#if you see Nightmare next to Dust in the fourth image

[mintflavoredfemurs]

Here!! Have some notebook doodles!!! Cause... unknown reasons!!!!

[lamuradex]

Eight Deaths

Part 4 - Prev - All Parts - Next

Fourth Death - Despair

Artemis awoke in the dark. There was nothing, not even a floor. As he went to stand, he managed it, but even so the ground seemed notional. He was in the empty dark.

His mind took a moment to gather. He remembered… he remembered being in a building. He remembered something looming over him. He remembered… lightning.

With a start, he flurriedly checked himself. His chest was unharmed, tight bandages beneath not even scorched. It then took him a moment, but he could see the bandages. He could see himself, even in this infinite dark. He furrowed his brow and thought.

“Artemis…” a voice echoed.

A chill ran through him. He looked. A shape was taking form. A frail, shambling, veiled shape, shrouds hanging off of withered limbs.

“By the pits…” Artemis cursed, as more memory came back. “You’re…”

“Despair. I am sorrow. A life ending itself,” the creature hissed, its voice echoing in the void.

“But… but I didn’t…” Artemis floundered. The thing grew closer.

“I know you, Artemis. You have conjured me to your thoughts many times.”

“I’ve been alive a long time. Of course I’ve thought about it.”

The thing didn’t laugh. There was a greater chill to its words.

“You know me, Artemis. And now… you are mine.”

“No. I can’t. I can’t have died like this!” Artemis retreated, though it didn’t seem to create any distance.

“You have lived so long, Artemis. Why resist?”

“Because I don’t want to die,” he said fervently. “I might have lived more than a thousand years, but that doesn’t mean I’m bored of life. I’m not scared of death, but I’m certainly in no hurry.”

“And yet here you are.”

Artemis tried to summon a spell, but nothing formed. He raised his hand fruitlessly. The nightmare grew closer, extending a hand.

“Just give up, Artemis.”

“No. I can’t. I need to… I need to…” The memory slipped away. There was a gap there.

“You don’t remember?”

“I need to…”

“There is much you don’t remember, correct? How much of your life have you forgotten?”

“As I said, I’ve lived a very long time. You can’t remember everything.”

“But the things you wish to forget? The things you made yourself forget?”

Artemis stared hatefully. This thing kept shuffling closer, but never seemed to reach him. He wasn’t sure if he was running away or not.

“I forget because I have to,” he answered sternly.

“But this is the life you cling to? Such things in your past that you would like to erase. Such sins that even you can’t stand to remember them?”

More shapes took form in the void. Floating images, places, people, events. Many of them featuring him. Many of the featuring tears and pain and blood. He had been around a long time.

“I know I’ve made mistakes in my life,” Artemis argued.

“Such that you don’t remember?”

“Exactly,” he grabbed the point triumphantly. “I don’t remember these. I have no idea if what you’re showing me is true or not.” His eye caught a few. Him working with some pirates. Him being hunted by two women he had wronged. Him as a child in his home, which he knew had long since turned to dust.

“You forget because it easier. You forget because it makes it simpler to live.”

One image caught his eye. A young him watching a woman murdered in an alley, unable to stop it.

“I forget because… because I need to let go of the past.”

“Your sins are too great.”

“No they are not!” he yelled. “I have made mistakes, certainly, no doubts, but they aren’t forgotten. I’ve erased some memories, sure, but that’s only to let things go. Let others move on. But those sins aren’t lost. Every one of them is written down in a book, a book of my drafting, and I know them, even if I don’t truly remember.”

“In a book you would never read.”

“Well, no. Would you, pages filled with your greatest mistake?” he challenged. Despair still hadn’t reached him.

“But you know it can only end one way, Artemis.”

“What are you talking about?”

“You’re immortal, or at least without age. You are a skilled fighter, so no one can conquer you. Your magic is great, so no sickness will take you. Beasts could never claim you, and you are not so stupid as to let chance be your end. There is only one Death that will claim you. And sooner or later, it will be me.”

“I told you before-”

“One day, Artemis. One die you will tire, and then it will be you yourself who has to end it. One day, it will be by your own hand you die.”

Artemis recoiled. It still hadn’t reached him.

“You’re… wrong,” he said, realisation dawning. “And you don’t have me now, do you?”

Despair had no expression, but he imaged annoyance.

“If you’re trying to convince me, then there’s still a chance. I’m not dead yet.”

“But what is the point?”

Artemis’s hand went to his pocket. An empty pocket. The final proof that this wasn’t real. The lantern wasn’t there.

“If I’m here, then I’m not dead. Not yet anyway. Because, even struggling as I was, I’m not stupid enough to just end my own life,” he described, fighting to remember. “But I had spells. Healing spells. And, if I know myself, then I would only have shocked myself to stop my heart briefly. So, if I’m truly not dead, then all I need to do is…”

He reached deep, struggling to reach his body. If he focused, he could still feel the pain in his limbs, the wood of the floor, the burning in his chest. And there, amongst the sensations, just the faintest flicker of a heartbeat. He focused and reached for his magic.

“I just need to get it started.”

He focused. He summoned a small burst of healing magic. He couldn’t aim it, but it would have to find it’s way. A warmth rushed through him, which resonated in the soul before Despair. And then, like a minor earthquake, his entire self juddered. The darkness began to fade. Despair began to vanish.

“This changes nothing, Artemis,” the shade said as they faded. “One day, I will be how you meet your end. It’s only a matter of time.”

And everything vanished.

Artemis awoke, aching, sore, and in every other kind of pain he could think of, lying on the wooden floor of a tower. He raised his head and peered down, spying scorch marks and singed bandages across his chest. A hand went to a pocket, the lantern discernible beneath the fabric.

Artemis lay back and laughed.

It was good to be alive.

[lunarflux]

"i promised i'd forget, but you're all i see when i dream the night away"

bang chan x reader

genre — drama!au

suggested background music: x

note: like i said - i put a lot of my life into writing. something similar to this happened to me today, and i'd like to think that music is getting me through it. i wanted to add more of a "post credits" scene for chan and o/c, but this is how my day is going and how this situation ends.

The world never felt so heavy.

You'd never thought that scrolling through social media could create this bleeding ring in your ears, yet somehow here you are, unable to look at your phone. The photo you stumbled across had already been burned into your memory. There were times when you could forget what song you'd just listened to, and yet this one image had suddenly been burned, a permanent nightmare in your mind.

Your ex looked happy. It wasn't a bad breakup, but after a year, you couldn't expect him to stay single forever. You'd both agreed to move on, and while you swore you had, seeing the photo of him with a beautiful girl kissing his cheek made your shoulders heavy. Staring at your blacked out screen, it was like the photo was still there, and no matter how hard you tried, you couldn't keep yourself from seeing it. Every time you closed your eyes, there he was.

Happy.

You fumbled with your cell phone, placing it face down on your desk before your boss could catch you. It was hard to hide the look on your face. It was pain, sadness, and confusion. How was it that after all this time, you hadn't succeeded in moving on, but he had?

Was it you? Or was this girl really so special that you were worth forgetting?

The feeling of being forgotten - it's seeing the dust gather on photos and the doorknob that he will never open again.

It's over.

"Do you have the paperwork for the meeting tomorrow?" Chan popped into your office, placing a fresh mug of coffee on your desk. You'd started here only six months ago, but he already knew that you liked your coffee light and sweet. "Jisoo wants to make sure we're not missing anything before -"

"Yeah, I have it." You said curtly, looking back at your computer, typing away at your report. "I'll bring it to you later."

"I mean, I can wait for it if you have it ready."

"Chan," you looked up at him. "I said I'll bring it to you later."

Chan looked at you with mild concern. Sure, there were a lot of women in the office, and the men had eventually learned when not to step on toes in the case of any mood swings because of work stress. You weren't one of those people though. You were the type of person who'd rid the stress with a bar of chocolate and be done with it. You'd never snapped at him before.

"Okay." Chan backed out quietly. He ducked into the next office over. Knocking on Minki's office door, he peered in.

"Hey," Minki stood up. "I gotta bring these to the fourth floor, can you watch the phone for me?"

"Yeah, no problem." Chan smiled before taking a seat.

Ping

He knew that you and Minki were office best friends ever since you got hired. While he didn't mean to see it, Minki left his messenger open and slowly your messages came flooding in.

x: he moved on x: am i supposed to be upset? x: we broke up a year ago, so why do i feel so defeated haha x: maybe i'm just decomposing. why do i feel like this x: can we get drinks later? i know you hate it when i drink to drown out my sorrows, but i just can't be here right now.

Damn.

Chan swore he didn't mean to see all that. That would explain the mood though.

x: i didn't think i'd miss him this much. i just want to forget about it.

Taking in a deep breath, Chan pulled out his phone and made a call.

**

"Chan, why did you need me for this stupid client dinner? And who the hell has dinner at 4PM?" You continuously complained as he drove you down the road into the next district.

"Just relax, it'll be fine."

You rested your head against the passenger side window. As your breath fogged up the glass, you scribbled little hearts, peppered over the skyline as Chan drove. It wasn't until you started seeing signs that you realized you were at Banpo Bridge. Chan pulled into the empty parking lot.

"The client wants to have dinner here? What are we doing - getting takeout?" You jested.

Chan opened your door. "Go sit over there, I'll be right back."

You took your seat right by the edge of the water. The weather really was perfect today. The fresh air helped clear out your thoughts. Even though the breakup was a year ago, seeing that photo really made it feel like it just happened yesterday. Your heart broke twice, and yet you couldn't bring yourself to think that you hate him now. You loved him as a memory - a beautiful, happy memory, and it was time to let go now.

Chan re-emerged next to you, a bag with four bottles of soju and piping hot ramen in his hands.

"Um -" You nearly laughed at the sight of him struggling to carry everything. "Am I missing something? Are the clients your drinking buddies?"

"Sit, sit, please." Chan arranged everything down on the ledge.

"Not that I'm ungrateful, but I am confused."

"I, uh." He sat down next to you, removing his jacket. "I'm sorry. Please don't be mad at me."

Stopping halfway from opening a bottle, you looked up at him.

"y/n, Minki had me watch over his desk, and I... I'm sorry, I saw your messages."

"Chan, that was private." You looked down at your shoes, feeling the heaviness in your chest again.

"I know. And I'm sorry." He grabbed the bottle from you and opened it himself. "Minki had to run to another meeting, and I saw how sad you were. I just figured I'd help you escape for a bit. I called in a favor from the interns to watch your stuff, so we could... do this, I guess."

You'd always known Chan was a softie. He was that guy in the office who never forgot about birthdays and important events. He was never late, and he would do everything he could to help out the new people. Even to you, he was a big help whenever you needed it.

"Again, I'm sorry." He poured two shots and handed you one. "But you looked like you needed it, so - cheers."

You watched him as you threw back your soju. You stifled a smile, "Pitiful, isn't it. Still feeling like you've been dumped even after an entire year."

Chan winced as the alcohol hit the back of his throat. "Not at all. Who said that a year was the right time to get over someone? There's no rule for that."

You continued to sip slowly, watching him open up all the snacks.

"I haven't had a girlfriend in years, and I swear, after my last girlfriend and I broke up, I couldn't stop thinking about her even because of the littlest things. It wasn't a bad breakup, but when you have so many happy moments with someone, you can't help but feel sad when you see that person making new moments with someone else. It makes you wonder if that could've been me, y'know?"

It couldn't be stopped. One deep breath and suddenly all the tears started pouring out. You couldn't control your breathing, and it felt like the weight of the world finally came crashing down on your chest, reminding you of every little happy memory that had to be released into the ocean like confetti.

Chan rushed over, placing his jacket on your shoulders. He hushed you, rubbing your arms to warm you up. Crouching down in front of you, he pulled you up and brought you into his chest.

"Wait, I'll get makeup on your shirt -"

He laughed at your childish worries. "It's just a shirt. Just go ahead, it's okay. I can get it dry-cleaned, and you're worth more than some shirt."

Feeling your tears soak up in the cotton, you just cried, and Chan let you until it felt like there was nothing left. You chest was still heaving, but you felt the weight lift slowly. The sea air started filling your lungs again like an icy burn.

"I'm sorry." You finally looked up, mascara stained on your cheeks. You smeared what you could from your face before sitting.

"Stop apologizing." Chan sat down beside you again. "Do you feel better?"

"A little."

Placing his hand on yours, Chan smiled. It was a warm gentle smile. He squeezed, "It will get better. I promise."

"I just feel like everyone keeps moving on, and I'm just stuck here."

"Where is 'here' to you? 'Here' to me is existing with a good job with good friends and a good life. 'Here' is anything you're doing happily without him." He reached up to cup your cheek. "I know you feel miserable, but your body won't let you feel this way forever. And neither will I. Please don't feel as if 'here' is an awful place. 'Here', you have me, and I'll stay until you're not sad anymore."

Peering up at him with red eyes, you smiled with whatever energy you had. Sadness still sat on your shoulders, but it didn't feel so awful anymore.

Chan nodded towards you.

"Until you're not sad or until you ask me to leave - I'll be here for you."

[sunnydaleherald]

The Sunnydale Herald Newsletter, Friday, November 19th and Saturday, November 20th

WESLEY: Well, I’ll be off then. Farewell, Angel. Who knows when our paths will cross again. ANGEL: Wesley. (Wesley puts his jacket on.) CORDELIA: Do you even know where you’re headed? WESLEY: Rogue demon hunters rarely do. Wherever evil lurks, wherever the forces of darkness threaten humanity, that’s where I’ll be. CORDELIA: Oh, okay. Well, keep in touch. WESLEY: Yes. Yes, I will. But now the evil lurking everywhere bids me onwards. So... I go. CORDELIA: Take care. WESLEY: Yes. WESLEY: No rest for the wicked fighters. Through storm and rain, heat, famine... deep, painful, gnawing hunger... I go. ANGEL: Breakfast? WESLEY: Ooh – I suppose so.

~~Parting Gifts~~

[Drabbles & Short Fiction]

Burning Love (Buffy/Spike, G) by debris4spike

I Touched the Fire (Buffy/Spike, NC-17) by gillo

i'm sure of all the things we've got (i've got you) (Angel/Buffy, T) by Melacka

Buffy Fights an Orc (Buffy, T) by 42_Noodles

Episode XIII: Child of Prophecy (Ensemble, Stargate SG-1 and Spaceballs crossover, G) by Vidicon666

Burning Love (Buffy/Spike, not rated) by debris4spike

The creep's ultimate nightmare (anti-Andrew, T) by Bl4ckHunter

A Slayer's Duty (Faith, vampire Buffy, G) by WinterCoffee

[Chaptered Fiction]

Jojo's Bizarre Adventure: Shadowed Suspicion, Chapter 223 (Ensemble, Jojo's Bizarre Adventure crossover, T) by madimpossibledreamer

the lights on the street put all the stars to death, Chapter 1 (Buffy/Faith, PG-13) by bibuffy

Enemies with Benefits, Chapter 9 (complete) (Buffy/Spike, E) by Ifeelittoo21

first aid kit, Chapter 1 (Giles & Xander, G) by alphamikefoxtrot

Fairy Dust, Chapters 1-2 (complete) (Xander/Spike, E) by Rakshathewolf posted by Truley

Waking Up, chapters 1-3 (complete) (Xander/Spike, M) by Savoy Truffle posted by Truley

Cuddling With the Darkness, Chapters 1-10 (Buffy/Spike, M) by Slaymesoftly

Boon, Chapter 10 (Buffy/Spike, R) by Soulburnt

Detention (v.2), Chapter 34 (Buffy/Spike, Adult Only) by Frillyria

Reordering the Universe, Chapter 28 (Buffy/Spike, Adult Only) by Touchstoneaf

Someting To Sing About Take Two (Reprise), Chapter 2 (Buffy/Spike, PG-13) by Kyzaiah

Buffy Summers: Code Name Slayer: Part 1 (RE-WRITE), Chapter 2 (Buffy, Iron Man crossover, FR18) by Kittykitkat

Teen Slayer: Welcome to the Nemetom, Chapter 60 (Buffy, Teen Wolf crossover, FR15) by Kittykitkat

Death Is Buffy's Next Great Adventure, Chapter 66 (Buffy/Tom Riddle, Harry Potter crossover, FR15) by Sharie

Slayers and Trollhunters. Chapter 34 (, Trollhunters crossover, FR15) by Starfox

Annie Edison, Vampire Slayer, part 3: Abed Nadir, Champion's Seer (OC Slayer, Community crossover, FR15) by regalredstar

Echoes of Beljoxa Chapter 58 (Buffy/Spike, R) by myrabeth

[Images, Audio & Video]

Icons: Spuffy icons by debris4spike

Artwork:Wishverse!Buffy sketch (worksafe) by honeyvamp

Artwork: Wishverse Buffy finished version (worksafe) by honeyvamp

Artwork: My favorite “I do not see it” duo (Giles & Buffy, worksafe) by flummoxedangel

Artwork: The final page to the commissioned comic written by @MATTANZAMFEDORA (Buffy, RWBY crossover, worksafe) by helihi

Artwork: Smile Time cartoon (worksafe) by heroofthreefaces

Artwork: really, we’re just good friends (Buffy/Faith, worksafe) by lemonzests

Artwork: Every Buffy Outfit - part 4 (worksafe) by whatshisfaceblogs

Podcast: Musical Horror: BtVS musical episode vs the 1986 version of Little Shop of Horrors by master-harker

Cosplay:Spike cosplay by milkandthecookies

Fanvid: Buffy (Bite Me, Villain, Apocalipsis) by Fauxindigo

Fanvid: Buffy + Faith - Glitter and Gold by Faith Victoria

Fanvid: • spike | my sword by birds

Fanvid: Buffyverse | Everybody knows by QueenVampireSlayer

Podcast video: The Medieval Inheritance of ‘Buffy the Vampire Slayer‘ by Modern Medieval: The Podcast

Vidding resources: Faith Lehane scenepack S3 by Mouna is awesome

Video: Every Outfit Harmony wears in the fourth season of Buffy The Vampire Slayer by Charli3Angelz

[Reviews & Recaps]

Podcast: 6.1 – "Bargaining, Part 1" by Beep Me Pod

Publication: A Wacky, Broadway Nightmare: Buffy the Vampire Slayer’s ‘Once More, With Feeling’ Turns 20 by Jason Scott at Bloody Disgusting.com

Publication: Buffy the Vampire Slayer: Twenty five years later (Part seven) by Matthew Martin

[Recs]

More Links Than A Bag Of Sausages by petzipellepingo

Changing the Death Toll (Buffy, Star Gate crossover, T) by PaBurke recced by 10scheherazade01

[Fandom Discussions]

one thing I can say I really hate about Season 6 by girl4music

Riley Finn [ISTJ] by funkymbtifiction

Tara Maclay [ISFJ] by funkymbtifiction

Faith [ESTP] by funkymbtifiction

Anya [ESTJ] by funkymbtifiction

Dawn Summers [ISFP] by funkymbtifiction

[Fred talking to plants in season 3 and later coming out within Illyria] by gothcarrie

The concept of Love in Buffy The Vampire Slayer is just A Vampire by gothic-buffy

tell me your vamp buffy x spike headcanons -- i want drawing material by bloodletflowers

Feb 22 Solicits (with #34 to be the final of the series) by Stoney

Does Lorne have a Soul? by Halfeatenantelope

Which character death upset/pissed you off the most? by anyesuki

Best side character? by evolmushroom420

Most Toxic Human Male Of The Buffyverse: Wesley or Xander by Gigibean3

Today is the 20th anniversary of S6E9, Smashed. The ending is unforgettable but also, how do you feel about this episode as a whole? by InfiniteMehdiLove

My thoughts on the ongoing character eliminations by AlShockley

Appreciating Buffy Bot by Middle_Ad_4571

[Articles, Interviews, and Other News]

ScreenRant: Buffy The Vampire Slayer: The Best Ship In Each Season

[tae-cup]

Serendipity | The Pact (2)

Pairing: Taehyung x Reader

Summary: It was simple. If you weren’t married by 26, you’d get married to each other. Well, it was supposed to be simple.

