#but it’s also. this is now inextricable from the fact that his own mind was opened up and used against him as a child. when he couldn’t

[quietwingsinthesky]

it’s that no one ever believed him that gets to me the most. this is a society of telepaths. and yet when the doctor finds out that the drums are real, he’s surprised. the master is surprised, elated, by the confirmation that he’s hearing something that’s really there, that this thing that’s been following him and hurting him for so long is real.

after a certain point, given that the master is Really Fucking Good at mind control and such, you have to imagine that no one could just pick up on the noise in his head with a little general telepathy. he had to choose to let the doctor in to share it. and. and okay. we need to put aside him striving to be The Best At Controlling People’s Minds in the context of him having his mind violated as a child because if i think about these two things in relation to each other i’ll throw up.

but there has to have been a point before he was so accomplished that he couldn’t have defended his own mind as easily. that he couldn’t keep someone, anyone, from delving into his head and hearing the drums. which means i must conclude, because we find out who put them in his head at all and it’s the most powerful guy on gallifrey, that when he was younger, the people around him did know. they could hear the drums. they could figure out what was done to him. but they did nothing, they said nothing, they told him he was hearing things. because if the lord president wanted to use a child for his own ends, who was going to stand up and stop him? easier to sweep it under the rug. and the master lived with that for so long that finally having just one other person hear the drums was a shock to him.

[asimplearchivist]

‘ 𝓪 𝓶𝓪𝓽𝓽𝓮𝓻 𝓸𝓯 𝓽𝓲𝓶𝓮 . ’

𝐂𝐇. 𝐈𝐈𝐈 𝐨𝐟 𝐂𝐎𝐍𝐒𝐓𝐄𝐋𝐋𝐀𝐓𝐈𝐎𝐍𝐒.

[𝓪𝓼𝓲𝓶𝓹𝓵𝓮𝓪𝓻𝓬𝓱𝓲𝓿𝓲𝓼𝓽'𝓼 𝓶𝓪𝓼𝓽𝓮𝓻𝓵𝓲𝓼𝓽] [ 𝐌𝐎𝐎𝐍 𝐊𝐍𝐈𝐆𝐇𝐓 𝐌𝐀𝐒𝐓𝐄𝐑𝐏𝐎𝐒𝐓 ] AO3 | SPOTIFY | PINTEREST summary ☾ ⤏ jake struggled to decide whether you were a blessing or a curse to the system—his personal feelings about you didn’t matter. they never had. ⤏ until they suddenly did, that is.⤏ now he had to fix the mess he caused before he ruined everything for the two he’s trying to protect most as well as you. pairing(s) ☽ steven grant/reader | marc spector/reader | jake lockley/reader word count ☾ 15.6k a/n ☽ ⤏ this chapter was certainly a challenge to write! I have such a particular interpretation of jake in my head influenced by such lovely headcanons and fanfics in the mk community that I had a bit of stage-fright trying to portray him with justice to my vision of him. having very little on-screen material from which to go off of certainly doesn’t help—steven and marc’s voices are so clear to me, but jake’s is a little more subtle and stepping out to develop it on my own was a little nerve-wracking because I wanted so badly to do him justice!⤏ I also apologize that this chapter came late—I had a busy weekend on top of homework and I was wrestling with jake’s characterization. but here he is, now! let me know if y’all like how I wrote him! :) ☽ MASTERPOST ☾   ☾ PREVIOUS CHAPTER ⤎ ☥ ⤏ NEXT CHAPTER ☽

The first time Steven had met you, it had been strictly by happenstance.

The first time Marc had met you, officially, it had been an accident.

The first time Jake met you, it was an inevitability.

Steven and Marc were wrapped around each of your pinky fingers. Completely enamored with you. Nearly worshiped the ground that you walked on. You had lodged yourself inextricably into their gravitational pull, orbiting them as though you’d always been fixed to their collective side—present almost as often as Jake was.

Jake found it inconvenient at best. Dangerous at worst.

Because despite his near slip-up, fumbling just a bit at the suddenness of stepping in that fateful night Marc had decided to swoop in and rescue you (not that you’d really needed rescuing—you were owed credit for holding your own better than most women with whom they’d ever interacted in such scenarios), the two had not been particularly watchful for him.

Sure, they discussed it more—never around you, of course, worried that you would worry about their unease, being unable to properly identify the source of their combined blackouts. The outlier. But they were doing little else than that, and Jake had almost been concerned about them trying to draw him out by force. Biding their time, maybe. But that was fine—Jake was patient. He waited them out every other time he slipped to the front while they were unaware, save during emergencies, and this would be no different—eventually they’d drop their guard, start to doubt their suspicions, and put the idea to the back of their mind where he dwelt and he could comfortably resume his work.

…That was, provided you were removed from the equation altogether.

London loomed in the height of winter, several months later. They had gotten over themselves long enough to enter full and individual romantic relationships with you, and Jake had to admit that he had never felt either of them as happy as they were around you. Marc had loved Layla dearly, still did, and Jake knew she had been integral to keeping him steady and for some of his healing—but you were different. You were an unknown variable, and yet Marc was putting in his every effort to make it work, not looking to repeat his past mistakes in order to ensure your mutual and assured trust: you knowing the brutal nature of Marc’s past and Marc entrusting you with the intimate knowledge of it.

It had taken time, of course (an excruciatingly long period of it, in fact), but you hadn’t flinched once even when he’d told you of the blood staining his hands, both innocent and villainous, during his time as a soldier and mercenary. You had stayed, hadn’t run, hadn’t treated him like the killer he’d always convinced himself that he was. Marc had been relieved.

Jake had only grown frustrated. The situation was rapidly getting out of hand.

Because Steven’s infatuation with you was one thing. He’d had a few crushes here and there, had been laboring in the dating scene for weeks by the time Marc had inadvertently revealed himself to his alter, and Jake had even tried to help the pobrecito* catch a break once. (Jake couldn’t lie—he’d almost hoped that he could’ve caught a break, too, since Marc had left Layla high and dry and Jake had been pent up with all the mounting stress Marc had only been internalizing instead of dealing with in a somewhat healthy manner—but Steven had deserved to be doted on by a pretty woman at least once in his oblivious, lonely life, and Dylan the tour guide was a very pretty woman.) Steven was a romantic at heart, had sought a meaningful relationship more than anything for the longest, so it was to be expected that he’d eventually fall in with some unwitting little thing ignorant to the myriad problems riddling the inner depths of his psyche—that, Jake could have dealt with, hypothetically, if things had escalated to that point. A quick misunderstanding carefully orchestrated leading to a break-up would have been a simple solution, and while it would have hurt Steven greatly for a while, it would have been ultimately necessary for both the long-term safety of the system and for the security of Jake’s continued, secretive role as Khonshu’s fantoche*.

But Marc getting involved threw an entirely new wrench into the gears of Jake’s plans. Because Marc Spector operated in black or white. All or nothing. Always had and always would. Either he didn’t trust you as far as he could throw you or he’d carry you through the depths of hell barefooted on red-hot coals and have the nerve to apologize to you for stumbling on his bleeding blisters.

Marc’s trust came two-fold, also, now that he was in full cohesion with Steven—he still didn’t readily trust anyone, but if Steven did? He was sold soon after just on the principle of the matter. Steven’s judgment of character was, admittedly, as keen as any telepath’s, despite his naïveté and optimism—and Marc trusted Steven more than he trusted anyone else in the world. Even Layla. Even you.

Even Jake, though it had been entirely subconscious up until very recently.

Because he’d fought Jake the last time he’d forced himself to the front to save his life (and yours, by extension, loathe as Jake was to admit it), whereas before Jake had always managed to blindside him. It was a close call—one that Jake could not afford to make again.

And it would be so much fucking easier if you weren’t around so damn often.

Any bit of spare time the boys had that happened to coincide with yours, they were trying to see you: from snack breaks between your classes or on your shared lunch breaks to movie nights featuring home cooked meals and set tables and lit candles because you were just as much of a romantic as Steven was (God help them). You dried one bloom from every bouquet of flowers they ever brought you, keeping them all in a pitcher you used as a centerpiece more than once. You had even started packing them lunches, for Christ’s sake, with plentiful options that either Steven or Marc would enjoy depending on who ended up fronting. Even when either (or both) of you were too tired to go out on the town for a date (which happened so often Jake wondered how Marc hadn’t depleted his bank account already), the long evenings you weren’t obligated to work or study were spent cuddled up on the couch in your apartment or theirs, oblivious to the outside world as you indulged in each other’s company.

The winter brought worsening weather with it, which meant that you were spending more time at home with them. You’d even started spending the night, which was treading on Jake’s very last nerve—his one assured bastion of being able to take the body surreptitiously without Marc or Steven realizing it was put into jeopardy because while you were a heavy sleeper (almost like a fucking corpse, really—he’d had to check to make sure you were even breathing, once), you hadn’t yet gotten used to sharing a bed with someone, which resulted in you rousing slightly any time the body so much as shifted. Marc still had night terrors occasionally, and you’d never fail to comfort him back to sleep, even at the cost of your own rest.

Jake should be thankful, really, if he thought about it for too long. Marc had managed to keep sober long before he met you, but his cravings had dissipated almost entirely since you’d gently steered him towards sodas instead of beer—meaning no more black-out drunk episodes from which Jake had to nurse the body back from the brink. The body rested better with you there to anchor their unsteady mind at the times it decided to bring back the bad memories. You were feeding them better than they’d eaten since living with Layla, hearty and savory dishes that had packed a few pounds onto their lean frame, helping to negate Marc and Steven’s combined forgetfulness towards even the most basic practices of self-care. You had even started buying them groceries in thanks for the dinners they bought you, keeping their fridge and cabinets full and their personal products stocked up throughout the apartment.

You were doing the brunt of his job for him—making sure the body was taken care of and that neither of them spiraled nor regressed. He should be happy that he didn’t have to pull so much weight anymore, that he got to kick back and relax.

So why did it all piss him off so damn much?

You were pretty, he supposed. Not the most stunning bird he’d ever seen, but you were a decent pull on Steven’s part. You got along with the little nerd, and you got along with Marc—which was a feat in and of itself. You had an incredibly dry sense of humor on top of a quick tongue that drew inadvertent chuckles from even the surliest of Marc’s moods. You kept up with Steven’s intellect effortlessly, and the pair of you could talk hours upon hours on the most mundane of topics—oftentimes earning a scolding from Marc whenever the conversation would carry on past midnight (which would only make you both giggle and apologize sheepishly and rarely actually curbed your shared enthusiasm). You mediated their occasional disagreements with utmost diplomacy, always playing devil’s advocate even on their most childish of squabbles, never played favorites even when they’d playfully compete for your affections—you stood resolute in your stance of loving them equally in their own unique relationships with you.

You made them completely, perfectly, incandescently happy. That should have been enough.

It wasn’t.

Because Jake was getting…distracted.

He’d always been strictly about business—the sole reason he existed. He protected the body, no matter the cost. Now he had Khonshu to answer to, and that was difficult enough, trying to balance enough time at night to do the old bird’s bidding while Marc and Steven slept—blissfully unaware thanks to Jake’s skill in repressing them both to the work he’d been doing the last several months trying to cull out the vestiges of Harrow’s cult. 

Because of course that bastard hadn’t taken all his people with him to Cairo to hunt for Ammit’s tomb. Of course he’d left pockets of his followers scattered all over London—assured by his own success, he’d planted them there in order to divide and conquer the city once he’d freed Ammit. And of course they had to be skilled enough at hiding to require him to painstakingly construct an elaborate underground network of people keeping their ears to the ground for any signs. That’s what was taking so long to eradicate them all, and it irritated Khonshu to no end, having to sit and wait when he constantly hounded Jake to ‘execute his justice’. Jake was patient. The god of the moon was most certainly not.

Now add the stress of keeping you unaware of his goings-on? With your infuriatingly saccharine smile and fawn-like fluttering lashes and easy affection that haunted the back of his mind when he did find precious little time to front? He could hardly concentrate on prowling the streets anymore when your detergent of choice had wormed its way into the clothes he kept packed away in the back of Marc’s closet, well away from view (because you even did their laundry for them sometimes when Steven ended up working late on inventory—like a little housewife or something), the scent trapped under Khonshu’s armor nearly smothering him.

Jake knew, deep down though he’d done his best to ignore it, that his ruse would come to a head eventually—Marc was keen on his interiority now that he was no longer in denial of his issues; and Steven was, too, since Marc had let him in on all of it. Jake just didn’t anticipate having to deal with you and your unnervingly observant perception on top of it.

Ultimately it was of little surprise that the scouts for the rest of Harrow’s carroñeros* had put a flag on you, since Jake’s alters spent so much time with you in plain public view. At the very least, it had allowed for that one slippery bastard to finally be put away after somehow surviving Jake’s wrath with him ever having realized it, even if it had put you in danger. The hijo de puta* had played a calculated risk to come after you, trying to cover it up as a robbery rather than a hit to get back at the spectre picking them all off one by one—one that hadn’t paid off in the slightest. He was lucky that Jake hadn’t had the time nor privacy to do exactly what he’d wanted to—a fractured temple via blunt force trauma, hopefully with an added concussion, would have to suffice for the time being. He’d better pray that he wasn’t released anytime soon.

Especially since he’d had the audacity and the gall (and the balls) to target you. Jake wasn’t cruel enough to wish you any harm, don’t get him wrong. You hadn’t done anything wrong, necessarily, just…frustrated him to no end. They were lucky that you’d had the foresight to text them, or else that would’ve been the last that Marc or Steven would’ve ever seen of you.

Jake knew that would only have resulted in disaster.

You had crossed over the threshold of being a danger to the system to being a necessity for their safety and sanity—because if something happened to you now, Jake doubted sincerely that he would ever be able to pick up the pieces of Marc or Steven’s hearts and minds. And so Jake was forced to resolve himself to add one more individual to his list. For the betterment of the system.

Joder, pues claro.*

…It wasn’t as if he didn’t like you. He had to admit that much to himself, at least. You were pleasant enough to be around. You did tell good jokes, well thought out ones that made Jake have to think about them a little while before he got them. He appreciated how rational you were about things, rarely letting your emotions impact otherwise simple miscommunications or misunderstandings over which most women would have a conniption, choosing to talk out your problems while also being honest about how you felt rather than giving them the silent treatment or some shit—it was a necessary balance to Marc’s precarious internalizations of his own complicated feelings and his ever-present struggles to express them in a concise and healthy manner. Jake didn’t mind listening in on your tangents all that much, even if the topics didn’t interest him in the slightest—your passion and thought process kept him hooked enough, as did the dimples bordering your smile and the creases crinkling the corners of your glittering eyes. You were a damn good cook, to boot—Jake had snuck your leftovers on those late nights more often than he’d ever readily admit out loud. Neither still were you hard on the eyes.

So…yeah. If Jake found himself co-fronting, lingering in the back of the headspace well away from Marc and Steven’s reach, as Marc watched you gape at the street performer juggling flaming swords while balancing on a unicycle…that was between him and the soft smile tugging at the corners of their host’s mouth that Jake would likely have reflected despite himself.

The early evening had plunged the city into a nose-numbing one—but you’d been itching to revel in the cold, misty air and to venture out into London’s brimming nightlife with the bolstering safety you’d confessed to feeling while in their presence. The entire plaza was thrumming with music and noise and laughter, light and fire mixing to highlight the angles, curves, and planes of your disbelieving face. You were bundled up to the nines to fight the cold, still unaccustomed to the weather in contrast to the south US’ comparatively mild winters, but you refused to tuck one hand into your pocket in favor of clasping Marc’s firmly. Seated on a bench wedged so closely together that even Jake could feel the tremors in your limbs, you remained glued to his side as though to sap the warmth from the body—evidently, it wasn’t working, because you let out a shuddering breath as your teeth chattered when the performer paused to take a break. Another stepped up to take his place, and the loosely gathered crowd clapped to welcome him.

“You’re going to freeze if you don’t let me take you home,” Marc rumbled into your ear, covered by the toboggan he’d insisted you wear to spare yourself from frostbite.

“Just a little longer, honey?” you pleaded, turning your head to gaze up at him with those infuriatingly fawn-like eyes. “It’s supposed to ice over tonight and I just know I’m going to get cabin fever tomorrow.”

Marc huffed out a wry chuckle, unthreading your fingers to coil his arm around your shoulders and to tug you closer, keeping his mouth tucked close to your ear. “You’re a homebody, baby. I don’t think you’ll have any more trouble staying inside cuddled up with us for the weekend than you normally do.”

You pouted at him playfully, jutting out your bottom lip, and Marc’s gaze was fixed on it until you smoothed your expression. “All right,” you bemoaned, tilting your head away in faux dejection, “I suppose I’ll allow you to coop me up for the next couple of days…” You fluttered your lashes at him. “...as long as you promise to keep me warm, that is. Won’t you, honey?”

“As if you even had to ask.” Marc dipped his head to skim his brow against yours, peering directly into your eyes. “But that’ll require thawing you out first. It’s not getting any warmer.”

“I can think of a few ways to solve that,” you murmured, half-lidded, and slanted your mouth over his—the breath’s breadth between your lips and his was quickly stolen by Marc with a low, knowing chuckle.

Jake rolled his eyes. Metaphorically, of course. He’d even facepalm if he could. You two were hopeless—and he’d thought Steven had it bad.

Can it, Casanova, remarked the Brit as though summoned by Jake’s internal musing, she’s still shakin’.

“I know, I know,” Marc mumbled, pulling away and shaking his head at your amused expression. It had taken a while for both of them to get comfortable enough to vocalize their seemingly one-sided conversations around you, but you treated it as normally as if you could hear the third party, too. Marc patted your hip and stood, grumbling under his breath at the stiffness of his muscles, courtesy of Jake’s last bloody brawl a few nights prior—unbeknownst to either of his alters, of course. “Come on, I bought hot chocolate. We’ll start with that, and then a hot shower.”

You gasped in delight, lurching up to your feet and latching onto his hand once more. “Why didn’t you say that earlier?” you demanded, tugging eagerly at his arm toward the direction of the bus stop. “You could’ve gotten me home hours ago!”

“I wasn’t going to stop you from enjoying all this,” Marc returned, allowing you to guide him in the wrong direction only to see the excited sway of your hips. His eyes cut over the plaza on reflex, but locked onto a couple of guys lingering near the fountain that started to move in the same direction at the same time. His brow furrowed. “Let’s take a shortcut—don’t want to miss the bus.”

He folded your hand over the crook of his arm instead, winding his way through the crowd in an attempt to lose his tail. Jake could feel Marc’s mind crowding with alarm—who they could be, what they would be doing, which group he had once pissed off that now had decided to try to ruin his night—and he edged just a touch closer to the front to peer through Marc’s periphery.

Ah, yes. The bastard with the scar that had come after you had a handful of lackeys, and these cabrónes* were two of them. Twins, big and ginger and mean as hell. Marc was none the wiser to the reason why they were after the body, however—no recognition passed through his racing thoughts—and Jake inwardly cursed.

Steven noticed Marc’s growing apprehension, likewise. What’s wrong, Marc?

“Nothing,” he muttered, causing you to glance up at him questioningly.

“Everything okay?” you asked quietly, glancing around the thinning people as Marc herded you towards the end of the plaza where it was quiet and dark. He ushered you into a narrow alleyway that broke out onto the main street, and while your brow was furrowed, you followed him without resistance. “We haven’t gone this way before.”

“We’re being followed,” he muttered to you, glancing over his shoulder towards the retreating lights. “Remember what I’ve told you?”

Your expression morphed from shock to grave in an instant. It was a discussion Marc had reiterated multiple times—being in a relationship with a wanted man always entailed a certain amount of danger, and Marc had hammered emergency protocol into your head in the event that something like this ever happened. He had hoped that it wouldn’t, for your sake, and the fact that you were schooling any signs of fear in all but your eyes only reinforced the reason why Jake hadn’t wanted you involved at all in the first place.

Jake pressed in closer. Marc’s ears were straining in lieu of ample light, eyes trained on the end of the alleyway—which became shadowed as another pair of silhouettes hemmed the both of you in.

Marc, Steven breathed, tone tight with worry, what now?

“Fuck,” Marc hissed, jerking you against his chest. He whipped around to dart back out from whence you’d come, but the twins had caught up. Heart pounding, he cupped a hand around your head and whispered urgently, “I’m going to take these guys down first so you can run back to the plaza where it’s lit and there’s other people. Call the cops and stick with a group and do not go anywhere by yourself, all right? Not until I come get you.”

Your hands were vices around the collar of his jacket, eyes shining in the dim. Your voice quivered. “Marc, I am not leaving you here alone.”

His fingers tightened around your shoulders. Their footsteps were picking up in speed from both directions, echoing off the dampened brick. “We talked about this—you promised you’d listen to me,” he growled. “I’ll be fine, don’t worry about me. Us. We’ve faced worse odds.”

“What if—” you started, but didn’t have enough time to finish.

Marc shoved you behind him as the first giant reached out with mitts for hands towards you. Marc latched onto the bulky limb, twisting his wrist and pinning him onto the concrete in seconds. He pressed and jerked and the unfortunate soul’s arm popped out of place—a wet, skin-crawling pop that resonated far more loudly off the narrow walls than it should have. The man cried out in pain.

“Marc!” you gasped.

Jake leaned in as Marc took a blow to the side of the head—the other twin’s paw clapped against his ear and sent him careening into the wall, discombobulated as his hearing rang like a siren. His shaken equilibrium buckled his knees, but he pushed himself upright to land a series of resounding punches along the brute’s side and back, targeting the sensitive places sure to bruise at the very least. The ribs gave under the combination of Marc’s strength and expertise, and like a tree the second twin was felled with a well-timed hook to the chin.

“Go!” Marc snapped over the ringing in his ears, hooking a hand around your waist and shoving you in the direction of the exit between the two groaning gingers. “Get out of here!”

You turned back to look at him, utterly terrified. “But—!”

“Damn it, baby, please just—”

The latter pair of cultists didn’t give him as ample a warning as the former—and they were smart enough to pull the guns from their holsters rather than rely on their hands. The shot flashed like lightning, muffled by its silencer.

Marc staggered back, the burning in his side stealing the breath from his lungs. The tinnitus increased twofold, to the point that your startled shout was drowned out entirely. The pounding of their pulse roared in their ears, and Jake thought he heard Steven hollering over the din trapped in their head.

Marc’s control slipped in his shock and pain. Steven grappled for it in terror wholly driven to protect you. Jake seized the opportunity and yanked them both back into the headspace to block them off as he lunged forward—so suddenly that the body folded in half  from the strain. His knees buckled and his shoulder struck the brick, jarring him.

“This is the guy that’s been giving us so much trouble?” gloated one of them. “All it takes is one bullet?”

“We’ve shot this one more than a dozen times and it’s never stopped him before,” the other said warily. “Where’s all that get-up?”

Jake muttered under his breath, gritting his teeth as he closed his eyes and concentrated.

“What’s that?” crooned the fool, gesturing lackadaisically towards him with the smoldering muzzle. “Have something to say before we rid the world of your chaos, asshole?”

