curtain. Nightmare’s tentacles began to loosen almost imperceptibly, but constricted again as the human tapped on them. “Hold still. I don’t even know if this stuff hurts when it gets in your eyes…well, eye. But like I said, I don’t get off on torturing people.” Something – probably a bottle – made a sploot sound as she squeezed it. “You just smell really bad.”

Nightmare couldn’t help flinching at the first cold, rough touch of the shower loofa. “I do not ‘get off’ on it,” he informed her. “I can’t help what I am, can I?”

“Hmmm. Yeah,” she said absently. “Yeah, you absolutely can. At least, you can control what you do.” A strange floral scent filled the room as she began a brisk, gentle scrub-down, removing most of his protective slime; he unconsciously folded his legs to sit forward more comfortably, letting her angle the showerhead so that more water streamed over him. “Would you die if you went too long without scaring the crap out of someone?”

The skeletal monster had to suppress a shudder as her fingers slipped between two of the tentacles. No one had touched him like this in…ever, or at least as far back as he could remember. “Probably,” he muttered, telling himself to calm down. It was perfectly innocent, just a wretched human daring to lay hands on him, earning the most terrible punishment imaginable— “Would you die if you went for too long without eating?” he added.

Scrub. Scrub. “Well, duh. But if I want a burger, I don’t sneak into the cow’s house to taunt it first.”

Nightmare did shudder this time as her hand glided over the same spot over and over again, leaving a very sensitive layer of ectoplasmic flesh. His tentacles were stirring with interest, and the more firmly he told them to stop it, the more they all wanted to be washed. One was actually angling itself to let her rub it harder. “I…fine! Just hurry it up.”

“Aww, see? It’s not so bad,” she chirped. The tentacle stretched luxuriously, and Nightmare fought to keep another one from rising to demand the same treatment. “At this rate, you’ll be nice and clean in just a few hours!”

Hours?! He did his best to open his eye, raising one hand to protect him from the light. “You’re joking. Right?” She made an indifferent noise, and he tried to grab at the loofa with his other hand. “Let me do it, then!”

“Nope,” said Frisk, giving the shower curtain a threatening nudge with her elbow; he twitched as the light flickered around its edge. “Just relax, okay? Let your loving wife take care of you~”

He felt his entire skull flush bright green. “You are not my wife!”

The human made a pouty sound. “How can you say that, honey? After all we’ve been through together!” The scrubbing intensified. “I know you wanted more romance. Is that why you came all the way here to see me?” The scrubbing paused. “How did you get into the real world, anyway?” she asked, much more seriously.

Nightmare willed more of his tentacles to peel themselves off his skull, and to behave themselves. “With magic. Don’t waste my time with stupid questions.” The light was just a bit dimmer in here through the shower curtain – enough for the pain to start receding – and he needed to adjust to it; no point formulating an escape plan if he couldn’t see what he was doing.

Frisk slowly removed her grip from around his neck. “Okay, then. I see how it is.” She heaved a sigh, then picked up the bottle again.

This was his chance—Frisk was distracted, with both hands occupied, and his vision was clear. Nightmare grinned in silent malice, flexing his bony fingers as they lay in his lap. Most of his power was still depleted from entering this world, but he had more physical strength in one tentacle than ten mortal men. And this was one slim, soft, pliant young woman! He could take her—he could overpower her with virtually no effort!

It would be ridiculously simple: turn around, grab her, and force her to turn the lights off, for starters. Then they could talk about how she had treated him like a misbehaving cat, and—

She chose that moment to drop the body wash and make him jump. “Crap! Sorry,” Frisk said.

The monster made what he hoped was an agreeable noise and picked up the bottle, which was pretty slippery. “Here,” he murmured. “If you’re going to—”

Without warning, Nightmare sprang to his feet and whirled around, backing the startled human against the shower wall. “Now,” he snarled, “you daaaaaaaaaaaaaugh”

Frisk watched, disbelieving, as the dripping-wet monstrosity jerked backward, arms flung up to shield his eye, as though she had turned a spotlight on him and also thrown some holy water. “I was wondering if you’d noticed,” she remarked. “Did you think I was actually talking with my mom that whole time? I just didn’t want you to know I was taking my clothes off.”

“Why?!” he nearly shrieked. “Why would you do that?”

“‘Cause I didn’t want them to get gunked up! That stuff doesn’t look like it washes out. You’d better help me get it off the carpet, by the way.” Frisk chuckled, and that teasing note crept back into her voice, the one he’d heard so many times in his own nightmares: “If I lose my security deposit, it’ll be your fault. How do you plan to compensate me for that, I wonder~”

Nightmare couldn’t speak; he just emitted a stream of “Y-y-y-y-y—”

“Yyyes, I’m naked,” she agreed, retrieving the bottle. Almost against his will, Nightmare’s eye cracked open in time to watch her set down the loofa, peel the gloves off, goop some body wash onto her hand, and begin blithely rubbing it over her skin. “No offense, but I don’t want you all over me yet.”

The monster’s eye bulged so hard that Frisk snorted. “I meant this, dummy!” She indicated the slimy loofa, and leered at him. “What did you think I meant?”

It was tempting to throw himself out of the shower and hope for death’s sweet embrace, but to his steadily increasing horror, the skeleton couldn’t move his feet. As his gaze swept unwillingly up and down her body, the way her skin glistened as her hands squeezed and stroked it, Nightmare’s desire to grab her shifted…and his tentacles agreed.

Frisk was opening her mouth to say something when one appendage snaked up and began petting her shoulder, which was somehow even warmer and smoother than it looked. “Whoa,” she remarked, looking from it to him and back with wide eyes. To his dismay, her mouth quirked a little. “What happened to romance, Nightmare? Didn’t you want to dance in the moonlight, eat Peking duck, or whatever?”

“I’m n-not—” Nightmare tugged at the errant tentacle, first with his hand, then his magic. To his very dismay, Frisk was reaching up to poke at it, giggling as it brushed her cheek. “What’s wrong with you?” he demanded of the world at large.

As if mocking him, another tentacle lurched at the young woman, making him stagger forward till he had to catch himself with his hands on either side of her. Frozen in place, Nightmare unwillingly watched a few errant suds trickle down her neck, sliding merrily off her collarbone and along the side of her breast before continuing to the brave new worlds beyond—

“Um,” said Frisk, still sounding more amused than perturbed. Her eyes met his, then flicked to her left meaningfully.

Aaaand of course another tentacle had slid around her wrist and along her arm. “Oh, my,” she said, bemused. Nightmare’s soul did a backflip as the young woman moved forward, the tentacles drawing her closer, till her breasts were nearly touching his soaking-wet jacket. “Are you actually coming on to me, or—eep!”

That was probably due to yet another tentacle worming around behind her and running up and down her back, eliciting a little moan. The skeleton wanted desperately to wrench himself free, or at least tell her to be quiet, but…

Frisk was flushed, her breath coming quick and shallow. Nightmare watched her hands come up to rest on his ribcage, picking off bits of slime. “What now?” she murmured.

Nightmare wanted to tell her that she’d won, and please go put on clothes now so he could leave and never come back. He also wanted to tell her that this wasn’t how he’d envisioned their next encounter, or that young women in his day knew better than to trap extradimensional beings in the shower with them; he wanted to be very stern about doing this kind of thing the right way, because she deserved the right way, not…this.

He wanted to stop himself as his fingers rose to brush her damp hair off her face and his skull drooped to rest on her bare shoulder…but he didn’t.

He didn’t want to give up and let his tentacles wind around Frisk to pull her against him, or to put his arms around her, encasing her entire body. But he did.

“Nightmare?” Frisk whispered.

It wasn’t romantic. But if she didn’t care—

Nightmare summoned his scant reserves of magic, and raised his hand long enough to snap his fingers.

The lights went out.

 ~

 Not long afterward – just a few days after her parents got back and collected Nero, with only a few inquiries as to what that smell was – Frisk went on a shopping trip that raised several eyebrows: she bought several shower curtain liners, a dozen bottles each of Amber Sunrise and Moonlit Jasmine body wash, every single Stain Stick on the shelf, and a steam cleaner.

If that wasn’t strange enough, her neighbors soon started complaining about odd noises in the middle of the night, and at least one of them made rude remarks about how she had to be hoarding trash or something. When the landlord came in for an inspection, though, all he saw was a scrupulously clean apartment with a faint, lingering odor that he couldn’t identify.

It was hard not to see a heap of folded plastic in the corner of her room, but there were no bloodstains – or recent unsolved murders that he knew of – and anything else she chose to use it for was none of his business; Frisk accepted his admonishment to keep it down, whatever it was, and promised to maintain her new cleaning schedule.

Her neighbors didn’t hear much of anything after that. There was nowhere to run from him in her nightmares, but that was fine—she was in no hurry to wake up. After all, she wasn’t the one who’d been caught, was she?

[bubonickitten]

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

Chapter summary: Jon and Basira make their way to Ny-Ålesund; Daisy and Martin have a long-overdue conversation.

Previous chapter: AO3 // tumblr

Full chapter text & content warnings below the cut.

Content warnings for Chapter 26: panic/anxiety symptoms; brief descriptions of Flesh-domain-typical imagery; discussion of police violence, intimidation tactics, & abuse of authority (re: Daisy’s past actions); mentions of canonical character deaths & murder; reference to a canonical instance of a character being outed (re: Jon’s coworkers gossiping about him being ace); allusions to childhood emotional neglect; a bit of internalized ableism re: ADHD symptoms; discussions of strict religious indoctrination; a physical altercation, including being restrained with a hold; swears. SPOILERS through Season 5.

Chapter 26: Remains To Be Seen

The journey to Tromsø is… uneventful, comparatively speaking.

Almost worryingly so, Jon observes at one point.

