#just like his endless existential dread

[mellorine-dreams]

This is so suburban-dad-Mihawk-core.

He gets tired of Zoro’s and Perona’s bickering and in a futile search for solace he puts this baby on, goes out to sea, cracks open a cold one, and casts that fishing line

[wastefulreverie]

fixed point

“Would you like to know how much time you have left?” Clockwork asked.

Danny had never wished more that he’d died in something with pockets so he could hide his shaking hands. The endless ticking in the lair—hundreds of hands TICK TICK TICK -ing in perfect sync—had never sounded so ominous.

“I—” his voice rattled his throat, a raw thing “—I didn’t think you gave spoilers.”

With an absent spin of their staff, Clockwork shifted from adult to child and said nothing. Dread hung heavy in the air, Clockwork’s unblinking stare piercing through it all. Danny pointedly did not make eye contact. Instead focusing on the oscillating hands of the wall behind them.

He took a breath.

“Will it make it easier, knowing?”

Clockwork blinked once, face betraying nothing.

Dammit.

He wasn’t an idiot. There was really only one outcome of this conversation. Just as there had been the day he’d first pulled on his jumpsuit, walking—tripping—through the threshold. Life snuffed out of him in less than a second.

He brought his shaking hands together and met Clockwork’s even gaze.

And answered.

Thirteen days.

Seven hours.

Thirty-six minutes.

It was somehow both longer and shorter than he’d expected.

It was also a weight off his shoulders, at least in the beginning. It wouldn’t happen any earlier than the date Clockwork had recounted that night. Thirteen days of freedom. Peace. Liberation.

Because if he thought too much about the length of thirteen days, how three-hundred or so hours wasn’t enough time— it’s not fucking FAIR —he would be swallowed by the crushing anxiety that made its permanent home in his stomach.

So there was that.

He didn’t bother telling his friends. They were already all on edge, but if he could act like all was well he could ease their worries. Because ultimately they were just worried about him, and if he was fine they would be too.

He did, however, make contingency plans. Farewell videos on a USB drive taped to the underside of his bed.

He wanted Clockwork to be wrong. Some nights he laid awake, trying his damndest to find a way off this track. This self-fulfilling prophecy. But there was nothing. That moment had already passed with that stupid news broadcast that had glued him to the couch, shaking, as his parents had shouted and jeered at the screen. Dismissive. Furious. Invested.

They hadn’t noticed when he pushed himself off the couch and stumbled, shaking, to the bathroom to purge the contents of his stomach.

It was a miracle he’d only gotten a two-day suspension for slugging Wes in the face in front of the whole cafeteria. Even more so that no one had pieced it together from that.

No one saw him. But they would. When it was too late.

He couldn’t stop it. But as he didn’t acknowledge it in the waking world it wouldn’t exist. So he reserved his existential crises for when there was nothing to distract him from the looming, inevitable deadline.

He wished he could tell Mr. Lancer that whenever he was given detention that afternoon.

On the night of the twelfth day, he didn’t sleep a wink. No amount of coffee could keep his head above his desk that morning, and so, Danny spent his final hour in detention. He considered skipping. Detention was not the place for everything to come to an end.

But wouldn’t leaving—deviating from his normal routine—up the chances of putting events in motion?

Avoidance was his specialty, after all.

Jazz could write a paper on his coping tactics alone if she hadn’t already. 

At nineteen minutes Mr. Lancer stopped in front of his desk. It was only him and Valerie today, and she sat somewhere three desks behind and to his left of him. Her hair was in a loose ponytail, loose yellow sleeves draped over her hands. The bags under her eyes rivaled his own, even though he was sure there hadn’t been too many ghosts in the past week or so—but then again, he’d not been the most attentive to things on the ghost front lately. It was probably his fault she was here at all. 

“Mr. Fenton,” Lancer said. He forced his head to turn, a feat much more difficult than it sounded. His head felt full of lead. “Is everything alright at home?”

Danny forced himself not to cringe.

“Uh.” He ignored the sound of Valerie shifting in her seat behind him. Great. An audience. “Yes.”

“I’ve noticed you’ve been getting much less sleep of late, is all.”

Now this was a load of shit. Danny’s sleep schedule was normally trash. This current existential crisis was no more taxing than his normal night activities.

Lancer continued. “And your parents have—” he paused, eyes flitting somewhere behind him. “—in light of recent revelations, I just worry, Mr. Fenton.”

Hm.

Did he know, then?

Was this it?

Danny stared stupidly for a moment, forgetting to shut his mouth. And then shrugged.

Falling back on ignorance.

If he was honest, he hadn’t quite expected Lancer to be the one to put it together, but it also made sense. 

Lancer’s mouth thinned. “I know they can be intense, especially with the scrutiny placed on our school now. No one should feel scared to come to school. Or go home,” he said, letting the words hang in the air for a moment. “This is a safe space.”

For a moment all he could hear was the drum of his heart in his chest. And then behind him, Valerie cleared her throat.

“With all due respect, Mr. Lancer,” she said, “nowhere is safe with that putrid ghost hiding among us.”

Danny didn’t turn around. Lancer’s reaction was subdued, but there was a protective fire in his eyes that confirmed Danny’s suspicions. He wondered how long ago he’d put it together.

“Ms. Gray,” Lancer said, “I see your point, but I’m just trying to ease tensions.”

Danny checked the clock.

Seventeen minutes. 

Maybe he should’ve skipped detention after all.

(No escaping the inevitable. No do-overs this time.)

Valerie scoffed. “So what? We let our guard down?” he chanced a glance behind him, and Valerie’s eyes were red-rimmed—from lack of sleep or otherwise he had no idea. “Someone here is a walking weapon and we’re supposed to ignore this? Fenton at least knows he’ll be safe at home, but what about the rest of us? We don’t get to go home to ghost-hunting parents—we have to hold our own.”

Lancer nodded. “I understand. I just think that it’s very frightening for all of us, ghost hunters or not.”

Danny’s voice cracked when he spoke. “Yeah.”

Valerie’s expression softened. “I didn’t mean to make light—”

“No. No, you’re right,” he said. “It’s not safe with Phantom as a student here. Whoever he is.”

She sighed. “Danny, I don’t know what it’s like with your parents, but—”

“But what?” he cut her off. “Because they’re ghost hunters they’re automatically the safest people in the room?” He lowered his voice. “You would think that.”

She froze. “What does that mean?”

Hm. Whoops.

“People don’t know what it’s like, I guess.”

Danny turned back around. Lancer’s stare was dripping with sympathy.

Fifteen minutes.

There was a scrape of a chair, a thud of feet, and a warm hand on his shoulder. Valerie released him just as fast. When he met her eyes, they were as wide as saucers.

“D—Danny,” she said with a note of panic. “You’re cold.”

“Yeah?” he asked.

She took a step back. He hadn’t seen her this scared since they’d been stranded on Skulker’s island together. He could see the realization dawning. 

“Val,” he said, knowing full well what was going through her head, “what’s wrong?”

“It’s not you,” she said, a desperate plea. “I can’t be this stupid.”

He sighed and Lancer stepped between them.

“Ms. Gray,” he said, “now let’s not jump to conclusions—”

“No!” she shook her head. “No, no, no! It doesn’t make sense. You’re—your parents hunt ghosts. Hunt Phantom.”

Danny crossed his arms.

“So do you.”

Lancer looked between them like Danny had announced that he liked eating golf balls. “What.”

Tears welled in Valerie’s eyes. “I trusted you!”

The minute hand inched forward.

Fourteen.

“You trusted me to what?”

Valerie clenched her fists. “Don’t do that! Don’t play stupid!”

“Ms. Gray—”

“I’m not playing.” Danny turned sideways in his desk, facing her head-on. “Tell me what you think I’ve done, Val.”

“Mr. Fenton—!”

“You replaced him. You replaced Danny. How long have you been pretending to be him? To be alive? How can you live with yourself, going home everyday and seeing his parents and—and—acting like you’re still—” she choked on her tears. “You terrorize this town, Phantom. I won’t let you take anything else from me, or anyone.”

Lancer’s eyes were wide. He’d never seen the man so shocked, in such foreign territory.

Valerie, on the other hand, was resolute. There was as much determination in her face as tears.

“I’m still me,” he said. “I died, but I came back. I never replaced myself, however that works. I am sorry, Val. There’s a lot that—”

“Shut up! Shut up shut up shut up! ”

“—that I didn’t mean to happen.”

Lancer slammed his hand on Danny’s desk.

“Can we all settle down!”

It all happened in a matter of seconds. The clock in his peripheral kept him tethered to the moment. 

Valerie reached behind her and pulled a blaster.

A flash of red—

(The minute hand moves.

Thirteen.)

—and a burst of hot pain through his side.

He crumpled forward, his head meeting the linoleum floor with a SMACK and somewhere above him a distant shout.

Everything from his side to his cranium THROBBED and it wouldn’t fucking stop.

(He’d taken hits from Val before. This shouldn’t hurt so much. Why does this—?)

Iron pooled in his mouth. 

Oh right.

Ectoplasm was thicker than blood.

Danny tried to push himself up from the floor but the world spun and his arms gave out below him and he slumped back down to the cold, hard floor.

The floor felt better.

Maybe he would…

Stay here for a while…

***

The television clicked on. A rerun of the six o’clock news.

He didn’t let Jazz turn it off.

“According to a recent report, there is speculation that our local ghost vigilante Phantom might be living among us. Care to tell us more, Lance?”

“Yes, Tiffany.” Lance Thunder’s stupid blonde hair was polished and perfect as usual and he wanted to wipe that stupid half-smile off the bastard’s face. “A ghost ID’ed as Walker —” at this, a crude picture that was mostly just a white blur appeared on the screen “— has publicly announced that our hero is a student at Casper High fooling us, flying under the radar.”

“And as far as we understand, tips from ghosts aren’t verifiable…?”

“Normally, yes, but there is evidence to suggest that—”

“This isn’t good for you,” Jazz hissed. “I know that it’s scary, but—”

“Exposure therapy,” he snapped back. “It’s gonna be the talk of the school anyway.”

She slumped back down onto the couch. “Take care of yourself.”

The door to the lab was thrown open. His parents marched through the kitchen and into the living room, perfectly eclipsing the TV.

“—telling you, Jack. The DNA scans are inconclusive at best. Their so-called ‘experts’ are out of their depths.”

“We’ll show them once and for all. If we can find out which student it’s using as cover—”

“—we’ll expose Phantom for the monster he is!”

His parents disappeared upstairs for the night, but he could still hear snippets of their vows to destroy him. 

He shot Jazz a tired look. “Easier said than done.”

***

Someone was touching him.

Everything on his left burned. Far above him were LEDs and beige ceiling tiles. He wasn’t sure when he’d been rolled onto his back. But he was now, and someone was pressing down on the spot that burned burned burned—!

Blood trickled down his throat.

How many minutes had it been?

How many did he have left?

There were voices, somewhere, but everything sounded like it was underwater. Maybe it was. Drowning would be preferable to many of the other deaths he’d prepared for. Still terrible, sure, but vivisection lowered the bar considerably. 

“—have you done!”

“He’s—” A girl’s voice wavered, quiet. “He’s Phantom. He’s not supposed to—to—”

Wow. Valerie had the decency to sound ashamed.

At least he could die knowing that his killer at least had a few shreds of regret.

(Is it sad that it’s more than he expected?)

“—little first aid.” The pain came in waves, and all Danny could hear was the rush of his stupid heart in his ears. “—expecting shootings in America, but not from a—” 

Just as fast as it came, the world melted away. His last grasp on consciousness slipped away.

(As fast as the click of a button.)

***

Wes had a punchable face.

But hey—that’s what you get for talking to the press. The accusations were written off as pretty baseless, but the damage had been done. He got inquisitive stares now and again. After all, Wes was a joke, but his interview put Danny’s name on the list of suspects and that was enough to fuck his entire life over.

After his two-day suspension, Danny had little opportunity to survey his work. Honestly, more people asked him about how bad he fucked up Wes’s face than whether or not he was Phantom.

(From what he had seen, it was in a perpetual state of purple and that was enough to curb his anger for now.)

So. He had two days off from school.

Danny went to see Clockwork.

Long Now welcomed him with welcome arms, and he broke down into a fit of whines and gripes about how it seemed like everyone was out to get him, that everyone wanted to put his head on a pike. Everyone wanted to ferret out the wolf in sheep’s clothing.

Clockwork shared their sympathies.

“No matter what I do, I just—I’m a wreck. I think someone’s figured it out. That they know, but then I mention it to Jazz or Sam or Tucker and I’m just paranoid and I think I’m paranoid now and—” he groaned. “I don’t know what to do. I’m losing my mind.”

“You do know that it’s inevitable that the truth comes to light.”

He froze. “What.”

Clockwork shifted from senior to adult. “Your paranoia isn’t for naught. It’s a matter of time.”

No. This couldn’t be happening.

He’d figure a way out.

There had to be something.

“I thought nothing was inevitable.”

“Not nothing,” Clockwork hummed. “Often, it is nothing. But not this time.”

Their words shook him to the core. He’d suspected it, sure, but confirmation was—

“I know it isn’t fair.”

“Don’t tell me what is and isn’t fair!” Danny snapped. “Your entire life isn’t—isn’t under scrutiny for everyone. If they know that I’m me, I—”

He pressed his hands to his chest.

He would be finished.

One way or another, someone would find a way to put him on their table.

The government.

His parents.

Maybe someone else out for his blood.

(His body.)

“I can’t see what will happen past them learning the truth,” Clockwork said. “But it is a fixed point. Everything past that diverges, a thousand roads. Timelines. Possibilities. I can’t tell you what to expect. The best, the worst. I cannot offer that reassurance.”

“Oh.”

They nodded. “It’s a lot to take in.”

“I don’t want them to find out,” he said in a pathetic whine.

For a long moment, Clockwork said nothing. If not for the constant ticking of clocks, he would have thought they were frozen. But then Clockwork’s expression shifted.

And they asked: 

“Would you like to know?” 

***

…

……

………

Warbled voices were around him again. Different.

But this time more in focus.

“Sir, Ma’am, if you could leave the room—”

“I will NOT. That is my son, and I am not leaving until someone tells me why there is a HOLE in his chest—!”

And somewhere else, a shriek of sobs.

“We’re transporting him to the hospital, you can’t—”

“I did it,” said that same, sobbing voice. “I shot him. I shot him.”

More people were touching him and Danny didn’t like it oh god no no no —

“—get him on the stretcher—”

“—the hell DID you—”

“—Ms. Gray, you—”

“—no! I want to know why—”

“—securing him, just—”

And now time did slow.

The EMTs lifted the stretcher.

And his face lolled to the side, giving him a clear view of the clock.

The minute hand moved one last time.

Just as:

“I didn’t mean to! I didn’t—he’s Phantom, I didn’t think that it would—!” Valerie, cut off, sobbing. “I’m so sorry, Danny. If you can hear me, I’m so sorry.”

And then there was silence.

Crushing darkness.

***

If he had any last doubts that his secret was out, they were snuffed out when he woke up in the hospital to the pained faces of his parents. Jazz was in the chair to his left, hair mussed up and asleep. His parents’ eyes were red with tears. In his delirium, he also noticed Sam’s backpack discarded in the corner.

How long had—?

“Two days.”

Clockwork appeared before him in their adult form. They swung their staff, looking rather pleased with themselves. Danny then realized the occupants of the room had been frozen as long as he’d been awake. 

“You’re recovering well, all considered.” Clockwork tapped a clipboard on a nearby table. “I will say, I am surprised that we took this route. It is what you might call a ‘spoiler,’ but it’s kinder than most.”

“Is it,” he said, voice hoarse.

