#(i am vaguely incapable of rushing through that sort of thing so it's going to be a /number/ of words annnnd may or may not be the next smut

[realcube]

 CRYBABY (1 / 2) | tsukishima k

♡ alt fluff ending (1 / 2) of jealous — alt angst ending ( 2 / 2 )

♡ tw crying, unspecified injury, reverse hurt/comfort, mentions of violence, swearing, rude nicknames & set in a hospital 

“Kei, hello? I know I’m probably the last person you want to see right now but Yamaguchi told me that you were here and..I just wanted you to know that I, uh, am really sorry and I hope you get well soon.”

tsukishima felt like shit. he woke up with a splitting headache, which was only worsened by the bright beam of the LEDs which hung right above his hospital bed. it took him a few moments to become fully conscious but when he heard the irritating beeping of the ECG, his first coherent thought was, ‘wow, i can’t believe a fist fight with the king still has me hospitalised. how embarrassing.’

little did he know, kageyama was in the infirmary room right next to his own, being treated for his broken ankle and nose. 

tsukishima wasn’t spared another second to pity himself as his sore head snapped around to meet the gaze of whoever was lingering at the door, “hello?” he called out, squinting to try make out the looming figure before feeling around the side table for his glasses, “come in.” 

“Kei, hello? I know I’m probably the last person you want to see right now but Yamaguchi told me that you were here and..I just wanted you to know that I, uh, am really sorry and I hope you get well soon.”

That voice was unmistakable.

his blood ran cold, suddenly feeling extremely dizzy and sick. “(y/n).” he muttered under his breath in disbelief, as he was finally able to get a clutch on his glasses and push them up the bridge of his nose, easing his headache slightly. 

“oh, thanks.” he croaked, his throat dry from both waking up and your presence. if he being completely honest, he hardly processed a word you said; as soon as he realised it was you talking, his mind was just flooded with emotions, feelings and memories alike. hardly any of them were bad — except for the more recent ones — yet he still felt an overwhelming wave of sadness which he had no choice but to hide. 

“so are you just going to stand there or are you going to come in?” he inquired, concealing his regret with sass, which was all to convincing since it was a usual practise for tsukishima by now. in fact, that’s exactly what had gotten him into this situation.

you inhaled sharply, shocked by the fact that he actually wanted you to stay as you’ve been under the impression that he hates you, which is understandable considering his recent actions. hesitantly, you emerged from behind the curtain that separated the bed he lay in from the door, your heart sinking upon seeing the state he lay in; out of the many years you had been friend with him, this is the worst you’ve ever seen him. pasty, chapped lips, bloodshot eyes, messy hair and extremely scrawny, yet you couldn’t help but admire him for pushing through none the less. in your eyes, he’s still beautiful — but he’d never believe you if you told him — and he thought the exact same about you. 

“how, um, how are you?” you stuttered, shuffling awkwardly as you took a seat in the chair that was already placed beside the bed. the same chair that his brother had sat in yesterday and him mother the day before that. 

“what do you think?” he scoffed, gesturing to his current state and injury that was highlighted by the thick, white cast. 

your eyes widened, being hit once again by the harsh reality that he was no longer your friend. “i- i don’t even know why i asked.” you murmured, voice meek and shaky enough to catch the attention of tsukishima, who also forgot that he was supposed to dislike you.

his comment wasn’t intended to be rude but in context, he could completely understand why you thought that — however, that’s just the type of guy he is. looking at your disheartened expression, he felt his own fall to resemble it. maybe kageyama did knock some sense into the blonde as he was now able to thinking clearly, recollect on how poorly he treated you and wonder why he did those things.

truly, he wanted nothing more to apologise. to tell you how awful he was and that he doesn’t hate you, quite the opposite actually! he needed to let you know that you did nothing wrong and everything bad that happened was his fault and he was willing to take full responsibility. but of course, his pride didn’t let him. all he was able to utter was, “did you check up on kageyama?”

it was a harmless question, or so he thought. just innocently inquiring about the wellbeing of his teammate and your ex, so why were tears rolling down your cheeks? and why did he feel the urge to cry too?

“yeah, but it was really awkward.”

tsukishima cheek heated up with both annoyance and at the fact your hand was now resting upon his, “why are you crying then?!” he snapped, angrily intertwining his fingers with yours, not thinking much of it, “you made it seem like he died or something!”

“why are you crying?!” 

“i’m not fucking crying!” he was crying. crystalline tears running down his cheek tickling his pale skin.

outstretching your arm, you brushed your finger against his face to wipe away his tear then proceed to show him how the pad of your index finger glistened under the intense room light. “yes, you are, crybabyshima!” you half-cried, half-laughed, resulting in tsukishima hunching over to cackle at the nickname. 

“i’m crying at how stupid you are!” he tired to hiss but he really couldn’t take himself seriously, involuntarily punctuating each word with a chuckle or wheeze. 

“watch it, kei. the stupid one of us is in a hospital bed.”  

he quirked a brow, breathing frantically from having just laughed his lungs out, “uh, yeah. because of stupidest one’s boyfriend.” he didn’t even know if what he was saying made sense or not, as his main priority was trying to catch his breath. 

“ex boyfriend.” you corrected, both of you becoming uncomfortably aware that you were still holding hands at the same time, yet neither of you dared to move an inch. you sniffled while wiping your cheek with the sleeve of your jacket, “kageyama told me what happened. it was vague but he said that you attacked him because he cheated on me, is that what really happened?”

his memory of the event was as hazy as that description. although, that sounded about right but now that he heard it aloud, he realised how pathetic it sounded so obviously he didn’t want to admit to that sort of behaviour. “i don’t remember.”

“it doesn’t sound like you.” your voice was hushed, as if he was going to scold you if you spoke up. “so what do you remember?”

the headache that was previously preventing him from doing any deep thinking had now somewhat dissipated, allowing his to avert his gaze onto the hospital floor as he hummed in thought, “the last thing i remember clearly was walking to school the night after you-” he gulped, the horrible memories suddenly flooding into his mind, making his lips twitch into a frown as he recalled all the nasty things he said to you, “the night after you called me.”

you nodded, the memories not treating you kindly either as all you were able to do was mouth an ‘oh’.

“listen, (y/n).” tsukishima started, the sight of your dejected aura prompting him to finally, partially, speak his mind. “i’m sorry about what i said. i don’t even know why i said it so i don’t have an explanation..i’m just sorry.” he didn’t expect forgiveness, in all honesty. if the roles were reverse, he was unsure as to whether he’d forgive you or not. well, he probably would but still, that’s just because he’s fallen so he doesn’t expect the same leeway from you. 

but to his surprise, your expression softened as you cooed, “it’s fine, kei.” with a shrug, absentmindedly stroking the back of his hand with your thumb. “i somewhat forgive you.” 

his eyes basically popped out of their sockets, “what?” he almost instantly blurted out, looking at you as if you had gone mad. “why?” there was slight disgust laced in his voice, but that was as expected of him so you didn’t read to much into it.

“because you’re hot.” you joked with an eyeroll, taken back by the audacity he had to question your decision, “why do you care? just be thankful that we can be friends again!” you chirped but his grimace wiped the smile clean off you face.

he genuinely would’ve been more content if you had just stopped after your first statement. i mean, you looked at him like he was your world, even when he was laying beaten on a hospital bed, and the way your thumb gently stoked the back of his frail, calloused hand like it was treasure resulted in butterflies erupting in his stomach. was that just you being friendly?

“you really are stupid.” he tutted, averting his gaze from your watery eyes as it would do nothing more than evoke unneeded and unappreciated emotions within him. “i think i’ve made it exceeding clear that i don’t want to be your friend.” despite his efforts, his words still sounded unsure and a light blush kept creeping onto his features. 

a gasp escaped your lips, your eyebrows furrowing as you immediately felt a surge of impenetrable rage shoot through your body, “why not?! i thought we were getting on like old times.” after the initial rush of adrenaline subsided, you found yourself sulking, slumping back in your chair and crossing your arms over your chest like a child. you just wanted things to go back to the way they were before, was that too much to ask? or did he truthfully detest you? and if that’s the case, why was he holding your hand so tightly, refusing to let go?

“idiot, i mean i want to be your boyfriend.” the last word was spoken meekly, as if it was a curse. “i didn’t think i’d have to spell it out for you but i guess i shouldn’t have overestimated your intelligence.” ironic, considering that you didn’t have to be a genius to figure out that he was joking. you had known him for long enough to be aware that he was physically incapable of giving a compliment without following it up with sarcasm or an insult. 

it was as if someone had lit a blast furnace underneath your chair as you felt your whole body heat up to an uncomfortable extend, instantly aware of your hand in his you felt your palm become clammy — or perhaps that was his —   either way, you were quick to yank away, leaving tsukishima extremely confused and oddly offended.

“kei..” you breathed, mind completely blank, “why?” 

“what do you mean? i don’t know why.” this whole week has been a roller-coaster of emotions for him and now he was trying to finally bail himself out but you weren’t making it any easier, but at the end of the day, he only had himself to blame as you’d probably be a lot more forthcoming if it wasn’t for his past attitude. 

there was a part of him that was ready to gush on to you about how warm you make him, how your touch sends butterflies through his body, how your general demeanour makes him feel as though he could entrust his whole life to you but his pride wouldn’t allow him to express said thoughts. 

but fortunately, he didn’t need to elaborate as your finger found his jaw, tilting it upwards so he’d meet your reassuring gaze, “i’d love to. we could go to that dessert place near your house and get that couple’s discount! well, when you recover, of course.”

poor, simp tsukki didn’t even try to resist the smile his lips curled into as your minty breath tickled his skin. “i ask you out and the first thing you think about is dessert? typical.”

smirking, you leaned in to pinch his cheek but immediately jerked backwards when he winced, “ah, i’m sorry! old habits die hard.” you chuckled awkwardly, feeling a resurgence of the previous heat when he kissed the back of your hand to show no hard feelings. 

“it’s fine. but as an apology, stay with me for a while.” he said, his eyes fixated on the window by his bed. his hand subconsciously finding it’s way into yours once again. 

[nyctolovian]

Rating: General Audiences Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply Relationships: Mikotoba Yuujin/Sherlock Holmes | Herlock Sholmes, Mikotoba Yuujin & Sherlock Holmes | Herlock Sholmes, why isn't there a platonic tag for them.... Additional Tags: Accidental Baby Acquisition, Canonical Character Death, Grief/Mourning, Pre-Canon, Regret, Guilt, Angst, Mild Hurt/Comfort

Summary: Y'know, just dudes accidentally being dads.

Yuujin apparently didn't have to worry about knocking the door at 1am because he didn’t even have to wait for more than 2 seconds before the door swung open to an already chattering man. Sholmes had a frown on his face as he talked animatedly, "... checked with me! It is incredibly late. There had better be a proper reason why you would require me to open the door for you at this time. What would you do had I been asleep? You most definitely have your key with you so I don't see why you couldn't just…" He trailed off as his eyes travelled downwards to the bundle in Yuujin's arms.

 A small pudgy hand stuck out from the folds of the towels. Sholmes' gaze travelled quickly from Yuujin's arms, to his face, to the large medical bag on the floor and to his hands before sighing. "Hm… I see." Wasting no time at all, he stepped aside for the exhausted Japanese man and closed the door without a single fuss.

 Yuujin supposed that was the good thing about Sholmes, you didn't need to explain too much to him. And Yuujin couldn't be more grateful for this trait of his tonight; he was in no mood for explaining anything.

 Cradling the infant, he sat down on his bed, which creaked under his weight. The baby made a noise as she gazed up at him with wide eyes. For a second, the blue in her eyes shifted to a familiar brown he hadn’t seen in ages, and Yuujin felt a pang in his chest. He tore his eyes away from the child and said, "I- Well, I believe it's, um, her meal time. Herlock, could you make something for her?"

 Sholmes followed Yuujin's gaze to the large bag he came in with. "Where did you get it from?"

 "The… The mother had it prepared at her home. And I simply… took it."

 Sholmes froze mid-bend to look at Yuujin quizzically. "But that would mean…" He caught himself and shook his head.

 Yuujin didn't know what conclusion Sholmes had drawn from that but knowing him, it was probably scarily close to the truth.

 “It pains me to admit, my friend,” Sholmes said, holding up the bottle and the bag of baby food, “but it seems even my brilliance may have its limits when it comes to the art of making infant food without instruction.”

 “Ah,” Yuujin said as he gently placed the child on the bed. “Right. Of course.” After making sure she was nicely settled, he got up with a sigh. God, how much of an old man he was behaving right now, especially when there was an eighteen-year-old around him daily as a direct comparison. He gestured for Sholmes to join him as he prepared the food, describing the process as they went along.

 As he shook the bottle, Sholmes asked, “You are teaching me all this because you intend to leave her in my care, don’t you?”

 Yuujin flinched. “I… Well…”

 To be asked so directly… but that always was the way with Sholmes, was it not?

 After taking in a deep breath, Yuujin admitted, “Truthfully, yes. I presume that Jigoku and I might be deported soon and I can’t take this child with me… I am supposed to only care for her temporarily but…” Yuujin had no idea what Genshin had meant. What on earth did he mean when he said, ‘if something should happen to me’? None of it made sense… God, his head hurt.

 He shook his head, trying to clear it, trying to focus. “Hopefully, it will not come to it but I have to prepare for the worst. I can’t put this child’s future on vague hopes.”

 Sholmes looked back at the infant lying on the mattress and Yuujin recognised the flicker of apprehension in his eyes. His heart squeezed with guilt.

 “I’m sorry. This is a lot to ask of you. You’re the first person I thought of but I know I… I am being incredibly selfish." He shook his head. "Please do forget it, Sholmes. I shall look for alternatives. You needn't worry yourself with this."

 Before Yuujin could say another word, however, the child on the bed began to wail. He snapped into action, rushing to the child. Gently, he cradled her again and rocked her. “Are you hungry? Don’t worry. We have food,” he cooed. He gestured for the bottle and Sholmes handed it to him.

 Carefully, he cocked the bottle to the infant and pressed the nipple to her lips. The crying slowed quickly and the child began to suck at the nipple. She was suckling with such ferocity that Yuujin couldn’t help but laugh at the adorable little face she was making. This baby girl was going to grow up strong, he could already tell.

 He thought of the baby—ah, no… she must be 6 years old by now; no longer the baby he had left in Japan… Thinking about it made him so very tired and guilty. That made it a total of two children.

 Two children whose mothers he could only watch lose their lives to childbirth, unable to do anything as he cried for hours after. Two children who would grow up without fathers because one was killed by the Professor, and the other spent every day on the brink of complete and utter resignation before he was whisked away to a foreign land. Two children he was leaving in the care of others again, because he was incapable. Two children who were supposed to be his responsibility, placed under his care, yet he had abandoned—was going to abandon—them.

 What a useless man he was. He failed at being a caretaker of these children. He was meant to be a father but now it felt like a title he didn't deserve—

 “Can I try?” Sholmes broke Yuujin's train of thought, voice quieter than usual.

 “Ah, of course.” Yuujin shuffled closer to Sholmes, who took the bottle. The infant’s eyes widened and her lips trembled as the nipple slipped out of her mouth for a second. But Sholmes returned the bottle to the infant, who resumed her suckling with what seemed almost like increased fervour.

 “Do not worry,” Sholmes said. “I’m not taking it away from you. You need not react with such sadness and worry!”

 “She’s just an infant,” Yuujin chided lightly. “She wouldn’t know otherwise.”

 “That's right…” Sholmes said. “Your experience of the world is not even 24 hours! There is very much for you to learn, isn't there?”

 Yuujin nodded, but his chest was welling up with worry. Not even 24 hours in the world and, already, her life was looking so… bleak. What on earth was Genshin even going to do?

 No, Yuujin would wait. Genshin looked like he had a plan. Surely, he was needlessly worrying.

 But the next day, Yuujin heard nothing about Genshin other than the news that he had been executed. So he waited for whatever arrangements Genshin might have gotten to pull through. But days stretched to weeks before, as Yuujin had predicted, the exchange was called off officially and all Japanese students were to be deported. And Yuujin was certain that there was no more hope left.

 "It's a bit sad that you still haven't got a name, isn't it?" Sholmes said, lifting the baby up. "After all this while."

 The baby let out a joyful noise.

 "Actually… I've been calling her little Iris for a while. I-In my head," Yuujin admitted. It hadn't felt right for the baby to be completely nameless. But it hadn't felt right to actually name her either.

 "Little Iris?"

 "Yes, Iris. Um… named after my… wife, Ayame. But in English," Yuujin said sheepishly. It felt silly now, but two weeks ago, as he held the child and whispered to her gently, he wondered if giving the baby the name of his dead wife might mean she'd be watching over her too. Perhaps she'd protect the child from any more tragedy and harm. Like some sort of protection charm.

 Yuujin hoped it wasn’t too selfish, asking his wife to watch over two children like this.

 "Iris…" Sholmes repeated. He turned to the child with a smile. "Your Papa has given you a good name, hasn't he?"

 Yuujin felt his ears grow hot.

 "I'm not her Papa, Sholmes," Yuujin said in a mix of exasperation and fondness, shaking his head. "I thought that much was obvious."

 “You worry so much over her, you’re practically her Papa. Don’t pretend like you don’t peer into her cot almost every hour just to smile at her,” Sholmes said.

 Yuujin sputtered in mortification, but he had no leg to stand on in this argument.

 "Besides, as far as I'm concerned, we're Iris' fathers now," he said. "I'll be taking care of her from now on after all."

 Jaw dropping, Yuujin stuttered, "You'll be… what? No, there's no need to do that. I'll search for someone else before I leave. You don't need to do this."

 "It's quite alright, my friend!" Sholmes said. "I, the great detective, am clearly a natural at many things including taking care of infants. You can leave Iris in my very attentive and gentle care!"

 "But that is simply too much to ask of you.” Yuujin’s heart felt heavy, dripping with guilt and distress. “I’ll try—"

 "Nonsense!" Sholmes huffed. "Nothing is too much to ask of me. While I was frankly quite worried at first, time has proven that I have quite a knack for taking care of children. It will be fine."

 "No, it's not right to burden you with this. I shall look for alternatives—"

 "Surely, you won't be so cruel as to separate us!" Sholmes interrupted. "We get on so well after all. Like a house on fire, wouldn't you agree?" He lifted Iris to eye-level, and she gurgled excitedly.

 Yuujin pursed his lips. He sure hoped this was just one of those strange English turn of phrases, rather than something literal. He had been the unfortunate witness to how "on fire" Sholmes could turn a house before.

 Noticing the worry still etched upon Yuujin's face, Sholmes said in a more sombre tone, "Truthfully, that night, I was honoured to be the first person you've consulted about this. It spoke volumes of the faith you have in me. And now, I truly do wish to care for Iris… A part of me also thinks that it would be rather nice if… when you come back, you could come home to me and Iris both. And I know how much you’d worry about her back in Japan." He smiled softly at Yuujin. "What do you say, my dear partner?"

 “I…” Yuujin gazed at Iris, his eyes burning with the threat of tears again. “Thank you so much, Sholmes."

[kevin-day-is-bi]

If you’re still doing your prompt requests could you do herongraystairs + 5??? Thank you so much 💖💖

Here you go! I went ahead and answered another ask with this same fic, so @autumnangel20, your ask for numbers 1 and 20 is answered here. 

Warning: This does contain smut. The smut is most probably not very historically accurate, but it’s harder than you’d think to write Victorian praise kinks. This contains some angst, some plot. 

Jem wondered, as he kept eating his toast, what he had done to deserve Will Herondale.

He wondered this often, some days in a 'how had he received this blessing' way and some days in a 'the Angel had it out for him and wanted him to suffer' type of way. 

Today was the first type, though by all usual methods of determination he should have been wondering the second. Will was even more boisterous than usual, rambling about all sorts of nonsense. Charlotte looked like she was regretting every decision that led her up to this moment as Will reenacted what Jem thought was supposed to be Will's own death via duck. 

All Jem could do was stare at Will as he reached one arm towards the sky, other hand pressing to his heart. While Jessamine looked annoyed, Jem was hyper focused on the enticing strip of skin that was Will's collarbone. 

"Oh, Angel above, Will." Charlotte set her fork down with a thunk. "Your toast has hardened, your tea is cold, just sit down and finish your breakfast." 

"I was showing my eventual brutal end at the hands of the ducks," Will said sullenly, as he got up and brushed himself off.

"Ducks don't have hands," Jem muttered, and Will gave him a betrayed look. Jessamine snickered. 

