#if it's not rending me apart that he's looking back at her why do it. why bother doing O+E.

[widowshill]

thinking about: he doesn't make the lover's choice, but the poet's. again.

[luveline]

Hii i love the way you write!!! Could you write something about bad ass reader X Spencer? I miss them soo much.... Maybe something about her saying I love you for the first time and she's nervous and he's confused bc he's not understanding why she's nervous and what she's trying to say ❤️❤️❤️

some light spencer fluff ! love u. fem

Spencer has hair like silk. Brown, shiny curls in the milky moonlight of a September sky. The cold air nips his nose and cheeks, leaving ruddy blush like cherry stains that bring out the endless brown of his eyes. His hand is callused beneath yours, evidence of hour upon hour of stooped writing, pen ink on his fingertips, dark black smudges that stretch as they squeeze. He tips his head back to look at the bruising sky and the stars are like pin pricks, close and very, very far as he again squeezes your hand. You’re surprised you can see the stars, but this part of the country is quiet. 

“Wow, look at all of those,” he says, like he’s begging you to see them too; worried you’ll miss out on such a heart-rending sight. 

You let your side weigh on his and look up, feeling the cold of each star above you like a sudden breeze. Your nose is ice, your lips chapping despite a little lip balm you’d rushed on before you left the cottage. It’s a small, beautiful place, decorated by its patches, ivy and cobbled roofing, window panes replaced in different shades of pink and orange and green. You can see it from where you’re standing, a light forgotten in the bathroom. 

Let’s go on a walk, Spencer‘d said, before it gets too cold. 

It’s too cold already. You shiver, forcing more of your weight into Spencer’s side, only slightly abashed as he wraps his arm around you and presses the soft of his cheek to your head. “See that one?” he asks, smiling, “I think that’s the North Star. Brightest one.” 

You close your eyes.

“It’s really cold, isn’t it?” he asks. 

“It’s freezing.” 

Spencer noses your cheek. Your stomach flips, a zapping, sickening electricity bending and aching inside you from his innocuous touch. Intimacy with Spencer has become casual, but not less exciting. You feel him like a contusion, sometimes. Right in the pit of your stomach. It borders on unpleasant, though it never quite gets there. You want him to do this to you for the rest of your life, you think, opening your eyes to catch a last look at the dark sky and its rich field of stars like white strawberry seeds. 

Spencer’s watching you when you drop your chin. You’d scowl if he were anyone else, reluctant to be caught relaxed, but it’s him. 

“You okay?” 

“Shouldn’t I be?” you ask. You’ve given little clue of nerves. You’re as rigid as ever, the softest part of you your hand where he’s petting your index finger. 

“I know when you’re… not fully you,” he says. 

“I’m still me. Just worried.” 

“About what?”

There’s a layer of gutted to his voice you don’t like. You shouldn’t be worried about anything. You and your colleagues at the BAU recently received a pay rise at work, as well as a small bonus, which you and Spencer then cashed to vacation here. It might not be the best time of year, but anywhere with Spencer can be perfect. So far it has been. Waking up with him in a space that isn’t his apartment or yours feels new, startlingly good, it makes you think of the future in ways you hadn’t considered in depth previously. The aching puddle of your stomach yawns again. 

“I have something– something I–” You wince through it as Spencer’s brows rise. “I need to tell you something, Spencer. Before it jumps out of me.” 

“Okay.” His breath is like mist in front of him. His cheeks continue in their reddening. 

“I’m worried I won’t say it the right way.” 

Spencer shakes his head. You’d like to rub some warmth into his skin, but you don’t trust your hands to stay steady. “You’re making me nervous.”

“I’m really happy we’re here. I can’t… there isn’t any other way I’d like to spend the weekend. This is really– Spencer, this is perfect, and it’s because of you. Us.“ Spencer’s overlooked and under appreciated everywhere he goes. Just once, you want him to feel seen for the gem he is. “I really,” —your breath leaves you like it’s been yanked from your chest— “love you.” 

Spencer brings your hand to his chest. “You love me?” he asks, kissing your fingers. 

You dip your chin to your chest. “Yeah.” 

“I love you.“ What an odd emphasis, and somehow the right one. 

You nod. That’s good. It’s good to be loved. You’d known he loved you, of course, but it’s good to have it said aloud. 

“You aren’t surprised?” he asks. “But, why were you worried?” 

Hard to explain. You give in to temptation, cradling the cold stretch of his cheek to rub a thumb over his bottom lip. Your lip balm has left it soft. “I told you, I didn’t think I’d say it right.” 

“You don’t usually say anything wrong.” 

Spencer wraps his arm around you and tugs you in for a hug. You stumble back at the force of him and he sways you from one side to the other, keeping you up with him, frosting grass crunching under your shoes. The night is quiet here, coloured only by the shush of the wind and the stirring leaves of the woodlands. Spencer’s breath is by far the loudest sound, a huffing, happy thing that betrays his excitement. “I love you,” he says on a laugh. “It was nice to see you struggling to talk, for once, but you don’t need to be nervous with me. I love you.” Two admissions at once. You find yourself renewed.

“It was a one time thing, I assure you.” 

“Consider me assured,” he says, ferrying your face up for a warm kiss. 

[darkficsyouneveraskedfor]

Code of Conduct 5

Warnings: this fic will include elements, some dark, such as cheating, noncon/dubcon, and other untagged triggers. Please take this into account before proceeding. It is up to curate your online consumption safely.

Summary: your boss has a difficult time keeping his personal life from bleeding into his work. 

Characters: Steve Rogers, this reader is known as Rosie.

Author’s Note: Please feel free to leave some feedback, reblog, and jump into my asks. I’m always happy to discuss with you and riff on idea. As always, you are cherished and adored! Stay safe, be kind, and treat yourself💜

💼Part of the Bad Bosses AU💼

Mr. Rogers leaves without saying a word. His face is pale as his hand opens and closes in a fist at his side and he strides past your desk. You watch after him, thinking for a moment that you should follow. No, he has to sort this out on his own. You’ve already done too much. 

You go through his calendar and cancel his only other meeting. You don’t think that’s going to happen.  

It’s strange sitting there alone. Mr. Rogers comes and goes often but not know when he’ll be back puts you on edge. An hour passes then another. You spend your lunch outside in the sunshine then come back in to the stale office air. 

Your phone rings and you answer. You’re surprised when Rogers’ voice comes from the speaker. You expected it to be Dizzie for some reason. She’s been awfully quiet today. 

“She changed the locks,” he croaks. 

There’s static on the line and thrum that’s so loud it nearly drowns him out. 

“Sir?” You sit up straight. 

“Peggy. She locked me out. I don’t... I don’t know what to do. I’ve just been sitting here in my car...” his voice is a dull murmur. 

“I’m sorry, Mr. Rogers. Is that—can she do that? Can you call your lawyer? The police?” 

“Police told me to call the lawyer. Lawyer says it’s gonna take a while so... yeah.” 

“I’m so so sorry,” you touch your cheek. “I can’t even imagine... that’s horrible.” 

“Yeah, I mean, who would leave you, Rosie? No, that’d be crazy.” He sniffles, “guess I deserve this. I worked so much, all so I could give her the life she wanted but it turns out I worked just enough to drive her away.” 

“Sir,” you utter. 

“Guess I could go to a hotel. I mean, might as well spend the money before I have alimony to pay,” he laughs crisply. “Bucky’s not picking up. I thought maybe I could stay there but... just because my life is falling apart doesn’t mean he needs to pick up the pieces.” 

He sounds so broken it makes your heart rend. Something about his cadence also worries you. He doesn’t sound healthy. 

“Sir, where are you?”  

You realise then what that noise is. Water. 

“By the bridge. The water looks cold.” 

You swallow and stand up. “I’ll come to you, alright?” 

“Rosie? Why...” 

“Just, it’s okay, sir, I’ll be there. Is that Collingswood Bridge? I love the flowers there.” 

“Yeah, that’s the one,” he answers. 

“Alright, I’m on my way okay, so let’s stay on the phone.” 

“Rosie, why do you sound so upset?” 

“I’m not upset. I just think you need a friend so I’m coming. Did you want me to message Mr. Barnes as well.” 

“I told you, he’s too busy for me,” he mopes. 

“But just in case--” 

“Oh, woah!” He exclaims. 

“Sir, what--” 

“Nothing, nothing, I just... this bridge is so high up.” 

You tamp down your worry and take a breath, “sir, I canceled your meetings. Oh, did I tell you, they’re opening a new donut place downstairs too! I know your favourite is the one with the sprinkles.” 

“You remember,” he says softly.  

“Of course, sir,” you assure him. 

You keep chattering about nothing in particular as you swipe up your bag and race out of the office. You try not let him hear you panting as you rush down to catch a cab. You mute the phone to tell the driver to head to the bridge then get back on the line. 

The conversation rolls on as you don’t let Rogers stop talking. You get out with a hasty thanks and tip to the driver. You rush down the bridge without looking ahead and only after you’re halfway down do you see your boss sitting on the railing. Holy moly. 

You slow and walk up to him slowly, letting out quiet mhm’s and uh huhs and you grab onto his forearm. He flinches and you tug on him. You won’t be able to stop him from going over if he slips but you didn’t want to just call out to him and give him a warning. 

“Rose!” He looks at you and lowers his phone. “How’d you get here?” 

“Mr. Rogers, please, will you get off the railing?” You ask softly. 

He stares at you then looks out at the water. He laughs and turns to hang his legs over the inside of the bridge. “Sure, Rosie. Were you worried?” 

“I just wanna make sure you’re okay, sir,” you cling to him until he’s on his feet. He glances down at you grip and you finally let go. 

“I’m good. I’m great, now that you’re here. Did you find me a room yet?” He asks. 

You wince. You’ve been on the phone this whole time. When does he think you did that? 

“Are you okay?” You ask. 

“Of course, of course,” his eyes are red from tears, his cheeks pallid and streaked. 

“Um, I’m sorry, everything’s booked up,” you say, “how about you come to my place? You can stay on my couch. Just for tonight.” 

“Really?” His brow wrinkles, “you’d do that for me?” 

“Uh, yeah,” you answer. You don’t think leaving him alone right now would be smart. Nor could you forgive yourself if anything happened. “It’s fine. My place is just a bit small.” 

“Mm, I don’t mind,” he smiles and pushes his shoulders up in a shiver as a breeze blows across the water. “It’s cold out here.” 

“It is, sir,” you agree. “Where did you park?” 

[kudossi]

hear the crack of lightning (where your heart will break)

“Don’t you understand?” Hawkfrost hisses, spits like it’s deathberries, like poison curling his tongue and blackening his gums. “We’re the same, you and I!”

Hollyleaf stares at him, still as the grave.

“Hollyleaf, no!” Dovewing shouts out. Thunder rips across the sky, breaking and rending and tearing apart. Lightning flashes, hot and acerbic, the taste of ozone and the dizzying light of uncountable seasons of greenleaf suns.

Hollyleaf doesn’t move. She’s a dark outline in the aftereffects of lightning, against smoke sputtering toward the sky. “You’re wrong,” she says, quiet, and Dovewing pictures rolling hills covered in prairie grass, whistling softly, something beautiful and magnificent and simple all the same, her teacher and her friend and her family, all wrapped up in one cat. “End this, Hawkfrost. You don’t have to do this.”

Hawkfrost snarls. “I think you’ll find that I do,” he says, anger and fathomless, incomprehensible emptiness.

The sky opens. Rain pours down around them, obscuring Dovewing’s vision. Maybe that’s why she isn’t quick enough. Maybe that’s why she doesn’t see the blow levied for her until Hollyleaf intercepts it, bowling Breezepelt over in the span of a blink. Maybe that’s why she doesn’t comprehend Hawkfrost’s movement, the way he digs his teeth into Hollyleaf’s scruff and his claws into her throat.

Hollyleaf gasps.

Dovewing had always wondered what would happen when the prophecy came to bear. She had pondered over it on sleepless nights, during early patrols, when she guarded the camp while the Clan slept around her. The night before hadn’t been any different — she had tucked herself underneath Hollyleaf’s chin, leeching comfort from her pelt, and the thought had come — what would she do if something happened to her?

She’d thought she would rage, would scream to the sky, would take her revenge with tooth and claw. But instead she stands stock-still as Hollyleaf struggles to stand, as Hawkfrost’s bloody mouth turns to her, as Breezepelt grins, crooked and eager.

Hollyleaf laughs. It’s choked with her own blood. “You’ll have to get through me first,” she says, this self-exiled loner, this fully-trained warrior, a cat who had watched her grow up and had realized what she held that Hollyleaf herself had not; a cat who had come looking anyway, who had come to rescue her when everything else had gone hopeless and fuzzy at the edges.

“No,” she breathes, and Hawkfrost leaps, but Hollyleaf is ready, and her fangs sink deep into his throat. Black blood spurts from any gap her mouth creates, stinking and shiny like the puddles they sometimes found on Thunderpaths. It’s muck and mire, not clean blood, and yet—and yet—

Lionblaze and Icecloud interrupt her panicked musings, fighting back-to-back as they take on Breezepelt, as Hawkfrost’s body deflates like waterlogged moss, as Hollyleaf slumps back, stunned, her face and neck dripping.

Dovewing knows what to do. She knows what to do — what Hollyleaf taught her to do between battle practice and hunting, in the mornings and the evenings where being prophesied might as well have been a death sentence, where even Hollyleaf’s simple knowledge of herbs might give at least a slim, wild chance —  but as she rolls Hollyleaf on her side, she knows that anything she does will only prolong the end.

She does it anyway.

The herbs don’t matter anymore — nothing matters anymore. Breezepelt and the monsters behind him could kill them all where they stood and it would make more sense than this, than Hollyleaf bleeding out at her paws, than the way the cobwebs run red with blood, than the way the herbs she presses in don’t help the clotting.

She can’t think. It’s only instinct. No, no, her heart beats. No, no, not her, not her, anyone but her.

Dovewing presses more and more cobwebs to the wound.

