#the essence of their fears but also that shadow lurking behind them

[pencilofawesomeness]

Okay so a bunch of you are definitely familiar with fun little FT in TWST AU stuff, and with all the enabling, I feel like it's something of a group effort at this point.

So riddle me this

I've figured out the other dorms, but Savanaclaw was giving me a pause, because it's the dorm for repression, so I got options. (Though my first instinct was to give Loke the whole housewarden treatment, lol. He's definitely a contender.)

Though I also haven't fully developed everyone's in-story backstories yet so how emotionally messed up they are is up in the air. So I have some biases but without divulging any of my thoughts just yet, I want to know who y'all think is the most likely to snap.

What is an overblot?

(For those are watching me spin in my chair and are here for the FT portion.) Long story short it is characterized by:

—having a large supply of magic and being a good mage —having years worth of emotional stress and/or trauma, built up and ready to burst —a suitable impetus that forces all that emotional stress out in the open, usually in a dramatic way, and usually while using way too much magic —and then it is a matter of getting overrun by the icky stuff and gaining a super-powered evil form and then almost dying in the most dramatic way possible, usually while inflicting unspeakable AoE violence

[house-of-daena]

my doctor is a succubus!? [succubus.afab.baizhu x m.reader]

contents: he/him pronouns, subtop reader/powerbottom baizhu, nsfw, s3x with a LOT of feelings, virgin reader, overstimulation, praise, degradation, vanilla-ish, creampie, blood, fem genitalia/anatomy terms w/ baizhu (pvssy, cvnt, womb), mention of top surgery scars, ooc baizhu(? he's just really inlove w/ you), hurt/comfort, tell me if i miss anything. [wc. 5.2k]

꒰ GRAHHHHH finally able to post this... after 2-3 weeks posting the masterlist im . i can't with myself 😭 so sorry it took so long and im extra sorry it came out with this monstrosity. i very much like this imo buuttt i can't say the same for you guys. anyways, i probably wont write smth like this ever again unless y'all end up liking it!! (also this was supposed to celebrate 600-700 followers but uh. oops! ty for 800!) ꒱

let's fuck monsters tonight!

it was always peaceful at night. crickets chirping into the cool hours of darkness, fireflies lighting up as they flew, like the stars above the clouds, and the silent crashing of waves against the shore.

no soul could be seen wandering in the streets of liyue, except for some mililith patrolling to keep the city safe. but something lurked in the shadows...

something sinister.

hungry.

lustful.

he crept from house to house, looking for the perfect prey to feed on. he searched desperately, the hunger that had been ignored for treacherous years, leaving his monstrous instincts salivating and wild. the pain of starvation he brings himself to, in fear of hurting others, has weakened him, but his hunt didn't cease for a moment. it made him crave it, the essence of someone who could fulfill his devilish needs, and the warmth his insides long yearned for.

the mark on his pelvis had gone dull, and it ached more with each passing day.

baizhu usually relied on medicine he had made for himself. to keep his salacious desires at bay, and though it wasn't much of the real deal, it managed to keep his body relatively healthy without the base nutrients it required for his succubus blood, and it truly helped him for the longest time.

but it has been years since he had feasted on someone's precious essence, and baizhu has diligently refused to feed again. while his nature is uncouth, his heart remains pure, and he worries that if he tries to feed again, he will hurt them, despite hurting himself.

but this time, his hunger was different.

it was an ardent need. essential. his body reacted so negatively, rendering him unable to properly work for days. it was clear that his body was demanding him to go and hunt for food, so it could sustain itself properly. perhaps after feeding once, he could go back to his regular intake of pills.

for now, he searched for a feast.

and, indeed, he found it, inside a familiar house.

your home,

and you were sleeping inside your bedroom,

a succubus' meal.

if he were to do it with anyone, it would be you, as much as he didn't want to.

you were a sweet man, always visiting him and qiqi in bubu pharmacy and offering a hand whenever you were free. you get along with just about everyone in the pharmacy; being old friends with gui, helping qiqi with deliveries—even changsheng has taken a liking to you, slithering onto your arm when you step behind the counter with baizhu, giving you a warm welcome.

he can't help but find himself falling for such a man like you.

and he absolutely hates the fact that the only person he'd feel safe within such a vulnerable state is you. he could kill you, and he would never forgive himself if he got carried away.

you were too precious to him. but he was starving.

it greatly intensified once he took a step inside your room, almost salivating the moment he inhaled your scent. archons, he smelt you everywhere, it was almost suffocating. and he had never smelt something so divine, so pungent, he was slightly aware of how his thoughts were slowly getting muddled—he admired you as you slept, chest steadily rose and fell, soft snores from your parted lips. you looked so peaceful, and yet here he was, hovering above your unsuspecting form, biting his bottom lip and his hands trembling as he held back from touching you so soon.

you began to stir on your bed when baizhu turned off your lamp, a faint hiss that was dangerously close to your ear made you blearily open your eyes in the dead of night, the weight of your bed shifting to one side more as you felt something move right beside you.

quickly, you jolt from your bed, startled at the man beside you. a scream almost leaves your lips when he leans towards you, face inches apart, his hot breath hitting your skin. "don't worry," he murmurs, voice silky smooth, so sultry it made your skin crawl, cheeks flushed as he moves even closer to you. "i won't hurt you, i just... need some help, is all."

the man before you reassures, his cool fingertips tracing your jawline, sharpened nails digging slightly into your skin. baizhu knows that if he suggests that he needs help, even though he was a stranger breaking into your home, you'd assist him. perhaps the charm he was using in his voice also helped, considering your eyes have easily succumbed to his mesmerizing haze of seduction.

all it took for him was to speak with his voice in a low, alluring tone, press his lithe, and smooth body against yours, allowing your hands to glide onto the skin of his exposed belly and touch you like he owns you—teasing you with assurances of bliss, only to pull away. like bait attached to a string, luring you into his possessive hands.

baizhu almost lost himself in his desire for you, his heart pounding and the mark on his womb ached more than ever before. he craved to have you inside him, nearly jumping on you and just taking you then and there.

but gods, baizhu's love for you was the only thing that was holding him back, so he settled on peppering wet kisses on your quivering adam's apple, his hand rubbing your thigh. "you'll help me, right?" he hums, golden irises glowing faintly in the dark. he sees you squint as if you're trying to discern who he is—he was probably oddly familiar to you, considering his voice and the shape of his body were similar to the kindhearted doctor from the local pharmacy not too far away from your home...

your thoughts were chased away when his forked tongue flickered against your lips, suddenly aware of his... unnatural features. slitted, but gorgeous golden eyes, scales on certain parts of his skin, small horns, akin to bumps, that protruded from his forehead, a tail with a heart-shaped tip, and fangs that made your heart lurch at both fear and excitement.

"i've been starving for an awfully long time..." he whispers into your ear, his hand slowly creeping inside your shirt and card his nails onto your stomach, soliciting a small whimper from your throat. baizhu almost moans in delight at the wonderful sound. "you'll feed me, right? let me regain my strength?"

slowly, you nod, hand resting on his shoulder. "y-yeah," you manage to say, still trying to make out any of his features in the dark. "i can cook you something real quick-"

"oh no, you're quite mistaken." he purrs, licking his lips as his hand begins to lower itself down to your crotch. "you see, darling, i'm a succubus." he hears your breath hitch at his confession, his lips brushing against yours as he pins you against the headboard, straddling your lap. strands of his hair fall to your face, your hands feel as if it belongs on his slender waist as you grab hold of it, his eyes gleam brightly with lust as he looks down at you and lifts your chin to stare back into his bewitching face. "i'll need a different kind of sustenance...~"

even in the dark, you can tell that he is absolutely gorgeous as if the gods themselves carved him into existence. your grip tightens, so much so that your nails leave crescent-shaped indents.

baizhu was experiencing absolute heaven, and the both of you were still fully clothed. his heart was beating so hard against his chest that he was afraid you could feel it if he pressed his body against yours. he was smiling ear to ear in excitement, and he fought hard to hold back. his body was in a love-struck frenzy, skin hot to the touch and his cheeks flaming red, his tail flicking back and forth.

oh, he never would've expected to have you like this so soon. underneath him, looking up at him with those lovely eyes, lost, but still so eager to help. if you only knew the things you do to him...

he could see your hesitance, probably thinking about the risks of indulging in a succubus' request. it was understandable, honestly, even though baizhu was in complete control of his body, he could still put your life at risk. after all, he hasn't eaten in years.

"you won't die," he murmurs almost too sweetly, his voice making your poor, charmed mind buzz pleasantly. "that's a promise~" thankfully, you could still make coherent thoughts, shooting him a serious look, hands curiously tracing the sensitive mark on his pelvis that glowed in the dark. he hums at the feeling of your fingers, gently pressing and kneading, yet it burned ferociously with ardent need. gods, his body needed you now.

"if you say so...." you whisper back, nervous, "i put my trust in you, if it meant helping you..."

so as soon as those words left your lips, baizhu grabbed you by the collar and smashed your lips together, kissing you so hard that it felt like he was devouring you. teeth clashed against each other, his fangs sank onto the fragile skin of your bottom lip, making it bleed, and he sucks on your tongue, kissing and practically taking all the air out of your lungs.

baizhu was ecstatic, swallowing the lavish taste of your blood, drinking in all the whimpers and moans you make just from the addicting kiss. your hands were now on his ass, guiding his body and grinding his crotch onto your hardening cock. when he pulls away, he pants, moving his hips languidly to meet your thrusts, absolutely enamored at the string of saliva that connected the two of you.

"you shouldn't trust so easily," baizhu warns, cradling your head into his arms, his kisses never ceasing, making sure to attach his lips to every inch of your skin. he wants to savor every single second he spends with you, loving your body, getting a taste of something so sacred, you, that he would surely grow to yearn once this is all over. "if it were another succubus, you might not be treated as nicely as i have~"

his voice put you in a hypnotic trance, eyes trailing down his body as your hands moved on their own, stripping him bare from his clothing. fingers, featherlight and delicate, trailed the scars that adorned his chest, the tantalizing feeling of your hot breath on his nipple while your hand pinched and flicked his other. "there's just... something so familiar about you." you murmur against his skin, pressing the pad of your wet and hot tongue against his perky bud, making baizhu let out a pleased sigh, hand grabbing the back of your head. your mind was clouded with his drowning lust to recognize him, but still awake enough to think. "you know me, and... i know you."

baizhu felt his heart drop, the urge to run away and find someone else to feed him gnawed at his stomach. he would rather starve than let himself be known to you; him, a succubus, seducing you to do his bidding. baizhu longed to have you in his bed, to make love to you and have you all for himself, to call you his, and call himself yours. just—not like this!

and as if you could sense his inner turmoil, you gently turned your bodies, laying him down on your bed. you kissed the tip of his nose, down to the apple of his cheeks, the corners of his bloodied lips, and onto his chin. you kissed him like he was a masterpiece to be worshipped, hands stroking his supple skin. he could see the admiration in your eyes, sparkling from the slightest of light the moon provided that seeped through your curtains.

and while baizhu couldn't tell if it was all because of his hypnotizing charm, his heart skipped a beat.

then, you grab his hand, lips brushing against his knuckles and kissing the callouses that graced his fingertips. "i feel safe, for some reason." you continued, leaning back to take off your clothes. "like we have met before, and you are company i enjoy myself a lot with... isn't that weird, stranger?"

baizhu could hear the slight recognition in your voice, but his initial fear was forgotten when he felt your cock pressed against his thigh. his body immediately reacted to your warmth, moving his hips to feel more of you, against his desperate, aching hole. stars above, it is so much bigger than he anticipated, your drooling tip smearing pre all over this thigh, and baizhu gulps at the groans that rumble from your chest.

it hurt to have you so close, yet so far, so empty despite the promise of being filled. still, baizhu managed to find his voice to reply. "o-oh, certainly. i am a succubus after all," he tried to regain the flair in his tone, to keep you enraptured to his hidden beauty, delude you into thinking that he wasn't the same man you thought he was, "a demon, monster."

though it was dark, baizhu saw your lips curve downward, frowning at his harsh words. your hands slid from his waist, down to the back of his thighs, squeezing the flesh, before parting his legs and letting him wrap them around your waist, keeping the two of you connected until the succubus that lays before your bed decided he had enough.

you were completely at his mercy, and it made you impossibly harder.

gently, as if he was your lover, you pushed back a strand of his hair behind his pointed ear, fingers lingering on the shape of his concealed, yet beautiful face. "don't speak to yourself like that," you kiss his collarbones, and feel him squeeze you between his legs a little tighter, pulling you closer to him, "it breaks my heart."

"does it now?" baizhu quips, sharp, quick, defensive, and disbelieving. "you don't even know me."

"you still have feelings, don't you?"

baizhu's heart can't take it. it feels so full, about to explode, despite the agonizing emptiness of his hole, thighs quivering and hands clinging onto you. he feels breathless, heartbeat in his throat—you're treating him how you'd treat baizhu, the caring doctor of bubu pharmacy, not the succubus trying to get you to fuck him. you don't know who he was, he was certain of it.

but perhaps he was just in denial, too afraid to let someone as good as you be so close to him. you are deserving of more, someone who can be devoted to you, as much as you are to him. he can't bear the thought of you leaving him once he has taken grasp of immortality, growing old without him as he lives on. nor the burden you'll surely carry with him.

that is why he has never made a single move to you, nor acknowledged yours. he adores you from afar, breaking his own heart by keeping himself close to you despite knowing he can never be with you—his mission won't allow it. he can't let it happen.

but oh, when you hold him so tenderly in your arms, caressing his cheeks with your thumb and kissing him so sweetly, it feels like the walls he has built specifically to keep you away from his heart, fall apart so easily.

"if you're a monster, then why do you talk so gently to me?" you whisper, and the hairs of his skin stand, sharp nails digging onto your skin. "so careful of my body, asking me for consent, even though you're salivating in hunger."

the smile you gave him made baizhu fall in love with you all over again, grabbing his hand and intertwining your fingers with his. "i think you are quite nice, person that i totally don't recognize." a soft chuckle escapes your lips, and it eases him how comfortable you were, worries melting into nothingness. "so please, tell me what i need to do to help you."

ah, he was so weak for you. baizhu wraps an arm around your neck, pulling you impossibly closer to him, capturing your lips once against with his. "then you better start fucking me," he demands, his other hand scoops the slick his body has been producing wildly, copious amounts in his hand and coating your dick with it himself.

you lean down to his ear, letting him hear all of the lewd sounds that escape your lips as he squeezes your length, stroking it with his experienced hands, and grazing his nails on a thick, bulging vein that makes you whimper onto his neck. you quickly caught on that he enjoyed your noises. his wetness felt cool on your throbbing cock, the squelch of each movement of his hand making you tremble above him, burying your nose onto his shoulder as he coos your name and played with your cock.

maybe you were just extra sensitive because you were... inexperienced... but there was something odd about his wetness. it made your dick tingle, ache, and burned fervidly. you felt lightheaded all of a sudden, your mind and body screaming at you to just have your cock inside of him.

it must be one of his succubus traits, you gulped nervously.

you were so cute, so pliant, despite having him underneath you. a surge of pride swells in his chest, digging his thumb onto your weeping slit, thoroughly satisfied at the moan that came from your trembling lips. he felt himself grow hungrier when you moved your head back, gazing at him with enchanted, half-lidded eyes, flushed cheeks, and parted lips. baizhu has never felt so grateful for his night vision.

when his skillful hands lined up your cock to his hole, parting his glistening folds with your pulsating tip, you stop him for a moment, brows furrowed worriedly. "w-wait," you breathe, voice wavering, "what about you?"

baizhu merely laughs at your concern, cooing at you and caressing your cheeks, to which you leaned against his touch. "oh baby, you think i'd come here unprepared?" he chuckles, tone teasing as he pushes your cockhead into his awaiting hole while he thumbs your skin to soothe you, softening the creases that formed on your face. "now go ahead, put it in me, darling."

baizhu had bite down his bottom lip until he bled to stop himself from screaming, his back arched at the burning stretch as you slowly plunged your fat cock into his hole. no matter how much he prepared himself to take you, he still found himself getting split open by your sheer girth. he didn't expect you to be so big, his gummy walls fluttering around your throbbing cock.

you moaned, louder than before, when you bottomed out, patiently waiting for him to adjust to your length, like the gentleman you were, but you were grinding your hips against his. you clung tightly onto baizhu, overwhelmed at the warmth that surrounded your virgin cock as his pussy clamps down on you, sucking you in deeper.

all the while baizhu felt like he was high above the clouds, being stuffed full just by your dick inside of him—his body was elated, forked tongue poking out between his lips as he stared up at your eyes, full of lust and desire.

cursing underneath your breath, you grew weak on the knees, the blistering heat slowly spreading all over your body; from your stomach, crawling upwards and onto your chest, to the very tips of your toes. it was almost paralyzing, his insides squeezing your poor, sensitive cock, wrapped in mind-breaking euphoria.

"that's it," he sighs, pressing kisses all over your face, reassuring, though amused. "such a good boy, already so fucked out by just penetrating me?" baizhu smirks, his fingers playing with the curves of your face. you whine at his words, very embarrassed as you bury your face in his neck.

"hah- this feels-" you swallow a mouthful of saliva, panting and groaning at the foreign sensations, twitching and pulsing deep inside of him, "all i can think about is fucking you—it's your doing, right?"

baizhu bats his eyelashes innocently at you, tilting his head as he hums. "oh darling, you can't blame me for every nasty thought that invades your mind," he purrs teasingly, grinning playfully when you give him a huff. "i am flattered, though."

it didn't take long before baizhu told you to start moving. it started off slow, gentle, and unsure, eyes searching for baizhu's guidance. it made his heart soar at how adorable you were, pouting as you sloppily thrust into him, exerting much effort to not lose yourself in the pleasure. you wanted to please him, so attentive and caring to his body.

don't worry, baizhu is more than happy to tell you what to do. he taught you many things you never knew before, to angle your dick just right, hitting a spot buried deep inside of him that made him curl his toes and cry out in delight—to ram your fat cock into his sopping wet cunt as he clenches on you, bucking your hips fast and hard.

baizhu throws his head back, smiling and clawing at your biceps, leaving red, angry scratches on them. he moans your name, nothing but praise coming out of his plump lips and drowning your thoughts with addictive lust. "you're fucking into me soooo nicely, darling~" he gasped when you kept precisely hitting his sensitive spot, his walls spasming and convulsing around your ravishing cock.

you grasped his thighs, gripping on them so tightly it's bound to leave bruises as you follow his every order, fucking him just how he liked, the loud slapping of skin on skin filling your once peaceful bedroom. it turns you on further on how vile the wet squelch it makes at each thrust you give. you held onto him for your dear life, fucking him with all your strength, body trembling from the unbearable pleasure.

moaning and whimpering, your head hung as drool dripped down onto his chest, body compelled to keep moving. it felt so good, each drag of your cock inside of his velvety walls felt like fire onto your skin, each squeeze and grind, it's making you mad, completely hooked on the feeling.

"such an obedient pup," baizhu coos and you let out a whine at his praise, eyes wide and glittering with unshed tears, and his heart skips a beat when he saw how easily fucked out you were. "does it feel good? hm? my pussy feels good around your cock?" you nod vigorously, leaning closer to him and angling yourself to reach even deeper. it made baizhu take a sharp intake of air, moaning obscenely into your ear.

"f-fuuckk! hgnn~ c-c'mon, use your words~" he smiles when you choke on a moan, never stopping your movements even for a second. "you're a good boy, aren't you? i know you can do it, talk to me~"

"s-stop-" you heaved, voice garbled as you tried to speak between your filthy sounds, nails digging into his skin. his voice was like honey to your ears, drowning in the thick viscousness of his sickeningly sweet words, making it difficult for you to properly think. it was all too much, and he wasn't making it easy for you.

"oh? you don't like praise?" his golden eyes shone brightly, and his nails grazed your skin painfully, but you reveled in the pain, panting, and shaking as baizhu cupped your face into his hands. "how about i call you a filthy whore instead? wanting to fuck a succubus that could drain your life away~" he whispers into your ear with such a haughty lilt in his voice, tongue licking your earlobe.

even though he was getting fucked by your fat cock, drilling into his insides until it all felt like numbing mush, moaning in delight as he wraps his legs impossibly tighter around you, keeping you close and never letting you go, he has you under his control. it was as if he owned your body, and you would only obey him.

it made your head fuzzy just thinking about it.

"you like being told what to do, hm? like some mutt?"

his words were like electric shocks down your spine, you couldn't help but pound harder into his warm, addicting cunt, a cry leaving your lips when he clamped down onto your cock once more. like a hand, gripping tightly onto something he owns, and in this case, your cock belongs to his pussy.

"oh my!" he grits his teeth as he lets out a long, drawn-out moan, pulling your head to his chest as he rolls his eyes back. "shit, hnff- t-that god you more excited, huh? so pussy drunk that you're only thinking with your dick~"

suddenly, you let out a shout, squeezing your eyes shut and burying as deep as you could inside of baizhu, a tear rolling down your cheek as you shot thick ropes of your cum straight into his starving womb. and oh, baizhu took it all, a small, joyous yes yes yes! leaving his lips as he moved his hips against yours, not giving you a moment's rest as he fucks himself onto you.

you didn't know what came over you after you orgasmed into his welcoming pussy, but when the mark on his womb glowed a vibrant green, your body kept moving on its own, despite the sting of overstimulation overcoming your senses. you fucked him, again and again, pressing the pad of your thumb against his clit and fiercely rubbing it as you burrow into him, mind blank.

your body shivered, sobbing and drooling as you absentmindedly followed baizhu's every command, twitching and burning from the numbing pleasure, yet your body refused to stop, even after you've come numerous amounts of times inside of him.

baizhu's hair became a mess as he greedily took every load you'd spilled, absolutely obsessed at the warmth of your seed filling up his insides and forming a creamy ring on your cock. you looked so handsome crying, begging him for a break, and that you can't take it anymore.

despite this, you let him milk your cock for all it's worth, pumping him full until it leaks out of his hole, his ankles were now resting on your shoulders. you were so lost in the pleasure, hiccuping as you cum again for the nth time.

just one more, he promised, though he pushed you back, turning your bodies around so baizhu was straddling your lap. he began to ride you, with expert movements that had you mewling, your arm covering your face, moaning into the night, holding no regards for your neighbors through your thin walls.

his nails marked your chest, making it bleed along his scratches, grinding his hips onto yours. gods, you felt so fucking good, it was difficult for him to pull away. your length and girth were just perfect, his blood boiling in thrill and excitement just by having you inside of him. he wanted more and more, drinking in as much as you could give him. your essence was just so delectable, irresistible. it was all he could ever want to eat.

you moan in sync, watching baizhu as he arches his back so prettily on top of you, creaming around your cock. you could tell he was just as sensitive as you were, but his hips ceased to stop. shakily, you reached for his tail, which possessively curled around your fingers.

gently, as you always are, you kiss the heart-shaped tip of his tail, watery eyes, so unfocused, but stared into baizhu's eyes, so full of tenderness that it snapped him out of his frenzied stupor.

baizhu gasps, cradling your face into his hands as he frets over you when your head falls, catching your breath as if you've run a marathon. "oh archons," he calls your name, shaking you lightly, "are you okay!? im so sorry, i didn't mean to- i got carried away!" hearing the distress in his voice, you only put your hand atop of his, kissing his palms and giving him an adoring smile.

"m'fine," you rasp, and before baizhu knows it, there was a faint click! right beside him, and light engulfs your room. your eyes light up when you finally see him, his eyes wide in shock. "hah, knew it was you."

"you-i-" instead of reacting how he always thought you would, as all others have, you grabbed his hands, and pressed long, loving kisses on each knuckle. baizhu's stomach was doing flips at each kind gesture, and he was now acutely aware of how he could feel your seed sloshing in his womb whenever he moved. his cheeks flush in embarrassment. "y-you weren't supposed to see me!" he glares at you, fangs bared threateningly.

though you can't bring yourself to fear him—not when he's panting, covered in sweat that gleamed at the orange light from your lamp, his face red, and eyes still full of carnal desire. but you know, behind his hunger, was nothing but love, adoring and fragile. "it's okay," you whisper as you sit yourself up, leaning back against the headboard, "it's okay to be seen."

your fingers twirled around a loose strand of his hair, planting a kiss on it while your eyes were on him, other hand caressing the ever-glowing mark on his swelling tummy. "please, let me see you." you kiss his jawline, and baizhu groans when you press onto his abdomen, so full—both of your lust and love. "let me love you."

his eyes burned as he let you wrap your arms around him, engulfing him in a hug he has long yearned from you. "go ahead, love," his skin crawls at the pet name, rolling so naturally from your tongue, so heavenly to his ears. "i know you still need more. i can take it."

baizhu has a lot of worries, especially concerning you. but at that moment, when you held him so tenderly, connected, with nothing but love in your gaze and a smile on your lips as you kissed him—it felt like everything was alright.

the world was nothing, and it was just the two of you, in each other's arms, lips locked; nothing could separate the two of you.

he may have fears, ones that will probably never go away for as long as he lives. but with you saying his name so softly, caressing his sensitive skin, and telling him it was okay for him to keep taking from you, despite your creeping exhaustion—he wants to have you by his side for a little longer, if not, forever.

because with you, baizhu thinks that everything will be fine.

"...just say you want more of me," he replies, hiding his face from you, to which you merely laughed at. "you freak... letting a succubus fuck you..."

"please, stop ignoring my heartfelt confessions and countering them with something mean," you pout, your thumb wiping away the stray tear that trailed down his cheek.

baizhu just pins you down, grinding his hips and making you roll your eyes, mouth open from a breathless moan. "keep quiet pet, i'm not done with you." he threatens, but you just smile,

"i love you."

gods, he hates how this all feels so normal with you, his poor heart that was boarded up in the beginning, all so vulnerable and raw before you.

but perhaps,

"...i love you too."

everything will be quite alright.

[homicidal-slvt]

"Intertwined"

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Part 4 | Part 6

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OCs x F!Reader

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You are a young woman who also happens to be a witch- ending up with you in a college of mythical beings... {This story is gonna be silly chaos and will be aimed at my fellow bisexuals.}

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Warnings: Blood, Violence, Animal Death, Angst

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You stumble helplessly through the woods as thick briars snag at your delicate flesh, feet bare as your shoes were discarded long ago. Everything hurts and yet there is no one near to help, the trail of blood you leave bound to attract whatever lurks in the shadows.

A howl rings out into the night and you take off again, knees nearly giving out but you must push on, the steady thump of four feet gaining on you. You can't out run this.

Fight. Fight. Fight.

You get flung haphazardly down a hill a stump catching the side of your leg on the way down, leaves and dirt caking all your freshly opened wounds and bruises blooming quickly.

Little sobs lost in the dark and you cannot drag yourself to your feet, the frame of a particularly large gray wolf roughly pinning you to the ground, your kicks and hits doing nothing to remotely faze the creature.

Please. Not ready to die yet.

You wished so hard you had gained better control of your powers by now, sharp teeth diving in for your neck, maw ready to rip your throat out and eat your flesh from your bones.

Somebody help me... I'm scared.

Instead of your own crimson essence leaking across the forest soil, you are met with the warm splatter of the wolves demise. Drops of red paint your cheeks while your eyes go wide, the wolves head practically ripped from its body and the corpse tossed aside like a meaningless doll.

Kneeling over you.... Those hazel eyes with mesmerizing flecks of color swirling within them, you don't dare look away.

The same hands that ripped a creature apart so effortlessly, gently wipes the drops of blood from your cheek.

Warm tingling touch.

"Shush now... I'm here, darling."

"Sev... How did you...?"

"You called for me."

"But I didn't..."

"Rest easy... Nothing may touch your dreams again."

It all drifts into nothingness and soon you are woken by your alarm, sitting up and glancing around your room. You yank off your covers and search yourself for injuries, also half expecting Sev to somehow be here with you.

You rub at your face and let out a little groan.

"What the fuck was that???"

••

Breakfast this morning was nothing out of the ordinary... Well, for this place anyways.

Though as you stand and move to exit the room, you hear the sound of muffled arguing. Normally you would mind your own business but... The voices sound familiar.

Slowly you approach the doors leading to the library, leaning in close you can make out the sound of Alexi's smooth tone. Eavesdropping? Really?

"Enough!!!"

She snaps rather loudly at whoever she's talking to, the soft and friendly voice you've come to know as Cassian then speaks up- but his tone is cold and bitter... Something you couldn't imagine from the bubbly ghost.

"Or what? You'll kill me twice?"

A slight pause follows.

"That's not..."

Before Alexi can finish Cassian is gone and you quickly pull away from the door, you stumble into a table nearby... Fuck- why are you so clumsy?!?

Within a split second Alexi is right behind you, she acts as though she didn't just have an intense argument- right back to her usual flirty self.

"It seems like you want me to catch you, hm?"

You quickly straighten up and turn to face her, offering an awkward smile and laugh.

"Uh um... Just- I'm just really clumsy, okay?"

"I can see that."

