#also don’t ask how tattoos would work on a skeleton I have no idea either

[unknownarmageddon]

I uh I wanted one of them to have tattoos

Dust belongs to Ask-Dusttale Death’s Doorstep (this band AU) and the designs belong to me

[astrobydalia]

🌸OBSERVATIONS!! (finally lmao)🌱

Credit: Tumblr blog @astrobydalia

It's been a long time coming! So happy for spring being finally here! Here's the long ass observation post you guys asked for. Since it's quite a big amount of observations, I've decided it'd be a good idea to number them so that it's easier to reference them. As always, enjoy them!

🌸 1. Lilith in the 2nd house can indicate something fishy going on with the relationship between the native’s parents.

🌱 2. Malefic placements such as pluto, chiron, Saturn or Lilith in the 12th indicates a lot of skeletons in the closet when it comes to family and family history

🌸 3. Chiron in Aries/1st house or Leo/5th house is kind of bitch placement. The person basically feels like they can’t be themselves and there’s a lot of self-denial and/or not accepting themselves, how they really are, what they really want, etc. Lots of self-esteem issues

🌱 4. People with sexual placements in the 2nd house (Mars, Venus, Lilith, Eros, ruler of the 8th house) base their self-worth on how sexually attractive they are. If they don't feel sexually desirable to everyone, they feel like they're shit

🌸 5. Lilith is what people think Pluto/Scorpio is!!!! All that stuff about magnetic, sexual and intoxicating but dangerous? Lilith.

🌱 6. Scorpio/Pluto in 4th could mean that the person had to work hard to survive something growing up. It could be poverty, their parents’ expectations, an early trauma, etc. Whatever the situation is, the native felt like they grew up in a high-stress environment where they had to endure and survive

🌸 7. When it comes to degrees, the higher the degree, the bigger or stronger the effect. For example Leo degrees (5º, 17º, 29º) are fame degrees. 5th degree would give small fame, 17th degree would be normal and significant fame or recognition inside the person’s field and 29th degree is moreso widespread or permanent fame

🌱 8. Saturn in the 5th house is a huge indicator of turning your hobby into your job. Also these people can be very awkward in their personality

🌸 9. I’ve noticed people with Neptune in the 6th (maybe 2nd) house may have been hospitalized and if Uranus or Pluto are placed here also indicates getting surgery or operations for health reasons

🌱 10. People with Uranus or Pluto in the 1st, 2nd or conjunct the ASC could get surgery due to aesthetic reason

🌸 11. Mercury dominant people (or strong Gemini energy in the chart) like to have or get things quick and easy. For example they prefer a straight forward summary over an in-depth and elaborated explanation with too many details

🌱 12. Your moon sign shows how you see your past. Your 4th house represent how you see your childhood. But your moon represents under which light you always view your past and everything that has happened in your life in general. It also shows the type of stuff from your past you tend to focus on. Since Cancer and Pisces represent past and remenaicence, that's why Cancer and Pisces moons have trouble getting over the past.

🌸 13. Your 10th house on the other hand is how you see your future. Whenever someone asks you “where you see yourself in 5 years?” your 10th house is the one that’ll be answering that question

🌱 14. Gemini moon/mars are the LEAST likely to hold grudges (unless chart says otherwise)

🌸 15. The house where you have your Neptune indicates the themes you tend to lie about, don’t give much info, say stuff about it that are misleading etc. and in consequence people might not have a clear/correct idea of this part of your life

🌱 16. Virgo risings rarely or basically never pose for pictures. They just look straight forward to the camera, sometimes smile and maybe make a small gesture like putting one hand in their pocket or tilt their head but that’s it. (Virgo = minimalism)

🌸 17. Scorpios really don’t give a single fuck they just DON’T 😭💀 Remember this sign is all or nothing, they either care too or don't care AT ALL

🌱 18. I said it once and I’ll say to a hundred times more: Geminis are not two-faced, it’s LIBRA!! Seriously Libras are the FAKEST people I’ve ever met. Why? Because it's ruled by the planet of love (Venus), which means Libra has a knack for being liked by everyone and making everyone feel liked. HOWEVER Libra is an AIR sign and air represents mind, NOT feelings. In conclusion, Libra can make you feel "loved" (venus) and still not give a damn about you bc its air nature makes them prone to emotional detachment. That's why they are able to roast you and make it look like they're complimenting you, specially when they have Scorpio mercury.

🌸 19. Just like you look at where’s the ruler of your rising sign to get more info on your rising, check the ruler of your Sun sign for more info on your personal identity (check sign and house). For ex. I have Virgo Sun in the 9th. Ruler of Virgo=Mercury. I have mercury in Libra in the 10th house which makes me more serious (10th house) and diplomatic/people pleaser (Libra)

🌱 20. If you found that you “couldn’t” do what’s previously described because you’re a Leo sun, check the degree and decan of your Sun

🌸 21. I’ve noticed mercury retrograde people are the type of individuals who always know exactly the right things to say. You’ll always see them take a couple of seconds before answering but they tend to give very good responses

🌱 22. I’ve noticed many women with Virgo Venus/Sun/MC/Lilith have been slut-shamed at some point of their life or they’ve been seen as promiscuous/sexual/etc.

🌸 23. Capricorn moons are not emotionless machines. The thing with these natives is that their mothers treated them like an adult the second they came out of the womb, so basically they skipped the “love and affection” stage and went straight to the “grow up” stage, but they can love really hard and real deep (Capricorn is deep down a very sentimental sign). They are very ride or die people tbh, they are very patient, accepting and understanding

🌱 24. I've noticed that people at first deny their rising sign in Vedic astrology, but eventually they end up accepting it and they actually end up relating to it a lot. I feel like this is because our rising sign in Vedic astrology is usually the sign of our 12th house in Western astrology, which leads me to believe that our 12th house sign is not our shadow side but more like our deep subcontious personality and that's why we have a hard time accepting it when we see it as our rising sign in Vedic astrology. It's like your rising sign (in western) is the director of the play but your 12th house is the energy that previously wrote the script

🌸 25. So many celebrities have moon in the 11th house. Also this placement indicates that you had a mother that put you out there constantly like posting everything about you on social media, bringing you to big events or your mom was “famous” in some capacity

🌱26. Gemini risings tend to believe everything they are told. More specifically, once they find someone that knows a little bit more than them they’ll believe everything they teach them and will most likely rely on them intellectually, for advice, guidance, etc. This is bc they have DSC in Sagittarius which makes them see the people they associate with as masters and mentors while, as a Gemini rising, they identify as an apprentice.

🌸27. Both 8th house and 12th house have been associated with secrets. The different is that the 8th house represents what you CONTIOUSLY and deliberately hide from others and most likely deny to yourself (or not, depends on the person). 12th house on the other hand represents subconscious, things that are hidden even from you and you didn’t even know were hidden. 4th house is not necessarily secrets, it represents privacy, like when people have a sanctuary to just relax, unwind and feel secure, that’s the 4th house.

🌱28. Sun or Moon in the 4th house will make you a sociable but private person.

🌸29. Sun or moon in the 8th house will make you an intriguing and mysterious person.

🌱30. Sun or moon the 12th house makes you a very elusive or wishy-washy person

🌸31. I’ve seen many Scorpio sun/moon/mars/rising individuals obsessed with the idea of being prepared for a catastrophe. They could be the type to, for example, have some saved cash just in case something bad happens with their bank money, have a backup account just in case their main one gets deleted, could have a “leave before you get left” philosophy, etc.

🌱32. Is it just me or the astro community talks a lot about Aries moons???

🌸33. I’ve noticed people with 4th house in Virgo could have been raised in a very judgemental household where there was lots of taboos and prejudice as to what’s right and what’s not and the family was too preoccupied with a perfect and immaculate reputation. For example could have been raised with values such as “only criminals wear tattoos” or “you should stay celibate till marriage or else you’re a whore”, etc. and if the native broke those rules they could have been very criticized and almost loathed by the family. They native could have been highly criticized in general by their family

🌱34. I’ve noticed women that have their moon harshly aspecting Pluto, Uranus and Mars or overall have a very afflicted moon tend to have very painful period cramps

🌸35. Something I have noticed with Venus or Moon conjunct Saturn people is that the concept of unconditional love sounds like alien language to them. That of course doesn’t mean they can’t love but they have this deep belief that they have to achieve something in order to deserve love and stuff like that

🌱36. Also, I just noticed that people with Saturn conjunct sun/moon/Venus/ASC, Capricorn big 3 or Capricorn degrees in personal placements have gone through IT man, specially on an internal level. I've noticed going through depression is a common theme for people with this Capricorn/Saturn influence

🌸37. Virgo Suns could often struggle to find balance between having healthy ego and being humble.

🌱38. Also people with Virgo+Leo energy are the MOOOOST judgmental people out there. Imagine ego mixed with a sense of knowing what’s correct. They tend to believe they’re morally superior and easily liable people as inferior

🌸39. The underdeveloped energy of a sign asimilates negative traits of its sister sign. For example underdeveloped Virgo is overly perfectionist and judgmental to the point where they have unrealistic expectations (Pisces)

🌱40. On the other hand the developed version of a sign is balanced out by understanding its sister sign. For example Leo knows they are unique and special and deserves recognition but understands everyone is also unique in their own way (Aquarius)

🌸41. I’ve noticed a person can very easily manifest the stereotypical characteristics of the sign that naturally rules the house where their chart ruler is. For example if someone’s chart ruler (ruler of the ASC) is in the 7th house the person can easily manifest stereotypical characteristics of Libra like being a people pleaser

🌱42. Sagittarius ASC/Mars people are all fun, amicable and outgoing.... until they don’t get their way. They will get away from people and situations that won’t give them what they want and they can genuinely dislike people solely because those people don’t let them have their way. They tend to go around life like they have a free pass to get away with everything they want.

🌸43. People with ASC-Neptune aspects don’t have a very reliable vision of reality or themselves to be honest. I don’t know how people with this aspect haven’t lost their mind already. They are prone to subconsciously manipulating or easily getting manipulated. With hard aspects this is a lot more obvious but I’ve noticed with easy aspects this energy tends to go almost unnoticed and they easily get away with stuff

🌱44. Have seen many famous people with North node in the 2nd, 5th, 11th and 12th houses specially

🌸45. Air risings or air dominance with Sagittarius placements/degrees are people who love cartoons/animations/videogames regardless of their age.

🌱46. When I got into astrology I didn’t understand why Sun is in detriment in Libra, but oh man... All Libras I’ve met had HUGE issues with trusting themselves. They doubt themselves 24/7 and that’s not even an exaggeration and I’ve noticed they actually may have grown up doubting themselves for some reason or they had a family (their dad) that caused this feeling in them. Also I’ve seen that those Libras with Scorpio placements feel like they have to hide something about themselves otherwise they’ll be rejected. Yes they are endlessly charming, but that's because they have essentially created their personality around the desire of being liked/accepted. They always need to feel they have SOMEONE. Their sense of self, INDIVIDUALITY, independence and assertiveness is lost in the process. Unless they have fire and specially Aries placements to balance this out they can feel like they have no personality and that’s why they are often perceived as fake or shallow.

🌸47. Literally ALL Virgo placements one way or another will always suggest a way to solve your problems when giving emotional support

🌱48. I have a theory that, since 4th house is how you were raised, your home and your parents, your 10th house is how you’d be as a parent yourself and the type of home you’ll create yourself

🌸49. Contrary to my expectations, I’ve seen priests having a much more prominent 4th house (many times combined with 8th house/Scorpio energy) than 12th house. People with 12th house placements or stellium seem to prefer artistic fields rather than classic spirituality

🌱50. The house where you have your Pluto is a house you just can NOT take lightly EVER. This area of your life feels like a heavy topic to you in some way (you are either obsessed with it, find It traumatic, get extremely defensive over it, find it spiteful, you feel everything goes wrong, etc, etc.) Can also apply to the house where you have the sign of scorpio

🌸51. In synastry, Venus falling in the 12th house creates a healing dynamic in the relationship, the connection can feel cathartic specially for the house person. The house person might tend to always be comforted by the venus person’s support, always feel better (or even energetically “cleansed”) after being with them. The venus person never judges the house person and accepts them and is always willing to be there.

🌱52. I’ve noticed this pattern in people with mutable moons where they have absent mothers in some shape or form. Their mother is very inconsistent, she always comes and goes. Very often the native may have felt like their mother always “left them be” (virgo moon moms put restrictions but eventually are rather flexible)

🌸53. People with cardinal moons have bossy mothers. In many cases they can have the type of mother that is constantly making decisions for them, like their mother decides what/where they’re going to study for example (the house tells what type of things the mother tends to make decisions on).

🌱54. People with fixed moons have possesive and protective moms. While mutable moons have absent mothers, natives with fixed moons have mothers that are ALWAYS there in some shape or form. At the very least the influence of the mother is always there and they always have this sense of “loyalty” towards their mom.

Credit: Tumblr blog @astrobydalia

That's it for now, next observation post is just as long but much better, stay tuned and safe loves 💕

[descendantofthesparrow]

Soulmate au! tattoos - Harry Hook x Reader - Oneshot

Small spin on two soulmate au ideas that got sent in, name tattooed somewhere on the body and whatever is drawn on the skin shows up on the other, and im including tattoos (except those don’t disappear so if your soulmate get a tattoo you get one too and unless you get it removed it's there to stay)

soulmate au ideas from anon and @harryhasmehooked 

tattoo designs/ideas borrowed from @kindofchaoticgood 

=

Everyone was born with their soulmates name tattooed somewhere on their body, on their wrist, on their collarbone, on the back of the neck, anywhere really. Another thing was that whatever your soulmate had something written or drawn on their arm, it would show up on your body as well.

Many soulmates found each other by communicating with a pen and writing their information on their skin, others liked to make it a hunt and only give hints to their soulmate.

Then there were the tattoos. and not the ones that one was born with. The ones that someone got willingly inked onto their body.

If someone got a tattoo, that same tattoo would appear on their soulmate's body, but unlike when they simply wrote on their arm with a pen, it wouldn’t disappear unless they got it removed.

Sometimes, people gushed over their soulmate's tattoo and proudly wore them, others hid their tattoos away in fear they would be judged.

Usually, the ones who hid their tattoos either had a good reason to hide them or were just ashamed of their soulmate's choice of art.

You weren’t one of those people.

Around the time you were 11 or 12, small temporary tattoos began to appear on your skin, first just little inked ones that would easily wash off, but soon little stick and poke tattoos started to appear, they would fade after a while but they were cute and you retouched them on your own when you could. Some were little music notes, others resembled constellations, and one, which was your favorite, was a small hook nestled in the crook of your palm.

The first “real” tattoo showed up several months after the first poke and stick tattoos, your cousin had joked about how cliche it was and your soulmate must be a pirate or something, a skull with crossed swords on the right side of your chest.

Your parents had pretty much freaked out, you only being 12 and already having a tattoo but you brushed it off and admired it every day, writing on your arm to ask your soulmate where and how they had gotten the tattoo.

Unfortunately, you had never gotten a response.

The next tattoo to appear, on the left side of your chest this time, was a ship sailing into the horizon. Again you asked them where and how they had gotten the tattoo, along with asking the name of the ship, once again there was no response.

Only a week later a new tattoo showed up, this time on the inside of your left arm, written in slight cursive were the words “No grave can hold me down” you had traced the words the entire night into the next morning.

Soon after that, another tattoo showed up, this one on the back of your left hand, depicting three swords crossing their blades.

Your cousins always teased you about how pirate-like your soulmate's tattoos were, but you laughed at the slight irony of it since your soulmate might have been a pirate after all.

Considering their last name was “Hook” it was a pretty good chance that they had followed their dad's footsteps.

“Harry Hook” a name that drifted through your dreams, you always imagined what they would be like, hopefully, nothing like James hook.

It was years before a new tattoo showed up, when you were 16 and attending Auradon prep, after King Ben had invited four villain kids to Auradon, curling black inked words on the inside of your right arm ‘death before disloyalty’. You had no clue what it meant, but it clearly had a deeper meaning.

Throughout the years you had no luck in attempting to contact your ‘Harry Hook’, you had either sent a simple ‘hi’ or a small little note mentioning one of the tattoos. It was always no response. Though you got little notes from them that were rare and never had anything to do with what you sent him. Just little ‘hello’s and asking your name, but every time you responded, nothing came back.

you had mentioned it to Evie, who was in your art class, who said that because of the barrier, it prevented soulmate magic as well, meaning Harry hadn’t ever seen your little notes and didn’t even have your name tattooed on him somewhere.

Evie was also the only one who knew of your soulmate's name that was willing to tell you about him, being the least…biased against her fellow vk. Mal, Jay, and Carlos all seemed to have some sort of grudge against him and always badmouthed him when the topic of Harry came up.

Though thanks to Evie and her thankfully amazing art skills, she had depicted Harry for you, she had said it wasn’t perfect since she was more of a concept artist than one who practiced realism, that was more Mal’s thing, but you could tell she was just being modest.

Black fluffy hair, ocean blue eyes always lined with liner, plump lips that Evie said were always in a sharp smirk, a jaw that could cut someone. He was perfect, and you hoped you could meet him soon.

Three months after the vks had come to Auradon, a new tattoo appeared; this time of a solid black anchor on your right forearm. You traced it constantly with your finger, wondering what this one meant, just as you did with every tattoo appearance.

Soon after that, a swallow appeared just above the crook of your right elbow, and a lioness with a language you couldn’t speak written under it appearing on your left wrist.

Then a watercolor lily on the side of your right forearm, then constellations started to appear on your back, you had Evie take a picture each time one appeared, smiling as yours appeared among them (star sign, like Virgo or Capricorn)

Around April, another tattoo appeared, again on your right forearm, this time of a treble clef symbol with a series of notes within the loops. You wondered what the song was, humming it under your breath as you tapped out the notes on whatever surface your hand was resting on.

It was several months later before another tattoo appeared, and it was the most beautiful one yet. Swirling turquoise tentacles curled around and down your right arm, starting from your right shoulder and ending just below your elbow.

You had started wearing sleeveless tops more often, wanting everyone to see the masterpiece that was curled around your arm.

Once you turned 18 you started to decorate your skin as well, your first being a watercolor compass on your left bicep that melted into waves as it drew away from the middle.

Next, you got one with a moon theme on the back of your neck just below your hairline, reaching down your neck and connecting with the constellations on your back.

After that you got a skeleton hand on your right hand, then the map of Neverland on your thigh, then the north star on your ankle.

You were almost covered in tattoos, to which some people gaped and gasped, but you paid them no mind, your tattoos were your only connection to your soulmate and you couldn’t wait for the day that he would finally see your combined works.

-

Harry didn’t know if he had a soulmate or not, the barrier prevented any type of communication through writing on their skin or their names being tattooed on their body.

So Harry had gone his entire life without knowing the name of his, possibly non-existent, soulmate, and no matter how many times he had tried to talk to them, there was never any response.

He always did wonder though, if he had a soulmate, what they thought of his tattoos. Did they like them? Did they wear them proudly? Did they hide them? Did they get them removed? He would probably never know.

Until one day, only a couple days after the four traitors had invited four new vks, he was outside of the barrier.

The blank spots on his skin bloomed to life, a watercolor compass on his left bicep, a skeleton hand on his right hand, Gil told him about the moon tattoo on the back of his neck, the tingle of magic on his thigh and ankle told him there were new tattoos there was well.

He stared at the new tattoos, smiling slightly at the realization that he did have a soulmate. His smile dipped a bit as his left wrist started to burn slightly, and he ripped away the old bandage that covered his scar from years ago, eyes widening as the curving letters of his soulmates started to appear.

‘(y/n) (l/n)’

Harry stared at the name, not realizing everyone was moving towards Auradon till Gil gently pushed at his shoulder to get him to move “oh” Harry muttered, catching up with Uma and smirking as she stared at the large tattoo sleeve on his right arm.

“you are such a dork” she snorted, pushing at his arm and looking at his hand “didn’t think you were one to get a skeleton tattoo”

Harry just held up his left wrist with a grin “Oh holy shit!” Uma laughed, grabbing onto his hand and examining the name “(y/n) huh?...nice name” Mal yelled at them to catch up, making Uma glare at the girl. “hold your pants princess were dealing with some shit back here!”

Uma and Harry shared a look ‘we’ll talk about this later’ and followed after the other vks, Uma continuing to poke and prod at Harry's new tattoos.

-

Harry stood awkwardly in a quiet corner at Mal and Ben's engagement party as everyone else danced in the middle of the large garden. He swirled the pink lemonade in the small glass cup and took a careful sip. He let a small smile grow on his face as Gil and Uma spun around on the dance floor.

He glanced down at his left wrist, flexing it a bit as his soulmate's name shined lightly in the sunlight. He let out a sigh and took another sip of his drink, he had no idea where his soulmate was, they could be anywhere really, in Auradon, or maybe on the other side of the world.

“I like your tattoos” a voice spoke from beside him, and Harry glanced at them for a moment before looking back at the dance floor.

“Thank yeh” he muttered back, pausing as he went to take another sip of his drink. He whirled back around, eyes widening as he really looked at the person who had complimented him.

They were covered in tattoos, ones that matched his exactly, on their right arm were turquoise tentacles, an anchor, a swallow in flight, a watercolor lily, a treble clef with music notes, and…his name on the inside of your wrist. “Harry Hook…right?” you asked nervously, tapping your foot against the ground.

Harry looked down at his wrist again and looked back at you “aye…(y/n) (l/n)?” he asked softly, smiling as you grinned and nodded.

“That would be me, it's nice to finally meet you Harry” you held out your hand, your grin widening as Harry eagerly took it. “Come on, let's talk”

“Okay,” Harry muttered, sharing a smile with Uma and Gil as they pointed at your tattoos with wide grins “let's talk.”

You tugged Harry out of the garden party, your hands tightly intertwined. Just below your intertwined hands at the wrists, the tattooed names glowed for a moment then shimmered to a shining, just visible, gold color.

A symbol that one's soulmate had been found.

-end-

 another short but sweet oneshot! probably didnt make complete sense but im just wanting to get back into writing since ive been feeling a bit of a block with my main stories, so if anybody else has anymore soulmate au ideas send em in.

permtaglist

@queer-cosette @sephiralorange

@lunanight2012 @daughter-of-the-stars11

@musicarose @remembered-license

@random-thoughts-003 @verboetoperee

@rintheemolion @jatp-rules-my-life​

@thecaptainsgingersnap​  @imtryingthisout​

[acesydneysage]

18 and 30 for the va asks?

All the questions

18. What character would you want a spin off of?

I think the POV character would be Jill, and the rest of the Palm Springs gang could have some roles, so I can have more of my beloved Melrose family. She grew a lot during Bloodlines but her character got really sidelined and I think there's still a lot to explore with her. She went through a lot of trauma, and she was just coming into her own and accepting her new role.

Her relationship with Lissa could be fascinating, they definitely have a lot to work through. Lissa sees her as symbol of her idolized father's imperfection. Jill resents being used as a political pawn. They both will have a hell of a lot going on and won't be able to go on bonding trips or anything like that, since Lissa is queen and Jill is the Dragomir princess and will have a vote on the council once she turns 18. Jill wasn't raised as a royal, so she has a very different perspective even to royals who are sympathetic to non-royals' plight.

