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pariahofpelicantown · 5 months ago

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The Long Way Home

Pairing: Penny x Male MC

Summary: Connor, a young man burdened by a tumultuous past, inherits his late grandfather's farm and seeks refuge there to escape his troubled history. Amidst the serenity of his new home, he reconnects with Penny, a village girl from his youth and his first love. Their rekindled bond becomes a source of solace and renewal for Connor, offering him a pathway to peace and a sense of belonging.

However, the shadows of his past refuse to fade completely. As Connor grapples with the lingering scars of abuse and seeks forgiveness for his own mistakes, his journey toward healing is fraught with challenges. Yet, through his relationships and friendships with the residents of Pelican Town, and the nurturing environment of the farm, Connor begins to understand the true essence of home—both as a physical place and a sanctuary within himself. With their help, he must learn to navigate the complexities of love, forgiveness, and self-discovery, gradually learning to confront his demons and embrace a future shaped by hope and redemption.

Major TW! (Non con, child abuse, SA, gun violence, drug use, alcoholism, underage sex, gang violence, emotional abuse, abortion) This is in no way safe for work. Minors DNI!)

Chapter Three: Under the Stars

Night had fallen long ago, the sky above Pelican Town was nothing short of a cosmic masterpiece. The stars shimmered like diamonds scattered across an endless velvet canvas, each one twinkling with a unique brilliance. The full moon hung low and luminous, bathing the town in a gentle, silvery glow that made the streets look like they were dipped in liquid light.

The quiet town seemed to hold its breath, savoring the tranquility that only a clear night could bring. The moonlight reflected off the windows of the quaint homes, creating a mosaic of light and shadow that danced across the walls. It was as if each house had its own secret to share, illuminated by the moon’s soft touch.

Overhead, the constellations were displayed in all their glory, crisp and defined against the dark expanse. The Big Dipper pointed the way, while Orion stood tall, his belt shining brightly. Cassiopeia lounged in her celestial chair, her stars forming a delicate W in the sky. Each constellation seemed to tell a story, their patterns etched in the darkness, inviting anyone who gazed up to get lost in the myths and legends of old.

The trees swayed gently in the cool night breeze, their leaves rustling softly like whispers among the shadows. The scent of blooming night flowers filled the air, mingling with the faint aroma of wood smoke from the chimneys. It was a night that seemed to belong to dreams, where every corner of Pelican Town was touched by the magic of the night.

A cat prowled silently along a fence, its eyes glinting in the moonlight. Somewhere in the distance, an owl hooted, its call echoing through the stillness. It was a night that made you believe in the beauty of the universe, a night that whispered of endless possibilities and the simple, profound joy of being alive.

Under the sprawling canopy of night, Penny lay on a blanket that felt like an island of softness amidst the cool, dewy grass. The night sky was a canvas of shimmering stars, each one a distant firefly, but her gaze never left the man on top of her. Connor's presence was magnetic, pulling her into a world where only they existed.

His touch was intoxicating, a slow burn that ignited every nerve ending. His fingers danced over her bare skin, leaving trails of warmth that made her shiver with anticipation. The coolness of the night air was a stark contrast to the heat of his mouth as it moved over her, his lips pressing hot, lingering kisses that left her breathless. Each caress was deliberate, a silent promise of what was to come, sending waves of desire that pooled deep within her.

Penny's pulse raced, her heart pounding in sync with the rhythm of his touch. Her body responded to him with a hunger that was almost primal. The stars above seemed to pulse with a newfound brilliance, their light reflecting the fire that burned between them. She felt a delicious vulnerability under his hands, a surrender that was as thrilling as it was terrifying.

Connor's hands moved with a confidence that spoke of familiarity and longing. He traced the curve of her hip, the dip of her waist, each touch a symphony of sensation. His mouth followed, tasting and teasing, his breath hot against her skin. Penny arched into him, her body a willing canvas for his exploration. Every kiss, every touch was a spark, setting off a chain reaction of pleasure that left her gasping.

Their bodies moved in a dance as old as time, the blanket beneath them a stage for their private ballet. Penny's fingers tangled in Connor's hair, guiding his head to hers, their lips meeting in a kiss that was both tender and fierce. It was a kiss that spoke of longing and desire, of a love that was fierce and consuming. Her hands roamed his body, feeling the taut muscles beneath his skin, the strength that held her so gently.

The cool night air wrapped around them, a stark contrast to the heat they generated. Penny felt a heady mix of desire and surrender, her body attuned to Connor's every move. His touch was a drug, and she was hopelessly addicted, lost in the pleasure he gave so freely. The stars seemed to dance above them, a cosmic celebration of their union.

Penny's breath came in shallow gasps, her body trembling with the intensity of her need. Connor's hands and mouth were everywhere, worshipping her, claiming her. She felt like a goddess under his touch, every kiss a benediction, every caress a declaration. The night seemed to hold its breath, the world outside their blanket island fading into oblivion.

In that moment, Penny and Connor were the universe, their passion a blazing star that outshone everything else. The night sky, with its infinite stars and distant galaxies, was merely a backdrop to the intimate, fiery tableau they created. They were a constellation of desire, a galaxy of love, their bodies entwined in a dance that was both ancient and eternal. And as they moved together, lost in each other, the stars above bore silent witness to their love, a love that burned as fiercely as the brightest star in the sky.

Penny's body trembled as the sensations built within her, the warmth of Connor's touch igniting a fire that spread through her veins. His touch was an exquisite torment, each brush of his fingers a promise of more to come. As his hands and lips continued their relentless exploration, she felt herself teetering on the edge of ecstasy, her breaths coming in ragged gasps.

The world around them seemed to dissolve into a haze of sensation and starlight. The cool night air, the soft caress of the grass beneath the blanket, the distant chorus of nocturnal creatures—all of it faded into the background, leaving only the intoxicating presence of Connor and the delicious tension that coiled within her.

Penny's fingers dug into the fabric of the blanket, her body arching into Connor's touch. Each movement, each kiss, each caress sent shivers of pleasure racing through her. Her heart pounded in her chest, a wild, untamed rhythm that mirrored the frantic beat of desire pulsing within her. The stars above seemed to pulse in time with her breath, their light a celestial echo of the fire that burned between them.

And then, as if a dam had finally broken, she let out a breathless gasp. Waves of pleasure crashed over her, each one more intense than the last, her body arching against his as she succumbed to the overwhelming sensation. It was as if the universe itself had conspired to bring her to this moment, where nothing existed but the two of them and the fervent heat of their passion.

Connor's name was a whispered prayer on her lips as she rode the crest of her climax, her body trembling with the force of it. The stars above seemed to twinkle in time with her breaths, a silent celebration of their love and the ecstasy they shared. In that moment, they were bound together not just by desire, but by something deeper, something timeless and eternal.

As the waves of pleasure slowly receded, Penny felt a deep, abiding contentment settle over her. She gazed up at Connor, her eyes filled with a mixture of love and gratitude. He had taken her to the heights of ecstasy, and in doing so, had brought her closer to him than ever before. The night sky, with its infinite stars, bore silent witness to their union, a testament to the love that burned as fiercely as the brightest star.

In the aftermath, they lay entwined, their bodies still humming with the afterglow of their passion. Penny rested her head on Connor's chest, listening to the steady beat of his heart, a comforting counterpoint to the wild rhythm of their lovemaking. The world around them seemed to hold its breath, the night wrapping them in a cocoon of warmth and serenity.

Beneath the vast expanse of the starlit sky, Penny and Connor found a moment of perfect peace, their souls as intertwined as their bodies. And as they drifted into a contented slumber, the stars above continued to shine, a celestial reminder of the love they shared and the passion that bound them together.

As she descended from the pinnacle of her euphoric high, Penny let out a contented sigh, her body melting into the safety and warmth of Connor's embrace. Every muscle in her body seemed to relax, surrendering to the gentle afterglow of their shared passion. Her heart still raced, a testament to the intensity of their connection, but now it beat with a softer, more tender rhythm.

"That was incredible," she whispered, her voice a hushed reverence, filled with awe and wonder. "I've never felt anything like that before." Each word was a fragile echo of the overwhelming sensations that still lingered in her veins, a tribute to the intimacy they had just shared.

Her chest rose and fell with deep, measured breaths, as if her body was trying to catch up with her heart. The world around them seemed to have fallen into a serene stillness, as if it too was catching its breath, marveling at the beauty of their union. The night, with its symphony of whispers and shadows, wrapped around them like a protective cloak, cocooning them in a moment of pure, undisturbed bliss.

Penny's eyes, still glistening with the remnants of her ecstasy, sought out Connor's. In his gaze, she found a mirror to her own emotions—a blend of gratitude, affection, and an unspoken promise of forever. His eyes were like twin stars, shining with a warmth that bathed her soul in light, making her feel cherished, adored, and profoundly seen.

She reached up, her fingers tracing the contours of his face, memorizing the lines and curves that had become so dear to her. "Thank you," she murmured, her voice trembling with the depth of her emotions. "Thank you for making me feel this way, for bringing me to life in a way I never thought possible."

She was not simply talking about the sex and they both knew it. Somehow in the combined chaos of their lives they had found each other, each giving the other a slice of happiness and belonging they had been missing.

Connor's arms tightened around her, pulling her even closer, as if he could merge their hearts into one. He leaned down, pressing a tender kiss to her forehead, a silent vow of his love and devotion. "Penny," he whispered against her skin, the sound of her name like a prayer on his lips. "You are my everything. Seeing you like this, feeling you like this—it’s all I ever wanted."

Their breaths mingled in the cool night air, creating a small, shared world where only they existed. The stars above, once distant and aloof, now seemed to hover closer, their light a gentle caress that kept the darkness at bay. It was as if the universe itself had conspired to bring them together, to weave their fates into a tapestry of love and desire that would endure beyond time.

In the quiet aftermath of their passion, Penny and Connor lay entwined, their bodies a perfect fit, their souls bound by an unbreakable thread. And as the seconds turned to minutes, they remained there, wrapped in the magic of the moment, knowing that they had found something rare and precious—a love that burned brighter than the stars, a connection that would guide them through any storm.

And so, beneath the canopy of the night, they held each other close, their hearts beating in perfect harmony, their love a beacon that would light their way through all the days to come.

Finally Penny, her face flushed with the lingering warmth of their shared ecstasy, adjusted herself to straddle Connor, her body still humming with the aftershocks of pleasure. The soft moonlight cast a silvery glow over them, accentuating the delicate sheen of sweat that adorned her skin, making her seem almost ethereal.

Her hands moved with a languid grace, tracing the firm, defined planes of his chest, each caress a testament to the deep connection they shared. The feel of his heartbeat beneath her fingertips was a steady reminder of the life and passion that pulsed between them. With every touch, she could feel the electricity of their desire reigniting, a relentless flame that refused to be quenched.

She gazed down at him with a sultry smile, her eyes darkened with a heady mix of affection and unrestrained desire. "I want to make you feel as good as you made me feel," she murmured, her voice a seductive whisper that seemed to wrap around him like a silken thread. Her hips moved slightly, a teasing, tantalizing rhythm that sent shivers of anticipation through both of them.

"It's only fair, don’t you think?" she added, her words dripping with promise and intent. Her movements were slow, deliberate, each slight shift of her body designed to drive him wild, to make him crave her touch even more.

Connor's breath hitched, his eyes locking onto hers, the intensity of his gaze reflecting the storm of emotions swirling within him. He reached up, his hands sliding up her thighs, gripping her hips with a possessive tenderness that made her heart race. "Fuck," he breathed, his voice rough with desire, "you look so good like this."

His hands moved with a mind of their own, exploring the contours of her body, each touch a reverent worship of her form. He could feel her shiver under his touch, her skin responding to his every caress, a silent plea for more.

Penny leaned down, her lips brushing against his in a kiss that was both gentle and fierce, a mingling of their breath, a fusion of their souls. She could feel his need, his want, matching her own, a perfect harmony of longing and love.

She pulled back slightly, her lips hovering just above his, her breath mingling with his in the cool night air. "I want to make you feel everything," she whispered, her voice a soft promise. "Every touch, every kiss, every moment."

With that, she began to move, her body a symphony of grace and desire, each motion designed to bring them closer, to deepen their connection. Connor's hands roamed her back, guiding her, encouraging her, his own desire a palpable force that matched her own. She groaned as he thrust up into her, stretching her in a way they had never experienced before. Pain and pleasure coursed through her, a thin sheen of sweat coating her body.

Together, they moved in perfect synchrony, a dance of passion and love, their bodies and souls intertwined in a moment that transcended the physical. Every touch, every kiss, every whispered word was a testament to the bond they shared, a love that burned brighter than the stars, a connection that would carry them through anything.

As the night stretched on, they lost themselves in each other, their love a beacon that guided their way, a promise of forever that would never fade. And in the quiet aftermath, as they lay entwined in each other's arms, they knew that they had found something rare and precious—a love that was as deep as the ocean, as enduring as the stars, and as powerful as the force that had brought them together.

As their passion surged to its peak, Connor felt an intense wave of pleasure crash over him, his release finding its home deep within her. In the electrifying heat of the moment, neither of them spared a thought for the consequences, their bodies still entangled in a fervent embrace, slick with sweat and desire.

Their breaths mingled in a heady mix of gasps and moans, the night air filled with the raw sounds of their ecstasy. Every touch, every kiss, was a testament to the fire that burned between them, an inferno of lust and love that consumed everything in its path. The world around them might as well have been a distant memory, eclipsed by the sheer intensity of their connection.

As they lay there, their bodies still humming from the aftershocks of their climax, a sense of satisfaction and contentment settled over them. The future, with all its potential twists and turns, was a thought for another time. Right now, there was only the present, the warmth of each other's skin, and the undeniable chemistry that had brought them together.

In the soft afterglow, they held each other close, their hearts beating in a synchronized rhythm. It was in these moments of raw, unfiltered emotion that they truly understood the depth of their bond. Their love was more than just physical; it was an all-encompassing force that left them breathless and craving more. And as they drifted into a blissful slumber, wrapped in the warmth of their shared passion, they knew they had found something rare and beautiful.

As Penny thought back to that night under the stars, a whirlwind of emotions washed over her, a torrent of memories that seemed to dance on the edge of bittersweet. The passion that had ignited between them, the joy that had enveloped their hearts—these moments now felt like distant echoes of a love that had once burned so fiercely.

The stars had been their silent witnesses, twinkling down on them as they lay entwined, lost in each other. That night had been their sanctuary, a fleeting escape from the world that seemed to conspire against them. Their laughter had filled the air, mingling with the soft rustle of the leaves and the gentle hum of the night. It was a moment suspended in time, where nothing else mattered but the two of them.

Penny sighed, returning to the present as reality began to seep back in, harsh and unforgiving. Penny now realized, with a heavy heart, that it had been the last night they would ever spend together. The love that had once felt so invincible had been tested and tried, and in the end, their lives had taken paths that led them away from each other.

In the years that followed, so much had changed. They had grown, evolved, and found other paths to take. Yet, that night beneath the starry sky remained etched in her memory, a beautiful yet painful reminder of what had been. It was the beginning of the end, the final chapter of a love story that had been as bright and beautiful as it was destined to fade.

Penny sighed, feeling the familiar ache of longing and loss. Sometimes, she wished she could go back, rewrite their fate, and hold onto that fleeting happiness a little longer. But deep down, she knew that some loves are meant to be fleeting, like shooting stars that blaze across the sky, leaving behind a trail of light before disappearing into the night.

Penny never knew where he went or what he was doing after that night beneath the stars. His absence became a haunting shadow in her life, and she often found herself wondering about the paths he had taken, the dreams he might be chasing. The uncertainty gnawed at her, a constant companion to her thoughts.

She struggled with the idea of him coming back, torn between the hope of rekindling their lost love and the fear of reopening wounds that had never truly healed. There were moments, late at night, when she would place a hand on her empty belly, remembering the secret she had carried alone—a fleeting life that had been a silent testament to their brief but passionate connection. That silent loss had added another layer to her sorrow, a private pain that made the thought of seeing him again both a yearning and a dread.

As evening settled in, Penny found herself in her dimly lit, run-down room, the weight of past memories pressing down on her heavily. With a graceful motion, she turned off the lamp, its dim light surrendering to the growing darkness. The room, with its peeling wallpaper and creaky floorboards, seemed to echo her loneliness, shadows wrapping around her like an old, familiar shroud.

