#ceaseless magic au

[poorlemons]

jon moment

[whimsicalwritingsandmore]

The Elite Four | stray kids x reader

Pairing: ot8!straykids x fem!reader, ??? x fem!reader

Genre: fantasy au, romance, magic

Warnings: you get attacked.

Word count: 1986 words

a/n: well well well, it is I! And I bring you a new story! Hope you enjoy and reblogs and comments are greatly appreciated as it'll keep me motivated! <3

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Chapter 1

It rained when everything fell apart.

But before that, you loved the rain. You were from the lone district, a place that only experienced either clear skies and intense sunlight or overcast skies with steady or torrential downpours. Usually Summer was much more prominent so when it rained, you welcomed it with open arms. The weather held sentimental value to you and you were certain there was nothing that could make you dislike rainy weather.

It rained when you met Chan. You were only 12 years old, and he had just moved right next to your home. As the droplets began to splatter and become more intense, Chan tried to make a run inside with his childhood dog in his arms. Unfortunately for him, the cheerful and friendly pooch had other plans. The small and cute creature broke free from his embrace and barreled its way right into your legs as you appeared into its view. You fell into the mud with Chan screaming “Berry, noooo!” and rushing to your side to help.

It drizzled when you met Minho and Jisung. It had actually rained earlier in the day so the forest was a muddy and slippery ground at the time. While you and Chan mindlessly tossed pebbles into the vast lake that was nestled in the forest, out of nowhere, two boys came skating and screaming down the hill. Jisung was at the forefront and he tightly grasped Minho’s hand like his life depended on it while the latter wailed and yelled at him to let him go. They both fell right into the cold water.

It was foggy when you met Changbin due to the sudden torrential downpour that lingered for days. You were at the border that separated the lone district from the capital city, Pruvine. The border was adorned with lush berry bushes that bore the sweetest berries you ever tasted. However, it was a risk to be on the border alone. Pruvine Surviellants, just like the citizens, were not fond of people from the district, unless you were able to be of use for something. Surviellants would antagonize your people before finding some excuse to arrest them and bring them in for questioning. You were forbidden from going to the border by yourself but unfortunately for your parents, you had selective hearing and nothing could stop you from your berry addiction. So when you were ambushed and chased by a guard dog, Changbin grabbed your wrist to prevent you from falling down a slope and pulled you with him to safety.

And it had a torrential downpour when you met Seungmin, Felix and Jeongin. They were three close friends who spent most of their days lounging on top of the highest trees in the forest, staring out the Academy that stood beautifully in the capital. When a downpour began, they remained in their spots protected by the trees while the five of you were down below seeking shelter. Jisung who was panicked as he began to recall the last time he was in the forest and the muddy ground, scampered up one of the trees which Felix was on and refused to come down. The rest of you joined him on the other trees in close proximity and befriended the trio as you waited for the storm to pass. By the end of the day, your group was now a total of eight.

Truly you believed there was nothing to make you dislike rain.

You enjoyed living in the lone district despite the political unrest between Pruvine and the undercity. Pruvine is the city that flourished and prospered with wealth and the latest technology. The metropolis was a sprawling canva of urbanity as it was always buzzing with ceaseless activity from merchants, politicians and important people who came from all over the world. Its market was always bustling with activity and it was a buzzing hub for commerce. The city was adorned with towering buildings and pillars that were a testament to its grandeur and the ancient walls that were deeper into the centre were steeped in history, whispering tales from long ago.

On the other hand, the undercity was a dystopian community that was tucked away in an underground somewhere right off the cliff at the end of the forest. It was a community that felt the heavy injustice of the Pruvine Council after the failed rebellion centuries ago. It was said to be a gloomy landscape with a sprawling labyrinth of alleys. However, you also heard that the nightlife of the undercity was a spectrum of neon signs and lively bars. The city came alive at night and the after-hours was a playground for night owls with rumored rooftop bars, offering panoramic views of the starlit cityscape.

The lone district was right in between the two parallel cities. Your home was a petite town that was neatly crammed right next to the neighbouring vast forest. Descendants from the district were rumoured to have been from the undercity, who sought to establish their own home due to the continuous unrest and then failed uprising. It would definitely explain why Pruvine civilians did not take too kindly to your people.

But despite the neverending social turbulence, you liked your home - you had your friends and family and that’s all that mattered.

Until, Chan went off to the Academy. Despite the personal vendettas Pruvine citizens may have towards your people, there was no law barring you or anyone from your district to attend the Academy. You could if you chose to but it did require a very heavy and lengthy entrance examination. Perhaps it was the city’s way to show their equality and egalitarianism. 

Since that courtesy was not extended to the undercity’s civilians. 

Chan always considered potentially trying to enrol into the Academy. And after he met you and the boys, he was determined to secure a place and further his education. It would mean that he could create an avenue for a better life for everyone. He envisioned that you all would come to the city to live and have the most comfortable lifestyle the city had to offer. Despite your uneasiness and uncertainty with anything related to Pruvine, you trusted Chan and supported him in his efforts.

Till, he returned with a new friend. Kiara was the daughter of wealthy politicians and her mother sat on the Pruvine Council. She was nice, to the others at least. She avoided any one-on-one conversations with you and steered clear of your company if the others had left the two of you alone in the room. She kept close to Chan (much to your chagrin) and befriended Changbin, Seungmin, Felix and Jeongin easily. As far as Minho and Jisung were concerned, she seemed nice but neither really found it important to be close to her. However, Minho in particular began to notice her odd behaviour towards you. She would make back-handed compliments and subtly discredit any achievements you had. The others didn’t pick up on it since she was good at making it seem like a harmless and normal conversation. Minho wasn’t there the first few times she did it but then she made the mistake of saying it in front of him, and he was quick to reply to her with a snarky remark. She laughed it off initially but then sulked to Chan that Minho didn’t like her. Chan comforted her but their close proximity was a little too close to your liking.

But who were you to say anything? Chan wasn’t your boyfriend, so while your heart felt like it was being tugged mercilessly, you bit your tongue. You ignored it as best you could until you couldn’t.

 It was raining when Kiara decided to host a party at Chan’s to celebrate him completing his first year. She refused to leave his side and it was clear, she did not want to leave the two of you alone even for a second. She invited a few of their classmates and dragged him along to mingle with her. You could feel the stares and hear the whispers of gossip that were about you, because every time you tried to approach Chan, she would pull him away.

Ultimately, it all became too much, the living room you knew so well at Chan’s that was always homely, cozy and welcoming, began to feel too small and suffocating. So when nobody was looking, you ran off into and headed to the forest to breathe.

You felt like a failure. Although you knew Kiara was horrible and whatever issue she had with you was one-sided and clearly rooted in some kind of jealousy, you couldn’t shake off the feeling of inferiority. She was pretty and educated, she had seen the world while you never left the district, she was ambitious and talented at dance. And just yesterday, you heard Chan’s mom tell yours what a good match she would be for Chan.

And of course she would be. You were just a girl from the lone district, you did not want to attend the Academy, quite frankly, you would never step foot in Pruvine if you could. 

You were just you.

The rain had stopped for a while. As you got deeper into the forest though, you felt light droplets on your skin - it was beginning to drizzle. Just as you were about to make up your mind to turn back, you heard a marching of footsteps coming your way. Immediately, your heart began to hammer in your chest. It was already late and the sky above you was starting to become unnaturally dark with layers of gigantic and heavy clouds giving off an ominous and threatening feeling. There was a sudden flickering of white light bursting across the sky and in the distance, thunder began to rumble. It was beginning to get foggy and the wind seemed to escalate in strength, rattling the branches of the trees.

Before you could even take a step, you were shoved to the ground with a menacing figure towering over you ready to attack. With all your might you kicked him and bolted deeper into the forest. More foreign voices filled your ears and you distinctly heard a gruff voice yelling to ‘get her.’ A torrential shower hammered down soon after and you tumbled with every step you took as the ground became slippery and muddy. You were covered in mud and your hands were covered in cuts. You were freezing cold as the temperature dropped. You felt nothing but blind terror and dread twisted in your gut as you came to the clearing of the cliff. You were trapped. Suddenly, you were being attacked and hit from all sides. You felt the blood beginning to leak down your face, and as it mixed with the rain it stained your clothes. One of the perpetrators grabbed your arm and as you tried to pull back your sleeve was ripped. 

You were bruised and bloodied as you fell to the ground. Just as one of the goons was about to land the final blow, Jisung’s voice rang through the forest calling for you. The group scampered away and a blurry Jisung came into view. He cried and screamed your name, running to you and hugging you close, begging you to remain conscious. You faintly heard him mention the words help and Chan before running as fast he could back into the forest.

There were a few things you remembered that night. As you laid on the ground slowly teetering into unconsciousness, you saw three silhouettes come up from the bushes. Fear spiked in your body but there was nothing you could do. As your eyes began to flutter shut and you slowly accepted your fate, a gentle hand caressed your head.

That’s all you remembered as everything faded to black.

Oh, and you also never liked rain again.

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a/n: Never fear, Hyunjin will appear in the next chapter! if you would like to be on the taglist, please send me an ask or private message, that way I'll see it faster!

Taglist: @wealwayskeepfighting

[nomsfaultau]

The Lambs Wolves Wear part 6

Dark SBI AU where Philza’s human children were replaced by monsters. Start of ficlet is here.

It wasn’t unusual that “Technoblade” was late to meals. Philza wasn’t entirely sure if he needed to eat anymore. The hoard of spirits using Technoblade as a conduit assured Philza the body of his real son was technically still alive, but it didn’t change the fact his child looked less alive every day, pallid skin and sunken sockets. “Technoblade” was rather diligent in feeding the body they possessed, though often grew distracted, consumed with ghostly obsession. “Technoblade” had taken it upon themselves to farm the land, and with armies of ghosts set upon the task, there was little use for Philza. He was left to domestic upkeep, shaved down into nothing more than a sweet and nurturing caretaker. Hopefully such a docile persona would cause them to underestimate him.

Technoblade was stolen from him, but not truly gone. Perhaps it could have been some relief. Only his darkest nightmares could begin to fathom what the fates of his other children were, and yet he could still embrace Technoblade. It didn’t change the gut feeling that he was cradling the icy corpse of his son. Philza wasn’t sure if he could handle realizing he was watching his dead son’s carcass laugh and walk alongside him, puppeteered by ancient specters. No. The real Technoblade had to be in there somewhere. He had to. 

“Technoblade” hadn’t come back from the barn yet. Philza frowned as he dished out stew, then ordered “Tommy” to fetch his brother. While Philza only pretended to care if the others ate, he needed to believe Technoblade’s body was still alive. 

The demon whined about waiting to eat, then hmph’d and crashed through a window, morphing into a dark stallion as he raced for a distant barn. Philza flinched at the shattering glass, then sighed as Wilbur began to weave yet another illusion to ‘fix’ the broken window. Sometimes Philza wondered how much of his life was distorted into the image of a happy normal family, pasted over with magic to hide the real damage. 

A sound like distant thunder cracked through the air. Suddenly he could see the towering true form of the demon that stole Tommy, hissing and recoiling as dark waves of an undead legion poured out of the barn, attacking everything in their path. War unfurled from the barn.

Ah. So the façade was finally over. There was a grim relief in relinquishing the fragile peace. It was too soon, he still didn’t know where all his children were. But Philza was prepared. He’d been covertly stockpiling the means to defend himself for a long time now. These creatures wearing his children wouldn’t kill him that easily.

“Tommy” scrambled back from the ghosts that charged at him. Powerful claws slashed through the ranks, but their fury was ceaseless and phantasmal. “Tommy” turned tail and scampered back to the house. A blur of his form, and a bristling raccoon burrowed around Philza’s shoulders, shaking and bleeding.

“He’s crazy,” the demon hissed, ringed tail puffed up. “I tried to help him like you taught me to,” “Tommy” insisted, expecting reprimand. “He attacked me! And he was rude! He wouldn’t die even when I tried to kill him!” Philza pressed a kiss to the injured raccoon’s forehead, ignoring the sulfuric smell. Only a little longer must he pretend to love them. He coaxed the demon and changeling into resuming lunch, promising to handle it.

And then Philza prepared to finally kill the thing festering inside Technoblade’s body. It would have to be fast, before the others realized they were next.

Ghosts poured out of the barn, the restless legions of the slain pouring out upon the land they once tilled. Philza gripped his iron sword, praying the clumsy holy runes he’d scratched into would be enough against the undead. And then Philza charged in, flashes of blessed metal carving through the ghosts. It caught the spectral blows of swords that otherwise would have cut him to ribbons. He plunged into an army. Flashes of searing cold scraped through his form, numbing his soul. Still he sliced his way through the ghostly legion, fighting to the heart of the war. The world was a blur of darkness, but a trail of blood guided him to where ancient armies poured out of his child.

Spectral hands ripped at him, though he warded them off best he could with his Prime-blessed blade. His sword was torn out of his cold-numbed hands, too rigid from the rime crawling up them to pick it up again. And yet Philza pressed on, weathering the arctic shadows cutting to his core. In the heart of the darkness, “Technoblade” curled into a haystack, shuddering as waves of undead soldiers clawed their way out of him.

The hoards descended upon Philza, shrieking and ripping into him. Frost struck through him, brutal in its cold. Philza stumbled, struggling to pass through the gale of spirits to the body they possessed. His heart began to freeze inside his chest, sluggish as it tried to join the host of the undead. He reached for the boy, fighting with everything he had, and slammed the binding tag onto him.

The spirits screeched as they were suddenly ripped backward and shoved back into “Technoblade”. It snapped to silence abruptly, the spell tag having done its work. The ghosts couldn’t leave their vessel now. Philza panted, each exhale no longer spilling condensation. His fingers were still numb even as the soul frost melted, but he stumbled over to his dropped weapon, dragging it as he slowly approached the shaking boy. Blood trailed toward “Technoblade”, staining the hay he curled in.

Philza pointed his sword at the hyperventilating ghost. “Give me back my son.”

“Technoblade” didn’t seem to hear him, mumbling over and over to themselves. “Don’t hurt him don’t hurt him don’t-" the monster began sobbing as he raised the sword.

And Philza realized he wasn’t going to be able to kill them. Not when they begged for mercy in the voice of his children. No, not when they shared his home for months, when they looked to him for guidance to mold them into gentler lives. “Technoblade” putting down their swords in favor of plows, “Tommy” learning to be careful in his affections, “Wilbur” slowly realizing he might be loved for himself and not the child he replaced. They all called him father long past when the deception was broken.

His heart howled. He wanted the monsters that destroyed his children dead. And yet Philza couldn’t do it. He couldn’t.

The sword clattered to the barn floor. “Technoblade” whimpered and struggled at his approach, kicking out wildly. Philza wrestled them down, catching the hands clawing at him. “Technoblade” was a bloodied mess, a gash crossed over an eye and digging down his collarbone to his heart. “Don’t hurt him dON’T HURT HIM PLEASE—“

And suddenly, Philza remembered that “Technoblade’s” last vessel had been murdered.

Philza brushed “Technoblade’s” hair from where it fell into the wound. “Shhh, it’s okay. If I wanted you dead, you would be.” It soothed the strategically-minded spirits a little. Philza would exorcise them in a heartbeat, but then he’d have to deal with the others and in that time Technoblade could very well bleed out. Never mind the fact he still didn’t know where the other children were.