I really love Eddie and I want to see him happy. Being the main love interest could give him more of a spotlight. I didn't care much about Jeddie in canon (the age gap is a bit uncomfortable and we didn't get any deep insight into their relationship), but I think they have a lot of potential as grown ups. Their knight and princess dynamic could be very sweet, but it could also cause a lot of trouble.

Eddie has his thing about not even knowing who his dad is, while Jill is a princess, so above him. But Jill actually never knew her biological dad either, she was a bastard hidden like a shameful secret, and as I mentioned she's resentful of her worth being determined by her lineage, and her importance to other people's political schemes. And she got killed over it, she has every right to.

Eddie genuinely does see Jill's worth outside of her bloodline, he admires her will to fight and her grace, and how she learns to handle difficult situations. But he still internalized their society's hierarchy enough to let it fuel his inferiority complex. That could be an interesting conflict, he needs to consider himself her equal, and she needs to know he sees her as a person not a princess. Besides all the angst coming from the fact that he feels like he failed her twice before.

Jill and Eddie could have stayed together all this time, but I can easily see them breaking up and then meeting again. Eddie is living far alway form her, and he's dedicated to Sydney, Adrian and Declan. Then they would eventually have to actually decide to get together again when they're not hidden in a human school far away from their society's prejudices and expectations, but smack in the middle of them. Young dhampirs and Moroi, even royals, dating in school is seen as normal. The adult, politically active crown princess is a whole different story.

Thematically, it would be very good to have the Dragomir princess say that royal blood is not actually more important than anybody else's, including dhampirs, and she wants to be with a guardian and maybe eventually have little dhampirs thank you very much. Lissa was raised from birth to belive in her duty to carry on the Dragomir bloodline and pop out royal babies, but Jill wasn't and she's more likely to be able to see that that's messed up.

I understand that it's important in-world, but expecting me to actually find it important to continue a royal line is too much for me, sorry. It's a surname, congrats, I do not care. And if Eddie actually confronted what's wrong with guardian idology and that "they come first" nonsense I'd be so grateful. I don't think that was sufficiently taken down in canon, Rose kind of goes back to believing it in the end.

Jill also has shadowkissed problems to deal with. She's interested in self defense. If she had to put that into practice and ended up killing someone she'd have to deal with ghosts like Rose did. And Jill has a connection to Declan, through Adrian and Sydney, and she knows his secret, which could come in handy plotwise.

Declan and his super special spirit magic blood are probably gonna be very important, both because it could be the key in mass producing the Strigoi vaccine, and because the possibility of dhampirs having children with each other undermines their society's excuses for its Moroi supremacist structure.

If Adrian stops taking his meds for some reason, or even changes to a medication that has a similar effect to Lissa's and doesn't completely block the bond Jill could see into his head. So she can see what's going on with Declan and also cute sydrian moments and Eddie being an adorable uncle.

Maybe we'd even get Eddie's POV like we did with Adrian?

I think Angeline could be interesting. She'd start out hunting Strigoi with Trey like they said they would do. I'd really love if eventually she became an ambassador for the Keepers, just because I think it would take a lot of character development for her to become a diplomat.

I'm really into the idea of an Alchemist Revolution, and Zoe might actually be a good point of view character for that.

30. What moments do you remember laughing out loud at?

The tattoo parlor scene really killed me the first time around, and I still love it:

“Yeah? Can you draw a skeleton riding a motorcycle with flames coming out of it? And I want a pirate hat on the skeleton. And a parrot on his shoulder. A skeleton parrot. Or maybe a ninja skeleton parrot? No, that would be overkill. But it’d be cool if the biker skeleton could be shooting some ninja throwing stars. That are on fire.” [...] “Wait!” exclaimed Adrian. There was an anxious note to his voice, like he was trying to get someone’s attention. I had the uneasy feeling that the two guys who worked here were headed back behind the counter to investigate. “I need to know something else about the tattoo. Can the parrot also be wearing a pirate’s hat? Like a miniature one?”

I also loved said, “Mmm. O positive, my favorite.” Adrian scaring Keith in general is great, here's the full trilogy. And when Sydney is finally being rescued and she says "Are you wearing a suit? You didn't have to dress up for me." It was very unexpected. I love her!

And little Rose throwing a book at a teacher and calling her a fascist!

[nanoland]

Title: Besyd the scarcety of bread amowngst us

Fandom: Supernatural 

Pairing: Crowley/Dean Winchester

Summary: In which Dean asks a question.

Warnings: Crowley being Extremely traumatized and kind of oblivious to that fact + SPN demons being SPN demons (i.e. remorseless bodysnatchers) + Dean being his casually misogynistic self + graphic descriptions of starvation + exhibitionism (sorta?) + sexually explicit content because this was MEANT to be straightforward smut and then Crowley happened, the prick.

Also on AO3!

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“So how come you aren’t a hot chick?”

The glass stills an inch from Crowley’s pale lips. “I humbly beg your pardon?”

It’s late. The bar’s quiet. He doesn’t need Dean to repeat himself. Just a moment to decide on a response.

Well on the way to utterly shit-faced, Dean gestures vaguely, meaninglessly. “You offer people stuff. Then, ten years later, you drag ‘em to Hell. And – and they know that’s what’s gonna happen if they make a deal with you. Which means that you gotta be real fuckin’ persuasive. Which you are. Grade A Bullshit Artist and don’t I know it. But... uh, what was I gonna… yeah, wouldn’t it be easier, right, just way easier if you were a hot chick?”

Crowley can tell he’s not done, so he keeps his silver tongue behind his faintly yellowed teeth for the moment.

While Dean is usually delightful company, in his surly, macho way, this evening there’s an uncommonly obnoxious edge to everything he says. That almost certainly means his insecurities over what he’s been letting Crowley do to his arse lately are acting up.

Understandable. Still annoying.

So Crowley’s more than willing to let his favourite human dig himself a wee bit deeper before pouring boiling tar into the pit.

After quickly throwing back the last of his drink, Dean goes on: “Now, I didn’t go to some dickslurp business school. I ain’t that brand of asshole. But I’ve seen enough beer ads in my time to have an idea of how marketing works. You got something you want people to buy? Fastest way is to get a hot chick in a bikini to hold it up. Because guys have most of the money in this shitty world of ours and guys think with their dicks. I know I do. So why did you decide to possess someone who looks like a balding, middle-aged banker going through a stressful divorce? That ain’t enticing. That ain’t capturing anyone’s interest. Y’know?”

“Mm,” says Crowley, and stands up.

“Fuck’re you doing?” Dean slurs, watching him take off his tie.

“Ever heard of the Seven Ill Years, Squirrel?”

“Nope. Seriously, what’re you doing?”

Draping his overcoat over the back of his chair along with his tie, Crowley sets about taking off his jacket. “‘The Seven Ill Years’ refers to a particularly shitty time in early modern Scotland; the 1690s.”

He tugs off his costly leather shoes and places them side-by-side under his chair. “I was in my… early thirties at the time, I think. Thirty-two? Maybe thirty-one. Whatever.”

Dean is gaping now. He’s never seen Crowley without his outer layers, much less the growing slice of exposed chest as Crowley unbuttons his shirt.

“For a lot of complicated reasons relating to oceanic thermohaline circulation, solar activity, and a few ill-timed volcanos, the weather turned rotten. These days, it’s called the Little Ice Age. Us pigshit stupid peasants who lived through it didn’t know anything about all that. All we knew was that it was freezing bloody cold and the crops kept dying.”

“Dude,” Dean hisses, red-faced as Crowley sets his shirt alongside his jacket and overcoat. “Stop it! We’re going to be thrown out!”

“No. Look around. Is anyone paying attention to us? Precisely. We’re invisible to them at the moment, Squirrel. One of my little tricks.”

“Oh. Okay, that’s good. But that’s still not an excuse to take your fucking pants off in public oh my God oh my God!”

They’re expensive pants and Crowley takes care to fold them before putting them down. “To cut a long story short; famine struck. And famine, it’s…”

Crowley pauses, thinking, ignoring Dean’s pathetic attempts not to gawk at his dick.

“It’s hard to describe famine to someone who hasn’t lived through one,” he says eventually. “Language – English, at least – isn’t equipped to convey what it feels like to be so hungry you’ll try to boil and eat someone else’s shoes. Then someone else’s children. Then your own children. There are no words for it. Or, if in some distant corner of our monstrous universe there are, then they’re words that would drive a human raving mad to speak them.”

Naked now but for his black socks, Crowley scratches his stubble. “Sometimes I think that’s why I got on so well in Hell.”

He sits back in his chair. Folds his legs. Taps his fingers on the side of his empty glass. “Don’t get me wrong; having someone cut open your lungs, fill them with scorpions, and sew them up again isn’t fun. But – how can I put this? – you can process it. You can grapple with it. You know why you’re suffering; because you’re in Hell, and that’s what Hell is for. It makes sense. What doesn’t make sense is going about your everyday life and watching all the people around you – the baker, the priest, the prettiest girl in the village – go about theirs while they turn into walking skeletons. And knowing they didn’t do anything to deserve it. Couldn’t have done anything to deserve it, because no crime, no matter how vile, warrants that kind of punishment.”

Dean says nothing.

After a moment, Crowley pulls himself from the dark, sucking well of memory to add, “Anyway, to answer your question; I don’t want to be a hot chick because a. I’m a man and b. hot chicks are skinny, and I will cheerfully burn this world to the ground before I endure living in a hungry body ever again.”

He glances down at his unclothed meat suit and smiles proudly, running a hand up one of its thick thighs. “Also – y’know – I personally think this long-deceased lad of mine is sexy as Hell.”

Gazing at his shoulder, Dean says roughly, “Didn’t know you had tattoos.”

“Oh. Those. Yeah. Can’t stand them. Worst decision the stupid bastard ever made.”

“I think they’re kinda cool.”

“Do you? Well, you do have incredibly bad taste so perhaps that’s not surprising. Now, are you going to get over here and put that erection to good use?”

Oh, bless him; he’s adorable when he squirms.

“Here?” Dean asks, eyes wide.

“Here.”

He says it like a challenge, for Dean can never resist one of those. Immediately, those wide eyes become narrow and determined.

The boy stands. Looms over Crowley, who casually flicks both their glasses to the floor and moves to sit on the cool wooden table. It’s clean, more or less, thanks to Dean (for once) agreeing to follow Crowley to a semi-respectable establishment.

“These hands,” Crowley murmurs, running them across Dean’s broad chest, “don’t have a single callous or scar. See? Soft as butter. Not a single day’s honest work, either of them.”

Dean swallows. Leans in to kiss him, hesitant and gentle.

Contrary to popular belief, Crowley likes gentle. Or, more accurately, Crowley likes being pampered.

He goes on: “And these legs…”

A groan escapes Dean’s lips as one presses up against his crotch.

“…these legs haven’t walked more than ten miles, collectively, since I moved in. No muscles. No blisters on the undersides of their feet. Not so much as a splinter.”

“Jesus,” Dean mumbles, drawing him in and latching onto his neck.

“And this stomach is never empty. Never even close. Never once forced to digest anything that isn’t purely, perfectly delicious. I treat my meat suits better than most people treat their family heirlooms.”

“Crowley. Fuck.”

He squeezes Dean’s arse and growls, “Because this is my reward, Dean. I won this. This softness, this safety. This nurtured, nourished flesh. I endured the seventeenth century and all humanity’s horrors. Endured my mother. Endured Hell. Built myself a reputation and a kingdom. All for this. And isn’t it wonderful? Say that it is, Dean.”

“Yeah,” Dean moans, even though he can’t understand a word; Crowley slipped into Gaelic a while ago.

(The things Crowley wants to tell Dean and the things Crowley wants Dean to know are categories that rarely overlap.)

Crowley takes Dean’s leaking cock in hand.

“Say I’m beautiful.”

Dean’s knees buckle as he whimpers, so Crowley wraps an arm around his narrow, underfed waist.

“Say you love me.”

Dean comes in his palm, gasping and cursing.

“Say you love me more than anyone else.”

“I’m guessing that was all Scottish dirty talk?” says Dean when he has his breath back. “You were – what? Calling me your bitch?”

Crowley smirks, licks the sweat off Dean’s jaw, and gives his backside a pat before reaching for his clothes. “None of your business. Go get me another drink, would you? Ta.”

 the end

NOTES: The title is taken from a quote found in Karen Cullen’s ‘Famine in Scotland: the ‘Ill Years’ of the 1690s’ (you can find extracts via googlebooks). Yes, canonically Crowley WOULD have been about thirty when this happened. Just in case his origin story wasn’t horrific enough wheee :D

[callunavulgari]

fic tag meme

I guess I was kind of inadvertently tagged by @wildehacked because they said to do it if you wanted to, and well, I was bored and needed something to do while watching Watcher Weekly+ so!

Name: Heather! Otherwise known as callunavulgari on all platforms. Except fanfiction.net. I have not gone back there to even consider changing it.

Fandoms: I am currently only actively writing fic for Buzzfeed Unsolved and The Adventure Zone (because I have no self control and finished the finale today). That said, I’m pretty actively involved in The Untamed, Buzzfeed Unsolved, The Magnus Archives, Hades, and Persona 5. But I also delve back into old fandoms constantly, so it’s really hard to say. Tropes: Enemies to lovers is my absolute favorite trope in the entire world. In fact, I think the only thing I like MORE than your garden variety enemies to lovers is FRIENDS to enemies to lovers. Because like, you’ve got the UST but you’ve also got ANGST and YEARNING. I’m just weak to it. 

I also really like fusion AUs, soulmate AUs, and canon-adjacent AUs where everything is the same except one or both parties is some kind of monster. Creature? I love myself a creature feature. Bonus points if it’s got political intrigue and killer world building. I’m sure there are others, but eh.

Fic I spent most time on: Probably either Rubatosis or when the wild grasses weave. 

Rubatosis was a Percy Jackson fic where Percy and Annabeth fall in love with Nico, aka the personification of death. Also, Annabeth is a serial killer. It is single-handedly my favorite thing I’ve ever written and I wrote it in a handful of months for the 2014 PJO Big Bang.

where the wild grasses weave, on the other hand, was a Spirited Away/Kingdom Hearts fic that I wrote for the Kingdom Hearts Big Bang like half a decade ago. It was an idea that I’d been toying with for awhile and the Big Bang gave me an excuse to finally do it. It explores the darker themes of Spirited Away and honestly, I’ve been meaning to go back and tinker with it for awhile because there are definitely parts that could be shaped up better.

Fic I spent least time on: Probably all the really short prompt fics that I’ve posted between now and 2010.

Longest fic: Also when the wild grasses weave, which is almost 43k. And if you know me, that’s a full 30k longer than the usual things I go for.

Shortest fic: nowhere to run is an Erik Lehnsherr/Charles Xavier fanfiction that I wrote about a year after First Class came out in 2012. It is FORTY words and was written for a tumblr three-sentence meme. It was definitely only three sentences, but somehow managed to get 25 kudos and 5 comments anyway.

Most hits/kudos/comments/bookmarks: Top kudos/bookmarks/hits: i don't believe in fairy tales (but i believe in you and me), which was written on September 5th 2014 and is just over 3k of Derek accidentally getting a glimpse of Stiles’ penis. On his phone. It is the dick pic fic and it has 5239 kudos, 712 bookmarks, and 81,838 hits. I feel like the fact that this is my most popular fic should be upsetting since it took me like an hour to write. Top comments: Que Sera, Sera, which was written on June 14th 2014 and is almost 4k. It’s the second part of my Teen Wolf/Addams Family fusion and has 146 comments (most of which are people and not me, because I don’t typically respond to comments, which is a horrible failing on my part).  Favorite fic you’ve written: I actually have an Author's Favorites list on ao3, which needs pared down horribly because it’s got a bunch of really old fic that has not aged particularly well. Rubatosis is probably my favorite? Again, it’s definitely the one I’m proudest of.  wake up in a city that never sleeps was another PJO ot3 fic that I wrote where Percy is Nico’s TA and is also pretty up there. I do genuinely love the Teen Wolf/Addams fusion.  take me to church is one of my favorite Teen Wolf fics, mostly because it’s the soft epilogue that I wanted out of the show.

and i'm always tired, but never of you is a Bright Sessions ot3 fic where Sam and Mark cross paths with Damien years later and I’m really attached to that one. I don’t know. I go back and read these things sometimes and I remember that my writing isn’t like pulling nails all the time. That sometimes it’s really very good.

Fic you want to rewrite/expand on: A couple of the older Big Bang fics I would love to go back and rewrite just because when rereading I can tell where I was running out of time or where something should have been cut but wasn’t so I could pad the wordcount. I do eventually want to write at least one more part of the Teen Wolf/Addams series. And I kind of want to write a coda for that Bright Sessions ot3 that I mentioned.

Share a bit of a WIP:

Part of the Buzzfeed Unsolved tattoo AU that I’ve been working on since uh, Christmas. Whoops.

He’s getting ready to text the guy back to let him know that he’ll have to book another appointment when the bell sounds from the front of the door and someone spills through the doorway.

And look, Ryan had gone into this appointment with expectations. Four weeks ago, when the guy had first emailed inquiring about booking an appointment, Ryan had asked him what exactly he was looking for. He’d asked the usual questions, all pretty standard. Style, colors, if he had a preference when it came to the artist, if he had a hard limit on price. 

An hour later, Ryan found himself typing the sentence, ‘so when you say puppet…’ 

Ryan doesn’t really know what he’d expected. He’d done a couple marionettes. Faceless pinnochios. Skeletons dangling from razor wire. A character from Coraline. It was very ain’t no strings on me, complete with shadowy hands puppeting the faceless silhouettes. Creepy, but you know. Kind of cool. 

Precisely ten minutes after he hit send, the guy had ruined all of his expectations by typing back, ‘No, man. Like a muppet.’

He’d even included an attachment. So naturally, Ryan clicked on it.

The creature that looked back at him was monstrous, like a cross between Elmo and the Cookie Monster, its empty eyes dead and staring. It was wearing an outfit that made Ryan think of Indiana Jones, complete with a tiny hat and a miniature fanny pack. On anything else, the little outfit might be cute. 

As Ryan was pondering how to politely pass the job off to Mari, another email came through. This one, thankfully, did not include another attachment. The body of the email was blank. The subject line read simply: ‘He’s called The Professor.’

[israltale]

Wrong Food

Horror was the only one who switched between Nightmare’s Castle and his own AU to look after his Brother. Nightmare didn’t mind at all, as long as the other Skeleton would do his Job. He was just walking to the Snow in the direction of Snowdin. 

“BROTHER!” His Papyrus called. 

“Hey Bro.” Horror said, scratching his Bust open Skull. 

“BROTHER! THERE IS A STRANGE ANIMAL RUNNING AROUND!” Horror blinked. 

“Strange Animal?” Papyrus nodded eagerly. 

“A RAM! THERE IS A RAM IN THE UNDERGROUND!” Horror tilted his Skull, a Ram would be wonderful for a longer food source. 

“Alright, Bro. I will find that Ram.” He said with a grin, already grabbing his Axe.

“I’ll be back in a bit, Bro.” Horror said, going on a Hunt for the Ram. The Ram his Brother saw looked weird, but Horror could care less, as long as it brought food. The Ram was somewhere in the Woods and Horror would find it. 

After a long search he was met with a Monster, it had Horns, like a Ram. Horror only knew them from books, but this one missed fur they had in those Books. 

“You will be a feast for us.” He said, the Monster growled at him, there was even a large spiked Tail. Horror couldn’t remember if Rams had tails? 

The Beast charged at him, as he raised his Axe. The strange Ram growled at him, opening its large Mouth to have a bite, but Horror dodged the Attack.This Ram was really strange, but who was he to decide that, he never saw a Ram except in those Books. He moved his Axe to hit the Ram, but the Animal was not having it, so he only hit its Tail. 

The Monster screamed in Pain before hitting the Skeleton with its bleeding Tail. Horror could barely escape the attack, but he still managed only by a thread. Using the momentum of him throwing to the Ground and the Beast turning to attack him with its Body to slam the Axe into its neck, using his strength to behead it. Horror looked at the Dead Animal. 

“Scaly Ram.” He mumbled, it couldn’t be a Monster, or it would have long dusted. Little did Horror know that there was a Reason for it, so he took the strange Ram home. Papyrus was happy to see the scaled Prey his Brother brought and together they started to take it apart so they could store the most of it. 

“SCALES? I THOUGHT RAM HAT WOOL?” Horror shrugged. 

“No clue, Bro. Never saw a Ram.” He said. 

“BUT THE BOOKS SAID THEY HAVE WOOL.” Horror remembered that as well. 

“It has meat, so what ever.” He said, descaling the Flesh. It seemed like there was something was in the Flesh, looking like a Tattoo? 

“STRANGE.” Papyrus suddenly said. 

“What’s wrong, Bro?” Papyrus stuck his Hand into the Ribcage. 

“THERE IS NO HEART! ONLY THIS STRANGE CRYSTAL.” Horror looked at the Thing in his Brothers Hand. 

“Huh… Never heard of a Ram or any Animal to have a Crystal and not a Heart.” He said, that was really a strange Ram. 

“YOU TAKE IT AS A REWARD FOR YOUR HUNT! I WILL PREPARE FOOD FOR US!” Horror took the Crystal. 

“Thanks, Bro. You’re the Best.” Horror brought the Crystal up to his Room, staring at it, there was something inside it, like an Insect but it looked different. 

“Strange Ram… Scaly… no heart… tattoo on the Flesh.” He pondered why this strange animal was here and what it meant. He forgot about the Time until Papyrus called for Dinner. 

“Looking good, Bro. Let’s dig in.” The Brothers finally shared a Meal after a long time, because they could afford it, there was so much meat to keep them for a while. He could leave for Nightmare’s Castle tomorrow without worry this time.

After the Meal Horror went to his Room again, going to sleep without being Hungry for a long Time. But once he went into his Room he noticed the glowing of the Crystal, going over to it. 

“Hm? What’s going on with that thing now? Is something locked inside.” He wondered, looking to the pounding thing inside. Horror watched it a while, before he decided to hide it in his Drawer and go to bed, not noticing the small cracks on the Crystal. 

Horror was asleep, before he felt an Itch inside his Soul. It was weird like something went inside there, but he was to tired to actually Care, only once a burning coursed through his Body he jerked awake. Pain throbbing through is bones. He couldn’t scream, or he would wake Papyrus, something he didn’t want. Horror felt like he was sitting in Fire, it was awful. 

He had no idea when it happened, but at some point his Consciousness gave out and he passed out. He woke up again, as Papyrus knocked on his Door. 

“SANS, TIME TO WAKE UP, YOU LAZYBONES!” Horror found his senses again. 

“I’m up, Bro. I’ll be down in a bit.” He said, not noticing that there was a rumble in his Voice. He got up, still tired, that’s why he didn’t notice other things odd at him. 

Horror made his Way down to his Brother. Papyrus starred at him. 

“What’s wrong, Bro? Do i look that ugly?” Horror asked sleepily. 

“BR… BROTHER… YOU… YOU HAVE A TAIL AND A HORN!” Papyrus exclaimed in Shock. 

“What?” Horror wondered, trotting over to a Mirror. He blinked at his Image. A large red Horn sprouting out of his Skull, only on the Side that had no hole in it and a large red Tail with an Axe on his Tip whipping behind him. 

“WHAT THE HELL?” He almost screamed, finally noticing the Rumble in his Voice. 

Horror and his Brother sat in their Living Room, starring at one another. 

