#Just a matter of whittling him down once he's lost the will to fight them

[sysig]

In the fell! Handplates au what do you think gaster would do to protect the boys? If torial or asgore ever tried to hurt/take away or kill them would he finally snap and fight? I’ve always liked the idea that gaster (despite not being royal) is considerably more powerful then asgore or torial due to how versatile and complex skeleton attacks can be plus he is a boss monster who’s old af.

I would love to see fell! Asgore and torial absolutely get their asses handed to them by a protective gaster. Lol can you imagine their shock? (:

(I absolutely adoreeeee your art)

(Thank you! o/♥)

I think Fell!Gaster would still keep the boys as his secret project to start - Honestly, I really like the idea of him following the same basic beats as Classic Handplates Gaster! Constructing the lab, hole-punching his hands, bringing the boys to life and then experimenting on them in secret, now under the pretense of finding "inherent goodness in Monsters" or inducing it, bringing it forward, however he goes about doing that. So if they did find them, it'd at least be a while

But, I also really like the idea of Gaster still being hopelessly devoted to the Dreemurrs! That raising a hand against them would hurt infinitely worse than whatever they have to dish out against him, and that being why he takes their abuse - if he could only save them! If he could only show them a better way! Then they could all finally be happy, one big family! 💕

As for the boys and what Gaster would be willing to do to protect them, I think it would also be similar to what Classic does - put himself between the brothers and danger to the best of his ability. I do think it would be an interesting turn for him to have to choose between protecting them and his pacifism towards other Monsters if the Dreemurrs got ahold of them somehow - the internal conflict of finally having to face his own darkness! Even if he tried to justify it, I think that'd really be the tipping point for him :)

[djsouled]

there were truths in life, facts about things that could not be moved or swayed in any direction. because that was the nature of things, the way it just was ; there is a truth to hizashi's life that he lost both of his best friends in the span of a year. there is an argument, born out of anger and hurt to contradict that, to correct that truth in saying he lost them both altogether. because did he ever truly have shouta as a "best friend" when oboro was killed? was eraserhead-in-training ever living for himself, or was he living as a vessel to achieve impossible perfection? a means to correct the past by controlling the future, in white knuckles from being held onto so tightly?

that once-teenager with all his messy hair and poor sleeping and training habits had evolved into a an exact replica, only older. a tired-looking sort of man, all those poor habits now beginning to become somewhat evident in his appearance. he may not know shouta as well as he once did, and hell if he even did know him as much as he previously assumed - but he knew that familiar expression of discomfort.

he knew raven truly must’ve believed he wasn’t cut out for this new teaching gig, and getting so far out of his probably-typical comfort zone must’ve been particularly grating for him. the others did their best to bring some sort of ease of mind to him in the workplace, and the supplemental classes might've (hizashi hopes) helped, but there's still that general avoidance. that all too familiar way about eraser that only cemented after that day ; that way of turning cheek that made hizashi's very guts twist and writhe with emotion.

still, that urge to keep reaching out never really went away. it never devolved into nothingness. and he couldn't find it in himself to walk away from that desire to take up that seat again, right by his side as his best friend, if that same seat was even existent.

buuut, blondie’s not known for making the best decisions when it came to his social life, especially when it came to the one man who unmade him before anyone else. and now, hizashi was the teacher. the senior over his coworker. he took it seriously, but now he’d put his foot down in his mind and take it seriously again at a different angle : sincerity. it was blond’s fault in all his fumbling to find a common ground with a ghost, that he'd have to forget and learn again. no matter. this right here would turn it all around. 

it was time to let sleeping dogs lie. he’d learn him all over again, no matter how long it took, no matter how much whittling he'd have to do again. he'll tell him about his life, and maybe shouta would do the same. they'll exchange stories about epic fights between villains, he'll learn of a new (probable) batshit crazy schedule that shouta lives by, and in turn eraser'll have to sit and listen through present mic in all his rambling.

and so he smiles, bringing straw to his mouth to take a sip of his sugary concoction of a fountain drink. 

“ i’m proud of you, y’know. might be a bit weird to say, but i am. “ thoughtful eyes bore deep into companion, analyzing and taking note of every little movement from miniscule to overt. he doesn’t give him a chance to reply, but he does drop his volume to be heard between only the two of them amidst a busy cafe. “ eraserhead’s been making a name for himself amongst the heroes and higher-ups. talk of a high success rate, ‘one of the most, if not the most, capable nighttime heroes.’ “ voice shifts from his own to a classic news reporter’s tone, and back — he was always one to keep it light. divert attention to his true feelings with humor. small chuckle, warm and adoring.

" you're rattling the stars, out there. "

but if all of hizashi truly wasn't what shouta wanted at the end of the day, then he'd find out here and now, and only then would he learn to truly let go. maybe that would be the closure he'd need. or maybe he'd just go back to admiring from a distance, hoping that life treats his once-friend kinder.

if asked, shouta still couldn't really identify what drew them together. why he'd tolerated such a loud disruption in his life. barging in on his carefully crafted solitude with such enthusiasm it had given him a headache. why he hadn’t fended the two of them off as he had everyone else. hizashi and oboro likely wouldn’t have taken no for an answer anyway. they would have wormed their way in like their lives depended on it regardless. sometimes he still wonders if befriending him had in some way cost them all their lives. wondered if anything would have changed had he glared and ignored them until they went away.

he still loves them both so much it hurts. he’d damaged his relationship with hizashi in his retreat to protect himself. barely spoke to the other for the last two years of school and then dropped off the grid the day after graduation. that part was somewhat unintentional, but after everything shouta wasn’t going to impose himself by asking to crash with the yamadas for an indefinite amount of time and oh by the way could they help him pay for medical expenses before his spine started fusing together?

it would have been completely irrational-but knowing what he did now, after the past seven years, he might have swallowed his pride. he hasn’t expected it to have happened quite like it did. no buffer, no warning just pack what could fit in a backpack and get out. no class addressed what to do in that situation. a very lost eighteen year old with no resources other than racking up his capture rate to afford a bright downy sleeping bag. the commission didn’t look twice until they’d needed him and knew he needed them.

as always, shouta had survived. gotten an apartment, albeit not the nicest or in the best part of town, built his network and reputation on doing work quickly and efficiently. people rarely saw him coming. he somewhat reconnected with hizashi and nemuri. always ducked any curiosity about what he’d been up to with a shrug or mumble about it being classified. some things very well may have been with how tightly he locked them away in the shadows of his memory.

really he’s not cut out to be a teacher yet UA apparently thought differently. they’d pay for teaching classes so he wasn’t woefully unprepared. assured him that his underground status wouldn’t be at risk. shouta aizawa would teach. eraserhead would continue to barely exist outside of records. it still made him nervous. on edge that this could tip his meticulous balance of life into chaos. throw him in the deep end like the commission had.

seeing hizashi again, properly given they would be coworkers, had given him a nightmare. shouta is well aware he could’ve been a much better friend and if hizashi hated him they wouldn’t be meeting. but what if he fucked it up somehow. like he’d fucked up his work study or the first few precarious years of his career. if hizashi thought he was hopeless after being one of the driving factors of his becoming a hero at all-shouta would explode. or quit the job before he’d started and resume days of not speaking to anyone. he didn’t need to talk to fight villains.

the smell alone makes him regret dragging his feet enough to be late. there’s enough of a chill in the air hot food sounds delightful. “you haven’t changed at all, have you?” his voice is thankfully steady. shouta studies the other, taking in still blond hair still green eyes. still loud and distracted. he slides into opposing chair and looks around. the shop hadn’t changed much either. he swallows. pulls hair free where it had gotten stuck in scarf. “i missed you too. i…got busy after graduation.”

[frodo-with-glasses]

I’m currently fighting off the remnants of a severe sinus headache and therefore might be a bit incoherent, but I just wanted to take a second to talk about “the value of life and impact of death in LotR”, like I said in the tags on this post.

Okay, so. Boromir’s death. Big moment, right? But in the movies, its impact kinda gets lost after Fellowship. Sure, it pops up again in Gondor, where we have to deal with Denethor and Faramir who are still grieving the loss of a family member, but we don’t really have any reminders of it from Merry’s story in Rohan, or from the Three Hunters as they take the Paths of the Dead, or even from Frodo and Sam once they take leave of Faramir.

But in the books, it’s a whole other story. In the books, Merry sees one (1) messenger from Gondor, and he has to stifle a noise in his throat because the man reminds him of Boromir. In the books, the loss of Boromir is lamented not just by the people of Gondor—for whom he was a national hero—but by the people of Rohan, who knew him as a leader of the country that is their strongest ally. In the books, Frodo is interrogated as to the whereabouts of Boromir, and is disturbed and frightened to get the news:

“It would grieve you then, to hear that Boromir is dead.”

“I would grieve indeed. … Dead?”

And you might think it’s odd, that the death of just one member of the Fellowship has such ripple effects throughout the entire story—especially a member of the Fellowship who nearly betrayed them at the end. That doesn’t seem to track with the “cast calculus” that’s woven into the fiction writer’s unwritten bible.

Some other stories would have the Fellowship whittled down slowly, one death after another, until only the Chosen One (and maybe a companion or two) still remain. Some other stories might choose the most shining and flawless “sacrificial lamb” to die and milk the most tears out of the audience on the basis of that character’s purity and goodness.

Some other stories might have killed Sam instead. He’s the closest one to the protagonist, isn’t he? That’ll crush the hearts of the audience for sure.

But Tolkien doesn’t go in for that. He doesn’t go in for shock value or cheap horror or high body counts. (In this story, anyway. I can’t say anything about the Silmarillion.) Instead, Tolkien decides to show us the death of just one man—deeply flawed, and almost a stranger to most of the Fellowship, but noble and beloved all the same—and explore the lingering ramifications of that death throughout the story.

I think it’s a testament to the value Tolkien placed on life that he can make just one death hit so heavily. Boromir’s death mattered because his life mattered. And even if we don’t feel the whole impact of that fact in the moment Aragorn watches him breathe his last, Tolkien makes sure that that last breath lingers over our shoulders for the entire story, until we understand what it truly meant.

Merry has to bite his lip when a messenger from Gondor appears, because the first thing he sees is the face of a man that he only knew for a few months, but who gave his life to try to save him and Pippin from capture and torture.

He lived. He was known. He died. He pulled an arrow from his side and was no more.

That’s all that matters.

[shanastoryteller]

Hey Shana! Happy Valentine's Day / Happy Lunar New Year! For my prompt, I would love some more either fem!wwx (from that not-a-prompt from before) or first disciple wwx! Maybe with jc loving his sibling a lot? Love your stories as always girl

a continuation of 1

“Should we be supervised more?” Wei Wuxian asks, laying down in the forest with her hair spread out around her to hopefully get it to dry a little faster. If she can avoid a lecture from Madame Yu about how swimming in the lake is undignified, or whatever, then obviously she’s going to do that.

Jiang Cheng looks up from where he’s doing a really terrible job at whittling. Ever since she showed him the roughly hewn flute she made, he’s been determined to learn it too, but his skill is coming slowly. “Why would be need to be supervised? It’s not like there’s anything dangerous out here and it’s not like we’re going to get lost.”

“We’re fifteen,” she says, tilting her head so she can see him better.

“That’s plenty old enough,” he says dismissively. “We can beat most of the senior disciples when we fight together. What sort of trouble do you think we’re going to get into?”

She rolls her eyes. “We could be out here kissing.” They could be out here doing a lot more than kissing, but Jiang Cheng always gets grossed out whenever anything else comes up. She’s not sure if it’s just with her in particular or in general, and since she’s not trying to irritate him, she doesn’t bring it up. Kissing and what not doesn’t sound so bad to her, unless she thinks about doing it with Jiang Cheng, and then it’s pretty awful. The worst part of marrying him is going to be her duty to produce an heir or three or five.

At least the actually making them part. She thinks she’d like a lot of kids one day, after a couple of decades of getting in trouble and exploring and leading the clan. Jiang Cheng doesn’t think he’ll be a good father, but she disagrees. He already tries so hard to not take after his mother’s worst qualities.

“So what if we were?” he scoffs even as he makes a face at the idea of it. “We’re engaged. You’re going to be my wife once we’re old enough.”

“It’s not proper,” she says, but she puts a mocking lilt on the last word.

“Oh, not proper,” he echoes sarcastically. “How very different and strange for you. They probably do think we’re out here kissing.”

Wei Wuxian rolls to her feet and tackles Jiang Cheng into the lake.

When they get home, they’re both dripping wet. Madame Yu is furious, but Jiang Cheng can’t quite force his lips into a frown even in the middle of her lecture, so she thinks it’s worth it.

Later, her arms still sore from their punishment, she lays in her bed, looking at the ceiling and tries to imagine what it will be like, when Uncle Jiang and Madame Yu step down and her and Jiang Cheng are the ones running things. She’s already itching to change their archery training, something Uncle Jiang won’t let her do no matter how much she begs, and of all the talisman ideas that she only dares to show Jiang Cheng and Jiang Yanli, and how much safer they’ll make all their people.

She thinks they’ll be good at it.

She’ll make sure they’re good at it.

[parkerslatte]

Don't Leave Me

Spencer Reid x Fem!Reader

Warnings: major injury. blood. mentions of gunshot wounds. typos

Word Count: 2k

Summary: Y/N gets shot in her apartment and she barely gets to the phone in time to call Spencer.

MASTERLIST

***

Y/N relaxed into her couch and pulled her knees up to her chest. She had just gotten home from work. The team had a long case so all Y/N was looking forward to do was sitting back and watching television for the next week she had off (curtesy of Hotch).

As she flicked through the channels deciding on what to watch, she heard a knock at her apartment door. Her eyebrows furrowed, the time was 1am so she was confused as to why someone was knocking on her door at this hour.

Most likely going against her better judgement - Y/N headed over to her door and looked through the peephole. There stood a figure in dark clothing. They looked around them as if expecting someone or something to come out and grab them.

The person knocked again, this time more frantically, "Please let me in. There's someone trying to get me, he's been following me for ages." It was a woman.

The pleading tone in the womans voice was enough for YN to open her door and let the person in. The woman rushed in and Y/N shut the door behind her.

"Are you okay? Do I need to call someone?" Y/N questioned, folding her arms across her chest.

"No, no its fine. Can I stay here for a bit? Just until I know he's gone for sure." The woman asked.

Y/N nodded, "What's your name?"

The woman hesitated for a second, but Y/N being slightly tired, didn't notice it, "Laura."

"Well Laura, do you want a drink or something?" Y/N asked.

"I'm fine thank you." Laura replied.

Y/N nodded before heading over to her kitchen and getting a glass of water for herself, "So how long are you planning on staying here Laura? I'm not rushing you to leave or anything, it's just so I don't accidentally fall asleep while you're here."

"Oh, not long. Not long at all." Laura replied, looking around Y/N's living area.

"So who was this man chasing you?" Y/N questioned, re-entering the living area with her glass of water.

"There wasn't anyone chasing me." Laura said.

"But you said there was a man chasing you?" Y/N questioned.

"No, there wasn't." Laura stated.

Y/N began to suddenly feel uneasy in the woman's presence, "Okay, Laura I'm going to very kindly ask you to leave-"

A gunshot went off causing Y/N to drop her glass. It shattered on the floor. Y/N looked down and saw a patch of red spreading on her abdomen. She clutched at it before she fell to the floor.

Laura stepped over Y/N, "You don't remember me do you? Well you should. You're the one who locked my husband up for life. That was you" Laura screamed in her face.

Y/N still laced on the floor, clutching her gunshot wound. She tried to get words out but nothing came out except splutters. The shards from her broken glass dug into her back.

Laura sighed pitifully, "Poor little Agent L/N, no one can save you now." Laura raised her gun again and shot Y/N in the shoulder before standing up and turned to leave her apartment.

Y/N wanted to scream out in pain but she couldn't. It felt as if her vocal chords had been cut. The gunshot should have alerted Y/N's neighbours but she knew that Lindley who lived down the hall from her was visiting her parents and sweet old Mr. Whittle wouldn't of been able to hear it without the help of his hearing aids.

Y/N was alone. She was going to die alone.

Her head fell to the side and in her blurry vision, she saw her phone laying on the floor, it had fallen off the couch. She was not that far away from it but eveytime she moved her body it felt like it was on fire.

Y/N had two options - not try to get the phone and bleed out or try to get the phone and have a chance of someone saving her (that's if they hot there in time).

Building up as much strength she could muster, Y/N began to move her arm to reach for her phone. As she did so, she let out a painful scream. She had felt pain before but nothing this unbearable.

She tried one, two, three more times, each time she did so - the faster she was losing consciousness and blood. On her final attempt, Y/N managed to grab the phone.

She unlocked it and pressed a number in her contacts. She wasn’t sure who it was as her vision was beginning to go as she began to loose consciousness faster.

The phone rang and Y/N prayed that whoever she called would be local and they would pick up. The phone rang three times before a voice on the other end answered.

"Hello?" It was Spencer.

"Spencer," Y/N sounded out of breath, "Help." Y/N lost consciousness.

***

Spencer, who was confused as to why Y/N was calling him so late, picked up the phone, "Hello?"

"Spencer," Spencer immediately filled with worry, her voice sounded strained and breathless, like she was fighting for air, "Help."

"Y/N what happened?" There was no answer, "Y/N!" No answer.

Spencer paced around worried out of his mind. Something bad had happened. Something really bad.

Spencer immediately left his apartment and headed to Y/N's. On the way there he called the others telling them that something had happened to Y/N and to meet him at her apartment.

There were barely any cars on the road. Spencer drove as fast as he possibly could (even breaking the legal limit at times) to get to Y/N as quick as possible. If something bad had happened to her, he didn’t know why he would do.

Once he got to her apartment block, he raced up to the second floor and found her apartment door wide open. He approached it with caution, regretting not bringing his gun. Once he got to the door, he peered inside. His blood ran cold. Y/N was laying on the floor in a pool if her own blood, two bullet wounds on her body.

Spencer rushed over to Y/N. Luckily she was still breathing. He applied pressure to both of her wounds. Y/N awoke with a shock. She began to breath heavily - the adrenaline gone from her body. The pain was unbearable.

She looked at the person above her, "Spencer?" Almost immediately, Y/N began to loose consciousness again.

"No, no, Y/N, stay with me, okay? Stay with me!" Spencer said, adding more pressure to her wounds.

Y/N just closed her eyes again, falling unconscious. Spencer began to panic once he noticed that she had stopped breathing.

"No, Y/N stay with me! You're not going to die, okay? I'm not going to let you. Stay with me!" Spencer pleaded.

Seconds after Spencer said that, the rest of the BAU came into Y/N's apartment. They all looked around for a moment before their eyes landed on Y/N and Spencer on the floor - Spencer’s hands and clothes covered in Y/N's blood.

"Oh my god." JJ said before calling an ambulance.

"She's- she's stopped breathing." Spencer said, hand still covering her wounds.

"The ambulance should be here in a minute, luckily she doesn't live too far away from the hospital." JJ announced.

A couple of minutes a later, the ambulance showed up in front of Y/N apartment. They took Y/N's body and rushed her to the hospital. Spencer tried to go in the ambulance with her but since he wasn't family - he couldn't.

"Reid," Hotch said calmly, although inside he was filled to the brim with worry, "What happened here?"

"I- I don't know. Y/N called me saying she needed help so I came here and she-" Spencer couldn't finish the rest of his sentence before a strangled cry came out.

He looked down at his hands, they were stained red with blood - her blood. Frantically he began to wipe them in his trousers.

"I need- I need to get to the hospital. I can't- I can't stand here and do nothing." Spencer said and went to rush out of Y/N's apartment until a gentle hand stopped him.

"Spence, you should go home and get changed. Y/N will be in surgery, there's not much you can do for her right now." JJ said, trying to calm Spencer down. She knew how Spencer felt about Y/N so she knew what he would be feeling at this very moment.

Spencer went to argue but then slowly nodded his head agreeing with JJ. He left without another word.

***

Y/N felt like her entire body was on fire when she woke up. At first she was confused as to where she was. Then it was if a dam broke and everything came rushing back to her. Laura shot her. She bled out. Spencer helped her. She stopped breathing. The journey to the hospital. Everything.

Y/N moved her head and looked down slightly to look at her body. Her shoulder had been patched up and she could only guess the same with the wound on her stomach.

"You are a very lucky woman, Ms. L/N," The doctor said as she walked in, "The bullets just missed your vital organs by barely a millimeter."

"How long have I been out?" Y/N asked, her voice hoarse.

"Just over a day," her doctor answered, "And this one hasn't left your side since. You have a good one there Ms. L/N." Her doctor gave her an smile before leaving the room.

Y/N looked over in at the chair next yo her bed and saw Spencer sleeping, his hand clutched in Y/N's. She smiled at him.

Y/N squeezed his hand lightly to try and wake him. Spencer instantly, Y/N could tell that he was sleeping lightly.

"Hey," Spencer said, "You're awake."

Y/N smiled, "Looks as if you are now too," Y/N said, "Have you been here the entire time?"

Spencer nodded, "I wanted to be here when you woke up. I didn’t want you waking up with no one here - although I had to lie and say I was your fiancee for them to allow me to stay. That's okay isn't it?"

"Perfectly okay," Y/N responded, squeezing his hand, "And thank you Spencer."

"What for?"

"Answering your phone. If you didn't I'm sure I would be dead right now."

"I would answer my phone for you anytime Y/N. No matter the reason, I would answer," Spencer replied, "And there is no reason to thank me. I didn’t do anything."

"You saved my life." Y/N said.

"No, the doctors did that, all I did-"

"Spencer, I wouldn't have made it to the doctors if it wasn't for you. Thank you." Y/N said.

"I'm just glad you're okay. I don't know what I would do without you. Just the thought of you dying, I couldn't live without you." Spencer confessed, holding onto Y/N's hand a little tighter.

Y/N smiled, "Come over here." Spencer, pulled his chair a little closer to Y/N. "A little closer." Spencer pulled his chair even closer.

Y/N reached up to his face, cupping it in her hand. Her thumb ran lightly over his cheekbone, "You, Spencer Reid, are perfect."

Spencer didn't have a chance to reply to her before she pulled him into a kiss. He didn’t know what to do at first. The woman he had loved for two years was kissing him. Spencer kissed back and placed his hands either side of Y/N's face, deepening the kiss. Y/N sighed happily into it and Spencer could feel her smile.

