#wr3n writes

[wrenqueenisboss]

Chapter 20: Ivy Raloren

this is the last chapter of the first novel in my book series The Tortured Side of the Sword.

I hope you enjoy <3

tw// intense angst, lots of grief, tiny bit of body horror it's rough, guys

Brielle takes care of her. Somehow, while managing her own astronomical grief, Brielle manages to keep her alive. She gently drags Ivy out of bed, tells her to shower, and makes sure she eats enough.

Ivy couldn’t be more grateful, but it makes her feel guilty.

She picks aimlessly at her plate, tines of the fork just rearranging the food. It’s mindless, an intentionally wasteful use of time. It’s all she can bear to do when the idea of eating makes her stomach roil.

The rest of the dining hall is muted, conversation drowned by everyone’s sadness. The beginnings of silence are tense, strained, like someone dancing on the precipice of crying.

 “I don’t need you to take care of me anymore,” Ivy blurts out.

She winces, hating how strong the words sound.

Brielle flinches too.

“I-”

“What I meant was,” Ivy rushes to correct herself, dropping her fork onto her relatively untouched plate, “I shouldn’t be what you’re focusing on right now.” She swallows, trying to clear her throat. 

Brielle leans forward, elbows coming to rest on one of the many long tables in the dining hall. She bites the inside of her cheek, contemplative, careful, cautious as she chooses her next words delicately.

“Ivy,” she starts, voice already cracking, “you know that I thought of you and the twins like my children. It’s really, really hard not having them here– it’s hard with my husband and son so far away.” The woman has to clear her throat. “But I’m not going to lose you too.”

She smiles sadly, slowly reaching out a hand to cover Ivy’s.

“You’re slipping into self-destructive habits and there’s no way on Tella that I’m just going to let you go like that.”

Brielle’s eyes flash.

Ivy’s water.

“It’s okay to cry,” the woman across from her says, tender as always. “I’m here. It’s going to be alright. We’re going to get through it.”

Tears beginning to pool in the inner corners of her eyes, Ivy looks to the side, trying to make sure no one is watching her. Of course, everyone is absorbed in their own meals and muted conversation.

The floodgates open.

Ivy’s vision swims, blurred by liquid grief as her shoulders shake.

Brielle stands up and walks around the end of the table to the girl’s side. “Do you want to go somewhere else, darling?”

Her heart cracks.

Ivy nods, and she’s led away. Gentle hands steer her out of the dining hall and down the many long hallways in the estate. Warm-colored wood tries to comfort her, but all Ivy can think about is racing up and down these very same corridors with her friends.

They’re not coming back, she reminds herself, trying to stop the onslaught of memories that only serve to hurt. They’re not coming back and there’s no use in believing anything else.

Eventually, Brielle opens a door, leading both of them inside before she shuts it again.

Ivy drops down like a stone onto the couch she’s nudged towards, barely registering that they’re in one of the drawing rooms. She lets herself sink into the plush cushions, body melting into the corner.

Brielle sits down right next to her, arm outstretched in an invitation.

Ivy sighs and falls into her embrace, their sides pressed together as Ivy tucks her head into the crook of Brielle’s neck.

The woman brushes aside Ivy’s red hair, pulling her closer.

“Do you want to talk right now,” Brielle asks, carefully breaking the silence, “or do you just want to stay like this in silence for a bit?”

Ivy considers both options.

Her teary eyes fall shut as her muscles start to relax.

“Can you talk?” Her voice sounds broken. “I don’t want silence.”

From her spot tucked into the woman’s side, Ivy feels Brielle nod, feels her chest rise and fall with every breath. It’s calming, grounding.

There’s a second of suspenseful silence.

“In the weeks right after we took you three in, you were all really skittish,” Brielle begins, every syllable spoken softly and Ivy smiles at the memory. “Claire and I were scared you’d never open up.”

She combs a hand through Ivy’s hair, fingers grazing Ivy’s scalp.

Brielle continues her story and Ivy listens, lets the memories heal her heart.

“Your hesitation made perfect sense, of course, given the way you all grew up. Still, we were worried you’d never be able to call this place home,” the woman admits, still slowly running her hands through Ivy’s dark orange locks. “It took a bit, but you three fit perfectly into our massive family.”

Ivy smiles, knows the other is doing the same.

“Do you remember Theo?” Brielle asks, pausing her ministrations as she waits for an answer. When Ivy nods, she starts again. “Well, how could you not?” she laughs. “You were so sad when he left,” the woman whispers. “You cried for days.”

“We were together,” Ivy mutters. “Of course I was sad when he left.”

Brielle hums. “The point I’m trying to make is that even when you lose people you really, really loved, you can move on. You’re going to get through this– we all are.”

Ivy scowls. “I don’t think I ever really loved Theo, but there’s no doubt about whether or not I love my friends.”

The tears start pooling again and she doesn’t bother trying to wipe them away.

Brielle’s hold on her tightens. The woman presses a gentle kiss to the crown of her head.

“I’m sorry, darling,” she whispers into her hair. “I’m so, so sorry.”

Ivy trembles, bottom lip quivering as she tries not to cry. But with every circle Brielle rubs into her back, her resolve breaks more and more.

She cries, can’t help it.

Gods, Ivy thinks as she sobs into Brielle’s shirt, I’ve done this too much recently.

A dumb question, born out of heartbreak and grief, waits on her tongue. It’s been there, waiting, for three days now.

Brielle notices, whispering a quiet encouragement.

Ivy draws in a stuttering breath, trying to gather herself enough to ask. “Are you–” her voice breaks. “Are you sure they’re never coming back?”

She sobs harder at the punched out sound of Brielle’s heavy exhale.

“Yeah,” the woman whispers, and it sounds like she hates her own words. “Someone saw it happen.” She twirls a lock of Ivy’s hair around her finger, lets the gentle waves of auburn curl around her finger.  

Ivy cries harder.

The sobs echo in her empty heart.

Normally, Lilith and Derryn would hold her close when her eyes make riverbeds out of her cheeks. Normally, they’d trace the threadlines on her shirt. They’re not here, though– haven’t been in a few days.

Their absence will forever be unfamiliar, Ivy knows.

I miss you, sounds lame, pales in comparison to the gaping hole their deaths have left behind. Ivy says it in her head again, I miss you.

One more time, hoping Siles passes it on.

I miss you.

Brielle holds her together and it only makes Ivy feel worse, knowing she’s making a broken woman keep yet another soul’s fragments from shattering into smithereens too small to recover.

Ivy tries to wriggle out of the woman’s hold, tries to stop the tears and put enough air into her lungs to sit up and move away.

You’re hurt too! she wants to scream, would carve it into Brielle’s skin if that would work. 

Brielle doesn’t let her go.

Ivy’s sobbing turns ugly as she thrashes, chest heaving as her lungs empty, can’t get filled again. The lack of air is dizzying, disorienting and she only fights more, head whipping around so hard something in her neck starts to hurt.

She fights and fights and fights, trying to throw off the strong arms around her.

They tighten, squeeze even more air from her lungs.

Ivy gets ready to scream.

A hand covers the crown of her head, practically pets her hair and someone whispers reassurances in her ear.

Brielle.

“Shhh,” the wonderful woman coos, holding Ivy even tighter and bringing her onto her lapas her wild attempts at escape become weak shoves. “Ivy, Ivy, Ivy.”

Ivy stops fighting her, falls limp and just whimpers.

Brielle shushes her again and Ivy finally hears how her voice cracks.

They sit in silence, two people picking pieces of themselves from a sea of glass shards. Every attempt at recovery only hurts them more.

“I’m sorry,” Ivy says, throat raw from all of the crying. “That was unfair.”

The silence remains and she fears she’s lost another someone.

Brielle stays and Ivy doesn’t feel as lonely.

