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osunari · 5 days ago

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⚠︎ s i l e n t t e m p t a t i o n s ( 18+ )

— ch. 1

➤ s t a r t

Mr. crawling x MC

— h o m i c i p h e r 𒌧

“Flesh and shadows”

The first thing I felt was warmth—alien, foreign warmth that didn’t belong to me. My body, fragile and cold, seemed to ache in rebellion against the gentle heat seeping through the thin sheets draped over me. My eyes fluttered open, adjusting to the eerie gloom of the room.

Where was I?

The ceiling was unfamiliar—a pale, soothing shade of cream, with faint cracks running across it, like veins on old parchment. The last thing I remembered was the tall figure with the bright red umbrella and coat. How strange, I thought, we were indoors…

Then it hit me. I had fallen. Collapsed, more like, my legs buckling under me as dizziness overtook my senses. The white rain coat I’d been wearing, a comforting trademark of mine, was gone. Instead, I was dressed in a delicate white nightgown that barely reached past my upper thighs. Its’ fabric was soft, airy, but as I shifted, I noticed how it clung to my sickly form, revealing the bruises and cuts that painted my skin like a tragic mural.

I sat up gingerly, clutching the sheet closer to me, trying to shake off the disorientation. My throat felt parched, my head a little foggy, but I was alive—though unsure of how or why.

The room was small but cozy, with wooden floors and not a single window that let me see through the outside of the cryptic ghost apartment. The furniture was minimal: a chair, a side table with a glass of water alongside a bowl of human gut, and a faintly flickering lamp.

Where’s mr. crawling?

I reached for the glass of water, the cool surface soothing against my fingers. Taking a cautious sip, I scanned the room again. No red umbrella. No tall figure. Just me.

Just… me? The unusual feeling of having lost something—or someone struck me. Where is he? The man on all fours. He who had stuck by your side the day you gained access in this otherworldly place.

Then the sound of soft footsteps startled me. My grip on the glass tightened as the door creaked open.

There he was.

Not he whom crawled alongside me, but the tall red figure from earlier. His silhouette momentarily obscured by the light streaming in from the hall. The red umbrella was peaked from the doorframe, his presence unmistakable. He wore the same long red cloak that could be spotted from afar, his face partially hidden by the shadows and the red strands of his hair.

“ᖶᖻᘉ(you), ᕼᘿᓰᖇ(awake) ?” their voice was deep, smooth, carrying an air of calm authority.

“You…” I managed to croak in their language, my voice barely above a whisper as a raspy cough escaped from my mouth—unable to form a coherent sentence.

Without moving a muscle, he glitched closer to your laying figure, revealing more of his sinister features. His eyes were round and circle, unnervingly focused, as if they could peer into my sinful soul. Their lips quirked into a faint smile—not quite warm, but not entirely cold, either.

“匚尺(me) 丂��千ᐯ(help) ᖶᖻᘉ(you) .” they said simply, as if that answered everything.

“Help?” I repeated, my brows furrowing as I tilted my head up to face him. “Where? Why am I here? What happened to my coat? And why…” My words trailed off as I gestured vaguely to the nightgown and my battered body.

It all suddenly came to your realization. It’s possible that he had actually come to your rescue when you most needed it, or he’s one lying manipulator and that mr. crawling’s around here somewhere waiting for you to awake from your unfortunate slumber.

Seeing your threatened expression and tense body language, he realized his demeanor had become more uncomforting rather than the opposite after being around you for a moment—which was not part of his intent at all.

“卄ᐯ(afraid) ?” he said softly, his menacing voice adjusting lowly and measured. “ᗪ几(you) 乇乙尺(safe) 千卄Ҝ(here)—“

His words faltered. His head tilted, his sharp features hardening into something colder. His gaze left yours. His eyes had shifted, narrowing, as if sensing a presence that you couldn’t see.

The air grew heavy, the measly warmth of the room rapidly replaced by a biting chill that seeped into your bones. Your skin prickled with an almost instinctive dread. The shadows in the corners of the room seemed to stretch and writhe unnaturally, bending towards like living things.

“丂ᗪ尺千(someone) 丨乂几(around) .” he murmured, his voice so low it was almost a growl. His body shifted slightly, as if to shield you, his long red cloak flowing like liquid crimson.

You barely had time to process his words before you felt it—a presence behind you.

Something moved.

The hair on the back of your neck stood on end, your breath hitched as an unnatural, wet scraping sound echoed faintly in the room. Slowly, against every ounce of survival instinct screaming at you not to, you turned your head.

And there he was.

His grotesque lanky tall figure loomed in the dim light of the room, impossibly still while tilting his head as a desperate attempt to fit in the claustrophobic room, almost blending with the shadows. His hair cascaded down like an inky waterfall against yours, shrouding most of his face, yet sadly enough to conceal his nonexistent eyes. His pale skin glowed faintly against the darkness, almost too perfect, too smooth, like polished marble. Yet something was wrong—eerily wrong. His smile. It stretched too wide, sharp and cruel, curving downward in a way that sent shivers racing through your spine.

He wasn’t just tall—he seemed elongated, almost stretched, his limbs just slightly too long to be normal. The fabric of his dark attire clung to him like a second skin, emphasizing his unnatural yet pleasing physique.

His anger simmered beneath the surface, a dark, unspoken storm barely contained within the hollow depths of his unspoken mind. The moment he saw you with mr. scarletella—saw how the other man’s glitching crimson presence lingered near you—something inside him twisted. His chest rose and fell with steady, deliberate breaths, but his hands betrayed him—long, ghostly fingers curling into trembling fists, nails biting into his palms like they were trying to keep his fury from spilling out. And yet, his anger wasn’t loud or obvious; it was cold, creeping, and quiet, the kind that made the air feel like it might snap at any second.

The room felt like it had fallen into another dimension, the air heavy with tension so thick it seemed to press against your skin. They stood on opposite sides of the room—mr. scarletella, poised and calm as ever, his eyes glinting like embers in the dim light, and mr. crawling, a shadow that seemed to stretch unnaturally, his figure a dark vortex that swallowed all warmth.

Neither of them spoke a word, but the silence between them was deafening. Their gazes locked, an unspoken battle unfolding in the cold void between them. Scarletella’s crimson glow flickered like a waning candle, his calm demeanor cracking ever so slightly under the weight of crawling’s oppressive presence—his head tilted unnaturally to the side, the piercing frown on his face indicating every pinch of vexation.

Scarletella’s lips pressed into a thin line, his gaze steady but losing its luster. A faint crimson light sparked at his fingertips, flickering like a final attempt to push back the darkness. “丂乂(you) 乇Ҝ丂ㄩ(upset) ? 丂几尺(jealous), 丨尺ㄥ(maybe) ?”

Crawling’s head snapped forward, his body jerking like a marionette suddenly pulled taut by its strings. His looming figure took a step closer, the sound of his movement a grotesque, wet scraping that sent a shiver racing down your spine. The shadows in the room twisted and churned around him, as though they were alive and feeding off his fury.

“尺ㄚㄥ(leave) , 千匚几乃(now) .” mr. crawling’s silent voice rang with venom, his figure now inches from mr. scarletella. Despite his thin, sickly frame, his presence seemed to tower, to consume, to devour. The crimson glow around scarletella faltered, dimming as crawling leaned closer. “ﾌ几(you) ㄩㄖ卩(stay) , 匚ㄚ(me) Ҝㄖㄥ(hurt) . ﾌ几(you) 丂丨几(leave) , 匚ㄚ(me) ㄚ几(not) Ҝㄖㄥ(hurt) .” The corner of his grotesque mouth twitched upward, his grin widening until it threatened to split his face in two. His head tilted even further, the movement unnatural, predatory. A faint, guttural growl escaped him, reverberating in the walls, the air, my very bones.

Is this real life?

It was the first time you had ever seen him like this, standing at his full, unnatural height, his shadowed figure stretching tall enough to make the walls seem smaller, the room closing in around the trio. He had always been careful before—almost gentle, as if tiptoeing around your fear. He used to crawl, his movements deliberate and slow, his eerie smile softened by an odd attempt at kindness. But now, there was nothing restrained about him. He loomed over you, his glowing void-like eyes bearing down, his jagged smile curling wider with a hint of something sinister, something raw and unfiltered. Your heart pounded as you realized he was no longer hiding himself—no longer trying to make you feel safe. This was him, unmasked, no longer pretending to be the harmless, shadowed companion you’d grown used to. It wasn’t just surprising—it was terrifying in a way that left you breathless.

Mr. scarletella’s expression remained unreadable, but I caught the faintest flicker of tension in his clenched jaw, the slightest shift in his footing as though even he could feel the crushing inevitability of Crawling’s dominance. “ . . . ㄚㄩ(you’re) 乃乙ㄩ(becoming) 山ㄖ爪卩(softer) .”

That word… Is it perhaps to belittle mr. crawling?

Mr. scarletella’s crimson glow flickered violently, his form trembling like static on a broken screen. For a moment, his sharp features twisted with frustration, his eyes narrowing as though the very air around him was unraveling. Then, without warning, his entire figure glitched, fragments of him shattering like shards of crimson light breaking into the void. The glow dimmed in an instant, his presence vanishing into the oppressive silence that followed.

Mr. crawling didn’t move to stop him. He didn’t need to. The silent threat in his gaze, the sheer weight of his presence, had already done the work.

Even without the presence of the cryptic crimson, the room grew colder still. Crawling remained where he was, his nonexistent void-like eyes turning to you now. His jagged smile stretched impossibly wide, as though he relished the victory—not over scarletella, but over the fact that you had seen it.

And now, you were alone with him.

“ㄚﾌ几 (okay) ?” He repeated the same question again for the nth time. He crawled faster behind your feet, hearing your exasperated sigh followed by the sound of a palm to your face.

You stopped on your feet for a second. With the overwhelming headache and unstability of your body, you turned on your heel to pacify the crawler. The tired and annoyed expression on your face looked down on the guy’s curious and eager ones—his hair spilled down onto the hardwood floor of the hallways as he awaited for a positive answer.

“Me, okay. No more worry.” You responded in a motherly manner, crouching a bit to reach his height as you petted his head while he leaned closer to your touch—craving more and more of it with each passing moment. “Good?” You added, responding in their native language.

Losing focus for a bit, your hand rested on his head, gently ruffling his cold, sleek hair, his entire frame seemed to stiffen. His jagged grin faltered for the first time, twisting into something uneven and almost bashful, as though he didn’t quite know how to respond. Then, much to your surprise, a strange, silly sound escaped from him—a quiet, stuttering “Hehe… hehehe…”—as his head tilted slightly into your touch, his massive form somehow shrunk in that moment. It was absurdly out of character, and yet, seeing the eerie, imposing figure so flustered under a simple pat made my chest warm with something close to amusement.

You couldn’t help but smile, which ofcourse—grew unnoticed by the guy himself. “几ㄚ(me) 千ㄩ乙丂 (cute) ?” With a quick and stiff movement, he gently grips his long slender fingers around your much smaller wrist. “几ㄩ (you) 卄ㄖ丂几 (smiley) , 几ㄩ(you) 千ㄩ乙丂 (cute) !” he said simply, his jagged smile widening as he leaned just a fraction closer, as if savoring the reaction he knew was coming.

You froze for a moment, your fingers twitching at your sides before a faint pink dusted your cheeks. Without a word, you turned sharply on your heel, your back to him in an attempt to hide your flustered state. But your ears betrayed you—bright red against your hair, a detail mr. crawling didn’t miss. “几ㄩ(you) 千ㄩ乙丂 (cute) ! 几ㄩ(you) 千ㄩ乙丂 (cute) !” he drawled, his grin widening further, his voice teasing. “几ㄩ(you) 乙卄ㄥ(shy) ?”

“Damn you—you lizard, stop it.” you muttered, trying to sound annoyed but unable to mask the flustered tremor in your tone. He chuckled softly, a sound that was strangely warm despite his usual unsettling demeanor, as if your reaction amused him to no end.

Gathering yourself, you cleared your throat and gestured toward a door at the far end of the room—a door neither of you had explored before. “Moving on…” you said quickly, still refusing to look at him directly.

You shook off any unwanted feelings, remembering the main point of your journey. After the anxiety-ridden incident earlier, you weren’t slow enough not to notice the overbearing pain you had to overcome not long after your awakening. The strands of your hair had its’ colors almost entirely washed out, a cold tone of gray and white slowly fading in the roots of your hair until the rest had also been infected. Not only that, but you’ve come to notice the major change in your physique—more so, your skin. After staring at your hands under the faint light, the skin became thin and pale, almost see through and translucent, as if stretched too tightly over your frame. Faint blue and red lines of nerves web beneath the surface, sickly and unsettling, making you feel more fragile than human. Your breath hitches as you trace one with your finger, the sight leaving you both horrified and strangely curious.

The unsettling sight of your sickly, pale skin gnawed at your mind as you moved through the dim halls, your fingers brushing over the faintly visible nerves beneath. You’d hoped it was nothing, a fleeting illness, but the way it seemed to spread, inching further up your arms, told you otherwise. Beside you, mr. crawling followed silently, his elongated frame towering in the faint light. You weren’t sure why he was helping you—if it was pity, curiosity, or something else entirely—but he seemed intent on staying by your side.

“几ㄚ(me) ﾌ丂Ҝㄥ(help) .” he murmured suddenly, his voice low and almost soothing, though his jagged grin remained unsettling. The words were a reassurance, but the emptiness of the unfamiliar corridors only deepened your unease. Every door you opened felt like a step closer to either salvation or something far worse, and yet, with him beside you, you couldn’t bring yourself to stop. Somewhere in this labyrinth of shadows, you had to find a cure—before the lines beneath your skin consumed you entirely.

The crawler fell in step behind you, following alongside you like a puppy to its’ master while you both made your way to another new unfamiliar entrance. You reached for the doorknob, determined to shake off the embarrassment, while his gaze remained fixated on you after you checked to see behind your shoulder if he was still there—his grin never fading old.

Please let there be some useful stuff here.

The room was a stroke of luck—rows of shelves lined with medicine bottles, bandages, and dusty supplies that seemed untouched for ages. Relief flooded you as you approached a shelf, your fingers brushing over the labels, reading each one carefully. For a moment, you were lost in concentration, cataloging what might actually help your condition, when something creaked behind you. Turning quickly, you froze, only to see mr. crawling squeezed—hiding into an empty cardboard box on the floor, his long limbs contorted in ways that shouldn’t have been possible, his nonexistent eyes felt like they were peering at you mischievously.

“Boo” he said—rising his head up from the peak of the cardboard box, his high-pitched, silly giggle lighting up his face as if he were the world’s proudest prankster. “尺几ㄩ丂(funny) ?”

Your heart jumped, not from fear but from sheer surprise, though you couldn’t let him know that. Clutching your chest dramatically, you gasped, “You scared me.” His eerie chuckle filled the room, a delighted “Heh he. . .” escaping him as he hid himself once again in the box with uncanny grace. You rolled your eyes but couldn’t help the smile tugging at your lips. It was absurd, really—this monstrous entity behaving like a playful cat.

But you didn’t have time to dwell on it. You returned your focus to the medicines, crouching to check the lower shelves and even the medkits scattered on the floor. After gathering a few promising bottles, you noticed a secluded corner of the room, its dim lighting giving it an air of mystery. A small cabinet caught your eye, and you carefully opened it, squinting to read the faded labels. Each name sounded strange, unfamiliar, and your frustration grew as you hesitated over which to choose.

The shelves loomed over you, an overwhelming array of medicines, most with faded labels, cryptic names, and dosages in languages you didn’t understand. Each bottle felt like a gamble—some promising relief, others ominously vague. You grabbed one and turned it in your hand: Aculisyn-Therex. Its description claimed to promote “cellular repair,” but the ingredients list was incomprehensible. You frowned and placed it back, reaching for another.

Crouching down, you opened a small, rusted medkit on the floor. Inside were syringes, bandages, and a vial of something that looked alarmingly red, almost like blood. You recoiled slightly, shoving the kit aside and focusing on the next set of shelves. You found another intriguing item: a sealed packet labeled Neurosol: For Nerve Integrity. It struck a chord—the nerves beneath your skin. Could this be it? You hesitated, the words “potential side effects” faintly visible in tiny print, but the rest was smudged.

While you pondered, you noticed an old instruction manual on the counter nearby. Dusting it off, you flipped through its fragile pages, desperate for guidance. The diagrams inside showed strange, almost alien anatomy— maybe another specie of humans, like neanderthals, maybe, resembling human biology. Your hands shook slightly as you set the book down. Was this place even designed for humans?

A faint draft swept through the room, making the low light flicker. Still determined, you moved toward the secluded corner, the dimmest part of the room. There, a tiny cabinet awaited, half-buried under years of neglect. The wood creaked as you opened it, revealing vials with strange glowing liquids and powders with indecipherable names: Stimulyn A+, Cryohealin, Xyntherra. The glow of one vial pulsed faintly in the darkness, a hypnotic green that drew your hand toward it. But before you could grab it, a cold pressure wrapped around your waist, pulling you back into reality.

Two large hands slid over your waist, firm and loose, pulling you back just enough that your lower body brushed against his. The contact was sensual but electric, a flush of heat rushing through you, leaving your breath shallow and uneven. His grip tightened slightly, anchoring you in place as his towering frame pressed closer, his silken hair cascading over your shoulders and brushing against your skin like a whisper as your arched back leaned closer against his. You felt the faintest graze of his chest near your back, feeling his warm puff of breath dissolve on your nape. The unspoken interaction sent a shiver down your spine, while the friction of your hips and his long slender fingers left your pulse racing and your knees threatening to give way. The space between you felt suffocating, every shift, every accidental touch igniting something in the charged silence, his fingers tightening just slightly on your waist as though daring you to move.

Flustered, you turned quickly to face him, but the movement only brought you closer, your chest almost brushing against his. His grin remained, though softer now, as if he enjoyed watching your flustered state. Before you could say anything, a faint noise broke the moment—a metallic squeak, followed by the distinct sound of a cart rolling down the hallway outside.

“D-did you hear that?” you pretended to care, your voice attempting to hide your flustered state as you stepped away, desperate for an escape. Without waiting for his response, you turned toward the door, pretending to focus on the sound, leaving him behind as you desperately tried to calm the heat rising to your cheeks.

Mr. Crawling stood there, still as ever, his hair cascading over where his eyes should be, hiding any hint of confusion. He tilted his head slightly, the ghostly glow of his form making him seem more enigmatic than anything else. The gesture had been so casual to him—an innocent moment of contact that, in his mind, was no different from a gentle pat on the head. He had no understanding of why you’d reacted so strongly, leaving him wondering if he had done something wrong—or if maybe he was just too strange for you to comprehend. His jagged grin remained, though it faltered a little in the quiet.

You stepped into the hallway, the sound of wheels creaking faintly in the distance, pulling your attention. When the cart came into view, slowly rolling toward you. You were befuddled to see someone unexpected.

Mr. chopped?!

“几ㄩ(me) 爪乇尺(need) 乙ㄩ乇ㄖ(help) !” He shifted slightly, his severed head awkward on the cart, his gaze meeting yours as the cart rolled closer to the end of the hallway.

MR. CHOPPED!!

⚠︎ s i l e n t t e m p t a t i o n s ( 18+ )

— ch. 1

➤ e n d

#homicipher #mr crawling #fanfiction #romance

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rockislandadultreads · 1 year ago

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NoveList Reading Challenge: December

Read a collection of short stories or essays by a non-American author!

Bliss Montage by Ling Ma

What happens when fantasy tears through the screen of the everyday to wake us up? Could that waking be our end?

In Bliss Montage, Ling Ma brings us eight wildly different tales of people making their way through the madness and reality of our collective delusions: love and loneliness, connection and possession, friendship, motherhood, the idea of home. From a woman who lives in a house with all of her ex-boyfriends, to a toxic friendship built around a drug that makes you invisible, to an ancient ritual that might heal you of anything if you bury yourself alive, these and other scenarios reveal that the outlandish and the everyday are shockingly, deceptively, heartbreakingly similar.

Illuminations by Alan Moore

In his first-ever short story collection, which spans forty years of work, Alan Moore presents a series of wildly different and equally unforgettable characters who discover - and in some cases even make and unmake - the various uncharted parts of existence.

In "A Hypothetical Lizard," two concubines in a brothel of fantastical specialists fall in love with tragic ramifications. In "Not Even Legend," a paranormal study group is infiltrated by one of the otherworldly beings they seek to investigate. In "Illuminations," a nostalgic older man decides to visit a seaside resort from his youth and finds the past all too close at hand. And in the monumental novella "What We Can Know About Thunderman," which charts the surreal and Kafkaesque history of the comics industry's major players over the last seventy-five years, Moore reveals the dark, beating heart of the superhero business.

From ghosts and otherworldly creatures to theoretical Boltzmann brains fashioning the universe at the big bang, Illuminations is exactly that - a series of bright, startling tales from a contemporary legend that reveal the full power of imagination and magic.

Life Ceremony by Sayaka Murata

With Life Ceremony, the incomparable Sayaka Murata is back with her first collection of short stories ever to be translated into English. In Japan, Murata is particularly admired for her short stories, which are sometimes sweet, sometimes shocking, and always imbued with an otherworldly imagination and uncanniness.