Warnings: N/A

Genre: ANGST, Fluff???, Non Idol!Au, Business!Au-ish

Word Count: 2.7k Words (again?? I swear I don’t p l a n for them to be the same length)

A/N: I’m sorry the angst... Let me know if you want to be tagged!

Other:

Series Masterlist

Normal Masterlist

“Y/N, please, I just really need you right now.” His somber voice rang through the phone. 

       You ran. You ran through the pouring rain like in some movie. It almost made you want to laugh. The pavement was soaked through, you were soaked through. It felt like a cruel joke. The library was so close when you saw it on your way in, so why didn’t it feel like it was miles away now? 

       When you finally arrived, the warmth of the building drawing you in, you were shivering uncontrollably. I guess that’s what I get for running in the rain like a lunatic. The streets had thick streams of water coursing down the sides and the rain was pelting down heavier than before. You pushed into the quiet library. 

       The library was old, having been around longer than you had been alive. It reeked of dust and mold. Still, the inside managed to look semi-decent, for the 1950s. The place was retro and you were sure they hadn’t changed the furniture since when your parents were your age. You carefully maneuvered your way through the aisles, trying to find him. It felt like you were in a museum and you didn’t want to bump into anything. 

You found him sitting, leaning against a wall in the back. 

“Taehyung?” No response. “Tae?” 

       He looked up at you and his appearance almost made you gasp. He had dried tear streaks on his cheeks and red eyes, he looked downtrodden, his hair going every which way. You rushed to his side, crouching in front of him. 

“Taehyung, are you...are you alright?” 

“You’re soaked.” He looked at you, a worried expression on his face. 

“I’m more worried about you, Tae.”

    He didn’t respond, swallowing and avoiding your gaze. You waited, letting him know that you’re here for him to talk. 

“Y/N, I really didn’t want our next meeting to be like this, but I just didn’t know who else to call.” He laughed shakily. You placed your hands on his, squeezing them tightly. 

“What happened?” 

He had this broken gaze, like something was missing. 

“I tried to break up with her, Y/N.” 

The statement had your head spinning. Break up? Why? What does he mean ‘try’? Instead, you just nodded and circled your thumb on his. 

“Why?” You murmured, falling into a seated position. Your legs crossed. You could see the dust particles fly up as you sat. 

“Because...because I want you, Y/N.” 

I want you. I want you. The words shot around your head. Those words you had wanted to hear for years. You stumbled back, standing quickly and dusting yourself off. 

“You can’t have me, Taehyung.” You said harshly, your gut twisting and your heart screamed at you to stop talking. “I won’t be the reason you break up with her. I won’t do that. Do you love her?”

“Yes, but never as much as...as I love you.” There was no hesitation in his eyes.

You shook your head, crossing your arms. “You don’t love me, Taehyung. You love 15 year old me, you love an old me that isn’t coming back.” 

       So much had changed in the past years. You weren’t the same and you doubted he was the same boy you had loved. He was more mature, had an air of certainty, reliability. It was so unlike the spontaneous and fun loving boy you had first met. You watched his eyes fall, shoulders dropping. He slowly stood walking towards you. You didn’t move away. He took your hands in his and rubbed small circles with his thumb. 

“I’ve loved you for 10 years, Y/N. Even when we didn’t speak to each other, I always wished you well.” He drew backwards, unclasping your hands all too quick. “Do you know what it’s like to love someone for 10 years who never once thought about contacting you?” 

You frowned, of course you had thought about him. Did he know the countless nights you sobbed over him? The way you missed his touch? You bit your lip, deciding not to say anything, but your heart beat a little faster. 

 “I was hurt, I was looking for love. And Jennie was too. I never loved her like you, though, as much as I tried.” He looked defeated.

          You could tell he was conflicted. Deep down, maybe he did love her. Maybe he was just pushing it away. Maybe if you ended it now, took away his hopes for this to work out, then he could finally see what was in front of him. Jennie may be...clingy, possessive, and manipulative, but you wouldn’t be a place for him to escape to. He needed to deal with this on his own. Whatever was going on with them was not your problem. 

       The boy you loved, past tense, stood in front of you, now a man. And you weren’t sure if you liked what you were seeing. Not to doubt that he was incredibly handsome, that was obvious, but the brokenness in his gaze made your skin crawl. You felt ashamed knowing that you had been a cause to this, this crave for love. 

“Taehyung, I can’t give you that love, I can’t fill it.” You had so much love inside, just waiting for someone, but something about this didn’t feel right either. You had thought maybe he was the missing piece, you spent 10 years testing the theory, but now that he was here, he didn’t seem to fit. It wasn’t that it wasn’t right, no, he still fit okay, but there was an edge missing, a piece that didn’t quite click into place. 

“She asked me to marry her, Y/N.” 

       Your heart skipped a beat. You were frozen in place. What? 

“That-That’s great, Taehyung.” You resisted the urge to frown. You just told him you didn’t love him like he loves you, so shouldn’t you be happy that he’s gone ahead and gotten engaged? 

“I laughed and ran away. Like a coward.” He murmured, head dipping low in shame. You tilted your head, confused. 

“Why?”

“I couldn’t go through with it, not with the pact drawing so near.”

“And do you want to go through with the pact?”

“Yes.” 

      You watched him carefully, a small smile on your face. “Okay, well, just think about it. I don’t want you making any rash decisions.” This is what you wanted. Why do you still care for Jennie’s feelings? Because if you had been in her position, you would have broken. He nodded numbly, staring aimlessly at his empty ring finger. 

      A call from Taehyung wasn’t what you had expected. It had been a few days and you had avoided him at all costs. It was just like what happened 10 years ago. No, I don’t want that to happen again. I value our friendship a lot more than I did when I was a dumb 16 year old. You were 26, dammit, why couldn’t you just talk to him like an adult? You bit your lip, finger hovering hesitantly over the accept button. On the fourth ring, you picked up. 

“Tae?” 

“Hey,” His voice lacked emotion and it felt like a slap to the face. “Would you like to go to dinner with Jennie and I?”

“When?” Your heart raced. Did you want to see him again? 

“This coming Thursday.” 

     You looked at the date. It was currently Tuesday. You sighed, running a hand through your hair. Your eyes looked around your apartment, searching for a reason to say no. You found none. 

“Sounds great, see you then.” You replied, trying to sound happier than you were. 

“See you.” 

Click. 

      The restaurant was crowded. Not in the way too overcrowded way, but more in the noisy and loud way. It made your ears hurt. You looked at the two empty seats in front of you and then anxiously glanced at your phone for the time. It wasn’t a fancy restaurant by any means, but you had looked up the menu online and it seemed like quality food. You busied yourself on your phone, trying to distract from the oncoming problem ahead. 

“Y/N, lovely to see you again.” Jennie’s voice said from your right. You quickly looked up, locking your phone and hastily putting it in your purse. She looked dazzling, truly. You pushed a smile forward and went to hug her and Taehyung. Then you sat down with them as they opened their menus. You had already looked and decided what to order, but you didn’t want to seem out of place so you picked up a menu as well. 

“Jennie, you are looking quite stunning, as per usual.” You complimented. In another life you prayed you and her could be friends, maybe even acquaintances, but instead there was this silent and bitter feud. 

“Thank you, Y/N.” Usually it’s customary to return the compliment, but Jennie went back to looking at her menu. You pursed your lips. 

“And I think you look gorgeous as well.” The deep timber of Taehyung’s voice made your heart skip a beat. How long had you been waiting for someone to call you gorgeous? Ages. You caught the way Jennie frowned ever so slightly. 

“Thank you, Taehyung, you’re looking quite ravishing.” You chuckled. You were only half joking, he did look very handsome. His hair was swept over and he wore black jeans with a loose fitting white shirt. He smiled, flashing his dazzling white teeth. 

“So how have you two been?” You continued. 

“Well, I’ve been mostly doing work and spending some quality time with Jennie.” His hand rested on hers. Jennie looked to him with a wide smile. You were struck by how lovely her smile was. She never smiled when she spoke to you or when she was with you at all for that matter. You suddenly felt like the other woman. It wasn’t a comfortable feeling. 

“That’s great.” You mustered a smile. You didn’t want to ask him what that quality time involved. 

“How have you been?” He asked, leading the conversation. 

“I’ve been..alright.” You failed to mention the hours spent at home in the dark, curled in a ball and cursing yourself for being foolish. You didn’t mention the lingering pain in your heart, the cold sweat when you woke up from a nightmare. You didn’t mention how many times he had lingered on your mind, his red eyes, his broken state. You blinked, as you replaced that image with the well put together man in front of you. He looked every part the businessman he was supposed to be. Taehyung watched you carefully. 

“Right well-” As he started on, you found yourself zoning out, drifting off into your mind. You nodded along with him every now and then, tuning in to make sure you weren’t missing anything important. “Y/N? Earth to Y/N.” 

You jolted upright, blinking. “Yes, yes, sorry I zoned out for a moment.” You said quickly. 

“That’s alright, business can be boring.” He chuckled. “But I was asking if you were going to let your soup go cold or if you wanted a to-go container.” 

   You furrowed your eyebrows. You barely remembered ordering. 

“Right, right, sorry. Yes, a to-go container would be lovely.” You watched Jennie squeeze Taehyung’s arm tightly. In your haste to grab your wallet, you accidentally knocked your silverware onto the ground. Jennie stared at you incredulously as you bent to grab the items off the floor. Taehyung bent at the same time. You glanced up at him. He was staring at you, his expression unreadable. You both had your hands on the utensils. A muscle in his jaw twitched, then he let go of them, not breaking eye contact. 

 “Tae tae, this is such a cute wedding dress, don’t you think?” You eyed him with a mischievous smirk. He rolled his eyes. Ever since you’d made the pact, you couldn’t stop thinking about it. As much as you’d love to just date him now, you wanted to wait. After all, you were always a more slow burn romance kind of gal. 

“Sure.” He said, sounding uncommitted. You eyed him warily, the mood changing. 

“Are you alright?” You asked softly, placing a hand over his. 

“Yeah.” He grumbled, avoiding your gaze. He slowly retracted his hand, the movement feeling giving you more anxiety. Your heart raced. Is he alright? Did something happen? 

“Are you sure?”

“God, would you just cut it out already?” He whispered harshly. His eyes followed a girl walking by, someone far prettier than you. You felt your heart sink as you followed his eyeline. “I just, fuck, sorry, I just don’t want to talk about the future that much.”

      You nodded, trying to understand. You had always lived in the future, thinking about where you wanted to go in life, who you wanted to be with. It was in your nature to talk about this. 

“Oh, sorry, I’ll...I’ll try not to.” Your fingers curled in anxiously. “But isn’t that sort of part of being married? Talking about the future?”

“We’re not married”

“Oh...right.” You wanted to run away. How naive you were. Just a stupid girl. 

“Look, I think we want different things now and I’m sick of being nice to you about it.” His words were a slap to the face. 

“Did you...did you only agree because you were being nice?” You managed to choke out. He had begged you to love him, to be with him. Of course, maybe marriage wasn’t something he wanted to talk about, but as his best friend, how could you have missed it?

“No, I love you, I just don’t think I want to marry you.”

    His words were valid, truthful, and they weighed you down. You had always been a bit of a dreamer, planning your dream life, everything for as far as you could see. Were you so undesirable? Who would love you? You felt empty, like there was something missing as you stood, metaphorically and literally tearing yourself away. 

“Is the pact over?” 

“Y/N...don’t do this-”

“I said is the pact over?” You interrupted him, a steel to your voice. He simply smiled faintly, not giving away the turmoil inside. 

“A smart girl like you shouldn’t have agreed to such a foolish thing.” 

    And you ran. You ran until you could no longer breath, until your legs burned and your tears were dry. The world was cracking beneath you. Had anything been real? Had anything been true? You inhaled deeply. Trying to take more air into your lungs. A wonderful friendship broken by thoughtless words, five minutes of anger, and 10 years of silence. 

      Taehyung was ripped away from your gaze. You both shot up. Jennie had her slender fingers wrapped around the collar of his shirt. She drew him in harshly and you could see the fire in her eyes. Taehyung’s surprised noise was drowned out by her lips on his. Your face went pale. Were they...were they making out right in front of you? 

      You gaped at the sight, unsure of what to do. Taehyung leaned into the kiss, after all, she’s his girlfriend, she obviously knows how to get him going. Your hands trembled as you held onto the edge of the table cloth. Jennie opened her eyes, smirking against his lips as she stared you down. 

       The level of anxiety in you had risen significantly. You rose quickly, throwing down the money you owed and bolted out of the restaurant, muttering something about feeling ill. Taehyung missed the little wave that Jennie gave you, but you certainly did not. Deep inside, you couldn’t blame her for wanting to stake her claim. Her man just ran out when she proposed a marriage, had a deal to marry a girl from high school, and didn’t seem the least bit interested in her at dinner. You would have made out with him too. 

       You frowned, fingers lightly brushing over your lips, imagining how his must feel. Maybe you should stop pining after him. You’re a 26 year old woman after all, not some girl head over heels in love. The pact was a silly idea, anyway. 

      As you drove away from the restaurant, you took deep breaths, suppressing the urge to scream in anguish. You can still keep him as a friend, that was supposed to be the point of not dating him before. You could stay away, right? A part of you felt bad for Jennie. It was sad that she felt so insecure in her relationship that she needed to do such things. If you saw past the mean words and simply looked at how Jennie behaved, the way she acted around Taehyung, and in public, you could see why she was perfect for him. Taehyung never liked a push over, and you weren’t exactly a push over, but you knew you would probably get on his nerves after a while. Jennie had the comfort, the love, the touch to heal whatever you left behind. You feared you would cause more damage. I should have never come out here. You pressed your lips into a thin line as you drove. You were so focused on making other people happy, did you not deserve to be happy too?

Taglist: @tangledsparkles​ @bonnyskies​ @rjsmochii​

[arotechno]

The Heartless: Chapter 5

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Chapter V: in which the proverbial dam breaks

We stayed with Esther for three days. We’d spend the daylight hours working in the field, and in the evenings we’d sit outside and listen to Esther’s stories while the sun sank into the far-off horizon and gave way to the cool summer night. Sometimes, she’d help us in the garden or sit by the back door with the baby; other times she’d spend most of the afternoon in the house, and we’d see her carrying out crates of old-looking memorabilia, like our hard work had inspired her to finally clear out the detritus of an old life that she didn’t lead anymore.

Over those three days, we razed the overgrown garden rows, trimmed back the bushes, and cleared the creeping vines from the side of the house with the old rusted garden tools from the dusty, cobweb-laden wooden bin by the back door. There were several moments where I considered disappearing overnight, dragging an unwilling Petra back home with me before something could go horribly wrong. But every time, the thought of sleeping another night in the treetops and the mental image of Esther waking up one morning to find us gone convinced me to stay, at least until the work was done.

On the morning of the fourth day, Petra and I gathered up our measly belongings from the stable and bid our goodbyes to Esther and the baby, standing between the freshly shorn raspberry bushes with the whole truth sinking into the sun-baked earth unspoken. I began a thousand sentences in my head without finishing any of them, but thankfully, Petra picked up the slack.

“Thank you so much, ma’am, for everything,” she said with a polite nod.

Esther returned her thanks with a smile that didn’t reach her eyes. “Of course, dear. It was nice to have some helping hands around for a few days.”

Petra went in for a quick hug, and if I’d had a heart, I believe it would have leapt into my throat and stayed there, permanently, until I choked on it and died. Instead, I found myself suddenly frozen to the ground where I stood, a thousand panicked thoughts buzzing under my skin until I saw Esther reach her free arm towards me and took a practiced step backward, a trillion possible endings to a million possible nightmares playing out in my head in that one instant.

“Thank you,” I choked out, startling Esther out of the bewildered expression that had crept onto her kind face. “Sincerely, I’ll never be able to thank you enough. More than you will ever know.” I gave her a polite nod to match Petra’s and turned to go, but when we were halfway to the road, she stopped me.

