#the skull bones are not a solid thing in that your skull is made of MANY different bones that are almost... welded together

[uncanny-tranny]

One of the reasons I think it's so important to foster intellectual curiosity and, ultimately, learning and a love for learning is how it subtly changes the very way you interact with and understand the world around you.

It's funny, because I spent time just to hunt and find a skull in Skyrim just so I could rotate it in my inventory and admire how detailed it was for five minutes, pleased about how I could point out and name individual bones (they even included the individual cranial sutures! Including my favourite suture (lambdoid suture)). I'm now trying to hunt for a skeleton so I can spend even more time admiring it. There's something funny and empowering about how the way I interact with things has changed with my learning.

If there is nothing else you do, learn. It doesn't matter what you learn, just seek out information. I know for some, a love of learning was almost punished in environments like school, so start out with things you are inspired by, things that deeply pique your interest. Learning isn't a punishment, it doesn't have to be scary. Whatever you want to learn about is worth the time and effort it takes to understand it.

[softaestluv]

Grease & Grime Won’t Break Your Bones

You never thought you were attracted to grease and grime, sweat and exhaustion, definitely needed a shower and scrub, but no one has worn it like he is.

Mechanic! Simon ‘Ghost’ Riley x fem!reader

This chapter does contain explicit smut, 18+ content!

Tags: Rough sex, Unprotected sex, Creampie, Paying for services with sex, Vaginal fingering, Oral sex, Office sex, dirty, greasy, grimy, sweaty, mechanic

Pt. 1, Pt. 2, Pt. 3, Pt. 4 (final part!)| Ao3 | masterlist

A kiss, brush of lips, tongues and teeth.

Wandering hands, firm and steady on your hips— possessive, greedy.

Heavy eyes and shallow lungfuls, trembling fingers and a drowning pulse.

Scorching fever, yearning, aching for something more.

Every morning before work, languid kisses pressed between the oil and cloth fabric of Simon’s truck seats. Awkward angles and smashed positions. A clean Simon, all mouth wash and redwood soap, taste of morning tea on his tongue. Sweeter and longer kisses, gentle hands and a smoothing tongue, soft voice and honeyed croons.

Swoops butterflies low in your core, tightening your chest, hiding smiles between his lips.

Every evening when he picks you up from work, frantic kisses pressed against your front door and his broad chest. Indecent, shaming your neighbors with such a desperate act. Your mechanic Simon, dirty, filthy; sweaty and stained, salty on your tongue. Rough and brutal kisses, pinching hands and clashing teeth, deep timbre and gritted demands.

Burns warmth in your core, nudging your thighs together for any stimulation, quiet gasps and mewls swallowed between his lips.

Never more, never any less.

The first time he dropped you off at work, you were hesitant, swallowing over a thick lump in your throat because you wanted more from the night before. You didn’t know how to ask, or if you even should.

His fingers were reassuring when he held your chin, a murmured, ‘have a good day f’me, okay?’

Then he had stamped a kiss against your mouth. It was supposed to be chaste, you knew that, but you didn’t want it to end just yet, didn’t quite get your fill. You probably shouldn’t have made out in the parking lot of your job or perched yourself in his lap either, but you did. Scratched at the insistent craving in your lungs before running into your work building late.

When he had walked you to your front door after picking you up, you wanted to invite him in, you did invite him in. He declined, shaking his head with a soft chuckle, and a brush of his knuckle against your cheek— just droppin’ you off sweet’art.

And like a man contradicting his words, he pressed you flat against the wood of your door, drowned you in his saliva, dragging his mouth, fangs and all, against yours feverishly each time. Barely managing to pull away to bid you farewell.

It went on for a week, mindlessly feeding your fire with make out sessions in his truck and your porch, like two desperate teenagers trying to quench their thirst.

A week was all it took for Simon to fix your truck, had your engine running like new, but a gnawing itch dug at the back of your skull as you stood in his office. You couldn’t find it in yourself to be excited, not with the imminent lack of pre-work kisses and murmurs, any post-work bites and promises in your future.

As if your truck being fixed was the end of it.

A knot formed in the pit of your stomach as you aimlessly nodded along, pinching your lips between your teeth as Simon explained the work he did on your truck. You didn’t really care, your shitty old pick up was the last thing on your mind, even more so when he kept talking with his hands, thick fingers spread wide with each gesture, dipping into even thicker wrists. Solid forearms, veins curled over each curve, right up to each bicep.

Covered in stains— “Y’alright, bird?”

Your mouth fell open, darting your eyes back to his, “Yeah, yeah I-,” you fluttered your lashes, taking a deep breath, “So, what happens now?”

You mean between you and him, not your stupid truck, and you’re sure he knows that, but all he does is huff a laugh, closing the thin distance between the two of you. Bullies you right up against his desk without a care, hands landing on either side of your hips, consequently boxing you in.

“Well,” He pauses, bending his head to the crook of your neck, brushing the bridge of his nose up the delicate skin, drawing rapid goosebumps, “You still owe me f’my services.”

“A twirl?” You breathe, unsure.

“Go on, then.”

It’s hard to spin eloquently caged against his broad chest and the desk, but he doesn’t seem to mind when the plush of your body rubs against the front of his coveralls. Stopping you when your ass faces him just like he always does with a sturdy hand on your hip, except this time you’re pressed right up against his slowly thickening cock.

Your poor cunt, greedy and desperate clenches around nothing over his bulge. You’re sure he can feel it because he exhales a fucking deep chuckle, blurs your eyes with embarrassment.

And then those same hands are nudging you forward, your palms falling flat against the wood with a gasp as he lays his chest over your back. He’s warm against your cool skin, working in the sweltering garage all day while you sat in his conditioned office. The contrast stings your flesh, makes you painfully aware how hard he had been working to fix your truck. The callouses and scars on his hands evident enough, and the thought suddenly makes every touch even more searing. Taking care of your shitty inconveniences without a second thought.

His fingers skim the seam of your pencil skirt, trailing just a little lower to trace against your knee, rakes chills down your legs, “Had t’work a little harder this time.”

You inhale a sharp breath between your front teeth, “Yeah?”

“Mmh, gonna have to do more than just a little spin, love.” He hums, slowly hitching the fabric of your skirt to your hips.

“Yeah?” You repeat, your default answer when his hands are on you.

Simon laughs again, vibrates your back, “Yeah, baby.”

He hooks his fingers in your ruby red panties and tugs them down your thighs. A sticky string of your arousal clings to the fabric, beads in two when the material pools at your feet.

“Let’s see,” He purrs, “Did two oil changes free of charge.”

His hand smooths against the swell of your ass, thumb resting just under the curve, kneading the flesh gently before leaning back. Drags his eyes steady over your ass, and spreads your pussy open with a stamp of his thumb. You squeak, a bit humiliated at your compromising position; it makes an unbearable warmth bloom down your chest, but you like it.

Can’t do anything but like it when he’s ripping the stitches of your vulnerable flesh bit by bit with the reverence in his irises, the hunger seeping into his almond-shaped eyes as he stares at your pussy.

His thumb sweeps through the seams of your pussy and brushes right up against your sensitive clit. He’s firm on the puffy mound, petting confident strokes against the bead, makes you stutter over your breaths with each new shape like he fucking knew how you liked it already. Your legs spread wider at that, head nodding forward against your chest as you succumb, surrender to the sensation.

This is what you had been waiting for. This. His stained fingers on your clit, drooling over his thick digits.

You had been so well-behaved, let him trace your figure with teasing hands, make you late to work every morning, unfocused and wet in the chair in your office, leave you a breathless mess against your front door, so you like to think you deserve this. Deserve to lay against his desk and let him do whatever he wants to you.

“Fixed your air con.” A finger presses into your poor empty cunt.

Your fingernails dig into the wood.

“Got you a new set of tires.” A second finger joins the other.

A moan scrapes against the back of your throat, pushed straight out from the stretch, knees bumping against the desk as you slump slightly.

The first several drags are slow, using the time to coat his fingers in your slick, agonizing to the insatiable ache you need absolutely smothered. Your puffy walls clamp onto his fingers, using your pussy to ask him to press harder, deeper, further, just like you know his deft fingers can.

He gives you exactly what you want, but he makes an embarrassing show of it. Curls his fingers right where he needs to make your pussy squelch loudly, pulls them out just so he can see your slick cling to his skin, connecting the two of you with a dribbled string. Smears it on your pussy, swiping your clit with each movement over and over again.

Then, he follows the string straight to the source, licks around the digits buried in your sopping folds. You’re already wet, a sticky mess, and it only gets worse when soft lips encase your clit. Your knees out right buckle under you, body weight slumped against the desk when his teeth brush against the bead, coaxing your clit out of the hood by nipping, sucking, toying with it while he plunges his fingers deep.

Yeah, yeah, this is what you deserve.

You’re so close off that, gooey, tacky delicious honey washing over you, panting and shaking under him, toes curled uncomfortably in your heels. Your moans echo off the thin walls, and you struggle to remember if Johnny was still in the shop before Simon bent you over his desk within the brink of an orgasm.

The thought leaves your mind as soon as the strokes turn languid, nothing but really hooking his fingers in your walls as a placeholder while he unbuckles his coveralls. You whine, protesting even though the sound of clanking metal promises a better outcome, something bigger, thicker, because you were so fucking close.

He shushes you, tutting his tongue against the roof of his mouth, “None of tha’, takin’ what you owe me.”

His words make you moan, bobbing your head, yeah, yes, you’ll let him take as much as he wants if he keeps your pussy stuffed. You fidget heel to heel in anticipation, looking over your shoulder to watch. It’s a sight, all beefy muscle, tan lines and freckles, damp chest hair and pubes. Every move is determined, fueled with a purpose, shown in the way his arms flex, his brows furrowed.

You practically fall flat against the desk when you see him free his cock, fat and reddened, leaking with precum. The shaft is thick, a slight curve to it, barely fits in the palm of his massive hand. But all you can focus on is the girth, smacks hard against his fucking belly button.

“And now your bloody engine.”

His cockhead pressed to your entrance.

“Tell me, sweet’art, how’d you plan on payin’ all that?”

“With this,” You whine, arching your back, so your pussy rubs right up against his tip.

He hums, hand on your back pressing your hips flat against the desk, so your cheek is flush with it, “You mean this pretty little cunt, huh?”

You nod pathetically, scratching your skin against the wood because you don’t think you quite have it in you to use your words, confess that you’re willing to use your pussy. And he doesn’t push for you to, takes it as a good enough answer.

The stretch stings, makes tears well in your eyes, but it’s hurts so good. You squeeze your eyes shut, focusing on the burn, really drown yourself in the feeling of being so full. It’s a slow start, shaping your spongy walls to take his full length, moist lips mapping shapes against your neck in encouragement to take it all.

You think you’re ready for it, clenching around him, bucking your hips and pleading with quiet words for more— please Simon, I can take it.

Then, he’s just fucking brutal, unforgiving.

Your teeth knock together with the first determined thrust, your eyes snapping open in shock because you were not ready for that. It tears the breath straight out of you, hurts your lungs from the force. Rips a cry of his name from your core, your chest, your throat because you’re sure you’ve never been fucked like this.

Each thrust is harsher than the last, hip bones painfully slammed into the desk with each smack of his cock. The sound of his balls slapping against your flesh, loud and obscene, echoes how aggressive he’s really fucking you.

The gooey honey from his fingers and tongue turns to white, hot, searing pleasure. Borderline painful, as he forces you to take it with no where to run, so you just lay there and take it like a good paying costumer. Accept the onslaught until his hand bands around your throat, curls around the small muscle, and arches your back as much as you physically can so his mouth can press hot against your ear.

“D’ya think I’d jus’ be done with you too?”

You nod, squeak a strained ‘yes’ because you had thought that. Anxiety pinched your chest before his cock split you in two, before he made you his.

“Can’t get rid o’me that easy, sweet’art,” Simon grits through each word, “Work in grease and grime; you’re stuck with me now, baby.”

The words remind you of how dirty he is, how dirty you are for liking that fact. Even more so when his other hand tugs your shirt and bra low, digging indents into your breasts, and you can see how filthy his hand is from work— the same hand that was buried in your pussy moments ago.

Oil, dirt, sweat, grease and grime smeared on your skin, all over your dainty skirt and white blouse. Marking you as his in more ways than the dark hickeys he leaves on your neck and bruised fingertips on your hips.

It numbs your thoughts to nothing but the way you know his cock is just as filthy. Fucking you into a slippery, sticky mess with each rut of his hips. And then he hoists your foot onto the desk, hits a gummy spot that has you arching, quivering in his grasps. Blinding you and consuming you whole.

Your body decides that’s all you can take, squeezing so tightly around Simon as your orgasm becomes ferocious and unbearable. You seize up, Simon dropping his forehead against your shoulder as he tries to fuck you good and well through it, cussing under his breath. Everything’s fuzzy, blurry, and hazy; you’re dizzy, every part of your body melted into the sensory receptors of your body.

You don’t even realize you’re doing it, what words you’re saying, but you’re babbling for him to finish in you, cum inside you, taint your delicate flesh with every thing he possibly can.

It’s a few more shallow thrusts before his fingers are digging harsh into your hips, sharp teeth pinching against your shoulder. Warms your already scorching cunt with his spend, bucking his hips deeper with each new spurt.

Even after you milked him for all he’s worth, he rocks his cock into you again and again. Slower, softer, more careful from the way he was just bruising your cervix seconds ago. Relishes in the way your folds flutter overstimulated around him, middle and index finger tracing around where the two of you meet, where your pussy stretches so pretty for him, like he doesn’t want to slip out just yet.

Your fingers tangle into his on your hip, “Don’t think I paid my full debt yet. If you take me home, I can really show you how grateful I am.”

You’ve never seen him speed faster to your house, ripping the keys from your grasps when he deems you took long enough to open your door. It makes you laugh, finding it quite hilarious how eager he is to fuck you all night, a trucks engine worth of orgasms.

That night you let him fuck your mouth, slobbering and choking over his fat cock as he carves the shape into the back of your throat. Sucking the salty taste clean from him.

When morning comes he fucks you again, even though your pussy is sore and swollen, your muscles contracting painfully with each movement from overuse. The way he coaxes your orgasm out of you is worth it all, the way he kisses you goodbye soft and sweet after a shower at the door is even more so.

His promises to return later that night with his thumb rubbing tender strokes behind your ear are even better. Except this time you don’t have a theoretical debt to pay or a shitty pick-up, just a simple guarantee.

masterlist ✎ᝰ.ᐟ

[snail-day]

Haze

Sum: Epilogue to Hysteria

Yan!SatoSugu x Reader

WC: 13k (I deeply apologize)

TW: Yandere Behaviors, Reader Dies, Suicide, Improper use of medication, Medical AU, Noncon, Infantalization, Miscarriage, Narcotics, Captivity, Forced Relationship, Reader is going through it, MDNI, ANGST. Dead Dove: Do Not Eat

A/n: thank you @pink-cakes-and-treats for listening to me ramble about my thoughts about this so much, also for the rest of you that asked for a good ending...here it is.

The world felt too big. The lights, too bright. The bed beneath you, too vast, swallowing you whole. Falling down a well—like Alice tumbling into the unknown—yet instead of cold air slicing past, warmth enveloped every inch, layers of soft blankets cocooned you in a thick comfort that verged on suffocation. Yet, beneath it all, something in your mind felt irrevocably wrong.

As if your mind was drowning in an ocean of disorientated static. 

The kind that crinkles and crackles like an old television screen, sizzling along the edges of your skull, humming against your bones in waves of distant white noise. Thoughts tried to rise, tried to form, but they slipped too easily through the curves of your mind - dripping down, vanishing into the untethered abyss of memories that refused to take shape.

Nothing was sticking. It hadn’t for the past few days. Nothing made sense. Blinking felt laborious, each movement sluggish, your lashes weighed down as sterile overhead lights glared harshly, searing your retinas with their artificial glow. You tried to focus, but the world refused to stay still—softening, sharpening, then blurring again—flickering in and out like the remnants of a half-forgotten dream.

Something was wrong.

Your limbs refused to obey, heavy and unresponsive, as if they no longer belonged to you. A dull, insistent pressure pressed into your temples, pulsing in time with the faint, rhythmic beep... beep... beep of a nearby monitor.

Where… are you?

Your mind scrambled, clawing through the fog, reaching for something—anything—solid. But all it found was emptiness. A hollow absence where something important should be.

A scream echoed in the distance.

No, not a sound. Not a noise.

A feeling.

A desperate, clawing, silent terror digging its fingers into your ribs, shaking you, demanding that you - 

Wake up.

Nothing answered.

The panic, slow and insidious, seeped in, curling its fingers around your throat. Your pulse quickened, your breath hitched - your body recognized the fear before your mind could. You knew something was wrong. Something inside you knew.

You tried to shift, but your muscles refused to cooperate. A dull ripple of discomfort ran through you, a sluggish protest of aching limbs and numb skin - Fingers tightened around your hand.

The sensation shot through you like an electric shock, sharp and immediate. Heat pressed against your palm, the unmistakable warmth of lips brushing over your skin in something gentle - something aching.

You forced your head to turn, each movement sluggish, uncoordinated - like swimming through molasses. The world lagged behind, colors smearing at the edges of your vision until, finally, your gaze settled on— White hair. Snow-bright. Almost glowing beneath the sterile fluorescent lights, like some ethereal specter - an angel poised between salvation and sorrow.

Were you dead?

For a moment, the thought lingered. A part of you almost wished it were true. Anything to quiet the thing inside you - the thing that clawed at your ribs, wove its fingers through your veins, coiling tighter with every shallow breath. A restless, insatiable presence, scratching against your heartstrings, whispering in a voice you couldn’t quite decipher.

Anxious. Begging.

Something was trying to break free.

And then - blue. Eyes like a summer sky far too brilliant, too sharp, slicing through the haze searching your face for answers, longing. 

Satoru.

Your best friend.

But something was wrong.

His eyes, why were they red? Had he been crying?

A flicker of confusion stirred in your chest, Satoru didn’t cry. Satoru would grin, laugh, and tease. Satoru was the playful, loveable one, yet he was watching you, unmoving, the grip on your hand tight. His long, pale fingers trembled. Soft pink lips moved, forming words too soft to reach you, soundless incantations spilling from his mouth - A prayer or perhaps even a curse. Just barely, like a breath stolen by the wind, a name fell from his lips.

"Suguru."

The name slipped through the air, familiar yet somehow distant.

Suguru?

Ah, your husband. Warmth unfurled in your chest, small and fragile, like the dying embers of a long-burning fire. Satoru and Suguru - best friends since forever. If Satoru was here, then Suguru must be too. Right?

Suguru. Your Suguru. Sweet, kindhearted, safe.

But something inside you—that thing, that restless, clawing monster curled deep beneath your ribs—shrieked. A wrongness slithered through your thoughts. A dissonance, like a note played off-key, as if looking at a picture you knew should be whole but seeing only fractures. Your mind reached for him, for the feeling of him, the strength in those steady hands of his. A memory struggled to surface, rising through the fog breaching the suffice as the drowning thing it was grasping for air.

Documents. A trembling hand. Ink smudged against paper. Fingers curled too tightly around a pen.

The monster inside you thrashed.

Then…softness.

A smile, small and instinctual, formed before you even understood why.

Oh. Right.

Your marriage license.

So why did something in you still scream?

You had been so nervous that day. Your hands had trembled so badly that Suguru had to cover them with his own, guiding your fingers across the paper. Helping you sign because you couldn’t stop shaking. So why did the memory feel like it was slipping through your grasp like something was missing or wrong?

"Hey, princess"

Satoru’s voice rang as it pulled you back to the present, light and teasing, laced with an unsteady waver in each trembling word. His grin—boyish, familiar—was wobbly at the edges as he pressed the back of his hand to your forehead.

Why wouldn’t this feeling go away?

This dread. This creature inside you burning so brightly. 

"Sa-toru," your voice rasped. The syllables felt wrong in your mouth, tongue sluggish as it rolled through the vowels, throat too dry choking on every sound. Words weren’t coming out the way they should.

Why weren’t things working?

Why did everything feel wrong?

Satoru clicked his tongue, shaking his head as he rested his chin in his palm.

"Y’know, princess, you had me worried there. I was this close to calling it - figured you were done for, gonna leave me stuck with him for the rest of my life."

An exaggerated pout lined his lips that did little to mask the way his fingers twitched. You blinked at him, the words slow to process. The fog in your mind hadn’t lifted, not really, but something about his presence felt safe, reliable, a lighthouse in this haze.

"Sa-toru," you rasped again, the name tasting foreign in your mouth. His teasing grin twitched, faltered for just a second before he leaned in closer, his bright blue eyes flickering over your face like he was mapping out every change, every shift in your expression.

"That’s me, sweetheart," he said smoothly, flashing you a grin as if he wasn’t completely unraveling inside. "Figured you’d miss me first - ‘course you would, I’m your favorite, right?"

Something about that didn’t feel right. Not wrong, exactly, but something tugged at you, something missing, something empty.

Wake up. That voice, those claws continued deep inside you. Scratching, crawling to the surface just to plummet back down to the abyss.  You frowned, trying to focus, the ache in your skull pulsed harder, pushing your thoughts back down before you could grasp them. Satoru exhaled, watching you struggle, and his smile softened just slightly.

"Okay, let’s run some tests, yeah?" he murmured, voice dropping into something more careful, more measured. But then, like a switch, his teasing lilt returned, masking that fear rescinding inside himself. "Don’t worry, princess, this is just to make sure your brain didn’t completely short-circuit. Wouldn’t want you drooling on yourself just yet."

You scowled, the reaction automatic, and Satoru’s grin widened like he’d just won something.

"Oh? Look at that! Someone’s still got some bite in ‘em," he mused, his thumb lazily stroking the back of your hand. "Maybe you didn’t fry up there after all."

Your scowl deepened, and the corners of his mouth twitched. His bedside manners truly needed some work. 

"Alright, first test, nice and easy," he said, holding up two fingers. "How many fingers am I holding up?"

You stared. It should’ve been simple. Easy. 

But the answer didn’t come.

Your head throbbed, thoughts slipping like water through your fingers, the shape of numbers nothing but static in your mind. The more you tried to force the answer, the further it slipped, like trying to remember a dream the second you wake up.

Your breathing hitched. Your stomach turned.

"I—" The syllable barely escaped, weak, unsure.

Satoru didn’t move, didn’t rush you, just hummed under his breath, as if he had already expected this.

"No biggie, don’t stress it," he said, waving his fingers dismissively. "It’s not like I needed you to count anyway. I can do that all by myself."

The teasing should’ve been annoying. Instead, it kept the panic from swallowing you whole. Kept that beast inside you from crawling through your throat. Kept the tears at bay. 

"Let’s try something else," he continued smoothly. He tapped a finger against his chin, pretending to think, then pointed at you with a smirk. "What’s your name?"

A simple question. The simplest of all.

But nothing came.

The realization hit you like ice water, a slow, creeping horror climbing up your spine.

Your mouth parted, but no words formed.

You knew you had a name—you should know it—but it was like trying to grasp smoke. It slipped through your fingers and refused to stick. Your lips trembled, breath catching in your throat.

Satoru saw it.

And for the first time, his expression truly faltered.

The smirk faded.

The playful gleam in his eyes dulled, just slightly. His long, pale fingers tightened ever so slightly around yours before he clicked his tongue, releasing your hand, and leaned back, stretching his arms over his head as none of this bothered him in the slightest.

"Wow. You really did a number on yourself, huh? Forgetting your name? Tsk, tsk, princess." He let out a dramatic sigh, shaking his head. "Guess I’ll have to give you a new one."

You stared at him, heart still hammering, but his words pulled you just enough from the sinking pit of panic.

"Ooooh, how about ‘Dumpling’? No, wait—Sunshine—nah, too generic." He tapped his chin in mock thought. "Oh! I know - ‘Satoru’s Favorite Person in the Whole Wide World.’ Bit of a mouthful, but you’ll get used to it."

Despite the terror twisting in your chest, something about his voice -ridiculous, insufferable voice - kept you from spiraling completely.

"What about Suguru?"

The question was quieter. Measured. Satoru’s teasing lilt softened, but his gaze didn’t leave your face. The name struck something inside you, something distant, something deep. Suguru. Your husband. Your sweet, kindhearted husband. And like a memory from another lifetime, you saw him—Suguru’s hands over yours. Suguru whispering against your temple. Suguru’s voice, warm and fond, calling you—

"Of course," you murmured, a small smile ghosting your lips. "Suguru… he’s my husband."

For a second, the room felt too still.

Satoru didn’t move.

Didn’t breathe.

Then, with a slow exhale, he slumped forward, forehead pressing against the blankets beside your hand.

"Shit," he whispered, voice muffled.

You blinked at him, confused.

"What’s wrong?"

He shook his head against the various plush blankets, a groan escaping his lips as he burrowed his face deeper into the sheets. 

"Nothing," he muttered. "You remembered Suguru. That’s… good."

His fingers curled into the sheets, gripping them tightly, his shoulders stiff. Then, just as quickly, he snapped back up, plastering a lopsided grin on his face like he wasn’t just falling apart a second ago.

"Well, that settles it. You’re half-broken, but we’ll work with what we’ve got." He reached over and flicked your forehead - lightly, but enough to make your brow furrow. "I’ll go get Suguru. Pretty sure he’ll be happy you didn’t wake up hating his guts."

Something about the way he said it felt wrong.

But you didn’t get the chance to ask, because Satoru was already standing, stretching dramatically before turning toward the door. Before he stepped out, his voice dropped to something almost too soft to hear.

"Suguru better be right about this."

And then he was gone. The room felt different without him. Too still, too empty. The kind of silence that settled under your skin, stretched itself thin over your ribs, pressing into your lungs. Satoru was gone for what felt like forever. Time moved strangely, warping at the edges as you lay there, staring at the IV in your arm, the slow drip of liquid pooling into your veins. The steady tick of the clock anchored you, but barely. Each second bled into the next, a sluggish, drawn-out eternity. You tried closing your eyes, hoping that would at least calm the unease curling in your chest. Instead, the moment your lids shut, scorches of bright light flashed behind them, too sharp, too sudden, forcing you to snap them open again.

A headache threatened to bloom, but something else lingered beneath it.

A feeling.

The faintest echo of something soft - a kiss pressed to your forehead, warm, familiar. Muscle memory, perhaps. A habit long-engrained, something your body recognized even when your mind couldn’t.

You turned your head slightly, catching sight of the mirror on the far side of the room.

That was… you.

Your reflection blinked back at you, dazed and uncertain. Recognition flickered, though it felt distant, like staring at a childhood home you hadn't visited in years.

At least you knew yourself. That had to mean something.

A soft exhale escaped your lips, burrowing deeper into the blankets, allowing the warmth to cocoon you. Suguru would be here soon. He would make everything better. He always did. And Satoru…

Satoru was a good friend.

You let your gaze drift to the ceiling, counting the tiny, glowing stars plastered there. Numbers didn’t come easily, slipping from your grasp the same way your name had earlier, but you kept looking anyway, following each little dot of light like it might steady the tremor beneath your ribs.

Outside, voices broke the stillness.

Muffled, tense.

The walls weren’t thick enough to block them out completely, though the words slipped in and out, only fragments reaching you.

"You said - "

"—not how it was supposed to go—"

"Things aren’t okay - "

Something about the tone sent a shiver crawling up your spine. That monster deep inside you sank into the abyss once more. As if the conversation, it recognized, recognized more things than you did. 

The door creaked open, and there stood Suguru.

Another wave of warmth spread through your chest, comforting and safe, even as something deep inside you—a creature you couldn't name—trembled in fear. You could almost hear it, a faint, howling whisper buried beneath the haze of your thoughts, clawing at your ribs as if warning you of something you couldn’t remember.

But Suguru’s presence made you feel safe.

Suguru had always been your safe place. 

Hadn’t he? Still, something was… off. Not because of the quiet, caged thing inside you, not because of some nameless fear pressing against the back of your mind.

No—Suguru.

He stood there, unmoving, his violet eyes flickering between something unreadable and something that looked dangerously close to relief. His chest rose and fell in shallow breaths, like he had been holding it in for years.

Like he hadn’t seen you in years.

But… you had seen him.

Hadn’t you?

When was the last time?

The question fluttered through your thoughts, weightless and empty, and yet, before you could grasp it, it was gone, slipping through your fingers like water.

After what felt like an eternity—though time had started to feel strange, stretched and warped—his shoulders dropped. The tension in his frame melted away, his entire body sagging, the rigid set of his jaw loosening just slightly.

And then he moved.

Slow steps carried him to your bedside, where you lay wrapped in layers of soft, warm blankets.

"Angel," he breathed.

His voice cracked.

Something in your chest lurched at the sound.

You shifted, instinctively trying to sit up, but the IV in your arm tugged, the discomfort sharp enough to make your breath stutter.

And suddenly—he was there.

Fast. Too fast. One hand curled around your arm, firm but careful, the other settling on your back, steadying you before you could even sway. His grip was secure, protective, possessive a cocktail of something you couldn’t place in that haze of your mind as the abyss swirled with his touch-  his touch that sent something warm and sweet through you, like a childhood memory of being tucked into bed on a stormy night, soft whispers and gentle reassurances lulling you to sleep.

"Take it easy," he soothed, his voice dipped in honey, smooth and low. Suguru’s hands adjusted, shifting just slightly but never letting go, steadying you in a way that felt like he would never let you fall. He was close now, too close, his body angled toward yours in a way that blocked out the rest of the room. Like nothing beyond this—beyond you—mattered.

Had it ever? Your eyes flickered up, searching his face, your gaze tracing over the deep bags beneath his eyes, the tight line of his jaw, the way his knuckles were white where he gripped the sheets.

How long had he been here?

"How are you feeling?" His voice— gentle, tender—but there was something in it, something that made your heart stumble. You swallowed thickly, forcing yourself to sort through your scattered thoughts, sluggish and slow-moving.

"Weird."

Suguru let out a soft exhale—something dangerously close to a laugh—but it was shaky, unsteady, as if the sound was unraveling at the edges. Like he was barely keeping himself together. His thumb brushed over the back of your hand, slow and rhythmic, back and forth, back and forth, as if memorizing the shape of it.

"That’s okay," he murmured, voice like silk, voice like love. His eyes, impossibly soft, and devoted, never once strayed from yours.

"You’re still waking up. Just take your time, angel. I’m right here."

His patience felt endless.

Hadn’t he always been like this?

Always patient, always yours?

Suguru's hand tightened around your wrist, his grip not bruising, but firm, like he needed the contact like he needed to feel you to believe you were still here. His voice was barely more than a whisper, trembling at the edges.

"I was so scared," he breathed.

You blinked up at him, caught in the sheer weight of his words.

"Scared?"

Suguru exhaled slowly, shakily. His fingers loosened just enough to lift your hand to his lips. The kiss he pressed there was soft, lingering, his breath ghosting over your skin like a prayer, like he was worshipping you like he was pleading.

"God, angel," he murmured, his eyes fluttering shut, "you don’t know how close I was to losing you."

Your heart stumbled.

"Losing me?" The words felt foreign on your tongue, heavy with confusion.

Suguru nodded, his grip tightening again as his violet eyes flickered open, searching yours, as if he was willing you to remember, to understand.

"You don’t remember, do you?"

Your breath caught in your throat. You did your best to remember - tried to grasp at the scattered pieces in your mind, but they slipped away, crumbling to dust before you could hold onto anything solid. There was something there, something lingering at the edges of your consciousness, but no matter how hard you reached, it refused to take shape.

Suguru saw it—the way you struggled, the way you faltered—and something in his face broke. His lips parted, his expression shattering into something raw and aching.

"You tried to leave me."

A chill slithered down your spine.

"W-what?"

Suguru swallowed hard. His hands trembled. "The pills," he whispered, voice thick, pained. Those thick large fingers of his curled around yours, holding tighter, like if he let go, you’d slip away again. "You, angel, you tried to overdose. We almost lost you."

Your body went still.

The words didn’t fit.

They didn’t belong.

Would you…?

Could you…?

Suguru let out another slow, shaky exhale, his forehead dipping forward until it rested against your temple. His arms wrapped around you, pulling you into him, his warmth engulfing you completely.