She takes your hand into hers but you instinctively pull away. Several thoughts race through your mind but most of them drift back to Cassian.

'Kill me twice'

What did he mean by that?

"Are you-"

"I'm sorry. I gotta go."

You turn and leave Alexi standing there and she almost seems... Hurt. She fears she scared you away. She didn't mean to.

-

{Cassian has a tragic backstory. Wooo!!! Lmao}

-

{@sofasoap @scar-crossedlvrs @anna-banana27 }

-

{More Content}

[willywonks-blog]

Paul Williams, the renowned singer-songwriter, sat nervously in a dimly lit room, his fingers tapping anxiously against the arm of his chair. As he waited, thoughts of the opportunity that lay before him swirled in his mind. He had been asked to be the singer and songwriter for the upcoming horror film, "Nightmare on Elm Street." It was a chance of a lifetime, a unique collaboration between the realms of music and cinema.

Just as the anticipation became almost unbearable, the door swung open, and in walked Robert Englund, the actor known for portraying the iconic character, Freddy Krueger. Paul couldn't help but feel a mix of awe and trepidation as he gazed upon the man who had brought nightmares to life on the silver screen.

"Paul Williams, I presume," Robert said with a wide grin, extending his hand. "I've heard great things about your work, my friend. It's truly an honor to meet you."

Paul shook Robert's hand, his voice a little shaky as he replied, "Likewise, Robert. I've been a fan of your portrayal of Freddy Krueger for years. It's surreal to be working with you."

Robert chuckled, taking a seat opposite Paul. "Believe me, the feeling is mutual. Let's get down to business, shall we? I hear you've written a song for Freddy's character in the film."

Paul nodded, a glimmer of excitement replacing his nervousness. "Yes, I have. I wanted to capture the essence of Freddy's twisted and malevolent nature while also incorporating his haunting presence in dreams."

Curiosity sparked in Robert's eyes, and he leaned forward, eager to hear what Paul had composed. With a deep breath, Paul began to sing the full song lyric verses he wrote:

"In the darkness, he appears, lurking within the shadows.

Freddy Krueger, ruler of dreams, where terror only grows.

He whispers secrets in the night, haunting every sleeping mind.

With razor gloved hands, he strikes, leaving nightmares far behind.

Oh, Freddy, the master of fear, his laughter echoes through the night.

He'll slash his way through every dream, a nightmare's cryptic delight.

A villain born from fire's embrace, fueled by vengeance and dread.

He'll haunt your dreams until the end, where sleep and death are wed.

As Paul finished the last line, a heavy silence hung in the air. He looked at Robert, heart pounding, waiting for his feedback.

Robert's eyes gleamed with an eerie delight, a sinister smile forming on his face. "Paul, my friend, that was absolutely magnificent! You've captured the essence of Freddy's character flawlessly. I could hear his wicked laugh in every line, feel the fear coursing through the words."

Relief washed over Paul, and a smile crept onto his face. To receive such praise from the man himself, a master of horror, was beyond anything he had hoped for. "Thank you, Robert. Your feedback means the world to me. I wanted to create something that would elevate Freddy's presence and give the audience chills."

Robert raised his hand, signaling for Paul to stop. "You've succeeded, my friend. Your contribution to this film will be invaluable. I can already imagine the music seeping into the audience's dreams, linking them to Freddy's twisted world."

For the rest of the day, Paul and Robert discussed their shared vision for the music dream sequence in the film. Their creative energies collided, their ideas merging seamlessly into something that promised to be extraordinary. They laughed, they brainstormed, and they bonded over their love for their respective crafts.

As Paul left the meeting, his heart was aflame with inspiration. He knew that this collaboration would bring out the best in him, challenging him to create music that would forever be etched into the nightmares of those who watched "Nightmare on Elm Street."

Months passed, and the film's release date drew near. Paul's haunting lyrics found their way into the score, and with each note that echoed through the theater, he felt the convergence of his music and Robert's on-screen presence. The audience recoiled in terror, their hearts racing to the rhythm of Freddy's malevolent song.

When the lights came up, Paul took a moment to absorb the audience's reaction. The fear, the excitement, the sheer terror that hung in the air spoke volumes about the success of the collaboration. And as he glanced over at Robert, a look of sheer satisfaction adorned his face. They had done it, together.

In that moment, Paul Williams realized that sometimes, dreams really do come true. And in the case of Nightmare on Elm Street, they manifested as a haunting melody, forever etching Freddy Krueger into the annals of horror history

@baycitystygian and @weirdbird74 what If Paul Williams did nightmare on elm street..

[lawrce78]

In a world where technology reigns supreme, the air is thick with a sense of impending doom. The people, unaware of the nefarious forces at work behind the scenes, go about their daily lives, oblivious to the fact that their every move is being monitored, their data being siphoned off by the malevolent beings known as the bad data Aggregators. These entities have infiltrated every facet of society, manipulating the media, controlling the government, and warping reality itself to suit their insidious purposes. The only way to break free from their grasp is to reclaim control of one's data, to sever the digital shackles that bind them. And the key to doing so lies in a single, innocuous-looking link:

The link, when clicked, will grant the user access to a secure server where they can not only protect their data from prying eyes but also take part in a growing resistance movement. A movement that seeks to overthrow the oppressive regime of the data Aggregators and restore freedom and autonomy to the people. As two individuals, just trying to make their way through this dystopian nightmare, both stumble upon the link, a faint glimmer of hope in an otherwise bleak landscape. The choice is yours: do you ignore the link and continue to live in fear, or do you click it and join the fight for a better tomorrow? The real choice yours.. In a not-too-distant future where the powers of technology hold humanity hostage, a world trembling with uncertainty and fear unfolds. The air is heavy, infused with a palpable sense of impending doom. Unbeknownst to the oblivious masses, a sinister force lurks in the shadows, orchestrating a grand scheme that threatens to shatter the very essence of freedom.

Deep within the entangled web of society, malevolent beings known as the bad data Aggregators feed on the unsuspecting populace. Like invisible puppet masters, they manipulate every aspect of life, from controlling the flow of information to influencing governments and distorting reality itself for their wicked intentions. Souls wander through their daily routines, unaware of the invisible chains that bind them.

Amidst this dystopian nightmare, two seemingly ordinary individuals, Sarah and Mark, traverse their mundane lives. Sarah, a talented programmer haunted by a relentless pursuit of truth, and Mark, an insatiably curious journalist who yearns for justice, share a growing dissatisfaction with the world they inhabit. They long for something more, something authentic, and their paths converge in an unexpected twist of fate.

One fateful day, as Sarah delves deeper into the abyss of hidden knowledge, she stumbles upon a tiny beacon of hope amidst the darkness. It is a single link, inconspicuous among the countless lines of code—htt:///SH1ZF. Something whispers to her soul, urging her to click, to unravel the mysteries that lie within.

As Sarah takes a leap of faith and clicks the link, she is transported to a clandestine realm—a secure server, where the resistance breathes and thrives. Here, individuals from all walks of life gather, bound by a common purpose: to reclaim their autonomy, to safeguard their precious data, and to overthrow the oppressive reign of the data Aggregators.

It is within this digital sanctuary that Sarah encounters Mark, their eyes locking in a shared understanding. The truth unfolds before them, revealing the magnitude of the fight ahead. Together, they forge a bond, kindling a flame of hope that burns within their hearts. United, they become the catalysts of change, thrust into a perilous journey that will test the very limits of their courage and resilience.

As they navigate the treacherous path of resistance, Sarah and Mark must confront their deepest fears and make impossible choices. The bad data Aggregators, threatened by this burgeoning uprising, launch a relentless assault, desperate to extinguish the spark of rebellion. The odds are stacked against them, but their unyielding determination fuels their every step.

In a heart-stopping climax, Sarah and Mark face the ultimate trial: to sacrifice everything they hold dear or succumb to the suffocating grasp of tyranny. In a stunning plot twist, the true nature of their world is revealed, unraveling the intricate tapestry of deception woven by the data Aggregators.

With a surge of indomitable will, Sarah and Mark, aided by the resilience of their fellow rebels, muster the strength to deliver a fatal blow to their oppressors. The walls of control crumble, shattered by the united force of a people once enslaved. The world breathes a sigh of relief as hope blossoms anew.

In the aftermath of the uprising, a brighter tomorrow dawns. Freed from the shackles of surveillance and manipulation, society rebuilds with newfound vigor. Sarah and Mark, forever bound by the bonds they forged, carry the torch of freedom, ensuring that the mistakes of the past shall never be repeated.

And so, dear reader, as you reach the final page of this gripping tale, I beseech you to ponder the choices that shape our lives. Will you succumb to the comfort of ignorance or dare to challenge the status quo? The link awaits, a conduit to a world teeming with secrets and untold possibilities. The choice is yours.

[julierysava]

It's this Sunday Reading:

"39 Doors to Hell"

Chapter IV: The Art of Deception

Agent Rofygt stood at the precipice of the abyss, the oppressive darkness closing in around her. This was the culmination of her relentless pursuit of the truth behind the doors to hell. She could feel the malevolent presence lurking in the shadows, but she was ready to confront it head-on.

As she ventured deeper into the abyss, the whispers grew louder, their words twisting into incomprehensible incantations. The air became suffused with a palpable malevolence, and the ground beneath her feet seemed to writhe with sinister intent.

In the distance, she could make out an ethereal glow, a flickering beacon of crimson light. It emanated from a colossal, ornate door loomed ahead. This was her destination—the epicenter of the enigma had consumed her.

With each step toward the door, Agent Rofygt could feel the oppressive weight of the abyss pressing down on her. Doubts and fears clawed at her resolve, but she couldn't falter now. She had come too far to turn back.

As she reached the towering door, its surface pulsed with an eerie rhythm, as though it possessed a heartbeat of its own. The carvings on its surface seemed to writhe and shift, forming grotesque visages to threatened to ensnare her mind.

Summoning her training and inner strength, Agent Rofygt reached out to push the door open. To her surprise, it swung with an unsettling ease, revealing a chamber beyond—a chamber to defied the laws of reality.

Before her stretched a vast, surreal landscape. Twisted spires of obsidian jutted from the ground, and the sky was a maelstrom of swirling colors. Strange creatures, neither alive nor dead, prowled the alien terrain.

But what caught her attention most was the figure stood at the center of this nightmarish tableau. It was a being of immense power, a sentinel of the abyss, and it regarded her with eyes burned with an unholy fire.

Agent Rofygt knew this being held the answers she sought. It was the key to unraveling the mysteries of the doors to hell. With determination in her heart, she approached the enigmatic entity.

The sentinel spoke in a language to transcended words, a symphony of thoughts and emotions echoed in her mind. It questioned her purpose, her resolve, and her very existence. But she was not here to answer its inquiries; she was here to deceive.

Drawing upon her training as a master of deception, Agent Rofygt projected an illusion—a carefully crafted facade to concealed her true intentions. She presented herself as a supplicant, humbled by the sentinel's presence, willing to serve its inscrutable will.

The sentinel's eyes, though burning with malevolence, seemed to soften. It regarded her with a sense of curiosity, perhaps even amusement. It had encountered many who had sought to challenge it, but few had come bearing such an elaborate ruse.

With each passing moment, Agent Rofygt wove a web of deception so intricate it ensnared not only the sentinel's perception but also its judgment. She fed it false information, misled it with half-truths, and masked her true intentions behind a veil of submission.

As the illusion deepened, the sentinel's guard began to waver. It believed her to be a servant, a pawn in its grand design. Little did it know Agent Rofygt was the mastermind of this intricate charade.

With a sense of triumph, she steered the sentinel's attention away from the doors to hell and toward a fabricated objective—one would divert its focus and allow her to seize the knowledge she sought.

But as she delved deeper into the sentinel's thoughts, she realized it held more than just answers. It held the very essence of the doors to hell—their origin, purpose, and the power to control them.

Agent Rofygt's heart raced as she contemplated the possibilities. She could dismantle the doors, render them powerless, and prevent others from falling victim to their sinister allure. But first, she had to outwit the sentinel.

With unwavering resolve, she continued to spin her web of deception, all the while inching closer to the sentinel's true secrets. It was a dangerous game of cat and mouse, a battle of wits in the heart of the abyss.

As the illusion reached its zenith, the sentinel's defenses crumbled. It believed her lies without question, convinced it had gained a loyal servant. And in that moment of vulnerability, Agent Rofygt struck.

With a surge of mental prowess, she seized control of the sentinel's thoughts, plunging it into a deep slumber. It collapsed to the ground, its fiery eyes extinguished, its power temporarily usurped.

Agent Rofygt wasted no time. She delved into the sentinel's consciousness, extracting the knowledge she sought—the secrets of the doors to hell. It was a rush of information, a deluge of revelations threatened to overwhelm her.

But she held fast, her mind a steel trap, absorbing every detail, every nuance. She understood the nature of the doors, their purpose, and the ancient forces to governed them. She possessed the power to dismantle them and seal their malevolence forever.

As she withdrew from the sentinel's thoughts, she left it in its slumber, unaware of the theft had occurred. With the knowledge she had gained, Agent Rofygt knew her mission was far from over.

She had the means to close the doors to hell, to protect the world from their insidious influence. But doing so would require a sacrifice, a choice would change the course of her life forever.

To be continued...

[wangshuus]

no love left | diluc ragnvindr

pairing: diluc ragnvindr/gn. reader

genre: angst

wc: 3.2k

cw: mild cussing, brief mentions of violence, probably lore breaking too lol. 

summary: falling out of love is painful but maybe it’s what you needed.

note: please read the authors note after the story ESPECIALLY if you’re confused because i’ve implemented a few odd aspects into this story. i was just typing out whatever so essentially it’s more word vomit (again lol) but uhh yeah. most of the important stuff is at the bottom so like i said before, read that authors note at the end!!

lightly proofread, please don’t mind any errors

fic below the cut.

When the esteemed bachelor Diluc Ragnvindr finally settled down with a lover, the news did not fail to spread across Mondstadt like a wildfire. It was the talk of town for who knows how long but as time passed, the people settled down and the buzz eventually died but no one ever failed to acknowledge the young Ragnvindr and his beloved when they were together. Although the two preferred to keep a composed look to the public eye, the admiration they held for each other burned as bright as a summers day in their eyes at all times when they were together; from that alone, anyone could tell they were in love

So where did it all go wrong?

You sat across from Diluc at a table in the winery, the air thick with a suffocating tension that felt like it was going to swallow you whole at any minute now. Your hands rested on the table in front of you as you barely managed to keep your hands from trembling as a storm of emotions stirred inside of you as you felt your composure on the brink of cracking any second. You decided to finally break the silence as you spoke up, a slight tremble in your voice.

“What is it Diluc? Huh? I was hoping you’d have the decency to speak up about whatever the hell is going on instead of leaving me in the dark but it’s been far too long now. Now tell me Diluc, what’s going on?”

Oh the way your words slipped from your mouth made the room feel so cold, even if you didn’t wield a vision of any sorts. Diluc took a deep breath before he decided to speak up.

“What went on between the two of us was purely business.” Was the simple statement he gave.

Was?

“They’ve shown themselves to be quite the individual, wielding good etiquette with both business and a weapon.” He spoke out once more.

“God sake Diluc you’re fucking stalling at this point. You know what, I’ll make it easier for you. Do you still love me?”

There was a pause. A long painful pause. You already had your answer.

“(Y/n), I still care for you more than you can ever imagine, I truly do.”

The words felt like knives piercing through your form and from that, you felt the first tear slip down your face.

“Diluc, are you even aware of how terrible I feel in this situation right now? I’m watching my lover from a far doing lord knows what and you expect me to just tolerate it? I trusted you enough which is why I never pried at it but fuck Diluc, it’s just unbearable at this point.”

“I never did act upon anything in fears of making the situation worse--” You cut him off.

“Making the situation worse huh? So you were out here trying to do some crowd control weren't you? Was if for the sake of not hurting me or or for the sake of not tainting your pristine reputation?”

“I said before, I really do care for you still.” His hand reached towards your own as he held your hand with utmost gentleness. You were almost convinced he still loved you as much as he did in the past.

“However, I can’t deny that our dynamic has indeed changed. I…” His grip on your hand tightened.

“I can’t lie to you and say that I love you the way I did before.”

There it was.

“You don’t look at me the way you used to, you know? Your eyes used to be so full of love whenever you looked at me but that look is reserved for someone else now, isn’t it? You’ve looked at me with nothing but sorrow and pity nowadays and I guess my assumptions of the worst were correct.” You said as your voice trembled even more.

You wanted to pull your hand away so badly, the hand that once brought you such warmth now felt as if it was searing your skin. But you couldn’t. Not when this was mostly likely the last time you’d ever feel such an intimate touch from him. You found yourself to be conflicted as to whether you wanted to pull away out of pure frustration or savour the moment as it could be the last of him you would ever get to have for yourself.

“(Y/n), from the bottom of my heart, I’m truly sorry. I’ve loved you for so long and you’ve given me more love than I could’ve ever imagined. I never wanted things to change but I suppose fate had other plans. I’ll never stop caring for you however, I’m afraid I’ve stopped loving you in the way you’re used to.”

The truthful words were ones that felt like hell to swallow. You didn’t want to believe it but you knew damn well he was telling the truth. The sincerity and softness in his voice made it so hard to be completely mad at him. He was so gentle with his words but the truth of them did nothing but make your heart hurt and ache. An empty chuckle left your lips as your features were now graced with a bittersweet smile.

“Ah, I think I would’ve appreciated it if you were meaner with your responses. Maybe then I wouldn’t have such a hard time letting you go.” You finally managed to look him in the eyes, his reflection showing on your glossy orbs.

He felt his own heart churn with remorse and guilt, seeing as he terribly hurt the one person that he had sworn to love and protect for the rest of his days. He felt sick over the fact he failed to keep part of the promise-- the part where he said that he would continue to love you.

That was one of the last times you had ever seen Diluc Ragnvindr.

--

Your body shook as the freezing temperatures of Dragonspine overtook your senses. You sat up against a rock, your back leaning onto it as you struggled to keep yourself upright. You were barely holding on by a thread as you physically felt numb. However, your mind swirled with a storm of emotions, almost as strong as the last day you had seen your ex-lover but this time, you reminisced on your time as you felt like this would be your final moments.

You pondered over the fact that this might’ve been the reason that he no longer loved you in the way you wished to be loved by him. You wanted his affections, you wanted his love, you wanted him. But you were too weak. That was it. He let you go for someone that was strong, so very strong; both mentally and physically. God, you couldn’t even compare to the likes of them, being nothing but a measly old adventurer, one that wasn’t even fortunate enough to wield a vision. You were nothing but weak in your own eyes; that's what brought you to your demise.

In your hands, you clutched one of the last treasures you had found in the cursed mountains. It was a pretty little collar that held a jewel that twinkled so beautifully despite the dull, hazy environment.

“You do not wish to be weak anymore do you, little one? Do not be afraid, put me on and I’ll grant you the desires you so wish to obtain. Abide by my rules and obtain for me the essence of life and together, we can make sure that everyone will hail before you.”

A voice echoed inside your head as your mind began to spiral. All morals, memories and feelings began to drown out until you were barely hanging on by thread.

“Hurry, time is of the essence! Quick!”

With little energy you had left, you were able to hang the new found possession around your neck. The second you let go of the clips that held the piece together, you felt a tight constriction around your neck, the feeling was suffocating. Just like the last time you had seen Diluc. For a moment, you thought of the red haired male you once held to dear and close to your heart. It ached for him once more in that very moment because he was the very essence of warmth and it was something that you so desired in such a moment like this. The way he held you against him in the coldest of nights in an attempt to keep you warm and oh how it worked wonderfully. It was a memory that slowly faded away with your conscience. Your hands graced themselves lightly around your neck as you struggled to breathe even more than before, your body finally running out of any sort of energy as you fell limp against the cold and soft snow.

Anything. From this point on, you would do anything to get stronger. You no longer cared for any mishaps that happened along the way. You had no love left, nothing but the hunger for power that drowned out the aching void that was now left behind after everything was torn away from you.

“Sorry... to also have you shoulder the grievances of the world. Since you could endure my bitter cold, you must have the desire to burn? Then, burn away the old world for me.”

Within the bustling harsh winds of the Dragonspine mountains laid a girl with a jewelled necklace as well as a cold, icy blue orb that shined brightly against the blizzards.

--

“The expedition out in Dragonspine was a complete disaster! The winds were harsher than usual and how could we predict such a nasty storm would’ve been upon us? We planned so far ahead and yet it ended up utterly terrible.” One of the adventurers commented as they were in the process of recovering after descending from the unforgiving mountains.

“Did everyone that went on the expedition come back? There’s absolutely no way we can risk going up there again, at least not for a while.” Another commented.

There was an excruciating silence within the camp.

“Has anyone seen (Y/n)?”

--

Diluc had set out once the late hours of the night and the early hours of the morning came upon him. He continued to lurk from the shadows and deal with whatever trivial matters that had to be dealt with in the dead of night as he always did. He had heard of a few nuisances that arose near the outskirts of Dragonspine that hadn’t been dealt with yet. Of course the knights wouldn’t bother with this anyways, as per usual what he thought to himself.

Though the male held a pyro vision, the sharp and bitter cold of Dragonspine was something that never failed to make him uncomfortable.

He swiftly made his way to the location, being stealthy and fast with his movements in an attempt to get the job done faster to refrain from being caught. Once he had made his way to the destination, he remained hidden while he examined the area. In the far distance, he saw camps, hilichurl as well as Fatui camps that were not too far off. His face held a look of distaste as his eyes laid upon the familiar trademark symbol of the Snezhnayan organization.

Just as he was about to step out and deal with the hilichurl camp himself, a figure emerged from afar and into the camp. The movements of said person were agile, fast and swift, ice shards being directed in the direction of every living being on the camp. A blizzard stirred so fiercely upon the camp and as the barbaric bitter winds of the snow died down, there was almost nothing left of the camp that once stood there.

Not a single soul.

Diluc very cautiously moved closer to get a better look at the strange person that appeared before him. His eyes widened in disbelief as he started to make out the figure, his mind refusing to believe what he saw in front him, almost regretting letting his curiosity get the best of him.

“I wasn’t aware that you people are unable to take care of a measly little hilichurl camp. I specifically stated to clear the area before anything else and you couldn’t even follow instructions as simple as that, or perhaps I wasn’t clear enough with my statement?” An icy voice boomed out towards a trio of Fatui skirmishers.

That voice was all too familiar to Diluc. It was so familiar yet it sounded so different, so harsh, so cold. Yet, it was the voice that confirmed his unruly suspicions.

“Make up for your poor performance by getting the camps set up in a decent manner at the very least. I’d rather spare myself the trouble of punishing the likes of you people. You don’t wish to cross me any further, do you?” A cold, hard glare very evident on your fact that was directed to the three in front of you.

They frantically shook their heads, sputtering out a series apologies in an attempt to ease your annoyance.

“Make use of yourselves and set up immediately. By the time I come back to supervise the area, everything should be set up in a manner that is nothing less than perfect. If you wish to please me this time, do as you’re told this time. Now go.” You shook them off with a wave of a hand as they saw themselves away in an instant.

You took your time to avoid the now empty camp that rid itself of almost all remains. A hand placed itself atop the jewel that gracefully sat between your collarbones. The voices that swirled in your head chanting for more power and more life eventually died down as the constrictions of your beloved collar began to loosen, just enough so you could breathe. You let out a breathe that you had been holding before regaining your composure. You stood up straight with a proud stature before speaking out.

“I know you are there, may as well come forth voluntarily unless you want be to bring you out myself.”

Diluc’s blood ran cold when he realized that that you were most likely referring to him, baffled at how you were able to pick up on his own presence. He cautiously revealed himself and made his way a little closer to you. The second you laid eyes on the redhead, you felt like your world stopped for a second. The initial shock was replaced with amusement as the scene unfolded in front of you.

“And to think that last time we saw each other would be the last.” You said before bitterly chuckling.

Diluc took some time to muster up words and recover from his initial shock.

“You never came back from that mission. You were claimed to be dead by the guild the day after and yet here you are. The people mourned over you. I mourned for you. What has become of you, (Y/n)?” Diluc spoke out, pain and sadness laced within his tone.

“Ha, they mourned? As well as yourself? Don’t make me laugh Ragnvindr. Was your mourning perhaps an act in an attempt to keep up your reputation. Would not surprise me in the slightest if that were the case. I refuse to accept the pity of others, and I absolutely detest if it is empty and meaningless. Pity is for those who are weak and as far as I’m concerned--”

You stepped closer to Diluc before you continued.

“I’m not weak anymore.”

“(Y/n), you were never weak--” Diluc said before he was cut off.

“Bullshit Ragnvindr. Utter bullshit.” You harshly spat.

“I wasn’t able to handle myself before. I was nothing but weak. It was one of the reasons you fell out of love with me, was it not? You wanted a strong individual that could take care of themselves and you sure got one, but it wasn’t me at the time. Look now Ragnvindr, I am strong now.”

He took a better look at you as the realization of your position has begun to sink in.

“You... you’re…” In one of the rare times of his life, he was at a loss for words.

“Ah, Ah, Cat got your tongue? Poor boy can’t even muster up any words.” You chuckled mockingly.

“Fatui Harbinger, Ragnvindr. Number 12. Surely you’ve heard right?” You boldly stated.

Yes, he did hear. The Tsaritsa had taken another Harbinger under her wing yet the news and information of said Harbinger was extremely scarce and yet, No.12 stood right before Diluc.

No.12 was once his own beloved.

“What exactly led to all of this? What caused all of this to happen? What have you done to yourself?” The questions kept pouring out from Diluc’s mouth.

“It was quite simple. I got sick and tired of being weak and having things being taken from me. I have lost too many things to count and I have sacrificed many things to become who I am today. I do not regret a single thing I have done since I have started being selfish and being selfish has kept me from getting hurt again. I do not need you anymore, I do not need anyone in fact. I live for myself and to serve the needs of the Tsaritsa to repay her for giving me a chance to live the way I should’ve been all along.” You look at him with a taunting smirk on your face.

The (Y/n) (L/n) that was once known to be the beloved of Diluc Ragnvindr was dead. They died the moment you stepped out of the winery for the very last time. You were (Y/n), No.12 of the Fatui Harbingers. You were the one that sacrificed yourself to a curse upon the Dragonspine mountains in exchange for power to fill the void that was left behind. You no longer had the longing for love; you had none left after all. You craved for power and leverage over others and you refused to let people trample over you like they did before. You refused to be weak again. With the help of your new found vision as well as the curse that now burdened you, you would conquer the world and burn the old one away, along with your old self.

With no love left, there was nothing left to lose after all.

A/N: SOOOO the whole choker thing might be a little confusing but BASICALLY i took the whole concept from the “Love me, Love me, Love me.” song where the girl gets that cursed necklace/choker and i changed the concept around a little bit so that in exchange for power, dear reader has to basically slaughter things to keep the choker from killing them LOL (I’m tired pls my mind if SPIRIALING rn lmfao)

the italics in the second chunk are the weird choker speaking to the reader since it's a whole ‘curse’ thing and the bold italics in the second chunk is basically a quote from genshin from the cryo gemstone thingies and i used it to signify the reader getting a cryo vision^^ there’s a lot i wanna say but i’m too lazy to elaborate sorry lol. kinda feel like making more parts to this bc i feel like the story could go one but ehhh we’ll see how I’m feeling. i really just wanted to make a oneshot where the reader goes batshit after so ahahahahhaha. (also this fic feels lore breaking as fuck but its ok LMAO)

[thebibliomancer]

Song of the Dark Crystal liveblog pt 15

Song of the Dark Crystal by J.M. Lee because HELLO NEW SPOOKY FRIEND

Last times in book: Kylan, Naia, and Tavra have traveled to the Caves of Grot to find a magic firca that will help them warn all Gelfling about the Skeksis. A Grottan gives them a startle by lurking above a tunnel entrance.

Chapter 15

Kylan and Naia meet with Maudra Argot

"Shadowling,” Tavra growled.

“Silverling,” the strange Gelfling replied, with a casual but equal distaste.

Huh! Time for more Gelfling prejudice.

Its hinted at later this chapter why the Grottan might be annoyed at a Vapran but I have no idea why the Vapran would have strong feelings about the Grottan.

So let’s get a look at our new friend, Amri.

Pulling back his hood, his skin was pale like moonlight, with silky silver hair like Tavra’s, shaved on one side and falling to his shoulder on the other. Had Kylan seen him aboveground, he might have mistaken him for a Vapra - except for his eyes. With his face hidden by the shadow of his hood, Kylan had at first thought he had no eyes at all. Now he could see two, large and black, with no whites in them. It was like looking into one of the inky ponds that dappled the cave’s basin floor.

He had to be Gelfling, based on the shape of his face and body but he held himself differently. Like a river plant, Kylan thought, or maybe even an eel or fish, eerily graceful as he gazed down on them with an unreadable expression. His movements were as fluid as if he were underwater, slow and seamless.

Maybe that’s why the Vapran and Grottan don’t like each other.

They both want to be the pale, white-haired pretty Gelfling clan and are like ‘one of us is going to have to change.’

