#marble sky theories

[somerandomdudelmao]

OKAY SO GENERAL THOUGHTS AND SOME HYPOTHESES BASED UPON THE INFORMATION WE HAVE:

Holly is from Teegarden; a place where either all of his species can shapeshift or he himself is some kind of priest of whatever god they worship that has given him the ability to shapeshift. If ALL of the Teegardenians have innate shapeshifting, this makes the bird hunting Inherently More Sinister, but it makes far more sense to me for Holly to be special, because he says he's from a temple and attributes his shapeshifting to god. It also makes sense for Holly to be special amongst his species because Sculptor asked Oscar and Ward 'Which of you is smarter?'

They're keeping higher quality/more unique specimens in The Vault and maintaining them for some reason.

When Ward is still Very Much Ravaged by whatever the fuck the Science Scrapers were doing, we see probably-Sculptor saying they should put him specifically with 'someone peaceful'. We don't know why they have taken this consideration beyond determining he's not going to be a danger to a more peaceful inmate, but we do know Holly is also missing an eye, which means that must be part of the 'forcibly extracting information from a creature's body and brain' process. Ward was not doing any talking, they got the information about Oscar's laptop via stealing it out of his brain. Sculptor was not separating the dangerous smart one from the harmless stupid one. The Echolocators (this will be my shorthand for the rest of the Q) fully believe themselves to be above both these weird little dudes, but they know from experience they can get more, better information about humans out of the smarter of the two.

Holly sighs sadly and says 'they've found another civilization to destroy', and he's been kept alive alone in the vault for an indefinite period of time while the general ecosystem of his planet appears to be intact enough for regular hunting excursions. Either the Echolocators circle around regularly between planets they've previously colonized to keep the base resources on each planet fresh, or they are in the middle of ravaging specifically Teegarden beyond livability, and will move on to Earth next now that they've conveniently found some fun new pets. I believe the use of 'civilization' is significant enough to suggest it's the former, which is Way Scarier because they've also noted humans are edible and taste good.

A species of colonizer aliens being set up in an ant-like colony is delightful by the way. Also I saw someone in the notes saying 'oh no she doesn't know about The Incident' over Ecliptica being like 'I didn't really check on Ward, science is boring to me' and would just like to say No. Ecliptica absolutely knows about the unethical Whatever That Was and The Vault. She just doesn't know if Ward survived or is any semblance of okay. Because Oscar is a cute fun novelty and Ward is some guy she does not particularly care about.

Oh, my God, I want to express my thoughts on your hypotheses so bADLY. But that would be the wrong way to present information that should be shown in a story. But I still want everyone to see it, because carefully analyzing a story is one of the greatest forms of art that amazes me every time🧡

[stars-in-a-jam-jar]

[JUMPS IN YOUR INBOX] YOU! KEEP TALKING.

Saw your analysis post information Marble Sky and was incredibly intrigued by how well you connected details in the story. I hadn't caught the detail of Holly presumably being an incredibly important member of his species because of his addition to The Vault. That's a very nice catch. Additionally, I do think you're right about the Vault's function being long-term preservation rather than a holding place for people about to be killed. Holly's obviously been there long enough to put down literal roots and has been onserved to be peaceful enough that Ward was placed with him for co-habitation.

Not only does that imply that Sculptors cares about his subjects not killing each other, but he also has found through rooting around in Ward's brain that humans are social creatures and need social interaction to maintain vitality. If he has plans to kill Ward, it wouldn't make sense for him to place him with another inmate, giving him a "roomie" suggests that he plans to keep Ward long-term, and in fair mental condition. The same applies to Holly as well. Nobodies stopped him from growing plants in the Vault, despite him obviously being captured and under surveillance. If we're to assume that proximjty to vegetation is important for teegardians (tbh its important for humans too, but I digress) then it can be assumed that they're trying to keep him sane as well. Not for anything good, mind you, but it implies Sculptor isn't a "mad" scientist but rather a thorough and clinically practical one.

I have Thoughts about other aspects of your analysis (positive ones prommy) but this ask is very long. Anyway A+ analysis you forced me to overcome social anxiety to brain dump in your inbox haha

Thank you♡♡♡♡♡

I love when a scientist who's Objectively A Bad Guy is also Objectively A Good Scientist, it makes everything feel so tactile, if that's the way to describe it. "Some of you will die be horrifically traumatized and violated by weird information scraping biotech. But that is a sacrifice I am willing to make."

There seems to be established protocols around the situation with the humans. 'We found a primitive spacecraft with creatures inside.' 'The edible kind?' Ward says he feels like they're being watched. Ecliptica warns Alcor not to bite Oscar because he doesn't know where he's been. These Are Very Organized People, and because we the audience are more inclined to lean into Oscar's POV than Ward's on account of wanting to see Oscar successfully woo this big scary alien, we don't notice how Fucking Terrifying That Organization Is. An organization facilitated by Sculptor's deeply unethical science because final leadership defaults to Ecliptica due to her being the biggest and strongest.

Like. Like the Echolocators a curious species, but in a universe where they are some of the most dangerous things in space, so everyone, especially high ranking officials like Sculptor and Ecliptica, just confidently takes what they want. The hierarchy within their own colony is functionally the only thing that gives any of them pause. When Ecliptica is testing how far Oscar's trust in her not being a danger to him goes, Alcor fearfully scurries out of his arms because 'Oh shit, the moon is getting up in my space, I gotta get out of here.' and he looks on anxiously as she picks Oscar up because Oscar is his fun big dude who tastes like a great snack when he bites him and has this cool music stuff in his headphones. It's perfectly fine for Alcor to crawl all over and cling to Oscar, but suddenly Oscar is up close and personal with the most dangerous thing in Alcor's life and he just stands next to Ward anxiously flicking his tail around.

I have an idea mostly based around uhhh nothing I guess that it's not that female Echolocators are rare or anything, it's that they're Extremely Territorial and very likely to fucking Kill one another.

[vethale]

Incoming Marble Sky theory about the Marmors' origin planet and more! Spoilers ahead!

I think if we ever get to see their original planet, it might be a dark place (literally and metaphorically), with hives or cities built within ant-like cave systems. Their society also seems to work like those of ants with a queen (Moon), workers and drones.

I think the fact that the Marmors use a form of ecolocation rather than our traditional eyesight might imply that on their original planet, sight as we know it is not a viable option. Their planet might either have little to no light, making eyes redundant, or too much, which would also cause the same problem. I think their fur coloring might also be proof of this, as they seem to display bright colors with no patterns. (Patterns usually help animals, especially predators, blend into their environment, because a blotch of a single color is usually easy to spot). However, there is also a possibility that their coloring might be a result of them becoming the dominant species: We see this with domesticated animals- think cows or cats, with white patches of fur, that make them easier to spot. When colors no longer affect their survival, new color variations tend to pop up.

I also think the fact that they are bipedal (with tails) also tells us that like humans, they might have started walking on all fours and then went up. This allows the brain to become larger, because the neck can hold up more weight, boosting their intelligence. Animals that walk on all fours are usually limited in this aspect because the neck muscles do all the work, so their heads can't get heavier.

The existence of tails might imply that those are still required for balancing purposes. Humans used to have tails but we kinda didn't need them and they went away, but the tail bone still exists. The fact that Marmors still needed them might imply that they still had to climb a lot in their original planet - maybe they live on trees (there's some ants that build their hives hanging from them! Super cool tbh) or they build their homes on cliffs/mountains.

I personally think them living in mountains or cave systems is the more likely option. In the comic we have already gotten the comparison with ants, who tend to build their little hives with tunnel systems going in all directions. This would make their tails useful for climbing, as well as their special eyesight and connections useful for navigating the hive. I mean, a connection like the one we have seen in the latest update is not only useful for hunting but also for their hives, as they can quickly figure out where more "manpower" is needed vs where there's already enough of them in one place.

Also, they have both sharp claws and teeth. Obviously those teeth are stylized in the comic, but they seem very very sharp. Definitely made for ripping and shredding. So it's very likely that the Marmors are obligate carnivores, meaning that, unlike dogs or bears, they can ONLY eat meat. I mention this because those claws would also be useful for hunting and disabling prey BUT connecting this to the cave system theory: Those claws are big and sharp, whoch might also be useful for digging. The giant anteater, for example, has some seriously sharp claws. This thing does NOT hunt other animals, besides ants and termines lmao, but uses those sharp claws to dig into the really hard ground. And those claws are SHARP, boy. They use them regularly to wars off and ERASE jaguargs. Yes, jaguars. So maybe these sharp claws might be tools AND weapons for the Marmors, useful for deleting your prey and digging into the ground!

Going back to the ant comparison: ants society usually has a queen, her simps, and the worker ants. The queen lays the eggs. If those are fertilised by the male drones, they become female workers but if not, they become male drones (the simps lmao). Ecliptica mentions that she is tall because she is a female AND the center of their network. Obviously these are aliens, but I think we can draw parallels: she might be their queen, the only one that reproduces -which would also explain their "children belong to everyone and noone" attitude"- while the rest might simply be the workers. I say workers, even if they are male, because I think the drones might actually be something else. We have seen smaller Marmors like Shepherd's assistants. Now, they might just be small or younger, BUT they could also be the lower ranking drones.

So, to sum up: I think Marmors come from a planet with little light, where they build their hives/societies in ant-like cave systems, digging into the ground. They might also have an ant-like society, that revolves around their queen, the workers and the lower ranking drones, where everyone but the queen is a male.

[your-dads-filing-cabinet]

Wait a damn minute.

Both ward and the mystery roommates are both missing an eye. we know Sculptor took Ward's eye, so I'm willing to bet he took Roomie's as well. And these aliens don't have eyes.... It could be that they're trying to figure out sight in order to have it for themselves as well.

It can't be that the missing eye is simply compiled from Ward, bc Roomie's copied viper pits (??? Do they have a name-) were damaged on that side as well.

[luveline]

wait hear me out.. bodyguard!sirius au 🫣

for you my love (new au let’s goooo) | fem!reader ♥︎ 1.2k

Sirius Black is possibly the worst person in the world they could've chosen to assign as your bodyguard. He's an excellent bodyguard, has proven this swiftly and with finesse on two separate occasions, and still, you struggle to settle under his watch. 

He's terrifying. Not because he's a bodyguard, though the lean muscle of his naked arms is intimidating, and he's very tall, but because he's beautiful. Silken black hair that he keeps tied up in a small half-bun behind his neck frames an angular face. He has dark, sweet eyelashes that point straight, and similarly dark brows that seem permanently arched in bemusement. 