In these twelve stories, Murata mixes an unusual cocktail of humor and horror to portray both the loners and outcasts as well as turning the norms and traditions of society on their head to better question them. Whether the stories take place in modern-day Japan, the future, or an alternate reality is left to the reader’s interpretation, as the characters often seem strange in their normality in a frighteningly abnormal world. In “A First-Rate Material”, Nana and Naoki are happily engaged, but Naoki can’t stand the conventional use of deceased people’s bodies for clothing, accessories, and furniture, and a disagreement around this threatens to derail their perfect wedding day. “Lovers on the Breeze” is told from the perspective of a curtain in a child’s bedroom that jealously watches the young girl Naoko as she has her first kiss with a boy from her class and does its best to stop her. “Eating the City” explores the strange norms around food and foraging, while “Hatchling” closes the collection with an extraordinary depiction of the fractured personality of someone who tries too hard to fit in.

In these strange and wonderful stories of family and friendship, sex and intimacy, belonging and individuality, Murata asks above all what it means to be a human in our world and offers answers that surprise and linger.

Love in Color by Bolu Babalola

A high-born Nigerian goddess, who has been beaten down and unappreciated by her gregarious lover, longs to be truly seen.

A young businesswoman attempts a great leap in her company, and an even greater one in her love life.

A powerful Ghanaian spokeswoman is forced to decide whether she should uphold her family’s politics or be true to her heart.

In her debut collection, internationally acclaimed writer Bolu Babalola retells the most beautiful love stories from history and mythology with incredible new detail and vivacity. Focusing on the magical folktales of West Africa, Babalola also reimagines Greek myths, ancient legends from the Middle East, and stories from long-erased places.

With an eye towards decolonizing tropes inherent in our favorite tales of love, Babalola has created captivating stories that traverse across perspectives, continents, and genres.

#short stories #fiction #reading challenge #reading recommendations #reading recs #book recommendations #book recs #library books #tbr #tbr pile #to read #booklr #book tumblr #book blog #library blog #readers advisory

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ireadyabooks · 1 year ago

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Dark Academia Hive Stand Up! 🍁📚🖊️

What is Dark Academia, you ask? The truth is, nobody seems to have an exact answer. Some describe it as an aesthetic, like images of students wearing tweed blazers during fall, reading classical literature, and using a typewriter. Another description suggests that it’s a book that features an academic setting, like a college or boarding school, and usually features some kind of a dark twist. Hence, dark academia. Whatever aspects you tie to the culture, we have the perfect list for you.

A girl and a god, alone in communion ...

In the winding underground tunnels of the Library, the great peacekeeper of the three systems, a heinous secret lies buried -- and Freida is the only one who can uncover it. As the daughter of a Library god, Freida has spent her whole life exploring the Library's ever-changing tunnels and communing with the gods. Her unparalleled access makes her unique -- and dangerous.

With the world at the brink of war, Freida embarks on a journey to fulfill her destiny, one that pits her against an ancient war god. Her mission is straightforward: Destroy the god before he can rain hellfire upon thousands of innocent lives -- if he doesn't destroy her first. Start Reading THE LIBRARY OF BROKEN WORLDS!

In SHADOW COVEN, The Haunting Season has ended, but dark magic lingers in the shadows. Iris is set to become a Reaper, tasked with banishing souls who refuse to cross over. Logan still hears the howling Wolves and realizes that the Haunting Season may have awakened more than just her magic. Thalia finds herself heading to a place she swore she’d never go again: home. Meanwhile, Jailah is focused on her internship with the Haelsford Witchery Council – until she discovers a treacherous magic hidden beneath Mesmortes. Separated by distance, the coven is surrounded by magical and mundane threats that must be defeated before they lose their witchery--and each other--forever...

Delaney Meyers-Petrov is tired of being seen as fragile just because she's Deaf. So when she's accepted into a prestigious program at Godbole University that trains students to slip between parallel worlds, she's excited for the chance to prove herself. But her semester gets off to a rocky start as she faces professors who won't accommodate her disability, and a pretentious upperclassman fascinated by Delaney's unusual talents.

Delaney wants to keep her distance from Colton -- she seems to be the only person on campus who finds him more arrogant than charming -- yet after a Godbole student turns up dead, she and Colton are forced to form a tenuous alliance, plummeting down a rabbit-hole of deeply buried university secrets. Start reading THE WHISPERING DARK!

Mars has always been the lesser twin, the shadow to his sister Caroline's radiance. But when Caroline dies under horrific circumstances, Mars is propelled to learn all he can about his once-inseparable sister who'd grown tragically distant.

Mars's genderfluidity means he's often excluded from the traditions -- and expectations -- of his politically-connected family. This includes attendance at the prestigious Aspen Conservancy Summer Academy where his sister poured so much of her time. But with his grief still fresh, he insists on attending in her place.

What Mars finds is a bucolic fairytale not meant for him. Mars seeks out his sister's old friends: a group of girls dubbed the Honeys, named for the beehives they maintain behind their cabin. They are beautiful and terrifying -- and Mars is certain they're connected to Caroline's death.

But the longer he stays at Aspen, the more the sweet mountain breezes give way to hints of decay. Mars’s memories begin to falter, bleached beneath the relentless summer sun. Something is hunting him in broad daylight, toying with his mind. If Mars can't find it soon, it will eat him alive. START READING!

#ireadya #ya books #dark academia #thelibraryofbrokenworlds #thewitchery #thewhisperingdark #thehoney #ryan la sala #kelly andrews #s.isabelle #alayadawnjohnson

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hochmvt · 1 day ago

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“Zeev,” Isaiah begged his husband as he sat down by his bed and eventually laid beside him as bitter tears of pain and exhaustion ran down his cheeks and in an melancholy voice he sobbed, though he was long hoarse from the sleepless nights' screaming and so weak that his voice only just reached his husband but did not fill the room. The Sundawner whispered to him that he was there and Isaiah cried harder as the pain in his spine became so unbearable that he felt like it was pressing against his skin, like an animal crammed into a cage it wouldn't fit into. “Make it stop, please,” he pleaded, moaning in pain, looking in Zeev's direction, unable to hear what he was saying, the pain numbing him senseless; it was as if he was underwater, his partner's voice muffled and distant. “Please make me sleep. End this, end me... Please,” he begged him again and again, while Zeev snuggled up to him again and again, his eyes watering, holding himself together as best as he could, his heart heavy. “I don't want to live anymore, Zeev... Please make it stop.” And Zeev stayed close to him, not complying with his request, but instead providing him with support, while Isaiah slipped further into those feverish dreams that this life, his life, must come to an end.

It was a strange feeling to realize that the house was full and yet there was no life in his home. Isaiah had woken up around half past three in the morning–his limbs aching, feeling somewhat drowsy–and had checked the bedroom, but only found his parents; his father asleep in the armchair, his mother lying next to him with an arm around his waist. Next to her laid Carter and Zara, Zeev however was nowhere to be found. His headache made him get up slowly, carefully, because neither did he want to loose balance, nore did he want to wake anyone. Thirst and hunger had made him go to the kitchen first, taking some of the cake from the fridge and drinking some of the orange juice, leaning against the counter and eating in peace. He couldn't really remember the last day or evening, didn't know when everyone had arrived, whatever they had been celebrating the night before, and in the end he couldn't remember how much he must have been drinking. He could clearly feel the hangover, he felt as if he was exhausted, his head was throbbing and when he sat down, he could clearly feel his spine. Someone seemed to have already removed the visual remnants of any celebration and he suspected Zeev and equally his own mother, while Isaiah was knocked out. Somewhere guilt blossomed within him, he would apologize to Zeev the following day and he would also check with his husband if there was anything to be embarrassed about.

At some point, he had sat down outside, lit a cigarette and wiped his eyes tiredly. Zeev was lying on the couch in the living room, tucked in and sleeping peacefully, Helena and Amber were leaning against the couch, their heads resting on the cushions and sleeping peacefully, the latter holding Zeev's hand. Isaiah had smiled at the image and tucked the two guests in, as well as Zeev, who had moved a bit. He had kissed his husband's forehead gently, wished him a good night.

The night was fresh, the air cool but pleasant. Perhaps his cell phone would shed light on what had happened the day before, but he must've left it upstairs, since it wasn't in any of his pockets. He had been alone for a few minutes, occasionally looking up at the starry sky above him, until Zara had sat down next to him and given him a long hug. She didn't usually do that when he smoked, but something seemed different. Isaiah stubbed out the cigarette and gently put his arms around her, smiling slightly and stroking her back. “Are you warm enough? Gods, you're freezing...” he remarked at one point as he stroked her cold arms, but she didn't let go of him, shaking her head silently and only slowly detaching herself from him after a few minutes. “Can you tell me if I've done anything embarrassing? I can't remember shit, did one of you guys get me drunk?” he smiled and Zara furrowed her eyebrows slightly, shaking her head and taking his hand in hers. ”I think it's Zeev's place to tell you what happened. But you were sick, very... You've been– asleep for some time. It's just good to have you back,” she smiled slightly at him and he didn't quite understand, studying her eyes as she stroked his cheek and told him that they were all very worried. Especially Zeev. “Tell me what happened, Zara. I can't remember.” ⸺ “It is not my place, Isaiah.” There was an unfamiliar determination in her voice, a calmness that rarely came from the blonde's bubbly personality. He nodded and respected what she said, even if it raised more questions in his mind than he would have liked. If even his parents, Helena and Amber, as well as Zara and Carter were here because they were worried, then it wasn't a harmless cold or a little fever. And why was Zeev sleeping on the couch? Had they been arguing? Had he been talking nonsense and stepped out of line? Did he insult Zeev? “How are you feeling?” Zara finally asked him, wrapping her arms around her bent legs. Isaiah stroked his warm forehead, his clammy hair. “Tired. And I feel like my entire body's sore, like I had the workout of a lifetime. I just wanna lay down and sleep.” His gaze fell on his knees and it irritated him how thin he had become. There was no question that he had been 'sick' or 'sleeping' for more than a day. “You need rest. So does Zeev... He'll be so glad to see you well, suns,” she smiled in relief and leaned against him, he looked down at her and gently kissed the top of her head, putting his arm around her and thanking her for looking after her brother. “You should get some rest, Isaiah,” she spoke at one point and the blonde looked down at his husband's younger sister, offering her a smile and gently stroking her hair. “You should. I'll sit here for a while and check on Zeev. I can't sleep for the life of me. And tomorrow I will get breakfast for us all.”

Isaiah would never have guessed in his lifetime that there would ever be an awkward get together with his family and circle of friends. No doubt the day had been nice, his mother had spent a long time hugging him, his father too, Amber and Helena had embraced him as well and then mostly taken care of a resting Zeev, who visibly slept through any conversations and touches undisturbed. Isaiah had sat with him for quite a while and just looked at him, his tired features and steady breathing. He too had lost weight, which was usually first seen on his face. He had studied the exhausted features and the bandaged hand that made Isaiah feel sick to his stomach. However, no one had really talked to him about the thing that interested him the most; what had happened that made Zeev sleep throughout the day. His mother had insisted that she needed to talk to Zeev before they went back to Greenville. Isaiah promised her, but had still insisted that he treat her and his dad to a night at a hotel in Davenport so they could enjoy some downtime at the spa. Helena and Amber had offered to drop them both off and take them there, since it was conveniently located on their way, and Isaiah had thanked them both, said goodbye to them along with his parents, and told them to text them if they wanted to check out the next day, since he would be paying for an Uber to Macomb. Reluctantly, and after much persuasion, they finally agreed and Isaiah wished them a pleasant night and some well deserved time at the spa; he would ensure that Zeev got back to his feet and he'd call them the next day. If there was anything else, they could call him at any time. Before Isaiah's father had even left with his mother, he had helped his son carry Zeev to the fireplace. The podcast host felt too weak and exhausted and didn't want Zeev to wake up. Peace and quiet were well deserved, so there was no way he'd get in the way of Zeev and his much needed rest. “Thank you for everything, son,” Richard had whispered to Zeev and gently stroked his hair, right before he left. An image that touched Isaiah more than he could ever have put into words. His father's stoicism was a minor matter in moments like these. Being a good, frugal and grateful man, he always put family first, even if he never expressed it in words, only in deeds. Isaiah remembered Zeev's insecurity, his belief that Richard didn't like him, to which Isaiah confirmed the opposite. Today, his father's workshop was no longer called 'Pines & Son' but 'Pines & Sons' and that more than summed up his father's feelings for Zeev as his son-in-law.

Jemma had also gotten in touch, also saying that it was probably best that Zeev let him know what had happened and that she was glad he was healthy and well again. She requested that Zeev called her as soon as he was awake.

Even though Isaiah appreciated the company, he wanted the house to become increasingly quiet. Zeev (along with Isaiah himself) was unlikely to get any rest if the house was as busy as it was because he could hardly sit still, whenever they had visitors there; simply because he has always been a great host and husband, friend, son-in-law and brother, always trying to make sure everyone was well. Even if Isaiah asked him several times to stay seated because he was taking care of everything, Zeev was still busy devoting himself entirely to his guests just a few minutes later. So only Zara and Carter had stayed, although the latter had offered to spend the night in his and Zara's apartment – both Zeev's younger sister and Isaiah had insisted that he in particular could stay the night. Even though Carter had talked a lot more ever since he had been with Zara and had blossomed entirely (how Zara had managed to connect with him in such a short time was still a mystery to Isaiah; and at the same time he knew that Zara was as particular a person as Zeev and they both obviously had a way about them that made them capable of wrapping long-term Greenville singles around their fingers with an unmistakable nonchalance), Isaiah would have felt uncomfortable with the idea of Carter being alone in an apartment without Zara or him. If he stayed, he'd be able to take better care of his childhood friend. And Zara too.

Isaiah had gently laid Zeev's head on his lap after lighting the fireplace and getting himself a drink. He had waited for dinner, Zara and Carter had already eaten and were now upstairs in the guest room. Apart from the crackling of the fireplace and the whirring of the fridge from the adjacent kitchen, it was completely silent in the little house on Northern Lafayette Street. He stroked Zeev's hair with one hand, lying peacefully asleep beneath him, while in his free hand he held the book he was reading to him.

“‘I cannot,’ said Merry. ‘I have never seen them. I have never been out of my own land before. And if I had known what the world outside was like, I don’t think I should have had the heart to leave it.’ ⸺ ‘Not even to see fair Lothlo´rien?’ said Haldir. ‘The world is indeed full of peril, and in it there are many dark places; but still there is much that is fair, and though in all lands love is now mingled with grief, it grows perhaps the greater.’”

His gaze went back down to his husband, lowering the book gradually and gently stroking through the blonde strands. Zeev's eyes barely moved; he seemed to be dreaming, but kept calm. A good dream, Isaiah told himself. He gently stroked his hair, smiled warmly at him, even if he couldn't see it, and leaned down and kissed his temple before turning his gaze towards the fireplace. They had already spent countless evenings here, eating together, reading, talking about their days and built castles in the air together, about possible futures and what their lives might have in store for them. They had held hands, kissed, made love and had always been close to one another; not only physically but emotionally, when life confronted them with obstacles and difficulties — Isaiah appreciated that they always had each other; that he always knew he would return to a house that Zeev filled with the feeling of home. And now that Isaiah was, admittedly, feeling a little disconnected from his surroundings and his loved one, it seemed like he was getting closer to him again here. Even though Zeev was asleep, he realized how good the intimacy was for him. On some elemental level that Isaiah couldn't understand even by the best of intentions, he felt understood by Zeev, he felt close to him and was sure that nothing would ever have come between them, even if he had been drunk out of his mind. Or his mind was clouded by fever dreams. The witcher had taken up a place in him so that his name alone reached his deepest core. Zeev had the gift of triggering a new feeling of inner euphoria within him; of the great, exciting uncertainty inherent in being newly in love and making it reverberate. And as Zeev laid in front of the fireplace, his head resting on the podcast host's lap, Isaiah wondered how many universes he must have crossed, how many realities he must have had to navigate to land here and declare this his new home planet. Somewhere he felt the need to hoist the flag, to make this place, deeply anchored in his husband, his own. Gently he kissed his skin; a sad attempt to transport the metaphor into reality and symbolize he would be his forever. A silent hope that would die as soon as they left this place. And yet he felt as if he could live this life over and over again with Zeev. His gaze went to the witcher's bandaged hand, Zara had changed the bandage in the morning, Isaiah having seen the elongated wound that left little room for interpretation as to what had undoubtedly happened. The American wasn't stupid, even if he couldn't see the big picture, he could certainly put some pieces together. He leaned back thoughtfully, gently stroked the Sundawn man's hair and sighed softly, his gaze lowering back to his husband.

At some point, Zeev had told him about that time. About how he had turned his back on light magic. What the consequences of his actions had been. Not only in relation to his family. In the same breath, Isaiah had wondered how he himself would have acted in Zeev's position. Ideational constructs such as utilitarianism and the hedonic calculus were so easy to capture on paper, philosophizing about how one would have acted themselves, condemning the mistakes of past generations and making a name for themselves with the clean slate they wore because they were never confronted with the decisions, that'd undermine society's fundamental maxim of action. Isaiah had never had to make such a decision either, just like most people. With the decisions he had to make, the direct suffering was rather small, mostly trivial, and there was not even the remotest thought of indirect suffering. Zeev however, at some point, had to make a decision that was bigger than himself. And even if there were certainly judgments to be made about morality, ethics and the act of deciding itself (and thereby elevating himself to a higher, god-like position), he could not disapprove of Zeev's decision. He had acted out of an emotional trait and an urge to protect what he had kept dear.

To say that it had only taken months to get him away from all the pain, addiction and loneliness would be an understatement. With a lot of patience, even more conversations and most of all support, Isaiah had answered every phone call, had visited him often when his schedule allowed and had tried to show Zeev the beauties of life: Going on trips together, being read a book, holding hands, running home through pouring rain to get cozy inside, kissing without ulterior motives, sitting in cafés and people-watching, painting together, building snowmen (even though Zeev hated the cold), saying 'I love you' for the first time, cuddling in front of a fire.

And today, Isaiah found Zeev in everything he liked: to him, he was the magic of everyday life, welcoming summer rain, in beautiful sunrises and colorful lights in the distance that always reminded you there was more to life, waiting to be discovered by you. Zeev was more than he gave himself credit for, and Isaiah always reminded him of what a great person he was.

The American gently stroked his beloved's chest, smiling silently to himself and looking at him with all the love he felt for his man. He was sorry that Zeev had to make use of a ritual, a burden that he had long since abandoned; a life that he had left behind. And yet Isaiah knew that his intention was a good one. That he had done it to a certain extent out of selflessness, albeit indirectly benefiting for himself from the fact that he had kept his husband alive. Isaiah would probably have done the same, but he'd never know for sure. For it was still not he who had been caught up in this conflict, but Zeev. And he felt sorry that Zeev was, once more, faced with such decisions again and again, while Isaiah silently and secretly hoped every day that peace would settle into Zeev's life. Perhaps even normality. But his nature and the way he came across to others seemed to be a magnet for those whose intentions were not always benevolent. Instead of the stormy, raging sea, whose waves he had to boldly withstand every day, he wished him a calm tide so that he could lie on the deck, lost in thought, and enjoy the picturesque colors of the sunset above him and take it all in. A happiness that seemed to be denied for Zeev. And yet, or perhaps because of this, he was proud of him. For Zeev stood for more than himself, for more than a witcher (or a lousy businessman) from Sundawn, but rather for an ideal. For true greatness, for a sense of responsibility, for magic in everyday life, for a beacon of light in the midst of darkness; and also for the humanity of being.

Isaiah didn't approve per se of the fact that Zeev had done what he had done. Not because he wasn't grateful, but rather because he didn't want Zeev to harm himself; especially not for him. And yet, he wasn't in the position to judge; to approve or disapprove. He knew how Zeev had changed over the last few years. Not only how he had blossomed, but also how he had become more reflective. Especially in regards of himself. Zeev had found what he truly needed. He had became braver and he had let go. From said old burdens. From a family that had abandoned him. Zara had come forward and reentered his life (admittedly a moment where Isaiah had been very happy for Zeev, but selfishly as he was, felt immensly anxious, too, his inner fear that he would lose Zeev for taking his place in the coven had thrown him so off track that he'd just stayed quiet most of the time), but ultimately Zeev had made this life his. Today, Zeev had come to represent different values. He saw the world as it was, in all its many facets, saw people and humanity, saw family and unconditional love. He saw the effort it took to give his best every day. And he saw the good. He was committed to it and became part of it himself. He no longer lived only for himself, did things not to benefit himself–to be rewarded with the feeling of being needed or simply the fulfilled desire to belong; even if it was just for a moment–but because he placed them on a moral and ethical spectrum for himself and made a decision based on his judgement.

Humans would rather bear it if a good man died rather than an idea. What is it worth living for if we give up ideals such as love, hope or an unshakeable belief in the good in people?

This is what Zeev stood for: A shining example of an idea; a testament to what was possible. Zeev was extraordinary and Isaiah knew. And people started to see that, too. And Isaiah was grateful that he was allowed to stay in the microcosm that was Zeev's and witness the luminosity of the sun.