“Ace!” Esther called after me.

I turned around to see her look of confusion soften into something bordering on sorrow.

“I don’t know what it is, and I don’t expect you to tell me,” she began, “but whatever it is, no matter how bad you think it is, it doesn’t matter. You’re always welcome here, if you ever decide to come back. That’s a promise.”

“Please don’t make a promise I can’t expect you to keep, ma’am,” I answered honestly, and then I turned to go, Petra marching solemnly alongside me with her hands clutching the straps of her now full bag.

“You’re good kids, both of you!” Esther shouted, her voice carrying her desperation through the raspberry field down to the road’s edge. “I really mean that!”

I said nothing in return, and looked back only once, to see the baby reaching that chubby hand out toward me from afar. As the tiny house and Esther’s slowly shrinking form began to disappear at our backs, I thought quietly about the argument Petra and I’d had amongst the too-tall weeds that first day, and was left wondering which of us was right.

* * *

Bertrand greeted me with cold indifference when we finally arrived back in the Village of the Heartless. The house was stuffy; it felt more oppressively stark and empty than I remembered, as if I’d been gone for months instead of less than a week. It didn’t seem like Bertrand had eaten much, unless he’d managed to get more food in my absence—the more likely scenario was that he’d been brewing away at failed cure after cure in his study the entire time I had been away. It wasn’t as though he did much else when I was home, for that matter.

The sweltering summer dragged on, slow and sticky like pulled taffy. The weeks passed in much the same way as the ones that came before; Bertrand and I rarely spoke, and I spent long afternoons in the shade of the forest grove having target practice with Petra. She and I had taken to doing odd jobs for the neighbors in exchange for food or supplies, scrubbing kitchen floors on our hands and knees or picking fresh vegetables for the summer harvest until the sun had dappled new freckles across our noses and the tops of our shoulders. Whenever I couldn’t sleep at night (which was often), I’d climb to the top of the oak tree by the village gates with my bow and arrow and wait for someone to show up. No one ever did, aside from Petra—though her escapades were admittedly few now that our days were occupied by work.

Eventually, the days began to grow shorter and the summer heat faded into the crisp early autumn. The leaves on the big oak tree lost their green hue and the air grew drier day by day as the year commenced its twilight march to the cold, dark winter. The mounting tension in our tiny house came to a head on one cool autumn night, when my tired bones finally gave in to the deceitful throes of sleep.

* * *

My parents were very good at hiding the fact that I had no heart in my chest, and they had to be—harboring a Heartless child was against royal decree and would likely get them imprisoned, or worse. The people of Swallow’s Point didn’t suspect a thing, and I was content to keep it that way. I saw no reason to ever be discovered; I was living an ordinary childhood simply by pretending to be ordinary, and it was working.

It was just a beautiful, average day; the neighborhood children were out playing in the grass. In an act of heroics, Basil climbed atop a tree stump, wielding a stick like a pretend sword. We were playing knights, like we always did.

“I’m going to be king!” Basil declared gleefully to our group like a ruler addressing his people.

I turned up my nose and protested, “Basil, we’re all supposed to be knights! That’s the point of the game!”

Basil frowned, fists landing on his scrawny hips. “No, stupid, I mean in real life! I’m going to be king someday!”

"Sure you are,” retorted a kid who reminded me of Knife Boy. “You have to be related to the king to do that.”

Basil shrugged. “Maybe I am.”

“I don’t think so. You’re too weird to be related to King Brutus,” Marcus taunted.

“Don’t speak that way to your future king!” Basil joked, hopping down gracefully from his stump. He landed with a soft thud, worn-out shoes kicking up a cloud of dirt. The dust coated his face and clothes as he and the other boy began play-wrestling in the dirt road where we lived, laughing all the while, and warning bells resounded in my head. I could sense the impending danger from a mile away; it was an instinct I had been honing even throughout the most carefree years of my life, in case I ever needed it.

"Basil,” I muttered, hoping he would hear me and no one else, “maybe you shouldn’t—”

I stopped short, choking on my own breath as the group went dead silent. Marcus had gone to push Basil away and in doing so had placed a hand to Basil’s empty chest. He froze that way, eyes wide, and Basil paled considerably, realizing the gravity of what was happening. The moment cemented itself in my mind’s eye as tension soaked into the air, heavy and still.

“Why were you tricking us this whole time?” Marcus grumbled in a voice too low and too angry to ever come from a child. “You’re cursed! You could doom our whole village!”

“I just wanted friends,” was Basil’s whispered reply, so quiet I almost didn’t hear him. I saw him take a deep breath, chest rising, and then he spoke again, this time louder, bolder, “It shouldn’t matter! We were all friends until just now when you decided something was wrong with me! But that doesn’t change what I’ve always been!”

The entire group of children, save for myself, turned on him in an instant.

I backed further and further away from the scene but couldn’t look away, and in my mind’s eye their pretend-sword sticks became distorted until they resembled Knife Boy’s grimy dagger. I reasoned with myself, assuring myself that he was spry enough, light enough on his feet to escape. But poor, ten-year-old, Heartless Basil who had just declared himself king stared me dead in the eyes with a look that told me to run. So I did. He was foolish to let his guard down, I told myself. It was his own fault for becoming complacent. I almost convinced myself it was true.

  “Ace! Ace, wake up!”

I jolted awake, the residual terror warping the shadows cast by the lantern light into something macabre. It took a moment to will my body to move; my limbs had been reduced to lead, like if I played dead whatever demons haunted my sleep could not hurt me.

“Fuck,” I finally choked out, the hoarseness in my voice making me realize I had been screaming. I hadn’t woken up screaming from a nightmare in years, and it was at that point that I at last noticed Bertrand hovering beside my cot, the soft light from the lantern illuminating his stony features. There was something genuine in his expression—I realized belatedly that it was concern, and for some reason, it made me uncomfortable. Bertrand did not admonish me for my language, but instead stared at me patiently, expectantly, and somehow that made it worse.

"Sorry," I rasped. "For waking you."

Bertrand shook his head. “I was not asleep,” was all he said.

It occurred to me that Bertrand was the only living soul to whom I had ever told the details about Basil’s disappearance and the day I left Swallow’s Point. I had spilled to him one night as a child, the first time I woke him in the middle of the night with my screaming. He hadn’t said much, but he’d made me a cup of hot tea and let me lay my ten-year-old soul bare to him despite the ungodly hour. It had helped at the time, but it didn’t feel like an option now. I tried to steady my breathing, but I couldn’t, not with him looking at me so earnestly like that; it was as though my blood itself were vibrating just under my skin.

“I need to take a walk,” I said, swinging my legs over the side of the cot and reaching for my shoes. I met Bertrand’s gaze, daring him to challenge me, but though he said nothing, his expression softened into a sort of resigned understanding.

“Are you sure you’re in any condition to do that?” he finally asked as I was putting on my cloak with trembling limbs.

“No,” I responded shakily, walking out the door unarmed.

Once I was outside, the fresh air immediately took some of the edge off, and I walked a short ways before my legs gave out like a newborn deer’s and I flopped backward onto the grass. I inhaled deeply and exhaled slowly, in and out several times until my breathing began to steady into something approaching normal.

This couldn’t go on any longer. I needed answers, some form of closure, someone to tell me straight to my face to get lost or die for all they cared, something more tangibly final than the memories that haunted me.

That night, I made a rash decision: I had to return home to see my parents.

When I eventually struggled to my feet and headed back inside, Bertrand was nowhere to be seen, but there was a mug of freshly brewed tea waiting on the table, the kettle still steaming on the stove as the crackling fire slowly burned out.

[soyforramen]

Old Times

Gladys hadn’t been back in town for a month before Alice showed up on her front porch at four in the morning, tears streaking down her cheeks (makeup looking just as good as when she’d applied it that morning; gotta love a woman who can afford Avon).  A wide-eyed teenager, the spiting image of a younger, more precocious Alice, tagged along behind her.  Without hesitation Gladys ground her cigarette out on the arm of the rocker (saved from Mr. O’Neil’s Tuesday trash pile) and pulled them both inside.

Without a word spoken, Gladys went to change the sheets in her bedroom.  Alice and the girl spoke softly in the kitchen, and try as she might, Gladys couldn’t make out a single word.  Whatever it was, it had been bad enough to bring Alice here and not one of her fancy, high-society friends’ houses (probably put out jello molds and finger sandwiches and food that tasted like creamed dirt).  Something big enough to ruin the entire Cooper household.

The pillowcase hung from the bottom of the pillow, wrapped around its middle in a suffocating grip, as she realized Hal hadn’t been with them.  In fact, she hadn’t seen Hal and Alice in the same place since she’d moved back to town (long-since overstayed, parents basement too crowded with two bickering teens and three shifts at the grocery store, g.e.d. just out of reach).  She’d exchanged enough nods with Hal in the frozen dinner aisle, both pretending the space between them wasn’t mired in ancient history and still raw rivalry.  Her path with Alice was limited to the high school drop-off lane, the one public gesture of maternal affection Jughead still allowed

Now, though.  She sighed.  It wasn’t uncommon for the women around here to lean on one another for comfort and safety.  Sad, really, how often that came on the heels of the men not living up to even the lowest standards.  

After a second thought, she fluffed up pillows and headed back towards the kitchen.  Coming towards her in the claustrophobic hallway came Alice and her child (Betty, she realized with a flash of deja vu, a reminder of when she and Jughead were the ones on the other end of this), and Gladys flattened herself against the wall.

“Thanks, Ms. Jones,” Betty murmured, her eyes downcast.

Gladys hadn’t the heart to tell her she hadn’t been a Jones for almost fifteen years.  

“Not a problem at all, darlin’.  What do you think about strawberry pancakes in the morning?”

Betty gave her a watery smile and Alice shooed her into the bedroom.  The door closed behind them, and Gladys let out a heavy breath.  There was always something going wrong around here.  You expected it, but it still hurt to see it happen.

Filled with a nervous energy (live wired and on fire, as her daddy used to say before the tar and the coal got to him; put a cork in that and you could power the whole nothern half of the states), Gladys flitted around the house, straightening and tucking and dusting, nothing seeming to be enough anymore.  She had another two hours before she had to be at her first shift at the factory down the road.  Then again, maybe she’d return that long ago favor and call in sick.  After all, she was entitled to a few days here and there (nothing like the dump in toledo where they squeezed every drop of your soul, pennies on the dollar, and still demanded more).

Just as she was running a cloth over the television set (only three channels, black and white; older than either of her children who preferred leeching ole’ henry’s wifi instead of -), the bedroom door shut quietly.  Gladys straightened and waited for Alice to appear.  When their eyes met, Alice’s stoic, no-nonsense rock solid mask crumbled into a mess of tears and grief.

“He’s -“

Poor gal couldn’t even speak properly anymore.  Whatever Hal’d done, it was enough to knock the sense out of Alice, and that was a scary enough prospect on its own.  She hadn’t been that thrown for a loop since they’d raided (stole) Mantle’s stash of E (curled up like kittens, high in the dusty sunlight on the trailer floor, alice laying out her future with hal and not her…).

Gladys quieted her and lead Alice to the love seat (third-hand from earl and katie, bless their hearts even though it did smell like that damn cat).  Alice tried to apologize for the interruption, but Gladys refused to let her.  Jughead she didn’t have to worry about - boy slept like a brick in a tornado - and J.B. was at a sleepover with some of her friends (best friends on the first day of school, always did get her daddy’s better traits, while jug soured down into his old records and writing, lost in his own world, too much like his mama to make anything of it).

Once Alice was settled, Gladys poured out a shot of rum and set it on the coffee table along with a box of tissues.  A few steps back, and Gladys was in the kitchen to give Alice a modicum of peace in the tiny trailer.  She poured a glass of water and set it next to the empty shot glass.

“Another one?  I have whiskey, too.”

Alice shook her head, a crumbled tissue in her hand halfway shredded to hell and back already.  On the table lay three more (three bucks a pop here, can you believe) and Gladys couldn’t help but want that to be the remnants of Hal’s body.  

“Hal, he -“ Alice’s words were cut off with a gut wrenching sob, and Gladys rushed to her.

Like she did when the kids woke up from their nightmares, she murmured platitudes and soft words, her arms wrapped around Alice in a cocoon of safety.  After a good long cry (glad she still wore waterproof, cheap, drugstore mascara would have ruined the fabric, though the concealer would do hell on the blouse), Alice steadied herself.

Despite her hair falling out of its unnatural wave, despite the botchy cheeks, red eyes, and snotty nose, Gladys was still struck by how well Alice carried herself.  Likely an armor built up having to suppress anger and frustration in this ticky-tacky town (hoa’s, pta’s, cya’s).  A rose of anger bloomed on her cheeks sent Gladys rocking back on her heels, a thrum of excitement rushing through her.

“I suppose you’ve heard about our town’s little problem,” Alice said, still speaking in polite euphemisms and innuendos.  She reached for the glass of water and primly cleared her throat (cats and spots, zebras and strips, snakes and scales; once, always).

“Depends on which one you mean,” Gladys said.  

She was being sarcastic, she knew, but it was the truth.  Riverdale hadn’t changed much from when they were growing up, damn whatever bullshit Hiram and his developers were trying to sell.  It still had the same pristine front, picture perfect suburban life style, full of well respected men trying to save the village green from its own preservation society, but now the fetid foundation it had been built upon was bubbling out from the seams.  The drugs, gangs, and murders were more visible now, no longer brushed under the railroad tracks into the Southside of town.

Hell, the only new thing about it seemed to be the mafia trying to gain a foothold.  And Gladys had her own plans on how to deal with that.

Mostly, though, she’d missed being able to push Alice’s buttons (eyes narrowed, tongue beneath her teeth, a flash of heat in a pan), to get a rise from her so she was the center of her focus.  If nothing else, it drew Alice’s attention away from her grief at hand.  

“But, if you’re talking about that black hood idiot,” Gladys drawled, wincing at the pins and needles attacking her as she stood, “then I’ve heard a bit.”

“Yes, well.”  Alice cleared her throat and looked away.  “It turns out you were right.  About Hal.”

“Oh?”

Gladys let it hang in the air.  It wasn’t often that Alice Cooper, nee Smith, admitted to being wrong about anything, especially when it came to her life choices.  And yet the juxtaposition of the two - the Black Hood and Hal - had caught her attention like a hook in a trout’s belly.

“About -?”

“About Hal,” Alice snapped.

She stood to pace the thin carpet of the trailer, her hands wrapped tight around her arms, the pastel green cardigan wrinkling under her fingers.  

“He’s been going around these past few months like a god damned fool, playing at being an avenging angel, murdering people who he thought deserved it.  I can’t believe I bought his lie about going bowling. The man can’t even lift a lawnmower, let alone a bowling ball.”

Gladys sat down on the love seat, one leg thrown onto the coffee table and watched Alice stew in front of her.  It was a mirror image of fifteen years ago, almost to the day.  She gently touched the corner of her eye, still bearing a white scar, and cursed the day she’d ever met that man.

“And then the bastard has the audacity to say that our children need to be purified.  That I need to be purified.  It was bad enough that he sent that letter to Polly, what he did to Betty -“

Alice stopped and tugged at her hair (bottle blonde to cover up the slow, steady march of time; at least a week’s worth of gladys’ pay for vanity every month).  Gladys stood and guided Alice back to the love seat.

“How about you start from the beginning?”

Another stream of tears, this time borne of frustration and anger, slipped down Alice’s cheeks as she dove head first into the long tale.  Hal always had thought himself above the rest of the town (secret son, hidden away from the world) even though his own sins bore bitter fruit of their own (alice angry and self-destructive in senior year; drunk on the floor; od’ed in the bathroom; blood running down wrists).   Somehow he’d managed to fuel that into something more productive - a picture perfect nuclear family and modest but plentiful business - until he finally didn’t.  

The first murder attempt, then the second, third, and fourth followed, no longer attempts.  Quit murders in the surrounding counties that went with only a few murmurs of disapproval.  Even his own family hadn’t been immune; daughters, tortured and deceived by the man meant to protect them from such things (kids of all things; for crissakes was nothing sacred?.

And Alice…

When she was done with her macabre tale, ending in Hal’s entrapment of his family and their violent escape, Gladys let out a low whistle.

“Well.  Shit.”

Alice let out a wet, wry laugh.  She curled her legs up under her and hugged a throw pillow tight (bought on a whim at a yard sale - two’fer deal she’d haggled; matched the lace curtains jb couldn’t help but make fun of).  Gladys stood and walked towards where her father’s urn sat on the mantle, a place of honor in a family who had little to do with ghosts of the past.

“What do you want to do about it?” Gladys asked.  

Standing on her tiptoes, she reached in an pulled out a rusted Altoids tin and a lighter.  When Alice caught sight of it she let out a real laugh this time, one that drew memories of simpler, happier times when it had just been the two of them against the world.  Wonder Woman and Sarah Conner, united together.  Until they grew up and out of middle school dreams and into the real world where bills piled up and mouths had to be fed.  

“You know we’re not in high school, right?”

Gladys grinned and fell onto the love seat next to her.  She popped open the tin and held it out to Alice.

“Do you want to do the honors?  You always were better at it than I ever was.”

Alice chewed her lip, the implications and scandal of what Gladys was proposing flashed across her eyes.  It was easy enough to guess the arguments against it, the same old ones she’d heard before (what if your mom/daughter/sister finds out you keep that in there? she’ll be more pissed that she didn’t find it sooner), but her hand was steady when she took the tin. Gladys watched her fingers work, long thin fingers still trapped by a band of gold.  The ring of a promise that fell flat and brought with it a hell of a right-hook in the end.

As she watched, Gladys let her mind wonder what would have happened if they hadn’t allowed themselves to be torn apart in high school.  If she’d only beaten the truth out of Hal in junior year when Alice vanished.  If only, if only, if only.

“What I want,” Alice said with a finality, the lid snapping shut a punctuation to her decision, “is to rip his guts out and feed them to him while that harpy mother of his watches.”