You feel on pins under his gaze at all times, desperate for him to think the same. Desperate to be beautiful in that same effortless manner. 

"Relax," he chides, a hand curled firmly over your bare shoulder. 

You don't deny you're tense. He should know by now that you're more often than not in a panic, like your body's made up of frayed nerves. 

"Can't we go home?" you ask. 

"Afraid not, sweetness." 

You watch your mother move across the stage where she's hosting and sigh. "I hate politics." 

He laughs. "No, you hate your mother. Politics are important." 

"My mother's politics have never once been important," you say. "She should campaign against things that are actually important. Like rising austerity, or the mistreatment of homeless people." 

"Now, don't say that," he drawls, his breath warm against your ear. "Think of all those poor pigeons she's saving tonight." 

"It's absurd." 

Sirius hums. "While I don't think your mother's on the wrong side of things, I agree that her campaign is ridiculous. Every new ordinance puts you at risk." 

Your mother's political career is a drop in the ocean, but a couple of months ago she'd managed to draw the attention of one alt-right group in particular. A letter threatening your life had arrived in the mail, and Sirius has been by your side pretty much ever since. You do wish, selfishly, that she would stop this. You're an adult, and you've less privacy than a child now that you're constantly supervised. 

"Sometimes, I think she loves pigeons more than me," you mumble. 

Sirius laughs, delighted by your joke, and pats your shoulder. His hand burns your skin, you swear. You're gonna look down and see his handprint branded into you. 

"You're much prettier than a pigeon, doll. I'd choose you." 

Why is his hand on your shoulder? You can't remember. He'd been moving you out of the way, maybe, and forgotten to take it back. You hate that he's touching you, worried he can feel the capering beat of your heart, but you prefer him behind you than in front. He can't see your face, you can't see his. 

Like he can read your mind and he hates you, he turns you to face him. 

"Shall we go outside for a bit?" he asks. 

You blink. Sirius doesn't usually ask you if you want to do things. He may work for your mother but you're still the boss (kind of). He tries to let you do whatever it is you want to do. 

"Okay," you say. 

He leads you out to the patio with a hand just barely touching your back. Outside, the summer night air is warm, and the sky is a wash of pinks and yellow. It's oddly quiet.

You creep curiously to the stone railing and look down over a perfectly manicured garden, hedges shaped like flamingos and a mosaic veranda surrounding the centrepiece, a marble fountain in the shape of a baby. Rich people spend their money on the damndest things.

"I was hoping you'd feel more comfortable out here." 

You sigh as he comes to stand beside you. No hopes of that when he's near.

"But you're tense everywhere we go," he adds. 

"'M just tired," you say. 

"Are you?" He leans against the railing on his elbows and doesn't look at you. Sirius takes such big gaps between speaking that sometimes you assume he's done. "I have a theory." 

You stretch your hands out over the railing, more than enough space between you both. The stone is like pumice, gritty and pocked full of holes. It scratches your palms. 

"I think," —he turns his face to yours, expression disarmingly impassive— "I make you nervous." 

You think? 

You catch your own smile too late. Sirius sees it too, and his eyes crease as he squints at you mildly. His eyelashes, those dark thickets, meet in the corners. You stare at them, your gaze skipping over his light irises, his unusually large pupils. 

He looks rather cat-like. 

"I do," he says. 

"I– Yeah. Yeah, you make me nervous. Your presence is a reminder, you know, that I'm not safe." 

"Ah, but that's not true. You're very safe with me, pretty girl. Haven't I proved that already?" He smirks at you. "No, you're nervous, and it isn't because of my job." 

Sirius moves almost lazily. His head tips to one side, a short curl fluttering against his cheek. 

"So what is it?" 

How do you explain it? He's gorgeous, and his good looks paired with his smooth demeanour leaves you off kilter. You don't mean to be so weird, but your lips move of their own accord. 

"Do you think I'm pretty?" you ask him, insecurity much too obvious in your tone. 

The smugness he'd been entertaining drains. He stands a little straighter. 

"Sorry," you say, cringing. "You don't have to answer, I know it's a loaded question. Uh, I think that's why you make me so nervous, is all. You're really handsome, and I've never been anything special, mum always says it’s a shame they haven’t found a more natural alternative to plastic surgery–“

“What?”

You snap out of your tangent, flushed with heat. “Sorry.”

“Your mum thinks you need plastic surgery?”

“No, but. You know, we’re on TV sometimes, she wants us to look perfect.”

“You are perfect.”

You shrink at his sharp tone, but you realise that it isn’t you he’s directing his anger at. It takes a moment for his statement to sink in, and when it does, you can’t not smile. You cover your mouth to hide it unconsciously. 

Sirius doesn’t back down from his declaration, though the anger melts from his expression, leaving behind a chest-pounding earnestness. 

“Yes, I think you’re pretty. If that’s what you’re worried about, please. Don’t be.”

Speechless, you nod jerkily, as if a puppeteer controls your movements. Applause sounds loudly from the open patio doors, and Sirius straightens up fully. 

“Best go back in, angel. She’ll want pictures.”

Again, you can’t find the words to answer him. His anger at the idea that someone might find you unattractive sloshes around in your head. You're surprised you don’t tip over. Luckily, you have a guiding hand on your shoulder to lead you back inside. 

“Perfect pictures,” he says quietly. 

[kendrene]

Hi Dren!! I hope you're doing well :)

For the prompt ask, 20. “It’s late, you should get some sleep.”

When Beatrice wakes up, the battered digital alarm clock Ava bought them second-hand reports it’s 3am. The nest of blankets next to her is warm, but empty. 

Her most recent dream has left a bad taste in her mouth. Her heart in the back of her throat. Adriel swooping in to take Ava away. Beatrice finding her, too late. The Halo — gone. And Ava — dead. 

That’s what has her reaching for the knife she keeps sheatherd under her pillow. What causes her to slide from underneath the covers without making a sound. If Beatrice was being logical about it, she’d admit to being overly cautious. After all, Ava may have gotten up to use the bathroom. But there’s no logic to the fear raking cold claws down her spine, and the dream — the plausibility of it — is still too vivid in her mind.

She can’t discount it.

So, she stalks through the small apartment, takes advantage of all shadows. Shannon taught her how, during her first weeks at Cat’s Cradle. One of the basic lessons, delivered in the dead of night to a class of sleepy girls ripped out of their beds. Beatrice could never forget it. Stood to attention in the moonlit nave of the cathedral, toes curled inward, the soles of her bare feet numbed by the coldness of the marble as Shannon’s voice, a gentle whisper, floated to them from the dark.

She’d explained how to walk in complete silence, talked about the soft trigonometry of shadows. Said that every surface — no matter rain, or shine or starlight — reflects a measurable quantity of light. What materials are used to bend and to absorb it, which pattern and style of clothing is best suited to a mission after dusk.

The theory of it hadn’t seemed hard. The practice — to cross the whole length of the cathedral undetected while senior sisters watched her from above like hawks — was nowhere close to easy.

At the kitchen’s threshold, finally, a sound. 

Beatrice folds her body low, crouches in the rectangle of night projected by the dresser. Extends her hand past its wooden corner, blade tilted just so. Mirrored on the edge of sharp damascus steel, the kitchen looks far away and kind of distorted, but the image is clear enough. The window has been thrown wide open to let sweet summer in, and Ava occupies a chair in front of it, her back to the door.

“Ava, what are you doing? It’s late.” Setting the knife on top of the dresser, Beatrice stands. She deliberately steps on the one floorboard that creaks, hoping Ava won’t startle. “You should get some sleep.”

°I tried.” Ava doesn’t turn. “Couldn’t fall asleep and I didn’t want to bother you. Guess I failed, uh?” 

“You didn’t. I just woke up and I—” I thought I lost you. I thought he’d found us. I was afraid you were gone. Beatrice breathes in. Pushes the words down. “I needed the toilet.”

“Ah.”

“Yeah.” 

“Are you, uh, are you coming back to bed?” 

A breeze works its way into the kitchen, scattering the maps of the area Beatrice had been studying before sleep. While not exactly cold, the wind carries a hint of a bite on its back. It makes her shiver. 

“Not yet.” Ava nods to the square of night framed by the window. “I’ve never seen a sky like this, you know? Had no idea there were so many stars.” 

The note of wonder in her voice draws Beatrice closer. She thinks, for no more than a moment, to the bed, now surely chillier than she’d left it. She could go back to it, she’s tired enough to and morning isn’t far, but the truth is she’s too used to Ava’s body next to hers, to the even breathing in her ear to fall asleep alone. Too fond of Ava’s arms, and the way they sometimes tighten around Bea’s waist in her sleep, like Ava, too, might be afraid of losing her. 

Dragging an empty chair next to Ava’s, she sits down, not quite in Ava’s space, their shoulders almost touching.

Outside the moon is low, so close to the shadowy outlines of the surrounding rooftops Beatrice swears she could simply reach up and touch it. At the end of its waning phase, it is barely a silver thread stitched into the velvet of the night, and the stars shine brighter from its absence. 

Stars. Hundreds, thousands of them. Beatrice hasn’t seen this many in years. Despite Cat’s Cradle vantage point on the hills of Antequera, light pollution from the city muddles the sky a hazy orange, making it much too bright. Only on particularly clear nights does the full spread of the stars appear, and it’s never quite like this. Not this vibrant, or this endless, the void between each pinprick of pulsing light so dark, dark, dark. 

“Do you think that’s where we go when we die?” Ava asks, hushed, causing Beatrice’s shoulders to jump. “I saw it on TV somewhere that the light of the stars is millions of years old by the time it reaches us. Some of the stars we are seeing tonight don’t actually exist anymore. But… what if it were souls, instead? Wouldn’t that be better? Maybe my mom —” Ava’s voice breaks over the word, and Beatrice dares not make a sound. Ava rarely talks about her mother. “I mean, maybe it’s people watching over us, and if souls eventually die, too, then it doesn’t matter, does it? Because they leave their light behind for us.”

Ava’s words, the idea of her dying start an ache somewhere deep in Beatrice’s chest. A pain that grows and grows, until her heart feels too heavy to keep beating against the weight of the sorrow that’s threatening to crush it, until all Beatrice can do is to hold back tears.

Her mind lingers on the brevity of life, on how that life may look sans Ava. An empty house, an emptier bed, nothingness for sky no matter the number of stars dotting it each night.

“Ava…” Ava’s gaze is still upturned, enraptured by the spectacle outside. Beatrice is glad for the respite. At least, the tears tracking down her cheeks will have a chance to dry.

“I know,” Ava rocks the chair back with a laugh that sounds a little wet. “Pretty heretical, right? I’m sure that’s what Mother Superion would say, anyway.”