“Sí.” The avatar raised his head, glowing eyes casting his assailants' suddenly wan, fallen countenances in a spectral hue. “Dije,” he growled as the familiar ragged bandages coiled around his limbs while he straightened to his full height, “te vas a arrepentir, pendejos.*”

The bullet clinked against the damp asphalt as he was fully enveloped in the armor.

“Ah, shit,” they said in unison.

The shock on their faces precluded the terror that followed his swift movement. The crescents whistled as he slung them in their direction—the cocky one caught it in the throat, plunging through his jugular. Blood splattered in a wide arc against the ground as he fell. The cautious one managed to tumble to the side to avoid it, however—just barely.

A heavy hand grabbed his padded shoulder and whirled Jake around—only to be struck across the temple with an errant piece of pipe. Mierda. The twins were back up on their feet, tag-teaming to make up for their missing mobility.

Jake jerked his head back to avoid another swing, summoning a truncheon from the small of his back and shattered the first’s wrist with a well-timed parry. Two more strikes upon the man’s solar plexus and skull sent him crumpling to the ground, totally unconscious at the very least. Two to go.

He didn’t have time to pause. The gunman fired thrice at his back, but the slugs passed right through him. Jake exchanged blows with the twin for a moment, finally propelling himself off the brick wall and swinging over the expanse of his mountainous shoulders to lock and twist his neck between his knees and bring the behemoth crashing down face-first. He didn’t move again even as Jake leapt back to his feet and pitched another array of darts at the gunman’s retreating back. Sliced flesh, a gurgled curse, and the clatter of metal preceded the heavy tumble of his body.

Jake stalked further into the shadows, tucking the truncheon back into its holster and flexing his fists. He grabbed the collar of the gunman’s jacket and hoisted him upright, pinning him to the wall with his forearm against his throat. Blood dribbled from the corners of the man’s mouth onto the woven gauntlet.

“Tell me where the rest of your amigos* are and I’ll consider letting you go,” he growled.

“Funny,” the man spat viciously onto Jake’s mask near his shielded eyes, “how you think I’ll talk after you murdered them!”

“Just like you attacked a bunch of innocent kids, yeah?” Jake snarled. “Said their scales wouldn’t balance just ‘cause they were picking on someone else? Even though your fucking goddess is dead and you don’t even have the power to read a single palm? Child murder isn’t going to get you where you’re wanting to end up, pendejo, and a little bullying isn’t enough to condone ritual execution!”

The gunman roared and tried to grapple with him, but Jake only pinned his wrists into the mortar with a dart over his head before jabbing him in the ribs. He only noticed the panic button clasped between his fingers once the indicator began to blink a rapid crimson.

“Mierda,” Jake hissed, clocking his elbow across the bastard’s face and snatching the device once he slumped over. He dropped and smashed it with his heel, grinding it into bits.

“...Baby?”

Jake stiffened, head whipping towards the sound of your small voice. You had cowered against the wall, plunged mostly in shadow, but your hunched shoulders and quick breaths fogging against the shafts of light that the street lamp at his back cast tipped off your apprehension. He didn’t have time to react, save to open his mouth, before the distant squeal of brakes, the heavy slam of vehicle doors, shouting, and rapid footsteps at the far end of the alley interrupted him. 

He marched over to you, the armor receding with every step. He glimpsed your eyes in the dark, round and anxious, even as he gripped your arm and tugged you in the opposite direction. “Come on,” he muttered gruffly. “Better scram.”

“What’s wrong?” you breathed instead, resisting him. You were sturdy, he had to give you that, even as the heels of your boots skidded against the rain-slickened pavement.

“Other than having a bunch of madmen with guns on our tails? Nothing at all.” He pulled a bit more forcefully this time. “Let’s go.”

Your protesting noise was drowned out by an ear-ringing report of a gun, and the air near Jake’s ear whistled with the near miss of a bullet. It ricocheted off the brick and had mortar showering the ground.

“Por el amor de Dios,” Jake hissed. “Corres, chaparrita!*”

He pulled you along behind him into a full sprint. The pair of you broke out of the alley towards the crowded plaza once more. You stumbled a couple of times on the uneven concrete due to the awkward mobility afforded by Jake’s unforgiving grip on your wrist, but he was not going to let you go for fear of you falling behind and getting snatched or worse. His scowl and speed drew bemused glances from the bystanders, but their expressions morphed into shock when their eyes passed over his shoulders.

So the bastards were pissed (or desperate) enough to give chase in broad moonlight. They had balls, he had to give them that—and while it made them stupid, it didn’t make them any less dangerous.

He headed towards the far side where the plaza merged onto the main road littered with vendors on the broad sidewalks. People buzzed along the blocked off street—for the entire event would last all weekend and force all the normal goers to circumnavigate the grounds—in tight throngs, along which he had no doubt he could lose the zealots. The tactic has served him well countless times before—and not just in London, or while under Khonshu’s directive. Merging and camouflaging with oblivious civilians and letting one’s hunters pass one by altogether often worked better than trying to outrun them or to hide outright.

The gateway was narrow, and Jake shoved a man twice his size out of his way to hook a sharp left. The man’s curses were drowned out by your profuse, breathless apologies, and Jake growled out a tense, “Callate!*” before narrowly dodging a street lamp since he’d cast a glare over his shoulder at you.

People’s attention only grew as the street funneled into a narrow crosswalk connecting to a broader street. Jake hooked a right that time, darting past families and couples as he went. You were keeping up with him surprisingly well, but your panting was getting too loud—your stamina would give out soon. He had to figure out a way to blend the both of you in without drawing attention so the zealots would go on and he could double back to lose them completely.

Another right at the end of the block revealed another market street, though the middle was undulating with dancing couples as a busking band was playing a lively, energetic tune.

“Mierda,” he growled, “las cosas que hago por vosotros, hermanos.*”

Jake hauled you to a brisk walk instead, melting into the ring of onlookers clapping along with raucous chatter and laughter. They would provide good enough cover, but Jake knew he could show neither of your faces or else the ruse would be for naught. That necessitated unbearably close proximity with the bane of his existence for the last few months—and you had clocked him instantly. It wouldn’t fly for long.

Jake broke through the wall of people nearest the booths, thankful for the partial shadow that would aid to your obscurement. He hastily tugged the collar of Marc’s jacket up, ruffled his fingers through their hair to conceal the majority of their upper features, and hooked an arm around the middle of your back to tug you against his chest. You scarcely caught yourself on his shoulders to keep your nose from bashing into his sternum. With his free hand he pulled the toboggan from your head and stuffed it into your pocket before tugging the back of your scarf up the back of your head and over your forehead, overlapping the tails to cover your chin and mouth—which opened as your brows furrowed in protest.

Jake ducked his head, pressing his lips against your covered ear. “If you want to live long enough to see the end of the night,” he hissed, hands slipping to your waist and beginning to sway you in time with the music, “you’ll do exactly as I do. Me entiendes?*”

You pursed your lips, but the indignant flare behind your eyes didn’t flicker once—even as exclamations of shock caught his attention. Jake pulled you further back into the shadows, but to his luck a couple of other dancers swung between the pair of you and the zealots squinting down the street for any sign. 

Jake began to match the others’ movements to appear more natural, the quick tempo dictating the shuffle of his feet—forward, scuffle, back, ad nauseam, faster than he could breathe. He could hardly concentrate on that as well at the moment, unfortunately, given he hadn’t danced in years.

You were hot under your clothes from the running spree, seeping through yours and his shared layers where the weight of your torso was pressed tightly against his. He kept his face tucked close to the sweep of your neck and shoulder, angling his broad shoulders towards them, winding carefully behind more and more couples while keeping careful rhythm. Your panting came harsh and high next to his ear, your breath warming his chilled shell and lobe. Your hands slipped from his shoulders to rest more convincingly on his chest, a firm press to keep your balance. 

Although you didn’t seem to know all the specific steps to this dance, you were obviously familiar with the form and rhythm of it. You were a natural, the shimmy of your hips almost smoother than his own—you didn’t stumble once, light on your feet as you (reluctantly) allowed him to guide you without a single glance behind you to confirm he wasn’t about to walk you into a wall or another person. No, your eyes stayed fixed on what you could see of his face the entire time, forehead perspiring and cheeks darkened from exertion, mouth slightly agape to pull in much-needed air. You were studying him, it seemed like, scanning his features as though dissecting every crease and stretch. 

Jake didn’t like it, not one bit. You already knew too much—the last thing he needed was you committing any of him to memory.

Instead of stopping, the band shifted into an entirely new song with a different beat altogether, but when Jake adapted to it, you did so, too—seamlessly, in fact, perfectly in tune to the body’s movements. (Ew. He didn’t need to think about that shit.) The two of you were so close that your knees would have knocked together if your feet weren’t offset. You were used to it, to him, even though you’d only learned the body while the others were using it. You knew him, even though he was a stranger.

Shit, shit, shit. He was so fucked.

Your fingers curled into the fabric of Marc’s sweatshirt over his thrumming heart, anchoring yourself as the tension finally drained from your form—he felt it before he saw it, watching your shoulders loosen as you lost yourself to the music. You almost seemed to be enjoying it, and Jake almost lamented the fact that you were only able to indulge in it under these very dire circumstances. 

Almost.

“Are they gone?” you ventured breathlessly, chin brushing against his clavicle as you tilted your head forward so he’d hear your low tone that caused each hair on the nape of his neck to stand on end.

Jake blinked, then looked back up to the street corner with a deep-set frown. “Me distraiste jodidamente,*” he growled under his breath, shoving the visceral image of your chapped lips to the very back of his mind. “Yes, they’re gone.”

Your expression relaxed, then, into one of relief. The song tapered into an end, allowing both the dancers and the musicians a breather, and Jake finally peeled himself away from you as though your warmth had scorched him. He grasped your elbow again, tugging you through a narrow passage between booths to the mouth of a quiet side street with outdoor diners clustered around tables set out despite the weather.

He expected questions. He expected you to demand answers, like any other person in your situation would. ‘Who were they? Why were they trying to hurt me? Who the hell are you and why are you not Marc or Steven?’

He did not expect, however, for you to drop your gaze to his abdomen and to fish your hand under Marc’s jacket. He flinched back, but you’d already hooked a finger into the hole torn into the sticky, blood-soaked material of Marc’s shirt, fingertip grazing the smooth, whole flesh underneath and searing your fingerprint there in the process. He pushed your hand away, taking a half step back to distance himself from the mix of concern and confusion in your eyes.

“Are you hurt?” you asked him quietly, not venturing further into his personal space (to his relief).

Jake clamped his jaw shut and shook his head.

You hesitated. “What’s…what’s your name?”

Fuck his lack of luck, honestly. He half-turned away so he wouldn’t have to look at you.

“...Thank you for saving me.”

He scoffed under his breath. “If you’d kept your promise to Marc in the first place, I wouldn’t have had to.”

It was the wrong thing to say. Your tone instantly sharpened with indignation. “I know what I promised him, but he—you got fucking shot! I wasn’t about to leave you to die!”

“Wouldn’t have died. Just a scratch,” he groused, contorting and tugging the hem of the shirt up to show you the unblemished skin there, smeared with tacky blood against his knuckles. “See? Missed.”

“They did not miss,” you told him matter-of-factly. “I saw Marc fall. There’s fucking blood all over you—I’m not stupid. Do not lie to me.” You stepped closer, then, pointing that same bloodied finger at him and poking him in the sternum. He bared his teeth at you, cornered with the alley wall at his back. “All that back there was something that you’ve got going on, wasn’t it? Marc hasn’t told me about anything like this.”

You were too goddamn smart for your own fucking good. “There’s a lot that Marc hasn’t told you,” he growled, “and for good reason.”

Your eyes flashed. “And I bet you’re the authority on all of that, aren’t you?”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” he snapped.

“I’ve noticed them being vigilant lately, but they won’t tell me what’s bothering them. Lots of private conversations—and no, don’t look at me like that, I didn’t listen in on them—and they get anxious when they’re tired or spacey. It doesn’t take rocket science to figure out why they’ve been walking on eggshells ever since you popped up in the coffee shop that night—”

Jake’s jaw dropped open. Things were rapidly escalating out of hand, faster than he could hold them together. “How on earth do you—?”

“Marc is many things,” you said lowly, “but he is not a man who glorifies in violence. It bothers him still to touch me on his bad days, much less brushing up against a stranger. He wouldn’t smirk when he knocks someone out cold—with the pommel of a knife, no less. Neither would Steven, for that matter.”

Jake squared his shoulders and folded his arms over his chest to brush your hand away, glowering down at you. “Why haven’t you said anything to them?”

“Because they haven’t brought it up. I don’t push them for answers that they don’t want to give me. I know it’s already hard enough for them to be open to communicating their thoughts and feelings between themselves—I don’t want to pressure them any more by adding myself to the mix.” You jutted your chin. “But if you’re going to keep putting them in danger, you need to let them know what’s going on so they don’t get caught off-guard again.”

“You need to keep your nose out of my business and let me do my goddamn job,” he ground out.

“It becomes my business when both of our lives get put on the line!” you returned. “And what exactly is your job, huh? Circus performer with a specialty in knives?” You tugged on the hem of the jacket, ignoring how he went rigid. “Where do you keep that costume so they don’t realize they’re wearing it, too, by the way? Because I know for a fact that Steven would’ve mentioned cosplaying as the fucking Mummy if he knew about—”

He gritted his teeth. “It’s not a costume.”

“No shit, Sherlock.” You raised a haughty brow. “Do they know you’re running around like an albino version of London’s Daredevil?”

He was not about to explain all of Khonshu’s business to you. You knew too much already, and if Marc and/or Steven even caught wind of the old bird still hanging around, Jake was done for. “They don’t know about me for a reason, chaparrita, and I’d like to keep it that way. They can’t know about me—it’s better for all of us in the long run—so if you’d very kindly just keep your trap shut—”

“You have to tell them about you,” you told him firmly, eyes blazing, “and about whatever vigilante shit you’ve got going on. It’s not fair to them—they think they’re free from Marc’s old merc work, and here you are using the body against their consent to do whatever it is that you please. Do you realize how much danger you’re putting them in carrying on with shit like this?”

“I am protecting them,” he bit back, a snarl building in the back of his throat.

“By getting them ambushed in a fucking alley?” you snapped. “Your involvement in this could’ve gotten all three of you killed!”

“That costume is the only thing that can keep them alive through anything!” Jake returned sharply. “They would’ve been fine!”

“And what about me?” you demanded. “What about my safety? I know I chose my lot once Marc told me about his past, but this is adding a whole new level to all this that I wasn’t prepared for! What if you hadn’t been there, lingering in the background, or—or however you knew to step in? Do I need to live my life looking over my shoulder just in case there’s someone tailing me, waiting to catch me off-guard long enough to hurt me to get to them thinking they’re you? How do you think they’d react if something happened to me out of the blue, just by my being around them and whoever it is you’re fighting, thinking you’re the same person because you share the same face? Even then, they’d try to get to the bottom of it, and they could get shot, or stabbed, or—or whatever, just by trying to clean up your fucking mess!”

“If you weren’t around being seen with our face in the first place, you wouldn’t be involved to start with,” he growled, “and I wouldn’t have to concern myself with keeping you out of harm’s way all the time! You’re a liability to them—if something happened to you, they’d lose their shit, and I can’t have that happen. You’re as much of a danger to their wellbeing as these fucking cabrónes are!”

You retreated then, hurt flashing across your features so fast he almost missed it, before you schooled your expression into something frigid enough that it sent a chill down Jake’s spine. You floundered for words, lips moving without a sound, and Jake’s fuse shortened by the second. You swallowed, then, and roughly tipped your chin up—in defiance, certainly, but Jake didn’t miss the shine of moisture welling along your lash line. “…Do they feel that way, since you do?” you finally ventured. “Somewhere deep down? That I’m just a burden to them?”

“No,” he sighed, tucking his head and scrubbing his hand down his face. “There’s not a thing in this fucking world that they wouldn’t do for you, chaparrita, or kill themselves by trying. That’s the problem. That’s what makes you so dangerous. They care about you far too much.”

“And you don’t, I take it?” you supposed tightly. “Is that your job? Not to care?”

Jake ground his jaw so tightly his temples throbbed. “Don’t put words in my fucking mouth.”

“Then tell me why, exactly, you’re so hellbent on hiding yourself from them when they’re already trying so goddamn hard to heal and work together? What gives you the right to opt out and do whatever you damn well please, spilling more blood on their hands at the same time they’re trying to wash them clean?”

“There’s nothing special about me,” he bit out, “and they don’t need me—because if they knew what I’ve had to do to keep them alive they’d never forgive themselves!” Your brows twitched up, and Jake snarled under his breath. “Mierda. Just stay out of my fucking business, will you? The less you know, the better. And do not tell them about this, or about me, me entiendes?”

“I am not going to lie to Marc or Steven, and it’s stupid of you to think that I would,” you told him resolutely. “Either you tell them, or I will.”

“Did you miss all of what I just fucking said?” he spat. “If they know about me, it’ll do far more harm than good. They have a hard enough time reconciling what they’ve gone through, I don’t need to add all my shit to it!”

“You’ve helped them survive what they’ve gone through,” you pointed out, and Jake’s breath stopped short. “I’m not stupid, despite what you may think. I can tell even now that your primary concern is their well-being. But don’t you think telling them that you’re here, and that you’re a—a what, a superhero?—wouldn’t that be better than keeping them in the dark?”

“I am not a hero, chaparrita,” he told you darkly.

“Well, you’re certainly not a villain,” you responded evenly—as if you were stating fact.

Jake scowled. “Did they tell you what happened in Egypt? What really happened?”

Your eyes flashed. “They don’t have to, it’s not really any of my business. I know it was hard on them and they don’t like to talk about—”

“We got shot. Twice. We died! And it was only that armor that brought us back!” Jake flashed his teeth. “Marc let the bastard that did it go, but I killed him. That’s the difference between Marc or Steven and I, chaparrita: I hurt those who deserve it and feel no remorse for it.”

You blinked, then, eyes rounded. Realization dawned behind your gaze, and when you looked sharply off to the side, a stray tear slipped over the curve of your cheek. Your expression tightened, and Jake could imagine that you were finally putting together all the fragments of what Steven and Marc had mentioned offhandedly about their time in Egypt.

Jake squeezed his eyes shut, sinking against the wall and dropping his head back against the brick. He dragged a hand down his face with a harsh sigh. He’d completely fumbled this entire situation. “...Mira.* If something were to happen to you, mis hermanos* won’t take it well.” He looked down at you, eyes half-lidded—meeting fire with fire obviously didn’t work with you. Even when Marc was being surly, you only listened when he stopped and lowered his voice. It didn’t take rocket science to figure out that you shut down when you were shouted at, based on the way you’d stared at him like a doe caught in headlights. “...Do you really care about them?”

Your head recoiled to stare at him critically. The vessels in your sclera were an agitated crimson. “Of course I do!”

“Then you’ll listen to me, all right?” He straightened and stepped closer, fingers flexing at his side while he repressed the urge to reach out to you. Seeing you upset was doing funny shit to him. (He didn’t like it. Not one bit.) “After what happened tonight, I can’t afford to wait any longer. I need to finish up my business as soon as possible—I spent too long investigating and biding my time to see when those guys would crawl out of their nest. They are dangerous, and I’m going to do my damnedest to tie up all those loose ends. All right? That means I can’t have you caught in the crossfire. And once I get done with that…” He shook his head, casting his eyes upwards briefly. “...then we’ll talk—you know, about…everything else. Do you understand?”

You glared at him for a long moment, lips pursed as you considered him. Finally, you nodded curtly, once.

He raised a brow. “Can you say it for me?”

Your temples flexed. “Yeah. I understand.”

“Buena nena.*” He peered around the corner just to ensure that the zealots hadn’t doubled back, then moved to the edge of the street and flagged down a cab. When they stopped, he gestured you over. You watched him warily all the while, glancing both ways. He reached for the door and grasped the handle, but you laid your hand over his. He froze.

“Please,” you murmured, pleading him with your gaze, “be careful. Keep taking care of them. Let me know if…if you need any help. If there’s anything I can do...” You squeezed his hand, then let it go. “I’d prefer you three to come back in one piece, you know.”

He swallowed roughly, then nodded. He opened the door, and as you stooped to climb inside, his hand curved around the back of your head. You glanced up at him in surprise, but once you were seated, he abruptly retracted his touch.

“I’m trusting you,” you told him. “I don’t want this to be the last time we meet.”

Jake gave you a rueful, wooden smile. “If you’re lucky, cariño*, you won’t ever have to see me again.”

He shut the door, waved off the driver, and shoved his hands into the pockets of Marc’s jacket. He watched the cab round the corner out of sight, closing his eyes briefly, and turned to start walking in the opposite direction.

Jake only had a limited amount of time to get his shit together before the other two became aware of the lapsed time or strayed too close to the front. Jake prided himself on his control, his ability to have kept Marc and Steven completely unaware of his goings-on for years at that point, but he had always operated in short bursts of time—never longer than a handful of hours unless both of his alters completely checked out, which happened so rarely that he could count each instance on one hand.

He prowled the city throughout that entire night, his armor shielding him from the cold that only worsened with every passing hour. He checked Steven’s phone and saw that you sent a text to notify him that you’d made it back to your apartment.

‘Let me know when you get home, too.’

Jake had pocketed it, too distracted by his internal debate on how to handle the shitshow that had escalated from an unfortunate bit of timing to respond to you, even when he did let himself back into the flat and showered off the sweat and blood caking their skin in the wee hours of the morning. He didn’t dare to sleep, just in case he oscillated back into the headspace, but there hadn’t been enough time before dawn had broken out to do so anyway.

He set back out shortly thereafter, deciding to hit up his usual haunts to gather any new information at all on the cult skulking around the gutters of London. 

Nothing. Not a damn thing.

The coffee at his favorite diner did nothing to alleviate the heaviness of his eyelids—the body had started to wear down from how frequently Jake’d had to take it out while Marc and Steven slept, just like it had months prior while Marc tried to maintain the facade for Steven. It was getting more and more difficult to manage. He wouldn’t be able to keep up for much longer.

…You were right, honestly. He couldn’t keep his presence a secret anymore—the boys were too hypervigilant, too aware of the lost time they both couldn’t recall. They’d pieced all the clues together now that they were in sync, and his anonymity was compromised. It was only a matter of time.

It didn’t make the idea any easier.

Even as he patrolled the streets in the heavy wool overcoat he kept folded in the passenger seat of his limo, his cap tugged down low over his forehead with a beady eye peeled for any sign of being pursued, the thought of their inevitable nuclear meltdown made him clench his teeth. If they knew about him, they’d never let him front again if they could help it—they wanted nothing to do with violence, and Jake was the epitome of it, its very last resort. They would do their damnedest to repress him, even though they still faced danger from Marc’s past—they would never truly be safe so long as those skeletons continued to linger in their collective and proverbial closet—and he���d lose what little autonomy he’d clung to by the skin of his teeth for decades.