"And if you do not stop harping on about ducks, I shall have you killed before the ducks can." 

'Have him killed', Jem noted, not kill him herself. Jessamine's refusal to be a Shadowhunter had caused Charlotte more annoyance over the last three months than Will's antics, something that put out Will and made Jessamine oddly proud. 

Breakfast finished in silence, with the exception of Jem almost upsetting his tea when Will brushed his hand up high on Jem's thigh. Will gave him a smile with enough of a smirk in it for Jem to know it had not been accidental. 

When Will had left the room, speaking very loudly to an annoyed looking Sophie, Jessamine gave a great sigh. 

“How I wish I did not have to see him quite so often.” 

“Jessamine, be polite,” Charlotte said wearily, taking a slow sip from her tea. 

Jessamine humphed. Jem knew Will could be tiresome, but this knowledge was now slightly diluted by three months worth of memories of Will’s kisses. Instead of the usual exasperation and defence that anyone complaining about Will usually inspired in Jem, Jem felt surprisingly furious. Just because Jessamine was incapable of seeing Will as he truly was did not mean it was Will’s fault. Though Jem knew that it was. 

Jem stood and left the room without saying anything. He made his way back to his bedroom, determined to drown his annoyance in music. Vivaldi was always exceptional at catching Jem up and taking him to a place where there was no drug, no Law, nothing to make Will lash out and drink himself to oblivion. 

When he got to his room, Jem shut the door firmly, blocking out the sound of Will’s boisterous voice from downstairs.

…

Jem drew the bow across the strings slowly, drawing out the note. His hand trembled at the end, causing the note to become sharp. He cursed under his breath, continuing with the song. These last months, the yin fin had affected his strength more and more. His next few notes came out in a rush as he ford his hand to steady. 

Jem’s annoyance at the yin fin only heightened as he remembered Will’s mouth frantic against his own, Will having to initiate everything, them having to stop out of fear of Jem’s exhaustion or falling ill. And oh, Will. Will and his lashing out, Will and his drinking, Will and his pushing everyone away. Will was mercurial, in the exact sense of the world, one moment being kind and loving and gentle the next being all anger and sharp words and shoving Jem away. 

Jem let himself be lost in the music, let it wash away all his fears and worry and annoyance at the yin fen and Will and the Law. The Law, which made it illegal for them to do many of the things they do nearly every day. Jem gritted his teeth as the music slowed. He shut his eyes, trying to turn his thoughts to the music. Vivaldi, he thought. Not Will Herondale, not the Law, not yin fin. 

It almost worked. Peace and near contentment filled him, and he was nearing the end of the song when someone knocked on his door. He sighed through his nose and ceased his playing. 

“Yes?” 

The door opened and Will poked his head in. For all the grief Will had caused Jem, his heart still quickened and he still smiled when he saw Will. 

“That was an extremely melancholy song you were just playing.” 

Jem relaxed his grip on the violin and the hand holding his bow dropped to his side. Will took this as an invitation and strode into the room, collapsing with as much drama as was humanly possible onto Jem’s bed. Jem was momentarily diverted by the image of Will laying on his bed, shirt open and hair mussed, and had to instantly return to the conversation to avoid an unfortunate reaction. 

“I was practicing for your funeral,” He responded, leaning one hip against his desk. “For when the ducks finally get you.” 

Will laughed, and looked as though he was going to say something ridiculous. Instead, he propped himself up on his elbows. 

“James, I know you speak in jest, but I must know. Why were you playing something so very sad?” 

Jem sighed, and Will continued talking. 

“You are not feeling too bad today, I hope.” Will’s bright blue eyes peer up at him in the dimness of the room. 

“No, I am quite fine. Stronger than usual, in fact.”

“Then, you are not-” Will broke off, frowning. “You are not regretting…” 

He gestured vaguely, and Jem straightened. 

“No! No, I do not regret our joining.” Jem stopped, and looked out his window. The curtain was mostly drawn across it, but there was a sliver through which he could see the courtyard, and beyond it, Fleet Street. He remembered first coming to London, how dull and gray everything looked. How he had despised the cold and wet at first, how it had sent him into coughing fits and made him feel worse constantly. And how the tiny black haired boy, so full of acerbic words and vicious wit, had made those first days easier somehow. 

“Come now, Jem, old boy.” Will sprung off the bed. Jem jerked back to the moment and turned to raise an eyebrow at Will. “Come, I will not have you moping around.” 

“I am not moping-” 

Will lept into a fighting stance, fists up, and tossed his glorious black hair out of his eyes. 

“Fight me.” 

“Pardon?” 

“Sparring will take your mind off of what you were just now thinking, whatever it was.” Jem doubted that, seeing as what was largely on his mind was Will, and every time they sparred they ended tangled up together, mouths pressed in desperate, needy motions. Still, Will bobbed on his feet slightly, grinning wickedly. “So…fight me.” 

Jem set down his violin. 

“You just want me to pin you against the wall again.” 

“Last time was a fluke. I shall be pinning you against the wall this time.” 

Jem snorted. “Is that a challenge?” 

Will’s eyes flashed. Jem moved, bringing his arms up to block his face. Nothing had happened whatsoever on any patrols for a month, and Jem was beginning to fill with nervous energy. Normally his illness prohibited such fidgeting, but when he had nothing better to spend his energy on, he found himself aching for a fight. 

They circled each other, Jem determined not to make the first attack. He had almost lost patience when Will jabbed at him, swinging low and fast. With some surprise, Jem jumped back. He blocked the punch, striking at Will’s shoulder with his other hand. Will danced back before the hit could land. 

They continued this way for some time, one of them darting in for a hit then leaping back before one could land on themselves. Finally, Jem managed to catch hold on Will’s loose sleeve and pull him in close. They grappled, both hitting lighter than was strictly necessary. At one point, they toppled onto the bed, wrestling for control. Jem ended up pinning Will, and his feeling of victory was slightly lessened by the sight of Will beneath him, cheeks flushed, hair tousled, eyes bright. 

“It appears you did end up pinning me after all, though not against a wall.” Will’s voice was a little too casual, and his gaze was largely fixed on Jem’s lips. There was so little space between them and Will was breathing hard and then Jem was kissing him, unable to do anything else. 

Will kissed back instantly, body arching under Jem. Jem sat up and yanked his shirt off, unable to even feel the fury he usually did upon seeing his skinny form. All he could think about was getting his lips back on Will’s. He went to place his hands next to Will’s head, but Will placed a hand against his chest. 

“You pinning me was actually quite nice.”

Jem’s surprise melted into satisfaction and he once again placed his hands on Will’s wrists. Will made a soft noise under him as Jem squeezed. Very, very quickly, Jem was intensely dissatisfied with kissing. He transferred his grip to one hand, the other going to unbutton Will’s shirt. He got it undone and lightly pinched one of Will’s nipples, almost as an afterthought. Will made a noise in the back of his throat and his eyes fluttered shut. Interesting, Jem thought, and experimented with placing his mouth where his fingers were. He was rewarded with a little whimper. 

Jem, almost without thinking, brought his now free hand down to unbutton Will’s pants. As he went to shove them down, he stopped. Sat up. Let go of Will’s hands. This was far as they had gone before. Through some unspoken agreement, they had restrained their activities to kissing. Jem met Will’s eyes. Will nodded, then breathed an additional “Oh, yes.” 

Jem slid down the bed, keeping his eyes firmly on Will’s. 

“Tell me when to stop.” Will made a breathless noise of assent and Jem frowned. “William. I’m serious. Tell me when to stop.” 

“I will. I swear on the Angel.” 

With that, Jem pulled Will’s trousers off of him. He was taken aback momentarily. Will was so much larger than he had thought. Will gave him a concerned look but Jem just lowered himself over Will again. One hand caught up Will’s wrists again, and the other began to stroke oh-so-slowly. Will made such delightful noises and Jem wondered why on earth they hadn’t done this before. 

Will’s noises became a little more desperate and Jem pulled back. Will protested, but Jem just spit in his hand. 

“Spread your legs.”

...

Will wailed, fingers spasming under Jem’s grip. Jem thrust in again. Will began to whimper as Jem sped up. Jem braced his hand on Will’s knee, other hand still firmly pinning Will’s wrists to the bed. Will’s cheeks were flushed, and his mouth was open as he panted. 

“You look,” Jem gritted out, in between thrusts. “So gorgeous right now.” 

Will’s eyes snapped open. He looked shocked, and slightly taken aback. Jem experimented again. 

“With your mouth open so wide, you’re just begging to suck on something.” 

Will whimpered, and Jem swore he saw Will’s cock twitch. Jem smiled lightly and made a mental note to keep talking. But first…

He sped up, thrusting in as deep as he could go and squeezing Will’s wrists. Will made soft little noises, feet bracing against the bed. 

“You look so good, all fucked out like this.” 

Will moaned at that, full and unabashed, Jem felt himself racing to the edge fast, so he reached a hand between them and squeezed Will’s cock. Will came instantly, and Jem pulled out and came across Will’s stomach from the feeling of Will’s convulsing around him. Will cried out, back arching and legs spasming wide. 

Jem shoved himself off and rolled to the side. Will took the moment to breathe and stop the trembling in his limbs. Jem chuckled, more a sharp exhale of breath than an actual laugh. They lay next to each other for a moment, catching their breath and laying in the afterglow. 

“You’re really quite good at that.” 

Jem looked over at Will, examining his profile in the firelight. 

“Which bit?” 

Will waved a hand, though the motion was more of a flop than a graceful movement. 

“Just-” Will’s sighed out a breath. “All of it.” 

Jem snorted lightly, rubbing a hand down Will’s arm gently. He had worried that it would be awkward, that there would be fumbling and limbs sticking out and Will pitying Jem’s lack of skills. But the second Jem had gotten Will under him, all that fear had melted away. Hearing Will mumble soft little ‘please’s and ‘oh, Jem’s felt more natural than anything he had ever done in his entire life. 

“Hey, Carstairs?” 

Jem blinked back to the present, smiling at the ‘Carstairs’. 

“Yes?”

“Just to clarify.” There was a little hitch in his voice. “Did we just sleep together?”

...

Hope you liked it :) Sorry it took so long to answer!

[kumeko]

A/N: For the Personaloid zine! I wanted to use the Regret Message for Persona 2, I feel like it really suits the everyone as they go through the game.

…

…

…

…

Kuzunoha Detective Agency was a small place at the best of times. With three detectives, three students, and two reporters? It was cramped. There was barely enough room to breathe, let alone think. The tiny space between the sofas, tables, and desks didn’t help the matter at all. The only way to move was to sidestep around others.

Fortunately, almost everyone was concentrated around Detective Kuzunoha’s desk, leaving most of the office empty. They poured over a map of the city as they tried to figure out the location of the next bomb. King Leo’s clues were riddles, vague lines that could mean almost anything anywhere. If he really wanted them to solve them, he certainly didn’t make it easy.

“This ward doesn’t have too many big, important locations,” Kyouji muttered, his finger sliding across the paper as he pointed at a few prime locations. A portly elder, he looked like he should be playing with his grandchildren, not fighting a secret organization. Lisa wondered if he really summoned demons. “Honestly, it’s probably between these five points.”

“I think we can rule out the school and the jail,” Yukino suggested, tugging on her grey hat as she stared at the map. Despite everything, she looked calm as she contemplated the threat. “The jail’s empty and the school’s already been attacked—I doubt they’d blow it up now. It’s a waste of resources.”

“The mall is a really big place…I guess we can check it out while you look at the other two?” Tamaki suggested, tapping her fingers on her thighs. She glanced at her boyfriend Tadashi, grimacing. “I suppose he could actually help this once. There’s no way he could mess this up.”

“Why are you still dating?” Yukino grumbled under her breath, shaking her head.

Lisa watched them impassively. She should be helping. While she might not know Hirasaka like the back of her hand, she’d spent enough time here after school to know the popular hangouts, to tell when something looked out of place. A bomb quietly ticked somewhere and any advice was better than none.

Her jaw clenched. She should be helping.

Instead, she couldn’t get off the couch, couldn’t do more than just watch and listen. In the corner, Tatsuya and Maya quietly talked, his hand stroking her back comfortingly as she trembled. After seeing King Leo, she’d been as pale as a ghost and even now the colour hadn’t yet returned to her cheeks. Lisa wasn’t sure what had happened while she’d been preparing for her idol performance, but ever since the labyrinth, they’d been getting closer.

She should interfere. Something fluttered in her chest, as delicate as a butterfly’s wings, a stirring of jealousy that she was all too familiar with. It was almost enough to make her stand, but her feet remained stubbornly glued to the floor and Lisa turned away.

It was hard to do anything when all she could remember was how Sheba and Mee-ho had changed in the end. They were like husks of themselves, all blank stares and flat voices. No matter what she’d said, they didn’t react, only mumbling about their dreams as though even that was too much effort. After that, people’s eyes slid right past them, like they weren’t there, like they didn’t exist.

Lisa dug her hands into her thighs. It was her fault. It was all her fault.

The soft thump of someone sitting on the other sofa cut through her thoughts and she jerked her head up to find a smirking Eikichi. He brushed back his bangs and winked. “Careful, stare too hard and you might burn a hole through me.”

Automatically, Lisa’s lips curled in disgust. “In your dreams.” It lacked her usual bite. A familiar anger and revulsion filled her yet, just like with everything it else, it felt muted. Getting angry at Eikichi was too much effort; it was better to just sit here and do nothing.

Maybe she could also fade away into nothing, just like Sheba and Mee-ho. It would be a fitting penance.

“I didn’t know you dreamed of me too, Ginko,” Eikichi replied, cupping his cheek as he sighed. He ran a hand through his hair and leaned back dramatically on the couch like an angsty rock star. “I really am too damn attractive for my own good.”

Though, Eikichi was slowly piling up reasons to make the effort. Lisa couldn’t understand how anyone was so narcissistic, so incapable of reading the mood that he actually thought people were thinking of him with adoration instead of annoyance. Even when they’d gone through their schools, he’d kept thinking the girls stared at him in desire instead of just plain old fear. Averting her gaze, she muttered, “Don’t call me that.”

“Huh? What did you say, Ginko?” Eikichi cupped his ears and leaned closer. “I couldn’t hear you.”

Lisa twitched. It was impossible tot tell if he was serious or just taunting her. Either way, she was done with this conversation. “Just shut up. Go bother someone else, I’m not in the mood.”

Eikichi stared at her. For a long moment, she wondered if he’d finally gotten a clue. His electric blue eyes bore into hers before he glanced at the others. When it was obvious they weren’t paying attention, he clasped his hands and leaned forward. Looking the most serious she’d ever seen him, he quietly asked, “You okay?”

That wasn’t the response she’d expected. Confused, she sat back, sinking further into the plush couch. “Huh?”

Still all too somber, Eikichi clarified, “With your friends…”

Immediately, Lisa stiffened. “Don’t.”

“Sorry,” he muttered, looking away.

It was stupid. So utterly stupid. Lisa blinked back her tears—out of everyone here, why was stupid Eikichi the first one to ask how she felt? After they’d left the smouldering concert ruins, no one had so much as looked at her as they tried to figure out the riddle.

It made sense. It really did.

Yet, she’d needed this question more than she’d realized. Wiping her tears with her sleeve, she pressed her arm against her eyes. “Why you?” she croaked.

“Me?” Eikichi repeated.

She didn’t want to look at him, see the pity in his eyes. “Tatsuya just looks at Maya and Yukino doesn’t care and…why are you the only one who asked?”

“They…” Eikichi trailed off, unable to come up with an excuse. It wasn’t like he could anyways; she had eyes and ears.

Lisa laughed bitterly. “I know it’s more important to deal with the bomb. Really. But…” She hunched over, curling into herself. “It hurts. Sheba…Mee-ho…it’s all my fault.”

There was a long silence. Lisa rubbed her eyes. Now that she’d talked about it, it was like a floodgate had opened and all she could remember were the months she’d spent lying to her friends. She’d kept pushing them away, even wanted the school to burn, all because she didn’t want to tell the truth.

If she’d been honest from the start, they might have still been here.

Eikichi finally replied. “Yeah.”

She should have expected that response. It was par the course with Eikichi; all of their fights had been sharp, pointed things. Somehow it still stung. Crossing her arms, she sniped back, “Of course you agree with that.”

“Hogo, Ken, Takeshi—it’s my fault they ended up like that too.” Eikichi smiled, pained. “They were only trying to help me and I let them down. We both messed up.”

Lisa flinched. She’d almost forgotten about his friends. They were shadows now, barely visible, barely existing, and with a rush of clarity she remembered how it happened. Playing with the hem of her skirt, she mumbled, “No, that…that was my fault too.”

All this time she’d been calling Eikichi self-centered when it was just her all along.

God, she sucked.

“It’s not,” he disagreed.

“It is!” She bit her cheek and forced the words out. If she went far back enough, actually, this was all her fault. “If I hadn’t goaded them, or even suggested the Joker game—”

“I’m their boss,” Eikichi interrupted. “I should have taken their place. I’m the one who forced them to do it. If I hadn’t been so focused on my rival, if I hadn’t been using my powers like I did…maybe it would have been different.”

“That…” Lisa trailed off, unable to refute it. If he had stepped in, maybe they could have caught the Joker right then and there. Or if the kidnapping hadn’t happened—if none of those things happened, would their principal have still attacked the school? Eikichi’s student president take over his school? Or would those things have still happened, but Lisa would have just been part of the crowd, unable to save herself. “Maybe.”

“We’re both shitty friends, huh?” Eikichi smiled lopsidedly.

Her own was just as crooked when she chuckled. “Yeah, I guess we actually do have something in common.” She lowered her eyes. “Do you think…that we can save them?”

“Of course.” Eikichi snorted, dismissing the whole thing without a second thought.

Lisa wished she had that sort of confidence. She glanced at Tatsuya, at Yukki and Maya, at the detectives hard at work. Maybe it wouldn’t hurt to hope a little. They were all smart, amazing people. They’d gotten this far, after all.

Maybe they could go all the way, defeat Joker, and save everyone.

“If you’re scared, Ginko, I’ll save your friends for you,” Eikichi offered, winking.

“Gross. I don’t need your help.” Again her words lacked their usual bite, but only because she felt more fond than annoyed this time. Getting up, she wiped her hands on her skirt. “And you’re wrong, I’llsave your friends for you.”

Before he could reply, she skipped off to Tatsuya. After all, she also had to protect him from Maya.

[imagine-loki]

Return

TITLE: Return CHAPTER NO./ONE SHOT: Chapter Eight AUTHOR: theterrifyingtermite ORIGINAL IMAGINE: Imagine that, at the end of Endgame, Loki comes back. Only one problem: this isn’t your Loki… RATING: T NOTES/WARNINGS: Gearing up to the moment that the entire fic was built around. (I’m so dramatic. I know.)

Chapter Eight:

One month, three weeks, and two days left.

She had officially reached a point of being uncomfortable – even though the quantity of spells should have prohibited it – and was officially permanently tired, finding herself today with a lingering headache.

Trying to do things the “normal,” human way was failing. Articles and books and any sort of information she could find really didn’t cover the whole ‘inter-species’ aspect of her life.

While Stephen and Wong were a great help, she figured that even their access to knowledge had a limit – though it would be emphatically denied if she questioned it out loud.

Still, she was thankful for them, as she was for the woman sitting down across from her.

“Here,” Christine smiled, passing over a mug of Pai Mu Tan tea, her own cold brew in her other hand.

She thanked her, wrapping her hands around the mug and breathing in the scent of it while willing away the ocular pain that had accompanied yesterday’s migraine and had followed her into the next day.

Christine had been one of the best things to come out of the situation. Busy as she was, there were texts; calls; and the occasional venture out for a visit, when she felt like braving the world.

Whatever she was willing to give, Christine was ready to accept. While they weren’t exceptionally close, it was good to have a female friend.

The fact that she was also a female doctor and a touch more understanding about her physical changes was a lovely plus, even if she didn’t know the process personally.

“Maybe someday,” she had teased the other woman gently, vaguely describing a certain (personally: obnoxious) wizard.

Flushing, Christine had muttered something impolite under her breath before the two women shared a laugh.

However, she cut herself off fairly quickly; the area of her midsection that felt as if it were cramping corrupted the sensation of joy rather unpleasantly.

She pushed aside the feeling though - it was probably only her body changing with the length of time required for growing this particular baby.

This mollified, she fell into their chatter for a few more minutes. But as the drowsiness of the afternoon wore on, she began to lose focus on the conversation, thoughts wandering elsewhere.