“I think it’s beautiful, what you said, actually.”

“You do?” Ava half-turns, and in the uncertain glow of starlight she is beautiful, too. 

“Yeah. Um.” Beatrice clears her throat; the lump constricting it gradually softens. “People have imbued the stars with meaning since, well, since the beginning of mankind, I guess. It’s a comfort.”

“It would comfort me to leave a light on for you, after I’m gone.” The chair falls back in place with a thump. Ava pitches sideways, not shoulder to shoulder with Beatrice anymore, but nearly spilling in her lap. Beatrice’s arms automatically tighten around her.  

“You shouldn’t talk like that. You’re not going to die, Ava.” 

“Don’t make promises you know you can’t keep, Sister.” Ava pokes at her arm lightly, as if she knows Beatrice had been about to promise that, exactly. “You’re a nun. Nuns shouldn’t lie.”

“I don’t want you to die,” Beatrice admits aloud for the first time. It shocks her how easy the words come out, but perhaps it’s the fault of the dark and the quiet and an infinite sky full of stars. Nighttime makes everything more intimate, more sacred; this is the hour in which secrets that wouldn’t survive the harsh scrutiny of day can be set loose.

Beatrice almost slips Almost gives tangible form to the three words that have been brewing under her tongue. Seriously considers what might happen if she did. Would it be so bad for Ava to go into this war, knowing that she’s loved? Would it make things better? Worse?

She bites the inside of her cheek and tastes blood.

“I don’t want you to die, Ava.” She says instead. A wish, a hope, a plea to any god that might be listening and not only to her own. “And that’s the truth. Nun’s honor.”

“Good.” Ava snuggles in, face slanting into the crook of Beatrice’s neck. Her nose is icy cold. “Because as much as I don’t mind shining down to you from the sky one day, I like it better here.”

Beatrice rests her chin on the crown of Ava’s head, buries her nose in her hair. She can smell a faint trace of the cheap shampoo they share, and summer, the heat. The stars above them pale, then wink out one by one. Beatrice is glad to see the last one gone.

She likes Ava on this Earth, sleeping soundly in her arms better, too.

[codenamesazanka]

MR. COMPRESS RETURNS THEORY

okay so we probably all have seen the new JumpFest2023 Horikoshi drawing? If not, here is the tweet and the art of Bakugou, Todoroki, Deku, and Cementoss in the background:

But never mind the kids. ignore them.

The TRUE IMPORTANT THING TO NOTICE is that for some reason Bakugou is wearing Mr. Compress’ usual outfit: Mr. Compress’ BOLO TIE <3, orange colors, vest.

but then there’s Deku wearing wearing suspenders, which is ALSO a Mr. Compress thing, as it’s what Mr. Compress wears in his profile page in Volume 30.

So…

here’s my theory:

The outfits scream MR. COMPRESS. Is it a hint that Mr. C is returning???? I’m desperate for magic marble man to return so i’ll take it as a sign. Bakugou’s outfit is Obvious Mr. Compress Outfit. Deku’s outfit has suspenders, which is something Mr. Compress Wears. The last outfit, Shouto’s outfit, is something we’ve never seen anyone where in the series, so that’s The Outfit Mr. Compress Will Appear In When He Finally Shows Up In The Manga Again.

and Cementoss there in the background? That’s the Clue Of The Location Where Mr. Compress Will Show Up: THE SKY COFFIN WHERE SHIGARAKI IS. Cementoss is inside the machinery of the arena, as we see in Chapter 346:

so basically: JumpFest2023 art is hidden message that Mr. Compress will show up again in the manga soon, as promised.

Mr. Compress will appear fashionably late to the war in a new outfit and haircut, and he’ll be entering the battle at where Shigaraki Tomura is.

🤞🏼🤞🏼🤞🏼 let’s cross our fingers and pray 🙏🏼🙏🏼🙏🏼

[writingpei]

wicked games (l.m.) - chapter five

previous chapter series masterlist next chapter

pairing: lee minho x reader genre: academic rivals to lovers wc: 3.2k words

roses are fine, but i like the harder stuff

as far back as he can remember, minho was never moved by any vested interests. he considered his attention and effort to be well beyond being caught by anything depthless, so he guarded himself against the world until something actually interesting got hold of his regards.

in spite of that, he discovered from an early age the taste he had for getting reactions out of people and seeing how much his actions could impact those around him.

he could recall the first people who went through the roller coaster of interacting with him. his endless list of babysitters made him realize the fun he got from it when he was little. none of the poor things managed to last more than 2 months taking care of him, and he wore the veil of guilt with pride and a mischievous smile on his face.

he always had a fondness for discovering who he really was, and his mind was sharp since he was a child. research has always been his strong skill.

It's because of this line of thinking that he found himself at the top of the huge stairs in his house with his entire collection of toy cars at his back when he was 6 years old.

the cars were beautiful. each one a different size, a different color. they were his greatest prized possession, he spent countless hours of his days playing with them, watching the sun escape from the sky through the large window of his room, giving way to the moon that indicated the hours he had spent on the floor moving them around from place to place.

minho positioned himself behind the toy cars at once. he was betting everything in the name of the investigation, and he also had an inexplicable feeling inside his chest as if he was silently begging to feel something different, but no matter how hard he tried, his premature mind couldn't put the words in order to understand whatever that was.

so he just lifted his leg, ignoring the flinching of his hands at his sides. in swift motions, he kicked one by one from the top of the step, the noise of them crashing at the bottom of the stairs deafening, and that only motivated him to keep kicking until they all resorted to being a colorful, shattered mess on the marble floor.

he didn't cry or go down the stairs, he just took a deep breath and looked down at his treasure until his heels pulled him back to his room, and his night's sleep was peaceful.

the morning of the next day, minho woke up to the sight of several boxes piled on top of each other next to his bedroom door. new toy cars stacked as if they were in a toy store window, every child's dream being paraded for him just like that.

minho decided he didn't like cars anymore.

his theory was correct.

he became troublesome from then on, and for a few months, he couldn't suppress the desire to break everything he came across. and so he did.

antique vases turned to dust in his hands. the bouquets of flowers that decorated the surfaces of the house were left bare when all their petals were found thrown on the floor. once he stained a painting that his mother had recently bought with marker pens simply because he thought the image lacked shades of blue.

he never heard anything about the destructions. dinner was always quiet like a funeral.

one day he thought it would be funny to stick his hand into the bowl of mashed potatoes and throw whatever he could grab onto the coal-black rug under the dining table.

the cutlery stopped making noise for a split second, but only silence dominated the room. anger invaded his childish body like a parasite, and he ran to his room because he thought he was going to vomit.

he sought the friendship of his parents' friends' children like he was a desperate boy before the beginning of his new school. he never fake smiled so much, his cheeks hurting from forcing himself to be pleasant to the other children in the upscale neighborhood. he played football with them on the sidewalk and allowed his knees to grate on the ground trying to protect one of the girls in the group from a ball flying toward her. as soon as he started being invited to do things by the snobby kids in the group, receiving acceptance, he lost all interest. he never spoke to them again in his life, much less gave them the acknowledgment to even say "hello" when they crossed paths on the streets near his house.

when he met the hot-headed girl in the new school when he tured 10, everything changed. march 1st, 2006, was an undeniably defining day in his life.

she was not a toy car, much less a delicate vase, and the idea of comparing her to a bouquet of flowers made him laugh.

he gathered as much when he noticed the way her shoulders shook as soon as she was ignored in spite of him, her hand shooting up faster than a bullet but the teacher chose his answer instead of hers.

something strange bubbled in his chest when he saw her turning to him with the deadliest look a 10-year-old could manage to cast, straight at his direction. he felt like laughing, and it had been a long time since he had caught himself genuinely humoured by something.

perhaps he should keep an eye on her.

but minho had grown to do much more than just keep an eye on her.

he was fully aware that he terrorized her, but he doubted that any possible feelings of guilt he might have would be as warm in his chest as hearing her screeching voice screaming at him as if she were being possessed by her rage.

at age 12 he discovered how much he liked pulling on her ponytail, figuratively (and sometimes literally, but he refrained from touching her because the girl actually seemed like the antichrist sometimes and that scared him shitless).

they practically played chess with each other on a board the size of the world at their feet. the amount of teachers that he insisted on assuming the position of teacher's pet fueled her to seek the approval of the same numbers as his, counting how many pawns were on each one's side. that determined who was winning their endless game, and while she seemed to play quickly with the intention of winning at last, he placed his pieces with exaggerated slowness, thinking deeply and eating up the expression of impatience that stained her face.

minho always finished his moves with a smile wide on his face. she always finished hers with knuckles white, practically waiting for a cue to punch him across his face.

he loved it, it was almost addicting. it made him sick the same amount it made him want it more and more.

he consumed it precisely because she was not a toy car and much less a delicate vase, and if he crossed her, he knew he would hear it for days upon days, his ears ringing with the amount of hatred being spewed at him. he felt seen, and at 14 he managed to calm down when he went into a spiral that perhaps he was obsessed with the attention he received from her by justifying to his own stubborn ears that even if he was obsessed, the greatest of crimes he was committing was that he was using her for his own selfishness.

being selfish was already normal for him, and he knew better than to phantom the consequences of his actions. so, the excuse stuck to the walls of his brain like a mantra, and every time she looked at him with disgust, threw a book at him, screamed, slapped his chest with a force calculated to make him feel as much pain as possible, he couldn't resist the urge to smile. he knew that he was the one above within the strange relationship and that he was the one setting the pace. therefore, the smirk bloomed on his lips without his control, and she only hit his chest harder.

at age 15 he learned the power of his words over her, and unconsciously, his own deeply guarded insecurities began to escape his lips in the form of spears aimed for attack.

thats's why he said things like "good thing we're having ethics class, yongie. some of our peers could really use it", starting without even fully sitting in his chair. yongbok just widened his eyes at him in a sign of panic, he always cowered in the presence of the girl, and minho couldn't bring himself to blame him for it.

"don't get me involved in this" he whispered to minho, lightly punching his friend in the shoulder. being deathly afraid of y/n, he couldn't understand how the boy played with fire carelessly like that.

"i wonder if the study of ethical norms can help someone understand how life in society works. perhaps it could make someone less of a wretch..." he whispered loud enough for the girl in front of him to hear, arching an eyebrow and waiting for any kind of reaction, but his comments were promptly disregarded.

minho unmistakably knows that she's making an effort to turn a blind eye to him, and that's never fun. seeing that it didn't do much good, he smirked, ready to use the joker from his deck, one that he knew she unquestionably was going to take the bait.

he places his elbows lightly on his desk and approaches her sparsely, face growing close enough to the back of her neck he could see her hair quivering with the rhythm of his breath. he noticed her shuddering almost imperceptibly. he cleared his throat.