“This is gonna hurt for a long time, kiddo,” the woman says, heavy acceptance weighing down her shoulders and her words. “Trying to handle everything on your own is a suicide mission. Let me help you.”

Ivy trembles, exhausted and vulnerable. “What about you? You loved them too.”

Brielle sighs and Ivy feels the exhale on the top of her head. “I did.”

“Focus on yourself,” Ivy tries to argue. “You’re hurting.”

“Everyone’s hurting right now, baby,” Brielle counters swiftly, kindly. “Khal won’t leave his room and Nico won’t leave Clover’s bedside.” She runs her fingers through the girl’s hair again, finding comfort in the repetitive motions.

“I know how your heart works, Ivy, and leaving you alone is dangerous.”

Ivy looks down at her hands, watches her fingers shake as she realizes what the woman means. I don’t think I’d get that low.

Something in the back corner of her mind disagrees.

She screws her eyes shut tightly, banishing the evil thought.

“To be honest,” Brielle starts, “making sure you’re okay keeps me going. I’m being a little selfish, staying with you instead of doing anything else that’s required of me.” She kisses Ivy’s forehead, spills all her love into the gentle press of lips to skin. “You’re helping me right now, love.”

Ivy lets herself smile, lets herself get baited into the easy reassurance.

“What’d you do without me?” she tries to joke, wiping away leftover tears.

Brielle kisses her head again. “I don’t want to have to figure that out.”

Both of them let the silence hang for a few moments, let it soothe and heal wounds that will always leave ugly scars.

Lilith and Derryn won’t leave Ivy alone. She feels obsessive, maladaptive with the way she can’t stop thinking of them.

“They’re parents won’t know,” she whispers, burying her face in the crook of Brielle’s neck. “All the way in Lazia– there’s no way to tell them.”

Brielle sighs, hand coming to rest on Ivy’s shoulder. Her fingers twitch, creating little folds in the dark-green fabric. “They haven’t known anything about their children for years.”

Grief makes you vicious.

Ivy doesn’t stop to think about her words.

“What if Julien was dead and you didn’t know?”

Grief also makes you mean.

Brielle shoves Ivy to the floor, getting up from the couch as her gray eyes blaze. “Don’t you dare bring my family into this!” She hisses, features twisting as she jabs an angry finger in Ivy’s direction. “My son is perfectly fine.”

Ivy lifts her head up from where she fell, guilt pooling in place of her tears.

“I’m sorry,” she whimpers, all but begging for forgiveness.

Brielle shakes her head firmly, not meeting the girl’s eyes. “No,” she answers and there’s not even a ghost of her gentle nature left behind. “You were right, Ivy. You are being unfair. I tried to help you, and you just turned around and said–” she cuts herself off.

Maybe overwhelming emotion is to blame, instead.

“Everyone is hurting right now. Amia is missing, so Khal’s losing it, Nico’s afraid Clover’s not going to make it through the night, Lilith and Derryn aren’t coming back, Claire’s worried all of this was for nothing and I have to tolerate your miserable presence because I’m terrified you’re going to kill yourself!”

We’re all falling apart.

Brielle’s eyes are blown wide, brows furrowed and her whole body rises and falls with each heavy breath she takes.

Ivy blinks.

“I’m not going to do that,” she tries.

“I don’t believe you,” Brielle shoots back, monotonous and sad as she turns away, making her way towards the door. Hand hovering above the doorknob, she speaks.

“Later today, there’s going to be a Mourning Ceremony for everyone we’ve lost, if you want to make it.” She chances a look over her shoulder, and Ivy feels like crying again when the hinges creak as they’re moved.

Brielle’s already half out the door. “If I don’t see you at dinner, I’m assuming the worst.”

Ivy just falls back onto the floor, a dull thunk echoing through the room when the back of her skull connects with the thin rug beneath her.

She stares at the ceiling.

Her heart stays empty, cracks already splitting the fragile thing.

The dark whorls in the wood up above distract her, even as the sounds from outside float through the walls.

Ivy stays there on the floor.

Time passes.

She couldn’t tell you if it was seconds, minutes, days, or years.

Eventually, she hears people sing, sitting up slightly and walking to the door to open it. It’s difficult to take those ten steps with limbs that feel like they’ve been casted in concrete and a body that’s fragility could rival that of glass.

Ivy recognizes the melody of a classic mourning ballad and realizes hours have passed.

She sits down in the hallway, leaning against the wall as she lets the tune and harmonies of beautiful grief soothe everything angry inside of her.

She doesn’t feel like dragging herself up to join them in the dining hall.

I’ll mourn you from here, Ivy promises her friends.

She closes her eyes, head falling back against the wall.

Ivy hums along.

~

The End

[lady-wren-of-tella]

working on some poetry:

my parents are asleep in the living room I can't see anything through the windows the sun sets early now

my homework sits in front of me papers strewn across my placemat

the kitchen isn't cleaned dinner was three hours ago i still have to wash my plate

silence and solitude have been my friends for years but tonight, the quiet feels wrong

it's only ten someone should be talking

im not going to break the silence, though not when everyone else is resting

I shake silence and solitude's hands again invite them to this all-but-empty table they smile as they sit down, twins moving in unison

i do my homework with their company content with the music in my headphones

sometime later tonight i'll put myself to bed

[wr3n-writes]

poem snippet--

"he hands her a cup of sprite she smiles and takes a sip it tastes like freedom

he smiles back at her suddenly the fizzy drink tastes like spring honey like young love and recklessness"

[lizhly-writes]

that guy was so innocent lmao. just imagining him peering at current transmigrator yhr like "what happened to you, dude??" and our yhr deadpanning, "i got a backstory" lol.

in my head (even tho u said he has no issues), original draft yhr is kind of buying deep into toxic positivity ("if you just focus on all the good things happening right now you can outrun nihilistic existential despair and not think about the dark fate hanging over your head!") + dissociates from reality by considering him and everyone around him "just characters in a novel, it's kinda funny everything that happens, bc of course it would, this is a novel setting meant to be entertaining!" and now i want to him and current yhr to interact longer in a setting where they are siblings. lol

I think it makes sense if neither of them get to be Yang Haoran, because that's just going to be deeply confusing for everyone.

So we'll have Yang Haoyi (current transmigrator) and Yang Haolun (original draft).

Anyway.

"Does it bother you?" Yang Haoyi said, chin propped on his hands, watching his brother voraciously consume some cheap serial he'd picked up from the bookstore.

"No," Yang Haolun said. He rolled over on the bed so he was right-side up again. "Sorry, does what bother me?"

Even without context, it was a fair answer. Very little bothered Yang Haolun. Yang Haolun was a very peaceful in person, in general. He had a certainty about himself that Yang Haoyi would occasionally find himself jealous of.

"You don't remember anything at all," Yang Haoyi said. "Does that bother you?"

There was a pause. Barely noticeable, but still, it was there. "You mean that I don't remember anything about my past life except for some webnovel," Yang Haolun said.

At a young age, they'd realized something was wrong with them. Yang Haolun had been born with the bone-deep certainty that the world around him was playing out some sort of story, and hadn't kept it secret. Yang Haoyi, conversely, had been born with the bone-deep certainty that there was something wrong with his life, and had concluded that it was his brother's viewpoint that was the missing piece.

This seemed to be proven right, when Yang Haoyi could recite snippets of story that Yang Haolun had never told him. As they had gotten older, though, Yang Haoyi began receiving disconnected bits and pieces of some past life that went along with the story. Yang Haolun, in contrast, had never remembered anything of the sort.

In his place, Yang Haoyi could truthfully say he would be bothered. What it did it mean, living out a life and remembering nothing about it except for some random story? Did it mean that your life had been unmemorable? Did it mean there was nothing there at all you wanted to remember?

"Wow, you're thinking really hard about this, huh?" Yang Haolun said. "Drinking Meng Po's soup is the natural state of things, isn't it? The majority of mankind doesn't remember their past life, and they're not mad about it, so why should I be?"