A voice echoes from somewhere, and it takes Dovewing a moment to realize that it’s from Hollyleaf. “I knew you’d make a good medic,” Hollyleaf manages. She reaches out a paw to tap one of Dovewing’s, a purr in her throat. “You’ve made me proud. So, so proud.”

No. Dovewing snatches the paw back as if Hollyleaf had touched it with fire, and she busies herself again — herbs, herbs, what to stop the blood, what would stop the blood?

“It’s okay,” Hollyleaf says. “I always knew, Dovewing. I always knew this would be my fate.”

“It’s not okay!” Dovewing snaps. “You have your whole life to live, and, and—I’m going to stop the bleeding, and we’re going to go home, all of us, and you can be deputy one day, and then leader, Hollyleaf, you deserve it, and maybe I can train as a medic — really train — and Ivypool can be your deputy, and nothing will hurt — nothing will hurt ever again, Hollyleaf, wouldn’t that be nice?”

Hollyleaf says nothing. There’s a gentle smile on her face, something knowing.

“Why isn’t—why isn’t it stopping?” she asks. “I’m doing everything you taught me, everything, Hollyleaf, please—”

“Sometimes… it’s not enough,” Hollyleaf whispers. Dovewing flinches away, reaching blindly for more, and Hollyleaf’s paw touches her again. “Hey. Hey, Dovewing. It’s—it’s no use. You have to save those, okay? You can’t go using them all on me.”

“I’ll get more, okay? I will!”

“Dovewing.”

“I’ll—I’ll use more moss, and they’ll take patrols past the borders—”

“Dovewing.”

“—and it’ll all be okay, Hollyleaf, you’ll see—”

“Dove!”

Dovewing reels back, slipping in Hollyleaf’s blood. For the first time since she’d started packing herbs into the wounds, Dovewing looks Hollyleaf in the eye. They’re green, of course — a shade so similar to her own that it was as if they’d been born to be two halves of a whole.

The light in them is dim, the life slipping steadily away. But she sees affection there, sees pride, sees love.

Gently, Hollyleaf offers Dovewing her white paw.

Trembling, Dovewing puts her own white paw atop it. She’s warm, so warm, like life and sunlight and those stolen training days, where nothing mattered but the next herb, the next piece of knowledge to slot into her mind so easily, so perfectly that she’d known it had always meant to be there.

“You’ll find another cat to teach, won’t you?” Hollyleaf asks, a weak smile on her face. “Illicitly, of course?”

Something bubbles in Dovewing’s chest. She thinks it would have been a laugh, any other time. “This isn’t funny.”

“No,” Hollyleaf says quietly, “but I wish you wouldn’t cry for me.”

Dovewing snorts, the sound watery. “A little too late for that.”

Hollyleaf purrs, exasperated and fond. “Look at you, Dove. You’re—you’re fully trained, in every way you could be. Let Jayfeather tell you how proud he is in my stead, won’t you? When you don’t have to be a warrior anymore? I—I had wanted to be the one to tell you, after this all was over. After you didn’t need to fight anymore… when you could rest.”

“Then why won’t you let me save you?” Dovewing demands. “You could—you have a future, Hollyleaf. Don’t you want to seize it? To take it for yourself, to live it?”

“My future has always led me here.” Hollyleaf coughs. Blood splatters on the ground before her, bright for only moments before the rain whisks it away. “But I would have liked to.”

Dovewing looks down at her wound, at the bloodied herbs scattered at her paws, at the empty forest where Lionblaze and Icecloud and Breezepelt and faded Dark Forest cats had once stood. “Kestrelflight!” she realizes. “I can get Kestrelflight!”

“You know you can’t get Kestrelflight,” Hollyleaf says kindly. “He wouldn’t make it here in time. I know you know that.”

“No—you—please—what am I supposed to do without you? There was so much left for you to teach me. You can’t go, please, Hollyleaf—”

“It’s okay, Dovewing. Dovewing, look at me.”

Dovewing looks studiously at the wound, as if a solution is going to drop into her paws like the prophecy she’d never asked for. 

“Shh. Look at me, Dove. It’s okay.”

Her peaceful expression made her look impossibly young, impossibly happy. Dovewing releases a hiccupping sob, trying to memorize each individual whisker. If—if she looked hard enough now, maybe—maybe she could remember.

“I’ll be with you, I promise.”

“How can you promise that?”

“Because I know. I know, okay? I’ll be beside you with every patient, every time you look for herbs, every time you lie in the sun. I’ll be in every blade of grass and every leaf on every tree. I’ll never leave you. I won’t.”

Dovewing held back a sob. “Please.”

“I wish I could give you what you want,” Hollyleaf murmurs, “but this’ll have to do. I’ll watch over you, wherever I go, as much as I can. I want you to—to live, and love, and do everything you’ve ever wanted, and I don’t want you to let anyone stop you.”

“I can’t go on without you,” Dovewing pleads. “I can’t.”

“You have to,” Hollyleaf wheezes, her breath coming shorter. “There are other cats to treat, other cats who need you. And it doesn’t hurt, Dove, not anymore.”

It hurts for me, Dovewing doesn’t say.

“I can hear—you never met her, but—my birth mother’s name was Leafpool,” Hollyleaf murmurs. Her sides rattle as she takes a breath. “I can—she chose me, once. I betrayed her, and—and she’d suffered enough, but StarClan doesn’t forgive even the cats they ask to do impossible things.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be,” Hollyleaf says softly. “I can hear her. It’s been… it’s been so long. She’s—she’s telling me about marigold. Marigold! As if—as if I were six moons old again… I thought… I miss her.”

“I’ll remember her for you,” Dovewing says softly. “I’ll teach the kits when I’m old and gray. I’ll threaten them into telling their kits, too.”

Hollyleaf laughs. It’s a horrible, wheezing thing. “She’d like that,” she murmurs. Her eyes are glazing over. She’s looking—she’s looking so far away, as if she can see something seasons and seasons past.

Dovewing hopes she can.

Hollyleaf doesn’t speak for a moment, the only signs of her life the continued rise and fall of her flank.

“I’m sorry,” Dovewing says, low enough to where she knows Hollyleaf won’t be able to hear. “I’m so sorry.”

Hollyleaf’s breaths hitch for a moment, then resume. Her eyes slide closed and then open again.

“Can you still hear her?”

“I can see her,” Hollyleaf says deliriously. “We’re—having my favorite prey. She’s going to—she’s going to teach me everything she ever wanted to.”

Dovewing rests her head on Hollyleaf’s shoulder. “It sounds beautiful,” she murmurs.

“It is,” Hollyleaf mumbles. “It’s—forgiveness, Dove. I forgive her. I forgive them all.”

Her breath rattles in her throat. The rain beats on the leaves above, unheeding.

Hollyleaf stills, and Dovewing does too, as if every part of her needed to match Hollyleaf’s. As if syncing their bodies will give her enough of Dovewing to come back.

She doesn’t, of course.

Dovewing weeps.

[sentientsky]

here, have another dumbass good omens crack fic

Galvanized and sparking, gunmetal clouds tossed themselves across the sky. Across the way, the Metatron stood, unblinking and monochrome. Beside him, a hundred thousand angels flickered with holy light. Daggers billowed with heavenly flames, rending the comfortable shadows apart and replacing them with the antiseptic, blinding breadth of apotheosis.

Crowley felt his breath catch in his throat.

The end tasted like the hollowing breath of November—the shape of absence, the rattling gasp of a drowning man. If they were to go down, they'd go down hand in hand, he and his angel. He tightened his grip, and felt Aziraphale return the pressure with a rare ferocity.

They walked a tightrope. Tension, sharp as a heavenly blade, hummed in the air between them. Our side.

Then, without warning, Nina appeared beside Crowley, Maggie in tow. The demon opened his mouth to speak, to ask them why (to tell them to go back into the bookshop where it was safe, to reassure them that everything would be okay—even if he couldn't convince himself).

"Give me your hand," Nina instructed. Aziraphale's brow crinkled in confusion, and even the Metatron's gaze flickered to the two humans. She stood, hand outstretched, waiting for Crowley to comply. After a moment of bewildered sputtering and half-formed questions, he placed his palm against hers. On Nina's other side, she reached to join hands with Maggie. The rising blush in the blonde woman's cheeks didn't escape Crowley's notice.

There, in the middle of the street at the end of the world, the four of them turned to look upon the army of God.

It was only then that the Metatron spoke. "Enlisting the assistance of humans? Really? This is just pathe—"

"Oi, shut it," Maggie snapped. And then it was Nina's turn to blush. No need for sudden rainstorms or Austen-esque ballroom dances, Crowley thought. Just gotta get humans facing down Armageddon and then va-voom. He tucked that information away for later, and returned his attention to the two women beside him.

Nina and Maggie exchanged a look, and then, as one: "With our combined powers of gay, we cast thee out!"

All was still. Aziraphale remained silent, but the demon could hear him practically vibrating with anxiety. Crowley squeezed his hand, fear running through him in equal measure.

All the world was quiet, save for the crackling of heavenly fire. Anticipation rose like a looming tidal wave.

And then the Metatron scoffed. "I have no idea what you hoped you might accomplish in doing that. Honestly, this has to be the most pitiful attempt at a—"

But he didn’t get to finish, because, in the blink of an eye, the holy messenger and his heavenly army were all violently yoinked up into the sky.

A beat passed, astonished and still.

And then the clouds cleared, revealing a tall, curving rainbow that arced its way across all of Soho. Nina placed a hand over her heart and sniffed as she peered up into the heavens. “Gay rights,” she murmured, soft and reverent.

Crowley wiped a tear from his eye. “Hell yeah, gay rights.”

here's the actual, serious version of the fic, if you're interested: x

[rotworld]

28: High Stakes

(previous)

john doe makes his demands and you have no choice but to comply.

->contains gore, implied drugging, physical and emotional torture, mentions of child abuse and human trafficking.

.

.

.

“No.” Jamie’s hand tightens around yours. Their voice is a small, scared whisper. “No, you can’t. You can’t go. You can’t.”

“Jamie,” you say softly. When you start to pull away, their breath hitches. They hold onto you even more tightly, their bruising grip shifting to your wrist. 

“How do we know he’ll keep his word? How do we know that he’s even telling the truth?”

“I can put him on, if you’d like,” John Doe says. “But he’s in no condition to speak at the moment.” 

The next sound you hear is heart-rending. Hoarse, rattling wheezes, rough like sandpaper and sickness. The muffled, frantic beating of enormous wings, trapped against a table or some other surface, fluttering uselessly. The Singer inhales shakily. He tries to sing but all you hear is a pitiful, agonized moan. 

“Tell me where to go,” you say. Jamie’s protests gain a shrill, desperate edge. You try to separate gently but they cling to you, insisting this is stupid, this isn’t fair, this is going to get you killed.

“Down the hall, past the breakroom. You’ll see a set of double doors. I’d appreciate if the rest of your party would remain where they are. I have a clear view of the hallway. If you try to sneak someone else in, I can’t guarantee the Singer’s safety.”

Jamie still won’t let go. You lay your hand gently over theirs and they shake their head frantically. “Jamie,” you say, “I have to go.” 

“You can’t,” they insist, their voice pitched with fear and desperation. 

“Dr. Higgs.” Iridesce’s sharp, crunching footsteps approach. She lays a hand on each of your shoulders. Her expression is understanding but stern. You know what she’s thinking; you have to stall for time so the Verlindans and their reinforcements can make their way inside. You have to get deeper into the labs. You need access to their systems, need to stop any further death and destruction if you can. You have to find the people who did this, who ordered this, who planned this, and make them pay. This is your best chance to accomplish everything you came here to do and you both know it.

Jamie knows it, too. That’s why they struggle to hold your gaze, tears overflowing. You see them close their eyes, emotions flickering quickly across their face—communicating with the fluke. They take a deep breath, biting back a sob. When they open their eyes again, you see both the steely confidence of the fluke and Jamie’s warmth. They draw you closer, pulling you against their body with a hand on the back of your neck. The kiss is slow and painfully tender,their tongue and the fluke’s sharp tendril brushing against your lips. You can taste the salt of their tears. They linger when they pull away, resting their forehead against yours and taking steadying breaths. 

“You’re going to come back to me,” they whisper. “We’re not done, courier. We’re not done getting to know you. Traveling with you. Making you laugh. You have to come back.” 

“I will,” you promise.

They nod shakily. You know it takes all of their willpower to pull their hands away and slowly, reluctantly, one finger at a time, let you go. 

It’s a short walk to the double doors. You can still see the others when you look back, small shadows in the dark. The emergency lights shimmer like liquid ruby across Iridesce’s shape. You see fresh tears spill down Jamie’s cheeks, framing a trembling, desperate smile. You see Malachi and the people of Nelton, all solemn nods and looks of understanding. There’s a beep and a click; the doors unlocking. They swing open automatically. Another metal shutter clatters apart for you to pass. As soon as you cross the threshold, it snaps shut again behind you. 

This is how you spend the long, ominous walk down the corridor; in near darkness, walls opening and closing, lured deeper into the labyrinth by John Doe’s insistence that you’re nearly there. At last, you reach a part of the labs unlike anything you’ve seen before. Polished tile turns to soft carpet. Hard steel becomes Victorian wallpaper. It’s still a laboratory—there are computers and information kiosks, display cases of old equipment and aging textbooks, rooms that remind you of the University’s paraphysics department with blackboards, workstations and alembics—but there’s an air of comfort and luxury. 

There’s a sound at the very edge of your awareness, so quiet you aren’t if you’re imagining it or now. A faint scraping sound, like a knife sharpening. The skitter of movement behind the walls.

You see him suddenly at the end of the hall. The lights are low, the shadows thick. He stands there waiting for you in a somber black suit, his expression warm, casual and welcoming. “Oh, good. You brought your bag,” he says. You clutch the strap of your backpack self-consciously. You weren’t sure if you’d need the chameleite again.

“Where is he?” you say.

