#//spreading through every single corner of the universe like a plague

[unboundwanderers]

Someone: I want to do a time war plot with you. Me, with excitement: I'm going to fucking kill you.

[papiliovolens]

Spoilers for up to Ch. 20

This drabble was written as an exploration for Nightmare's motives for Ch. 25, so it will have some hints as to how he will act.

it also hints at more multiversal mechanics going on in the background of everything

This is a glimpse at his interpretation and first impressions of Classic, courtesy of an evil overlord who thinks he knows everything :)

this also became a lot longer than i was expecting, so enjoy 1000 words of nightmare being nightmare

The multiverse was nothing if not predictable.

Regardless of its infinite multitudes, it followed specific patterns. Universes fed off nearby ones to fuel their creativity, forming clusters whose links became jumbled in a heated mess of wired connections. The universes' influences on each other were palpable.

Ultimately, universes could dissolve into basic templates through which each spread its roots into the larger multiverse to cement a place for itself. Thus, despite the multiverse's infinitude, it lacked any carbon copies.

It seemed everyone had a different idea as to why.

So, Nightmare relied on the patterns in each universe- how, regardless of their separation from other universes or how out-of-place they seemed, they acted in predictable manners. It made most missions comically easy once Nightmare conducted a little research. The current state of affairs between monsterkind and humanity, the existence and status of the Underground, and the presence of resets told him all he needed to know.

Even Dream's responses had become expected, although that was more due to his inherent benevolence than anything else.

So, yes- the multiverse was predictable to a reliable degree.

- Until a week ago.

Nightmare planned his missions meticulously. They did not fail. Perhaps delayed, and he occasionally needed to iron out minor kinks, but outright failure was never a factor.

The fact that Dream happened to be in the universe Nightmare chose that day was unfortunate, but it was an easy fix. He sent his men to the Capital with a single order, causing enough panic to draw Dream's attention away, and his plan was back on track.

It worked flawlessly for all of about ten minutes.

Nightmare's goal had been simple. Investigate one of the negativity spikes that plagued the multiverse as of late- the same that had Dream floundering like a fish out of water. For all his supposed wisdom, Dream had failed to realize that the emotional spikes were not the result of any 'affliction' or 'sickness' as he seemed to believe.

So when the spike Nightmare was tracking vanished completely, he had nearly gone into a frenzy, and Dream, unfortunately, sensed his sudden anger. His brother came like a moth to a flame, and Nightmare was happy to turn his frustration to his pathetic brother.

The battle had been going as he expected. The arrival of a Sans was slightly unexpected but hadn't even made a blip on his radar. He begrudingly gave the monster a bit of respect at how they managed to get Dream away from his for a few seconds, but it was child's play to find them and send the Sans off to the pits of whatever hell awaited him.

Oh, the way Dream's face had fallen felt heavenly. His face crumpled like Nightmare had not witnessed in decades, and- yes, he wanted to take a picture to make the moment last forever. The way Dream shook, his frown, the tears brimming at the corners of his sockets, the way his face twisted with the hopelessness Nightmare had always dreamed of-

And then the Sans, whose soul Nightmare had just shattered, threw a bone at his skull.

Nightmare was not ignorant of resets, but the situation screamed foul play. It had been nowhere near enough time for a reset or load to occur, especially since the Sans was from a different universe entirely.

Nightmare could not deny his interest as the Sans reentered the battle and somehow dodged him at every turn. Yes, skeletons tended to have a high tenacity for dodging, but few could bear to stand so close to his aura without collapsing.

Nightmare's memories toward the end of the battle were fuzzy. He remembered his brother finally releasing his fragile hold on his aura, enveloping the forest in its sickly sweet tones. Nightmare responded in kind- flooding the air with negativity to choke Dream out.

Then the Sans, somehow still standing despite the clash in auras, dared to grab him, and then-

Nothing.

Nightmare had not slept in a millennia.

He would have thought the same nightmares he inflicted on others on an hourly basis would fill his dreams, but his sleep was oddly peaceful. No demons nor haunting visages visited him, and he idled in the darkness of his mind for what felt like days.

The multiverse was meant to be predictable. It moved in expected and flawed ways, but ways that could be measured and recorded for future reference.

This Sans was an oddity—an anomaly. A strange mystery in a multiverse Nightmare had already scavenged for everything of interest to him.

There was no record of this Sans, Classic, anywhere until a month prior. It seemed he had fallen into the multiverse out of, quite literally, nowhere. While a universe suddenly gaining access to the rest of the multiverse was expected, what was not was the extent Classic had spread his influence in such a short time.

With Ccino's report, Nightmare wasted little time reaching out to the destroyer and protector. Error had appeared particularly peeved when Nightmare reached out to him, dismissing him until Nightmare uttered Classic's name. The destroyer had gone quite still, seeming to hover threateningly near a crash at the name alone, and a wave of nostalgia flowed over him.

It was a plethora of information Nightmare had not been expecting, and he happily bid Error farewell when he recovered enough to threaten to decapitate him.

Ink, on the other hand, was a dead-end. Getting him to talk was easy enough, but he hardly reacted to Nightmare's probing about Classic, stuck with that annoying blank look on his face. Ink only muttered something about a metal chair, blinked at him, and then greeted him with a child's enthusiasm.

And, of course, there was his brother. From his and Classic's interactions on that day alone, it was not difficult for Nightmare to glean the burgeoning friendship between the two, and the expression that crossed Dream's face at Classic's fake death began to make more sense.

It seemed Classic had undergone a rather unconventional introduction into the multiverse. The more Nightmare heard, the higher Classic raised on his list of utter buffoons.

It was strange. Unexpected. Exciting.

Nightmare had not faced a new mystery in centuries. His studies were his first venture into the multiverse outside of spreading negativity, and it had successfully occupied him for most of his existence. But then things got predictable. Nightmare found that, with enough time, any question at all got boring quickly.

Classic presented a new project with novel results.

And Nightmare was very, very curious.

[scarlet-sky4]

Golden Eyes [Baekhyun x Reader]

Pairing: Wolf!Baekhyun x Human!Reader (Sohee) AU: Wolves Genres: Hurt/Comfort, Supernatural Total word count: 7k

Masterlist

Sohee’s last encounter with a wild wolf has left her scarred in more than one way. Luckily, she can always depend on her best friend, Baekhyun, who she trusts with just about anything. They’ve been close ever since elementary school, but unbeknownst to her, he has a secret—he is not human.

The summer sun beat down on Sohee as she waited for her best friend to show up. She had already bought two iced lattes for them in the tiny coffee shop on the street corner. Now she lingered on the sidewalk and kept an eye on the nearby forest, knowing that he would emerge from the path in between the trees sooner or later. While she avoided said forest like the plague—for good reason—her friend Baekhyun had no qualms and took a shortcut through the woods whenever they met up. Their hometown was situated in a rural area of South Korea and the house where he lived with a bunch of his friends was right at the edge of the forest.

When her eyes searchingly scanned the treeline, she spotted his ash blond hair in the distance—he had bleached it recently and the new look suited him. Waving at him, she caught his attention and prompted him to pick up his pace. Despite running all the way from the forest into town, he wasn’t out of breath when he reached her and brushed his hand through his fluffy hair, trying to make it look neater.

“Hey cupcake! Sorry, I’m a bit late,” he grinned sheepishly, eyes forming crescents. Baekhyun had the kind of smile that simply took your breath away—Sohee would never grow tired of seeing it.

“You always make me wait, Baekhyunnie,” she rolled her eyes in fake annoyance and held the iced latte under his nose. “But it’s okay, I like you anyway. Here, I got your favorite!”

“Thanks, I knew I could count on you,” he smirked and took a sip from the cup. He wore his favorite shirt, the one she had bought him for his birthday a few months ago. It had a huge PUBG logo printed on its front. He loved that game.

Sohee had known Baekhyun since elementary school, and although she had preferred to play with girls at this age (boys had cooties!), something about Baekhyun had intrigued her and drawn her to him from the first day she had met him. She couldn’t quite describe it, but he was different—refreshingly different. When they had been children, he had loved to play hide and seek with her and the other kids in the neighborhood. Sohee had no idea how he had accomplished it, but he had always found every single hiding spot, no matter how absurd it was. He was a natural at this game and many others as well. Tag for example. His stamina was out of this world, so he had bested everyone else. Nevertheless, he had never bragged about his skills. On the contrary, he had encouraged the other children to try a little harder next time and not to give up while wearing a big goofy smile on his face.

Over the years, this smile had matured and become quite alluring—Sohee would be lying if she said he didn’t make her heart flutter. He was a ray of sunshine, spreading a good mood wherever he was. Since he went to the gym often, he had become more athletic as well, and as his best friend, she often got to see him shirtless when they went swimming together or spent time at the lake. In moments such as these, she questioned the nature of their relationship—did she perhaps have a crush on him?

Many of Baekhyun’s female admirers were jealous of Sohee for spending the entire semester in university and the summer break with him. However, despite the countless admirers he had, Sohee had never seen him date anyone since high school, and even then, it had never seemed serious. She had often teased him about this, asking why he was so picky, to which he refused to give her a straight answer. In the end, he had given up on dating altogether. She herself had dated a few guys back in high school, but they had quickly broken up (definitely didn’t have anything to do with Baekhyun’s intimidating glares). Sometimes, Sohee thought he had gotten jealous. Not that there was any reason for this.

“Want to come home with me later? We could play PUBG if you want, my new laptop arrived this week,” she suggested while they strolled down the sidewalk, enjoying their iced lattes and basking in the summer sun.

He considered it for a second, but then he cringed. “Uh… no thanks, I’d rather not. You should visit me instead.”

“Don’t tell me you still don’t like Sushi?!” Sohee laughed and playfully nudged his arm. “Come on, my cat is very cuddly and sweet.”

“She hates me. The last time she saw me, she hissed at me and wouldn’t stop making a fuss. So annoying,” he groaned.

“Don’t act like you’re innocent, Baekhyunnie! I caught you growling at her when you thought I wasn’t looking,” she remarked and scrutinized him. “How the hell did you do that?”

Sohee was a little surprised when genuine uneasiness crossed his face, but he regained control in a blink and put on a convincing smirk. “Well, wouldn’t you like to know? It’s one of my many talents.”

“Like your amazing sense of smell?”

“Exactly.”

“I wouldn’t be shocked if you told me you’re a werewolf or something,” she joked and giggled.

He choked on his iced latte and coughed, wiping his mouth. Baekhyun fell silent for a while and received a confused glance from Sohee until he finally blurted out, “What if I was a werewolf? Would it bother you?”

“Huh, what kind of question is that? Weirdo.” She took a sip from her latte to give herself some time to ponder before she answered. Since she had brought up the werewolf thing, his demeanor had changed drastically—Baekhyun normally was quite easy-going and liked her jokes, but now he was tense. His back was rigid and he didn’t look at her anymore.

“You know what I think of wolves, Baekhyun. They’re terrifying and dangerous. I’m glad werewolves don’t exist since they would be even worse,” she muttered seriously. The wolves residing in the local forest were the reason why she hadn’t gone near it for six years. It was simply too risky—she still bore a scar on her shoulder from her last visit and she wasn’t about to add another one.

“Right,” Baekhyun sighed and gazed at the paper cup in his hand. His tight grip left little indents on its surface. “Just maybe… it’s time to confront your fear… You’ve been avoiding the forest for so long, even though there haven’t been any wolf attacks in years.”

Now it was her turn to pale—this topic was not easy for her, so he generally avoided it, but now he had changed his mind for some reason and gazed at her with pleading, sorrowful eyes. As if it was vital to him that she confronted the horror hidden in her memories and the anxiety she continued to suppress.

She had been fifteen years old when it had happened. That day after school, she had wandered into the woods on her own. The forest had been known to be a safe place, and the wolves who lived there had never bothered anyone. Not a single person had ever been attacked by them. However, this would change on that particular day. Sohee had encountered a large gray wolf that had acted aggressively when it spotted her. Sohee didn’t know what had compelled it to attack her. It had pounced on her, shoving her to the ground and injuring her delicate shoulders with its claws. She had struggled to keep the teeth away from her neck. Maybe she had screamed—she couldn’t remember. Her recollection from that day was blurry. All she knew was that someone—or something—had chased the wolf away. The image of beautiful golden eyes had burned itself into her mind. It was the clearest memory she retained from that day. At some point, Baekhyun must have found her and called an ambulance. She had been treated at the hospital, and he hadn’t left her side until her worried parents had arrived. To this day she couldn’t explain why he had looked so guilty afterward.

“What does it matter if I like wolves or not, Baekhyun?” she asked, tilting her head.

He offered her a wistful smile and shook his head. “It was just an idea, forget about it.”

Their conversation had ruined his good mood and Sohee didn’t understand why. It didn’t happen often that she saw such a sorrowful expression on him—witnessing it was painful. Her heart ached to see that big sunny grin she found so beautiful or even the attractive smirk he sometimes showed her. Why was it so important to him that she confronted her strongest fear? If only she knew the answer. Maybe he was concerned about her and wanted her to overcome her trauma. Perhaps that was why he kept urging her to overthink her opinion on the wolves in the forest. They had spoken about this topic before, but she had always declined his offers of help.

As she met his dull amber eyes, however, something within her changed. If it meant so much to him, to a person she valued deeply, shouldn’t she try to face her fear? Hadn’t she run from it for long enough? Six years had passed and she had made no progress at all. She kept locking the anxiety away, letting it eat at her without doing anything about it. The issue would never be solved if she didn’t take matters into her own hands.

She took a deep breath. Hopefully, she wouldn’t regret this. “I want to overcome my fear, but I don’t know how,” she whispered, risking a shy glance at him. And there it was—his smile was back, brighter than before. Her heart swelled.

“I’ll help you! Don’t worry, Sohee, you don’t have to do this alone.”

Sohee ignored the fear bubbling in her stomach, she attempted to control the trembling of her fingers. She walked a few steps ahead of him in order to conceal the insecurity written all over her face—however, there was no point in hiding it. She couldn’t hide anything from her best friend. He always noticed when she had something on her mind.

“I’ll wait for you, Sohee,” he thought as he followed her, his eyes gleaming like molten gold. “No matter how long it takes.”

  ✨

Baekhyun took her change of heart seriously. A day later, he offered to accompany her into the woods. He was just as nervous about the endeavor as her, but for a different reason. The next hours might have a large impact on his life and his relationship with Sohee. Her overcoming her fear was crucial to him—a lot depended on this, much more than she realized since she was unaware of his biggest secret. As long as she was afraid of wolves, she could never find out about his true nature. The fear of being rejected by her was overwhelming—what if she was scared of him if she learned the truth? He couldn’t bear the thought of losing her like this.

Baekhyun could never be fully honest with Sohee, and the ongoing secrecy tainted their friendship. She was his treasure; someone he cherished. He didn’t like to hide his true nature from her. The weight of his secret rested on his shoulders every day, and he continuously asked himself if she would still like him if she knew that he wasn’t so different from the rogue wolf who had once hurt her.  

  ✨

It was now or never. Sohee stood at the treeline, her gaze moving from the hiking trail to Baekhyun. Her friend was quiet today, and she hadn’t seen him smile at all. Nonetheless, his presence felt reassuring and gave her the strength she needed to go through with this. He knew the forest like the back of his hand, and his lack of fear calmed her.

“Are you ready?” he asked and studied her, assessing her worried expression.

“Yes,” she nodded. “Let’s get it over with.”

Baekhyun’s unreadable gaze rested on her for a few seconds. Then, he took her hand and linked his fingers with hers. The low timbre of his voice was like a gentle embrace. “I know you’re afraid, but I promise nothing will happen to you. You’re completely safe.”

He tugged at her arm and they entered the forest together. Sohee’s eyes flitted around, jumped from bushes to trees, to every shadow she could see. She was prepared for the worst—but she didn’t spot any wolves, not even when they ventured deeper into the woods. The more time passed without an encounter, the calmer she became, and eventually, she began to admire the pretty scenery. The forest wasn’t as dark and scary as she remembered. It was flooded with sunlight, golden rays breaking through the tree crowns and painting patterns of light and shadow on the ground. The leaves rustled in the breeze, and sometimes, she heard the chirps of a bird. They spotted a majestic deer and a tiny rabbit that she observed with a smile on her face. When she stepped on a twig, the cute animal got spooked and hopped away. Baekhyun and Sohee followed the hiking trail for about thirty minutes without any incidents until they reached a clearing.

“How do you feel?” he asked, his tone leading her to believe he was worried about her answer.

“I’m… okay. It’s overwhelming, but I’m okay. Your presence helps a lot.”

“That’s good. You’re doing very well.”

“We… we haven’t seen any wolves though.”

“They aren’t in the vicinity.”

“What? How do you know?”

His eyes widened a fraction. “It’s an assumption,” he said and cleared his throat. Sohee saw through his lie and wondered what he was hiding from her. His behavior had been a little odd today, almost as if he was nervous, but the more time they spent in the forest, the more relaxed he got. The same was true for her—she no longer felt her heart pound in her chest.

“Well, this isn’t nearly as bad as I thought. The forest is much more beautiful than I remembered.”

“It is,” he agreed with a peaceful smile. “That’s why I like to come here often. And… if you want to, you could tag along from now on.” It was a careful question, and frankly, he reminded her of a shy puppy when he posed it. He gazed at her as if he had expected to startle her with mere words.

“Um… okay. I think I can do that.”

He breathed out. The amount of relief she discovered in his gorgeous amber eyes was staggering, it engulfed her and suddenly, she felt the very same emotion. What she had accomplished by coming here today was something she could be proud of. Sohee glanced at her hands and noticed that they weren’t trembling anymore. Her fingers traced the scar she bore on her shoulder, felt its ridges through her shirt. The scar on her body would remain forever, but perhaps the one in her mind could be healed.

The path got more treacherous as they walked uphill—Sohee often stumbled over loose rocks on the ground and got a little annoyed at the fact that Baekhyun was always a few steps ahead of her. She didn’t want to slow him down, but if she walked any faster, she was afraid she might just break her ankles the next time she stumbled.

“How are you climbing over these damn rocks so fast? Are you a mountain goat or what?” she called out to him in a lighthearted tone and earned an airy laugh.

He waited for her to catch up, eyes twinkling mirthfully. Something about her remark seemed to be particularly amusing to him. “I’m the opposite of a mountain goat, cupcake.”

“A mountain lion?”

He snorted and shook his head. “Wouldn’t that be purrfect?”

Sohee stopped and stared at him. “You’re a clown, Baekhyunnie.”

“So you think I’m funny.” He grinned widely and offered her his hand when she stumbled over another stone. His eyebrow shot up at her struggle. “I’m worried you’ll end up breaking your ankles. You don’t go hiking often and it shows. Why don’t you get on my back for a while? It would be safer.”

“You want to carry me? Are you serious?” Her cheeks took on the color of ripe peaches. “I’m not a baby, though. I can walk myself.”

“Wrong. You’re my baby cupcake and I’ll spoil you as much as I want.” She didn’t have to look at him to know he was smirking—the smugness in his voice told her everything.

“Baby cupcake,” she groaned and pouted. “You can’t be serious. How can a grown man say something like that?”

But her friend just shrugged, not embarrassed in the slightest at his cheesy new nickname idea. “Stop sulking and get on my back already, or else we’ll be stuck here forever.”

“F-Fine.” He couched in front of her, hooked his hands under her thighs and when she wrapped her arms around his neck, body pressing against his back, he got up. “If I’m too heavy, you—”

“You’re almost like a backpack. This is not a problem.”

“I’m a backpack,” she deadpanned. “How kind of you.”

His back rumbled when he laughed. “No, you’re almost like a backpack. I would never call my baby cupcake a backpack.”

“Is baby cupcake any better?” she grumbled and put her chin on his shoulder as he walked. It was more comfortable like this. She was at ease being so close to him and breathed in his familiar scent.

“Of course it is.”

Sohee rolled her eyes. “I knew you would say that, Baekhyunnie.”

Again, a wide smile spread over his lips. He could bicker with her all day, especially when she was sulking—a pouty Sohee was fun to tease. Additionally, she seemed to have forgotten about her apprehension. She hadn’t voiced any concerns in a while. He considered this a small victory since it brought him a step closer to revealing the truth to her. She needed to know, he wanted to tell her so badly.

When the path became wider, he let her down so that she could walk herself. Baekhyun crossed his arms and gave her an expectant look. “So…”

“So?”

“Do I get a reward for carrying you?”

“What do you want?”

“I don’t know, how about a hug?”

She blushed and her heart jumped before she reminded herself that this wasn’t anything out of the ordinary. They frequently shared friendly hugs. Sohee engulfed him with her arms and pressed her face into the soft material of his jacket. Beneath his baggy clothes, he was hiding a whole lot of muscles—it was distracting, to say the least.

“Aww, look how cute you are, my baby cupcake,” he whispered and wrapped his arms around her, holding her tightly.

“I’m not your baby cupcake.” She was very flustered by his affectionate behavior—but she loved it. Baekhyun being flirty was addicting. At least she assumed he was flirting, but it probably wasn’t true since they were just friends. At any rate, this didn’t stop her from enjoying it.

“You are,” he insisted with a smirk, amber eyes glowing golden for a blink. “And you always will be.”

  ✨

Sohee had a lot on her mind. Ever since her hike with Baekhyun, the very foundation of her fear was crumbling, and the more she remembered the happy moments she had spent with him in the forest, the less she feared going there. They hadn’t seen any wolves yesterday. Most likely, the animals had been spooked by their presence and not shown themselves. The wolf who had attacked her so viciously years prior likely wasn’t in the area anymore.

Her outing with Baekhyun had reignited her stubbornness and her curiosity. She was ready to challenge her old beliefs and leave her fears behind for good. This was the reason why she had returned to the woods today—without Baekhyun. He had no clue she was here. Sohee wandered the forest on her own, letting her legs carry her in a random direction. Despite her determination, it was nerve-wracking to be here. She had to wipe her sweaty palms on her jeans and her gaze constantly darted around.

She walked through the forest for a good 20 minutes without seeing one of the wolves, enjoying the serene atmosphere of nature and listening to the occasional bird song. However, when she heard a loud rustle, she stopped. To her bewilderment, a black wolf emerged from the undergrowth, its fur allowing it to blend in easily with the shadows.

She took a deep breath, folding her hands in front of her stomach. This was unexpected, too sudden for her liking. Oh God, what if it would rip her to shreds and—again, she took a deep breath and stared at the wolf as it stared back. You can do this, Sohee. Calm down. It’s not doing anything.

She paused, unsure how she should act in front of the animal, and ultimately stayed rooted to the ground like a statue. The wolf inclined its head and approached her very slowly. Its movements were elegant and regal—it knew exactly how powerful it was, and yet it somehow didn’t look threatening. It was patient and gave her the time she needed to get used to its presence. This behavior was peculiar for a wild animal, but Sohee was too unnerved to question it.

“H-Hello there. How are you?” she said shakily and in a barely audible voice. The wolf’s ears perked up and it paused, simply watching her without doing anything. Despite knowing how stupid it was to talk to an animal, she did it anyway because it helped her keep calm. So far, she was doing a better job than expected.

She and the wolf maintained eye contact for a while, and she couldn’t stop herself from admiring the gorgeous golden hue of its irises. Since the animal seemed much more curious than hostile, she took a cautious step toward it, the fallen leaves on the ground crunching under her sneakers. Her knees were shaking and she feared they would give in soon. She continued to take deep breaths, but her pulse rose as her anxiety became overwhelming. She gasped. The wolf flinched at the sudden noise and let out a whine before it lay on the ground, resting its head on its paws. It didn’t look all that big anymore.

“Just… a little more,” she whispered. She was only a meter away from the wolf when her legs gave in and she fell to her knees. Her shoulders heaved with every breath she took.

“It’s not the same. It’s not the same,” she repeated until she was sure she had a better grip on herself. She used all the courage she had left and stretched out her arm. It was trembling like a leaf, but she didn’t back down. Her fingers touched the soft fur on the wolf’s head, and she looked right into its golden eyes. They seemed to glow brighter.

This wasn’t so bad. Actually, it wasn’t bad at all. The animal was calm and didn’t do anything threatening while she touched it. It was like it knew her fear; it could probably smell it. She retreated her hand, looking at it in wonder, unable to believe that she had just achieved the impossible; she had touched a wolf and she was unharmed. Glancing at her hand and back at the wolf, she felt proud of herself. Relieved tears gathered in her eyes. “This is insane,” she breathed.

She heard a low rumble from the wolf as it observed her, its gaze appearing more human than before. The way it looked at her instilled a sense of familiarity within her. She knew those eyes. Their color was a mix of amber and gold, glinting warmly in the sunlight. Where had she seen this shade before? It was rather unique, but she couldn’t put her finger on it, couldn’t explain why this color made her feel at ease.

She sat on the mossy ground and curiously observed the animal until it got up and walked to the other side of the clearing, peering into the woods. She bit her lip, thinking it would leave soon—she didn’t want to part ways yet! This animal fascinated her for some reason. Before she knew what she was doing, she had already raised her voice, “Come back, please!”

Strangely, it understood what she wanted and returned to her. Sohee patted the spot next to her on the ground, inviting it to sit next to her. She swore she saw the wolf’s eyes widen despite knowing it wasn’t possible. Stretching its legs, it lay down so close that its warm body was touching her thigh.  

Now it looked surprisingly endearing for a wolf, more like a puppy. She cautiously moved her hand to its back. The wolf didn’t seem to mind her touch and so she began to pet its fur, astonished at how soft it was. For an animal that constantly roamed the woods, it was too clean. With the wolf resting next to her, she allowed herself to relax, and the initial nervousness that had befallen her dwindled. She knew she didn’t have to expect any danger from this animal, and suddenly, something in her brain clicked.

“Your eye color is the same as Baekhyun’s. That’s a funny coincidence,” she mumbled as she observed the majestic animal. It opened its eyes and gave her its undivided attention, so she decided to keep talking. “He’s my best friend, you know? I’m very grateful to have him in my life… but honestly, I’d rather be more than friends.”

Was it possible for an animal to look shocked? Because that’s what was happening right at this moment. The wolf stared at her in disbelief, frozen solid.

“Um… what’s going on?” She flushed. “I just… I’m sorry, did I offend you?” Of course she didn’t. She was talking to a wolf. What a stupid question. Luckily, nobody except for the animal had heard it, or else she would be mortified.

The wolf sat up and licked her hand, covering it in slobber. “W-What the hell?” she squeaked at the weird sensation and pulled her hand away. “Eww, what was that for?” But now that her hand was gone, the wolf moved on to her cheek and pushed its nose against it. Its tail was wagging and it couldn’t stop showering her with affection. She protested when it tried to lick her cheek, giggling and narrowly avoiding its tongue. The wolf whined and chose a different approach. This time, it lay down and curled its body around her, putting its head on her lap.

“Are you a big puppy?” she smiled, petting its head which it seemed to enjoy thoroughly. “How adorable. When I tell Baekhyun about this, he’ll never believe me.”

The wolf made a noise that could have indicated amusement had it been human. It yawned lazily and prepared for a nap while she brushed her fingers through its fur.

  ✨

The wind rushed past him as he shot through the greenery, dodging trees and jumping over plants and rocks that stood in his way. He could not believe what had happened. He hadn’t expected her to wander into the woods on her own. When he had spotted her, he had almost stumbled over his own paws. At first, he had considered turning around and hiding before she could notice him, but when he was in his wolf form, his actions were guided by his instincts, and they told him to approach her—being close to her was what he truly wanted, no matter which form he took. She had been reluctant at first, worrying him, but then she had warmed up to him. Making her smile while he was in his wolf form was a dream come true. She was ready to hear the truth.

  ✨

Sohee was over the moon when she entered her apartment and removed her shoes. A permanent smile had manifested on her lips. She greeted her cat Sushi with too much enthusiasm which resulted in a confused meow. Then, she moved to the living room, intending to text Baekhyun and tell him about her experience today. Before she had a chance to sit on the sofa, the doorbell rang. She put her phone down and jogged to the door, only to discover none other than Baekhyun outside.

“Oh, hi Baekhyun! Nice to see you,” she smiled and let him in. They went to the living room together. “If I had known you would come over, I would have prepared dinner… or at least some snacks.”

“It’s fine, cupcake. You’re the only snack I need,” he replied and winked.

She stood motionless in the middle of the living room as if hit by a lightning strike, her cheeks gradually changing color. Had her ears played tricks on her or had he just flirted with her? “What?” was all she managed to answer.

This Baekhyun was certainly different. The Baekhyun she had met yesterday hadn’t been so frank. It wasn’t simply the bold remark that stood out to her, it was also the way he looked at her. Pride, adoration, and desire were reflected in his eyes. It made her feel things, dangerous things that weren’t meant for friendships. His eyes were golden, not amber. She blinked, but the shade remained the same—the same as…

“You visited the forest on your own. I’m proud of you, cupcake.”

“How do you know I was there?”

Something peculiar flickered over his face. “We met.”

“We didn’t,” she muttered and raised her eyebrows. “What are you talking about? I only met… a wolf…” She trailed off—he did have the exact same eye color as the wolf... and the wolf had been suspiciously intelligent too. “You’re not actually a wolf, are you?” she laughed nervously since the question must have sounded crazy to him, but he remained dead serious. When her eyes grew wider and wider, he chuckled.

“I am.”

“Are you messing with me?”

He grinned confidently. “Nope! I’ll show you.”

“Baekhyun, WHY ARE YOU TAKING OFF YOUR PANTS?!” she yelled and promptly looked away. The sound of his clothes falling on the ground made her blush. Soon after, something odd touched her wrist—it felt strange and caused her to glance down, only to freeze in shock. Where Baekhyun had been standing just a moment ago lay a pile of clothes and next to it sat a familiar-looking wolf.

“Huh?! Don’t tell me you’re really Baekhyun.”

And the wolf nodded, giving a bark that sounded like a laugh. His muzzle touched her hand again.

“…I think I need to sit down.” She staggered to the sofa and sunk into the pillows. The wolf—Baekhyun?—sat next to her and cuddled up to her. “I don’t understand what’s going on and how this is even possible, but… but you’re pretty cute for a wolf… Wait, if you’re the wolf from earlier, then that means…”

He had heard her confession, he knew about her feelings. She wanted to melt into the ground and disappear forever. How embarrassing… she had confessed to him without realizing it. What the hell should she do now? Before Sohee found an answer, Sushi made a sudden appearance in the living room. She hissed and growled at the large wolf lounging on her precious sofa, arching her back. Her fur stuck up in all directions.

“Sushi, behave,” Sohee reminded her, but the cat wasn’t impressed and sent death glares to the wolf before she sauntered away to the bedroom. “Now I know why she doesn’t like it when you visit.”

Baekhyun couldn’t answer as long as he was a wolf, so she was met with silence until the furry front leg on her stomach disappeared and was replaced by a human arm. He shifted back to his human self and remained snuggled up to her like a touch-starved puppy. Only this time, things were different. Her gaze traveled over his defined arm muscles, to his chest, and further down to—

“P-Put on some clothes, you perv!” she hissed and looked away.

“Nah, too lazy.”

“You litte...! I don’t wanna see your dick.”

He had the audacity to wiggle his eyebrows. “You don’t?”

“Argh, Baekhyun, what is this conversation?”