"I remember," Yang Haoyi said.

"So you do," Yang Haolun said. "Congratulations, you're very special. Do you want a prize? I can get you... one ice cream. That'll take up my entire week's allowance, so you better be grateful."

[lizhly-writes]

Redacteeeeeddddddddd 👀👀👀👀👀👀

Uncle Yan had died trying to scream, his mouth full of flowers that the villagers had stuffed in his mouth.  

It hurt to think about that he let them do it.  Uncle Yan had been stronger than the people holding him down – he could have yanked himself away, or simply lit himself on fire, and he wouldn’t be dead today.  But Uncle Yan, on the whole, was the sort of person who preferred working things out.  Song Yinuo could follow his thought process pretty well.  The villagers were making such a fuss, but he was sure if they just let him talk, everything would be fine; if they wanted him to eat these flowers, that was okay, too.  They were only flowers.  What harm would they do?

Demon’s Bane, they called them. 

[lizhly-writes]

i now have the vivid image of clw ending up in transmigrator clw's world and going "...?" when finding out everything the "other him" did. What drugs did he take to get so much drive. Why on earth would any version of him be (*throws a dart at a high-powered position*) the CEO of a top fashion company. Lol

welp.

It wasn’t the first time Chen Liwei had woken up in a room with no idea how he got there. He couldn’t remember how many times he’d been kidnapped. He used to keep a tally, but he’d lost track at some point. It was too much of an effort to figure out the missing iterations, so he’d stopped there and never picked it back up again.

Whoever had kidnapped him this time didn’t bother securing him. No rope or zip ties around his wrists or his ankles. He was free to wander around the office --- an office with a view, how nice --- and do anything, like raid the fridge or try out the door. Maybe the door was unlocked. Maybe he could turn the handle and walk out, and no one would ever notice he was gone.

Chen Liwei would need to get off the ground first.

Slowly, he sat up, and arranged himself into a slightly more flattering position than flat on his back. There. Good enough. He’d check the door in a little bit.

“What the shit,” said a strangely familiar voice.

Or not.

There was a man standing in the doorway, neatly dressed as any businessman Chen Liwei had ever been arm candy for. He was probably not Chen Liwei’s kidnapper, considering how surprised he looked at the fact that Chen Liwei was sitting on his nice carpet.

Chen Liwei was sure he had never met him in his life, but there was something … familiar about him. Something about the face. Something about the voice. Something.

“Chen Liwei,” the main said.

“Yes,” Chen Liwei said.

The man’s expression turned angry.

… No, that wasn’t what happened. It was easy to assume it was anger, but there was no tension in the brows or the jaw or anywhere else. This was a fully relaxed face, it just happened to look angry.

Yes, Chen Liwei knew why this face looked familiar now. It had been unrecognizable when filled with any emotion at all, but when set in dead-neutral --

This was the face he saw in the mirror every day.

“Fuck,” said Chen Liwei’s identical twin.

‘Fuck’ was probably not his name.

While Chen Liwei pondered this, his twin stalked into the room and towards his desk. “I have a couch,” he barked out, which wasn’t a command, technically. He wasn’t technically telling Chen Liwei what to do. Chen Liwei didn’t have to. No one was stopping him from staying on the ground.

By the time Chen Liwei had decided that maybe sitting on the couch was worth the effort of unfolding himself from the floor, his twin was on a call. “ --- look, I just need you to --- you will? Good. You know where my office is, I just need you to take him for… four hours? Okay. Okay --- no. I’ll explain when you get there --- ”

Chen Liwei waited. Back straight, legs crossed, hands in his lap. Perfect posture --- he could always do at least that much while he was staring blankly at the wall opposite him. Briefly, he considered the door again. It occurred to him that it would be a good idea to check the date and time, since he didn’t know either. He might be late. Boss always hated when he was late.

He checked his phone. Nothing on his calendar. No missed calls. He was probably fine to just sit here, then. It seemed like a lot of work to do anything else.

“Hey,” said his twin, waving a hand in front of his face and frowning the moment Chen Liwei made eye contact. “You’re not supposed to be here.”

“Yes,” Chen Liwei said. That seemed self-evident enough.

“So I’m getting someone to look after you. He'll keep you company here for a few hours, that'll be when I'm done with my meeting. Then we'll hash things out.”

Chen Liwei didn’t have anywhere better to be. “Yes.”

His twin frowned harder. “You’re not even going to ask why?”

“Why are you getting someone to look after me?”

“That’s not what I --” he cut himself off with an irritated click of his tongue. “You don’t actually care, do you.”

It was more of a statement than a question, so Chen Liwei didn’t answer it. But it was true enough: Chen Liwei didn’t care.

Chen Liwei hadn’t cared about anything in a very long time.

[lizhly-writes]

Allison x Emily, 5!

5. one night stand and falling pregnant au hi it's been forever. honestly i was kinda surprised to see an ask for these guys lol it also feels like forever since they've shown up. anyway, idk how shippy this is (maybeee a lil fucked up?), buuut happy women's day.

When we were younger, Mother always called Emily my little doll – porcelain and perfect, always following after me.

Emily grew snappier about it as she grew older.  True, she would still go along with whatever I wanted, for the most part, but was she ever happy about it?  For a long time now, I couldn’t do anything but make her angry.  

But ah, it’s important to note: that wasn’t my problem last night, and the proof of it is naked in my bed right now, even if she is starting to pull my covers up over her chin.

“Shut up,” Emily says, hazily cracking an eye open, letting the faintest silver of gray peek through.  Such a pale color, almost white, not unlike cracked glass.  She used to have blue eyes.  I do miss them, sometimes, but either way, she’s lovely, even if she’ll never happily hear such a thing from me.  Emily, aren’t you aware that it’s important to know how to gracefully accept a compliment?

“I haven’t said anything, though?” I give her a charming smile that she will also never gracefully accept.  

Charming has always made Emily look like she wants to hit me over the head. Today is no different.  She absolutely looks like she’s contemplating violence, but instead actually attempting to strangle me with my own sheets, she says, “If you say anything, I’ll kill you.”

Unlikely.  I am, by all accounts – not just my own! – exceedingly difficult to kill.

“Whatever you want,” I say generously, taking the liberty to reach around, wrap an arm around her shoulders, pull her in.  It makes her grumble a bit, but she doesn’t try moving away.  I suppose it might be because I run hotter than she does.  Her skin feels so cool against mine.  I wouldn’t mind warming her up, if she was in the mood for a little morning exercise with me.

“You’re far too happy about this,” she says, cracking an eye open.

“Why wouldn’t I be happy about this?”  I lower my voice and my head to her face.  “A beautiful woman in my bed, isn’t that something worth celebrating?”

She snorts.  “I didn’t realize you had the leisure to be interested in this sort of thing.”

…Odd. To her, did I seem particularly busy as of late?

“I always have the leisure to be interested in this sort of thing.  Don’t you always say I have too much free time?”

Emily never did like how much I did with pretty boys and pretty girls.  

For whatever reason, this is what rouses her from half-aware drowsiness.  Wide awake now, enough that her frown is truly directed at me instead the general ungodliness of the early morning. “What are you talking about, I’ve never told you that before.”

This is a blatant falsehood.  We both know this.

“By any chance, is your memory going?  Ask Asher, he’ll tell you you’ve been saying it since we were all children.”

“Since we were.. all…children,” she repeats, slow and suspicious for absolutely no reason at all. Her eyes narrow.  “I’ve said this to Wilhelmina.  I’ve never said this to Allison.”

I don’t believe I enjoy the implications of that sentence.

“Allison? Who’s that, another pretty lady who’s caught your attention?”  The thought of it is irritating.  It’s bad enough, dealing with that Joachim.  Now Allison as well?  “You’ll really make me jealous talking like that.  Who wants to hear some other woman’s name in bed, mm?”