He chuckles. “Straight to business. Fair enough.” He disappears into the open doorway on his right. You follow quickly, not wanting to lose sight of him. The room is small and intimate, the decor rich shades of red and gold. If there are windows, they’re covered by heavy crimson drapes curtaining the walls. Music plays softly from somewhere. There is a small wooden table with a single flickering candle and a floral display at the center. Two cushioned chairs are positioned across from each other. He pulls one out the one closest to you and smiles, nodding down at it. 

“Where is he?” you repeat. 

“In the adjoining room,” he says smoothly. “We won’t be going in there just yet. I told you, I’d like to talk. We haven’t had many chances.” He pauses, adding, “He’ll be safe, as long as you cooperate.” 

“Show me where he is and that he’s okay.” 

John Doe shows just the slightest bit of impatience at your words, the corner of his lips twitching in irritation. But he masks it quickly with another smile and a nod. “Of course, courier. You came all this way, like I asked. It’s the least I can do.” He ambles over to the wall, tugging a golden cord that pulls the curtains open. Your stomach lurches. 

There is no window. The whole wall is glass. You can see clearly into the next room—it’s nothing like this one, not warm and welcoming. It’s a cold, clinical cell, two people in labcoats bustling around and talking to each other nonchalantly, gesturing with their scalpels and syringes. The Singer is strapped to the metal slab behind them, writhing weakly against the leather straps tying him to the examination table. His beautiful, snowy fur is matted with drying blood. 

“You…you said—”

“I said this was an exchange. You for him. And I intend to keep my word. All I want is a conversation,” John Doe assures you. He tugs you away from the glass by the arm, his hand sliding down slowly, sensually, to your wrist and hand, lacing your fingers together. You tear away from him. You don’t see that flicker of anger but he does hesitate, studying your expression in unnerving silence as though you’re a particularly difficult puzzle. “Sit with me. Let’s talk. Any question you have, I’ll answer it. That’s all I ask,” he insists. 

“And you’ll let him go?” you press. “You won’t kill him? You’ll let him leave?”

“I give you my word.” 

You don’t think that’s worth much, but you’re not sure you have a choice. “Fine,” you say. You return to the chair he pulled out, shrugging off your bag and setting it by your feet. Your gaze wanders back to the Singer as you sit down. John Doe removes his suit jacket, draping it over the back of his chair, before he sits across from you. He rests his elbows on the table, hands steepled, and leans in. The candlelight throws dancing shadows across his face. He smiles like you’ve done something endearing.

“So,” he says, “let’s talk.”

[NOW PLAYING ON THE RADIO: HOME HONEY I’M HIGH BY KELLI ALI]

“What’s your real name?” you ask him.

“I don’t have one,” he says. “Where did you grow up?” 

“I thought I was asking you questions.” 

“I never said I didn’t have any of my own. Shouldn’t we keep things fair? A question for a question.” He smiles beatifically and it sets your teeth on edge. 

“Compass Hill. Like you didn’t already know that.” You glance at the Singer again. He looks dazed. Drugged, maybe. His head lolls back and he tugs at his wrists but his attempts to escape are weak, uncoordinated. “How did you know?”

“You’re in one of the factory ledgers. The Dewitts kept a detailed record of all, ah…transactions.”

Your jaw clenches tightly. “And why would you have those records?” 

“It’s my turn, courier,” he chides you gently. He fiddles with one of the flowers in the vase absently, adjusting a drooping rose. His sickly sweet tone and the gentle ambiance makes this feel like some kind of deranged dinner date. “Do you enjoy courier work?” 

“It’s fine,” you say stiffly. 

“I’d like you to elaborate on that answer.” You nearly refuse. But John Doe frowns slightly, and then he glances towards the glass wall. It’s not one-way; they’re staring right at you. You could hear indistinct muttering earlier so they must be able to hear you, too. “If I tell them to hurt him, they will,” John Doe says, flippant, like he’s mentioning the weather. 

You take a deep breath. “I like traveling,” you tell him. “I like not being tied down anywhere. It gets lonely sometimes.”

He has the audacity to look saddened by your answer. “I imagine it would.” 

You hear the scratching again; shrill, muffled scraping. Rocks grinding together. Metal squealing. You know it’s real because John Doe pauses, too, tilting his head to listen. He looks curious but unbothered. 

“Why is the Singer here?” 

He glances over just briefly, his gaze cold and disinterested. “He actually came to us, if you can believe it. Compass Hill wasn’t a high priority target. We didn’t intend to hit it until the second wave. He saw the writing on the wall and didn’t want to risk his home coming to any harm, so he turned himself in. I’m surprised he found out what was happening so quickly. The Drift is so disconnected, most places are still entirely unaware.” 

You feel sick. You know how he found out; Malachi sent letters, trying to warn everyone he could. One of the Verlindans delivered them. 

“That’s one reason he’s here, anyway. I knew he’d be a useful bargaining chip, and we’re still collecting material.” 

“Material?” you say hoarsely. 

John Doe smiles. “My turn, courier.” 

“No.” You slam your hands on the table, shooting out of your seat. “No, I’m not playing this game with you. I’m here. We talked. Let him go.” 

You see that irritated twitch again, this time in one eye. It takes him longer to collect himself this time, but he does, reaching into his pocket and pulling out something that clatters when he sets it on the table. It’s a rock. A misshapen stone. It has the same midnight color as the shard in Iridesce’s chest, the same shimmering, nacre faces. It throbs like a dying heart. “This is a piece of the Mountain,” he says. That sick feeling in your chest worsens as he pokes and prods at it with his finger, sliding it around on the table. “Strange, isn’t it? Children of the road can become all kinds of things.” 

“Please let him go,” you beg. “I’ll stay. I’ll talk, whatever you want.” 

He chuckles. “I’m sure you will. This is just some extra assurance. This little stone belongs in Prismville. As far as it knows, it’s still in Prismville. So any deals we might make, any exchanges…they’d be enforced in that peculiar Prismville way. You understand what I’m saying.” You sit back down slowly. You feel numb. John Doe’s expression melts into kindness again and he rests his hands one atop the other, smiling at you just like before as if nothing happened. “You’re right, courier. There’s only so much talking we can do before we both get restless. So how about something more engaging? A game where we can get to know each other. You can keep asking me questions, if you’d like. This will just keep things interesting.” 

He pauses. You wait, confused, but he’s just staring at you. He’s waiting, you realize. Urging you to ask him something. His eagerness, how seriously he’s taking this, unnerves you. “Why are you doing this?” you ask hoarsely. 

He smiles patiently. “Doing what, specifically?”

“Ruining the Drift. Killing children of the road.” 

“I believe I overheard Meryl give you an abridged version earlier. We’re fixing it, we’re making it better, et cetera.” He waves his hand dismissively. “And that’s true, we are. That necessitates a revolution. We’re not killing children of the road indiscriminately. One must make it home and meet very specific conditions to set a law. These are the ones we’re most concerned about. It’s why Compass Hill wasn’t a priority; the Singer is too emotionally damaged to be of any danger.”

“You…” You’d laugh if you weren’t so horrified. “You have no fucking idea what you’re talking about—”

“Courier,” John Doe says, “how much is the Singer’s life worth to you?” Your throat constricts. You feel like you’re suffocating. “Quite a bit, I’d wager. But we can start small. The law of reciprocity states that all exchanges must be of equal value. It also allows me to make specific requests, as long as what’s offered and promised are considered roughly equivalent. So, courier…” He pauses, watching your face carefully. “I won’t tell my staff to remove the Singer’s eyes if you give me whichever of your possessions has the highest monetary value.” 

You don’t hesitate. You scramble to find the chameleite in your backpack and nearly throw it at him, sending it skittering across the table. He picks up the dull, speckled stone, rubbing his fingertips over its surfaces. 

You sweep your eyes across the room while he’s distracted, looking for something, anything, that might be of use. Not much for weapons unless you lob your own chair at him, and thinking back to your last meeting, you’re certain he could easily overpower you. The candle, maybe? The curtains look flammable. You notice a door behind him in the corner behind him, half-hidden by curtains drawn away from the glass. That must lead to the other room. Could you reach it before he catches you?

He’s quiet again. Looking at you. You quickly return to your attention to his face but he smiles like he knows what you were thinking about. You need him distracted. Less vigilant. 

“Last time we talked…” You trail off. 

This is the right choice. His eyes light up and he becomes much more relaxed again. “I’d like to revisit that, too.”

“You’re killing children of the road who make laws. This is my home. If I met these ‘conditions’ you keep mentioning, wouldn’t that make me a threat?”  

“Of course not,” he says smoothly. “You’d make laws that we approve.”

You marvel at just how close he is to understanding, and yet how far away. The Drift’s laws are collaborative. Everyone in Anchor would have to agree to them—and that includes you. “Why me, then? Haven’t you found anyone else?” 

“Have you ever met another child of the road who shares your home?” You look at him in surprise. Before Lorne, you hadn’t. It made your inability to find Anchor all the more infuriating. You thought something was wrong with you, that your inner compass was broken. “I doubt you have,” he says. “We’ve been combing the Drift for people like you for many years now. It never worked out, unfortunately. Many of the candidates simply weren’t a good fit. Most were too old by the time we found them. Unlike other populations, Anchor’s children of the road are typically indistinguishable from ordinary humans until well after puberty. That makes things much harder. But I think you’re special, courier. You’re intelligent, kind, willing to listen…”

“Obedient. That’s what you mean,” you say. “You think I’ll do what you tell me to do.” 

“I think you’re open to a good argument.” He glances at the Singer again. “Hm. How about this? I won’t tell my staff to flay him if you give me your most precious possession. Something with the greatest sentimental value.” 

You hesitate for only a second. It’s long enough for him gesture with a nod and one of the people in the other room to start assembling sharp surgical instruments. You scream at him to stop, digging through your backpack for something tucked into a small side pocket. It’s a slender cord of tightly woven threads, thinner than your smallest finger. Each strand glints like sunlight pouring across a morning sky, pink, gold, vivid blue. It’s hopesilk; your only reminder of the girl you took home to Compass Hill.

John Doe holds up a hand, halting the movement in the other room. He plucks the hopesilk off the table, examining it with awed curiosity. You hear a strangled sound—a miserable, hoarse whine. The Singer rests his cheek against the metal slab, gazing at you through the glass. Tears dribble from all of his eyes. He’s trying to tell you something but his voice is too weak.

“What are you feeling right now?” John Doe asks.

You can barely hold back furious, frustrated tears. “I hate you,” you tell him.

“Mm. What else?” 

You take a shaky breath. “I’m angry. I’m—I feel helpless.” 

He nods with a pleased expression. “I’m not doing this to you for no reason, courier. This is a lesson. One I learned a very long time ago. I did everything I could to never feel the way you’re feeling again. You could do even more. You could become—”

“We’re not gods!” you scream, your hasty, violent rise from your seat knocking your chair back. “None of us are! We never were! We’re people. We used to be children. Have you ever thought about that? Have you thought about what drives someone to make the kinds of laws the Drift has?” 

Something you struggle to identify—a wounded emotion, something almost vulnerable—flickers through his eyes, gone as quickly as it appeared. “Sit down,” he says calmly. “I don’t appreciate being shouted at, courier. We can debate semantics some other time. It’s undeniable that you’re different from the normal humans of the Drift. You’re special. This isn’t a bad thing. You could do something with that, something good and useful—”

“As opposed to what? Just daring to exist without being useful?” You wanted to stall longer. You meant to keep your cool, to plan and prepare for just the right moment, but you can’t calm down. You’ve had enough. You hate how he looks at you; the disgusting fondness, the twisted fascination. 

“I didn’t mean it like that, courier.”

“Then what did you mean? What do you want from me?” 

You see that twinge of annoyance in his expression just briefly, your only warning before he’s out of his chair and lunging for you. You don’t pull back fast enough. He grabs your wrist and yanks you forward, making the table dig unpleasantly into your stomach, and then his fingers are tangling in your hair, scraping your scalp, slamming your head down into the table. Pain explodes across your face, your nose cracking, blood trickling over your lips. John Doe doesn’t let you up, pressing your stinging face harder into the table. 

“What do I want from you? Are you not listening to me? I’ve made myself abundantly clear. I want you to stay here. Undergo a proper homecoming. Do as we ask and we will elevate you to godhood. I think you’re only being so disrespectful because you don’t understand the alternative. I asked you if you’ve met other children of the road from Anchor. You haven’t. Do you know how I know that?” You don’t answer, and only then does he peel your face from the table, tugging you up by a fistful of your hair to look you in the eye. “Because they’re dead, courier. If we found them, we killed them. They were imperfect. Broken. Ungrateful. You don’t want to spit in the face of my kindness. You’re only alive because I insisted we give you a chance.” 

He tosses you away and you’re dizzy, unsteady on your feet. You grope for the table and just barely keep yourself from crashing face-first to the floor. You hear John Doe breathe deeply; in and out, calming himself. He still sounds furious when he speaks, the anger thrumming just beneath his words. 

“Another lesson, then. Courier, you’re going to give me that other part of yourself. The one that isn’t showing yet. You’ll submit to surgery and have it removed. In exchange, I won’t rip off the Singer’s wings.” 

Your heart skips a beat. The Singer watches you through the glass, shaking his head desperately. Don’t, he says. Don’t let him do this to you. You look from him to John Doe and back again, thoughts racing. John Doe frowns. 

“You may begin,” he says. One of the people in the other room moves briskly, excitedly, to the table. They grab one of the Singer’s wings by the root, burying their fingers in the soft fuzz of his body. The other approaches with a bone saw.

“No!” you cry. John Doe looks at you expectantly. “Please don’t, I’ll…I…” He waits. You can’t say it. You don’t want to give up that part of yourself. You’ve never even seen it before. You don’t know what it looks like, what it does, if it does anything. But it’s not right. You would have killed someone for telling the girl to have her secondary eyes removed. “Please,” you beg miserably.

John Doe studies you without pity. All that gentleness and playfulness has drained away, leaving only a cold, calculating expression. “It’s vestigial. You don’t need it in a stable, normal world. You won’t need it in godhood, either. You won’t even miss it.” 

