#— ❛❛ // ANSWERS ¦ we are unusual and tragic and alive

[hochmvt]

                    ⸻ continuation of [א] with the one and only @gruenwald

Moments like these were so beautiful about her, he thought. The way she looked after the children as they ran back to their parents or siblings, some of them straight to their tents. When she was unobserved and on her own. Lost in thought. Herself. Sometimes he had the feeling that he could read her every emotion, even if he was in no position to assume it. They simply hadn't known each other long enough for that. Initially he thought, they had only met briefly, like two straight lines that intersected at one point, only to move further apart at a steady pace. But their meeting had taken on a different character; they were sine curves that ran at different intervals, but always met at regular points. Perhaps they would eventually converge more and more. Or maybe not. A beautiful prospect and a  pleasant  feeling  that  accompanied  the  uncertainty  of  things. Sometimes it came over him when he thought about her for a long time. This warm feeling spreading through his body. Those were the beautiful moments of the last few weeks.

“Ouch!” he laughed and looked down at her, theatrically placing his hand on his chest as if pain was coursing through his innermost being. “How blind I was, entranced by thy visage, believing at last I'd found one who heeded my tales,” the blonde claimed, looking down at the brunette. How pretty she was, he thought. For a moment, he paused as he studied her eyes, her lips. The longer he looked (was he staring already?), the more nervous he became. What if anything would change in their relationship if he made a move now that he couldn't foresee the consequences of? Of everything he had encountered so far, humans were the more complex beings, whose  thought  processes  he  could  not  always  comprehend. Overwhelmed, he looked around the camper, examining individual objects as he wiped his clammy hands on his black jeans. “So... we could either watch a movie or something or read or see if there's anything exciting happening in the woods tonight: Eerie whispers, forest spirits, hints for ancient civilizations, strange lights, young couples making out in ways no one really wants to see? Really the stuff dreams are made of, if you ask me. What'd you be down for?”

[hochmvt]

It hadn't taken long for Zeev's desperate sobs and all the expressions of love in every possible way in the world to turn into something completely different: Justifications. And apologies. And Isaiah listened to him and gently stroked his hair, reassuring him over and over again that everything was okay. He held him without ceasing, not even remotely acknowledging the possibility that he was angry or disappointed or that he didn't approve of Zeev. “It's okay, baby, hey...” he spoke softly into the silence between them and studied his eyes for a while, kissing his cheek as Zeev put his arms around him again and hugged him tightly. And throughout it all, Isaiah listened to him, gently stroking his back, showing patience and understanding, giving him the time the Sundawner needed to not only find his words, but to find himself again.

At Zeev's question, the American's features softened. He gently stroked his husband's cheek, kissed his lips and shook his head. “I will not judge you for the things you have done, my love. You did not disappoint me, Zeev...” he smiled gently at him and stroked his cheek, through his blonde hair and pulled him slightly towards him so that the other found comfort against his own body. He stroked his back ceaselessly, soothing him further and kissing the top of his head as he finally leaned against him. “How are you feeling with all of this?” he asked him after a while. Asked how he felt about his decision, what was going on inside him. And Zeev described how the decision had of course burdened him because he had to do what he had done. But there was no feeling of regret because it had worked. Because his Isaiah was back, who addressed him as my love and honey and baby who listened to him, who took an interest in him and let him go to bed every night knowing that he was loved—just the way he was. Then Zeev had been silent for a while and Isaiah had gently stroked his thigh, then his chest. He gave him time to think, time to reflect on how he might still be feeling. He was afraid, he said. Of what the consequences would be for him. Of going through all the things again that he had hoped to have put behind him for good. Whether Isaiah had the patience, the energy and the desire to do the arduous work again that it had required of him—the co-dependency that Isaiah himself had also fallen victim to—should Zeev relapse. Pleasure and fear were eerily close together and Zeev's current state of mind was an inevitable testament to that. “You were always so soft and gentle with me, my love. This does not affect the way I see you. I'll always do the work with you again. I'll always be with you and help you, I'll support you and I'll make sure it'll work once more. Okay? You're not alone in this.” 

Isaiah gently took both of his lover's hands in his, stroking the bandage with his thumb and examining their hands. Zeev's slender ringed fingers, delicate and innocent somehow, Isaiah's underneath, his hands a little larger and rougher, also bandaged. As if they had seen more, as if they had had to make more difficult decisions, as if they had done far rougher work than was really the case. But for years they had been busy with delicate labor, gluing together the small fragments of Zeev's shattered heart with great effort, special magic glittery-purple superglue, love, care and diligence. Some shards were purple, some yellow, others pink, some red and some shimmered in an intense blue. Shards that bore witness to big dreams, love, lust and security, fears and sadness, sunshine in the heart and a lightness of spirit. Shards that represented the colorful mosaic of Zeev's life and emphasized its many facets. There were times when the mosaic crumbled into pieces again, fragments of it missing. There were moments that shook Zeev in his being. Also because of Isaiah. When he didn't think about how he said things or when he expressed himself poorly. And each time he apologized, reassuring that he did not intend to hurt him, and each time he sat back down in Zeev's chest—hair disheveled, eyes bright and full of ambition, his tongue between his lips, as he always did when he was concentrating—and put back in what had fallen out. Sometimes bits of splinters got caught in his hair, sometimes he cut himself on memories and sometimes glue residue made him think of the little earthquake in Zeev for days afterwards. And when he was done, he would straighten up and look at what he had mended. And each time, a little more light would shine through and illuminate Zeev's being. He was proud of that. This was his home. He nestled into the dazzling, colorful palace, closing his eyes and enjoying the colorful lights dancing on his pale skin as the great sun emanating from Zeev warmed him and made him feel comfortably warm. “You are inexhaustible light, Zeev,” he added to his preceding sentence and gently kissed Zeev's palm. “I take you as you are. Scars and all.”

