#i love these jar apparel so much

[snarling-mimic]

Grannies rejoice, dry leaves in a jar !!

[qvrcll]

a love like this

summary: the love shared between you and ellie blossoms, thuds, weakens and throbs. but never once does it die.

warnings: angst (comfort), nsfw implied in some parts, vomit mentioned, violence / alcohol / blood mentioned

a/n: had my playlist on blast whilst writing this and im 110% i rushed the end but god i love writing like this and for ellie too! enjoy :-)

Imagine Ellie fessing up the courage to confess to you; awkward, toothy and flimsy lipped, she cups her heart in her hands when she treads over the threshold of your home with nothing other than a circuitous smile twitching against her lips when another person greets her.

She preferred to be doing anything other than attending parties; Dina knew it, curtesy of their conversation a few weeks prior that hued just how much Ellie preferred the smell of coffee coloured journal pages, guitar strings, twines threaded without the heat and vigour of sweaty bodies, alcohol and the unbearable thought of returning home (“Really, Ellie, just come. You’ll have fun, I promise!”)(“I really, won’t, I promise. I’ll make it up to you… just… please?”)(“…Fine.”)

But this one was different, it always has been.

You were hosting it.

She offers a tight lipped smile to passing bodies, lets their denim and cargo and rough edged apparel scratch her fingers as she squeezes past them — (“Ellie, good to see you man!”)(“Hey, how you doing?”)

And maybe she’s in for some peace, a moment of respite. A room with windows and furniture as creaky and awkward as her. Her guitar, resting mothballed under her elbows when she rasps a breath.

And it’s different, like it always has been.

She starts to think of you — the reason for her arrival, her prior approval of even being here, in her sombre flannel and coarse converse sneakers. Your breathy laugh, the stint of your smile. It makes her heart jitter, makes her flatline and hit a curb, makes her think and think and think, until she’s not functioning manually and relying on muscle memory to guide her through the wooden walls of your house.

And it’s loud, hot and utterly chaotic — some rooms carry the smell of weed, others sex, some smell of love and others of quiet aptitude. But Ellie doesn’t stop for a greeting or invitation, not even a small gaze. She keeps at her pace, wandering like her feet had carried her a purpose all along.

It’s stupid.

I should’ve stayed home.

Why did I—

“Ellie!”

Her body is putty in seconds, molten and uncaring in their attempt to remain careless. Suddenly, she’s embarrassed, full of the emotion as she swings around and — god, have you ever looked at her with so sweet of a gaze before? It makes her throat bleed with desiccation, her hands clammy when they weren’t meant to be, clamouring for ground. But they’re disappointed and she’s anxious, swallowing harshly as she tries to remain idyllic.

“Hey, cool party,” she pauses, nearly bites her tongue whole for the absurdity of the comment, but continues when you puff a smile so large it makes her melt from the inside, “couldn’t have missed it for the life of me.”

You offer a laugh, tapping a hand against her arm in friendly fashion; it registers as a cautionary tale to the auburn haired girl, who compresses with vigour and eyeballs your palm for where it lay, splayed against her upper arm like it could burn her any moment. Her brain, however, is as quick as her and she shifts her eyes back to your own, overstrung with her ability to blotch your friendliness towards her.

God, Ellie, get it together.

“I’m so glad you came, Ellie, seriously,” she hears your voice break into blocks over the music, waning like crystal over pumice as her ears blur the line between rigour and words — but her heart is breathing, beating, creating new sounds and jitters as you press into her like you’ve known this antsy, scratchy emotion of longing as long as she has, trapped in your chest like leps. A jar of moths, disgusting and upsettingly real.

But Ellie’s brain hums a thought of conviction — get a grip.

She shifts, forcing herself to null her warmth against your touch, forcing the feeling to be as dense as the alcohol you’re nursing in your other hand, the walls that surround her as she flicks her gaze from your face to your nose, to your lips, to her shoes… but you’re light and feathery and the demiurge to all her sufferings — so she quickly begins to hate herself again, for the blush has only worsened.

She hopes you can barely see it.

And so the night progresses. You sway from person to person, but Ellie picks up on your decision to hover close to her — intentional or not, she’s brimming with crusted hope, melted itch and pinning as she tries to cram her crush on you in a box, and mentally sit on it, burn it, compile it in the deepest recesses of her mind.

But your touch, your eyes, the swing of your body and the flit of your air is like the poetry she scribbles on the forefront of her journal, like the endless lines divided into her sketches. And your words are constant, the music she creates and hitches with breaths so shallow, it begins to exhaust her.

And it becomes so real, in the moment almost everyone is filtered out of your house at midnight (except for her, sitting on the couch with a cup of juice, sodden and fresh with ripe feelings) that she’s loved you like she was your heart. And it hurts, worsens, when you take a seat beside her, materialising into the object of all her desires and travails.

“Some party that was,” your lips curl into a deviant smile, back sinking into the pillows like you need a rest. Ellie offers back a scoff, light and airy in tone. Still, she supposes this could be a million times worse — she has you, still. Hers or not, she has you.

“I enjoyed it,” a sip of her juice, “better than most other parties. So, that’s that.”

“Is that a compliment, Miss Williams?” you bite a smile, enjoying the look of faux repulsion that overwhelms her features.

“I don’t know, is it?” She asks, noting the dangerous plummet in her stomach when you rest your head on your hands, allowing your knees to bump against each other. Ellie swallows, and she hopes the action melts into the ebbing lights strewn all over the place, misplaced in the shadows you two are tucked into, bathed in the humming music that makes it way over — Slowdive, she recognises.

You perk up, craning your neck and slotting it atop her shoulder, stifling a giggle as she goes stock like cardboard underneath you — “I’d say a lot of what you do mean a lot of different things, but hey…”

Ellie is gutted. You have her wrapped around your finger.

“Example being?” She asks, her voice reverberating to you like waves against a crested coast — you alleviate your gaze, trying to read her again, trying to pry her eyes for malcontent or maybe a lapse in judgement, and Ellie has never seen you this unsure. This backtracked, this molten, and some part of her aches you feel it too, that numbing pain of loving someone to the point of insanity.

And then, your voice is like a lifeline.

“Like how you look at me.”

Her heart flatlines. Hits a curb.

“L-Like what?” She stutters, trying to find substantiality in your words, your tone, the way your eyes flicker to find hers — have you ever been afraid like this? Have you ever hesitated like this? Have you ever stared at her like this, clamouring against your insides like you’d burst?

But still, you smile, shift your gaze to the corner of the room. When Ellie reaches it, she spots discarded bottles of alcohol, piles of playing cards, a random shoe splayed against the table — it should make her laugh, but the silence is making her sick.

“Like you want to kiss me.”

Before Ellie can stomach the comment, your mouth opens again, and shuts and she noticed the sheen of sweat against your brow — “God, I don’t know why I said that. I just — I don’t know. I wish you would — maybe you don’t even want to and—“

“I do. I wanna kiss you.”

Ellie is short and sweet in all the right places and the meaning never leaves her words. She smiles when she sees you cracked with relief, burst with colour as your pinkie interlocks with hers so delicately, she might even have imagined it. But your skin is so real, so warm, it reminds her, again and again.

“Then kiss me” you murmur and Ellie flows forward, meeting you halfway with a small sigh and a heart so full it could be shared. And it’s so funny, how you sigh and lick back at her, exploring parts she’s afraid for anyone but you to see, flourishing against the curl of your fingers, the scrape of your tongue like she’s soaring.

She’s been yours for so long. She just hadn’t known you’d been hers too.

Thank god she had come to the party.

It’s different after Joel dies — she spits venom, bites her bullets and scratches against maps. Seattle, Santa Barbara. An aquarium, a camp ground, two rifles, a shot gun.

Everything is automatic when she’s dripping in blood.

She doesn’t love you any less — when she’s curled into herself, alone and beaten in a make-shift bed, she thinks of her limits, and yours too. Of pearly white picket fences, a farm so full it came lined out of a book. A home, walls papery light with paint, a ring. Dinner. Laughter, hugs, warm kisses. Swollen nights with air so hot, it suffocated her — but god, it’s you beneath her, swallowing her for what she is. Smiling at her, whispering I love you, and it’s you.

Those nights, with dreams as vivid as those, end with her pacing her room in worry. And then, immediately, a detour for your room.

And she’s red-rimmed, defeated and painted in exhaustion when you open the door — the hunt for Abby had done a number on her and as much as you’d usher her out of it, make her promise to never pick up a gun, the thought it easier said than done. And it makes you dampen with grief, how this girl you’d loved so fully had reverted to a cold body you’d hold to smooth out and clean the bruises and cuts, so she’d slit the neck of another without a thought.

Still, she’s here.

“Ellie?” You rasp, rubbing your eyes as the girl ripens in your vision. She’s ill with grief and it’s apparent in her shoulders, when she thuds into your room hesitantly and envelops you into a tight hug in the darkness. You blink, eyebrows creasing with worry, as you hold her body over the threshold.

“Ellie—“

“I’m sorry.”

The words seem so quiet and cracked around the edges, it makes your throat hurt. Makes your eyes dampen and hurt a little at the creases, and reminds you that she’s struggling against her skin too.

“It’s okay,” you whisper, guiding her back with a little step. She stifles, like she’s keeping a hold on her tears with nimble hands and craggily arms, keeping a tab on them so roughly it messes up the sewing she’s so meticulously crafted. The smell of ardour and the sting of her violence, all washing down with her tears and her fears and your warm, grounding arms.

But still, she bites her lip, professes herself to look up — “no, it’s not okay—I should—“

She’s silenced immediately when your lips take over.

She’s kissed you before, in living rooms and heated parties. At gatherings and staple lookouts. In the corner of horse stables and on that living room table neither of you love. On that couch, under the fluorescent light. And through tears, salt, scratches against her back as she worked her fingers within you, smirking against your numb lips as she had curled within you again with no vouch for relief.

But this had been different — there was no difficulty with kissing you, as it had always been. Her lips were chapped and rough and she felt awful, but you moved against her like she was made of porcelain.

How can you love me like this?

How can you kiss this broken thing?

How can I live knowing you pick up the pieces I break myself?

“Ellie—“ she hadn’t even noticed when she had begun to cry, just had known that her chest constricted with a pain so billowing, it touched, “Ellie, look at me. Look at me, please.”

She lifts her gaze, eyes red and black where they weren’t supposed to be.

“I love you. And I always have. And I will be here when you need me. Whenever you need me. God, Ellie, I just need you to come home to me,” you stifle a cough, aim to gain ground to comfort her. But it just breaks you, as you clamber against her hold and sink into her arms. It’s a funny thing, a broken thing holding something unbearably broken, but Ellie’s throat is jammed dry with nothing but small whimpers, as she holds you like air. Like relief. Like the small thought of ‘at-least I have this—have you.’

And the night washes away with grief, with glory, with your arms caging her so tightly it wanes the thought of his bloody, cracked skull away. The screams null and Ellie lets the two of you have this, this moment of peace when neither of you are aware, tangled into one another where neither of you know of the people she’d kill tomorrow, gutting them inside out for answers unspoken.

Maybe she didn’t have to know.

Loving you was enough.

But of course it wasn’t easy.

Ellie stumbles in the red-lit room when Abby, with her tight lipped anger and muscle, holds a blade to your neck.

Ellie’s head blares with the colour red, of signs screaming no, of memories where you had held her poor, beating heart in the palm of your hand.

Memories of you strewn against her bed, messy and angular with love seeping against your skin. Of your fingers and your hair. Of your eyes and that crook in your neck she’d seat her chin in forever.

Of the night you’d kissed her, 12 A.M., brown leather couch as she drifted away her fears. And the raw, smitten, scary, devotional way she had loved you, lord, the way she loved you.

“No—No, please. Please, leave her—“ she chokes, gambling with fate as she watches Abby press the blade against your skin, a tight red line forming. The image of you lifeless, spat in blood, crosses her mind and she nearly vomits against the cold, hard floor. But when Abby releases you, spitting some word about getting the hell out of here, Ellie crawls on her bones and skin to hold you against her.

She had known fear, again, that night. She had almost known loss for a second time.

After the ordeal, the two of you gather yourselves and settle into a routine on a farm house. Tommy arrives, breaking the cycle, turning Ellie against her convictions again, and it makes you scared of the day she’d leave.

Until you catch her red handed, bag in her hand, almost leaving without a word.

“Ellie? What are you doing?” you’re perplexed, heart aching with an impossibly large feeling, biting you completely. Ellie is cold, gaze vacant as she fights against your hands, your touch, crumbles your advances as you tell her to stop and come back to bed. To forget this. To remember you.

“I have to finish it,” she says, and the words come out with difficulty. You see the picture of vengeance in her but you don’t care — you curse, turn your back against her, cry into your fist as she huffs.

Why can’t you hug me?

Why can’t you come back to bed?

Why can’t we just tend to sheep in the morning?

The words are hitched in your throat, swallowed unknowingly by your tears as the threat of her abandonment becomes all too real — you question her, interrogate her. She answers, spits back. (“You were just going to leave without a word?!”)(“It’s not easy for me.”)

Eventually, the door shuts with a thud and you bite into your hand, knowing she’s left already. You read the clock, the blurry numbers of the early morning making it all worse — it all doesn’t make sense. Doesn’t seem real. Ellie’s gone, reworked your importance in her life, thrown away those memories like augmented fragments into the dirt, crushed it under a boot.

That day, you pack pack your heart away into that place.

And when Ellie treks to find Abby, to finish it, she feels regret. She feels it when she catches Abby, chokes her in the salty membrane of the sea, when she closes her eyes. Struggles against her breathing as she remembers you.

That night on the couch, a vibrant memory. Your kisses against the corner of her mouth, your hand trailing up the expanse of her back just beneath her shirt, the way your legs lingered on hers in the early morning hours. Your laughter and the stretch of your smile and you and you and you.

And she lets go — “just take him.”

The trek back home is bloodier and more bruised. She stumbles against grass and cries into her hand pathetically. She knows you like the back her hand — but she’s gone too far now. There was nothing you could’ve done to make her stay and it made her sick with spit, with vomit. She curses, biting her tongue when familiar buckwheat brushes her skin and she knows she’s home.

She threads carefully, taking that familiar route back. It’s been some time, but the smell of the place is familiar. The chickens, the sheep, the broom, the table, the fence — all sodden with memories and love. As she ambles up the steps, she crumbles against the door, her hand trembling.

Her body buzzed with nerves and a familiar feeling of sickness so deep it drowned her, until the door creaked open and you stood there, eyes wide in horror at her arrival.

You thought you’d gone mad.

She purses her lips, bites them when you near her with out-stretched hands, and then gasps when you slam a hand into her side, fall into her as you fight her to the floor.

“What the fuck, Ellie!” you screech, balancing against one knee as you force yourself to hate her. Your face is wrinkled with grief, with aimless pain, it makes Ellie scramble for something to hold onto, to press into the floor as though it would let her sink into the wooden surface as a whole — but your rage, your anger, bleeds into her as she silently chokes, weeps.

Your words are fuelled by rage, anger, but never hate. You both barely notice, even after you’d quietened to catch your breath. And a few seconds pass, where you quickly thrust your palm to calm the onslaught of tears, the strength of your heaves as you cried from between her lap. Ellie stiffens and then melts with wracking sobs, trying to calm down for your sake, tentatively touching your hands to reveal your grief for what it was, to her.

But when you open your eyes, they’re caught with the excess blood against her. The image of her new self, dragged back from the hell she sought and rejected, becomes too real — the jaunting splice of skin against her hip, the cut on her cheek, the blood against her brow, the missing chunk of fingers. Her pain, her defeat, becomes too mellow for you to swallow, and before either of you know, you gather her up in your arms so swiftly it knocks the air out of her.

And it makes Ellie weep, hard and raw, into that familiar crook of your neck, where you pick her up amongst other things.

“I’m so sorry—you were right I shouldn’t—“

“Ellie.”

She gazes up, as you scrub against her back later in the shower, gaze rubbed raw with forgiveness.

“Do you remember what I said to you on that couch at my party?”

She ponders, scratchy, wracked with tears as she chuckles lightly.

“That I looked like I wanted to kiss you?”

You nod, lathering soap against the suds of dirt. Cleanse her. Let her shine anew.

“I still think that, even after all these years, And that’s enough for me,” you grin softly, kissing the soft skin of her shoulders, holding her as she breaks against you, “You’re enough for me.”

This was enough.

You were enough for her.

But she wasn’t sure if she was enough for you.