You’re fretting because something hasn’t gone horribly wrong? Basira asks.

Aren’t you?

The tension in Basira’s shoulders is answer enough. They’re both on tenterhooks, all too aware of the dreadful species of things that lurk in the margins of the world, any number of which could be waiting in the wings for them.

That’s not to say there are no complications at all. There’s a learning curve to navigating the world blindfolded, but the two of them settle into something of a routine: Basira guiding Jon with a hand on his arm, talking him around obstacles, across gaps, and up and down stairs. An improvised system of nudges and taps develops organically over the course of their travels, starting when Basira realizes that Jon has trouble parsing her words over the noise of a crowd. It becomes their go-to mode of communication with surprising ease.

It’s an exercise in trust oddly refreshing in its mundanity.

Jon finds the blindfold comforting, in its own way: surreal, but somehow not as surreal as the evidence of normalcy all around him. Consistent, straightforward geography is disorientating enough after so long traversing a world knitted together by nightmare logic and allegory. Even more bewildering are the people. Throngs of them go about their day-to-day routines, each preoccupied with their own affairs, taking for granted their relative anonymity against the vast backdrop of the bustling world around them, secure in the privacy of their own thoughts – and blissfully unaware of the alternative.

This is how it should be, he admonishes himself in a weary refrain. People deserve ownership over their own minds, their stories, their secrets. The Archivist in him vehemently disagrees, of course. It’s exhausting, how relentlessly Jon has to challenge that instinctual voyeurism.

Prone to sensory overload, he’s always hated crowds: the noise, the flurry of movement, the press of bodies, the constant threat of unwanted touches, the lack of freedom to move at his own pace. Becoming the Archivist made the experience infinitely worse. The combination of the blindfold and Daisy’s noise-cancelling headphones does little to stem the tide of intrusive knowledge: random scraps of disconcerting trivia, a steady stream of morbid statistics, insights into the deep-seated anxieties of passersby – and, on a few occasions, the whisper of a story to be chronicled. At least the blindfold prevents him from inadvertently locking eyes with anyone.

They try to avoid traveling during peak commuting hours, but not every crowd can be evaded. The first time he wanders into the path of a potential statement giver, Jon nearly causes a pile-up in a congested station, stopping so abruptly in his tracks that the person in the queue behind him crashes headlong into him. Basira manages to catch him before he’s knocked off his feet, keeping a firm grasp on his arm when the panicked urge to flee overtakes him and nearly sends him careening blindly in the opposite direction. When a nearby stranger snipes at him for the nuisance, Jon is surprised at how immediately Basira leaps to his defense.

Back off, she says, the hint of a threat in her tone, before steering Jon out of the crowd and off to the side, where he can lean against the wall and catch his breath. She stands firm between him and the masses, diverting traffic and warding off anyone else who might seek a confrontation, giving him the sorely-needed time to compose himself. He’s certain that she’ll be cross with him after, but… she isn’t.

Tense, certainly. Concerned even. But criticism is bafflingly, mercifully absent.

There are a few more incidents after that, but none quite so dramatic. The instant he senses the Archivist in him stirring, he chokes out a warning to Basira, who turns out to be preternaturally adept at finding (or creating) spaces for him to recoup. With both of them on guard and communicating freely, they manage to avoid being in close quarters with anyone who might have a story to tell.

Tromsø offers a temporary reprieve from all of that. There are people, of course – it’s the busiest fishing port in Norway, the Eye interposes for the fourth time this hour. Jon takes an aggravated swipe at the empty air beside him, once again momentarily forgetting that there’s no pesky swarm of Watchers tagging along for this particular journey. Not visibly, at least.

Still, the open-air piers of a busy fishing port are a far cry from a densely-packed train. There’s a cargo ship scheduled to leave for Ny-Ålesund within the next hour, and Basira is further down the docks meeting with its captain to (hopefully) arrange for passage. Apparently Jon has earned some trust over the course of their travels, because she didn’t object when he requested to stay back and take a breather.

Although the docks of Tromsø bear little resemblance to the beaches of Bournemouth, the calls of seabirds are familiar enough to be meditative. Nostalgic, albeit in an uneasy, bittersweet way. His childhood was riddled enough with nightmares and alienation that thoughts of the place where he grew up are always laced with remembered horror and punctuated by a nebulous sense of grief for what could have been. If he never caught the Spider’s eye; if he never opened the book; if he wasn’t quite so demanding and easily bored and difficult to manage; if his eccentric reading habits were just a bit less finicky, even…

Left to his own devices, Jon could drown himself in what ifs.

A frigid gust of wind whips his hair about. When he reaches up to smooth it down, he finds it coarse from the brine-saturated breeze. Rubbing his fingertips together and grimacing at the faint gritty residue, Jon pulls Georgie’s scarf up over his nose to fend against the nip in the air and he turns his sight to the sky. It’s a stark, pallid grey, the kind of overcast that manages to be blinding-bright despite the sun’s concealment. The sight stings his eyes, but still he does not blink.

It should be exhilarating to look up and see nothing staring back. Instead, the sight fills him with… well, it’s difficult for him to define succinctly. Some peculiar species of dread, mingled with a disquieting, ill-defined sense of longing. Perhaps he’s simply becoming adrift in time again: remembering how it felt to look up at a Watching sky and hopelessly wish for a return to the world as it was, to clouds and stars and void. But he can’t shake the suspicion that it’s at least partly a monstrous yearning for the ruined future from which he came.

He doesn’t know what that says about him. Nothing good, probably.

You miss it, a gloating, sinister little voice concurs from one of the murky, thorny corners of Jon’s mind. You don’t belong here. You Know where you–

Jon’s phone dings several times, yanking him away from that ill-fated train of thought. Grateful for the interruption, he digs it out of his pocket, instantly brightening when Naomi’s name greets him and eagerly opening their text thread.

Jon is too busy smiling to himself to notice Basira’s approach.

“What’s – oh, sorry,” she says when he starts. “Keep expecting you to just sort of… Know I’m here.”

“The Eye doesn’t seem inclined to help me out on that front, unfortunately,” Jon says with an embarrassed chuckle. “If anything, my being jumpy probably feeds it.”

Basira glances down at his phone, then back up at him. “Everything alright?”

“Hm? Oh, yes. Naomi.” Jon’s grin returns. “All her texts from the last couple days just came through at once. She wants to know whether Krampus is real.”

“And what did you tell her?”

“Haven’t replied just yet.”

“Oh.” Basira opens her mouth to say more, then promptly closes it.

A delighted smirk twitches into being at the corner of Jon’s mouth. “Now you want to know as well, don’t you?”

Basira rolls her eyes, but doesn’t deny it. “Later. We have a boat to catch.”

When Jon reaches into his pocket to retrieve his blindfold, Basira shakes her head.

“Best not,” she says. “The captain agreed to take us, but she was leery about the whole thing. I don’t want to give her a reason to reconsider. The less suspicious we seem, the better.”

“Still getting odd stares, then?”

“Getting used to people looking at me like I’m transporting a hostage,” she replies with a tired, beleaguered smile. It fades into a frown as she looks him up and down, taking stock of his shaking hands and the way he leans heavily on his cane. “Alright?”

“A bit sore,” Jon admits, glancing down at his leg. “Probably just been putting weight on it for too long a stretch.”

“We should be able to sit soon. Until then, try not to fall.”

“Or freeze,” Jon says distractedly, glancing warily upwards again.

“Daisy says the cold always gets to her,” Basira says, quietly enough that Jon suspects it wasn’t meant for him. “Seriously, though – you alright? You keep staring at the sky like it’s going to crack open.”

“I’m fine.” Jon shuts his eyes and takes a slow, deep breath. “Just… apprehensive.”

“Sense anything?” Despite her carefully bland tone, the crux of the question is clear.

“Nothing concrete.” No statement givers, he does not say – but Basira nods, understanding his meaning. “I’ll let you know if that changes.”

“Come on, then.” She starts off down the dock – at a brisk pace at first, but slowing when she looks back to ensure that Jon is following and observes his stiffer, more deliberate gait.

He grimaces apologetically. Up until Jane Prentiss and her worms, he was inclined towards speed walking as much as Basira is. Always in a hurry to get nowhere at all, Georgie used to say, simultaneously lamenting and teasing. Not everyone is a power walker, Jon, Martin would gripe from time to time during the apocalypse.

Maybe some of us want to slow down and take in the scenery, he grumbled on one occasion, as they traipsed through a predictably grisly Flesh domain.

The forest of pulsating meat sculptures, you mean? Jon replied primly.

Oh, you’re telling me you don’t feel the overwhelming urge to stop and take notes on the ecology of flesh spiders?

Not as much as I want to get to a place where the ground isn’t a spongy skin trampoline.

Flesh domains always had a tendency to bring out the worst (best?) of their morbid humor, Jon notes upon reflection.

In any case, Jon has always had a tendency to hurry, too impatient to reach his destination to appreciate the journey. Internally, that impulse is still there. On good days, he can almost satisfy that restlessness. Today is not a good day.

Basira stops and waits. It’s a practice that has become second nature to her ever since Daisy emerged from the Buried: learning all the unspoken signals and warning signs of a bad pain day, from barely-suppressed winces and cold sweat to waspishness and stifled, winded breaths; gauging all the fickle fluctuations in mobility in real time through careful, constant observation; and discreetly adjusting her own walking pace to accommodate without question or complaint.

“You know, I haven’t spent much time on boats,” Basira says, apropos of nothing – probably to break the silence as she waits for Jon to catch up. “I’m hoping motion sickness during long car rides isn’t correlated with seasickness. Does the Eye have any statistics handy? Seems like it would qualify as terrible knowledge.”

“Let’s just say you should keep the Dramamine at the ready,” Jon says wryly as he reaches her position.