Clockwork waited for him to finish coughing up his lungs before speaking again. “They’re handling it as best they can. I won’t say it’s great, but you’re on the way there.”

“I—what happened, again?”

And as he asked, it came rushing back.

Lancer. Valerie.

And paramedics?

Clockwork gave him a knowing smile. “Your teacher called an ambulance. In his panic, he might have let it slip that you were having a reaction because of a ghost weapon, and your parents were looped into the call.”

“Oh.”

“Yeah.”

Danny’s eyes found his frozen heart monitor, time stopped between beats. Below, his mother had tied off the top half of her HAZMAT suit and was wearing a black shirt beneath. He did notice that the contents of her weapons belt were emptied.

He turned back to Clockwork. “How did they take it?”

They shrugged. “Why don’t you ask them?”

“Wait—wait, I'm not ready.”

“How about this? I tell you how much time you have left.” They raised their staff. “Three—”

“Clockwork—”

“Two—”

“Don’t you dare!”

“Time in.”

[hogwartslegacyreactions2]

HLC REACT TO FINDING OUT THEY'RE IN A VIDEO GAME

A/N: Inspired by The Amazing Digital Circus! Existential dread for everyone!! AHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA!!!

WARNING: ANGST, existentialism, panic attacks, anxiety

MC and their favorite companion were battling goblins when it happened. A red barrel chain reaction had debris and enemies flying and the companion was caught in the collision crossfire. They hit a rock at just a weird enough angle that their body started ragdolling out of control. They spun and twisted out of sight and before they could process what was happening, they were falling.

Falling...

Falling...

The world above vanished. They landed hard on flat ground, the wind knocked out of them. Upon eventually standing, they found themselves in some sort of corridor. Gridded walls too high to see over opened to darkness above. There was no sight or sound of MC or goblins or trees or birds or....anything.

Tentatively, they called out. Their voice was swallowed by the opressive silence. They tried their wand. Nothing happened. So they walked the seemingly endless blank corridor until they came to an opening.

A massive room filled with statues. Some tall, some short, some human, some not. The companion gets closer, then freezes. These weren't statues. They were people and beasts and objects they recognized, all standing perfectly still in neat little rows like chess pieces.

SEBASTIAN SALLOW: He's staring into the blank eyes of his own sister. "Anne? What-...where am I? What is this place?" He frantically looks around, he sees teachers and students and shopkeepers and enemies and even his uncle. "Where are my parents?" He dashes through the rows of lifeless assets. "WHERE ARE THEY?" He screams, but no one answers.

He comes to the sudden realization that he's searching for faces he doesn't know. He doesn't know what they look like. He's mentioned his parents, he's missed his parents, he's mourned his parents, HOW COULD HE NOT KNOW WHAT THEY LOOK LIKE??

He falls to the ground in a heap. "They're real. I know they're real. I'm real. They're real. This is some curse. I'm dreaming." He starts hyperventilating. "SOMEONE WAKE ME UP!! PLEASE!!"

OMINIS GAUNT: The sudden silence of his surroundings scares him more than the chaos of battle ever has. "MC? Hello? Where are you?" He tries to guide himself along with his wand but it won't activate. He finds the smooth, glass-like wall and follows it.

He finds the opening and runs face first into what feels like a person. "Oh, thank Merlin. Can you help me? I don't know where I am. I'm blind, you see...hello?" He feels the person's arm. They're stiff and cold like the dead yet standing upright. "What?" He reaches out and finds another person, then another and another. All the same.

The silence in the darkness made his breath feel heavy. Wherever he was, felt wrong. Was he dead? Is this what dying felt like? Was this all there was beyond the world he knew? Was this the fate that awaited everyone or just him? Destined to suffer in spaces unknown with no guide and no familiar presence?

He sat down and curled his knees to his chest. His mind spun with questions as his surroundings felt less and less real. Was he even real?

ANNE SALLOW: She covered her mouth in shock. Slowly, she turned in place to take in all the things she thought she knew were real lifelessly staring back at her. She stared at herself the longest. Her life, her memories, her pain....none of it was real. Her suffering didn't matter. She was a pawn. A plot device.

She keeled over and vomited. She coughed and blinked the tears out of her eye to watch what came out of her started to pixelate and vanish. She stared wide eyed at the ground and started to shake. "I'm...real." her voice weak in the oversized room. "I'm. Real. I AM real." She threw her head up and screamed into the void above. "I'M REAL!" She glared defiantly upward into nothingness. She didn't know who she was shouting to, but she hoped they heard.

IMELDA REYES: Her dreams, her aspirations, her future... There was no life beyond Hogwarts. Everything in this room was all that existed. The world was just an amalgamation to be constructed and deconstructed at will. She wasn't special, she didn't matter, she was just another piece.

She had never bothered to think about it much before, but what mattered to her outside of brooms and racing? Did she have other genuine interests? Did she know who she was?

She laughs. A cold, humorless laugh echoes out of her. Nothing mattered. Nothing ever mattered. What was even the point of this confined existence? Who would want to be stuck in a singular place constantly at war? Who would be mad enough to think this is an existence worth creating? She laughs. Laughs until she cries. Laughs into the endless silence. Laughs and laughs and laughs and laughs and laughs....

NATSAI ONAI: She sees everyone except MC. Where were they? Why weren't they in the crowd? "MC!? MC!! CAN YOU HEAR ME??" With no response, she goes to her mother's asset. Even her own mother wasn't real.

Is this why she could never remember the faces of the bandits who killed her father? She always thought it was a memory blackout from trauma. No...it never happened. Matibililand didn't exist. Her home didn't exist.

She sat at her mother's feet and stared at the ground. Her mind couldn't handle the stress and she disassociated. She was as blank and still as the assets surrounding her.

GARRETH WEASLEY: "This isn't happening. This can't really be happening." He stared at his aunt. Her asset blankly stared back. His aunt wasn't real. The professors weren't real. The students weren't real. The dark wizards weren't real. Was Hogwarts even real? Was he??

"THIS ISN'T REAL! I WON'T FALL FOR YOUR TRICKS!" He shouts at no one. He had to believe that this was some sort of hallucination. He could feel. He could think. He was real. He had to be.

Tears welled up in his eyes and he cried out. "LET ME OUT! DO YOU HEAR ME!? LET ME OUT!! ...please..." He hiccuped and wiped his face. "Please .."

LEANDER PREWETT: He fearfully stayed away from the statued people as if they would come alive at any moment. He was too afraid to call out and hid around the corner. Without his wand, he didn't know what to do. He didn't know where he was or how he got there. He felt truly powerless and vulnerable. He'd never felt so small in his life.

His mind refused to accept that this was happening and refused to process the familiar faces. This had to be some sort of dark wizard trick. This couldn't really be happening. Ironically, he refused to play their game. He walked off into the darkness. The corridors had to lead somewhere eventually.

POPPY SWEETING: The missing person that stood out to her was her gran. The most important person in her life, and yet... Where was she? What did she look like? Oh gods, what did she look like?? She grasped the sides of her head as she thought as hard as she could to remember. Her gran's face and voice and home were a blur.

AMIT THAKKAR: He quietly walked through the rows, stopping in front of himself. He looked within himself. He had been so focused on "studies" that he never really thought about his past. Who was he? Where was he from? Who was his family? What were they like?

He had no past. Down here he had no present. Did he ever have a future? Were the stars he looked up to at night even real? He doesn't know how to react. Mental numbness washes over him. He stares emptily at himself for a, long time.

EVERETT CLOPTON: "What is Merlin's name?" He looked around, utterly confused. The reality of his situation didn't hit him immediately as his Ravenclaw logic took over to try and find a way out. He found some brooms, but none of them worked. They just flopped over like a pile of sticks. No wand he tried using worked. No matter how many times he tried poking or prodding any of the people, nobody moved.

He tried running. He charged down a dark corridor only to eventually end up back in the asset room. He tried another corridor, but it too looped around back to where he was. That is when he started to panic.

"There's no way out!" His breaths came quick and shallow. "There's no way out!! SOMEBODY! ANYBODY! HELP ME!" He felt light headed and stumbled to the ground in front of himself. He looked up from his hands and knees. "WHO ARE YOU!?"

She tried to remember farther back; her parents, her childhood! Nothing... No assets were ever created. They weren't real people. Just a page in her backstory. The trauma, the loneliness, the heartache..... None of it really mattered. She didn't matter.