“I wish I could give you more,” she bites the words, holding you like you’d disappear. You towel dry her hair, seat her in bed and turn off the lights, glancing into her eyes and rinsing them for vigour as you tucked a stray hair behind her ear, shifted the blanket to gain better access to hold her gingerly around her wounds.

“You want to give me more?” your words are hot on her lips, as her fingers graze your hips, “just give me yourself. I stayed in this god forsaken house because I loved you through the hurt — just let me love you,” you cradle the words, let your heart spew out in the cold open.

And Ellie shadows it with her own calloused palm, shaky, but genuine. Real. Awkward but registered in her conviction as she nods, presses her mouth again yours to reconcile the hurt, knowing she’d have this and you, evermore, even as time ambled on.

© 2023 qvrcll ! do not repost any of my works on any platform.

[dragon-central]

the jars are so cute !!! i love the candy one so much, and the fruit one! big fan of tiny apparel tbh. These feel like they can be added to any dragon without overpowering anything, but are still really unique!

and the new kep bed enemies are adorable <3

[an-old-lady]

ii love how in your sw au the way you draw atleast some of the characters (mace especially tbh) reminds me of 2d clone wars but more medieval :D

after seeing the sketch pages from one of your answers to another ask I'm also rly rly excited to at some point see your take on maul, as well as other clones! (do only the ranked clones (captain, commander, etc) have armor like knights and the regular troopers have more standard footsoldier apparel? how would one adapt the pilots? are the ships horses? are the ships ships? etc)

also rly rly rly rly love the idea of hare!jar jar binks

Yeah I definitely took inspo from the 2003 Clone Wars, and all of Tartakovsky's work honestly. Windu, I pretty much did steal the look, it was just such a good caricature of S.L.J!!!

I've been work-shopping Maul for a while now. I REALLY wanted to give him some samurai influences but the sketches just weren't working so idk.

I think the other clone troopers would have the same armor, with similar but more dresses down personal touches.

As for pilots and ships, I'll get back to you, bc it feels like an important decision.

I'm glad you like JarJar as a giant hare. I was going for folkloric. I wasn't sure how to adapt his species, but if a stranger says they like it then I feel better about it lol

[secondtolastfr]

Happy Anniversary!

It's wild to think this funky little dragon game has been around for ten whole years. The site has chilled out since this morning, haha- here are my thoughts on what we've gotten:

New NPC: Avery the Wildclaw

I love him so, so much. He's a wreck, he's overworked, he's just like me fr. I love the little details in his artwork too, especially the trophies. Not to mention the Scroll Case and the Skycat! I hope we get his little bowtie thingy as apparel later on, it's adorable.

Favorite Vista: Crystal Shop

How very aesthetic! The big chunk of amethyst (?), the little jar, the specks and bits of color- it's just nice to look at.

Favorite Scene: Cottage Garden

It looks like it came straight out of a fairytale! I love the fog in the background, the subtle and dreamy colors, the little squirrel gnome... everything just comes together so nicely here. Absolutely adorable.

Favorite Apparel: Shackled Books

I love the imagery and the lore ideas here. The fact that each end of the chain ends in a clawed hand is super neat too! Since I'm a college student, I can relate, haha. I couldn't pick just one version of the books because all four colors are super cool and I can't wait to use them on my dragons.

Favorite Familiar: Crystal Collector

The name is a little lackluster in my opinion, but the design more than makes up for it. I mean, cmon- it's a crow and a raccoon. Together! A perfect being! A little dude you would find in your trashcan! Amazing!

Bees: Bees

Bees!

Tertiary Gene: Carnivore

This was so far out of left field and I love it. I have so many ideas for pairs that use it, and I'm doing my damnest to make one particular color combination work, but I think I've found a new favorite Tertiary.

Tertiary Gene: Firebreather

I haven't messed around with Firebreather yet, but I feel like it's Smirch-adjacent with a touch of Thylacine thrown into the mix. It could be really fun I think.

Other thoughts All in all, I'm really having fun with this. I'm more excited for Flight Rising than I've been in a while, and I can't wait to see what else the devs do. I hope everyone else is having fun too!

Happy Anniversary, everyone!

[kmalexander]

The 2020 Cosmic Horror Holiday Gift Guide

The phrase “Black Friday” has a more menacing tone in 2020—especially here in the United States. Hopefully, you’re following the advice of the experts, staying home, laying low, wearing masks, and washing your hands. But a pandemic shouldn’t stop gift giving! So, once again, I took some time and assembled my List of Lists for 2020. In it, you’ll find a plethora of paraphernalia for the weird-fiction fanatic, cosmic-horror connoisseur, or mythos maniac in your life. As with previous years, I’ve worked to assemble a list of exceptional items for all ages and budgets.

There’s a few changes this year. First, I’m now linking to IndieBound for all books. Please do what you can to support your local bookshops and small businesses. Odds are they can get you anything Amazon can, and it’ll help out your community. Secondly, where possible, I’m also linking to the author’s personal webpages. Check them out. Follow them. It’s a nice way to stay current with what’s happening in the world of weird fiction. Please remember, while I’ve ordered these by price, the prices and availability are subject to change. I don’t have any control over that. Happy shopping!

 QUICK LINKS 

• Books • Music • Apparel • Games • • Housewares • Miskatonic •

Books

Mother Hydra’s Mythos Rhymes by Jarred W. Wallace $9.95 + Shipping (Paperback)

This mock children’s book features twenty-one sinister nursery rhymes twisted with a Cthulhu Mythos bent and illustrated by the incredible Heather Hudson. Also included is a complete Edward Gorey-style alphabet. Every budding cultist should learn their ABCs after all.

The Worm And His Kings by Hailey Piper $13.00 + Shipping (Paperback) $6.99 (eBook)

This arrived only a few weeks ago, and I can’t wait to dive in. Set in New York City in 1990, the story follows Monique as she hunts for her missing girlfriend. But the trail goes much deeper than she realizes, sending Monique into a subterranean world of enigmatic cultists and shadowy creatures.

The Stars Were Right by K. M. Alexander $14.00 + Shipping (Paperback) $2.99 (eBook)

I’m nearly finished with Book Four’s edits. So, if you haven’t, now is the perfect time to start reading my Bell Forging Cycle. Follow Waldo Bell as he is sent careening through the multi-level megalopolis of Lovat, fighting to clear his name as a bloodthirsty killer stalks him. It’s mystery and monsters, chases and cults, and an ancient evil in a world that is similar but not quite like our own.

RADIO by J. Rushing $15.99 + Shipping (Paperback) $3.99 (eBook)

A jazz-infused, opium-soaked, historical fantasy with a transgressive edge that explodes from the opening chapter and never relents until its final pages—a welcome addition to modern fantasy literature and weird enough that it earned a place on this list.

Murder Ballads And Other Horrific Tales by John Hornor Jacobs $16.95 + Shipping (Paperback) $7.95 (eBook)

Seems like it’s becoming a tradition to see a new book from John Hornor Jacobs on this list every year, and it’s no surprise. He’s arguably one of the best mythos writers working today. This collection of recent horror and crime short stories takes you through tales involving old gods to malevolent artificial intelligences, plus it includes the sequel to his 2011 novel, Southern Gods.

The Cipher by Kathe Koja $17.95 + Shipping (Paperback) $3.99 (eBook)

Part haunted house story, part body horror, part descent-into-madness tale all told in the style of Transgressive Literature. The Cipher is one of those stories I was shocked I hadn’t read until this year. Koja writes stunningly physical characters and knotted complex relationships that feel eerily familiar to anyone who’s spent time in artist circles. Enjoy the Fun Hole. (One of my 2020 Three Great Horror Reads for Halloween.)

The Only Good Indians by Stephen Graham Jones $26.99 + Shipping (Hardcover) $9.99 (eBook)

At its heart, this is a horror novel about growing up poor and native in western Montana. But The Only Good Indians also a novel about revenge, mistakes, and their extended consequences. I blew through it. I grew up not too far from where this novel is set, and I have yet to find a recent author that captures the behavior and actions of the people in that area quite as well as Jones. You’ll never look at elk the same way again. (One of my 2020 Three Great Horror Reads for Halloween.)

The City We Became by N. K. Jemisin $28.00 + Shipping (Hardcover) $14.99 (eBook)

The first of the Great Cities series focuses on a roiling, ancient evil that stirs beneath the streets of New York City and threatens to destroy the city. New York must go on, and it will take five protectors scattered across the boroughs coming together to stop it. An allegorical response to Lovecraft’s work and a love letter to the city.

The Dark Brotherhood and Other Pieces by H.P. Lovecraft $650.00 + Shipping (One Copy Available—Sold via AbeBooks)

This rare late-60s first edition copy from Arkham House is in fine condition with a fine dustwrapper. It also comes with an inscription by the publisher and editor of this work: “for Herb Arnold from the compiler – August Derleth.” An extremely unique find and a unique piece of weird fiction history.

No book catches your interest? Check out the books featured in one of the previous guides. • 2014 Books • 2015 Books • 2016 Books • 2017 Books • 2018 Books • 2019 Books •

Music & Audio

Tribute To H.P. Lovecraft by Epsilon Eridani Free (Digital Download)

This atmospheric and somber dark ambient album is the third project from Mexican electronic artist Juan Pablo Valle. Blending instrumental tracks, spoken words performances, and recitations of parts of Lovecraft’s stories, this tribute serves as an excellent horror soundtrack.

The Yellow Sign $6.99 (Digital Download)

While Lovecraftian music often skews towards dark ambient or metal performances, The Yellow Sign goes takes a more orchestral approach. Composer Graham Plowman has created a fantastic classical soundtrack putting this album on par with any feature film—brooding, menacing, and wonderfully enjoyable.

Beyond Madness by Aklo $9.00 (Digital Download)

Erich Zann would be jealous. Aklo, like its madness-inducing namesake, is hard to pin down. But this album captures “the beyond” in ways not often heard in modern music. Part noise, part experimental, Beyond Madness is an excellent addition to any Lovecraft fan’s collection.

Live from Stockholm by Ogham Waite $12.00 (Digital Download)

Ogham Waite, one of Innsmouth’s Deep One inhabitants, and the Amphibian Jazz Band are the mythos’ answer to the lounge stylings of early Tom Waits. Bluesy and moody, this seductively smokey album drips with saltwater. Waite’s performance and delivery are melodious as they are melodic, a great addition to mythos music.

Ambrose Bierce’s The Boarded Window $20.00 + Shipping (Vinyl)

This limited vinyl pressing of Bierce’s unsettling perspective-shifting tale is read by Anthony D. P. Mann and scored by Chris Bozzone. Cadabra Records always goes the extra mile with their products, and it’s clear from the hand-poured red and white splattered vinyl to the incredible art by Jeremy Hush.

Deities by Tortuga €22.50 ($26.68) + Shipping (Vinyl) €5.00 ($5.93) (Digital Download)

This one showed up randomly on a playlist, and I found myself intrigued. Once I listened to it, I became a fan. Tortuga is a Polish doom metal band whose work is loaded down with intricate and heavy driving riffs inspired by Lovecraft’s writings. It’s good stuff.

Not finding any music or audio that interests you? Check out one of the previous guides. • 2014 Music • 2015 Music • 2016 Music • 2017 Music • 2018 Music • 2019 Music •

Apparel

Tiki Cthulhu Embroidered Patch $9.00 + Shipping

I see many patches as I search for new cosmic horror gear throughout the year, and occasionally I find one that rises to the top. This sew-on tiki-styled Ctuhulu is 3″ x 2.5″ and was created for the 2018 H. P. Lovecraft Film Festival. If you want a mythos inspired adornment for your bag or jacket that’s a bit outside the norm, look no further.

Cthulhu Socks $18.00 + Shipping

It’s winter in the northern hemisphere, that means you need to keep your appendages warm. Also, socks-for-Christmas is a right of passage. Why not consider getting these Cthulhu Socks from PutYourSocksOn featuring tentacles up the side and an illustration of the dead and dreaming Cthulhu on the ankle.

Sourpuss Tropicthulhu Rosie Dress $29.00 + Shipping

When you are associated with the ocean, you generally get associated with the tropics regardless of where your sunken city dwells. This 40’s style Rosie Dress allows you to show your appreciation of R’lyeh’s favorite son in a subtle but delightful manner.

Amulet of Azathoth £23.95 ($34.42) + Shipping

It’s the grandpappy of the mythos deities in amulet form! Well, kinda. A representation of the nuclear chaos beyond angled space himself. This antique amulet is a little over an inch and a half long and is cold cast in a mixture of resin and brass—a stunning little pendant.

Mother & Father Statuary Set $85.00 + Free Shipping

These handmade and hand-painted resin figures of Dagon and Hydra would work perfectly as bookends or garden statues. Aged in a way to evoke feelings of lost treasure salvaged from the seafloor or perhaps a dank and forgotten chamber somewhere beneath Innsmouth. Kinda cute to boot.

Cara Mater Silvae Shub-Niggurath Woodcut Print $187.50 + Free Shipping (Limited Edition)

Liv Rainey-Smith’s fantastic woodcut work has long been a fixture in the weird lit community. This limited-edition print is done in the style of a sacred icon and features a great rendition of Shub-Niggurath, The Black Goat of the Woods with a Thousand Young, or as my readers will know her, “Cybill.”

Keeper of the Nightmare Mask $331.53 + Free Shipping (Made to Order)

Plague doctors always cut a fearsome figure in humanity’s historical memory, but what lies beneath that leather mask and shielded eyes? This custom made-to-order mask twists tentacles to form that familiar (and terrifying) plague-doctor shape adding an extra level of menace to an already menacing form.

Not finding apparel you like? Check out the apparel on one of the previous guides. • 2014 Apparel • 2015 Apparel • 2016 Apparel • 2017 Apparel • 2018 Apparel • 2019 Apparel •

Games

No Players Online Name Your Own Price (Windows/Linux)

What starts as a simple old demo of a capture-the-flag 3D shooter found on a discarded tape eventually twists and turns becoming something else entirely. I’m a sucker for the 80s glitch aesthetic, and it’s used here in masterfully unsettling ways—multiple endings, interesting game world, very much worth your time.

Kadath $5.99 (Digital Download, Early Access)

This first chapter of a first-person cosmic-horror adventure has you following the case of a World War II Nazi train that vanished only to reappear in a cave in the Himalayas 75 years later. Dripping with atmosphere and filled with brilliant puzzles, this first chapter left me excited for Kadath and wanting more.

Fate of Cthulhu $20.00 (Downloadable PDF) $35.00 + Shipping (Book + PDF)

In this tabletop roleplaying game from Fred Hicks and Evil Hat Productions, you and your friends will find yourself sent into the past on a mission to prevent the future. It’s a race against time as you try to stop the stars from being right and prevent Cthulhu’s foretold return, all before you and yours are transformed into something monstrous.

Elder Sign Dice – Blue Aether $24.99 + Shipping

Infinite Black has been making some wonderful cosmic-horror-themed gaming products for a few years. They’ve finally gotten easy enough to nab for holiday gifts. These Blue Aether Elder Sign Dice stood out to me, but they have a robust catalog making it easy to find the right gift for the dicing Lovecraft fan in your life. (Or yourself.)

Fate of the Elder Gods $63.99 + Shipping

Cults battle cults in this race to summon your ancient order’s elder god of choice! But it’s not just the other conniving worshippers and cult leaders you need to worry about, crafty investigators are on the prowl, and they’re working to subvert everyone’s goals as well. Hasten the earth’s doom in this competitive area-control game for two to four players.

Hastur $274.99 + Shipping (Two Shipments)

I’m a big fan of the Mysterious Package Company, the quality of their products always impresses. This latest journey into the realm of Hastur is no exception. Taking place over several mailings, Hastur invites the recipient into the world of the King in Yellow, the play with the same name, and the utter madness that dwells within those words.

Not finding a game you’d enjoy? Check out the games on one of the previous guides. • 2014 Games • 2015 Games • 2016 Games • 2017 Games • 2018 Games • 2019 Games •

Housewares & Collectables

Cedric’s Eatery 11oz. Mug $16.00 + Shipping

It’s cold out, and you need a new mug. Why not pick one up from Lovat’s own Cedric’s Eatery located in the entresol between Levels Three and Four. An in-between place for in-between folks. Waldo Bell’s latest hangout. Fill your mug with 11 oz. of bad coffee, your favorite tea, or something stronger. [From the pages of the Bell Forging Cycle.]

Cthulhu Clay Idol & Letter $29.80 + Free Shipping

Alternative takes on the Cthulhu idol are rare. More often than not, we see the same shape repeated over and over. Because of that, this rawer, more original piece stood out to me. It feels more realistic in many ways, reminding me of the sort of thing one would find on an archeological dig. Plus, with the attached letter, you get a little mini-experience here.