So Jake made it his goal to at least clean out one of those skeletons before he was locked away into the recesses of the headspace—never again to experience those late night glimpses of freedom; to drive around in his own damned vehicle that he’d bought with his own damned money; to dress how he wanted in tailored and flattering garb that he knew made the body look as fine as hell; to indulge in the occasional drink, either his favorite merlot or a good old fashioned, since Marc didn’t keep alcohol in the flat anymore save to cook on special occasions…usually with you dictating the recipe and menu.

You, with your chirpy enthusiasm and unfettered smile and glittering eyes. You, with your impossibly soft hair that left the cloying scent of your products lingering on the pillow that you’d claimed as yours long after you left. You, with your unfathomable warmth and gentleness and kindness. You, tending to his brothers like a servant would her king with all the love of the wife you weren’t, your acts of service ceaseless and selfless and never asking for anything in return. You, who had interwoven yourself inextricably into their life without a clue as to the turmoil it would cause, all to make them feel less alone and lonely.

You, who, within minutes of meeting him, had not only called him out on the sole reason for his existence, but had also wanted to know his name, whether he was okay, and for him to be fair to his alters.

You did care about them—that much was obvious. Jake recognized it in your every single action and word and expression. You loved them, endlessly and without condition nor exception. You gave them your all, always. It was something Jake had doubted that they’d ever be able to find after Layla—unquestionable and unflinching devotion and loyalty. The fact that you had refused to lie to his alters, as frustrating as it had been for him to accept that lack of control slipping further from his fingers with one more loose, unpredictable end, only cemented that. They needed you—as an anchor, as a scale, as a haven—without him adding chaos back into the mix.

He spent the rest of the day stalking the lower ends and outskirts of the city, keeping his ear to the ground in effort of catching any signs of where the zealots had reclused themselves. By the time the sun descended behind the lines of skyscrapers, he could scarcely keep his eyes open. In a last ditch effort, he visited the underground bar on the docks where he used to frequent more often to gather intel—and luck finally found him.

“Yeah, had a few skulky bastards come through a couple days ago,” rasped the grisled barkeep, three knuckles deep into a bear stein with a rag too stained to do much good in the realm of cleaning. “They thought they were being quiet, but I don’t think they realized the walls are designed to be reflective. Kept messing with their tats, talking about their ‘lady’—they’re lucky I didn’t toss them out of here for scaring off a few of my customers.” He raised a wiry silver brow. “Ought to be on some freaky shit to get their bluff in with all these blokes.”

The clientele of that particular establishment were indeed among the roughest bunch whom Jake had ever orbited—London was a central point for all sorts of illegal shit to take place, and under-the-radar dives like The Silver Scale brought them flocking in like flies to roadkill. Jake had known about it, but Khonshu had become particularly fond of the bounteous amounts of information that could be gleaned there—though the old bird never did help lessen the dents to Jake’s wallet.

“They mention where they went?” Jake inquired quietly, rolling the rounded ice in the crystalline tumbler through the cognac winking in the watery amber lighting framing the mirror mounted behind the bar. The myriad bottles of liquors and spirits cast stained glass streaks across the polished mahogany under his folded arms. The place was virtually empty at so comparatively early an hour, save the janitor sweeping off the stage further inside, but one could never be too careful when it came to Jake’s line of work.

“Suburbs, east side,” rumbled the older man. “Abandoned factory across the river. They were complaining about the rail being bumpy on the way here.”

“Gracias, Grizz,” smiled Jake, drawing his wallet to slap an impressive note upon the countertop. “I owe you one.”

“You owe me more than one, coming in wanting whiskey this early,” griped the barkeep, but his eyes glittered as he pocketed the bill. “Watch yourself, amigo. Those bastards didn’t look the friendly type.”

“It’s not often I run into lawful citizens doing what I do,” the younger man returned. He finished the glass before heading for the door, sending him a two-fingered salute, and ascending back into the grimy alleyway above the place.

The air had grown colder in the scant ten minutes he’d spent inside, so Jake flipped up his collar against the salty wind racing past him and nipping at his ears. He turned to make his way back to the bus stop, whistling to himself. The day hadn’t been for naught, after all. Small mercies.

His stomach rumbled as he boarded the bus and retreated to the rear well away from the curious eyes of his fellow passengers. He sat, crossed his ankles, and folded his hands over his stomach while tipping his head against the chair. He closed his eyes briefly, biting down the yawn that tugged at his jaw.

Grabbing something to eat wouldn’t hurt before he scoped out the location—he’d need a plan of attack, so determining the zealots’ schedule would take first priority. There was a decent Thai place on the way, if the directions held true, and he could undoubtedly find a secluded rooftop to observe without issue.

So he did just that. He spent the majority of that night eating takeout, sprawled under a shadowed eave watching the fools with guns go about their business. They were disorganized, to say the least—putting their ringleader behind bars had obviously thrown them for a loop. It would play to his advantage, springing a surprise attack on them during their patrol change. If he played his cards right, he might even be able to infiltrate and take them down one-by-one without even notifying the whole lot.

Khonshu was pleased, nearly puffing his nonexistent feathers when he dropped by to check on Jake’s progress—the satisfaction in his tone only belied by his impatience.

“Why not strike now?” Khonshu growled, pointing the end of his staff towards the complex. “They’re clueless.”

“Because I’m half-asleep,” Jake responded mildly, “and you always get pissy when I have to use the armor longer than necessary. Don’t complain that I’m trying not to get riddled with bullets, pájaro viejo. Give me a nice long nap and I’ll have this all taken care of before you can click your heels three times.”

The god of the moon scoffed. “You’d best be thankful I possess the patience to allow you such creature comforts, Jake Lockley. I don’t always grant such privileges to you puny humans.”

Jake shrugged a shoulder and stuffed the empty carton into the sack at his side. “Don’t make me remind you just why you have to rely on us ‘puny humans’,” he responded dryly. He made a shooing motion. “Go on, I’ll see you back here later.”

The deity bristled at his insolence, but popped back into non-existence nevertheless, leaving a shower of dust to descend in his wake.

Jake roof-hopped all the way back to Steven’s apartment, opted to climb in through the fire escape rather than wait on the elevator, and took a five minute shower before collapsing face-first into the unmade bed without bothering to put on any clothes. He scoped the headspace as his eyelids drifted shut, relieved to find that Steven and Marc were both still secured and blissfully unaware.

He slept, hard and deep, unperturbed for hours. He awoke only when the orange sunset spilled across his eyelids.

He roused, groggy and disoriented, but still in the same position in which he’d drifted off. He scratched his temple and rose with a yawn, shuffling over to the closet to dig out the clothes buried in the very back that Marc or Steven had forgotten ‘they’ even owned. The scent of your detergent hit him like a wall, causing him to wrinkle his nose as he rubbed the pad of his thumb over the softened material. With a scoff he dressed, cleaned up, and gathered his things piled onto the rim of the sink—Steven’s phone included.

He picked it up with half a mind to place it on the charger, but his brow inclined when he spotted the condensed stack of notifications glaring up at him in the dim of the apartment’s shadows.

“Ah, por el amor de Dios,*” he muttered, tapping on it to expand them. He had intended to respond to your first message, truly—but once he zoned into his work, he often forgot about anything else going on around him. ( Nevermind the fact that he didn’t have anyone with whom he had to check in on his whereabouts. ) “Chatty thing, aren’t you, chaparrita ?”

‘Let me know when you get home, too.

‘Just checking on you.

‘Made it home okay?’

All within the same couple of hours the night before last. He figured you fell asleep, because the timestamps skipped to the previous morning.

‘I’m guessing you fell asleep, too.

‘Good morning.

‘Make sure to eat something.

‘Do you need anything?’

No wonder Steven’s phone plan cost so much, if you talked to him this often. Jake scrolled down, lips thinning as his eyes skimmed through your sweet, if misplaced, little prods into his well being. As the hours progressed, the more urgent in tone they grew, and he supposed he ought to have felt guilty about worrying you.

With a blustering sigh through his nose, he swiped the device open and opened the app to return a message of his own, directly after your obviously distressed, ‘Please tell me you’re not dead!’ sent during your lunch break.

‘Not dead yet. Long day.’

He watched the bubble ascend, then waited for the ‘delivered’ tag to appear before shutting it off and plugging it in to charge.

He rummaged around the fridge for some grub, stomach rumbling all the while, and discovered a pair of containers for meals you’d labeled as ‘vegan’ for Steven and as ‘beef’ for Marc. You’d gotten into the habit of, while cooking, making the majority of the dishes compatible with both their vegan and kosher preferences, cooking suitable animal products separately so Marc could get his choice of protein and so Steven didn’t have to worry his conscience. Jake could only imagine how much of a hassle it was, thinking about you having to research foods that could be altered in such a tedious, if thoughtful, way.

He ate half of both portions cold and arranged the leftovers to appear mostly untouched.

Clothed to combat the chill with suitable mobility and fed well enough that he’d be able to concentrate for the time being, Jake locked up the apartment and picked his way down through the complex onto the ground floor. The vendors had all packed up and headed home already due to the rapidly darkening evening, so he thankfully didn’t have to deal with them hawking their wares at him.

Jake wandered onto the street that would lead him to the train station, whistling as he stuck his hands into his pockets, and realized that he’d left Steven’s phone.

He didn’t need it. He didn’t use one at all—even the old burner Marc still kept ‘for emergencies’. But…he didn’t know if you had responded to his text.

He wasn’t about to make a round trip back, already several blocks away, but…he could afford to take a quick detour—even if it was the last thing he wanted to do.

He made his way onto the next bus instead, meeting the skeptical glances of the other passengers with a level, challenging gaze of his own. It was enough to deter their scrutiny, and he thought he heard several sighs of relief as he stepped out of the vehicle at the entrance of the museum district.

While he hadn’t fronted but very briefly in the spot, Steven—and, more recently, Marc—had frequented the address enough that it may as well be imprinted into their brain. He knew you usually worked evenings, so he figured he should at least pop in so you wouldn’t attempt to file a missing person’s report (again) in the event that you hadn’t seen the message.

The coffee shop was virtually empty, not really a surprise given it was the start of the week and most people were eager to return home after work. The music muffled the low chatter of the loose clusters conversing scattered around the floor, and only one barista stood behind the counter cleaning some of the equipment. She glanced up from her work as the doorbell jangled to signal the arrival of a newcomer and smiled when she spotted him.

“Hey, Marc!” she beamed, setting down the pitcher and waving him over. “You just missed her—the boss sent her home early since it’s slow. She’s been antsy all day and we figured she was stressed out about uni.” She gave him a once-over, grinning. “Dapper ��fit you got there. Trying out something new, are we? I’m sure she’ll love that.”

“Oh, it’s just something I had lying around,” he returned smoothly, slipping into the Chicagoan drawl as easily as the fitted gloves on his hands. “How long ago did she leave?”

The girl glanced at her watch. “Oh, about half an hour ago. She mentioned something about seeing you this evening.” She waggled her brows. “Is that why you’re all dressed up?”

“Something like that,” he responded, although his first reaction was to sigh. What part of ‘once I get done’ did you not understand? “Thanks for letting me know.”

“No problem!” she chirped, waving as he departed.

Jake should really head out towards the location Grizz had given him, given the sun was almost gone. If he didn’t get there soon, Khonshu was liable to hunt him down and nag him until he did. But he’d already gone this far, and your apartment was actually on the way, so…

He was fortunate that he’d had the foresight to at least memorize the way to your residence—only on the off-chance that he’d have to go there. For emergencies. (Of course.)

He didn’t run into any of your neighbors on the way up. The hallway was empty, dim, and silent due to the late hour. He whistled to himself as he wandered down to your door, mentally girding himself for the onslaught that were certain to follow—you would interrogate him for his lack of updates, no doubt, if you weren’t expecting Marc or Steven to be the ones showing up. He’d have to break the news that he still had to borrow the body for a while longer. You would wonder why he had even bothered to come.

Why had he bothered to come?

The boys would have wanted to check on you, regardless of the situation, and that would serve as a suitable enough excuse—to make sure you weren’t falling apart without clinging to their arm for several hours a day to the likes of which you were accustomed.

…Yeah, who was he kidding? Who was he even trying to deceive anymore? What was even the point, and what was he trying to prove? You’d seen through him within minutes of meeting him—the decades, now, of building up such a careful veneer…fractured in moments.

You really were too good for them.

Jake lifted his gaze from the atrociously patterned carpet (because who in their right mind would pair navy and chartreuse?) and lifted a hand to press the bell mounted next to your door, but his eyes caught on the sliver of light snaking over the curve of his polished, leather shoe. His eyes rose higher, higher, taking in the narrow gap in the doorway until they settled on the door knob.

Or what used to be the door knob.

The jamb was fractured, the lock broken, and Jake’s hand flew to the holster beneath his coat resting against the small of his back.

The door groaned its grievances as he pressed it in, eyes trained on the interior as it was slowly revealed to him. Vague, secondhand recollection of the layout informed him that things were most certainly not set to rights. The couch was askew, partly dragged away from the wall. The vase you always kept the flowers the boys gave you on the coffee table lay in shattered shards scattered across the rug beneath the sitting arrangement. The television still flickered with whatever you’d been watching, casting flashes of blue and white across every surface.

Jake’s teeth twinged and he forced the clamp of his jaw to release as he investigated the rest of the apartment with methodical sweeps, the barrel of pistol trained directly ahead of his every slow, silent step. The bedroom and bathroom were untouched and empty. The kitchen was the source of the light, and he had to turn off the burner beneath a boiling pot of water—ingredients for some variation of pasta littered the counter, abandoned without warning.

Jake had managed to remain calm until he rounded back into the main room for a second look and spotted a smear of blood on the opposite end of the coffee table that he had missed the first time—on the corner, having dripped onto the rug, already congealing and oxidizing.

“Esos hijos de puta se van a arrepentir de haber hecho esto,” he hissed, stalking out again.

He was lucky—so fucking lucky—that he’d gotten the location for the zealots’ compound before he’d relented to see you.

He couldn’t recall a time that he had hopped rooftops so quickly (usually preferring to travel on his own terms, much to Khonshu’s perpetual frustration, despite the traffic that always slowed things down), using the tattered cloak to glide over the longer distances and across the river. Most of the city had settled in for the night, but he couldn’t care less if he was spotted tonight. The moon was a cold presence at his back, wordlessly observing the seething predator rapidly closing in on his prey.

It was one thing to attack you under the guise of petty theft. It was another to ambush you with Marc there—he couldn’t blame them for that, trying to kill two birds with one stone was far more efficient. But to track you down all the way to your home and to kidnap you when you weren’t even involved, just as a cheap shot in an attempt to get under his skin? That was another fucking thing entirely. (He couldn’t say that it hadn’t worked.)

He spent just enough time on the same balcony as before, observing the front of the compound. There were no signs of lookouts or guards, and the sinking feeling in his gut told him that it was not a fortuitous turn of events.

Jake rolled as he leapt to the ground, slipping into the shadows and using the blade of a crescent dart to slice through the barbed fencing linked around the exterior of the warehouse. He had no luck jimmying the chain lock keeping the doors shut and had to scale several rotting crates to climb in through a crumbling window. Bits of glass clinked against the scaffolding beneath his feet, the only sound indicating his presence other than his pounding heart.

A group of armed men stood talking in hushed tones in the center of the cluttered floor. Shipping containers, barrels, crates, and dilapidated, rusting equipment kept them mostly hidden without giving ample enough room for him to guarantee killing shots. He would have to engage them directly, but that would risk alerting the rest of the compound.

He crept along the railing to scope out the place further, assured that they hadn’t noticed his entry.

A gaping garage door at the back of the warehouse opened up to a series of sheds that had evidently been converted into their base of operations. He peered through a fractured window to see even more people armed to the teeth, not as mindful of the noise they made. Their conversations told him exactly what he needed to know.

You were being kept in the furthest building, crouched low under the awning of another empty factory looming over the wrinkled sheet metal. You were still alive. They weren’t keen on keeping it that way for much longer.

There was no way for him to get any farther without someone spotting him.

Mouthing a curse beneath his mask, Jake glanced back into the warehouse behind him for a distraction of some sort. Some vehicles were parked in the corner, surrounded by equipment…including gas cans.

He’d have to act quickly.

Jake summoned two darts, clamping one between his teeth and using the other to cut a strip from his cloak. He tied it tightly around the gleaming metal, then reached under the folds of the armor to dig out his lighter. He took the first dart, found his target, and sent it whistling through the dark with a snap of his wrist.

The sound of it sinking into the plastic and immediately causing the fuel to dribble freely onto the floor drew the attention of the first group. They couldn’t see as well as he could, however, and were forced to use their flashlights to try to find the source of the noise.

He only had seconds to act before their alertness turned outward.

Jake flicked the lighter to life, ignited the ancient gauze, and flung it after the first.

The eruption of flame and smoke rocked the entire building on its foundation. Smoldering debris rained down upon the zealots, sending those furthest from the blast scurrying away from the fire despite their varying injuries. Jake picked them off one by one using their disorientation to his advantage.

By the time the rest of the troop arrived, shouting and bearing their weapons like teeth, enough fabric and melting plastic had covered the vehicles to cause a secondary explosion. This didn’t kill any of them, unfortunately, but several were felled and incapacitated by projectiles of glass and metal and wouldn’t pose much of a threat until he could give them their due attention.

Jake dropped down behind the brunt of them, more crescents in hand, and was able to cut down two before the others grew wise to his sudden appearance. A peppering of bullets sunk harmlessly into the armor, the muzzle flashes only aiding him in locating each cultist.

All thoughts save those pertaining to your safety faded by the wayside as the majority of his faculties focused on combat and survival. This lot was sloppier, less skilled, than all the others he’d faced before (probably because he’d picked off all their good fighters over the last few months). Their efforts to gang up on him were admirable, but they were simply no match for the advanced strength and agility Khonshu’s armor afforded him.

By the time he emerged from the warehouse, his armor was speckled with blood seeping into the aged gauze. Cursory glances into each shed as he passed them informed him that they were lifeless. It wasn’t until he approached the farthest that any more movement stalled him.

Those bastards that had tried to chase the pair of you down nights before met him in the doorway, and past their brawny shoulders he could see you tied to a chair in the center of the room, a sack slung over your head with coarse rope binding your limbs.

“Last chance to back out alive, pendejos,” Jake growled, fingers tightening around the dripping blades.

They only smirked and raised their automatics towards him.

Jake smirked. “Good. I wasn’t really looking to let you go after pulling this shit anyway.”

Despite their size, he made quick work of them. As the last one collapsed, Jake kicked aside the limp corpse and whirled on his heel to hurry over to you.

You stiffened as he knelt in front of you, resisting his investigative pat-down to make sure you were still in one piece with a tense sound of protest.

“Hey, hey, it’s me,” he said, reaching up and snatching the sack from your head and chucking it vehemently over his shoulder. “Calm down. It’s over.”

Your pupils, blown from the dark, didn’t adjust properly to take in his concealed face. Tacky blood had dried in a trail down the arch of your cheek from your temple, crusting some of your hair to your skin. Bruising was already darkening the half-circle beneath your eye. There was a cut on your lip and your skin was reddened on the opposite cheek—damning evidence of an unrestrained, backhanded slap with a ring if he’d ever seen it.

The ringleader had one shaped like an alligator skull on his pinky.

He allowed you a moment to regain your bearings, cutting away your bindings and grasping your elbows to bring your stiff arms forward. He gritted his teeth at the sight of your wrists, chafed raw and oozing fresh blood, but forced himself to focus on the task at hand. He raised his eyes back up to your face, watching you blink away tears under his scrutiny.

“You okay?” Jake demanded, cutting your ankles free before tugging you up onto your feet. You wobbled as your knees gave out, but his grip on your waist anchored you against his front. He pushed the sweaty strands of hair off of your drawn, grimy face, then snapped his fingers inches from your nose to pull your haunted gaze away from the bleeding bodies littering the concrete just outside. “Hey, look at me. Yeah, that’s it. There she is—good job.”

You sank into him at his soothing tone, relief finally bleeding into your features as you gradually slid back into lucidity. “Marc?”

He willed away the mask, offering you his grim expression. “Try again, chaparrita. Marc’s still not home.”

Your brow furrowed, and some apprehension returned to your frame—much to Jake’s chagrin. “I…you’re…you.”

“The one and only.” He jerked his chin to the side. “Tell me what they did.”

You swallowed roughly, sucking in harsh breaths, trembling all over—but you still tried to speak for him, even as your shaking hands curled into the ragged bandages interwoven over his chest. “They…they kept talking about a sacrifice to their goddess—Ammit? I think they said Ammit? To try and bring her back to them.” You dropped your uninjured temple against his clavicle, squeezing your eyes shut. “They—they had these weird tattoos on their forearms and kept grabbing my wrists and chanting something—something about ‘the scales’, and ‘balance’, and…a ‘paradise on earth’? And—and nothing would happen and they’d get pissed and—they knocked me out. I don’t know what they wanted, and—” A sob finally tore itself from your lips, and the tears spilled over your cheeks. “I tried to—to tell them that I didn’t have anything, or knew what they were talking about, but they—they wouldn’t stop, wouldn’t listen, and—”

“Hey, hey,” Jake said, reaching up with one gauntleted hand to pat your bruised cheek lightly—a grounding touch against your racing mind and snowballing panic. “Tranquila*. It’s over. Let me get you out of here.”

You nodded hesitantly, but went rigid when he stepped back from you, reaching for him again seemingly on instinct—Jake bit back his grimace, offering you a hand for some modicum of comfort. You took it without complaint, squeezing hard enough that his knuckles ground together. He didn’t utter a word against it—didn’t have the heart to.

Not when all this was his own damn fault.

Jake tugged you close to his side as he went, shading your eyes like a horse’s blinders whenever he’d walk you through the carnage he’d wrought tearing his way to get to you. You kept your eyes resolutely forward, only daring to glance up at him out of the corners of your peripheral when he’d grumble curses in Spanish while having to step through puddles of blood and viscera. He almost pitied the city officials who would have to clean it all up—because for as much racket as they’d made once they’d discovered his presence (not counting his own method of distraction), he was surprised the cops hadn’t already showed up.

Once he got back to the warehouse, now openly engulfed in an inferno unfit to approach, he bundled you up into his arms in spite of your squeak of surprise and glanced up towards the moon with a glare.

“You made quite the mess of things.”

Jake glanced over to the top of a neighboring building discerning the moon god’s silhouette against the background of the celestial body he represented. ‘Later,’ he mouthed. ‘Get us out of here. Now.’

“Don’t say I didn’t warn you that she would end up involved,” Khonshu growled, but a flick of his wrist resulted in a draft of wind strong enough to scoop the pair of you up into the air and into a current high above the city.

To your credit, despite your petrifying fear of falling (confessed with some embarrassment to Steven while going down a set of grated metal steps that reduced your knees to pudding), you didn’t scream for it to stop or beat at his shoulders to put you down. You only shut your eyes tight, clung to him as tightly as you could, and gasped as the unpredictable turbulence would jostle him.