After several hours, Zeev began to move on his lap. He stretched slightly and opened his eyes drowsily, drawing his eyebrows together and seemingly taking a little while to realize where he was. Isaiah stroked his hair lovingly, smiled at him and greeted him with, “Hello, my love.” Something changed in Zeev's expression, he looked up at his husband and his features softened, he sat up, his eyes teary and he wrapped his arms tightly around the other man's body. Isaiah smiled softly and put his arms around him as well, gently pulling him onto his lap and holding him for a long time. Gently stroking his husband's back, he felt and heard Zeev starting to sob bitterly against his shoulder, hugging him tighter than ever before and even if the American didn't know what had happened, he could only guess that Zeev hadn't eaten, slept or rested for days. “I got you, Zeev, I'm here. I'm not going anywhere,” he assured him calmly, stroking his back, his hair and holding him close to him while the open fire bathed their intimacy in an orange-red light.

Lavender calms the mind, Zeev had taught him, and since that day Isaiah had planted a fine lavender bush every day to nestle his inner self safely in a lavender field where the sun shone every day just for him.

At some point, Zeev had let go of him slightly, not saying a word, and kissed him—again and again. Occasionally he had whispered an 'I missed you' against his lips, a 'Suns, you're here' or a relieved 'You're okay', which Isaiah always acknowledged with a nod before Zeev kissed him again. They stayed like that for quite a while, too, kissing every now and then, but most of the time they just held each other silently and stayed close.

“I got you some salad with falafel and quinoa. Dressing on the side, of course... It's in the fridge. Are you hungry?” he asked and Zeev remained silent, just staying close to him and shaking his head quietly, resting it on his shoulder again and Isaiah smiled softly, stroking his hair. “You wanna snuggle, huh?” he continued to ask, and Zeev nodded barely noticeably, wrapping his arms around him. Warmth settled around Isaiah's heart. Gentle kisses found their way everywhere Isaiah could kiss his husband without him having to move much. More minutes passed and Isaiah eventually broke away from Zeev, kissing his lips gently and smiling at him. “You stay here, my love, snuggle up in front of the fireplace and get all nice and cozy and I'll make us some tea, huh? And get you some food, you really need to eat something. I've already thought about drip-feeding you because you're sleeping so long,” he smiled at him and kissed his cheek gently. Even though Zeev was reluctant to disengage, he let go, but got up with him.

While Isaiah put the kettle on, prepared tea, took Zeev's food out of the fridge and plated it (and thus, spread the hummus on it, heart-shaped of course), put some berries in one of the small strawberry bowls and took the bottle of white wine out of the fridge, Zeev had tried to be close to him at every opportunity, hugging him, sometimes standing behind him and leaning his head against the podcast host's back, sometimes standing between the kitchen counter and Isaiah himself. Patiently, Isaiah remained standing, preparing everything just as he normally would and kissed the top of Zeev's head again and again, sometimes lingering a little longer than he actually had to in order to give Zeev the proximity he needed and looked for.

In front of the fireplace, Isaiah had tucked the blanket around Zeev, who had changed his mind a little later and sat down between Isaiah's legs, leaning against him. The Sundawner had his plate on his lap, but didn't eat at first; instead, he seemed to have closed his eyes and was enjoying the closeness and warmth. Isaiah smiled down at him, gently stroking his thigh and stomach and kissing his neck softly. “Do you want something else, baby? I can make something for you, too. Like pasta and pesto... Pancakes maybe, or grilled cheese, but— Yeah, that's probably it. Oh, and thank you for the cornflakes, you're the best. I love you and I'm gonna eat them responsibly, I promise you,” he said and Zeev looked up at him, a smile gracing his lips and shook his head, kissed his jaw and then began to eat while Isaiah kept munching on the berries or taking a sip of wine every now and then. His gaze went towards the fire, eventually closing his eyes and burying his nose in the Sundawner's hair.

“Amber and Helena wish you all the best and they'd love to hear from you when you're feeling a little better. Mom and Dad are in a hotel out of town, getting a little spa treatment, but mom said she wanted to talk to you before they left, so they'll be back by tomorrow. Zara's upstairs with Carter... Do you want me to get her?” he asked and Zeev shook his head quietly, setting the empty plate aside, as he finished eating. Thus Isaiah leaned over to the coffee table, taking the bandages and compress, taking Zeev's hand in his, wordlessly and carefully removing the bandages and changing them for a fresh one. He felt Zeev's gaze on him, so he occasionally smiled back at him, kissed him, but concentrated on not hurting him in the first place. “Does that hurt?” he asked him once he was done, unsure if he had wrapped the bandage too tightly, fixating it with a bandaid with little stars and planets, but the Sundawner shook his head and thanked him quietly. “We don't have to talk about what happened today, if you don't want to. I— No one told me what happened, everyone said it's not their place. If you don't want to talk it, that's— I respect that. I'm sorry if I did anything that hurt you, though. I can't remember shit, I remember I wanted to make some jam for you and everything else just vanished, I know you were there, but I don't know what happened, everything's— blurry. I don't know what you did or what I did and— I'm sorry, I'm rambling. All is very confusing... It's— It's good to see you smile, though. I'm sorry I've been— asleep for some time.”

Shock could not describe what Zeev felt at that moment. Stunned, paralysed and unable to utter a single word, he watched what was happening as if he were having an out-of-body experience in his own nightmare. Even as the first accusations had been spewed in their direction, Zeev had been struck by a feeling so intense that he had never felt in Isaiah's presence—so negative and harsh, it shook him to the core. Zeev had already suspected that his beloved was not in control of his senses, that he was rejecting himself, lost in grief, but now the picture expanded.

“And you are afraid you're gonna be alone again, oh, what a terrible fate it must be.”

By this point at the latest, Zeev knew that Isaiah had been cursed, and given the spectacle unfolding before them, it was not difficult for him to fathom what was involved. He didn't have time for anger, however, his gaze only going to the blood, as if Isaiah had been inspired by one of the many movies they liked to watch together in front of the fireplace.

His gaze was fixed on the dark underlined eyes, the otherwise beautiful bright blue only washed out and veiled. When he looked inside him, he was sure Isaiah was looking back, only hidden. He was still there. He would get him out. No matter what the cost.

The witcher didn't react to his words, didn't respond to the sneering comments and insults that were no doubt meant to hurt him and tarnish what he had built. But how could they? He was proud of everything he had achieved. He was proud of the life he led with the love of his life. He was worried about being alone again, but he knew he never would be. The only thing that really scared him was a life without Isaiah. And the only ones who threatened that were the witches.

Concerned, he looked at his family, Sarah and Richard, who were overwhelmed by the whole situation and couldn't even begin to explain what was going on.

“Hey, so, your son has been cursed by dark magic of witches who aim to hurt me and Isaiah, because of reasons I'm not quite sure yet. By the way, I'm a witch, too and your son knows, he had always known there's magic in the world and things beyond human comprehension, one reason why we even found each other. One reason why it was possible for me to be who I am.”

It wasn't hard to imagine the looks he would receive and the thought that they both must have lost their marbles. Perhaps they'd even turn to him and realise that he hadn't kept their son safe. That he had failed them all. He might have been able to fix all of this sooner before it could have escalated into this display of utter dark madness.

Staying level headed was hard, to keep the composure and self-consciousness that he held dear to himself in challenging situations. But Isaiah was a weak spot—and the witches knew. What they didn’t know was that this blonde man, who had changed his life for the better, also was his biggest strength. With that, the feeling in his limbs returned and he placed a gentle hand on Sarah's shoulder for a second, smiling reassuringly at her, the sadness sticking to his eyes. “Do you trust me?” he asked carefully, the question in her eyes moving along her worrisome features.

“Of course,” she answered without missing a beat.

“Thank you,” he smiled. “I'll need you both to trust me a bit more than usual and I need your help. He needs our help more than ever.”

“He needs an ambulance…” Richard said justly.

Zeev nodded. “He does, but… I know this sounds confusing and weird, I want him well more than anything, but an ambulance won't help him right now. Give me some time, please, and then I'll even get him to the hospital myself.” The witcher studied the broken down person who once had been full of life and energy, crushed down to a mere shadow figure himself. Cursed. His mortal body wasn't made to withstand this much pressure and it was obvious how it wore him down. He wouldn't have much time. “Two days, tops.”

Sarah, and he couldn't blame her, winced at the idea of waiting this much longer.

“Please,” Zeev begged, squeezing her hand he must have taken instinctively. “Please”

Sarah looked at her son, a pain in her eyes that was in line with his, as was the helplessness that Richard threw back at them with similar intensity. Isaiah's father had always been the quiet sort, reserved in the way he communicated his emotions, showing them in other ways; with joint building projects in the workshop, involvement in his ideas about renovations or the simple family shopping together. Acts of service. And Zeev needed those more than ever.

“Let us first take care of him and then… We’ll talk,” Sarah reluctantly gave in and all her son-in-law could do was nod.

Despite what had happened a few minutes ago, none of those present were shy about touching Isaiah and carefully moving him to the nearest armchair. He held himself like a wet sack and let himself be led around as if the destination mattered absolutely nothing to him. His gaze was glazed and unfocussed, introspective in a way Zeev could no longer bear. Of course he wanted Isaiah to return, but it was far more important to him that Isaiah could be who he was again. This stunning, intelligent person who looked at the world and its inhabitants with a childlike curiosity and could recognise something beautiful in everything, even when it threw bad things at him.

While Sarah swept the shards off the floor and Richard made up the bed, Zeev took care of the wound on his hand. He had carefully removed the shard of glass, cleaned the blood from his hand and applied an ointment whose greenish colour could only indicate a mixture of various herbs. His lips moved softly as he wrapped the bandage around his weak hand, which would simply fall onto his lap without his help.

“I'm so sorry, baby,” he whispered a little later, stroking the back of his hand and looking up at him from his kneeling position. With his other hand, he gently stroked his cheek, whose cheekbone nestled far too clearly against his palm. “You'll be alright, I promise. I won't let this happen to you any longer.” He stroked his head, rose and kissed his forehead and just sat beside him on the armrest of the brown armchair for quite a while. The bandage on his hand was rough against his palm. Blood that shouldn't have been spilt.

“I hope you can hear me, love. You’re doing so good, I’m so sorry this has befallen you. I’m sorry I hadn’t prevented this from happening, but I’ll fix it now. I will. I won’t rest till it is.” Carefully, because he didn't want to cause him any more unnecessary pain, he rested his head against his chest, stroked his hair and kissed his hairline. “You're so strong, Isaiah, you have no idea how strong you are, even if it doesn't feel like it right now, but I need you to keep being strong. Can you do this for me? Just a little bit longer, just a little bit more time. Everything will be well soon.” Perhaps he was lying to himself, perhaps these words were just as important for him to hear as it was for Isaiah to know. And when he felt the shallow, if faint, pressure of his fingers around the witcher’s hand, Zeev knew he was right. Zeev was unspeakably proud of him, yet it broke his heart into a thousand pieces that he had to endure it regardless.

Together, they guided Isaiah back to bed, trying to relieve his body as best they could. Zeev told Richard to stay with him, if that was okay, and smiled gratefully when he accepted the suggestion without hesitation.

In the kitchen, the witcher met Sarah again, who was sitting restlessly at the table, kneading her hands until they turned red. Zeev realised that she must have cut herself on the glass and moved to the medicine cabinet without comment, took out a pack of band aids—the ones with little planets and stars on them—and sat down next to her. He gently took her hand in his, squeezed it lightly and wrapped a band aid around her finger.

“What is happening to my baby boy?” she whispered, her voice so weak and fragile it brought tears to the corners of Zeev's eyes. He held her hand in his.

“I will take care of this,” he promised her, unable to give her a real answer to her legitimate question. “And I will need both of your help. Do you think you can do that? Isaiah needs us more than anything right now.”

She nodded weakly. “What can I do?”

“First and foremost, I need you to take care of each other, too. Richard needs you and you need him, please don’t abandon your own needs in favour of Isaiah. Which is an impossible task, I know… But there is no use if you neglect yourself. I need you both the strongest you’ve ever been. As much as it hurts to say, but I won’t be around much the next two days and I’m sorry for putting all of this onto you, I’ll make up for it as soon as I can. In the meantime, please make sure he eats, that he moves, even if just the littlest, that he gets out of the room and no matter what, make sure he doesn’t hurt himself like he did just now. Keep him safe when I can't.” He kissed her hand, followed the look in her glassy eyes and reached out for her, wiping the tears from her cheeks without realising how his own were falling. “Richard will keep an eye on him, but make sure he gets some rest, too. The bedroom is made for you and always a place you can rest, but it's okay if you stay with Isaiah, too. Don't be a stranger around this house, this home belongs to you, too.”

He tentatively released his hand and rose from the chair, reached for the stack of papers and paused for a moment. They used the sticky notes for their shopping, especially Isaiah, so that he wouldn't forget what he was supposed to get. His last entry was ‘Cornflakes?’ with a forbiddingly cute smiley face and a multitude of little stars, suns and daisies taking up most of the space on the paper. His heart contracted painfully.

Isaiah would get so many cornflakes, strawberry and lava cakes, Snickers, soft drinks and greasy food that a stomach ache would be his only concern. Zeev wrote down a colourful mix of necessities, including a variety of vegetables and herbs that they no longer had in the house. He slid the list to her. “Can you get some groceries? Get yourself and Richard whatever you want as well, don’t be stingy, it’s alright.”

“Where will you be?”

“I’ll get some more help and a few insights from others. I most likely will be home late, but never refrain from calling me, writing to me, whatever, I’ll be here in a second if anything happens with him. Actually, now that I think about it, tell me whatever happens, even if it seems insignificant.”

She nodded once more, remaining quite for another intake of breath. “Why did he say those things? He… He’s a kind and soft and loving…”

“I know,” was all he managed to answer, the truth too confusing to tell. “He still is, mom.” He stepped over to her, the surprise of the term on his part giving her the faintest hint of a smile. “He's not feeling himself right now, but he will be again. I will make sure of it.” He didn't know how many times he had already said it, he had long since stopped counting. But the more he said it, the more he hoped it was true.

“What by the crooked surface of the pale moon is this shit?” Amber had exclaimed, shaking her head full of red locks, framing her in the dim light of the candles throning on the round dark table. Her home smelled like warm soil, the greenest of woods and a little bit of Henna die. Her hands were covered in brown swirls and flower patterns, something Zeev focused on as he watched her reaction towards the photo he had made of the sigil on the back of Isaiah’s currently most prized possession. Helena leaned forward, using her pointer and thumb to expand the symbol.

“I know I’ll be pointing out the obvious, but holy shit, this is worrisome.” The black haired woman reached over towards Zeev, brushing his arm affectionately, her expression filled with the utmost compassion and something akin to anxiety.

“How is he holding up?” Amber wondered, her green eyes still fixated on the picture, tilting her head just the slightest as if being able to see beyond the surface.

“Not at all,” Zeev sighed, shoulders hunched forward, hands resting on the side of his face, keeping him somewhat upright while his spine was giving up under his body weight, too tired to work, but he couldn’t grant himself any sleep nor rest. “I should have known there is more to it sooner. How could I have been so blind?”

“Don’t be too hard on yourself, Z” Helena tried, still rubbing his arm, which was comforting to some extent, but not enough to reach his mind. “You didn’t expect this to happen and in the end we’re human, too. We don’t expect being cursed out of a sudden, you tried to find logical reasons, human reasons. All that matters is that you know now and we can work with that.”

“I don’t have much time, I feel like I’m losing him.” Despite not wanting to, he broke into another sniffle. A waste of time. “I can’t lose him. Not like this, not ever.”

“You won’t. We’ll help as best as we can. Do you have an idea already what this means?”

“I think it goes without saying that it is dark magic,” Zeev groaned, wiping his face. “I thought I’d never be confronted with that ever again. I turned to so much light in these past years, the darkness just felt like a minor part of my past and suddenly…” He glanced down at his open left palm, the scar a white line of memory, any palmistry would have called it an overcome hardship. Perhaps, all that was happening now, was yet another consequence of his own actions; unpredictable and unmeasurable.

“I can’t believe we got witches among us, let alone in Macomb, who conjure these sorta magic.” The redhead grumbled, the distaste in her voice as palpable as the teacup in Zeev’s other hand. He winced slightly, still enraptured in who he used to be.

“You’re an exception, honey,” she quickly added upon noticing. “And you’re not cursing anyone anymore, do you?”

“Well,” he huffed. “I can’t deny the thoughts I’m currently having.”

“Thoughts are fine.” Helena nodded. “Can’t deny the murder I’m having on mine right now. They are a threat for everyone, who knows what else they have done already if they are willing to curse the sweetest sunshine the line must have been crossed earlier.” Her black strands were falling from her untidy hairdo. They knew Isaiah quite well and how could they have not? Being close to Zeev required anyone to meet his husband—and listen to his praise and affection over him countless times. The witcher had known Amber and Helena were people—and witches—to keep around the second they got along with Isaiah, being equally giddy about topics too strange for most others, listening to him with shared fascination over the wondrous world and what lay beyond. Amber, knowing more about the solar system than Zeev ever could and Helena, being a history student, never letting the opportunity slide to talk about lost civilisations.

“So, let’s get to the bottom of this, shall we?” Amber clapped her hands, rubbing them together in a motivated manner, her optimism radiating from her like the warmth of her fireplace. “So, you said he withdrew himself, neglected himself, didn’t say much, cried a lot, seemingly lost in grief and sorrow. Sounds like a big time depression, but I ain’t a doctor, so don’t quote me on that. It’s just an easier term. And just today he spoke in a tongue most definitely not his own. Manipulating a human that way is such a pathetic and foul play. And considering what they made him say, it’s definitely aimed at you.”

Not a consoling thought, it made things even much more worse. Getting to him by using Isaiah hurt the right spot. All his fault. Guilt washing over him, threatening him to drown. But he couldn’t. He couldn’t let this feeling be his downfall. Isaiah needed him.

The redhead continued. “Needless to say, if the curse ain’t broken, he won’t recover. I’m not that versed in dark magic, but we got an expert on the table. Zeev, I know this will hurt, but for once you gotta stick to the past. What do you know about breaking those?”

Never had he needed to break curses, as the people who had reached out to him were just looking for quick solutions of problems they had caused themselves or were brought upon due to consequences of their own actions and those of others. Zeev, however, had cursed an entire village just to protect his family. He stirred awake.

“A curse breaks when the conjurer dies.”

Helena winced. “Yeah, well… we can’t have that as the first entrance in your criminal records.”

“Honestly,” the other chimed in. “I thought that’s going to be public indecency.”

The joke didn’t resurface as much amusement in Zeev as it would have in any other situation. His jaw clenched as he considered the options. “The thing is, dark magic isn’t… Well, it’s just magic like any other essentially, just way more drastically. It manipulates, changes, alters and affects areas that can not be changed naturally. If you’re sick, surely a doctor could help, but that’s not always the case, especially not in a short amount of time. Dark magic speeds up the process tremendously, but asks for a price higher than usual. While white magic is soft, gentle and slow, dark magic is rough, fast and painful. And while the former is limited, the latter is endless.”

Whatever those witches had to give must have been worth the sacrifice—and it didn’t make much sense for Zeev to go beyond those lengths, just to hurt Isaiah and thus him. On the other hand, who said they had to sacrifice anything?

“Dark magic can do anything, it surely doesn’t stop at breaking curses.”

Amber cleared her throat, eyeing him curiously. “Zeev…”

“Any other ideas?!” he snapped, causing Amber and Helena to twitch. He rubbed his face. “I’m sorry… I—I’m sorry.”

The dark haired student rose from her seat, sitting down next to him and wrapping her arms around his shoulders, pulling him closer and stroking his back. “It’s okay. When did you sleep last?” He didn’t answer, but his shrug was enough.

“How about Amber and I dive deeper into these matters and see if we find any other solution? Dark magic should never be the first option, if one at all. Even if it seems the easiest, that’s why it’s so tempting, but you must know, of all witches I ever encountered, what it can do to you. We want you well, we all do, everyone in your family. No matter what happens, you will never be alone.”

“What if it’s my last option?” His voice was a mere whisper.

“Then I’ll whoop your ass gently, but you will not go through this alone. Please consult us first, before you do something you might regret.”

He nodded, took a sip of the tea and cried.