"a little bird told me you have a boyfriend…" he started.

her shoulders tensed and he couldn't tell if it was because of his voice so close to her or if it was because of the words sung from his mouth. she wasted no time in answering his unspoken inquiry.

"well, you can tell your idle fan club that they should spend their time on useful things, and that what they said is a lie" she, as he already expected, turned punctually and looked at him with narrowed eyes, not letting herself be shaken by the proximity of the two. “your lack of maturity is severely aggravating”

"hmm, are you sure? from what i have been told, the scenario was something that looked like it was spewed straight out of a jane austen book..." he looks up in feign thoughtfulness, as if he's trying to remember something. "kneeling on the floor, crying at your feet. pathetically romantic, isn't it?" he smiled at her, who still wore the same disgusted expression she always seemed to have when interacting with him.

"get away from my face, i feel like vomiting just by looking at you" she hissed, crossing her arms. "i thought you were smarter than that, minho. believing in such idiotic rumors is a thing of dull-witted people. not that you're not like that either, it’s not that i expect much from you, in any case"

"you always have something sweet to say, don't you?" he says, imitating her and crossing his arms, using the union to leverage himself further on the table he was leaning on. "don't worry, i'm flattered by your idea of ​​my intelligence. i want to assure you that i didn't believe the rumors for a second. it's not like the male population didn't avoid you like the plague already, is it?”

"not all of us are sluts like you, minho" she said with venom on her tongue after a few seconds of silence. he was faced with her back once more, her stone barrier built as strong as ever. he knew she would no longer entertain whatever he tried to ask her, but that was enough.

when the class came to an end, in a matter of seconds she had already vanished from sight through the classroom door, as if he was going to follow her out and continue to give her the displeasure of making her ears tingle at the sound of his unbearable voice.

who really knew what lee minho was capable of these days. his attention-seeking behavior was honestly disturbing.

y/n finds herself cloistered all day.

she would feel the weight of the boy's gaze everywhere. he seemed to have woken up choosing to cultivate evil in his little playground and she was unfortunately involved in the plan, as fucking always.

she couldn't believe the lengths she was willing to put herself through simply to avoid him. when she saw him in the hallway on her way to her third class of the day, instead of crossing his path and being met with a despicable destiny, y/n ducked into the girls' bathroom closest to her before he had the chance to see her.

she closed her eyes feeling like an absolute coward and was met with a girl crying uncontrollably and being comforted by her friends in the center of the bathroom.

"yes, he's an idiot, you were right to break up with him."

"true. who tries to hook up with their girlfriend's sister?" and that made the girl cry unbelievably louder and her ears started to hurt. y/n couldn't wrap her head around the fact that her escape from a bad situation could turn out to be even worse than the audacity of lee minho.

when recess comes after the ethics class, y/n goes as quickly as possible to the back of the school, which is always deserted, in order to meet hwang hyunjin.

"you and time don’t get along very well, do you?" she asks when he finally arrives, 7 minutes late. her feet tap against the floor impatiently.

"oh, give it a break! look where you asked us to meet. i don't know you that well, i'm still scared that you'll kill me in a place like this" he wore a headband different from the one he had worn the day before and his hair had small braids hidden in the middle of his voluminous loose, almost white hair. he turned around to examine their surroundings and took a step back to simulate fear of the impatient girl who still scowled at him.

"you’ve managed to finish it?" she goes straight to the point, extending her arm towards him, which he dodged exaggeratedly as if she was going to attack him, soon laughing at his own joke like an idiot.

"god, you don't have any sense of humor, do you…" he whispered, placing the math textbook she had lent him the next day in her hand. "i managed to finish it. it's all there, my resolutions."

"good. take this" now she was the one holding something out towards him. hyunjin noticed that they were notes of more difficult formulas and exercises, slightly colored by markers and pens.

"oh, thank you very much" he thanked her genuinely, bringing them close to his face and studying them carefully.

"the test is in 2 days, do you think you can study on your own for it?"

"i'm trying, i solved the problems pretty easily because of your help yesterday" he says genuinely, and she can't help but wonder how can someone be so visibly peaceful.

"that's... nice" was all he got in response.

"sorry, but i have to ask. why are we meeting here? why not in the library like yesterday?" hyunjin asked, putting her notes in the pocket of his sports shorts.

"i don't know if you know, but because of your little show, people are getting the word out that we're dating, and i don't want to leave any room for that gossip to continue"

"oh, don't even tell me about it. a girl i was planning on asking out said she had no interest in dating guys she knew were already compromised earlier today. i almost lost my chance with her, you know? i had to explain everything. it's as bad to me as it is to you"

"good luck with her now, i guess..." y/n said rolling her eyes, turning around and heading back inside the school.

"hey y/n! session on friday? the next test is physics" he called her before she completely disappeared from his field of vision. he didn't make the notion of following her back inside, and she theorized he was going straight to the basketball field to play his recess away.

"it can be" she answered at last.

in one of the infinite halls filled with lockers, minho was craning his neck looking around not very discreetly, obviously in search of something. yongbok was starting to feel embarrassed to walk beside his friend.

"dude, pull yourself together" was what the blonde told him, pulling him out of his shameless search.

"what are you talking about?" minho snapped his head back to the boy.

"you look like a maniac looking around for her like that," he clarified to minho who just frowned in return, not looking ashamed of being called out, actually with an expression on his face as if he hadn't even realized he was doing it in the first place.

"her who, you weirdo?"

"you know what i'm talking about, you spent the whole day talking about her, looking for her to annoy to her, or looking for ways to look for her" he poured out of his chest, pointing at his fingers while counting everything. "we even sat at that table next to the window in the cafeteria so you could check if she was in the gardens"

"when did i do that? i didn't do all of those things, you are being ridiculous! and i actually really like the garden view from that table, thank you very much" he said in defense, but his best friend looked at something beyond him, behind his shoulders, closing his eyes soon after in disbelief.

minho took no time to look back, seeing y/n walking in the opposite direction from them with eyes glued to the ground, growing closer each second.

he smirked. he rehearsed a couple of sentences to provoke her, and now he finally could use them.

her eyes flew from the ground directly towards him as if she felt the weight of his eyes on her form. something palpable twisted inside her eyes and he no longer knew what to expect from her, her anger made her unpredictable.

"i swear by all that is most holy that i will stick your head in the concrete if you as much as breath in my direction" she said quickly as she passed beside him. he would think she was finished, but then her foot came in contact with the back of his knee in a swift motion and he was yanked forward, losing balance, making him clutch yongbok for support or else he was going to fall flat on the floor.

a fit of sharp anger invaded his senses this time, and he simply knew she was smiling just by looking at me back of her head, hair swaying gracefully with each step she took. his hands clutched his best friend's shoulders imperceptibly and he winced under his hands.

minho was petrified for a few seconds, eyes unmoving, but then he turned to yongbok with his mouth open in shock. "how fucking rude..."

"come on, let's buy you some water. you must be dehydrated to have gone so crazy overnight" said his friend, taking his hands from his shoulders and leading him forward.

stay tuned for chapter 6! ☆

[nelapanela94]

I know you love your angst and you do it so well! For your 1k event how about 30 and 38? Oh...I hope I don't cry too much! <3.

Aww thank you Eliza. Angst and heartbreaks are my thing. I just love writing it so bad it hurts.

30. “I know you still love me.”

38. “Mom asked about you again.”

Set in Modern AU.

WC. ~2.5k

Nela's 1k event

Like a million marbles, the deluge hammers furiously the shingles, encroaching the twines of conversations and murmurs, the senders sticking their mouths to the receivers’ ears. The raindrops snake down like vying tadpoles on the window, outside the afternoon sky is the color of an old silver coin, tarnished at the edges.

The steam doesn’t seem to wane.

And you’re trapped in this little café until the ashy gray clouds decide the condemnation is fair.

Your chin is roosted on your hand, elbow tucked on the wood, feet anchored to the footrest rail between the stool legs. Whatever force is pulling at the strings of fate you despise it right now, for it has unleashed a downpour just as you were passing by in front of that place, now museum of melancholies.

And the most beautiful moments, tarnished like a spill of ink warping through the water.

These two years have been a waste of time thrums at the end tail of your memories. That’s what he said before slamming a big bank note on the table and storming out without looking back. He never looked back, he never called, he never texted again. He was cruel.

He found the way to shear the red thread; or perhaps, there was never a red thread tethered around your fingers. Perhaps, it was never meant to last.

Damn zodiac signs.

Damn Romeo and Juliet.

Damn Mr. Darcy and Elizabeth.

And damn all those books, and poems and songs that made you believe in love. All the verses that invoke his name.

Levi.

It tasted like hot honey. Sweet and piquant at the same time.

Now, it feels like a bristle worm in your tongue.

What happened to us?

For months you clung to the theory that time had changed you, but no. The spell of a newborn love had blinded you, that phase when you only see the good, and the flaws are swept under the carpet. At first glance, everything sparks, and you scrabble his name in any surface, and watch his favorite series, read his favorite book; the person who draws a giddy smile on your lips. And those enchanted nights when your heart drummed for his name to jump on the screen, and you dove behind to reply as soon as you could. Your feet peeled off the ground, and you found yourself gravitating to him. It’s the time when you experience one of the best feelings, those fluttering butterflies in your belly when you stared at each other. You’d smile, and “what?” he’d ask, followed by a mild tug at one corner of his lips, and you’d just laugh, breathing out a “nothing.”

But then you begin to scrutinize, the first specks of dust pinpricking on the surface, scantly, trifling, that you let them pass.

You learned to make his favorite tea.

You roamed galleries hand in hand.

You cuddled in the farthest seat in the bus.

You made him dance in the living room.

Tipsy on wine and dreams.

You strain forward. Your warmth breath spans a canvas of mist on the glass, and your fingertip as a brush, draws two dots and an upward curve.

More and more people scurry in, seeking shelter, lining up to buy the cheapest item on the menu that will allow them to spend a few hours there with no impudence. The entrance carpet is soaked and stamped with dozens of muddy footprints. Drenched coats, spilling umbrellas, and dripping hairs making of the floor a hazard.

You bring the paper cup to your mouth, your rosy lips closing around the rim, the smell wafting up to meet some memories. You take a sip and let nostalgia roll down your throat.

Plain black tea.

The taste of his mouth. His breath distantly mingling with yours.

Why does it have to be the cheapest option in the menu? Though you didn’t pick that one for the price.