Landing on the fire escape was no easy feat, and prying the window open with you petrified was made even more difficult by the fact that he’d forgotten that Marc religiously kept them all locked like the paranoid prepper he was.

“Come on,” he muttered, rearranging you to stand next to him on the narrow, creaking platform. “Give me a minute. Need to jimmy this.”

You pressed your back against the brickwork and kept your stare fixed resolutely on the cityscape sprawling out before you, eyes glazed over. The shock had definitely set in.

Jake got the window open after a few moments with a blade and steadied you as you climbed inside, following suit and finally allowing the armor to dissipate. You sank onto the bed, propping your elbows on your knees and dropping your face into your hands with a shaky sigh. He moved wordlessly to the bathroom, fetching the first aid kit that Marc kept well-stocked with all his remaining military supplies. You flinched when he set it down next to you, popping the lid and fishing through the various packets and ointments.

“Here,” he murmured, kneeling at your feet and patting your hands. “Let me see.”

You glanced down, still mostly absent, as your tone was distant. “Your gloves are cold.”

So they were. The fine leather did well to keep his hands warm, but the exterior didn’t fare so well. Jake stripped them off and tossed them onto the duvet on your other side, scrubbing his palms together for friction and blowing into them for good measure. Only faint green blotches of his earlier brawl remained under his knuckles after the armor had done its work.

You didn’t complain as he tended to your wrists first, applying antiseptic lotion as carefully as he could manage while ensuring an even coating, wrapping them in gauze, and studying the similar bruising on your own hands. You must’ve perceived his bemusement because you whispered, “I tried to fight them off. I did. Marc’s taught me a lot of stuff I didn’t already know before.” You swallowed and glanced away. “Didn’t do a whole lot of good.”

Jake’s glower seemed only to cause you to retreat even further inside of yourself, and that was the last thing that he wanted. “You did good,” he told you firmly, squeezing your hands with contrasting gentleness. “Saw the shiner on that bastard with the ring. Proud of you.”

Your lashes fluttered shut and you shook your head.

Jake set about cleaning up your temple and face, wiping away the blood with a warm, damp washcloth before patching up the laceration and blotting your lip with more ointment. There wasn’t much he could do for the hemorrhaging, but when he asked if you wanted an ice pack, you refused. He suggested that you change into something different—something clean, something warm, something untouched by those horrid caricatures of so-called peace-seeking humanity. It gave him enough time to hole up in the bathroom (with the divider cracked, just slightly, in case you needed him), to put away the first aid kit, and to recenter himself by splashing his face with cold water at the sink.

The two sets of umber eyes staring back at Jake—baleful and shellshocked, respectively—from the folded mirror’s parallel surfaces certainly did not assist in calming his thrumming blood pressure.

Finally decided to show yourself, didn’t you? muttered Marc darkly. What in the hell did you get involved in?

“Only taking care of the rest of Harrow’s cult,” Jake returned evenly, stomach pitching towards the floor. He braced himself on the edges of the sink and hunkered down, eyes shifting between his host and his fellow alter. “Since you two were too busy playing house to clean up the rest of the mess you started.”

You’re the one who finished him, aren’t you? Steven ventured quietly. Harrow. You did that.

“Neither of you had to dirty your hands,” Jake responded, “and the world is rid of that crazy son of a bitch. I see it as a win-win.”

They’re our hands, too, you know, Steven murmured despondently, looking away.

The same hands you’re using to touch our girl, Marc growled. Stop it. If you hurt her, I’ll—

“I just saved her life,” Jake bit out, “no thanks to the both of you turning a blind eye to everything going on right under your noses. Why do you think that she got attacked at the coffee shop, huh? Or that you both got ambushed? People didn’t miraculously stop recognizing our face after what went down in Cairo. It was inevitable that she got roped into all of our shit.”

Why the hell would you even get involved, anyway? Marc seethed, bristling. I don’t see how it’s any of your business.

“It became my business when you put all three of us in danger time after time just because you were so desperate to hide from your problems,” Jake shot back. “Or need I remind you why exactly you two had to have a literal goddamn heart-to-heart after you got us shot?”

Both of their faces blanked with surprise, suspicion and confusion, then dawning, horrified realization. The second sarcophagus hadn’t been a coincidence.

“We can finish the rest of this later,” Jake sighed heavily, dragging a palm down his face. “‘Your girl’ is shaken up all to hell and I need to make sure she doesn’t succumb to her concussion.”

Give me the body, Marc demanded, right now!

You can’t keep us trapped in here, Steven said tersely, but Jake could easily perceive the underlying apprehension in his tone.

“Give me until the morning and you can have her back, all to yourselves,” Jake said, turning to the divider and curling his hand around the handle. “I never meant to get involved in your little domestic fantasy anyway.”

So wrapped up in the ordeal of finally interacting face-to-face, as it were, with his alters was he that he hadn’t even realized that you’d been standing just on the other side. You flinched and stepped back half of a step, but the resolution on your face didn’t waver.

“Thank you,” you told him.

Jake frowned. “It’s our fault you ended up like this in the first place, chaparrita.”

“No, not this,” you replied, wringing your hands. “I mean…for talking to them.”

Jake stared at you, lips parting.

You gazed up at him, gauging, shifting between his eyes as if you could see past them into the paracosm of their jumbled mind. You reached up, slowly, expression easing into something tender as you cupped his cheek and stroked the pad of your thumb over the high arch. Jake’s skin scrawled, at first, from the unfamiliar sensation, but the ghostly echoes of that same touch pressed heavily on the back of his inherited memory.

“Marc, be kind to him,” you said softly. “And don’t fret, Steven. He doesn’t mean any harm. He’s taken as good care of me as you two have. He can stay for as long as he wants, as long as he learns to share and to take turns, too. He’s just as welcome as you two are.” You tilted your head and studied his features once more, memorized yet brand new. “It would help if we had a name to call you by, though.”

They were still co-fronting, if the weight of their presence on his consciousness was any indication.

…She has a way with that, Marc said quietly. Like she can see right through us.

Stops bein’ frightenin after a while, though. You get used to it, Steven added thoughtfully. It’s kind of refreshin’, actually, not havin’ to worry about keepin’ up appearances.

And all at once, the tension drained from Jake’s body, and he sank into your caress and shut his eyes. The stifled warmth in his chest crescendoed into frissons breaking out across his skin, sending shivers ricocheting all over him. You weren’t afraid of him.

“Name’s Jake,” he muttered under her breath. “Lockley.”

“Jake Lockley,” you repeated, sending his heart beating wildly against his ribs. “Completes the set, doesn’t it?”

He cracked his eyes open, brow furrowing.

“Oh, you haven’t heard?” You smiled. “All good things come in threes.”

Maybe…just maybe, this wouldn’t turn out so bad after all.

[moralesmilesanhour]

arachnophobia

genre: horror-ish pairings: none summary: playing with the idea of miles and miles g's fates being inextricably linked to each other. also spidey senses but make it a little weird wc: 2,072 warnings: spiders (like one spider), canon deaths, brief mention of blood...and translated Spanish for like two sentences (shout out to SpanishDict) A/N: ngl...this didn't turn out to be as scary as I originally envisioned it. but I still hope you enjoy it anyway! pls feel free to reblog and leave ur reactions in the tags/comments if you do <3

The floor. The floor was on the ceiling, though nothing was falling.

Miles blinked as his eyes adjusted to the darkness of his bedroom. It would’ve been pitch-black if not for the street lamps and traffic lights providing a dim light source.

With careful steps, he moved to where his bed seemed to hang just above him, and let himself fall back onto the mattress. Again.

The sleepwalking began a year ago.

 Miles had just come home from school, and entered the bathroom to wash his face. No sooner had he turned on the faucet, he looked into the mirror and saw that his right eye was a coppery green. Stranger still, when Miles felt himself furrow his brows in confusion, his reflection’s eyes widened in surprise instead. That’s when he felt it on his hand.

A gangly, medium-sized spider whose legs took up about the width of his palm. The thing bit him just before he could slap it, letting its body fall limply to the tiled bathroom floor.

When Miles looked up again, both of his eyes were brown.

Not long after, Aaron Davis was found dead by his brother in a dark alleyway. No one had been charged yet for the murder - at least, no one who could be charged. The news reports just seemed relieved that another “criminal” was off the streets. It made Miles’ blood boil.

After the funeral, he rushed to the bathroom to escape the litany of “I’m sorry”s and whispers of “Jefferson’s boy” so as to not lose his mind before the day’s end. His eyes were bloodshot, still stinging with tears that he had tried so hard to hold back in front of his parents. Uncle Aaron would’ve wanted him to tough it out, right?

Heaving in front of the dirty mirror, Miles blinked, and the sight before him made his blood run cold. His reflection’s right eye was green again, and this time, a pair of cornrows seemed to brush his shoulders, framing a tired and gaunt-looking face.

 His face. And he looked angry.

“What the fuck…?” Miles muttered to himself as he held his own gaze.

“I should be asking the same thing,” his reflection replied in a muted, raspy voice, making Miles jump.“You did this, didn’t you?”

“Did-did what? I didn’t–”

“You killed him. I can feel it. Everytime you get hurt, every time you cry, your fear, your guilt, all of it–I can fucking feel it!”

Miles said nothing as his not-a-reflection began to tear up. 

It was technically his fault, wasn’t it? He ran to Aaron’s apartment for help, like a coward. It all went to shit after the fact. He didn’t dare ask about the autopsy results; Miles already knew what they would say. 

He’d watched the bullet blow a hole in his uncle’s chest.

“Yeah, you look guilty as hell right now,” said the not-a-reflection, shakily. “You got bit by something, right?”

Miles slowly began to back away from the mirror.

“H-how did you–”

The other Miles chuckled mirthlessly. “Felt a prick on my hand.”

“Y’know, I wonder…” he mused, venom seeping into his voice, “if it works the other way around.”

Miles squeezed his eyes shut.

“I’m dreaming. This is all a dream. You’re not real.”

His not-a-reflection smirked.

“We’ll see.”

After that day, Miles would begin to wander in the middle of the night, and end up standing in the hallway or in the kitchen. Sometimes he’d be woken up by his mother’s startled screaming, or realize that he’d gotten himself a glass of water. 

…And that was when his newfound twin was feeling nice.

One night, Miles woke up with his father’s strong arms wrapped around him, pulling him back from where he seemed to have been perched on the edge of the roof, like a bird ready to spring into action. Or a spider.

It was now the first week of sophomore year.

Miles could hardly stay upright as he rose to make his bed. Between the blaring of his alarm and all the bustling in the kitchen, his eardrums felt like someone was taking a baseball bat to them and hitting several home runs.

He squinted, and saw that the door was opening behind him.

“Mijo–oh, you’re up already?”

“Yup. I’ll be down in a couple minutes.”

“Alright, see you then. Don’t drag your feet.”

Once Rio gently shut the door, Miles realized that he wasn’t supposed to see things that were behind him.

School turned out to be even more of a nightmare; the swarm of students passing by in the hallways felt like a million invisible strings tugging each way. He finally reached his seat in homeroom, dizzy and irate, when one particular string seemed to tug at him. Violently.

His head snapped up.

“You got a twin brother, Morales?” A girl from his cohort last year whispered behind him, soundly oddly excited about the possibility.

“A new student will be joining us this week,” the teacher in charge of homeroom announced. As she read off of the attendance sheet, her brows furrowed. The woman even adjusted her glasses to do a double take. Miles knew exactly what for.

“That’s funny. We have another Miles Morales sitting right over there!”

The boy standing to her left was already staring across the room, directly at Miles. He felt his body temperature drop rapidly the longer he maintained eye contact with the other’s blank stare, so he looked away. 

Didn’t help much. Miles could still sense where he was going. He sensed a small shift in the light at the side of his head–not peripheral vision, but something more akin to the aura that surrounds your eyes when you get a migraine–moving to the back of the classroom.

This ‘twin’ started calling himself ‘Miles G.’ as the week went on, to preemptively avoid any inevitable confusion as his new teachers got to know him. There was never a point where he didn’t need to; the two Miles had all of their classes together, all except for fifth period. 

Miles G. tapped his pen on the desk impatiently as the professor explained the process of chemical bonding. He frowned when he noticed his leg bouncing on its own. It seemed that Miles was equally bored sitting in AP Literature.

That was where their similarities ended, though.

Friday afternoon, Miles was halfway through his daily school-issued PB&J when a painful jolt in his solar plexus nearly made him vomit it back up. The boy doubled over in his seat with a pained cry, and felt a warm liquid running from his nose. He looked down to discover that his uniform blazer was stained with little red dots.

“I’m telling you, I had nothing to do with it,” Miles explained frantically to the school counselor. 

The middle aged woman looked unconvinced, hands folded neatly on the desk in front of her.

“Then can you explain why both of your noses are bleeding?”

“He wasn’t there with me. I don’t jump people,” Miles G. chimed in, earning a glare from his counterpart sitting next to him. “What? I’m tryna help you.”

The counselor sighed. “Well, your teachers told me that they only saw one of you at the fight,” she turned to Miles. “So it seems like you’re off the hook. For now. You can go to class.”

The woman waved her hand dismissively as Miles shot up from his seat and stalked out of the small office and into the now-empty hallway. 

The encounter in the mirror at Uncle Aaron’s funeral suddenly came back to him:

“You killed him. I can feel it. Everytime you get hurt, every time you cry, your fear, your guilt, all of it–I can fucking feel it!”

Miles whipped around before the other could even say a word.

“Who the fuck are you?” he hissed.

Miles G. snorted. “You know who I am.”

“Why are you here, then? What’s your deal? Since you clearly exist.”

“You think it’s fair, Miles?”

Miles’ brows knit together in confusion. 

“What are you talking about?”

“I’m asking,” Miles G. took a step closer, “if you think it’s fair. That you get to sit up here comfortable while you have blood on your hands.”

The other boy looked away.

“...No.”

He nodded curtly, then brushed past Miles to go to class. “I’m here to make things fair.”

A pit began to form in Miles’ stomach as he let the words linger.

Miles G. was nowhere to be found amongst the sea of students spilling into the hallway when the final bell rang.

“Yo Miles, where’s your evil twin at?” asked Jason, current captain of the basketball team. “He’s supposed to hoop with us today.”

Miles shrugged. “I ain’t keepin’ tabs on him.”

The captain joked, “You’d better start. He could be outside framing you for murder right now!”

The group of boys surrounding him erupted into laughter as they all turned to leave. Miles couldn’t laugh; it was a little too close to the truth. 

“I’m here to make things fair.”

‘Fair’. ‘Fair’ meant leveling the playing field, evening out the score.

…Oh no.

With his heart in his throat, he threw on his jacket and bolted out of the building as fast as his long legs could carry him.

“I don’t know, Jeff, he’s just been…off, lately.”

Rio leaned her head on her husband’s shoulder. She was hardly paying any attention to the news flashing across the television.

“More than usual?” Jefferson laughed, earning him a smack on the shoulder.

“I’m being serious. He looks dead in the eyes, like he’s not getting any sleep. I’m just worried after what happened in the summer. Scared me half to death, that boy.”

He nodded solemnly. 

“I still don’t know how he managed to even find the roof with his eyes closed.”

“You think we should still take him to the doctor’s, just in case?”

“Maybe,” Jefferson looked deep in thought. “Y’know, that reminds me: A week before school started, I was in the kitchen grabbing a mug from the cupboard. With my luck, of course it slipped right outta my hands–”

“It better not have been my good mug.”

“That’s besides the point, honey. Anyway, Miles is standing right next to me, and he catches it the moment I drop it!”

Rio’s eyes narrowed. “What’s special about that?”

“He wasn’t even looking in my direction.”

“Hm. Now that I think about it, sometimes he does this weird thing where he turns around and says ‘hi’ to me–”

“--Before you even enter the room!”

“Exactly! It creeps me out, sometimes. I thought I was going crazy.”

“At least he’ll never get robbed.”

The sound of the doorbell interrupted their conversation.

“Speak of the devil,” Rio said as she rose from the sofa. “I’ll get it.”

Her son stood in the door frame, his small suitcase trailing behind him as he waved and began to haul it up the steps.

She took it from him before pulling him into a warm hug. 

“Hola, Mami.”

Rio pulled back to get a good look at Miles’ face. She made a tsk sound at the newly-formed bags under his eyes. The pimples were another story.

“¿Qué tal te fue en la escuela? You look tired.”

“Teníamos un montón de tareas,” he sighed. “The usual.”

“And you’d better be doing all of it. Now get in here, your father’s waiting in the living room.”

Miles kicked off his sneakers at the entrance while his mother set his luggage against the wall.

“Dad…?”

“Miles, my man! How’s it–oof!”

Jefferson could hardly get a word in before Miles went in for a second hug. He gave his son a pat on the back.

“Missed you too, buddy.”

Miles quickly pulled away with an awkward smile, opting to plop down onto the couch instead.

“I thought you didn’t watch the news anymore,” Rio teased as she sat down with him. “All that ‘negativity’.”

He laughed, “I’ll make an exception for tonight.”

“You hear that, Rio? We’re cool enough for him to hang out with us again,” Jeff remarked.

Miles was soon sandwiched between both of his parents, but it hardly felt cramped. He wouldn’t have it any other way. A comfortable silence fell over the three as their faces were illuminated by the soft glow from the TV. It was Miles who broke it again:

“How’s Uncle Aaron doing?”

[camlannpod]

Character Playlist: Morgan

Happy off-week! Episode 3 is coming out next Monday, so whilst we wait, here's a playlist all about my beloved Morgan Jones. Last time we posted about Dai, (you can find that playlist here), because episode 1 is very much his episode. Episode 2 is Morgan's, and as you might notice, she's on a much darker and spookier path than her found sibling.

Hurricane by Reuben and the Dark

I am broken, I am brave The way the body behaves I am free, I'm afraid A mirror of my mistakes

Morgan's been through so much. The Cataclysm was awful for everyone, but Morgan was traumatised long before the world ended, and things have just got worse. She is explicitly terrified of her own name in this new world - of what it means and could mean. She so desperately doesn't want to hurt people, and she's so terrified that she will.

2. Witch's Rune by S. J. Tucker

By earth and water, air and fire By blade and bowl and circle round We come to you with our desire Let all that is hidden now be found

Morgan Le Fay! Witch, sister, villain, survivor. Our Morgan is intimately familiar with the story of her namesake, and thinks of Morgan like a witch inside her, or a ghost haunting her. The whole gang have different perspectives on how the Names work, but our Morgan definitely sees it like a curse.

3. Sing of the Moon by The Collection

So we sing of the moon and the face that it hides Shining just half of its truth to our skies But bring me the sun that gives it all its light I don't want to just wait to die

Morgan is very much the moon to Dai's sun. I often think of them like a binary star system - they are completely inextricable from each other, and if they were ever separated they'd both spin out and be lost in chaos. Morgan is more shy than Dai, more reserved. He brings out her lighter side, but she's always aware of the fact that one day that will end.

4. Old Churchyard by The Wailin' Jennys

I know that it's vain when our friends depart To breathe kind words to a broken heart And I know that the joy of life is marred When we follow lost friends to the old churchyard*

Everyone's lost people, but Morgan most all. Most traumatically, she saw her younger brother Ben die in front of her - a fresh trauma from which she still hasn't recovered. Morgan doesn't fear death. She's not a practicing Christian (I think she's an atheist) but she sees it as a simple, restful end to a long and painful life. What she does fear is losing people - it's the thing she fears most of all.

(*Note at the end of the post)

5. Better in the Morning by Birdtalker

Tired and worn from the patterns I’ve carved I will do better in the morning I’m afraid of who I’d be without you I will do better in the morning

We'll learn more about Morgan's childhood later in the series, but suffice it to say that every day of her life, Morgan has gotten up and tried again. For me she's very much that image of hope with bloodied knuckles, forcing herself to stand up and get back into the fight. It isn't easy for Morgan to keep surviving, let alone to keep trying to be happy. But she tries, because Dai loves her, and she loves him, and he reminds her that life is worth living.

6. Pyrokinesis by 7Chariot

We could set the world on fire using only our minds Pyrokinesis we hurt each other without trying

The gang don't know if magic is exclusive to the Phenomena, or if it's even magic as we would describe it. They don't know if it's mushroom spores or something alien, science they don't understand, strange divinities or straight up magical powers. They also don't know whether or not Morgan has magic. If she does, it's not presented itself in any way that's obvious to her - beyond her nightmares. But she often has dreams about the monsters they've faced, and it's hard for her to untangle nightmares from trauma from dreams that might be more significant. Part of her worries that somehow she's making things real, and drawing the monsters closer to them.

7. Ghost by ZZ Ward

Hear the Devil call out my name Broken promises, burning flames Frozen hearts in a lover's grave God knows, darling, god knows I gave

Morgan's biggest enemy is herself. She's most afraid of herself - and Morgan le Fay. She's terrified of hurting people and losing control. But if she could ever just let herself be angry, even more outspoken - if she could relax enough to try and enjoy all the ferocious freedom of one of history's greatest witches? She could be incredible. And even now - she has the capacity for a ferocious kind of burning joy that she has stolen from everyone and everything that's ever tormented her. When she parties, she parties hard.

8. Mile Magnificent by Molly Ofgeography

An apartment when it's empty echoes lovely, bright and clean Sing odes to green-blue water that we stole so it comes free All things end, it's part of living; forest fires feed the trees Lift your glasses full of sunshine, sing a toast to gasoline And it feels like a good, good omen I've never been much of a good, good woman But good things are coming Good good things are coming

Morgan has always been kind of terrible at being 'a woman' - whatever that means. She's not demure, she's not obedient, gentle, or agreeable, and she's never been especially feminine. She's always been outspoken, blunt, short-tempered and direct - a woman who acts first and talks later. In the world before, that could be a problem sometimes - something she was insecure about, that made it hard to fit in (though figuring out her queerness helped a lot). In the apocalypse, all of these things are exactly why she survived, and there's a part of her that's determined to snatch a life from the ruins and the ashes.

9. We Will All Be Changed by Seryn

We can shape but can't control These possibilities to grow Weeds amongst the push and pull Waiting on the wind to take us

Every main character playlist in the show ends with this song.

*A note on Christianity in Camlann - I'm not a practicing Christian, I consider myself agnostic. But because I grew up in a Christian family in the UK, I am culturally Christian. However we might feel about it, Arthurian legends and British folklore are pretty inextricable from Christian influence. Christianity's been here a long old time, and we don't have a lot of reliable written sources that cover the pre-Christian period. As a result, some of the songs on these playlists contain Christian themes. I hope that isn't too troubling to people. To be very clear, all faiths deserve reverence and respect, and Christianity is far from the only religion practiced in Britain over the last 2,000 years.

[paperclipninja]

So I've been obsessing over Crowley's crank, and its significance in the way we've seen it utilised throughout the series so far. There has been some amazing commentary around its use as a tool and the way it plays into Crowley's creativity, but I keep fixating on the link between his use of it to start the nebulae, the fact Crowley can stop time and its function as a car starter (a car that is somehow connected to Crowley like it's an extension of the demon himself).