"Why didn’t you tell me you were hurting so much?" he whispered, voice cracking under the weight of it.

He sounded wrecked.

Like you had broken him.

His breath was warm against your skin, his arms unmovable, his body curled around yours as if he could shield you from something neither of you could name. Your lips parted, but no words came.

Nothing.

Just blank spaces where memories should be. You felt empty, a hollow shell carved out by something you didn’t remember.

"I—" You tried, but the words dissolved before they could form.

Suguru didn’t let go.

For what felt like an eternity, he just held you, his breath slow, measured, as if forcing himself to stay calm. As if keeping himself from falling apart completely. When he finally pulled back, his hands cradled your face, thumbs stroking over your cheekbones in slow, gentle motions. His violet eyes burned with something deep, something fierce, something terrifyingly devoted. "But it’s okay now," he whispered, "because I’m here. I’m always going to be here." His voice was steady, "You’re safe, angel. I won’t let anything happen to you ever again."

His gaze bore into you, worshipped you.

"You don’t have to be afraid anymore. I’ll take care of everything, just like I always have."

And hadn’t he?

Hadn’t Suguru always taken care of you?

Hadn’t he always put you first?

Hadn’t he always loved you more than anything?

an ache in your chest arose as your mind filled with a foggy, static mess, but Suguru’s hands were warm, his lips soft as he pressed another kiss to your forehead, lingering there, breathing you in.

"I love you so much," he whispered, the words breaking against your skin.

A few weeks passed before your release. There had been a lot of physical therapy, a lot of sessions where doctors asked you questions that felt like puzzles you couldn’t quite piece together. A lot of memories blurred at the edges, details slipping into the haze that seemed to return at odd moments, as if your mind was deliberately keeping things just out of reach.

But you weren’t worried.

Because you had Suguru.

And Suguru always took care of you.

It helped that the hospital belonged to him—or at least, that’s what you gathered. Suguru worked here, of course he did, and with Satoru’s family organization owning and operating the place, it meant you were given special treatment.

For being his favorite girl.

For being their favorite girl.

You spent most of your days with Satoru. He liked to keep you company in the common room, always finding ways to make you laugh, always draping himself over you as if the weight of his presence alone could keep you somewhat sane.

It was never crowded here.

In fact…

There weren’t any other patients. It was something you had noticed a while ago but had never questioned.

Maybe you should have.

But why would you?

Suguru said the quiet was good for your recovery - Suguru always knew best.

So, instead, you sat cross-legged at the small table in the sunlit common room, a coloring book open in front of you, half-finished pages of soft, delicate flowers filling the space. Satoru sat beside you, elbow resting on the table as he lazily twirled a crayon between his fingers, the light from the window casting a golden hue over his white hair. You looked up at him, a bright smile tugging at your lips. The words came out soft, still feeling a little foreign on your tongue.

"I drew purple flowers. What color did you do?"

Satoru’s grin faltered for a fraction of a second. It was quick, so quick you almost didn’t notice.  A small inhale, barely audible, his fingers tightening slightly around the half-yellow crayon in his hand.

"Mmm," he hummed after a pause, looking down at his page, "I was gonna make you daisies." His voice was light, casual, that boyish grin sliding back into place, but something about it felt off.

His eyes - that same sparkling blue that had always been so bright, so mischievous, looked just a little duller than before. And then, before you could dwell on it, Satoru shifted, draping an arm around your shoulders, pulling you close like he always did, like it was easy.

"I was thinking about making some stars or cranes for Suguru," you mused, flipping the crayon between your fingers. "He’s been asking for stuff! You know, when we were together, I used to handmake him things. Guess he misses it!"

You laughed, soft, cheerful, letting the warmth of nostalgia curl around your words like a fond memory.

Satoru didn’t laugh.

You caught the way his expression twitched. His bright eyes dimmed again, the usual teasing remark he would have had on his tongue never coming. Instead, his grip around you tightened just slightly, fingers curling where they rested on your arm.

That quiet thing inside you—the one that had been utterly still these past few weeks—shifted.

Like déjà vu.

Like something on the edge of remembrance.

Like something that wasn’t right.

Satoru was too quiet.

And deep inside you—somewhere distant, somewhere buried—the monster inside you howled.

At first, you had been confused.

You don’t remember falling asleep. One moment, you were coloring—soft petals filling the page, Satoru’s voice teasing at your ear. Then, darkness. Not sleep, not quite, but a gap, a missing frame between memories. And now - movement. The slow, rolling sensation beneath you. The low hum of tires against pavement. The world around you felt wrong, stretched and distorted at the edges, like waking

You weren’t sure if you were moving or if the world itself was folding around you.

No, think.

You had to think - you can’t lose your marbles yet. Something felt off, but your thoughts were molasses-thick, sluggish, slipping away before you could catch them. You forced your eyes open. The brightness stung. The world blurred and wavered, swimming between sharpness and distortion, colors smearing together like wet paint. Everything felt slow, too slow, like time itself was stretched thin. Shapes surrounded you, unfamiliar, shifting. Your mind reached for something familiar, something solid, but the haze wrapped around you like a noose, muffling every sensation. Choking out every sensation. 

Something pressed against your cheek—warmth. A body beside you.

It was familiar.

Reassuring, perhaps. A slow, curling unease rippled through you, too faint to grasp, too distant to matter. You blinked, the action feeling thick and heavy, like your eyelids had been weighted down. A figure hovered above you—dark hair, neatly tied. Lips moving, speaking, but the words were empty, soundless, lost in the static humming at the edges of your consciousness.

You could hear them.

But you couldn’t understand them.

The words dissolved before they could take shape, vanishing into the white noise fizzing along the surface of your thoughts.

Something was wrong.

The realization wasn’t sharp. It wasn’t a sudden spike of awareness, but a dull, sinking weight settling in your stomach, curling through your limbs. Like a shadow stretching across the floor, creeping slowly, methodically, until it swallowed everything. Your gaze drifted sideways, slow, disconnected. There was another presence beside you, a hand resting on your thigh. Your vision wavered, struggling to focus. White hair. A shape, a figure—Satoru?

That wasn’t right.

His touch felt off.

It didn’t belong there. It wasn’t familiar.

If it were Suguru’s, that would be familiar. Suguru is your—

Your what? The word was there, just for a second. Bright and fleeting, flickering at the edges of your mind, a puzzle piece slipping into place—and then it was gone. A void swallowed it whole. Your mind reached for it, frantic and desperate, but it was missing, ripped away, replaced with nothing but static.

The car rumbled on, steady, unwavering.

Right.

You were in a car.

Going… where?

You tried to part your lips, force the sound from your throat, but nothing came. Not silence—something worse—deep, dragging inability, like your voice had been stolen, like your body was no longer yours to command.

You felt wrong.

Heavy. Detached. Like your limbs weren’t really connected to you, as the space between thought and action had stretched too far. Every movement, even the simple act of breathing, felt slow, distant, and delayed. Something sharp flashed behind your eyes—white light, searing, electric. A crackling hum, a sharp sting like a wire had been pressed too deep beneath your skin. The darkness inside you curled inward, folding in on itself. It whimpered now, weak, small, drowning beneath the weight of something you didn’t understand.

Something was wrong.

You felt it pressing at the back of your skull, something deep and instinctive, something your body recognized even if your mind couldn’t. The fabric against your skin was soft. Loose. Suguru’s sweatpants. That much, at least, felt real. Your eyes dragged toward Satoru again. It took forever, like pushing through water, like forcing yourself to move through a world that didn’t want to stay still.

He was angled toward the window, head tilted white hair in his eyes, chin propped against his palm. The dim glow of passing streetlights flickered over his features, illuminating sharp edges, smooth planes. His mouth was pressed into a thin line. The slight downturn at the corners. The tension in his jaw.

A part of you recognized that expression.

Satoru didn’t look like that.

Satoru never looked like that.

You tried again—tried to speak, tried to force sound past the heavy, sluggish frog clogging your throat. But it was like pushing through a swamp, murky, like something thick and invisible was holding you down, keeping you tethered to this slow, sinking feeling.

A shallow breath. A shudder. Nothing else.

Satoru shifted beside you.

The warmth that had been resting on your thigh vanished, leaving behind a stark absence that made your skin prickle. Then, a new sensation—a whisper of contact against your wrist. Soft at first, an idle graze, barely there. Then firmer, more pressing, the measuring. Counting the beats beneath his fingertips.

Checking your pulse.

Your gaze dragged to his, sluggish but instinctual. Bright against the fog in your head, slicing through the murk with a clarity that made you recoil. Those eyes—striking, endless, impossibly blue—brought something with them, a pull deep in your brain, in your bones. Flashes of something disjointed. Overhead lighting, stark and sterile. A buzz—constant, droning, mechanical. His expression didn’t change, but something in his posture did. A flicker in his gaze, a fraction of a second where his mask slipped—searching, analyzing, calculating. A slow inhale. A barely-there pause.

The realization sank, you weren’t supposed to be awake. Satoru exhaled, his fingers tapped against your wrist, a rhythm so light, so absentminded, it felt like an old habit. The soft tap, tap, tap sent a ripple through your thoughts, a whisper of familiarity threading through the fog. Then—static. A flare, sharp and electric, ripping through the void inside you. White light. A hum, low and droning. Something pressing into your skull, sinking too deep.

Your breath hitched.

Satoru’s lips parted. A breath of sound escaped, “…Shit.”

Suguru heard it. “Oh, angel.” a voice that had wrapped around you like silk, warm and syrup-sweet, sinking into your skin. A hand, cupped your cheek, his thumb gliding over your skin in slow, coaxing strokes. Guiding. Directing. You barely registered the way he tilted your face up, drawing your gaze away from Satoru, steering you toward him with gentle reverence. Like something fragile. Something breakable. Something his or perhaps theirs. 

“You should be asleep,” he murmured, “We gave you some pain meds. You’ve been having a lot of nightmares lately.”

We. The word landed strangely in your mind. Heavy. Foreign. Wrong. Something about it didn’t fit. But your thoughts—sluggish, slippery—melted away before you could pin them down. Questions clawed at your throat, stacking one on top of the other, pressing against the hollowness where memories should be. But when you tried to speak, when you forced your lips to move—nothing.

No sound. No words.

Just a thin, reedy whisper of breath.

Your tongue felt thick, your mouth unfamiliar—like the very mechanics of speech had become foreign to you. You tried again—lips parting, searching for something solid, something tangible, something that made sense. You weren’t losing your mind. You weren’t insane.

You were just lost. It’s key to remind yourself of that. 

“…House?” A whisper. Soft and unfamiliar, a voice that slipped past your lips, fragile and meek, and yet—not yours. You weren’t this. No, you weren’t small, you weren’t delicate, you weren’t some flower that needed to be tended. 

So how dare this weak, trembling voice speak for you? That wasn’t right. That wasn’t you.

The abyss inside you shuddered—howled—and then, it shrunk.

You wished you understood it. Wished you could unravel the creature clawing inside you, tearing at your ribs, gnawing at your insides. What did it want? What did it fear?

And why—why did it shrink before the two most familiar men in your life? It curled in on itself, retreating like a wounded animal. Pulling away, pressing deep into the spaces between your ribs, folding into the fog thickening in your mind.

Suguru’s thumb swept over your cheek again. Pulling you away from the insanity that was unraveling in your mind, What happened to you? Yet his calloused thumb pulled you away from that question as it swept against your bottom lip, those adoring violet eyes of his gazed down on you with so much devotion.  The motion melted into your skin, seeping through the haze in your head, sinking deep, spreading warmth like honey through your veins.

You knew these hands.

You trusted them.

You had always trusted them.

Had always belonged to them.

“There’s nothing to worry about, angel,” Suguru murmured, his voice velvet-lined and laced with something deeper—something patient, something final. It settled over you like a lullaby, thick and saccharine, wrapping around your ribs, lulling the resistance in your chest to stillness.

He sounded like home.

“Just relax.”

A pause.

“You’re safe now.”

His fingers curled just slightly against your cheek, “We’re almost home.” There it was again. That word.

We. His voice curled around it so easily, so naturally, as if it had always belonged. But it hadn’t, had it? Your thoughts tripped over themselves, scattered, slipping before they could form something solid. You felt like you had forgotten something crucial. Your head swayed slightly under his touch, too heavy, too slow. The warmth of his palm pressed into your cheek, spreading down your neck, keeping you there, still, held in place by nothing but gentle weight.

Suguru’s presence filled the space beside you. Even in the dim lighting of the car, even with the blur distorting your vision, you could still make out his dark, wavy hair, loosely tied at the nape of his neck, some strands falling over his face. Sharp features softened in shadow. Long lashes, lowered as he looked at you, the faint crease between his brows, the slow parting of his lips, his violet eyes—not as sharp as Satoru’s, but deep, unreadable.

His gaze held you.

His touch kept you from drifting too far.

However your brain had other ideas, other ideas of unraveling your mind, from stopping the buzzing of nerves, a name filtered into your mind. 

Satoru.

Satoru had his own apartment.

Didn’t he?

Yes. He did. He had his own space. He didn’t live with you. So why did the word we feel so wrong? Your breath came uneven, something shallow curling at the edges of your ribs.

A flicker of something.

Pills.

A hand.

Scattered.

The haze thickened. Your stomach twisted. A cold knowing pried its way through the murk.

You tried to kill yourself. Suguru’s voice echoed through the thick fog of your thoughts, from before. His words, his tone, the steady warmth of his arms around you. That conversation happened. You spoke fine before.

Why couldn’t you now?

Why did your voice feel different—smaller, softer? Why did you find yourself leaning into Suguru’s touch, chasing the warmth, seeking comfort in something you didn’t understand?

Because he was familiar.

Because in this fog, in this shapeless world where everything felt wrong, Suguru felt right.

No. Back on track.

Would you?

Could you?

Would you really—kill yourself?

That didn’t feel right.

That wasn’t you.

Was it?

Is that why Satoru…

You tried to speak. It took effort. A deep pull, like dredging words from the bottom of a thick, dark sea. Your lips trembled as they formed something weak, breathless.

“S-toru…”

Your mind lagged, struggling to find the words, the question tangling itself up inside you.

“…why?”

Suguru stilled for a moment. You felt the hesitation in him—the smallest shift in the way his thumb stopped moving, the subtle inhale, the pause in the space between you. His expression flickered—something uncertain ghosting across his face, but it was gone just as quickly as it appeared. Suguru was never uncertain. His violet eyes softened, the storm behind them calming, gentling, then, a slow, patient smile. His thumb resumed its path, tracing slow circles over your cheek, then down, grazing your bottom lip. A touch so tender it felt practiced.

“You gave him a fright,” Suguru murmured, his voice deep, warm, careful. A deliberate gentleness, like he was tending to a delicate flower—cultivating it, shaping it, waiting for the perfect moment to pluck it. To prepare it for the right occasion. Somehow, you knew that flower was you.

Except—you weren’t something sweet.

That wasn’t who you were.

Your voice, soft and honeyed, might have painted that illusion, but inside—inside, you were full of thorns. Sharp, unruly, aching to tear free, to dig into flesh, to remind the world that you were not meant to be handled.

Every slow stroke of his thumb against your skin unraveled them. One by one, the thorns dulled, softened, melted into something pliant. “He hasn’t been able to sleep in his apartment since you tried to…” A pause. His voice dipped lower, quieter as if saying the words aloud might wound him. You barely heard him anymore. Your thoughts had grown too loud.

Screaming.

Clawing against the buzz of burnt nerves—burnt? Why were they burnt?

Would you?

Would you kill yourself?

No.

That wasn’t you.

…Was it?

Suguru’s hand cradled your face, the pad of his thumb brushing over your temple.. His warmth sank into your skin, deeper than it should have—branding itself into you. Pressing. Holding. Binding. Safe.

Safe, safe, safe.

That’s what his touch said— what it promised.

And you let yourself sink.

You weren’t sure when you fell asleep.

Was it the warmth of Suguru’s hands, the soothing rhythm of his thumb against your cheek? Or was it the slight prick in your arm, so small, so fleeting, you barely noticed?

A needle.

That was… strange. What a weird thing to feel in a car. The thought barely had time to take shape before it melted away, lost to the pull of sleep—no, not sleep, something deeper, something heavier. Just before the darkness swallowed you whole, your gaze caught on a faint glimmer—a vial. The name surfaced immediately — a sedative. How would someone who could barely think straight know that?

But the thought was fleeting, slipping between your fingers as the world around you dissolved, your body weightless, your mind drifting— another memory.

Or perhaps a fraction of one.

A pink room. Soft pastels, warm light filtering through gauzy curtains. A large white box against the wall, waiting—empty. Something should be inside it, however the poor lonely white box was empty. On the floor, Suguru. A flashlight between his teeth, hands assembling something small, something delicate. Cubes of softwood, pastel-painted pieces are arranged in careful, meticulous stacks. His smile was easy, boyish, the corners of his eyes crinkling as he looked up at you.

Love. Devotion. Excitement.

"You think she’ll like it?" his voice was muffled around the flashlight, words laced with tender amusement. You stood in the doorway, watching him. Something inside you felt full, heavy.

You glanced at the mirror beside you—rounder. Softer.

Heavier.

Ah… what’s the word?

The thought came slow, sluggish, dragging its way up from the depths of your mind, a word, you were ████████. The word couldn't come. It slipped just as the memory was. The warmth of the memory curled around you, a bittersweet thing, familiar but distant as if seen through the wrong end of a telescope.

The image shattered.

Pale blue tiles, slick beneath your feet. The air was cold, curling against your bare skin like a whisper, like breath on the back of your neck, haunting. The bathroom felt vast and empty, yet suffocating all at once, a space that stretched and closed in at the same time. The walls pulsed, the floor swayed. Something dripped.

Red flowers.

They bloomed in the cracks, unfurling across the tile, soaking into the grout, staining your fingers, smeared against your thighs. A deep ache coiled in your stomach, right where the flowers grew, sharp and pulling and wrong. You pressed your hand there, fingers slick, warm- your heartbeat pounded against your ribs, a frantic, uneven staccato as if your body was trying to tell you something your mind refused to grasp.

Oh.

Not flowers.

Your breath hitched, sharp and jagged, the sound barely registering over the heavy buzzing in your skull. Your chest ached, pulled tight like something was being wound inside you, twisting until it was about to snap. Your hands trembled, grasping at fabric—your dress, the sink, the air itself—nothing felt solid. Nothing felt real.

Light flickered. A glow in the corner of your eye.

Your phone - the screen pulsed, humming with an unfamiliar urgency, illuminating the dark edges of the room. A name. Suguru. It pulsed with every ring, like a heartbeat, like something alive, something waiting.

You needed to answer it.

You tried—your fingers barely moved, sluggish and detached, like they weren’t yours, like your body had forgotten how to listen. The world shifted. The tiles rippled. The walls breathed.

You didn’t like this.

You didn’t like this at all.

But the dream had other plans.

It dragged you deeper, a hand at your back, pushing you forward, forcing you to see, forcing you to remember. The bathroom dissolved, bled into something else, colors warping, space stretching, folding, cracking apart.

The red flowers—gone.

In their place, stacks of paper.

Crisp, white sheets, stretching endlessly before you, swallowing the room whole, consuming every surface. The ink bled through, black lines shifting, warping as you tried to read them, twisting into something unreadable, something suffocating.

Not just any paper.

Divorce papers.

Your name.

Suguru’s name.

Your signature, ink smudged, edges curling, the weight of the moment pressing down on you like a vice. A pen—shaking between your fingers, clutched so tightly it might snap in half. 

You wanted to—

Didn’t you?

You wanted to leave.

Didn’t you?

The ink ran. The pages blurred, the edges curling inward, folding like wilting petals, like burning paper, like something being erased. Water dripped down the sheets, or was it blood? A soft rustle—pages turning on their own, shifting, morphing, dissolving into something else entirely.

The crib.

The bathroom.

The blood.

The papers.

Everything tangled together, warped, spliced, replaying in fragments, flickering like an old film reel skipping frames. The images overlapped, twisting and unraveling before you could grab hold, slipping through your fingers like silk soaked in something dark.

Your body burned. Boiled. Feverish heat rolled through your veins, spreading, thick and searing, like something was crawling beneath your skin, like you were being rewritten from the inside out.

You tried to wake up.

You needed to wake up.

Your mind screamed against the weight pressing down on it, against the lie suffocating it, against the warmth wrapped around you, the warmth you didn’t trust, the warmth you had once loved.

You gasped.

The darkness shattered—splintering into a million aching shards as your body jolted, wrenching itself toward consciousness.

A voice.

Soft, distant, pulling at the edges of wakefulness.

It wasn’t unusual for Suguru to curl up beside you at night, his arms, his body warm and familiar. That was normal. That made sense. But Satoru? Satoru had never slept beside you before, had he? At least, you didn’t think so.

Then again, you didn’t trust your memories these days.

The first night he slipped beneath the covers with you and Suguru, you blinked up at him, confusion knitting your brows together. "Satoru?" His name had left your lips softly, almost hesitant. You remembered Suguru pulling you closer before Satoru could even answer, his grip tightening as if the question itself was something you shouldn’t be asking.

"Mmm?" Satoru’s grin had been lazy, his eyes tired, but there was something about the way he spoke, something forced, light. He ruffled your hair like he always did, fingers lingering against your scalp before he sighed. "Just keeping an eye on you, princess. You know I can’t let you out of my sight for too long—what if you run off on us again?"

Something in your chest twisted at his words, a faint unease curling around your ribs, but before you could ask what he meant, Suguru had hushed you with a slow, tender stroke of his fingers down your arm. His voice had been soft. "Shhh, angel. Just rest. You need sleep."

You hadn’t fought it, though you weren’t sure why. Maybe it was because Suguru’s voice had always been something that soothed you, something that made you feel safe even when you weren’t sure why you needed to feel safe. Or maybe it was because Satoru had sighed dramatically, pressed a lazy kiss to the top of your head, and settled himself on the other side of you, like it was all so casual.

"Guess I’ll have to hold you extra close, then," he had teased, slinging an arm over both you and Suguru, his grip loose. "Can’t have you slipping through my fingers again, huh?"

You had felt the slow, easy circles of his fingers tracing along your arm, the weight of Suguru’s breath against your hair, the warmth of their bodies on either side of you. Something had whispered in the back of your mind that this was wrong, that this wasn’t how things were supposed to be. But Suguru had kissed your temple, whispered a quiet "Sleep, angel," and Satoru had only chuckled, pressing his face into your shoulder with a sigh, and soon the heaviness had settled into your limbs, pulling you under before you could think too hard about it.

And that had been the routine, night after night, until it became something normal, something expected. Until it stopped feeling strange. Until you stopped questioning it altogether. Some nights however, when they had opposite shifts, when the nightmares of yours persisted, perhaps from all the medication you were taking much to your demise: 

Satoru’s voice.

Faint, familiar, a low murmur in your ears, wrapping around your disoriented mind like a lulling tide. Sheets. Soft beneath you, cradling you in their embrace. The scent of home.

Something was wrong.

You forced your eyelids open, sluggish and heavy, the weight of sleep, drugs, memories dragging you back down. Satoru’s body against yours, too solid, too warm. He was pressed into you, caging you against him, his bare chest rising and falling, his breath heavy as he buried his face into your hair.

Fevered kisses—

One. Two. Three.

Tears. Your tears. You hadn’t realized you were crying or perhaps weren’t sure that was something you could do anymore. A lot of things left you uneasy these days, especially as Satoru’s lips trailed across your damp skin, pressing against your temple, your cheek, your eyelids. Something frantic in the way he held you.

What a desperate man he was, those soft pink lips seemed to continue on their conquest for the salt of your tears, as his arms curled tighter, embrace crushing, as if he was ensuring you could never slip away from him, not like you had the strength to do such a thing. 

However you didn’t like the way his lips trailed to your pulse, causing a panic inside you to rise, to claw at your ribs, to force yourself to speak, to ask, to plead - nothing but a meek, broken whimper escaped. Your voice was gone, hidden away as Satoru’s hands traveled to your nightgown hitching the lace lining upwards. The only sound was the slow, shaky breath Satoru let out against your skin.

“Oh, princess,” he murmured, his voice rough, thick with something heavy, something raw. “You scared the hell out of me.”

You tried again, and again, and - 

Because something inside you was screaming, clawing at the back of your mind, a voice—not yours, yet somehow still yours—wailing in recognition, shrieking a warning, weaving a song of something terrible, something unspeakable.

Oh, what did they do to you? The abyss curled around your thoughts, purring, seething.

That’s a new thought.

Not one you liked.

Not one you asked for.

But you couldn’t choose your thoughts, could you?

Satoru’s breath was warm against your cheek, his lips brushing against your damp skin, murmuring something—a confession, an apology, a plea. “I’m sorry.”  The warmth of his bare chest pressed against you, the firm, steady weight of him sinking into you, grounding you, keeping you trapped.

Satoru wasn’t your husband.

So why was he acting like one?

“I’m so fucking sorry.” You heard a crack. The sound of something breaking. Not glass. Something inside him. Your thoughts moved sluggishly, bouncing like light trapped in mirrors, scattering, refracting, unable to land. Satoru wasn’t emotional. Satoru would laugh things off, he would tease, he would never cry.

Satoru would understand the word no.

Wouldn’t he?

Satoru—who teased you for being a crybaby, who ruffled your hair, who leaned too close just to watch you roll your eyes.

That Satoru.

But this one—

This one held you like you were something fragile, something broken, something that had already slipped through his fingers once before. Something beloved, something like a lover. This one pressed desperate kisses to your face, each one filled with words you couldn’t quite grasp.

"I love you."

A whisper.

"Suguru had to go back for his shift."

A ghost of sound against your skin. The sound of clothing being removed. 

"I love you."

Again. Over and over and over.

"I’m sorry." 

"I didn’t know—"

Didn’t know what?

Your body shuddered. Something coiled at the edges of your mind—the abyss, the thing inside you, the part of you that knew more than you did. It wrapped itself around your thoughts, dragging them down, down, down, pushing you beneath the water, forcing you to see—

A hospital.

The mental hospital.

Not white, not sterile, but painted in colors that didn’t belong.

Satoru.

He was there.

You could see him.

Why could you see him? Your vision flickered, disjointed, showing you glimpses of something you didn’t want to remember—

No, no, no—

A field of flowers.

Purple.

Vivid and endless, blooming in the quiet of your mind.

You focused on that.

You latched onto it. Ignoring the fingers that had trailed to your heat, the broke whimpers escaping your throat, the sound of I love yous being called out. 

Purple was better. Purple was better than the flowers from your dream. Better than the ones that filled the bathroom. Better than the ones that bloomed too red, too much, too violently.

No.

No, you had to focus. You had to free yourself from this danger, from this man who claimed he loved you, yet he was claiming your body as if it were already his. Your nerves buzzed, crackled, burned inside you, bouncing like photons, shooting in all directions, searching for something solid, something real.

But nothing would land.

Nothing would stick.

Not the words slipping from Satoru’s lips, not the weight of his body pressing into yours, not the dull ache threading through your bones. Not the pressure building up inside your core, not the sickening sounds of wet flesh bouncing in the room. Not the defilement of your marriage bed. 

Everything felt like it was happening somewhere else.

But Satoru was still holding you.

His voice wove into your skin, breath hot, shaky, frantic, lips moving over your cheeks, your forehead, your eyelids—kissing away your tears, swallowing them like they were his own.

He wasn’t supposed to be like this.

He was supposed to tease you, laugh things off, flick your forehead when you pouted, ruffle your hair like you were something small and irritating yet adored.

But this wasn’t playful. This wasn’t harmless.

"I’m sorry," Satoru mumbled into your skin, voice breaking at the edges, dragging you closer, pulling you deeper into the heat of his bare chest, caging you in his arms. His heartbeat was uneven, erratic, pounding too hard beneath his ribs, pressed up against you like he needed you to feel it, like he needed to prove it to you.

"I’m so fucking sorry."

There was something wrong.

Something breaking.

Not just inside you.

Inside him.

His grip was too tight, too possessive, fingers digging into your hips, holding you still, locked against him.

Satoru doesn’t get emotional.

Satoru is loud, carefree, reckless.

Satoru is supposed to understand boundaries.

Satoru is supposed to stop.

Then why wasn’t he stopping?

Why was his breath coming in fevered gasps, why were his lips tracing the trembling curve of your jaw, pressing kisses along the pulse point at your throat, why was his voice pleading, broken, desperate?

Why did he sound like he was losing you?

"You don’t get it," he whispered between each kiss, mumbling, unraveling, his voice trembling against your skin. "You don’t—you don’t get it, princess. You almost left us. I—I didn’t want to hold you down that night."

The realization slithered through your mind, slow and suffocating. The abyss stirred, uncoiling inside you, thrashing against the haze, against the warmth of Satoru’s hands, against the way his fingers trailed against your soft skin, leaving marks in their wake, gripping the soft flesh of your thighs like he had every right to touch you.

His lips trembled against yours—fevered, insatiable.

"I love you," he whispered, the words dissolving into the heat of his mouth against yours. "I love you. I love you. I love you."

The words felt frantic, possessive, more an oath than a confession.

Your wrists—pinned above your head, trapped in his grasp.

His fingers curled around them, pressing them into the mattress, his body flush against yours, holding you in place.

The weight of him was suffocating.

This was Satoru.

This was your best friend.

You weren’t supposed to react.

Your body betrayed you. The sharp, shallow rise and fall of your chest, the heat prickling beneath your skin, the helpless, breathless little sounds slipping past your lips—all of it responding to his touch.

Even though you knew this wasn’t right.

Even though you knew this wasn’t love.

Ache.

His hips rolled against yours, slow, drawing a gasp from your throat—not a protest, not a plea, just a sound. That was all the permission he needed. His hand slid up your thigh, pushing your nightgown higher, exposing more of you to him, letting his fingers map out your skin, burning the shape of you into his memory.

"You were gonna leave us," he murmured against your lips, breathless, aching, his voice raw with something you couldn’t name. "You don’t get to do that. Not when we love you so much."

We?

The word barely registered, barely even formed in your head before his lips claimed yours again, hungry, desperate, overwhelming.

Satoru devoured you like you belonged to him.

Like this was his right.

Like he could love you enough to erase everything that came before this.

Like he could rewrite everything.

Like he could keep you.

The abyss inside you howled.

But Satoru didn’t stop. His weight pressed into you, his touch fevered, his lips brushing against your skin between each ragged breath, between each mumbled I love you.

You found it easier to look up.

Easier to focus on the ceiling than on the way his body moved against yours.

Easier to count the little glowing stars above you, the ones you begged Suguru for one night, one, two, three…Easier to slip into numbers than acknowledge the heat sinking deep inside you, curling through your veins, stealing what little control you had left.

Your lashes fluttered. Tears pooled, slipped down your temples, soaked into the pillow.

Satoru felt them.

His lips followed them, kissed them away, his voice breaking between each trembling press of his mouth against your cheek, against your jaw. "You don’t know," he whispered, a soft, pleading murmur. "You don’t know how much we love you."

We.

The word stung, but you didn’t know why. You felt it, somewhere in the thick, dizzying fog of your mind, a wrongness, a fracture.

Not just Satoru. Suguru.

A memory curled at the edges of your mind—not one you wanted, but one that came anyway. Another horror in this dreadful night, you wished for those purple flowers not the red flowers that haunted you. Blooming against the pale blue tile, staining your palms, seeping between your fingers. Their warmth, how they stick to your skin in the unforgiving wake. That warmth inside you twisted and pulled, it wasn’t Satoru’s hands anymore, wasn’t the heat of his body, the stretch and ache of him deep inside you as he whispered I love you against your skin like worship.

Instead, it was Suguru’s hands, hands that had touched you thousands of times before. Gentle hands, hands that treated you like you were meant for devotion, for you were his purity.  A memory forced itself to the surface, unbidden. Suguru, standing behind you, his arms circling your waist, his lips brushing against the curve of your neck as you got ready for bed. A whisper, low, warm, laced with something soft, "You’re beautiful, angel." A gentle careful kiss but you had uttered the words, pushing him away once more, pushing away those red flowers that haunted you. 