He peeled out of his jacket and used it to soak up the blood, murmuring assurances. Slowly “Technoblade” began to calm, realizing they weren’t being attacked. Shakily, they explained that they’d accidentally hurt Technoblade’s body when tilling, and panicked, sure they’d be finished off while weakened. They kept apologizing for hurting the body, like Philza couldn’t see how deeply the ghosts cared for their vessel. Carefully, Philza removed the binding spell tagging the spirit, shoving it into a pocket for later. “Technoblade” reached dark hands for him, clinging on for comfort. 

Foolishly, Philza thought that was all they did, till too late he saw the shadow and whirled to find his sword hovering over him in a phantom grasp. “Technoblade” examined the runes Philza scratched into the metal. “You have been scheming against us,” they said almost levelly. Red eyes pinned him from within dark sockets, staring up from where “Technoblade” clung to his chest. A spectral hand clawed at the fabric covering his hammering heart, poised to rip it out. He’d let his guard down. 

Philza was silent, realizing he’d revealed his intent far, far too soon. “…I’m not a foolish man. You’re a warrior, are you not? Would you deny me strength? We all know I’m nowhere near you boys’ equal.”

“Technoblade” pressed the sword hilt back into his palm. “True. A far better man than any of us. Few soldiers are strong enough to stop fighting.”

Next>

[karuvapatta]

Next part of the Untitled Jonelias Magic AU. Thank you @ceaseless-bitcher for your feedback, worldbuilding ideas, and line suggestions!

Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 4 | Part 5

***

“Do you have an appointment?” the secretary – Rose? Rosie? – asked politely, opening her calendar.

“I do not,” Jon said.

“I see,” she said. “Well, forgive me, Mr Sims, but Master Bouchard is currently in a meeting. If you have a message for him, I would be happy to pass it along.”

“Look,” Jon began, then shut his mouth immediately thereafter. The secretary – Rosie; he was pretty sure her name was Rosie – regarded him with a bland, polite smile, her hands folded neatly on the desk. Behind her were the doors to Master Bouchard’s office, presently out of Jon’s reach.

“Is there anything I can do for you, then?” she asked.

He should have written a letter. He should have refrained from coming here in the first place.

“Is it possible to arrange a meeting?” he asked. “I—I really need to speak with Master Bouchard.”

He didn’t want to accost the man after one of his lectures, or seek entry to the research floor without invitation. That seemed to be a step too far. But maybe he would have no other choice, if Rosie continued being this difficult.

“I will have to confirm it with him. I will let you know once I have any details,” Rosie said.

“Thank you,” Jon said curtly. He wrote down his contact information, and could not help one last heated glare in the direction of Bouchard’s locked office door.

It was foolish. It wasn’t important. The sense of urgency gnawing at his stomach was entirely unwarranted. He needed to put that feeling to rest and move on. If Bouchard refused to see him, he would do just that. He would stop showing up to his lectures, stop reading his papers, stop hovering near the research department…

Half-heartedly, he wished that this would be the end of it. And yet the reply arrived two days later, with the meeting set for next week. Jon didn’t know how to feel about that. He spent altogether too much time trying to come up with something intelligent to say, some compelling argument as to why he wanted to see Bouchard in the first place. Yet when the time came, his mind was blank and his throat was dry.

“Mr Sims,” Bouchard greeted him. “To what do I owe the pleasure?”

Jon swallowed. The office was just as he had remembered it, with Bouchard silhouetted against the large window behind him. Jon felt uncomfortably exposed where he stood; he could not see the man’s face clearly, with the afternoon light nearly blinding him.

“Take a seat, please,” Bouchard said, pointing to the familiar chair in front of his desk.

Jon moved slowly. He placed his hand on the back of the chair, fingers twitching against dark wood and embroidered fabric. Bouchard’s pale eyes were on him; he could feel them as acutely as he felt the sunlight on his skin. He had questions, so many questions echoing in his head, and yet he struggled to voice any of them.

Bouchard was a patient man. He sat back, fingers steepled together, and said nothing at all as Jon hovered awkwardly in front of him, at war with his own thoughts.

“Have you chosen an apprentice yet, Master?” Jon asked.

He hadn’t meant for these to be the first words out of his mouth, but now he couldn’t take them back.

“Oh my,” Bouchard chuckled. “Gossip really spreads like wildfire, doesn’t it?”

This wasn’t an answer. Jon frowned at him.

“Why do you want to know?” Bouchard asked.

Still the same frustrating non-answer. Jon’s frown deepened; his fingers clenched tight around the back of the chair. The bracelet shifted against his skin, responding to the movement, or perhaps the sudden flash of anger.

“Does it matter?” he asked. “You will not tell me anyway.”

Bouchard’s mouth twitched into a smile. This—he found it amusing. Jon was a source of entertainment for him, for whatever reason. The reasonable thing to do would be to turn back and leave; Jon, of course, stayed right where he stood.

“What is it that you want from me?” Jon asked.

“Why do you assume I want anything from you?” Bouchard asked calmly.

“You—” Jon bit his lip. This was wrong, this was all wrong. He was making an ass of himself. But—well. “Why did you reject my application?” he asked. This was a reasonable question, was it not? “Is it because of the—” he pressed his fingers to his wrist and the bracelet bound tight around it, feeling it thrum gently, matching the rhythm of his pulse. “I didn’t think it mattered,” he added quietly.

“It does matter,” Bouchard said. “To you, most of all. Why pretend otherwise?”

It was driving him insane, the way Bouchard insisted on answering Jon’s questions with even more questions. What would it take to get a normal reply out of the man? Why was he toying with Jon?

“I have been practicing,” Jon said. “You know I have. I—I want to learn.” He dropped his gaze, throat seizing with embarrassment. But he needed to say the words out loud, he needed to have them out in the open. “Master, I know I’m capable of this with your guidance. I want to be your apprentice. Please.”

He braced himself for whatever might come next. Maybe he ought to apologize for his outlandish request, offer an explanation, play it off as a joke… except he couldn’t bring himself to lie right now. Bouchard would probably know if he did. So he glanced up, chancing a look at Bouchard’s face, to better judge his reaction.

Their eyes met; Bouchard smiled.

“To answer your earlier question, Mr Sims,” he began. “Yes, I already made my choice. But I had to wait for you to make yours.”

Oh.

Jon still didn’t know why. But now he had the chance to find out.

[kay-elle-cee]

@hprecfest Day 8: A Canon-Divergent Fic

Kindly Stopped for Me by @nodirectionhome-ao3

Ship: Gen Rating: Teen Relevant Tags: Canon Divergence, Familial Bonding, Angst, Hurt/Comfort, Wizarding Politics, Order of the Phoenix Warnings: Major Character Death, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse Word Count: 228,297* *WIP

On Halloween night, 1981, James Potter sacrifices his life to save his wife and infant son. A powerful form of blood magic is evoked, and Lily Potter falls into a coma. The world moves on around her. Thirteen and a half years later, Voldemort returns to life...evoking the blood magic once more. Lily wakes up to discover that she has been betrayed in more ways than one. By a sister, an ally, a mentor, and a friend. As the Wizarding world teeters on the edge of chaos once more, Harry and his mother soon find themselves in a fight for their lives. While Harry struggles against the Ministry's smear campaign and the Dark Lord's ceaseless vendetta, Lily gets a job at Hogwarts, rejoins the Order of the Phoenix and vows to get her revenge. She will win this war. She will protect her son. And she will make the traitors pay. AU beginning at end of GoF, with the POV alternating between Lily and Harry.

[toms-topic]

Magical Girl Jon au (Sketches)

Explanation and Notes:

Jon grabbed a Leitner which let the Entities speak to him. They mostly send him to stop rituals because they hate each other.

He's still the Ceaseless Watcher's special little boy, but he technically isn't an Eye avatar.

The Eye and Web are both heavily tied to Jon (for fairly obvious reasons) but also they want him as an avatar.

Jon goes by D'Ville when he's stopping rituals, and tries to hide his face so he's not as recognizable. He isn't aware the Stranger helps him. Also his hair is just entirely dark brown without the gray streaks when he's D'Ville.

Jon gets headaches when he ignores the pull of entities. He also did not choose to look like Jonny D'Ville, he was forced into it, but he did willingly accessorize, the mask and goggles were his doing.

Sasha and Martin have no clue Jon is D'Ville, but Tim say D'Ville say "Good Lord" and he was like "THERE IS ONLY ONE MAN WHO STILL SAYS THAT, JON???" So Tim has to help Jon come up with cover stories.

If Martin and Sasha falling for Jon/D'Ville was just a fall, Tim slipped and spiraled down a hill into being in love. L for him though because he knows that both Sasha and Martin are in love with the same man as he is and he knows.

Jon asking them to dinner was kinda supposed to be him asking them on a date but him getting his shit wrecked by the bomb prolonged that.

Jon fell for Tim first, before realizing he also loves Sasha and Martin. He didn't ask Tim out because he wasn't sure on how and was too scared.

Jon was the one that set off the explosion, but because he's god's least favorite he survived but ended up comatosed aw :(

Elias HATES D'Ville and the Eye just won't let him know who D'Ville is. He finds out it's Jon before the Eyepocalypse.

Jon's eyes change colors depending on the entity sent him, and he has corresponding powers he mostly has green eyes and it's actually starting to bleed into his life as Jon since his eyes start to turn Hazel with the ring of green around his eyes due to the Eye sending him out so much

D'Ville is a lot more chaotic than Jon despite being the same guy. Jon wants to be seen as professional and fully qualified for his job. Him as D'Ville...he is much more open to do whatever to get the job done

The assistants are technically busy when Jon's in the coma. Martin is with Peter Lukas, Sasha ends up meeting and working with Annabelle Cane while Tim is trying to see how he can get the archives functional again.

Technically because of D'Ville, Sasha, Martin and Tim are marked by every entity in a way (especially Tim.) In fact it's Tim who ends up forced to start the Eyepocalypse despite not being the Archivist. Due to Jon's coma and Sasha/Martin being out of the picture, Tim is the person taking care of the Archives and basically ends up being in some way an Archivist. Jon and Martin were in the Safehouse while Tim and Sasha were going to head over, but Tim was like "eh I already started reading the statement it won't hurt to finish it."(it did)

The statement did still say "Hello Jon." Which Tim was like "wow fuck you"

Jon technically isn't an Avatar since he didn't die, but he came close a lot. And also when he was in that coma every single entity wanted dibs.

Jon adopted a cat and named her Mr. President. She's a tuxedo cat, but she acts like an orange cat.

Jon still changes when he enters domains.

The au ends HAPPY the Eyepocalypse is STOPPED everything goes back to NORMAL Jon and Martin are FINE and the Archive group gets to go to DINNER

Leitner still gets his dome caved in btw he's dead I just wanted to add that (Elias frames Jon so Jon had to try to live as D'Ville but he only changes when spooky shit is happening)

[rosesradio]

fanfic ask game

i saw this ask game i wasn’t tagged in so let’s do it 🤠 & i’ll tag whoever wants to do it as well

1. how many works do you have on Ao3?

27 :-)

2. what's your total Ao3 word count?

466,409 (oh cool i’ll most likely hit 500k by the end of the year 💪)

3. what fandoms do you write for?

currently pjo & once in a blue moon hsmtmts, but i have written for like 10-12 different fandoms in my life

4. what are your top five fics by kudos?

ceaseless eve 🌙 (a leo, nico, & piper quest + valdangelo)

camp triple pine 🌲 (a lawrusso summer camp au with fwb 👀)

talk to me, deep in the night (& i’d tell you something i never thought i’d admit) 🏕️ (a surprisingly non-smutty first caswen fic in which ricky talks with ej about how he works too hard, written in s3 era)

Cobra Kai/Karate Kid one shots 🥋 (fluff, humor, angst, smut…what it says on the tin 🤠)

he’s only here for one thing, but (so am i) 🔥 (valdangelo college au smut + camboy nico 👀)

(because i can’t tell a lie, i did skip over one or two stranger things fics on this list. i have complex feelings about them & keeping them up due to the controversy, but also abandoning them or deleting them…i’m sentimental, and i procrastinate lol. i’m glad a higher volume of people enjoyed them by nature of it being a more popular fandom, but i also feel like the kudos aren’t as genuine or earned as they are for my longfics in less popular fandoms for that reason. at least To Me. i hope that makes sense 🧍)

5. do you respond to comments?

i try to reply to every comment around the first week of posting something (because by then it’s an “old work” and it’s “weird” to comment on it, but that’s another post 😐). i still haven’t replied to the last of the ceaseless eve comments & i feel terrible, the sentimentality of it all overwhelms me but know i appreciate it 😭 i wish there was like a code word though that people could comment that lets you know if they want you to respond or not, because it’s hard to know if people want an author response or if it’ll scare them off yk

6. Which of your fics has the angstiest ending?

i don’t do a lot of angst, but when i do, i do (meaning i lay it on too melodramatically thick lmao) but i thought i’d give a list of some of my angstiest/darkest fics 🤠

the moonlace & the sunflower 🌻 (in which grover dies protecting a demigod, so the empathy link causes percy to pass away as well)

games long lost 🌳 (in which luke must drink annabeth’s blood for kronos’s reformation, it covers the dark lukabeth of it all & there’s some death)

the smallest casualty ♟️ (in which it’s slowly revealed over the course of a luke & annabeth chess game that the gods lost the war, and percy & friends have been subjected to dark magic experiments to make them compliant to luke’s fantasy)

rewired 🤖 (okay. i usually try to be humble or self deprecating or whatever but this 1400 word fic is an actual fucking masterpiece to me idc. it just came out of me and makes me physically nauseous to this day. showing this to my hypothetical therapist etc etc. oh wait what’s it about lmao—the concept of daniel rewiring his brain & morals to fit into silver’s desires. ft that sick sick silverusso dynamic)

7. Which of your fics has the happiest ending?

i have a variety of fluffy fics, but i’d have to say my happiest most sugar coated ending is—

who said anybody would? (a ej/gina/ricky road trip fic that literally ends with an ot3 picnic scene 😭 it’s just too much 🫶)

8. Do you get hate on fics?

i’ve gotten unwarranted criticism (i like to ask for constructive crit comments at the end if it’s like a longfic) that’s been surprisingly rude…i won’t say which fic but someone got so mad at one of my chapters they left a lengthy mocking crit comment and then stopped reading 😭 but that’s their prerogative, i hope they found something they enjoyed afterwards. other than that, surprisingly considering some of the controversial dark fics i’ve written…no sign of flames, so thanks! 😅

9. Do you write smut? If so, what kind?

i have four different smut fics (hopefully a fifth if i can ever finish it up)…i fear they’re repetitive but also not really, they cover different fandoms and explore different kinks. i’m not really sure what to say about them, hopefully people find them hot ! or whatever !