She sank onto the worn-out bed, the sagging mattress protesting under her slight weight. Pulling the thin blanket up to her chin, she turned towards the wall, where the paint had chipped away, revealing layers of forgotten years. Her thoughts drifted to him, the man who had once filled her heart with dreams and her nights with tender whispers. The man who had left her with unspoken questions and a hollow ache she couldn't quite define.

As her eyes closed, the room fell into a deep silence, interrupted only by the distant hum of the city outside and the faint creak of the old house settling in. She let out a soft sigh, a sound that seemed to confirm her solitude. The darkness enveloped her, and for a brief moment, she allowed herself to imagine a different life, a different ending to their story. But reality, harsh and unyielding, pulled her back, and she gave in to the embrace of sleep, yearning for dreams where she might find some semblance of peace.

The night ended with the gentle rustle of the blanket and the quiet, rhythmic breaths of a woman who had loved deeply, lost profoundly, and continued to endure.

#stardew valley farmer #stardew valley #stardew valley penny #penny x male farmer #penny x mc #penny x farmer

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vt-scribbles · 1 year ago

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Learn about me! Tagged by Cosmic-cat ;3

Favorite Song: now that's just not fair to ask gHSDKGHSDKG. UHHH. Half of Set It Off's discography. But if you REALLY made me pick, uhhhh. Masterpiece Theatre III, or Kings and Queens. Also really fond of Clarity, Numb Little Bug, The Walk, and Listen to the Storm rn

Favorite Color: Ouuugh Maroon. But my old fave is Cerulean, specifically the kind of cerulean you got from a crayola crayon. Nothing can quite capture the multiple tones to that color. ALSO now that I'm not a coward, I've come to appreciate pink a lot.

Currently Watching: The Great Pretender, Legend of Korra, and just got done re-watching all of Amphibia and Avatar! Been on a cartoon kick lately to study story stuff and catch up on things I've never seen.~

Last movie you watched: I believe it was Sea Beast? Good stuff, woulda been obsessed as a teen LMAO

Spicy, sweet or savory?: Savory! But little a spicy now and then is good as a treat. [Recently made some home made udon ramen and ouuuugh that shit SLAPS with some chili crisp oil put in]

Relationship status: Happily in a QP poly relationship with my girlfriend Corrie and my friend Razz <3

Current obsession: Stone Story RPG if that counts, but other than that just really into Scrivener and organizing my stories into it, it's been so satisfying

Last thing i googled: Uhhhhhhh. Untraceable poisons for knowledge my horror-author character would probably have LMAOOOO

#Not gonna tag anyone but do this if you see it and wanna <3

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the-hornedwitch · 7 days ago

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I see Fire and Last Shadow

My Ego is a Dragon.

Not just ANY Dragon, no. She is Smaug, the large Red Dragon that guards her horde of shiny treasures in the wondrous caves of her misty mountain. Her scales gleam like fresh-spilled blood in torchlight, each one a mirror reflecting back the grandeur she demands to see. Ready to devour any man, dwarf, or hobbit that dares to enter without permission, her breath carrying the acrid stench of brimstone and ancient grudges. Much like Bilbo Baggins, I (My soul and Higher Self) must choose my words carefully when dealing with The Mighty Red Dragon that is my Ego. Like any Dragon, she loves to hear all about how great and powerful she is, preening under praise like a cat in sunlight. Like any Dragon, she LOVES to showcase her shiny, pretty treasure – golden memories of triumph, jeweled moments of pride, precious coins of accomplishment that clink and shine in her vast treasury of self. Just don't touch, Human.

My dance with Ego has left me burnt to a crisp more times than I can count, my spiritual skin blistered and peeling from her heated reactions. She does not care nor like it when we are challenged, and she will burn down villages to prove her point, leaving the acrid smoke of destroyed relationships curling in her wake. Consequences be damned. Yet, like Smaug, she is brought down by the swift and precise arrow of a humble and valiant side of myself, that one small chink in her armor where truth penetrates pride. Plummeting into fiery glory, she will often arise in a much calmer state, her flames banked to gentle embers. Going back to her cave of shinies, and playing only when it is time, content to curl around her hoard like a massive cat. Only when I allow, but like any Dragon, she can be unpredictable. She will leave her cave to stretch her wings from time to time, and the Shadow she casts can be frightening in of itself, a darkness that swallows the sun.

Shadow is The World Eater. Much like Alduin, The Great Black Dragon, she will bring down all that is and leave nothing, her scales the void between stars, her wings the darkness between galaxies. Devouring all that is light in her massive dark cosmic jaws, teeth like black holes from which no illumination escapes. Much like Alduin, she isn't seen as a positive. She is often seen as something to be stopped, something that cannot be realized, a force of entropy wearing scales of midnight. For she will bring down all that is, in her rage and vindication, her disdain for humanity evident in how she whispers and lulls about how weak and debased they are, her voice the sound of caves collapsing and mountains crumbling. I must keep Alduin at bay, I cannot kill her, nor would I want to. I find the beauty in her obsidian splendor, in her terrible perfection. It has been difficult at times, as I have faced down all her rage and fire, feeling the earth shake beneath her thunderous footfalls. Yol Toor Shul, indeed.

Much like the Caduceus of the chakras, my Dragons intertwine, a double helix of fire and shadow, their scales scraping against each other in an eternal dance. Encasing all that is me and my soul between them, a cocoon of contradictory forces. Both protective and suffocating, like being wrapped in a blanket of steel wool. Ego and Shadow serve a purpose, they aren't meant to be ignored or shamed. When you build a healthy relationship with both, you discover how effective your life can become, like a sword tempered between flame and darkness. How much easier it is to walk through this Nightmare that is existence, with grace and dignity, balanced between opposing forces.

I used to HATE Ego and Shadow, blaming them for a lot of things that went "wrong" in my life, casting them as villains in my personal mythology. It is not their fault, they are simply being what they are, as natural as gravity or time. It is my responsibility as a sovereign being to engage, deprogram, soothe, and set boundaries with these aspects of my being, like training wild creatures to hunt alongside me rather than prey upon me. It is in my best interest. I am responsible for balancing my own Flame and Shadow, walking the razor's edge between pride and despair. This isn't always easy, and I must trust in My Knowing. My Intuition.

My Knowing is a White Dragon, not just any White Dragon. She is a Luck Dragon, her scales like pearls in moonlight, her presence as soft as morning mist and as powerful as a glacier's flow. She saves me from The Swamps of Sadness, her luminescence piercing the grey fog of despair. Carries me to The Southern Oracle, her wings leaving trails of stardust in their wake, and teaches me to Use My Auryn. Like Atreyu gripping the sacred medallion for guidance, I press my hand to my heart - where wisdom lives in the body, where intuition speaks in pulses and warmth. The Auryn swings like a pendulum in the space between certainty and doubt, always pointing true north when I quiet my mind enough to listen. Her wisdom is as ancient as the first dawn, flowing through my fingertips like starlight whenever I reach for that heart-connection. I Love my White Dragon. She helps me maintain Vibration, Dignity, and Valor, her very breath a song of harmony. She eases the raging Fire burning deep within My Red Dragon, and shines a gentle soothing Light onto My Black Dragon, her radiance not burning away the darkness but dancing with it, creating something new and beautiful.

She is My Luck Dragon, fortune made flesh and scale.

She is My Source, the wellspring from which all possibilities flow.

When I am lost in the vastness of existence, my hand finds my heart, and there She is - my White Dragon, my Auryn, my compass pointing always toward truth.

#Ego #Shadow #left hand path #witchcraft #spritualgrowth #spiritual awakening #the great awakening #infp personality #intution #guide #reiki #reiki practitioner #dragon energy

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transguygardner · 3 years ago

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guylobo week 2022

day 2: pets

guy vs the space dolphins

lobo vs guy’s cats over the years (they love him)

#guyloboweek #guy gardner #lobo #guylobo #guylobo week #space dolphins #warehouse the cat #kat the cat #cosmic crisp the cat #my art

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boombox-fuckboy · 3 years ago

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Hi! Weird ask: but do you have any podcast recs where the voices are mainly British ? (Including Irish and Scottish). I know it’s silly but I like to have podcasts on in the background and I find American voices too distracting. I really like wooden overcoats , Magnus archives and the beef and dairy network. Thanks 😊

I do! Here's 20 podcasts from around the UK and Ireland that I've quite enjoyed:

The Amelia Project: Comedy. The Amelia Project is a secret organisation, highly specialised in faking people's deaths! A new client each episode, with their own wacky backstories, followed by the client and interviewer planning how to fake the death. Very funny and never a dull moment.

The Antique Shop: Urban Fantasy. Maya, a university student in desperate need of work, finds a part-time job at an old antique shop under the eye of the enigmatic Madam Norna and surrounded with items far from mundane. A new customer every episode, and a new item each time, every one as strange and interesting as the last.

I Am In Eskew: Horror. Tales from a man living in something which desperately wants to be a city, and from an investigator who was, in her words, hired to kill a ghost. Told with gentle voices and unending rain. Some of the most creative horror I've encountered, and I really enjoy the writing style too.

The Lost Cat Podcast: Horror (Cosmic, Soft), Weird Fiction(?). A man loses parts of himself, befriends strange entities, and drinks an awful lot of wine as he searches for his missing cat. Fun horror which values kindness and connection, with great writing which has always stuck with me but is also just the right amount of cliché to be very satisfying in the moment.

Lost Terminal: Sci-fi, Hopepunk. Gentle podcast about a lonely AI living in a space station as he contemplates life, learns more about the world around him, and makes friends. Really charming, great music, takes a respectful look into mental health (including anxiety, depression, ocd, did, loneliness) and talks about all kinds of fun topics like radio, D&D, orbital mechanics, and plants. Big favourite of mine.

Maps of the Lost: Supernatural, New Weird(?), Urban Fantasy, Light Horror. A guidebook style podcast to the strange happenings, people, places, and creatures around the UK. A few of these per episode in an almost microfiction format, all really fun and creative, and read in a wonderfully soothing voice.

Middle:Below: Supernatural, Mystery, Adventure, Comedy & Horror Elements. Ghost adventures! Humans Taylor and Heather, Gil the Ghost, and occasionally Sans the Cat travel to the Below, the land of ghosts, to solve mysteries and to help or contain the spirits that live there. This one makes me feel a bit like a kid again, it's very fun and has really crisp audio.

Modem Prometheus: Urban Fantasy, (Horror?). From the same team as Lost Terminal, this is a newer podcast featuring 'modern folktales', stories which feel like myths but are set in the city in the modern day. Each one tells it's own story, but in a shared world established by subtle consistant elements and sneaky references to the other tales. Good audio, music, writing, and I like the narrator's voice.

Monstrous Agonies: Supernatural. "Agony Aunt" radio show (where listeners can write in with their problems and receive advice), but for the supernatural in a modern world where humans, former humans, and people who were never human, live together. Featuring one of the most soothing voices in audio drama, really well written, supportive, full of fantastic advice, and very queer. Another big favourite of mine.

Murray Mysteries: Comedy, Supernatural. A queer, comedic, modern, and delightfully faithful adaptation of Dracula. Taking the form of Mina's podcast, I really enjoy how it's subtley altered the characters to fit a modern setting.

Neighbourly: Horror, Supernatural, (New Weird?), Some Sci-Fi Elements. Welcome to Little Street, where behind each door lives one or more residents with their own strange lives and curious secrets. Narrator has a great voice and you can never be quite sure what flavour of strangeness you'll be in for.

The Orphans: Sci-Fi, Thriller, (Horror?): While I could spoil this podcast and it'd still be great, I'm not going to. I will say it's a very well made, far future sci-fi featuring AI, unethical science, quality worldbuilding, heart-crushing tragedies, and a dash of political intrigue.

The Petrol Station: Horror. A short podcast featuring stories of the weird encounters of a petrol station attendant living in an isolated British village. If you enjoyed TMA, you'll probably like this a lot as well, it's very well written and I have all my fingers crossed for new episodes.

The Secret of St Kilda: Mystery? Thriller-ish? Cult Horror? Unsure. Podcast about a former conman who moves to the mysterious island of St Kilda, fleeing his past and into the arms of the strange island cult, who both think they need him, and deeply distrust him.

Spirit Box Radio: Supernatural, Mystery, Horror Elements. After the famous and supposedly powerful radio psychic Madam Marie goes missing, her enthusiastic young assistant takes over in her place. The first, but certainly not only, problem is he's never had much talent for the arcane before... Not that he can remember learning much to begin with, anyway.

Tartarus: Horror, Sci-Fi. An astrobiologist gets a job at a research facility in Antarctica which isn't quite what she'd expected. Along with the tearse station manager, and facility AI, she finds herself now responsible for protecting humanity from the monsters contained within. Really new but full of promise, looking forward to seeing where it goes.

The Tower: New Weird? Magical Realism? Idk. Short, meditative podcast about a young woman who decides to climb a seemingly endless tower. Modern setting with it's own delightful ancient lore. Fantastic music, quality soundwork, strange, reflective and enchanting. By the same folks as Middle:Below (Above).

VAST Horizon: Sci-Fi (space), Horror, Thriller(?). An agronomist tasked with kickstarting agriculture on a new world wakes on the ship before they arrive, to discover something has gone horribly wrong. The ship is adrift and riddled with issues, and nobody but the malfuctioning AI is left aboard... Right? She must do her best to save the ship and herself, and work out what happened. Stellar piece of audio by Fool & Scholar, who also do arctic horror podcast The White Vault, which has a very international cast and also highly recommended.

Victoriocity: Mystery, Adventure, Steampunk, Comedy. In an alternate steampunk 1887 London, an inspector and a journalist team up to solve a bizzare mystery, possibly even a conspiracy. Full cast, great sound design, full of wacky characters.

We Fix Space Junk: Sci-fi, Comedy, Adventure. An interstellar repairwoman, her AI best friend, and their brand new fugitive socialite assistant travel the stars to complete various tasks at the behest of the evil monolith of a company they are in debt to. A new job every episode, full cast, crisp audio and sound design.

I hope you can find one here which appeals to you!

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sirius-archive · 5 years ago

Text

Heatwave (The Mandalorian x Reader) SMUT

Pairing: The Mandalorian x Reader

Warnings: Swearing, rough sex, light choking, dom/sub (Mandalorian dom, Reader sub)

Word count: 🤷🏽‍♀️

Summary: You’re a thief with sexy fire powers. He’s a sexy bounty hunter who you’ve been playing cat and mouse with. When he catches you, Baby Yoda decides to play match-maker. It works. For once.

A/N: I found this baby after scrolling through my notes and had to post it. I wrote this when I was drunk so forgive the spelling errors. Baby Yoda is literally that one criminal dude from tangled (I think?) who bangs the two tiny wooden horses together. lol.

Also, am I wrong in saying that I think everyone wants to fuck the Mandalorian in his sexy Mandalorian armour?

(Not my gif)

***

You can’t deny that there’s something sexy about being handcuffed and taken prisoner by the Mandalorian.

While inconvenient to say the least, there’s still an undercurrent of sexual tension that demands to be felt, charging the air between the two of you as he straps you into the seat beside him. It’s why he always chases you, why you always allow yourself to get caught, and why he lets you escape into the night. It’s the longest, most amusing, most sexy game of chess you’ve ever played.

“Every time you handcuff me, I always imagine it in an entirely different context,” you purr, smirking up at him as he tightens your handcuffs.

As usual, he doesn’t say anything at first. Its becoming all too predictable.

The fancy, expensive, definitely-not-a-sex-toy handcuffs dig into the skin of your wrists, though not enough to make it arousing. He’s done it deliberately; he’s surmised you like it rough from your previous encounters with him. It’s a type of torture he’s managed to master exceedingly well. Which is arousing in itself. What a paradox the two of you are.

“Jokes on you, y’know,” you tease, tilting your head up at him, “I’m very much into the idea of you torturing me.”

“Be careful what you wish for,” he warns, his voice tinny and deliciously husky.

“So he speaks.”

The Mandalorian remains silent, though you can somehow tell he’s glaring at you from behind his helmet.

“You’re not the first Mandalorian to come after me,” you say as he kneels to bind your ankles, “And you won’t be the last. I’ve killed your predecessors and I won’t hesitate to kill whoever they decide to send after you. You’re lucky I’m into you otherwise I’d have my legs around your neck right now — and not in a good way.”

The Mandalorian is silent at first. Then, when you think he isn’t going to grace you with a response—

“So you’re just going to keep running? What kind of life is that?”