It hurts, like a thousand needles pricking in your chest, that you just can’t forget him. He wreathed a nest in you. His scars are forever carved in your hands. Like the one under his chin, the lighter bumpy tissue snaking across his shoulder.

Thirty-three are the freckles on his back with which you drew constellations.

Everything seemed all right.

The pans of the beam swayed at the same level.

Until you fling the carpet.

It took three words to tip the world. To uneven the balance and tilt it to your side.

It was one night, both tangled in the covers of his bed, snuggled from the nippy air, him stroking your hair while your hand was entwined in his sleek crispy hairs bushing around his half limp shaft, forefinger toying with a curl. Ruddy cheeks and dewy lips, his locks lustrous in sweat stuck at his temples and forehead. You raise your head on your hand, your mane cascading into the pillow. Tracing flimsy circles on his shoulder, you looked him in the eye, his pupils still blown up, and you slur I love you.

And right then something within him switched on or off, you don’t know, threads of smoke swirling in his irises, it was the moment when you broke the spell, when your bubble popped.

He said nothing. Instead, he laid on his back and folded an arm over his head, the other winds around you, cradling you against him as you nestle your head on his shoulder.

Everything went downhill from there.

You gave each other the gift of silence, and your empty hands gave the illusion of lightness. That everything was all right. The pockets were filled with sand and stones to trick yourselves into feeling that there was still something to offer. There was plenty of oxygen and yet it was hard to breathe. His name in your mouth began to sour. You were never long of words, and yet you ran out of them. You looked away. Not a laugh, not a hug from behind, not a kiss goodnight.

You felt lonely having him next to you.

Him and his absent presence.

“Why?” you asked.

“Why what?”

“We’re not working anymore, and I still can’t figure out why.”

“I don’t get it.”

“And I don’t get you. I’d like to know what you’re thinking, Levi. I feel… I have the feeling you’re not…” You gazed down, scratching a sudden itch on your arm.

Your cup was full to the rim.

He frowned. “That I’m not what?” His voice was a scour to your heart. He clasped your chin and forced you to look at him. You felt the weight of the stares, the rumors spooling around. His jaw was clenched tight, his hand trembling as if he were holding something up.

And it struck you right then.

“I have the feeling that you’re holding up. All the time. Like you’re afraid to give it all. You’re here but at the same time you’re not.”

A vortex of anger and pain swirled in his stomach, and suddenly, his favorite drink became acid. His hand fell from your chin, and then it was him to avert his gaze, frighten that you’d seen further through. He gulped, tugging at the collar of his gray t-shirt, cold sweat running down his spine.  

Busted.  

His eyes crashed with your glassy gaze, tears beading on your lashes. You were fiddling with your bracelet, sucking on your rosy lipstick that tasted like cherries. He opened his mouth to rebut, but nothing came out.

Trembling and delirious with the pang spreading on your chest, you bawled, “I want you all, Levi. The petals and thorns. If you’re not willing to give your all, we should put an end to this.”

He was nipping on his lips, pondering on what you’d said, and he let fear infect his decision. There was a before him, and to this point, you cling to the last thread of hope so that there wouldn’t be an after him.

But after receiving so many blows, a shell rises around the tenderest heart. A mean of protection. “I want what you want. These two years have been a waste of time!” He spat. The chair screeched against the floor, then came the slam on the table. Spills of tea. A cloud of whispers, and pity glances.

And he was gone.

You didn't even have time to give it a proper funeral. To bury the plans and hopes under the home you’d never build.  To wear black and cry the words that would never be spoken waiting for the perfect moment.

What should have been eternal didn't last more than an instant.

Your rub your palms on your legs and lean forward, raising your shoulders, too strained you feel they might poke through your skin, edginess creeping on your back like a troop of ants.

*

He shakes his head and water droplets spray every which way. The soles of his boots chafe the worn-out carpet, his hand sheltered in the pockets of his military green rain jacket. He lines up behind an old lady and waits patiently as his eyes divert around the packed-up place. He rocks on his heels, mindlessly, he doesn’t even have to look at the hanging board menu, the clerk knows him so well. Here and there, steel gray orbs jumping from head to head, and right when he turns his head, he stumbles with that camel knitted sweater, (h/c) hair waving down on your shoulders, you cowered in that position of mental suffering and distress. The floor quakes under his feet, and a dry heartbeat springs under his chest, the tips of his ears begin to tingle as his red blood cells take away with them the healthy blush of his cheeks.

“Next.” He jerks and takes a step to the counter, swallows hard, and mentally shakes off the mesh of thoughts, feelings, and memories.

“Hey, Levi.”  Mark lifts his stubbled chin in salutation as he pokes the order on the screen. Clad in a lumberjack shirt, his sleeves are rolled to his elbows.

The terminal beeps at the contact with Levi’s credit card and spills out his receipt. He should’ve ordered to go.

The universe is mocking him, he swears, because there’s only one empty seat and it happens to be the one by your side.

In his head, it didn't go like this.

He grabs his tray, the cup rattling against the saucer as he makes his way to the window seats.

Strawberries and mint. He can recognize your perfume from miles away.

He sets the tray on the mahogany wood slab and slips his ass on the stool, fighting the urge to reach out and let you cry on his shoulder. Though, that would be a hypocrite move from him. Instead, he slides his hands between his thighs and his muscles tighten.

“Long time no see.” Your mumbling startles him. Your head is still hanging, your hands clutch at the hem of your sweater.

“Yeah.” He breaths. His eyes fall into the steamy swirl.

“The Acqua Di Gio gave you away.”

“And you still wear the same shampoo.” He snorts.  

You rub your misty eyes. “In the place where everything ends.”

“And where everything started.”

“Your hands were shaking when you asked me if you could sit at my table.” All the tables were taken, and yours have a chair to spare.

“You smiled at me, and I thought I’d drop tray right there.”

“We didn’t exchange a word, yet you scrawl your number on a napkin and left it there. That was bold from you.”

“I felt like an idiot right as I walked past the door. I wanted to rush inside and snatch it back, but you’d already unfurled it.” He shakes his head and closes his eyes, a deep blush creeping across his cheeks. His eyes open again, and he snaps his face in your direction. “A minute later my phone buzzed.”

You raise your chin and sigh before meeting his gaze for the first time in eight months.

“You looking good.” You fold an arm on the bar, and the seat spins by a fraction.

“You cut your hair.”

“It’s the new way to end a chapter, you know, moving on.”

He bites his bottom lip, then says, “It suits you.”

“How’s your family?” You swerve.

Levi takes a sip, and when he sets the cup back on the saucer, his fingers never leave the handle. “Mom asked about you again.”

You don’t know how long you could hold back your tears. You remain silent for a while, looking through the glass at the ceaseless pelting outside.

“Fear made me cruel, Y/N.” Your name belches from his mouth, and it doesn’t sting. In fact, it sounds good. Velvety, sandpapery, and it has the same effect, revolting every cell in your system. “You didn’t deserve that. You… I… you were the best thing that ever happened to me,” he bites a sob and rubs his nose. “I was an asshole, and I uh... I’m sorry.”

Your empty cup crumbled in your grip. Thank God it’s cardboard, otherwise, your hand would’ve been stabbed with dozens of shards.

“It’s kind of late.”

“I know. And I’m sorry about that too.”

“Levi, you plucked me out of your life like weeds.”

“I’m sorry… I don’t even know what else to say. You know I’m not the most eloquent being.” He coaxed a smile. “And you were right, I wasn’t ready. I thought I was until you say… you know. Commitment frightened me, and…” he trails off.

“Because of them…”

He weakly nods. Levi never mentioned a word about it, but it hit the headlines for a week about five years ago. A drunk driver took the lives of his two best friends.

“You could’ve told me how you felt. I would’ve understood.”

Your eyes flick to your hands; the more his moves closer, yours drift back.  And not because you find him repulsive, but because you’re afraid the subtlest touch ignites sparks. Because…

“I know you still love me.” He dares spew. Your quivering eyes, wide open as if they might fall out, snap towards him, and you hate him now, you hate he can read you like the lines on his palms; you hate he can delve with such ease into you. You hate you let him in when all he offered were measly crumbs.

But what you hate the most is that he’s right.

And you’re stupid for feeling what you’re not supposed to feel. You’re pulling off the scab again.

Keep doing it, and the wound will never heal.

Air becomes thin, and the noise shrinks into a deafening distan shrill. You need to get out of there. You don’t give a shit about the rain anymore; you don’t care if you get pneumonia or whatever; it is better than letting him stab your ears with the truth.

“Please don’t.” Your voice cracks, your chin wrinkles, and your bottom lip wobbles, and even though your legs feel like jelly now, you force yourself on your feet and sling the strap of your bag on your shoulder.

The floor tips as if you’d gobbled down three bottles of wine. A drink is what you need now.

But now he insists. He grabs your hand and spins you around.

“I love you." His jaw sets so tight you think his teeth might splinter.

Three words is all he needs to put your world upside down. Ire, pain, sadness, the worst of the feelings coiling in a fire ball in the verge of explosion. You extricate your hand from his clasp. “Please, I beg you. Don’t do this, don’t play with me. If you love me as you say you do, please let me go. I’m not… not now.” You draw a sigh, and your shoulders slouch.

He’s broken too, and you can see it. He finally lets you see through him. But you can’t do this now. Not until you find peace within yourself.

It's hard to admit at this moment, but your love for him is not like foliage in the woods, it doesn't change with seasons; it resembles the rocks. Unwavering.

Hope flickers in his eyes.

He’s broken too, and you can see it. He finally lets you see through him. But you can’t do this now. Not until you find peace within yourself. You close your eyes and take in three appeasing breaths, long and deep, and when you open them again, you feel like a different person. You're still trembling, but your mind clears. And today you choose yourself.

"The tea will get cold." You quip. Mold and cold tea are the things Levi hates the most.

He gives you that half-smirk that dimples his left cheek. Maybe an after him can turn into another before him.

"You know where to find me."

Nela's 1000 event

[somerandomdudelmao]

are we allowed to make merch for ourselfs? like merch that aren't meant to be sold but are just for ourselfs? I really wanna make the fla bbergasting shirt ^^ also will there be official merch someday of marble sky? :O

Yes, you can do that for yourself. And yes I was going to turn it into a real merch one day if you guys wanted me to:)

[thefoulbeast]

little pathologic roadside picnic au blurb

1752 words. Gen. No CWs apply.

--

The sky darkens over the course of their trek. Slowly but surely – shadows stretching longer and longer until they swallow the trail up completely.

