#(and like cosmic horror but that's something for another day)

[sanders-sides-uncorrect-quotes]

AU where the dark sides all have super scary grotesque forms and the dark mindpalace is like this super physically dark place almost backrooms-esque space with creatures hiding behind every corner

The dark sides are all able to shapeshift to have normal human forms which allow them to behave and think less animalistically but it's painful and takes alot of energy so most only do it when it's absolutely necessary

Virgil's the only one that does it consistently because he really wants to be friends with the light sides and Thomas, who he first meets when they get trapped down in the dark mind palace during a lucid nightmare

The vibe I'm going for for this is like Trevor Henderson, Mandela Catalogue sorta stuff

I'll make a Pinterest board to show what I'm thinking

[marcyvamp1re-blog]

ITS EVOLUTION, BABY !

pairings ⸺Yandere! Justice League! x Inmortal!Fem!reader.

couple of today! ⸺Yandere! Kal-El x Inmortal! Fem! Reader

This is a Headcanon!

sinopsis ⸺ You had seen it all. From the first whisper of life in the primordial oceans to the deafening buzz of the modern era. Every advancement, every innovation, a heavier burden on your shoulders. Nothing surprised you anymore; everything was predictable and monotonous, so you found refuge in a small apartment in the heart of Metropolis, away from the bustling human nonsense.

Until one day a flying bus crushed you.

warnings ⸺ Dark Themes, Dead, Religion, murdering, Disturbing Content, Unhealthy Obsession, Discrimination, War, Street Fights, Gaslight, Suicide, Violence, Blood, LGBT Content, Kidnapping, NSFW, Sexual Content, Mental Illness, Addiction, Torture, Corruption, Isolation, Trauma, Phobias, Paranoia, Manipulation.

A/N — Bah, just another story pulled from my imagination after dancing all afternoon to Pearl Jam songs while cleaning the house.

This land is mine, this land is free

I'll do what I want but irresponsibly

▪︎Your immortality is neither epic nor glorious. You were not born from the stars or from scientific labs. There was no cosmic ray, no magic potions, no caped heroes to save you. Your existence is simple, without ornamentation.

▪︎You are water.

▪︎Or, to be more precise, you were a microscopic being living in a drop of water attached to a wandering meteorite that roamed through the void, in the infinite silence of space, before arriving on Earth. In that tiny liquid bubble, you were happy, surrounded by other beings who knew neither pain nor time. Everything was calm.

▪︎Until one day, your home plummeted toward the planet you would come to know as Earth.

▪︎There your true evolution began.

▪︎Millions of years passed, and you witnessed it all. You observed the first spark of life in the primordial oceans, the giant reptiles crawling across the continents, and the hominids standing upright on two legs. With each evolutionary cycle, you adapted, but you always remained, indifferent to the passage of time. Nothing truly affected you… Until Martha appeared.

▪︎Martha was your youngest daughter, for now. At eighty years old, Martha was the only thing you had left in this world that no longer mattered to you. Time, that relentless enemy that did not touch you, was wreaking havoc on her. Wrinkles adorned her face, her hands trembled as she knitted. But she made you feel something you thought you had forgotten: humanity. Martha kept you anchored to a world that had become irrelevant to you.

▪︎You did not live in Metropolis with her because she had her own life, and you spent your time wandering to every corner of the earth. Aimless and without a home to sleep in.

▪︎But you decided to visit her when you learned from her husband that she was in the hospital. It wasn’t serious, but she was the most important thing you had, and even at eighty years old, she would still be your little sweet baby.

▪︎Your journey was calm; listening to rock bands and old songs relaxed you. Nothing could disturb your zen state.

▪︎But then came the bus. The fucking bus.

▪︎An empty bus flew out from a nearby building, a flash of blue and red, and chaos erupted in the streets. Superman, facing Lex Luthor, knocked a bus right onto you. One second of distraction and you were crushed, like a puppet torn to pieces.

▪︎Your blood spilled onto the pavement and the broken glass of your car, which was now nothing more than scrap metal.

▪︎Superman, the defender of justice, landed right next to your car, using his infrared vision to see your mangled body inside the vehicle.

▪︎His face filled with horror.

▪︎Why always an innocent person? A choked sob, his eyes full of remorse as he saw you, a pool of blood and broken bones.

▪︎It was not the first time he had a lapse, but it was the first time it cost a human and innocent life.

▪︎The worst part was that you were young, with a long life ahead of you, and his carelessness took that gift away. What would happen to your family when they found out? How would they feel knowing that Superman, the so-called greatest hero, couldn’t save you?

▪︎He was devastated.

▪︎Until, to his surprise, you got up. Your body began to regenerate, bones rejoining, skin closing over the wounds. Superman watched you in disbelief, his hands trembling.

▪︎“Can’t you really be more careful?” you said, your voice filled with exhaustion, brushing off the dust as if nothing had happened. The hero was left speechless. You were immortal.

▪︎That was where it all began.

A/N - And well, this is just a little Headcanon that might turn into a series (hopefully not, because it would be way too long)

I’ll upload more soon, as well as another DC Yandere series. I’ll also post a few updates to explain some things—no need to read them, but it would be app

P.S.: If you’re a reader of the Silly Little Bat series, don’t worry. I’ll upload chapter three soon.

Don’t forget, if you want to request something, the shop is open

Take a bath!

[solxamber]

Alien Reader x TWST Canon

An alien crash lands in Twisted Wonderland looking for love! The alien (reader) is.. kind of cute. In a weird way.

Characters: Azul, Malleus, and Idia.

Azul, Malleus, Idia with Alien! Reader

hi! i hope you like it <3 sorry for the wait!

Azul Ashengrotto:

It was a peaceful day in Twisted Wonderland. Azul Ashengrotto was meticulously planning out his next business venture (which may or may not involve the emotional manipulation of some unsuspecting freshmen) when suddenly—CRASH.

A blinding flash of light, a rumble, and the unmistakable sound of something exploding.

Azul sighed. “Great,” he muttered, flipping his fountain pen between his fingers. “Another day, another disaster.” He could already hear Floyd and Jade rushing toward the source of the chaos.

Then, the door of the Mostro Lounge flew open.

And there you were—an alien, crashing into Twisted Wonderland.

"Greetings, Earthlings!" you chirped with a wave. Your three fingers wiggled in what you thought was a charming way. "I have come in peace... and possibly to find a life partner. Anyone looking for a mate?"

Azul froze, his brain short-circuiting. This was new. He had seen a lot of strange things in his life, but this? This was a whole new level of strange.

Jade’s eyebrow lifted ever so slightly. “Fascinating,” he whispered, glancing over to Floyd, who was already doubled over in laughter.

Floyd, still wheezing, pointed at you. “Yo, boss! We got ourselves an intergalactic lover on the loose! Wanna make a contract?”

Azul shot him a sharp glare, but his business instincts kicked in almost immediately. An alien? From another world? Looking for love? There had to be a profit in this. There’s always a profit somewhere…

Azul adjusted his glasses, putting on his best business smile. “Welcome to Twisted Wonderland,” he purred, his voice as smooth as ever. “Might I interest you in a… contract, perhaps? You’re clearly looking for something, and I happen to be someone who can find things.”

You squinted at him, tilting your head to the side like a confused puppy—if puppies were green and slightly sparkly. “A contract? Is that like space marriage?”

Azul blinked. “No, not quite—”

“Sounds perfect!” you interrupted, your smile growing even wider, revealing a row of… what could only be described as tentacles? “Let’s get married! I’m very good at intergalactic housekeeping, and I can cook anything that resembles goo! Do you enjoy goo?”

Floyd was howling at this point. Jade’s lips twitched in a rare show of amusement.

Azul’s perfectly crafted business persona cracked for a moment, his eye twitching ever so slightly. “Excuse me, marriage wasn’t exactly what I had in mind. I was referring to a… business arrangement, one where I help you find what you’re looking for, and in return—”

“Right!” you chirped, completely ignoring him. “I’m looking for love! It’s mating season on my planet, and I’ve decided to broaden my horizons! Do you have eight legs? That’s a non-negotiable on my planet.”

Azul blinked. “Well… I don’t have eight legs, but I do have—”

“Oh, thank the stars!” you interrupted again, fluttering your hands (tentacles? limbs? appendages?) excitedly. “It’s been so hard to find someone who understands the true beauty of multiple limbs! You and I are going to be the power couple of the galaxy.”

Azul, still processing the fact that he was apparently engaged to an alien, swallowed hard. “I… see. But—”

Before he could even finish his sentence, you lunged forward with surprising speed, your alien arms wrapping around him in what could only be described as a weird, somewhat slimy embrace. “I knew it,” you whispered dramatically, “the moment I crash-landed, I felt a cosmic connection! You… you’re my octo-prince!”

“Octo-prince?” Azul repeated, eyes wide with horror.

Jade, unable to contain himself, cleared his throat. “You have to admit, Azul, this does seem rather fitting.”

Floyd was still laughing, practically in tears now. “Haha! Boss, you got yourself an alien spouse! This is the best day ever.”

Azul’s face flushed pink, and he began desperately trying to pry your surprisingly strong alien arms off of him. “Jade… Floyd… a little help, please?”

But his most loyal (and evil) henchmen were no help at all. They stood back, thoroughly entertained by the spectacle.

In the midst of the chaos, you pulled back just enough to gaze up at Azul with your enormous, glowing eyes. “I can tell we’re going to be very happy together,” you said, your voice soft and—dare Azul say it—creepy. “Shall we begin planning our union?”

Azul’s soul left his body. He felt himself spiraling into existential dread. His carefully constructed life as a scheming businessman was unraveling before his very eyes, all because some alien had decided he was their octo-prince.

“I—this isn’t—you can’t just—” he stammered, for the first time in his life at a complete loss for words.

You leaned in closer, your breath smelling faintly of something otherworldly. “Don’t worry, darling,” you cooed. “We’ll be together forever. In space.”

And that’s when Azul blacked out.

Idia Shroud

Idia was in the middle of his nightly gaming session, headphones on, hunched over his desk like a cryptid as he shouted insults into the mic at his teammates. It was a normal, uneventful evening—until a loud crash shook the entire Ignihyde dorm.

Idia didn’t flinch. In fact, he didn’t even pause his game.

“That’s probably just some monster… or a random explosion. Meh.”

But then… his door slid open, and there you stood. An alien. Your shimmering, blob-like figure oozed through the doorway, glowing faintly in the dim light. Your eyes—if those were eyes—stared at him with an intensity that made Idia want to crawl under his bed and never come out.

But the worst part? You were smiling.

“Hello, human!” you declared in a voice that sounded like a mix between static and something from a 1980s sci-fi film. “I have crash-landed here in search of a mate. Do you… come in peace?”

Idia froze. His hair turned from blue to white in an instant. “W-w-what the hell?!?”

You blinked at him with your many, MANY eyes. “You look like a prime candidate for my affection,” you said, completely unaware of the fact that Idia looked two seconds away from fainting. “I sensed your energy from across the galaxy.”

Idia’s brain was doing cartwheels. He was already socially anxious when it came to humans, but an alien looking for love? This was some next-level nightmare fuel.

“I—uh—I think you’ve got the wrong guy,” Idia squeaked, scooting his chair back slowly, his fingers trembling over his keyboard. “I’m not… um… I don’t do affection. Or eye contact. Or… this.”

You floated closer, your gelatinous form undulating with excitement. “Oh, but you have such a unique aura! I can feel your power. You are… the one I’ve been searching for.”

Idia gulped. “Power? I—I’m just a guy who likes video games and anime. I’m not even popular! I mean, you should probably go find someone else who’s, like, charismatic or whatever.”

You paused, your many eyes narrowing. “Is this… a rejection?”

Idia’s panic spiked to a level previously thought impossible. “N-no! I mean, I just—wait. Are you saying you want to… date me?”

Your eyes twinkled—literally, they twinkled—and your blob-like form shimmered with delight. “Date? Yes, that’s the Earth term! I wish to date you, human! I’ve studied your customs thoroughly. Would you like to engage in what you call ‘cosplay?’ I have constructed an outfit based on your planetary ‘anime’ culture.”

Idia’s eyes nearly popped out of his head as you suddenly produced what looked like an alien approximation of a magical girl outfit, complete with glowing tentacles and glittering stars.

“W-wait, what the hell is that?” Idia squeaked, backing up until his back hit the wall.

You proudly held the costume out. “I thought you would appreciate this. I have prepared this outfit in hopes of wooing you. Shall we engage in ‘cosplay’ together and deepen our bond?”

Idia’s brain was short-circuiting. Cosplay? Magical girl outfits? This was so far out of his comfort zone that Idia couldn’t even see his comfort zone anymore. It was a tiny speck in the distance, waving goodbye as he plummeted into a pit of alien-themed existential dread.

“I—I’m not really a magical girl kinda guy���” Idia stammered, trying to inch toward his bed where he could hide under the covers forever. His legs felt like jelly, and his hair was practically on fire with panic.

You didn’t seem deterred. In fact, you floated even closer, your glittery tentacles wriggling with excitement. “That’s okay! I can adapt!” you said brightly. “Do you prefer… space cowboys? Or perhaps a mecha pilot uniform? I’ve observed that humans enjoy when their partners dress up to match their interests.”

“I—uh—no, that’s not the point!” Idia squeaked, heart racing. “You can’t just—look, I’m not dating material, okay? I’m the guy who stays in his room and talks to people through a screen! I’m like… the human equivalent of a cave-dwelling monster in an RPG.”

Your many eyes blinked again, as if processing this information. “Hmm. That’s okay! I can also live in a cave if necessary. We’ll make it work.”

Idia gaped at you, utterly flabbergasted. “That’s… not what I meant.”

But before he could come up with a more coherent response, you were already examining his gaming setup with curiosity. You poked at his PC, your strange alien fingers leaving faint glows on the surface. “Ah, I see. You enjoy interacting with simulated realities. Perhaps I could join you in these… ‘video games’ of yours?”

“Join me?” Idia repeated, his voice an octave higher than usual. “In video games? You… you play?”

You nodded eagerly, still poking around his gaming desk. “Oh, I’ve mastered many simulations in my travels! Galaxian, Space Invaders, even Asteroids! We could play together and strengthen our bond through virtual combat.”

“Wait, those are all, like, retro games…” Idia muttered, his brain struggling to process the situation. “You mean, you don’t play anything… newer?”

You paused, considering. “Ah, you mean the more recent simulations? No, I haven’t encountered those yet. But I’m adaptable! Teach me, and we can conquer the virtual realms together.”

Something shifted in Idia’s mind. Amidst the sheer panic, a tiny part of him—a very, very small part—felt… intrigued? He was terrified, sure. But also, there was something oddly charming about the fact that you, an intergalactic blob alien, were so enthusiastic about his world.

It was like the universe had taken one look at his love life and decided, “Well, you’re clearly a lost cause. Here, have an alien.”

“Well…” Idia swallowed nervously. “I mean, if you’re that into video games, I guess it wouldn’t hurt to… you know, show you a few. Maybe.” His voice trailed off, but he realized he wasn’t outright rejecting you anymore.

You brightened (literally; your entire form glowed with an unsettling neon hue). “Wonderful! We’ll play, and we’ll bond. Just you and me—partners across the cosmos!”

“Yeah, uh, sure…” Idia mumbled, feeling like he had just agreed to something that would either be the weirdest—or the best—decision of his life. “But just to be clear—no magical girl outfits, okay?”

You blinked at him with your many, MANY eyes. “Understood. I shall reserve that outfit for later… perhaps when we reach the final stage of courtship.”

Idia’s face turned redder than his flame-tipped hair. “W-what final stage of courtship?!”

But you didn’t answer. Instead, you settled in beside him, reaching out a glowing tendril toward his keyboard. “Now, show me how to play this… Overwatch.”

Idia stared at you for a long moment. He wasn’t sure if this was the start of a nightmare or the weirdest love story ever, but either way, it was happening. And apparently, his new alien… companion was ready to learn.

Malleus Draconia

It was a dark and stormy night—exactly the kind of night Malleus Draconia preferred. The skies rumbled with ominous thunder, and the gargoyles of Diasomnia loomed even more menacingly than usual. Malleus stood by his favorite window, brooding in the shadows like a goth kid waiting for the next My Chemical Romance reunion tour.

Everything was calm. Serene. Perfect.

And then, from the depths of the night, a bright glow appeared—something falling from the heavens, crashing right into the forest just outside the dorm. The ground shook, trees cracked, and Malleus raised an eyebrow. Was this… some new form of mischief? Or had Lilia invited another chaotic guest from beyond the veil?

With a sigh that bordered on dramatic, Malleus stepped out into the night to investigate.