Sea Monster Shower Curtain $32.00 + Shipping

There be dragons. And there. And there. And… well, all over the place! If you love weird old sea monsters and old maps, then this curtain will be perfect for you. Decorate your shower with this fantastic curtain featuring beasts that look lifted from early Renaissance maps. 70″ x 72″. Liner recommended.

Cthulhu Lovecraft Blanket $59.99 + Shipping

As cooler air moves into the northern hemisphere, we can all celebrate the arrival of the cozy season. To stay warm, why not cuddle up beneath this cotton and acrylic Jacquard Knit blanket featuring the squatting visage of The Great Dreamer himself? He might be cold but you don’t have to be.

Anxious Blob Original Sculpture $325.00 + Shipping (Supplies are limited.)

This weird little one-off sculpture of a nervous little entity is made with polymer clay and hand-painted. The eye sits beneath a glass dome giving this piece a unique character. Who among us hasn’t wanted an anxious blob with hundreds of teeth and a single staring eye decorating our walls?

Not finding a houseware item you like? Check out the housewares from one of the previous guides. • 2016 Housewares •��2017 Housewares • 2018 Housewares • 2019 Housewares •

Miskatonic University

Miskatonic University Pennant $15.99 + Shipping

I love seeing all the different takes for Miskatonic University collegiate gear. Here you can show your support for “Ole Misk” with a felt pennant from H.P. Lovecraft Historical Society and cheer on the “mighty Miskatonic Myrmidons” to another victory. Wave that banner proudly!

Miskatonic University Real Leather Notebook $41.40 + Shipping

Journaler? Artist? Writer? Mathematician? Norwegian sea captain? Random idea generator? If you’re one of these, odds are you need a notebook. This 8″x6″ Miskatonic-themed journal features 100 sheets of thick handmade Khadda paper and is durable enough for the dig site while still being elegant enough for the classroom.

Miskatonic University Wax Seal $48.07 + Shipping

Secure your correspondence with old friends from bygones eras who seek answers using this classic and exquisite seal. It might not stop prying eyes, but at least your old colleagues will know if someone’s been tampering with their mail. (Wax sold separately.)

Miskatonic University Hockey Sweater $109.00 + Shipping (Supplies are limited.)

Every sports fan needs a jersey. Miskatonic students are no different. It’s why when I came across this Hockey Sweater from Geeky Jerseys I knew it’d be perfect for the cosmic horror student in your life. (While this one is great, I’m hoping the superior Miskatonic 2.0 sweater becomes available once again.)

Not finding any Miskatonic University gear you like? Check out the Miskatonic University items from one of the previous guides. • 2014 Miskatonic • 2015 Miskatonic • 2016 Miskatonic • 2017 Miskatonic • • 2018 Miskatonic • 2019 Miskatonic •

  Merry Christmas & Happy Holidays!

So that wraps up the seventh annual List of Lists. Let’s all keep wearing our masks, socially distancing, and washing our hands so we can all do this again next year. Big thank you to everyone who has suggested items in the past to help me pad out this list. Y’all rule. If I didn’t get to your submission, fret not. There are many more holidays ahead. I appreciate the help.

Do you have a book, game, album, or other weird fiction-related items I should feature in 2021’s Cosmic Horror Holiday Gift Guide? Leave a comment below with links to your favorite goodies for others to see, or send me an email as a potential submission for next year!

Want to stay in touch with me? Sign up for Dead Drop, my rare and elusive newsletter. Subscribers get news, previews, and notices on my books before anyone else delivered directly to their inbox. I work hard to make sure it’s not spammy and full of interesting and relevant information. Sign Up Today→

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[eyes0ny0u]

Pastel Mafia

@quagmireisadora finished Chapter 2 - FINALLY! TT ^ TT

CHAPTER 1: A ROUGH DAY

CHAPTER 2: WHEN THE GOING GETS ROUGH

Kibum sighed as he entered his apartment. Leaning against the door as he took off his shoes. He glanced at the microwave clock he could see from where he stood: 2:18 am. He's got maybe three hours before he has to get up for his part-time job at Albert's, a fancy bakery in the upper east side, at the opposite end of town. He would love nothing better than to sleep in tomorrow, but Albert's paid the best out of all his part-time jobs, and he got tips. 

Right now, he needed all the tips and extra hours he can get. His last roommate had bailed on him, leaving him with an entire two-bedroom apartment to pay. He had begged his landlord to let him pay for his half of the apartment and will get him the rest later.

Kibum remembered the call from St. John's collection department, he still owed them a portion of last month's installment. His fist clenched at the embarrassment of admitting to a total stranger he didn't even have five dollars to his name. His last one disappeared when he lost his wallet.

Kibum trudged to the tiny kitchen and pulled out the leftover Chinese from his bag, thankful that the shift manager had let him take home whatever portions were left. He popped the take out carton into the microwave and looked around his apartment, with its peeling paint and cold air - he had barely turned on the heater since winter began. He was sleeping with thick clothes on, the thermostat just above '5' at the dial. 

Kibum's eyes landed on the syllabus stuck to the fridge. The tears exhaustion couldn't squeeze from him poured at the thought that he will have to stop school. 

 God, he was tired. 

 So tired - but life didn't care. 

 Kibum wiped his cheeks. Squaring his shoulders as he pulled the warmed up Chinese and dug in. No use in indulging his tears. He didn't have enough food to drown his feelings.

  - O -  

 "Carlos Amarillo at 57, was confirmed to have passed away by his son, Gian Amarillo today. No details were given to what caused the business tycoon's sudden death. Amarillo, who was the head of the Amarillo Group conglomerate, was a noted businessman and humanitarian in the area -," Jinki tuned out the late night news, lips tightening at the praises. 

 "What a bunch of hypocrites," Taemin sneered at the TV. "Not a month ago, they wanted Amarillo's head for Hawthorne Bridge!"

 "Had they pushed a little further, they would've found proof of involvement," Minho interjected. 

 "They would have gotten paid off or threatened," Jinki said, reviewing the report on the shipment of electronics that arrived yesterday. "Or found their contact dead."

 "True," Minho agreed, swirling the scotch he had been nursing since the news started. "What do you think Junior will do?"

 Jinki leaned back, loosening his tie. He'd never worked with Gian before. All he knew about the new head of the Amarillo was that he was in the business, and he was ambitious.

 "I heard Gian was banished from the main family for running that side deal with Salazar," Jinki said, referring to a semi-prominent Mexican cartel. "So, I'm not sure if he's going to declare war or be open for business."

 "My money is on declaring war," Taemin said, slurping an oyster. "If he wants to gain the respect of his father's men, he'll be doing just that. I mean, you did when you took over the business."

 "Yeah, but Gian has a hater with his father's numero uno," Minho said, leaning over Taemin's oyster bucket to reach for the charcuterie board. "Rumor has it Vincenzo Benotti might be the old Amarillo's love child."

 "Really?" Jinki asked Minho. "I've never heard of this."

 "I'm not surprised," Minho shrugged before popping a cracker piled with pate and cheese into his mouth. "It's parlour game rumours; some drunken Amarillo lackey may have blabbed over drinks or said out of spite. You know how it is."

 Jinki turned to his computer and pulled up the file on Carlos Amarillo. Under the 'Known Associates' directory, was a picture of Vincenzo. The man had black hair and brown eyes. Just like Amarillo Sr. Being Italian that didn't mean anything. But something about the slant of the man's jaw reminded Jinki of Carlos. 

 "Minho, investigate Vincenzo," Jinki ordered. "I want to know everything. What town his ancestors were from to the brand of their favourite red wine."

 Jinki wasn't sure if he was seeing things, but it was worth investigating. Lovechild or not, Vincenzo might be vying for the top seat. Gian Amarillo could need some help with ensuring his position in the organization. His deal with Carlos Amarillo may not be as dead as he thought it was. On life support, but it looked like it could be revived. 

 He just needed to convince either Vincenzo or Gian that he would make a good ally despite the little fiasco last week. What're a few bullets between business partners? In their world, it was practically considered a nicety. 

 "By the way," Jinki suddenly remembered his pet project. "What do we have on the guy who saved my ass last week?"

- O -

 Albert's was, as usual, teeming with yuppies, grabbing their trendy breakfast before heading off to work. Kibum rang up orders as fast as he could, but his mind still on the unpaid bills he needed to take care of. Kibum glanced down the line, trying to determine how much longer the rush was going to last. With detachment, he noted the quality of apparel Albert's clientele sported and envied the financial security, all of them exuded. 

 "A croissant and a large of your medium roast, please," a woman with flawless makeup and Gucci bag said, barely looking him in the face as she pulled out a Valentino wallet. Kibum punched the order in; $15.08 for Anna. A breakfast for Anna was Kibum's meal budget for 3-days, courtesy of his employee rate at the Dong Fan Chinese restaurant.

 "An espresso please and the fruit and protein box," man in gleaming Rolex and Balenciaga briefcase ordered. His suit was probably Italian, ranging around $5,000.00 to $8,000.00, depending on the make—the leather briefcase around $2,000.00. The Rolex was at least $3,000.00. The guy's entire ensemble would have more than paid off his grandmother's hospital bill. 

 Sir, would you mind pawning me your Rolex so that I can get the hospital off my back? Kibum silently asked the yuppie who didn't bother leaving a tip. 

 "The yogurt parfait and medium-light roast, please," a red-head regular asked. The diamond engagement ring on her finger was so big; it was at least 2 carats with a platinum band encrusted with tiny diamonds. Kibum's entire year of schooling was sitting on that woman's ring finger. 

 Would you mind lending me your ring so I can enroll? Kibum asked the woman in his head as he flashed his practiced smile when she dropped a toonie in the tip jar. I would like to make more of my life than bussing tables and waiting on people. Please. 

 The next customer was dressed in a simple navy blue pinstripe suit. One could say the man didn't belong in the "fashionable" line. Working at Albert's for the past three years had taught Kibum how to size people at a glance. Gauging where they belong in the socio-economic ladder had become his weird expertise. Though the outfit was simple, borderline plain, the perfect fit of the shoulders and elegant drop of the knife-edge crease of the pants said tailored. The understated silver - most likely platinum - watch and leather loafers screamed old money.  

 "The blueberry muffin and a tall medium roast, please," the man said, handing Kibum a fifty dollar bill. 

 Kibum barely stopped an eye-roll. C'mon, dude, it's barely 8 am. Have a little sense, and don't drop a bill so large so early in the morning. "Sir, do you have a smaller bill?"

 "No change?" the man asked an eyebrow raised. 

 "Unfortunately," Kibum said with a fake apologetic smile. 

 "Keep the change then."

 "Sir, your total is $12.30," Kibum exclaimed. 

 "I don't have a smaller bill," the man said as he placed the bill on the counter and walked away.

 "Sir -," Kibum called out, but the next customer stepped in front of him. 

 Kibum punched the payment on auto-pilot and dropped the change in the tip jar, almost feeling nauseous. That was hella over the top, and somehow assholish in its extravagance. But he was thankful for the extra cash he was going to get. 

 After his shift at Albert's, Kibum rushed to the bus stop for his afternoon shift at Dong Fan. The bus was pulling away from the curb when he arrived. Kibum gritted his teeth against the frustration surging through him. He was going to be late for his shift and that meant income loss. 

 Kibum took a deep breath to stifle the string of curses rising from his chest. He took out his phone to call the restaurant but noticed he had an email from St. John's. He was tempted to ignore it but tapped on the icon anyways. 

 Kibum blinked at the message. He scrolled up again to check the sender. Yeah, there it was, St. Johns Hospital. But something was wrong because the email contained a receipt for the amount he owed the hospital.

 Confused, Kibum clicked on the phone number in the signature, brow furrowing as the call went through. After being transferred to accounting he asked about the status of his account. 

 "Your account is up to date."

 "Excuse me?"

 "Your balance was paid for in full yesterday."

 "By whom?" Kibum asked still in disbelief, afraid to believe. "I didn't make the payment," Kibum said. "No one else would make the payment."

 "Payment came in electronically from Jjinggu LLC," the agent answered. "It could be one of those angel-sponsors."

 "What's an angel-sponsor?"

 "They're anonymous individuals or organizations who will settle random accounts as part of their charity work."

 "And you don't know their names at all?"

 "No, I'm sorry. Payors are not required to identify themselves."

 "Ok... but you're sure, they made the payment against my account?"

 "Yes, sir," Kibum heard the operator's smile. "I'm one hundred percent sure, Mr. Kim." 

 "OK," Kibum whispered. "Thanks."

 "Was there anything else I can help you with?"

 "No, that's it."

 Kibum disconnected the call, reeling from the relief. Tears pricked his eyes as the weight of the debt lifted off of his chest. Kibum cupped his hands over his phone, holding it against his forehead. 

 "Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you," Kibum chanted in whispers, collapsing on the bus stop bench, trying to contain the tremors running through his body. Glad for a very long time he was alone. 

[delimeful]

cut clean from the dream (1/3)

warnings: person being treated as merchandise, mentions of murder/injury, panic, fear, crying, sharp implements, feeling trapped

A small bell’s ring echoed through the small store as the door was pushed open, the first customer of the day. 

Logan couldn’t see them from his shelf, but he heard the rapid footsteps of the shopkeep emerge right on schedule, approaching them with vigor. 

“Hello! Anything in particular I can help you with today?”

“Uh…” An uncertain voice, low in contrast to the shopkeeper's shrillness. 

Logan sighed, tuning the conversation out and turning away from the mid-morning light. The rounded bottle he was in wasn’t great for sleeping, which was a shame, seeing as being trapped as merchandise in a local potions shop was already enough of a nightmare. 

He’d love to pretend that he had no idea how this had happened, but what it really came down to was his own foolishness. It had only taken investigating the bag of a hitchhiker who came back earlier than expected, and his habit of trying to glean knowledge from humans got him well and truly captured, passed from hand to hand in sales until he wound up here. Far from home, and everything he’d ever known, and Patton.

His gossamer butterfly wings fluttered, agitated, and he sat back up. There was really no point trying to get back to sleep with such thoughts hammering against his skull, and the shopkeep was busy jumping around the store with loud, heavy steps anyways. He rested his chin on his hand to watch the man go by, figuring he could at least see what this new customer looked like. 

He didn’t expect the two humans to stop right in front of him. He stiffened, suddenly straining to hear the words properly through the glass. 

“-have any stock left of severed wings, unfortunately, our next order comes in around three or four days. However, as you can see here, we do have a fairy with wings intact! It’ll be a little pricier, obviously, but I can give you a discount for the trouble!” 

The customer was a tall, skinny figure draped in black from his cloak-like apparel to his makeup, staring at Logan with dark purple eyes. Definitely a witch, going by the sigil tattoos along the patches of visible exposed skin. Logan narrowed his eyes back at him, trying to look like trouble. It’d be much easier to just come back after a few days than deal with the delicate process of shredding the wings from a fairy. The witch dragged his gaze over to the shopkeep, looking exhausted. 

“I don’t need a whole fairy. You seriously don’t have any wings in stock? Like, in the back or anything?” He asked, looking already resigned to the answer. 

“Afraid not, that is a rather rare ingredient with the elusiveness of fairies.” The shopkeep hummed. “Is this a budget thing? If you’re willing to wait a few hours, I can call in our alchemist and have him harvest this fairy and get you just the wings for a lower price.” 

Logan felt the color drain from his face, hopes shattered. He looked away from the human’s piercing gaze, trying to keep the dizzying panic from overwhelming him. He’d heard the stories. He’d known it would turn out this way since he got captured. It wasn’t a surprise, just an unpleasant eventuality.   

“Ugh.” The witch pinched the bridge of his nose with a sigh. “Just… I’ll take the fairy.” 

“Excellent!” The shopkeep clapped cheerily as Logan’s stomach dropped. He whisked the glass bottle off the shelf, hurrying over to the register and leaving Logan sprawled on the clear bottom of it, watching the ground below whiz by. He grimaced as the bottle was set down, shoving against the glass wall to prop himself back up and scoop his glasses up off the bottom of the bottle. 

The transaction took place over his head, and then long fingers wrapped around the glass, and he was lifted up again, slower this time. The bottle was carefully tucked into a pocket of the cloak, and everything went dark and muffled. For a while, Logan’s world was reduced to the small gap of light and noise from the pocket opening, swaying with the momentum of the human’s steps. 

He pressed up against the lid of the bottle despite knowing it was futile. The enchantment on it held strong, and would remain that way until it was opened from the outside by his new captor. He’d only have one chance at escape. He’d have to use it wisely. 