She stood amongst the assets, crying silently. Wherever she was, she wouldn't be found. None would be looking for her. She didn't really exist.

~~~

YOU: Your companion disappeared. Things sometimes get a little glitchy with the companion mod. Looks like you'll have to restart from your last save. No big deal. After all, it's just a game.

[thefangirlfever]

DBF! Miguel O'hara x reader (part 5)

Tags: angst, fluff, slow burn, F/M, age gape (reader is 28 and Miguel is 48), taboo relationship, mention of death, grief and depression, reader is a woman of color

Disclaimer: English is not my first language. See the end for notes.

Words Count: 5130

“You look positively awful.”

You sighed while hearing the voice of your fellow colleague and friend, Sarah. It was only ten in the morning but she was still as sharp as you remembered her. Not that you would complain, there was something comforting into finding back your usual banter. On the other side of the screen, Sarah was sitting at her desk in your office, already dressed-up and ready for an other day of work at the Smith and co Publishing house. Even if you had to go back to your hometown, you couldn’t let all your projects and upcoming work like that. While Sarah kept an eye on most projects, you were still working on them, sending feedback and correcting most drafts.

“Thanks, Sarah, I like hearing positive words like this when I just woke up.”

To be fair, waking up would imply that you had slept at some point, which was not your case. It has been an other sleepless night filled with feverish nightmares, existential dread and the crushing weight of anxiety sitting on top of your stomach.

She was not wrong, you looked awful this morning. The dark circles under your eyes were now more pronounced after almost two weeks at your father’s place. You were still wearing your robe and your skin looked tarnish. Some fresh air wouldn’t hurt you, but you had your reason for keeping yourself at home. First of all, you were sure you got sick that day spent gardening. Second of all, you had no intention on running into some people or old acquaintances; especially one man in particular…

“I’m serious, Y/N. You look terrible. Why didn’t you ask for a sickness leave? You know, Megan would have given it to you.”

You mumbled something under your breath.

“I don’t like giving up all my work.”

The woman on the other side of the screen rolled her eyes:

“You’re not giving up your work. You’re just taking a break…”

This was your time rolling your eyes. It was not the first time the two of you had this conversation. What was taking a break if not an other excuse for you to bask in those long and endless hours of uncertainty? The longer you stayed without doing anything, the more you were convinced you wouldn’t be able to do anything else again. You needed to move, to act upon something, or else you would slowly decay yourself away. Been there, done that. The last thing you wanted was to do it again. You still remembered the shame, the self-loathe that came with the inactivity, after all these hours spend in bed doing nothing, not even crying.

Hopefully, Sarah didn’t seem to want to push further. Instead she crossed her arms over her desk and looked at you with the gaze she usually reserved for when you were alone, out of the office and drinking at a bar in town.

“So...your father, how is he doing?”

You happily welcomed the change of subject from your poor life habits to your father’s health. At least there was some progress on this side.

“He is doing better. I think his cast will be removed mid-December.”

“Oh, that’s good.” You couldn’t help but feel grateful for her tone. Even if she had never met your father, she always asked about him and she genuinely looked concerned and sounded relieved for him. “This means the two of you will spend the Holidays together?”, she asked with the same enthusiasm.

You nodded without saying a word. She didn’t need to know that you weren’t planning on staying for the holidays. The last thing you wanted was to get trapped in this house with your father alone while the ghost of your mother would haunt the two of you. The mere fact of imagining the table for the dinner with only two plates and not her gave you nausea.

You kept talking about your father’s condition and when you mentioned getting help from one of his friends, you instantly regretted this. The memory of Miguel’s face only increased your nauseous feeling.

“You don’t know what you’re talking about.”

How could you have said this to him when he had helped your family so much? You must have sounded like such an ungrateful jerk… but for some reason, you couldn’t stand the idea of him talking about your mother. Not that he would say anything wrong or hurtful, but if there was one moment when you wanted to not feel like this grieving daughter everyone knew, it was when you were with him…

Sarah cocked one of her eyebrows in a curious way: “A friend of your father? That’s nice of him to help you.”

Again, guilt hit you in the guts and you tried your best to keep a still demeanor. “Yeah...he is very nice… Maybe a little too much.”

“What do you mean?”

“I feel like asking too much from him…”

Sarah’s eyes opened a little wider in surprise and she looked at you as if you were crazy.

“I’m sure if it was too much for him, he wouldn’t help you this much. You know, there’s nothing wrong in asking for some help.”

It was the exact same words Miguel had said to you and just like when he was the one saying them, you couldn’t help but silently disagree. It has never been in your nature to ask for help, not ask, beg. You’d rather find a solution alone; no need to worry anyone.

“Yeah, I’ll think about that.”, you replied before coughing loudly. Your friend’s brows furrowed and she sighed.

“You’re not sick by any chance? That would explain why you look...like this.” Her words sounded a little more gentle this time as if she was trying her best to not offend you. You’d rather have her being honest with you. The truth was that you were a mess ever since you had woken up. You were feeling dizzy, hot and cold at the same time and your throat was itching. But there was no use to alarm anyone, right?

“It’s nothing, don’t worry. I think I just caught a small cold while staying in the garden for too long…”

“You should go see a doctor.”

“Mhh...I’ll think about that.” You did know a doctor but you weren’t sure you wanted to ask for his help, again. Your friend rolled her eyes again but she chose to not say anything more about this except for: “If you need anything, please, call me.”

“Thanks…”, you replied after a few seconds.

There was no way you would ask anyone for help. How bad could it be?

You spend the rest of the day in a haze. Sarah had sent you a manuscript to correct. Usually this was a task you would easily complete and you were not slow when it came to work. But today, reading even a single sentence made your head pound loudly. You couldn’t read a single sentence in its entirety and you found yourself reading three times the same words over and over again.

The itching sensation in the back of your throat felt like a claw was scratching against your skin and you were practically sure you had a fever; not that you wanted to check.

“I don’t want to sound rude, but you look awful…”, your father quietly said while the two of you had dinner.

“It’s nothing, I just caught a cold.” The last thing you wanted was to worry him. He didn’t need to know that you were feeling nauseous. He didn’t need to know that under that robe, your clothes clung to your damp-sweat skin or that you spend hours tossing in your bed that night looking for sleep.

You tried to conjure a dream, a fantasy, anything to escape from the state you were in. Lying down your bed while looking at the ceiling, you were feeling the exact same way than when you were a teenager. You remember those long nights filled with this feeling you couldn’t identify; anxiety. People were anxious all the time. But you always knew what you were feeling was different. It was like a heavy cloak was resting on your shoulders and you couldn’t get rid of him. Best you could do was pretend. But there would be a day when it wouldn’t be enough. All you needed was something unexpected and too big for you to comprehend to happen and you knew the dikes would break. And it happened…

***

You’re lying on your bed, buried under the blankets while looking at your phone screen. 30 unread messages. Half from your father. You’ll respond to that later. It’s not like anything matters anymore right now. People can wait. You put your phone back on the nightstand and close your eyes. You know you won’t be able to fall asleep. Not without her.

There was a time when your mother would come and hug you, rock you to bed so you could easily fall asleep. What was the name of the song she would sing?

The door of the room opened slowly. The new incomer was greeted with the vision of your silhouette under the sheets, the mess on the floor and the curtains closed. There’s a smell in the room like dust, closeness...not that you don’t mind; you’ve grown used to it by now. But not him.

“You’re going to sleep all day again?”

The only response he gets is the sound of the sheets ruffling around your body. An awkward silence then settled between the two of you. You know he is still there, looking at you from the door with this gaze you don’t want to face again. Finally he sighs and closes the door, leaving you alone with the ghosts from your past.

***

Your body is all sore when you wake up the next day and you stifle a whimper when you tilt your neck to the side. Your throat feels dry and you struggle breathing with your stuffy nose. Even your eyelids feel heavier than usual. How could this day be worse?

You have your answer the moment you step into the kitchen and find Miguel leaning against the counter with a cup of fresh coffee in his hand, reminding you of the last morning you two shared. His eyes land on you the moment you enter the room, studying you from head to toe while he tries his best to stay calm and collected. He doesn’t know why but there’s something in your disheveled appearance that makes his insides tighten and his mouth go dry. Your cheeks are flushed and red and there’s a heat around your body that draws him in. He has to stay still, not let his emotions show on his face but you’re not making it easy. But his eyes also notice the dark circles under your eyes, your puffy, red eyes and the way you look lost, almost haggard… Again, something strong and that he had buried deep inside of him surged to the surface. It’s an instinct that he thought had disappeared long ago.

“Hi…”

“Hey…”, you reply in a small voice while making your way in his direction.

He doesn’t give you the time to reach the coffee machine that he had already turned it on and put your favorite mug underneath. Just when you thought he would resent you for what you said the last day, it seemed like he had forgotten or at least isn’t angry. The two of you watched the cup filling up with coffee in a peaceful silence. Now that you are closer, you can feel the weight of his gaze on you and smell his perfume, which reminds you of the scarf he gave you the last time.

“Hum...I still got your scarf by the way. Maybe you want it back?”

He looks back at you with his usual soft gaze. He doesn’t look angry when you remind him of that day.

“You can keep it if you want.” The two of you almost whisper as if you were afraid of something, something hiding near you. You simply smile back. There’s no way you will keep it, even if that thought doesn’t sound so bad. But maybe you could indulge a bit for now and still keep this small piece of fabric.

A rough cough shakes your body and his gaze narrows.

“Are you alright?”

“Yes, I think I just caught a small cold…”, you reply while shrugging your shoulders. But he doesn’t seem satisfied with your answer as his fingers reach for yours, making you slowly turn in his direction.

“May I?”

Your body doesn’t move, you don’t try to look away as he slowly puts his hand over your forehead. Your skin feels scorching hot and from closer he can see a thin sheen of sweat covering your body. You have to fight to keep your eyes open. His large palm covers your forehead easily and it feels...nice. His skin is warm from the coffee he had drunk but his fingertips are still cool from the outside, which soothes you a bit.

His eyes watch over your face like any medical professional would do. He notices every sign that you are dealing with a fever, that you’re sick. This is more than a cold, maybe a flu. He can’t help but notice how exhausted you look. Your lips are dry, your cheeks flushed red and a few strands of your hair stick to your dampened skin. Slowly his gaze is not as professional as it should be, not when he spends so many time admiring the slope of your slender neck or the way your dark eyes look like endless wells, deeper and darker than the night.

All he needed was a short touch like this to feel like he was the one under a fever.

The thought of letting his fingers run along your face and then wandering over your body sounds very tempting...but also very dangerous.

Miguel finally removes his hand from your forehead and the slight quivering of your body doesn’t escape to him.

“You have a fever…”, he finally says, trying his best to control the beating of his heart at the same time. “Did you notice any other symptoms?” He tries to sound as professional as he usually does at the clinic he works at, but his voice sounds deeper, a bit more hoarse when he talks to you.

“I feel...itchy there.”, you say pointing at your throat.

“There?”, he asks after a moment of silence while his fingertips reach for you throat. The rough pads of his thumbs draw small circles over your skin and press while he holds the sides of your nape. Your skin feels so hot, he can’t deny how concerned he is. But an other sensation takes over his body as his eyes drift up toward your parted lips. And he immediately hates himself for the image this creates inside his brain…

He finally clears his throat and declares in a solemn voice: “I’ve had a few cases of flu recently and I think you’re not immune to this. You need to rest.”

His fingers finally let go of you and he puts some distance between you. You slowly nod but the small pout of your lips as he tells you to rest doesn’t go unnoticed on his sides. He can’t help thinking that he shouldn’t look this much at your lips, but it seems he can’t help it. He passes a hand through his hair, as if he was tired, and that’s when you notice that despite his put-together look, he seems tired, as tired as you.

“Maybe you could use some rest too…” You could say that but you don’t. It would sound too petty. Instead you grab your cup of coffee and ask: “You’ve been working late?”

The corner of his lips tug upside and he scoffs: “I don’t think I’m the one you should worry about. You already have enough on your plate.”

“I’m fine. It’s just a cold, right? It’ll get away in a few days, like it always does.” You nonchalantly shrug, earning a circumspect look from Miguel. He finally shakes his head.

“If you say so. But please, take some medicine and at least try to rest.”

You stay silent but he can easily read what you’re thinking. He hadn’t known you for long but he feels like you’re not that hard to read into after a few discussions. You’re stubborn and you’re one of these people who can’t sit down for their life and take a break. He used to be like that too, kinda is to this day. And quite ironically, he cares more about your well-being that he would about his. That’s why he knows he shouldn’t push too far with this, so he simply adds:

“At least try, okay? I’ll bring you some antibiotics later.”

“That’s too nice of you.”, you stutter between coughs and he feels like his chest hurts the way yours does when you cough. A simple smile of his settles the conversation.

He didn’t lie when he said he would come back. Miguel did bring you the antibiotics this evening and he even proposed to stay and cook some diner for you and your father. He even cared to make some chicken broth for you, a sweet attention that makes you feel worse. He looks pretty tired and yet, he puts so much energy into this… When he asks you if you need any help to eat, you quickly dismiss him. You’re sick, not impotent.

No one likes being sick, of course but in your case it’s close to a phobia. The taste of the bitter pills, the scent of a doctor’s cabinet, the apathetic way you lie down the couch… You hate all of this and it brings back some memories you didn’t want to face.

***

Her skin that used to be the same shade as yours, a rich and shiny complexion, is now bland, almost too thin like paper… Her luscious hair has disappeared and even if she tries to hide her skin under a scarf, she can’t fool anyone. Not you especially. You know the way her curls travel down the length of her back, rich and bouncy, with this sweet scent; that conditioner that she pretends to ignore the fact you stole some of it.

The woman in front of you is not your mother. It’s someone else, her shadow maybe. But this is not your mother. This is not the woman who could spend hours in the garden working, cutting or simply reading a book, lying on the grass while you would put daisies in her hair. This is not the woman who used to comfort you when you had a nightmare; now that she looks like one. And this is not the elegant and beautiful woman who would always stands out while she was waiting for you in front your school.

You’re old enough to understand what is happening. More than old enough. You’re an adult, you should act like one. It’s what the doctors are saying, what your father’s look says… Ironically the only one who seems to show some empathy to you is your mother. She keeps hugging you, telling you everything is gonna be alright…

But now even this is impossible. Her arms are too thin, like chopsticks and they don’t give off that comforting aura they used to have.

And this is happening in one of those ugly white rooms with the scent of detergent, of cleanliness and that scent is the one of loss to you.

***

You emerge from an other one of these foggy nights. It’s quite hard remembering in detail your dreams, even more with your fever, but you still remember the cold and sanitized look of the room when you wake up this morning.

The scent of fried eggs flow toward your nostrils as you try to prop yourself on your elbow. You’ve been sleeping on the couch, it’s easier to go to the bathroom, and this morning someone is cooking breakfast. It’s not hard to guess who it is…

Miguel must have heard your body shifting under the blankets because he leaves the kitchen with a tray of food, and the dread medications, to make his way to you. He puts down the tray down the coffee table and kneels in front of you, a concerned look on his face. You wonder if you had talked in your dreams. Would it even make sense given your current state?

“How do you feel this morning?”, he asks and you can’t help but reply with a small smile:

“Wonderful.” This doesn’t sound very convincing and his pout makes you chuckle.

Oh, the self-control this moment asks for him. There’s this small curl that hangs on your forehead and that he wants to brush away; those dimples that got him weak in the knees...And yet, he simply shakes his head again before handing you the glass of water and your pills. Your expression shifts to one of disgust, your nose wrinkling slightly.

“You have to take this.”, he says in a slightly amused smile. You reluctantly grab the pill and swallows it. The bitter taste makes you wince and he can’t help but chuckle as he brings the glass to your lips.

His hand instinctively holds the back of your head, propping you up slightly from your pillows. He watches your throat bobbing up and down as you drink, visibly thirsty after that night. Water wets your lips and he finds himself looking at them again. It’s his throat that feels dry now.

“Perfect.”, he whispers in a voice that is a bit raspier than usually before taking the glass away. His fingers still apply a gentle pressure on the back of your head. It’s a comforting sensation, just the way your mother would do when you were sick.

“Do you still take the medications I brought you?”, he asks and you slowly nod. Even if those things are disgusting, you still manage to take them. A small smile flashes upon his lips and he finally helps you lying back the couch.

“What about you?”

“What do you mean?”, he replies with his eyebrows raised.

“How do you feel this morning?”, it’s too early for him to be there. And yet, here he is, already dressed up and ready to help like some guardian angel. He only replies with a small smile:

“I’m feeling better.”

Days go by slowly since you are stuck in bed (or rather the couch), doing nothing but sleeping. It’s not that you didn’t try working, but your eyes simply close after a few sentences as you are dragged into sleep. The only thing that rhythms your days are Miguel’s visits. He is always there in the morning, making breakfast and making sure you take your pills. And in the evening, he comes back home after his day to help you making dinner, also checking on your father.

Home. You have the feeling that he treats your place like his second home, and for some reason it doesn’t bother you. There’s something comforting into knowing that you will always end up seeing him at the end of the day. You’ve stopped living with someone since your last break up and you always thought it wasn’t for you, sharing a domestic space, relying on someone else to do the chores… But Miguel is quite convincing in the role of a caretaker. No wonder the town is grateful for him to be their local doctor.

You finally assumed that he must be living alone since he spends so much time with you and your father. There’s no way someone is waiting for him at home when he is always outside. And you don’t know how you should feel about this.

But one morning, Miguel isn’t here. This fact makes you feel like someone has dropped a heavy rock down your stomach. The house feels...empty. After contemplating the silence for multiple minutes, you finally wake up. Your legs are a bit wobbly but you can tell the medications he has been providing you have an effect on your health. If only they could have on on your sleep schedule…

It’s almost noon when Miguel finally arrives and to your surprise, he looks like he has been in a rush all morning. For the first time since you know him, he looks less like the proper perfect son-in-law look he is always opting for, and more like what he is. An overworked man. He is not wearing one of his usual suits but a simple black outfit, with sweatpants and an oversize flannel. He has traded his lenses for thick frame glasses and he barely had the time to shave, leaving his face covered in a scruff.

He huffs the moment he sees you’re awake and up. But he doesn’t comment; you’re stubborn for sure. Instead he simply slops down the nearest chair, in silence. He just nods to thank you when you put a cup of coffee in front of him. You resume what you were doing, -ie cooking a decent meal, trying to ignore his gaze on you.

“It smells nice.”, he finally says while you stir something in the pan. Your movements are slow since you still seem tired but he can’t tear his gaze away.

“Oh it’s nothing. Just a quick dish I used to make when I was in college.”

He doesn’t reply immediately. College… It’s been so long since he thought about his own years in college. Like it all belongs in an other life. Sometimes he can’t help but thin that there was a before and an after in his life.

“Can I help you?”, he finally asks and just like he expected, you shake your head.

“You should rest a bit. Seems like you had a rough night…”

“I had a night shift at the clinic.” You can’t believe he still works this late at night at his age. No wonder he looks so tired. Miguel passes a hand over his face in a tired gesture before sighing:

“We had an emergency this morning, around 4, that’s why I couldn’t come earlier…”

“Are you trying to apologize?”, you ask with your hands on your hips. “There’s no need to, Miguel.”

The corner of his lips tug into a small grin and he leans back into his chair, as if the weight of something heavy had rested too long on his shoulders: “I promised you I’d be here every morning…”

“Miguel…”, you start with a quiet voice, “I know what it’s like, having a demanding job and all. In fact your job is even more demanding than mine. So, I’m not going to blame you for fulfilling your duty.”

He crosses his arms over his chest, a small grin still lingering on his lips as he listens to your small rant.

“And as I told you, I’m perfectly capable of doing all of this by my own.” You didn’t mean to sound this harsh but it seems like he doesn’t take any offense in this. However, you feel a bit awkward bringing this up again. It’s been a few days since you talked about this and you were planning to apologize for your behavior, not making things worse…

“Sounds like you got your spirit back.”, he simply says, still amused.

“I didn’t mean it to sound like that. I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be sorry. I’m glad to see you’re feeling better enough to put me back in my place.”

You gruff and his grin only widens. He can hear you mumble something under your breath, something like “I wasn’t trying to put you back in your place…”. And for some reason, this little banter makes him forget every agonizing minute of his night. He gets up and walks toward you, leans against the counter and watches you cooking.

“I mean it, you know. If I ever overstep your boundaries, you need to tell me. I’ve already been told I can be too...paternalistic. Trust me, I won’t take it poorly coming from you.”

The sound of the food frying in the pan is the only thing that can be heard for a few seconds as you try to make the best out of what he said. You wouldn’t call him paternalistic. In fact, he makes you think more of a mother figure than a father. A very protective mother. You finally sigh:

“I just don’t want to take advantage of your kindness.”

This was unexpected for him and he replies in a soft voice:

“You’re not taking advantage of anything.”

“You must think I’m incompetent.” This confession took him even more by surprise. And when you look away, his hand gently grabs yours, making you look back in his direction:

“That’s the last thing I’ve been thinking about you.”

He wishes he could take a picture of this moment of grace. Your dainty hand rests in his larger palm while the soft morning light makes your skin glow in a way he could only qualify of ethereal… Against his better judgment his grip on your fingers tightens and he adds in a quiet voice:

“I’ve heard a lot about you. And I can’t believe that there is a more accomplished, talented and hard-working woman out there.”

You really wanted to believe him; it sounded so tempting and nice. But a small part of you still thought he must be mistaking you for someone else. There’s no way he heard all these sweet things from your father. You have been nothing but a disappointment these last five years, struggling, stuck in what he considered a mediocre job, single and childless… You didn’t accomplish anything that would grant you this type of compliments. And yet, Miguel’s words sounded so sincere.

“You’re just flattering me at this point.”, you reply with a small smile.

“I’m not.” His voice was laced with solemnity. A lump had formed in his throat and he found it harder to say anything else. But he knew he would have loved showing you what true flattering, real praise was like…

Miguel finally let go of your hands and you caught his fingers flexing slightly, all stretched out as he brought them back to his side. The silence that followed this moment, moment that you didn’t dare to put a name on, was heavier it seems; charged with many untold words. Finally you were the one breaking the silence:

“You can set the table if you want.”

A bright smile curled up his lips as he replied: “I’m always glad to help.”

=============================================

Notes: Today's chapter is a bit slower but I can guarantee you things will move forward soon for our two protagonists...

Taglist: @safixiovi @laysmt

My Master list

<part 4 / next part >

[a-world-with0ut-dr34ms]

John Price x journalist!Reader

One week has passed since Price's chance encounter with you, a memory that refuses to leave him. He didn't think he'd ever see you again, let alone at a dinner party being hosted by Laswell.

Tags: Extreme Fluff, Angst, Hurt/Comfort, Sappy Romance, Slow-Burn, First Kiss, Flirting, Banter, Sexual Tension, Build-Up, Drama, Foreshadowing Future Angst, Young Price, Break-Ups, Dinner Parties, Formal Wear, Military Inaccuracies probably, Slight Manic Pixie Dream Girl Trope, Slight One That Got Away Trope, Subtle nods at some existential stuff

WC: 6k~

Prelude | Chapter One | Chapter Two Masterlist

Chapter Three

10 Years Ago...

Price didn't know what it was about the sea which stirred such emotions in man's most mortal of hearts — Had the waves and their many dressings been responsible, or its scent that kissed the skin of others with its phantom mist? 

The ocean had a way about it that felt both all-consuming and empty, truly a beautiful force of nature. An uncertain, curious creature, never moving and yet forever changing. One can't help but stare at its glory in awe, and Price had been no better. It frightened him just as it had fascinated him in its entirety.

As a child, he'd walk the shores with his mother, most of those days so cloudy that the sea felt blinding whenever the sun would grace its waters with its glow from time to time. 

There'd been days, alongside the shore, where you two stood hand in hand as they watched the cold horizon, staring far off until his sight could no longer detail the world outside itself. From there, his imagination was left to fill in all its blank spaces; somehow, he always pictured someone on the other side, only doing what he was now, thinking the same things. Fearing the same fears.

The ocean was always so large and endless, even as a child. His mother's soft laughter swelled over the waves each time she felt her son's small grip tighten over her hands, anxiously watching as the waves would lap just a little too close to his shoes. As though the sea could swallow him whole from the shore itself.

Having grown older and seen the world and all it had to offer, returning to the shore where his gaze meets the horizon once more, he always finds himself waiting to not feel such a way again. To be able to look to the sea and not have such a stir of emotions rise in him like a flurry.

And yet each time he's seen its waves, life questions itself once more. Even now, it only takes a painting of the ocean to bring him to a pause.

A cold painting, sitting on the wall of some living room, tucked away from the other houseguests, who couldn't give a single care to the thing. It sits alone, painted in muted grays and blues, offset by the warm glow of the room. This dry canvas still paints the swell of the sea and whispers its crashing waves in just a still image.

A faint sense of dread washed over Price once he saw that his drink had now gone below half after his most recent swig. Two more sips and he'd have to return to the party for a refill; he had just started enjoying the solitude he'd found in this corner too.

The one nice thing about dinner parties was that they weren't as loud as your typical party. Everyone stayed in their little corners with the friends they came with, and it didn't look odd if one decided to stand off to themselves for the evening, which is what Price has been doing since arriving. He left the small talk to the people who enjoyed that sort of thing, entertaining himself instead with the room's decor, having been left with nothing much else to do.

Had things been his way, Price would be home right now, curled on the couch, knocked out with his telly playing in the background as white noise. It's been a suitable form of pastime for the past week, he'd argue. However, Laswell was ADAMENT about getting him out of the house. And seeing as she was already hosting a dinner party for all their colleagues, she already had an excuse made up to forcibly drag him out of his house. 

Of course, Price could have always said no; Laswell could pester at times, sure, though he knew she'd respect his wishes if he truly wanted to stay in for the night.  Seeing as she knows the man better than himself, however, she wasn't surprised when he "reluctantly" agreed to come out.

It beats the alternative, he supposes, which had been nothing more than waking up every morning to an empty room and coming home to that same empty room. Price figured a change of scenery might do him some good, and thus it's been the excuse he's used all night as to why he's still standing here. 

"The Monk by the Sea." A familiar woman's voice speaks to the right of Price suddenly. "Painted by Caspar David Friedrich," she says.  "Truly a masterpiece."

Looking over to the source of the sound, he isn't surprised to see the hostess herself - Kate. Dressed completely down all the way to her expensive, open-toed heels. It makes Price double-take every time he catches her; he's so used to seeing her dressed so... comfortably rather than formally. It truly never got old seeing his colleagues outside of their usual work settings.

Though she's still shown some restraint with her looks tonight. She'd had her hair still pinned into a tight bun and her makeup still done modestly so, not wanting to look too flashy, and yet still dressed properly for the occasion.

No doubt Price is sure Laswell's wife had a heavy hand in helping get the woman put together for the night. He only knows too well what it's like to have someone in your life to care enough to do that for you. Years ago, despite having broken up last week.

He grins, looking back over to the painting. "I take it you picked this one out yourself, then?"

"I did," Kate smiles. "I think it really brings the room together."

"Hm," Price looks around, his expression funny. "Yes, it certainly brings a... somber feel to the place, doesn't it?"

"I don't know; I figured you'd have more to say about it," Laswell jokes. "You've been over here staring at it all night, I thought you might be writing a review."

"Oh ha ha," Price finishes his drink off to that, setting it to the side on a nearby shelf. The woman gives him a look as he does, but he merely shrugs at her and smiles. "Perhaps I will," he says. "Ought to keep me busy for the next hour or two."

"Where's your date?" Kate asks, and suddenly Price is reminded that he did not come to this dinner alone.

"Yeah, about that..." Price sighs, crossing his arms with sudden amusement. "I might need to revoke your matchmaking license, Kate.”

"What makes you say that?"

Price uses his head to gesture across the room, as Kate gives her best side eye to take a look without appearing noticeable.

Sure enough, Price's date, Polly her name was — a tall, pretty redhead who looked like she modeled in her free time, was indeed having a good time tonight. Just not with Price. It hadn't even been thirty minutes before she'd split off from him, having found some other man to entertain herself with.

Right now that entertainment had been some CO Laswell invited, a tall lanky fellow with dark hair and a sharp nose that could cut paper. The man must be a comedian because Polly's laugh has been turning heads obnoxiously all night.

Price would have felt more embarrassed, having come here with her initially. However, this embarrassment hadn't been his. It had been Laswell's. The blind date had been her idea from the start.

She only figured he could use a distraction from Morgan, given she hadn't seen a lick of him outside his house since the breakup. Whenever she asks him about it, he merely acts as though it's no big deal and that it's something he'll get over. Kate knows he really wants to, and she thought she might help him with that.

However, all Kate can say when she sees his date and her coworker across the room is, "Oh." Which just makes Price laugh in response. "Yeah."

“I’m surprised you haven’t gone over there,” she adds.

Price merely shrugs. “I can’t be bothered.”

Kate goes to continue speaking. However, her attention is quickly pulled by a few other attendees who'd deemed themselves more important than Price to let their conversation continue. 

After a few seconds, she somehow managed to slip away back to entertaining her guests, having been holding that same cup of tequila in her hand since drinks were first passed out. No doubt, she's kept herself too busy talking and moving around to be drinking. Price would just pick up the slack for her then, he's decided.

He turns back to the paintings another time, staring at the detailing of the brush strokes, and the chillness of its colors.

There's a thought that keeps passing him similar to this. It comes and goes, but it keeps coming, nonetheless. That day on the beach a week ago. He hasn't shaken the thought, though it grows more faint with each passing day. In a matter of time, Price knows he won't remember this. He'll get over it. But did he want to? 

That gray day on the shore, not so long ago. He can still taste the salty air between his teeth and picture that look in your eyes just as clearly. It disappointed him to say he'd remembered more of your backside than your face. It had been the last thing he'd seen of you that day. But even your backside, as faceless and vague as a memory could be, had been a beauty worth remembering.

Eventually, Price moves himself from his corner, though it's not to return to his date. The man instead migrates back over to the drink table, finally having grabbed that other glass of Guinness he'd wanted. From there, he did his best to mingle with the crowd. Price wasn't some aloof mute, though, with recent personal events, the man can admit his mind had been anywhere but here.

At some point, he'd begun to people-watch, wondering dumb questions like where Laswell met all these people. He knew the woman was social, but damn, there were already a handful of faces he didn't recognize among the crowd. More CIA operatives and intelligence agents than anything — a bunch of people caught up in their own worlds. 

There were a surprising amount of people in black tonight, he's noticed; this dinner could easily be mistaken for a funeral, had people not been drunk. Even Price dressed in dark dress attire for the occasion, though it hadn't been a deliberate choice. The man hadn't wanted to stand out, and clearly, his gut was right. 

The sea of dark definitely managed to make the outliers in the crowd stand out. A few reds, some dark blues, a few purples even. Nothing that truly caught the man's eye, nothing until they'd fallen on something else different. 

An emerald green gown, slender fit, draping down to the floor like an elegant curtain. The backside was low-cut, revealing the slender spine of the woman that wore it. Price's blue eyes trail up each groove of their spine until they met the parts where her pinned-up hair had begun, loose strands falling from the sides.

Price could recognize that back in his sleep, and it made his heart feel as though it were about to burst from the sheer shock of it all. It couldn't be you, could it? The woman from the beach?

Price stares a bit longer from the drink table, really trying to take in the sight of this woman. Others might have taken him for a weirdo if they happened upon him right now. But she's standing next to Laswell, deep in conversation about something. It's got them both completely invested, a close friend from the looks.

After a few more seconds of staring at this woman's back, Price smiles to himself and shakes his head. Look at yourself right now, he thought, all up in sorts about a woman you spent five minutes talking to. What has he become? There was no way that woman was you, the man was being delusional he's sure. 

But... man, wouldn't that have been nice if it had been. 

As though to take his mind off this sudden awkward event, Price felt his phone buzz in his pocket and quickly stepped out to the back patio. 

The air is cold and the woods surrounding the house are pitch black, the place having been more of a resort out a ways in the woods. One thing Price had liked about it was how silent the world became the minute he stepped out here, being greeted by the distant croaking of frogs and the chirp of the crickets, the wind shuffling through the dark Evergreens.

Price steps forward on the wooden porch, moving to rest his hands on the railing ahead of him. Once the door had clicked shut behind him, he pulls his phone out, feeling his stomach turn to stone when he reads his Captain's name on the screen. 

He quickly answers. "Captain," he greets.

"Price!" The man speaks cheerfully, already tipping the English man off that this conversation would be something short. He never was the type to make social calls. "You sound like you're out right now."

"I am," he says. "Kate's hosting a dinner party."

"And I wasn't invited?"

Price chuckles. "Take it up with her, not me. I wanted to sit on my couch and catch up on my sleep."

"I doubt you need any more of that," his Captain jokes, though Price knows that there had been some truth held in his comment. "Have you been alright?"