“WHAT NOW BROTHER?”  Horror had no idea. 

“I don’t think it will go away… but we ate the Same stuff right?” Papyrus nodded. 

“YES.” Horror thought about it. 

“Wait!” He hurried up to his Room, almost ripping out the Shelf he had put the Crystal in last night. There was only shards inside it, nothing else. Horror collected them and brought them down. 

“The Crystal is destroyed… Maybe it has to do with that?” Papyrus looked at the Shards. Horror grumbled, while thinking about it, his Tail moving slightly. At some Point he was scratching at the Edges of the Hole.

“SANS, YOU ARE DOING IT AGAIN!” Horror snapped out of it. 

“Sorry, Bro. So this Change is… permanent?” Papyrus looked at him. 

“WHY NOT GO ASK NIGHTMARE?” Horror nodded. 

“Yeah…” It didn’t came to that, as the Underground began to shake violently. 

“Shit. What’s going on now?” Papyrus worried as he hurried to the Door. 

“Oh!” The other had almost run into a small Skeleton, with tiny purple Horns. 

“WHAT?” He smiled up at the far taller Skeleton. 

“Greetings” He said, the Boy wasn’t alone, there was a taller Skeleton with him, who had three Scars over his Skull. 

“Bro? What’s wrong?” Horror got up. 

“Could we come in?” The small horned skeleton asked. 

“BROTHER, THERE ARE GUESTS?!?” Horror went to them. 

“It’s like Guardian said! He turned.” The one behind the Horned nodded. Papyrus finally let them in. 

“Greetings. My Name is Alure and this is Cobra.” The smaller said. 

“What do you want? You don’t look like someone from any normal AU.” Horror grumbled. 

“True, we aren’t from any normal AU. We were sent from our Guardian because they felt someone  absorbing a Dragon Soul far away from our AU.” Cobra looked to the Window. 

“This AU turns unstable.” He said, before the AU started to shake again. Horror growled at the other two. 

“WHAT’S GOING ON?” Cobra sighed. 

“Other AU’s can’t take the Magic a Dragon or a Dragon Hybrid holds, so they grow unstable.” Alure nodded. 

“Exactly. That’s why we came here as fast as possible. If we relocate you to our AU, your AU will grow stable again and gives it a substitute. Meaning a new you will take your Place.” Horror starred at them. 

“I won’t leave my Brother alone.” Papyrus watched them. He hasn’t absorbed a Dragon Soul like Sans. 

“BROTHER, I DON’T BELONG THERE.” Alure smiled a bit. 

“That is no problem at all. There is enough space in the Castle Town.” Horror was glad to hear that. 

“AM I REALLY ALLOWED THERE?” Cobra nodded shortly. 

“Sure. You can either Work there or live on your Brothers Payment.” Papyrus smiled. 

“I WOULD LOVE TO WORK THERE!” Alure was glad to hear that. 

“We should hurry up, before it gets worse.” Cobra warned them. 

“What about Nightmare?” Alure tilted his Skull. 

“He will also get a new Horror, or he already has one.” Horror sighed, that somehow made sense. 

“Time to Pack fast, Bro.” He said, going upstairs with Papyrus. Alure went to Cobra. 

“How long until this Timeline vanishes?” Cobra sighed. 

“Maybe five hours, maybe more.” He said, while they heard the others Pack up some stuff. 

“I wonder how he turned…” Alure looked up. 

“We will learn once he meets the Leaders and Guardian.” The smaller nodded. 

“True.” Finally both Skeletons came done. 

“WE ARE SET!” Papyrus exclaimed excited. 

“Alright, our Portal is at the Ruins. Please follow me.” The smaller said and started to leave the House. They went through the forest to the Ruins, where a Portal was waiting for them. Alure looked back, before he went trough. Horror was still a bit worried, but followed his Brother to this other AU. 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Papyrus looked up in wonder, once they left the Portal. Horror followed his Gaze.

“Is that…” Alure nodded. 

“Yes that’s the Night Sky. Sunlight is a bit Rare in this Area.” He told them, while walking to the large, dark coloured Castle. 

“We will guide you to our Leaders, to sort some Things out.” He told them. Horror nodded slightly, he wondered what would happen once they were there. Cobra walked behind them, as they entered the Castle. There were Soldiers, Servants and some more like that little Guy running around. 

“Yo, little Nightlight. Back already?” Horror blinked, that Hybrid looked awfully like Killer. 

“Yes, Kiros. We returned, are they in the Throne Room?” Kiros nodded. 

“Yep, all of them.” Kiros turned and pushed open the Door. 

“Alure and Cobra have Returned.” He announced. 

“Let them in.” A deep Voice rumbled. Kiros stepped aside so they could walk into the Room. Horror and his Brother followed them inside, there were even more like the little Guy and that Killer Version. 

“Greetings. Welcome to the Castle of Chaos.” A Man with six large golden Horns said, Horror haven’t seen someone like him, not that he could remember at least, but he looked a bit like… Dream, only not that innocent anymore? Then he turned his red eye light to another Person next to that strange Dream. 

Horror gulped, that was Nightmare alright. The Royal Presence even in this Dragon Version very present. He had his Cyan eye Light levelled down at Horror, six massive Cyan horns on his Skull, large wings and four tails where he would normally have his four Tendrils. 

“We have returned, Narish.” 

Horror felt uncomfortable. Narish starred at him and Horror thought he would see all his Sins and Soul in that Moment. His Brother was far different. 

“GREETINGS!” He shouted. Horror feared that this Leader would rip his Brother apart. Alure on the other Hand stepped forward and gave his Report. 

“Strange circumstances?” Narish asked, after the smaller finished. Horror shrugged. 

“Ate a Ram, woke up like that.” Narish and Fracture looked at one another. 

“A Ram?” Croma asked. It was Strange that a Ram would turn him into a Dragon Hybrid. 

“BROTHER I ATE IT TOO.” Papyrus announced. This was even more strange. Horror shrugged. 

“Had horns, was a Ram.” He said. Fracture pondered over this. 

“Did it have Wool as well?” Papyrus shock his Skull. 

“Was Scaly and had a large Tail.” The Silence grew in the Room suddenly. 

“HE ATE A FUCKING DRAGON!” Pulvis wheezed out as he figured it out. The Woman with them looked thoughtful, Horror never would have thought that Nightmare would keep a Human.

“It shouldn’t even be possible.” She finally said. Narish nodded. 

“Dragons are Monsters… This ‘Ram’ Should have dusted.” Horror tilted his Head. 

“But it didn’t.” Fracture sighed a bit. 

“As you prepared the Flesh… how was it?” The others seemed worried and on Edge, of Course something was off, even Horror knew that. He tried to remember what that Ram had looked like. 

“IT’S FLESH SHOWED STRANGE BLACK MARKS!” Eriol growled. 

“Like a Tattoo?” Horror nodded with his Brother. 

“What else?” Narish asked. 

“There was no heart, only a strange Crystal.” He felt the Tension grow thicker in the Room. 

“Cobra, show our new Citizen down to the Town.” Cobra bowed before escorting Horror and his Brother outside the Throne Room. 

“This stinks. That is definitely Inks doing.” Eriol hissed. 

“Why didn’t it Dust?” Croma asked confused. 

“Because the Soul was sealed.” Millenia said. 

“According to Horror there was only a Crystal as well as the Other Organs, but no Heart and no signs of a Monster Soul.” She started. 

“While it is possible to Seal a Dragon, it is rather hard to make it maintain its Original Form and not having it revert to a Human Husk.” Narish thought about it. 

“So those Marks Papyrus had said was Inks paint?” Eriol nodded. 

“It has to be.” Croma looked at the Leaders worriedly. 

“What if he enters here and Turns to one of us? If he is already that Strong… it would get WORSE.” Narish nodded. 

“I agree.” Millenia chuckled a bit. 

“He can’t. He might be able to get Dragons out, but he can’t enter.” All of them turned to her. 

“How so?” Fracture asked. 

“Remember the great Shattering i told you about?” The Leaders nodded, she had told them a while ago. 

“That was the only time he ever could enter, once the Ancestors found out that he had his Fingers in that whole scheme as well, they blocked off any possibility for him to enter. He is able to lead People to this AU, but he himself is forever forbidden.” Narish sighed. 

“But he could take a Dragon out and absorb its Soul.” Eriol growled. 

“He could, but Ink is also aware that he would destroy the Multiverse if he would do that. Because even as a Dragon Hybrid he wouldn’t be able to enter.” Fracture got it. 

“Meaning the Multiverse wouldn’t be able to correct his Creation and would eradicate itself.” Millenia nodded. 

“Exactly, while IsralTale would still remain, everything else would end.” Eriol found Relief in that. 

“But… Why does he fiddle with us and Create Hybrids?” Kiros asked, he wanted to know.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Horror on the other Hand, was brought with his Brother to one Empty House, close to the Castle still. 

“WILL I BE TURNED AS WELL?” His Brother asked. Cobra looked at them. 

“We don’t turn just because it is fun. Most of the Hybrids were either turned by Accident or it was their only way to survive.” Horror grumbled slightly. 

“They all had the Choice, if they didn’t want to they could have left.” The new Hybrid knew what that meant… Death. Cobra sighed. 

“How about you settle and see how it is. If there is no need for you to turn to life how you want to, then don’t do it.” He then looked to Horror.

 “All Hybrids decided to take on new Names, to leave their Past behind.” Horror nodded. 

“Can i ask something?” His Brother looked at him. 

“Go ahead.” Horror wanted to know. 

“You aren’t like them.. .still i sense a certain Power inside you and they seemed fond of you.” Cobra nodded. 

“True, i am no Hybrid, nor did i ever decide to become one. I was born in this AU unlike the others, except the Woman you saw.” He answered. Horror nodded, that was an Answer he could work with, before they stepped Inside.

Everything they might need was already inside, even a small, fresh amount of Food and beginning Money to buy what they wanted. 

“BROTHER!” Papyrus explored their new Home. 

“THEY ARE SO THOUGHTFUL!” Horror nodded, they made a new start very comfortable. 

“Let’s see what the City is like and then Think about what to do.” His Brother nodded and they left to roam the Town.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

They all sat in the big Meeting Room, even Horror, while they still talked about his Turning. 

“What do you think? We confirmed three Interferences by Ink already, probably even more.” Kiros said sharply. 

“Lets Review so far. It is confirmed that he had his Hands in Croma’s, Eriol’s and Horror’s turning.” Horror grumbled. 

“Slaughter.” Everyone turned to him. 

“What?” Fracture asked. 

“I want to be called Slaughter now.” Narish nodded. 

“Alright. Slaughter it is.” He acknowledged his new Name. 

“Who else did he have his Hands in..” Millenia sighed. 

“To be honest… i think with all of you.” Fracture blinked. 

“Why so, Flower?” Millenia leaned back. 

“Alure came here because one Hatchling that had mysteriously found his Way into his AU.” Narish frowned. 

“Impossible. Hatchlings don’t have that much Power.” The Woman nodded. 

“Technically, they have, but won’t.” Alure shivered, remembering the Pain and how hurt he was to see the little one dust in his Arms. 

“What about Solei?” Kiros asked. 

“He said a Woman with pale purplish grey hair brought him here.” Millenia knew who they talked about. It was interesting to hear that her Weapon had brought Solei to this AU. 

“Kiros wasn’t brought in by Ink.” Fracture pointed out. 

“Not that i am aware of…” Millenia crossed her arms. 

“Still possible. Nightmare somehow had learned  from our AU, while it isn’t possible because it was another Timeline and not the one from the Great Shattering.” Kiros frowned. 

“So it’s possible Ink told him about the AU somehow?” Narish growled deeply. 

“I don’t like how deep he is involved.” Slaughter didn’t like what he heard here. 

“We know he had direct interference in Croma’s turning, throwing him in here.” Fracture said and said, tall Skeleton nodded. 

“Yes, i wanted to know where my Comrades where and he threw me in here.” Narish tapped his Phalanges on the Table. 

“HE had no interference in my or Fracture’s Creation.” Fracture nodded. 

“Yes because we were Created by the Lake’s power.” Pulvis frowned. 

“He could have had a Hand in my Turning as well… The Man who found me, also got his hands on my Comrades.” Slaughter was really impressed in how many turnings Ink had his Phalanges in. 

“We also know his Hands in Eriol’s turning, but i don’t Think Syo…” Cobra nodded. 

“I talked with him and he said there was no sign of Ink. He missed his Lover for a long time and thought of giving up as the Children found him.” Millenia sighed. 

“Yeah his Circumstances looked rather Normal.” Eriol slammed the Table. 

“So why does he want us being created?” Narish wondered about that as well. 

“Maybe he hoped that you would rage and attack other AU’s.” Slaughter said. They all looked at him. 

“This is actually pretty plausible.” Fracture said. 

“Why so?” Narish grumbled. 

“He hoped that while most of us were turned without a real Choice. We would turn our anger against the Multiverse and attack it.” Fracture nodded. 

“Making it able for him to play the Almighty Hero who slays the Dragons.” This was so fucked up, to that all of them Agreed. The question was… when will Ink stop, will he dump all of them in here? Until every Sans out there is changed?

Slaughter waited for them to finish their Talk. 

“Hey… Can i ask something.” He finally said, after they all got a slight Pause in their Talking. 

“My Bro thought of Something he would like to do, so he won’t be sitting around all day.” Narish nodded.

“What would that be?” Slaughter slipped a piece of Paper to the Leaders. 

“He want to open a Bakery.” Slaughter said. Millenia looked at it as well. 

“This looks really great.” She said impressed. 

“He likes to cook and Bake, but he rather wants to Open up a Bakery.” Narish looked over it. 

“Alright, we can make that Bakery down in the City close to the Marketplace.” Fracture nodded as well. 

“But what about you, Slaughter?” He shrugged. 

“I’m good as a Butcher or Woodsman.” Croma looked at him. 

“Good, then you will work as those, as well as for us. Far as we know from Kiros and Croma you were part of the so called ‘Bad Sanses’” Slaughter nodded. 

“Yeah. Worked all under Nightmare.” He said. Narish leaned on one side of the Chair. 

“Which i am close to.” Slaughter nodded as well. 

“Yeah, look like Boss.” Fracture chuckled. 

“I wonder if we ever meet our Originals? Other Versions? What ever it is called.” Narish chuckled. 

“Maybe… One Day, for now let’s go to the Dinning Hall, Dinner is already ready.” Slaughter joined them, before returning to his Bro and telling him that in the Next days would be his Bakery finished. Papyrus was already hyped about it, wanting to see People enjoy what he makes.

[insanityclause]

Sara Krulwich/The New York Times

A Director Making His Mark in More Ways Than One

LONDON — The director Jamie Lloyd was giving me a tour of his tattoos. Not the Pegasus on his chest or the skeleton astronaut floating on his back, though he gamely described those, but the onyx-inked adornments that cover his arms and hands, that wreathe his neck, that wrap around his shaved head.

When I asked about the dragon at his throat, he told me it had been “one of the ones that hurt the least,” then pointed to the flame-licked skulls on either side of his neck: his “covert way,” he said, of representing drama’s traditional emblems for comedy and tragedy.

“I thought maybe it’d be a little bit tacky to have theater masks on my neck,” he added, a laugh bubbling up, and it’s true: His dragon would have eaten them for lunch.

It was early December, and we were in a lounge beneath the Playhouse Theater, where Lloyd’s West End production of “Cyrano de Bergerac,” starring James McAvoy in a skintight puffer jacket and his own regular-size nose, would soon open to packed houses and critical praise.

Running through Feb. 29, and arriving on cinema screens Feb. 20 in a National Theater Live broadcast, “Cyrano” — newly adapted by Martin Crimp, and positing its hero as a scrappy spoken-word wonder — capped a year that saw Lloyd celebrated on both sides of the Atlantic.

In London last summer, his outdoor hit “Evita” traded conventional glamour for sexy grit, while his radical reinterpretation of Harold Pinter’s “Betrayal,” starring Tom Hiddleston, was hailed first in the West End, then on Broadway. Ben Brantley, reviewing “Betrayal” in The New York Times, called it “one of those rare shows I seem destined to think about forever.”

When Time Out London ranked the best theater of 2019, it gave the top spot jointly to all three Lloyd productions, saying that he “has had a year that some of his peers might trade their entire careers for.”

Lloyd, who is 39, did not spring from the same mold as many of those peers. There was for him, he says, no youthful aha moment of watching Derek Jacobi onstage and divining that directing was his path. Epiphanies like that belonged to other kids, the ones who could afford the tickets.

If there is a standard background for a London theater director — and Lloyd would argue that certainly there used to be — that isn’t where he came from, growing up working class on the south coast of England, in Margaret Thatcher’s Britain.

The first time I laid eyes on him, chatting in the Playhouse lobby after a preview of “Cyrano,” he was the picture of working-class flair — the gold pirate hoops, the pink and black T-shirt, the belt cinching high-waisted pants.

He looks nothing like your typical West End director. Which of course is precisely the point.

What’s underneath

“It’s quite often said of him,” McAvoy observed by phone, once the reviews were in, “that he strips things away or he tries to take classical works and turn them on their head. I think he’s always just trying to tell the story in the clearest and most exhilarating way possible.”

The “X-Men” star, who put the number of times he’s worked with Lloyd in the past decade at a “gazillion,” calls theirs “probably one of the most defining relationships that I’ve had in my career.”

Yet Lloyd himself is on board with the notion that his assertively contemporary stagings pare back stifling layers of performance history to lay bare what’s underneath.

Like the tiger and dragons that he had emblazoned on his head just last May, though, the unembellished nature of his shows — as minimalist in their way as his tattoos are the opposite — is a relatively recent development.

Lloyd’s first “Cyrano de Bergerac,” starring Douglas Hodge in 2012, was also his Broadway debut. It was, he said, “absolutely the ‘Cyrano’ that you would expect,” with the fake nose, the hat, the plume, the sword-fighting.

There is, granted, sword-fighting in the new one — but the audience has to imagine the swords.

Lloyd’s productions, including a lauded revival of Stephen Sondheim and James Lapine’s “Passion” in 2010, long marked him as a hot young director on the rise. But he sees in some of his previous work a noisy tendency toward idea overload.

The pivot point came in 2018, with a season that the Jamie Lloyd Company — which he formed seven years ago with the commercial producing powerhouse Ambassador Theater Group — devoted to the short works of Harold Pinter. The playwright’s distillation of language forced Lloyd to match it with his staging.

That immersion led to what the director Michael Grandage — one of Lloyd’s early champions, who tapped him at 27 to be his associate director at the Donmar Warehouse — called Lloyd’s “absolute masterpiece.”

“I had quite a lot of ambition to do a production of ‘Betrayal’ in my life,” Grandage said. “And then when I saw Jamie’s, I thought, ‘Right, that’s it. I don’t ever, ever want to direct this play.’ Because that’s, for me, the perfect production.”

Playing dress-up

Charm is a ready currency in the theater, but Lloyd’s is disarming; he seems simply to be being himself, without veneer. Like when I fact-checked something I’d read by asking whether he was a vegan.

“Lapsed vegan,” he confessed immediately, with a tinge of guilt about eating eggs again.

Pay no attention to any tough-guy vibe in photos of him; do not be alarmed by the sharp-toothed cat on the back of his head. In conversation, Lloyd comes across as thoughtful and unassuming, with an animated humor that makes him fun company. If he speaks at the speed of someone with no time to waste, he balances that with focused attentiveness.

His father, Ray, was a truck driver. His mother, Joy (whose name is tattooed on his right forearm, near the elbow), cleaned houses, took in ironing and ran a costume-rental shop, where young Jamie would sneak in to dress up as the children’s cartoon character Rainbow Brite.

“It’s very embarrassing,” he said, squelching a laugh.

Seeing professional theater wasn’t an option then for Lloyd, whose grown-up passion for expanding audience access — one of the things he has made himself known for in the West End — grew out of that exclusion. His company has set aside 15,000 free and 15,000 £15 tickets for its current, characteristically starry three-show season, which will also include Emilia Clarke in “The Seagull” and Jessica Chastain in “A Doll’s House.” At the 786-seat Playhouse, that adds up to just over 38 full houses.

Lloyd, who was studying acting at the Liverpool Institute for Performing Arts when he decided he wanted to direct, found his way to theater as a child by acting in school shows and local amateur productions. Twice he was cast as a monkey; in “The Wizard of Oz,” thrillingly, he got to fly.

The details of his early days have always been colorful — like having a clown as his first stepfather, who performed at children’s parties under the stage name Uncle Funny. But Lloyd is quick to acknowledge the darkness lurking there.

“It sounds a little bit like some dodgy film, because he was actually a really violent man,” he said. “And there were times where he was very physically abusive to my mum. There was a sort of atmosphere of violence in that house that was really uneasy. And yet masked with this literal makeup, but also this sense of trying to entertain people whilst enacting terrible brutality behind the scenes.”

This is where he locates his own connection to Pinter’s work.

“A lot of that is that the violence is beneath the surface,” he said. “And on the top there is this sort of, what I call a kind of topspin, a layer of cover-up.”

Long relationships

Lloyd was still at drama school when he staged a production of Lapine and William Finn’s “Falsettoland” that won a prize: assistant directing a show at the Bush Theater in London. Based on that, Trevor Nunn hired him, at 22, to be his assistant director on “Anything Goes” in the West End — a job he did so well that Grandage got word of it and hired him to assist on “Guys and Dolls.” While Lloyd was doing that, he also began directing in his own right.

The costume and set designer Soutra Gilmour, who has been a constant with Lloyd since he cold-called her for his first professional production, Pinter’s “The Caretaker,” said theirs is an easy relationship, with a “symbiotic transference of ideas.” Even their creative aesthetics have evolved in sync.

“We’ve actually never fallen out in 13 years,” she said over mint tea on a trip to New York last month, just before “Betrayal” closed. “Never! I don’t even know how we would fall out.”

Of course, the one time she tried to decline a Lloyd project five years ago, because its tech rehearsals coincided with the due date for her son’s birth, he told her there was no one else he wanted to work with. So she did the show, warning that at some point she would have to leave. Now, she says, he understands that she won’t sit through endless evening previews, because she needs to go home to her child.

Lloyd and his wife, the actress Suzie Toase (whose name is tattooed on one of his arms), home-school their own three boys (whose names are tattooed on the other). Their eldest, 13-year-old Lewin, is an actor who recently played one of the principal characters, the heroine’s irresistible best friend, on the HBO and BBC One series “His Dark Materials,” whose cast boasts McAvoy as well.

Enter the child

Lloyd’s interpretation of “Betrayal,” a 1978 play that recounts a seven-year affair, imbued it with a distinctly non-’70s awareness of the fragility of family — the notion that children are the bystanders harmed when a marriage is tossed away.

Its gasp-inducing moment came with the entrance of a character Pinter wrote to be mentioned but not seen: the small daughter of the couple whose relationship is imperiled. In putting her onstage, Lloyd didn’t touch the text; it was a simple, wordless role. With it, he altered the resonance of the play.

To me, it seemed logical that Lloyd’s production would have been informed by his experience as a husband and father — and maybe also as a child in a splintering family. How old had he been, anyway, when his parents split up?

“Five,” Lloyd said. “The same age as the character would be.” He paused. “Oh God, yeah, fascinating. I’d not thought about that. Exactly the same age.”

If that fact was of more than intellectual interest to him, he didn’t let on. He volunteered a memory, though — of being a little one “amongst these kind of big giants, and I guess what we can now see as the mess of their lives.”