While Zara had been talking to Zeev in the doorway of the guest bedroom, Isaiah had remade their bed, determined to take care of the laundry tomorrow. The two siblings spoke quietly to each other, Zara sought a lot of physical contact of her brother, holding his hand or hugging him while she rested her head against his chest and closed her eyes. Isaiah had made Zeev and himself each a cup of sleepy tea, he had put Zeev's pajamas on the radiator so they would be warm when he put them on and went to bed. The podcast host's gaze went to the Sundawner as he stood in the doorway, his eyes red from crying and tired from long, sleepless and lonely nights. Isaiah smiled at him, straightened up and kissed his lips gently, leading him further into the bedroom. Helped him out of his clothes and into his pre-warmed, soft pajamas. Helped him into bed, tucked him in and gave him his tea. “I know cake isn't really your thing... But mom always brought me strawberry cake when I was feeling particularly sad or exhausted. Maybe you could help me with one slice?” he spoke softly to him, stroking his cheek and hair and kissing his lips gently, as he leaned down.

Delicate rays of sunlight shone through the half-drawn curtains of the bedroom and, contrary to all expectations, Isaiah did not wake up all by himself. Zeev usually got up with the sun: Prepared breakfast, started the coffee machine, made some tea, read some. But not today. He was still weary and exhausted and needed much more sleep than usual. The Sundawner had woken up once that night because the other side of the bed was empty. “Isaiah?” he'd called almost frantically through the house—regardless of the fact that they had guests—and had run down the stairs, looking around in panic and Isaiah had looked at him from the kitchen, a bowl in one hand, spoon in the other, eyes widened while a drop of milk ran down his lip. The blonde had chewed a little, his mouth still too full to speak and held his hand in front of his mouth, as he trusted his abilities to respond with a decently understandable answer; thus replying with a half-full mouth, mumbling, "Sorry, I was hungry. You brought cornflakes." And Zeev had exhaled with relief and then started laughing, rubbing his forehead and joined him in the kitchen. Isaiah smirked in response and finished eating, putting his arm around the witcher as he leaned against him, the American wiping his mouth and kissing Zeev's cheek.

And now he was lying next to him, sleeping like an angel, his features relaxed and calm. Isaiah gently kissed his cheek, tightened his grip on him and sighed in contentment, lost in thought as he buried his nose in his husband's hair and closed his eyes. “I find you in everything, Zeev,” he had mumbled into the other's hair at some point. “In my coffee in the morning or when I'm grocery shopping, when I'm doing the dishes and sunlight falls through the curtains. A life that doesn't have you in it is impossible for me. I'm so glad I kept my heart open to let you in.” As he spoke, he kissed the top of the other's head again, closed his eyes and placed a few more kisses on his neck, his shoulder and the soft skin behind his ear. And Zeev slept on steadfastly, breathing calmly. Isaiah turned over, took the small notepad from his bedside table and wrote a note for Zeev:

An hour and a half later, Zeev had come downstairs. Yawning and sleepier than was usual for him, he had slumped onto the couch, put his arm around Isaiah, snuggled up to him and wished him, Zara and Carter a good morning. The witcher had looked around sleepily, kept quiet a lot and let a simple nod of his head speak for itself. Tired, lazy kisses. Holding hands. “Where's your cup, love? Didn't find it this mornin',” Isaiah had asked when Zeev had already sat down at the table, alongside their guests. He wanted to make him and Zara a cup of tea, as well as Carter and himself another cup of coffee. Without a word, Zeev got up and fetched the cup from the living room that Isaiah had tried to fix a few days earlier. The blonde furrowed his eyebrows in irritation, studying Zeev as he explained that he had kept it safe so that it wouldn't break again in the turmoil of the last few days. He had kept it safe, Isaiah thought. Carefully, he took the cup and examined it, the fine cracks implying it wasn't perfectly glued together. As a test, he held it under the tap, poured water into it, and the three leaks that the cup had undoubtedly also gained from being glued together became painfully obvious. He was determined to paint Zeev a new cup within the next weeks. Setting the fixed mug on the fireplace mantelpiece in the living room—Zeev would surely find a good use for the broken ceramic—, he instead took another mug into which he poured the other's tea.

After breakfast, Zara and Carter had left fairly early. Isaiah had thanked them both sincerely for their help and support, kissed them both on the cheek and asked them to call when they arrived home safely. And while her brother said goodbye, too, Isaiah had given them both moments to themselves, which they undoubtedly needed time and again.