“Wonderful,” Basira sighs, and she resumes walking, this time matching Jon’s stride.

Martin will be the first to admit that, between the two of them, Jon doesn’t have a monopoly on obsessiveness.

Case in point: Jon and Basira have been gone for five days now, and – in between bouts of worrying over their safety and mounting apprehension about Peter’s inexplicable, persistent hiatus – Martin is still replaying everything he said and did in the moments leading up to Jon’s departure.

Or, more precisely, what he didn’t say.

Nearly two months have passed since Jon returned from the Buried. It’s been nice, it really has, spending time with him. He’s changed – How could he not have? – but he’s still Jon. Even more wounded and jaded than he was before – How much abuse can one person take? – but it hasn’t made him cruel or cold. Harder in some respects, to be sure – namely on himself.

Which is saying something, Martin thinks with a pang. In all the time that Martin has known him, Jon has never been kind to himself. It’s always been a struggle to convince him to take care of himself in the most basic of ways, let alone spare a thought for comfort.

But in other respects, Jon has grown softer. More open, more communicative – more trusting, somehow, despite this world and the next piling on reason after reason for him to detach and withdraw. Martin thinks about that every time the Lonely starts to whisper in his ear. The fog is still there, firmly planted in his mind, choking out his thoughts from time to time like an invasive weed. It won’t be easily uprooted. Seeing Jon alive and trying, reaching out, grasping at warmth, clinging to humanity with all his trademark stubbornness… it makes Martin want to try, too. It makes him want to hope, to look forward and see – to fight for – a future where things are better.

So, yes, Jon has changed. They both have.

I’m not the person you remember, Martin said the first time they spoke after Jon came back. I’m not the person you fell in love with.

Jon had locked eyes with him then, and Martin found that he could not look away.

Martin has spent the majority of his life walking a tightrope, striking an uneasy balance between competing instincts. The part of him that excels in flying under the radar takes comfort in being inconspicuous. There are people out there who see kindness as naivety and trust as a weakness to be exploited. The best way to avoid their notice is to avoid being seen at all, and Martin learned early on that to be unremarkable has its own advantages. All too often, to go unnoticed is to survive.

It isn’t enough to just survive, though, is it? Barely hidden underneath all the abysmal self-esteem and the carefully constructed mask of agreeability, there is a spark of indignation and outrage and want. To be seen is fundamentally terrifying; to demand acknowledgment is to welcome exposure. But Martin has always had a rebellious streak, carving out a space for itself amongst all the loneliness and fear and self-deprecation.

Look at me, it seethes. See me.

And when Jon did look at him – Saw him – an unmistakably pleased little voice jostled its way to the forefront to triumphantly declare, Finally.

Martin, I fell in love with this version of you, Jon said. With every version of you.

It was difficult to believe. Martin didn’t want to believe it. He was afraid to believe it. But he did, and he does, and he feels the same way, and he has for so, so long, and that defiant chip on his shoulder never truly let him forget it, even when isolation had him by the throat–

So why can’t you say it?

Since that day, it hasn’t come up again. Jon is affectionate, far more than Martin would have expected. Sure, Jon has always seemed more natural at expressing his feelings through actions rather than words, but Martin never imagined he would be so… well, cuddly. Jon always struck Martin as averse to touch, keeping people at arm’s length both figuratively and literally. He still is, sometimes. But more often than not, Martin gets the impression that Jon would cling like a limpet if given explicit permission. Martin doesn’t know whether that’s a new development, or whether it’s just that he now numbers among Jon’s rare exceptions.

Maybe I should ask Georgie, Martin thinks, only partly in jest.

There’s still a lingering hesitancy there, though. Yes, when Martin invites contact, Jon jumps at the opportunity to be close. Initiating, though… Jon doesn’t quite walk on eggshells per se, but he moves with a gentleness perhaps too gentle at times. Excessively tentative – but not subtle.

Martin long ago perfected the art of stealing furtive glances at Jon. It’s not difficult. Jon is prone to tunnel vision, predisposed to lose himself in his work or a book or his own mind until the rest of the world outside his narrow focus dissolves around him. If he ever noticed Martin’s eyes on him, Jon never called attention to it.

Jon’s staring doesn’t have the same finesse. His gaze is heavy. Concentrated, unwavering, penetrating – and Jon is painfully self-conscious about that. Prompt to stammer apologies whenever he’s caught watching, quick to avert his eyes. According to him, most people find the Archivist’s attention unnerving. Martin supposes it can be at times, but he’s long since become acclimated to it. Endeared to it, even. It’s grounding, despite how ruthlessly being Seen clashes with the Lonely aspects of Martin’s existence.

Maybe that disharmony is precisely why it’s grounding.

So Jon’s eyes flit to Martin whenever he thinks Martin isn’t looking, and cautious glimpses stretch into riveted, unconscious watching, and Martin graciously pretends not to notice. This has been the status quo for weeks now: faltering not-quite-touches and longing, not-so-surreptitious gazes, interspersed with understated handholding and a few sporadic sessions of what Martin can only call cuddling. All of it has been underscored by three simple words dangling in the scant expanse of empty space between them, waiting for acknowledgment.

Jon is waiting – waiting for Martin – and Jon… Jon has never been good at waiting, has he? Not like Martin. Jon’s directionless fidgeting and bitten-short declarations and absentminded stares betray his buzzing impatience despite his best efforts, but still he’s waiting, with as much valiant restraint as he can muster.

I love you. It’s a truth so obvious that speaking it aloud would hardly qualify as a confession. I love you, Martin thinks, and he feels it down to his bones, woven into the very atoms of him.

It’s difficult to pinpoint when it began. Early on, Martin only wanted to appear qualified to his new supervisor, then to impress him, then to prove him wrong – and then, eventually, to genuinely take care of him. Jon was in need of care, and resistant to receiving it, and that was familiar, wasn’t it? Maybe some desperate, stubborn part of Martin just wanted to be useful for once. To be seen. To succeed with Jon where he had failed with his mother.

Then Prentiss happened. Martin had been certain that Jon would dismiss Martin’s story, reprimand him for his prolonged absence, and snap at him to get back to work. And then… he didn’t.

Your safety is my responsibility, Jon said curtly, showing Martin to his new, hopefully temporary lodgings. I failed you, Jon’s contrite grimace read. I won’t fail you again. Then he immediately strode off to meet with Elias, leaving Martin loitering idly in Document Storage, speechless and bemused.

Maybe that’s where it started: Jon barging unannounced and uninvited into Elias’ office with brazen, unapologetic demands for safe haven and fire extinguishers and heightened security. He even went so far as to persistently badger Elias for customizations to the building’s sprinkler system. That tenacity may have been partly driven by guilt and obligation, but Martin swore he caught glimpses of something more from time to time. Something deeper and more personal, sympathetic and kind.

It started, as so many significant shifts do, with the small things.

Martin retired to Document Storage one night that first week to find extra blankets folded neatly at the end of his cot. I thought you might be cold, Jon admitted upon questioning. It can get chilly in here at night. The pressing question of exactly how many times Jon must have slept here overnight in order to know that was promptly crowded out by a vivid mental image of Jon wrestling a heavy quilt onto the Tube during the morning commuter rush. The thought brought a smile to Martin’s face. He said as much, and Jon immediately fabricated a clumsy excuse to exit the conversation.

On another occasion, Martin opened the break room cabinet to find his favorite tea restocked. He’d been putting off shopping, too anxious to leave the relative safety of the Institute’s walls. I noticed you were running low, Jon mumbled. And I was already at the store anyway, he added almost defensively, eyes narrowing in a stern glare to discourage comment – as if drawing attention to Jon’s random acts of kindness would destroy his curmudgeonly reputation.

Those circumspect displays of consideration were touching in their awkwardness. Jon was gruff and reticent, to be sure, but he cared, in his own unpracticed, idiosyncratic way. And one day, when Martin looked at him, he thought, I’d like to kiss him, and then: Oh no. Oh, fuck.

Jon never seemed to pick up on Martin’s feelings back then. But he knows now – not Knows, just knows – and, impossible as still seems, he returns those feelings. Jon said the words in no uncertain terms, left them in Martin’s care – and now he’s waiting for Martin to make the next move.

So why haven’t you? What are you waiting for?

“Want some tea?”

Martin jumps at the sound of Daisy’s voice.

“Sorry,” she snorts. “Didn’t mean to scare you.”

“I –” Martin clears his throat, recovering. “Tea. Right. Uh, I can get it–”

“Let me. I need to stretch my legs anyway. And I wouldn’t want to interrupt your pining.”

“Wh-what?” Martin sputters.

“You haven’t turned the page in at least twenty minutes,” Daisy informs him, nodding at the statement resting on the table in front of him. “Liable to burn yourself on the kettle while you’re spacing out, fantasizing about snogging Jon or whatever.”

“Wh– I – you – I’m – why would–”

“Don’t know why you’re being so coy about it.” Her blasé shrug is offset by the devious grin on her face. “Not like it’s a secret you’re on kissing terms.”

“We… we haven’t,” Martin blurts out, heat rising in his cheeks. Immediately, he kicks himself. Given what he knows of Daisy, there’s no avoiding an interrogation now.

“You – wait, really?” Daisy raises her eyebrows. “Why not?”

“It just hasn’t – I – it’s really none of your–” Martin huffs, flustered. “I don’t even know if he does that.”

“Why wouldn’t he?”

“B-because, he…”

Because Martin has a tendency to fade into the background, and people will say a lot of things when they assume no one else is in earshot.

Do you know if he and Jon ever…

No clue, and not interested! Although… according to Georgie, Jon doesn’t.

Like, at all?

Yeah.