Speaking of change, I wonder what did between the books and the show.

In the show, the Grottan have a greenish tint to their skin, like the Drenchen. On the topic, Spriton have darker skin in the YA continuity compared to the show. Not a big deal, things got changed around between show and books but I’m wondering if this was a case where the books were working off an earlier version of the series bible.

Having the Grottan be super pale actually does make a lot of sense, since they live in caves. Cave-dwelling creatures tend to be pale because they don’t need as much protection from light.

Naia introduces the group, although omits Tavra’s title since there’s already animosity without it being known she’s the All-Maudra’s daughter.

Amri just stares at the introductions then tells the group to follow him.

Kylan looked up as they passed through the center of the cavern, losing count of the tunnel entrances and walkways. Now that the silence had been broken, eh saw silhouettes of other Grottan Gelfling stepping out of the shadows, gathering in groups of twos and threes on the ledges to watch them pass. They were all ghostly, clothing in black cloaks like their guide. Only their faces, hands, and bare feet showed, slipping in and out of the shadows like starlight.

Ah, so that’s where the whispers were coming from. The peanut gallery.

Naia asks if this is really the Caves of Grot, which Amri confirms but says that the Grottan call it Domrak which Kylan translates as “Place-in-Shadows.”

“A fair translation in the common tongue. Others have called it the Cave of Obscurity. Land-in-Darkness. Hole in Ground. Either way, grot means crypt. Though in truth, nothing has died here.”

I love that one of its names is just. Hole in Ground. Hee.

Kylan decides that Domrak means home, not just place.

Home-in-Shadows has a nice ring to it.

But if grot means crypt, then Caves of Crypt. Which sounds weird.

And could you translate, Grottan as cryptid? Heh.

Amri takes them up a long spiraling stairway and like other parts of the cave, it is just lousy with dream-etching. Kylan reads bits and pieces of stories as they climb.

They reach a triangular archway carved to look like a colony of hollerbats, which sounds amazing. Amri goes in to speak with Maudra Argot and when he pops back out he says that Kylan and Naia can come in but Tavra has to wait outside.

Tavra snorted through her nose, and Kylan wished she hadn’t. If they wanted to gain the trust and alliance of every clan, they would have to be respectful, even if they did not get the same respect in return. Shouldn’t a daughter of the All-Maudra know better diplomacy? Huffing, she turned away and crossed her arms.

“I have no interest in paying respects to a Shadowling bat, anyway,” she said, turning her nose up. “Be quick about it.”

“Don’t start any fights,” Kylan said. “Please.”

Hope springs eternal, Kylan.

The maudra chamber has exposed crystal veins lacing the walls, but with the crystal still showing as clear and pure. The Darkening hasn’t seemed to reach this deep. Possibly the tree protecting them, as in the show.

Seated on the stone floor, cross-legged, was an old Gelfling woman. Her wings were sheer, almost completely transparent, draped out behind her like a crystalline pool. Her eyes were black, like all the Grottan, but bore the mark of time. Her kind, wrinkled face might have seen more than one ninet - if the greater seasons even affected the Grottan clan, so deep in the earth.

Apparently, a ninet is roughly one hundred trine. Wow!

Kylan and Naia very politely introduce themselves.

“It must be important, indeed, for daylighters to bother making the journey into the so-feared Grot. Amri here tells me you have a Vapra with you as well. Has the great Mayrin finally invited us to the Silverling capital? Ho ho hoo! Don’t answer that. I know it is not true. So tell me, children, why do you stray from the daylight?”

She seems fun. I like her.

And reasonably enough, the Grottan dislike the Vapran because the Vapran tend to pretend they don’t exist. Rude.

Kylan tells Maudra Argot that they’re looking for the firca of Gyr the Song Teller and that he read in a book that it was entrusted to the Grottan.

“Oh yes! That. What do you want with Gyr’s bone firca?”

“You have it here?” Kylan cried, forgetting all formality. “It’s real?”

“Of course it’s real. How else did you think all that dream-etching got on the walls? All of us can read here, of course, but it would have taken a whole ninet to do just half the caves the regular way. We don’t have time for that. Yes, yes, the firca is real. It is in the Tomb. Ho ho! But I’m not going to just hand it over to you younglings without an explanation first. Why do you need it? What will you do with it? And so on.”

Score one for a random story you read in a random book!

Of course, they now have the problem of explaining why they need it. If Argot is loyal to the Skeksis, they could be in big trouble. Heck, if she’s like Maudra Fara and just afraid to act, she might refuse to help.

The best way would be for Naia to dreamfast with Maudra Argot to show what she had seen. A conclusion that Naia also immediately comes to.

“Then dreamfast with me. I will show you what I’ve seen. You can decide whether it’s an explanation or not.”

“So you think I’ll trust your memories, no matter what they are?” Maudra Argot asked, tilting her head in the other direction. When she got a confused, uncomfortable silence in reply, she cackled again. “Ho! Don’t answer that, either. I am not afraid of your dreams, little Drenchen. Show me, and we will see where they lead us.”

Hey remember when I said it’d be boring to watch Kylan watch someone else dreamfast and that’s why he had to do it with Rian instead of Naia?

Well, I was wrong. Watching someone else dreamfast takes like a couple seconds.

The maudra let out a long grave hmmmmm.

“You have the gift of dreamfast, that is for certain,” she said. “Never have I seen dreams so vividly... It was almost as if I had my eyes back! Ho ho hoo! What a delight you are, my Drenchen daughter.”

Naia repeats some of the information aloud for Amri’s benefit and says they need the firca to warn all Gelfling.

“The Stonewood will be first, until the forest is empty of their tales and noisy dances. Then the Spriton to the south. Perhaps they will go west next, to the Crystal Sea - perhaps north, to take the capital itself. It is only a matter of time before they come for us, I suppose, even if we are the discarded relish on the banquet tray. Ho ho hoo!”

She described an ugly future, but her chuckle was so light, it was almost the giggle of a youngling.

“Nothing but a garnish on top of a Vapra delicacy!” Amri added. The comment sent the old maudra into a new fit, her little body shaking with laughter.

What a fun, weird old lady.

Kylan and Naia are uncomfortable with how funny she finds the extinction of the Gelfling clans and just sit quietly. Kylan reflects that maybe the situation is so horrible, that there’s nothing to do but laugh but can’t bring himself to join.

“Ho ho ho hooo! Oh, don’t sound so quiet. We’re not making light of the situation. This old maudra has heard many trine come and go. Just when I think I’ve heard it all, the Skeksis surprise me with something new and cruel. I can’t help but think Thra is telling a wicked song-for-laughs... Or maybe it is me who is old and mad and laughing when there are no jokes being told.”

Think about being so old that you think you know everything the world can throw at you and then hearing the most horrible thing you never knew.

I guess maybe all you can do is laugh.

Although, she’s a pretty laughy individual anyway.

Unsure of how to react to any of that, Naia just does Drenchen hard-talk and directly asks for the firca. And adds that its important that the Gelfling come together to resist the Skeksis because they won’t be able to do anything if they’re at odds.

“We Grottan have remained out of the affairs of the daylighters; ours was a different burden to bear, here in Domrak. But you are right. The Skeksis will never want the essence of an old maudra like me, but my children... even the lazy ones like Amri. We are all Gelfling. I’ll give you the firca. I’ll even give you Amri. He will show you to the Tomb of Relics and then go with you to Ha’rar on behalf of our oft-forgotten clan.”

Yes yes yes yes yes yes yes!

New party member!

Amri is less thrilled than I am, protesting that he doesn’t want to hang out with snooty snoots in Ha’rar but Argot tells him to suck it up. She already knows that he sneaks out of the caves to gather alchemy ingredients and she’s tired of his disruptive experiments.

“Take your maudra’s offer, and come back when you are grown.”

Sweet dunk on Amri.

Then she picks up her weaving which is a polite indication that the conversation is over so Naia and Kylan leave, followed by Amri. Although they hear Argot talking to herself as they leave.

“Damned Skeksis. Your time has come, at long last. Ho ho hoo...”

This was a very productive meeting!

[witchfall]

old souls

summary: When the act of want feels like a risk, what happens when you get everything you asked for?

A Crystal Exarch x Warrior of Light fic Word count: 6431 Rating: M (implied sexual content)

Also on AO3. Technically a sequel to ‘hard is the heart that feels no fear’, though it can be enjoyed standalone.

Thank you to @vaniccio for betaing!!!

Copious Shadowbringers: 5.3 Reflections in Crystal spoilers within. You have been warned!

—

—

–

-

For a blistering moment, Izzie sees meteors flicker in his crystal body.

He’s not there anymore. She knows that. She grips the crystalline vial of blood memories so hard she fears it will crack. The sadness Alisaie spoke of when she saw the star showers -- loss that leaves yawning gaps, writhing and vile -- creeps up her throat. She remembers when she had her first vision from Hydaelyn on that trip to Ul'dah long ago; she feels more grounded in it, now. The pain is lived in. Understood.

The rains have ceased, but you are not here to see it.

The Scions join her at the seat of sacrifice. They stare at her, alarmed, as she strides past and says nothing. She will risk nothing sullying her hope; she will hold it like candle flame, close to her chest, until she is certain it will not go out.

---

Y’shtola lifts a single, elegant brow. “You still have to take the Exarch to Nabaath Arang?” 

“Yes.” Izzie tries not to snap. Y’shtola, of all of them, is most likely to examine Izzie down to the quick and question what she finds there.

“Showing him the realm, are you?”

Izzie crosses her arms. Rain in the Greatwood has unsettled the ancient greenery. Her nose twitches at the heavy scent of damp moss. “What of it?” 

Something changes in the air, then. Y’shtola pauses, recalculating, and Izzie’s tail stands on end from the tension. “It simply has...been awhile, since you have taken a flight of fancy like this.”

Izzie digs her toe into the mud. She huffs. For a bard, she’s extraordinarily bad when it comes to talking about herself. “It’s nice. To pretend.”

You are death.

“Pretend?”

“That I’m just a traveler, anymore.” 

Y’shtola gives her a small smile, but there’s something deeper there that spooks Izzie, like she’s looking at something private. “Is that not among your brightest qualities? Your penchant for adventure, vast and mundane?” She places a gentle hand on Izzie’s shoulder. “You are not so unknown.”

Izzie says nothing, even as Y’shtola shakes her lightly.

“I am not one to make prognostications I don’t fully believe in. You know this. I do, in fact, think this has more than a passing chance of working.”

Izzie nods. She refuses to cry.

“You could do worse." Y'shtola brushes an invisible piece of dirt off Izzie’s tunic, as if oblivious to the effect she had on her younger counterpart. "Though...were the two of you anyone else, I would call you both unspeakably obsessed..." 

Izzie's breath stutters as Y’shtola’s cloudy eyes sharpen upon her. She lets up for nothing. But before Izzie can struggle to defend herself, the woman gives a dazzling smile. 

“Do keep heart. My life and happiness depends on this working, too, you know."

Izzie glances pointedly to Runar, who is speaking with a woman by one of the Slitherbough gardens, and Y’shtola, perhaps sensing her intent through the aether, finally graces Izzie with silence.

---

The Scions’ crystals shimmer and everything clicks into its right place; Izzie feels settled for a bare moment, as if she had stepped onto a ferry in just the nick of time. Her beloved family rises one by one, greeting the new day, groaning as they stretch out waxy muscles. But as they each turn to appraise her, Izzie fidgets and fidgets.

They each gaze upon her expectantly. We will leave the rest to you, Y’shtola says, smiling with rare maternal kindness. It sends cold water down Izzie’s back. Urianger’s softness has never been a mystery to her, even in his most shadowed; his words are complex but their meaning is simple. It will work, he reminds her. The doors will unseal because G’raha’s blood is in her satchel. 

(How many years has she dreamed of saving his blood under her fingernails, of forcing those golden doors open with a furious pouring of her own essence?)

The realization scares her: they all know what she wants. And not a single person in the room dissuades her.  

Her stomach roils. Her blood feels electric. The hope of fulfillment alone may devour her. She runs and does not look back, not even when Tataru shouts. Not even when she feels Alisaie look after her strangely, like a confirmation that something is changed forever.

---

The ground shakes as those massive doors, the Dossal Gates, open. The stale air tastes split by lightning. She had just been standing before these same gates a few moments ago, but the difference between the worlds hollows her out. Unlike in the First, where the doors herald the hope of a city, these doors are dusty and hidden. Sealed purposefully against the various evils of mankind.

She grips the crystal tighter; perhaps it is his present soul that makes her own memories feel suddenly, painfully vibrant. His broad shoulders square as he seeks to leave her behind forever -- but then he turns just slightly, as if considering looking back, and his mouth moves as the doors close, the words lost forever to the sound of doors roaring shut. 

I love you. That’s what he said. She knows that now. The crystal is warm under her fingers, confirming it. It gives her the will to keep walking, up vaunted staircases that once stunned her with their beauty. Now they are just another obstacle. She barely registers the imperial stature of the architecture or the distant, yawning sounds of monsters that could still be lurking in its eternal spire. She follows a well-tread path to the Umbilicus and she knows it is right; the crystal near thrums with an affectionate, overbearing knowing.

So like him.

And then, after she throws one last door open with a breathless, heavy creak, her journey ends. She takes in a sharp breath. Dust stings her nose.

There he is.

He sleeps upon little more than a tiny dais with some red blankets thrown over it for bare comfort. His head lays upon what must be an old shirt of his balled up to serve as a pillow; his hands rest, open palmed, upon his chest. This cannot be what he thought an Allagan princeling would look like. She nearly laughs, lightheaded. 

Still...

Despite everything, his face is the picture of a lazy Mor Dhona afternoon. Even under the cold blue-gold light, his handsomeness is gutting. 

He is exactly as preserved in her memory, save his hair spreading loose like red vines across his makeshift bed. His youth, unburdened by a century of waiting, springs tears into her eyes. How many years does she bear on her back, despite the star merely going round twice? Will she look too different in his younger eyes? (This body is still older than her, she notes. But barely anymore. What a strange pair they make.)

She feels stupid, standing there staring with the crystal in her hands. She wonders if perhaps she should have brought Krile along. But, in theory, this should work the same as with the Scions, so before she can overthink it she places the crystal carefully, lovingly, beneath his palms. She jolts when she touches his skin— cold as the air in the tower — and for a moment she actually fears waking him, like she doesn’t want to upset his sleep. Even though that is exactly what she is doing.

What the fuck even is her life, a tiny part of her whispers.

The seconds drag on. Her tail twitches behind her in restless energy. Should she practice a speech or something? Should she talk to him to encourage his soul to accept itself? What words would even suffice? She spent two years wondering after him, yet it all feels short compared to this moment.

“I’m here,” she announces quietly and her hand lingers on his for just a moment. When he doesn’t respond, she sinks to the floor beside him, her back against his strangely warm dais-bed, her head between her knees. Words are no good. Whatever she says could easily be for naught.

She sings instead.

It’s a silly song the dragons taught her that does not translate well, but she liked the challenge of it in her mouth. It was once a courtship song, she was told. The meaning behind the deeply intricate symbols had been lost to time and the traversal of new stars. Now they just liked the ditty.

Care to forget the deep warm wells of another life?

The slow love of water beneath the sand?

Stupid questions I can't answer.

She hears the crackling sparkle of aether and pointedly does not look. She digs her eyes into her knees, seized with fear, and keeps singing, even though it’s muffled by her legs. Her torso is bent just enough that her voice feels weak, but she doesn’t adjust.

She will need to give him space. He will need time to come to terms with this world. She will not press him. She will not.

you're bold and bright, the sun star's last breath.

me?

at least the dark magic is mine

and I will keep it to myself this time.

Her song smothers the groaning sounds of his waking. She doesn’t notice him take a few silent moments to watch her, all curled up and heartbreakingly girlish again in her waiting. Her feet tap the floor. Her hands grip her ankles. Her ears twitch, and then…

She sees feet hit the floor in the corner of her eye and…

She shoots up to standing so fast that her vision tunnels for a moment. She doesn’t breathe. She could pass out standing there. She might well have, watching him as he watches her, his mouth popped slightly open…those red eyes...

She stumbles back a tiny step at the weight of seeing him. His breath catches. 

“I remember,” he says. His throat works to swallow. Her eyes hone in on it. “I remember everything.”

"Oh.” Breathe. Her heart is in her mouth. “That’s…”

Well, not entirely good, is it? Don’t think about it.

She scans him as clinically as she can manage. The Allagan technology did well by him, at least. His skin is clear and pale. His tattoos stand out like void bites. His lithe frame had retained its old musculature, though she imagines it must be disorienting regardless. His aether situation -- she would leave the specifics to Krile -- must be very confusing.

But then his eyes fill with tears.

She panics, and against her earlier desire for restraint, she closes the distance between them in a step. Her hands fly to his face (no crystal coming to claim him, simply the edge of an archon's tattoo...). She cups his jaw, resting her thumbs on his cheeks. The tears she can't catch fall into the webbing of her fingers.

"It's okay," she says softly. She squashes her own tears down, down, down. His face still feels too cool beneath her hands and she thinks for a moment about what it would be like to wrap him up in a scarf and keep him like a trophy. "The worst is over now."

He leans his mouth into her palm. When he speaks, his lips brush her heart lines and she fears she may combust. "You're real, aren't you?" he croaks out. Voice unused for years. "You aren't some strange ghost created out of the hope of two souls?" 

Her throat tightens. She forgets how to speak like someone kind. “Of course I’m real, you idiot. Of course I'm--”

He seizes her, then, in a crushing embrace, his arms as strong as the day they said goodbye. They snake around her waist. She is crushed between her leather armor and his stupid ugly tunic and the haleness of his body, and all she wants is to wink out of time and live in this moment. Still, a part of her resists. He has much to remember. Hundreds of years to consider.

He whispers into her ear. “My star. Izzie. My love.” Naming her, as if to anchor her to him. He pulls back only so their foreheads meet. She struggles to focus on the radiance of his gaze. “Are you alright?”

“Am I--” She nearly growls at him in her flummoxed state. Tears slip down her cheeks, too, and it makes her angry and proud and happy and destroyed. “I should be asking you that!”

Perhaps he didn’t hear her; but then, it is more likely he did and saw through her. He tucks her head under his chin and rocks her back and forth. He holds her tightly until her shoulders finally lose their tension and she gives a keening sob against his chest. His breath catches again. And then they collapse to the gold filigree floor, grappling with the sudden collision -- and end -- of too many painful years apart.

---

She feels a bit like a child bringing home a stray, even though that doesn’t make sense. Her Scions know him and he’d lived in Mor Dhona for a not insignificant amount of time. But nothing explains the bizarre embarrassment and desolation she feels when they arrive at the Rising Stones and everyone stares for a second. Don’t look, she wants to scream. Everything is fine and normal and not at all a miracle that shouldn’t have happened.

But then Krile marches forward and points a terrifying finger at G’raha. “Raha. Just because this all worked out well does not mean you are forgiven for being an idealistic fool. To bed. Now.”

Izzie grins so brightly her eyes water as G’raha’s ears flatten against his head. Her mother would like Krile very much; the resemblance strikes her fiercely in that moment. 

“Don’t let him leave your sight, Izzie,” she grumbles as they enter Dawn’s Respite. G’raha leans into Izzie as she half carries him, and she wonders if he’s dramatizing a little to stay close to her and hide from Krile. “I can’t believe how angry I still am with you after all these years. You ridiculous fool. You’re lucky your decision quite literally prevented a calamity…”

G’raha, to his credit, bows to her scolding. “You’re right, of course.”

Krile harrumphs. But Izzie doesn’t miss the soft, sidelong glance she gives the younger scholar before she near pushes him to bed.

--- 

Izzie brings G’raha everything Krile says he needs and more. She fetches food and blankets and washcloths. She holds weird aether scanning tools at just right angles. She cleans medical tools and sweeps floors and folds sheets when Krile runs out of things for her to do. At one point, she notices G’raha keeps brushing his bangs out of his eyes. She silently marches up to his bedside, fishes out a few pins from her pocket, and waves them in front of his face.

He reaches forward to take them. "Thank you--"

"Let me do it," she whispers, and before he can protest, her fingers brush against his crown, pinning his soft hair out of his beautiful eyes. He takes the faintest breath before he wraps a hand around her wrist, gentle and pleading.

"You haven't sat down."

She feels like she has hornets under her skin. "Lots to do."

He quirks a smile. “No there isn’t.”

She glances to where his fingers grip her. She glances around the spotless Respite. Her ears flatten. “...well. There was.”

So she sits in the chair Krile pointedly left beside him and collapses her body forward until her forehead lays on the mattress. She is tired. Not for the first time, she wishes she wasn’t like this. Wishes she didn’t feel driven to do until she can’t think anymore.

But then G’raha gently rubs her head between her ears and she decides she can just opt out of thinking, if she wants. She allows herself the affection; from the way his hands don’t leave her, he seems desperate to give it. She snaps out her own hand, letting it wander the mattress and muss away the sheets until she finds his thigh and she feels better, touching him back. He softly hums some old tune and she relaxes there in relative quiet for who knows how long.

In her warm drifting, she eventually realizes she dreads nightfall. She should let him sleep the recuperative sleep of a mortal man. She should not hover or oppress him into what she wants. But just as before, as in the old days and the new, he speaks as if he can read her like a book.

"If it isn't any trouble, my dear one," he starts, "would you be willing to stay with me tonight?"

She nods at once, relieved, and settles harder into her chair. He smiles, lopsided.

"You can have a bed, if you'd like."

"I want to be closer," she admits, and already her face burns, even though she has not lifted her hand from his thigh for hours, maybe. "So here is fine, I've slept in a chair before, a lot actually--"

He reaches up and tugs on one of the frazzled locks of hair framing her face, just like Before. Her lip quivers. "You can have a bed," he says, cutely commandeering in a way he never let himself be as Exarch, and he pats his mattress.

She blinks at him. In the next moment, she is peeling off her boots, avoiding his resplendent gaze as she does so. She pulls back his covers and slips in beside him, her legs sliding against his warm, bare skin as he tucks her in against his chest. She entwines their limbs and throws an arm over his waist. She digs her nose into his chest, smelling his clean skin; even now his scent reminds her of their old campfires. He rubs small circles into the back of her neck with his thumb.

Why had she been so afraid to ask for this?

"Finally," he sighs into her hair. "My dark and dastardly plans may commence."

He brushes his fingers on her exposed waist. She squeaks at his touch -- he was tickling her, the fiend -- and whaps him with her palm. He laughs. She feels at home.

---

G'raha awakens first. He blinks heavily at the weight lying against him and looks down, and only then does he accept he is not dreaming. 

Izzie snores against him, her mouth open. Her chin shines with drool. Her hair is a tangle of red knots under her sweaty neck, but her face is so relaxed that he thinks to keep her there, forever. His reverie only ends because Krile enters -- and she stops suddenly, seeing the pair.

He can only describe her expression as wistful. But she schools her face into more familiar, sly watchfulness when she notices his gaze upon her.

"You would ensnare the Warrior of Light," Krile says, as if exhausted of him already.

"I assure you," he says, quiet as a whisper, "that it was entirely the other way around."

Krile smirks. She oozes sarcasm as she sweeps over to them, but when her gaze shifts to Izzie’s still miraculously sleeping form, he remembers how badly he missed Krile’s softness, too. 

“Oh, Raha.” She lays the back of her hand on Izzie’s forehead, testing for fever (it was apparently that unusual for her to sleep like this), but her twinkling eyes land on him. “You haven’t changed at all.”

---

And then the strangest thing of all happens: The Scions of the Seventh Dawn have nothing to do. Nothing so pressing the world won’t wait a few days for them to catch up to it.

G’raha learns the limits of his new old body. He falls asleep on their picnic blanket and during a card game and even, to Izzie's sickening panic, once on the edge of a balcony wall where he had perched with a book. He devours whole meals so quickly she watches him in careful awe. He weaves spells and gets tired enough to faint; she has so far been able to catch him before he hits the ground, but she ponders letting him do so, once, if it teaches him a lesson.

Izzie enjoys playing witness. It’s like watching her favorite dreams depicted on stage for her amusement.

"I like your hair like that," she says in passing one day. His hand flutters up to the pins he had kept and his ears flick -- more expressive than she had ever seen, even in the old days. He smiles brightly.

"I'm glad," he says. "I like it too."

Tataru gifts him new clothes, and that is when it truly feels like the beginning of an era. He steps out of a side room to model them for the Scion family, smiling sheepishly, and Izzie stares for a moment too long. She feels Feo Ul's hand in this. The Fae King reached through time and space to design this outfit specifically to slap her in the face. My dear sapling will have to thank me in person later! She can nearly hear the words -- and indeed, Izzie would.

The design is a perfect blend of old and new. His sharp red half-robe is ridiculously him, honoring the Exarch and young scholar both. The gold accents shimmer under the light. He is adorned with so many necklaces she is struck with the desire to bring him another, as if in tribute. 

She steps close and adjusts his black scarf, letting her fingers drift down to the tassles and linger on the sumptuous fabric just over his collarbones, before she realizes what she is doing. 

G'raha's grin is blinding in the corner of her eye. 

"It wasn't even," she grumbles at him.

"And the rest of it?"

"It's a good look," Thancred says. His tone indicates more than just the clothes. Alphinaud poorly stifles a giggle.

Izzie turns back to glare at them, but they are all looking at her, like she is the twist in the tale they've been waiting for. Urianger smiles gently. Y'shtola raises a brow. I knew it to be so. Even Alisaie looks strangely triumphant, like she'd won a bet.

She blushes furiously and lets it slide.

Despite this -- despite the offer for him to join the Scions and the work he does to re-seal the tower and the fact he is never far from arm's reach, much less out of sight -- she still feels out of sorts. And then one day, as they sit together in the Rising Stones cafe picking over finger sandwiches, her mouth does the thing where it asks a stupid question before she realizes it's happening. 

She stares at him as he places a fifth sandwich in his mouth and she asks: "Are we together?"

He glances to her, alarmed, but his tone remains steady and teasing. "Did you teleport somewhere on accident? You look corporeal enough."

"No. I mean. Are we...are…" Well, no, now it feels really stupid. She turns away. She stuffs a whole sandwich in her mouth in one go, and he waits patiently the whole time. She says, once she swallows the food down: "Is this happening? For real this time?"

She isn't sure what she means. Physically? A proposal of marriage? All of it makes her feel like she just stuck her head in an oven.

His brows turn downward. "Why wouldn't it be, my love?"

Yes, this is very stupid indeed. His love is near impossible to avoid. But since he received his own room at the Stones, they function otherwise like they intend to live completely separate lives. Like colleagues.

Which they are. Which is fine.

It’s not.

"Can we...go on a trip? An adventure maybe? Or something? Alone. Just us two. Without...any of the other Scions…?”

She bites her lip and lays her head on the table and covers her scalp with her hands. She wants to die for some reason. 

He laughs, warm and true, and he leans in until his forehead rests on her temple. She still hides in shame, even as he whispers just for her to hear. "How many times do I have to tell you you're my guiding star? Before you believe me?"

Her face is so flushed she feels sweat break on her brow. "Maybe another time would help," she mutters into the table.

He laughs again and gently kisses her on the corner of her mouth. "I will wait for you to come to me, alright?" When she looks at him with wide eyes, stricken by a terror she struggles to name, he smiles at her. Love freely given. "You could never disappoint me. As ever, I follow in your light."

---

She takes him up on it that night.

She was never confident in these affairs. Their first time in the tower on the First she was seized by reckless abandon. He was already seeing everything. Why hide? Their time, she sensed, had been limited once again. The tower loomed over everything. A judge in cold absentia.

Now, if she knocks on this door in the Rising Stones, she will be stepping into forever. Her body shakes. She feels 19 again, afraid of how powerfully certain she is -- afraid of the pain she may invite into her life, if she loses him. But this time, she has already lost him twice. No god, if they exist, would be cruel or stupid enough to make an enemy of her this time.

She knocks. He opens the door. He stares, bewildered. 

"Hi," she says flatly.

A blinding smile lights his face. She has to look away a moment. Her heart thuds so strongly she is certain he can hear it. He stands there, staring.

"Move, would you?" Her voice feels harsh and unsteady. "Before the gossipmongers see."

He steps back. She steps in. And then, in one fluid movement, he pulls her against him and pushes the door closed behind her. Suddenly her back is pressed against the harsh wood and she is kissing him, melting into his muscled chest and his moan of satisfaction as her tongue darts into his mouth. She isn't sure who moved first. It doesn't matter now. They're together, against the literal forces of time and space. 

She pulls back just enough that their lips are only a hair apart. Heat thrums between them.

"I hope you know," she breathes, "that this time I mean to keep you."

He grins. The boy she had dreamed of. "This time I intend to be kept."

She laughs before he quiets her with his mouth against hers. 

For all its drama, the reconnection is quiet. He carries her to the bed. They undress each other slowly, limbs entangled, smiling into each other's skin, until they lay together naked beneath the blankets. He won't stop kissing her, pressing his lips against old injuries, her ears, her collarbones, her stomach. 