Even though the couch had been inviting to rest on, they had both decided to sit down in the garden. The green picnic blanket, embroidered with small strawberries, was soft beneath their exhausted bodies, the heated earth beneath them palpable through the fabric. Isaiah was lying stretched out on his back, one arm around Zeev, whose head rested on his chest, while the other rested casually on his stomach. His fingers moved calmly over the Sundawner's back, drawing flowers and stars and sometimes just circles. Zeev's eyes were half closed, but he was attentive, responding whenever Isaiah asked him anything about the garden, the flowers, or his well-being. The sun shone down on them benevolently, its warmth felt strangely homely, Isaiah thought. Although it was Zeev who was closer to the sun than Isaiah would ever be. The witcher had tended and created the garden that surrounded them with so much love, a place full of life and color, not just for them, but for insects and the smallest residents. Yellow and orange chrysanthemums bent towards the sun, the scent of various herbs that Isaiah couldn't quite name lingered in the air. Isaiah squinted against the sun and let his gaze wander into the sky. The clouds drifted slowly by, lazy and weightless, like ships on an indiscernible ocean. “There...” he pointed to the sky at some point. “There's... a cat. Undoubtedly. And there, that looks like a star.” Zeev opened one eye and followed Isaiah's gaze without saying anything. His lips twisted in a faint smile that was almost more of a memory than an expression of joy. It was one of those moments when words were unnecessary. For a moment, everything was beautiful. Healing in a way. The pain of the past few days slowly subsided and gave way to something new. Something nice.

“So... Since Mom wants to talk and I don't have an exact idea what was— going on with me... uh. You told me about this coven you found and about the excellent research you did, my clever, clever baby,” he said and kissed the top of Zeev's head before resting his head back on the blanket, “Can you fill me in... In detail what happened?” he continued, pressing Zeev a little closer to him. His husband took a deep breath, as if he needed to collect the words and the memories he might already been trying to leave behind. Isaiah stayed right there on the blanket with him, his arm tight around his narrow waist. He continued to draw gentle circles with his fingers to remind his lover that he was right there. There was no question that Zeev found it difficult to talk about what had happened. His voice was quiet at first, almost brittle as he spoke. Isaiah listened attentively, letting him explain every detail without interrupting him. He could feel the heaviness in Zeev's words, the weight he shed with each sentence, only to reload it with the next. As Zeev talked, the gaps of knowledge in Isaiah's mind gradually coalesced. The unclear fragments of the last few days were coming together to form a complete picture—one that made him feel increasingly guilty that he had been unable to offer Zeev any comfort. What the days had done to him was awful and Isaiah was sorry that the witcher had had to endure them without kisses, without 'I'm proud of you's and without 'You can do it, my love's. At some point, he had pulled away from him slightly and slid a little lower so that they were at eye level. He kissed Zeev's lips gently and assured him that he was sorry. That he would always want to give him all the support in the world.

Finally, he understood why everything had happened, why he had been cursed. That these devotees of the Mark of Solaris believed that witchers and witches should keep to themselves, that the blood must remain pure, immaculate as they called it. Isaiah felt a sickening feeling in his stomach. But he said nothing, instead staying close to Zeev, giving him space to speak as he shared words that were unspoken between them. When Zeev grew silent, Isaiah put a hand to his counterpart's cheek, studied his eyes and kissed him gently. “That's... a lot. I'm sorry you had to go through that, my love, but now I'm with you in this, okay?” he finally said in a low voice, his tone deliberate but full of affection. “I'm here. We'll figure this out together, okay? Like we always do.” And he smiled at him in encouragement, silent promises that all will be okay soon, he kissed him again, staying close, his bandaged hand resting on his husband's and he closed his eyes, sighing softly into the kiss. “I don't know what to tell your mom,” his opposite number confessed at one point and Isaiah looked at him. A question he had never consciously dealt with before, but was now inevitably forced to.

Sarah Pines was persistent and curious, despite her endless warmth that made everything (and everyone) around her brighter. She was not someone who simply accepted illogical things when she sensed something was wrong. And she had sensed that something was wrong with her son. She would not settle for excuses. A vague explanation would bring her no peace, she would ponder, wanting to answer every discrepancy until her thoughts ran in endless circles. Of course, he wanted to spare his mother from that. And at the same time, he didn't know whether it was a good idea to reveal to his mother that there was more than the already wide variety of species on Earth. His father was different: rational, practical, a man who understood the world in tangible terms. With him, it would be a daring endeavor to convince him that there was something beyond the visible. But his mom? He had already pondered this countless times.