He laughed and got up, collecting his clothes while she stared at the ceiling. Only after she heard the zipper of his jeans did she dare to look at him. He took his shirt, weighed it in his hand, then shrugged and threw it on the sofa without putting it on. She had seen him shirtless too many times than she could count, but she would still drool over his abs like a lovesick teenager.

When he sat down again, he didn’t waste a second, wrapped her in his arms, and put his head right above her chest. “I have to tell you something, Sohee,” he mumbled.

“Yes?” She gently touched his silky ash blond hair and glanced down at him, wondering what he had on his mind.

“I love you too.”

She swallowed, tensing up. Okay, that was not what she had expected. “Baekhyun… you love me?”

“I do, I’ve wanted to be in a relationship with you for a long time.”

A thousand different thoughts shot through her mind. “How would a relationship between us ever work out? I mean, I’m human and you’re not…” she sighed and her body deflated in defeat. “I have so many questions, I don’t know where to begin.”

“I’ll answer them. No more secrets, I promise.”

Sohee took a deep breath and decided to begin with the most pressing question, “Why did you keep your wolf form a secret for so long? Didn’t you trust me?”

“I trust you more than anyone, believe me, but there are certain rules in our society, and the most important one is to keep our true nature hidden from humans. It serves to protect ourselves from hunters. There are a few exceptions, though.”

“Then why did you tell me now? Won’t you get in trouble?”

“Don’t worry, there’s an exception for a wolf’s mate,” he smirked.

“Mate? As in soulmate?”

“Yes. You’re my mate. Wolves only fall in love once in a lifetime.”

“I’m your mate?” and when it dawned on her what this truly meant, her expression faded from astonishment to pure joy. Happiness lit up her brown eyes and made them twinkle.

He grinned at her reaction. “I didn’t realize it for a long time. I just… assumed I felt attracted to you because we were childhood friends and close to each other. But when I turned eighteen, I knew that my feelings were stronger than friendship and concluded that you’re my mate… That’s when my pack began teasing me about our relationship, urging me to tell you the truth,” he sighed and shook his head. “However, I knew how upset you were about the attack and I feared you would resent me if you ever found out about my wolf form. So I kept it to myself because I’d rather be just friends than not have you near me at all.”

“Oh, it must have been so difficult. I had no idea,” she frowned. “I admit I would have been shocked about it, but I’m incapable of resenting you.”

Her answer seemed to relieve him. “The wolf who attacked you was a rogue. He had nothing to do with our pack, and ever since the attack, we’ve been more careful to defend our territory.”

“So I was at the wrong place at the wrong time?”

“Yes. When I heard your scream, I thought my heart would stop. I chased the bastard away and then returned to you in my human form,” he explained with a stony expression.

“Thank you. You’ve done so much for me,” she smiled gratefully.

“Baby cupcakes need to be protected,” he joked, cracking a smile when she groaned.

“What even is a baby cupcake? It makes no sense.”

“It’s an extra pretty and sweet cupcake. Just like you,” he grinned and bopped the tip of her nose.

“If I’m a baby cupcake, then you’re a puppy.”

“Deal.”

“Huh, really? I thought you wouldn’t like it.”

“Any nickname is fine as long as you’re the one who made it up,” he answered. “Because I love you.”

Sohee would have to get used to this—otherwise, her poor heart would just give up one day. The butterflies in her stomach soared, and she leaned in to hug him. “I love you too. You… you have no idea how much you mean to me.”

A bold smirk graced his features. “If I mean so much to you, don’t you think it’s about time you give me a kiss?”

“A kiss?” She couldn’t believe it. All this time, he had kept his feelings for her hidden, and now she drowned in them. The desire to be with her poured out of him and completely overwhelmed her.

He shrugged. “I would ask for more, but we can start small.”

“Horndog,” she snorted. “If you want a kiss, then come and get it.”

His gaze sharpened and his lips formed a dangerous smirk. “Oh, I will.”

He pushed her backward and made her back hit the sofa—and then he was on top of her, caging her with his arms. His gaze spoke volumes, studying her rosy cheeks and the way she bit her lip in impatience. After everything that had happened, and the time he had waited for her, all he wanted to do was to make her his. His instinct compelled him to close the distance between them—he needed to hold her and never let go, he needed to kiss every inch of her skin. Her wonderful scent was a delight. She smelled of peaches; he would always recognize her unique fragrance even when she was in a crowd of people. He would always find her—just like he had done that fateful day in the forest. His precious mate needed to be well-protected.

Sohee gazed up at him, at his ash blond hair that framed his face, and at his eyes which glowed golden whenever he looked at her as if she was the one who made them shine. She stretched out her hand and placed it on his cheek, inviting him to close the distance between their lips. He leaned in, propping himself up with his arms, and his breath fanned over her lips. Their first kiss was an explosion of sensations. His mouth melded with hers, lips moving passionately, gentle and rough at the same time. As her hands began to wander, exploring his taut abdomen, the lower half of his back, he growled into the kiss.  

“This was worth the wait,” he murmured against her lips, capturing her gaze with the cheeky shimmer in his eyes. “I love you, cupcake.”

Sohee beamed and planted a kiss on the corner of his mouth, where a cute dimple appeared whenever he smiled. “I love you too, puppy.”

✨ ✨ ✨

Hi everyone, I hope you enjoyed this fic! I wanted to write a wolf AU for a long time, but since multichapter fics take months or even years to finish, I chose to write a oneshot instead. 💕 This is basically a wolf version of Spellbound; the themes are somewhat similar, with the exception of Baek and Sohee being childhood friends. 🌼 Please leave a comment and let me know your thoughts on this couple! ✨

[intangibly-here]

don't say it's too late (to say i need you)

zhongli x gn!reader

- scenario; 2.9k words - fluff & angst - sad ending - alternate universe; canon-divergent - warning: implied/past character death; self-deprecation; descriptions of asphyxiation, blood, and injury; please take note.

————————————————————

a single red dahlia blooms inside your heart.

(a field inside your lungs.)

title from milet - inside you.

————————————————————

soft sunlight falls on your face as you slowly wake up, a soothing voice lulling you to the realm of the awakened. zhongli, pristine as always, peers over your blanket covered form, smiling gently at your face as you give him a quiet whine.

“good morning, love.”

“morning zhongli...” you clear your throat to respond without mumbling, but give up halfway through, instead reaching your arms up to loop around his back and pull him into a hug. zhongli complies all too easily, breathing an exasperated sigh and tugging you to sit upright as he takes you into his arms. his skin is warm, still clothed in moderately casual clothes - by his standards - and the sun-kissed edges of his eyes drown you in his being.

(zhongli is such a warm being. encompassing yet not suffocating, sweet but not unnaturally so; the way he can twist words, spin tales so enamoring that you can’t help but stay. his presence grounds you, a constant in this ever-changing universe that surrounds you, and you let yourself fall, deeper and deeper, into the sanctuary that is zhongli.)

his hands rub soothing circles into your back, fingers working to trace shapes onto your skin and brush over a swipe of gold all too tenderly. his long hair, still untied from where he had instead moved to wake you up, drapes like embellished curtains around you two, hidden safely from the world.

as you’re about to fall back into slumber, zhongli sighs, gripping your shoulders to admonishingly shake your sleep-softened form.

“we should begin the preparations for a meal,” he chides, or in other words, i’m hungry, get up so we can eat. it’s probably the closest he’ll ever get to pouting, and you chuckle at the thought.

“alright, alright, ‘m getting up.”

pulling away the puffy blankets and taking your hand, zhongli gracefully helps you to stand up from the bed and stumble to the bathroom.

it’s halfway through your morning routine that you hear the rapping of several knocks on the door. you look up from the white towel your face is buried in.

“zhongli?”

he clears his throat, and before you have the chance to wonder why, he responds:

“i’ve heated the pan, however-“

his voice trails off into an embarrassed silence. you can see the sullen look on his face, the dip of his brows and the tiniest push of his lip, even from behind the door. your mouth lilts up into a smile.

“-however you would like some help with the rest?”

zhongli huffs, just loud enough to reach your ears.

“..yes, that— if you would.”

your hands resume their motions, if not a little quicker, the damp towel set down and a string bracelet slid over your hand, fastened to rest on your wrist. the singular charm dangles freely, cool against the heat of your skin. it was fashioned to look like a larger dragon curled around a smaller one. your heels shift against the ground as you turn to the accessory cabinet, opening the drawer in search of a comb.

“of course, a-li. i’ll be finished in a moment.”

a sheepish hum is all you receive before you hear his footsteps trail away back to the kitchen, take the chance to exit the bathroom in search of your outfit for today.

while zhongli is an expert in all recipes complex, his slow-cooked bamboo shoot soup being one of those, he by some odd chance of nature cannot cook simple meals. how you’d discovered this, it would be unwise to mention (for the sake of zhongli’s pride and your own skin), but ever since then, it’d been you cooking the simpler meals and zhongli taking charge of the more elaborate ones, per say.

it makes up just another part of how your relationship has bloomed over time.

finally properly dressed, you hurry to the kitchen to make breakfast. zhongli shuffles to the left to make room for you, helping you to fasten a simple apron for cooking. you find your peace in the spot nestled by his side, dropping cubed radish cakes on hot metal and stirring congee in the pot. your shoulders brush and hips bump as you prepare the meal together, hands fumbling to arrange the array of dumplings. the sizzling of the pan and billows of steam from the steamer basket draw you closer into the moment.

(it is the gentlest picture of home.)

the subtle clink of cutlery fills the air as zhongli sets the table, moving from setting down appropriate tableware to helping you plate the food. two cups of tea find their way to the table, “the tea is hot love, don’t burn yourself.”, and you enjoy the sole, blissful feeling of a morning with zhongli. the meal is delicious as always, the seasonings flavorful and food warm in your stomach, but the serenity of your slow morning together is all too easily interrupted by voices from outside your front door. they chatter for a moment, then pause and a few knocks on the door sound out.

zhongli’s expression lights up just a tad from where it had sunken into soft contentment, and he nods at you in silent confirmation of who they are, setting down his chopsticks. at that, you smile as well, unlocking the door to let havria and guizhong inside.

(havria? guizhong..?)

“good morning you two! ready to head out to the market?” guizhong, ever cheerful and energetic, shifts restlessly by the door. havria modestly stands beside her, nodding along in unsaid agreement.

“allow us to tidy up first?” zhongli looks over at you, and you pick up the empty bowls and plates, moving the dishes to the sink in response.

when the dishes have been washed and lain out on the rack to dry, you reconvene at the doorway, straightening out your coat and putting on your shoes to head outside.

out of the corner of your eye, you spot zhongli’s tie slipping out of his coat just the slightest. unthinkingly, you turn around, deftly slipping the cloth back into place. zhongli’s eyes widen, then smile at you, lifting your hand to press a kiss to the back of it. if your cheeks heat up in the telltale sign of a blush, no one mentions it.

the moment you open the door and step outside into the sunlight, your senses are filled with the sight and sounds of the bustling harbor.

you can hear the shouts of merchants handling hawker stalls even from just outside your doorway, and that’s the direction you immediately tug zhongli in, havria and guizhong trailing with smiles behind you.

(when you first met him, but a brief glance given as you walked down this very street, you’d thought of him as particular. particularly royal, particularly formal, particularly- well, interesting. dressed finer than anyone else around, yet lacking the common sense of anyone surrounding him, he was an enigma in himself.)

zhongli stumbles for a moment, shaken by your sudden enthusiasm, and gives a low chuckle, shaking his head. his footsteps follow yours nonetheless, hand tucked into your own. the string of his bracelet sways in the breeze, as if chasing the end of your own flowing string.

(it was only with time that he was willing to show you more behind that distracting facade. the micro-expressions that danced across his face whenever you made a joke he didn’t quite understand, the slump of his shoulders when he realized he had yet again forgotten to bring mora, the draining weight of century-lain exhaustion that plagued his soul.)

(it was all... zhongli.)

you’re strolling by the various stalls, each and every one selling different specialties, when you spy a certain stand by chance. letting go of zhongli’s hand with a squeeze for a moment, you step closer to the stall’s spread of items.

to the side of a flower-pressed piece of pottery lays a pendant of cor lapis. you pick it up to inspect it further, and are only increasingly surprised by the fine details and remarkable craftsmanship.

“zhongli! come over and look at this!” you call, flipping the locket over in your hands. the more you look, the more stunning it seems to get. a single dahlia head is perfectly encased in molten amber, fine pattern displayed beautifully and strung masterfully on a delicate metal chain.

“zhongli?” when he doesn’t respond, you turn around, mildly confused. there, he stands unnervingly still, eyes wide and shocked. you tilt your head, looking around you to see what he could be so uncharacteristically surprised about. nothing is out of the ordinary. chefs are strolling around, shopping for groceries, and construction workers are still repairing the damages to a house nearby. it’s alright nearby the cliffs, no mishaps or accidents, and the sun shines as brightly as ever.

you look down— and all at once everything seems to make sense as blood-red petals spill out of your lips onto the ground.

the pendant slips out of your grasp, and the world stops for a moment.

(you know what this means.)

then, an ear-piercing scream rings out, echoing inside your head, breaking the silence, and suddenly everything is shattering, golden shards flying across the floor, and try as you might, you just can’t, can’t— can’t pick up the pieces fast enough.

(not again, not again, not again—)

you clutch at your neck, vines climbing up your throat and petals forcing themselves from your gaping mouth. it burns. the pain sends you reeling, licking white hot from your veins and into your flesh, and you collapse onto the floor, curled up and clawing at the gaping emptiness growing inside you. it’s choking, suffocating, and the claws of your ribs dig into your lungs. the splintered pendant shards cut at your knees.

(rightful punishment for what you’ve done.)

your head throbs with freezing realization as you remember once more, contrary to the flames singing your nerves. the stinging pain stabbing your skin only worsens, your breaths becoming shorter and shorter.

keep telling yourself lies,

the voice in your head whispers,

because zhongli is dead anyway.

it screams—

this is what you deserve.

(he was so, so beautiful.

kind in all the right ways, wise in all the best.

and then you just had to strangle him with your own hands.

lying traitor.

withholding one side, then murdering the other.

—should just disappear.)

now, it is your eyes that burn, when did you even close them?, and you force your heavy eyelids to open. you chest heaves, and your mouth struggles to do anything other than choke on flowers. you can’t breathe. in your hazy vision, zhongli crouches in front of you, all regal bearing discarded. he’s blurry all around the edges, but you can make out the sad expression on his face. your head throbs again.

pitiful.

you choke out another mouthful of bloodied petals. the wind blows harder, as if mocking your suffering. zhongli’s thread bracelet, the matching ones you two had gotten together in hopes of brighter future, swings even harder as the draft pulls it towards the sky.

your bracelet stays placid.

zhongli lifts his hands to you, almost hesitantly, as if you would disappear any moment now. his mouth opens, as if to say something, but then it closes, and he murmurs, “shhh... it’ll be okay.”

miraculously, your lungs expand, and you take a deep breath.

his palms, soft and untelling of his long-lived history, cup your face, and he gingerly wipes away your tears. it’s too gentle, too caring for, for— for someone like you. how can he still—? he knows what you’ve done; he has to know now. of the blood on your hands.

(you- you don’t deserve him. didn’t ever deserve him. and now all that’s left for you is your pathetic being. alive instead of him. alive instead of zhongli.)

he smiles softly at you, out of place within your shaken head.

he knows.

but he still cares.

he loves you.

it’s warm, warm, warm.

tears slide across your skin once more.

and just as you’re sinking back into this haze, this dream, his smile drops—

he backs away.

the air that had just made it’s way back into your lungs vanishes, the overgrowth in your heart and soul surging forth tenfold.

please stay—

the stems that branch from bloodied dahlias grasp your windpipe, constricting it with baleful strength. your words die in your throat, and you desperately gasp for air. your heart aches, longing for something right in front of you, yet ungraspable, intangible. it eats away at the small part of you deeply hidden, tucked far inside, the part that just wants and wants and wants— wants to be happy. wants to be loved. wants.. zhongli. “—y child.”

he must see something in your eyes, because he purses his lips and turns his head away. it’s a stark contrast to all his earlier behavior, and it has your heart freezing over, heavy and cold and wrong.

unwanted.

then again, this illusion is over now isn’t it? of course it’s your fault once more, these stupid stupid flowers killing you; both your ignorance and your bliss.

he’s still so, so beautiful.

“—ke up, m-“

the last kiss he presses to your forehead goes unnoticed, as does his tears, your eyes trained solely on his back as he stands up and walks away calmly, steadily.

forgotten.

in the distance, even with your increasingly darkening vision, you can make out the forms of guizhong and havria smiling, welcoming him.

(you love him, love, love— is that not enough? not enough for you to stay? here? please, why whywhywhywhywhy—)

so that’s why they were here.

you wish you could follow them.

the piercing pain of asphyxiation slices through your chest as if in reminder of your betrayal, throbbing with every shaky breath you take as you watch zhongli fade away. your hands claw futilely at the ground, nails dirtied and fingers sore. the first loud sob escapes your throat.

“wake up—“

useless.

(no, no no nonono, please come back love, please, don’t leave, don’t leave don’t leave, pleasepleaseplease—)

your battered, bloodied form shrinks into itself, seeking lost comfort and amber eyes, hands clutching your once shared bracelet. the light in your eyes dim and your body falls numb, hand twitching and you lose your thoughts in a daze.

thump.

stay, stay, stay—

thump.

you want to stay.

thump.

why can’t you stay?

thump.

zhongli...

thum—

“wake up, my child.”

—and then your eyes are snapping open, the tsaritsa’s shadow looming over your huddled form. in your sleep-muddled daze, you recognize her instantly, mechanically performing an informal kneel to her majesty. your legs stutter beneath you and your hands tremble underneath your sleeves. your hands curl into themselves like a lifeline as you attempt to cease your rapid breathing.

“i see you’re having dreams again,” she mildly remarks, gaze flicking to you then back at the arch of her wrist. her eyes shine in the dark of the room. you can’t tell what she’s implying, but it sends a chill down your spine nonetheless.

you don’t reply.

“there’s a new mission awaiting you, my dear.” the drawl of her voice is too languid for the emotions running through your head, much too cold and nonchalant; you barely process her words to give a shaky nod. even from where you face the floor, still kneeling, you can feel the smile she adorns.

“make haste.”

with that, she saunters out of the room, heels clicking against the tiled floor. you can hear the tinkle of the chain wrapped around her waist, and with it, a glimpse of a familiar hourglass shaped ornament. the door shuts.

you wish you hadn’t looked.

standing up unsteadily, you turn to your wardrobe to redress properly, discarding your resting top and pulling a clean one over your scar-marred form. you don’t make an expression acknowledging it, but your fingertips trace over the dull gold of a dragon tattoo that sprawls across your torso, scales spiraling in a show of fierceness.

(you don’t let the tears fall until you’re sure she’s far, far away.)

duty waits for no one. you follow in the tsaritsa’s footsteps as quickly as you can after dressing, exiting the room with grace into the cold sunlight of snezhnaya.

(...you can’t do this any longer, zhongli.)

if only the warm fog of your imagination would keep you there, safe in his arms and tucked into his chest, kisses pressed to your face and warm meals shared between warm souls. you can feel the phantom hold of his palms on your face, thumbing your cheeks and pressing the softest kiss to your lips as you trudge through the freezing snow.

after all, in your imagination, you wouldn’t be lethal poison to him.

(“a-li?”)

if only you hadn’t selfishly kept that warmth all for yourself, tightly grasping it and binding it to a being that would never be free.

maybe then it wouldn’t have died out so soon.

(“yes, my love.”)

if only you hadn’t ever loved—

(...the one thing you will not allow yourself to regret is loving him.)

his hair clip weighs a little heavier in the pocket of your uniform today.

[thedefenderoftheearth]

slide

summary: Rose and TenToo start their journey together and it isn't always perfect but they're good together.

rating: T

word count: 2200

Ao3: https://archiveofourown.org/works/30290310

On Day One, he knows the TARDIS is leaving before Rose does. She’s entirely captivated by this kiss, and he wants to be too (and is…mostly), but it’s his TARDIS, and his mind is big enough to think of both things at once–the love of his life re-entering it and the companion he’s not sure he can live without fading from it. He hates the thought but knows it’s true. He’s lived without Rose, knows he can do it…but he’s not sure if he can live without his ship. 

When Rose breaks the kiss with a gasp and bolts toward his disappearing girl, he’s certain that he can’t.  He takes the few strides to Rose, interlaces his fingers with hers because it’s the only thing he’s sure it’s okay to do. When they turn to look at each other, he wonders what he’ll be sure of tomorrow.

On Day Two, he wakes to a soft whirring sound--an electric toothbrush, he realizes. Rose is awake and coming out of the en suite. He doesn't know what to do with himself, so he flings the covers aside and hops out of the bed to meet her. 

"Oh," she says, and she won't meet his eyes. "Um. Hi. You're awake."

"Yes," he confirms. "And you have a bit of toothpaste just...there." Without thinking and before she can stop him, he licks the pad of his thumb and swipes the corner of her mouth.

"Um. Thanks," she says, and she still won't look at him properly. "Um...I thought...I thought I'd pick up your suit from dry-cleaning. And then we could go shopping, get you some things. I won't be long." She hurries from the room with her head down, not even pausing to wait for an answer.

He's puzzled, but when he's certain she's gone, he sucks his thumb. He can't taste every component of the toothpaste, can't determine the exact structure of the methylcellulose like he used to. What he can taste is Rose, and that, he thinks, could merit a full day's worth of analysis.

It isn't until he goes into the bathroom to relieve himself that he realizes why Rose did her best not to see him.

He wonders if this is a problem human males have every morning.

If so, he wonders how he could possibly bear this every morning--this heat that's spreading across his face, down his neck, and to his shoulders that makes him feel like he could disintegrate on the spot and like he wouldn't mind if he did, because at least he wouldn't have to face Rose again.

On Day Three, she catches him in the kitchen with two fingers in a jar of raspberry jam. He freezes, smiles sheepishly, grows nervous when she doesn't say anything.

"You know," she finally says, taking the jar from him and replacing his fingers with her own, "this is an awful habit to get yourself into." Her tongue darts out to clean the messy glob on her fingers.

"Dreadful," he agrees, when he can finally speak. "Terribly rude." He takes the jar back to help himself to more jam.

They pass the jar between them a few times before she stops and places it on the counter.

Sticky fingers weave through his perfectly tousled hair as she pulls his mouth to her and he wants to whine about it, but his brain shorts out as she swipes her tongue along his bottom lip and oh--all right then.

On Day Nine, they're okay. They've fallen into a safe routine: she cooks breakfast and he cleans the dishes; they share the bathroom (and it's not long before they decide it isn't big enough for the two of them); they reach together for two Torchwood IDs hanging near the door; she drives and he changes the radio fifteen times before they arrive.

Neither of them takes any risks with the other, but it's good. They're good together.

On Day Twenty-Eight, he cooks breakfast and doesn't burn the toast. It earns him a proud hug from Rose. He thinks back to a day when a shop girl from the Powell Estate pronounces a word correctly and elicits the same response from him. He wonders what happened to that girl and marvels at the woman before him who has all of herself pressed up against all of him.

On Day Forty-One, he goes on his third date with Rose. He's not sure why she keeps referring to it that way but she does and has more than once--to her mum on the phone and even to Jake at Torchwood.

He doesn't understand why she emerges from the en suite in a dress he's never seen before and strappy heels that couldn't possibly be designed for comfort (and definitely not for running) or why she smells flowery and certainly good but not quite like herself.

When they return to the flat, he doesn't understand her frustrated sounds when he kisses her, when he tries to slow their snogging back down to just that, just like always, just like normal. She finally relents and succumbs to his pace. When they're both breathless, she snuggles close to him...until she can't anymore.

He's utterly baffled when he's suddenly asked to sleep on the couch, but for the first time since he came to live with Rose--the first time in his existence--he does.

On Day Fifty, he understands why they call it "getting lucky." His brain is shrouded in a blissful haze, yet singularly focused on one thing: he has just had sex with Rose Tyler. He's done the deed, gotten busy, mattress mamboed, knocked boots--he doesn't have boots; maybe he should get some--and he feels a little bit like whooping...but his bones are liquid and he's melting into the soft down of the bed. His hair is in a state of permanent shock, his eyelids droop half-mast, and his mouth is set in a goofy sort of half-grin that doesn't seem to want to fade, but he doesn't mind. He fights to keep his eyes open just to keep looking down at an equally happy Rose falling asleep with one arm across his chest, her hand above his single heart, and her legs tangled with his.

On Day Seventy-Seven, they spend the entire day in bed. He moans loudly.

She tells him through a stuffed-up nose to "shu' ub."

"'Shut up'? Really? These could be my last words, Rose Tyler. I'm going to die!"

"No, you're not."

"Yes, I am."

"It's just a cold."

"Is not. It's swine flu, bird flu, SARS--No." He gasps. "The Plague!"

"It's not the Plague. They didn't even have that here."He whines and moans and groans and "But Roooooose"s, and even though she's miserable herself, she brings him soup, blows on it when it's too hot, and patiently cleans him up when he sneezes in her face and half the bowl goes down his front.

On Day One-Hundred Twelve, they're not okay. Neither of them knows how they got to this point, but hurtful things are being flung carelessly to the air between them. Things like maybe if he came back, she'd leave with him--back to her own universe, back home. Things like maybe if the wanker did come back, he'd just steal his TARDIS, and he could be the one stuck on this stupid planet in this stupid world.

He pulls at the doorknob, tries to flee with some dignity, but the jamb sticks. He twists and pulls and jiggles the lock and finally it breaks free. Tears prickle in his eyes, and he wants to know why this stupid body has his tear ducts hardwired to his frustration. It's a dumb design; he doesn't feel like crying, he feels like running.

He winces when he hears the door slam behind him--he didn't really mean that--but it's done. He can't take it back. He runs.

On Day One-Hundred Fourteen, he runs home. She's ready for him when he walks in, and he isn't expecting that. He's expecting to at least be able to change out of the clothes he left in, the ones that are soaked through and clinging to his cold skin. Maybe even a shave and a steaming cup of tea. He doesn't get those things; they're going to have it out right now.

She unfurls herself from the blankets, rises from the couch with an un-drunk, already-cold mug of tea in her hand and strides toward him. They're toe-to-toe before he can find his voice.

"Still mad?"

She leans in close and he's nervous. "Yes," she says against his temple. "Definitely," against his jaw.

He shivers, swallows thickly, and thinks--knows--they should solve this with words, but when she pulls back to look at him like that, he thinks the words can wait.

They're both sorry, and that's enough for now.

They're a mess of tangled limbs and warm breath as they fall to the bed. His wet clothes are left on the carpet and oh, she's not going to like that later. He wonders how he has room for that thought when he's got a half-naked Rose Tyler in his arms, then he knows: he never wants to make her mad at him again.

Right now, he decides, he's going to make her very, very happy with him.

On Day One-Hundred Fifty, he thinks Rose might be pregnant. He wants to believe it's his superior Time Lord brain counting thirty days to the millisecond. He knows it's his human brain and his human something else.

He's not sure if she thinks that--that there might soon be three heartbeats between them again--but he thinks he's scared, delighted, anxious, proud, reckless, loving, loved, amazed.

He wonders if it's a human trick, to feel all these things at once and not explode into light. If so, it's better than any trick any Time Lord ever had.

On Day One-Hundred Fifty-Two, he finds out he's wrong when she throws a pillow at him and demands toffee and a backrub.

He's not sure why he isn't relieved, or of the reasons he should be.

On Day Two-Hundred Two, he drops a ring--the ring--down the garbage disposal and panics. He stares down the dark void of the drain in horror.

Neither of them are ready for the question to be asked, but that ring....It's The Ring, and he's not going to find a replacement. When his own hand fails him (as does chewing-gum-on-a-wire and the vacuum hose with a bit of nylon over the top) he admits defeat and calls a plumber.

When Rose asks what happened, he has to tell her he finally finished that sonic prototype, and it was rather less successful than one might have hoped--wellll, by that he means it was a complete failure.

She rolls her eyes and asks him what's for supper.

On Day Three-Hundred Ninety-Eight, he thinks they are ready, but she comes home with two zeppelin tickets.

"Fancy a trip?"

"Yes!" he exclaims too loudly. He's done so well so far. He's only had a few freak-outs--no, they weren't freak-outs. Slips, lapses, tiny episodes, he thinks. But oh, would he love to travel. He doesn't have the universe at his fingertips anymore, but this world is still different, still has a lot to offer. Maybe the Sphinx still has a nose because he wasn't there to meddle, and maybe the sand feels different under his feet there because the silicon dioxide content isn't the same in this universe. Maybe the Great Wall of China wasn't built, but there's one in Mexico, and maybe the view is still spectacular. Maybe the best chips on the planet aren't at their old haunt at the hole-in-the-wall on Baker and Twenty-Fourth. Maybe they're across the globe in Sydney, and maybe they can find them.

"Yes," he says quieter, and then, "Where?"

"Anywhere."

"Okay."

"Okay."

And they go.

On Day Four-Hundred Twelve, they're running for their lives from a hunter-gatherer group in the Amazon that he's managed to insult.

They run, and the humidity gives them an endless supply of sweat. Huge droplets pool from every pore making their hair stick close to their scalps and their clothes stick to their skin as though they'd just emerged from a swimming hole fully-clothed and a muddy one at that, with the way the forest wants to cling to them and never let go.

He knows it's just something in the way this adrenal-cortical system works that makes him think that maybe they're really going to die this time, something about these rubbish--wonderful--human hormones, but he says the words anyway.

"Will you marry me?"

"What?" she says between tight gasps for air.

"Marry me.”

"Her answer doesn't come immediately. He doesn't know if she's thinking or trying to find the air for the words or both, but he's dying every second.

"Okay," she says, then looks over her shoulder to the group gaining on them. "Can it wait?"

"Yes!" he exclaims. He hollers an indecipherable word, grabs her hand, and they run faster.

[loveamongthesailors]

Well, Pathologic 2, you’re One years old! It’s as good a moment as any to reflect upon and shatter the time-lines you’ve drawn out for us. OR; Reading His-Story Against the Grain

i saw this post about pathologics incongruous timeline stuff the other day and i ended up Getting Into It.. this piece draws on stuff from patho classic but its focused on patho 2, especially on a comparison ov the Diurnal and Nocturnal “endings,” and contains spoilers for both games, probably, i guess, on varying levels ov abstraction and explicitness. i/m going to attempt to stand on a street corner and point towards Pathologic’s overall construction/presentation ov “time” as the Now-time, Exploded time, Messianic Time.

from dear daniil dankovsky, on Angels; “An angel is a nightmare. Their purpose is to instill primal, oppressive horror. I think if angels existed, they’d resemble a divine pillar of light---from the heavens to the earth. Devoid of anything remotely human.” We commend this Puppet for his drama but would like to take a slightly different approach. Even awful dreams are good dreams, if you’re doing it right.