The noise overhead died down, and a door thudded closed. There was some muffled conversation, another door, and then finally quiet. Logan braced himself just in time for the hand to grab the neck of the bottle, pulling him back into the light. 

Even after the darkness of the pocket, the room wasn’t blinding. It seemed dimly lit, heavy black curtains over the windows and halloween-themed fairy lights strung on the walls. Logan blinked. It was still the summer months, was it not?

His attention was drawn back to the witch as he set the bottle on his desk, sighing as he sat heavily on the chair in front of it. Logan refused to flinch as he leaned in to look at the bottle, face warped oddly by the glass. The witch scrubbed his hands through his hair and sighed again, pulling a piece of wide parchment out and scrawling a sigil on it with a red ink pen that smelled suspiciously of iron. 

A moment later, Logan’s prison was finally being opened, and he stumbled as the jar was tilted on its side, opening resting on the human’s palm. He seized the opportunity, kicking off the glass wall to propel himself out of the jar into fresh air. 

A second after he flitted out, there was a sudden yank on his leg, and he found himself dragged down to the desk below by a shackle made of thick, shadowy magic. 

“Yeah, thought that might happen.” The witch said, voice resonating through Logan now that he wasn’t hearing it from behind a wall of glass. The shackle finished retracting back to the sigil, leaving him pinned down by his leg, and the witch pushed him over with a finger. Logan had the sense to flare his wings out so they wouldn’t get crumpled painfully beneath him, but this left him flat on his back and vulnerable. He shuddered, wings slapping against the wood ineffectively. 

Above him, the witch was casually pulling some kind of tool from a drawer, and Logan felt a flare of irritation break through his fear. He opened his mouth before he could think better of it. “You could not just wait for three measly days? Truly?   

The witch paused, looking down at him with a raised eyebrow. Logan refused to cower, even when the witch leaned his elbows on the desk, arms bracketing either side of him. He glared back despite the chills running down his spine, and the witch snorted.

“Big attitude for someone so small.” He muttered, but he looked tiredly amused rather than angry. “I can’t wait three days, actually, because this project is due in two.”  

Great. A procrastinating student was going to be the one to kill him, after trying to learn was what got him into this mess in the first place. He let his head thunk back down onto the desk, eyes stinging with frustrated tears.

“Tell me you at least know how to… how to harvest my wings.” Logan said, bile rising in his throat. He forced himself to keep speaking, his voice coming out sharp. “If I have to spend my last living moments watching an amateur mangle my body, I will be very unhappy.”  

“Hey, I’m no amateur. I wouldn’t have bought a whole goddamn fairy if I didn’t know how to...” He gestured vaguely. “You know.” 

“Reassuring.” Logan responded dryly, and the witch gave him a half-hearted glare before pulling out a few metallic square rocks. 

Weights, Logan realized as they were placed at the outer corners of his wings, pinning them down so that they couldn’t move. His wingspan was large enough that he couldn’t reach the weights with his hands, and his breathing began to speed up as he instinctively tried to pull his wings free, to no avail. After this, he wouldn’t ever move them again. He suddenly wished fervently that he’d gotten more than that brief heartbeat of freedom outside the jar, that he’d at least been able to fly more than a few inches, even if escape was futile. 

Movement above him caught his eye, and he realized that the witch was staring down at him with a strange expression, with a sharp metal tool in one hand. He stared at it for a moment, and then decided that he didn’t want to watch himself be taken apart, actually, and closed his eyes, swallowing heavily. 

Despite knowing logically that being captured meant he was going to die, being faced with his own imminent mortality still made some primal part of him feel panicked and fearful. Patton would be proud of him, admitting that he did feel things after all. 

Oh, stars, Patton. Logan had vanished without even telling him where he was going. The bubbly sprite would never even know what happened to him. He hoped desperately that Patton wouldn’t search for him, wouldn’t get himself in trouble because of Logan’s own foolishness. The pressure behind his eyes finally broke, chest shuddering with barely restrained sobs as his cheeks went wet with tears. And why shouldn’t he cry? What was the point of pride when he’d never get to see the stars or his home or Patton ever again? 

“Oh man.” There was a long groan from above him. “Ugh, I can’t do this.” 

Logan blinked his eyes open in surprise, squinting through the blurriness of his tears at the human. “What?” He said, voice thick. 

Surprisingly, the witch was not hovering over him menacingly with the tool as he’d imagined. Instead, he was slumped back against his chair, rubbing at his eyes and smearing his eyeliner even further. “I’m gonna fail so hard. What kind of witch can’t even kill a fairy?” 

“Are you- what?” Logan repeated, still trying to catch up to the implications of his words. The witch sighed, and then leaned down, smudging a thumb over the ink of the sigil and breaking its circle. The shackle dissipated into dark smoke, and Logan stared up at him. 

“Are you… not going to kill me?” He asked, voice tinged with disbelief. The witch cringed. 

“Nope. I’ve decided fuck this actually, ‘this’ being my life.” He raised a hand and Logan flinched back, anticipating being crushed, but all the witch did was carefully pluck the weights off of his wings. 

Before he could change his mind, Logan scrambled to his feet, wings aflutter. The witch ignored him for the most part as he took to the air, turning to his desk and clearing it off, occasionally glancing at Logan as though worried the fairy was going to dive-bomb him. It didn’t seem like the witch wanted to re-capture him at all. Logan hovered lower cautiously.

“You needed to do this for your project. What… changed your mind?” He asked. Clearly, he hadn’t learned his lesson about curiosity, but this human was a strange one.

The witch huffed. “What changed my mind is that according to textbooks, fairies are insectoids with no true sentience, only able to mimic human emotions.” He looked sardonically at Logan. “Does that seem true to you?” 

“Ah.” Logan said, getting it. “So, because you believe me to be sentient, you’re… letting me go?” 

“Yeah, that’s the long and short of it. I know what real terror looks like, and you weren’t ‘mimicking’ anything. I’m not going to kill a person, no matter how shitty a witch that makes me.” He finished, wiping some dust from his desk before walking to the window and pulling the drapes open. 

The warm light of a setting sun poured into the room, and Logan watched as the witch unlatched and then opened his window. “There you go.” He said, and stepped back.

Logan landed on the windowsill, staring at the unfamiliar silhouettes of the buildings around him. He spread his wings out fully and focused on home, on the tug of magic in his core that would guide him back.   

Nothing. 

He tried again, feeling tears of frustration threatening at the corner of his eyes when his magic remained frustratingly non-responsive. 

“Uh, you good?” The witch asked, making him jump in surprise. He had to stop letting his guard down around this stranger.

“No.” Logan responded shortly. “I cannot access my homing magic, and without it I fear I shall not be able to find my way back without being captured again or becoming terribly lost.” 

“You can’t access it, huh… Could I, uh… could you show me your wrists?” The witch asked, holding out a hand hesitantly. Logan tilted his head, wary. 

“How do I know you won’t simply trap me again?” 

The witch rubbed at the back of his neck with his free hand. “Okay, I’m not trying to be, like… a jerk. But if I wanted to hurt you or keep you trapped, I would have just done it back when I had you pinned to a table. There’s literally no reason for me to let you go only to con you back into containment.” 

“Hm. That is true.” Logan admitted, and flew up to the witch’s hand without fanfare, standing on the edge of his palm. The witch blinked, startled, and Logan presented a hand with an eyebrow raised impatiently. 

“Right.” The witch muttered, and leaned in close enough that Logan could have reached out to touch his face. He focused on not being nervous, though it was hard with those eyes locked so intently on him. They seemed to be almost glowing?

The witch retracted, nodding to himself. “Yeah, you’ve got sealing magic on you. It’s human magework, pretty subtle stuff.” 

“Can you remove it?” Logan asked immediately, and the witch snorted, jostling him slightly.

“I’m a student, a failing one at that.” The witch bit his lip as Logan’s expression fell. “But I can probably get my hands on some book about sealing magic.” 

Logan eyed him suspiciously. “Why would you?” 

“Because I want you out of my hair?” The human tried. 

“I am not in your hair.” Logan answered, unimpressed with the nonsensical response. The witch sighed. 

“How about a deal. You teach me about fairies and their real culture, not the garbage they put in the textbooks, and I’ll help you figure out the basics of human magecraft. Figuring out the sealing magic is out of my depth, though, so you’ll have to tackle that yourself.” 

Logan thought the terms through before answering, but there wasn’t much to think on. It was everything he could have wanted, though the human couldn’t have known it. He just had to be careful about what he revealed in case this witch truly was malicious. “Deal.” 

“Great.” The witch said, offering his other hand to Logan to shake. “I’m Virgil.” 

Logan clasped a hand on Virgil’s fingertip, shaking it once firmly. Virgil’s lip twitched at the movement.  

“Logan. When can we get started?” He asked, rising to hover in the air once more. 

Virgil’s lips twisted up into a half-smile, and he pulled a worn textbook from the shelf above his desk. “Why not now?”

Logan couldn’t help but return the sentiment, his glow already brightening at the sight of a new source of knowledge. 

Despite the rocky start, it seemed to be the beginning of a promising partnership.

[anciientboosh]

My prompts are typically garbage, but here’s one anyway if you’d like! Vince feels like he’s running through his fancy shampoo more quickly than he should. He doesn’t know where it’s going until he notices Howard walking around with newly luxuriant curls. And his outfit isn’t as terrible as usual. What’s going on??

Hello friend! Thank you so much for helping me keep entertained on my travels! Here is a lovely soft and sweet ficlet for you, I hope you enjoy!

Something is amiss.

Which, by its very nature, is something Vince has come to expect of his daily life. Arguably it would be more unusual for everything to be running smoothly around here. 

But the contextual clues of the past few days are adding up to some very bad juju. 

It starts with a rapidly depleting bottle of shampoo. To most, not the kind of thing that would even click as suspicious, but this is Vince Noir's shampoo. A concoction of fruit scented hair Potion that costs him most of his monthly pay packet to supply himself with; and thus, something he ensures he uses stringently. 

Vince knows exactly how long it takes him to get through one bottle. It's frankly one of the precious few things in his existence he manages to be anal-retentive about. 

So, of course, when he reaches for the bottle nine days into a twenty-one day cycle and finds the weight of it considerably lighter than it should be. It is the first step down a path of suspicion that can only lead to terrible things. 

The next piece of this wet jigsaw puzzle comes with Howard's altered appearance. 

It isn't even what most would consider a large difference. But to Vince it's like the man had shaved his head and begun wearing neon leg-warmers and tank tops and calling himself Moonbeam. Its jarring, and obvious. 

Howard's curls are styled. 

He notices one lazy Sunday morning as the older man potters about the kitchen sorting them some breakfast. Usually, Howard's shampoo was cheap and bought in bulk and basically, left his hair sort of-- in the nicest way possible-- horrifically unstylable. The brown ringlets often had a mind of their own, and at this length, never looked washed anyway so Howard never took the trouble. 

But on this Sunday morning? They're radiant. Catching the soft morning light. Curled delicately round his ears and dipping over his forehead. Vince all at once wants to sink his fingers into them and pull but he can't-- not least because they may be at a place where affection is coming naturally and sometimes they might kiss each other or share a cheeky touch… they still haven't actually said what they are yet-- because his suspicion just ramped up another level. 

Was Howard using his shampoo? 

There isn't even the chance to ask. He's too soon distracted by a crimp and a delicious meal that his hyperactive brain loses the will to hold on to such things as paranoia and worry. It can be tackled later. 

Later happens the following morning when Vince is watching Howard dress. Not in a creepy way, they share a bedroom for God's sake, but in a soft affectionate way. After being brave enough to slide under Vince's sheets this morning and press kisses to his cheeks and forehead Howard is vibrating with proud energy and its nice to witness. 

Right up until he pull a shirt from his wardrobe and ruins it. 

It's not patterned. It's not even a horrific colour. It's just a plain, quite stylish, button down that Vince remembers buying him years ago in the hopes of kick-starting a wardrobe revamp. 

Except watching him pull it on now does nothing but make him feel disoriented. 

Howard smiles at him, practically skips his way from the bedroom. Vince stays where he is just a moment longer, mentally trying to force the misshapen pieces of this conundrum together before the only logical solution springs at him from nowhere. 

Howard's been replaced by aliens. 

Armed with this knowledge, Vince for goes dressing properly in order to rush downstairs to the shop and confront their intruder. Pyjamas isn't ideal alien fighting apparel but needs must when you've got to rescue your best friend. 

And as if it couldn't get any worse, what he sees has him stumbling down the last few steps ungracefully. 

Howard is at the counter as expected. But in front of him sits a white paper bag that would normally set Vince off like an excited puppy. Topman. Howard's reaching into a bag from Topman. 

He's pulling out jeans. Actual denim. Jeans. 

It's the straw that breaks Vince's back. 

"Alright, you fashionable freak," He cries, Iwad jolts with his shock and drops the denim to the shop floor. "What've you done with my Howard?" 

"Wha-- your Howard?" 

"I swear if you've hurt 'im I'll kick your teeth in," The threat is enough to have maybe Howard's hands hooting up in a display of his innocence. "Then I'll get my shaman mate to curse you!" 

"Vince, you've gone wrong." Howard's hands drop to his sides once more. Apparently no longer threatened by Vince's over display of anger. "It's me, I'm Howard."

"No you're not."

"Yes. I am."

"Howard doesn't use my shampoo!" With the renewed annoyance of this accusation, Vince takes a solid step forward; a smug sense of pleasure twists in his gut to see the imposter take one back in response. His back hits the shelves with a noisy thud. "He reckons it's like washin' his hair with fruit juice. And my Howard wouldn't be caught dead in Topman-- he definitely wouldn't buy jeans. If he tried to put jeans on he'd dissolve into a puddle of beige fabric." The whole rant is rounded off with Vince stamping his foot like an angry toddler. "So tell me where he is."

Amusement is twisting on Howard's features, soft in its nature and endlessly affectionate. "You daft tart," He utters warmly. "It is me."

"Prove it, then."

"Remember when we were 14 and I caught you with that poster of--"

"Alright!" Where Vince's arms had previously been crossed over his chest defiantly, he now reaches out to shove gently at Howard's larger frame in warning. "Alright, you said you'd never bring that up again."

Howard shrugs casually at him; cocks a brow as if silently asking him what else he was supposed to do. Vince isn't dwelling on that, though, he is much too preoccupied seeking out answers to this bizarre few days of Howard transformation. "What's goin' on then?" 

The panic may have left Vince's frame but it creeps up Howard's now. His shoulders tense, his eyes dart away, the soft curves of his cheeks turn pink with his embarrassment. All it does is add to Vince's gathering confusion. "Howard?" 

With a deep breath-- all his bravery existing in that one action-- Howard admits, "I thought it would help." No further elaboration comes until Vince makes a point to cock his head to the side like a curious puppy. "With us. You know, our-- you like a certain look."

"What?" Vince exclaims on a laugh. 

"I've seen your type, Vince, and it's not me, is it?" Howard still hasn't looked at him. Prefers muttering his truth to the floor. "I thought if I looked more like the people you normally fancy we might be able to--" 

"You idiot." Vince declares confidently. Startled, Howard stares up at him with wide eyes. "Utter lunatic, are you insane? Howard I fancy you not the clothes you wear."

Howard continues to do nothing but blink owlishly at him. 

"Bloody hell, all of this was for me?" A nod. "Oh, Howard. Look I think your fashion sense is rubbish but it's yours. That's who you are, I'm not gonna change you. I don't want to, and I don't want you to want to change yourself either."

"Really?" 

"Really." Vince takes a confident step forward, tosses his arms around Howard shoulders. "Can't promise I won't make fun of how you dress but that doesn't mean I actually want you to be different. Whatever gave you that idea?" 

"Well all the jokes but," Howard hesitates over his answer, eyes flashing with discomfort. "But when I asked Leroy he said--" 

"Leroy?" Vince rolls his eyes. "Don't be taking dating advice from Leroy, that man had an affair with a succulent once."

Howard snickers; finds it in himself to wrap his hands about Vince's waist and tug him into an embrace. "Does this mean that we're...?"

"Boyfriends? Sure. But only if you go and take this mess off and put something normal on for God's sake."

"Fine. Drama queen." With an affectionate peck to his forehead, Howard starts for the stairs. 

"Oh and Howard?" Vince calls sweetly, Howard paused at the bottom step. "You ever use my shampoo again and you can kiss goodbye to your rare jazz collection."