You chew your bottom lip, considering his question thoughtfully, “It’s a life and it’s far better than the alternative.”

The Mandalorian rises, straightens the broad line of his shoulders, “Is it really a life? If you can’t settle down to enjoy it?”

You gracefully arch an eyebrow at him, “Wouldn’t you like to know, Mandalorian.”

He doesn’t say anything after that.

****

The strange, tiny child gazes up at you with large, innocent inky-black eyes and blinks owlishly.

He’s managed to scramble into your lap, blocking your means of escape while the Mandalorian hastily fixes the engine of his ship. You can’t help but smile at his innocence, contrasting the weight of your criminal ways.

Regardless, you focus on funnelling the spluttering ball of energy in your core to your ankle cuffs. The heated metal bites into your skin as it begins to glow bright orange, but you can take it. You’re one of the last Phoenixs — or Nixes, for short — in the universe; cosmic fire and heat is what you are, what you’re made of.

The child, however, doesn’t seem afraid of the heat rising from your skin, turning your hair a bright, fiery red.

“Look, little guy — or girl — I need you to get off my lap so I can bust out of here!” You hiss, imploringly, “My distraction will only last so lo—“

The Mandalorian’s heavy footsteps echo into the cockpit of his ship. You immediately stop melting the metal, allowing your natural hair colour to bleed over the reds and oranges, disguising your true heritage.

He stops, spotting the child now stroking your hair.

“He’s cute,” you remark, beaming down at the child, “Didn’t realise you had a kid.”

The Mandalorian marches forward and snatches the child from your lap. He cradles him protectively, eying you with what you suspect is suspicion as he safely places the child on the far side of the room.

“Don’t touch him.”

“He was touching me first.”

“I don’t care, don’t touch him.”

“My god, you’d think I’m infected with some hideous, flesh-eating disease.”

“No, you’re a criminal—“

“—Thief—“

“—you’re a criminal and I don’t trust you.”

Something about that stings. Your expression shutters, schooling into apathy.

“So why keep me around?” You ask, coolly, “Why don’t you just carbon freeze me?”

You have a feeling you know the answer. He doesn’t carbon freeze you for the same reason why he doesn’t bother stopping you as you escape the slippery clutches of the ego-bruised men you’ve stolen from. It’s the same reason you haven’t burned him to a crisp as soon as you’ve seen him, the same reason you allow him to drag you back to his ship, cash you in for his bounty, and disappear.

There’s tension, but it’s more than tension. It’s something you can’t articulate because you’ve never quite felt it before. You doubt he has either.

The Mandalorian doesn’t answer. He seems to be staring down at the ankle cuffs, the metal twisted and deformed from where you’ve been heating it. He steps forward—

Suddenly, an invisible force loop around your waist and hoists you up, pulling you toward The Mandalorian. His arms are forced around your waist in jerky movements almost like an invisible puppeteer is pushing and plucking the strings. His helmet is yanked up over his neck, past his chin, stopping just above his nose, revealing plush lips and stubble and—

Your lips are forced together in the most awkward kiss you’ve ever had.

Both of you have your lips pressed tight, and the Mandalorian is rigid and tense, unsure of what to do. Still, energy blinks to life inside of you and you open your mouth just a little, embracing the kiss.

It lingers. It’s still awkward.

But then, he begins to kiss you back, his lips moving slightly, carefully, enough to taste hints of fine whiskey and your head begins to spin, embers sparking your lower belly, travelling up your spine, across your chest, down your arms—

It ends all too soon.

“Stop it, let us go,” The Mandalorian orders over his shoulder. You allow your eyes to follow his line of sight, snagging on the kid.

His tiny, pudgy hand is raised, his round eyes closed and you realise with a shock that he’s controlling you, bending the air around you both and forcing you into this kiss.

At the sound of his voice, the child stops, releasing his hold on you. He staggers a little, exhaustion seemingly crashing over him, dragging him under into unconsciousness. He collapses and the Mandalorian rushes forward to catch him, holding the child to his chest.

The Mandalorian disappears for a moment, giving you time to recover from your bewilderment. You’ve never seen anything quite like that before, and you’ve seen a lot of things. You have a feeling that in your past life, you may have witnessed a similar phenomenon, but you’re not giving enough time to dwell on it, however, because the Mandalorian comes storming back.

“So, you gonna tell me what that was all about?”

The Mandalorian ignores you, hunting around the cockpit for something.

“You’re not going to make me beg, are you?”

The Mandalorian stops, slants a look over his shoulder, “Maybe I will.”

You roll your eyes, “Please, Mando. Please tell me what the fuck just happened.”

The Mandalorian grasps a black bandage and whips it, stalking toward you, “Not what I meant.”

“What—?”

“—I’m sick of chasing you,” he growls, manoeuvring you around so he can fasten the bandage around your head; a makeshift blindfold, “It’s time you got what you deserve.”

Your stomach curdles, blood roaring in your ears. Carbon freezing. Your worst fear. You try to swallow, but it gets knotted somewhere in your throat.

“Kinky,” you rasp, trying your best to recover your slipping facade, “I hope my punishment involves whips and chains.”

The Mandalorians voice is in the shell of your ear, Mississippi hot and molasses thick, “Oh, you have no idea.”

Suddenly, he spins you around, and you barely have time to recover from the whiplash before his lips are on yours.

He’s ferocious, unforgiving. Just the way you like it.

He kisses you with a fiery passion, tongue darting into your mouth, tasting, teasing, his teeth digging into your bottom lip hard enough to draw blood. You moan, arching against him, wishing he’d free you so you could tug him closer but the Mandalorian keeps you bound and at his mercy.

You pull away, panting, as the Mandalorian trails kisses down your neck, sucking and biting and bruising the tender flesh. He’s obviously taken his helmet off while you were blindfolded. Curiosity strikes you but is dissolved when he finds the spot on your neck that makes you gasp.

“If—if I had known this would happen, I would’ve allowed myself to get caught a lot sooner,” you tease, a little breathlessly.

The Mandalorians fingers grasp your waist, pulling you closer, gripping you with bruising strength that dampens your panties. He chuckles against your skin, breath hot, tongue wet as he licks along your jugular.

“God I hate that mouth of yours,” he breathes, scraping his teeth across your skin, “It gets you into so much trouble.”

“It’s good for other things, too.”

“I’ll be the judge of that,” he grasps your waist with strong hands and spins you around, breath fanning across the back of your neck.

Your spine shudders and melts. He makes quick work of your clothes, starting with your sleeveless turtleneck top. He pulls it over your head and tosses it aside and unclasping your bra. With one hand pawing at your breast, he uses the other to tug on the zip of your skirt, pulling it down until the fabric pools at your feet. He helps you out of your thigh-high boots and undoes the holsters strapped to your thigh. Next, he uncuffs your wrists and ankles until you’re wearing nothing but skin. His breath audibly tangles in his throat.

You snicker, biting your bottom lip, “My, my. Have I rendered the great Mandalorian speechless?”

A sharp stab of pain ripples across your ass cheek, followed by the rough ministrations of a strong, calloused hand. You gasp, relishing in the sting of pain and burst of arousal.

You moan. Your darkest fantasies have spilt from your daydreams and splashed themselves against the backdrop of reality. Finally, after three years of chasing and catching, the sexual tension sizzling between the two of you is resolved.

He steals the breath from your lungs as he kisses you deeply, your moans melting on his tongue. His fingers grip your breasts and you gasp, head lulling back as he rolls them in the palm of his hands.

“God,” you sigh, “You’re good at this.”

Suddenly, his lips are biting into your nipple and you arch into his mouth, fingers combing through his hair as he slurps and sucks on your nipple. Your thighs quiver as you tug on the roots of his hair and he groans. You can feel him poking into your thigh and your excitement builds quickly, your fingers pulling at his cape.

He steps away from your grasp with a low, drawling chuckle, rich with husk and desire and pure sex appeal.

“I’m in control,” he snarls, “You obey me. You hear?”

“Yes, master,” you whimper, skin crawling.

“Good.”

You hear the rasping of fabric and the whirr of zipper teeth being pulled apart. His footsteps, heavy with purpose, move around you; there's a clang of metal and then he’s behind you again, loosening your blindfold until it falls away.

The Mandalorian whirls you around, pushing you up against the control board. He’s still fully clothed and his helmet is now fixed onto his neck and while you had been curious about the face that hides behind that helmet, you can’t deny that the thought of him fucking you in his bounty armour is unbelievably sexy.

The only thing that’s missing is — of course — the codpiece. Your shiver completely rattles your entire frame, anticipation bubbling deliciously in your veins.

The Mandalorian steps forward and reaches into his pants, pulling out his cock.

You salivate.

He’s...huge. Probably the biggest and thickest cock you’ve seen (and you’ve seen a lot in your lifetime — part of the job). It makes you wonder how he jams that beast into his pants without damaging something. You slide your tongue over your lips as you watch him stroke himself, smearing precum over the bulging, purple helmet.

“Touch yourself.”

You obey, spreading your legs far apart so he can watch your fingers dance. Behind his mask, you can feel his eyes smouldering as you tease your clit, rubbing the pearl of nerves with your index and middle finger. You moan, tossing your head back, building up quite the rhythm while the Mandalorian watches.

You startled slightly when the Mandalorian runs his hands over your smooth thighs, mapping you out with his fingers. He’s gentle, appreciating the warmth of your skin, how you glow with desire and emit a natural, golden aura common among Nixes.

“It’s been a while since...” he trails off, shaking his head.

With a sudden burst of strength, he grips your legs and hoists them around his waist. And, impatiently, unceremoniously, he slides inside of you.

“Fuck,” you curse, gripping his broad shoulders.

Moans spill into the air as the Mandalorian begins to move, rolling his hips against you. The cool metal of his armour shocks your hot skin but the contrast of steaming heat and icy cold makes your eyes roll back and your heart hammer impossibly fast.

“Yes, yes, oh Jesus yes!”

The Mandalorian’s pace begins to build as he slams into you. He’s rough and unapologetic and reaching depths inside of you that you didn’t know existed. He pounded with frenzied, sharp movements, his hand snaking up your side to your neck where his fingers hugged and tightened. His other hand stays secured on your hip, bruised already starting to form from where his grip burns into you.

Your fingers skim across your damp skin, trailing down to your clit where your fingers circle and pinch. The Mandalorian — silent until now — groans as he watches you, his pace speeding up ruthlessly.

“I’m close,” he grunts, giving your neck a squeeze.

“So am I,” you hiss, locking your legs around him.

The friction of his armour against your hot skin, the pressure of his strong hand gripping your begging neck, his cock ploughing into you with incredible strength; it’s an overwhelming indulgence to the senses and you feel your hot core begin to glow, crackling with cosmic energy.

The air, thick with sex and insatiable heat, shimmers and ignites with tiny tongues of fire like hovering fireflies. The Mandalorian hasn’t noticed yet, but it doesn’t take him long until he does.

“(Y/N)––“

He’s cut off by the cry that issues from your swollen lips. Your pussy clenches and quivers around his cock as you tumble over the edge, crashing into a release that completely drowns your body in mind-numbing pleasure. The Mandalorian is right behind you, grinding out pieces of your name as he meets his own release.

Panting, you sit up and he rests his head on your shoulder. Around you, the small flames have exploded into tiny fireworks, lighting up the air with vibrant light.

You slide off the control board, climb back into your clothes and pull on your boot. You reach for the other boot but the Mandalorian grabs it first, kneeling to slide the boot onto your foot. You watch, mesmerised, as he pulls the inner zip up your leg and along your thigh.

Moments later, the electronic doors to the cockpit slide open and the child waddles forward, gazing innocently up at you. You step forward and give the Mandalorian a questioning look. He nods.

You bend down and scoop the child into your arms and he snuggles against your chest.

“I really love this kid,” you murmur, beaming down at him.

“Yeah, he’s alright,” The Mandalorian shrugs, approaching you so he can tug at the child’s cloak. He pulls it over the child’s face, keeping his neck warm.

“We have to name him,” you decide, “I can’t keep referring to him as the kid.”

You say it like you’re staying with them, trapesing across the universe together.

The Mandalorian, however, doesn’t disagree.

The handcuffs and ankle cuffs stay in their place on the floor.

#the mandalorian #star wars #the mandalorian x reader #the mandalorian x you #baby yoda #the mandalorian smut #the mandalorian fluff #the mandalorian imagines #smut #star wars imagine #mandalorian #dad!mandalorian #dom/sub #the mandalorian x y/n #the mandalorian spoilers #star wars smut #star wars fluff #georgie writes

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ombreblossom · 4 years ago

Note

Whatever you do don’t open your eyes” for the prompt!

So, I’m not entirely sure what one says before posting fanfiction on Tumblr, but here we go! This is decidedly not horror at all, but uh. Maybe more fitting for something posted on the eve of Act 3, which will inevitably destroy us all.

I’ve never posted fanfiction before, and this is the single longest creative work I’ve ever written, fanfiction or not. Not to mention I haven’t written anything creative, really, in almost a decade. All this said, I hope you enjoy!

The Ins and Outs of Surprises

Content warnings for panic attacks, dissociation, and tooth-rotting fluff.

Summary: In which Jon has a little bit of a rough time with knocking and then goes on to have an unquestionably fluffy evening. Featuring: kitties, the author projecting mightily onto Jonathan “Jon” Sims | The Archivist (as is tradition), good-natured teasing of everyone involved, and loads (and I mean loads) of affection.

(An AO3 link will be added to a reblog.)

Jon whipped his head up from his laptop screen at the loud knocking on their front door. This was a situation in which The Beholding would have unhelpfully supplied information about acute tachycardia and panic attack onset signs—if he and Martin hadn’t averted the apocalypse and banished the fears, at any rate. They could scarcely believe their luck some days, could scarcely believe that they’d both managed to live to see an after, to see time march on once more unperturbed by cosmic terrors.

These days, Jon had to recognize the symptoms of an imminent panic attack and allay them himself. Well, Martin helped, kind and loving soul that he was. That Martin had stuck around after they’d ceased being two of a handful of fully conscious people left in the entire world was another thing Jon couldn’t believe sometimes, but he couldn’t be happier that he did.

The knocking continued to barge in on his thoughts every several seconds as he sat stock still at his desk, flanked on both sides by bookshelves filled to the brim of his and Martin’s books and various knick-knacks: Polaroids of the two of them with their friends leaned up against the spines of their books, souvenirs purchased from museums around London, and a collection of small ceramic cats of different breeds and colors. A brief vision of everything on those shelves coming tumbling down in what is solidifying as an inevitable scuffle ratcheted up Jon’s anxiety even more.

He was tempted to get up and look about their flat for anything that could serve as a weapon, but there wasn’t much other than perhaps a chef’s knife, dull with constant, loving use, that Jon was likely to find, and he was just as likely to harm himself with it as the intruder. Jon’s hands found their clumsy way to his upper arms, gripping them tightly enough that surely there’d be half-moon divots left where his nails bit into his skin. His chest was starting to feel tight, as if someone were sitting on it in spite of Jon’s verticality.

On one hand, he wished desperately that Martin were here because surely they’d be much more capable of taking on an impending intruder together now that Jon was “powered down,” so to speak. On another hand, he was so grateful that Martin wasn’t here to possibly get murdered. Better him than Martin, who’d been through so much (and largely on Jon’s account).

All this, and someone was still loudly rapping on the front door. The regularity with which the knocks came didn’t suggest an urgency or an immediate threat, so why hadn’t the knocker announced themselves? Maybe this mystery person was just trying to get his attention? But who could possibly know The (former) Archivist lived here? Was this even related to his status as Doom-Bringer? Jon remained in his seat where he’d been sending correspondence to the copyright holders of the next drama he was arranging for his theatre club to perform, paralyzed by indecision and a million swirling questions.

The person demanding his attention pounded their door once more, but this time a voice rang out, clear as a bell in crisp winter morning air.

“—you please open the door? I had to leave my keys in the car!”

His heart stammered and shuttered in his chest—much like Jon himself when he was excited, talking in stops and starts about the latest subject that he’d found interesting, but there was everything wrong with this kind of excitement. Martin had always found it endearing, or so he claimed, but he was sure he wouldn’t find this endearing, seeing Jon wavering on the precipice of panic. Jon, mouth gone bone-dry, croaked a response: “M-Martin?”