After the meeting, he had gone back home, if only to make sure that things hadn't got drastically worse. Richard sat at the kitchen table, bent over a newspaper from yesterday, but no doubt not reading. The coffee next to him showed no sign of being warm and at first it seemed as if he hadn't noticed his son-in-law's presence. It was only when Zeev inquired about Isaiah that he looked up, paused and replied that nothing had changed and that he had fallen asleep from time to time—probably more out of exhaustion than tiredness. Zeev had silently accepted this information, thanking him a little later and forcing a faint smile as he turned to the kitchen and into silence, broken only by the quiet hum of the cooker and fridge. He was preparing a vegetable soup and garnishing it with all kinds of herbs. Whenever he turned the spoon, he went clockwise. Attract. While the soup simmered in the largest pot, he turned his attention to the windowsill, where there were all kinds of fresh herbs; lush green basil, coriander, oregano and sage. Dried bundles of already harvested versions, including rosemary, hung from the curtain rail. He neatly cut off a few stalks, tied them into small wreaths and spread them on and over all the thresholds of the house. A little later, he filled three bowls with the soup and placed one of them by Richard's side, along with bread that Isaiah had bought a few days ago, before the incident. He made his way up the stairs with the remaining two and saw Sarah at her son's bedside, his hand firmly in hers, her eyes glancing only fleetingly at him. He offered her the meal too, stroking her back gently as he stepped towards her. He asked her to give Isaiah his portion, if only a little, as soon as he woke up. It wouldn't change his condition, but it would hopefully alleviate the symptoms. He lovingly stroked his forehead and kissed it gently. He also thanked her for everything she did and the trust she continued to place in him. He could only imagine what was going on inside her. The sight of Isaiah hurt him, for Sarah it must have been agony.

A little later, Zeev entered his husband's office, ignoring the pain in his stomach. He grabbed the laptop, older than their marriage, and flipped it open. What would Isaiah do? He knew by heart. He had watched him countless times, from much the same position he was in now, when he didn’t want to interrupt his work, but couldn’t bear staying upstairs alone. Fondly he remembered moments on this couch, wrapped in a knitted blanket of Sarah, reading in a book while listening to the fast clicking of the keyboard and the every now and then huffs and cracking of his spine as he adjusted in the office chair. Reading though was a bit of a lie, if he was entirely honest with himself. More often than not he just sat there and watched the light tangled in Isaiah’s hair and illuminating his face, his features throwing shade and giving him depth. Sometimes Zeev adjusted on the couch just to have a better look to admire him as he worked, how the concentration wrinkled his nose and how his cheek hollowed when he chewed softly on the inside. Zeev had looked up from his position and for a brief moment he thought to see him there, just as he remembered. Researching.

And research Zeev did. Anyone who ever used the internet left traces. Nothing was ever lost in the stream, just covered by leaves, trash and other remnants. If the witches had ever done that, they surely could be traceable. If his past self would be sitting where he sat, he would be overwhelmed and too inexperienced, but the Zeev now had the best teacher there is. So he started with the basics: witches of Macomb.

Funnily enough, their shop popped up, which wasn’t that surprising.

He kept looking, skipping down the results. The less relevant ones always came much later.

Coven of Macomb

Witch coven of Macomb

Witches of Illinois

Coven of Illinois

Witchcraft illinois

He clicked through a variety of websites, one worse in design than the other and more than once did he wince at the supposedly witchcraft those held. Esoteric beliefs and the need for “alternative medicine” was worrisome to some degree, but not really what Zeev wanted to look further into. Huffing, he paused. Glancing at the coffee mug on Isaiah’s desk. Before his mind's eye he saw him reach for it, just to place it right next to the coaster like the rebel he was, not paying enough attention to do so. He smiled warmly. If google wasn’t enough, there was another hell he could rip open.

He opened Reddit.

There was a thread for everything. Cooking, dreams, technology, books, home decor, fashion, relationships, crafts; central themes for anyone to engage with.

But also the little more specific ones. Vegan, nightmares, sleep paralysis, nasa technology, smutty books, western styled interior, boho, high fashion, toxic relationships and witchcraft.

Zeev wouldn’t say he was good at navigating through the site, but his experience in browsing through all that had to do with The Distorted Files, Isaiah’s work in general and strangely enough their relationship (or what people thought their relationship was like and meant, moreso back then than now), came in quite handy now.

Witchcraft in general was a too much of a wide theme, he’d search ages just to find anything useful. Instead, he narrowed it down by specifying. People loved to connect, especially as close as possible. There were exact areas and places and so there was Illinois, too. “/illwitches”. Perhaps he allowed himself to chuckle in amusement, perhaps it was just madness getting a hold of him.

Mostly it consisted of recipes, spells, tips and tricks, suggestions and anything in between. It would have been a wholesome browse and he made a mental note to check it out once all was over and well again, but he couldn’t dwell on the idea of having more like minded people—and perhaps true witches—in the area. He just wanted to find a specific kind. Zeev wasn’t sure how much time had passed, just that he knew that he grew more frustrated the longer he stared at the screen. For once he experienced first hand what Isaiah went through whenever he tried to find hints and clues; no wonder he grew tense over time. Zeev didn’t try to linger too much on the memory of his hands on his back as his finger dug into his sore skin and muscles.

His brows furrowed at a topic that caught his attention right after he had scrolled past it, caught in the vivid and inappropriate memory. His pointer scrolled upwards again.

[Long] my father passed away and I don’t know what to do, it said.

He skimmed over the text with restless eyes, just enough to grasp the problem. The grief over losing a loved one and the effect it had on others. In this case, their mother. She suffered, withdrew, got lost in her grief and isolated herself from anything, even her child. The redditor asked for help, but Zeev knew nothing could help them, but he wondered if someone would mention they could. Most just shared their condolences, but answered as any would: there was nothing magic could do. Still, the sentiment in their suggestions was warming. Proposing their help, suggesting mundane things and sweet activities. Until:

↪ u/markofsolaris replied • 2 months ago We can help.

They remained vague in their statements, causing quite the ruckus amongst the other members, but every question of how wasn’t truly answered. And when Zeev checked their profile, it stayed that way. Never giving fully fleshed out answers, but always keeping the attention on themselves. Zeev stared at the name of the member.

That was a joke, right?

Adrenaline rushed through his veins, something akin to a fight and flight response causing him to shiver violently. Next to the anger he felt, something else erupted, too. He opened his e-mail inbox, frantically browsing through everything he had ever received—contrary to Isaiah though, he kept it clean. He deleted all that wasn’t necessary anymore and he remembered that he had deleted those mails, too. Unfortunately, the bin cleared itself after a certain amount of time. But what Zeev never tended to and what didn’t delete itself either, was the sent folder.

He had forwarded all to Isaiah that was either weird, concerning or all he just didn’t get or wasn’t addressed to him anyway. Hence, the ominous mails he had received a long time ago. Mails with no caption, with no clear message but: We know who you are.

How long has it been? A lifetime, he felt. And to find them had taken much longer than he had wanted, luckily being able to filter the folder down to specific timeframes. Unfortunately he couldn’t remember the exact year, so he closed his eyes and used milestones of his life to narrow it down furthermore.

Before the wedding.

Before Richard’s sickness.

Before Amber and Helena.

Before Zara.

Before Jersey.

Before his citizenship.

But after he had decided to come to the states.

After he had moved into the house they called a home.

It’s been ages and never would he have thought they would turn relevant again. He picked his phone and dialled Jemma’s number.

“Oh my god, Zeevie,” she yelled into the phone like a grandma, seemingly unaware that she didn’t need to make up for the distance between them. “I’m so glad you’re finally calling. How are you? How’s lanky boy? Is he feeling better? Is he okay? Are you okay? Have you eaten anything? I’ve been looking for short-term flights all day, but they will cost me all of my organs. You know I’d gladly cut them out myself, but you know how it is, I get nervous and then probably just die cause I cut something important.”

“I’m pretty sure no organs will kill you anyway,” he chuckled lightly, for a short second forgetting about the worries he held close to his heart. Quickly, he filled her in with all he could tell her, which was quite a lot. Some years ago he had confessed to her who he was, which she had responded to with a laugh, until proven. Frankly, it had been a stressful evening for him and yet, she had taken it quite well. He’d never forget her saying “you just got 99% hotter, but you’ll never surpass my 200”. He loved her, dearly. And he loved that he’d been able to have her know a bit more about himself, too.

“That’s horrible,” she breathed. “Can’t you just, like, cast fireball and call it a day?”

“Honestly, there’s nothing I’d rather do, but not only would that raise lots of questions, you know I unfortunately can’t.”

“Bummer,” she sighed. “How can I help?”

“I need Jemma magic.”

��Uh, I like that sound, am I invited into your Coven?”

“You’ve always been part of it.”

“Don’t make me cry, I’m already emotional and worried shitless. So, what’s the deal?”

“I’ll forward you an email, is it possible you can find out who sent it? Like, from where it was sent from?”

“Baby, call me Elliot Anderson.” He could feel her smug smile through the phone. Zeev didn’t know who she wanted to be associated with, but it didn’t matter much as it conveyed she knew what she was about to do.

She kept him company on the phone as she got to work and it was helpful, he had to realise. Just to listen to her talk, to hear about her day and how much she cared about Isaiah, who oftentimes had felt like she wasn’t as fond of him as she was of Zeev. He had always known she loved them both and she was well aware of her role in having brought them together in the first place. Jemma took pride in a lot of things, her self-confidence a worthy opponent to his own, but nothing had ever filled her with more joy than being an integral part of their relationship. She wasn’t just a friend, she was yet another of his sisters and part of their chosen family ever since their meeting.

“That’s weird,” she hummed at a certain point, Zeev’s attention perching up. “It’s in Macomb, but I can’t tell from where exactly.”

“Thank you, sun, Jemma, I could kiss you right now. Thank you, thank you, thank you.”

“Uh, first of all: I’ll remind you. Secondly, shouldn’t that be worrying you?”

“At this point, it doesn’t. It’s exactly what I needed to hear.”

“I’m glad I could help.”

“More than you can imagine. I’ll need to get to work, I’ll call you soon. I promise. Thank you, truly.”

“You’re welcome. And Zeev?”

“Yeah?”

“Please be careful.”

“Of course.”

“Will he be alright again?” Her voice turned slim.

“I’ll make sure of it.”

“Okay… Okay,” she paused. “I love you. Both of you. Please call me soon.”

“I love you, too and I will. Thank you.”

“Anytime.”

Zeev felt elevated when he came upstairs again, a new found hope giving him enough optimism to tackle the next hours to come. It had turned dark by now, time was running low. One last night and one more day, that was all he thought Isaiah might bear. He had to. Zeev knew he could. Despite him thinking that the witcher usually put him on a pedestal too high, Zeev knew he was capable of so much more than he allowed himself to credit. The lights of the living room were turned off, he glanced into the kitchen and noticed with relief that Richard must have eaten the soup. Quietly he went upstairs, saw some faint light from underneath the bedroom door and stepped inside. Sarah had fallen asleep in the armchair across the bed, while Richard sat on the bed, caressing his son’s arm, eyes glued in him much like Sarah’s had been the last time he had come into the room. Isaiah must have been moved, changed into more comfortable clothes and considering the dried line inside the bowl, some of the soup has been eaten. It wasn’t much, but the amount mattered little to its effectiveness. Zeev circled the bed and gently brushed Sarah’s shoulder, stirring her awake.

“Did something happen?” she jolted, hands gripping his arm tightly, all eyes on her son.

“No, no,” he said calmly. “I just wanted to suggest going to bed. We’re here, you need to rest properly.”

“But…”

“We’re here, it’s okay.”

The hesitance on her face was obvious even in the dim light of the nightstand lamp, but she rose regardless. She moved carefully towards her husband, leaning down towards her son, caressing his cheek and whispering quiet “I love you”s in his direction, kissing his pale forehead. It took her several more seconds to manage to turn her back towards him and kiss her husband good night as well, who nodded at her—reassuring her that he, in fact, was here. For a moment, Zeev felt like he was invading a privacy he shouldn’t be part of. He hadn’t kept Isaiah safe. He couldn’t help the guilt that had blossomed in him since the circumstances had grown much bigger than he had initially suspected them to be. Not only guilt over what had happened, but guilt over not being able to tell them truly what had befallen Isaiah. On the other hand, it wouldn’t change much. They’d still be powerless in the eye of the supernatural.

But he wasn’t.

His eyes dropped, allowing them the moment of shared compassion for one another; mother, father and son.

Awakened from his thoughts, he noticed the hand on his cheek. A motherly tenderness that twisted his heart and dampened his eyes. She didn’t say anything, all she wanted to convey was locked in her eyes, openly displayed without resentment, without anger, without hatred or betrayal. Softly, she kissed his cheek, too and left the room.

Silence fell over them once more and it felt wrong to break it.

“Would you give me a moment with him?” He asked, a permission that might as well could be declined and he wouldn’t blame him. Instead, Richard rose to his feet, placing a firm hand on his shoulder and nodded wordlessly, shuffling out of the room after his wife.

Zeev stood there, hovering above the love of his life on the verge of death. This wasn’t fair. It should have been him, but there would have been no use of that either. Despite his caution, he felt Isaiah stir when he moved into the bed. His lacklustre eyes caught Zeev’s, but it seemed almost like he didn’t recognise him.

“It’s me, love. It’s me…” Perhaps he didn’t want him to be. “Zeev…”

As if his name had triggered a memory, his body started to shake and the strengthless crying forced Zeev to join. He laid down beside him, moving as close as he could to not need to move him much as he wrapped an arm around him and rested his head against his chest, combing through his hair with shaking fingers. “I’m here, baby. I’m here.” He whispered, voice trembling, trying his hardest to remain steadfast. Isaiah cried in his arms and Zeev had never felt heavier, the sobbing and the sniffling engraving itself into his heart, scarring forever. If he’d fail to save him, there was no way it would ever heal. “I love you, I love you so much…” He wanted to tell him what he had discovered, how he had talked with Amber and Helena, how he had envisioned him while diving into research, how he had tackled Reddit—which under any other circumstances would have made him laugh—how Jemma had helped him track down the sender of those ancient Emails and what he had planned to do this night, but he didn’t. Those witches had used him as a mouthpiece, who knew if they were able to listen in on him. Instead, he told him of the memory he had while sitting on the couch, remembered him—as if he could ever forget—of the day of their first love confession, how much he hated the winter but loved his Hoodies, of their long car-rides to places he had never seen, their countless museum dates and how much Zeev loved to just lay on the couch in front of the fireplace and listen to him breathing. In between those stories, he told him how much he loved him, how grateful he was to be part of his life and that he’ll never let it go to waste. At some point it seemed Isaiah had fallen asleep—at least that thought felt more comforting than imagining his body shutting down due to his weakness. For a few minutes longer he made sure he wouldn’t wake up again and slowly, but determined, he retrieved the picture Zeev had grown to hate. Which was nonsensical, since it wasn’t the true cause, but the spell of those who had harmed him, but it was the only thing he had in a physical way. Stealing it, as far as Zeev had learned, wouldn’t do any good, but that wasn’t his intention anyway. Not yet. He knew, at some point, he needed to and he feared what that would break forth. For now though, all he needed was a little bit of human remains.

He had placed Isaiah back safe and secure into the pillows before, turning towards the nightstand on his own side, pulling a napkin free from the box and placing it unfolded on the sheets. Carefully, he pricked with his fingernail at the brown edges. Watching the slightest hint of black dots highlighted on the white ground. How much he just wanted to toss the picture into the fire and watch it melt and crumble and turn to dust. But not only wouldn’t that do nothing, it would also eradicate any hope of breaking the curse. He felt Isaiah stir again, forcing him to stop in his movements, exhaling when he kept sleeping. Figuring he had pushed his luck long enough, he folded the picture again and put it right back into the bag. He neatly folded the napkin, too, and withdrew from the bed.

Richard returned into the room when Zeev opened the door for him, offering him to sleep in the bed as well, if he wished, followed by a question if he needed anything, but he just shook his head no. When the witcher turned to leave, the mechanic softly but firmly grabbed his arm, squeezing just the slightest. “You need some sleep, son,” he mumbled, eyes as tired as Zeev felt.

“I know,” he had answered, patting the other's hand. “I will.” It wasn’t a lie. Zeev knew he probably would sleep for ages if he truly succeeded, but it wasn’t tonight. And it wouldn’t be tomorrow.

Leaving the room, Zeev followed the hallway and turned right, moving quietly and tiredly into the attic.

Macomb had turned into a home for both of them. They had lived long enough in the city to know their way around. They’ve walked the streets countless times, just to explore or to stretch their legs. The witcher knew all by heart. From the La Moine River to Lake Michael, from Taco Bell, to the Walmart Supercenter, every greasy fast food chain and grocery store, even the churchyards and the University area. The day he and Isaiah had talked about having children—the idea much appealing—he had started to see the city differently, too. The closest way to any school, the amount of playgrounds and how to get to them safely and public transportation possibilities. It had always been tremendously important to Zeev to know by heart where he was living.

And that came very handy today.

Tracking down a person wasn’t hard of a spell. All it took was a general idea of their whereabouts and something that belonged to them. It wasn’t the most exact—that would have required different measures—but it would be enough. It had to be.

He moved sluggishly around his workspace, glad enough to his way around even blinded. Placing a silverware tray on his table, filling it with just enough with by the sun energised water to create an even surface, picking a stem of thyme for clarity, lighting a white candle for illuminating the path and sprinkling iron filings onto the surface, glistening in the shine of the candlelight. He pulled out the napkin and shook the blood scrapings from the surface into the water as well. The surface stirred, the smallest of faces distorting his reflection. Then, he pulled each individual leaf of the thyme and let them fall as well. Afterwards, his scarred palm hovered over the tray.

Blood to bind, thy path I see, thy essence calls, now come to me. By earth and flame, by sky and sea, as I will, so mote it be.

Behind his closed eyes darkness hovered, a veil too thick to cut through. Specks of light reflected, cones breaking through tree tops and illuminating luscious green fields of meadows. His mind rushed through fields, the intense smell of damp grass tickling his nose; a familiar smell, inviting as it was challenging. He needed to stay concentrated, not letting his memory twist what he was searching for. The faint sound of fluttering wings brushed his ears, a variety of sounds that seemed too unlikely to be found at a mere park. Brown, almost black eyes, obscured by the wave of curly brown hair, hurriedly passed his inner eye. And with that, blackness fell over him again.

But it was all that he needed to know.

It was all that’d lead him to one place specifically.

The Wigwam Hollow Bird Sanctuary.

He leaned powerlessly against the solid wood of his altar, his fingertips dug into the texture and once again he closed his eyes in order to master whatever was threatening to fall over him. But every minute he didn't spend mastering the puzzle was considered a betrayal of Isaiah in his eyes. His limbs ached, his eyes burned and his head throbbed in such a way that he thought it might burst at any moment. Still, he had no choice but to take the moment as it was. To briefly remember that he, too, was only a mortal body that was losing strength, especially without the sun. One more day. Another day and everything would come to an end. It had to. He would allow no other outcome. No matter what he had to do.

The first rays of sunlight would come to the city in a little over an hour, bathing it in a beautiful light and reminding the rest of the world that after every darkness, beauty would return. Macomb knew nothing of the challenge Zeev faced, but he knew all the more. He consulted a few books on witchcraft sigils around the globe and used the time to further explore the meaning of the curse. He set a timer for every five minutes, worried that he would simply fall asleep.

His sore body hadn't even noticed that the sun had awoken—his instincts were usually more reliable than any clockwork in this regard—when Zara's messages reminded him that she was his sister and thus awakened.

“What is going on?”

Only now did he realise that his messages to her had been more than cryptic, especially as he had hardly spelt a word correctly.

“Meet me at the Bird Sanctuary in an hour.”

“Yay!”

The Bird Sanctuary stood nestled against the Wigwam Hollow woodland, a private and restricted area for preservation of endangered species and served as a safe habitat. Zara, however, had sneaked her way into the heart of any wildlife caretaker and thus, had unlimited access to most areas.

As much as Zeev was stubborn, he wasn’t too keen on dying on his way to the meeting point. He didn’t like driving as much as it was, so he turned to public transportation instead. When Zara, looking like the sun herself, saw him approaching, every cheerful smile fell off her face, hitting the gravel beneath her feet with an almost audible clang.

“By the love of the sun, Zeev!” she exclaimed, wrapping him into a hug that wiped out every last breath he had held. Her hands covered the sides of his face, turning and twisting him like a loose tooth. If she had kept going, he was sure his head would have popped off just as easily. “You look absolutely terrible and—oh sun.” Not only did she see what he was conveying with his looks, she also felt it. Every little worry, every little fear, every little sadness and sorrow and grief and the boundless exhaustion. He didn’t need to tell her much more but he did regardless, updating her on what had happened between the break-in and now.

She sniffled, but he couldn’t join her for once. His body seemingly had forgotten how to mourn, his mind too detached from his bodily reactions.

“Why didn’t you say something sooner, you fool.” Lightly, she shoved him, enough for him though to topple backwards and flat on his ass. He grew dizzy. She apologised worriedly and pulled him back on his legs, his movements all but elegant.

“What are we doing here? I mean, I’m sure you’re not here to watch some birds with me.”

“I’m looking for someone.”

“Who?”

“She must be in this area.”

“You mean the one who…?”

He nodded.

“But the woodlands here are no place to live and I’ve been everywhere already.”

“Doesn’t mean she’s living here, but it seems to be an important place for her.”

Zara scrunched up her nose. Usually, the blonde wasn’t one to feel resentment towards other people. On the contrary, she seemed to love everyone. Somehow, Zeev was glad she seemed to have exceptions to that rule.

The spell had led him here, it must mean something. It must mean something today. He glanced up at the rising sun, inhaling within her gleam, the tip of his nose tingling. If the universe had an ounce of luck left, he wanted to be allowed to be egotistical.