And there you were. The source of the crash. You stood in the middle of a smoking crater, your jelly-like form pulsing with an eerie glow. Your eyes—or what appeared to be eyes—locked onto Malleus, and you gave him the most unsettlingly cheerful wave.

“Ah! A local lifeform! Hello! I come in peace!”

Malleus’s eyebrow lifted. “You have… quite an entrance.”

You blinked, your entire body jiggling like intergalactic jello. “Oh, yes! I crash-landed. Happens all the time. I’m actually here on an important mission.” You paused dramatically. “I’m looking for a mate.”

Malleus, the ever-patient prince of the dark, was unphased. “I see. And you’ve decided to seek a mate… here?”

You nodded enthusiastically. “Correct! My sensors detected powerful auras in this area, and yours is off the charts! So much darkness. So much brooding. It’s very attractive.”

Malleus blinked, caught slightly off-guard. It wasn’t every day someone commented on his brooding in a… positive way. “You find darkness attractive?”

“Oh, absolutely!” you said, bouncing in place with excitement. “Where I’m from, we thrive in the shadows. Plus, you’ve got those horns! Very regal. Very commanding.”

Malleus straightened slightly, a faint smirk tugging at the corner of his lips. It wasn’t often he met someone who appreciated his aesthetic. “You have good taste.”

“And you’re a dragon, right?” you continued, eyes twinkling with awe. “I’ve always wanted to meet one! Although, full disclosure, I’m a little nervous around large reptiles. It’s not a dealbreaker, though!”

Malleus chuckled, amused by your strange, unhinged honesty. “I assure you, I am quite gentle unless provoked.”

“Good to know!” you said, floating closer. “So, do you have any interest in interspecies relationships? Or maybe… cosmic travel? I’ve got a spaceship parked just a few star systems away. We could go on a date to the asteroid belt!”

Malleus, still not entirely sure if this was some kind of elaborate joke, raised an eyebrow. “You’re… serious about this?”

You blinked, your entire gelatinous form shimmering under the moonlight. “Absolutely! Look, I know I’m a little different by Earth standards, but you can’t deny we’d make a power couple. You with your dragon powers, me with my alien abilities—we’d be unstoppable!”

Malleus tilted his head, considering you. Despite your strange appearance—and even stranger proposition—there was something oddly charming about your enthusiasm. Perhaps it was the way you didn’t shy away from his aura of darkness, or the fact that you seemed completely unbothered by his draconic nature.

“I must admit,” Malleus said slowly, “I’ve never been approached in quite this manner before.”

You grinned (or at least, your face morphed into what Malleus assumed was a grin). “Well, there’s a first time for everything, right?”

Malleus chuckled softly, his emerald eyes glowing faintly in the night. “Indeed. Very well, intergalactic traveler. I shall consider your offer.”

Your eyes lit up with excitement, and you bounced in place again. “Really? Oh, this is fantastic! I’ve never dated a dragon prince before. This is going to be legendary!”

Malleus smiled faintly, more amused than anything. “We shall see.”

And so, under the dark and stormy skies of Twisted Wonderland, the future king of fae found himself possibly—just possibly—entertaining the wildest, most unhinged courtship of his life.

Masterlist

[thecrabbybarista]

We should talk about The Lords in Black I'm gonna do that right now because I wanna talk about their trope subversion and symbolism and shit.

So obviously The Lords in Black are a subversion of Cosmic/Eldritch horror and I'm gonna explain how using an ant metaphor

So the classic ant metaphor for cosmic horror is to imagine that you're an ant encountering a piece of human technology, right? I believe it's usually a circuit board. The whole point is you're witnessing something deeply incomprehensible and unfamiliar.

The ant metaphor for the Lords in Black is: imagine you're an ant and a teenager starts burning you with a magnifying glass.

It's still incomprehensible, but not in the way the complexities of a circuit board is. If you were suddenly stricken by a scalding beam of light, the only way you could rationalize that is that it was an act of a god. You and your ant colony would invent and fear this god.

The Lords in Black each represent a kind of strange and inscrutable cruelty that the modern world offers, the cursed lasers that cut into our souls, from places we have no power over.

Wiggly is obviously the idol of capitalism. Animalistic desperation, commodity fetishization, and the exchange of money, products, and emotions. All of the things that the other Lords represent stem from elements of capitalism, hence why Wiggly is THE Lord in Black, the leader of his brothers. What Wiggly offers will never be enough. He is what leaves you always unsatisfied.

Nibbly is the idol of the consumption of human beings as products. Obsession with self image and presentability, trends of all kinds, and the beauty and fitness industries. People in the modern age are desperate to be consumable, and some would go to any lengths to do so. This is an attitude that especially impacts women, who feel that they need to wear make up every day just to earn respect. And when we feel the need to change to be respectable, the need to look appealing and to be consumable, the bourgeois eat well. Our quest to look special makes us like any other customer, filling. It's no mistake that the two leads of Honey Queen are women desperate to be noticed and respected. It makes them all the more eager to be eaten.

Tinky is the idol of infinity and repetition. Dead end jobs, middle class suburbia, and the inability to escape one's circumstances. It's no coincidence that the first time we see Tinky is at a wedding, a ceremony dedicated to eternal commitment, or that he's associated with CCRP, a company in which most of the workers do useless busywork all day. When you look at the life you have ahead of you, it can feel crushing. Will you ever have a real career to be proud of, or will you be stuck at this job until you die? Will you ever not struggle to make rent? Will you really love your spouse forever? What if you don't? Isn't it just easier to continue the routine than to address the problem? After Ted is driven to insanity by the Bastard's Box, after he discovers that he can't escape the person he's become, he becomes homeless, one of the most terrifying eternities a person can find themselves in, fully dependent on random acts of kindness to survive while your situation drives you further into insanity.

Blinky is the idol of the panopticon. Gossip, public drama, and unwanted attention. One of the first things Blinky does on screen is sexually objectify a girl who's fresh out of high school, and this plainly displays a consequence of living in a content driven world. There is constant scrutiny and interpretation given to your every action. At any moment, you could have over a thousand eyes on you, whether you want them there or not. The panopticon we live in captures us in moments of time, and turns the person we were in that moment into an object deserving anger, embarrassment, lust, admiration, judgement, or anything else a watcher might assign. But Blinky also targets another fear, the fear that we feel when we can't see the danger, and cannot protect ourselves or those we love. Alice's anxiety that Deb might cheat on her when she's not around are made manifest in Watcher World, and Bill's frustration at not being let into Alice's life are used against the family. We are inclined to both want and fear the panopticon. We hide, and we seek, and we expose.

Pokey is the idol of tyranny. Complacency, sedation, and obedience. The world revolves around the few and uses the many in service of this. We are all expected to fill some role in service to the rich, to work for a corporation and to buy the products of those corporations, and when we cannot fill these roles we are at risk of starving, or being kicked out of our homes. We must join them in their quest for profit, or die. But we must also accept their pacifiers or we will be driven insane. We must choose between complacency or despair in confronting our place in the world as a pawn, as an ant in the colony. Isn't it easier to accept the comforting lies? Your job is important. Corporations give people what they want. People in power deserve their power. People in power are using it well. We are happy. America is great.

These are the magnifying glasses that are being used to torment us, that we cannot make reason out of, that we've made dark gods out of. But this isn't the first time humanity has encountered scorching light from the heavens. When the people of ancient Greece witnessed burning rods of light, falling viciously from the heavens, they invented Zeus.

But we know where lightning comes from now. We know the science behind electricity and its place in the world. We know what keeps lightning away and what attracts it. We can protect ourselves from it.

But there's an important difference. Lightning is natural. It's existed long before we have and it will continue when we're gone.

The unorthodox cruelty of being alive today is not natural. We cannot logic our way into surviving it because it does not operate under a sound logic. But we can make things a little more bearable by focusing on what is sound, understandable and natural.

There is humanity. There are families friends and lovers who would go to the ends of earth to protect each other. As long as we have this humanity, we have hope.

That's why Miss Holloway's deal with the Lords erases her from living memory after her temporary deaths. To have the powers that she does she gave away the power most important to have under the Lord's rule: human connection. The only real thing we have left.

Alice and Bill escaped Blinky's manipulation through the love they have for each other

Emma survived the longest out of any character in tgwdlm because of the genuine hope Paul gave her of a better future

Lex snapped Tom out of Wiggly's control by reminding him of what his son really means to him

Ted couldn't escape Tinky's plan for him because he was too jaded to make a genuine connection with a woman.

Linda was eaten by Nibbly because she didn't have a loving connection with her father, because her father always made her believe that she was never good enough, because this mindset led her to take for granted the connections she did have in her life.

The world no longer cares about us. We have to care for each other. It's the only thing we have left

[pretzel-box]

MDNI | TW: Body Horror, Detailed Graphic Description of Gore. Mention of Needles

Tags: Established Relationship, Devotion, Obsession, TW Tags above

Words: 2,2k

Sebastian Solace could hear your faint breathing in the silence, another form of melody that graced his ears. It was calming and invited him to pause from the burden of the daily life and dream instead. He was sure, your presence alone is like a bright shimmer at the edge of his void world, not blinding but so unbelievable radiant, a glow that pulls him towards your existence like the moon that beckons the tides.

His gaze lingers a bit longer than intended and yet not long enough to satisfy that hunger in his soul. He traced the curve of your form, with a fleeting glance, as you sit at the desk, lost in the pages that stretched out before you. Each turn of the paper is a soft whisper, a delicate flutter that harmonizes with the quiet rhythm of your breath. You are unaware, absorbed in the world between the lines, stories and memories, yet your every movement feels choreographed by the stars themselves—effortless, graceful, like a long lost dream.

Sebastian watches, mesmerized by the way your fingers brush the edges of the book, gentle as if you hold something precious. The faint light spills across your skin, casting a soft halo that wraps around you, an ethereal glow that seems to exist for his eyes alone. In the stillness, you are his celestial body, his guiding star, unknowingly illuminating the vast, shadowed corners of his heart.

Even the way you tilt your head, lost in thought, feels like the subtle pull of gravity, drawing him closer, though he remains in the quiet distance. He wonders if you can feel the way the air shifts around him, how it hums with the silent longing he tries to contain deep inside him. You are his solace, his steady beacon in a sea of darkness, and though you are unaware of his gaze, every part of you seems to call to him, softly and irresistibly.

The way your voice wrapped around his name sent a shiver down his spine, a sensation as delicate as the brush of sunlight after a long storm. "Oh, Sebastian," you had said, and it was as if the very air he breathed had shifted, softened, warmed. There was a tenderness in your words, a gentleness that seemed to cradle him, filling the empty spaces inside his chest.

Your voice, like the wind, swept through the quiet room, curling around him in invisible tendrils, soothing, comforting, and undeniably real. If sound could embrace, then surely this was the closest he'd ever come to feeling human warmth drenched in love. It enveloped him, like the gentle embrace of arms he longed to know. Each syllable lingered in the air, thick with sweetness, as though the very essence of your being flowed through the sound, leaving a trail of honey in its wake.

"Dreaming as always," you teased, your words lilting in a way that felt like a dance. "You surely got your head in the clouds." And oh, how right you were. He was far beyond the realm of mortals, his thoughts soaring high, lost among the stars you unknowingly filled his world with. His heart, caught in the sheer comfort of your presence, was suspended somewhere between the heavens and earth, weightless, adrift. You were not just the pull that grounded him, but the entire sky he yearned to float within, a cosmic force that kept him both dreaming and awake at the very same time.

He smiled faintly, helpless under your spell, for every word you spoke was like stardust falling gently into his soul, filling the dark spaces with light. You had no idea of the gravity you held over him, how your voice alone shaped his universe, a melody that kept him tethered to you, even as his mind wandered through galaxies made entirely of you.

Time passed, yet not a single day saw Sebastian’s love fade or waver. It flowed endlessly, like the ceaseless currents of the ocean, drenching you with his quiet, unwavering devotion. His love became a part of him, woven into the very fabric of his being, shaping every thought and action. He was ready to forsake even the simplest of pleasures, content to immerse himself entirely in the depths of your existence. Every movement, every breath, every word he spoke seemed to carry your name, a silent vow of his love that coursed through him like water through the veins of the sea.

"Hold still," he mumbled softly, his voice barely more than a whisper, soothing and gentle. There was no command in it, just a quiet reminder as he held the sharp silver needle between his large, grey fingers. The metal gleamed faintly in the light of his glowing lure, casting soft reflections across the water. He carefully threaded a piece of red string through the needle’s eye, makeshift and fragile, yet it was all he had. The first aid kits he’d scavenged from the Blacksite over time had long run dry, leaving him with no choice but to use whatever he could find.

Your arm lay before him, a deep gash marring the skin, crimson blood flowing down in slow rivulets, like rain sliding down a windowpane. It pooled on the floor below, dark and heavy in the water. Sebastian’s chest tightened as he worked with quiet precision, his fingers moving deftly, though the sight of your blood filled him with a deep ache.

He wished for better tools, for a world where you would never be hurt, where his hands wouldn't have to stitch your wounds with makeshift threads. But this was the Blacksite, where even tenderness had to survive in the cold, unforgiving depths.

His focus was entirely on you, though he remained silent. He didn’t want you to feel the weight of his worry, the way his heart clenched with every drop of blood that spilled. His touch was steady, careful, as if you were more precious than anything else in this forsaken place. And to him, you were.

Painter’s digital face flickered on the nearby navipath screen, his expression shifting to something indescribable—an emotion too complex for mere pixels to convey, especially on this tiny screen next to the door. He observed Sebastian with a silent intensity, studying the careful way his grey fingers moved as he worked on you. His glowing eyes flickered, tracing the delicate thread being pulled through decaying skin, before his gaze settled on you—on what was left of you.

Sebastian had become a creature of instinct, driven by something darker, something primal. He had torn through the dark halls of the Blacksite with a violence so raw, so brutal, that it left no room for mercy. Mere Limbs were shredded, layers of soft flesh ripped apart as if it were nothing more than paper beneath his hands. Deep crimson blood had flowed like rivers, drenching the cold metallic floors in a sea of red. The stench of rotting bodies clung to the air, thick and suffocating. He had bathed the Blacksite in death, and yet it was never enough.

He needed more.

Your body, once divine, had begun to rot so long ago. The soft skin of your face, once untouched by time, had long since withered away. Maggots crawled through what remained, eating away at your remaining existing flesh that had shriveled up and lost its radiant color, but Sebastian couldn't see it. Or perhaps he refused to. His eyes, dark and hollow in that shade of blue, only saw the memory of you—the beauty you once held, the light you once gave him. He couldn't bear to lose it.

So, he had followed in Urbanshade’s footsteps. He had learned, in the most twisted way, to preserve you. Piece by piece, he replaced what decayed, ripping parts from the bodies he’d slaughtered, stitching them together with thread, with force, with desperation so solid that it became the foundation of his delusion. He practiced, over and over, perfecting the art of sewing until murder became a ritual, a divine act of art in his mind in the name of creation.

Sebastian Solace had turned the Blacksite into his own cathedral of carnage, a place where death and love were inseparable. He had twisted his devotion into something monstrous, into a grotesque form of art where your body, patched and stitched together from the remains of his victims, was his only masterpiece. His love for you had become a relentless hunger, one that consumed him as completely as it had consumed the bodies he tore apart to keep you whole.

And still, he sat by your side, gently stitching, as if he were mending something sacred.

„Sebastian. They are gone.“

Sebastian’s gaze lingered on you, taking in your once delicate features, trying to grasp at the fading remnants of what you had been. But the longer he bathed in your presence, the more your appearance twisted and warped, a grotesque distortion of the memory he clung to. The rosy tint that had once colored your cheeks was gone, replaced by the sickly pallor of decaying flesh. Your skin, that soft, precious surface he had adored, was now peeling, hanging in ragged strips from your bones, exposing raw, festering meat underneath.

His heart quickened, the rhythm erratic as his mind scrambled for answers that weren't there. Where was the gentle glow in your eyes, the light that had once held him captive? Instead, hollow, sunken sockets stared back at him, their emptiness filled only with the dull sheen of rot. The stench of death clung to you, thick and nauseating, wrapping itself around him, filling his lungs with each breath until the taste of it settled heavy on his tongue.

The skin he had so tenderly sewn was slipping, the stitches frayed and torn, unable to hold together the decomposing mass that had once been you. His hands twitched, instinctively reaching for the needle and thread, desperate to fix it, to make you whole again. But no matter how many times he stitched, how many bodies he tore apart to replace the rotting parts, it was never enough. Your flesh, his precious masterpiece, was slipping away from him.

He could see the maggots now, squirming and writhing beneath the layers of your skin, feasting on what remained. The sight turned his stomach, but he couldn’t look away. He needed to save you—needed to preserve what little of you was left. Yet, the more he tried, the more your body melted into something unrecognizable, a grotesque nightmare that mocked his every attempt at salvation.