Blazer-free

Doing “Betrayal” in New York, Lloyd was struck by how eager Americans were to chat about his tattoos. Still, he told me after I texted him a follow-up question about them, he hadn’t expected his appearance to be such a talking point in this story.

It’s not just idle curiosity. It’s about what the tattoos signify in a field where, in Britain as in the United States, the top directors tend to have grown up very comfortably. It’s about who is welcome in a particular space, and who gets to be themselves there.

For a long time after Lloyd started working in the theater, he wore a blazer every day: a conscious attempt to conform in an industry where he felt a nagging sense of difference.

“Every other director at the time was from an Oxbridge background,” he said, “and looked and sounded a particular way. I spent a long time pretending to be like them.”

It was a performance of sorts, with a costume he donned for the role.

It was only about seven or eight years ago — around the time he left the Donmar and started putting together his own company — that he stopped worrying about what people might think if he looked the way he wanted.

“My dad had tattoos” was the first thing he said when I asked him about his own.

“I guess it’s partly getting older,” he mused, “but it’s just sort of going, ‘You can’t pretend to be someone. You’ve got to be who you really are, in every way.’”

The tattoos that have gradually transformed him are from a different aesthetic universe than his recent work onstage. Yet the impulse, somehow, is the same.

In shedding the blazer, in inking his skin, Lloyd has peeled back layers of imposed convention to show who’s underneath.

And should you spot him at the theater, where he is hard to miss, you’ll notice that he looks just like himself.

[katherinethedork]

Prompt #2! (Ethan Nestor x reader)

(Ft. a lot of teamiplier) (and idk why I used this gif but I like it)

PROMPT CHALLENGE!

Request: “I has idea!! Our precious Ethan, soulmate au, with prompt 2 "so you're the reason I have tension headaches at 2 am" I feel like it'd be pretty cute with some fluff/august of finding your soulmate?? Nonbinary/gender neutral reader, please!”

MASTERLIST!

Warnings: Swearing. Flufff. Lil angst. Cute Ethan.

⚠️If you have requests, wanna be tagged in something, critiques, or just wanna say hi, send me an ask or a message! I probably won’t see it if it’s a comment on a fic. Thanks!⚠️

A/N: My first au! Fic and I think it turned out real swell! Also sososososososo sorry this got out super late. I feel like I’ve been apologizing a lot. Sorry. Anyways, let’s get on with the story! Hope you enjoy!

***

You had always thought you didn’t have a soulmate tie. Or a soulmate. Most people had a tattoo of their soulmate’s name or maybe their first words to each other. Some had strings to lead them to The One™️. But you didn’t seem to. There wasn’t anything that lead you to believe you had a tie, let alone a soulmate. You checked all over your body for some kind of marking, but there weren’t any that were visible. No literal tie with a string. Nothing. That was, until you turned 15. Then you would see random cuts or bruises that you had done nothing to get. Or you would burn your tongue without even eating anything. Having stomach aches completely out of the blue. Waking up unnecessarily tired wasn’t rare. And by the end of the day having a extremely sore throat on random days happened.

This was when you were done. You were sure you had a tie. So you went to your computer and looked up all the ties that were possible. And one of the rarest ties was the pain tie. And you matched it perfectly. Of course you got one of the rarest ties. Just your luck.

You lived the rest of your life getting burned tongues and random injuries here and there. You once broke your leg and felt really bad for whoever your soulmate was. He/she was probably at school too, since it was in the middle of the day. You also woke up with headaches in the middle of the night, that you were sure were your own, because if they were your soulmates, they would not feel as in your head as they were. You were sorry for them.

But by the time you were twenty, you decided to move to LA. You just felt a pull towards that area. Maybe that’s where your soulmate was and that’s why you were being pulled there, you kept thinking. It made sense. But it could also be the fact that you were great at working with cameras and computers. Editing too.

You worked jobs here and there. You had been as a waiter for a while. Looking for an actual real job along the way, when you finally landed a job with a family friend of yours. Mark Fishbach. You had known him as a kid and still kinda kept in touch with him. He said he was looking for an editor and/or a camera person and you immediately said yes. At least it would get you a starting job, and you wouldn’t mind seeing him again after all these years. You learned a while ago that he had started a YouTube channel, so you decided to watch some of his videos. After a few let’s plays and some of the FNAF videos (hey it was a week that you had time), you decided that Mark was way funnier than you had last thought. And you were excited to see him again

It came the time to get off the plane you were riding on. You got your bag and made your way to the main area where Mark said he would be. You looked around trying to spot anyone that looked remotely familiar, when you saw two people who clearly knew how the airport worked. From a distance, they looked vaguely like Mark and the fabled girlfriend Amy; the one that you had heard about. To be honest you didn’t believe he had a girlfriend, but you were happy for him. You had seen a couple of Amyplier posts around. They’re cute.

You started to walk over to them, smiling and flailing your one arm that wasn’t being used to carry luggage around to make them notice you. Luckily, the nonexistent Amy saw you and pulled Mark to see you. He flailed both of his arms back and Amy waved and laughed at him. You finally got to both of them and said:

“Wow Mark you’re really short,” trying not to laugh.

“Wow Y/N I haven’t seen you in so long, I thought you would be way more attractive than you actually are.” He says sarcastically, laughing throughout his whole sentence. You laugh back and hug him.

“Holy shit I haven’t seen you actually in so long! You look really good! Oh- and you must be the fabled girlfriend Amy.” You say turning to her.

“Ah, yes I am the nonexistent girlfriend.” She says smiling, knowing exactly where you were going with this.

“Wow you actually exist, I thought Mark was just going to bring around one of those plastic skeletons and say it was you.” You say laughing at Mark, who looks like a two year old, trying to hold in his laughs and crossing his arms.

Amy laughs, “Yes I’m real. We might wanna get out of here. I hate airports.”

“Alright cool. Lemme take your bag,” Mark says gesturing for you to give him your bag.

“Why thank you sir,” you say, handing your bag’s handle to him, noticing the name Amy tattooed on his wrist.

On the way back to his house you catch up with him and learn all about Amy. You didn’t want to stalk either one of them completely on social media. You wanted to learn from the source. You felt a random pain in your toe. Trying not to make any weird faces while Mark was telling a story, you realized that it was probably your dumb soulmate stubbing their toe.

“Are you ok Y/N? You look a little funny.” He says, looking into his rear view mirror.

“Yeah, it’s just my dumb soulmate stubbing their toe,” You say as the pain starts to go away.

Mark and Amy share a concerned look and then shrug it off.

“So you have the pain tie?” Amy asks, turning around in the passenger seat.

“Yeah, I didn’t know I had it until I was like 15,” you say as your soulmate hits their arm on something, shooting a wave of pain up your arm. Mark and Amy share another concerned look that was laced with a bit of surprise and what looked like happiness.

“What? Why do you keep sharing that look?” You say rubbing your arm in the spot that caught the impact.

“No reason, just,” Mark says not finishing his sentence.

“Just surprised you have the pain tie,” Amy finishes and quickly throws a smile at you. She turns back around in her chair and changes the conversation topic.

****

“Oh yeah, I forgot to tell you that we have some of our friends over for dinner. Don’t worry they’re all nice. You’ll like them,” Mark says, turning the corner to what you assumed is his house.

You exit the car and he gives you your bag back. They both lead you to the door and get you inside. Mark immediately takes you to the guest room upstairs, and shows you where the bathroom is. You hear lots of chatter downstairs. Mark leaves you to get settled, and goes down the stairs to the source of the chatter and joins in. You set your things down and collapse on the bed out of exhaustion. It was magically cool in there, even with the weather outside. You close your eyes and rest a minute. You change your clothes (you don’t want to smell like airplane in front of new people, even if they know you just got off a plane) and fix your hair. You take a deep breath and smile as you walk down the stairs, the same way that Mark went.

You are greeted with Mark, a very tall man with kinda curly brown hair, and a shorter boy with glasses and also brown hair. You recognize the taller one as Tyler, but are struck by the other boy. Ohmygodhe’ssofreakinghot, You thought. And he was, interestingly. You hadn’t thought of any other boy that specific way. You lost your train of thought and ability to breath as you heard

“Oh hey look it’s Y/N! Come ‘ere!” Tyler says smiling. Mark and the mysterious hot one turn around. Mark softly smiles at you and no name is stricken by something also. You’re not quite sure by what though.

You walk over and hug Tyler, “God I haven’t seen you in so long! And you got even taller. I bet you have to get things on the top shelf for Mark.”

“HEY.” He says turning to you with a look that says, ‘why me?? again’.

“Just seeing if you were paying attention.” All three of the boys laugh.

“Oh hey! You haven’t met this guy yet,” Mark says pointing to hot stuffs, “this is Ethan, he used to be one of my editors but he’s full time YouTube now! And Ethan this is Y/N. They are one of my friends from way back and is basically taking your place. They’re like a step sibling. We’re not that close.” Mark says like a proud father, all four of us laugh at the last bit.

“H-hi Ethan.” You say, holding out your sweaty and shaky hand for him to shake.

“H-hey Y/N.” Ethan says taking your equally sweaty hand into his. The moment could not last any longer.

At that moment you split as Amy walks in with a slightly concerned face with another new person who also had glasses and was a girl (thank god).

The girl who had no name walked in with a equally concerned face, but this one was laced with surprise and happiness again. She was looking at both me and Ethan.

“Hey Y/N this is Kathryn. Kathryn this is Y/N.” Amy says gesturing in between you two, her face loostening up.

“Hey Kathryn!” You say.

“Hi Y/N!” She says back.

“Alright, now that we’re done with the introductory part, we are going out to eat at (insert restaurant here).” Mark says grabbing his keys.

Everyone responds with some sort of acceptance and they all start moving around and shuffling to get their shoes. You were getting a weird pull towards Ethan that you had never felt before. During the process of getting out the door you accidentally hit your arm on something. You whisper a quiet ow and look up to see Ethan wince in the other direction and rub his arm.

No fucking way

****

After the dinner that was you and Ethan catching quick glances at each other, but when the other looks back you snap your head away, you went back to Mark’s house for a movie (and probably some ice cream. It always happened, even when you were kids). As soon as you got back to Mark’s house, you fully got what was happening.

Ethan was your soulmate. You didn’t even know his last name, but you knew he was The One™️. Amy and Mark had clearly already found that out because Ethan probably already told his situation to them and it was most likely the exact same thing. When you got to Mark’s house you met all of the gang except for Kathryn who came in with a face. A face you assumed was correlated to Amy telling her about you and Ethan. Then the whole arm thing. You were almost 100% sure that he was it. You decided that you were going to confront him as soon as you can. After all, you wanted to get this whole show on the road.

You walked in the door and took off your shoes along with everyone else. While the gang was separated into a group with Ethan to the side, you decided to walk up to him.

“Uhm h-hey Ethan. Can I talk to you for a sec?” You say, wringing your hands out of nervousness.

“Uh, Yeah sure!” He says with a smile.

You lead him off to a part of the house upstairs where no one was (even though everyone was downstairs you were still nervous what could you say).

“Hey so... ugh I don’t know how to say this,” You nervously laugh and he does the same, you start to scratch at your arm a little too hard on purpose and his face just becomes dumbfounded, “I think you’re my soulmate.”

“What.”

“I-I don’t know how...” you say, trailing your eyes toward the random dresser that was beside you. Not knowing what to do you kicked it as hard as you could, sending a wave of pain throughout your body.

“AAH- oh my god! Why did you do that! You could’ve kicked lighter!” Ethan says practically falling to the ground, clutching his foot.

“S-sorry! I-I didn’t know what else to do,” You say also dropping to the floor in pain, “*deep inhale* aaaaahhhhhhhhhhh why did I do that.”

“I don’t know. Hold on. Oh my god,” Ethan’s face switches from pain to joy, “Holy shit you’re my soulmate!”

Ethan practically bounces up and down out of happiness. He doesn’t seem to know what to do, except smile and look at you. But then his face drops completely and becomes slightly annoyed.

“Oh my god. So you’re the reason I have tension headaches at 2 am.” Ethan says crossing and un-crossing his arms.

“Oh... sorry. Don’t worry I wake up with them all the time too,” You say, mentally facepalming because of course you do, you are the source of those headaches.

His face changes back to smiling at you. He seems like the person who can’t keep mad for too long.

“Well. What are we going to do now?” you say smiling back at him.

“Here. Why don’t we trade phone numbers, but we should probably go downstairs. The others will probably start getting suspicious soon.” Ethan says taking his phone out of his jacket pocket, getting into contacts, and handing it to you.

“A-are we going to tell the group?” You say, handing him your phone, and filling in all the details into his phone. I mean, if he’s your soulmate he probably should know your last name.

“Yeah eventually. I mean if you want to tonight sure!” Ethan says handing your phone back to you.

“I feel like we should just act like a couple until they realize,” you say smiling mischievously.

“I can do that,” he says returning the same smile.

****

After that conversation you two make it down stairs, where you are asked what kind of ice cream you want. You are then seated directly next to Ethan on the couch in the TV room. You were sitting around the room with all of teamiplier. Amy was on the end of the U shape of people, sitting next to Mark, Kathryn was sat next to Mark, you were sitting in between Mark and Ethan, Ethan was sitting next to Tyler, and Kathryn was on the opposite end of Amy.

When everyone sits down and has situated themselves next to each other with a multitude of blankets, the movie starts.

About 30 minutes through the movie, Ethan does the stereotypical “I’m pretending I’m yawning so I can put my arm around you” trick. You have to hold in your laughs as you smile at him. You look around the room to see if anyone has caught on, and you see Amy’s wide eyes staring at you. You smile at her and her face relaxes into a smirk. She mouths I knew it to you and you have to hold in your laughter once again. You look back to Ethan and he’s smiling between you and Amy, also trying to hold in laughter. You put your pointer finger to your mouth and pretend to shush her. She gets the idea and nods, turning back to the TV. Mark somehow stays oblivious to this whole interaction. It’s like magic, this happens every time.

After the movie ends and everyone is just sitting talking, Tyler notices, because of course he is the next one to notice. You give him the same shush and he just smiles and gets back to the conversation. Then of course it’s Kathryn, because she notices Amy and Tyler stealing quick glances at you every now and again. She give you the same look that Amy does and you do the exact same thing again. Mark is SOMEHOW STILL OBLIVIOUS TO THIS WHOLE INTERACTION.

After everyone starts to get ready to go, you are standing with Ethan holding hands. Mark still doesn’t notice. Like I said. Magic. As soon as Tyler says, “Alright I’m the chauffeur, and I’m tired so we should start going.” Ethan replies with “Alright cool!” And kisses you on the cheek.

That got Mark’s attention.

“WOAH HEY WOAH THERE. What happened here?!” Mark says with wide eyes. You legitimately just double over and burst into laughter. The rest of the gang except Mark joins in on laughing with you.

“Was this planned?” Mark says, starting to blush and laugh a bit, “have I been goofed!?”

Eventually when the whole group catches their breath you say, “Ethan and I are soulmates.”. And once again, you show them that it’s true by kicking the wall, full force, with the foot that you kicked the dresser with before. You collapse onto the floor from pain that comes rushing through your body like a tsunami.

“NOT AGAIN!” Ethan shrieks, doubling over in pain along with you on the floor. The rest of the group bursts into laughter again, this time Mark joining them.

“Oh so I have been goofed. Well at least I was right about the whole you two being soulmates thing.” Mark says catching his breath.

“Well wasn’t it Amy’s idea technically?” You say challenging him.

“Weeeeelllllll.... it was collective,” Mark says in a high pitched voice.

“Yeah that’s what I thought,” you say, standing up putting most of your weight on the foot that wasn’t hit twice.

Ethan stands up and says, “Now I have to get you back twice.”

“Ugh I wait for that day.” You say sighing.

“Alright lovebirds I’m tured and I need to get home. You guys can enjoy each other later” Tyler says recovering from all the laughter.

You cringe. ”That wording was not right.” You say.

“I know. I regret everything. Let’s go.” Tyler says, grabbing his keys and opening the door to the outside.

“Alright. Bye! It was nice to meet you all!” You say waving and smiling, especially at Ethan.

Walking up the stairs to your bedroom, you were already planning for so much.

Tags: @luova-lola @bim-trimmer-protection-squad @ethans-a-nerd

[zimniysoldat-fiction]

Across the Universes; The Nightmare’s Fairytale

Summary: S.H.I.E.L.D. Agent, and close friend of the Sorcerer Supreme, Tazia Cozier, is inadvertently sent to a different universe where nothing is the same. To get his friend back, Dr. Strange sends the Winter Soldier across universes to find her and bring her home.

Warnings and Ratings: a spattering of stronger language choices

Author’s Note: Not much to say about this one. It’s the reason for all the rewrites, to be sure, but hey. The life of an author, amirite?

Also, images found via Google Image Search. Credit where it is due, text added by me.

Series Masterlist

“Thank you, Bruce.” the red hood was off while Jason Todd stood in the Batcave next to his mentor.

“You know she should be dead, right?” Bruce mused.

“She came out of nowhere. Literally.” Jason explained, “it was a dead end alley and she just…fell from the sky, I guess.”

“Her organs look like someone took them apart and then used duct tape to put them back together.”

“Is she going to be okay?”

“We’re working on it, Jason.” Bruce clasped his shoulder, giving it a consoling squeeze. “Give it time.”

Jason nodded, folding his arms across his chest as he studied his mystery woman. She was incredibly beautiful. Her hair was as black as a raven’s feather, darker than even his obsidian locks. She was tall, curvy and sturdy. Her thighs looked like they could snap Bane’s neck without much effort, her arms, while slender, had the definition of a Renaissance Adonis statue. Her neck was long, and for a moment, Jason got lost in the fantasy of kissing it, of tasting her soft, honeyed skin. He wondered what it would feel like to hold her, to have his fingers dig into her hips while he pulled her against him.

“Forget it, Jason, you don’t stand a chance.” Damian chirped.

“What are you talking about?” he played dumb with his brother, Bruce Wayne’s only biological son.

“Go look in a mirror.” Damian instructed, “then look at her. She’s out of your league dude.”

“Damian, now’s not the time.” Bruce scolded the boy. “What did you get from GCPD?”

“Nada,” Damian shrugged. “as far as they’re concerned, she doesn’t exist.”

“What about the tattoo?” Jason mused, pointing at Tazia’s right forearm, which was covered in black and red ink, forming an intricate line design unlike anything he had ever seen. “Seems pretty unique, maybe we can trace it?”

“Hn,” Bruce nodded, “I’ll look into it. You stay here in case she wakes up. Damian,” he turned to his youngest son. “You have school.”

“Aw, c’mon!”

Jason tuned the rest of the conversation out. He was transfixed by her tattoo; it didn’t seem to conform to any one style. He saw whispers of ancient Japanese line work, hints of a viking style, and shades of a tribal influence, though he couldn’t put his finger on which tribe it resembled. The ink looked old, but the lines were pristine without any bleeding, blurring or accidental deviations. If they couldn’t identify her through fingerprints or DNA, then that tattoo would have to do the job.

“See something you like?”

Jason’s skeleton nearly sprang out of his body with those words. He hadn’t heard her speak for over a week, and he wasn’t expecting to hear her speak again any time soon.

“You’re alive!” he shook his head, “I mean awake.”

“Y-yeah…?” Tazia was confused by his reaction. “You’re the guy from the alley.”

Jason’s face fell—she never saw him without the Red Hood on, he was certain of it. There was no way that she could know that he was the Red Hood. It had to be a lucky guess, surely?

It took Tazia a moment to realize that this man had no idea who she was, a moment to realize he didn’t know what she was. She wasn’t about to tell him, either. He didn’t need to know how she knew his identity. That he smelled identical to the man in the alley, that he had the same butterscotch and peppercorn scent swirling in his sweat, the same strong musk of charred oak softened by sweet notes of bourbon vanilla. Not until she could figure out if he’d align as ally or enemy.

“You have the same physique as him—the same body language.” she smiled innocently.

“Heh,” he chuckled, “lucky guess.”

Tazia struggled to sit up, grunting and groaning with the effort. She felt a lot better composed than she did in the alley, but bits were still out of place, still struggling to find the right order of things. It was still painful. She grimaced as she pushed herself up, the pain pushing against her until she had to give up, collapsing on her elbow.

“Don’t try to move!” Jason was quick to her side, helping her lay back down comfortably. He was getting lost in her cool sea glass eyes, that strange emerald starburst in her left pupil. Something he hadn’t noticed before. “Whatever happened to you…it was ugly. You’ve been in a coma for like…ten days, now.”

“Seriously? Shit.”

Ten days. She should have healed by now. There shouldn’t be any bits still out of place, any lingering pain. Whatever Mordo did to her, she couldn’t help but wonder if he had intended to kill her. And if he had, did he know she was still alive? Would he be coming to finish what he started? She suddenly felt very exposed—vulnerable.

“Where’s Vinnie?” she asked softly.

“Who?”

“Doctor Strange, where is he?”

“I don’t know who that is.” Jason confessed, rubbing his neck.

“What? How could you n-” it hit her suddenly—why this place smelled different, why it sounded so curious—she wasn’t in Kansas anymore. “Sorry, what’s your name?”

“Jason Todd,” he didn’t know why he was trusting her with his name.

“What about when you wear your mask?”

“Red Hood.” he laughed bitterly, “why am I telling you this?”

“Jason, my name is Tazia Cozier, and I think I’m from a different reality.”

Jason’s eyes widened with astonishment, but before he could say anything, Bruce was at his side, standing between him and Tazia. Tazia studied Bruce—his strong, square jaw, his bright blue eyes, his broad shoulders—if not for the black hair, she could’ve nearly mistaken him for Steve Rogers.

“Not a different reality, a different universe.” Bruce corrected her.

“How do you—” Tazia couldn’t find the words she needed.

“Because the same thing happened to your father,” he informed her, “twenty years ago.”

TAGS: @oneshot-shit; @thevanishedillusion; @lanceismyspaceson2k17

[loquaciousquark]

19th Cloudreach. Merrill called the clouds “grey and scuddy” today and she wasn’t wrong

Got a letter from Hubert today that the Bone Pit’s up unusually high for the quarterly profit report. Took the letter immediately to Varric, since I could hardly understand a word, but apparently they found a vein of silverite so large they had to hire a dozen extra miners to work it properly. Realized I hadn’t been out in ages, so V & Fenris & Merrill and I all trekked out to the wilderness.

Varric gets along so much better with Hubert than I do. I mean, he understands topics like quarterly profit margin reports, so I suppose it’s a business thing, but Hubert kept asking what I thought about overhead expense accrual and per diem provisions for the hired workers and it was all I could do to nod and make “hm” noises at appropriate intervals. Thank goodness Varric is kind enough to manage all this, because otherwise I’d have squandered it just as quickly as Gamlen did. Probably a little less whoring. Too bad he hadn’t a Varric all those years ago.

(Reminder: ask Varric what his percentage is. Whatever he’s taking, it should probably be higher.)

Something funny happened near the end of the visit, though. I commented that there didn’t seem to be any signs of nesting spiders or anything--they do love the deep crevices of the Pit--and Fenris said “thank goodness” in a way that made me think he was genuinely glad not to fight today. He said he was all right, but I saw him rolling his shoulders more than once on the way out, like there was an ache between them he couldn’t shake.

He said he was all right. Hm.