Martin cringes at the memory. He wasn’t trying to eavesdrop. He still wishes he hadn’t overheard. Jon was always so tight-lipped about his personal life back then. It felt like a violation of his privacy, knowing something that he would in all likelihood have preferred to keep to himself and share only at his own discretion. Martin tried to put it out of his head, to avoid thinking too hard on the specifics of what Jon “doesn’t” – and, conversely, what he maybe, possibly does – but, well…

Martin shakes his head to clear his thoughts before they can meander any further into the realm of imagination. In any case, he certainly isn’t about to repeat that piece of gossip to Daisy now.

“I – I just don’t want to assume,” he says instead.

Daisy tilts her head, considering. “Well, have you asked him?”

“W-well, no.”

“Why not? Sure, some people aren’t into kissing, I guess, but I doubt he’d mind you asking. Even if the answer is ‘no,’ I guarantee he wants to be close in other ways.” At Martin’s lack of response, Daisy heaves an exaggerated sigh. “He reaches for you every time you’re not looking, you know. Always fidgeting with his hands, like he wants to touch but he doesn’t know how to ask. He’s as bad as you are, pining face and all.”

“I do not have a ‘pining face,’” Martin says. “If you must know, I was worrying just now.”

“You definitely have a pining face, and it’s different from your worried face. When you’re worried, you get all scowly and you chew your lip bloody. You’re focused, intense. When you’re pining, you get this faraway look to you, like you’re not taking anything in. And you touch your fingers to your lips a lot – yeah, like that.”

Martin yanks his fingers away from his mouth as if scalded, glowering indignantly at an increasingly smug Daisy. “What are you, a mentalist?”

“I’ve gotten used to reading people – picking up on openings, weak spots, stress signals, you know. Don’t know whether that’s a Hunt thing or a me thing. Both, maybe.” She shakes her head. “Anyway, you went from worried to pining about ten minutes ago now. And Jon, he’s even easier to read than you are. He’s so far gone for you, I can tease him mercilessly about it and never get a rise out of him. Even when I can get him to bat an eye, he never does that… that flustered denial thing he usually does when you hit a nerve. He just goes all… soft and wistful. Retreats into his own head, gets that smitten little smile – you know the one?”

“Yes.” Martin is blushing furiously now, he’s certain. Daisy flashes him another knowing, unabashedly victorious smirk.

“Point is, our lives are messed up, water is wet, and Jon Sims loves cats and Martin Blackwood, but he’s terrified of crossing some invisible line, so instead he’s just openly pining and it isn’t even fun to tease him about it because he’s too lovestruck to be properly embarrassed about it.” Daisy pauses for a breath. “So, if you want to kiss Jon, you should ask him, because I doubt he’s going to make the first move anytime soon, and it’s getting ridiculous watching the two of you tiptoe around the elephant in the room. So what are you waiting for?”

“How is any of this your business, anyway?” Martin snaps.

“Well, seeing as Jon’s my friend–”

That strikes a nerve, and Martin is reacting before he can properly evaluate the feeling.

“Okay, yeah, about that,” he says sharply. “Why?”

“Why what?”

“Well, all you wanted to do before was hunt him down and hurt him.” Instantaneously, Daisy’s playful demeanor evaporates. “Even after Elias blackmailed you into working for him, you still looked at Jon like he wasn’t human. Not even a monster, either, just – just something you wanted to tear apart, just because you wanted to see him afraid. And now all of a sudden you’re friends? I mean, I guess I shouldn’t be surprised that Jon’s willing to overlook a murder attempt. He… he has so little respect for himself, his standards are so…” Martin captures his lower lip between his teeth and bites down until it aches. “He’s so used to being treated badly, the bar is six feet below ground.”

“Yeah,” Daisy whispers.

“But – but what I can’t figure out is what your angle is. You wanted to hurt him, you did hurt him – he still has a scar from where you held a knife to his throat. You would’ve killed him if Basira didn’t stop you.”

“I–”

“He was so afraid of disappearing without a trace, did you know that?” Martin interjects, his face growing hotter as over a year’s worth of pent-up fury boils to the surface.

Martin has read enough statements to know that even one of the encounters representative of the Institute’s collection is one traumatic experience too many. Even so, it’s only a small fraction of the horror stories that have plagued humanity throughout history – that continue to unfold in the present day. How many people suffer something horrible and don’t live long enough to tell the story? The Archive, chock-full of terror though it may be, is an ongoing study in survivorship bias.

“When Prentiss attacked the Institute,” Martin fumes, “Jon was more afraid of that – of leaving nothing behind – than he was of dying. You were going to bury him where no one would ever find him, and no one would ever know what happened to him, and now… now you say you want to be his friend, like nothing ever happened? And I’m supposed to just trust you?”

For a long minute, the only sound is Martin’s rapid, heavy breathing. He doesn’t know what he’s expecting. Combativeness, maybe. For Daisy to get her hackles up, to defend herself against Martin’s implications, to take offense to his accusatory tone. Instead, her entire posture wilts and her shoulders curl inward. It’s as if an invisible weight is pressing against her on all sides, crushing her into something small and taut.

“I guess we’re doing this now, then,” she mumbles.

“Guess we are,” Martin says stiffly, one foot tapping frenetically against the floor as his agitation continues creeping ever upward.

Daisy nods and releases a heavy exhale. “This isn’t just about Jon, is it?”

“I…” Martin trails off as he considers the question. “No. I guess it’s not.”

“Well.” Daisy rubs at her upper arms, eyes fixed on the floor. “Go on.”

“When you questioned all of us – when you interrogated me, you didn’t – you didn’t actually want to find out the truth. You just wanted to get to Jon, because you assumed he was guilty, and…” Martin huffs. “No, it wasn’t even about guilt, was it? You didn’t care about solving Leitner’s murder, you didn’t care about finding Sasha – she could’ve still been alive for all we knew at the time, but you didn’t care whether she was in danger, whether she could be saved. And – and even if we did have proof that she was dead, we deserved to know what happened to her. She deserved better than to be a mystery.”

“You’re right.” Daisy’s soft agreement does nothing to temper Martin’s burgeoning wrath.

“She was my friend, you know that? She was my friend, and you just – dismissed her, like she wasn’t worth remembering, like her life was some – some trivial detail. I didn’t know whether to be afraid for her or – or – or to mourn for her, and all you had to offer was, ‘Jon probably killed her, tell me where he is or else.’ You were a detective, you were supposed to help, but all you cared about was getting to Jon, and you – you – you threatened me because you thought I could tell you where to find him. That you could use me to hurt him.” Martin breathes a bitter chuckle. “I guess Jon was right not to trust the police to figure out what happened to Gertrude.”

Daisy doesn’t deny it.

“So… yeah.” Martin shrugs as his rant tapers off. “That’s where I am, I guess. I know you’ve changed – haven’t we all – but… every time I see you near Jon, there’s a part of me that panics. Maybe I’m not being fair, but I – I can’t forget. I don’t know how to feel.”

Daisy is quiet for a long minute, fingers digging into her arms now, a pained expression lingering on her face.

“I’ve done… a lot of things I’m not proud of,” she says slowly. “Hurt a lot of people. Most more than they deserved. Many who didn’t deserve it at all. Can’t even make apologies to most of them, let alone make amends. I don’t even know if I could make amends. Some things are unforgivable.”

It doesn’t undo what I did, Jon’s voice plays in Martin’s mind. I can’t erase it.

“You should know,” Daisy says, “complete lack of self-respect aside, Jon doesn’t… he doesn’t overlook what I did.”

“What?”

“He knows what I am. What I’ve done. He doesn’t pretend I’m something I’m not, he doesn’t lie to me about what I could become, he doesn’t offer me forgiveness that I don’t deserve, but he still… he still doesn’t expect the worst from me, either. He expects me to make the right choice, even though I gave him every reason not to trust me.”

“He’s still too forgiving,” Martin mutters.

“That’s another thing. I… I don’t think he does. Forgive me, that is.”

“Have you asked him?”

“No.”

“Because you’re afraid to know the answer?” Maybe that’s uncharitable, but Martin never claimed to be an easily forgiving soul. Most people wouldn’t assume it at first glance, but he’s always had a tendency to nurse a grudge.

Daisy hunches even further, her shoulders drawing in tighter.

“Because if he did forgive me, he would tell me,” she says, her throat bobbing as she struggles to swallow. “But he doesn’t. I know he doesn’t, and he shouldn’t, and I’m not going to put him in a position where he has to justify himself, or sugarcoat it, or comfort me for what I did to him.”

Martin doesn’t know what to say to that.

“And the same goes for you.” Daisy steals a quick glimpse at Martin before lowering her head again. “I won’t ask you to forgive me. Ever. But I am sorry – for how I treated you, for what I did to Jon. I’ll never stop being sorry. That doesn’t make it better, I know. But I want to do better. I’m trying to be better. Too little too late, maybe, but I won’t go back to how I was before. I can’t take it all back, but I can at least make sure I don’t hurt anyone else.”

“You sound like Jon.”

“First and second place for guiltiest conscience, us,” Daisy says with a tired chuckle. “And I don’t know which of us is in first.” She sighs. “Look, I know you have no reason to trust me, but I do see Jon as a friend. Not just because I’m sorry, or because he saved me, or because I owe him, but because he… well, he sees me as I am, and he sees me for who I want to be, and he doesn’t see those as mutually exclusive, but he also doesn’t deny the contradiction.”

“Wish he could apply the same logic to himself.”

“Yeah. He’s an absolute mess of double standards. Best we can do is call him on it at every opportunity. Maybe eventually he’ll get it through his head.”

“Yeah,” Martin scoffs. “Maybe.”

“Anyway,” she says, “I care about him, and he cares about you, so…”

“So you thought you’d appoint yourself his wingman?”

“Maybe a little.” Daisy gives him a hesitant, sheepish grin. “Sorry.”