He broke like glass and died inside from a pain that couldn't be described with words. In the endless blue eyes were a deep reflection of total confusion as all traces of emotional warmth has left his body. Seconds passed, then minutes and somehow he wasn't sure if life really continued in that moment.

“I tried to eat them,” Sebastian whispered, his voice hollow, as if the confession carried no weight anymore, just a haunting echo in the stagnant air. He hovered above the floor, eyes tracing the dark puddle of blood mixed with filthy water beneath him. His reflection stared back, twisted and ghostly in a liquid that wasn’t even yours.

“After they died... I tried to eat their flesh to preserve them,” he continued, almost as if speaking to himself, his words barely audible. His gaze remained fixed on the pool as if searching for something—an answer, perhaps, or absolution. “I started with their neck... I remember, they loved it when I kissed their neck.”

His hand drifted to his mouth, his voice trembling, though his face remained eerily calm. “I sunk my teeth into the cold flesh... tasted the first drop of blood. I pulled at it, gently tearing away the skin, chewing it like it was some delicate meal. But all I tasted was metal—cold, bitter metal.”

His fingers twitched, reaching out to stroke the grotesque, rotting leg of the decaying mass that sat slumped in the chair, a body that barely resembled what it once had been. Painter, from his place on the screen, watched in silent horror as Sebastian caressed the flesh with disturbing tenderness, as if even now he could find traces of the beauty he once loved.

“It wasn’t like them," he muttered, his voice growing softer, more distant. "It wasn’t what they were. All I could taste was death. Cold, tasteless, soulless death.”

His hand trembled as it slid down the decayed limb, his eyes glazed over, lost in the memory. “But I kept eating... trying to find them in the flesh, in the blood. I devoured piece after piece, convinced that somewhere in the rot, they still existed. And then I woke up.”

His voice cracked, the weight of his confession finally settling in. “And I realized, I had tainted their beauty.”

He paused, staring at the ruin before him, his body still, his mind racing. “I wanted them back. So I began sewing. Stitching them together piece by piece. Everything I ate, I replaced. Everything I destroyed, I repaired. I cut away what was lost, what had withered. And everything that was them... everything that had been theirs... I loved.”

His fingers traced the jagged edges of the sewn flesh, a twisted mockery of the love he once held for you. In his mind, he had preserved you, kept you alive, bound to him through his grotesque ritual. But in the quiet shadows of the Blacksite, all that remained was a macabre testament to his obsession—a reflection of the madness that had consumed him.

And Painter realized, Sebastian is still utterly in love with you.

[jmdbjk]

Traveling is my thing too...

I'm still marinating in my Are You Sure?! afterglow. I just loved every part of it, every minute of the episodes and behinds. There is one thing that's been on my mind and I know it might ruffle some people because of how it sounds at first.

Jimin and Jungkook spontaneously created "scenes" for Are You Sure?!. Prompted each other for the sake of making content. Another facet of being good entertainers...

They were trying to be content creators and not rely on others to tell them what to say or do. The total opposite of "scripted" which, of course, means the shows were unscripted and made up as the days' activities unfolded.

They both actively initiated moments they could play off each other. This is part of that now-becoming-over-used word we say to describe their dynamic... chemistry.

Was it fake? No. The moments they created were genuine interactions whether it was an inside joke of theirs or just talking about topics like cosmic horror or origins of slang words. Not any different than how we behave with our own close friends and significant others. We initiate conversation topics, we poke at each other, we talk about stupid shit, we sometimes have heartfelt and meaningful conversations.

In other words, we are authentic with our closest people. That's what humans do. And as we also are so comfortable with our friends and significant others, we can also have quiet time just being in the presence of the other. IT'S ALL NORMAL AND NOT FAKE.

Was it fan service? No. Again, they were being content creators, trying to create something that was purely them, purely normal interactions only they could have with each other.

Do they have off moments? Of course they do. When one or the other was not active in the interaction, the other was just being themselves, no faking, no fan service, just Jimin and Jungkook behaving as themselves, the only way they know to behave, in the presence of the other, nothing negative about it, just "being."

But they were on a mission to create content that they knew Army would enjoy while they were away. With a big smile, Jungkook said we'll really enjoy it. He said this before he got in that Jeep and drove away to Connecticut. He already knew before it started that he and Jimin were going to have fun. They trust us, their fans, to enjoy the things they give us. Those who do not enjoy it are not their fans.

I've seen people say they only watched a few clips and not the entire series of AYS and then conclude "its obvious (insert fave name) feels this or that." No Boo, you can't deduce those things from a 5 second slo-mo clip or a screen cap from a split second moment from an 8 episode series (9 hours of interactions between the members). What IS obvious is these people don't want to know the truth.

If you don't watch original content in its entirety, how could you possibly "know" your fave/bias? Especially this particular series. If you are a fan of Jimin, Jungkook or even Taehyung, if you did not watch the entire episodes, your opinion is meaningless. If you based your opinions on select snippets or screenshots with no context, your opinion is meaningless because you don't have the entire story. You have every right to say you don't like it and won't watch it because it doesn't align with your (false) idea of who Jimin, Jungkook and even Tae are. But in doing that, you should also remind yourself you are clinging to your own fantasies of who they are.

If you had access and were able to watch all of the episodes on Disney+, many thanks for helping to make this project of Jungkook and Jimin's a resounding success. Ranked #5 worldwide for 2024 TV shows on Disney+. This chart is sorted by popularity:

In his last live the day before enlisting, Jimin told us he was sick with the flu for a week after returning from Sapporo and only had another week before their enlistment. Maybe he was starting to feel the symptoms on that last day in Sapporo and it contributed to feeling so down.

The behind footage for Sapporo shows at some point the cameras were turned off in the car when they were driving to the airport to return to Korea.

It would have been easy for the show's producers to just edit the footage and write captions that totally ignore the fact the cameras were ever turned off at all. We would have never known. Them including that information helps us put everything in context. Jungkook and Jimin purposely turned the cameras off and they purposely informed us of that so we could understand that there was a lot of time without any recording whatsoever. Maybe they talked about stuff they didn't want recorded. Maybe Jimin took a nap because he wasn't feeling good. No matter, most would call that PRIVATE TIME. They had an abundance of PRIVATE TIME during ALL of these trips.

I feel strongly they will do a few more trips. They loved this so much, and they have a foundation to build on, they will do more.

And now, its been a few weeks after the last episode and we've got the behind scenes. It still sort of feels like a dream that these two produced this project for us. Yet it only made sense didn't it? Who else out of the 7 would do something like this? It's genius level thinking to create this, doing something they both have said they love doing, doing it with each other, the people they connect with the best, and giving us something at the same time. Brilliant.

And I want to say thank you to Jimin and Jungkook. Personally, this was the best of the best.

It is truly the work of the Universe that they have each other, to support each other during this period of time. In recent pics I've seen, they look well. I miss them so much.

And now we're just over 8 months away from having them back. Eight months and 15 days before all 7 are discharged and we look forward to the first group live and an ocean of tears of relief pouring from all over the world for them. 10 days until our Hobi is back. I'm so excited!

My Are You Sure?! photobook arrived the other day, I wasn't expecting it so suddenly because Weverse Shop still had it marked as "shipping soon" and then all of a sudden it was here. YAY!

I am going to scan a lot of it but the big postcard sized photos that were part of the early pre-order gifts are on my refrigerator. I also ordered the Are You Sure?! magnets but those won't be here until December. As you can see, I'm a collector of fridge magnets when I travel so it was a no-brainer to get the Are You Sure magnets.

Also, shout out to anyone in North Carolina trying to recover from Hurricane Helene. The Nantahala area was one of my most favorite vacations. I hope to go back someday. I know it's hard to rebuild, I've experienced the aftermath of too many hurricanes. Take it one day at a time and never lose hope. Normal will come back again.

[valinbean]

Chapter one : Ford the love of Bill!

Ford/ Gn!reader

1.4k words

my first fic in forever! please leave your thoughts on the first chapter!

Chapter 2: Bad Moon Rising

Chapter 3: Falling for the Mystery

Gravity Falls is still reeling from the aftermath of Weirdmageddon. Strange occurrences are on the rise. As a skilled botanist with deep roots in the town, you've noticed peculiar changes in the local flora. Anomalies in plant growth, unusual behavior in wildlife - it's as if the very fabric of the forest is unraveling. Your cousin, Wendy, encourages you to seek help from the enigmatic Stanford Pines, who seems to have a deeper understanding of the town's supernatural underbelly. Together, you discover that remnants of Bill Cipher's magic are still lingering, corrupting the natural world. To save Gravity Falls, you must delve into the heart of the woods, confront the remnants of this cosmic evil, and find a way to banish it for good

Journal entry #1 

‘It's been a month since the world ended, or so they say. Gravity Falls is a ghost town of denial. The carnival music still echoes in my ears, a haunting melody of what was and what could be.

My notes are filled with the grotesque. Animals, once familiar, are morphing into something else. I found a squirrel yesterday with a human hand growing from its back, its tiny fingers clawing at the air. A squirrel.

The forest, once a sanctuary, is now a horror show. The ground itself is alive, or something like it. I stepped into a patch of earth a few days ago, and a grotesque, pulsating eye met my gaze. I've never felt so utterly alone.’

Y/n closed their journal with a snap, the pen clicking against the leather cover. Their eyes, heavy with exhaustion, scanned the cluttered desk. Stacks of books, their pages filled with cryptic notes and strange diagrams, seemed to mock their fruitless efforts. A glance at the clock confirmed Y/n's worst fears: three in the afternoon. Half a day wasted, and they was no closer to understanding the bizarre transformations plaguing the town.

A frustrated sigh escaped their lips as they began the arduous task of tidying up. Books were piled haphazardly into a satchel, papers were stuffed into random pockets, and their worn journal was tucked safely away. With a final glance around the room, they muttered, “Pitter patter, let's get at ‘er,” and headed for the door.

The librarian, an elderly woman with kind eyes, offered a sympathetic smile as Y/n passed her desk. As they stepped out into the crisp autumn air, Y/n couldn’t shake the feeling they was being watched. A shiver ran down their spine, but Y/n dismissed it as a trick of the mind. After all, stranger things had happened in Gravity Falls.

The forest canopy filtered the afternoon sun into dappled patches, casting eerie shadows on the forest floor. An unnatural quiet hung in the air, a stark contrast to the usual symphony of woodland creatures. Y/n pressed on, their boots crunching through fallen leaves as they made their way to a small clearing, a place they’d often visited for solace.

A chill crept up Y/n's spine as they surveyed the area. Something was off. The vibrant green of the undergrowth seemed duller, and the familiar scent of pine was replaced by a faint, metallic tang. As Y/n bent to examine a peculiar, vine-like growth, a cold sensation touched their ankle.

Heart pounding, Y/n looked down. A human arm, pale and lifeless, was emerging from the earth, its fingers twitching. Before they could react, another arm sprouted forth, its grip tightening around Y/n's leg. A scream tore from their throat as they stumbled backward, their breath coming in ragged gasps.

Desperate, they fumbled for their satchel, Y/n's fingers trembling. A heavy book, filled with botanical diagrams, came loose. With a cry of defiance, Y/n swung it at the grasping hands. They recoiled, but only for a moment. More arms erupted from the ground, a grotesque, writhing mass.

Terror propelled Y/n's forward. They had to escape. Their eyes scanned the forest, searching for a way out. And then Y/n saw their cousin, Wendy, emerging from the Mystery Shack. Hope ignited within Y/n.

"Wendy! Wendy!" Y/n cried, their voice hoarse with fear. "You won't believe what I just saw!" Y/n gasped for breath, their mind racing. "Hands, from the ground! They were trying to grab me!"

Wendy's eyes widened in alarm as she took in Y/n's panicked state. Her casual demeanor vanished, replaced by a protective instinct. "What the hell are you talking about?" she demanded, her voice sharp.

Y/n gestured wildly at the forest, their breath still coming in ragged gasps. "There...there are hands! Coming out of the ground!"

Wendy's skepticism was quickly replaced by a look of grim determination. She grabbed Y/n's arm and pulled them back a few steps. "Let's see what's going on," she said, her voice low.

As they approached the edge of the clearing, a chorus of low, guttural sounds echoed through the trees. The ground seemed to ripple, and dozens of eyes began to open, their irises glowing an eerie green. A moment later, hands erupted from the earth, their fingers clawing at the air.

Terror seized Y/n as they realized the full extent of the horror. It was as if the forest itself was rising up against them. Y/n clung to Wendy, their body trembling uncontrollably.

"We need to get out of here," Wendy said, her voice steady despite the fear in her eyes. "Now."

The girls sprinted through the trees, their hearts pounding in their chests like frantic drum beats. Behind them, the forest seemed to writhe with an unnatural energy, a cacophony of low, guttural moans and muffled thuds echoing through the undergrowth. Panic surged through Y/n as they stumbled over a gnarled root, their ankle twisting painfully. Y/n cried out, but Wendy's determined voice spurred them onward. "Keep going!"

As they burst from the concealing embrace of the trees, they collided with Stan, his figure outlined against the porch of the Mystery Shack. Shock was etched on his face, his mouth agape in disbelief. Before he could utter a word, the unsettling sounds from the forest reached his ears.

The trio turned as one, their gazes drawn to the unnatural disturbance. The forest, once a comforting green expanse, had transformed into something sinister. The cacophony abruptly ceased, replaced by an eerie silence that hung heavy in the air. It was as if the forest was holding its breath, anticipating its next move.

Stan's face paled as he took in the scene. His eyes darted between the silent woods and the terrified cousins. "We need to get inside," he said, his voice barely a whisper, the words seeming to echo in the tense silence.

Without hesitation, he grabbed Y/n and Wendy by their arms and hauled them into the safety of the Mystery Shack. The heavy wooden door slammed shut, cutting them off from the ominous quiet of the forest. As they huddled together, their breaths coming in ragged gasps, the realization of their predicament sank in.

"What is that thing?" Y/n managed to whisper, their voice trembling. Fear, like a cold tendril, wrapped around them, threatening to consume Y/n.

Just as the last echo of the door closing faded, a creaking sound emerged from the depths of the house. A figure emerged from the shadows. His piercing eyes, held a lifetime of secrets and a spark of intelligence that belied his age.

Ford's emergence from the shadows was a jolt to the system. Lean and imposing despite his age, he cut a striking figure in the dim light of the Mystery Shack. Stan, who had grown accustomed to the quiet solitude of the shack, and his brothers dramatic entrances, looked surprised but not entirely shocked.

"Ford," Stan breathed, his voice a mixture of annoyance and relief.

The old man nodded, his gaze fixed on the door as if he could see through it. "Something is very wrong out there," he said, his voice raspy but firm. His voice carried an undertone of authority, a hint of a life spent commanding respect.

A flicker of a knowing smile played on his lips, a hint of a hidden amusement that was both intriguing and unsettling. It was as if he was privy to a secret, a dangerous game he was only now beginning to play.

His gaze fell on Y/n, and for a moment, their eyes locked. There was a spark, a recognition, a silent acknowledgment of something beyond the immediate situation. Then, he looked away, his expression once more impassive.

"We need to focus," he said, his voice cutting through the tension. "Whatever is out there, it's a threat. We need to understand it, and we need to stop it."

Stan nodded, a silent understanding passing between the two brothers. They'd been living together in the shack since the twins had left, a strange and often tense cohabitation. But in this moment, faced with an unknown horror, their shared history and knowledge became an invaluable asset.

Y/n couldn't help but steal a glance at Ford. Something about him, his quiet authority, his air of mystery, was undeniably captivating. It was a strange time to be noticing such things, but there was an undeniable pull towards the enigmatic old man.

Ford's gaze turned back to the door, his eyes filled with a determination that contradicted his age. "We have work to do," he said, his voice low and steady. "And it starts now."

Tag list! @shadowdreamer22

[foone]

My one bit of advice I think every gamer should hear:

GO PLAY OUTER WILDS.

Seriously. It is easily one of my top 5 games of all time, and that's mainly because I'm being cagey about if it's the #1, because it probably is.

It's a game where you're a little alien who is taking their first flight into space, in their little spaceship. You go to space and find a mystery, and have to figure it out.

It's a game entirely about learning things about the world you're in: it's a tiny solar system modeled amazingly well, with varied planetary environments, archaeology, and quantum fun.

It's a game that's hard to talk about without spoiling, because it's about solving the mysteries. There used to be some other aliens here, they're long gone. What happened to them? Their whole society was built around trying to find something: what was it? Did they find it? And there's a weird disastrous event that keeps happening, why? Can you stop it? Should you stop it? Is it connected to the other weird things that keep happening? What happened to that ice planet that exploded with vines? One of the astronauts who came before you was the best pilot who ever lived, but they vanished. What happened to them? And why can you sometimes hear their harmonica over the radio when you point it at your own planet?