Price has to refrain from sighing, having been tired of the babying a week ago. "I'm just waiting for our next assignment."

The man on the other line chuckles now. "I've never met someone so eager to not be on vacation."

"I've got all of my retirement to do that," Price chuckles. "Now, what's the latest?"

"I got word from the General, and we've been cleared. Brass is sending us out to Urzikstan in five days."

Now news like that might be a gut punch to some men, hell Price only got here from his last assignment maybe a month ago. However, it had been a month too long. 

Price smiles ear to ear hearing this news. Finally, he wouldn't be stuck here anymore; he could get on with his life and get back to bigger and better things. If this week has shown him one thing, it's that he needn't worry himself about being alone if he's too busy to even think about it. Eventually, he'll have forgotten, right? 

"You know how long we'll be gone this time, sir?" He asks. His Captain can all but hear the excitement in his lieutenant's voice.

"Two months, give or take," he says. "Think you'll be ready?"

"Was ready yesterday, yeah, Captain?" Price quips.

"I like to hear it."

His Captain starts to conclude himself, having said everything he'd wanted on this call now. "I'm sure after this one, you'll be due for that promotion. Though I'm not sure I'm ready to start calling you Captain yet."

"Better get ready soon," Price says. "Already got a few pointers I'll have to show you once I'm promoted."

"We'll see about that Price."

The call ends soon after a few more traded lines, yet Price remains outside, with a child-like smile and a pink rosy shade dotting his cold cheeks. Five days until something new. Five days to move on. Five days to live. 

There's so much Price can't wait for already.

The door opens behind him suddenly, the man having felt a warm breeze clash with the coolness of the outside. He hadn't turned to face them, expecting some guest needing to step out for some air for a moment.

It hadn't just been any guest, however.

"Is it cold?"

A woman's voice asks from behind him, laced with something cool and seductive. A familiar voice, one Price thought he'd all but forgotten, only to remember it as clear as day upon hearing it.

Price's heart skips a beat, his entire body having caught aflame. He turns his head to match the face to the voice, and when his blue eyes fall on the emerald green dress from earlier, it's as though all of this fresh air around him has all but left the man breathless.

His eyes completed the shape of this woman, taking in every groove and every detail, until he reached her gaze, having been met by a brightly lit-up pair of eyes, which had felt both familiar and alien all the same.

It's a good thing it was so dark out; that way, he could still tell himself you hadn't noticed his sudden enamored expression. He's sure he looked a fool right now, with that soft look in his eyes. Like a puppy who'd just been returned to its new owner.

You smile brightly at him, having both looked like everything he had remembered and yet even better than that. Beneath the night sky, you look absolutely stunning; the house light's warm glow from inside outlines you like a halo, with your hair and makeup done effortlessly so.

You look to him with just as much dazzle, seeming to have forgotten how attractive Price had been yourself. You remembered him being handsome, even underneath that tired expression he had that day (which he still does). Now, you're seeing him all dressed and cleaned up, with that cute little smile of his scrunching the man's blue eyes welcomingly. It's got you a little tongue-tied, having now beckoned his attention your way, just as before.

You both didn't speak, merely finding yourselves lost in one another's gazes. As though you both had meant to rectify the brief meeting from before in just a single moment of silence.

After what felt like a minute, you hear Price's low and husky voice speak to you. "It's not so bad," he says. 

Your smile grows larger. You step around him, leaving a sweet, floral scent as you've passed by, resting your bare arms against the cool wooden railing.

"You know," you start to say, staring off into the woods. "Had I'd known you knew Kate, I might not have done all of that in front of you the other day… I'm a bit embarrassed now…"

Price chuckles to himself before joining you by the rail, leaving just enough space so that your arms did not touch. You quickly noticed the man's restraint, having silently appreciated his respectfulness, even during that day on the beach. 

"Ah," he sighs. "It's nothin' to be embarrassed about. We’ve all been there.”

You turn to him in disbelief. “Have you?”

Price glances down at you — half lost in your gaze, and half lost in the thought that tried to answer your question. “Absolutely,” he says. Recently, in fact.

“Well, I’m sorry to hear that,” you say. "...You didn’t mention anything about me doing all that on the beach to Kate, by the way, right?”

He shakes his head. "I hadn't."

You sigh out of relief. "Good, good," you say. "Thank you."

“Everything OK?”

You're quiet, though looking over at you, Price can see it isn't because you don't want to answer him. Rather, so many things seemed to buzz in your mind all at once that you didn't even know where to begin with a response.

“No,” you say bluntly. “But who cares?”

Price looks back at his hands for a moment to think about your words. And after a while, he simply says, "I do."

He's felt your eyes turn to him now, a sudden heavy sensation on his shoulder. When Price meets your gaze, he'd expected to see a number of things — discontent, irritation, boredom. You gave him no such look, meeting him with a warm smile instead.

"Lucky me."

You've gone and made the man blush again, and he almost curses under his breath, knowing that you've noticed now. But forever the charming sort, he simply chuckles and turns back to the woods, resting nonchalantly against the railing and soaking in this small thing. Surely he's made some deal with the devil somewhere in his life to have this kind of luck tonight, of all nights.

 “I was surprised you got in the water with me," you say. "I thought for sure you were gonna walk away.”

“I almost did,” he admits.

“What stopped you?”

Price exhales to himself as though he’d just gotten done carrying a heavy item, having pondered that question all week now. “Don’t know really…" he says. “I guess I’d just been a bit… curious.” He then extends a hand out to you, presenting you with his most charming of smiles. “John Price,” he greets.

You take his hand, daintily letting your fingers slide into his gruff grasp, as he gives you a gentle squeeze. It makes the skin on your arm tickle like a million tiny tap dancers slowly traveling over you. “I know,” you smile.

He raises an eyebrow. “Do you now?”

“I asked Kate,” you smile proudly. “I know all about you, lieutenant.”

Price hadn’t noticed he’d still been holding your hand, not having let go since you two shook. You made no comment on the matter yourself; somehow he felt you’d been in the same boat. Once you two had noticed, you nonchalantly tucked your hands away, turning to lean against the railing once more.

“So you asked about me then, did you?” You can hear the excitement in his tone, even as he attempts to cover it up.

“Is that a bad thing?”

He shakes his head immediately. He had been flattered in fact. “What did she tell you?”

“She said you’re SAS,” she starts. “That true?”

“And proud of it."

You take a moment to look the man up and down, as though having this piece of information confirmed somehow changed things. Deep down, Price was afraid it would; he could no longer count on his own two hands how many women have left him the second they learned he was enlisted, a fact which would never change any time soon.

By the amused look on your face, he needn't worry.

"I guess you look the part," you say.

"I'll take that as a compliment," Price scoffs playfully. "What gave it away?"

"A few things," you say. "You've got that classic crew cut look thing going on with your hair, which is sort of a dead giveaway."

"Ah, so if I had a hat on, you wouldn't know?" he teases.

You shake your head. "I'd still know."

"So it's not just the look then."

"You're very... disciplined with how you talk and move. I've only ever met soldiers who act like that."

"You like to watch other's mannerisms often then?" He asks. "Or am I just a special case?"

You giggle. "Maybe both."

“What about you then? I take it you’re not in the field.”

“Very perceptive,” you say. “Care to take a guess?”

Price thinks to himself, using this as an excuse to steal another look at you under the guise of thinking. “Detective.”

You laugh, and Price could have sworn he'd felt an entirely new emotion developing in him altogether. “Try staff writer for the city newspaper.”

Ah, he thought. That explains a lot.

"A journalist, hm?" he says. "What's the word around town then, Ms. Reporter?"

Your gaze grows provocative suddenly, your lips curving playfully, even more so when you’ve seen the concealed, little gulp he makes at the sight. A sudden slip to the otherwise masculine individual you've seen him for. Before long, he’s matched your magnetic gaze, his body shifting more so he could face you properly. Quick thinking, and even quicker to adapt. Giving you his complete and undivided attention.

"Well," you say. "Word is, this really attractive British guy just popped into town recently."

Price' snorts to himself, his eyes starting to crinkle delightfully. "Is that right?"

You nod, rather adorably he might add. "My readers are dying to know more about him."

He damn near purrs out, "You only need to ask the right questions."

Finally, he's managed to catch you off guard with that, a small chuckle having left your lips at the thought. You can hold your own on your side of the banter. Even so, an attractive man returning your advances was no doubt going to leave you flustered sometimes.

You lean against the railing once more, using the woods to help simmer down. You felt hot all of a sudden. "I'll have to keep that in mind then."

Your playfulness had felt as infectious as it did feel brand new. Like a breath of fresh air in an open field. Price only realizes now that nothing else had been on his mind beyond you here in front of him. Not his break up, this dinner, not even work. Only you. It had been an extraordinary fortune to be so aware of it, in the moment, and he knew that-- just as he knew how special this was.

“Y'know, I must admit..." Price steps in closer, his voice growing lower, cooler. Holding everything in its power to swoon you with the rasp of his words, and doing so more than well. "...I had been upset to see you run off so soon that day."

Now Price knew this conversation could go one of two ways, the first being you gently turning him down and that being the end of everything — the daydreaming, the what-ifs, the nows. Price hadn't been a fan of this first route, though he knew it well.

But as though to one-up yourself time and time again from each encounter, you don't go with the first route. You don't turn these sudden advances down at all.

Your gaze grows flirtatious, lips pursing with amusement as you've adjusted yourself to face the man fully, cocking your head back to meet his eye.

"Why didn't you follow me then?" you asked.

You see the man grow silent, your question toiling around in his mind. The whole time you do, you watch him with amusement, seeing all the finer details in the man's face, and awaiting his reply with bated breath.

"I don't know..." he said. He wishes he had followed you. "I figured you got cold feet."

Your body freezes, taking exactly three seconds before you burst into infectious laughter, playfully shoving the man at his pun. The action itself had felt so small, and yet immensely intimate. As though he's already known you his whole life.

You bring your girlish laughter down to a small simmer, having needed it from the looks. "Oh, you're a funny one, you are."

"I try to be," he says. "It helps when the audience is cute."

"Cute?" you nearly scoff. "You think I'm cute?"

"Among other things."

You take a generous step forward until you've felt your arms brush against his, and his anxious breathing paint over the bare parts of your skin. Price does not move, letting one arm continue to rest against the railing and the other at his side, his smile growing more sly.

"Do tell," you purr.

"I'm not so good with my words, love," he coos back.

"I've always thought actions spoke louder anyway."

Price chuckles under his breath, having found your wit to be both alluring and amusing... in ways he's not felt with someone in such a long time before... maybe even ever. Why didn't he follow you that day, he wonders. With you within reach again, looking up at him with a flame behind you just waiting to be fanned by him, he wouldn't make another mistake like that, he reckons.

He brings his hand up, resting it against the side of your neck and feeling the warmth of your skin send a shiver down his spine. His large hand fits in the crook between your shoulder and ear like a puzzle piece, his index finger gently grazing the skin behind your earlobe. It makes you hum pleasurably, the sound of your voice widening the man's smile.

Lowering his head, Price lets his lips come closer, feeling them feather over yours. Testing the waters, patiently, hungrily. You adjust your head, making sure that your lips were matched for him to come in; the action alone made his mind buzz lustfully. Nearly in a whisper, Price speaks.

"Likewise."

It's you who leans in for the kiss first, having brought yourself up to your tip-toes and thrown your arms over the man's shoulders. While you'd made the move first, Price makes quick work with being the dominant hand in this exchange.

He kisses you with a gruff longing, having spent the past week subconsciously daydreaming of this very scenario. Before long you've felt your back press against the railing, one hand at the nape of your neck while the other kindly held onto your hip, his thumb massaging against you at each peck you've made against his lips.

You've felt his mouth take in the very shape of your lips before his kisses begin to travel downward, stopping for short moments to steal the salt-stained taste of your perfume-scented skin. His lips curve over your chin, following the line of your jaw, as he's used his hand to cock your head to the side, giving him free range to your neck. He starts beneath the lobe of your ear, planting light kisses, which slowly travel down more and more. As he's gone on, he hears the broken gasps and breaths which quietly leave your lips, feeling the rise and fall of your chest at each of his movements.

Price could just feel how turned on he had you; if only you knew how bad you had him feeling right now too. Something told him you did, from how you let your hands continue to claw at his back like you'd begun to do. Silly woman, he'd thought. You must know that actions like that'll only make a beast out of him. And there's nothing he'd want more right now than to let that side see the light of day again.

The whole time he kissed you, he had nearly felt outside of himself, his body moving on its own accord. He's been with women who've managed to rile him up in ways he thought back on with glee. Yet in those instances, he felt some control over himself, with methods to his madness. Here with you, he couldn't predict his next actions even if they were preemptively laid out to him.

The man wanted to take his time, however. Enjoy every second that he had with you now here. After that day, he knew he didn't want to waste any more time with you at all. He'd pause time right now if he could, he really would.

"Hey, John."

A voice speaks suddenly from behind him, making you both jump from your skin. You hadn't even noticed that the backdoor had opened, nor that someone had joined you two out on the porch.

Price quickly pulled away from you, fixing the collar of his shirt before turning to face the voice which had spoken.

"Can I-"

SWOOSH!

Before the man can even process who or what just happened, he's felt a drink be thrown right in his face, ice cubes and all.

"You're a fucking asshole!" A nagging voice. A woman's nagging voice. His date from earlier. Polly... Ah, yes!

Having suddenly remembered that he'd been on a date this entire time, the man defeatedly wipes the drink from his eyes before giving himself a light shake. At least it hadn't been alcohol.

Truly, he had no idea what her problem could be; she couldn't have made it any more clear that she wasn't interested in him. Then again, if the roles were flipped, he's sure he'd feel at least in some similar way as well. This was disrespectful, no matter how it got spun.

The woman hadn't been interested in hearing what the man had to say, even as she'd just asked him a question, merely continuing herself.

"First you disappear for like the entire fucking party, then I come out here and find you with this fucking bitch-"

"What did you call me?" You quickly cut in, your entire tone and demeanor having now taken a dramatic shift.

"Hey," Price uses a hand to gesture for Poly to tone the language down. "There's no need-"

Just when he's about to finish that sentence, you've suddenly stepped in front of the man, your tiny being now fuming. It'd been one thing getting interrupted, and another thing even being a "necessary casualty" in that whole drink-throwing fiasco as well, parts of your dress having now been ruined. But to call you a bitch on top of that, when you didn't even know who this woman was... and you think Price has had a long day?

"No, I want to hear what she has to say," you bark out.

"Look," the redheaded woman starts, though the base she'd once had in her voice had suddenly disappeared, the woman recoiling somewhat at your aggressiveness. "This has nothing to do with you-"

"Well it does now," you say. "So please, go on."

Polly glares at you, giving it her last shot at retaking control of the situation. When she sees you won't back down, your arms crossed and your glare equally biting, she instead looks over at the common denominator of this drama - Price.

He stands beside you, hands nonchalantly in his pockets having merely begun watching from this point on. He hadn't expected this outburst from you, your disposition being so solemn before. He hadn't expected to be so attracted to it either. It was nice seeing you had a little fire in you.

After giving the man a good, long glare, Polly finally speaks, only she turns her attention to you.

"I wouldn't bother with him," she says. "He'll just waste your time."

With an angry huff, the woman whips back around, leaving you both with a slammed back door. Once her presence had left, an awkwardness had quickly takes its place, Price not even knowing where to begin with explaining himself.

"I'm sorry," he simply says, before his words of apology have slowly turned into a small fit of rambling. "I should have told you I came here with someone-- I would have! The whole thing had been a blind date- Kate set it up, but... as you can see, we weren't exactly well on our way..."

Price felt the word vomit pool from his mouth, unable to stop from explaining himself, almost desperately so. He meant every word, and though he'd been too lost in his own head to see for himself, you could tell he'd meant his words too.

In the midst of his talking, you ask, "Is there anyone else I should know about?"

"No," he blurts out. "Absolutely not. You have my word."

You look away for a moment, at some spot behind him in the distance. Thinking.

And then, smiling, you step back over and practically shoot yourself into the man's arms, stealing a quick but sweet kiss.

Price wraps his arms around you, before feeling his soaked clothes press uncomfortably against you. He pulls back lightly, looking down at you breathlessly. Feeling himself fall completely into you by each second.

"I'd hate to ruin your dress," he says, referring to the remnants of drink which still dripped from him.

You smile playfully. "You'll just have to buy me a new one."

Price leans back down and kisses you slowly, memorizing every bit there had been to give.

"Yes ma'am."

Chapter Four Coming Soon...

Author's Note: I'm sorry this took so long to type! Life was picking up on my end and it's been making me have to pick and choose which WIPs to type.

The next chapter jumps back to the present again. I'm sowing foreshadowing seeds around to hint at all the possible things that could have broken them up, hopefully it's not too obvious (though it's not a crazy reveal either). Also, hopefully Price doesn't feel too OOC. I always imagined when he was younger to probably be the type to unintentionally date around , and while he's still a suave hot-shot, he's still young.