[anitabrain]

sometimes i forget i was once a little girl. or more precisely, i forget that i am not still a little girl who simply escaped to a different life. When i think about my life in LA it feels like im remembering scenes from a dream i had several years ago, or a tv show i used to watch every day. its a detachment, from the characters, the setting, the plot. Its all just there and I am here. even when i remember myself there i am here. I was always here I think. everything before the last three years feels alien to me. I think my life really began when I switched into apparel. it sounds corny and maybe shallow and silly but I think it might have been the first time i made a decision that made me feel real. because when i think about the years it only settles my stomach from that point on, everything before is that hazy dream that feels vaguely belonging to someone else. i think it was a slow build, every inch farther from my life i crawled, another unsettling gauzy layer was ripped away. is this memory? this year was the year i learned what music and films were and understood them for the first time. books i learned about a long, long time ago. tv and random shitty movies and generic music was padding , it was what people did. they stared at it and disappeared, so i did too. but this year i learned how they can be beautiful, how they can touch you. this year i learned how to be touched. its still a little jarring even from someone i adore , i forget that im here. that im solid. that someone would want to touch me. i never really hug or touch except in greeting or a light tap or when invited to. i often dont know how to respond when someone does it to me. but i love it, dont get me wrong, i love it, i love it. being touched makes me feel unrepulsive and maybe beautiful. i feel high everytime i kiss someone i like, i cant believe its real i cant believe its real. i think maybe thats why i woke up thinking about the last man i loved today. he didnt love me back, but by the end, I think he had some affection for me. he was addicted to touch. as soon as he walked into my apartment hed squeeze me and put his tongue down my throat and his hands up my shirt. when we’d watch movies he’d lie down on top me and nuzzle into my chest or my neck and slip a hand wherever he felt like when he got bored. in bed we’d hold each other for hours, sometimes id hold him all night, he let me kiss his back and his neck and run my fingers through his hair. one night i kept waking up because he was fondling me the entire night through. it might have even been in his sleep.. it made me nothing. a blissful mist , a fuzzy weightless nothing. when he left i could still feel him all over me. i didnt care that he made me stink like cigarettes and sweat and burnt clothes and hair or that he was emotionally volatile and spoke in weird confusing sentence fragments or constantly drunk ringing my phone at 3am or his fixation on public sex like making me call lyfts back and forth from our houses just so i could suck his dick in the backseat or that i had to suck his dick SO MUCH for SO LONG and always had swollen tonsils that i had rinse w apple cider vinegar and saline for a week after he left my house. i was so in love with him, i still am. maybe i always will be. he never was, and 4 months after i ended things cuz he didnt love me he was fully dating someone else. i think maybe he hates me. i love him forever i think. i want to text him today, im scared he’d say something mean. i have his phone number memorized from deleting it so many times. i wont, because i know he doesnt want me to, and still id do absolutely anything he asked

[listlessdragon]

@mewrising​

So much pretty blue!!!!

Ok right off the bat we have one of my favorite breed/gene combos with a poi/tox M pose fae. Lovely matching eyes and apparel! Very stylish and not overwhelming. I haven’t played with savannah much but it does lovely things for the crest! I also LOVE the little pixel bell jar in his bio! I gotta get me some of those. 

Look at this beauty!! The little gold accents in petals are delightful and the glimmer keeps the sparkle that bee starts going. The apparel adds character without covering anything important. Fascinating lore!

That’s a cool color combo!! The peacock blends so well! I love when people get clever with piebald/paint. The skink does something similar too. Very splash-ey vibe. I wanna go down a waterslide with him. 

Another awesome use of peacock and color coordination! 

Special mention for being so so so blue!! :D

[dandelionflower]

Felix Month

Day 23: Sweet Victory

“Felix, in order for you and your brother to maintain top modeling shape, we are removing all sweets from your diet.”

Felix shared a glance with Pollen, a message traveling between them. Never take a bee’s nectar.

Day one of the ban on sweets:

Felix pulled Marinette aside in class, explaining to her his and Adrien’s predicament. He then talked to her about a couple plans that could be used to reverse it.

She nodded and left with Felix and Adrien’s jackets. Felix left with twelve cookies and a jar of honey candy for lunch. Adrien was going to flip.

Day two of the ban:

Marinette met Felix before class, handing him and Adrien their jackets, with hidden pockets filled to the brim with all types of treats from the bakery.

Adrien looked like he may cry. The boy practically thrives off of sugar during tough modeling assignments and schoolwork.

Felix shook hands with Marinette, this should work well.

Day four:

They were caught. It worked fairly well, Marinette would bring in sweets for Felix and Adrien to smuggle back into the mansion and eat when they pleased.

He didn’t count on Nathalie going through their room and confiscating their jackets and cookies. It became clear that they could not thrive by smuggling cookies. They would have to break Nathalie.

Day seven:

Nothing was working. They had tried everything, as far as mailing cookies to her. Nathalie stood firm.

“I’m sorry Felix, but it’s what’s necessary for the company.”

He visited Marinette’s with Adrien during their free time. In between gourging themselves on everything they got their hands on, Felix explained his situation.

“Hmm,” Marinette set another tray of cookies down. “It sounds like you’re being too subtle, you need something big.” Suddenly a devious grin crawled onto her face. “Give me five days. You’ll get your sugar back. It’s a Marinette guarantee.”

Adrien swallowed. “I hope so, because Nathalie’s sure to notice how much time we’re spending here.”

The smile only grew. “Trust me.”

Day twelve:

This was it, if Nathalie didn’t break now, they were doomed. They had been working on this for days, but there were only so many classes one can feign a group project for.

Adrien lowered the makeshift lifts. Marinette and Nino were waiting below with boxes upon boxes of cookies. True, some were fake and others were stale, but when Nathalie woke up to every known surface covered in cookie, she would be certain to lift the ban.

After the last box came up, Nino and Marinette were pulled up. “We are so lucky it’s not a school night.”

“Dude,” Nino adjusted his glasses, “are you sure this’ll be okay?”

“I hope so dude.” Adrien bumped his fist. “Because if it’s not, we’re doomed.”

“Excuse me?” Felix snapped his fingers. “We have a limited amount of time to make that happen, correct? So let’s begin. Marinette, you go with Adrien, he’ll show you where to go. Nino, you’re with me. Twenty boxes, four hours.”

Heaven help them.

“Dude, dude, dude.” Nino turned to him as Marinette and Adrien left. “Why’d you let her go with him? She likes him! You’re losing your chance.”

“I’m well aware that Marinette harbors affections for my brother. My chance went out the window the minute she fell for him. I just have to be a good friend and support her.”

“Dude. That’s…”

“I’m quite aware of what it is, just pick up a box and let’s get going.”

It took a little time to get Nino off of Felix’s love life, but when it was done, they worked quickly and in silence.

They were interrupted by a giggle. “Wow, the kitchens were so… amazing. But shouldn’t we be getting back to work?”

“In a sec, I want to make sure that one of my best friends gets a tour of the place.”

Felix sighed.

“You okay dude?”

“Of course, we may want to work faster, though, to make up for their… antics.”

“You got it.”

Day thirteen:

“Dude.”

“Agreed.”

They were laying face down on the floor, empty boxes surrounding them.

“This better work, man.”

“I can only pray.”

“You can do more than that.” Marinette walked into the room. “You can put on these clothes and be ready to snack on cookies the moment Nathalie comes in.”

“Sorry we weren’t really helping, Fe.” Adrien came in, decked in cookie themed everything. “But Marinette had a great idea so I wanted to help her.”

“It’s quite alright, Adrien.” Felix accepted the clothes from Marinette and went into the bathroom to change. He had to say, Marinette did wonderfully on the apparel. A tie with miniature cookies on them, a vest with cake patterns, slacks with ice cream. Granted, it wasn’t his usual style, but he could make an exception.

He walked out and instantly began stacking boxes. “We need to get these boxes and you two out of here. Nathalie will be here in about ten minutes.”

“Got it.”

“Sure.”

Nino slid over to him. “Did you see that? Mari was totally blushing! You may still have a chance after all, dude.”

“Just start stacking boxes.”

“No prob, bro.”

They had just finished hiding the lifts when Nathalie came in. Felix grabbed a cookie and threw another to Adrien. “Greetings, Nathalie.”

“How. On. Earth. Did you manage this?” Her hair was disheveled and her cheeks were red. Excellent.

“I’m sure I don’t know what you mean, Nathalie. But I suppose you might mean our apparel.” He gestured to them. “In which case, I ask again. Will you give us back our sweets?”

“Yes! Yes! Anything! Just put your usual clothes back on and get rid out the cookies! So many cookies.” She was in her knees, now, begging.

“Nathalie, please. Some composure, if you don’t mind. We have maids who, for a slight raise, would be more than willing to tidy up. We shall change back to our usual clothes, now that we may eat what we wish.”

She stood up and pulled back her hair. “Yes, thank you boys. Your ride to school will be here in about thirty minutes. Try to be prepared before then.”

“Of course.”

When the door closed Felix gave Adrien a high five. “Nothing is sweeter than victory.”

“Definitely.”

But, thinking back, there might have been one thing sweeter than victory.

“Mari was totally blushing!”

Felix hid his rapidly reddening cheeks with another bite of cookie.

[astrozones]

Sanders Behavioral Health, Chapter 1: Virgil Starts Freaking Out More Than Usual

Trigger warning: mental health stuff. Major mental health stuff. For the whole fic.

Group Therapy AU. Prinxiety and Logicality eventually.

Three hours.

Three goddamn hours of his life dedicated to therapy. Every. Single. Day.

Except weekends. At least he still had his weekends.

When his father had told him of the “amazing” news, Virgil was seriously rethinking going back to his old family.

Coming from an abusive home to a place where others cared about him was jarring, to say the least. Parts of it he adored. Not being punished for coming home a couple minutes late? He couldn’t say he wasn’t grateful. But since his time at his new family’s house, he had been diagnosed with anxiety, depression, and a hint of OCD. And when his parents put him in therapy for the first time, he found it dull, but a good escape from his bad thoughts.

But when his therapist suggested Sanders Behavioral Health, he was apprehensive. Even more so when she told him that three hours of his day would be dedicated to working on his anxiety. His social anxiety, mostly. Virgil had stared at her in disgust, why would he ever want to go there? Why would he want to go somewhere that would give him more anxiety, on purpose, rather than stay at home scrolling through YouTube?

He was even more disgusted when his adoptive father had happily agreed to look into it.

Yes, Virgil wanted to get better. God, he wanted to get better so bad, to be away from the thoughts that plagued his mind. That’s what he told himself, at least.

Maybe he didn’t want to get better. Maybe he wanted to stay in his room all day because that was what he was used to. He was content at this stage, and so what if he was destroying his future and the potential for happiness? He was here now and he was content, wasn’t that good enough?

He would never say that to his therapist. If he did, she would tell his dad, who would in turn tell his mom, and they’d worry about him more. If this was the life he had to live, then so be it.

So here he was, in the lobby room of the building he had dreaded coming to since they made the first call to get him into this institute. He hunched over in his hoodie, idly scrolling through his phone, trying to collect his thoughts. What if he made a mistake? What if it turned out he had been faking it this whole time and they got mad? What if he did something embarrassing? Oh, god, what if they hated him? What if-

The lobby door slammed open. Virgil jumped in his seat, his father gently putting a hand on his shoulder. In stepped a boy that looked just about the same age as himself. Oh, for the love of-

“I HAVE REETUUURNED~,” the boy sung, arms spread as wide as he could with a binder in his hands. “No need to fear, your Prince is here!” Virgil pursed his lips.

“Yeah, ‘prince’, my ass.” he mumbled, looking back down at his phone. The boy spluttered indignantly, to Virgil’s confusion. That wasn’t even a good insult, so why was the boy getting mad at him? Oh god, oh shit, I already made an enemy-

“Roman, please just sign in.” The front desk lady said with a small smile. The boy, or rather, Roman, blushed, with an “oh, right” as he did as he was told.

Roman slumped down in a seat, turning to the only other kid in the room.

“So, Mr. Professionalism, I know it’s only my second proper day here, but what’s with the tie? You wear it every day or somethin’?” Roman’s posture remained slouched and easy-going, the opposite to the other, who was indeed wearing a tie. Tie guy’s posture was pristine and collected, his face not revealing any emotion, except a slight glare.

“I do not. I wear a different tie every day. It is unsanitary to wear the same thing every day. And when I sleep, I change into the proper wear. I would also like to point out that it’s pronounced some thing . With a g. Proper pronunciation is important, lest you confuse someone who is not as knowledgeable with our language. And my name, is Logan. Thank you.” Logan, apparently, finished his monologue with hardly a change in expression. Both Virgil and Roman looked a bit disoriented.

“Allllrighty,” Roman started, ignoring Logan’s hiss of “it’s pronounced al right ”, “Welp, glad to see I’m not the only one who’s early! Don’t you think the weather is great today? So sunny!”

“I do not wish to engage in small talk.” Logan said, returning to his book. Roman blinked at this, his head darting back a bit. He quickly returned to his confident persona and turned to Virgil.

Oh no , was his only thought before he was forced into conversation.

“SOO, Emostein, what’s your opinion on the weather? Since Necktie over there refuses to be nice, that is.” Roman said with a flourish of his hand.

What was he supposed to say? That he never went outside enough to appreciate the weather? That he would rather not say anything? That this whole thing was pushing him to the verge of a panic attack?

So, instead, he murmured, “Emostein?”. Goddamn it, that was dumb-

“Why yes! Like Frankenstein, but judging by your apparel, I had assumed you were emo and listen to My Chemical Romance all day. Am I wrong in this?”

Virgil shoved his head in his hands, blushing from embarrassment. “Ugh, no, you’re not. You don’t need to point it out, though…” He grumbled. God, he hated social situations. Even if it distracted him from the anxiety surrounding this new therapy group.

Whether he had bad luck, or the fates hated him, he couldn’t decide as the door to the rest of the building opened in perfect irony.

“Virgil?” The woman called with a smile. He hugged his few items closer to him as he stood up, making his way through the entrance. He glanced back at the lobby, where yet another kid was entering.

Then, the door was closed.

--

The woman introduced herself as Rebecca, or Becca for short. She led him on a quick tour of the building before the others were scheduled to come in, something he was grateful for. The place was smaller than he expected. She led him through the cafeteria (a cafeteria? what?), the doors of a couple staff, the bathroom, the check-up room, and the individual rooms. The individual rooms, as she explained, were for when you needed to focus on an ‘exposure’ and couldn’t handle distractions from other people.

Virgil quickly decided he liked these rooms.

Becca let him choose a room, and had him write his name on the whiteboard in front of it. As he did, he heard the entrance door open and a loud voice groan out, “UGHH, but I don’t wanna go in yet!”. Uh oh, people alert! He quickly slipped into the room, Becca joining him soon after.

“While you’re in this program,” she started. “you will be doing exposures, which means you’ll be directly facing the anxiety. It’ll be tough, but the goal is, when you get out of the program, you’re more used to these situations, and when you encounter them, you don’t freak out as much.” At that, she smiled, as if she hadn’t just diminished his already depressed mood.

“Does that sound good?” Becca continued, tilting her head to the side. Virgil stared at her as if she just told him the Sun was purple (not that he would mind that… purple was a very nice color.).

“Not really,” came his reply. “sounds terrible.”

Becca’s smile became just a little more stressed.

“I get your point, but I disagree. See, here and now, you’re not okay. Do you agree?” she stated flatly, and at his small nod, continued, “It’s because you’ve been in this slump for too long. It’s ruining your mood, and unless you do something about it, it’ll just get worse. If you want to get better, you have to do something about it.”

Virgil sighed. Yes, he understood, but he had the right to dislike this.

Becca explained a few more things about the program before handing him a small stack of papers and leaving him to mull over in his silent suffering.

He doodled in between the questions he had just answered as he waited for Becca to come back. Just the classic questions, ‘What do you want to work on while here at Sanders?’, ‘How would you describe your average mood?’, ‘What is (or are) your diagnosis?’, etc.. He glanced at the clock. 5 minutes. He tapped his foot. Fiddled with his hoodie strings. Kicked at the wall. 10 minutes. Hm.

Sanders Behavioral Health had a rule against phones being in the building, for privacy reasons… but, taking a glance around, he couldn’t see any cameras. And he had snuck his phone in by slipping it into his boots when no one was looking. Then there was the fact that no one was in the room with him…

Whipping out his phone, he quickly found a position where his phone was hidden enough that the average passerby wouldn’t notice and opened it up. What to do, what to do…

He scrolled through Tumblr, and responded to a few messages on Discord. He was in the middle of typing one out when there was a knock on the door.

Jumping, Virgil quickly turned to the door while desperately trying to hide his phone. He couldn’t fit in past his shoe in time, could he hide it in his hoodie so the visitor wouldn’t see it? Think fast befo-

The door opened, a stranger walking in. The stranger smiled.