Names, names, names.  Do I know an Allison?  There’s Hannah, but is there some other little nothing that takes up Emily’s attention?

“Ridiculous,” Emily hisses. She pushes me off her and sits up, sheets falling down to her waist.  I don’t have much of a chance to appreciate the view before she hits me.

It’s a decent shot, knives scoring deeply through my face, scraping against bone. It’s also entirely unprovoked.  I don’t mind a fight – I love a fight – but Emily isn’t Asher.  I can’t imagine she’d actually enjoy this sort of thing in the bedroom.  Did I already make her angry today?

… Hmm.  I’m bleeding quite hard, actually.

Well, that doesn’t matter.  What matters more is how I’ve managed to invoke Emily’s displeasure.  Even when I’m deliberately annoying her, the most she’s ever done is insult me. She’s never actually hit me like this.  Is she just in the mood for a fight?  If she wants a fight, I’ll give her one.  Just as soon as I get all of this out of my eye.

There’s.  There’s so much blood in my eye.

No, that shouldn’t matter.  I don’t normally care about that sort of thing. Why do I care right now.  Something like this doesn’t mean anything to me.   I shouldn’t care.  This is fine.  Why do I feel like there’s something wrong.  Something’s wrong.  What’s wrong? 

…Hey.  Hey.

I’ve been fucking knifed in the face.

Of course there’s something wrong!  In any normal world, I’d be calling 911!  Fuck it, someone else would have to call 911, I’d be passed out on the ground!  Why am I acting like this is normal?  This isn’t normal! This – this – !

THIS REALLY FUCKING HURTS ACTUALLY.

“Jesus fuck,” I wheeze, immediately clamping my hand over the bleeding ruin in my face that used to be a working eyeball.  Fucking finally Wilhelmina’s healing starts kicking in beneath my fingers.  Why is that only happening now?  When I’m actually me, injuries start healing immediately, it shouldn’t be different for her.  Unless she decided to keep it from healing?  Why would she keep it from healing?

“Do you remember who you are now?” Emily says, spinning a knife or two in a fun little trick that I’m sure I’d appreciate more if I, you know, had two eyes.

“This is the shittiest morning-after,” I manage.  Isn’t the worst it gets supposed to be a… a… what’s it called.  One night stand.  A pump-and-dump.  What’s the fucking word I’m looking for.

“Your name.”

Right.  That. How could I forget.

It takes me a couple tries, but I get there eventually.  “Allison Lee,” I say to Emily’s incredibly unimpressed expression.  

“Very good, well done,” she says.

“Yeah, thanks, I appreciate it, are you happy.”

“I’m never happy,” Emily says flatly.  Then she turns away to rummage around for her clothing, because obviously stabbing someone in the face isn’t something to be concerned about at all.  I bet she does this kind of thing everyday, doesn’t she?

“Did you have to use knives,” I grit out. Where did you even get those.  You’re naked, there’s zero places for you to hide them.  How did you do that.  That’s not possible.  What the fuck.

“You’re getting increasingly immune to blunt force trauma, so as it happens, yes,” Emilly says, like that’s a reasonable thing to say.

I fucking hate this place.

Emily puts on clothes.  I sit on the bed with my hands over my eyes.  At some point, she says, “Are you going to lie down there all day.”

“Who’s lying down,” I say.

Me.  I’m lying down.  I don’t remember doing that.  It doesn’t really matter.

Emily sighs.  “Sit up.”

“Why.”

“You can go back to sleep if you want, I don’t care,” Emily says briskly.  “But you’re just smearing blood all over your face right now. It’s hardly hygienic.”

“So?”

I can feel her carefully, gently place her hands on my shoulders.  The faint warmth of her breath brushes against my skin.  Unnecessarily close.  Uncomfortably intimate. 

Then she yanks forward and forces me into a sitting position.  I’m almost glad to be in Wilhelmina’s body right now, because if I had actually been me, that would’ve done some terrible things to my shoulder joints.

“Put your hands down,” she says, and wrenches my hands away from my face by the wrists.

I squint at her with one eye.  She’s perfectly put together, fully dressed and hair neatly combed back.  You wouldn’t think at all that she’d been in bed with me five minutes ago, or… however long ago that was.

“You’re terrible,” I say.

“And you’re filthy,” Emily says.  “Don’t move.”  She grabs a wet towel from a bowl on the nightstand – I don’t think that was there before? – and starts wiping down my hands with the brusque, irritated efficiency of a woman who has to clean up her mud-covered child for the third time in three hours.

“I’m not a child.”

Emily holds the towel up to the light, frowning at the red smeared across it. She sets it aside, exchanges it for a fresh towel.  “If that was the case, you’d be cleaning up all by yourself.  But you aren’t doing that, are you?”

No. I’m not.

I don’t want to.  I don’t want to do much of anything right now.

“Not the eye,” I say, which is the one overwhelming desire I feel right now.

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Emily says, like it’s ridiculous that I don’t want her, the person who stabbed me in the eye, to come anywhere close to my eye. “Your eye is likely already healed, there’s no need to make a fuss about it.  You can’t walk around with your face like this.”

Can’t I?

It’s like this, day in, day out.  Can’t do this, can’t do that.  If it’s not Emily reminding me, then it’s my own logic keeping me in line.  Here’s a grocery list of guidelines of how to adjust your behavior, your thoughts, your everything. It’s not, after all, like you’re allowed to act like you.

What am I, anyway?  Certainly not the original Wilhelmina Sterling, but sometimes, I get so damn close. 

I hate this.  I hate her.  I hate this.

“And why not?” I snap out.  “Wilhelmina Sterling picks fights, is it really that weird if she picks the wrong fight and gets stabbed in the eye because of it?  Haven’t you always wanted to stab her in the eye anyway? No one’s going to think it’s weird that you finally had enough and did it!”

“What are you even trying to  – I haven’t always wanted to stab Wilhelmina in the face–”

“I’m sure Rosie Beckett’s always wanted to give it a shot.  But then again, that’s nothing new.  Who doesn’t want to stab her in the face?  Something like that should be normal by now.  Isn’t it normal?”

That’s what this world is like.  A step backwards in modern sensibilities, no sympathy required or even wanted.  Hard, cruel, completely insane in what it considers status quo.

I want to go home.

Emily tries saying something.  I don’t give her the chance.

“I’m sorry I’m making a fuss about this. It might be normal for you, but in my world, you don’t walk off being stabbed in the face!”

“It isn’t as if it’s normal here –”

“Then stop acting like it!”

Silence. Emily is making… an expression.  I don’t know what it is.  I don’t care what it is. I just…

I don’t want to be here.

“You’re right.”

I look up.  Emily has one hand over her eyes, looking a little like she has a headache.

“Am I?” I say.  “About what?”

She gestures vaguely at my head. “This would be a debilitating injury in anybody else.  A permanent one, in most cases.  For Wilhelmina… no.  She easily brushes off damage that would be significant and perhaps fatal to other people.  It doesn’t faze her.  You’re wearing her face.  I suppose I expected the same amount of indifference from you.  It’s…unreasonable of me to do so.”

…Huh.  “Is this an apology?”

“It’s an explanation. You can take it as an apology, if you’d like.”  She raises her hand, as if to go for my face again, and then drops it.  “Your eye probably is healed by now, but even if it isn’t, it’s good to get the blood off.  It can’t be comfortable.”  

She offers me the towel. I take it, because in the end, she’s right.  It isn’t comfortable.

“...It’s getting worse,” Emily says, as I gingerly dab at my eye.  She doesn’t need to clarify what it is. 

“You think so?” I say dryly.  I couldn’t even recognize my own name.  I don’t like that she stabbed me, but if she didn’t, I don’t know how long I would have been stuck like that.  If this goes on for much longer…

I can’t let this go on for much longer.

Another sigh.  “Was it you, last night?  Or….”