But either way, I hope you enjoyed. If you'd like to be tagged/untagged please let me know. Pleeeaaasssee let me know your thoughts and how the relationship is developing as well.

Stay Tuned!

@deadbranch @homicidal-slvt @argella1300 @random-thot-generator @poohkie90 @crunchlite @itsagrimm @cj-theyoungling @febster @thaprilks @midwesternwitchery @san-emi @glitterypirateduck @embers-of-alluring @quincessimus @urfavsunkissedleo @alhaizen @crazy-phan-girl13

[lopsicle]

I know I have a couple of requests, but this is the only thing I have motivation for right now

Thunderstorms

Warnings: Tickle fic, descriptions of a panic attack, implied separation anxiety, also the tickling is mainly at the end of the fic for this one

Pairing: Ler! Eda, Lee! Collector (Platonic)

Words: 3000+

(I’ll also be referring to the Collector as he or they throughout the story as that’s what they use!)

Months had passed since the Collector’s colourful takeover of the Boiling Isle’s. Well, he didn’t really mean to take over. The child had only been searching for friends his entire life, and being around Belos for hundreds of years practically crushed any sense of morality he had at the time. Luckily for him, but also for the rest of the Isles, Luz and her friends returned from the human realm to put a stop to the Collector’s reign, which consisted of befriending him, and dealing with Belos. After all, the child didn’t know what they were doing, and it’s not like they were going to kill them.

Eda had agreed, well insisted, on keeping the Collector at The Owl House, mainly to teach him how to control his power, which even surprised Eda with how well they were managing it at such a young age. They simply lost control if they were too overwhelmed. She even helped teach the kid some morals with the help of Luz and King. He even got him own room, which should’ve been nice for him, I mean they decorated it with stickers of stars, moons and even created some nice purple lighting for themselves as it reminded them of the night sky. And while the room looked nice, every night after Eda tucked him in and left the room, he would always feel…bad . That’s the only way he could describe it, he just felt bad, like worried, but also sad. They were always so worried that Eda would never reopen that door in the morning. The Collector rarely managed to get themselves any sleep like this, and on the special occasions he did, it was plagued by nightmares, horrible, horrible nightmares and he hated them so much! He could remember Belos, all the lies he fed into the child, being sealed away for hundreds of years, but he also saw things that never happened, like Eda leaving him or King running away from him. It wasn’t scary in a way that someone would be scared of a spider, or Hooty, it was scary in an existential way. It was scary in the way that he always thought it would happen. It was scary in the way that he already lived through it.

‘After the Day of Unity, you can be free.’

The words rang through the child’s prison, the only thing to keep him company being the endless piles of random kink littered across the dimension and of course, Belos. The boy held onto his hood, his eyes already teary at the sight of this place as he wondered around.

‘But you promised to let me go! I taught you magic stronger then anybody’s!’ He argued, his voice came off angry, and he certainly was at the prospect of being lied too, but he couldn’t deny just how scared he was in the moment. Millions of thoughts ran through his head, but it was like they were all foggy. Desperation practically leaked through his voice as he scrambled around, trying to say anything to convince Belos to release him, but in the end, he was just thrown away into a pit, his voice echoing all the way down as dread began to fill him. The relic he was imprisoned in touched the bottom of the inky abyss he was discarded into, like a children’s toy; he stared up helplessly as sunlight became a memory to him.

It was only then that the Collector woke up, almost jumping out of his bed in fear. He squeezed his eyes shut, his face scrunching up as their hands practically dug into his blanket, holding it like their life depended on it. The powerful being took in as much air as his mouth would allow,the cooling feeling of terror filling his body soon fizzling up ever so slowly, only to be left with an empty void of sorrow. They absolutely hated feeling this way over just a dream, it made them think they were more immature then they already were. His red eyes gazed over to the window, desperate to take his mind off that horrific dream. However, his slow movements was interrupted by a loud boom coming from outside. The Collector flinched backwards, biting down on his inner cheek hard, their head stared down at the protective bedsheets enveloping his small body. ‘Please, not now..’ he whimpered ever so quietly, the stream of rain plummeting against the ground becoming more aware to then. The being let out a shaky breath, greedily inhaling repeatedly afterwards as he buried his face in his hands. The child has never been fond of thunderstorms, he hated them in fact, they were too loud and too sudden for his liking. And given the petrified state he was already in, he wasn’t capable of handling them, at all.

Another crash echoed throughout his window.

‘It’s okay, it’s okay, remember what Luz said, it’s just thunder..’ they whispered to themselves, their voice becoming louder in an attempt to drown out the noise.

Crash!

‘I can do this, I can do this..’ he said, the Collector’s voice becoming more squeaky as fear began to become more apparent in his face.

Another boom of thunder was all it took to send the Collector practically flying out of his bed. Their breathing quickly descended into panicky intakes of oxygen as they messily discarded their bed sheets to the side. ‘I can’t do this!’ He wailed, feeling tears began to prickle in his eyes. He couldn’t stay like this any longer; he couldn’t bare another second of it. Startled, the enby reached around for their door handle before quickly flinging it open.

‘Eda!’ They shrieked, bolting out of their confining room and running down the hallway. He could feel bad about waking people up later, he needed someone, anyone to help him through this, he couldn’t stay another second in that room. It was too scary, too dark, too alone for them to remain there. Eda’s practically shot open as she heard her- the kid screaming in the halls. She know the Collector was a child, but they had a lot of power and didn’t seem to be scared by most things, they usually found most things exciting or interesting. So hearing him practically scream in fear left a sinking feeling in her stomach. Her covers were quickly thrown off of her as she immediately began running out of her room, immediately shaking off her tiredness. The woman was normally more grouchy when she woke up, but it’s not like she could afford to leave the Collector like that. The woman practically ripped open the door, stepping into the hallway as she turned her face to the Collector’s room, seeing the door flung open and the child blindly running towards her.

The Collector had their eyes squeezed shut, unable to take in their surroundings as their feet pounded against the ground. It wasn’t until the sight of a taller figure in front of him that he managed to slow down a bit. If anyone could help him through this, to get over that awful nightmare, it would be Eda. He needed Eda. The child desperately pounced up at Eda’s leg, overestimating how much force she could take as they accidentally knocked her over onto the ground. ‘Ah!’ Eda let out a sudden yelp of surprise at she fell to the ground, barely able to use her arms to break her fall in time. However, it wasn’t falling she was worried about, it was the state that the Collector was in.

The child of the stars was in front of her, sitting on his knees with an expression of guilt and fear spread across his face. They tried to take in a breath, but they couldn’t even focus on that, leading to them only quick, short breaths and before he knew it, he was hyperventilating. His hands buried themselves in the roots of his fluffy white hair, his crimson eyes pointing down at the floor, not wanting to face Eda. It had only been a mistake, one Eda didn’t mind, but still, he knocked her over. He woke her up in the middle of the night, pushed her down, all for what? Because he couldn’t handle a thunderstorm? How was he supposed to explain that now? There was no way Eda would help him, she’ll get mad and send him back to his room or maybe just leave him. His mind spiralled with wilder and wilder ideas by the second, stressed out of his mind. However, in his panic, he could feel himself being picked up, slowly and softly. He barely managed to stare up at Eda, and while he was expecting her to be mad and start berating him, her face was riddled with concern for the enby. It didn’t take long until the witch had the child on her lap, with their heads facing each other. ‘I-I’m sorry..’ was all the Collector managed to choke out, great, now he’d made Eda worried! She shouldn’t have to waste her time with something like this when she could be getting sleep. ‘Oh, starlight, you have nothing to be sorry for, just please, let’s get your breathing under control, okay?’ Eda reassured him, her voice a lot more soft then it usual was. She placed her hands on The Collector’s shoulders, gently squeezing them to keep him grounded. The child of the stars meekly stared back up at her, their breathing still a hyperventilating mess. The child spluttered for breath, clenching his fists as he struggled to even take in air. How was he not even able to breath properly for Eda? Why couldn’t he do anything right?! He thought, his mind swirling around in a toxic circle, fuelled by his own fear.

‘I-I can’t..’ they mumbled, their voice getting quieter and more meek then usual; probably a sign they were getting very short on breath. Eda’s gaze toughened, not in a mean or judging kind of way, it was more of a determined fashion. There was still a glint of softness in her pupils towards the child. ‘Of course you can, here, starlight, just look at me, okay? Just copy me, that’s all you need to do, you’re safe,’ the witch comforted them, her multicoloured eye looking against the Collector’s red ones. Slowly but surely, his breathing began getting more stable and calm, he still looked slightly on edge and his body was tense, but at least progress was being made. The Collector soon curled up on her lap, hugging his knees to his chest with a fairly strong grip. There was a comfortable silence for a couple moments, something they definitely needed after all that. It was soon broken by Eda however, her hand resting against the child’s side as she spoke. ‘Do you want to tell me what all that was about?’ The woman asked, not trying to sound pushy. She figured if the Collector had a problem, especially one that left them this petrified, it would be better to solve it. The enby thought for a moment, before giving a small nod and just mumbling ‘n-nightmares..’.

Ah, of course. A child of the stars is still a child after all. Oh well, at least this wasn’t anything she couldn’t handle. ‘Okay then, Coli, do you wanna talk about them?’ She prompted, earning a whimper from the Collector. It seemed like they had suddenly lost the ability to speak at the thought of talking about the recurring, plaguing, horrific dreams. It felt like an invisible barrier was between his brain and his mouth, even though he knew it would help Eda, and more importantly himself, he couldn’t bring himself to say anything. And he didn’t need to. ‘Okay, that’s alright, starlight, you don’t have to talk about it. Do you wanna stay in my room for the night, or should I get you back to your bed?’ The Collector blinked slowly, it felt like the option of being able to stay with someone, anyone else for the night had pulled a weight off his heart. ‘You, please..’ he answered in a resigned tone, barely able to open his mouth to answer but it was a start.

Eda nodded down at the child, her arms wrapping around them a little tighter as she stood up, still cradling the enby in her arms. She even began rocking him slightly, wanting to make sure he was as comfortable as possible after such a stressful night. It certainly worked, the Collector’s breathing had returned to normal at this point. Good, Eda thought, at least she was making progress with the kid. Or at least so she thought. Another crash of thunder caused the Collector to flinch back into the witch’s arms, their hands grabbed the edges of his hood as he pulled it tightly around his eyes. The Collector pressed their eyes shut, his breathing hitched for just a moment before he heard Eda speak. ‘Oh, you don’t like the thunder, do you?’ The woman observed, making them blush slightly; being scared of thunderstorms was always embarrassing for them, they had only told Luz about it and she had reassured him, he just couldn’t help but think like that. The Collector nodded, making a small humming sound as he snuggled closer against the Clawthorne, finding her comforting to be around. ‘Okay, thanks for telling me, that was really brave of you,’ she told him, the simply bundle of words instantly putting a smile on the child’s face. ‘We’ll be able to handle the thunder together, alright?’ She asked, bumping open the door to her room with her hip.

While in the human realm, the Collector could’ve been given a pair of headphones to help with their fear, nothing was that simple in the demon realm. Eda took to casting a hex inside her room, the vibrant, yellow lines of her magic slithered around the room, illuminating it for a couple moments before dying down. The result of the magic was to silence any noise coming from the outside of the room, and vice versa, something that would hopefully console the Collector. The child then raised its head, pulling back down their hood curiously. The splattering of the rain was completely gone, the Owl House had never sounded this peaceful to them! His mouth parted into a small ‘O’ shape at the comforting silence before staring back up at Eda, his red eyes full of wonder. ‘This is amazing, thank you, m- Eda!’ They exclaimed, kicking their legs slightly in excitement of the new found peace. It was like Eda was a safety blanket for them, something to rely on, someone to stay with, someone to truly live with them. It felt like he was truly alive.

‘Ah, you don’t have to worry about it, you little rascal!’ She smiled down at him, a single gold fang showing, glinting with mischief. Suddenly, the woman’s long nails connected against the soft pyjama shirt the Collector was wearing, clawing and scribbling all around. Eda figured that after such a long and stressful night, the enby could use a good laugh to calm himself down. Even though they looked anything but calm right now, but not in a bad way. Not at all in fact! ‘BAHAHAHAHA, EHAHAHAHADA!’ The child’s limbs flew all over the place as his body wormed around in Eda’s arms, he always knew that he was too ticklish for his own good, though he’d hardly ever complain about it, quite the opposite. He loved the touch, at any opportunity really. Being starved from contact for so long left him craving for any kind of affection, including tickling. He’d normally have to annoy the people around him to get tickling, so not having to ask in this situation was an even better bonus. ‘Yeeessss, Coli?’ She answered annoyingly, smiling at just how happy the child looked in her arms. Their face flushed a lovely shade of crimson before they promptly raised their arms to bury their face in their slightly oversized sleeves. Not only was Eda a great tickler, given she had years of experience, she was also an amazing teaser, though she was probably being nice with her teases to the Collector right now. ‘IHAHAHAAHAHT TIAHAHAHAAHAHAHAHCKLES!’ He screamed, barely able to contain himself as he writhed and wriggled about in the Owl Lady’s hold, but made no actual attempts to get away. Given how strong he was, it wouldn’t even be a challenge to move away from Eda’s tormenting nails so she figured he was enjoying himself there. The assumption being totally correct, of course, which only encouraged her to keep going. ‘Naww, does it? I hadn’t noticed through all that adorable laughter in hearing!’ She cooed over the precious state the Collector was left in, their face beginning to go red as a result of the teases. He tried to hide his face in his hood, but it felt down as a result of all his thrashing. ‘BAHAHAHAAHAHA, EHAHAAHAHDA!’ They whined loudly, quickly tilting their body over to bury their head into Edalyn’s shoulder, the feeling of the fabric of her shirt being comforting to him. It was all extremely comforting to him, just knowing Eda was there with him, and actually enjoyed spending time with him.

Her hands trailed down to his hips and began squeezing against them, earning a series of high pitched squeals from the child. ‘Awh, trying to hide that blush, are we? Come on, starlight, there’s no use hiding from the tickle monster!’ The teasing definitely worked at revealing their blush as soon their entire face had gone red at Eda’s childish teasing, though that was to be expected from her. ‘SAHAHAHAHMEONES GAHAHAHAHAHNNA MEHEHEHEHE, YOHAHAHU KNOW!’ The Collector fretted, still slightly guilty about waking Eda up in the middle of the night. It didn’t matter much though, he was only focusing on all the tickles he was getting right now. ‘Don’t be silly, Coli, the room’s still hexed, no one’s gonna hear this cute laughter! It’s quite a shame for them, really!’ She smiled down at the absolute precious sight in her arms, adoring how the Collector had just went limp to take in all the tickles he could. Though, despite his enjoyment, it was easy to see that he was getting tired, his aforementioned limpness leading to Eda catching on quickly. The woman’s hand slowed as she stopped using her long nails to tickle him, and stuck to simply circling her fingertips against his sides, leading to giggles pouring out of him as his eyes shut peacefully. ‘T-thahahnk you..’ he mumbled as loud as he could to try and fight against the oncoming sleepiness, but it didn’t take long for him to fall asleep, taking in calm breath.

Eda smiles fondly down at the sight, slowly lowering the Collector down into her bed and tucking him in. She couldn’t undo what Belos had done, and she couldn’t just magic away their nightmares, but from now on she’d make sure they wouldn’t have to face them alone.

[sublime-beyond-loss]

Having listened to most of the narrator’s lines in Dungeons 2 and 3 over the last few days, the Dungeons narrator really is the TSP narrator Doing His Thing, just in a different game series. 

I’ve decided to make it my headcanon that the Dungeons-verse is where he fucks off to during the skip button/epilogue/whenever the player stops playing TSP. Dude’s clearly living his best life narrating the Dungeons games. Everyone is a morally dubious asshole in these games and there are no true good guys, so his more cruel streak shown in some of the endings in TSP is right at home in this verse, and even then he still throws the player bones using his powers over the narrative just as much as he likes to fuck them over. He clearly starts developing a softer side for the ‘evil’ faction by the end of 3 too.

One of the more surreal aspects about going from TSP to this is that in Dungeons 3 he starts to regularly converse with at least one character in the game, which given some of the things Ultra Deluxe puts out there about him, it’s weirdly cathartic to see this lonely bastard finally making some friends who can talk back to him and that he can bounce off of and get into endless snark wars with lol. Yeah, it’s probably not actually canon to the TSP narrator, but if you try to put some continuity between the two series, it really does feel like the bastard goes through the found family trope and some character development by the end of Dungeons 3. A weird, horribly messed up family, of course, but at least he’s taking his omniscient narrative powers out on people who more than deserve it now lol.

Probably the weirdest thing a few of his lines imply in Dungeons is that there might actually be an entire narrator species out there, and boy if that isn’t a scary thought lmao. 

There’s also some nice meta irony to be had in the fact that he might very well be narrating the games for Stanley while not knowing that he is doing so, if the player is one who has already played the role of Stanley before. Especially since he becomes the voice for the voiceless Ultimate Evil protagonist (antagonist) of the game on multiple occasions since it (yes, that’s its pronouns if you’re looking for a game where you are called by those pronouns the entire time) cannot speak for itself. 