Gladys flicked the lighter, the flame dancing around the end of the joint.  Her eyes didn’t move from Alice’s lips as she took a hit.  Lines ebbed and faded, reminders of their time spent apart, waves of years and youth wasted.  In the poor ventilation of the trailer, the smoke wrapped them in a thin cocoon of safety, a gauzy curtain to shield them against the reality of their choices.

“Might have to lay a tarp down, but I know a few guys.”

The phrase sent Alice into a fit of giggles (ask freddie and fp, they know some guys) and Gladys shushed her with a crooked smile, reminding her that Betty lay sleeping not forty feet away.  Alice took another took and blew the smoke into Gladys’ face, a ribbon that caressed and teased her skin

“Or we could take care of it ourselves.”

“Just like old times?”

“Just like old times.”

(A few months later found Jughead and Betty at Pop’s working on a school project under Gladys’ critical eye.  Jughead, used to his mother’s hovering nature, enjoyed the free fries she dropped off between customers; Betty, it seemed, was far more perturbed by the woman’s sudden closeness with her mother.  It wasn’t until they were writing about Lady McBeth  (‘out damn spot’ seemed to Jughead less of a guilt ridden complex after this Black Hood business and more of an attempt at an evidentiary coverup) that he spoke on a subject that had been bothering him for a few weeks.

“Doesn’t it seem odd?”

Betty hummed and continued to write.  “What seems odd?”

“My father disappears three months before my mother leaves town, never to be seen again.  We come back, and three months later your dad disappears.  And each time, our mothers renewed their friendship just weeks before.”

Any goodwill Betty might have held towards Jughead froze quickly at the implications in his words.  Her fingers gripped the mechanical pencil hard enough her knuckles went white and the plastic cracked.  

“My father was a serial killer,” she snapped.  Blooms of anger rose on her checks and Jughead shifted under her glare.  “It’s not surprising that he’d run away after trying to kill his wife and his daughter in their own home.”

Cowed, Jughead picked at the lukewarm fries.  Her words didn’t change his mind, didn’t move his suspicions a single degree, but it did quiet his need to pry further into her opinion.

The matter was dropped as Macbeth and his realm descended further into madness.)

[griimreaping]

@liftedrelics​  ━━━━━  plotted starter

Milky   sunlight   does   little   to   dissipate   the   thick   fog   which   swirls   between   trunks   of   stood   birch   and   fir.   A   wet   earth   stench   hangs   in   the   air   and   fills   up   Jean’s   lungs   with   air   that   feels   far   too   heavy.   Green   eyes   sweep   over   this   full   grey   landscape   with   diligence,   even   if   there   isn’t   much   to   look   at.   Her   boots   sound   strangely   muffled   in   this   miasma,   which   is   sluggishly   claiming   its   fourth   straight   day.      She   misses   the   sun.   Warmth   that   teasers   just   beyond   the   grasp   of   this   clammy   mist,   which   doesn’t   seem   to   have   the   courage   to   become   rain.   Remembering   the   tear   in   her   poncho,   Jean   is   ruefully   thankful   that   it   hasn’t   started   to   rain,   even   if   the   weirdly   shifting   gloom   plucks   at   her   nerves   like   an   excited   harp   soloist.   

Adjusting   the   strap   across   her   chest   that   keeps   a   well   used   M14   carbine   close,   Jean   bites   the   inside   of   her   cheek   when   the   weapon   jabs   none   too   gently   into   a   still   healing   bruised   rib.   Breathing   shallowly   while   she   grapples   with   the   sudden   radiation   pain,   the   woman   pauses   on   the   shoulder   of   the   abandoned   two-lane   road.   Boots   sinking   into   the   loamy   soil   Jean   very   gingerly   adjusts   the   weapon   again,   easing   a   gloved   hand   against   her   injury.   Murky   snapshots   of   a   crazed   near-feral   face   blur   in   her   mind’s   eye,   the   shark   crack   of   their   pipe   wrench   catching   her   shoulder   first,   then   cracking   into   the   ribs.   Her   side   throbs   in   response   to   the   thought.   The   woman   hadn’t   stopped   walking   since   then.

Finally   ebbing   to   something   manageable,   Jean   lets   out   a   long   breath   that   only   serves   to   make   the   wound   flare   hotly   once   more.   Glancing   through   the   perpetual   twilight   of   the   fog,   she   blinks,   lingering   images   of   a   face   flecked   in   gore   after   being   bashed   in   with   a   wrench   out   of   her   memories.   One   more   to   add   to   a   growing   list   of   waking   nightmares   who   fall   somewhere   in   the   realm   of   self-defense   but   don’t   fall   far   enough   so   she   can   outrun   them.   Made   glaringly   evident   by   the   fact   that   she’s   currently   standing   in   a   soft   berm,   praying   those   ribs   aren’t   broken.   

Something   shifts   in   the   brush   to   Jean’s   right.   A   slow,   ponderous   movement   of   a   heavy   body   moving   over   molding   leaves   and   wet   earth,   made   all   the   more   apparent   by   the   sudden   lack   of   every   other   sound.   Birds,   wind,   even   the   whisper   of   the   mist   seems   to   hold   it’s   breath.   Jean   reaches   for   her   hatchet   first   by   taking   a   step   back   from   the   dead   shrubs   and   creeping   ivy   of   the   forest   edge.   This   pregnant   silence   too   much   to   be   shattered   by   a   gunshot.   From   experience,   that   kind   of   noise   only   brings   on   unwanted   attention.   Smooth   wooden   handle   wrapped   now   in   several   layers   of   peeling   hockey   tape   for   grip,   the   weight   of   the   tool   soothes   only   a   fraction   of   the   unease   which   sits   high   in   the   woman’s   chest.   Seconds   drag—anticipation   mounting   over   its   self   doubling   tripling   before   collapsing   and   building   anew.   

Then   nothing   happens.   No   rotting   corpse   shuffles   free   from   the   tree   line,   teeth   gnashing   eagerly   in   the   expectation   of   its   next   meal.   Silence   from   all   around   sighs   out   in   a   palpable   relief,   sound   bleeding   back   into   the   world   around   her.   Slotting   her   hatchet   back   into   its   leather   loop   affixed   to   the   woman’s   him,   Jean   gives   on   last   precursory   sweep   of   the   unchanged   gray   soup   of   landscape   around   her.   Whatever   shuffled   past   in   the   brush   must   have   thought   better   or   simply   seemed   this   moment   incorrect.   Not   daring   to   give   too   much   thought   in   line   with   the   walkers   now   having   the   where   with   all   to   hunt   their   prey   intelligently,   Jean   shivers   before   moving   on.   

Pulling   with   perturbed   anxiousness   at   the   open   folds   of   her   worn   brown   construction   jacket   Jean   coaxes   a   nearly   broken   zipper   closed   against   the   fog’s   damp   cold.   Progressing   further   up   this   pothole   marred   country   highway,   a   turn   off   meanders   away   from   the   main   road.   Leaning   lamely   to   one   side,   a   dented   and   rust   eaten   mailbox   hands   with   a   broken   jaw.   Its   little   red   flag   is   missing.   What   patchy   glimpses   she   can   see   through   the   shifting   mist   show   Jean   a   winding   driveway   littered   with   every   manner   of   natural   debris.   

And   a   corpse.

Even   from   where   she   stands,   Jean   can   see   jagged   ribs   protruding   from   the   prone   figure,   who   looks   more   like   a   discarded   doll.   Mouth   pressing   into   a   thin   line,   she   proceeds   forward   up   the   driveway.   Hatches   once   again   warming   the   woman’s   grip   just   in   case.   

A   halo   of   long   dried   blood   stains   the   asphalt   black   around   the   badly   broken   body.   Thankfully   mild   autumn   temperatures   have   made   decay   slow,   keeping   what   would   be   a   debilitating   stench   down   to   something   more   like   a   butcher’s   freezer.   This   kill   is   old   regardless.   Buzzards   and   walkers   alike   picking   their   fill   and   leaving   a   gummy   skin   shell   barely   clinking   to   shattered   bones.   Jean   frowns,   setting   what   looks   to   be   the   tattered   remains   of   a   heavily   stained   dress   in   pieces   around   the   body.   

Directing   attention   from   the   body   up   the   drive,   the   blonde’s   frown   deepens   as   that   ever   waning   spark   of   optimism   wriggles   to   the   forefront   of   her   mind.   A   house.   Its   long   L-shaped   wrap   around   porch   peeking   through   the   teeth   of   trees.   Peeling   dove   grey   paint   covers   most   of   the   siding   still,   and   the   roof   looks   intact   from   what   Jean   can   see.   All   of   the   windows   are   unboarded   and   unbroken   but   hold   that   dull   dead-eyed   stare   of   dusty   abandonment.   Jean   spots   a   singular   windchime   swaying   in   the   breeze,   not   strong   enough   to   elicit   a   sound.   Stepping   respectfully   around   the   corpse,   she   continues   toward   the   house   and   into   an   expansive   front   yard.   

A   suitcase   is   discarded   in   a   ditch   beside   the   main   drive   that   opens   up   to   form   a   small   gravel   parking   area.   Dirty   clothing   is   scattered   around   the   open   suitcase   like   entrails.   Children’s   toys   lay   cast   aside   around   the   wide   yard,   their   dirty   disrepair   making   something   within   Jean’s   chest   tighten.   You   don’t’   see   too   many   children   around   anymore.

Approaching   a   set   of   sagging   steps   up   to   the   screen   storm   door,   she   spots   the   first   signs   of   wrongness.   Smeared   across   the   porch   like   a   welcome   mat   is   the   thick,   gummy   remains   of   spilled   blood.   A   lot   of   blood.   Turning   slowly   to   follow   the   meandering   drag   marks,   Jean   notices   it   disappear   around   the   corner   to   the   side   of   the   house.   Hatchet   still   in   hand,   she   follows,   bracing   for   the   worse.   What   the   woman   finds   is   a   pair   of   legs   clad   in   heavily   discolored   denim   and   wearing   one   hiking   boot   propped   up   against   the   side   of   the   house   as   if   it’s   merely   waiting   for   its   torso   to   return   any   moment.   Around   it   is   a   spectacular   splash   of   aged,   dried   gore,   along   with   another   dragging   trail   that   leads   off   into   the   backyard.   Mentally   noting   that   there   is   probably   half   of   a   zombie   crawling   around   the   backyard,   Jean   returns   to   the   front   door.   Determined   to   get   out   of   the   damp   cold   and   rapidly   approaching   night,   the   woman   holsters   the   hatchet.   Pulling   the   storm   door   open   and   wincing   at   screaming   rusted   hinges,   she   throws   a   quick   prayer   out   before   trying   the   handle.

Unlocked.

Swinging   inward   much   quieter   than   the   first   door,   Jean   is   left   squinting   into   a   dark,   gloomy   front   hall.   Dust   dulls   its   wooden   floors   and   numerous   picture   frames   that   line   the   wallpapered   walls.   Shoes   still   sit   near   the   door   waiting   for   long-dead   owners,   and   a   winter   coat   is   thrown   at   the   bottom   of   the   stairs.   There   doesn’t   seem   to   be   any   blood   or   chaos   in   the   front   hall,   which   stretches   to   the   kitchen   and   subsequent   back   door.   One   more   scan   of   the   murky,   quickly   darkening   fog   hemming   in   an   overgrown   forest   and   lawn,   Jean   steps   inside   the   house   and   lets   the   doors   close   behind   her.

[freddy-ryland]

scene i : the sight

Do you understand the things you been seein' Come on, come on, come on Do you understand the things that you've been dreaming 

The world was dulling again, fading into that hazy gray that came with the Sight asserting it’s dominance. The teenager gripped the table, laying her head down onto the cool dark wood, the grain of the table rubbed against her cheek as she let out a tight whine. Her head was splitting itself open again, her nails dug into the lacquer, curls of wood gathering under the edges of her nails. Her back arched forward, pressing her head closer into it, trying to find purchase as the Sight continued to break her skull slowly open. It was a slow lobotomy, every inch she pulled back from the vision she lost until finally-- with a great whimper not dissimilar to a pained kitten the world flashed. 

Freddy had tired for years to explain what the visions felt like, she’d met with Unspeakables from the Ministry, under study from St. Mungos. She’d even endured a long one-on-one tea session with Professor Trelawney, something Headmistress McGonagall had apologized profusely over with gingersnaps and jasmine tea the next day. But no matter how many tests, questions, quizzes, they all shook their heads. Her Sight was different, it had always been powerful, closing in on her head at random. It wasn’t unusual for Freddy to suddenly space out as visions dwarfed the whole world. As far as Freddy, and several specialists could tell, she was having two different kinds of visions; the Flashes and the Seeing.

The Flashes came in, flashes, no sound, just quickly blared images right before her eyes, they never lasted more than 10 seconds, and at this point was a normal part of her life. Freddy would space for 5 seconds, see something and then return back to whatever was happening. Her entire body was shut off, each sense were closed down for the duration; touch, feeling, taste, sight, hearing. Nothing but the vision coming through her eyes like looking through a telescope. It was hardly normal, but for everyone who’d been around Freddy long enough they’d grown used to this.

The Seeing, these were the problem visions. They came in as a whole scene, sight, taste and hearing. Freddy felt as it she was in some warped pensieve. The longer they were, the higher chance she would pass out after. People knew to grab her, her eyes would roll back into her head, the world would shift in place, her nose would even begin to bleed and she would fall.

This was the Seeing, her entire body plunging. Falling, deep, far, down. This time she passed through what felt like dirt, the dust of whatever cave she was in covered her shoulders and danced across her hair.

Oh, this one again.

Freddy could only watch as her hands reached for a rune, tracing it over with the tip of her finger. Her shirt was sweat-soaked, pants covered in dust, several other crusebreakers were hurrying past her, but she remained rooted to the spot. Staring as Freddy sighed, and reached her palm out. The cursebreaker looked over at her, to the spot against the sculpture of quetzalcoatl, and Freddy could only meet her eyes, steady, but not there at all. 

It was an endless loop.

They both knew how this curse would break.

They both knew how it ended.

Freddy blinked back to the world, the clock chiming 3pm. 

Only 48 minutes out this time, it wasn’t too bad. No-one was home still, Micah out on a mission, the parents at the grocery store. She was lucky that they hadn’t come back to her twisted form lying across the table. Not that it would be the first, nor the last. The Hufflepuff stood, shaking in her house slippers, her fingers were bleeding, droplets of blood ingraining itself into the scratches in the wood. Just to match the other divots she had left over the years. Freddy moved towards her bedroom, Micah said they used to live in a two story, until Freddy fainted on the stairs and knocked herself out on the banister when she was around 2 or 3. Hogwarts was a whole different world of danger when it came to her fainting spells. So Freddy tracked through the living room, the muted greys and blues her mother preferred, past her father’s office as usual covered in bills and maps of dragon reserves, and into her own room. Stumbling to her desk she sat down heavily and pulled out her notebook. 

                                                                 Ways I Will Die:

1. Greek curse backfiring in the catacombs 2. Roman curse backfiring at the British museum 3. Black family curse in Gringotts 4. ...

The list continued down and down and down. But they all ended the same-- a cursebreaking accident. They came one after the other. It didn’t matter what Freddy did they all rounded back to the same thing, like a nightmare or maybe a daydream potion without end. It didn’t matter when Freddy tried to escape it her fourth year, switching her track to Healing to follow her brother-- healing someone’s curse just backfired and killed her that way too. 

So really, what was the point anymore?

She was never going to make it past 30 at most, and she knew when it would happen, each scenario changing with location and year, her clothes, but this one was persistent for the last three months. 

Freddy knew when it was going to happen, it wasn’t going to be anytime soon, but how could she explain that to her mother who held her hand when she was roused from a vision. To her father who fretted over the smallest cuts on her palms when a vision got her while cooking. To Micah whose only ever job it was to protect her since her birth. No, it was better to stay selfish, to not tell them she knew when it would come. Freddy was destined to die, they all were, but her time, it wasn’t now. So as she stood up Freddy went to her closest and pulled out the prettiest sundress she could fine, she blotted her lips with a color she knew made her eyes pop, and leaned back out of the window, letting her body nestle into the soft bushes underneath before skirting down the side gate and down the street.

Her parents would think she went to work, or maybe went to see Micah at the Ministry like she hinted this morning before they left to run errands. Micah would think she was safely at home, and as Freddy turned on her heel, the wisps of apparation coming up from the ground, she knew that this night was only going to end well, like every night did, like every day did. Like every trip to the hospital, every medical scare, every moment she bounced down the Hogwarts staircase or coughed up blood in the Infirmary.

It was all going to be okay.

Until it’s not.

[barnesaintdead]

Pandora's Box Chapter One

Summary: Times have changed, great heroes were gone and all that remained was wreckage and lives to start over. After an alleged attack, Bucky is taken back to the past. With nightmares still vivid in his mind, he must choose between succumbing to fear or standing before it.

Warnings: smut, angst, mentions!abuse/rape/torture, +18

Word count: +1,200

Pairing: Bucky Barnes/Mutant!OC

A/N: after Endgame, another Stark Tower was built in honor of Tony and everything he has done for the world. There are lots of details about him all the way in the new Tower. Also, I'm hearing Griss's soundtrack while writing this.

The first thing she noticed when her brain woke up was how cold her body was. The warm sunlight kissed her cheeks gently, seeping under her lashes and making her eyelids flutter open to a blinding white room. Observing her surroundings, she noticed she wasn't alone. A men was sitting next to her bed, a long forgotten book in his hands and low snores coming out of his parted lips. Her entire upper body ache when she tried to sit against the headboard silently. She stayed quiet, watching dust motes travel across the room in the early morning haze. It was a chilly one, for sure. Her last memories started to appear in quick flashes trough her head. She was sleeping peacefully when the first explosion startled everyone in the building, flames already taking over almost everything in the first round. And then a second and a third, and everything was chaos and smoke and her only wish was to crumble down with the building because, fuck, it was happening all over again. The the fourth explosion came, those strong arms that were holding her tight vanished in a split second and everything she knew was the hard ground and the iron taste on her tongue.