"Woah, what is going on in here?" Derek said, a smirk evident on his face.

Y/N and Spencer immediately jumped apart as the rest of the BAU team came in carrying get well soon balloons and small little presents. A deep blush made its way across both of their faces.

"It took a near death experience for the two to finally admit they liked each other." Derek teased.

A small smile spread across Y/N's face as she looked at Spencer. The man she had loved for two years like her back and the kiss the two shared was unlike anything she had experienced before. Even if she had nearly died, Y/N couldn’t think of a more perfect moment.

[luimagines]

He Accidentally Hurt You pt.2

Masterlist

Set platonically and within the group Part 1

Hyrule

Your blood was pounding as your feet carried you across the battle field.

Your hearing was rendered useless by the cause, you only thoughts were on Hyrule and getting to him before the hoard of monsters did. He had somehow gotten separated from the group in the struggle and was left to fend for himself.

You made contact.

The sword in your hand followed through your practiced movements, slicing all and any between you and your target.

You could hear him in the distance, you were close, you just had to get- just a little-

The hairs on the back of your neck stood up and the air changed. The split second static was your only warning before lightning struck.

Monsters fell all around you but you failed to pay attention to that. Your attention was instead on the blinding, scalding twist in your arm that held your trusted blade. You couldn’t even find it in you to let go of the weapon, your muscles incapable to receiving orders.

The pain traveled through your arm and across your chest until it encompassed your whole being.

Screams tore through your throat without your knowledge and when the attack subsided, your whole body went rag doll and your vision went black.

“Please. Please. Please.” A voice whispered through the darkness. It was soft. Pleading. A blessed chill seemed deep into your bones and you found it within yourself to open your eyes.

Hyrule was crouched above you, tears in his eyes with shallow cuts across his tunic and exposed skin. Not a lot of blood though, your brain supplies. You take a relieved breath.

“Hey.” You croaked out in greeting. “Glad to see you’re ok. I was worried.”

“I didn’t know you were there.” He blurts as if he didn’t hear you. Maybe he didn’t. “I thought it was only monsters nearby. I don’t think I have enough magic to heal you completely. This is all my fault.”

“Fault?” You attempted to sit up. You succeed. Mostly.

A grunt leaves your mouth at the stiffness in your joints and you force yourself to power though to reach into your inventory.

A sniffle leaves your Traveler when you push his hands away when you find your target. The red liquid glints in the dying sunlight and you hand it out to him. “Think you can open it?”

He nods and pry's it open before you can even think about getting into a better sitting position.

You don’t think twice about taking the potion when he hands it back.

“Save your magic.” You say. “I’ll be fine.”

And you know you’re right....It’ll take a little more than that to convince the rest of the group when you get back though. Hyrule plans to smother you until not a single blemish is left. The others? Well... They’ll keep an eye on you.

Twilight

“Ten rupees says you can’t make that throw.” You hear Warriors say.

“Double it and I’ll gladly prove you wrong.” Twilight responds.

The book in your lap calls for attention more than whatever those two are doing for the sake of friendly competition. You don’t look up, trying to keep your eyes on the page but you can’t help the growing curiosity in the back of your head.

“What are we using to aim with?”

“That?”

“Sure.”

You roll your eyes and keep your head down.

“I’ll be twenty rupees richer and it’ll shut your mouth. Just watch.” Twilight grumbles.

There’s a tap and a growl before something comes at your head full throttle. It’s dense but not enough to keep it from exploding all into your hair and it knocks you over slightly.

You closed your book to protect it from the falling matter and reach at the spot. By your feet laying the offending object.

An apple.

They threw an apple at your head. Correction. Twilight threw an apple at your head.

The thoughts in your head spin a bit. Your whole head is throbbing but you doubt there’s any blood. You look up just in time to see Warrior and Twilight running at you as fast as they can. Twilight reaches you first and kneels next to you. “By Ordana, are you ok?”

His hands hover over you, trying to take in the damage without actually touching you.

“Who are you?” You blurt out, very quickly realizing that it was the wrong thing to say.

His face drops and Warrior wears a similar expression.

“Kidding.” A pained grin covers your face. “Take me to Hyrule please.”

“I’m so sorry.” Twilight reaches for you and you comply. Once you’re on your feet he speaks again. “Warrior messed up my shot and it hit you by accident.”

“That’s a weird way to say you lost a bet.”

You kick Warrior as payback.

Sky

“So...” You sit next to Sky during the break. “What are you planning to make this time?”

The boy next to you already had his whittling knife out and a decent sized chunk of wood in his lap. He picked it up and spun it a few times, staring into it as if he could already see the form inside it. It was just his job to take it out.

“I don’t know yet.” He admits. “Maybe it’ll come to me.”

You nod and let him work in relative silence, the faint but consistent sounds of Sky working next to you create a blissful and serene atmosphere.

The others are off doing their own thing, each keeping to themselves for the most part.

It’s nice.

“Actually, can you help me with this real quick?”

Your attention is back on Sky. He’s trying to get his knife out of the wood block, the outline of the shape he’s making already starting to form.

You don’t recognize it.

Sky picks up the knife and the whole block follows. “It got stuck.”

“How?” You raise an eyebrow and try to keep the smile off of your face.

Your response is only a shrug and the wood being thrust in your direction.

You grab it and instinctively tighten your grip on it when you feel Sky pull.

You both use your strengths to your advantage and pull in different directions. You feel the knife begin to slip out and adjust your grip. Within seconds the blade is free and you feel it cross the tip of your finger.

Instantly, the wood is dropped and you cradle your hand close to you, putting pressure on the injured digit.

“Ok, got it, thank- What happened?” Sky scoots closer to you and pulls your hands out.

A thin red line follows the length of your finger and it only seems to grow as the moments pass. It doesn’t feel deep but it certainly won’t let you flex your finger for a while.

A quite hiss leaves Sky’s lips. “Well that could’ve gone better. Sorry about that.”

“It could’ve gone worse too.” You press a little on the injury, trying to will the pain away.

It doesn’t work, but hey, you try.

“Hold on. I think I have some bandages in my pack.” Sky gets up and jogs to where most of the others are sitting. He picks up his bag and looks inside for a minute or two before jogging back to you.

A small role of bandages sits in his hand and when he reach for your hand, you don’t hesitate to give it to him.

As he’s working on your finger, you feel mild irritation bubble up in your throat. “This better not scar.”

“Why’s that?” Sky replies.

“It’ll be the lamest story.”

He laughs and finishes his work.

Time

Sometimes it surprised you how short everyone in the group was. You weren’t sure if it was a Link thing or one of the biggest coincidences of the universe because it certainly wasn’t just because they were Hylian (but that probably didn’t help).

That being said, and what you could gather from The Captain, it boggled your mind further that Time was the biggest of everyone. Warrior made it seem like he’d stay small forever, implying that Time was smaller still when he first defeated Gannon.

That didn’t seem very fair.

For him and you....well everyone, only Twilight and Warrior were the ones exempt from having to look up at the old man. But you didn’t like the idea of someone so small fighting such a beast, so Time is included in your sympathy list.

Despite his size, he seemed to move as silent as a mouse. Only Wild would be quieter than him.

After some time of traveling with them all, you realized he was just as much as a gremlin as the rest.

He was not above pranking the living daylights out of poor unsuspecting teenagers.

And the thing is, no one could catch him. Somehow he managed to get them to in the blame on each other but you knew better. You swore it had to be him. There was no way. There was no way he could count as a Link and not get into this kind of stuff.

But no one believed you.

It definitely wasn’t fair.

With the stage set, it’s safe to say now that you were calmly, peacefully and quietly minding your own business. You weren’t bothering anyone.

You were writing in your journal under a tree with some low branches. Nothing too bad but in terms of shade and angle, you found it to be the perfect resting place.

You took a deep breath in and let it out.

Yes, it was nice.

“BOO!”

You jumped as high as your reflexes you take you and spun around, but you had forgotten where you were in the moment.

With a solid thunk, your head hit the branch above you and sat back down, with a curse.

While there was laughter in the your reaction, it was cut off abruptly at the first sign of pain. “Oh jeeze, I’m sorry. How bad does it hurt?”

A whimper escaped your mouth before you could stop it and you closed your journal, choosing to furiously rub your hands against the now tender spot on the top of your head. “Ow Time. Why did you do that?”

“I’m sorry. I didn’t think you’d move like that.” He moved your hands away and inspected the area for himself. “No bleeding. Doesn’t look like it’ll need a potion...”

“I blame you.” You grumbled. “This is your fault.”

“I can accept that.” He nodded and stepped back. “There’s not much we can do about it in terms of healing, but perhaps Hyrule would be willing to lend a hand.”

“No way. He’d ask how it happened and I’m not going to lie to him.” You pouted. “No one will believe me if I told them the truth.”

“Why not?”

“Because it’s you!” You glared at him.

A tiny giggle escaped from the so called Old Man of the group, Mr. Stick in the Mud. Senor Buzzkill. “And why would that make a difference?”

“I cannot believe you... Actually yes I can, you were doing this on purpose the whole time.”

He laughed more fully this time and didn’t seem to let up.

With a pout, you picked up your book and marched away.

One day you’ll get back at him. You just had to figure out how and when.

Four

“So, how do we play this game again?” You picked up the ball one of your companions took out. It was almost the size of your head and had crisscrossing lines. It was white and weighed less than you originally thought.

It was a relatively slow day and no one felt in the mood to dampen it by looking for trouble.

While Twilight and Warrior set up the net that was supposed to go with it, the rest were waiting and going over the rules.

“Just hit the ball over the net. You can’t the ball twice in a row, someone else has to hit it and if it touches the ground you lose the point.”

“Seems simple enough.” Wild takes the ball from you and tosses it a few times.

It takes a while for all the appropriate moves to be demonstrated but you all play the game with ease.

You were having a good time with your friends. Everyone was actually getting along for a change. With a smile on your face, you waited for the moment that would inevitably change.

You swore you could almost pin point when it happened.

With Four right across from you, his sudden change in stance gave away the glint in his eyes.

The ball came to him and he jumped up, higher than you thought he could and spiked.

Next thing you knew, you were on the ground, stunned and slightly disoriented and your face was hurting.

Four ran to your side as the game was halted. “That... was not what I was intending.”

“You don’t say... Can I step out for a minute?” You asked, trying to get your feet. Four helped you get away from the battle field- I mean, the game area and helped you sit back down against a nearby tree.

“Sorry about that.” He smiled apologetically. “Anything I can do to help?”

You looked up at him hopefully. “Lose the game?”

“Not a chance.”

[phantomrose96]

Flash in the Eyes

(So, I like this thing y’all are doing to save Flynn from Hartman’s hands)

Danny knew very little about his Aunt Alicia.

In his memories, she was a gruff and bitter woman, tall like an obelisk, sturdy like his mother was, and unyieldingly cold like his mother wasn’t. She was calloused in the hands, and the elbow, and the heart, and carried an earthy stench like hay and rainfall that reminded Danny too much of the one time he got lost in the woods. It was her face he remembered best, because in every young memory of his, her face was cast into a scowl of disgust that she seemed to reserve solely for his company.

Danny knew very little about his aunt – except that she hated him.

He kept this almost exclusively to himself, and internalized it the way that young children do – with the paralyzing fear that his aunt knew something despicable about him that Danny did not. He had tried just once to ask his mom why Aunt Alicia hated him, and his mother had waved and laughed. ‘That’s silly!’, she’d said, and she’d said it with such wide probing eyes, such a waver in her smile, that Danny understood she too must know the Despicable Thing about him.

Danny was 8 when he’d last seen his Aunt Alicia. The years since then had left his memories to bury and rot and grow brittle, like autumn leaves long sogged under snow, then dried in the spring sun, left as spider-webbed skeletons that crumbled at the touch. By the time he was 14, these memories were little more than a wisp.

By the time he was 14, Danny had new Despicable Things about himself to learn, the kind which well-overshadowed any old and forgotten memories. He knew now that he was a Freak, and a Loser, and a Cheat, and a Menace, and the Bringer of the World’s End, were he not careful.

At 14, when Danny saw his Aunt again, he’d long since forgotten that she was a thing for him to fear.

He was only staying the night, after a convoluted stunt from Jack left him, Jazz, and his parents all but stranded at Alicia’s until daybreak would allow them to wander the roads back into town and catch a bus back to civilization.

So Danny passed the evening the best he could – seated in one of Aunt Alicia’s rocking chairs, breathing in the cool earthy late-spring air, listening to cicadas and the strain and squeak of the rocker as he pressed his toes into the porch. He fixed his eyes to the clear night sky. The stars were so much clearer out here.

To his left, Alicia occupied the other chair, fingers busied with a knife that she whittled meticulously along the splintered edges of a block of wood.

“How old are you now?”

Danny startled at the address, and found his eyes had slipped shut. When had his eyes slipped shut? He blinked them to the sky, and glanced to the left. Alicia was staring at him.

“Oh, uh. 14 now.”

“Mmm,” Alicia answered. Knife point dug deeper into wood. “…Maddie’s got that portal of hers working, I’ve heard. Is that so?”

“Yeah. Oh. Uh-huh. Yeah her and dad. Their ghost portal—probably like—four months now, maybe? I uh, I don’t really know. I don’t uh… interact with it much.”

“…Have they been inside it?”

“Uh, no? I don’t think so.”

“Do they plan to?”

“Maybe. Uh. Probably. The specter speeder – it’s like this RV… space ship… thing… for going in the ghost zone. It’s something they built. So yeah uh, I guess, they probably do.”

Alicia lapsed silent. Her hands had stilled.

“Have you been inside?”

Danny tipped a little too far back in the rocking chair, and he felt it bottom out behind him. He wasn’t sure if the bottoming-out in his stomach was the chair, or the question – not that it mattered – since Danny responded only with a yelp and a pinwheeling of his arms. He was saved only by Alicia’s quick reflex, springing up and seizing the arm of the chair with her left hand – whittled bit of wood dropped to the porch.

“Thanks,” Danny breathed. And he looked up at his aunt.

And he remembered with an icy rush every single reason his 8 year old self had to be terrified.

Face cast deep into shadow from the porch lights behind her, Alicia’s bright green eyes watched him. Pinning, thin and probing, aggressively predatory in a way that reminded Danny all too much of ghost beasts. Her lip was curled up, exposing a few missing teeth, set upon that scowl that flashed through a dozen memories racing back to his mind. It was an expression that seemed intimately aware of every Despicable Thing there was to Danny. And with the tiniest flicker of his eyes, Danny focused on the whittling knife in her hand. Brandished.

Panic doused him, lit his every nerve on fire, and Danny fumbled for escape. He crashed down to the porch with a yelp, and his head cracked hard on the wood. Danny hissed, hand pressed to his head, and looked back up.

Alicia had backed off, surprise overtaking her hardened features. None of that flash of malice showed. The light fell normally on her, painting a slight gauntness to her face, but the arched brows, the parted mouth, and the startled eyes contained not a hint of danger. She glanced to the whittling knife in her hand, and dropped it on the porch, and raised both her hands palm-up.

“S-sorry! I startled you, huh? Just trying to catch the—” Alicia lost her voice. She was staring back into Danny’s eyes, and confusion evolved into something caught between horror and revulsion.

Danny blinked, and realized his world was tinged in green. His fight-or-flight had activated, his body was pulsing with adrenaline and ectoplasm, and he felt it all too late in the shimmer of his eyes, doused green. The scary eyes. He blinked it away. The damage was done.

…

When the Fentons packed their things and left the next morning, very few words were exchanged between Danny and Alicia.

The Fentons set out to follow the single dirt road back to the center of town. Danny looked back, and watched Alicia grow small in the distance, her and the house both, left alone, sealed back into the nothing-ness and the no one-ness. Danny found himself shivering at the memory of the previous night, and wondering even why Alicia had chosen to join him on the porch in the first place.

Maddie and Jack chatted about idle nothings. Jazz had occupied herself in pocket-sized book she’d managed to stow along on the trip. Danny only stared forward, and said nothing, and walked.

Danny knew very little about his Aunt Alicia – except that she hated him.

Danny knew very little, except that now, she feared him too.

Danny sat on the memory, reshaping it, wondering how he must have looked from the other side. What did his glowing green eyes look like to those he pinned with his gaze? What did she know now? What did she suspect? What reason did she have to look so afraid?

The last question sat uneasily with him. Danny carried himself forward on legs all but numb, and wondered whether he was something worth being feared after all.

[wolf-and-bard]

Drown With Me If You Can

Prompt: White Frost/Apocalypse

Relationships: Arnaghad/Erland of Larvik (from one of the witcher-centric cards)

Rating: M

Content Warnings: swear words, grief, themes of giving up on life and hopelessness at the beginning

Summary: After the fall of Kaer Seren, all that is left for Erland to do in his gloomy cave is write his journal and let the cold take him. He doesn’t expect to be saved, especially not by his former-lover-turned-nemesis Arnaghad. In which: Erland wallows and Arnaghad calls him out on his bullshit. A lot.

Word Count: 5.6k

AO3 link

I.

I close out this account with a warning: the knowledge I hereby hope to preserve is essential for the day the monsters return to our crypts, our battlefields, and our gardens. It is a call to battle and heroism and in that it is treacherous. If you use these pages with the intention to do good in this world, you will soon find yourself to be an outcast among humans. You will save them and they will spit at you. You will beg for fair payment and they will burn you at the stake. Be prepared for that, and take up the sword nonetheless for if you do not, no one will. Peace, brothers and sisters of the future, peace and blessings of the Gods. May you never need this journal.

Erland signs the bottom of the last page with fingers gnarled by the cold, trembling from how his muscles have hardened as a result of his lethargy. When it is done, he grips the quill hard, clings to it. It is a childish instinct that makes him do this, but this feather has been his lifeline for the past… past. A lifeline to the past. Time flakes away from Erland the same way the tattered pieces of the quill do once it breaks under his tightening fingers. The last few pages of his journal are barely legible and he can’t tell whether that is because his vision is fails him, like a pane of glass slowly devoured by a sheen of ice, or because his script has fallen prey to his tremor. As Erland waits for the ink to dry, he uses his weak hand to arrange his good one into the proper gesture for an Igni and casts it down the dark tunnel of his home.

A perfect cone of lightly crackling flames shoots outward, illuminating the glazed rock all around. The sign holds for several breaths, steady and sturdy and its heat singes Erland’s frayed cuffs, has the ceiling drip crystalline melt-off.  Erland smiles grimly to himself and shuts the journal. This time can’t take from him and the ice won’t feast on, this his body will always know how to do. A perfect channelling of what Chaos he may access.

Shaking, Erland crawls over to his makeshift bedroll – a dirt-hardened pellet of furs he collected on his way up here, a long hike with Kaer Seren a steady ruin at his back and the names of his brothers and children a steady weight on his shoulders – and collapses on top of it.

It is done. His lips trace the outlines of these words, but his tongue is too heavy to lift. Erland sneezes into his pillow and draws a ratty quilt over himself. It used to be bursting with reds and oranges, a gift from an old woman for saving her granddaughter from an early death by harpy, but now it is faded and as grimy as the rest of him. Erland cannot distinguish the colours of his belongings any longer, not even in the stale light of the last sparks of the Igni that cling to the cave’s walls.

It is done.

His journal is finished, his life chronicled, his school honoured and his knowledge preserved. All that is left to the former griffin master is to wait for the sparks of his life to die out alongside those of his magic. Erland flops onto his belly and uses his weak hand to arrange the fingers of his good one into the shape of Axii. His wrist creaks when he angles the hand at his own face and he casts it with the same impeccable precision. The spell hits instantly and his body goes slack, his mind punctured through by holes. Erland sleeps and hopes a harsh wind will blow through his abode tonight.

II.

There is a long interval of darkness that is marked by bursts of hot and cold shivers that wreck his body, but Erland doesn’t truly wake and by the time he does, he isn’t sure that they were real at all. He goes through a stage of sleep paralysis in which all he can do is to stare at the coarse ceiling of the cave. It has frozen back over and if there were any light, Erland would see his own face reflected in it. Sunken cheeks, eyes reddened from burst capillaries, undercut grown out into shaggy strings of hair. The griffin tattooed on the side of his skull drowns in them, just like the griffin witchers drowned in dust and snow the day their school was buried in an avalanche.

Erland sighs. He cannot move a muscle for half an eternity. His nose itches and another sneeze finally frees him, releases him into an unsettled slumber that pushes him along the maze of corridors that is his own memory. He retraces every step he took along the Path, faces all the monsters he slaughtered and all the humans he failed to convince that he shouldn’t be slaughtered alongside them.

There is no lesson to be learned from these dreams. Only patience. Erland has long lived with his regrets, knows them as intimately as the beasts whose traits he noted down in his journal. Only patience, yes. In all his striving to be more than a mere mercenary or rat-catcher perhaps his most undervalued and least practiced virtue.

Erland can be patient.

He vaguely remembers one who never was, an old friend, a former lover who faced the world with steel first and foremost, steel accompanied by a detached pragmatism that was so at war with everything Erland believed in. That friend – now less than an enemy – would not have lain here so wallowing in the drawn-out pain of his end days. He would not have waited for his death, he would have summoned it by drawing his slowly rusting blades and cutting himself open, would have watched his hot blood hiss against the ice at the heart of this mountain and would have born a proud curl of his lip until the moment the fire in his own heart extinguished.  

Erland smiles and his jaw creaks.

He takes the high-road.

He…

He sleeps.

He thrashes.

He recites every lesson the knight Gryphon ever taught him. They are the foundation of his life’s work, they are all he has left.

He is patient.

III.

Erland is caught in a sleep paralysis once more when it enters the mountains. The monsters usually haunt him when he’s somewhere in the realm of insanity, but now he is wide awake, body one rigid line under the quilt that has long since lost its ability to keep out the winter, which means the thing could be very real and out for his blood. Its steps boom and quake through the rock for hours before the giant passes into the dead end that is Erland’s makeshift dwelling. Even with no light to illuminate it, Erland can see it glittering, can see its giant head swing left and right, can hear the scrape of its fragile marble skin against the walls.

An ice elemental.

If Erland is extra lucky, this used to be its lair and he accidentally usurped it. There is no moving away, no putting up a fight and he resigns himself to a quick and violent death after all. How graceful of Destiny to show her face now, after everything else has passed her by.