"Not tonight, Suguru."

The way his breath caught.

The way his hands stilled for just a second — his lips lingered against your shoulder before he exhaled, slow, measured, pressing a kiss to your temple.

"Okay," he had murmured. Like any devoted husband. Like any man who respected the word no. 

But no devoted husband uses electric shock treatment to keep his wife.

The ceiling blurred. The glowing stars bled into one another, bright spots against the dark haze swallowing your thoughts. Satoru’s touch dragged you back to the present, his lips pressing against your cheek, his body molding into yours, his voice muffled against your skin.

You continued to count the stars, this would all be over soon, wouldn’t it? 

One.

Two.

Three.

And let them swallow you whole

Weeks bled into months. Months of learning to exist beneath them. Months of waking in tangled sheets, caged between their bodies, pressed into the heat of their skin, the weight of them a presence. Months of breathing them in, their scent embedding itself into your very cells, threading through your ribs, settling deep inside you like an infection.

Months of becoming—

Becoming the perfect little thing they wanted.

Because that’s what this was all for, wasn’t it?

A family.

One big, happy family. Satoru whispered it against your skin, his lips trailing slow, lazy paths down your throat, his breath warm, saccharine, curling into your bones. He murmured it between kisses, between soft chuckles, between hands that never strayed far, hands that claimed, that took, that demanded. Suguru was gentler, slower, patient in the way a sculptor was patient when chiseling something out of stone. His voice was warm, his touch deliberate as he pressed you into his chest, his arms curling around you like a cage that pretended to be soft. He spoke of love, of devotion, of how hard it was sometimes, of how you had lost your way, how they had simply helped you find it again.

They loved you.

They loved you so much.

You were theirs.

They were yours.

A perfect trinity.

The family you were always meant to have.

Satoru would hum against your skin, tracing the curve of your hip with absentminded fingers, pressing smug, drowsy kisses to your temple as he whispered about how long they had waited for this, how long they had fought for you, how long they had planned for you to be here, with them, forever. Suguru would sigh against your hair, pressing his lips to your forehead, fingers threading through yours, telling you that love is difficult, that sometimes you break apart, that sometimes you lose yourself, but that they had found you again, that they had brought you home.

You wished you could tell them they were wrong.

You wished you could scream it, shatter the illusion they had so carefully wrapped around you, rip it open at the seams and show them—show them that you had never been theirs, that they had stolen you, reshaped you, carved you into something pliable, breakable, compliant.

Instead, you smiled.

Instead, you nodded.

Instead, you whispered soft thanks, spoke gentle words, let yourself melt into them like a perfect little doll. Because that was the role they had given you.

And if you played it long enough.

Maybe.

Just maybe.

You could be free.

But freedom was slow.

Freedom had conditions.

Gold stickers meant you were good, meant you let Suguru kiss you deeply without hesitation. Meant you didn’t flinch when his calloused, thick fingers gripped your chin, tilting your face up, when his lips claimed yours with slow, deliberate intent, when his tongue pushed past your parted lips, sweeping into your mouth, taking. 

Because breathing was a freedom he granted you.

His kiss was slow, practiced, indulgent, meant to be savored, to be felt. His tongue tangled with yours, rolling, curling, teasing, until it became a battle you were never meant to win. Until all you could do was let him have it, let him claim the heat of your mouth, let him drown you in the wet, insistent slide of saliva and submission.

Gold stickers meant you pressed into Satoru’s touch when he pulled you into his lap, when he grabbed at you, hands too big, too possessive, sliding beneath your sweet frilly dresses like they belonged there. Meant you let his fingers explore, tease, stroke, meant you didn’t tense when they skimmed along your thighs, when they traced the soft curve of your waist, when they inched higher, higher, a slow ascent meant to make you tremble. Meant you didn’t fight when he leaned in, breath warm, voice sticky sweet, whispering how perfect you were.

How much he loved you.

How he wanted all of you, always.

Because Satoru loved you, didn’t he?

Suguru cherished you, didn’t he?

And good girls. Good girls got gold stickers. Gold stickers meant you let them have you.

Together.

Gold stickers meant you didn’t cry, didn’t tremble, didn’t fight when they showed you what it meant to be theirs.

They called it making love. When they claimed you, when they took turns molding you, reshaping you, guiding your body into what they wanted it to be. When Satoru would hum small tuts of don’t bite, don’t cry as you struggled to take him, as his grip tightened just enough to remind you that breath was a privilege he could take away, each time he shoved his length down your throat that refused to take the full length. When Suguru’s voice was patient, coaxing, as he filled you, his thick cock filling your entirety, as he waited for your body to surrender, to accept, to welcome. When they weren’t feeling so generous, when they both took you at once, you found comfort in counting the stars on the ceiling. 

One, two, three, four. 

A methodical ritual, a place to go when there was nowhere else to escape to, a set of bright constellations to disappear into until your body was no longer your own. Until the weight of them left you aching, until Suguru pressed a small, bitter pill to your lips. Not the soft, fuzzy ones. Not the ones that made everything feel distant, hazy, almost bearable.

No.

This one was different - ensured you would always be theirs.

Forever.

You didn’t call it making love. You refused to give it a name. Names have meaning because calling it something makes it real. 

And you had already learned that fighting back only earned red stickers.

Suguru would sigh, take your chin in his hand, tilt your face up, his thumb smoothing over your lips as he murmured, “You’re not trying hard enough, angel.” Sinking himself further into you as you wailed that this was too much, however, words still refused to leave your lips when they gave you the fuzzy pill.  Satoru would smile—too easy, too light—before pressing you down, before kissing you so deeply you couldn’t breathe, before whispering, “We love you, princess. Let us show you.”

Suguru’s hands would hold you still.

Satoru’s lips would silence your words.

And you would let them.

Because fighting meant nothing.

Because the times you fought were worse.

You had already learned that fighting back only earned red stickers.

And red stickers weren’t just reprimands.

They were punishments.

Punishments that stripped you down, peeled you apart layer by layer, until you no longer knew where the pain ended and where you began.

Because love is difficult, isn’t it?

That’s what Suguru always told you. Love took patience, love took sacrifice, love took understanding. You had lost yourself for a little while, but they found you again.

And love was about keeping what belonged to you.

Red stickers meant the dark.

Suguru never yelled. He never needed to. He didn’t believe in harsh words, didn’t believe in cruelty, only correction.

"You just need time to think, angel," he would say, voice so warm, so understanding, as he shut the door. And you would sit in the darkness, alone, the air around you thick, pressing, suffocating, your own heartbeat the only sound in the void. You would listen to it, the heavy thump, thump, thump of it against your ribs, a reminder that you were here, that time still moved, even if you couldn’t see it.

But hours could stretch into eternities in the dark.

Your mind would start playing tricks on you.

You would hear the floor creak even when no one was there.

You would see things—shadows shifting in the corners of your vision, shapes that moved just when you blinked. The wallsm breathing, growing, closing in. You would scratch at your arms just to feel something real, press your nails into your palms, try to hold onto yourself. But eventually, the dark would become your only companion. And when the door finally opened, spilling in the golden glow of the hallway, illuminating Suguru’s familiar, patient face, you would thank him. You would cry into his chest as he murmured soft reassurances, stroked your hair, shushed you like a parent soothing a child, whispering, “It’s okay, angel. You’re home now.”

Red stickers meant silence.

You were allowed to speak—until you weren’t, or at least the words you were able to speak despite all the speech therapy that Satoru engages in with you. Giving you a gold star for every time you mention the words I love you.

Suguru would take away your voice.

Satoru would take away your body.

And both of them, together, would take away your mind.

Suguru believed words had weight. And your words needed to be earned.

"You talk too much sometimes, angel," he would murmur, cupping your cheek, thumb smoothing over your lips in a way that almost felt loving. "I think it’s best if you take some time to listen instead."

And then, the silence would begin.

For hours.

For days.

No one would speak to you. Not when you greeted them in the morning, not when you reached for them in the kitchen, not when you curled into Satoru’s lap at night, searching for warmth, for comfort, for something. You would try to apologize, try to whisper, try to fix whatever you did wrong—but silence was the only thing that answered you.

The absence of their voices would drive you mad.

Because they were the only voices you had left.

And you wouldn’t even realize it until you were begging for them to speak to you. Until you were crying, pleading, promising you’d be better, that you’d be good, that you wouldn’t make the same mistake again.

Until Suguru finally sighed, finally smiled, finally opened his arms for you to crawl into.

"See? I knew you’d understand."

And you would nod.

And you would thank him.

Because you had learned.

Because love had to be felt.

Red stickers meant pain.

But not pain in the ways you expected. Not bruises or broken skin. No, that would be too easy. Suguru didn’t believe in hurting you. Satoru didn’t believe in making you suffer.

"We would never, ever hurt you, princess," Satoru would murmur, pressing feather-light kisses to your knuckles.

"We love you too much for that," Suguru would promise, smoothing your hair, lips against your temple.

Instead— they let you hurt yourself.

The isolation and silence. The punishments were made to be felt—so that you would be so grateful when they stopped.

So that when Suguru finally pulled you into his arms, when Satoru finally buried his fingers into your hair, when their voices finally filled the quiet, you would cling to them.

You would melt into them. You would thank them for loving you enough to teach you the right way to love them back.

Because red stickers weren’t punishments.

Not really. They were lessons. They were reconstruction.

They were breaking you down and putting you back together.

Until there was nothing left to fix. Until you weren’t just theirs. Until you were nothing else— nothing but the howling abyss that had consumed you, devoured you, and made a home inside your ribs where love was supposed to be. You had been reshaped, rewritten, reduced to something that fit neatly into their hands. A perfect little thing. A cherished possession. A beloved doll. And yet—beneath it all, beneath the softness, the compliance, the pretty, painted-over ruin.

Something inside you still whispered.

Something inside you still knew.

You were not whole. You were not safe. You were not theirs.

But maybe that was the cruelest part. Maybe you had never been yours, either. Maybe you had always belonged to something else. Something lurking in the shadows of your mind. Something clawing beneath your skin. Maybe it had always been waiting, for the right moment. Waiting for them to break you just enough that you no longer cared about surviving.

Because that’s how madness works, isn’t it? It doesn’t come all at once. It seeps in like a slow drip. It whispers before it howls. It curls around your ribs, waiting, waiting, waiting—until you went insane.

Or maybe you had always been insane.

Maybe it had never been a matter of breaking. Maybe it had only been a matter of time.

It was poetic, really.

The game had always been theirs, Suguru with his patience, Satoru with his affection. Two halves of the same vice, pressing, tightening, shaping you into something that belonged to them.

And yet—they never expected you to playback. Never expected that after all these months, all this time, after all the gold stickers and red stickers and quiet, compliant submission—you would take something from them.

They thought they had won.

They thought you had finally learned to love them.

Because you had let them in.

Because you had stopped fighting.

Because you had smiled.

And maybe that was the cruelest part.

You had smiled.

You had whispered, I love you too.

You had given them everything, just long enough to make them believe it. Because love was trust, wasn’t it? And they trusted you. They trusted you enough to leave you alone. To step out into the world believing you would wait for them, believing you would always be right where they left you, believing that you had finally accepted what they had been trying to give you all along.

That you had accepted them.

Accepted their love.

Their home.

Their family.

But love had never been a choice for you.

And now, it wasn’t a choice for them either.

When the door creaked open, when Suguru stepped inside first, smiling, slipping off his coat, Satoru trailing behind him, laughing at some joke that no longer mattered, It took only seconds for them to see it. The pill cabinet was half-open. The empty bottles were carelessly discarded. And then - you. Sitting there, waiting, smiling. Like you always did. Like a perfect little doll. But your skin was too pale, your eyes, too bright, too fevered, too glassy.

The first stumble. Your body swayed, the room tilting on an unseen axis, the distant, detached feeling of your limbs no longer being yours, your stomach turning inside out, nausea curling in waves.

Suguru’s smile faltered.

Satoru’s laughter died.

And when Suguru’s sharp eyes narrowed, when he took one step forward—you laughed. High. Light. Almost musical.

Suguru froze.

Satoru stilled.

Like a moment caught in time, stretched too thin, seconds passing that felt like centuries. Then, realization. The widening of Suguru’s pupils, the way his breath hitched, the way his hand shot out to steady you, to touch you, as if that could stop what was happening.

As if he could still save you.

As if he had ever saved you.

And Satoru—well. Satoru looked like he had been shot. His lips parted, no breath, no sound, body locked into place, unblinking, unbreathing, his hands twitching, fingers flexing like he didn’t know what to do with them. As if his mind was refusing to understand what his eyes were seeing, because this wasn’t supposed to happen.

You were theirs.

You were supposed to be safe.

"No," Suguru murmured, and for the first time in your life, his voice was something other than that calm vice.

And for the first time since you have been met with Suguru—you felt powerful. A tilt of your head, lips stretching wider into something not quite a smile, not quite anything at all.

"I hope in another timeline, I never meet either of you." The words tumbled out easy like they had been waiting to escape for months since they did this to you. Words you had to practice in a mirror. Words that shouldn't have taken so much effort but all the drugs and treatments they put you on...had ruined who you really are.

Suguru’s grip tightened around your arms, his nails digging in too hard as if he could keep you here, keep you alive, keep you his. Satoru still hadn’t moved. His breath was shallow, his eyes darting everywhere—the empty bottles, the pale of your skin, the sweat glistening along your forehead.

The first cough.

And with it, the first bloom of red, something your mind changed to flowers but you knew what this truly was. The way the petals splattered against your palm, hot and thick, dripping between your fingers, staining your lips. Satoru jerked forward, his hands shaking as he reached for you, so, so gently, like he was afraid to break you even more.

But you were already breaking.

You had already broken.

The second cough came harder.

Then the third.

And suddenly, the room was shaking, or maybe it was you that was shaking, or maybe it was them, or maybe it was everything falling apart all at once.

Suguru was begging now. "No, no, no, angel, look at me - don’t do this, don’t fucking do this." Those large warm hands you once loved were cradling your face, cupping your cheeks, trying to hold you together even as more red spilled from your lips, and dripped onto his fingers, onto his wrists.

And Satoru was fumbling through his phone for 911, an ambulance, two doctors who were beyond saving their beloved patient now. However, you had never seen him quite like this, never seen his chest rise and fall in uneven, erratic bursts, never seen his fingers tremble, never seen his lips shake around a choked, gasping “Princess, please.”

Please?

Like you owed him something.

Like you owed them anything.

"This isn’t love." The words gurgled up past the wet heat in your throat, burning, raw, torn from somewhere deep inside you that they had never been able to touch. "You never loved me."

Maybe that was what broke them.

Not the blood.

Not the pale blue of your skin.

Not the way your body sagged against Suguru’s chest as you slipped further, further away.

But that.

That you had never believed them.

That even in their twisted devotion, their patience, their desperate, all-consuming love—you had never truly been theirs.

Even after everything.

Even now.

Suguru let out a sound, something strangled, something inhuman, as he pressed his forehead against yours, as he rocked you, shook you, pleaded with you, his words breaking apart before they could even form.

Satoru just kept whispering your name as he waited for the ambulance to arrive. Over and over and over. Like if he said it enough, maybe you would answer him. Like if he said it enough, maybe you would stay.

Like if he said it enough, maybe this wouldn’t be real. It was though, this was a fact. The same fact that they did this to you, drove you this far into the abyss letting that monster finally be released to pay them the dues they so much deserved. And as the darkness finally took you, as your body finally gave in, as the last shreds of yourself finally slipped through their fingers—you smiled. For the first time in this life, you had finally broken through the haze.

You had won.

[simplygojo]

The Devil He Made Me - Ch. 15

author's note ⸺ Hiiiiiii! Thank you to all who are still reading this fic...I love you with all my heart and will kiss you on the mouth if you'd like <3 pairing ⸺ Satoru Gojo x reader chapter summary ⸺ After brainstorming a masterplan for your newfound situation, you return to your room for some much needed rest, however, things do not go as planned,but didn't necessarily go poorly... ;) word count ⸺ 3.8k content ⸺ light angst, some suggestive comments, babygirl reader, reader uses female pronouns taglist ⸺@mawhoreagaa; @peqch-pie; @blue-serendipity; @simplyyyuji; @starrnai; @sorcerersseestars; @n1vi; @angryglitterperfection; @krak-jj; @coweringbear; @holylonelyponyeatingmacaroni; @cococola-cocaine; @sdv98o; @theendx888; @dvmb4ssbiatch; @sugxryratz; @kinny-away; @crankyarchives; @enfppuff; @reactwithjan; @blubearxy; @mystic-megumi; @nanamisrighthand; If you’d like to be added to the series tag list, leave a comment below:)

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The air in the courtyard was thick with the remnants of the fading sun, the evening sky stretching overhead in a wash of dusky purples and golds.

It was the kind of quiet that settled deep in your bones, heavy with something unspoken, something inevitable. You sat cross-legged on the cool stone pathway, fingers loosely curled in your lap, the gentle rustling of trees filling the empty spaces between conversations.

Gojo stood at the center of it all, posture deceptively easy, like he hadn’t just spent the last few hours meticulously formulating your next steps.

He had been more focused than usual, less flippant, though his cocky smirk still ghosted the edges of his lips. You caught the way his fingers flexed absently, a telltale sign that, beneath the usual bravado, something was weighing on him.

To his left, Megumi sat with his arms folded, his expression unreadable, but the tension in his shoulders betrayed his unease.

Nobara and Yuji, typically the loudest voices in any discussion, were uncharacteristically restrained, their gazes flickering between you and Gojo with barely concealed anticipation. 

And then there was Nanami. Seated a few paces from you, he was as solid and unshaken as ever, his presence grounding despite the uncertainty in the air. He had been quiet all evening, listening, calculating, waiting.

You had spent the last few hours throwing ideas at the wall, dissecting every possible next step in a desperate attempt to gain control over the situation. But it was time for an answer now.

Gojo exhaled, tipping his head back slightly before looking at you. “Alright. Here’s the deal,” he started, voice steady but laced with something deliberate. 

“We’ve gone over every possible approach—some good, some incredibly reckless.” His sharp blue gaze flickered toward Yuji and Nobara. “But I’ve been doing some behind-the-scenes work, too.”

Something about his tone made your stomach turn. Gojo wasn’t just speaking to fill the space. He was leading up to something.

“Ijichi’s been looking into your family,” he said simply.

Your breath caught in your throat.

The words felt like a drop of ink in water, expanding outward, staining everything in their path.

“He’s been working on it for a while now,” Gojo continued, his voice softer now, less teasing. “Ever since you mentioned bits and pieces of where you grew up, I figured it was worth checking out. I didn’t want to say anything until we had real answers, but…” He let out a breath, then looked directly at you. “He found them.”

It felt like the entire world had been thrown into slow motion.

Your heart clenched violently as if your body itself was rejecting the enormity of the words. 

It was like something inside you snapped taut, a wire stretched too thin suddenly pulled to its breaking point. Your lungs forgot how to work.

Found them.

The words reverberated in your skull, echoing back at you with a weight you weren’t prepared for.

For so long, you had existed in a state of limbo, balancing on the edge of memory and oblivion. 

Your past was a collection of blurred images, shattered glass pieces of a puzzle that refused to fit together. You had convinced yourself that maybe—just maybe—it was better not to know. 

But now… they weren’t lost.

They were real.

You pressed your palms into your lap, grounding yourself against the spiralling sensation, but it wasn’t enough to keep the rush of emotions from flooding your system.

Your family.

They had faces. Names. A home. They were somewhere.

And they had been there this whole time, completely unaware that you were out here, lost, fighting to remember them.

Gojo’s voice pulled you back from the freefall. “They’re still in Tokyo.”

Tokyo.

That single word settled into your chest like a weight, dragging you back to a place you could only half-remember, an old dream slipping through your fingers.

The silence that followed was suffocating.

Nanami was the first to break it.

“You look like you’re about to pass out,” he observed, his voice calm but edged with concern.

You forced in a breath, though it felt like you were inhaling through a straw. “I just…” You swallowed. “I don’t know what to say.”

“You don’t have to say anything,” Gojo said, quieter now. “Just… process.”

You lifted your gaze to him, and for once, his expression wasn’t unreadable. There was something deeply human in the way he watched you, something raw beneath the confidence. 

You didn’t have to ask how long he had been waiting to tell you this—how much he had debated whether it was the right thing to do.

Your fingers curled slightly against your knee. “So… what happens now?”

Megumi, ever practical, was the one to answer. “If we can get you in front of them, there’s a good chance it’ll trigger your memories.”

“And if your memories come back,” Nobara added, leaning forward, “you might remember exactly what happened to you that night. And where Geto is.”

That name sent another jolt through your system, cutting through the haze of emotion like a blade.

Geto.

The one thread tying all of this together. The reason you were here, drowning in uncertainty.

Nanami adjusted his glasses. “The goal is twofold—recover your past and uncover Geto’s movements. We need both pieces of the puzzle.”

Gojo clapped his hands together, the sound breaking the tension. 

“So, here’s the full plan. We lay low for a day or so—make sure we’re not being tracked, keep out of sight. Then we head back to Tokyo. Ijichi will coordinate things from there, get us in contact with your family in a controlled setting. Then, we will figure it allllll out from there.”

The weight of it all settled deep in your chest, heavy and impossible to ignore.

This was happening.

Everything you had been chasing—every question you had been too afraid to ask—was finally within reach.

You just weren’t sure if you were ready for the answers. 

—

Sleep didn’t come easily.

Even after hours of tossing and turning, even after convincing yourself that everything was fine, that you were safe here, that nothing could reach you—his face wouldn’t leave your mind.

Geto.

That slow, knowing smile. Those sharp, calculating eyes. The quiet, eerie way he had spoken to you in the dream, like he had all the time in the world to break you apart piece by piece. It wasn’t just a memory. It wasn’t even just a nightmare. It felt real. Too real.

Eventually, exhaustion won. Your body gave in before your mind, pulling you under the surface of sleep.

But before you knew it, the nightmare crept in slowly…

Tokyo stretched around you, quiet in a way it never should be. No hum of distant traffic, no neon glow reflecting against rain-slick pavement. The air hung thick, pressing against your skin like something unseen was watching, waiting.

Then you saw him.

Standing beneath a streetlamp, his figure cut through the dark like ink bleeding into paper. The dim light flickered, casting sharp shadows across his face—Geto.

At first, he didn’t move. Just stood there, head tilted slightly, dark eyes fixed on yours. And then, as if he’d been waiting for you to notice him, his mouth curved into a slow, knowing smile.

"Found you."

Something cold gripped your spine.

You stepped back—he stepped forward.

Not running. Not lunging. Just walking, like he already knew how this would end.

The city warped around you, buildings shifting like they were folding inward, every alley leading nowhere. You ran anyway, breath sharp, pulse loud in your ears. No matter how far you went, no matter how fast—he was still there.

"You can’t hide from me." His voice was almost gentle. Almost amused.

And then he reached for you—

You woke up with a gasp.

The room was too dark, the silence too heavy. Your skin felt damp, breath uneven as you pushed yourself upright. The covers were twisted around you, tangled like you’d been fighting something in your sleep.

It was just a dream.

But you still felt the weight of it, still saw his face behind your eyelids when you blinked.

Then, before you could even think, the hallway outside filled with rushed footsteps—and then the door flew open.

"What happened?"

Gojo’s voice was sharp, breathless. His shoulders were tense, his hair a mess from sleep, his hand still braced against the doorframe like he’d been ready to fight something when he barged in. The usual teasing light in his eyes was gone, replaced with something heavier.

You swallowed, forcing your pulse to slow. "Nothing," you exhaled, the lie clumsy on your tongue. "Just a nightmare."

Gojo didn’t move. His gaze flickered over you, taking in the way your fingers were still clutching the sheets, the uneven rise and fall of your chest.

"Just a nightmare?" His voice was quieter now, but it didn’t lose its edge.

You nodded, feeling small beneath the weight of his stare. "Yeah. Sorry, I didn’t mean to wake you."

His jaw tensed slightly, but he let out a slow breath, dragging a hand through his hair.

"Alright." He didn’t sound entirely convinced.

A moment stretched between you, neither of you speaking, just the quiet hum of the night pressing in around you.

Then, finally, he shifted.

His fingers curled loosely against the doorframe, like he was debating something. His mouth parted slightly—like he wanted to say something. But instead, he let out a sigh, shaking his head just a little.

"Well… get some rest." His voice was softer now.

He turned to leave.

And you almost let him.

But then, before you could stop yourself—before you could think about how desperate it might sound—you whispered, "Wait."

Gojo froze.

For a split second, you hesitated. 

You didn’t know what you were asking for. You only knew that the second he stepped back into the hall, you’d be alone again. And you weren’t sure you could sit with the weight of that dream pressing against your ribs.

"Satoru… can you please stay with me?"

You barely heard your own voice, but the way he turned—slow, careful—told you he had.

His expression was unreadable for a long moment, his blue eyes flickering between yours like he was trying to figure out if you really meant it.

Without another word, he stepped inside.

The bed shifted as he crawled in beside you, settling in just a bit too easily. He didn’t ask anything, didn’t make a joke or say anything silly—he just laid down on his side, facing you, and let the room settle into silence again. His presence was close but not overwhelming.

You both lay there, in that quiet space between the dream and the waking world. The air was thick with the unsaid, but there was something calming about the warmth radiating from him, the quiet reassurance of knowing he was there, just there.

You let out a small sigh, your body relaxing without you even realizing it. Slowly, your head shifted closer to him.

It was so subtle, you almost didn’t notice. But before you could stop yourself, you felt the shift—your body leaning ever so slightly into his, the warmth of him bleeding through the fabric of your clothes, pulling you in closer.

His breath hitched for just a second, but he didn’t pull away. He didn’t move. He just stayed there, his body offering the reassurance you didn’t know you needed.

After a moment, Gojo exhaled quietly.

"You okay?" His voice was quiet, concerned but gentle.

You nodded, feeling the remnants of the dream slip away, replaced by the soft comfort of his presence. "Yeah," you whispered. "Just... needed the quiet."

For a long moment, neither of you spoke, just the gentle rhythm of your breaths filling the space between you.

Then Gojo’s voice, soft but clear, broke the silence again. "I’m not going anywhere."

You let your body relax completely now, leaning just a little more into him, your head resting gently on his chest, the sound of his heartbeat steady and grounding.

The tension from the nightmare faded with each passing second, and, despite the closeness, there was no need for words. Not yet.

Gojo’s hand rested by his side, just close enough that you could feel his warmth, but not enough to invade your space. He stayed like that, not moving, just letting you breathe.

You didn’t need anything more.

There was something about the way Gojo lay there, still and present, that allowed your body to release its hold on the tension that had built up over the past weeks. 

It wasn’t just the proximity—though that was part of it. It wasn’t just his usual confidence or his gentle teasing—there was something different about tonight.

It was the quiet assurance in his voice when he’d said he wasn’t going anywhere. It was the way he had stayed, without question, just to make sure you were okay.

As you let yourself sink into the bed, feeling his steady breath against your skin, the world outside seemed distant, a mere echo. 

The edges of your thoughts, the worries and the nightmares, all faded into the background. It was as if, for the first time in what felt like forever, with him there, you could just... rest.

You could breathe without the tight knot in your chest, without the ever-present fear that something was waiting to catch up to you, to tear you apart.

And just like that, you fell asleep.

The quiet of the night stretched around you, soft and safe. No dreams of Geto. No twisting, suffocating nightmares. Just peaceful sleep—unbroken and untainted.

The sense of security in Gojo's presence wrapped around you, lulling you into the deepest sleep you had experienced in weeks. 

There was something soothing in the way he never asked for more than this, just the stillness and the shared moment of comfort.

—

The morning light crept softly into the room, casting a warm, golden glow over the tangled sheets.

The sound of birds chirping outside filtered into the quiet, a gentle reminder of the world waking up around you. But for the first time in a long while, you didn’t feel the rush to join it.

The bed was incredibly warm, the sheets a little tangled, your body blissfully relaxed and at peace. You blinked a few times, slowly adjusting to the light, the soft weight on your chest stirring a vague sense of familiarity.

For a long moment, you just lay there, letting the warmth of the room wash over you.

You felt... safe. Safe in a way you hadn’t in ages, not even after the most peaceful sleep you'd ever had. Slowly, you turned your head to the side, blinking once more as you saw the familiar, messy mop of white hair lying just beside you.

Gojo.

He was there, his arm draped loosely around your waist, pulling you closer even in his sleep. You were tangled up together—your bodies an accidental mess of limbs and sheets. 

You must have both shifted during the night, the unconscious movement leading to this situation. His chest rose and fell gently beneath you, his warmth radiating over you. 

The steady rhythm of his breathing was calming, and despite everything—the chaos, the danger—you felt a sense of peace you hadn’t known in months.

You smiled softly to yourself. Somehow, you’d slept through the night without the usual nightmares or restlessness. And here you were—tangled in the sheets, in his arms—feeling... completely relaxed.

You could hardly believe it.

This was what true rest felt like, the kind that seeped into your bones and quieted the loud, haunting voices in your mind. You felt a strange sense of security, something you’d never expected to find in this house, in the midst of everything.

The sound of Gojo’s soft exhale stirred you from your thoughts. You looked up at his face, his features softened in sleep, his usual playful expression now absent. It was a side of him you didn’t often get to see—a rare, unguarded moment. 

You hesitated for a second, then shifted ever so slightly, carefully disentangling your legs from his. But as you moved, his arm instinctively tightened around your waist.

“Mmm,” Gojo murmured groggily, his eyes fluttering open. The first thing he saw was you, your face just inches from his, the way you were still pressed against him.

His lips curled into a lazy, amused grin. “You’re awake already?”

You blinked, still half-dazed from the sleep, your thoughts slow to catch up. “I—yeah. I think I’ve had the best sleep I’ve had in... well, ever,” you whispered, still surprised at how at ease you felt.

Gojo's smile softened, and for a second, you thought you saw something genuine in his eyes.

He chuckled lightly, his fingers brushing against your side as he pulled you closer again, not in a possessive way, but just... holding you there, as if the two of you were simply drifting together in the quiet morning.

“Good. You needed it.” His voice was still low, thick with sleep, but there was a tenderness to it that made your heart skip. “And as much as I love waking up next to you,” Gojo continued with that signature cocky grin, “I think we’re a little tangled up, don’t you?”

You let out a small laugh, noticing how your legs were practically intertwined, the sheets now wrapped around both of you like a messy cocoon. There was something absurdly intimate about it—the way your bodies had found their place together in the night without thinking.

“Yeah, looks like it,” you said, your voice still soft but with a teasing edge. “I’m not complaining, though.”

His grin widened, his hand lazily tracing small circles on your back. “I’ll admit, it’s not exactly the worst way to wake up,” he murmured, his eyes now fully awake, but still heavy with the kind of sleepiness that made him even more alluring. 

“But I think we both know I’m not really one for staying still for long.”

His eyes flicked to yours, a glint of mischief returning. “I’m not saying I mind the cuddling... but if you’re trying to make me stick around longer, you might just have to get a little creative.”

You tilted your head, fighting the urge to smile. 

“Oh really—Is that so?” You teased, your hand resting on his chest. “I think you might be the one getting too comfortable here.”

Gojo chuckled softly, letting out a relaxed sigh. “Maybe... but I’d say we’ve both earned it, don’t you think?”

You rolled your eyes, unable to help the small smile tugging at your lips. “Shut up.”

Gojo let out a laugh, the deep, carefree kind that made something warm settle in your chest. “Ah, there she is,” he mused, clearly pleased with himself. “All sweet and soft when she sleeps, but the moment she wakes up—back to bullying me.”

You huffed, shifting to untangle your legs from his. “I think you’ll live.”

He smirked, propping himself up on one elbow as he watched you get up off of the bed to stretch. “Barely. But if you ever feel like making it up to me, I wouldn’t say no to a morning cuddle.”

You scoffed. “Dream on.”

Gojo tilted his head back, laughing again. “Oh, I definitely will.”

You rolled your eyes, the playful teasing already getting to you. As you moved across the room to open up the blinds, you whipped a pillow at him, not caring that it was soft—just that it might finally shut him up. 