After a long, blank moment, she realized she was trembling.

Her head felt as if it were soaring heavenward.

Everything felt distant and clouded, and she squinted as the concerned face of Christine flickered in and out.

“We need to go, now,” was the insistent demand that she was finally able to understand.

Aware enough, she nodded and dragged herself to her feet, leaning heavily on Christine’s arm. Concerned voices whirled around her, repeating something about a doctor; getting a doctor, but the other woman was insistent about her career. She’d get her to her hospital; everything would be fine.

They turned, and she was suddenly accosted by the feeling of tightness coming from her lower back.

“Christine,” was all she could whimper out, free arm curling tightly around her stomach as the pain behind her eyes grew with every step.

Focus. She needed to focus.

She could hardly see straight.

Christine was talking on her phone; she could see a swirl of light open before them.

Loki?

Hope flared.

But no; it led to the base of a vast stairwell, and an open, wooded lobby sort of area.

Another voice, deeper than Christine’s rumbled in her ear.

“One more stop; come along now.”

The overwhelming, sterile scent of a hospital reached her as hands slid around her shoulders and knees. She was lifted and carried through another portal.

For a moment, she thought she heard his voice, but no; it couldn’t have been him.

Then, at some point, she blinked her eyes open to find herself stretched out on a bed, to see Christine pulling over a machine, and to watch her prep an IV.

Christine caught her bleary gaze and smiled stiffly. 

“We’re going to do this my way while the guys see what they can do. We’re going to figure this out, okay?”

Managing a nod, she closed her eyes, feeling them well with tears even as she drifted off again.

She only wished he were here.

___

She didn’t remember the first twenty-four hours.

Thankfully, she was fully awake the next afternoon, listening as Christine explained what happened.

Preeclampsia.

Well, if not exactly that then something very similar to it.

It would explain the headaches, the dizziness, and the growing abdominal pain that had happened over the course of the week.

As much as they could understand, after months of spells and an unusual conception, her body had attempted to reject the infant.

The magic had been focused to contain the child and protect her system, not help it adjust to an “unnatural” pregnancy.

Even though Christine shushed her, rubbing her back gently, she shook.

There were things she could do in the normal way of medicine to help. Some medication, maybe, and bed rest were probably the two easiest to handle.

So long as the medicine didn’t counter-act with the magic. It was something they would have to take one step at a time.

Once she had calmed again, Christine laid out the plan that she and Stephen had constructed. She would stay here one more day and night; no one knew about it – no, don’t ask how; Stephen did something and Christine really didn’t want to know – and then in the morning she could go home, and they would get her settle for the last two-ish months.

At her nod, they got to work – comparing and testing, failing repeatedly, and then tentatively finding a balance.

Afternoon slipped into evening and finally they had it all sorted – and she slept.

One more night of monitoring, and then she would be home.

___

Stephen had whirled her away back home early in the morning, a list of orders from Christine held firmly in his hands.

He set her on the gliding recliner that had been gifted to her by Wong, made sure she was comfortable, and then ordered her not to move.

As she sat still, tucked up on a pillow and underneath a thick, fuzzy blanket he wove together some sort of shield around her.

Not that she understood everything he said when he went off on a technical rant, his PhD persona showing through in his explanations, but she nodded along anyway so he wouldn’t get snippy.

It was something to help keep the adapted spells in stasis until she was “Frost-Giant-full-term,” but she needed to keep still in it until the process was complete.

Easy enough.

Until she immediately jumped as a string of loud knocks broke through her concentration.

A sheepish smile to the long-suffering huff from the man, and he rushed through the last of what she needed to know.

“Obviously, this goes in line with what Christine told you. And you have your pills?” was what she thought he said next.

Another round of much more aggressive knocking echoed towards them, pulling her attention away from the wizard once more.

At her question of whom it might be, Stephen shrugged.

“Oh, well, we put up a ward around your house to prevent undesirable otherworldly activity.” His voice held the tone of pure nonchalance.

Gaping and unsure of what to say at first – a dozen thoughts, feelings, and questions stirred up inside her, until she decided she was highly displeased.

“We didn’t think you’d want to be bothered for a-“

“Go open the door, now,” she all but spit at him, angry, frustrated, relieved he hadn’t been willfully ignoring her. “Or so help me, I will get up and punch out some of your perfect teeth.”

A blink.

A glare.

More banging.

When she actually moved to toss away the blanket and wiggle out of the magical field, Stephen held up his hands, turning on his heels. “I’m going; I’m going! And then I’m leaving.

“Don’t move until that’s finished,” he grumbled, waving a hand over his shoulder and going on as he left about the time it would take to re-do it, so if she would be so kind as to let it finish…

She swore at his back, ignored his snide response, and slumped back into the chair.

There was yelling as soon as the back door was opened, and she found herself enjoying the tirade that Loki was directing towards Stephen. It cut off with a curse – no doubt the wizard had made a timely getaway – and then he was striding into the room, green eyes blazing with a fury not seen in months.

He stopped in front of her, taking a moment to scan the spell hovering around her before sneering at it, his hands clenching.

“How much longer is this going to take?”

She was unsure .

“Not long?” She offered with a shrug.

Loki scoffed, folding his hands behind his back and planting his feet in a defiant stance. “Right. Care to tell me why I am just heard about this? Thor got some sort of electronic mail communication from that other woman earlier today.”

She couldn’t help but smile at his careful pronunciation. When he glared in response, she shrugged. “I thought you might have been avoiding me.”

His face twisted, and she reached out – pausing before touching the magical shield. “I assumed they would tell you. It’s not like I could.”

At her words, the spell suddenly fizzled and dissipated in a puff of smoke. Quickly, Loki grabbed her hand, lacing his fingers through hers before she could withdraw.

He took a deep breath before speaking through gritted teeth, maintaining patience. “I made you a promise.”

“I know,” she admitted, tugging on his hand until he met her gaze. “I shouldn’t have doubted you. Now help me up; I want to sit with you.”

At his hesitance, she threw aside the blanket, claiming she would do it herself. Even if she was unevenly weighted at the moment, she wasn’t incapable.

It was enough provocation to get him moving.

“No, you will not,” he snapped at her, catching her other hand and pulling her up as she unfolded her legs.

He muttered under his breath about impertinence, stubbornness, and a slew of other rather rude things – but wrapped an arm securely around her waist to transfer her to the couch, so she decided to let it slide.

When they were both seated and facing each other, he glowered at her. “Do you have no self-preservation?”

“I didn’t ask for this to happen,” was his pert reminder as she crossed her legs as well as she could, huffing at the effort.

A shoulder hitched, but he persisted, even as he reached down to assist. “You should have told me you were feeling unwell.”

You should have been able to tell, is what her mind supplied. Words caught in her throat, and she stammered until she was able to formulate something less antagonistic.

“I…I didn’t want you to worry.”

An eyebrow quirked.

God of Mischief, king of lies.

“…he would have been able to tell. I wasn’t being fair.” She admitted this after a sigh, letting her chin drop and resting her gaze on their entwined hands.

He hummed quietly in response, thumb stroking over her hand.

And then, breaking the silence that followed:

“May I…the last time – I know I hurt you. But…may I see your memories again?”

When she hesitated, he held up his free hand in surrender. “You don’t have to. I only thought…well, I am willing to understand this time. And it may help me to know you better.

“Things are changing, and I…” There came a slump to his shoulders. “I want to do what I can to make it easier.”

Well, she couldn’t argue with his logic.

Just – after nearly a year and everything in it, revisiting her entire life with the other Loki didn’t seem quite as appealing.

Mentally steadying herself, she reached for his other hand, and he shifted closer, nearly looming over her until he bent down and his forehead rested against her own.

Her heartbeat had quickened; there was the tiniest flicker of fear, and then –

“Do you consent?” He asked her, his voice hushed in the stillness that had settled over the room.

A moment crept by.

She took in his tone, the gentle grip his hands held on hers, and the softness of his breath mingling with her own.

“I consent,” she whispered, closing her eyes.

Only then did she feel the warm brush of his consciousness.

“I trust you.”

___

At some point, she realized that she was no longer flitting her way through her memory with Loki.

She was dreaming.

It had been so peaceful this time and so gentle while wandering through the past few years remembering and sharing the bliss of days gone by. It shouldn’t be too surprising that this had happened.

Only…she had never dreamed of a place like this.

Mountains were in her direct line of sight. Massive, exaggerated heights that shimmered with the hint of snow at the peaks – even from the distance that she beheld them. And from them, gliding all the way to her, green as far as she could see.

There was grass all around her; it was lush and soft beneath her now bare feet. She wiggled her toes in it appreciatively, reveling in the sensation.

It was all more real than she had ever dreamed before.

Yet, something in her whispered that it couldn’t just be that.

For one, she had never seen a place like this nor pictures of it, anyway.

For another, it was far too temperate compared to the strong, summer days they were having.

Closing her eyes, she inhaled deeply and listened. The air was clean and clear; it had a wild fragrance found only in the wilderness.

It also carried the breaking sound of waves.

An ocean?

She turned then, slanting a hand over her eyes against the light slipping through the cover of clouds. In the distance, she could see the edge of the cliff and the water flowing beyond its precipice.

And someone standing by it, facing out towards the sea.

Curious now, she began to move towards the figure, one hand tucking under her swollen middle; the other catching and re-tucking hair that blew around her eyes.

It was when she got closer that she quickened her step.

It was when he turned to face her, and he smiled – in such a familiar way – that the tears came.

It was when he held his hands out to her, coming to meet her, and she fell into his embrace that she finally gasped out his name.

“Loki.”

[mythopoeticreality]

The Road Goes Ever On - Chapter 3

And our adventure continues!^^ Everything is starting to come together now, meanwhile no one has any idea what’s actually going on xD

Ao3 Link: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22900423/chapters/55152814

Chapter 3

By the time he’d woken Huan and set down the track himself, Curufinwë was a good several yards ahead of them, a swiftly shrinking shadow-speck becoming lost in the twisting corridors and narrow passageways the arching branches above created as they wove within one another’s grasp.

“Iron hells!” Tyelcormo nearly spat the words,swinging himself onto Huan’s back. Not a word needed to pass to the great wolfhound before he went sprinting off, the earth between the two of them and Curvo devoured in Huan’s great, loping strides.

Grasping twigs and low hanging branches snapped and snagged against his cloak and the hair whipping out behind him. Tyelcormo pressed low against Huan’s back, fingers digging into his fur.

“You need to stop him. He goes the wrong way,” Huan said. Spoken in the language of Hounds, the words came out a rumbling growl, one Tyelcormo felt in his bones as much as he heard in his ears.

“What? What do you mean? That path-”

“Does not carry the pup’s scent. Of what scent it does carry, I cannot say but...” The hound only trailed off, grunts and snarls transformed into a low whine.

Celegorm frowned. It was not like Huan to be confused. How far had he traveled? How much had the both of them encountered? Some things even now Tyelcormo did not think he could adequately describe to others. For Huan to not be able to identify a scent…

Tyelcomo pressed his lips together, for a long moment just frowning at the blur of silver and shadows about him before quickly shaking his head, urging Huan on.

“Curvo!” He called out as they neared, “Curufinwë! Stop! Slow down!”

Curvo ignored him. Tyelcormo cursed again.

“You know what to do.” He grunted to Huan.

Tyelcormo braced himself, but even so his breath still came in all a rush as Huan lunged forward, breaking into full speed. His face pressed down against the hound’s thick, ropy coat, as Huan rounded on Curvo, cornering him like a deer.

As he pushed himself back upright, he was met with a glower that could likely melt stone. Ah, well, they did always say that Curvo was most like Atar…

“Get out of my way, Tyelcormo.”

“Not until you listen.”

Curvo’s brows shot up at that, slowly his head turned on it’s side. His eyes remained ever fixed on Tyelcormo. “Until I listen?” He repeated. His voice remained level, even, but there was a blade hidden in those words. Meanwhile, Curvo’s thumb kept flicking, like one of Kano’s metronomes, over the blade held in his hand. “Forgive me brother, but were you not the one who alerted me to this matter? My son is --”

“Not down this way.” Tyelcormo cut in, “Or, at the least, Huan does not pick up upon his scent.”

There was a sharp hiss. Curvo sucking the air in between his teeth, as the knife bit down into his flesh. Were it not for that tight grip, that leash-like control he held over himself always, Tyelcormo was sure his brother would have bolted by now. He could see it, lurking there just below the surface, in the sharp ridge of bone that stood out along his knuckles and that flicker of worry just behind his eyes.

“We waste time, then.” Those were Curvo’s only words before he turned on his heel and began driving off back the way they had come.

Tyelcormo sighed. He trotted up Huan beside his brother. “We will find him, Curvo.” he insisted. “You must believe that.”

In an effort to comfort him, Huan leaned his head towards the elf, nuzzling against his chest.

“Tch.” Curufinwe raised his arms to push the hound away. Only to freeze.

Huan had gone still. Huan was growling.

In the next moment Huan rounded back on the trail again, lunging down it.

“Huan! To heel!” Tyelcormo cried, “What is the matter with you?”

“That scent. It is on him.”

“What? You mean--”

“Yes, whatever it was that took the pup, it has come down this way. And recently.”

Tyelcormo’s breath came in sharp. He swung around, calling over his shoulder to his brother, “Curvo, come! We have found something…”

~*~

“If it is another world you are from, can the same be said for those Hunters you spoke to earlier?”

By now, Fëanáro expected the answer. The silence that followed, that vague turn of the head, a gesture of the hand, halfway between a balancing scale and a dismissive wave. It hadn’t been long, perhaps an hour or so at most since first he’d encountered the Stranger, yet he felt he was beginning to understand -- not the man himself, of course, not really, but what he was like, at least.

And so he continued on. “If they are, then I imagine they would have come here through a similar path, yes? And that is the route we look for now?” He’d just remembered the lead Huntsman saying something of the like to the young man earlier. It had slipped his mind before, but, as it was, Fëanáro was rather concerned with other matters at the time. “But if that is the case, then I should hardly think you would need me to find it…”

The Stranger was simply watching him as he asked these things, eyes resting upon him in a lazy half-lidded stare. The corner of his lips quirked upwards.

Fëanáro snorted, catching the man’s look, “By all means,” he drawled, “if you have anything to say, your input would be quite welcome.”

“If I felt any need for it, I would.”

Fëanáro fixed the stranger with a flat look. With a slow shake of his head, he returned his gaze to the surrounding trees and mushrooms poking out of the leaf litter. They at least provided answers if one knew what to look for.

“I will say this.” The stranger said after a moment or so, “you are nearing the truth of it.”

“Am I, now?”

“You are. They are not of this world. But it is theirs more than mine.”

“Of course.” Of course, that should be the answer the Stranger gave him. The man seemed completely incapable of speaking in anything but riddles, should he expect anything different?

The mushrooms along the way were growing more thickly now, in long clusters forming lines to either side of them. Fëanáro remembered passing this way, beneath Laurelin’s light he had first seen it and it had struck him as odd then, as if something were trying to guide the walker somewhere. Now, the world bleached of all color save for Telperion’s pale cast, it was almost eerie.

He knew at least, he was going in the right direction. He began picking up speed, his step more assured as he led the Stranger onward.

“You have followed this way before?”

Fëanáro glanced up as the Stranger next spoke. It was the tone in the man’s voice as much as anything -- surprise, just laced with a faint air of judgement (or atleast what he interpreted as such). It made his hackles rise. “Yes…” He said, drawing out the word if only to hold back his own frustration.

A low, thoughtful sort of hum, that was the entirety of the man’s response as his eyes played along the trail of mushrooms.

“And if I had not?” Fëanáro pressed, “Where would you be then?”

The stranger’s gaze flickered back to the elf. There was something piercing in that gaze, searching. As though he were looking into Fëanáro, rather than simply at him.“I would find my way.” he said, before simply turning to look straight on ahead. “Do you really have no idea where this road leads? No tales that tell of such places?”

“What? Of mushroom strewn paths that lead off to other worlds?” But there were tales. Half forgotten in Valinor, dismissed by scholars such as himself as mere misinterpretation, encounters with Maiar upon Middle-Earth, or vauge glimpses of Oromë’s company before anything was understood. Folklore on the same level of the Black Rider. And yet those words began to whisper in his mind now, Nermir, Nandini, Orrosi, Oromandi… “Children’s tales.” Fëanáro insisted. “You cannot be serious abou--”

A high, ringing bark broke through the woods at that moment. It happened so fast, there was no time to react. A blur of white. A grunt and a thud.

Turko?

It was the only thought able to register in Fëanáro’s mind in that split moment.

Tyelcormo sat, crouched over Huan’s back, his hair streaming about his face, his eyes a wild reflection of the Hound’s own. Huan himself stood growling down at the Stranger, now pinned beneath the hound’s great paws.

“Tyelco, call your hound off!” Curufinwë’s voice. A moment later, he too came crashing out through the trees, “We need answers now, not the bastard’s blood streaming out over--Atar?!” He cut himself off, his eyes widening, gaze flickering between the stranger so near to Huan’s teeth, and his own father.

~*~

“Where is he? What did you do with him?” The words were a low, rolling growl, the sort that stretched on, and twisted at some deep, animal part of him. The part that was a frightened hare, and only screamed to run, over and over.

Wild eyes and gleaming teeth. Long, snaking flows of silver hair. Hot, reeking breath huffed into his face and creeping along his neck. In those first shocked moments, there was only impressions. The ground tipping up over itself, the bite of stones and twisting tree roots into his back. The weight pressing into his shoulders.

He blinked, staring up at the towering creature that now loomed over him. His mind still reeling -- he was not used to being surprised, not like this. He should have known, should have heard whisperings of something -- it took him a moment even to separate hound from rider.

Hound. It was a hound wasn’t it? The size of a horse, yes, but still undeniably…

There were voices shouting off, a way back. The voice of the first man he’d met on the road --his guide-- rising. The Rider twisted around, barked something to the other two. John Uskglass would not have understood it even were he paying attention. As it stood, the hound’s growling had grown only lower and more insistent, especially as the rider now turned back, and demanded something of the Magician.

“Do not just lie there! Answer him! Where did you leave --”

“Who do you think I am?”

The hound’s ears pricked, and for a moment the sharp little pins of pressure at his shoulders --the hound’s claws digging in -- eased up just slightly. John could feel the weight of the Rider’s stare upon him as well.

“You speak to me?”

“As you speak to me.”

This earned John another low growl, “You try to distract me. To win my trust against those of my pack.”

“No, I do not.”

“Then why do you not speak to me?” This time the growl had a much more human quality to it. John’s eyes flickered upward to find himself staring down the Rider. “I could have your throat torn out right now, and yet rather than answer, you reply to my dog?”

It was a threat few would have dared to make in any of his own realms, and it struck the Raven King as rather ironic. What could he have done if of a mind to do it? A faint smirk quirked at his lips. But he only shook his head, shut his eyes, pressed a long breath out through his nose. “I reply to the one speaking to me in a tongue I can understand.”

A sharp bark of laughter from the Rider, “And what? Were you raised by hounds that you cannot speak as one of the Eldar?”

“Wolves.” The Raven King replied.

And perhaps he had pushed too far. It was not a comment to win trust, even on his own world. The Rider’s eyes flashed. The Hound began snarling again. Somewhere behind them voices started to murmur and a call was shouted in this direction.

To the Raven King, it grew all too tiresome.

And so he vanished. Fell into the drowning dark of the Hound’s own shadow looming over him.

The Hound yelped, leaping back as though afraid to vanish himself.

The Rider made a sound like a strangled squawk.

As the Raven King emerged from the shadows between the trees (as though he were stepping from a doorway. Striding through and solidifying as though from a dream or some othere where entirely) it was the companion he first met upon the Road who’s eyes landed upon him first -- and those eyes were now blazing,just as bright as the heart of any star.

“My grandson.” He ground out, “Where is he? Speak, and speak quickly.”

[diyunho]

The Joker x Reader - “Secrets” Part 3

The Joker did something so unforgivable and despicable you don’t ever want to see him  again. After months of avoiding The King of Gotham, you really can’t understand why he appointed you as the only person to take care of his son in case of emergency. There’s no way you’ll accept to help the little boy in his father’s absence, yet the three years old has no fault in what happened between you and your ex.

Frost just called with a security report for The Joker: most of the henchmen in the building are dead; five missing for the moment and his best guess is that they are the ones who sold his boss out and allowed Ezra to get inside the Penthouse. Maybe even helped the New York gang kill the others; no way to know for sure until watching the footage from all the cameras scattered around the premises.