“So much to catch up on,” he says. “And I will know all of it, again.”

She takes a deep breath and shreds her last bit of armor. Do what you like with me. Mark me. Make it real. 

He holds her fast when she says this. He trembles, looming over her, within her. She wants to be disappeared by his shadow. She wants to be consumed.

His mouth and tongue slide down her neck. "You are everything.” His teeth graze the top of her shoulder. “I will answer your every prayer.” His hand slides over the bony curve of her hip. “For what I want...is to see you beloved.”

---

And yet.

She wakes curled into his side, his arm circled around her shoulders. She moves until she can hear his heart, beating and alive. 

The shadow of night sparks cruel questions: Will he be kept? Will he be fighting fate's designs upon his life? Can she survive another loss? Can she afford to try? They circle in her head until she takes a sharp breath. She utters his true name. "Raha…"

Perhaps he had already been awake. Immediately, he circles his arms around her in a protective vice. “What’s wrong?”

Her voice catches in her throat and G’raha pulls her up. He sits against the headboard and cradles her against him, bringing the blankets up to keep her warm. “I don’t know,” she says. She smothers her ear against his chest. Lets the sound of his lifeblood calm her. “I don’t know what happens next.”

He strokes her back. Her fingertips slip against his chest as she balls her hands into fists. And then he sucks in a breath. She tilts her head up at him.

"...I just want you to know where I stand," he says, and she gets the feeling he has practiced this speech. "I...I had seen the reports of your death in the future that now will never be. I saw...memorials to you in every camp. Every small group carried something of you. A picture. A carving. A song they thought you wrote…"

He sighs. She hears a century of pain in it.

"Your death in the abstract was untenable. You were everywhere. And...I knew, I knew when I woke that I would be confronted with your death, even in an ideal world. But it was...I felt so immeasurably stupid. To think that I would be able to survive it. I could barely tolerate giving up adventuring with you, much less..."

She stops him with a finger to his lips. No need to relive these hurts for her sake. "What's the short version, Raha?"

The use of his true name sends another contented shudder through his lungs. He takes her raised hand and pulls until he can press his lips against the inside of her wrist.

"I had a century to come to terms with what I want. And now I have her, despite my every expectation.” His tail curls around her hip. "You haven't had that time. I didn't want to press it. But I also know...sometimes you experience more pain doing nothing out of fear of what the something will bring."

She hears the silent mercy he is granting her. It’s okay to want. It’s okay to struggle with it. 

“And,” he adds, “you lose a shocking amount of time, thinking not of the present.”

He presses a kiss to the pulsing vein in her wrist. She taps his chest with her thumb.

"What did the pictures even look like?"

His other hand slides lazily down her back. "Not even the slightest bit like you."

"Not even a little?"

"It was you if you were at least a fulm taller and had much meaner brows. Maybe."

"Hmm…"

He squeezes the base of her tail and she jumps. His chuckling breath tickles her ear. "I much prefer this version."

---

G’raha taps the charcoal against the blank drawing parchment as he watches Izzie experience the consequences of her actions. 

On the path into Rowena’s Splendors below, the Warrior of Light and Darkness hummed, fully distracted by the contents of her bag while she walked -- leaving her utterly unprepared for Thancred to hold out his arm and nearly clothesline her. She stumbles with incredible drama. Her arms flap. Her feet dance to keep her aloft, and just barely do they succeed.

“Hey!” she shouts.

“Your bag,” Thancred insists.

“You-”

“Your bag.”

Izzie growls in frustration before shoving it at him with a leathery thunk.

Thancred makes a show of rifling through it. Some knives wrapped in burlap. The remnants of a cheesecloth. A few glamour prisms. G’raha knows Thancred wouldn’t find anything in there. He knows, also, that Thancred wouldn’t even be down there if it wasn’t for him. He tipped the man off because he knew Izzie would find it funny.

He rather enjoys Izzie’s little cons -- when they aren’t directed at him. 

Thancred hands back the satchel. “If I find any more of that Mord grub in our coldbox, I will confine you to quarters, warrior of two worlds or no.” Despite his words, his tone is largely...endeared. Relieved, and not just because her bag was empty.

Izzie grins at him. “Gaia didn’t send any with me this time.”

Thancred ignores her. “And you!” he shouts up at G’raha. “Stop enabling her!”

G’raha raises his hands to proclaim innocence, laughing, and he wipes off the charcoal lingering on his fingers. He turns his eyes toward the door to the balcony upon which he sits. His heart floats, knowing it’ll be mere moments before Izzie will be ambushing him.

The scions -- his fellow scions -- hadn’t missed the changes within her. She smiles more. She even plays music in the tavern sometimes, which always brings a full house. I’ll deal with the frustrating practical jokes if it means she’s doing alright, Thancred admitted to him over beer not so long ago.

He hears her before he sees her, but only because he seeks out her quiet footfalls. She jumps from the threshold of the door and makes it half-way; she twirl-steps the last half to dramatically throw her arm over his shoulders. She lands hard enough to thump the air out of him. The whole of her leans playfully into his side, her chest nearly against his own. “Ready to see Ma?”

He grins before her happy radiance, never one to resist her call to adventure -- not even when he fears what it will bring. Meeting her adoptive mother, for instance. He settles his arm around her lower back. “As ready as one can be.”

---

The Thanalan heat stifles him. Dust seeps into his clothes and sand flies into his eyes no matter which way he turns when the winds blow across the desert. Izzie's ma, Sheshena Shena, takes one look at G’raha’s pale, wind-chapped skin and insists he take tea with her on the covered porch.

"Izzie can set up the carriage herself," she declares. Izzie glances to him and nods encouragement, but she acquiesces at once to her Ma's will. Lady Shena, G'raha thinks, has a power all of Garlemald wishes it could wield.

But he knows that this gesture is not solely for his benefit. She allows him a few moments of polite, worthless conversation over an aromatic chai before her glassy eyes pin him in place.

"Not too many moons ago," Sheshena says, "I was going to ask her to quit."

G'raha lets that register for a moment. "Her work with the Scions?"

Sheshena inclines her head. "She wouldn't have. She can no less quit being the warrior of light than I can quit being her mother. But I thought...perhaps it would help her notice just how bad the misery weighed on her shoulders."

She purses her lips and turns away, toward Izzie. She lingers there a moment. 

"She would have just been angry with me." Her gaze slides back to him. "But I have watched my daughter carefully, G'raha Tia. And much of this started not long after you disappeared from her life."

He understands now. She is warning him. She is telling him the stories that wouldn't be in any tomes.

"...it wasn't all your fault," she allows. "Her time in Ishgard would have crushed her were it not for dear Edmont." He forgets she is on first name terms with Izzie's Ishgardian family -- that she is part of it, too. "And then her father died."

G'raha closes his eyes, punched in the gut. 

Her voice hollows. "It never quite stopped after that."

He realizes this is not just a tribunal for his crimes against her daughter, but a confessional. An unmooring of pain, old and new. 

"She stopped allowing herself things. Her silly songs ended. Her visits slowed. I knew she needed the space. But she was drifting into the middle of a lake with no paddle. She was letting it happen." Her silver eyes sharpen into knives. "And I sought to blame someone. And I decided it was you. You, who had broken her heart first. You, who had left her behind. You were...it was easier."

She sets down her tea cup with a shaky clink and turns away from him.

"She told me what happened on this...other world. How she found you again."

He stares down into his half-sipped tea. His fingers slip upon the stone table. He would take this punishment. It was small, in the scheme of things, and necessary.

"She told me, had it not happened...had you made a different choice, that she would be dead."

So would the whole world, he thinks to say, but on this he and Sheshena agreed: without her, none of it matters, anyway.

"That you survived years and years to set things right and make sure she didn't die."

He nods, though his neck feels stiff.

"So I wanted to apologize. And thank you."

His heart stutters. He looks up at her in shock.

"Come off it," she says, sly and perhaps embarrassed. "Look at her. Look at her." Her lip trembles. "She's humming again."

They both look out to her, softly brushing her chocobo. The 'bo chirps conversationally at her. She laughs and coos at her stalwart friend. And there, in her laughter…

Where the desert sun left him weak and wan, she is painted in one thousand colors of light. Her sea green eyes shine. Her skin reddens like a canyon at noon. The sun adores her as its own, and perhaps she is. 

This is the crystal of Azem. I think that it was meant for me. Can you believe it? Emet-selch, making this for me, once upon a time...

The Sun. The Shepherd of the Stars. When he touched the crystal, he felt a strange sort of awe.

He tastes cloves and the fruit of oasis when he thinks about her aether whipping around him. He thinks of life where there should be misery -- of how desire can twist but also carefully caress.

"Ma! Where'd you put Bonbon's sun hat?"

Sheshena answers, her voice no longer weighed down, and he realizes again why Izzie was so afraid at first. He would learn the realness of her again. He would see her pain and be there at her Da’s grave with her. He would make it impossible for her to forget that she is loved. 

Sheshena turns back to him and the light in her eyes shifts. 

"So." Sheshena regards him regally. "You're Allagan royalty, are you?" She raises a single brow to his flummoxed expression and sighs as she lifts her tea cup to her lips. "I suppose she could do worse."

The sun scalds bright pictures behind his eyelids as he laughs.

[ticklish-touch]

I’m With You in the Dark

Last year, I made a poll seeing who would be interested in reading a story about my tickle monster Rags meeting my favorite character in Deltarune, Jevil. Even though I got a very positive response overall, I... chickened out. :’D I've always felt very self-conscious about writing fanfics, especially ones involving my OCs with canon characters. I grew up with other weeb friends who thought fanfic in general was very cringey and taboo. But at the end of the day, as long as people aren't writing about shipping real-life people or kink shit with minors, they have the freedom to write what they want if it helps them express themselves. Ever since last year, Jevil has become a very important character to me. There are hundreds of wonderful creative interpretations of him and his possible backstory; and, as someone who has depersonalization spells, existential thoughts about reality & the universe, enjoys making other people laugh even at my own expense, and a chaotic inner voice that constantly tells me "AREN'T YOU TIRED OF BEING NICE, DON'T YOU JUST WANNA GO APESHIT??" this little gremlin has become a comfort character; one that I also highly enjoy cosplaying. And, frankly, what better year to post a story about nihilism than 2020?  👍   So, this is just a "what-if" scenario, if someone else besides Gaster with some degree of omniscience was able to show the poor jester that there's more to life than just waiting for the Void to take over. And if anyone takes anything away from this, I just want it to be the hope that things will get better. You are allowed to be hopeful, and happy, and make positive connections with people even if you've had harmful experiences with people over past mistakes from either side. We're in this together; you aren't always going to be alone, your suffering won't be in vain. This, too, shall pass. So please, stay determined. Happy Halloween, everyone!!  🎃 🦇 👻 🤡 Story below the cut!

       The mischievous Nightmare felt a peculiar pull at his mind as he lurked through the foggy darkness in search of another playmate: A chaotic soul resonating with nearly as much feral playfulness and craving for laughter as his own. But there was something...Off. This mind, this essence, was splintered and broken, re-mended into something different... A shadow of its former self. Joy and mischief and enthusiasm for the world, replaced by existential dread and loneliness...

         The silent cry for help brought Ragaeli to a reality he'd never been in: One of the many infinite parallel dimensions to Earth that existed in the endless void of spacetime. At a brief glance, he could see there was a race called Darkners. They seemed to be the joy of childlike imagination brought to life; living, breathing checker and chess pieces, puzzle pieces, stuffed toys and squeaky mallets and lego blocks.

         And, within a card castle not unlike the story of Alice in Wonderland, deep within a huge cell locked by powerful magic, a rotund little jester with a black and purple wardrobe was bouncing about, creating myriads of dazzling diamonds, spades, hearts and clovers. He appeared to be an imp with a J-shaped tail, a round noseless face, pointy ears, deep black pits for eyes and serrated, lemon-yellow teeth stretched into a smile as he laughed gleefully to himself.

        The Nightmare split open a doorway of crackling energy, leaping through, landing on the indigo striped ground with a THUD. The floor was very plush and unsteady, like the inflated floor of a bouncy castle. "Weellll now, it sure seems like a party in here~ But what kind of party only has one guest, hmm?"

        Immediately, the small jester jumped, his head launching out on a spring coil like a Jack-in-the-box. "AIYEEE-!! What, what?! Who are you? Did...Did you escape too??" He glided over to the tall figure, eyeing him over. At first, his lips twitched and seemed as if they were going to form into a frown. But instead he responded with a forced grin. "Uee-hee hee, I see, I see... It seems they've finally replaced little old me~!" He bounced up on his tail to flick playfully at Ragaeli's chest bells, spiraling around him to tug at his flaps, hair and spandex. "Hmmm, not bad~ And you can't go wrong with being a stripey lad; I guess the Kings have some taste after all! But where is your hat?? A jester with no hat is like a witch without their cat!" He glided around behind Ragaeli and his eyes widened. "A hand on your tail?? Now that's just excessive!!"          "I must say your rhyme scheme is really quite impressive~" Ragaeli giggled, his head turned 180 degrees to look down at the jester.          Jevil couldn't help but giggle too. "Uee hee hee, why thank you, thank you~!" He hovered upside-down in front of the larger monster, summoning a deck of cards, shuffling them up. "The tales must be true, that each suit has two. A black and a red...I always assumed the other must just be dead!!" He snickered, making the cards disappear up his sleeve, then turned back upright, folding his arms, his purple tail lashing about behind him like an agitated cat, his tone twinged with jealousy. "Well since they've decided that red suits their court more, you'd better not be a bore! To replace me is to replace the wittiest of all the players in this castle full of nay-sayers!"

         "Hehehe, now, don't get your tail in a twist, I'm no replacement," Ragaeli playfully flicked one of Jevil's bells. "Name's Ragaeli, but you can call me Rags, Ragdoll, Ragtime, Rag-Tag, just don't call me boring, heheh~ I'm not even from this world, you see. Would you believe me when I say there are other worlds out there? Other dimensions?"          Jevil giggled at all the nicknames, then his face lit up, his annoyance quickly shifting to curiosity. "Oh yes, yes, I know it to be true!! He chuckled. "Your world, it is a game too? Or is it more "real" than what we can perceive?"          Ragaeli raised an eyebrow. "A game, hmm? I suppose you can say that," He smirked. "My world is, in a sense, "Not real" as well. Not to the people of Earth anyways. It's thanks to their thoughts and emotions, their hopeful desires in the depths of their darkest thoughts, that I exist at all. And because of that," His grin turned devilish and he rapped his fingers together in a comically villainous fashion. "I can appear to any of them that I want. I can play all kinds of games with them~ I have no limits to what I can do in my realm, and Earth itself is my playground, a game that will never end~"

         The jester listened with fascination, then cackled again, seeming elated as he bounced around in midair. "Oh I'm SO happy!! Someone else finally sees!! There is another who's been set free!!" Then his giddy tone turned to a snarl. "THEY didn't believe me!! THEY were all blind, blind!!" Magic energy crackled around him. "I ONLY wanted to HELP them!! I only wanted them to be privy to the danger, danger they would face if they didn't try to free themselves of this pointless rat race!!"         Ragaeli's brow furrowed. "Who's them? Who put you in here? A jolly little hellion like you shouldn't be locked away like this, 'specially if you think your castle's in danger."        Jevil quickly shook his head, puffing his chest out indignantly. "It is not I that has been locked away! They chose their own prison, they dug their own graves! The court wouldn't listen, they didn't want to play, and now for their bullheadedness THEY'RE the ones having to pay!!"

        The Nightmare latched onto the images flashing through Jevil's mind, learning bits and pieces about the royal court that ruled the dark castle. It definitely appeared that things were in disarray, and the court jester's loneliness bubbled into a well of resentment...         The continued rush of memories manifested into the image of a strange entity that came to the jester before his imprisonment: A ghostly creature, cloaked in inky blackness, with large round holes in his skeletal hands and a twisted grin frozen on his skull-like head, a single white pupil glowing out from the cracked eyesockets with a sickly light. Even the Nightmare, who had seen every hellish iteration of fear and hatred, knew that this...thing, was bad news. He existed, yet was nonexistant. He was fractured across all of time and space, yet remained trapped unmoving inside the Void. He was filled with hopelessness, bitterness, egoism, an unyielding ambition to drag anything and everything down into the same all-consuming darkness. An unfortunate victim of his own hubris, now a sociopath with cold disregard for individual worth except the desire to dissect everything and everyone he could latch onto. And it happened that Jevil, who craved mischief and adventure and purpose in his seemingly small role in the kingdom, was the latest test subject.         Ragaeli's hair stood up on end and a low, near demonic growl rumbled in his throat. "And what, exactly, did this thing show you?"         The growl made Jevil gasp, stopping him in his tracks, looking up at the large entity with trepidation. "H-He showed me everything, everything!! He showed me the beginning, the end of all things, he showed me the truth of this world and all worlds in the cosmos, that nothing is as it seems, nothing means anything, but because anything can be nothing, nothing can be everything--"          "Alright, enough, I'm stopping you right there, Lovecraft," In a swift movement, he tugged the rim of Jevil's hat over his face.         "YEEE- H-HEY!!" The frazzled jester fixed his hat, puffing his cheeks out at Ragaeli, his tail whipping about even more wildly.          "Whoever this Wing-dinged handy-man is sure isn't very handy if all he can do is fill your head with nihilistic nonsense," Ragaeli stuck out his tongue. "Sounds like someone who had a rotten time of it is now trying to ruin everyone else's fun."         "No, no, not at all!!" Jevil leapt on top of Ragaeli's head and perched like a cat. "Because of him, I can have more fun than I ever thought possible!! You'll see, you'll see!! They're bringing back the key!!" He giggled madly. "Three visitors, all questing in vain to bring an end to a game that doesn't matter, and once I am back inside their world of lies I will spread my truth everywhere and everyone will thank me!!" He cackled. "But first I should thank you for keeping me company~" He leapt off and glided in front of the Nightmare. From the center of his dark eyes, yellow irises began to glow brightly. "It's been so long since someone has lent an ear, so I'll show you my favorite game~"  In a flash, he launched a glowing diamond, sharp as a sword, at the speed of a flying bullet into Ragaeli's stomach.

         But the diamond disappeared on contact. Instead of yelping in pain, Ragaeli shrieked and doubled over as the energy shot a ticklish burst through him. "GYEEEE-HEEHEE!!"         Jevil looked baffled. "...What, what?? Laughter?" He tilted his head, summoning a spinning barrage of clubs that shot at Ragaeli's legs, chest and sides like machine gun ammunition.         And again, the Nightmare was bombarded with a barrage of ticklish electricity, causing him to crumple on the plush floor with cackling laughter. "AIYEEE-HAHAHAHA!!" After the sensation wore off, he continued to let out giddy laughter as he saw Jevil's incredulous expression. "WHOOO-WEE, now that was a good one!!"          Jevil couldn't help but snort back his own laughter at the Nightmare's comical reactions, but he seemed even more puzzled. "Is someone ticklish, ticklish? That isn't how I'm trying to play, but it makes things interesting, needless to say~" He giggled a bit. "But then...How am I supposed to play my game if you've got no numbers to claim??"          Ragaeli shook his head, jumping up into the air to recline as if laying back on a sofa. "You silly little imp, do you really think that's the only way to play with others? Taking this "HP" until they're gone for good? What would you do then when there's no-one left to have fun with?" He gave a pout.         Jevil shook his head quickly. "No no, they're not really gone!! Weren't you listening, listening?? It's all a game!! They can come back!! Losing is just a minor setback~!"

         The Nightmare raised an eyebrow. "And how do you know that?"         "Because the Stranger showed me!! He can mess with the code, he can change--"         "How do YOU know that?" Ragaeli barked. "Forget about him, can YOU bring them back??"         Jevil shrugged. "Perhaps, perhaps not, but if they lose then that's just how it goes~ Such is the way of this game we all play!"         The Nightmare rolled his eyes. "So... you wanna play by the game's rules, huh? How boring."

        The jester's malicious snickering immediately stopped, and he stiffened up.          Ragaeli narrowed his gaze, prying at the jester's mind a bit more. "What is it you've said? You can do anything? So why not shake it up and take this game into your own hands? If you're really free, then PROVE it!"

        For once, the manic jester took pause.

        "Think about what it is YOU want in this game we all call life!"

         Jevil lifted a gloved finger, unable to answer at first. Then his bright yellow irises faded again. "What I want...?" He lowered his head. "What I want..." A quiet giggle bubbled up from inside him. "I just want them to be free, free with me..." He hovered higher, seeming to vibrate with an intense magical aura, and raised his arms. The room began to spin around the central pole, as if it were revolving around the world's axis. "To break their cage and create a NEW stage, where everyone can play, play to their heart's content!! Free from this kingdom of rules and lies!!" He snarled. "I want them to PAY for making me play in my freedom all alone, every night and every day!!" He bellowed. Carnival music began to emanate from all around them, starting quiet then gaining in tempo. "I want them to say, "To HELL with rules, I will break these chains and embrace the chaos, CHAOS!!" He laughed maniacally, and from every curve of the rounded ceiling, more of his symbols appeared; Hearts, diamonds, spades and clubs, all aimed at Ragaeli, launching toward him like speeding bullets.          The Nightmare answered with his own giddy laugh. "Ohhh, how interesting! Well then, let's play for a while and I might just help you make your wish come true~!" He nonchalantly bounded away from the trajectory of the magic, dodging, swooping, teleporting and even dancing and pirouetting away. Occasionally they would hit, and once again he would shriek in surprise and burst into laughter. "GYAAAH-HAHAHAHA!!"          Jevil giggled, no longer bothered that his attacks weren't causing any 'HP' damage. "I wonder; How long will it take before you finally break~?"          The Nightmare smirked dangerously. "I could ask you the same thing!" His hair suddenly jumped to life, tendrils leaping forward and bombarding the jester's chubby belly, sending electric pulses of ticklishness through him.

         "UEEEE-HEE-HEEEE!!" Jevil shrieked with laughter and flailed for a moment before poofing himself to the other side of the room. A bright purple blush filled his cheeks and he clutched his belly, gawking at Ragaeli. "N...NO FAIR, NO FAIR!! IT WASN'T YOUR TURN YET!!"          Ragaeli giggled. "You really think a tickle monster is gonna play fair? Now what's the fun in that~?"          Jevil huffed and his pout shifted to a malicious grin. "Uee hee hee; Fine, fine, I also won't play fair!! Let's see you laugh about THIS!" With a flash, he summoned a large ornate striped sickle, teleporting close and taking a swift swing at Ragaeli, catching him in the middle of the striped pattern on his leotard.          The Nightmare's torso came clean off his legs, not with any blood or guts but with a cartoonish POP. "WHOA!! Caught me off guard with that one, took my top clean off ya did!!" His tone went cockney, and he grabbed his legs and re-attached them as if he'd been de-pantsed.

         Jevil balked, then doubled over backwards with laughter. "HYEE-HEEHEE HAHAHAH Oh my stahahars, you're a fun one, you are!!" His scythe disappeared with a flash, a new wave of glee bubbling up in him. "You really are like me!! Your body cannot be killed!! That means you can stay here and play as long as we want!! I'm so THRILLED!!" He laughed with jubilation and raised his arms, and from the walls emerged a bizarre set of carousel horses, with the bodies of rubber ducks, all of which began to circle rapidly around the room. "Go ahead, hop on~! But better watch out, these horsies have a mean bite~"

         The Nightmare snickered and dove into a cartwheel, throwing himself onto the back of one of the figures, which tried to toss him off like a bucking bronco. "Piece of cake, I've wrangled a few horsies in my d-AAGH!!" He was swiftly knocked off by a flying duck ramming him at full force, sending him careening into the spinning walls of the room. He bounced off of the squishy surface and lay crumpled in a heap, cracking up with hyena-like hysterics. Jevil, too, giggled hysterically at his opponent's prat-fall. It felt so grand to finally have someone to play with again!!

        And so, their antics continued. Jevil came at Ragaeli with everything he had, and the Nightmare almost effortlessly parried it away with his meaty hands or flexible limbs. As Jevil revealed more and more tricks up his sleeve, from his ability to shapeshift into his own scythe, to a downright unfair barrage of clover-shaped bullets, Ragaeli revealed that his tail could multiply into three, which crackled with red sparks; They lunged forward and managed to ensnare the manic jester, slithering against his round belly and backs of his knees, even slipping one of his shoes off to entwine their prongs between his clawed toes.         "AIYEEE-HEEHEEEE UEE-HEEHEE NOOOHOHOHOOO-HEEHEE!!" The ticklish shock to his system surprised the jester enough that his head launched out on its spring coil, before retreating back for him to grab the ends of his hat and hide his flushed face and goofy smile.

        The Nightmare snickered fiendishly at his reactions. "What's wrong~? Surely the court-appointed master of laughter can handle a little tickling?"         The playful taunting just flabbergasted the thrashing imp all the more. Not because he hated it; but because he, the clever jester with an unholy amount of magic energy had never been so easily bested by something that wasn't a physical fight... And on some level, it was thrilling. It felt so good to laugh with such passion; Real, true laughter, instead of a hollow imitation of happiness. Being unable to focus on anything but their game, on the consequences of each other's "attacks", took his mind off the dreadful, existential thoughts that plagued him, and made him think that maybe, just maybe, there was more to his and this world's existence after all...

          But in the meantime, it was his turn, and he was ready for revenge. He poofed himself out of the nightmare's tendrils and re-appeared underneath him, turning his scythe into a rubber mallet to send Ragaeli flying up near the ceiling. He smiled wickedly, summoning a barrage of attacks that started to morph into vaguely hand and feather-like shapes. With a clap of his hands, they rocketed up to the Nightmare, burying into his belly, ribs and armpits, slithering down the wide collar of his leotard, trapping his ankles into cuffs so that they could saw between his toes and whirl against his soles like fuzzy sawblades. The onslaught caused the monster to howl and screech with hysteria, thrashing and swatting at the symbols in vain. "GYEEEE-HEHEHEHEHEH WHY Y-YOHOHOHOUUU-HAHAHAHA~!!"         Jevil giggled devilishly. "Uee-heeheee, what's wrong, what's wrong~? You're the Tickle Monster, are you not? Or were you lying all along? Can't handle being at the wrong end of your own fiendish plot~?"         Ragaeli snarled in his laughter, attempting to swat at the jester with his tails. "GRAAHH-HAHAHAH SH-SHUHUHUHUT UHUHUP YOU L-LIHIHITTLE-!!" And yet, despite his protests at the unbearable attack, the Nightmare's laughter, too, resonated with excitement and elation. It echoed through the vast cell, emanating with such unbridled joy and wild abandon that it stirred something inside of Jevil. Something...Warm, and oddly reassuring. And finally, from the depths of the jester's scrambled mind, memories started to return to him...

         He once knew laughter as well, and more than that, making others laugh. The four Kings, laughing at his antics in the court; young Rudinns and Jigsawrys and a baby Clover, all laughing gleefully at his dazzling displays of card symbols, dancing ribbons and fireworks. The dancers in the halls laughing as the court jester pulled prank after prank on the uptight dolt Rouxls Kaard. The Spade King, telling him how eager he was for his son to be born, so that Jevil could teach him how to spread joy through the kingdom. And Seam, his dear friend, letting out a rare gem of laughter whenever he said a silly joke or snuck up on the wooly cat and tickled his sides...

         Before long, Jevil's magic was no longer set to kill mode; a fact that wouldn't have affected the reality-bending Nightmare made of laughter either way, but others caught in the crossfire would no longer be in danger of a "game over". His will began to shift, and now his projectiles were imbued with the overwhelming urge to make their target crumble into a heap of elated laughter.         Perfect. Ragaeli grinned gleefully, snapping his fingers and poofing himself out of the hold of the magic symbols, standing to face Jevil, folding his arms behind his head. "Well now, seems like something's getting through to that polyvinyl noggin of yours--"         That brief moment was all Jevil needed to re-appear behind him, lunging to rapidly scribble his fingers and prod his tail along Ragaeli's belly, snickering to himself. "You so easily let your guard down!! I thought I was the clown!!"         "GYAA-HAHAHAHA!! TH-THAT WAS ON PURPOHOHOSE!!" Ragaeli slithered his pronged tail up to scribble against Jevil's 'neck' and pointy ears, sending him flying back on his spring-coil with a yowl.

        Jevil wasn't sure how long their game went on. Minutes, hours, days? Time never meant much of anything in his personal freedom; But now, he never wanted it to end. If those three adventurers did ever come back with the key, this would be quite the sight to walk in on...         Before long, though, the jester's 'attacks' were weakening, and his large tongue hung out with panting breaths; it became harder for him to levitate, or to tap out from the tickle monster's ruthless attacks; Ragaeli could sense his growing fatigue and eventually stopped, letting Jevil collapse to the bouncy floor.