A little louder, Martin shouted, “Are you there, Jon? I don’t remember you saying you were going out today.” He audibly jerked the door handle, clearly checking to see if the door was locked. Even knowing who was on the other side of the door didn’t stop Jon from panicking. All sorts of gruesome scenarios danced through his mind. What if someone was using Martin to get at Jon, making it seem safe to leave their home only to ambush him once he was exposed?

Suddenly, all noise outside stopped, and this sent Jon spiraling further. He hadn’t really been taking note of his breathing this whole time, but he felt the encroaching fuzziness that he knew came with dropping oxygen levels.

“Mar...tin?” Nothing still. Martin hadn’t returned yet. Gripping his cheap particle wood desk that carried none of the same gravitas his elaborate oak desk had at the institute, Jon stood up. It was a precarious thing, his legs shaking and threatening to send him to the floor if he moved too quickly, but he needed to know what happened to Martin.

Just as he had been about to take his first wobbly step toward the door, Jon heard the faint sound of a key sliding into a locking mechanism. In no time at all, his dear heart was in front of him, saying something Jon couldn’t parse.

“—okay to touch—Jon?” He sounded worried for some reason, his voice pitching up just that little extra bit, something Jon knew happened when Martin felt powerless in the face of someone in danger.

Where was the danger? Who was in danger?

Something light brushed against his shoulders and stayed there. In the back of his mind, he was sure Martin had meant it as a comfort to focus on instead of the menacing fuzziness. “Why don’t you sit down, Jon. Everything will be all right. Hey—hey. It’s okay. Just sit down, love, and breathe.” So Jon did.

For a while, he drifted, sightless and senseless save for the tightness in his chest.

When he came back to awareness, Martin was there; he’d pulled another chair up close to Jon and pulled him into a loose embrace, loose enough that Jon could escape with very little effort if he needed to. Soft shushing noises filled the room.

Jon lifted his head from its position buried in Martin’s chest and immediately lost himself again in Martin’s eyes. Dark and speckled as soil and just as full of life. Jon had read enough comparisons to celestial bodies in his lifetime (and made similar comparisons himself once upon a time when their relationship was new and Jon had no idea how to close the distance between them, so up on a pedestal Martin went) to think them useful now. Martin’s beauty didn’t come from being a lonely, unreachable, incomprehensible light in the night sky. Martin was beautiful for far more mundane reasons. He celebrated life and the ups and downs of it all. He sowed seeds of happiness whenever he could and hardly anyone left his presence the poorer. Certainly, Jon recognized, he was somewhat biased, and, no, Martin wasn’t a perfect human being and had his bad days when being around people was too much to bear, when he’d snap and sneer and hide, but those bad days were fewer and further between as time went on.

Martin was talking to him, as it turned out. Maybe he should pay attention to that? Push through the words upon words criss-crossing and overlapping in every direction and orientation. Like microcurrents in the ocean just off the coast of Bournemouth. He’d been warned off from swimming too far from the coast by his grandmother when he was younger. Not that he would have regardless (too many tourists, too many people looking to see only what they wanted to see of his shore-side city), but Jon’s wanderings only made her more fearful of what lurked beyond their small bubble.

Focus, Jon. Focus.

“Are you with me? I’m starting to get more worried here.” Ah, there’s the helpless sarcasm.

Not able to speak just yet, he leaned back, loosening Martin’s hold on him. Without really comprehending the in-between, Jon’s arms wrapped around Martin’s middle. There was a rather inviting spot on his chest that perfectly pillowed Jon’s head when the opportunity arose, but now wasn’t the time. He’d be lost for hours in the comfort of it all. Instead, Jon looked at him.

“I’m with you,” he said, the gravel that rumbled around in his throat more pronounced than usual.

A full sigh blew out of Martin as he glanced away from Jon. “I’m so sorry, Jon. I totally forgot about the knocking….” This was when the guilt set in. A momentary indulgence, Martin told him once when the world was still Wrong. Time to put a stop to that.

One of Jon’s hands pulled Martin’s face back into view and stayed flush against his cold cheek. “Martin, it’s all right. Most days it wouldn’t bother me, but today…. Something about today has me a little on edge. It feels like something’s about to happen, but I don’t know what.”

Martin still looked worried. “Something is happening today, but it wasn’t supposed to happen like this.” Mirroring his gesture, Martin raised his own hand up, thumb following the path of Jon’s cheekbones, gently passing over the scars left by Jane Prentiss’ worms.

“What do you mean?”

“You’ll find out soon enough. I promise it’s a good thing, though. No traps, no ulterior motives, no earthy manifestations of eldritch fear entities. It’s completely terror-free!”

“You promise, huh?” Jon said with a teasing lilt.

“I mean, as long as you discount the constant low-grade terror of living in a city with several million people and where anything can happen to you at any time.”

“I must say, Martin, you’re exceptionally reassuring today.”

“Thanks! I try.”

Jon just hmmed.

With a hand still stroking Jon’s cheek and the worried look on his face softening by degrees, Martin said, “How are you feeling?”

Jon took a moment to honestly assess himself. He’d been trying to do that more often since distancing himself from the institute and everything it had represented to him. No more unreasonably late nights of work when he could just as easily spread his work out over the next day or several, and even when he couldn’t, Martin helped him make sure he stopped working no later than seven o’clock each evening. And while his pushing aside his bodily needs was a complicated matter with multiple causes, he’d been working on communicating when he needed to rest, when he was on the verge of pushing past his limits. (He’d been slowly coaxing Martin to do the same, though he’d just as often brush it off when Jon brought it up to him.)

After some examination, Jon replied, “I’m a bit tired, I suppose, but I’ll be all right once I get moving again.” He half-smiled at Martin, hoping to convey a sense of earnestness. Martin trusted him, he knew, and would take Jon’s words at face-value, but it didn’t hurt to lay it on thick sometimes.

The hand on his face was so soft. So pleasant a feeling it was, Jon nuzzled his face into that hand, eliciting a light-hearted giggle from Martin.

“Well, then,” he started, “Up we get! I’ve got something to show you. It’s a little chilly outside, so let’s grab your coat.”

Jon looked puzzled. “Outside? What’s outside?”

Martin gasped loudly. “It’s a surprise, Jon! How could you possibly ask me to spoil a surprise? The sheer audacity—I can’t believe it,” he exclaimed, clutching his chest and a look of profound offense on his face, completing the ensemble of mock outrage.

A warmth settled in Jon’s chest. This silly man was the person he wanted to spend the rest of his life with, no matter how long that ended up being. He let himself be overcome with affection and took the hand Martin had been using to stroke his cheek and brought it to his lips, placing a sweet kiss onto his palm.

“Oh, Mr. Blackwood, whatever can I do to repay you for this betrayal?” Jon crooned, that sloppy half-smile morphing into something a bit more mischievous. He would take any opportunity he could get to coax Martin’s infamous blush into existence, a handsome spreading of color across warm tawny skin, reaching as far as the tips of his ears.

With the expected flush rising on his features, Martin eyed Jon with a mixture of equal parts amusement, affection, and disdain. He gently removed his hand from Jon’s hold and walked over to their coat closet. “What you can do for me, Jon, is come over here and let me help you into your coat!” There was no heat in his words—no, Jon would tease that there was none left to imbue Martin’s words because it was stuck preciously under his skin—and Jon chuckled as he rose from his chair and followed Martin over walked over to where Martin was waving Jon’s pea coat in front of him expectantly.

“All right, all right,” he said, turning around to face the direction he came from, back to Martin, allowing him to guide one woolen sleeve then another over Jon’s arms. (Their bookshelves were intact, if disorganized, to his mild surprise.) Martin tugged on the collar, a signal for Jon to face him.

Though he managed to retain most function in his right hand, despite Jude Perry’s desolate flame ravaging it, it was sometimes painful to flex his fingers. Thus, it became customary for Martin to help him into his outer layers. Buttons were especially difficult some days, but Martin would grab Jon’s lapels and bring him in close enough that only several centimeters separated them and he’d fasten Jon’s buttons for him. Today was no different, though today it was more about the casual intimacy that underlaid the gesture than it was about the practicality of it.

Almost ready to face the damp cold outside, Jon asked, “What’s the rush about, Martin?”

A royal purple scarf suddenly in hand, Martin said, “Well, it’s getting late, and Georgie is still waiting outside with—well, waiting outside, and she and Melanie have a date soon, so we can’t keep her waiting.” Martin curled the scarf around Jon’s neck just so. “Not to mention how miserable it is outside. And I had to turn the car off to take the keys when you wouldn’t answer the door, so it’s probably cold by now, and….” He trailed off, looking at the ceiling with a far-away expression as if contemplating what else to tell Jon in this moment. “In any case, we are in a bit of a hurry, so get your boots on and let’s go!”

Aforementioned boots on and otherwise bundled up, Jon cocked his head to the side. “But, why is Georgie—” He stopped. He didn’t need to know right then. He knew Martin would answer his questions when he felt he could. This was knowledge that could wait. “Lead the way, then, dear.”

They turned toward the door hand-in-hand. Before opening the door, Martin looked back at Jon and said, “I meant it when I said this was a surprise, Jon. I want you to close your eyes and not open them until I say to, okay?”

The proposition of keeping his eyes closed for an indeterminate amount of time didn’t exactly appeal to him, but he trusted Martin. Before he could provide his assent, however, Martin pressed on.

“I know you don’t feel safe when you can’t see anything, but it’s only for a short walk to the car, and I’ll be there every step of the way to make sure nothing happens to you,” he assured.

Jon could let himself be caught in Martin’s gaze forever, sunny and bright as it was. Now wasn’t the time, he realized. Later on, Jon would lead him to their overstuffed couch by hand and drape himself over Martin and press kisses underneath the line of his jaw and down the line of his throat, as he knew Martin loved.

“I trust you, Martin.” Jon closed his eyes and used his unoccupied hand to gesture to them with a flourish. “Lead on.”

A blast of cold, saturated air assaulted them as Martin opened the door. Taking their first steps outside, Jon tried to place the temperature, figuring it was no warmer than five or six degrees. It was still kind of novel, not having the exact knowledge he was looking for beamed into his head without his consent.

“Hold on, Jon. Stay right here for a moment. I have to close the door. Don’t want our heating bill to go through the roof.” Jon did as he was told, resisting the urge to open his eyes in spite of Martin’s insistence and already missing the solid presence of his hand. As if he were the one with omniscience, Martin yelled back, “Whatever you do, don’t open your eyes!”

Thoroughly thwarted, Jon waited for Martin to take his hand again before moving.

They parted the slow-moving air around them as they walked. Not forceful enough to be considered wind in his book but enough to siphon some of the scant amount of warmth his body produced away from him. People breezed by them, heeled shoes clacking against the sidewalk and snatches of conversations not meant for them drifting in and out of focus. “You said Georgie was here, right? Where is she? I don’t hear her at all.”

“Georgie has been sworn to silence. Come on; we’re almost there.”

Martin pulled him forward, careful indeed to guide Jon around deposits of snow, soon to be gone, and depressions in the uneven sidewalk filled with slush. London and the surrounding area often got like this in the dead of winter; it didn’t snow overmuch, but when it did, rain soon followed, the temperature never remaining cool enough to sustain large amounts of snow for very long.

“Okay, Jon. We’re here. Keep your eyes closed for a little while longer.” Jon heard the tell-tale sound of a car door opening. The anticipation was roiling in him now; it was hardly bearable. He alternated between centering his weight on the balls of feet and then his heels—and back and forth—trying to dissipate some of the unease.

Just as Jon’s anxieties were building in intensity to a roaring crescendo, Martin spoke again: “You can open your eyes now, love.”

In front of Jon was a cat carrier—no mistaking it. He knew their shape intimately from all the hurried trips to the vet after The Admiral had gotten into food he shouldn’t have. The time The Admiral had eaten a sizable chunk of cold margherita pizza Georgie and he had left out on the table came to mind easily. Several frenzied Internet searches later, words like pancreatitis and anemia rolling around in their minds, they rushed The Admiral to an emergency vet. (It turned out that he hadn’t really eaten enough of the pizza to really worry about it, and the vet had a laugh at their expense, but the experience stuck with both of them.)

Someone had thrown a blanket over the carrier, making it difficult to make out what (who?) was inside, so Jon crouched down to get a better look. He could only imagine the look on his face right then.

A Maine Coon cat stared back at him, its amber eyes searching his and its head displaying a rich coat of golden yellows and deep browns. Jon was nigh speechless. “Who is this, Martin?” he whispered reverently.

Martin crouched down with him. “Well, as far as I know, she doesn’t have a name, not an official one anyway. I started feeding her a while ago on my way back from Tesco, and eventually she started following me back home. I wasn’t sure if she was actually someone’s cat or if she was a stray, so I always shooed her away before we got close to home.”

“That doesn’t answer why she’s here.” He wanted desperately to open the door of the carrier and run his hand through her fur, but Jon settled for poking his finger through the grate. The yet-to-be-named cat sniffed his finger from a couple angles and proceeded to rub her nose and face all over it. Jon nearly wept.

“I can answer that one,” Georgie interjected, having been nearly forgotten by the other two. She came over and kneeled down with them, eyeing them both with mild concern. “Remember those couple times Melanie, Martin, and I all took off while you were working? Well, this guy was waffling on what to do with Goldie here”—Jon mouthed “Goldie? Really?” at Martin, who could only shrug helplessly—“and came to Melanie and me, your resident cat parents, for advice.

“We discovered pretty quickly that Goldie was a stray, or at least not microchipped. That made the decision that much easier. I walked him through all the different tests he’d want to get done to to make sure she was healthy and spayed and all that. The vet figured she’d been a house cat at some point, seeing as she was fairly clean and decently-well fed, even taking Martin feeding her into account. But no microchip, no tags, and no other indicator of who she belonged to, and the several weeks this guy had been asking around the area to try to find her owners with nothing to show for it?”

Martin shot her a look. Georgie laughed, saying, “Oh, there was no way I wasn’t going to mention that. You talk a good game of resisting her charms, but you knew you were going to try to bring her home. You exhausted all your options trying to find her owners before we even showed up! The point is, we figured Goldie would find herself in good company with you two. Plus, I know how much you’ve missed The Admiral, Jon.”

This was too much to take in. He hadn’t been aware of any of this happening. In one sense, it was relieving: another piece of evidence to add the mounting pile that The Beholding had truly lost its grip on him. But how could Jon have missed all of this? Surely he joined Martin often enough in his London travels to have noticed him asking around about this cat.

“Hey.” Martin bumped their shoulders together. “I know what you’re thinking. I tried very hard to keep this from you in case it didn’t work out. I didn’t want to tell you about Goldie and get your hopes up only to find out that she had a loving family looking for her. And you’ve been so preoccupied with your theatre club’s new show; I wanted this to be a pleasant surprise.” Jon remembered the playbills scattered around his desk, a cursor left blinking, hovering over a supplicating email.

“You doing all right there, Jon?” Georgie leaned in closer to him, eyebrows furrowed. “We should get Goldie inside soon. It’s awfully cold.”

He’d heard enough. Standing up without warning, Jon waited for the other two to follow suit.

There was a moment when nobody moved.

In a (in hindsight) hilarious attempt to force both Georgie and Martin up to their feet, Jon grabbed a hold of their collars and pulled, not too hard as to choke but enough to make his intentions known.

Jon advanced on Georgie first and threw his arms around her shoulders in a tight hug. This was familiar; this was safe. It took them a long time to return to a place where they would love each other like this after everything. He’d thought once that it would be impossible, too many misunderstandings and too much unintentional harm a seemingly unending flood under the bridge of their relationship, but here they were.

Pulling away slightly, Jon pressed a brief kiss to Georgie’s dry cheek, a pleasant contrast to their overwhelmingly wet surroundings. He stared deep into her eyes and said, "Thank you for your part in this, Georgie. For helping bring—heh—Goldie to us."

Eyebrows shockingly close to the edge of her hairline and eyes wide, she stuttered out, "Oh! Yeah, sure."

He turned on Martin next, who stood stock still close by, watching the scene with rapt attention.

“Martin.”

Jon didn’t give Martin a chance to respond, stealing his words with a kiss. Several kisses, really, all short and soft and sweet, with little regard for location. Nowhere was safe: Martin’s nose, cheek, temple, jaw, hair. All had kisses laid upon them in pretty short order.

As if just realizing he had an armful (and lipful) of Jon, Martin pulled him in closer. “What was that for?”

Jon let his smile take over his face. “For all the kindnesses you do me—big and small, extravagant and simple, whether you believe them to be or not.” And he pressed one more kiss on Martin’s forehead. “Thank you.”