 IX

         “A Klee painting named ‘Angelus Novus’ shows an angel looking as though he is about to move away from something he is fixedly contemplating. His eyes are staring, his mouth is open, his wings are spread. This is how one pictures the angel of history. His face is turned toward the past. Where we perceive a chain of events, he sees one single catastrophe which keeps piling wreckage and hurls it in front of his feet. The angel would like to stay, awaken the dead, and make whole what has been smashed. But a storm is blowing in from Paradise; it has got caught in his wings with such a violence that the angel can no longer close them. The storm irresistibly propels him into the future to which his back is turned, while the pile of debris before him grows skyward. This storm is what we call progress.“            

         on the content ov patho and in a real Life context, im also going to be discussing genocide ov Indigenous people, colonial Violence, police brutality, and anti-Black violence in this piece. i’ll also be contextualizing some views on History through the writing ov Walter Benjamin, a German born Jew living in the early 20th century, and friend ov Bertolt Brecht, who you may be familiar with if yr into patho. In 1940, shortly after writing On the Concept of History (referenced here),while fleeing persecution for neutral grounds, he was trapped in catalonia by a franco government cancellation ov travel vistas and,under threat ov repatriation to nazis by the spanish police, commited suicide on the night ov september 26. His theses were passed on by surviving members ov his group who were granted “safe” passage after his suicide, being later taken under the care ov Hannah Arendt and Theodor W. Adorno. His Grave reads -in German and in Catalan, reproduced here in english-

"There is no document of culture which is not at the same time a document of barbarism"

(from section 7 ov On the Concept of History)

    i will also be using sections from baedan, which has been dear to me over the years, on Benjamin’s Concepts. some songs will be dispersed throughout (featuring Laurie Anderson, Owen Pallett, and some good ol tmg), with relevant links beneath. you’ve heard that old Brecht aphorism about dark times, singing, whatever? i’m nearly sick to death ov it. these stories, in addition, will be based on a few things i know Myself. follow the threads as you see fit <3

Because History is Stories...That we half-remember... And most of them never even get written down. And so when they say things like "We're gonna do this by the book," You have to ask "What book?," Because it would make a big difference if it was Dostoyevsky or just, You know... Ivanhoe.

xxx

“Read what was never written,” runs a line in Hofmannsthal. The reader one should think of here is the true historian. ~ Walter Benjamin, omitted notes to the theses on history  

//// //// //// ////

Isidor Burakh: All I wanted was for you to understand, not to follow any particular fate.

...

Isidor Burakh: The Town needs to move forward, but it doesn’t insist. Facing the Future is the the way of Love. Facing the Past is the way of Love. But the two are incompatible, and it broke my heart. //// //// //// ////

      so,,, depending on who you ask within Pathologics narrative, the history ov the Town-on-Gorkhon stretches back to Time Immemorial, constitutes a few hundred years ov settlement, or only goes back about as far as You have been playing the game. You’ll hear conflicting narratives around just about everything in this Town. Simon Kain, hundred something years old, mystic, spiritual founder ov a several hundred year old settlement. an executed general’s vengeful daughter, Artemy and Rubins foggy backstories ov military service, what military?, what war? Who sent in the Military and Inquisition, how can We get at the Powers that Be? looking outside ov the narrative and towards history for these sorts ov questions will give us All and None ov the answers. 

       The Termitary (internment/interment/intermediate/immediate/intermittent)  looms over the Home ov Isidor Burakh, Menkhu and sole Medical Practitioner ov the town(excepting disciples. consider the spread ov knowledge, what different Knowledges are at hand and how they perpetuate...we can see how Isidor himself looms from his grave Quite well!), colleague ov radical intellectuals from the Capital and serving with Simon in tandem with the Mistresses to hold the Town together by force. Everything is Happening at Once.

        Look at What/Who is Moving this Story Forward. Different ruling families will give you again, different Numbers, different Stories. One can’t trust the Numbers, we say! and One can hardly trust the Stories either, mind you. This engenders an approach based on following Patterns, exploring Roots, pulling back the curtain to ascertain the shape ov things, reading the lines so to speak. one Bull or Several bulls? silly question. again, we’re trying to looking beyond the Numbers. consider Time as a Multiplicity. consider Rhythmic and Linear time, Time Stratified, Unending Time, Plague Time and Empty Time, Lived Time and Time un-Lived, if one pleases!

XVII                                                    

           “Historicism rightly culminates in universal history. Materialistic historiography differs from it as to method more clearly than from any other kind. Universal history has no theoretical armature. Its method is additive; it musters a mass of data to fill the homogoneous, empty time. Materialistic historiography, on the other hand, is based on a constructive principle. Thinking involves not only the flow of thoughts, but their arrest as well. Where thinking suddenly stops in a configuration pregnant with tensions, it gives that configuration a shock, by which it crystallizes into a monad. A historical materialist approaches a historical subject only where he encounters it as a monad. In this structure he recognizes the sign of a Messianic cessation of happening, or, put differently, a revolutionary chance in the fight for the oppressed past. He takes cognizance of it in order to blast a specific era out of the homogenous course of history—blasting a specific life out of the era or a specific work out of the lifework. As a result of this method the lifework is preserved in this work and at the same time canceled*; in the lifework, the era; and in the era, the entire course of history. The nourishing fruit of the historically understood contains time as a precious but tasteless seed.”                                                   

*The Hegelian term aufheben in its threefold meaning: to preserve, to elevate, to cancel.

          Everything is happening at once, already, and, for the purposes ov Our story, A plague is on. (why is there a plague on?  in this Specific Case, read: Specimen, there is a plague on because infection serves as a very useful allegorical device. haha. see also dominant theories ov infectivity in russian imperial medicine, policy, and social science) Crisis as Inflammation. Violence and Control intensified along multiple vectors. Mobs, Witch Burnings, The Quarantine, districts carved up and kept under surveillance, the Town Police, Arsonists, government or Otherwise, the Military, the Inquisition, Hangings in the square, tallies ov the Dead in the Termitary... Was any ov this new? did it Crystallize from thin air? here’s an aphorism: There’s Nothing New Under the Sun. what can we find beyond the Sun’s reaches? what has the Sun given us, and what has Earth? shall we keep them apart? whose bodies are restricted in their movement over the earth, and how severely are they restricted? who is targeted? who enforces the control? is this what Crisis looks like? when did the Crisis start?

VI                       

           “To articulate the past historically does not mean to recognize it ‘the way it really was’ (Ranke). It means to seize hold of a memory as it flashes up at a moment of danger. Historical materialism wishes to retain that image of the past which unexpectedly appears to man singled out by history at a moment of danger. The danger effects both the content of the tradition and its receivers. The same threat hangs over both: that of becoming a tool of the ruling classes. In every era the attempt must be made anew to wrest tradition away from a conformism that is about to overpower it. The Messiah comes not only as the redeemer, he comes as the subduer of Antichrist. Only that historian will have the gift of fanning the spark of hope in the past who is firmly convinced that even the dead will not be safe from the enemy if he wins. And this enemy has not ceased to be victorious.”

//// //// //// //// 

But do not be scared Surely some disaster will descend and equalize us A crisis Will unify the godless and the fearless and the righteous

...

In a certain slant of light the feeling will hit me Like a man against the waves and a violent wind Waking up in a bloody morning With the warmth of his forgiveness around me The shared dream left me shaking The memory is threatening to capsize every ship upon the sea

xxx //// //// //// ////

      Pathologic, having mapped out these lines, and being a concatenation ov narrative fiction that could not have existed without the precondition ov colonial expansion and the Extermination and Assimilation ov Indigenous populations and Life ways, can be can be unwound through a conventional historical approach by investigating various moments, epidemics, and movements in The Steppe (and all Land and Living Beings subsumed by Russia’s internal colonization) and looking for similarities, sources, influences, reflections, distortions... You’ll never find quite an exact parallel to the events ov pathologic, and you will find that the Trick that the devisers have given you in fact resides in laying out what can be gleaned from the Tangled view.

“…they make the work a process of learning or experimentation, but also something total every time, where the whole of chance is affirmed in each case, renewable every time,”

         — Gilles Deleuze, Difference&Repetition

//// //// //// ////

“For Benjamin, the conclusion of the movement of history through time is not some inevitable utopia—capitalist, communist, or otherwise. Rather than viewing the progression of civilization as an accumulation of gains and reforms toward freedom and justice, history can be seen as the continuous defeat of the exploited by their oppressors; the intensifying alienation of beings and their re-construction into capital. History not only serves to justify today’s rulers, but also to encode our memory with a narrative that reads historical events as a necessary chain of events along the path toward some future revolution or techno-utopia. He describes this as “a view of history that puts its faith in the infinite extent of time and thus concerns itself only with the speed, or lack of it, with which people and epochs advance along the path of progress.”

//// //// //// ////

     In your Twelve Days in the town as a Healer, what did you see? piles ov wreckage, debris, bodies stacked under streetlamps flickering in the night? a town spreading across a steppe? a Utopia growing through the Earth? do you think you saved any lives, and was any-body's life yours to save in the first place? a Plague moving through living organisms? a Plague moving through non-living organisms? did you observe any Organisms, living or otherwise, over the course ov the play? do you have Mirrors in your house? have you seen a still, clear, body ov water recently? what are the waterways where you live called, and have they been called anything else in the Past or Present? did you become the Haruspex, and following what paths does becoming-haruspex entail? are you winning, son?

When the hunger turns in on itself, it begins to devour its host Who do you turn to for help? Who do you love the most? When the word comes down the wire that they're looking To make an example of you Skin and bones around a campfire beneath the stars No good end in view I dance with the ones that brought me I dance with the ones that brought me here

xxx

         did you observe a Fever? can you feel a Fever? can you Imagine a great crack ov lightning striking across the Steppe, illuminating in raw detail the beauty and horror ov all that you have experienced? how would it smell afterwards? can you smell the Twyre on the air? is Twyre even a real thing? what may influence your imaginary ov its scent? Feel small, dirty hands reaching out for beetles, marbles, raisins, souls within nuts and names without people. Living on pemmican, Living on military rations. razors, fish-hooks, scalpels and syringes passing through the hands ov children as well. noticing the flows present in everything, spots where they are arrested, and the intensities they assume. we could run through the Game and Count up the Number ov Clocks present, and we could also look at how many hours we have Clocked in our Playtime, and the date ov this Play’s Production. did the Kains succeed in their mission to Produce Time? was this the Kain’s mission Alone? how is your mental Clock? We got the Body Count at the end of the day, and commentary too. cant beat that courtesy, *hem hem* but again, looking beyond the Numbers. how many Bulls did you see? when is a question also a trap? 

XVIII                                                  

       “‘In relation to the history of organic life on earth,’ writes a modern biologist, ‘the paltry fifty millennia of homo sapiens constitute something like two seconds at the close of a twenty-four-hour day. On this scale, the history of civilized mankind would fill one-fifth of the last second of the last hour.’ The present, which, as a model of Messianic time, comprises the entire history of mankind in an enormous abridgment, coincides exactly with the stature which the history of mankind has in the universe.”

what are the Consequences ov inserting Living Beings into a Linear Framework? where did Architecture come from? how was this Story constructed? What do you remember about the Town? 

We can take the Diurnal “ending” as a fairly straightforward allegorical Byway for the Forces ov Progress. Boundaries are set, You are not the Town, the Town is your Soul-and-a-half.( wikihow to not be a cartesian dualist, consider also Spinoza if laying bare the path ov immanence was ov interest to you) What lays beneath the Sunlight? what still lays beneath the Earth? What time is it? things are weirdly cozy, in some ways. mimesis, echoes, ghosts. Are their voices still heard? grace tallies up the bodies. are You ready to Leave Artemy here? is this a comfortable future for you to imagine? how are you with uncertainty? Does the costume itch? do you ache at the seams, or are your joints sore from all the strings pulling at them? got arthritis? i’ve used stinging nettle. can a Story devour a human being? why would something with that power stop at One?  

What Do You Think Will Happen Now?

One can also make the Choice to step into the Darkness. One with many names has returned to the Earth,(”One” ov many False Deaths and Smart Tricks too. love ya girl <3)... taya as mistress-ov-bulls, grace as mistress-ov-dead, changeling as mistress-ov-absolutley-whatever. Mistresses, Mist, Tresses, Bulls, Brides, Worms, Plague...the Theme/s to note here is/are Multiplicity. Is there a difference between imagining the future and the past? Where are you? Where did You come from? the Nocturnal ending already asks enough questions to make me quite happy. sitting next to the Girls now, looking out at the New Sky. same as the old sky, Full ov Magic. if we take Death ov the Author into account, we could say that the Polyhedron belongs to the Dead in more ways than one. We can see your house from here! i wouldn’t say we’ve even gotten to the Prophet yet. When did our Hero leave us? did We have any use for Heroism? the Steppe is in the Stone Yard now. The World is returning to Life. what does it mean for me?

how many angels can dance on the head ov a pin?

how many worm brides can dance in the cathedral?

   ....“The way in which the dead are present is as the “caress” of a “breath of… air,” as an “echo,” or as a sister who one no longer recognizes. In other words, the past is present and everywhere, touching us every moment and “in the voices we hear,” but only suggestively, in and in spite of our own inability to recognize it. But the possibility for redemption, the weak messianic power, lies in the chance that we might.

In the intimate, ever-present opportunity he describes there is a tremendous deal at stake. For, he writes in the fourth thesis, the “refined and spiritual things” that live in the class struggle “as confidence, courage, humor, cunning, and fortitude, and have effects that reach far back into the past… constantly call into question every victory, past and present, of the rulers.”

Later, turning to the historians he criticizes as tools of the ruling classes, Benjamin makes it clear in his seventh thesis that their resurrection of the past is an entirely different kind. The nature of the sadness—rooted in an indolence of heart—that Flaubert described feeling in his historical study of Carthage is clearer, Benjamin says, when we remember that the historian’s empathy is always with the victor, and thus with the present rulers. It is the kind of sadness, then, that gathers to the loyal servant or minion in knowing that it is being used for its ruler’s purposes”

         “Figured another way, the task of interruption requires us to locate the clocktower that we could fire upon to stop the day. Homogenous time no longer flows through the monolithic machines in the city centers. Now, a range of technological advancements have diffused and integrated the machinery of time into our very thoughts and rhythms. Everywhere we go, we are surrounded by and permeated with devices which serve to manage the regime of time. Where once a singular apparatus mediated our relationship to time, its dictatorship is now imposed by an innumerable array. A desire for interruption must now reckon with the countless apparatuses that segment our memory and integrate our very being into capitalist time. But rather than waste time lashing out against all these clocks one after another, let us cut through to what underlies them.

           History’s servants promise us a shining future. Whether by means of technological innovation, hard work and sacrifice, or the Revolution, we are assured of a heaven-on-earth of light and crystal. But all of these glimmering apparatuses can only serve to adorn the monumental pile of wreckage in which we live. All around us, the carnage and corpses of our ancestors form the architecture of our daily existence. Not only the walls and freeways and shopping centers, but the smart phones, pornography, surveillance and entertainment systems—all monuments to the same enemy that has never ceased to be victorious. Capital, Leviathan, civilization, society: so many names for the process which turns life into an assemblage of death, which would integrate us as machines into a grander machinery. Futurity is the logic that drives this regime of subjection and assimilation, but is also the science which desecrates our memory of those who also struggled; the treachery which turns their struggles into so many more ideological cadavers. Where living beings once struggled to be free from futurity’s domination of their lives, we are told that they dutifully sacrificed themselves for society’s future. We too are called upon to procreate and raise up children who might one day live better lives than we. But just as we were born into the halls of the dead, so too would our children be the stillborn janitors of these halls, breathing circuits embedded in a massive cybernetic cadaver. Ghosts call out to us: they ask that we tear apart the sutures of this Frankenstein’s monster which they’ve come to constitute. They call on us to cremate their remains and bury the ashes, to end the reign of the dead over the living.”

//// //// //// ////

"I am not afraid," ze said "Of the non-believer within me Nor delight at the pain of my enemies Nor tears for any friends I have lost" ...

I’ll never have any children I’d bear them and eat them, my children

I’m gonna change my body In the light and the shadow of suspicion I am no longer afraid The truth doesn’t terrify us, terrify us My salvation is found in discipline, in discipline

xxxx

//// //// //// ////

“It is apparent from the foregoing that all accumulation is cruel; all renunciation of the present for the sake of the future is cruel.”

— Georges Bataille, The Accursed Share, Volume III

//// //// //// ////

“The Haruspex is blood and organs... ...The Haruspex’s overarching idea is the interconnectedness of everything and restoring the connections... ...The Haruspex hears (rhythms)... ...The Haruspex: water + forward vector. „ — [from the game’s design documents]

“ The Haruspex, a butcher, a killer, one could even say a murderous psychopath, gets the warmest character arc. It’s about love. „ — [from the game’s design documents] 

//// //// //// ////

Infinity Mirrored Room—All the Eternal Love I Have for the Pumpkins -

Yayoi Kusama, 2016

//// //// //// ////

       A long “personal” anecdote: there’s music on the air and i hear a familiar buzzing. it isn’t twyre growing, nor it is the hum ov flies. we Keep bees here, to get honey.  I should try to remember to bring some to my wife tomorrow, though making the journey on its own is a bit daunting these days. 1 hive, 2 hives, the bees build and swarm and our Keeper rearranges the frames, adds in new boxes, tries to give them enough space that they'll stay within our domain. I think about the complex roles being fulfilled within the hive, and how any egg can grow into a so called “Queen” if need be. These Hives haven’t always held the same populations, sometimes a swarm will depart and won’t be Recovered. Look around the neighborhood, find the buzzing tree, you may be able to get them back yet but... have you tried getting a swarm ov bees into a box before? good luck finding the queen! (hoping i don’t have to do this but a bit excited by the prospect at the same time.)

        Our honey bees didn't originate from this region, i see them in the “yard” alongside native bees (one tries to plant for Everybody) but obviously, Our Hives are here so i’ll always see more ov the honeybees as long as they’re occupying them. Native bees to our Bioregion are leading very different lifestyles. Different threats, dynamics, and places in the ecosystem as well. Bumblebees are the most Beloved. Native Bees here- vital pollinators, ground and stem burrowers, more solitary souls than most, but are any ov us really alone? what are their favorite flowers?

          I think about Bees a lot now. I’m standing here thinking about Bees, and where I’m standing is in between the entrance ov the Hive and their favorite Ceanothus (see also soap brush, red root, buckbrush, see medicinal uses...). Very precious grounds to these Bees, not somewhere where I’m welcome. I Haven’t always known as much about bees. I get stung right inbetween my pinky and index fingers, on the palm ov my hand. yeowch! Bad luck, but i could still use a shovel the next day. This was an anecdote about Paying Attention to Your Surroundings.

       The Ceanothus isn’t flowering anymore, and hasn't been for a few “weeks” (i think?) The Bees have other concerns now. In fact, it was heavily damaged in a snow storm a couple years back, and half ov its branches collapsed under the weight ov the ice. Its a bit ov a twisted thing now, what remains still flowers but what remains is not so much. At some point in the future upon yr reading ov this, it will have been cut down and possibly dug out ov the earth. I wouldn't be surprised if a few more, smaller, iterations made their way to this space in remembrance/ tribute. The branches lost in it’s first wounding are still stacked up nearby, all sorts ov creatures love that stuff. Dead trees in the back that Birds still frequent stay for the birds. We never get that many plums because we’re not smart or quick enough, or as willing to take one great bite ov a fruit and let the rest fall to the soil. I didn’t really get stung by a Bee in a situation exactly like what i described up there, it’s drawing on a few different times that sort ov thing happened. I hope you’ll forgive me for my obscurantist tendencies.

       Looking past the Hives and onto the Streets, I am a White Settler(family fled the reach ov the Soviet Union to integrate into America, family fled family to a different part ov land under the Reaches ov said “America”,cave fled family but stuck with the Land, recurring patterns, what would my views be if i had grown up in Czechoslovakia? geography, chronology, trick questions) living in a segment ov Town that, until 1968, was a legally a Sundown Town, see Racial Restrictive Covenants. I still don’t see than many Black ppl around my neighborhood. I do see grocery store parking lots swarming with cop cars, more cops than i can Count, at least two k9 units, all to pursue One Black Body through the rainy night, My own Body lets me move through the world without these Forces being brought upon me in this intensity, lets me Watch.

          Certain alignments ov directions ov Struggle have brought me into the position ov the Other at the end ov the cudgel, a body in a crowd under the looming eye and long barrel ov the sniper, the surveillance camera. Visibility is a Trap. Any ability i have to Get Off The Hook is based not on Luck or Fate, but due to the way the color ov my skin is reflected in the eyes ov Those in Power. what can i do from inside This Skin, and what can i do with the veil ov a mask obliterating my “selfhood”? How are we to heal? If you didnt read this into my Musical choices already- im a bit ov a flaming/smoldering queer. sitting in the planned parenthood lobby, one among many, gripped by recollections ov the devastating history ov HIV/AIDS and a cluster ov other Crises, memories ov beloved souls lost to policies and hegemony ov extermination and neglect. blood in vials, piss in jars. how does the time spent waiting for results feel?(how long? weeks months?)

           I have more free condoms on hand than i’ll ever get through. A veritable theoretical eternity ov Safer Sex. There are Reasons why Queer Institutions give access to free condoms. But i’ve gotten them from some delightful Quakers as well. on another squeamish, libidinal subject, administering self injections isnt so daunting when you’ve seen it done a Million times before. It’s like watching somebody sneeze, or pinching yourself. HRT as potions, mechanical intrusion to will a slow transformation. getting into the fat is easy, some other avenues less so. “This requires the Gentle Hand of a Surgeon, step aside!” i know a lot about what Doctors Don’t Know. (veins and arteries as streets- easy. nerves as streets - you hear this a bit less. streets as eyes, the opening ov your mouth with a railroad track running down it, eyes as streets, whose streets? fuck streets! tear up the concrete)

          The aforementioned streets are closed to Traffic due to the Quarantine, and i hear folks and families from the neighborhood walking/hoverboarding/skateboarding/biking down the street,(mostly the new work from home yuppie class and their spawn respectively, but there's some real ones around here too. all ages. have yet to live anywhere that people don't ask me for cigarettes) chattering away, masks or no masks. If i take a long walk down past the cemetery, I’ll find myself passing by a Native American Youth Home, created to provide support for a population that is currently disproportionately represented in this Town’s already Massive Homeless population. (their covid19 resources and donation info) Even with the Plague on, New Condos are built and Old Condos stay empty. Who do the bones in the soil beneath my feet belong to? When did all ov this Start, and how Long will it go on? why does the Map look the way it does? I would rather listen carefully than dig. This Story is not the only Story, nor should any be.

      do i remember how the damp asphalt smells Here after Lightning Strikes? do i remember the feeling ov my body thrown to the concrete and the chaos and disorientation ov Crowds mobbing over me, slick with rain and sweat? who saw, and how many hands reached out to lift me up, who saved who? is that my blood trickling down the sidewalk? Flashbangs and Flashes ov Lightning, take yr pick. you can get similar experiential learning in the moshpit. this is an anecdote about Paying Attention to Your Surroundings.

i’ll try to bring us nearer to the point with baedan’s conclusion, a reflection on the First thesis from On the Concept of History. I will leave it up to You to investigate the original text if you are so Inclined.

//// //// //// ////

           “For every pretty theory that presents itself, study it only in the way that a cat studies its prey: for the enjoyment of the hunt, to be sure, but also so as to seize upon whatever unique revolutionary chance may appear as in a flash of lightning. So that when that narrow gate opens, you pounce without a moment’s hesitation. In the meantime, by all means, enjoy the diversion of the theory’s lines and moves, but if you are to avoid becoming its tool you must ever have in mind to shatter the system of mirrors and confront the dwarf that has been pulling the strings all along. Faced with this ugly little creature behind all the lines of play you’ve enjoyed and suffered, able at last to read the lines of its face and the dark of its eyes, as time stands still and the entirety of the past falls to you, you will have to make a deeply ethical decision that nothing in all the games before could prepare you for. The only decision that truly matters.”

//// //// //// ////

Artemy Burakh: Any Choice is Right as long as it’s Willed.

//// //// /// ////

Hansel and Gretel are alive and well And they're living in Berlin She is a cocktail waitress He had a part in a Fassbinder film And they sit around at night now Drinking schnapps and gin And she says: Hansel, you're really bringing me down And he says: Gretel, you can really be a bitch He says: I've wasted my life on our stupid legend When my one and only love Was the wicked witch

She said: what is history? And he said: history is an angel being blown backwards into the future He said: history is a pile of debris And the angel wants to go back and fix things To repair the things that have been broken But there is a storm blowing from paradise And the storm keeps blowing the angel backwards into the future And this storm, this storm is called progress

xxx

TLDR; pathologics shitty timeline is cool because it fosters a metagame where the imperative is to make history explode in real life.

specific thanx to: every1 included above, my local subversive lit dealers, Whoever gave the talk last ABF about Queer Wanderings in the anti-nazi Underworld, have not stopped carrying those stories with me since. thanks to the Dear Listener, thanks 2 my wife for pragmatic and personal encouragements <3

a personal acknowledgement to the lives and legacies ov the dxʷdəwʔabš (Duwamish) people, past and present, First People ov the Land i currently Occupy, alongside the entire City ov so-called “Seattle.”

[jaehyunskitten22]

Vampire!Wonho x Chubby!Reader

I wrote this during study hall lol (jESUS I STARTED THIS TWO YEARS AGO)

Damn im old fam

Anyway let me know if you guys want a continuation of this okay i love you 💖😚

anyway lets do this thang

also in this headcanon wonho was probably changed in the 1400s js

Wonho was probably changed due to his helpful and caring nature.

A woman most likely approached him and acted like she was in distress. She lured him into a dark alley and attacked him, with the intent of draining him dry. (but she was interupted by another vampire shownu  whom heard the noise of the struggle and grew concerned)

Wonho is at first devastated. He loves his friends and family so much and the fact that a monster took them away from him angers him a great deal. 

When Shownu had first tried to take him in he was quite defensive.

He thinks about getting himself killed a lot, just to end the never ending loneliness and pain. 

He eventually joins Shownu but he still doesn’t abandon the thought of dying. 

he naturally has a protective personality, so i imagine that being a vampire would only intensify it

I also don’t see him as the sexy kind of vampire, i see him more as the local boy next door vampire lol

Anyway him being protective would be how he met you

He was walking around one day, enjoying the fresh air when he heard a scream coming from an alleyway and he ran to go and investigate it

when he reached the source, he saw that it came from a frightened girl that was being cornered by a sketchy looking vampire

and its just a universally accepted rule that children, pregnant women and people who couldn’t protect themselves were all off limits, just based off of morals and principle

And based on the way the vampire was standing over you, he could tell that you were being tracked or hunted down, which almost enrages hoseok

But he is good at communicating with people so he definitely keeps it cool and tries to look like he is unaffected to try and throw the other vampire off

He asks him what the problem is and he is informed that you are just a lost girl who was just in the wrong place at the wrong time. 

but based on your clothing, hoseok can kind of tell that you are important and if you get killed it’s going to bring attention to the vampire population and that is really not good

and hoseok is just like ???  because how can anyone be willing to inflict harm on such a sweet and soft looking girl??? and all because she got lost???

so he’s just like ‘lol no’ and tells the vampire to get lost and he does because hoseok is a very intimidating looking vampire because of how big he is

and of course you are still terrified and confused and he doesn’t have the heart to ruin your perception of safety in your fragile little world so he offers to help you find your way home

and he isn’t expecting you to be so willing to go with him but you look up at him with such an innocent but sad look and now hoseok just feels unworthy to be in your presence because you look so fragile and innocent and he very much is not

and you’re so trusting, which can get you really hurt by a vampire, as they like taking advantage of naive humans

and your hands are really soft and warm and he really just wants to get you home and in bed because its getting dark and he wants to know you’re safe before the really scary vampires come out to play

and really hoseok doesn’t want anything other than you getting into bed and going to sleep so he knows that you’re okay

so after he drops you off he runs away a little confused because he doesn’t really get why he cares so much about you but he doesn’t think too much about it because he thinks that he won’t ever see you again anyway

You were the daughter of a high ranking official and after the night where you were attacked in the alley you are plagued by terrifying nightmares and you wake the castle up with your sobbing and screaming

Shownu and the others are pretty close to your father but wonho knows absolutely nothing about you due to the fact that he is so withdrawn and he rarely attends things with the others.

but eventually they all convince him to go one day and as he grows cloer to the castle he remembers the night he met you and he gets really excited to see you again despite his better judgement

when he sets eyes on you he gets very happy. like a smile so big spreads across his face that it looks like it will split his face in half and you’re so shy with him

and all of the other boys are in the background nudging eachother bc they notice how affectionate and soft wonho is for you

they are also a little hesitant though bc wonho is so skittish and angry but it all changes once he sees you again? he’s so happy and he becomes more friendly and chatty and he talks about how he wants to see you again

and thats great and all,,, but he can sometimes be a little impulsive and when he gets really hyped up and frisky after not feeding for a bit 

he talks about wanting to sneak into your room and they all try to keep him from doing that but they cant watch him every night you get me?

so one day he sneaks out and climbs up to your window and easily gets in and he is very keen on waking you up and cornering you and basically devouring you because he’s not thinking straight

but when he sneaks into your room later on that night he sees you shuddering in bed from a nightmare and he can’t find it in himself to even pretend that he was going to hurt you. 

he instead jumps down from your window sill and creeps into your room, studying your whimpering form very carefully. 

He could see every detail of your face from across the room but he didn’t want to stay that far away. 

And he really knows that he shouldn’t. like he really knows. 

But he still gently sinks down into the chair next to your bed and just watches you

now that he’s thinking clearly and is very worried about you he tries to memorize every single one of your features, (not in a creepy way) He doesn’t know why he wants to do this but he does it anyway. 

He notices that you smell really pleasing to him, like apples and dried leaves. (he doesn’t know what that means but he does know that he has a strong urge to protect you and its ridiculous how hard he has to try in order to hold back the snarl at the nightmare that is plaguing you)

he instinctively reaches his hand out and it hovers above you unsurely for about ½ a minute until he decides that he can’t take seeing that frown and hearing your tiny whimpers with your loud heart rate and heavy breathing anymore.

He rubs his hand up and down your back, trying to calm you the way his mother used to calm him. 

He lightly tugged his fingers through your hair and watched in awe as you quickly calmed down and snuggled deeper into your pillow and blankets.

He watches you with a dumb little smile on his face until he hears a throat clear from the doorway and he looks up and panics when he sees your father standing there.

He’s prepared to be executed immediately for sneaking into your room, but the king surprises him

Instead of calling the guards, he quietly thanks wonho for helping you stay asleep, as you usually start crying at this time due to the dreams.

He just nods and kind of bolts because he hasn’t had any interactions with humans since being changed and really it was just A Lot.

 He tells the clan about what happened when he gets back and Hyungwon lowkey knows what’s up because he’s the only mated vampire in their group and he chooses to not explain it due to you being so much younger and wonho being so skittish.

Wonho tells himself that he will never return to your room again but every night he always is there, comforting you when your nightmares were bothering you. 

Your father sometimes talks with wonho and its obvious that he knows what wonho is, but he doesn’t feel like your safety is being sacrificed, if anything he feels that you are more safe with the vampire in your room than when he is out of it.

eventually it becomes obvious that wonho is liked in the palace because he prevents you from waking up the castle in the middle of the night

Your father introduces him to you as your new night time guard when you turn 17 but you lowkey already knew him because you had seen him sneak out of your room in morning as you woke up when he moved his hand from your back

Even though he can now just walk through the front gate he still chooses to crawl in through your window that you now leave open for him. And he tucks you in every night and sometimes lies with you in bed until you fall asleep, sometimes even closing his eyes and holding you close to him

he likes how soft and warm you are, it reminds him of  how fragile and human you are and it’s a double edged sword because it reminds him of how dangerous and how much of a monster he is.your dad knows that there is something between you two and as you are coming of age he starts to leave you two alone together more.