“Really? A pillow?” he says, letting it drop to the floor as he stands up himself.

Your heart races as the playful tension in the room shifts. You clear your throat, trying to keep your composure. “Yeah, really. Now, I need you to leave so I can change.”

Gojo tilts his head, still not moving, but his grin softens slightly as he studies you. 

“You sure you don’t want me to, I don’t know, help you out with that?” He leans casually against the doorframe, that familiar mischievous glint in his eyes.

You cross your arms, trying to look unaffected, but you can’t ignore the slight flush creeping up your neck. 

“Gojo... seriously. Out. Now.” You try to sound firm, but there’s a slight tremor in your voice.

Gojo doesn’t budge at first, as if debating whether to tease you some more. But then, after a brief silence, he straightens up, dropping the act. 

“Alright, alright. You really want me to leave?” His tone is almost playful, but there’s an odd sincerity beneath it.

You nod, half-exasperated, half-embarrassed. “Yes. I’m not going to change in front of you.”

Gojo’s grin shifts into something that feels almost like admiration. He holds up his hands in mock surrender, stepping back toward the door.

“Alright ma’am,” he says, pausing to meet your eyes with a look that’s both teasing and respectful. “I’ll leave you to it. But just know, if you need help with anything else... I’m always here.”

With a playful wink, he lingered at the doorframe for a moment longer, his gaze lingering on you before you shut the door.

Gojo lingered just outside the door, his hand still resting against the frame. 

His usual swagger had carried him out, but now, in the quiet of the hallway, something unfamiliar curled in his chest, something that refused to loosen even as he exhaled.

His fingertips tingled with the memory of your warmth, the weight of you still imprinted against him like the ghost of a dream he wasn’t ready to let slip away. 

The warm scent of you clung to his shirt, something soft, something steady, something that made his pulse slow in a way he didn’t quite know how to name.

For a man who had spent years mastering distance—crafting barriers with laughter, weaving walls out of bravado—this was unheard of. 

It was second nature to keep the world at arm’s length, to stand just outside of reach where no one could ever truly grasp him. Even those closest to him, the ones who thought they knew him best, only ever got fragments, slivers of the truth wrapped in a smirk.

But you—somehow, without trying, without even knowing—you had slipped past all of that.

He could still feel it, the way your body had unconsciously curled into his during the night, seeking warmth, seeking him. 

It hadn’t been hesitation, hadn’t been uncertainty. It had been instinct as if your body had already decided for you. 

And the worst part—the part he knew should bother him more than it did—was that he had done the same. 

No resistance. No retreat. Just the quiet ease of two pieces falling into place, a flawless connection, a certainty that hit him harder than he was ready for. 

And damn, did he feel it—this was what it meant to become undone.

[imaginedanvrs]

a galaxy stands between us

part 3 l masterlist

summary: just as things begin to look up, you're introduced to someone you've been trying to keep far away

word count: 3.5k

warnings: mentions of past confinement, allusions to schizophrenia, violence, bullet wounds, breaking bones

“I say we leave now,” the certainty in her voice made the others around you chuckle while you gazed at her in a fond adoration. Her statement didn’t surprise you like it did the others, she had mentioned it the night before when you were stargazing. There had been no pressure to go to sleep at any reasonable time now that school was done with, leaving you to stare at the open sky before you until the stars made way for the sun’s glow. 

  “I’m serious!” She insisted with an infectious grin. “Y/n/n, agrees.”

  “She agrees with you on everything,” your friend stated. 

  “Besides, our first motel isn’t booked until Sunday,” another voice chimed, making your girlfriend groan as she fell back against the lawn dramatically. “We should at least start this roadtrip by following the plan.” You chuckled, watching all three of your friends continue to argue when you noticed you were out of squash.

  You glanced back at your house where you could see your foster mother preparing the dinner already. It was only early afternoon so she must have been planning something special. With your curiosity caught, you picked up the empty jug and started back towards the front door to the kitchen when you were struck with a piercing pressure within the core of your head. It felt as though every nerve in your brain was suddenly ablaze and clawing against your skull to escape. Then it was gone. You shook your head and continued on, only to open your front door and be struck again a thousand times worse. 

  You cried out, hitting the hard kitchen floor with a thud and unable to register your guardian rushing to your side as you clawed at your head enough to leave red streaks. You double over again, screaming and pleading with anyone who somehow had the power to make it stop. It did, but everything went with it. 

  The images flashed in front of your eyes like someone was flicking too hastily through their camera’s photos. There were faces smeared with blood from cuts that looked deep. The horror struck upon them was somehow more alarming, because they were looking right at you. Your best friends. Your family. Your lover. All stricken with a terror you inflicted. 

  “Please!” She begged, voice as hoarse as it was after the first football game you went to together. She was looking up at you, except she was looking far too high, more so when she fell back against the ground like she had done so playfully just minutes prior. Your girlfriend crawled away as fast as her slashed leg and torn up abdomen would allow. You didn’t understand. You continued towards her and opened your mouth to give your assurance and plead for answers but she cut you off with another scream. 

  Then it all stopped again. 

  The next thing you saw was her stunned eyes staring up at that same sky you had admired the night before. Perhaps the cloud her eyes had found was in the same place as one of the constellations she had pointed out, and that was why it was the last thing she ever saw before you had killed her. 

  You woke up with a start, sweating right through the clothes you had been gifted. In your haste to sit up, you hit your head full force against the solid wall and it fortunately struck you hard enough to stun you out of your panic. You held the back of your head as you focused on the handle on the cupboard under the sink, unwilling to close your eyes but needing to ground yourself to something. 

  Tears pricked at your eyes, from the dream or the pain you weren’t sure. Maybe both. You realised, with a drop, that this was something you were going to have to deal with - nightmares. You never had them under sedation and you also never realised what you had been shielded from, not that you deserved it. The dream was a memory from that day. It was no nightmare, it was the acts you had committed on the people that mattered most to you. 

  “Fuck,” you cursed, slumping back entirely. 

  You sat on that shower floor for a while considering how the hell you were going to deal with those unwelcome reminders, that could hit you as frequently as every night, when you recalled Natasha telling you that everyone on the team had made mistakes. It was only at that moment that you registered how her tone had insinuated that ‘mistakes’ was putting it lightly and that there might be a chance at least one of them was living with the same guilt you were. Then again, you weren’t about to tell them about your bloodshed so how could you expect them to do it. And maybe you were jumping to conclusions to ease your own mind and none of them had come close to committing the atrocities you had five years ago. 

  “How well do you remember it?” Asked a voice you wanted to ignore. But what the hell? Even if you were technically talking to an extension of your own psych, why not pretend just for a moment that he was someone real that you could talk to. 

You looked up to where he was sitting on the other side of the glass, leaning against the cupboards with his previously alive cloak pulled away enough to reveal the thin green fabric that covered from his waist to halfway down his thighs. You had vaguely seen the various tattoos littered across his chest before, though there were some along his ribs that you mind decided to add. Might as well keep him interesting. 

  “Just the aftermath,” you muttered. He nodded, carrying the same unbreakable severity he always did. There were faint lines between his brows, as though in his made up life he had been the bearer of many difficult decisions and challenges. You almost wanted to entertain the fiction and ask him.

  “The first one’s always the hardest,” he told you. 

  “It’s not going to happen again,” you hissed, repulsed at the insinuation. 

  “You really think you get a choice?” He asked, genuinely interested. 

  “I have to, I won’t hurt anyone else,” you told him firmly. 

  “Then you won’t be able to protect yourself from what’s to come.” You frowned, staring straight at the illusion you knew didn’t exist. 

  “So be it,” you shrugged. “Now leave me alone.” He sat for a few more long moments, as though he was considering you. Then you blinked and he was gone. 

*

“You can’t say that you wouldn’t get a little stir crazy being cooped up in your room all day and night,” Natasha stated, maintaining a steady jog next to the captain. 

  “I’m not unpredictable and possibly unstable,” Steve pointed out, watching the sun finally peek over the top of the trees in the far distance. 

  “And as sad as it is that you don’t have that interesting edge to you,” the redhead teased, “you’re a super soldier. Y/n’s blood tests don’t prove anything except that she gets cold easily,” she summarised. The pair continued to jog about the perimeter of the base as Steve considered Natasha’s argument. 

  He took a moment to appreciate his surroundings, the softness of the well maintained lawn beneath his trainers, encouraging his progress with the supporting bounce. The birds chirped in the distance as though they were greeting the two heroes as they passed. It was still a cool morning, but it would become pleasantly warm as the day went by and the air would remain just as fresh. It would do you good to be out. 

  “Okay,” he agreed. “But you bring Wanda with you.” 

*

You stared down at the bowl of lucky charms that had transformed into quite the depressing state. You were off of puree but you needed to make sure that your food was still soft while your body finished adjusting to the change. It was disappointing to let the sweet meal lose the crunchy texture you used to love and it felt even crueller to have to ignore the box of poptarts in the cupboard behind you. Still, it was a sweet meal that your tastebuds celebrated and you were pleased to have let Wanda convince you to come out for breakfast. 

  “The poptarts will still be there tomorrow,” Wanda assured with a small smile. “Unless Thor visits between now and then.” 

  “One of you is named after a norse god?” You asked. 

  “No he’s the real deal,” Wanda said simply. 

  “He’s the actual god of thunder?” You didn’t buy that one bit. 

  “I’ll introduce you when he next comes down from space,” she continued. You narrowed your eyes at the Sokovian, unsure if she was pulling your leg or not. There was no way she was serious…right? 

  “Anyway, it’s getting warm out there if you want to go out later,” Wanda offered nonchalantly. You shifted as you continued to eat, unsure where their intentions were coming from. You had a good amount of trust in the team that had opened up their home to you, but there were still some hesitations you harboured simply because as a whole, being there with them seemed too good to be true. The bear man agreed. 

  “Maybe,” you muttered unconvincingly. 

  “If anything were to happen, I could handle it,” Wanda told you. You caught on, she could handle you. Or so she believed.

  “How do you know?” You watched the brunette as she considered how to phrase or example her skills in the least threatening manner. “I’m not afraid of being restrained,” you told her, as though you were the one who could read minds. 

  Wanda lifted her hand and produced the same spirals of red that she had the day before. This time, that same red transpired across your frame. You glanced down at the crimson that ran across you, only to find yourself entirely bound. You weren’t paralysed, but it was as though you were back in your straight jacket only this time it extended across every limb. It only lasted several seconds before Wanda pulled away. 

  “What do you think?” She asked, apprehension clear in her voice and the way she held her fingers. You smiled back at her. 

  “I think-”

  “Stop letting them do that to you,” he demanded. “You are not some animal they can tie up and put back in a box whenever they please.”

  Wanda followed your gaze and you swiftly snapped out of your trance, enraging him more. He’s not real. He’s not real. He’s not real. Fortunately, Natasha appeared around the corner just as Wanda glanced that way, making it easy to suspect that was what had drawn your attention. 

  “I think I want to go outside,” you finished.

 *

There was a gentle breeze outside. It caressed your cheeks and the back of your hands, as though encouraging you to venture further into its embrace. As you closed your eyes and leant into the tender touch, several more light wisps passed you by, brushing your hair playfully before continuing on to whatever they could find next and content to leave you in the company of the two heroes either side of you. 

  It felt good to be out, to have the sun’s warmth finally hit you without filter or interference, just as you were able to feel every blade of grass that cushioned your feet (you weren’t a fan of shoes yet). It was almost as though the natural world was welcoming you back, as unrealistic as that was, and it was almost enough to make you forget why it had been so long since you had experienced it. 

  Your fluctuating companion trailed on behind you, occasionally making comments about the base that you had to ignore. He was persistent that day and you weren’t sure why. Perhaps if he kept appearing more frequently then you should tell the Avengers, seeing as they seemed to know how to deal with the majority of your…problems, but you weren’t ready to entrust them with that information just yet. 

  “All of this is just for your team?” You peered around at the collection of buildings scattered around the main base. Even the smallest ones were about the size of an average warehouse and you had to wonder what such a small team needed with so much land and property. 

  “Pretty much, we get a lot of agents assigned over there,” Natasha said, pointing to a cluster of buildings. “And sometimes they train in the forest because it’s so dense.” The tree line along the edge of the maintained ground did look compact yet still somewhat inviting, as though the tall trunks and thick treetops could shield you should you ever require the shelter. 

  As you continued on, the pair made the occasional comment about the base’s uses and you listened on curiously. They caught you up on pretty much all of the major events that had transpired between earth and the rest of the universe, drawing your attention to just how much the world had changed since you had been away. Gradually, it all started to make sense and you understood the need for a group such as the Avengers. Where there were superheroes, there were villains and apparently no shortage of them. 

  They told you about Hydra and S.H.I.E.L.D’s efforts to tackle their growing infestation that just never seemed to be cut close enough to the core. They told you about the first battle of New York that had given the group their opportunity to come together. They told you about the powered vigilante’s across the globe that they had to keep a close eye on incase they ever snapped or took things too far. They told you about Carol Danvers and her efforts to help those who weren’t her own people. The only parts they left out were how exactly either woman had gained and first used their own skills. They intended to, but your outing was cut short by the blaring alarms that sounded seemingly all around you. 

  You froze while Wanda and Natasha searched the perimeter in an instant upon recognising the nature of the alarm. “We need to go back inside, now,” Natasha said but you found yourself struggling to move as the alarms continued to blare. You couldn’t understand how the heroes were unaffected by the amplitude or vibrations that slammed against your skull. It was disorientating and caused a sudden panic to strike you. 

  Neither of them noticed because they were too set on identifying what had triggered the alarm, but the bear man noticed and watched you keenly. “Embrace it,” he told you as you were impaled by a pain you had only ever experienced twice before. 

  “No!” You protested as you toppled to your knees, clutching at your head in a futile attempt to push the pain out. It was too deeply embedded in you to be rid of. You couldn’t fight it either, not while you were entangled in fear. 

  “Hey, it’s just an alarm,” Natasha assured as she crouched by your side with concern written over her features. Your cries made her stomach drop. 

  “Nat,” Wanda said slowly as she stood, staring up at the sky. Natasha followed her gaze and cursed. Advancing towards the base were three choppers. They were sleek, jet black and in trained-to-perfection form that meant bad news. They didn’t deter their course once the obnoxious speakers echoed a warning to them. Instead, they slowed to a hover over the centre of the grounds. 

  “You think you can hold them off?” Natasha asked as you withered in pain. 

  “I’ll do my best,” Wanda nodded, feeling a dangerously protective rage come over her once she registered the FuturGenus logo along the side of the choppers. 

 “Y/n, I know there’s a lot going on, but we need to get you out of here. Can you stand for me?” You couldn’t understand what Natasha was telling you because there was an insistent ringing in your ears that only the bear man could pierce through. 

  “Protect yourself,” he demanded, plunging that dagger of fear deep enough to finally sever the remaining self control you possessed. 

  At the first sound of a crack, Natasha’s eyes widened. “I’m sorry,” you whimpered before the next bone threw itself out of its socket to make way for the muscle that expanded within you. It may have been slow to start with, but suddenly it was everywhere at once. 

  Your ribs snapped apart simultaneously as your stomach expanded along with your back. Your calves swelling along with your biceps as your heart pumped furiously to push more blood around the increasing surface area of your body that continued to grow as the colour changed. Along with your body reshaping every organ, muscle, bone and vein, your once thin and breakable skin hardened as scales formed. 

  If any onlooker hadn’t been so horrified by the unnatural scene unfolding before them, they might have admitted to there being a strange beauty about how the sun reflected off of the new scales that covered your body. They comprised of dozens of shades of blue that had no consistency or pattern to them, yet the sun caught the flecks of cyan, multitudes of navy and that which was darker equally before the slightly off streaks of white slates appeared on the most lethal new additions to your toughed anatomy. 

  Where the frightened features of your face had once been grew a set of viscous teeth and fangs that stopped where the lower part of the blade-like nose began, extending a few inches and then back over your deformed skull. It bore a sinister resemblance to the extra appendage that had grown from the back of your head and continued partially down your back until it moved freely from your body like a tail that was as thick as your evolved forearms and possessed another blade at the bottom. 

  Even when you had finally stopped growing it was impossible to make out exactly what you had become, especially as you stumbled and fought to navigate the creature you possessed. Your feet and hands, now maddened by the large claws that protrude from them, swatted at the air in a frenzy that made Natasha retreat as they sliced through nothing until eventually landing on the grass. As your body stretched and flexed to adjust, your claws extended while in the ground, therefore locking you in place.  

  During the hysterical process, your voice had transformed from cries of distress to something purely primal and anything but human. They weren’t exactly growls that escaped your enlarged vocal chords, but it was something prehistoric and a warning to the two women to keep their distance. 

  At your development, soldiers dropped from the choppers that you paid no mind to as you fought to free yourself. You were hardly defenceless though, because Wanda and Natasha stood firmly in front of you, back to back. As Wanda’s magic was fired at those that came charging towards them, Natasha kept her eyes trained on you and shifted them both anytime it looked as though one of your limbs was swinging too close to them. They didn’t exchange a word, too stunned or preoccupied to point out the obvious - this had not been what anyone had expected. 

  Wanda and Natasha weren’t left on their own for long, but Tony flew from the tower moments too late once a menacing machine gun was revealed in one of the choppers and fired down on you. Several rounds hit your thigh, drawing out a thunderous bellow from your lungs until you managed to free your claws and stumble to the side, still unable to control the additional mass you sustained. 

 Wanda dealt with the machine while Tony’s suit fired several warning shots at the choppers and stunned the men on the ground, leaving Natasha to be the only one to watch as you finally unravelled your body in its entirety. 

  You must have been almost ten feet when you, momentarily, stood to your full height. You were unable to keep your balance, especially with your thigh bloodied and torn, and landed back on your hands and feet that had been adapted to support such a position, just as the muscles in your legs had been. It was only once you did that you caught sight of the butcheress claws you had and it didn’t take much to presume the rest of you bore a similar image. 

  In your agony, you looked down at Natasha and was struck with the image of your dead girlfriend looking back at you. The redhead didn’t hold that same fear as she stared, transfixed, at your fire tinted eyes and pin-like pupil, but there was still a great suspension about how she could end up looking at you if you stuck around. 

  “Go,” the fur cloaked figure told you and for once, you didn’t need him to say it twice. You didn’t spare a glance back at the fight going on in the sky and on the ground past Natasha, or at the base where you had been so close to finding a lasting refuge. You had ruined any chance of that and your only option was the border of trees. You started towards them on all fours, ignoring the calling of your name that followed.

a/n: I know that reader's design at the end might be hard to envisage so I'll drop this photo to show the inspiration and vibes I was going for. this isn't exactly what she looks like though

[writer-freak]

Hiii! If you Don't do requests just ignore it but if you doo... So i have a good idea (i think its a good idea 💔) its with Frank Morrison. Its already in realm, reader is also a killer, known for their brutallity and aggresive behavior. One day Frank and reader gets into fight! A brutal one, with falling teeth wounds and things like that! It can be nsfw or sfw! (But pleasee if you could make him not call reader sweet things like baby, sweetheart, Princess, sweetie 😺) Thanks love 🫶

A/n: I tried my best with this I'm not really the best at writing fights so this is maybe a little messy sorry😔

It started with a disagreement. Something stupid. Something that should have been brushed off. But with two killers known for their aggression, and their reputation of leaving bodies mangled beyond recognition, it was only a matter of time before a real fight broke out.

And when it did, fuck, it was brutal.

Frank barely had time to register the way your fist connected with his jaw before he noticed the coppery taste of blood flood his mouth. His head snapped to the side, the impact making his vision blur for a split second. But that was all it took for him to grin, licking the blood off his lip.

“Oh, you wanna play that game?” His voice was rough, amusement obvious in his every word.

You didn’t answer. You didn’t need to. The way you lunged at him again said more than words ever could.

This time, he was ready. When you swung, he ducked, stepping in close to slam his shoulder into your chest, sending you stumbling back a few steps. He barely gave you a second to recover before throwing a punch, aiming for your ribs. You twisted just in time, his knuckles grazing your side instead of landing full force.

It didn’t matter. You retaliated instantly, driving your elbow into his sternum with enough force to make him curse under his breath. His foot slid back in the dirt, bracing himself, and the second you moved again, he grabbed you by the collar of your shirt and yanked you forward quickly turning you around.

The two of you crashed to the ground hard.

You landed first, back slamming against the dirt, the impact rattling through your bones. Frank wasted no time pinning you down, knee pressing into your side as he aimed another punch straight for your face.

You blocked, forearm slamming into his wrist before his knuckles could connect. Then you twisted sharply, using your momentum to throw him off you, rolling until you were the one on top.

Your fist struck his cheek with enough force to snap his head to the side. A second later, another punch landed, and this time, he felt something loosen in his mouth. A tooth.

Frank spat blood and the tooth onto the ground, laughing even as he brought his leg up, knee driving into your ribs hard enough to knock the air from your lungs. The moment your grip faltered, he shoved you off, rolling onto his feet in one fluid motion.

You coughed, clutching your side for half a second before forcing yourself to your feet. He could see it in your eyes, you weren’t done. Not even close.

Neither was he.

You rushed at him again. Frank caught your arm mid-swing, twisting it behind your back, but before he could get a solid grip, you slammed your head backward, cracking your skull against his nose.

Stars exploded behind his eyes. His grip loosened. You used that split second to throw him over your shoulder, sending him crashing onto his back with a grunt.

Pain shot through his spine, but it only made him grin through the blood trickling from his nose.

“Fuck,” he wheezed, wiping at his chin with the back of his hand. “That’s gonna take a while to fix.”

You didn’t care. You moved in again, and this time, Frank was just a little faster.

His boot caught your ankle, sweeping your leg out from under you. He tackled you back down before you could fully regain balance, fists pressing into the dirt on either side of your head. You weren’t the type to stay down, though, not without a fight.

With a sharp buck of your hips, you reversed it, straddling him, hands fisting in his hoodie. For a moment, both of you were breathing hard, faces inches apart, chests heaving with exertion.

His fingers flexed against your thighs. A knowing smirk tugged at his lips despite the blood smeared across them.

“You always this rough, or am I just special?”

You answered by shoving him back down, palm pressing against his throat just enough to keep him there.

Frank’s grin widened. His breath came faster.

"You're fucking insane," he muttered, voice strained but undeniably entertained.

You leaned in, your own smirk mirroring his, your grip tightening slightly before you finally let go.

"Look who's talking."

Then, just like that, you were off him, standing like nothing had happened. Frank stayed on the ground for a second, staring up at the sky, chest still rising and falling heavily.

Then he let out a low, breathy chuckle.

"Next time," he said, wiping the blood from his nose, "I'm putting your ass in the dirt first."

You only shrugged. "Sure. Keep telling yourself that."

And fuck, if that didn’t make him want to start round two immediately.

[ranticore]

Hii 🥰 I love your art so so very much and it's inspired me to start drawing again after about a year and a half of nothing. I was wondering if you could do a quick explanation of how you draw creature heads? Even with skull references and stuff I'm having troubles particularly with the eyes / eye placement and cheek areas

hi thank you, i'm happy you've gotten drawing again. i try not to make fully drawn 'here's how i do x' tutorials anymore since realising that i would just be training people to replicate my mistakes and photos really are the best reference

however not many people know HOW to use photorefs so i will show you this thing i made for someone else who asked a similar question in my dms once. step 1 is to discard any hangups you might have about tracing. professionals trace. it's fine.

for an example of what i mean when i say drawn tutorials just teach you how to replicate mistakes: i got the knee visibly wrong in my drawing here lol. but for a guide you get the idea. you basically want to put on x-ray goggles when you're looking at photos. you want to be able to see through the animal and understand 1. the axial skeleton [skull, ribs, spine] first and 2. the appendicular skeleton [pelvis, limbs] secondarily. you want to understand it in a 3D space - see how in my traced sketch, I have blocked out the ribcage as a solid form using contour lines which describe a curve. i didn't draw every individual rib, there's no need. don't get bogged down in the weeds, this drawing should take like 5 minutes max

the reason we are tracing and not just closely referencing is because this saves us from also having to worry about getting angles & proportions right. we will worry about those later. for now we are gaining understanding of how a body is formed without the pressure of having to get it 'right'.

okay so you asked about heads in particular so we'll look at heads. in the thingy above you can see that i traced a kite shape onto the front of the cranium before filling in the snout.

it's a canine and not super interesting but i think they show really well what goes on with the frontal bones. the cheek bones form the two lateral points of a kite shape.

if you start your sketch at the kite shape you can turn it in space

what you are looking for is the kite. the kite is not flat. the kite is the front of the cranium minus the nose/snout etc, it is laid out over a curved surface. you will find the eyes along the horizontal line and the cheekbones tucked under the bottom faces of the kite. the snout/nose/etc emerges from the crosshairs in the middle and the cheekbones follow the outer edge of the kite, but not the jaw. this is how i construct all my faces, human or animal doesn't matter it's all this underneath. using it i can visualise the hidden parts of the face such as the obscured cheekbone

try to find as many different types of animal or human heads as possible and trace the kite onto them. then you will see

[n30ncr1ptid]

Ghost x transwoman user

First date meeting after chatting through a dating app scenario

Word count: 1131

Pure fluff with some (very mild) spice at the end

User's chosen name is Ruby but mostly reffered as "you"

Cw: mentions of: knives, animal bones, dick pics. Slight flirting at the end. User's genitals reffered to as dick.

It all started in a sleepover with your friends, you had decided to install a dating app and have some fun looking at dudes, to be fair you might have already had a drink or two but that just added to the fun you and the gals were having. You had spent the whole evening laughing, watching musicals, eating, chaitting , having fun, you even had taught your friends to dance to barbie's queen of the wave!

And so you had all started swiping showing profiles to each other and joking around like you best did

"this one looks like he'd be in a k-drama"

"why are half of them posing with a damm fish?"

"look at the pecs on this one"

"damm~, what size bra does he wear?"

"pfff hahaha!"

You had had a great time with your gals and , for some reason, didn't immediately decide to delete the app, you weren't using it and it didn't really matter if it was there anyways.

Then one day out of boredom you had decided to try and find someone to chat with, you opened the app and after clearing your inbox of the swarm of dick picks (you shook your head, so many years of evolution and this was their idea of romance? it was so ridiculous it almost made you laugh). You scrolled for a while, you were getting tired of seeing men showing you the result of their latest fishing trip.

Then your eyes caught on a simple profile, a tall man, muscular build, long eyelashes, blonde hair, wearing a facemask with a skull design. He looked like some type of goth, not that you minded, you didn't dislike alternative styles. You read his profile, military, british, from manchester, he liked paintball, dad jokes, airsoft, knifes... he seemed slightly intimidating but more interesting than any other dude you had seen on the app before, and his profile clearly wasn't a bot..

So you decided to send him a message asking if he wanted to chat and go from there, you were a bit nervous but it there wasn't any way he was able to tell from the pictures in your profile so you tried to keep the worry to a minimum . And you were pleasantly surprised, he wasn't a bad dude, maybe a bit intimidating but apart from that he was a solid guy.

His humor was refreshing, for once you weren't getting complains about being "too sarcastic" or "too dark", in fact you found yourself enjoying this little competition of who could pull the darkest jokes or the corniest lines.

After some time you decided to set up a date, he was stationed near you for some time, finally having some time off from his missions. And so you decided to meet at your favorite cafe cause at least if thing went south you knew the owner and she wouldn't hesitate to throw Simon out no matter how big he was.

And by god did you look pretty, your hair decorated with beautiful curls and a deep raspberry colored lipstick that gave you so much euphoria, you had decided to try and wear out a dark purple dress you had been itching to wear out but hadn't in fear of being "overdressed". You took one more look at yourself in the mirror before heading out, you looked so pretty! you looked like a very beautiful woman and that made you forget your doubts even if for just a short while.

So here you were, waiting, a cold drink in your hand as you looked through your phone, your nerves had unfortunately come back since you had arrive early giving your mind enough time to go over all the ways this could go south. You hadn't told him yet.. you still weren't confident enough to say it so soon, but why should you have to? it's not like you were forcing him to sleep with a "man", scratch that, you weren't a man, it was easy to belive in this dress.

Suddenly you got snapped out of your thoughts by a deep voice with a manchester accent.

"Sorry? I'm looking for someone.. are you Ruby?"

You nodded and placed your phone on the table looking up, he was handsome, but not to an extent that seemed artificial, if all he looked just slightly awkward , probably out of his element.

"Yeah, it's me, you're Simon, right?" He nodded sitting down opposite you, you could see some tension in his frame.

"Not used to going on dates?" You asked, he responded fairly quickly

"Not when 'm riskin' my life every bloody week, missions don't leave much time for romancing with chicks. I'm also not the type, prefer ta be alone to be honest"

"Yeah, i get that, going out can be really stressful"

You found yourself oddly comfortable as you chatted with simon, he showed you photos of part of his knife collection, you in turn showed him some of the animal bones you had collected, it was nice to chat about your interests without feeling like you were being judged for being gross.

After what must have been an hour but felt like a few minutes of chatting you found yourself laughing at his jokes, his deep voice was quite attractive. Then he crossed his arms over his chest as he laughed, and by god was the sight hot, especially since it accentuated his large pecs (no wonder why you were into guys with bigger tits than you).

You couldn't help but get a bit red at the sight trying to play it cool, but it was very apparent by the bulge in your dress that your dick didn't get the memo, you were thankful for your bag covering your lap but your expression must have changed enough for simon to notice

"all good luv? Ya look pretty bloody tense"

"wha-yeah yeah - you responded quickly, maybe a bit too quickly - i'm just fine"

"you sure 'bout that?"

You suddenly felt as his leg brushed against the tent in your dress, he was clearly just adjusting his leg, it was a purely innocent movement. Now you wanted the earth to swallow you, you were definitely red now, you were speechless, not knowing what to say or how he would react, still you tried to find in your brain something to say.

"i- sorry i didn't tell you- i should have warned you i-"

And then you were cut off by simon letting out a soft scoff.

"sorry? 'bout what? you ain't done nothin' wrong sweet'art. You're a woman, full stop, it doesn't matta' what's under your dress, besides it's not like i mind what a pretty lass like you's got, 'm not picky"

Maybe things weren't as bad as you had thought.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

That's all for now, might do a part two if this is well recived enough

[dragonnarrative-writes]

Part 7 - Date Activities

Slasher Handler Masterlist

NSFW under the cut.

CW: Non-descriptive mentions of torture, numbers and math, brief nudity, allusions to cannon-typical violence (Ghost's backstory), red herrings, bones

“Where ‘m I?” You slur around a dry tongue. Struggling to balance your weight on your hips, try to wrap your arms around yourself. Too late, you realize that there’s not enough slack on the chain to complete the motion. “Where‘re we?”

You want to scream. You want to cry and hide your face. You’re horrified to realize that you want Simon, your version of Simon, to materialize on the edge of the bed and comfort you. Unfortunately, all you can do is blink and sway.

“If you’re dizzy, you should lay back down.” Simon’s voice from that jaw-less skull is so disconcerting. In your nightmares, the skull mask sounds inhuman. Distorted, echoing. The burning bush overlap of every person who’s ever made you unsafe. Now, it’s just Simon’s measured speech.

But the rest of him is just as big and dangerous as you remember. He’s dressed like he expects to have to fight someone. His black jacket is covered by some kind of utility vest with a bunch of pockets. A handgun sits in a thigh holster, and on his other hip is the Big Knife. He’s not wearing his usual boots, these are heavier looking. If you weren’t so overwhelmed, you’d be terrified.

The masked killer on the other side of the room tilts his head and regards you for a long moment. The weird silence is such a Simon thing to do that you let yourself take your eyes off of him enough to take a quick look around the room. His chair is by the only door, a solid looking wood. To the left side of the room, there’s a bare folding table. On it, from what you can see, sit bottles of water, a bag of grapes, and some brown packaging. There’s another folding chair. At the foot of the mattress, there’s a huge, black hard case. The kind you’ve seen in action movies.

“Right now,” Simon finally answers. “You’re in the safe zone."

You blame the drugs in your system. It’s the only reason you can think of to look him in his eyes and blurt, “That’s not a fuckin’ answer, you cryptic asshole.”