But then the ice elemental shakes off the snow, hundreds of flakes that rain down to cover the floor, and Erland blinks. The outline of the monster softens from harsh crystals to wet strands of fur that hug broad shoulders. A werewolf? Erland can’t draw breath, doesn’t trust his ears when the thing opens its mouth and speaks, a deep baritone. Not nearly raspy enough to be of anything other than human origin.

"Alzur’s rotten balls, Erland is that you?"

Erland wants to laugh. Of all the demons the depths of his consciousness could have summoned to this cursed place, it had to be Arnaghad. Arnaghad with his hulking form and his smooth voice, his tattered bearskin overcoat and his terrible timing. Always terrible. He can’t laugh, of course, can’t do more than wheeze faintly.

A torch flares up, casting eerily long shadows at the feet of the apparition, more real than anything Erland has thought in a long time. At the same time, Erland catches Arnaghad’s eyes – dark ochre with narrow slits, eyes that are set deeply under bushy eyebrows which underline the blocky shape of Arnaghad’s face as though it was whittled from planks of red birch – and Arnaghad starts.

“It is you,” he says and follows that up with a curse Erland can’t discern, courtesy of Arnaghad’s Gemmeran linguistic oddities that persist to this day. With them comes a harsh edge to all his syllables and a tendency to mouth-breathe. Funny how after decades of reciprocal avoidance, Erland still remembers these details. Casting his mind down the drainage canal of history, he also remembers himself: a young fighter, just two decades of age, stuck in a body that was overflowing with emotions of visionary self-determination, of rough-and-fast passion, of compassionate anger. Erland waits for the spark of that anger to rekindle, especially as he watches Arnaghad toss his swords and pack and drop to his knees by Erland’s pellet, the torch held close. It’s heat licks across Erland’s cheeks and cradles his skull.

It remains the only heat.

His anger is but a relic of a more complicated time.

“By all the gods,” Arnaghad breathes, hand passing over Erland’s sweaty forehead. His touch too feels familiar, feels too familiar, but his scent isn’t and neither is the concern that drenches his tone. “You look like a giant lump of bird shit.”

Erland’s nostrils flare. Slowly, ever so slowly, his lips peel back in a snarl. He still can’t move, no matter how much he tries. He wants the ice elemental back, if only for the simplicity of its puny gravel brain. Arnaghad’s may only be a smidge bigger and more substantial, but with that comes so much. Arguments that have been left unburied, thoughts that have been left unspoken, memories that have been left unfinished.

Erland hisses weakly through his teeth and Arnaghad growls in reply. He doesn’t extinguish the torch, he sticks it into the ground somewhere to Erland’s right and sits back on his heels, the growl building and building. Erland drifts off again, waiting for Arnaghad to speak. He hopes that when he wakes, the phantom will be gone.

IV.

If anything, Arnaghad has solidified by the time Erland opens his eyes again. He sits by Erland’s bedside still, even cross-legged tall enough that his head grazes the ceiling of the cave if he straightens. Before him he stokes a small campfire with several crude bursts of Igni.

“That is a waste of precious firewood,” Erland says, voice croaky. He pushes himself up onto his forearms, head sluggish to lift from the scratchy pillows. Arnaghad doesn’t turn around, instead he retrieves an iron pot from his belongings and presses it against the cave’s wall, using his dagger to scrape off the ice there. Practical, first and foremost, that is exactly how Erland remembers his lover of yore. Lover being a euphemism for something Erland still cannot name.

“I’m hungry,” Arnaghad says and fires another sign. Briefly, the cave explodes with heat and Erland just about stifles a vulgar moan. When did he last have the pleasure of warmth this intense and indulgent? The fire slowly seeps into his blankets and furs and nestles against his skin. He sinks back into them and closes his eyes. “Besides,” the bear witcher continues. “You might have died of hypothermia if I hadn’t started it. It’s almost funny, Erland the righteous asshole letting himself freeze to death, where is the glory in that? Alas, I find it hard to believe that you have developed a sense of humour since last we met.”

“Neither have you.”

“Ha,” Arnaghad says and that’s it for a while. Erland listens to the water boil, to Arnaghad hacking at dried vegetables and jerky. It doesn’t even smell bad and despite his self-imposed fast, Erland’s stomach rumbles and the inside of his mouth feels coated in dirt. How long has it been since last he drank? It didn’t matter until Arnaghad stampeded into his life again, shaking him awake.

Erland sneezes.

Maybe not all of him.

“Bless you,” Arnaghad grumbles. “So, how did you end up here, little birdie? Your wings broken?”

“I’m not little and griffins aren’t birds.”

“Smartass.”

Erland snorts. He isn’t about to stoop down to Arnaghad’s level and start bickering and he has no inclination for small-talk. That’s what he tells himself anyway. A part of him is almost… glad for the company. Glad for this company in particular. Fuck that.

“I will allow you to stay the night,” Erland says, and squints to see Arnaghad raise one of his caterpillar eyebrows at him. It isn’t like either of them can tell day from night, and depending on where Arnaghad entered the tunnel system of the Dragon Mountains, the last time he saw sunlight may have been weeks ago. “Fine, I will allow you to have a rest. After, I want you gone.”

“I don’t care what you want. If it hadn’t been for me you would be a corpse right now. Take a peek.”

Erland follows the gesture of Arnaghad’s hand and glances down himself, gingerly lifts the blanket. He is swathed in thick, padded linens, an extra pair of breeches and woollen-knit socks. The bearskin that usually hugs Arnaghad’s shoulders is draped across him and what is more, his lips do not feel chapped any longer. His hair curls around his head in a long, neat braid, like a viper in slumber. Shit, how long was he out for?

“Have you considered that it might have been my explicit wish to die?”

“I have,” Arnaghad says on a low chuckle. “A ridiculous notion. You’re sick, that is all. Sick people lean towards melodrama.”

“I’m not being melodramatic,” Erland replies and, oh, there it is. Frustration breaking through the hard-packed stratum of the years like a flower through the earth in early spring. It’s fast to burst and blossom. He does try and sit up after all, but before the world can start to spin around him, Arnaghad has roughly pushed him back into the sheets.

“You are always melodramatic,” the bear witcher replies and glowers at him, face cast in darkness by his bulky outline. Erland’s eyes narrow.

“One night,” he says. “And then you’re gone.”

“We’ll see about that. The stew is going to have to cook for a bit, and you should go back to sleep. Want me to Axii you?”

“And have you make minced meat out of my brain? No thank you, I can do that myself,” Erland snaps. He’s being petulant, why is he being so petulant? It’s all these rifts tearing open in his chest, all these holes he abandoned when he left the order with his friends to found the griffin school. These holes pull him back to life and reality, pull him back through time and into a persona he thought he buried. Erland is not a child. Erland is the griffin grandmaster, Erland is a knight, Erland is a witcher. It doesn’t matter that these functions are all theory now, they make up his identity. Not Arnaghad and his quarrels. And yet…

Erland turns away, facing the wall. When he makes the gesture for the Axii, he doesn’t even have to use his hand to arrange the fingers. He didn’t want to live. Now he does. And that’s more than he can take after everything he’s lost. More than he deserves, really. Erland puts very little force behind the sign, letting it spill to the tips of his fingers then gently touching them to his own face and thankfully, the world blots out around him.

V.

Arnaghad’s voice pulls him up again, like the detonation of a bomb.

“Wake up, stew’s ready.”

Before Erland is fully awake, a coughing fit grips his body and although it scratches at the back of his throat, it also feels freeing in a way, loosening the plaque on his bones and the dust in his chest.

“So you’re still a victim of your winter sickness,” Arnaghad laughs. “I wondered.”

“What do you know of it?” Erland’s voice is muffled as he wipes his mouth, the words come out spiteful, acidic. This time, he does have the strength to sit up on his bed, but he needs the sturdy stone wall at his back to keep him upright. It’s a cool antithesis to the slight swelter of the cave’s air, a gracious counter-force to the merrily burning fire and the bubbling stew.

“Erland, you have spent twenty odd winters in my embrace, would you not think some of that has stuck with me?”

“In the face of your betrayal, no, I would not,” Erland says, crossing his arms, though admittedly, Arnaghad is right. Erland has always been susceptible to the cold, more so than any of his fellow witchers. Perhaps that is because Skellige, in the shape of his mother, rejected him when he was young, or perhaps it is because of his father whose origin Erland still doesn’t care to investigate. Either way, when the frost’s first tendrils start to wind their way into the atmosphere, he falls ill with sneezes and shakes, fevers too. It must be winter already then.  

“My betrayal, yes,” Arnaghad mutters and retrieves a wooden bowl from his pack into which he shovels some of the stew. It smells prickly and hot, thick with Ofieri spices and has Erland’s mouth water. Now that he is fully himself again, his senses have returned, an assault on his mind. As with any battle he ever fought, Erland decides to be methodical about it. First the food, then the fight. He reaches out for the bowl, but Arnaghad scoffs at his trembling hands. “Don’t think I’ll let your atrophied muscles spill any of this. It’s too damn good, here.” Arnaghad settles into a cross-legged seat before Erland and the fire paints a halo around him. He’s so big that it cowers at his back, which suits Erland fine. This way it is easier to ignore the concentrated, caring expression on the bear witcher’s face as he submerges a wooden spoon, scoops up a chunk of whatever dried meat he put into the stew and gently blows on it before holding it out.

“Why do you care?” Erland asks weakly, lips parting around the spoon. As soon as it hits his tongue – the perfect degree of scolding hot and spicy – he can’t help a small groan. Blunt though Arnaghad may be, his cooking has always been phenomenal. Erland’s stomach mewls for more.

“I always cared.”

“Funny way of showing that.” Erland gives him a pointed look and Arnaghad’s eyes dart along the scar that neatly sections Erland’s face. He has yet to receive even an attempt at apology for it. “Back then you didn’t seem too caring with me. In fact, I acutely remember your sword flaying me.”

“If I’d wanted to kill you, you would have died. But I didn’t want that then and I don’t want it now. I hold to my promises, Erland.”

Accusation is slabbed thickly onto those words and Arnaghad holds out another spoonful of stew which Erland dutifully swallows. It’s not the first time the sickness held him down so hard he had to be fed, but it feels strangely agitating for Arnaghad to be the one to do it. After he left and founded his own school, the only snippets Erland ever heard about the bear witcher were rumours of his death, especially with the vipers splitting off the bear school. Perhaps, Erland liked to believe that Arnaghad was dead because that took away the possibility of whatever was happening now. Perhaps, Erland left the one promise he spent all his life circumventing at Morgraig Castle the day he set out for Kaer Seren. Perhaps, Arnaghad didn’t change at all and neither did Erland.

“Do you even remember?” Arnaghad asks quietly, then allows himself a few gulps of soup before refilling the bowl. He doesn’t meet Erland’s eyes, but Erland can see the faint glow of anguish speckling his cheekbones. Oh, but this is bad. If Arnaghad goes berserk in here, they’ll both be buried in rock and ice and Erland is too awake and vivacious now to want that.

“Remember what?” Erland asks, feigning ignorance as long as that leaves him the proverbial high ground, the only place from which he can match Arnaghad’s sheer height. He accepts another two spoons, then shakes his head. His stomach feels brilliantly full, close to bursting, and he rubs it weakly. Arnaghad puts the bowl to his lips and drinks the rest of the stew. They’ll both want more later, especially with the firewood dwindling, but for now the next field is to be played. It all gets muddled anyway, who is he kidding. Erland sighs and that lets Arnaghad’s gaze snap upwards, latching onto Erland’s. They silently glower at each other for a handful of breaths.

“Of course, you do,” Arnaghad says eventually. “Knowing you, you remember your exact words.”

“I do,” Erland says and the ghost of his own voice flashes through his mind.

My heart lies at the end of a dream, Arnaghad. And as long as that dream remains unfulfilled, I cannot give it to you.

“You lied.”

“I didn’t lie, I never lied,” Erland protests, but Arnaghad shakes his head.

“I don’t understand. You obviously felt something for me, feel something still. Oh, don’t give me that look, I told you I care. I always paid attention to you, you know that.”

Erland does. It pains him to admit it, but he does.

“I didn’t lie,” he repeats, hands balling into fists.

“You threw me scraps of affection when it would have cost you nothing to invite me to your table,” Arnaghad says.

“Do we really have to do this now? I told you I want you gone.”

“I saved your life.”

“UNBIDDEN,” Erland screams and his arm shoots out in an arc. It is only by Arnaghad’s quick reflexes that the Aard doesn’t have him fly into the back wall. Erland heaves, watching Arnaghad’s thick Quen dissolve with a buzzing static, and he doesn’t know what’s gotten into him. After everything, he doesn’t want to hurt Arnaghad, of course he doesn’t.

“Why couldn’t you love me?” Arnaghad says, so fucking stubborn in his resolve to have this conversation. What a stupidly vulnerable question.

Back then, Erland bought in to the delusions he liked to paint for himself in blood and gore. He was destined for more, he was a noble knight, he was to rid the world of evil forevermore. Arnaghad didn’t fit in with that dream. He would try and keep Erland from it because he didn’t understand, had no ambitions for himself. And while that was, and likely still is true, it was never the reason Erland didn’t allow anything more than physical between them. But it was the reason he clung to and dangled before Arnaghad’s eyes over and over. After the night of the sundering… it didn’t matter so much anymore and Erland locked the true reason away in a dark corner of his heart, huddled together with the feelings he held hostage in the hopes they would fade to nothing.

Erland listens to his own heartbeat thump at his temples in a nagging ache and he forfeits his answer. Arnaghad doesn’t deserve forgiveness for what he did to Rhys and Erland and whomever else his sword cleaved, but he deserves the truth.

“You really want to know why?” he asks weakly, cringing inwardly at Arnaghad’s curt nod. Erland continues on a sigh, feeling fragile now that his anger evaporated with the sign he just cast. “I was afraid. I ruined my mother’s life by existing and I couldn’t spare Jagoda the experiments Alzur put us through and I never managed to make the humans see us as anything other than aberrations. I can slay monsters and teach others to do the same, but I can’t save the people I love.”

“That is horseshit, just complete and utter horseshit. Your mother was a right old cunt and nothing could have saved Jagoda. All the girls died, remember? Do you blame yourself for their deaths too?”

“My school,” Erland whispers, blinking rapidly to do away with those questions. “I loved them too and now they all lay buried under rubble. My brothers, my sons, my whole life. I loved them and I couldn’t save them. I’m a curse.”

“…why did you never say anything?” Arnaghad reaches out and his thick fingers brush Erland’s scraggly face. Erland stifles a dry sob. Some truths are better left unspoken and this was definitely one of them. He never dared to utter it to himself, in the quiet safety of his own mind, and now Arnaghad knows it. Arnaghad his ex-lover, used-to-be friend, nemesis for some years, phantom of his past for more, saviour of his life. Arnaghad who does, when it comes down to it, have a claim to his heart.

“Because you would have ridiculed me, as you itch to do now.”

“It is true that I was never good at understanding how other people feel,” Arnaghad says and his thumbs come to rests against Erland’s temples, smoothing out the ache there. He shuffles closer and their knees bump together which sends a jolt through Erland’s weakened frame. “But if you would have told me this, I would have found it impossible to demean you. I care, Erland, why won’t you believe that?”

Because you don’t care about anything other than your own survival.

Because it took five years for you to ever look at me twice and double the time for you to answer my frequent knocks on your door.

Because you attacked our brother and cut me and your eyes were filled with pure hatred.

Because you spent decades on your mountain, pretending like that was the only life you ever knew.

Because…

Because…

Erland grasps for more reasons, grasps for the steely indifference he felt for Arnaghad ever since the day he left Morgraig for Haern Caduch. He stops. No forgiveness, not yet. But perhaps, in the face of his grief and all that he lost, it would do well to cast his gaze into the future. Erland releases his tense muscles and lets go of something. After, his breath comes easier.

“You would have me believe that your care is rooted in love? Even after all this time?” he asks.

“Yes,” Arnaghad replies. So simple, huh?

“So maybe you love me. That doesn’t change the fact that I would have let you down.” Or Arnaghad him. Or maybe they were fated to let each other down.

“Look, birdie. I don’t know what it means to dream big, but I know this, and I know it for certain: you did what you could and because you’re a persistent shit, you did it exceptionally well. There are forces at work in this world one man alone cannot overcome. You did what you could.”

Erland doesn’t know what to say to that. Because that isn’t simple, that is insightful and attentive and not at all Arnaghad’s usual refrain. Maybe he did change and Erland is the only one who stagnated. He feels stupid, all of a sudden. Stupid for holding himself up to such high standards, stupid for being afraid in the face of his own bravery, stupid for ever calling himself honourable.

What man gives up on love because he assumes himself to be cursed? No knight. A coward.

“Could I have stopped you?” Erland asks. “If I had loved you, could I have stopped you from attacking Rhys and from waging your war on the rest of us witchers? Could I have changed the course of history?”

“You’re doing it again,” Arnaghad replies with a sly smile. He shakes his head and leans over his own legs to press a dry and warm kiss to Erland’s lips. In a way, it’s a homecoming. In a different one, it’s completely novel. Erland tilts his head for a second kiss that has his body thrum with wanting more, and Arnaghad allows it, for a bit. It’s another kind of warmth, that of their bodies re-learning one another and before long, Erland finds himself on Arnaghad’s lap, held close in a way he thought he’d never be held again. It isn’t forgiveness. It’s far from forgiveness. But it’s a start.

VI.

“Erland, there is something I have to tell you,” Arnaghad says long after they have spent the pent-up emotions of the last centuries in drawn-out kisses and frantic clashes of their body. They’re both tucked under the quilt and the bearskin, Erland’s beaten body sheltered in Arnaghad’s mountainous embrace. Erland gives a sated mumble, basking in the magic of the moment for just a heartbeat longer. Of course it couldn’t last, contentedness with Arnaghad is always the eye of the storm. “Listen to me,” Arnaghad continues and a sense of urgency replaces whatever fluttery feelings Erland just had. “I didn’t come to the Dragon Mountains to find you nor had I head of Kaer Seren’s fall. I came here for a reprieve from the storm. Have you seen it before you entered?”

“It will pass,” Erland says, unwilling to match Arnaghad’s frantic cadence. His chest is a warm rumble behind Erland, an upset sky. Damn Arnaghad and his terrible timing. “Winter is always brutal in these parts and the storms bite, but they pass.”

“It’s not winter, we are coming up on Belleteyn.”

Belleteyn… that means it’s almost May. Erland blinks stupidly before the implications sink in. Snow storms in May simply don’t happen.

“By the gods,” he breathes, and grips Arnaghad’s hand which is splayed over his own chest. His body tenses up and the cave feels stuffy now. “How long has the storm been going on for?”

“October,” Arnaghad says warily and that is so much worse than Erland expected. A harbinger of conflict Erland can deal with, an old love he can squabble over, but he is not at all equipped to handle an apocalypse. It has to be the end of the world because October is only a month after Erland entered the mountains and straight-out winter for close to eight months can only mean one thing:

“The White Frost.”

Arnaghad nods, cheek rubbing against Erland’s head. A branch in the fire bursts with a mighty crack right then, as though it is afraid too. The prophesised end of the world. Erland always assumed it was a tale to scare children and he doesn’t believe in foresight. There is no other explanation. Arnaghad’s other hand draws Erland closer and his steady mass of muscles help anchor Erland as the emotional storm resumes alongside the one that rages outside.

“I know this is a lot, but we don’t have much time. Is there anywhere we can go? You are weak still and these peaks will not protect us for long.”

“I… yes. There is a gulf that runs deeply under Kaer Seren, it carries heat out of the earth’s core and disperses some leagues out into the ocean. We have dug our cellars deep enough to tap it for the winter months… we might have food stores left too, but… I don’t know that there is a way in any longer and with a snow storm we might die trying.”

“Better to die trying than to die giving up,” Arnaghad says.

“If this truly is the White Frost, is there any chance of survival?” Erland asks closing his eyes. This is not how he wants to go out, not when he still has so much grieving and loving to do. Not when he just discovered that he can.

“I’ve never been through an apocalypse before, I couldn’t tell you. We got this far, though, so we might as well try.”

“Might as well,” Erland sighs, pulling on Arnghad’s fingers to bite the tip of one of them. The other witcher grunts indignantly. “But I’m not spending the rest of eternity stuck in a damp basement with you if you are going to keep wearing that bearskin. My nose may be clogged up with snot, but I can still smell it and it reeks. Did you piss on it?”

“I didn’t, but you might have with all the feverish thrashing and moaning you did.”

“Fuck off,” Erland snaps and they both laugh. It’s a glimpse of a relationship they barely scratched the surface of back then. If they survive now, they could learn its ins and outs yet.

And if Erland is anything, if he’s ever been anything, it is determined. He is determined to give his long life one last purpose. It’s a selfish purpose, lacking chivalry and heroism, but Arnaghad was right. He did what he could and now he can allow himself this, a shot at love in the middle of the apocalypse. Erland’s had more idealistic and futile dreams.

“What a horrible retirement Destiny has chosen for us,” he says.

“This isn’t worse than being dragged away by an ugly mage and suffering his experiments for years and years.”

“Speak for yourself, big bear, speak for yourself.”

--------------

@witcher-rarepair-summer-bingo , @littoraly-art

[catwithangerissues]

Okay so for your weekly prompt, Fukunaga and I/Me/Myself by Will Wood please! Thank you! :))

I/Me/Myself by Will Wood - Fukunaga Shōhei

✨Hey! Before anyone says it, I’m fully aware that this song is about gender identity! But, I couldn’t do it justice to use it quite that way here, so I instead used the upbeat tune to make a cute ending :) Please give the song a listen, cause holy shit he’s one of my favorite artists now✨

“I’ve been feeling lightheaded since I lost enough weight to fit back in my skin

Flower petals and feathers tether me to the ground (pound for pound)

Take my tea with formaldehyde for my feminine side since the day that I died

While I whittle my bones until I’m brittle, am I pretty now?

For some reason I find myself lost in what you think of me

And too confused to choose who I should be

And now you’ve got me thinking”

“You’ve got to tell them at some point bro!” Yamamoto had been going on and on for what felt like hours, telling Fukunaga about how he needed to finally confess to you, but it always ended up the same way.

The black haired boy was too scared to tell you how he felt, for fear that you didn’t feel the same way. He was pretty insecure about himself, he thought you could do so much better than him and that there was no chance you’d ever feel the same as he did.