10. Do you write crossovers? What’s the craziest one you’ve written?

i’m not a fan of crossovers currently, but my longest fic i wrote when i was 15 (it’s 97k i’m beating it someday 😭) was a crossover between sanders sides, voltron, miraculous ladybug, and gravity falls (doesn’t that feel like a kick in the gut lmao—did i mention i was 15? 😅)

11. Have you ever had a fic stolen?

not that i know of 👁️👁️

12. Have you ever had a fic translated?

not that i know of 👁️👁️

13. Have you ever co-written a fic before?

i tried, myself and another author had a shared Google doc & everything…but we both just didn’t commit. i don’t think i’d work well with another writer…i don’t mind bouncing ideas around with a beta reader/editor (like @heavens-vault 🤠) but ultimately i’d prefer to write on my own

14. What’s your all time favorite ship?

it changes—it’s currently valdangelo, but the ones I’ve written the most over the years are: prinxiety (😐), lawrusso, caswen, and valdangelo. i’m excited to explore a bunch of other ships as i continue writing as well

15. What’s a WIP you want to finish but doubt you ever will?

oh gosh, i mean i hope i don’t have any like longfics in question…i hope i can finish + deliver on Ivory Rain, but i’m sure I’ll manage even if it takes a while. i haven’t really mentioned this a whole lot to “the public” but i have what i call a “scrap fic” i’m working on, with a bunch of like 800 word chapters i just kinda bounce around when i have time. the concept is really exciting but the execution still needs work, so i’m kinda seeing how that’s gonna play out, it might not be posted. i hope it will though !

16. What are your writing strengths?

i think i’m pretty good at characterization, good romantic moments with good buildup, and humor :-)

17. What are your writing weaknesses?

action scenes i hate you so much 😭 why do i insist on writing pjo fics when i can hardly write a fight scene

18. Thoughts on writing dialogue in another language in fic?

i should do it more, i hate that i don’t, especially considering nico being Italian and leo’s native language being Spanish. but I’ve used & been disappointed by Google translate too many times…perhaps I’ll find another way to translate to include that for more character accuracy

19. First fandom you wrote for?

actually i think percy jackson, i’ve come full circle. the first fic i posted was sanders sides, but i remember when i was probably nine or so i wrote with pencil and paper and stapled a book together with a hand drawn cover 😭 it was about a son of Apollo, a satyr, and a daughter of Demeter on a quest…so really, richard took some creative liberties from my hand written fanfic i think 👀

20. Favorite fic you’ve written?

like the ships, it changes—I love all my fics, it’s hard to explain how there’s little fractures of me at different points in my life at any given time in my works. no amount of over-explaining could make anyone understand how i express myself through my character’s emotions and desires and fears and journeys.

at the moment, my favorite fic is CE. it just got completed, myself and others are excited for the sequel. i think all my pjo works in particular are pretty good, and of course i tend to shy away from my older works because my writing…probably wasn’t as good. but that just means I’ve improved, so that’s good.

that’s all the questions, but this was fun ! :-)

[glimpsesofeuterpe]

felt obligated to list muses and their (known so far) alternates out now, oh no

The Cornelius(es)

Protagonist Cornelius, Classic Cornelius, Happy Cornelius, Space Pirate Cornelius (Neil), Composer Cornelius, Inspector Cornelius, Vampire Cornelius, Angel Cornelius (Corabael), Demon Cornelius (Corey), Inspector Cornelius, Archivist Cornelius, Winter Prince Cornelius, Librarian Cornelius, Lonely Cornelia, Alpha Cornelia (Emily), Beta Cornelius, Gamma Cornelius, Vampire Cornelia (Nelle), Russian Cornelius (Корнелий/Kornelij), British Victorian Cornelius (Dr Gratton), Gem Cornelius (Tiger Eye), Wizard Cornelius, Enthusiast Cornelius, Robot Cornelius, Skeleton Cornelius

The Deimos(es)

Antagonist Deimos, Narrator Deimos, Shadowy Deimos (Phos), Human Deimos (Damien), Demon Deimos (Demien), Mermaid Deimos, Captain Deimos (Captain Deimey Moss), Gem Deimos (Green Jadeite or Emerald), Cat Deimos (Demyaw), Princess Deimos, Farmer Deimos (Dahlia), Redhead Deimos, Wizard Deimos, Alternian Deimos, Mettaton Deimos extra: Arianna and Artemius, Deim's younger siblings extra extra: XJ10 aka Jade (Neil's assistant) extra extra extra: Deinelius (confusion au)

The Frankys

Grumpy: Strayed Franky, Dad Franky, Wizard Franky, Werewolf Franky, Gem Franky (Enstatite), Angel Franky (Frankiel), Female Franky (Franziska) Dorky: The Dork Maddison, Warlock Maddison (Adam), Captain Maddison, Cyborg Maddison, Pilot Maddison, Mechanic Maddison, Magic Maddison, Rick Maddison (Frederick) extra: Marcus Mayfair (employee 517) aka a beta-something-past version of Maddison extra extra: Ludolf Meier (Franky's Uncle) extra extra extra: Adam Smithson, which is clerly related to Franky(s), nuff said

Amelies:

Classic Amelie, Cyberpunk Amelie, Angel Amelie (Amaliel), Parable Amelie (Amber), Male Amelie (Albus), Possessed Amelie (Ambrose), Sinner/Demon Amelie

Sophies:

Fairy Sophie, Employee Sophie (006)

+ Cornelius' ex co-workers: Maria Mironova and Jack Waller

Narrators:

Bionic Narrator (Magnus), Bossy/Demon Narrator (Bernael), Narrator.exe, Beta Narrator (Norbert), Caelumirian Narrator (Augustin), Snapey Narrator, Gem Narrator (Brown Diamond?), Narrator Royce, MONIKA

Curators:

The Observer, Beta Curator (Norene), Angel Curator (Barrattiel), Human Curator (Beatrice), Curator.exe, Curator GLaDOS

Stanleys:

Stanley Freeman, Stanley von Sales, Thomas Stanley Porter, Severine Stanley, Stella Fiedler, Pastel Stanley, Stanley.exe, Gem Stanley (Gray Pearl) Not Stanleys:

Protagonist Chell, Ashley Davies (The Player)

Mariellas:

Classic Mariella, Dream Mariella (aka Doll aka Princess aka Melissa Noxire), Pastel Mariella, Not Mariella (Simona Petrikov), Mariella.exe, Gem Mariella (Peanut Pearl)

Employee 432 aka Settings Person aka Timekeeper aka Ceaseless Watcher:

Eric Nowak

Adventure Line (humanized-ish):

Ghost Adventure Line (Flavian), Gem Adventure Line (Yellow Spinel)

The Employee Lounge (humanized):

Lacey Fidelis, Lesley Fidelis

Ricks:

Narrator Rick, Dandere Rick, Detective Rick, Ava Rickinsocks, Bossy Rick, Hacker Rick

Mortys:

Protagonist Morty, Yandere Morticia, Nerdy Morticia, Captain Morty, Cursed Morty, Shadow Morty, Wizard Morty

OTHERS: Homestuck linked: Kostya Trollen, Nick Surname Presentable Liberty linked: Paul Viaton, Lenore (Eleanor) Farrell, Benjamin Smiley, Charlotte Addams, Barret Videll, Salvadore Marchetti, Morayne Johnson DST linked: Triumphant Wilson and a Willow (iguess?)

Wannabe big guys aka friends from the other side aka yet another aliens (divinedamnedgambles):

Endymion, Nelumbo, Nebula (aka Red and Blue), Mother Nature, Goodness (Agnes), Darkness (The Temptress), Inquisitiveness (aka Yellow aka Employee333), Lorelei, Oneiros, Helianthus (aka Deim's Grandpa), The Troubadour, Aurora

Men In White:

Elyon and Karael, Vega, Gadreel, Raziel, Seraphim

[dorylinae-supremacy]

✨ Magic Mitosis AU Snippet ✨

His skin felt tight, almost unbearably so. Manifestation wasn't usually meant to be painful, how could magic thrive if it killed all its hosts, after all?

But for some reason, his has been excruciating so far. It started with aches and pains thrumming through his veins, a telltale sign that his mana was finally growing in density. Soon he’d be able to summon it and use it to cast spells just like his father.

The family physician warned him that his manifestation might be different from others, that his body was overproducing mana which could lead to adverse effects. All it meant was that he’d have to use magic incredibly regularly to burn through it.

No big deal.

It became a big deal very quickly.

He had too much energy at first, still excited from the news. He could barely sit still through his tutoring sessions and he became a nightmare on the playground. Even at dinner, after his energy was supposed to be wearing down he would still fidget and shift in his seat.

Luckily, his father was understanding. They had Tommy after all, a chaotic bundle of energy since the moment he was born. He was used to a fidgeting child and simply gave Wilbur fidget toys to keep himself occupied for when he was expected to sit still.

It helped. At least at first it did. Sooner than later not even the toys he had been given or the increasingly ridiculous games he played with his friends were able to settle him. Bedtime was a nightmare for the both of them.

Frustration bubbled at the thought of those nights. It's not like he didn't want to sleep, he did! After long school days and ceaseless playing he wanted nothing more than to just curl up under his covers and recharge.

His body just wouldn't let him. He wasn't able to sleep for days on end, exhaustion battling with the ceaseless thrum of energy constantly only serving to drain him more. Another visit to the family physician soothed both his and his dads worries. 

Excess energy was to be expected, mana was practically pure energy anyway. Him having too much of it simply caused… this. He was given medicine to help him sleep and a familiar was arranged to come the next day to take away some of his mana.

Like most solutions, that worked. At first.

The medication pulled his unruly mind into unconsciousness long enough for him to actually get some rest. The familiar ate away at his mana without complaint, only commenting that the flow never seemed to slow down or cease despite having had their fill.

In the end that all only made things worse.

His mana seemingly doubled each time a familiar ate, no matter how many were brought in to eat it just never reached a manageable level. It would go down, but only temporarily. The very next day it would replenish and replace even more than what was taken.

The medicine he took was soon rendered equally as useless as the familiars. The mana under his skin wouldn't allow rest and on some nights he was plagued by nightmares and terrors that would send him into a sobbing mess within minutes.

He dreamt of battlefields and massacres, of blood flowing down streets like rivers only to sink into the earth and stain it red. He dreamed he was the one causing these things, no matter how much he tried to fight or push away it was always him committing these atrocities.

It was all too awful, too real for him to fall back asleep after.

The next visit to the physician was far less civil. His dad wasn't a man of much patience, it only thinned at seeing him being so distressed all the time. He threatened the doctor, telling him that if Wilbur wasn't soon made better, he and his own son would pay for it.

He was given more medicine.

The man was dead within the week.

[poorlemons]

Pupil meets Iris

[caffeinated-moogle]

Ooh, I have a few!

I've an AU in which Aeryn just stops after StB. She is shattered, exhausted, unable to cope, and truly convinced her closeness to the Scions causes them more harm than good. So she walks away. She returns to the Ruby Sea (the first and—at the time—only place she's experienced a true memory of her former life), where Tansui convinces her she is allowed to make selfish choices—she is allowed to stop. Even to stay. Despite never officially joining the Confederacy, Rasho makes an unspoken exception for Aeryn that no one seems to question, especially not considering how useful she makes herself. But emotionally, she is an utter wreck. She tosses her linkpearl into the ocean but frequently has nightmares about receiving desperate calls for help from the Scions. She is haunted by the voice of Hydaelyn and the fear that she has done the wrong thing, but she can't find the courage to abandon her perceived freedom from the bloody, ceaseless struggle she has left behind. She may not be happy, she reasons—she may never feel happy again. But everyone is safer without her, she is sure, and... And she is free.

(Two more "bad ends" behind the cut, but beware: they are EW spoiler-heavy!)

In canon, Aeryn begins losing herself to despair as the Scions, one by one, make their sacrifices in Ultima Thule. The breaking point for her is when Urianger chooses, willingly, to give up his life alongside Y'shtola. But at Urianger's parting behest, G'raha manages to pull Aeryn back from the brink and give her the hope she needs to press on; and when he, too, then goes, she is able to maintain her composure for the twins. That said... I could easily imagine G'raha failing to break through to her, resulting in a bad end. Aeryn would lose herself entirely, willingly releasing herself to Dyanmis to become a blasphemy. G'raha and the twins might try to get through to her, but I don't think she'd have the capacity to hear them any longer and would flee toward the Endsinger's song of despair. Meteion might take pity on her (given their past connection) and attempt to grant a swift end to her strife. But because Aeryn's inner power is so strong, it's more likely that they would fuse into something even stronger than the Endsinger. The sheer magnitude of all their suffering would trigger Aeryn's star magic, which she/they would unleash (as stars do) to bring an abrupt and explosive end to everything—even the Final Days.

Finally, my screenshots from this challenge really got me thinking about what Aeryn would be like as an Ascian. There are several ways she might have gotten to that point. Maybe post-HW, if she found herself in the position assumed in canon by Urianger... or perhaps in ShB, had she managed to manifest her past self's empathic abilities and forged a different connection with Emet-Selch. Truthfully, though, I'm kind of stuck on the idea of her offing Fandaniel (without truly killing the Ascian) and getting sort of possessed by Amon. It would be a split situation in which her soul (plus Azem power plus soul of a literal star) can't be fully controlled, even by the Ascian's methods, so she'd probably be a little bit bonkers. But I think her empathy for Hermes's situation would have made her uniquely suited to an odd kind of soul symbiosis with one of his shards, helping to subdue a little bit of Amon's madness, as well as his desperation to end. In that way it would be a bad end for the WoL, but perhaps not the worst end, story-wise. I could still see Ascian Aeryn working to avert the Final Days: reaching out to Meteion with both her own and Hermes's memories, pushing through the nest to find the Endsinger, even summoning Hades and Hythlodaeus… and possibly even some of the other Ascians? Defeating the Endsinger alongside both Ancients and Ascians would be pretty poetic, all things considered, and so delightfully circular thinking back on ARR. I'm not sure much about the fight itself would change, with Ascian Aeryn finding herself in the odd circumstance of being gifted strength beyond even her means by the prayers of the Scions who don't want to see their friend defeated, perhaps hoping they can somehow bring her back...

(Do I need another AU? No. But I'm a teensy bit obsessed with the notion of EW driving Aeryn to willingly play host to an Ascian... annnnnnd I'll probably end up writing some of this. Oops, I guess? Here we are.)

Bad endings? Bad endings anyone?

What if they got consumed by the light? What if they became a primal? Any and all bad endings!

I think mine most likely would've become a lightwarden because she didn't get to Emet-Selch fast enough. "Obsession" would be its name, due to the fact it would be obsessed with the idea of saving others and changing the world, probably leading to either the Scions killing her or to her consuming the First in Light.

.

[karuvapatta]

Here comes another part of the Untitled Jonelias Magic AU, enjoy!

Once again, huge thanks to @ceaseless-bitcher, the rest of the Discord server, and the tumblr folk for the likes and reblogs and tags. You're the best! <3

Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 4 | Part 5 | Part 6 | Part 7

***

Whoever was in charge of the archive ought to be persecuted for his crimes. It was a tiny, windowless room, stacked from floor to ceiling with unlabelled boxes and stacks of loose papers. After three hours of digging for a single report, Jon was about ready to commit an act of unspeakable violence.

He returned to the laboratory, fuming. Other researchers and lab techs took one look at his face and mostly shuffled out of the way as he made his way back to the work station and slammed the papers down, readying himself for the long, tedious process of comparing several columns of numbers to check for trends and discrepancies. He would still need to run them by Sasha later to do some proper statistical analysis, but at least he could have some basis to work on…

“Um… Sims?”

“What is it?” Jon snapped.

The unfortunate technician took a hasty step back. “Master Bouchard is looking for you.”

“So? He could have sent a message,” Jon said.