“It’s fine,” Martin sighs. The resentment is still there, but he does feel a bit lighter after getting it all out in the open. Besides, he's so emotionally drained from his outburst, he can’t quite work up the energy for mild annoyance right this moment.

“Well, in that case – if you want to kiss him, you should ask. That’s all I’m saying,” Daisy says hurriedly, holding up her palms in a placating gesture when Martin gives her a tired glare. “I’ll drop it now. I meant it when I said I wanted tea.”

Daisy winces as she rises to her feet.

“And I meant it when I said I can get it,” Martin says.

“I’ve got it.”

“Then at least let me come along and–”

“Uh, no.” Daisy gives him a quelling look. “Jon warned me about how you are with tea.”

“What?”

“Says you’re a micromanager.”

“He what?” Martin demands.

“Okay, he didn’t say it like that. Actually, I think the word he used was persnickety.”

“Oh, as if he has room to talk,” Martin mutters. “He’s just miffed that I caught him microwaving tea once and I refuse to let him live it down.”

“What’s wrong with microwaving tea?” Martin recoils, affronted – and then Daisy snorts. “Settle down. I’m just messing with you.” She starts to leave, pausing only briefly to glance over her shoulder. “I won’t be long. Yell if Peter decides to finally show his face.”

“Will do,” Martin groans, reluctantly returning to the statement in front of him. Yet another alleged Extinction sighting, courtesy of Peter, for Martin to dutifully pretend to research.

Stringing Peter along is the best way Martin knows to keep in check. In that sense, it’s an important job – one only Martin can do. Nonetheless, it’s reminiscent of how it felt to be left behind when the others went to stop the Unknowing. Distracting Elias was important, sure, and dangerous in its own way, but it wasn’t exactly on the same level as storming the Circus to stop the apocalypse. Comparatively, Martin felt useless.

Now, with Basira and Jon off on their mission, Martin is beset by a similar sense of futility. There’s certainly enough work to keep him busy, given that Peter delegates most of his job responsibilities to Martin. (Martin is fairly certain that, fraudulent CV or not, he’s more qualified to run the Institute at this point than Peter is.) Performing routine administrative duties can be a boring and demoralizing enough endeavor in the context of a mundane underpaid office job; doing so in service to an unfathomable cosmic evil is, to put it mildly, soul-destroying. Perhaps in a literal sense, as far as Martin knows.

That’s not to mention the customary gloom that comes with reading account after dreadful account of senseless, indiscriminate suffering.

Martin wishes there was something practical he could do, is his point. Patient though he may be, indefinite waiting is less tolerable when what he’s waiting for is the other shoe to drop, so to speak. He has no desire to interact with Peter in any capacity, but the longer he remains scarce, the more Martin’s trepidation soars.

There’s no way Peter has conceded his bet with Jonah, but there’s no telling whether he’s simply biding his time and observing how events unfold, actively plotting his next moves, or already enacting an revised scheme from the shadows. Regardless, he’s a clear and present danger for as long as he’s around. He may not be hasty, but he’s still a wildcard. Jon told Martin about the last time: how Peter released the NotThem to rampage through the Institute, solely for the sake of causing a distraction. As long as he has The Seven Lamps of Architecture in his possession, he–

Oh.

Martin smiles to himself. Maybe there is something more he can do.

The warehouse is, unsurprisingly, dark. Even with the door propped open, the daylight filtering through illuminates a radius of only a few yards before it’s swallowed by unnatural gloom. As Jon and Basira move further into the cavernous space, the beams of their torches barely penetrate the velvety murk.

“Any idea where she is?” Basira whispers from Jon’s left.

“Waiting in ambush, I assume. I can’t See much of anything.”

“See or See?”

“Either. Both.”

“And you’re certain that applies to Elias as well? He won’t be able to See us here?”

“Positive,” Jon says. “The Dark has–”

An enraged bellow sounds out from behind them. Basira’s torch clatters to the concrete floor, its light promptly extinguished as the casing cracks and the batteries come loose. In a flash, Basira is on the ground, locked in a furious scuffle with–

“Manuela Dominguez!” Jon says. Manuela looks up reflexively, surprised to hear her name. It’s all the opening Basira needs to gain the upper hand, grappling Manuela into a prone position on the floor and pinning her in place with a wristlock. Manuela cries out in pain, but her wild thrashing continues unabated.

“Jon,” Basira grunts, increasingly winded as Manuela attempts to break the hold. “A little help?”

“Manuela, listen, we – we’re just here to talk–”

Manuela briefly pauses in her struggling to spit at Jon’s feet. Funny, how some details remain the same. A second later, she’s resisting again, now attempting to twist around and bite at whatever exposed skin she can find.

“Stop.”

The command crackles up Jon’s throat and sparks off the tip of his tongue like a static shock, hundreds of iterations of the word coinciding. The air itself seems to quake with the force of it, and Jon is left shivering in its wake.

So, it seems, is Manuela: her voice shudders out of her when she speaks.

“Who are you?” she hisses. “What do you want?”

“To make a deal,” Jon says, the words slightly slurred.

“Why would I deal with you?” In the flickering glow of his torchlight, Jon can see the baleful glint in Manuela’s eyes. “You’re of the Eye, aren’t you? What could you even possibly want? You’ve already taken everything – you lot and your Archivist. Where is she, anyway?” Manuela makes a show of scanning the room as best she can, pinioned as she is. “Too much of a coward to witness the wreckage she’s wrought?”

“Gertrude is dead,” Basira says.

“Stopping us took everything she had, then.” Manuela smirks. “Serves her right.”

“You wish,” Basira scoffs. “She was murdered. Completely unrelated.”

“That’s –” Manuela’s smug expression vanishes. “Who–?”

“Elias,” Jon says. “She was too much of a thorn in his side. Too much of a force to be reckoned with.”

“Then why are you here?”

“I told you,” Jon says. “We want to make a deal. A temporary alliance.”

“An alliance?” Manuela repeats. What starts as a weak, dismissive laugh dissolves into a wheeze.

“We have a mutual enemy.” Manuela’s eyes narrow in something more like curiosity now. “I take it I’ve piqued your interest. Will you hear us out?”

Manuela deliberates for a protracted moment, torn between rebellion and intrigue. “Let me up.”

“What, so you can throw more punches?” Basira says.

“It’s fine, Basira,” Jon says. Manuela is still seething with defiance. The more powerless she feels, the less open she’ll be to negotiation. Better to make a few concessions and let her feel some control over the situation.

Judging from her furrowed brow, Basira is running through the same calculations. She hesitates a moment longer before sighing, releasing her hold, and standing. Manuela staggers to her feet and backs away several steps, brushing herself off and panting shallowly as she catches her breath.

“Did you come here alone?” she asks, massaging her abused wrist as her suspicious gaze flits back and forth between Basira and Jon. “Just the two of you?”

“Yes,” Jon answers. Basira shakes her head with an impatient tsk – which Jon interprets as something like stop volunteering free information to every Avatar you parley with, Jon. “Like I said, we’re just here to talk. And to offer you the opportunity for revenge.”

“What revenge? Gertrude is dead,” Manuela spits out. “Who else is there? Her replacement?”

“I’m her replacement.”

With that, Manuela lunges in Jon’s direction. Basira swiftly moves to intercept her, but Manuela stops in her tracks before Basira can grab her. A tension-filled standoff ensues, the two of them eyeing each other warily. After nearly a full minute, Basira seems satisfied enough that the situation has been defused to take her eyes off Manuela and treat Jon to an exasperated glare.

“Do you have to antagonize every single person who wants to kill you?” she scolds.

Jon ignores her grievance in favor of addressing Manuela directly: “You wouldn’t have any luck killing me.”

Basira dips her head down and plants the heel of her hand on her forehead, grumbling under her breath. It’s mostly unintelligible, but Jon thinks he can make out the words fuck’s sake somewhere in there.

“I could try,” Manuela snarls. Her hands ball into tighter fists, trembling with rage at her sides, but she continues to stand her ground.

“You could,” Jon says mildly. “And you would fail.”

“You’ll just compel me, you mean.”

“I could.” He would rather avoid it if possible, but Manuela doesn’t need to know that. He can only hope she can’t tell just how much he’s only pretending at nerve. “Or, you can listen to what we have to say. Gertrude is dead, and lashing out at me isn’t going to satisfy your thirst for revenge. We can offer up a more satisfying target.”

“Unless you have a way for me to unmake the Power your Archivist served.” When Jon doesn’t deny it, Manuela lets out another harsh, scornful laugh. “You’ve got to be joking.”

“Well – arguably, Gertrude didn’t serve the Eye. She followed her own path.” Manuela breathes a derisive huff. “Like her or not, she did. Formidable as she was, none of that was due to the Beholding’s favor. That was all her. She never embraced the power it promised – not like most Archivists do. Striking a blow against the Eye wouldn’t be an insult to Gertrude’s memory. If anything, it would do her proud.”

“Killing it with the sales pitch,” Basira carps.

“But the head of the Institute does serve the Eye,” Jon presses on, “and he’s the one responsible for appointing Gertrude the Archivist in the first place. Hurt the Eye, and you hurt him.”

“I’m not an idiot,” Manuela says, bristling. “Your patron may pale in comparison to my god, but I’m not arrogant enough to believe that I would stand a chance of vanquishing it.”

“We can’t vanquish it, no. But we could destroy the Institute that serves it. Same as happened to the Dark’s faithful.”

“An eye for an eye,” Basira adds.

“Well, you’ve wasted your time coming all this way.” Manuela’s disparaging chuckle gets caught in her throat. “I’m the only one here. An abandoned disciple, guarding a lost cause. There’s nothing left of our former power.”

“The Dark Sun,” Basira says.

Manuela tenses. Then her shoulders slump, weighed down by dawning, solemn resignation.