12th Bloomingtide. It’s been raining for days and there’s a puddle two inches deep in front of my house. Toby thinks it’s brilliant and hasn’t been clean since

He lost his grip on his sword today and almost got himself skewered by a woman with a pair of daggers. Got the assassin, thank goodness, but he wouldn’t meet my eyes after.

I think the markings are bothering him, but who in flames do I ask?

30th Bloomingtide, either very late or stupidly early; all I know is it’s dark and I can’t sleep

I’ve been thinking about Bethany all night. She would be--let me think. Twenty-three this year? Twenty-four. How old is Carver? Twenty-four.

Twenty-too-damn-young, anyway.

I wonder if Carver got my last package. It has ginger crisps in it that Orana made especially for him, though I did the icing. For as shabby as I am at that sort of thing, I thought they turned out well.

8th Justinian. Beautiful day today, sunny and breezy and full of chipper birds that have decided to roost directly outside my window at 5th damned bell

Fenris came by today, and I haven’t the faintest idea why. He asked how much I knew of magical healing, which is a foolish question considering how many years I’ve spent now healing him, and then he started a sentence four times, gave up, and left in a huff.

Sandal said “trapped,” after he left. Don’t I know it, friend.

In other news, that little bracelet I found a few months ago belongs to a very nice shopkeeper in Lowtown. She’d had it stolen by a gang of thieves one night and hadn’t ever thought to see it again. I’m just glad she happened to mention it as I was buying cedar oil, or it’d have lived in the bottom of my lost & found hoard forever.

22th Justinian. Hot, still sunny. Saw a ship with white sails and blue trim in the docks today and almost managed not to feel sad

Something’s definitely off with Fenris’s tattoos. We were clearing out a group of rogue Coterie just outside Anders’s clinic, and when Fenris went to reach into a man’s chest, he-- I don’t know how to explain it. It was as if he went too far. His whole body went clear as glass and he passed right through the man like a ghost. Took far too long to come back after, too, and when he finally did his hands were shaking so badly he ripped the lung and heart together. It was a bad death, and Fenris could hardly stand for it.

I went to see him a few hours after, and he was still in his bloody armor & wouldn’t let me in. He said this has happened before, that it passes soon enough and I shouldn’t worry. He said it’s like a strained muscle that must be given time to recover.

Of course, he was glowing while he said it, so it might not be the most accurate analogy I’ve ever heard.

24th Justinian

He was trying to ask me to help with his markings. I’m such an idiot.

29th Justinian. Hot, a bit muggy today with salt winds carrying in off the coast, but not as bad as last year

Took me another day to build up the courage to ask, but Fenris (finally!) has admitted his lyrium is bothering him. Also took half a bottle of wine and a great deal of coaxing but He says it’s happened before, that they suddenly start itching and aching and become terribly tender, that even his clothes are almost too much to deal with if they chafe. (It turns out that’s why he wears things cut so tight. All this time and I always thought he just had an aesthetic appreciation for chiseled thighs.) He says it often happens after a large magical battle, but not always.

He let me look at his arm, just to see. The skin is irritated all along the edges of the tattoos--I could help with that at least, a little--and I could tell there was something--something off, I suppose, about the lyrium itself, but I haven’t worked enough with it raw to know what exactly needs fixing. All my potion is made with refined lyrium that’s already been treated and processed for safe handling, and Fenris looked just disappointed enough when I told him so that it lit a fire under my motivation.

I’m still not sure where to look. Neither Anders nor Merrill know much about either the lyrium’s wrongness or the blood magic that bound it. Not that I really expected Fenris to allow them to prod, even if they did. He keeps insisting it always gets better and says it’s already a little improved from last week.

Then again, I watched him sit unnaturally still for almost fifteen minutes in the most awkward position just to keep the lyrium from creasing around his knees, so I remain unconvinced.

2nd August. Steamy hot--I swear I lost three pounds just walking down the stairs from Hightown

I’m either brilliant or insane. Or both, depending on Varric’s mood. I went to the Black Emporium today on a blind hunch, and when I told Xenon what I needed he gave a half-dozen thoughtful groans and sighs and then told his urchin to go fetch some book from the back stores.

It was written in a mixture of Tevene and the trade tongue (thank Andraste) but from what I could tell, it was an old manual on the process of refining lyrium, how to prepare it to hold magic. Then Xenon got very stern and told me he was a tradesman, not a library, and if I intended to continue propping up the wall while I finished reading an unpaid-for book he could think of much more permanent ways to make that happen.

He only charged me a handful of silver, though. Every time I think he’s giving me a good deal, I leave with a terrible sense of uneasiness. Still, I’m certain this is the key to whatever’s wrong with Fenris’s lyrium.

I did trim my hair a bit in that mirror while I was waiting. It was getting a bit unruly.

7th August. Rainshowers all day. Air’s so thick it’s like breathing bricks

Sandal said “trapped.” I need to start listening to him more. No wonder the healing didn’t help.

It makes sense they’d get more agitated after a magical fight, too, if they’re absorbing as much residual energy as this book implies. I wonder if a templar’s Silence would have the same effect on the tattoos as it does on me. Not that I have many friendly templars to ask. Cullen would probably do it, but I don’t want Meredith knowing anything more about Fenris than she does already.

I bet this will work. I’m almost sure of it. And if it doesn’t, no harm done--he’ll just still exist in an unending pain, that’s all. I’ve already sent a runner with a message for him to come over this evening, and Orana’s bringing up an old set of Carver’s sleeping clothes that are loose enough for what I need. Poor Fenris. Not bad enough he’s hurting already, now I’m putting him in pants four sizes too large and telling him to stay put while I feel him up, down, and sideways.

Ah, I hear him downstairs. Andraste, give me strength and patience and actually, composure now that I think about it

Later, almost midnight

It worked. It worked! I’ve snuck away and am writing this by the barest wisp of magelight because I’ve got to note it all down now, while it’s fresh, but Maker’s blood and bone it worked.

It’s not healing, it’s a cleanse. Almost--almost a dispelling, really. It has to be general, not specific--Kirkwall’s got so much sundry magic just floating around everywhere that to try to clean it out piece by piece and spell by spell would take a thousand years, which means my father’s interminable lessons on magical foundations have at last proved themselves useful.

We started at his hands. I’ve never seen anything like it. I had my eyes closed to begin with, since I didn’t know quite what I was looking for, but once I found the lyrium’s...heart? is that the right word? I could feel the crusty--scales, almost, layered over it. Any healer can do it, I think, if you’ve got enough sense to know what’s healthy and what’s sick. It’s a similar principle to mending bruises. Just go in from the healthy side, the deep place beneath where it’s hurt, and slide a little knife’s edge of magic between that and the scale over it, and just--just peel it off. Like a scab, but made of light.

I could see the glowing through my closed eyes. I opened them in time to see a faint...oh, I can’t find the words tonight. Almost like a skeleton of blue-edged white light hovering an inch or two above his actual lyrium tattoos, in the same shape as his fingers and the backs of his hands. And then I let it all go because I was startled, and the skeleton--shattered, like two fistfuls of silver glitter.

I will say Fenris looked ready to jump right out the window (you’d think he’d know by now everything I touch becomes unnecessarily dramatic), until he clenched his hands reflexively and noticed they didn’t hurt. Well. “Hardly at all,” is what he said, but knowing him that could mean anything from a splinter to being run through with a tree trunk.

So we kept going. We did both his hands and then went all the way up his right arm to his shoulder and halfway up his left before he had to take a break. He said it didn’t hurt, the process, but it was uncomfortable and made his skin buzz.

We broke for dinner, then, and I noticed he kept looking at his hands as we ate. (He said later it was because it didn’t hurt to hold the fork. He said he couldn’t remember the last time he ate without even a twinge, and I had to blink very hard at my potatoes to keep from welling over. Thank the Maker’s grace for lumpy tubers.)

It’s not a quick process. It took over an hour all told to cleanse his arms, and another hour for his back and chest each. I will say he handled my pawing at his bare skin extremely well and didn’t even blink when I told him he had to take off his shirt. I will say I did not and my throat is still flushed because at the core of me is a little girl who refuses to grow up, even when I desperately wish she would.

There was something beautiful in it, though, seeing each little curve and dot lifting out of his skin like that into the air, shining there for a moment in the dark, and then...scattering into nothing. Lovely and achingly sad.

He stopped me once we were done with his chest. It looked like he wanted to say something, but he also looked terribly exhausted and he said the buzzing was getting to him (I paraphrase), so when I suggested he stay and sleep here, he only nodded and curled down right into my pillow instead of going downstairs like I’d thought. The only reason I’ve got as much written down as I have is that he’s sleeping like the dead and I have to keep checking that he’s still breathing.

I would very much like to comment on how nice it is to be sleeping next to him tonight, but that seems only to invite heartsickness right in with open arms. I will say, instead, that his hands smell like cheap soap, and when he is very tired he snores.

8th August. Still muggy, though not raining nearly as much as yesterday

He wanted to tell me that Danarius had been thorough when he designed the tattoos, in case I hadn’t remembered. I wasn’t a fool this time.

I wasn’t a child, either. I should so very much like to tear out that beast’s heart, only Fenris has first rights.

We got down to both his knees before lunch. I should like to imagine his pain shattering away along with the scales, but I’m not so naive to think it’s all quite so easy to reach.

How much must it have cost Fenris to let me this far behind his guard?

Late evening. I've cracked a window; breeze is moist but cool

Oddly enough, his feet have been the most intimate part of this whole affair. There was a moment this afternoon... he was sitting on the side of the bed, and I was cross-legged on the ground with his foot in my lap, and I happened to glance up, and there was a single moment...

I can’t describe his face properly. Gentle in a way I’ve never seen from him. A good sort of tired longing. And bitter, and so angry, but an old anger that’s burned away all the heat and just sits iron-cold in the pit of your stomach. All of that in one fleeting instant, and then he folded it away layer by layer like someone putting bedlinens back on a shelf. He smiled at me after as if to chase away the image, but it wasn’t a fraction as real.

Anyway, his feet have calluses a quarter-inch thick on the heel, and he made the most peculiar sounds when I was working on the markings alongside them. He said the buzzing--well, he didn’t say tickled, but he surely flinched like it. Should I ever find myself in a position to mercilessly abuse this information, I plan to do so to the fullest extent. Isabela would be proud.

He stood up when I was finished with his feet and nearly knocked me over. He didn’t mean to, he just--walked around my room, slow and then fast and then slow again, and picked things up and put them down, and rolled his shoulders back and forth and bent down and touched his toes. It was all easy, effortless, not a hitch in a single motion.

He said nothing hurt. He said it was one of the best night’s sleeps he’d had in years, and that was even before I’d done the rest of the tattoos. He couldn’t remember the last time he could sit down or cross his arms without needing to brace himself first.

He was so eager to simply move. He didn’t notice, thank goodness, but I had to wipe my eye a bit from all the inconvenient emotions.

I made him sit again for the last part, which was his throat and the lines up over his chin. I’m much better at this now--next time it’ll take half as long--and in the afternoon sun we could hardly see the little ghost-lights until they disappeared in their starbursts at the end.

He

this is so

He kissed me when we were through. I was bent very close and my hands were on his face, and then the last of the light vanished and he reached up and held my chin with his thumb, right where his own markings would be, and then he leaned forward and kissed me.

It wasn’t an accident, and I didn’t pull back until he did. He apologized for his impulsiveness and I waved it off, but I know... I’m certain he meant it, even after.

He looked me right in my eyes when he thanked me. There was no bitterness in his face then, only gladness and a frank relief, and when he left his steps were lighter than I’ve seen them in ages. He carried the sword like it weighed nothing at all. I hadn’t realized how stiffly he’s been moving these last few months.

I told him to let me know the instant the lyrium started hurting again and he said he would. Shit. Was I worried about inviting in heartsickness earlier? At this point it’s a better bedfellow than Toby. I ought to have recognized it sooner.

And yet...he left happy. Not hurting, for the first time in a very long time.

I’d give a year of my life if it meant he could feel this way for the rest of his.

16th August. Fair, sunny

He left me a gift. It was by my plate when I came down for breakfast: a neat little penknife in black oak and brass, and he’d tied a pair of feathers to the ring. Hawk feathers, both of them a deep red.

He left a note as well. “In gratitude, Fenris.” He wrote it himself.

For someone who repeatedly professes no knowledge of the softer things in life, this man is extraordinarily proficient at stamping my heart into little pieces. I draw comfort only from the blatantly unfair judgement of his terrible penmanship.

Damn him! Next time I’m telling him if he puts more than an ounce of thought into a thank-you gift I’m chucking him headfirst into the Waking Sea.

[lushscreamqueen]

TEENAGERS FROM SPACE on The Schlocky Horror Picture Show

Sunday, July 27, 2008

Hello, good evening, and welcome to the Schlocky Horror Picture Show. I'm your host, Nigel Honeybone. Possibly the most terrible and mystifying place anything could come from is Outer Space. The second most terrible and mystifying place is, of course...Puberty. So tonight we add terror to terror in the utterly mystifying Teenagers From Outer Space. No, not one of those lame 1980s college sex romps as you might have guessed from the title, but a rather entertaining black and white effort from 1959 starring, well, ME! I was only paid once, but as you're about to see, I play just about every disintegrated character in the film! I swear, I've never had so much screen-time in a single feature! Look out for my tattoo. The film is actually about aliens who land on Earth to use it as a farm for its food supply, and the crew of the ship includes several teenagers who look much older than the title suggests...sort of like 90210 in jumpsuits. So without further ado, please allow me to semi-ambiguously present the 1959 semi-classic...Teenagers From Outer Space! BREAK: Next we invade your personal space with clawing, slimy crustaceans, and then after the ads we'll get back to Teenagers From Outer Space on the Schlocky Horror Picture Show! MIDDLE: ...and welcome back to the Schlocky Horror Picture Show. I think there are far too many nice people in Teenagers From Outer Space! Well, at first, anyway. The town is filled with nothing but nice people who want to help out, just begging for disintegration. You see, we've been invaded by Bryl-creemed aliens in jump suits who want to use Earth as a breeding ground for Gargons, which are like yabbies that grow to ginogorous proportions! Teenagers From Outer Space was filmed on location in and around Hollywood with a number of tell-tale landmarks like Bronson Canyon and Hollywood High School giving away the film's hazy locale. One notable aspect of the film is that it was largely the work of a single person, Tom Graeff, who plays Joe the reporter. He also wrote, directed, edited, and produced the film, as well as providing cinematography, so-called special effects, and music coordination. Production associates Bryan and Ursula Pearson and Gene Sterling provided the film's $14,000 budget, which was less than half a shoe-string by the standards of the time. All three played major roles as a result...not because they put money in, but because it wasn't enough money to hire more real actors. They employed a lot of guerrilla tactics in order to cut costs. Director Tom Graeff secured the location for Betty Morgan's house for free by posing as a UCLA student, which would have been true five years earlier. The old lady who owned the house even supplied the electricity for free, so she deserves disintegration. Other cost-cutting ideas didn't pay off so well. The space costumes are simple flight suits clearly decorated with masking tape, dress shoes covered in socks, and surplus Air Force helmets. The disintegrator ray was a five-cent "Hubley's Atomic Disintegrator" cap-gun, for those who can't make out what's written on the side, with a small light bulb and a mirror glued to the end reflecting an offstage light providing the awesome special effects that make this weapon look almost laughable. And apart from a shadowy giant lobster that would have needed an expensive over-sized claw prop if it ever got close enough to actually attack someone, all the other events are either stock footage or take place off screen under the horrified gaze of our actors. The best effect is those ray guns leaving mere skeletons behind. It's something Tim Burton would use later on in Mars Attacks, but he chose not to ask me to reprise my role. Disintegrate him too, bastard! Strangely enough, Graeff also pre-recorded some of the film's dialogue for several scenes, and had the actors learn to synchronise their actions with the sound. The musical score of the film came from stock, the same stock score has been recycled in countless B-movies such as The Killer Shrews and the original Night Of The Living Dead, so don't

be surprised if you find yourself humming along. As you know, I don't usually harp on too much about bad acting, but I must admit that the acting in Teenagers from Outer Space is particularly bad, and the source of most of the movie's unintended hilarity. This shouldn't be too surprising, as Derek, the alien who wants out of the seafood business and runs away, is played by one David Love, one being the number of films he acted in. Production associate Bryan G. Pearson, whose real name was Bryan Grant but used a pseudonym to avoid union troubles, is Thor. I'm not doing that joke. He had one off roles in TV shows Border Patrol, Perry Mason and Daniel Boone, but in this he's the alien sent to track down renegade nephropidaphobe Derek, along the way asking a lot of questions, being rudely insistent and rather inconsiderately disintegrating people. And the occasional dog. We meet Betty Morgan, played by Dawn Bender (which I'm sure we've all had), as the owner of the dog vaporized by Thor. Vaporized, by Thor! And swept up, by Loki's beard! Bender had acted sporadically since the age of two, and bizarrely chose as her swan song a story about aliens on a sightseeing tour of middle America. Admittedly Thor is a little more murderous in his sightseeing, but not much worse than drunken backpackers. Now they need a good, firm disintegrating. Ursula Pearson, here playing Hilda was Bryan G. Pearson's wife. Of course, Bryan Pearson's real name was Bryan Grant, which means Ursula Pearson's real name was Ursula Hansen. However they were married, which I think they did just to confuse me. I could go on talking about the intersection of Inane and Insipid, but perhaps I should mention the best known actor, if not the best actor, or indeed the known actor...anyway, the one face you probably will recognize if you don't blink is the Spacecraft Captain, who is none other than Starker from Get Smart himself, King Moody. Yes, that's as grand as it gets. Much to the astonishment of nobody sane the film failed to perform at the box office, placing further stress on an already-burdened Graeff. He suffered a breakdown and proclaimed himself the second coming of Christ, which was quite deluded as Roger Corman was clearly the second coming of Christ. After a number of public appearances followed by a subsequent arrest for disrupting a church service, Graeff disappeared from Hollywood for many years. Perhaps that tinge of insanity adds to the low budget charm of Teenagers From Outer Space. One irresistible scene occurs when the love interest is in her room and she manages to change into the very same dress! It's something that couldn't be duplicated with all the money in the world, and probably shouldn't be. And won't be, if I have anything to do with it. Now lets get back to to the disintegrating conclusion of Teenagers From Outer Space! CLOSING: How do we know they're a superior alien race? Because they keep saying it all the time, that's why! It must be true, they have spaceships, big foreheads and those nifty ray guns that instantly turn their targets into skeletons. I sometimes wish I had something like that when dealing with my producers, but it's probably better that I don't. How many aliens did they manage to squeeze into that flying saucer, anyway? It turns out their flying saucer is bigger on the inside than the outside, a bit like the TARDIS. That's pretty advanced, but it still looked like a tight fit in there. They may be a superior race that's invented space travel, but they haven't invented soft furnishings yet. And how were they going to cart back a fully grown Gargon back to their home planet in such a tiny ship? Oh, and did you spot my tattoo? I was really, really drunk... Anyway, please join me next week to have your innocence violated beyond description while I force you to submit to the Horrors of the Public Domain, on The Schlocky Horror Picture Show. Toodles!

[violetsystems]

#personal

According to my watch, I walked about seven miles yesterday. Nineteen minute miles at one point. Every time I check my watch and see my heart rate I do actually think about Sator from Tenet. I haven't run outside since maybe last summer. I haven't felt safe. But I lowered my pace to about eight minutes and thirty seconds back then. Yesterday I walked the length of the river to the lake all the way down to the south to the auto show. I don't own a car. I don't even possess a valid license at the moment. Considering the ACLU is suing the Chicago police department for monitoring social media, this should be all old news at this point. I do like design. One of the first booths I gravitated too was Kia's new logo. Maybe it was the summer sale's event that drew me. But either way, I got a pretty sick backpack from the presenters at the booth just by walking up. Shared my thoughts on the limited edition Sorrento Zion edition. Couldn't help being caught by the Matrix references. I continue to do things alone in this city for my own reasons. These reasons get a little more concrete as the days out here wear on. I realized that after a year of being ghosted maybe it was better off. And yet I'm still aware of the sticky social glue that seeps from the cracks of this city like grease. Grease is everywhere. I have my own routine to deal with it. Retinol works wonders. But the grease of pushing things through while covering up huge plot holes is ever present in this city. There's so much of it that you could be minding your own business and completely sucked in. I took the bus back. I've always been a fan of the transit. You can't really live in Chicago without it. I've owned a car here and do not miss the constant street cleaning tickets. One morning I woke up to my Volkswagen totaled outside my apartment. The insurance covered the repairs but I no longer own that car. There's a lot of things I no longer own and never really look back on seriously. But when it comes to being me, I've become fairly comfortable owning that situation. Part of going to the auto show was more perception based. Everybody watches what I do and yet there isn't much going on in my life that you can really see. I am getting extremely restless about life simultaneously winking at me from the void. Nothing really changes even when it does. And isolation can do this to you. Lack of validation can do that too. Lack of any sort of love. Piece meal validation is often worse. It triggers desperate, attention seeking behavior. Slimy, greasy tricks I've become bored with are easy enough to avoid. Except when you go out in public. And seven miles is more than most people spend walking prone in public. Long enough to organize an entire parade around somebody. All the while making it about them at my expense.

What I've realized over time is that people have their ideas about you and they are haphazard and fleeting. People say they know me. People think they know me. I haven't spoken to anyone in any depth in years. Year after year, I get that little nod in the street that somebody knows what I'm feeling. Not an admission. Nothing you can rely on. It's just the culture you think to yourself. And you keep feeding into this culture of "we're all in this together." You realize a year later that you are in this for the most part alone. The people you involve into something far too complex to explain to people want to use it as a springboard to talk about themselves. This can be the same for a journal you maintain weekly on the internet. What have we really learned about Tim at this point that doesn't set me apart from mediocrity? Apparently nothing. I've been beaten up, broken and bruised by an incredibly vague and almost scary con game. The con game is the same we're all dealing with. A society that speaks one thing but does another. A constant silencing of your personal voice in favor of group think and peer bullying. Is it any real wonder why after all this I've given up trying to figure out what mainstream society in America wants from me? I don't really understand anything anymore in my personal situation except for a few core things. And most of those things are too intimate to write about let alone talk about with anyone who'd listen. I live a life completely in the dark about everything. No glorious purpose. No acknowledgement of progress other than shadowy ghosts of shell accounts with funny names. People who hunt me in the street with messages shirts offering me psychological discomfort instead of job networking opportunities. Judgement of my situation from a mob of the general public without much looking in the mirror. An incredibly strange and destabilizing situation where nobody talks to each other and people instantly fear facing the problem head on. That's a shit situation to build your life upon at this point of my life. And yet it's the situation I'm in. No life. No liberty. No pursuit of happiness. And the police monitoring every word of it apparently. Everybody knows who I am but doesn't want to address me by name. They want to be seen keeping tabs on me without any real care for how I feel about it. I figure this is the very essence of fame that people don't talk about. I often thought becoming famous would yield something for all the trouble it's worth. To me I'm simple pattern recognition to this town. A glyph or an icon that people spy throughout their boring lives. Something they can pick on. A target to deflect the blame. And this is not something that will ever stop. It's something you just grow to get used to. Just like I've grown to understand that I'm practically invisible in a job market that is desperate for workers. It's fucked up. It's all really fucked up. And yet I tolerate out of some last drop of love for something I know nobody understands or respects in my general vicinity. Just secretly roasts me for behind my back. Someone to make fun of to take the focus off themselves. He can take it. He's privilege. It is not a privilege to not be able to unsee what's been done to me. The glimmers of hope that are out there get more genuine throughout the grease. But the road is long, twisted and the trust for me has dwindled out of necessity. I'm breathing on fumes emotionally. Financially I'm ok.