“Oh,” he said. Wobbly, he continued, “Of course, Jon.”

Passersby walked around them. How Jon managed to forget this was a London street where people other than him, Martin, and Georgie existed was beyond him. He only noticed them at all because the chill of the languid London wind was starting to make a home in his bones. Better to work on getting everyone inside before the cold became too much.

“Where’s Melanie? I know she’d hate it, but I want to thank her as well.”

“Oh, Melanie would have loved to be here, if only to laugh at the hilarious conclusion of this rom-com movie plot we’ve all found ourselves in. But a meeting with one of the families she’s been working with ran late.” Melanie couldn’t talk too much about her work for fear of violating the confidentiality of the people she worked with, but from what Jon understood, she had essentially created a career adjacent to social work, in which she helped people living with the aftereffects of the fears’ full emergence reintegrate into society at large. She reasoned she was in a good position to help others shed the influence of the fears, given that she’d spent the last almost year before the Change doing the same.

Georgie clasped Jon’s shoulder. “Don’t worry, though! I’m going to be telling her a~all about this.”

“Are you trying to give me a coronary? Melanie can’t know I have feelings.”

Georgie threw her head back and laughed. “Consider it our payment for the invaluable advice we provided throughout this harrowing process that Melanie will get to tease you about how disgustingly cute you two are later.”

The two bickered for a little bit like this as the sun sank further further beneath the horizon, Martin occasionally chiming in with support for whomever would create the most chaos. He may have been the love of Jon’s life, but Martin could still be a little shit when the mood took him.

Georgie was right earlier. It was cold and starting to get colder, and, frankly, all Jon wanted to do right now was pet this cat that he was legally obligated to rename to something more dignified. Something like The Duchess or Empress Dowager Cat or something else of equal stature would do. He’ considered having Martin help him decide, but if “Goldie'' was anything to go by, then perhaps it’d be better to leave him out of the proceedings.

Starting to move the blanket away from Goldie’s carrier, Jon said, “It’s about time we brought her inside, don’t you think, Martin? I’d like to get her settled in before dinner.”

Georgie stayed a couple extra minutes to help get Goldie, some food she and Martin had picked up for her on the way back, and a few toys into the flat. Jon offered to walk her to the tube station, and Martin offered to drive her back to the flat she shared with Melanie, but Georgie refused both and sent the two of them on their way to go bond with their new furchild.

As Georgie rounded the corner of their block and left their sight, waving to them all the while, Jon and Martin returned to the warmth of their flat. And there she was, lying against the grate of the carrier, not a care in the world. He and Goldie would become fast friends, Jon was sure.

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

Outerwear hung up to dry and boots neatly sequestered on their drying mat, it was finally safe to allow Goldie to explore their flat, which she accomplished in approximately 5 seconds, zooming around from room to room in a series of excited dashes. She stopped in the middle of the living room floor and made several pointed sniffs into the air.

Martin looked over to where Jon stood; he looked positively gleeful with a loose fist poorly hiding a still obvious smile. Frizzy fly-away hairs haloed around his head with some plastered to his face and the rest of his black, silver mottled hair in a hastily-done up-do. It was well known that Jon's hair expanded a good thirty percent in moist air, and today was no exception. It was so charming, seeing this man so unguarded, so unmade compared to his historically meticulous appearance.

Choosing this moment of loving staring to make herself known once again, Goldie wound herself in around their legs in figure eights, rubbing her scent onto their closes and purring loudly. Jon couldn’t stop the high keening noise that escaped from his mouth.

"Are you all right over there, love?" Martin snickered.

"Quiet, you."

Jon turned to face him. It didn't happen too often, but every once in a while, Jon would gain an extra depth of color in a delicate line across his nose and cheekbones, a warmer brown than what otherwise lived there. Martin was wholly pleased to see the color now, and that it arose from something he helped make happen made his heart soar.

"This is your fault, you know," Jon said mildly.

"What's my fault?"

He huffed. "These entirely embarrassing reactions I'm having."

"Oh, is that all? Sorry that I can't find it myself to feel guilty, then. I happen to love all these embarrassing reactions you're having." Placing a kiss on Jon's temple, he continued, "You're adorable when you're like this, you know."

"I know you think that, you incorrigible man."

“You are!”

Jon laughed fondly at this. “There’s no sense in arguing with you about this, is there?”

“Not really!”

Seemingly sensing the end of their dispute, Goldie plopped herself down on Jon’s foot. It didn’t seem possible that she could purr any louder than she was a couple minutes ago, but Martin’s life had always taken one look at his expectations and summarily ignored them.

“Are you seeing this, Martin?” Jon whispered, the awe in his voice unmistakable. “Her Most Esteemed Empress Dowager Cat has deemed me worthy of her attention. I am honored to be in her presence.”

It took everything Martin had in him to not bark a laugh at that. “I’m sorry, dear. I didn’t quite hear you. What are we calling our cat?”

Their cat. Their cat that they’d be taking care of and cuddling together. Somehow the thought hadn’t occurred to him before, and it threatened to make him speechless now.

Jon muttered indignantly, “Like your name was any better.”

Martin gathered Jon into his arms easily, despite Jon’s defensive posture.

“Why don’t we come up with a proper name for her tomorrow. We’ll call her Goldie for now”—Jon started to protest, but Martin pushed on—“because that’s what she’s been answering to, but let’s just make dinner and enjoy her company tonight, hmm?”

A short moment later, Jon replied, “Yes, that sounds wonderful.”

They debated the relative merits of whipping up a quick curry versus spending a bit more time on a soup with a homemade broth and eventually decided on the former. The sounds of chopping potatoes and the clinking of glass jars containing garam masala, turmeric, red chili powder, cloves, star anise, and everything else necessary for aloo kurma spread throughout the flat. And if Goldie leapt onto the kitchen counter once or twice, knocking over bowls of ingredients and leaving inordinate amounts of fur in her wake, well. That was just fine with them.

#tma #the magnus archives #jonathan sims #martin blackwood #jonmartin #jmart #georgie barker #fanfiction #rosy cheekx #ombre answers #ombre writes #panic attacks #dissociation #friends tag #ombre writes fic

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the-melting-world · 4 years ago

Text

Freebie | “In Dreams”

~ In which Khleo passes through a Gate…

@arcana-echoes

This 🕯 is scented with “In Dreams” by Ben Howard

~ 880 words

***

There was no more seawater. Just violent air and cosmic sky and a wretched, angry tempest. Khleo thought he knew the portals. He thought he understood them.

The mighty forces that slapped and cast his body carelessly over the astral planes of existence reminded him that he knew nothing of this place.

The same small voice that came to him before the Door shut him off from those he loved the most, spoke to him now. It told him not to waste his breath trying to scream. He was nowhere that a scream had ever been. He was nothing but a mote in this stardust tornado.

A bead of hydrogen vacuumed up by a stellar wind.

He had no voice here.

Calmly, he understood. No eyes to see, no voice to scream. But hands… He had hands.

Or least one that mattered.

Khleo didn’t wait for the raging tunnel to give him some slack. He clapped his uncovered hand over his other wrist and wrenched the gauntlet against his chest for more control. His body spiraled, catching a pocket of serene air. His internal organs did belly flops. His face stung with the beating that he just took from the astral currents.

But there was no time to care. Siphoning every detail of Ozy’s lessons into his battered arm, Khleo thrust it out and tore an exit from the framework like he was tearing off a fresh scab. It hurt, yet he sobbed in relief when a light opened for him in the eye of this merciless maelstrom.

Thinking the trial was over, he relaxed his body. Though the muscles in his arms screamed in protest, there was nothing to do now except float.

What is this?

Khleo heard the voice and didn’t care. He was done with voices. He was done with Doors.

Do you know what happens to cubs that wander from the nest?

Khleo felt pressure between his eyes. “Ngh.”

Their skulls are crushed.

“Please…”

You are but a cub yourself.

Khleo knew that he had to talk. Say something to this deity, whoever they were, speaking to him from the mouth of both a woman and a lion. A laurel slowly sprung to life around his head. He felt sick.

So you should be grateful for having wandered back into the safety of the nest. Now that you are finally home, tell me, little lion cub....

Khleo couldn’t feel his arms anymore.

Do you wish to be strong?

The dream had run its course and faded quite some time ago, but Khleo was sitting upright, staring into the darkness, listening to the slumbering breaths that didn’t belong to her. She absently dragged her fingertips along her triceps, perhaps to check that her arms were still there and just as defined and robust as they were the day before.

That dream. It wasn’t Khleo’s first time living through that scenario. Seeing everything through a body that was hers and yet at the same time not hers at all.

She shivered.

“Khlee?” The woman whom the slumbering breaths belonged to started to sit up. “Is something wrong?”

Khleo turned, encouraging her partner to lie back down the only way she knew how. It seemed to work at first. But the woman wasn’t satisfied to let Khleo go.

“. . . . Come back to bed.”

Khleo couldn’t. Not while her head was still spinning like this. “Shhh. Soon, I promise.”

Khleo fumbled around for her shirt. Once she pulled it over her head, she got up and crossed the basement floor of the tavern where she worked. She knew her way through the dark, pulling a cigarette from where her coworkers usually hid them in the walls and whispering very softly, “Hefe.”

When Khleo opened the backdoor and walked out into the crisp night air, a creamy coated lioness trailed after her. She thought that Hefe would have had something to say by now, but the familiar was silent while Khleo leaned against the bricks and smoked in an effort to clear her head.

Khleo exhaled. “You’re being awfully quiet tonight, Hefe.”

The big cat avoided eye contact and licked her massive paw, not even granting so much as a cheeky purr.

“I’m not scolding you,” Khleo said, “I just… I want to know why I keep having that dream. You know something. I know you do.” She flicked the end of the cigarette into the cold street, her only indication that she was frustrated.

Hefe wrinkled her nose and tilted her head towards the sky. Khleo glanced up at the stars for only a moment. Then she crossed her strong arms over her chest and closed her eyes.

“Fine. I’ll wait.”

And she meant it. Khleo was very good at waiting. All those years of fighting in the streets taught her how important it was to watch and wait to see what her opponent would do next. Nothing was out of impulse. Every unmade attack could be anticipated and read. All you had to do was look for the signs.

The dream. That was definitely a sign.

She tucked her arms a bit more to lock in the warmth and said to no one in particular, “I don’t really care.”

Khleo opened her eyes to the stars above.

“I’ll wait as long as I have to.”

#arcana eotp #khleo the barhand #khlee von heine #arcana album: the interlude #my writing

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that-one-girl-behind-you · 5 years ago

Text

Illicio 4/?

Part 3

Trigger warning for some very lightly mentioned domestic abuse and sexual assault (molesting of a minor). During the first POV.

“Come on now, don’t go picking fights with any more entities.” Gerry gives his shoulder a little push as the bus rolls to a stop. Jon complies, but he turns to face Gerry as soon as he hops on the street with him.

“Excuse me? I don’t pick fights with-” Jon’s massive lie fades off into indignant blustering when Gerry wraps a hand around his right wrist and brings his hand up to eye level, giving it a little shake with a raised eyebrow. “W- well that’s different, have you met Jude Perry?”

Nighttime at Jon’s flat is a strange ritual.

The first variable is whether or not Gerry will be staying, which has been happening more often lately. On those nights, Jon usually grabs the first thing that catches his attention from his bookshelf and sits on the coffee table or the carpeted floor -all of Gerry’s teasing about his ‘old lady sofa’ doesn’t stop him from hogging it for himself- to read aloud.

“I thought you didn’t sleep anymore,” he says whenever he looks up from the pages and finds Gerry stretching out mid-yawn.

“I don’t need it.” Gerry’s voice gets hoarser and more relaxed after these naps. “But the experience is still nice.” Which must also apply to the many times Jon’s seen him picking at a bag of crisps or sipping a cup of coffee.

Jon doesn’t mind. He enjoys his reading, and it’s nice to see Gerry at ease; Jon doubts he had many chances to just sit back and take a nap before, and it’s… it’s nice to feel like he’s a safe space for someone.

“If you’re going to doze off anyways, we could move to-” Jon stops himself a moment before finishing the thought, after catching the arched eyebrow and the amused glint in Gerry’s eyes. “Nevermind.”

“No no, by all means ask me to your bed, Jonathan.”

Jon sighs, “I don’t know why I even bother, Gerard.” Gerry scrunches his nose at the name and Jon rolls his eyes, but he’s smiling. It never feels like Gerry’s making fun of him, and it makes him miss Tim -the Tim from before, when Jon hadn’t ruined everything yet- a little less.

On the days Gerry’s not around, though, Jon has to find other ways to keep himself distracted from the hunger.

It took him a while to notice, probably because the statements were all he needed for a while. The warehouse worker had been an anomaly, something Jon tried not to think about. He’d been out purchasing some groceries, compelled another random shopper on accident, and it had been just his rotten luck that the man had a story to tell.

Then, the day after Melanie’s… impromptu surgery. Jon had read statement after statement trying to relieve the ache of the wound on his shoulders, but each had brought only the feeling of a cool breeze on a burn; enough to lighten the pain but not doing anything to heal him.

He’d thought the stroll would clear his head and it had almost done so, until he’d seen her. Long brown hair falling over her shoulders in loose ringlets, a wrinkle of worry on her brow and a birthday card signed by all her co-workers wishing her a great day tomorrow.

The scalpel wound had been covered in new skin by the time he’d gone back to the institute, and Jon knew he’d be seeing Zaida Mossen in his dreams.

Sometimes he watches TV, picks a documentary and tries not to Know the next piece of information before the narrator says it on screen. One time he tried looking at old photos on Facebook, but he ended up Knowing his primary school best friend is now trapped with three kids and a woman that beats him every other night, and that his secondary school teacher got away on a technicality after he was found molesting a student. He closed the app before he could come across a picture with Georgie or Tim in it.

Overall, he avoids sleep.

The nightmares were just that, before the Unknowing. He could focus on the fact that he didn’t want the visions and he’d wake up soon enough, to try and drown out Naomi Hernes’ screams. To ignore the resigned, sad gaze of Karolina Gorka when she lay down next to the old man crushed by the chair. He can’t do that anymore.

Tonight Jon is tired after days of Knowing little details unwillingly, and sustaining himself only on old, stale statements. He sits on the edge of his bed and looks through the window to wait for the sky to lighten outside, because he knows if he lays down he will sleep, and if he sleeps he will See.

Dr. Elliot’s fear tastes of desperation. He’d been respected, an expert on his field, he’d only taken the class as a favor. Now he holds out an apple spilling endless teeth around him, begging for someone to take it. He knows they all think he’s mad.

Helen Richardson -the real one, one of Jon’s biggest screwups- has an aftertaste of madness, which makes sense considering the entity that claimed her. She’d been so scared of losing her grip on her mind, because she’d always been so sharp, so… consistent. Sometimes she looks at him over her shoulder before she opens the yellow door.

Tessa Winters has a flavor Jon recognizes well. She regrets clicking the link and downloading the file, and she’s scared she started something without an end, something that will keep tormenting her forever. She has never watched the video again in real life, but every night she tries to turn off a screen in which Sergey Ushanka’s gums bleed around the chewed up glass.

They know he’s watching them. The new ones scream at him for help, the older ones have given up. Both reactions bring Jon a feeling of bliss before he looks up at his patron and the cycle starts again.

“Hey,” comes Gerry’s voice as Jon’s bedroom door creaks open. “Ready to- oh. Didn’t know you were sleeping, I- are you alright?”

Jon blinks up at the ceiling, confused. The pillow is soft below his head, he feels replenished, and he Knows of at least three other people between here and the Institute that he could hunt down and add to his archive.

The edge of the bed sinks beside him, and a curtain of Gerry’s hair shields Jon’s face from the rising sun as he leans over him.

“Jon?”

“I’m- it’s alright.” Jon’s voice is hoarse from sleep too, but where Gerry’s is pleasant and calming, his sounds like he’s been gargling on gravel. “Just nightmares, is all.”

The corner of Gerry’s lips twitches into a side smile, but his eyes are sympathetic.

“That’s our bread and butter, isn’t it?” he asks. The punishing sunlight hits against Jon’s eyes when he stands up, the bed bouncing back a little at the lack of pressure. “Let’s get you to the Institute, some statements will make you feel better.”

The bedroom door closes behind him, and a long, tired sigh blows past Jon’s lips.