With a heavy sigh, he wiped his face with one hand. “I'll tell you how it is, but the thought of telling mom that there's more than all... this, isn't the first time I've been thinkin' about it,” Isaiah finally said. “If you reveal to her who you are, she'll pretty quickly conclude that there's more to the story— Then her concept of reality will change forever.” He felt his heart grow heavier at the thought. His mom would worry more when he went traveling again. It was hard enough to convince her that he was safe in his job when she thought he was just chasing stories and myths, meeting with weirdos and conspiracy theorists. But what if she knew it was all real — that the shadows of the night weren't always just shadows? She worried about him so much as it was, even if it had lessened since he'd been with Zeev. Sarah knew how good Zeev was for him, how much peace he brought to her son's mind. She knew Isaiah was in good hands when he was at home and that brought her some peace of mind too. The way Isaiah assessed his mother, she would believe it as soon as Zeev proved to her what he could do; she'd have to see something to believe it. To see, who he really was. Isaiah leaned his forehead against Zeev's and closed his eyes, their breathing becoming one as he thought about what was smartest to do now. Of course, there were days when he didn't think about the fact that this world that was so familiar to him could be incomprehensible to others. And at the same time, it had always comforted him that his mother didn't know. “What would you do if you were in my position?” he finally asked into the silence between them and Zeev also pondered, hesitating for a while before speaking. And Isaiah nodded at his words, kissing him in his mind for his honesty and pulling Zeev closer to himself as he mentioned that of course it was important to him in some way that the people he loved knew who he was. And that to full extent. That sentence sparked something in Isaiah that eased his worry, his doubts and that made his decision making process much easier. Suddenly it seemed to fade into the background that his mom might worry more when he was away. Because forcing Zeev to live a double life was the last thing he wanted. Guilt that he hadn't thought about it sooner welled up inside him, for which he apologized. “You can tell her,” he began hesitantly, ”it's okay if you tell her. But only her, for now. Dad doesn't need to know... yet. Not because he doesn't deserve it, or because you don't deserve it, but because— it's not his way. He'd think it was nonsense and that wouldn't lead to anything. But mom... she'll understand. Somehow. Even though she'll worry more.” Zeev nodded slowly, but Isaiah could see that the decision brought him only limited relief. It was a delicate balance they dared to walk if they told. Trust versus safety, truth versus worry. Isaiah ran a hand through his disheveled hair and closed his eyes for a moment. The noises in his head never completely stopped, but at that moment he managed to push them to the back of his mind. It was the right decision. Or at least a decision he could justify. “If you talk to her,” he finally said, opening his eyes again, studying Zeev's as they gleamed golden in the sun, “I'll go grocery shopping with Dad. Then you'll both have your peace.” He smiled warmly at him, kissed his lips gently and stroked his hair, asking him if he was okay with the idea. “I'm sure you'll find the perfect words to make her understand, my love. You made me see you, too. I love you, Zeev. More than anything. Even strawberry cake.”

Zeev woke up disoriented, warm and sheltered in arms he could recognise by feel alone.

“Hello, my love.” Three words that made the most beautiful and richest sea of flowers of his mind blossom, that put together the shards of a shattered heart and painted life in colours that could no longer be overlooked even in the blindness of past grief.

Before he had even opened his eyes, his heart was beating hastily in his chest, so much it almost took his breath away. After the faint-like sleep, his physical condition was anything but up to scratch and the excitement sent his skull into a spin cycle—combined with a deep-seated itching that he did not want to give in to under any circumstances. It was a mystery to him how long he had held Isaiah in his arms. All that mattered to him was that he was held in return, how firmly his hands stroked his back, how his voice—gentle and concerned—brushed past his ears, how his heart beat against his own and how he breathed. Detached from the torment, freed from the curse—alive, confused, caring, breathing, worrying.

He was unable to put his thoughts into words. Thoughts bumping and jostling each other, there was so much he needed to tell him, so much he had found out and felt. So much that was important to him and their life together, and yet all he managed to get out between the tears were expressions of love and boundless gratitude that the curse was broken and Isaiah was himself again. Nothing was more important to him than the safety of his family, especially his. 

Guilt was building inside him like a steady wall and he knew everything that had happened in the last few days would hang over them all day, even if Isaiah didn't push him to tell. Long after his hand was tended, he stared at the fresh gauze bandage and brushed over the band-aid with his thumb, a stark contrast to the self-harm he'd performed on himself to save the love of his life. Zeev was aware, of course, that his husband wasn't stupid—not in the least—and if anyone knew what this injury meant, it was him. 

His attention snapped back to him as he apologised for something he'd had no power over, even if he'd wanted to. The witcher put his bandaged hand to the other's cheek and shook his own head hastily; a headache rang at his temples and his heart skipped a painful beat. 

“You did nothing wrong, my love,” he whispered, his voice still brittle from lack of use during his exhausted deep sleep. Again and again his head moved barely noticeably from left to right, as if it would give his statement more meaning. “You’ve been cursed. I didn’t know... I'm so sorry I let this happen to you. You were suffering so much. Please never stop spilling your thoughts to me ever again...” His smile was weak, but it spoke of wholehearted delight to be able to hear him again, to speak to him and feel him, to be touched by his words and hands alike.

Obviously, this revelation seemed to cause further confusion in Isaiah and he couldn't blame him. On the one hand, Zeev was glad he couldn't remember, but on the other, it might have provided further insight. The events were not far enough in the past for him to forget the image of Isaiah speaking in foreign tongues, crouching on the floor, clutching the photo to his chest, ready to slice his oesophagus with the shards of the frame. Such a cruel, painful situation that instantly brought tears back to his eyes. He continued to shake his head vehemently and pulled Isaiah into his arms, nestling his head in the crook of his neck and caressing the back of his head. His appearance was still diminished, weakened by the events. The dark circles under his eyes worse than ever and his condition most likely on the mend, but still a testament to what had been done to him. “I missed you so much.” Sharply, he inhaled, trying to concentrate on the success, the ultimate goal of shattering the witches' plans had been reached, yet, the pain that they had caused remained. Before he dived into the pressing topic, looming above them like the lamp swaying above their coffee-table, set in motion by the open window, Zeev tenderly caressed his cheek, kissing him when given the chance. “How are you feeling? Are you hurt? Do you feel off?” He searched his face and glanced down at him, nestled into the cushions and partly covered by the blanket. Despite his slightly hollowed cheeks and the shadows underneath his eyes, his skin wasn't pale anymore, his voice followed his usual sonority and he didn't seem to be in pain anymore. I don't want to live anymore. A phrase he never wished to hear ever again. For some more minutes, he just held him, taking in the feeling of his moving body, his even breathing and the touch of his sprawled hands on his back. In this exact moment, Zeev allowed himself a strained laugh of happiness.