“Of course,” she says bitterly. “It isn’t enough to decimate our numbers. You need to steal the only remnant of our crusade.”

“We’re giving you the opportunity to reclaim its purpose,” Jon says. “Or would you rather it rot away here, diminishing until it collapses in on itself?”

Manuela is silent for a long minute, a shrewd look in her eye. “Why would you want to betray your god?”

“The Beholding isn’t my god,” Jon says. “I’m not a willing convert. I was drafted into someone else’s crusade without my consent – and you know what that’s like, don’t you?”

Manuela just scowls.

“I Know your story.” Jon’s voice turns sibilant with power as the Archive rears its head. “Indoctrinated into a faith that never spoke to you –”

“– brought up to believe in the light of God, his radiant, illuminating presence –”

“Shut up,” Manuela says in a low growl.

“– deep down they were vicious, spiteful people who used their faith to hurt others, and I fondly imagined them discovering themselves in an afterlife other than the one they had assumed was their destination – I broke with them as soon as I could –”

“Jon,” Basira interrupts. The firm squeeze of her hand on his shoulder is enough to snap him out of his shallow trance. She jerks her head at Manuela, who looks about ready to charge him again. “Maybe not the time?”

“S-sorry,” he gasps. He shakes his head to clear the residual static clouding his thoughts before looking back to Manuela with genuine contrition. “Didn’t mean to do that, I swear. I only meant to say that I – I read the statement you gave to Gertrude. I know that your parents were zealots. They envisioned a perfect world that seemed to you like hell on earth, and you did everything you could to rebel against their arrogance. To spite the god they worshiped. We have some common ground there, you and I.”

Granted, Jon didn’t grow up in a religious household. His grandmother was content to let him explore – and he did.

Even as a child, he had an inclination for research. A topic would catch his attention and he would voraciously seek out as much information as he could. His grandmother didn’t take much interest in the content of those fixations, but she did encourage them as a general principle. Not with overt praise, necessarily, but by facilitating his endeavors: procuring reading material on the obsession of the month, escorting him to the library every so often and allowing him to max out his card. He suspects now that she was simply grateful for some way to occupy his attention. If his nose was in a book, he was keeping out of trouble.

He never told her how wrong she turned out to be.

In any case, one of his many early “phases,” as she liked to call them, was comparative religion. Part of it was simple curiosity. Part of it was a genuine desire to find something to believe: some conception of the afterlife that would resonate with him, some straightforward framework for understanding the world, some sort of certainty to assuage his fear of the unknown. His grandmother never seemed to care whether he found what he was looking for. She never really asked.

It was for the best. He never liked admitting defeat. Not back then.

They returned all the books to the library on the day they were due, and Jon brought home a new haul, this one centered around the field of oceanography. The seas were brimming with mystery, but at least there was a very real possibility of turning those unknowns into knowns. New discoveries were being made every day, newer and newer technology being developed to push the boundaries of that knowledge. There were sure answers, and they could be grasped, so long as humanity could invent the right tools for the job.

Still, Jon found himself envying people of faith from time to time. Sometimes he wished he had someone to point him in some sort of direction, like many other children seemed to have. But hearing of Manuela’s upbringing… well, if Jon was forced to choose between extremes, he has to admit that he prefers the complete lack of guidance he received as opposed to strict proselytization. His grandmother may not have shown interest in his opinions, but at least she gave him the freedom to come to his own conclusions. She may not have had reassurances to offer, but at least she didn’t foist upon him a worldview that made no place for him in it.

“It’s not the same thing as childhood indoctrination,” he tells Manuela, “but… becoming the Archivist – it was like being drafted into the service of a god that I never would have chosen for myself. Had Elias told me the terms, I never would have signed the contract.”

“I take it he didn’t tell you beforehand that he murdered your predecessor?”

“That I had to find out the hard way, unfortunately.”

“So you’re saying you’re not so much a traitor to your faith as you are a disgruntled employee.”

“Elias is my boss. Is that a trick question?” Jon is surprised to hear Manuela give an amused snort. “But yes. I’d like to… tender my resignation, so to speak.”

Manuela scrutinizes him intently, as if trying to solve a riddle. “You would give up your power?”

“I don’t want it,” Jon says truthfully.

If he’s perfectly honest with himself, there was a time that at least some aspects of that power were alluring. There was something intoxicating and liberating about being able to ask a question and not only receive a guaranteed answer, but be certain he wasn’t being presented with an outright lie – especially after spending so many months beholden to unchecked paranoia, distrust, and frantic, futile investigation.

But there was never anything benign or inconsequential about invading a victim’s privacy or compelling someone to surrender a secret, no matter how he tried to justify it to himself. Even if there was, even if it wasn’t both reprehensible in principle and harmful in practice, it still wouldn’t be worth the irrevocable costs.

“I want out,” he says, “and if getting out isn’t an option, then I at least want Elias to know what it is to be offered up to a god inimical to every atom of his existence. I thought you might be able to assist with that.”

“How?”

“The Institute is a seat of power for the Beholding,” Basira says. “If we introduce it to your Dark Sun…”

“A mote in the Eye,” Manuela says, intrigued. Her attention swivels back to Jon. “Do you Know what would happen?”

“No,” he says. “But I imagine it will hurt.”

“And then what? What happens after? You let me pack up my relic and walk away?”

“I don’t see why not.”

“I don’t believe you,” Manuela says.

“You don’t pose an existential threat,” Jon says with a shrug. “I have no doubt that the Dark will attempt another Ritual someday, but it won’t happen in our lifetimes. We have no qualms letting you walk away after our alliance is finished.”

“And the Dark Sun?” Manuela presses.

“I don’t know what condition it will be in after exposure to the Eye,” Jon admits. “But you’re free to do as you wish with it after. We won’t stop you.”

So she can hurt more people, Jon’s battered conscience chimes in.

“And if I say no?”

“Then I walk in there right now, Behold it, and destroy it entirely.” It comes out sounding more menacing than Jon had initially intended, but maybe that’s not a bad thing, given the way Manuela freezes up.

“You wouldn’t survive.” Manuela sounds far from certain.

“Maybe. Maybe not. But your Sun certainly wouldn’t.” Jon pauses for a moment to let that sink in. “Do you want to see its potential wasted here and now, or do you want to make all that sacrifice worth something?”

“If you’re so certain you have the upper hand, what’s stopping you from just taking it, then?”

“I’m not its engineer or its keeper. I wouldn’t even Know how to safely transport it. Too many unknown variables.”

“So you need me.”

“Yes. Beneath the Institute, there’s a… a sanctum of the Eye. A place of power, like Ny-Ålesund is for your patron. If you can bring the Dark Sun there, I… well, I’m hoping it will sever the Eye’s connection to that place. Destroy the Institute.”

“How would that work?”

“I’m… not certain,” Jon confesses. “Call it a… a hunch.”

“There’s precedent,” Basira says. “We found a statement that hinted at worshipers of the Dark destroying a temple to the Eye in 4th century Alexandria.”

Manuela’s eyes light up with interest. “How?”

“We don’t know,” Jon says.

“Oh, right. Foolish of me to ask,” Manuela says pertly. “Why would I expect you to know things? It’s only the entire point of you.”

“I never claimed to be good at my job,” Jon retorts. “Look, maybe I don’t Know exactly what will happen, but a focus of the Dark should hurt the Eye in some capacity, I think.”

“You think,” Manuela mutters under her breath, just loud enough for him to hear the derision in her tone.

“Whatever happens, it’ll be more satisfying than anything you’ve got going on here,” Basira points out.

Manuela barks out a contemptuous laugh. “You don’t even have the shadow of a plan!”

“We… haven’t ironed out the details, no.” Jon rubs the back of his neck, chagrinned. “We figured that if you did agree to an alliance, you would want to be part of the actual planning process.”

“And if you don’t cooperate, it’s a moot point,” Basira says.

“Also, I was… I suppose I was hoping you could offer insight,” Jon says. “The Dark is something of a blind spot for me, shockingly.” Manuela shoots him a withering look. “So even if I had any clue how to wield the Dark Sun, I wouldn’t be able to channel its full potential. Not like you could.”

“That much is obvious,” Manuela sneers, teeth gleaming in the torchlight as her lips stretch in a taut, wolfish grin. “You Beholding types always assume that knowledge is synonymous with control. Putting yourselves on the level of Powers greater than any mortal, assuming insight into things you could not possibly understand… you fly too close to the sun and then have the gall to indulge in outrage when you burn.”

We didn’t come here for a sermon, Jon almost says, but he bites his tongue.

“But I accept that I am a supplicant, not a god,” Manuela says, reverence seeping into her tone to supplant the reproach. “It’s pure hubris to assume that you could wield the Black Sun like a tool. It’s a communion, and only those with true and dutiful faith could ever hope to win its favor. Approach it with anything less than respect and devotion, and it will devour you.”

“If you’re done pontificating?” Basira says. She doesn’t give Manuela an opening to respond. “We’re well aware that we stand no chance of wielding–” Manuela looks up sharply, and Basira hastily corrects herself. “Fine – communing with the Dark Sun ourselves. That’s why we’re looking for an alliance rather than just taking it.”

“Do you think you could–” Jon pauses as he searches for a way to phrase his question that won’t unleash another tirade. “Would you be able to arrange for the Dark Sun to be brought into the Eye’s stronghold? Expose them to one another, let them… I don’t know – have it out with each other?”

“I’m capable of bringing it to London, if that’s what you’re asking,” Manuela says primly. “But it would be at a disadvantage on the Beholding’s home turf. If – if – I were willing to test this hypothesis, I would only do so on the condition that I could level the playing field as much as possible. Wait for ideal circumstances, as it were.”

“Which would be…?” Basira asks.