You and J barely convinced Alexis to go back to sleep after he was given a bath: the three years old was very agitated and scared, which is understandable after what happened just a couple of hours ago. The fact that he’s sick didn’t help either: his fever increased and you had to put in extra effort in order to convince him to swallow his medicine.

“Can y-you take him to Los Angeles for a few days until I clean up the m-mess here?” The Joker asks, struggling to wrap new bandages around the surgical marks on his right leg. The soft fabric of the sweat pants keep on sliding down his foot and J lifts it up again, frustrated he can’t manage to keep it in place.

“Yes, no problem,” you agree and check your cell, waiting for your father to call.

Jase didn’t answer his phone and Y/N left a short message urging him to get a hold of her as soon as possible. You really don’t know how you’ll explain what you did: invoking the code in order to offer protection to another clan is a serious matter and The Godfather won’t be happy to hear that J has LA’s alliance now.

Not after everything The Clown Prince of Crime did.

“For God’s sake,” you sigh and decide to be the bigger person, kneeling in front of an irritated Joker that just can’t get the gauze around his scars. “Hold this,” you frown and he grabs one end of the roll while you cover his skin with the dressing. “It seems healed,” you point out, continuing to patch him up.

“The doctor told m-me to do it for one more month. Nothing that can be d-done about the way I talk; I hope it goes a-away,” J shares extra information you don’t care to hear. “A-are you sure you don’t mind t-taking my son?” the question makes you yank at the bandages and the change in mood is evident.

“I don’t mind,” you respond through your clenched teeth. “What I do mind though is being lied to. What I do mind is you being secretly married to another woman. What I do mind is you pretending you liked me,” you pause for a second to breathe in much needed air. “What I do mind is you convincing me that we should have a baby when I didn’t want one. What I do mind is you saying that if it’s a boy we should name him Alexis when you already had a son named Alexis with your wife!!!” you raise your voice, incapable of stopping the tirade.

“So?” The Joker bitterly replies, in a very foul disposition himself.

You slap J and he instinctively closes his eyes before the second strike lands on his already numb cheek.

“A-are you done?” he growls, barely restraining the urge to escalate the fight that just started.

You glare at him without blinking, enraged by the indifference of his hurtful actions. So many thoughts rushing through your head and you don’t have a chance to tell The Joker everything you want because your phone suddenly rings. You take it out of the pocket, correctly guessing your father is calling back.  

“Do this yourself!” you hiss and undo the bandages wrapped around J’s scars, getting up in a hurry.

“W-what the fuck, Y/N?!”

You don’t even pay attention to his tantrum since reporting to the Godfather is more important than listening to your former boyfriend’s complaint.

“When Alexis wakes up, I’m gone! I don’t want to spend one extra single minute in your presence!” you shout and rush towards the terrace, pressing the screen of your cell. “Hi daddy,” you soften your tone and step outside, slamming the glass door behind you.

J forcefully exhales, staring at the gauze loosely hanging down his foot.

“Goddammit,” he grumbles and bites his lower lip, not excited on how the conversation ended.

Maybe he shouldn’t have been a jerk for once?...

Definitely.

Not after what you did for him and his son.  

The woman J used in such a despicable manner didn’t think twice about saving a child that’s not hers; LA’s future queen didn’t even hesitate to save the man that made a fool out of her and didn’t deserve any kind of help no matter the circumstances.

The Joker shouldn’t have been a jerk…

Not today.

*************

Three days afterwards

“Sir, The Godfather is here,” Frost announces on intercom to a less than pleased King of Gotham. 

“…Great…” J talks in a low voice, dreading the imminent meeting he was expecting anyway. “Let him pass,” the consent is given even if Jase doesn’t need it: the mobster is already in the elevator, going up to a Penthouse he hates infinitely more since The Joker’s secret was discovered.

Your father stomps out the elevator, immediately noticing the green haired Clown Prince of Crime sitting down on the couch closest to the center of the living room. The Joker wants to get up but Jase cuts him off:

“Sit down and don’t insult me with more fake respect!”

J smirks and The Godfather is already fed up with person he always despised and barely tolerated because of his daughter’s request.

“I heard we have a situation,” Jase grumbles and halts in front of The Joker, his menacing demeanor warning of a disastrous outcome in case things go wrong.

“You c-can say that,” the vague answer makes your parent lose his temper:

“YOU WILL DO NOTHING! You won’t seek revenge, you won’t move a finger until our year of forced partnership is done!! Gotham is under LA’s protection for 12 months and there’s nothing that can be done!”

“A-apparently,” The Joker’s insolent remark prompts so much outrage it’s nearly impossible to suppress the damage:

“You insolent prick! You were learning how to crawl when I was already building my empire! Do you think I’m intimidated by the likes of you?! I AM THE GODFATHER!!!” Jase shouts while J puckers his lips, aware he shouldn’t push it yet he can’t shut up:

“And I’m The Joker! I w-won’t let anyone…” 

“You’re The Joker?!” your father interrupts. “Do you know you would be dead right now if it wasn’t for Y/N?! Why do you think I didn’t come for you when I found out what you did, hm? Do you think I just turned a blind eye to your affront? ME??!! NEVER!! I wanted to do exactly what Ezra did and my daughter begged me not to!!! You’re still here breathing because of Y/N! Do you understand?!!”

The two men hatefully stare at each other, none of them willing to lose any ground despite the sticky crisis they landed in. J is fuming and your parent is far past enraged: he’s furious to the point of sharing something personal to prove his affirmations.

“I never understood what my daughter saw in you, Joker!” Jase snarls. “I had such a bad feeling about your relationship and I’m never wrong about that stuff!”

“Then y-you should have t-told her!” The Clown bites back since this is the perfect opportunity to retaliate.

“I DID!” your father screams. “But Y/N insisted she loves you and I had to stomach your company because if she was happy, then I guess I had to accept it! And for what?! For you to break her heart again after it took her forever to recover from what happened with Sean?!”

The Joker surely wishes to lash out but the last sentence catches him by surprise: why would The Godfather mention Sean? The insane events that occurred a few years ago are sort of common knowledge in the underworld: Sean was your boyfriend until it was discovered he was actually an undercover CIA agent.

“I failed my daughter,” your father’s firm tone diminishes while confessing to the ugly truth. “Sean passed all the background checks; there was nothing suspicious about him. Believe me when I tell you I was very thorough: I wouldn’t just let anyone come so close to her. And when I found out by accident…” Jase deeply inhales, flustered, “…it was goddamned late, 10 days after he proposed.”

J’s eyes get big at the revelation: he had no idea about this part of the story and for once he keeps quiet and listens, intrigued.

“I went over to their house with my crew and dragged him out of bed in the middle of the night. Y/N was very agitated, not comprehending what was going on until I told her and showed the evidence. I’ll never forget the look on her face: she seemed so lost staring at those papers and pictures certifying that Sean was Matt Simmons, CIA agent infiltrating our lives in order to bring me down. He didn’t care about her; she was just an assignment…”

The Joker wants to finally reply, yet The Godfather won’t allow interference:

“He knew what was in store for him and he kept on begging, promising he was truly in love with her and stating he didn’t report to his superiors in a while and had no intention in doing so. Who knows?... Maybe he did love her after all…,” Jase straightens his shoulders. “I doubt Y/N heard any of his vows; she was too shocked to process the gravity of the news. I should have been more vigilant, but I didn’t see it coming: she yanked the gun out of my hand and shot him in the head. I think she regretted her choice the moment she pulled the trigger, but it was already too late…” your father mutters.

The Joker weights in all this information thrown at him since he had no clue you were the one that killed your ex: everyone assumed it must have been your father.

“Do you know how hard it is to watch your only child die a little bit more each day? I‘m not talking about death in the real sense of the word, but about the worst kind of demise: when you lose someone you loved so much that nothing else matters. And then you came along,” Jase shrieks getting to the conclusion he was aiming for since the beginning of the dialogue: “And you were infinitely more appalling than Sean: at least he was doing his job, while you were nothing but a greedy, manipulative asshole!”

The King of Gotham is so aggravated by The Godfather’s comments his heart is pounding out of his chest.

“Y-you can’t t-talk to me like this!!” he stands up to confront Jase but your parent is immune to the Clown’s threat.

“I can and I will!!” he yells. “That’s why you will do nothing! Got it?! Stay put! In the meantime, be grateful Y/N is such a saint offering safe haven to a little boy that’s not hers! If you think tending to Alexis is a piece of cake, THINK AGAIN!!!!!!” Jase lectures a stunned Joker to the point of starting a physical altercation, but he manages to contain himself and walks away towards the elevator, mumbling: “Son of a bitch!”

The Joker is left in the middle of the living room, completely stupefied at your father’s rant: it’s tough for him to grasp the notion of not being invincible or untouchable. And he is aware why Ezra came after him: because The King of Gotham did to his daughter the same thing that was done to you. J used her also in order to acquire what he wanted since his wife didn’t mind the little indiscretions as long as they were able to get richer, more powerful and influential. And now Nessa was lying 6 feet under after he barely escaped the ambush that almost claimed his life too.

Once his secret was out, everything came crashing down so fast he didn’t have time to process what it all meant: when you claw your way up without any remorse, you might end up bleeding worse than the ones you tear apart.

************

2 weeks later

Nixon is guiding The Joker around the patio, the final destination only a few feet away: he’s here to pick up his son and the bodyguard thought you’re still outdoors, yet there’s no sign of you or Alexis. Only Harvey Dent relaxing on the cozy sofa under the umbrella shadowing the guest from the late afternoon sunlight.

“Hm,” Nixon halts. “She was here a few minutes ago; I’ll go search for her. Please take a seat Mister Joker,” the man offers and J nonchalantly limps towards the ottoman opposite Two Face, sneering.

“Dent…”

Harvey taps his fingers on the mixed drink he’s holding, already annoyed by the green haired visitor.

“Joker…” he acknowledges the unwanted presence.

They watch in silence as the goon disappears inside the house before Dent inquires:

“Are you here to get your kid?”

“U-hum,” J admits. “You?”

“Visiting.”

The Joker tugs at his longer than usual locks gathered in a ponytail while bending over to grab a bottle of water from the table. A gust of wind blows a few shorter strands right on his face and he brushes them off, huffing.

“Y/N went to put your little boy to sleep; I guess he needed a nap,” Harvey communicates in such a sour manner it instantly irks J. “Some people wouldn’t recognize a good thing happening to their miserable existence even if they had it written black on white.”

The Clown grinds his teeth, vexed:

“You have s-something to say to me, D-Dent?!”

“Oh,” and the scarred ex-politician pauses before gulping down his cocktail,”I have plenty to say to you!”

The clash is inevitable but actually terminated before it blows out of proportions since you are coming out of the mansion.

J stands up and greets a displeased Y/N that was expecting him tomorrow morning, not that it really makes a difference: her world is turned upside down every time she sees him anyway.

“Alexis just fell asleep and I don’t want to wake him up,” you ignore his false politeness and march towards the two individuals postponing their brawl. “He often has nightmares after what happened with Ezra and it’s best to let him rest.”

“C-can I sleep here t-tonight then and we’ll take off in the m-morning?”

You are not a huge fan of the idea, yet you consent for the sake of the three year old that you took under your wing when you didn’t have to.

“OK. You can sleep in his room, there’s an extra bed in there. You can order food, one of my curriers can go pick it up for you. Or you can eat whatever you want from the fridge,” you extend your hospitality and bite in the same time: “I’m sure you remember where stuff is; nothing has changed except…everything.”

The Joker doesn’t reply and Harvey can’t help but realize how much you struggle to keep it together; he wonders if J realized also or if he even gives a damn. Probably not.

“Y/N,” Harvey intervenes. “When you have a moment, could we please work on my transaction?” he elegantly gets you out of the unpleasant meeting using the main reason he’s there for.

You momentarily snap out of it, grateful to oblige.

“Of course. Yes,” you add and escort him through the glass panels leading towards the stairs that will take Dent to the second floor where your bedroom is.

J is left alone, not that he doesn’t enjoy the solitude. He’s indeed debating on what he should have for dinner, maybe dishes he can share with his son after he wakes up from his nap. The Joker wishes to talk to you and he speculates you won’t want to listen to anything he has to say. Why bother?

He lost that privilege a long time ago.

*************

“How much would you like to invest?” you get on your laptop while Harvey is stretching on the leather sectional in front of the TV.

“Same as always, please.”

“Alright, it will take me a few seconds for the wire transfers between accounts,” you type in a frenzy and almost ignore his honest concern:

“Are you ok?”

“Huh?” you lift your head higher while glued to the screen: you crave the welcomed distraction so badly nothing else counts.

“Are you ok?” he repeats and the evasive response heightens his uneasiness regarding the apparent calm Y/N.

“I’m perfect, no worries,” you crack a smile and glance his way.

Dent scratches his scar, disputing on his next sentences.

“I’m asking because…e-hem…because you used to have this sparkle in your eyes and now it’s gone,” he blurs out before he loses confidence in his speech. “I know it’s not my place to comment, but I thought you should know someone noticed…”

Your hands stop on the keyboard and fighting the tears back is somehow so much harder than wearing the mask you parade with in front of everybody, including your father.

“You want to know how I noticed?” he pushes it more, hoping you will understand he’s well intended. “After Rachel died, I see the same emptiness daily when I look in the mirror. It might not be the same situation…”

“Harvey!!” you cut him off and he suddenly registers he’s out of line.

You sniffle and wipe the tears rolling down your cheeks, the bottled up emotions too strong to control.

“I’m very sorry,” he scoots over, upset he made you cry.

You start sobbing and Dent feels so bad he instantaneously curses his stupid decision.

“Y/N, I’m sorry. I should have kept my mouth shut,” and he’s relieved when you grab his hand and squeeze it.

“Thank you,” you faintly articulate and Harvey offers the box of tissue from the coffee table with his free hand, still uneasy about your present condition. “You’re a good man,” you whisper and he shakes his head, regretfully informing:

“Used to be, honey. Used to be…”

You let go of his fingers and he softly caresses your shoulders since he doesn’t know what else to do.

“Yyyy/Nnnnn,” Alexis pushes the cracked door opened. “Ynnn/Nnnn,” he whines and you jump from your spot eager to lift him up in your arms.

“What is it sweetheart? Another bad dream?” you inquire and the little one rubs his eyes, pouting.

“Whe’s mommy?” he buries his face in your neck, comforted by the woman’s embrace.

“Your mommy’s very far away,” you signal Harvey to sit down since he’s preparing to flee. “I’ll return soon,” you wink and exit your bedroom in order to take the three year old back to his chamber.

“Whe’s daddy?” Alexis yawns and you gather the strength to be cheerful for an innocent child’s sake.

“Daddy will be here when you wake up,” you kiss his temple. “After your nap you can play in the backyard, then we’ll have dinner and you can watch cartoons, ok?”

“U-hum,” he agrees and you lay him in bed, covering him up with the soft blanket.

“Do you want your giraffe?” you push the toy on his pillow and he snatches it, sulking.

“I’ll stay here until you fall asleep,” Y/N soothes The Joker’s son the best way she can, reckoning if it wasn’t for her, he wouldn’t be alive right now.  And that makes her sadder.

The young boy got under her skin and even if he reminds her of his father’s deceit, she wouldn’t have it any other way; keeping Alexis close is a way to make sure she always stays alert:

When you give your heart away and it’s returned to you in pieces, a few will go missing each time it happens until there’s nothing left.

************

Two hours afterwards

J is walking towards your master bedroom, angered he left his cane on the patio: his leg is hurting and the limp only makes it worse. Ten minutes ago he received a text with new information that you and The Godfather will be interested in also: it might not change the situation as a whole, but the plot twist could ensure he takes full advantage of the forced alliance between LA and Gotham. That’s what The Joker does anyway: he exploits every tiny thing to his advantage and the fresh data is certainly no petty scrap.

The door to your room is still opened simply because when you have Alexis over you want him to have easy access to your quarters, most likely to snuggle under the covers with the nice lady that’s taking care of him.

J pries the door open and wants to call out your name when the sight compiles the opposite: you dozed off cuddled up to Harvey, both covered with his suits’ jacket. After you invited him to stay and watch a movie you passed out first and he didn’t dare wiggle; he just used his coat to ensure you’re not going to get cold with the AC blasting from the ceiling. Having Y/N near him felt genuinely peaceful and Dent snoozed without a care in the universe for the first time in years.

And even someone like The King of Gotham can’t help but discern the vague smile on Harvey’s lips: the smile of a man that’s been through hell and he’s finally granted a small piece of heaven.

Part 1: diyunho(.)tumblr(.)com/post/177920419051/the-joker-x-reader-secrets-part-1

Part 2: diyunho(.)tumblr(.)com/post/178630090876/the-joker-x-reader-secrets-part-2

Also read: Masterlist

diyunho(.)tumblr(.)com/post/153664676321/joker-x-reader-masterlist

You can also follow me on Wattpad and AO3 under the same blog name: DiYunho.

[aurorofconfidence]

@fcntcsticmuses​ something amusing and cute that came to mind

“Good morning Mr Graves! To what do we owe the pleasure of these two little cherubs’ company?”

“Don’t call them cherubs, Goldstein, you’ll only encourage them,” Percival huffed, lifting Arthur with one arm onto his desk while he tried to hush a squirming baby Penny. He looked distinctly ruffled - his hair wasn’t slicked back like it normally was, still hanging loose though sticking up as though he’d already run his hands through it fifty times, his suit was askew, his waistcoat was buttoned wrong, and his desk was covered not in the usual paperwork, but in baby formula and bottles and snacks and crayons where he’d dumped the overflowing baby bag.

“What’s a cherub?” Arthur asked.

“Exactly the opposite of what you are, wipe the chocolate off your face before someone reports back to your mother,” Percival told the three year old, pulling out his handkerchief to attempt to wipe Arthur’s face while balancing Penny. “Our nanny has conveniently come down with some form of vague illness, and Seraphina has meetings and speeches all day, so I get to bring my children into work. Because naturally being Deputy Director is exactly the sort of job that allows you to spend all day taking care of toddlers. I have already made the mistake this morning of letting my three-year-old have liquid chocolate because he wouldn’t leave me to get my coffee in peace, and now Penny won’t go down to sleep because she didn’t sleep properly last night and now she’s over-tired. I don’t know how the nanny does it.”

“Would you like me to take her, Mr Graves?” Tina asked as Penny’s discomfort grew louder and Arthur leaned away from his father’s attempts.

“No. Thank you Goldstein, but I am capable of caring for my own children.”

“I- I didn’t mean any disrespect Mr Graves, I just... she’s crying.”

“Yes, Tina, thank you, I can hear,” Graves growled.

“S-sorry, Mr Graves, I just-“

“Daddy, don’t be mean!” Arthur objected.

“And here I was thinking the hardest day on the job was when O’Brien spilled my coffee and I couldn’t talk my way out of all my overdue paperwork,” Percival breathed, bouncing Penny on his hip and simply magicking his handkerchief towards Arthur’s face when he couldn’t catch him. “Daddy’s not being mean, he’s being terse. Believe me, you’ll know the difference. Is there something I can do for you, Goldstein?”

“Uh, perhaps I should come back…”

“No, if you refrain from getting me to do my job just because my children are here, it means I am incapable of doing both at the same time, and I’m not going to give Seraphina the satisfaction of being right,” he said simply. His wife’s skepticism was still ringing in his ears, and Percival was determined to prove he was capable of doing both.

“I just don’t think I’m going to improve your mood…”

“How so?” Percival asked.

“Well, I have paperwork to sign…”

“You know who does a great signature?” Tina had to refrain from letting her jaw drop as the Deputy Director plucked the papers from her hands and handed them to Arthur. “My son is a master with a crayon.”

“I- I’m not sure…”

“Please, he’ll probably read more of it than I would,” Percival shrugged. “In fact, defer all of my paperwork onto Arthur for the day. It’s good for him to learn what he’ll be faced with when he’s an adult.”

“Are you going to be an auror like your dad Arthur?” Tina asked.

“Just like him! Daddy catches all the bad guys!” Tina was fairly certain she caught the hint of a smile on Mr Graves’ face as he tried to settle his little girl.

“He is pretty cool like that. Hey, why don’t you come with me and we can make you an honorary auror? Just for today? Your dad has a lot of work to do, he needs as many aurors as possible today.”

“Yeah! Let’s catch bad guys!” Arthur declared, jumping to his feet.