Is this all pure conjecture on my part? Absolutely. Might it get a little wackadoo? Highly likely. But I've been mulling over this darn crank for so long that I need just to get it out, so here goes.

If Crowley played a part in creating space (or a part of space), then he played a part in creating time. We know that space and time are inextricably linked and that space-time can bend and curve (full disclosure: I am absolutely not a scientist, just a tv nerd who likes reading about space and is obsessed with fictional characters, so apologies for the extremely rudimentary understanding or any inaccuracies!). While there are a whole lot of other fascinating impacts that things like gravity can have on time, my theory is that Crowley has the ability to play with time because he understands it in the context of the ever expanding universe that he had a hand in creating.

He knows the stars intimately; where they are located, how to get there, each pocket of the nebulae he created clearly mapped in his mind. So doesn't it make sense that Crowley can navigate time in a similar way? He can find those places where space-time bends or curves and grab onto it, draw it to himself in a time of need. He only uses the crank to restart time when with Adam, so perhaps this is because when he freezes time in that instance, he is freezing time in heaven and hell too, not just an individual person, and far more energy is required to get it going again. And just as his little part of space was started with the crank, he restarts time the same way. Because they are, in a sense, the creation of the same thing: re-starting time is simply a continuation of what he already set in motion when starting the nebulae.

(the other, perhaps slightly more tenuous and definitely less formed, idea is the link between Crowley giving light to the nebulae and speed of light in relation to stopping time, though that would also mean there would be no light or sound if there was some manipulation of the speed of light and a) that's not what we see happening during the time stops and b) my brain isn't big enough to comment further on this)

And so what of Crowley's beloved Bentley? Yes, the crank is practical in the way it literally starts the car, but if this crank is linked to time and space then it is also linked to matter and energy. You know what else is made up of matter and energy? Humans and animals (well, everything tbh so cars too, yes, but just stay with me here).

I'm gonna throw it out there that the human or pet-like characteristics we see in Bentley are a result of the crank being the source of the car's energy. The same crank that helped start the nebulae in which Earth, and therefore life, exists. The same crank that has been used to stop time in order to save lives, connected to space and time and energy and matter, all in the hands of Crowley, from his time as an angel through to his demon times. Angel, demon, the crank doesn't care, it exists as a tool with which Crowley can create on any scale.

Now I've thought a lot about Crowley's connection to the car, what does the crank have to do with the way he and Bentley are seemingly attached and communicate? It is undoubtedly a lot to do with him using his own powers and nothing to do with the crank, but his ability to sense what is happening when Aziraphale is in the car, for example?

If we're going to stick with the idea that Bentley is charged with life-like qualities as a result of receiving its energy from the crank, then perhaps it isn't a leap too far to suggest that Crowley remains connected to the car much the way he is connected to the stars and knowing where they are and what they're like at different times of the year. Because he helped imagine it. That energy source, the crank, was part of Crowley's inspiration and imagination coming to life, and so the Bentley houses those parts of him inherently. The car is an extension of him because it contains his energy.

So that might provide possible speculation as to how Crowley is connected to his car, but then how and why does Bentley change while Azirapahle is driving? Well, I personally like a choose-your-own-adventure approach to thinking about this one. Reasons Bentley changes for Aziraphale could include:

Just as humans or animals react and respond differently to different people/celestials (I assume??), Bentley is able to adjust its response depending on who is driving

Something about how the different energy and matter of Aziraphale might impact the car's response that someone with more science knowledge than me would need to talk about

Aziraphale and Crowley's energies are linked from that moment of creation, when they started up the nebulae together. And so, Aziraphale's energy is also a part of Bentley and Bentley recognises it when Aziraphale's driving and adjusts accordingly.

So that's where I'm at, a whole lot of questionable ruminations about a crank, a car, a demon and the universe. I mean, it could also just be that using a car crank to kickstart part of the universe is pretty darn hilarious, there's absolutely no deeper meaning or more to read into it. But that wouldn't be nearly as fun to write about.

[journey-to-the-attic]

most of my exposure to om is via jtta because i am very slow at playing both the base game and nightbringer, but with the whole "Sin Stuff" for lack of a better word, how would ik deal with the other brothers besides mammon and asmo (considering you've already done them) (i swear i tried to type a question mark here but my computer hates me and won't let me so just imagine i did)

ok so!! i am now caught up past satan's portion of the Sin Stuff, and i know that beel comes next, but i don't actually know how his conflict gets resolved - i actually really liked the way they did satan, but i can always do a bit more riffing off of that; as for the beel, i'll just be making stuff up!

i've just done those two since they're the ones that have canon material to work off, to keep more to the 'my take on nightbringer' theme rather than just Making Stuff Up

that being said - if you don't mind me just pulling thoughts out of a hat, do ask about the remaining three!

satan:

okay i already said this but i really do like the direction they took his version of the Sin Stuff in - after resolving the feeling that he doesn't belong with his brothers, it's a natural next step for satan to be conflicted about being able to stay - about keeping up and standing with them an equal ground

so, similarly to how to goes in canon, i think satan would need all his brothers there to pull him out

with the main difference being: it's not a situation where lucifer specifically acts as the final catalyst (again), but rather one where each of the brothers equally gives him reason to come back

i do think it's true that he thinks he just needs to surpass lucifer, but it's also incredibly important that his brothers are there too, so i think it's a bit of a mistake to focus purely on his relationship with lucifer

while yes, lucifer specifically is an intrinsic part of how satan starts out defining himself, and yes, satan himself remains convinced they are inextricably linked in this way - part of satan's nightbringer arc is him coming into his own, separating himself from the circumstances of his creation, and just living

he walks with his family, but he carves his own path forwards, just as the others do for themselves

anyway character studying aside (talked about that for longer than i meant to whoops):

i think ik's role in all this would be to remind satan that he stands on his own terms and abilities, rather than continue to force himself to link it all back to lucifer

in fact it's probably important that someone outside of the brotherly hierarchy puts in their own two pennies, and ik is the outside opinion satan values most anyway

so the stuff in satan's inner world mostly goes the same in the beginning - it's like a weird d&d situation, the brothers find gifts that they've given to satan around the world, and then finally they get to the centre and to satan himself

i might be remembering incorrectly, but lucifer doesn't have a gift within the plane, because he snaps satan out of it by giving him the gift at the end (the key to the forbidden books in the library)

now here's where the changes start: in our version, satan already HAS the key - but it's been 'forgotten' in his inner world, because satan, in his sense of inferiority, is pushing out the fact that lucifer has ALREADY demonstrated that he trusts in his abilities; lucifer only reminds him of this

now are you ready for something Super sappy?

satan's kept a gift from each of his brothers that is important to him. however, there is nothing from ik.

satan has remained trapped in his mind because he feels 'incomplete' - weak, powerless, inferior, unable to keep up

now this changes when the group confronts him. because ik IS the last gift

(i told you it was gonna be sappy)

here's the thing: each of the other brothers' gifts appearing in satan's inner world is both representative of their own care for satan as well as the value he places in their opinions of him - (lucifer's in particular also represents the respect he holds for the demon he's become)

it's about, like.. directions. satan's brothers take care of him because he is new and young, and they are watching him discover who he is; ultimately, the way they perceive him has been very dynamic, even if his place in the family has always been cemented. satan takes care of ik, who's always just seen him as... him. and loves him for it anyway.

so, rather than lucifer making a big speech and saving the day -all six of the other brothers would appeal to him together. who cares if you're still learning? who cares if you're not the best immediately? you're still pretty damn incredible!

i think ik would forgo the words entirely and just run to him as soon as they get to him - she'd be able to entirely bypass the dice system satan's inner world uses, because as a 'gift' rather than a 'player' like the other brothers, she doesn't follow the same rules

which is how satan himself makes that realisation, after the others bring up the fact that all their other gifts are here

beel:

right so i'm not properly caught up with beel's arc, so all i know is that one day, his sin sort of deactivates, and that barbatos's hypothesis is that his angelic tendencies are masking it

now i'm pretty sure this is just a theory, even within the story itself, but even so: i think that's BULLSHIT

beel is just an inherently kind being. assigning these traits to angelhood, giving some outside heavenly influence the credit, is quite frankly an insult to a good character that is CONSTANTLY getting sidelined in terms of the development he deserves

that being said i think it makes sense that barbatos would come to that conclusion. i just don't think he's right

personally, i'd put this down not to angelhood counteracting his demonhood, but to beel rejecting himself

(idk where beel's little d would fit into this but i guess he'd just reject that too)

beel definitely has trouble parsing his own feelings, and even more trouble verbalising them - and, because he's such a simple-hearted demon, his brothers tend to forget that he could need more than just comfort

it's similar to how belphie being babied probably contributed to how badly he coped with losing lilith in the original timeline: beel is similarly coddled, and once again it's Bad for him

we tend to forget that beel was a warrior in the celestial realm, and in the war in particular, he probably killed more than any of them - but his brothers never acknowledge this because... that's their baby brother

but beel himself can't forget that - but he never gets to talk about it because his brothers just don't understand how he feels about it

(this actually relates to the reason beel forgets in jtta - he remembers how he'd killed out of grief during the war, both for his brothers' pain and his sister's death, and he's terrified he could lose control and turn against belphie if he remembers the grief of ik's death)

beel's rampage in nb s1 would contribute to his own shame in regards to this - and he never gets closure on it, because in that time, the other brothers are all focused on assuring him that lilith's death isn't his fault on his hands, and don't think at all about all the blood that he very definitely does have on his hands

so, beel's Sin Thing is that he just shuts it down. no more avatar of gluttony.

it's a weird dichotomy between his gentle personality and that warrior's bloodlust, and he refuses to let the latter take over, so he tries to shut down all idea of 'evil' entirely

thus beel's solution would involve teaching him that 1. his gluttony is not is bloodlust, 2. he is not permanently stained because of what he's done, and 3. that his family will always trust him to protect them (and will protect him) regardless

(thus i think beel would need all the brothers there too)

i guess beel's inner world could be like... a food warehouse? but one where it's all dark and everything is locked up, you can't get to any of the food (i.e. you can't get to his gluttony)

oh! here's a good symbolic little thing: the other brothers' initial solution is just "oh, we need to get these things open and make beel some of his favourite food! remind him that he loves eating!"

which misses the point entirely, just as they have (unintentionally) done constantly before this

here's we get a bit dark: when they do break open the boxes and stuff, it's just filled with things like bloodstained weapons, broken armour, etc.

and it'd be at this point that they FINALLY realise what's actually wrong

i think ik would've had a suspicion about it before now, but this would confirm it

ok now this is kind of a corny solution but i think what would happen next could involve like... washing the blood from all those artifacts in the warehouse, generally cleaning up the place

the objects are all still there. those things still happened. but it isn't down to beel to repent for them forever - he has to move on

in this case it does make sense for lucifer and/or belphie in particular to be the ones who make the Grand Gesture that snaps him out of it

as for ik's specific role...

after they've cleaned, the warehouse would start getting lighter again - less cold and dark and sinister and all that

and ik finds some crates with actual good ingredients and such in them

and she would make beel a nice bowl of soup

the message being "i can't erase what you've done before, but you don't deserve to have all that cluttering up your mind forever. so i'm going to help you dust everything off and stow it away, and then i'm going take care of you because you DESERVE it."

[ssukidesu]

Inextricably Knotted (an Inukag + Jane Eyre AU) [Chapter 8]

Summary: Kagome Higurashi was orphaned as a baby and raised by her cruel aunt until the age of ten, after which she went to school and learned the art of service and self-suppression. Now eighteen, Kagome takes a job as the governess of Shippo, the young ward of the great and mysterious Lord Inuyasha Taisho.

But as Kagome gets to know her bemusing master, a ghost seems to haunt his estate, hinting that there is a long-lost secret hiding on the third floor.

(Read on AO3)

tag list: @heynikkiyousofine @xanthippe-writes

Chapter 8: An Unexpected Guest

Another week passed. Kagome managed to adjust to her subjection to not only the party’s gatherings at night but also its foul glances and slights during the day. Because of her consistent evening presence with them, Kagome could no longer successfully be ignored. Most of their attention came in the form of treating her like a servant. The ladies would ask her to refill their tea and wine, or to deliver letters to the courier, or to bring them their shawls when the fireplace did not offer enough heat. When Mr. Taisho was present to witness it, he would say nothing to deter them or correct the mistake. Just this morning, after Lady Kagura interrupted Kagome’s breakfast to ask her to fetch a quill and ink, the latter lifted her gaze for a brief second to her master across the dining room and found him already looking at her, an expression of quiet curiosity on his face. She could not stifle her look of annoyance toward him, and she could have sworn that his eye twinkled with entertainment in response.

Later that night, before Mr. Taisho joined them all in the drawing room, Kagome ascertained that Lady Yura had witnessed the subtle exchange. The demoness, who currently sat between her sister and Sir Koga, beckoned her over with a sharp smile plastered on her face. 

“Yes ma’am?” said Kagome politely, looking her squarely in the eye. 

“I’ve been wondering something about you. Would you mind satisfying my curiosity?” she purred.

Kagome’s eyes flicked to the two beside her and determined that they were not debriefed of her plot beforehand. Lady Kagura seemed to anticipate her sister’s words excitedly, while Sir Koga seemed more so to dread them, if his tight, cringing smile was any indication.

“If it is within my power, ma’am,” she answered.

Yura reclined in her chair and brought one gloved hand to trace the pearls gracing her pale neck. “How old are you?”

“I’ll be nineteen this autumn.”

The sisters shared a scandalously amused look. 

Lady Yura’s white teeth flashed an antipathetic grin of which only females were capable. “I had an inkling! How strange it is—to be teaching a boy only a couple of years younger than you. I do wonder how old you’ll be once he graduates from your tutelage. What will it take for him to reach adulthood—fifteen, twenty more years?”

Lady Kagura nodded in agreement. Kagome caught Koga staring at her with a look of smothered discomfort. She offered him a small smile, appreciative of his silent sympathy.

Lady Yura continued, “And, oh—how fragile the human constitution is! There are many who do not even make it to thirty five due to sickness. Can you imagine, sister, living only a few decades before being pursued by death?”

Kagome bit the inside of her cheek. “My lot is indeed less agreeable than yours, my Lady. In fact, I probably ought to conclude our conversing this instant to save myself the precious seconds that dwindle away as we speak.”

Her heart pounded at her own insolence. Lady Yura scowled at her, and in the corner of her eye, she saw Sir Koga stifle laughter. She would have flicked her gaze to him, had not another voice risen from behind her.

“Miss Higurashi, surely you know better than to encourage Lady Yura’s playfulness. You speak of precious seconds, but one does not trifle with her without a full hour to spare for the spar.”

Kagome turned at her master’s teasing tone, and had not her jaw already been clenched, it would have fallen open.

Mr. Taisho stood not three feet from her, his silver hair pinned in a simple yet masculine bun at the base of his neck, his braided forelocks draping along his jaw and secured beneath, much like the style she had performed on him months before. He quirked a brow at her speechlessness, a fond, knowing look telling her that he had succeeded in catalyzing the reaction he desired.

“You may return to your seat, Miss Higurashi,” he said.

Kagome gulped in relief at his command, pulling her eyes from his face and to the floor in one movement as she bowed her head once. She resumed her lonely place—Shippo having been sent to bed early due to a mild sickness—and picked up her book again. As her eyes traced the words, her master’s voice sabotaged her focus.

“I’ll be erranding to town early tomorrow. Would that I could stay up gallivanting with you all till dawn, but I must retire if I’m to survive the trip. You can stay up as late as you wish; just tell the servants when you are turning in so they can put the drawing room to rest.” 

Kagome peered up at him curiously, wondering if he had the audacity to expect her to stay until the rest of the party left. Mr. Taisho strode toward the door, which was near her seat, and before she could begin lamenting her charge, he paused, leaned down toward her, and muttered pleasantly, “You can retire whenever you like, as well.” With that, he continued out of the room and to the right. The door closed behind him with a soft click.

Was that his way of being subtle? thought Kagome in horror as she felt the weight of the room’s scrutinous eyes. Lady Yura managed to school her features, but Kagome felt the very air between them darken with a new shadow that no doubt spelled future trouble.

As much as Kagome feared the thought that the group saw through his faux dismissal, she did not feel at liberty to play dumb herself. She closed her book, stood, bowed her head once more, and exited the room. She even turned left upon leaving to make it appear like she was not following him; not until the door closed behind her did she timidly spin on her heel to begin her true pursuit.

Which did not take long—for he, too, had only pretended. He was waiting on her, back against the wall and arms crossed. The amused smirk on his face told her that he saw her little ploy to throw off his guests during her exit.

Blood rushed to her face. Careful not to outright stomp, Kagome approached his relaxed form. She was just about to demand an explanation when he held up a shushing finger and kicked off the wall. His back to her, he led them on. 

Once they passed the bend and gathered a safe distance from the parlor, he spoke: “I need you for something.”

“At ten thirty at night?”

“As I said,” he began, turning his head to glance goldenly at her, “I’m leaving early in the morning. I’d rather not wait.”

“And you didn’t see it fit to approach me during my working hours?” she drawled.

“I’ll add a pound to your wages for the trouble,” he said sardonically.

Kagome was curious, yes—but as it became increasingly clear that he was leading them to his bedroom, the pounding of her heart almost became too much to bear.

Upon reaching his door, he stood within the frame and held it open for her. She moved to pass through the narrow path without making eye contact, but he held out his arm just in time to stop her. She peered up at him quizzically and found all evidence of humor gone. “Still think I might be the kind of savage to tear apart unsuspecting humans, do you?”

Kagome opened her mouth to protest, but his glare silenced her. “I could have heard your heartbeat from a mile away. You earnestly think I’ve brought you here to harm you? If that were so, I’d at least raise your salary by five pounds for the trouble,” he teased.

Kagome pouted in defense. “It is strange being beckoned to a man’s quarters so late at night.”

In response, he lowered his arm to allow her passage.

The fireplace and lamps were lit, basking his room in a warm orange glow. Once inside, she stopped after only a few feet, her nerves whispering to stay as far from his couch and bed as possible—not that her logical brain suspected foul intent on his part, but she felt a spirit of wildness that made her jittery and unknowable to herself. 

He passed by her and walked to his desk. He shuffled through papers a moment, scowling at every letter that did not prove the item of interest, until finally he found his prize. She could not see it from where she stood, but once he returned to his place in front of her, she saw that it was a small envelope.

“It came this afternoon. It’s addressed to you,” he stated, extending it.

She did not immediately move to take it, her gaze instead fixed suspiciously on his face. “What is it?” she pressed.

Inuyasha glowered at her hesitance, taking a half step closer to insist her receipt. “I wouldn’t know. I’m not one to intercept others’ mail. It is your business alone, unless you’re feeling talkative.”

Offering him one final tentative glance, Kagome took it. It was addressed to her in an unassuming fashion: To Miss Kagome Higurashi, governess at the residence of Lord Inuyasha Taisho, Judai-Ju Hall. There was no return address.

She peered back up at him and found his eyes wide with interest and ears angled squarely toward her.

“What—was it written in blood or something?” she tittered.

He puffed air from his nose and glared at her, stuffing his hands in his pockets. “Forgive me for being curious. You’re most mysterious, with your supposed lack of relations. You’ve never received mail before. I can’t help it.”

“Well, then I suppose I should leave before you do turn savage and rip the envelope apart."

A month before, Kagome never could have imagined that she would feel comfortable enough to joke in such a way. But after listening night after night to the lighthearted humor of his friends, she felt that she could survive something this small. 

But perhaps she was mistaken. Her small grin froze when he clicked his tongue and narrowed his eyes, his chin tilting up to make his downward gaze outright deriding. He took a step toward her, which she mirrored with her own step backwards. He stepped again, and again, until her back was pressing against the door. She had half a mind to turn the knob and flee, but he finally halted, and his hands stayed in his pockets. But he was close enough that she could smell the lingering cigar smoke on his breath. 

His simmering eyes bore into her frightened ones. She sucked in a breath and began to apologize, “Sir, I didn’t mean—”

But then he was smiling. With her return to silence, he began to chuckle. “You say I do not frighten you,” he began lowly, teeth glinting in the firelight. She suddenly recalled the last time they were alone together in this very room—when he was near her quite similar to this. But his look now was far more vicious. He came even closer, lowered his face to her neck, and breathed deeply, the tip of his nose brushing her pulse. He went on, “But when it comes to it, you flee at the littlest things.” He blew a warm stream of air against her throat, as if to prove his point with an experiment. She felt the husk of his voice reverberate throughout her whole body. “Now, show me those wings of yours.”

She had tilted her face to pull away from him—which only served to give him greater access to her skin—and at the sensation of his breath and the command of his voice, she snapped into action, hand finally fumbling for the knob. Once she found it, she yanked it wildly and nearly fell backwards at its immediate opening. The air of the hall was far crisper, and it felt like escaping the entrapment of a dream. She stumbled backwards, eyes glued to his smug face all the while, and managed to stutter a “Goodnight,” before turning to flee. He did not follow.

Upon entering her room, Kagome absentmindedly approached her vanity to undo her hair and found her face and neck glowing crimson. She inspected her neck where he had nuzzled her and found no evidence—not that she thought there would be any—despite the lingering sensation of tingling. 

The envelope, which she had placed on her desk, remained unopened. 

With Mr. Taisho gone the next morning, and with Shippo still ill, Kagome had very little reason to leave her bedroom. She would have stayed all day—if only to avoid encountering the sisters—had not her stomach rumbled its displeasure.

Luckily, it appeared that the master’s absence also gave the others a reason to stay scarce. Kagome only encountered Kaede in the kitchen. 

Upon greeting her, Lady Kaede mused aloud, “Just when I become used to running a nearly vacant house, visitors keep coming from the woodwork…”

“Has someone new come today, ma’am?” asked Kagome while she filled her plate with biscuits from the covered basket on the table. 

“Indeed—one Suikotsu from the continent. He says he is an old acquaintance of Lord Taisho’s, and he insisted this acquaintance permitted his presumption to come and stay unannounced.”

Kagome felt just as doubtful about that as Lady Kaede looked. “I certainly hope so. Is he a demon?”

The old woman shook her head in disapproval. “Human. I just hope that I am not berated for believing him, should it come out that the master does not approve of his residence.”

“Where is the man now?”

“I situated him in a room perhaps thirty minutes ago. I told him he could visit the parlor if he liked, though our other guests whom he confirmed he did not know would likely be there.”

“Do you know when Mr. Taisho will be home?” asked Kagome.

“It will likely be late evening, at best. He told me to anticipate having dinner served without him.”

“I see,” observed Kagome. “Well, let me know if there is any way I can be of use to you in the meantime.”

Kaede smiled tiredly. “Thank you, my dear. I know.”

Kagome wondered as she continued eating if Mr. Taisho would be upset if she abstained from the group tonight. Something about witnessing a human stranger amidst the demonic party seemed unpleasant, on the off chance that the latter felt insulted by his unannounced presence. If Kagome were manager, she likely would have tried her best to prevent his meeting them at all costs.