“Okay, so, there’s Stephen, the owner. Then there’s Marissa, his wife. They’re usually around, one or the other. Then there’s Paul, Lucas, George and Timothy, as well as Francesca, Lorena and Yashka, but they are all sweethearts. I surely would have noticed if they’re… like that.” He nodded, he couldn’t bring himself to do much more. Eyes scanning the area as he followed Zara through the entrance. “Oh, but we got some volunteers from the University, some Seniors who’ve been here for, uh, three semesters I believe. I don’t do much with them, since I’m usually gone when they arrive, perhaps the one you’re looking for is amongst them?”

“When do they arrive?”

She glanced up at the sun, taking her brother’s hand in hers. “Hm, around an hour or two?”

Two hours. How much time could he waste before it was too late?

The strangest thing was, what if he met her? What if he stood in front of the witch who had brought this curse into their home, defiling their sacred place and destroying their peace? His hands twitched, which Zara answered with a squeeze. He thought of murder, cold hearted, rage filled murder. A thought was okay. He knew he wouldn’t do it, but he wished he could. All he wanted was answers.

And perhaps a little keepsake to bring home.

Zara pulled him along through the fields, showing him their newest protégés, trying to keep his mind free of the dark that undoubtedly has covered his heart. She didn’t dare asking about Isaiah, and she didn’t need to. Just by looking at her brother, just by seeing how much he suffered. If she would know that pleading for his well-being would help, she would have done so.

Much like his conversation with Jemma, the mere presence of his sister soothed some of his senses. Keeping him company and holding him steady—if she wasn’t pushing him that is—when nothing else seemed to. She was there, she was herself and she tried her best to reach his goal.

An hour later, they returned to the main hall, a sweet little and private gathering centre for all employees and occasional visitors alike. A man, presumingly Stephen, just welcomed a small group of students.

Zara remained close as Zeev’s eyes skipped over every face. A blonde man, a brunette woman with green eyes, a dark haired man with blue eyes, another blonde, a redhead, someone with blue styled hair and lastly a young woman with dark skin and a buzzcut. Zeev, finally, felt like crying again. Reassuringly, his sister rubbed his back. “I’m sorry…”

Defeated, he turned to leave, overcome by sorrow and grief of the worst kind.

They left the building towards the entrance, following the path in silence.

“Is there anything else I can help with? You don’t have to go through this alone…”

“I don’t even know what to do myself…”

“Then let’s figure it out. Come, I’ll got with you and then we’ll—”

Within a second, Zeev’s spine straightened, his head shot upwards, his entire body covered in goosebumps, attention displayed on his features as it hadn’t in the last few days. He stared at a young woman, most likely not older than twenty-five, just passing through the security barrier of the entrance. She, too, suddenly looked up. Zeev didn’t hear it, but the way her mouth moved implicated two significant words: “Oh shit.”

Her dark eyes had widened and she tried to step back and flee, but the barrier wouldn’t let her, her body retorting to standing still, as if he’d be unable to see her then. A deer in the headlights. All the anger he felt towards her knotted in his chest, pulling a thread around his heart and tightening, but he remained quiet.

He let go of his sister’s hand, his movements deliberately and refined by steady superiority. She was scared. Good. She should be.

She was a mere child in his eyes, naivety plastered all over her soft features. She didn’t move.

“Zeev…”, Zara mumbled quietly, but he ignored her. He came to a halt in front of the witch who had started it all, most likely not alone, but that mattered little to him. He was nothing more than two quick steps away from her.

“You did this”, he said, his voice lacking softness.

“I—,” she tried. “I didn’t.”

He narrowed his eyes, his presence expanding, the full force of his anger enrapturing her. He watched her inhale sharply.

“Don’t you dare lie to me,” he warned. “Why did you do this?”

“I—,” she swallowed, looking at Zara. He stepped into her view.

“You’re answering to me, not her.”

She nodded hesitantly, her throat twisting as she swallowed once more.

“I’m waiting”, he reminded her.

“We—They—You consort with a human, that’s… that’s unjust. He knows too much. You should—They say you belong—”

“What in the sun’s name is that sorta bullshit?”

She winced, looking around for another attempt to flee at any given moment, but he kept pressing down on her with his glare. Untended hatred piling up in his throat.

“Mother said you belong to us.”

“You expect me to feel flattered? You think destroying my life will make me tend to yours? How about you write me an invite next time that doesn’t consist of curses?”

As much as he would have loved to grab her by the hand and pull her along back home, to get rid of the curse and never have to see her face again, he knew that was an impossible act. “Break it.”

“What?”

“Break the curse.”

“I can’t.”

“Bollocks,” he snarled, moving a step closer to which she reacted with another step backwards, once more nudging into the barrier. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“It means that I can’t! Mother wouldn’t—” She sniffled, if that was her trying to reach for his compassion, she was talking to the wrong person.

“Who’s mother?”

She shook her head, tears pooling at her chin.

“Where are you hiding?”

She remained silent.

“Fine, I’ll get my answers.” He closed the remaining distance, hovering above her like the sun itself, he raised his hand and took a brown curl of her hair between his fingers, brushing it back just the slightest. He leaned down close enough for her to hear, whispering calmly: “Tell your mother I made a whole town forget my family ever existed, if he dies, you underestimated me for the last time.”

“Everything alright?” a young man yelled towards them. The girl rubbed her head and darted to the side, taking the distraction and running off towards the exit, leaving the place and Zeev altogether.

“Yes, yes, all is well, sorry Tim!” Zara snaked her arm around her brother’s and pulled him towards the exit as well. “Sun, Zeev, what was that?”

“A step forward,” he mumbled, still caught up in the anger fueling his heart. Between his pointer and thumb, he twirled a few individual curling strands of hair.

As well as for her own conscious and Zeev’s unpredictable demeanour, Zara had accompanied him home, greeting Sarah as she made herself and her husband a morning coffee, words of compassion spilling from her mouth as she had her arms wrapped around the blonde woman, who had welcomed her into her family just as she had welcomed Zeev. Who, contrary to his sister, hadn’t had so much than a nod left as he had entered his home, that felt—despite the people inside—awfully cold without Isaiah well and awake.

“That was unnecessary dramatic, Zeev,” Zara had scolded her brother once Sarah went upstairs to accompany her husband.

“Be glad,” he huffed. “You don’t know how all of this went in my head instead. I think I held it together quite well.”

“What are you going to do now?”

“Well, considering option one, letting the one who conjured the curse lift it, didn’t work out, surprisingly, I’m planning option two.” Zeev pulled a napkin from his pant pockets, unfolding it to reveal the hair.

“Zeev, this can’t be the solution…” The worry on her face was quite touching and he understood where she was coming from, but what else was there, if not, by some miracle, Amber would call and tell him the solution was just to kiss his lover awake? That, in essence, was the only sort of pure magic he conjured daily and so far it hadn’t worked.

“What else do you suggest? You think they'll grant me my wish if I ask them nicely enough? This is a dark magic problem and only dark magic can solve it. I'm breaking a curse, not putting one on someone.”

“But it will still leave a mark…”

“That's okay”

“No it's not, Zeev… Where is the point in helping when you hurt yourself in return?” Her hands flung towards his shoulder, shaking him lightly.

“Because I love him more than anything, he's my life and they are killing him. A little dizziness and the possibility of feeling the temptation again is nothing compared to the pain I'm feeling right now. Besides…” Cautiously, he shoved the wrapped napkin back into his pockets, tenderly grabbing her hands, his thumbs brushing over the back. “I'm not alone anymore, I will have y'all to help me get through this, to keep me from succumbing to the pull. I'll not die, I didn't back then and I will not now. And he won't either.”

“What… what will be the consequence?”

“His sickness isn’t a natural cause. It’ll cut the cord they have spun around him and it will snap right back into their faces. I’m not manipulating him, I’m not creating anything out of thin air, I’m just cutting him free. If anything, I restore the balance they have tipped off.” It didn’t need words to see how much Zara disliked the thought and considering the history of them both, he couldn’t say it wasn’t reasonable. But what else did he have?

“Can we please wait for Amber and Helena to call?”

Zeev glanced outside, the sun on its highest point. He had a few more hours. But they’d pass—he wouldn’t wait any second longer than.

Despite all their efforts, it was needless to say that, when Amber called, she hadn’t had good news. However, they had used their network to gather some information about a few Covens around the area, some rumoured to have rather questionable practices. That didn’t necessarily mean there was an ounce of truth behind it, but he’d look into it, when the time was given. Time he didn’t have anymore. He had asked the witches to come to his home and they followed, not questioning the reasons.

“So you’re gonna do this?” Amber had whispered, unsure how soundproof the walls actually were.

“Yes.” There was no time for hesitation.

“How?”

“The blood on the picture isn’t fresh enough, but her hair will do just fine.”

“Geez,” Helena exclaimed, patting her messy bun. She always looked as if she had rushed through the morning routine and still managed to pull off a look. “I’ll be completely honest with you, I don’t like this, but… But I don’t want Isaiah to die like this either.” She paused. “Or at all, that came off wrong. Anyhow, what can we do?”

“First, we need to get the picture from Isaiah’s bag, then we gotta get to the attic without raising suspicion. Sarah and Richard don’t know anything about this and I’d like to keep it that way.” No one argued with that.

Zeev opened the door carefully. This time, Sarah sat on the bed, holding her son as he had placed his head on her lap, his eyes closed. Good. Gently, she ran her fingers through his hair and smiled softly at Zeev as he entered. Richard sat in the armchair, reading in a book he must have found in the living room.

“How’s he holding up?”, Zeev asked carefully in a hushed tone.

“Barely,” Sarah mouthed. “How are you getting along?”

“Closer. Is he asleep?”

“If you can call it that way…”

“Can you reach his pocket?”

Sarah knitted her brow in confusion. “Why?”

“I need the picture.”

“But the last time…”, she gasped lightly.

“I’ll make sure it stays the last time.”

Once again, she stayed quiet, contemplating his instruction. Then, as she kept drawing soothing circles over his scalp and tried to reach for the bag, Isaiah moved slightly. Zeev held his breath, waiting. But he didn’t wake.

“Let me,” Richard offered. His wife needed to move too much, but he had free access. As a mechanic, he had quite the steady hands for his age and if Isaiah didn’t know better, he might have assumed he’d been a surgeon in a past life. He gave him the picture. Gratefully, he took it. “I’ll be back soon.” As he wanted to close the door behind him, Zara stepped next to him.

“I’ll stay with them,” she mumbled, pulling her brother into a tight hug in front of the bedroom door. He didn’t ask her to change her mind, and in a way, having her with them, taking care if against all odds something happened, they’d at least have someone who understood enough to help. He tightened the grip around her. “Thank you. I love you.”

“I love you, too, stop being dramatic.” She chuckled softly, nudging his shoulder but for once he didn’t fall.

The three witches retreated towards the attic, the steps of the stairs creaking slightly underneath their shared weight. Amber, who had stepped in last, locked the door behind her. They heaved the table to the side and created an open space. The blonde grabbed a piece of chalk and drew a wide circle over the floorboards. On five ends they placed white candles for dissolution and removal. The convenient thing about black magic was that it didn’t require as much as any other.

The picture as the bearer.

The hair as the conjurer.

And Zeev’s blood as the breaker.

He knelt inside the circle, Amber and Helena watching him attentively, in some way curiously, but worried the most.

“Don’t look at me like we’re all about to die,” he sighed. “You’re making me nervous.”

Amber huffed. “Well, it’s the first time for me, mind you.”

“Is there anything we can do?”

It felt strange to hold the athame in his hands and not just use it for just cutting herbs and envelopes. He stared down at his hand, his heart thumbed heavily in his ribcage, pressing against his skin, daring to bolt out. Adrenaline rushing and numbing his ears, the mere thought of doing what he had done numerous times years ago, resurfaced emotions and temptations he had held so dear to himself. But he had been alone back then. Had thought, if he just grew strong enough, everything would change for the better.

He, however, wasn’t alone anymore and he wouldn’t lose himself again, not after having found what truly mattered. Sarah and Richard, Jemma and Zara, Amber and Helena and most of all, the love of his life—Isaiah.

“Just… stay with me.”

“We can do that,” Helena promised with a smile, kneeling down and enlightening the candles. Amber mirrored her task and both of them sat down on the ground as well, just outside the circle, holding each other's hand as they closed their eyes alongside Zeev. You’ll be alright again, he promised him in thoughts and hoped it would reach him. Hoped, it would be true. If not, the Mark of Solaris would learn who the sun shone for.

He inhaled once. Exhaled deeply. Inhaling again, the blade cold against his heated palm, then he spoke:

Chains unseen, now come undone, by moonlit power and rising sun. Let shadow’s grip release its hold, and cleanse this soul, both brave and bold.

Warm, wet blood dripped from his palm, frizzling as it met the back of the picture. The bitter taste of the steam covering his tongue. For a moment he clenched his jaw, pain searing through his body, his muscles contracting and causing him to twitch. He groaned, gasping in exhaustion.

No thread remains, no tie shall be, the bond is severed, I set thee free. with power mine, I end this plea, as I will, so mote it be.

One candle after the other blew itself out, the hissing sound of his blood on the sigil kept filling the room. Neither Amber nor Helena dared to breath, both eyeing what was happening with growing anxiety. With a clatter, the ritual knife fell out of Zeev’s hand as he bent over in pain, restraining himself from suffering too loudly, pressing his teeth together till his jaw hurt. The witches were unsure if they were allowed to move at all, to touch him, to console him, to do anything.

And then,

nothing.

Zeev exhaled. His body beyond tiredness, beyond exhaustion, beyond consciousness. Or at least, he should be.

And yet he toppled onto his feet, swaying left and right, bumping into the table they had put aside and soon after felt the hands of Amber and Helena wrapped around his arm and hip, preventing him from falling. With hazy, fogged eyes he stared down towards the circle onto the surface of the picture.

And there was no trace of the sigil. Had it worked?

#(( sob ))#(( there are so many things here i'm highkey proud of writing ))#(( the playlist hit just right ))#— ❛❛ // zeev ¦ but here i blur into you #— ❛❛ // answers ¦ we are unusual and tragic and alive

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hochmvt · 2 months ago

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you're using my words against me.

The tension between them had been building, silent but palpable, until it finally erupted into— this. Isaiah wasn’t someone to raise his voice or lash out, but when he was tense and people treated him disrespectfully, there was a cold precision to the way he chose his words, each one carrying a deliberate weight. And he knew his words could hurt. His calm demeanor only seemed to infuriate Zeev more, who fired back with an edge, frustration in his words. ”You're using my words against me.” Isaiah stopped, turning around, his gaze fixed on Zeev. He wanted to get away from this situation, to smoke a cigarette and give both of them some space so things would calm down again. The situation was on the verge of turning ugly (and Isaiah knew, that he tended to make them ugly if the other one was acting irrational) and frankly, Isaiah wasn’t particularly known for holding back when it came to rhetorics. He was smart — and he was aware of that.

”Sorry, I didn’t quite catch that,” he told his boyfriend and looked at him, eyebrows furrowed, jaw clenched. But he didn’t flinch. He didn’t lose control. Instead, his eyes narrowed, his mind going through their conversation again, piecing together exactly what had been said. He couldn't be serious. Zeev’s accusation stung, but Isaiah wasn’t about to let it derail him. He didn’t twist words — he listened, deeply, and maybe that was the problem. If Zeev didn’t like having his thoughts mirrored back to him with such clarity, he dated the wrong person. The other repeated what he had said. ”I’m not using your words against you, I’m holding you accountable for what you’re saying, Zeev. If you feel uncomfortable with that, we have a more serious problem than ‚me using your words against you‘.” It was a blunt truth, one that cut through the air between them. Isaiah could see an emotion in Zeev’s eyes that he wasn’t particularly familiar with. There was something deeper there, something raw and unspoken. The hurt lingered between them, neither willing to give ground, both afraid to reveal what was hidden underneath the words. ”But if you wanna fight dirty, be my guest.”

#(( YOU WANTED THIS ))#(( ok sorry ))#(( i don't even know if they're capable of fighting longer than 30 mins ))#(( anyways ))#(( enjoy :)))))) ))#verflcht #— ❛❛ // ZEEV ¦ but here i blur into you #— ❛❛ // ANSWERS ¦ we are unusual and tragic and alive

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fic-dumpster · 3 years ago

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The dead can give life

Characters: Ghost!Baji, Reader(Y/N), Bonten, Toman | 1257 words

Warnings: manga spoilers, mentions of death, spirits, supernatural stuff, violence, grammar mistakes, idk mediocre writing. There is not a pairing yet… there won’t be… :P idk… ta-da? Trick or treat?

“Could you please go home? Heaven? Hell! For all I care,” he noticed that you could see him, so he had followed after you.

“Nop.” the long-haired boy with pointy canines paid you no mind.

“Look, not because I am the only person who can see you-“ you began to say

“Yes, actually, that’s the only reason.” he contradicted your unfinished statement.

“Okay, okay. Then what’s your name?” you finally gave up.

“Baji,” he answered.

“Okay, Baji. How did you die?” You inquired as you lifted an eyebrow.

“It’s a long story…” he sighed, looking at the black uniform he’s wearing.

“I have time.” you saw a flash of sadness pass through his eyes, so you decided to lend an ear.

The capability of seeing dead people has always been part of you. Now with more than 20 years on your shoulders, a thing that is horrifying for some became common to you. With time you learned that ignoring those spirits was for the best. Except for that demon child of a ghost you met once upon a time on a Halloween eve.

Oh, how you didn’t suspect that this Baji Keisuke character would give your life a new meaning.

You’ve met this… almost friendly ghost of a 14-year-old boy. You say almost because he tends to be kind of aggressive, most of the time. It was October 31st, 2017, when you first met Baji. He seemed somewhat... lost? Maybe that's why he followed you.

Baji, he said his name was, told you about his life when he was alive. You listened to the fights he won and the very unusual adventures he shared with his friends. You also heard his regrets and, finally, how he died by his own hand. ‘A very tragic ending for such a colorful life,’ you thought.

You took pity for the boy and suggested what most souls sought. Closure. You offered to write letters for those he wished to communicate something or say goodbye appropriately. You said a letter because talking to people wasn't your forte. After a while, he accepted.

“You look like a demon today and every day,” you grumbled. Baji, the ghost, you might add, pulled your covers for the fifth time this morning.

“And you like a crazy woman, now hurry up! We have a lot of places to go.” this is the most excited you’ve seen the ghost boy.

“Yah! Okay! Go and wait in the kitchen; I need to change.” sushing Baji out, you heard him murmur about you being a grumpy old lady. Rolling your eyes, you walked towards your closet.

It's been a month since you've met Baji, and he was a handful. It took you a month to write the seven letters he needed. And that leads you to today, the big day of deliveries. Seeing that most letters had a name and address, you could easily mail them, except for one, but Baji insisted on delivering them with you.

As you walked towards your first delivery, you remembered a conversation with your ghost friends. It happened a couple of days after meeting him.

Baji asked how you had so much time in your hands to help a dead boy. He kept questioning you about family, friends, and even pets. But your answer didn’t seem to be of his liking. You explained how everyone in your family thought you were sick in the head and how because of your ghost-seeing tendencies, you never had friends. Baji apologized for asking, but you really didn’t mind. It was your reality.

A hand waving in front of your face woke you up from your memories. “Y/N, let's check one more time. I'm kind of anxious,” confessed Baji.

“Okay,” you said as you pulled the letters from your bag. “But be fast, please. This is not a good place, gang territory and all that,” you huffed.

You read the names out loud so Baji could see that every letter was there. “Pah-chin, Mitsuya, Draken, Chifuyu, Kazutora, Takemichi, and Manjiro,” you finished.

A sudden commotion made both of you turn towards the sound of people murmuring and flashes of cameras. At first, you couldn't focus. The waves of a feeling of demise hit your body, and as you blinked, the image in front of you cleared up.

A sea of the dead.

“Y/N! That's Mikey,” you gave Baji a weird look, “I mean Manjiro! The one with the tattoo on his nape and short white hair.” he pointed towards the men in suits that were leaving a club called FNN.

The mass of spirits seemed to follow after this Mikey or Manjiro and his men.

“Are you sure? That doesn't look like a Manjiro to me,” you said, scared of the energy that surrounded those men. You saw countless spirits following the group, and that was never a good sign in your book.

“How would you know?” He threw you a confused side glance, “Let's go now! Just give it to him, and we continue on our way,” Baji was excited since you never found Sano Manjiro’s address or any information about him, and he thought he would have to make you ask Draken or anyone and then wait last to see him. “Go!”

“Okay! I’m going!” you walked towards the group. Were you afraid? Yes. Did you know what you were doing? Hell no.

Trying to avoid eye contact with the souls surrounding the group of men, you made it to the man in flip flops that, according to Baji, was Sano Manjiro. You don't know how none noticed you, yet you slid your way between tall and big bodies towards him.

“Hi! Sano Manjiro, right? This is for you!” you squicked at the intimidating flip-flop-wearing man as you bowed and extended your hands with the letter in between them. “Baji Keisuke ordered me to!” and then, as soon as you felt he touched the envelope, you ran for your life.

You ran and ran, hoping that Baji saw you bolt out of there and had decided to follow you. Something in you told you to go; it screamed danger, and with your experience, that voice was never wrong.