“A coven broke into our house five days ago, and everything went downhill from there…” There was little strength behind his voice, yet he could not stop the torrent of words that tumbled from his lips. The retelling of the past few days that, now that he was trying to organise it and package it in a tangible order, sounded strangely detached from him. As if he had not been part of the circumstances, but an affected observer. As he spoke, he halfway peeled himself from Isaiah, sitting back on the cushion of the couch and barely able to look the love of his life in the eye as guilt resurfaced, but keeping his hands in his, stroking them, kissing them, watching his tears leave dark stains on the blanket as they dripped from his chin at irregular intervals. As best he could, Zeev told him about the break-in, how Isaiah had behaved out of character, how his parents had cared for him—and had been left confused by their son-in-law's behaviour as well as Isaiah's—, how Zeev had realised that something was fundamentally out of order, how he had found the symbol on the painting and how obsessive Isaiah had been with it, how his condition had worsened, the escalation in the kitchen, his phone call with Jemma and what connection he had made as well as her worry over the taller blonde, his meeting with Zara and the one who had apparently been responsible for the curse. What he didn't talk about was how it had made him feel. He felt bad for the demands he'd made of him when Isaiah hadn't been able to grant his wishes. He knew that he would have been there for him, as Zeev was, if he had been able to. He knew that Isaiah, like him, would have done everything in his power to ensure his safety as well.

Just as he had done just now. Even though no one had told him, brought light into the black spots of his memory, Isaiah had prepared food for him, tended to his wounds, kept him close and safe, put thoughts into his needs instead of his own, even though he was the one who had suffered the most—mentally as well as physically. His sacrifices and the lengths he'd go for him, were never taken for granted and everything he had already done in the short span of time since he'd waken up, reminded him once more, why the sun only held the second place and always would. The love he felt for Isaiah was greater than any fear.

In a hushed voice, he told him about what he had found out about the witches of Macomb, presumably named Mark of Solaris, and that they seemed to have a deep-seated hatred for the witcher for living with Isaiah. He couldn't comprehend it, let alone understand it, but it was all the information he had. 

“I'm so sorry they hurt you... I'm so sorry they did this to you. I'm so sorry I let this happen,” he couldn't help but sob again, which didn't improve when Isaiah put his arms around him. Zeev buried his face against his shoulder again, crying bitterly, not just for the thankfulness of now, but for every pain of what had been. Isaiah's compassion, which needed no great words, adorned him in affection and warmth like a fresh, sunny morning after a day of deepest darkness and moroseness. His tears dried on his shoulder, and when he withdrew, Zeev merely wiped his nose and eyes, sighed heavily and kneaded his hands, looking at them with an ever growing sense of guilt. 

“I didn’t know what else to do,” he murmured, as if it would diminish the confession he had to make to him. Even if Isaiah could guess what he had done, he still owed him words. “I couldn’t let you die. I just.. Couldn’t watch them destroy you. If there would have been another way, more time…” He realised how he was losing himself in justifications. He rubbed his nose again and dared to look up, unsure of what was going on behind his blue eyes—a deeper understanding veiled by his own deep-rooted fear of abandonment—which had finally regained the intense colour he had been vehemently searching for the last few days. “I was... so angry. At them, at myself. A little pain means nothing to me if it stops their foul means. They use dark magic in a way that I've never done. They are a threat I can't comprehend yet nor do I know if we can do anything about it.” He sighed heavily, his posture squat and slumped, his shoulders hanging and despite his long sleep, he still felt tired and exhausted. Everything that had happened was tugging at him. Especially what he had done. His thumb stroked the band-aid again. "To break the curse I had to use my blood. It was a minor spell, I promise. It wasn't dangerous for anyone..."

After a drawn out pause, covered in silence in favour of comprehension of what he had just said, he whispered out a follow-up question: “Did I disappoint you?”

[osunari]

⚠︎ 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) 丂山千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.

“���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) ㄩ ㄖ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) ���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

[rockislandadultreads]

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.

[ireadyabooks]

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!

[hochmvt]

                    ⸻ 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?”  

[fic-dumpster]

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.