"Good morning, sunshine", the man greets, throwing her off of her reveries. He stretched his arms up in the air, joints cracking all the way.

"Why am I here?" She asked under a troubled look. Her eyes darted to the window. From that level, all she could bring up was the Statue of Tony Stark resting above the fountain, his hand aiming at something beyond the horizon. She was in the Stark Tower.

"You know why", Sam answered. "Pandora, am I right? Like in the files?"

The girl nodded once, her slender fingers tugging to the thin fabrid that covered her legs. The moment he called her by her codename, she knew she was doomed and he was already aware of everything she was and everything that was done to her. She wondered he knew a lot more than necessary when he swinged her personal diary in his hand before throwing at her side on the bed.

"I want you to see someone... Do you think you can walk?"

Pandora nods once more and start dragging her feet off the bed's edge, startling herself by the purple marks all along her skin. It wasn't a pretty view. The first steps were difficult, like the ones of a newborn doe, she would have fallen instantly without  Sam's support on her waist. Side by side, they moved slowly towards the room next door.

Once Sam pushed the door open, her entire body tensed as if the blood in her veins had turned into ice. With her knees shaking, she stammered unconsciously:

"Zim... Zimniy s-soldat..." [Winter Soldier].

In his bed, Bucky's head moved to the side and his eyelids fluttered seconds before open slowly. His movements were lethargic by the sedatives.

"Gotov soblyudat..." [Ready to comply]. He flashes a weak smile, his voice nothing more but a growl and he focuse his blue irises on the terrified girl. "Nobody have called me that in a long time".

"Yeah. I call him asshole", Sam scoffed.

Pandora, still petrified, let a diminish laugh scape before forgetting the excruciating pain that was rushing furiously trough her body and let herself collapse against the cold floor. Images of a long lost life before her freedom takes place, filling her mind and projecting painful memories that went straight trough her heart like daggers.‎ Fear hit her hard and suddenly she is out of breath and the floor underneath her seems to disappear. Choking and trying to collect herself hysterically from the ground, she end up falling back onto Sam's grip. He hugged her tight and hid her face against his chest without hesitation, hiding her. Pandora's entire body trembled to the point of chattering teeth, her knuckles already white from tugging his shirt between her fingers.

"It's okay, darling. Nobody's gonna hurt you", Sam assured, whispering with lips touching her hair. "I promise. You can trust me, can't you? I'm here with you, nothing's gonna hurt you".

Sam had seen many post-traumatic stress atacks, more so panic ones. He knew how to deal with it. With her. She was scared and feeling unsafe and probably triggered by whatever Bucky said to her in russian, kidding or not. The first thing he did was lift them both from the ground and place her small crooked figure onto the spare bad next to the wall and covered her with the biggest blanket he could find at the moment. He watched as she started to roll herself up in a messy coccon mode.

"Don't worry, Panda. I'm gonna be here with you. Just breath, darling", Sam is now stroking long caresses across the girl's back. Bucky who had been silent trough the whole situation looked at her fondly, but there was still a hint of pain or guilt in his baby blue eyes. He knew he caused her that crisis. It was his fault. He desired to erase himself from her mind for a moment.

Almost an hour passed until Pandora was stable again. Her muscles were slowly untwining and letting her breathe properly, full deep inhales and long exhales to soothe her aching throat. Sam smiled when she looked at him with teary, but thankful eyes, but he kept his hand in motion caressing her for a while, observing how relaxed she was once she saw that were no danger. Not in him nor in the room or in Bucky's presence. She was now laying with face half buried in the sheets. looking dead into Bucky's figure like she was studying him.

"Feeling better?" Sam finally asks, taking a step back from the bed. Pandora nods and looks at him. "I need to report to Fury and get you both some food. Think you can manage to be alone here with him for a moment?"

"I guess... Yeah."

"I'll be back in a second then. Distract her, Barnes, will ya'?"

Bucky waved at him and whitin a second Sam was out of their sight. The air tensed a bit with the sudden silence, she wasn't much of a talker, neither was him, but they kept the eye contact before Bucky broke the connection to take a look outside the window.

"What happened to you?" Pandora's voice startles him, making him let out a chuckle begore putting his attention back on her. She was more mature, it was visible, there were some new scars, but still the same soft, childish features. Her question was short but complicated. He sighed.

"A lot, after Hydra. They wanted me to murder Steve, but I just couldn't finish. He broke the brainwash and after that I started to remember. When everything crumbled down, I found a place to stay in Bucharest", He lost himself in his thoughts for a moment, looking at his metal fingers. "I started a routine, everything was about remember who I was and be invisible. Then, the enemies came... Zemo, he caused a lot of problems... Thanos and the war. I turned to dust when he snapped his fingers, but Steve and the others brought us back. We fought, we won. I'm very thankful for their help. Shuri, who erased Hydra's poison from my head. I wouldn't be nothing without them, probably dead by now".

"So did you nightmares stopped?"

Bucky remembered his times under Hydra control once again, a specific moment, when he was in a cage. The girl next to him helped him sleep trough his nightmares that day. Pandora helped him even tho she was just as scared.

"Those never go away. They're always there, lurking inside my head", He laughed. "The nightmares never were about the brainwash, but about what I did when I was their puppet".

Pandora's eyes went to the ground. She understood him, her own nightmares almost drove her crazy most nights. She abused sleep pills and alcohol, but not even that made them go away. They would be always there. Her heart sinked into her chest for a second and then she heart his voice calling again.

"What about you?" He now had turned his body a bit to the side, for her to look at his front. The sheet went down a bit, showing his marked skin, so many scars in a tiny piece of him. A cold chill went down her spine.

"I was always running. Everytime something would get out of control, I just ran away to another city, then another state, and another country until I end up in that apartament".

"Get out of control...?" He lifted his eyebrow and she licked her lips.

"The things like those explosions and the fire?" She let out a faint laugh. "I'm used to that happening all time. I bring disgrace to everyone around me and that's why you should let me get out of here as soon as possible. I wouldn't want to ruin your lives."

"You mean you started the fire? You caused the explosions?" He asked.

"No. God, no. I... I didn't do anything is just... It happens around me, like I'm cursed or have this terribly bad luck", she shook her head. "I would never hurt anyone".

Outside the room, Sam and Fury listened carefully to their conversation. They new eachother from another times and leaving them alone was the best idea Sam had to show his boss that the girls wasn't a threat. Fury continued to listen while reading the girl's diary carefully while Sam got out to get the food he promised. When he got back, his boss was watching both of Hydra's best agents talking about their periods of peace and chaos with his hands befind his back.

"You hungry?" Sam asked munching on a big piece of his own cheeseburguer before handing one in the other man's direction.

Fury refused with a hand gesture and handed over her diary. He need to know nothing more, that was more than necessary.

"We're keeping her".

"Excuse me?"

"Project 001: Pandora", Fury repeated slowly, with a mischievous smirk in his face. "We're keeping her."

[andaleduardo]

Talk me to sleep

Read on AO3 Word count: 2005 Pairing: Reddie

Summary:  There's a woman by the window.

He felt her before. Been feeling her for weeks, now. A slight movement as he twists his head in the kitchen. A weird sensation as he sits alone in the living room at night. Locking every window in the house, only to find them unlocked a few hours later.

But now, now she's here. Now he caught her. Perhaps, she caught him.

Or 

Eddie has nightmares. A familiar voice makes it a little easier to deal with.

There's a woman by the window.

He can see her silhouette from the corner of his eye.

Every hair dusting his cold skin lifts up and brushes against his clothes like a cactus. Slowly, carefully, he turns his head. Scared to confirm that she's there even though he already has the answer. He felt her before. Been feeling her for weeks, now. A slight movement as he twists his head in the kitchen. A weird sensation as he sits alone in the living room at night. Locking every window in the house, only to find them unlocked a few hours later.

But now, now she's here. Now he caught her. Perhaps, she caught him.

He finally sees her. Her big, open, frozen eyes lock with his. She's smiling through the other side of the glass. A continuous string of blood pulses crowds his ears so there's nothing else he can hear but his own terror. He's unsafe, trapped.

Please, let that window be locked. I locked it today. I did. I remember.  

She doesn't move. The smile doesn't falter. Her eyes never leave him.

He tries not to blink but the burning sensation becomes unbearable. And just before it happens against his command, he swears her smile twitches. She’s not there when he opens his eyes.

The first thought is: she’s gone. But the second, most likely, one is: now she’s inside the house.

He pushes that horrible image out of his head with an audible gulp and walks towards the window on uneasy steps. What if she jumps onto the glass while he’s close to it? What if her face doesn’t look normal anymore?

He locks it, again, just before he hears something coming from the next room so, naturally, he runs over there in hopes he can lock everything in time. But when he bursts through the bedroom door, the room is freezing. The curtains are moving with the air coming in through the open glass.

She’s there. One leg over the windowsill, the same smile on her lips and the same big, wide eyes staring back at him.

With an unlikely bravery, he storms over to her and that seems to be enough to scare the woman away. She looks startled for a moment, jumps away from the house, and disappears like before.

He takes a minute to catch his breath and try to make sense of the situation. But he isn’t fooled. Without wasting a second, he closes that same window. He wants to check every part of the house again, but something tells him to go back in the other room, first.

That’s what he does, determined to keep this person away from his home. His steps echo through the walls but the sound is still being muffled under his heartbeat. As he rounds the corner of the doorway, he barely has time to acknowledge the window is, once more, wide open.

They lock eyes.

She’s smiling.

She’s hiding under the dining table.

 Eddie opens his eyes with an unnerving calmness, as if he didn’t just have another horrible nightmare. He stares at the darkness of his bedroom, body now on full alert. There’s sweat sticking his clothes to his skin, and the back of his neck is equally attached to the sheet as he lays there on his belly. His breathing is awfully jagged, awfully painful and awfully strained. He finds the faint shape of his inhaler resting on the bedside table. He wants it, he needs it.

But he can’t move.

These nightmares, they’ve always been here. Always this bad, always disturbing and freaky. He’s fine with them. Well, not fine fine. He’s used to them. Ever since he can remember he’s had these kind of dreams. One of the oldest ones he remembers was about the end of the world. He’s had different versions of that one. Sometimes, he sees buildings crashing while he stands on top of one. In that dream, he does nothing but watch. It starts far away, when he sees the first building falling. Then there they go, one by one. The destruction approaches, wastes his whole night as he waits to feel the ground under his feet finally break.

Eventually, there’s no other building standing besides the one he’s on top of. He stares up ahead and waits. He knows he’s going to die. And as soon as he feels his leg going through the roof surface, he wakes up calmly. Always calmly and slowly.

But then the true horror begins. When he wakes up after a nightmare, there’s no chance he can go back to sleep. The first challenge to fight is his breathing. It hurts his tense ribcage until he can get it under control. Then he has to decide whether it’s scarier to keep his eyes open or closed. It really depends on the dream. When he dreams about the world ending, he likes to keep them closed. Or when he dreams he got shot, which is a very common dream for him. But tonight, tonight is a very bad night. His eyes hurt, it feels like he’s about to rip his eyelids apart with how much he’s straining them. He can feel her here, she’s here, with him. There’s a vague image wavering in his imagination that she is laying down on his carpet.

That’s the third issue, the one that keeps him awake for the rest of the night. He can’t leave the nightmare. It carries on to real life, it sticks on his brain and he feeds into it, he allows it to keep going. He’s the one in charge now, so he imagines all the scenarios possible along the lines of the dream.

He imagines the woman peering over the end of the bed, watching him laying down, smiling. All he has to do is lift his head and peer down at his feet, she’ll be there.

But then comes the fourth problem. He really can’t move. He never tried and he refuses to. He bashes in his terror, adrenaline, sweat and thirstiness. And he stays like that until the sun lights up the room and he can hear his mom getting up. Only when she goes to his bedroom to check on him does he master the courage to ball his hands into fists, bend a knee, and finally, finally get those awfully hot bed covers away from his body.

He doesn’t have them all that often, maybe once a month but not precisely. It’s not that hard to let the dreams go once he goes about his day, although he craves company at least on the same day as it happens. He even stays with his mom downstairs watching television until she goes up to her bedroom, following right behind.

Tonight, it’s particularly bad. The woman’s face doesn’t leave his thoughts. She looked like a regular person, except for the extremely open eyes and that unmoving smile, but she could be anyone’s neighbour or even a sweet family member. Eddie shivers, looks at his inhaler and tries to convince his brain that he needs to cover up his head with the heavy blanket on his bed. The only movement of his body are shivers and choked up breaths. Unaware that he wants to cry, Eddie gives in to his vivid imagination that convinces him that one of woman’s legs is right under his bed.

For Eddie, this is the reality: he’s in his bed, it’s probably around 2 a.m. and he isn’t alone. There’s a stranger laying down on his carpet, smiling at the ceiling.

“What’s going on?”

The words don’t from his mouth. That’s the trigger that makes him burst out crying, sure that this is it. This is the end. She’s going to murder him in his own bed and he can’t move a single muscle to protect himself.

Then there’s a pair of hands settling on Eddie’s shoulders, a touch so soft that would confuse the hell out of him if he could pay attention to it. Instead, his throat squeezes and he lets out sobs and panicked whimpers, for he can’t form words. It’s really hard to tell if he’s still dreaming or not, because it feels just like those where you can’t run when you most need to.

“Hey, it’s just me.” It’s merely a whisper, and the hands he felt before are now working together to turn Eddie’s body around. He wants to squeeze his eyes, drown in the darkness. But then he’s lying on his back, finally feeling some cold air brushing his chest, and he sees Richie.

“Hi, buddy.” Richie smiles. Eddie’s gotten used to the dark bedroom by now, so he sees him clearly with the poor light coming in from the window. “You had another nightmare?”

This is when things start clearing up a bit. Sometimes Richie sleeps over at his house. So far, he witnessed one of these episodes, and he had to figure out what to do all alone because Eddie wasn’t exactly able to cooperate. That night was different, Eddie managed to fall back asleep because the dark reality was completely shattered once Richie appeared in it.

Eddie’s eyes swim around Richie’s face, trying to grasp it. He watches him reaching over to the side table and grab the inhaler, pressing it against Eddie’s mouth gently. The sound of it fills up the bedroom as Eddie’s cries die down.

After putting the inhaler back, Richie swipes a thumb under Eddie’s eyes and takes a minute to ponder his options.

“You’re really warm and sweaty, spaghetti.”

Eddie stares at him. It makes him uneasy just to think about Richie pushing the covers to the end of the bed like he did last time. It had taken another hit from the inhaler to get him to calm down, and eventually Richie gave up and buried both of them under the covers. Blankets have that power to them, as if they could save you from anything evil. Eddie still has the woman’s face glued to the back of his mind. As much as he tries to concentrate on Richie, he can only wander a few steps away from the source of his fear. If he doesn’t focus hard enough, he knows he’ll get stuck with her very easily for the rest of the night.

Eventually, Richie sighs and gives in, moving Eddie’s body again so they’re both on his sides. He intertwines their legs, slides one arm under Eddie’s head and uses the other to pull the covers all the way up, leaving just a small crease around their faces so that they can breathe easily.

And then, Richie talks. In soft whispers, enough to keep Eddie’s thoughts away from bad things. About mundane things, funny things, basic things. What he had for dinner, what his plans for the weekend are, whatever new joke he’s working on. And even though Eddie can’t answer, he listens carefully while looking into Richie’s face. Richie watches him back with a nervous blush that can’t be seen in the night, but he keeps on talking and allows Eddie to do whatever it is that he needs to do when he gets in this mind-space. Eddie’s just, studying him or something. But it seems to work so Richie doesn’t care.

After all, Eddie will relax and fall back asleep soon, and then it’ll be Richie studying him, instead. His features, eyes, nose, lips, damp hair glued to his forehead and so on, always unaware that he is doing it, at first. And then fully aware of the guilt settling in his stomach.

It’s a deceiving word. Richie’s nightmares were born under the sun light by the quarry and have been following him ever since then. During the day, painting his nights, keeping him company hour after hour.

He hugs Eddie’s body closer so that he can’t stare at his face any longer. Or at least that’s what he has to tell himself to be able to sleep.

perma taglist:  @constantreaderfool   @mrs-vh  @eds-trashmouth @girasol-eddie  @reddieforlove @madi-personal  @cheekaspbrak  @fuck-the-sushi

[sebastbu]

My Top 40 Movies of the Decade

***just my opinion***this list is not set in stone either***

1. 12 Years A Slave (2013)

What Steve McQueen has managed to do with this movie in nothing short of the best thing art is capable of. He takes the horror of humanity and turns it into a heart shattering tale of the best of humanity. A film that could have sunk easily among the brutality it contains, instead soars with Solomon’s survival. It is one of the most life-affirming, uplifting works of art I’ve ever seen. It makes you cry, it makes you shout, it makes you cheer, it makes you breathless. In short, all the things movies are best at. Not just a definitive movie, but a definitive work of art.

2. The Act of Killing (2012)

This has my vote for the best documentary film of all time. What begins as a transfixing profile of the mass murders responsible for the 1965 Indonesian genocide quickly transforms into a Brechtian nightmare as director Joshua Oppenheimer somehow convinces these men to stage scenes for a fake movie reenacting their crimes. As the film progresses you can hardly believe what you’re witnessing. Horrifying, yet you can’t look away. Oppenheimer holds your attention for every second. What’s captured for film here is truly unique, ground-breaking, soul shaking. A statement about the banality of evil as profound as Ardent’s essays. 

3. The Tree of Life (2011)

Malick has reached his final form here. An organic art form, pure cinema, visual poetry, whatever you want to call it. Nothing but a movie could be this. The images he crafts here are as close to a religious experience as I’ve ever had watching a movie, and probably ever will. In exploring childhood memories, Malick’s style perfectly matches his subject manner. He use of ellipsis and fluidity mirrors the way memories flash through our heads. It is as if we are witnessing memory directly, unfiltered. This movie will move you in ways you didn’t know a movie could. 