The teeth of the saw dig into the Singer’s fur, into the flesh beneath. They cut and slice and make an awful grinding sound as the saw slides back and forth, back and forth with gushing blood and matted, slick fur. The Singer fights. He twists under his bindings, wailing, crying out in agony. It sounds like ripping, wet leather; like small twigs cracking. 

“I’ll do it! I’ll do it, just stop—don’t do this to him!” 

“You really don’t sound sincere,” John Doe says. “You were so decisive all the other times, courier, I can tell the difference. You’re still resistant to the idea—”

He expects you to make a run for it, you imagine. To try and rush past him, leave the room. He isn’t expecting you to hit him. To come closer rather than further away, to put all of your weight behind your clenched fist and send him staggering back, clutching his face. He’s not expecting you to take the vase from the table and smash it over his head, either, his hands rising up protectively moments too late. He staggers back, water and blood dripping down his head, shards of glass and shriveled petals dropping around his feet. 

Your next strike never lands. Something stops you. You can’t understand how it happens because you’re looking right at him, seeing him half-kneeling, trying to steady himself, one hand clutching the lacerations on his face where the glass shattered, the other up in a pacifying gesture. But something catches you; something stops your fist and slithers higher, wrapping around your wrist. Something lifts you easily and throws you at the wall. It curls around your throat and squeezes until you can’t breathe, soft and slippery with a sticky underside that pulls painfully on your skin. 

John Doe is an uncanny blur as he approaches you, features drooping and stretching, seeming to drip from his face like paint. You must have damaged his shielding; maybe you hit it by mistake, or some water seeped into it. He’s hard to look at, the sight of him scraping your eyes raw. The thing you can’t see fizzles in and out of your vision, flesh-colored, long and tapered. A tentacle or something similar, you think. 

“You—you’re…” He squeezes your neck so tightly that you think he might crush it entirely, strangling the life out of you and snapping your spinal cord in a single, vicious movement. He’s strong enough to do it. You feel the strength and power in the limb, a length of pure, highly flexible muscle that knows just how hard to squeeze to cut off your air. 

“Courier,” he says. It’s the most shaken you’ve heard him. He lets out a short, sharp laugh. “You really know how to push my buttons, but that’s—that’s okay. I need to be patient with you. This is exactly why it’s so important that we get rid of those nasty little things in your neck. It’s like an infection. It gets worse over time. You don’t want to end up like me, do you?”

You’d forgotten about the sounds of scratching. They became constant, dull white noise in the back of your mind, quieter than the pounding of blood in your ears and a rush of anger. But you  notice it again now as John Doe drags you closer by the throat, looking down at you in disappointment. Your nails rake over the tentacle. Your lungs ache and your neck stings. And the scratching, once low and quiet and somewhere far away, is suddenly closer, suddenly so loud you can no longer forget about it.

There’s one last, sharp scrape, and then the sound of floorboards splintering, carpet shredding, as something comes surging out of the floor. An emergency alarm starts blaring somewhere, echoing down the hall. John Doe’s grip falters and you scramble away from him, the ground beneath your feet churning with movement. Jagged limbs come surging up around you, stiff, spined carapaces emerging with a chorus of monstrous shrieks. You run for the door but it’s locked, refusing to budge even as you throw yourself against it over and over again.

Behind you, a pair of querrow slink out of the tunnel they’ve carved into the facility. Several Verlindans follow, dragging themselves out of the hole with some difficulty. Garvan spots you and rushes to help, managing to snap the door right off its hinges with a hard thrust of his shoulder. 

“Cavalry’s here,” he says, grinning. You’d thank him but the only thing on your mind is the Singer. The tremors in the next room have thrown the people holding him down off balance. You lunge for the closer one, not thinking, not even hesitating to grab a scalpel from the table and drive it into their face. You scrape an eye, feeling it squelch and sag like a deflated balloon as blood and fluid ooze around your fingers. They go down screaming, clutching at the metal stabbed through their face.

The other one is behind you with the bone saw but they don’t get the chance to use it. Garvan snags the back of their labcoat and drags them into the corner. You don’t see what happens to them; you don’t care. A terrified shriek turns to a gurgled death rattle as Garvan rips into them with claws and teeth. Your hands are bloody and shaking as you struggle to untie the Singer’s restraints. His back is a mess. They were neither quick nor careful with the bone saw. When you finally get him free and try to help him sit up, one of his wings sloughs off like dead skin and he keens in pain. The joint where it connects to his body is a red, mangled mass of tissue like shredded meat. 

“I’m sorry,” you sob. “I’m so sorry.” 

He shakes his head, clinging to you with all of his hands. His chest is heaving with harsh, shaky breaths. “Not your fault,” he sings weakly, kneading your shirt for comfort.

“Garvan, help me!” 

The Stag’s ally abandons his prey without hesitation. The ravaged mess he leaves on the floor is half-eaten, throat torn out, blood seeping into a ragged lab coat. “Here. I’ll get him out,” Garvan says. It’s a slow, painful process, helping the Singer slide off the table with one broken wing still bleeding at the root. His legs are weak. He has to lean his entire weight against Garvan, who struggles somewhat to keep him upright. Three bruised arms wrap around Garvan, one clutching his shoulder, the others clinging weakly to his side. “Doors are open now. The others should be here soon. Hang in there, courier. We’re ending this tonight.” 

There’s another door that leads out into the hallway. Garvan goes back the way you came, the Singer slung over his shoulder. You linger for a moment, unsure of what to do or where to go. You should go with them, you think. Regroup, find the others. The choice is taken from you when the wall splinters apart, a querrow’s battered, bleeding body thrown into the hall. John Doe lurches into view, stumbling slightly, bleeding profusely from the head and torso. He stomps on one of the querrow’s flailing legs and you hear it snap like breaking bone. You inhale sharply, which is what draws his gaze. 

His shielding is just barely functional. His shape ripples. For a moment, you see his shadow as a writhing mass of tendrils.

“Courier,” he says, his voice dangerously low and furious. “Come here. We’re not done talking.”

(next)

[goodlucktai]

soft ground, claiming moon

chase them all away

@natsumeweek 2023 day 5; healing/forgiveness read on ao3

title borrowed from monsters by katie sky

(previous)

x

It’s immediately as horrifying as Shuuichi thought it would be. 

He’s watching a fourteen-year-old boy writhe and bite back what surely would be a howl if he would unlock his jaw enough to let it out. It squeezes past his bared teeth in the form of guttural growls. His hands, clutching at his own arms, as if trying to hug himself together, are rending the fabric of his sleeves, fingers sharpening to points. 

And Natsume is right there. Surrounded by his friends, a motley crew of stupid, stubborn teenagers. They must know the danger they’re in but they don’t flinch. The fear on their faces is reflective of the pain that Nishimura is in, they don’t spare any for themselves. 

“You would let him turn in a room full of children?” Natori demands of Madara. He feels like he’s going insane. The shiki behind him are restless, but they don’t share his single-minded anxiety. Taki’s twin summons snicker at him and Madara flicks an ear derisively. 

“You really don’t have a clue,” the ugly cat says plainly. “It’s very annoying. Knowing a thing is knowing more than how to kill it. Stop talking and pay attention. Maybe you’ll learn something.”

By the time Shuuichi tears his eyes away from the ugly cat, it’s over. Nishimura is gone, and Kitamoto’s arms remain wrapped around a wolf. 

For a moment that feels like a small eternity, Shuuichi forgets to breathe. He can feel his heart in his throat.

The creature is breathing heavily, body heaving. Its thick coat is red-orange in color with white on the throat and belly, not unlike a fox. The face of it is more broad than angular, haloed by a slight mane, and its big ears are rounded at the top instead of pointed. 

“Nishimura?” Kitamoto says. His voice is barely audible even in the absolute silence of the room. 

The wolf lifts its head and finds his face. They stare at each other for two, three, four seconds. 

Then the wolf makes an abrupt turn, climbing clumsily into Kitamoto’s lap and shoving his snout against the boy’s face. Powerful jaws open, and Shuuichi is about to spring past Madara, after all, and then…

“Ugh—ew! Satchan!” Kitamoto sputters. “Don’t lick me!”

“Puppy kisses!” Ogata shrieks. 

“Let’s not swarm him,” Natsume says, holding an arm out to halt the girls from tackling Kitamoto and the wolf to the floor. “Let him acclimate for a minute. Shibata, are you taking pictures right now?”

“No, video.”

“Why?”

“Blackmail?” Shibata says it like Natsume must be stupid for asking. “Relax, if my phone gets hacked I’ll just say it’s my annoying cousin’s annoying dog or whatever.”

“You consider us family?” Taki presses a hand to her heart. “Shibata.”

Before Shibata can reply to that the way he would probably like to, Madara waddles past him. The cat plants its front feet on Kitamoto’s leg and peers up at the wolf thoughtfully. The symbol on his head begins to glow. 

Out of what looks like pure reflex, Ogata quickly knocks Shibata’s phone out of his hand and it clatters to the floor. If the recording picks up Madara’s voice, it will be lost under teenagers screeching at each other. 

The wolf leans down to sniff at Madara curiously. The symbol fades, and the cat says, “That’s a wolf alright.”

“You are remarkably unhelpful,” Shuuichi says. His voice comes out as little more than a wheeze. He feels like he’s just run a marathon. 

“Sensei,” Natsume scolds him mildly. 

“What more do you want?” Madara sits back. “He’s a human, not a yokai, so he isn’t likely to transform into a yokai, is he? He needs a physical form, no matter what shape it may take. The okami that bit him must have given him its own as a parting gift. Even with the curse that was twisting its mind apart, it probably knew that it wasn’t long for this life.” 

The cat looks around at the children and then past them at Shuuichi. With judgmental green eyes, Madara adds, “Okami are messengers, lesser deities. Whoever encountered one and saw fit to banish it with their shitty home-cooked spell deserves whatever they get.”

That much, at least, Shuuichi can’t argue. There is a strict code of conduct that the exorcist community must abide by, and while exceptions can be made here and there, crafting a spell of one’s own design and then using it without so much as getting it peer-reviewed first isn’t just against the rules, it’s downright stupid. 

He would like to give that person, whoever and wherever they are, the benefit of the doubt. He would like to believe they acted in good faith, doing their best to rid the world of another monster.

But for the first time since he made his mad dash to Hitoyoshi, Shuuichi doesn’t know. 

“It—he is a werewolf,” Shuuichi says. “That much is clear. He turned on the full moon and has weakness to pure metals, like silver. If he were to bite one of you in this form, the curse would spread.”

“Okay,” Kitamoto says, his tone suggesting he would like to add a petulant and? “He’s still my brother.”

“He’s dangerous.” 

“So are you,” Taki says sharply. “So am I.” 

“I’m pretty sure Natsume’s grandpa was a tengu or something,” Shibata adds. “He hasn’t come out and said it but the clues are all there. And I mean, the wind goes all crazy when I tick him off. So Natsume could probably start a hurricane if he got angry enough. That seems a little freakier to me than just turning into a big dumb dog once a month. No offense,” he adds insincerely, with a little nod Natsume’s way. 

“Don’t call him dumb,” Ogata says, because that is clearly more pressing than any tengu-related bombshells. “Natsume please can I hug him now?”

The wolf perks up, rounded ears pointing forward, and Ogata opens her arms for him without waiting for permission or approval. The wolf picks itself up on unsteady legs, wobbles for a moment, then bounds with ungainly enthusiasm into Ogata’s snug embrace. 

“Oh, I was so worried about you, I’m so glad you’re okay,” she says, squeezing him for all she’s worth. “I knew you would be but I’m still so, so glad!”

Taki drapes herself over both of them, worming her arms in there somehow, and the wolf whuffles against their hair, wriggling happily. 

“Here,” Tanuma says, appearing at their side with a shallow bowl in one hand and a bottle of Calpico in the other. “He’s barely had anything to eat or drink all day. I don’t know if his tastes will be the same like this, but…” 

“Should we save the snacks for when he’s a person again or let him have some now?” Kitamoto wonders aloud. 

“We can always go get more,” Natsume reasons. 

Shuuichi watches the convenience store bags come out, and a box of Chocorooms gets popped open, and Kitamoto offers the wolf a handful of the chocolate-covered biscuits. An hour ago, Shuuichi would have been horrified to watch the boy stick his open palm within inches of a cursed animal’s teeth. As it is, his alarm springs from a different source entirely.

“Don’t,” Shuuichi says sharply, his mouth moving before he gives it permission to. When the kids stare at him, their expressions a mixture of disdain and frustration, he adds, “Wolves can’t have chocolate.” 

After a beat, Tanuma says, “What?”

“It’s the same reason dogs can’t have chocolate,” Shuuichi says, unable to believe he’s having this conversation. “There’s a chemical in it that’s toxic to them. It’s literally poison.”

Kitamoto yanks his hand back and holds the biscuits an arm’s length away from the wolf. Shibata is frantically looking something up on his phone. 

“Is that true? What else can’t they eat?” Taki says, looking as though she’s seconds away from flinging all of their snacks out the nearest window. 

And really, Shuuichi finds himself thinking, it’s typical. For all his knowledge and research on werewolves and lycanthropy, for all his determination when he arrived here, it’s the three-hour-long learning spree he went on when he agreed to babysit his manager’s seven-month-old cockapoo for the weekend that would have ultimately done the job. And he turned around and used it to prevent the wolf from dying.

The wolf—Nishimura mostly sticks to either Kitamoto or Natsume’s side, his head on their knee or shoulder. He soaks up the attention from his friends but he seems more tired than anything. 

Taki reasons aloud that the first full moon probably took a toll. She thinks that things will get easier as they go. Only time will tell. 

“I’m still going to try to break the curse for you,” she says, holding his snout in her hands and looking him in the eye. “I’m going to try everything. But even like this, we all love you so much.”

He licks her fingers. Message received. 

A few hours later, when the moon was no longer at its zenith, the wolf shuddered and whined, burying his nose against Kitamoto’s stomach. The change happens a little bit faster this time, pale skin peeking through the fur, ears folding back into messy russet-colored hair. It seems slightly less painful, the body returning to the shape it’s supposed to take. 