Wonho has also started to notice his attraction towards you and it surprises him a bit

but you guys still get close and wonho knows that you feel the same way but he’s not sure if its because you actually like him or f it’s because he charmed you, something that vampires do naturally.he doesn’t want you to get hurt and he doesn’t want you to regret anything. he wants you to have a normal life and have babies and live until you die.

 he doesn’t want to rob you of normal life.but he can be a selfish man, and he decides to be exactly that.he sticks around, growing attached to you and the way you look at him. He’s completely infatuated with you.

you also love the way he looks at you, the way you catch him appreciating your body in certain gowns. Especially the way he gets hard when he holds you at night now.

you two barely leave each other’s sight and he always has his hands on you in some way

every time wonho gets back from spending time with you the rest of the guys always ask him if you guys have had sex because he always looks so happy and sated, like had had just drained someone dry or he had a few orgasms and truthfully he’s just really happy. spending time with you just does something to him and he loves the feeling of holding you and protecting you at night

once again, hyungwon knows what this is but he doesn’t say a word

your hands always end up under his shirt and he always feels the kittenish nips and licks that you give him while you’re sleeping or that he hears the way you sigh and hum in pleasure and that you always end up grinding against his thigh in the middle of the night

yeah he has enough jerk off material to last him the next 2,000 years

on the days that you are forced to leave the castle without him he sneaks into your room and takes his time smelling everything. smelling your scent does something to him that just thinking about you doesn’t

he hates to admit it, but he has had the most intense orgasms with his face buried in one of your pillows that he switched with one of his own, humping against his mattress

and you know that he’s doing it because when you lay down on the pillow that he switched, it feels like it barely been used and it smells exactly like him.

and he can smell all of the things you have done in those sheets. every single thing.

he can smell your skin. your body wash. but what really gets him is that he can smell your pleasure.

 he even catches you doing it one night, lightly mewling his name into the pillowcase that you had stripped off shortly after you got in there, something that he had marked with his scent because he wanted to help you sleep

your scent triggers his instinct to protect and mate, but by far the strongest instinct is to show you all aspects of love and what they all feel like

but the feeling that out weighs them all is wanting to keep you safe

and when you tell him how you feel about him after you get back from a ball where you had a little too much to drink, he does the only thing he can think of

he lies to you and says that he doesn’t feel the same and the sadness in your eyes makes him want to die and when you start to sniffle and tear up he gently coos at you the way he used to, telling you that you’re amazing and that you shouldn’t cry over a guy like him not feeling the same way because there are plenty of better guys out there.

after you fall asleep he prays to the lord above that you don’t remember this in the morning but why would he get that lucky

you never come out and say that you remember but he knows that you do because you’re shy now, and not in the cute way but in the very awkward way.

conversation doesn’t flow easily between you two anymore and everyone notices it.

it gets so bad that he begs your father to have a change of staff because he knows that his presence makes you hurt inside and he hates being able to see the consequences of his stupid actions

You become withdrawn and grouchy and so does he. He can’t stand lying to you but he feels like he has to because he wants you to marry a human and have a pretty little family, something that he can’t give you.

he keeps telling himself that you will be married off soon, and that you will be better when that happens

but it doesnt happen

everyone around you is receiving marriage propositions from other nobles and you arent

you assume it’s because you don’t look like a pretty and thin princess and you do not want to be seen outside of the palace walls anymore.he notices that you are starting to look ill and tired a lot of the time and he’s afraid that you’re dying

and he feels like he’s dying too. he misses everything about you and he knows that he did the wrong thing but he also thinks that you could never forgive him for that so he doesn’t try to fix it

everyone starts worrying about you two because you guys drifted apart so quickly and no one knows what happened

he hates himself so much again and he sees no worth in his life anymore but he doesn’t want to end it either because he’s afraid of never being able to see you again or upsetting you further

he just has so much affection for you and he can’t stand not being able to give it to you all the time and he constantly mopes around the house and everyone gets fed up pretty quickly bc tbh he made the mess himself but they also know that he was doing what he thought was best at the time. 

no one really knows what to do though. they don’t know how to fix it becAUSE THEY DONT KNOW WHAT HE D ID

and while all of this is happening they still visit your father regularly wonho just doesn’t come

and Hyungwon is 1000% done with this situation ok he just wants wonho to be happy and to quit sabotaging himself

so hyungwon legit comes flat out and asks you what wonho did to you bc “whatever it was, he’s completely devastated over it and he mopes about it a lot.”

and that surprises you bc? he didn’t really do anything he jsut didn’t like you back and you tell them that and their eyes dead ass roll so far into their heads you’re afraid they’ll get stuck

and kihyuns’s just like “are we even really sUrPrISeD”

So they basically start tripping all over themselves, trying to explain to you that a) you must be blind, b) he was lying, and c) yOU MUST BE BLIND

And you dont know what to think bc????? Hoseok???? Nooo surely not

Right?

And then when you think about it, it kinda makes sense in a way

But you dont know what to do

Like you didnt do anything??? It was him. He’s the one who decided to lie to you, and it really hurts you

Its not like he was trying to fix it. He was doing everything in his power to completely ignore you

So maybe he doesnt want it fixed

But he does. He really does

He just doesn’t know what to do either

So you both just,,,,, leave it.

[calpops]

veiled valor | 6 | c.h.

falling freedom

series masterlist

A familiar pistol fell to the deck as Calum felt splintered wood scraping sensitive skin. Screams from land echoed around an otherwise quiet morning. A wave of shock consumed Calum until Elodie’s touch broke him away from the numbness invading his mind and body. She was there, concerned eyes taking him in, a steady hand pulling him back to reality. He felt nothing; in a calming way. No pain spliced through him, no wound bled and no harm inflicted his body. He heard Ashton yelling out coordinates as the ship cut away from the docks, narrowly avoiding and finally abandoning those who knew truths better left unspoken.

“Calum?” Elodie’s voice broke through, finally cutting Calum into a responsive mode.

Calum pulled himself up, feeling Elodie’s touch go with him, feet on the deck and head held high as he scanned the shore line. Everything clicked, the fallen pistol, the screams in the near distance, the fact that he was unharmed. He quickly turned to Elodie; eyes haunted and hands shaking past their grip on him. Calum pulled Elodie to him, arms wound tight around her shaking frame. She didn’t respond, body unmoving aside from the trembles she couldn’t help but escape her. Calum didn’t want to look back at land and see the worst. But he spared a glance and let out a breath as he realized the shot was not fatal. Wounding. But not fatal. He turned back to her. His hands came up to cup her face, searching eyes lost at sea.

“He was drawing a weapon—I, he, I had to.”

Calum only nodded, ran his hands up and down her arms to try and soothe how overwhelmed she was quickly becoming. He understood the rash reasoning, knowing had the roles been reversed he would have done worse. Calum drowned out the rest of the ship; the crew bustling about after having to set sail on a moment’s notice, the wind whipping at his back, the waves crashing and splashing against the woodwork. He only saw Elodie in that moment; fixated on fixing the flashes of guilt capturing her golden eyes.

“You saved a life,” Calum said gently, hoping his words would ease her mind and calm the panic bubbling to the surface.

Her pistol still lay on the deck, metal gleaming under the new morning sun, chamber empty and menacing. Calum sank down to retrieve the fallen weapon and offered it back to Elodie. She was struck with shock, unwilling to move and respond. In one bold moment, with no thought attached Calum pushed her skirt aside and secured the pistol back into its holster. He didn’t want her unarmed for even a moment more.

Elodie pushed away from Calum, hands going restless against her skirt, eyes glassy with unshed tears. She inhaled sharply, chest heaving and body swayed by the influence. Calum kept her steady, reaching out to her once more as he tried to ground her out of her panic and back into reality. But it was reality that she feared; it was a split second decision to sweep her skirt out of the way and grab her pistol from the makeshift holster strapped around her thigh. Calum swallowed nervously, watching golden panic and pain cut without mercy.

“Why would you do that?” Elodie finally cried out, the question strong yet voice broken and begging for explanation. Calum didn’t follow.

“Do what?”

Elodie licked her lips and furrowed her brows, an incredulous look capturing her face as she waved a hand in the air. The other stayed gripped on Calum’s shirt, white knuckles and ironlike hold filled with need.

“That—stay behind, leave, risk yourself, and for what?” Elodie managed to get out in fragments. Her sentence choppy and panic stricken.

Calum knew the conversation should not continue with listening ears and new crew wandering freely. But two words tumbled past his lips without thought. “For you.”

Elodie was taken aback, hand falling to her side and head shaking ever so slightly. Calum sighed, swept his gaze around the ship and pled for her to calm and keep quiet. He told her he would explain, but they needed privacy, the open deck no place for such conversation. Elodie blinked back her shock and fear; nodded and let Calum lead her to his cabin. He realized in one stark moment it was not the first time she had been in his cabin, but it was the first time they both stepped in and concealed themselves with a closed door; shutting out the world behind them. Calum pushed aside thoughts of what the new crew might think; finding it would only be advantageous to keeping her safe if their minds concocted reasoning for the captain to have a woman aboard and in his cabin.

There was a moment of silence that sliced between them, neither knowing what to say or how to break through thick glassy quiet. Calum could feel his heart pounding in his chest, felt his pulse racing in his neck, swore his entire body beat along with it as he looked at a still shaken Elodie. She had gone pale, eyes timid yet terrified and demeanor cracking. Calum’s hands balled into fists at his side, he cleared his throat and let the palpable tension simmer.

Elodie, moving with broken grace, cornered Calum against the door. A desperate hand clutched onto his forearm and bedhead curls fell wildly just past her shoulders. She closed her eyes for a moment as she took in a calming breath; let them open once more and find Calum’s with ease. Calum captured her delicate waist with a workrough hand but kept his hold light.

“Why?” She asked, one word holding weights of worlds unknown to her. As much as Calum wanted to keep her shrouded in the dark he knew in his heart she needed to know this secret. “Why would you stay behind when they were after you? Why would you do that for me?”

“They weren’t after me.”

“You’re a pirate—weren’t they… didn’t they… what?”

“You’re a princess. You’re a lot more valuable than I am,” Calum began with a sharp tone but softened as he took in the overwhelming panic capturing gold. “They recognized you. I wasn’t going to let them take you.”

“How? Who?”

Calum swallowed down his nerves, convincing himself to continue though all he wanted was to keep her from painful truths. He knew deep inside it would be best for her to know, it would keep her safer if she were let out of the shadows. He did not wish to keep her on the fray, to rack her nerves and send her spiraling into her own conclusions. So he cleared his throat and kept his voice low; the shut door providing privacy, whispers creating secrets sealed into the morning.

“The innkeep and a friend. I heard them discussing the runaway princess from a foreign land. Her blonde hair, brown eyes, the reward for her safe return. The woman who entered the inn under suspicious circumstances.”

“I kept my hood up and face down,” Elodie mused, confusion straining her words and capturing her eyes. She moved closer to him, bodies brushing together as if the most natural happening the universe could conceive.

“It wasn’t enough this time,” Calum started, wishing and willing away the sadness sweeping in tendrils between them. “We’ll have to be more careful next time, perhaps you stay aboard the ship instead.”

Though every piece of Calum wished that would not have to be the case his own theory had been proven wrong. It was not safe for her on land; not so close to her home. Not where word spread and people knew. He would sail far and wide to ensure the next time her feet hit solid ground no one would recognize her.

Elodie’s eyes flickered to his wrist for a split second. She disregarded his words and hurled herself into fears for him. “And what if next time they recognize you? Do you intend to stay aboard the ship as well? It’s just as dangerous for a pirate.”

Calum bit back a smirk, realizing in her time of distress it would not be wise.  “The worst they can do is kill me.”

Elodie let her jaw go slack in her surprise, pulled away from him but collided back into him when he reached for her. He hadn’t meant to upset her; his honesty was jarring and unpleasant to the princess. He didn’t realize in the moment, but would look back and shudder, that one sentence sent shockwaves of despair through her. There were no harp strings playing melodious symphonies; not anymore. The music had ceased and all that was heard was heart beats pounding in fear and buzzing in ears that heightened with anxiety.

“How could you say that?” She asked, broken syllables punctuated by pain.

“I’ve stared death in the face. Narrowly avoided it. I don’t say it lightly, Princess.”

Elodie softened, a sigh slipping from petaled lips and corners of her eyes creasing with concern. She didn’t understand. Calum knew that.

“Don’t worry about me on land, Elodie. You’re good at keeping secrets. Your identity depends on it. I’m better. My life depends on it.”

She merely shook her head in disbelief and let her eyes wander back to the brand Calum carried so heavily every single day. “Will you ever actually tell me about this?”

Calum let out a humorless laugh at her never ending curiosity. Even in the face of fear; through trials and tribulations of tremendous heights, she never ceased to surprise Calum. He knew her fear had settled past the surface, that it must be bone deep and disguised with questions to pivot her thoughts. Calum could think of another distraction; something that endlessly plagued his mind and kept him stopping short. He captained the ship but she steered their every movement and moment together.

“It’s a long story,” Calum mumbled as Elodie pushed her lower lip out in a pout.

Calum remembered what it felt like to have her lips on his, if only for a whispering moment. He could recall the thud of his racing heart, the tingle that didn’t cease until morning. How he had woken with gleams of gold settled in his heart and a desire for more guiding his every step. Elodie was enrapturing, enchanting and made of heart.

“I’d trade a story of my own for it,” she all but pled, hold on his loosely tucked shirt tightening.

Her curiosity was flattering. As much as Calum craved to know her every intricacy it was warming to know she felt the same towards him. That the world they once knew wanted to be explored by the other. That the world they were slowly creating and curating with and for each other was slowly opening to the past. Calum smiled; the anxiety of the morning washing away and being swept out to golden seas. All he wanted was to know.

“You know I’d give you anything and everything in exchange for nothing, right, Elodie?”

The question was asked with subtle and soft words, with hands holding onto her for all that life was worth. Elodie bit her lip. Nodded ever so slightly and let a breath of relief catch and tumble through teeth still caught on her lower lip.

In the silence that followed Calum’s hands wandered from Elodie’s waist, trailing up and venturing uncharted territories. She was responsive, leaning into his hold and guiding her own hands to glide under his jawline. Nimble fingers swept up and brought him leaning down; chasing her and following her lead all the while. Tiptoes lifted her, lessened the distance between them. Calum’s hold winding around her curves and settling on her lower back pulled her closer. It was all so familiar yet unexplored. It was a brush of her lips on his cheek and against his mouth. It was hugs under moonlight and tapping rhythms against rails that curved smirks and carved waves aplenty inside them both.

It was momentary. Eyes fluttering shut and the taste of one another as the outside world lost all meaning. As secret identities and endless chases of the past crashed into a present that fizzled out and drowned under seawater. Her lips against his, moving in time with each other, hands always searching for more. Calum was timid and hyper aware of everything. Of her body pressed to his so completely. How much he longed to hear a lilting sigh. How she was giving him so much and yet a longing and screaming desire for more consumed him. She broke away from him, a riptide of separation leaving them breathless. He could still breathe her in, let that something saccharine on her skin rule his senses.

“Whatever I have to give,” Elodie began in a whisper with hands that roamed and arms that came to settle wrapped around his neck. “It’s yours.”

Calum didn’t wait for her to veer them into a new course. Did not hesitate to crash back into her and taste and feel all she was. He gently nipped at her lower lip and his wish was fulfilled when she sighed against him and allowed him in. He knew their stories could wait. In that moment all they wanted was each other. All they wanted to give and all they wanted to receive stemmed from lingering gazes, unsure touches and heated cheeks. They built and they built and they built those moments together. Refined them questions asked and answers given. With secrets undone and nights under stars. Elodie was pliable in his hold, absolutely melting into his touch and stumbling backwards. Allowing them to turn, for their tides to change and Calum to maneuver them so it was her back against the door. Melodies abundant in his entire being.

Deft hands glided down, finding the slit in her skirt; raising goosebumps on exposed skin. Elodie’s leg wrapping around Calum with his guiding hand gripping and encouraging her movement. Needy moans surpassed what once was repressed and hidden feelings. They were uncontained now, freedom falling around in the cloak of a private cabin. Elodie’s hands ran through Calum’s dark curls and he let his hand roam up, breath ripped away at metal catching his fingertips. He pulled away from the kiss momentarily, letting his gaze cast down to her thigh; a smirk finally finding its way to his face as she squirmed and let out a noise of impatience.

Calum gripped the pistol, swiftly removed it from the holster and heard the subtle intake of breath from Elodie at the unexpected moment. Her leg dropped and foot hit the floor. He brought the pistol up, remembering the haunted look in her eyes not long ago. He stared at the weapon in contemplation for mere seconds, his wits and nerves running thin as memories flashed before his eyes.

“Charming,” he said, voice dry and look not tearing away from the pistol used to save his life.

One of Elodie’s hands deserted Calum’s curls to wind her fingers around his hand holding the pistol. Calum heard her nervous swallow, looked back to her golden eyes and stony gaze.

“That, Calum, is called a pirate’s charm.”

“I told you we would make a pirate out of you.”

Calum let the empty pistol drop, metal clanking around the wooden floor a barrage of noise before it settled. Elodie’s hand still held onto Calum’s; lifelines mapping scattered hearts across his palm. His heart beat a little faster as he realized his near insatiable desire had driven her back to the door. That her supple skin had been his to explore. That she was still and patient as he broke from his reverie. Her lips were kiss swollen and eyes sparkling, a sheen of lust and longing making gold seem worth so much more. Calum cleared his throat, newfound apprehension cutting at him—skewing his judgement and turning his world in the opposite direction.

As much as he wanted to feel her every inch and hear those lilting moans; to feel a crash of salt water waves rock his rib cage, there was a hesitation. A picture of a tiara atop her loose curls. A marriage unfulfilled. Thrones and stones that built castles Calum could only ever dream of. He questioned her need. If he was a temporary distraction to a shot into the morning. If he was more than that. He did not know if a princess could look past piracy. He did not know if Elodie could be okay with his past. She noted the hesitation, cheeks tinting pink and hand falling from his, an awkward and unsure tension ripping the moment of ardor away.

They had no time for the tension to boil over and drown them. A knock on the door had Elodie jumping, consequently pressing ever closer into Calum. A call for the captain sounded by Michael’s voice drifting through the wooden barrier. Calum gripped at Elodie as his own cheeks heated. He felt as though they had been caught though no eyes fell upon them. The moment was too intimate and too much to have been interrupted so suddenly and shockingly. His heart thumped uncomfortably hard in his chest as let out a breath and answered with a timid and uncaptain like call for just a moment.

“Michael probably needs help in the galley,” Elodie said, voice breaking and body maneuvering away from Calum.

Calum nodded, realizing that was likely true. He had yet to assign another galley aid, knowing the crew outnumbered the last. Elodie and Michael would need more help. In one brash and bold decision Elodie reached for the door but threw a look over her shoulder.

“I still want that story.”

***

Night danced along ocean waves as Calum took one last breath of sea salt fresh air before ducking down into the galley. As Elodie expected Michael had needed her assistance in the galley for a crew yet to be fed. Calum had parted ways with her with a heavy heart and the taste of her still on his lips. He yearned to go back, to have never let anxiety and doubts plague his mind and ruin their moment. All they had built was strung precariously around them now; the trust, the intimacy of shared touches, the longing of gazes content to never break.

The crew ate and spoke freely; Michael, Ashton and Luke surrounding Elodie. Calum was thankful for their presence, felt comforted that they took up her side when he could not. He did not anticipate trouble with the new crew but they were a safe hold that would defend Elodie in his lack of presence. He grabbed a plate of food and ate quickly, noting most everyone else was nearly finished. He wished to speak with Elodie once more—alone. To grant her wish and fulfill the ever present curiosity of a tale untold. He also wished to feel her in the way he had that morning. But as he gazed upon her—noting her regal posture and table manners—he was jarred into remembering their worlds should not have collided.

Princess and pirate. There was no world in which those should have ever coexisted. No world until theirs.

Calum was reminded of the weight in which their worlds held differences. A ruby encrusted pendant sitting heavily in his pocket; a simple jewel from inside a castle—a necklace worth more than Calum’s life. Elodie was refined grace with a soft kindness. Calum was a sharp blade that swung much too soon. She was deliberate when he was rash. They were opposites that could not be more similar. Calum shoveled down the rest of his food and decided he would no longer wait in wonder and ponder during quiet nights when doors were locked and worlds drifted apart. He needed to know everything. He needed her to know everything.

He slid his chair back, a grating sound cutting through the chit chat of the crew. Elodie sat with her back straight, one leg crossed over the other and hands folded on her lap. She was waiting for the crew to finish eating, assuming she would be washing dishes with Michael. Calum knew Michael would bite a sarcastic remark their way when he pulled Elodie aside. But it was a comment he was willing to spar in order to sweep her away.

“Elodie, care to join me for some air?” Calum asked, offering a hand to assist her in standing. She nodded and accepted.

“The lady always gets to run away with the captain,” Michael snarked light heartedly. “He never asks if I would like to join him.”

Ashton and Luke erupted into laughter and Calum waved them all off, letting their antics slide as he found Elodie’s hand still held his and he realized their jokes and laughter didn’t matter. He led her away from them, past the rest of the crew and up the stairs to a nearly empty deck. He wanted to see her under moonlight, to compare shining stars to her eyes and feel goosebumps raise on his skin—always questioning if it was the cool breeze or her touch that made him react. He didn’t mind if a man overheard his story, quickly led them to the rail and let himself loose into the memory of her back to the waves; of trusting him more than anyone else.

“Still interested?” He asked, pulling their joined hands up to let his brand gleam under the crescent moon. It too looked like a scar—silver and eternal.

“Always.”

Calum took a deep breath as he let their hands fall and turned to face her completely. He tapped her rhythm into his leg, letting the now familiar beat calm his doubts and worries. He knew his past was darkened by black flags and following orders he should have disobeyed. He also knew how he felt in those moments. That he had no other choice. That he was not a free man to make his own decisions. He lived under a tyrannical captain and only did what he thought he had to in an attempt to survive and one day escape.

“I was searching for a getaway, a means to live and a purpose to fulfill. I was taken under a captain’s wing as a boy. Promised free flags and open oceans. I trotted gunpowder and followed the captain’s orders without question. I never stopped to wonder why no one questioned him. How the promise of freedom was contingent ultimately on obedience and loyalty.”

Elodie shifted and Calum knew her mind must be racing with questions. How he could say his own ship sailed under free flags when orders fell from his lips regularly. How his expected loyalty had come down to an attempted mutiny. He hoped she did not see a mirror of him in the old captain’s ways.

“I knew we voyaged for gold and goods. The captain only ever weighed anchor before docks and sent rowboats out to do his bidding. He kept many secrets up his sleeve. I questioned it but somewhere deep down I knew. And one night changed everything; royal sails approached and the ship went into chaos. I was suddenly bid to run through the fight, to stock the artillery and watch as canons ripped through a naval ship. I felt the knock of the boat, that the navy was fighting back without mercy and winning. They apprehended the captain, ripped leather cords off his sleeve and confirmed my every haunted suspicion.”

“You were just a boy,” Elodie said gently, voice delicate and understanding.

“I should have known better,” Calum berated himself. “I shouldn’t have let myself obey without question. I was too eager to find freedom and adventure from a previously mundane life that I let myself fall to tyranny and piracy.”

Elodie licked her lips and turned her gaze to the stars. “What did they do? The Royal Navy?”

“We surrendered as the captain fell. They tried us all for piracy-“

“But you were just a boy!” Elodie cried in disbelief, repeating her statement in her shock.

“Not in the eyes of the law,” Calum murmured. “I narrowly avoided the gallows. Escaped a cell by chance and slunk onto a merchant’s ship who took pity on me. I found myself once more obeying. He was a fair captain, an amiable demeanor, fair wages for fair labor. I worked my way through the ranks, from running powder to master gunner. Eventually I learned to navigate by the stars and had enough money to my name to purchase a modest ship and escape once more.”

“Escape?” Elodie questioned, clearly not understanding how the situation called for escape.

“I was still not a free man. I lived under another’s authority and demand. As agreeable as he was I didn’t want that life again. My freedom was the only thing I had that I was afraid to lose.”

Yet he knew that now there was so much more he feared losing. He chose his words carefully in that moment. Let his eyes do the talking as they didn’t break from Elodie. She stood close to him with concern creasing her features. Calum felt exposed, his past laid out on the table for Elodie to ponder.

“It’s not your fault,” she decided to say after a beat of pause. “You were just doing what you could to survive.”

And now he would do anything and everything to ensure survival and safety for another. He had never known a life worth living for two. Not until a stranger happened along his ship with a pendant as payment and secrets that kept him intrigued. They’d spent nights unraveling each other and building something fragile and beautiful; it’s delicacy changing with the tides.

Calum nodded, retreated back into himself and looked up at the night sky. It was getting late and with the new crew he had yet to fully grasp and trust he wanted Elodie tucked away behind a closed and locked door sooner rather than later. He wordlessly guided her towards her cabin, Elodie moving with him on instinct. Just a night past he had held her close. And now cabins would separate them once more.

Elodie invited him in silently, beckoning him into her quarters with a wave of her hand. Calum had no idea what she wanted or why his body felt numb. The door stood ajar—crew finished with their food roaming past openly. Calum shifted his weight from foot to foot as Elodie heaved a sigh and let her hands play unsurely at her skirt once more. Calum wondered why that was her nervous habit, why in that moment she was nervous and deliberately showing him as much.

“Calum?” She turned to face him full on. Gazes crashing and colliding without hesitation or reservations. “What happened this morning.”

Calum wrung his hands together, feeling nerves light up his bloodstream. He could still taste her and feel her against him; pressed to his body so close and smooth skin gliding under his hands. He was used to night time hugs and words said under stars and covers of privacy. Not morning secrets and pulling away.

“I wouldn't hesitate next time,” she started again and left Calum puzzled but hopeful at the meaning. “I thought they were after you. I would do anything to keep you safe.”

Calum realized. Remembered the familiar pistol falling to the deck and haunted eyes seemingly captured with regret. He understood. Had already fought and killed mutinous crew to keep her safe. Warmth spread through Calum in that moment, realizing all they meant to each other. He nodded, unable to form a coherent thought and appropriate response. He knew she was still fragile after having wounded a man. It was an act of defense but Calum knew Elodie’s mind must have worked it into something of guilt. He hoped she would heal.

He wordlessly pulled her into a hug, more sure than ever to take the lead. Confidence was building as she wrapped her arms around him. He pondered the possibility that a pirate could be worthy of a princesses affection. Decided to stop questioning and feel with every moment granted to him. He would not take another moment for granted. So long as she graced him with affection he would happily receive it. Reciprocate it and hope for more. But never expect.

Elodie leaned back, looked up at him in contemplation for a few seconds. Her hold slid around and came to the tops of his shoulders. Calum felt his breath catch at the familiar moment. They inched closer. In a decisive moment Calum placed his lips to hers, giving a gentle kiss good night before stepping away and leaving Elodie at the helm of their voyage once more. He reached for the door knob, knowing that he would stand outside her door until he heard the lock click. He would stay awake, reveling in the moments he’d so desired since his princess stumbled aboard.

“Sleep well-“

Elodie closed the door, palm covering Calum’s hand as it shut with him still inside her cabin. She shook her head in a defiant and sure way.

“I don’t want to say good night yet, Calum.”

Calum’s hand dropped. Elodie turned the lock as they kept their gazes locked.

With a hopeful heart Calum decided to stay; he would stay until she no longer wanted him. If she bid him goodbye with moonlight still capturing the sky he would wish her to sleep well. He hoped a good night would not tumble from her lips unless she was in his arms and he was able to see her in early morning light.

***

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[fadingcoast]

Death Of The Lie  ||  Chapter 21: Proud

AUTHORS: @fandom-and-feminism​​​ & @fadingcoast​​

Summary: Odin and his daughter Hela are the perfect conquerors of the universe. The nine realms fall one after the other into their clutch. After Odin takes a second wife and has a son with her, he doesn’t need Hela anymore. Hela abandons her father and ends up marrying Laufey, a sworn enemy of the Aesir people. Not long after, she becomes pregnant with Laufey’s child. Odin cannot let that son be born, but against all odds, the boy survives. Odin is forced to bring him back to Asgard to be raised as his own until he could make further use of him. The half-Jotun-half-Aesir boy grows up to look and act a lot like his mother, which disturbs Odin, and makes him treat the boy horribly. Odin’s lies are deep and complex, but one day the boy will find out the truth about everything he is.

PAIRING: None RATING: Teen

MASTERLIST

Feedback is always appreciated and reblogs are encouraged!!

.-

Chapter 21: Proud

Twenty-nine months.

Tonight the brush going through Sigyn’s hair was nearly intolerable. Gwyn was just as silent as she was, for the same reason, but neither could even meet the other’s eyes in the mirror. All Sigyn could muster was to stare down into her lap and twirl the gold ring on her finger while her handmaid brushed her hair to a shine, just like every night before. It wasn’t like Loki to wait so long to return a letter.

Not a visit. Nothing. Twenty-nine months.

Word of the unrest plaguing Asgard had reached Alfheim a while back and each day that passed when she heard nothing from him only made her worry about him more. Taking on extra courses at the Sanctum kept her busy between her royal obligations and, if she was honest with herself, she was secretly glad it left her no time to think about Loki.

Except during these quiet times at night, when it was just her and Gwyn and getting ready for bed. Then the worry and the fear would creep up on her like a dark shadow and it was all she could do just to fall asleep after drinking the mead she would sneak from the kitchens.

Tears burned at Sigyn’s eyes and she raised her head to look at Gwyn in the mirror before she completely lost it. “Gwyn, I -”

What she saw in the corner of the reflection would have made her jump if Gwyn hadn’t been there watching her. Standing next to her door with his hands folded patiently behind his back was Loki, or one of his illusions. Given that Gwyn hadn’t seen him in the mirror it was likely the latter. He looked different, the shadows under his eyes deeper, his body leaner but no less defined. There was something new in his eyes, something like desperation and determination at the same time.

Gwyn put the brush down on the table and smiled at Sigyn in the mirror. “Yes, love?”

“I’m ready to go to bed now,” Sigyn said woodenly, trying to hide her shock. “Thank you. Good night.” Obviously unconvinced, Gwyn kissed Sigyn on top of her head and left the room.

“You had better still be there when I turn around,” Sigyn said, her eyes on the illusion smiling back at her solemnly. She spun on her chair and sobbed with relief at the sight of him. Subtle flashes of green dotted the hastily-made illusion as he walked across the room to her, the smile fading once he was standing next to the vanity.

“I’m so sorry,” Loki finally said. “I don’t have time to catch up right now, but I promise I will tell you everything soon.”

“I hope you have a good explanation for making me worry about you so much,” Sigyn scolded him, “because if you don’t, I’m thoroughly kicking your arse the second I see the real you again.”

That made Loki chuckle. “You’re right, and there’s a good reason. But right now there’s something more important, something I need you to do for me.”