4. The Social Network (2010)

That Facebook movie? Hell yeah that facebook movie. What Fincher and Sorkin have managed to do is take what could be a standard biopic, or dull tech movie, and made it into an epic tale of betrayal, greed, friendship, coming of age, and identity. Ross and Reznor’s score pulses, as does the dialogue. This movie starts the instant you press play and it doesn’t let you catch your breath for one second until the very end. Endlessly quotable, perfected acted. A masterclass.

5. The Grand Budapest Hotel (2014)

What can I say about this movie? Every shot is perfect. Every joke, beat, pan, zoom. Well, I guess I’ll say this. This movie disarms with its charm, its facade. But at its heart is a wrenching tale of loss, nostalgia, and the fleeting nature of everything, especially those we love. A jewel of a film. Anderson makes sure you’re cozy and then pulls the rug out from under you, and suddenly you’re crying. 

6. The Master (2012)

Career best performances from Joaquin Phoenix and Phillip Seymour Hoffman. Lushly shot. Greenwood delivers another ground breaking score. PTA has made an aimless film about aimless characters that nevertheless is riveting. At the end, you may not know exactly how far you’ve progressed, but you’re sure glad you went on the journey. 

7. Drive (2011)

This is not an action movie. It’s a love story. The now famous dream pop soundtrack. Ryan Gosling doing so much with so little. Refn’s breathtaking cinematography. Diluted dreams. Crushed hopes. Silent gazes, filled with more emotion than dialogue could ever render.

8. The Revenant (2015)

An achievement of pure cinematic insanity. I still have no idea how they got some of these shots. A brutal, thrilling story of survival among nature’s cruelty. Inarritu’s camera is like magic in this film, uncovering the previously thought not possible. 

9. La La Land (2016)

A reinvention of a genre that somehow manages to have its cake and eat it too: a nostalgia trip that also subverts expectations. Right up there next to Singin’ in the Rain, in my book at least. How on earth was that only Chazelle’s second ever movie? 

10. The Lighthouse (2019)

TELL ME YE FOND O ME LOBSTER! WHYD YA SPILL YOUR BEANS? IF I HAD A STEAK ID FUCK IT. That about sums it up.

11. Parasite (2019)

Bong Joon Ho has made a beautifully twisted psychological thriller that is also hilarious, touching, and a lasting commentary on class and social mobility. 

12. The Florida Project (2017)

Baker’s approach of setting this story from the viewpoint of children makes it a glorious romp through a world of innocence as well as tragedy, and also makes it all the more emotionally impactful.

13. Inside Llewyn Davis (2013)

It’s all about the cat. Alongside the Coen’s mastery of dialogue and the side character, as well as the beautiful folk music, this film acts as a deeply moving portrayal of depression, and how sometimes we are our own worst enemy. 

14. Moonlight (2016)

Expertly crafted. Expertly acted. Expertly shot. A gorgeously rendered coming of age story. I’m not really the person who should speak of its importance. I’ll just say: it is. Very. A movie that will stun you. 

15. Mad Max: Fury Road (2015)

Practical! Effects! Yeah, that really is Tom Hardy swinging fifty feet off the ground on a pole as explosions go off behind him. A feminist, post-apocalypse, road trip movie brought to you by the director of Happy Feet and Babe 2. What more could you want?

16. Moonrise Kingdom (2012)

A wonderful celebration of childhood and of fantasy. Anderson crafts a world you want to return to again and again. Anyone else get jump scared when they realized Lucas Hedges was in this??? 

17. Arrival (2016)

I love Denis Villeneuve’s films for so many reasons. The most important I think is that he balances entertainment and artistic depth so well. Like all great scifi Arrival is not really about aliens, it’s about us. 

18. Inception (2010)

A film that runs on all cyclinders. Smart, funny, jaw dropping, just plain fun. Nolan manages to build some surprisingly moving moments as well. 

19. Gone Girl (2014)

Ah Fincher and his twists. Rosemund Pike at the top of her game. Ross and Reznor return with another gripping score. Around the narrative, Fincher creates a fascinating portrayal of the media and marriage, one with endless twists and turns. You never quite know where it’s headed.

20. Sicario (2015)

A second thing I love about Dennis Villeneuve: he does point of view characters better than anyone else. 

21. Enemy (2014)

A third thing I love about Dennis Villeneuve: he plays with genre and narrative structure unlike anyone else working right now.

22. Incendies (2010)

A fourth thing I love about Denis Villeneuve: he’s given us some of the best female lead characters this decade.

23. Blade Runner 2049 (2017)

A fifth thing I love about Denis Villeneuve: he somehow managed make a Blade Runner sequel work. Here’s hoping for Dune. 

24. The Look of Silence (2014)

The companion film of The Act of Killing. Oppenheimer does it again, this time focusing more on the victims of the genocide. Groundbreaking cinema.

25. Shame (2011)

Slow clap for Michael Fassbender. Slow clap for Carey Mulligan. Slow clap for Steven Mcqueen.

26. Hereditary (2018)

Using horror to examine mental illness and family trauma. Aster has made a new classic of genre, taking it to new heights.

27. Under The Skin (2014)

How to make a movie about an alien descended onto earth in order to capture men and engulf them in her weird black room of goo? Make a very alienation movie. Chilling. Otherworldly. Haunting. 

28. Son of Saul (2015)

In making any holocaust film there’s always the risk of feeling exploitative. Nemes’s radical camera work, focusing almost entirely on the main character’s face in close up leaves this concern in the dust. The horrors enter only at the corners of the frame, while humanity is firmly centered the whole time. An important film everyone should see. 

29. Whiplash (2014)

As visceral and heart pounding as the solos performed, the film as a whole is a perfectly made portrait of a obsession. 

30. Amour (2012)

Haneke takes his unforgiving approach and lays bare a topic with incredible emotional depth. The result is deeply moving without ever being sentimental. I’m hard pressed to find another film about old age that is this poignant. 

31. Birdman (2014)

A whirlwind of a film. A high wire act. The long takes turn it into something more akin to a play. A pretty damn good one at that. 

32. Once Upon A Time In Anatolia (2011)

What’s Chekhov doing in the 21st Century? He’s in Turkey. He name is Nuri Ceylan. 

33. The Favourite (2018)

Lanthimos turns down his style and turns up his humor. The result is the best of both worlds: a dark, twisted tale of power and a hilarious parody of monarchy and British costume drama. 

34. Phantom Thread (2018)

PTA delivers again. What could easily have been another tired tale of the obsessive artist and the woman behind him is instead a fairy tale-ish ensnaring of two people’s ineffable pull towards each other. 

35. A Hidden Life (2019)

Still fresh in my mind. Malick’s late style is given the backbone it needed in the form of a relevant tale of resistance and struggle. A meditative, prayer-like film about the power of belief. 

36. Prisoners (2013)

A sixth thing I love about Denis Villeneuve: his movies have layers, but only if you look. Otherwise, the ride is pretty great as well. 

37. Manchester By The Sea (2016)

A masterclass in doing less with more. 

38. Foxcatcher (2014)

Bennett Miller does biopics unlike anyone else. That is to say, maybe better than anyone else working today. 

39. The Witch (2015)

Eggers’s first foray into historical New England horror. A chilling commentary on the evils of puritanism.

40. The Kid With A Bike (2011)

The Dardenne brothers managed to make a gut-wrenching tale of childhood, masculinity, abandonment, the power of empathy, belonging, and redemption in 84 minutes. Here’s a suggestion. Watch this movie. Then watch it again. A better use of the same amount of time it takes to sit through The Irishman. Oh wait, no you still have 30 minutes left over. 

[violencebred]

TRIGGER WARNINGS FOR DEATH, MURDER AND VIOLENCE MENTIONS

    ❛ can you tell us when the curse first manifested ?❜

                 NIGHT ONE.  ALBANY, NY. CA 24:15. NUMBER OF CASUALTIES: THREE. 

like the lore on which children are weaned, ella would like to share an account coated with inveiglement. a tale about the heavens cracking open, unleashing a thunderstorm like no other. and then, she’d say, the sky wept. it rained for days and days; alleyways flooded, and the sky remained overcast, as if still scarred, a week after. if it were up to her to paint it, she’d embed it with a weight akin to that of prophets retelling a fraction of the book of revelations. 

but in reality, the delivery of her curse was nowhere near as glamorous. like most cursed, a long-winded, ponderous contract was a luxury not offered to her. the dealing was quick, done with as quickly as one’s click of the fingers. an unprofaned existence quickly turned blighted. 

it rained that night, though it was one of those unenergetic, wavering rains that do little besides ever so annoy the careless new yorker. had she made up her mind, begged to be granted some alternative penance and returned home an ashamed, failed runaway, she wouldn’t have noticed a difference. 

she’d reached albany at 04:00. by 04:35, news12 had already broadcasted the gruesome note. a commercial-looking news anchor stood outside one of her family’s houses. the building in the chelsea neighborhood stood there, housing but darkness inside. the home always looked different at night, but now, with the lights all off causing the walls to look uncharacteristically dull, it was a sight sure to send shivers down her spine. the barricade tape made it worse. 

much like the order of their births, bellissa was first, then carina, and then gian. bellisa had just been admitted to medical school. she remembered everyone’s names and birthdates. corny jokes with lame punchlines made her laugh the hardest. carina looked like her mother the most out of them. though she was too modest to admit it, she was a child prodigy. their aunts never missed a chance to say she had the ‘makings of greatness in her’. she crafted beautiful things, like paintings and musical compositions, to give to others as birthday presents. gian was always quiet, never really liking to be called the ‘baby’ of the family. everyone still dotted on him still. during spring, he’d fill the house with wildflowers collected from the backyard. ella refused to look at the coroner’s report, which was leaked and remained accessible for the more meddlesome media outlets to peruse. then any trace of it vanished overnight, likely a doing of her father’s hand. if she ever slept, she’d dream of the three of them, drifting toward a sea of darkness and numbness and nothing. it’s a more reassuring imagery than all the other scenarios, all the images of them shrieking and turning around in the ground.

❛ as far as our reports state, the effects are not restricted to blood relatives - can you confirm this ?❜

                  NIGHT TWO.  BOSTON, MA. CA 23:02. NUMBER OF CASUALTIES: TWO.

ella remembers the first hostel the least. it’s always cold, despite how crowded it is, and lonely. she says a mere ten words throughout her first three months there. the couple in the mattress next to hers leaves one morning, and from sacramento comes another one.

           is ella short for anything?

                               short for isabella. 

           sweet. i’m jill. this is red.

                             red? is that your real name?

               it is now. 

and so it is. they’re young californians who’d come to new york pursuing a more bohemian lifestyle than california had had to offer. they’d landed themselves at different temporary homes after getting evicted from their flat, and now they’re stuck in the big apple. they’re generous, welcoming her as if they were lifelong friends. they don’t ask about her family, and she’s thankful. they teach her how to tie-dye and cut her own hair, then they let out a collective laugh when the first cut ends up looking dreadful. 

but the fourth month rolls around. one morning, she catches a glimpse of a familiar face in her periphery. a glance at the somber-looking suited man is enough to spark the familiarity. she feels a breath down her neck as she packs, writes a note addressed to jill and red promising to write and ending with an apology. 

their demises don’t create large ripples, but are instead restricted only to their two obituaries at the back of a local newspaper. it’s not until afterward that their deaths come into view as parts of the larger puzzle. 

                 NIGHT THREE. CONCORD, MA. CA 14:26. NUMBER OF CASUALTIES: ONE.

ella wasn’t expecting much when she knocked on a random door upon her arrival. she’d ditched all the cards and other means that could serve as trackers, but had now almost burned through the cash. concord was nice, and it felt like an escape from the bigger cities. it was quiet, though that wasn’t inherently good. a middle-aged woman answers the door, furrowing at ella like the strange visitor she is. as she rambles, beads of sweat scattered over her forehead and eyes aiming not to cry even a little bit, she feels like a horrible burden. she was always taught not to ask for favors she couldn’t repay, and yet there she stands. 

but the woman nods, her laughter lines deepening as she steps aside to let the brunette in. as ella explains she will get herself a job at the local gas station and offers to carry out chores and other labor in exchange for a place to stay, the scent of cinnamon floods the new england home. there’s a perfect-looking pastry handed to her, then a handshake. 

mrs. herrera reminds her of her mother. maybe the two would’ve been great friends. though ella can tell she feels as lonely as herself. still, she is kind - surprising, to say the least, in the face of such odd circumstances. 

but her stay is short-lived, this time prompted by a quick phone call. it is not menacing, just straightforward and hurried. her father even chimes in from the back, though it’s one of his colleagues who directs the call for the most part. she pleads for them to stop, for them to leave her alone for good - the call ends the way they wanted it to. ‘we’ll send someone to get you in the morning’, and then it’s hung up.

the tears in her eyes prevent her from seeing the names written on the billboards through the window of the bus. the ghost of a motherly hug still lingers, the prospect of the quaint life that could’ve been hers loading every sob with bitterness. 

when miranda herrera’s gruesome death is attributed to a manic episode caused by early onset dementia, things click right as they begin falling apart. the puzzling case of the two deceased hitchhikers seems to come up in connection to miranda’s case. a cover-up emerges, referencing the opioid crisis and the devastating effects it allegedly had on the three decedents. 

but those who know which signs to look out for know better. the cases are deliberately closed and left to gather dust, a bypass of the law enforcement’s own confusion and inability to close them with a coherent narrative. though rumors filter and spread, the eerie details of the couple and the woman who figuratively tore themselves apart earning them the same character as campfire stories. rarely are they told as cautionary tales, and even more rare is it for the consistent red thread binding them and the three previous fatalities together. 

❛ do you have any way of knowing when the accidents are going to happen ?❜

                NIGHT ONE AT THE DATABASE. LOCATION UNKNOWN. TIME UNKNOWN. NUMBER OF CASUALTIES: ZERO.

is that what they’re calling them - accidents? she lets out a dry laugh. the way her head shakes in response is as insolent as she’ll allow herself to be. there’s still a nagging voice in her ear telling her not to dare misbehave or else… but she is angry, or so she thinks as her temples throb. she feels heavy with the weight of so much pointless, unnecessary death. at night, the dead come to her in her dreams. they open their mouth to say something, but all that comes out are blood curdling screams. it’s then that she’ll wake up, her own throat hoarse and thus disclosing that it’d been her own screams that had seeped into her subconscious. 

she finally blurts out the answer they want. no, i don’t. 

❛ did you ever try reconnecting with people you’ve previously met, maybe thinking that it’d- ?❜

ella doesn’t care for the rest of the question. she never had the chance. it all happened overnight, mere hours after she’d departed from a place and headed to another. gods have little use for indecisiveness, for vacillating. the most time she’d get was one night, but none of the people whom she’d left behind had not made it for that long. 

               NIGHT TEN AT THE DATABASE. NO CHANGE.

she thinks about it for a while, namely when the silence in her room becomes too overwhelming. while there are others around her being probed and observed, those assigned to her case might have little use for tests. it doesn’t grant her any peace of mind, but it provides the foundations of an answer nonetheless.

there is a nightmare that comes back to haunt her along with the old ones. it’s cold, and the air smells of gunpowder and chemicals. she hasn’t been in this place in an eternity, though not by choice. charred and destroyed into smithereens, she knows this place to be the ghost of the database. in the dream, she looks for a familiar face - someone like thad, or january. but then her heart will turn heavy and full of grief, and in this same dream she will know they are gone, extinguished by her own selfish hand. 

when she wakes up, the bright white lights threaten to burn her retina. the lack of answers and repetitive outline of the place do everything but lift her spirits. but despite all of this, there is some assurance in the decision she has made. 

even if it demanded for the database walls to be tore down over her, ella’s curse would end in this place. if her own curse couldn’t be removed, then she’d stay there, watching all the others be pardoned and rid of their curses even if her own weathered her down to the bone. she’d wave thirteen goodbyes and force herself to nurture some sense of peace and belonging here, making the database grounds her home to ensure she wouldn’t have to go anywhere else ever again. she’d turn herself into the one left behind this time around, even if she died the desolate and miserable way the gods intended her to.

she would like to tell this epiphany the same way people speak of the works of prophets. she hadn’t been born the kind of person people wrote stories about, so if she had the chance to, ella would like to at least go out with a final good one. but just as with the beginning, the end was not deserving of any sugar-coating, of any misleading descriptions. it was straightforward and simple, as if intending to make up for the painstaking and sufferable net she had woven. no skies cracking open, no long-winded lore. just an end.

[writer-and-artist27]

The End of Takatou Iori

Note: As a thank you thingie for @chiefladylightyay. The one way I can see Takatou Iori surviving after Judai’s Electric Boogaloo of sorts. If her beginning lines of dialogue to Judai were any indication, she deserves better. Just like how The Princess Bride gave the main cast a happy ending. 

So here we go. I hope you like this. I’m not sure how the fight would go, but here’s my take on the end.

The theme is split between two things: (1) Comeback Move, and (2) Determination, both from the original Japanese version of the Yu-Gi-Oh GX soundtrack. 

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Judai took a breath. The tanto’s grip in his hands was unfamiliar — far too smooth of a grip to really be like his old blade from the war. But Iori was still in front of him, looking very tempted to clash. His lungs were burning, she was huffing, but the battle was still on. The door was behind him, so if he made it through—

Wait for me, Hikari, he thought. I’ll come home soon.

Iori, as expected, charged first, wavy brown hair messy from blood. 

“HAAAAAA—!” her battle cry rang loud in Judai’s ears and he ducked her newest kunai strike to instead grab her wrist with one hand. Of course. She wanted revenge for her father. But the attacks were far too dull. Far too dead. Far too predictable.

It was like she wasn’t even trying and instead was wishing for death. 

He felt her pulse in that moment and paused. 

Just like me, before Hikari.