————————————————————————————————————————

Gerry counts seven members of the Church of the Divine Host on their way to the Institute. Funnily enough they stand out like sore thumbs in daylight, even without him using his Sight. The closed eye pendant makes something in his stomach coil with irritation, but he ignores it. He knows perfectly well by now that this is the Beholding rearing up at the perceived slight. For larger than life beings of cosmic horror, the entities are pretty much just angry cats swatting at each other very ineffectively.

Jon gives off a little grunt; he’s much more ensnared in than Gerry, so he supposes it makes sense.

“Yeah, and she gets along fairly well with other avatars. Even Gertrude never went around looking like she stuck her hand in a deep fryer and Perry hated her guts.” The burn scars on Jon’s hands are silky smooth when Gerry runs his thumb along the skin. They feel like his own. “If she did this to you, I’m going to go out on a limb and say-”

“I did not compel her,” Jon interrupts him with the most pompous, offended voice. Gerry gives his wrist a little squeeze, grinning. Jon sniffs, and Gerry can see the corner of his lips twitching. “But I did try a whole lot.”

“I wouldn’t expect anything less from you,” Gerry cackles, letting go of his hand. “But you’re right about the Dark. They’re growing bolder, I think we’re going to get a visit sooner rather than later.”

Jon gives him a side look with a curved eyebrow.

“We?”

“Well yes, who else is going to lull me to sleep with his dulcet tones and extremely specific facts about the Russian Revolution?” Gerry rolls his eyes. “If the Dark comes for you, they come for me.”

Jon doesn’t say anything to that, but he looks extremely pleased for the rest of the walk to the Institute. It’s very endearing, Gerry thinks with a smile as he watches him descend the stairs into the Archives.

“Oh my God.” Gerry turns at the sound of the voice, and finds Melanie shaking her head at him.

“What?” Gerry figures if anyone here is going to get offended at his lack of manners, it’s definitely not going to be the woman that was a death away from becoming a physical incarnation of violence.

Melanie rolls her eyes. “Nothing. You’re going out?”

“Yeah?”

“Okay. I’m going with you, you’re going to explain some things.” She doesn’t wait for an answer, moving towards the front doors instead. Gerry blinks a couple times, trying to process the turn of events, before he follows after Melanie.

They end up at a little park a good way away from the Institute, and Gerry can’t help but notice that with every step Melanie takes away from the building her posture relaxes, and so does the ever-present frown at her brow.

“So… What is it that you wanted me to explain?” Gerry asks after they’ve sat down against a tree trunk, away from any passersby. They must make a terribly stereotypical sight, a cute little couple out on a date instead of a woman on a mission and her hostage.

Melanie looks up at him, her dark eyes especially striking behind her brightly colored bangs.

“What am I?” She asks. Then, like the thought just occurred to her, “I’m not like him am I? I mean, I didn’t- I can’t heal from statements or make people tell me things or-”

Gerry shakes his head. “That’s an Archivist thing, and there’s only one of those.”

“So I’m what? The Assistant? Because that’s a pretty lame title and I don’t care for it.” Melanie gives him an unimpressed stare, and Gerry chuckles under his breath. Either she’s very likable, or he just has a soft spot for blunt people.

“Nah. If anything, you were going to become an avatar of the Slaughter,” he says, gesturing at the bandaged spot that he knows is under her trousers. “I call them wielders, but the Beholding is really the only one that has titles for its avatars. I think that’s why no one likes them, too presumptuous.”

“Them?” Melanie asks, “aren’t you one too?”

“Not really,” says Gerry, feeling a shudder run down his spine. No thanks. “But I’m marked by the Watcher, just like you.”

Melanie takes a deep breath, clearly trying to keep her patience. “Didn’t you just say I was an avatar of the Slaught-” she gives him a furious glare, when Gerry slaps a hand over her mouth.

He pulls it back before she can decide to bite a few fingers off. “Don’t go proclaiming that stuff. These things take that seriously and Jon didn’t almost get himself killed so you could invite the Slaughter in again.”

Melanie rolls her eyes. “Fine. What does ‘being marked’ mean then?”

“Well, just that really. It’s when an entity had a grip on you at some point, usually because you ran into an avatar or a monster,” Gerry shrugs, twirling one of his rings around his finger just to have something to do with his hands. He doesn’t like talking about these things too much; too many years playing database for the hunters has left him very wary of people who want his knowledge. “Some marked people get abilities, like me. Some grow into full avatars, some don’t. It really depends on the person, and whether or not the entity thinks they’re a good fit.”

“And the Eye doesn’t think you are?”

“I don’t really care about knowledge as much as I care about using what I know to help people. I’m also marked by the End, but again, not a match.” He gives her a disappointed pout, and her mouth twitches. “There’s really no limit to how many entities can mark you, other than your bad luck I guess. Jon has like ten marks on him.”

“Ten?” Melanie arches her eyebrows. “Why so many?”

“A week ago he only had nine,” Gerry gives her a pointed look. Sure, she wasn’t herself back then, but he still remembers the small, exhausted grunts of pain as he helped Jon peel the blood soaked shirt off.

Melanie looks forward and her lips purse in a way that could be either sheepishness, or an attempt at holding a smile back. Knowing Melanie, he doubts it’s the first one.

“Well, I couldn’t eat solids for two days after,” she says in the end, and Gerry rolls his eyes.

“You were going to kill him. For real.” He hadn’t even thought before throwing the punch, because the only thing in his mind had been getting her away from Jon.

“Okay, okay,” Melanie waves a hand as if trying to bat the topic away. “I’m sorry for stabbing your boyfriend.”

Gerry doesn’t bother correcting her, just like he didn’t that night at the break room. As long as they don’t figure out his relationship with Jon is truly parasitic, they can think whatever they want.

There is, however, a lie he will call out. On principle. “No you’re not.”

Now Melanie smiles for real, even letting out a little huff of amusement.

“No, but I know I should be sorry. That has to count for something, right?”

————————————————————————————————————————

Basira hates a lot of things about the Institute.

For example, how she can feel herself changing with every word she reads on the damned books she can’t put down to save her life. How she’s trapped inside the building, and the only time she really braves the outside is when she goes and outruns whatever monster of the week is waiting for her because she feels Elias has something to tell her. How the building seems to have been designed with the sole goal of making its inhabitants as unnerved as possible.

She hates every corner and every brick, every dark room where the light switch is placed just out of reach when you first walk in, and how it always feels like someone is watching-

“You were there,” says a rough accented voice, and Basira freezes on her spot. The light switch is three more steps to the right, she knows this room, she can-

A large hand wraps itself around her neck and pulls her away from the door. The door closes behind her, and Basira no longer knows how far it is to the light switch. She’s never been in this room- is this a room?

“You’re not doing that. We’re friends, you and I. We don’t need to see each other.” The voice evokes a sense of familiarity within Basira, but something inside her is screaming at her, a primal urge to fight or flee. “Don’t you remember me?”

“I do not know you,” Basira says dryly, and the voice laughs in delight. A man, she’s pretty sure it’s a man… unless it isn’t? Maybe it’s a woman. Or neither. She should- she knows this person.

But didn’t she just say the opposite?

There’s some steps behind the door, so there must be a door. If there is a door, and there are steps… Then there has to be other people. People she knows. People who are real. Is she not real? If she knows this person, and they’re not real, then maybe she isn’t either.

But… but no. She has to be real, because she opened the door. Doors are real. They go to real places -most of them at least- and that must mean this is a place, and it’s real. If it’s a place, then she can… Basira frowns, feeling like she’s at the edge of something, if she could just…“This is a plac-”

“Don’t say a word.” The hand tightens around her throat. It doesn’t feel like any human hand Basira has touched before, only Basira suddenly isn’t so convinced she has touched any human before. Or perhaps she has and they all feel like this. Does she not feel like this because she’s not human?

The door opens, and the tenuous light that makes its way into the room is enough to chase away the shadow of uncertainty in Basira’s mind.

This is the Institute, she’s Basira Hussain, and she’s in danger. That’s all she needs to get to work.

“Jon, don’t turn the light on,” she orders, her voice calm and steady. “Go and find Melanie, quick.”

It isn’t until she gives the order that she remembers Melanie no longer has the bullet, and Elias’s stupid voice comes to haunt her. You lost Melanie.

“It’s alright Basira. I know he’s here.” Jon’s voice is like she’s never heard it before. No warmth, no hesitation, no sign of the man that measures his every word to try to not hurt anyone, and ends up doing so anyways. She can barely see his silhouette where he’s profiled by the light behind him, but she can see his eyes emit the eerie green glow they had that night by Melanie’s bed.

“So what are you doing?” she asks.

Three steps. Click.

Jon looks at some point behind and above Basira’s shoulder.

“I imagine he’s here to deliver something.” Jon’s words are punctuated by a low thrumming static. “Let her go.” Basira can feel each word vibrate with power, and the hand around her throat starts trembling as the creature fights the compulsion

It’s enough for her to twist out of its grasp. She doesn’t go stand by Jon, but moves in his general direction until she’s closer to him than she is to the… thing.

It looks like a man. It has all the parts. Skin, face, hands. It is not a man.

“Is- the deliverymen,” she blurts out the realization as soon as it comes.

“Deliveryman,” Jon says by her side. Once again she’s taken aback by the coldness of his voice, and the way his eyes are fixed on the being. “Which one are you?” he asks, and the glow from his eyes pulsates once as the static rises.

“ ’m Breekon,” the thing says immediately, then takes a step backwards. Jon takes a step forward and vaguely in Basira’s direction, and she realizes he plans on stepping between them.

“And where’s Hope?” The static in his voice remains, and the thing squirms a little more, clearly uncomfortable.

“Hope’s gone,” says the monster.

'Tell me about it,’ thinks Basira, before she takes a deep breath.

“And what? Are you here for revenge?” Hope turns to face her as she speaks, and stays silent. Jon gives a tired sigh, and repeats the question. It takes a few more seconds, like the fact that Breekon isn’t holding eye contact -if it even has eyes- delays the compulsion. It’s not enough to stop it.

“Yes. Like when we- when I put the mutt in the pit,” it says, and gives something at his feet a little kick. It’s only then that Basira sees the rough wooden coffin with its rusted chain and the scratched warning on top. “It knew where it was going, I think. It was scared of it. Never seen a hunter scream like that.”

Breekon gives a dark chuckle, and Basira feels molten hot rage spilling from her stomach, prickling at her eyes. Of course Daisy was scared of the fucking thing, she saw it in her dreams every other night, Basira would know. Her hand itches for her gun, but Jon’s voice comes before she can even begin reaching for it.

“Easy, Basira.” It’s not compulsion per se, and his voice does get softer when he spares her the quickest glance, but Basira still bristles at the words. What right does he have to ask her to hold back and be reasonable, when he’s been trying to corral Martin into talking to him whenever he’ll stand still for long enough?

“Daisy’s in there?” She asks instead, just to confirm. She cannot go into the coffin, her mind’s clear enough to push the desperate thought away but… but she needs to know.

The monster turns to her again, and huffs in what she guesses is amusement.

“Answer her,” says Jon calmly, businesslike. Breekon shudders.

“Nikola should’ve killed you faster,” it says, and Basira gets the feeling he’s trying to stall for time. Probably just to get on their nerves, because what is there to hide when he’s already told them? “Sure. Whatever’s left of it at least. Go find it for all I care.”

“Why are you here?” Jon asks again, taking another step between Basira and the deliveryman.

“Hm. Dunno. ’S not much to do without Hope around,” the monster shrugs. Out the corner of her eye Basira sees Jon stiffen. She remembers Daisy doing the same at times, freezing like a hunting dog with prey in its sights. “We’ve always been together.”

“…Jon?” Basira reaches out to touch his shoulder, but he doesn’t react. The glow in his eyes is brighter now, and Basira’s pretty sure he’s stopped breathing. The static in the room gets louder, and she snaps her head towards Breekon, her hand now firmly on her gun. “Get out.”

“Make me.”

“Stop.” Jon’s voice reverberates all the way through Basiras’ bones, and she and Breekon freeze.

“Jon, what are you doing?” Basira doesn’t try to touch him again. His form appears too sharp somehow, like those pictures that are so high quality they seem unreal, and his eyes look glassy and green as Breekon squirms under his gaze.

“Wh- stop. Stop it.” Breekon moves strangely, like he’s trying to take a step back but he’s stuck to the floor. Basira has a flashback to the butterflies and moths pinned to cork boards at her secondary school, their wings spread wide and their bodies exposed for everyone to look. She shudders. “Stop looking at me!”

“No.” Jon’s voice echoes inside Basira’s head, and her vision goes white. She has the briefest sense of satisfaction as she hears Breekon scream and gasp, and she’s aware only part of it is bitterness over Daisy. The other is some sort of instinctive pleasure; she guided Jon here, the Archivist needed this information and she found Breekon for him to See, she- she scowls. That’s not her.

That’s not her at all.

The room reforms around her piece by piece as she shakes her head and her vision clears. She sees Breekon’s heel disappear behind the door, before Jon is stumbling towards the closest desk.

“Get me-” he starts to ask, but Basira’s already offering a pen with movements that aren’t entirely her own either. His eyes are back to normal, but Basira only stays for long enough to see him start scribbling on a notebook page, before it becomes too much.

She makes sure not to turn her back to him as she leaves.

————————————————————————————————————————

The thought is almost too weird for her, but Melanie finds herself enjoying the little excursion. She does wonder why no one -nothing- has targeted them yet, but she doesn’t get attacked when she’s out with Helen either, so maybe the monsters are just opportunistic bastards and don’t like to risk it when the odds aren’t in their favor.

Gerard is very easy to like, for someone so infuriatingly fond of Jon. Melanie finds herself thinking they could’ve been friends, if they’d met under different circumstances.

As things are now, she’s far too aware of the way his eyes keep drifting towards the Institute, even though they’ve walked far enough that the building is well out of sight and behind several twists and turns.

“Are you feeling him?” she asks when they finally climb to their feet after a few hours of fear talk. The question is somewhat awkward in her mouth; she doesn’t like Jon, but Gerard does, and she’s decided she likes him enough to not want to offend him. The desire to not hurt still feels foreign in her mind.

“Mm? Oh. Not really,” Gerard shrugs, looking down at her. “I don’t know? I just know where he is. Like the general direction.”

“Hm. That would’ve been useful last year, he got kidnapped like three times.” Melanie pats the back of her shorts to get rid of any dirt and grass that decided to come up with her.

“Did he now?” And yeah, the urge to maim someone is back with the fond little smile on Gerard’s face. “And he has the gall to say he doesn’t get into trouble.”

“Well, he does. What now?” she asks, opting to only bump his shoulder with hers instead of punching his arm. This guy can be as infatuated with a supernatural disaster as he wants, and she won’t feel any strong way about it. No violence here, no siree, Slaughter who?

“Well… we go back, I think? Unless you have more questions.” Gerard looks at her as he shoves his hands into his pockets. Melanie deflates a bit; it is a nice day, and she gets very few chances to leave the Institute.

They do end up going back, but Melanie makes a point of stopping for ice cream on the way back. Gerard gives in suspiciously quickly, and Melanie finds herself liking the guy more and more.

Her phone buzzing with an incoming text from Georgie as she’s handed her double caramel scoop only makes this an even better day.

“That’s a big smile,” Gerard comments as she taps away at the keys. She looks up at him disbelievingly, but there’s no indication he realizes how much of a hypocrite he’s being as he calmly sucks on his cherry ice lolly.

“The nerve.” Melanie rolls her eyes. “It’s my- a friend.”

Gerard bites off a chunk of the ice lolly, and it does more to convince Melanie that he’s not human than the fact that he walked back from the dead.

“Sounds complicated.”

“I’m trapped at Spook Central because of her ex boyfriend, it is complicated,” Melanie mumbles. Georgie’s one of the few good things left in her life, and she’s determined to keep her away from this horrible, horrible circus. “Besides, not all of us get wingmanned by an eldritch entity.”

“She’s Jon’s ex?” Gerard arches an eyebrow as he leans forward to try and peek at Melanie’s phone.

“Do you have selective hearing or something?! Get back!” She punches and shoves at his shoulder until he retreats with an amused smile. The act doesn’t leave a taste of metal in her tongue, she’s surprised to find. Or a craving for more, harsher action. It only feels… companionable. Almost playful.

Melanie had forgotten what it felt like to be friendly with someone.

She’d never say it aloud, but if she counts Georgie and this guy -and even Martin whenever he’s not being a bitch and a half because he’s on a Secret Mission- Jon doesn’t have terrible taste in people.