Well, that’s the million dollar question, isn’t it?  Was that me?

I let my head loll back.  “Wouldn’t we both like to know the answer to that.”

[lizhly-writes]

mina x evander, 27!

haha. hi. it's been a while. anyway. 27: meeting at a support group au

Hysteria: a reasonably common neurosis, the history of which can be traced back centuries.  It is a certain emotional fragility, characterized by shortness of breath, anxiety, muscular spasms, and other assorted embarrassing behaviors.  A commonly proposed treatment option is sex, or lack thereof, depending on the gender of the afflicted. Failing that, there are certain nerve tonics that can be administered to sooth the mind.  Failing that, there is always what every nurse tells you when you’re having a terrible time: breathe.  Nice and slow, sweetheart, there we go.

Failing that – well.  It’s difficult to ignore that someone does seem to be failing that.  

It’s a sunny day, just after high noon.  Five minutes ago, there had been light streaming through the windows and shining from the ceiling overhead.  Now, there’s nothing but the harsh gasps of someone trying not to cry.

“What the fuck just happened?  A blackout doesn’t work like this.  That’s not –”

Magic, that’s what they call it here.  Some scuttling, scurrying rat with knack for the dark enforcing its will in this library.  When I find them, I’m going to wrap my hands around its neck and squeeze until it vomits out everything I want to know.

“Okay, we just need to calm down.  If we can’t stay calm, then how are we supposed to get him to calm –”

Unfortunately, I can’t fucking see.

I snap my fingers idly.  As expected, they spark weakly on impact.  Nowhere near strong enough for true ignition.  

There is something wrong with my control over Allison’s body.  I’m well aware she can summon fire and lightning.  I’ve done it before.  But doing it whenever I want is… unreasonably difficult. 

“ – not that bad, okay?  It’s all right, it’s really not the end of the world, I promise.”

Maybe it’s merely a matter of more focus.

“Just breathe in, breath out.  In…. and out.  In… and out–”

Admittedly, I’m a little lacking in focus right now.

I am, as might appear obvious by now, not alone.  I can pick out… oh, maybe five different voices?  Four?  At least three, all of them clearly dealing quite well with the sudden and inexplicable lack of light.

“Can’t fucking see shit–”

Yes, well, neither can I, as it were. You ain’t special.

The most noticeable of these voices is the one trying to be the least noticeable: the one trying, and now very much failing, not to cry.  It is slowly and steadily increasing in volume, to the point that I believe it might start screaming soon.  

This might be the open discussion section of the library, but I feel as though that volume is  perhaps too much for open discussion.

I snap my fingers again.  Still nothing but sparks.  Focus – but I’ve never needed anything like that. What I’ve always needed at hand is strength, and that’s never been anything I’ve lacked. It’s always come easily for me.  Blessed by the gods, or so my family has always said.  I’ve never needed to try.

With enough time and practice, I might be able to call light and fire and lightning as easily as breathing.  Someday – but today?  Praying might be more likely to give me results.

Can the Knight hear me, even now?  Do gods transcend worlds? Is there some other god here I must beseech to grant me a miracle?

… Or.

I did wonder what happened to the original occupant of this body.  Scattered to the wind, I assumed, when I couldn’t feel a single trace of her.  There is no mind, struggling under the weight of my own, no spirit exerting its will in the breeze.  For all that I can’t use it, there is power here.  Body echoes soul.  I had been certain that even devoid of body, Allison would have been powerful enough for me to know if she was here.

But again: different world, different rules, isn’t it?

Maybe she’s tied down too tightly for her to even twitch against my control.  Too weak to do anything but know there is stranger puppeting her body.  Just strong enough to resent it; just strong enough to lock down anything of use.

Well.  That isn’t so strange of an idea, is it?  If it were me – it would never be me – but if it was – 

It isn’t as if I would want anyone using my abilities to their greatest extent, now, would I?  Oh, there might be an exception to the rule, but… really, what would I think is a worthy enough cause to let anyone use my body as they wished?

“Excuse me,” says a useless nothing of a voice, far too close.  

I’m really no good at this sort of thing without Emily or Asher, am I?

“Yes?” I say, politely not choking out the throat to which this voice belongs.  I remember this one – steady does it, breath in and out, standard and useless advice.  You would think in the face of continual failure that you would try something different eventually, wouldn’t you?

“Um,” says Useless, who maybe senses that she has only just avoided imminent violence.  “Sorry.”

Oh, you should be.

“But – do you have a lighter or something?”

“...Pardon?”

 “It’s only I noticed… well, there were some sparks around here?  I thought maybe…”

… Keener eyes than I expected.  A few sparks aren’t that noticeable in this forced darkness.  Not that useless, after all. Well done.

I snap my fingers again.  Sparks again.  

“Yeah, that,” says Not-That-Useless, uselessly relieved.  “Could you come over here for a moment? If you could make things a little brighter–”

“This isn’t enough to make anything brighter,” I say.  “You would need an actual light for that.  I’m afraid this… lighter– ” I suppose that’s what it looks like from a distance – “is a little broken.”

“But it can still make sparks,” says Not-That-Useless.  “So you could, I don’t know, set a napkin on fire or something–”

Somehow I hadn’t considered that.  

“If I set a napkin on fire,” I begin, “and have that catch on a wooden table, or perhaps a book, and that continues to the shelves, and then I get the walls, and I burn the entire place to the ground–”

Oh, wouldn’t that be a terrible way to solve my problems!  It wouldn’t actually solve anything. The fire wouldn’t catch fast enough for me to catch that fucking rat.  But it would be fun!  Ah, this is the sort of terribly destructive thing that Emily would harp on me for. 

“It’s not going to burn the entire place to the ground,” Not-That-Useless says.  “It’s a napkin.  It can’t do that much damage.”

“Spoken with the voice of experience.  Are you, perhaps, a budding arsonist?”

“I don’t – that’s not–” there is a sigh.  “Can you come with me?”

I consider this.  I apparently consider this for too long, because Not-That-Useless starts trying to convince me, desperate chatter overflowing like an extremely sloppily poured cup of tea.  “Please – there’s this guy.  He.  He doesn’t do well with the dark, we were supposed to talk it out, this was supposed to be supportive, and – and now he’s– he’s —”

Ah.

“In a fit of hysteria?” I say helpfully.  “I had wondered.”

Scotophobia, or alternatively, nyctophobia, lygophobia, achluophobia.  Emily always tells me I’m not well-read, but I do read the medical journals.  There was an etiological study conducted a few years back that concluded the fear was caused by certain chemicals secreted by memory molecules: scotophobin, I believe.  I remember that my university was quite interested in trying to replicate the results.

None of this knowledge really helps me now.

Not-That-Useless makes a sound that could almost be a sob.  “I didn’t think this could happen, it’s the middle of the day and there are windows everywhere, even if there was a blackout, there should still be enough light to be okay, this wasn’t supposed to happen, I was supposed to make things better for him this wasn’t supposed to happen this wasn’t supposed to happen –”

… Yes, this wasn’t supposed to happen, was it?

I wave a hand lackadaisically through the dark, which, by sheer coincidence, ends up catching Not-That-Useless across the face and shutting her up.  Before she can complain about it, I say, “Where is it that you want me to go?”

With a bit of stammering and fumbling, she leads me the couple of yards over to her table, which, in retrospect, I didn’t actually need her to do.  I could have very well have just followed the sound of the crying and ended up in the same place.

“- fucking hell, I can’t deal with this – Ari?  Why did you run off –”

The crying is very loud now.  I believe I may be right in front of the crier in question.

“Okay,” Not-That-Useless – Ari? – says tersely, not answering Angry at all.  There’s some more fumbling, and then what feels like a wad of tissue paper is shoved at my hand.  “Here.”