Sigyn went to hold his hands, only to make them shimmer. “Yes, of course,” she said, trying to force a smile.

Loki hesitated before speaking again, the illusion flickering with his own doubt. “I- I need you to-” He sighed, and had to stop and gather his thoughts before he tried again. “The library. History of Asgard. I need a detailed account of Odin’s reign as Allfather. Before Frigga, before Thor.”

Eyebrows furrowed, Sigyn frowned at Loki’s vague request. Asgard’s library was full of books - not as much as in the one her own castle, but surely there would be an accurate retelling of Odin’s early years as King. The Aesir were proud enough of him. “Okay,” she agreed slowly, “but why?”

“And I need to know the line of genealogy for Jotnar royalty,” Loki interrupted, ignoring her question. “Not far back. Just the last couple of generations.”

“But Loki, can’t you -”

“Just… please,” Loki practically begged, the illusion flickering again. “I swear to you that I will tell you everything when this is all over. But there are centuries missing in our archives. Empty books with the pages torn out. Whole sections of books with ink splattered all over the paper to blot out whatever it used to say.” His fists clenched at his sides and he began to fidget with his thumb over his fingers. “Asgard’s history has been whitewashed and I need you to find out the truth, Sigyn. My future, our future, may very well depend on it.”

Sigyn knew Loki well enough to know when she wasn’t going to get any further information from him. He always kept his cards close to his chest and he was not going to reveal them until his strategy became clearer. The only way she could find out what terrible secret he was bearing was to play along and get what he needed. Sadly she nodded and her hand reached through the image of his. Even just pretending to hold his hand was better than nothing.

“I’ll get it for you,” she promised, trying to keep her voice strong. “I’ll assume you need discretion, so I will come to you the same way you came to me tonight. Give me two days and meet me in your chambers at sunset.”

This doesn’t feel right, Sigyn thought as she watched Loki’s illusion fade into swirls of green without another word. In her gut it felt like a final goodbye, and she didn’t like it.

But it’s not as though I have much of a choice.

He was not particularly keen on having to put this weight on Sigyn’s shoulders, but as he kicked torn pages and vandalized books that littered his library hideout, Loki understood he was not going to find the answers he seeked in Asgard. Everything about his birth was missing.

I am not their son.

Not a single mention to Frigga’s second gestation, while her first had been recorded in great detail.

I am not an asgardian.

The other end of the room held piles of books of whatever information he could find on Jotunheim. The great war and victory of Odin over Laufey: How they drove the blood thirsty Giants from Midgard, forcing them to retreat to their own world. How Odin’s armies devastated the land and took the Casket of Ancient Winters for safe keeping.

Steal the power source of the Jotuns, for they are vicious, violent, and savage. They rape, and murder, and torture. They spread fear wherever they go. They do not deserve power, for they are malicious and evil. They are monsters.

I am a monster.

Loki looked down at his hands, watching the air around them condense into a heavy fog. The tips of his fingers were turning blue, the nails dark and thick. With a low growl, he let his magic explode briefly, sending the table and all the books it held flying to the nearest wall. His hands went back to normal. He knew he did not have much time, whatever he was going to do, he had to do it fast.

.-

Loki walked across the icy surface of Jotunheim alone, his footsteps in the snow erased by the biting wind just as soon as he made them. His hands were two tight fists swinging at his sides as he approached the ruins of the Jotun palace. The guards by the door gave him a stony look but did nothing to stop him as he resolutely walked to the dais where the Jotnar King sat, glaring down at him as if he were waiting for him to come.

“Welcome back, Asgardian.” Laufey spat the words as if they pained him. “Or perhaps you expect me to say thank you?”

Loki blinked, but gave no sign of uncertainty. As Laufey paused, Loki took time to study him. The chiseled cheekbones, the high forehead, even the knobby knuckles of the king’s hands. Loki had seen them before, on his own body. Watching the rough patterns on Laufey’s skin, Loki remembered the guard that almost froze his hand. Their voice went through his mind again like a ghost. My prince? He wondered if those patterns the cold revealed were those of the royal bloodline or if all of them had it.

“You were the one who let us into Asgard.” Laufey stood up as he spoke, interrupting Loki’s thoughts. “Now my men are dead, and I have no Casket.” He walked closer and towered over Loki. “Why shouldn’t I kill you?”

“I’ve come to make you a proposition.” Loki spoke as steady as he could manage. Now that he was able to see the distinct features he shared with Laufey, he felt as though he was staring up into a mirror. How did I not notice before?

Laufey stood before Loki, staring, waiting for him to speak, and his guards closed in. Loki took a breath to calm himself down. Any sign of weakness and Laufey would cut his head without hesitation.

“I will conceal you and a handful of your soldiers, lead you into his chambers, and let you slay him where he lies.” Loki added a wicked smirk at the end for good measure.

Laufey considered the proposition, and motioned for his men to step back. He gave Loki a cold, joyless smile in return. “Why not kill him yourself? You have enough tricks up your sleeve.”

“I don’t think the people of Asgard would appreciate a king who murdered his predecessor,” Loki said plainly, staring back at him. “I'll keep the throne, and you will have the Casket. When all is done, we will have a permanent peace between our two worlds. Then I will have accomplished what Odin, and Thor, never could. Do you accept?”

Laufey studied Loki’s face. Something akin to curiosity flickered in his dark red eyes. “All this to prove yourself. To whom I wonder…”

Loki didn’t answer, and briefly wondered if Laufey could recognize his own blood in him as plainly as he could

“Very well, then,” Laufey agreed with a nod of his head. “I accept.”

Laufey gave his soldiers a small head move and turned his back to Loki, walking out of the throne room. His guards busied behind him and they began to discuss something in hushed, growling voices. Loki assumed himself to be dismissed but waited until a heavy ice door slammed shut just to make sure.

.-

The bright lights of the Bifrost made Loki feel nauseated, but he knew he had to put up his facade. He had to get through with this, for Asgard, for his future, and for himself. He had to finish what he started or it was all for nothing.

Heimdall waited for him at the other end, eyeing him suspiciously with his piercing golden stare as he stepped through the portal of light. “I turned my gaze upon you in Jotunheim, but could neither see nor hear you,” he said slowly, forming an accusation with his tone. “You were shrouded from me, like the Frost Giants who entered this Realm.”

“I learned that trick when I was a teenager, gatekeeper. And it is nothing compared to what you have hidden from me.”  Loki wished he could unleash on him but he needed him. For now.

Heimdall swallowed thickly and straightened his posture. “I’m sure I don’t know what you mean.”

That answers that question, Loki thought, as if there was any doubt before that a man who sees all could have known about my past.

Loki began to circle the podium Heimdall was standing on, heading toward the door that led out to the bridge. “You have great power,” he told the gatekeeper, though it was only a formality to keep him listening. “Did Odin ever fear you?”

Heimdall blinked at him but didn’t move, instead increasing his grip on his sword. “No.”

“And why is that?"

"Because he is my King, and I am sworn to obey him.”

“Was your king. You're sworn to obey me now. Yes?”

Heimdall hesitated for an uncomfortably long time. “Yes,” he finally said, just above a whisper.

“Tell me, Heimdall, where are Lady Sif and the Warriors three?” Loki already knew the answer but he wanted to see if Heimdall would confess. He had ordered the gatekeeper to close the Bifrost as soon as he was given the throne and if his hunch was correct it meant that Heimdall had gone against the direct order of the King.

“Tell me, Loki,” Heimdall retorted, perhaps sensing his cover had been blown, “how did you get the Jotuns into Asgard?”

“You think the Bifrost is the only way in and out of the Realm?” Loki asked rhetorically with a sardonic smile, walking around the gatekeeper again to more open space. “There are secret paths between worlds to which even you, with all your gifts, are blind. But I have need of them no longer, now that I am King.” Loki was now standing by the chamber’s door. “I will ask but once more. Where are Lady Sif and the Warriors Three?”

Heimdall clenched his jaw at the question, but did not answer. Loki sighed inwardly. He will never obey me. A tense silence stretched in the small room. He let those fools go to Thor. Loki noticed how Heimdall’s grip on his sword tightened even more.

“Then you leave me no choice.” Loki gripped Gungnir and squared his footing. “For your act of treason, you are relieved of your duties as Gatekeeper, and you are no longer a citizen of Asgard.”

It seemed like Heimdall was waiting for those words to be spoken. A vengeful smile spread across his face and he adjusted his grip to prepare to wield the sword.  “Then I need no longer obey you.”

He raised the massive sword and prepared to strike. Loki didn’t move, he didn’t even flinch, as if Heimdall’s actions were expected. With a wave of his hands, he made the air between his palms freeze. A blue cold glow shone bright, and seemed to protect him from Heimdall’s attack, slowing his movements, keeping him away from the prince.

The gatekeeper stared at what Loki had summoned: the Casket of Ancient Winters.

Ice shards swirled from the casket, the winds screamed, as the blizzard inside was unleashed. Snow and hail covered Heimdall, and the bridge around them. The temperature dropped fast, mist hovering over the observatory. Heimdall could not fight the storm. His fingers were frozen to the sword on his grasp, his armor cracked, his skin burned. Soon enough he was encased in an icy tomb, staring at Loki in full Jotun form.

Loki hit the chamber’s floor with Gungnir, making a ringing sound that spread through the metal structure. Then he inserted the staff in the control panel and activated the Bifrost.

“Ensure my brother does not return yet.”

The Destroyer seemed to nod before going inside the Bifrost. Loki took a deep breath and maneuvered on the control panel. The light became bluer and darker, bringing back with her a small group of Frost Giants, led by Laufey himself.

“Welcome to Asgard.”

.-

Frigga took another deep breath and covered Odin’s hand with her own once again, the shock of his barely perceptible pulse still no less alarming. Never before had she felt so hopeless during an Odinsleep, now that it felt like her entire world was crashing down around her. Not only was her husband at his most vulnerable now that he was in his Sleep and his age was beginning to weaken him, but both of her sons were having their own crises she could do nothing to help with. Giving the throne to Loki as a show of good faith was supposed to be for the good of the kingdom, since Loki had always been more level-headed and diplomatic than Thor and she needed to focus on caring for Odin, but she was beginning to question her decision since it appeared to only be making Loki more unstable and withdrawn. The future of the Realm may very well be in jeopardy as a result of her haste.

Shouting coming from the guards outside the chamber doors made Frigga rush to her feet and make a dash for her sword. A brief scuffle followed by two screams of agony had the Queen ready to fight to the death with whoever was on the other side. Her heart nearly stopped when she saw frost spread across the doors and felt a chill settle over the room.

Laufey.

Head held high, Frigga stood her ground as the first Jotun burst through the double doors. She charged at him and cut him down with a single slashing motion and raised her sword once more at the towering Jotun King to do the same.

But the Queen wasn’t fast enough to stop him. Laufey swiped at her with his massive arm and knocked her aside, causing her to hit her head on the wall and crumple to the floor in a daze, her sword meters out of her reach.

Clearly Frigga wasn’t part of Laufey’s plan. He ignored her and proceeded to Odin’s protective bed, easily pushing past the magical golden barrier around him to kneel over his helpless form.

Frigga tried to rise to her feet but her brain couldn’t communicate with her legs and she struggled just to sit upright and focus her eyes. Slowly she willed herself to gather power into her hands, waiting until the right moment to attack - too soon and it would do nothing but annoy him, too late and her husband would be dead. So she pretended to wait and watch as Laufey delivered his speech to his lifelong enemy.

“It is said that you can still see and hear what transpires around you, even in this state. I hope it’s true,” Laufey sneered, “so you know your death came by the hand of Laufey.” He loomed over the Allfather, casting a menacing shadow over him. “This is for Jotunheim. This is for my family.”

A blade of solid blue ice formed in Laufey’s hand and Frigga knew she didn’t have much time left to act. She poured everything she had into the magic she was going to cast at him, making her feel weak and dizzy.

Laufey raised the ice blade over his head, ready to strike, and Frigga lifted her arms as high as she could.

If I die, so will he.

Before she could release the spell, a blast of golden energy hit Laufey from the side and knocked him to the ground. Frigga allowed her magic to dissipate and turned her head to see where the attack came from, nearly sobbing with relief when she saw Loki standing in the doorway, wielding Gungnir like the King she knew he could be. She turned back toward Laufey but he was not dead yet. The Jotun had risen, shaking, to his feet, clutching the side of his abdomen where Loki had hit him. Blood trickled between his bony fingers.

“And your death,” Loki said, raising Gungnir again and coming closer to prepare for another strike, “came by the son of Odin.”

“Loptr…” Laufey looked at Loki with pleading eyes as he fell to his knees. His height was now almost eye to eye with Loki. “Odin’s lies are carved deep in your soul.”

Frigga wanted desperately to get up, to run to Loki and take from him the weight of the words Laufey was clearly going to tell him and kill the Jotun herself. But she was far too weak and had depleted her magic until she could rest again.

“What are you on about, monster?” Loki’s hands trembled as he gripped Gungnir, and directed the spear to hit again.

“My dear Loptr.” Laufey smiled, a sad longing smile. “Did you think I wouldn’t recognize you? Do you think that even with Odin’s spell all over you I wouldn’t see your mother in your eyes?”

Loki’s gaze flicked toward Frigga momentarily, a frantic question written in his eyes. Frigga shook her head - that was one secret she would take to her grave, if only to protect him. Her heart began to break seeing his resolve and his anger unravel before her eyes.

Laufey lifted his hand, as if he were to touch Loki’s face. But he hesitated, and Loki flinched when he saw the gesture. “Loptr...” His voice was gravelly and pained.

“My name is--”

“I know the name the Allfather gave you.” Laufey spat with a heavy breath. “But the name your mother chose was Loptr. Right before she gave her life for you.” The giant covered the wound on his side. A thousand years old wound, reopened, ironically, by Loki’s blast. “I’m sorry I didn’t get back in time to save you. There was nothing I could do to stop Odin from taking you. I’m just happy he didn’t kill you as I know was his intent.”

Loki’s stance slacked, and the grip on Gungnir loosened. At last Frigga was able to muster the strength to crawl while the pair were distracted. After what seemed like hours, finally her trembling fingers closed around the hilt of her sword.

“I am so sorry, Loptr.” Laufey’s voice broke, and his eyes focused on something behind Loki. “I hope you know your mother loved you. As did I.”

Loki was too stunned to move, and stared at the Jotnar King, unable to perceive what was happening around him. He felt the ice cold hand of the king’s grip his arm, and the push that followed. The bright flash of a sword missed his back by mere inches, and found its target in Laufey’s neck. Loki rolled on the floor, his armor and cape soaked with the blue blood that was still spreading all over. He heard a piercing scream, and the loud thump of another body hitting the floor.

More blood.

His head was spinning.

Your mother loved you.

Frigga left the sword impaled on the giant’s body, and dropped to the floor, trying to hold Loki close. But he recoiled from her embrace. “I am so sorry, my son,” she murmured.

“You are not my mother.” Loki spoke barely above a whisper.

I am a monster.

Frigga looked at him, heartbroken, tears on the corner of her eyes. What could she say? The lies had been exposed, and they were bleeding out like an open wound. The temperature in the room dropped, mist hovered on the floor. The blue frost giant blood froze completely. Loki’s magic burst from his body with an anguished scream that never reached his mouth and was set loose through his very skin instead, covering the walls and pillars with ice.

Frigga was knocked back by the impact, freezing the already ice cold blood that soaked her garments. Loki didn’t notice, rage was clouding his senses and the only thing he could focus on were the last words Frigga spoke to him as his mother.

Make your father proud.

Loki grabbed Gungnir and stood up, making his way towards the door. But he didn’t go far. Stopped by a bright flash of lightning, he slipped on the floor again. Thor stood in the doorway, fully armored and wielding Mjolnir once again.

“Thor!” Frigga managed to stand up and run to Thor, who welcomed her embrace, but kept his eyes fixed on Loki.

Loki narrowed his eyes at Thor, not bothering to hide his disdain. “So you managed to make way back to Asgard.” After I did all the hard work, of course.

“Despite your efforts to keep me away!” Thor gripped his hammer and pointed it towards Loki, ready to blast once more.

Frigga looked at Loki, her eyes denoting alarm and confusion. “Loki?”

“Why don’t you tell mother how you sent the Destroyer to kill our friends? To kill me?” Thor pushed.

“It must have been enforcing Father’s last command,” he offered, forcing a mocking smirk.

“You're a talented liar, brother. Always have been.”

I am not your brother.

Loki could feel his blood boil, and laughed coldly. “This family is full of talented liars!!”

Thor, confused, looked at Frigga. The Queen was openly crying now, head down in shame.

I am a monster.

Destroy the monster.

Make your father proud.

Suddenly it was as though his mission was clear. “Now, if you'll excuse me, I need to destroy Jotunheim.”

.-

<< Chapter 20  –  Chapter 22 >>

.-

@nikkalia @xalgaliareptx  @christy-winchester @silverhart93 @honeybournehippy @unseelie1963 @manager-of-mischief @angryowlet @thelittlestlittlecutiepie @moonlightprime @velvetzybanshee 

[writingonthemoon]

Old Clothes Part 4

Part 1 // Part 2 // Part 3

Word Count: ≈ 2116

Warnings: Mentions of death, murder, fear of failure

Author's Note: Okay, so I accidentally started previously that Odette first Burned when she was nine.  That was incorrect as she was much younger.  Also, this isn’t exactly what I wanted for this part, but I think it sets up my plans for the next part nicely.

Old clothes are always a little strange.  Someone once loved them—cherished them—and now they’re nothing more than a mask.  The quality vanishes with the donation bin.  Dresses for the rich are now for the poor and those for the poor are falling to pieces.  Those stitched by mothers have a different energy about them.  The love that holds the fabric together never quite fades and it always remains soft, even after the countless storms and attacks of nature.  The items warmed your soul whenever they were held and the rush of emotions was overwhelming in the most brilliant way possible.  My sister missed the opportunity for that feeling.

     My mother used to make my clothes for me. She would buy the fabrics and spend an entire Sunday making me a new outfit. They were my favourite things in all the world. We only kept one when we first left. It was the one I was wearing, but it wasn't the same when it was handed down to Clara. Ashes had woven their way into the seams and the smell of fire lingered no matter what we would do. The warmth of love carried the burning of a fire. Delicate lace that lined the edges were rough with hardened emotions.

      I sighed and motioned for my audience to sit down. Jack and Davey pulled chairs out from my table, still staying quite close. Albert grabbed a seat for Crutchie and himself, while Buttons plopped himself on the ground with his legs crossed. "Before I say anything else, you have to promise you won't tell anyone. Not a soul. I shouldn't be telling you any of this since it puts more people than just me in danger, but I think you deserve to know. Promise." I made eye contact with every one of them and they all nodded in reply. "Great. Fantastic. Brilliant." I ran my hand through my hair once again.

     "I was born in London, I believe, in 1791. My father's name is—was James and my mother's name was Lilijah. At least, that's what their names were while I was growing up. The Burn existed long before I was born, probably back when the first monarchies began. It was never meant to be a way of life. The Burn... it was always a safety procedure, a cautionary plan if you will.

     "Say everything goes wrong. You're being framed for murder or are being chased by the police or mafia or it's anything else that's basically the end of the world for you. Well, in my family, that's the end of the world for whomever you were. Then, you are reborn, so to speak.

     "It's simple enough, really. Everything you once owned, your clothes, books, anything that could identify you, would be taken out to an empty space. There, you set a match to it, lighting everything ablaze and erasing all evidence of you ever existing. It worked exceptionally well when I was little since towns and cities were so spread out and people just died suddenly, but people would notice if you just disappeared since there were so few people living in the area. Today, it's easy to vanish, but harder to locate a burn spot.

     "Once the ashes lay at your feet, you build yourself again. New name, new place, new story. Of course, this plan wasn't meant for frequent use. So you have to get creative sometimes. I can't even tell you how many people I've become. My name is Odette Davenport, though. It's the one thing I've always known. I don't know my birthday, where I'm truly from, how I prefer my tea or if I even like tea. At this point, Odette is just another character I'm to play before I move on from this place."

     My gaze met the ground as I paused, not knowing how to go on. Two of these boys were related to me. They have a right to know, but should they? Who knew how many times Clara and Elijah had Burned before settling down and washing the ash from their nailbeds. Did they even share the family shame with anyone or was it the secret that killed them? No, they should know. They should know why.

     Jesse. No, he's not Jesse. Jesse is gone now, he doesn't matter. This one does. He's different, better than Jesse. In his eyes, I'm a person. A real person who feels the same as others do and thinks the same thoughts. I'm just older, suffering a long-lasting curse, just as he is. His leg was the poison that was crawling through his body and killing him slowly. The water rushed through my veins, stripping away any sign of illness or death, keeping me alive. How I wished I could switch with him, feel sickness and pain and worry about mortality instead of harbouring the fear of my past coming up behind me and pushing me over the edge, only to fall forever.

      Jack and Davey must think I'm insane with my tale. That or they're calling into question what they knew about life and the universe.  Perhaps it was both at once.  The two need not be here, listening to my woes, yet they sit in anticipation, awaiting my next breath.  But why?  This has no consequence upon their lives.  I’m merely a single person in a list of thousands that they’ve met just in a day.  Compared to the years they would exist, it’s an interaction that means most nothing.  Yet they are content with sitting and giving me their attention as if I were the Queen during a time of war.  An odd comparison since my actions would lead me down a far less noble path where I would abdicate the throne and flee the country.

     "I was four when I first Burned.  I had accidentally stolen food and my parents feared the worst.  We weren't living in a town known for forgiveness.  We packed up in the middle of the night, brought everything out to the field.  I still feel the scorching heat on my face sometimes, when I’m at my lowest.  The smell of burning memories in one you never think you'll know, but you’ll never forget it either.  We kept very few things from my first life.  My grandmother's ring," I held up my hand to show off the flat gold front with worn initials carved into the front, "some money, the clothes we were wearing, and our names." There was a small gasp from Buttons and Albert.  The family trait for worry and fear of failure seemed to run deeper than I thought.

     "My brother Elijah Burned when he was five and Clara was only one at the time.  Once again, it was all my fault.  My mind escaped me and I wandered to follow it.  I was only ten and they shouldn’t have blamed me for what I came across." I huffed and shook my head, clearing the daunting image from my brain, "It was a body, what I found.  I...They thought I killed him.  Me, a ten-year-old, killed a fully grown man.  I was going to be arrested, put on death row, for something I didn’t do.  So we Burned.  After that, it became frequent.  The five of us carried matches on our person just in case we had to leave in a hurry.  We no longer controlled the burn.  It controlled us."

     "Wait, you was four when youse did this?" I nodded to Jack, confirming the answer he knew, "But you was just a kid!  That ain’t right!"

     "I lived in different times, Jack.  Very different times.  I was British in America not eight years after the War for Independence.  They would do anything to get rid of us.  It was like we were a plague when we wanted out of England the same way they did." I glanced out the dingy window, seeing the onset twilight, "Oh god, I best be going." I pushed myself off the table I was perched on, "Thank you for the supplies to fix myself up and I guess for listening to part of my life story." My mouth met the cheeks of each boy in thanks, something I had picked up in my travels.  I started backing out of the room when Crutchie’s face caught my eye.  He was crestfallen, the corners of his mouth turning down as he sighed and kicked lightly at the ground.  I couldn't just leave like this.  Not after what I had told them all.  But I needed to. "Do one of you think you could walk me to my hotel?  It is quite dark and I don’t want to be in any danger."

     Before anyone could respond, Jack stepped forward, "I'll take ya.  I know dese streets betta than anyone else." He led me out the Lodging House as I waved at the boys in a final goodbye.  I uttered the address of my temporary arrangements and we stalked the streets in silence, becoming long shadows that extend for miles around sharp corners.  I watched Jack more than the path ahead of me, trying to piece together the mystery I wanted to know.  He and Davey... what was it about them?

     "You know, if ya wanna look at me, starin' like that ain't too covert."

     "Davey," Jack's posture straightened and I could tell his breaths were shallowing, "there's something about him you like, isn't there.  More than just a friend perhaps."

      "I don't know what youse talkin' 'bout.  Dave is one a my best friends," I saw the slight fall in his expression, turning to sadness and bitterness, "Why would there be anything else to 'im that I like?  It's not like I'll just listen to him go on hours 'bout nothin'.  And it ain't his pretty eyes or soft hair or anything.  Definitely not." He shook his head and met my gaze, a pleading look on his face.  Nobody could know.  Even if Jack couldn't help himself when it came to talking about his counterpart, no one could know.

     "Definitely not." I winked at him and we chuckled.  A quiet followed afterwards until Jack broke the invisible barrier

     "You ain't gonna leave us, right?  Not yet?"

     I stared him dead in the eye, ready to avoid making the real decision, "Of course not.  There’s still so much you all don't know yet."

     "Great.  I think Al and Buttons really enjoy having you here.  Crutch too.  He doesn't trust many too much.  There's only a few of us he’s real close to.  Somethin' about you is different.  I could see it in his face.  I think he really likes ya." I blushed at the thought of Crutchie liking me.  It wasn't a concept that was foreign to me, but I didn't expect it from this boy after hearing I was immortal.

      The middle-class building loomed above us, beckoning me towards the room I had booked, "I guess this is me." I shrugged and thanked Jack for walking me.  he stole a hug before running back into the night.  My fingers found my hair as I entered the building, climbing the stairs.  The room I had booked was tiny, a single bed crammed against the wall and a trunk placed at the end.   A window was across from the door, leading to the fire escape, and there was a cracked mirror mounted by a closet that would fit only a child.

     My fingers found their way around the room, collecting my things as my mind ran around the world, searching for a place to run to.  The checklist was losing empty boxes and the panic inside me wasn't reflected on the outside. This was normal.  My footsteps were almost nonexistent as I floated out of the room and to the empty bathroom shared by all the guests on my floor.  The lock flicked shut at my will and I carefully stacked my items within the confines of the bathtub.  I opened the window to filter the air into the black night.

     But the boys.  I couldn't do this to them.  My family.  Crutchie.  It wasn't fair that I was leaving them in the dark, no idea of the end or middle of the story.  then again, life was never fair either.  Certainly not this one.  The moment I started this, it went downhill.  I studied the pile across from me, spinning the historic ring around my finger.  My hand found the box in my pocket.  A snap of the wrist later and my face was illuminated with the soft glow of the burning match. Ashes were always the beginning, but what was the end?

[antikristvs]

Inktober Writing Challenge

(I have been really struggling with the challenge lately. This piece was especially hard given I accidently lost the whole work, thus had to re-write the entire story. I have little time to catch up, but I'm trying. Hope it fucking scares you)

Day 22: A Creepypasta

The Story

I debated bringing this story to light for weeks. It haunts me as clear and vividly gruesome as if the nightmare had unfolded a mere hour ago. I spent day after day wallowing in vodka, however no amount of alcohol rescued me from the bottomless gulf of heartbreak and guilt, or dimmed the abysmal horror lingering like poisonous thorns goring my ailed heart. It seems I have no choice… I shall succumb to insanity looming over me and pull the trigger if it  remains silently locked under my ribs, and my dear friend will have perished in vain. And her kid… He sincerely wanted to help. All this madness, death and agony he roused for me. I must unveil what happened, perhaps then I can breathe once again. I am to keep personal details as vague as possible, for if authorities find out my relation to the tragedy, I may land in more trouble than I can handle.

It began a few months ago. I was a horror author in the spring of career. My first novel, Miasma, had been published the previous year, I found myself in a storm of praises from readers and critics alike. Everyone was starving for my second book rumored to come out the following Halloween. Nobody could possibly know the truth… How hollow I had become, a mummified shell of the creator I once was. I drowned myself in spirits and melted my brain with cocaine to make existence bearable, distancing from friends and loyal admirers. Except one. For the story’s sake, I am going to name her Nellie. We… were morning against midnight, summer against dead of winter. Nellie was a single and eight months pregnant bachelor in family studies with a dream to one day run her own daycare. She had not as much as glanced at my book, far too squeamish for things I depicted, but cherished every part of me. I scorned Nellie for it. Who could adore the cynical addict I was behind a charming mask of blossoming talent… In my mind, no one. Nobody sane at least. I will divulge my soul and sincerely admit Nellie would have been the first person I shunned if not the stubbornness so aberrant to her naive and gentle self. She would not let me decay in peace, ringing the doorbell every fucking day with a flowery paper bag of home-cooked food and a rented DVD. Sometimes, she would even have me tag along to a tiny local coffee shop around the corner, where somehow, I smiled to the green-haired barista and signed a couple of autographs people asked me for. Nellie was the sole reason why I chose not to end it all. And I’m certain she knew. She was mellow, yet not a fool neither blind.  I loathed her, but found it impossible not to love her. She knew I could not bring myself to let her find my lifeless cadaver with skull blown off and brains all over the wall.

Upon stirring awake and noticing it was six in the evening, I caught myself both dismissively relieved and slightly concerned. Nellie always showed up around three in the afternoon to drag me out of bed and scold me for downing five cans of Red Bull to stay restless till ungodly hours of dawn again. Swallowing the worry and assuming she got caught up in university work, I stalked to the kitchen, only to freeze in sheer astonishment oozing with faint and abstract sense of primeval terror. Among the clutter on the table, sat an object which definitely had not been here before - a neatly folded piece of paper. Frowning, I snatched the mysterious item and frantically stared at the elegant note within. Gravely wind gushed through the balcony door I had not realized was open, and my skin grew pale as bone.

“End of the road behind the city park. I shall be waiting upon your wake”

Before spiralling into perpetual gloom, I used to be an avid urbex explorer. I’d gladly risk getting injured or arrested to sate my fascination for the cryptic and the macabre. Even Miasma, my novel, was inspired by an abandoned hospital a few streets away. Thus I certainly was aware about a deserted road behind the city park despite never having stepped a foot on it due to work and later misery devouring all my time. It was enlaced with legends and eerie stories told in slumber parties, university students organized ghost tours there for Halloween, high schoolers filmed themselves sniffing around to impress their crushes. Older folks feared the road like ants fear fire, claiming a curse plagued it, and monstrous specters roamed it on moonless nights. Nobody had dared to complete the route in last two decades, or lived to tell the tale, but an abandoned church was said to still stand at the end quite firm, held together by forces of ancient evil which infested it.

Though I doubt there is any need to mention urbex was no passion of Nellie’s.

I tossed the crumpled note away, grabbing my coat and bursting through the door, not bothering to brush my hair or change the jeans and shirt I had been wearing for last five days. All I hoped was that the hood will obscure my face enough for me not to be recognized.

The city park laid an hour away from my home on foot, and took an hour more to cross it. Without a physical possibility for the police to monitor the entirety of such a large area, the place could get extremely dangerous at night, lunatics, rogue criminals and homeless heroin junkies lurking in the bushes. Yet I could not care less about peril. Dread of something unnamed and far, far more cruel than a knife or a gun awaiting at the end of my destination pulsing like sick, festering aura around me likely  pushed any attacker to turn around anyway. My muscles were burning, sharp twigs whipping my face as I took every possible shortcut. The air was thick and heavy like butter, it felt as if my lungs had been flooded with slowly stagnating slime, robbing me of oxygen and making my head foggy, sight growing dark. I bit my lip harshly, rough, warm taste of iron dripping on my tongue, and pushed forward, struggling not to collapse.