There’s a man coming out of the Institute, and Gerard’s arm shoots in front of her chest to stop her just as she realizes it’s not a man at all.

“Is that-”

Gerard nods. His frown melts away after he looks at the building again, head tilted as if hearing a sound Melanie can’t register.

“Fuck,” Melanie mutters under her breath. Of course this would happen now, after the bullet is gone and on the one day she decides to go out. “There’s another entrance at the back, let’s-”

“They’re alright.” Gerard sounds thoughtful as he watches the creature stumble its way into a side street. “Beholding marks don’t suit the Stranger well, it seems.”

She looks up, and the smile on his face looks dangerous, somehow.

“Jon?”

“Did a right number on it.” There’s a hint of dark pride to his voice, a polar opposite to the ridiculously soft demeanor he usually adopts when it comes to Jon, and Melanie finds it that she much prefers the absurd fondness to whatever this is. Basira’s words from a few weeks back play through her mind, and she remembers she still doesn’t know what Gerard is. Or why the Eye brought him to Jon. “Go check on them, I’ll finish it off.”

“I’ll come with you,” she decides in a split second. “I can still do it.”

Gerard turns to look down at her, and whatever it was that made her stomach knot in worry is gone so fast Melanie wonders if she imagined it in the first place. There’s a dubious frown on his brow, and his mouth, still dyed red by the stupid lolly, is pressed in a tight line.

“I don’t doubt you could,” he says after a moment. “But I don’t want you to. Don’t invite it back in, remember?”

She does, but she also doesn’t trust the shadow that passed over him not a minute ago.

“Then I won’t do it. But I- I need to watch,” she tries again. “Or I won’t be convinced it’s gone.”

Another long moment of Gerard measuring her up, before he finally nods.

“If you need it,” he says, leading the way into the side street the monster took. Melanie follows with careful steps.

She likes Gerard, but she’s not naive enough to forget she’s been wrong before.

————————————————————————————————————————

When Basira walks into the windowless room, Elias is reading a celebrity gossip magazine, and she wants to rip his eyes out

“Good evening, Det-”

“Drop it,” Basira interrupts, and Elias’ thin lips curl into a smile. Her hands curl into fists, to keep from wrapping around his neck. “Breekon came to see us yesterday. He brought-”

“The coffin, yes.” Elias nods. “I must admit it was quite pleasing to see you work with Jon so seamlessly, Basira. But I suspect you’re not here for my praise, are you?”

Basira advances on him until she’s looming over his sitting form, and she bristles at the calm look he aims at her.

“I hope you’re not so surprised to know Miss Tonner is alive?” He arches a carefully shaped eyebrow. Of course this bastard uses jail to catch up with his beauty routine. “Surely you know by now that the Eye rewards those who are loyal.”

So that confirms that.

“That’s what Keay is then? A reward for Jon?”

“Oh, he didn’t tell you?” Elias tsks in disappointment, shaking his head. “One would’ve thought he’d learned to be honest to his team by now.” His poison green eyes focus on Basira’s face again. “Well, I guess it can’t be fixed… Despite my best efforts, you never did bond.”

“Shut up!” Basira snaps finally. Bond. Like they’re a cute little group of misfits in a TV show instead of an armload of hostages. Her right hand digs into Elias’ hair, grabbing a fistful and tightening as she pulls back until his neck is twisted at a very awkward angle. “How do I bring her back?” Elias smirks again. She tightens her grip until she feels a few hair strands snap. “I am not in the mood for your games.”

“Always so direct,” he says in the end. “But as I said, the Eye rewards its own. Let me give you some leads, Detective.”

#jongerrymartin #j/g/m #jonathan sims #martin blackwood #gerry keay #vit writes #illicio

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inactiive-shit · 5 years ago

Text

Live A Little

Fandom: Sanders’ Sides

Title: Live A Little

Prompt: Ghost!side

Warnings: death, implied (past) murder, ghost, blood

Pairing: Platonic LAMP

Words: 2,213

@sanderssidescelebrations Chim-chim-churree, bucko. I tried for fluff and my brain kept trying to make me incorporate angst so this is kind of bittersweet. But I love my child. Here is the best I have:

This time of year was, objectively speaking, the best.

Logan was not biased, don’t think that he would ever let his current circumstances affect his opinion. It was a simple fact that fall was the best time of year. The beautiful trees and the pleasant chill in the air and the smell of crisp early mornings were, objectively, some of the best things in life.

And Logan would know that because he had lost his life. About twenty years ago, and he won’t go anymore exact than that because he still looks like a twenty-something college kid, but he would digress. Logan knows these are the best aspects of life because they are the things he misses the most and also the things that he can feel the best even after death.

His liking this time of year has absolutely nothing to do with Halloween, or the thinning of the veil, or it being the only time of year he can be seen by everyone, or that he can feel things, or that people don’t run screaming from him when they see him. They actually congratulate him on such a realistic costume, and Logan has long since given up on trying to convince anyone he’s actually dead. They always think he’s inebriated or pulling some sort of prank. He doesn’t mind so much anymore. He’s just glad that he can hold any sort of conversation with someone who isn’t a particularly enlightened cat.

Things start to get fun every year around eight p.m. That’s when Logan becomes corporeal again, and also when he is finally able to be seen by the masses. So, as eight p.m. rolls around, Logan steps out of the stupid house he is confined to every other day of the year and begins walking.

His legs tingle like he’s been sitting cross-legged too long and now they’re coming awake again. He relishes in the feeling, even if it’s not pleasant. It’s something, and that’s a lot better than nothing. The wind batters his face and a beautifully orange leaf smack into the tacky blood pasting his hair down and sticks. He smiles, pulling it off and tossing it back to the elements. He watches as it whisks down the street in the first breeze he’s felt in a year. A few drops of rain land on his hand, so Logan tilts his head back and lets the rain sprinkle onto his face. After a year without even the slightest bit of liquid touching, the rain feels exquisite. He fights the insane urge to giggle and allows himself a few seconds of basking in the rain. Then he composes himself and continues walking. As much as he’d love to drink in all these sensations forever, he only gets twelve hours. There is so much more he wants to do before this night is over.

There is a house about four blocks away. It is more of a mansion than a house, and nobody owns it. Students from the local college flock to it every Halloween for the biggest party that anyone in the state has. Logan knows, because even back in his day it was an impressive party. The police have a long standing deal with the college students: it doesn’t get too loud and nothing gets destroyed, nobody gets arrested. This, too, has been in effect since Logan was as young as he looks. The students had, of course, been banned before, but they kept coming back. Now the truce has been in place for over two decades. Logan’s never been more happy that a law can be so casually broken.

Logan only went to a few parties in his life (nowhere near enough, if you ask him now. He loves the socialization more than anything else.) They were all good parties for the time, but now is a whole new ball game. There are amazing lights and decorations and types of food he’s never seen before. People bring their handheld cellular phones with them everywhere, and it’s a technology Logan had never imagined in his life. They contain cameras, make calls, send written messages, access the internet (something Logan wishes to high heaven that he’d had in college), and so much more that is far beyond his comprehension, given his limited time to interact with them.

Even with all of that, all the crazy things he can’t even fathom having existed before, he loves these parties. He can drink (though never get drunk), he can eat (though he is never hungry), he can talk (and be heard), and he can touch others. Logan never realized how much he took his senses for granted until they were revoked like some cosmic joke. But for now, he has them. He can stew about not having them once they’re gone again, and he’s back to being no more than a semi-famous news story and The Poltergeist of Auburn Street.

Logan walks into the party and the very first thing he does is grab a cookie. It’s a simple little pumpkin, and the gel-like icing is dripping off slightly, but it is delicious. He purposely bumps into a few people as he makes his way around the already packed room. It is not yet eight thirty, and already ‘Spooky Scary Skeletons’ is blasting from the speakers. Strangers are making out in strange places, and Logan watches them for only a moment before turning away. He hadn’t really been a fan of such things when he was alive, either, and it is one societal expectation that he does not miss at all.

Logan mingles with the warm bodies around him until nine o’clock when he sees who he’s been waiting for: Patton Foster. Behind Patton walks Roman Prince, brandishing his smile like a weapon. The last person in, loitering in the door like a vampire, is Virgil Avery. They make the most interesting trio that Logan has ever seen, none of them have anything in common, and that probably has a lot to do with why he fits in with them so well.

“Lolo!” Patton cries and throws his arms around Logan’s neck as soon as he steps into his path. “How’ve you been? What have you been doing?” Patton is easily the most genuine person that Logan has ever met. When they met in Patton’s freshman year at this very party, Logan was just sitting on the stairs, watching. Patton had asked what was wrong like he’d known just from a glance, and they’d talked, and then he’d met the other two, and they all clicked together like puzzle pieces, separated years ago by an errant creator.

Somehow, it seemed fitting that Logan would make the best friends of his life after he died.

“Good, Patton. I’ve been good. Not doing much.” Logan wiggles out of Patton’s embrace, and Patton lets go quickly.

“Not doing much?” Virgil grumbles. “Wouldn’t you have seen the whole world by now, calculator watch?” Logan has no idea what that is supposed to mean - the nickname, not the sentence. What the cherry-covered fuck was a calculator watch?

“There is a lot more to the world than places, Virgil,” Logan says. They bump fists and then Roman drapes an arm around Logan’s shoulders.

“Where did you spend this year, again?” Roman asks, eyeing the crowd like a vulture. The first year Logan had met them, at the end of the night, all three of them had been devastated to find out that Logan didn’t go to their school. He told them he was traveling; all over the world. It was why he was never here longer than a night, and it was why they never saw him on campus.

“Australia,” Logan says. This is probably not where he told them he was going last year. He doesn’t remember where he told them going, only that it was far enough away they wouldn’t try to visit.

“What’s that like, kiddo?”

“Hot, dry. A surprising amount of deadly fauna, even knowing about it beforehand,” Logan says. He doesn’t want to be questioned about a place he’s never been, so he asks, “What sorts of things have been going on for you?”

“Nothing good,” Virgil says, but he looks too happy in his skeleton costume for that to be true.

“Stormcloud passed his biology exam,” Roman proclaims, loudly, in Logan’s ear. Logan leans more into the sound and the heat.

“Barely,” Virgil says, but there’s no venom in the word.

“But you did pass,” Logan says. He pauses and adds, “I loved biology in high school. It’s a lot different in college though.” Logan can’t even begin to guess how far the field has come since his most recent knowledge of it. He had been majoring in biology; he loved the field work involved.

“That’s the spirit!” Patton says. Virgil and Roman laugh. Logan groans. A pun. A halloween pun. A Halloween pun that just so happens to hinge on the thing Logan is. How Patton manages it, Logan hasn’t found out. He may be a witch. He may be psychic and not know it. Whatever the case, he’s using his power for puns. It really is such a Patton thing to do.

“I starred in the school’s production of The Breakfast Club,” Roman says. He puffs out his chest. They reach the drink table and everyone picks up something.

“A wonderful movie,” Logan says. “I didn’t know there was a play based on it.” Roman stares at him with outright incomprehension.

“So you get my 80s movie references, but you’ve never seen an Avengers movie? Or Tangled? Or-or even something nerdy like Interstellar?”

“I have read the Marvel comics,” Logan suggests. Roman rolls his eyes, and Logan surmises that is not quite considered the same. “And I have been meaning to watch Interstellar since you told me about it last year. Though I have absolutely no clue what Tangled is supposed to be.” He grins as Roman goes off on a tangent about all things Disney. It’s endearing, if obnoxious, Logan thinks as he makes eye contact with Virgil and Patton. All three of them devolve into laughter, but Roman keeps going, undeterred.

“And Frozen! Elsa’s going to be a lesbian, and the Prince was the bad guy-that’s how you know he was never a real prince. A real prince like myself would never commit a betrayal like that! And what about The Princess and The Frog? An underrated masterpiece to be sure, but stunning! Everything about it was amazing! And there’s…” Logan’s not sure if Roman’s taken a breath since he started talking, and he’s only understanding about a third of the words he’s said.

Roman is the easiest to rile into such an impassioned state. He loves so much so fiercely that anything could set him off. Less often to see passionate is Patton. Not excited or even elated about something, but to see Patton with a bright gleam in his eye as he talks until there are no words left and you can feel his very own passion in your soul is beautiful. Least often to feel so strongly about something is Virgil. Logan has only provoked him into one passion-fueled rant (about caterpillars, of all things. Odd, but fitting.), but he is just as capable of feeling and expressing as either of the others.

Passion, Logan has found, is the heart and soul of life. Nothing quite compares to watching someone breathe life into something just from their sheer love of the subject.

But dancing comes close.

“Want to dance?” he asks, raising an eyebrow at Roman. Roman grins, takes a breath, and then extends a hand toward Patton.

“Padre? Would you do me this honor?” Patton giggles and jumps up.

“C’mon, Virge! It’ll be fun!” Patton and Roman are bouncing excitedly - in entirely different ways. Patton’s is a sort of rocking back forth from his heels to his toes over and over, as though he cannot possibly not move, even when he’s not walking. Roman’s is more of a jump, bending his knees slightly and then springing back up, so eager to get moving that he won’t wait for the time.

“I don’t know, guys.” Virgil withdraws into his hoodie slightly. Logan admires the patchwork design, something so lovingly hand-crafted that it could never really be replicated correctly. “Dancing’s not really my thing.”

“Come on, dark and stormy, nothing bad is going to happen,” Roman prods. He starts to pull closer to the other dancing people. Virgil doesn’t look completely convinced, and there’s only one thing Logan can advise here.

“Live a little,” he says, and he smiles because Patton would love the pun if he knew, and then he takes his own advice and for exactly one night, Logan lives. At the end of the night, he’ll tell his friends good-bye, regale them with ideas of the next far-off place he’s heading for, and then he’ll go back to his dilapidated house and come up with new ways to keep from going insane until next year’s Halloween party when he gets to see them all again. But until that happens, Logan won’t think about it. He takes Virgil’s hand, draws him into the crush of moving, breathing, living bodies, and they live.

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transguygardner · 4 years ago

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i read somewhere once that guy had a cat so i decided that he adopts cats that are considered overlooked by shelters (recognition of self through others) these are four of them. the dates are based on my timeline for my au but i’ve written the era he has them

sweet potato is the cat guy has with kari. she is a black and white long haired cat and she loves people and loves to be pet and brushed and has a sweet tiny meow

warehouse is the cat guy has in his late jli days and through his warrior days. he is a huge cat who loves to climb. definitely thinks of L-ron as a toy

kat is a cat that guy found outside in alley after tora broke up with him for the last time. he took her to the vet and told him she was about six and then he got her shots taken care of a got her spayed and took her back to his apartment. she’s a bit skittish and ends up living with gloria for seven years while guy is in space. (basically all of the glc/red lanterns books)

cosmic crisp is the cat guy gets after crocker turns 2. she is super kid friendly and very tolerant of being touched

#sweet potato the cat #warehouse the cat #kat the cat #cosmic crisp the cat #my art

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boombox-fuckboy · 3 years ago

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what are your absolute favorite podcasts?

Archive 81: Young archivist is hired to digitise a series of interviews made in a strange apartment building in 1994. He has a very bad time. I only really got into this at season 2 the first listen, but everyone's got a favourite season. S1 is cosmic horror/mystery, S2 is cosmic horror/body horror/weird fiction, S3 is cosmic horror/urban fantasy(?), not to mention the specials, one set in the golden age of radio and the other a literal ritual roadtrip. Amazing relisten value. It's got gore AND the power of friendship. It's got unique and well thought out sound design. It's queer. I feel normal about it. My favourite episode is E15 - Aurora, Cello.

The Far Meridian: An agoraphobic young woman wakes to find her lighthouse home has moved overnight. She uses this opportunity to search for her missing brother. Whimsical air and strange logic I can only compare to children's stories, but designed for the adult audience. Magical realism/weird fiction. Friendship, casually queer, crisp sound design. My favourite episode is 1.7 Luthier.

The Lost Cat Podcast: Man loses pieces of himself, befriends strange entities, and drinks an awful lot of wine while looking for his missing cat. Writing which balances the eerie and the kind, creative with just a hint of cliché, but in a way that makes it satisfying rather than tired. Also has the first nb pod character I encountered, as a sentimental bonus. I want to print it all out and bind it into a gilded hardback. My favourite episode is Season 3: Episode 4: Explosion.