Bouchard did not care about the state of the archive room, that much was apparent. It was disgraceful, that something like this was even allowed—

“Um—”

“What?”

All of a sudden, Jon realized that he was being watched. The people around him were giving him odd looks; some were exchanging whispered comments. And it wasn’t that hard to guess what they thought about him, and what they were saying behind his back. Some were even openly questioning his relationship with Master Bouchard, and what might have prompted the man to take on someone like Jon to be his apprentice. Jon wasn’t doing himself any favours by openly disrespecting his master’s wishes.

What if Bouchard listened to the gossip? What if he realized he had made a mistake, that he was wasting his time, that—

Jon shook his head. “Right,” he said. “I will go see him now.”

Each step he took felt awkward, now that he knew he was being stared at. Most days he could ignore it and focus on the work in front of him, but now and again it would catch him unawares. It wasn’t just his own reputation at stake; not anymore.

Bouchard would be in his office at this hour. The way was familiar by now. Rosie waved him through with a polite smile, and Jon offered her a curt nod before letting himself into the room.

“Master,” he said. “You wanted to see me?”

Bouchard wasn’t at his desk; that was unusual. But there was a sitting area in the corner where he occasionally conducted meetings. He was there now, lounging in an armchair and engrossed in a book. Jon didn’t get a chance to read the title before he shut the covers and put it away.

At his invitation, Jon took the opposite seat. There was a pot of freshly brewed tea and two cups on the table between them; Jon grabbed it hastily and poured the tea. He glanced at his master’s face and stirred a spoonful of sugar into his cup.

Bouchard took a sip of tea and exhaled with obvious pleasure; Jon tried to hide his smile. But his patience was running out quickly. Surely Bouchard had a better reason for summoning him.

Apparently his restlessness was obvious. Bouchard sighed and set down his cup.

“Enough pleasantries, Mr Sims,” he said.

“You haven’t said anything yet, Master,” Jon said.

“And yet you’re already bored,” Bouchard said, the corner of his lip twitching. “I take it the lab requires your constant supervision?”

“It requires some supervision,” Jon said, and immediately felt the urge to bite off his own tongue. It wasn’t his place to criticize the way Master Bouchard managed his department. “I didn’t mean—”

“Yes, you did,” Bouchard said. “And do not lie to me, please. I much prefer impertinence to dishonesty.”

“That is a relief,” Jon said. “I’m a notoriously bad liar.”

Bouchard chuckled lightly. It accentuated the lines on his face, particularly around his pale eyes, and the upturned curve of his mouth. And it wasn’t really fair how much that look suited him.

“Well,” Jon cleared his throat, and adjusted the collar of his shirt. “Is there anything you wanted to discuss with me?”

“Indeed there is,” Bouchard said. “Have you made any progress with your training?”

All of a sudden Jon realized how relaxed he had felt up until this moment. But now his posture stiffened, and a weight pressed down on his chest.

“No,” he said. “I have not and you know it.”

Was it disappointment, then, in Bouchard’s solemn expression? It had to be. He had every reason to be disappointed with Jon. Impertinence might have been acceptable but incompetence was decidedly not. And Jon really wasn’t proving himself in that regard, was he?

“And why do you think that is?” Bouchard asked.

“I don’t know,” Jon snapped, frustration boiling over. “I am trying, I really am. I just—I don’t know what it is I’m doing wrong.”

He rubbed his chin and covered his mouth with a hand, eyes fliting around the room, trying to focus on something, anything that wasn’t Bouchard’s knowing gaze.

A long, heavy silence followed. His master was clearly waiting for Jon to come up with a decent excuse, or at least a reasonable explanation for the numerous failures; for all the wasted hours and sleepless nights. But it ought to have been clear by now that Jon had nothing to offer. So what was he still waiting for?

“Jon,” Bouchard said, after Jon remained stubbornly quiet. And that—he almost never addressed Jon by his name. It was improper, it implied a level of familiarity that they decidedly did not share; Jon flinched in his seat. “If I may offer a suggestion?”

That startled a laugh out of Jon, bitter and somewhat unpleasant. Now, after all this time, Bouchard wanted to help? “Of course,” he said.

“Will you do as I say?”

“I—” Jon hesitated, but it did not last long. He was past the point of desperation – or, come to think of it, pride. “Yes. I will.”

“Good,” Bouchard nodded. “Then take off the bracelet.”

“The—what?”

“You heard me.”

“I did hear you,” Jon said, incredulous. Was Bouchard toying with him, again? “I just—I can’t do that, Master. You know I can’t.”

“Why not?”

The bracelet had been his near-constant companion for the past twenty years; Jon touched it now, seeking reassurance from its presence. He felt the familiar intricate pattern, the faint pulsating rhythm of it, the subtle way it shifted and reacted to his touch. And—how could he explain it? Why would he need to? It was embarrassing enough that he had to wear it at all, and now Bouchard was expecting him to admit to this—this weakness?

“Because I can’t control my magic without it,” Jon snapped.

Bouchard looked as if he was waiting for something. It seemed like he would be willing to wait a long time for—what, exactly? For Jon to have a miraculous breakthrough—

--wait.

“I—I can’t control my magic,” Jon repeated, slow and incredulous. “Really? That’s it?” He turned towards Bouchard, who was watching him intently. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

“I did,” Bouchard said. “You didn’t listen.”

“I did listen! I just didn’t understand—” Jon’s voice drifts off. His hand is wrapped loosely around his wrist, covering the bracelet. “And now you want me to take it off?”

“Yes,” Bouchard said. “You have been relying on it for, how long now? Several years?”

“Twenty,” Jon said flatly.

At that, Bouchard went still. He stared at Jon with wide eyes, as if he was seeing him for the first time. It occurred to Jon that it was the only time so far he had seen the man genuinely surprised.

“I’m sorry—twenty years?” Bouchard said. “Oh, Jon… what happened?”

“Nothing happened,” Jon said. He was feeling slightly nauseous. His tea had cooled down in the meantime but it was still refreshingly bitter; he took a long gulp to settle his stomach. “How would taking it off now possibly help me?”

“You need to get used to relying on yourself again,” Bouchard said after a moment. “Your own willpower, your own self-control. It is not something that can be exercised for half an hour twice a week.”

“Oh, and it’s that easy?” Jon snapped.

“No one said anything about easy.”

Jon set down his half-empty cup with too much force. Lukewarm tea sloshed inside and spilled partially onto the saucer beneath.

“Thank you for the advice, Master,” he said stiffly, pushing himself upwards. “Is there anything else you wanted to discuss?”

Bouchard measured him with a cool gaze, eyebrows pinched together. Perhaps Jon had gone too far this time – he expected the man to lash out, to discipline him, or just end his apprenticeship altogether. But Bouchard merely sighed, and shook his head.

“No, that is all. You may go.”

Off Jon went, and tried to tell himself that what he felt was relief, and not disappointment.

[ichorai]

the devil's queen ; k.yr

pairing ; forest queen!yeri x devil!reader (gender-neutral)

summary ; in which the queen of the forest seeks out the devil’s help after accidentally turning her husband to stone.

themes ; fantasy, slight fluff and angst, royalty au, devil au, magic au, forest au (?), forbidden love au

words ; 4.2k

warnings / includes ; devils obv, mentions of divorce and a loveless marriage, uhm yeri turns her husband into stone, one mention of angels, teasing banter, an absurd amount of description because yeri is gorgeous and i can't help myself, both yeri and reader are little shits, kissy kiss kiss at the end </3

a/n ; my first gg fic :D i'm rlly excited for this one !! i'm literally in love with yeri so i'm so happy to finally post this ! thank you to @doievoir for beta reading <3 also thanks to @subways-stuff and @koocycle for being gay with me :(

masterlist. | milestone celebration.

The stone of the balcony’s railing beneath the forest queen’s fingertips was just slightly cold to the touch, mellowed by the night’s sweet breeze. Her face, dappled by the moon’s gentlest luminescence, bore a somber expression, only managing to mask the panic she truly felt by a thread of her being. Pale was her dress, and paler her skin became as she grew clammy with unease. The sheer, opal chiffon of her skirts grazed the balcony floor with faint kisses in accordance to Yeri’s ceaseless fidgeting. And because of her restless movements, the intricate leaf crown propped atop her temple was now slightly askew, placed awkwardly amongst her perfectly-curled tendrils.

From where you were standing, watching the queen, worry etched into her soft features, you almost felt a shred of pity. The keyword being almost. Devils rarely ever felt remorse.

You took this opportunity to look around the queen’s chambers. After all, it wasn’t every day that you’re summoned by a woman of such importance, much less the queen of the forest herself. Gorgeous vines twisted up marble columns, white flowers scattered across the greenery. Every which way you looked, there were at least five potted plants ranging from minuscule succulents to large ferns longer than your own arm span. Even the bed had a canopy of iridescent petals and glossy leaves.

“You must really enjoy nature,” you quipped, taking slight amusement in the way Yeri jumped at the sound of your voice, spinning around with a hand on her chest. “Looks to be bordering on obsession, actually…”

The queen, having come down from her initial shock, looked upon you with a quizzical eyebrow. “I called you to help me, not to make comments on my lifestyle.” She waved her fingers in the air, conjuring a thick vine that wrapped around her waist as if it were a snake. “Besides, I’m the queen of the forest. It would be more bewildering to find my chamber void of natural elements.”

A toothy grin so wide it made you look sinister graced your lips, and you bowed your head slightly. Yeri, much to her dismay, couldn’t tell if the action was genuine or mocking.

“I like that you feel the need to defend yourself against the devil. Makes me feel somewhat of importance,” you uttered the words with a simple-minded hum, eyes glowing with mirth. “Which brings me to ask… why have you called me here?”

The silence was suffocating as she strode up towards you, an almost defiant look glazing over her irises. She was so close that you could detect a hint of her sweet scent; an intoxicating concoction of apricots and grass and the slight tang of the air just before it rained. A tad too refreshing for your taste, but it suited her well.

On the other hand, Yeri found that you were as warm as a walking fireplace, and smelled as if you had doused yourself in cinnamon and musky cologne. Though it wasn’t necessarily an awful aroma, it was most definitely strong and caught her off guard. Who knew the devil would radiate the odor of a popular dessert spice?

Yeri’s steps slowed down once she was just in front of you, near enough that her soft skirts brushed against your dress pants. You noted the way her breathing seemed to hitch, teeth slightly tugging at the plushness of her bottom lip in hesitancy. What was she waiting for?

And with a deep exhale, she reached somewhere behind you with the speed of lightning, as if she wanted to get this over and done with. Her fingers curled tightly around a fistful of white cloth cloaking a large mass, tugging on it with a mild grunt. You spun on your heel with an arched eyebrow, watching with suppressed curiosity.

As you beheld the sight, expression unfaltering, Yeri buried her face in her hands, practically vibrating in stagnant shame. You wondered if she was crying, but found that her face was dry when she pulled herself away from her palms. Either she was trying too hard to feel the comforting weight of sadness, or she was lying to herself about caring.

It was most likely the latter. The thought brought a smile to your face.

A chiseled statue stood in front of the both of you. Opal in color and sculpted with perfect body proportions, your smile melded into an intrigued frown.

“I know,” Yeri whispered without turning back to look at you. “I’m a monster.”

“Don’t call yourself a monster in front of the devil, it’s unbecoming,” you snorted in contempt. Then, you gestured limply towards the statue. “I don’t even know what this is. Did you call me here to show off an artsy escapade of yours? I’ve got far more important things to do, you know.” ‘Important things’ really meant watching two crows fight over a moldy baguette down in the village streets. You might’ve been the devil, but that didn’t necessarily mean you were busy all the time.

Disdain colored her words as she hissed out, “I turned my husband to stone,” rouge laced her cheekbones as she quickly added on, almost an afterthought, “by accident.”

Oh? You clasped your hands together behind you, rocking back and forth on your heels. Now you were starting to see the resemblance, recalling the forest queen’s marriage to a man whose only facial expression seemed to be stoically indifferent. “My, my,” you crooned glibly, “what an interesting turn of events. Are you sure it was an accident?”

The forest queen clearly didn’t take your teasing lightly.

“I didn’t even know I could,” she said in an icy tone, glancing down at her hands, one still fisted in the coversheet. After a moment’s pause, she spoke up again, turning towards you. “But I need him back.”

A guffaw slipped past you as you wrinkled your nose in distaste. “That’s no fun at all. You want me to bring him back? Your moronic oaf of a husband? I’m sure you could find a new one with the snap of a finger. Besides, it’s better to keep him this way. He seems far more intelligent as stone.”

Having said your fill and satisfied with the fuming look Yeri wore, you spun on your heel, about to head out of the castle and run your other devil errands.

A bright flower of consternation unfurled within her ribcage, and the forest queen found herself hurrying forward, curling her fingers around the wrist of the subject of her torment. Almost immediately, she let go, partly from shock at her own actions, but mostly from the fact that your skin was borderline scalding. You are the devil, after all. Yeri should have been more careful.

“Do you forget who I am?” she hissed nonetheless, glowering at your unturned back, her tone swimming in a pool of severity.

At her question, you whirled around to look upon her in bemusement.

“I’m the queen of the forest!”

You nodded just slightly. “So you’ve mentioned.”

Mouth agape and nose twitching slightly in an attempt to contain her umbrage, she whispered out, almost bristling in hostility, “Does that mean nothing to you?”

“Finally catching on, I see.” You flashed her wink, crossing your arms over your chest and leaning forward. “Let me make one thing clear. You may be a queen, but you are not my queen. I haven’t forgotten who you are to the mortals, but I feel you’ve forgotten who I am.”

A genuinely wounded look found its way sprawled across her soft features. She struggled to find her voice for a minute, before turning her head away to gaze upon the moon in shame.

“What can I do to convince you?”

Though the words were quiet, you could still detect the stubborn tenacity interwoven through the question.

Instead of answering her inquiry, you retaliated with one of your own.

“Did you love him?”

Her face snapped back to you, frozen in incredulity. “What?” she asked, furrowing her perfect brows.

“Did you love him?” you repeated, this time rolling your eyes to the leafy canvas obscuring the ceiling. “You need not lie to me. I’ll know.”

With a shred of hesitancy clinging onto her, she uttered lowly, “No. It was a diplomatic marriage… he’s the crown prince of the ice mountains. And I need him back before anybody notices. You understand why I have to have him back, don’t you? This could cause a war.”

“A little foolish of you to ask a devil to prevent a war, don’t you think? We live for chaos,” you susurrated into her ear, circling her like a predator would their prey. Yeri flushed at your words. “Pray tell, why didn’t you ask an angel? Why come to me?”

She drew herself to her full height, almost as if sizing you up. You grinned at that. What an interesting character she was. “I was ashamed of myself. I didn’t want an angel to know of my mistake. Angels judge, and devils are used to despicable acts far worse than what I did. Of course I had to go with the latter.”

It was silent for a moment, the leaves rustling with the cold breeze. “Smart girl,” you hummed, impressed. Yeri cleared her throat, evidently flustered.

With a flick of your hand, the statue’s marble hue slowly faded away, color returning to the forest queen’s husband. A gasp left her throat, and she scurried across the room, almost tripping over the wisps of her skirt in the process. The prince of the ice mountains fell to the floor just as his feet loosened up, and he looked as if he had woken up from a horrid sleep, a dumbfounded expression masking his usually stoic features.