He had been quietly talking to the other second years about his problem, he thought that Tora would be helpful because he’d push him out of his comfort zone in the way he needed, and he thought Kenma would be the voice of reason in comparison to the teams ace.

What he didn’t expect, but probably should’ve, was for Tora and Kenma’s inevitable fighting and commotion to draw the attention of two of the third years, minus Kai who had been talking to Lev at the time.

“Come on, Kenma! You know just a-“

“Oi, what’s this about?!” The libero and resident mom of the team was becoming noticeably annoyed with all the noise.

“Fukunaga won’t confess to y/n because he’s scared they don’t feel the same way!” Tora shouted while trying to pry Kenma off of his torso, only for Kuroo to separate the two.

Fukunaga looked down at the floor, and a layer of silence dawned on the entire gym. His pale face flushed, and he began fiddling with his hands out of embarrassment and nervousness.

You see, basically everyone knew of your little crush on Sho, except for him. The entire team had been trying for months to get him to ask you out already, because they had long since come to the conclusion that you were too much of a scaredy cat to make the first move yourself.

“I- I just find it hard to believe that they w-would ever feel the same way..” Fukunaga timidly explained.

“Are you kidding!? Y/n has been going on about you for months dude! Just do it already!” The mohawked ace was quickly silenced by a loud back of the neck smack from the captain. “If you keep telling like that, they’ll hear you.”

After a quick exchange of discipline to the yelling boy, Yaku had made his way over to Fukunaga to comfort him, fearing he’d explode or melt from embarrassment at any second, now that the entire gymnasium had been made aware once again of his situation.

For the next several minutes, Sho had effectively poured his heart out to the much shorter upperclassman. He told him of his fear of you not feeling the same way, as well as informing him of all his insecurities both physical and otherwise. But it’s what slipped out of his own mouth during his rant of confessions that really stuck with Fukunaga.

“I think I’m in love with y/n and I’m terrified.”

“I wish I could be a girl, and that way you’d wish I could be your girlfriend, boyfriend

Am I pretty enough to lie to?

I wish I could be a girl, and that way you’d wish I could be your girlfriend, boyfriend

Just little old me in a big, big world

Little old me in a big world

I wish I were a girl”

Later that night, he laid in bed, hands behind his head and one leg over the other, staring at the ceiling, thinking of the words that slipped from his lips earlier that day. He didn’t know if he really knew what love was, let alone if he even felt it for anyone but his family.

But the words changed something in his brain, like a switch had gone off, and he couldn’t help but feel as though he was running out of time to tell you how he felt.

You both still had another year before graduation, so it couldn’t be that, at least he thought so. Maybe it was that you were the most gorgeous and kind human he’d ever met and he feared someone snatching his best friend away from him. Or maybe it was the ever present fear of one of his team mates, most likely the tall Russian puppy dog or the shark toothed ace, would slip up and tell you how he felt without him knowing.

He spent the rest of that night talking himself up to telling you, how he’d been head over heels for you for what felt like forever, tomorrow. He had to, he couldn’t let the love of his life slip through his fingers. “Wait, did I just think that?!”

“I’ve been feeling lighthearted since I gained enough weight back to cover my bones

I get dressed up in shadows one leg at a time – we’re so alike

But if the shoe fits, then I won’t try it on

You’ll be walking out early, but the show must go on

No, I know that I’m wrong

But I love how you’re on my side when I cross that line

It’s been a point of contention between myself and this body that they stuck me in

The privilege of being born to be a man

And now you got me thinking”

He met you in the usual spot. Your bright smile at his presence instantly making his cheeks heat up. You two had small talk for a few minutes, it eased his nerves slightly, but the voice in his head was screaming for him to just rip off the bandaid. If you were going to reject him he may as well get it over with, he thought.

“I told them I couldn’t beca-“

“Y/n.” The black haired boy interrupted you. Turning your head to meet his gaze, he looked tense and deep on thought, but at the same time more focused than you’d ever seen him before.

“Yes, Sho?” Your curiosity got the better of you, long forgetting the story you were previously telling the boy.

He was noticeably nervous, hands shaking and you could tell he was straining to keep eye contact with you. You felt concern wash through your entire body at the sight, fearing he may be ill or something worse.

“I- I need to tell you something, t-that’s been on my mind for a while.” His voice trailed quieter towards the end of his sentence, his voice slightly wobbly. Your hands came up to his cheeks, effectively forcing him to look you in the eye, and yes, he blushed profusely at the closeness.

“I wish I could be a girl, and that way you’d wish I could be your girlfriend, boyfriend

Am I pretty enough to lie to?

I wish I could be a girl, and that way you’d wish I could be your girlfriend, boyfriend

Just little old me in a big, big world

Little old me in a big world

I wish”

His confession had been a surprise to you, but you were overjoyed at the newfound information that the shy quiet boy had actually felt the same as you all along.

You couldn’t stop smiling for hours after it happened, and from the looks of it, neither could Fukunaga. He held your hand firmly but carefully in his as the two of you walked to the gym, routinely getting ready for you to drop him off for practice. Planting a small kiss on his cheek and exchanging your goodbyes, he turned to walk into the large familiar building.

He was greeted by the loud congratulations and praise of his teammates, noticing they’d been watching through the windows of the building, he couldn’t help but chuckle. He spent the next few minutes answering endless questions, and even if he was normally used to the provocative jokes that his teammates made, he couldn’t help but turn bright red when he heard, “remember to use protection” followed by laughter, as they dispersed to being warming up for practice.

“Eating your prosthetic meat/meet your anesthetic criteria, pathetic seeing you become acetic

Say my name like a slur, but I’ve been called worse

I’ve heard it all before, no this isn’t a first

Let me be the void you fill with taxidermy fingerprints, taxonomize our differences

I am quantum physics, my witness brings me into existence”

-Flash forward a few years into the future-

The loud, upbeat music played throughout the small space the two of you shared, it seemed as though the notes resonated off of the floor under your feet as you listened. With his right hand on your waist and his left hand clasping your right, the two of you spun around enthusiastically to the music. The tile floors of your shared apartment kitchen were as smooth as a dance floor for the two of you. With loud laughter, poor dueting, and pounding heart rates, you couldn’t find it in you- no matter how deep you thought- to feel anything but love at this moment.

With your partner of a few years now, stable jobs and schooling going well, in your first apartment together, dancing in the empty space- as you hadn’t bought any furniture yet. As the late afternoon, orange sun rays bled through the small kitchen window and onto the tiles, you two twirled and dipped to the beat, feet moving without thinking. You saw his bright smile as you spun, his arms catching you with ease. You wanted to burn this memory into your brain forever and never forget it. If you weren’t already certain of your love for the black haired boy, you definitely were now.

“I wish I could be a girl, and that way you’d wish I could be your girlfriend, boyfriend

Am I pretty enough to love back?

No, not yet

I wish I could be a girl, and really I’d prefer it if you would use I/Me/Myself

Am I pretty enough?

Am I pretty enough to fucking die?

Little old me in a big world

Well I would give you my whole world

Little old me in a big world

I wish”

-Flash forward again-

You were brought from your thoughts by the noises of your partner getting ready for the day. The two of you had woken up well over an hour ago, but neither of you wanted to leave the others warm embrace.

You laid in bed, watching as your partner got ready. It wasn’t that watching your now fiancé getting ready for the day was very exciting, he liked to keep his routine simple. But as you watched the way he moved around quietly so as to not disturb you, as he gave a glance over to your tired form to check up on you every few minutes, only to smile when he caught you staring again. As he routinely kissed your forehead after gently lifting your hair out of the way with his thumb, and as he told you he loved you and he’d be home soon to treat you to dinner and a movie tonight in a whisper.

You could almost cry at the sense of relief, happiness, and thankfulness that washed over you. In this moment, you were more grateful than ever for his old high school team of energetic boys that talked him into asking you out all those years ago.

✨Tag list: @almalckd @toworuu ✨

🌱This was fucking cute don’t @ me. Thank you for requesting! I love this song 😭 not super happy with the way this was written but oh well :)

[chipper9906]

Heal The Cracks Within My Heart - Chapter 6: No More Tricks

<- - - Previous Chapter

WARNING: SPOILERS FOR LOKI SEASON 1 EPISODE 6 ‘FOR ALL TIME. ALWAYS.’

Pairings: Loki/Sylvie

Rating: General Audiences

Chapter Word Count: 8,958

Overall Word Count: 57,236

Status: Multi Chapter Fic - In Progress (6/?)

Chapter Preview:

“Good to meet y’all,” Miss Minutes said with that unnerving smile, walking – but not really – across Mobius’s desk and over to Loki and Sylvie. “I’m sure you can’t wait to get to work protecting the sacred timeline!”

“Oh, simply ecstatic,” Loki said with as much sarcasm as he could fit into one sentence. “Something to finally give my pathetic life some meaning. How about you, Sylvie?”

“Like a dream come true…” Sylvie drawled.

“Great to hear!” This Miss Minutes was, apparently, incapable of picking up sarcasm.

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* * *

One of the (few) good things about the sprawling size of the TVA was that there were often parts of it with no one in sight. It was on one of these floors, where the files hadn’t been disturbed for so long that they were collecting dust, that the Gods of Fate had smiled upon them and opened up the Time-Door into. 

Mobius’s head was the first to peek through the Time-Door, looking both left and right down the miniature hallway. Once he had confirmed there was no one that had seen the Time-Door manifesting from nowhere, he waved both Loki and Sylvie through, before stepping fully back into his place of work. 

“This feels so wrong,” Sylvie complains as they walk, tugging at the restricting dress shirt around her neck. Loki regards her from the corner of his eye, scanning up and down her body as he takes in her new uniform. 

“It is a little weird seeing you without your armor.” Loki reaches out to tug at the lapels of her TVA blazer, grinning unabashedly when she smacks his hand away with a weak glare. “–But for the record, I think you look stunning whatever you choose to wear.”

“Oh dear God,” Mobius groaned dramatically in front of them, forcing Loki and Sylvie’s gaze away from each other and over to him. “Is your plan to just constantly flirt with each other to get me to find these files faster? Coz I’ve gotta say, it’s working.”

“It almost sounds like you’re eager to be rid of us,” Loki said, sounding almost offended. Almost. 

“You’re both probably bearable on your own, but the two of you together?” Mobius shook his head. “Nightmares, the both of you. An insane amount of people exist out there in the Universe – now made even bigger with this whole mess you’ve made – countless amounts of variants you could have run into, but no, you had to go and find versions of yourself and hook up with them!”

“First of all, are you telling me you aren't a little bit curious to know what another variant of yourself would be like?” Sylvie asked, bringing Mobius to a grinding halt and turning to face them.

“No, actually. I'm not,” Mobius said in disbelief at her question. “I could have happily gone on with the rest of my life without ever thinking that, thank you. And now I know I won’t be able to stop thinking about it.”

“Give it a try,” Sylvie said, throwing a wink in Loki’s direction that nearly made Mobius groan out loud again. “And secondly… no one understands you better than yourself. We have our similarities – a few Loki traits that seem to stick no matter what form we take – but… we’ve both walked different paths. Genetically different, souls the same; but whilst they were formed the same, they’ve been molded by our experiences. So, whilst we may not see things the same way sometimes, at the end of the day, we just…”

“Understand each other,” Loki finishes for Sylvie with a tender smile. 

“God, it really is like puppy love,” Mobius mumbled as he turned back around and continued onwards. “Feels like I’m watching a couple of teens trying to figure out how feelings work…”

“That’s… an apt comparison, actually,” Loki admitted as they both picked up the pace to keep up with Mobius, not wanting to get lost in the maze of TVA corridors. It was only occasionally that they walked through a section with a worker milling about the place, or saw an occasional Minute-Men either patrolling the area or simply passing through to wherever it is they had been ordered to go to. 

“Things seem calmer than last time,” Loki noted. He wasn’t sure whether it was good or bad that the TVA wasn’t still freaking out about the whole multi-versal situation they had on their hands. Every now and then, as they passed through different corridors, Loki would see a flash of that horrific statue proudly displaying 'Him' as he stood over all his subjects. At least they knew now that Sylvie’s guess of being able to select a previously opened Time-Door and return them to the same TVA was correct…

“Things seem empty,” Mobius corrected him. “This place is usually bustling with activity -- and now it’s a ghost town. If we’ve dispatched most of our workers out into the field, then…” Mobius sighed deeply. “Things can’t be doing too well…”

Mobius came to a sudden stop as they rounded a corner, nearly walking straight into a TVA worker who had also been rounding the corner. The man blinked in surprise at Mobius, not even registering Loki or Sylvie behind him. The man pushed his glasses back up his nose, frowning at Mobius before looking somewhere behind him. 

“Mobius? Where have you been? They’ve been looking everywhere for you, man. Judge Whittle’s about to blow a fuse if you don’t get down to his office stat.”

“Forgot I need to grab these guys,” Mobius lied smoothly, gesturing with a flick of his head back to Sylvie and Loki behind him. “They have some, uh… some research I asked them to collect for me that I think could be of some use.”

The man finally looked over to them, thankfully not looking too suspicious of them as his eyes darted between them both. “Right… Well, you better not keep Judge Whittle waiting. What with everything going on, I think he’s trying to hold onto some sense of time, and being late again might just snap his last thread.”

“That’s why I’m headed there now,” Mobius assured the man with a pat on his shoulder and a friendly smile. The man returned the smile, giving all three a respectful nod before walking past them and disappearing out of sight around another corridor. Mobius released a breath he didn’t even realize he was holding, fixing his already tidy tie as a force of habit. 

“I have to say, you’re an excellent liar,” Loki commended Mobius. “Are you sure you’re not a variant of us, too?”

“God, I hope not,” Mobius retorted, continuing to lead them forward once more. 

“Wait, hang on-,” Sylvie said, tugging at Mobius’s arm. “Did he say Judge Whittle?”

Mobius looked back to Sylvie with a confused frown. “…Yes?”

“What about Judge Renslayer? What happened to her?”

Mobius stopped outside of a stereotypical-looking office door, pausing with his hand on the door handle. “Judge who?”

Both Sylvie and Loki shared a look of surprise, strangely unsettled by the idea that Renslayer apparently didn't exist in this timeline. Or, at least, hadn't been taken from her life to work in the TVA. What other changes would they have to expect to come across in this timeline? And how much of an effect would each small change have?

"Doesn't matter," Sylvie told Mobius. "Just... someone we know from another timeline."

"And by 'know', do you mean 'have killed', or...?"

"Us personally? No," Loki answered. "But last we saw you — the other you — you were headed back to the TVA to give Renslayer our regards, so... we don't actually know what happened to her."

“Given my fighting skills? Nothing, probably,” Mobius guessed, yanking down on the handle and swinging the door open. It was only once Mobius had stepped inside and out of the way of the door that Loki noticed the little golden plaque attached under the little window, the name ‘M. Mobius’ etched into the metal. 

“Come on. I don’t know how much time we have,” Mobius called them into the office. “Considering I’m expected in Whittle’s office, we probably don’t have long until someone comes to fetch me.”

“You have an office?” Loki said in surprise, stepping into the room with Sylvie close behind. 

“Yeah. Why wouldn’t I?”

“The you I know never took me to his office,” Loki replied, glancing around the small space that had been allocated to Mobius. It looked… well, like everything else in the TVA, really: neat and organized, drab and boring; painted with soul-sucking colors that, at this point, reminded him of a prison. 

“Maybe he didn’t have one.” Mobius dropped down onto a squeaky office chair, fiddling around with the buttons on one of those ridiculously bulky-looking computer monitors until it whirred to life. “I can’t imagine every variant of myself is good enough at their job for—” 

“He was just fine at doing his job, actually,” Loki was quick to defend Mobius. Which was quite strange, as he was defending Mobius to… Mobius. “Managed to out-lie me a few times, which I can assure you is a tricky thing to do.”

“He was the only one of your bumbling workforce that was able to keep hot on my tail,” Sylvie joined Loki in defending Mobius, much to Loki’s surprise and… a little bit herself, if she was being honest. “I was able to stay one step ahead of him until he roped this idiot in—” Sylvie jabbed a thumb in Loki's direction. “—And he led you right to me.”

“To try and recruit you.” Loki now had to defend himself. “I wasn’t exactly a volunteer worker; it was work with them or be reset.”

“And here comes the old couple bickering…” Mobius mumbled under his breath. Before either Loki or Sylvie could point out that, whilst technically over a thousand years old, they were still considered young by Asgardian standards, Mobius had opened up some sort of application that brought up some virtual files in a holographic display.

Much to both Sylvie and Loki’s displeasure, these files were also accompanied by the cheery bright orange face of Miss Minutes. Sylvie barely restrained herself from unsheathing her sword hidden beneath her blazer and slicing the southern-speaking mascot in half like she desperately wanted to do back in the Citadel. 

“Well, hey there!” Miss Minutes greeted them, sounding as chipper as ever. “Ooo, new faces! Do we have some new recruits, Mobius?”

“You could say that…” Mobius answered, brow pinched in concentration as he swiped through the seemingly endless amount of files in the TVA’s database. 

“Good to meet y’all,” Miss Minutes said with that unnerving smile, walking – but not really – across Mobius’s desk and over to Loki and Sylvie. “I’m sure you can’t wait to get to work protecting the sacred timeline!”

“Oh, simply ecstatic,” Loki said with as much sarcasm as he could fit into one sentence. “Something to finally give my pathetic life some meaning. How about you, Sylvie?”

“Like a dream come true…” Sylvie drawled. 

“Great to hear!” This Miss Minutes was, apparently, incapable of picking up sarcasm. “Is there something you needed my help with, Mobius?”

“Yeah, actually.” Mobius scratched across his upper lip, disheveling his neatly combed mustache. “I’m, uh… getting out new recruits up to speed with what they need to know about… about ‘Him’.”

“Have they had the talk yet?”

Loki wasn’t entirely sure why, but something about that question made him want to shiver off this layer of discomfort that seemed to coat him. At the same time, the last time someone had ‘the talk’ with him, he was unable to look his mother in the eyes for a good few days. 

Mobius’s eyes flickered up from the monitor to Miss Minutes. “Yeah, they’ve had the talk; they know why they’re here.”

“Well okay then!” Miss Minutes chirped, crossing her arms behind her back with a gleaming smile. “Anything in specific you need me to find?”

“Yeah, any files we have on His TemPad,” Mobius said, wheeling himself back a bit from the desk and yanking open one of the drawers. 

“Bit of an odd request,” Miss Minutes commented as she began flipping through the holographic files in front of them. Mobius continued digging through his desk, searching through different folders with a look of concentration. For a moment, Mobius’s hands stilled over something, but Miss Minutes' overexcited voice stole away their attention. 

“Alright, here we go!” Miss Minutes flicked the holographic file through the air, and both Loki and Sylvie wore matching frowns as it disappeared from sight. The question of where it had gone was answered as Mobius pulled his TemPad out from his desk drawer with an “Ah-Ha!” of success, proudly waving the TemPad in their direction. 

“Anything else you need me to do for you?” Miss Minutes asked, sounding both polite and… terrifying. 

“Uh, no -- this’ll do.” Mobius returned Miss Minute's politeness with a smile of his own – even if it did appear quite forced and strained. “Thank you.”

“You’re more than welcome!” Miss Minutes said before disappearing in a weird move where she seemed to fold into herself, all three in the room thankful for her absence. 

“I never thought a cartoon clock mascot would make me fear for my life,” Loki said, still staring suspiciously at the space where Miss Minutes had vanished from.

“Okay, let’s see what we’ve got here…” Mobius muttered, fingers dancing across the TemPad as he brought up the files Miss Minutes had just sent him. His eyes scanned rapidly across the screen, skipping to what seemed to be the most important segments of information. 

“Interesting…” Mobius leaned forward against his desk, resting his head on his hand and tapping his index finger against his upper lip.

“What’s interesting?” Sylvie asked, not appreciating that she couldn’t see the information she needed, whilst knowing that it was right there in someone else’s hands. 

“Oh, just how vastly superior that thing on your hand is to this,” Mobius answered, waving his TemPad around like it was now useless. “For one, the efficiency on that thing? From what I’m seeing, it’s probably… four or five times more so than ours?”

“So, you’re saying that this TemPad can do more before it runs out of battery?” Loki asks, pointing to Sylvie’s hand. 

“Not that you even have to worry about that,” Mobius said with a disbelieving chuckle. “You noticed how that thing doesn’t have a port to charge it?”

Sylvie shot Mobius an annoyed look, crossing her arms across her chest. “Just how oblivious do you think I am?”

“Man, you guys really do find a way to turn people’s words into an insult against you,” Mobius noted, sounding almost amused by the revelation. “Is that a self-conscious thing, or…?”

Sylvie, on the other hand, did not look amused. “I’m good on the therapy session, thanks. You were saying about charging it?”

“Oh, au contraire -- I think therapy would be an excellent choice for you guys,” Mobius teased with a grin, which he quickly wiped off his face at the death stares he got in return. “Alright, alright. The thing about charging this TemPad is… well, that you don’t need to.”

“Come again?” Loki asked. 

“From the looks of things, His version of the TemPad kind of… recharges itself?” Mobius struggled to find the best way to explain what he had just read. “Well, not entirely from itself. The TemPad makes a connection, if you will, with its owner. Or… master, I think would be a better word.”

Sylvie raised her hand up closer to her face, peering down at the TemPad. Almost on cue did its surface come to life, emitting a soothing hum as power ran through its complicated circuits. 

“And… what does the connection do?” Sylvie asked, looking away from the TemPad back to Mobius. 

“It uses you as its batteries,” Mobius answers. “It recharges through you. Your life force, your energy, whatever you wanna call it.”

“Uh, should we be worried about that?” Loki asked, just barely resisting the urge to yank the TemPad off Sylvie’s hand and throw it as far as he could at the thought of it draining away her life. 

“Considering ‘He’ is still alive after eons of using it? No, I don’t think so,” Mobius assured them – although just barely. “At the end of the day, ‘He’ is human, just like us -- uh, well, me, anyway. Taking into account the fact that you guys are both demigods with access to magical powers, I’m pretty sure the TemPad will barely scratch the surface of your energy.”

“Then… how did it not affect ‘He Who Remains?’” Loki asked. “Something that needs that much energy… it has to take its toll.”

“Maybe you can ask him before you kill him,” Mobius suggests. “My best guess? ‘He’ probably needs to ‘recharge’ himself. You know: sleeping, eating; all that boring mortal stuff?”