You’re glad you’ve learned to read his eyes, because they’re amused when he stands. Even across the room, he towers over you. You clutch at the blanket to, what? Protect yourself? But Simon just crosses to the table and picks up a bottle of water and a sleeve of saltine crackers. He chucks both of them at your legs before returning to his seat.

“Sip the water, eat slowly,” he instructs. “And I’ll tell you the rules of the game.”

You can’t think of a reason not to, so you struggle for a moment with the bottle cap before bringing the bottle to your lips. Your mouth feels gross and fuzzy, but the water is cool. The crackers, when you finally tear the packaging, are exactly what you needed. You wish you had some ginger ale.

“You told Kyle that I’d taken you hunting,” Simon starts. “But I hadn’t really. First time was a happy coincidence. Second time, you planned the date activity and I kind of hijacked it, yeah?”

If your neck wasn’t so thick, I’d strangle you, you think. You take another sip of water.

“So I thought to myself, what parts of hunting might my sweet, clever girl be interested in? How can I make sure she’s having just as much fun as me? And I remembered your little cubes.”

You narrow your eyes at that. The Rubik’s cubes were one of the first signs that he’d been breaking into your apartment. By now, he knows that you know how to solve them. Two weeks after he’d moved in next door, though, he hadn’t figured that out. It had made your skin crawl to come home from work and see the colors in the wrong places. Now, sometimes, he’ll present the cubes for you to solve while you talk. When you hand him the completed puzzle, he scrambles it up and hands it back.

“You didn’t kidnap me to make me solve a giant Rubik’s cube,” you say.

“No,” he answers. If you could see his face, you think he’d be smirking. “But the first part of the game is a puzzle. You have to get out of the room.”

When he doesn’t say anything else, you want to scream. Instead, you slowly eat your way through the crackers and sip your water and think. The metal cuffs on your wrists are far enough apart that you can easily reach the locking mechanisms. They’re just tight enough that you can’t wiggle out, but they’re not uncomfortable. You can’t see where the chain to the ground is latched, so if there’s a clasp on that end, maybe this will be more simple than you think. You doubt it.

Daylight is streaming in through the window behind you. The shadows of the bars are very obvious, so the only way out of the room is going to be through the door. Simon’s sitting on the hinge side, but the only way you’ll get out before he blocks the way is probably if he’s on this side of the room. Facing the table, maybe. Preferably not standing.

Maybe you can strangle him with the chain.

You freeze as soon as the thought enters your mind, cracker halfway to your mouth. Wrapping the chain around the neck of that death mask only makes sense. But the idea of killing Simon makes you feel like vomiting.

When you look back at him, his eyes are as heated as they ever get. “Don’t worry, precious. I made you a promise last night. No killing, no wounds. No “Saw” puzzles. Just a little escape room. Told me you like those.”

Had you? That sounds like something you would have said, back in the beginning, to see what he would do. You take another sip to clear your mouth and settle your stomach. You’re already feeling better. “What are the rules?”

“You’ve got ninety minutes to get out of the cuffs and get into the chest. Once you’ve done both, the timer stops, and I explain the next part of the game.”

“Can I ask you questions once I get started?”

“Of course,” Simon says, leaning back and crossing his arms over his chest.

You bite your lip. “When does the timer start?”

“You tell me when you start,” he says. “We’re not in any rush.”

“What’s in the chest?”

“That,” he answers, eyes crinkling with an obvious grin this time, “you’ll have to find out for yourself.”

That is not an answer you want to hear, but there’s nothing to be done about it. You rack your brain for any more questions. There are, of course, about a million. But the one that sticks out is, “Why were you so nice to me, last night? You could have just drugged me. You did, anyway.”

Simon doesn’t say anything for a long time, just looks at you. He holds eye contact, so you don’t look away. After a full thirty seconds, he hums. “You said you missed me. That you wanted to be with me. You asked me to stay. I liked it.”

The way he says it, warm voiced and slow and soft, makes the hair on the back of your neck stand up. There’s a spark of something in his eyes that you don’t want to examine. You’re too afraid to look away. But then he blinks and lets his eyes drift up and away from you. The breath you didn’t know you were holding whooshes out of you.

“Guess I’d better get started,” you say.

When you stand to the side of the bed, you find that you’re wearing one of his shirts, a pair of underwear, and a pair of socks. The room isn’t unbearably cold, but it’s not comfortable. The chain to your cuffs is much longer than you expected. You think it’s long enough for you to walk all the way around the room, unimpeded. If so, it’s long enough to get out the door, with a little extra slack. It’s locked to a loop bolted into the floor with a key lock.

You walk around to the table to get a good look at everything. There’s the water. The brown packages are four MREs, which you recognize from camping trips back when you were a teenager. There’s actually a few different fruits - grapes, apples, bananas, a bowl of chopped watermelon of all things. All of that is gathered on one side of the table. The side close to the empty chair has a manila folder. A glance inside shows printouts, three pages of text and forms, with some of the information redacted.

You let the folder fall closed and walk over to the chest. There’s two combination locks, each with four dials, one with numbers and the other with letters.

That’s two wrist cuffs, the lock for the chain, and two locks on the chest. If the cuffs share a key, this might be doable. If not… “Two or three keys, and two combinations?” you ask.

“Two keys, two combinations,” Simon confirms.

You do a quick calculation in your head. “A little more than 20 minutes per puzzle. That’s pretty tight, but doable. What happens if I don’t get it done in time?”

You turn to look at Simon and catch him looking at your legs. When he meets your eyes, his are smirking again. “You lose time in the second part of the game. And you’re going to want that time.”

With a sigh and a shake of your head, you walk to the wall across from the table. There are some cracks in the paint, a couple of scattered, discolored spots. But it doesn’t seem deliberate. So you leave it and head back to the table. The folder is tempting, but obvious, so you start with the fruit.

Bag of grapes, three apples, five bananas. You open the package of watermelon and poke around in it. No keys. Not in the bag of grapes, either. The apples and bananas are whole. But one of the bananas has a series of numbers followed by Xs written on it in black ink. 11 21 32 XX. You pry it from the others, carefully, and take it over to the folder.

The metal chair is cold when you use your hand to pull it out. You turn back to the bed and grab the thin blanket to cover it, then have an idea. You shake the pillow from the pillowcase and strip the sheets from the bed. No key, but the pillow has another set of digits and Xs written on it. 7 13 26 XX. You lift the mattress to look under it, but there’s nothing else, so you let it fall.

“Can I have a pen?” you ask, absently. You’re surprised when Simon plucks one from his vest and holds it out for you. You snort as you walk over to take it. “Can I have the key to the cuffs, while you’re at it?”

Simon’s eyes do something complicated as you take the pen. Then he tilts his head, reaches up, and pulls a thin chain from under his shirt. On it dangle two keys, one a tiny cylinder of a thing, the other a proper key. He lets them both drop against his collarbones.

You dart your eyes between the keys and his eyes. “Are you serious?”

“’D prefer if you opened the folder,” he says with a shrug. “But I do have the keys. Cost you… 15 minutes for one.”

“Did you just make that number up?” You laugh. Then it hits you and you glare. “You’re distracting me and stalling.”

“You asked,” he points out, chuckling as you whirl on your heel to go back to the folder.

That is neither disputable or worth responding to, so you don’t. You drop into your seat and open the folder. The first thing you do is jot down the numbers and where you found them on the inside. None of the numbers are repeated, so you leave them for now. Then you pick up the first sheet of paper.

It’s the service record for one Simon J. Riley.

A lot of the information is redacted. Most of the page is blacked out lines. But you see that he enlisted in 2001, had some kind of redacted gap from 2003 to 2004, then resumed his service. Then it jumps out at you. 2007, KIA. You can’t help but look up at him, and find him watching you already. You scour the page for any other information, but there’s nothing. So you flip the page.

This one is some kind of tactical… memorandum? Too much is redacted for you to be able to get much information about who the report is for, so you just start reading.

Mission to Mexico. Drug cartel, name redacted. Compromised leadership. Someone got double crossed. You start feeling sick at the description of torture, but most of the details are obscured, so you push through. Then a line makes you pause, and you have to re-read it. You flip back and forth between Simon’s service record and the report.

“Simon,” you say slowly. Your stomach is really twisted in knots, now. You’re afraid to look at him, but you make yourself meet his eyes. “Were you buried alive?”

He says, “Yes.” Your heart breaks.

The next few lines are blacked out. You really don’t want to ask, but, “How did you get out?”

“Blood, sweat, and tears,” he says, vaguely. “Probably not something you want to think about, sweet thing. Don’t want to waste time.”

“I need to pause the game,” you tell him. “because I just read that you were buried alive.”

“An explanation will cost you an hour,” Simon offers. His eyes are crinkled like he’s smiling.

“Simon.” Your voice is sharp to your own ears. “What the fuck?”

“Tick tock.”

You know from past experience that getting any more information from him will be like getting blood from a stone. So you make yourself read on. There’s a confusing bit about… brainwashing? Without the full context the report is a mess. Multiple civilian casualties, then… mission objective complete? Lots of blocked out text, surrounding a single word. ROBA.

You jot that on the lower half of the folder, then skim through the documents again for any numbers. Besides the years in the service record, there’s nothing that jumps out. So you jot down 2001, 2003, 2004, and 2007.

You decide this is a good enough place to start with the puzzles. The numbers on the pillow seem simple enough. You’re not good at math, but you’re good at patterns. You eliminate a few possible addition patterns, recognize it probably isn’t pure multiplication. Considering who Simon is, you gamble that there’s probably no fractions or decimals involved, so it’s probably going to be some combination of multiplication and subtraction. And as soon as you think of that, you see it. Times two, minus one. So the last number is 49.

The the second puzzle, from the banana, tickles your brain because you know you’ve seen it before. The numbers aren’t doubling. And it’s not simple addition. Adding in sequence seems to work. Adding 10 to 11 makes 21, then adding 11 works to get to 32. Plus 12 would make the next digits 44. That seems almost too easy, but these kinds of puzzles usually are. And it is a possible answer, so you write it down.

The only other potential numbers are the dates. If you pick the last four digits, that’s 1347. Another code. Unless it’s 2222. Or 0000. Or 2020...

Now you have a few potential 4 digit codes, and a possible 4 letter code.

“Time check?”

Simon looks at his watch. “Sixty-two minutes left.”

You hum an acknowledgment, and flip the pages in the folder, and the folder itself. There’s nothing else, so you leave the papers on the table and take your notes over to the crate.

Simon makes an interested noise through his nose. “That was fast.”

“Haven’t found the keys, yet,” you answer, “Gotta get a move on.”

You start with the letters, because it seems straightforward. And then you’re a bit stumped, because the lock doesn’t have a B available in the third slot. Or an A in the first. So you’ll have to find a cypher or something before you can tackle this one. Disappointing, but you still have time. You move over to the other lock and hope you have what you need. 4944 doesn’t work. Neither does 4449, 9444, or 4494. 2222, 0000, and 1347 are all a bust. You make your way through 1374, 1437, 1473, 1734, and 1743 before you give up.

“Fuck,” you grumble.

Crouched as you are, you have a new vantage point to consider. You scuttle your way under the table without putting your knees on the ground, and look at the underside. Sure enough, there’s a doodle of two bananas with a pillow in between. The dates were most likely a red herring. Or they’re the cypher to the letters.

“I got the numbers wrong,” you grumble.

“You’re a smart girl,” Simon says. “You can figure it out. Fifty-seven minutes.”

You scoot from under the table and make to stand up, but something on your leg catches your eye. Dropping onto the now bare mattress, you lift the edge of your shirt, Simon’s shirt, and see writing on your inner thigh, upside down so you can see it easily. Four digits, 01 10, and another fucking banana.

“You’ve got to be kidding me,” you groan.

Simon snickers from his chair.

You grab your folder and pen and jot the new string of numbers down. 01 10 11 21 32 XX. Obviously, adding in sequence no longer works. It’s gotta have something to do with the number of 1s in the sequence, so you try to let go of math related assumptions. The first two numbers swap their digits. Then two ones. Then a two and a one. Then a three and a two. Zero plus one is one. One plus zero is one. One plus one is two. Two plus one is three. Three plus two is… five as the first digit? Sliding the tens to the ones place is one, zero, one, two… three. 53.

Banana pillow banana, then, is 5493.

Before you go to check, you stand up to lift your shirt up to look at your belly, then higher to look at the skin of your breasts. You ignore the low wolf-whistle Simon makes to do a quick inspection. Nothing jumps out, so you let the shirt drop a bit and pull your underwear away from your hips. You feel a bit silly staring at your own crotch, but it’s Simon so you figure nothing’s really off limits. And you’re rewarded with the discovery of a piece of tape with a doodle of a heart on it. The tape is garment quality, which explains why you didn’t feel it.

The heart doesn’t really give you much, but you pull it out and slap it on the folder anyways.

“Forty-nine minutes,” Simon says when you look up at him.

Back at the chest, you click the dials to the number sequence you identified and grin to yourself when the lock gives an easy snick as it opens. The other lock is still a mystery, but you’ve got one down, and still plenty of time to request the cuff key if needed.

You turn to look up at Simon from where you’re crouched. “How much does a hint cost?”

He pretends to think for a moment. “For that lock? Flash me your tits again.”

“Nasty,” you roll your eyes as you stand up. You lift the shirt up to your neck and are startled when he sits forward to rest his hands on your hips. The skull mask gets even closer, and then he’s kissing over your heart, eyes locked on yours. He leaves his lips against you through his balaclava, thumbs rubbing over the place where your hips meet your belly.

You stare down at that bone face from less than two inches away. You used to hope it was plastic. Now you know for a fact that it is not.

And then he lets you go and sits back, crossing his arms over his large chest. He looks at his watch.

“Forty-six minutes.”

You gape at him. “Where’s my clue?”

“That was your clue.”

“That’s the least helpful clue ever,” you complain.

“You found all the other ones,” Simon points out. “But I’ll tell you the solution if you let me fuck you.”

You scoff. “I don’t need you to tell me. I can figure it out.”

“I know,” Simon’s grin is easier to make out this close. “My clever girl.”

You grumble, but you can’t help but grin as you try to think of what the four letter sequence could be. On a whim, you try TITS. The letters are present, but that’s apparently not the combo. Heart has too many letters, but maybe has something to do with feelings. The lock doesn’t have the right letters for LOVE, forward or backward. Same with HATE. You try SRSK for Simon Riley the Serial Killer, but that’s not it. You’re on a date, so you try combining his initials with yours where it fits, but that’s not it either. In a fit of pique, you try TITS again.

Then you take a deep breath and think about Simon and you. Your relationship. DATE, KILL, and CARE are a bust. AMOR, EROS, HOLD, BOND. None of them work.

You’re getting antsy because you still need at least the key for your handcuffs and you're running out of time, but you make yourself take a deep, slow breath. SLOW and DEEP don’t work. And then you pause and look up at Simon’s face. At the skull.

BONE.

Nope. But it was worth a shot.

But thinking about skulls and bones makes you think of skeletons. Dead bodies. Cemeteries. Simon’s service record, breaking your heart.

BURY.

The lock clicks open.

You’re giddy as you swing the lid of the chest open. And, almost immediately, you scramble backwards, shoulders colliding painfully with Simon’s knees. Without thinking, you clamber up until you’re perched in his lap, staring in horror at the human skull grinning up at you from atop black cloth.

A piece of tape is on the right temple. In Simon’s scrawl, it simply says BRANDON.

[mercysought]

"You are note a fool." // for Orla

disco elysium / letters // accepting // @extravagantrook

a spiritual sequel to this :’)

Everyone had told them that the fade and dreaming would be simple, just as easy as closing one’s eyes and floating. At best, a world where the warmth of the sun never grew cold, at worse a place that made your insides burn.

Orla had assumed that she would be able to know - to understand - that she would be in it.

To be able to have a realisation that the space that the body now occupied was made out of the same thing as the waking world. Because this was a world that she had not belonged in. Intrinsically, Orla had believed (erroneously) that they would know it just as easily as breathing.

She had not dreamed or had nightmares, proper ones, since her younger years and her memory was a fickle mistress all the same. It held and withheld without reason or explanation and Orla had not deemed it worth to ask further. To peel the layers left only blood behind, after all. This was not closing one’s eyes, no floating. No burning.

There had only been four words: ‘Your work is done.’

The clicking of mechanical switches. The turning of the lights, the buzzing of magic and the smell of ozone. The fall. The deep, inky darkness. The murmuring of the crowd as they settle upon seats. The ruffling of heavy fabric curtains. Then—

ACT III Scene 1.

The lights in the sky are like smeared lines of paint in a dark, vanished black background. Bright, shiny and yet incapable of holding her attention; not when the warm figure with sown edges in lines of painted tears and hand sown lines look to her.

   [ORLA]    I’m not like you. I can’t make sense of half this shit and I’m terrified of the other half. Solas is right - about this at least. I’m just a blind piece in a game I don’t fucking get, a fool or worse. I’m a good enough obstacle, but what the fuck do I do when I know when it’s just a matter of time before he betrays me?

The snort that the other has at her question makes her eyes attempt to find theirs. Their face is blurred in shades of red and purple, sown at odd angels like a picture that attempts to refine itself. A grin upright twisting into a frown with each breath taken. Two naked figures without a face, hanging towards a dark abyss of dragged lights.

   [ASHA]    You’re not a fool.

A warm hand atop hers. A lyrium brand that hums in resonance and soothes itself under cheap linen that covers only part of her body. Shoulder against shoulder. A soft hum as they continue talking and Orla tries her best to believe their words. To truly believe their words. One expert to another.

   [ASHA]    You’ll figure it out. We’ll figure it out.

ACT I Scene 1.

The smell of old oil paint and varnish is intense. The wall is solid and flat behind the gloved hands. She is hiding. Hidden, that she knows. There are distant voices but all that is heard in the rattling in her skull is hear erratic heartbeat. The attempt at keeping her breathing smooth.

She knows she should be moving. Out of this hiding spot. A dark shadow against bright red walls, just on the edge of an impossibly brightly lit room. Three long shadows grow as the voices increase, but not her understanding. Gloved hands press harder against the wall.

A familiar perfume and the sound of a scraper. The burning smell of the start of a fire.

ACT II Scene 1.

Three children. Not older than twelve. Someone talks to Orla, but she can only see the eyes of those children looking back to her, terrified.

   [THE MASTER]    Dispose of them.

It scratches in the back of her mind, the chain pulled and pushed.

   [THE MAGEKILLER]    No.

The chains are pulled tighter. Hot as iron until her eyes burn. The lyrium on her neck, back and stomach pierce through muscle and bone. Skewering her, twisting muscle, cracking teeth in a closed jaw. This is a familiar pain, but in her lungs there is something that implodes, the ribs that rip both inwards and outwards. A blood vessel in her head that makes the struggling breath louder than the scratching, comfortable voice. It continues until she is done with the last ropes and the bodies are sinking into the darkness.

The sound of the horse. The dashing through the rain. The weight of her body against mud. The blood is heavy on her cloak as she travels and she is taken. The blood is heavier when she enters a dim house.

The sound of the horse. The dashing through the rain. The weight of her body against mud. Voices asking her questions. The heaviest when she climbs over corpses to the large oak doors. There is a sick pleasure that sings in her body when the blood feels the lightest: when she picks up the cane from the floor and the pool of blood. When she is called an animal. When the begging starts.

ACT I Scene 2. Scene 1.

The smell of oil is heavy and the gallery is as silent as a grave in the late hour. These walls were familiar. The frames and their detail familiar too though just in passing.

Red walls press against the back of her hand. The shadows are a deep, almost black tone of brown and they spread across the floor like an oil painting that had been attempted to be varnished before it had been fully dry. The taller figure points to the back. The other two shadows follow the direction - away from where she hid, into a wall with more and more paintings. Weapons in hands.

A hand extended, cigarette between fingers, a thin envelope with matches inside and a scraper.

   [DAMIANO]    THEY ARE IN THERE—

The match is lit, racked against the thin strip. Breathing accelerates. She knows what it is behind the walls that the shadows point towards. It is the reason why they had both agreed to meet in this particular gallery, time and time and time again. The shadows grow darker, breathing accelerating but body remaining still. There is a pulsing within her body that roars against the arresting of muscles, the fear that locks jaw and eyes alike on the shadows forms. That keeps her hidden.

There is silence coming from behind the walls. You need to do something, the twisted expression in a frozen body begs. But the mouth does not move. Not a single muscle does and the shadows grow only darker.

ACT I Scene 3. Scene 1.

Minrathous is a large city and Orla knows only part of it. This part is one that she knows better than most, perhaps. The many stairs up to the gallery. The address of the Magister that owns it, the face and hands of the magekiller that they own. The distance that they had stood when they first met overlooking paintings of angels that look down upon them both dressed in the black robes that souls such as them are provided: leather, utilitarian, easy to wipe blood from.

She would know his voice anywhere. In the small apartment, hole in the wall, space that she had come to call home in Minrathous. Against the bright red walls. In the hand that aided her smuggle people in and out of this building outside of the city - away for anyone that might look for them. He had called her crazy and she had called him crazy in return, but it still had been both of their hands that had unlatched the mechanisms that unlocked the holes in the walls that allowed people to come in and out.

Waiting for a signal.

But he stands before the painting of judging angels, with the same distance that she would usually stand. Two guards side by side. Both hands behind his back.

   [DAMIANO, a man with slicked back black hair, mustache. Wears expensive leather armour with a side cape of a rich purple with golden embroidery. Thin face with an easy charming smile. Warm brown, sharp eyes]    They are in there.

   [MAGISTER BATARIS’ SLAVE HUNTER 1]    What should we do with them?

Another match. Another raking through the scraper. The smell of burning.

   [DAMIANO]    Take them back. Or kill them,

There is a flickering of match being racked against a scraper. The pull of a cigarette. The scent of tobacco filling the space where the sickening and heavy scent of varnish was before.

   [DAMIANO]    It’s all the same to me.

This had been his idea. He had had to convince her.

There is no light but the dimmed enchantments that were left to showcase the paintings. That and the bright torches that the two guards carried that made their shadows so long. Orla barely has a shadow. A shadow besides what she feels like she is herself in that moment. So close against those same red walls that she might become a smudge of that same shade. Body frozen in the moment as she hears the steps drag across the floor, over creaking wood boards towards those same switches. Her body cold. Beyond her there is a child that looks at her from the frame of the painting - rosy cheeks, dark eyes, perfectly combed hair. Rich bright blue cloak over a white blouse.

A half parted book, a single hand that is lit by the brighter lights that pour from the figures. Pointing to them. She smiles - either in mocking Orla or in spurring her. It does neither. In the wild horse of a heart in her chest that screamed and lips that remained still. In her body that burnt but in hands that remained cold. The growing panic. The thought of what would happen to her when she was caught.

When word made its way back to her own master. ‘Do something’ is a voice that is barely heard as her body seeps into the shadows once more, from the path she took to sneak in - the same locks she had known.

Out once more into the city and the night that she barely knew in a city that felt all the stranger and mean now.

ACT II Scene 2. Scene 1.

Three children. Two with the face of the master, the third with the mousy brown hair. The eldest, no older than twelve stands in the front in defiance, the youngest is barely a smudge in the back, its elven form wrapped by its mother’s hands who whispered softly. The eyes of the older woman as it whispered soothing nothings to the child pull all colours from the space; all light atop her face, expression bleached of all but a silent anger and a plea.

An older woman’s whose face she cannot really see through the muddled vision talks to her. Begs her. Orla counts. Makes a list. And balances. There is a scratching and a burning and while her left hand fans the flames the right one attempts desperately to put it out.

   [MAGISTER BATARIS]    Dispose of them.

There is a turning of the stomach at the bodiless voice. At the strength of the command. Of the weight of a hanging hand and the flinch that takes over a body. The assassin’s head tilts to the side, left gloved hand pressing against the budding headache and the stomach that threatens to unravel.

The sniffling. The crying. She could hear it as well as see their shadows even as the eyes closed. The defiance on the face of the child closest to her. The desperation on the voice of the woman closest to her. Let them go. Turn around and lose track of them.

   [THE MAGEKILLER]    No.

Eyes remain closed and the breathing of the woman closest to her itches. Her eyes barely open when Orla is turning towards the small, worn down smudge of brown.

   [MAGISTER BATARIS]    No? I see how it is. I’ve been too lenient with you, of late. Maybe you forgot what happens when you push outside of the gifts I already give you. The kindness I have shown for your faltering and failures? We all know what comfort does to dogs,

Steps stop, even as muscle pulls and peels from salt burnt wooden floors. The white flecks on the floor as bright as the terror in the eyes of the woman that had held the youngest child.

   [MAGISTER BATARIS]    It makes them lazy.

The screech that is pulled as an engine is forced from one state to the next; it rears its ugly head and it pulls at her mind. Teeth sink into her own flesh until it is painted copper all the way down to her stomach. Until the sloshing she hears is not from her own body but from the sinking rope and stone and the soft shimmering of strands down into the salty depths. The curtains are pulled again but it is the wind that rips through, the salt on her tongue as the last shadow sinks into the darkness.

The leather gloves are peeled from her shaking hands, thrown in the pockets of the heavy suit. The lightest of meals she had eaten but a few hours ago follows suit with the bodies. The blood swallowed mixed with bile, catching dark strands of hair as she leans over the pier. With the strings loosened the flooding of awareness pushes through the body.

A guttural noise kept at bay with teeth that clamped shut. What now, magekiller? What now, perrepatae? Both naked hands pressing agains the bloody dark shirt. The heavy cloak and the rain above. The horse behind her neighs. And she pulls herself up from the slippery stones, cleaning her mouth with the back of her hand, flickering the sick to the floor.

The ride is misery. There unpaved roads turn into muddy traps to the horse but she rides the animal hard until landing on the beautiful stones in front of the Magister’s large doors.

The inside is dimly lit but for the shades that haunt the place just as she did. Dragging blood, mud - the assassin is not a shadow but instead the very physical aspect of one’s worse impulses. Someone tries to stop her from moving up the circular grand stairs.

They call her name and another larger figure approaches. Blocking her path. This shadow of a person stands before two bright smudges and she feels her hands shake. What now?

   [ELVEN SLAVE 2]    Is there a problem?

The shade of an animal. The rain pours down outside and it weights still down her cloak. When her eyes lift to look at the smudges in front of her, blocking her path, she doesn’t see anything other than the fluttering of hair, sinking into the depths. That bright white of scelera looking back at her in defiance, another in terror, in begging.

One hand presses against her shoulder. Blood sprays but she cannot get darker and she will not be stopped now. There are so many screams and the ghosts around her scatter - the thin lines of lyrium that had been sunk into her body push into muscle and into the bone, they gnaw at her like teeth and the soft song lightens the rain, the screams. It bleaches it all with a soft, gleaming blue that emboldens hands, pushes her through.

The bodies that didn’t move away from her quickly enough. The ones that fall as her blades carve a path. The steps creak under her step, under the weight, until she reaches the large door.

Inside there are five figures too. Two slaves. An older woman. A teenage daughter with a book and a hand that falls to the side pointing towards the fith and last figure. A blank face - a face that is quickly covered by the shadow that she is. The cane that had been held against him fit comfortably in her hand in a glimpse of a second.

The room is red at her fifth breath. The bright blue piercing through even the darkest and thickets parts of her armour. The cutting of the air. The figures that were on the floor were a mangle of colour and texture - an oil painting varnished too soon and attempted to be cleaned in a panic.

The teeth in the palm of her gloved hand, the ivory tainted in iron and red. And a smile, a laugh of madness and relief when she remembers the begging from a mouth that didn’t resemble it any longer.

ACT III Scene 2. Scene 1.

The small apartment is more akin to a broken into closet that could be called a home. The walls were tall and held no colour. Even in the darkest of night, it was just a continuation of the abyss. The assassin’s favourite part of the city had always been the view, the odd angle that one could see the Magisterium, the lights projected upon the cloudy sky. It was impossible to see the stars in Minrathous - but this was close.

Two assassins sit one beside the other. Both naked except for the thin excuse for a sheet and a think mattress dragged to an opening that could be called a window.

   [THE MAGEKILLER]    I’m not like you—

The conversation feels familiar. The words half die on her tongue. But not quite, the hesitance is an opening - however.

   [LE MAT]    You saw Varric. In the Lighthouse.

From the words her eyes flash towards them. The figure resting with their shoulder against her but eyes that don’t quite look at her. There is a spotlight above them both.

The assassin’s mouth hangs half opened.

   [THE MAGEKILLER]    It—

Yes. But I never told you.

How had Asha known? Who had known? Who had she told? There had been care to hide the scratching at the back of her mind, the illusions and awful little games. The thinness of the familiar clouding the edges of her eyes. The animal that crawled back in to the comfort of familiar chains.

   [THE MAGEKILLER]    It’s not him. Wasn’t—

The words stumble. The magekiller looks for their eyes. One cloudy and another brown. In the spotlight, however, there is nothing but the deep cast shadows that are the abyss. They don’t look at her. A dramatic carving of their lips in a half formed snarl is enough.

   [LE MAT]    You’re not a fool. You should have told me.

The words are familiar. The space crumbles around them both but the light remains. The disappointment burns, burns in the pit of her stomach and on the edges of her eyes.

   [THE MAGEKILLER]    I didn’t know.

   [LE MAT]    I deserved to say goodbye, more than you. It was because of you that he died. He trusted you and your gut instinct to do the right thing, and in that moment you crumbled, you got scared of what it might mean if Varric was wrong. With this insistent and blind search to become someone better you ended up getting him killed!

The room around them is gone. There is only the cold. The cold on her hands, on the pit of her stomach, on the anticipation that everything will always crumble - regardless of where the axle swung. One way or another, she was bound to loose.

The foolishness was not in the being tricked, it was in the attempt to change the outcome.

The figure that stands before her. Le Mat has their mask removed. Asha’s face is wrong in the way that the light casts the shadows down on them. The milky eye looks at her too intently and too bright - similar and familiar with the brands within her body and they burn with a hatred that twisted their face into something - someone that she never could come to recognise.

   [LE MAT]    The hunt was always a lost cause. You knew this and you still let him try. You should have told him to take the shot.

ACT II Scene 2. Scene 3.

The hovel was a known safe house to one that knew where to look, what to search for. To one that knew how to tell which veins still pulsed with life and which had been cut due to necessity. By the piers where escape would be easy to the boats heading South, there are houses that have been carved into and down the cliffs.

It is on some of those salt hovels that they were found. Three children, two elf-blooded and one human. Two women, one elven who clutched a small child around her arms in the back of the small room with half prepared food. A human, who stood by Orla after she had barged into the door after entrance had been denied.

The job was simple: dispose of whoever you find in the room. The assassin had expected it to be a hideout for spies working within the Bataris household, smugglers that worked in the docs, perhaps preparations for an assassin to make their way through the Magister’s family.

She had not expected to be sent to clean up after bastards.

The elven woman looks to her through tears of anger and fear and she whispers to the small thin child that everything would be alright. The older human child standing just behind the human woman looked at her in defiance as if to dare her to enter further.

   [HUMAN WOMAN]    We are not a threat to the Magister. You don’t have to do this.

The children were still frozen in space. The smell was intense, a mix of salt, sweat and half baked beans that now burnt in the small flame. The wind cannot come in and yet the place was deadly cold even in the light of day - one could only wonder the pains they were going through, waiting for the ship to arrive and take them away.

The child, the youngest, wrapped in the arms of the mother in the distance looked to her with large, wide eyes. Scared out of its mind, the body a simple vessel. She knows what that is like and when she looks to the face of the worn elven woman with fear in her veins, looking to Orla with a terrified light behind large brown eyes, she can only see the glinting of her own mother’s eyes.

   [MAGISTER BATARIS]    Dispose of them.

The anger she feels in the pit of her stomach is kept only within the pit of her stomach. Was that what she was now? A child killer for a man that could not face its responsabilities? Was she to be the hand that fixed responsibilities such as these? The magekiller’s eyes glance from the woman in the end of the room, to the older child, to the human mother. A step is taken back with her lips curled.

   [THE MAGEKILLER]    No.