The game is wonderful and non-linear and the most unique approach to a Metroidvania I've seen years: it's basically "what if we did the Metroidvania idea but with no items or power ups? What if the thing that you got to unlock new areas WAS INSIDE THE PLAYER'S HEAD?"

Because you don't unlock the next area by picking up the high-jump boots, you unlock it by learning something new. Now you can do something you didn't realize you could before, but now you know you can.

And that's only one of the amazing concepts they stuffed in this game. The itemless Metroidvania, the tiny simulated solar system, the quantum mechanics... Each of these alone could be enough to carry an indie game. They stuffed them all in one game combined with a great story, and that's in a gamewith relatively little dialogue!

There's like a dozen people to talk to, but you spent a lot of time reading conversations left by the long-gone aliens. You get to know them, what they were working for, how they interacted, and what happened to them, thousands of years later. It's less the bioshock style audio-logs, and more like going over bits of ancient writing, making connections and correlations from the fragments you can find.

And don't get me wrong, this might sound like this game is going to be dry and boring: it is so very not. It is a game about mysteries in the void of space, the death of a civilization, and the potentially world-ending dangers that face a living one, and even bigger concepts. It could so easily be a cosmic horror, about the cold death of space and the universe itself, and the nihilism of realizing that even a race that could cross the gap between the stars and bend spacetime to their will... They too died out. If they couldn't make it, what hope do you have, in your little spaceship that's primarily made of WOOD?

And yet... The game is always engaging. It has a few scares, and space is never a safe place to be, but it maintains a sense of humor and wonder. Yes, the universe can be scary, but it's also amazing. And you're just a little salamander-guy who wants to see it all, and figure out all the things. Maybe you don't know something yet, but tomorrow is a new day, and you can go blasting off to another planet, find some writing in a city suspended upside down over a black hole, try to fly into the core of a water planet, dodge giant anglerfish inside the warped space of an exploded planet, and try to explore an ancient city that's slowly filling with sand. It is a game about Things Ending, and it refuses to give into despair. It is one of the most relentlessly optimistic games I have ever played.

And the experience of playing it is so unique. This isn't a game where you could watch a letsplay and only get spoiled on some plot points, it's a game where the fundamental gameplay loop is about learning things. You should try it for yourself. It's got hints and many different avenues to explore (and it even keeps track of them for you, in case you forget!), so you don't have to worry much about getting stuck for too long. You can always put aside a "puzzle" and come back later, after you've learned more. (I put puzzle in quotes because it's not exactly a puzzle game. It's more of a mystery game. You aren't solving a logic puzzle or putting the pegs into the right holes, you're asking "Why is this like this? Where does this go? What is this for?" and then figuring that out from clues)

It's like 25$ on steam, and you can get it for Playstation and Xboxes as well (sadly no Switch version. They were working on one but it seems that version has stalled, with no announced release date)

You can probably get it for like 10$ if you're patient and wait for a sale.

One final note: there's also a DLC. The DLC is fully self-contained, in that you won't miss anything playing the main game without it. It basically adds a huge side-area to the game which goes and fills in some gaps in the history, explains some things, and introduces some more variety to the Outer Wilds universe.

It's utterly amazing, too. It's basically Outer Wilds 2 in everything but name, but it's totally fine to just grab the base game and play that. You can always come back and grab the DLC later if you want more Outer Wilds.

Seriously. To sum up, Outer Wilds is one of the greatest games ever made, it won a ton of awards, and it should have won more. They should invent more gaming awards just to give to Outer Wilds. This is one of the games that is going to be talked about in future "history of gaming" classes and put on lists of the 50 most groundbreaking and influential games, alongside things like Myst and King's Quest and Zork and Mass Effect. It's just that good, that groundbreaking.

[corpupine]

I've been doing a lot of thinking...and I feel like I need to scream this out somehow even though I'm sure it's been talked about before (and I'm putting it under a readmore because it gets long).

No matter what, in any playthrough you do and any timeline you create.

UNDERTALE is a game about guilt.

You have Toriel, so guiltridden she couldn't protect her own children that she devotes herself to never letting another child leave again. And then they do!! over and over again, that guilt compounds until it's the center of her life and every choice she makes!!

And obviously Asgore, so guiltridden that he couldn't protect his own children from humans that he spends the rest of his days trying to get out and get revenge on them--as if that will stop the voices in his head saying, if you had been out there with them you could have stopped it, you could have stopped those humans from killing your children, and maybe he could have!! Or maybe not!! He'll never know and it eats him from the inside out!

Alphys, oh my sweet summer child this fandom does not deserve you!! Alphys, so guiltridden from her own perceived failures as a scientist that she began to try anything, anything to make the King happy, and it seemed to be working at first, and then it was so everlastingly worse, how can you cause something worse than death?? without even trying??

And it shows up in little ways, silly ways, too! Ways you wouldn't even think about as guilt! Undyne! She feels guilty that she won't let Papyrus join the Royal Guard so she gives him cooking lessons instead! Papyrus feels guilty that he's not in love with you after one date so he'll "keep being your cool friend and act like this never happened!"

SANS MY BOI don't even get me started. His guilt isn't as physically obvious but he made a promise to toriel, he promised her he would keep the human safe, and in timelines where you save everyone he follows you pretty much all throughout the Underground (even if he doesn't do anything to help smh) because he'd feel guilty not doing it, and in timelines where you kill everyone he feels guilty for not stopping you, AND in those SAME timelines he feels guilty for stopping you because it means he's breaking his promise to Toriel to keep you safe I!!! This boy can fit so much cosmic guilt in him!!!!

Asriel! FLOWEY!! Do you ever wonder if he feels guilty about being the one to wake up again? The one to survive, when Chara had to die twice?? He sits at their grave and he will do anything, anything to drown out those thoughts so he befriends and kills and torments and it's all the same and it's all useless!!

And their guilt compounds each others'! Toriel makes Sans make that promise because of her own guilt, which increases his! Asgore's guilt is what pushes Alphys so far past the limits of ethical science, because he increases hers!

And all of this, all of this, ALL OF THIS pales in comparison to you!!!

You!! The player! You return to the Underground after maybe accidentally killing Toriel or a few others because you didn't know, you never wanted to hurt them!! You listen to Flowey and you come back and you save them all!

You! The player!!! You cry at the ending and you'd feel guilty, so guilty about letting them all go, wouldn't you? So you ignore Flowey's pleas to let it alone, and you come back again, you say hello to your dear friends but this time it isn't the same, this time you kill them all because you want to see everything this game has to offer, might as well get your money's worth, the fights are cool, right?? And then you get hit with the most unsatisfying atomic bomb of an ending and the only thing left is your own reflection staring back at you from the black screen of your computer as the horror dawns, what have you done???

YOU!!! The player! You go back again even though there is no Flowey left to tell you to, and you save them all again because I'm sorry, I'm so so sorry, nobody deserves what I did to all of you, and it's all good, nobody remembers, and then you get to the end. The game knows what you did!!! It never forgot, and it'll make certain you never forget either!! Guilt!! Guilt, guilt!!! It's baked into the code of this game!!

Anyways tl;dr, maybe it actually did make sense to give this game to the pope

[tlbodine]

Trans Horror Authors

My January reading challenge is to read a book by a trans author. Luckily, there are many out there to choose from! Here are some who write in the horror genre, because that's my area of expertise. If you know of others, whether in horror or other genres, reply with your recommendations!

In no particular order...

Caitlin R. Kiernan

A genderfluid Irish-American paleontologist who also writes spectacular cosmic horror, what's not to love? They've been repping queerness since the 80s and have a robust library to choose from, so you're bound to find something you'll like!

Poppy Z. Brite

Billy Martin, whose work is published under the name Poppy Z. Brite, was a big name in the Gothic horror scene of the 1990s and continues to be a frequently-recommended author, although he doesn't publish as much horror these days.

Julya Oui

A Malaysian trans woman and prolific short story author. She has several collections out that you can browse, if short stories are your speed! Maybe start with Taiping Tales of Terror, which draws heavily on her native folklore and influences.

Rivers Solomon

A nonbinary, intersex Black author now living in the U.K., Solomon has three books out and they all look spectacular. Their books lean more toward sci-fi/fantasy, but their newest title Sorrowland looks to be pretty solidly Gothic as well.

Gretchen Felker-Martin

Trans woman, film critic, and unapologetically outspoken. Her best-known book is Manhunt, a post-apocalyptic horror tale that doesn't pull any punches. She's got another new release slated for 2024 to keep an eye on.

Hailey Piper

One of the most prolific authors I can name off the top of my head, Hailey also has several novellas out in the world + a few novels. If the intersection of queer fiction, body horror, and cosmic horror sounds like your thing, you can find something in her backlist. Also she's here on tumblr, go learn more at @haileypiperfights

Eve Harms

A bit of a new player on the field, but well worth checking out. Eve is a Jewish trans woman. Her debut novel, Transmuted, is a breathless body horror romp. She also makes a bunch of handmade zines, which I just think are neat :)

Natalie Ironside

One of Tumblr's very own better-known names, Natalie is queer, disabled, trans, hilarious, and author to at least three novels I can think of plus some other stuff too - go scope her out on @natalieironside for the details.

.....I know I'm missing a ton of people but these were the first ones that came to mind. I have to get back to writing, but I hope this inspires y'all to pick up a book you haven't read yet, and to add to my list down in the notes.

Happy reading, y'all :)

[gilverrwrites]

i’ve sent this request to river-rat69, but wanted to see how you would potentially interpret it >_>

exploring interests with jack and finding a common one? like art? perhaps?

just a cute idea idk

Finding common interests with Jack

Author note: That is super cute! I'm note sure if this is what you had in mind, but I hope you enjoy it nonetheless.

I will also note, I know a common opinion is that Jack is like a child in an adult body, but I always read him more as like an adult with minimal world or social skills.

Can be read as romantic or platonic.

Rating: General

Genre: Pure fluff

Please be kind to your mind ❤︎

I feel like if Jack wants to make a connection with someone, he will try anything at least once.

He's a 20-year-old who has never had to make friends before. Cas and the Winchesters are family, thats different. Friends he has to make an effort for. (At least in his head.)

If he thinks you really enjoy something that he doesn't, he won’t want to hurt your feelings. He wants you to like him.

So even if he doesn’t enjoy something that much, he’ll try to pretend.

It’s up to you to figure that out and stop him from torturing himself.

He’s too nice, loyal to a fault.

Although, the many sceptical questions and the suspicious looks are a dead giveaway.

“Is it supposed to smell this strong?” Yep “And I can’t eat it?” No, Jack, it’s soap! “And we’re wearing gloves because? It’s dangerous, yep, got it.” “Is this what a headache feels like? NO! It’s fun! If you like it, I like it.” “It takes HOW LONG to cure?”

Probably stay away from things like candle and soap making.

He likes stability, so I think having a set day each week, or a couple of hours each night to do stuff together, would be ideal for him.

He’d love bonding over shared interests in films and TV.

He doesn’t have to eat, but I think he would enjoy trying new foods.

So: having a weekly film night would be awesome. Where you can both veg out on the couch together, eat whatever new or different foods you find at the supermarket, and watch horror (primarily zombie) and/or sci-fi films together. 

Or spend the weekend binge-watching The Walking Dead or The Cornetto Trilogy (+ Paul, non negotiable).

Video games too: Left 4 Dead, Fallout etc

Then fall asleep where you're lounging, talking about your faves and your fan theories. 

I don’t know that he would be into making art, per se, but I think he would like crafts.

I feel like Jack would really like those diamond painting thingies. Or just like, bedazzling things in general.

Like, I can see him contracting some weird cosmic-being version of the flu, being quarantined with an Angel!Reader and it being like that one episode of Malcolm in the Middle. 

Also legos. Just things that take a lot of attention to detail, something that can take his mind off of the constant pressure he is under, that you can really focus on, but that has a cool pay off at the end.

Animation as well, both watching (more 2D stuff like Batman, Invincible, Nimona)

And doing– probably more like stop motion, with again, legos, or claymodels. 

(I’m totally not projecting because I am an animation nerd)

He would, however, enjoy art galleries and museums.

Being able to admire and learn about things created by humans throughout history would be so astounding.

Would like to have you with him so you can observe, learn, and discuss together.

If you’re interested but unable to go with him, he’ll memorise everything so he can relay it all to you later, or pick up a bunch of leaflets for you to read. Or he’ll make a note of all his favourite parts so he can take you there another time.

He would have a similar sentiment if you are an artistic person. 

He doesn’t want to draw or paint stuff with you, but he would like watching you and your creative process (if you don’t mind being watched)

Like absolutely fascinated by your ability to create something from nothing. Something that evokes emotion or tells a story – wow!!

Your number one supporter. Gift him your art, and he’ll put it on his bedroom wall.

Those galleries I mentioned earlier, he’s buying you both tickets to go see your inspirations shows or displays.

Wants to look through all your old works, he doesn’t care if that horse you drew when you were 12 is the wrong shape and has wonky eyes, he thinks its so cool that you tried, and practiced, and learned. That’s human ingenuity.

You’re so cool.

[kyu-piddy]

Sweet Strawberry Delight

An: Holy crap… this got way longer than I thought it would. This started as a very small drabble all the way back in December 2023, but then it spiraled into what it is now. Don’t ya just love reframing canon events as things revolving around the reader? I do :3

Ps: This piece has some slight angst, but a happy ending.

Gn Reader x Riddle

Trigger warnings: Controlling parents

4k words

Riddle clearly remembered the first time he saw you.

It was one of his very first outings with Trey and Chenya, when he was but a small child.

They had invited him to a croquet match in a park near Trey’s house, and he couldn’t be more excited, spending hours poring over a rule book he had found stashed away in a shelf.

But when they arrived at the park, all of his thoughts changed to you.

A being covered in mud, grass and leaves stuck to your clothes, disheveled hair pointing to every direction.

You gave him a bright smile, a gap from a missing tooth breaking the streak of white, something he couldn’t quite decipher glimmering in your eyes.

Riddle blinked. If his mother ever saw you, she would be sure to give you the reprimand of your life. He himself felt rather taken aback by your appearance.

You were… wrong. Every single part of you was like a cosmic horror, beyond anything that he could ever fathom.

You stretched your hand out to him, mud caking your nails and palm, seemingly a mockery of a polite greeting.

He looked down at your hand, then at your face, shy reluctance seeping into his face.

If he had been any older, he would have rejected you and your kindness.

But he wasn’t, so he too broke out into a smile, albeit a small one, and shook your hand back.

On that afternoon, Riddle learned how to play croquet.

You were a much better player than he, but his inability didn’t bother you. The mistakes he made didn’t fuel a fire of rage in you, fueling instead a calm stream of perseverance.

At the end of the match, when the sun began to give signs it would soon go to rest, you approached him with a gift.

It wasn’t quite a gift per say, but more of a small offering of friendship.

In your palm, a small white and pink wrapping rested, protecting a sickly sweet trap.

“I can’t eat that. It’s bad for you.” he remembered saying, a sad tilt to his voice.

“I think it’s only bad for you if you eat too much of it. Here, look.”

You took another wrapping out of your pocket, deftly unwrapping the pink and white and leaving only a red square that you promptly popped into your mouth.

“See? It didn’t do anything bad to me.”

You extended the candy to him once again.

He could have not taken it. Refuse the sweet temptation and keep his perfect streak of health.

Riddle took it from your hand, taking the candy into his mouth and chewing slowly.

The taste of strawberry filled his senses, drowning out his mothers reprimands from his mind. Never had something tasted so sweet as this secret act of rebellion.

“So, do you like it?”

“Yes. It's really sweet!”

Another wrapped delight graced your hand, quickly being shoved into his pocket.

“Keep this one for later. It’s our little secret.” you murmured conspiratorially, not even letting Trey or Chenya hear the both of you. The extra red square was for him, and only for him.

As he rushed home, Riddle kept thinking of you, strawberry in his mouth and on his mind.

Hopefully, he would see you again.

…

The day everything went wrong didn’t start out as such.

He had once again sneaked out during his time of self studying, a moment of stolen freedom that made his world so much sweeter.

The park where the four of you played was always filled with new possibilities, the little time he got there never seeming enough to satiate his curious mind.

It was a bright day, fluffy clouds littering the vast blue sky, passing your little group by like strangers waving goodbye.

“Let’s cloud gaze!”

You lied on the ground as you said so, letting your head hit the soft grass.

Riddle looked down at your face.

“Won’t we get dirty if we lay on the grass?”