Finally it’s Nishimura sitting there, pale and exhausted in Tanuma’s oversized jacket. He leans against Kitamoto, pressing his face into his best friend’s shoulder. 

“I like you better as a wolf, Satchan,” Shibata says in a falsely-earnest tone.

“Literally no one invited you, Sumi,” Nishimura replies hoarsely. 

The room is full of relief and laughter as Tanuma drapes a blanket around Kitamoto and Nishimura’s shoulders, as Natsume presses a cold bottle of Pocari into Nishimura’s hands and Ogata tucks the frog stuffie into the blanket with them. 

Nishimura’s friends care about him so much that there is no room left for things like fear or disgust. They’re so loyal to one another, their lives entangled comfortably, their every conversation about the future a vision of togetherness. 

Shuuichi wonders if any other werewolf changed under those conditions. Under their adopted siblings’ gentle, fearless hands, in a room full of faces who looked at them with affection and trust. 

The curse pulls from nature, shaped by the moon and the toxin in the monster’s bite. What else does it absorb? If those fundamental moments are ones of fear and hatred, then it’s little wonder why the recorded history of werewolves is so frightening. 

It’s clear that Shuuichi’s presence is no longer needed, if it ever was in the first place. A quiet word to his shiki sends them ahead of him, back home. Hiiragi lingers to receive a particular set of orders, and sets off in the opposite direction to begin investigating the exorcist at the root of this mess. She is fond of Natsume and his friends and will tackle this job with particular fervor. 

Shuuichi is on the porch watching her departure when a tug on his sleeve draws his attention.

He turns to find Nishimura, of all people, who skitters back a whole two steps when Shuuichi looks at him. 

“Sorry,” the kid says quickly, as if convinced Shuuichi would bite his head off for standing too close. 

This is the boy that Natsume so fondly described on the phone as your number one fan, Natori. He asked Shuuichi for an autograph earlier. Now he can barely look at him, studying his house slippers intently and wringing his hands. 

Shuuichi boxes up the ache in his chest and shelves it for another time. He offers Nishimura a smile, knowing that there’s no way to undo the damage he’s done, but that’s no reason to add to it. 

“No need,” he says. “If anyone should apologize, it’s me. It seems I just never learn.”

“You,” Nishimura starts, and then pauses. Trying again, he says, “You really hunt monsters?”

“My clan did for many generations,” Shuuichi says readily. Frankly, he owes Nishimura whatever answers he wants. “I’m the only one left in my family with the proclivity for it.”

Nishimura nods slowly. He looks over his shoulder, back into the sitting room. It’s a small miracle his brother let him out of his sight for this long after the night they just had. Nishimura must think so, too, because he takes a deep breath and blurts, “It would have been okay.”

Shuuichi frowns, not understanding. 

“If you had to—hunt me,” Nishimura says. He still isn’t looking at him. “If I was going to hurt one of them and you had to stop me. That would have been okay.”

You only see monsters, Taki had said the very first time Shuuichi met her. She stood between him and Natsume with her arms spread wide, tiny and formidable and determined. Are you even looking?

“No, kid,” Shuuichi says gently. “It wouldn’t have.” 

[thelemonsabbath]

You can deny it as much as you want…

As the blood covering Jun's body began to cool down in the aftermath of a fierce battle with demons, so did her devilbeast side's feral enjoyment of ripping flesh and spilling blood, the shame taking its place. Jun took a shaky breath as she looked down at her blood-stained claws. No matter how many times she had fought in battle she always felt this awful split nature within herself. There was a part of her that was excited and aroused by the blood and violence, and yet that also terrified her and made her feel deeply ashamed of herself. She would've thought her nature would swing more to the feral and violent side, once she had given up on the idea of being human anymore, and yet, the shame had remained...

Jun turned around when she heard the sound of crushing bone and splattering flesh behind her, seeing Akira trample on the corpse of a demon, loudly laughing and taunting it, "Stupid bastards. Your whole extinction has taught you nothing! You should have stayed where you belong!"

Jun felt a sense of both disgust and resentment towards her lover.  Did he not feel the awful and deep shame that she felt after each battle? It didn't seem that he did, so lost in the sheer lust for the fight, while she had to constantly war within herself for fear of losing herself. The resentment bubbling within Jun spilled over and she snarled at Akira, "Akira! What is wrong with you?! Why do you have to taunt them like this, we've already slaughtered them, isn't that enough? How can you love this utterly cruel violence?!" Jun's body shook a little after the words left her mouth, instantly regretting snapping at him like that.

Akira turned to her, his brows furrowing briefly in confusion. He stopped stomping on his fallen foe, who was already becoming mushy paste at this point, "What's wrong with me? You're the one to talk! Didn't you also flash that lovely grin of yours while you fought your enemies, and didn't you also laugh at how easily you were able to rend them apart?" he said with a wide grin as he started walking towards Jun, the blood covering his strong and muscled body glistening in the moonlight, the sight bringing back up those aroused feelings within her. "Not to mention you look so beautiful when you are like this, your powerful and beautiful body covered in their blood.." The way his deep voice was becoming sensual regarding her brutality sent more shivers of excitement down Jun's spine. "N-No...That's not me..."

Once Akira reached Jun, his bloodied, clawed hand grasped onto her breast and pushed her against a tree," You can deny it as much as you want but the truth is, you enjoy it too..."

Jun was shocked at his words, wanting to deny them, but she also felt her devilbeast side flare up, grinning wildly, excited by the challenge he was presenting physically and verbally. She couldn't deny his words for they were deeply true. She did enjoy feeling powerful and dominating, it freed her from a normal life of being meek and accommodating for the sake of others, and with her devilbeast rising up, the shame of that truth started to melt away. Jun clawed into the tree and practically purred as he gave her breast a squeeze. "More..." she demanded, reciprocating by leaning further into his touch.

Akira's hand left her breast to gently grasp her neck, leaving behind a blood-stained collar. But as he looked harder at his work, his smile died away, for his mind was brought back to another who had blood around her neck and the look of sheer horror and pain on her face... Miki... Miki... suddenly Akira could hear the triumphant roar of a mob, smell the scent of burning and blood in the air and... and the utter loss of himself he had felt in losing Miki...

Akira recoiled back and clutched his face, feeling shame flood over him at his failure to protect Miki and his bloodlust of battle, remembering how, on the night of the broadcast, that before Miki had been convinced of his humanity, she too had screamed in terror at seeing his violence... No wonder Jun had called him out him earlier...

Upon seeing Akira shrink away from her and cover his face, Jun felt her devilbeast fade away, her humanity returning with her growing sympathy for the clear pain Akira was in, and she reached out to him as he fell to his knees. "Akira, it's okay, I'm right here," Jun soothingly said as she hugged Akira, both of them shifting back into their human forms. Akira clutched onto Jun, burying his face in her shoulder, not yet ready to look her in the eye, "I don't know... I don't know what to do... All this time I've loved this power, no-one could push me around and hurt me again, but now..." he said quietly.

"It's okay, Akira, I forgive you, and you weren't wrong about me..." Jun replied as she stroked his hair.

"And neither were you..." Akira countered as he lifted his head to look at Jun, his eyes terribly sad, "Before, it was all so simple, but now, I don't know what to do with this power but fight... I don't know what's right anymore..." 

Jun squeezed him, feeling her heart ache for him. "We'll find a way together," she said with a soft, reassuring smile. Akira smiled back at her, feeling grateful that he had Jun in his second chance at life... 

I'm back with another fun and bloody picture commissioned by TheMightyNanto of Akira and Jun having a sensual moment after fighting some demons and Akira asking Jun to admit to herself that she also enjoys the blood and violence as much he does. >:3 this was a pretty fun piece to draw and also write, as you've might've guessed from my bloodlust Ryo/Miki pic I sometimes like to mix bloody and sensual themes together in my fiction :D and this was wonderfully feral and bloody to create. So many thanks to TheMightyNanto for commissioning me on this piece I had a ton of fun playing with the themes and playing around with colours! :D  

Btw if you like what you see and want a commission drop me a direct message on tumblr, instagram, a note on deviantart or artistree https://artistree.io/missn11

[sadisthetic]

jaya string of fate au

ive mentioned string of fate au a few times here. ive finally put it together into a post. okay so the reason why ive taken so long to transfer this is bc ITS FROM JULY OF LAST YEAR. i wasnt sure if i should lightly edit it or rewrite it. because it started out as me complaining about rebooted and then me fucking craving fanfiction and hurt (i do this 24/7) and then it morphed into this au that also doubled as character/relationship analysis and me fixing rebooted with my bare fucking hands in the context of this au

anyways. jaya string of fate au with emphasis on the heartbreak of s3. half of this was written half a year ago. man i was so mad about s3 back then lol

been thinking about s3 again. whats even more frustrating about the bad het drama. is that they didnt even give jay and nya a proper break up. granted their get together wasnt on screen either BUT IF YOURE GONNA OH SO RUDELY TEAR THEM APART LIJE THAT. THE LEAST YOU CAN DO IS DO IT WITH MORE FUCKING PURPOSE. THE WRITERS JUST PITCHED A WRENCH INTO THE WORKS AT BULLET SPEED JUST BECAUSE! JUST BECAUSE THEY WANTED DRAMA. BUT FOR WHAT!!!!!!!!! MAKES ME FUCKING MAD!!!!!!!!!!!!! ALL IT DID IS DO JAY DIRTY AND NYAS CHARACTER DIRTY

nyas fucking integrity spit on. you didnt have to make her be like that. it just really fucking made her look BAD. god i wont say jay was a perfect boyfriend but he didnt deserve THAT.

anyways. i want a canon compliant jaya breakup fic set in s3 (present jem speaking: I STILL WANT THIS BY THE WAY.) im so certain nobody has written this. i think heartbreak could be a form of whump if you make it hurt enough.

well. technically. it would be more emotional hurt fic rather than whump. but im a guy who has his definitions twisted. this is whump to me. also im a guy who thinks unromantic things as romantic but also loves love thats void of romance above anything else. i can do both. anyways.

i want jay to feel absolutely crushing heartbreak. i want jay to be hurt. i want him to feel it in his chest. unfairness— rending, jealousy— twisting, want— squeezing. all he yearns for is to be with nya. because he loves her. but apparently... nya doesnt feel the same way. and it hurts

i want to consume heartbreak. i think itll be crunchy on the outside but soft and squishy on the inside. absolute chewable pleasure. lightly salty and bittersweet. i also wanna squeeze jays heart like a stress ball and maybe cause arrhythmia. scratch it a little (a lot). jay is my emotional and physical fucking chew toy

and so to make heartbreak a bit more whumpy tho... i thought up of red string of fate au...

in this version of this concept, the red string of fate is something that needs to be tied by the pair together. and the feelings behind it is what gives the string color. but sometimes if a love is fated to be, the red of the string is instantly, intensely vibrant, almost glowing 

but you dont know who your soulmate is until you actually get together and tie the knot. it is not preexisting, the string does not connect people together for them to find each other before they even know the other exists. it only exists when two people make the decision to bind each other to themselves. most people dont find their soulmate but because its so often the case ppl are content with someone who isnt bc you dont need to find love in your soulmate alone, love is abundant in other places. but that isnt to say the red string of fate isnt romanticized in society tho. anyways. nya likes jay and their string is a pleasant warm red thats a little pink. its typical color for those who arent soulmates but its ok

jay is a little smitten in a slightly overbearing way tho. i think they are a couple who are a little bit mismatched in terms of showing affection. and also nya is very independent type so jays chivalrous tendencies grates on her a little but she lets it slide bc to her, jays positives outweigh his negs. hes cute and funny and they both can geek out and bond over tech stuff. thats a part of the fun. 

but then the match maker thing happens and nya doesnt immediately start considering cole as a romantic interest. but she does start... considering things tho. why cole could be her match. and if he really is her soulmate. why isnt jay her perfect match? its less nya becoming interested in someone else and more nya examining herself to think about what she actually wants for herself and what she wants in a person and if jay really isnt the right guy for her in the end. she doesnt know if cole would actually give her what she wants more than jay does. but she does grow more aware of the mismatch between her and jay

but before anything could be done about her doubts and dismiss it all and just carry on with their relationship, jay finds out in the trailer and is devastated. and intensely jealous of cole.. because hes been a bit insecure about his and nyas relationship for a while now also. he jumps the gun too quick before nya could reassure him so then that Fight happens and things get messy and ugly really fast. jay makes himself look really bad in front of nya which unfortunately reinforces her doubts in jay and she thinks. maybe they shouldnt be together after all. 

and so one night nya talks to jay alone. she explains herself. how shes been feeling about them. how she wants to focus on herself. and that hes too much for her and hes stifling her and she thinks it would be better if they cut things off and go back to being friends. and then she cuts the string that binds them together before jay could even object. it stings for nya but for jay it feels like his heart was sliced in two. literally. he feels a sharp pain that makes him clutch his chest. for nya, she had more time to process the severance. because she was sorta falling out of love for a while. her side of the string has become desaturated and dull. which is why she doesnt hurt as much

she doesnt realize how much jay truly loves her and how much it would hurt him when the string was cut. so when jay falls to his knees, tears falling, she just turns and walks away because she thinks its just from the heartbreak. she knew she was breaking jays heart

she doesnt realize how much hes literally hurting, how she left his heart bleeding. she knew but she didnt know. its most painful experience jay has ever felt in his life. a searing ache. theres a sudden painful void instead where there once was nyas love. its loss that was much too abrupt

heartbreak cant kill a person but it can leave them wounded. and with an abrupt disconnection like that, its why jay hung onto those feelings for nya for months after even tho he never acted on them. his half of the string refused to wither away and he didnt want to discard it either. how could he when he still loved nya. but he couldnt do anything about it though. nya made up her mind. and jay knew her well enough that she would probably hate him more if he chased after her. and so... he kept his feelings close to his chest and his sad, loose thread wrapped around his finger tight all the way until skybound...