#lmk if you want the next 25 runner up podcasts #archive 81 #the far meridian #the lost cat podcast #█████ posts

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insidious-intent · 5 years ago

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I was tagged by @mansikkaomenabanaani @bellakitse @winged-fool @befitandchase @aliencowboyswagger @queersirius @frenziedblaze @emma-arthur (I hope I listed everyone! I can’t believe this many people thought of me! Thank you everyone <3)

Rules: Answer twenty questions, then tag twenty bloggers you want to get to know better.

1. Name: Ess

2. Nickname: Inigo

3. Zodiac sign: I am the truest of the Geminis.

4. Height: 5'4

5. Languages: English, Hindi, Bengali, Urdu, Rajasthani, Punjabi, and a rapidly fading amount of French. My French speaking abilities peaked in college

6. Nationality: American

7. Favorite season: Summer!

8. Favorite flower: black calla lilies

9. Favorite scent: floral and woodsy scents are my absolute favorites

10. Favorite color: royal purple

11. Favorite animal: elephants!

12. Favorite fictional character: Arthur (Inception), Eames, Peggy Carter, Zatanna, Clark Kent, Steve Rogers, Bucky Barnes, Merlin, Wally West, Iris West-Allen, Thomas Nightingale, Peter Grant, Isobel Evans, Alex Manes, Kyle Valenti, Julia Wicker, Margo Hansen, Kady Orloff-Diaz, Penny Adiyodi, Kara Danvers, Lena Luthor, The Doctor, River Song, Donna Nobel, and the entire Rose Family, Castiel, Sherlock Holmes and Joan Watson, and my alter-ego Ted Crisp from Better Off Ted

13. Coffee, tea, or hot chocolate: CHAI.

14. Average sleep hours: 11pm - 4am.

15. Dog or cat person: Dog person forever.

16. Number of blankets you sleep with: 1-2

17. Dream trip: I want to explore Machu Picchu at night so I can summon the old gods. And I want to sit on the Swing at the End of the World and face my own mortality

18. Blog established: I was here when Mishapocalypse happened

19. Followers: more than 1000, which is kind of mind-boggling haha

20. Random fact: I love horror in all its iterations, but especially cosmic horror.

Idk who hasn’t done this yet... @chezamanda @hannah-writes @mandsangelfox @beamirang @cosmiceverafter @moderngenius94 @malex-i-never-look-away @alyseofwonderland @elliebirdthings...and really anyone who hasn’t done it yet, I’m tagging you!

#fandom meme #get to know me #inigo chats

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shadowmaat · 6 years ago

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The Curse of Ma’at’s Temple

There’s other stuff I’m supposed to be working on, but I thought I’d share this in the meanwhile. It’s self-indulgent and there isn’t a lot here yet, but it’s my take on an Obimaul Egyptology AU. Let the sassing begin!

Professor O.W. “Obi” Kenobi sat in the back of the classroom, arms folded over his chest as he listened to the man at the head of the room lecture his students about Ma’at, the Egyptian deity associated with Truth, Justice, and Cosmic Balance.

The students called him “Professor Maul” behind his back because of his harsh grading policies, but he remained popular despite that. Some people seemed to find the man attractive, which only proved the vagaries of the undergrad mind, as far as Obi was concerned. True, the Dathomiri cultural tattoos on his face were striking, but that didn’t mean the man himself was handsome. His rich voice belied his thin frame and if only he had a clue what he was talking about Obi might find him pleasant to listen to. Almost. He snorted and Professor Upress stopped mid-sentence and turned to face his audience, most of whom sat up straighter.

“You find something about the desecration of Ma’at’s temples amusing, Professor Kenobi?”

His accent became stronger when he was angry. Obi smiled, waving an idle hand at the whiteboard.

“No, no, do carry on, Khameir. This is all quite fascinating.”

There was a moment of frosty silence in which Obi was certain not a single student in the hall so much as breathed.

“If you find yourself choking again, Professor, please go see a nurse. As I was saying...”

“It’s just that if you had read a few sources outside of Budge you might be aware that-”

“I am well versed in a variety of sources including the original papyri of High Priestess Nakhmaati,” Khameir said, his vowels getting rounder. “I am also well aware of the mystic garbage you ascribe to and I assure you that it has no relevance whatsoever to what I’m teaching!”

Several of the students sitting nearest to Obi shifted in their seats, trying to put more distance between them.

“Mystic garbage?” Obi leaned forward, gripping the back of the empty seat in front of him. “If that’s what you think of it then the Old Kingdom was the wrong choice for your field of study!”

“The only wrong choice I made was not kicking you out of my classroom the moment-”

The tolling of the bell in Lucas Tower interrupted them. Obi forced himself to lean back again and could see Khameir drawing a deep breath as students bolted for the door.

“Remember to read chapters 12 and 13,” Khameir called after them, his voice once more crisp and controlled. “I want a two page essay on the role of maat in everyday life! Typed!”

Obi stood and began walking towards the lectern where his rival in the Egyptology department waited, hands clasped behind his back.

“To what do I owe the extreme displeasure of your visit?” Khameir inclined his head. An errant beam of afternoon sun caught his face, warming his brown skin and making the black hooks and jagged swirls of his tattoos seem to glow.

Not that Obi cared. Although it would be nice to know what the markings meant, just for the sake of knowledge. His fingers twitched, itching to trace those lines. As if that alone would impart understanding. He cleared his throat.

“I received a rather odd call from an old friend last night who asked me to meet him here.”

Khameir arched one elegant brow. “Here? Or did he say out in the hall, and you simply had to blunder into my room like some sort of feral cat?”

Obi grinned. “If you were hoping I’d rub against your ankles I’m afraid you’re in for yet more disappointment, Maul.”

Khameir’s gold-flecked eyes flashed as his face darkened like a storm cloud.

“I am not so deluded as to ever hope something like that, Oberon.”

It was Obi’s turn to glare. He’d managed to forget for a moment that Khameir had learned his real name. Oberon Wann Kenobi, courtesy of his Shakespeare scholar mother and his great-great grandmother’s maiden name on his father’s side. It was why he went by Obi and kept the truth a closely-guarded secret.

The door banged open, startling them both.

“Oh good, you’re both here!”

Quinlan Vos swanned into the room as if he owned it. He still had the shoulder-length dreads Obi remembered from their high school and undergrad days, but his eye-catching colorful wardrobe had been traded for a subdued gray suit.

“Quin you rascal!” Obi opened his arms for a hug only to wheeze as Quin clamped both arms around him, lifted him off the floor, and spun him around before setting him back on his feet. “How’ve you been?”

“Great, great! Can’t complain. Well, I could complain a lot, especially about these funeral duds they have me wearing but, you know, that’s the price you pay for going respectable.”

Obi laughed. “You? Respectable? Never!”

“If you’ll excuse me.” Khameir had drawn himself up to his full height, which was still shorter than Obi. “Some of us actually have work to do.” He collected his briefcase and turned to leave.

“Not so fast, Dr. Upress.” Quinlan slid into place in front of him, still smiling. “If you wouldn’t mind I could really use some input from both of you on a rather, ah, troubling matter developing in Egypt.”

“My knowledge of Egypt ends with the Middle Kingdom.” Khameir brushed past him, continuing towards the door. “I doubt I can be of any use in modern troubles.”

“The great Professor Maul admitting there’s something he doesn’t know? Will wonders never cease!”

Obi knew he should keep his mouth shut, and judging by the glare Quin shot him he agreed, but the reference to his name still stung.

“A mind as small as yours will wonder at anything,” Khameir fired back.

“We think we found the Hall of Two Truths!” Quin blurted out.

Khameir froze in place. Obi turned to stare at his friend, expecting him to laugh, but Quin’s jaw was set in a grim line.

“Is that some sort of joke?” Khameir turned, glaring at Quin. “The Hall of Two Truths is a metaphor. It’s just part of the story of judgement in the Book of the Dead.”

Obi frowned. “Quin, I know you like your pranks, but this is stretching it a bit far, even for you.”

“Does this look like a prank?” Quin pulled a folder out of his pocket and held it out to Khameir, who set down the briefcase and snatched the folder from him.

Curiosity overcame his irritation and Obi moved to stand behind Khameir, watching as he opened it to reveal a sheaf of glossy black and white photos. The first one showed the entrance to a tomb or temple. The pillars were crumbling, but the arching wings of a female figure were unmistakable.

The next photo was a close-up of a wall covered in hieroglyphs. Khameir pulled it closer and Obi leaned on his shoulder, trying to read what was written there. The lighting was terrible and the carvings had faded in places, but it appeared to be a warning against dishonesty and chaos.

“This… doesn’t prove anything,” Khameir said. He didn’t sound convinced, and as he moved on to the next picture he froze again.

Obi’s breath caught in his throat. Another set of doors. Intricately carved with the 42 Negative Confessions and locked with the Great Seal of Ma’at. Khameir flipped it over, but it was the last one in the folder. They both looked up to find Quin watching them.

“Well? Do I have your attention yet?”

“Where is the rest of it?” Khameir demanded.

“Quin, whatever this is, it’s an incredible discovery,” Obi added. “What did you find in the inner chamber?” He caught a whiff of woody resins and stale coffee and realized he was still leaning against Khameir. He took a hasty step away.

“We haven’t been able to access it,” Quin said. “The locks are… complicated, and while we considered the use of explosives-”

Obi clutched his heart and heard Khameir gasp beside him. Quin rolled his eyes.

“We considered the use of explosives, but it was deemed too risky and our radar technician seems to think that the doors are too thick for it to do much good.”

“Who is this we?” Obi asked, resisting the temptation to snatch the file from Khameir’s hands and look at the photos again. “I never thought you had any interest in archaeology.”

“If you aren’t looking for translations of the tomb’s content then why are you here?” Khameir asked.

Quin raised his hands. “I’ll be happy to answer all your questions. Just not here.”

Obi glanced at Khameir to find him looking back. They nodded. Some things were more important than personal hostilities.

“Where are we going?”

Quinlan grinned. “I know just the place…”

It was easily one of the most ridiculous stories Khameir had ever heard. A lost temple uncovered by a sandstorm, researchers dying when their hearts exploded, a mysterious creature stalking the dunes, and of course an epic pissing contest between the US and Egyptian governments over whose claim was more valid. It sounded like a tawdry adventure concocted by Hollywood and Quinlan Vos, the man who’d tried to sell them on this fantasy, hardly seemed like a reputable source. After all, he was an old friend of Kenobi’s. And if that wasn’t enough he also claimed to be an agent for a government organization Khameir had never heard of.

Kenobi, of course, swallowed it all down with a look of absolute wonder in his grey eyes. How the man had survived this long in the real world was an unending mystery. He was impulsive, gullible, and had the manners of an American. He also apparently loved the sound of his own voice and never missed an opportunity to open his mouth and blurt out whatever inane thing crossed his mind.

Students seemed to love him, which was yet more proof of the fickleness of undergrad minds. Of course they also seemed to think he was a red-head when his hair was clearly brown. Sure, maybe in certain specific lighting conditions, with the afternoon sun catching him just right and making his hair seem to glow, but- He shook his head. Why in hells was he letting his mind natter on about the damnable Kenobi when there was the far more important question of what to do next that he should be considering?

Yes, it was clear that Vos was spinning them a fantastical tale, but those photos hadn’t been faked. As much as he hated agreeing with Kenobi, the man had managed to say something intelligent: whatever this find was, it was still an incredible discovery. And they had the opportunity to go and see it in person. Vos seemed to think that between the two of them they’d be able to decipher the riddles guarding the inner chamber and gain access to whatever mysteries lay within. Assuming they hadn’t already been plundered centuries earlier. Something told him, however, that this wasn’t the case. The only downside was that Vos insisted it had to be both of them. Together.

“Why?” He’d demanded.

“I’m in.” Kenobi slapped the table. They were seated at a booth in a small diner that brought new meaning to the term “greasy spoon.”

“You are two of the greatest minds focused on Ancient Egypt right now,” Vos said. “And your particular disciplines balance you.”

Khameir frowned at that, but didn’t say anything.

“With the two of you working together I doubt there’s anything the temple can throw at you that you can’t solve.”

“Professor- I mean Khameir,” Kenobi corrected, stretching his arms across the table to grasp his hand. “I know we’ve had our differences, but this is a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity! They want to send us to Egypt! And we won’t have to worry about all the red tape and paperwork for the excavation!”

His eyes were brighter, almost more blue than grey.

“We could be the first ones to set foot in Ma’at’s temple since the days her worshipers walked the earth!”

Khameir looked down at their joined hands and carefully pulled free, heart hammering. His earliest days had been spent out in the field and his experiences had nearly killed him multiple times, but now… Maybe now it would be better. And Kenobi was right; he couldn’t pass up an opportunity like this.

“What about our- my- classes?”

Kenobi and Vos both smiled at him. He hated it.

“It’s already being handled with the administrators,” Vos said. “Substitutes are being found. And you shouldn’t be gone for much more than a week, so it won’t be too much of an interruption.”

A week? To decipher the keys to the entrance and explore whatever lay within? The prospect was daunting. And a little disheartening. Even if they did manage to find a way to the inner chamber they’d barely have time to scratch the surface! Maybe they’d at least be kept in the loop on whatever was discovered.

“I’ll have to speak to my TA, Issa, and let her know what’s happening. When would you expect us to leave?”

“Ah, right, I should call Rana and warn her as well,” Kenobi said.

“Don’t worry, they’re being notified as well,” Vos said as he paid their bill. “There are cars on the way to take you to your apartments so you can pack. Your plane leaves in two hours.”

“What?!” Khameir said, hearing Kenobi echo him.

“Move along, gentlemen.” Vos stood, gesturing towards the door. Two cars were idling outside.

“My books, my papers,” Kenobi muttered. “I can’t possibly… Quin, what the hell?”

Khameir frowned. “Why such a rush? What aren’t you telling us?”

“Tick-tock.” Vos tapped his wrist. “The more you argue with me, the less time you have to pack. See you on the plane!”

He headed for the door. Kenobi was close behind, demanding answers from his friend. Khameir followed along, happy to let him do all the talking. He was liking this situation less and less, but… not enough to refuse. Not yet.

He headed for the first car and gave the driver his address, using the ride to try and put his thoughts in order. Nothing about this situation felt right or aboveboard, least of all the supposed interest of the US government in the temple of a forgotten goddess. It wouldn’t be the first time he’d been sent into a trap, however. At least this time he’d be allowed to prepare for it. What had his old master said? Better to spring the trap than have it snap your neck?

He still had his old go bag stuffed in a corner of his closet. He swapped out a few things, added a few more, and then packed a separate bag with all of his books and notes on Ma’at with a few translation guides thrown in for good measure. Once he was sure he had everything together, he called Issa.

“A vacation? Now?”

“I know it’s inconvenient but-”

“Did someone die? Are you dying?”

The note of concern in her voice surprised him, though he realized he should have expected it. She’d all but attached herself to him when she’d been a wide-eyed freshman and once he realized she was serious he’d taken her under his wing and taught her everything he could. It wouldn’t be long before she surpassed him and struck out on her own.

“I’m fine, Issa, I promise. It’s just that a- a research opportunity has come up that I can’t resist.” The urge to tell her about it was almost overwhelming. If anyone could understand, it’d be her. “I shouldn’t be gone for more than a week. You have a copy of the syllabus, so I leave everything in your capable hands.”

“And you’re sure you aren’t dying?”

He smiled into the phone. “I’m sure.”

“Okay,” she said, still sounding unconvinced. “Be careful. And have fun, I guess.”

“I’ll try,” he said. And then some impulse made him add “Although given that I’m stuck with Kenobi for the duration, ‘fun’ may be overstating it.”

“You’re with Professor Can-bone-me?”

He blinked at the moniker and heard a sharp intake of breath followed by muted swearing.

“I’m so, so sorry, Professor,” she said. “I didn’t mean- I mean, that’s just what some of the students call him. I know you two don’t get along, uh, sorry. That must be… Wow.”

“It’s alright, Issa,” he said, still contemplating the nickname. It wasn’t one he’d heard before, but somehow it didn’t surprise him Kenobi had earned it. “I’ll expect a full report on everything when I get back, yes?”

“You’ve got it, Boss. And, uh…” An odd note crept into her voice. “Good luck with Professor Kenobi.”

“Thank you.”

He hung up, deciding not to speculate on what she’d meant by that.

#jedimindfic #obimaul #egyptology AU #unspecified time period

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