Agreeably, I snap my fingers and let the sparks fall.  It’s not quite enough at the first try, but on the second, it catches, wisps of flame threading through the paper, and as Not-That-Useless drops it on the table –

It goes out.

“Not enough,” Not-That-Useless mutters.  “More napkins.  As long it’s not too many, the table shouldn’t catch — but if it’s not enough, it’s going to go out again–”

It’s hard to hear her. The crying is loud and getting louder.   Ragged breaths, pitched inhales, hands trying and failing to smother the sound.  Doesn’t do well with the dark – what a polite way to present it.

Listening to this is… uncomfortable.

I wonder if it’s because it’s my fault.

That rat could have set the world to blackout at any place, at any time.  But this place and this time is because I had chased it down here.  I’m not entirely to blame, to be sure, but half the responsibility lies with me.  

It’s uncomfortable.  It’s really uncomfortable.  It shouldn’t be, it’s only hurting other people, and I’ve made a habit of hurting other people.  I love hurting people.  Blood in the water, bodies on the ground, all because of me?  There’s no other feeling like it.

This, though.  I’m not familiar with this.  Guilt?  Shame?  I don’t feel those things very often.  What do I have to feel guilty about?  What do I have to be ashamed about?  

… I really do wonder.

Consider Allison Lee.  She is a prisoner, a girl caged in her own body.  But that isn’t all she is.  Her role is protagonist, champion, hero.  Surely such a character would have good intentions, yes?

Light.  Fire.  Lightning.  They never easily come to hand for my benefit.  The emotions I’ve intentionally offered up for fuel have never been enough.  Curiosity, desire, frustration – all of that only transmutes the barest specks of power.   

I wonder, now, about regret.

This outcome is untenable.  A better decision should have been made.  A better decision can be made now, to set right what once went wrong.  That’s the way a hero would think, isn’t it? 

Is waking someone up from their worst nightmare a worthy enough cause for a miracle?

Well, Allison?

I snap my fingers again.  Sparks again – but ah, this time it’s not just one or two, but a burst of them, white-hot, a spray of light that devours the air until there is pale fire curling victoriously in my palm.

Fucking finally.

“What the shit.”

“How are you – did you – was that not a lighter–?”

This is, of course, enough to illuminate the poor unfortunate soul suffering from acute scotophobia, as the crying levels off and he slowly lowers his hands.  A pretty face, weepy though it is. Not unlike a puppy that’s just gotten kicked into a wall.  Attractive in a pitiful and pathetic way, eyes glimmering in the light.  

…No, that last part is wrong.  His eyes aren’t reflecting the fire I’m giving off.  They’re shining all on their own.  If he hadn’t spent this entire time covering his face, I’m almost certain that those eyes of his would have been bright enough that I could have probably navigated here just by their light.

How curious. 

“Well, aren’t you something,” I say, my lips pulling up into something like a smile.  It’s not my best.  I’m not quite in the mood for my best.

He coughs wetly.  “Ah,” he begins hoarsely, and then, “Allison…?”

Hmm.  Hmm.  Somehow I hadn’t quite expected that.

He knew her, huh?

I bare my teeth.  “Not quite.”

[lizhly-writes]

i guess we never really talked about og clw who was the most passive depressing mess (worse than yhr) as a protagonist on tumblr, huh? maybe that one snippet where he met transmigrator clw...? it's so funny to me that he got excluded from the grand meta of yhr-as-best-guy lol. tho maybe he was just internally folded into the "yhr is depressed" universe. you know what we've never done, iirc? og clw and clh as siblings growing up together. lmao

yeah "original protagonist" clw never really made it onto tumblr. the weird crossover event happened, but the context behind it was never there.

well, have something.

Chen Liwei vaguely remembered having emotions. Relatively speaking, that hadn't been so long ago. That had been back when he was a teenager, and right now, he was only in his twenties. Theoretically, he had his whole life ahead of him. How long was that going to be? Another five years? Ten? Twenty?

Imagine that. Years upon years of the same routine. Wake up, get dressed, go to work. He would have his face and body examined and touched; he would attract the attention of some man who would pay money or time for him; he would be harassed or assaulted. There were variations, but every day boiled down to this.

It occurred to him that he should be bothered by this. In actuality, it didn't make him feel much of anything.

Chen Liwei didn't feel much of anything at all, these days.

Philosophically speaking, there was no real difference from what he was doing now and dying on the spot. If every day was fundamentally the same as the next, then he had already lived out the extent of what he was due on earth. It wasn't as if there was much of a point of waking up in the morning.

He supposed, more practically speaking, that his manager would be out an employee. Sooner than later, yes, but that was always going to happen. Chen Liwei was a model, and models traded in beauty. Beauty only lasted so long. Boss was going to toss him out for a younger and prettier model, and then Chen Liwei would have nothing to do.

This wouldn't last long. There were plenty of men who would happily take control of him. Some of them had told Chen Liwei this to his face. Chen Liwei, having nothing better to do, would follow. This would continue until the day he died.

Chen Liwei wondered if that day would come soon.

I will go ahead and say that Chen Liwei's mental state does not degrade as far as the above text when he has a sister, because if it does, then who's left to take care of his sister? There are still... not great moments.

"Gege," Chen Lihua said. "Please eat something."

Toady, Chen Liwei had come home and had immediately fallen asleep. He slept a lot, these days. Chen Lihua hadn't noticed it, at first. Then, when she had, she brushed it off. Of course he would sleep. They were both always tired. Chen Lihua had given him shit about it, but not seriously. She'd just poked fun at him for going to sleep instead of studying.

At some point, it occurred to her that she couldn't remember the last time she saw him eat anything at all. He couldn't have time for it before school, with how late he woke up in the mornings, and that meant that he didn't pack anything to bring with him for lunch. A normal person would just buy food along the way, but... it was true that money was tight. If Chen Lihua herself had forgotten to pack lunch, then there was an almost 100% certainty she'd skip the meal; it wasn't as if one skipped meal would kill her.

One skipped meal.

If he wasn't getting breakfast, and he wasn't getting lunch, and he fell asleep before he could eat dinner, and if he then slept through the night --

"I'm tired," Chen Liwei mumbled. "I'll eat later."

"Will you, though?" Chen Lihua said, voice going high.

Chen Liwei looked up at her through sleep-blurred eyes. "I'll eat later," he repeated. "You should eat."

"You fucking hypocrite."

How could he say that? 'Go eat', as if he had any room to tell her that when he wasn't eating a single fucking bite? When it was his turn to cook, did he even eat a spoonful before he went off to sleep? What was he doing? What, was he trying to die?

Was he dying?

"Don't cry."

"I'm not crying."

[lizhly-writes]

I wish you would write a fic where yang haoli and yang haoshu's sibling relationship is explored.

hi there.

...

Yang Haoshu was playing with a knife.

It was not particularly kind on Yang Haoli’s nerves, watching her little sister toss it in the air, sending it blade over handle before she caught it once again.  Doing it once was a surprise; doing it repeatedly felt like an accident waiting to happen.

“Shu-er,” Yang Haoli said, after Yang Haoshu had thrown the knife almost high enough to hit the ceiling.  “Have you considered picking a slightly less dangerous hobby?”

“It’s really not that bad,” Yang Haoshu said, but she obligingly stopped.  She then proceeded to hurl the knife at a dartboard mounted across the room. It hit with an almost disconcertingly loud thump.

This was, of course, less important than the fact that it had hit dead center.

Yang Haoli clapped.  

Yang Haoshu preened. “Thank you, thank you!” she said, executing a bow more typical of a street magician instead of a wealthy young miss.  “I’m here all day! Twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week, fifty-two weeks a year!  See me any time!”

“Very well done! Have you been practicing?”

“Well, I try – hey, you don’t have to –”

Yang Haoli was already out of her seat and yanking the knife out.  