“Y/N?!? Are you okay? What happened?” Baji appeared, “You look like you’ve seen a ghost,” you abruptly stopped at his poor attempt of lightening the mood.

“Very funny,” you sarcastically responded, “Baji, your friend must be crazy! Didn't you see the amount of death that surrounds him?” just remembering the feeling sent shivers down your spine.

“So we continue?” he blatantly ignored your concerns. How does a ghost ignore other ghosts?

You gave a no for an answer, explaining that the more contact you had with spirits, the more exhausted you felt. And today, you ran twice through an army of lost souls. Now it makes sense to him why you always nap so much. He understood your situation. Pah-chin, Mitsuya, Draken, Chifuyu, Kazutora, and Takemichi can wait.

Still, there was something else bothering you. Like... The alarms in your head didn't turn off. On the contrary, they screamed even louder.

“Boss, we have her address and a background chek.” a man with scars in the corners of his lips spoke. “No history or contact with Baji Keisuke,”

“How should we proceed?” A man with a single red eye and a scar in the corner of the other asked.

“Bring her here,” Mikey said before munching on a heart-shaped Manju.

#baji keisuke #ghost!baji #bonten x reader #toman #Halloween came earlier this year #mikey #sano manjiro #sanzu haruchiyo #kakucho hitto #draken ryuguji ken #platonic #tokyo revengers fluff #angst #manga #tokyorev #omificstags

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aurumacadicus · 2 years ago

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Featheruary Part 10 (Edited)

Don’t forget to black list ‘long post’ if you don’t want to see my long posts! This is short enough I’m not putting it under a cut. You can find part 1 here, part 2 here, part 3 here, part 4 here, part 5 here, part 6 here, part 7 here, part 8 here, and part 9 here.

I have seen the mistake of posting this in parts. I can’t tell if my pacing is working. Anyway, Thor has decided to put everyone out of their misery and use his many centuries of being alive to cajole some sense out of Tony, because every time he talks to Bucky, Bucky ignores him in favor of baking Tony cakes. Bucky (and I) firmly believe that love is stored in the calorie.

Tony hadn’t given Bucky an answer, and he knew he’d have to give him one eventually. He just needed to figure out how he felt.

He knew he had a crush on Bucky. He had crushes on a lot of people. It wasn’t unusual. What had Bucky said? Starved of affection? Tony supposed it was the same for him. He was so lonely growing up, always wondering if he was being used (or being so expertly used he didn’t know until it was over). He could count on one hand the number of true-blue friends he’d had until he was forty. He’d always had a crush on his friends, simply because they were the only people consistently nice to him. He grew out of them, mostly.

But he thought maybe, he didn’t want to grow out of this one.

Bucky had given him time. He’d let him lick his wounds and heal. But he also hadn’t let him stew too long, either. Tony found that he liked that. A lot. Most times, he found his partners wanting him to change his schedule for them, push for too much, too soon. Even with Pepper, in what felt like it could have been an organic way, had been too fast, looking back at it. They’d thought because of their friendship, they could skip steps. Maybe that was why they hadn’t worked out in the long run.

Bucky had let him think, though, really consider how he wanted things to go. He’d also made it very clear that he wanted an answer eventually, though. The ‘take as long as you need, but be aware of my needs as well’ had been… nice. And he found himself wanting to take as little time as possible, so Bucky wouldn’t have to suffer in the interim, wondering what he was thinking.

“Is this what mutual respect is supposed to be like?” Tony wondered, pouring himself a cup of coffee.

Thor turned from where he was making scrambled eggs, face stony. “Did I hear that question correctly?”

“You know my tragic backstory already,” Tony answered defensively.

“I am standing here, minding my own business, and you are suddenly struck with what mutual respect is supposed to be at forty—”

“—Ish,” Tony cut in.

“—ish years old,” Thor finished agreeably. Tony pointed at the pan, and he stirred his eggs without looking back at them, frowning at Tony in concern. “Have we not treated you with respect, Tony? Did we do something wrong?”

“Oh, I, uh,” Tony stuttered. He fidgeted with his mug. Took a nervous sip. “I meant… like, in a romantic relationship.”

Somehow, Thor’s frown went sadder. “Tony.”

“Listen, I don’t—want to talk about my past? Right now?” Tony said, slowly sidling away from him. Maybe, if he was careful about it, he could hide from him before he could finish cooking and eating his eggs. “I’m just saying. I like how Bucky treated me. That’s all.” Thor reached out to clamp a hand on his shoulder and force him to sit on one of the stools at the island. Tony sighed, defeated, and sagged onto it, turning to put his mug on the counter. “Are you going to get on my ass about him, too?”

“No. Sit there for a moment,” Thor said shortly. He turned back to his eggs.

Tony perked up when he saw Thor grabbing down two plates, and smiled when Thor set one of them in front of him. “For me?”

“You’re less likely to run if you’ve got food that doesn’t travel well in front of you,” Thor deadpanned.

Tony considered dumping the eggs in his mug of coffee and running just to spite, except it looked like Thor had stirred ham and cheese into them while cooking, and he thought it might be nice to sit and enjoy them. “Okay,” he admitted, reaching for the fork Thor handed him.

Thor waited for him to take a bite before he turned to his own plate. “So you like the way Bucky treated you?”

Tony narrowed his eyes at him, slowing down his chewing. Still, he couldn’t really see where Thor was going with the question, so he swallowed and reluctantly answered, “Yeah. He’s not pushy or greedy at all. He lets me think things through instead of getting impatient and demanding answers. He did mention capitalism to me though,” he added petulantly to himself. “I hate when Steve does that. Now there are two of them.”

“I’ll throw them both into the ceiling at training next time,” Thor offered.

Tony fist pumped. He wondered if that should be his first reaction, except Steve had squawked helplessly until he’d gotten down, and he’d gotten plenty of good video and pictures. He probably should not be excited. But that had never stopped him before, he decided.

“So?” Thor asked, leaning his elbow on the counter and placing his head on his fist. He poked at his eggs idly. “Aside from the capitalism stuff? Is that enough to deter you?”

Tony thought about it. Honestly, it seemed like it was something that Bucky wouldn’t harp on. If it came up, he could just do what he did with Steve, which was tune him out and think about other things. Besides, that hadn’t really been the problem at all. “I… want to get to know him better,” he finally said. “But Bucky… what if I don’t live up to his expectations?”

“Do you think his expectations of you are too high?” Thor asked patiently, taking a bite of his eggs.

Tony frowned down at his plate, remembering what Bucky had said. “I just… he said he liked me because he knew I wouldn’t treat him like glass on his bad days. He knew that after I bodychecked him in the middle of a panic attack.”

Thor said nothing for a few minutes, but Tony couldn’t tell if that was because he was focusing on eating or because he was thinking. Finally, though, Thor said, “Is he expecting you to continue to bodycheck him?”

“No,” Tony answered immediately, and then squinted in thought, because Bucky had never actually said that. “No? I honestly hope not.”

“Do you suppose he’s expecting you to continue not to treat him like glass?” Thor asked. “Could you do that?”

Tony opened his mouth, then closed it again, really giving it some thought. Could he do that? He was a fixer. It was what he liked to do. But he was also vaguely allergic to emotions. He thought about what he would do if Bucky was there, now, curling up against the counter, gripping his hands into fists and relaxing over and over, breath coming in sharp hisses between his teeth.

He imagined he’d… wait. Until Bucky told him what he wanted him to do. He wouldn’t want to touch him when he was possibly dangerous—Bucky had felt so guilty the first time he realized he had struck Steve so hard after a panic attack that he’d fractured Steve’s arm and his own hand, and Tony was a lot more fragile. And he knew that Bucky had been working with a therapist on coping mechanisms, counting or breathing or something like that. So. He didn’t really worry about him like that. Didn’t really feel he had to.

“I… suppose I could,” Tony finally said.

Thor smiled a little. “Do you want to?”

“I… yes,” Tony said. He shrugged uncomfortably. “I… want to learn more about him. He’s patient with me, even when I’m… being especially me some days.”

“I think you secretly like when he just lies on the floor and sighs,” Thor said, but the accusation in his voice sounded amused rather than angry.

Tony spread his hands. “I mean, I lived through those things, right?! I wouldn’t be me without them.”

“You’ve been through a lot,” Thor allowed. “And it has made you who you are. It’s just the coping mechanisms we worry about, personally.”

“That’s fair,” Tony muttered, wilting in defeat.

“Good morning,” Bucky said as he came into the kitchen. He stopped. Stared. Turned a disgruntled look on Thor. “You made Tony breakfast.”

Thor didn’t look perturbed in the slightest. “I haven’t had a good talk with Tony in a while.”

“I was going to make Tony breakfast,” Bucky muttered mulishly, finally coming further into the room. “I’ve been making him meals for weeks now. It’s my job.”

“Uh huh,” Thor replied, amused.

Bucky came over to look at their plates, giving Thor a scowl. “I would have made him something fancier than this. He deserves fancy fruit salads and pancakes. Stuffed French toast. A caramel latte.”

“Tony is a simple man,” Thor said.

Tony looked back and forth between them, confused. “You could… top off my coffee?” he offered hesitantly.

“You’ve relegated me to diner waitress,” Bucky told Thor, glaring at him, before snatching the mug when Tony frowned and reached out to pull it back in apology. He pointed into Tony’s face sternly. “No, I’m doing it. Back off.” He glared at Thor again. “You did this on purpose, didn’t you?”

“Did you seriously tell Tony that his heart was as big as his ass?” Thor asked, raising an eyebrow, and watched, unrepentant, as Bucky crumpled to the ground with a shout. He leaned over to look at him, frowning. “Well. I can’t say you don’t deserve to feel a little ashamed of it. Some things are inside thoughts.”

“Do you have inside thoughts about me?” Tony asked, looking up at Thor as he stood from the stool.

Thor sighed, half put-upon, half amused. “Everyone has inside thoughts about other people, Tony.” When Tony only frowned at him, brows furrowed together, he sighed again and added, “Yes. I have inside thoughts about you.”

“I don’t have inside thoughts,” Tony said after a moment, a tinge of suspicion in his voice.

“We are aware, Tony. We wish you would sometimes,” Thor told him patiently as he went to go put his plate in the sink.

Tony narrowed his eyes at him, nose wrinkling a bit, before he shrugged it off. “I don’t know how.”

“We are aware of that too,” Thor replied. He walked over to gently clasp his shoulder. “I’m going to leave now, mostly because I think Bucky might try and stab me. He’s not as durable as my brother and I forget not to throw him as hard as I would Loki.” He waved over his shoulder as he walked out. “Give my regards to Bucky when he gets off the floor.”

“Siblings are weird!” Tony called after him. “And thanks for the talk, I guess! Does this mean Clint or Bruce are next?”

“I doubt it. They’re both just as allergic to feelings as you are.”

Tony shrugged with a vague little ‘eh’ and turned to look down at Bucky, who was still on the floor. He had rolled onto his back, though, covered in coffee and clutching Tony’s empty mug to his chest. “You okay? If you want to make me something to eat, that’s fine, I guess. I’d really just like my cup of coffee though.”

“Do you think it’s possible that I can ever live this down?” Bucky asked, not moving from the floor.

“I have full faith in you that you’ll say something else that’s even more embarrassing,” Tony told him sympathetically.

“God,” Bucky groaned, finally moving to cover his face. “Please, no. I couldn’t stand it.”

Tony reached for his mug. Bucky dropped one hand to clamp around the ceramic, glaring at him out of his uncovered eye. Tony reluctantly pulled his hand back.

“…Anyway,” Tony said, picking up his fork to fiddle with. He looked down at his empty plate, pushing a tiny sliver of ham around. “I, um. I was thinking.”

Bucky sat up immediately. “Yeah?”

“You said that… you’d like the opportunity to fall in love with me,” Tony said slowly, setting his fork down so that he didn’t accidentally drop it and ruin his train of thought.

“Basically, yeah,” Bucky replied, shrugging a little.

Tony chewed on the inside of his cheek anxiously, hoping he didn’t look as nervous as he felt. “Maybe… Maybe I’d like the opportunity to fall in love with you, too.” He glanced at Bucky out of the corner of his eye nervously.

Just in time to watch Bucky’s lips spreading into a wide, goofy smile.

“Are you saying I can take you out?” Bucky asked, breathless with excitement.

Tony turned to blink at him, frowning in confusion. “You could have always taken me out. In any sense of the word.”

“Stop making death jokes,” Bucky ordered, more on instinct than actual distress. “But I mean—if we were out, and people asked, I could say you were my fella?”

Tony sucked in a breath and ignored the fact that it was a little shaky. He wasn’t scared. Except that he kind of was. “If you want.”

Bucky paused, then carefully stood up, reaching out to put his hand on top of one of Tony’s. “What’s causin’ you pause, doll?”

“I…” Tony began weakly. He stared at Bucky’s hand on top of his. He wasn’t gripping. Tony could pull his hand away, if he really wanted to (but he didn’t really want to). It just felt… nice. He looked back up at Bucky, shrugging uncomfortably. “I just… don’t have a great track record for this type of thing, I guess. I… I’m just worried… you’ll realize you don’t like me, once you get to know me more.”

“That’s not going to happen,” Bucky told him firmly. “I don’t do anything by halves, including falling head over heels. Nothing you’ve done has scared me off yet. Even that time that you bodychecked me while I was having a panic attack.” He smiled a little. “I feel like that’s something that woulda scared off the average guy.”

“Probably,” Tony answered, shrugging bashfully.

Bucky smirked. “Luckily, I’m not the average guy. And you know? I think you aren’t either, so I don’t have to worry about you bein’ freaked out by shit I do, too.” He carefully reached out to flip Tony’s hand over, so he could lace their fingers together. “Can I take you out to breakfast?”

Tony glanced down at his plate, then looked up at Bucky again, raising his eyebrows. “Maybe we could do lunch instead? It would give you time to shower,” he added, staring at the coffee stains on his clothes.

Bucky looked down at himself. His shirt had large brown stains on it. His pants had a few spots on them, but ultimately looked like they’d been spared most of the coffee. He’d stepped one foot into a puddle of coffee that hadn’t been sopped up by Bucky’s shirt, and that sock was drenched in brown. He looked back up at Tony. “Fine, but I get to pick the place.”

“I literally do not care what kind of food it is as long as calories are going into my face hole,” Tony said. “I have a favorite food in most restaurants.”

“Please do not call it your face hole ever again,” Bucky replied in the kindest way possible.

“Fine, but only because your face was very unattractive in response,” Tony answered.

Bucky opened his mouth, then closed it again with a fond sigh, shaking his head a little. “I’ll get you a new cup of coffee,” he said, instead of whatever he’d been about to. “Then go get cleaned up. Wanna look my best for my best fella.”

Tony looked down at his feet and smiled a little, trying not to show how pleased it made him. He peeked back up as Bucky came back, carefully balancing a new mug full of coffee between both hands, watching his feathers ruffle along his wings with pleasure—whether from being able to do something for him, or because he was still happy about him being willing to try, he couldn’t tell.

Maybe he didn’t need to, Tony thought, reaching out to carefully set his cup on the counter. He turned and took Bucky’s hands in his and, when Bucky only tipped his head in confusion, he took a deep breath and closed his eyes. Then he lifted his own wings, stretching them up, up, up, high enough that his primaries brushed the light fixtures over the island. His feathers spread, trembling, inviting.

“Tony,” Bucky whispered, and then there was the sound of glass breaking, and Tony opened his eyes to find that Bucky had swung his wings up as well, heedless of whatever would be in their way, and had knocked one of the pendant lights down. He didn’t look like he cared, wings spreading wide and high, eyes only on Tony’s face.

“I’m gonna be fucking insufferable about this. You thought it was bad when I punched Steve in the throat? I’m gonna be crowing about this so much that everyone on this team wants to strangle me,” Bucky said, voice thick, and Tony threw his head back and laughed in delight.

#aurumacadicus writes #winteriron #featheruary #wing fic #long post

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aliceinnaughtyland · 3 years ago

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ANYTHING

Pairing: Last Boss x Reader

Warnings: animal death, groping

Word count: 1K

Summary: You saved a certain militant's life during a game.

Author’s note: It’s the first fic I ever post you guys! English is not my first language and (respectful) feedback is always appreciated! I hope you like it. Love you all x

Nota bene: We do NOT condone Last Boss' actions as we do NOT condone violence and rape! We only love the Shuntarô Yanagi's interpretation of Last Boss! This is fantasies only! You do NOT deserve this! If you are a victim of violence, please get help as soon as possible! You are not alone. Stay safe xx

Since the day you arrived at the Beach, Hatter took a liking in you. He absolutely loved your smart ass attitude and he always kept you around him as a distraction.

You were chilling with him, eating and laughing, when the militants arrived. You didn’t trust them. They were too confident, too aggressively confident. But being around Hatter was like hiding behind a shield. With him by your side, you risked nothing. Aguni wouldn’t let it happen.

As they were all talking about the forthcoming game, you couldn’t help but interjected.

“All the militants in the same game? Really Hatter? What will you do if they come across a diamond game? You risk losing them all at once. It would be tragic!”

“Are you implying we’re stupid?” Niragi demanded.

Hater smirked at you, amused by the militant’s reaction. That was why he kept you around.

“You’re right Y/N. I can’t risk losing them all! From now on, you will go with them at every game, so I’m sure you will all come back alive. Their strength coupled with your intelligence, you’ll become unbeatable. Thank you for bringing this point to my attention.” He grinned.

Great Y/N! Congratulations! You couldn’t keep your mouth shut for one minute, could you?

That what brought you to this board in front of you. 100 points for a tiger, 50 for a wild boar, 30 for an eagle.

Ok Y/N, it’s fine. Wild animals, armed men who hate you, what could happen?

Let’s be honest, you didn’t kill any animals during the entire game. You spent your time running and hiding, hoping people would do the job for you.

You found yourself a safe place on top of some attractions, Aguni and Niragi appearing behind you a few minutes after.

“Where’s the third Powerpuff Girl?”

The men didn’t answer, scanning the place to find Takatora.

“Oh shit”

You followed Aguni’s worried eyes, only to see the militant in a terrible situation. It was the first time you saw him in a position in which he was not in control.

Last Boss was facing a tiger, his katana on the other side of the animal. The feline seemed calm, but he could attack at any time, and without his weapon, the man hasn’t really stood a chance.

“Niragi shoot!” you ordered.

“I don’t have munitions”

“What? What the fuck?”

“I shot every fucking living thing. I used them all!”

“Yeah, every living thing except this tiger, you fucking dumbass”

Niragi watched you with anger but didn’t have time to reply as you were already jumping on the ground.

Wait, wait! Why exactly are you running toward an animal that would kill you to save a guy who wouldn’t do the same for you?

Well, he’s human too, isn’t he?

Yes! A human who dived his katana inside another human.

Yeah, that wasn’t cool.

But hey, it’s not really like you could go back now.

As you run toward the scene, you grabbed the katana and pushed it inside the tiger. It had to work, because if it didn’t, if the tiger had the time to attack you before dying, you would very certainly die with it.

After what felt like hours, the tiger finally collapses. You run toward the shocked guy, giving him his weapon back.

“You know how to use this better than me.”

He didn’t have the time to respond to you that the familiar voice echoed in the arena.

“Game cleared”

The ride home was silent. You could feel the unusual tension as you reached your destination. No cocky militants venting, no joyful description of murder, just silence.

As soon as the car stopped, you rushed out of it and hurried to the hostel. I mean, you saved one of them but you weren’t really best friends. You vaguely remembered insulting one of them too.

But as you were about to enter the hallway, you felt a hand grabbing your arm.

“Thank you”

That actually was the first time you heard his voice, and just like that, Last Boss didn’t seem so terrifying anymore.

You nodded and turned around, and the tattooed guy didn’t stop you.

The lights of the party made you feel like you were in another world. The beats of the music filled you with joy. Nothing mattered in this instant. You were alive, for a few other days at least.

But as you were swaying your hips, you didn’t realize you caught a certain militant’s eyes.

Last Boss was staring your every move, not even blinking an eye.

Niragi was trying to tell him something, but he couldn’t hear it. You were his focus.

“Wait, did a girl caught your eyes?” Niragi teased.

“Shut up!” Last Boss replied, turning his attention at Niragi.

“You shouldn’t look away from her or someone else will take the place you want” Niragi stated pointing at you.

And as the bald guy fixated you again, he saw a guy he never acknowledged before coming at you.

He couldn’t hear what you both were saying, but he knew he didn’t like this asshole’s attitude. The guy was acting like he owned you.

Wait, were you his girlfriend? No impossible, he could see you weren’t interested.

But as the guy violently groped you, he stood up, ready to kick some ass. However, he didn’t have the time to take a single step, you were already threatening the guy with a knife on his neck.

If he wasn’t interested in you before, he definitely was now.

But he didn’t have time to think as you were walking toward them.

“Who would have guessed that a doll like you could dance like that?”

You could recognize this voice from all.

“What do you want Niragi?”

“Come join us. We need to celebrate this victory!”

“No thank you”

“Oh come on! After all we’ve been through together? Don’t tell me you don’t trust us!”

“God no!” you answered as you walked past them, going back to your room to sleep this day away.