“The winter solstice. The Dark Sun will be the strongest on the night of the winter solstice.”

“That’s months from now,” Basira protests. “Can’t you just –”

“Ideally, I would insist on a total solar eclipse,” Manuela snaps, “but it will be quite some time before London witnesses another. Not until 2090.”

“Looking ahead, are you?” Basira asks.

“It is likely the soonest opportunity for another attempt at a Ritual.” Manuela pretends at nonchalance with a shrug, but she can’t quite conceal her profound disappointment as her voice grows measurably more subdued. “It gives me ample time to study our failure. To discover what went wrong.”

“To refine your Ritual, you mean.”

“There will always be faithful to take up the mantle,” Manuela says, her chin lifting marginally in defiance as she stares Basira down.

“But you won’t be around to see it.” Basira meets Manuela’s eyes with equal nerve. Jon remains silent, looking from one to the other as they face off against one another.

“No,” Manuela replies evenly. “I’ll have to settle for passing on my findings to those who come after. Leave behind a legacy to guide their steps.”

“In the meantime, the Dark Sun will stagnate,” Jon chimes in. It’s a bluff, of course: he has no idea whether or not it’s true. Judging from the unsettled look on Manuela’s face, neither does she. Jon latches onto that uncertainty, carefully twisting the knife just a little further: “Or, you could let it serve a purpose.”

“Its purpose was to usher in a world of true and holy Darkness,” Manuela says acidly. “You’re proposing I give it scraps.”

“Like it or not, you can’t give it the apocalypse it was promised,” Jon says.

Manuela’s fingers flex and clench back into fists. Jon suspects she would love nothing more than to wring his neck. She’s a truth seeker at heart, though. Ambitious, rebellious – idealistic even, albeit in a twisted sort of way, harboring an aspiration that most would rightfully find horrific. Adept at detecting and exploiting the more malleable aspects of material reality where possible, infusing the scientific method with just enough magical thinking to bend natural laws.

However, there are some truths that even she cannot deny, and she isn’t the type to ignore a certainty when it’s right in front of her face. And so, despite the unconcealed vitriol in her eyes and the contrariness sitting at the tip of her tongue, she does not deny his assertion.

“But it can still pay tribute to your god,” Jon coaxes, striving to stop short of needling. It’s a razor’s edge he’s always struggled to walk, but Manuela is still right there with him, toeing the line. “It’s better than nothing at all.”

Manuela directs a venomous glower towards the floor as she vacillates between summary dismissal and the temptation of vengeance. Basira side-eyes Jon as the standstill stretches from seconds into minutes, but all Jon can offer her is an awkward shrug. The ball is in Manuela’s court, and it seems she has no qualms leaving them in indefinite suspense as she painstakingly examines all the variables and weighs her options. The best they can do is wait and hope that tangible revenge will prove more enticing than spiteful noncooperation.

Eventually, she lets out a sharp exhale, raises her head, and breaks her silence.

“The winter solstice,” she repeats, her voice teeming with tension and lingering aversion. “Barring an eclipse, I would have to settle for the winter solstice. The longest, darkest night of the year… it’s second best, but it should suffice. Shame about the light pollution, of course,” she adds, wrinkling her nose with disdain, “but the power is in the symbolism.”

“Jon?” Basira prompts.

“Dream logic,” he says, massaging his forehead wearily. “It tracks.”

“Fine,” Basira sighs. She looks back to Manuela. “So does this mean you’ll do it?”

“I’m tired of haunting this place like a ghost.” There’s a sharp, predatory look in Manuela’s eyes now. “The Dark has lost its crusaders. The Watcher should have a taste of loss.”

Just then, a loud, metallic thunk interrupts the negotiations, reverberating through the space and drawing everyone’s attention to warehouse entrance. The light that had been percolating through from outside had been preternaturally dimmed before, but now it’s been snuffed out entirely.

Jon glances anxiously at Basira. “The wind, maybe?”

“There was no wind.” Basira is already drawing her gun. Like a switch has been flipped at the prospect of danger, her voice goes steely with manufactured composure. “Not strong enough to blow the door shut. I propped it open very securely.”

“We’re near the water, though,” Jon murmurs. “Strong gusts sometimes blow in off the sea–”

Jon’s mouth snaps shut at Basira’s quelling look. Manuela’s posture is defensive again, eyes darting suspiciously between Jon and Basira in the muted torchlight.

“I thought you said you came here alone,” she says accusingly.

“We – we did,” Jon says. “We–”

“Oh, Archivist,” a new voice sings out, oozing with an exultant malice. “Long time no see!”

It’s been ages since Jon last heard that cadence, but it’s horrifyingly, heart-stoppingly familiar even after all this time. It pierces Jon like a knife in the dark. He takes a frantic step back, nearly tripping over his own feet as his panic skyrockets and a tidal wave of adrenaline crashes over him.

“We just want to talk,” croons a different voice, rougher and more ragged-sounding. It’s difficult to gauge the newcomers’ positions through the impermeable gloom, but judging from the sounds of their voices, they’re drawing ever nearer. “Won’t you come out?”

“You’ve got to be fucking kidding me.” Jon breathes an incredulous laugh, distraught enough to border on a whimper. “Now?”

“Who are they?” Basira asks urgently. Jon is still frozen in place, eyes straining against the darkness. Any answer he could make is bogged down with terror, snagging in his throat and forestalling coherence. “Jon!”

Jon swallows hard and finally looks at Basira, his eyes wide with dread.

“Hunters.”

End Notes:

naomi: hey jon. jon. consider: surveillance state kink jon: shut the hell your mouth

____

Both instances of Archive-speak are from MAG 135. A few pieces of dialogue from the beginning of the conversation with Manuela are taken/reworked from MAG 143. The Melanie and Basira gossip is from MAG 106.

Once again, had way too much fun with the text convo btwn Naomi and Jon. Cannot resist those chatfic shenanigans vibes.

In other news, Daisy WILL point at Jon and loudly exclaim, “Is anyone gonna volunteer as wingman for this lovesick disaster or do I have to do everything myself?” and not even wait for an answer. (Jon made the mistake of confirming that he doesn’t mind her lovingly dunking on him about this sort of thing and now she’s a menace. Listen, playful ribbing is basically her platonic love language.)  

Sorry for the cliffhanger!! But hey, I think we all knew that there’s no way things would go entirely smoothly for Jon and Basira. And now I finally get to add some new character tags.

I’m very behind on replying to comments. (Tbh, spent most of the last month grappling with this chapter. I was stuck on a scene that REALLY didn’t want to cooperate.) I’m gonna try to catch up this weekend, though. <3 As always, thank you for reading!

[drinkurkombucha]

yes yes yes tell us about mfc matty 🌈

“Pick up. Pick up, pick up, pick up.”

The phone rings four times and then the line hitches. Sounds filter though. He’s holding his breath as he waits. He fidgets, pulls up his hood. Starts to chew on the zipper of his hoodie, frowning at the bitterness. Cheap. Metallic. Like blood. Sounds of rustling, a barely-audible sigh. Then a voice, tired, deep, clogged with sleep:

“You shouldn’t be calling me.”

“I know.”

He glances up at the sky. It’s dark and heavy - it’s been threatening to rain all night long. He wishes he wasn’t so far from his apartment.

Apartment. It still stings.

“It’s 3am.”

“I know.”

Long sigh and even though it’s been six months since he last saw him, Matty knows exactly how George looks right now: disappointed. Upset. Exhausted.

“Where are you?”

Matty stops biting the zip on his hoodie and his eyes track from the moody sky to the neon sign above him. It’s broken - the neon only illuminating one letter, an ominous N.

“Some bar,” he murmurs. “Somewhere.”

Another sigh from George and the exhausted sound builds up behind Matty’s heart and pushes it forward in a really horrible surge, sort of like a dam breaking, a tsunami hitting land. His clumsy heart trips over itself and his breath catches in his throat and he knows that he’s not supposed to do this, he knows that it’s “not cool” and that Adam will be pissed off and Ross will probably smack him for being “twat of the year” but he’s not in control anymore:

“I miss you.”

Silence. A low rumble in the distance that he thinks is thunder but is actually just a lorry. Eyes (now shining) return to the sky. He wills it to rain now, hoping that it will cleanse him, wake him up, stop him from continually doing this… whatever this is. He hates how weak he has become.

The silence stretches for another few moments and then a response:

“You shouldn’t say that.”

“But it’s true.”

And it is true because in the past six months Matty has learned more about longing than he ever thought he would. He has learned that as humans we are flawed and we cling to the things that are bad for us and sometimes we are willing to die for our unhealthy habits because they feel safe. Because sometimes kindness from others feels like a threat. Sometimes love from others feels like a threat. And sometimes longing feels a lot like dying.

He hates that he knows exactly what led to the implosion. The kicker is that things had been good, great actually, and then he had got scared and he had started going out more, becoming a vacant body in their relationship, building walls, disengaging. He had started doing exactly what his therapist told him not to - he started shutting George out because vulnerability, even with George, was a terrifying prospect. Anxious avoidant attachment or some bullshit like that said his therapist, and this well worn coping mechanism was alright until it wasn’t and George in his infinite patience had finally had enough.

Things had ended… horribly. Not because it had been a huge bust up, but because it had been quiet. He had come home one night and found George stony-faced in the living room and he had said: “I can’t do this. I can’t love someone who is a ghost.” And that had been it. He had moved out the following day and, unable to cope with being in their shared home, Matty had left and moved in to a tiny apartment in a shit part of the city. His new living situation was, he knew, a way of punishing himself for spectacularly cocking everything up. As usual.

“Even if it’s true, you shouldn’t say that,” George sighs and his voice brings Matty back to the street.

“But what am I supposed to do?” he asks, hoping George might have some kind of answer.