—

okay. now present day jem speaking. that was the end of original story i had written on twitter... its meant to be a missing scene (inbetween seasons) fic + au. canon compliant except for the fact its set in this au. so skybound more or less carries out the same way. except minor details being changed...

such as nadakhan approaching jay. he tells him he cannot fix or create strings of fate. but he can give him other means of winning nyas heart... 

although this isnt a part of the “fic” i do imagine at the end of their divorce era.... nya who had casted away her old string, remakes her string to tie to the end of jays (and her) old one where she cut in. the thing is making strings of fate is something anyone can do regardless of being fated to be or not. what the string of fate is in this au is more of an oath... an intention to be together to the end of time. the two people are choosing to bind their fate to each other. nya, who had felt stifled in a relationship and decided she didnt need to be in one back all the months ago, realized something in skybound.... the string of fate isnt a contract or a shackle. not like how she thought... its a sentiment of how much you care about somebody to want to be connected forever. till death do us part. and jay very sincerely wanted that. he wanted to be with nya forever. and nya realizes... despite all his flaws, she really cares about him. she does want to be with him forever. she wants to be together with everyone, all her friends, her family forever. i think she doesnt know the nature of her feelings for jay. they are a bit conflicted and shes not sure how to sort out her desires from her feelings. but i think she decides to give jay a second chance of sorts. when they tie the loose ends the color on nyas side is an ambiguous grey barely tinging pink 

she tells jay she doesnt want to just get back together. she wants them to start over. and jay isnt sure what that means. and by the color of the string hes not sure if it means theyre dating again either. its a very ambiguous ground theyre standing on. but... jay takes the fact that nya retied their string to mean something. that nya isnt rejecting him anymore. that she cares. that he means something to her. it gives jay hope. his feelings for her havent changed... but he decides that to just be. and take things slow. hes happy even if hes confused by what nya wants. hes connected to her again.... and that means so much to jay

i think that their relationship from the end of skybound and onward is a bit more slowburn. well its a weird sorta slowburn. because theyre together but not really. its about them figuring their relationship out. and also nya falling back in love for reals. i love navigation of ambiguous relationships. i think for a while for nya the term “girlfriend”/“boyfriend” is more loaded than the term “soulmate”. thats how fucking weird their relationship got. whats not ambiguous is that nya does love him. she wouldnt have retied their string if she didnt. whats ambiguous is the nature of that love.... its not quite platonic but shes hesitant to call it romantic. whatever. they have time to figure it out

okay. that turned out so much more aro than i was intending. but i do like leaving it like that tho. feelings are difficult to navigate arent they sometimes? how they figure it out is up to whoever. love is love. they are more than “just” friends. but romance itself is a difficult and different beast than love. but jay and nya.... they meet halfway somehow. even if it takes a bit of work

ALSO. LOOK AT THIS ART BY DAN @rotten-dan he drew it for me several months ago when i first finished this au’s original thread which ended at the breakup skdjgthulkd. HEARTBREAK!!!!!!!!!!! YEEAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHH!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! thank you again dan for drawing this for me 

—

also. heres some bonus supplemental worldbuilding that doesnt pertain to story stuff but fleshes out how i picture the world in this au to work. most of this was written to answer dans questions about this au lol... not necessary to read unless if youre interested in my take of string of fate concept lol. or unless youre interested in the bit about bruiseshipping in this au at the very end

-

the string is often attached to the ring finger. so its a very romantic gesture when couples tie it together to each others fingers. like putting wedding rings on each other but its more of a cute fluffy thing rather than binding. not ceremony but its a Thing. its the same level of formality as asking someone out. and string is like. supernatural. its not completely physical but its definitely exists and can be touched. but not as if a literal string is tied to them if you know what i mean? like if the pair are far apart then the strings middle isnt visible but the ends that are tied floats towards the direction of their partner. the string is like. metaphysical. its a perceivable, somewhat tangible representation of love

but if desired the string can be cut if the parties want to separate. but it usually hurts. like a lot of breakups do.

okay so. the thing is with like. almost all soulmate aus. is that they know about their soulmate. or that the evidence of who it is is instantly visible. and like..... that sorta kills part of the fun? of falling in love?

so what if they dont know until they decide to try each other out first. thats the like. the thought behind the set up for this

like. theres sometimes the occasional dumbass whos going off constantly try to find their soulmate but ultimately a soulmate isnt someone you can simply Search for and find. so those kind of people end up being pricks who never will find a soulmate in their life because they dont want to work things out with ppl who arent their soulmate. the pursuit of a soulmate will usually end in disappointment

but sometimes. for the people who do find their soulmate. its because they gravitated to each other in the first place. 

like they fell in love with each other naturally. they liked the person for who they are. and so they decided to get together because they enjoy the other person so much. so when they realize they are meant to be they laugh like oh of course! they were meant to be. theyre like the hallmark movie couple of couples and the few of the very lucky ones

not being soulmates doesnt mean you can only fall in love with your soulmate tho. you can fall in love with anyone. regardless of whether theyre your soulmate or not. and even if theyre not. why does that fucking matter? the important thing isnt that they arent meant to be, but that they love each other anyways. isnt that more romantic? fuck fate the one i love is you

usually nonsoulmate relationship take more work. because the instant perfect chemisty of fated couples isnt there. buuuut. isnt that how love is like in reality? love is work sometimes. love is sometimes hard. but love is also worth it. so making the decision to work for it is more easy the more youre in love. not always the case. but in the healthy couples its usually the case

previously that the feeling behind the thread gives it its color. so. the string can end up being a different color if the feelings felt arent romantic love. most people dont know this though bc ppl who usually tie it are couples. and also it takes both of them to tie the string. every single relationship has a theoretical string color. its just most people who actually want the string are couples usually couples. and so for example, most aros dont ever even think of trying to tie it with someone bc they dont want that kinda bind. but if a curious aro wants to try it out bc they are questioning about their best friend if the two of them agree just to see. their string could actually be a different color than red. because the feelings behind it are platonic

its also entirely possible for a string to be entirely black between enemies hfhjskl. but however those kind of pair would usually NEVER tie the string together bc you know hbghsk. enemies. but if they were. it would be that color. but maybe some insane enemies who are obsessed with each other would do it tho. you know fated enemies and such

..... i have thoughts about bruiseshipping in this au also. theyre best friends, they can bind each other if they wanted to. they have the mutual sentiment required to. but due to the culture surrounding the red string of fate specifically, they never think to. even if they did consider it once they didnt ever bring it up bc awkward!!!!!! the string of fate is the symbol of love. couples treat it a bit frivolously but it is a loaded thing. the string of fate is conversely isnt strictly about love but its just often the case when you want to connect the souls of two people for eternity its usually because of love. theoretically i think their string color would actually oscillate between black and their standard representative color (maybe ill go with light blue lol....) depending on if theyre fighting or not. because it would be funny if it did. also. i think they might try it only after jay and nya retie their string of fate. because then they see its an option to tie strings of fate nonromantically. so theyre like... hey.... do you wanna like... just see? and thats that. two besties bound. jay has two strings of fate now

hysterically it would be funny if all the ninjas did it to each other. it would be a mess. but a colorful one. you know those ship charts where ppl draw lines for their otps and notps. its like that but its not shipping its just relationships and also every single person is connected to every single other person. not saying it has to happen in this au its just that the image of it is so fucking funny to me i had to say it. it would be useful tho if they wanted to find each other wherever they are. practical

maybe they should do that. idk

anyways. thats the end of my au. the post is longer than my og thread of it hjhklkjlkghjf. anyways. thats my weird subversion of string of fate au for jaya. writing the endgame jaya part tonight made think again. damn. im so fucking aro. i think the way i write romance always turn out not so romantic because of it. but also. THIS IS PEAK ROMANCE. SUBVERT BORING ROMANCE TROPES INTO SOMETHING LESS AMATANORMATIVE AND MORE INTERESTING FOR YOUR ENRICHMENT. I RECOMMEND IT. ITS MORE FUN. thats my biased aro ass speaking tho. but for reals. subvert tropes. find out what makes something truly romantic. anyways thanks for reading all of this. i am very fond of this au..... especially for the breakup scene lol...............

[articskele]

BERNADETTE BY IAMX IS SUCH A CEDRIC SONG. GODDDDDDDD.

HE MAKES ME SICK!!!!!! OHH I'M SO ILL I'M SO UNWELL. AUGHHHHHHh I NEED TO THROW THIS MAN INTO THE RIVER

In the first part of the song, Bernadette refers to his childhood best friend Dove. Not wanting her to leave after she found out about the murder, singing sickly sweet nothings of a future where they can stay as they are, as they've always been.

Dove was the only one that's been there for him all these years and he cannot bear to lose her now. He may be all socially savvy and popular and whatnot, but behind that mask he's vulnerable. He has no one else.

OOOOOOOHOHOHOHOHOHO NOW THIS IS WHERE THINGS GET INTERESTING

Cedric finds himself stuck "out of bounds" (kinda like the Backrooms) where he meets Artic, and they absolutely HATE each other at first but they're forced to work together in order to get out. There's a whole enemies-to-friends thing, they try to kill each other multiple times, it's great

Cedric has always been haunted by death and abandonment, doomed to lose the people closest to him. His parents, Dove, Mel... Even his name is an echo of his uncle, the late Cedric Anthony Stone. Either by circumstance or his own hands, they slip through his fingers all the same.

"We are alone, no one to blame" is just. Goddd. Neither of them asked for this. There is no fate or divine ruling in this place, only the things that happen and how we respond to them. Two lost souls that were never even supposed to meet, now wandering a barren landscape with little hope for survival. Hands intertwined, warm skin against frigid bone. They have no one else.

At one point, they encounter an "anti-cheat" entity (think smth like the Dungeon Guardian from Terraria, insta-killing you for being where you shouldn't be) in the form of this HUGE archangel. Cedric kneels before it, fully expecting to die. But Artic doesn't back down, giving him this look of "I'm not giving up on you."

HERE THE CHORUS TAKES ON A WHOLE NEW MEANING, NOW REFERRING TO ARTIC. It’s no longer a selfish serenade, there’s real weight behind the words as this one moment signals a HUGE turning point in Cedric’s character.

So much confusion and awe and guilt and hope just hit him all at once and he doesn’t know what to make of it. Even in the face of certain death, Artic is standing up for him. Staring into the eyes of a being well beyond their comprehension. Putting her life on the line for some random human that’s done nothing but be an insufferable asshole to her.

And it’s just. So baffling to him?? Why would she do this?? They're going to die anyway. Or maybe, just maybe, they still have a chance. He still has a chance.

The chaos that follows is a blind scramble to escape, daring to defy binary gospel. This place is volatile; any wrong step could send you tumbling into an infinite void, any object could kill you with unimaginable force due to collision errors. And this so-called angel could rend their very souls apart with the slightest touch. If death is even possible here, that is.

Glass is shattered. Wings are set alight. Howling screams still ring in their ears as Artic and Cedric flee the scene, running until their legs give out. They are alive, and that is all that matters.

They find temporary refuge in an empty library, tending to their wounds and getting some much needed rest. But the end of the song carries a foreboding air; neither of them know what lies ahead, much less whether or not they'll be able to survive it. But they must carry on.

[thedeliverygod]

Repostober: Day 6 (Belated)

One of my longest ever one-shots, and one that I didn't really plan to happen that way? It just kinda kept going and going lmao. Honestly I generally don't really *have* a plan for one-shots at all, other than a vague idea. Which is why they tend to be short. But this one said "nah, we gonna be 5k+"

TLDR: it's a 'future' fic where Hiyori is in college but hasn't seen Yato & Yukine in a few years.

Somewhere In Between

‘Yato!’

With nearly all of his skin covered in blight save for a small patch of skin just below his right eye, he panted heavily as he moved into another battle stance, “Don’t worry about me right now! There’s still one phantom left.”

The snake like creature lunged towards Yato and he barely managed to dodge it, moving out of the way just in time. As a second thought, he gave a weak swing with one of Sekki’s blades in desperation, which only seemed to annoy the phantom rather than do any actual damage.

‘But your blight—’ His regalia hesitated.

“Focus, Yukine!” He started to dash forward again.

Yukine let out a small breath of air, ‘Right.’

“You who would desecrate this land of the rising sun! With my advent, I, the Yato god, lay waste with the Sekki and expel thy vast defilement!” Yato leaped upward onto the phantom’s back and crossed Sekki’s blade into an X shape, easily cutting through the center of its body, “Rend!” The phantom disappeared into a bright burst of light and Yato immediately collapsed to the ground, managing to catch himself on one of his knees and an open palm. “R-revert, Yuki.”

Regaining his human form, Yukine swiftly kneeled down and draped an arm around his master’s middle, struggling to lift him up as he began to comment that they needed to find the nearest shrine as quickly as possible. However, both of them froze in place as they heard a familiar voice.

“Yato? Yukine-kun?”

“Hiyori?” Yukine questioned, his voice low and unsure. As she cautiously moved towards them and he knew for sure that it was her, his eyes lit up and he repeated her name loudly, “Hiyori!”

Yato was wide eyed, but he couldn’t say a thing; there were too many thoughts spinning around in his mind and he was almost sure that he his breathing had ceased. It was definitely her, though her hair was a tiny bit shorter and her school uniform had been replaced with a pair of dark purple scrubs.

“It’s nice to see you, Yukine-kun.” Hiyori briefly greeted before kneeling down to support Yato’s other side, “It’s nice to see you too, Yato, but we need to get you cleaned up. There’s a shrine not far from here.” She helped Yukine to lift him up and he nodded silently.

Aside from her giving directions as they walked, all three were quiet. Hiyori focused on her walking and keeping Yato from slipping while Yukine kept stealing glances at her, taking in how much she’d changed while also thinking how much she stayed the same.

Yato, on the other hand, was still in a daze. If it weren’t for the sharp pain of the blight, there’d be no way that he would ever believe that he wasn’t dreaming. And it was only after Hiyori and Yukine had both began splashing purified water onto his skin that he finally found the strength to speak, “W-what are you doing here?”

Yukine stiffened, his eyes wide as he watched for Hiyori’s response.

She didn’t even flinch in the slightest, completely focused on continuing to scoop water onto Yato’s blight, “I go to school here. I live here now.” Her eyes flickered to Yato’s, “Why are you here?”