I wish a gasp of ardor had erupted from my throat when indeed, outline of a small, crumbling church of gray stone emerged from the dark. I wish I had gingerly leaped forward, clutching my camera and already spinning a chilling tale in my head. Not limped towards impending doom growing clearer and clearer in front of me, ankle sprained in the rush refusing to obey my sizzling nerves.

What I found inside the forsaken sanctum surged me with such sepulchral, abysmal sensation I fail to flesh out earthly words to recount it. The horror… Oh, the spine-crushing horror. Nellie was here. She gazed straight at me, starry blue of her gaze now glassy, final visage of sheer fright and despair chained in the milky prison until maggots gnaw it away, mouth agape in a wordless greeting muffled by raw red muscle stuffed withing. She laid so heinously beautiful on the split, mouldy altar, broken arms motionless by her side, bare intestines slumped over the edge, blood and yellowish, reeking stomach fluids still trickling and spreading around as if a morbid halo. Her chest… Torn open, flesh and fragments of fractured bone scattered around, a dusty golden Chalice set in the middle. I stumbled backwards, screeching soundlessly. On top of it… placed a severed head of an in infant, so tiny, but almost fully developed, ruthlessly gouged out of a lifeless womb.

What… What in the name of all Saints and Sinners… Was this all a nightmare?.. A hallucination?.. Let it be, please, let it be!..

“Do you like it?” a voice rumbled from my left, guttural, yet serpentine,  shaking every fiber in my body with shock so intense I broke out of paralysis, jumping and turning around to face four blazing amber orbs in the shadows.

The figure rose seven feet above ground, without counting the enormous crooked horns sat upon his head that is. Black as obsidian, his skin merged flawlessly with the murk, or was he cloaked I could not tell.

“I beg you, fear not… I did this all for you” he continued without waiting for a response of mine “For your story. A child once lost a scripture of yours on the road that I wandered. I gave into curiosity, and the way you weave words of terror has bewitched me. I have watched over you ever since… I saw how uneasy your slumber was, I witnessed the pain drained ambrosia has brought you. Please…” he gestured towards the desecration “drink inspiration for your new story”.

[rhapsody-under-pressure]

Losing What We’ve Learned

Don’t do that. Speak when you’re told. No, you have to do this. From the day you enter the world kicking and screaming, your mind a blank slate, you’re beaten and molded into the form that everyone else wants you to be. Parents are the puppeteers, threading the needle and sticking it into your body, lacing it around the base and controlling you until they suddenly snip the strings and leave you to fend for yourself, wondering why you’re so lost and scared.

It was a lesson he was close to finishing. With the morning sun just barely breaking through his shut curtains, Brian was buttoning up his shirt and tucking the loose ends into his jeans that he had freshly ironed the night before. He finished tying the knot to his tie, pulling it down and flattening it against his chest. A nagging exhaustion lingered at the back of his mind, the primal instinct to go lay down and fall back asleep until he naturally woke up again. Jolts ran through him, keeping him robotically working across his outfit and making sure he was as neat as possible as to not provoke any reprimanding from his parents. He fixed his hair, grabbing the still hot straightener, crushing out the last tight curl from his hair to make it as straight as he could. Yet there was one last thing to fix and he dreaded the day his parents would finally notice it. But for now, he rubbed his eyes, trying to hide the blatant exhaustion and hoping that a cup of tea would shove it away for another few hours.

As if on cue, the gentle knocking came out from the other side of his door, his mother’s soft voice coming through the wood.

“Brian dear, you up yet?”

“Yes! Just finishing getting dressed!”

Her gentle footsteps followed, growing softer and softer until he could hear them no longer. Before heading out, he pulled open his curtains. Pink and orange hues began blending into the sky that was still dark from the night before. The faint moon hung in the sky, barely visible with the rising sun starting to take its place above them. He tried to take in the happy sight so it would mix with his own mood and bring him back into higher spirits. Alas, the fresh sight did nothing to pick him back up. He hesitantly reached out, his fingers hitting the cold glass window as he continued to stare at the warm sight from his cold room.

To avoid any worry, Brian pulled himself away from the window, unplugging the straightener and rushing out of his room, instantly slowing down and poising himself into his regular, respectable manner. Shoulders straight, head and chin up, chest pushed out ever so slightly, and a calm, equal footed stride. A hearty laugh filled the room, Brian looking towards his beaming father who was sipping his coffee while a piece of sausage hung on the edge of his fork.

“Look at our boy Ruth! God he’s gonna be a great man someday. With a look like that, everyone’ll be begging for his picture to go on a magazine!”

“He cleans up so well. Even manages to keep his hair neat. Girls adore a clean boy, Brian.”

“T-thanks…I try!” He said in a forced happy tone.

“Sit down and eat dear, your plate is almost ready.”

His stomach turned as he took a seat across from his father, unfolding his napkin and laying it across his lap, watching as his mother brought over his still steaming plate of potatoes, eggs, sausage, and bread slathered with butter. She placed the bottle of ketchup in front of him, Brian looking down at the meal in front of him and dreading the idea of needing to eat half of what she had given him.

“Aren’t you going to eat? Your mother worked hard to give a good breakfast for us.” His father asked, a slight accusing tone hiding beneath his words.

“Y-yeah! J-just a bit nervous about school.”

“Oh don’t be nervous about that! You’ve high marks in all your classes! And the teachers adore you! Why would you be nervous about going?”

You wouldn’t get it…He thought solemnly. “It’s still fairly new into the year and teachers always love to pile work onto your lap.”

“Bah! You can handle it. You always do. You can’t let those slip though. Universities won’t take anything less than the best, especially if you’re going into a science field.”

“I know…” He said softly, picking up his fork and focusing on eating his potatoes instead of any meat on his plate. His mother brought him a glass of orange juice, laying it in front of him, Brian quickly swallowing what he had in his mouth in order to vocally thank her. Only once the potatoes, bread, and juice were gone did his stomach start to shrink. Just the mere scent of the remaining food on his plate sickened him. He paused, hoping the clock would speed up so he could rush out the door and someone else would have to deal with the meal he left behind. He’d barely made a dent in his meal and his stomach was still begging for food and yet he couldn’t bring himself to eat anything on his plate. Brian gave a cautious glance towards the clock, seeing five minutes remaining before it was seven.

“Go on and eat Brian. She worked hard, least you can do is eat your eggs before you go.” He told him, the glare from his father hitting him like a truck and forcing him to pick up his fork once more and plunge it into the eggs on his plate. Yellow slime poured out of the egg, the punctured yolk spreading farther and farther across the plate until it had completely spread around the entire thing, coating it in a repulsive yellow that was instantly being picked up by the few crumbs on his plate. He swallowed back the rising disgust, scoffing down the eggs as fast as possible as to not taste any part of them.

“Don’t wolf down your food. It’s uncivilized.”

A wave of nausea passed over him as he reached out for a napkin, quickly wiping away the muck from the eggs that clung to the edges of his mouth. He apologized softly, earning a scoff from his father. His stomach felt even smaller, the vulgar taste still attached to his tongue and pushing away the rest of his appetite.

“I think I’m good ma…I should get going. Don’t wanna be late!”

“Right, right. Best you get going.” She told him, leaning forward and giving him a quick peck on his cheek. He waved goodbye to his father, grabbing his bag and dashing out down the steps and collapsing against the rail. Please…C’mon it’s not even seven…He tried catching his breath, snatching the water from his bag and guzzling half of it down so his mouth wouldn’t reek of those blasted eggs.

The temperature jumped a sudden twenty degrees, every part of his outfit slowly starting to cling more to his body. His heart raced and he could almost feel his pupils dilate. He quickly wiped his hands across his trousers and walked forward, trying not to count every step in case he took too many or too little.

“Good lord you work like clockwork! Every morning, here right at seven.”

“I try. Besides, you’re like that too…”

“Touché.” He answered with a laugh, his bright eyes glowing as they began their walk to school.

Brian wanted to bite down onto the strap of his bag to calm himself down. Every single nerve jumped in place as he continued to stare at his friend. He looked perfect but he looked like that every day. Hair combed through probably once in order to leave it organized yet still messy. Shirt untucked and tie barely put together. He didn’t know how he did it, but whatever it was, Brian couldn’t help but adore it.

“Hey you heard about that dance next Friday? It’s one of those ‘girls ask the guys’ dance. I’ve had four barking up my tree to go with them.”

“Forgot about it…Heh, makes sense anyway.”

“Why’s that?”

“Ah…uh…well I’m not, oh c’mon Roger you know I’m not the most popular guy there. Most girls avoid me like I’m the plague.”

“Well if you didn’t dress like some old, right bloke you’d do better. You’re so damn quiet too! What you think they’re gonna know you if you never speak? Or keep up that teacher’s pet gimmick?”

“I don’t even think I wanna go…”

“Oh now fuck that! You’re going, date or no date. You think Fred and I are gonna let you get away with you not going? Hell Fred’ll probably find you someone, or he’ll go with you.”

“I’ll pay him to go with someone else.” He grumbled, dreading the idea of having to dance with their overly flamboyant friend.

“Like any bloke would go with him. He’s isolated enough as it is. Why not just go with him for fun? No one’s going to think you’re actually with him! Girls do it all the time anyway!”

“I dunno Rog…I might just not go.” Ask me and I’ll go…He thought, the image of having him slowly dancing up next to him, their bodies inseparable and the calm music surrounding him, a few pink lights shining from the rafters above with Freddie in the background, cheering them on.

“You are going!” Roger insisted.

Brian gave up on his arguing, deciding to just accept the fact that he was going even though he’d just be uncomfortable the entire time. Once he did accept, Roger gave his arm a hard punch with a playful ‘Er ya go!’, his face beaming with pride the rest of the walk to school. He kept his face down, watching his feet hit the pavement while the sound of Roger mindlessly tapping on one of his books became the only steady sound in the background. An icy breeze rustled their jackets and the trees, pushing even more of the leaves off their branches and letting them fall to the pavement on top of the dozens of rotting, dry leaves.

“There you two are! C’mon dears I gotta show you something!” A loud voice shouted as soon as they walked into the courtyard of the school.

Speaking of the devil himself, Freddie was clad in a dark red tie that stuck out against his usual uniform as to match that mischievous demeanor, those sharp eyes shimmering with excitement as he grabbed one of each of their wrists and tugged them across the way.

“Fred! We’re old enough-” Roger started.

“Hush you!” Freddie interjected, letting both of them go and nearly making Brian fall over onto the muddy ground. Freddie held his hand out behind them to keep them from walking around the corner of the building.

“Found out where Deacon’s been heading during lunch.” Freddie whispered, motioning around the corner, Roger immediately rushing ahead to catch a glimpse. Brian couldn’t help but follow, his own curiosity rising. He peered around the corner and, sure enough, that shy, nearly invisible fellow to the entire school minus them three was standing against the gate, his arms wrapped around a young girl’s waist and her own thrown up around his neck, their mouths pressed right up against the other’s.

When both parted, they rushed back behind the building, Freddie and Roger both muffling their laughter with their hands clasped over their mouths. Both of their faces were flushed a dark red and holding their sides. Brian ventured a glance back, the girl tracing her finger along his chest before moving her delicate hand up to move a loose strand of hair out of his face. She whispered something that Deacon probably didn’t hear too well, but whatever it had been, it made his face grow even darker.

“I know!” Freddie managed once he got his breath back. “I couldn’t believe it either! Hey!”

He felt something yank at the back of his shirt, seeing Freddie’s dismissive glare stare up at him, his arms now crossed over his chest.

“Don’t keep eavesdropping! Let them have some privacy!” He berated.

“You’re the one who dragged us over!”

“Yes and? You two should see, not keep on gawking at him like he’s an animal in a cage!”

“Oh come off it Fred!” Roger interjected. “You’re just as nosey as the rest of us.”

“Ab-soo-lutely not!” Freddie shot back, Brian’s eyes nearly rolling to the back of his head at the statement.

Amongst all the arguing, none of them had been able to see or hear the couple’s approach, John standing against the wall and watching forlornly as his presumed girlfriend wandered back off into the crowd. Only when Roger took notice of him did he snap back into reality, adding a fierce glare towards each of them before directing his attention towards the ground.

“Deacon’s got a girlfriend! Deacon’s got a girlfriend!” Roger chanted with a broad smile on his face.

“Why didn’t you bother telling us?” Brian asked in a much softer voice.

“Because of that.” He admitted, pointing directly at Roger, who was still chanting his little tune.

“Now that’s not that bad.”

“The entire bloody school knowing it is!” Deacon argued, shooting a deadly glare at the other two, this time gaining Freddie’s attention.

“Hey, it’s alright Deaks…” Freddie said softly as he walked over. “We’re happy for you. Thought we’d have to hook you up with some broad eventually so you’d have a girl of your own. But! You beat us to it!” Freddie told him, adding a harsh, quick laugh afterwards.

Deacon’s eyes softened instantly as he looked towards the direction the girl had walked in. A small smile formed across his face. Freddie watched him intently, almost replicating the look upon his face before he tore himself away and looked at the rest of them. Roger had now recovered from his laughing fit and stopped his singing, now looking down at Deacon who was still lost in his own thoughts.

“Hello! Earth to Deacon! Get out of la la land, will you?”

“She’s so beautiful though…You ever seen anyone like that?”

Brian’s eyes instantly rushed over to Roger before looking back down at Deacon and shrugging. He didn’t seem to care, he was still just rambling on about her.

“She’s got these beautiful eyes and the sweetest laugh and she’s so smart and kind and just…God…”

“Ask her out then! We got that dance coming up and lord knows you two would be just adorable together! Who cares if the girls should ask, you’re girly enough to count.”

Deacon couldn’t even find words for a response. He just stared dumbly up at Freddie who could only wait a few seconds before bursting out with more ideas.

“Ooh! You two could go out to dinner beforehand at one of those absolutely lovely Italian places around the corner or you could buy her some flowers or after the dance you can head out to the cinema if it’s still open or-hey, you listening?”

“I-I am it’s-”

“Oh now if you’re gonna be all shy again!” Freddie started, giving a disapproving look towards him. “Bri, come on now, you think he should pass up an opportunity like this?”

“Ah-uh-well I mean I d-don’t think so but I guess…” He paused, nearly freezing under all three of their stares, his mind racing to find out what else to say. Yet any words he could’ve managed to get out instantly vanished once that sly little grin snuck up onto Freddie’s face.

“I mean…I could definitely help you out. Sneak a little note into her bag later and see what she says then!”

The look of pure fear upon the young boy’s face transmitted the feeling right to Brian as he seemed to grow smaller and smaller with each passing second. Freddie stood proudly, his eyebrow cocked upwards as he now waited for a proper response from Deacon, who was still trembling in his spot.

“C’mon now Deacon.” Roger finally said. “She knows you like her. Hell you two were just snogging in the corner over there! Lord knows she’s probably dying for you to ask her.”

“Probably dying for something else too.” Freddie commented, Brian giving his arm a hard hit while Deacon groaned loudly.  

“I-I know…” He replied, turning his gaze towards Roger. “I-it’s just hard, okay? I don’t like the extra attention cause everyone’s gotta shove their noses into my business just because I got a girlfriend or whatever.”

“Bah! Fuck that nonsense!” Freddie shouted, “You two are hardly noticeable as it is. People might just look at it because they can’t ignore it. Like a car crash.”

Each of them shot Freddie a deadly glare, Deacon only giving another loud groan afterwards and resting his head atop his knees. Before Freddie could get another word out, the bell rung, Deacon taking his chance and dashing off to not have to endure any more of Freddie’s shenanigans or ideas. Freddie looked down at the ground, giving a small shrug and rearranging his things before putting on his happy mask and looking back at them.

“I’ll get him that date. He’ll thank me in the end.” He told them before heading off.

Brian’s own heart had begun racing with every passing second, his mind racing to add up the time it would take for him to get from the courtyard over to his first class. Three minutes, if there wasn’t any terrible traffic, which he knew there would be since it was first, so he would have to allot another minute to give him ample time to get there or take the backway which always took longer but-

“Hey, I know a shortcut to first. Let’s get going.” Roger said to him, grabbing his sleeve and tugging him off in said direction.

He didn’t even have time to think about what he had just said and just nodded, his body still bristling with tension at the touch on his arm. Even when Roger released his sleeve, his body was still jumping a few degrees for the next few moments. He instantly clasped both hands around his books, trailing ever so slightly behind Roger as they made their way through the crowd of students and headed to the quieter shortcut for their first class.

…

When study hall finally rolled around, Brian couldn’t have been more relieved. A quiz for first and a completely hellish third class made him wish he could just collapse onto his bed and listen to music without any other distractions. Yet the mound of work sat in front of him, demonically laughing at him and making him wish he could just skip ahead a few hours to where he was all done with every bit of it. But that time wasn’t now and what other choice did he have but to get started with it.

Turned out, Freddie was ready to give him a second option. A knock on the door garnered the attention of the students who weren’t sleeping with the teacher waving her hand for him to come in, not even giving a glance his way as he entered.

“Alright, get up!” Freddie said as soon as he got over to him. “You can deal with this shit later on.”

“No I can’t. I gotta help dad out with some work and then I got even more stuff to study and-” Brian began.

“Brian! Come on! You’re one of the smartest blokes in the school. Take a bloody break for a second. I swear you could miss half the semester and you’d still get perfect marks!”

“That doesn’t mean-” He started.

“Don’t argue love. C’mon, least go study somewhere that doesn’t feel like a prison cell. God I swear I feel like I’m turning grey just from sitting in this room!”

“Do I really have a choice?”

“Not unless you want me to sit here the whole time.”

Brian huffed, but eventually agreed, folding his book closed and shoving it back inside of his bag, wishing he had just waited for Freddie’s arrival instead of hoping he would’ve given him some time to study. Yet Freddie had practically made this a routine between the two of them, seeing as they both had study halls at the same time, and always came over to drag him out of his own designated room so that he would have something more fun to do. Freddie beamed instantly, helping him with his things and tugging him out of his seat.

“He’ll be back before the period’s over.” Freddie told the teacher, though she didn’t even seem to realize he had even entered the room.

As expected, Freddie was heading towards their usual spot. Since the cafeteria and courtyard were out of the question to go sit in, they always took to this little place near the stairs by the gymnasium. Freddie almost always went there anyway when he didn’t have to be in class, claiming it was one of the quieter areas of the school, to which Brian couldn’t help but agree and appreciate the silence in a less bleak area. It was odd that a classroom full of living teens felt less alive than a completely desolate stairwell and yet…

“So? You gonna ask him or what?” Freddie said as he took his seat under the stairs.

“Pssh, sure. And tomorrow I’ll just go and grow wings and fly to the moon!”

“Hey, just a question. Don’t get all bitchy. That dance would be the perfect thing for you to say something!”

“Yeah, yeah I know but it just won’t work. He’s not into me anyway and he’d probably prefer some broad here to go there with.”

Freddie gave a loud laugh, smacking his arm. “Then why the hell hasn’t he asked any! Lord knows he would’ve! He’s got the most confidence out of the four of us anyway and God knows it wouldn’t be hard for him to get some hot girl to go with him to the dance.” Freddie paused for a second. “Course he could just ask a girl a question and they’d throw him their shirt and bra.”

“Maybe he just doesn’t want-” Brian started.

“Maybe this, maybe that, maybe he-Oh shut it already May! Good lord you’re never gonna know unless you just fucking go for it! You have no idea with him, just try it. You don’t even need to get all romantic with Rog and make it sappy and all that. Just go there with him so he’ll have someone besides me and Deacon to talk to.”

“Aren’t you still trying to hook him up with that girl?” Brian asked.

“Yes but that is not the point!” He barked, furrowing his brow and staring at the wall in front of him. “I’ll focus on that when I see him again but for now I still think you should at least go there and hang out.” He softened his voice and finally looked back at him. “Bri dear I really think you should go. Even if it’s not to hang out with Rog and me you just need to get out of the house. Every day you go back home and just lock yourself up in your room and study endlessly or do whatever the hell your parents want you to do. That’s not a way for anyone to live!”

“C’mon Fred…I got a lot to study for. I gotta get into that university so I can actually study what I want!”

“Yeah and most of what you want to study requires actually being outside! How can you want to study the stars and not go outside to actually fucking see them!?”

“It’s just hard…You know my parents, they want me to study as much as possible. If I ever let them down because…”

“Brain. You listen to me and you listen to me now. Stop doing what they want you to do. My parents want me to be some fucking business dude and God knows I’d rather jump off a bridge than dress up in a suit every day and talk about mortgages or royalties or whatever. If your parents give any damns about you then they’d fucking let you do what you want.”

“What if I don’t know what I want?”

“Then you take your time. You’re seventeen Bri…That’s young. We’ve all got so much time for stuff to change or enter our lives.”

His mind howled back at him. No no you’re meant to be prepared. Having a plan and following through so that you’re safe. That’s what they always told him and he knew they wouldn’t lie to him about the true route to success.

“Freddie…” He began, giving a long sigh afterwards and staring up at the stairwell floor that hovered above them, wondering how the hell there was so much gum and writing on it. “Don’t you think it’s better to have something planned out.”

“Plans are helpful but damn it all if you shouldn’t at least bend a bit to see what might come your way. Did you really think you’d go and fall for Roger? Probably not and yet look where you are now. Wishing that he’d come to you without a shirt on after a quick swim and kissing you beneath the sunset so that you won’t have to go and say ‘I’ll be at the dance’.”

“I don’t fantasize about that!” Brian shouted.

“Yeah and I’m straight.” He said back, slouching even more so against the wall. Freddie gave a quick hum and looked his way. “You should spend more time in the locker room during gym. You get a lot of nice views while you’re in there.”

“Freddie!”

“What? I mean it. While those rugby players are so loud and obnoxious, they do look quite nice without any shirts on. Or trousers for that matter…You ever really get a look at that guy? What’s his name…James or some shit. Now that there is someone I wouldn’t mind to have in gym.” Freddie rambled, his mouth curling up into a devilish smirk.

“The bloke looks like he rolled in dog fur.”

“And that’s a bad thing?”

The usual sly grin crept up onto his face, Brian feeling quite thankful that he couldn’t see into Freddie’s mind at the moment. He sighed and leaned back against the wall. As much as he wanted to follow Freddie’s advice, both of them knew just how slim the chances were of that working out were. Besides, if it did work, neither could continue with it. The invisible stares and sneers of those around them because they were just a bit closer together already began to burn his skin and twist his stomach around. If Deacon having a girlfriend caused this much buzz between the four of them, he could only imagine what would happen if he even admitted to having a crush on Roger.

“Hey, I know you’re not gonna take my advice but I’m still sticking to what I said.” Freddie told him once more. “If you wanna know, all you gotta do is try.”

Brian just shrugged, still not sure if he should even begin to contemplate the idea with Freddie around. The guy could read your thoughts with the slightest change in your expression. But there was one thing Freddie was good at and that was secrecy.

“It’s just…I dunno. How would everyone else act?”

It was then that Freddie’s own expression darkened. For once it was something that he couldn’t just brush off with another smirk or witty comment. Freddie just scoffed, now trying to find a proper response to what he had just said.

“I mean…It’s not like we could just go ahead and do it.” Brian continued, his insides now starting to churn. “Even just a rumor…I don’t want anyone to know…If my parents ever found out, I’d be a goner.”

“Hmph…Hell I don’t even know…I’d be a dead man too.” Freddie mumbled, a dark confusion now spreading across his face as he tried to finish what he wanted to say. “It’s…Tsk…I don’t even know what I’d do if I found some bloke who liked me…I’d probably run and hide from him…” A hard longing and sadness filled his face before he continued. “Be so much easier if I could find a girl so that everyone here would just shut up. ‘Oh you should find someone! Always bragging about what a good lay you are!’ or ‘Bucky over there couldn’t find a broad even if she had the same teeth.’ Fucking bastards. Don’t know how to keep their traps shut.”

“Tell me about it. People barking at you every now and then and calling you ‘teacher’s pet’ gets annoying. So does ‘goody-two-shoes’.”

“Hey, it’ll be them who repeat their final year three times because they can’t multiply past ten times ten.”

Both fell silent. Who wanted to talk about something like that in school? The risk of someone else hearing them was so immensely high; Brian didn’t even want to consider what would happen if someone did overhear them: blackmail, revelation, taunting...Anything petrified him. To think it’d been so easy for Freddie to tell them about it and yet it seemed like he didn’t want to tell himself. He’d go off all the time about what he’d love to do with a guy if anyone ever wanted him. Yet Freddie himself always seemed so hesitant to truly accept where he was. It wasn’t like he wasn’t somewhere similar…He didn’t want to admit it either. Who would?

The time slowly ticked by, Freddie occupying himself with toying around with his outfit or hair while he just stared at the opposing wall. Why did he always have to bring it up? He knew he didn’t like talking about this and yet that’s all Freddie did when it was just the two of them. Maybe it was because Freddie knew he could relate to him. Maybe it was just to start drama so he could ‘get a kick out of it’. Whatever the actual reason was, it’d fit Freddie to a tee. He wished he could see into the bizarre mind of his, just so that he could understand why he felt that need.

“You ever wonder what it’d be like to be off on your own?” Freddie finally asked.

“You know I do.” Brian told him. “It’ll be great.” He lied, the old fear starting to settle in his stomach.

“But to just be free!” Freddie exclaimed. “To just be…you. No one badgering you for who you were and to just let everyone, including you, be happy. You think that’ll every happen?”

“No.” Brian replied in a blunt tone. “No one’s ever gonna change that much. Let alone society.”

“Now don’t be so pessimistic! C’mon Bri…You gotta think that there’s some good out there.”

“I didn’t say there was no good. I’m saying that old traditions and ways don’t die easily. The way we’re raised will affect the future and I doubt all the children right now are not being taught the same exact stuff over and over again.”

“But those who don’t like what they’re taught can change it. There’s gotta be a future out there where people can just be happy.” Freddie retorted. “Isn’t there?” He asked solemnly, his eyes growing dark with desperation.

“I dunno Fred. I just don’t know.” Brian told him, trying to leave his own doubt out of this.

“You know what then.” Freddie told him in a much stronger voice. “If the world’s gonna be a bitch, I’ll be one right back. Try me. I’m not letting anyone tell me otherwise.”

Good luck with that. Brian thought as he sunk lower towards the ground. He wished he could share Freddie’s current optimism. It seemed so easy to just ignore everything. Maybe he should just stop everything he was putting himself through. The thought was sincere but the accompanying feelings were anything but. In an instant, the thoughts were dashed away, leaving him wondering what would’ve happened if he let them stay for just a bit longer.

He glanced towards his watch, groaning and pushing himself up from the uncomfortable position. Freddie got the message and heaved himself up as well.

“Look. I know what you’re thinking.” Freddie told him in a hard voice. “But you gotta at least try. Ignore your bloody parents and the other kids. Just be you.”

Freddie headed up the staircase without another word, leaving him to continue to wonder why on earth he was dwelling on Roger so much. He heaved a heavy sigh and grabbed the few things he had, already starting to toss away the bustling thoughts. Only when the bell rung did he succeed, his mind clicking back into its robotic state and walking him off to his next class.

…

The lock clicked as he twisted the key within. As expected, the house was empty. Not a soul was moving around nor were there any signs that someone had been home recently. It was normal, and it was something Brian truly relished. Those few moments of solitude in his own abode were truly something he wished he could have more of. Alas, he knew already that he had about an hour before his mother would return home, meaning the gratuitous time was slipping right through his fingers with every second he spent staring at nothing.

Brian instantly took to his usual routine. He hurried to his room, laying his bag on the neatly made bed and took out his work. Something once again began gnawing at the back of his mind, Brian shooing it away in an instant.

His work took hours, yet it would take others usually days to finish it all. The usual headache began to grow about three hours in and made him wish he could just be done with all of this already. It wasn’t hard. It was just tedious. Every damn sentence he had to write out in that perfect format so the teacher wouldn’t bark at him that it was properly written. Each formula that was etched in his brain. Couldn’t it have been so much shorter? He understood it. So why make him do it thirty times when ten was just plenty. Because without practice, you can’t be successful. Those words echoed through his mind, Brian wishing his father wouldn’t keep repeating it whenever he came home with a load of homework.

When it was actually finished, Brian neatly put it away in the designated folders and gently placed them each in his bag. His brain was pounding and each part of him just wanted sleep. But the bustling down the hall kept him from laying there. In a matter of minutes, someone would come over to remind him to come and eat. As he tried to head out, his eyes landed on the guitar sitting in his closet. The beautiful crimson wood almost hid among the darkness of the closet, but the light reflected off a few bits so he could finally see it.

Just a moment…He thought as he let go of the doorknob. He walked over to his closet and grabbed the guitar by its neck. A flash ran through his arm and up through his body when he came in contact. It grabbed him and took over for a second, allowing him to bring it out and hold it in his hands. It was just beautiful, absolutely beautiful. How he wished he could properly play it. An amplifier of any kind would be a blessing in disguise. He allowed his fingers to dance across a few of the strings, the soft, but warm, sound following, its full potential lurking beneath the surface.

A knock from the other side of the door scared the daylights right out of him, the guitar leaving his hands for a second as he fumbled around to keep it from falling. The door opened behind him, his father standing on the other side, an imposing glare hiding in his eyes while he put that fake smile up on his face.

“Oh you and your music.” His father told him, reaching out and taking the guitar from his hand and immediately placing it back in the closet. “You know better than to keep us waiting when it’s time for dinner.”

“Y-yes…Of course. Sorry about that, I just finished with my work and-”

“Ah thatta boy! Remember, without practice, you won’t be successful.” He told him, the invisible needle stitching the words onto his brain again.

He smiled sheepishly and followed his father out of the room, looking behind him for just a second and seeing the neck of the guitar inside of his closet, Brian once again shutting out his mind and trudged down the hall.

A sickening scent hit his nose, making his stomach violently twist. His eyes landed upon the dinner table. It was a classic scene, one someone could’ve seen in any picture book. A small basket of bread with butter ready to be spread, a freshly made salad with bright tomatoes, dark leaves of lettuce, and purple curves of onions while the dressing was reflected off the light hanging above their table. Glasses filled with ice, a bottle of beer next to what he knew was his father’s plate, more roasted greens sitting inside of a neat little bowl, all of it looked tantalizing, minus the cut pieces of chicken lined across a white plate, a boat of gravy sitting next to it.

His nerves shot around as he took his assigned seat, his mother to his left and father to his right. He made it through the routine of saying grace and allowed the others to grab their food first. Each went right for the still steaming chicken before moving onto the other food around it, Brian taking his chance and diving for what he actually wanted to eat. He lined his plate with as much salad, roasted asparagus, and bread to completely cover his plate so his parents wouldn’t force any of the dead bird down his throat. The idea revolted him, the memory of this morning’s incident only making it harder for him to eat what he actually wanted to enjoy.

In those few seconds of silence while everyone took their first bites of dinner, Brian tried to formulate a kind of story that they might actually want to hear. What was there? All he’d gotten to deal with was the usual routine that had been crafted since his birth. So, nothing new ever happened. He couldn’t dare mention his conversation with Freddie. They both already disapproved of him and his flamboyancy. Anything that had happened earlier would only anger them more.

“So, anything happen in school?” His father finally asked.

“Ah! W-well…” Brian began, laying his bread down on his plate. “Not really…Just the usual go to class and do what I can. Came home, did my work, and now we’re here!” He told him, seeing him give that pleased smile.