Mule is the first to break stride. Daniil almost runs into his back, so focused he’s been on placing his feet in the footprints left behind the two stalkers. Booha walks for a few strides more before he turns around with an inquisitive look.

“We should have set out earlier,” Mule says thoughtfully, the upper half of his face bathed in the green of the dying sunlight – just another of the Zone’s oddities, the way it warps light, “The night brings many dangers to those who move. Remember Griffin?”

“Let’s set down here for the night, then,” Booha agrees, carefully wading back towards his walking partners.

He throws his bag down with a thud and sits down on it, and Mule follows suit with his own bag, only pausing to pull out a bottle of water from it before he sits down. He passes it to Booha after taking a swig.

Finally, Booha looks up at Daniil – still standing. There is a teasing tone to his voice when he next speaks, “What’s the matter, Professor? Afraid of the grass? I assure you, it is safe to sit down with us common folk.”

“Nothing about you is common,” Daniil bites back, but lowers himself gingerly. His bag is no good for sitting on because of the equipment he’s carrying, but the grass makes for a soft seat nonetheless. This close to the ground the scent of them is stronger – sweet and bitter and cloyingly thick, like an over-steeped tea.

Wordlessly, Mule breaks a loaf of dark flat bread in three and hands each man their share. It’s dry but rich, with seeds and dried fruit, crumbling on the bite like a soft-bake cookie.

“No fire?” Daniil asks for lack of anything better to say. He’s uneasy with the quiet understanding between the two stalkers. The palpability of their brotherhood and the ease with which they share a space he’s only intruding on in this trip.

“No fire,” the Mule confirms, his tone dry. His stoic face looks like carved marble in the dying light, like a statue watching over them – except for his eyes, which shine with a stoic intelligence. A moment passes before he continues, his voice rough with disuse, “The Zone, she – she doesn’t like fire. Doesn’t like being disturbed more than necessary. We are guests here, and we can easily overstay our welcome, Professor.”

“What my dear friend means, is,” Booha takes over, with a refreshing confidence and a lot less dread, “we don’t need fire here. It is summer – the nights are light, short and warm. We will huddle together if need be, rest a few hours until the sun rises again, then continue on our way. We are almost at the edge of the Old Town. Only the bog to get through – and that is tricky even with daylight. A beautiful place, but treacherous, as we know.”

The Mule nods solemnly, and raises his piece of bread as if in toast, “To our brothers.”

“To our brothers,” Booha echoes before taking a bite.

Daniil raises his hand in silent agreement, though he doesn’t understand the toast fully. He’s not used to feeling so left out, so… replaceable. He’s just work to these two. Another fool hunting for what he thinks he needs in the Zone. He doesn’t trust them, no, they have given him no reason to, after all, but he does trust Andrey to not want him dead, which is enough for him to believe they will try to keep him alive throughout the trip.

That, and the fact that he paid only half up-front. Swag might pay well, but it’s rarer and rarer these days, and the sum Daniil offered was nothing to scoff at. The last of his savings. His final chance to prove his theories true.

“You look glum, Professor,” Booha says. He offers Daniil a flask and Daniil accepts without thinking too hard about it – the liquor burns wickedly down his throat, and the taste is one he doesn’t recognize.

“Just thinking about the problems in life,” Daniil says.

“Always too many of them,” Mule agrees. Booha laughs, from deep in his belly. It’s a warm sound, Daniil can’t help but note.

“Let us forget them for now, my companions,” Booha says, “there is no place more beautiful, and indeed no place more dangerous than here. And no better time than now to forget about what lies beyond the barbed fences.”

Daniil purses his lips, a refute ready on his tongue. Unlike some others, he has no room to forget his problems. The university is cracking down on his research, his dear institute, his colleagues and himself. He’s a refugee here in all but name. He has people waiting back at the Capital for his success here, for something to keep them all afloat. How dare this stalker, this lout-

“Forgive me, Professor,” Booha says, suddenly contrite, “I must have struck a nerve.”

And the anger, a second ago incandescent as a struck match, evaporates from Daniil’s heart. He deflates, curling in on himself, ashamed for his foolish rage, ashamed for the fact that his anger was so obvious to the two stalkers.

Get a grip, he chides himself.

Then, Booha claps, chipper again, wiping away the bad atmosphere with his charming smile, “Let’s talk about something else, then. Professor, tell me, when you think of us stalkers, what animal do you see us as?”

What an odd question to ask. Daniil looks the two stalkers over – from their tall stature to the breadth of their powerful muscles, to the keen, cold intellect in their eyes. Their nicknames might be Bull and Mule, but there is nothing herbivore-like about them.

“Something cunning and strong,” Daniil ponders, “Like a tiger, or perhaps an anaconda.”

“There! You see?” Booha claps the Mule on the shoulder, “another one! Why does everyone think so?”

Daniil finds himself curious, “What do you mean?”

“From everything you’ve learned about the Zone so far, which is – admittedly – not much, what kind of animal do you think survives best here? Take your time and think.”

Daniil thinks about the bone charms and the bolts. About the bug traps and the happy ghosts, about the thermal anomalies and… the glaring lack of any real fauna in the Zone.

He could answer like a smartass – either nothing survives here, or just man until he gets unlucky. He bites his tongue. “I don’t know – why don’t you tell me?”

Booha smiles toothily at him, like that’s the answer he’d been waiting for, “As you know, Professor, the Zone is full of danger. It tolerates us, but only when we’re diligent and watchful. Predators – they’re too sure of themselves to survive in the Zone, you see. Nothing threatens them, so they aren’t careful. Take something like a deer or a hare, though – something that lives in constant fear. Something that doesn’t trust its surroundings. That’s the kind of animal that lives in the Zone.”

Daniil nods, and though the words make sense he can’t help but laugh in good humor, “You two are a bit too large to be rabbits.”

“Everything is a little bit bigger out here in the steppe,” Booha retorts with a waggle of his eyebrows.

And – the thing is – it’s an off-hand joke, but it makes Daniil think that maybe- maybe these two stalkers could be… his cheeks colour crimson at the sudden influx of images that enter his mind. He thanks the dusk for hiding the redness of his face. Realizing too late that he should respond to the joke in some way, Daniil laughs awkwardly.

Booha is still looking at him, expression suddenly unreadable. Almost pensive.

“Let’s huddle,” the Mule says into the suddenly strange quiet of the soundless field they find themselves in. They wrestle a bit before arranging their bags so that they’re flush hip to hip. Then, once settled, they look at Daniil expectantly.

“Do I have to?” Daniil asks, heart in his throat.

“No, but you’ll be chilly by yourself,” Booha comments.

“No shame in touch between stalkers,” Mule adds cryptically. His hand is draped across the back of Booha’s shoulders, their bodies turned one to another. Strong lines of long limbs softened by their clothes.

No shame in… Really – does that also mean…?

Daniil approaches timidly. Booha pats his lap, indicating Daniil to lay on top of them both. He all but crawls into their laps, and they in turn wrap their arms around him. For warmth. For warmth.

It doesn’t explain the way one of their – and whose hand is it anyway? He can’t tell, not without looking – thumbs rub circles under his shoulder blade.

The steppe of the Zone is silent, silent, silent. Even what he sees of the grass swaying is soundless and windless. That’s the scariness of it all isn’t it. The expecting of something and coming face to face with a gaping void.

The stalkers’ breath is warm against his neck, and their bodies solid beneath him. For warmth. Daniil feels sweat prickling under his coat, but it’s too late to crawl away from them both.

What wonders will tomorrow bring? What horrors? How much further to the heart? What lies beyond the bog, what lies in the ruins of the Old Town, and what awaits them in the Abattoir?

How did he get here?

Well, it was either this, or disappearing for good. The Zone out East, his last shred of hope. Out into the wide-open planes, beyond the reach of city-dwelling society. He would not have come here for any other reason, he thinks.

But… it’s beautiful. Despite the tension and the sense of some impending doom, the Zone captivates. She is like the ocean, in that regard – awe inspiring and deadly. And they are defenceless against her despite all the gains of humanity. Daniil thinks of his revolver – buried out some kilometres from the barbed fence border.

What have you got there, Professor? Nothing to shoot out in the Zone. Whatever kills is no beast with a beating heart. It will only bring us bad luck – get rid of it.

“I can hear you thinking,” Booha mumbles, his breath ticklish on Daniil’s exposed neck, raising goosebumps, “Try and get some sleep, Professor.”

He doesn’t dare respond to the urging. He can barely keep his breathing in check.

Still, Daniil closes his eyes.

[coolattasclown]

alr big theory list for marble sky time

Ecliptica says theres birds on Teegarden i hope these birds have wings and shit. ehey whats with holly’s arms again

umm also.i think. sculptor looks into brainzz… those memories hold where the planets of all those aliens are ! so thats what the vault is for. direction s . and also just information on the civilization in general.

this isnt much of a theory but if ecliptica and sculptor can manipulate the memories of their own kind. can they do it for oscar. can they make him forget ward. and earth.

[starr-fall-knight-rise]

A Dark Invitation

https://www.patreon.com/empyreaniris?fan_landing=true

https://starr-fall-knight-rise.tumblr.com/post/182501791735/master-post

https://docs.google.com/document/d/1jzEIdDAB4omdO2JcQVMObfrhLJ5kX4ONmSsLypM1ks0/edit?usp=sharing.\

It was red who had intercepted the letter, sealed in a small envelope black as deep space, and penned in red ink like ruby droplets. The letter had been tucked away inside another smuggled shipment of individual void vials bathed gently in the hellish orange light which seeped up from the crate.

It had been several weeks since their arcadia delegate had intercepted a similar void vial found concealed in the desk of a government official, and also several weeks since their secret extra GA summit at Hathor. All around the galaxy tips were committing in from the different colonies, and their private sources about void vials cropping up in strange places: concealed in the shipment of goods, toothpaste, unrefined metal, semiconductors, and even concealed inside the spines of books. 

Whispers and hints of the void’s existence were cropping up everywhere, in all corners of the galaxy, and even though they had managed to stop the spread on a mass industrial scale, trying to stamp out the void entirely was like trying to clear a cockroach infestation, when the roaches clearly have concealed nests inside the walls.

Other than fumigating the entire galaxy, there wasn’t much they could hope to do.

The letter had been their first actionable piece of intel in some weeks, and by that time Adam had finally healed sufficiently from his surgery, for Krill to clear him, reluctantly, for duty.

It was a good thing too because inside the envelope was an invitation.

He could feel it even now  pressing against the fabric of his breast pocket as they strolled up the marble pathway and towards the temple of the Oracle in new Athens. All around them people in similar stages of dress were doing the same. The atmosphere around them was lively and excited, torches burned at the side of the pathway, and overhead a distant gas giant lit the night sky with a burning red hue circled by one or two distant moons.