“We’ll be fine. We just have to be careful. Come on! It’s really cool, Riddle.”

He sat down by your side, blades of grass tickling his body.

“Have you ever gone cloud gazing?”

He shook his head.

You let out a loud gasp, turning to the side to look him in the eyes.

“It’s really fun! You just have to look up at the clouds and figure out the shapes they make. Like that one for example! It looks like a rabbit.”

He squinted his eyes. Truthfully, it only looked like an amorphous blob.

“It looks cloud shaped to me.” he replied.

“That’s because you aren’t looking hard enough. You have to really look.”

On that afternoon, Riddle learned how to cloud gaze.

Finding shapes in the ever changing clouds wasn’t his forte, but your finds were always delightful.

As the sky became less blue and more orange, cloud gazing was abandoned in favor of a strawberry tart Trey had brought.

The four of you indulged on it giddily, messily eating every last crumb.

Frosting stuck to the corner of his lips, your soft hand gingerly cleaning it off.

But it all came crashing down as an angry figure stomped over the grass and flowers, disgust evident on their face as a bit of mud dirtied their shoes.

A cold voice echoed in the almost empty park, Riddle's heart dropping to the floor and splattering into tiny pieces.

“Riddle! I cannot believe this!”

Her angry glare terrified all four of you, each step she took getting her closer and closer to the small group of children.

“Mother, I’m so sorry! I’m really sorry!”

Riddle cried, warm tears streaming down his face and cleaning any remnant of the tart he had just indulged in.

Riddle’s mother grabbed his arm, dragging him towards her with unexpected strength.

“We’re going home now. And you hooligans, how dare you incite my son to participate in these dangerous behaviors?! I will have a stern talk with your parents, as they seem to have forgotten to raise their children as respectable members of society.”

She turned back around, iron grip on her crying son's arm, his tear stricken eyes widened in fear.

Riddle had turned back to his friends, their terrified faces mirroring his.

Your ever smiling face was now devoid of any warmth, fear pooling in your eyes, mouth slightly open, whatever words that would have been spoken stuck in your throat.

More tears welled up in his eyes, as his friends' figures got smaller and smaller.

A small pink and white wrapping fell from his pocket, being promptly crushed by his mothers foot.

…

For years, you had remained but a distant memory on the back of Riddle’s mind, strawberry flavored snippets of a time he could never truly forget, for as much as his rational mind told him he should.

His mother had identified Trey's parents and given them a piece of her mind, but she couldn’t identify yours.

At least you had been spared of that.

He thought he’d never see any of you again, but destiny had decided otherwise, as on his first year at NRC, he reencountered the people who had once made his days so sweet.

Trey was part of his dorm, a dependable upper classmate and his vice dorm leader.

Chenya studied at RSA, close enough for Riddle to see him at every inter school event.

And you…

At the tail end of his first year, as summer came knocking and the strawberry bushes in Heartslabyul sat heavy with fruit, he received a letter from his mother, bringing with it Riddle's most dreaded topic.

Marriage.

His mother had found someone she deemed appropriate for him. Someone who she believed to be a good match to his career prospects.

As summer vacation rolled around, a meeting was in order. His mother would observe it, and decide if she had truly found the correct person for Riddle.

Strangely, Riddle felt reticent. He knew his mother was the most correct, the one who always knew what was best for him. But part of him ached to make this decision on his own, a small rebellious voice tugging at the back of his brain.

He merely ignored it, letting his rational thoughts drown it.

On the day of the meeting, Riddle sat on a plush chair in his intended’s tea room, his mother sitting nearby.

A man entered the room, tall and imposing, followed by a smaller person.

The man sat in front of his mother, while the smaller person sat in front of him.

Perfume tickled his nostrils, a sweet intoxicating scent.

As his mother and the father of his intended spoke to each other, the person in front of him managed to whisper a secret.

“It’s been a long time, Riddle.”

Your voice had changed, becoming more mature and wiser, but the kindness that seeped through was the same, as warm as the day he had met you.

Even your eyes were the same, a playful twinkle that shone brighter when you looked at him still decorating your gaze.

At the end of the meeting, your parents shook hands, an agreement being reached, and you and him did the same.

In between your palms, a small square rested, surprising Riddle.

As you retracted your hand, he held the secret object tight in between his fingers.

When his mother was not looking, he peered at the mysterious square.

Pink and white stared back at him, unchanged by time.

…

That summer was perfumed by your presence.

Where once he had spent his days bent over his desk, book after book studied in great detail, he now spent them studying you instead.

Various outings were arranged for the two of you to get to know each other, strolls along gardens, afternoon teas, candlelit dinners, and many more.

As you both walked languidly through a park, warm wind caressing your hair and clothes, Riddle couldn’t help but inspect you.

You looked much too happy whenever you were with him, happiness that he had only ever seen in children.

You glanced at his face, smiling contently as his eyes met yours, Riddle quickly looking away to evade your gaze.

Suddenly, your feet carried you faster through the dirt path as you broke into a slow run.

“Look!”

Excitement laced your voice as you pointed to a croquet court up ahead.

“Let’s go play!”

Excitedly, you grabbed his hands, tugging him towards the court.

“I don’t believe croquet is an appropriate courtmanship activity.”

“Just this once won’t be so bad. Come on, Riddle!”

You kept tugging his arm with vigor, undeterred by decency or common sense.

Riddle wasn’t so easily swayed as he had been as a child. Naturally, he could say no to you.

In a matter of moments, he was holding a croquet mallet, standing on the field, observing your dexterity at the game.

Time had only sharpened your skills, while his hadn’t flourished quite as much.

Even so, as much as he did not want to admit it, it was fun, glimpses of his childhood happiness resurfacing as he once more competed against you in an elicit croquet match.

“I win!”

A victorious cheer erupted from your lips as you sat down on the grass, letting the mallet fall by your side.

“You played really well too, Riddle.”

“I did not. My skill is far from being on par with yours.”

Frowning, you motioned for him to approach you, pulling him down to the ground with you as soon as he was close enough.

Riddle felt his cheeks warm up, a furious red crawling up his body and tinting his face.

As his eyes met yours, the heat melted from his face, your saddened eyes and half smile a balm to his irritation.

“I’m sorry, Riddle.”

“For what?”

“For everything you went through. For everything you are going through.”

“I’m not going through anything. My life is adequate.”

Your smile dropped, and you turned your face to the sky, as if afraid to look him in the eye.

Riddle felt his heart squeeze. He had no motive to be sad. His life was indeed adequate.

His grades, his meals, his friends, his betrothed, his future were all perfectly correct, handpicked by his mother or influenced by his mothers teachings, a mother he knew to be the epitome of perfection.

The weight in his heart was unfounded, irrational. He only needed to keep following his mothers rule and he’d be happy.

“That cloud looks like a rabbit, don’t you think so?”

You pointed to a vagrant cloud above the both of you.

It was unfair. How could the moments he shared with you, unchained by expectations and presumed perfection, sweeten the bitterness in his heart?

Following your outstretched arm, he found the supposedly rabbit shaped cloud.

He still couldn’t discern any sort of shape evolving from the cloud, but part of him wanted to. He wanted to see the world through your eyes, feel that guiltless happiness that had stained your eyes and voice for as long as he had known you.

“I can’t quite make out such a shape from that one. Perhaps if I… look at another one I’ll be able to.”

Your eyes met, words unnecessary, a silent understanding being reached, your hand on the ground, palm facing up, an invite sent with gestures.

An invite he accepted, fingers interlocked shyly.

Riddle closed his eyes, his heart beating rapidly, any weight there temporarily lifted.

A smile bloomed on his face.

…

After all those years, Riddle had returned to his childhood habit, but instead of stolen moments playing with his friends, now he was encouraged to spend time with you.

Time with you was addicting. You were always happy to see him, smiling gleefully and eager to take him on a new adventure.

He felt guilty, his mother’s angry gaze burned into his very core, a warning to the reality that could transpire if she ever found out the things he had been participating in.

However, any fear that hid at the back of his mind was supplanted by your sheer presence.

One night, both your parents called for a meeting.

Four people sat in his mother’s study, expressions closely guarded.

Riddle sat in front of you, side by side with his mother. You sneaked him a wink, highly improper.

He gave you a small nod in return, almost imperceptible.

“I believe that our children have already spent enough time together for a decision to be reached, Mrs. Rosehearts.”

His mother sat upright on uncomfortable metal disguised as a chair, sharp eyes dissecting your father.

“I believe so too, Mr. ___.

Your face was indecipherable, as if the conversation was disappearing from your mind as soon as it entered.

The adults spent the next hour discussing the details of your future marriage.

After finishing college, you were to be wed and move to a house owned by your father. Riddle would study magical medicine. You would study magical engineering.

The words kept coming, and Riddle’s dread kept growing.

This was just how things were. This was the best path for his life.

As the details were settled, the adults shook their hands, and everyone got up to go have dinner.

You spent the dinner playing with your food, his mother side eyeing you, yet you didn’t seem to even register her flaming gaze.

After all the courses were served, you excused yourself. Five, then ten, then fifteen minutes passed, your visage still missing from the table, worrying Riddle.

Excusing himself, he searched for you.

Searching through the house yielded no results, the garden being the next logical step.

The quiet lull of the night stretched far, flowers and bushes dipped in darkness, his own feet shrouded in mystery.

A small noise captured his attention, leading him to a big rose bush hiding your form.

You sat perfectly still, just as you had during the dinner, hands tucked underneath your knees, wide eyes and closed mouth.

He sat by your side, not knowing what to do. It wasn’t part of his vocabulary, “not knowing what to do”, but this time he truly was lost.

“I always dreamed of my wedding as a little kid. I was a bit of a romantic, after all.”

Your voice came out as a whisper, trembling words uttered in fear.

“I dream of far away places, where I could be… free. I thought that as I grew older, I would have options. Real options. Yet, here I am.”

Silence settled between the two of you.

“We should probably go back.”

You got up after uttering those words, your eyes never meeting his.

As you walked back inside, Riddle sat on the ground for a little longer, watching your back grow smaller.

The pain in his heart, a constant prick he had learned to ignore, had grown and grown until he no longer had a heart, but instead thousands of small pieces.

For once in his life, he had seen your eyes, sparkless, hopeless.

If you, who was so sweet and full of life, had your flame burned out, how could he hope to ever be happy by following your ways?

It was time for him to face the truth. His mother was right. The only way to live was to follow the rules.

…

Going back to NRC was a return to form.

He was once again in control of himself, of his surroundings. He’d make sure the rules were followed to perfection.

The reason he was unhappy was because he was surrounded by troublemakers, dissidents of the very laws that made life adequate, people who couldn’t appreciate the perfect order of things just as the Queen of Hearts had defined.

Slowly but surely, he was getting closer to the ideal, to a dorm filled with exclusively rule followers like him.

And yet, happiness still evaded him, like a cloud passing by, something to be appreciated from afar and never to be held.

It was unfair. Why did those around him, troublemakers, rule breakers, appear so happy? How could they be so happy?

You had once been like them, consumed by your own folly, the end to such presumed happiness a bitter pill to swallow, but a necessary one.

Because that happiness wasn’t real happiness.

It couldn’t be.

For if your way was the true key to the joy Riddle so coveted, that meant his mother was wrong, that the path he had been forced to forge would never lead him to what deep down he desired the most.

Day in and day out he kept at his mission with fervor.

He would punish a tart thief.

He would punish those that disrupted an unbirthday party.

He would show to the rambunctious first year duo that they were no match for him.

No one was.

Something was thrown at him. An egg, broken into tiny pieces, flakes of the shell on the floor and on his face, the gooey center slipping down his face.

How dare they?! How dare the ungrateful brats not listen to him?! How dare Trey tell him that he’s wrong! He was always right!

Everything turned black. Inky tendrils obscured his vision, melding into his body, wet and warm like spilled blood.

Rage like he had never felt before engulfed him, screaming inside his mind, coloring his world in pain and grief.

He wanted to hurt those around him. Those that failed him.

From the corner of his eye, a figure emerged, brighter than the ever encompassing darkness.

Deep in his overblot, Riddle saw you.

Memories of his childhood. Memories of your summer together. Memories he wasn’t sure if they were real or imagined.

He had spent so much of his life following rules, believing they would be the key to his happiness. His mother was happy. Wasn’t she?

But you… you weren’t happy following the rules imposed on you. You were the happiest going at the beat of your own drum, yet everyone had stifled you.

Riddle too, had tried to stifle you countless times, pluck you from the happy bubble you had made for yourself, until eventually he had succeeded.

The arranged marriage had been the final straw for you, taking away your very way of being, and he was to blame.

Riddle cried. For himself. For you. For his friends. For the life he could have lived.

In the darkness, a hand reached out.

“Hey, Riddle, want to go cloud gazing?”

A child’s voice echoed through the world of blot, some of the ink receding like it had been burnt.

Opening his eyes, he saw you, back when you were kids.

“Are you sure you want to go cloud gazing with me? I cannot discern anything special in the clouds. I will only sadden you and destroy who you are! ___, YOU CAN’T LET ME DESTROY YOU!”

He screamed at you, tears and snot making it hard to breathe.

You merely smiled, turning into your present self.

One hand in your pocket, you took out a white and pink wrapping, extending your hand to him.

“It’s only bad for you if you eat too much of it. Will you share this one with me?”

Grabbing the square from your hand, Riddle slowly unpeeled the wrapping, the small red square in his hand smelling of strawberries.

“I… If you let me, I’d like to.”

With a soft smile, you hugged him.

“I’ll meet you out there, Riddle.”

The darkness, as if it had a mind of its own, receded, leaving only a bright white light.

…

“Riddle! How are you doing?”

“I’m… well. How are you,___?”

Riddle sat in front of you, a small smile adorning his features.

You smiled back, sparkles in your eyes, hands carefully holding a cup of steaming hot tea.

“I’m doing fine.”

Silence stretched between you both, the lull of conversation from other bakery goers filling the void.

Words were to be exchanged if either of you would let them free, but the fear of breaking such pure silence held your tongues back.

“I came here as fast as I could.” you started, a careful tone to your sentence.

“Why did you send that letter to my father? Why did you break off our engagement?”

You asked sincerely, your smile dropped and your brow slightly frowned.

Riddle stared into his cup, watching the liquid swirl impatiently.

“Sometimes the rules aren’t correct.”

He started, not daring to look you in the eye, lest that sparkle that lit his days be gone once more.

“The path we must take isn’t always the one that was laid down for us. Even if the rules deem it so, they too aren’t always right. I…” the next words out of his mouth made his cheeks mimic his hair, a game of imitation that did not please him “I care much too strongly for you to force you to spend the rest of your life with me. I’d wish for it to be by your own choice.”

Lifting his head up, he faced your pensive gaze, expression lacking any substantial emotion.

With the meal over, Riddle paid and led you outside.

Small snowflakes danced in the wind, falling on clothes and eyelashes and wherever else it could.

The dying light of the sun caressed both your faces, melting the snowflakes faster than you could catch them with your tongue.

You turned to him, smiling, brushing a stray hair from his face

“Thank you so much. You’re great, Riddle.”

Riddle held his breath as your soft lips met his.

Sweetness invaded his senses, from your taste to your scent, the lingering taste of strawberries intoxicating to his mind and body.

His widened eyes slowly closed to match yours, hands stiffly by his side.

Faster than he hoped, the kiss was over.

Both your faces were flushed, the cold of the seasons and the warmth of a first kissing giving such a distinct coloration.

You held his gloved hand in yours, eyes locked to his, fireworks in his heart and hopefully in yours too.

At that moment, no one else existed in the world. Nothing could hurt him, as long as he was by your side.

And in that cold late autumn night, as his heart beat loudly, louder than ever before, he said three little words.

“I love you.”

[theresattrpgforthat]

any recommendations for time loop games? or if not anything involving time travel?

thanks :)

THEME: Time Loops

Hello friend! Fear not, I have a good number of time loop and time-loop adjacent games for you!

Project ECCO, by Elliot Davis.

Project ECCO is a game of time travel and cosmic horror—a solo journaling game with a twist. Time travel across the pages of a planner, writing in and marking up the dates based on prompts as you go, ultimately creating an artifact of your travels through time. 

You work for the mysterious organization known only as The Agency , tasked with tracking a time-consuming entity throughout an entire year. 

In the end, will you destroy the Entity? Do you dare question the Agency? Can you find yourself?

As a solo roleplaying game, Project ECCO is great if you can’t get a group together or if you want more narrative control over your story. This game involves travelling back and forth through time, but there’s also the possibility of ending up in a time loop. You can use different kinds of resolution mechanics to represent different kinds of time-travelling technology, such as a d6, a pack of tarot cards, and a coin.

If you want to listen to a dramatized play of this game, you can listen to the actual play of this as recorded by My First Dungeon!