The confusion of the woman face is clear, though it is not to her that the magekiller. Please she hears but barely. The pleading on the breaking of brows, the tension on the oldest child’s hand holding onto the table the had just been preparing for the meal. The two other children whimper, gleaming tears through the small light that pours from the cracks in the rock on the ceiling. The elven mother continues, as if speaking it quicker, holding the child tighter it might save her from the fate that the magister had bestowed upon them.

   [MAGISTER BATARIS]    No? I see how it is. This is what leniency leads to. Insubordination.

It would not be the first punishment for refusal that Orla would face, but it would be taken over this. A child killer, his child killer. They were too young to even be mages and even if they were, they would not have been a danger for her. A simple assassin would have done the job, but it wasn’t about simplicity. The cruelty was the point. Orla glances once more to the children’s faces and starts to turn.

   [MAGISTER BATARIS]    If I say that you bite, you bite.

The first signs are her head growing light. The dryness of the mouth and the shortness of breath. Stiffing muscles that Orla pushes through. This was not the first time, it would not be the last that she struggled against the direct pulling of strings.

   [MAGISTER BATARIS]    I say you jump, you fucking jump.

There is urgency in the way that she holds onto the handle of the door, attempts to push it only to find strength lacking. A heavy blanket that is wrapped around her arms like a jacket with tied sleeves. Teeth sink into her cheek, the pain allowing for another push. The creaking of hinges that feels both from the door in front of her but inside of her skull. The breath she’d been holding is pulled deeper into her body. Her eyes burn and she feels the balance start to go.

The darkness of the corridor that she had been seeking so desperately never reaches her.

   [MAGISTER BATARIS]    If I say play dead, you ask how realistic to make it.

Locked out but able to see it all. Statis was dangerous, both to the original person casting it but especially to the one that was to experience it. More, dangerous when the body and mind in statis was forced to work through familiar actions.

Left hand releases the handle of the door. The handles of her daggers know her palms though they can only know the warmth of her hands and not the intent that carries them.

It is over in less than five minutes and the deaths are swift. Thankfully. The humans first, in two steps. The elf blooded child doesn’t even get up from the chair, one of its major veins sliced and slipping into sleep in but a few seconds. The elven mother next, sparing her the sight of the murder of her last and smallest child.

She didn’t need to activate the lyrium brands. And they aren’t activated.

The bodies are prepared. Dragged across the dark corridor. If anyone sees the scene no one stops the figure dressed in leather. Ropes tied, heavy anchors. A part of the pier that would take the bodies deeper into sea. The bodies are light against her body as she raises them and watches them disappear into the darkness of the waters.

The youngest child is the last and it feels impossibly light on her arms as she cradles it. Holding the bloody head and the stone on the other hand. Her knees bend down to releases it. The brown hair swirls in the water. The forehead cleared from the blood and fear and it too disappears in the darkness.

When the darkness settles and the whistling of the wind returns, the darkness is allowed to show itself akin to a mirror - allowing her own reflection to appear. It is then only when she feels the stones against her gloved hands. The cold in her body and the warmth and heaviness of the blood against her armour. The blood caked in her hair and chin. The burns of robe against the side of leather as she had worked in similar movements. The sound of her ragged breathing makes her sick.

The smell of blood and iron. The light that comes from the clouds that roll over the sky above with the spattering of rain. Her throat burns as the small meal she had reacts to the treatment the body had gone through. The wounds in her chewed through cheeks making her bite a sob as her head bows against the pier. Tears falling from effort.

What now? The horse neighs behind her as gloves are pulled from her hands, thrown in the pockets of her cloak. She looks at the strong beast, feeling its beady eyes reflect her own. A terrible idea pierces through her mind with a clarity that feels like a divine command like no other. A demand that her body and the heavens must see through shaking hands. There are no thoughts in her mind as she cleans the vomit with the back of her hand, lifting from where she had stood.

They didn’t want to be this type of animal anymore.

The storm grows as she rides back to the mansion. The wind and rain falling on her head but unable to clean the blood or the thoughts that put her on a single thought: a throughline. She was not done killing.

It is that thought that curses her mind as she slams the door open. A half made shadow with nothing but a growing madness behind quiet, brown eyes and a bloody mess. She drags herself over expensive rugs and ancient woods, blank eyes beyond the slaves that look at her with horror at what they would need to clean.

Orla doesn’t see them. The assassin moves to the right, quiet on her feet despite the dragging of the bloody shadow. Eyes on the marble stone stair.

   [ELVEN SLAVE 1 - SELYN, a thin elven woman with a sickly frame. Dressed neatly exactly like any of the slaves that are allowed to work within the household. Her brows are knit in concern]    Mistress? The Master is busy, he’s not-

The woman stands on the side. Expecting the assassin to stop. The assassin continues, walking a single step beyond.

   [ELVEN SLAVE 1 - SELYN]    Mistress Orla?

The growing concern. In the voice and in the white of widening eyes. Seeking help. Another approaches, standing in her path. More figures walk behind them, up and down the stairs. Distant talking, music coming from upstairs.

   [ELVEN SLAVE 2 - MARZIO, a built elven man, wears the identifiers that mark him as a bodyguard]    Is there a problem?

I don’t want to be this type of animal anymore. The assassin’s eyes move from the stairs, the large door at the top. Down to Marzio in front of her. He had a family. A little one. Orla had held him, congratulated him and his wife. There were fifteen other people between the assassin and the door. Half of them house slaves. The other half contractors to set up a large chandelier in the center of the room.

She didn’t need to activate the lyrium brands. But she does anyway.

Three stabbings, all three in the chest drop Marzio. Left hand slices Selyn’s throat before she can scream.

Stepping over the gurgling corpse. Orla starts to climb the door. Three contractors do not turn before she gets to them. Two of them drop down the stairs, the last falls over the railing. The screaming starts. By the time she gets to the top, the bottom of her cloak - muddy and bloody is more red than brown.

The house is quiet. Those that had escaped left the large door to the mansion open. Orla’s hands push open the door to the Magister’s parlor.

Five people inside. The magister is already standing, eyes wide in a panic upon seeing the state of the mage killer. It is too late. It is too late to all of them. It is too late for her too.

Five people. The two slaves that attempted to escape but could not escape her daggers or her understanding of their threat. A teenage daughter with a book that ends up blood. It is a swift death too that welcomes her. Beady eyes in surprise, distant now, resting against her large comfortable chair - soaking it with her blood. A mother whose chest is covered in holes from the sharpened edges of her daggers as she stood in front of the magister.

A cane in her hands and the whistling that rises as her eyes are blind with rage, her mouth pressed until teeth feel close to shattering. The air in the room is siphoned by the lyrium, flickering out the flames from the mage’s hands. The staff kicked from an assassin too strong to be natural. To be good.

It is wrong how good it feels to feel the weight of the broken raven in the cane against a soft body. The screams and the panic as she lifts the cane and throws it down once more. The cracking of bones. The turning of the cane to break a jaw the same way that he had broken hers.

   [MAGISTER BATARIS]    STOP!

The gurgling through the words make her lift the cane once more. The blade piercing through cheek and the a loud screech of pain rock the very foundations of the mansion. The tearing of teeth. Those same teeth that she will later collect one by one in a daze once everything comes to a still.

The magister starts crawling towards the open doors, but it is too late for any of them. The magekiller holds onto his ankle, dragging him closer, away from the place that he thinks will save him. There is no one coming to save him. No one to save any of them. Turning her blades, feeling the warmth of her body she feels him attempting to crawl into her mind once more but there is nothing to hold onto.

There is only a wild animal on the loose with rage and appetite for one one thing: to feel his teeth in her hands like rotten seeds.

   [MAGISTER BATARIS]    STOP! YOU DAMNED ANIMAL!

He sobbed and it feels like digging into the lyrium brands, making them sing louder, press deeper into her muscle. Fuel to an already roaring inferno.

The assassin doesn’t stop. Not until there is nothing to soften her blow. Only when the object of her hatred is barely recognised as anything close to human. Until Magister Bataris can only resemble the monster that he was within.

She collects the teeth. Feels them in her hands. It doesn’t feel the way she thought. And yet it makes her laugh, laugh at this scene that plays before her. This dream that she will surely be pulled away from once the adrenaline wears out. The relief pulling at the long held breath from her lungs into a laugh that tastes like pure madness. This shadow of a person that feels nothing but dread, dread and relief all in one.

ACT III Scene 3. Scene 1.

When Orla looks out of her small makeshift window the lights could almost be compared to shooting stars. Varric had told her about them because Orla had never really seen one. There was something to be said about never looking up; but the more she thought the more she considered that even in Ventus where there wasn’t so much light emanating from the city that she was unlikely to be able to see them.

The Magisterium looms still but it is a distant concern. Not when compared to the chipped paint in the window sills from the humidity and lack of care. Not when compared to the company that stands just beside her, the warmth of their body still resting against her. The words are easy and they familiar.

   [THE MAGEKILLER]    I’m not like you—

The words die in her mouth. The sound of the city below sounds wrong.

   [LE MAT]    You saw Varric. In the Lighthouse.

The mattress is paper thin but it is warmed all the same by both of their presence. The shapes of their bodies had still been there. The scene, however, was wrong. The whole thing.

Asha’s hair is bright red and it feels like she can see their edges. The shadows are cast too deeply against their darkened eye. Her mouth hangs open as the lights from the Magisterium rear their ugly head towards them both. The next line follows, ‘You-’

   [LE MAT]    You’re not a fool. You should have told me.

I deserved it more than you. To see him. To say goodbye. Orla holds their hand with her left. The right moves to the side of their face that she knows is tender, that causes pain. The figure doesn’t move, it just looks to her - waiting. Waiting for her to say the lines.

Brown eyes look into the bright light that pools from the window. There is no city, there is just the blinding, bleached light and them both - and the abyss beyond.

The assassin has no other choice but to look in the perfectly drawn face of Asha. The thought that this might be the last time she might be able to see them, hear their voice, and it never truly being them. A trick, another trick of the fade, a trick of magic. A nightmare, just another one of the same iteration of a nightmare.

Another punishment.

One hand moves to hold the hand. One expert to another, one assassin to another.

   [THE MAGEKILLER]    You did. And I should have. Maybe it wasn’t him, but it could have been. And I still didn’t tell you. I didn’t want you to think- To think I was going crazy. Seeing things. That my mind was being messed with again. I was afraid I’d… I’d lose you.

That it might mean that he could see how much of a danger of being around her, close to her truly was. Worse, that she would make a jest of such a thing. Or that they would take pity, that it was a method of her ailing mind to attempt to heal over something traumatic. In the end it had been fear that had kept that information, especially as she had started noticing discrepancies in behavior and a terrible familiar shadow lingering in her mind like a blanket.

   [ORLA]    Varric made his choice. Long before we ever got to the ritual. I couldn’t have changed his mind, even if I had wanted to. You know this, because if the roles had been changed, you’d have done the same thing I did.

   [ORLA]    You have a good heart without trying and I just wish that was me. You don’t need to try, you just do. And even if I know I will need to struggle with it until I drop dead, I still want to do it. And that’s because of you. So, even if you decide to no longer be part of my life... I get it. I’m still going to do it.

She could lie down and quit, or she could keep trying to see through this and, perhaps foolishly, attempt to find a way out. Her cold hands rest against theirs, and Orla wants to hold them so badly but she knows this is not Asha. She would hate the thought of holding them and feel nothing but the cold aspect of stone resting against her. That was not Asha. It could never be Asha.

Varric had seen a future that didn’t involve her being this awful shadow of an animal. Asha saw that too. If they thought that Solas might be worth of redemption despite it all, why should she not be worthy of the same?

   [ORLA]    Because I know you’d do the same thing.

There was no other path to take.

     

   “There’s no other way to go but forward, hm, kid?”

These particular set of stairs are an unwelcome sight. As is the holder of the voice.

The assassin, the magekiller - Orla - looks back all the same. The choice is made to not correct him, that she was not a kid, not his at least. What point was there in correcting a ghost, or worse, whatever this place’s version of Varric was allowed to exist.

Varric looked well. Better than she had ever seen him in the Lighthouse. Perhaps there was a chance still that this was indeed him, some measure of him in this prison of hers. Or perhaps this too was another peeling of the curtain. Orla stands on the same spot that Varric had been before, but there is no Solas to stab her and there is no ritual to stop. There is only a dead silence of her failure: her failure to stop the ritual in a manner to avoid harm, her failure to keep Varric safe.

She stood in the light of the knowledge that she had done and respected what Varric had wanted - all the way to the end. Orla closes her eyes, tilting her head down.

   “No. There never is.” she stands there, as if waiting. And Varric walks up those same fated steps. Her hands are gloved and it always surprised her what she did look like in the dreams, what her mind or the space chose to keep and what to let go. Brown eyes focus on the dwarf “You try to hold onto something too tightly and it just turns to shit.”

   “Poetic.” he snorts, nodding with a breath that comes and goes from nowhere.

   “The lesson was a bit too on the nose.”

Whatever it is, perhaps even spirit if dwarfs could become so, it really looked like him. She wasn’t sure if that made her angry or sad, her body was too fatigued to feel much at all but at least he was clear in her vision. One last time. That was all she could ask.

   “You can put it in one of your books, though.” she offers with a crook of her brow, pulling the black, sweaty hair back. Barely a hint of a smile on her face “Free of charge.”

He laughs and her lip quivers, eyes moving away as she hears something. Just beyond the edge of the stone that made it Varric’s last stand, something shifts in the fade and voices can be heard. Orla tries to keep herself from feeling hopeful when those voices are heard. One more trick of this fucking place.

   “Maybe we’ll leave the writing up to you this time around.”

Orla glances to him, seeing him watching the fade shimmer and start to tear and the voices grow louder. Varric looks to her for a reply but the words feel jumbled. It has felt like a lifetime of torture only to be allowed a small moment of goodbye. It is not what she wished, but it is what they all would get.

   “Sounds like one of your worst ideas.”

Perhaps a flickering of a mind. Perhaps she too was dying. Not yet. She could suffer, but she wasn’t dead yet.

   Rook!

   “Yeah, well. You’re not a fool, got your head screwed on straight enough. I look forward to seeing how it will turn out, anyway.” he holds the side of her arm, pushing her towards the same spot that Solas had stood once. She looks back to him and in that moment there is the roaring of the ritual once more, the sky above them roaring. And Varric smiles “One step at the time, Rook.”

[soongtypehuman]

Boo-hoo update

I’m sorry to say I have an update I was hoping to not ever have to make. Some of you already know that I have some serious health issues, but I've been pretty quiet about the extent of what I'm dealing with.

The gist of it is that I have a rare bone disease called fibrous dysplasia that turned certain bones in my skull into tumors and then those tumors grew inward and started crushing my brain, so I had a craniotomy last year to remove as much as was safe and got a cool new titanium implant in my head to replace the removed bone/tumor. The unfortunate result was encephalomalacia, which is the end stage of liquifying necrosis, and now part of my brain is liquid instead of solid (it’s dead, in a nutshell). Most people don’t survive encephalomalacia, much less remain able to function, and most who survive the initial stage don’t survive the three year mark. Even when you do survive it, it often continues spreading. The last MRI showed it had already taken over about 1/3 of my brain. But I’m a stubborn asshole and am still hanging on.

Unfortunately, things aren’t getting better.

I have to have constant MRIs, EEGs, physical and cognitive therapies, and have been on more meds than I’d like to be in order to control seizures and various cognitive issues. I didn’t mention this before, but I had to go through a series of speech therapies just to learn to talk properly again. And the most unfortunate part of this is that my ability to write has been affected. Since the surgery over a year ago, I’ve only made 10 new posts in the Positronic Rivalry series, totaling around 87k words. For reference, I posted over 200k words in 2022. I’ve posted even less this year, and it’s not improving.

With that said, I have to take a step back. I’m not quitting and I’m not walking away from the fandom. I’d like to think I’ll still be able to post here and there. I just don’t know when and under what circumstances that will happen. I most certainly can’t handle the longer multi-chapter fics I once could. Maybe one day, but not this day. Since I started posting on AO3 back at the end of 2021, I’ve posted every Sunday more often than not. I’m sorry to say I can’t make that happen right now, and can’t say when I’ll post again or what it will be. I won't be able to continue with season 4.

But I’m most definitely not leaving the fandom and the people and the characters I love so much. I’ll still be here interacting and posting when I’m able. This fandom and the people in it are incredible and mean a lot to me. Data and Lore and Star Trek in general are integral to my life and general enjoyment.

But!! I’ve nearly completed compiling seasons 1-3 of Positronic Rivalry as well as 2022/23 Kinktobers into files that will be ready to print in physical book format (completely free, obviously), which I’ll make available for everyone to download in various print sizes, complete with covers, which you can then have printed at various POD sites if you’re so inclined. Digital versions will also be available (you can already download various formats from AO3, but they’re not compiled into seasons, don’t have covers, etc.).

I’m also continuing with the Trek-themed crossword puzzles because those are fun and my therapist thinks making them is good for my cognitive rehab.

This update is a massive bummer for me, but I felt it was better to just admit my limitations instead of constantly trying to convince myself that I could continue the way I had been pre-surgery and beating myself up when I couldn’t.

Lastly, I’ve finally taken the suggestion I’ve gotten repeatedly and set up a KoFi. If you’d like to buy me a coffee or toss a coin to your android porn witcher, you can do so right here and I’d be giggling and kicking my feet in gratitude.

Anyhow, I want to thank all of you for being amazing and coming along on this ride with me for as long as you have, and for as long as it might continue in whatever form it takes.

[imizzled23]

My Tears Are Salty— Chap 4

fic here!

Fandom: The Black Phone

Pairings: Robin Arellano/Finney Blake, Vance Hopper/Bruce Yamada, Amy Yamada/Gwen Blake, Minor Griffin Stagg/Billy Showalter

Archive Warnings: Graphic Depictions of Violence

Total Chapter Count: 40

(read the tags!)

Chapter Word Count: 8k

Chapter Warnings: Hints of pedophilia, The Grabber, supernatural, intense gore, torture, religious refrences, toxic Christianity (?), references to child abuse (parent against child)

Chapter Below!

—Chapter Four: Lost Sight, Lost Way 

Light. 

Blinding, sun-blazingly bright light. It filled the entirety of Finn’s vision, creating stars against his eyelids. He tried to raise a hand to cover his eyes from it, but found no strength in his limbs. They fell at his sides like wet rags and were terribly heavy. He was also very fatigued, and he fought to stay awake, instead of dropping like a log in the middle of the bright abyss. 

It was blinding him. Why wasn’t it going away? He felt the ache and yearn for sleep in every one of his bones, dragging his eyelids further down. He forced them back open, but squinted at the glean that was so very keen on making him fall into the warm embrace of rest. 

He didn’t want to do that: he always heard it in the films. ‘I see the light,’ the character would say, in the midst of taking their last breath. ‘Don’t close your eyes’ someone else would say, often pleading. 

Deranged.

All of a sudden, the light blocked out— instead, a fairly large shadow obstructed its gleam. It was the shape of a man, but it may have easily been mistaken for a beast. Black as the night, the shadow turned towards him. He could see the outline of a few curls, something dripping off of them, hitting the glistening ground with an echoing tap, tap, tap. Then, on top of its head, two distinct shapes crawled out of his skull.

Finn’s mouth fell open in horror. He gasped and tried to get away, but found no strength in his legs to flee. The shapes grew more and more from the shadow’s head, lurching outwards in a curved line. They looked solid and triangular, and were attached to the beast like they had been there the whole time. 

In another moment, the shapes stopped growing. They slanted on a line awkwardly, almost parallel. The figure began to move towards Finn. Its steps were agonisingly slow, and every time its weight was placed on one foot, it pitched forwards- as though it were about to fall- but regained itself and continued. 

Why did this beast have the consciousness to move? How did it withstand such awful temptations to close its eyes?

It was growing closer by the second. Finn needed to get away: there was something about this being that made his stomach fill with unease. He squirmed under his own skin; his heart began to beat faster with each moment passing by, and his face morphed into a sick grimace.

Another shape began to grow from the beast’s body— it came from its hand and extended further downwards, edging outwards in a long line. Then, when Finn swore the stick would begin to scrape against the ground, it extended to the right and then squared off. The edge of the second part sharpened, glimmering from the light.

Its hand had morphed into an axe.

Finn attempted to stumble away, desperately screaming at his body to move— but it wouldn’t listen. Another step: Finn could take in the colours of the beast from its ten metres away. Its hair was blond, but it was matted with a sick red. Its face was deathly pale. The nose— it was horribly deformed, with edges of it screwing outwards and angling towards its bloody cheeks. Its forehead was covered in crimson, bones and muscle weaving together above its brow. 

This was a monster.

It was so close— too close. 

And then, before Finn could even blink, it was standing before him. Its eyes were trailing into his body, pupils dragging over every inch of his skin. Finn gasped and tried to jump backward, but his feet were stuck to the ground.

He held his breath. This thing, beast, monster, man or all three, was horrifyingly ugly. It was the kind of thing your mother would tell you about in children’s tales; what you were afraid to be under the bed. Its eyes were a dark, sickly green: the colour of puke. Now that it was closer, Finn could make out the details: his long wrinkles, chapped, white lined lips, disproportionate ears- with one lower on his skull than the other- and a disfigured nose. Someone had beaten this thing, but that wasn’t the most interesting part. There was a thick, dripping bullet wound that leaked out of the side of its head, the blood mixing with the other yellow fluids that fell from its ear.

The monster raised its non-ax hand to Finn’s face. He wanted to jolt back, he wanted to get away from the wretched thing. He needed to throw up from its very sight, from its gangly and dirty, broken nails upon his skin. However, Finn couldn’t do anything. He was frozen to the spot, with those pale fingers on him. He wanted to tear off the very parts of himself that the monster looked at— he wanted to destroy each piece of flesh that the beast could see and could touch. 

Get off, Get off, get off!

 His thoughts never left the cell of his mind.

The beast opened its mouth, and a stench fell from it. Its teeth were yellow and crooked, and a white substance kept part of its mouth stuck together. Its tongue was black and flailing from its lips to its broken teeth.

“Hello… Taylor,” the beast growled. That name— Taylor…

Finney knew who this was.

This mortifyingly horrid being was a man he once hated- still hated- yet no longer lived on for him to express his rage. This being was right here, where dead people were, as that was what Finney was: 

The Grabber.

A realisation drowned him. 

This monster had been trailing him ever since he retrieved Robin in the basement. It had tortured him, and left the house with him. Why didn’t he realise sooner? It followed him back home, and into the morgue: it probably saw its own body. And, when Finn recovered Robin’s corpse and watched his memories, did The Grabber follow him there? Was that why it was in the nothingness? Its words had been in Vance Hopper’s mouth, and it had used Vance Hopper’s hand to shoot Robin. And then Finn shot himself. 

Why was it here, where the deceased folk were?

He swallowed his fear: he was not afraid of The Grabber. Not anymore. 

He was afraid of what he didn’t know.

“Are you dead?” he asked, his eyes narrowed at the monster. Although he couldn’t move its beastly hands from his face, he could glare at him with all of the loathing he had no chance to release, even in killing him.

The Grabber chuckled, its horns wavering over Finn’s head.

“…yes, I am. As are you.” Its voice was serious.

Finn assumed it was jealous of how he killed himself. 

He remembered it all. He remembered the way his heart dropped when he saw Robin’s body— shot in the skull instead of stabbed in the neck. He remembered the pure, electric pain. It wasn’t as harsh as it had been in The Grabber’s kitchen, but it still burnt his senses and left him reeling.

“Why?” He asked fearfully, reaching out for the truth like it was the last drop of water.

The Grabber exhaled and its features hardened.

“I’m stuck, Finney. Stuck because you fucking killed me.” It glared. He could feel The Grabber’s tongue: hot and writhing. The pleasure of its acknowledgment- that he, Finney, a teenager, was able to rise up and kill him- almost made him smile.

“Stuck where?” Finney pried. He was demanding answers— pushing too far. He knew what happened when he pushed the limits whilst he was alive: The Grabber would just leave. But now they are both dead…

The monster had no consequences if it hurt him. 

“Between,” The Grabber moved its claws down to Finney’s neck, “It’s been restless. I’ve only been able to think about… you. And then you showed up, so I followed. It was nice to see Arellano, he looked well with his scars. Shame he didn’t see me. Guess I hid too well.”

Finn went rigid. The Grabber had been watching them? He shifted beneath the touch, finding the strength to move his fingers. He felt nauseous. 

“When you decided to go and bring him back— I had to follow. You gave me the chance.” It smiled, a wicked, toothy grin.

“…what?”

“You went and watched him in the little tapes of his head. I followed. And then… I found a body, because you showed me I could,” it said, as though it were speaking to a toddler. 

Finn raised his chin, hardening his face. “I didn’t show you shit.”

The Grabber snorted.

“You showed me potential. You showed me that I could wander on Hopper and take a gamble. It didn’t last long, they… kicked me out.”

Finn’s eyes widened. He didn’t believe it. He couldn’t have— he didn’t do that. He didn’t let The Grabber in. He didn’t give it the idea: it wasn’t his fault.

His strength was quickly regaining itself, and he pushed the corners of his mind. His leg twitched.

“What now? We’re both dead. We’re dead,” he spat.

He was slowly beginning to regret shooting himself. He couldn’t imagine what Gwen would feel. He could imagine what she would do, though.

She would raise a fucking storm for him.

Perhaps he did know what she would feel. He did lose Robin, after all.

The Grabber scowled, its mouth opening and allowing Finn to see its disgustingly grotesque teeth.

“I am going to kill you,” It whispered, “Even if you’re already gone.”

Finn froze. The strength he was so quickly gaining was immediately lost from his body. The Grabber stepped back and scowled. It raised its ax-hand to Finn’s chest.

His eyes widened. 

“W-what are you doing?” He stammered. His voice was shaky as the realisation hit him: The Grabber- even after death- would be able to hurt him. Angels- or devils, whichever Finn was- could feel pain.

He could feel pain, and never die.

The Grabber laughed, a sick, ominous cackle and Finn shook his head, tears welling up in his eyes. Would this be his fate— an eternal suffering? A personal Hell?

The Grabber raised its axe to Finn’s temple. It dug it into the skin, a shallow cut, but pain bloomed through his head. A drop of blood trickled down his brow.

Then, as swift as a phone ringing, it pulled its arm upwards, then swung down.

A grunt

Crack.

He gasped, a cry escaping his lips. That hurt. Shit, that hurt. He almost fell to the ground, if it were not for the way his feet were fastened into the abyss, but his knees buckled, and his eyes fluttered shut. He struggled to get them back open. If he did, he knew he would see the stars that were slowly taking him. A slow, agonising noise came from the back of his throat, almost like a groan. He hoped that an angel could hear his plea.

He knew God never listened to his cries. 

There was blood everywhere.

He could feel it all over his face, and when he opened his left eye a veil of crimson enveloped his sight. His other eye was gouged out, somewhere on his feet or resting on the hem of his shirt. There was a twisting, slimy texture sliding down the side of his cheek. It formed a trail from the tip of his hairline to his chin, writhing and squelching with blood.

In a jolt, he realised it was his own brain.

He tried to open his mouth; tried to scream, to release the pain that engulfed him— but no noise came out. 

His ears were ringing. His vision became clouded, the expanse of light tipping into darkness. He only saw the monster's face- grinning and sinister- before he slipped away. 

And came back.

The blood on his face remained, but everything else returned to its original state. His brain crawled back into his head- stitching the cut through it- and the bones in his skull weaved back together. His vision returned as the right eye floated before him, then slotted into its socket like a puzzle piece.

Within thirty seconds, Finney’s destroyed body had become as it had been before. His groaning ankle still remained; as did the bruise on his head, but the skin torn by the axe was pulled together. 

He had become the afterlife’s sculpture: it blended him and gave him shape, and he was reduced to a lump of clay that this whiteness and The Grabber fought for.

“Ah. We’re going to have so much fun, Finney,” The Grabber purred, its nostrils flaring. The stench of blood reeked in the air. Why did Finney ever think death could be an escape? Wherever he was, The Grabber would be able to follow. Finney may have killed it, but now it had him right where it wanted him. And— 

It could torture him for centuries, and the world after, until the very day that The Heavens exploded.

Finn cried, pouring all of his despair and desperation into the sound that fell from his lips. 

The Grabber struck his stomach next. 

His guts fell onto the white expanse, this time fully visible. He watched as his stomach and blood splattered over his feet, and as the acid dripped down his pant leg. The world was spinning, but his body didn’t tip or fall: it simply remained frozen to the spot. 

He watched as the contents of himself were recovered and placed back inside; watched as this great miracle was performed, and wanted nothing more than for it to keep its heavenly claws away from him. He desperately wanted to die, he wanted it to all end, he wanted to die again.

He was so dizzy. The Grabber didn’t even give him a chance to recover before he stabbed him through the chest, cutting its axe straight through his heart.

The only thing that hurt more than this torture was The Grabber’s disgustingly ugly face.

“Fuck… you,” he panted.

He hated this man: this monster or beast. He wanted to kill it again and again and again and he wanted it to never end. He wanted to hurt it; to punish it for everything it did to the other boys, to him, to Robin. He wanted to hurt everything that it ever loved, its family, its friends, even its neighbours. He loathed every inch of everything to do with the Galesburg fucking Grabber, and he knew he had the right to destroy everything to do with it.

He would. He swore on God and His evil, healing, Heavens that he would.

When his heart rejoined his chest, he opened his mouth before he could endure another blow.

“Wasn't the five times enough for you? Didn’t you kill enough?”

Its eyes were ravenous and greedy.

“No. No, I did not.” Was all that it said before it stabbed Finney again.

He lost track of every blow after that. The pain grew used to him; and he did it. He knew it well- he knew it from the first day of school, the weeks after his mothers death. He knew pain better than anybody in the world, and not because of the times he had been beaten or bruised or outright tortured. But because of the times that he sat on the floor, crying until he threw up, because of how familiar he had grown to grief. It hurt him; made him rock backwards and forth on the cold tiles of his bathroom floor because of how much his heart ached. Robin’s words: I’m not coming back either, were true. They were unbearably true, because even when God pulled His strings and gave Finn the chance to reverse the sinister acts that it had committed, death still remained the fate of Robin Arellano.

Perhaps agony was the fate for Finney Blake.

His mind slipped away, becoming part of the background which played the miseries of his life.

Seconds, minutes, hours, days, weeks, months, years.

Finn had no idea how long it lasted. His memory was fading away, the earliest blows a smudged reflection, but he had no idea whether that was because of how much time had passed or the pain of it all.

He found himself misremembering events that happened simply moments before, or forgetting wounds entirely until they were actively being healed.

There were only three thoughts that ran through his head:

Robin.

Gwen.

A grunt and a crack.

The Grabber was saying something into his ear. Finn couldn’t hear it, though. It was plugged with blood.

The Grabber jerked its normal hand to the side of Finn’s face and tugged him sideways. The maroon dripped from his hearing canals quickly, and he was hauled back up and forced to look the beast in the eyes. 

It felt good to be able to stretch, even if it were a coerced movement.

“Can’t you hear me, boy?” It demanded roughly. Its pupils reigned with rage and a lust for blood. Finn knew from the way The Grabber looked at him that they were long from over.

“Suck a cock,” he hissed, making sure that the spit, bile, vomit and blood in his mouth was splattered over The Grabber’s face.

He couldn’t even scream before it cut a long line across his collarbone. It wiped the fluids from its face and scowled at him. Finn exhaled slowly and gritted his teeth. He refused to let him win. Even if he was tortured, depressed or despaired, he was more stubborn than he had been in the basement. The only thing that had made him give up in there was the loss of hope: he had tried, been inches away from freedom and failed. That was why he lost belief in himself. 

How could he do so if he never had hope in the first place— if he hadn’t a chance to escape?

He would keep trying. Because he would never lose the will to do so.

“You’re pathetic,” he sneered. 

The Grabber growled, lashing out at Finn again.

However, this time, he was interrupted.

There was a stillness that was brought over the white expanse and it was broken when footsteps were heard in the distance. 

They were faint. They were hardly there, really. But that didn’t stop The Grabber’s ugly face from paling, nor did it make Finn refrain from yelling like Hell.