After breakfast, Kagome paid a visit to Shippo, who was still ill in bed. She suspected he only had a cold, as he had no fever. She read to him for a couple of hours, more for the sake of abating his loneliness than of fulfilling her educational duties. He seemed grateful for the distraction and attention. 

The day otherwise passed without incident—as far as she allowed herself to know. She did not visit the parlor herself to see if this Suikotsu would indeed join the company; if he had, and if something unpleasant had occurred, Kagome decided that ignorance would be the best way to avoid part of the blame. 

Kagome planned to persist in her avoidance the entire night; however, when dinner time approached, Kaede came to her in the library and asked kindly if Kagome wouldn’t mind sitting in on the evening occasion, as Suikotsu had apparently stated his intent to join everyone after dinner to await the arrival of his supposed friend. Kaede, who could not attend due to other business, assured Kagome that her only responsibility would be to call for her if any unpleasantries were exchanged. 

Kagome obeyed, of course. She arrived first, as she always did, and the party filtered in after they finished dining. No unfamiliar face yet marred the group, and Kagome hoped that he had changed his mind. But nearly ten minutes after everyone was settled with their card games and trivial conversations, the door cracked open. 

The man looked unassuming enough; he appeared to be in his mid thirties, his black hair absent of gray but his face absent of youth. His clothes were fashionable enough, his comfortable economic standing made clear by the shine of his buttons and the flawlessness of his shoes.

The room—already quiet for its lack of the master—quieted even further. Kagome held her breath. Their expressions were not surprised, and she figured they were informed of his potential appearance. Suikotsu’s own expression was far easier than Kagome’s would have been in his position. She wondered for a moment if this was confidence or stupidity. 

He bowed his head to the group in greeting. “Good evening,” he began with a voice far more effeminate than his relatively masculine features would have suggested. “I am Suikotsu. Forgive my sudden arrival; I do not suspect I will be at Jidai-Ju Hall long, as I am only here for a matter of business with the master. Do not alter your operations tonight for my sake.”

Lady Yura’s mother took the reins as the makeshift hostess and rose from her seat. “It is no issue—we are happy to make your acquaintance. Help yourself to some tea and wine,” she said. Kagome’s surprise at the woman’s hospitality was humbled immediately when, upon Suikotsu turning his back to shed his coat on the back of the couch, the woman exchanged a look of agitated amusement with her daughters at her side. She made a move to pour him a glass of wine nonetheless.

Suikotsu noticed her and said, “No wine, thank you. The tea is plenty.” He approached the tea tray on the table and served himself.

After Suikotsu settled on the couch, which faced the party amiably but was otherwise isolated, Lady Yura led the way in returning her sanctified acquaintances to their previous activities. The man sat patiently, eyes roaming from person to person as they conversed, though Kagome felt that something in his eyes spoke of aimlessness and absence of true thought. He must have felt her gaze, as he flicked his eyes over to her distant form at the window. Noticing her humanity for the first time, he offered her a soft smile of fraternity, and Kagome returned it. A simpleton he may prove, but she did find a surprising comfort in their shared mortality.

The clock ticked eight o’clock. She suspected the party would retire soon if Lord Taisho did not make an appearance. Kagome had numbed herself to time with a book, which she combed through so ravenously that she was startled by her encounter with the back cover. 

When she lifted her eyes, she noticed that Suikotsu was engaging with Lord Koga. They seemed to be discussing business of some kind, and to her relief, Suikotsu seemed to be both keeping up with the demon and avoiding any unsuitable topics. 

Kagome stood, stretched her back, and returned the book to the shelf. She muttered a pardon to anyone near enough to hear—whom she assumed was all with pointed and uninterested ears—and went to the earth room to relieve herself. Once finished, she considered not returning at all. Everything seemed to be going smoothly, but she supposed she would be remiss to neglect Lady Kaede’s wishes. She directed her steps back to the parlor.

The hallway was gloomy, the long patterned curtains swaying slightly from the window drafts. Candles lit the way, though their light was dim. It was always this way on low moon nights at Jidai-Ju Hall, what with the thickness and height of the surrounding forest muting any natural light that might have traveled from nearby towns. Kagome slowed her steps to passively peer out the windows as she walked. She could barely make out the tree-line. As if suddenly waking from a comatose state, Kagome recalled the nighttime appearance months ago of the bright serpentine spirit that came upon the house from the wood. She had decided back then to not voice this vision to anyone, and she felt this had been the right decision. While asleep or awake, she had not seen the creature since—and she became increasingly convinced that it had been a construct of a mind hovering between dream and reality. 

Yet still, with each step, a part of her tensed when her sight of the wood was interrupted by the dividing walls between the windows. Indeed, every reemergence of that dark forest was preceded by a vague concern that it would not now appear as dark as it had a second before. 

“Proving a truant, are you?” 

This was the deep voice of her master from behind, equally frightful and soothing. 

Unable to help herself, Kagome smiled at his playfulness. She was glad he was in a good mood—perhaps he would take the news of Suikotsu better. She halted her steps but did not turn. “I could say the same to you, sir. Your poor guests have found your absence most distressing.”

His voice was closer now, though not quite over her shoulder. “I hope they’ve gone to no great pains to entertain themselves.”

“I assure you they, on the contrary, are all but wallowing in their boredom. They will be happy to hear of your arrival.”

“It is a shame that they won’t ,” he said mysteriously. She thought it peculiar that he should not wish to see his apparent beloved and her family—even if his affections were performative. He stepped forward to take the place by her left side. When her eyes beheld him, she found his expression peaked with interest. His hair was pinned back the same way as before.

“Are you wishing to retire undisturbed?” she asked.

“Perhaps.”

“Then you are out of luck,” she began, reveling in her own opportunity to vex him. 

He quirked a brow, his smile unwavering. “Oh? And who are you to tell me what I cannot do?”

“It isn’t about who I am,” she rejoined. “Who are you to neglect the arrival of an unsolicited visitor?”

To her dismay, though not to her surprise, his expression fell into a quick scowl—one of his more natural and habitual looks. “What’s the meaning of this? Someone has come unannounced?”

Kagome couldn’t suppress her cringe. “Yes, sir. He is in the parlor now—but do not blame the widow, as she did try to dissuade him. Out of fear of you, she did not outright reject him of the right.”

Inuyasha found this part of the news most bothersome, if his rolling eyes and clenching fists were any indication. “Who is the man?”

“One Suikotsu, sir. I believe he came from the continent.”

As soon as the name left her lips, Inuyasha’s body froze, eyes widening and jaw clenching shut. Then, in one motion, Inuyasha lunged to grasp her hand and tug her wordlessly down the hall a ways until they reached one of the offices. His grip was firm, the peaks of his claws digging in slightly. He released her once inside and briskly shut the door with both hands. He did not lock it, but his sudden desire to hide them fretted her all the same.

“What is the matter? Is he dangerous? Why’ve you hidden us?” she quavered, clutching her arms to her breast.

His back was still to her, his hands still pressed to the door. His voice was low—both with rugged emotion and with obvious desire to remain quiet. “He is a danger to none but me.”

“What do you mean, sir? Has he come to harm you?”

Inuyasha laughed bitterly at that, and he finally turned to face her, though his head was downtrodden. “He would never dream of harming me. He is… ignorant of his power.”

Kagome furrowed her brow, heart no longer pounding like a drum. “I don’t understand, sir.”

He did not seek to remedy her confusion. “Were you with them all the time until just recently?”

“Yes.”

“And he did not say anything peculiar?”

“No, sir. Nothing that stirred any trouble.”

Inuyasha seemed to relax his shoulders at that, if only slightly. But, as anxiety left him, it seemed to be replaced ounce by ounce with despair. He walked over to the desk and braced his hands on the wood, hanging his head. He was still for a full moment, during which Kagome observed him with quiet intensity. A brisk curse left his lips, and a hand came up to rub his eyes. He muttered so lowly she almost could not hear, “I wish I were on a deserted island someplace, and that you were my only company.”

Kagome felt a thrill cover her skin, but she suppressed her shiver. She approached him and timidly laid a hand on his shoulder. She craned her head to meet his gaze, only to find his eyes clenched shut.

“Sir, let me help you. I hate seeing you distressed. Surely there is something I can do?” Her own voice crumbled until it was only a whisper.

He looked up at her then, eyes level with hers for his depressed posture over the desk. His golden irises flicked between hers for a moment, and Kagome fought the simultaneous urges to shrink back—and to lean forward.

His breathless voice startled her. “Go and fetch me a glass of wine from the parlor. Inspect their faces and conversations for anything amiss, and then return to me here.”

Broken out of her fancy, she felt happy to be given an errand. Kagome bowed her head in acceptance. 

As Kagome walked briskly back down the hall, she prayed that the party had miraculously retired in the short amount of time that had passed since her leave. But they had not.

She reentered with a single knock and found everyone still present, though almost no one conversed. Suikotsu was sipping his tea and occupying himself with a newspaper. The others were exactly as she had left them.

She walked coolly over to the wine pitcher and prayed no one would notice her; her wish was more or less granted, as all but Lady Yura kept their sights settled on whatever book, paper, or card they held. This lady did, however, offer her the distasteful look of someone who thought she was taking a liberty by pouring wine. But Lady Yura said nothing.

Kagome filled the glass and escaped the room without incident once again—though on her way out the door, she had the keen sensation of a shadow gnashing at her heels. She ignored it.

Kagome returned to the office and saw Inuyasha still standing, his front no longer braced over the desk but rather his back now against it, no doubt watching the door for her arrival. She approached, apparently looking less confident than he hitherto wished.

“Well?” he pressed.

“There appeared no incident, sir. Everyone was easy.”

Kagome could tell he was fighting to keep his expression neutral and unbothered—a silly attempt, in her view, as he had already bared his fears to her a couple minutes before.

“I see,” he said. “And they appeared no closer to finishing the night?”

Kagome hummed. “I could not tell. They seem to have run out of conversations, so it may not prove long.”

“I see.”

Inuyasha abandoned the desk and took a seat upon the bench that pressed flush against the wall beside her. She held her breath, his newfound apathetic silence nearly as unbearable as his prior anxious questioning. She would not ask to be excused; if she could help it, she would stay by his side all night if it meant the grip of melancholy loosened even slightly.

Inuyasha leaned forward to place his forearms against his thighs. His eyes remained stuck to the floor. His voice was reticent. “What would you do if every person in that room came in a unit and spat at me?”

After recovering from initial confusion, Kagome’s face hardened. “I would turn them out of the room,” she said simply.

“And if we were to join them in the parlor only to be met with cold silence as all of them rose to leave me one by one? Would you leave with them?”

“No, sir—I’d much rather stay with you.”

His smile was wormwood, his eyes now inspecting his clawed hands, which were pressed together in contemplation. “And if they laid you under a ban for adhering to me?”

Kagome disliked his line of questioning, but she did not flee from it. She could tell he needed her honesty, and she would be remiss to neglect him now. “I doubt I would hear of their ban at all—and it would be no concern of mine what people think of me outside these walls.”

Inuyasha finally lifted his gaze to her, and he stared unblinking for a moment. Then, he stood and stepped toward her, keeping their eyes locked. His voice trembled slightly—so slightly that a stranger would know no difference. “So you could dare censure for my sake?”

Kagome was lost in gold—lost in the furrowed desperation of his brow and in the weak frown of his lips—but she could still feel the tattered rope in her hand, her lifeline. She tugged it. “For the sake of any friend who deserved it.”

He had apparently shifted his eyes downward at some point, but his eyes lifted back to hers at that. “I see,” he said in a strange voice.

“Is there anything else I can do, sir? Do you wish me to tell him you will meet with him in the morning?”

“No,” he said quickly, almost harshly. He soothed his tone and hooked a finger around hers where it hung at her side, bringing it close to trace his thumbs over the back of her hand’s skin. “No, little bird. I will meet with him tonight. There is nothing left for you to do.”

Kagome blushed at the treatment, but worry still hardened her stomach. “If anything arises that could benefit from my help, please tell me. You can wake me, if needed.”

He smiled down at her. “If I need help, I promise you that I will seek it from your hand.”

Kagome bowed, deciding after all to interpret this as a dismissal, though his subsequent expression implied he didn’t mean it as one. But he allowed her to go without another word, and released her hand.

She came to her room and readied for bed, heart pounding all the while—for her master, for Suikotsu, and for the coming revelation of what the latter came to do here.

She laid still in her bed for an imperceptible amount of time. But eventually, in her half-conscious state, Kagome heard distantly the voice of Mr. Taisho say amiably, “I’m glad you’ve been well, Suikotsu. Let me know if there is anything else I can do to make you feel welcome.”

The muffled sound of thanks pleased her ears, and she resigned herself to a pleasant night’s rest. It did not take long before a dream enraptured her—a sweet dream that began with the sound of her door creaking open after a soft knocking. Even in her dream, her eyes remained closed—but she knew her visitor to be her master. Something in her could sense him, as if her soul knew the hum and affect of his own. She could almost see him through her closed lids, see the imprint of his spirit as he approached her bed with a light foot. She felt the weight of his hands on both sides of her head, felt the slow approach of his breath. Felt the softness of lips on her own, slow and feather-light, then deep and firm. The smell of him was nearly enough to convince her it was real. 

But when stirred from her dormancy, he was gone, both body and soul, too fast and silent for any resident of flesh to manage—human or demon. She was indeed alone.

But she was happy.

The near absolute darkness of the world outside her window resolidified her unconsciousness. Her eyelids calmed their fluttering, and she permitted herself the liberty of remembering Inuyasha’s closeness, of imagining his touch, of pretending his affection. She fancied a vision of him coming to her room to simply lay with her, the both of them wearing the egalitarian attire of sleep and seeking the universal desire of warmth. In her mind, her master did not have to be her master: he could simply be her Inuyasha—a man who was free to locate his love wherever he wished. And in her mind, the idea that she could be the recipient of such love proved a delusion believable enough to be the subject of a hopeful dream.

Her fantasy did not last long, as sleep came upon her with yet another soft and sweet kiss. It is for this reason that Kagome did not notice the pale light growing beyond the glass of her window—growing, growing, growing, and then disappearing instantly, as if it was swallowed by the house in one motionless gulp.

[fortifice]

saturn and uranus~

𝐒𝐀𝐓𝐔𝐑𝐍   ! (   𝗌𝗒𝗆𝖻𝗈𝗅𝗂𝗓𝖾𝗌   :   structure,   law,   restriction,   discipline,   responsibility,   obligation,   ambition.   )

what   does   your   muse   fear   ?   what   do   they   worry   about   ?   what   restricts   them   ?   what   exactly   keeps   them   bound   to   reality   ?   what   are   their   responsibilities   ?   do   they   have   any   obligations   ?   maybe   to   work   ?   another   person   ?   do   they   have   a   set   routine   ?   what   does   the   word   ‘ law ‘   mean   to   them   ?   unfortunately   this   beautiful   planet   can   create   strain   and   stress,   so   does   your   muse   stress   easily   ?   do   they   struggle   with   anxiety   or   similar   issues   ?   if   so,   how   do   they   deal   ?   saturn   is   the   planet   of   reality,   which   is   hard   to   face.   does   your   muse   face   their   issues   head   on,   or   do   they   tend   to   live   in   their   own   little   world   ? One of his largest fears is failure, failing in his line of duty would mean the deaths of countless people, while his own death does not impede him the fact that others that fall beneath his mantle could perish if he doesn’t act with them in mind with every step haunts him. He fears that he will become callous or cruel, that his life may leave him without the capacity to differentiate between actual people and circumstances and looking at them only through the lens of justice. He worries he may become like his father. That his views may be tainted by the supreme guardian’s will until her’s and his are inextricable.

He is restrained by his oath, by his duty, as proud as the life he leads now is there is no accommodation for freedom within it, by stepping into the position expected of him he has effectively cut off all other potential roads into his future. It influences the way he sees and interacts with the world, his whole outlook is swayed if not determined by the things his position encompasses. wanting to break free of it is a traitorous sin because of the vow he swore, he will protect and die for belobog and their people and while he has accepted it this is another of the 100 things that tie him down.

He cannot escape reality, his life is too dictated by combat and loss, there’s no room there to be lost in anything, it commands that he be present for every moment of his life and while this prevents him from being entirely consumed by grief and death it also means he doesn’t have time to breathe outside of it. His responsibilities and obligations are very much interwoven, they’re all part of his duty as captain. This involves both work and people, Gepard views his duty as being protector of belobog’s people, that’s his job, what has given his life meaning up until this point, they’re both one and the same. He lives by a routine, while I wouldn’t say it is so strict as to be unchangeable it doesn’t vary very often. Alot of this is dictated by the silvermane guard’s duty, patrols, paperwork, verifying that all their weapons are in working condition and checking in with his men. He’s usually up by first dawn and in bed long before dusk has settled, he would say he requires a solid seven or eight hours of sleep but he’s quite often working with much less. Law and justice are an interesting concept with him because he sees right and wrong through a monochromatic lens. Being in a position that requires him to conserve the people’s livelihoods entails that he be able to effectively determine what is wrong and what is right frequently, however, this also leaves him with the struggle of having to put himself in someone else’s position to ascertain how wrong their “crime” may actually be. It goes back to saying he is stubborn and his views are determined by the fact that he has to be able to conclude if something is in accordance with belobog’s laws. they’re effectively the policing force of belobog so it’s imperative that he can be unbiased and judge people against the law itself rather than his own feelings or opinions. Gepard is the king of not allowing the things that impede him or cause anxiety to rise to the point where they are discernible. If it gets to a point where he cannot cope with it he will seek an outlet, most of it being through physical exertion, getting the frenetic energy out of him allows him to look upon whatever is causing the stress and anxiety with renewed clarity.

I would like to think he faces most of his issues with a face on approach, if they are capable of being overcome through that means he does but there’s also things that arise that cannot be easily overcome with that method and those he ruminates upon. 

𝐔𝐑𝐀𝐍𝐔𝐒   ! (   𝗌𝗒𝗆𝖻𝗈𝗅𝗂𝗓𝖾𝗌   :   eccentricity,   unpredictable   changes,   rebellion,   reformation.   )

this   particular   planet   is   the   planet   of   sudden   inspiration   and   change,   so   how   does   your   muse   handle   unpredictable   changes   ?   how   do   they   handle   planned   and   known   changes   ?   what   about   inspiration   ?   do   they   do   whatever   inspires   them   in   that   moment,   or   is   their   inspiration   something   that   takes   time   to   develop   and   build   ?   what   makes   your   muse   special   ?   what   makes   them   different   and   eccentric,   if   they   are   ?   where   do   they   create   the   most   change   ? 

For someone whose life is dictated by a sense of routine and order unexpectant change can leave him reeling a little, he makes up ground as much as he can to maintain some facade of composure even when the unexpected occurs but it’s not a task without effort. When it comes to planned or known changes he slowly adjusts himself to accommodate them, as much as it would be more auspicious to be able to change himself willingly and with ease it’s just not ? how he operates. change can throw him a little off kilter if it’s planned or not, structure !!! he relies on it to operate and navigate his life so when separated from it he’s left with a sense of being vulnerable.  Inspiration comes to him when it comes, it doesn’t really influence his work as that’s more of a I have to do this than I feel inspired to do this, his inspiration can be seen more in the hobbies he participates in when separated from his work. When it comes to more tedious tasks like paperwork in contrast to physical tasks it takes time to find the inspiration to do / finish them but he will do it without inspiration to do so but it’s like pulling teeth. 

His dedication both hallmarks him as special and eccentric, in the eyes of someone who has not spent their entire life amounting to being where he is now it would be easy to see him as strange, his whole life governed by his duty, by the supreme guardian’s will. While his penchant for protecting others is, at its core, sabotaging himself, it’s also another aspect that might be seen as eccentric from an outside perspective. His innate curiosity, while not indulged much currently would be an eccentricity if he allowed it to, in his youth he had to understand the ins and outs of things, how they worked, why they did what they did, if he had fed into this more it would have given him a far wider scope of understanding in his world than the one he has right now. I could add more to this but a lot of the things that would come off as eccentric or different are things he keeps moderate as to not negatively impact the way he is seen by others. He wants to create the most change in belobog, in the people’s lives, both the overworld and underworld, as things begin to change under the new supreme guardian’s rule he wants to see things improved. The place he really needs to create the most change in is his own life. 

[gwynbleiddyn]

🍩🍰🍧🌺🌱 🌌💡🎡 A lil afternoon tea in a garden followed by a night at the fair for Mio!

Oh and Zin’s got one they want to know: 👑

🥺he'll treat you to so many stuffed toys by simply buying them once he fails to win any of the rigged stalls

🍩 DONUT - favourite sweet treat?

i think i wrote in somewhere that baby Mio's favourite treat to get back home were these honeycakes, which were essentially folded dough that was fried in hot oil and filled with fruits and nuts and drizzled with honey. crunchy and sweet.

🍰 CAKE SLICE - favourite cake flavour? are they specific about types of cakes?

i think he'd be partial to like, coffee and walnut or something. he generally prefers earthy flavours over sugary sweetness.

generally not a sweet-toothed monster though, so cakes aren't high on his list of favourites.

🍧 SHAVED ICE - do they still have any objects from their childhood? what significance does it have to them? what would their reaction be if they lost it?

he had that lion's head ring that he gave to Onu to bring back to his mother - that was a significant message, one that he hoped conveyed the fact that he was alive and that he hadn't forgotten his home.

there's also his sundisk pendant, which is a significant symbol of his home. he's always had a sundisk on his person, whether embroidered into his clothes as a child or on ceremonial dress, and then gifted to him in this beautiful pendant form maybe when he was just on the verge of adolescence. it's a promise, in a way, that his fate is inextricably tied to the city as is the right (and sometimes curse) of the bloodline. the meaning it holds is hard to put into words for Mio, and to lose it would be devastating.

i think for the most part, his childhood possessions remain in Akhenaton. he left with only the clothes he was wearing and a poorly made shield.

🌺 HIBISCUS - do they have any allergies?

imagine if i said cats

honestly i can't think of any except like, hayfever, but i'm not gonna rp that shit out we can just imagine him being a runny nosed, red-eyed grump while traipsing through any grassy field with more pollen than he's used to

🌱 SEEDLING - what is their most vivid memory from childhood?

meeting Shadiya for the first time, i think. it was the first real taste of... i guess, responsibility? for Mio, in the sense that it was made clear at that point that his life was not his own to live. he would not be afforded the same freedoms as his brothers, and matters of the heart and mind would always be considered at the cost of his city and not himself.

but it was also the same moment he met his soulmate. so, you know, swings and roundabouts

🌌 MILKY WAY - what was the inspiration behind your oc? what was the first thing you decided about them?

he started out as a character for an rp with no real ties to dnd, and i recall him being some kind of cultist knight slash smuggler who had ambitions for a syndicate empire and wanted to overthrow his father or something. his realization as an exiled prince only really took shape when i started viewing him as a dnd pc in 2019/2020, but the concept has certainly been around for some 7-8 years now.

two things: he's always been a blacksmith, and he's always had adolin as a brother figure in his life. everything else kind of came in after once i started piecing together his story and his motivations and how he was driven. ironically, the entire paladin concept came much later despite his first iteration as a knight in a lowkey cult. TIME IS A FLAT CIRCLE.

also, Maahes being associated with lions always was the vibe if the name wasn't already a huge indicator. i wanted him to be loud and obnoxious and revered and all these other things, while also very capable of being a pathetic wet cat.