And I mean, there’s something really nice about the idea that if you consider this the TSP narrator, that upon leaving the room after being repeatedly skipped by the player (if that’s what happened), or giving up on his game and its sequel after it bombed (if that is what the epilogue is implying), or even when it comes to the existential stuff about him knowing he’s a fictional being who only exists while being perceived by the player and thus the game being turned off by the player cannot be a good thing for him, that him finding himself narrating a series of games where the plot is more goofy than anything and everyone is laughably evil, thus the stakes are much lower, and that he suddenly has other characters to bounce off of and alleviate some of his existential dread. It feels like a surprisingly good bookend for a character like him. While he doesn’t know it, if the player is someone who played TSP before, he’s still narrating a game for Stanley, and in the end, while he has no way of knowing this, the player didn’t abandon him as thoroughly as he thought, if the skip button shenanigans are to be taken into account. 

He starts narrating in a much less oppressive and frustrating setting for him once he has let go of the parable, and he can even interact with the player in an ever so slightly more co-operative manner once he no longer knows it’s Stanley he’s still gaming with lol. I think this is the closest thing to a happy ending you could get for the TSP narrator. Now he narrates for a world where everyone needs a therapist as badly as he does so it all evens out for a change lol. Here we were all sad about the epilogue when it turns out the narrator just went off to narrate Dungeons instead lol. (It’s canon in my heart)

[theradicalscrivener]

Canis Drainem Edit - Part 13

Wash, now measuring in millimeters, has one chance at salvation... and it requires him shrinking... a lot. 

[First Chapter] || [Previous Chapter] || [Next chapter]

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               Wash closed his eyes and gritted his teeth. He took a deep breath and struggled to clear his head. He struggled to formulate some sort of image that would get him worked up. At first, he tried to think of something to horrify him. He thought about shrinking away to nothing, but even as the existential dread took him, and he felt the gooey bindings on his hands and feet pull tighter, he knew this wouldn’t give him the burst he needed.

               “Current size: seven millimeters,” Cecil narrated.

               Wash’s arms and legs ached. He wished he could scream loud enough for Cecil to release him, but the titan had no idea the pain the miniscule test subject was in, and on some level, Wash realized that he needed to be as still as possible. The worst-case scenario was that he would shrink a lot but since he had moved out of focus, the equipment wouldn’t be able to read it. Then, he’d be even smaller, and still need to shrink.

               Wash tried again to clear his mind, but there was too much going on to do that, and besides, he needed to think of something to get him worked up. He couldn’t just passively shrink to nothing. He needed something big. Something huge!

               As if on cue, Wash conjured up an image of something absolutely massive. A surreal landscape spread out in all directions. It was like something out of a sci-fi movie. Some alien world with dusty brown earth that was covered in pits from which large, long, strands of dark, black foliage emerged.

               Wash stared down at the pit before him. Even at this surreal size, he could figure out what this was. This was a belly button! He was staring down a belly button that was the size of a back-yard pool. The shrubbery that tangled around his shoulders was the happy trail leading to this pit. The thick strands of hair were easily as thick as Wash’s wrist.

               Wash looked behind him. The dense jungle grew thicker and taller as the path stretched on towards the titan’s cock. Part of Wash wanted to go that way. He wanted to experience what a cock of that size would be like. Wash had no idea how tall he was. A millimeter? Two? Three? Even three seemed excessive. He had dipped below half a centimeter ages ago, after all.

               His eyes drifted upwards, above the dense canopy. He could see the towering mound of the god’s soft cock. It wasn’t quite Everest but scaling that beast would be an impressive task. The enormous cock looked to be the size of a large, sprawling palace. It would take him hours to climb the beast at his current size… Although, there was no telling how small Wash would be when he got there. It was like that old riddle. If you approach your destination, but each step only takes you halfway there, would you ever reach your goal? Wash couldn’t tell. For all he knew, he’d shrink to the subatomic level long before he made the mile-long journey to that massive cock.

               Wash turned his gaze the other direction. He stared past a seemingly endless expanse of abs. On the far side, seemingly miles away were two massive mounds of the titan’s pecs. Somewhere beyond those was the titan’s face.

               Wash had to brace himself as the Titan began to move. Even just a small shudder of the monolithic man was enough to send Wash toppling sideways like an extra on the bridge during a Star Trek shootout. Wash braced himself on his hands and knees and craned his neck so he could see up past the titan’s chest once more.

               As the titan slowly sat up, Wash slid backwards. He found himself having to grasp for the dense underbrush of the titan’s treasure trail to keep from plummeting the seemingly thousands of feet below. Fortunately, the strands of hair were thicker… or rather, Wash himself was smaller! He was still steadily dwindling.

               Slowly the face of the titan came into view, but Wash knew the identity as soon as the dark, curly locks started to come into view. It was Harvey! Wash’s heart raced and his cock shuddered as the smiling face of the titan slowly came into view.

               Wash was less than a tick on the titan’s body. He was barely even a louse. There was no way his god could see him, right?

               As if to answer his question, Harvey smiled down at the shrunken stud. He reached an impossibly massive hand down and plucked the miniscule man from the tangled hairs of his happy trail.

               Wash was too tiny to be grasped between Harvey’s thumb and pointer finger safely. Instead, the titan placed a fingertip down towards the shrunken man so that Wash could crawl up onto the shelf of the titan’s fingernail.

               Nestled amidst the grit between the titan’s fingertip and nail, Wash stepped forward and placed with hands and forehead against the warm flesh of his titan. This was his whole world now. His whole planet. Wash had shrunken away to nearly nothing, but at least for now he was safe. Harvey would make sure of it.

               In a moment of intense euphoria, Wash’s entire body shuddered. He was less than a louse. He was less than a speck of grit underneath the titan’s fingernail, and yet he had never been happier. Wash let out a long, low, contented moan, and his cock bucked and lurched as ropes of cum erupted forth.

               This was one for the record books even though no one would ever be able to see it had he not been under the microscope. The cum splattered against his belly and coated his chest, but no sooner had the orgasmic bliss taken him, than the intense pain wracked his body.

               His arms and legs felt like they were being pulled out of their sockets! Wash cried out in pain as he shrunk smaller and smaller and smaller still. His mass pulled inward, and the gum pulled outward. He felt for sure his arms would be ripped clean off, but something strange was happening. Whether because he was too tiny for the gum to hold onto or because the gum had become too dry to be pliable, Wash’s hands and feet began to slip out of their bonds.

               It felt like Wash’s arms and legs clicked back into socket, and as they did so, an intense wave of vertigo washed over him. The dizzying sense was so intense that he nearly threw up. Wash curled into the fetal position and grasped his head as he tried to stop the world from spinning and spinning. All the while he felt like he was hurtling downward into the abyss.

               Far, far above – a distance that felt like thousands of miles – Wash could hear Cecil’s voice. It was so loud that it caused Wash’s very cells to shake.

               “Subject… George Washington… Current Size… Uh… Well, shit…”

               The announcement was followed by an intense slam followed by more slams which seemed to travel thousands of miles further with each thud. Then Wash heard the roaring voice of Cecil coming from impossibly far away.

               “Harvey! I think I’ve figured it out, but you’re not gonna like it!”

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[sleepymarmot]

NPC: Three centuries... Jedi Master... Discovered an ancient space station of untold power... Built by a species that once ruled the galaxy... Me: I Have A Bad Feeling About This

[Major spoilers for KOTOR, major spoilers for this accursed pair of flashpoints in SWTOR, and a lot of vitriol]

One point for authenticity, I guess: the Foundry is just as awful of an experience in SWTOR as the Star Forge was in KOTOR. No, that's not fair: it's worse.

I thought I had a bad time during Boarding Party, crawling through an endless dungeon full of dull trash packs, all the while dreading what the not-so-subtle hints are supposed to mean. I'd let my guard down after the surprisingly respectful Revanite cult quest; I didn't expect to meet the imposwtor (bless whoever coined that name) until the expansion titled with "his" name.

You know what's an even worse experience? Spending an hour and a half in a dull ugly dungeon that exists only to shit on everything about an iconic, beloved character from a different game.

Revan in KOTOR (light side): On second thought, perhaps using weapons of mass destruction isn't the best way forward. "Revan" in The Foundry: Nevermind.

Revan in KOTOR (dark side): Fuck this, I'm not a Jedi. "Revan" in The Foundry: Nevermind.

A Revan who is proudly a Jedi and also proudly into genocide now is the opposite of where my own character was going, and incompatible with either of the paths the original game offers. It's the opposite of fanservice. I have no idea who this mission was for. Was it for ten year old boys who haven't actually played KOTOR but are excited to earn bragging rights of knowing who Revan was so that they could earn clout on message boards?

Not only is "Revan"'s personality an insulting caricature of the character we knew and loved, not only his appearance has nothing in common with what the majority of players must have picked during character creation back in KOTOR (how many different presets are for the male PC alone?) — we also have to kill him.

And to add insult to injury, we have to kill HK-47, too. My heart sank when I heard the word "meatbags" over the intercom. Well, at least he killed me twice in a row, and forced me to look up the mechanics of the fight, like it's a real dungeon or something. That's my boy! Very proud of him.

I went through all of this shitshow with my "Revanite" title equipped, by the way. And took it off after the end. I don't want to be associated with this. Don't remind me.

Well. To look on the bright side — I got like three level ups out of this. The one and only benefit.

Anyway, I have no idea whether to integrate this into my personal canon or not. As a KOTOR player, I want to forget about this like a bad dream. On the other hand, if taken seriously, the psychological impact on the player character should be immense.

The last thing that happened before this story was a Jedi padawan telling my PC that she wants to kill every single Sith. Now she meets someone claiming to be a Jedi who intended to kill every single citizen of the Empire. Was her opinion on the Jedi very abruptly and violently turned from "pretentious, hypocritical windbags with bad metaphysical opinions" to "immediate existential threat to everything and everyone she's ever known"? Are these just a stupid kid and a madman — or is this something to be expected from any and every Jedi? From the Republic? Did Revan keep his plans of genocide a secret, or did the Republic know and still allow it?

Additionally, what happens to her opinions on the Force that have been influenced by the Revanites? Does she feel disillusioned, even personally betrayed? Does this wound her confidence in her beliefs about the Force?

Actually, this is bigger than the player character's feelings. Why is the Empire not publicising this?! Doesn't even matter whether the Republic and the Jedi knew of Revan's plan or not. Can you imagine the impact on the public, in both factions? "Revan" just gave the Empire the biggest propaganda piece in galactic history on a silver platter. They want to escalate, and this is a perfect inciting incident. In the story order guides, this flashpoint is placed immediately before Quesh; on the Foundry you encounter an open act of extreme violence by the Republic against the Empire, then half an hour later you land on Quesh and immediately get tasked with provoking the Republic into violence as an excuse to start the war. I can't believe this stupid flashpoint breaks the story not only of KOTOR, but of SWTOR itself.

[actualbird]

"hey zak, u seem to like making characters have to face and address their mental eelness and dysfunctional emotional coping methods in fic but why havent u done that with luke yet" asked nobody, but see, i Do have a luke therapy fic concept in my endless drafts buuuut

it's set in nsb days where his self destructive tendencies turn into a lack of self preservation during missions. which is totally a no-no cuz the nsb would like their best agent to yknow, Last. so hes ordered by the nsb to go therapy and hes THE MOST uncooperative patient ever cuz hes still in the stage of his character development where i doubt hes valuing himself as a person at all and probably very resistant to letting another person try to lead him towards examining Why and How to get better from that.

imagined in a joke-y way itd be like

aaron: swear to god, it's like dragging a cat into the fucking bathtub

luke, struggling in aaron's hold cuz aaron is literally carrying him to dump him at therapist: YOU'LL NEVER GET ME TO TALK!!!

aaron: THIS ISNT INTERROGATION TRAINING, YOU IDIOT

but in a more serious lens, just look at how luke argues with mc in his anniv 1 card. thats already After hes gone thru some development and he still has the tendency to argue for the side of not choosing him or his happiness. so if thats how he is after some chara development, i can only assume he was so much worse pre-chara dev. he'd be too scared to examine his fears and self-loathing, he'd be too on guard to show any kind of vulnerability, he'd still be hating himself too much to even allow himself to indulge in emotions

in my mind, i think he'd go stone cold raven mode in therapy. single word answers, doesnt talk unless prompted. and the therapist would tell him that this whole thing? it doesnt work unless he wants to get better, it wont work at all if he doesnt work with them.

"good," luke says. and he stays silent for the rest of the session.

the nsb thinks about lifting the therapy requirement since it's a waste to spend resources if luke wont budge

then luke gets his illness

and they lift the requirement immediately. they wanted luke to last, and it seems that wont happen even if he does get better mentally.

and even after my hope comes true and luke's illness gets a deus ex machina treatment that gives him a regular long non-depressing lifespan (IM HOLDING OUT FOR THE BEST HERE OK), i still think itd take a Lot for him to willingly go to therapy and work on his big huge baggages (plural, he has so many)

actually, after his illness no longer has him on a time limit, i think he'd struggle with something else thats very common among people who didnt think theyd live past a certain age: existential dread

because...

what now?

he'd spent his life before his 20s vaguely hating himself, spent his life once he got the illness Intensely Hating Himself so that he minimizes damage to the people he loves, and now hes got more time

to...what? hes got his life back, but he'd spent so much of it not caring about himself at all

im thinking that mc and the rest of the team would help him realize that hey, hes got more time now to actually, yknow, think about what he wants to do and actually do them. hes got time to indulge in things that make him happy, hes got time to do a Lot More Now and thats great. but the hesitation of committing to that would still be so, so ingrained that itd take a while. luke was so prepared to die, and he'll have to learn how to live

it'll be a clumsy, slow, stilted process.

but slowly, he'll get used to it. and one day he'll wake up and...the dread wont be gone. but it wont be as loud. it'll be soft enough that he can look forward to what the days ahead can bring.

[grollow]

(*tries to think of the weirdest combination I can*)

Grimm meets Lurien (before he became a dreamer)

- arcane-map

Half the prompts that I received are genuinely just "I want to see you write Grimm interacting with my blorbo" and I guess I'm here for it because some of them are greatly entertaining to me. Like this one. I saw an opportunity to write comedy and I took it. (With a splice of existential angst, because it wouldn't be me if I didn't include that. It's like adding garlic -- it always improves the dish.) I am sorry, Lurien, you do not deserve to have this man inflicted upon you.

mad world || AO3 or, "Every time Ashe writes Grimm, he becomes more and more cat-like"

The startled noise that escaped the Watcher was one of great entertainment to him.

He was dreaming. Soon, that would be all that he would ever do again – but not yet. Every time he slept, though, he had nightmares of what was to come. Fear was a natural response when faced with the promise of the inevitable. It was not death. In many regards, it was a fate worse than: to be forever trapped with a duty unending. 

Four of them would face that destiny. They walked into it knowingly. But to be afraid? That was normal, and dreams represented that fear.

How funny, then, that the Watcher dreamt of his spire. That he dreamt of painting forever. But if they went to the window, they would not see the City he loved so well. They would see endless expanses of nothingness. That was his real nightmare: that he would never be able to see it again. It was, unfortunately for him, going to come to pass.

But he made his choice.

He clearly did not expect his dreams to be interrupted, though.

But Grimm was bored. Certainly nightmares about being trapped were not entirely uncommon, but the Watcher’s genuinely consisted of just painting and pathologically avoiding the window, as if pretending he didn’t know what he was dreaming would somehow make it not actually real.

So he decided to intervene. Oh, the rule was: do not interfere in nightmares, they serve a purpose, let others live and learn from them. But it was his domain. He could do whatever he wished, and what he wished for was entertainment.

Seeing the Watcher practically jump out of his shell upon his appearance certainly fell under categorical ‘entertainment.’ 

“Who are –”

“Conversations should begin with a greeting, Watcher; I know you have better manners.”

“You just appear in my spire –”

“Your dream, actually. I am nowhere near your spire.” 

The mask he wore hid Lurien’s expression, but he thought that it was probably confused. Amused, Grimm rested his head against his hand and sprawled out further on the countertop. There was a vase there that the Watcher was painting originally – he’d simply moved it to take its place. And by move it, he really meant pushed it backwards.

When he shifted, it fell and broke.

(It was fine; they were in a dream. The real world one wasn’t broken~) 

“W-why are you – why – in my dream – she –”

“Wrong dream ruler. An easy mistake to make for the unacquainted, but I assure you that I am not the one that you fear. I am… a witness. A bystander. And you are of great fascination to me at the moment.”