“You say that like we don’t need to eat and sleep, too.” Sylvie retorts.

“Uh-huh. Still doesn’t change the fact that you’re gods. I mean, how old are you guys again?”

“Point taken,” Loki conceded on both their behalf. “How long does the TemPad take to charge, then?”

“Depends on how drained it is,” Mobius says, turning his attention back to the displayed file. “It’s charging all the time, so as long as you’re not opening up Time-Doors left, right, and center, it usually has enough power that you don’t even have to think about it. If you somehow do drain the power enough that it’s nearly empty then… from ‘His’ experiments, it seems it takes a day or so to get it back to full power.”

“Experiments?” Sylvie picked up on the word. “What kind of experiments?”

“Well, ‘He’ didn’t always spend his time behind a desk organizing the strands of time. Before he created us, it was just him out there -- jumping from timeline to timeline, trying to bring some semblance of peace and order to the chaos.”

“About that–,” Loki interjected. “–The whole ‘jumping from timeline to timeline’ thing... Did ‘He’ jump between those timelines randomly?”

“Uh…” Mobius turned back to his TemPad, scrolling through the block of information it displayed. “Seems like it, for the most part.”

“So there’s no way to select a specific timeline?” Loki asked, casting Sylvie a down-trodden look. “No way to find a specific timeline?”

“We weren’t exactly designed for that,” Mobius replied, flicking away the information on his TemPad. With a few more presses of his fingers, the screen of his TemPad displayed a diagram of the sacred timeline -- if it could even be called that anymore. What he showed them more closely resembled a plate of spaghetti than the single straight line of the timeline. “See this right here? This is exactly what we were supposed to stop. We weren’t meant to travel between timelines, because the very existence of another timeline outside ours means we failed at our jobs.”

“But that’s what it was like before the TVA was created,” Sylvie pointed out. “Somewhere in there is the timeline we came from. We just need to find it again and travel back to it.”

“What for?” Mobius asks. “Why’s your timeline so important?”

“It’s the sacred timeline,” Sylvie answered, quickly continuing when Mobius opened his mouth to argue. “Yeah, I know, your timeline was also the sacred timeline, but it wasn’t until me killing ‘Him’ created all these different timelines.”

“Okay, sure-,” Mobius said with a nod. “That still doesn’t explain why you want to go back to that timeline. You killed that version of ‘Him’ in that timeline, didn’t you? Why else do you need to go back?”

“Because that timeline contains a few people that could be useful in defeating the other versions of ‘Him’,” Loki answers. 

“And… how do you know that?”

“Because they were the only versions of themselves that were able to kill another mad ruler,” Sylvie says, glancing at Loki with her face softened in pity. “The only being who was destined – and able – to kill us…”

“Oh…” Mobius cleared his throat awkwardly, unsure whether to continue scrolling through his TemPad or keep talking. “Uh… I don’t know if this is inconsiderate of me to say, but… maybe it would be worth getting that guy to join your team? Since he was able to kill you, maybe they could-,”

“No.” Loki didn’t even need to give a reason why he was against that idea. The tone behind that one word said more than any explanation he could give. 

“Fair enough, scratch that idea-,” Mobius made the smart move and returned his attention to his TemPad. “Selecting certain timelines, selecting certain timelines… Ah, here we go! Seems it’s… huh.”

“What? What’s huh?” Sylvie asked. 

“There is a way to select a specific timeline. Kind of,” Mobius answered, standing from his chair and making his way around his desk to them. “Could you hold up the TemPad for me?”

Sylvie did as Mobius asked, holding out her arm in front of her so the TemPad was on display. 

“You remember what I said about the TemPad making a connection with the user?” Mobius asked, getting nods from them in return. “Well, the connection goes deeper than that. So much so that… only the person who has been designated as the leader of the TVA can use it.”

“What?” Sylvie splutters. “I’m not the leader of the TVA-,”

“Tell that to the TemPad,” Mobius returned. 

“Sylvie… I think he might be right,” Loki said, getting Sylvie to snap her head towards him. “He wanted us to rule the TVA, remember? Someone to take over his job. He offered us the position, took off the TemPad, and then-,”

“But I didn’t accept it!” Sylvie argued, looking more and more horrified with every passing second. “I just-”

“Took the TemPad,” Loki cut her off, filling in what she was about to say. 

“Far as the TemPad is concerned, you’re the leader now,” Mobius told her. “You see those gold lines running across the surface?” 

“Yes, but what’s that got do with anythi—”

“They’re not just for design,” Mobius answered before Sylvie could finish. “Those lines? They’re actually timelines.”

Sylvie blinked in surprise, glancing first over to Loki, then down to the TemPad. 

“You see, ‘He Who Remains’ wanted to make sure he could return to his timeline whenever he needed to,” Mobius continued, nodding to the TemPad. “Mostly to make sure none of the other variants of him were wreaking havoc on his timeline, but also… just to return home, I guess. Do me a favor and run your hand along its surface, would you?”

Sylvie shot Mobius a curious look, but did as he asked anyway. The surface of the TemPad shifted, the squiggly lines running along its surface passing by in a blur of movement. Then, it seemed to settle on a certain design, displaying the usual bright gold line with branches coming off of it. 

“That right there?” Mobius began, looking between the two of them, and then down to the TemPad. “That’s your timeline, Sylvie.”

Sylvie’s head shot up at that, feeling her heart clench at his words. It was… it was impossible. Her timeline didn’t exist anymore. Judge Renslayer and her Minute-Men had made sure of that. 

“Now see, if I try and select a timeline-,” 

Mobius’s hand moved towards the TemPad, and almost on instinct did Sylvie pull it away from him, holding it protectively to her body. Mobius let out an exasperated sigh at the defensive action, dropping his hands back to his sides and shoving them into his pockets. “Really? Isn’t trust supposed to be a two-way system?”

“From what I’ve heard,” Sylvie said as Loki unconsciously tried to move closer to her. He had done this a few times before, and this time, she found herself moving closer to him, too. “Not sure your argument works when you clearly don’t trust us, either.”

“Can you blame me?” Mobius asked, getting you a genuine huff of laughter from Sylvie. 

“No. If anything, I respect you for it,” Sylvie said. 

“Good form of self-preservation, really,” Loki added. 

“Fine. I won’t touch it.” Mobius turned around on the spot, strolling back over to his side of the desk. “Guess you’ll just have to take my word for it.”

“What would have happened?” Even if Sylvie didn’t want Mobius to touch it, that wasn’t to say that she wasn’t curious as to what he was trying to show her. 

“Nothing,” Mobius answered with a shrug of his shoulders. “It wouldn’t have responded to me -- because I’m not its owner.”

“But… why would He have just given it up like that?” Sylvie asked. “I hadn’t agreed to anything yet.”

“‘What’s the worst that could happen,’“ Loki mimicked He Who Remains’s words. “Either we took over, or an infinite amount of Him manifests into existence and fights to get back to where He was. No matter what option came to be, he no longer needed that TemPad.”

“Still seems strange to me that he just… gave you the TemPad,” Mobius thought out loud, placing his hands on the desk and resting his weight on it. “That is what I saw, right? He just… took it off and slid it across the desk to you.”

“Yeah… He did,” Sylvie’s face pinched into a frown, slowly looking up to Loki. “Loki, did you ever notice how… he seemed almost excited at the idea of me killing him?”

Loki mirrors her frown, thinking back to what felt like a lifetime ago now. “In what way?” 

“He was looking at you guys kinda funny during your big fight,” Mobius said, drumming his fingers across the desk. 

“Was he?” Loki asks. “I was a little too distracted at the time to notice.”

“He even looked strangely invested when you guys, uh…” Mobius trailed off awkwardly, hoping they would fill in the blanks for themselves. When Loki and Sylvie only stared blankly back at him, he hung his head with a dejected sigh. “Oh, for the love of… When you kissed, for god's sake…”

“Oh…” Loki was surprised to feel the flush of heat to his face. “Again, a little distracted -- which, I think was your plan.” Loki cast Sylvie an annoyed look at that last part.

“Already said I’m sorry–”

“Yeah, yeah, yeah -- how about we move on from that.” Mobius hurried them past the miniature bickering session that was likely to start. “Or… no wait, let’s go back to that.”

Loki and Sylvie looked to each other at the same time, like they were somehow able to communicate through eye contact alone. “Let’s go back to… us arguing?” Sylvie wanted to clarify. 

“Yes! But, no, don’t actually argue—” Mobius somehow made this all the more confusing. “What was it that He said to you guys? Something about trust, or… being unable to trust—”

“He asked me if I could trust Loki.” Sylvie, of course, remembered this. She knew she’d never forget. “And… if I could trust anyone at all."

Mobius nodded to himself, staring down at his feet as he thought. “Why would he say that? If he wanted you to work together, to lead the TVA together, then… why would he plant those doubts in your head?”

“It almost seems like he was trying to get us to fight,” Loki said to Sylvie. “Maybe… he never really wanted us to take over.”

“You think he wanted to die?”

“I think he wanted to be reborn,” Loki corrected Sylvie. “I don’t think he was just tired; I think he was bored. After countless years of writing everyone’s stories – himself included – I think… I think he wanted you to open up the multiverse, to live an infinite amount of lives outside of his own script.”

Sylvie shook her head with a bitter laugh, her lip curling in disgust as she looked down to His former TemPad. “My whole life, I only had the thought of watching His life drain away to get me through the day… And now, it turns out I did what he always wanted, anyway.”

Sylvie reached out a hand towards the TemPad, the glow of its timelines reflecting in her shining eyes. She ran a finger softly across the timeline – her timeline – watching as the TemPad slowly moves with her finger, displaying the different branches that come off of her timeline. 

“Is this really my timeline?” Sylvie doesn’t look away from the TemPad. 

“It’s what the files say,” Mobius tells her. 

“How is that possible?” Sylvie tears her eyes away, looking up to Mobius. “My timeline was pruned.”

“Exactly. It was pruned,” Mobius says. “But now we have this whole mess of branches, forming into a whole mess of timelines.”

“So?”

“So, somewhere out there is a timeline where you were never picked up by us,” said Mobius, looking pointedly to Sylvie’s TemPad. “Oh, right -- it’s that timeline right there.”

“A timeline where the TVA never interfered…” Loki says in wonderment, turning wide eyes towards Sylvie. “Your timeline never would have been pruned…”

“My family…” Sylvie whispers, finding herself frozen in shock. “My home… my life…”

“So… we’re on Sylvie’s timeline now?” Loki asks Mobius. “How would that work when we, apparently, don’t exist…?”

“This isn’t Sylvie’s timeline,” Mobius said, scooping up the TemPad he left laying on his desk and tucking it into his jacket. “That’s what I’m trying to figure out. When you grabbed the TemPad and opened a door here, it should have opened up into a TVA on your timeline. But… it didn’t.” 

Mobius took a seat on the edge of his desk – despite the perfectly fine chair right there in front of him – crossing his arms against his chest with his back partly turned to them. “What were you doing whilst you were opening the Time-Door? Was there any interference?”

“Oh, um…” Sylvie glanced awkwardly to Loki, whose raised questioning eyebrow quickly dropped into a look of realization at her pointed look. 

“Ah…” Loki drawled out slowly, scratching at the back of his head. “Would us, uh… touching be classified as ‘interference?’” 

“Oh, you were–” Mobius cut himself off with a burst of laughter, slapping at his knee. “You opened up that Time-Door whilst you were kissing, didn’t you? That explains it…”

“Does it? Feel free to pass on that explanation to us -- you know, if you feel like it.” Sylvie didn’t appreciate being the recipient of Mobius’s ridicule. 

“The TemPad was trying to open up the Time-Door to your specific timeline. Problem is… it didn’t know which one of you to focus on. Can’t open one door into two separate timelines, so, it had to compromise. Instead of opening up a Time-Door into either one of your timelines…”

“It opened up into one where we don’t exist.” Loki guessed correctly. 

“You both canceled each other out,” Mobius tacked on. 

“And what about the others?” Sylvie asked.

“The other… what’s?”

“The Apocalypses we jumped to,” Sylvie clarified. “Were they… were they my timeline?”

“If it was just you touching the TemPad? Then yeah, it would have been your timeline.”

“That must have been why it was different,” Loki said in realization. “Those attackers… they came earlier than they were supposed to, didn’t they?”

“One small change can lead to a whole ton of butterfly effects.” Mobius slowly made his way to the side of the desk, sliding the drawer closed as he went. “Some of those changes can be small, like… like someone speaking one word on one day differently. And then the other changes…”

“Can breed a multi-verse ending conqueror,” Loki finished grimly, getting a shrug of agreement from Mobius. 

“So… we know we can get to my timeline. Is that the only way we can select a specific timeline?”

“Right, the uh, the other sacred timeline,” Mobius mumbled, scratching at the back of his head as he thought. “Well… you came from that one, right? You made a connection between that timeline to this timeline when you shoved Loki through that Time-Door.”

“But we’ve moved on since then,” Loki pointed out. “If Sylvie touches the TemPad, it’ll display her timeline, won’t it?”

“If that’s the one you select, sure. But–”

“But the TemPad saves previously opened Time-Doors.” Sylvie already knew where Mobius was going with this. “That’s how we got here in the first place. I opened up a Time-Door I had already opened before, back in the Citadel.”

“Which is the timeline currently on display,” Mobius said. “All you’ve gotta do is follow that timeline back… and it’ll connect to the timeline you came from.”

“Hang on…” Loki turned his attention back to Sylvie, his brow furrowing in thought. “What about my timeline? Would… would that have been re-created too?”

Sylvie placed a comforting hand on his arm, giving his bicep a kind squeeze with an understanding smile. “Guess there’s only one way to find out.”

Loki looked genuinely taken aback as she unwound the TemPad from her hand. For a moment, she simply stood and held this greatly powerful device in her hands. She kept her eyes locked with his, a note of understanding passing between them as she slowly held out the TemPad for him to take. 

Loki didn’t take it. Not right away. “It might not work. Not just because my timeline might still remain erased, but… what if the TemPad can’t have two owners?”

“’He Who Remains’ made it clear he wanted both of us to rule.” Sylvie pushed the TemPad into his chest. She grabbed hold of his hand, pulling it up to the TemPad and curling his fingers around it. “Besides… we might be two separate beings, but our souls exist as one and the same. If it works for me? Then I know it’ll work for you, too.”

“You are very confident,” Loki noted with a small smile, his weak grip on the TemPad strengthening as he finally took the TemPad from her. 

Loki couldn’t bring himself to look at the TemPad as he slid it onto his hand, experimentally flexing his fingers to get used to the feeling of the cylindrical object sat atop his hand. Sylvie nodded at him in encouragement when his eyes landed on her, letting her hand slip away from his arm to make sure they were no longer touching. 

Loki finally dropped his eyes down to the TemPad. Sylvie’s timeline continued to blink up at him, just waiting for its new owner to press his touch into its surface. Loki let his hand hover over the TemPad, a moment of shaky hesitation passing before he swiped his finger across the flat surface of the TemPad. 

In the blink of an eye, the surface began to change. Billions upon billions of timelines flashed before his eyes as the TemPad searched for his timeline, and for one heart-stopping moment, Loki wondered if it would simply be searching forever, his timeline removed from all of existence. 

And then it stopped. It stopped, and Loki and Sylvie could only stand and stare at the brilliantly gold streak of lightning that stared back at them. Right there was Loki’s timeline. Right there was a universe where none of this had ever happened -- an unlimited expanse of possibilities his life could have taken.

And that’s when Mobius held the pruning stick to Sylvie’s neck. 

Loki knew it was foolish of him to let his guard down, even if in the presence of – who he supposed – was a friend. But it wasn’t his friend. This Mobius might have been witness to the events that led to their friendship, but he didn’t experience them. And that was made all the difference, it seemed. 

One second, Sylvie was right there next to him, looking at the TemPad just as he was. The next, she was just… gone. Loki’s head snapped up in a daze, taking in the sight of Sylvie struggling vehemently as Mobius wrapped an arm around her neck, keeping her pinned to him as he held the glowing end of the pruning stick much too close to Sylvie for either of their comfort. 

Sylvie looked more pissed at herself than she did at Mobius. Just like Loki, she had made the foolish mistake of letting her guard down. The entire time she had been here, she had every possible guard up and alert, just waiting for the moment this all went to shit. And then… and then Mobius had told her that somewhere out there is the family she knows, the family she never got to grow up with, and she had stupidly returned back to the state of that little princess of Asgard who had no reason not to trust anyone. 

“Don’t struggle.” Mobius’s words did not come out as a command. Not that he wanted them to sound like it. It was more a word of advice than anything. “I don’t want to accidentally catch you with this thing.”

“Then why are you holding it to my neck?” Sylvie forced out through gritted teeth, continuing to struggle despite Mobius’s warning. She kept her gaze focused on the pruning stick Mobius had snuck out of his desk drawer, her hands dug into the arm around her neck, tugging uselessly at them to get his hold to loosen. Except, every defiant pull to his arm only resulted in the pressure against her neck tightening, coming dangerously close to cutting off her air supply. 

“Mobius, what are you doing?” Loki spluttered out, yanking out his dagger from his jacket pocket in a flash of metal. 

“What I have to.” Mobius took a cautious step back away from Loki, dragging a very uncooperative Sylvie with him. “And don’t you think about going for that sword, Sylvie. The moment I feel your arms move anywhere down, I’ll prune you before you can even come close to touching it.”

Sylvie laughed mockingly at that. Loki stood in a battle-ready stance, looking very much not amused by Mobius’s words as Sylvie had. “You’re not used to the whole ‘threatening demeanor’ thing, are you?” Sylvie goaded him. 

“I’ll admit it’s not my forte.” Mobius carefully maneuvered himself back around the desk, placing it between him and Loki. Loki slowly moved forward with him, coming to a stop just in front of the desk. “Especially when I don’t want to be doing this.”

“Then why are you doing this?” Loki hoped his pleading tone would get through to Mobius in some sort of way. 

“Because it’s my job,” Mobius forced out the words with as much authority as he could muster. 

“You’ve seen the truth!” Sylvie grunted, still fighting against Mobius’s hold. “You know what He did to you! To all of us!”

“That doesn’t change the importance of my work.” Mobius’s words make the weight in Loki’s chest sink heavier. “Or the importance of His work. I agree with you that this whole thing ends with Him; I just don’t agree with your method. I think… I know that the strands of time are only safe in His hands. Only He can untangle and sort out those strands and ensure the timeline runs through to the end without any problems.”

“Mobius, no–” Loki desperately hoped he could get through to him. “If that was the case, then we wouldn’t be right here, would we? You wouldn’t have existed if that was the case. Sylvie and I wouldn’t exist. But that’s what's happened, whether by His deciding or not. If we just sit back and let him rise to power once more… what’s to stop this from happening all over again?”

“And what if your version of Him isn’t the one that comes out on top?” Sylvie asks Mobius, lessening her struggles now that Mobius held the pruning stick even closer, buzzing away mere inches from her face. “Somewhere out there is a variant of him that isn’t interested in pruning the other timelines. Instead, he only wants to rule over them all.”

“It’s up to Him to decide what we’ll do about that,” Mobius replied, much to Loki’s dismay. 

Mobius sighed lightly, ducking his head with his eyes clenched shut. “Please, just… do as I say. I meant it when I said I don’t want to be doing this. I think… I think you guys could be of some help to us–”

“Oh, you’ve gotta be kidding me,” Sylvie groaned. “You’re trying to recruit us now?”

“Not right now,” Mobius corrected her. “I know you won't right now in this moment. But… you’ll see. You’ll see that this is the only way. Now, please, if you’d just… hand over the TemPad. I promise we won’t reset you, or put you in a time-loop -- nothing like that.”

“Mobius–” Loki tried again, only to be cut off by the man in question.

“It won't be long before someone comes into this office. I can’t guarantee they won't do something drastic if they come in and see you like that with your weapons. But if you come cooperatively–”

“We’ll be slaves to the TVA, just as you are?” Sylvie asks, voice soaked in disgust. “No thanks -- I’d rather take my chances with the pruning stick.”

“Yeah… yeah, that’s a good point,” Mobius mumbled, much to Loki and Sylvie’s confusion. “You… you voluntarily pruned yourself, didn’t you? The both of you were pruned, and you made it out…”

“We did,” Loki confirmed, taking a single step closer, feeling the wooden panel of Mobius’s desk pressing into his knees. “And we both took down the creature He himself tamed and weaponized to devour timelines whole.”

“In other words… do it,” Sylvie spat at Mobius, giving one last attempt at breaking free that yields no results. “You know as well as we do that that’s not a threat to us. Not really.”

“No, I suppose you’re right,” Mobius agreed. Seeing Mobius deactivate the pruning stick briefly filled Loki with a surge of hope, wondering if maybe, just maybe, they had found a way to deescalate the situation. That hope prompted surged out of him, however, as Mobius flipped the pruning stick around in his hand, now holding the pointed, sharp spear end of the stick against Sylvie’s neck. “You might be able to escape pruning… but can you come back from a blade in your throat?”

No. No, they could not. 

“Mobius, please,” Loki begged one more time, holding out a dagger in front of him. “Stop this. You’ve seen reason, I know you have. I don’t want to do this as much as you don’t–”

“Then just hand over the TemPad,” Mobius said like it was a no-brainer decision. Loki felt his muscles coil in anticipation as the very tip of the spear pierced Sylvie’s flesh, clenching his jaw hard when he saw the small trickle of blood slip down her neck. He had to make a decision–

“You know your magic doesn’t work here,” Mobius reminded him with an almost pitiful expression. “This is it, Loki. No more tricks from the trickster.”

Loki decided. 

“No. There’s no magic,” Loki agreed, holding out his dagger like he was about to drop it in surrender. 

Loki dropped his hand down in a flash, connecting with the surface of the TemPad, just as he had seen He Who Remains do back in the Citadel. Mobius blinked, and then Loki was gone. He startled, not even having time to ponder over what had happened before Loki blinked back into existence behind him – not that he could see – and slid the dagger he held in his hand right in the small of his back. Mobius jolted at the searing pain that erupted from his back, barely able to get out a gasp of pain as his body locked up. 

“–But I still have your technology,” Loki completed the rest of his sentence before yanking the dagger out from Mobius’s back. 