“Well… I think I saw O’Brien steal an extra donut yesterday,” Tina offered. “That’s definitely some sort of crime.”

‘Thank you’ Percival mouthed at her from behind Arthur.

~

“Percival-“

“Shhh!” Percival hissed at once to Seraphina. “Do you know how hard it is to get them both to nap at the same time?!”

“Yes Percival, I’m their mother, I tried to start that routine and you broke it when you kept coddling Penny instead of ignoring her when she cried,” Seraphina deadpanned. “You look like you’re actually keeping it together, I’m impressed.”

Had she come in about twenty minutes previously, she would have been met with a very different picture. Where Percival’s desk was now tidy, his suit was straightened, and his hair done, had previously been a complete scene of chaos. But Penny had finally fallen asleep, and he’d immediately rushed to get Arthur to nap as well, and he’d gotten the chance to bring some form of order to his day.

“I told you I’d be fine,” he lied easily. “I’m still a touch insulted you didn’t believe me.”

“You’re right, I should have believed you. Perhaps we should think about doing this more often, give the nanny a break every week so she doesn’t have to pretend to be dying of an illness that doesn’t exist any more.”

“Well as you can see, things are perfectly-“

“Before you dig yourself into a hole you can’t get back out of, I know you’ve promised Goldstein a promotion if she can keep Arthur entertained for the day.”

“He’s exhausting, Penny’s teething and I still have work to do!” Percival objected in a whisper. “I love him, but I can’t be Daddy Graves and Deputy Director Graves all at once! I’m allowed to enlist underlings! And she’s not allowed to pretend to be dying of the plague! I’m paying her to do this job! No one’s paying me!”

“You can hardly blame her for wanting a day off after Penny set fire to her just by sneezing,” Seraphina reasoned. “And apparently Arthur managed to find his way onto the roof the other day to get away from being forced to eat beans.”

“Can you blame him? Nobody likes beans when they’re boiled to oblivion,” Percival muttered. “Tell me you’re here to take them home?”

“Sorry, you’ve still got the rest of the day with them, I just thought I’d see if Arthur wanted to come have a quick lunch, but I’ll let him sleep.”

“…Can you stay here so I can sleep?”

“If you ignore her little moments in the middle of the night, she goes back to sleep and you don’t stay up half the night,” Seraphina asserted, conjuring up a couch for him.

“I’m not as heartless as you are. She needs me,” Percival replied, pecking her cheek before collapsing on the couch. “How long do you have?”

“Half an hour, don’t waste it.”

“If I get half a minute worth of sleep, it won’t be a waste.”

“And by the way, he’s a lot more manageable if you don’t give him quart of hot chocolate in the morning.”

“It was that or coffee.”

~

“To be honest, I thought he’d be the same hard-ass jerk to his kids that he is to us,” O’Brien muttered as they watched the Deputy Director use his paperwork as drawing paper with Arthur.

“For a few minutes there at the start of the day, I thought he was,” Tina chuckled. “I think he was just stressed. Have you seen him with Penny? I think you can actually see his heart melting when he looks at her.”

“He was like it with Arthur too when he came back. Thought it might mellow him, but no. Arthur’s cute. Hope he doesn’t turn into a mini-Graves. Can you imagine the suffering in this office if the two of them were both so… Graves-like?” There really wasn’t a word to describe Percival Graves at work.

“I can hear you, O’Brien,” Graves called from inside his office, causing the man to grimace.

“A little tip for you, newbie - he hears everything.”

“I can hear myself shunting you to wand permits right about now, O’Brien.”

“Children are supposed to bring out the best in people!” O’Brien called back.

“You clearly haven’t spent enough time with mine.”

“Hey!” Arthur objected.

“You try living with you,” Percival told him. “Don’t you two have jobs to be doing?”

“Yes sir,” Tina smirked as Graves’ face was met with Arthur’s crayon.

~

“Mummy! Daddy gave me his badge! Now I’m a proper auror!”

“I heard a rumour there was a new star in the department,” Seraphina smiled as she lifted Arthur into her arms. “Did you enjoy your day at work?”

“Daddy made me do paperwork,” Arthur told her, wrinkling his nose in distaste. “He complains a lot.”

“Too much,” Seraphina agreed, raising an eyebrow at her husband as he lifted a content Penny into his arms. “Paperwork, hmm?”

“It was one of my most productive days,” Percival grinned. “Didn’t actually turn out too badly in the end.”

“So you’re happy to do it again, hmm?”

“The nanny’s never allowed to be sick, we need to find a good back up.”

[cagedbirdsong]

hello everyone! happy new year! i hope you all had a safe, happy holiday season and (if applicable) you are currently staying warm with family and friends! 

so, we haven’t seen to build a home since this past summer, but lately i’ve received a lot of asks regarding if i am still working on it and when it will return. the short answer is yes, i am still working on it, i just have to iron out some issues and develop the plot a bit more. but this was my first official fic and will always hold a special place in my heart. and, since so many of you seemed to enjoy it, i wanted to give it back to you all as well. 

so, finally, here is part five of to build a home. i love you all dearly, and thank each and every one of you for the continued support. you make this all worthwhile. 

find part four here, and if you need to catch up, find part one here. 

ps / for my dear @marlosbooknook because she is sick, and for @internallydeceased because she’s also been on my tail about this. i love you both! and thank you @kaitrionabalfe - couponers can go to hell. 

Part Five

Castle Leoch, Summer 1744

“Jamie?”

He blinked hard, coming back to reality, and cleared his throat in an interrogative gesture of acknowledgment. “Mm?”

“Be a dear and pass me that jar, would you?” Claire murmured, extending one delicate hand, palm up, without taking her eyes off the item she was examining. She had a small dish set up beneath a rather large magnifying glass; a makeshift microscope, she had called it. Good for viewing big things, but none of the wee germs she often talked about.

Obediently, he reached to pick up the jar she had gestured towards and made a disgusted noise of revulsion as he came face to face with its contents. “Jesus Christ, Sassenach, what in seven hells is that?” He wrinkled his nose and passed her the jar hastily, wanting it out of his hands.

“Worms!” She chirped cheerfully, with, GOD, was that pride? “I found some parasitic maggots on a squirrel carcass the other day, which is what you have in that jar there, and I’ve found just the sort here now-” she inclined her head to the microscope as she unscrewed the jar and neatly deposited her new additions “-so they’re going to need a place to stay.”

He gagged. “Ye dinna- what I mean is- well, Claire, ye canna be meaning ta keep the filthy buggers?” He shuddered again, casting a dirty look towards the jar, where a series of long, stringy worms and fat little maggots writhed around on a chunk of browning meat.

“Why, of course I do.” Claire sat back, wiped her hands on her apron, and blew out the candle she had lit beneath the platform of the small microscope she had made. “The worms themselves are rather useless, medicinally, but their larvae can be used to treat necrotic wounds. They’re excellent at removing the dead flesh.” She lifted her face with a smile in time to see Jamie pull one of horror, and she grimaced. “Right, sorry,” she offered, though he caught her hiding a chuckle as he turned and gagged into his fist, and vaguely thought he heard her whisper ‘drama queen.’

After a moment, he steeled himself and sat back down on the table he had been perched on, feeling a little green, but thoroughly restored as she moved the container of insects onto a dark shelf in the corner. He watched her as she went, a small smile on his lips. Her hair was perched in a pile of messy curls and flyaway hairs on the top of her head, and her smock had been dirtied with whatever she had been working with all day; smears of juice from different plants, dirt, the odd small spatter of blood here and there. He leaned back on his hands and sighed.

She no longer bore the gentle curves of motherhood, but her hips sat differently now, and her breasts were a new kind of full. It made his heart ache momentarily, still not accustomed to the loss of their child. It hit him sometimes, swift and hard and merciless, and his throat momentarily closed up.

Their stay at Castle Leoch had been good for them. They had been welcomed with open arms and open hearts and had settled nicely into their respective tasks around the castle, but the wounds that Brigid had left in their souls were still gaping and empty, with the distraction of the Mackenzie Clan as little more than a superficial bandage. They generally avoided talk of their daughter when at all possible, but sometimes the reminders were inevitable.

Like the day a young woman had come seeking Claire’s help with late-term bleeding, or the constant patter of children’s feet in the yard. But the worst, by far, had been the day that one of the older women had narrowly eyed Claire’s waistline, nodded her approval, and asked in an oh so charming voice when they planned on continuing the next branch of the Fraser family tree.

“Oh, ye’ve been marrit nigh on a year now, have ye no?” She had asked, heedless of Jamie’s cold warning look or the frantic shake of his head. “Have ye been trying? Surely a woman such as you would have something to, umph, aid with the process, no?” She had leaned conspiratorially forward and then arched her eyebrows. “Or is one of ye, mmph, incapable?”

Claire had broken into sobs, hurled the small pestle she had been grinding willow bark with against the wall, and crumpled in a mess on the floor of her own surgery. Jamie had promptly, aggressively, sent the naive old woman on her way and tended to his wife, who took days to recover from the incident, like a bandage ripped off too fast once the wound’s begun to heal around it, fibers stuck in the newly formed scab.

After that, everyone around the castle had keenly avoided the topic of children and motherhood when around the pair.

“What are you thinking about?” Claire’s voice broke into his train of thought, and he looked up at her, blinking to clear his mind. “And don’t try to say nothing, because I can see the look on your face and I can practically smell the smoke.” She smiled a bit, but then frowned at what must have been the expression on his face. “Are you feeling alright, love?” She asked softly, stepping across the room to step between his legs and press her lips to his forehead. “You don’t look very well.”

He sighed, reaching out one hand to wrap his fingers lightly around her wrist, and forcing a smile. “Aye, just tired is all, my Sassenach. Are ye almost done here?”

Claire pursed her lips and nodded slightly, brushing her hands idly on her apron as she turned to tinker with some things in her cabinet. “Yes,” she breathed, and the room lapsed into silence. Then, after a moment, she turned to look at him, leaning against her exam bench. “It’s her you’re thinking about, isn’t it?” Her voice was little more than a whisper, and her honey eyes wavered.

Jamie let his breath out in a rush and hung his head. “Aye,” he breathed. “It’s always her.” He looked down at his hands, calloused and cracked and lying limp in his lap, and curled them into fists, wiping a spot of dried blood with a corner of his plaid. When he looked up next, Claire was standing with her back to him, holding something in front of her. She sighed and he thought he saw the tension go out of her. Gently, she set the small jar she had been holding down on the counter and turned to look at him. Her eyes were shining, but for the first time, she hadn’t broken down crying at the mere mention of their stillborn daughter.

Slowly, she crossed the room to him and wrapped her arms around his shoulders, drawing his head down into the crook of her neck. Neither one said a word, and his arms came up to wrap loosely around her waist, both of them just breathing. One of Claire’s hands came up to smooth over Jamie’s hair after a moment, and he half nodded against her shoulder, a sigh running through him.

That night, they lay quietly in bed watching the moonlight dance across the floorboards. A small fire had been smoored in the hearth and the room was pleasantly warm and smokey, one of the shutters cracked to let in a little cool air, which Jamie always liked. He tended to always burn up like a furnace, and Claire would wake some nights to find him having flung all the covers off, or standing by the window letting the cool air prickle across his heated skin. After their marriage, sleeping next to another warm body had always made his temperature spike, and so they had settled on an arrangement: as long as the room was warm when they went to bed he could crack the window, that way, he wouldn’t swelter and Claire wouldn’t be cold.

As it was, Jamie had been drifting in and out of sleep for somewhere around an hour, one arm draped lazily over Claire’s waist as he held her, his hand tucked up under her shift and against the warm skin of her belly. She covered his hand with her own, threading their fingers together and listening to the quiet changes in his breathing.

After a bit, when she could feel he was awake again, she turned in his arms, surprised to find his eyes open and shiny in the dark of the night, so dark a blue as to nearly be black. She reached out one hand to touch her fingertips to his cheek and sighed softly, tucking herself more comfortably against his chest. The hand that had been resting on her stomach slid down to grasp her ass familiarly, anchoring the two of them.

“Jamie?” she asked softly, tucking her face against his collarbone, breathing in the smell of him. She could never quite place her finger on what he smelled like. Some days it was obvious, of course, horses or the woods or even blood, but beneath what his day was like, there was an underlying smell that was always just Jamie. It was, if she had to try and describe it, like wet heather and musk and sunshine, and just a touch of steel. It was intimately comforting, and she took a deep breath now, one hand splayed on his chest, feeling his pectoralis major ripple as he adjusted his arm around her.

“Mmph? Are ye alright?” His voice was rough with sleep and he peered at her out of the corner of lidded eyes, his long lashes brushing his cheeks.

She nodded a bit and drew back to look up at him, one hand cupping his cheek, thumb rasping over the day’s stubble. “Yes, yes I’m fine,” she said softly, biting her lip for a moment as she thought. “I want to ask you something, or - I don’t know if it’s a question, really, it’s just that I want you to be honest with me-” she pressed her hand harder against his chest, feeling his heart speed up against her palm “-and with yourself.” She looked up at him and he wore the most peculiar expression, face calm and eyes wild with thought. “Could you do that?”

“Aye.”

Claire took a deep breath, letting it out slowly, and moved away from him ever so slightly, her legs still twined with his but her head resting on her own pillow so she could see his face. A moment of silence stretched between them, impossibly long, and she reached out to grasp his hand. “After, when Brigid-” her voice cracked and she saw his pulse throb in his throat, but steeled herself and continued, clearing her throat softly, “-when Brigid died, you spent so long looking after me, Jamie, and you were so, so good,” she moved her hand once more to lovingly cup his cheek, his eyes dry and locked on hers, “but I never saw you mourn her.” Her voice had dropped to a whisper, and she swallowed, licking her suddenly dry lips. “I just, it’s only I wonder sometimes if you feel like you were so busy taking care of me you never got to say goodbye to her.” Her voice cracked and she took a moment, screwing her eyes shut to hold back tears and placing her fingertips against Jamie’s lips to stop him from speaking. His breath came warm against her fingers, and steady, and when her eyes were finally dry and she opened them, his were wet. “Do you need to cry for her?” She whispered.

It took him what seemed like a very long time to answer, the column of his throat moving slowly. “I do,” he rasped, “cry for her, I mean. Nearly every day since.” And the conviction in his voice was strong enough to break Claire’s heart. She nodded, tight-lipped, and sniffled.

“It’s only, Jamie, do you need to cry here, with me? Do you need me to take care of you? She’s your daughter too.”

The change happened slowly, barely noticeable in the dark of the bedroom, but Claire saw his full lower lip tremble and caught the glistening of moonlight off tears on his cheek. He didn’t make any move to be closer to her, and his chest began to rise and fall more rapidly as his breathing picked up, becoming shallow. “Oh, my darling,” Claire whispered, and drew him to her. His arms came shaking up around her back and he pressed his face into her shoulder.

And for the second time in his life, James Fraser went thoroughly and completely to pieces.

[lilhawkeye3]

okay I’m back

so I’ve taken a liking to time travel fics 👀

And I’m too lazy to look up the details of Melisandre’s spell on Jon, but I am pretty sure it’s partly blood magic so I want there to be a line about finding strength in Jon’s blood to bring him back...

And because we already know spells and prophecies (and Valyrian) is super vague about what some things refer to, the spell brings Jon’s spirit back to the time where his blood was strongest— that is, to a time where his bloodlines were strongest. “Blood of Jon’s blood,” so when the Starks and Targaryens were are alive again.

So Jon wakes up back in Winterfell, months before the King’s Court arrived. Sansa, Bran, Arya and Rickon also wake up with their memories, because they were still alive when the spell was cast... but so does Daenerys.

Arya is the first one to come rushing into his room, because not even time apart has weakened their bond. Sansa is next, having hear Arya’s door slamming open and following her sister’s footsteps. Bran comes last with Rickon in hand, his eyes bright at being able to walk, but still haunted by what he has seen. Rickon is simply happy to see his siblings again, having almost forgotten what they looked like after so many years apart.

And the five Starklings talk through the night, telling their stories and trying to figure out what to do next.

Maybe Ned wouldn’t believe if only one child came to him about knowledge of the future, but when five of them do, well, he’d be a fool to ignore them.

Anyways this would be both pro- Stark and Targaryen because I like them both, and maybe have Robb and Daenerys as one of the ships? Idk I like that pairing lmao. Also Gendrya bc I am incapable of writing something otherwise. Not sure of a complete plot yet but I definitely will be having Sansa & Arya dream team, a more united North, perhaps some world building beyond Westeros as well. It’s one of those “I’ll figure it out as I go” sort of things.

👀 but... if you got any ideas or feedback on this idea, I’d love to hear it! 🥺🤩

I’VE HAD A GREAT ASOIAF WIP IDEA brb

[edogawatranslations]

999: Alterna (1) - Part 1, Chapters 1-2

Table of Contents | Previous: Part 0, Chapter 0

Part One - A Chance Encounter

Chapter 1

...I.

Chapter 2

A piercing sound jolted me awake.

Reflexively, I sat up, immediately whacking my head against a hard surface. For some reason, the ceiling was at an unfamiliar height.

The severe pain made my vision shake. To steady myself, I tried twisting my body to rest my hands on the ground, but there was nothing but air. I lost my balance and crashed onto the gray floor.

Some sort of flat object fell off my body and slid across the floor. What was that? I thought. Despite my efforts, I was unable to turn my head in its direction. My back had slammed onto the floor, making it difficult to breathe.

"Ow... What the hell is going on?"

It took a minute, but I was finally able to properly voice my thoughts. My lips must have gotten cut, since the metallic taste of blood permeated my mouth.

While still on my back, I looked around. A triple bunk bed towered next to me. I must have fallen from the top bunk.

My vision started to quiver once more.

This isn’t good. Did I hit my head that hard?

I sat up in a daze. All of my joints creaked, emitting an unpleasant sound like that of an old, rusty machine. A numbing pain pounded in my head and quickly shot to my limbs.

I stood up carefully, attempting to slowly move my joints. I seemed to be alright. None of my bones were broken, at least. After a couple of deep breaths, most of the pain subsided. But the dizziness persisted. The moment I tried taking a step forward, I lost my balance and had to catch myself with both hands against the floor.

...Huh?

Small vibrations shot through my palms.

Wait a second. This isn’t just dizziness.

I looked up and surveyed my surroundings once again. The entire room was shaking.

An earthquake? No, these vibrations are too small and unnatural. Then what could it be?

Suddenly, my mind caught up with my body, causing a wave of confusion to wash over me.

Where... am I?

An unfamiliar room. A plain triple bunk bed covered only with thin sheets. Adjacent to the bed, an unlit antique stove that looked like it was from the 1800s. A wooden floor coated with a thin layer of dust.

Feeling a sudden chill, I rubbed my arms. The cold air somehow even penetrated my thick jeans.

Turning my head, I shifted my gaze to the right of the bed. A round window was set into the dark-colored wall, kind of like the inside of a ship.

...a ship?

My eyes widened.

Am I on a ship?

As I stood there dumbfounded, footsteps echoed from behind me.

"Who’s there!?"

I turned to look for the source of the sound, only to discover a dark, stained iron door that towered like a stone monument.

An intense feeling of dread welled up from within me. Up until this point, I had only sensed a vague uneasiness, but now, my mind cowered with pure terror.

The number [5] was scribbled on the door with red paint, almost like it was written in blood.

"What the hell does this [5] mean?"

As if those words were a trigger, the vibrations emanating from the floor came to an abrupt halt. A cold silence now filled the room, broken only by the occasional creaking of metal from somewhere far away.

Upon hearing that eerie, unfamiliar sound, my heart pounded against my chest. It was clear to me now that I had gotten dragged into something exceptionally terrible.

Footsteps reverberated from behind the door, this time more hurriedly than before. Whoever was outside must have been in quite the rush.

I walked up to the door and gripped the L-shaped handle. No matter how hard I pushed or pulled, the door wouldn’t budge. Mounted on the wall beside the door was a card reader device that probably controlled the locking mechanism.

I quickly scanned around for a keycard, but I couldn’t spot anything of the sort. Meanwhile, the footsteps grew fainter.

"Hey, open up!"

While yelling at the top of my lungs, I struggled with the door’s handle. My voice grew hoarse, my mouth started to numb, and my tongue quickly stiffened. With each successive shout, the metallic taste grew stronger.

"Open this door!"

I pounded against the iron door with my right fist, but the footsteps showed no signs of stopping.