He looks stupid, you thought to yourself as Yeri knelt down beside him. Why would she choose him of all people?

“Have fun being married to somebody you don’t love,” you called out to the couple.

Yeri glanced upwards, a ‘thank you’ just on the tip of her tongue. But when she looked towards where you had been standing, there was nobody there. The wind whistled in your absence, and everything suddenly felt cold.

The forest was quiet as Yeri stormed through. The leaves stopped whispering, the birds halted their chirps, and the rivers grew muted. She was livid, so much so that small wildflowers the color of winter unconsciously sprouted in her furious trail. There were tear tracks forming rivulets down the apples of her cheeks, but they were long dried. She was too angry to cry now.

You danced your fingers along the bark of the branch you were sitting on, swinging your legs in bemusement as you watched the Queen bask in her fury.

Your landing from tree to ground made naught a sound, but Yeri seemed to sense that you were already there, for her shoulders squared and her chin lifted. Perhaps she wanted to look as if she had at least some semblance of her life put together in front of you. You weren’t quite sure why she bothered; you already knew she was in shambles.

Today she wore a plain sage button dress, the fabric flaring softly at her hips and arms. The skirt reached just below her knees; a considerate choice seeing as she was trudging through mud and foliage of all sorts. A white cloth was tied about her temple, keeping gorgeous locks of dark ebony from falling into her tempestuous eyes. She was a stunningly beautiful woman, and seeing her angry conjured a queer elation within you. What’s gotten her so riled up this time?

With outstretched arms, you beamed at her scowl. “Regretting asking me to free your husband from his stony confines? I did warn you against it, did I not?”

She folded her arms over her chest. “Forgive me for choosing not to trust the devil.”

“You’re a hypocrite,” you said in a sing-song tone. “You chose to trust me the moment you asked me to fix your poor husband. What is it you want from me now? Did you call me to turn him back to stone this time?”

An affronted look colored her already-miffed features a twisted hue. She seemed to relax just slightly when she realized that you were just jesting, as you always were.

“He wants me to move out of the forest. Permanently.” She angled her face away from you so you couldn’t see the turmoil raging within her. It was fruitless, because you saw right through her words. “Says the icy mountains are far better than this infernal place.”

The unexpected sensation of your warm hands on Yeri’s shoulders conjured what felt like an inferno raging within her ribcage. The devil was touching her. Why wasn’t she mad about it?

“Divorce him,” you said, almost nonchalantly. “You don’t love him. Why stay married?”

“I told you,” she shot back in exasperation, trying her damned hardest not to look down at your hands encasing her shoulders, just a thin layer of green fabric separating bare skin to skin contact, “for diplomatic-!”

“Oh, screw diplomacy. You don’t even want to go outside of the forest. What’s the point of staying married to him?” Your words were sharp, a dagger of truth cleaving right through her skull. It was a good point you made, and it made the queen furious to know that you’ve got her beat.

Yeri was starting to think that your ability to constantly put a damper on her mood was a mastered talent. Have you had a lot of experience belittling people? She presumed the answer was yes; the devil didn’t belong only to her, this was undeniably so. Sin was an attractive flavor to mankind. Was it greedy to want the raw form of wrongdoing all to herself?

Plunged into a cavern of her own agitation, she didn’t even notice you releasing her to pace circles around the forest queen. “He doesn’t love you either, just so you know,” you whispered from behind, causing her to startle with a wince, “especially not after that rocky stunt you pulled, hm?”

Something akin to amusement danced in Yeri’s gaze as she turned her head to peer at you. It flickered away just as quickly as it came. “You’re mean,” she said dryly.

“I know, it’s kind of my job.” You rocked back and forth on your heels, leaning against the trunk of a large tree. “So why did you call me back?”

Yeri dithered for just a moment. “I don’t have anybody else to talk to.” With such a shameful statement, you were pleasantly surprised to see how she managed to say it in such a leveled tone.

“And so you came to the devil for mild chit chat?”

She bowed her head. “I did, yes. Do you have an issue with that?”

You shook your head with a slight smile. It was a truthful response; you quite enjoyed studying Yeri’s mannerisms and turmoils.

A stoic expression crossed her elegant visage as she nodded at you, and then proceeded to turn away, striding out of the forest with naught another word more, tendrils of hair fluttering airily with each step.

News of the forest queen’s divorce to the prince of the ice mountains spread quicker than a royal archer’s arrow. Some said she did so in a spectacle of dramatic tears and ring-throwing. Others gossipped that she slipped away into the woods with only a mere note to inform the prince of what was going on. And the most popular story going around was Yeri proclaiming the divorce void of any emotion, ignoring the prince when he dropped to his knees and begged her to stay.

Knowing both parties of the couple, you were sure that all three spin-offs were far from the truth.

Your suspicions were confirmed when Yeri called you back again, this time with a hint of a grin tracing her lips, a startling contrast to the previous two times she’s called you over. The duality of this woman, you thought with a shake of your head.

“What is it this time?” you asked with an annoyed facade, though it was clearly only skin-deep, for the curiosity swimming in your irises betrayed your true stand.

The queen in front of you was wearing a dress of black silk, flowing and cinching in all the right places. A white and canary flower hanging loosely from her ear, a vast juxtaposition from the darkness of her ensemble. She was the true epitome of allure.

“Black to look like you’re mourning to the simple-minded common folk,” you observed, “but the daffodil symbolizes a new, hopeful beginning. You’re not at all upset about your divorce.”

The corners of her carmine lips curled upwards. “Smart devil,” she replied, referencing back to when you had called her just the same. Devils weren’t ones to be flustered, but you supposed that was the closest thing to how you were feeling at the moment. Masking was a true talent of yours, however, because Yeri seemed not to notice at all. “I called you because I’m lonely.”

“It’s one thing after another with you, huh?” Your words lacked any bite, and you found yourself chuckling while threading your fingers through your hair. “Looking for an affair the same day you get divorced isn’t usually customary for humans. I’m not complaining, though,” you mumbled with a roguish grin, stepping closer to her and gently running the tips of your fingers against her forearms. You pointedly ignored the way the saccharine apple aroma she practically dripped of made you dizzy.

She drew a mock gasp at what you were insinuating, placing her frigid palms on your shoulders to push you back in a playful manner.

“So is it me you want or would you like me to brainwash someone to come and take pity on you?”

Dark irises rolled the leafy ceiling of her bedroom. “What if I asked you to stay?” Despite you barking out a laugh, she continued on. “I don’t need somebody else.”

Eyes flashing something dangerous, you drew yourself up to full height. “Don’t jest.”

“I’m not jesting.”

You knew she wasn’t, but you took a step backwards anyways. Much to your astonishment, she boldly rivaled that with her own foot propelling her forwards. Closer, ever so close.

“Why do you want to fraternize with the devil?”

“Why do you keep coming back whenever I call you?” she shot back quickly, leaning forward just as your spine brushed against a poster of her canopy bed. “I’m not giving you anything in return.”

The words had you reeling for some sort of witty comeback, but for the first time in your eons of life, a human had you dumbfounded. Why were you coming back?

“I…” you gaped at her earnest countenance. “I don’t know.”

“You don’t know,” she echoed your words, almost smug.

Quiet unease filled the silence between you, and you narrowed your lids into slits. With but a gentle whistle of wind, the devil dissolved into a mass of shadows and glowing clementine-hued embers, leaving the queen alone in her chambers once more.

When the seasons change, it wasn’t a shift that happened overnight, but a feat that came with the patience of moons. Earth took its time in conversion, as did everything else. Time was a universal language everybody understood; unchangeable, solidary in its flow, ruthless and unforgiving.

Devils were no exception.

It took you time to come back to Yeri. You weren’t very sure how long. The stars shifted and the sun dipped past the horizon countless times while you waited for an answer to a question you never had the courage to ask. Quite pathetic of the devil, wasn’t it?

When the forest queen called for you a fourth time, you were tempted to decline.

But you found yourself teleporting without a second thought, materializing in a haze of dull light by the corner of her cavernous chambers.

Yeri watched from across the room. The beige turtleneck she wore clung to her like a second skin, a sheer corset cinched about her waist, embroidered flowers dancing across the fabric. A grey skirt fluttered with the wind that blew through the doorway to the balcony, singing a song of the forest. Golden jewelry dangled from her neck and ears, glinting sweetly in the fading sunlight. Her curled tresses had little wildflowers woven between the strands, rolling over her shoulders in waves. She was beautiful, and she wasn’t yours.

It took her no time to stride forward, bare feet padding silently across the smooth floors towards you. You didn’t move, standing your ground and eyeing her with indifference.

The grazes of her fingers against your blistering hot cheeks shouldn’t have taken you aback. Your pride was wounded the last time you saw her, and all a devil really had was their pride. Should you be mad at this woman for diminishing you down to a mess of discombobulated emotions and lost purpose? A twisted part of you was proud of her for doing so. Besting a devil at their own game wasn’t quite the everyday act.

Yeri hummed a pleased little sound when you grabbed at her wrist. Not to yank her away, no, but to pull her ever so close, breathing in her earthy scent. The walls of fire you once held up to closely guard your devilish heart, now doused by a simple pale of water. The forest queen did that. And you, quite frankly, were so very afraid of what she’d do with it now that it was hers.

“Took you a while to come back,” she whispered. You looked oh so bewitching in this light, a glimpse of heaven doused with the fits of hell, and Yeri found it hard to concentrate. Especially not with your searing fingers wrapped firmly around her forearm.

“Certainly didn’t take you a while to call,” you snorted, raising a brow at the queen. “You’re a desperate little thing, aren’t you?”

Even the flame-lit candles were envious of her radiance when she smiled, for they flickered and warbled at her mischievous beam. “I’m not ashamed to admit so. You look awful, by the way.”

“That’s a lie,” you teased, so close now that your nose brushed against her cheekbone. If an outsider were to walk in now, they would’ve thought the two of you were two lovers intimately dancing to a ghost’s silent song.

“You’re right. I lied. Thought you might enjoy that since you’re the devil, and all.” The queen looked at you with hooded eyes.

A breathy chuckle slipped past your lips. “I enjoyed that very much, yes.”

“I’m going to do something,” she uttered lowly, vague hesitation weaving through her words, “and you’re going to have to promise not to freak out.”

An off-hand sound of acknowledgement rumbled in your throat as the tip of your mouth quirked upwards. “My queen, I’m the devil. Of course I’m going to freak out. I live for chaos.”

Just as you took your time to come back to her, it took Yeri time to unfurl the folds of her heart, baring herself raw and unshielded. She trusted you with her life, and it was probably the most foolish decision she could ever think to make.

Her lips brushed against your jaw first, tentative and testing. Then the kisses trailed to your cheekbones, over to the lids of your fluttered-shut eyes, down to the bridge of your nose. When she melded her lips over yours, you knew you were done for. It was almost natural, how your arms snaked around her midriff, clutching at the threads of her corset with a yearning you’ve never felt before. The hands that cradled your jaw slid in different directions; one went to clutch at your arm in a fruitless attempt to ground herself, and the other gently scratched at the back of your neck, earning a pleased noise from you.

This was so wrong, and that was why it felt so good. If she was the fruit, you were the parasite. If she was the wine, you were the poison. If she was love, you were hatred.

When she pulled away from you with a dazzling smile reserved just for you, you swore the stars shattered and the moon collapsed and the sky broke into two. For this trembling certainly can’t be coming from you! Devils don’t tremble, for crying out loud!

“You called me your queen,” she observed, amused at your playful narrowing of eyes.

“A devil never lies, my queen,” you jested. The laugh she was about to bark out at your witty jab was stolen away from her as you kissed her once more. “I wouldn’t dare bow to somebody with a soul, yet it seems you’ve given me yours. Just what am I to do with you?”

Your words were paused to press a lasting kiss onto her cheek, right below her wide eyes, nervously awaiting your response. Studying her with mirth dancing in your irises, you crooned in acceptance, fondly nudging your nose against her supple cheek. She was yours, and you were hers. A white rose blooming amidst a tumultuous storm.

“And my, my, what a powerful pair we make, my queen.”

[an-aura-about-you]

you ever have a fanfic you know you're not gonna write but the ideas keep bouncing around in your head so you gotta do an infodump somewhere?

that's what we're doing today so here we go: TMA fic I'll never write in which Somewhere Else is Lunar (during the events of Lunar 2)

(or "gee Leo, how come you get to hunt down two destroyers?")

-ngl I've been thinking about this ever since I started reading clutching a map of dreams, which is a fantastic Final Fantasy X fusion au and y'all should go read it even if you don't know a thing about ffx because the characterization and action is superb

-I likewise have some cherished RPGs from my youth and one in particular clicks with this like no other

-I'd start it out some time before canon gets going, but not too far out. just far enough that we've got a little bit of time for the boys to acclimate to the world they've found themselves in before the action starts.

-start with Jon, who wakes up and is surprised to do so. holy shit, he made it! they made it! wait where's Martin? wait is he in some kind of carriage?

-turns out Jon was found by the caravan that sets up the carnival in the Madoria Plains. This Causes Some Concern, at least until he realizes he's not restrained in any way and nobody's setting off Stranger Vibes.

-also Jon feels???? way better than he probably should have considering he just got stabbed???? and that's how he learns that magic (aka RPG mechanics) are in play

-(debating on whether he grows his ribs back or not. I'm inclined to say they did just because That Shit's Funny.)

-first big hurdle actually comes from learning Lunar is Lunar and not Earth. first time he goes outside and sees the Blue Star he nearly has a breakdown then and there. (that is the Earth that is the Earth in the sky I am looking at the Earth which means I'm NOT on Earth what the fuck what the fuck what the fuck)

-eventually he does manage to adjust and make friends with the musicians. operating on The Mechanisms were Jon's Band in Uni rules, he's able to contribute that way.

-he and Jean become sibling-like friends. (she's like, "Hey, I'm not the newest member anymore!") neither learns the full scope of the other's past until considerably later, though. (Once they do, they're like, "Hey, both of us were orphans that found our family later!")

-he discovers that he's retained some of his powers as an avatar of Beholding but under Lunar's magic system rules, as well as develop some new abilities such as making himself invisible. he's relieved that he has more control over whether he compels information out of others.

-(he's not entirely sure how he feels about Althena, but he would rather choose her over the Ceaseless Watcher as far as sources of power go.)

-so Jon's there with the caravan when our intrepid party of heroes show up having adjusted as well as one can over the course of, say, a few months.

-holy shit Lucia has the Lonely coming off of her in waves. Jon is seriously concerned that she might become a catalyst for some Forsaken ritual.

-Jon finds that baby dragons are utterly adorable and is grateful that he's not prone to baby-talk around cats and things that look like cats, thus earning Ruby's respect.

-after Jean leaves with the party, Jon decides to take his leave on his own, now confident enough in his abilities on Lunar to try to find Martin.

-except when everyone goes to town, they find some wanted posters. one for Lucia and her party, and one for Jon.

-"wtf why is Leo calling Jon a destroyer????" vs "how tf did he know I'm a destroyer?????"

-Jon gets captured by Leo and jailed in the Dragonship Destiny a couple of times as well as an attempt at Lemina's Magic Mansion and an encounter with Ghaleon, the last of these setting off all kinds of alarm bells because Ghaleon Very Much Should Be Dead. ("Is he connected to Terminus?")