I really don't know what the answer is. I know the past thinks it knows me by now. I haven't spoken much to the past in the last year. I still see people haunting my media. I still interact knowing full well that there's some secret agenda. I still hope people who think they're helping my life actually read these carefully. I don't trust anything in my past anymore. Not even the bare skeletons of friendships with people I maintain to pretend I'm still alive. Nobody texts. Nobody calls. Everybody stares expectantly hoping I'll give in and open up to them. Nobody asks. It's been dead fucking silent. I talk to people all the time. On the way back from the bus an elderly woman came up to me and started asking me about my tattoos. I don't have a problem talking to people. People aren't open to valuing the time it takes to open up after what I've been through. And I start to realize people need me out here more than I actually need them. My life is a clusterfuck. People out of nowhere email me to ask how I'm doing from years ago. I wonder if it was all instigated by me renewing my passport. Some sort of federal background check. I live in a constant state of dystopia. And I've quarantined myself from all of it. I'm mothballed. Completely. A fucking cosmic joke to most people out here. The midwest can't stand you shining without someone getting a piece of the credit. The only reason I shine is because I've been through hell. I'm probably still smoldering from being roasted every single minute of my life here in public. There are too many stories of other people interacting with me. Not enough of me feeling worth enough to be treated more than a prank, joke or toy. And that's just the watermark of this city. It's a swamp. A great place to get lost in. But also a great place to be misunderstood. Not a very safe one. The rent is still cheap if you've been here forever. And yet all I ever feel like doing is being away from all of this. These people. These demanding stares that don't offer shit in return. I know this. I've watched the same old dirty tricks on loop. I've stayed out of it because I'm inspired to be better. I thought there was an escape. For myself. Maybe for another person. I would never openly admit that because it is now too dangerous to write anything. This used to be a way I could seize my own narrative. Maybe it still is. And yet nobody fights back against the noise other than me. That's not something I will stop. There's nothing out hear to change my views that much of what thought knew me is behind me. There's still a pretty bright future. Whatever color it glows is something that needs to understand I can burn out just the same. I know I'm expected not to. But this city is not helping. So maybe let's start there. Treat me right. I can't let go of my dreams. I won't. If you try you are in for a fight. And this city has already lost the war with me. I'm sorry but it's not that hard to see. <3 Tim

[araby-bizarre]

keep your name

In reaction to the secret revealed in 2x10. Nicole may not be hiding any revenants in her closet, but she does have skeletons of her own.

Unpacking Nicole's marriage, and why she chose to keep things hid.

“What’s the most spontaneous thing you’ve ever done?”

The question is barely out of Waverly’s mouth before Nicole realizes that she should tell her. She thinks about the adrenaline of scaling a rock face, of falling from the same height. She thinks about prairie fire shots and Britney Live and unashamed declarations of love in a hotel stairwell. Being honest for the first time in lying to herself. Kitschy Vegas chapels--

She wonders if she’ll ever get the timing right, because now isn’t it. Not with Waverly smiling up at her for the first time since Willa and that night at the Wainwright. Let’s play twenty questions, she’d suggested, desperate for a distraction.

Every time Nicole tries to give her one, really, something else seems to come up. Kidnappings, long-lost sisters, revenants. Her own skeletons feel so pedestrian in comparison that she’s not sure they’ll ever fully have a place here. That she’ll ever have a place here. But she’ll be damned if she doesn’t at least try.

(Unlike the last time. A morning after in Nevada with the imitation of affection already paling in the light of the dawn.)

So, instead, she rolls up her sleeve and shows Waverly the poppies tattooed on the inside of her right bicep. She tells her about her grandmother, and the one time in her life that her grief felt so massive that she needed a forever reminder inked into her skin.

The truth will come eventually, she tells herself, though her heart doesn’t walk back from its nauseatingly erratic beat.

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Her sister has a proper wedding. She’s married by a priest in one of the small, ornately decorated chapels of their youth. The pews creak and the windows are stained with the images of saints. Hayley wears white like the good Christian virgin her parents believe her to be. Nicole, on the other hand, is forced to wear a monstrosity of a peach-colored dress that she’s honestly considering burning by the night’s end, as well as a pair of cowboy boots that her sister had absolutely insisted on (for the pictures).

She wanted to protest, but she knows how much this all means to Hayley. And she is maid of honor. Nicole couldn’t deny her even if she wanted to.

It’s selfish, but the whole time, she can’t help but notice the way her parents refuse to look at her. No doubt, they’d argued with Hayley over Nicole’s place in the wedding in the first place. But at the end of the day, they couldn’t deny their firstborn anything either. She was the favorite, after all.

She drinks a little too much at the reception. One of the other bridesmaids had promised to drive her home afterwards, so it’s no worry. It’s just not really her style--getting blind drunk at family functions, tripping over herself on the way to the bathroom. She’s always maintained more of a sense of decorum than that. But when she stumbles through the door and her mother is there washing her hands, unable to even pass her a glance--she just can’t help herself.

They’re throwing rice at the beaming newlyweds when it dawns on her, drunk or not: she really did make a mistake.

Nicole doesn’t need the church. She doesn’t need a white gown or a big party. But she does need someone who can love her the way she’s always dreamt of being loved: nice and gentle, without any of the perfunctory bits. Nice and earnest.

She sends a text to Shae later that night.

           This isn’t going to work, is it?

The text is read. Three dots bubble up at the bottom of the screen, then stop. After a long moment, she responds.

           Probably not.

Then, just as quickly.

           Do you regret it?

Nicole hesitates. She knows it was a mistake. She used to think two years was too soon to get married to somebody. But she and Shae had barely known each for two months when they ran off to Nevada together.

Nevertheless, she’s surprised by the clarity of her answer.

           No, I don’t.

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Nicole tells herself she is very drunk that night after the show, but the truth is, she isn’t. She’s had a few shots of tequila but not nearly as many as Shae. She abstains on purpose, because she wants to remember what it’s like to be touched by a beautiful woman in public with a clear head.

Every time Shae places a hand on the small of her back or her thigh, or weaves her fingers through her hair during a dizzying kiss, she can’t help but think of everything she’s left behind to have this.

It’s confusing. Equal parts anger and resentment at her parents for casting her aside the moment she came out, for telling her that she was wrong and that she’d failed them and tarnished the Haught name. But there is also the thrill of doing something she’s always been told was wrong. The sadness of realizing the fault in that logic to begin with. And the residual fear of being seen.

All these things at once. Feelings she’s tried so desperately in the past year to escape. Moving in with Hayley had provided temporary shelter. Acceptance into the academy had helped more, given her an out and something to be proud of at the same time. But nothing has been more of a salve than Shae.

Being admired by Shae. Appreciated by Shae. Touched by Shae.

Her head is swimming. They’re pawing at each other in the hotel stairwell, bathed in an unflattering and painful fluorescent light. She reaches for the hem of Shae’s skirt and the other woman stills her wrist, smiling gently.

“I have an idea.”

She knows Nicole has something to prove. She’s a bit lonely herself, a bit out of place. But she can count on the fact that Nicole Haught isn’t a quitter. That she isn’t a coward and she doesn’t like to be told how to live her life.

“We can prove everybody wrong,” she’s whispering to her in the taxicab. “Nobody gets to decide how we feel.”

It’s a silly thing. A simple thing. But nobody had ever really told Nicole she was allowed to think for herself before, let alone feel.

That notion alone is enough to spark a flame.

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

Hadn’t she told Wynonna she couldn’t lie to Waverly? She has to wonder how things can fall apart so quickly.

It happens like this:

There’s panic first. Waverly tries hard to hide it, but she lets her guard down late at night. In the dark, in Nicole’s bed.

“Ward never loved me,” she says with absolute certainty. “I don’t know that he hated me, but he definitely didn’t love me.” Nicole holds her tighter. There’s so much she wants to say. Sometimes, she waits and waits for her turn, but she feels like it doesn’t arrive. Waverly’s confessions often come with a heaviness that leaves little room for her own secrets. She holds them inside, instead. Allows them to smother her.

“What Willa felt--that was hatred.” Her voice is so small and shattered, Nicole feels herself splintering beneath the implication. I won’t add to this, she tells herself. Not now. How could I?

After the panic, there is false bravado. There is the best of intentions.

The DNA results arrive at the police station and the envelope is an oppressive weight in her hand. She thinks of the way Waverly’s heart is already so broken, before she’s even gotten her answer. She thinks of how Wynonna might react. How there’s already so much wrong happening.

I need to know how to make this better, she thinks. Because Nicole has let a lot of people down in her life. She’s still letting them down, whether they know it or not. And she wants to do just one thing right. But the only way it seems she can do that is by opening that envelope.

It feels immediately wrong. Like that morning after, with a ring on her finger. Except the enormity of this particular mistake makes her feel like that same finger might remain bare for a long time to come.

She debates resealing the envelope, but remembers that Waverly is entirely too smart for that. Instead, she tucks it into her purse, puts on a brave face, and resolves to deliver the news when the moment is right.

Of course, something comes up. (Something always comes up.)

Nicole is suddenly helping to plan a baby shower, hanging the piñata and sampling cocktails, and it’s just too normal. Too normal for the envelope that’s hidden in her purse. Too normal for the way her heart clenches and sings liar liar liar.

She hates herself when Waverly walks out on her. Hates the way she seems so made for mistakes.

Later on, alone in her bed, she thinks her parents were wrong about many, many things. Their ideology and their prejudice, undoubtedly. The way they clung to their own marriage, duty-bound, though the love had left them so long ago. They were wrong about all of it.

But maybe, she worries, they weren’t entirely wrong about her.

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“I have to ask you something.”

“Well, that sounds important.”

Nicole sits in her cruiser, picking nervously at a loose thread sticking out of the seam of her pants. The heater blasts, reddening her cheeks and nose.

“It is.”

“Then, of course. What’s up?” Shae has that tone--friendly and warm, yet still mildly professional. Clinical. She always sounds that way on the phone, as if every call were something of a business call.

“Is it wrong of me, to start seeing someone else?”

“What?” Nicole can picture the look on her face perfectly, brow all pinched in confusion. “Why would it be wrong?”

“Because we’re still married.”

“Separated, Nicole,” Shae sighs.

“Yes, well. You know what I mean.”

“I don’t actually. It’s all on paper now. We agreed to that. It’s normal to see other people.”

“Right.”

There’s more that she wants to say. Shae, distant as she may be from her now, can still sense it. She never did have trouble reading her, even in the very beginning. (Or the very end--they were one in the same.)

“Why are you really asking?” Her voice is softer this time, less the doctor, and more the ex. More the friend.

“I don’t know,” Nicole huffs, frustrated with herself as always. “I guess I just felt like I needed your permission.”

There’s a long pause. Nicole worries that she’s said the wrong thing--not for the first time. She’s been saying a lot of the wrong things lately. Between her family and her soon-to-be-ex-wife and the girl she’s patently not-dating (her reason for calling today).

Shae is a little bit quieter then. There’s a bite to her words, but it isn’t aimed at Nicole. “You don’t need my permission, Nicole. You don’t need anyone’s permission. I wish you would understand that.”

The embarrassment hits her first. Shae isn’t wrong, she knows. But old habits die hard.

There’s a long moment of silence before the other woman asks, more curiosity than anything else, “So, who is she?”

There are so many heady adjectives that cross her mind, though none of them seem to fit. She catches herself smiling softly in the rearview as she simply answers, “She’s something else.”

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The haze of the venom coursing through her veins is unrelenting. It makes her feel like her entire body is being turned inside out, all at once. There’s so much pressure in her head, behind her eyes. Nicole didn’t even realize pain like this could exist.

Yet in spite of the heaviness of it all, some things appear so clearly now.

“I’ve never loved anyone the way I love you.”

Thoughts like too much and too soon no longer seem to matter. Because this is the end, isn’t it? And if it is, she needs Waverly to know--there would never be anybody else for her.

Waverly caresses her cheek, fingertips cold and eyes fraught with fear. Her touch is sheer ruination. Nicole has never felt anything so liberating in her entire life.

There are worse ways to go, she’s sure. It’s what she tells herself as she slips under, Waverly’s promises resting squarely in the cradle of her chest.

She’s there waiting for her, when Nicole comes to later. Disoriented, at first, and with a confusing lack of pain. That must be what comes after, Nicole realizes: relief. Except that that seems far too nice compared to what her parents had told her she should expect.

“Waverly?” Her voice is groggy, throat a little achy still from the Widow’s iron grip, but she feels blessedly okay otherwise.

Waverly cries happy tears, and despite what she keeps referring to as a miracle, Nicole still feels too fragile not to cry herself. Death wasn’t as scary as she’d thought it would be (a realization that’s a bit alarming in and of itself), but it had been lonely in its own way. She’s not sure she’s ever been so grateful to have Waverly holding her hand.

With all the shock and happiness and relief, she’s not sure what to make of it when Wynonna bursts into the room brandishing her cure, somehow an hour too late, and the mood in the room grows so immediately cold that Waverly runs from it, from them both.

The older Earp stands there for a few moments, jaw clenched tightly, before tossing the vial at Nicole. Caught off guard, she just barely manages to catch it, bandages all on display.

“You know I wouldn’t have let you die, right?” Wynonna’s voice is gruff. But there’s a despairing sense of insecurity hidden beneath the edge of it that leaves Nicole at something of a loss.

“You did save me, Wynonna.” It’s a dumb thing to say, she supposes. But Wynonna came through for her. She would’ve come through for her, had the venom finished the job.

“I tried,” Wynonna replies, voice tight. “But I guess I was a little too late. Again.”

She’s out of the room so quickly then that Nicole couldn’t stop her even if she tried. Instead, she settles back into the bed, confused and a little anxious over this unexpected change in mood.

There’s really no such thing as miracles, Nicole knows. Especially not in Purgatory, where even the plainly unexplainable seems to come with thorough cause and effect.

She’s struggling to come up with an appropriate text to Waverly--What happened? seems far too vague and Are you okay? far too obvious--when there comes a knock on the doorframe.

Shae was never one to look sheepish or uncertain, but she does appear somewhat awkward standing there now.

“Are you waiting for an invitation?” Nicole teases, though her heart isn’t in it.

Shae takes a few long strides into the room, keeping a respectable distance between herself and the bed. “I heard you were awake. And cured.”

Nicole meets her quizzical gaze. “Miraculously.”

Shae frowns. “As a doctor, I find that a little hard to believe.”

The anti-venom is still clutched in Nicole’s fist. She holds on a little tighter and lies. “I’m kidding. There was an anti-venom.”

She doesn’t look any further convinced, but wisely chooses not to comment. Shae has always been good at that--better than Nicole. Stepping forward, she asks, “What kind of trouble are you getting yourself into up here?”

“Nothing out of the ordinary.”

“Nicole.” Shae is too smart for her own good. Like someone else she knows. She does have a type, after all. “I know you’re something of a magnet for this kind of thing, but couldn’t you at least try to keep yourself safe? We may not be together anymore, but I don’t relish these calls from the hospital.”

“You really didn’t need to come,” Nicole tells her, voice quieter. She’s having troubling meeting Shae’s eyes, all of a sudden.

Shae chuckles in disbelief. “I did.” She takes one step closer, placing her hand on Nicole’s shoulder. “But you’re okay now?”

Nicole swallows. “I think I am.”

Shae’s stubborn, in her own way. She hates not knowing. And it’s hard for her now, Nicole is sure, sensing that there’s more to the story but instead ceding to her own ignorance. “I should get going then. I can’t be away from work any longer than necessary.”

“I understand,” Nicole nods.

“Just… text me when you’re home, so I know there were no complications.”

“I will, don’t worry.”

Shae squeezes her shoulder one last time and heads for the door. She stops before leaving, and turns. “You were right, by the way.”

“Hmm?” Nicole asks, her mind already elsewhere.

“Waverly,” she smiles approvingly. “She is something else.”

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Nicole bites back a curse as she rifles through her top dresser drawer, searching for a matching pair of socks. As of late, Calamity has taken to stealing them out of her laundry basket and hiding them around the house, leaving her drawer a mismatched hodgepodge of orphaned socks.

It’s too early in the morning for this kind of hassle. She was feeling particularly bitter about leaving her bed to begin with, given who had been sleeping beside her. But she’d known it would be like this last night when they weren’t sleeping. She only has herself to blame.

Finally, Nicole spies what she hopes to be a matching pair. They are, to her relief, but as her hand closes around them, she feels a small bulge in the toe that gives her pause. Confused, she shakes it out into the palm of her hand, the memory coming back to her.

She stopped wearing her wedding band the day she accepted the job in Purgatory. Yet there it had sat, on the bedside table of the old apartment for weeks. Nicole hadn’t a clue what she should do with it.

She considered pawning it but eventually settled against it. It was a bittersweet token and a reminder of her own foolishness, but not necessarily something she wanted to forget. During the move, she’d hidden it in a sandwich baggie and stuffed it deep into one of the boxes marked bedroom.

The day she arrived at the new house, she was fairly overwhelmed. Not just by the newness of this small town or the anxiety of starting in a new position fresh out of the academy, but by the scope of making this place a home, all by herself.

Nicole drank too much wine, as she was sometimes wont to do. By the time she got to the bedroom, she could only partially remember how things had been organized. And the ring? She couldn’t remember finding that (or losing it) at all.

She’s a little shocked to see it now--an intruder in this comfortable bubble that she and Waverly have come to inhabit. For several moments, she can only stare at it, then back over her shoulder at the girl sleeping soundly in her bed. Nicole hadn’t necessarily been trying to keep these two worlds, these two parts of herself separate. But she’s surprised to find now that this overlap, minor as it may be, is somewhat comforting.

Calamity Jane meows just outside the doorway, impatiently waiting to be fed.

“Calm down,” Nicole mutters. “I’ll just be a minute.”

Satisfied, Calamity pads away as Nicole places the ring back into one of her misfit socks. She finishes dressing with an odd sense of calm before sitting at the edge of the bed. Very gently, she leans down to press a kiss to the crown of Waverly’s head.

Immediately, the other woman stirs, as if from some sort of sixth sense. She glances up at Nicole, all sleep mussed and red in the cheeks, eyes barely open.

“Work?”

“Mhm. You should go back to sleep though. I just wanted to say bye.”

“Okay.” Waverly already seems to be drifting off again as she pulls Nicole down for a short kiss. “Bye.”

“Bye, baby.” Nicole hesitates for a moment, hand in Waverly’s hair. She thinks about the ring again, about the mistakes that she’s made. She’ll learn to right them, in time. But for now, this will more than do.

“I hope you make yourself at home,” she says quietly, getting up to leave. She really means it.

[lesbrarians]

Junkrat/Roadhog:: Origins Ch. 16

This is the penultimate chapter! The final chapter should be posted sometime on Monday night. I feel that I should warn you guys about this chapter, tho -- there is a scene that, while it is consensual, cannnn be read as dubcon so proceed with caution if that's something that disturbs you (I promise it turns out fine, if that helps)!

Title: Origins

Characters: Junkrat, Roadhog

Rating: R

Summary: The origins of Junkrat and Roadhog. Junkrat finds a mysterious treasure in the nuclear wasteland of the Australian Outback and quickly finds himself a target. When a hitman is sent to kill him, he convinces the man to become his personal bodyguard in exchange for half the spoils. Their ensuing crime spree could be legendary – if they can get over the initial bad blood between them. Can also be found on AO3 if you prefer reading it there!

Chapter One Chapter Two Chapter Three Chapter Four Chapter Five Chapter Six Chapter Seven Chapter Eight Chapter Nine Chapter Ten Chapter Eleven Chapter Twelve Chapter Thirteen Chapter Fourteen Chapter Fifteen Chapter Sixteen

---

For the first time since arriving at prison, Junkrat felt at ease. Beginning work on his new bombs relaxed him. Home was where he could build explosives, after all.

He twisted off one of the metal fingers on his mechanical arm to expose the screwdriver beneath it. He’d added screwdriver heads to the last joints of his internal skeleton for added functionality, and it was proving incredibly useful when he was without his usual tools. He unscrewed the back of the radio and selected the wires that he would attach to one of his D batteries before screwing it back together. He went back to grinding the flammable powder off of the match heads. He’d converted the pipe into a container by fixing a scrap of blanket around one end with a piece of elastic from the wristband of his jumpsuit.

“Po-lice!” the block’s sentry shouted from his cell, and he hissed, stuffing his supplies in an empty cereal box. He really needed a better hiding spot, but hopefully he would be out of the joint before it became a necessity.

The footsteps of the correctional officer stopped outside his cell. “Fawkes! You’ve got a visitor.”

Confused, Junkrat turned to Thatcher, then pointed at his own chest. “What, me?”

“Who the fuck else? Is there anyone else by that name in this cell that I should know about? Hands out.”

The door to his cell slid open, and Junkrat dutifully let himself be shackled and led to the visiting room. It resembled a metal box, with a sheet of glass separating inmates from the visiting party. Ava was sitting at the desk that straddled both sides of the room. Junkrat sat down on his side and picked up the phone to speak with her through the glass.

“Doc? Why ya visitin’ me -- not that I’m complainin’, but I woulda thought you’d visit Roadhog first.”

“Yeah, I asked for him, but get this, they said I’m not on his list of approved visitors! I told them they could go stuff it, but they wouldn’t budge, so here I am.”

Junkrat blinked at her. “What, do they know the both of ya were in the Australian Liberation Front?”

Ava gave a delicate shrug. “Beats me. Either they have a bone to pick with him, or they know we have a shady history together and don’t want me seeing him. So I’m here to visit my good friend Junkrat instead! Thought you might want to talk to someone on the outside after, you know, losing everything you worked for.”

“Yeah, about that--” Junkrat started, then paused as Ava’s eyes darted upward. He followed her gaze to the security camera fixated on them. Ava tapped the side of her nose with her finger. Junkrat had no idea what the gesture signified. He carried on, being mindful of his words now that he realized that they were being recorded. “What they do with all my shit anyway?”

“Evidence, probably,” Ava said. “Last I heard, there was a big storage unit in their impound lot where they keep the big guns.”

“Impound lot?” Junkrat repeated. He’d never heard the term before in the Outback, but it sounded significant.

“Yeah, where they keep all the vehicles they confiscate from people like you.”

This got Junkrat’s attention. “So what, would Roadhog’s bike be there?”

“Probably.”

“So ya can’t take it then? Even though yer practically his next of kin and all.”

Ava’s eyes twinkled. “I would if I legally could, but the police wouldn’t like that. It doesn’t work that way and is, in fact, frowned upon in this establishment.”

Junkrat grinned at her through the glass barrier. “I see,” he said knowingly. If he was reading the room right, he had the impression that she would get it back for the two of them. “So if we were to ever get outta this shithole someday, we wouldn’t be able to get it back?”

“Probably not. But you’re in here for life, remember? I don’t think Judge Knowles would have mercy on you. So you’re just gonna have to get used to life on the inside without your bike. Sorry, pal.”

“Eh, I’ll get used to it. Maybe.”