There was no way that they didn’t hear me. Why did they ignore me and keep running? Are they confining me here as a prisoner? Am I being abducted and shipped to some foreign country?

A chill crept up my spine. If that were the case, then there was no point in shouting for help.

I thrust my hand into my jacket’s right pocket. My cell phone was gone; whoever locked me in here must have swiped it.

All of a sudden, a memory flashed into my mind.

--

It was just past midnight.

After finishing my shift at my part-time job, I dragged my exhausted body back home to my cramped one-room apartment.

Immediately upon returning home, I threw myself onto the sofa without even bothering to turn on a light. Staring blankly at the shadowy ceiling, I sighed.

Less than half a year remained until graduation, and I still hadn’t found a job. A couple of my friends who had worse grades and were clearly less talented than me already managed to land positions at top-tier companies. I felt more and more like time was running out.

But even with the mounting pressure, no matter what I attempted, no matter what I did, I would always end up accomplishing absolutely nothing. Despite having existed in this world for 21 years, this was the first time that I realized just how incapable I truly was.

I had survived all these years without experiencing any hardships or failures. Rather than question or rebel against the adults around me, I obediently followed their every word and didn’t so much as even think about objecting to such a lifestyle. Looking back, that probably wasn’t the best idea. Now, approaching the first of life’s many crossroads, I was at a complete and utter loss over what to do. My mind balked at every possible course of action. What did I want to accomplish? What was my dream for the future? I didn’t have an answer to anything.

At this rate, it was clear that I wouldn’t be able to push myself through the lengthy job hunting process. Did I want to continue onto graduate school instead? Not really. Courtesy of my lifelong slothfulness, nothing in this world remotely interested me.

I flipped onto my side. The moonlight filtered into the room, casting a dim glow over my belongings.

Magazines piled up, textbooks covered with dust, CD cases scattered about, jeans and T-shirts strewn all over the floor... the ever-unchanging scene that greeted me day in and day out. Except for one unusual thing.

The brisk, autumn-scented night air blew into the room, causing the white-laced curtains to gently sway.

...When did I open the window? I asked myself, scratching my head. Anyways, if I leave it like this, I’ll catch a cold.

I got up and made my way to the window. I stuck my head and glanced around, but nothing seemed out of the ordinary. The cold air tickled my nostrils, causing me to sneeze uncontrollably.

The moment I shut the window, I saw it. A silhouette reflected on the windowpane.

"...Huh?"

It wasn’t me. The figure was wearing some sort of gas mask.

Panicked, I spun my body around. A ghostly figure clad entirely in black stood before me. Air hissed out from the mouthpiece. Although the mask completely concealed his face, for some reason, I could tell that he was smirking.

White smoke filled the air between us, spreading a sweet olive fragrance throughout the room.

Who are you?

I tried to shout, but no noise emerged from my throat. Every last ounce of energy was being drained from my body. My knees gave out, and I crumpled to the floor.

What... are you planning on doing with me?

With what little strength remained, I gazed towards the apparition. Smoke billowed out from a small grenade-shaped object in his right hand.

"Consider yourself honored. You have been chosen."

A robotic voice echoed out from the gas mask.

"I shall have you participate in a game. The Nonary Game... A game where you will put your life on the line."

That was all I could remember.

--

Violent shaking caused my mind to snap back to the present. I brought my ear closer to the door, but the footsteps had disappeared.

"Shit!"

I slammed both of my fists against the wall and gnawed at my lip in frustration.

"...Huh?"

I momentarily became paralyzed with shock. A strange bracelet was wrapped around my left wrist.

"What the hell is this?" I mumbled.

The bracelet featured a digital display in its center. At first glance, it seemed like a watch, but the display only showed a single number:

[5]

Taking a step back, I looked at the number on the door. Sure enough, it was also a [5].

I recalled hearing gruesome war stories about how prison wardens branded captives with unique numbers to keep track of them. My body trembled. Did this bracelet serve a similar function?

I frantically twisted my wrist to find a way to unfasten the bracelet, but there weren’t any clasps or buckles.

Giving up, I reexamined the face of the bracelet. Two protrusions jutted out from its sides - one on the left, one on the right. They resembled knobs on a watch, but I couldn’t turn or pull either of them. Pressing them randomly also proved fruitless.

There was no choice but to escape from this room.

While calming myself down, I carefully looked around. If the door wouldn’t open, then there was only one way out of here - the window.

I turned away from the door and rushed to the window. It wasn’t large, but it appeared just wide enough for my body to squeeze through.

I inched closer to look outside. However, I couldn’t see anything except pitch-black darkness, rendering me completely clueless as to what lay beyond the glass.

I tried to get a closer look at the darkness, when suddenly -

A sharp explosive sound like the crack of a whip shot out from inches away. Immediately afterwards, a lightning bolt-shaped crack formed on the glass. Shockwaves rippled through my mind.

This is bad.

The cracks expanded, covering the entire window in the blink of an eye.

"Get away from there!" I heard from somewhere nearby. Instinctively, I stepped back from the window.

"Run!"

The next moment, the window shattered.

Next: Part 1, Chapters 3-4

[rpchive]

Seventy Ninth Encounter-- Re-release

Tori and Rio are talking in the console room when, despite the fact that the IT is still in motion, an oddly polite and musical knock is heard on the other side of the door.

alienrabitt: ...Did you hear that?

Rio: Uh...I want to know who, but I really want to know how? The knock comes again with an additional flourish at the end. alienrabitt: ...What do we even do about this? We can't open it, we'd get sucked out...

Rio: You've got magic, right? Can't you just seal the doorway?

alienrabitt: But then how would I open the door...? The knock sounds once more, although now it's become more like a drumming as whatever is on the other side seems to begin improvising rhythms. Rio: Sh...should we land?

alienrabitt: ...Mm, well, if this stops, we can see if we have something stuck to the IT, but if this keeps up, I'm gonna have to open that door somehow. A blue ball of light suddenly appears in front of the door before solidifying into some sort of shiny material, and four beady eyes take form facing the pair. It turns its attention to the door and two thin tentacle-like appendages grow out from its sides and disengage the locks on the door before opening it. Despite the IT's speed and movement, no air rushes out of the room, although the sounds of extremely high winds can be heard outside.

A figure then casually steps inside and the weird creature shuts the door behind them. The majority of the person's body is covered by a large navy blue leather trenchcoat, obviously worn and weathered from heavy use. Their head is completely obscured by a helmet with gunmetal sidings and a featureless dark glass that fills the area in between, starting from the chin and up to the top of the head, where it then transitions to more metal. Atop the helmet is a wide-brimmed leather hat, which the figure dismisses with a snap before shaking the "hand" of the creature that let him in before it too disappears in a puff of smoke.

?: Now now, don't you kids know it's rude to keep someone waiting at the door? As Rio immediately begins to slowly back away, Tori desperately attempts to keep themself from shaking. Making sure to stay between the stranger and the console, Tori is the only one to address them: "Who are you? How the hell did you get in here?" ?: Eh? Uh, the door? I tried knocking but no one answered. I figured everyone was asleep or somethin', so I was just gonna let myself in and wait for someone to show up. alienrabitt: We're travelling through time and space at absurd speeds; don't act like you just walked up to your neighbor's house!! The figure makes many animated gestures with their hands as they speak, to the point where it almost seems like the hands act independently as visual interpreters. "I mean, we're not neighbors but it's not like it was hard to catch up. Look, take it easy, kids. You're acting like a Class III Reality Warper just walked in on you while you were in the bathroom or somethin'." alienrabitt: A what...? Look, people don't catch up with us, and...and you didn't answer me!! Quit skirting around this; how the hell did you catch up to us; how the hell did you break in; and who in the fresh hell are you?! ?: Hmm, in order I suppose. I blinked to your front door, and used a basic familiar to get the door open. As for who I am, well, if you want my story that'll take a while, but if you want my name? I like to go by The Wandering Law. You call me Law, or Wanderer, or WL, or That Guy Who Broke Into Our Vending Machine, or Trenchcoat Man, or Cool Guy, or...

He shows no signs of stopping. As he carries on, Tori has backed up against the console, while Rio has gone to fetch Collin. Law: ... or Mystery Man, or That Vaguely Robot Looking Thing, or Bootleg Daft Punk, or.... As he counts the names on his fingers, more fingers seem to appear on his hands as he goes over ten. As Rio returns with Collin, he snaps his gaze in his direction and makes the extra digits disappear with a flick of his wrists.

"Oho! So that's what I was picking up! Man, now that's something you don't see every day."

Collin: Uh, who are you? Tori, what's going on here?

alienrabitt: This.../thing/ broke into the IT! They just...opened the fucking door like it was nothing, and they've been listing off names ever since...!

Law: Wow, rude. I was just giving you names like you asked, and since you didn't pick one of the usual ones I had to dig real deep into the ones I haven't heard in ages. You need to work on your hosting skills, Mister Doesn't-Answer-The-Door-For-Guests. alienrabitt: Guest implies that you were expected or invited, and you are neither of those things!!

Law: Right, right, forgive me for not sending my RSVP. Do you prefer phone, email, or telepathic communication? alienrabitt: Look, I get it, you're some weird space thing like me; what in the fresh hell are you doing here?! You knew about Collin or something? Law: Not specifically, no. When a guy picks up a magical signature as stinkin' huge as this guy's though, he's practically obliged to stick his nose in there and see what's cookin'. Gotta make sure some anomaly isn't about to go wreak havoc on the multiverse and all that good talk, y'know? alienrabitt: Well good news; we do the opposite of that. Satisfied? Law: Sure, sure, I believe you. I still gotta take a look at this guy though. Consider it a check-up. He snaps his fingers and Collin suddenly lifts a few inches into the air and flies over to him, hovering just a couple of feet away.

Collin: H-Hey! The hell do you think you're doing?

Law: Relax, I'm just making sure you don't have any serious issues. Like, you aren't harboring some sort of eldritch entity from beyond our reality for example, or have high blood pressure, stuff like that. Law reaches into his coat with one gloved hand and extracts a simple magnifying glass from inside. He begins casually inspecting Collin at random spots, much to Collin's embarrassment, and as he moves around more lenses and various accessories extend and retract from the magnifying glass at random, some of which have almost nothing to do with the situation at hand, like cork screws or letter openers.

Law: I see, I see... Now this is fascinating stuff. A Class VI Magical Conglomerate being accessed by a single human mind and body. Who would've thought that was even possible? Ha! It's like a smorgasbord of magical systems in there!

well, magical system I guess. unless the gods have some godception we don’t know about yet

alienrabitt: E...excuse me? Don't try to eat him... Law: Eh? Why would I do that? It's not like there's anything to gain from eating him aside from calories, a sense of guilt, and the ire of any nearby vegans. Collin: Hey, are you done yet? I'd like to be able to move on my own again, y'know.

Law: Slow your roll, kid. Something's bugging me here... He walks back in front of Collin and stares him in the eyes for several seconds, although Collin can't quite match his gaze due to the helmet. After another moment, Law makes a clicking sound and nods slowly. "Mm, yeah, that could be a problem. You haven't had this power for long, have you kid?"

Collin: Not... really? This was pretty recent, if that's what you mean.

Law: Yep, figures. And you've already lost control at least once already, by the looks of it. How many people did you hurt? Can you even remember?

alienrabitt: What the hell are you talking about? Collin hasn't hurt anyone that didn't already deserve it. Collin: I... I think I know what he's talking about though. It was when that kleivenn got into the IT and had taken over Firefly. Nydins was on the ground, and... I started to say something, but my memory gets hazy there until I woke up a few minutes later.

Law: Oh, so it happened here, huh?

He turns to face Tori. "And you're telling me there were no friendly casualties?"

alienrabitt: Collin wasn't the one who killed Nydins; that was the kleivenn's fault! Law: I see. Well, you might have some control now, but that probably won't last. I've seen things weaker than you level cities, kid. Unless you get a better handle on yourself, you're on a slippery slope that leads nowhere good. Collin: You think I'm not trying to keep this stuff in check? I'm not exactly used to trying to hold back so much power all the time.

Law: Yes, I can see that. What you need are some training wheels. You're trying to deadlift five hundred pounds when you've barely been lifting dumbbells until now.

Collin: And how exactly do I start small, then?

Law: Easy! Break things up into more managable loads!

He stows away his magnifying glass and then abruptly strikes Collin square in the chest with one palm. The sound of glass shattering echoes through the console room, and brilliant streaks of light varying in color shoot out from Collin's back and phase through the walls of the IT. A single light blue streak bounces off the ceiling and back to the floor, and a shining crystal of the same color appears where it strikes, roughly a foot in height and a couple of inches in diameter at the middle. Collin falls back to the floor stunned and out of breath, and a shining ring of symbols forms around his left elbow before fading to look almost like a tattoo. For a moment, Tori is so stunned they cannot respond properly. Their reflection, however, has a varied range of responses, and shifts several times before he manages to pull himself back to his personal senses. Just for a moment, he nearly attempts to summon a weapon, but disregards the consideration entirely and rushes to Collin's side.

"WHAT DID YOU DO?!"

this gif sums up this log and it’s pretty clear who’s who

Law: What I just said! I broke up that Conglomerate into seperate parts, so now he can focus on handlin' his power gradually! Pretty simple solution, if I do say so myself. alienrabitt: YOU CAN'T JUST--!! UGH!!! WILL YOU LEAVE?! Law: But I haven't even explained the next steps! Do you just want him to have a fraction of his power forever? Visibly frustrated, Tori refuses a response, incapable of any reasonable discussion.

Law: Alright, I can see you're mad, so I'll make it quick. That band on his arm is a representation of his mana cap. What you're seeing there is how much mana his body can store on its own. That shard there is one of those gods he was linked to. Grab that, rejoin it, boom! On to the next! And don't worry, if you guys get really off track, I'll help nudge you in the right direction. Gotta make sure the guy actually learns somethin', after all!

Collin: You... son of a bitch...

Law: Hey, you'll thank me when you're not finding yourself standing in the ash that was once your friends and family. Anyway, Law out! He salutes and abruptly drops through the floor as if it weren't there, leaving the others alone in the console room. Collin puts one hand on his chest as he pushes himself up with the other. He groans slightly before speaking. "Ugh, God... That was..." He adjusts himself into a seated position on the floor not too far from the crystal, moving his hand from his chest to the side of his head. "... disorienting." Offering him help up, Tori adverts his gaze to his reflection in the floor. "...We can fix this. Are you alright?"

2ri this whole arc tbh

Collin takes his hand and pulls himself up, leaning against him slightly as he gets onto his feet. "Y-Yeah, I'm just... a little dizzy, I guess. God, it's so quiet now." alienrabitt: Been there. Don't know if I miss it or not... Collin: It's... weird. I mean it's how I used to be before but it feels so strange now. I certainly don't feel as strong now either, but I guess that's more expected, huh? alienrabitt: Yeah; I guess it would be weird, but they were only with us temporarily anyway? So even if it feels weird now, it's also 'normal.' Kinda funny how normal becomes weird after a while.

At last, the other members of the crew arrive in the console room; Rio practically sprinting back in.

XL: What the hell was all that shouting about?! --And what is that?! Collin: That's... uh... one of the gods. Firefly: What?! What happened?!

Rio: S-some weird guy showed up!! He just...broke in and did this!!

XL: That's absolutely absurd! We're still in transit!

Collin: Absurd or not, he dropped in here, split up the pantheon, and sent almost all of them to who knows where. Silky: So...what do we do? Can we even get them back? Collin: I think so. It sounded like that was the point of him doing it, at least. Something about me being a danger to everyone if I didn't get control over this. XL: ...Yeah, I'm not seeing it, but whatever. Well; you saw it all happen; what's next?

me rn

Collin: Well first, I need to figure out what to do with this crystal. Do I just hold it, or...?

He steps over to the crystal and leans down to the floor to pick it up. As soon as his hand touches the crystal, however, there is an enormous flash of light. As it fades, everyone in the console room suddenly finds themselves in the center of an enormous circular library. Bookshelves stretch out in all directions out to the walls, which are made of an intricately carved stone that shimmers with white light. Beside them is a large circular desk area made of dark oak, and its surface is covered in all sorts of study materials, maps, writing utensils, and other objects. XL: ...I...okay. Okay, sure. Collin: I'll be honest, I don't know what's happening either. I don't recognize this place at all.

Fawkes: Well, it appears to be some sort of library. I don't recognize anything about the place, however. alienrabitt: Guess we'd better try to find somebody... Right at that moment, a woman appears in one of the aisles. She is dressed in a white robe with gold trimming around the hem, hood, and ends of the sleeves, with gold lines tracing along the sides of the robe to connect the different parts. Her hood is down, allowing a long light blue ponytail to bounce behind her as she quickly strides toward the desk. In her arms is a large stack of differently sized books varying in age and condition, but she stares straight ahead at the others as she moves toward them. Nydins, who is staying at the back of the group, recognizes the woman, but says nothing, still scared of drawing attention to herself. The woman says nothing to the group as she continues to bear down on them. alienrabitt: ..Uh, excuse me.... In response, the woman walks right through Tori as if they were a ghost and moves over to a slightly more open section of the desk, dropping her books down with a loud thud. She begins moving the books around slightly as if organizing them. "Alright, maybe something here will have what we need to stop this madness." Firefly: Oh great, one of these. Don't suppose we can really interact with flashbacks like this? Collin: I'm... not sure?

The woman picks up one of the more worn looking books and flips it open, only to find the face of Sanglied staring at her from the pages, which quickly calls out to her. "Hey Ezzy!"

"Ezzy" screams and flings the book up into the air as she stumbles backward, barely catching herself on a chair nearby. The book bursts into a puff of smoke and Sanglied drops out of it, casually landing on the floor while trying poorly to suppress a devious grin. "I thought I'd find you in here. Still trying to find something in one of your old pop-up books?"

The woman puts a hand over her heart as she tries to catch her breath. "You... you jerk! I told you not to call me that! Is 'Ezorius' really that hard to say?"

Sanglied: I mean, kinda?

Ezorius: And what did you do with my copy of "Studies and Theories of the Void, Volume II"? These books are valuable, you know!

Sanglied: Oh relax, like I'd ever actually damage any of your books. They snap their fingers, and the book drops onto the desk from seemingly nowhere.

Ezorius: Th-thanks... Listen, did you need something? I'm trying to figure out how we can stop this madness, and-

Sanglied: I know, sweetie, I know. Look, I'm just worried about you is all. We haven't heard much from you in like a month. You're gonna go stir crazy sitting around with these books for so long.

Ezorius: I'll be fine. I just need to find a lead. I think I'm on to something, but I just need a little more time so I- 

Sanglied cuts them off by approaching the desk and placing their hands on either side of the book stack, leaning toward Ezorius.

Sanglied: Ezorius. I know you're worried about this war, but you don't have to do this alone. We're all on the same side, remember? You don't need to go hiding away in some dusty old corner with a mountain of paper and leather. Let me help you. Maybe you can find a solution faster if I help you. What do you say, Ezzy?

She smiles gently at her, which causes Ezorius to blush slightly.

Ezorius: I-I told you not to call me that!

Instead of a response, Sanglied leans further in and places a quick kiss on Ezorius' cheek.

Sanglied: I think that's a "yes"?

The room seems to fill with a white fog as the memory fades out, leaving the group in a cloudy void. XL: I really hope we don't have to sit through 30 more of these...

Firefly: I don't know, I think it's pretty interesting. Besides, what's the hurry?

XL: How is this supposed to help anything?! Just knowing who they are isn't going to help Collin with whatever powers they have! Especially when the flashbacks are just this...superfluous fluff!

I definitely needed to look up how to spell that word

luv them god lesbians

Silky: I think you could learn something from this.

XL: Wh--!! R-regardless...!! While the group continues discussing what they just saw, the void around them gradually grows darker and the fog begins to look more like stormclouds. Lightning crackles around them as thunder booms through the air, reverberating through the groups' bodies. A gust of wind blasts the clouds away, and the group is left standing in front of a circle of gods, many of whom they recognize but several that they do not. In the center of the circle is an enormous oval frame constructed of obsidian, covered in layer after layer of intricate runes and symbols. Precantaro seems to be leading the group in an incantation as sigils and glyphs seem to flash through the air. A bloodcurdling scream cries out behind the group, and they turn to see a humanoid figure dressed in a faded black suit. Its skin is sickly pale, like that of a corpse, and its eyes are black voids with only tiny red dots in the center that glow like burning coals. Its mouth hangs open, toothless and triangularly shaped, and its posture is awkwardly positioned, like that of an animal standing on its hind legs.