“Hello! I’m Nurse Vicki. You’re Virgil, right? I need you for just a moment so we can do checkups, if you’ll come with me!” Vicki grinned, holding the door open wider. Virgil slid the phone into his hoodie pocket. There was a chance of it being noticed, but it would have to do.

When brought into the nurse’s office, she sat him down and started asking questions.

Are you suicidal? Yes.

Are you going to school regularly? No.

Are you eating healthy? Probably not.

And on, and on, and on, until finally, she took him to track his weight and vitals, and escorted him back to his room. Still no Becca.

The second Nurse Vicki left, Virgil quickly took his phone out and situated it where it wasn’t easily visible in his boot. Yes, it did rub against his foot painfully, but that was just the price he’d have to pay. Without his phone, he felt even more anxious. He knew it was stupid, but what if he got a call? What if he got hurt? What if someone else got hurt? Virgil needed the phone, and if that included sacrificing his comfort, he would do it.

Now, what was he supposed to do? 20 minutes had passed. He studied the vandalism done in pencil on the wall, but that quickly got boring.

Tick, tock, tick, tock.

He drummed his fingers on the table.

Tick, tock, tick, tock.

He thought about what he was going to do tomorrow- wait, no, that gave him more anxiety.

Tick, tock, tick, tock.

Sighing, he leaned back and studied the ceiling. Maybe he could fall asleep here. Or maybe he’d just get in trouble for that.

After what seemed like ages, Becca returned. Gathering up the papers, she led him outside the room.

“We aren’t going to start anything today, but I’ll show you the timers and computers. Here’s the check in sheet for them,” she motioned to the top of the computer cart, a basket with multiple stopwatches in it next to the sheets. “and the top row of computers are assessment computers, while the bottom are normal computers. Today, you’ll be getting an assessment computer.”

Stepping aside, she let him check out a computer. As he was writing down his name, another person came in from a second hallway. The loud boy from before- Roman?- glanced in their direction before doing a double take. Cringing slightly, Virgil prepared for Roman to burst out with a loud “hello!”.

Only Roman did nothing of the sort. Once Becca greeted him, he motioned awkwardly to the timer in his hands before walking down the hallway and turning into a staff’s room.

O ...kay?

He may not have known Roman for long, but that seemed entirely uncharacteristic. Pursing his lips, he finished filling out the sheet as Becca and him walked back. Well, almost. Becca stopped in her office for a split second before returning with a binder and a dazzling smile. Virgil sunk into his jacket with a ‘dazzling’ scowl.

Back inside the room, Becca gave him the binder and led him through all that it entailed, before signing him into the assessment computer. And once more, Becca left him to fill out the assessments alone.

Which was fantastic.

Another round of repetitive questions he’d answered a thousand times before-

In the past 7 days how often have you not able to stop feeling sad? Often.

--felt alone? Always.

--feel everything in your life went wrong? Always.

--feel like you can’t do anything right? Often.

--it was hard for you to have fun? Always.

He supposed a lot of this came from his past family. And, geez, these were not nice memories to go through. But being pushed around and starved for days on end was bound to take a toll on you, and it sure as hell did in the case of Virgil. It was part of the reason he wore hoodies all the time, to hide the- the- oh god he was not ready to think about this right now.

Shaking his head, Virgil returned to the questions, feeling worse than he had. He felt a tear trying to surface and quickly closed his eyes. Not here , he thought. Not now, I can’t. They’ll make fun of me for it.

And yeah, maybe it was illogical to worry about being made fun of for crying in a literal therapy building, but maybe Virgil wasn’t thinking quite right at that point. Maybe he wasn’t thinking quite right often.

Or maybe he was just stupid.

--

The last time Becca returned to his individual room was to bring him out to the cafeteria for something called ‘recreational therapy’ which included doing “fun things” with the other patients.

Great.

After putting away his computer, he was instructed to leave his new binder in the cafeteria and to bring a pen or pencil with him.

He didn’t have either and had to ask someone else for it. Oh, god…

Dodging around the others in the cafeteria, he made his way back to Becca and quietly asked for a pen, and, to his disappointment, didn’t get one. He turned around to face the 3 other patients, forced to consider the options as to who might have a goddamn pen.

The others were all the people he had seen in the waiting room earlier. Only one of them he hadn’t really gotten to know, which was the boy in light blue. He was talking to the loud one, ugh, what was his name again… Roman! Yes, he was talking to Roman. Listening in on their conversation he found that they were talking about… dogs? Well, Light Blue was nearly screaming about dogs while Roman was looking a little bewildered at just how loud this boy was about dogs. Which only left Tie Guy, Logan, to ask. If he didn’t have one, Virgil would have to walk out and ask a staff, so asking the scary one it was.

Glancing towards his binder, Virgil saw that he had 3 pens next to it, black, red, and blue. Bingo!

“Hey uh,” he started once he reached Logan. “Um, can I… uh, sorry, can I borrow a pen? Please?”

Logan’s gaze jerked towards Virgil, then back to his pens. “No,” he stated bluntly. “I only have one black pen. As you can see. ”

“But… I could just… use the red or blue one? I don’t really care that much about colors…” Virgil, to say the least, was hella confused. What was this kid’s deal? First the whole tie thing, now Virgil wasn’t able to use one of his three pens? There was no need to be so rude.

“No, you can’t. Red is for spelling errors and blue is for grammar errors. Everyone knows that. You cannot just use a red or blue pen for normal writing!” Logan nearly growled out. Virgil took a few steps back, was it okay for him to be around this guy?! Was he safe?

He felt a tap on his shoulder and nearly jumped out of his skin. Whipping around, he was faced with Light Blue holding a pen. He let out a sigh of relief.

“Heyo! I’m Patton,” Light Blue said. “I couldn’t help but hear your conversation, so sorry for interrupting, but I have a free pen you could use instead! It’s no big deal to me!” Patton’s smile was nearly blinding as he held the pen out. Grabbing the pen, Virgil felt a little… unnerved. Maybe it was just the anxiety talking, but this guy seemed way too nice to be here. Maybe he was just about to leave the program?

“Uh, thanks.” Was the only thing he said in response before retreating to the corner of the room. He could see Becca hovering around the computer before telling them she would be back in a second.

Well ain’t that just fucking great .

“Ooh, scandalous~!” Roman yelled as Becca went to leave the room. “Leaving a bunch of teens unsupervised? Didn’t take ya for the type.” Virgil looked at him. If he remembered correctly, Roman had said this was his second day. So, why was he so… extroverted? He, along with Patton, didn’t really feel like they belonged in this group. Patton seemed too bright and happy, and Roman seemed too loud and confident.

“You is not pronounced ‘ya’.” Logan huffed. Roman turned to him looking a bit confused.

“It’s… not that different, though?”

“Every little thing matters, Roman. I’ve explained this to you before, so why do you continue to lack the capacity to understand it?” Roman spluttered at this, the insult obviously getting to him.

“I was just telling you my opinion, and you don’t need to… insult me over it! Believe it or not, I don’t like being called stupid!” Roman spat out.

Uh oh.

“I did not call you stupid. It seems as if you came to that conclusion yourself, yet I will not deny it.”

“ You implied it you-”

Before Roman could finish, Becca, in all her glory, opened the door and invited them to follow her. Well, maybe invited wasn’t the correct term, but Virgil was well on his way to a massive anxiety attack and couldn’t give a shit.

Once Becca had led them outside and had them all introduce themselves, she gave them a simple two-sided sheet of paper.

“Today, we’re going to be doing a people scavenger hunt! On the paper, there’s a bunch of questions, and it’s your job to find someone who fits the criteria! Once you do, they should sign your paper. Try not to use the same person for most of the questions! Sounds great, don’t you agree?”

“Yay.” Virgil muttered unenthusiastically, curling into his hoodie when both Roman and Patton turned to him.

“Miss Becca, there are four of us. Statistically speaking, it is unlikely for us to be able to fill out the entirety of this sheet, especially with questions like the 13th, which says ‘Someone who has red hair.’ As you can see, none of us have red hair. I must recommend that you reprint this paper with questions we can properly answer.” Logan attempted to smooth down his hair in the wind as he spoke, his paper resting on a clipboard, because of course Logan had prepared himself with a clipboard while the rest of them had to combat the wind attempting to blow their papers away.

“It’s okay, Logan,” Becca smiled sweetly. “You don’t need to answer all the questions before we go back in.”

“Yes I do, or the assignment is incomplete!”

Smile dropping, Becca motioned for the others to start as she turned to talk to Logan. And with that, Virgil was forced to communicate with the last two.

Already, Patton and Roman seemed to be chatting, which left Virgil to awkwardly stand by while they filled the paper out. Virgil could feel his breathing quickening, why did Logan have to be picky? He could be talking to him, which would be better than just standing here with nothing to do!

Roman turned to him once he had gotten the paper signed, smiling slightly at him before skimming his eyes through the paper. Wait, he took it back, he wasn’t ready to talk yet oh no-

“Do youuu….. Like mint ice cream?” Roman asked, looking up from his paper with a smile. Silently, Virgil nodded. After signing the paper Roman gave to him, Roman stayed, looking expectantly at him. What? Oh! He’s expecting a question quick choose one!!!

Looking at his own paper, Virgil chose the first question his eyes landed on.

“Do you, um. Do you speak another language?” He stuttered out. Roman brightened.

“¡Sí! Hablo español.” Roman was bouncing on his heels, grinning impossibly larger. At Virgil’s dubious stare, he seemed to deflate, a small blush growing on his cheeks. “Sorry, uh, yes, I speak Spanish.”

As Virgil handed him the paper, he had more time to stand awkwardly. Roman had hoisted his leg up and was now balancing precariously on one leg while writing against the other one. His tongue poked out from between his teeth as he tried to not fall over.

Roman had green eyes. While Virgil didn’t usually make eye contact, he couldn’t help but notice while this kid was right in front of him . Virgil had always adored green eyes in people, they may be more rare but they were so pretty and-

Roman glanced up at him, and Virgil quickly flushed. “Do you want me to fill out the green eyes question, too? I’m pretty sure I’m the only one of us who has green eyes, so… y’know… while I’m here, might as well, yea?”

All Roman saw was Virgil’s small nod, which Virgil was grateful for as his mind was screaming at the current moment.

Is this guy psychic what the hell how’d he know EXACTLY what I was thinking??? What???? No, Virge, calm down, he can’t be psychic- BUT WHAT IF HE IS????

Once Virgil got his paper back, he turned once more and was suddenly face-to-face with Patton’s smile.

“Heya kiddo! Have you been on a boat ride?” At Virgil’s shake of his head, he continued. “Hm, okay, have you been to a park in the past few months?

On and on the activity went. Surprisingly, Virgil quickly found himself actually enjoying the activity. Roman and Patton were easy to talk to, if slightly disorienting to the extreme introvert.

Unfortunately, the universe seemed to hate him, because after about 10 questions with the others, Logan stormed back into the building, leaving Becca alone. Becca sighed.

“Sorry guys, but I legally can’t leave him or you without a guardian, so if you could follow me please we will go back inside.”

Back inside, Becca took them to the cafeteria, where Logan already was, meticulously rearranging his binder. When Becca approached him, he hissed out, “I will NOT be doing an assignment where I am forced to fail.”

The three looked at each other, Patton seeming to be the only one who knew what was happening. He gave them a sad smile.

“Logan came here before me, but he told me he has extreme OCD. Basically, he gets anxiety when things don’t go the way his mind tells him they have to.” Patton whispered to them. “I think he has a sort of… fear of failing, so he gets the bad feelings when he can’t finish an assignment. Well, more bad feelings than the average person.”

That made sense, Virgil supposed. While he was told he had a bit of OCD, he wasn’t exactly briefed on all the ins and outs, only diagnosed with it. So he had no definitive answer as to what exactly it was, but from what he had heard, that seemed to fit with the behavior Logan was showing.

A couple minutes passed, Virgil tapping his foot aimlessly. He stared at the ground as Logan continued to bicker, and as Becca desperately tried to calm him down. Eventually, Roman spoke up and told Becca that it was check-out time, which apparently entailed them filling out a sheet of paper before they were able to leave.

Thankfully, Becca told Virgil that he didn’t have to fill a check-out sheet today, which left him awkwardly tapping his pen against the table. He noticed Roman doodling in a blank space on the paper, mouthing the lyrics to a song Virgil couldn’t decipher. Patton was watching the clock after he had finished, which left Logan to be the only one still filling out the sheet.

Once they were finally blessed with the absence of silence in the form of Becca loudly exclaiming that they could start sharing aloud and dear God would Virgil have to do that tomorrow? They were finally allowed to leave.

After signing out and riding the elevator down, with all the other patients and their parents in the cramped space, they finally exited the building.

“So, what’d you think?” His dad asked as they walked to the car. Virgil simply shrugged in response.

And maybe, Virgil enjoyed it a little bit, just a little bit. But he wasn’t going to admit it after he claimed so adamantly that he would hate it the days prior.

The ride home was spent with Virgil telling his online friends what had happened in therapy that day, a task that would quickly become routine in his days at Sanders.

And maybe, just maybe, he was feeling a little bit better at returning the next day.

Maybe.

[salmonthestoryteller]

Unclean

I wrote this for Michael Guerin Week - Pre-canon and/or “the lost decade”

I went with Pre-canon, so I could explore Michael’s childhood - with an emphasis on what he went through with the group he stayed with on his return to Roswell.

Trigger Warning for Child Abuse, and please take that very seriously.

This is very much Hurt with No Comfort, so please be aware of that as well.

Unclean A Roswell New Mexico Fanfic

Michael is eleven when he returns to Roswell.  He’s learned a lot of things in the years since he emerged from the pod.  He’s learned how to speak.  Which is good, because not speaking had drawn attention he didn’t like.  Pitying looks, and whispers behind palms that said something wasn’t quite right with him. He’s also learned that knowing how to talk and being listened to are two different things.  He’s learned to read and write, though he rarely has the chance to do so outside of school.  Books are kindling, not something to be enjoyed, as far as the meth-heads are concerned.  He’s learned not to bring his schoolbooks home, but keep them in his locker or hidden somewhere else.

He’s learned how to count, and measure.  He’s learned how much pennies and quarters scrounged from couch cushions and the bottom of the washing machine can buy.  He’s learned how to steal food when he can’t find enough.  He’s learned that as long as he spends the coins he finds, his caretakers never miss them.  But if the drunk who he’s stuck with for two years finds him hoarding them - that won’t go unpunished.

He learns loneliness.  He learns pain.  He learns fear.

He’s not particularly scared on his treks to Foster Ranch.  If anything, the starry night sky and stretches of highway and desert seem safer than any place he has ever lived on Earth.  Sometimes there’s a feeling, like a fleeting memory, that invades his dreams when he sleeps under the stars.  A feeling of belonging.  Of safety.

In his waking hours, he never feels either.

He figures the religious freaks who run the group home can’t be worse than what he’s known. Outwardly, he’s right.  There are no drugs or alcohol to be found, and the housing is spotless.  There is a bed, a blanket, and a desk for every child to do their homework on.  He’s never stayed someplace so clean.  After finding Max and Isobel again, he almost feels like things might be looking up.

He’s wrong.  He learns about duplicity.  About prejudice.  About hatred.  He abandons the notion that any humans are good.

It starts out simple enough.  With chores, and a schedule, and church every Sunday.  He’s not used to a schedule, though.  He’s not used to being expected to do things, because what he’s always been expected to do is stay out of the way.  Apparently not understanding what they want from him isn’t an acceptable excuse.

“If anyone sins and does what is forbidden in any of the Lord’s commands, even though they do not know it, they are guilty and will be held responsible.”  One of the adults quotes, as if it makes any sense.

They have a punishment, and a quote, for everything, he learns.  Forgetting chores means being made to do things like clean the bathroom floor with a toothbrush. Taking food between scheduled meals and snacks means not only being denied the next meal, but being made to stand and watch as everyone else eats.

When he’s caught looking for loose change, he’s accused of stealing, because any loose change found is to go in a donation jar.  That’s what leads to his first beating at the home.  He’s made to get down the switch from the wall, and all the other children are rounded up to watch him be punished.  Humiliation is new - he’s pretty sure he prefers being invisible.

“No discipline seems pleasant at the time, but painful. Later on, however, it produces a harvest of righteousness and peace for those who have been trained by it.”  He’s told after.

He watches one of the workers wash another boy’s mouth out with soap after he is caught swearing.

“But shun profane and vain babblings: for they will increase unto more ungodliness.”

A girl’s hair is chopped off after she is caught decorating it with ribbons and barrettes she secretly bought.