With the gas giant as bright as it was, the torches probably wouldn’t have been necessary, but they did add a sense of exotic excitement for a crowd that came, primarily from off world, where the use of torches, and marble architecture was a thing of the history books.

No one paid them any attention

But still, Adam could feel a cool rivulet of sweat dripping down his back, reaching up, nervously, to adjust his mask.

At his side, he could feel maverick shift, through the point where their arms interlocked.

All around them humans and aliens of all different shapes and sizes crowded up the pathway, moving with the slow, and steady drip of ooze through a pipe. Waiters dressed in the traditional clothing of ancient Greece plied the party goers with strong drink  and trays of exotic food. The air around them practically buzzed with anticipatory excitement.

All Adam felt was dread.

Inside his breast pocket, the stolen invitation seemed to burn there, ready to seer a hole in his costume and mark him as an outsider, and he had to keep reminding himself that the only way to blend in was to act natural. If he felt guilty then he would act guilty.

The letter, now in his possession, had been an invitation to members members of something calling itself ‘True Darkness’ The nature of the group was, as of yet, mostly unknown, but there were several theories being bandied about by the analysts down at the Arcadia Intelligence Offices those of which included: cult, religion, break of political party, or upcoming terrorist organization.

The letter had given no real clues as it wasn’t any sort of urgent strategic communication, but an invitation to a masquerade ball at the temple of the oracle in new Athens. The letter had said nothing else, other than its existence was a requirement to attend the party. If it weren’t for the fact that the letter had literally been found in a box full of void joice, Adam would already have been suspicious.

New Athens was nest from which men and women,who fancied themselves philosophers, did most of their unoriginal thinking. Instead of philosophy, what came out of New Athens usually amounted to  contrarian politics and hedonism wrapped in philosophical superiority.

The only right way was the way that made you feel good.

A “philosophy” that Adam found personally insulting, and downright stupid.

Sometimes you had to do things that hurt for what was right. If Adam had a personal philosophy at all it was that the right thing was often the thing that was hardest. This wasn’t always the case of curse, because to pin very decision on such a simple statement was to ignore the true nature of life.

If Adam had done what was right, and what felt good at the time, he never would have joined the UNSC, become a pilot, met aliens, married Sunny or had a son. None of those things were easy, all of them required a lot of sacrifice and heartache, but he'd be damned if he would have given either of them up.

This easy way philosophy was the perfect breeding ground for people who were, lazy, rude, entititled, and stupid, though he didn’t see anyone here asking his opinion. In fact, he wasn’t really able to glean anyone’s opinions about anything. Adam’s ability to read minds was a fledgling ability, and crowds were almost impossible for him to read. If he wasn't careful, opening his mind was like opening the floodgates on a damn, too much information all at once spilling through a crack that was too small.

Overwhelming him

They would have to do this the old fashioned way.

And so they had come in disguise, he and Maverick, much to Sunny’s frustration, but she was still on doctor’s orders to take it easy. After their previous run in with the void, Sunny had experienced a pregnancy scare, which amounted to distress in the unborn twins, and a possibility of spontaneous misscarage or premature labor.

Adam would have taken fighting on his own against an army of a thousand to losing a baby, an opinion which she shared but hated the entire time. Instead he had chosen Maverick for this mission, with her connection to the void. Celex was here somewhere as well, but without an invitation, it was hard to tell how he planned on getting in.

They had come by way of a pirate shuttle, concealing their identities the whole way. Both of them wore matching silver masks in the shape of wolves. Maverick had tried on a cocktail dress and some heels for the occasion, but maverick was about as elegant as a flaming brick flying through a windowpane, and the awkwardness would have been noticeable from a mile away.

Martha, who was dressing them for the occasion, had switched her to a suit that matched Adam’s, and the awkwardness had abated. 

And now, here they were, arm and arm they strolled through the crowd, passing through a collage of colorful clothing and glittering jeweled masks. Full face maks were common, but not nearly as common as the simple half masquerade masks done in silk and feathers and fake gems. A few people wore only one quarter masks, leaving the rest of their faces exposed. Even the aliens had joined in on the strange human tradition, rundi, tesraki, Drev, Iotins, Gromm, and so on. Adam was shocked to find an entire delegation of Tricar, noticeable by their bushy white tails sticking up over their heads.

Whatever this was, it was far reaching.

They were ushered up the pathway and onto the Temple steps, following the slow river of bodies into the gardens surrounding the palace.

Wine flowed like water poured in generous drafts from clay decanters held by waiters, only partially dressed and specifically designed to be dangerously provocative. The men were bare chested, and the women were well on their way to becoming so. They wore feathers and their bodies glittered with oil and a light dusting of metallic glitter. While humans were the majority of the wait staff, there were others as well, Tesraki, and Drev and so on, all of them dressed or picked to entice.

Adam was sure that at least some of it was an illusion under cosmetics. But never had he seen so many rare colors on Drev in his life, pearl white, silver, gold, pink pearl, and even a shade not dissimilar to Sunny’s lightning blue. All of them were tall and painted with ceremonial Drev war paint. 

The Tesraki decorated themselves in jewelry, and other signs of wealth, moving and twisting to whatever effect would be best to show off their perceived riches, using their shiny baubles to attract others.

The crowd diffused its way through the gardens, sitting themselves on cushions  and clustering into small groups for smalltalk.  A lot of them seemed familiar with each other, but there were also plenty of introductions.

Just ahead, security was stopping each partygoer and asking for his or her letter.

Adam shifted uncomfortably.

As they made their way to the front of the crowd, Maverick accepted a drink from a smiling young man with dark eyes and golden body paint, while Adam held up the letter for the security guard to see. He ddn’t bother to speak, and the guard didn’t pester him further as he walked up the steps with Maverick in tow.

Voices drifted up towards the dark sky filling the air with the humm of white noise, indistinct both inside his head and outside.

Adam scanned the crowd.

“Recognize anyone.:” Maverick asked keeping her voice conversational.

Whispering was likely to draw attention, and in a crowd this rowdy, their voices were basically drowned out anyway, and concerns about being overheard were almost nil unless someone were to walk right in the middle of the two of them. 

Adam shook his head, “Not with the masks on, and even the quarter masks aren’t helping.”

“I suppose that was the point,” She said dumping her drink surreptitiously into a nearby, potted plant.

The last thing they needed right now was to be tipsy.

“What do we do? You don’t think this is just some paty.”

Adam shook his head, “No, no this is just buttering everyone up before the main event, probably a speaker, or hell, maybe even Kazna.”

“Wouldn’t that be just perfect.” maverick said, the sneer muffled, but still audible behind her mask, Adam knew the feeling, probably felt it even more poignantly than maverick. If there was any person in the world Adam hated it was his estranged mother-in-law.

“What do we do now.” Maverick asked, watching as a group of men walked by already laughing too loudly to be sober 

“Mingle I suppose, before we look stupid.” 

Maverick snorted, “Too late for that, you always look stupid” 

“Thanks for that.”

“Anytime.”

Together, the two of them made their way forward, nodding to the people they met, and slowly making their way towards a refrhesmentstation, where Adam was able to integrate them into a small group,, all of whom were listening to the words of a man at the far end, holding a champagne glass, and wearing a mask in strange purple leather, and sharp silver frills.

It took Adam a few minutes to recognize it as made from the skin of a Jeffery sake.

“I have looked extensively into the subject, and my research has led me to one simple truth, and that is the innate desire for nothingness and death. This truth has been evident for thousands of years, which we see in early Freudian psychology with the idea of Thanatos, or the ‘death instinct’ aggression, and anger leading us down a road of self destruction, which is an innate desire for all sentient species on a subconscious level. You should read my book, it really is an enlightening read about the true nature of the universe and our desire to return to the natural state of nothingness.” He sighed deeply as if imagining the face of his lover.

Adam was glad he was wearing a mask. Never in his life had he heard such a load of bullshit, and he had three brothers and one sister who had been excellent at producing bullshit at a moment’s notice.

Somewhere in the distance a bell rang, calling the attention of all the party goers, who began to move in a slow moving mass towards the temple doors.

What sat beyond remained to be seen. 

[gingerbreadmonsters]

[head in wip-soaked-hands]

everything has been piling up and i’ve missed THOUSANDS of tags - please accept my sincere apologies, in the form of this ultra-mega-super wip wednesday <333 thank you very very much to @autisticempathydaemon ​ @romirola ​ @zozo-01 ​ and @bicyclepainting ​ for your kind tags!!

5 wip excerpts for your perusal - as always, titles are subject to change, but i think you can see where i’m going with this, in 5 words or less :D

you’re the cat’s meow! - silent films are so boring

(a return to the world of motion capture, now in vivid technicolour and surround sound!)

(You couldn’t even move. They’d taken him away, and you hadn’t been able to do a thing to stop it. Disappearing through the door and he’d looked so… small. It hadn’t been right. Elliott had never seemed small before. Larger than life, like he’d stepped right out of the silver screen and into your arms, like the whole world melts away when he stops looking at it.)

(Maybe it’s true, after all. Maybe the world really does crumble away when he’s not there, and this is what it’s like to fall. You’ve never known what the world was like without Elliott. The golden snatches of his time, the sweet spotlight of his affection - now, you’re swept away in the scene change, and all is silent in the pitch-black of the wings. When’s your cue again?)

thicker than water - sibling rivalry just got bloody

You might think that it’s madness. That it’s like some crazed, bloodthirsty, animal state that descends upon them, that it’s like they’re totally different people. You’d be wrong. Both of them are perfectly, boringly sane when it happens. There’s no madness here, no delusion - just a brother and a sister who hate and hate and hate. She’s entirely rational when she tries to sever his spinal column with her teeth, he’s not confused about why he’s trying to rip her arm from its socket. Perhaps it runs in the family. Tearing each other apart comes naturally.

return to me - possible human experiments in limerence

You poor thing. If only, little trickster god. You put up a good fight, but alas - the metaphysical theory behind it disproves you.

But h-

We can talk about it later, dear. He’d pretend to examine the object label on the wall to your left, brushing off your misplaced concern - you don’t really need to hear him explain all that. Far too boring, far too dense and dull. A singular waste of time and effort, especially considering how precious little time he gets to spend with you as it is.

Marble and varnished wood and wrought iron. The museum is vast and full of fascinating things. Easily enough to fill an afternoon and then some. Take your time.

Walk with him.