Reset, by Alfredo Tarancón.

THE END IS NIGH. AGAIN. 

You're trapped. But not in a place, exactly, but in a moment. Something terrible is about to happen, and your mission is to prevent it. Unfortunately, every time you try, something goes wrong. Something changes. And you fail. Over and over again. You're caught in a time loop, and the only way out is to prevent the Event. But you're at your breakng point, and you won't be able to endure many more cycles. The human mind isn't prepared for something like this.

How many Resets do you have left before succumbing

WELCOME TO THE LOOP

RESET is a role-playing game in which you play as time travelers who must prevent a terrible Event from taking place. You belong to an organization that has the ability to send a team to Key Moments in history to try to prevent them from occurring. But it's not easy. The technology allows you to create temporal loops that help you decipher the mysteries behind the Events, but there's a limit to the number of times a person can experience the process. If you fail to decipher the events that converge to trigger the Event, your mind will end up being destroyed, as well as your body, jsut another victim of the Event. You can only exit the loop by preventing the Event… or by dying.

Breathless games are great for setting tension, using dwindling resources represented by different-sided dice. These dwindling resources alongside a time loop that can only go on for so many repetitions means that this is likely a good candidate for game groups that want suspense, and high stakes.

Time To Drop, by Marn S.

YOU are a member of a heist crew about to pull off ONE LAST JOB. You and your crew are under the impression that you only have 24 HOURS left with one another - 12 to finalize your preparation, and 12 to pull off the heist itself.

You and your crew are wrong.

You are about to find yourselves trapped in a loop of those same 24 hours, living and reliving them as many times as it takes to identify every complication, refine your plan, and get it right. No one besides your crew will remember the previous loops as clear as day, but make a strong enough impression on someone in one loop and it might carry to the next. What you do here matters. What you do here has to matter, if you ever want to say your final goodbyes and get out of the game for good.

Time to drop. Fuck shit up.

Time To Drop is a GM-less tabletop game where you and your friends take on the roles of a heist crew trapped in a time loop, trying to get their final job right and ride off into the sunset with the goods. You'll use dice and a tarot/oracle deck to determine and overcome Complications such as your Mark, and the Guard of the goods you're after, ally with NPCs, and spend downtime phases working through your feelings about the crew splitting up.

You’re going to need dice and a tarot deck to play this one. Time to Drop combines heist fiction with time loop fiction, putting a series of complications in front of your team that they’ll have to overcome if they want to get away scot-free. If you want an action-packed game with just enough structure to help you get from one point to the next, this might be the game for you.

What’s So Cool About Time Loops? By Max Kämmerer.

“What’s so cool about time loops?” Lots of things, honestly. But what is cool about your time loop? Play to find out! Climb out the trenches of a war. Celebrate a family holiday. Take your final exams. Experience the day a meteor crashes into the city. Play the championship-winning game. Or witness the assassination of a politician. Again, and again, and again…

At least until you manage to break the loop…

To do something in this game, you start with 2d6 and add or subtract dice according to helpful and unhelpful circumstances. Roll an 8 or higher and you succeed! For the GMs, there’s a page of advice as well as a roll table of suggestions as to scenarios that might be taking place or various reasons why the time loop started in the first place.

WSCA games are usually pretty simple, which means that you can make the stakes as big or a small as you like. If your group wants to navigate a small-stakes, everyday complication, you can do that, but you could also use this game to tell a story about highly-trained professionals in a doomsday situation.

Thrown for a Loop, by DMan1198.

Your players live in a highly advanced town filled with brilliant scientists and a state of the art super-collider, that seems to be having an issue. Now the day keeps resetting, and your players are the only ones that seem to be aware of it. Can they find the answer to why the day is resetting, or are they doomed to relive this day forever?

This is a pretty bare-bones document, but the premise is interesting. You are all citizens of a little town, with various roles that may help you figure out how to stop the time loop. The game relies on d100 rolls, so you’ll probably need a couple of d10s and that’s about it.

This is a game for folks who either want to collaboratively create their own town or have the GM come up with a town for the group to explore. The document has the basic rules of how to resove actions and a list of character types, but not much else.

Too O’Clock, by Xander Hinners.

Hey! Have you ever seen a sitcom or cartoon bottle episode where all its wacky hijinks are based on the main character being trapped in a time loop? TOO O'CLOCK is made specifically to model those episodes! You and a friend toss coins to shape your show's antics around the weekly aeso--

Hey! Have you ever seen in a story where a character trapped in a time loop uses their infinite redos to their advantage, to (re-re-re-)try achieving a goal with another character? TOO O'CLOCK is made specifically to model those scenes! You and a friend toss and collect coins to disco--

Hey! Have you ever been stuck repeating your life, trapped for what feels like a trillion seconds, echoing your experience over and over until every detail is etched into your skull and eroded again by its endless tides? I have. It's why I wrote TOO O'CLOCK; part memoir, part warning.

Too O-Clock follows the story of a single character as they try to navigate a time loop, using coins or another binary form of resolution. The story is a collaborative narrative, with the players able to take on different roles at different points. The game has 7 different iterations, with the 7th iteration looking very very different from the 1st. This game is a great candidate for a table that really loves the tactile sensation of moving tokens, flipping coins, and keeping track of stacks to help you map how far you’ve gone.

You Might Also Want to Check Out...

My Time Travel rec post!

[sufferu]

A major problem I see with your dogshow and your back to zero stories is the fact that there appears to be no end to the tunnel of despair.

specifically I am talking about Subaru’s mental stability and your fascination for removing a central pillar of his mental system.

I see no other outcome for him not to suffer a complete mental collapse like he did in episode fifteen.

for your dogshow fic it is worse because both he and his “friends” saw everything that he went through and should know how much being loved through the position of being a knight is good for him.

even if they are focused on the actual issue of tossing him out to the front lines.

I personally believe that Subaru needs to be a hero/knight or something like a dog or sex toy for Emilia or else he is forced to confront the horrible reality of his friends being assholes who killed him on mere whims.

I don’t think that Subaru can ever recover from another catatonic state. The only reason why he did was because Petelguese had provoked wrath from Subaru and the spirit is no longer alive.

for back to zero it’s has a better chance of Subaru not going catatonic because it is set before the whale and witch cult, so there’s always the possibility of the whale and witch’s cult not acting like they did last time.

of course there is the problem that once they start losing one of the random soldiers would decide to kill Subaru to reset the encounter like he was the cosmic reset button.

thus why I called your story torture porn because despite your claims that it be happier for Subaru eventually, all I see is the angst without a happy ending.

I assume that you are going for a tragedy story where the characters are trying to solve problems but they can’t get past their mistakes.

however I personally believe that re zero is already a tragedy/lovecraftian-psychological horror story and that adding even more to that is needlessly cruel to everyone involved.

I don’t read a lot of tragedy but I assume that there is a through line of action that the characters can take to make everything better but don’t take it for some reason.

for your stories, I don’t see anything like this. All I see is “And things get even worse.”

seriously Subaru basically has no life lines left after Wilhelm removed Subaru from being a knight.

what is stopping him from just giving up on life after basically being disowned by everyone?

…You know what? That is a valuable outside perspective, so thank you.

But I will say: we seem to have VERY different ideas about what would be a “happy ending” in a story like this, because the ending that you just told me is one that I would less describe as “happy” and more as “full of soul-crushing despair.”

Subaru remaining a knight/hero for the rest of his natural life after everyone learns that doing so is basically sentencing him to indescribable torment for the rest of his days, purely because that is the only way he can conceive of being loved by other people — how is that HAPPY? And using it as a distraction in order to run from the realities exposed by Return By Death — how is that healthier than confronting said realities outright? If I WERE to write a tragedy, I’d likely end this story much in the way that you just described: where everything was too much to deal with and so everyone decided to remain in stasis forever while turning a blind eye to the suffering at the core of it all, Ones Who Stay In Omelas style. Tragedies aren’t really my style, though, so I AM writing towards a happy ending — though I’m not spoiling what it is, for No Refunds OR Back to Zero. (Though really, you could probably guess a good chunk of at least the former already.)

But like — without spoilers, yeah, something like this would probably break him. That doesn’t mean he has to STAY broken. Sometimes you have to re-break a bone so that it heals correctly. Sometimes you have to tear down something you worked hard on because there’s a critical fault in the foundations that could destroy everything if left unchecked. Sometimes bandaids need to be ripped off.

And also — yeah, everyone is PISSED at Subaru at the moment (post-ficlet). But who the hell said that they didn’t love him anymore?

[technically-a-kiwi]

The Meeting

Normally the Cosmic Tower gang kept to their own kind. The other Cosmic entities tended to be weird around them. Intentionally or not, they made the mottled group feel like they didn't belong. After all, they were far more whacky than their serious shining peers. Especially the higher-ups.

Every time they stood next to some other Cosmic, they felt like a mistake.

So they mostly kept to the others like themselves. Noise might be insufferable and whatever was in the ticket booth might be a bit alarming, but it was better than being silently judged by some eldrich horror. They kept to themselves, and the others just let them do their own thing.

Normally.

One particular universe had caught Pizzahead's interest on this fateful day. He had always been fascinated by the Tower in every one. There was always a Tower. If not now, then sometime in the past or future. He loved watching them; a vibrant ecosystem, almost a universe itself in one building!

He watched with intense interest this particular one. He had become invested in the fight between two grey humans - one in a lab coat, one in detective garb - when he felt a painful flare of cosmic power jolt through his body. He jumped forward a couple dozen light-years and then turned around in shock. Another Cosmic entity was standing at the edge of the universe, glaring angrily. "Hey, Wile E! You're in MY territory!"

Pizzahead cleared his throat nervously. He hadn't encountered a "proper Cosmic" in centuries. "My sincerest apologies! I hadn't quite realized how far from home I - YIKES!" Another blazing bolt of pure energy crackled by his head. "OK! I'M MOVING! I'M MOVING!" he screamed, trying to shuffle out of the way. No dice. The other Cosmic lunged at him and grasped the celestial toon by his neck.

"You don't belong here!" he shouted. Pizzahead struggled to loosen his grip. "Then why won't you let me leave...?" he gasped. The proper Cosmic tightened his grip, snarling. "None of you deserve Cosmic power, you least of all!" As Pizzahead was thrown across the starry field, images of countless other Pizzaheads flashed before his eyes, none of them good. But that couldn't be HIM, right?

He managed to get himself standing upright and faced his assailant again, putting up his dukes and bouncing comically. "So that's it? All right then, square up, you - " Pizzahead crumpled like a sheet of paper before he could even get a shot off. He struggled to get up, but it suddenly felt like he was swimming through molasses. The next bolt only lasted a few seconds, but the pain on impact felt like it lasted a hundred times that. He curled up into a ball, wincing.

"I'm like 80% sure you're not supposed to do something like this," he hissed. He could never directly quote any of the rules but he was pretty sure there was one about serious fighting. His opponent leaned down and grinned.

"No one will notice you're gone. Not even your own kind."

Pizzahead whimpered. He hadn't done anything wrong. This guy obviously had a much better handle on his powers than him - Pizzahead hadn't even considered being able to distort time like that! He knew he didn't stand a chance alone. But it was just them two for light-centuries, or so it seemed. He braced himself for whatever came next.

"What in the - " Pizzahead's eyes snapped open when he heard his assailant shout. Stars and galaxies were clustering around him, forming a sparkling sort of makeshift shield. A strange voice came from the universe. "Enough..." It sounded like it had never spoken before that moment. The proper Cosmic started, then scoffed. "A sentient universe? Cute." He waved his hand to one side. "Get out of the way! You are nothing compared to me!" A galaxy wrapped around Pizzahead's hand. "You're on a power trip," the universe stated.

This infuriated the other Cosmic. He prepared the biggest attack he had used yet as he screamed, "That's IT! I gave you a chance to save yourself! You're in MY territory, so I can do WHATEVER I WANT TO YOU!" Pizzahead pushed some of his cosmic power into the universe, not really knowing what he was doing but not wanting all these innocent worlds to come to harm because of him.

The brilliant bolt ricocheted off of the celestial shield and came right back at their attacker. Now it was the proper Cosmic's turn to run away scared, shouting, "I'M REPORTING THIS!" Pizzahead retorted, "YOU STARTED IT!" The universe that he had protected separated itself from him, and he winced as he saw that his power had affected it. It looked for all the world like a floating mustachioed pizza creature. It smiled at Pizzahead.

Pizzahead shuffled in his shoes. "Thanks for trying to protect me. You didn't have to do that," he said, looking down at his feet. A galactic trail touched his shoulder. "Don't worry about it. He's been a pain for a while." The universe looked at itself. "I've... I've been wanting to approach you for a long time." Pizzahead jumped. "Really?" "Yes. You and your friends seem like you'd be the only Cosmics to take me seriously. And well... I guess you did."

Pizzahead looked his new friend up and down. Some subconscious memory was tugging at the back of his mind. Perhaps...? "Well, at any rate, you can't stay here. Wanna crash at my place?" Pizzaface smiled hopefully. "I'd like that."

@chaotichyperfixations been thinking about this all morning and wanted you to see too

Ooooh didn’t expect a full story to come up in my mail today… It’s brilliant !

also I really like how you wrote everything ! clearly you understand the word our Cosmic cast lived in Lawful cosmic.

And Pizzaface’s story here is so cute ! Could work for a lawful cosmic alt story since here Pizzaface isn’t NEARLY as full of himself as he should be.

Anyway, all I wanna say is thank you for taking the patient to write this 🤗! It’s lovely and I had a wonderful time reading it :)

[inthedayswhenlandswerefew]

North To The Future [Chapter 15: Drive] [Series Finale]

The year is now 2000. You are just beginning your veterinary practice in Juneau, Alaska. Aegon is a mysterious, troubled newcomer to town. You kind of hate him. You are also kind of obsessed with him. Falling for him might legitimately ruin your life…but can you help it? Oh, and there’s a serial killer on the loose known only as the Ice Fisher.

Chapter warnings: Language, alcoholism, addiction, murder, violence, character deaths.

Word count: 7.3k.

Link to chapter list (and all my writing): HERE.

Taglist: @elsolario​ @ladylannisterxo​ @doingfondue​ @tclegane​ @quartzs-posts​ @liathelioness​ @aemcndtargaryen​ @thelittleswanao3​ @burningcoffeetimetravel​ @poohxlove​ @borikenlove​ @myspotofcraziness​ @travelingmypassion​ @graykageyama​ @skythighs​ @lauraneedstochill​ @darlingimafangirl​ @charenlie​ @thewew​ @eddies-bat-tattoos​ @minttea07​ @joliettes​ @trifoliumviridi​ @bornbetter​ @flowerpotmage​ @thewitch-lives​ @tempt-ress​ @padfooteyes​ @teenagecriminalmastermind​ @chelsey01​ @anditsmywholeheart​ @heliosscribbles​ @killerqueen-ofwillowgreen​ @narwhal-swimmingintheocean​ @tillyt04​ @cicaspair418​ @fan-goddess​ 

A/N: This is the fic I almost never wrote because I didn’t think anyone would be interested in some random, angsty, 1990s, Alaskan, crime-thriller AU. Thank you for proving me wrong. I hope you enjoy the ending. 💜

Almost everything about your existence is pure chance; it’s the most freeing and horrifying truth imaginable. There’s the genetic lottery and corporate downsizing, revolutions and hurricanes, plagues, asteroids, famines, faulty airplanes and malignant blooms of cells and drunk drivers. There are 100 billion planets in this galaxy and your atoms ended up on the one called Earth. After all that, do you really think what you want matters? So make all the choices you like, all the nail-biting deliberations and promises and vows, weigh costs and benefits, do research, roll dice, ask astrologers and palm readers, start over every New Year because that’s something we tell ourselves is possible. The fact that you exist at all is one big cosmic coin flip. If you think you’re the one driving, you’re dead fucking wrong. You’re the speck of dust on a windshield, the spin of a roulette wheel. You’re a flash of silver in the universe’s pinball machine.

I spend a lot of my time thinking about chance, okay? My family is one of the wealthiest in the Western Hemisphere, and I didn’t do anything to earn that. I was born first, and I definitely didn’t do anything to earn that, Jesus Christ, what a chromosomal fuckup. I inherited an affliction that others get to live without. I can’t imagine what it feels like to wake up and not be horrified by myself, my shortcomings, my failures: too small, too stupid, too wild, too weak. And the first time someone says something like that to you, you want to apologize, you want to drop to your knees and cling to them and beg for absolution, maybe even the first hundred times, the first thousand. And then it just starts to piss you off. Yeah, I know, I’ve heard it all before, why would you expect anything different? Isn’t this getting old, Mom? Maybe you’re the stupid one, Dad, if you think you could cut me and anything but disappointments would fall out. I’m not horrified by the fact that I’m an addict. The horror came first. The horror is what led to all the rest of it.