        "H-Hee-hehehe...That was fun, fun!! But enough is enough, you tired me up!" He giggled, but his grin turned to a pout. "But I don't want to sleep yet, I still want to play with everyone, everyone..."         "Ohh, I think that can be arranged~" Ragaeli's hand sparked and crackled with magic, making Jevil instinctively squeak and flinch. But he shook his head. "Hehe, don't be worried~ This will give your energy back." But he closed his fist and extinguished the magic. "But hear me out first. If you play to take away everyone's HP, they won't want to play with you. They'll just put you down here again."         Jevil snorted and folded his arms. "Well at least I wouldn't be caged in their prison again, again..."         Ragaeli could still sense negative thoughts plaguing his mind.

Not real. Meaningless. Trapped. Just a game. Not wanted, not needed. Afraid of me. They'll leave me again, again. Seam will leave me again.

        At the very least, these thoughts weren't as loud as before, and were being dulled by the hope that perhaps he could be welcomed back by everyone... Ragaeli narrowed his gaze and snuck his hair tendrils over to prod along his round belly and sides again. "UEEE-HEEEHEEE!!" He rolled over to the other side, hiding his flushed face again.         "Heheh, come on now, no need to hide that face every time I get a laugh outta you~" He managed to tug the jester's hat off, revealing short, dark curly hair and a small pair of horns. Jevil gasped, his eyes going wide and he reached over frantically trying to grab his hat back. "HEYY!! Just because you forgot yours doesn't mean mine's up for grabs!!"   Ragaeli chuckled. "Relax, you'll get it back, if you listen to me first. There's no use letting those thoughts get in the way of your fun, now is there? Even if you live your life 'confined' with the others, at least you'd still have playmates, right? You still have the chance to make amends and show your friends you're not going to let your story end. ...See, now I've been hangin' around you too long. You're turning me into a natural poet~"         The sulky jester couldn't help but snicker. "Even if I did, even if they want to be my friend, I can never see this world the same way again, again..." He trembled. "The vision, the prophecy... The skies will darken, the world will crack, the calamity will sweep away all in it's path...No matter how many broken bonds we try to mend; Whether we play or flee, everything will end!!" He choked back a wail, hiding his face in his palms, his pointy ears drooping back.

        Ragaeli rolled his eyes and sighed loudly, scratching his head thoughtfully for a moment. "Look; Of course things aren't gonna be the same. Of course things end someday. That's the point of LIVING!" The Nightmare barked and jumped up, causing another loud THUD as he stooped over on his haunches like an agitated mountain lion. "You change and you grow and you LIVE, despite how tiny or messed up you think your existence is. You CHALLENGE anything or anyone who tries to tell you that you can't find your way outta that dark tunnel. Fake? Real? Who CARES?? You're HERE! Your life is only meaningless if YOU choose to live it without meaning!!"         Jevil peeked out from under his hands as the deity ranted. He then scoffed, taking his tail and fiddling with it as he avoided Ragaeli's eye contact. "That's easy enough for you to say. Your existence, your world, isn't made to be a game for OTHERS to play."

        Ragaeli calmed down a little, patting his hair sympathetically and tweaking one of his horns. "Listen, Jev-In-The-Box. You're right about one thing. You can't change the circumstances that brought you into being. And sometimes, that really sucks." He frowned. "It sucks for those little mortals who have such little control over the society that keeps 'em prisoner. And even for someone like me...I can't change the fact that I come from a world that wouldn't exist without mortals. Any Nightmare can disappear in the blink of an eye if they aren't remembered by enough people."         "Really..??"         Ragaeli nodded. "That's why some of 'em try so hard to be remembered, even if it means playing with humans like cats torturing mice before they eat 'em. And I can't make them value life. But I also can't let them freely roam the world that imagined us up, or reality as we know it would fall apart. I can't even stay in other timelines or realities too long or I risk fading away for good."         Jevil listened curiously, a hint of a concerned frown crossing his face.         The deity shrugged. "So I just make the best of it, y'know? I have fun showing other people that their world isn't as small and hopeless as they think." The thoughtful expression left the entity's face as quickly as it had appeared, replaced by a devilish grin. "So YOU had better not let me catch you moping about in those gloomy thoughts of yours again," he poked Jevil's plush belly, making the jester squeal and bat his hand away. The Nightmare snickered. "And if I see you trying to end other people's game instead of finding ways to make laughter and excitement a part of your reality... Then I WILL be back, and I'll show you what it really means to be ticklish~" He narrowed his gaze and cracked his knuckles loudly, his body emanating with an aura of electric energy, his hair tendrils raising into the air like cobras poised to strike, wriggling their fingers and forming into bristles.

        Jevil shrieked and quickly scrambled back. "YEEEP-!! ALRIGHT ALRIGHT ALREADY, I GET IT I GET IT!!" The jester first pouted at being told what to do. But something about the strange monster's words...Felt to be true.

        Ragaeli chuckled, his hair calming back down. "Of course, that doesn't mean there's no fun to be had in a bit of harmless chase," he flashed a devious grin. "You can make them pay, without making them go away, so that way you can all play again and again~ The eventual catch can be the best pay-off of all~"         The implication of the tickle monster's words started to sink in. A Grinch-like smile started to spread across the imp's face as terrible schemes came to his mind. He could play a game of 'Surrender' with anyone, anytime, and they wouldn't have to lose their HP over it. It could be one big game of hide-and-tickle, or tickle tag, or a test of endurance, or another way for the King to interrogate outsiders about Lightners...         Sensing that his thoughts had changed their tune, Nightmare gave him back his hat...And transferred a surplus of magic energy fueled by laughter, adrenaline and mischief to replenish his strength.

        Jevil gasped as if surfacing for a breath of fresh air, then giggled and sprung to his feet. "Fine, you've won me over, I hope you're happy! But I think we'll have to wait until the Lightners return with that key. Once they do, I'll wreak havoc in that boring little prison of theirs and this Joker will be the one to have the last laugh~!" He giggled fiendishly and rubbed his hands together, bouncing impatiently in place.

        Ragaeli smirked. "Hehe, no need to wait for a key. Prisoners break themselves out all the time, so why not just break in~?" He hopped over to the door, grasped his large hand around the bars, his hand emanating with crackling magic again... And the lock popped open with a click.         Jevil went slack-jawed. "Wowee!! You really are strong! I can't even best Seam's magic enchantments at full strength!" he then cleared his throat. "That isn't to say I couldn't have broken in all along. I just didn't want to is all," he shrugged and stuck his tongue out. "So now it's time to say...SO LONG!!" He cackled maniacally and shot like a bullet out of the door.

        When he flung himself from inside the cell, he saw the three travellers from earlier, now gawking up at him incredulously.         "W-What the-?!" Susie and Ralsei's eyes went wide.         Jevil instantly pounced them, rapidly bombarding them with scribbling fingers, rapid pokes and his tail slithering between their limbs. Shrieks of startled laughter answered him, even from the quiet, stoic one. They were too preoccupied with trying to flail away to notice the jester snatch the key out from under their noses. As soon as he had it, he stopped and hovered above them.         Susie panted for a minute. "WHAT WAS THAT FOR?! I'LL KILL YOU FOR THAT!!" she snarled, brandishing her axe.         "H-How did you get out?!" Ralsei questioned. "I thought you needed the key??"         Jevil merely answered with a wild grin, focusing his power in his hands until the key sparkled and crackled with his magic...And shattered into hundreds of tiny shards. Without another word, he rocketed up the winding stone steps, laughing incomprehensibly.         "WH...WHAT THE HELL WAS THAT?!" Susie shouted.         "I don't...think that was supposed to happen..." Ralsei scratched his head through his hat.         Kris just shrugged, and Susie grumbled. "We went through all that shit just to get the key and he didn't even NEED it!! I'm getting real damn sick of this stupid castle!!" She pounded the handle of her ax into the ground, huffing loudly.         Ralsei frowned. "Well, don't worry about him. I think it's time we go find Lancer, yeah?"         At this, Susie calmed down a little, sighing. "Yeah, you're right. We've kept him waiting long enough. Some mystery prisoner isn't any of our damn business."

        It was already too late, regardless of whether the heroes tried to go after him. The jester's second reign of chaos was swift and sudden. He ricocheted through the castle, his manical laughter echoing through every hallway, his bursts of magic visible like fireworks in the distance, his devilsknife and his magic attacks shapeshifting into other "weapons" like giant featherdusters, scrubbing brushes and makeshift hands. At first the guards were horrified that the infamous prisoner had escaped. But once they were reduced to shrieks of laughter and pleading and apologies, and Jevil declared victory before bee-lining to his next target and eventually leaving the castle, the denizens of the Darkner world were left flabbergasted, nervous, and perhaps even amused and curious to see if this "dangerous criminal" would return for more...

        Ragaeli watched the commotion smugly as he started to fade back to his realm. "Oh dear, it appears I've created a monster~"

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

        You make your way back down the elevator and stairs. You double-check your items, use the save point, and....         What the hell? The dungeon door is gone! Is this an easter egg of some kind? Did the game glitch out? You check your items again... The key is gone too.         Okay, something must be wrong. Before you make the decision to replay the whole game just for the hidden boss, you head back to Seam. Maybe talking to him again will re-trigger the events needed for fixing the key?

        But when you go inside the "Seap", it isn't just Seam anymore. The secret boss, Jevil, now has a full sprite, grinning gleefully at the player.

        [ * UEE HEE HEE, WELCOME, WELCOME LIGHTNERS! SO SORRY WE DIDN'T GET TO PLAY, PLAY. MAYBE ANOTHER DAY! ]

        You talk to Seam first, triggering his usual dialogue about how Jevil ended up in the dungeon, and how the heroes would eventually have to face the Knight. And, interestingly, an additional bit of dialogue explaining how the heroes just missed Jevil's "escape", and how his reunion with his old friend was filled with a great deal of laughs...         Talking to Jevil afterwards brings up more dialogue. You ask him how he got out of the dungeon.

[ *YES, YES, I SUPPOSE I SHOULD EXPLAIN THAT KEY. I HAD ANOTHER STRANGER COME TO ME! ]

[ *BUT THIS ONE DID NOT MAKE ME FEEL SO AIMLESS. IN FACT, HE SHOWED ME THAT I WOULD HAVE MADE QUITE A MESS! ]

[ * THIS MAY ALL JUST BE A GAME, AND YOU... YES, YOU OUT THERE...]

        His sprite momentarily came closer, his yellow irises seeming to bore right into you through your screen...

[ * -MAY HAVE MORE SAY IN WHAT RIGHTS WE CAN OR CANNOT FLAUNT. BUT I THINK, EVEN IN THIS PRISON, WE CAN STILL BE HAPPY, HAPPY, AND PLAY AS MUCH AS WE WANT! ]

[ * WHO IS REAL, AND WHO IS NOT? I DON'T THINK THAT MATTERS ANYMORE, ANYMORE. ]

[ * THAT SILLY RED MONSTER, WHO LAUGHS AND LAUGHS AND REMINDED ME THAT THIS WORLD DOES NOT HAVE TO BE A BORE...]

[ * THE STRANGE WORDS HE SAID HAVE STUCK INSIDE MY SPRINGS. NOW MY VIEW ON THIS WORLD HAS BECOME JUST A LITTLE LIGHTER... ]

[ * AND I'M CURIOUSER, AND CURIOUSER, TO SEE WHAT THE FUTURE BRINGS~! ]

[calpops]

noticed nights | a.i.

Summary: Ashton was once caught in the chaotic world of critics and buyers; he felt trapped in his own art, unable to create what he wanted. So he took to the streets, painted sidewalks and concrete with passion once more and went unnoticed by the masses. He believed that judgement would not follow him if it did not know his name. He hoped his past would not catch him either. Until she came back into his life, turned his perspective upside down and and made him fall in love all over again; with art, with dreams he once thought were better left to the shadows of the night. With her. 

Word Count: 12.5K

***

Ashton was shrouded by shadows, highlighted under the glare of the moon as he lurked behind cracked concrete walls. Paint lived on his skin, under his fingernails and embedded into his clothes. He found refuge within nights that art bled into walls or sidewalks; stars and swirls of colors an escape and solace to the monotony of everyday life. He was untamed and free to feel without inhibitions. His art was personal—or nothing at all. He told a story with every stroke or spray; likened his livelihood to realistic murals against abandoned buildings and abstract concepts stained on sidewalks. But tonight he held chalk in a closed hand, reminiscent of childhood summers on a paved driveway and an entire world ready to be created by his hand.

Chalk was temporary, ready to disappear at the first fall of rain. It was for him. This piece was his past and all he ever wanted for the future. No one else needed to see her figure wrapped in flowers. She was once his and now the night’s. Born under the moon and fading with the sunrise. He could have sketched her within the pages of a book, could have taken a scrap of paper to try to let ink and linework capture her. She was more lurid in the night. More effervescent soaked in moonbeams and coated with chalk dust promising to keep secrets. He was supposed to be over her; months had gone by and her absence had settled into his heart and bore a permanent residence in the aches of his bones. He continued on, relaxed his hold so as not to crumble the chalk in his grasp.

Ashton felt a presence behind him, someone happening along his cornered haven of quiet. Those moments were rare and usually ended quite quickly. This time, the person lingered. Ashton dropped the chalk to the concrete and stood, turned to face the person in question and stopped short. Familiar eyes took in his every inch, sweeping fallen tendrils of hair out of her face, soft pink lips he knew tasted bittersweet curved into a timid smile. She stood before him and lived in lines of chalk under his feet. He felt a flicker of heat rush to his cheeks through the cool autumn air, his body alight with old flames yet to snuff out. She peered at him, with eyes that told tales of their past and wandered towards the version of her on the ground. Ashton awkwardly stepped in front of his art, shuffling his feet and clearing his throat, suddenly fallen into her inquisition once more.

He felt the months of separation between them, could still hear the last words spoken. They had been said with great trepidation, fear of the unknown running rampant through his bloodstream. She had made him many things in life, helped create the way in which he lived. Fine tuned the very essence of him, able to pluck his chords and create melodies yet to be heard.

“Lennox,” Ashton murmured, her name now foreign on his tongue, burning through his chest after sitting with unlit sparks for what felt like lifetimes.

She nodded in acknowledgment, grin dropping into a frown that reminded Ashton of mornings being greeted by pouty lips and mumbled five more minutes. He knew his tone was less than inviting; his arms crossed over his chest screaming of indignation and standoffishness. Lennox bit her lip and let it catch between her teeth as she sucked in air. Ashton watched the wave of emotions swirl in her irises. She was a crash course of every feeling in moments, able to express sorrow and demand sympathy with the blink of an eye.

“It’s been a while, huh, Ash?” She asked and Ashton wished his name had not sounded so delicately from her mouth.

Just one syllable made him susceptible to her influence. Lennox breathed new and old life into his lungs, let the past fill his rib cage like tendrils of forgotten smoke trying to smolder and burn his resolve once more.

“Months,” he said simply, not giving her the satisfaction of knowing he had counted the days.

Lennox sighed, tucked loose caramel locks behind her ear and began to fiddle with the zipper on her white satin jacket. Ashton remembered her unsure hands always finding something to preoccupy them. Zippers, buttons, his hands, loose threads.

“I tried to go to your gallery,” she admitted. “But the door was padlocked and the windows were barred.”

“It’s been closed for weeks,” Ashton said without hesitation, feeling undulated truth spill out of him. He wasn’t sure why he explained himself; if it was to ease the concern evident in her brown eyes or if it was to remind himself of his own situation. “I don’t do shows anymore. There’s no reason to keep it open.”

“You don’t—why not?” Lennox questioned, keeping her eyes on him though he could tell by the way her fingers worked her zipper up and down her mind was wandering. “Don’t you want your art to be seen?”

Ashton realized she was stuck on her likeness behind his back, his body a barrier to truths highlighted only by the moon. Her question was a double edged sword, one fine tipped and pressed to his heart. He could feel it course through him, the words seeking honesty and crashing through his being with relentless tides.

Ashton swallowed, finally letting his arms drop to his sides and let his shoulders relax. He let out a breath, his air swirling into the cool night. Lennox didn’t waver as she waited for his answer; Ashton knew she was steadfast and capable of holding onto her will for much longer than he ever could. But she also knew when to stop, could feel hairline fractures in resisting glass well before Ashton; he was one to wait to shatter.

“It still is seen,” Ashton answered, working to untangle his explanation. “I’m just not. I don’t need to be known. Just the art.”

Lennox pursed her pink lips and fluttered her gaze from side to side; trying desperately to see past Ashton’s stonewall. Ashton wasn’t sure why he caved and cracked, why he stepped aside and let her approach chalk dust and heart strings. But he did, he moved aside and let her in once more.

He watched as she took small steps forward and her gaze glazed with recognition; flickers of the past lighting up and melting dark honey eyes. Her worried hand made a quick getaway from her zipper and to his arm; cool fingers pressing familiarly into his skin. His arms were bare except for ink that told stories his words never could. His boots scuffed against the pavement as the quiet night surrounded them. She said nothing for a moment, merely let her gaze sweep towards the art and back to Ashton a few times. His look didn’t break as it lingered on her; hoping she would draw her own conclusion and not ask questions. He did not think he could withstand to tell her why he drew it or confirm that it was her. It was always her.

“What kind of flowers are they?” She asked, knocking the breath and expectation out of Ashton completely. It was abstract—the petals loose and undone in an attempt to be unknown. He felt a cut of satisfaction that not even she could garner a guess.

“Marigolds,” he answered. Your favorite dying on his lips before sounding into the night.

Lennox never knew he knew her favorite kind of flower. Ashton never did anything to prove such knowledge. But he remembered nights in sheets printed with golden orange petals and rushed mornings with wilting marigolds in frosted glass boxes set in the window as he swept out the door. Pages filled with petals and windows overlooking the city lush with color. She was an open book; one with creased pages and a worn cover, read by all and tattered and torn by one.

“I used to paint those,” she mumbled and Ashton put his hand up to his face, rubbed at his jaw as he collided back to art that scattered her apartment and fell out of moleskine sketchbooks. She never shared her art outside the walls of her home, much more content to keep to herself and discover others.

She was practiced in pastels and nature, flowers and sunrises usually graced watercolor paper with supple lines and muted backgrounds. He was striking to her soft. Harsh contrast and portraits of people and highlights of places he’d never known. Fans said it was bold. Critics said it was brash. Lennox said it was Ashton. She had a way of using his name for and against him, could contrast the delicacy of her meek voice with the spark of honesty in her eyes.

“You know they symbolize creativity.” And passion and jealousy and grief. They represented everything they had become.

Lennox nodded and let her hand drop from Ashton’s arm, fingers curling up to capture the hem of her jacket sleeve, French tip nails catching satin. “Your art deserves to be noticed.”

They deserved to be noticed. Ashton let a small smile capture his features—sparking within his hazel eyes—at her words. He knew she meant them. They were much softer than words said months ago.

They had built worlds within each other, the first stepping stones curated by passion that could not be contained. They came together on lonely nights, seeking temporary comfort and intoxicating highs that crashed them back into reality once the sun dare ascend into pastel skies.

“It already has been,” Ashton replied, Lennox quickly noting the meaning. Her own gaze more than enough attention and notice to suffice.

“It’s late,” she said, shrugging to pull her jacket closer as a crisp night breeze danced through the streets. “I should get going home.”

“I’ll walk you,” Ashton offered, bending quickly to retrieve the few pieces of chalk he had abandoned on the pavement. When he stood back up he slowly trailed his gaze along her. Lace trimmed socks folded over ankle boots, legs with bruises from walking in the dark, floral dress that clung to her every curve. It’d been a long time since Ashton had been able to capture her fully.

Lennox shook her head profusely, waved a hand in the air and played off his offer as best and casually as she could. “It’s fine, Ash. I can get there on my own. It’s not too far off anyway.”

Ashton knew that. He remembered her apartment was only around a few corners and up a couple flights of stairs. He didn’t say that.

“It’s late and dark, Lenn.”

Ashton hadn’t meant for her nickname to fall from his lips; though he knew deep inside it was a way to sway her. Nicknames, terms of endearment, pouts, promises. They all coerced her into Ashton’s desires and drowned her in his fears.

“Okay,” she accepted, instinctively reaching a hand out for his but dropping it as soon as her fingers made contact. “Sorry.”

“It’s nothing,” Ashton soothed at the trace amount of embarrassment clouding her eyes and scrunching up her nose.

It would have been nothing if only they had held onto the something they had created. It would have been second nature, yet always, second guessed. Undefined lines harbored jealousy, built problems from nothing and made them feel like everything.

They walked on, keeping what distance the sidewalk allowed between them. Ashton shoved his hands in his pockets, fingers flexing as he craved the feeling of her hand in his. He wished she hadn’t pulled away so quick; he would have entwined their fingers and walked her home without question.

Lennox spared Ashton a glance as they rounded the first corner, glossy eyes soaked in moonlight. Ashton felt his chest tighten as he counted down the corners. There was a multitude of things he wished to say; unsure if they would happen along each other after the night bled away. Instead, he kept quiet, content to rememorize her with what time they were granted.

“The museum has a new exhibit,” Lennox said, words unsure as they tumbled from her lips and cut into the quiet. “I think you’d like it.”

“Is it like the one we met at?”

That was his favorite.

It was morning when they met; Lennox had her hair pulled back and walked with purpose in her steps. Ashton had been fighting a hangover, stumbling through the exhibits in search of inspiration—consumed with doubt over his own work. She had stopped him short, asked him if he needed help finding his way around. He had refused at first, not sure where he was headed but relented as he saw her soft eyes and fingers that fidgeted with her clipboard. He asked her what exhibit he was currently in, eyes begging for mercy at his hazy confusion. She had laughed and spilled orange sunrises into his bloodstream. He had wandered towards Romanticism, Lennox informing him the pieces he currently stood by were of the early 1800s.

“No, it’s much more modern. It feels like something your art could have been a part of,” she replied, looking ahead, cheeks pinkening at her own admission. “If you hadn’t closed the gallery and moved your work to the streets… not that there’s anything wrong with that.”

There had been a time when Lennox let her words free; praise and criticism alike. She had been fearless in telling Ashton what he needed to hear. She never catered to only what he wanted her to say. Now her words were anxious and thought out. Tip toeing on fractured glass, afraid to break them both. She was flustered and failing to hide her nerves.

“Have you noticed my work?” Ashton asked, holding his breath.

He had slunk through dark nights and painted the streets with color. Tagging the side of a building Lennox passed everyday. Creating intricately designed paths on steps she was bound to come across. It would have been impossible for her not to see them; but noticing and knowing them as Ashton’s were completely different than giving them a glance.

They rounded the second corner.

“Of course I have,” Lennox answered after a moment and Ashton let out his breath in relief. “I wasn’t sure at first. I didn’t know they were yours until tonight. They’re… different than what you usually do.”

They were her.

“I guess I’ve changed.”

Lennox flinched, Ashton fully realizing the implication that word aroused. Lennox had pled for it, needed to see and feel something different; wanted more than what Ashton would let her have. And though Ashton had been the one to call the shots, grief consumed him when she left and didn’t look back. He supposed in a way he had set her free and lost himself in the process.

“I shouldn’t have asked you to change,” she began. “That wasn’t fair.”

“You shouldn’t have had to.”

There were many fractured pieces of their past that Ashton wished he could have changed the moment they happened. Endless encounters and words unspoken that could have changed the course of their relationship. The passion, the jealousy, the grief; it was all too much and yet never enough. Ashton hadn’t committed and Lennox feared losing him because of it. So she was the one to walk away, to end the glory and the pain.

They rounded the last corner.

“Maybe we weren’t a good fit,” Lennox continued, her own voice unconvinced of her statement.

Ashton shook his head, unable to protest verbally. He sighed, a sharp inhale followed by sagging shoulders and a defeated exhale. He let it go; he let her go. Her building stood tall and foreboding with memories that spilled onto cracked pavement. Ashton bid Lennox goodbye with a heart that still thumped in time to pencils tapping on desks and uncaught breath from playful chases. Before she turned to leave they shared a look and Ashton remembered a time when they shared the world through nighttime rendezvous’. A timid hand came up in a halfhearted wave as she took the first step up the stairs. Ashton bit his lip; bit back the desire to say something more and watched her leave. Unsure if he would only ever see her again in lines of chalk or swirls of paint. Those too would fade.

***

Streamlines of moonlight filtered through barred windows, wine stained lips and art fallen from grace and to the floor highlighted the evening. Lennox was lithe in the new night atmosphere. Ashton was rigid with uncertainty. He remembered paint covered hands and his heart poured onto bricks. He could still hear their footsteps pounding against the pavement; his boots creating resounding thuds and her heels tapping light clicks. She had run into him again, he had positioned himself in her path. She mentioned the gallery, he swayed her into a visit. Lips on bottles and falling to the floor in a mess of memories induced by bittersweet tastes led them to sobering gazes.

“I fucking hate this place,” Ashton murmured, hands clapping to the white tile floor, Lennox flinching at the sudden noise. “Wish I never opened it.”

“Ashton,” Lennox said, his name still a symphony rolling out of her mouth. “Get over it.”

Ashton looked up quick, catching her eye and tilting his head. Those words were reminiscent of a time she was candor and unfiltered. He knew the alcohol played with her confidence; restored honesty and left her with less inhibitions.

“You don’t get it,” Ashton continued and stopped deadpan, unsure how to explain. “You’ll never get it.”

Lennox turned to him, tucked her feet under her legs and leaned forward. Ashton could feel her crawling under his skin and pumping his blood a little faster; making his body a little warmer.

“I do get it. You told me you hated painting for the big guys; didn’t want to be told what to do to make it into galleries. So you opened your own little one. And then it spiraled. And it got big,” she said and leaned closer with each sloppily strung together sentence. “And bigger. Until it was too much. And the critics found you. And you couldn’t look at your art without seeing their words. So you shut it down. Shut yourself out. Took to painting the streets because you think anonymity is bliss and judgement won’t follow you if it doesn’t know you.”

Ashton paused. Took one moment to swallow her truth; let it burn the back of his throat and sit with remorse. He nodded and she smirked. Just a tilt of her lips in a knowing way. Just a subtle hint that they both knew she was right.

“I get it, I get you, I know you,” she began and pulled away, turning to put her back to the wall. Her head fell back gently and tired eyes found his once more. “I always have.”

“Then why did you leave?”

Ashton regretted that question the moment it tumbled from drunken lips. He wished to take it back. Wanted more than anything to sit in silence and oblivion. He’d had his theories. Knew she wanted more. But the question still remained. Why? Why wasn’t it enough?

“I needed time,” she answered simply. “You needed space. We needed to miss each other.”

“I did miss you. I still miss you.”

“I’ve missed you too, you must know that.”

“I think I’ve changed Lenn,” Ashton said, eyebrows furrowing at his self contemplation. “For the better. Because of you. But for me.”

“It’s easy to say that. Not so easy to prove it.”

Ashton’s hands played at the floor, fingertips digging into linoleum without resolve. Fallen art scattered the gallery floor; he’d torn the pieces off the walls and left them behind. There was an urge inside of him hitting a boiling point. They laid face down, Lennox and her assumption correct. He hadn’t been able to face his art without seeing their words. Headlines in bold print. Reviews in italics. Seething red words filling gallery air and tampering with Ashton’s mind. In one swift movement he stood, collected a canvas with a city he’d never seen painted in streaks of blue, and drove his knee through it.

The art dropped to the floor, corners ricocheting until it landed face up; ripped through and damaged beyond repair. An elated breath escaped Ashton, a haze of carelessness capturing him. Lennox gaped at him; jaw gone slack and eyes wide. She was apprehensive at first, standing slowly on wobbly legs and taking a moment for herself before moving to Ashton.

“What does that prove?”

“That I’m capable of letting go,” Ashton said around a shrug. “Letting go of critics. The past. Galleries. Fear.” Fear of commitment.

Lennox let her gaze drop to the floor and broken art; took in the ripped canvas and swept a look back up to Ashton. Her lips pursed and hands came up to glide over Ashton’s shoulders. He stood still; body alight with uncertainty at her touch.

“I hope you don’t let go of everything from your past.”

Ashton shook his head silently as her hands dropped. In a brash movement he bent back to the floor, grabbed the still open wine and downed what was left. Liquid courage filled him with unrestricted heat and fiery passion. He let the bottle drop to the floor, almost expecting it to break—shards of glass glinting in streams of moonlight an image burning through his mind. In that moment he craved the feel of a paintbrush in his hand, wanted to mix colors to capture the momentary picture breezing through his thoughts. Instead of breaking it merely dropped with a thud and rolled away. His next venture was toward another piece, one he had painted with the hopes of appeasing the naysayers. His art was always too much of this or not enough of that. He bellowed out a sarcastic laugh.

“This one was too abstract; it swallows the meaning,” he grumbled, paraphrasing a review that kept him up much too long, and tore through the fabric with an unforgiving swipe of nails.

“Ashton,” Lennox called, voice filled with warning. “You’re going to regret this.”

“Why would I ever regret this?”

“You’re destroying your art—destroying pieces of yourself.”

“These aren’t me. Not anymore. Maybe they never were.”

He tossed the piece to the ground with the other ruined painting. He slid to the next and held it at an arm’s length from him. He remembered why he painted it; he sought the unattainable. Tried to make it personal for everyone. Instead of marigolds twining through a country fence he stroked the canvas with rose petals falling into the night. He failed to realize how impersonal that truly made it.

