#its a mirror but its also a memory but its also a wet dream

[kippdipp]

I beheld the wretch - the miserable monster whom I had created.

[mariasont]

Our Minds Entwined-----------------------

ch 1, ch 2, ch 3, ch 4, ch 5, ch 6, ch 7, ch 8, ch 9, ch 10, ch 11, ch 12

MDNI-----------------------------------------------------------------

pairings: aaron hotchner x oc x spencer reid

summary: in which jason gideon's daughter joins the fbi as the newest, youngest member

warnings: mentions of wet dream, fantasying of 2 guys, oral f receiving, praise, probably more im not sure

A/N: hope you beautiful humans enjoy this as much as i enjoyed writing it <3

also requests are still open for aaron hotchner and spencer reid & i would love love to write more so shoot me something :)

haappppy readingggg!

chapter eleven:

With a weary slump of her shoulders, Evelyn followed in Hotch's wake, her feet dragging the ground as though shacked by invisible weights. Her eyelids were heavy, drooping in a slow cadence, fighting the lull of sleep that beckoned with each laboring blink. Her lips parted in a slow, drawn-out motion that mirrored the sluggishness of her body. The latte sat in her hand, a supposed ally against the drowsiness, but her yawns betrayed its ineffectiveness as her eyes grew heavier still. The trip had been a marathon of activity--packing, the airport, the plane--all leading to a touchdown in Somerville just as the sun began to rise.

On the way over, Hotch had briefed her on the details of the case. A couple weeks ago, a polyamorous couple--two older men, and their shared partner, a younger woman--were found dead. Then, two days ago another household with the same victimology were killed. The coincidence wasn't lost on Evelyn as her mind wandered to that god forsaken dream that had haunted her since.

And on top of that, throughout the trip, Hotch's silence was a wall between them, broken only by the case details. Despite herself, Evelyn tried to profile him knowing it was wrong. Evelyn replayed the hot tub scene in her mind, a pang of guilt twisting in her gut. She couldn't shake the feeling that she'd crossed a line, even if it was unintentional... right? Her head was a battlefield of jumbled thoughts and creeping doubts, all clamoring for attention. She blamed the fog in her brain on the lack of sleep.

 Evelyn, under the weight of Hotch's intent gaze, gave way to a yawn so extravagantly drawn out it seemed less a sign of fatigue and more a playful challenge to his enduring patience.

"Stop staring; it's too early for judgment," Evelyn murmured, her eyes slits of defiance as she ambled after him towards the station. "This is just my face before the caffeine kicks in. It gets better, I promise."

Hotch offered no reply, merely casting a glance over his shoulder at her. The warmth of their close encounter in the hot tub enveloped his thoughts, an unwelcome yet intoxicating recollection. He wrestled with the memory, a guilty pleasure, even as he held the door open for her. Yet, he steeled himself, shoving those dangerous reflections to the back of his mind, all too conscious of the professional boundaries that he dared not to cross.

"Okay, Hotch, I get it, we can't all be as chatty as me with zero sleep. But come on, give me a smile, or at least a grunt," Evelyn coaxed, her laughter not quite reaching her eyes. "Anything to show you're still with us."

There was a pause, a look from Hotch that cut through her words, heavy with unvoiced thoughts, before he turned and walked away, his back a silent command to keep up. Evelyn's expression dimmed, her lips curving into a faint frown as she trailed behind him. The team's warm welcomes echoed around them as they entered the conference room. Evelyn's smile spread across her face, skillfully painted on to mask the twinge of disappointment that Hotch had left.

The moment Spencer's eyes found Evelyn, a soft blush bloomed across her face, and she offered him a smile tinged with complicity, which he mirrored back, a small but significant lift to her mood. The brief contact of Spencer's hand grazing her shoulder as she passed was enough to deepen the shade on her cheeks as she fought to maintain composure. 

"How was Miami hot stuff?" Morgan questioned, as his arm sling around her shoulder with a teasing squeeze.