“Is someone there? We’re here! I’m alive!” He screamed, although the last part wasn’t exactly true. The Grabber’s eyes widened in panic as they darted to Finn, and it quickly dug the axe into his abdomen. 

He was covered in blood now, the crimson dying his clothes into its red reign. He could feel it drip and smudge every part of his body, tipping down his wide back and falling into his mouth.

Finn groaned, eyes squeezing shut. 

The footsteps quickened, and before Finn could comprehend- as his wound healed itself- they were no longer alone. His heart lightened and he gasped.

Robin was here.

He stood to Finn’s side, and Finn had the strength to turn his head and look at him. He no longer had the bullet wound (this boy could really die twice and still have perfect skin?) And he appeared more alive than he ever had been. He still wore the hospital gown, the scars white and prevalent underneath. Finn’s eyes darted back to his forehead, and, as white as powder, there was a mark where he had been shot. It was slightly covered by Robin’s fringe- as he no longer wore a bandana to keep it bound- but it was a stark contrast to his glittering skin. 

Finn was filled with relief. His stomach twisted and jolted, and his shoulders hunched.

The Grabber choked, taking three steps away from Finn and into the whiteness. As Finn looked between the other two there, he couldn’t help but notice how truly ugly The Grabber’s beastly figure was compared to the angelic form Robin had taken up. 

Finn probably looked more like the former.

“Robin!” he gasped, his voice airy. The boy turned his head and locked eyes with him. He stared at Finn— most likely at the blood that he was covered head-to-toe in. Perhaps, his wounds were glowing like Robin’s were? 

“Holy shit, Finn,” Robin muttered. His eyebrows were furrowed and laced with concern.

“I— The Grabber.” Finn quickly turned his attention back to the beast that stood two metres away, who had gone white as a ghost.

Robin turned, and when his eyes landed on The Grabber, they immediately filled with—

Fear.

Robin was… scared. Of The Grabber. Finn’s mouth parted slightly.

How was Robin afraid of him? Had he not faced him, fought him to the grave?

Perhaps he didn’t know his best friend as well as he thought.

He had the instinctive urge to protect him. This urge was what finally willed his legs to move, and he tore from the light on the ground he had been stuck on. He pitched- almost collapsed- but regained himself and stepped between Robin and The Grabber.

“Fuck off,” he spat. He glared at The Grabber, stronger and more strong-willed than he ever had in the basement, up until the moment he killed the bastard. Would this even work?

The Grabber almost headed. 

But Finn never got what he wanted.

The beast charged forwards, tumbling through the blood and light on the floor with the strength of an ox. Finn yelped and stumbled backwards into Robin, and the two boys fell to the ground. 

The world exploded.

It happened as their skin touched- Finney’s wrist to Robin’s arm- that the lightness overtook their surroundings. 

It blasted them through the air, an army of beams hitting them off of their feet. Finney lost The Grabber in the fest, but he clung to Robin like it was the last thing he could do. The brightness tipped over their heads, between their legs and through their ears. He squeezed his eyes shut as he felt his ribcage squeeze in on itself and his jaw tighten.

He was flying. This time, he truly was.

Robin, the angel, became Finn’s wings as he soared through the landscape of light. He could feel something- similar to when he had been lifted from Robin’s body in the first memory- that made all of his senses spring and leap and scream. It wasn’t a physical part of him, but something that lay deeper within. It was the very core of his being—

His soul.

It was being sucked through the layers of his skin, escaping the captivity of his mortal flesh. What could he have done to stop it? It was free, yet afraid— afraid of the unknown.

This was who he was.

He looked over to Robin, and saw his inner being, his core, his strength, leaving him as well. His came out a pure, blistering yellow. Finney’s was red.

Being without a soul left him feeling rather empty. He still had his emotions: his fear, his warmth and his despair, but something in him was missing.

The two continued to blast through the bright world, never daring to let each other go. There was a rushing in Finn’s ears, spreading a ringing noise through his mind. From the ball of red light that was his soul- he could smell his favourite things: daffodils, soda, Gwen’s perfume, Robin’s cologne and a scent he had smelt in years— his mother. She loved to bake; she smelt of cookies. He could also smell some horrid things too, things he never wanted to be near again: the basement, the boy’s toilets and blood. These were the aromas that made him up.

Robin’s was too far away for Finn to be able to smell it.

Then, blocking out the ringing, he heard people speak from his soul. The crimson faced him, and glowed extra brighter with each word: “I love you, Finney,” came his mothers voice. It was unfamiliar and distant. “Your arm is mint!” Bruce’s words hurt. “My dreams are just dreams!” Was this to be the last time he heard his sister, when she had been angry and broken? “Yeah, he’s a friend from school, why?” Hearing his own voice stunned him, but he knew where it was from. “I am a part-time magician!” —God that stung. “Say one fucking word and I’ll gut you like a pig on this street,” When would this stop? “Hey, Finn, what’s happening?” Robin’s voice was sad. Then, there was a series of familiar, evil noises: a grunt and a crack. And, finally, “Get to the basement,”.

The maroon soul was revealing the very aspects of his life that made up who he was. Smell, hearing, and now:

Sight.

Like a crystal ball, Finn watched as his soul reflected some of the most important moments of his life. 

The first was at one of Gwen’s birthday parties. It was the day his mother had killed herself. His father had gotten a call, and they rushed to the hospital, where she was already pronounced dead. The doctors gave him a note, which read: I love you, I’m sorry. They were watching me. I knew too much. It haunts me. Goodbye.

The next memories were of his first meeting with Robin, the day his father beat his sister that they had to go to the Arellano’s, the day he met Bruce, the day his father beat his sister about the investigation, the day Robin was kidnapped, the day he was kidnapped, when he tried to escape, when he killed The Grabber, and when he received the phone call.

By the end of it, tears had run rivers down his red cheeks, a few dripping down his neck and splitting the blood there.

Robin was in no better condition, his hair tousled, eyes red and lips parted. He looked disheveled and mortified. His eyes were broken and empty. Had he been shown his own death?

He was forced to look back to the balls of light when they drifted close to one another. They were compelled to one another like magnets, slowly drifting forwards and reaching out to each other.

Were they to merge? Is this what soulmates mean?

They were magnetised, electric and free. They needed each other; wanted to become one. If their souls combined, would they disappear, or become one, too?

Then, in the distance—

 Another ball appeared.

It was a horrible, dreadful, putrid green. It reminded Finn of the colour of puke— almost mixed with yellow, but not bright enough to fully be considered that colour. It was littered with flecks of black and other disgusting colours and Finn wanted nothing more than it to be out of his sight. But the worst part was—

It was coming towards them. He and Robin’s souls were slowly combining, the edges barely touching and leaking into one another, turning a brilliant, bright orange. But the green soul was too fast, too swift, too quick.

It was there before Finn could even point it out.

He tried to swat it away; he wanted to protect he and Robin’s souls: they were precious.

But this ball of light evaded his flailing hands, dipping beneath his blood stained arms and darting before the orange ball. Robin seemingly caught on and tried to reach out.

 His fingers graced the edges of their glorious orange light, and he latched onto it. He- with his large muscles- climbed atop of their souls—

—and leapt onto the putrid green one. He pushed it away, threw it as far as he could. He kicked and he shoved and it fell far, far in the distance. Robin, successful, turned and grinned broadly at Finn.

Oh, he did look like an angel.

The orange light expanded. 

Robin’s eyes darted to it, but, before either of them could react, they were getting tugged towards it, pulled into its impenetrable orbit. 

And, seeing as Finn was closer, his face squeezed tightly and his heart tight, he touched it. 

Everything disappeared.

Finney John Blake woke up in his bed, alive, safe, and with a familiar ache in his ankle.

Gwendolyn Elda Blake paced the length of her bedroom for the fiftieth time in the hour, reciting what seemed to be the only words she knew in her head.

My dreams are just dreams.

How late was it? She glanced over to her alarm clock- which was still the purple cat with the analogue for a stomach- and read that it was almost two AM. 

Fifty-one paces.

Her slippers slapped against her cold floor, digging into her toes. She wore a nightgown that extended to her knees, and portrayed another purple cat. Her hair was loose around her neck and fell just below her shoulders, thinned out and brushed until the strands broke to pieces. 

Fifty-two.

Her eyes glimmered with frustration as she glanced towards her bedroom door, which had her name written out on it in large, playful letters. She knew that she should have them taken down, but it was a gift given to her on Christmas from her mother, Elda. She missed her. She wouldn’t take down the letters. 

Her paces grew in speed. She had reached sixty by the time that minute ended. 

The bed was ruffled and unmade. It lay in the middle on the far side of the room, pressed against the wall and window. There was a distinct gap between the rest of her furniture and her bed, because if she went tumbling from her duvet in the middle of the night- as she often did- it wouldn’t be ideal to clean the blood off her ragged furniture. 

The blankets and pillows were strewn across her mattress, discarded within the endless prison expanse of the night. 

It was awfully dark.

She walked, trying to get her mind off of her vision. She thought of her life: everything was good. She was safe at home, Finney was safe at home, everyone else she knew was completely safe. Galesburg would be the last place on Earth for evil to approach. This bored her, and her thoughts eventually landed back on her predicament.

She had dreamt until she startled awake from the horrors she saw. She knew it was one of her ‘dreams’, and certainly not a nightmare. Because, in her nightmares, she always was the one who ended up maimed or dead. She hadn’t even been in this one.

This one hadn’t been the past, nor the present. 

She knew it wasn’t the past because something like that would land national news. Not the present either, because the culprit of the terror, the one who had starred in it and took up the evil acts, was asleep in bed in the room next to her. She wasn’t so sure about the other person though.

She dreamt of her brother darting from his room. He had woken up in bed, with a look in his eyes that was almost inhumane and so, so unfamiliar. He stared at the room like a rando would: there was no light, no recognition, nor any warmth in his gaze. His eyes were cold, and the way they searched his room, analysing every detail, was something Finney would never do.

He had also appeared afraid. And terribly shocked. His skin was white as pain, as though he had seen a ghost. He looked frail and misguided, like the very body he was in was a stranger’s.

She hated seeing him like that.

After a moment or two- five minutes at most- passed, Finn darted out of his bed with the speed of a griffin, soaring through the air, leaping and jumping, like he had wings. He glided like a bird, hardly touching the ground, like he didn’t need it. He still looked jolted at that point, but he also had a yearning for something. Or rather someone, because when Finn flew through the door, he went straight for somebody's house. 

It was home to a friendly neighbourhood, and, seeing as it was a dream, the journey passed swiftly by. Soon enough, Finn stood at the front door of a smaller house. When he rang the doorbell, he was greeted by a stubborn-looking Robin Arellano. That’s who the house belonged to! She knew that house: it was the one Finney had brought her to after a certain night with their father. She remembered the kindness of Robin’s mother and how he had smiled caringfully at her after he had patched one of her wounds. He welcomed her into the house and accepted her as his sister. She would be forever grateful for that.

But the dream Finney was acting oddly. 

He launched himself at the dream-Robin, tackling him in a hug.

Really fucking odd.

She may have called him a certain word, had she not sworn off it after reading through her mothers journal that she left behind, full of thoughts, ideas and declarations that Gwen worshipped like Jesus.

One of these ‘declarations’ was that her mother, even with a gun to her head, would never prod at anyone for who they are, who they choose to love or whether or not they respect the Lord: she believed in the Gospel down to each syllable, and took ‘Love thy Neighbours’ to heart. She- despite her fathers protests- refused to sign the petition to outlaw everything that wasn’t Straight, White and Christian- normal- from Galesburg. She took measurements against it; and Gwen loved her mother dearly. She knew Elda was against her father in her views.

Gwen didn’t really know what was right. But she would Love her Neighbour, just as her mother had.

Therefore, she would not be calling Finn any words.

But the way he had leapt at Robin, and how he held him reminded her an awful lot of how the lovers on screen would touch each other. He didn’t have the glint in his eye; the one that suggested love or adoration, but the way he touched Robin…

Boys didn’t touch each other like that. She probably just wasn’t used to it— she hugged Suzie all of the time: that didn’t make them queer.

Her father would beat him for it, and tell him it wasn’t right. Finn probably agreed with him; this thing he did to Robin was mostly likely the resort of some nightmare (perhaps Finn dreamt of Robin getting hurt, and that’s why he jumped on him as though he would die?).

Nightmare.

What happened next in that prophecy seemed awfully like a nightmare. Because, as soon as Finn touched Robin- skin to skin- there was something that she couldn’t explain. It was unlike the gore she saw on the horror shows the boys would watch, or the red that smudged her walls when her father beat her. It was animalistic in its crimson purge.

Because when Finn touched Robin’s skin with his finger, Robin died.

It took a moment: there was a gap of time between their touch and what happened after. There was a trickle of blood, stark against the boy's skin, that glistened in the moonlight. It fell from the top of his brow, drooping down his eyelid. Finn’s face at that moment was full of absolute horror, like he knew it would happen- he knew- but headed to the fate of it. 

After his temple came his throat. This was the start to the real bloodfest: his skin tore open like an invisible knife had struck it. His throat was torn, blood splattering from the wound, as Robin fell to the ground- screaming- and several more cuts sliced on his neck.

More, more, more were ripped into his skin, and so much blood poured out, gushing like a waterfall.

Then, the wound upon his forehead ripped open- like it had been waiting for the right moment- and there was a terrible squelching noise, before Robin thumped to the floor: dead.

My dreams are just dreams.

But what if they were not?

She had lost track of her pacing. Her hands raised to her hair and her fingers clawed at the locks, which were already frayed and damaged.  Her feet tapped against the ground, her slippers digging into her toes. Her purple cat clock ticked on, tick, tick, ticking and she yanked on her hair harder. She was growing frustrated, annoyed at the so-called prophecy. She knew that was impossible, she knew it.

But she also believed in God, and she knew His wrath. She knew His power and how, without even the slightest click of His fingers, He could diminish everything she loved and owned into objects worth no more than the devils and creatures in Hell. Could He do the same to Finney? But what had her brother done to anger Him so? And, even more confusing, was the fact that she knew it was Jesus who sent her these dreams. He had chosen her and He loved her enough to reveal everything about her world to her, so much of His everlasting knowledge, passed down. Did that make her a prophet? It didn’t matter, because if this vision were true, then The Lord was to make Finney kill Robin. And she loved both of the boys dearly- Finn more, obviously- she didn’t want that for them. But who was she to step in between God and His plan?

She was stuck in a conflict between her love for her brother and for God, and it made her reconsider her visions ever being a gift at all.

She sighed.

And then, louder than the ticking or her very thoughts had become, there was a giant bang from the other room—

Finney’s room.

He had slammed the door open, bashing it against the back wall with such a force that the whole house had shook. She could practically sense her father’s rage if he had been woken up- which he definitely had- but the pounding of doom was undercut but the sprint that Finn had adopted as he darted through the house. 

Fucking shit. 

Her head snapped from her door to the chest of drawers beside it, then back to where Finn was running. She didn’t have any time— what would happen if she betrayed God? What would happen if she snitched on Jesus? She couldn’t think, it was now or never. With a slight nod to her dollhouse, she dove forward. 

She ran towards her drawers and flung one open, and, in her haste, grabbed the nearest pair of gloves and jacket she could find. All she caught was the flash of a dark green as she took off from her room, opening the door with a ferocity that far outweighed Finn’s. She kicked off her slippers aggressively, not catching where they landed. 

She flew down the stairs- almost tipping over from her speed, missing several steps- and ran towards her front door. Had Finn even put on his shoes? She ignored the cry of her muscles and the sting of the frosty air as she bolted down the front path of her house and passed the car, before she finally saw the shape of her brother several paces down the road.

The wind swirled in her hair as she ran faster than she ever had, and she opened her mouth to call out for her brother. “Stop fucking running you dick!” She cried and her lungs heaved. Her feet were stinging and the harsh concrete dug into the soles. Finney had finally stopped- or rather slowed his pace to that of a run instead of a dash- and she was able to catch up to him. 

She shoved the clothes, gloves and jacket- into his arms, before giving him a pointed glare and muttered a small, “I’m so fucking mad at you, but you trust me on this,”. She gestured to the garments, and his eyes lit up at her. He would put them on, she knew, because she knew her brother believed in her visions, Christian or not. 

He nodded tightly, then turned away from her and continued to dart down the cold night street.

Terrance was going to be so fucking pissed.

Air.

He had so much of that shit he wondered why he had ever wanted more of it.

It smacked into his face with the force of ten men, forcing him to close his eyes in order to bear it. His fringe had been blown from his face, exposing his forehead, and he could feel the wind on his exposed skin. Luckily, he had heeded Gwen’s advice and put the garments on, but it had wasted so precious time. 

He had no idea what had happened. Last thing he remembered he was approaching the orange orb and then…. He woke up in his bed. Somehow, he had come back to life, like Robin had. He had teleported to the most pleasurably useless place on Earth, as though he had just woken up from a certainly nasty dream. But he knew it wasn’t a dream: his ankle was still as broken as it had been the moment he stabbed a pole through it.

The weirdest part was the odd sense of indifference to the world around him. He knew the room well, its space stickers and burnt out bulbs, but somehow he didn’t know anything about it. It was like when he had had the walls of his room painted to a different shade of blue: he didn’t know what was wrong, but he knew that there was something.

It was altered: he had a baseball jersey that was still hung proudly, wherein this morning it had been shoved away to the back of his closet, because it was the last thing he wore before Bruce was kidnapped, and, well, Gwen always said he was superstitious. He knew that he had been hidden so well that not even the vulture eye of his sister would be able to spot it, so how had it moved?

It was all so weird.

He needed to get to Robin. He had been running for a while now: attempting to arrive at his best friend's door and find him, hopefully, alive. If he had been taken here, wherever here was, would Robin have too? Has he noticed how everything was different? Did he know of the horrors he had been through, in the basement as well as the morgue?

He gulped down his fear and finally arrived at the Arellano house. He almost stumbled to the ground when he halted so abruptly, his knees locking.

His lungs were constricting and his face was red. He took a moment to catch his breath, and then set down the path towards the house. It was a detached, smaller-than-usual home that was well-lived-in, with decorations and plants hung up all around the front garden. He could see Robin’s window from the front of the house: his yellow curtains were closed. 

Finney shifted in the green jacket Gwen had given him, which was hers. It was a bit small for him, and the fluffy green gloves squeezed his hands. He was sweating onto the fabric, but couldn’t seem to care as he rang the doorbell. 

Why had Gwen given him these? Did she have a dream?

It took a while for somebody to open the door, seeing as it was one AM, but when they did they slowly pulled it inwards, the hinges creaking.  

Robin’s head poked through the crack.

Finn eyebrows shot up and he let out a sigh of relief. Of course Robin was alive. The fucker was too stubborn to die. 

He didn’t exactly tackle him like he did in the morgue, but he shoved the door backwards and embraced his best friend. Robin stiffened and Finn could feel his slight intake of breath, but he only buried his face into Robin’s shoulder. His cheek came dangerously close to his neck, but they barely avoided the touch.

Robin was alive, alive, alive. He had done the hard part: actually gotten to this point, through a long length of painful tasks, but here his friend was.

However, Robin wasn’t relaxing— no, he was shifting on his feet. The boy gently raised his hands and pried Finn off of him by the shoulder, stepping backwards. He had his shoulders hunched inwards and his face was laced with confusion and discomfort.

“Uh, Finn? You alright, bud?” He asked awkwardly. He covered his pajamas with his arms and bunched his eyebrows. Finn gulped. Shit.

“Robin. You- you… you do remember, right?” He pleaded desperately. He had to remember. Finn wasn’t on his own in this. 

“Remember what? Why are you here? It’s like, two in the morning,” he questioned, and Finn deflated. 

What had happened before they exploded? Finn had touched the orange orb, and Robin was behind him—

Oh no. 

If he were the one to touch it— and it had sent him to this place; where he still hung his jersey proudly and Robin was alive, but Robin didn’t come into contact with their combined souls.

No. 

No.

Robin had tensed away from his touch. 

The new Robin- the one who had died and knew the value of affection, and is no longer afraid to give or receive it- would never turn away from Finn. Fuck, they had only been together for less than twenty-four hours and he knew that.

But this Robin… he had never died.

Because the Robin from before was afraid of touching another boy, afraid of showing affection to his friend. The old Robin didn’t know how much it counted for, because if he were in the basement, he would have given anything to hold another person. And after he would never take it for granted again. The old Robin didn’t have that experience; to learn and take advantage of it. 

He knew because he and Robin were one in the same. 

This Robin, the boy who stood before him, had never been kidnapped. Neither had Finn, because of his lack of lock on his door, and neither had Bruce Yamada because the jersey was hung up. The others: he looked back at what he saw before he darted from his room. He’d sat there for a minute or two, just taking everything in. What did he see?

A newspaper on his desk. Grape soda. English report.

As it all clicked into place, Finney realised that none of the boys had been kidnapped here.

Which led him to wonder, where the hell had that orange orb: the mixture of his and Robin’s souls, actually taken them?

And if they were alive, would The Grabber live on, too?

[ask-de-writer]

Physician Heal … A Grumpy Goat *tail* : an MLP Fan Fiction

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Return to MLP Fan Fiction

Physician Heal ~~ ~

A Grumpy Goat *tail*

by

De Writer (Glen Ten-Eyck)

6329 words

© 2014 by Glen Ten-Eyck

Writing begun 10/31/14

All rights reserved. This document may not be copied or distributed on or to any medium or placed in any mass storage system except by the express written consent of the author.

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Users of Tumblr.com are specifically granted the following rights. They may reblog the story. They may use the characters or original characters in my settings for fan fiction, fan art works, cosplay, or fan musical compositions, provided that such things are done without charge. I will allow those who do commission art works to charge for their images provided that I receive a copy of each image for my archive. I will further allow the use of printed copies for educational use in school classes. No charge of any kind may be made for this use, whether paper, ink, binding, packaging, distribution or any other charge whatsoever.

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I was sitting out in the warm sun. The bench was pleasantly warmed and felt good. The ledge in front of my cave afforded a fine view of the woods below and Ponyville beyond. Even the solid ironwork that blocked access to my cave was not overly hot.

The light breeze was playing hob with my morning newspaper, as usual. The Ponyville Prancer’s pages were flipping up or down even when tightly folded together. I had to turn a page. The wind got it. It did not get away, but revealed an unexpected and unwanted page.

My good mood evaporated at what I saw. The Ponyville Medical Society was at it again! I guess that losing the lawsuit over Practicing Medicine Without a License wasn’t enough. This was Slander!

As if nature was conspiring to ruin my mood while putting bits of gold in my pocket, the breeze died down and let me see the entire full page advertisement. At the top was a group picture of the whole Ponyville Medical Association, all clean, neat and smiling. Under that was a large type caption reading ‘Which DOCTOR?’ Centered under it was a crudely drawn picture of a goat with fangs. There was a candle on his head, between curled horns. The color patches of his coat were drawn to look filthy. He was dancing around a badly made pentacle, waving a rattle. The caption of that picture was 'Or WITCH doctor?’

Rest time over, the breeze forced me to close the Prancer and the offensive ad. That left another offensive sight. Toiling up the trail to my mountain cave was one of the very doctors in the ad, the head of the Ponyville Medical Society himself!

Gaining my ledge, he glared at me, curling a lip in disdain. Things were looking up, after all! It might become an entertaining morning at that.

He demanded, “Show yourself, Goat!”

I turned my head toward him, the bare bone, glowing snake-like eyes and fangs of the skull giving the impression of utter puzzlement. (Glamor spells are delightful and easily cast, if you know how!) “I am, Doctor. This is me. You know it too. Just because my body is invisible does not mean that I am not here.”

“You know what I mean!”

I drew myself up. “Yes. You want me to make you more comfortable with the situation. I saw your ad, endorsed by the whole Medical Association. Your request that I alter my appearance for your comfort is denied, unless you pay me to cast a glamor spell on my person to render myself visible. That will cost you 20 Golden Bits.”

“Not a copper for your bogus illusions!”

Batting the eyelashes that I don’t have in pure innocence, I retorted, “You mean the ones that YOU personally could not tell from reality in the open courtroom, in front of the judge and jury?”

The sound of his teeth grinding was pure music.

“Now, Doctor, why are you here at all?”

“YOU KNOW WHY I AM HERE!”

“No need to shout, Doctor, and no I do not.”

Crossly, the Doctor snapped, “You are practicing medicine without a license! You must stop it at once!”

“Now, Doctor Crossly, you know that is simply a lie! Your association already tried suing me on that claim. You lost. I counter-sued for defamation. I won.

“Where is the gold that I was awarded? It is four months late! Do you have it on you? Payment arrangements perhaps?” I asked eagerly. I was leaning forward with fascination. Gold and silver always interest me.

Doctor Crossly growled, “You will not get a copper bit from us!”

I noticed a lovely pure black ear over in my open vault-like doorway.

Glaring at my somewhat intimidating skull with its curled horns, glowing snake like eyes, fangs and the everburning candle between the horns, he demanded again, “Show yourself! Stop this ridiculous puppetry and foolish illusions!”

Delighted that I had got under his skin, I replied pedantically, “Now, Doctor Crossly, this is a Glamor Spell, not an illusion. You should remember the difference from your courtroom embarrassment. An Illusion has only an appearance but no substance. A Glamor, on the other hoof, has the both the appearance and effect of substance, even if there is none in reality.”

It was delightfully easy to shove his buttons! Dealing with Doctor Crossly in court had showed me a good many of them.

Unwisely, he took a swing at what he could see. My skull.

I am attached to my skull. Not, however, like most are. It is the last and only part of my old body from before I died/was killed. I can take it off like a hat if I want to. (For details on how Grumpy got this way, read A Bad Day For Grumpy Goat.)

I did not want to. I blocked his swing with my right, feeling the shock of it right up to the shoulder that I do not really have! My counter punch with my left hoof took Doctor Crossly in the ribs and did not stop for over six inches after impact.

The counter-punch slammed Doctor Crossly off his hooves. He lay curled around his pain and the embarrassment of a goat hoof shaped bruise. I could see it in his eyes. A Goat! How dare the creature strike a true pony! A unicorn and a doctor!

Just at that moment, as if the world was conspiring against him, a lovely pure black mare put her head out of my iron door, set into the sold iron work that blocked the cave entrance. Coalsmoke said brightly, “I was setting the library shelves into order, Grumpy. I can’t seem to find Daring Do, number 12, The Gryphon’s Quest. Any idea where it is?”

Glancing down she said dismissively , “Doctor Crossly! Why are you on the ground?”

Getting slowly to his hooves, the doctor snapped, “He struck me violently and without cause!”

Coalsmoke calmly replied, “That is false, Doctor. I watched the whole thing from the door, here. I saw you swing at Grumpy’s head. He simply defended himself. It is not his fault if you are a lousy fighter.

“Now, quit changing the subject every time that you are in the wrong, which seems to be most of the time! WHY are you here at all? I saw your Ponyville Medical Association full page ad in the Prancer. You know the one. “WHICH Doctor? Or WITCH doctor?” Have YOU chosen the Witch Doctor? That would be lovely.”

Doctor Crossly snapped, “I am here to demand that he stop treating medical conditions! Only Qualified Doctors can do that!”

I snickered and replied, “Why didn’t you just say so and leave? You know that the courts ruled on the matter when you sued me. Not one of my registered contracts that you entered into evidence, made any statements about TREATMENT. They specified desired results. They also offered a better than money back guarantee if the result failed to happen. They all did happen through a concatenation of natural events, not some form of treatment.”

The doctor paced back and forth on my ledge as he growled, “All of those patients quit necessary medical treatments and medications!”

Coalsmoke batted her perfect eyelashes at him as she rammed a stick through his spokes. “They all quit because they got well and did not need you anymore. Your real objection is that it stopped you from doing a vital operation on all of them.”

“What operation do you mean?”

Giggling in delight, she retorted, “CASHECTOMY of the WALLET!”

Doctor Crossly was furious! He was going to need a dentist if he kept grinding his teeth together like that! I cheerfully told Doctor Crossly, “Wait just a bit, will you? I have something that you, as head of the Medical Society, need!”

I popped inside the cave to my front chamber living quarters and took up a sheet of my letterhead. I am a licensed practitioner of non-equine magic, after all. A Professional.

I sat and pulled the writing kit close. Dipping the pen, I started to write.

Outside, Coalsmoke was sitting comfortably in the sun. She is a vision of loveliness, even to a goat. Truly a beautiful pony. The pure blackness of her glossy coat disturbed only by the orange hourglass like mark on each flank. It was just like the one seen on the abdomen of a black widow spider.

Doctor Crossly glared at her. “Have you no shame? Being seen here with a Goat? This vile beast of so-called non-equine magic?”

Coalsmoke looked at him brightly, as if examining a really fascinating and very ugly bug. “I would be far more ashamed to be seen with YOU, Doctor. At least Grumpy is honest.”

“What do you mean by that, you husband murdering hussy!”

Instead of reacting to the insult, Coalsmoke smiled. A hungry Eastern Tiger seeing easy prey would have turned quietly away if its prey had smiled at him like that. “Oh, dear. Doctor Crossly, I will have to file charges of incompetence against you. It is YOUR signature on TWO of the six death certificates of my dear late husbands. You totally missed the true cause of death both times, if what you just said is true.”

She innocently batted her perfect eyelashes at him and suggested, “Prove your assertion. You personally attend three of the deaths of my six husbands so far. You did two of the autopsies and and assisted on a third.

“The first died of a tree limb falling on his head after lightning hit the tree. You certified accident of nature.”

“The second was playing chess at his club. He suffered a sudden heart seizure and passed in seconds surrounded by witnesses. You certified S node heart failure.

“The third one that you were involved in died of an antibiotic allergy while in Ponyville General Horsepital for observation of a lung complaint. The antibiotic in the bag was the right one. You administered the antibiotic that killed him. It was in the injection site swab.

“Would you care to comment on your degree of incompetence? You just said that they were murders. Since YOU caused one of those deaths, why not put murder on the death certificate?”

Absolutely embarrassed, Doctor Crossly tried his favorite tactic. Changing the topic. “How else do you account for all of your husbands dying?

Utterly nonplussed, Coalsmoke replied, “Why, usually with the help of the Medical Society, I pick them for a prognosis of a short lifespan. Usually due to a chronic or terminal condition.

“If the Medical Society can’t help me, I come up here and get Grumpy to call up the Litch King. He can usually tell me pretty exactly how long a pony will live if nothing interferes.”

At that point, I came cheerfully out of the cave. I handed Doctor Crossly a folded paper. “This is your Medical Society’s formal notice of my intent to sue. The cause is slander and libel for the ad in the Prancer.”

He was about to wad it up. Coalsmoke said, “Feel free. The Intent will be registered. I am a witness to service.” She cheerfully hoofed a signature on a delivery receipt.

I did overhear the previous conversation with the Doctor so I decided to yank his chain. Being rude to Coalsmoke is a sure way to get to me. She is one of the few real friends that I have.

I looked back into the cave to be sure that Clarence was there. The Litch King only lets his friends call him that. Clarence is not really his name but it lets us be informal.

He was. He had a book in hoof. He gave me the high-sign. He had heard the insult to Coalsmoke too. Like me, for some reason, the Lord of the Dead has very few friends. She is one.

I turned to her and said, “Sweet Incarnation of the Queen of the Damned, you requested Audience with the Litch King. I have raised him for you.”

Coalsmoke gave me a formal nod and replied, “Very good. Has he the Appointments?”

Back in the cave, Clarence gave a grin and hoof-up! He glamored the book in his hoof to a large, crumbling tome. The bare boned Alicorn skeleton that was the Litch King’s real form, paced solemnly out into full view. He held forth the tome opened to a place.

Coalsmoke looked at it, running a delicate hoof down the page. She nodded, “Thank you, Lord of the Dead. I have one other that I should like to see.”

She leafed back earlier in the ancient leather covered book. Finding a page, she began to run her delicate hoof down it. Muttering to herself, but loudly enough to be heard, “Crossit, Crossly, Cross ~ ~ ~ Here it is!”