💡 LIGHTBULB - is your oc a planner? do they write down every small detail or just wing it?

hah, wing it, geddit--

he would largely prefer to have a strategy or plan in place, but he does have an impulsive streak that lets him think on his feet. ultimately it would depend on the situation - i think he will be extremely meticulous about things when he sets foot in Akhen again, but that's afforded to him by his familiarity with the place rather than intent.

otherwise he's happy for other people to plan things for him and to be told where to be and at what time :) nice and easy breezy.

🎡 FERRIS WHEEL - are they someone who wants to kiss at the top of the ferris wheel?

first of all, good luck getting him onto a ferris wheel. those bitches suck ass when you're scared of heights.

secondly, the irony here is that he would absolutely kiss a friend or someone who was in on the joke of being in a classically romantic setting without being the actual partner, but if it was someone he was truly involved with, NAH

and then just for zin:

👑 CROWN - what does your oc want to be remembered as? why?

as something beautiful, i think. a piece of art to be admired. why? he's not interested in being a story when he can't be around to polish the details, his sense of morality isn't so rigid that he intends to only do good and be good and share that moral, and ultimately, he's very self-absorbed.

but he also believes that beauty comes from creation and the opportunity to rebuild, to remake, reforge, recraft. i think there would be a little part of him that would dream of keeping the sundisk in his light (and pelor's) long after he's gone.

[gracefullou]

As beautiful as he is, I’m actually kind of glad Louis hasn’t officially modeled for his clothing line because I think that’s how he’s building real credibility for it on the fashion scene.

I think about the fashion shoots we’ve seen with people wearing 28OP - that actor, the shoot with the musicians, I think there’s one other one I’m blanking on - I can’t say I’ve seen the same thing from Pleasing lately, which is inextricably connected to Harry and associated mainly with his stans, ex-girlfriends, and Disney Adults these days.

The unfortunate reality is none of them are ever outrunning their roots in the band, not even Harry. The boyband association will always be a footnote on their careers inviting judgement and limiting some opportunities.

It’s snobby and unfair, to be sure, but Louis is smart enough to see it for what it is. The best shot he likely has at making the 28OP brand a prestige commodity that is taken seriously by the fashion world is for him to keep a low profile and not participate in official brand marketing efforts. (Despite how utterly beautiful he is. Alas.)

I don't know. I think Louis just wants 28 OP to be independent from his personal LT brand (for now), and not to be considered as some kind of merch (which some of #those fans thought it was at the beginning and were complaining about the affordable prices) bc he already does have the most beautiful and best quality merch for any artist. I don't think it has anything to do with the band tbh. Also, there's no comparison between 28 OP and pleasing. That brand doesn't even know what it wants to do. Is it a nail polish brand? A fashion one? No one knows. They have the ugliest sweaters with outrageous prices, and it's just an extinction to that man's personal brand in every way. Their marketing on socials using larry (and that one time even haylor 💀) is so outrageous even larries see right through it. It's basically overpriced merch his fans buy bc they're obsessed with making him richer and getting something he wore before. 28 OP on the other hand is a very distinguished brand, it has an identity, they know exactly what they want to do. There was a lot of thought and work bts years before it was presented to the world. Their marketing (if we can call it that) is very subtle but consistent, it's clear 28 OP is not just a lazy cashgrab for a celebrity. It's a passion project. I personally don't mind celebrities promoting their own brands (they all do it and it doesn't really impact how they're seen by those respective industries, take rare beauty and Fenty for example. They're very tied to Selena and Rihanna's name but bc the products are good, there's only praise there) when the product is actually good and there was some thought and also ambition behind it, not just making money for the sake of it. I don't mind 28 OP's approach either. In fact, i really respect it but as a louis fan, i hope we'll see him modeling for the brand some time soon. Like just one outfit amongst the other models, that would be so cool. Honestly, i just love a lot of their pieces and i want to see louis in them.

[submarinerwrites]

jack kerouac, on the road

★★★★★

kerouac’s semi-autobiographical american classic tells the story of sal paradise, dean moriarty, and their life on the road.

my father bought this book for me about ten years ago when we were on a trip to san francisco (yes, this is yet another one of the many books that’s languished on my tbr for nigh a decade). the store where he bought it is closed now, and my father is dead, but i still have the book. he’d read it a long time ago and told me constantly how cool the beatniks were and how much my own writing and personality and interests reminded him of kerouac. so i thought about him and the nights we spent walking through the city when i read it.

i’d tried and failed to read on the road when i was much younger, but i’d gone about it in a very academic way. this time i decided i wanted to read it as fiction (not autobiography) for the sake of pure pleasure (not pedantry). i think this approach was probably closer to what kerouac had in mind while writing it, and i would recommend it generally to anyone looking to get into the novel.

it has this ferocious movement to it. the text barrels forward and it constantly gains momentum: through the plot, the prose, even the punctuation. it’s staggering honestly.

there’s also this deep eroticism to basically everything that kerouac writes about men, dean of course in particular. the way dean puts on a shirt, or bandages his thumb, or parks a car, becomes poetry to kerouac. it’s kind of gorgeous: it makes you want to be seen and known in the way kerouac clearly knows this man.

he captures perfectly the feeling of what it’s like to love someone in a state of mania: you’d chase them all around the country because they are literally, actually, a fiery chariot from heaven, and you know that you’ll get burned, and yet you can’t stop. again, intensely erotic.

kerouac is also actually an astounding prose writer. he uses conjunctions like no one else. images swell up and become almost unbearable. i’d read basically none of his work besides the poetry prior to this but the two seem inextricably linked for him; it’s really just some straight up gorgeous prose. passionate and romantic and yet settled deeply into the concrete minutiae of life on the road. i can’t speak to it too much but god it’s really beautiful.

in fact i can’t speak to very much of the novel at all. it feels like these great washes of color, egg tempera paint, sketching out these divine revelations like an enormous religious mural on an asphalt canvas. the thing i remember most is the burning impression of the road, smoking like the holy oil that seems to infuse kerouac’s visions.

i will say that in the introduction, we get to see the first draft of the first paragraph. and what he says is that he went on the road because of his father’s death, which left him ill and dead inside and out. and maybe it’s to do with the time at which i read this, but i felt that his decision not to use that first draft of that first paragraph undermined the entire novel. because he chooses not to address it, his father’s absence becomes a gaping loss. dean moriarty spends the whole novel searching for his missing father; it would have made more sense for sal to be on the road searching for a dead man rather than one that goes mostly unmentioned. his death, unstated, still echoes through the whole novel.

in fact i think that kerouac is asking the same question chuck palahniuk asked in fight club: to every man in america, your father is god. who does god become if your father is dead, or a drunk, or gone? and i think on the road tries to grapple with that.

anyways, i loved the book. kerouac did what he set out to do, which was transcribe the revelatory, beatific experiences he had on the road. i’d like to think i’ll reread this sometime in the future, to go on this journey with him again. i felt like i flew through the novel: it’s a joy to read.

[aonemanarmy]

Faced with the stranger before him Sephiroth had no idea how he was supposed to react or what Vincent expected from him. The only reason he'd agreed to the other man's request was to slate his own curiosity, but things were swiftly turning in a way he hadn't expected and that he didn't like in the slightest. With the way things were going he also felt deeply unsettled which was a feeling he wasn't accustomed to and coupled with the stabbing pain behind his eyes made him all the more agitated with the situation.

Surely this had to be some sort of trick. An attempt the ex-Turk made to try to distract him from his true goal, but why would he do so in such a manner and why use one of Jenova's discarded puppets? It was a thought that gave him pause before it was disrupted completely by a wash of blinding white light that filled the dim cavern.

With a hiss the madman narrowed his eyes, the light burning his already abnormally sensitive sight and adding a new layer of pain. Fortunately, the blinding light didn't last long and faded away to reveal Jenova's discarded puppet standing outside of her crystalline prison, a strange expression on her face that Sephiroth couldn't begin to understand much like the tears she freely shed.

“Is it really you… Sephiroth?”

He didn't like the way she said the word. It felt wrong and conjured old memories of how for the vast majority of his life he didn't have a name, at least not of the kind that any ordinary person could possibly comprehend as one. Shinra and Hojo in particular had no reason to care if he had a normal name or not and he'd only been granted one for the sake of convenience, since ordinary people wouldn't have been able to remember what he was called or address him properly if needed. It was only because of that he was called Sephiroth, but for all other purposes his true 'name' was #S13106 and he'd never forgotten that fact.

How dare this woman act as if she knew him? She was a stranger to him, one that caused an inextricable sense of dread to gnaw at the back of his maddened mind in a way he'd never felt before, one that went even beyond that feeling back in Nibelheim before his mortal life came to an end.

He didn't like it.

'Lies.' Jenova's voice filled his mind, dark and venomous in response to Lucrecia's words. 'A pitiful broken thing such as her believes she can maintain a shred of relevance and power in her attempts to control you. If what she claims were true then where was she this whole time?

'All it means is that she chose to abandon you to your fate, to discard you for the sake of her own safety. No true mother would willingly abandon her child to such a fate.'

The sting of those words wasn't lost on Sephiroth. It brought to mind the idealized concept he'd had of a mother as a child, as someone that would do anything to protect their child. Now he couldn't help but think he was horribly naive and that despite all her faults that at least Jenova had never truly abandoned him – more like it was Shinra and Hojo that had kept her from him. But if this woman claimed to be speaking the truth then she had to realize she was confessing to him that she had willingly left him to suffer a fate worse than death.

“I’m not worthy of your forgiveness, and I do not ask for anything. But if you would grant me one thing…”

Forgiveness? No, that was the last thing that Sephiroth was capable of given the circumstances, especially if any of these claims were true, which he seriously doubted. If anything, simply considering the possibility made him feel more angry and bitter.

“…May I hold you? Just once?”

A flicker of barren white tile walls and bright fluorescent lights suddenly filled Sephiroth's mind. Alongside it came the sensation of the bite of steel into his restrained limbs, locking him into place on the chill table beneath him as stared up into an expressionless masked face. A face he knew that was smiling a familiar twisted smile at him even as the razor-sharp scalpel sunk into his flesh and slowly dragged through it, opening gaping red mouths that filled the sterile air with a sickly metallic scent that was practically drowning him.

Then he could feel as they reached inside of his trembling body and started to slice and pull until he could feel pieces of him being removed. The very same pieces he witnessed being held aloft by scarlet painted gloves and placed on a waiting tray which was swiftly whisked away by other masked people, all of whom looked at him like one would look at an insect pinned to a cork board.

All the while he could only silently scream behind the leather strap in his mouth, his whole body writhing as tears streamed down the sides of his face. It was only when scalpel hung over his face, blade glinting in the blinding white light that he could feel anything other than pain, but that didn't last long as it dropped closer and his tears turned crimson.

The unbidden memory had Sephiroth step back, a hand lifting to clutch at his head as the pain behind his eyes reached a new crescendo. How fitting that the pain so perfectly mirrored that in his memory to the point he thought it to be one and the same. It was almost as if he was back there again, back in that place where he'd first come to learn the truth of the world.

'Foolish woman,' in that moment Jenova made herself known to Lucrecia, reaching out speaking into her thoughts through the cells that bound her to the creature since the first day she trod down the path of her magnum opus. 'You are too late. He is mine and you shall not have him.'

“It will be the same,” he shook his head, fingers digging into and threatening to tear into his own flesh. “Your touch, theirs, it is always the same.”

It had long been Vincent’s desire to see Lucrecia smile once again; it was a strong as Lucrecia's desire to hold her son. Nevertheless, Vincent wasn’t naïve to think that bringing Sephiroth to Lucrecia could grant him that lovely smile. There was too much tension, too much sorrow and regret, and of course the issue of Jenova’s presence. If there was one individual who could understand Lucrecia’s heart, it was Vincent. Even if his love was one-sided, it didn’t matter. Her single most wanted desire was to see her son, and he would carry it out, even if it terrified him.

The cool misty cave winds gently brushed across Sephiroth’s hair and face as if guided by the woman’s voice. Regardless of Sephiroth’s harsh tone, the voice responded just as gently as before. Sephiroth… The words were a bit clearer this time, and the Ex-SOLDIER could begin to hear emotion riddling the feminine voice. Undertones of sorrow, perplexity, and bridled happiness could be heard. “Lucrecia,” Vincent quietly called to her beyond the crystal. “Don’t be afraid. I’m right here.” He then briefly glanced over at Sephiroth with a wary eye. …This time… I won’t let you suffer. A bright light slowly began to form around the crystal, filling the cave like a flood of white. It caused Vincent to shield his eyes. The sound of soft shimmering crystals echoed in the cave as the woman’s figure began to once again take shape in front of them. Her body was encompassed with a hazy glow. Slowly but surely, the light faded away, revealing the woman standing near the base of the crystal, her silk white dress flowing free. Her hazel brown eyes were locked on Sephiroth; surfacing with all of the past years of regret in the form of tears. Silence fell between them for some time, until the woman seemed to find her voice again. “Is it really you… Sephiroth?” Tears streamed down both her cheeks. Sephiroth… her son. He was beautiful, powerful, and outwardly the pride of any mother. Her arms ached to hold him, but as a mother is want to do, she could sense the darkness resonating in him. She knew that she meant nothing to him, even if he was everything to her. She could sense the bitterness and hatred—all that Hojo had ever wanted for Sephiroth to become. Ultimately, he had won. Vincent remained silent, keenly watching them both in anticipation of anything, though challenged with the occasional reminder of the pain shooting down his abused lower body. Lucrecia finally shook her head, turning her gaze from Sephiroth to stare at the rocky ground. “How can I say I’m his true mother? Or any mother at all?” A pained furrow crossed Vincent’s brow as her words brought back every memory from that time. Lucrecia turned to look at Sephiroth once again, her heart aching every time she looked upon him. “Sephiroth,” her words tender and warm. “…It is true. I carried you in my womb. I gave birth to you. But I….” Her small hands clenched at her sides as more tears of horrible memories flooded into her mind. “Lucrecia—” Sensing where her words were headed, Vincent began to plead with her, but then held his peace, knowing he had to allow her to have closure. “If only I could have been a true mother to you. Someone to comfort and protect you, to shield you from pain…” Her voice softened into almost a whisper as she once again met Sephiroth’s eyes, seeing those eyes laden with cruelty and years of torment. “I’m not worthy of your forgiveness, and I do not ask for anything. But if you would grant me one thing…” Vincent looked up in confusion and held his breath as he listened. The woman in white took one small step forward, folding her hands over her chest pleadingly, her fingers trembling. What Lucrecia asked caused Vincent’s heart to stop. “…May I hold you? Just once?”  

[ofheroesandvillains]

New Purpose

Halbrand x elf!reader

Words: 4k

Request: by anon – “I have a Halbrand x reader request/idea. Where the reader is an elf and she and Sauron fell in love in the really early days of middle earth. Because of this Morgoth killed her because she made Sauron soft. She then goes through the whole elf reincarnation thing and reincarnated to be alive during the rings of power. She’s now Galadriel’s friend and jumps off the ship to Valinor with her, meaning she ends up on the raft and numenor with Halbrand and Galadriel. She doesn’t remember her previous life but falls for Halbrand still. The rest is up to you 👀”

Thanks for the request, anon! ❤️

Warnings: Mentions of death. Injury and blood (nothing major). Lots of pining. Maybe a little ooc, but he’s in love, and she makes him soft.

I have almost finished the second (and final) part of this. This one was getting too long, and it felt right to split them. Been a while since I’ve done this much writing, so hopefully it’s not completely awful. Also, not my gif – credit to the creator!

You do not anticipate returning to Aman so soon. Námo had been clear when you awoke in his Halls – you have a greater role to play in the shaping of Middle Earth. For whatever reason, the fate of the one they call Sauron is inextricably tied to your own, and it is that fact that brings you and Galadriel together in the beginning and keeps you together long afterwards.

Galadriel herself is a guiding light in this unfamiliar world. Beleriand, you learn, now rests beneath the sea, and your home along with it. Your memories of the place have yet to return – after all this time, you doubt they ever will – but the thought brings with it a sense of longing for all you have lost. Even if you don’t remember what that is, you know it is much.

Having perished early in the First Age, you also know little of Middle Earth and its peoples, but the elves of Lindon are still quick to welcome you as a herald of the Valar. Though the lands are foreign, there are people there who knew you once, and it isn’t long before you find your footing in this curious new world.

The High King Gil-galad doesn’t object when you choose to accompany Galadriel to the Undying Lands – in his eyes, the evil has passed and your work on Middle Earth is done. While you know this to be false, it is an easy decision to make. It feels right, and your instincts very rarely lead you astray. For reasons you can’t explain, you know you must follow Galadriel on this final voyage.

She is quiet when the ship leaves the dock, offering only a curt nod to the elves of Lindon when they bid her farewell, but behind her eyes is a maelstrom. It worsens the further you sail into the open sea, until there is finally a palpable shift in the air, an otherworldly radiance that can only mean you have reached the threshold.

The clouds part, and down shines the inimitable light of Aman, its golden rays warm and welcoming. To your left stands Galadriel, her crystalline eyes wide with wonder as she stares at the spectacle. And yet, despite her awe, despite her longing, there is also a great sorrow etched into her brow. It reflects a truth she has known since you departed from Lindon – she will not return to Aman until her own work is done. Seeing its light has not swayed her mind, only strengthened her resolve to return when she finally deems herself worthy.

She turns slowly, catches your knowing gaze, and with one look communicates all her words cannot.

You send her a reassuring smile. “To whatever end, my friend.”

The ship nears its destination, the light shines brighter than ever, she takes your hand into her own, and you leap into the water – into the unknown – together.

-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-

The Sundering Seas are unforgiving. Your limbs slowly lose their grace from cold and fatigue, and you know as well as Galadriel does, that your chances of survival are dwindling. These seas are too vast, and your only hope of making landfall once more is if you are carried there by ship. Through nightfall and daybreak you have yet to see one on the horizon.

You don’t speak, opting to conserve energy, but Galadriel’s guilt and doubt are palpable and rising with the tide. They have plagued her mind for months now, and Elrond’s words surely echo in her ears when she casts searching glances at you from over her shoulder.

Will you lead more elves to die in far-off lands?

The thought isn’t as daunting to you as it is to her. You have, after all, died before, but you would not have such a thing rest on her conscious if you could help it.  

The skies darken once more, but not with night. A fog descends on the water and grey clouds converge to hide the sun. Despite the unease that suddenly broils in your stomach, you swim towards the coming storm and pray Ulmo shows your mercy.

When salvation finally arrives, Galadriel is the first to see it, and you stop to float beside her as it draws near.

It’s a foreboding sight – a heap of broken beams that protrude like the prongs of a dark crown. But as it approaches, the sky seems to lighten, and you share another look. Anything is better than nothing, it says.

-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-

A strong hand grasps your forearm and hauls you up onto the raft. You rest there a moment, on your hands and knees, limbs shaking from exertion and breath ragged. When you look up at your saviour you can’t help but smile in a mix of relief and exhaustion.

“Thank you,” you say, voice thick with gratitude.

You must look a sight, because he stares, eyes wide and lips parted, for what seems like an eternity. Then his hands are on you again, wrapping gently around your elbows and helping you to your feet.

Distantly, you can hear Galadriel conversing with the others – you hope she remembers her tact – but you find yourself transfixed by this strange man who has yet to say a word, who has yet to even blink, whose breath is growing increasingly shorter the longer he stares at you. You wonder if perhaps the sun has made him ill, if dehydration has addled his mind, because he looks at you as if you are some illusion.

You flush under his unrelenting gaze.

“I–I’m alright to stand now,” you say gently to avoid startling him – or worse, offending him. You know little of these people, and there is no reason to believe they are your allies in this.

His brow twitches downward, but his fingers slowly, reluctantly, slip away. At last, he blinks, and it’s as if a veil has been lifted from his mind. Despite his damp hair, tattered clothing, scraped cheek, and possible insanity, he looks quite handsome when he smiles at you.

“Name’s Halbrand,” he says, and his eyes seem to soften when you give him your own.

You think to ask Halbrand just how he came to be stranded on this raft, adrift in the Sundering Seas, but you find out soon enough.

You are old; old enough to sense danger before it appears. It prickles at your senses. Was this the calm before the storm? The raft rocks beneath your feet as large ripples crash into it, and something moves through the fog, something you have never before seen.

When the sea serpent comes, you find yourself thrown into the waters once more.

-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-

When the sea serpent comes, it brings with it a storm.

There one moment, gone the next.

With his heart in his throat, he can only watch as you lose your footing. It is almost unheard of for an elf, but your limbs still tremble with exhaustion, and the raft rocks treacherously beneath your feet. You slip on its slick surface, your head strikes the boards with a resounding crack, and though he scrambles to catch you, you tumble into the frothing waves before he can.  

A blur of white dives in after you.

His mind reels, it has been ever since you looked up at him with those unmistakably kind eyes – eyes he would recognise anywhere. For a moment he thought he’d strayed into another of his vivid dreams, and even now he is not entirely convinced he hasn’t.

But there is little time to waste on speculation. If it is real, if you are here, then there is a very high chance he might lose you again in the space of mere minutes. And that is not an option.  

He has a choice to make when neither you nor your friend resurface after an agonisingly long moment. Does he abandon the raft and retrieve you himself, or does he trust that the elleth won’t get the both of you killed?

He doesn’t like relinquishing control, least of all when the fate of something so significant hangs in the balance, but what hope does he have of returning you to shore if he loses the raft to the storm?

Thankfully, It is a decision he does not have to make. A golden head breaks through the waves with a loud gasp, and the tension rushes out of him in a shuddering exhale when he sees she is not alone.

When he pulls you from the water a second time, your body is limp and there is a bleeding cut on your brow that will need tending.

“She isn’t breathing,” your friend pants, collapsing onto the raft beside you.

It’s not the way he imagines feeling your lips against his after so long apart, but she is right, and propriety is the least of his concerns as he puts his mouth to yours and breathes air into your lungs.

Your body quickly jerks beneath him, and he turns you onto your side as you hack up a mouthful of water.

“Easy,” he soothes, pressing a reassuring hand between your shoulder blades. You look so small and frail like this – two things he knows you are not – and his protective instinct surges. 

He pulls gently at your shoulder to help guide you onto your back once more, and you catch his hand before it withdraws. Your skin is icy cold to the touch, and your bleary eyes blink up at him sluggishly.

“Halbrand…” you manage to mumble before your eyes flutter shut and your fingers slip away.