But as you were about to turn in the hallway, you heard someone jogging behind you. You quickly turned around, reading to throw hands just in case, but you were surprised to see Last Boss standing there.

“You risked your life to save mine at the game. If you need anything, and I mean anything, you come find me. Ok?”

Ok, this man is nice after all. And hot?

“Ok?” he repeated

You nodded.

“Ok”takatora

#alice in borderland #alice in brderland fanfiction #alice in borderland imagine #takatora #takatora samura #takatora imagine

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potterhead-demigods-blog · 2 years ago

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Harry still couldn't completely comprehend what happened during DADA class. His new professor's Bogart looked like him- no it didn't happen to have a scar- his father! Why would a random stranger's worst fear would be his father's death? Wait! Lupin recognised him without any introduction in that train. But he had assumed that it was because of his legendary scar. But that is not the only factor here. Professor Lupin must have known his parents. Harry jumped from his chair in the common room. A thud followed with a hiss was heard. He had forgotten about crookshanks who was dozing off on his lap. “Sorry”, he muttered as he ran towards the DADA classroom.

He knocked on the door twice. A shuffle was heard from the inside following by professor Lupin's face. His eyes looked bloodshot and puffy. His hair was a mess and he looked as if he was reliving a bad memory. “Ah Harry! I was wondering when you would show up. I'm sure you would have a tons of questions for me. But first please come inside. I'll try to answer your questions.” Harry followed him to the classroom. The place looked unusually tidy for someone who looks as if they just had a breakdown. “So, your questions.. Shoot!” “Who are you? How did you recognise me in that train that day? Why is your boggart my dead father? And why were you crying?”, Harry said in a single breath. “Whoa slow down. One, I'm Remus Lupin, your DADA teacher. Two, I recognised you because you look so much like James but with Lily's eyes. I'd recognise you anywhere. Three, James' dea- ahm, that is my boggart because his death is the most tragic and terrible thing that happened in my life and four, I was crying because I just miss him so much.” “How did you know him?” “James Potter was one of my best friends. Ever since our first day, we were close. He is a brother to me and Lily, she too is very close to me. And I would know for a fact that both of them would have been very proud of you if they were alive. I heard that you were the youngest seeker in a century, James would have been jumping around if he was here. They loved you Harry, and they are very much proud of their little boy.”

Harry didn't knew he was crying untill he felt a salty taste. He quickly wiped it off and smiled at his professor and turned around and went out of the room. He was still crying but a small smile played on his lips as he made his way towards his common room.

#harry potter #remus lupin #james potter #prongs #Sirius Black #Hogwarts #harry potter fic #what if #Harry Potter what if

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hochmvt · 2 months ago

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⸻ continuation of [א] with my love @verflcht

“Quite the romantic, huh?” Isaiah chuckled and smiled even happier, gently kissing the Sundawner's lips and loosing himself in the witcher's eyes. Ever since they'd met in Sundawn less than a year ago (and Jemma had unassumingly stopped by Spindleweed's to buy tea for her grandma and while the Brit had fallen in love with the owner, Isaiah had fallen in love with the trinkets; and yet, after some time, all the trinkets, teas, nightwalkers and gloomsprites in the world suddenly had no value when Zeev looked at him. Instead, there were daisies blossoming across the green glade of the clearing in the middle of Sundawn Woods, the world's most boring social game [mind you, according to Evie and Arwen] and staying awake until late at night so neither the day nor the kisses would end), Zeev's eyes had become more awake. There was an entire world waiting to be explored by him and for Isaiah, there was no place he'd rather be than right by his boyfriend's side, to explore what the world (and everything beyond) had in store for them. In the sun, they sometimes looked amber-colored, as if the sun was in them. He looked like a kid on Christmas; believing in all the magic within the world and eager to make best use of the gifts he was given.

“What a coincidence,” the podcast host commented wryly, starting the engine of his car, pulling out of the gas station driveway, continuing down the highway and following the road towards Seattle. His hand rested on Zeev's thigh while he stroked him the fabric of his pants, shaking his head no upon his question. “Never been much of a hiker. Always wanted to hike the Appalachians, Brown Mountain in North Carolina, being born around there and all but- have you looked at me? I'd probably just fall down somewhere and die. Flat terrain is a real challenge for me already. If you add slopes and boulders to that, my chances of survival are probably reduced to zero. Ain't really wanna be featured in one of those 'Dumb Ways To Die' episodes.” Zeev had witnessed Isaiah's physical clumsiness more than enough (and Jemma's affectionate nickname lanky boy must've summed it up for the witcher, too), especially when he was excited or had his mind committed to a particular goal. “We don't have to stay in Seattle for vacation though. Anywhere you wanna go? We can go somewhere abroad if you'd rather go somewhere else.” Isaiah hesitated for a second and smiled. “And at some point we'll have a house, which is certainly a great place to vacation. Work on the road and vacation at home... Sounds good, if you ask me. Of course, the sun's gotta shining though, that's our only and most important condition.” A second, brief moment of hesitation, then a follow-up question. “If you could choose, what'd your house look like?”

#(( i love them your honor ))#(( never thought i'd be much of a slice of life writer ))#(( but here we go ))#(( lanky boy strikes again ))#— ❛❛ // ZEEV ¦ but here i blur into you #— ❛❛ // ANSWERS ¦ we are unusual and tragic and alive

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consumeconstantly · 4 years ago

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Who Are You (and what will you become?)

1(you are here)| 2 | 3 | 4

Summary: “Over the years, I have found that blood means very little.”

The ice clicks against the glass almost inaudibly, condensation dripping down the side.

“So tell me, M. Wayne, why do you think I should even begin to consider you my father?” (all biodad bruce can be read as stand alone but are posted in chronological order)

__________________________________________________

At the tender age of nineteen, Marinette Dupain-Cheng has already become a jaded woman. It doesn’t shine through very often, hidden behind a carefully crafted facade of Parisian-brand carefree attractiveness and pigtailed youthfulness, but there exists, in Marinette, a certain bitterness.

“For a vigilante, you’re not very secretive,” Marinette remarks, keeping her tone measured, almost playful, so as not to draw attention to herself.

“Marinette.” Bruce inclines his head and allows the bartender to serve him a whiskey sour. He doesn’t drink alcohol because it alters his mental state in ways that are unpleasant, but ordering a drink helps him fit in, and with Marinette, the person he wants to talk to, right at his side, he can’t have his normal ginger ale substitute. “It’s good to see you.”

“Mmm.” She takes a sip of her French 75, playing up an interest that Bruce knows is a lie. “M. Wayne, you say that as though we’re familiar with each other.”

“Sabine and I were close,” he says.

Sabine is one of the few people who knew about his existence as Batman that didn’t live in Gotham. Many years ago, they were friends. Colleagues. (More.) Of course she told her daughter about who he was. How could she not have?

Sabine is-- she was--

“Close, you call it,” she says with mock awe, words slurring together. “Closer than close, really. Too close for comfort— at least, too close for you.”

When Bruce and Sabine’s paths crossed all those years ago, he was struggling trying to raise Dick. Sabine was equal parts a mother and a mentor to Dick in all the ways that Bruce couldn’t be. When she left for Paris so abruptly after the two of them parted ways, Dick didn’t take it very well. Even moreso when communications halted permanently. The fact that the radio silence coincided with Marinette’s birth is something only Bruce is privy to.

However awkwardly he and Sabine left off, it doesn’t change the facts. Bruce’s lips thin. “I’m here to offer you a home.”

Swirling her French, Marinette taps at her phone, swiping away at a few messages that she’s not interested in. “I’m nineteen and more than capable of taking care of myself. Though I suppose it stands to reason that it would be difficult for you to know that, what with how busy your extracurriculars keep you.”

“I’m not doubting your capabilities.” He’s looked into what Marinette has been up to over the past nineteen years of her life. He’s never been particularly concerned with her upbringing, not with a woman like Sabine at the helm of her childhood. Bruce was right not to be worried; Marinette has grown into a multi talented, extremely well connected entrepreneur based on her own hard work. Judging by the crowd that she runs with and the multiple charities that she supports both financially and with her own time, she will be a force to be reckoned with in a few years; Tim regularly extols the virtues of the brand MDC, and if he knew that he was sisters with the designer, he’d never stop raving about her. MDC is already being compared to the likes of Dior and Gabriel when they were first starting out. Her finances aren’t anything to scoff at, and at a few galas and charity parties that he’s had to entertain, anyone who's had the privilege to wear an MDC original talks about how sweet and kind the head designer is while complimenting the CEO’s business savvy.

Bruce has to admit that he’s impressed by how she manages to keep her identities separate. No one suspects the head designer to also be manning publicity and business.

He’s been watching her for the past day, and he has to say, for somebody whose parents just died, she carries herself with remarkable ease. If not for the red around her eyes and line of shots on the bartop, Bruce would believe that Tom and Sabine’s death didn’t phase her at all.

“There’s a but, isn’t there?” Marinette says bitterly.

She’s right in that assumption. As skillful as Marinette is in her field, she has no practical combat experience. A brief stint in fencing and martial arts but nothing beyond that. Even if she practiced martial arts for years, that wouldn’t be enough to convince Bruce to let her go off on her own. Martial arts as a hobby is an entirely different game than fighting for one’s life.

Marinette is simply not the kind of person who can face down a League member and come out of it alive.

“It’s for your safety.”

For the first time since entering the bar, Bruce sees a flash of true emotion cross Marinette’s eyes. It’s hard to see the color of her eyes in the dim lighting, but it’s impossible not to see Sabine in how her eyes narrow. Perhaps the dim lighting makes it easier to; in the light of day, Marinette’s eye color— it’s too similar to the shade he sees in the mirror.

“My safety? What about my parent’s safety?”

At that, Bruce internally cringes while keeping his face carefully blank. Tom and Sabine… their end wasn’t pretty. Not the most gruesome deaths he’s ever seen, but it was up there. Bruce never thought the League would do something as cruel as desecrating the corpses of the people they murdered. They may be assassins for hire, but most times, they do have some sort of morals.

The worst part about it is that their death is most likely a result of Sabine’s past relationship with him. Last month, a tabloid that drew comparisons between Marinette and Bruce. It didn’t take long for another person to dredge up pictures from when he was still with Sabine. Tom and Sabine didn’t have enemies well-off enough to hire the League. But Bruce? Bruce did.

“I’m not interested in any protection you have to offer me.” Marinette shakes her head. “Don’t worry. I’m not like you. I won’t become a vigilante out of rage or as a coping mechanism. I’m not going to go chasing after the League in a foolish pursuit of misguided justice.”

But Marinette doesn’t understand. She has a target on her back with her newfound association to him.

“I haven’t been active in your life--”

“Understatement of the year,” Marinette mutters.

“--but I’m not going to let you die when I can prevent it.”

Downing the rest of her French, she takes the Moscow Mule away from Bruce’s hands, eyeing the liquor up on display. She drinks the cold alcohol and revels in the burn that slides down her throat. Marinette swipes on one of the notifications she’s received on her phone in order to respond to it. “You’re a good man, Bruce. But your desire to protect me— what does it stem from? What do we have in common? Why would you use your time and effort on what’s essentially a stranger?”

Bruce has no good answer for this, but he has an obvious one. As soon as it leaves his tongue, it feels wrong. “We share the same blood.”

He can’t bring himself to call Marinette his daughter. That means that he would be her father and he’s not deserving of that title.

Marinette pockets her phone, eyes trained on a set of unusually shaped glasses on the shelves. “If that’s your answer, M. Wayne, let me tell you something. Over the years, I have found that blood means very little.”

The bartender comes around and tops off the whiskey sour. The ice clicks against the glass almost inaudibly, condensation dripping down the side. Bruce can’t tell whether the bartender knows Marinette or not, but he certainly looks concerned enough to, with how his eyes shift between Marinette and himself rapid fire. When the bartender’s gaze settles on Bruce, mouth turned downward, clearly suspicious of his presence, Marinette just waves him off with a gentle smile.

Her smile turns up the same way Tom’s did. She’s right; family is more than blood.

“Your answer to why you want to protect me is that we share blood, but you speak nothing of our relationship. Shouldn’t that have been the first thing you brought up?”

Bruce shifts uncomfortably on the bar stool. Marinette just laughs at his apparent awkwardness. “Talking of blood relations seems to be something you don’t enjoy, and yet the entire premise of your protection rests on it. Tell me, M. Wayne, do you think I should even begin to consider you my father?”

Even as inebriated as Marinette must be, she brings up points that he himself wondered on his way to Paris. Wanting to see Marinette safe goes beyond a simple duty to morality and virtue. Though Bruce is known for adopting kids with tragic backstories, it simply isn’t feasible to adopt every single one he comes across. To bring Marinette into his family at this age, to expose her to the life he lives would be beyond cruel. In essence he’d be replacing two parents with a ticking time bomb: himself.

“Don’t consider me a parent, just a guardian. It’s in my best interest to see you safe, and the best way to do that is to have you move to Gotham, where my colleagues and I can assure you around the clock protection.”

At first, he distanced himself from Sabine and Marinette because he didn’t want to disrupt her current relationship with Tom. Even if the two of them insisted that he could still be part of Marinette’s life, it just didn’t feel right to have the title of father when he wasn’t the one to put in any of the hard work. Then, as Tom and Sabine grew more comfortable in their life together, settled down and opened up a bakery, he was blindsided by Jason’s death. As his daughter grew older and older, there were just too many things in his own life for him to ever hope to kindle a relationship with Marinette.

Marinette laughs, but it’s really more of a bark. Her voice is too hoarse for it to come out any other way. Bruce can’t imagine how much she’s cried this past week. “If you wanted to keep me safe, where were you a week ago? Where were you two years ago? Where were you when I was thirteen? M. Wayne, I’ve heard a lot of rumors about you throughout the years, and I’ve always brushed them off as nothing more than tabloid gossip. But perhaps they got one thing right about you: you’re a liar.”

Marinette stands, swaying slightly.

“This— if you truly want me to uproot my life, I need more than you saying it’s in your best interest. I need—” Marinette reaches up to her earrings and allows her eyes to flutter shut. She needs more than a distant guardian. She needs someone to confide in. Someone she trusts. “It was nice meeting you, but I don’t need your pity. Not now.”

As she weaves through the crowd, Bruce can’t help but wonder whether he made the right decision all those years ago to not be apart of her life.

@biodad-bruce-month

Late to the game as always. This will be a multichapter fic but all parts can be read as one shots (and also as always anything posted to tumblr is never checked for accuracy and stuff so whoop)! They’ll be released in chronological order. If you want to get tagged in all things maribat, instead of commenting it under a fic, I’d appreciate an ask or a dm instead! I haven’t been able to go back through all the previous comments and create a taglist yet but perhaps. eventually.

#bio!dad bruce wayne month 2020 #first meeting #maribat #bio!dad bruce #marinette dupain cheng #bruce wayne #referenced character death #aged up! marinette #miraculous ladybug #dcu

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st0nesnglitter · 4 years ago

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Book club-- second meeting

You and Remus start a little book club <3

Part one

You and Remus meet up to offically start your book club

[Includes: swearing, vague descriptions of books and a cute Remus.

This is kinda shit, I’m sorryyyy]

—————

You brought your bookbag into your room and jumped onto the bed. It felt like you were floating and needed to ground yourself to keep all your expectations low. But your thought kept circling back to your interaction with Remus and the small crush that you had gathered your fifth year had grown twice it’s size. He wanted to meet you, he wanted to read your book, he wanted you to read his. In all the swarming thoughts you remembered the book he gave you. You picked up your bag from the floor and grabbed the navy blue book, it was quite thick and you knew that it would capture you every evening until your week was up. Flipping to the first page you saw the title of the book again but under it there was an inregularlity. Black ink was pressed into the parchment, spelling out a neat “Remus Lupin”. A fond smile spread over your lips and you dragged your finger over it, feeling the indent of where he had pushed his quill. After reading the first few pages you saw it again on the sixth page. As you kept reading you found more and more of his annotations, his notes to himself, or perhaps to the next reader.

During the week of classes you kept trying to steal glances of Remus but it was hard since Sirius always argued that they sat in the back of the class. He got called up to demonstrate a spell during DADA and as he walked back to his seat he winked at you and dropped a piece of paper in your open textbook. You opened it carefully so you wouldn’t gain the teachers attention.

”You have good taste in books”

You smiled at the note and turned around and pointed to him and then put up two fingers whilst you mouthed ”you too”.

After the last class on the Wednesday, halfway through the week, Remus stood outside the doors of your classroom breathing heavily and with red cheeks.

”Good afternoon” he greeted and you walked up to him.

”Why are you out of breath?” You tilted your head as you asked your question.

”I, uh, ran here to make sure that I could talk to you” he mumbled as he scratched the back of your neck. Both of your faces were now rosy as you started walking down the corridor with him.

”And what could be so important? Wanna leave the club?” You joked.

”Quite the opposite, I have an idea for it” he grinned and your head spinned as you saw his eyes twinkle. Even if you were sure that you weren’t Remus’ type you still felt over moon that he at least valued your reading hobby and that you two could share that.

”Let’s hear it Lupin”.

”After our book clubbing on Saturday we could go down to the bookstore in Hogsmeade, pick out next weeks books” he fumbled with his hands as he spoke and looked toward you hopefully.

”Of course, gotta keep this club alive” You exclaimed and his face soften from the nervous grin he had donned during his proposion. He slowed down as you got to a crossroads of two corridors and he started leaning to the left, into the new hallway.

”Great! Uh, I gotta find Black now but hopefully I’ll see you around, otherwise: Saturday. I’ll be at the tower at around noon” he started to turn around to go in his own direction but he turned to you one last time.

”See ya later, darling” he said before turning his back to you and disappeared with long strides down the corridor to your left. You stopped in your tracks as you heard the nickname.

Remus Lupin was a punctial man and he was leaning against a wall when you walked down the steep stairs of the Ravenclaw tower. He had on beige trousers and a white t-shirt. It was an unusual sight to see him without his uniform but you liked it, and the warm weather had led to teachers being a lot less harsh with dress code on students days off. You stumbled a little on the last step as you took him in and had to put your hand on the wall to steady yourself.

“Careful there, wouldn’t want you to hurt yourself” he said softly and you looked down on your feet in an attempt to hide your rosy cheeks.

”I have an idea on where we should have the club” he started walking off in the opposite direction of the library. As you got to an empty corridor he looked over his shoulder before pulling out a neatly folded parchment.

”What’s that?” You asked as you saw the blank sheet.

”It’s my secret weapon” he winked down at you and murmered words you coudn’t hear and you saw how ink started appearing on the paper.

”Ah, ah, ah” he tutted and turned away from you. ”No peeking”.

You pouted and crossed your arms over your chest, he chuckled as he took in you appearance. You looked tiny from his tall point of view and the way you posed made the illusion stronger. He looked back down on the paper, on the map, and walked a couple steps until he found a particularly square stone in the wall and he pushed it in, a doorway starting to appear by the it. You gasped and looked at him like he was mad as he turned around with a triumphant smile.

”C’mon, gotta be quick” he said as he grabbed your arm and pulled you into the hallway before the stone closed behind you. He tried to keep you two moving but you stopped to look around.

”How did you do that? How did you know that?”

”Well I don’t wanna reveal all my secrets just yet, c’mon we’re almost there”. He turned on his heel and started to walk again. His head was slightly tilted so he didn’t hit the irregular stones in the ceiling. You soon found yourself to be in front of a door and he nodded for you to open it. Inside the door there was a circular room with a huge window, a small sofa beneath it and bookshelfs all around.

”Where are we exactly?” You asked slowly as you looked back at him and he looked down back at you.

”I dunno really. I think it’s an old room for some teacher” he hummed as he walked toward the little sofa. You followed him and looked out of the window. You had trouble locating where in the castle you were, but that slipped to the back of your mind as you took in the view of the trees and the beaming sun; the view was ten times better than the one from your favorite window in the library.

”I go here to read” he said softly and he held to book you borrowed him in his large hands. You smiled at him and sat down next to him and pulled out his book from your bag. ”Some peace and quiet away from the guys”.

”D’you wanna go first?” He nodded and opened the book as he started to discuss it, focusing especially on the plottwist. You tried to follow his thoughts but he talked so enthusiastically and he gestured wildly with his hands that you kind of zoned out and just looked at him. Suddenly he stopped talking and hus gaze burned into your eyes expecting an answer.

”What?” You asked dumbfounded and he chuckled softly as he moved closer to you.

”Here” he said and pointed onto a sentence toward the end of the book. You followed his finger as he read it aloud. When the sentence ended he turned his head toward you and you realized how close you two were. The scars that andorned his face were even more beautiful up close and the smell of his cologne filled up your nose.

”It’s beautiful” you stated about what he just quoted.

”Beautiful? It’s tragic, heartwrenching, it’s.. it’s painful” he countered and his thick brows furrowed slightly.

”Well those don’t cancel each other out. Beautiful and tragic walk hand in hand” you started and his brows moved apart slightly. ”Nothing in life is beautiful without a little tragedy, nothing is ever just on one side of that spectrum. You need the contrast to appreaciate both sides.. Basically everything is a little fucked up”.

His lips had parted and they turned up into a small smile.