-the last time Jon's captured by Leo, he breaks out of his cell and tries to escape at Azado, but That Doesn't Work Out What With The City Being On Fire. (fuck this reeks of Desolation)

-but also oh hey Jean, Lemina, and Lucia are tied up on the deck of the Dragonship Destiny what's up guys? oh cool, Leo went with Hiro, Ronfar, and Ruby to take care of the fire, that will give us time to escape.

-This doesn't get very far because it's not long after that when Mauri shows up for her confrontation. Then Leo and the rest of the party join in. AND THEY HAVE MARTIN WITH THEM!

-Jon is ecstatic! Whatever fight they have with Obvious Desolation Avatar Mauri, they can manage it now that he's found Martin! Except that Martin seems to know Leo? AND Mauri???? And HE was the one who told Althena's Guard that Jon is a destroyer???????

-Jon's got a lot to think about on the way to Pentagulia.

-But also they've got some time on a boat so it's time for stories to come out. (including Ronfar and Jon both being puzzled about how their SOs know each other and other members of the party thinking they have to explain homosexuality to Lucia but she's just confused about why they're bothering to explain this when no one's thought to explain heterosexuality to her.)

-this also means Jon's finally up to speed with what the player would know at this point: entity called Zophar trying to destroy Lunar, Lucia's here to stop him, the campaign Zophar engineered against Lucia, what's the deal with Althena's Chosen (with the additional sting of them informing Jon that Martin was wearing the garb of one of their priests)

-at some point there's a talk between Jon and Lucia and he ends up understanding what's at stake far better than Lucia anticipated he would. it's a nice little friendship moment.

-They arrive at Pentagulia and it's time to split up the party for everyone to make their appointments with their plot threads, which means Jon's semi-tagging along with Ronfar as they go to the Red Tower to confront Martin and Mauri respectively. It goes about as well as people who know the game expect it to, with Martin speaking to Jon as if everything is normal, that this is the way things have always been for them, and that nothing has changed between them. (but there was one moment with a break when Jon, as a last resort, compels Martin to tell him what's happening. In lieu of any actual answers, Martin gives him a horrified look and begs him to leave while he still can.)

-once that plot matter is wrapped up in the canon way (with Jon being courteous enough to not comment on how Mystere is obviously Leo), it's time to regroup and try a different approach. in this time, Jon receives a letter from Martin.

-let's back up to before the story begins one more time

-Martin wakes up in Raculi. only the problem is he was already up and moving when he comes to.

-turns out he was found by the Chosen and cleansed (that is, made to drink Zophar's blood) before he came to. and now he's working as an assistant to Lady Mauri

-he wakes up in time to hear himself tell Mauri about Jon and how he's already destroyed one world, fighting to stop himself but physically unable to.

-from this point on, Martin's been a prisoner in his own body, watching as he helps Mauri "cleanse" the sinful with fire and blood, struggling to get his body back under his own control. but it's no use. he's a vessel for Zophar.

-he writes down as much of this as he can in the letter to Jon in the brief moments he can actually control his hands, finishing it by telling Jon that he's sorry, he loves him, but should they meet again Jon should mercy kill him because otherwise he might not be able to stop his body from killing Jon.

-(the reason Martin's able to write and send it at all is because Zophar delights in that kind of torment)

-there would also be a scene with Jon discussing these things with Leo, who is more certain about taking fatal action if need be, and through compulsion Leo admits he is terrified at the idea of striking down Mauri because, even though they aren't as close as they were and she's done horrible things, she's still his sister and he still loves her.

-Jon goes to Raculi with Leo because Leo was ready to kill both Mauri and Martin, and Jon isn't sure if he can actually go through with it but tells Leo that if Martin must die then Jon should honor Martin's implied wish that it be by his hand.

-in a one-on-one fight that proves challenging since Martin is armed with a flail, Jon ends up non-fatally incapacitating Martin while the party fights Mauri's Id. by the time the fight is over, the effects of Zophar's blood wear off and Martin is back in control of himself. cue proper tearful reunion.

-with Mauri also free from the influence of Zophar's blood, she apologizes to Martin for what she did to him. having been in the same situation, Martin understands and forgives her.

-the three of them, Jon, Martin, and Mauri, all stay in Raculi as the party moves on to mount their attack against Zophar. when Zophar starts getting the upper hand, Jon is reasonably concerned it will become another Fear Apocalypse because everything about what he's told indicates that Zophar and the Fears are one and the same.

-in a fit of impulsiveness, Jon proposes to Martin in this time. ("I've already seen one apocalypse with you! I don't want to go through another with the regret of leaving that undone!") Mauri finds a couple of old bracelets of hers to stand in as wedding bands and marries them then and there.

-when the world is inevitably saved with the power of humanity, Jon and Martin get a nice little house in Dalton so they can be close to both where the carnival likes to set up and Raculi where Mauri and Ronfar live. (also there's a hot spring nearby, which, yeah, when you hit the age Jon and Martin are, you want to live by something like that)

-they go out on the occasional adventure, a much more peaceful prospect now that they no longer have the threat of Zophar or the Fears looming over them.

-Jon eventually brings Martin to meet everyone in the carnival, who properly give Jon shit for running off and getting married without telling them and tell Martin about all the pining Jon did for him.

-when they catch wind of Hiro wanting to go to the Blue Star to reunite with Lucia, they're like, "That's crazy but in good conscience we should encourage you because she's Lonely AF and her being the only person on the Blue Star isn't helping with that."

-and they all live happily ever after the end!

[good-vibes-with-scar]

ok so a few people seemed interested so!! here is a tma last life au! it's not fully fleshed out yet, but i've got a lot of ideas and want to share :]

so, to start off, you don’t really need to know the plot of the magnus archives to understand this au! i’m just transferring the entities and fear system into last life!

a quick explanation of the entities for those who want it- in the magnus archives, there are these (essentially) gods of fear. they are powered by the fear that beings feel towards them, and each has its own manifestations. there are 14 or 15, depending on who you ask, and most of them have avatars, or people that work for and feed their gods.

the idea is this: (the rest is under the cut because its. a lot)

in last life, as people started going red, they began to feel a pull from the fears. joel, the first red, had already heard the Slaughter’s calls when under the curse. the blood never stopped pouring from his hands, staining his axe and the traps he laid, as his kill count crept higher and higher.

grian had already belong to the Eye, the Ceaseless Watcher, but once he went red, his eyes kept opening, covering his wings, and circling his head like a crown. he found himself sticking around joel because it was so easy to find his victims, the witnesses to death and destruction. the Eye was kept well fed as it watched their suffering.

mumbo feels the Spiral’s pull when he woke, the scars from etho’s axe still raw. it compelled him to build redstone traps meant to kill. he forgot who he was, knowing only the strange joy he felt as his creations grew more complex and more deadly. grian didn’t recognize mumbo when he killed him. when mumbo woke again, in hermitcraft, impulse noticed his laugh didn’t sound the same anymore.

the Lonely never had to overpower scar-- its fog enveloped magical mountain the moment he was cursed, and never left. his only ally went red comically early on, and no one ever stuck around. the Lonely didn’t have to do much work, scar came willingly to it, letting himself fade away, his lives merely a tool, his contracts ignored, his generosity taken for granted. when he died, there was no one there to mourn him. when he arrived back to hermitcraft, he stopped going to meetings and restocking his shops. the other hermits had trouble finding him-- even though he was in his base, he easily escaped their views, even grian’s.

it was partially scar’s fault for tango’s descent. the rage crystal, taken as a joke, fueled tango’s anger when he was slain in his own base, after opening up to his allies and trusting them with private information. the Hunt easily took tango, and took great joy in his attempts to kill bdubs without breaking any rules. when he died to his own trap, the Hunt grew stronger in him still, and the desire to track bdubs down and slay him remained even after returning to his home.

the Desolation came for cleo when she was murdered by her own ally. she didn’t want to kill him, precisely-- she wanted to destroy anything he ever loved, any bonds he’d forged, any valuables he found. she wanted him alone, mourning his losses, and every time she caused him grief the fire inside her grew brighter and brighter. when she killed him, and he never woke again, the Desolation called for more, and cleo had to oblige.

[snackhobi]

what the water gave me ; chapter 1

chapter [1] / 2

you burn his shrines and strike down his followers, destroy those who lose themselves in manic worship of a nameless god. you won’t let yourself fall the way you’ve seen others fall, lose yourself to whale song and graveyard lullabies, pulled in by his siren’s call.

so when he holds out a hand and offers you his gift—powers and magic that almost no other humans possess—you deny him.

and he just replies: if you change your mind, all you have to do is reach out and receive it.

pairing: taehyung x f!reader / word count: 8k / genre + rating: NSFW (18+) (smut will be present in later chapters)

warnings/etc (some of these tags have spoilers): fantasy with steampunk-style elements (loose dishonored au). lovecraftian/cthonic god!taehyung. vigilante!reader. talk of death/violence/crimes (e.g. stealing) but nothing graphic. ableist language related to sanity (insane/manic etc). implied/referenced character death in flashbacks, but again, nothing graphic. [this is my first time writing anything like this, so please, please let me know if there is anything I’ve forgotten to tag or anything I’ve overlooked]

a/n: here it is! it’s going to be a long one, sorry y’all. happy one year fic anniversary to me! thank you to @hobi-gif​ and @morndas​ for being the best friends/betas a weenie like me could ask for 💕💕

He visits you in your dreams.

The echoes that whisper through the fog offshore; the seeping damp of seawater and salt that bites into the underbelly of ships; the shifting of the anchor’s chain as it falls to the seafloor; the blanched brittle bones of a dead sailor, body picked clean in the dark of the ocean, washed to shore—he’s all of these and more, the endless darkness of the sea and abyss, the unanswered call of lonely whale song that falls into that shimmering place of shadow and shade.

Each night he comes, silhouetted by the grey of the Void and the blackness of eternity, his eyes darker still. His eyes are dark, dark, dark, blacker than the moonless night, swallowing pupil and sclera. He watches you with those unblinking eyes. Sits atop the ever-shifting ground and stone that he builds, brings into existence without thought, god of this empty place. In the distance you can see the whales, those great and terrible leviathans that float through the Void like the sea, deep sea monsters that exist both Here and There, all at once.

Sand scratches the soles of your feet. You stand in the Void on this floating platform of rough-hewn stone, surrounded by the night and past and present and future, in a world that shapes and reshapes itself from moment to moment, both static and moving, dead and alive. The only light comes from far, far away, filtered through a nameless fog, shapeless and sickly—moonlight fighting to cut through storm clouds towards some lost ship, far from home and the shore. 

(Tossed about on a careless and monstrous and unceasingly hungry sea.) 

His feet never touch the ground. All the power of ocean and chaos and Void settle about his shoulders with the unflinching weight of all of existence; pitch black shadow creeps about him and would threaten to swallow him were he not their master. He seems to almost fade at the edges, jagged shards of obsidian and crystal spiralling the mist at his back in a quivering dance, like all his power could not be contained by the human visage he wears, but his eyes are unchanging—unblinking—as he stares at you.

(Those eyes. The darkest things you’ve seen, framed with tears of crystal, sparkling points of light on his face. Tears of the ocean; of moonlight, starlight.)

You have no power here. There’s nothing to ward away this darkness, this ceaseless chill; none of your weapons are at your side. You don’t think it would matter even if they were.

What’s a mortal against a god, after all?

(You burn another shrine.

It doesn’t take much. It never does. You lift the lanterns from the floor, snuff their flames and flick them open to spill whale oil over this hidden altar; it’s not the worst you’ve seen, a simple table of driftwood and wire and nails hidden under sumptuous purple cloth. You’ve seen twisted shrines anointed with hair and blood, fur and feather, teeth and flesh, dark echoes of the Void warping around the charms of whale bone placed so lovingly at their centre. Still, no matter their building blocks, they each represent the same thing: slavish worship of a hidden god.

You’ve held countless charms. Grasped countless runes. You've felt the throb of magic in your hands, etched into the surface of bleached bone and rough metal, shaped by fingers intimately acquainted with the forbidden arts. They call out, sing so sweet, so dark, and you’ve seen so many—too many—succumb to their siren’s call. Each enchantment grants its owner some measure of power, some echo of the Void. It’s not real magic, no, not granted by the Visitor, but instead is a piercing of the shroud that separates the physical world from the ethereal, shaped by those who pray and weep and wail for his favour, even if he ignores them all.

No matter the enchantment, bone always burns the same.

Flames hungrily burst to life under your fingers. So quick. So easy. It swallows the whale oil before licking out further and consuming it all, greedy. It always smells like the same, acrid and bitter as the Void’s power sizzles out of existence. You lift the rune you’d taken from your most recent hunt and cast that onto the flames, too, watch as reality seems to shimmer and warp around the heavy piece of carved whale bone; its sibilant hiss crescendos before all at once it goes silent.

They’ll find the ashes tomorrow. They’ll find the dead body of the priest—so respected in his community, so favoured, so stringent in his sermons against false gods and dark magics—where you’d left him, slumped over his desk, surrounded by his once-hidden ravings of supplication to the one being he’d so publicly condemned. The scattered papers of a decaying mind.

… Visitor, I pray, give me the strength to reach out for you, to see into the darkness and light you call home. Let me reach past the veil towards the secrets you hold and let me wield the power that sings to me, calls to me… 

Secret worship turned to obsession. If only people weren’t so weak, so ready to succumb to the undulating whispers of the Void. How many have let their quiet reverence turn into something darker, something twisted?

How many have you chosen to hunt, to stop?

No one sees you leave this quiet village behind, cloaked in the darkness of a cloud-filled night as you slip away.

Beneath your coat, a wreath of bone charms hangs about your hips, murmuring quiet whale song and whispers of the sea.)

A god. A nameless god. Lost to time, eons ago.

He has no name, but he does have a title: The Visitor.

He greets you with a lift to his brows that feels like he’s observing you like some intriguing curio. How many nights has it been, now, that you’ve dreamt of him? That you’ve looked into the abyss and seen it staring back, echoes of your world orbiting past like your mind and memory itself is fragmenting into existence in this place?

You’ve heard so many stories of him, whispers of this leviathan of the Void who twists his form into the shape of a man. You’ve seen the echoes of his power and the way those ripples cast forth and twist the waters of people's lives, seen how they fall to desire and want in the pursuit of magical power, but never seen him.

Until now.

He knows who you are, of course—you’ve been told he sees everything, the truth of time and space cast out in every direction, unspooling at one glance of those lampblack eyes—and speaks your name with a detached familiarity as he watches you stand on this floating platform of sand and stone, unmoored in this ever-shifting place of stillness.

(You’ve been destroying his shrines for years, now. You recognise every sign of hidden mania, listen to rumours and back alley whispers and parse their true meaning, in the same way soothsayers read for messages in the flight of birds; the way sailors read the motions of the tides and movements of the celestial bodies above.

Not every worshipper of the Visitor falls by your blade. Etchings in ivory, bone and tusk and teeth and claw, good luck charms that people carry with them; hastily whispered prayers to the Visitor before a make-or-break moment—no matter if he’s forbidden by the church, he’s woven into the fabric of society, and there’s no danger there. You only hunt the dangerous, the predatory, those so given over to their obsession with the occult that they threaten those around them; steal blood and bone for failed rituals, boil the fat from once-living things to anoint their pedestals for the profane ceremonies they perform.

(People who are willing to kill the innocent to get what they want.)