“That’s good. It’ll help you in the future if you keep the hard work up.”

“Brian hon, surely you’ve heard of the dance coming up!” His mother piped, giving her soft smile. “I heard it from Williams next door. Her son is ecstatic to go.”

“Bah! Ruth dear you know Brian doesn’t bother himself with any frivolous things such as dances. He’s got so much work to do.”

“Harold, don’t you think it’d be fitting for him to enjoy a night out. Perhaps he could hang out with Roger.”

“Yeah and that means that Frederick too. He doesn’t need much more of him, let alone at an event like that.”

“I-I mean he’s not that-” Brian began.

“Don’t interrupt!” His father snapped. “He’s got no reason to go. It’d be a waste of time and any more time with that Frederick is gonna turn him into some bum flashing himself at a party, neck deep in alcohol and I will not accept that!”

“Harold.” His mother said sternly. “He’s just a boy-”

“A boy who’s got so much going on that any behavior like that would throw him off. I’d bet every pound I got that something’s off with that Frederick and I’m not having him rub off on Brian.”

Nervous stares were directed towards his father, whose anger could be felt for miles. All fell silent and returned to their meal. He silently apologized to his mother, knowing that his father’s temper was on him from having his guitar out, not her bringing up the dance. He scoffed down his meal as fast as he could without reprimand. The chicken sat in front of him, half of it missing and sitting either on his parents’ plates or in their stomachs.

Dinner was quiet. No more talk of school, work, or any other miscellaneous babble. When they’d all had their fill, Brian took to clearing the table, his father moving off to the couch and reading the paper. While he washed the dishes he’d gathered, his mother began wrapping up the remainder of the food from dinner, neatly putting it in containers and then in the fridge. He looked down at her, seeing a dejected shadow inside of her eyes while she quietly worked. His eyes moved off to his father who, as expected, was sat with his nose buried in the paper.

“I’ll go pack my bag.” Brian finally said, hoping his father wouldn’t say anything else.

Thankfully, no one did. He hurried back to his room and shut the door as fast as possible. The checklist was already forming in his mind even though he already had everything ready for the next day. Well, everything but any encounter with the others. He could already see a conversation with Freddie and Deacon spoke as much as a piece of yarn. But Roger…Lord how he wished that he could predict how any conversation with him would go. It’d make it all so much easier. No more nerves bouncing about or butterflies dashing around in his stomach.

But he just couldn’t wrap his mind around it. Why he felt that way towards him. Of all people he could’ve fallen for, he fell for him. There were obvious issues with liking him, but something was so alluring about him. That cheekiness, the confidence that just radiated off of him. The guy paraded around like a tiger. It was amazing to watch. How he wished he could share it.

Time ticked by slowly, Brian pretending to be occupied with his work whenever someone came by as to avoid any conversation. His shower was done as quick as he could and well before midnight, he had his pajamas on and a book in his hand. Light now came from his desk lamp instead of the sunlight outside or the bigger lamp at the corner of his room. A few cars rumbled from outside, but besides the occasional turn of a page, all was silent. Brian found it both soothing and unnerving. He just wished for his eyes to finally grow heavy so he could mark his page and get under the covers so this day could just end.

Yet, his mind kept up the thoughts. He tried to focus on the words in front of him, but he found it nearly impossible to care or focus on them. Fitzgerald’s words seemed to form a blur of black and white. He shook his head, closed his eyes for a second, and tried to refocus before his turning and heavy thoughts resurfaced.

He hadn't once ceased looking at Daisy, and I think he revalued everything in his house according to the measure of response it drew from her well-loved eyes.…The dance…it was just a few days away. Roger would be there…Sometimes, too, he stared around at his possessions in a dazed way, as though in her actual and astounding presence none of it was any longer real. Maybe he should just go…It’d shut Freddie up…whereupon Gatsby sat down and shaded his eyes and began to laugh. “It’s the funniest thing, old sport,” he said hilariously. “I can’t — When I try to-”

Brian tossed the book away, the pages fluttering and the book landing on the ground with a quiet thud. How could he focus on anything else but the impending Friday night? Freddie was right, though admitting it would have him boasting about it for ages. But lord was he right. It’d be better to know what would happen then to keep living in this state of confusion and wondering. Surely it was…Was it not better to try something and fail or just never attempt it in the first place?

The question had plagued his thoughts since he first met Roger. That first time their eyes met a truck had slammed into his chest. He couldn’t speak for a few seconds and had to be whacked out of it by a slap on the back of his head by Freddie. Over the two years he’d battled the idea that just saying something, something that simple, could solve everything or make everything worse. Even if he did like him, how could he even find a way to be with him when everyone around you thinks your mere existence is a creation of the Devil himself?

He glanced over to his bedside table, the small drawer calling out to him. The lamp cast a now angelic glow upon the wood, Brian now following it and opening up the drawer. A few papers sat inside of it, his handwriting scrawled out in various pens. Old song ideas began to swarm around in his mind again, the lyrics reminding him of the few short moments that his parents had seemed to encourage his desire for music. But his father had slammed the songs away into the drawer the instant he seemed to be moving away from what he wanted him to do. The old thought hurt just as much as it did when it was the moment itself.

An urge arose once again, one he hadn’t felt since the last time he held those papers. To be perfect, to make everything as good as it could be. He reached out and grabbed a pen from his bag, placing the tip of it against the paper, a small blue dot forming and slowly growing. Brian took a deep breath and scratched out a few words, writing in what he felt fit better. His pen moved over the words, hovering just a centimeter above it until he scratched out more words and replaced them once again. This process continued as he scoured through all he had written, tossing the papers aside, making notes in the margins about what could be a guitar rift or solo in the future.

For once it felt natural to do this. Like no one was going to barge in on him and tear it out of his hands, telling him he’d be wasting his time with anything trivial. Once he did put the pen down, he stared down at his work, pride swelling up in his chest. It was his. Something he made. No matter what, someone couldn’t take away that satisfaction of making something better, something he had made himself nonetheless. The song was his own. Not perfect, but for now it seemed to be. Every stroke of the pen had been made by him: whether it be a note, rift, lyric question, or random doodles he made when trying to think. His pride seemed to start to relax him, his eyes now starting to grow heavy.

Brian now folded up the papers, laying them gently inside of the drawer and putting the pen back inside of his bag. His hand slightly ached, but it was that good kind of ache, like the type an athlete got after exercising. Again, his eyes fell upon the guitar that sat inside of his closet. The desire to test out the notes he’d written down arose again as he continued to stare longingly at it. But it was unfair to play it without letting it reach its full potential. He laid down beneath his covers, letting out a heavy yawn before finally shutting his eyes, now ending he final part of his routine and, within minutes, drifting off into a blissful slumber, that pride never once vanishing.

[life-love-and-alcohol]

Can I request a flower shop au? (I know it's been done but please I need more lol) Anything goes but consider this: Victor having fantasies about Yuuri on a bed covered with rose petails~

Yayyy of course!! (that mentalimage tho…save me from my vivid imagination)

Viktor had aplague. No, not the termites,he had got rid of those the previous week (even though his wooden furniturestill wasn’t over it).

No, they weren’tcockroaches. Thanks god, those were disgusting. 

And he swore that if arat ever stood on his apartment he would burn the edifice down.

No, Viktor’ plaguewasn’t that kind of plague…

Viktor had a flowerplague.

Now, he had done hisbest to stop it, he swore. He had taken all the serious precautions. Butnothing seemed to be able to stop the spreading of that maddening weed thatwas, apparently, just emotional.

It wasinevitable…how was he supposed to ignore his compulsion? Yurio had helped himwrite a list of warnings he needed to have in mind each afternoon when hewalked back from work, but Viktor was a weak man, and he hadn’t been able toget done any of the points satisfactorily.

1) Don’t walk throughTHAT street.

There, just around thecorner, there was certain special shop. Which he needed to avoid at all costs,unless he wanted his apartment to keep collecting green while his wallet ranout of it.

2) Hold your breath.

If he was patheticenough to choose the long way home (like he always did) and found himself infront of the shop as if it were an accident, then he should avoid the sweetscent of jasmines that always drove him towards his doom. It was a trap, Yuriosaid. A macabre trap Viktor was willingly falling into.

3) Don’t get inside

Once he grabbed thehandle, once he was welcomed to hell by the lovely jingle of the door’s bell,once he walked to the counter, once he saw HIM…there was no turn back.

4) Don’t think about him

Don’t think about hissmile, don’t think about the thousand colors of the endless flowers reflectingon his glasses, don’t think about that adorable way in which he furrows hisnose when he laughs. And, for the love of all that’s holy, DON’T think about thatfantasy of yours in which he’s surrounded by a thousand rose petals, naked,tangled in your bedsheets. No, Viktor, don’t do it. That way, if you keepthinking about him, tempting yourself with no-happenings, you’ll end up walkinginto the Katsuki Flower Shop once again. 

And that’s exactlywhat he did right then.

Yes, Viktor had aplague. But it wasn’t only the flowers in his apartment. It wasn’t only thedaisies on top of his dining table, nor the three bouquets of tulips in thekitchen, not even the orchids peeking from the front pocket of his every suitcoat.No, it wasn’t the lavender perfuming his clothes inside his closet, and it hadnothing to do with the azaleas that matched with his bathroom’s curtains. Hisplague was so much deeper than that. It had deep-rooted inside of him, it hadspread to every corner of his body and bloomed in beautiful colors, sprouts ofsensations he had never felt before. Viktor had a plague, and Viktor was inlove.

So he really had noother choice, he couldn’t help himself as he made his way to the flower shopevery single day, just to talk to the florist. And he never left empty-handed,no way. He couldn’t let the other know he was the sole purpose of the visit…thatwould have been terribly embarrassing! He ended up making the stupidest ofexcuses, ranting about relative’s birthdays and empty tables at his office thatjust NEEDED some petunias when in reality he kept all of them, since he couldn’teven allow himself to throw them away before they withered because they remindedViktor of HIM. Yes, he was an idiot. And totally aware of it. But he waswilling to continue being an idiot if that meant he could see Yuuri Katsukievery day.

He turned round thecorner, already failing the first step, and didn’t even bother to hold hisbreath as he let the engulfing scent of lilies take over his senses. He openedthe door, way too submerged into his own fantasies, his eagerness, and theoverstimulation of his nostrils; and it was only when he heard the jingling ofthe little bell at the entrance that he realized that he had done it again. Hewas visiting Yuuri.

“Oh, Viktor, you are earlytoday!” There he was, fixing a gorgeous bouquet of fuchsia flowers Viktor didn’teven know what they were, his eyes fixed on the ribbon he was carefully tyingaround the stems.

“Uhm, yeah. I finishedwith work quite fast” He said, clearing his throat, trying to sound as casualas possible.

“What would you liketoday?”

It took him five solidseconds to realize he was talking about flowers. The flowers he usually boughtbecause he was a love-struck fool. The flowers he was supposed to be orderingright then.

But he had forgotten tomake up his excuse, he hadn’t thought of what fake kid at hospital or falseempty tombstone may need flowers that day. So he didn’t really know what to askfor…and the answer was certainly not on the seller’s pretty face, which he keptstating at as if it was the whole universe.

“Oh, uhm, I reallylike those you are working with right now” He pointed at the counter, wheresome few falling petals were beginning to betray Yuuri’s dedication “They’re lovely”

“These?” He pickedthem up, fixing them delicately “This are carnations, they came in today…aren’tthey beautiful?”

“Indeed” Viktor almostchoked on the word. 

“I was just making this bouquet to pass the time, you can take it if you want!Just let me prepare it a bit…” He took one of those transparent papers he alwaysput around the bouquets, and carefully began to wrap it around the flowers “Whoare the flowers for, this time?”“What?”

Damn, he had run outof lies.

“Who are you going togift them too?” Yuuri repeated the question, smiling kindly as he handed himthe bouquet, and Viktor was so in trance he didn’t even reach for his wallet. Hejust kept staring like an idiot, thinking of how his house was about to turninto a botanical garden, on how Yurio had promised to kick his ass if he kepttalking plants to the office, and how there was just one single part of hislife that was missing some flowers. And he was going to deliver them rightaway.

“You” He blurted out,before he could even reason his intentions.

The florists faceturned the same shade as the carnations. He stared back at Viktor, eyes wideand mouth agape, lips bouncing in babbles he felt unable to turn into properwords, as he was handed the bouquet back.

“W-what?” Hestuttered, accepting it either way, yet still not fully comprehending “Why??”

“Those are for you”Viktor said, looking away for a second, but not really lasting much staringsomewhere else. His adoration was stronger than bashfulness “Because…maybe… Iwant to ask you for dinner tonight?”

Yuuri tried to speakagain, but before his lack of words, he was forced to nod eagerly instead,almost completely undressing the whole bouquet. Viktor smiled as he saw himhide behind the flowers coyly, almost camouflaging within them, and lookingpainfully adorable.

“Good” He said, bitinga grin “There’s a nice Italian restaurant two blocks away, would you like to…”

“Yes, I’d love to”Yuuri peeked his face from behind the carnations, and leaned forwards to planta blooming kiss on Viktor’s cheek from across the counter. Then, when he saw hehad left the man in a thunderstruck state, he giggled to himself and took a flowerout from the bunch to place it inside his date’s front pocket, before he turnedto the back of the store to keep on working “See you there at eight”

Viktor nodded, gulpingloudly, and paying for the flowers before he forgot.

Once he left the shop,he took the carnation from inside his pocket and began to pluck out the petals,one by one, humming happily as he reached his flowery apartment.

“He loves me, he loves me not, he loves me…”

[almostafantasia]

sail with me to someplace new

clexa pirate au | chapter 8/13

Summary: When Clarke learns that her father’s trading ship has been attacked by pirates, she sets out on a daring rescue mission. The only problems – Jake could be being held prisoner anywhere in the Caribbean and Clarke has never sailed a ship before. To help save her father’s life, Clarke attempts to enlist the help of the notorious Captain Lexa Woods, a fearsome pirate who is just as broody and mysterious as she is unwilling to offer her assistance. 

Read on AO3.

Tortuga is every bit as terrible as Clarke imagined it would be, and then some.

The first thing that Clarke notices is the smell. It crawls up her nostrils like a small but persistent insect, the nasty combination of rum, body odours and sewage getting stuck at the very back of Clarke’s throat and causing her to cough as she steps off the ship and starts making her way down the boardwalk into the town.

The second thing is just how much there is going on. Tortuga is like an assault on every one of Clarke’s senses – she can barely hear herself think over the shouting and the singing (and slightly more alarmingly, the gunshots), while everywhere she looks there is something happening. Her eyes are wide in a stunned kind of horror as she follows on Lexa’s heels, taking in the hordes of rowdy drunkards that line the streets as far as the eye can see. Clarke has been on some nights of serious drinking with Raven and her other friends back in Nassau, some that she can’t even remember, but she didn’t realise it was possible for one person to be as drunk as the pirates who surround her, let alone for an entire town to be so universally out of their minds due to alcohol.

It’s not just pirates though. A blind beggar man sits against the wall of a house, hands held out before him in an ignored plea for gold; musicians with fiddles, accordions and tambourines play boisterous hornpipes and sea shanties; rats scuttle past their feet and go seemingly unnoticed by everybody except Clarke, who recoils in horror when she sees them.

Clarke is also taken aback by the fact that Lexa gets propositioned by no fewer than three whores before they even make it out of the docks, a matter which seems to faze Lexa so little that Clarke comes to realise that it must be a regular occurrence. Clarke has to admit, the whole broody pirate commander thing that Lexa has going is, if Clarke tries to be completely objective, something that could be seen as quite attractive.

“Where are we going?” Clarke asks Lexa, as she struggles to keep up with the pirate captain’s long stride through the crowds of people that swarm the dock.

“Tortuga is made up of two things,” Lexa explains, pushing past a beggar man who steps in front of them with an upturned hat in his outstretched hands. “Taverns and brothels. The brothels will be our last resort. I don’t really like to show my face in them too often.”

Taken aback by Lexa’s words, Clarke silently prays that it doesn’t have to come to that (Clarke has only found herself inside a brothel once before and that was a fleeting visit to rescue Raven who had ended up in there by mistake, but it was enough to decide never to step foot in one again).

“So we’re going to a tavern then?”

“It’s a good enough place to start,” Lexa agrees with a nod.

Lexa’s movements catch Clarke by surprise, swerving suddenly to the left and taking a sharp corner beneath a crumbling bridge and down a cobbled street lined with pubs. Drunken pirates swarm everywhere, spilling out onto the streets with each hand clasped around the handle of a huge tankard full of dark ale. Lexa ducks into the first such establishment on the left, Clarke close behind her, and stops in the entrance, squinting around the packed room.

“I should be able to find somebody that I know in here,” Lexa tells her.

Clarke takes in their new surroundings. It’s much like the taverns back in Nassau, only twice as big and with four times the number of pirates tightly packed into every corner of the room. To the right, a twisting staircase leads up to a second level, where a balcony with an almost dangerously low railing overlooks the ground floor. To the left, the bar itself stretches along the entire wall in front of shelves lines with dusty glass bottles filled with dark liquid.

Clarke pushes a hand into her pocket, delving within to locate a few coins, which she takes out and lets sit in the palm of her hand.

“Do you want a drink?” Clarke asks Lexa, though she already knows that it will take an inordinate amount of alcohol for her to feel comfortable in a bar full of pirates with nobody but a pirate commander for company.

“No thank you,” Lexa responds with a dismissive wave of her hand, and Clarke lets the coins drop back into her pocket with a jingle. “Business calls.”

Once again, Lexa is off without a word, manoeuvring through the crowds of people with a skill that can only come from years of practice. Clarke follows after her, clumsily pushing her way through a crowd of rowdy men who reek of seawater, alcohol and sweat. She loses sight of Lexa twice, each time wondering if this is how she is supposed to meet her end, suffocating to death in a crowd of inebriated pirates, but eventually catches up to the captain when she stops next to a table occupied by a single woman.

“Luna,” Lexa says, by way of greeting.

In a single swift movement, Lexa removes the leather hat from her head, rolls up the long sleeves of her coat to expose tanned forearms, and drops into the seat opposite a woman that Clarke has never laid eyes on before. Lexa’s pose is full of confidence, knees spread slightly wider than hip distance apart, elbows leaning on the small wooden table between the two women and her hands clasped tightly in front of her.

The woman opposite Lexa, however, leans back in her seat, placing her heavy tankard down on the table as a slow smirk spreads across her face.

“Captain Woods.”

“Enough of the formalities, Luna,” says Lexa, and her voice is unlike Clarke has ever heard it before, speaking to this Luna person with a familiarity that can only come with an old friendship.

“What do you want, Lexa?”

“Who says I want anything?” Lexa bickers back.

“You never come to Tortuga unless you want something,” Luna arches a brow at Lexa, causing Lexa to shrug her shoulders slightly in defeat. Her eyes flickering up to Clarke, Luna nods her head in Clarke’s direction and then asks, “Who is your friend?”

Lexa shifts her posture slightly, allowing room for Clarke, who had been standing slightly awkwardly behind Lexa’s left shoulder, to take a step forward and join the conversation.

“This is Clarke Griffin. She … that is to say, we need your help.”

Luna’s eyes narrow ever so slightly, then her nose crinkles up as she replies, “No. Absolutely not.”

She reaches out for her tankard of ale, lifting it to her mouth and taking a long swig of the dark liquid within, shaking her head in Lexa’s direction disapprovingly.

“You don’t even know what I’m asking of you,” Lexa argues, a hint of the sharp commanding edge to her voice creeping into her tone.

“Yes I do,” Luna tells her. “You’re going after Nia.”

“How did you…?” Lexa asks in disbelief, before she trails off, shaking her head slowly. “Never mind.”

As disappointed as she is that the first person they’ve asked for help has turned them down before even hearing the question, Clarke can’t help but be impressed at the speed at which gossip seems to spread like the plague across the Caribbean. In all honesty, she’s not too sure how the news that Lexa has decided to go after Nia has reached Tortuga before Lexa’s ship could even make it, but it’s an extraordinary feat nonetheless.

“Going after Nia is as good as putting a noose around your own neck,” says Luna. “Until she attacks one of my ships, I’m staying out of it.

“I’m sorry, but is Nia your Commander or am I?” asks Lexa, her voice a low growl as her anger visibly bubbles away at Luna’s words.

Though she isn’t in the direct line of Lexa’s anger, Clarke takes a couple of tiny steps back in fear of being caught in the crossfire. Though their time knowing each other has not been much, and their time together as comrades even less so, Clarke hasn’t seen Lexa even appreciative of her title of Commander, let alone owning it in the way that she is right now.

“I’m tired of this petty feud between you and Nia,” Luna says with a sigh. “I thought it would all end when Nia killed Costia but…”

With an almighty roar, Lexa upends the table between them, sending it crashing to the floor and splashing the remainder of Luna’s drink across her lap. The empty tankard hits the floor with a clatter and rolls away, lost in amongst the boots of the nearby sailors. With nothing more than an animalistic snarl that has even Clarke cowering away in terror, Lexa gets to her feet and takes long strides towards the exit, pushing aside the people that stand between her and the street outside carelessly.

Clarke spares one final glance for Luna, who wears not a single trace of an apology on her face. Shaking her head in disapproval, Clarke mutters, “Thanks for nothing,” before chasing after Lexa through the crowds and out onto the busy street.

“Lexa, wait!”

She finds the pirate captain leaning against the wall just outside the tavern, her expression once again composed as if she hasn’t just thrown a table at another woman, except for a glint of resentment that lingers in her eyes.

“There are others,” Lexa says, and Clarke gets the impression that she’s saying the words more for her own benefit than for Clarke’s.

Sensing that Lexa has more to say, Clarke prompts her, “But…”

“But Luna captains a huge crew that spreads out across three giant warships,” Lexa elaborates, pushing herself off the wall and straightening her long coat. With a shrug, she adds, “Not to mention the fact that she has great influence over almost half the fishermen in the Caribbean. She would be a great ally against Nia. Having her by our side would take the pressure off needing to find anybody else.”

“But there are others,” Clarke reminds her, echoing Lexa’s words from earlier.

They go to two more taverns, speaking with another one of Lexa’s associates in each one, and the conversations take an almost identical path to the one with Luna, minus the upturned table. Lexa does all of the talking, with Clarke lurking close behind almost like a completely non-threatening bodyguard, on hand to step in if Lexa needs her help. Though if the table incident is anything to go by, Lexa is more than in capable of looking after herself, in total control of everything.

In total control of everything except the answers that are being given to her by the other pirates, which are both a resounding no.

“I don’t understand,” Lexa says, resting her head in her hands in dejection. “These are my people. They answer to me. This is tantamount to mutiny.” She lets out a disheartened sigh. “I’ve done nothing but good for them and this is how they repay me.”

“It’s fine,” Clarke reassures her with a comforting hand on Lexa’s shoulder. “We’ll find somebody who wants to help us. In the meantime, can I get you a drink?”

Three rejections later, Lexa’s answer is not the same dismissive response that it was in the first tavern. Instead, she hesitates only momentarily before nodding her head.

“Is beer good? Or do you want something stronger?”

“Beer is fine,” replies Lexa.

Clarke pushes her way to the bar, not bothering with a polite excuse me like she would have done before. A few days on the ocean is all that it has taken for Clarke to take leave of all manners that she was brought up to use, or at the very least enlightened her to the ways of sailors enough to know that pushing through the crowds will be much more effective than politely asking and then waiting for them to step aside.

It takes Clarke a while to get served (she quickly realises that this is because she isn’t showering the barmaids with the same kind of lecherous attention that everybody else waiting to be served is) but when she does, she carries the two large tankards of ale back to the table where Lexa sits.

Only to find that Lexa is no longer alone. Slouching in the seat across from her, the one that was so recently occupied by the man who turned their proposition down, is another female pirate, a magnificent captain’s hat complete with a plume of red feathers perched atop her head, a smirk curling across her face as she speaks with Lexa.

“Here you go,” Clarke interrupts as unobtrusively as she can, realising that Lexa is quite probably in the middle of asking for this woman’s help, placing one of the ales on the table in front of Lexa and keeping the other in her own hand.

The other woman stops mid-sentence, sitting up a little straighter to peer up at Clarke with wide, curious eyes. She takes in Clarke’s appearance, from her dirty blonde hair to the tatty clothes that she’s been wearing day and night since leaving Nassau several days ago, and then returns her attention back to Lexa with a slanted smile on her face.

“Aren’t you going to introduce me, Lexa?”

There’s clearly something that Clarke is missing from this conversation, a tension in the air between the two women that Clarke can sense but not even begin to understand, because Lexa rolls her eyes before speaking.

“This is Anya,” she tells Clarke, her tone of voice flat and almost disinterested. “She’s one of my oldest acquaintances.”

The other woman – Anya – snorts loudly and shakes her head.

“Acquaintances? Is that what we are now?” she scoffs. Turning to Clarke, Anya nods with her head to point in Lexa’s direction and then explains, “I’m her big sister.”

“We grew up together,” Lexa corrects her.

“I taught her everything she knows.”

“Not quite everything.”

Clarke watches, half in amusement and half in a slight state of shock as the two women bicker back and forth in the way that sisters – or people who grew up together – would.

“It does seem that I failed at teaching you how to have a good night in Tortuga.” Anya smirks at Lexa once again. “I should probably offer to buy something stronger than ale for you and…”

Anya’s gaze flicks across to Clarke expectantly, trailing off at the end and waiting for somebody to complete her sentence by offering up the missing information.

“Oh,” Clarke says quickly, offering a hand out across the table for Anya to shake. “Clarke. Clarke Griffin.”

Anya eyes Clarke’s outstretched hand suspiciously, choosing not to take it in her own, and Clarke lets it awkwardly fall back down against her side.

“She’s prettier than the last one, Lex.”

Beside her, Lexa chokes on the mouthful of ale she unfortunately decided to take just at that moment, spraying it across the table. Realising that Anya has made a terrible assumption about the nature of her relationship with Lexa – indeed, assuming that they are anything more than reluctant companions forced to work together for the greater good of all sailors in the Caribbean is a mistake – Clarke makes a quick attempt to settle any confusion that lies between them.

“Oh no, we’re not…” she tries to explain, gesturing between herself and Lexa and shaking her head quickly in order to exaggerate her point.

“Oh!” Anya’s eyes widen in realisation, then she shoots Clarke a sly wink. Leaning her body across the table, she lowers her voice and continues, “That’s fine. I can be discreet.”

Hearing Lexa’s huff from beside her, Clarke opens her mouth to correct but Anya’s attention has drifted elsewhere.

“So what brings the Commander to Tortuga?” she asks, slouching back in her chair and folding her arms across her chest. “I thought you made a point of avoiding this place unless there’s an emergency.”

“Who says there isn’t an emergency?” Lexa replies stiffly.

“There’s no emergency,” Anya scoffs. “I know everything that happens in the Caribbean before it happens.”

“Then you know where I’ve come from,” says Lexa.

“Isla de los Tormentos?”

Lexa neither confirms nor denies Anya’s statement, but her silence is all the confirmation that Anya needs.

“Seriously?” she asks incredulously, as if she hadn’t been expecting her guess to actually be correct. She lets out a low groan and kicks Lexa beneath the table with one of her heavy boots. “Roan is going to be such a shit when he hears that it’s true. I swore blind to him that you would never go anywhere near that place.”

“Roan’s here?” Lexa perks up at the mention of this mysterious person, who Clarke presumes is just another one of Lexa’s many pirate acquaintances. “I could use his help, actually. He would be a useful ally against Nia.”

Anya sits up straight, resting her elbows on the table to lean her body towards theirs,

“You’re going after Nia? You’ve spent three years trying to make peace with Nia and then she -” Anya jerks her head in Clarke’s direction, “- comes along and you decide you’re going to kill her? Why is it with you that there is always a girl involved?”

Feeling slightly embarrassed about her presence here, the two other women talking about her as if she isn’t standing right beside them, Clarke does her best to pretend like she isn’t hanging off every word that they say. She tries to hide behind the big metal tankard, taking a few long swigs from it and keeping it close to her face in an attempt to act like she’s busy.

“There isn’t always a girl involved,” retorts Lexa haughtily. It’s obvious from the brusque tone of her voice and from her body language, shoulder set stiffly and the fingers of each hand fidgeting with each other where they rest in her lap, that she’s not comfortable with the direction that the conversation is going in. With the direction that the conversation keeps going in.

Sensing an impending argument, Clarke decides to interject before things get too heated between the two women, placing her tankard down on the table with a thud that it much louder than necessary, but it has the desired effect of getting the attention of both Lexa and Anya. The very last thing she wants is a repeat of the table incident from the first tavern.

“Nia killed my father,” Clarke tells Anya, pushing past the lump that forms her throat as she says the words aloud. “She killed Costia and she’s killed god knows how many people since and she’s going to keep killing people unless somebody does something about her.”

Anya glances quickly across to Lexa, her eyebrows knit together in a silent question, and Lexa nods once to verify what Clarke is saying.

“I’m not helping you,” Anya shrugs disinterestedly. “Three years ago I would have, but not today. Besides, I like having all my body parts firmly attached.”

Lexa gets to her feet and for just a moment Clarke thinks that she’s actually going to attack Anya. When she speaks, however, her voice isn’t threatening, although Clarke can definitely detect a hint of bitterness creeping in at the edges of her tone.

“If you weren’t my sister I’d run my sword straight through you for that comment.”

A sly smile spreading across her lips, Anya quips back, “I knew there would be some advantages to growing up with you.”

“Goodbye, Anya,” Lexa says, with finality in her voice.

“See you around, little sister. Unless Nia kills you of course.”

Clarke is quick to follow, tipping the last few dregs of beer into her mouth and then leaving the now empty tankard on the table. She nods a quick farewell of her own to Anya, not bothering to wait for any kind of response before she chases Lexa out of the inn and into the bustling streets of Tortuga once more.

“Where to next?” she asks brightly, as if they haven’t just been rejected for the fourth time in quick succession, and this time by a woman who is as good as Lexa’s sister, no less.

“Back to Polis,” Lexa answers. Though Clarke can tell that Lexa is trying to hide the pessimism in her voice, she can just about hear it, the words sounding slightly forced and not quite as certain as they usually are.

“But we haven’t….” Clarke starts to remind her.

“If Anya won’t help us then nobody will,” Lexa interrupts.

And there it is. The crushing realisation that it’s just going to be the two of them embarking on this mission. Just the two of them, and a single crew full of people who are obliged to help either because they are Clarke’s friends or because Lexa would cast them away on a deserted island if they refused to help. And with just a single ship going up against what could potentially be an entire army of people loyal to Nia, it’s quite possible that Clarke and Lexa are about to lead that entire crew to their deaths.

It’s a devastating thought, but one that could most likely become a reality.

And so, with the two options going forward being either forgetting about Nia and going back to Nassau to grieve for her father without having avenged his death, or sailing headfirst into a most unpleasant almost certain demise of her own, the only thing that seems like a good idea is getting drunk out of her mind.

“We could stay for another drink,” Clarke voices her suggestion aloud for Lexa’s consideration. “Enjoy Tortuga while we’re here?”

“The drinks in this place are absolute piss,” Lexa screws her nose up in disgust at the very thought of venturing back into one of Tortuga’s drinking establishments. Clarke’s heart sinks for only a brief moment, before Lexa comes out with a suggestion of her own. “I have a stash of good rum back in my cabin, we could drink that instead?”