“In like manner also, that women adorn themselves in modest apparel, with shamefacedness and sobriety; not with broided hair, or gold, or pearls, or costly array.”

They are gathered up to watch another boy be beaten with the switch for being caught with a Playboy magazine.

“Flee the evil desires of youth and pursue righteousness, faith, love and peace, along with those who call on the Lord out of a pure heart.”

Two of the girls are caught sleeping in the same bed, and even though he knows the one suffers nightmares - everyone knows - it doesn’t stop the wrath of the adults.  They’re gathered to watch, and the girls are given twice as many switches as any other punishment he’s witnessed yet.

“To kill wrong desires, which lead to wrong actions, you need to control your thinking. If you regularly fill your mind with wholesome thoughts, you can more readily dismiss wrong desires.”  

He runs away to Foster Ranch that night, spends it under the stars.  Wishes for a world he can’t remember.  No dreams of safety and belonging come.  He wonders if he’d only ever imagined the feelings.

They lock him in the basement when he returns, where he spends hours alone in the dark.

“Those whom I love I rebuke and discipline. So be earnest and repent.”

He’s tired of their quotes, and their punishments.  The next time they’re gathered to watch a beating a picture falls from the wall.  The next time he’s made to miss a meal, a dining room chair scrapes across the floor.  It’s not until he’s made to clean the hallway with a toothbrush, and every picture in it crashes to the ground, that he realizes it might be his doing.

“You cannot drink the cup of the Lord and the cup of demons too; you cannot have a part in both the Lord’s table and the table of demons.”  The adults warn them at dinner that night.

He’s pretty sure he would know if he somehow called on the powers of darkness.  After a few tests with Isobel and Max, he discovers he can make it happen on purpose.  He can make things move.  It’s the best thing that’s happened since finding Max and Isobel again, and he begins to play with his ability more and more when he’s alone.

The good news is the practice lets him lift heavier items without getting tired.  Lets him hold them up longer.

The bad news is this means the same when his powers explode outward without meaning to.  More and more, the workers at the group home start eyeing him when things happen.  When chairs slam into the walls, and tables get knocked over because he’s angry, always angry.  He hates how they excuse their cruelty as being for the good of the children in their care.  He hates their rules and their schedules and their quotes.

He hates that sometimes the quotes sneak into his mind and make him wonder if he’s wrong in some way.

One of the women from the group home catches him practicing. She opens the door while he's levitating a pencil, and even though he drops it right away, she crosses herself and backs out of his room.  He hopes that will be the end of it, but it isn’t.

If it had been any other time during the year he’d have been in school, but it’s summer and it isn’t as if he’s ever needed to retake a course.  He sees her speaking to the priest on Sunday.  She makes him go into the basement Monday morning.

At first, he thinks it’s a regular punishment.  When she comes back, though, the priest is with her.  At first, it seems simple enough.  They pray and toss holy water on him.  But as the hours go on and he tries to get up, he’s forced back into the chair.  Eventually, they tie him to it.

He’s hungry, and tired, and has to use the bathroom, but they don’t care.  The first time he loses control of his bladder, his cheeks burning with humiliation, the priest throws more holy water on him- claiming that him “defiling” himself was proof of his possession.  As night sets in, he begins to shiver from the cold.  Once again, the priest claims it’s proof that he’s possessed - that the demon inside of him is causing his body to shake.

If they would just leave him alone, he could use his powers to escape, but they don’t.  They take shifts, praying constantly and ignoring anything he says.  He begs them to let him go, but the priest keeps saying he isn’t fooled by the demon’s trickery.

Michael isn’t even sure how he loses control of his bladder a second time when he hasn't had anything to drink, but the acrid smell makes him throw up.  He hasn’t had any food since Sunday dinner, and it’s early Wednesday.  The priest only says again that it’s the demon’s doing - proof that he's being controlled by something evil.

They finally give him water, but no food.  He tries to use his powers to scare them.  To move and break things in the cellar.  He only needs a moment alone to get out and away.  Instead, the priest heats his metal cross over a candle and presses it into his skin. His forearm is first - the metal sizzles where it touches him - the pain is the worst he’s known and Michael can’t hold back his screams.  The smell of his own flesh burning hits him next, making him gag as the priest repeats the process on his upper arm.

“Saint Michael the Archangel, defend us in battle, be our protection against the malice and snares of the devil."

How ironic is it that their angel has his name, yet he’s being accused of being a demon?

"May God rebuke him, we humbly pray; and do thou, O Prince of the heavenly host, by the power of God, thrust into hell all the evil spirits who prowl through the world seeking the ruin of souls.”

He loses control of his powers, the force of it exploding outward all around him - rattling everything in the basement.  Afterwards, he passes out.

When he wakes up, he’s laid out on the floor with the woman and the priest leaning over him, asking if he’s alright.  Does he remember anything from his possession?

Terrified they might start the exorcism again, he insists he can’t remember any of the last week.  The woman sobs, thanking God and the priest for saving his soul.

The priest eyes him suspiciously and warns them it might not be over.  “Demons may be exorcised, or driven out, from a possessed person,” he cautions.“However, this may be dangerous if not followed by stringent cleaning and discipleship. Without proper spiritual care, the person might then be open for a seven-fold infestation.”

Michael barely suppresses a shudder when the woman instantly says they’ll do it again if they have to.  Only then is he allowed to go upstairs and clean himself up.  The clothing is a lost cause.  He wads it up and stuffs it into the bathroom trash.  The smell from them is so strong it starts to fill the small space, and he ends up tying up the bag to throw away when he’s finished cleaning himself.  There’s a medkit in the bathroom with burn cream in it, and he applies it to the marks he can reach.  He pulls on a hoodie afterward - tugging the sleeves down to hide the marks even though he knows you aren’t supposed to cover burns.  He can’t look at them; doesn’t want anyone else to see them.  He follows every fucked up rule without hesitation for the next week.

He’d planned to sneak out the night of his birthday, but fear of another exorcism makes him ask permission to go camping instead, stressing it’s with Max and not mentioning Isobel at all.  The head of the group home agrees, though the woman who did the exorcism watches him warily.  She approaches him before he leaves to give him a rosary.  He takes it so he can escape out the door before things escalate.

If, on the way back to the group home after burying a body in the middle of the desert, he finds himself fingering the rosary, it’s only because his hands are still shaking from shock.

“And nothing unclean, and no one who practices abomination and lying, shall ever come into it, but only those whose names are written in the Lamb's book of life.” He finds himself quoting, and hates himself for it.

He’s felt like the group home has been trying to convince him that he’s wrong and unclean since he’d first arrived.  Now, after using his powers to bury a body, he isn’t sure he’ll ever feel clean again.

End

SuburbanSun beta-ed the absolute mess this fic was when I begged for help with it.  Thank-you! Thank-you!  I probably should have begged for more help after I finished fixing it up, so any remaining errors are definitely all on me.

Long Mostly Unnecessary Author Notes:

I’ve wanted to write a fic focusing on the exorcism since episode 01x06 aired, and episode 01x10 only made me want to write it more.

I have a life long fascination with all things supernatural, so I’ve actually read and watched a lot of things about exorcisms - both about what is supposed to be done if going through official channels (which actually involves a ton of medical and psychological testing and can take years to be approved), and what happens when some zealot decides they can just take things into their own hands. (Which in some cases I’ve read about led to the death of those involved.)

That being said, and I’ve admitted this as a writer in previous fandoms while attempting to write about religious characters, I am agnostic. So any and all religious references have truly only been moderately researched.  I apologize if that has led me to making any blazing errors.

Michael mentions in 1x10 that the group involved were “Fundamentalist Religious Freaks.” Fundamentalist, according to the dictionary, is a person who believes in the strict, literal interpretation of scripture in a religion. Which to me says that they’re the types who follow the letter and not the meaning of what they preach.

Even though both young Michael to Max, and older Michael to Alex, basically shrug off this group as being crazy, we know he was in their care for a minimum of three years (11-14).  He may have been in their care up to 16 or 17 since he makes no more mention of another group home or foster parent and we don’t know when exactly he started living homeless.  So that makes it 3-6 years he stayed with them.  That’s a lot of years, and I feel like on some level, especially coming to them at 11, it would have affected his thoughts about right and wrong and himself,  whether he admitted it or not, so I wanted to hint at that as well.

[golden-lionsnake]

 @snartiefr​

Me, searching through your lair: WHERE IS THE FROGE?!? FROUGH?! FROG!!

I will not lie, not even a little bit, but Kerokero is legit a dragon I’ve sent to a friend who is a frog lover just to try and tempt them back into the game. like. I actually did that. Kero will live in infamy for that in my world. But also just. ;; is baby.

Calamity - How. How dare you. Not just a g1, not just a primal g1, not just a primal g1 a year old- but of all things a goddamn BAMF. A+ familiar matching, A+ outfit, A+ genes. Please stop, my heart can only take so much. Maize is such a great color on her, even despite the usually jarring yellow accents. ;; perf.

Have you ever ended up lost in a lair? because I have.

Integra - she’s. .... she’s so hekin’ beautiful that. I’m sorry- I fail to describe her. Yet another BAMF, but not at all misplaced. Studding accent, stunning apparel, stunning art. Everything about her would make me follow orders on her ship. She didn’t need her right wing to fly directly into my heart. O captain my captain, I’ll follow you to shore, my captain o my captain, though we sail no more.

Weird deer cult has one member and you know what I’m HERE for it. The thirteen limit tab is bullshit and Hadi can take my soul. What a perfect outfit and matching familiar, I couldn’t have asked for a better theme.

Iasis  - I saw her when you dressed her, and it’s still the best use of the shardhide that I think I’ve really seen. Her colors match so well, and the mane really helps to un-busy the hide. Bubblegum python is something I’ll never forgive you for tho. God now I want it, or something close. I don’t need it- but. man. man. Absolutely perfect familiar too.

Hrigin - Oh man. Once again my weakness for python shows through. I just really LOVE when it does dual colors like it does in both bubblegum and tan, and though I fee like the dark sclera might be cheating, I can’t pretend that it doesn’t make her look any less AWESOME.

And then just.

Unfortunately I couldn’t stop.

All of the Grim Stag is my heart. I’ve never wanted so many g1′s in my life. I am filled with intrigue and longing while looking at them. And I gotta say. All your tab aesthetic is on point. Looking at each one made me go ‘yeah I can see that’. Even if the dragons don’t match technically, the order you put them in often make the cohesiveness of the tab itself. Just. Man I wish I had the curative abilities to make all my tabs that neat.

[doctortreklock]

An Ancient Place (the by his side remix) - December 32, 2019

Part of my Resolution19. Read it on AO3.

Prompt: Full of History and Secrets (x)

December is a month of remixes and sequels!!!

Fandom: Good Omens

Title: "Night Vale is an ancient place. Full of history and secrets, as we were reminded today." Welcome to Night Vale, Ep. 4

Words: 4635

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If there was one thing Aziraphale hadn't expected from a brisk fall day in 1967, it was meeting Anthony J. Crowley.

He'd been doing his usual afternoon stroll through Soho, feeling somewhat more lonely than perhaps he customarily did, when he decided, on some whim that he would be forever grateful for, to pop into St. Patrick's for a brief visit.

Like all holy sites, he felt a pleasant warmth as soon as he set foot on the hallowed ground. Surveying the sanctuary with all the satisfaction of a job well done by someone else, he noticed a particularly striking man by the basin of holy water.

He was dressed in what Aziraphale had come to suppose must be the fashion of the day: an overly tight outfit in a somber black that looked out of place in the brightly lit church. With dark, round sunglasses and heeled boots to be precise. He found it a bit ridiculous, but was quietly aware that they must find him equally ridiculous for his own, more old-fashioned, apparel. Not that the thought made him anxious to match the current trend. Aziraphale had determined long ago that he would only bend to the latest fad if it was no longer the latest. It would hardly be worth updating his wardrobe for any style that lasted less than at least three decades.

Though most trends in human fashion were perplexing and often downright distasteful, Aziraphale couldn't help but note that this man seemed to wear the clothing with ease. The dark jacket flexed easily around his body as he carefully held a glass jar in the water to fill it. His black leather gloves were likewise somewhat jarring when compared to his otherwise brilliant surroundings, Aziraphale noticed. But, he admitted, to the contrary, they also seemed to fit him just as well as the rest of his ensemble, regardless of how out-of-place they seemed in context.

As he watched, the man pulled the bottle cautiously out of the water and held it nearly at arms' length, as if struggling to figure out what to do with it. Unbidden, Aziraphale felt a smile slip onto his face.

It quickly vanished, however, when the man seemed to discover an itch in the most inconvenient place, giving what could be overestimated as a full-body flinch. The general effect, however, was that the glass bottle slid against his leather gloves and began to fall.

Before he knew it, Aziraphale had reached out and caught the jar. He wasn't out of breath, which meant he must have employed a minor miracle to have made it so quickly. Hopefully Gabriel wouldn't audit his miracles any time this century. Either way, he didn't regret his slip in the slightest, as it made the man's face light up in the most relieved smile he'd seen in decades.

"Here you go," he told the man, surprised to find himself a little breathless after all. "Careful that you don't drop it again," he cautioned. "That glass would be quite a bother to clean up."

The man took the bottle back with a dazed nod, holding the bottle gingerly, close to his body this time. Good deed done, Aziraphale began to turn away, ignoring the hollow feeling forming in the pit of his stomach. There was no reason for it, after all. He'd only just met the man.

"Would you like to grab a drink?" the man blurted, and Aziraphale halted in surprise. "As thanks," he finished.

The hollow feeling vanished as quickly as it had come, leaving behind a warmth that Aziraphale couldn't quite attribute to the church, no matter how much he wanted to rationalize it away. "I would be delighted," he told the man.

The man adjusted his grip on the bottle, tucking it close to himself and reaching out with his free hand. "I'm Crowley," he said. "Anthony Crowley, but most people call me Crowley."

Aziraphale smiled and shook Crowley's hand, the leather of his glove soft under Aziraphale's fingers. "Ezra Fell," he said, introducing himself by his current pseudonym. "I sometimes go by Zira," he added on impulse. He wasn't sure why it mattered to him that this human, who he had never met before and likely never would again, address him by even a portion of his true name, but he could not deny that it did matter.

Crowley grinned at him, a wide smile of delight, and for a moment, Aziraphale was so distracted he couldn't have said if he was standing in a church or on the moon.

--

Anthony Crowley turned out to be the most fascinating person Aziraphale had ever met, and he'd spent time with everyone from Virgil to Arthur Doyle. They seemed to click instantly, almost as if Crowley had been made as his mirror, a perfect foil. If Aziraphale hadn't known, deep in his corporation's bones, that his Creator had never been so generous and would never forgive him for his arrogance, Aziraphale might have wondered if Crowley had not been made just for him.

He could picture Crowley everywhere, at every point in his own history. Cutting a dashing figure through ancient Rome, rescuing him when he'd been discorporated in France during the Revolution, even standing next to him at Eden as he watched the first thunderstorm. Even now, looking back at his memories, Aziraphale could nearly taste the empty spaces around him where Crowley would have stood, slotted in so neatly it would be impossible to tell he hadn't been there the entire time, warping the emptiness around his own solitary figure into a pair of companions, two partners, a binary star system in perfect balance.

--

"Packing is exhausting," Crowley proclaimed, flopping back onto Aziraphale's bed. Though, as of today, it was their bed, really. Aziraphale felt a flutter of joy at the thought. He'd only known the man a month, but already he knew that he wanted to spend as much of Crowley's life with him as the human would allow.

"It was mostly unpacking today, my dear," Aziraphale told him in amusement. "The packing was yesterday." He flitted around the room, tucking away more pieces of his solitary life that he hadn't quite managed to get out of the way yet.

"I don't care," Crowley told him firmly. "Packing, unpacking, it's all the same to me. Moving is exhausting, angel," he declared with a wide gesture in front of him. That he happened to be gesturing at the ceiling did not seem to put him out at all, Aziraphale noted with a burst of affection.

"Well, then," Aziraphale said lightly. "Maybe you should just never move again." He didn't pause, stuffing the detritus of the 1930s into the corner of another drawer. He also didn't look at Crowley.

"Maybe," Crowley echoed, and Aziraphale could hear the smile in his voice.

He chanced a look over at the bed, and Crowley was watching him with something like wonder and something like love in his gaze. "Maybe," Aziraphale repeated more firmly.

"C'mere, angel," Crowley said softly, sitting up and holding out a hand. Aziraphale went to him effortlessly, allowing himself to be pulled down next to Crowley on top of the quilt. "Zira, I--"

"What is it, my dear?" Aziraphale prompted when Crowley faltered. He reached out and gently tucked a lock of Crowley's hair behind his ear.