Sylvie took advantage of the slackening of Mobius’s grip, forcing an elbow back hard into the side of his ribs. Mobius had completely let go at this point, but she still spun around on the spot, bringing up her leg and kicking Mobius hard in the chest. Mobius went down without much resistance, slamming into the wall behind him with a pained grunt. He slid down to the floor, leaving behind a trail of red against the wall as he went.

“Huh…” Mobius’s eyes were unfocused, staring blankly to the ground in front of him. “You know, I… I could have sworn I heard you said to that other me that… that you were done stabbing people in the back.”

Mobius dredged up just enough energy to raise his eyes up, meeting Loki’s agonized ones. There was… nothing in his eyes. No blame, no hatred, no fear. But… there was nothing good there, either. No forgiveness, no kindness he’s seen from Mobius plenty of times before. It was just… blank. He was blank. 

One second, Loki's staring at a man whose heart was still pumping, whose blood still circulated around his body. Then, he was actually able to see the moment the life drained away from him, like a candle being blown out. Any semblance of the man he knows disappears from Mobius’s eyes, his head dropping down to his chest before he slowly slumps down to the ground, staring without seeing. 

The weight of the dagger in Loki’s hands had never felt as heavy as it had before. His shaking hands lift the dagger up, the buzzing fluorescent lights of Mobius’s office reflecting off the shining surface of the blade. The dagger had served its purpose, had done what it was designed to do. And yet, as Loki stared down at the offending item and took in the sight of Mobius’s blood coating the once perfectly clean metal, he wanted nothing more than to cast it into the eternal flame and watch it melt into nothing.

How many times had he done exactly this? He was far from inexperienced in battle, and far from inexperienced in hurting those he cares about for his own gain. So why, this time, did he feel the burn of bile in the back of his throat? Why, this time, did his hands shake so hard that he let his trusted weapons drop to the ground? Why, this time, did he find himself stumbling down to the ground, breaths coming short and fast as he stared at the corpse of the only friend he’s truly ever known?

“Loki…” Sylvie’s voice sounded far away and muted, as if they were underwater. In the back of his mind, he registers that she’s moved in front of him, blocking him from seeing Mobius’s corpse. Her concerned face fills his vision, blurry as if his eyes were filled with tears. Wait… were they? It would certainly explain the stinging sensation he felt in them, and the wetness he could feel rolling down his face. 

Her hands cup his face, desperately trying to bring him back to himself. Just like Mobius, his eyes had gone scarily blank. “Loki, it’s not your fault. It’s not, okay? That’s… that wasn’t him. That wasn’t Mobius -- not really.”

Something flickers back to life in his eyes. They shift around, searching across her face as if he was finally seeing her here, still with him, sat right in front of him. He swallows hard, his gaze drifting to where he knows Mobius’s corpse lies behind her. 

“I know.” Simply hearing Loki speak out loud helped to lessen some of the fear that had been constricting her chest. “But… it also is.”

Sylvie didn’t even know what she could say right now that would be of any comfort to him. She had never really had to comfort someone before, or had someone comfort her. Except… well, she supposed that Loki had attempted to comfort her a few times: back on Lamentis when it seemed like the end of the line; or in ‘The Time-Keeper’s chambers when they realized the Time Keepers weren’t real. But then, even if she did know how to go about comforting him, this certainly wasn’t the place to do it. Not with Mobius’s body sat right there behind her, and not in a place where they could be locked up at any moment. 

Sylvie turns her head towards the office door, just waiting for the sounds of rushing footsteps to echo down the hall. A part of her thinks it would almost be better than the silence they found themselves in -- apart from the repetitive tick of the clock hung in the top middle section of the wall Mobius was slumped by.

She needed to get Loki out of here. She didn’t care where, or what timeline it was, it just had to be not here. Sylvie brushed her thumb tenderly across Loki’s cheek, wiping away a stubborn tear that clung to his skin. She dropped her hands away from his face, turning to Mobius’s body with a grimace. Avoiding looking the corpse in the eye, she reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out the TemPad he had stored in there, trying her best not to disturb his body too much. 

“Sorry, Mobius,” Sylvie whispers as she moves away from his body, casting him one last regretful look before straightening herself into a stand. The TemPad in her hands was at least familiar, and yet… it felt wrong to use, now. Shaking her head, she flipped open the screen to the TemPad, letting out a breath of relief that it was fully charged. She entered in the information for the Time-Door without much of a thought, its manifestation enough to force Loki’s gaze away from Mobius’s body. 

“We need to go,” Sylvie reaches out a hand towards Loki, grateful that his eyes follow the movement of her hand instead of settling back on Mobius. Loki nods, hesitating for a moment before he picks his dagger back up from the ground. His TemPad clad hand clasps onto Sylvie’s, taking her offered help as she pulls him up to his feet. She doesn’t let go of his hand, even when he’s stood back on his feet, and when Loki squeezes her hand in thanks, she knows she's made the right decision. 

“Don’t look.” Sylvie moves in front of him, forcing his eyes onto her. Loki does as she asks, forcing everything in his vision apart from her to go blurry and out of focus. Sylvie slowly starts walking back towards the Time-Door, pulling Loki with her as she goes. 

What Loki and Sylvie didn’t know was that, after they stepped through that Time-Door, someone did come into Mobius’s office. But it wasn’t just a group of Minute-Men. Nor was it Judge Whittle. 

Deep purple robes brushed against the floor as the figure stepped into the room, calculated dark eyes scanning across the room before falling on Mobius. The man sighed, more in irritation at not having caught the intruders red-handed than in the sadness he should have felt for having lost such a devoted worker. 

“They found their way in,” The man calls out to the security detail stood post next to the door. “Get someone to retrieve this body once I’ve looked over it. We need to check for any cross-contamination.”

The man waited until one of the security detail had hurried off to carry out his orders before stepping further into the room. He strode over to Mobius’s body, crouching down onto one knee with his head tilted to the side as he looked him up and down. He reached out, grabbing Mobius’s arm and rolling him over onto his stomach. Immediately, he took sight of the dark patch of red soaked into the back of Mobius’s jacket. With careful hands, he pried the jacket off of the body, followed shortly by the now stained white button-up shirt. 

The man clicked his tongue, resting an arm on his knee as he looked to the open wound that had been carved into the center of Mobius’s back. There’s a tentative knock to the office door he had closed behind him, looking over to it as it swings open. The Minute-Men he had requested filed into the room, standing at attention and ready for orders. 

“You—” He points to one of the Minute Men in line, who somehow manages to stand straighter now he had been singled out. “—Come here.”

Obediently, the Minute Man hurries over to the man, nervous eyes fixed dead-ahead as he waits for further orders. 

“I want you… to take a look at the wound,” The man instructs him, folding his hands behind his back and nodding his head towards Mobius’s body. “Look at the shape of it… the size of it. Do you recognize the weapon that inflicted it?”

“Um….” The Minute Man stammers out, voice trembling with nerves as he kneels down by Mobius’s body to take a closer look at the wound. “It… it seems like a small blade, Sir.”

“Hmm… I’d have to agree with you on that one.” The man places a hand on the Minute Man’s shoulder in what should have been a comforting gesture, but was far from it. “A small blade, expertly wielded, by someone who is… intimately familiar with the weapon in question. And… considering the placement of the wound, I’d have to say familiar with this analyst, wouldn’t you?”

“I… I suppose so, Sir.”

“You suppose? Okay, well, I’ll give you my final theory.” The man’s grip on his shoulder tightens, feeling the trembling of the Minute-Man underneath his hands. “I think… the damage done here was by a dagger. Do you know what that means?”

The Minute Man remained frozen under his hands, wisely letting the man monologue away instead of actually answering. 

“It means it’s them. It means that they’re finally starting to make a move… It means that what I saw, and what I heard, was true. It means… it won't be long before they start hunting down me.”

Next Chapter - - - >

[flowesona]

The Hanged Man - Yandere! Jimin x reader

The Tarot Series

Warning: Explicit / Sexual content, Drug/Alcohol use

There was one thing (Y/N) swore to herself when she found out she was going to be roommates with Park Jimin. She could not develop feelings for him, in any way shape or form. He was a manwhore, to say the least. No girl had ever lasted more than a few months of dating him before having a breakdown. He was simply an insatiable being, always reaching for more.

However, she was pleasantly surprised when she first met him. He was well mannered, clean, humble. The exact opposite of how his rumours described him. It was plain to see he was trying to be a better person. He’d even cut back on his whorish ways, as (Y/N) had never seen him bring a girl back whilst she was around even if she heard some late night groans from his room. They’d developed a close relationship over their time together, forming a small friendship-like bond.

“(Y/N), would you be interested in coming to a party with me?” He asked, checking his hair in his mirror reflection.

“When is it? And who’s going to be there?” She asked, not looking up from her cake batter.

“Tonight, and it’s hosted by the chemistry society. You know their parties are always the wildest?” Jimin grinned at her eagerly.

“I don’t know… it’s dangerous and I want to finish my essay for Friday…” (Y/N) mumbled, still focusing on her cake. She knew what he would do.

As expected, he stood up, walked over to her and tilted her chin up so he could give her his best puppy-dog eyes.

“Please? You can just stay with me all night! And we can leave by midnight so you can finish your essay?” Jimin pleaded, and when he whined in such a way it was hard for anyone to turn him down, let alone (Y/N).

 *.·:·.☽✧    ✦    ✧☾.·:·.*

By 10PM, the party was in full swing. (Y/N) had lost track of Jimin, and was ready to leave, when she felt a hand on her waist. She was about to scream at the person when she recognised it was Jimin, looking slightly concerned.

“Sorry that I was gone. No one tried anything funny, right?” He asked, offering her an unopened bottle of Budwesier. She shook her head at his offering having already reached her limit, but didn’t protest as he began to lead her away from the crowds and into someone’s bedroom.

“Jimin, is something wrong? You seem different.” (Y/N) asked. There was something uncharacteristic about him, much more lustful and forward than his usual polite demeanour, possibly due to drugs and alcohol that were in high demand.

“(Y/N), I want you.” The boy pulled her down onto the bed, his hands on his belt as he waited for her consent. Even if his words were slightly slurred, he was completely aware of every single thing he said and the reactions they evoked in (Y/N).

“No strings attached, right? I don’t want this to make things awkward.” Jimin barely gave her a nod as he started to undress, already in his boxers before (Y/N) had even taken off her shirt. She didn’t have to bother with that, and he simply pulled her onto his lap, fingers unhooking her jeans and panties as he pressed kisses to her skin.

“J-just get it over with, J-Jimin-ah!” (Y/N) moaned, gripping onto his shoulder. In a flash he was on top of her, removing his boxers before giving her one last look before he thrust in.

“You’re so gorgeous, fuck!” Jimin panted, sweat dripping down the side of his head. “I l-love you.”

The girl underneath him was just as breathless, only being able to moan in ecstasy as she reached up her hands to run them through his hair. The noises were barely audible to the people outside this room with the beats of heavy music drowning out all evidence of their mischievous fling.

The young man collapsed next to (Y/N) once they’d finished, still breathing heavily. He looked over to see her beautiful face but she was already sitting up and pulling her undergarments back on, not sparing him a second glance.

“W-where are you going?” He asked breathily, reaching out to grasp her arm.

“We said no strings, didn’t we?” She said coldly, shaking him off and snatching up her bag. Jimin nodded but felt regret replacing the high he’d just come off. This wasn’t how things were meant to go. He’d had their perfect night of passion planned out from the moment he laid eyes on her: he was meant to take her out on a date to the movies and kiss her in the dark of the theatre. They would return to their dorm and he’d fuck her just like he did without the promise of ‘no strings attached’ because he needed her to stay with him more than anything else.

 *.·:·.☽✧    ✦    ✧☾.·:·.*

However the next day, when Jimin woke up back in his dorm, (Y/N) was nowhere to be seen. She didn’t pick up any of his calls, nor reply to his texts. Even when she did return to their accommodation, she didn’t bother talking to him, going straight to her room and locking the door whilst ignoring all his attempts to talk to her.

Obviously, he’d messed up somewhere along the way. Maybe (Y/N) was freaked out by his in-the-moment confession, maybe he didn’t live up to his legacy as a sex god, or maybe somewhere down the line he hadn’t been perfect enough for her. With a bitter taste in his mouth Jimin decided to give it a break, to move on from the girl who was pretending he didn’t exist.

Yet no matter how hard he tried, Jimin couldn’t get (Y/N) off his mind. Every girl that he hooked up with at these frat parties paled in comparison to her. They all seemed willing to fall for him, so why couldn’t (Y/N) look past his reputation and see how he’d changed just for the sake of her love?

One day he found himself unable to stay away, deciding to go out and buy a bunch of beautiful pink peonies. He would win her back by declaring his undying affection in a way she could not refuse. 

The second she opened the door when she returned home, he gave her his brightest smile, pushing the peonies towards her as he recited the poetic speech he’d composed of his love for her. (Y/N) was not impressed, shoving the flowers back to his chest.

“My boyfriend is here, what the hell are you doing?” She hissed, as a taller man carrying several bags of groceries stood behind her awkwardly. Jimin hadn’t even noticed the stranger’s presence during his confession, and now knowing that he’d stolen the status of (Y/N)’s boyfriend he felt nothing but spite towards the friendly-looking man.

As (Y/N) brushed past Jimin, the man had the nerve to give Jimin a patronising pat on the shoulder as he trailed after her, and Jimin had never wanted to beat someone to a pulp as much as he did in that moment.

His blood was boiling, his face flushed from humiliation and the peonies were now discarded on the floor. If (Y/N) knew anything, it was how to rip his heart from his chest and crush it beneath her boots. And he just let her.

His mind was screaming at him to throw in the towel, but something was still stirring inside of him. Hope, desire for (Y/N) still lingered within him, the hope that perhaps he could still be there for her.

He picked up the trampled flowers and smoothed out the petals, searching for a jar to put them in. He wouldn’t give up on her just yet.

 *.·:·.☽✧    ✦    ✧☾.·:·.*

Jimin was in his room, studying, when there was a knock on the door. He didn’t even give permission for the person to enter when he burst through the door.

(Y/N)’s boyfriend. A lanky, good for nothing boy with an uninteresting face and even more monotone voice, as if his only purpose was to put everyone in his presence to sleep. Perhaps it was just Jimin’s bitterness, but he could not understand how (Y/N) could fall for such a dull boy, when Jimin was available and in love with her.

“What are you doing?” Jimin said, not moving to accommodate his guest at all.

“You think, just because you fucked my girlfriend a few months ago, you’re entitled to spend every second talking to her?” The young man’s voice was thundering from the get-go. “I’ve seen everything you send her, you creep. Learn what no means, you privileged prick.”

“Why were you looking through her phone? Have some respect for (Y/N), she’s a nice girl.” Jimin pointed out, ready to fight.

“Listen here you little shit.” The situation dramatically escalated as Mingi brought a knife out of his pocket.

“Woah, calm down!” Jimin protested, subtly raising his voice so that (Y/N) could hear the commotion. He’d been waiting for an opportunity like this, whittling down Mingi’s ego through talking with (Y/N) until he was ready to snap.

“Don’t you fucking tell me to calm down.” The taller man snarled, grabbing a fistful of Jimin’s white shirt and holding the knife to his throat. 

“Please, let me go!” Jimin mustered up his best tears, right as (Y/N) opened the door to find the scene. Her boyfriend holding her roommate by the neck as if he was about to kill him.

“Mingi, get out before I phone the cops.” (Y/N) said firmly. 

“Look, babe, it’s not what it looks like. We need to talk this out-”

“It looks like you’re about to kill Jimin. Get the fuck out, you psycho.” Jimin conjured up a sniffle, warranting (Y/N)’s eyes to focus on him, rushing over to give him a soothing hug.

As Mingi gave Jimin a look of what could only be described as unadulterated rage, he stormed out, slamming the door behind him.

“I swear, I didn’t know he was like this. Jimin, I’m so sorry.” (Y/N) said softly, her hands warm and relaxing on his back.

“I-I’m sorry, for everything I-I’ve done.” Jimin gave a few fake sobs, just to add to his facade as (Y/N) cooed and comforted him.

“You don’t need to apologise, he was an ass.” 

“B-but I read everything wrong, I thought you wanted me and accepted my feelings and then you grew so cold and I-” Jimin started, hiccuping occasionally.

“Jimin, I’m sorry for how I treated you. I overreacted, and you didn’t deserve that.” (Y/N) comforted him, running a hand through his hair and not even shrinking away as he leaned into her touch like an attentioned-starved puppy.

“Can we-” 

“Of course. I’m sorry anyone ever got between us.” 

Even if she didn’t know it, Jimin was wrapped around her finger, ready to be whoever she would love. The gentleman, the sleaze, the victim. (Y/N) would love him, and that was all he could need.

[sykilik101]

Moments With You

There's no such thing as coincidence. I don't believe for a second anyone else besides her was supposed to be there that day. Fishing and owning a bike that just happened to have a Pikachu-sized basket?

We were meant to meet.

xxxxx

"Sorry I'm late!"

We'd already been traveling together for a few months now, and I'd gotten a pretty good idea of who Misty was. Quick to anger, an unwavering sense of right and wrong, and a love of water Pokémon that even I couldn't hope to match. We were past the point of simple acquaintances and could now be considered friends, but there were sides to Misty I had yet to learn about.

One of those was her with her hair down.

Her voice pulled me from my PokéDex, a speechlessness overtaking me as Pikachu's gleeful exclamation blended with the music and crowd. Everything in the background was blurry from the lantern smoke and lights, but Misty standing in her pink kimono, fan in hand, was immediately seared into my mind. For a second I was reminded of when I'd seen Giselle at that Pokémon Tech place we'd visited; she was pretty in that "make my face warm" way. I'd never gotten that feeling from Misty before, but now-

"Come on, Ash, let's dance!"

Her hand found its way into mine, and a dizzying warmth accompanied the softness of her fingers. My voice trembled a bit as I agreed, and with her extended invitation to Pikachu I couldn't help but laugh. She pulled me onto the dance floor with an infectious jubilance that suited her better than I could have thought. It was the first time that the two of us, together, whittled the hours away in the company of food, dancing, and a budding best friendship.

That was also the first time I felt soon-to-be-familiar nerves in my stomach around her.

xxxxx

"Okay."

"Right."

Traveling through a foggy forest towards a town that was supposedly home to ghost Pokémon didn't have the same energy as "summer festival," but at least I was holding Misty's hand again. It was Brock's idea, which was the perfect excuse for me to hold hers for longer than a few seconds. Even with my glove in the way, the tips of my fingers pressed into her skin, and I felt an abnormal heat surge through my cheeks. I wondered if I could convince the others that we should come through this forest on the way back.

I'd held out my hand to Brock so he wouldn't get lost; leave it to him to grab Pikachu's tail and ruin the moment.

xxxxx

"What are you two doing here?"

At this stage of our friendship, it was easier to hide any displays of enamorment behind a curt answer or a crude decision. I'd had enough practice with starting arguments after being caught staring, but I still hadn't gotten many opportunities to compliment her while maintaining plausible deniability. It was next to impossible to say something like "Your eyes are pretty" inconspicuously, so any chance I could get to say something about her, even hidden behind sarcasm or jokes, was something I wouldn't let go to waste.

I wasn't sure why Misty even agreed to help Melvin out in the first place. Misty's not an especially kind person, so agreeing to be some magician's assistant, in a Goldeen dress of all things, would definitely be high on my "things Misty would never do" list. Despite that, I couldn't help but think that she looked really...really pretty. Like, "the Maiden's Peak festival" pretty, but this time, I wanted to tell her. Hiding a compliment behind an annoying tone sounded like a good idea, and since starting an argument with her was easiest when she was in a flustered state, this was the perfect cover for me to say-

"That's a real cute outfit, Misty."

Surprisingly, I managed to keep a straight face and not stutter my words, despite inexperience threatening to wipe away the snarky tone I was going for. I was ready for the verbal retaliation she was famous for, but the sudden complaints of the audience demanding a show was a welcomed distraction. Taking a front row seat I savored the feeling of victory at having been able to call Misty cute and not end up with her mallet on my head.

It's too bad she didn't put her hair down for the outfit, though...

xxxxx

Every story I've heard of mermaids says that they're always extremely beautiful. Mermaids probably aren't real, but I think Misty is making me a believer.

xxxxx

"Careful, Ash, all that food can make your belly as big as your head."

I like that we're now at the point where her teasing comments are all in good fun. Of course, even if it wasn't, nothing was gonna bring my mood down. I'd already won my first two rounds, and I even got to eat for free thanks to a fan of mine. After having not had a meal for the entire day, all Pikachu and I wanted was to dig in.

Misty's company wasn't unwelcomed, either.

I wanted to answer her, but she happened to catch me mid-chew. My response was automatic and ready, but before I swallowed, a thought came to me. It was a nickname I'd thought about before, and I'd never found the right moment (or courage) to try it out. However, my post-battle elation made my worries feel insignificant, and I figured even if she didn't like it, I could brush it off as me just being too happy about my success to care.

"Thanks, Mist, but I can't help it! I got all this food for free! That's 'cause she happens to be a big fan of mine!"

Mist. I like the way it sounds, and the fact that she didn't immediately get that Misty eye twitch means she didn't dislike it. Although, maybe it's 'cause I'm so used to calling her Misty, but Mist feels a bit...awkward. Almost like how you'd call your girlfriend a cute nickname.

...Misty as my girlfriend...

"Ash, everybody in the Pokémon League gets to eat here for free."

So much for the fan of mine. I think, maybe, I'll keep Mist in my back pocket for future use, when it feels right to give her such a cute nickname.

xxxxx

"You're crazy!"

"Crazy is right! Never in a million years!"

She didn't have to deny it that hard...

xxxxx

"You and I will be married someday, too."

"Mhm…"

I didn't really register what Misty had said right away. My thoughts were more focused on how we were going to stay overnight in this park and hearing this girl - Temacu, was it? - talk about marrying Brock. For some reason I half-expected Brock to be going along with her imagination; after all, wasn't he always talking about cute girls and how he'd want to be with them? Did he not consider Temacu cute? Maybe he just doesn't want to marry her right after meeting her. I guess that makes sense. It would be kinda weird to want to marry someone if you're not in-

...wait, her and I, married?

"Huh?!"

I recognized that look in her eyes. Throughout our travels, anytime Misty messed up or said something she didn't mean to, her eyes always did that same thing; I could practically hear her screaming "I didn't say anything!" in her head.