”Well aren’t you poetic” he said and you giggled.

”Just my observation”.

As you moved on to the book you had read you were the one rambling on avout characters, plot and the overall writing. When your voice faded out you shared a beat of silence with soft eyecontact before you snapped out of it.

”Why do you write in your books?” You asked bluntly and cut through the silence.

”Cause it only feels right” he replied happily.

”Only feels right?”

He let out a breath and sat up more straight.

”Books impact you, they leave something in you. After you’ve read a book it will follow you, keep it in your mind, use the words of the book. So it only feels right that I leave something in them, leave some of my words.”

You were taken aback by his statement. From his reputation as a prankster, as a member of the most notorius group in Hogwarts you wouldn’t think he would like to discuss literature on such a personal level.

”Who’s the poetic one now?” You giggled and he smiled down onto his book. ”That’s beautiful Remus” you added, afraid that he was embarrased.

”And a maybe a little tragic” he mused and you broke out into a grin.

—————

Part three? Maybe a lil Hogsmeade date?

#remus lupin x y/n #remus lupin fic #remus lupin blurb #remus lupin fluff #remus lupin x you #remus lupin x reader #remus lupin

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lunewell · 3 years ago

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The Lunewell Saga - Natura: Ch 3

Chapter 1 here

Chapter 2 here

Can also be read on ao3 (:

Book Sumary:

Zarifa Birch, an antique shop worker with an unusual past, has made a home for herself in the sleepy town of Lunewell. Though the shop she works at is not exactly ordinary, with cryptid items and odd occurrences, she has managed to carve the normal life she always desperately wished for out of it.

However, all that comes crumbling down, as a woman from Zarifa’s past throws everything into chaos. Faced with unimaginable horrors, seemingly unsolvable mysteries, and returning repressed feelings and memories, Zarifa along with her coworkers, must find a way to return the balance- and escape the cruel hands of death in this eldritch horror mystery

As always, he had not been himself in the night. He had been an old man, holding a rather nice-smelling bag, walking through the forest towards… something. Something he cared about.

His thoughts were not quite his own, but not the man's either; more a drowsy sort of mish-mash of voices, a bit like falling asleep in the middle of a bustling city. However, none of it really mattered, as he very much felt, smelled, and lived in the forest, above the crunchy leaves and around the warm scent. So hard to place. It was familiar, and yet, the exact detail of it had faded out.

He could hear his own voice, humming. It did not sound like his voice, not really, but it felt like his own, and that was enough for it to be his own. The vibrations travelled through his chest as he burst out in melodic sounds. He was humming a workers’ song, one that someone in his family had sung. Again, the details were blurry, like there was a block in his brain.

The forest was calm, basking in a sunny glow. Autumn leaves decked the ground, and the trees looked familiar. There was a comfort in this place, a home in the scent of mud and moss, and one that he cherished happily.

The trees, though originally quiet to his senses, rustled softly in a pleasant way. The wind must’ve been extra strong, he must’ve just not noticed it through the thick shield of stems.

The trees rustled once more, and felt a beat against the soles of his feet. It was slight, barely noticeable, but it got him to tilt his stiff, aged, neck downwards, if even just for a second.

It was then that it truly happened.

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw the trees curving, but he didn’t have any time to process as he was slammed down to the ground by a vine sprouting from the ground. A crack wrecked through his body, not unlike the sound a carrot makes when snapping, and he, in what simultaneously was and wasn’t his voice, howled in pain. His leg, already weak to begin with, felt as though it had been ripped in two, and he could clearly see red blood leaking from where the knee was bent at an unnatural angle. Fire coursed through his nerves, burning from his leg to his spine. The pain was so mind-numbing that he didn’t notice the much pointier vine heading right for him until it was too late.

As though it was sentient, a throned vine plunged at him, and punctured right into his stomach. It sliced all the way through him, as though his body was not but soft butter, before pulling out in an equally swift motion and landing him limp on the ground.

There was no pain, even as thorns began to wrap around and puncture every millimeter of skin, only numbness. Numbness from pain that could not be described in the English language. Numbness that no one alive had ever felt. Numbness that acted as a relenting defeat against his continuous fight for any hope of life.

And as he lay there, hands bloodstained, stomach gaping, and so incredibly empty, he feared. Feared for his wife, feared for his unachieved goals, feared for what was coming next. Even this fear, however, held a tragic sort of air to it, as it was dulled down by unrelenting numbness.

The numbness faded, along with all thoughts, as white, hot, pain came crashing down like a hammer. He let out one last pitiful, agony filled screech - for a scream was much too human to cover the sound - muffled by the thorns that had stuck themselves into his lips, before everything went black in what was truly the kindest mercy. ————————————————

Bruin awoke with a gasp, clutching his stomach. His eyes darted around his barren room, pulse racing at an olympic level under his skin. With a weak breath - still clutching his stomach with an iron grip - he closed his eyes, and repeated his mantra; You’re Bruin Becker, you’re not them, you’re safe.

The phrase played over and over again in his mind as his vision slowly morphed from a blur of panic, to the usual, groggy morning one. Taking a more stable breath, he slowly let go of his stomach. He couldn’t resist scanning his hands for blood, though he knew there was none.

Once he was sure his hands were clean, he rubbed the sleep out of his eyes, and watched the world come to life. The white desk and closet popped from the midnight blue walls, the sheets on his bed clear as glass. He glanced at his face in the mirror, and was not surprised at what he saw; deep, dark bags under his slender eyes, porcupine-like hair, and a thin sheet of sweat that lined his forehead.

He collapsed back into his bed with a tired sigh, wanting nothing more than to ignore the clock that was taunting him with the ridiculous hour he had awoken. He would probably do that. Go back to blissful sleep, that is. He doubted he even had gotten an ounce of it because of his stupid… nightmares? Visions? Whatever they were.

He closed his eyes, relaxing back into his bed, mind so far gone and forgetting one quintessentially, very, important thing. A thing he was oh-so-kindly reminded of by what could have only been described as the sound of every single plate in the house shattering at once.

With an almost inhuman speed, Bruin threw the cover from his bed, and darted to the room next door. He adjusted his hair along the way in a frantic motion, pulse having quickened yet again at the commotion. He braked as he reached the kitchen doorway, looking at the source of the sound.

On the grey tiles sat a dazed Grant, covered head to toe in flour, shards of ceramic plates scattered around him like a bomb had just gone off. Grant looked sheepishly at Bruin, blue eyes just as bagged as his own. “Uhh… good morning?”

Bruin couldn’t help the look of absolute disappointment that rolled over his face. “How did you manage to - never mind. I don’t want to know,” he said, exasperated, pinching the bridge of his nose.

“Well, if you must know,” Grant began, ignoring Bruin’s statement, “I was trying to make pancakes. Keyword there being trying.” He got up and tried dusting off the flour powdered on him like snow, but gave up almost immediately. “It was a shame really. I make lovely pancakes. It’s the only good thing about living with me, according to my dearest exes.”

“I’m surprised they listed any good things about living with you,” Bruin mumbled, before joining Grant to pick up the last pieces of the plates.

Though he would never admit it, Grant had been a blessing in disguise. When he first rented the little cottage in Lunewell, he had accepted that his co-worker would be an annoying, messy, music-box obsessed pest in the house that he would hopefully have to deal with as little as humanly possible.

Yet, almost like a mold, he had to admit that Grant had grown on him. Sure, he still couldn’t stand the messiness, and he swore that every time he turned a corner he saw another damn music-box, but those were things he had learned to forgive over the years.

“What possessed you to make pancakes?” Bruin questioned as they threw the last pieces in the trash.

Grant quieted, biting his lip.“They’re great comfort food,” he said slowly, as if testing out the words.

Bruin tensed, suddenly hyper aware of the rumbling in his stomach. “Oh,” he said quietly, after minutes of silence, “did you have a bad night’s sleep?” The question was pointless, but Bruin felt the need to ask it anyway. If only to take away from the barking that had begun playing in his ears.

“Yeah,” Grant responded, eyeing him, “I was up working on fixing an antique box, planning to go to bed, but I think someone was begging for their life outside, which wasn’t a very nice sound to fall asleep too.”

It was an invitation, one which he pondered for a while, before finally giving his response; “I wouldn't imagine so, no.”

He looked away as Grant's ocean blue eyes filled with pity, something that hurt him as much as any gun wound. “Hey, I… uh,” Grant began, no longer looking at him, “don’t feel obligated to answer this, but, are they getting worse?”

“You should probably go and get changed. I’ll make some breakfast for us. We still have a while before work.”

Grant, bless his heart, didn’t push. Instead, he simply nodded, vanishing the sad look from his eyes. He was halfway out the door, when he turned around with a snap; “that’s what I was forgetting to tell you!” he said, “Zarifa called earlier, she wants us to come in early.”

“Really? That’s unusual.”

“My thoughts exactly. I didn’t ever find out why though, she remained all vague. Sounded a bit panicked, if I’m honest.”

Bruin nodded. “We’ll head out after you and I get changed then. I’m not really in the mood for breakfast anyway.”

“Aye aye, Bruiny,” Grant said with a mock salute, before slipping out the door and presumably into his bedroom. Bruin did the same, taking one last glance around the rustic kitchen before walking towards his own room with a newfound haste. Zarifa had always been more than lenient with the times they showed and left work, especially once she realised both Grant and Bruin had abysmal sleep quality and patterns, so something like this was not only highly unusual, but equally concerning.

He just hoped nothing too terrible had happened. ——————————————

The walk to the Office was a beautiful one, especially this time of year. They were both bundled in hats and scarves that Grant had insisted on, as golden yellows and flaming hues passed and fell around them. For all the flack they could both give Lunewell - a lack of internet service, isolation from almost everything, and navigational systems that were seemingly built by a sadist - neither could deny that living there on mornings like this was truly a magical experience.

Or would be, were it not for the unfortunate scenario.

“Oh I hope she’s alright,” Grant panted out, slightly out of breath from the speedwalking that bordered on jogging. Working in antiques was unfortunately not a field that kept one in great physical condition, and in moments like this it truly showed.

“I’m sure she’s fine,” Bruin reassured, “thinking logically, we know nothing serious has happened,” probably, “so it’s most likely something mundane, slightly ominous at best.”

Grant looked unsure at that, but didn’t say anything. Under the glasses, Bruin could practically see the well-oiled cogs turning in his head, eyes glaze as though lost in the mechanical world. It was his typical zoning out look, which was for once highly appreciated, as Bruin himself was in no mood to talk.

They walked up the path, letting the old, wooden store come into view. It seemed no different than yesterday, albeit much darker, except for, alarmingly enough, a room in the upstairs flat. They shared a questioning look, panic visible on both their faces, before speeding up and half-sprinting to the door.

With a lead ball in his stomach, Bruin realised that the door was not only unlocked, but stood slightly ajar. He shoved it further open, with an urgency but still lightly, as not to break any antiques.

Even the golden rays of autumn sun couldn’t hide the ruins of the shop. The furniture was at a slight angle, as though a lash had come whipping at the legs, the fragile glass and ceramics that had been close to shattering finally lay dead and dismembered on the floor, and most concerningly, there was an unidentifiable black liquid smelling vaguely of ozone.

“Zarifa?” Grant began calling, stepping over the mess with all the grace of a drunk octopus, “Zari? Boss? Are you in there?” Bruin followed his shouting companion, straightening the furniture as he went. They made it to the counter, still no sight of her, though that was changed as they heard a thunderclap of a sound emitting from the backroom.

They were in the employees’ lounge within seconds of the sound, greeted by the sight of an unusually casually dressed Zarifa surrounded by long walls of antiques, stacked in an organised manner. “Oh good,” she said, upon seeing them, giving them a warm smile that reached her tired eyes, “you made it.”

Bruin wasn’t so much looking at her, as staring at the large pile of antiques behind her. Some of them he recognised, like the ‘Girl in Field’ painting, or that odd statue of an old man made of clay, 200 years old, but painted in a cornflower blue pigment that could be no more than 100, though there were also surprisingly a lot of pieces he had no recollection of seeing. Zarifa, noticing his staring, looked at him apologetically; “Sorry I had to dismantle your system. I tried to keep the organisation, and I promise I’ll help sort it afterwards.”

“It’s fine. I’ll sort it myself,” he assured, not quite sure he truly trusted anyone to touch what he had sorted. Grant was a disaster on legs, and for as much as Zarifa was good at keeping schedule, she lacked the sheer efficient sorting instinct he had had since childhood. “Why is it all up here? Was there water in the basement again?”

Zarifa shook her head, before pulling a slightly splintered, old, wooden box with a golden, dust-painted leaf-engraving on top from behind one of the piles. Bruin’s eyes widened as he remembered where it had previously been, involuntarily glancing upstairs, and then back down to Zarifa. She hadn’t really… had she? No one had ever been in Valours flat, hell, no one even had the key to it.

She opened the lid cautiously, the box creaking as ancient and rusted hinges pulled back. She pulled out aged, folded paper, and slowly laid it down in Bruins hands. Though he would of course properly examine it later, he could tell it was far older than anything he was comfortable holding with his bare, gloveless hands. “It’s more sturdy than it looks,” comforted Zarifa, upon seeing his panicky stature, “go ahead, open it up.”

With a force comparable to a feather, he opened it in precise, calculated movements. He winced as he saw the handwriting, the fine, thin squiggles dating the paper to 300 years old at least, letting go of the note to the point it was barely still in his hands. He felt Grant peeking over his shoulder, and down onto the note curiously, mumbling the words as he read down the torn page.

It wasn’t a very long read, but it added tenfold to the confusion. “What seal?” Grant eventually asked, looking up at Zarifa, “this is the page blonde-pink-girl wanted, right? Why would anyone want this?”

Zaria sighed, looking at the paper with a darkness in her eyes. She looked contemplative, opening her mouth a few times to begin a sentence, before shaking her head and going back to thought. Finally, after tracing the golden part of the box a few rounds, silence echoing the room, she spoke; “We’ve all had encounters with Them before, right?”

Even with that single word, everyone in the room instantly Knew what she was talking about. It was Them that had drawn the entire group to the shop, Them that had left that hollowness that lived in all their eyes, Them that left all of them flinching at sounds and throwing hurried glances over shoulders, and most importantly, Them that created the bond they all shared.

Zarifa signed; “Take a seat, boys. This might require a bit of an explanation.”

—————- After a long, long conversation, involving the raiding of Valour’s alcohol stash for some well earned drinking, along with expensive chocolates for an alcohol-abstaining Bruin, all had finally been explained. There was a silence in the air, tinged in cheap wine and dread, as they all looked intently at the ornate box. “So,” Grant said, clasping his hands ripping away the silence like a band-aid, “we’re dealing with a big orb, monster thingy, which intentions are unknown, who kidnapped our intruder who was reading text that made vines sprout around her and smoke fill her eyes.”

“Yeah, that sums up what I experienced this morning nicely.”

Grant blinked, Bruin hurrying his mouth which had been firmly hidden deeper in his palm. “Fucking hell, I need another drink,” Grant exclaimed with a groan, reaching his hand out with his designated office mug towards Bruin.

“You guys are all out,” Bruin said with a tired voice, “besides, I don’t think alcohol is the wisest right now. I think we should try to figure out what actually happened.”

“Good idea,” Zarifa said with a nod, “we can begin with the note. Funnily enough, it’s the easiest thing here to deconstruct.” She took the box and gave it one last glance over, before rotating it away from herself and giving Grant and Bruin the opportunity to see it; “Obviously the seal is referring to the monster. I think it’s just a matter of gathering the ingredients, and whatever happened, will be reversed.”

Bruin, more than prepared, had already pulled out his black notebook and found an empty page. He looked once again at the section of the note containing the ingredients:

A key is forged by fragments of Touched sanity eating a sight of one that Sees, dipped in water oh-so divine. Once the key has begun, the fragments must sew themselves between the fabric, letting all webbed light shine on them. As they are blessed by the minute, and after the final step of-

And out of the nonsense, quickly jotted down the list of ideas that had been proposed by a slightly tipsy Grant, and an unusually frantic Zarifa;

Fragmented Touched sanity (Magic mind? Pieces of brain?) Sight of one that Sees (Some creature’s eyes obviously, maybe cow eye cult? (Most likely, Grant’s paranoia over cow eye cult, and not actually cow eye cult)) Water divine (Holy water?) Webbed light (Interconnected grids of light? Light systems?)

Jotting them down like that, was sadly, not very revealing. Partly because all their minds were still reeling, and what they had brainstormed was mostly a series of disjointed thoughts rather than a narrative, and partly because there was still so much hidden at the bottom of the riddle ocean. Bruin could still hardly find himself believing Zarifa’s situation, and had it not been for the black liquid stains he saw himself, the cryptic note, and the wobbly tone of her words as she recounted the events, he probably would have dismissed her as being driven a bit mad by paranoia.

Even now, fully aware of the fact that it was real, he was incredibly tempted to just storm out the shop, notebook in hand. Though he encountered the unearthly almost every time he was in deep slumber, he had never actually had a fully conscious encounter. And those… nightmares, visions - whatever they could be called - had left him gluing the pieces of his mind with only the instinct of survival. A real encounter would break him.

And yet, he couldn’t run. He had nowhere to go. Thorns Antique wasn’t so much a place he had chosen to stay, as a shelter he had desperately thrown himself into. Physically, yes of course he could travel or move. Marcus had been asking him if they could move in together for months, and would be more than elated to take him in. And he was sure he could put that business degree to good use.

But, though he was physically free as a dove, his mental wings were clipped. What was he supposed to do when he inevitably woke up one night in Marcus’s bed, screaming about the knife that he was convinced was lodged in his brain? How would he explain the countless of cryptic, weird, objects littered between pages upon pages of ripped-out death notices? Markus would see him as insane, and any future job he would have wouldn’t tolerate his hazy, obsessive, jumpy, and sleep-deprived state.

Though he did not personally know what their stories really were, he suspected Zarifa and Grant were stranded on the same boat of forbidden knowledge. Zarifa had no interest in history, having a passion for literature instead, and a people-pleasing nature and work ethic that could get her far, and Grant, though a bit of a clumsy idiot, was also incredibly academically bright, and a true cityguy at heart. They were an odd group, but a strongly connected one.

Or, at least somewhat connected.

“I propose we figure out what to do now,” Bruin muttered, after reading the bullet points a couple of times, “I don’t think there’s a standard protocol for situations such as these.”

Zarifa hummed in agreement, leaning against the table with a pensive look, sipping on some more wine. “I think we should prioritise figuring out what the riddle is actually saying,” she said, “and I think most of the answers lay here. There must be some connections between all this supernatural weirdness, and I’m pretty sure it lies in the antiques.”

Bruin and Grant nodded, both pulling the wildly uncomfortable chairs close to the table in a loud, squeaking drag. “As for the stuff that we can’t find the answer to,” Zarifa continued, once everyone was seated, “we can always ask for that.” She turned to Grant; “You’ve called Valour, right?”

Grant blinked, the words taking a few seconds to register, before grimacing sheepishly. “I’ll go do that afterwards, promise.” Bruin sighed, but Zarifa simply nodded. She’d always been a lot more forgiving of his scatterbrain than Bruin.

“I’ll do the same with Lottie. Assuming she’s, well, alive. She probably won’t answer, but it's worth a shot.”

“Thought Lottie didn’t give us her number?” Grant said, Bruin mirroring his confusion. Zarifa stiffened, smile dropping by a minuscule amount.

“She didn’t, but I know how to get in contact with her,” she stated, in her best assertive tone. Before Bruin could ask what she meant by that, she powered on, bulldozing in a purposeful manner. “What about you, Bruin?”

Bruin racked his mind for a good answer, recalling what needed to be done, and all the archival systems they had buried in the husk of a computer. “Every item has a corresponding ID, and a short descriptor. I wouldn’t mind taking a look at both the system and the antiques . However, we’re all out of gloves, and our magnifying glass has been broken for two months, so I’ll head to the shop first.”

While this was completely true, Bruin did leave out the little detail that it was also beyond time to see Marcus again. Through a mix of nightly hauntings, and antique mishaps, the days had somehow slipped by without them having a proper chat. He didn’t so much mind the lack of interaction, as the guilt that came with it.

“Thank you,” Zarifa said with a smile, “and, if it isn’t too much of a bother, please keep an eye out for any… unusual sights.” He nodded, her shoulders slumping down visibly, even under the thick cream turtleneck. Grant then promptly slipped out of the room to give Valour a ring with his smashed phone, and Zarifa headed out the front door and into the shop to tidy what was left of the mess, leaving him all alone.

He buried his hands into his neatly combed hair, tension deflating like a balloon as he exhaled heavily. His head was being squeezed by a thick rubber band, though whether it was the usual sleep deprivation or stress was anyone’s guess, and his eyes were droopy and heavy, as if magnets were attempting to pull them closed.

Nevertheless, he got up, pulling his winter coat and messenger bag off the chair. He left the scarf and hat where they lay, feeling they were a bit over the top considering it was only October. Slipping the black notebook into the black and purple bag, he headed out the door, and towards the outside world, heading in a general life direction he was not fully comfortable with.

#The Lunewell Saga - Natura #the lunewell saga #natura #writing #wip excerpt #original writing #writing wip

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