With the grab, she yelped and he simply pulled. With only one-fourth of his strength, he flipped her over his head and onto her back as hard as he could, making sure to slash her arms for good measure with his tanto hand. Of course, he avoided the wrists because there was no point spilling blood needlessly. Still. The scream that echoed afterwards would surely be haunting his nightmares. Iori squirmed, trying to move, but her arms were incapacitated. Judai had to make sure of that with the slashes from earlier. 

Now, for the key—

“You fool. How dare you—” Iori was still moving her legs. Judai narrowed his eyes, feeling the familiar flow of chakra go up to his vision with the gesture. She was trying to stand. “I-I’m not done—”

“Done, my ass. You should’ve killed me when you captured me,” he shoots back, and immediately crouches down to kick her feet out from under her. Iori squawks and this time, Judai reverses the grip on the tanto in his hands as fast as he can to slash. “By not doing that and instead giving me a weapon, you left me a turn to win.”

As expected, blood spurts out of her calves as Iori falls yet again, the scream on her lips as she does so.  

Judai puffs a breath while bringing his blade back and Iori is left lying on the tile floor of the dark and cramped room. The air smelled of iron and sweat, and it felt far too familiar. Far too ominous. For once, he’d take going to a hospital room than this place ever again. He wanted to go home. He wanted to see Hikari.

His nerves wouldn’t let him have it. Iori was still breathing. Even after falling and having both her arms and legs rendered useless for any further combat, she was still breathing. 

Should he kill her?

He approached her anyways, shaking the thought out in exchange for thinking on the key. Thinking on going home. 

The bitter laugh that echoed in the room startled him, as minute as the feeling was in that moment.

“I see now…” What exactly? “I… never really wanted revenge.” 

Judai blinked blearily. Iori was smiling. It was a sad smile. 

Why was this reminding him of—

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“Judai, you should rest. You’re killing yourself.”

“…What if I want to kill myself?”

Lips were slamming into his and blue eyes were teary and burning into his once they pulled away. “Then I’m not going to let you! Because I want you to live!”

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Oh.

“I merely wished… to see… my parents. One last time.” Iori laughed, and this time the sound was punctuated by a wet cough. The bleeding must’ve come up to her lungs now. “I wonder, Hero, if you feel any remorse for killing my father?” There was another wet cough. Iori was still smiling, even with blood starting to pool under her limbs. “But I guess… It doesn’t really matter… anymore…”

Judai took one step towards her and then she grabbed his tanto-holding hand. He felt himself grunt as he was pulled downwards, and quickly found himself freezing as soon as his vision caught up with what happened.

Iori was pointing the tip of the blade towards her heart with that same smile on her face. 

“Okay, Hero… Set me free…” The smile transformed into something more genuine. “Please.”

Judai frowned. He could feel his chakra pulsate through his eyes, and he blinked them before taking a breath. It did not take much force to wrench her grip away, and her dead purple eyes blinked at him blearily. “No,” he said flatly. “After all the shit you pulled on me, no.”

“No…? Why…?” Iori laughs again, blood staining her clothes. “Is it because you’re finally feeling something like remorse? You’re finally feeling something in that iron-heart of yours?”

Judai takes a breath to calm any irritation, instead biting out, “Yes. My wife is good at that.”

Iori stops.

Judai immediately drops the tanto in his hands and tears off a bit of his pants, pressing the cloth into the nearest sword wound.

“What — what are you doing?” 

“You’re a missing nin,” Judai says casually, “and normally the village wouldn’t let you leave this place alive. But I’m not a ninja anymore.” He ties the knot without hesitation before taking a bit of his dirty shirt in his teeth to tear at it too. “So there’s nothing against a civilian taking in a former ninja to start anew. And besides.” He does his best to dust off any dirt on the cloth before starting the next informal bandage. “My wife would kill me if I came back with more blood on me.”

For the first time, Iori is giving him eyes that look alive. “You… You can’t be serious. I tried to kill you.”

Judai throws his head back and laughs. “It’s another Tuesday for me, Takatou, retired or not. And besides. Once I become a dad, I can’t handle the bar in the cafe forever.” His gaze hardens as soon as she lifts her head to look at him. “And I can’t let you leave this place with all the information you piled up on me anyways.”

“So…” Iori coughs again, “You’re suggesting I-I give up everything I have and just come back with you?”

“Hey.” Judai shrugs, giving her a dirty look. “A precious person of mine told me that they wanted me to live. And right now, I want you to live. It’s the least your parents would’ve wanted.”

“How dare you say that when you—”

“I never had anyone like parents to begin with, so at least cherish their memories when I can’t.”  

Iori falls silent. 

“I know I killed your father. I don’t know when, I can’t remember how, but things are different now. That same person of mine showed me how life is worth the pain and suffering. And I’d be damned to let someone else be fucking suicidal after my bout.” Iori is staring at him with a hint of light in those purple eyes now and Judai rolls his while offering a hand to her. “So let me bandage you up or so help me, because I can’t stand seeing other people be self-pitying.”

Iori stares. “I’ll… I’ll have to change my name. And my appearance, and everything.”

Judai shrugs his shoulders but pulls her up to sit anyways, still offering his other hand to her. “Konoha’s one of the nicest villages there is. We could just put you under a new name, play you off as searching for refuge. And quit looking so dead. Take the time to be yourself and stop chasing ghosts.”

The image of blue hair flashed through his mind’s eye and Judai paused. Iori continued to stare.

Judai puffed a breath and shook his head, absently kicking the tanto away from his feet. “Look, I’ve had enough of old demons. And I took on Hoshino as a name. Why can’t you do the same in finding one for your own? To let go.”

Iori fell silent again. Then she ducked her head. “…I always liked Mikazuki.” 

There was no mistaking the bloody hand slowly placing itself into Judai’s right palm. 

“New Moon?” Judai smirked and shook on it. “That’s fitting. Now give me the key. We need to go. Don’t be surprised if my wife yells at you.”

It was as if someone had pressed the pause button. “Your… wife?”

“She’s a beast in her own right.”

There were no more words exchanged after that.

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A few years later… 

“Mika-san! Mika-san!”

“Tomoko-chan, slow down! You’re going to hit something!”

The little black-haired girl grinned and shook her head. “I’ll be fine, Mika-san! You’re here with me!”

The former Takatou Iori sighed and shook her head, brushing short gray hair out of her face. It took a while to get gray hair dye, but no one was the wiser to her old Suna origins when she bought the hair color. Konoha’s sun let her lose some of her tan and for once, gray hair and purple eyes made her feel like a new person.

And for this little girl… 

“Mika-san, Mika-san! Hurry up! The library’s going to close in an hour!”

Iori wondered what her parents would think. What her father would think, with her being an auntie to the child of the person who killed him. But it was in the past. It was a what-if. 

It was time to face the future. A future she was blessed to have, in some way after defecting. After all, she could no longer call herself Iori when Sachi Mikazuki rolled off the tongue better. 

“Mika-saaaaaan!”

“I’m coming, Tomoko-chan, I’m coming.”

For this little girl, with a smile that shined like the stars that brought her to her new home, Mikazuki followed with newfound light in her eyes. 

[citadelofmythoughts]

Nevermore Pt 3.

Ok, this is the final part. I decided against a fourth part because I really couldn’t do the moments in episode 13 justice. They really spoke for themselves. Also, I want to thank everyone who has commented, liked and reblogged this. It really does mean a lot to me.

Part 1 Part 2

Then I hear his sneering voice. “You knew you couldn’t win two on one at Haven, what makes you so sure you can win now?”

“I don’t have a choice. I have people who actually care about me.”

You have no idea how much.

“And I promised I’d never leave them again.”

Whatever gods exist. Please let us get through this. Please.

Almost as in answer I feel Blake’s grip tighten.

“So I’m not dying now.”

I’m so proud of her and despite myself I smile.

“Y’know she made a promise to me once. That she’d always be at my side. Ha, and you can see how well she’s kept it.”

Stay calm, Yang. Until it’s time not to.

“Did she make that promise to you, or to the person you were pretending to be?”

“So, I just wasn’t good enough for you?”

Blake shook her head in frustration and anger. “You know it’s so much more than that.”

Yeah, like mental and physical torture, murder and terrorism. He’s honestly worse than the grimm, at least they’re just slaves to their nature. He’s chosen to be like this.

“I know you’ve made your choice and I’ve made mine.”

I swallow my fear. I..we’ve got to do this. We’ll never be free of this waking nightmare if we don’t.

Blake and I reluctantly separate. We’re now literally in a fight for our lives.

As much as I despise him, he’s a damn good fighter and between the two of us we’re just holding our own. Then I see Blake backflip over to grab part of Gambol Shroud and hurl it at Adam who knocks it back in her direction. I rush to grab it and swing her around using the ribbon in a variation of our old maneuver. He blocks her strike and, dammit! He’s used his semblance again throwing Blake against the cliff face. I see her aura break and then she slides off the edge.

“Blake!” I yell as I see her grab the edge and hold on but I don’t have a chance to help her.

“Moment of truth, Yang.” he sneers. “Do you think you’re faster than you were at Beacon?”

Those words hit me harder than any of his attacks and I almost freeze. Then an image of beautiful amber eyes float to the surface of my mind. I barely hear him say “Me neither.” as he attacks.

“Your aura is bound to be running low.” he mocks but my attention isn’t on his words. It’s on Blake. I see her scaling the cliff face with all her skill and strength and I attempt to just dodge his blows. No sense in giving him a power boost if I can help it.

“I just have to keep him distracted for a little bit longer. Play it smart, Yang. There’s always another way around the problem.”

“What does she even see in you!”

“Damned if I know, but I hope I get a chance to find out.”

His next attack knocks me to the ground but I see Blake leaping to the other side of the cliff and I get what she’s doing.

“You’re just a coward like her!” he shrieks in rage as I get to my feet.

“That’s it! I’ve had enough!” and I feel the rush of heat as I unleash my semblance just as he hurls another energy blast at me.

Through the cloud of dust I can see his blade arcing down toward me. In supreme irony I grab it with an arm that I wouldn’t have if it wasn’t for him and when the dust clears I see his astonished face.

“Gotcha” and I ram my fist into his midsection and hear a satisfying crunch as he’s hurled backward and carves a trench in the ground with the impact. His aura crackles and vanishes.

As he stands he reaches for his now empty scabbard and looks panicked when he realizes his sword is gone.

“I may not be faster but I’m smarter.” and I hurl his sword off the cliff.

I hear him yell “NO!” as he rushes to grab it, far, far too late and then Blake springs up and hits him with a devastating uppercut, he stumbles across the remains of Gambol Shroud and Blake sees them at the same time.

“Oh no. No, you’re not going to do it again, you bastard!”

Thankfully Blake is faster and grabs one portion of the broken blade as I scoop up the other with my artificial hand.

I guess there is only one way this was going to end.

We both plunge our blades into Adam’s chest and hear a soft “Oh.”

Then we watch as he stumbles toward the cliff, falls to his knees, takes one last breath and plunges off the cliff into the water below.

Blake collapses in heart wrenching sobs and I rush to her side and take her into my arms.

“I..I’m not going to break my promise. I swear!”

All this and that is the first thing she says. She almost died and she’s worried about reassuring me. I barely trust myself to speak.

“I know you won’t” I say as I gently cup her beautiful face in my hands and I feel her hands gripping mine as our foreheads touch. I let her get all the stress and pent up sadness and rage out of her system before gently helping her up.

“C’mon. We need to get back to the team. There’s no telling how much trouble they’ve gotten into without us.”

Blake ventured a weak smile at that as she took my hand and we started running toward the rendezvous.

“Yang? Can I ask you something?”

“Anything.”

“How did you know where I was? I could hear your bike, but how could you possibly hear what was going on below you?”

I paused. “Do you remember how Jinn told us about Ozma and Salem meeting for the first time after his reincarnation and how they knew without a doubt who each other were? The only thing I can think of is that is was something like that.”

“Yeah? But...oh.” and I could see a blush forming on her cheeks.

“I think we’ve got a lot to talk about later but for now, I’m just happy you’re free of him.”

“We’re free of him.” and she squeezed my hand even harder and looked up at me, eyes glistening with tears but not tears of sorrow.

Freedom is finally here.

[crystalninjaphoenix]

Speak No Evil

A Stitched Story

JSE Fanfic

It’s about time! I got so frustrated when I didn’t have time to write this even when I wanted to. And then I got the idea for Inverted and ended up fixated on that for a while, but this AU is back, baby! I did research for this, boys and girls and others! It’s finally Angst Time! God, I never realized I had such potential for pain. Let’s not just hurt JJ, let’s give him all the misery. And it went on for longer than I planned, too.

Tagging @septic-dr-schneep for inspiring this AU with this post. Also probably worth mentioning this too.

Read the past stories: Stitched Together | The Start of the Nightmare | The Silent Night

>Minor gore warning, probably<

JJ yawned, and looked at the clock. He tried to keep his shop open past midnight every night, in case somebody wanted help with a lunar spell. Those were most effective when conducted at midnight, or at the moon’s zenith. But JJ was not a night owl like Jack or Schneep, and sometimes he just couldn’t stay up that late, especially knowing he had to open at noon the next morning. This was one of those times. The clock read 10:58 and his eyelids were already drooping.

He straightened his posture, stretching. Then, he went through the motions of closing up. Sweeping the floor, dusting the books and talismans on sale, moving the change from the register to the strongbox, turning off most of the yellow lamps, flipping the sign on the front window from “Open” to “Closed.” But before he could go upstairs to his apartment and and his soft, comfortable bed, he had to check the side rooms. There were two: what he called the green room, where he did readings for tourists, and the crimson room, where he kept some of the more useful magick materials...those that he felt safe keeping out in the relative open.

The green room’s entryway was an arch without a door. There was a curtain of beads, but those did nothing except impress the customers that didn’t know anything about magick. A lot of those would pop in, checking out the strange little shop that looked like it belonged in an earlier time period. The green room was sort of catered towards that type, with a bunch of aesthetic junk, most of which did nothing. There was even a crystal ball sitting on top of the table’s fancy cloth, though in his experience flat, reflective surfaces were better for scrying.

JJ rummaged around the room, adjusting the paintings on the walls, checking the chest of drawers to see that everything was in its proper place. It seemed it was...but...JJ frowned. He couldn’t find his cards anywhere. He double-checked everywhere, even peeking underneath the tablecloth. No, they weren’t anywhere.

“Well, that’s a pickle,” JJ muttered to himself. He’d made those cards himself. Imbued them with magick of his own making, in addition to any they might already have. Honestly, the art of the tarot had always struck JJ as a little... unauthentic. It started as a card game, after all. But who knows? He’d learned long ago to never assume anything was ordinary.

Time to check out the crimson room. JJ turned the lamps of the green room off, brushed through the bead curtain, and crossed through the main body of the shop and over to the closed door that led to the crimson room. He reached into his vest pocket and pulled out a small key ring. He selected the larger key of the two and used it to unlock the door. Everything should be in order here, he hadn’t used it all day.

Everything was not in order.

The first thing he noticed was the light. All the lamps in the room were on and blazing. JJ froze. That was impossible. Not only did he keep the only key on his person at all times, not only were there no windows and the vents were too small for anything to fit through, but also the room was protected. There were runes inside the walls and talismans under the floor. Nothing should’ve been able to get in and turn the lights on.

Except it had been breached once before.

JJ shook off the memory. He didn’t like to be reminded of that day. Sure, he’d met Jack and Chase and they’d become his two best friends, but he’d also nearly lost them within an hour of finding them. And that demon...the way he’d barely managed to banish him in time...it had shaken him. He’d doubled the defenses on the crimson room, and on his apartment upstairs, but maybe it still wasn’t strong enough...

He stepped into the room, eyes darting from side to side. The only thing that was different was that his deck of cards was sitting in the middle of the center table. JJ stared at it. There was no way that could’ve gotten here. Was there?

“Who’s here?” JJ called.

The lamps flickered, and JJ jumped as the door behind him slammed shut. He whirled around, pulling desperately on the handle, but the door refused to budge. JJ took a deep breath, trying to calm down. His mind darted between fragments of knowledge he’d learned over years of study. But this was instinctive. He thought he knew who this was. And he knew almost nothing about him.

“So, is it you?” JJ turned back around, putting his hands on his hips. He schooled his features into a carefully neutral expression. “I think you’re the only one who could get into this room at this point. What do you want?”

A few of the lamps flared, then burst with an electric chuckle, leaving the table the only thing truly illuminated. The message was more than clear. JJ folded his arms. “Why don’t you show yourself? I know you can.” Unless...he’d been rather quiet for the last three months, ever since he went after Schneep at the hospital. Maybe he was weakened...? Or he needed time to manifest?

There was no answer. JJ debated just ignoring him. Not acknowledging demons defeated a great deal of them. But he’d already talked to him. Fiddlesticks. Well, might as well go along with this. Who knows what the consequences could be otherwise? And he wasn’t ashamed to admit he was curious. Despite months of research, they hadn’t found much information on him. What if he could learn more? What if he could use that to help his friends?

Cautiously, JJ took a seat at the table. A chair opposite him pulled out, then pushed back in, like someone invisible had just sat there. The deck of tarot cards was pushed towards JJ, who took it, staring at the empty spot where a person should be, and shuffled. He didn’t want any tricks. Then, he held out the cards towards the empty spot. Five cards were pulled out of the deck, then laid on the table like a plus symbol.

JJ raised an eyebrow. “Five-card reading? But are you going to tell me what for?” There was no answer. “General reading it is, then,” JJ muttered. He reached out and turned over the card in the center.

The image of a knight riding into battle upon a black horse. He wielded a scythe, arching over his head. The card’s subtitle read Death. Well, this was off to a fantastic start. “The first card describes your present situation,” JJ said, his voice loud in the silent room. “And it sets the general tone for the reading. Many people see Death as a bad omen, but that’s not the case. It could mean the necessary death of something, such as the harvest in the fall leading to winter, and new plants growing in the spring. But...I’ve never seen Death as the first card. It may mean you’re currently experiencing it, either the death of a project or...” JJ trailed off. It didn’t usually mean the literal death of a person, but in this situation?