The thing is, she did say it, and my brain started spinning all sorts of ideas on what she was implying by that. She could have just meant, in the future, I'd be married and she'd be married, but not to each other. That'd probably be just what she'd say if I brought it up. But...what if she was actually thinking that her and I would be married to each other? Was that something Misty thought about? Would she want to marry me?

Temacu's dad showed up, and after some talking we were invited to stay at their house instead of the park. I should have been more excited at being able to sleep in a bed instead of my sleeping bag, but Misty's response kept replaying in my mind. Even if her words hadn't registered to me right away, her voice had been calm with a bit of that daydreamy tone she used once in a while. I couldn't remember her sounding like that when talking about me.

Having packed our camping gear back up, our group began heading into the town. Brock and Temacu lead the way, with her dad shortly behind, and Misty and I bringing up the rear. As we walked I stole a glance at her from the corner of my eye. She seemed lost in a thought, her hands absentmindedly rocking Togepi to and fro as the little Pokémon looked on the brink of a nap. Eventually her gaze caught mine and she turned towards me.

"Is something the matter, Ash?"

I could ask her right now. With the others ahead of us, we had the privacy to have such a conversation. It wasn't a hard question at all. Were you really thinking about us two being married together? My mouth started to open, but something about the way she looked at me held my voice back. If I was wrong, it would just end in another argument, which would fit the status quo between her and I like usual.

But, deep down, I think I couldn't handle the idea of us fighting about marrying each other.

I needed more time to see how she felt about me. I'd spent enough time with an erratic heartbeat around her to know where I stood, but something about not knowing how she felt about this scared me enough to close my mouth, turning back towards the others.

"It's nothing."

Maybe her and I would be married someday. First, however, I needed to find out if she even liked me the way I liked her.

xxxxx

"Will I...see you again?"

"You will. I swear."

The dirt was quieter now, disturbed by two feet rather than six. The road from Viridian City to Pallet Town was familiar to me; the loneliness wasn't. The tears had subsided, but the ache in my chest was still as strong as ever as I slowly trekked down the dusty road.

I'd been ready to tell her. The mood had been perfect, if a bit more somber than I would have hoped for. Shades of purple and orange painted the sky, the sunset burning to match her hair. There was no hint of teasing or malice in the air, and the bike stationed by her side felt nostalgic; it made me think of how far we'd come since the first time I'd taken it from her. That time together, however, had come to an end, as a phone call from her sisters had sent us our separate ways.

However, it wouldn't last forever.

The handkerchief felt soft in my hands, wrapped around the bento Brock had given me. The corners were tied up perfect and sweetly, as if she'd done this for me a million times before. Her fingers had moved so effortlessly to fold the cloth, knot it tightly before offering it to me. What she'd really given me wasn't just tangible, and I think we both knew that. I know I can be a little dense, and I usually let my optimism take over when I'm unsure of something, but I think I got the message pretty clearly this time. In that moment, I could see exactly what I was looking for in Misty's eyes. Even if I hadn't said anything, I felt like she knew what I wanted to tell her.

There was something she wanted to tell me, too.

My heart, still deflated, skipped as a flush clawed its way up my face. I could be crazy and wrong on a million levels, but I'm pretty sure she feels the same way. Even if I'm either, or both...I can tell her now. Maybe I don't need a perfect moment or the right words, but I'll be ready when I see her again. She'd found her way into my life once before, and she'll do it again.

After all, there's no such thing as coincidence.

______________________________________________________

I gave myself permission to be less “strict” about trying to write Ash in character, deciding I’d let myself kinda run wild with maybe using words or descriptions you might not expect from him. This was fun to write, and I hope you enjoyed it.

[klbwriting]

The Sparrow and The Rogue - Part 2

Fandom: The Umbrella Academy

Pairing: Ben Hargreeves/female!Reader

Warnings: Mentions of abuse, once again fighting

Summary: The Umbrella siblings learn about what’s been going on in this timeline, One lives a day in his life, and has a pretty fun date trying to kill his wannabe girlfriend

              Even though the Umbrella siblings were promised an explanation that evening they never got one.  At least most of them didn’t.  There was a debrief to the small group of powered adults by Lila and Eight and then Diego and Lila disappeared somewhere while the rest of the group had dinner with what they discovered were a team called the ‘Rogues’ and they were kidnapped from directly under Reginald’s nose.  Most of them had chosen names while a couple stayed with their numbers, liking the way they sounded.  Eleven was very happy now that they kept their named now that Stranger Things was popular and they had the same powers as the character in the show.  They were giving rooms in the hideout, having to double up with the Rogues already there.  It was a surprise to no one that Diego was just fine sharing with Lila and Allison was almost a little nervous to share with Eight not knowing what her power was.

              “You look happy,” she said, trying to break the ice with the girl who was texting and had a smile on her face.  Eight looked over as if she forgot Allison was there and blushed, putting the phone under her pillow quick.  “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to pry.”

              “Its no big deal, just don’t tell Lila about it ok?” she said. Allison nodded with a smile.  “She would be very annoyed if she found out I was texting with someone inside the Sparrows.”

              “Ben?” Allison asked, sitting up now, full ready to have some girl time.  Eight considered this, then finally sat up herself.  She never got to talk to anyone about One and how confusing things were between them.  

              “Ya, he’s One here, he was your brother?” she asked. Allison nodded.

              “Ya, he was killed on a mission when we were teenagers. Klaus could still see him, he communes with the dead, but the rest of us weren’t so lucky,” she said.  

              “What was he like in your time?”  Allison considered how to answer.

              “We weren’t super close, he was always close with Vanya and Diego, he was so kind to everyone, especially the ones dad was hardest on.  I remember one time I was walking by Diego’s room while he was practicing his speech and Ben was in there, they had to have been 7 maybe, and he was just sitting there listening and encouraging him.  Diego was crying after a bit of not being able to get a word out and Ben just took his hand and said ‘don’t think about dad, just think about talking to me, you know you can take your time with me’.  That’s who Ben was, just the best,” she said, getting a little teary thinking about her lost brother.  Eight smiled and moved to sit next to Allison, a comforting arm going around her shoulders.

              “That version is still here.  I have seen moments of that person in One, that kindness,” she said. “My first memory is with One, when I think we were 4, its really simple, I had fallen and scraped up my knee during a morning run and dad was livid at me, even at 4 I was always too big and slow for him to tolerate so he made me do extra laps and One was there with me the whole time, ran every single one next to me even though he was faster and could have been done, he stayed with me.”  

              “That sounds like Ben,” Allison agreed.  “I hope maybe we can get past this, I don’t know what dad is planning but I’m so tired of running around and being chased, just so tired.”  Eight nodded.

              “Get some sleep, no one will wake you up tomorrow so you can get a good rest,” she said, moving back to her bed and laying down. Allison followed suit and she closed her eyes, drifting off to a music box playing now in the room.  She hadn’t noticed one being around before but Eight must have had next to her somewhere.  Once she was sleeping Eight lifted a hand and the music box across the room stopped playing, letting her fall asleep also.  

 -------------------------

             Number One was going through the motions today. He had woken up early as usual and went to the kitchen to help mom make breakfast.  He knew she couldn’t really appreciate it like a person, but he thought she enjoyed spending time with him anyway.  He could feel his father’s present before he saw him, entering the kitchen and giving him a disproving look, still angry about dinner no doubt.

              “Good morning Number One, feeling a little less rebellious today?” he said, sitting at the breakfast table and looking through a morning paper.  One glared at the eggs he was plating and set the plate down in front of Reginald a little harder than he meant.  “Ah, I see you are still in a mood.  Very well, you will be in charge of leading drills this morning, now eat your eggs.” One didn’t say anything but internally he groaned, drills made everyone hate him for days.  He ate in silence with the rest of his siblings before standing and telling them to get up and get to the yard.  They shot him death glares before doing as asked, knowing the punishment was worse than the drills.

              Two hours later and his siblings were off again, probably meeting in one of their rooms to talk about how much they hated him and his kiss ass ways.  One however, had more work to do, heading out to do his first patrol of the day.  He had no idea why dad sent him to do patrols instead of waiting for something to happen, especially now that the Umbrella siblings had shown up.  First the patrols were for them, then they became patrols for general crime, but now that the word of the Horror had spread no one would dare commit a crime in the city limits unless they wanted to die a horrible death over 30$ in some purse.

              This time out in the city gave him a chance to release some stress that he needed.  He found a park nearby and soon was casually swinging watching the kids around him and reminding himself of why he dealt with everything.  Without the Sparrow Academy the apocalypse would have happened two days ago.  They had saved history, keeping the timeline on track after something called ‘The Commission’ went belly up in the 60s due to some kind of explosion.  Where they had left off Reginald had picked it up, first on his own, and then when the 43 were born, with the 15 he had been able to get his hands on.  They had been whittled down to 6 humans and a box that told them where to go and got them in and out.  Ben may have hated his father but he would protect these people, always.  

              One patrolled until lunch, stopping at the kitchen table to eat alone before going to his room and checking his messages on his secret phone.  Before he could open it he had to hide it under his pillow as his door was shoved open and Number Two walked in.  Two stood silent for a second, seemingly realizing that he had caught One doing something he shouldn’t.

              “You alright One?” he asked suspiciously.  One stood up, facing off against his sibling, mustering up his bravado.

              “Ya, what do you want number Two?” he emphasized the word two just to irritate them.  They growled, glaring.

              “Dad wanted to have us trade patrols tonight, I’ll take 9th to 15th, you take the old trainyards,” Two said.  “Starting now, I’m supposed to watch you leave.” One gritted his teeth, anger seething through him.  

              “Let me get ready, I need to get my shoes,” he said. Two just stood in the doorway watching as One went back to his bed, sitting down and tying his shoes extra slow, hoping something would happen to make Two glance away.  Someone must have heard his silent plea because something clunked in the hall making Two look around for a fight.  One grabbed the phone and shoved it in his pocket before standing up.  “Alright, you want to walk me to the front door too?”  Two glared and let him pass by, closing his door behind him.

              After he was outside and a couple blocks away he texted Eight, letting her know of the change of plans, before heading down to the trainyards, thinking about maybe doing some sprints while he waited for her.

 -----------------------

              The Umbrella siblings sat in the main room of the hideout with Lila and Eight, Lila explaining what had happened to the Commission and what the Sparrow Academy had been up to.  They knew that after the Commission was taken down those in the ‘Resistance’ had taken up control of the timeline under rule of Lila and the kids she had collected from over time, starting with Eight.  

              “We developed the traveling technology by stealing what Reginald had already figured out.  The briefcases were big and too easy to lose, too much of a hassle, so instead Reginald created watches capable of the travel,” she explained.

              “How did he figure that out?  I watched the Commission try for decades to create that kind of technology,” Five cut in.  Lila glared at him, still not exactly happy that he was alive after killing her parents, no matter who had ordered the hit.

              “I don’t know, took a few tests to figure out how to use the watches, but now we can track where the Sparrows go and then fix whatever they mess up in history, keep the timeline on track,” Lila explained. Confusion rippled through the room.

              “What do you mean you fix the Sparrows messes?” Luther asked, sitting forward, the chair creaking loudly.  He made a face and waited for someone to say something just so he could hit them.  

              “The Sparrows travel around on orders from dad to ‘fix’ history, ya know, kill Steve Jobs before the iPhone, assassinate Abe Lincoln when he’s running for president, take out Thomas Jefferson, although that last one I really hated to fix,” Eight said.  “Such a brilliant mind, such a shit fucking person.”  She stood up and went to stand by the open door, Lila looking over at her.

              “What’s wrong with you?” Lila asked.  

              “I’m warm, there’s a draft over here,” Eight explained, leaning on the wall, hand in her jacket pocket.  

              “Why don’t you just take off the jacket?” Klaus asked, getting elbowed by Allison.  “What?”

              “I like this jacket,” was her answer before she looked out the doorway.  Lila rolled her eyes and returned to the original conversation.

              “So after we fix their messes, they make more messes.  We’re not sure what exactly Reggie is trying to do but either way, we know we have to make sure history happens as expected.  Except for the apocalypse, none of us could really muster the desire to stop fixing that,” she said.

              “So now we’re in no mans land?” Vayna asked, getting a little nervous about bringing about another end of the world scenario. Lila nodded.

              “Honestly, only Five has lived past the apocalypse and now that it didn’t happen I don’t know what the game plan from here is, I just know what happens in actual history to keep that on track, what those changes bring in the future is a crap shoot,” she said.  “Isn’t that right Eight?  Eight?”  She turned to see the doorway empty, no trace of Eight left in the hide out anymore. Allison sat in her seat and smiled softly, having an inkling where she was going, hoping that maybe she could turn Ben back to their side.  

 ----------------------

              Eight had gotten One’s message and headed towards the trainyards.  She passed by Number Four along the way and realized quick that One was being followed. She acted like she was patrolling, hoping to not have to fight Four but knowing it was a possibility.  Four however, let her pass, clearly just being around to watch their brother and what he was doing.  Once at the trainyards Eight dipped through old train cars, running up and down tracks until she saw One.  She approached him slowly.

              “You have a friend around,” she said.  One’s eyes flashed the area and he caught a quick glance of crimson ducking behind a car nearby.  “So I guess this is another fight to the death?”

              “Guess so,” he said with a smirk.  Eight smiled back sweetly.  “No powers?”

              “No powers, pinky promise,” she said before diving towards him, fist raised.  

              One easily blocked the shot, moving around to fire back with his own fist.  Eight easily dodged and punched his stomach, pulling the hit so it didn’t actually hurt. One doubled over anyways, spearing her around the waist and taking her to ground, just out of view of Four.

              “So, ready to play dead?” he asked, holding her shoulders down as she laid under him, watching him closely before nodding.  He smiled down at her before standing up and walking around the car, hands raised above his head as in victory.  He knew once Four saw this they would call out to him.

              “Hey Number One!” Four called as expected, walking over the tracks.  One hurried to meet them, not wanting them to actually see that Eight was alive.  “You finally got the bitch!”

              “Yup, finally caught her by surprise, she said no powers like an idiot,” he said, chuckling darkly.  Four nodded and laughed.  “Well I’m going to finish my patrol and head home, but ya know, gotta get rid of the body first.”  Four nodded.

              “Need help?” they asked.  One shook his head.

              “Nah, I got it, just going to shove her under the traincar, no one will find her and if they do animals will do the job first,” he said.  Four nodded, turning and walking away without another word.  Four was easiest to trick and One was glad dad hadn’t sent Two or Six after him.

              Once he was sure Four was gone he headed back to the traincar to find Eight sitting against the wheel, having been listening. He took a seat next to her, close enough that their shoulders were touching, hand gently finding its way over to hers on her leg.  He linked their fingers and sighed.

              “Well, that’ll lighten things up for a bit, dad will think you’re dead for awhile,” he said, looking at her.  She nodded and looked at him.

              “You know we can’t do this forever, one day we have to either tell all the truth or run away,” she said.  “We could go to the 90’s, relive our childhood but ya know as adults.  I’ll be old enough to buy myself Backstreet Boys tickets.”  One laughed and shook his head.

              “Someday, but I can’t leave this behind, I mean we’re fixing history, making sure everything keeps on track,” he said. Eight sighed and rolled her eyes. “I know, you guys think we mess it up, but we don’t, we help, we save people, you guys are the ones who come around messing it up again.”  

              “We honestly don’t know who is fixing what,” she said.  “I just wish I knew what dad was planning for, why he’s doing all this.”  

              “He’ll tell me when I’m ready,” One said indignantly, trying to justify why he was so readily going along with Reginald.  

              “I hope he does, I’m curious which side I’m on,” Eight said.  She looked at him.  “Enough talk, I don’t think we really came here to talk.”  One nodded, leaning in and pressing his lips to hers, kissing her until he ran out of air, then taking a breath, and going right back in.

[grim-faux]

07_A Small Echo

First

  The air was heavy and muffled, every step he took echoed. The reverberations strummed through the back of his thoughts, weighing on his senses. It was wading through deep water, the resistance heavy and he needed to be somewhere right now but no matter how much effort he put into each reaching step, the air itself restrained him. Confined his body in a tight coil, choking air from his lungs. His stride became heavier, he wasn’t sure how much further he could go, or if the next step would be the last he could endure.

 At the end of the gnarled corridor a door loomed tall, watching him. A lone and massive eye judged his progress, as if daring his resolve to reach the handle and trip the lock. Something awaited him. Answers, possibly. All the answers he could ever want.

 But the closer he came to the door, the harder his heart throbbed, the more intense the pressure of the everything around him. The colors became intense and their flavor palpable, tart and thin. If he reached the door though, it would be better. He was certain. It would be okay. Somehow, it would solve everything.

 A methodical chime crooned, tallying down the moments that he had left. Warning him that what is set in motion cannot be undone. A trick.

 __

 His eyes snapped open, and he had to confront the delightful truth that he was not dead. Wonderful.

 Out there somewhere, the rain drummed against the boards of a window. He was so tired of the rain, so weary of gasping on the mist and only being slightly damp, but never fully dried; of his clothing being an outer skin, rather a barrier against the vicious onslaught.

 He dragged an arm beneath the stiff cloth and smacked himself in the face. Mask still there. He didn’t normally take it off for rest, it was strange his first impulse was check for it, though he felt it crumpled around his face. He tried breathing calmly, but his sides buzzed. It could have been so much worse, he was sure, but being thankful for anything wouldn’t improve his mood.

 Should sleep? He had to find Her. The Six. Tower. She was there, he didn’t know if she was all right let alone alive, but he couldn’t leave. He couldn’t do anything until he found her. The thought stung his eyes, and he emitted a faint crooning. He wanted to be there, he so badly wanted to. But he was so lost, so hurt, and afraid they were both going to die. And he didn’t want to lose his friend. He let her down too many times. He let them all down.

 Drawing on some pathetic refuse of energy, he pushed himself up from the weighted fabric and edged forward. It was unbearable now, but this wasn’t unusual. Once he got moving and warmed up, he wouldn’t notice the tears or breaks. It didn’t stop the tremors in his arms. Slow first. Be careful.

 He was badly tangled up, and it took more effort than it was worth to just get his legs free. Where was he? He adjusted his mask and gave the area a look over.

 A room.

 Window. He heard that. Too high.

 Some furniture. Good. Not a lot of shadows, no visible spaces or notches, but furniture was good. At least it could be moved, with some force and a slice of lunacy. Furniture made noises.

 He was on a busted sofa, not his first choice. Absolute worst. A novice, idiot, suicidal choice. The sofa was not in the middle of the room, but it might as well have been. Across the room, a doorway. He took a deep breath and looked over to his side on the cushion. And tilted his head.

 Foods. Bits of what looked like meat and some wafer things, piled onto a napkin. Reflexively he cowered, but his lesser sense of self-preservation won out. Injuries forgotten, he tore into the foods. Half gobbling and choking as he sought to breathe and eat altogether. The whole choreography never worked well, since food was a rarity and having the chance to eat the food you did secure was rarest of all. It did enter his mind that this wasn’t quite right, and so kept his eyes cast off, barely paying mind to what he was shoving into his mouth.

 Until a creaking board sent him scuttling to the arm of the couch. He shoved the bag over his face and continued to gnaw, as he cast his eyes toward that doorway.

 The tall thin man in the hat entered, with a deep bow. Mono swallowed and swayed on the chair arm, already letting his eyes dip to the floor. It wouldn’t take long to tear the place apart searching for him, though he did already connect up who brought him here, who left the food.

 This was the worst situation. Horrible. He set another glare on the figure, as it positioned itself by the wall. Not near enough to warrant anxiety, but not far enough to be safe. Everything moved normally – the tall man was not alarmingly swift, and Mono was not crawling through the air. A plus there. Not likely to last, so he tensed up and watched.

 The Thin Man shifted closer, and Mono climbed to the back of the sofa. He strafed along the wall, rooting for a gap between furniture and plaster where he could get down. There was none—

 A harsh screech splint the room; intense and more punishing than thunder screams. He tumbled to the chair arm and clutched at his bag, the electrical pop whittled at his ears like a cold spike. No amount of huddling or defense was enough, he didn’t think he could stand much more….

 “C̸̖̟̖͖̻̼͆͋̋̕͝ạ̷̢͎̖̬͇̗̃̽n̴̦̝͔̲̎̿̆̀̍͑͜ ̴̬́̌̈̔̔̈́͋́̈́ý̸̙̜͕̯̟͓͉͇͚͇̈́́́́̒͐̍̒̉͝ơ̵̝͈̝̼̜͓̥̩̺͙̲͔̮̅̆̾͑̀͋͂̔̒͒̌̕͠ͅu̸͓̗̯̮̹͔͎͈͍̥̪̻̐͑͗͆̉͋̓́̽͌̊͗̚͝͝ understand me?”

 Mono perked and tilted his head. Yes he… could. The ideal that he could put connection to the speek, given that it was his speek, was most worrisome of all. It was altogether, and with the way the adult always seemed to know where he would appear, and set a trap. This was wrong and concerning, and told him how little his chance for escape was.

 He tumbled over the sofa arm to the nightstand and dropped to the floor, then, set himself beneath the piece of furniture. Now on the floor, he cast his eyes around searching for something more promising. If he could slip out of view for a few seconds….

 “You want help to your… ‘friend’. Yes?”

 Mono hissed in his throat but kept silent, instead opting to shake his head. The floorboards creaked with that terrible familiarity, and he poked his head up. No place to run. No place to hide. The man in the hat was thoroughly focused on him. Bad.

 “You could resist, but chose didn’t. No fight.” The child glanced his way, and then back to the floor, rooting for fresh cover. “You should be dead, do think?”

 Mono couldn’t stop his lips from twitching. Think he didn’t know that. Of course! This wasn’t fair. He pressed his head against the leg of the nightstand and crouched down. Should run? Floor open. No cover. Flee.

 “Twice over,” the Thin Man posed. As reply, the child scooted further around the table leg. “It’s not like you to give up. It’s not what you’re made of.”

 Mono tucked his head down. The Thin Man leaned over, peering under the table and trying to find the tell-tale mask.

 “What is it then? You’re running out of chances.” The child muttered a sound. “Come again?”

 “Want back,” he wheezed. “Want back her.” He coughed, more from shock than the discomfort of trying so hard to make words when it was not safe.