The knife was a delicate, pretty thing.  Shining rose-gold metal, enameled flowers, intricately patterned and engraved.  More jewelry than weapon, and certainly not suited for cutting anything more sturdy than human flesh.  Anyone would think that embedding it into a wall – embedding it, her little sister was getting so strong! – would be irreversibly damaging.

Of course, they would be wrong. Yang Haoli made sure her cute baby sister only got the best.

“I can pick up my own things, you know,” Yang Haoshu said, puffing her cheeks out slightly.

“I know you can, I just wanted to do it for you. Isn’t it fine?”

“You’re really too encouraging, Da-jie.  I scare the shit out of you with stuff like this and you still keep on enabling me.”

“I wouldn’t put it like that…”

“So Da-jie wasn’t even a little scared?  Didn’t think I was going to injure myself at all?”

“...It’s really not something to brag about.  I would be less concerned if you used it like a regular knife instead of trying to do tricks with it.”

“You knew I would before you bought it for me, so isn’t it technically your fault?”

…That was absolutely pushing responsibility to the wrong place, and Yang Haoshu knew it.  While it wasn’t inaccurate to say that Yang Haoli had a part in it – she really should learn to properly say no to her baby sister at some point – saying that it was all Yang Haoli’s fault –

“As if I told you to start throwing knives?” Yang Haoli said dryly.

“You would never, you’d probably die of heart failure before you willingly said that sort of thing,” Yang Haoshu conceded easily, not particularly bothered by it at all.  “Actually, does Da-jie have anything to say?  It seems you were looking for me? What is it, are Mother and Father mad at me again?”

Yang Haoli narrowed her eyes. “That shouldn’t be your first assumption, did you do something?”

“... Don’t worry about it,” Yang Haoshu said, which was as good as confirming that she did.

Yang Haoli was going to have to look into it.  Perhaps it was something with the Jiang family again – Shu-er never did get along very well with A-Ming.  It would have to be something big if Yang Haoshu thought it would get their parents’ attention.  

“Anyway!” Yang Haoshu said, smiling beautifully, as if smiling hard enough was enough to make Yang Haoli let the matter go (this was unfortunately correct).  “You were going to tell me something?”

Right, well. “It’s nothing serious, I just thought you might like to go out and play tomorrow?”

“Ah?”

“You wanted to look through that bookstore you like?” Yang Haoli prompted.  “Get some ice cream?”

Yang Haoshu had mentioned these sorts of things before – something about a new book release, a new seasonal ice cream flavor.  But it had already been two weeks, since then.  It was likely that Yang Haoshu had already gotten her books, tried that new ice cream flavor, done everything and anything she wanted.  Yang Haoli did her best, but when it came to this sort of information, she was always horribly out-of-date.

Still, Yang Haoshu beamed as if Yang Haoli had been perfectly on-time.  “Da-jie remembered!  Then, as long as Da-jie isn’t too busy –” she paused.  “Da-jie really isn’t busy?”

Yang Haoli was always busy.  

“Da-jie isn’t busy,” Yang Haoli said. Da-jie had, in fact, spent some time burning the midnight oil to work through everything her parents had dumped on her.  it was enough to buy her a little bit of breathing room – one day, entirely free to spend with her baby sister. 

For faintest, barest moment, Yang Haoshu frowned, brows furrowed.  Then it was gone, and Yang Haoshu was smiling as if that other expression had never crossed her face to begin with. “Then let’s have a lot of fun tomorrow, okay?”

[lizhly-writes]

fusion dance w/ interstellar a/b/o and antigonus's story!!

fuckin did it finally

...

Antigonus was running out of credits.  It was to be expected – getting his id chip reflashed had been pricey.  He could have maybe tried slipping money out of his savings, but that would’ve ruined the point out of taking a new name to begin with.  His master would notice if his slave’s account started leaking; there was no way that wouldn’t be traced, and if his master found him –

Well.  It was better than his master finding Eutropia and Menander.  Still a bad situation all around.

So Antigonus was on his own, when it came to credits. Nothing for it but budgeting, which was why he was stuck in his current situation – curled in a ball, as close to his shitty apartment’s shitty heating ducts as he could manage, wrapped in as many layers of clothing and blankets as he could find.

There were only so many corners you could cut, when it came to food, rent, hygiene, data.  Cut one out completely, and you’d have problems with the others before long.  No, there were more obvious things he could do without.  

The relevant one in this case was rut suppressants.  He didn’t technically need them; he was, as he had been assured by his master’s doctor, unusually clear-headed and perfectly fit for work.  

This didn’t change the fact that his ruts were miserable.

Fight or fuck, that was usually how it went for ruts in media.  Antigonus couldn’t deny that during his ruts, fuck usually sounded good.  But it wasn’t about the fucking – it was about touch. Outside of rut, he was indifferent; inside, he craved it.  Fingers wrapped around his hands, an arm slung around his shoulders, a leg hooked around his hip.  Intimacy, anything that meant that he had close, friendly contact with another human being.

The system had spent years training that out of him. ‘Antigonus’ was supposed to be an emotionless, heartless man.  Little, if anything, could make him feel.  Certainly not another human being.

This meant that, as a teenager, Antigonus spent his ruts alone and desperately wishing he didn’t.  Ruts always made him achingly cold, and nothing he did – even throwing himself into the heating system – ever kept him warm like the touch of someone he trusted.  And of course, his system had never allowed anything like that.  He had tried, once.  There had been another servant boy he’d been on friendly terms with, who didn’t mind sharing a bed.

The punishment had been enough for him to never try again.

Like all servants of his master’s household, he had a monthly ration of suppressants.  It had taken the edge off, but never enough to keep him from wanting.  Never quite enough to keep him warm.  He’d been saving up to buy an implant – everyone said they were much more effective than popping suppressant tabs. If he bought something good enough…

Then Antigonus had gotten married. 

Nobody really expected a married man to sleep without his spouse, and apparently, neither did the system. There had been no penalty, if Antigonus touched Eutropia.  Nothing to stop him from pressing his mouth to her temple or curling in her arms. Seeking warmth, seeking comfort, seeking anything and everything he’d never been allowed.

“Needy,” Eutropia always teased.  She’d been surprised that he’d been such a greedy, grasping thing.  It wasn’t expected from the face she had met, which was, as the system demanded, cold and uncompromising and implacable as a stone wall.   

Still, she was always happy – cheerfully smug, sometimes – to take care of him during rut.  The first time, he’d jerked back from her, expecting the system to go off like a bomb, but no.  There had been nothing.  That had been the first rut he’d ever had where he’d been warm.

Six years married, and during that time, Antigonus hadn’t taken a suppressant even once.  He hadn’t needed it.  No chills to ward off, no emptiness sitting in his gut, not with Eutropia by his side each night.  He thought of the implant he’d meant to get, every now and then, but if he wasn’t even taking suppressants, why would he need an implant?  It was easier, sweeter, to think of other things.  

Gifts for his wife – flowers, sweets, paperback books, that opalite-set earpiece she’d been eying in the market.  Then the deposit and rent for an proper apartment, instead of his master’s housing.  Then a cradle.  Tiny clothes, baby’s toys, children’s things.

Menander had been so small.  Was still so small.  Young enough that sometimes, he wanted to spent the night with his mother and father. Antigonus always worried about rolling over and crushing him.

These were the kinds of worries Antigonus had.  He should have worried about other things.  He should have been just a little more curious, should have had the presence of mind to wonder: why he was allowed Eutropia?  Why was he allowed a wife, and then a baby boy?  Why either of those things, why anything at all, when the system was so stringent that he hadn’t even been allowed to choose his favorite foods as a child? 

… Well.  Antigonus knew now.

He’d almost thought he’d forgotten this feeling. Wrapped in layers upon layers of cloth, so close to the fire he could burn, running fever-hot but still never enough to imitate the warmth of another human being.  If he had Eutropia with her arms around his neck, making fun of him for using so many blankets – if he had Menander patting at his face, hoping Father would feel better soon –

But no.  Antigonus was alone.

unusual fic-specific asks for authors

[lizhly-writes]

for want of a nail: vivian is one who is transmigrated into, rather than septimus

hmm. well.