He looked away and his jaw tightened, not wanting to answer. But Yukine answered for him.

“We’re sort of back to wandering around.” He admitted quietly, digging his feet into the dirt.

This finally made Hiyori pause, and her voice shook a bit as she continued, “Well, I know it’s not as safe as a shrine, but you two could stay at my apartment for tonight if you’d like.”

Yukine’s lips parted, but his eyes moved to Yato, who he expected would refuse.

“…Okay.” The god answered hesitantly, still avoiding her eyes.

“Great.” She tugged on his jacket and he sheepishly unzipped it and pulled it off, letting her splash water against the neckline of the back of his shirt, “I’ve eaten already but I can make some dinner for you and Yukine-kun too.”

Yato’s face was already red and continued to darken as Hiyori lifted up his shirt to inspect his back, chest, shoulders, and forearms for any hidden blight. “We’d appreciate it.” His voice barely managed to escape his lips.

Hiyori let go of his shirt and stepped back, “Okay, I think it’s all gone. I’ll put on some bandages on you when we get to my apartment.” Yato nodded, slipping his jacket back on as she started to lead the way.

This time, Yukine broke the silence after only a minute or two. “How is school going?”

She smiled softly, “It’s really hard at times and I’m pretty much always exhausted, but I’m doing well.”

“So you’re working with patients already?” He motioned towards her scrubs.

“Oh, yeah, a little bit. It’s mostly just watching more experienced people work and taking notes at the moment.” She gave a small laugh, “But it’s important to get practical experience like that since things can be pretty unpredictable in reality.”

Yukine hummed thoughtfully, “Hmm. That makes sense.”

“What about you, Yukine-kun?” She tilted her head curiously, “Have you been keeping up with your studying?”

He reached behind his neck sheepishly, “Here and there. It’s pretty hard without a teacher, but whenever we get some free time, I usually try to hang out in a library.”

Guilt took over Hiyori’s expression, “I’m sorry. But I’m glad you’re still sticking with it.”

He shook his head, “It’s not your fault. It’s not like you’re the one who—” Yukine cut himself off with a quick glance towards Yato, who was now grimacing.  When he looked back to Hiyori, she was biting her lip too, and he felt his heart sink down into his chest.

Letting out a sharp breath and clutching the top of his jacket, Yato warned him weakly, “Yukine…”

“I’m sorry.” He immediately apologized and clenched his eyes shut, trying his best to clear his mind and to stop causing any more pain for Yato.

“We’re almost there. We just have to take a left at the street sign, and then my building is just a few feet from there.” She saw them both nod, but still felt the awkwardness and pain shared between them and tried to lighten the mood, “Um, I was just going to make some really simple ramen, is that okay? Since I’m always really busy and I live by myself, I don’t keep a wide variety of things around.”

“Anything’s great!” Yukine answered enthusiastically.

“You live by yourself?” Yato finally spoke again.

She turned her head, “Yeah. Why?”

He blinked, trying to hide his frown, “What happened to your friends, the ones who you were always hanging out with?

“Ami-chan goes to another college that’s an hour or so away. I still see Yama-chan sometimes, whenever we’re both free. But our schedules can conflict a lot sometimes.” She looked back at the street in front of her, carefully starting to turn onto the side street.

“But why live alone?” His voice rose, and she couldn’t tell if it was in curiosity or frustration.

She shrugged her shoulders, “I study a lot better when I don’t have to worry about other people, it’s more relaxing, and I could afford to. The university is really close and there weren’t many positives to staying in the dorms after last year so… Here I am.” She waved her arm forward, motioning towards the stairs of a brick building, “I’m on the second floor.”

Yato’s eyes washed over the apartment building as they walked up the stairs, analyzing all of the details with scrutiny.

Rolling her eyes, she started up the stairs, “It’s mostly other college students here, so every once in a while it’ll get a little noisy, but usually everyone else is busy with their studying too.” She walked a few doors down the hall before pulling out a key and unlocking the door. As she swung it open, she waved them in, “Home sweet home.”

Poking his head through the door to see the kitchen nearly in the living room, a bathroom, and a tiny hallway that lead to her bedroom, Yukine commented, “Wow, this is only a little bigger than your old bedroom by itself.”

Yato gave the younger boy a disapproving look but Hiyori giggled, “Yeah, but it’s cozy.” Closing the door behind them, she slipped off her shoes and waved them towards the living room, “I’m going to change out of my scrubs and grab some bandages, so make yourselves at home.”

Once she was out of earshot, Yukine asked quietly, “So how long are we going to stay?”

“I don’t know.” Yato ran a hand through his hair, “Not long…”

His voice lowering even more, the blonde asked, “Are you going to be able to leave her again?”

Yato sat down by the table and let out a small huff, “I don’t know, Yukine…” Between his own pain and his regalia’s pain, he wasn’t sure what he was feeling in his chest. But at the same time, there was the tiniest bit of happiness hidden within that. He thought he’d never see her again and now, somehow, he was sitting in her living room.

read more on AO3 because otherwise this would be horrendously long

[siderealxmelody]

Eythos shrugged, slipping his hands in his pockets.

"It irks me that you still think I am owed decency when I have upset you. Do not do that Sarai, be angry. I'm not that far gone to -"

"Mama can't be okay with this."

Eythos looked to his son and shrugged again.

"If she isn't she hasn't made it known to me. She -"

"You can't Fade. You - that - that's the most cowardly way out of this entire situation."

Eythos eyes grew distant and dazed again. He looked back to the horizon, waiting. He was waiting - what for? What was -

The wind picked up, the cold, the otherworldly headiness making his head spin.

Ina stepped out of the gloom and stoped at the border. She regarded Eythos for a long moment tilting her head.

"You called to repay your debt. Why?"

"My children are good. My family is good. I know what my parents did. I know what they tried to bury. I will not have my brother pay that price. He's already payed enough -"

"That is debatable."

"Not to me. You want someone to answer for what my blood did to you? I am here."

Those eyes fixed on him, he didn't see the gold blue. He saw the hints of silver, of otherworldly power. Of a mythical force that could rend worlds and stars apart. Or at least an echo of that.

"Tell them then Eythos. Let's not continue to bury your family's shame."

Eythos looked to the sky, blinking back....was that tears? Dust?

"My parents worker for Nyaxia. They were Artificers, Alchemists. They made things, creatures. They wanted to make more of things like Cennend. They tried to breed them, pushed them to kill themselves and mate with themselves over and over again."

He exhaled and looked to Viren and Sarai. At least he still felt enough to feel shame.

"When Cassandra came, when we came to the labs. They were killed, I - I made sure they were. I - Embris doesn't even know that. When you repeat this story leave that detail out. He - he won't ever forgive himself for allowing me to live if he knew. He doesn't need that guilt."

He blinked back more tears, trying to keep his voice level.

"Wheb Keella was pregnant with them. I couldn't - I saw their power. I regularly was given their blood before bed, we both were. I didn't - I didn't want that temptation here. I -"

"You were afraid of your own greed. Of becoming like your parents."

Ina said, she sounded almost sympathetic. But her face didn't give anything away. Eythos nodded and swallowed.

"Yes. I was. Is didn't want to become like them. I still don't want to. Rivitus is - he's trying. He - there are rules. I give him rules Viren. I -"

He shut his eyes and bowed his head.

"I understand the merits of his work. But if I didn't indulge him what then? What if he went to Midgard? They'd let him work on anyone and -"

He exhaled and forced him to say the words.

"And he may become a worse monster than my parents I am. At least here we can keep him in check and collared."

"You speak of my son as if he's a beast to be held and caged."

Viren spat holding onto that deep rage. He would deal with whatever other secrets and whoever this new person was later. He stepped toward his father reaching for his blade.

"You speak as if he is some power hungry Asteri from the Days of Old."

His father's eyes were so tired, so dull. It nearly made him break.

"Isn't he?"

Was he doing this on purpose? Distracting him with rage so he didn't spiral and stop whatever this was? He wouldn't let his father be taken like this. He refused to let this thing take one of the most important people in his life.

Eythos would one day, it would not be like this. It would be in glorious battle or quietly surrounded by family.

Viren vowed it to be true.

Eythos didn't respond to Sarai's venom, didn't much look at Viren. He focused on the marks, on the way they shined blue and hazy in the dust.

"You have a lot of faith in the selflessness of others son. I wish I still had that belief. But would they? Wyvern blood is powerful as is most of our blood, but it has to be harnessed a certain way....at a certain age. Would they give their children and mates for that? The only way to get enough power to make any meaningful amount would be death. And even if they agreed would their family? Their kin?"

He looked to the boy, he's slowly gotten to his feet stepping away from all of them with a low growl.

He looked back to the horizon.

"Raelyn is in Autumn Nazarius if you didn't catch that. And I didn't push Rivitus into any of this. He had a talent and a curiosity for it. I just indulged and nurtured what you both refused to -"

"He's torturing people!"

Viren wasn't sure why he was bothering arguing. He should drag Rivitus from his lab. Beat him and strip him of his powers. Throw him to the Valg he used and -

And watch as he was torn apart and brutalized. Viren exhaled focusing on Sarai, on her nearness and the heat like his.

Eythos dragged his eyes to him. Viren forced himself not to flinch. There wasn't anger, or dissappointment. There wasn't much of anything beyond a dazed look. Was he alright? Was he -

"How else do you expect to learn about your enemy and their powers beyond experimentation?"

But Viren ignored all of that. Something nagging at him. Over recent years something had felt off. The way his father spoke as if there was some lesson he needed to still learn. That there would be time when this would all would be his and -

Viren felt the world tilt, he gripped Sarai's hand. Even in his rage he couldn't - he must be wrong. Must be putting the peices together in the wrong order surely. Keir would know, Keir would - this couldn't be happening.

His father simply stared at them, turning back to look at the Wyrdmarks, at the trees. Not talking, not really doing much but standing there.

Viren forced himself to say, to name the feeling that was growing in the pit of his core. Keir would run, he'd drink before he did that. At least he still had his foolish, reckless streak.

"You're Fading."

Eythos lips lifted, a ghost of a smile on his lips. He saw that spark of pride, at him, for him.

"Have been for awhile now, yes. Keella's curse keeps me unable to fully die. If it's lifted I assume I'll be gone too. There isn't much left here for me, you all don't need me. And -"

[ruki--mukami]

(Nsfw)

Master.. I need you.. please come and fuck me..

⚠️ NSFW BELOW: 18+ ⚠️

"It seems you are forgetting the lessons I've taught you, Livestock. This isn't how I trained you on how to properly beg... I want to hear it from more than just this pretty little mouth of yours." As his hand clutched your chin, Ruki brushed his thumb along the soft borders of your lips. "Show it to me with your body as well how you'd like to receive your master. Spread your legs, arch your back, and show me where exactly you want to be fucked. Hm... Perhaps you need help."

A knee nudged between her own, parting them until the Vampire had enough space to press himself against your clothed sex. Through the fabric alone, you could already feel how his began to harden. The very thumb that cradled your mouth prodded its way through, expecting a seductive display on how you hungered and craved for his member.

"Wow, my cum-glupping pet truly is starving. Tell me where else you'd like to be filled," a titillating venom laced his silk voice. "So, you want to be used...? Do you need to feel my cock tearing through all your holes? Say it again. And look at me as you speak. As much as I'd love to feel those legs wrapped around my waist as I take you hard and fast, first you must demonstrate why you deserve Master's cum."

Withdrawing his digit, Ruki instead opted to assail your neck this time. Gyrating his hips against yours in a mimicry of what would follow, he peppered open-mouthed kisses along your throat in a trail of reddened marks before finally descending his tapered fangs inside. Arousal suffused him like the crimson cataract of honeyed, wanton need, drowning him in the seas of bliss and rapture. Each meeting of his chill lips against your chin coaxed you to implore the Vampire for the best coupling of your life, repeated thrust after thrust rending you apart as if the suckling and bites on your gorge didn't already. Two fingers dove past the delicate barrier of your undergarments and infiltrated your heat without warning in hopes of earning a reaction more delectable, more addictive, than the blood of his beloved.

"That's it, moan louder for me. Good grief, your entrance is shivering to be fucked raw. You're such a dog in heat that you've forgotten how to speak. Come now, you want me inside of you, yes? Then show me where. Hold onto your knees so I can see all of it unobscured. If all of you truly belongs to me, then you'd do well to make your body listen to what I say. You are absolutely obedient to me, Livestock… Let that sink into every fiber of your skin the same way my fangs do." 

[cookiekitten91]

The Lady's Laundry - ch7 preview

I still have a LOT left to write in this chapter but I thought I would give you guys a little treat for being patient. Please send some creative energies my way… 🥲

---

“Mother Miranda’s gift twisted him into what you see today. Salvatore might look the part more than the rest of us, but I assure you that we four are all the same on the inside. Monsters,” Lady Beneviento hisses. Her hand presses to your breast, painted nails scratching a trail along clothed flesh. “Do you know what Alcina would do if you weren’t under my protection? Do you know what happens to poor little maidens who fall into her domain? She would give you a knife and demand you cut out your heart with your own two hands and offer it to her. I’ve seen her do it before.”

The harsh bite in Lady Beneviento’s voice makes you shudder. You go to touch the hand on your chest and she interlaces her fingers with yours. Her other hand comes up and strokes through your hair.

“Karl would pick you apart piece by piece,” the dollmaker continues. A single finger taps against your temple in rhythm with her words. “Piece by piece,” she repeats softly. “He’d rend you asunder and then stitch the parts back together to his liking. Put wires into your nerves, into your brain. Springs and screws and gears like a giant clock. Oh, how he loves to see what makes a human tick.”

The hand in your hair now cups your cheek. Despite everything, you lean into the touch.

“And you, my lady?” you ask.

The dollmaker lets out a frustrated sound. “Why even ask me something like that?” she mumbles. “You already know what I would do, dolcezza. I would steal you away and keep you by my side.”