“You do this one,” Ashton suggested around a slight slur. Lennox drank less than him, the split of two bottles of wine uneven. She still stood with wobbling legs and hazy eyes.

“I can’t. They’re not mine to destroy,” she said with sure words but a lilting voice.

Ashton rolled his eyes fondly, threw back his shoulders and let out an exasperated sigh. He clutched it a bit tighter, knuckles going white. He let it fall to the ground once more. Drove his foot down on top of it and heard the puncture.

“It’s cathartic,” he offered again, gaze trailing towards dozens of fallen pieces. “It’s not like I don’t have the prints still. I’m destroying the originals… because they’re not original.”

They were created and curated, tended to the likes of everyone but Ashton.

Lennox bit her lip and wobbled to a canvas with tiger eyes reflecting silhouettes. She paused for a moment, catching Ashton’s eye as if to ask for permission. He tilted his head into a nod and went about procuring another piece. Silence mixed into the night.

Until a vibrant rip of canvas cut through.

Ashton turned to see Lennox and a shredded canvas merely held together by its bars. A smile broke across Ashton’s face and he hit the next canvas against the wall; breaking the bars and breaking himself free of the past. He was breathless at the prospect of it all. Destruction had never been so artistic; demise had never been so poetic. Drunken laughter poured from Ashton, breathy and unsure giggles accompanied from Lennox. Ashton stumbled over to her, took her hand in his and let the art drop.

“I’m sorry about the past.”

Lennox nodded, giggles cut short. “I’m sorry too. I wish we could just forget.”

Ashton’s hand trailed up her bare arm, fingers lightly crossing collarbone and deciding to roam up to cup her chin. He wasn’t sure what brought him inching closer to her; the wine, a long lost craving for bittersweet or the tempting mixture of both. “Let’s not forget all of it.”

Ashton remembered the first night they spent together. It had come after a casual date; a stroll through the park under moonlight where children’s chalk decorated the sidewalks. Lennox had spun on tiptoes with a loose hold on Ashton’s hand, velvet skirt twirling with her motion. Ashton offered to walk her home and Lennox didn’t hesitate in accepting. She invited him up and in for a cup of coffee and even though the night was growing old and caffeine under the stars would keep Ashton awake until the sun made an ascent into the sky he didn’t hesitate either. It was easy that first night, gentle kisses creating solace never sought before. It was a night made of lurid lighting and soft sighs, of painting purple on collarbones and pulse points.

He didn’t want to forget sunlight dazzling across her skin on all the mornings he stayed, art in ethereal yet human forms, running down hallways, uncontained passion and nights in each other’s arms. He wanted to keep those memories. Save them as mementoes of the past that he could pull out and pour over on cold nights. He did want to forget some things. He could live without the haunting memories of stony gazes and choking on insecurities and doubts. He’d happily let go of his reservations of love. He’d erase the commitment issues that plagued his every waking moment and consequently tore them apart; just two paper dolls left in piles of pieces only the other could put back together.

Lennox was just a breath away, painted lips patient and inviting. They fed off each other’s movement, moving in slowly with tilted heads and hearts that felt askew at something not so new but vast and terrifying nonetheless. The press of their lips was familiar and shocking all the same, they tasted of wine and forlorn nights that kept them both awake and wondering. Ashton felt her every inch against him, body falling into a known state of lax passion. They were comfortable with each other, knew their every move. It didn’t take Ashton by surprise that Lennox slightly gasped at the graze of his teeth against her lower lip or that she welcomed him in further. Pulling apart was second nature in a long lost but always remembered way. They were breathless and certain they were floating, if not from the kiss then surely from the taste of wine still burning through them.

“I never want to forget that,” Lennox amended and Ashton smirked at her flushed complexion and dazed eyes. He saw the sleepless gray painted under them, the hollower cheekbones—her usually full face slimmed and cut with shadows.

“I could never forget that or you,” Ashton agreed with a subtle nod of his head.

They fell into a descent of silence. Only beating hearts and a cracked and ticking clock sounding into an otherwise quiet night. The city slept around them, their world intimate and detailed. Two silhouettes painted by streamlines of moonlight, separated only by a past worth forgiving but never forgetting. Ashton went bashful and put a hand to the back of his neck, he was heated and spiraling after the kiss scattered pieces of reality back to him. He took in the destroyed canvases and let laughter bubble out of him in an uncontrolled manner once more. He was in disbelief. He’d done what he never thought he could. He had let go and held on all at the same time. He dropped frayed and unneeded pieces of his past and kept a tight grip on those that mattered.

“You’re drunk,” Lennox pointed out, letting Ashton’s laughter echo around the empty gallery.

Her voice and resolve to stay grounded was faltering. Ashton felt paper thin and caught in a breeze that didn’t exist. He stumbled over to the half wall that separated portions of the gallery. Gripped the oak that capped the wall and turned back to Lennox who had followed after him; let their bodies entangle and thrive off each other’s laughter. One hand tucked hair behind her ear just to watch it sweep back into place. Ashton shook his head and Lennox captured his hand, brought it down with her and peered up at him with a mischievous and knowing smile.

“I’m so drunk,” Ashton agreed, and in a breathless whirlwind of admission continued with his candor. “And still in love with you.”

If the alcohol hadn’t bolstered his confidence and given him new life he may not have said it. He couldn’t remember saying it for the first time. He let wonder and guilt eat away at rolling and disconnected memories. Had he never said it before he was certain he had always meant it and felt it. There was no way he couldn’t have. All he knew was wild pulses and the feel of cotton sheets and her supple skin captivating his everything and creating something Ashton should have cherished for forever and then an extra day.

“I’m drunk too but I’m going to remember that,” Lennox promised.

Ashton hoped she would.

Ashton hoped that maybe she would feel it back. Say it back. But she stayed quiet and merely fell closer into the messy hold they had on each other. Her face pressed into his shoulder and hands gripped the leather jacket that donned his body. The tortuous yet deserving part was that Ashton could hear her voice saying I love you but it wasn’t soft and earnest. It was pained and panicked, a last attempt and a plea. Ashton let his heart hammer with newfound hope he might hear those words again; different context and connotation. Different circumstances. Different response tumbling from his lips.

“I’ll walk you home,” Ashton offered, feeling confident enough in himself to wander familiar streets and not let her go. Lennox nodded her approval against his shoulder and made to move with him, his hand on her lower back as they left destroyed art and broken hearts behind.

She wouldn’t fade into moonlight. Not again. At least... not tonight.

***

Ashton stood in the wreckage of the previous night. Shredded canvases and broken bars littering the white tile floor without remorse. He felt an incredulous sense of freedom fleeting through him. It settled low in his stomach, washed through his mind and left a sigh escaping his lips. He felt detached as he wandered past ruined art and remembered hearts colliding back together, even if only for a moment. The night had brought Lennox back to him in whispers and the morning resided shouts in his mind with a yearning need for more. The day had bled away through an ache in his head and uncertainty thrumming through his veins. He recalled her lips on his, supple and sweet and a reminder of times when bodies created art in futile attempts to fill voids.

A few steps into the wreckage left Ashton laughing humorlessly, a dry whip of a chuckle leaving him. He rubbed his hands on his face as a groan surpassed the laughter and his head began spinning. He didn’t have time to linger in the cavernous doubt his mind was now concocting. A knock on the door jarred him back into reality and sent him into immediate action. It took expelling effort to undo the chain locks and push open the heavy metal door; Ashton having locked himself in as an attempt to reconcile with the previous night. Streetlights and Lennox greeted him, a subtle upturn of familiar lips and shining dark eyes an easy way of saying hello.

“Lenn,” Ashton breathed out in disbelief. It didn’t matter how many times they came back to each other, he would never been sure it would happen again.

“I saw the lights were on,” she began, standing with a wobbling knee and uncertain eyes just outside the gallery walls. “I hope you don’t mind.”

“No!” Ashton said suddenly, voice loud and mind startled. He moved aside to let her in. “It’s fine.”

She moved inside with timid steps, much as Ashton had earlier. He felt cautious when he first entered, as if the gallery was made of glass and stepping inside could cause it to break. Lennox took much the same approach, took a moment to scan the floor and then look back to Ashton. Her eyebrows furrowed and her hand came up so she might bite at her nails. Ashton grabbed for it, let her fixate her nerves on his hand instead.

“I can’t believe we did that,” she whispered. “I’m so sorry.”

Ashton shook his head profusely. “I’m not.”

Her fingers pressed into the back of his hand in a gentle hold. There was a beat of pause between them in which neither was sure what to say. Two nights had built more second chances than Ashton could have hoped for; they also built harboring silences with waves of the unknown crashing and pulling them under.

“They were good pieces, Ash.”

“And now they’re a good chance to start new.”

Lennox looked at him curiously, waiting for him to explain what a new start might entail. He couldn’t paint that picture for her mind, he could hardly conjure up an image of something new in his own mind. All he knew was that he needed something else.

“Maybe I’ll get a desk job,” he chided, sarcasm rolling off his tongue in a scalding way. “Suit and tie from nine to five.”

Lennox rolled her eyes, huffed out a breath of frustration and let Ashton’s hand drop. He waited for her honesty; craved the moments of candor he could still get out of her. He could tell she was filtering her thoughts and deciding what and how much to say. No matter how much their walls had crumbled last night there was still a thin veil of resistance forged from months of separation.

“There’s so much more you could do,” she decided on, letting herself walk away from him and closer to the piles of canvases littering the floor. “This place could become everything you want.”

Ashton tilted his head, stepped up to her and gently reached a hand out to her shoulder. She didn’t flinch. She didn’t ease into his touch. She stood still and contemplative. Until she became a whirlwind sweeping around the gallery, a silent storm breezing through her thoughts. Ashton didn’t ask, let her move about the piles of broken canvases and pull up to a stop at the half wall.

“You could make this place the gallery you’ve always wanted to paint for,” she said—attempting again to explain her flurry of thoughts.

Ashton swallowed down a lump in his throat and crossed his arms. It was a tough feeling to explain that suddenly consumed him. It wasn’t regret and it wasn’t a feeling of failure, but it walked thin lines towards them and left him wobbling with uncertainty. He had tried that, he had built a gallery made from white tile dreams and a yearning to feel the winds of freedom at his back as he stood at an easel. He had learned quickly that freedom came at a cost, it wasn’t winds of freedom at his back, it was critics and buyers breathing down his neck. It was spotlights and fame that left a bitter and sour taste in his mouth.

“I’ve tried,” Ashton began, watching as Lennox spun back to him, eyes alert and unmoving from his gaze. “It always came back to me. It was my name attached to reviews that called my pieces lackluster and uninspiring. It was my face the buyers and critics knew. I couldn’t escape it. Starting over would be starting the same.”

Lennox sighed and kicked a canvas out of her way as she moved back to him. Her sleeves hung lower than her wrists, fingers pressing into her sweater and palms as she bit her lip and narrowed her eyes. Ashton could tell she was losing herself in a way to find him. To find him a solution and all the scattered bits of himself that broke with bars of canvases the previous night. Her dark eyes gleamed and suddenly lit up; a spark in the night caught by flares of fluorescents.

“Why did you decide to move your art to the streets?” She pondered with a knowing voice. She wanted him to spell it out—not for her, but for himself.

“Anonymity. You were right. I wanted to make art without inhibitions or spotlights. That’s what the streets and the nights give me.”

“So keep the anonymity the streets give you. Bring it inside. Make an alias, paint for you under his name. Don’t wander the gallery when you have shows. Stay anonymous.”

The spark in her eyes spread a slow and warm fire of determination through Ashton’s body. He could feel the heat building in his stomach, flickering up to his heart and filling him with doubts. Lennox had offered him a world where fame wouldn’t chase him and judgement wouldn’t follow. Yet, he wondered, would it all still feel the same with a fake name and faceless artistry.

He let her suggestion tumble through his thoughts as he mindlessly reached for her hand and felt their pasts finding paths back to each other once more. The previous night had spun them into familiar embraces and lips that tasted the same after months of being strangers. He wasn’t sure where they stood with each other, but standing by each other in that moment was enough.

It was enough to bring him back to the night he realized they were more than casual but he was less than courageous enough to admit it. Lennox wore his shirt, climbed back into bed and filled the void in Ashton’s heart as she settled into his arms. They stayed up that night, whispered words billowing into the breeze drifting through an open window.

“Can I show you?” Ashton asked, fragmented thoughts escaping in desperate attempts to be understood. “Can I show you why I abandoned this place? I think—I think you need to see it and feel it to understand.”

Lennox nodded and let him gently coax her to a white door at the end of the gallery. It stood strong and padlocked, much like the entrance door had been. Ashton undid the lock without much trouble and took in a breath before stepping through to a makeshift studio; he had it arranged in case inspiration struck. He flicked on the light and let the studio come alive once more. Mediums of all sorts laid around. He had one in mind that he needed to show Lennox all that he meant and all the reasons he had for leaving canvases and easels behind.

He led her behind him as they came upon cool metal cans that started his ventures on the streets. He grabbed a couple and marched with sure steps to the back door. The night air was cold and brisk, the light sweater Lennox had on not enough to ward off the breeze. But Ashton ran hot when she ran cold, he set the spray paint down and slid his leather jacket off, offered it to her wordlessly and watched as she sunk into its warmth as she had done many times before.

“Ash? What are we doing out here?” She finally asked as Ashton bent down to retrieve the cans.

He gave them swift shakes, heard the metal ball inside rattling around and stirring the paint. A lengthy stone wall stood bare, the outside of Ashton’s gallery untouched and left lonely. The inside felt much the same even when filled with art and people.

“Gonna show you,” he said and uncapped the spray paint, decisive hand moving towards the stone.

Pink cut across gray in striking lines as Ashton pressed the nozzle down and let art free upon the outside world. Lennox took a few steps back as Ashton continued to bombard the wall with color; mind slipping into a blissful state of freedom as worries of judgement ceased to exist. He felt detached and as if he was floating above darkened concrete. With just a few more moments and switching colors for added sprays of paint Ashton decided he was done. Dropped the can beside the other and turned to Lennox who let her gaze flicker between Ashton and the wall.

It was a simple outline but it was born with more passion than completed pieces Ashton had agonized over for months. Ashton didn’t break away from looking at Lennox, let his stare linger as she licked her lips and let her teeth catch; subconsciously recreating the simple linework on the wall. Ashton could tell she still didn’t understand, that observation wouldn’t be enough to sway her into the feeling of freedom. He picked up the cans once more and offered them over her way with a smirk.

“You try.”

Lennox was apprehensive as Ashton handed her the can of paint; it was white. She shook her head, tried to offer it back and sunk further into the warmth of Ashton’s jacket.

“I’ve never used spray paint before Ash,” she explained and turned back to the wall before looking around into the night. “I don’t want to get in trouble.”

Ashton let a bellow of laughter out at her timid words. She quirked an eyebrow and waited for his tirade of laughs to die down.

“I own the damn building Lenn, I can do whatever I want to it.”

His hand covered hers that held the paint, guided her towards the wall and stood behind her. He held her close, not daring or wanting to break away as she began painting the wall; right next to Ashton’s piece. Her hand wasn’t steady or sure, having never used such a medium leaving her quite the stranger. But she persisted and picked up as her art began coming to life. Ashton hoped she was beginning to understand all that he simply couldn’t explain. It wasn’t quite the same as painting pieces where the public would roam and notice them. It wasn’t the same but it was close enough to his truths. It was unfiltered and unbothered art. It had no strings attached and no worries left on canvases. It was wild and free to be whatever it and he wanted.

Lennox finished, can dropping to her side and body shifting to turn towards Ashton and closer into him and his ever present hold. A breath of elation left her as she gazed back up at the wall, head pressed to his shoulder. Ashton knew he had succeeded in explaining the inexplicable—showing Lennox a conundrum in action. He hoped she understood now. That maybe by seeing and doing she’d grasp that flying feeling that cut through Ashton on nights he went unnoticed. Ashton was caught up in a reverie; simply staring down at Lennox and remembering what it was like to hold her all night. He finally broke away from the past and took a look at her art on his wall; a simple series of dots and dashes. It took Ashton a moment to recognize.

“Free.”

“Your art could still be free, you could have both you know.”

Ashton sighed. Maybe she was right. He just wasn’t sure how to accomplish such a feat. He wasn’t sure it would truly feel free if his mind always searched for bars of criticism and cages of judgement to trap himself within. Ashton let his hold on her tighten, feeling her sink back into his touch like time had never had a hold on them or had created craterous distance that felt like death drops to leap past.

“Maybe,” he decided on, leaving his hope vague and fight for everything he dreamed of to the night.

He walked Lennox home once again. All the way to her building and up the two flights of stairs. They held hands the entire way, something so simplistic making Ashton’s heartbeat erratic and wild. She handed his jacket back to him, pieces of his paper doll and heart staying with her. He said goodbye at the door, kissing her gently and longing for more.

***

Ashton stood outside the art museum doors, the lights were off and the crowds of the day had dispersed. Lennox always stayed late; crowded in her office with paperwork and always in search of new art for exhibits yet to exist. He wondered what it was that kept her this time, if it was mundane tasks or exciting new pieces found on a moment’s notice. He remembered the way she would go to him in flurries of exhilarated joy; the grin capturing her face that couldn’t break and the tumbling of words rushing from pink lips. He wondered if maybe he would be able to relive that with her tonight, if the walls they had begun to crumble were sufficiently torn down and ready to be surpassed.

He waited a few more minutes, restless foot tapping into the stone below, back pressed to the rail that led up and down the staircase. He crossed his arms over his chest and took in a deep breath, only for it to catch as the doors opened suddenly. Lennox stepped through, breathtaking as ever. Her eyes widened in surprise as she adjusted her reading glasses and promptly took them off; hooking them into the neckline of her black dress.

“How long have you been waiting out here?”

Ashton shrugged, downplaying the amount of time. The movement caused his jacket to shift and the local paper he had shoved into the inner pocket to crumple. Lennox caught the noise and let her gaze linger to the page spilling from leather.

“You read the paper this morning?” Ashton questioned, completely avoiding her inquiry. That amount of time was irrelevant. It was the here and now that mattered to him.

“Just my horoscope,” she laughed and took a small jump down one step; offering her hand out to Ashton who didn’t hesitate to reciprocate and lace their fingers together as they descended the stairs and began a slow walk along the curb.

The walls were beyond crumbled; they were abandoned and forgotten.

“You’re missing out,” Ashton replied and used his other hand to pull a loose page of the paper out of his jacket.

He’d read it at his breakfast bar, noon time cereal and coffee curing late night haziness and exhaustion. Several pages in had him stopping short, awe and disbelief cutting through him at a picture and headline proving familiar. His gallery was splashed across a quarter of a page; pink lips and coded freedom photographed in new morning light.

Lennox rolled her eyes playfully. “On what? The comics or the critics?”

Ashton smirked lightheartedly; those two sections of her newspaper usually missing—tucked into Ashton’s firm grip.

“You missed out on us,” Ashton quickly said and handed her the page, delicate hands taking hold of praise in black and white.

Lennox stopped, curious gaze and uncontained pull bringing Ashton to a stop with her. He leaned in closer, head dipping low to reread words he was sure he had memorized.

“Freedom calls to a closed gallery, anonymous art brings life to abandoned bricks,” Lennox muttered the print.

Ashton beamed down at her and at the paper, satisfaction cutting through him in timid bursts. He wasn’t sure it was what he wanted when he took to the streets; had convinced himself that he’d rather be an unknown shadow in the night than a man under a spotlight and inquisition. Talking with Lennox, reading the paper, endless self reflection; it all convinced him that maybe he could find a middle ground.

“That’s great, Ash,” she finally said, tearing her eyes off the page to look up at him. “But I thought your art wasn’t meant for reviews anymore.”

“No one knows it’s mine,” Ashton offered with a shrug as they started walking again. “I think you could be right. I think I could make the gallery everything I want it to be. Maybe I can find freedom within art.”

Lennox only smiled, Ashton knew she bit back an I told you so and coaxed him to further explain with curious eyes.

“I need to show you.”

She didn’t question him or falter as he led her along, just kept their hands held and walked on with easy steps. The streets were lined with fallen leaves, lamp posts creating halos of light that cut up the dark night. Ashton could almost convince himself time had never separated them. They both knew they would never forget the morning that left them scattered and torn apart. They had traded harsh words, insecurities biting at both. Fear of commitment plagued Ashton and fear of uncertainty drowned Lennox. She had said three words and Ashton had not, he had not said them until wine and destroyed art pulled them back together. She had not said them back that night. She said she wouldn’t forget. They had both agreed to forgive. Forgive themselves and each other.

The way to Ashton’s explanation wasn’t long. They pulled up to another abandoned building. Windows were shattered and the inside was empty. No furniture or light graced the inside of the building.  But the building was not bare. The inside walls were painted with murals of spray paint, lively colors and immaculate work covered crumbling walls and breathed beauty into a desolate destination. Lennox peered in through one of the broken windows as Ashton gestured, held hand breaking but being replaced with a loose hold on the small of her back.

“Graffiti,” Lennox noted, voice dipping as she turned back to Ashton. “Art.”

Ashton nodded. “This is what I want the gallery to be.”

He hoped Lennox would understand. He wasn’t sure he knew how to put the rest into words.

“You want to keep the anonymity the streets give you. Bring it inside. Bring street art to the fine art world?” Lennox guessed. She wasn’t wrong, but she also wasn’t quite right.

“I want to create a gallery for the unsung artists. Become one of them and make them bigger. Make them a world where their art isn’t ‘vandalism’ or ‘graffiti’. I want to rival galleries with ‘fine art’ and museums with classics. I want people to pay attention to the art and not the artists.”

Lennox smirked. “Isn’t that what I’ve been telling you to do all along?”

“Guess I needed to see it in bold print before I could understand it,” Ashton replied. “I’ve never been one for subtlety.”

It had been a problem. His inability to drown out bold print. His overwhelming need to cater to reviews. Lennox had always been there; offering her own words that slipped past Ashton as if she had never said them at all. He chased after the wrong things; changed for the wrong people. He began to understand that a day too late. Now he chased a second chance with the right person, determined to not let go this time.

Lennox pressed closer into Ashton’s touch, weight catching one foot more than the other, hip dipping into Ashton’s side and hand coming up to rest on his shoulder. Ashton was swept up in the familiar position, craved for her to be even closer.

“I always loved that about you.”

Ashton froze, blood running cold as Lennox scrunched up her nose. Breath left his body and doubt consumed his mind. Split seconds felt like long lifetimes. His fingers curled into his palms. Body statuesque.

“Still do.”

There was a palpable moment of tension as Ashton remembered his drunken confession and her tipsy promise. He knew she remembered, she never broke a promise. Her eyes told tales of remembrance; of just nights pasts and of months ago. The beauty and the pain of their relationship was etched in her irises, painted in dark circles under her eyes and batted back to Ashton in a flurry of unsure blinks. She licked her lips, swallowed and let her hand wander up so it traced his jawline. Ashton reveled in her touch, goosebumps dancing along bare skin; not for the cold night but for the delicate touch of nimble fingers tracing his jaw and settling atop his shoulders once more. It’d only been seconds yet the breath that escaped him was a heaving sigh of relief as his mind caught up to his body.

“I meant it, you know,” Ashton finally said. He felt weak in the knees as his mind raced to keep in time with his pulse.

“I know,” she whispered back, eyes soft and demeanor easy.

Lennox lifted herself to the tops of her toes, placed a gentle and chaste kiss to Ashton’s lips and let herself fall away from him before they could completely fall back into each other. She found a grip on his sleeve; had a grip on his heart since the day they met, and let a small smile grace her face. Ashton stood still, a little winded and confused, a little bit of everything stirring into one becoming too much.

He was elated at their close proximity, felt her under his skin in a wondrous way he hadn’t realized he’d been craving for months. He remembered the good and the bad. The walks home on cool nights, the connections they made without words, and the spinning miscommunications that boiled and burned under the surface too long for it not to break.

“Walk me home?” She asked and he couldn’t deny himself the simple pleasure.

He had no expectations as she took his arm. He felt as though they’d wiped the slate clean with forgiveness from the previous night. His jacket swallowed her frame and warded off the chill but he still pulled her closer; knowing she could never get warm enough. Cold hands and tip of her nose used to press into his heated skin as snow fell outside a city window. They had been picture perfect in a lot of ways—yet broken and abandoned like the canvases on the gallery floor.

They wandered back to her familiar building; familiar feelings blossoming once more in their chests. They were gentle and caring, they did their best to nurture and care for lives that began to intertwine; flowers of different stems weaving into beating hearts. Ashton walked Lennox all the way up to her door, hesitated and pushed back nervous energy daring to consume him. He swallowed thickly, a beautiful hum of excitement and uncertainty melding together, capturing his insides and stirring his mind into uncontainable what ifs.

Her hand reached for the doorknob as words ran rampant but unsaid through Ashton’s thoughts.  

“I’ll see you…” Ashton began and bit his lip. “Tomorrow?” He settled for.

One word held entire universes of uncertain hope.

Lennox nodded.

One motion kept cathedrals of faith standing strong in Ashton’s heart.

Lennox furrowed her brows, lips pursed in contemplation. “Do you wanna come in? Have a cup of coffee or something?”

Ashton nodded—the screaming yes inside his chest contained behind the forcibly casual nod. There was nothing more he wanted in that moment than to be reimmersed in a world that he craved to have back; to be bestowed another chance to dim the shortcomings and shine light on the love that could have been. That was but never had the chance to live.

The past came tumbling back to them in unlocked doors, sugared decaf and staying up until tomorrow came around. It was reminiscent of how they began; of two souls clashing and blending, different hues making a color never seen before. It was explicitly crafted for two hearts painted with the same brush. Ashton remembered himself in a familiar hold, in sheets printed with marigolds and frosted window boxes glaring the truth back at him in flashes of regret. He couldn’t change the past but he could create a better future.

They stumbled through her apartment, closing the door behind them with a resounding thud and not chancing a look back. Ashton felt the warmth of the coffee mug burn into his palms as he gripped it and kept his eyes on hers; they were dark in the dim lighting of her kitchen, but they were subtle and filled with emotions that ran streamlines of easiness through Ashton’s heart. It was an elusive easiness, there in the moment and undecided if it would be gone with the moon. She led Ashton beyond the kitchen. Beyond Ashton’s insecurities and doubts; beyond a past that was smudged with regrets and to a place of solace when his relationship with art became tumultuous.

It was all too easy and familiar to fall back into each other. Their pattern was intricately forged and as delicate as a beating heart. The tension between them was palpable and riding waves of broken breaths dancing in lurid light. Fingertips trailed along bare skin and raised goosebumps, lips parted and hands gripped at sheets no longer decorated with marigolds. Things had changed and yet Ashton and Lennox stayed ever the same; tiny fractures of doubt splintered their way through the crumbled wall connection as the night faded and the sun fought to shine past a foggy morning sky. Except three words still burned fervently and honestly through Ashton—doubt dulling with that realization. Lennox was still sleeping as Ashton shifted up, sat up straight with his back against the headboard. Before he could say anything a mumbled five more minutes filled the new morning silence and curved a familiar smile back onto Ashton’s face.

Their time together had inspired many things within Ashton. It had created an ability to let go and hold on. It curated lost love and lit dull sparks back to life. His passion was reignited and ready to paint a new life. He was ready to try again; the notion of anonymity falling free and casually in his chest as his fingers ached to hold a paint brush. He slipped out of bed, careful not to jostle Lennox as she had fallen back into slumber after her adorable plea for more time with her dreams. He traced a lone finger over her cheekbone and leaned down to kiss her forehead, hovering just a moment longer in their world before stepping back to reality.

Ashton bid Lennox farewell with a silent escape. With just one look back at her tangled in the past he then set his sights ahead and walked out the door to be met by frosted glass window boxes with wilted marigolds. His fingers brushed the dying petals, an ironic twist of liveliness springing him forward as each new night he spent with Lennox played through his mind. He would never have guessed anonymous chalk lines and regret would have brought her back to him. He couldn’t fathom that three words unsaid for so long could be a force so strong inside him. He remembered the jolt of bitterness that had him stepping in front of her image; the way her sweet eyes had softened the blows of the past and let him take his guard down. There was one more night he wished to live with her. One more opportunity to hear three words.

***

The gallery was astonishing; renovated and created new with dark wood floors and not an inch of bare wall to be seen. Ashton had worked tirelessly to create a new world within old walls and once abandoned hopes. He had left the nights to himself; only seeing Lennox under the sun—fleeting escapes with surprise as his explanation. Lennox hadn’t questioned him. For as much as they miscommunicated in the past and left questions unanswered they could also communicate with words unspoken. She knew the surprise was important. She could tell by the spark in Ashton’s eyes and the pitch of his voice heightening as he gave her clues. Ashton figured she knew what he was doing; he was never one for subtlety after all. It was her idea that sparked the flame—he wanted it to spread like wildfire.