“I don’t know.”

Pause. A crowd of people swell past him in a cacophony of late night laughter, the kind that’s all slicked up with booze: theatrical. Obnoxious. He turns to face the wall and he has to ask the question that’s been on his mind:

“Do you ever think about me?”

The answer comes immediately:

“All the time.”

And his eyes properly well up now and his voice breaks as he responds:

“I think about you too.”

His voice breaks then and he feels that sickening surge of longing pulse through him. He has royally fucked things up and he hates himself for the way he is. He hates that it took him so fucking long to see George, really see him and it hurts. It just… hurts.

“Look, it’s late,” George says then and his heart sinks.

“I… I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have called,” he says, wiping at his eyes.

“That’s alright just… take care of yourself okay?”

He says it even though he shouldn’t:

“I love you George.”

There’s a small silence and then the line goes dead.

And Matty understands that sometimes you can love someone so much it physically hurts and you can still make shitty decisions despite that. And love is beautiful and noble and all the things people say it is, but sometimes that’s just not enough.

It starts to rain.

[fanficflaneuse]

Sleepless

A/N: Hello, magical tumblr beings. First of all, I can't to thank you enough for all your love and support on my very first imagine ever (you can check it out here). I wrote yet another fluffy, sickly-sweet, absolutely self indulgent imagine. I hope you like this one as well! 

Details: 

Draco Malfoy x reader (she/her pronouns). 

Words: 1689 

Summary: the reader has insomnia and decides to roam the castle in the middle of the night. Fluff ensues. 

Disclaimers: so Draco’s characterization here was a bit of a problem. It still bothers me a bit. This is fluffy and a bit pointless. Mentions of Dolores Umbridge. 

(Y/N) got tired of tossing and turning in bed. The soft snoring of her roommates only made things worse. She peaked through the curtains of her four-poster bed and saw Hermione sleeping. Her best friend had fallen in the arms of Morpheus a while ago.  And there she was, unable to close her eyes as the night seemed to stretch infinitely.

(Y/N) couldn’t remember a time in her life when she hadn’t suffered from insomnia. Usually, the sleeping draught helped her, but these days the stress around her was so overpowering she hadn’t even ventured into Madam Pomfrey’s realm for a small dose.

This year things were agitated to say the least. Pained by the tragedy at the Triwizard Tournament, Harry insisted that Voldemort was back. People were harsh. They mocked him, spread rumours about how he had lost his mind, accused him of lying. Some even claimed that he had murdered Cedric Diggory. She was one of Harry’s closest friends and she had her own reasons to believe him, which meant she was also a member of Dumbledore’s Army.

If the strain of running an underground society wasn’t enough, the fact that Dolores Umbridge had taken over the school gave plenty of reasons to drive anyone mad. The sickly-sweet pink lady was one of the most hateful people (Y/N) had ever met. She seemed to have taken a bow to make students’ lives miserable. She was dead set against Harry and the three people she, rather contemptuously, referred to as his “dream team”, which, of course, included her, along with Hermione and Ron.

The icing on the cake? (Y/N) had a crush. An annoying, deeply confusing crush on the one boy she definitely shouldn’t be ogling at. She blamed Snape for this. Hadn’t he decided that (Y/N) and Hermione had to be separated in his class, she wouldn’t have to seat next to the most hands...stupid and obnoxious Slytherin in the whole school. She wouldn’t have to talk to him every day, notice the little gestures that made him seem so vulnerable, so human. How his big grey eyes could hold so much emotion. How he had expressive eyebrows. How the corners of his lips curled just slightly in an awkward attempt to the friendly to her. How he’d fumble with his family ring and pout when he was confused. How he had this one single curl that wouldn’t be tamed regardless of how he combed his blond hair. How he would always treat her with kindness, albeit with a bit of playful cockiness, even when he was horrible to her friends.

Yes, it was totally Snape’s fault. Now, she not only had to deal with the butterflies and the blushing, the typical embarrassment of such situations, but also the guilt of liking a guy who’d call her best friends horrible slurs and created elaborate campaigns to discredit and embarrass them. What was wrong with her? She felt like a traitor.

If Ron thought Cho Chang could explode from an emotional overload, (Y/N) felt she could combust then and there.

Tired of being in bed, she pushed her covers and stood up. She slid into her linen night robe and slippers and left the room, swiftly and silently as a cat. It was not the first time (Y/N) roamed through the castle late at night. Walking helped to ease her mind and she found that the castle seemed more beautiful and enthralling the darker and lonelier it was.

(Y/N) was so distracted she didn’t realize she had unconsciously walked all the way to the astronomy tower. She decided to climb up, something she had never done in all of her nightly rounds. Once she walked through the door, (Y/N)’s gaze met those stormy grey eyes that gave her both butterflies and heartache at the same time. She gulped and took a few steps back. If she could’ve guessed, she probably looked terrified at the moment; he was, after all, part of Umbridge’s inquisitors.

“(Y/N) wait,” he said softly.

“Will you report me with Umbridge?” she asked, panicky.

“What? No. I just… what are you doing here?”

“I can’t sleep,” she shrugged.

She turned around to leave when she heard him whisper a “me neither” that sounded a bit desperate. She pictured his lips curled down ever just slightly and, finding the image adorable, decided to turn around. (Y/N) found him fiddling with his ring, which made her smile. He looked so shy and a cute that she couldn’t believe it was the same guy who could make her knees buckle with one of his infamous cocky smirks. She walked towards him while crossing her arms, suddenly self-conscious of her choice of outfit.

“Why so shy?” he asked, trying to go back to his cocky, confident persona, complete with checking her out. He thought he had nailed it until she raised an eyebrow in response, which made him cringe at his choice of words.

Draco Malfoy was used to having his walls so frighteningly high it was conflicting for him to interact with someone he actually wanted to let in. With her, her smart questions, her kind smile, the way he treated him as an equal and how she seemed to be interested in what he actually had to say, he felt the façade crumbling to bits. With his walls down, though, his “suave” persona turned a bit to dust. Around her, he felt dorky. Draco Malfoy dorky? Merlin, if his father knew this.

“Why can’t you sleep?” she asked absentmindedly, completely disregarding his last question. He noticed how her gaze shifted to the sky, her face full of wonder. He looked back at the stars as well and spotted Orion immediately.

“I have a lot in my mind,” he answered, “what about you?”

“Me too,” she answered.

“That’s Taurus, right?” she asked, pointing at the wrong constellation.

Draco smiled. Whenever they finished their work with a few minutes to spare, they would seat down and talk about their interests. Astronomy and Greek mythology were amongst the many topics they covered. He shared his knowledge on the first and learned about the later.  

The conversation then changed topics and they found themselves sitting on the floor, backs against the railing, sharing laughs and jokes and experiences. It was the first time they had the chance to have a full-on conversation, to ramble, laugh and be unapologetically friendly. Usually, their conversations ended after the bell rang. Tonight, they could talk for as long as they wanted to. Make each other blush as many times as they wanted to. Seat as incredibly close to each other as they wanted to. No one was waiting for the outside of the classroom, nobody would judge or mock them for being friendly with the other. Suddenly, (Y/N) was not mad that the night seemed to stretch infinitively.

“So, you believe Potter,” Draco pointed out.  

There was a bit of fake annoyance in his voice.  The conversation taken a more serious tone when she mentioned something about his inquisitorial squad.

“He is my best friend,” (Y/N) answered, shrugging once again.

“Pansy is my best friend and I don’t believe half of the things she says,” Draco stated, trying to light up the mood once again. He mentally patted his back when (Y/N) laughed.

“If there is one person that truly knows Harry is not lying it’s you, Draco”.

She said this without a trace of malice in her voice. She was merely stating a fact. Draco could’ve pretended he was offended, he could’ve scoffed and stormed off, how dare she imply he and his family had something to do with the Dark L Volde You Know Who? He could use that to stand up, close that door and never see her again, not have to deal with the terrible crush he had on her. But here’s the thing, he didn’t want to do any of that. He wanted to keep talking to her now and every single day. He wanted to see if she felt that same tickling in his stomach whenever he was around. And he wanted to kiss her. So so badly.

Besides, everybody knew his parents had connections to the Dark Lord. And his father…his father had been acting rather strangely when he got back home from his fourth year. He had talked nonsense all summer. It hadn’t taken him too long to connect the dots. He knew Voldemort was back. There was no doubt about it. But until he decided to reveal himself, he had to play his part. And thus, the whole Potter stinks campaign had started.

“(Y/N/N)…” he looked down, sad and ashamed.

She put her hand on his arm and their eyes met again. Draco was transfixed. (Y/N)’s heart was pounding hard on her chest. She leaned in slowly, trying to catch a glimpse of his reaction. Their noses were almost touching. She put one of her hands gently on Draco’s cheek and he leaned into her touch. The both closed their eyes as their lips finally touched. The kiss was slow at first, a bit shy even. But then they got comfortable with each other, his hands travelled to her waist, the hand that wasn’t on his cheek tangled in his blond hair. The kiss became hungrier. He bit her lip, she slithered her tongue into his mouth.

When they finally pulled away, Draco looked at (Y/N)’s flushed face and found himself absolutely smitten.

“I fancy you, Draco” she blurted out.

Draco gave her a huge, wholehearted smile. She smiled back.

“I fancy you too, (Y/N/N),” he said as he caressed her hair softly.

The kissed again and again, sweet chaste kisses and pecks that made them both erupt in giggles. Draco felt on cloud nine. (Y/N) couldn’t believe what was happening. That night, they didn’t speak of every possible way in which things could possibly go wrong. They didn’t talk about Draco’s concerns and certainties, about the war to come. They didn’t talk about (Y/N)’s guilt about her friends. They just kissed and talked and held each other all night.

And it was a beautiful night.