“You’ve already succeeded in that,” you say with a quiet laugh. “And if I may be honest, Lady Beneviento, my employment with you is hardly an unpleasant thing. I'm happy to be with you rather than any of the others. At the very least, it’s kept me from being made into a bottle of Lady Dimitrescu's prized wine, hasn’t it?"

You smile but you don’t think your small attempt at humor does much to lighten the Lord’s mood. You hear her take a shuddering breath. “…Alcina would swallow your heart,” she whispers. Her voice sounds stricken. “She would eat of your flesh and suck the blood from your veins. But me? Sweet girl, I would devour you in a different way.”

[ialwayscomewhenyoucall]

A Little Hope and a Dash of Magic

Lyra’s on her knees in front of the bench–their bench–at the botanic gardens, contemplating the lawn in front of her and deciding how best to dig several deep, envelope-sized holes. Her scholars would be horrified. She looks away from the grass and finds herself staring instead into the big, unblinking eyes of her daemon. They consider each other without speaking; anyone looking on would likely imagine the two locked in silent conversation, but instead Lyra’s head echoes with painful silence. She’s the first to look away.

“It can’t work, Pan,” she says, hands on her hips. “It would take magic, and we ent got any. And I don’t think even magic can reach…” She doesn’t finish. She can’t say it, can barely even think it. She knows if she does she’ll cry, and she can’t do that.

Not today.

“Witches have magic,” Pan starts, but Lyra is quick to interrupt.

“We ent witches, Pan, and you know it. No cloud pine branch will let us fly, and we both get older just as we should.” It hurts a little, getting older. Another thing she doesn’t like to think.

“We’re like witches,” Pan mumbles, but he doesn’t push. Because neither of them likes to think about that.

Lyra can’t remember who first had the idea. They’d been in her little room, looking at the basket of letters she’s been writing to Will for so long. Letters with his address inked on the envelopes in ever neatening script; her handwriting has greatly improved in the years since they’d said goodbye. Since she’d felt his warm breath on her cheek. Since she’d started crying herself to sleep at night.

She can’t remember who had the idea, but they’d both agreed to try. Because seeing the letters there in her room, piling up day after day, broke her heart in ways she didn’t understand.

“Why do we even write the letters?” Lyra bursts out, burying her face in her hands. “We know he’ll never see them. Every stroke of the pen is like another piece of glass across our hearts, and still we write.” She reaches out and extracts a letter from its inexpertly tied bundle, tears the envelope apart, and reads from the paper that had once been carefully tucked inside.

Will, It’s snowing today, the kind of big, fluffy flakes that feel like feathers when they land on your bare skin, soft and icy and yet somehow burning at the same time. How can snow feel both cold and hot all at once? It’s cold, so cold, but it burns too. I like things like that, thinking about the mysteries of the world. But these beautiful ideas always bring me back to the one mystery that will always break my heart: how can you be so close that I can feel your love wrapped around me, like a warm blanket or the smell of warm bread just coming out of the oven, but also so far away that I’ll never, ever feel your hand in mine again? Please tell me how to solve this mystery, dearest, because I’m afraid it’s making me cry again. Yours always, Lyra

Pan crawls closer, belly low, placing a tentative paw on Lyra’s knee.

“Oh Pan,” she says, and there’s a quaver in her voice. “It hurts so much. It hurts almost as much as it did when–” When you were torn away from me. When I left you behind. When I broke us apart. All things she feels, but she cannot say, lest she rend her soul into even smaller pieces.

“I know,” he says, and with those two small words, those two breaths of air from her daemon, the pain is a little less. Dropping the letter into the grass she buries both hands in Pan’s soft, thick fur. She feels his jolt of surprise, but then his eyes drift closed in contentment.

It’s good to build bridges sometimes, instead of knocking them down. 

“Alright,” Lyra says, pulling away from Pan. He doesn’t pull back, though, but stays with one paw resting on her knee. She flashes him a small smile as thanks for the shared strength, then goes on. “Alright. The letters. We’ll try. And we’ll both believe as hard as we can. That worked all the time when we were kids, it can’t hurt anything now.”

Pan’s rubbing his cheek against her knee now, and she’s remembering him as a kitten. She’d been so small, only three or four, and he’d been a kitten a lot then because he loved the way she laughed when he purred. Any time she was sad he’d leap into her arms and change into a tiny kitten mid-leap, purring madly. Then, once she was laughing, Pan would pounce on invisible things to make her laugh even more.

Digging her hands into the rich, grassy ground in front of her, Lyra says absently, “You did that when you was a kitten, Pan. That cheek rubbing thing. Were a kitten, I mean.” She corrects herself with a small smile, thinking of how much she’s changed since her days running wild in Jordan College. Pulling herself back to the present, to earth and envelopes and expanding hope, she says, “Too bad you can’t purr anymore, I liked that.” Then, realizing what she’d said, she looks up in alarm. “Not that–”

But there’s understanding in Pan’s eyes. “I miss a lot about being able to change,” he says. “I miss making myself big to protect you, or being a tiny moth to whisper in your ear and hide in your hair. I miss flying. And I miss doing things just to be silly, just to see your joy. But it’s good to be settled. To be truly us.”

“Yes,” Lyra says, and for the first time in months she knows she doesn’t have to say anything more. For the first time in… well, for the first time in a very long time, there is no space between them.

“Let me help,” Pan says, breaking the moment. “My paws are clever, I can dig as well as you.”

Lyra grins. “Race you.”

So they start on opposite ends of the space, digging a line of holes until they meet in the middle, laughing and a little bit breathless. It feels so good to laugh with Pan, feels so much like the time before, that for the first time she begins to let herself believe.

They sit and wait for hours that feel like days. Lyra tells Pan it feels like years, but he tells her to quit being so melodramatic. Lyra gasps in mock horror and tells him that she’s never been melodramatic, not ever, and that he should find a job telling stories to children. Pan just huffs, but it’s a fond huff.

Lyra’s hope grows with every breath.

When the sun is at the right place in the sky, when the clock in the tower chimes the proper hour, Lyra moves automatically to sit on the bench and then she reaches for Pan. And he’s there, right there, reaching back for her. “Do you feel them?” It’s the same thing she asks every year, on every visit, and every year she gets the same answer, but she can’t help but ask.

“I–”

Pan leaps down from the bench, agitation clear throughout his body. His ears twitch, his nose quests the air. “She’s here. Kirjava. But she wants–” He flops to the ground in agitation. “Lyra, it’s not like I can ask her to repeat her thoughts! It’s not communication so much as–” But he must see something horrible on Lyra’s face, because he stops, jumps onto her lap, and nuzzles the underside of her jaw. “She’s there. I can feel her. And she wants us to wait.” He worries at her sleeve with his paws, carefully keeping his claws from catching on the material. “It’s never been like this. Never so real. Maybe–”

Lyra finishes the thought for him, her voice a breathy whisper. “Maybe we are magic.”

When it happens, Lyra thinks she must be dreaming. Must be painting her want in the air in front of them. But then there’s a tiny gasp from Pan, so maybe it truly is real.

“Pan, are those–”

“Paper flowers, yes. Do you think our letters–”

“Must have done. And is that–”

“Of course it’s Will’s handwriting. We know it like we know our own. Don’t be silly, Lyra.”

She flushes, because she is being silly; who else would be responding to her letters? Lyra kneels on the ground again, this time taking no heed of the state of her dress or the dirt under her fingernails. She runs a fingertip along the edge of one delicate petal, full of wonder.

Will did this. She and Pan had the inkling, but Will is the magic one. He knows how to turn invisible and how to wake a girl from a magic sleep. He’s the one who always knows what to say, and when it’s best to just be silent and wait. She turns to Pan, ready to let all these thoughts spill out of her…but before even one sound escapes she sees in his eyes that he already knows. So she just blinks her eyes, hard, to keep the tears from spilling out, and goes back to the flower.

“I’m almost afraid to pick it,” she breathes. “But I’ll never make sense of it all without plucking the petals.” So though it feels like breaking a spell, she wraps her fingers around the base of the stem and neatly tears it, as close to the ground as she can manage.

Nothing happens.

Lyra lets out a shaky breath. “I almost expected magic sparkles or something silly,” she admits. Pan nuzzles at her knee again. He did too, then.

It takes less time than she’d expected to arrange the plucked petals into something she can understand; it’s almost like the flower wants to be easy to read. Pure silliness, of course. But the entire day seems to be made of nonsense, so one more thing isn’t too much to believe.

And then she’s reading Will’s words for the first time in… oh, another uncountable length of time. Too long. But she can still hear his voice in her head as she reads.

Lyra, You clever girl. How did you even think to do this? Kirjava is sure it was Pan’s idea, but I’m betting you both thought of it at the same time. The two of you do that a lot. Or you did when we were all together, anyway. I haven’t read all your letters, of course–that will take days, or even weeks, you’ve been writing for a very long time–but I’ve read enough to miss you even more. Honestly, it only took seeing your handwriting on the petals–you’ve improved, but of course I knew it was you. Who else would be mad and brilliant enough to mail letters to another world by burying them in the dirt? Only my Lyra. For now I’ll only answer one letter: it was the first to bloom and though it looked like a lily before I picked it, the words pierced my heart like the thorns of a rose. I too think about the mysteries of the world–not just my world but all the worlds. I talk with Mary sometimes, about everything we saw, about the world of the dead and your world with the giant armored bears and angels and witches and what it’s like to have our daemons when everyone else around us keeps theirs tucked safely inside their bodies. Here’s what I’ve come up with so far: I don’t have many answers, but it’s good to keep asking questions. That’s what science–your philosophy, remember?–is about, really, asking more and more questions even if you don’t get exactly the answers you’re looking for. I may never get to hold your hand again, Lyra. But because you’ve found another mystery I can hear your voice in my head. I can see your handwriting on these paper flowers. And I can hope. Right beside you now, Will p.s. Kirjava can feel you. Or, she can feel Pan, but I think it’s the same thing. I don’t have much practice with daemons, you know.

“Oh,” Lyra says. She should say something more, something witty or important, but all she can think is Will wrote these words. Will is right here.

Every visit…it’s not that she ever doubted; Will is the most steady and trustworthy person Lyra has ever met. But it’s one thing to believe Will is sitting here, only tiny particles–and a whole universe–separating them, and another entirely to know.

She feels Pan’s rough tongue on her cheek and that’s when she realizes she’s crying. Why is she crying when she’s so happy? She scrubs at her eyes, trying to find a calm center; it’s difficult with her racing heart pounding in her ears, drowning out everything else. And then Pan licks the end of her nose, a deliberate and silly thing he used to do to make her laugh; she knows he’s trying to trick her out of her shock but it works and the laughter is good for both of them. Cleansing.

“Oh, Pan.” Lyra has her arms wrapped around him and her face buried in his fur, and her heart is full to bursting. “We did it. It’s impossible, but we must have at least a little magic. Or Will does.”

“Or all of us together. How many things only worked because it was all of us together?”

And this feels right. The magic wouldn’t work without all of them together, gathered in space so thin Pan could feel Kirjava. “Just like–”

“Yes.”

When she’s calm again she pulls the paper and pen and ink out of her bag, the things she’d brought with her just in case. I’m here, she writes. I miss you, she adds. After a moment’s hesitation she writes one more thing.

How do we break all the way through?

**

written for prompt #15–letters unsent–for @reverseprompts

prompt art by the amazing and talented @dragonpressgraphics

[tallbluelady]

"I'm sure you've noticed my deep and abiding interest in pain." (Princess Bride Prompt!)

This is about Rowan's Azem, Minthe, before she took up that seat of the Convocation.

"Minthe, what's this?" Hades held up a pepper.

"Oh, that's my latest concept. The folks back at the Words are thinking of calling it a 'ghost pepper'. Due to the fact that it's liable to make you give up the ghost when you eat it," Minthe said.

"Really, with all of your precision you're still pursuing such frivolity?"

"After all the time we've known each other, I'm sure you've noticed my deep and abiding interest in pain," Minthe said with a wicked smile.

Hades was about to rub his eyes in consternation but stopped himself. He took to the wash basin instead.

"No, I haven't noticed that, Minthe. You like pranks, not pain. Both of which are beneath one of your ability," he scolded.

She glared at him. "We broke up because you kept talking like that, don't you remember?" She was starting to regret inviting him over to her apartment.

"I do remember. And I'm still disappointed."

"Then you should remember that I don't want that responsibility."

"Fine. Wallow in your indolence. Hythlodeaus will enable you, as he always does."

"Is it truly indolent to bring joy to others? To provide taste, texture, novelty to nutrition? It's not just the spiciest pepper yet, it's one of the more nutritive I've made."

"Nutrition that is rendered obsolete by the fact that in your words, it 'makes you give up the ghost when you eat it'. You've always been one for novelty. And occasionally novelty has its place, I will admit. But novelty for novelty's sake isn't going to move our star forward. Novelty can distract, but it doesn't bind wounds, it doesn't build roads, it doesn't prevent disaster."

"It makes doing all those things worthwhile, Hades." How many times have they had this argument?

"Fine. But don't come crying to me when no one outside of your circle of cronies enjoys the blasted thing."

"I won't." She wouldn't. She never did, not after he started this line of thinking.

He scoffed and turned away. They were silent for a few minutes, both waiting for the other to break the tension. Minthe could have asked him to leave, but... they tried to never leave each other in anger. They couldn't be together, but they had agreed to try and stay amiable for Hythlodeaus' sake.

"So why did you ask me here, Minthe?" Hades lost the game of chicken.

"Ironically, it was to ask if you were sure you were ready for this type of responsibility," Minthe sighed. "I don't want you rushing this. The current Emet-Selch can wait to return to the Star until you have your affairs in order."

Hades crossed the room to look Minthe in the eye. "This is why I accepted your invitation tonight, Minthe. I wanted to set us straight. We were both born for greatness. And I know you'll find yours somehow."

Those fiery yellow eyes seared into her soul. He really meant it.

"I'll find mine in joy. Just as you'll find yours in your duties."

He gave one of those heart rending smiles. The kind that convinced her that he loved her, that he would change for her.

The kind that he gave when she realized that he never would, and she would never want him to.

Thanks for the prompt!