"I--" And Aziraphale had only known Crowley a few short weeks - though it felt like a thousand years already - but he'd never seen the man so vulnerable. "Zira, I've been alone for a long time," he said quietly, closing his eyes for a moment, and Aziraphale's heart broke a little at seeing the tears well up around his eyelashes. "I never thought I'd meet anyone who would want to spend a month with me - me, as I truly am - much less a lifetime. And I just..." he fell silent, overcome with emotion.

"I know, my dear," Aziraphale whispered to him, cupping Crowley's cheek with his palm and pressing their foreheads together until their noses brushed and their breath mingled and Crowley's face was too close for Aziraphale to see the tears in his beautiful, golden eyes. "I know."

He held Crowley close until the man's breathing evened out and Crowley fell asleep. Aziraphale wouldn't have been able to move if God themself had appeared and ordered him to. Instead, he expended a few small miracles on switching off the lights and repositioning them under the blankets instead of on top of the covers.

Aziraphale carefully lifted one of Crowley's hands from the sheets, kissed it gently, and held it, all night long. He didn't sleep.

The cool October winds whistled at the windows that night, but inside an angel kept watch over his slumbering partner and vowed to never let the man be lonely again for all the days of his life.

--

Sometimes Aziraphale wondered bleakly what he thought he was doing. Playing house with a human was never something that could be forgiven or overlooked by his superiors. It was only a matter of time before they found out. Even if his time with Crowley was long past by the time they discovered his infraction, it wouldn't stop them from issuing punishment.

Even if he managed to slide under the radar for another century, it wouldn't matter in the long run. Crowley's soul was bound for Heaven; Aziraphale refused to contemplate otherwise. But angels and human souls were strictly separated. Even if he discovered Crowley's location and broke a thousand rules and laws, he still wouldn't be able to find his beloved.

Somehow, though, when he watched Crowley coax another stubborn bromeliad into blossoming, a small, genuine smile on his face, he had to admit that it was worth it. If he lost Crowley sooner than anticipated, if he was demoted, if he Fell, if he was plunged into a column of hellfire, if he searched fruitlessly for all eternity... It would all be worth it for ever smile he could put on his dear Crowley's face.

--

They had just gotten back from Warlock's birthday party when Aziraphale got the message from Gabriel. It was clunky and awkward, the way Aziraphale could only imagine his own would have been if Crowley hadn't patiently dragged him into the twenty-first century.

"Aziraphale," Gabriel demanded. "What is the meaning of this? Was it not the point of adapting Heaven's communication system so that you could be easily reached at all times? We should have kept scrolls. I liked scrolls. Uriel liked scrolls too; I know they did. Michael liked telephones, though, so we had to switch. Ugh." It was around that time that the answering machine had run out of space and cut him off.

Aziraphale frowned at the telephone, but was distracted by Crowley's announcement that he was going out on an errand.

"That sounds fine, my dear," Aziraphale told him. "I need to go 'round the corner as well. I've got a message from a rare bookseller I know and he wants to meet with me," he lied. It was his standard lie for the Heavenly business he was still called upon to complete. He would have worried about how often he needed to be gone, but Crowley traveled around the country as well on technological consultations, so they could align their absences to each other's.

Aziraphale wasn't quite sure how he felt about the fact that his bookshop, once a comfortable home for one, now felt empty without two. He settled on being very thankful for Crowley's entire existence.

Once Crowley was gone, Aziraphale locked up the bookshop and walked a few blocks over to his favorite sushi restaurant. Well, third favorite sushi restaurant and his favorite to go to without Crowley. Crowley adored the conveyor belts in Aziraphale's first and second favorite restaurants, but Aziraphale preferred the chirashi from the third. The other two never seemed to get it quite right.

"Aziraphale!" Gabriel boomed. Also, Aziraphale's third favorite sushi restaurant was the only one Heaven knew about. Which was why it was so ideal for these sorts of meetings.

"Gabriel," he greeted, not quite meeting the same level of excitement as the other angel. "Why did you need to meet with me so urgently?"

And then Gabriel told him about the Apocalypse.

It was all he could do to nod in the correct places as Gabriel extolled the virtues of the coming End of Days. "Right, right," he agreed at the end. "And what's my role in all this?" He was desperately hoping his role was to tuck himself into a corner somewhere and come out when it was all over. At least that, he could do with Crowley.

"You are to take up arms alongside the rest of Heaven!" Gabriel told him cheerfully. "Come back with me and prepare for the Great War!"

No! Aziraphale's brain screamed at him. "I've got a couple things to talk care of," he prevaricated. "Earth things, you know. Principality duties and the like. I'll pop up when I've got a minute," he promised.

Gabriel didn't seem to like that very much, but he did accept it, and a moment later, he vanished.

Aziraphale immediately collapsed back into his seat as if all his strings had been cut. "Oh my," he whispered to himself. "Oh my word."

Aziraphale had once been a Guardian of Eden, with the sword, rank, and title to go along with it. He had seen six millennia of human history unfold before him and had held his beloved in his arms for fifty years. He had anticipated watching human history for another six millennia and holding his beloved for as many years as he had left.

So now, to see the world dwindle, that future history cut short, was devastating. But not as devastating as realizing he wouldn't have the millennia after that he had planned on.

Human lifespan was limited by design. But just as Aziraphale had imagined Crowley beside him for the first six thousand years of his life, he had hoped to imagine him by his side for the next six thousand. That once he'd lost Crowley standing beside him, he would still have the painful, bittersweet memory of Crowley as his companion for the rest of time, lingering in the space around him, in the empty spot that Aziraphale knew he would now reflexively compensate for for the remainder of his existence.

Which now seemed lingeringly brief. His breath caught in his throat as he had sudden visions of Crowley cut down by flaming swords or beset by hellhounds. "No," he whispered, the word escaping before he could stop it. There were more casualties of war than the loss of his eternity, Aziraphale knew.

He threw a few bills on the table and rushed back to the bookshop, abruptly desperate to retreat behind her familiar walls. Maybe Crowley would be home soon, he thought longingly. Then he could hold his dearest partner tight and pray and try not to become swamped by the despair he could already feel rising inside himself.

There was nothing he could do to stop the Apocalypse. It was ineffable, after all.

--

Every once in a while, when Crowley seemed surprised to find another birthday at hand, or when he cursed under his breath at the arthritis creeping through his joints, Aziraphale would excuse himself and sit in the corner of their bookshop, staring at his own hands until they stopped shaking and his vision had cleared again. Then he could wipe his face, breathe for a few minutes, and go find Crowley, a smile on his face.

His hands were never the aching, swollen mess that Crowley's became as they aged. He hadn't been able to bear the thought of his hands hurting too much to hold his books, so he had simply introduced weaknesses into the bones, sapped the strength from the muscles, allowed the skin to thin and age until it was almost like the vellum pages of his favorite tomes. He had hoped Crowley wouldn't think it an unusual sign of age.

Once, when they were younger men, when Aziraphale had found the first of Crowley's grey hairs, curled just above his ear, when Aziraphale's stomach had dropped for the first time at the inevitability of time, of aging... Once, Aziraphale had sat next to Crowley on a park bench in St. James and remarked quietly on the shortness of the human lifespan and then, quieter, on how happy he was to have the opportunity to spend any of it with Crowley.

Once, Crowley had frozen, then abruptly curled closer into Aziraphale's side and had asked Aziraphale in a rough voice to emphatically "never bring it up again, please, angel." And Aziraphale had simply curved himself over his dear, dear friend and carded a hand gently through Crowley's still-mostly-dark hair and assured him gently that he never would. It had broken his heart enough to say it the first time.

--

There was a book. Oh, thank his Creator, there was a book.

Aziraphale wasn't entirely sure where it had come from, given that he had an encyclopedic knowledge of his collection and The Nife and Accurate Prophefies were decidedly not in it, but he had elected not to look a gift horse in the mouth, as it were. Maybe the appearance of the book was itself ineffable, he thought giddily. Maybe it was a sign.

Crowley had been wound tighter than a particularly high-pitched harp string the past few days, but Aziraphale couldn't blame him. He knew he had been fraught with tension himself ever since the conversation with Gabriel. Even the tender moment with Crowley that evening hadn't dissipated his lingering dread.

He had finally deciphered the identity of the Antichrist and the location of the Apocalypse's commencement, when Aziraphale's thrill of discovery trailed off into hesitant contemplation. What was he going to do with the information? If there was anyone else he could trust to definitively wish to halt the Apocalypse...

Crowley sprang to mind instantly, but Aziraphale discarded him just as quickly. Crowley was the love of his existence, a deeply sarcastic man with a heart of gold, but he was still only human. In a battle of angels and demons... Aziraphale had to keep him safe.

The next best option was Heaven itself. Surely the angels would want to stop the Apocalypse. Surely they would. And then Aziraphale and Crowley could have the remainder of their happily ever after. So he called them.

Unfortunately, it appeared Heaven itself did not have quite the same view on Heaven's role in halting the Apocalypse as Aziraphale did. He had only just managed to extract himself from his conversation with the Metatron when the Witchfinder Sargent himself burst into the bookshop. Aziraphale only had a fleeting moment to be thankful that Crowley was out before he vanished in a beam of white light.

--

The next few hours were harrowing for Aziraphale. He had needed to get to Tadfield as quickly as possible, and so had ended up riding shotgun with Sargent Shadwell's - ahem - lady of the night. All the while, he had fretted to himself about whether Crowley was alright and how frantic he was going to be when he returned to the bookshop to find Aziraphale missing and he'd left a chalk circle on the floor, oh dear, and was he going to call the police and file a missing persons report or was there a minimum amount of time Aziraphale had to be missing for that?

So he was understandably a little distracted from the actual Apocalypse itself. Once he was himself again, it took him a moment to realize the vision of Crowley running towards him was not actually a stress-induced hallucination. For one, Crowley's skin was pale under dark soot and when he hugged Aziraphale, he smelled of smoke. For another, even Aziraphale's imagination couldn't accurately conjure up the feel of Crowley's arms around him, no matter how many times he tried to memorize it.

Then he and his partner had to introduce themselves to the Antichrist. And what a bombshell was dropped. It did oddly remind Aziraphale of a bomb strike. Or perhaps one of those grenades he'd found himself on the wrong end of once or twice. The inciting event. A moment of ringing silence. And then an explosion.

Only this explosion didn't bring rubble or fragmented metal shards. It brought--

"Me, too," Crowley said, eyes wide in astonishment.

And that didn't make sense. "What?"

"I'm immortal too," Crowley said with hushed awe. "Neither of us is going to die."

Aziraphale's world ground to a halt. "What?"

"I get to keep you," Crowley breathed, and Aziraphale could see something like wonder and something like love in his gaze, just the same after so many years together.

Then they were rudely interrupted by the attempted continuation of the Apocalypse. After a spot of encouragement, Adam sent Gabriel and the accompanying demon away, leaving Aziraphale and Crowley alone once more.

"Let me introduce myself again, properly this time," Aziraphale said, excitement bubbling up. Crowley was immortal. He wouldn't have a shade of Crowley, he would have Crowley by his side for the rest of eternity. All that was left was to discover the shape that eternity would take.

"My name is Aziraphale, a Principality of Heaven, formerly Guardian of the Eastern Gate," he told Crowley, holding out a hand. "I have been stationed on Earth since Eden, and I am desperately in love with you," he added, just in case it needed saying. And now, laid bare with words, he stripped off the layers of miracles that had been keeping him aging apace with his so-called human partner.

Crowley reached out and took his hand. Aziraphale gripped as tightly as he dared. The arthritis was still running through Crowley's hands, but Aziraphale needed Crowley to understand one thing: he was not losing Crowley. Not now. No matter who Crowley was, angel or demon or other, Aziraphale was not losing him.

"Crowley, Serpent of Eden and the First Tempter," he said, losing layered illusions as well. Aziraphale could feel the fingers beneath his strengthening, straightening, and slimming, and he gripped all the tighter. "I was assigned to the temptation of Earth six thousand years ago." He cleared his throat. "I have been in love with you since you saved me from accidentally destroying myself with a jar of holy water."

All Aziraphale's half-recalled stories of the Serpent of Eden vanished abruptly. For a heart-stopping moment, all he felt was cold terror at the thought that Crowley might have died the day they met, that Aziraphale might have lost Crowley before he ever really got him.

If Crowley had needed circulation, Aziraphale might have been concerned by how tightly his was holding his partner's hand now. "Was that-- What were you doing with holy water, Crowley?"

Crowley looked surprised at his concern. It was the same look he got when Aziraphale reminded him point-blank to take his medications, and that more than anything told Aziraphale that Crowley-the-demon and Crowley-the-human were still the same fundamental Crowley.

Then Crowley told him about Ligur, which he seemed to think would be reassuring. Aziraphale was most definitely not reassured. Spine-chilling terror was not, in fact, more fun to experience for the second time in ten minutes.

Fortunately for Crowley, Lucifer decided to show up shortly afterwards, saving him a long, twenty-seven point lecture on personal safety.

At long last, however, it was over. Finally. For good. The Antichrist and his friends went their way; the young couple went theirs; and Shadwell and Madame Tracy set off for London as well.

In the light of their escape from certain doom, Crowley seemed to have forgotten how he'd come to arrive at the air base. He stuttered to a halt outside the gates, and Aziraphale was going to ask him what was wrong until he caught sight of the same thing and stopped just as abruptly.

"Is that..." he trailed off, because he knew exactly what it was. "Oh, my dear," he murmured, putting a comforting hand on Crowley's shoulder. The demon swayed into the contact, so Aziraphale slid his hand around his back to his other shoulder, pulling him into a half-hug. "What happened to her?" He knew as well as anyone who had ever met Crowley, that the Bentley was his most treasured possession.

"I--" Crowley faltered. "I thought Hell might have gotten you. And then the M25 was on fire, and..." he trailed off. "This," he finished, gesturing half-heartedly toward the shell of his precious Bentley.

Aziraphale couldn't begin to touch on all the ways that made him feel. "I love you," he told Crowley firmly. "Wait here."

It didn't talk too terribly long to track down the Antichrist, even if he did have to invoke a minor miracle or two to catch the bicycles. After a rambling explanation and a tentative question, Adam looked surprised and fixed the Bentley with a thought. Apparently he'd thought he'd undone everything already, and the car must have slipped through the cracks.

Aziraphale thanked him politely and went to find his partner.

When he arrived back at the Bentley, it was to find Crowley already tucked inside the cabin, running his hands over the steering wheel and cooing at the dash. "All right?" he asked.

Crowley looked at him. "I love you," he said. "So very much, angel." And then he kissed his hand and his cheek and his forehead and drove them back to London, holding Aziraphale's hand the entire way and using miracles to compensate for being a hand down during shifting.

The drive itself was quiet, as if neither could bring themselves to give voice to the revelations surround their, well, revelations.

At last, Crowley broke the silence. "So many years, angel," he said quietly. "So many years we could have known each other."

"I like to think we made up for it," Aziraphale said lightly. "Quality, not quantity, my dear. I can't imagine we would have been as we are if we had met as ourselves."

Crowley hummed. "You may have a point there, Zira."

"Besides," Aziraphale continued, ignoring the fluttering in his belly at the nickname. Zira was something of himself that only Crowley had. No one else called him Zira. He found he was quite content with that even now, when Crowley had the option of his full name. "It's hardly as if our paths never crossed. The Tower of Babel was yours, wasn't it?"

"Yes," Crowley admitted, glancing at Aziraphale before turning back to the miraculously reconstructed M25. "I was quite proud of that one, actually. Got me a commendation for original thinking."

"I can't say I enjoyed it as much," Aziraphale told him. "All those new languages meant more rules to learn. And the translations!" he exclaimed. "I had never imagined they could be so terrible."

Crowley snorted. "Should I be apologizing for doing my job?"

"Never," Aziraphale told him warmly. Then, "I pictured you there, you know," he said quietly, holding Crowley's hand tightly. "With me. Every lifetime, every city. You slotted into my memories as if you had always been there."

Crowley exhaled. "I never could," he confessed. "Not because you're so modern, angel," he teased, "but because I couldn't imagine you having lived and died so long ago."

Aziraphale wasn't sure what to say to that, so he just held Crowley's hand. "I'm here," he settled on. "Now and for always, my dear."

"I know," Crowley said, meeting his eyes again. They were full of warmth and love. "I'm so glad for it, you have no idea, Zira." Then he continued, lighter this time, with a familiar, curious smile. "I've been wondering. Did you ever met Virgil?"