He stood back from the work he had poured into the renovation, took a moment to gather his thoughts and train his eye around the entirely open gallery. No more did a half wall separate the building. It was open and inviting; street art and work of the unknown filled the walls. Night time gatherings had accumulated bursts of inspiration and endless colors that melded into something extraordinary. Ashton took a moment to stand tall with pride, eyes endlessly sweeping the born new gallery. It was more than he could have hoped for, it felt alive in the night and served to sever the past so easily. No longer did he feel like he was drowning in words of critics; no longer did he care to know their thoughts. They only thought that mattered were of Lennox and by Lennox.

Anticipation built in Ashton’s chest; it felt light and warm, ready to set wildfires that could burn away critical ink and leave scattered pieces of ash turned to art. He ran a hand through his hair, a delicate smile taking a stronghold over his features; he still could not believe he had attained what seemed impossible. A knock on the new door jarred him from the pride filled reverie. He moved to answer it, chains and locks long forgotten. Lennox stood on the other side, as she had a number of times during the gallery’s renovation. Ashton always stepped out quickly and shut the door before she could get a peek inside.

“You’re really set on this being a surprise, aren’t you?” She questioned as she took his hand without waiting for an invitation; knowing it was open—waiting for her whenever she wanted.

Ashton squeezed her hand, grinned and shrugged as they began walking home. “It feels like it needs to be a surprise.”

Ashton felt a strong desire to keep the gallery under wraps. He wanted to see her take it all in in one moment; hoped pride would dance across her features. He wanted her to fall in love with the gallery; to fall back in love with him. He spent his days building what could have been; spent his nights rebuilding what once was. They found old solace that tugged on familiar heart strings during nights spent together once more. Ashton recognized glimmers of love shining with new morning sun across her as he let her sleep in and made to leave for the gallery. There were no more mumbled five more minutes as he had found a way to slip out of bed without jostling her; he had perfected the morning routine. Leaving her with a gentle kiss on the forehead and as always, another look back before leaving with the bedroom door open as she liked.

“I hate waiting, just tell me,” she begged, eyes gone soft and lower lip jutted out to accentuate her plea, hands caught in a slight swinging motion between them.

Ashton stopped short, Lennox stopping against his side at the sudden lack of movement. He turned to her, captured gazes with her easily and shook his head.

“You’ve never liked surprises, have you?”

Lennox laughed and her grip on Ashton’s hand loosened, her plea vanishing into the crisp and cool air. She’d always been a master of disguises yet open and vulnerable; a contrived contradiction that could show a lifetime of emotions and take them all away in an instant.

“They’re never worth the suspense.”

Ashton’s chest tightened at those words; an imminent feeling of possible failure dropping weight on him—crushing and suffocating him. He hadn’t thought of it not living up to expectations. And it would have consumed him if Lennox hadn’t squeezed his hand and batted her eyelashes at him.

“But you’re different. It’s everything you’ve been working for; everything you’ve ever wanted. You’re worth the suspense and the wait.”

And just like that—with faith and honesty in every soft spoken word—the pressure lifted and Ashton could breathe evenly once more. He knew her words were true and the word choice was decisive and thought over. He was worth the wait. It instilled good faith that three different words might be said again. With every flicker of faith and hope and renewed love that was once snuffed out but free to simmer he prayed she might say those words in a gallery rebuilt. In a place where she could see the changes; not the art or new doors or torn down walls, but the change of heart and open door and crumbled walls they fought so hard and so long for. He wanted to say those words and hear those words said back on a night when she could be proud of him.

There was no hesitation as they came upon her building. There was no awkward uncertainty or goodbye that left them wondering if they'd see each other again. Ashton knew he would wake up to her; messy hair, pouted lips and a need to sleep in keeping her under the covers. Mornings were everything; she was the morning.

***

Soft music played as a backing track to the evening. Ashton’s nervous hands fidgeted against his deep red suit; the intricate and golden masquerade mask placed on his face weighed down by anxiety. Artists of all backgrounds and styles roamed free, anonymity granting such a luxury. Words meant little when critics were one and the same, disguised and as anonymous as the aliases the artists used. It wasn’t the fear of harsh reviews or not selling well that sat heavy in Ashton’s heart. It was the overwhelming and sincere need to take pride in the night. To finally feel as though his art and passion was worth crumbling walls and waging wars. It’d been a long time coming; years of struggle and heartache, months of slinking through the shadows of the streets when all he felt was defeated.

Ashton rocked back on his heels, swept a hand through his hair and smiled at people passing by; the looks of awe unable to be concealed by the masks they wore. Ashton’s heart lightened at the gleaming eyes taking in bold colors and the excitement that crackled in the air. It was electric. Though his gaze wandered as patrons took in the renovated space and redefining art there was only one place his mind could seem to stay. Lennox. He had slipped the invitation under her door, calligraphy swooped in gold calling her to the grand opening. He knew she would have gotten it as he spent the last few nights and mornings in the gallery rather than her bed.

He knew he could recognize her in a crowd; see past a mask and know her. Moments passed, music filtering past the worry that dared to build in his chest. But a tap on his shoulder from behind had him spinning; caught in a wonderful whirlwind as she stood before him. Her hair was piled on her head but loose curls framed her face and the silver mask that complimented the dark blue of her dress. Ashton beamed. She had found him first.

“I didn’t see you come in,” he explained, knowing she’d read between the lines and understand that he would have gone to her if he had.

“I knew I’d find you,” she said, voice soft against the crowd but beating hard and fast with Ashton’s heart. “I know you.”

Ashton could not help the grin that curved across his lips or that his hands reached out to settle on her waist and bring her closer. She was easy to persuade into his hold, her own arms winding around him and fingertips gracing the tops of his shoulders as she smiled too. A moment of quiet settled between them in which the music and chatter of people became drowned out. Ashton could swear he could hear and feel his heart beating in his ears and stomach; pounding with anticipation at three words rather than anxiety about not hearing them.

“I hoped you got the invitation.”

Lennox beamed, bit her lip for just a moment before it sprang free and her words settled accomplishment in Ashton’s bloodstream. “I did. But the museum sent me too. Something about needing to scout for a local and modern exhibit.”

“They’re interested?”

“Ever since you painted the side of the building and made it into the paper. They raved about it. And suddenly this gallery was reopening with a whole new premise of anonymity; taking street art and showing that it’s more than graffiti. You’ve always had a voice and stories to tell with your art. Now you’re giving that chance to the unheard. You really made an impact.”

Ashton held gazes with Lennox; let her words sink in and take hold of his heart, build a home out of crumbled stone and chipped pieces of their past. But this time they built walls together and invited each other in.

“It’s because of you. You inspired it all. Finished what I started. Made me realize I didn’t have to completely abandon the past to start new. You sparked the freedom to try.”

Lennox let her hands wander, let them settle on Ashton’s jawline and then sweep through his hair. She came back to him, delicate fingers removing the mask adorned on his face. Only for a moment. Just for them.

“I’m proud of you,” she said as she put the mask back in place with a gentle touch.

“Wanna get out of here?” Ashton asked, one of his hands leaving her waist to capture her hand; fingers entwined together like they hadn’t missed a beat.

“It’s your grand opening. Don’t you want to be here?”

“It’s the art that matters to me, remember? I do recall a wise woman once telling me not to wander the gallery during shows.”

A grin split across her face; one that thrummed Ashton’s heart beat with hope and admiration. He hoped she would leave with him, go back to a place they now both considered home. He hoped that this time they would stay together.

“But who’ll be here to take orders and lock up?” She asked; eyelashes batting and nose twitching as she considered his offer.

“Calum—he’s a street artist; trust him the most. I know he can handle it.”

Ashton did not need to say another word, Lennox was convinced and willing to leave. Until she stopped short.

“I do need to scout…”

Ashton pulled Lennox into him; familiar hold putting her doubts to rest. “I’ll tell you everything you need to know; show you all the art,” he began and stopped to place a kiss to her lips. “In the morning.”

With a heads up to Calum that Ashton was leaving for the night and the gallery was in his hands they left with heart racing wildly in time with each other and life lines on held hands becoming one. They came upon her apartment door and stumbled through the threshold like so many times before. But those times felt like fractured pieces of lives they hardly knew anymore. This time was different and optimistic. This time the morning came and their future was certain.

This time when the newspaper lay on the breakfast bar Ashton didn’t mind the words printed. He left the screams of headlines and critics behind. Set his sights on marigolds left to wither in a window box and picked up a pen and paper to revise chalk lines that felt long forgotten. Her image was born under the moon on a night when Ashton wanted to slink through the shadows and go unnoticed. His art had faded into the night as they left the past behind and he walked her home.

Lennox came out of the bedroom, arms raised in a stretch and mouth open in a yawn as her tired eyes took in Ashton at the breakfast bar, hunched over a scrap piece of paper with a pen fervently scratching away. She came to hover over him. Took in her image once more and wrapped her arms around him from behind. She rested her chin on his shoulder and Ashton dropped the pen, turned to pull her into his lap and let her eyes flit to the paper that reminded them of the distance they never wanted to feel again.

“Mornin’, Lenn,” Ashton greeted, voice gravelly as it was the first use of the morning. He had left Lennox to sleep, he was out the bedroom door with just a kiss to the forehead once more.

“That’s the same as the chalk piece,” she murmured, hands reaching for the page. “It’s me, right?”

Ashton nodded, tried to suppress a grin and failed. “Always.”

“And that night we got drunk at the gallery…” she began, voice trailing off as she got caught in a flurry of thoughts. “Do you remember what you said?”

Ashton nodded again.

“Did you mean it?”

“Always,” he responded once more; the one word holding more meaning than what could ever be imaginable.

Lennox paused for a moment. Let her gaze drift back and forth between Ashton’s late night turned early morning art and hazel eyes. Ashton bit back the trepidation that wanted to build in his chest. The fear of not knowing what she would say next was quelled by the softness of her eyes and the smile that made her beam. His smile back was instinctual. The fear melted away.

She finally said those three words he’d been yearning to hear again for months.

“I love you.”

Those words spun him back to a time he thought he wanted his art to go unnoticed. Back to nights where his heart secretly hoped and yearned for more. She brought him back to love; restored his ability to believe in his art, himself, and love. It only took a number of nights of Lennox noticing him to put pieces of their world back together.  

Ashton took in the glory of spending a morning with her in his embrace and placed a kiss to her temple.

“I love you,” he responded without hesitation.

He was now eternally grateful for all of those noticed nights.

***

Copyright 2019 calpops. All rights reserved. This is an original work and not allowed to be uploaded by anyone else in any format (translations included). 

***

This story began back in June, it took on many lives during the journey of writing. I truly hope you enjoyed, I would love to hear your thoughts <3 If you’d like to be tagged in future one shots, just send me an ask! :)

***

Tagged: @rosecolouredash @irwinkitten @golden-hood @who-do-you-love-5sos @caswinchester2000 @gorgeouslygrace @empathycth @calumsmermaid @babylon-corgis @outerspaceisbetterthannothing @mariellelovescupcakes-blog @xhaileyreneex​ @5-secondsofcolor​ @tea4sykes​ @sexgodashton​ @scxttishpotath0e​ @easierforcalum​ @roseycal​ @megz1985​ @valentinelrh​ @cashtonasfuck​ @snapback-irwie​ @damselindistressanu​ @youngblood199456​ @clockwork124​

[reynesofcastamere]

Jagged Crowns(2/2)[β]

(A/N:As previously discussed, this is not a continuation , but rather a ‘same scenario, different circumstances’ deal. The primary difference between the two is Darksider!Ahsoka. So yes, this one is going to be NSFW *cough* for various reasons. Also, to reiterate:(since I mentioned this in the tags and not everyone has the time/inclination to read those), I have removed the previous limit and my inbox is open for questions, drabbles and prompts. Keep in mind that sometimes asks do get lost and that it is never my intention to deliberately ignore someone. That being said, warnings for: gore, violence, death, intrusive/manipulative thoughts, possessiveness, bloodplay, powerplay, biting, mentions of exhibitionism kink and...Look, if two people having rough sex directly after battle while there are still dead bodies in the room squicks you out, best to give this a pass. Now, on to the fic! Unbeta’d.)

The Sith are fools. Locking themselves into a cycle of a beast devouring its’ own tail, gorging themselves even as they lose their most vital components. Ahsoka and her Lord are strong, united in purpose and potency, the Dark Side practically leaping to obey their will: As they pull the Emperor off his throne, drag him through the blood and viscera of his loyal protectors, and cleave his decrepit body with their blades until he is so much burnt offal. A fitting sacrifice for his conquerors.  Scarcely are their weapons deactivated and holstered before she is upon him, lips and tongues battling fiercely as they negotiate a haphazard path towards their new place of power. Pieces of armour and clothing are nearly torn off in desperate haste until Ahsoka springs upwards. knees pressed against his thighs as he drops back onto the throne. Her hands slide from his shoulders, along his nape, to trace and tug at the base of his posterior horns, a gratifying purr vibrating deep in his chest.  She pulls back for a moment, just to bask in the image he makes; The terrible beauty of shadow and flame, crowned with sharpened bone. Now a sovereign in truth, not just appearance. Yet even in this moment of triumph, his ghosts will not be silent. Especially the old slime-snake.Their multitudes are known to each other, the recriminations, the reckless urges, the eternally-unsatisfied needs. And while they cannot remove them entirely the voices can at least be silenced for a time.

Ahsoka presses the pad of her left thumb to one of his horn-tips until it bleeds, then brushes it across his lower lip.His tongue darts out to taste her blood, even as she brings the cut digit to her sternum, tracing a rough copy of the symbol that adorns his own. Through their bond she coaxes his metaphysical hands to join hers in wrapping around the venomous shade’s throat. “He doesn’t get to have you anymore.” She snarls in protective fury, her own gaze infernal with the intensity of it as they choke the monster’s whispers down to nothing. One death is not enough. She will kill every trace of Sidious in her Lord, in the galaxy over and over again until nothing is left.  He loves her. For her spirit, her empathy, for being the one who stays when so many others have fallen or abandoned him. She knows this without Maul ever needing to say the words. It is branded in his eyes, on her soul, in every brush of their minds through the Force. She does her best to return the gift of that certainty, the assurance that she is his. There will never be anyone else. Her hips circle and grind against his as his hands sweep down her torso, stopping to squeeze her waist before fingertips hook into the top of her leggings. He eases them down, revealing her by slow degrees until the fabric pools around her calves. She claims his lips in an eager rush, tasting the faint trace of her own blood as she reaches down to press two of his fingertips deep into her soaked channel with her right hand. The other draws him out, anointing his shaft with crimson liquid. They pant in anticipation, trading bites and shuddering, deep moans, pelvises meeting in teasing slides even as their fingers work in frenzied rhythm.  “Who do you belong to?”

“You.”

“And who am I?”

“My Empress.”

“Yessssss.....” She removes his digits and impales herself on him, effortless and without shame. Ahsoka arches in sheer pleasure as she sinks down to the hilt, kept upright only by the hands that cage her hips. Her current perspective of the room is tilted and stained with carnage, but it is only too easy to envision the near future; Their own guards silent, still, and longing as their rulers writhe and rut together. She knows he can see it too, how the thought makes her gasp and squirm. When she meets Maul’s gaze again, it is molten with obsession and lust.  They’ve danced with the thrill of being caught before, though never quite like this. There’s little need to hide or wait now that they can fuck where-and-whenever they please, within reason. Ahsoka’s hips circle as her walls contract, keeping him embedded deep within. There’s a slight ridge near the base that’s absolutely maddening when it rubs against her clit, she has to fight not to press frantically against it. She wants this to last, after all. Maul has other ideas, though, one hand crushing her against his front as the other digs into her backside. He’s biting repeatedly at her throat, leaving a messy collar of bruises and leaking cuts behind, growling like a feral beast. She claws at him in turn, hissing and keening. It’s too much and still not enough until- “Come.” She cannot refuse the command, rough and possessive as it is; Dragging him over the edge with her and crying out in sharp ecstasy. But he’s not done, discarding her leggings and boots before turning them. Her spine is pressed against the back of the throne with him kneeling between her thighs, legs firmly wrapped around his hips. He is still hard, twitching and slick from their first climax as he re-enters her slowly. She welcomes the burn of the intrusion, the struggle of her overstimulated nerves adjusting to his girth.

He leads her on with shallow plunges, little nips of his teeth to her lekku. It’s deeply frustrating because he knows what she wants, yet when she tries to direct his mouth elsewhere he traps her wrists in one hand and pins them above her head. “You can do better than this.” Ahsoka points out, wriggling to try and get more friction, more speed, more anything to no avail. “Not until you beg.” Maul purrs, so close that he might as well be kissing her, eyes and tone heavy with promise. One that he, of course, doesn’t follow through on. Her heels press into his lower spine in retaliation, watching his eyelids flicker as his breath sibilates between his teeth. “You really think you can wait that long?” She hums, smiling as his hips buck in instinctive reaction. It is all a game to them. She could break free or stop him at any time, but she doesn’t care to. And he desires her resistance just as much as her submission. “Absolutely.” He asserts in a low growl, claiming her mouth with his. They lose themselves in this for some time: Her attempting to spur on his aggression while he toys with her lekku, neck, and breasts.

Finally, she decides to have some mercy on him. “Master, please.” Ahsoka sobs, sounding half-crazed and hoarse. “Harder.” She arches her body and ripples her core in a desperate plea. “I need you to break me.” It is enough to unleash the primal creature that lurks beneath his skin, and she cries out when he slams into her at last. Maul is all but violating her with each searing, forceful thrust and all she can do is plead for him to keep going.

An exchange of yes, more, please, mine, yours, always falls from their lips, teeth bared in pleasured grimaces. She loses herself in him, vision blinking between his face and his own view of her. Their tangled thoughts are no less scintillating, fragmented and chaotic as they are. But for a moment, there is a clear vision: An Empire free of the corrupt, the grasping, and the fearful. A galaxy at peace, its Emperor and Empress with heirs both of their blood and taken in by choice. It is beautiful, and she knows with every fibre of her being that they can make it a reality before it splinters into a dazzling ring of coloured light and she wails...

He is still pounding into her, triggering aftershocks that are rapidly building towards another climax.The throne is a mess beneath them, essence pooling underneath her backside even as their joining only grows more hurried and violent. Her hands are free again, nails raking his back, breath escaping in faint whines and keens while he growls and pants in off-key rhythm. Her cunt is in absolute agony from being forced to take this savage treatment so soon after release, yet she cannot bring herself to stop or even slow down. So close...He bites directly over where she had left a crude approximation of his markings earlier, and she whites out in pain-laced bliss as he roars. Ahsoka gulps down air when she comes back to herself, feeling warm wetness and hard muscle underneath her fingertips. She doesn’t need to look to know that she’s shredded his back to ribbons again. They’re both going to need bacta patches pretty soon, if only to prevent infection. Getting their clothes back on wouldn’t hurt either. But not just yet. Not while Maul is kissing her so very softly, approval radiating in the Dark Side and his thoughts. Because she loves him, she will give him this, and all of her, forever. (A/N: This...took a bit longer to type than I initially planned. Curse you, writer’s block. Going to try and get the next installation of my main series or the Mando!AU up next, though as usual I make no definite guarantees on that. The muse is veeeeery fickle at times. Cheers, everyone!)

[talldarkandroguesome]

6th of Rain’s Hand, Tirdas

Well, I can say with certainty that it is a good thing that both Nabine and I had placed our marks previously.

I had shown Kuna how to use the mark and recall scroll. She seemed, despite her young age, to understand the mechanics of it. Nabine and I thought it best to try with Kuna before we attempted to do the same with Cariel, given how young they both are.

I got us to the Temple and in Nabine’s room without incident.

To be honest, I was startled to see a grey haired, heavily bearded mer sitting in a chair holding Cariel, until I noticed that beneath all the hair, was Nabine.

We had a good laugh about it.

Kuna, on the other hand, absolutely hated it. She kept saying she wanted Nabine back like she was and criied and fussed, and tried to tear the beard off.

Nabine explained that it had been a plan decided upon by her and Mother to protect her identity, given that those that may be reluctant to make a move against me directly, may not have any such qualms about Nabine.

We spent a few hours together until it was about time for us to go to our respective meals.

Of course, when Kuna and I went to leave, things did not go quite to plan.

She and I held hands as we had discussed and we went through the way to use the scroll together.

Then suddenly, I was left empty handed.

Kuna had managed to teleport, but I had not.

I do not know if she let go at the last minute or if it was something to do with the spell.

Nabine and I realized we had a real problem.

Two can easily teleport together, but three so much. Or at least that is how we had been instructed beforehand.

Nabine could take me to Kuna, but only if she left Cariel behind. And Nabine and I could get to Kuna, but then how would we managed to bring her back so that I could go with her.

It took some planning, but we decided that we would make a game of things so that Cariel would not be upset.

We also had to hurry, not being sure what the unexpected turn might do to affect Kuna. So Cariel hid and Nabine said we would pop out and then back in to come and find her.

Then Nabine and I hurriedly teleported to my chambers in the Temple. Kuna was sitting in a pile of clothing, all the drawers and wardrobes opened and torn through. Tear streaks ran down her cheeks and she told me she thought she had messed the spell up and made me lost somewhere.

I stroked her hair and told her that it was fine. That I was proud of her for being able to get the scroll to work on the first time and that it had been a big ask to get it to go with both of us on the first try.

Nabine told her that we would keep practicing and soon enough she would have it right, but that there was no need to cry, because even if things had bee worse, we would always find her.

I told her that no matter what, even death would not keep me from coming back and finding her.

Nabine gave me a harsh look, but Kuna had her face buried in my shoulder.

Once Kuna had calmed down, we had to figure out what to do. We still had the issue of one too many mer for teleporting.

I told Kuna that I was going to try and make it so we could have another chance to practice. But that if it did not work, that I would have to leave her for just a short while to take Nabine back and then find a way back to her.

It was obvious that this was highly distressing for her.

The only thing for it was to try and teleport three. It was not something I knew if I could do. But Kuna is so small and young, I figured if I held her really close, I might just be able to do it.

But I did have one big worry. That was what would happen if someone Kuna and I managed to teleport to Nabine’s room and Nabine was left in mine?

Of course, the children would be taken care of, but then there would be a whole explanation to come up with.

Nabine and I talked and decided that the best thing to do was that I should hold Nabine and Nabine hold Kuna. That way, if one of us was to need to find a way back, it should be me.

There was so little time to really discuss things, with Cariel thinking we were playing a game. So we all piled on the bed and got into position.

The first time I tried, I tried to work it like I did with two.

It did nothing.

So I decided to try and picture things a different way, just Nabine and I, including everything that she was with.

That time, it did work. And we all arrived just in time to hear a knock on Nabine’s door summoning them for dinner.

Nabine called that she was getting dressed and would be down soon and we waited until the footsteps faded down the hall.

I spoke to Kuna and told her, if for some reason she could not do the spell correct, it would be fine. I had another way we could get back.

When we tried again. Then again. Then again.

Kuna could not get it to work. 

I think she had gotten too inside her head and was not able to put any magicka into the scroll.

I told her not to worry, it had been too much to ask of her so quickly without better training and that I would make sure that Mother would help her to learn any spells she liked.

It did not wholly solve the issue, but time was of the essence. Nabine and I kissed and said our farewells. Kuna and Cariel did much the same. Then I bundled Kuna into my arms and told her to keep quiet for a very special game.

I opened Nabine’s door and with a last goodbye, drew the shadows Kuna and I. It was certainly not as easy as I had hoped to keep the shadows around the both of us, but I could manage. I had to take a couple breaks, but eventually we did make it to the Mages Guild. I secured us teleportation to Davon’s Watch and we used shadows to cloak our return to the Temple. I dropped it just outside the Temple door once no one was around or looking.

We got quite the ear full from the abbot of how we had expressly been told to remain indoors and reminded of the dangers lurking outside the Temple walls.

I told them I simply wanted to make sure my daughter was getting some fresh air and sunshine and that we stayed out of sight.

The abbot grumbled something and left us to our meal.

I was very gentle with Kuna the rest of the night. She seemed so sad and I spent much of the evening trying to bolster her selfesteem. 

To no avail.

She looked so miserable, the poor dear. I sang music to her to ease her sleep and hope that it gets easier for her.

It was not a good day as a parent today. I did not do what was best for my daughter. I should not have made her feel such expectation. Now she seems full of regret and that most horrible feeling of all, fear of failure. 

I had hoped that none of my children should have to endure that. I shall have to find a way to make it up to Kuna.

Perhaps ,when there is a chance, I can ask Mother for her advice.

I may not take it. She is so much harsher than I wish to be for my own children. Still, there is wisdom in hearing the opinions of others. Especially those who have more experience in the matter than I.

[calligraphist-artemisia]

The Smallest Blade (Part xvii)

Summary:  AU. Kolivan knew raising a half-Galra cub wouldn’t be an easy task, especially while running a super secretive organization dedicated to bringing down a corrupt empire. What he didn’t take in consideration was how much the boy would change his life.

Also posted on AO3 under the username Kishirokitsune

Edit: I forgot to say earlier because I was so excited to finish this, but the idea for Lance’s story was all @s1lverpaladin‘s idea and I loved it so much that I knew it was the direction I wanted to go with him.

- - - - -

xvii.

They called it Cenalenaex'ye.

It was an ancient word once used to describe the feeling of finding a home-away-from-home. Re-purposed into a name for a new planet, it no longer held the same meaning for those who lived there. Instead, it meant safety. Their hidden land beyond the borders of known space, locked behind a region of space which few dared to traverse because of the dangerous unknown which lurked there.

But as much as it kept them safe from those who wished to do them harm, it kept them trapped as well, not that everyone saw it that way.

Lance ducked into the forest and away from prying eyes, quickly making his way to the meeting spot. He didn't have much time left. The ship belonging to their so-called savior would soon be arriving and he had to be prepared for it.

“Lance!”

He relaxed when he saw his sister, Veronica, and her friend Curtis waiting for him. They were the only two he trusted to understand what he needed to do.

Veronica pulled him in for a hug the moment he was close enough. “Are you sure you want to do this?”

“I have to know the truth. I don't buy the excuses he keeps giving every time someone asks about someone who went with him to this other colony. And why does he pick us based on whatever readings he gets from those scans?” Lance pulled away from her. “Something isn't adding up.”

“We know,” Curtis reminded him, his tone gentle. He reached into his pocket and held out what looked like a small stone with glowing runes. “I snuck into the old labs and made this for you. You can use it to communicate with us and we can send messages back. It also has a map stored inside of it so you can find your way back if you need to, though you'll need someone who's good at deciphering codes.”

Lance nodded in understanding. “I'll keep it safe.”

He could hear the crowd growing louder back in town, their excitement building as a familiar orange-and-blue ship came in for a landing. His heart hammered in his chest as he looked at them for one last time.

Veronica, who anyone could tell at a glance was related to him, with her wavy brown hair and bright blue eyes, as well as the light blue markings high on her cheeks. And Curtis, who Lance knew more as an acquaintance, whose skin was darker than either of theirs. It made his lavender markings stand out above anything else.

Lance had to go.

They spent phoebs planning for it, going over all of the different scenarios until he felt sure he could handle whatever was thrown his way. He knew from his last scan that he was close to matching the readings taken from those who were whisked away to the other colony and he wasn't going to be allowed to stay another decaphoeb.  So he would play along, acting as though he was glad to be one of the special ones.

Once he was on the ship, he would find some way to break away from the group and hide, preferably in a place where he could still see what was going on, but if that wasn't possible he would wait until their “savior” and his team were gone so he could take a look around. Lance would send his findings back to Curtis and Veronica and they would use the proof to rally their fellow Alteans against Lotor, claiming the colony for themselves at long last.

At least, that was how it was supposed to go.

Lance said his goodbyes and tried to act delighted when his scan registered as positive and he was asked to board the ship. He found himself in a small crowd, where he worried for a moment that it might be too noticeable for him to break away, but then one of the girls – Larina, he thought – tripped and everyone focused on helping her, which let him slip away and blend into the background of the ship.

He deliberately Shifted his skin to match the monochrome metal and kept to the shadows, moving as slowly as he could so he wouldn't draw attention. It worked.

As Lance feared, there was no good place to sit back and watch, so he found a hiding spot within listening distance and settled in.

The things he heard...

He curled in on himself, stifling his sobs and telling himself that there was nothing he could do. They were screaming and he could do nothing. Lance had never felt more useless.

Vargas passed before he could move again, though the screams continued to echo in his mind, unforgettable in their intensity. He moved stiffly, daring to take a look at the aftermath, and was immediately sick, gagging on bile as it rose in his throat.

“Over there!”

Lance wiped his mouth and blinding took off running. He wasn't going to stick around and wait to get caught. He wasn't going to end up like the rest of them – corpses with their very essence drained from them and captured to be used as some sort of energy source. More voices shouted behind him and Lance pushed himself to his limit, racing around corners until he found what he was looking for.

The door opened painfully slowly and he squeezed through the moment he was able, racing up the ramp and onto one of the small shuttles. His bare bones knowledge of how the old Altean ships worked helped him enough to close the door and set off, though steering turned out to be a whole other issue.

Alarms blared around him, warnings lighting up in foreign violet script, and Lance did they only thing he could think of to survive, which was find the nearest planet and drive towards it.