Lurien looked around him, then said, “I was painting that vase.”

“I know. Now you can paint me instead.” 

He turned his head and Grimm hummed at him.

“Did you really… break into my dream… to ask for a free portrait?”

“Oh, darling, it is hardly free,” he answered. “Did you think I have done nothing else? Ah, but you do not know me. Go. To your window that you dread.”

Lurien froze and stared at him. He motioned idly with one hand. 

“Go. That is not a request. I can bring it to you, if you prefer, but mortals do so loathe when their dreams start twisting as clay before their eyes. Go, go. Tell me what you see.” 

The Watcher hesitated, but then bravely walked over to the window that he was clearly terrified of. When he stopped, the gasp was audible and he brought his hands up to it.

“The City. I can – I can see –”

“I cannot change your fate, but I can give you the dream you so long to have for one of your last nights free,” Grimm continued. “So you see? Have I not paid for my painting?” 

He slid off the counter and then went over to the window where Lurien was standing. He stopped at the side and looked out the glass panes next to the telescope. Falling rains danced like light across the glass, in spite of how dark it was outside. There were few details to admire, save for the rooftop architecture, and yet – yet –

“It’s beautiful, is it not?” Lurien asked, and his voice shook. “Our beautiful City.”

“Your sacrifice will help it stay that way longer,” he agreed, one claw coming up to brush over the glass idly. “You are afraid, though, of your fate.”

“... I am. I am a coward.” His head bowed.

Grimm hummed and then said, “Courage is not the absence of fear, friend. It is facing that fear and doing what needs to be done in spite of it. In this regard, are you not the epitome of bravery? To give all, for your king, for your kingdom, for the City that you love so?”

Lurien turned to look up at him, his mask guarding whatever expression he wore beneath it. He did not turn to face the smaller bug, but instead pressed his forehead to the glass to watch the rain fall. 

“Why did you change it for me? For a painting that you can’t keep? It is a dream, after all.”

A valid point, he thought. Lurien stepped away before he could answer and he heard the sound of the easel’s legs scraping the floor as it moved. 

“I am ever a slave to sentiment,” he answered.

And he would have plenty of his - and others’ - fear in the era to come. Why not grant him peace of mind while he could enjoy it?

“Do you have a name?” Lurien asked, moving his canvas to replace it with a blank one. “So that I know what to title the painting. Stay still.”

Really, by the window? He did not turn, but he did answer with, “You can call me whatever you like.”

It wouldn’t matter soon anyway. They would never see one another again.

[idle-skull]

Retribution and Something More

Lark: The Huntsman of Nostramo

Konrad Curze x OC

AN: Warning there is some making out in this, you have been warned

From beyond the metal exterior of the Nightlord flag ship the celestial expanse laid still. The bright white stars where few and far between, and dotted the black void like pin pricks.

Lark stood on a high up catwalk that overlooked the ship’s loading bay; His back was to the railing and his eyes where fixed on the distant lights that shone from beyond a large, reinforced window. Every few minutes he took a drag from a cigarette that he held in his left hand.

It was just past 3 A.M, or what should have been 3 A.M if they hadn’t been in space, and he was feeling restless. Thoughts buzzed around in Lark’s head, many, many thoughts. He had been doing fine before, but now he didn’t know—, he didn’t even know WHY he felt this way.

Whether it was the crushing existential dread of the endless night surrounding him, or the things he had overheard and felt whilst passing a gaggle of Astartes earlier that day. Maybe both. Even now the abyss called to him, and he was fighting the urge to just throw himself into it’s blanket of darkness.

Click The tap of a long, pointed nail on one of his horns brought his attention back to the real world.

“Must you”? Lark asked, turning his attention to NightHaunter. The primarch shrugged, rolling his shoulders and standing up straight for a moment in a rare display, “Yes”.

“No”, Lark rolled his eyes and retorted.

“Nothing else worked”, NightHaunter answered, “You where deep in thought… surprising, really, you’re usually more aware of your surroundings”. Lark sighed, taking another drag of his cigarette, “About as surprising that you didn’t take extra time on your excursion”.

“You shouldn’t smoke”, Nighthaunter said, changing the subject and plucking the cigarette from between Lark’s fingers and putting it out on his own cloak. The short man only chuckled in response, “Well aren’t you the fun police today”?

“The what”? Nighthaunter asked, “Hm, never mind. Have more respect”, he added with a hum.

“It won’t kill me,” Lark hissed, “and what’s it to you anyway”?

“Look at me Lark”, He knelt down to Lark’s height and grabbed his face with one hand, thumb and fingers pressed against the short man’s cheeks. Lark wrinkled his nose and glared at him.

“I don’t want you to hurt yourself”, Nighthaunter said sternly, his black eyes where wide and full of what Lark could only assume was an attempt at intimidation; Whatever emotion that would be called.

“Tch”, he shook loose from the primarch’s grasp, “Like you care. After all you can’t even control your own astartes to keep their grubby little hands and filthy knives off me”. Nighthaunter looked at him inquisitively.

“What do you mean,” he asked slowly, methodically, his eyes relaxed but still held the same feeling they had before. Lark scoffed, “You really don’t know”?

“No”, Nighthaunter shook his head.

Lark slowly pulled up his shirt, -one of those awful, black, cotton turtlenecks that marked him as a servant-, revealing a long gouge running from his hip to the center of his chest.

It was mostly healed, and certainly no where near lethal for a perpetual, but it still had a raw, red, painful look to it.

“Yeah your boys did this to me,” Lark started, “Y’know why? Just because they could”. Nighthaunter sighed, looked at the long, red wound for a moment and carefully plucked the short man’s shirt back down with a single finger.

“I’ll take care of it”, he says, standing up from his kneeling position and taking a step to leave, but before he does so he turns to Lark, “Go to my chambers, we’ll speak more or this when I’ve dealt with the perpetrators”.

Lark doesn’t argue.

~*~

The room Lark found himself in was cluttered, dark, and smelled of iron and death. It always had.

The few bookshelves that stood against one of the walls where crooked, the wood having been warped by time.

The walls themselves where lined with odd amalgamations of bone and skin, some if not most probably human. Nighthaunter doesn’t know how art works, Lark thought.

Yet he sat perfectly still on a stained couch that was far to large for him, waiting for the Lord Primarch to turn up.

Suddenly the double clicks of a door opening and closing caught his attention, and he turned his face toward the entrance of the grimy chamber. Nighthaunter stood still, staring back, before walking up and placing something on the decaying coffee table that stood next to the couch.

The wet thud gave away all the information Lark needed to know.

“They shouldn’t be bothering you anymore…”, The primarch spoke, taking a seat next to the smaller man, “As proof”, he gestured at the item on the table. Lark swallowed, trying not to look over at it, “That’s… That’s a head”. Nighthaunter frowned.

“Are you displeased”? He asked, cocking his head to the side slightly, his eyes seeming to absorb even more light from the already dimly lit room. Lark looked up at him, meeting his eyes “you brought me a head”!

“Do you want more….”? He inquired, starting to get up. Lark reflexively grabbed his arm as he did so, “No I—“. Nighthaunter looked at him, and then looked at his hand awkwardly trying to grasp his arm, “Lark”, he said, and sat back down.

“What”? Lark huffed, and retracted his hand from the primarch’s arm. Nighthaunter hummed, “Nothing… You’re just like a little songbird, always chattering and—“

“Don’t call me that,” He snapped, and glared up at Nighthaunter, “You’re always treating me different than everybody else, better, even. Why? After everything I’ve done and said to you, too. Aren’t I disrespectful”?

Suddenly, the atmosphere shifted, and Lark could practically feel a chill limb up his spine.

“You don’t fear me,” Nighthaunter said giving what Lark could only presume was a smile, the corners of his lips tilted up and he exposed the top row of his sharp, disorganized teeth, “And I like that about you. You’re much more brave than you think”.

Lark stared at him, “And”?

“And”? Nighthaunter echoed, “Maybe I’m still figuring out a way to break you. Maybe I haven’t decided how I’m going to punish you for your transgressions yet”, he leaned in as he spoke, his pitch black eyes betraying nothing of his intent unlike they had before.

Lark swallowed a breath, his pointed ears pricked up, his heart raced and he could feel his body getting hot. He knew that he was showing too much emotion, far too much fear; Or maybe it was excitement? He couldn’t tell anymore.

The primarch came closer and ran a long nailed finger across the line of Lark’s neck, and rested his large hand on his shoulder. He then brought his face to the smaller man’s ear, and for a moment everything seemed to stop.

“I’m just fucking with you”, Nighthaunter whispered, barely loud enough for him to hear before he drew away once more.

Lark yelped, he didn’t even realize he made the sound until he met the primarch’s eyes and he saw his interest peak.

“Something does get to you after all”, Nighthaunter said seeming to ponder his next words carefully, “That does make you all the more… Enticing, I think”. He felt like he was gonna shrivel up and die from that statement alone, “Oh ew, please don’t say it like that”, Lark wrinkled his nose as he spoke, a flush spreading across his face.

“Then let me show you…”

Before Lark knew it Nighthaunter had leaned in and planted his lips on his. The kiss was awkward at first, both parties unsure of what exactly to do; Despite this the primarch took up a heavy dominance.

Meshing their lips together in a senseless manner soon became a steady rhythm, however. They became very close then.

Though separating for a moment, they quickly and wordlessly inter-tangled again.

Despite his otherwise greasy state, Lark found that Nighthaunter didn’t taste as bad as he had expected, like the iron-y taste of blood; Or maybe, he just liked him a lot more than he had previously been able to admit to himself.

As he intertwined his fingers in the primarch’s long, oily hair Lark felt Nighthaunter pull him onto his lap, carefully placing him on one of his thighs. He held onto his hips and waist and kept him firmly planted against his leg as they kissed.

With each passing minute their interaction deepened. Their kisses became sloppy and wet and escalated to what seemed to be a climax.

After a few more minutes they separated, both breathing heavily from the lack of air. Lark never thought he’d last as long as a primarch in a kissing competition, but here he was.

“Lark…”, Nighthaunter half moaned, still catching his breath, “We should do this a lot more often”. Lark nodded, running a sticky, sweaty hand through his hair, “Yeah,” adding half heartedly, “So what does this make me now, am I still your servant or”?

“Quiet”, He shushed him, “You where never ‘just a servant’ to me, I would have made that very clear by now if you where”.

“Thank you….”, Lark started, but stopped, not knowing what to say.

“Don’t thank me”, Nighthaunter said leaning close to Lark, adding “you’re mine now”, and gently biting the side of his jawline. Lark awkwardly moved his face away from the primarch’s before settling down once more.

“I wasn’t before”? He asked, his soft, pointed ears standing on end in surprise. Nighthaunter chuckled, “Yes… but now it’s in a much different way”.

“I guess”, He sighed and carefully rested his head on Nighthaunter’s shoulder. He was surprisingly warm the more Lark thought about it, it felt good.

“You’re being oddly obedient”, The primarch sounded a bit shocked for a moment, even a bit concerned. The smaller man shrugged.

“Don’t get used to it”, Lark hummed, and closed his eyes. Nighthaunter carefully wrapped an arm around him, “I won’t…”

The two sat in silence from there on out, eventually both drifting off into a surprisingly eventless rest.

[tozettastone]

My current dragon age fic is just the worst road trip in the world from Amaranthine to Denerim to Redcliffe, half of which is spent staring in increasingly hysterical existential dread at the endless fields of golden, undifferentiated grain in the Bannorn, which the West Road cuts through on its way to meet up with the Imperial Highway around Lake Calenhad.

Then, goat farming. "Is the plot going to make an appe—" No, I want to talk about the alternative of Ferelden feudalism and the role of freeholders who can vote with their feet, the changeover from Eamon to Teagan (whose freeholders are largely dead but who still needs to pay his own taxes), the medieval three-field rotation system, hand-ploughing, soap, cheese, powdery mildew, and goats.

After the first fifteen thousand words MAYBE I will consider putting in a little plot. As a treat. If I feel like it. 😤

[lucky-clover-gazette]

There’s a window in the den of their cottage, with a chair specifically for Pinecone placed beneath it. Like Shadow, she will be disappointed by the disappearance of most birds for the next several months. Unlike Shadow, she is unburdened by the knowledge of space and time. Nature’s many surprises are innate to her. 

There are some upsides, though, to surprises.

“Holy shit, Vio,” Shadow says, eyes locked on the window. “Something’s happening out there.” 

Vio looks over his shoulder and smiles. “Yeah, Shadow, it’s snow.” 

“Snow?’ Shadow asks, tossing off the blanket and leaving Vio’s lap. 

“Hey, wait—” 

---

1) Pinecone

2) snow!!!!

Mostly I guess I'd like to express my dear love for this particular installment of the cottage AU and would like to hear other thoughts you have about it

aww ty!! crazy that this was written almost a year ago. the funny thing is, i think this is one of my weakest-written pieces? some of the purple prose is just a little too flowery for my tastes. maybe half-baked is a better word

i wrote this fic on the first day it snowed last year :) i was super excited for it, and the forecast said it was likely, and it lined up perfectly. cottage au is very self-indulgent and soft, and i think i wrote a lot for it directly after reading the manga bc i was so bummed by its resolution. i wanted FLUFF! and this is a very fluffy piece overall. i did want to make sure there was an edge of something there, though, like an emotional journey for the characters--that's why shadow has his whole thing with darkness.

i have always loved writing and reading about nature's role in healing trauma. i've experienced it directly for a lot of my life. that's ultimately the closest i get to faith, i guess? this piece has those vibes for sure. shadow being someone from a different dimension and then an endless void, learning about nature from his nerd boyfriend and applying that wonder and knowledge to his own damage. i don't know, i've just always enjoyed feeling humbled by the enormity and resilience of the wild. even when really bad stuff happens it's nice to be like, "yeah those trees do not give a shit." that's a jokey way to put it, because this piece is already very earnest on its own.

with the pinecone comparison, i think there's some related rumination on the fact that animals can't really think or feel on the same levels as humans, and therefore can't suffer existentially or experience catharsis in the way we can. they can experience trauma and pain, and joy and wonder, but it's less cerebral. so yes maybe there are reasons for someone like shadow to be jealous of a cat who doesn't deal with complex existential dread, but he realizes in this piece that there is an upside to being able to conceive of nature's intricacies on more than an instinctive level.

snow is pretty :)

[iloveaustriailoveaustriailoveaus]

You ever cry for seven hours straight and then look in the mirror at 1:27 am on a Monday night with swollen eyes, cracked lips and no future? Austria has! Anyways, here's

Austria's Selfcare Routine <3

He's been crying. Sobbing! Girly pop could not handle it! Time for a little self care to get this boss babe back on track.

Step one is to eat a kilo of chocolate and regret every decision he has ever made. This step is important because it establishes he cannot POSSIBLY stoop any lower than he is right now (false!).

Step two is to drink a warm cup of tea because at this point his stomach is in shambles from the mixture of chocolate, existential dread, and alcohol forming the world's shittiest cocktail in his stomach.

Step three is bath time. Austria is a pretty man that requires upkeep. The combination of his extensive skincare routine and obscenely large bathtub is so powerful that it just might mimick the touch of another human being.

That man has scrubba dubbed dubbed all in his tub and now it is time for step four. Teeth brushing. Dental care is important.

Step five is to dance the waltz of shame down his endless hallway to his bedroom. By some miracle if he makes it to his bedroom he will get to have a little sleep :). If he falters and busts his ass he is either crying himself to sleep in the hallway or getting up and repeating this cycle.

All done! Our hero is probably feeling like a million bucks!

[enneamage]

do you think wilbur’s npd and niki’s bpd is what led to their relationship (or whatever the hell they had going on) crashing and burning? niki seems to have the type of bpd where she tends to turn anger/negative emotions inwards as she works to make the other person as happy as possible (though this could be projection on my part), which is pretty much a person with npd’s dream partner. did wilbur just get too comfortable using someone who seemed to be willing to give him anything?

My impression is they dragged out for a relatively long time in spite of their natures. Crashing and burning isn’t pleasant by any means, but at least you get a definitive ending point instead of an endless drag—it sounds like these two were hot and cold before Niki had to make the choice to step away since she was exhausted. (And even then, I’ve been hearing some chatter that it might have had flare-ups after that point.)

I would agree that the BPD symptoms Niki has talked the most about relate to the fawn response and the Favorite Person mechanism. She becomes very accommodating in hopes that her energy will be returned and she’ll be able to feel safe with her person. Judging from what I saw of them Wilbur was a big fan of that energy, and we’ve talked a bit more here about his caretaker-seeking. Wilbur has a clingy side that was probably very receptive to her attentive closeness, but on the flip side his emotional flare-ups left him wanting space. The NPD probably makes his emotional needs intense and paradoxical, so every pull has a push.

Idealise/Devalue/Discard rarely lets the person experiencing it stay happy. If he was still in the grips of that cycle, he could have everything he wants out of a caretaker-type and still get bored/restless if the existential dread flared up. I can’t know if that’s what happened between them, but judging by the statements he’s made before about his love of the chase and how he gets bored when he has what he wants, I wouldn’t be generous here.

Buried deep in the old drunkcasts there are clips of Niki talking about a relationship that sounds very much like him. He sounded very inconsistent, either due to time-specific mental health issues or his own nature. There were snips where she says she felt led on, some ‘men are disappointing’ talk, and there were probably even more that I didn’t get to see. It sounds like his pattern is taking more than he gives.  I remember her talking about needing a place to feel secure and safe in her relationships, and from what we know about Wilbur it makes sense that he did not fit that bill.

There’s an interesting dynamic here where Niki takes responsibility for having a Favorite Person instinct, so he may be off the hook for being inconsistent because ‘everyone is human and people will let you down eventually.’ They seem to be on good terms now, which is certainly something, but I do wonder how they got there.