Tellus cries out as the figure screams again. ”No! He's already tracked down our ritual!"

Precantaro: Focus! We're almost done! If we drop the ritual now, it's over!

Ezorius looks over at the monster and then at the others for a moment, and then a steeled look of determination washes over her face. She backs out of her place in the ritual and strides toward the thing. "Don't stop, you can sustain it without me! I'll buy some time!"

Sanglied: Ezzy, don't! Israphel's a monster now, you can't-!

Precantaro: I said focus, dammit! Don't let her distraction go to waste! As the other gods redouble their efforts on the ritual, Ezorius squares off with Israphel. There's a moment of complete stillness between them as they stare each other down. Israphel abruptly breaks the tension by lurching forward and sprinting toward her, lashing out at her with clawed hands that seem to stretch out like aged rubber, groaning and creaking as they move. Ezorius kicks up into the air with a gust of wind and sails over his head. As she reaches the highest point of the jump, she conjures up two enormous balls of flames in each hand and hurls them one after the other. Israphel leaps to the side and dodges one, but barely manages to avoid the other as it chars the skin on its left arm.

Israphel howls in pain before spinning around and making a mad rush for the ritual. Ezorius lands and reaches out toward him and then yanking it back, which causes Israphel to snap back towards her, grabbing at his throat as if being strangled by a rope. As he slides toward her, he lashes out with one arm and swipes Ezorius off of her feet, causing her to crash to the ground. Free from her grip, he leaps toward her like a wolf as his claws glow red. Ezorius slams her feet down on the ground, causing a massive wall of ice to shoot up from the ground and smash into Israphel's chin, driving him back from her.

Barely dazed by the impact, Israphel spins around and smashes through the wall of ice, only to find Ezorius has already gotten back on her feet, a large glowing spell circle hovering in the air behind her. He is met by hundreds upon hundreds of tiny blasts of magic that flood out from the circle behind her, ripping through him like a hail of gunfire. Israphel lets out a primal scream as the flurry drives him back step by step, unknowingly backing toward another circle that has formed on the ground behind him. As soon as both feet are inside it, glowing chains shoot up and wrap around Israphel's body, constricting him within the circle.

Ezorius: There, I've got him trapped! Finish the ritual, I'll hold him he-    

Israphel's body suddenly begins to expand and warp in definitively inhuman ways, forming additional limbs, rearranging the joints of others, and growing to three times his size. Within seconds, the magical chains snap apart and whip in all directions. One length slams Ezorius in the side and sends her sprawling to the ground. Israphel pounces on top of her, claws flailing madly as he lets out another bone-shaking roar. Before Israphel's assault can continue any longer, the obsidian frame inside the ritual suddenly bursts to life, an inky black void contained inside it. Lances of purple energy shoot out and sink into his back like harpoons and begin dragging him toward it. Israphel digs into the ground madly and tries to resist the pull, his body further growing and contorting as he fights. However, his struggle is in vain, and eventually the monster is pulled entirely through the frame and vanishes into the darkness shortly before the portal explodes into hundreds of pieces.

Sanglied sprints through the hail of rocks as they fall from the sky, and as the clouds begin to form back around the group they can hear her cry out. "EZORIUS!"

The fog soon returns to its normal white color, and the group find themselves once again in the cloudy void. At this point Nydins is desperately trying to keep her distance from everybody else, but is still staying quiet.

Silky: This is so sad...and that thing was so...nasty...

Firefly: That's magic for ya. Can't imagine anything else about this will be particularly happy.

Silky: I know, I just...can't help but wish things had ended differently for them, y'know? People just don't deserve stuff like that...

XL: Yeah, well, not everybody gets what they deserve...

Ezorius' voice suddenly rings out from the fog. "I suppose that is sometimes true. Even so, my life after that hasn't been so bad, all things considered." Demo: Yeah, there's tons of great things about being a ghost! You get to...uh...not have bodily functions; follow people around without them noticing; or maybe obsessively cling to them and ruin their lives! Oh, the possibilities. Ezorius steps out from the fog to stand along with the rest of the group. Though her hood is up, her gaze is clearly directed at Demo. "I suppose you're not wrong, but I have to question your... priorities for the situation." Demo: Well, it depends on the person and the situation, honestly. Ezorius: I... suppose so? At any rate, I can probably guess what you all just witnessed. It's not exactly my proudest moment, is it? Demo: Didn't look too fun, I'd have to agree. Ezorius: Well, I think I've stabilized enough from... whatever it was that happened to us. I think I can return you all back to the real world now. Is there anything you'd like to ask of me before I send you back? Rio: What about you? Are you just...stuck here now? Ezorius: I'm... not sure what will happen to me. I might rejoin with Collin, or maybe I'll communicate through the crystal now? R-Regardless, don't worry about me, little one. I'll find a way. Rio: B-but that's not fair!! You've already lost so much...

Rio’s just so kind and caring to everybody. it’s kinda weird writing like, purely pacifist characters, but I really do like her as a whole

also I guess I’m midkey salty one of my favorite gods wound up getting shafted this hard but I mean; if Demo’s any proof, can’t get worse than death; sooo...!!

Ezorius: I trust that you will not allow me to stay trapped inside a crystal, if it does come to that.

Firefly: Surely we can find out how to fix this! Somehow... Ezorius: I doubt you will be able to do much good inside here regardless, child. Is there anything else? XL: I think we're good. Ezorius: Then we shall speak again soon. Until then...

She holds her hands out to her sides and the group feels a strange tingling sensation for a moment before suddenly finding themselves right back where they were in the IT's console room. Demo: Boy, that sure did do nothin'. Well, where's the rest of your rainbow? Collin: I'm not sure, I-

The crystal in Collin's hand begins to glow again. As it does so, the ring around Collin's left arm slides up to the center of his bicep before stopping once more. The light soon engulfs the crystal and expands outward, causing it to drop out of Collin's hand. The light soon takes the form of a cloaked person before fading away, leaving Ezorius lying on her side in the floor. "... Uhh?" XL: Oh good, more magic shenanigans! Boy do I love this.

She tilts her head disapprovingly towards Silky, who is ignoring her. Ezorius groans quietly before sitting up, her hood almost sliding back but quickly caught by one hand that goes to the side of her head. She shakes her head and takes in her surroundings for a moment before speaking. ".... Wait, am I...?"

Demo: Looks like you're not in the rock anymore. Ezorius: This is... truly unexpected!

She hurriedly gets up onto her feet. "This raises so many questions and opens so many possibilities! Does this mean-"

As she starts to ramble, Collin puts his hands over his ears.

Collin: Ow ow ow, Ezorius! You're thinking everything you're saying and it's giving me some horrible feedback. Can you maybe stop using telepathy or whatever?

Ezorius: Oh, sorry! I suppose our telepathic link is still intact despite not occupying the same body. This- ... Wait. I.... I feel something. Demo: Emotional? Gassy? The Force? Ezorius: The wh- No, nevermind! I feel them... I can feel the others calling out to me! It's like a bunch of strings tied to my soul pulling in different directions!

Demo: Awesome, we have a magical GPS ghost! Ghost Phantom...Searcher... Ezorius: Please don't call me that. Demo: Right, well, you can find your friends either way, so this is like, the best possible lead we could have! Ezorius: Indeed! Now we just need to get to them all.

She steps over to the controls and begins hesitantly scanning over the different buttons, switches, and levers. "So, um... first we need to raise the anchor, right?" Rio: M-maybe I should do that part!

She heads over to the console.

honestly this arc isn’t bad, it’s just that it’s

A Lot

with 2ri tbh. the best way for me to describe it is like...being in a foggy beehive, and occasionally I can make the bees quiet down, but not really?

it’s a bad time tbh but literally only when Law’s around

I guess this is the problem with creating more characters to expand your cast but physically binding them to the only person with “consequences?” but at least once this is over with that won’t be a problem so I’m Sucking It Up

anyway! god scavenger hunt, woo

[ask-haleinski]

You guys MUST give us more details about the proposal(s) - How Stiles proposed and how Derek was planning to propose. Please and thank you

“Son, you need tocalm down.”

Stiles paused in hispacing to spin on his heel, arms flailing, and fixed his father witha wide-eyed stare.

“Calm down?” Hisvoice hitched, “Calm down? You told me he’s going topropose, dad. That’s- that’s huge.”

John raised one handin a sort of placating gesture, “Now, I never said-”

“You impliedit,” Stiles was vaguely aware that his hands were shaking as hedialled Derek’s number, for the third time in the span of a minute. Afrustrated noise died in his throat when it went straight tovoicemail, again.

“Stiles, I don’tget why you’re making such a big deal out of this,” John stabbedanother piece of lettuce with his plastic fork, and pulled a face asif it had personally offended him. “This tastes like nothing.”

“Eat your goddamnsalad,” Stiles muttered, eyes fixed on his screen as he typed out astring of texts. Badly punctuated, slightly hysterical texts.

“Not until you sitdown and tell me what the issue is, here,” John tilted his headmeaningfully towards the chair across from him, “I don’t want youhaving a panic attack.”

Stiles slumped intothe seat, reluctant, and bit at his thumb. He narrowed his eyes athis left knee, which kept bobbing up and down as his leg twitched.

“What’s theproblem, Stiles?”

“I was theone who was supposed to propose first, okay?” the words left hismouth faster than he could think of them, a little louder than he’dintended. At his father’s questioning look, he took a deep breath andcontinued, “In theory. I mean, I didn’t see it happening foranother year or two.”

“So you think it’stoo soon.”

“Not necessarily,no- it’s just…” Stiles exhaled heavily, ran unsteady fingersthrough his hair, “maybe. Maybe it is. That’s the problem- I’m notsure. Do you really think we’re ready for this?”

“I know that youand Derek love each other,” the Sheriff’s brow was furrowed,“There isn’t any doubt there, right?”

“None at all,”Stiles said- immediately, reflexively. “It’s just that…God, Idon’t know.” he groaned and dropped his head into his hands.

“Didn’t you haveany doubts before you proposed to mom?” he asked quietly, throughhis fingers.

“Of course I did,”his dad’s response was soft, “How could I not? She was an amazingwoman and I still wasn’t entirely convinced I deserved her. But…”Stiles lifted his head in time to see his dad shrug. “It’s normalto have doubts, son.”

The sound thatescaped Stiles was helpless: “Derek’s not perfect, but neither amI. I’m kind of obnoxious and I talk too much and–  and at the end ofthe day, I’m just kinda an anxious mess, dad. I still have thenightmares, like, weekly. Should anyone really have to put upwith that?

“And- and Derekhas his own issues, but at the end of the day I’ve actually seen thathe’s the sweetest goofball of a man and I love him so much andhe’s probably got some huge romantic gesture planned that I couldnever top but, goddammit, I reallywanted to propose to him first-”

“I’m going to stopyou there,” his dad levelled him with a look, “Justtell him, Stiles.”

“What-tell him what?” Stiles muttered to his knees.

“Everythingyou just told me.”

“ButI-”

“Goto him, tell him these things, and- goddammit, Stiles- just proposeto him, if you want to propose.”

“I.I don’t have a ring, though-”

“Go.”His father jabbed a finger towards the door.

Stilesshot up from his chair and wasout of the office within the minute.

Johndumped his salad in the trash.

Thefront porch of the Hale house made one hell of a noise when youwalked on it- Stiles knew this, because he was physically incapableof walking around quietly (unlike certain werewolves thathe knew). Currently, it was kicking up one hell of a protest as hestomped towards the front door, floorboards whining under hissneakers; not that he cared, not that he really registered the soundover the rushing in his ears. His heart was in his throat and hismind was running a mile a minute andhe needed to remind himself to breathe.

Stilestook a shuddery breath and flung the door open. It hit the insidewall with a bang.

“Iwas going to propose first,asshole!”

Okay,maybe not the best way he could have phrased that. He’d have to tryagain.

Derek,who seemed to bein the middle of assembling some kind of furniture, fumbled anddropped the screwdriver in his hands (goddammit, Derek never fumbled,what the hell). He turned to face Stiles;his ridiculous puppy eyeswere wideand his eyebrowswere doingthe thing.

“Stiles,what-”

“Youknow what.” Stilesstalked across the room, gripped the front ofDerek’s henley with hisfists. “You were going to propose tomorrow, weren’t you?”

“I-”Derek looked crestfallen, suddenly, eyes shifting to the side as hesaid, “I’m sorry? I-”

“No,shut up and listen to me,” Stiles’ voice was low, intense, as heleaned closer and made Derek look him in the eye.

“Ilove you so much,Derek. So freaking much itscares me.” He loosened his grip a fraction, smoothed down thewrinkles in Derek’s shirt with one hand, “I love how you have thissense of humour that you only really share with me. I love the littlecrinkles around your eyes when you smile. I actually kind of lovewhen you’re grumpy, too.

“Ilike it when you don’t shave and you get stubble burn all over me. Ilike that you’re actually, like, friendswith my dad,” Stiles laughed, “I. I still have no idea how thathappened, actually.”

Derekgrabbed onto the hand that Stiles kept running down his shirt, lacingtheir fingers together,“Stiles–”

“No,I’m not done. So,yeah, sometimes we have our differences, like when you arguethat a bald cupcake most definitely is a muffin-”“But itis-”

“Shut up, it’snot.” He pressed his fingers to Derek’s lips, and Derek’s eyebrowsshot up. “I’m trying to tell you that I love our differences. Ilove that we can argue and it can still be fun.”

Derek’s lipstwitched, like he was fighting a smile.

Stileslowered his eyes and went on,  “And…andI love that you’ll wake me up from my nightmares, help me count myfingers and calm down- and Ijust. I–” he shook his head, “I’m being cheesy, now, orwhatever, I know– but youprobably had something three times as romantic as this planned, so.”

Derekstared at him for a minute, gaze soft. He pressed a kiss to Stiles’fingers, and Stiles lowered his hand.

“MayI speak now?” Derek murmured.

“Just,” Stilesthrew his hands up, “Will you marry me or not, you dork?”

Derek swept him-literally swept him into his arms, hisfeet left the floor- into what could only be described as a bruisingkiss. Stiles made a soft, desperate noise and clutched at Derek’sshoulders, raised one hand and slid it along Derek’s jaw. Derek bitat his lower lip, licked into his mouth, andStiles groaned and archedinto him, seeking the warmth, craving the intensity. Gradually, thekiss slowed- became something softer, sweeter. Stiles pulled backreluctantly to take a breath, and Derek mouthed at his jaw.

“That’s a yes,right?” Stiles asked, on an exhale.

Derek buried hisface in Stiles’ neck and laughed.

“You’reridiculous,” Derek’s lips moved against his throat- soft, familiar.“Of course I’ll marry you.”

Stiles grinned sohard it hurt, and ran his fingers through Derek’s hair, “Good.Wanna put me down, now?”

“Nah,” Dereknipped at him playfully, “Think I wanna carry you upstairs.”

“Oh, good idea,yes. The best idea.” He hit at Derek’s shoulder, “Go, whatare you waiting for.”

It didn’t take themvery long to get to the bedroom.

((hope this was okay, anon

[allyinthekeyofx]

Fading Light - Part 1 - 1/6

Summary - Scully’s cancer returns and hope comes at a high price.

This is sort of AU but is set in season seven. There are references to season seven episodes but ‘All Things’ hasn’t happened.  We switch between Scully POV and Mulder POV throughout the whole fic.

I will post a chapter every day without fail.

PART ONE

Prologue

My Father once told me that secrets are like old wounds. That no matter how skilfully we hide the scars, they are still there, lingering beneath the surface. Invisible to the eye, but all too obvious if we take the time to really feel them. There are no good secrets. Even the ones we hide in our hearts to protect the people we love will eventually find a way to push themselves up through the layers of deception.

I've discovered that we can never hope to protect through lies and after all, isn't a secret just another name for a lie?

Semantics

Mulder would laugh if he could hear me now. Arguing with myself as I lay, eyes wide open, staring up at the patterns made by the street lamps refracted through the rain that streams down my window.

I'm not sure what time it is. I don't seem to sleep much, which is strange, because all I want to do at this moment is close my eyes and sink down into its welcoming arms.

To escape from the accusatory voices in my head for a short while would be wonderful, but I just can't seem to relax enough. If I'm honest with myself though, I'm well aware of the reason for my insomnia.

It is guilt; pure and simple.

I have a secret, and no matter how often I tell myself that I am keeping it from him to protect him, I still feel its presence every minute of every day. I keep it hidden because in doing so I am attempting to shield him from a truth he is ready to neither hear nor accept.

Every day I keep the truth from him is another day spent tiptoeing around him, so afraid that he will look into my eyes and see my lies. It was easy in the beginning.

Mulder was still shattered over the death of his Mother and I was there for him as he fell apart piece by harrowing piece, supporting him as he has supported me throughout our partnership. I watched over him like the proverbial mother hen as his quest threatened to take him over the edge, ready to drag him back should the need have arisen.

For once he didn't need me to catch him and as each day passed he learned more facts behind his sister's disappearance and finally, finally I was rewarded when he came back to me. Not entirely at peace sure - we have seen and experienced too much for that ever to happen - but I saw the stress literally roll off him as, in his own words, he was set free.

How can I take that sense of peace away from him now?

I have remained silent, promising myself, as I promise myself now, that tomorrow I will tell him, just as I have made the same promise on so many nights past.

Promises to myself I know I won’t keep.

Chapter One

Mulder is not in the sweetest of moods. He tries his best to hide it, but it was obvious from the moment he arrived flustered and dishevelled at my door this morning.

I'm not sure exactly why we started this whole car pool thing. It certainly wasn't out of any sense of wanting to save the planet, it just kind of happened.

I had offered Mulder a ride home one night when he was without his car - I can't remember why he was without it - and he decided it was only right and proper to return the favour. It seems to have set a pattern now that neither of us is willing to break, and it's strange really, but I kind of enjoy it. I like the fact that his face is the first one that greets me every morning.

Usually I like it that is.

But on days like today, when he is edgy and tense, I wish to hell I could just make him stop the damn car so I can escape out in to the clogged Washington streets and hail a cab. We have hardly spoken during the ride in, just the barest early morning pleasantries. No small talk, no innuendo, no teasing glances. In fact, so far all Mulder has given me is the charming view of his set profile as he keeps his eyes fixed firmly on the road ahead.

We are running late for the office, which is never a good thing, especially not today. Today is the second Wednesday in the month. Second Wednesdays mean inter-departmental meetings. Which in turn usually mean bureaucratic scrutiny of our recently submitted expense reports. I hate the meetings almost as much as Mulder does. The difference being, that I don't tend to show it quite as blatantly. But at least we no longer have to suffer the dubious pleasure of AD Kersch as we attempt to justify flying halfway across the country on nothing more substantial than some redneck's sighting of lights in his cow field. Skinner is no less forgiving when we balls things up, but he’s more used to it and therefore more accepting of it.

Mulder mutters something under his breath as the car in front slows down to a virtual crawl. I don't bother trying to figure out what it was. The very fact that we are attempting to negotiate rush hour traffic pretty much tells me that whatever it was, it wasn't pleasant and certainly has no need for a response from me. So instead, I just lean my head against the seat rest and close my eyes against the headache that is beginning to pulse at the centre of my forehead.

I think that the headaches were the first clear sign that something wasn't right, although for a couple of weeks I was able to pretty much deny their existence. Self-denial is a powerful force, a bit like encasing a broken ankle in a plaster cast. The pain is gone, pushed in to the background, and it's almost impossible to imagine that the broken bone ever happened at all. Until of course you walk on it at the wrong angle and the pain is back to remind you to take more care.

That's how it was with me. Only my versions of the plaster cast were non-prescription pain pills. Until they weren't enough, even when foolishly, I was taking well over the required dosage.

And then came the day when I couldn't deny it any longer. I remember it vividly. A Saturday spent shopping with my Mother I was in so much pain I could hardly stand. She noticed of course and I remember making vague assurances that I was fine, made my excuses and headed for home. I made it through the door, watched as the room began to spin in that endearing way I had come to recognize from scant years back in the early manifestations of the disease, and woke up three hours later on the floor, still clutching my house keys in my hand.

I wish now with all my heart that I had answered the basic need that pounded incessantly in my head.

Call Mulder.

Instead I had called Dr Zuckerman.

Every day since then, I have been trying to find the right words, the right moment, to broach the subject with Mulder, and right along with it, I have found a thousand excuses as to why now isn't the right time.

Of course I realize that the right time is never going to happen, and that the longer I keep putting it off, the harder it's going to get.