The clatter of fleeing hooves accompanied Doctor Crossly’s exit from my ledge.

We were laughing so hard that we had to lean on each other to keep from rolling on the ground!

Clarence dropped the glamor on the book and let Coalsmoke have Daring Do, number 12, the Gryphon’s Quest. She happily shelved it and we all sat out in the now very nice day while I read to us all out of Daring Do and the Werehound.

Besides letting us call him Clarence, the Litch King has a weakness of sorts. He loves to be read to and is especially delighted by the Daring Do series of books.

We came to the chapter’s end in plenty of time for me to take a few contracts and my Intent to Sue down to the Hall of Records in the Ponyville Town Hall.

Coalsmoke came with me. She needed to go home to her mansion. Mansion? Yep. Twenty two rooms. Hundred acre estate and all the trimmings. Her chosen way of life has left her very rich indeed.

Place like that needs a lot of looking after and she is a wise manager of her resources.

So, why spend time up on my mountain with Clarence and I? Friendship. The same reason that she spends her free coin at Caramel Treat’s Sweets. Caramel, Fangrin her mate and I were the first real friends that she had. She came to us, beautiful and abused. Battered actually. She had some serious spine hidden in there. (for details, read Coalsmoke’s Cutie Mark.)

Now she is one of Ponyville’s richest ponies. Her company is sought out by the social elite for their parties and charity things. She is unfailingly generous. Some have accused her, like Doctor Crossly, of murder. Nothing could be further from the truth.

Knowing the Litch King and I, she has an inside track on how long a prospective husband is likely to live. Our little charade for Doctor Crossly had a grain of truth. She is actually the very best possible wife for each one. She simply takes ones that will not live long. She has even loved most of them. And been VERY practical about their passing. Hence, her wealth.

We got into town in plenty of time. We stopped by the Town Hall and registered my Intent to Sue and contracts. I also set up an appointment with Judge Coldheart. The subject was to obtain a Writ of Collection by Seizure against the Medical Society for past due judgments and the witnessed statement that they were not going to pay them. Coalsmoke signed a witness affidavit for that.

We cheerfully retired to Caramel Treat’s Sweets for a bite of dinner before we parted ways. Caramel is always delighted to see us. That feeling is mutual.

Due to her and her mate Fangrin being werewolf ponies, she is sensitive to the whole issue of discrimination and does not allow it in her place of business, or her home either.

As we walked into the outdoor dining plaza, another diner threw down his napkin and stamped over to say, “You should be ashamed of yourself, Madam! How dare you bring a GOAT into a respectable dining establishment!”

The waitress, a sweet palomino mare named Peanut Brittle, intercepted him. “Doctor Bale, please resume your seat. What you have just said is a violation of our protocols here at Caramel Treat’s. Both Coalsmoke and Grumpy are regulars here. If you do not like sharing an outdoors plaza with them, please pay your tab and leave.” She pointed to a well famed sign.

It said, “If you have a problem with any customer of mine, due to species, race or kind at all, please leave. If you try to cause any difficulty, WE BITE – HARD!” The words were flanked by a very well done portrait of Caramel on one side and Fangrin, her mate, on the other. In Wolf Form.

With bad grace, the Doctor returned to his table. He ostentatiously picked up his three copper bit tip.

Peanut smiled at that cheap show of stupid disapproval. She showed us to our favorite table. The Celestian Church, (denounced by Celestia as a worthless cult) was having a unicorn superiority rally in the park. (for details and a bit of fun, read IVY COVERED HALLS and Immortality?)

I commented cheerfully, “It must be Autumn already! The Nuts have fallen from the trees!”

Coalsmoke giggled and dropped one of those comments that accidentally lead to great things. “Too bad that your Friday the 13th spell only works on individuals. What fun it would be to watch things going wrong for that whole bunch at once!”

I was laughing at the thought when it hit me that maybe it could happen. I am a professional at Non-Equine Magic, after all. The best (and only) licensed practitioner of Non-Equine magic in all of Ponyville and surrounding areas.

It was her suggestion and Doctor Bale’s rudeness combined that led down the path of Doctor – Contagion – Non-Equine Magic’s contagion spells + Friday the 13th = Eureka! I pulled a sheet of paper and my writing kit out my saddlebag. I was happily scribbling the connective spells when Peanut brought our dinners out.

She considerately set mine to one side of my paper and lit the table’s candle in a bottle. She said, “Doc Bale always finds an excuse to 'take back his tip’ just like today.

“He went over to the Rally.”

Coalsmoke grinned. “Thanks for your always excellent service, Peanut. Here.” She gave Peanut a whole Silver Bit. Thinking a moment, she handed another to Peanut. “I will get this back from him later. He is onto something and I want to watch!”

I held up the paper and muttered, “Bungle!” at it. Some of the smallish diagrams began to glow. I followed that with, “Hortimer!” Then I stuck the paper into the candle flame.

It flared lightly, leaving no ash at all. A smoke curled up and the tip of it aimed like a hunting hound at the Celestian High Priest Hortimer. It shot across the street and into the park.

High Priest Hortimer is a pony that I have no liking for at all. Watching the Friday the 13th hit him was, as a result, a delight. He reared impressively and one hind hoof caught his fancy white and gold robe. He tripped and fell heavily onto the make-shift stage. Three of his toadies leaped at once to help their fallen leader!

I mentioned, make-shift? They all went through the deck of the stage, making a hole that Hortimer’s head dropped into. Another, trying to assist, accidentally dropped Hortimer’s whole forequarters into the hole.

There was Hortimer, head first in the hole, hind legs waving wildly in the air. That was when I noticed the reporter from the Ponyville Prancer. Romaine was getting some fine shots of the whole debacle.

Doctor Bale was standing at the edge of the crowd between the stage and us. He tried to set off an Anti-Goat mob by yelling, “Goat! Over there! He did this!”

It did not help that he was right! The mob turned as one. In the last coordinated movement of their day, they charged toward Caramel’s. Doctor Bale was in the way. The charge became a massive pony-pile on top of him!

Romaine’s camera got a workout! We got a huge giggle fit. Watching the disaster made the meal tastier, somehow.

I trotted happily up the mountain to my cave through a glorious sunset and falling dusk. The iron door to my cave opened for me. Clarence was waiting for me.

Made me feel sort of special. Not every pony or goat, for that matter, has the Litch King greet him at the door and be welcome! Most would, justifiably, panic if it happened to them!

Clarence was grinning. That really should be impossible with his face, and the rest of him for that matter, being bare bone. It wasn’t. He was grinning.

“I saw what you did, Grumpy! It was in the late Prancer. It was delightful. Doctor Bale was one of the ones who helped to make that advertisement that you disliked so. He went to the Horsepital Emergency Room shortly after all of those ponies trampled him.

“That was a merry scene! Stands got tripped over, and a syringe full of sleeping medicine stabbed his rear when he tripped on a blanket. That finally stopped him from moving and creating chaos! His bill is going to be huge!”

With that delightful news, I let the glamor on my body go and picked up my skull from its stand beside my easy chair. I sat and sorted my day’s mail. The late edition Prancer was included. It had been opened by Clarence. Coalsmoke sent a note with it. “Dear Grumpy: They wasted no time getting this on the streets! I thought that you and Clarence would enjoy it. C~”

I looked up from the news paper. Alongside the huge lead article with many pictures of Hortimer’ embarrassing disaster, they had printed Celestia’s latest Denunciation of the So-Called Celestian Chuch. Romaine, the reporter, had column inches galore again.

She is paid by how many inches of of her work in the newspaper columns are published. That includes photos. She is presently the highest paid reporter on the paper’s staff.

Clarence likes her. He met her at a Nightmare Night party thrown by Caramel Treat and Fangrin. She has been VERY lucky about being in the right place at the right time ever since.

The next morning, she was up at the ledge in front of my cave. Along with her were ten ponies with clearcut medical conditions. One had a running sore up his left foreleg, another had the stiff and painful movement of severe arthritis, one was coughing heavily, one was being guided by another due to impaired vision. Then there was the boil infested pony, and the one that had ribs sticking out from his sides like he was starved. The others were all of the same cut.

Romaine, being a good reporter, was staying out of the story, off to one side, taking notes and photos.

I started off by asking, “OK, you ponies are all clearly outside of my legal practice in Non-Equine magic. You should be seeing your regular doctors. What brings the lot of you here?”

The arthritic pony said, “I was sent here by my doctor. He said that you would give me a potion or some such that would fix this right up.”

“I am afraid that your doctor lied. That would be treating a medical condition. If I wanted to and could do it that way, I still would not. It happens to be against the law.”

The blind one asked plaintively, “What about my eyesight? Doc Bale said that you could, like dance around a diagram, what he call it, penta sometheing. Wave wands or rattles and shit to call the spirits to fix my eyes.”

Almost sadly I replied, “Same story. I can not do it that way at all. It would have the side effect of killing you outright. It would also be an illegal treatment of your medical condition.

“Doctor Bale sent you?” A suspicion was rising like a deadly serpent preparing to strike in my mind.

I asked, “Each of you, one at a time, who was the doctor that sent you to me?”

Instead of replying Coughing Pony asked, “You mean that you can’t help us at all? My doc said that I am terrible contagious.”

“I did not say that I can’t help you. I said that I can’t do it the way that your lying doctors said. They had me in court and lost on these very issues.

“Now. Your Doctor’s name.”

“Um, Crossly.”

The list grew. They were all sent by either Doctor Crossly, the head of the Ponyville Medical Society, or Doctor Bale who was his second in command. Definitely a set up.

I told them all, “Wait here a bit. Non-Equine magic does follow certain rules. There are laws to check as well. I am going to be a little time looking things up.

“If I am right, I may be able to help you without breaking any law or rule.”

I popped back into my cave and hit the book shelf. Between what I had done to the Unicorn Superiority rally and Coughing Pony mentioning contagious, I had a perfectly evil idea. I dug through my real magic shelf like a hungry cat after a mouse! Being me, if I could do it, I was going to. It looked almost too good, in a wonderfully cruel way!

I grabbed one of my contracts, some extra paper and a pen. I wrote with feverish swiftness.

I came out in a few more moments. I had paper, a pen a candle, and one of my contracts, ready to sign.

Cheerfully, I asked, “Who wants to save a whole lot of gold bits?”

They all affirmed variations of “Sure do!”

I smiled at them all in a very predatory way. “I charge for my services. 100 golden bits is my lowest normal base charge. I do not need to be a genius to see that you are all pretty poor.

“I have to be paid. That is a condition of how the magic works. What I will do to save your pocket books is simply this. We will make it one contract, split ten ways. That reduces your charge to only ten apiece.

“If it does not work the way that the contract says, you all get eleven gold bits back. Fair enough?”

The pony with the running sore on his leg squinted his eyes and demanded, “What does it cost besides the gold? Do we lose our souls or worse?”

“Nope. This contract is with me and me alone. I have exactly zero use for your soul if, indeed, you have one. I would not know. Not my business in any case.

“You put up ten golden bits. You sign the contract. That is it. The front page was drawn up by a lawyer pony and is standard on all of my contracts. All that it does is specify the amount to be paid, the terms for fulfillment and refund if the contract is not fulfilled.

“The second page is, in this case, a simple statement that each of the undersigned, which will be you all, are afflicted with a medical condition.

“It further states that you will do a simple task that I will give to each of you. After that, sometime inside of six hours after you physically touch or are touched by your doctor, you will no longer be afflicted by your condition.

“Finally, it clearly states that you understand that you have received no form of treatment for your affliction. The fact that your affliction is not afflicting YOU in no way means that the affliction has abated or been treated.”

The Boils Pony asked in a very puzzled tone, brows drawn down in vee as he tried to work it out, “How can it not afflict us if it ain’t treated or abated?”

I grinned hugely. “The short answer is Non-Equine magic! The longer one is my actual business. If I do not come through with the RESULTS promised, I owe you money. More than you paid. I am allergic to giving out refunds.

“I did once. (for details, read Turnabout, a Grumpy Goat *tail*) The spell did work. Client claimed his refund because I had nothing to do with how it worked out, in spite of the contract saying specifically that the money was mine if he got the RESULTS. He did get the results. He also claimed his refund. He has regretted that decision ever since.”

They thought it over and nodded. Each one hoofed his signature or mark on the contract and paid his ten golden bits.

Coughing Pony was the last. He looked up, “What now, Mister Goat?”

I set the two signed pages of the contract onto blank pages and pressed them together. I took off the top, original pages and folded them into an envelope marked “Registry.” I folded together paired copies and put them each into envelopes and gave each pony one. Smiling, I explained, “Making copies like this is technically called a contagion spell. Has nothing to do with being sick.”

I hoofed around slips of paper. “These are already set with the spell that you have all bought. You need only sign your name or mark to your slip and say your doctor’s name as you burn the paper in this candle flame.

“That will set the spell safely on you. There will be a small smoke from the paper that will go into you. It is harmless. It carries the spell that that will release you from your afflictions without breaking any laws or rules.”

It took almost no time at all for them to do it. Romaine did observe, “They are all still sick.”

I nodded, “Indeed they are. I did say that I cannot treat their afflictions because they are medical conditions. Follow them and see how it happens!”

Turning to the group, I suggested, “They sent you en massé. Demand to be seen the same way. Let them tell the whole group of you what a fraud I am for not healing you! Remember, each of you must touch or be touched by your doctor! Romaine’s camera will prove it.”

Romaine knew me well enough to say, “Come, gentle ponies, you have a Doctor’s appointment to keep!”

She gave me a questioning look when I glamored the appearance of a regular goat on my body and put my skull on the reading stand by my easy chair. I came out to join them, saying, “This should be too much fun to miss!”

Clarence stuck his bony head out the door and asked, “May I come too, Grumpy?”

“Sure! Just not like that! It could alarm some to see you that way!”

“Right,” said the Funeral Director looking pony who was standing where Clarence was only moments before. He tipped his tall black hat to Romaine and we all trooped down the mountain.

It was a merry little parade through Ponyville to the Medical Society office building. Literally the halt leading the blind. We were all met by Doctor Crossly. Doctor Bale was standing behind him, a triumphant grin on his face.

I was hanging back along with Clarence. Doctor Crossly, making a grand gesture, declared, “Just look at these poor ponies! Not a one helped in any way by that quack of a goat! It is clear that his claims of healing are totally false!”

Romaine stepped forward, “Sir, I am Romaine, of the Ponyville Prancer. May I quote you?”

“You may! This has proved for good and all that he can do no sort of actual magic of any sort. Only a true Unicorn or other honest pony has any magic!”

Romaine made notes as well as photos. Then she raised her hoof again. “Doctor, these ponies are all patients of yours or Doctor Bale’s. Considering that Mister Grumpy Goat has demonstrated a talent for illusion, should you not actually examine them before making any pronouncement?

“I mean, what if he was attempting to trick you into looking foolish by illusions?”

Clarence was grinning ear to ear.

Doctor Bale stepped up and said, “We are prepared for that. We have here, High Priest of the True Church of Celestia, Hortimer! He will first dispel any illusion or trickery. Then we shall examine each of these ponies to prove the falseness of Non-Equine magic and expose the Goat, its bogus practitioner!”

Clarence was almost beside himself with giggles. I was truly tempted to cast another Friday the 13th on him but there was a better way. Fortunately, I was prepared. The small slip of paper had my name on it.

As Hortimer, in his full phony finery stepped forward, I muttered his name and the paper flamed away without any ash. The smoke almost invisibly hunted him down as he was casting his holy waters and ringing his bell at each verse of the HOLY TRUTH of CELESTIA.

I giggled too. I had last night’s late Extra of the Prancer with Celestia’s most recent denunciation of the Celestians as a worthless cult in my saddlebag. This was almost too good.

Hortimer stepped back, pronouncing, “They are dispelled of all evil influence, illusion or false seeming!”

The Doctors took each pony in turn to examine. The afflicted ponies were put in a line in front of the Medical Society, weeping sores, blindness and all.

Doctor Crossly yielded the podium to Hortimer, who pronounced with a grand gesture, “Not one of these ponies has been healed at all! This PROVES that the Vile Goat can not do do as he claims and cure anything whatsoever!”

Doctors Crossly and Bale were flanking Hortimer and nodding triumphantly. Romaine stepped forward and asked, “Romaine, of the Prancer, High Priest, Sir. May I quote you?”

Condescendingly he replied, “It is of little note, being self evident that the goat is not a unicorn, but yes, you may quote me.”

She pressed on, “Isn’t it true that the Medical Society made those claims and that they lost the case and a defamation counter suit brought by Grumpy Goat in the courts of Equestria, four months ago? It was proved then that he never made any such claim. Isn’t that true?”

Hortimer snapped, “The courts were led into error by the lying beast!”

He and Doctor Bale stopped, looking about in puzzlement. “What has happened to Celestia’s sweet light?”

Among the ponies lined up in front of them came an exclamation, “I can see again!”

Doctor Crossly’s foreleg began to show the stain of a weeping sore on a foreleg. He started to sit in puzzlement, to pull up the medical coat leg to see the sore. He discovered immediately that it is unwise to sit on multiple boils. Hortimer was making the same discovery and coughing too. Crossly joined him. A sore was weeping through the foreleg of his white and gold priestly robe. Hortimer’s ribs began to show as he became emaciated.

Bale’s ribs followed suit.

Each of them received the afflictions of his patients as the patients became affliction free. Hortimer got the entire lot. I have mentioned my dislike of that pony?

Romaine’s camera was getting the whole thing on film!

Just as the last of the afflicted ponies became free of problems, Doctors Crossly and Bale got another.

Constables showed up with building condemnation tape. One handed Doctor Crossly a writ from Judge Coldheart. He said, “Doctor Crossly, sir, as the representative of the Ponyville Medical Society, I must formally demand payment of the ten thousand golden bit Defamation Judgment to Grumpeter Goat immediately. Will the Medical Society pay the order of the court?”

He retorted, “No! Equestria does not allow debtor’s prison and you can hardly imprison the whole society in any case!

“That was the answer that we were instructed to expect, sir. We have no choice but to enforce the Writ.

“This entire building and all of its contents are seized on the debit. It will all be inventoried and auctioned off. If there is any balance after the debit and costs of court, inventory, and sale, that balance will be rendered to the Society. We are to allow the supervised removal of provable personal goods.”

The remaining two constables began to efficiently secure the condemnation tape, forbidding any further access to the structure.

It was sweet music to hear the whines and complaints of the recipients of the unhealed, untreated afflictions as they were led or helped away from the scene.

Romaine was near dancing with delight. She popped past us, exclaiming, “Column Inches! I never dreamed that I was going to get this big a story!”

Clarence stopped her with a courtly gesture. “Grumpy and I would be honored to treat you to an open menu at Caramel Treat’s when you have got your story filed.”

She exclaimed, “It’s a date, Clarence! This is going to take me about an hour to get into shape! I will be hungry by then, you may be sure!” She scampered off to the Prancer’s offices.

We were waiting for Romaine at Cramel’s place when Coalsmoke cantered up. “Grumpy! I just heard how you are going to get the Medical Society’s payment! Excellent. I will have to remember that method for some debits that I am owed.”

I replied, “Why thank you, Coalsmoke. We are waiting for Romaine to finish filing a delightful story in the Prancer. Would you please join us?”

As she sat, she said, “Thank you, Grumpy. I would be honored.”

When Romaine arrived, she had galley proofs of the whole story to share with us.

The excellent company and reading the proofs made it a meal to remember.

–THE END–

Return to the Master Story Index

Return to MLP Fan Fiction

[ninadove]

Nina reads Dracula 🦇

October 3rd

GOODNESS GRACIOUS I knew the horrors were coming but my feeble soul was not prepared for this level of violence. I may need a little bit of brandy myself, but all I have is coffee. Oh well.

"He came up to the window in the mist, as I had seen him often before; but he was solid then—not a ghost, and his eyes were fierce like a man's when angry. He was laughing with his red mouth; the sharp white teeth glinted in the moonlight when he turned to look back over the belt of trees, to where the dogs were barking. I wouldn't ask him to come in at first, though I knew he wanted to—just as he had wanted all along. Then he began promising me things—not in words but by doing them." He was interrupted by a word from the Professor:—

"How?"

"By making them happen; just as he used to send in the flies when the sun was shining. Great big fat ones with steel and sapphire on their wings; and big moths, in the night, with skull and cross-bones on their backs."

OF COURSE I SHOULD HAVE KNOWN

"So when He came to-night I was ready for Him. I saw the mist stealing in, and I grabbed it tight. I had heard that madmen have unnatural strength; and as I knew I was a madman—at times anyhow—I resolved to use my power."

🥺

With his left hand [Dracula] held both Mrs. Harker's hands, keeping them away with her arms at full tension; his right hand gripped her by the back of the neck, forcing her face down on his bosom. Her white nightdress was smeared with blood, and a thin stream trickled down the man's bare breast which was shown by his torn-open dress. The attitude of the two had a terrible resemblance to a child forcing a kitten's nose into a saucer of milk to compel it to drink.

K I L L H I M

She shuddered and was silent, holding down her head on her husband's breast. When she raised it, his white night-robe was stained with blood where her lips had touched, and where the thin open wound in her neck had sent forth drops. The instant she saw it she drew back, with a low wail, and whispered, amidst choking sobs:—

"Unclean, unclean! I must touch him or kiss him no more. Oh, that it should be that it is I who am now his worst enemy, and whom he may have most cause to fear." To this he spoke out resolutely:—

"Nonsense, Mina. It is a shame to me to hear such a word. I would not hear it of you; and I shall not hear it from you. May God judge me by my deserts, and punish me with more bitter suffering than even this hour, if by any act or will of mine anything ever come between us!"

They’re everything your honour 🥺❤️

"He had been there, and though it could only have been for a few seconds, he made rare hay of the place. All the manuscript had been burned, and the blue flames were flickering amongst the white ashes; the cylinders of your phonograph too were thrown on the fire, and the wax had helped the flames." Here I interrupted. "Thank God there is the other copy in the safe!"

THANK GOD FOR MINA

I turned to wake Jonathan, but found that he slept so soundly that it seemed as if it was he who had taken the sleeping draught, and not I. I tried, but I could not wake him.

The Dracula Loop™ never lies

'First, a little refreshment to reward my exertions. You may as well be quiet; it is not the first time, or the second, that your veins have appeased my thirst!'

A little refreshment??? FUCK YOU

You have aided in thwarting me; now you shall come to my call. When my brain says "Come!" to you, you shall cross land or sea to do my bidding; and to that end this!

It keeps getting worse where is my goddamned brandy

Jonathan’s journal starts exactly as happily as expected:

As I must do something or go mad, I write this diary.

And continues just as merrily:

As it was, he thought that on the attendant's evidence he could give a certificate of death by misadventure in falling from bed. In case the coroner should demand it, there would be a formal inquest, necessarily to the same result.

H O W

When the question began to be discussed as to what should be our next step, the very first thing we decided was that Mina should be in full confidence; that nothing of any sort—no matter how painful—should be kept from her.

Better late than never

"I should get a respectable locksmith, and set him to work to pick the lock for me."

"And your police, they would interfere, would they not?"

"Oh, no! not if they knew the man was properly employed."

"Then," he looked at me as keenly as he spoke, "all that is in doubt is the conscience of the employer, and the belief of your policemen as to whether or no that employer has a good conscience or a bad one. Your police must indeed be zealous men and clever—oh, so clever!—in reading the heart, that they trouble themselves in such matter."

Van Helsing mocking the police is not what I expected from this entry, but I’ll take it.

"Look here, old fellow," said Morris, "it is a capital idea to have all ready in case we want to go horsebacking; but don't you think that one of your snappy carriages with its heraldic adornments in a byway of Walworth or Mile End would attract too much attention for our purposes? It seems to me that we ought to take cabs when we go south or east; and even leave them somewhere near the neighbourhood we are going to."

LOOK AT MY QUINCEY BEING SO SMART

"Do you forget," he said, with actually a smile, "that last night he banqueted heavily, and will sleep late?"

Look at Van Helsing being Van Helsing!

Now let me guard yourself. On your forehead I touch this piece of Sacred Wafer in the name of the Father, the Son, and——"

There was a fearful scream which almost froze our hearts to hear. As he had placed the Wafer on Mina's forehead, it had seared it—had burned into the flesh as though it had been a piece of white-hot metal. My poor darling's brain had told her the significance of the fact as quickly as her nerves received the pain of it; and the two so overwhelmed her that her overwrought nature had its voice in that dreadful scream. But the words to her thought came quickly; the echo of the scream had not ceased to ring on the air when there came the reaction, and she sank on her knees on the floor in an agony of abasement. Pulling her beautiful hair over her face, as the leper of old his mantle, she wailed out:—

"Unclean! Unclean! Even the Almighty shuns my polluted flesh! I must bear this mark of shame upon my forehead until the Judgment Day." They all paused. I had thrown myself beside her in an agony of helpless grief, and putting my arms around held her tight. For a few minutes our sorrowful hearts beat together, whilst the friends around us turned away their eyes that ran tears silently.

Has she not suffered enough?

There was hope in his words, and comfort; and they made for resignation. Mina and I both felt so, and simultaneously we each took one of the old man's hands and bent over and kissed it. Then without a word we all knelt down together, and, all holding hands, swore to be true to each other. We men pledged ourselves to raise the veil of sorrow from the head of her whom, each in his own way, we loved; and we prayed for help and guidance in the terrible task which lay before us.

I am once again wondering how anyone could come out of this book thinking that A. the Count is some sort of sexual liberator and B. these men are motivated by anything other than love and a (somewhat misguided, but again this was 1897) sense of chivalry

To one thing I have made up my mind: if we find out that Mina must be a vampire in the end, then she shall not go into that unknown and terrible land alone. I suppose it is thus that in old times one vampire meant many; just as their hideous bodies could only rest in sacred earth, so the holiest love was the recruiting sergeant for their ghastly ranks.

HELLO????

I have written this in the train.

My tired brain read this as “I have written this in the rain.” I am devastated.

BUT ALSO we’re back to Jonathan writing in the train… Dracula Loop™ on a wider scale… Doubly devastated…

Back to Seward…

Last night he was a frank, happy-looking man, with strong, youthful face, full of energy, and with dark brown hair. To-day he is a drawn, haggard old man, whose white hair matches well with the hollow burning eyes and grief-written lines of his face.

To be loved and to love is to be changed…

His energy is still intact; in fact, he is like a living flame. This may yet be his salvation, for, if all go well, it will tide him over the despairing period; he will then, in a kind of way, wake again to the realities of life.

See? Resilience again! I am taking notes for this Feligami AU!

"Look out for D. He has just now, 12:45, come from Carfax hurriedly and hastened towards the South. He seems to be going the round and may want to see you: Mina."

Literally what would we do without Mina?

I could not but admire, even at such a moment, the way in which a dominant spirit asserted itself. In all our hunting parties and adventures in different parts of the world, Quincey Morris had always been the one to arrange the plan of action, and Arthur and I had been accustomed to obey him implicitly. Now, the old habit seemed to be renewed instinctively.

Literally what would we do without Quincey?

It was a pity that we had not some better organised plan of attack, for even at the moment I wondered what we were to do. I did not myself know whether our lethal weapons would avail us anything. Harker evidently meant to try the matter, for he had ready his great Kukri knife and made a fierce and sudden cut at him. The blow was a powerful one; only the diabolical quickness of the Count's leap back saved him. A second less and the trenchant blade had shorne through his heart. […] The expression of the Count's face was so hellish, that for a moment I feared for Harker, though I saw him throw the terrible knife aloft again for another stroke.

Oh Jonathan is pissed off

Her husband flung himself on his knees beside her, and putting his arms round her, hid his face in the folds of her dress.

Look at them… 😭

RIP Renfield you will be missed 😔❤️

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[therobotmonster]

Destructor Rex

A long time ago I grabbed a Lightyear Zurg figure at a Ross for around $8.

Lightyear bombing has been a bonanza of cheap, cool starships and custom fodder at Ollie's and Ross stores. I have the O7 Test ship currently being piloted by Evil Lyn (It's just a skosh too small for Origins guy characters).

I loved Zurg's huge figure's design, but have zero connection to that version of Zurg, so he was always going to be a custom. A Zuru Smashers Dino-Skull was a recent Bday gift, and it gave me an opportunity:

Zuru's high-end stuff is cool and comes with a ton of stuff your action figure collectors would be into, and one of the things that makes them cool is that they don't really blind-bag anything over $10. There's always a bone or claw or dino-head sticking out of the package that's color coded that lets you know what you're in for. In this case, a really huge hollow rubber dinosaur head.

So I popped it out of the nostril, traced the nostril hole onto some paper, used that to trace that onto the decapitated Zurg, dremmeled out the shape, made sure it was hollow enough for the plug, and boil-and-popped the head in place.

When it comes to boil-and-popping, be careful, the head is hollow and will hide hot water. But it also squishes nicely once heated and then hardens very solid once cooled, so I'm confident this connection is permanent.

The base of the head is D-shaped, so articulation isn't really possible, and you have to pose him kinda hunched (but that looks cool anyhow) but you don't need articulation when you're a foot taller than any other figure around.

The small Buzz that came with the ship I mentioned is in-progress with his own head transplant (from a smaller egg) but he will require some glue and I'm presently out.

[besidesitstoowarm]

"The Wedding of River Song" thoughts

wow, episode!

for as much happened in this episode, i'm not really sure what to say about it. given how much of a time-crunched mess the rest of the season, there was basically no chance the finale was going to blow me out of the water. this tied things up basically as well as it could have, i think, but mostly it made me wish i got to see the "good" version of this season. the bones are solid but the muscles and flesh and organs and skin are riddled with leprosy

i don't think i like the exchange "what happened to time?" "a woman" bc especially given the "there isn't another way"/"i didn't say there was, sweetie" exchange later, it kind of sounds like "some crazy LADY ruined everything bc of her HORMONES and FEELINGS" i don't think it was intended that way at all, just as a pithy shorthand for what did actually happen, but i don't really like the way the doctor talked to or about river in this. i liked "hell in high heels" as we all do but the "you embarrass me" made me actually cringe. i'll blame that one on the tesselecta pilot but still. they normally have such great banter but it just didn't flow here

i liked a lot of the little aesthetic elements of the episode, tho. the hall of skulls that eat rats, the viking playing "live" chess, charles dickens again! churchill as caesar, pterodactyl vermin in the park. all of history converging at once, not frozen but disintegrating, that's interesting, i liked that. i like that amy's previous exposure to the time rift while she grew up made her able to see things that others couldn't, remember things. even if the picture she drew of rory looked like rick astley. i got a good chuckle when the doctor said time was like a needle stuck on a record and churchill went "good god man have you never heard of downloads"

rip bridgadier alastair gordon lethbridge-stewart. i'm not sure why his death was mentioned in this one, maybe bc nicholas courtney had died earlier that year? maybe moffat had plans for kate in mind already and wanted to prime the audience a little bit?

i actually don't know why the doctor and river got married. admittedly i got kind of distracted in the important parts of this episode bc my stupid cat was fucking with my legos but is it just bc their marriage is as fixed as his death? damn and i was SO primed for this after "are you married, professor song" in the last finale. i don't really get why it happened. if i missed something important please tell me. of course "in prison all her days?" "her days, yes. her nights... that's between her and me" god damn boy i bet it is!!!!!

and of course. the best part of the episode. madame kovarian begging amy for help bc she's a friend of the doctor. amy says yes that's true "but you know what else the doctor is? not here." and she talks about how river is all grown up and fine but amy still never got to raise her baby! her baby is gone!! "river song didn't get it all from you, sweetie" god that's good. it's an echo of last season, river shooting the dalek "you are an associate of the doctor, records indicate you will show mercy" "i'm river song. check your records again"

i've been saying but amy is fucking crazy (compliment), given her multiple suicide pacts and her intense single-mindedness when it comes to the people she loves, and i was kind of hoping for a little more of that in river this episode, not the kind of grief that makes you weak but the kind that makes you volatile, less sad and more angry. i guess it's best they're not too similar as characters but i'd have loved a little bit of "amy's choice" sauce on this one

so yeah i think this is a real sweet 5-6/10. it did its best to wrangle the slapdashery of this season but that's like herding cats at a certain point