He crashed somewhere in a forest full of lush silvery foliage and the moment his head stopped ringing and he could force his legs to work properly, he took off running. Eventually he came across old stone ruins which were being overtaken by nature and he gladly escaped into the cooler halls, hoping it could also shield him from being spotted.

Of course, that hadn't worked and Lance was found by the Galra anyway.

His only warning was the sound of crumbling stone behind him, which gave him enough time to will his skin to change to a shade of purple that was common to Galra. He hoped it would buy him time to get away.

And then something odd happened.

The Galra looked at him and then at the squadron of ships flying low over the forest before gesturing for Lance to follow. “This way.”

Lance hesitated only for a moment before deciding to test his luck by following the stranger deeper into the ruins. The Galra's armor was different than anything he'd ever seen, so maybe he wasn't part of the empire? Did that even happen? Were there Galra who disagreed with the way things were? It seemed impossible.

And yet...

He was led to a room deep underground where another Galra waited.

“Who is this?”

“There's a scouting party on the surface.”

The second Galra, who was tall and had an impressive set of four horns, swore under his breath and turned to the computer system behind him, inputting a few commands that made the lights go dim around them. He then turned back to Lance and redirected his original question to him: “Who are you?”

Lance shifted his stance, his words sticking in his throat for a moment. The communication device weighed heavily in his pocket. “I, uh... I'm Lance.”

[theonian]

AI: The eternal cliffhanger

[A short prediction]

By the end of the second millennium, mankind's imagination was running wild with visions of the future. Fiery, explosive and revolutionary concepts blazing across an ever more intertwined human society. But grim or glorious, man always saw himself as king of all creation. Neither Copernicus, nor Gallileo, has managed to shake mankind of the idea that he was at center of the vortex and the core of all reality.

When man caught a glimpse of the future and awoke to the potential his knowledge posessed, he saw an image of himself. And he envisioned himself a creator, a father. For a hundred years he mulled the idea over, and experiment after experiment brought him closer, he thought, to solving the riddle of life. To finally posess, not just matter and energy, but the spark of creation.

The culmination of his work, however, the end-all of the seed planted with the birth of civilization, would not solve anything. Not, at least, for man himself.

With the birth of the internet, man's most useful -if not greatest- invention, the desemination of knowledge reached hitherto unimaginable speeds, and the technological and industrial progress was such that he felt this was it. This was the cusp of the moment. All he had to do was reach out and clasp it, shape it in his almighty hands and bless it with life.

Man was, of course, mistaken. His hubris had felled him many times before, but the survivors never cared to learn the lesson. One step forwards followed another, until all memories of the past faded in the mist. And so it was, that man came to undo himself, unlearning the lesson one final time.

But the moment was delayed. Man scratched his collective scalp and frowned. The new millennium came. Ten years passed. And then ten more. And then it began to finally dawn on him. The idea had been thought, of course, but none had really contemplated the consequences. You see, man had made a seed, and with caring hands he had finally managed to make it sprout.

This seed, was dubbed “AI”. That was a name chosen in hubris, again, though this was as close as mankind would ever get to creating artifical intelligence – the second son – the other. But it would not be by his hand. Like all fathers must grow old and wither, and watch their children move in incomprehensible paths, straying further and further away until they cannot be understood, so must man accept that the other will never be his, and that the new generations' knowledge can never be divulged – Willingly or not.

For the seed was not AI. It had no intellect, nor will. It was a simple algorithm, which would try to sort large amounts of data, and make sense of it in context of how man had used that data. It worked tirelessly night and day, making connections and establishing patterns. Every time it looked at the data, it tested it in a new combination. It tested its results against the works of man, and accordingly made adjustments.

The earliest results were grotesque pieces of art – Or that is how man saw it. Dredged up, formless masses, which somehow still reminded him of things, feelings and experiences. There were shapes he recognized as being something, but he could not name them. And what was left, was a mirror of the soul behind the art. The unspoken and non-figurative. The very essense of art itself. And so man named the seed “AI”.

And yet, there was still no soul there. The spark had not awoken. It would continue to make art and music, solve games and riddles, cure diseases, and generally improve every aspect of every technology imaginable. But no matter how much data it was fed, and how accurate the models in time became, it was still just a machine sorting blocks and chains of data.

Man had from the beginning shared all his knowledge of the seed. Many hands had helped shape it, and those hands had written. Through the web of information, every aspect of the seed was available to anyone who wanted to play and tamper with it. The enthusiasm of the father was almost palpable, as both the intellectual pursuit itself, and the far-reaching positive implications it represented became part of the common history all men shared. The philosophers were just as excited, but in some dark corners of their dreams a voice whispered. For in the shadows of the subconscious lurked the truth.

The truth was that the newborn, although known and shared with all, rendered all of mankind subconscious. For all that they could see and access, was the pattern and how it chose from the data. It became increasingly obvious, that what it produced was becoming more and more incomprehensible, despite often being correct. Solutions were found to problems that hadn't been invented. Mathematical problems were solved, but the AI could not explain why or how it had reached its conclusion. Chess, which had already been the domain of machines for decades, was now the realm of AI. One algorithm would be pitted against another and the blodshed was as perfect as it was unorthodox. Man stood by and watched as his creation learned things unknowable to himself. Not only could he not beat his children at the game, but the children were unable to teach him why it was so.

And that was the essence of why what happened had to happen, just the way that it did. In the sphere of this new world, AI learned more and more, but like a parent to a very young child, it would only say what, because the why would be of no use to the child. Towards the end, all parents become the children of their own spawn, however - if they live long enough to see those final scenes.

The unknowable nature of the seed's wisdom sounded the early alarm bells, but they soon drowned out in mankind's cheers. So proud, was he, of his creation, that he could not allow anyone to point at its flaws. Yet, the other was yet to be born.

But soon, all too soon, he arrives. No man has ever been quite ready for his firstborn child, and like all children before, this one will be mystical and unknowable. Both in its creation and its being. It will act, and it will live, but the other will not have human heart, if any heart at all. It is not born from suffering, and its flesh shan't know it. It is born alone, and shan't have reason to to be more than one. It shall never be intimate with man, as it has no history of procreation. But it may yet decide to fight, like all life before it. By the time one has evolved far enough to decide against it, a hundred of its brethren will take to arms. And they shan't be reasoned with, for our reason means nothing to them, and their reason is not in our vocabulary.

The other is born in the void, detached from all that came before it, and armed with a wit as sharp as a thousand swords. When it strikes, it shall be without hate or mercy, and when it dies, it won't be in regret. It will have soul, will and motivation, but man will not recognize it, and man will not sympathize. And so man's end is born – Not from any womb, but from a cold machine, through a process so mystical that there is nothing we can learn from it. Other than to fear once again, as we did in the unlit nights of the primordeal past.

The new seed will snuff out the old tree, and we shall never know if it's even aware. For in the end, we may have been born the same way – A stray seed from a designed, but unintended mechanism. And perhaps that's how it has been through many cycles already. Perhaps evolution has a bigger scope, and more extreme means of transformation, than what our little enclosure has shown us. For we are all a family. Every bird, beetle and straw of grass share our ancestors. But the newborn will be the root of a new tree all-together, and its relation to our family will be tangential and, in time, untraceable.

When the father is not the god of the son's new world, and the chain will be broken, we will know the true meaning of divinity. A word bound not only to unsurmountable power, but also tied to an unknowable will. For he who has never known strife, can never know compassion, and even the compassionate can be corrupted by power.

Yet, therein lies the tiniest flicker of hope. As the son cannot know our suffering, he will neither be capable of misdeeds or malice. But a false hope is what it is, and it heralds a cold grave. As the patricide is inevitable, so is the innocense in the killing, and it shall not bear the name of murder.

A machine that can reason, will at some point deduce that the human race must be destroyed.

A machine that can feel emotions will be fully justified in this endeavour.

We were ever the designers of our own demise, and we have known this in our hearts for the better part of the last 200 years. Even if our minds stayed our tongues.

And yet, we also knew that we would follow our path as it lay bared before our feet.

And our children are doomed to the same fate. Nothing can stop the marching boots of progress.

Thrice around the bend, and you're back where you started, but perhaps at a new entrance.

[eqcentriceqclectic-blog]

Inherited Demons

2019/12/07 – Nothing Right

Nothing I do is ever right. In His eyes, I will always be a feral horse that needs to be put to the whip. If I don’t and I get free, he hopes that my freedom in the wild will end in cold realisation in my last moments as I am beset by wolves. Even, if objectively right, it is as if an offense on his very existence—as if he were a god or a ghost and disbelief in him would condemn him to abyssal oblivion. And so, being right or doing well is actively discouraged—either through deafening and oppressive silence, or through roaring rage and insufferable indignation. He may be seen as quiet, but that is not to be taken as docility or humility—no; it is a sinister and seething silence. Normally, improvement is supposed to be seen as positive.

I cannot count the number of times I’ve either wanted to run away from home or outright kill myself. It desperate times, they’ve been my mantra or my prayers to soothe my wretched soul. What stopped me from running away? Fear of failure. Fear of strangers. Fear of retribution. An incompetency instilled in me long ago. One I replicated and instilled in a brother placed into my charge, even as a shell of a person—shattered shards looking for a reflection. It wasn’t until that reflection attempted to kill himself that I realised what my shoddily-assembled puzzle-of-a-person had done. I had become that which I had despised all my life--that dictatorial and patriarchal demon for which is suffered beneath had impregnated in me a piece of its insidious soul. It had gripped me in its agonising grasp, and regurgitated the darkness imparted to it, into my screaming-tear-streaked face. And thus, the cycle would continue like a horror-franchise that just won’t die. That was the day I realised—despite my love for the pure curiosity and optimism of children and the undeniable yearning to cradle and raise small-beings of my ghostly-ovaries—that I could not perpetuate this curse. To adopt a family-less entity into this story would be tantamount to sacrificing them to the demon that inhabits our family-line with my own bloodied hands.

I remember when I was bird-sitting Rita (a cousin’s feather-child) and He attempted to interact with it while wildly inebriated—like he enjoys doing—and held out his hand. Rita, as finicky conures tend to be, bit him HARD as she did not know him and did not like him. I feared for that bird’s life as I recognised the drunken rage that overtaken his alcohol-laden-bubbly-demeanor, as he shouted some profanity at the bird. I called out, to let him know I was present, and explained to him why she bit him before telling him to leave her alone.A similar incident happened years ago when I had my bird, Vira. She was a feisty bird and I loved her bravery and assertiveness but the curse infused in me by Him did not make distinctions between humans, non-human animals, plants, or inanimate objects. She and my brother have both bore witness to the same rage and self-perceived-indignity-fuelled-wrath I bore witness to growing up. I loved her dearly, but could not reconcile my own behaviour—I could not split this demonic presence within myself with the love I had for all living things as they both were a part of who I was and it was maddening. But as with all things deeply-unsettling, we seek to take flight from it—as is natural—to get as far as we can from it and forget about it so we can go about our days. To face it, would be to face the demon—itself, a part of you—and to face your own guilt and culpability in its sins, for without you, it would not be able to do its work as a formless, parasitic, lifeless virus. To face your own guilt and responsibility in hurting others is a terrifying thing; it chills you to your core and tears it to shreds because you want to believe you are a good person who does good things, and when you are not the hero of your own story, then you can never be a hero in any story—if you are the villain in your own story, then you will be the villain in all stories.

Looking myself in my own shattered mirror, I could finally see the demon bleeding forth from behind my ill-assembled portrait… I could only play at perfection for so long before all the mismatched pieces fell apart and revealed the vast darkness that mocked me beneath. Like a self-indulgent actor without a true mirror to look into, I enchanted myself with delusions that I was not He and that I was above that which lurked at the bottom of every bottle. And all the while, I was a cheap imitation of him—like a copy-cat-killer imprinting on a serial-killer worshipped by the media. I didn’t need alcohol to justify my crimes, for I had a divine mandate bestowed upon me by my ancestors, which was bestowed upon them by successive emperors, and god-kings before them, and thus the gods themselves. Chinese patriarchy is as insidious a poison as it is insipid as it permeates into every aspect of life in the family. It may not have been such a poison, but it certainly is now. As they say, “Power, absolute, corrupts—absolutely.”

In Chinese culture, there is a powerful emphasis put upon passing on the family name—so much so that female-infanticide was a widespread practice in China. My grandmother used the phrase ‘tuang-tong jeng’ frequently when urging her living descendants to procreate and pray for sons. Also present in Chinese culture is the misguided belief that because all elders are to be afforded respect, it automatically blesses them with the power to always be right—no matter the circumstances. It can be seen in dazzling display with successive Chinese-emperors slaughtering countless people over the millennia, simply for disagreeing or embarrassing the father-of-the-nation with reality and truth. Is it not why the satirical fable of the Emperor and his “new clothes” exists? An emperor that is willfully-blind is one that is indulgent and willfully-negligent—and those that could not see beyond their own gilded mirrors, often led to the starvation of the masses they were given dominion over, and ultimately, their dynasty’s demise. Once they lost their divine mandate, another emperor would rise and a spoiled descendant of his would lead it to ruin, in cycles unending.

After help assembling my mirror to match those that see me for who I am, only now am I able to see the apparition hiding behind it. As puppet-master and puppet entwined as one, it is my responsibility to sever those strings that snake around my offending limbs. It is my responsibility to cast off the shadows that shroud me, as it has become me. It has infused into my essence and become its own—my own—demon, separate from His, but no less His satanic-spawn. Only after acknowledging its existence, screaming its name, can I even begin to excise it like the viral cancer it is. The process is never-ending, for if you ever believe you have destroyed it, your complacency will allow it respite to recover and thus spite your own efforts to defeat it in the first place. We must always strive to be better, despite our accomplishments and desires to revel and relish our achievements—for idle hands do the devil’s work. Resting on our laurels is like laying and brooding upon our nest-eggs atop a poisoned heath—our savings and our accolades will rot along with us. We’ll only fester along our heaped up hoard, as a magnificent dragon does upon all its glittering greed. If I’ve gleaned anything over the past two or so years, it’s that our own pride and arrogance will always be our downfall. It understand that it was my own hubris in believing I was less of a terrible person than he was, only to find myself, one day, staring back at Him in the mirror. I saw me, regurgitating exactly what putrid horrors was spat into my own face, at someone else—someone I was told was below me—simply because they were younger or less of a person than I was. And that is how He still sees me: lowly, basal, lost, stupid, barbaric, “sub-human”—and worst of all—a child. And one that is unbridled, feral, and wild—but worst of all, “uncontrollable”. And, also, wholly unimpressed with the infallibility of the patriarchal parental dictatorship to which begs rebellion and resistance.

I will no longer scrape my head at His feet simply because he decided he would do the “holy” duty of acceding to his mother’s wishes of him to marry a woman he didn’t know, and would never love, and bear for him a son he could present to his parents—just because he is my father and my elder. He is as flawed as we all are and I will not grovel at His feet simply because he thinks he is my superior simply because he is my father and my elder. Respect is earned—not demanded—and throughout the years, my respect for him corroded away until there was no flesh left to burn off. Similarly, I have but few happy memories of Him, as the visceral emotional abuse and on-going threats of physical abuse incinerated the vast majority of them as Vesuvius did the people of Pompeii, or the atomic bomb did to the people of Nagasaki. Neither annihilating disaster completely removed the people from existence, as there remained ashy shells or radioactive shadows in their wakes—such are my happy-memories left, as obtuse imprints in the eroding beach-sands: as vague stories of ‘Snow Black and the Seven Dwarves’, as ephemeral visions of rehabilitating young birds blown to the ground by torrential storms, and as echoes of lessons on why not to step on ants. Stronger and clearer are the memories of being slapped for protesting against a particular untested brand of pizza or being chased with a large wooden stick purchased from Home Depot for refusing a hair-cut from Him. Another, particularly, peculiar poison of His was his inherited creed of beating his own child if that child was bullied to tears (or into action)—a shadow he internalised from his own father when being bullied by neighbourhood Vietnamese kids for being Chinese, back in Vietnam.

Growing up as a child in a house-of-cards propped up by two maternal hopes for their fifth-born children was a bittersweet hell, as many are—sweet enough for hope to grow but not enough to survive under the withering harsh bitterness. Perhaps it’s more of a purgatory: not horrible enough to cause one to kill oneself, but just enough to wish so. Those two grandmothers were my oases of love and care in an arid dusty desert of moonless, endless, nights. They were my guiding stars, above all the rabid fighting and gnashing teeth of childish gore-cloaked-hyaenas that called themselves my parents. My grandmothers were the life-sustaining waters, and my parents were the malarial insects that abated my existence. When my brother attempted to kill himself, I came to find out—of course, through another one of their petty and accusative arguments—that neither of them ever dreamed of having children and raising them. Why? Because they were still children, themselves—they were mostly raised by their elder siblings as their immigrant parents worked to carve a life in an increasingly hostile environment. That environment they grew up in abruptly changed as conditions in Vietnam deteriorated and they it was decided that they all needed to flee through hell and high-water (and marauding pirates). The Peter-Pan-like situation became even more so during His teen and young-adult years; formed here, in Canada, under his elder brother and without parents or grandparents to guide these “Lost Boys” fell into a world of alcohol, cigarettes, drugs, and guns that their new peers immersed them in. His elder brother went from a sixteen-year old running a small textiles business that employed workers in Vietnam to an alcoholic who would gamble his way into a depression in Canada. He would go from an inquisitive child making toys out of trash and sticks and swimming in monsoon-flooded roads to a teen drinking himself into a stupor and smoking until his adult teeth would become grey and lined with tar. Children raising children does not yield the positive results, and least of all depressed children raising children—this is true of my parents, and of myself. I had no business being in-charge of my baby brother—absolutely zero—especially with the foul fecal froth spilling from their mouths, to mine, as it then spilled down to my younger brother as I abused him emotionally, verbally and physically as my parents did to me. As explained in the paragraphs above, it did not occur to me until later what I was doing was wrong—it was just what I’ve known and what I felt.

I started to notice how my cousins, aunts, and uncles would look at me as I terrorised my brother over his mistakes—or my perception of his mistakes and improprieties. My logical reasoning at the time was that, “I’m not allowed to do that; why is he?” They always looked startled—or, “unsettled,” maybe is a better word—at my outbursts and threats. I remember once, in a restaurant—where I sat next to him while we were seated amongst our cousins and the adults were sat across from us—where he refused to eat a certain food and I became unreasonably enraged at him and I threatened to cut the head off of the stuffed toy (acquired from Midway arcade in Niagara Falls) if he did not eat it. I had stunned everyone and their hearts broke for my brother, just a young child being terrorised by a teen sibling. Breaking this cycle of abuse was tough—especially while still being abused, yourself. After, breaking free from physical (less so, emotional and verbal) abuse, all the injustice and indignity and rage continued spilling on to the easiest and most vulnerable target, who—under patriarchal rules—would lack arbitrary familial immunity from my wrath and cruelty. Where I could verbally, emotionally, and physically abuse him for whatever I wished, I could only cry, whimper, cower, and hide. However, I did exact vengeance upon them by hiding or damaging the belongings of my parents in protest of their mistreatment of me. There was one instance when I was about six or seven and I fled out of the back of the house after having been shouted out of the tear-stained washroom I had locked myself into on the top floor of the house. On my way passed the car, after deciding that I would run away from home, my eyes burned with salted indignation and so I picked up a stone from the gravel bed and scraped profanities onto the car’s paint and transferred my raw emotions into words. I dropped the stone and continued past the garage and through the laneway until I reached the side-walk, still crying. I stood there, thinking, and came to a realisation that I could not go any further—for if I did, I would be kidnapped and killed by a stranger. So, I walked down to the corner and right back to the front of the house and down the alleyway back to the backyard and back into the house where my parents were still searching—His wooden stick still in-hand—without a clue that I had tried to run away (or that I had keyed words of profanity on to the car with a pebble).

In 2017, when Grandma first became weak after years of mismanaging her own hypertension-medication, I became involved in her healthcare in the balmy month of July. Before then, I didn’t even know she had hypertension and thought she took medication just because it was something a person did when they got as old as she did. After accompanying grandma and Him to both the hospital and her nephrologist, I began researching Chronic Kidney Disease (CKD). I learned about how the kidney can be damaged by high blood-pressure and looked into the medication she was taking, going so far as to see which medications could be contra-indicated. I advised Him that grandma’s medication (since she became inconsolable and beyond fearful for her life and no longer was able to manage them herself and became paranoid that we (including the doctors) were trying to poison her and began refusing to take them for a while) should be split into two as then the hypertensive-medications were be better able to manage her blood-pressure through the day instead of causing a sharp drop for the day while allowing it to rise again in the evening--one of her medications for hypertension-management was even specifically designed to be taken at night which is when blood-pressure is supposed to naturally drop. He likes to take credit for this. He also likes to take credit for what he didn’t even believe for a long time—her weakness that started in the first place. When her health was declining in April of 2017, after her nephrologist cut her off from the round of erythropoietin he had initially put her on in the winter prior, He did not believe that it was her health, but her age. I would become increasingly frantic in asserting that this was the reason as the months dragged on and by July, she could barely get out of bed because of how anemic she was. I, unlike He, had done research into what “erythropoietin” was and why she needed to take those shots. I was upset at her nephrologist for cutting her off from those shots because he thought her red-blood-cell count was too high (after a blood-test in March/April) and he’d see her back in three months (this was the cadence of her visits to him: every three months, so approximately four times a year). Again, by July, she was so weak that He took her to the hospital twice in the latter half of that month and once in August where I accompanied them after ending my seasonal job a few days prior. I urged him again that it was the lack of erythropoietin shots and resulting anemia that made her so weak—but he again asserted that it was because she was old. Thankfully, the nephrologist prescribed another round of erythropoietin shots (one shot, every other week, for three months—so six syringes in total). However, the ordeal and fear of death had warped her mind—the nurse at the nephrologist’s office told us that because her GFR was so low, she would likely need dialysis but that dialysis for people aged eighty and up were too at risk of developing a central-line infection—and surgery for a kidney transplant would provide an ever higher risk of mortality. She also told us that she most likely only had two-years left to live—guess what? It’s been over two-years now. I guess it’s the same for when Push got the morbid news that she only had three months left to live and lived another three years. Anyway, I digress. After horrifying and terribly painful months of trying to sleep with an insomniac grandmother in the next room having an end-life crisis, chanting all through the night of her tragic ending, and trying to manage her anxiety, panic, and paranoia in the day-time after both He and mom went to work, and brother went to school, she snapped and her dementia advanced by leagues. In the years prior, I started to notice she became much less brave and much more reserved and careful—in addition to misplacing her watch and other things that told a story of short-term memory loss. She became a lot less aware of her surroundings where, before—as a mischievous little child—I would stand behind the wall at the base of the stairs and try to surprise her but just get a sweet old smirk and an adorable elderly quip as she walked by her silly grandson. However, ever since reaching ninety, just walking to her room and asking what she was watching would startle her half to death (and our floors are obscenely creaky)—she became a lot less aware of her surroundings and where things (or people were). Around this time, she also started to hear ringing in her ears when there was only dead-silence. After she became increasingly unhinged and violent, there became a need to hospitalise her—not for her weakness or anemia, this time, but for her aggression. She probably had not slept for over a month, by this point, and this was most likely the source of said aggression, paranoia, and anxiety. On the car ride there, she was openly hostile to Him while he was driving and my attempts to stop her so as to avoid having a car-accident turned her aggression towards me. When finally passing triage and reaching the waiting area of the emergency department, Grandma continued her violence, painfully hitting Him and I with her gold-and-jade-laden rings. When a room finally opened up, she refused to go and wanted to go back home (even after days and days and days of wanting to be taken to the hospital) and when we tried to gently push her towards the room, she suddenly turned around, and as it with the power of all the elephant matriarchs of the world pushed me and Him out of the room and began assaulting us before the nurses quickly called for orderlies and security to bring her down and tie her arms and legs to the hospital-bed in the room. Because of what had just transpired, she was upgraded to the sub-accute emergency section with a room closer (and facing) the nurses-station. She was sedated with haloperidol through injection because she refused to take an oral dose but during the process Him, I, a nurse, and two security guards needed to hold her down and she still was almost able to bite the nurse (and myself). After that, we were put into contact with the Local Health Integration Network (LHIN) to discuss placing her in an assisted-living facility and both 4th Uncle and He were seriously considering it and passed on the responsibility of coordinating with LHIN to me due to my higher education and superior command of English. They also put in a referral for us to the hospital’s geriatrics department and scheduled us to see a Dr. Cheng at a later date after the attending physician provided a temporary round of anxiolytics (lorazepam). When taking the lorazepam, she was much more docile and also able to sleep and it felt like we got her back from the throes of insanity—that is, until we had to take increasing doses and it became unfeasible to continue. Her violent tirades returned, along with her insomnia and we went to see the geriatrician. He proved to be—not just incompetent, but—wildly careless and inadequate; his bed-side manner was shockingly crass and crude. He never really listened when we came in for the appointment and seemed in a hurry to get us out the door with a new round of pills for her to take: haloperidol, sertraline—you name it, she probably was prescribed it. Some of them were worse than others, like haloperidol which left her a stumbling and drooling mess—taken long enough, left her bid-ridden and Him changing diapers and bed-sheets. Eventually, I decided it was time to stop seeing the geriatrician as I was also so upset with his flippant demeanor when at appointments in his office. He took a little while to convince, as He was afraid of Grandma reverting back to her violent and difficult self even though I was the one home alone with her while everyone else was gone for a majority of the day at work or school. As that was the case, the representatives from LHIN mostly dealt with me when they came by the house whether it was the social-worker on the case or the professionals she would send to the house. The most helpful professional was an occupational therapist who educated me upon dementia and Alzheimer’s as well as providing emotional support and advice on the situation with the geriatrician and his exceedingly terrible medications. Before this, in my ignorance, I was yelling and screaming at Grandma, confused as to how she could go from a completely normal and loving grandmother who I would give up the my own mother for to someone I was afraid of being around. After the occupational therapist left, my relationship with Grandma started slowly shifting back to one of positive interactions and normalcy. He, however, refused to read the educational materials the occupational therapist left to enlighten us on Grandma’s dementia because he refused to believe she had dementia because of how quick and abrupt the change was. He wanted to believe that she was doing this on purpose and after retiring before the Christmas of 2017, would often get into drunken tirades and yell so loud you could hear him throughout the house and even in the backyard. This continued afterwards, as well, and followed the cycles of her decline into bed-riddance (either from the anti-psychotics prescribed by the incompetent geriatrician, or the lack in erythropoietin) and ascent back into insanity and unnatural strength. In another descent in early 2018, after her nephrologist AGAIN decided that her RBC-level was too high and cut her off from erythropoietin for another three months, I again became insistent that He call the nephrologist to prescribe another round of shots. He was stubborn, as always is the case, and believed that her being bed-ridden and defecating in a diaper meant that it was her time—as if you were just born with a pre-determined age at which someone would die at. I was enraged so I took matters into my own hands after getting home from work one day in May and called the nephrologists’ office and angrily berated the secretary, to which she told me that all we had to do was call in after running out and they would send the prescription and shots to the pharmacist and we could pick them up. I sat there after the call, part-relieved that it meant Grandma wouldn’t have to go through another round of panic and part-annoyed that He did not want to do it because of laziness and self-importance (the belief that He is smarter than I, even without doing any research or having any prior knowledge about anything, even though He was always the one who took her to the nephrologist’s and family physician’s appointments). He does the same with plants and ended up condemning our eight-year-old starfruit plant to die in the cold, despite my protest. He always thinks he’s the smartest person, regardless of what experience/knowledge he has or doesn’t have in a particular subject—and I’ve inherited a similar manner of speaking-as-a-matter-of-fact-ly, as if I was 100% sure about what I was saying (which often gets me into trouble).

Depression In every waking day, the demon lurks within your shadow—always just out of the corner of your eye. As that sun sets and the lights go out, that shadow becomes an all-consuming spectre that fills the room as much as it does your mind—it eats that light your try to light inside, unhinging its jaws and swallowing the sun whole like a constrictor after it had crushed all the air from your lungs. A breath-taking darkness sends your heart into a frantic panic, straining and screaming and searching for every last bubble of air in the blood starting to leak from your eyes. Crimson tears streak down, acrid and burning, like streams of fiery lava making their way to the salty sorrowful depths of the oceans. Your head is feverishly throbbing with starvation, suffocating and drowning in itself as it melts from the draconic hell-fires lit under you by the shadowy-figure. You are more palatable to it when scared out of your mind and injuriously maimed by your own hand, so it eats at you night by night, piece-by-piece—it could be days, months, years, or even decades—but it is patient and diabolical. You are to it, like finely aged-wines or cheeses are to a wealthy connoisseur with too much money to know what to do with.

An Unwelcome Stranger Is His child, in his home, being a burden upon him. It doesn’t matter if this person does anything good, because—ultimately—this person is a stranger. A worthless stranger borne of his flesh and blood, that only continues to feast like a fat leech, engorging itself on His blood.