He forced himself to turn over the second card. A man carried seven sharp blades. Blood was on their edges, and JJ was sure that hadn’t been there when he drew the picture. “The second card is the past, it shows what events are still influencing you in the present day. This is the Seven of Swords. It represents...deceit.” JJ bit his lip as he thought. “That could mean your life is being shaped by a deception or betrayal that happened long ago. Or maybe not too long ago. Perhaps you know this?” A few more lamps went out, leaving just one above the table. There was a low whine in the air.

JJ hesitated a bit, then turned over the third card. Five crossed sticks, or what appeared to be. “The third card is the future. It explains events that will happen. The Five of Wands symbolizes struggles caused by ambition. In the future spot...it’s a warning. It means you’re pushing your plans at—at the expense of others.” His hands were shaking. The whine was steadily growing louder. “This...this isn’t a reading for you, is it?” JJ whispered. “You’re the querent, but...you don’t need to know these things.” A laugh echoed in the back of his mind.

JJ reached for the fourth card, then stopped. He was starting to have doubts about this. But then the light above flickered, and the whine increased to a piercing volume. JJ winced, then hurriedly turned over the fourth card. Everything stabilized. The card showed a man with brown hair, sitting cross-legged on the floor, holding two blades crossed over his chest. He wore a black blindfold. JJ was sure this card was altered, because he knew his original drawing had been of a woman instead. “The fourth card is the cause of your current situation,” JJ said quietly. “It’s meant to shed light on the event mentioned in the second card. The Two of Swords means conflicting ideas. It can also mean a lack of communication, resulting in...in drastic consequences. Perhaps this led to the deception?”

He didn’t even stop to think this time. Immediately after finishing his analysis of the fourth card, he turned over the fifth. A tall structure rose into the sky of the image. Green lightning was striking it, smoke and rubble flying from the point of impact. Four shadowy figures were falling from the top. It was the Tower. JJ swallowed nervously. “Fifth card...the fifth card is potential. It shows what will happen if you continue on this path. And the Tower...it means disaster. Destructive, uncompromising, collective disaster. It’s approaching. I would...normally, the advice is to just let it happen, and pick up the pieces afterward. But...” JJ looked up. There was an outline of a man, full of buzzing interference, now sitting in the chair across from him. “But this isn’t disaster for you...it’s for us. And it’s what you want. Is that right, Anti?”

The silhouette tilted its head. “Ç̀l̕͏èveŗ̸,” a hissing voice bounced around his mind. “You’re sm͟a̶r͞t̵èr than I t̴h̀o͏u̡ght̨, J̞á̸͕ͅc͈̦̟͎͎̯̠͍̠k҉̧̜͟s̮̦̞͉o̪͈̗̣͈͝͠n̷͔̞̜̙͕͇. But will that s̷̡͝av̧͠e̵̴ y͡ou̴̡?”

“From what?” JJ forced himself to smile. “From you? I got rid of you well enough the last times.”

Anti hummed, annoyed. “ M͡͞á̡͢ybe̢ you did, but that was b̧́͏efor͡e͞͏̸. Now, I k͡n̴ow̷. Did you think Í̸̛ w̨͝a̧͢ş̴ g̛͞o͞͠n̵e͞? I’ve been here the e̛ǹ͢tįr͠e ̕͢ţ̵̕im̵̴͠ȩ. Alwaỳs ther͢e͢. ͞A҉l̶w̕ay̨s͟ ̷w̵at̸c̡h̢i̕n̸g̶.̕ Do you want to know what I s̴̠ͅa̜̼̙̪̪̣͟w̛̩?”

Jameson leaned back. “Is this some roundabout way of threatening to bump me off? Because it’s not working.”

“ O͟͏͢h͢͏͏,͟͠ ͏̶b͏u͠t i̕t̸ i̷̢ş.” Anti stood up. His form was a bit clearer now. Not quite opaque, but JJ could see the colors of his clothes and body. Green lights took the place of his eyes. He leaned forward, and then somehow, though the table should’ve been too big, he was right in Jameson’s face. “False bravado doesn’t suit you, lit̴t̴l̨é o̕͟ń̢e. Not when I can t́a̷̷s̴̀͡t̷e your f͡ęa̷͢r͟͠.” A flash of teeth. “You know the truth I see, don̨'̶t͝ yo͡u͞? Your magick is j͟u̷s͡t ̸́a̧̕ ̸͟li̕e̶. It’s just trying to f̧͡o͞o̧ļ ̧̡̀y̷̵̕o̷u̷r ͝f͝r͏i͡en͟d̨s̸̢ into thinking you’re more helpful than you a̵̜̠̭͉c̡̭̗̯͓͉͖̹t̸̘͓̰̦͠ù̴̫͍̦̪̣̕a͏͈̬̗̖͎͓̤̖l̖̱̜̩̣ḷ̸͔̯̤̗͖̪͔ý̛͔̭̬͠ are.”

“That’s—you’re lying,” Jameson stuttered, pushing his chair back.

“ Abo̵u͞t w̛h̵at͞?” Anti was fully visible now, just the slightest distortion running through his body. His eyes, normally blue, glowed green behind their mask of shadows. “Your magick? Oh, but it doesn’t r̛e҉̨a̧͏l͡l̷̛y͡ do anything, do̡e̴s̷ ̸i͏t? I l̷̤͇ͅe̦͇͇̠̮̤t̸̞͎͍ you win that time. And what are all these so-̶c̵a̛ll̢ed s͝y̵̨͠m̶b̵̨o̶̕l͟͡s͠ of protection doing for you? The room is surrounded, yet h͠͠e̶r͝͝e̕͢ Ì̛ ̡̀a̷͏̢m̕̕, not deterred in the least.” He smiled a twisted grin. “ No͡t́ ̸v͢e̷ry ̵ef̛f́e͢ct͝ive.͏ If only you had r̸e͟a̢l̶̡͢ magic.”

Jameson tried to ignore his words, but in truth each one was a blow to his confidence. He’d set up protection around the homes of his friends...were they actually not working? Had Anti slipped through them as easily as a fish through water? Jack, Chase, and Schneep had trusted him. Had he...failed them?

Not wanting Anti to get another word in, he stood up, knocking over the chair in the process, and bolted to the door. Anti made no move to stop him. There was no need, as Jameson found out when he tried to turn the handle, then, frantically, attacked the door. It would not move. The doctor had described something like this in his hallucination he’d had at the hospital, but that was just that—an illusion of the mind. Anti must be stronger now, to affect reality in such a manner.

Jameson spun around, pressing his back to the door. Maybe he could find a way to get Anti out, if he was able to get to his supplies—and if it even worked. He doubted it.

“Well, we ca̴n't h̢ave tha̷t,” Anti said, as if he knew what Jameson’s thought process was. “C̶o̸̡me̷ b͏àc̡ḱ̢ ̷h̷͢e̴͟r̛ȩ̵̷.” A breaking happened, a distortion as the world broke into shades of red, blue, and green. And then Anti was there, in front of him. Jameson shrieked, instinctively trying to push him away. Instead, Anti grabbed him by the wrists and pulled him forward. Jameson fell into him, like the glitch truly wasn’t anything more than pixels. The buzz of white noise surrounded him. It filled his mind. He closed his eyes against the harsh static, and when he opened them, Anti had disappeared.

He would’ve relaxed a bit, but he could still hear the harsh drone. Not with his ears, like he should’ve. It was inside him. He could feel it in his eyes and in his throat. Of its own accord, his body walked back over to the table and sat down in the same chair Anti had been sitting in during the reading. And there it stayed, posture stiff, hands placed firmly by his sides. The white noise lessened a bit, and Anti appeared once again, distorted and crackling. He tilted his head. “Ỳe͞s̵, that seems to have worked as͟ ͠we͏l͝l̴ as I t̵h̨o͠ug̶ht͟ ̷it wòu͟l̷d͝.”

“What did you do?” Jameson was surprised to find his mouth still worked, even if nothing else did.

“I call it p̱̲͞u̴̜̥͉̙̦͍̰͞p̰p̵̫̼̪͕̻͍̠̩e̷͉̝͓̫͓͠t̲̝̩ͅe̢͎̭̞̘̗͈͟ͅe͎̙̻̻̻̼̲̣ͅr̳̘̲i̷̟̤͉̥͢n̖̘̖͝g͍̬̮,” Anti said, wiggling his fingers like a sideshow magician. “It’s a tr̶ic͡k of mine I’ve been using since Halloween. If I keep working on it, o͝ne͠ d̕ay ̢you'̧l͠l ̵s͠tarţ t́o͞ ́ l͏̢í̵̧k̵҉e̷͡ i̶t͠.”

“Never,” Jameson said through gritted teeth.

“ Th҉at'͢s͏ ̨no͡t for̸ yo̕u t͡o de̸ciḑe,” Anti growled. “Now where was I? Ah yes, your ùse̕l͟es̶snes͢s.” He grabbed Jameson by the chin, tilting his head up so he had to look the glitch in the eyes. “You’re just a re͝p̷l̕a͞cem͏ent͡, J̛a͏̷̧c̢k͝s̸̛o̵̸͠n. They lost their magician, and so they got a ǹew̵ ͠ơn̵e. And, given your decoration in here, you would agree with me when I say the new is n̴̸͟e̷ve̡͠r̨ as g͡o̸o͢d as t͏h̕e̡̨͟ ̷o̷l͞d̵͞.”

“That’s your fault,” Jameson gasped. “It’s your fault their magician disappeared. Their hero, too. What happened to them? What are you doing to Marvin and Jackie?”

Anti laughed, blood spurting from his neck wound. “Oh, íf̷ ͝o͞nl̨y̷ y̢o̸u ̛́̕k̀n̛é͟w̢. I wonder if you’d wish they r̨ȩa҉ll͞y die̢d. Or maybe you’re happy here. Happy your wor͟t͠h̴lèss ͠litt͠l̀e͠ head gets praise h̢e̡a̴pęd upon it that it doèsń't ҉de̶s̸e͡r̢ve.” Anti’s form flickered and glitched. He grimaced. “Seems I’m running out of time. Guess I’ll...s̵k͟͡i̴̴p̀̕ ̕t̛͢͞o ̡̧́t̨h̸e ͏cha̡̧se͟.”

“What are you doing?” Anxiety was evident in Jameson’s voice. He tried to push through the static clouding his mind and holding him in place, but to no avail. It was like pushing against a balloon with super thick skin. Every attempt bounced him away.

“Now that won’t be a̛͞n͠y ̷̢f̧͞ú̢ǹ̢.” Anti leaned over him, the blood from his throat dripping down onto Jameson’s face. He couldn’t even blink like his instincts were shouting at him to. “Especially when you’re a͠b͢o͝ut͏ ̕tǫ f͡ìn̡ḑ͏͟ ͝o̧͞ú̢̕t.” He tilted Jameson’s head even farther back. Something small and gleaming glitched into his hand. “ Wh̕y̴ don’t you c̵a͏l͡l f̡or h͢e͢l͠p, J̡͢a̵͟͠m͏̡ie?”

He wanted to. He really wanted to. But he couldn’t give the demon the satisfaction. He gritted his teeth and stayed silent.

“Come on...” Anti’s fingernails dug into Jameson’s skin. It felt like they were drawing blood. “It’s ńo̷̡͠ţ to͝ó̶̕ ̛hard̸, is it? Call for help, I̡ ̢da̧͡r̴͞͡e ̛͝yo͢͟͢u. Cry into the dar͢k̕ǹes͝s͢. ‘Jack! Chase! Henrik! Somebody help!’ S̡ee̸ ̡w͡h̸a̛t̵ g̸͕͓͇̣̤̘̩o͏̹̗̪̹̞̀o̸̶̦̯̣d̸͖͕̫͍͇͖ͅ it ͝do̸es͟ ̷ýou͝!”

He couldn’t take it anymore. He had to. “H-help,” he whimpered.

There was a moment of quiet. The electronic hum started filling the air again. Anti smiled with unrestrained delight. “ B͞u̢͞ţ ̨́͢no͠͝bo̵̴d̸͞ý́ ͏çá̴͡m͞͏ę͢͞,” he whispered. “What a s̵h̕a͠m̴̨è. I’m sure the ot̶her͡s̛ would l͡o̡̕͟v͏̡e̢ to see this.”

The static in Jameson’s mind increased, and a pressure grew in his throat. He tried to cry out, but his voice wouldn’t work anymore. Anti moved his hand, and the small, glinting object he held came into view. It was a needle. A simple sewing needle, threaded with green string. And Jameson knew what was going to happen. He wanted to scream, he wanted to beg, but he could do nothing.

The first pinprick didn’t hurt too much. But the sensation of something that wasn’t supposed to be there, of it being pulled through the hole made his skin crawl. And the next one was much the same. And the next. The strings tightened with each new puncture. Tears began flowing down his face. Anti seemed to enjoy that. He muttered constantly throughout the process, reminding him how he couldn’t do anything, how he was worthless, how his friends didn’t really care for him. Every word drove deeper through the static in his mind.

He didn’t know how long it took, but eventually Anti tied a knot to hold the string in place, then broke the rest of the thread off. He moved Jameson’s head side to side, admiring his work. He grinned. “ Let'̢s ̸s͡ęe͟ ͏w͞h̶a҉t̛ th̕ey̛ ̨t̀hink̛ ͏of͡ t̷̢͓͈͠h̴̪̮á̶̰̻͢ͅt,” he said, tapping the oozing piercings with his finger, stroking the string. There was a lot more blood than there should have been. He loved it. “Go sh̕òẃ̸ them your n͟͠é̸w á́c͟͡ç̢e̷͝ss̛o̶͠ry̨.”

The static overwhelmed him, and the world broke apart. Anti faded away, the last thing to go being his glowing green eyes. 

The world fixed itself, and Jameson found himself kneeling on the floor in a hall somewhere. It looked...medicinal, like a hospital. It wasn’t long before he realized that the static had disappeared. He could move again. Immediately, his hands flew to his mouth, clawing at the thread. It teared at his flesh, blood running down his chin. It was agonizing. It didn’t matter. He needed them out. It wasn’t working. Why wasn’t it working? Why couldn’t he get them out? He had to keep trying. He couldn’t—he couldn’t—

“Jameson?”

He clasped his hands over his mouth. No, no he couldn’t let—how could he explain? He looked over his shoulder towards the familiar voice. It was the doctor, dressed in his coat and scrubs. Of course, this was a hospital. Schneep stared at Jameson. “What are you—?” Then he saw the blood dripping from between his fingers. Schneep’s eyes widened, and he squeaked. For a moment he looked like he wanted to run away, but instead he ran forward, kneeling beside Jameson. “What is it?! What happened?! Was it him?! Here, let me see.”

Jameson didn’t answer, just pressed his face even harder into his hands. When the doctor tried to pry them away so he could look at where the blood was coming from, he shook his head. Schneep looked at him, a strange light in his eyes. “Please. I cannot help if I don’t know what the problem is. Let me see, my friend.”

It was something about those last two words, coming from Schneep, the one he knew the least about, that made Jameson relax, and let the doctor take his hands away. Upon seeing the mess of blood and string, Schneep froze. His mouth opened and closed, but no sound came out. Silver tears lined his eyes. Then, without warning, he pulled Jameson into a tight hug. “I’m sorry,” he choked. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry...” he repeated the same words again and again, like saying them could change what had happened.

Jameson only let himself be held, and shed a few more silent tears.

It was a chill night. Or was it early morning? It had been close to midnight when Schneep last checked the clock, but after JJ had appeared he hadn’t had the time to look. He’d been on the way to his office, ready to gather his things and go home for the night, only to turn the corner and see Jameson kneeling on the floor, blood coming from his mouth. He immediately dropped everything, dragging him to the nearest operating room.

And now, Schneep was outside on his apartment balcony, pacing back and forth. It was cold, but he didn’t care. He had to think.

“Hey, doc.”

Schneep turned and saw Chase walk out onto the balcony, closing the sliding door behind him. His eyes were rimmed with red. “Hello Chase,” Schneep said dully. “Is Jack still inside?”

Chase nodded. “Yeah, he’s still talking with JJ...or, uh, talking to.” He leaned against the closed door. “He took one of your notebooks and pens. But...JJ isn’t using it.”

Jameson had been quiet. Not that he had a choice anymore, but he hadn’t attempted to communicate in any way. He didn’t nod or shake his head when asked yes or no questions, and he avoided eye contact with any of the others. If he did happen to catch their eyes, he teared up and looked away. Yet, he didn’t want to be alone either. He reached out and clung tight to them when they looked like they might leave.

The one question he answered? When Schneep asked if Anti was responsible, he nodded vigorously.

“Maybe he is not ready yet,” Schneep sighed. “I would not blame him.”

Chase moved position, now leaning on the balcony railing. Schneep stopped his pacing and joined him. Chase hesitated for a moment, then asked “Are you sure you can’t—”

“I tried, Chase,” Schneep snapped. “I broke my best pair of scissors and dulled half the supply of scalpels in the hospital. It is not normal string like it appears.”

“Okay, doc, calm down. I didn’t—I didn’t mean it that way.” Chase’s voice broke. “You’re doing—you did all you can, I get it. I’m just...it’s fucking horrible, man. I can’t believe...I thought shit like this only happened in horror movies.” He gazed out over the quiet city. “I can’t even find a reason,” he whispered.

“Anti does not need a reason,” Schneep said through gritted teeth. “He is a monster.” His grip on the railing tightened. “And the world would be better off without monsters.” Why Jameson, of all people? He was harmless. Maybe that was why. Schneep turned, looking straight at Chase. “If we ever find a way, if we ever get a chance, I am going to kill him.”

Chase considered this. “What about Jackie and Marvin? Only he knows what’s happening to them. We need to get them back, doc. We can’t kill him until we do.”

Schneep paused. “I suppose you are right. Although I wonder...” He turned away again, looking back out over the dark city. “If Anti is capable of something like this, then...if we get them back, what shape will they be in?”

Chase had no answer for that. So the two of them stood in silence, watching the darkness of night gradually recede. If only all the darkness of the world would disappear so easily.