[peterchristensen89-blog]

A Perfect Fit - Chapter 2

Peter Parker is a high-school graduate, on his way to Empire State University.  As a potential Stark Internship candidate, Peter dreams of the day working under his idol, Tony Stark.   Unfortunately, life remains as cruel as ever.

An attack by a supernatural gang, The Demons, leaves the streets of Queens laced with a new bio-plague.  With thousands dead at the hands of “The Devil’s Breath”, only Peter Parker stands alive in the wake of the attack, saved by his Aunt May.  Transformed by Devil’s Breath, Peter learns from Tony Stark that he’s far from human anymore.  A Super-Soldier with the power of the Hulk, the control of Captain America, and the stealth of Black Widow.  And, oddly enough, he can stick to surfaces like a spider.  

As the only living human with an immunity to the plague, Peter is the last hope of the Avengers.  The only weapon they have against The Demons and their cruel leader, Mister Negative.  With his newfound powers and training from Iron Man himself, Peter races against the clock with the help of the Avengers to stop The Demons.  To stop Mister Negative’s crusade of revenge, and save the life of his last living relative.

By any means necessary.

Read on A03 or Below the Read More

Celebrating at Mr. Lee's pizza parlor was a lifelong tradition of the Parker family. With their stomachs full of pizza and ice cream of a legendary chef, Peter and May made their way home. Dusk fell overhead, covering the city in a blanket of shadows.

“That was an amazing dinner. Thanks, May.” Peter said, stretching out into the warm sky.

“You’re very welcome, kiddo. I’m glad I get to spoil you every now and then.” May leaned over, grasping Peter’s cheek and tugging it. “Especially when you deserve it, Mr. #1 Intern!”

“May!” Peter freed himself from May’s grasp. He grinned, stopping at a busy crosswalk as a sea of traffic opened up. “Well, one of these days when I’m rich and successful, I’ll treat you to a buy one get one free dinner myself! Then I can spoil you!”

“Fuck that, you little cheapskate!” May ruffled Peter’s hair as the signal ahead of them turned green. She walked forward, pulling Peter into a headlock. “You’re getting me shrimp and lobster! I also demand a single-story house in the countryside with four corgis and a grandchild to dote over."

Peter rolled his eyes, shoving May off from him. “Two corgis, and a major “maybe” on the grandkid thing.”

“Three Corgis, and if I get a chihuahua, I can live without a grandchild.”

“You drive a hard bargain.” Peter reached back, folding his hands behind his head. He winked at May. “Have to check the budget, but I bet I can manage that.”

“Bestill my heart!” May gasped, reaching over and kissing him on the cheek. “Larb you.”

Peter chuckled. “Larb you, too.”

They continued their journey in silence, getting through the worst of the city’s foot traffic. With home roughly a mile away, Peter paused as May’s footsteps grew softer. He turned around, spotting May standing still, a way's back.

“May?”

Brought back to reality, May shook her head. She caught up to Peter, biting at her lip. “I don’t think I tell you enough how proud I am of you.”

Peter cocked an eyebrow. “Huh?”

“Do you even realize what you’ve accomplished?” May wiped a set of tears from her face, forcing a laugh. “I can’t even fathom it, Peter, you are… The best and brightest of your peers! You beat out sixty thousand other people! All night I’ve been trying to think of what to say. To tell you how incredible that is!” She reached into her massive purse, pulling out a tissue and wiping away the new stains to her mascara. “…but I can’t! I just can’t, Peter, you’re too amazing, and I know if they were still here, Richard and Mary would be… Over the moon. They were the cultured ones in the family, they’d… They’d know what to say, you know? I’m an ER nurse from Queens, for God’s sake! I don’t do feelings well!”

The stars twinkled as dusk finally gave way to night. Peter turned his head to the heavens, allowing himself a brief smile. He nodded, reaching out and pulling May into a tight hug. “Bullshit… You’re the best at everything, you know?”

May reciprocated the hug, patting Peter on the back. “All the jokes and hip parenting aside, I always worried about you, Peter.”

Continuing home, Peter stuffed his hands into his pockets. “You did?”

Nodding, May checked herself in a compact mirror, blotting away the tears. “After you lost your parents and after we lost Ben, I- I always worried you would go down the wrong path. A lot of people I know from the neighborhood lost their way for less.” She shut her mirror, pocketing it back into her purse. “I work such odd hours that I always had to trust you were doing the right thing. When you were 10, I didn’t worry so much, but when you were a teenager… Well, you see the same stories on the news that I do.”

Peter and May stopped at the final crosswalk leading up to their apartment. They waited as traffic sped up in front of them. “You had it hard enough, I-“ He dropped his head. “I wanted… I wanted Mom, Dad, and Ben to be proud of me. I wanted to live the life none of them had the chance to finish. But, above all else, I never wanted to be a burden to you. I mean- I sort of… Fell in your lap, you know?”

May clasped a hand on Peter’s shoulder, gripping it. “Don’t ever think that, Peter.” She smiled. “You are my whole world, and Ben and I couldn’t have asked for a better son.”

Heart thumping, Peter chuckled, taking his turn to steal a tissue from May’s purse. “-and… I couldn’t have asked for a better mo-”

The screeching of tires echoed through the busy street, cutting Peter off mid-sentence. Screams littered the city.

Peter watched an armored van flip through the sky. It crashed in the middle of the intersection before his eyes. Sparks flew as it came to a sliding stop, crashing into half a dozen vehicles.

Peter’s eyes fell to the van, with its back hatch a smoldering hole of black and white flames. Silver air tanks fell from the hole, scattering over the pavement.

 “Oscorp Medical - Making a Brighter Tomorrow Today”

The public panicked from the flicker of flames now engulfing the wrecked vehicles. Peter felt May’s arm’s yank him away from the crowd. They missed the stampeding herd, hiding beneath a storefront.

“Oh my God!” May dropped her purse, pulling out her antique flip phone and dialing a number. “I have to call the police and get the first responders out here immediately, there’s no way those people are okay. Peter, whatever you do, stay back!” She brought up the phone to her ear, gasping. “Hello, Jimmy? This is May Parker from Queens Memorial! Get every ambulance you can find down by Ben’s old place, there’s been a-“

May froze, watching as an entourage of men in suits and ties arrived on the scene. Each wore an oriental mask of black and white, with the disfiguring guise of a demon. They surrounded the street, cutting off the fleeing citizens. The demonic men waved Swords, guns, and polearms in the air, screaming in a foreign language. Their weapons glowed a blinding white but flickered with black shadows at the edge.

“Forget the EMTs, Jimmy, get every fucking gun and SWAT team in the state you’ve got! This could be a massacre!!” May spat, grabbing Peter and shoving them both behind a pile of dumpsters in a nearby alleyway.

“May…?” Peter whispered, body frozen in place.

May shushed him, reaching into her bag and retrieving a stun-gun. She positioned herself in front of Peter, flipping the tool on. They watched the Demons rally around the Osborn Van.

A single man stepped forward, the only one without a mask. The man's skin swirled in darkness, while his clothes shone a bright white. With a wave of his hands, shadows appeared, extinguishing the flames around the wreck. He gazed among the citizens, with a wry smile crossing his face. “Making a brighter tomorrow, today... How noble…”

Peter watched the glowing man grab one of the air tanks, setting it upright, where it stood as tall as he was. The same man brandished a glowing sword from his hip. He laughed as dark shadows enveloped the blade.

“As you move onto the next life, never forget those words….”

In a single strike, he sliced the top of the air tank as if it were butter. A cloud of crimson red smoke soared into the sky, spreading over the busy street like snow.

In one moment, Peter felt the contents of May’s purse spill out over his lap. In the next, May covered his face and neck with the now-empty purse. She tackled Peter to the corner of the building, slamming his face as close to the ground as she could.

“May? MAY!” Peter yelled, struggling to reach out for her.

A strange wetness coated his arms, burning to the touch. Peter screamed, overcome by a pungent floral scent. Darkness overtook Peter as his eyes forced shut.

When Peter next opened his eyes, his head ached, throbbing as a wave of danger overcame him. An overwhelming fear, which resulted in his bladder relieving itself.

“Ma… Ma… May-” Blood dribbled from Peter’s mouth as he spoke, coughing up and coating the inside of May’s purse.

Every bone and muscle in his body screamed in agony, struggling to even lift his hands. As Peter removed the purse, and when the world came into focus, all he saw were bodies, collapsed all around the streets.

Men. Women. Children. Tourists. Animals. Birds. Each and every life around them snuffed out in an instant. There was no movement. There was no noise. For the first time in decades, New York slept.

A cough brought Peter out of his trance. He glanced down, watching as May lifted her own head, her t-shirt wrapped around and knotted by her mouth and nose. She wobbled as Peter did, blood-red tears streaming down her face.

“R-” May coughed, splattering her t-shirt with a red goop. Her arms gave way, collapsing onto the ground. “-un.”

“May?” Peter crawled to May’s level, hissing as his efforts to shake May met with bone-splitting agony.

     “Martin… What should we do with the rest of the stuff?”  

Peter’s wave of fear returned. He craned his neck around, watching as the demonic gangsters collecting the air tanks. Many of them bowed in reverence to the glowing one, “Martin.”

“Take the rest of the tanks to Oscorp Labs. Release the Devil’s Breath and leave no survivors. Kill anyone involved with the project. Is that understood?” Martin answered, slicing the armored van's back doors with his blades.

“Yes, Master Li!” The Demons answered, walking out of Peter’s field of view.

Peter watched Li step inside the armored van and moments later, reappear. He now held a silver briefcase in his hands. A wry smile crossed the man’s face. “When the Avengers and the authorities arrive, make sure to give them a taste of our hospitality. However, if the tin can shows up, ensure that you’ve punctured his suit before deploying the Breath. It can only live in the air for six minutes before it dies.” Li opened the case, retrieving a slender vial of blue liquid. “-and with this… Not even God himself can save Norman. Finally… I’ll have my revenge.”

Li pocketed the vial, striding away from the scene of the crash. Right in the direction of Peter and May.

Whimpering, Peter worked through the pain, grabbing at May’s wrist and trying to pull her as far into the shadows of the alley as he could. After a single pull, Peter vomited blood, coating the alleyway in a putrid mixture of red and black.

“Clever woman.”

Peter froze in place as Li approached them, bending down to Peter’s level. As he lifted his head, Peter met the abyss of darkness in Martin Li’s eyes. A neverending, swirling vortex of negativity and hate.

Martin reached out, inspected the blood-soaked purse and chuckled at the red stains on May’s shirt. “She stopped the worst of the Breath from reaching your lungs… Quick thinking, to be sure. Allow me to remedy that.”

Li stood, brandishing his sword. As he took a step towards May, Peter’s arm swung out on instinct alone, grasping Li by the ankle. To Peter’s surprise, the pain from that short movement was… Bearable.

“Oh?” Marin hummed, glancing down at Peter.

“Don’t… Touch… Her…” Peter spat, covering Li’s glowing white shoes in a bloody splatter.

Li chuckled. “You misunderstand me, boy.” Effortlessly, Li kicked Peter’s hand away, sending the young man flying into a wall.

Peter grunted as he struck the bricks, but felt little more than a numb thud to his back. He rolled over, struggling to his hands and knees, eyes zeroed in on Li.

“You two will suffer most of all. At that low of a dosage, your bodies won’t die from the sensory overload. Instead, your body must acclimate to the disease before it perishes.” Li pressed his blade against May’s throat. “Your bodies will rot from the inside out as you despair and cling to your pitiable lives. I have seen it a million times over. There is no saving you or this woman… There is no hope to be had. All that’s left… Is Death.”

Peter lifted an arm, crawling forward.

Li shook his head, sighing at Peter’s display. “Death would be a kind release for you and this woman. This meaningless struggle will do you no good. So I ask you, boy, what will it be? The sweet release of death and the joy of joining your loved ones in the afterlife? Or the agony of life that awaits you, as you spend each day wishing I’d ended it all for you?”

Sirens rang in the distance.

Wordlessly, Peter hobbled on his arms to May’s side, covering her body with his. He reached out, grabbing the flat end of Li’s blade and slapping it away. He shook, as a powerful wave struck him. “Leave her alone!” Peter screamed, as his voice finally returned to him. Clear tears rolled down his face. “Don’t touch her, you- You monster!”

Li sheathed his blade, smirking. He turned his back on Peter, with little more than a scoff. “Brave words, young man.”

Red and blue lights shone in the distance, as sirens blared, breaking the silent hold over Queens.

“-you’ll wish for death in the end. They all do.”

Peter’s vision blurred as Martin Li vanished into thin air, leaving nothing but a wisp of white smoke in his place. Before the darkness retook him, Peter saw officers in the distance and screamed for help. Over and over again, as he clutched onto May’s body, which struggled to catch even the tiniest breath.

+++++

Queens Memorial Hospital.

In little under 72 hours, tens of thousands came and went through their doors, maxing out capacity several times over. 80% left in body bags. 19% induced into medical comas to preserve what little chance they had.

Peter, to his dismay, was 1%. The lone survivor of the Devil’s Massacre.

“Your aunt saved your life when she covered your face, Peter. Aside from odd test results, all your organs are in perfect condition. The dosage was so small, your body is fighting back and winning against this disease. You can go on and live a long, healthy life, Mr. Parker. It truly is a miracle.”

Peter opened his eyes. Like all the days before, the same hospital room. The same rhythmic beeping of May’s life support system. The same blackened veins that now protruded across May’s body. The same prognosis.

“Some miracle,” Peter whispered, balling his hand into a tight fist. He rose from the chair at May’s side, choking back tears as he saw a new set of black veins now crossing the left side of her face. Like snow, May’s lips were devoid of all color. “Some fucking miracle!”

Peter’s fist found the nearest wall, leaving a noticeable hole in the foundation of the hospital wall. As Peter pulled his fist back, he examined his knuckles. To his surprise, he came away without a single scratch.

He collapsed to his knees, grasping May’s hand. A sob wracked his body. “Don’t go, May… Please, I don’t want you to go! Please, don’t go, I need you!” Tears littered the floor beneath him. “I can’t lose you, too… You’re all I have left!”

While Peter cried, the door to the room slid open. Footsteps echoed behind Peter, and he wiped away his tears before standing. “What the fuck do you want? I said no visitors. Period.” Peter spat.

 “Mr. Parker… There is a guest to see you and your aunt. Would you mind-”

“Go away,” Peter ordered, recognizing the Hospital Director’s voice.

“Mr. Parker-” The Director asked again, falling short of little more than a pained sigh.

Peter shook his head, grabbing the raining of May’s bed and snapping it in half. “I’ll tell this “guest” like I told everyone else. I don’t want scans, I don’t want an interview, I’m not talking to the police, or SHEILD, or the Governor, I don’t want treatments, I’m not giving you a goddamn sample of ANYTHING, and I sure as hell don’t need CPS, I’m a goddamn adult!”

Peter’s voice echoed throughout the hospital, rattling the windows. Out of breath, Peter shuddered. “Let me be with my Aunt in peace. You can ask me anything you want after she’s gone. You won’t have to wait long.”

“I’m not here for that.” A woman spoke.

Peter’s chest tightened, recognizing the soft tone immediately. He paused, turning around to meet the pale features of Pepper Stark, CEO of Stark Industries. Sharply dressed, with her ginger hair kept in a bun. Accompanying her were several women in lab coats.

Pepper stepped forward, “I am here… To ask for your help.”

Rolling his eyes, Peter turned away. He walked to the window at the edge of May’s room, staring out into the city.

Pepper stepped inside the room, joining Peter’s side by the window.

“You’re a man of science, Mr. Parker. A brilliant man of science. Your dissertation, truly, was one of the best we’ve had in over a decade.” Pepper dropped her head. “You’re not getting sicker, Mr. Parker, you’re getting… Stronger. You were at ground zero of the attack. Even with your Aunt’s intervention, you were still exposed to a heavy dose of Oscorp’s undiluted Devil’s Breath.” Reaching out, Pepper grasped Peter’s shoulder. “So I know you’ll understand what that means. Your body is fighting the Devil’s Breath when everyone else infected has died or is waiting to die.”

Peter shoved Pepper’s hand off his shoulder, brushing past her as he rejoined May’s side. He sat, ignoring Pepper’s gaze. “…I have immunity. Or I’m building one.”

“Yes.” Pepper followed Peter, bending down beside him. On her knees, Pepper took both of Peter’s hands in her own. “Peter, you are the key to saving the lives of the people of New York. Possibly the world. If we had a sample of your blood, it could go a very long way to advance our efforts at Stark Industries. I know you’ve ignored our calls up until now, but it’s-”

“…May’s only got a few days.” Peter stole his hands back, gazing at May’s body. “Her organs are shutting down. She’s rotting from the inside, just like that bastard said. Nobody can save her in time.”

Pepper paused, collecting herself. “There are others who are suffering as well, Peter. People miles away from the attack, who have more time.”

“Why should I care about anyone else?” Peter asked.

A visible chill ran down Pepper’s body. The Hospital Director cringed, as did Pepper’s entourage.

Peter shrugged, laughing in Pepper’s face. “Maybe Li was right. Maybe death really was the answer. Sure as hell sounds more appealing than burying the last person I loved.” He stood from his chair, waltzing past Pepper.

Shooting up, Pepper grabbed Peter by the shoulder, struggling to find her breath. “I understand the pain you’re going through right now, Peter, and I know the world doesn’t seem fair, but-“

Peter slapped Pepper’s hand away, shoving her backward. His voice cracked as he laughed. “No.. No, you don’t know how I feel!” He yelled, pressing his face inches away from Pepper’s “Once, I can handle. Twice, I’ll suffer through, but three times, and I-“

 “Peter, sweetie… Your mom and dad… Were in an accident.”

 “Ben… Ben won’t make it home tonight, Peter… He… He did what any good cop would do. ”

 “I’m sorry, young man. There’s nothing more we can do for her. I’ll try my best to make her comfortable, but… She only has a few days.”

Peter roared, backing away from Pepper, slamming his fists against the wall. “I can’t do it anymore…” He slid down the wall, tucking his knees under his chin. “I won’t do it anymore,” Peter muttered.

“Yes, you can.”

All eyes in the room turned to the doorway. A scruffy, muscular man forced his way in. He pushed past Pepper’s team of doctors and aiming straight for Peter. Peter’s eyes landed on a glowing blue machine in the middle of the man’s chest.

“Because you have to, Mr. Parker. I’m not giving you a choice.”

Tony Stark reached down, grabbing Peter by the scruff of his shirt and forced him to his feet.

[shipbuildings]

WE ALL HAVE STORIES TO TELL.

But this much I'm certain of: it doesn't happen immediately. You'll finish reading and that will be that, until a moment will come, maybe in a month, maybe a year, maybe even several years. And out of the blue, beyond any cause you can trace, you'll suddenly realize things are not how you perceived them to be at all. For some reason, you will no longer be the person you believed you once were. But you won't understand why or how. You'll have forgotten what granted you this awareness in the first place.

Then no matter where you are, in a crowded restaurant or on some desolate street or even in the comforts of your own home, you'll watch yourself dismantle every assurance you ever lived by. And then for better or worse you'll turn, unable to resist, though try to resist you still will, fighting with everything you've got not to face the thing you most dread, what is now, what will be, what has always come before, the creature you truly are, the creature we all are, buried in the nameless black of a name. And then the nightmares will begin.

This is not for you.

Six years ago, a class of fifty walked into a forest in BC. A group of university freshmen much like any other; there were the prerequisite jocks, cheerleaders, loners, partiers, technology junkies, etc. etc. Every cliché one could possibly imagine was represented in this group. Ecology 123, after all, was a gen. ed. So its student population was rather varied.

As they often are.

But the point is as follows: out of the fifty that entered that forest during that fateful summer, only three walked out alive. As for what happened in-between – well. That is a bit of a subject of debate.

Again. As they often are.

The official story of what happened is this; some of these students found a rather large patch of Psilocybe semilanceata. Use of these so-called ‘ magic mushrooms ’ quickly spread throughout the group. And under the influence, a student ran off a cliff. Which proceeded to happen forty-six more times. Question further and you’ll get vague references to the Mumbai ‘ sweet ‘ seawater incident, the Tanganyika laughter epidemic, and the Dancing plague of 1518. A horrible tragedy, said the University. Or so I would like to think. There were settlements. Non-disclosure agreements. Each family was well compensated.

Including my own, in case you were wondering.

But what really happened is slightly more … disturbing. And possibly the reason why that official account is so laughable, but never challenged. Sometimes the truth is simply much too terrible -- terrible to the point that a lie may seem like a kindness in comparison. In that way, those who lost their lives are immortalized; now martyrs, now victims, pretty little packages wrapped up in a name, their sins buried along with them and long forgotten by the living left behind. 

As I’ve said before. 

The story with the animals is always the better story.

But those words aren’t mine. They don’t belong to me. That observation was made by another -- a long, long time ago, much before I had realized that there was never a tiger hunting us down, picking us off, and there never had been.

His name, in case you were wondering, is Richard Battle. He lives in Toronto with his boyfriend, Elliott Broodmoor, and bartends at some needlessly trendy restaurant chain mid-town. They are some of the only survivors. And we haven’t spoken since I left them for dead and joined an Organization populated almost exclusively by psychopaths to save my own skin.

It’s a long story.

But I digress. If I wanted to speak with Richard to find out what he knew and when he knew it, I realized I’d have to confront him face-to-face. He wouldn’t take my calls, after all. Or answer my increasingly desperate emails.

So that’s how I found myself at 1090 Don Mills Road, drinking some ‘ Artisan ’ craft beer that was probably cut with Budweiser behind the counter.

* * * 

It’s a quiet night, the bar mostly populated by people pecking away at smartphones and laptops, noses buried in the blue-grey light of whatever so happened to be currently catching their interest. As for me, I kept my book bag slung over my shoulder and my notebooks packed, making sure I had a clear sight-line to the nearest exit... and a clear footpath. I may have been desperate for answers, but that doesn’t mean I was stupid. Or no more stupid than usual, anyways.

“Mmm, drinking alone, huh? Did your date stand you up?”

When I turn to face him, the glass he’s cleaning slips out of his hands and shatters on the faux-marble tiles.

Nobody so much as flinches. But the look on his face... well. It probably shouldn’t be graced with a description for both our sakes.

“Yeah, yeah, I’m okay. Just got caught off guard, is all. Can you sweep that up? I’m going out for a smoke.”

He shimmies out from behind the bar and I silently stand, downing the rest of my pint and the shot belonging to the distracted businesswoman sitting beside me, slapping a fifty on the countertop before I finally follow.

Not my finest moment, I know. But in my defence, I was reasonably sure he was going to punch me.

Since it’s summer, the sun hasn’t set quite yet despite the fact that it must be just past nine pm. Children play in the park across the street, their parents eating overpriced gelato from stale waffle cones as they watch their charges splash through fountains and dart about on fresh-cut grass. Richard stiffens as I stand beside him, a cigarette perched between his deft, nimble fingers, work apron slung over his shoulder.

“You smoke yet, Philososhit?”

I nod, no, as he watches me from the corner of his eye.

“Damn shame. Maybe it would help keep your mouth occupied, instead of it spewing all the garbage it normally does.”

His expression is humourless as if he is a man walking to his own execution.

“Hello to you too.” I reply quietly, keeping my voice low. “Glad to see not much has changed since we last spoke.”

“We still wouldn’t be speaking if it was up to me.”

“As I’m well aware, but I couldn’t just let this go. And I think you understand why, despite how much you despise me.”

There’s a lull for a time -- me, wishing I was unaware of the gravity of what is taking place right now, and him, mouth drawn in a thin, grim line.

“You shouldn’t’ve come here.” He finally says. “No good comes from chasing ghosts, bookman. You should know that by now.”

“And yet you’re here, alive and well. Unless I’m mistaken, and we’re somehow conversing from beyond the grave.”

That manages to illicit a slight upwards turn of his lips.

“A joke? That’s pretty unlike you.”

“And the domestic life isn’t unlike you? The Richard Battle I knew was obsessed with heroics, and I can scarcely recall a time when you didn’t have your switchblade in your hand.”

He snorts dismissively.

“One: don’t you know it’s the tragic hero that always dies in the end? And two: the whole knife-nut thing kind of came with the territory of being trapped in a living nightmare with a bunch of psychos formerly known as my friends.”

“So are you saying that the Richard I knew is effectively gone?”

“All that shit went down years ago. Even if it hadn’t happened, he’d be gone anyways, just like how your dramatic evil alter-ego --”

“Oh god, don’t remind me.”

I groan, burying my head in my hands, and he laughs, smiles.

It looks good on him.

“Okay, okay, I think I’ve put you through the wringer enough. So, what brings you to my neck of the... town?”

Nice save. He taps ash from the rapidly advancing line of glowing embers, watching them, his shoes, the passing cars being parked by the valet... anything but me. But now that I finally have his attention, I’m not quite sure what to say. Countless questions rise and die in my throat within the period of a second, then two, tasting of bile and hops.

“I wanted...” I start, then stop, quite possibly speechless for the first time in forever. He doesn’t interrupt, though, and eventually I finally manage to speak of the unspeakable.

“Richard... how did you know? How did you know that what we were seeing, what we thought was happening, it wasn’t --”

“Real?”

He laughs again, but this time the sound is bitter. He grinds his cigarette into the pavement with the heel of his sneaker with more than a hint of prejudice.

“You’re littering.”

“I know.”

It is his silence, not his answer that speaks volumes. The way his gaze looks through me, but doesn't really see me, the way he suddenly seems to be very, very far away tells me everything without him having to say a single word.

Sometimes the truth is simply much too terrible 

“...if you really gotta know? We were all starving, dehydrated, half out of our minds with grief and god knows what else.”

Terrible to the point

“I didn’t know what I was saying. Just like you didn’t know what you were doing.”

That a lie

“Sorry you came all this way to not find what you were looking for.”

May seem like a kindness in comparison

“... I suppose some mysteries are best left unsolved.”

As per usual, Mr. Battle can be read as easily as Dr. Seuss; he can’t hide the relief that washes over him, relaxing the tension in shoulders. But now I know, just like he knows. And he was right.

I really wish I didn’t.

This is his revenge, I suppose. Any sort of violent retribution he could direct towards me would have accomplished nothing. No one would mourn me. In fact, it’s doubtful anyone would even notice I was gone. Perhaps after a few weeks of no word my colleagues would finally send someone to look for me -- the police only called when the door of my apartment seemed to be holding back the scent of petrichor and rot and pennies. And my death, I imagine, would be ruled a suicide, a result of long-repressed trauma that I spoke of sparingly. Such a shame, would say my professors, my peers, and under their breath they would mutter good riddance. But that sort of ending would be too good for me. No, what Richard will instead kill me with is the little-death, the death that brings total destruction. It is the death that comes not from knowing too much, but rather that comes from knowing just enough to make you wonder.

It is the echoed question: what more could I have done?

It is the echoed question: why didn’t I save them?

It is nothing I don’t deserve, and it is nothing I would ever blame him for. This is how a life is taken; slowly, gently, deliberately, with feeling. And this is how justice is served when your crimes go unpunished: an eye for an eye for an eye.

Richard looks at me oddly, and it takes me a moment to realize that I’m smiling.

“You okay, Walt?”

It’s the first time he’s called me that since I left him for dead, and I didn’t realize until now how much I missed it.

“... no, I’m not. But I think you will be, one day. If you aren’t halfway there already.”

“Huh. I guess some things don’t change, ‘cause you’re right on the money. I mean, as always.”

He reaches into his pants pocket and holds up something at my eye level, a small black box nestled in his palm. I stare, and after an awkwardly long moment he finally opens it.

It’s a ring. Simple, honest. For all I know it could be platinum, white gold, silver, steel. But I have a feeling that’s not what matters.

“I figured Elliott would call me a sap if I got anything more, uh, complicated. Plus, all my tips can only really get me so far...”

“He’ll love it,” I reply without hesitation. “In his own typical Broodmoor way. Expect teasing of only the half-good natured sort.”

“Wouldn’t count on anything else.” He snaps the box shut, the clack emitting an air of uneasy finality. “Maybe we’ll even make it official one day; file with a justice of the peace or somethin’. I’d invite you to witness, but. You know.”

He shrugs noncommittally as I shuffle from one foot to the other, shifting my weight in an attempt to make my focus follow.

“No, I...” I sigh, frustrated by my two word strong vocabulary. “I understand. I never expected to be forgiven --”

“Ding-dong, you are wrong. Guess there’s a first time for everything.” Richard looks at me from his sidelined gaze, eyes moving over me from head to toe. “It’s not that we can’t forgive you, or that we haven’t. We were kids, you included, and we all made choices we’re not proud of. But we can’t keep looking back like you do, like you have to...”

His voice goes low, an accusation almost as much as a confession.

“The way you are now, after everything... you probably would’ve been better off dead.”

A small semi-circle of dark grey appears on the pavement. Then another. Then another. 

“... Yes, I believe so.” I answer, staring bleakly at the sky. Droplets gather on the lenses of my glasses, leaving wet trails where they existed once, and have existed, but do not exist anymore.

We stand there, alone together, lost in reverie, or perhaps just watching the world pass us by as if nothing has happened.

“I should get back to the bar.” Richard finally speaks, voice level and quiet. I try to memorize every dip, every peak and valley with what amounts to reverent worship, but I’ll likely soon forget them just as I did once before.

Life is very long.

“Ah, I see. Well, it was a pleasure, Richard, even if you can’t say the feeling was mutual.”

He stops, pausing. For a moment I think he’s going to hug me, and I almost recoil in revulsion.

But instead he slugs me right in the face, a perfect right hook that I would’ve never saw coming even if I had been prepared for it. Which I wasn’t. 

Obviously.

“Yeah, it was.” He says with a grin, knuckles raw and cracked and bleeding. “Take care of yourself, Walter. You owe it to them to do that at least.”

And that’s how he left me; sprawled on the pavement, glasses askew, nose bloody, a nasty shade of purple and sickly yellow-green blooming on my skin.

* * *

I suppose now you’re wondering -- why did I write this?

Telling you this story accomplishes nothing. I accomplished nothing. The only thing I learned was something I already knew. But perhaps that is what I needed all along. Perhaps I needed to share it with you, too. And while I know it is exceedingly unlikely that anyone will read this -- and even more exceedingly unlikely that you will understand it -- ultimately, we do not write for the sake of others. We do not write because we expect it to be read. The very act of putting words on a page is akin to shouting in a canyon; the only thing you hear back is your own echo. But that does not mean you can fight the compulsion forever.

Writing about writing only ever happens in the epilogue.

I know, however, that there are no happy endings. There will be no marvellous, touching reunion where the past six years are revealed to have been an elaborate hoax, no cathartic cry-session where my soul is magically cleansed. As time passes, I have grown no stronger, no wiser, no better than I was when part of me was cleaved from myself. I will have to bear the scars forever. And I will have to carry the weight of what i’ve done with me until I die.

So I ask myself: Did I do any good? That question, it seems, comes up a fair deal. It follows me endlessly, the Shadow casted over my every action.

But maybe I’m mistaken. Maybe what I’m really asking myself is: Did I do enough? 

And my answer, of course

is a quiet 

resounding 

no.