Beauty, it is said, is in the eye of the beholder. Blake disagrees. Whoever said that had clearly never met you.

rose and cherry red - at last, it’s all complete

(He misses it sometimes, his hometown. When was the last time he went back? How long has it been since then? It might be the nostalgia talking, but he’ll tell you it’s a beautiful sort of place - a great blue sky stretching out every which way you look, long roads disappearing in the haze of heat, peaceful afternoons that last forever. There’s a good life to be had there, if you’ve got the temperament for it.)

(It hurts, but he knows he’ll never go back. That place belongs in the light of day, the heat of summer, the sun where he’s not welcome. He has no right to it, not any more - the car door cut it out of him, and it bled to death somewhere in the rain when he wasn’t looking.)

breathe me, baby - not quite the janitor’s closet

(note: in the style of the Great Purge, this one has had to be… modified slightly for the sake of this post. i can’t imagine why…)

“What’s our rule, lovely?”

Bastard.

You’d tell him, if you were capable of complex thought right now. His voice is smooth and dark, murmuring against your neck as you desperately try to form the words to reply, but the hand over your mouth makes it a little bit difficult to say anything.

“Say it, baby, or I’ll stop…” You can hear the smirk in his voice as he says it, a low whisper in your ear as his hand slides further around your waist, pitching your hips back even more and groaning as [?????]. “What’s the matter?” It’s all so much - your heart races at the silken scrape of his teeth across your pulse, not quite enough to break the skin as he kisses your shoulder.

“My poor little lovely. Scared someone’s going to hear?”

[ukdamo]

Oakland in Rain

Aria Aber

Years before ever seeing California, I wrote a story titled “Oakland in Rain.”  Rain served as an easy metaphor for the unexpected in a place 

known for abundance, and it provided a texture of melancholy.  The nameless protagonist—an exiled drunk who was, 

of course, a thinly veiled version of myself—  had lost her mind and believed the weather communicated with her: 

rain meant soberness, that she had been absolved of some sort of punishment.  Plagued by her wild inner life, I imagined her wandering the city, 

intent on getting lost in the Catholic cemeteries, where she took note   of lemons in the wet grass (an offering?), the sky, a hawk on a tree. 

But no matter where she went, nothing was ever quiet enough.  Despite my best efforts, the narrative was bleak; 

it lacked tension and a convincing resolution.  Now, why am I telling you all this? Well, one day I woke up 

and it had been raining in the Oakland of my actual life.  Outside my window, the cottonwood trees looked like the day before, 

but drops of water covered the few dead leaves that hadn’t fallen  all the way down and were caught between branches. 

It felt foolish to consider my fate, the idea of premonition.  Still, I put on my red coat and walked up the hill to the cemetery. 

As if I had invented it, there were lemons in the grass, palm trees  with browned leaves. Walking there, between the gravestones of strangers, 

a runner passed me, and a family who had come to bring flowers,  their faces animated, ruddy from the cold. And my life, I understood,  

was just like their lives—marked by ordinary rituals, exercise,   and theories about the body. Nothing was as opulent as I had imagined it 

back then, but just as I had needed it—the meaning of it all cold   and very still, like a marble pedestal engraved with an ancient, simple fact.

[aro-kai]

There is something in the crack between my door and the wall.

I watch it at night, watch the darkness breathe. It's a trick of the light, perhaps, of tired eyes and a mind too inclined to see the eerie in every corner. But I watch it, and it breathes, and I think I can see it growing, creeping outwards and up, a darker shade of grey. It's grown almost comforting, perhaps, and I tell myself that if it existed, if it wished me harm, it would've struck by now. All these long nights, it's still breathing, or my eyes are shifting as I'm breathing, and we lay here together.

I roll over and close my eyes to sleep. My spine is prickling. I roll back and stare at it some more.

Perhaps it is pulsing with my breath, I think, a question I have wondered many times before. It certainly appears to be, a calm companionship marbled with uncertain fear. I hold my breath, change the rhythm. In in out, in in out.

It continues the old pattern for a moment, that slightly too fast breath before sleep, before matching mine again. In in out, in in out. Pulse pulse fade, pulse pulse fade. I drop back consciously to slow, deep breaths, and with the customary hesitant lag, it joins me.

It's my brain playing tricks, I'm pretty sure. I can't be positive. The mind does strange things right before sleep, and that lag may only be what I've expected. It's just barely too fast to rely on with certainty, just barely too slow to dismiss.

The thing in the crack of the door rests there, following the slow deep breaths I'm working myself back towards. There's a kinship in it, that mimicry of breath, that life-sustaining essence. It's calming and strangely intimate, the two of us together in this dark and empty room, eyeing each other, breathing in time. It's how I would imagine a partner, snuggled close, shifting the blankets above as one being, one breath. I pretend a moment longer, ignoring the instinctive twining shiver of fear, that we are companions and it means me no harm.

And that it exists, of course.

I close my eyes and sleep, face to the door.

My dreams are strange and liquid as they have often been of late. A shivering darkness, a fear buried deep. It's stress from work, I think. That's the most logical theory when I'm awake, combined with an overactive imagination for the shadow in the crack of my door.

When I wake each morning, I hardly glance at it, brushing past for clothes and shoes and a strong cup of tea. I hardly think of it, mostly, except for when I do, and then it's so vivid I can touch it. At my desk, I imagine dipping my hand into the darkness of the drawer and feeling something reach up to hold it, creeping past my fingers and up along my arm. I can taste it, nearly, cool metal and liquid silk and ozone and bile and blood and something I can't name, something that burns like whiskey and sparkles like the fizz in a soda water. I wonder if I want it, a shiver of fear and a blessed apathy, a hope clinging to myself and a fear for the rest of my life, a life that feels meaningless if what it means is this.

I don't touch the drawer. Except, of course, when I do.

I am dreaming and I am breathing, and there is a great wave which is not a wave. It shimmers dark and iridescent, like some terrible thing. It's vivid and surreal and I think it is breathing, towering above me. We are breathing in time, the wave and me. It is larger than any building I have ever seen. It blots out the sun, the stars, the clouds, and I'm not sure if any of them were in the sky to begin with. I look closer and I think I see things inside, blurred figures that weep and sing and cry out, a symphony of feeling that is overwhelming, overpowering. I am shivering, and I suddenly feel that I am naked. It looks above me like a great eye, and the wave that is not a wave is moving, a great shuddering gasp that curls closer, tugs at my fingers as it closes in at my sides. It is taller now, and I am nearly encased. I stop trying to crane my head back. It's now too high to see the surface, and its shape is too close. I'm sprayed in seafoam that is not seafoam and gasping in fear, though even as I do I'm not sure what for. The singing is everywhere, and now that I can hear it closer I know that it and the weeping are the same, and there is an answering scream in my own chest. I am yearning, and something within me wants to tear my heart from my chest and plunge it deep into the wave. But I am so afraid.

I can't feel my chest enough to breathe, the screaming and yearning harsh behind my lungs. My hands are shaking and trembling and I can hardly stand up, would already have collapsed if the wave were not so close. I think if I knelt, if I tilted my head forward, it would be encased in the great and terrible wave which was not a wave, and the howl in my chest would join the chorus, and there is nothing I have ever wanted less and more.

The wave cries out in rage and sorrow, and my body shivers like I've been overtaken, overwhelmed, like a mimic of the resonance between two tuning forks. A scream finally forces its way out through my throat, and I howl in answer as it collapses around me.

Consciousness rushes violently upon me in the early dawn, my body and mind still trembling. I can hear my pulse in my fingertips, see sparks behind my eyes, feel a crackling along my veins. It's overwhelming, it's unbearable. There is a wailing in my chest, unheard, no longer able to force itself out past my clenched jaw. I am blinded, I am blazing, and with the corner of my mind that retains thought I think that I could never get over this, never brush past it. I think that I am forever changed, that perhaps this will be what pushes life back into mine.

By the time I reach work that morning, exhausted and fuzzy, my blood still fizzing, I wonder if I dreamt that too.

I collapse into bed that night spent and exhausted, hating my job, my life, my brain. I don't even bother to look at the crack in the door, fearing that I'll see it empty. I don't know what it would take to convince me it's real. I don't know what it would take to convince me of anything.

I have dark liquid dreams, a balm against my soul. But now I can hear an answering howl to the one in my chest, buried deep within the calming swirl. I'm shivering and afraid and struck by an awful awe, a burning. I wake up wishing to fall back into it.

My work day passes as a dream. After yesterday, nothing feels real. I lay in bed again, and close my eyes. I breathe, and imagine the door is breathing, and I feel or imagine I feel it brushing through my hair. I feel or imagine I feel it shifting my pillow, pressing a blinding shiver against my temples. I think I sob, pressing closer. The hairs on my neck are standing as my pillow moves again, or I think it moves. I feel overwhelming fear, but I want it more. I don't move except to breathe deeper the smell of cool metal, ozone, bile, blood, liquid silk. I shiver with the fizz of whiskey and soda in my brain, along my skin. My chest is howling, and I press closer to the real or imagined caress along my neck.

I feel it all around me in my dreams. I'm breathing it in, shaking, shivering. I feel myself as a speck in a towering wave, screaming from the inside for a brief taste before falling back out.

I can't make myself dive in again, no matter how I try, but I howl willingly this time, matching my voice to the chorus inside. I want it, and I am afraid.

I open my eyes to my room and see the thing in the corner. I'm overwhelmed--relief, fear, pain, and an all consuming wave of an emotion I can't name, one that shivers and screams and wails and yearns. It's bleeding out into the room, curling along the walls, and I think of the day before, and the day before that, and I never want to wake up and go to work again, to daydream of sliding my hand into the desk drawer when I have the thing I want here, in ozone and blood and cool metal and bile and silk. The shadow is solid and opening like arms, like the folds of a forbidden flower, and I have never been more afraid and I have never wanted anything more.

I want to feel my own scream in chorus, to have it torn out and suspended, to never have to pretend to my mockery of a life. I think that the thing in the shadow is perhaps the real life, that there’s nothing closer to living than the moments we share paralyzed in the dark.

It's pressed close against my bed now, inches from my nose. I'm trembling and gasping, feeling as naked as I had before the dream wave which was not a wave. I pull myself to a shaky kneel, eyes never leaving the thing before me. My skin is alight, and now that it's close I can see within, details I could never make out in dream. There are impressions of faces floating within it, howling grief and rage and hope. I can feel it watching me, gaze heavy, though I see no eyes.

I know suddenly that it won't force me, that to be subsumed takes my own consent. I could never take it back. I would never again be myself. But I think that I don't care. I think that I could endure anything for this, a chorus for the wild howling in my soul.

It shimmers around me, and I don't look at the bed below, at my human hands, at the room beyond.

I bow in, and I am alive.