They chatted idly about their life partners, both romantic and criminal, until the CO banged on the door and announced that their visitation time was almost up.

“So, when am I gonna see you again?” Ava propped her chin on her hand and winked. “Let’s talk plans.”

Junkrat considered the amount of time he needed to finish cobbling together his varied weapons. “Two weeks, maybe? Let’s aim for the thirtieth.”

“I’ll see you then.” Ava placed her hand on the glass, and Junkrat mirrored her. It was like they were shaking hands, sharing a secret plan.

It had been a good talk, but after the stress of trying to carefully communicate plans without being explicit, Junkrat needed a drink. The closest thing he had was coffee, so when he got back to his cell, he heated up some water in the microwave and made himself a mug of instant coffee, immediately followed by another, then one more for good measure. If he could finish the canister soon, he could make good use of it.

He was practically vibrating by the time their recreational hour rolled around. He’d had coffee maybe once or twice in his life, and he hadn’t realized how wonderful it was. Even this instant mess tasted delicious to him. Maybe when he got out, he’d get some real coffee from a real place. He’d heard flat whites were top notch.

He bolted out of the cell when the doors slid open, full of jittery energy. “Roadhog!” he shouted when he caught sight of him. “My tubby friend!” He slung an arm around Roadhog’s waist and poked his tattoo. For the first time, Roadhog actually didn’t hit him as a result, a fact which delighted him. “Mate, I’m fuckin’ wired, didya know coffee was so good? Y’ve been holdin’ out on me, I coulda been havin’ coffee at those fine dining establishments we went to on the outs!”

Roadhog looked down at him. “Who gave you coffee?”

Junkrat laughed and pointed at himself. “Me! I gave me coffee!”

“Can you also take it from you?”

“Now, why would I go and do a daft thing like that? I bought it, fair and square, I should get to drink it! I mean, I had to buy it, it woulda been suss if I just got the creamer by itself. Didya know you can set coffee creamer on fire? All that powdered fat? Massively flammable!”

“Lower your voice.” Roadhog shook his head. Junkrat continued nattering away about his grandiose plans until Roadhog finally interrupted, “How was Ava?”

Junkrat forced himself to stop grinning maniacally and sober up a little. “Good, best as I could tell. She wanted to see ya but they wouldn’t let her.”

Roadhog sighed. “I figured. They probably suspect she was my partner back in the day.”

Junkrat knew the term didn’t have to be romantic -- he’d quipped that his cellie was supposed to be his life partner -- but after hearing Ava refer to her wife as her partner, the phrasing piqued his curiosity. “What kinda partner?” he asked.

Roadhog tilted his head at him. “In crime,” he clarified, stating it as if it was perfectly obvious. “Neither of us could be interested in anything more.”

“Ah.” Junkrat considered the implications of this statement and found that he liked them. It made it easier for him to reconcile the thoughts he’d been having about his bodyguard. “Anyways, we talked about, ah, ‘plans...’” He crooked his fingers into quotation marks and elbowed Roadhog’s side. “In code!” he hastened to add when Roadhog’s chin jerked up.

“Neither of you are subtle people.” Roadhog groaned. “You are incapable of acting discreetly.”

“It’s fine, really! We were careful, cross me heart.”

“Recreation hour is over,” a tinny voice rang out through the loudspeaker above them. “All inmates return to your cell for count.”

“I’ll fish ya a note about dates,” Junkrat rushed to tell Roadhog before they had to separate. “The thirtieth, I’ll write it all down!”

Junkrat returned to his cell and stood next to Thatcher while the CO made his rounds to ensure everyone was accounted for.

The cell doors closed. The CO who did the count left the block. The moment the thick metal door clicked shut behind the officer, Thatcher jumped on Junkrat.

Warning bells flared in Junkrat’s mind, and he automatically shouted, “Roadho--” before Thatcher clapped a hand over his mouth and wrestled him to the ground.

“Junkrat?” Roadhog sounded concerned, and there was an ominous rattle of a cell door.

“Tell him you’re fine, or I will kill you right here, right now,” Thatcher hissed in Junkrat’s ear. The tip of a sharp piece of metal dug into his side, reinforcing the threat.

Junkrat swallowed. “S’nothin’,” he called out, forcing his voice to sound casual. “False alarm.”

Thatcher derisively patted his cheek, but it was more of a slap. “Good boy. Now… where the fuck is it?” he snarled, grabbing a fistful of Junkrat’s hair and shoving his face into the floor.

“Wh-- where’s what?” Junkrat gasped. For once, he wasn’t being flippant, the fact that he had stolen something valuable from his cellmate had already left his mind.

Thatcher yanked his head up and cracked it against the concrete floor, and he saw stars. “Don’t play dumb with me, you piece of shit -- the cigarettes! You’re the only one who knew where they were!”

“Oh-- oh shit, those things. Listen, listen mate, I got a good explanation for that.” Thatcher pulled his head up off the ground, and Junkrat cowered with a wince and covered his head in anticipation.

“Explain.”

Junkrat’s shoulders relaxed slightly. “Okay, so I really needed some things from the workshop that I can’t get meself, for obvious reasons, so I had to pay for it. And I don’t have nothin’ worth those goods, but you did, and it was just sittin’ there unused, so...” Okay, so maybe it wasn’t a good explanation after all.

Thatcher’s grip on his hair tightened. “That’s it? That’s your good explanation?”

“I, uh, heh… retract that statement.”

Thatcher exhaled, nostrils flaring. “So here’s the way I see it,” he said, his level voice brimming with barely contained rage. “There’s two options. Either I kill you, or you get me my cigarettes back and I don’t pound you into a bloody pulp. Decisions, decisions. On the one hand, I get the satisfaction of snuffing out your worthless little thief life. On the other, I get my goddamn ciggies back.”

“Can I place a vote for the latter?” Junkrat tentatively suggested.

Thatcher pushed off of him with a violent shove. “One day,” he said ominously. “Get them back to me by tomorrow night, or you’re dead meat, Rat.”

Junkrat nodded furiously. “One day,” he echoed.

A note whipped under the door to their cell, attached to Roadhog’s fishing line. It presumably was Roadhog confirming that Junkrat was, in fact, fine, but he didn’t get a chance to read it and find out. Thatcher snapped it up before he could get to it and stuffed it in his mouth.

Junkrat watched as Thatcher chewed and swallowed, never taking his eyes off of him. He shivered. He’d eaten a lot of questionable things in his life, but he’d yet to taste paper.

He made a mental note never to fuck with Thatcher or his belongings again.

---

“Are you okay?” was the first thing Roadhog said the next day during their social hour.

“Yeah, yeah, m’fine,” Junkrat muttered, brushing away the concern. His eyes flitted around the room in search of Belmont; he only had one hour to retrieve the stolen cigarettes, and he couldn’t waste it talking to Roadhog, as much as he would’ve liked to. “Just a lil’ spat between cellies, nothin’ happened.”

Roadhog looked him up and down. “Well, you don’t look hurt,” he finally said.

“Toldya I was fine.” Junkrat finally spotted Belmont slipping into the shower area. “Listen, I’ll be back in a jiff, gotta go talk to this bloke for a sec.”

Junkrat made a beeline for the showers. Belmont was in the back of the room, running the shower at full blast and filling the room with steam that made sweat trickle down the back of Junkrat’s neck. The crinkled black pack was in his hand, and he tapped out one of the cigarettes.

Junkrat took a deep breath and sidled up to Belmont. "Hey, Belmont... y'know those durries I gave ya?” He nodded at the pack. “Y'haven't smoked 'em all yet, have ya?"

Belmont looked up at him. "Why you asking?"

Junkrat grimaced. "I'm gonna be needin' 'em back." He anxiously twisted the fabric of his jumpsuit while Belmont stared at him for several long, suspicious moments.

"A deal's a deal," he said. "I don't have any use for those pipes I gave you, so I'm not trading back, if that's what you're on about."

"Well, good, 'cause I wasn't plannin' on givin' back the pipes either."

Belmont narrowed his eyes at him. "Let me get this straight. You want the cigs back. But you're not willing to give me anything in exchange, not even a useless piece of pipe? Why the fuck should I make that deal?"

It was a good point. "Come on, I'll give ya somethin' if ya swap back, honest."

Belmont folded his arms across his chest. "What's on the table?"

Junkrat struggled to think of something that he was willing to part with that he wasn't planning on using as a weapon. "I've got some extra wires, I can rig ya up a lighter?"

The look Belmont gave him was positively contemptuous. "What fuckin' good is a lighter if I have no cigs to light up?"

Junkrat bit his lip. "Fair point. Whaddya want, then? Gimme some suggestions."

A slow smile spread across Belmont's face, and that should have been Junkrat's clue to back out before things got ugly. "I can think of one way you can pay me back."

"Yeah, sure, anything!" Junkrat said, relieved.

Belmont began unbuttoning his jumpsuit.

Oh, no.

“On your knees, Fawkes.”

“Junkrat.” He didn't know what it said about him that his first objection was to not being called the proper name, but his second objection was hot on its heels. “Wait, ya don't mean--”

“I mean, you talk too much, and I'm kindly requesting you put that big mouth to better use.”

Junkrat wet his lips, his brain rapidly cycling through his options. No matter how he swung it, it looked like it came down to the same thing: either give head or get his head bashed in by his cellmate. “Fine,” he finally agreed. “But I won’t be happy about it.”

“I don’t care whether you’re happy about it, I just care about you doing it. Like I said: on your knees.”

Junkrat grumbled, but he obeyed and knelt down in front of Belmont. He fumbled uncertainly with the jumpsuit before tentatively taking his head between his lips. He closed his eyes as he bobbed up and down. Maybe it would be better if he could imagine it was somebody else.

Junkrat held out his palm to request payment and was grateful when he felt the cigarette pack pressed into his hand. He was less pleased when Belmont gripped the back of his head and forced him down, keeping him from pulling away now that he had gotten what he wanted. Caught off guard, Junkrat gagged a little.

He was trying to relax when Belmont came, shooting down his throat, and all he could think was Thank god, because it meant he could stop degrading himself.

All at once, Junkrat was shoved aside, and Belmont was pinned against the shower wall by one massive hand.

“What did I say?” Roadhog growled, and the abject anger in his voice frightened even Junkrat -- the only other time that he’d heard such rage from Roadhog was in the bottle shop, when he’d made the offhand comment about “fire never hurting anyone.”

“He-- he’s yours, I know! But he agreed!” Belmont gasped, trying to cover himself back up, as if he was afraid Roadhog would cut off some of the more sensitive parts of his anatomy. “He said yes, I didn’t make him to do anything!”

Roadhog didn’t let go. He simply turned his head to look at Junkrat, whose stomach plummeted. From his position on the floor, Roadhog looked bigger and scarier than ever, but it wasn’t his imposing figure that filled Junkrat with fear, but the knowledge that Roadhog thought he wanted this. Of all the compromising positions for Roadhog to catch him in, having a near-stranger’s cock down his throat was the worst.

"...Yes," he admitted, voice unnaturally small and quiet. He didn't know why he had told the truth, that he had consented, when he could have lied to save face in front of Roadhog and get Belmont permanently out of the picture. There was just something about Roadhog that made him want to be honest for once in his life, even when it meant confessing to whatever awful thing he had done.

Roadhog released Belmont and started walking away. Seized by panic, Junkrat scrambled to his feet and chased after him, cigarettes in hand. "Wait, Roadhog! I didn't-- I mean, I did say yes, but I didn't want it, promise--"

"I don't care what you do with other people," Roadhog said levelly. "It's none of my business. Just tell me next time before I try to kill someone for taking advantage of you."

"There won't be a next time! Roadhog, it was just -- it was a business thing, see--"

The familiar, disembodied voice crackled over the loudspeaker. "Recreation hour is over. All inmates return to your cells for count."

Junkrat didn't budge. He touched Roadhog's arm. "Mate, ya gotta believe me, I didn't go askin' for this--"

"Get back to your cell before the CO catches you." Roadhog pulled his arm away from him and headed back to Cell 23. Junkrat watched him go, helpless and despondent and filled with self-loathing like he'd never felt before.

The door that separated their unit from the main prison hallway beeped. Jolted back into reality, he hurried back to his cell before two COs stepped through. Junkrat tossed the cigarettes at Thatcher, who stuffed them beneath his mattress. They stood at attention, backs rigid, as the correctional officer walked past each cell and counted everyone, his partner at the ready in case any prisoners had any funny ideas about attacking them.

“All clear!” The CO shouted, and the doors to the cells slid shut with a resounding clang.

The minute the two officers left, Junkrat dove for his pencil and paper.

Thatcher dug the cigarettes out from under his mattress and scooped out his brick hidey hole. “Good. Don’t ever even think about stealing from me again, understood?”

"Yeah, 'course," Junkrat muttered, distracted. He tapped the pencil against the floor as he tried to figure out how to word his letter to Roadhog. He was acutely distressed; he needed Roadhog to know that he had no feelings, sexual or otherwise, for Belmont, and that he wasn't the kind of person who would suck dick for no reason.

"Roadhog," he wrote. "Mate. Listen, here's the deal. I've been getting some weapon parts, ya know how it is. And I’m making some bombs, see? But I needed some pipes. Don’t got nothing worth trading, so I did a stupid thing and traded Thatcher’s ciggies to Belmont. He didn't take kindly to that, so I had to get em back from Belmont. Which meant sucking his dick. I swear, I only did it cuz I don't want Thatcher to kill me. The only d--" He scribbled out that phrase before it got too far, because wow, that was certainly a thought he was experiencing, that the only dick he'd want to suck would be Roadhog's. He rubbed his face with his hands. What was happening to him?

"It don't mean nothing, honest. I'm not the kinda bloke what goes around blowing people all the time. I mean, you know me. He ain't me type, he's too small. I told ya I like em big, right? Pretty sure I did, but me memory ain't the best." He gnawed on the end of his pencil, worried about how best to proceed. "Thanks for sticking up for me. Ya always got my back. Don't be mad at me, yeah?" He didn't know if that last bit sounded desperate or not, but frankly, he was a little desperate. He couldn't handle the thought of Roadhog judging him.

"P.S." he added, "Destroy this letter. Flush it or eat it or something. That's a thing hogs do, right?" He gave a small, guilty giggle. He was trying to bring some levity to the mood, but it was a serious request, there was far too much incriminating information in his note.

He looked over the letter. It was probably riddled with spelling errors, as the only words he was 100% sure he knew how to spell correctly were the ones he learned from assembly manuals, which were how he taught himself how to read in the first place. Still, Roadhog was sure to get the gist of it. He tied the note to his fishing line and cast it over to Roadhog's cell. He couldn't feel anything for a long moment, and he tried waggling the string in case Roadhog hadn't noticed it. He was about ready to reel it back in, crestfallen, when he finally felt the note being detached. He waited anxiously for Roadhog to read it and, with any luck, reply. When he felt a tug on his string, he pulled it back through the narrow space of his cell door.

"You're an idiot,” Junkrat read. “That’s it?” he called out. He'd come to realise that Roadhog calling him an idiot was more often than not a term of endearment. Once upon a time, it had been a proper insult, but as of late, there was more affection to malice in his voice every time he called Junkrat an idiot. Still, it didn’t sufficiently answer whether Roadhog was angry over the whole incident.

“Turn the paper over,” Roadhog replied from two cells down.

Junkrat flipped the page over. “But I'm not mad." He exhaled in relief. He was glad he hadn't irreparably fucked things up with Roadhog, and that he -- hopefully -- wasn't being judged for going along with Belmont's terms of payment. There was still the pressing matter of the fact that he had nearly expressed a desire to blow Roadhog, but that was a thought that he would deal with some other time, because that was a tangle of emotions that he was not prepared to sort through.

[ecotone99]

[RF] [MS] [TH] Escapism

I came-to midway through a vivid dream. I was not in my bed. I was not lying down. I was standing; staring blankly outside a broken window from the first floor. The glass clung to the skeleton of the window frame in lonely, trianguloid polygons. The sill was covered in scratches, and caked with grime, and seemingly years’ worth of dust. It looked especially filthy after the recent bursts of rain had blessed it with moisture.

I could smell my sweat; it was a sweetish sort of odour. My wet T-shirt was stuck to my back. My legs felt weak.

Outside, I could only see the forest of triangular, perhaps, coniferous trees all the way to the end until they went out of sight. It was dusk. As if in response to my observation, the remaining slice of the large crimson disk hid itself behind the safety of the shadowy mountains, as if it too was afraid of being ripped right out of the sky by a species prone to pillage, exploit, and destroy all that was natural, including themselves, and each other.

The sky was aglow in funereal orange; the clouds were heavy, sombre, and gathering. They looked like they were mourning the cowardly departure of the sun, or rather, were they celebrating it?

The agitated inhalations and exhalations of the flower-patterned curtains seemed to reflect my own condition. They were stained and damp as well. Like me, I thought. The damp, dirty smell of wet cloth hung in the air.

I blinked and returned to myself. I had been staring outside the window for quite some time now. I had forgotten what I was going to do, and I could no longer remember what I was dreaming about either. I didn’t know where I was or how I got there. I turned around to behold a dilapidated room. I didn’t know where I was, nor what I was here for or how I got here.

An immediate fear materialised somewhere within my gut and a rush of paralysis entombed my body. I was unable to move. I had gone from dazed to wide awake in thirty seconds. And from wide awake to deadly scared in another twenty. A static, spidery electricity seemed to have zapped my stomach.

The thought of computer filesystems came to mind. There are a bunch of different choices out there – for Linux users. Windows users can only use the NTFS file system. Windows’ NTFS can’t even mount Ext4 but Ext4 can mount NTFS. Momentarily, I contemplated a sexual connection between the two inanimate filesystems.

A filesystem determines the way data is accessed and stored. You have different types of filesystems such as Ext4, which is the most commonly used Journaling file system. Then there’s Btrfs (pronounced butterFS) which is an advanced copy-on-write file system. There are also other ones such as XFS, which I use, and ZFS. All of them function in different ways and are ideal for different use cases.

A filesystem helps a computer keep track of where every file is stored so the files don’t get lost in the delirious planes of 1s and 0s. Every read and write operation, no matter how small, is logged. And metadata about these operations is stored, and there are event files, and everything else that enables the computer to never forget how to interpret any binary data, or where it is stored.

Mostly even in the case of power outages, using metadata and logs, a filesystem can get back to where it lost its track of its work, but sometimes it becomes unable to figure that out. Or sometimes the hardware itself, that it operates on, starts to behave erratically, and that’s when all computer hell breaks loose. Everything will go wrong and get worse from that point on. The data can become mangled and interfere with other data too. It’s a mess. Ensue binary delirium.

Well then, I thought, which bug is affecting my filesystem, causing it to malfunction this spectacularly?

The last thing I could remember was watching a documentary film with Amanda. We were on a short vacation trip in the middle of Europe, and we were living at her elder sister’s house. It was afternoon, and Amanda was in one of her odd moods. She was deeply engrossed in watching the narrator describe in graphic detail, with photographic evidence, how the infamous serial killer, Jefferey Dahmer had sex with his victims, killed them, had sex with their dead bodies, photographed them, dismembered them, sometimes preserving the finer looking genitalia, and then, for him, the rest was just dissolve, drain, and repeat, if you know what I mean.

The scene cut. For me, it was all about the control, Jeffery Dahmer said, I wanted a completely obedient person under my full control. Living humans were too much hassle. So, I killed them, but that was not idea. That’s why I tried to puncture a hole in one of their skulls and poured acid inside in hopes that I could try make them more obedient. A picture of a sexually positioned torso appeared, its chest ripped open, and blackish organs spilling out. I felt nauseous even looking at it, so I looked at Amanda instead. She was engrossed. Amanda was so deeply obsessed with these things: sometimes it frightened me.

Every so often she would pause the movie and sit in silence, lost in thought. I watched her face closely. Sometimes small lines of tension formed on her forehead in response, as the documentary went on. What was she thinking? I wondered. Then, I asked her this. She didn’t even hear it, and if she did, she ignored it. I reached out to touch her breast, more to snap her out of it than in a sexual manner, and she hit my hand. Hard. She immediately apologised. Not right now, she said, not when I’m thinking, and she fell silent again. I didn’t try to touch her breast again.

I don’t remember what we did next. That was the last thing I remember, and it was probably this afternoon when these events took place.

The room that I found myself in was full of dust. If I had any term to describe the room with, I wouldn’t use abandoned, dilapidated, ominous, foreboding, flaking, run-down, collapsing, fear-inducing, paralysing, claustrophobia inducing, or such, despite it being all the above. I would say it was Dusty. The most prominent thing was dust. Everything was covered with layers of dust, undisturbed, for years at stretch, by any intelligent life. And it was not the light kind of dust that could be blown away in a breath, but sticky, heavy dust that had settled deeply into this room and burrowed into its metaphorical soul like a parasite into its host. The particles were heavier and larger than usual. It had descended endlessly and declared everything an extension to itself. Everything: the flaky walls, the moist, leaky ceiling, the rotting wooden tables, the broken bed, and even the humid, sallow air belonged now to no man, but only dust.

On the floor there were the imprinted souvenirs of my trawling feet; I, the intruder in the realm of the dust. I could not look at the corners of the room. The caked filth evoked, in me, a severe sense of disgust.

The walls were heavily flaking. The wallpaper, wherever it remained, was yellow and stained. An unrecognisable pattern was visible. The ceiling seemed ready to collapse at any given moment. To the far side of the room, the ceiling had a dark, wet, leaky patch on it which reminded me of the sight of Amanda’s wet panties, and the walls were tattooed by the shadowy trail-memories of water droplets.

The air felt heavier, much heavier than outside air. It had some kind of weight to it that made breathing hard. Odours of the ageing wood of the bed, the moist walls, the rotting mattress, and the ubiquitous dust had mixed together into something jaundiced and sinister which pricked the lungs, and stuck to the alveoli.

The side table looked like it was eaten up from inside. Parts of it had turned into powder, or more appropriately, dust. The drawers were half-open, as left by the inhabitants, or the post-inhabitant raiders. On top of the side table stood a lamp. It looked like a bearer of unspeakable burden, it’s shade slightly tilted, as if in an expression of shame.

The bed was the only thing in this room that looked like it hadn’t aged badly. The mattress, however, was a different story altogether. It was ripped apart, it’s insides gouged out just like the victims of Jefferey Dahmer, exposing clumps of eaten wool infiltrated with dust, and springs that languidly stuck out and fell off-ways like they had lost all purpose to their life a long time ago.

Outside, it was cloudy, but it wasn’t raining. It had rained in quick bursts multiple times since the two days I had lived in this remote European town with pretty Amanda; Amanda who scared the wits out of me sometimes, but who I had desperately fallen in love with anyway. Being in a strange place away from home seemed to have made her more reckless and nihilistic than I had ever seen her before.

Hey, I know where you are, I said to myself aloud but softly, in order to stifle my fear of being alone in a strange place. Remember that abandoned mansion that Sophia was talking about? Amanda was so excited to see it. So that’s probably this place. But then, where are they? And how did I end up here alone?

I don’t know, I replied.

Talking to myself soothed me somewhat. I used to do this even as a child when I had to walk to the bathroom at night. I used to imagine snakes behind me for some reason, and I used to think that talking aloud would keep them away. Apparently, it did, because none of those snakes was ever able to bite me.