[hochmvt]

The autumn breeze that greeted the American as he left the café was fresh and a welcome change. The sky above them was wild and cloudy on this windy blue fall day. He remembered the days in Greenville, back when he'd played in the front yard, under his dad's watchful eye. That was four months after Carter had disappeared. He had just turned seven and November had been unusually nice and warm. Now he thought about how long it had all been, how many times he had gone round in circles about the whole missing person thing, and how with every second that passed, our bodies were getting closer to the end; the light at the end of the tunnel—or the big nothing. In the blink of an eye, one realized how steadily everything around one was disappearing. Time and memories slipped away, like sand running through your fingers and trickling to the ground. What remains is the mess on the floor, the grains of sand that we can no longer separate from each other. A large collection of things that made you who you were. And yet sometimes we were lucky and some of these grains of sand remained on our fingers. Memories that were not always particularly reliable, but always made us feel that they were there. Like sand that we carried home in our shoes after a long day at the beach. They stuck with us, sometimes consciously, sometimes inevitably, and bore witness to what was supposedly there.

Her suggestion to simply order a coffee to go was a good one, his sensory overload gradually ebbed away, leaving him to concentrate on sounds such as the rustling of leaves or the distant, steady hum of the city. Nausicaä walked beside him, going about her day with a certain calmness and composure; she seemed to be immune to the hectic nature of Isaiah's self for as long as he could remember. His hands were slightly cramped, he was restless and fiddled with the hem of his hoodie to distract himself in some way. When his thoughts began to overflow, it was difficult for him to calm down again, to become one with himself, to form a rational thought. He put on the hood of his hoodie—something that gave him some sort of security. It muffled the world around him, providing relief from the endless flood of stimuli he had had to endure in the café. Nausicaä had been right: the walk would do him good.

The path led them away from the café, through quieter streets, along niche stores and businesses that were more relevant to locals than to those who just wanted to enjoy the architecture and ephemeral consumption. The facades of the houses told stories of decades past, surviving storms, apocalyptic rains, and Isaiah felt his breath slowly calming. As they walked, he counted: the 14 cups in the shop windows, the 1631- no, 32 steps he had taken, the 16 windows of the house in front of him (or the 8 double windows, whichever one preferred), the 6 people that passed them wearing a blue jacket, the 21 pastries coated with egg that shimmered invitingly in the autumn sun. The regularity in the irregularity was crucial in reorganizing his mind.

Nausicaä walked beside him, silent, but not unpleasantly so. It was a soothing silence that demanded no explanation, no justification. Isaiah was grateful for the way he was. He gave her a quick glance. She was holding the coffee mug with both hands, her movements were elegant and deliberate, her posture upright–while Isaiah slouched for as long as he could remember. It was as if she was a character from a novel who had strayed into the wrong story (main-character-energy, they called it, he thought.)–one full of mundanity, of people who couldn't care less, without great adventures and the burden of societal pressure. A thought that saddened Isaiah more than he could imagine.

His thoughts returned to the house she had been writing about with him. An abandoned estate, a Gothic mansion, uninhabited for decades, wreathed in rumors and mystery—a modern-day lost place where teenagers were up to mischief with their dares and illegal raves. It was exactly the kind of story that drew the blonde in, that wouldn't let him go until he had explored every aspect of it—until things made sense in his mind: Regardless of whether it was material for his podcast or not. He remembered the photos she had sent him: the collapsed porch, the roof overgrown with ivy, the windows staring out at the world like watchful eyes–and yet the house seemed... asleep. As if it lacked the spark that would awaken it to life. It wasn't just the transience of the place that fascinated him, but what lay beneath it. The questions he couldn't answer. What had happened inside these walls? Why had the house been abandoned, he was sure people would've found a home there if they put their mind to it. And why did it seem to be more than just a derelict building? There was something resting in the walls that he couldn't quite grasp. His uncertainty and overwhelm were replaced by euphoria and curiosity.

“Why are you interested in places like this?” she had asked him in one of their first messages when they first met. His answer had been evasive at the time, because he didn't want to reveal that he ran a podcast, nor that he was well aware that there was more to the world than the things that could be explained with logic and reason. Because they reminded him of something he couldn't grasp. Of something that had been lost. Perhaps it was also the hope of finding something that was not yet gone. A trace, a clue, a fragment that would help him understand the world. “I feel like something's... missing from that house. As if there's something, that–got lost, waiting to be found. Did you have a feeling like that when you visited it? Did you ever go inside or just... peaked from the outside?” he asked after a while. His choice of words needed improvement, he was stuttering and ashamed for that, but he was honest. He would find out more about the house, he knew that. Maybe it would help him fill in the gaps that had been within himself for years. Maybe it would just leave him with new questions. But that was all right. Questions and his urge to find answers for them were an inherent part of him, a part that kept him alive. And for now, that was enough.

Nausicaä had been alone for the last few years, or at least sans family and community— the loss of her coven had been more hurtful than ever her family, whom she had rarely had warm memories of. And when she could admit to herself that she had been closer to Deucalion than ever to Demetria, it was something that they both would now have to live with. There was no going back to assuage their guilt, for she had seen everything with her own eyes, now all he way open. To feel remorse or guilt meant that you had to have a sense of compassion, and they for the lack of a better phrase were as cold-blooded as the snake that charmed Eve. And when you lay down the bricks that led to perdition, Deucalion was precisely that serpent, in the flesh.  

There was something about Isaiah that comforted her. Perhaps it was the fact that they were sharing an acquired booth at the local coffee shop, and the quiet Saturday hush before the busier lunch crowd settled in had left a residual softness to the open expanse. Usually diners were bustling, but this one was antiquated and full of old-world charm.