 “Well, that won’t do. She belongs to the tower now. As do I.” And an unspoken, as do you. “You forfeited your time for negotiations.”

 Mono poked his head up. “For-feet?”

 “Gave up.” He reached to the napkin on the sofa and picked out a piece of wafer, and held it out for the child. Mono skittered behind the table legs, pressing into the walls surface. His gaze darted up, inspecting the hand and the figure beyond it. “You will need your—”

 Faster than a whip, Mono snatched the bread and inhaled it. The Thin Man wondered if he was lucky to have kept his arm.

 “Why take? Why is her stole?” Mono continued to dip and paw at the wall beneath the furniture, distressed and unable to keep still. His flight instincts on overdrive, but he hadn’t the opening to safeguard his exit.

 “I’m not keeping you here,” the Thin Man offered. “But I won’t let you enter the tower.” He moved back from the table and gestured the room. “This place is on the outskirts of the city. You are miles and miles away from your goal.”

 Mono crept out from behind the nightstand, checking the tall thin man and then dropped his eyes to the floor level. There was only the one doorway. “Then have start again. So what?”

 This child…. “I said miles. Miles. Do you know how far a lone mile is? How much abuse and setbacks did you suffer, to come within a city block?”

 “Don’t care.” Mono shrugged. While the adult was turned away, he clambered up the sofa side and bounded across the cushions.  “She trapped. I’m not leave, especially friends.”

 This idiot child. “You single-minded, stubborn, relentless fool. You are going to destroy yourself.”

 Mono stood there and actually bristled, fists clutched by his hips. “So. WHAT? Hurt more in to leave! That desT-Roy me! S’not right!”

 But he did have a point. As their twisting paradox was uncontestable, so was this urge to… do something. Anything. Even if it was self-destructive. Children didn’t know any better.

 “I have an obligation to remove you,” the Thin Man cautioned as he wound back, the air vibrating with the sinister static. “If you insist on being a nuisance about it.”

 Mono climbed back over to the nightstand, the piece of furniture swayed under his weight. As if the floor might’ve shifted during his absence, he once more skimmed below. “You won’t though.”

 This tiresome child. “And what makes you so… assured?” In response, the child held up three fingers.

 “Caught, woke up.” He set down the third finger. “Gave foods.” He leaned backwards over the armchair, looking down at the scraps.

 The Thin Man tipped his head. “Is that really all it takes to gain your trust?”

 “No….” Mono plucked at the callouses on his finger with his teeth, removing splinters. “I get friend mine back, and you won’t work stop me.” He turned the bag, so that it lowered and the eye holes peered at the Thin Man. “You for-feit?”

 The Thin Man frowned. “No. I expected more from you. I anticipa— was prepared for the different outcome.” Mono’s response was lift his shoulders.

 “Let me go the tower.”

 Sighing, he tried once more. “It will destroy you. There will be nothing left of you, of who you are, strange child. You cease to exist, once you enter.”

 Mono looked away, and he could almost picture the concerned twitch of his eyebrows as the strange child examined the room over. “I think… would okay to that.”

 “ Wͪͩ̍̋Hͤ͛Y̆̊͆̊̈́͛͒!̵ͬͬ̌̆͂̍҉  ” His shout made the boy dive off the couch and flatten himself into the nearest corner of the room, where he huddled, his paper mask gawking. But given a moment and no action, the child calmed by a small amount. He continued to fidget and inch back. It took a minute longer for a response.

 “I don’t believe. You are lie. And I to have do myself.” He shoved his hand up under the bag and rubbed at his cheeks. “Have nothing… else. I, um….” He curled down into the corner, hugging scrawny knees to his chest and trying not to look at the Thin Man. There was probably more he could say, but he didn’t know how to convey it.

 It was painful. He didn’t do enough. It was his fault. He had to fix this. Was it fixable? She probably hated him, he was taking so long. She could be dead. He might never see her again. He did this. He should be dead. He could fix this. It should’ve been him, not her. This wasn’t fair.

 The Thin Man sighed through the static and brought a hand to his face. The action caused Mono to recoil a bit, though there was no longer space for him to creep into. “Very well. I admit, I am curious to witness how you go about this. If you so desire, I will escort you.”

 Quietly, Mono inquired, “You think can I stole back?”

 “No.” He spun away, moving to the doorway. “As stated, your life will end there, and that is the sum of it. But I am exhausted of this fantasy.” He turned back when Mono remained rooted. “Are you coming?”

 Mono tugged at his coat, gaping at the tall man in the hat, but unresponsive. At last he did uncoil, and bounded right over to the sofa cushion where the food was abandoned. He kept his shoulder to the Thin Man as he chewed on the remnants, then plucked up as many of the crumbs as possible until there was hardly any dust left. Cautiously, he climbed off the sofa, and gave his coat a shake off.

 “Any time now.”

 Mono finished checking his coat for snags or loose bits, then tentatively walked over to the Thin Man. Not getting too close, but near enough he could peer up and announce his preparedness with an unreadable expression. The Thin Man stooped and entered into the corridor. He was certain Mono was right behind him, though he couldn’t hear the footfalls at all. Children had ways of vanishing once a gaze was dropped. But he knew without a doubt the child would find his way to the Signal Tower, as he was initially instructed.

 If not for Mono’s retaliation in the first place, and in his inability to destroy his youth, that all along was the primary goal. That was all that mattered. Deliver him, replace himself. Either way, the events twisted in a manner the Tower demanded. But he was curious now to see how this hitch in the pathways worked, and what its finality would mean. It would be interesting nonetheless.

 Might as well bend the paradox further.

Next

[atinytokki]

Paradise

iv. The Pearl in the Oyster  

By the time San was seated in the boat with the wind on his face and the shores of his town on the horizon, he had overcome his shock at discovering a secret pirate refuge.

Jiyong and Mr. Shim had fussed over him and grilled him with questions after he was rescued, but from a combination of the fact that he wasn’t sure whether he had imagined the whole ordeal and the fact that he was terrified, he hadn’t given them much information.

“Please don’t tell my grandparents,” he suddenly begged as the Namhae docks came into view.

“San, you were lost in the caves for nearly an hour,” Mr. Shim argued as he adjusted the sails. “It would be irresponsible of me not to tell them.”

“But I’m not hurt!” San argued back, getting to his feet and swaying slightly with the momentum of the boat. “And they’ll only be angry at me for running away!”

Mr. Shim frowned at him, but he didn’t scold him again, so San took it as a sign to continue.

“Didn’t you ever wander off as a boy? You wouldn’t have wanted your parents to know, would you?”

“I did have my mischievous days,” the man admitted. “But I matured and stayed away from dangerous places until I could handle myself.”

He delivered this last line with a pointed glance, one that told San if he could shape up, he would be off the hook.

A smile grew on his face and he nodded eagerly.

“Alright,” Mr. Shim chuckled. “I was young once too, wasn’t I?”

San greeted the now familiar shores of his island with relief and helped to unload the boat until his grandparents appeared at the docks to collect him.

The old sailor reported that they had enjoyed a refreshing and uneventful time in the markets of Dalhae, true to his word. San waved goodbye to the two and flopped around in the back of the cart on the ride home.

Warm food in his belly and a gentle breeze  blowing through his window, San told Haneul of his adventures and organised her shells into a small wooden chest until Grandmother poked her head in and told them to go to bed.

Even as he stared into the fireplace and tried to fall asleep, the eyes of the pirate lingered in the back of his mind. 

Supposing San had gotten all the adventure that he needed, Grandfather put him to work in the carpentry shop the next morning and even more frequently after.

When he was out of the room, busy selling his wares in town, or asleep at the desk, San took it as an opportunity to stretch his sore leg and practice fighting invisible pirates in the carpentry shop unsupervised.

Of course, this resulted in the destruction of some of the carving displays and plank storage, so Grandfather passed him off to Grandmother while he cleaned up after him, and San was subject to quiet reading and a picnic on the beach for the afternoon.

For a boy with an active imagination, San’s life had become rather boring. Unless it was about pirates, it wasn’t interesting enough, so Grandmother in her indulgence gifted him a few naval history books in the hopes that he would be satiated. 

He was unsuccessful in discovering the identities of the pirates in the caves no matter how hard he researched, especially when all he had to go on was the fact that one had been sporting a peg leg (apparently a common occurrence among pirates) and the other had seemed... young. 

San had all but given up hope when one rainy day in late autumn, the familiar tapping sound of a peg leg resounded from the front path. 

His head shot up from where he had been in deep focus at his little desk, whittling a wooden ship (that Grandfather had discouraged, and didn’t need to know about) and he counted two seconds before the jangle of the bell rung out and the customer was on the doorstep, silhouetted by dripping rain that blinked silver in the lightning flash.

Suddenly, the stranger stepped closer and just like that, the fantasy was shattered. San didn’t recognise this man from the caves.

“Wh-Who are you?” He croaked out weakly, standing from his chair and watching the peg leg man intently. Pirate or no pirate, San was ready to defend the house from him if need be.

The man frowned and closed the door behind him, adjusting his satchel with an unreadable look in his eye. “I was informed you’d be expecting me.”

If they were expecting him, San wasn’t aware of the fact. It had only been three days since the magistrate had been over for dinner, and San’s grandparents didn’t invite guests that frequently. 

“Who are you, exactly?” He asked, trying to be polite, catching himself with a late bow.

“Oh, hello Dr. Hong!” 

Right on cue, Grandfather rushed out from the back room and came to shake hands with the man, whose large bag made a lot more sense now. 

A doctor.

San didn’t like doctors.

“I hope San didn’t let you stand out in the rain,” Grandfather was saying with a pointed glance that told San he was in trouble if he had.

“No, not at all,” Dr. Hong laughed as he was helped out of his coat. “The lad seemed wary, but I can see why.”

The doctor tapped his peg leg on the rug and San blushed at being called out. “I’ll tell you how I got it if you ask,” the man continued with a bright smile. “But first, I have a patient to attend to!”

Grandfather and the doctor hurried upstairs and left San to his own devices, wondering why a doctor had been called and quieting his intense curiosity about the peg leg as it began to grow again.

He finished the masts by the time Dr. Hong returned to the shop. Sensing the boy’s nervousness, the doctor quickly reassured him his visit was only a routine checkup.

“Haneul is doing well, all things considered,” he told him softly. “Though, you must always protect her and keep her healthy.”

San agreed in a heartbeat, not too naïve to forget why he was here on Namhae in the first place. 

Everything was for Haneul.

“Ah, yes, the leg,” the guest remembered just before leaving. 

San perked up and scooted closer to hear the tale. 

“It was back in my Navy days, before I picked up medicine,” he explained. “I was a gunner on one of those cargo transport ships, the Royal Longtail, back when the East Colonies were just starting out and the trade routes were being established. We were attacked by pirates on the trip back and I, an inexperienced soldier, was shot in the leg and carted to the infirmary for the rest of the battle. I thought for a few harrowing moments that I was on the brink of death, but somehow I was saved.”

“How?” San nearly burst out, leaning on the edge of his seat.

Dr. Hong displayed his peg leg again. “The surgeon chopped off my leg just above the knee and managed to stop the bleeding. That miracle— the one that saved my life— convinced me to switch to the field of surgery. It’s quite new and underdeveloped but as you can see, real results are happening!”

San smiled at the satisfying conclusion of the story and bid the doctor farewell.

He still didn’t like them as a rule, but he could make an exception for this one.  

Haneul claimed to be doing fine when San brought the evening meal up to her bedroom where she lay staring at the ceiling, but her skin was pale and clammy and from the way she was breathing he could tell she was anxious about something.

“Do you... want me to sit with you?” He asked timidly, unsure how to help once he’d set the plate on her bedside table and closed the window to shut out the breeze.

“No, just leave me alone,” his half-sister muttered, rolling over to face the wall and leaving San hurt and confused.

Without another word, he crept away and into his own room, tucking himself into bed. He knew not to take it personally, that sometimes she just got into moods like this when she was discouraged about her illness.

But it made San worry that the doctor hadn’t in fact told him everything.

Haneul appeared at breakfast but refused to play with him when he returned from school, in the few hours San had before he would be herded back into the carpentry shop.

It was disappointing but San took it as an opportunity to look for new friends, something he hadn’t put much effort into since arriving.

There were a couple of teenage girls with a five year old brother playing further down the beach on the rocks, the opposite way as Mr. Shim’s house, so San strolled over and introduced himself.

“I haven’t seen you before,” he admitted shyly. “Do you usually play further up the beach?”

“Yes,” the older of the two explained. “But today we’ve come here because of the construction.”

“Construction?” San asked, confused.

The girl pointed past the rooftops to the harbour where the masts craned like birds flocking along the shoreline. “The naval garrison. They’re finally building it.”

“It’s loud!” The little boy whined, crying when a particularly large swell washed him face-down into the sand. 

San giggled and helped him up, seamlessly joining in their hunt for oysters while they told him what the garrison in town was going to look like.

He couldn’t help but glance over the hill and wonder what it would mean for Namhae. The more Navy presence, the less likely pirates would appear. And the less likely the two from the Dalhae caves would appear.

As San cracked open an oyster and, to his amazement, found a lucky pearl, he decided maybe it was for the better.

He’d had his adventure- enough adventure for a lifetime. 

...

A/N:  Guess who finished her semester!!!!! It was a rough one tbh but now I can write unhindered so expect more from me soon, but in the meantime don't forget to rb and comment <3

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[stella-monstrum]

“Autopsy of Jane Doe”[ IFC MIDNIGHT, 2016] [Rated R]

(Review & My Parallel Film Theory)

(NSFW CONTENT AND POTENTIAL SPOILERS)

(Written by Stella, edited by Jacob J.)

No matter the genre, the independent film industry holds many hidden gems within it. Studio IFC has been in the game for close to twenty years now, but it wasn’t until 2010 that it unveiled its plans for their “Midnight” collection and genre.

“Many of our most successful VOD titles are those that might fall under the Midnight label – not just films that are straight up horror, erotic arthouse, or genre films, but also ones that shock audiences, push boundaries, and stir up controversy – so officially creating IFC Midnight was the logical next step,” President of IFC Entertainment Jonathan Sehring in a statement. (SOURCE: indiewire.com // HERE)

But the focus in this article will be solely on the horror genre, specifically the 2016 supernatural/horror/thriller standout The Autopsy of Jane Doe. My review, thoughts, and analysis will include some changes I would have made to change the story itself.  Now, full disclaimer, my changes and reimagining will not affect my rating on the film overall, per se.

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[REVIEW]

One thing that was honestly a surprise (albeit a pleasant one) was how small the cast actually was. Whilst there are ten actors and actresses listed on the IMDb page, the film focuses on only five of them, eventually whittling the action down to three. My honest thought? “With such a small amount of people only being focused on, this will get boring quickly.” But boy, I was 100% wrong in that assumption. If ANYTHING, it only intensified every moment on, Add in dramatic references, film scoring, and film aesthetics? It was just icing on the creep cake.

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Let’s begin with the cast and breakdown of the story:

Brian Cox and Emile Hersch as father-son coroner duo Tommy and Austin Tilden

Ophelia Lovibond as Emma, Austin’s girlfriend

Olwen Kelly as Jane Doe

Michael McElhatton as Sheriff Burke (an albeit brief focus)

Left to right: Austin, Emma and Tommy (Screencap, Autopsy of Jane Doe, 2016)

~~~~~~

From the beginning of the film, you are immediately immersed within a brutal crime scene. It seems fairly straightforward in what appears to be a triple homicide. I was taken by (delighted) surprise that it kicked off at such a fast pace, so much so that I physically felt that I’d lost my footing (while sitting). But as the police and forensic team further search the home for evidence, they wind up finding a pristinely preserved and very nude corpse, one only partially covered in dirt down in the basement. This new revelation doesn’t fit what they’ve pinned down to be a homicide.

Enter a quieter and uneventful small town setting. Here we are introduced to Austin and Tommy Tilden, running a very small coroner business out of the basement of their home (blasting rock and roll from the radio whilst they do their job—a very cool touch.) Austin comes off as a young adult who doesn’t want to be stuck in this small town, let alone in this profession. He feels bad since father Tommy is otherwise alone and widowed. 

The Tilden home/business (Screencap, Autopsy of Jane Doe, 2016)

~~~~

Austin’s girlfriend Emma comes in to pick him up after his shift for a date they had planned. (This part plays into my reimagining later.) Emma sneaks up to scare Austin, then begs and pleads with him to let her see a dead body and what they do for a living. Austin flat out refuses, but then his dad allows Emma to pick one to view. Tommy also explains that they keep bells around the ankles of some corpses (a practice with origins in an old wives’ tale: if the person isn’t dead, the bell will jingle). Austin gets back at Emma by ringing the bell on one of the bodies to scare her, and she threatens that he “won’t be getting laid.” (Emma comes off as a very strong type—and not in a flattering chemistry way)

Just as they’re about to leave for their date, Sheriff Burke comes in with an urgent request: they have 24hrs to perform the autopsy of the Jane Doe found in the opening scene. Austin decides that, with the urgency and his guilt, to stay behind and assist, asking Emma to come back later.

As they perform what they thought would be just another autopsy to find clues as to how or why Jane Doe met her end, things get very eerie and strange. These events elicit goosebumps: from a shift in music to a creepily upbeat version of the McGuire Sisters’ 1954 song “Let the Sunshine In,” to an awful storm coming in seemingly out of nowhere, knocking a tree into the cellar exit, trapping the Tildens inside. The family cat gets killed. The bodies in the morgue awaken. The power goes out. These usually run-of-the-mill supernatural tropes are 100 times more dramatic with the focus only on the two men.

While they examine Jane layer by layer, her fingerprints are nowhere to be found in their system, and her trauma and, injuries in total, do not seem to match up with the crime.

Peat soil from “up northeast” found under her fingernails

No outward visible signs of marking or bruising

Broken wrists and ankles

Ripped out tongue

Mutilated genitalia

Missing tooth (which was force fed to her in a cloth with a ritualistic sigil in it)

Flower with paralyzing properties (and not native to the area) in her stomach

Horribly burned lungs and internal organs covered in scar tissue. 

A very much active brain

Roman numerals and symbols carved into her skin

Markings on the cloth alluding to Leviticus 20:27 (which condemns witches) and the year 1693 (a reference to the Salem Witch Trials)

Austin and Tommy do not come out of this unscathed—or alive, for that matter. While trying to escape in the elevator when being chased by one of the belled-up corpses, Tommy hacks away at it in the dark. But, once the power comes back on, it is revealed to be Emma. Tommy gets attacked by unseen forces (since he is the one primarily performing the exam). They finally reveal that Jane Doe was likely thought to be a witch during the Trials, but the people who performed the ritual were horribly wrong—and ended up turning her into the very thing they sought to destroy. Tommy pleads with the witch to take him as long as she leaves Austin alone, and all of her horrific injuries get transferred to the elder Tilden, leaving Austin to put his father out of misery. Austin, however, gets spooked by a hallucination (provided by Jane) of his dead father on the stairs leading up to the exit. He falls and snaps his neck.

The next day, Jane Doe is in pristine form on the exam table. The Sheriff cannot understand what could have happened since he’d known the Tilden’s for so long, and decides to send Jane off to the next county. The ending features Jane being transferred into the van, a creepily upbeat song playing once again.

All in all, if I were nitpicking, the only real complaint I’d have is that some of the suspenseful moments were drawn out a few seconds too long. On top of that, they shouldn’t have killed off the family cat, Stanley. That said, if you’re into supernatural thrillers or just looking for a film for date night, this would certainly be one to consider. 

(7/10 stabs)  🔪 🔪 🔪 🔪 🔪 🔪 🔪

(Reimagining AHEAD)

▬▬ι══════════════ι▬▬

Now after watching the film, I got to thinking. This is my reimagining of sorts, and a theory that they could have used to cash in on a continuation:

Let us rewind a little bit. Remember Emma? Think back to this scene specifically: 

(I do NOT own the rights to this clip, simply sharing for viewing to set the scene)

༺═──────────────═༻

In this parallel theory there are a few points of change that come to mind initially:

1. Tommy has a more stubborn personality, absolutely and flat out refusing to let Emma see the cadavers

As he (Tommy) shoos Emma out, that is when the Sheriff urgently brings in Jane Doe. Austin convinces his father to let Emma stick around. Tommy then has the attitude of, “If she wants to see a dead body we’ll let her see the entire process.”

Jane’s body gets taken into the Tilden’s business. (Screencap, Autopsy of Jane Doe, 2016)

Whilst the Tilden’s are performing the examination, Emma begins to get bored (before shit gets weird and they essentially awaken Jane’s warnings)

2. When things slowly proceed to get horrific, the further that they get into things, Emma touches the ritual cloth that was used to force-feed Jane her molar, then Austin scolds her for touching evidence.

Progressively after touching the ritual cloth, Emma begins to get very sick. This not only adds an anxiety-inducing level of conflict on top of having to deal with Jane Doe’s unfolding evil, but also provides a deeper layer to the film.

Austin and Tommy examine the ritual cloth. (Screencap, Autopsy of Jane Doe, 2016)

The more that they poke, prod, and try to fight Jane, the worse Emma’s condition gets. Austin has to drag her along whilst also trying to protect his father from the witch’s attacks.

3. You get to the point of looming dread when it becomes clear that Austin cannot save his father, and seemingly Emma as well. (Also fuck it that the cat stays alive and alerts Austin of danger, cause why not?)

After Tommy begs Austin to kill him once all of Jane’s injuries transfer to the elder Tilden (VIEW HERE); Emma’s eyes become clouded like Jane’s.

While Austin tries everything that he can to keep Emma comfortable, he tries to perform a ritual himself to destroy the evil brought in. 

4. For Austin’s final attempt, he burns Jane in the incinerator. 

Jane Doe is far from done causing harm and suffering. When she is burned, Emma takes her place. Seemingly, her magic makes the sheriff believe that Emma was the one that was brought in.

Tommy’s death is made look like a suicide.

Since the Tildens only had 24 hours to solve this case, the Sheriff understands that Austin couldn’t get the job done due to the loss of his father. But rules are rules, and he’s forced to transfer Jane Doe’s (now Emma’s) cadaver to the next county. 

While she’s being taken out and Austin is being asked protocol police questions, the eerie song plays on the radio.

5. Austin knows that he has to hunt Emma’s cursed body into the next county. (And takes the cat with him, because the cat didn’t need to die.)

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Who would LOVE to see a sequel like this?!