You would be a hypocrite to destroy all of those who carried signs of the Visitor, after all. You have your own collection of scrimshaw, magic thrumming through bone, cold and hot against your skin, softening your footsteps and bolstering your strength, helping you jump higher, run faster—there’s nothing inherently evil in magic, no matter what the church says. You know this intimately. But the moment you feel your spirit start to wane and give itself over to the silken call of the Void you’ll cast your garland of charms into the sea, and if necessary, follow soon after.)

(You’ve seen what ruin follows those who waver and fall into the arms of the Visitor. You won’t allow the same to happen to you.)

You wonder if he’s here to finally claim vengeance for all his followers that you’ve cut life away from. But when he finally speaks, you hear no anger or accusation there at all.

“You find yourself in interesting places, don’t you?”

His voice has a strange lilt, some inflection that’s so unfamiliar that it seems to twist words into riddles. He’s unearthly in every way, even his beauty; his face is all sharp edges, the emotionless line of his mouth, his pitch black eyes, reflecting nothing. Light falls over the both of you but not in those eyes, two limpid pools of sheer night that stare unwaveringly at you, caught instead in the shards of clear sea glass that fan out across his cheekbones.

“What is it you want from me?”

He tilts his head at your question, face as unchanging as the abyssal depths of the endless sea. You’re not sure if he was expecting you to react differently in his presence—confusion, maybe. Fear. Anger, perhaps.

“I’ve lived a long, long time.” He shifts in place and you witness how he comes apart, falls into nothingness like coal turned to ash that spirals away on some unseen wind, before those parts reform and he’s sitting atop a jagged outcrop of stone on a platform above your head. “You’ve come from nothing and still live as a shadow. And yet, you play such a role in the world, with no acknowledgement of the power you’ve chosen to wield.”

(It doesn’t matter to you if your chosen target is a fishmonger who lives down a quiet side street or if it’s a noble whose every decision turns the direction of high society. If they need to fall by your blade, they will. You leave ripples wherever you go. 

Death has a way of changing things, after all.)

“Most of you are so boring, letting your lives play out without ever reaching towards some greater goal—but here you are. People like you are the ones that fascinate me. You’ve walked the expanse of these isles and traversed places that others can only dream of and yet none of it gives you pause.” He shifts his shoulders, tilts his head once more; behind him, a buoy floats in the ripples of eternity, ropes crusted in salt, water cascading upwards instead of down. It makes you dizzy. “I wonder if you choose to go to new places and leave the old ones behind, or rather that you follow some irrepressible call?”

“You haven’t answered my question.” You’d given up on subtlety in words a long time ago, direct and to the point; not impatient, but unswerving from your mark once you’ve found it. The stark opposite to the man—the god—who looks at you.

There’s no tilt to the Visitor’s lips, no lift to his brows, but there’s something there. If you didn’t know better you’d think he was… amused. “You hunt down my shrines with the single-minded devotion of my greatest follower—and promptly set them ablaze. I find your actions fascinating. What is it I want? To watch your quest and see where it takes you, and where it ends. I see many potential futures laid out at your feet and there’s not a single one that isn’t intriguing.”

He turns a graceful hand palm up and gestures with the fluidity of an oil slick spreading over clear water. “And, with that, I’m here to offer you a gift, if you choose to receive it.”

The back of your hand flushes cold. You turn your attention to it, watch as a sigil traces itself over your skin in hues of shining gold and deep purple and pale blue: the Visitor’s mark, a carved V orbited by other runes in a language only those long dead can read. It’s a feather light touch, a shimmering potential, a promise of power.

Part of you wants to laugh, near disbelief. You’ve seen uncountable numbers hunger for this and never find it, while you’ve never felt a desire for it at all. 

But here you are: silhouetted by the Void and endless space, being offered the very thing you’ve killed others for wanting.

“You’re offering magic to someone who destroys it wherever she goes?”

Once more, the Visitor comes apart. Tendrils of darkness, like wisps of smoke from a snuffed candle, pinwheel away and together once more, just out of arm's reach, floating high enough that you have to lift your chin to look at him. “But you don’t destroy magic, do you? You protect it from those who would abuse it. I’ve watched you make your choices from the moment you decided to set fire to that first charm.”

The reminder of that—the thing that happened so long ago, that taught you what happens to those who would let desire and darkness corrupt them, that led to you learning exactly how bone burns—has you clenching your hand into a fist. 

“No.” Your voice is resolute. “No, I don’t want this.”

The mark slides away and sparks into nothingness.

The Visitor seems unmoved. Unsurprised. Just regards you steadily. But, for the first time since meeting, you watch as he blinks, long and slow, dappled light caught in the crystalline tears that linger at his lashline, his cheekbones.

“Once a gift is offered, it remains, accepted in the moment or not.” So calm and impassive. “If you change your mind, all you have to do is reach out and receive it.”

And with that, the Void dissipates. Reality bends on its axis and you watch as light and darkness warp around and away from you; the last thing you see are those two black eyes, surrounded by teardrops of light.

When you wake the next day and hold your hand up to dawn’s pale touch, your skin is unmarked and empty. 

(But still, you swear you feel some nameless weight that lingers, something pressing on your skin, like the brush of ocean chilled lips.)

You’re deep in a different city tonight. Mired in the muck and filth of the industrial district, surrounded by worn brick and rusting metal and weathered pipes that belch out steam and smoke, where the run-off of all the factories spins into the sewers and gutters and the long-sullied river; it stinks of blood and death here, so close to the tanneries, so close to the slaughterhouses.

So close to where they kill the whales.

They drain those great beasts dry for their precious oil but only see a fraction of its worth end up in their pockets. It might be forbidden, but you know the butchers pocket whale bone when the foremen aren’t watching, sell that precious cargo on the black market for more gold than they earn cutting through baleen and blubber and blood. You’re here to find where gold exchanges hands, to trace the course of those bones like the curves of a riverbed, to see where inlets open to the sea; to see whose hands that bone settles in, turned into doors to the Void.

(You’ve always been good at this: flying across rooftops, scaling walls and metal pipes, sliding from one shadow to the next. You find cover in the haze of smoke, the smog that fills the air, belched forth from those huge factories, soot and dirt settled across every inch of this place. It’s easy to avoid the eyes of the city guard, to duck out of sight of the whale oil lamps that cast their dusky light across cobbled streets. Even before taking up pistols and blades, you were good at this, learning how to pick your way silently through city streets to make a living. To pick pockets. To run. To survive.)

(This city is so similar to your city, the centre of the Isles, the one you were born into years ago; smaller than your home, yes, but port cities follow the same patterns, dockyards finding the same rhythm regardless of where they are. It sets something in you to aching, how this place is unfamiliar and yet familiar all at once.)

You’ve been finding blackened bone charms, twisted things that are layered in more power than you’ve ever seen—but they drain the wielder, suck them dry. More power demands more sacrifice, paid for in blood. These charms scream in the flames, hissing voices turned to drawn-out wails before turning to ash and forgotten memories. You know their creator is nearby, would detest being far from here, a place that gives them a constant stream of whale bone. You just need to find who it is and finish them.

It’s simple enough, once you find her. The lock takes almost no time to pick and the apartment is quiet; it’s easy to follow the mutters, the chanted mantras, to find her in the room that was once a study. The walls are covered in her sloping, manic scrawl, painted in shadow and flickering light from oil lamps, and she sits in the centre of it all. Surrounded by polished shards of bone, scraped clean, she whispers to herself as she fuses them together, glimmers of shadow and Void trembling in her hands.

She never sees your knife coming.

It’s too dangerous to set a fire here, lest the entire block of apartments catches ablaze and spreads throughout the district. You step over the pooling blood, gather the blackened fragments of bone, go towards the pedestal she’d made to lift up the largest rune of all, reach out to grasp it in your hands—

And it glows so brightly before it falls apart.

Bone shatters underneath your touch and falls away, spins up on a non-existent wind and coalesces to form a figure who floats atop the shrine. What little light is in this dark room curves towards the Visitor and outlines him without a single flicker, caught in the etched crystal that’s ever-present under his black eyes.

It’s been months since he’d stepped into your dreams, but at the occasional hidden shrine, he appears to you. He never lingers, never stays too long, but each time he’ll step out of the ether and speak, letting you know that he’s there—even if you’d spurned his boon.

You used to think it was paranoia. That your caution led your mind to imagine things that weren’t there, to feel like someone’s eyes were on you, watching, even if you know there weren’t. But feeling the full intensity of his gaze once more lets you know that it’s him, watching you still, and you have to wonder how you can feel it when he can see everything at once. You’re not the only one he watches. 

(So why does it haunt you so?)

“Another falls by your blade.” 

His voice is always the same, like the haunting wind that brushes through the jagged rocks at the ocean’s edge. The bone charms girded about your waist pulse in time with his words, shift against your clothes with a soft trembling, as if answering his call.

“Judge, jury, executioner.” He turns his head, shows you the sharp cut of his jaw, the slope of his nose. “You decide their fate and then deliver it to them.” 

“Someone has to do it,” you mutter, and reach down for a lantern so that you can search through the room.

The Visitor doesn’t even spare a glance for the dead woman that’s sprawled on the floor behind you, whose last words were the desperate call of her god’s name. His name. He just keeps his eyes fixed on you. 

“Always in motion, never stopping.” If he’s offended by the fact you’ve taken your eyes off him, he makes no mention of it, but the room starts to warp at the corners as the Void bleeds in, following its master, and you'd swear he's forcing your eyes towards him. The one unshifting part of the world. “You never rest.”

“I don’t have time to rest.” Bone dust is gritty underfoot, the tiniest parts left over from etching and creation, dried marrow turned to powder grinding further into stained floorboards as you shift on your feet and pull open drawers, finding half-finished charms and cracked runes everywhere you turn. You’re almost callous in the way you handle them, sweeping them into the bag you’d slung over your back for this very purpose.

“The black dogs of exhaustion and melancholy nip at your feet wherever you go. You gain no rewards for what you do. And yet you persist. There’s not a single future where you don’t continue forwards on your path, no matter how tired you are.” The words themselves could be ones of admiration,  but instead he just seems mildly surprised. Like he doesn’t understand exactly why it is that you do what you do and doesn’t expect you to keep your nose to the grindstone, to slave away at this for no apparent reward.

The wooden desk is water-warped and swollen and pulling the drawer open takes more force than it should. An abandoned ink pot, precariously placed, tilts onto its side; it would have spilled, had the ink inside not been long dried and forgotten. The Visitor is regarding you with a level gaze and unchanging eyes when you look up. 

“Is there a single future where, right now, I don’t ask you to leave me to my work?”

You respond to him without reverence, but you’re cautious, still. You won’t forget the monstrous depths of his power. He listens to a thousand selfish prayers and ignores them all, carries the heaviness and inky shadows of long forgotten civilisations and memories about his neck, as mysterious and nightmarish as the twisted things that linger at the deepest parts of the sea.

(Whenever you think this, there’s the tiniest curl to his surprisingly full lips that says that he's well aware of that fact. A predator’s smile.)

“No,” he answers.

“Good to know I’m consistent, then.” 

“You are utterly predictable and unpredictable all at once,” he says, but before you can ask him what he means by that, he’s gone.

It only takes moments for angles and lines to recentre, for the world to stop spinning on its tilt towards the Void and turn to something more material and physical. It’s easy to tear the fabric away from the altar, to toss it over the cooling body that’s still bleeding itself dry; rich purple turns black with thick blood as you lift that final rune up in your hands, heavier than the rest, girdled with weathered copper, staining your hands green.

(He’s stopped visiting you in your dreams, but the Void doesn’t let you go. Your nights are restless as you fall into the dark arms of sleep, pulling you into fog and shade, a world of nothingness where everything exists at once. 

In the distance, dripping blood in those cruel slaughterhouses that tear them apart and casting rivulets of oil into the expanse of the Void, the whales sing their lonely death songs—and then fall silent.)

“Use the brick on your right as a handhold. Not that one—your right. Over here, idiot!”

He looks up. Sees your hand held out to him, the exasperated but fond look on your face a familiar one as he curves his fingers into the ever-present support of your palm. 

You’ve always been better at this than him, better at climbing, scaling the impassable, making your way into forbidden places. He’s longer-limbed, heavy-footed. Better suited to the ground. Still, he trusts you, grits his teeth as you pull him up, ignores your familiar snickering as he so clumsily scrabbles to the top of the wall and crouches beside you. He’s not as graceful as you but he makes do. 

(Besides, he has you to pull him up no matter where he goes.)

“Come on.” You nudge him with your shoulder, eyes bright. “We have a little way to go yet.”

A ‘little way’ for you feels like a long way for him. He scrapes his knuckles open on the rough brick, finds spiderwebs knotted on his clothes as you skulk forwards, manages to whack his head against a pipe, a loud thunk that makes you grab him and pull him flush against the wall in case anyone overheard—but he trusts you. He knows this will be worth it, even if the two of you will be heavily punished if you’re found here. He doesn’t know how long it must have taken you to find this way in, to grow familiar with the timings and schedules to avoid any chance of someone stumbling across you, two interlopers in a place that should be barred to them.

(The building you’re pulling him up is so high it makes him dizzy.)

You hold a finger to your lips, shushing him even as you grin widely. He eyes the glass panels in this roof, tinted sea-green and sun-orange and blood-red, one of the long-forgotten windows wedged open, a thin line of rust on iron cracked open by your hands; he can see the class in this vaulting lecture hall far below, see the teacher that stands in front of the smartest young minds of the empire and gestures at the chalkboard on the wall, but best of all—even though he’s all the way up here, out of sight, nothing more than a dappled shadow on the riot of stained glass colour on the floor far below—he can hear.

The principles of alchemical interaction, chemical symbols; every word from the lecturer’s mouth, every dusty white word on the board behind them—it all goes over your head. Not his, though. His face lifts and his eyes light up and he looks at you as if you’d pulled all the stars from the sky and handed them to him on a silver platter, awestruck and humbled and disbelieving. And when you reach into the bag hidden under your coat, hand him a new journal and piece of charcoal, he doesn’t even ask where they’re from. He just grabs them from you and immediately starts to scribble notes, swallowing down information with the insatiable greed of a ceaselessly intelligent mind. 

The Academy of Sciences and Philosophy. Esteemed and exclusive, ancient and established, only for the best and brightest (and connected)—and there you are on one of its highest roofs. Two street rats. One listening and learning while the other basks in the afternoon sun. 

(You’ve never been as smart as your best friend, not as quick at parsing the meaning in the secret language of academia, but that’s okay. You have other skills, the dark side of his moon, better in the shadows when he shines.)

“Hey.”

Time has passed by as slick as treacle as the lecturer drones on. You blink awake from your half-doze, sun dazed, kept from falling over the edge of dreaming by the light that shines across your face and in the hollows of your eyelids. “Hm?”

His face is upside down from this angle but the smile on his face is unmistakable, dimples dug into the swell of his cheeks. “Thank you. Really. This is so much better than learning from a book.”

(It’s not just better. It’s everything. It’s an unimaginable offering, the opening of a door that should be far out of your reach. Two unknown kids, teenagers, born and raised and living in the poorest parts of the Empire's richest city, where you carry a knife wherever you go, all sharp eyes and sharper teeth—but he’s always been softer than you. Strong, but with a kindness that reaches his core no matter how harsh the world is. Sleight of hand and fleet of foot, you’re the cunning one of the two, doing what you need to do to survive.