She was instantly concerned that she was too overdressed for the occasion, and the whole prospect of ❝ dressed down ❞ was something that wasn’t fully in Nausicaä’s repertoire. Dressed in a tucked-in French cuff button down blouse and the charcoal-hued Burberry pencil skirt with noir opaque tights had been the right call, especially with her advanced debate class later that afternoon at Harvard. She could taste his nervousness like a second skin, and she hated herself for being able to pick up on it. Softening her features, she moved forward so as to give them more privacy, and to give him more comfort in the open space.

❛ It probably doesn’t help that we’ve come into this bustling place right before lunch hour. Why don’t we get a coffee to go and go to the park? I know a good place that has way less noise and has a great view of the city. ❜ She had plenty of time to explain about the house and everything she knew about it.

[aliceinnaughtyland]

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

[pjxckson]

Wolfstar fic recs!

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[potterhead-demigods-blog]

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.

[hochmvt]

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.”

[consumeconstantly]

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. 

[st0nesnglitter]

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?

[lunewell]

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.

[veenaspakistanlitblog]

Ten Interesting Pakistani Novels

Under the Persimmon Tree by Suzanne Staples (Summary by Amazon)

Najmah, a young Afghan girl whose name means "star," suddenly finds herself alone when her father and older brother are conscripted by the Taliban and her mother and newborn brother are killed in an air raid. An American woman, Elaine, whose Islamic name is Nusrat, is also on her own. She waits out the war in Peshawar, Pakistan, teaching refugee children under the persimmon tree in her garden while her Afghan doctor husband runs a clinic in Mazar-i-Sharif, Afghanistan. Najmah's father had always assured her that the stars would take care of her, just as Nusrat's husband had promised that they would tell Nusrat where he was and that he was safe. As the two look to the skies for answers, their fates entwine. Najmah, seeking refuge and hoping to find her father and brother, begins the perilous journey through the mountains to cross the border into Pakistan. And Nusrat's persimmon-tree school awaits Najmah's arrival. Together, they both seek their way home.

2.) The Diary of a Social Butterfly by Moni Mohsin (Summary by Amazon)

This is the hugely entertaining journal of a socialite in Lahore. Pakistan may be making headlines - but Butterfly is set to conquer the world. 'Everyone knows me. All of Lahore, all of Karachi, all of Isloo - oho, baba, Islamabad - half of Dubai, half of London and all of Khan Market and all the nice, nice bearers in Imperial Hotel also...No ball, no party, no dinner, no coffee morning, no funeral, no GT - Get-Together, baba - is complete without me.' Meet Butterfly, Pakistan's most lovable, silly, socialite. An avid party-goer-inspired misspeller, and unwittingly acute observer of Pakistani high society, Butterfly is a woman like no other. In her world, SMS becomes S & M and people eat 'three tiara cakes' while shunning 'do number ka manual. 'What cheeks!' as she would say. As her country faces tribulations - from 9/11 to the assassination of Benazir Bhutto - Butterfly glides through her world, unfazed, untouched, and stopped short only by the chip in her manicure. Wicked, irreverent, and hugely entertaining, "The Diary of a Social Butterfly" gives you a delicious glimpse into the parallel universe of the have-musts.

3.) Maps for Lost Lovers by Nadeem Aslam (Summary by Amazon)

If Gabriel García Márquez had chosen to write about Pakistani immigrants in England, he might have produced a novel as beautiful and devastating as Maps for Lost Lovers. Jugnu and Chanda have disappeared. Like thousands of people all over England, they were lovers and living together out of wedlock. To Chanda’s family, however, the disgrace was unforgivable.  Perhaps enough so as to warrant murder. As he explores the disappearance and its aftermath through the eyes of Jugnu’s worldly older brother, Shamas, and his devout wife, Kaukab, Nadeem Aslam creates a closely observed and affecting portrait of people whose traditions threaten to bury them alive. The result is a tour de force, intimate, affecting, tragic and suspenseful.

4.) A Season for Martyrs by Bina Shah (Summary by Amazon)

October 2007. Pakistan’s former Prime Minister Benazir Bhutto returns home after eight years of exile to seek political office once more. Assigned to cover her controversial arrival is TV journalist Ali Sikandar, the estranged son of a wealthy landowner from the interior region of Sindh. While her presence ignites fierce protests and assassination attempts, Ali finds himself irrevocably drawn to the pro-democracy People’s Resistance Movement, a secret that sweeps him into the many contradictions of a country still struggling to embrace modernity. As Shah weaves together the centuries-old history of Ali’s feudal family and its connection to the Bhuttos, she brilliantly reveals a story at the crossroads of the personal and the political, a chronicle of one man’s desire to overcome extremity to find love, forgiveness, and even identity itself.

5.) Karachi, You’re Killing Me! by Saba Imtiaz (Summary by Amazon)

Ayesha is a twenty-something reporter in one of the world’s most dangerous cities. Her assignments range from showing up at bomb sites and picking her way through scattered body parts to interviewing her boss’s niece, the couture-cupcake designer. In between dicing with death and absurdity, Ayesha despairs over the likelihood of ever meeting a nice guy, someone like her old friend Saad, whose shoulder she cries on after every romantic misadventure. Her choices seem limited to narcissistic, adrenaline-chasing reporters who’ll do anything to get their next story—to the spoilt offspring of the Karachi elite who’ll do anything to cure their boredom. Her most pressing problem, however, is how to straighten her hair during chronic power outages. Karachi, You’re Killing Me! is Bridget Jones’s Diary meets The Diary of a Social Butterfly—a comedy of manners in a city with none.