The initial paralysis that had gripped my body, prompted by the fear of being alone in a dilapidated, abandoned place was a lot more permitting now. My fingers were twitching because of the adrenalin rush. I could feel a warm sensation under my skin as if my insides suspended in a warm, viscous liquid. I slowly checked my jean pockets. No phone. My phone was not there. My phone was missing.

Once I had familiarised myself with the surroundings, more strength had returned to my body, but I was still fearful of stepping out. What exactly I was fearful of, though, I don’t know. Anyway, I grabbed a weak-looking wooden beam from the footboard of the bed and ripped it out. It took more strength than I thought it would, and the loud cracking it made took me by surprise. The dust exploded in anger, but nails and all still clinging to it, no more an extension of dust, the wooden beam was now an extension of my white-knuckled fist. I listened carefully for any sound in the house. Still complete silence.

Maybe she’s asleep somewhere too? Could that be? I asked.

I really don’t know, and I don’t think so. But you can try to call her, I replied.

Right, I said, I should try to call her.

And so, I did.

Amanda?

No response.

Sophia?

No response.

Amanda? I shouted, a little louder this time.

Where the fuck did, they go? I whispered to myself.

Is this a prank? I shouted. If this is, then you got me! Let’s go home now.

No response.

I knew I had to get home before it got dark outside, but I just could not move. I felt only fear. Fear of wild animals. An unfounded fear of cold-blooded killers lurking in the darkness. Whoever said that fear was based in rationality anyway? Nobody. No, it’s rooted in instinct, I thought. Clutching the wooden beam, hands shaking, heart thumping, sweat dripping, I walked out.

Look, I have a wooden beam in my hand to protect myself against wild animals, so don’t startle me if you’re around, I shouted to anybody who would listen.

No answer. I trawled on.

I could not have guessed that I would ever find myself in this kind of a situation a year prior, or even six months ago. I lived a happy life with my then-girlfriend Laura. We were happy, we were in love, we had plenty of sex, and lot to look forward to. Then Laura left me, and I found Amanda. Amanda and her slim, white body, her tiny breasts, her many, many tattoos, and a madness that scared the wits out of me, yet, at the same time, drew me deeper and deeper into her.

Amanda and Laura were so different.

I walked outside, ears ever-receptive, eyes darting, knuckles white and ready. There was nothing to fear. There was nothing here. And whatever was there, was probably harmless. Why was my imagination unnecessarily bothering me, then? Nor was I fearing rational things. I was fearing ghouls and fiendish creatures from another world. Why? I asked myself. But the fear did not simper and scurry away.

I had suddenly become aware of an odd feeling in my entire body. My vision seemed to have gotten darker as well. I felt a deeply ominous feeling creeping over me, like the dust was taking over me, making me a part of itself. There’s nothing to fear, I said to myself aloud. My voice was small and did not sound like my own. I said the same thing to myself again, louder this time. I felt a strange nausea, and my stomach seemed to be revolting to something. Probably just the fear, I thought and went onwards.

There were two more rooms on this floor. One seemed to be another bedroom on the far side, and the door was shut, and maybe a bathroom, whose door, too, was shut. I had no interest nor strength to explore these areas. I just wanted to get out and be home before dark. I kept feeling the presence of something behind me, but I urged myself to recognise the foolishness my imagination; and of this entire situation. I reminded myself of the truth: that this was purely manufactured fear, conjured up by my imagination.

I heard Amanda call my name. I heard her clear voice from the room below. I felt a flood of relief. Thank the fucking gods, I thought.

Hey, I said aloud, I’m up here! Let’s go home.

There was no response again.

Listen, enough messing with me. What had we taken? Let’s go! It’s getting dark and I’m extremely hungry!

No response.

Amanda?

No response again.

Why is she being like this? I thought. That was not like her.

I slowly descended the stairs, my grip on the wooden plank was lighter now, having heard Amanda’s voice.

As I climbed down, I could hear more sounds coming from below. It sounded like a lot of different voices, like a large group of people was gathered around in the backyard. Maybe this was a party that we had attended? A party at an abandoned mansion sounded pretty cool. And maybe I had gotten completely drunk or something and gone upstairs where nobody really went?

With my newfound strength I began to strut down the stairs, but out of some clumsy mis-coordination I tripped and fell face first onto the ground. Luckily, I was able to shield my fall with my hands, but I hurt my elbow hard. I stood up quickly. Too quickly, I suppose, because a flood of white obliterated my vision. I rubbed my elbow intensely to make the pain subside. Once my vision had returned, I looked at the back of the room. there was no backyard, just a dark room, shelves, books, other left-behind junk, and a dirty sofa, ripped, too, like every other soul in this mansion.

But there were no people around. No people. No Amanda. No party. No nothing.

What? I thought. I could swear had distinctly heard many voices, and Amanda’s voice too, and her voice especially was unmistakable. That’s when I saw a darting shadow from the corner of my eye and I froze. This time the fear was like something I have never felt before. My hands were violently shaking. I found it hard to focus. I turned in the direction of the darting shadow. There was nothing there. No killer. No fiend. No ghoul. But no Amanda either.

There was some lazy, amateur graffiti on the walls. “Boo!” Was written in blue spray paint. And besides that, perhaps drawn by someone else, was an image in silver spray paint of a phallic object entering a hole with the caption “Boo, Ooh!” There were also a bunch of names, and other random words here and there.

I was here – Jeremy, 12th May 06:41 pm. The year when Jeremy was here was not mentioned.

Another darting shadow. I turned in that direction so quickly, I almost lost my balance. Again: nothing.

The walls were swaying slightly. I told myself that I was simply imagining things in my present state of agitation, and I walked outside through the main door. My legs were heavy and seemed to be refusing to co-operate without plenty encouragement. I was feeling helpless.

I stepped on to the gravel. It crunched. I could hear random tapping and clicking sounds from behind, but I didn’t turn to look in that direction, instead I looked for a way out of this place. No roads for a car, just a thick forest some distance away. The forest looked sinister and evil. The bad elves are waiting for me, I told myself, they are just waiting for me to leave...

I turned to my left and decided to circle the house in that direction. There had to be a path s

omewhere. But I stopped mid-stride. Wait. Wait. Wait, wait, wait! I whispered aloud. My voice did not sound like my own at all. It was heavy and cracked. What bad elves? I asked myself, silently. You just said that the bad elves were waiting for you in the forest. Where did that come from? I questioned myself. It’s like you’re falling asleep while wide awake, I said.

I jumped on my feet to wake myself up, but I was unable to. The sky was getting darker, but it wasn’t too dark yet to see.

Was this an in my mind or was the entire world shaking? Everything around me was swaying to an unheard rhythm. I could not think clearly anymore. There was what felt like static at the edges of my vision. The entire mansion looked foreboding, cold, and dangerous, but I had nowhere else to go. I knew I had to return to the room I had found myself in. I could not walk outside in this condition.

My mouth felt sandpaper dry. I wanted water, but I had none.

I slowly trawled back into the dark mansion. It seems that spiders had emerged from the depths of the house as it was getting dark. They were everywhere, and I was afraid that they had entered in my room too. I did not try to run lest I trip and fall into them, but I had much difficulty avoiding them. There were so many of them I felt sick and afraid. Most of them were small, fast, and translucent.

After an eternity I made it back the dilapidated bedroom. To my disdain, there were spiders here too, but they seemed to be content crawling in and around the mattress, and the corner walls.

I somehow felt less afraid of any fiendish things that I imagined resided in the house this time. I felt like I was one of them now. Inside the room I looked outside the windows. Soon it would be completely dark, and I would be enveloped in my shroud of darkness. My personal hell.

Someone said something right behind me. I heard it distinctly. And I turned around fast. I was still holding the wooden beam in my hands, but I couldn’t lift it up to defend myself anymore. Forget trying to use the wooden beam to defend myself, my own hands felt too heavy to lift. My eyelids too were heavy.

That’s when I saw my shoulder bag lying there. It was previously hidden from my sight because of where I was standing. My phone was probably in there. I ran to the bag. Or at least I tried to. My legs didn’t want to co-operate, though, it seemed, and I fell face first on the hard-wood floor, and I heard the eerie sound that my shoulder made. I felt a vague pain, but it felt so distant. My mouth was open, and I had gathered a quantity of the floor-dust, which tenaciously stuck to my tongue.

I tried to spit it out, but not a drop of moisture remained in my mouth. With much difficulty I lifted every muscle in my body and sat upright, or as close to an upright position as possible, and I wiped my tongue on my T-shirt. The sensation made me begin to retch and dry heave. Then I spilled my guts on the dusty floor. With much difficulty, I was able to regain my breath. I couldn’t breathe. I looked at the little puddle that I had birthed, and there were little moving beetles in it. I had thrown up live beetles. There were live beetles inside me. The sight of that made me heave more, but this time nothing came out.

A different sort of fear had gripped me now. There were parasitic bugs inside of me, eating my insides. Maybe this is why my stomach had felt odd previously. Maybe they had found their way into my brain, and that was causing all my madness. The dancing shadows. The wonky co-ordination and heavy limbs. The primal fear… I probably knew what had happened somewhere inside myself even when I came-to. I had just forgotten. There were bugs inside of me eating me alive from the inside out, and I had no way of saving myself here. I was about to die very soon, and this time I knew why. It was going to be a slow painful death, and I shivered at the thought of it. Horror. Horror was the only thing I felt.

I wanted to scream for help. SOMEONE. ANYONE. I was in tears. I began to cry uncontrollably. I could not bear the horror of my sad, pathetic, demise. I could not. I didn’t want to be eaten alive from the inside out by tiny, hard-backed beetles. The pain was about to get much worse, and I would not die until the very end. Why? What had I done? I said, but my mouth did not move. I knew the answer. I was being punished for what I had done.

If anything, I deserved this death.

Laura, I called out in my distress. Laura. I wish you were here, but I knew she was elsewhere. And I screamed a blood-curdling scream that sent an icy chill down my own spine. I fell into silence. Dark spots were dancing in my vision. I could barely move. The parasitic beetles had swum, with apparent difficulty, to the edge of my pool of bile and digestive sludge that lay withering on the dusty, hard-wood floor. Laura, I whispered but no sound came out. I wish I hadn’t…, I said, I really wish I hadn’t… I didn’t mean to.

There was a cacophony of sounds all around me. There was the sound of utensils, and voices talking over each other, there were people calling my name, and typing, and a scraping sounds coming from behind the walls as if some creature was trying to escape, and I just sat there among it all, insensible. I, the silent centre of the universe waiting for a painful end. At least it would all be over soon, I thought. This life wasn’t even worth living after Laura had left.

The beetles that I had coughed up seemed to have multiplied in my vomit and were clumping together and rolling and moving in a joyful, lively manner. I felt disgust to the pit of my stomach, but there was nothing more left to throw up. I had given up. A pang of pain rushed through me, as their beetle-brothers feasted on my juicy insides.

The world was completely dark now. I could not see a thing. I could sense the shadows. There were people moving around. Some creatures were still trying to break out of the walls around me to feast on me too, but so far, their endeavour seemed to have been fruitless.

I saw hordes of spiders scurrying around in groups whenever I opened my eyes. I tried to swat them away, and they went off. I cannot describe how it feels to be surrounded by insects. To have them inside you, eating you alive. To have insects crawling over you. Climbing you. Climbing your feet. Entering inside the cavity of your skull and eating your juicy brain as you slowly lose your sanity. No, this cannot be described. You can only imagine it, and that too would give you only a vague idea of the disgust, and true horror that I felt. I did not know this intensity of helplessness could even be humanly experienced.

I suddenly remembered that I was looking for my phone. Despite the impossible weight, I reached my hand out to the bag which was only a silhouette anymore, and I dragged it to me. I could not keep my head straight and it kept falling on my shoulders, lolling lifelessly on my neck.

A faint white light seemed to be streaming in from the windows, casting a ghostly-blue glow on this entire room, and on my clumsy, dying, figure. The curtains leisurely swayed and rolled, oblivious to my condition.

I managed to open the zipper of my shoulder bag and dumped everything out. One torch, two water bottles, four condoms and an assortment of pills fell out. My wretched little life lay thus defined.

I found no phone.

I opened the bottle of water. There was a sort of dark liquid inside. Suddenly a horde of tiny spiders began to crawl out. I threw the bottle and the liquid drained. It did not flow like water. It was a lot thicker and darker. I was dying of thirst, but I did not want to drink anything anymore.

I must have blacked out for a while then.

“Hey,” said Amanda. She was sitting beside me. It was still dark outside.

“Careful of the bugs,” I said.

“M’h’m,” she nodded, “I’m not scared, they don’t do anything to me.” she said, nodding several times and swiping them away whenever they approached her.

“Well, they’re inside me. Eating me alive,” I said. “I’m about to die very soon.”

“Cool,” she said. “Does it hurt?”

“I can’t feel anything anymore.”

She H’m’d.

“Can I tell you something?”

“Yeah, of course you can!” she said.

“I think I am in love with you.”

“Are you?” she inquired. I could feel her narrowed, suspicious eyes boring into me.

“I don’t know.” I said, honestly. “I feel like I am. Stupid me. What’s the point of bringing this up right now anyway?” I shook my head.

“Well, I think that you’re a liar. You keep talking about Laura. Even in your sleep you say her name. How can you say you love me, then?”

“Because” I said. “Because…”

I turned to look at her face; to look at her clear, emerald-green eyes, but she was gone.

I must have become so senseless. I didn’t even notice her leave. I felt like she had left me forever this time. It was true, I had loved Laura, but she had left me, and just so Amanda had too. That’s when I noticed my phone where Amanda had been sitting. She must have left it behind as she left me forever.

I picked it up and tried to call her.

The line clicked.

“Hello,” a sleepy voice said.

“Hey,” I said, and then immediately recognised her voice. I was in fact trying to call Amanda, but instead, I must have called Laura in my delirium. Maybe Amanda was right about my obsession with Laura.

“Um, hey,” I said again, “I’m really sorry I called you this late. I was trying to call someone else – but don’t go away yet. Can you talk for a bit?”

“Oh, that’s fine,” she said, and I felt a warmth spreading in my heart. I could talk to her one last time, at least. I was relieved.

“Well, how have you been?”

“I’m…” she paused, “I’m getting well you know.”

An icy chill rushed down my spine. Getting well you know…

I dropped my phone in my surprise. I tried to get pick it up, but it had sunk into the ground. I could only see the top of it like a drawing on the floor. I tried to use my nails to pry it out, but it was pointless.

Laura’s words echoed in my mind, tormenting me. I’m… I’m getting well you know…

I’m… I’m getting well you know…

I’m… I’m getting well you know…

I’m… I’m getting well you know…

I’m… I’m getting well you know…

Stop. Stop. Stop it! I screamed. The voice stopped. Stop it, I said once again. I didn’t want to hear it anymore.

Laura had died six months ago of a drug overdose. A young, innocent, hard-working, straight edged girl, within months, dead of an overdose.

The memory of her lifeless body came back to my mind. Her body was just as calm as always. Not one wasted movement. That was Laura. Her skin smelled like warm, tropical flowers and I used to rub against it and explore it like a thirsty bee. Now she lay shrouded in her usual silence. She looked like she was simply resting in her grave. Her breasts were large and well-shaped in contrast to Amanda’s, and she had a full, motherly body, a little puppy fat, a few imperfections, and no tattoos. I could still recall, with clarity, the taste of her skin.

“Hey girl,” I had said “Wake up.” And she never did. My girl. She was gone.

It felt strange at the time. Like it was a dream. Sometimes I would forget that she was gone in the morning and call her name so she would come back to me in bed and cuddle for a bit. And instead of her warm, soft body, I would feel the intense wave of guilt answer my call.

Everything that happened henceforth, and a lot did happen, is foggy to my memory.

The shadows emerged from the walls, and I was talking to them. I became friends with the spiders, and like in charlotte’s web, I met their tiny, floaty little children. At one point, my mom was there, and we had some sort silly disagreement about a political issue.

A TV reporter in the corner was reading out a weather report, “…very closely right now. A massive earthquake off the west coast triggering a tsunami warning for Hawaii. LXXXX XXXX from our ABC affiliates in Hawaii, reports.”

“…the situation here in Hawaii earlier this evening. The civil defence calling for an evacuation of all low-lying areas because of a tsunami threatening our area, that generated by the 7.7 earthquake in Canada. We are expecting waves of up to, um, three to six to seven feet. Haven’t seen it materialise yet, but we are seeing some of those tsunami waves coming in at a couple of feet or so. Still a fairly serious situation out here with what might happen…”

Frank stopped by, and so did Cody. Rachel called me up on the phone because she couldn’t make it there in time. It seemed like they were all aware of my approaching death, and I was glad to be able to talk to them one last time.

At some point I lay down on the ground out of exhaustion and closed my eyes for the last time. When I opened them again, Laura was lying beside me. Daylight was streaming in. She said nothing. I peered into her deep brown eyes for a long time. I tried to memorise her features. Her long, wavy hair. Her nose. The curl of her lips. Her glowing smile… her smile was glowing. That’s when I realised. I had felt like she was pregnant with my child. I had strongly suspected it. I had seen her manner change in her final days. I wanted to help her out of the pit I had unknowingly led her into, but it was already too late.

I could feel my soul crumble. My insides writhed. My eyes grew hazy with tears. I knew it. I knew it. I just didn’t want to face it, but I had always known it…

And then I died.

*

A long, loud car-horn woke me up. It’s anger very evidently penetrated the air to reach me, after all, it was meant for me. I knew it instantly.

I hadn’t died during the night. Somehow, I knew I wasn’t going to.

When I opened my eyes, it was bright outside. I could not see the sun, but there was plenty of light around me. I used my elbows, with difficulty, to prop myself up. The puddle of stomach sludge was still where I had birthed it during the night. There were no bugs in it, just remnants of gel capsules. Pink gel caps. Benadryl. I could see six. I counted. The rest had probably been absorbed by my body.

My legs felt jittery. I couldn’t move my arms correctly. It felt like the place my arms actually were, and where my body thought they were was different. My arm always either overshot, or undershot.

I heard Sophia yell my name. I felt afraid of her because of how angry she sounded. I was covered in the old, familiar dust. Some distance away lay the hopelessly strewn open water bottle and a black liquid had spilled out. It smelled like rum. I turned around and gathered my things. The condoms. The pills. The torch. From the other bottle I took a sip without considering what may have been inside it because I was so thirsty. Thankfully, it was water. My phone was not around. I probably never had it.

Even though I knew that none of it had taken place, the memories from last night felt one hundred percent real. I had lived through it all. Through the horror or dying painfully because parasitic beetles in my stomach. Through the hallucinations, through the final conversations with all my friends, through the impossible sense of disgust, through the primal fear and the pain… through it all.

I collected the things and stuffed them into a bag. In the corner there as another puddle with the unmistakable yellow colour and the smell of urine. I did not remember pissing in the corner, but thankfully I had the sense to go to the corner to relieve myself rather than pissing my pants.

I cloddishly stood up and turned around as the door opened. Sophia breathed a sigh of relief, and then she yelled at me for a long time. She was scarier to me than my own mother. And my mother is the scariest person I have ever known.

“What the FUCKING FUCK were you two lovebirds thinking?” she yelled, “AMANDA had a FUCKING SEIZURE! A FUCKING SEIZURE BECAUSE OF THIS! I knew you both were acting weird as fuck when I was driving you here. I knew it, but I thought you guys were just high on grass or something. You know, we did that as kids too, and that’s what I thought it was. Then I FUCKING FIND OUT that you both were SHIT HIGH ON KETAMINE, and had taken a ton of BENADRYL after that so you won’t remember that you took it by the time it kicked in.”

Yep, that sounded like us, I thought.

“Then you both had made me drive out all the way here. KETAMINE?! I have never even touched that shit in my life! And Benadryl? I DON’T FUCKING UNDERSTAND?! Why would anyone even do this? And look at you! You look fucking dead. You both stepped out of the car, and immediately after that Amanda collapsed and began to have a seizure, and while I was trying to take care of her you had fucking disappeared somewhere. I had to take her to the emergency room. I was so worried. My God. My entire YEAR’S WORTH of SAVINGS, all gone in a single night. Thanks. Glad to have had you visit. Thank fucking god. But I’m not even angry about that. I’m just confused. Who does this? Who?”

Sophia paused to take a breath.

“When she came-to I asked her what the fuck she was thinking, and she said that you both were going to get shit high and delirious here, and then you were gonna fuck each other. I don’t even – UGHHHHH! Like do what you want, fuck all you want to but like what?!”

I could understand her exasperation, so I offered no explanation. There was no valid excuse.

“Is.. is she…” I managed to speak.

She softened. “Yeah, she’s fine. But I was so worried. Oh god.” She massaged her forehead. “This entire night… it has been a nightmare for me.” she said.

I nodded. It had been the same for me. “I’m sorry.” I said.

Sophia just shook her head several times. Apology not accepted. You need to think about what you did first.

We got into the car in silence, and she began to drive.

I buried my head in my hands. My body was tired; my brain exhausted.

“You’ll be fine,” she said and rubbed my shoulder reassuringly. “Let’s get you washed up and we can go see Amanda.”

“Why are you guys like this?” she asked me after a while of silently driving. She was asking me earnestly, without any hint of ridicule or a taunt.

“Well… I.” I began. “Amanda… She keeps me. Everything she does, it kind of keeps me occupied. She protects me from my thoughts. She keeps me distracted. I feel like I have really fallen in love with her now, after spending so much time with her for just the kind of person she is. And I just don’t want to ever be left alone with my thoughts anymore. She gets me, I get her. We both are the same. Before I met her, I had resolved to end my life. And then she made me forget about it.”

Sophia was silent. She asked softly, after some time, “What thoughts?”

“Laura,” I said. “I was always so pushy with her. I was always indulging her. I wanted her to ‘Enjoy Life’, you know, ‘to get a taste of real life’ – even I don’t know what that means – but I would encourage her to get high, and we would get drunk and have fun… she was so innocent. I ruined her. I always felt like there was something inside her. Something that she was hiding from me. She never ever opened up to me, even in our entire time together. She was an enigma. I felt like having some fun would solve her problems. She trusted me, and I was an idiot. It only made things worse for her. She retreated deeper into herself, and before even knew it, the silent, cheerful girl was gone. I loved her, and I had done this to her. And just like that she was gone.” My voice had grown weary. I wiped my silent tears.

Sophia stole a glance at me and looked back at the road, saying nothing.

I couldn’t bring myself to tell her about the pregnancy. I couldn’t think of it myself. I wanted to jump out of the running car and die by getting run over by a truck. I had made my final decision. I unclipped my seat belt.

Sophia saw me do it, but she remained silent. I was toying with my fingers.

She looked at me again. “U’m…” she began. “You know I do interior design, right?”

I nodded. I didn’t know why she was bringing that up.

“And the thing is that most of my clients are middle class people, and they’ve got a very rigid perspective towards spending money – and spending money on appliances in their home is a big no-no. I mean they’re really silly about it. They don’t understand how big a difference is between good and bad appliances. The good ones may not cost much more to build from a manufacturing perspective, but the thing is that these companies will add a premium on top of that and make things all the more expensive – but if you’ve ever seen the stats, the good appliances despite the heavy premiums last a looooot longer. And these people don’t get it, which is why I have to tell them something that’s very important: “think very carefully about the decisions you will make because they will stick to you”

She looked me in the eye.

I looked at her with a sideways glance.

I didn’t reclip my seatbelt on our way back. But I didn’t jump out either.

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