I am dead.

I know this with every fiber of my body.  There is no other possibility. I am deceased. Cut away from the mortal coil.  My life has ended.

… So, what, then, is this.

I have a sword in my hand, steady like it belongs there.  I have a man with his arms around my shoulders, face pressed into the crook of my neck.  It is the dead of night.  We are surrounded by corpses.

You would think I would remember how at least one of these things came to be, but no.

If I had to extrapolate, then I must assume that it was me who caused the corpses.  I have the sword raised above my head, ready to bring it down.  I can see, with some difficulty, that there is a body at my feet, with injuries that are consistent of being hacked, repeatedly, with a sword, over and over again. 

I am the killer.  This is the only logical conclusion.

How did this even…?

“Vivianne,” says the man shakily, who is the only person here who isn’t dead.  The place where his skin meets mine is damp.  Maybe it’s more blood.  There’s blood everywhere.  

“Vivianne, please stop.  Everyone’s already dead.  Please, let’s... let's go home.”

Vivianne.  Is he talking to me?

unusual fic-specific asks for authors

[lizhly-writes]

perspective flip featuring evander!!!

There's a quick and simple way of finding out everything we know to send Mina back. It works out great for everyone involved except me, which is the reason I've been avoiding it up until now. I honestly thought there was a better way of going about it, but at this point, all I'm doing is delaying the inevitable.

Time to get it over with.

With great regret, I turn to Mina. She's busy tapping at Allison's phone, but she still immediately catches the movement, looking at me as if I'm her next great entertainment in the making.

"You're going to need to tie me up," I tell her resignedly.

Predictably, Mina perks up, horrible smirk spreading across her face. "Ooooh?" she drawls, drawing up far too close to me as she twirls a lock of Allison's fringe. "Is that the kind of thing you're into? Sweetheart, you should have said, we could have been having so much fun. I've been told I'm very good with knots --"

God.

I wait. Eventually, she realizes she's not going to get a reaction today and pouts up at me. "What, really? Nothing? Seriously? Honestly? Truly?"

"Try again tomorrow. Are you done."

Mina crosses her arms. "Hm, well, I suppose. You're even less fun than usual today. Fine. What, exactly, do you want, and why?"

I hate saying this kind of thing. "I'd like you to restrain me," I enunciate carefully, "because if you don't, I'm going to claw my eyes out."

Silence.

Does it surprise her, to hear me finally admit it? Mina's perfectly still, with just a slight twitch in her expression to give her away. I wonder if I've finally said something capable of shutting her up.

"Is that also the kind of thing you're into? I have to admit, it's not exactly to my taste."

No such luck.

"I don't think it's to anyone's taste."

"Then -- in case you haven't considered this option -- may I suggest not doing it in the first place?"

"Do you think I want to?" I snap, but... that's not quite right.

I don't want to, at the moment. I will, in approximately five minutes.

Let's explain.

"These things," I say flatly, gesturing towards my eyes. "You're right about them."

Mina smiles unpleasantly. "Of course I'm right, darling. What about?"

"They're valuable."

She'd been saying that since the very beginning. Such pretty eyes. What a lovely, vibrant shade of blue. "The kind of blue people paid money for," she told me, with a twisted little smirk, because she's a terrible person that likes seeing me afraid. "The sort people would steal right out of your skull to own, don't you know?"

Don't you know. She didn't know that's true in this world, too.

Mina tilts her head, tapping her fingers on her forearm as she meets my eyes. "Valuable," she repeats contemplatively. She's not actually dumb, as much as she likes acting like it; she connects the facts quickly enough. "Your sight? They let you perceive things other people can't. That's transferable, then, if someone takes your eyes?"

"That's pretty much it."

"...What does that have to do with clawing your own eyes out, then? Putting aside the usual pointlessness of destroying your body like that, you'd be getting rid of a valuable resource."

I shake my head. "At a certain point, it's not just seeing better than other people. It's... seeing everything. About everything. Ever."

Another pause. "That's... omniscience. You're speaking about omniscience. That's the domain of gods."

Yes, that's the problem, actually.

Theoretically, I could know everything about everything ever, and it would be incredibly simple of me accomplish. All I would need to do is tear down the barrier I keep over my eyes, and I could see... everything. But the human brain was never meant to hold infinite knowledge. The feeling... I could describe it as my mind leaking out of my ears, but that's not enough. Nothing is enough to handle infinity but infinity itself and I'm a normal person.

Do you understand what it was like? Everything about everything funneled through my head all at once? I couldn't -- I didn't -- I hated everything -- I'd do anything to make it stop, to never go through it again --

There's an obvious simple solution that occurs to me, every time I go through this. So easy to make it stop, forever. I can't see anything about anything if I don't have eyes anymore, right?

I still have scars from the last time I tried that.

unusual fic-specific asks for authors

[lizhly-writes]

DOUBLE ISEKAI DOUBLE ISEKAI DOUBLE ISEKAI!!!

HI WREN I GOT IT

“Please stay back, sir,” says the nurse who’s been gingerly checking my vital signs, or whatever else nurses do. “Regulations at this time state–”

Sir waves the nurse off.  “Yes, yes, no touching, I’m well aware.  I’m wearing gloves!  That should be enough, shouldn’t it?”

The nurse looks unconvinced.  But she doesn’t respond, so clearly she doesn’t care that much about it.  Sir certainly doesn’t.   He hurries over to my bedside, hands fluttering towards me before he folds them firmly behind his back.

“I was so worried,” he says, words tripping over each other.  “I thought it wasn’t serious, and then I realized you were in the hospital and you weren’t waking up, that’s not – that’s not normal, we ended up calling Mother and Father, she was here, too, and –” 

I really wish I knew who he was.

[lizhly-writes]

SFW30 bc idk what that is BUT I WANNA SEE ALL OF THEM LIZ!!!!

congratulations! You have selected: the complex philosophical concept of self-love, aka the kdj time travel fic!

Since he’s unwilling to let his sister buy everything, Lee Joonghyuk’s grand plan for furnishing his apartment is… to go around Sunday morning picking up whatever people leave with the trash until he runs out of room.

“That’s unclean,” Lee Sookyung says, wrinkling her nose.

“Don’t be so superstitious,” Lee Joonghyuk says placidly.  “It’s perfectly fine, people will do this thing a lot in the future, you know?”

“You’re going to use garbage as furniture?” Kim Dokja says skeptically.  “Aren’t you already doing that?”  He nods towards the cardboard box Lee Joonghyuk is currently using as a nightstand.

Lee Joonghyuk looks faintly exasperated. “That’s – well, I suppose – no.  That’s not what I’m doing.”

[wrenqueenisboss]

Mausoleum Ghost -- by Wren Q.

tw// slight body horror, death, shtuff like that

i am a ghost floating along the stone floors of the eerie mausoleum  i love to haunt 

the walls are all mirrors like a messed up funhouse it knows my fears and failures shows them back to me

i met my reaper in the crypt after the day she sent me here she wore time like a necklace  and fed her victims grapes of anxious poison

days after day i return to the echoey halls of my tomb i watch my still body decompose eaten away by ambition, fear, and reputation

night after night i wish to have saved myself wonder if i could have stopped the scythe  the curved serrated blade forged  by my own fear of failure

my sweet parents once told me when my tired heart still beat that being a perfectionist would only hurt me if only i could tell them they were right

i laugh now at my stupidity at my ability to be so foolish  the shrill sound echoes  bounces off those awful mirrors

i hate those mausoleum mirrors despise how they remind me of my fears my innumerable failures and possible insanity 

i’m the mausoleum’s ghost and this is realest i’ll ever again get to be