6.) How It Happened by Shazaf Fatima Haider (Summary by Amazon)

Dadi, the imperious matriarch of the Bandian family in Karachi, swears by the virtues of arranged marriage. All her ancestors including a dentally and optically challenged aunt have been perfectly well-served by such arrangements. But her grandchildren are harder to please. Haroon, the apple of her eye, has to suffer half a dozen candidates until he finds the perfect Shia-Syed girl of his dreams. But it is Zeba, his sister, who has the tougher time, as she is accosted by a bevy of suitors, including a potbellied cousin and a banker who reeks of sesame oil. Told by the witty, hawk-eyed Saleha, the precocious youngest sibling, this is a romantic, amusing and utterly delightful story about how marriages are made and unmade---not in heaven, but in the drawing room and over the phone.

7.) A Case of Exploding Mangoes by Shazaf Fatima Haider (Summary by Amazon)

Intrigue and subterfuge combine with bad luck and good in this darkly comic debut about love, betrayal, tyranny, family, and a conspiracy trying its damnedest to happen. Ali Shigri, Pakistan Air Force pilot and Silent Drill Commander of the Fury Squadron, is on a mission to avenge his father's suspicious death, which the government calls a suicide.Ali's target is none other than General Zia ul-Haq, dictator of Pakistani. Enlisting a rag-tag group of conspirators, including his cologne-bathed roommate, a hash-smoking American lieutenant, and a mango-besotted crow, Ali sets his elaborate plan in motion. There's only one problem: the line of would-be Zia assassins is longer than he could have possibly known.

8.) Home Fire: A Novel by Kamila Shamise (Summary by Amazon)

Isma is free. After years of watching out for her younger siblings in the wake of their mother’s death, she’s accepted an invitation from a mentor in America that allows her to resume a dream long deferred. But she can’t stop worrying about Aneeka, her beautiful, headstrong sister back in London, or their brother, Parvaiz, who’s disappeared in pursuit of his own dream, to prove himself to the dark legacy of the jihadist father he never knew. When he resurfaces half a globe away, Isma’s worst fears are confirmed. Then Eamonn enters the sisters’ lives. Son of a powerful political figure, he has his own birthright to live up to—or defy. Is he to be a chance at love? The means of Parvaiz’s salvation? Suddenly, two families’ fates are inextricably, devastatingly entwined, in this searing novel that asks: What sacrifices will we make in the name of love?

9.) She Loves Me, He Loves Me Not by Zeenat Mahal (Summary by Amazon)

Zoella didn’t know whether she was devastatingly happy or happily devastated. Zoella has been in love with Fardeen Malik, her best friend’s gorgeous older brother, since she was ten, but he’s always seen her as a ‘good girl’—not his type—and he can barely remember her name. Besides, he’s engaged to a gorgeous leggy socialite, someone from the same rarefied social strata as the imposing Malik family. In short, Zoella has no chance with him. Until a brutal accident leaves Fardeen scarred and disfigured, that is. Suddenly bereft of a fiancée, Fardeen is bitterly caustic, a shell of the man he used to be, a beast that has broken out of the fairy tale world he once lived in. And a twist of fate lands him his very own beauty—Zoella. This man, however, is a far cry from the Fardeen of her dreams. Stripped of her illusions, Zoella creates her own twist in the fairy tale, beating him at his own game. Order now and read this modern, unusual interpretation of the old-age fairy tale, in which Zeenat explores the themes of love, longing, and arranged marriages.

10.) Undying Affinity by Sara Naveed (Summary by Amazon)

Twenty-two-year-old, Zarish Munawwar, has everything in life she could ever ask for; an elite family, a high profile status, a bunch of good friends and a childhood sweetheart. Being childish, stubborn, imperious, extravagant and a bit impulsive at making important decisions pertaining to her life, is what perfectly describes her overall personality. She takes life easily and can get anything she desires. To her, life is a bed of roses. It is only when she meets, Ahmar Muraad, her mentor and finance professor at university, her perspective towards life completely changes. He looks quite young for his age as every girl at the university thinks he is attractive, seductive, intellectual and rather intimidating. This charming man is every girl's fantasy and Zarish also finds it hard to resist him. But is he fascinated by her? Little did Zarish know how one little interaction could bring about so many twists and turns in her life. After continuous unsuccessful attempts to avoid him, she feels that she is gradually falling for his charm. Ahmar, however, remains oblivious to her feelings. She is ready to abandon her childhood sweetheart for him. Eventually, there comes a time when only he matters to her and nobody else. Awestruck by the sudden revelation, she is dazed to find out that he feels exactly the same for her. Before their love blossoms, a slight tragedy falls into their lives. Zia Munawwar, her father, has some other plans for his daughter. Will Ahmar fight against the world for his lady love or step back? Do not miss this romantic tragedy as it will encapsulate you totally and will stay in your heart forever