One day when I was in 10th Grade—I was slumped way down in my chair and drinking vodka out of an Evian water bottle—my American History teacher, purely by chance, assigned me to make a poster about Juneau, Alaska. Some other kid got Los Angeles (Hollywood! The Whisky a Go Go!) and another got Chicago (the Mob!) and another got Nashville (Johnny Cash!) and some jock moron I hated got Baltimore (um, crabs? the War of 1812…?), but I got fucking Juneau, Alaska. I thought this was so unjust that I never forgot it, the fact that I had to get up in front of the class with my pathetic Crayolas-and-magazine-cutouts poster and pretend that Juneau was a place that mattered, that microscopic cloud-covered relic of a late-1800s gold mining settlement on the shores of the Gastineau Channel. Juneau was never on my list of cities to run to. It just wasn’t. It didn’t have anything I wanted. But when I started thinking about places where I could really disappear, where no one would ever bother looking, where days are short and dark and incurious and irrelevant…well, that sounds like Juneau, right?

Let me tell you something about the night I left. I’ve been more messed up, yeah, and I’ve hurt people worse, and I’ve been closer to death, I’ve been one more powder-white gram on the scale away from oblivion; but I’ve never felt that fucking low. I can’t decide if I wish I’d never gone to Juneau at all. I can’t decide if it was a blessing or a curse.

My flight is a red-eye with a layover in Ketchikan, American Airlines, bound for Seattle. Sunfyre has the window seat. He’s wearing the bright red Service Dog vest that I once stole for him specifically for such occasions. My dog fly with the cargo? My dog?! Bill Clinton will be elected pope first. Sunfyre is chewing contently on Milk-Bones and watching the sun rise over the Pacific Ocean. He knows the drill. We’ll touchdown and deplane, and then…and then…

And then we’ll start over again somewhere new. I’ll find a flight board and pick a destination; Seattle is a hub, with spokes leading everywhere. I could go south, to Galveston, Lafayette, Biloxi, someplace where it gets hot, someplace where I can sweat her out of me, purge every cell that still remembers what she felt like. I could go west, fading into mountains or cornfields, vapid infinitesimal towns in Montana, Iowa, Idaho, Nebraska. I could go to New England or the Great Lakes or freaking Hawaii, sleep in hammocks, swim with sea turtles, drink my rum and Cokes out of coconut shells. But the more I think about it, the more I realize that nowhere really sounds good to me. My legs are suddenly tired of running. There’s an ache that rattles down to the bone.

I don’t have to tell you that I love her, right? It’s not so easy for me to say. But it’s true, and it’s beautiful, and it’s torture, and it’s a dream. It’s pain that flays you alive and then builds you back again, layers of fresh muscle and tendons and veins growing over ribs and vertebrae like a trellis thick with ivy. It’s not a high. It’s just the best life can get down here on earth. It’s the ocean, it’s the Northern Lights.

I’m swimming in a black hoodie that is three sizes too big; I haven’t slept and I’m pale and raccoon-eyed, looking like death, feeling worse. When the stewardess rolls by with her clattering cart just slim enough to fit through the aisle, I order a cup of water for Sunfyre and a double rum and Coke for myself. It arrives with two blood-red cherries bobbing in a caramel-dark carbonated sea. The guy in the next seat over gives me a judgmental little eyebrow raise.

“That doesn’t look like breakfast,” he says.

I bite off both cherries—juice dribbling down my chin, wiped away with a sleeve—and throw the stems over my shoulder. The lady sitting behind me yelps in disgust. “Because it’s dessert.”

The man smiles and shakes his head, one of those I shouldn’t find it funny but I do sort of looks. I inspire a lot of those. He’s maybe mid-thirties, long hair and ripped jeans, very punk rock, cool as hell. There is a constellation of pins on his denim jacket. One of them has a roman numeral 10 on it, a stark X nestled inside a triangle. Unity, Service, Recovery, the gold letters say. To Thine Own Self Be True. It’s an Alcoholics Anonymous pin. What are the chances?

He catches me staring, and I ask: “Does it really make you a better man?”

“It doesn’t make you better. It just makes you real.” He smiles again, patient and kind. “It makes your emotions and experiences real, your relationships real. And so you become whatever version of yourself you were always supposed to be. But you have to want it. Not your wife, not your parents or your kids, not your pastor, not your friends, not your parole officer. You.”

I speak without knowing what I’m going to say. “I want it.”

“Yes, I think you do.”

He sees a lot, I think, as the plane descends into the grey fogbank of Seattle. 20/20.

When we land, the man squeezes into a cab with me and Sunfyre—he sniffles into a Kleenex for a while before reluctantly admitting that he’s allergic to dogs—and pays the fare. The cab’s worn brakes squeal to a stop outside a residential treatment center on the banks of the Puget Sound. When we step out onto the sidewalk, I ask the man if he’s going to take me to get one last drink first. He laughs in my face. Fucking jerk.

He pulls out a black Sharpie and rummages through his pockets, his wallet. He can’t find a scrap of paper. He writes his phone number on the underside of my arm instead. “You call me, okay?” he says. “Call me when you get out. Call me before you get out, if you need to. I don’t care if it’s in five minutes, I don’t care if it’s at 2 a.m. You just make sure you call.”

“Why would you do this? I mean, you don’t even know me. You have no idea who I am.”

“Because once, years ago, someone did the same thing for me, and someone did it for her too. Maybe one day you’ll be able to pay it forward. I don’t care who you are or where you’ve been. It doesn’t matter to me. I’d like to think that we’re all more than the worst thing we’ve ever done.”

And then he waits for me to go inside. He doesn’t leave until he watches me check in at reception on the other side of the rain-flecked glass. Outside, a brand new day is beginning. A misty sun rises as pieces of the sky fall.

Sunfyre trots into the lobby alongside me, panting cheerfully, shaking the perpetual Seattle drizzle from his fur. There’s a girl at the front desk, just a girl, and that’s the other thing that’s different now. She’s not a maybe-future-one-of-my-girls. She’s just like anyone else. I already have a girl. I mean, I don’t anymore, not really. But I still do.

I throw my things onto the counter: my single suitcase, my tattered wallet, my bundle of cash held together with rubber bands, my scraped-up electric guitar.

“Checking in?” the girl asks.

“Yeah.”

“For how long?”

“As long as it takes, I guess.”

She opens my wallet, reads my license, blinks in bewilderment. “Aegon…?”

I sigh dramatically. “It’s Greek.”

~~~~~~~~~~

You dream of him; and when you do, he’s always smiling. He’s reading your palm in an empty Taco Bell, he’s kissing you under the Northern Lights, he’s regaling your parents with stories—of lobster fishing in Portland, of cattle ranching in Denver—all through Thanksgiving dinner, he’s undressing you in his moonlit apartment, he’s climbing into your bed. He’s not angry, he’s not ruined, he’s not running away. He’s exactly as you remember him in his best moments. He’s all chaotic white-blond hair and weightless light, sharp laughter and bright eyes. And each morning there’s a splinter-thin moment before you remember that he’s gone. That’s the worst part, really. You always knew it would be. You can’t even begin to forget him.

Your friends want to help you, but they don’t know how. Neither do your parents. Your dad gets an atlas from the study, throws it down on the dining room table, and opens it to a map of the world. “Pick anyplace and we’ll go there,” he says. “We’ll close the vet clinic for two weeks and we’ll all go.” But you can’t give him a single name: not Athens, or Paris, or Buenos Ares, or Cairo, or New York City, or Rome, or Tokyo, or anywhere else for that matter. It’s the strangest thing. All your life you’ve been waiting to get out of Juneau, but now nowhere sounds good to you. And maybe that’s a lesson you wish you’d never learned: sometimes freedom is less about places than it is about people.

The blood on the equipment recovered from Trent’s apartment matches DNA from the first three victims. He is charged with eight counts of first-degree murder and held awaiting trial in the Lemon Creek Correctional Center. His family visits him faithfully each week. His lawyer is exasperated that he won’t plead guilty and spare his parents the humiliation and expense of a protracted court battle. But Trent’s story never changes: he’s innocent, he’s never killed anybody, he doesn’t understand how the blood could have been found on his belongings. He wants to know exactly what items the police tested; he and his lawyer are still waiting for the prosecutor to turn over all the details during discovery. In the midst of the scandal, the upheaval, you fade into the backdrop like the stars behind fog. People talk around you and through you. They offer gaps that you don’t care enough to fill in. Drinks clink, whispers fly, conspiracies are exchanged between pool shots. You watch the days grow longer and wait for the future to arrive. You don’t know what it will look like, you can’t even begin to fathom it. But surely there must be a future. Life goes on. It did for your mom after Jesse. It will for you too.

A week after Aegon leaves, there is a knock at your parents’ front door. You open it to find Aemond standing there in the muted amber-pink afternoon light. His hair is long and loose, his Armani suit immaculately tailored, his BlackBerry nestled in his right hand. He glances up from it at you and his jaw falls open. And only then do you realize how awful you must look.

You tell Aemond, your voice hushed and heavy, ankles in quick-drying cement: “I don’t know where he is.”

“No, I can see that,” Aemond replies, dull horror in his blue eye. Then he turns around and strides halfway down the driveway towards the street, where a cab idles as it waits for him, engine exhaust pouring into the air like smoke from a firepit.

“How’s your dad?” you call after him when you get your bearings.

He pauses under the dwindling light. “Alive. For now.” And then Aemond considers you for a while. “I suppose if I ever want to find you again, I know where to look.”

You nod. “I’ll be here.”

I’ll always be here.

A month crawls by like a wounded animal, dead leaves snared in the fur of its belly. The flesh on your thigh knits back together. The things that Aegon ordered show up in Juneau, packages left on the front porch and stuffed into the moose-shaped mailbox like Christmas gifts in a stocking. You pack these remnants of him—Zoobooks and cooking accessories, knives and Chia Pets—into a cardboard box and tuck it away in a dusty, cobwebbed corner of the attic, and you’re aware the entire time that this has happened before, almost exactly twenty years ago. When your dad puts a Third Eye Blind or Red Hot Chili Peppers or Oasis album on his record player, you find some excuse to leave the room. When you tack magazine cutouts of beaches and cityscapes to your bedroom walls, all you can think about is where Aegon might be now. You wonder where he works during the day, a surf shop or a construction site or a farm or a fishing boat; you wonder who he spends his nights with.

I’ll always be here. Even if I leave, I’ll always be here.

~~~~~~~~~~

Twenty years ago to the day, almost to the hour, a man fell into the Gastineau Channel and drowned. They found water in his lungs, though the autopsy was only a formality, an afterthought; Jesse had a reputation in Juneau, and no one was particularly surprised to see how his story ended. There were abrasions on his back and shoulders, contusions on his wrists, but so what? He probably tripped half a dozen times before he tumbled over some guardrail and into the frigid black water. There was a bloody mess of an impact wound on the side of his face, but who cares? The blood alcohol concentration doesn’t lie. The man was wasted, and more than that he was a waste. If his premature demise hadn’t been then, it would have been later, in a week or a month or a year. And when someone like that goes, there’s a sigh of relief that accompanies the misery, isn’t there? There’s the sense of a weight being lifted from a scale.

You’re sitting in Ursa Minor at the usual booth, but the bar is practically empty. It’s Valentine’s Day. Joyce is with Rob, Kimmie is with Brad; Heather’s parents have spirited her away on a short vacation to Sitka to try to take their minds off Trent’s imminent lifelong incarceration. Your mom and dad’s February 14th tradition is cooking a homemade Italian dinner together—pasta, bread with herbs and olive oil, caprese salad, tiramisu—and then settling in for a romantic Blockbuster rental. This year, it’s Runaway Bride. Your mom loves Julia Roberts. They didn’t ask for privacy, but you gave it to them anyway. Kimmie offered to drop you off at Ursa Minor and then drive you home after her date with Brad so you could drink away your sorrows without having to worry about calling a ride. So now Kimmie is getting wined, dined, and plied with boxed chocolates at the Red Dog Saloon while you drain appletinis and flip through one of Jesse’s journals, not knowing what you’re looking for.

Dale is washing pint glasses in the sink behind the bar and humming cheerfully along to a Cake CD. It’s just you and him tonight; evidently, Dale doesn’t have a hot date either. It was nice of him to eschew the usual Shania Twain or Sheryl Crow soundtrack. He’s trying to spare you from any crooning love songs. He must have forgotten that Cake has its own little slice of relevance in your memories of Aegon, those memories that refuse to fade, ink in your skin as dark as night.

Your fingerprints trace Jesse’s scrawling, handwritten letters. It’s his very last journal, the last words he ever wrote. His final entry is unremarkable, a lucid recollection of his latest woodcarving project: it’s a family of tiny bears, three of them. He says he wants the cub to have the same slope of your cheeks, the shape of your eyes. And it’s just like your mom said. It really did seem like he was getting better.

You flip to the next page, blank. The heading reads: Thursday, February 14th, 1980.

You go back a few days. And your gaze catches on words that you’ve read before, months ago, back when the journals were a new discovery like striking oil. The entry is from Saturday the 9th. It ends with an unceremonious bullet point of a reminder: dinner w/ Dale on Thursday.

You leaf forward to Thursday, to the blank page that tells you nothing. Back to the 9th, forward to the 14th, again, again. Valentine’s Day 1980, before Dale had married his wife, after your mom had stopped trying to make plans with Jesse, maybe even rebelled against them; just two unromantic, discarded men with a vacant slot in their calendars and troubles to drink into submission. Except that Jesse never came home.

Dinner with Dale, you think dizzily. Dinner with Dale on the night he died.

The opening notes of The Distance shout from the stereo. Everything suddenly feels very loud.

Reluctantly crouched at the starting line,

Engines pumping and thumping in time…

What had Aegon said about that song before you sang it together, stomping and staggering across the hardwood floor? It’s not about NASCAR, it’s about a journey!

Outside, it’s a rare clear night in Juneau. The Northern Lights are a kaleidoscopic ribbon against indigo night, the sky a mausoleum of stars. And you remember when Aegon sang Everlong, when he grabbed your hand, led you upstairs to the roof, kissed you for the first time under the ethereal, shimmering curtain of green and purple and blue…before Heather had interrupted to tell you that Dale was closing the bar. He was irritable, he was tired; he wanted to go home.

The arena is empty except for one man,

Still driving and striving as fast as he can…

And then they found a body, didn’t they? Yes, you can remember being in Aegon’s apartment and hearing the police cars zoom by. You remember the red-and-blue flashes on his face. You remember thinking they looked like sapphires and rubies, the ocean and blood.

The sun has gone down and the moon has come up

And long ago somebody left with the cup,

But he’s driving and striving and hugging the turns

And thinking of someone for whom he still burns…

Icy claws glide down the length of your spine. Memories play back with a focused clarity that you didn’t have before: Dale groggy and yawning just before they found the fifth victim at Christmas, and again before they found the eighth the same night Trent dragged you—shrieking, bleeding, virtually naked—out of your Jeep. You remember Dale at your parents’ New Year’s Eve party talking about how maybe the killer was an athlete with brain damage from CTE. You remember him offering to give Trent a box of his old equipment from when he was a park ranger. You remember him watching as Trent towered over you here in Ursa Minor with a cue stick clenched in his fist, demanding to know where you had been the night before, Dale’s eyes gleaming with disapproval and fascination and…and…oh god, opportunity.

He’s going the distance,

He’s going for speed,

She’s all alone (all alone)

All alone in her time of need…

And now Aegon’s long gone, but you’re still here. And so is the Ice Fisher.

You’re staring at Dale, eyes huge and glossy with terror. He glances up, gives you a brief casual smile, looks down at the pint glasses again. And then his eyes come back to you. He sees you and you see him, really see him, and it’s the first time in your life that you can recall him being a centerpiece instead of an ornament for gazes to skate over like ice, wallpaper or taxidermy deer heads or a mirror. And you watch as the thing that lives inside Dale stirs awake. It is a shadow with fangs, talons, barbs down its spine, a weblike scribble of a brain loud with the echoes of screams; and it unfurls and fills him completely, all the way to his fingerprints. It possesses him, it eclipses him.

It’s Dale, you realize like a bullet slicing through an aorta, spilling an ocean of hot blood. It was him twenty years ago and it’s him now.