He keeps you soft. You’re grateful for that.)

The smile you give him in return is a small, quiet thing, as gentle and warm as the sunlight that covers you both as your eyes slip shut again. 

“You’re welcome, Namjoon.”

The cry of gulls and crash of waves don't detract from the silence here. The solitude. The silhouette of the lighthouse looms in the distance, nestled amongst vicious rocks that threaten the ships, removed and separated from the dwindling fishing village further up the coast.

It’s not as dark as you’d like. You’re kept prisoner by the tides, high waters submerging the path most hours of the day—you work best when you can cling to the shadows, using surprise to make up for your lack of formal training with a blade and gun (you learned how to fight on the streets, vicious and dirty and underhanded, but you know your own strengths and they don’t lie in following correct forms). You’ve caught a glimpse of the lighthouse’s keeper in town, a tall and broad man under the thick weave of his clothes, and you know he can easily overpower you if he catches you. The light from the dying sun makes you wary of the threat he poses, if he spots you in its waning light.

(Even if he’d seemed so harmless, so mild, quiet and polite when he’d exchanged handfuls of coin for fresh fish and bread, simple fare for a simple man.)

Your bone charms shiver under the lining of your coat, pulsing in time with the crash of the waves. You grit your teeth against the wind chill and bite of salt in the air as you draw your blade. It’s shorter than a sword but just as sharp and deadly, the wooden hilt warming under your touch, a familiar and comforting weight. You trail up the steps that encircle the base of the building, each step measured and careful and silent, eyes constantly darting overhead to see if the lone lightkeeper has seen anything amiss.

Inside the building everything is deathly silent. Your grip tightens on your blade the higher you climb, your scrimshaw charms murmuring comforting litanies as you finally ease open the trapdoor of the highest room. Devoid of life, like the rest of them. 

Not empty though, no. The entire room is a temple for the unholy, not just whale bone and driftwood and dried kelp and lone feathers but more than that, sea-eaten bones and dried bird claws and nameless animal teeth and human skulls with jawless smiles grinning at you from the walls. Everything is singing, Void bleeding through in corrupted mutterings and whispers, a fugue of dead voices from the deep.

(The air tastes of burnt salt and blood.)

Light shines in from the open trapdoor overhead, leading to the lightroom above, the burning bright lamp that guides sailors to shore, encircled with a metal walkway. The last stop; a dead end. Your movements are fast and silent as you climb the ladder, ears straining to catch the sound of footsteps, of anything to let you know where the lightkeeper might be.

Like a lot of things in life, when things go wrong, they go bad very, very fast.

You were right about him being stronger than you. He knows you’re coming, catches you off guard instead of the other way around, lunges at you with wild eyes and clenched fists, knocks your blade to one side and your hastily grabbed pistol to the other as you try to keep ground. You’re fast but he’s taken you by surprise and now you’re fighting a losing battle, a struggling blur of motion as you find there’s nowhere to go. Nowhere to run. Nowhere to hide.

He’s so, so much stronger than you.

He grabs you by the collar of your coat, your throat, pulls you up almost effortlessly as he throttles the air out of your lungs. His eyes are so wide as he snarls at you, a cascade of accusations falling from his growling mouth, mine mine mine, the magic is mine, you can’t have it, you can’t, you can’t. Even as you writhe in his hold, claw at his hands and arms and stain your fingernails red with his blood as they bite into his skin, you know you’re dead. 

This is it. 

This is it.

The air stinks of burning whale oil and the light is so bright, so so bright, shining out over the lightkeeper’s shoulders and throwing every part of him into shadow as he backs you towards the edge. A lifeline for sailors that heralds a death for you, graceless and messy and anonymous. It’ll be a nasty death. Dashed on the rocks, swallowed by the sea. No one will notice you’re gone. No one will miss you.

He hoists you towards where the railing is missing, corroded beyond repair, and—without hesitation—lets go.

You’re weightless as the earth’s gravity pulls you down. Everything is moving faster than you can register as you stare up at the dark figure of the lightkeeper as he watches you fall and fall and fall—

You catch glimpse of a shadow behind him, silhouetted by oil light, half formed and grey but with a sparkle of sea glass that frames the shadow of its endlessly deep eyes—

The whale bones at your waist sing louder than the wind that rushes past you—

Once a gift is offered, it remains, accepted in the moment or not.

Your hand is lifted towards the heavens, arm outstretched—

If you change your mind, all you have to do is reach out and receive it.

Seconds away from death, no time to think, no time to argue, sheer instinct and adrenaline coursing through you as you strain with your fingers and gasp out a single wordless plea—

The back of your hand burns.

(All at once, you know what to do.)

The Void’s sibilant hymns crescendo into a chorus as you clench your fist and pull. 

The Visitor’s mark lights up, all roiling gold and silver and blue, new and unfamiliar as it blazes into existence across your skin in a burst of cold and heat. It feels like fishhooks in your belly, pulling you up, the wind at your back gone and instead tearing at your face as magic shudders through your bones and your direction reverses and you fly forwards. It’s a straight shot that defies natural law and gravity, the suddenly invisible blur of your body turning solid and you land back on metal with a resonating echo.

The lightkeeper is staring at you with some unnameable emotion uncoiling across his face, frozen in place as he takes in the mark that’s freshly branded onto the back of your hand, shock and awe and reverence and wild jealousy and disbelief—

You brace yourself and tense your muscles and lift your leg and use every iota of power in your body to slam your foot into his chest. 

It takes mere seconds for him to stumble, to fail at catching his balance, to reel as he steps back onto air instead of metal, and then he’s gone.

You don’t watch him fall. 

Instead, you collapse to your knees. You’re shaking, breath shuddering as you gasp in air; it feels like you’re trembling down to your very bones, lungs rattling in the cage of your ribs, so fucking close to death you could taste the Void, thick oil and blood coating your throat. The mark doesn’t burn any more, a quiet cold that breathes across your skin, but you can still feel the way it had sung to you when you’d touched the Void, summoned magic as easy as breathing. 

It’s terrifying and overwhelming and you feel dizzy with it all. Untethered.

You start laughing.

You don’t know how long you’re there, shivering from the come down of adrenaline and near-death fear as you laugh, almost hysterical, wild disbelief rolling through you. You should be dead. You should be dead and done and to the dust. You should be swallowed by the sea, picked clean by salt and water, gone and forgotten. But here you are, hiccupping laugh after laugh as your brain struggles to catch up with reality. You’re so fucking grateful to be alive, so glad you survived, surprised at how overwhelming that feeling is. 

A moment of weakness and gratitude has you holding the mark up to the burning white glare of the lighthouse and marvelling at how it seems to absorb that bright light, even darker than black, all clean and sharp edges; you press your trembling lips to it with a whispered benediction, a wordless prayer of thanks to the unfeeling being that had let you live. 

You hadn’t wanted it, but that close brush with death—the sensation of weightlessness as you’d plummeted towards earth and sea—the absolute fear and terror and horror that had filled you—

Fuck, you’re fucking drunk and giddy on the sensation of still living.

(The mark flares under that touch of your lips, burns blue and electric as its humming cuts through you right to your very bones.)

The sky grows dark and the tide grows high and it takes so long for the world to settle into place, for corners and lines to turn on their point and reposition themselves in ways that make sense as your laughter finally dies.

Eventually you rise. You always do. 

You’re sore and aching from the blows rained down on you by the lightkeeper’s brutal fists, flexing your fingers as you gather your blade and pistol and wince at the pain that movement brings, shivering against the chill of the wind before you descend the ladder, once more enveloped by the darkness of this unholy sanctum. You whisper condolences to the long dead as you cast their corrupted bones to the floor and crush them underfoot, take whale bone charms and crack them apart in your hands—there’s one that gives you pause, a crescent moon of worn bone encircled in metal that fits perfectly in your palm. When you touch this charm your mark ripples ice-blue and royal purple, humming a duet with the runes etched in this bone that sing their graveyard songs.

You keep hold of that charm. The rest are destroyed. You pull gold-trimmed velvet from the walls, tear everything down, ignore the sound of rain and thunder that gathers outside. Lightning tears apart the sky, the echoes of an empty church that splits the clouds and crashes to the earth, the sea. An endless roar of nature that watches the silence as you cast shards of whale bone back to the sea where they belong, swallowed down by hungry seawater hundreds of feet below you.

It’s still hammering with rain by low tide, so many hours later, and you make your escape under a blanket of heavy cloud and relentless storm. Only the sea watches you leave.

“Where did you get this?”

Namjoon’s never liked stealing things even if he accepts that it’s necessary. He’s always talking about when things will be better, when you won’t have to live lean and life will be comfortable, not a struggle. When you’ll have gold in hand to buy the things you want, rather than having to turn to theft for the things you need to survive. Idealistic to a fault, perhaps, starry-eyed and with the full belief in the goodness and fairness of life underneath all the dirt and muck. 

“I’ve been saving money from my translation work.” His eyes are shining and his smile is wide and he looks like everything that’s good in the world. “Do you like it?”

Whale bone charms aren’t easy to come by, forbidden by the church and expensive to buy. You’ve never even seen one, let alone touched it, and it’s… beautiful. It’s two pieces of bone, held together by a circle of iron, warm to the touch and soothing to hold. Its singing grows quiet against your skin, turning into a near silent hum that only you can feel. You’ve only heard stories. You never knew that the singing was real.

“It’s meant to bring you good luck,” he says, watching as you turn it over in your hands, eyes trailing over delicate etchings in an ancient language you can’t read, lullabies carved by long dead hands. “Good fortune. I had to pay you back for the Academy somehow, didn’t I?”

“Fortune means gold, I hope?” 

He makes a noise that’s a mix of a scoff and a snort, an ugly sound that fills you with so much fondness that it aches. “When I’ve made the greatest invention that the Isles have seen, you won’t need a good luck charm for money. It’s just a matter of time.”

He’s smart enough to do it, burns bright enough to outshine the sun, and now that he can get a real education—even if it’s a stolen thing, a shadow of what he deserves, it’s more than either of you have received in the past, and it’s not just a pipe dream, any more. It feels closer than that. Something that’s almost in reach.

(You’re stark opposites in so many ways, given to the whims of superstition rather than his staunch belief in science, the pessimist to his optimist. It’s hard to think that there are better things on the horizon, that you’ll lift yourselves above your station—but he gives you hope. You believe him when he says that the future is bright.)

Your teasing smile turns genuine and soft at the edges as you look away from the charm and up to his face. “This is beautiful. Thank you.”

“Keep it safe,” he says.

“Watch me fling it out the window,” you say, and he laughs.

(Of course you’ll keep it safe. You’ll keep it safe, keep it close and protect it, just like you do with all the things you care about.)

The Visitor’s voice is faraway, the faintest whisper in the wind.

“My gift is yours now.”

You catch a glimpse of the Void behind him, waves of dark and shimmering splendour as you slip from the waking world and past the realm of dreams into this immeasurable place.

The mark on your hand ripples colours like sunlit water. You feel electrified, blood singing in your veins and whale bone pulsing in time, his sigil wreathed in chilling sea mist as magic thrums through the air around your hand.

Time passes through your fingers faster than sand as the Visitor disappears in a shiver of whale song and ash, and the Void spirals and fragments into nonexistence before you can answer, gratefully slipping into the heavy arms of sleep.

(For the briefest of moments, just before he’d collapsed into nothingness and the Void had whisked him away, he’d smiled.)

You don’t know why, but Namjoon’s been acting strange lately.

At first you thought it was just that he was distracted with learning, squirrelling himself away in his room to presumably read over whatever notes he’d taken during the lecture he’d eavesdropped on earlier that day. And then you thought it was because he was angry at you. You’ve been getting involved with some shady work, sure, stuff that he’s never liked—he doesn’t like the work you do for Jackson when times are hard, how you help their gang rob rich houses using your talent with lockpicking and subterfuge, but you have to take gold when you can get it. Namjoon knows that and he’s never acted like this about it before, so why now?

When you see him there’s something in his eyes that doesn’t belong there. Some discordant note in a familiar melody, a lullaby turned unfamiliar from a shift from a major into a minor key. You don’t know how to describe it, how to explain how you know that something’s wrong, but you just know that it is.

But when it all comes to a head, when the truth comes tumbling out, it’s nothing you ever would have expected.

You don’t even know how you got here. He’s wild-eyed, stepping forward as you step back, and you’ve never seen him like this before; you usually forget how tall he is but right now you can’t think of anything else. He’s backing you into a corner and he’s talking so quickly, almost babbling, talking about whispers and bones and how it’s calling out to him, it’s his, not yours—the bone charm he’d given you, the one you’d sewn into the lining of your coat to rest above your heart.

Each night it sings to him, he says. Its singing drifts through the wind to him, a voice that says his name. 

Obsession turned to insanity.

And it gets physical. He lunges at you—you shout at him to stop, equal parts confused and afraid—and you’re terrified. You don’t know who’s in front of you right now; he might wear your best friend’s face but it’s not Namjoon. He would never tear at you, pull your hair and bare his teeth and bruise your skin. But you know he’ll kill you to get the scrimshaw you hold, lulled into mania by its sibilant whale song. You’re screaming and he’s screaming too, all you can hear is his rising voice and the mess of words he keeps chanting at you, and you’re so, so scared. He’s never been aggressive like this, never gotten physical with you, never torn at your hair and clothes and you know he’ll kill you to get what he wants, you know he will, you can read it in every inch of his wide eyes and snarling teeth and lashing fists—

Instinct takes over.

You scrabble for your belt and your fingers close around the hilt of your knife.

Your hands are still shaking, later. There’s blood on your fingers, splattered on your clothes. The knife had slipped between his ribs so easily, metal wickedly sharp, slicing through skin and muscle like butter; you want to throw up, thinking about it. Instinctive as it was, even if it was to save your own life, adrenaline and fear fueled, you’d stabbed your best friend.

You’d stabbed him, and you hadn’t even stayed to help as he’d bled out on your kitchen floor. You’d turned tail and fled, run faster than you’d ever run before, run away from it all.

You’d killed him.

You’d killed Namjoon.

You’d killed Namjoon, and you’d run. The instant you'd realised what you’d done, seen the blood seeping through his shirt, painting your blade red, red, red—you’d abandoned him. You have nothing but the clothes on your back, the old knife in your hands, the whale bone above your heart, humming and throbbing, and the knowledge settling deep in your chest—you’d killed the one person you cared about the most in this entire world.

You know this city inside and out. You know where to run, to set a fire in a forgotten side alley, to strip your blood stained coat off and burn it, to cover the evidence of your misdeeds. 

You have to leave. You can’t come back. No one would ever suspect you of killing Namjoon—best friends from childhood, partners through thick and thin—but you can’t stay here.

(You have to run.)

You hold the charm in your hands. Its song had been a comfort, a reminder of Namjoon’s concern and support even when he hadn’t physically been there. But it seems warped and twisted now. Like the hissing of a snake, venomous and treacherous, poisoning someone you love until they were willing to kill you just to—to what? To hold the slither of magic in this scrimshaw etching? 

(How had it corrupted Namjoon while you’d remained unaffected?)

You cast it onto the flames. 

You burn it, this evil thing, stare as white bone turns to black ash, listen as its singing grows quieter and quieter until it falls silent.

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