He smothers an irritated huff as he glances at your friend. Were you alone, he’d rid you of your soaked smock and let his heat warm you, but even now, as her eyes droop and glaze over in exhaustion, your friend watches him warily. He’s almost grateful for her protective nature – it is a relief to know you have found an ally willing to risk her life for you. But it also grates. He is not a threat, not to you, and he is far more capable of protecting you than she is. She will learn as much, in time.

Sleep slowly but inevitably overpowers her, and the moment it does, he lies down beside you and draws you into his arms. 

It has been a long time since he’s held you this way – too long – and it reminds him of all he has taken for granted. It reminds of the times you would kiss the hollow of his neck and trace soft circles into the skin of his sternum; the way you would press your ear to his chest and let his heartbeat lull you to sleep. Sometimes the warmth of you, the comfort of your presence, would coax him into the dreamworld as well, and other times it would keep him awake long into the night, so he could marvel at his own good fortune.

He holds your trembling body tight to his chest, careless of the sea water that drips from your clothes and seeps into his own. He is fire, in the end, and nothing has made him burn quite so brightly as you have. So, he guides your face into the warm crook of his neck and wills warmth into your bones as day fades to dusk and dusk to dawn. 

That is how the Númenóreans find him. And while they lift your friend from the raft and carry her below deck, they know not to touch you. It may be the look in his eye or the greedy way he clings to you still, but they make no attempt to part you from him and for that he is grateful.

In truth, he fears what he might do if they so much as try.

-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-

He’s barely had a day to come to terms with your appearance, or rather your reappearance, but he has plenty of time to think as he waits for you to wake.

Upon boarding the ship, the Númenóreans led him below deck and offered a spare hammock for your rest.

You lie there now, slightly swaying with each rock of the ship, and he just can’t take his eyes off you. Memories are never enough. They are ephemeral, and in the time it takes him to remember the curve of your jaw, he has forgotten the slant of your nose. You are never quite whole in his mind, not like you are now, and he is never quite whole without you.

Millennia have passed, and yet here you are. Why? And why now? Part of him doesn’t care for the answer, but the other part knows he must ask the question. The Valar never do anything without reason, and this is no small thing – not to him.

There is only one conclusion he draws that truly makes sense.

You are a sign; a peace offering. Stranded at sea with his ship besieged by a sea serpent, his path to repentance may have been hindered, but he had tried to do the right thing by returning to Aman, and perhaps that had been the sign they needed to show him mercy.

Your return is beyond mercy. It is a dream, a fantasy, a reward he doesn’t deserve but cherishes nonetheless.

But, he thinks.

There had been no hint of recognition in your eyes. No sign of the adoration you once gazed at him with. And though it hurts, he reminds himself that this human guise is not the fair form he donned in the First Age. It is not the form you had fallen in love with, and that brings new doubts to his mind.

Perhaps your return isn’t a reward at all, but a punishment. Perhaps you will never love him as you once did, and he will be destined to admire you only from afar, to pine and yearn and ache for you, and never be able to have you. Could he survive such a thing twice?

Even now, as he watches you sleep, face soft in rest, his fingers itch to hold you again, to stroke your hair, to trace your cheek. The last time he’d seen you, your body had been bathed in the fiery glow of a red dawn, broken and bloodied and empty of its soul. His Master’s mark carved into your flesh.

He forces the image from his mind with a clenched jaw. While he tells himself that the past no longer matters – that Melkor is all but dead, and you are very much alive – he has harboured this rage and agony and despair within him for millennia, and he will never truly be free of them.

He is pulled mercifully from his thoughts by the sound of approaching footsteps. They come to a slow stop beside him, and he tears his eyes away from you for a moment to glance up at the Captain – Elendil, he recalls. There is clear nostalgia in Elendil’s eyes as he looks at you, a mingling of tenderness and grief that makes it clear this is a man who has loved and lost – and that is a pain Halbrand knows intimately.

“For your lady,” the Captain says softly, holding out a pouch and waterskin. This too feels like a peace offering, one Halbrand accepts with a grateful nod and murmured thanks.

The cut on your brow is still tender and open, but it no longer bleeds. You will heal well, as all elves do, but he flips the pouch open anyway. He wets a clean cloth and dabs gently at the crusted blood on your brow as Elendil’s footsteps slowly retreat.

You don’t react to his ministrations, and he’s almost grateful to have a reason to touch you again – there’s no telling if he will ever be welcome to do so again.

No, he thinks stubbornly, that will not be his fate. He has not spent an eternity praying for this chance only to squander it. The familiar spark of ambition was lit the moment he laid eyes on you, and it is exhilarating. An old challenge; a new purpose. For the first time in a long time, he is not content to simply roam without direction. He can see his destination. What he doesn’t know, is how to reach it.

And so, he spends the next several hours imagining how he will woo his wife once more.

-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-

It doesn’t go entirely to plan.

He is forced from your side when your friend wakes. Galadriel, as he learns her name is.

She watches him with thinly veiled suspicion and asks more questions than he knows to answer about the ship, the crew, its Captain, and their destination. What’s more, there is no subtlety in the way her eyes dart between your still form and his, perched on the stool beside you. He is too close for her liking and too far for his own. A stalemate, one he has a feeling will become all too common from this moment onward. This time, he will concede.

He hides his irritation with an innocuous smile.

“I need to stretch my legs, and the Captain doesn’t want her left alone overlong,” he lies. “Would you mind?”

His words have the desired effect. The tension leaves her shoulders, and she gives him a nod.

He wants to be there when you wake, wants to be the first thing you see, but the need to worm his way into Galadriel’s good graces outweighs his desire – it must if he hopes to worm his way into your good graces as well.

So, he stands and retreats into the cool night air.  

-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-

You dream of a man – the same man as always, but this time the image of him is clearer in your mind. Not by much, but enough for you to realise he is tall, his arms are strong, and his hair resembles silken strands of white gold. His face, however, remains a mystery.

You try to discern his features; the smile you hear in his voice, and the eyes you feel lingering on your form. But they are just beyond your grasp and obscured by a light that rivals that of Aman. He must be so beautiful.  

If not in face, then in soul, because you have never felt this way before. It is only in these dreams that you know love, and joy, and peace, and comfort. The waking world is for everything else, and much of the time you rue returning to it.

How you wish you could remember him. How you wish you could learn of his fate and perhaps find him once more.

Would he remember you? Would it please him to see you again? Or had too much time passed?

Gentle fingers grasp your chin. A gold band glitters on the index finger of his right hand. It is beautifully crafted, by what must have been the greatest of smiths. You know what it signifies, and so, you aren’t entirely surprised to find a matching band on your own finger – somehow, it even eclipses his in splendour.  

“You are troubled, my love.”

You can’t help but huff a soft laugh, it’s watery and distressed, and enough to prompt him into action. He pulls you into his embrace, one hand cupping the back of your head, and the other tracing soothing lines along your spine.  

“I fear I’ve lost you,” you mumble into his chest and feel it vibrate beneath your ear as he hums.

“Then I will just have to find you again, won’t I?” He says it so simply, so absolutely, as if there is no doubt in his mind he will do so.  

“Would you?”

“Would I?” Now it is his turn to laugh. Your eyes slip shut at the press of soft lips to your crown, and you wish to hold onto this moment forever. “Always.”

-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-

He’s reluctant to admit it, but the fresh air does him good. Thoughts of you still swirl in his mind – they have done from the moment he met you, so that’s hardly new – but he’s regained some of his composure. It wouldn’t do to be so obvious around the Captain, around Galadriel, as he has already been, so he pulls himself together in this brief moment of respite.

For now, he must pretend – pretend he doesn’t know you, pretend he doesn’t love you, pretend he is okay with pretending.

It’s something he’s come to be quite good at over the years.

He heaves a deep breath and braces his hands against the gunwale as he stares out across the seemingly endless horizon. The waves have calmed, lapping gently at the ship’s hull, and they reflect the pale light of the stars and moon.

He’s paid the night sky more attention in recent millennia than he ever has before. The stars seem to shine brighter than usual this night, and he suspects he knows why. He swallows thickly – his pride is a heavy thing – and his lips curve in a small and humble smile. Gratitude costs you nothing.

“Thank you,” he murmurs into the night.

The stars twinkle, and he clears his throat uncomfortably. The sudden sound of muffled voices comes as a relief.

“—costs you nothing. If you won’t thank him, I will.”

He peers over his shoulder in time to see you emerge from below deck. There is a disapproving frown on your weary face he is all too familiar with – and glad to not be on the receiving end of for once.

Galadriel walks at your side, her lips set in a thin and equally disapproving line. You communicate without words when you realise you’re not alone – a pointed look, a raised brow, an exasperated huff.

He tries to ignore the swell of envy he feels at your familiarity with each other but takes solace in the fact that he still knows you better than she does. You have not changed, as he has, in your time apart. Unfortunately, that only makes him crave you even more – makes him yearn for that same familiarity, that sense of belonging and completeness he’s gone so long without.

He feels more like himself when he’s with you.

But one thing he has always been – then and now – is patient.

Your face brightens when you meet his eye, and he greets you with a charming smile as you approach him. “Awake at long last.”

“Yes,” you laugh lightly. “Galadriel tells me I owe you great thanks for overseeing my recovery.”

“Does she?” He can’t help but glance over at Galadriel dubiously before meeting your eye. She hovers in the background, fists clenched and jaw tight, and he almost smirks at the sight. If she is this unsettled by mere gratitude, she’ll surely be furious when you come to him with love instead.

“Well,” you smile, and it's wide and knowing and achingly familiar. “Not in so many words. But I am grateful nonetheless. Thank you.”

You give his forearm a gentle squeeze. It’s nothing to look into, a subconscious move to emphasise your appreciation, but his fingers still tighten around the gunwale at your touch.

Patience, he reminds himself.

“Happy to be of service,” he quips light-heartedly, and you share a smile.

No, he thinks, admiring the light in your eyes and the warmth in your smile. Whether you were reborn for his benefit or merely your own, it did not matter.

This could never be a punishment.

-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-

Almost done with the other requests too, so I’ll probably be posting them within the week! Anyway, I hope this was okay – let me know what you think!

[thatgirl4815]

Transitions & Tension

I know we’ve all been praising Mile and Apo for their acting this episode, but I want to jump in and say that what’s impressive isn’t only their execution of immense tonal shifts but the speed and at which they execute these shifts. Their mood changes are seamless rather than choppy and divided. Not only does it make the scenes more entertaining and realistic, but it also makes them feel whole. 

Like in this beloved scene:

The shift happens right in this gif. Kinn’s face falls ever so slightly--without saying a word, we’ve already connected the dots about what he’s feeling. It reminds me of Ep6 in a way. This flirtation between them is a break from the real world. Kinn gets caught up in the moment before reality crashes back in. Porsche’s smiling face brings him joy, but everything about their situation is fragile. Porsche is still Kinn’s bodyguard, and he must assume all of the duties that come with that, but Kinn has never really wanted Porsche in this position (and I don’t think he ever really will). In the first few episodes, it was out of obstinance and annoyance with Porsche’s attitude. But oh how the tables have turned by Ep7. Kinn has acted as Porsche’s bodyguard in previous episodes, and it’s all been leading to this realization that the only way for Kinn to guard his heart is for Porsche not to guard his body. It’s an unwinnable situation though, because regardless of Kinn’s authority, Porsche still has to assume his role, no matter how dangerous it is. Kinn failed to free him from it in Ep6, so the only option now is to keep Porsche close and pray for his safety. 

Back to my point: the fact that this one scene--this one gif--can bring all of this context to mind shows just how natural and impactful the transition is. The mood flips as Kinn’s expression changes, but that’s all we need to understand the gravity of this moment. They can flirt and play with each other, but there is always this underlying threat to their interactions--the thought that for all they have gone through together, they could be ripped apart in a million different ways. 

(We won’t talk about the fact that this scene also uses three different music selections, each with varying tone, to coincide with these transitions. It’s a risky move to use so many selections, but in my opinion, it works. And Jeff’s soaring vocals of “Why don’t you stay?” as they look at each other??? Yeah.)

Let’s not even get started on the newest installment of The Scene™, because that’s got mood changes galore. Rage, frustration, heartbreak, guilt, forgiveness, desperation, lust, love: all in the span of only a few minutes. Mile and Apo have proven themselves to be phenomenal actors on their own, but they have a unique way of communicating with each other through their expressions alone. Their emotions are almost palpable, and they silently interact in a way that heightens these mood transitions effortlessly and realistically. 

From a screenwriting and acting perspective, this final scene is risky. It quickly becomes sexual, but this isn’t a hate-sex moment, as it very well could’ve been. Kinn and Porsche are very clearly sexually attracted to one another, but their coming together isn’t initiated solely by lust; as in both of KP’s sex scenes so far, the physical intimacy is inextricably tethered to the emotional intimacy. As @fleet-off​ mentioned in one of her posts, television doesn’t show emotionally-invested sex scenes very often, but that’s what makes KP’s so poignant. The tonal transition feel seamless at the end of Ep7 (at least in my opinion) because of these emotional layers they have built up so carefully over the course of the last seven episodes. I personally went into the show expecting the feelings to come after the sex, but I have been pleasantly surprised by the added layer of emotion because it makes everything feel not only necessary, but richer. And I think it’s really difficult to portray a relatively graphic sex scene and make it feel as if it really needs to be there.

Anyways, I go into more detail about how cinematographic features like lighting and camera angle play into these mood changes in this post.

As usual, this post became a lot longer than I intended, but my concluding thought is that KinnPorsche manages to handle transitions in a masterful way that I adore very much. 🙂

[theggning]

For today’s rambling meta rant about sad funny coffee man du jour, I want to talk about how more than any other character, even Phoenix, Godot is inextricably entangled with the Fey family.

Gigantomassive spoilers for T&T below the cut.

I’ve written before about the Fey clan and their toxic family politics, but no other unrelated character gets as caught up in it as Diego Armando. From the moment he allies himself with Mia Fey, his destiny becomes wrapped up in the same tangled threads that make the Fey clan the foundation of the whole trilogy.

Obviously, Diego’s love for Mia is the main drive of his character and all his actions. Also mentioned but often skimmed over is his deep hatred for Dahlia, who unquestionably ruined his life. By the time he awakens from his coma, Dahlia is already in prison on death row, already out of reach. There is nothing more Diego can do to her in retribution for her blinding, crippling, and nearly killing him. Robbed of any sense of justice or closure, this simmering anger combines with his grief and poisons his heart and soul as badly as his body. From the depths of this despair is born Godot, the cool unflappable prosecutor who everyone waits for. But even once he changes his name and distances himself from the failures of his past, Godot cannot pull away from the lost love that still haunts him-- and he will not extricate himself from the Feys. 

He fixates on Maya, determined to keep her safe in Mia’s stead. Now, the normal thing to do in this situation would be to introduce himself to Maya, who we all know would eagerly welcome him into the family (which she clearly does even after all the drama that follows.) But of course, Godot is anything but normal. I think his distance from Maya is easily explained by his guilt. Godot is the master of projection, and he absolutely blames himself for his perceived failure to protect Mia. In his mind, Maya will too. So it’s out of shame or guilt or his own self-hatred that he looks out for her from afar, determined that it’s better she never find out exactly who he is.

(I absolutely love Godot’s subtle softness/protectiveness for Maya. Look at the tenderness with which he treats her in the aftermath of the 3-5 murder, carrying her to safety and cleaning her up and keeping her warm. Even better when supplementary canon quietly acknowledges this. Like check out this moment from fever dream stageplay Turnabout Gold Medal. I GODDAMN SCREAMED)

But Maya’s only the beginning of the Feys Godot becomes wrapped up with. He makes an enemy out of Morgan. She’s also rotting in prison for her actions in 2-2, but those actions so dismay Godot that he starts surveilling her detention center visits with Pearl. He teams up with Misty. Like him, she’s obsessed with the past and ashamed of her mistakes, but will go to extreme lengths to protect Maya.  They both recruit Iris, who’s also stricken with guilt and all three of them are willing to do stupid, convoluted, irrational things to make up for their past “sins.”

(For the purposes of this post, we’re going to acknowledge the fact that the rescue plan in 3-5 was dangerous, dumb, and entirely preventable by all involved. We’re also going to acknowledge that Misty and Iris were party to this plan and conspired to create it, and neither of them did the smart thing either. Godot is just especially willing to take the blame.)

And then there’s Pearl. They don’t interact onscreen much, but Godot shows a desire to protect her and shield her feelings like he does Maya. When Godot encounters the frightened, freezing Pearl at the Inner Temple he’s kind to her, comforting her with his last cup of coffee (somehow sweetening it so she’ll like the taste.) He expresses admiration for her pure love for Maya, and the idea that it could have been Pearl who he stabbed in the garden clearly disturbs him.

I’m not sure there’s a more blatant crime of passion in the AA series than 3-5. Godot stabs Dahlia/Misty, taking her life/defending an innocent out of love/hatred, to protect Maya/from a situation that he and her mother let her walk into. It’s honestly no wonder this is such a divisive and widely discussed case in the fandom-- there really is no untangled way to view it. Godot is a complex, tangled mess of a man permanently wrapped up with the Feys, a complex, tangled mess of a family. Love and hate and vengeance and protection and ambition and guilt fuel all of them, and all of the events that go down between them.

Undoubtedly, Diego’s life would have gone a lot smoother and been a lot simpler if he never got involved with the Feys. But if offered the choice, I don’t think he’d take it. Because, of course, the most important Fey of all is the first one he meets: the one he chooses to stand beside and the one he loses his heart to. Diego’s love for Mia is at the core of his character, and it’s that love that binds him into the twisted roots of her family tree as inextricably as any of its members.

So what I’m saying is that Diego deserves honorary Fey status and I support “Weird Uncle Diego” headcanons and fanworks with every fiber of my being and I’m pretty sure canon would agree with me.

[venstm]

Ren’s shadow is as ubiquitous amongst his memories as it is the night’s deluged in harrowing dreams. the inception of all things arises from that past, ineludible it comes for him. be it an irretrievable sentiment puncturing between his ribs, the smart of it too excruciating to forget in waking, or a succession of events diverging between withering into obscurity or being embossed in superlative detail beneath his eyelids. It always came, there was no uncertainty, only the anticipation which became suffocating. As they stand before one another now, revenants of an anomalous tragedy, there’s a palpable tension having long since became fetid. It is not something to be dispelled, banishing it to the furthest recesses of his mind felt indistinguishable from eluding it. If Dan heng relies on it, acclimatized only to the sensation of running from it, there will never be an alternative to this, their only recourse to remain ensnared in a recurrent nightmare. Sleep and Death become the mirrors that consider him censoriously but also a seldom found opening to ruminate rather than turn, helplessly, to that seemingly immutable outcome. Shadows engulf ren expression and there is a moment, suspended in that liminal space, where he is more of them then they are a mantle enshrouding him. The severe cut of his pupils rendered kindling for the lucent, red embers incinerating them. Would there be penitence for that hypocrisy he’s continued to return to, found in their fiery depths, a pyre upon which the dragon’s bones could atone? Yet it isn’t forgiveness he seeks, even as he scrutinized esoteric texts from the depths of the archives it remains nameless. He cannot be extricated from that past, shedding the skin of his past life and renouncing it wholly, because he was indubitably shaped by it. The longer he fled, the more fervently he chased that view of a life created by his own two hands, the more times he would return to that indisputable fact. Even if he were different now, in name and in position, Imbibitor lunae was an inextricable part of him. Dan Heng does not balk before his hostility, his retort an emphatic reminder of their opposition, even as the places between memory and present twist into a nebulous haze. His expression remains guarded, reticent, not permitting knowledge to be driven from their clouded depths. Not unlike ren this is the only normal he recognizes, a cornerstone for every interaction before this and every subsequent encounter. This unfamiliar territory may be benign for now but there was always a treacherous undertow surging between them, ushering in the scent of petrichor. “ No, you’re right.” there’s reluctance there, not quite a mordant bite yet restraint, something Dan Heng practised. “ It wouldn’t be.” because he is not infallible, acknowledging many wrongs he had been an integral part of was the beginning of any sort of compromise. If that were even possible for them. Their gazes meet and the premonition of that collision seethes expectantly, awaiting the moment either one of them succumb to that predicted dance. Deliberately, he allows his posture to relax, it’s such a subtle change that the transition is almost undetectable, yet the sigh he expels all but matches ren’s. “ I went back.” elucidating both nothing and everything in such a concise way feels insufficient, yet having spent so long circumventing this it holds the weight of a confession. 

certainty is a luxury few can afford, and ren has rarely been among them. he constantly teeters on the edge of his own madness, a dark, all-consuming void eager to devour whatever remains of him. every part of his being has been dissected by his own mind, and it's not always the mara pulling the strings. while it enjoys playing puppeteer with him, the universe serving as the stage for this macabre performance, ren knows he can’t place all the blame there. yet something about dan heng's admission strikes him as odd, cracking open the possibility of a conversation ren has been pushing for—one the vidyadhara has always seemed reluctant to indulge. for once, it almost feels like ren is caught off guard, a feeling he despises, made evident by the deep furrow now etched into his forehead.

where friendship once felt like drifting through clear blue waters and basking in the warmth of a boundless azure sky, now only a bleak, gray horizon stretches before him—obscuring the depths of dan heng’s eyes, which ren can no longer read. hidden, veiled, and sealed away like a reminder of the indelible distance between them, the chasm only widens. there's something cruel about the entire ordeal, a bitter irony that stings deeply. the deliberate way dan heng has buried every trace of his former self strikes ren like an offense, a quiet yet piercing insult. the anger it stirs in him is difficult to articulate, simmering beneath the surface, growing with each helpless encounter. every moment feels like falling into a bottomless, monochrome grave, surrounded by oppressive walls, with nothing but those gray, sickly clouds to greet him—clouds that, as much as he despises them, seem to mirror what he now sees in dan heng’s eyes. 

they are worlds apart, undeniably and irrevocably. a faint shadow of their old companionship lingers, like the quiet whisper in a wind that has long since died, but that’s all there is. dan heng has not just distanced himself but claims to be someone entirely new, swearing off any ties to his past life, any resemblance to the person ren once knew. yet, beneath the hate he displays lies a painful hypocrisy, one ren can feel, like a layer of fine dust coating his skin that he cannot shake off. for ren has done the same—renounced his old self, cast aside the man he used to be. and so, he stands there, bitterly aware that while they are divided by two different worlds, they are bound by the same struggle to escape who they once were.

“ would not be the first time that you are wrong. ” there’s no malice in his voice, the words slipping out almost automatically, spoken with a candidness that emerges from the shadows clouding his expression. the thick tension between them feeds the fog that hangs heavily in the air, and ren tries again, this time letting out a small sigh before he speaks. each syllable feels like it lands with the weight of an insult, though that’s far from his intent. still, his words carry more hostility than necessary, unavoidably tainted by the strained state of their relationship. for too long, they've been locked in this tired dance of back-and-forth exchanges, and by now, it’s the only rhythm ren knows how to follow. “ if you once were so certain, what changed ? ”