Especially since I have already decided that this time, treatment to prolong the inevitable is not an option for me and whilst I don’t profess to really know or understand exactly what my ‘cure’ entailed the last time around, I am smart enough to realise that its mechanism would never be found written on a treatment protocol. So I have opted to do nothing. To wait out the inevitable. I will continue to work for as long as I can. Until I’m once again incapable. But for how long I can keep up the pretence is anyone’s guess.

Not to mention the fact that Mulder is neither stupid nor blind. Eventually he will figure this thing out for himself, and deep down, I can't help wondering if he already suspects something. A paranoid little voice is whispering that I am the reason for his dark mood this morning. Which when I think about it is ridiculous.

Oh yeah. Guilt really sucks.

Suddenly, I am catapulted from my musings and transported violently back in to the here and now as Mulder curses loudly, swerving the car savagely to the left even before the word is fully formed on his lips.

"FUCK!"

I'm not entirely sure what he has seen to provoke such a reaction. Mulder rarely, if ever curses aloud. And then I hear it. A sound I have become so attuned to over the years I could recognize it in my sleep.

The sound of gunfire. Close by.

My senses hone in on the sound, and beside me Mulder is already moving, unbuckling his Seat belt and reaching for the door handle in one fluid movement. Even as I automatically follow his lead I am still searching for answers as to why exactly we have come to a halt in the middle of rush hour traffic. But, like pieces of a jigsaw the answers fall together as I finally see what he sees.

My years on the job have taught me to assimilate information pretty quickly. Headache or not, this is no exception. In the space of a heartbeat my consciousness has thrown several words at me.

Bank. Alarms. Guns. Robbery

Great. Just another fun day in the lives of Fox Mulder and Dana Scully, where even a ride to work has the capacity to become a fucked up nightmare.

The shoes I chose to wear today are definitely not made for pounding the pavement. More blisters for me tonight.

Mulder of course doesn't have quite the same fashion impairment and even before I have fully cleared the car door he has taken off like a track star, waving his gun around and cutting a swath through the early morning streets like Moses parting the Red Sea. He can move pretty fast for a guy approaching forty, and, whilst I am not exactly a slug myself, an extra six inches of leg length makes all the difference and I find myself trailing further and further behind.

As I run, I can hear Mulder shouting something, but the wind is against me and his words are lost in the slipstream making them almost unintelligible. Instead, I concentrate on keeping him in sight. The perp is somewhere ahead and by the pace Mulder is keeping, seems to have no intention of giving up the fight easily.

I'm not sure what happens next.

A deafening sound that threatens to split my now pounding head in two; Mulders horrified shout.

"SCULLY!"

A blow that stops me in my tracks and slams me to the ground.

It's funny actually, because even as I am aware of falling, I don't feel anything other than a faint buzzing in my head as the pavement rushes up to meet me. No pain, no fear and certainly no understanding as to what has just happened.

But through the white noise that surrounds me, I hear another gunshot. And then another.

The sound seems to act as a catalyst for my own awareness and the dreamlike quality I had wallowed in for maybe a couple of seconds is replaced by a burning hot pain that seems to radiate through my whole body.

Shit. This really hurts.

I am reminded of the time when I fell out of the tree house that my brother Bill had spent the summer building with his cronies. I had been mercilessly chased away every time I dared show my face. A seven year old younger sister - a girl - had not been welcome in that den of pre-pubescent masculinity.

So, tomboy that I was, I had snuck over there one night and undertaken the precarious climb through the twisted boughs to reach what was forbidden to me; I'd made it up ok -getting down though had been a different undertaking all together and trees tend not to be very forgiving to seven year olds who don't have the sense to realize when they are way out of their depth. I nursed a broken wrist for the rest of the summer, and it had taken years for me to forget the white hot pain I felt as that fragile bone snapped cleanly.. But, with typical childhood resilience I had forgotten.

Until now that is.

Flesh wounds hurt. Gunshot wounds hurt. Damaged bones hurt like a bitch.

I'm unsure as to how much time has elapsed since I first heard Mulder shout out my name although I suspect it is no more than a few seconds at most.

Mulder

Shit, where is he?

Three shots Dana.

Count em.

Three.

Oh Fuck.

My eyes snap open, which in itself is futile really because I can't seem to focus on anything other than the pavement which is tilting at an impossible angle before me. I can just make out a collection of coloured blobs in the near distance and although they are fuzzy around the edges I am able to recognize them as being human. From their size and shape I am also able to determine that they are crouched down, hugging the ground as thought their lives depend on it.

But my only thought right now is for Mulders well being. Nothing else matters to me and not for the first time I am aware that what I feel for him goes way beyond the accepted boundaries of our friendship, because, had it been anyone other than Mulder, I would just close my eyes and allow myself some respite from the terrible pain that now overwhelms me.

But sometimes, even the purest love cannot conquer the frailties of the human body. As I shift my weight fractionally to the right in order to release the arm that is trapped beneath me, I am engulfed in a wave of agony so intense that despite myself I close my eyes and scream. Maybe I screamed out his name. I don't know. But it doesn't matter anyway. Nothing matters except the sudden feeling of Mulder's hands on my face, smoothing away the hair that is plastered against my cheeks. And I hear his voice from far away. He is frightened. I have frightened him.

Just like he's frightened me in the past.

So much fear for two people to bear in a lifetime.

"Sssshhhhhhh Scully, It's ok....don't try to move...it's gonna be ok. Ssssshhhhhhh."

Slowly the pain diminishes a fraction and I am able to open my eyes again. Maybe a little of the initial shock has subsided, or perhaps a gnawing desperation that needs me to know he's ok, allows me to finally focus enough to look deep in to his eyes.

Mulder has beautiful eyes, the most expressive eyes I have ever seen in my life. I could easily lose myself in their depths, which is why I don't allow myself to stare in to them too often. Right now he is fighting tears and not making a very fine job of it. I know how he feels. I've been there too. I've watched him hurting far more times than I care to remember and each and every time I have found myself crying real tears for him when he has been unable to shed his own.

Just like he is crying for me now.

Despite the pain, I am able to shakily reach up a hand that feels like a dead weight and catch that first tear as it escapes its confines. Watching as it traces a crystalline trail down my finger. I want to speak, to let him know I'm fine, but just that small movement has left me as weak as a day old kitten snatched from its Mother and I just want to close my eyes and sleep. Instead, I fix my gaze on his; attempting to communicate to him through sight what I am unable to do with speech.

I'm so sorry I didn't tell you Mulder. And now it's too late.

He is going to find out.

My secret is no longer going to be mine alone and I need to hang on to consciousness for as long as I can, because, I know that if I close my eyes now, the next time I open them, everything will have changed.

Continued chapter 2

[ampharos-writes]

Memoir

Archivist’s Note: The text from the following statement is excerpted from a historical document - an old letter, discovered in the attic of a condemned home and delivered to the Institute for archiving and analysis. The contents of this letter should make it clear WHY it was entrusted into our care. Details regarding the “statement” have been filled in by institute staff.

Statement #9191101 Author’s Name: John Hawthorne Nature of Incident: The nature and circumstances of his death Date and Location: Letter dated November 1st, 1919; recovered from a home in Lexington, Virginia, USA on March 5th, 2020

Statement

Dearest Father,

I write these words to you, of course, knowing full well that there is no way that you will ever be able to read them. Once I was young and idealistic and believed in the great Kingdom of Heaven, but over the course of my life and the events that have transpired within I have become convinced that God and His Kingdom are nothing but the wishful thinking of so many hopeful fools atop this doomed rock, and that all that awaits us at the conclusion of our time upon it is an eternity of cold unfeeling nothingness, a sheer black Void which at the end of our days does consume all that once lived and breathed and grew and flourished and prospered and withered and faded and died.

You must forgive me, as I am getting ahead of myself. No, I am of course aware that you cannot read these words, but in writing them I am perhaps hoping for one last shred of blissful hope myself, one last tiny morsel of catharsis, as I feel my own time drawing near, and I cannot help but dread it down to the deepest part of my soul.

Have you ever died, father? I suppose that’s a foolish question. A better one might be, “Do you know what it feels like to die?”, as I imagine that at this current juncture you’re much incapable of knowing much of anything at all.

I know what it feels like to die. I know it all too well.

I knew it first when Tom and I ran and played by the old creek, when play-fighting turned decidedly more real, when rough hands shoved my lighter frame down into the rushing rapids and a hidden stone lodged itself deep within the back of my skull, when blood rushed out of my head and water rushed into my lungs, when everything went white with pain and then black with nothing, and I was no more.

And then I wasn’t. I woke up the next day, half-blinded by pain, too stiff to move. The poor doctor hovering inches above me blanched as if he’d seen a ghost, and perhaps he had. I remember him shakily asking me to roll over, remember laying on my side for what felt like forever, listening to him hem and haw and poke and prod and examine and ask “does this hurt?” (yes) and “how do you feel?” (bad) and eventually clear his throat and wander off.

Behind a door they thought was thicker than it was, I heard the doctor discussing in hushed tones with mother. He said that I was bleeding much less than I should have been, that the wound looked much cleaner, that I should make a full recovery after copious bedrest. I remember my mother saying that it must have been a miracle, that we had all truly been blessed. I do not believe anything could be further from the truth.

I know that you knew nothing of these events, father, as mother decided that she would rather not worry you, nor did she wish to inspire anger towards Tom, for both she and I knew that what had happened was not his intent, and that his crying at my bedside for the entirety of my confinement was proof enough of that. I must belatedly apologize for this deception, and further admit that while it was the first, it was certainly not the last.

I recall the first time Tom died, too, though I obviously know not what went through his head during the events that transpired. What I DO know is that his recovery from that illness he underwent as a teenager was not nearly as ordinary as we both convinced the hapless physician overseeing him to tell you that it was. In truth, Tom could have, should have, and did in fact pass away from his disease, but the unfeeling end rejected him as it had me, and his condition improved rapidly with no scientific or medical explanation to back it.

Admittedly, as young men this did contribute to our more… reckless endeavors. How could it not have? I know you saw us both as foolhardy braggarts keen to rush into danger for even the slightest chance at glory, but it was all an act, for neither of us relished the thought of fighting an overseer we never knew for a country we barely cared about. No, it was not brashness that drove us to enlist when the minutemen came calling, but a grim sense of duty. We had each died once or twice more by then, enough to know that for whatever reason our lives refused to be cut short, and we felt a moral obligation to harness this towards a purpose that, for whatever reason, people seemed to believe to be righteous and true.

I fell but once in the battles that ensued, to a bayonet wound that grew gangrenous. I hid my discomfort from the others in my regiment, of course; I imagined it would be more tolerable to fight through the pain for the few days I had remaining than it would be to explain away the aftermath of such a wound. Tom claims to have fallen three times, but I was only personally witness to two of them: a musket ball right between his eyes, and a dozen horses briefly reducing him to a tattered facsimile of a human being, before he opened his eyes and quite literally put himself together.

He was always the more brazen of us, Tom was. I was ever-cautious, equal parts humbled by our apparent gift and fearful that it might one day fail us. Tom was under no such compunctions, and after receiving a taste for danger in that great war for freedom he remained something of a frontiersman and a daredevil, constantly venturing out into the wilderness with nothing but his old musket and a canteen.

You knew all of this, of course, just as you knew that I settled down and attempted to put the past behind me, to make something of a normal life. Tom and I stayed in touch, of course, but I have no idea how many times he perished on his expeditions, and that was perfectly fine by me. I had steady employment and a family to look after. The prospect of pushing my luck in a manner such that he had was completely antithetical to my entire nature.

Of course, all the caution in the world is useless against the ravages of our TRUE father. One can evade death as many times as they wish, but their body shall nevertheless weaken and wither with age, their once-bright eyes growing dimmer, their once-proud posture stooping ever lower, their once-unending vigor suddenly draining away with every step they take, until finally they are no more. Ironically enough it was I who father time came for first, as Tom was evidently in better physical condition than I and remained spry well past the age of 80. You and mother were of course long gone by this point, and my sons had both been killed in the second British war, so the only people I had left to comfort me were Elizabeth and Tom.

Both were with me as I lay in bed, too exhausted to move and barely alert enough to speak. Both were with me as my hands dropped from theirs, as the blankets began to feel as if they were enveloping my very soul, as the world began to go dark. Both were with me as faint whispers danced on the edges of my hearing, bearing secrets I could not hear and would not comprehend, as the edges of my mouth crept upwards into a smile, and my eyes finally allowed themselves to close.

Of course, given that I’m here to tell of it, you may correctly assume that this was not the end of my story, and indeed my eyes did not remain shut for long, as the gentle warmth I bore within me suddenly swelled into a searing inferno, sending shooting stabs of agony into every fiber of my being, and my eyes snapped open, and I screamed. It lasted an eternity. It was over in an instant. It matters not. The concept of time itself, I have come to conclude, is as vague and fluid as anything else we like to assume we know about this world. 

Whatever the case, what had started did in fact stop at some point, and the first thing I noticed was that I felt… different. Different, but not unfamiliar. It took me a moment to pinpoint what exactly this feeling was: I felt strong. Able. More able than I had in a long time.

I looked at my hands. Gone were the folds and spots of age. Here were the hands of a young man, able to do the powerful work necessary for a young man to succeed in this life. The same was true everywhere I looked, everywhere I examined upon my person. I hadn’t just died. I had been reborn.

My dear sweet Elizabeth had fainted, of course, and poor Tom was too busy gaping at me to help her. We got her into a chair and got her some water, and after confirming that she was still of sound mind and that I wasn’t some demon or malevolent spirit, we explained to her all that had brought us to this point. I didn’t expect her to believe me, but… perhaps there are some miracles in this world.

It was an… odd next few years. Tom had all but moved in with us, waiting for his OWN rebirth, which none of us had any reason to disbelieve would be coming. Elizabeth and I remained madly in love, of course, but there was this strange sort of distance that had cropped up. I would occasionally catch her staring at me with a look that I couldn’t quite place, or shooting glances at Tom that were outright hostile. I of course attempted to make inquiries about the nature of this, but was repeatedly rebuffed, as she insisted that of course everything was fine, and that I was worrying far too much, and should be enjoying my newfound youth. This prospect, frankly speaking, was tempting enough that I tended to agree with her, and spared little thought to my previous concerns.

The darkest day of my life dawned bright and cold. Winter was fast upon us, and Tom had been up before the sun in an attempt to fetch some firewood. Personally, I suspected that he was intentionally trying to wear himself out, in an effort to speed up his own rebirth, but I saw no reason to try to stop him. Elizabeth was already out of bed when I awoke, and I contented myself to simply lay atop the sheets and enjoy the gentle rays creeping in through the window, listening to the love of my life puttering around in the kitchen. In a moment of weakness, I permitted myself to slip into a bit of a flight of fancy, imagining that my lifelong connection with this woman had perhaps extended my curse to her as well, and that she too would be reborn, for us to jointly enjoy a life eternal. It would be… nice.

My daydreaming was interrupted by a terrible, gut-wrenching scream.

I’ll admit to only remembering flashes of the rest of the day. The shock of an event so terrible would do that to anyone, I think. I recall bolting from bed and running through the house. I remember Elizabeth, lying on the ground, her blood pooling atop her chest where a pale and trembling hand still clutched the kitchen knife. I remember the look on her face, equal parts anger and melancholy and regret. I remember she said something as the last of her life slipped away, but I don’t remember if I replied.

I don’t remember Tom returning home, but he must have. I assume he would have found me still standing there, just… looking at her. I don’t remember him guiding me out the door or across town to his own modest lodgings, though I do have vague images of his own rebirth a few short days later. His face was much the same as I recalled it, though tinged with the unmistakable wisdom of age.

To this day, I don’t know why she did it.

The next few years passed in a blur. There wasn’t much I wanted to do except drink and mope, and Tom was of no mind to stop me from doing so. They say that time heals all wounds, but I think that gives time too much credit. I find that wounds deep enough will always leave a scar - enough that you’re not actively bleeding out, but still weaker than the surrounding area, and cementing the memory of the events that created it deep within one’s psyche. So after a few years of my sullen stupor, the wound did indeed began to scar, and I attempted to figure out what I was going to do with what appeared to be my now-unending life.

Of course, at this point Tom and I lapsed into the hedonism one would expect of any two men in their physical primes who believed themselves to have truly and permanently cheated death. We drank, gambled, traveled, hunted, partook in all sorts of activities that sane men would have balked at a hundred times over. Tom fought for the south on a lark, the smug bastard, and you’d be fool to believe that I haven’t lorded our victory over him ever since. We performed odd jobs when we needed money and lived like vagrants when we didn’t. For the first time in my afterlife, I felt like I was truly living.

It was when the Grand Columbian Exposition came to town that we finally learned more of the nature of our situation. Not from the event itself, of course; the nature of our anomalous qualities bears only a tenuous connection to what most people know to be reality, and thus an exposition of such prestige would nary venture to go near exploring it. The prestige and attention that the event brought to Chicago, however, brought with it a fair number of hangers-on hoping to absorb some of the prosperity they figured would be in fair abundance, and it was in the dimly-lit stall of one such vendor that we sought our wisdom.

She claimed to be an oracle from the slopes of Olympus, able to divine the threads of fate and feel out their general trajectory both past and present. Of course, I assumed this was all fairly nonsense - though it was fairly plain that she was at least telling the truth about her Mediterranean origins - but it had been Tom’s idea, and we had nothing better to do. I recall jokingly confiding in Tom that our cover was about to be blown. As it turns out, I was right.

There was no crystal ball, no light show, no smoke and spectacle. She simply sat us down at a small table and stared, hard, at the both of us, fingertips slowly tracing lines we could neither see nor feel. A heavy stillness filled the air, and despite it being a warm summer’s day I suddenly felt very, very cold. When she finally spoke, it was as if she was looking right through me, and I realized with a start that she was very clearly blind.

“Never have I seen the strands of fate so closely intertwined. When one strand is cut, the other patches the gap, until both are so thoroughly entangled that they cannot progress any further. Fate shall not continue Her weaving unless one severs the knot.”

Her voice reverberated through my ears, their meaning clear as day. I shakily slapped a bill down on the table and the two of us fled into the now-too-bright afternoon.

So this is the crux of my tale, father. While Tom lives I cannot die, and the reverse is true as well. We were born together, have lived together, and must die together. Confident as we were at the time, we believed this fate avoidable, and easily so: we would simply have each other’s backs, protecting each other from dangerous circumstances, and we would be fine. Given that this was how we had been living anyways, it seemed almost trivially simple to continue to wind our knot.

But these are curious times, father. The Great War came and went, and out of an abundance of caution neither of us served, but it may spell the end of us anyways. We learned of the Black Plague in the schoolhouse, of course, but this isn’t that. This is something far more insidious. It doesn’t make itself evident with boils and pustules and the overpowering smell of rot and decay. It begins as a common cold, one that simply refuses to go away, that buckles down and ingrains its presence within its host, until it simply saps the life out of them. Dehydration, starvation, breathing problems - no matter the method, the end result is the same. And it’s the one outcome where having each other’s backs may have done more harm than good.

As I write this, Tom lays in the bed next to me, his forehead slick with sweat, his sleep restless, his breathing shallow. My own hand trembles as I write, and were I not writing to a man over a hundred years deceased I would fear for the legibility of it all. I can feel the plague doing its insidious work all throughout my body. Everything hurts, and I know that it will not stop hurting until the end, and that this time it truly will be THE end.

I would say that I lived without regrets, but Tom has always been better at deceiving you than I have. If I am wrong about everything, don’t bother to pass on my regards, as I shall give them myself. If I am right...  well, I could do with a rest.

Forever Yours, John

Statement

Historical documents tend to be very, very good at piquing my interest, but this one has been a bit of a dead end. Public record keeping tends to be rather haphazard this far back, and the name Hawthorne is a bit too common in colonial America to truly be of any use. Beyond verifying that the letter truly is as old as it claims to be, there’s little we can do here.

I DID ask Lissa to speak with the man who delivered this, a Mr. Nathan Finch. He read the letter and claimed no knowledge of any family or acquaintances by the name Hawthorne, though he admitted that his mother, one Persephone Theopoulos, had passed away when he was young, and that he knew little to nothing about that side of his family.

It’s worth noting that Mr. Finch discovered the letter through his work with the American Historical Society, and has no personal connection to Lexington, Virginia or the house therein. He himself resides in Chicago, Illinois.

-Amy A. Ampharos, Head Archivist June 1, 2020