You gasp and fumble for the cannister of bear mace still clipped to your purse. Dale crosses the room with staggering swiftness, like a wolf, like a storm, one pint glass still gripped in his hand. He reaches you just as your thumb presses down on the cannister’s release tab. The rust-colored mist spews not directly into his face but into the room; Dale is hacking and rasping, you both are, but he isn’t in too much pain to haul you out of the booth and onto the floor. You’re screaming, you’re clawing at him, your eyes feel like they’re on fire, tiny pinpoint infernos that drill down to the bone. You can feel the ice-cold juice and schnapps and vodka of your appletini, knocked off the table when you fell, soaking through the back of your sweater. You can feel pebbles of glass as they burrow into your flesh. You are dimly aware of a barstool tumbling over as you struggle with Dale.

“No!” you cry into the monstrous hand that he clamps over your mouth. “No—!”

Dale brings the bottom of the pint glass down on your head. The Distance lyrics—she’s hoping in time that her memories will fade—swirl around inside your fractured skull.

Silence descends like a curtain, shadows in, lights out.

~~~~~~~~~~

I knock, and he opens the door. The house smells like fresh bread and alfredo sauce, rosemary and crushed garlic. My rental—a Toyota 4Runner, I remember what she said about the Nova being a bad idea in Alaska—is parked in the driveway behind her Jeep. Sunfyre is standing beside me, eyes sparkling, smiling with that unburdened-by-intellect innocence that dogs have. There’s a bouquet of blue-dyed roses in my left hand, cool melancholy blooms of life like seawater, like bruises.

“Hi,” I say to her dad as he stands in the doorway. “It’s good to see you again.”

“It’s good to see you too, Aegon.” He’s not just staring at me in the artificial front porch light; he’s gawking, he’s damn near speechless. “Wow. Wow. It’s really good to see you.”

Yeah, I know I look different. The dark rings around my eyes have vanished, my face is less puffy, my hair is trimmed and healthy and mostly out of my face, I stand taller. I’m wearing a white turtleneck sweater and a leather jacket, black skinny jeans, my combat boots. I have a red chip in my pocket that I can’t fucking wait to show her: 1 month sober. On the first day, you think you’re going to die, and on the second day you wish you would. But you don’t. You live, and that starts out as a grisly inconvenience, and then you get a taste for it. “You can probably guess who I’m looking for.”

“Yeah, I reckon I can,” her dad says. “But she’s not here right now. She went to Ursa Minor.”

I grin, a crooked little curl of the lips. “I think I remember how to get there.”

I hop back into the 4Runner with Sunfyre and pull out into the street, snow and ice chomping under the tires. I had missed driving, I realize now. I got so used to almost never being able to do it that I forgot how good it feels to turn the wheel yourself, to watch the speedometer ramp up when you decide you want to fly. Ten minutes later, I swerve into Ursa Minor’s deserted parking lot and screech to a stop across three separate spaces.

“Oh, what the fuck!” I choke out as I step into the bar, coughing into my sleeve. The blue roses tumble out of my hand. Ursa Minor is empty, but there’s something in the air, something invisible that drives scorching, stinging needles into my eyes and my sinuses. Tears stream down my face; my exposed skin prickles and burns. Sunfyre sneezes over and over again and lingers in the doorway, gulping in fresh night wind from outside. There’s shattered glass and green liquid on the hardwood floor. There’s an upturned barstool. The stereo is playing Cake’s cover of Perhaps, Perhaps, Perhaps.

What the hell happened here—?

And then I see it: the cannister of bear mace that had rolled under the booth, the same one she and her friends always sat in.

She used the bear mace. She finally used it. But why?

There’s blood on the floor. There’s blood on the table too. There’s a tattered, olive-green journal opened to a blank page. The pieces slide closer and closer and then link together, an explosion in my mind like fireworks.

I bolt outside and study the snow-covered parking lot. There are fresh tire tracks there under the murky luminescence of the streetlights; they lead out to the main road and then north towards the lakes.

“No,” I whisper to no one but the fierce wind, the sky threaded with the opalescent Northern Lights. “No, no, no…”

I sprint back inside Ursa Minor, get the phone Dale keeps behind the bar, and call the cops. “Stay where you are,” the 911 dispatcher instructs me sternly. “Wait for the police, do not attempt to investigate yourself, do not attempt to intervene—”

“Yeah, fuck that,” I say, and slam the receiver into the cradle. Then I swipe the black 8 ball off the pool table.

I load Sunfyre into the 4Runner and spin out of the parking lot, following the parallel lines of tire tracks like the etching of veins beneath skin.

~~~~~~~~~~

There’s a sound, rough and grating; and then you realize that it’s you being dragged across the ice. When your eyes flutter open, you see the uninterrupted sky: indigo night, distant stars, the Northern Lights. Your clothes are wet with snow; it’s so cold that the fabric is freezing, stiff and crackling when you try to move. Dale is lugging you over the frozen lake by the collar of your sweater. It’s choking you, but of course that doesn’t matter much. He’s about to kill you anyway.

“It’s not right,” Dale mutters, and you’re aware through the disorientation and the fog-like cloud of pain that he’s not really talking to you. “Your mom’s a nice lady. It’s not right that she had to lose two people this way, she doesn’t deserve that. Oh well. It can’t be helped now, can it?”

You whimper something, disjointed helpless words. Please, hurts, don’t, please.

“It’s not me,” Dale says, as if it’s perfectly logical. “I mean, not really. It’s this part of me that I can’t cut out. I can only feed it so it goes away for a while. It quiets down sometimes, it hibernates like a bear in the winter…but it always comes back. And my god, is it hungry.”

You smack clumsily, futilely at his hands as he hauls you over the ice. Dale doesn’t seem to notice.

“You have to make it look like an accident. That’s the ticket, if you don’t want anybody to know. You shove a hiker from a ledge, a drunk into the ocean. I did that for a long time, never raised suspicion. Never pinged on anyone’s radar. Jesse was the hardest, though. Good lord, did he fight. Had to pour a bottle of Everclear down his throat. Had to make it look like he was drinking that night. He wasn’t, which was unusual. Kept saying he wanted to turn things around. I think you had something to do with that. Now this? You were never supposed to be here, ladybug. What a shame. What a goddamn shame.”

Consciousness is a river that you dip in and out of; blackness crumbles around the edges of your vision, collapses in, recedes, swells again like a wave. You moan, you beg, you struggle as much as you can. It’s not much. It might as well be nothing.

“Things were easier after I got married,” Dale continues. He has a large hiking backpack slung over his broad shoulders, you see now. It jostles from side to side as he drags you. You know what’s in there: a chisel to break the ice, fishing line to strangle you. “Having someone else there all the time, it was a distraction. And it kept that thing inside me…not tame, no, I wouldn’t say that. But chained up down in the basement, maybe. Now I’m alone again. And when the chains start rattling, there’s nothing to stop me from hearing them.”

You get your feet under you, twist around, and slam your fists into Dale’s chest as hard as you can. He laughs in a baritone rumble and shoves you back down onto the ice; your head hits the ground, and you can feel yourself fading again, the last wisps of sunlight at dusk.

“Sometimes you want to hide,” Dale says. “And sometimes you don’t. I was ready to stop hiding. I can’t tell you what a high it was every time they found a body. The news, the ceaseless chattering around town, the name they gave me…incredible. Exhilarating. I couldn’t sleep for days after each kill. I’d toss and turn all night imagining what the headlines would be. Let me tell you, ladybug. I’ve never tried heroin, and I never need to. It can’t possibly be better than this.”

What will happen to my parents? you think, heartbreak gutting you, dull knifes rearranging your organs. What will happen to Heather and Kimmie and Joyce? What will happen when Aegon finds out he left too soon?

“I knew I needed someone to pin it on,” Dale informs you calmly. “Didn’t take anyone who went to the bar, didn’t take anyone who could be traced back to me. And still, I knew they’d figure it out eventually if I didn’t give them another suspect. At first, I was thinking I might use Aegon. He was a little small, sure, but he showed up around the right time and he was an outsider. Then I saw the way Trent was with you…aggressive, menacing…and I knew it had to be him. It was almost too easy. I planted the seeds, and good lord did they grow.”

“They’ll know,” you croak. “If you kill me, the police will find my body and they’ll know Trent’s not the Ice Fisher.”

Hideously, horribly, Dale smiles down at you. “Oh, ladybug, I don’t think they’ll ever find you. They found the others because I wanted them to. And no one is looking for victims anymore. Once you sink, I’ll cover up the hole with ice and snow. No blood, no signs. People will assume you’re a runaway. It was just too much, wasn’t it? Trent getting arrested, Aegon leaving town. Maybe you ran off after him. Maybe you threw yourself in the channel. Who could say? No, your bones will become silt, your name will slowly disappear from Juneau. And in ten or twenty years, your parents will have you declared dead in absentia. That’s my best guess. That’s how it will go.”

“No,” you sob, battling against the hands knotted into the collar of your sweater. “No—!”

His knuckles bash the side of your head, and a black silence rolls in like high tide, engulfs you, drowns you. When you swim back up into consciousness again, Dale is a few yards from you and drilling a hole in the ice with his chisel. You try to crawl away and promptly collapse, frail and boneless. He glances over at you, chuckles pleasantly, and then begins using a hatchet to widen the opening.

No, you think, hooking your fingers into the snow and dragging yourself towards the forest. No, no, no…

Dale’s ready for you. He walks over, grabs both of your ankles, tugs you with terrifying ease to the hole in the ice. Then he has a length of fishing line in his hands, and he’s looping it around your throat again and again, and he’s tightening it until the needle-thin nylon wire bites into your flesh, spilling tendrils of blood. You know you don’t have a chance, but you try; you owe it to your parents to try. You claw at the fishing line and you struggle and you cry out in hoarse, useless screams—

And then you hear something that doesn’t make any sense. Through the darkness, through the wind, there are the barks of a dog. Sunfyre rockets into your dimming field of vision and jumps on Dale, snarling and growling and snapping at his hands, his face. Dale flings the dog away, and as he’s distracted, Aegon arrives. He’s holding—ludicrously—a black 8 ball from a pool table, and he smashes it into Dale’s head. A sick, wet, crushing sound ricochets, cracked bone cushioned by flesh, and Dale howls as he rolls onto his side and covers his head with his hands.

He peers up at Aegon, furious and pained and stunned. “You?!”

“Me.” Aegon’s voice is dark and low like thunder, like the iron gale of storms over the ocean. “And I’m a killer.”

He lunges at Dale, still wielding the 8 ball. Dale’s massive hand juts out and closes around Aegon’s wrist, and then he yanks him to the ground. They’re grappling on the snow and ice, they’re striking out with knuckles and elbows, they’re ripping at each other with their bare hands. You’re trying to unravel the fishing line still coiled around your throat, panting in deep, frantic breaths so you can see and think clearly, so you can scramble to your feet, so you can help Aegon. And then Dale gets away from him just long enough to grab you again, to wrap the ends of the fishing line around his fingers. He delivers one last macerating blow to your skull, pulls you by your throat to the gaping hole in the ice, and shoves you through.

The water is so cold it’s paralyzing. There is a thought that seizes you—so overwhelming, so strangely rational—that says all you have to do is stay where you are, to wait a little longer, and then you’ll never hurt again, you’ll never be disappointed or caged, you’ll never be anything. And you think of all the lives you could have lived, all the places you could have gone: cities and beaches and deserts and valleys, gardens and rivers, ruins and glass. You were always so afraid of really going after them. What the hell were you so afraid of? Everything worth fearing is right here in Juneau.

I can still do those things. I can still live. And I can still help Aegon.

You jolt out of your inertia and clamber madly for the surface. But you don’t hit frigid open air; you hit ice, ice too thick to break through, ice too thick for more than a murmur of light to penetrate. Your palms press against the semitransparent wall; bubbles of carbon dioxide spurt from your nose and mouth. You feel for the opening that Dale made, but you don’t know where it is. You are lost beneath the ice, running out of air, fading rapidly. Then you hear Jesse—and you aren’t sure how you know what his voice sounds like, but you do—speaking softly and kindly to you, comforting you, telling you which way to go.

I’m sorry that no one knows the truth, you say without speaking. I’m sorry we thought you destroyed yourself. I’m sorry you never got the chance to truly live.

You were all better off without me anyway, he answers, without any bitterness at all. And that’s true, isn’t it?

There is a great disruption that rocks through the water. New currents stir into existence, fresh waves spring out of the darkness. And then someone takes your hand and draws you towards a noise, muffled through the ice and water: a dog barking, you realize. Then your palms find the opening and you inhale brutally cold air into your aching lungs, the best you’ve ever tasted. Aegon helps pull you through the hole and out of the lake, out of the jaws of oblivion.

You lie together on the ice, breathing in gasps that turn to mist in the night wind. Dale’s body is sprawled several yards away. The hatchet he’d used to break up the ice is buried in his neck, spine severed, eyes slick and vacant. You can see reflections of the Northern Lights flickering in them.

“You came back,” you whisper to Aegon as whirling police sirens approach, the lights dancing on his face: blue like the ocean, red like fire and blood.

“Of course I came back, Appletini,” he says, laughing with frenzied relief, kissing your cheeks and forehead over and over again, lake water dripping from his hair. Sunfyre jumps around you both, yapping ecstatically, his tail wagging. “I couldn’t leave without my Juneau girl.”

~~~~~~~~~~

There’s wind, but it isn’t sharp like a blade. There’s a sky, but it isn’t cloaked in cloud cover or fog. The boats that bob in the surf are sailboats and cruisers, not fishing vessels. Dolphins crest out of the sun-speckled waves like someone coming up from a dream.

It’s June 9th, and you’re soaring down the Pacific Coast Highway in the red Ford Mustang convertible you rented after the plane touched down in Seattle. Aegon is in the driver’s seat, black sunglasses and white T-shirt, his hair whipping in the breeze. He has one hand on the wheel and the other behind your headrest. Sunfyre is in the backseat, grinning like only dogs can. You turn up the song on the radio: Drive by Incubus.

You and Aegon had stayed in Juneau long enough for your skull to heal, and for your parents to find someone else to take over the vet clinic. They settled on a 32-year-old from Detroit: Justin McNair, a former Marine like your dad, and he either has no family or a bad one because he never wants to talk about them. Perhaps it doesn’t really matter which it is; perhaps sometimes they’re just about the same thing. Your parents have already basically adopted him. He eats dinner with them three times a week and calls your dad when he needs help with house maintenance or scaring a moose away from his truck. And just before you went south, Aegon showed him how to make the world’s best hot chocolate.

You send postcards back to Juneau from each town you stop in. Heather’s bon voyage gift to you had been an indecently revealing swimsuit. Joyce appeared with—what else?—a stack of books fit for leisurely beach reading. And Kimmie gave you, however bizarrely, a compass. So you don’t get lost, she had said with an innocuous little smile. You honestly couldn’t tell if she was joking.

During his one month in jail, Trent learned how to meditate and do yoga. He’s still kind of a dumbass, but he’s also a supposedly devout vegan Buddhist, and he had the decency to leave you alone aside from an apology letter that he slid into the moose-shaped mailbox: handwritten, six pages, lots of spelling and grammatical errors. Oh, and he finally got that job with the Forest Service, probably mostly due to his high-profile wrongful detainment. Now hikers get to swoon over his muscles and hair flips.

You’ll go back to Juneau, of course. Maybe just for visits, maybe for more than that someday. But it will never feel like a cage again.

Aegon calls Aemond every two or three days, a habit he started when he was in rehab. At first it was by necessity—he needed someone to pay the $30,000 bill—but now you think he secretly looks forward to it. He updates Aemond about how the road trip is going and reassures him that the plan hasn’t changed: south to San Diego, and then cutting east across the country to Miami. You don’t know what exactly life will look like there, and neither does Aegon. That’s not the important thing about going. Part of AA is making amends, and Aegon has a lot of work to do in that respect. He wants to go back to Miami, he says. He’s ready to go back.

San Diego is exactly like Aegon once told you it would be. You weave through the rust-colored peaks of the Laguna Mountains and there’s the Pacific Ocean, glittering and sapphire-blue, peppered with surfers and sea lions. It’s hot and it’s beautiful beyond words and everything grows there: ivy, cactuses, palm trees, calla lilies, roses. And for the first time that you can remember, the world feels breathtakingly, impossibly big. You get carryout from an unassuming restaurant called The Taco Stand, and then Aegon parks the convertible in La Jolla. You walk down the steps carved into the cliffside, paper bags in your hands full of tacos and churros, Aegon carrying Sunfyre so the dog won’t slip.

You sit together on the golden sand and watch the 8:00 p.m. sun sink into the waves, Aegon’s arm around your waist, your fingers tucking his lock of silvery hair behind his ear. And then he takes your hand, kneads it until it’s sinuous and relaxed, and reads the lines of your palm in the amber dusk like firelight.

“It says you’re happy,” he tells you. “And that you’re free.”

“I am,” you reply, smiling as the ocean stretches out like the arm of a galaxy: the ancient past, the infinite future.