"Hot," Evelyn declared, her hand theatrically waving in front of her face in a mock fan, while her elbow lightly collided with Morgan's side. "Nearly had me seeing stars. Poor Hotch was this close to performing CPR," she said, her words a deliberate prod as her eyes sought out Hotch's, hoping for any form of reaction.

"I'd say it was less about the heat and more about you neglecting to eat properly," Hotch commented dryly, his words carrying a hint of reprimand, but hey at least he was talking.

"Well, we really shouldn't dwell on the past," Evelyn said with a dismissive wave of her hand.

"Speaking of meals," JJ added, sliding a blueberry muffin towards her with a knowing smile. 

"You're a saint, JJ," Evelyn said, her eyes lighting up at the sight of the food. "I'm this close to giving you a thank-you kiss."

"As tempting as that sounds, you can actually thank Hotch for this one," JJ laughed as she nudged her. "He made it clear--no breakfast for you means a mountain of paperwork duties for us."

Evelyn's tension eased a fraction as she shot Hotch a teasing smile, her heart fluttering at the gesture. "Well, sir, rest assured, I strictly adhere to the 'no kissing the boss' clause. It's somewhere in the fine print, right?"

Evelyn's cheeks took a shade of pink at her own words, hanging in the air, laden with the what-ifs she couldn't quite push aside. Hotch's eyes, sharp and discerning, momentarily betrayed him, darting to her lips before he caught himself.

"Agent," he cautioned, his voice low but clear. Evelyn quickly raised her hands, a silent truce, as Hotch redirected his attention to the team. "What do we have?"

"At this rate, they'll be naming the next HR workshop after you," Morgan murmured, barely containing his amusement. 

"What if the unsub is part of a group like this themselves and feels wronged by it?" Rossi muses out loud, his fingers tracing thoughtful patterns against the stubble of his chin as he stands, back pressed against the brick wall.

Reid paced slowly around the table, his fingertips grazing a file as he passed. "It's possible," he began, his voice a soft murmur, eyes narrowing slightly. "The specific targeting and overkill suggest a perceived slight or trauma associated with such relationships."

Prentiss gave a firm nod. "Let's not rule out the possibility of the unsub viewing these groups as a threat to their moral or social beliefs."

"The female-centric dynamic could be important too," Evelyn tossed out, her steps halting beside the pictures of the victims.

As she pondered aloud Spencer found himself focuses intently on her face, her nose scrunching ever so slightly in thought--a gesture that drew a fleeting smile from him as he cast his gaze downwards in hopes no one else noticed how he looked at her. 

"Maybe the unsub feels wronged by the idea of a woman being the main focus? Or it could be jealously. Someone who wanted into a group like this but was rejected," Evelyn continued. 

"Or the opposite," Hotch contemplates, his brow furrowed in thought. "Someone who was in a group and cast out." He pauses, hands clasped as he leaned forward. "Let's dig into the background of the victims and see if there's a common thread."

The conference room was steeped in the day's fatigue, the air heavy with the tang of frustration and the stale scent of coffee. The team had returned from their respective tasks--interviews, crime scenes, and calls--all roads leading to dead ends. 

The room's stillness is shattered by Garcia's voice emanating from the screen. "I've got something," she declares, the pixelated glow casting an ethereal light in the dim room. "Both triads belonged to an ultra-elite society known as 'The Labyrinth.' It's like Fort Knox meets Fight club--no one talks about it, and no one gets in without an invite. I mean, you don't even want to know the lengths I went to find this in the first place."

"I mean, if the society is as exclusive as P says," Evelyn begins, her hand sweeping through her hair in a fluid motion. "Then the unsub is likely also part of it or they have resources that could get them information on it."

Garcia's voice bursts through the speaker. "Prepare to be dazzled," she trills, the clatter of her keystrokes punctuating her excitement. "The Labyrinth is rolling out the red carpet for a gala tomorrow night at the old Whitmore Estate. And you, my darlings, are virtually invited to the ball."

Morgan hunches over the table. "So, we need a cover," he states, "We can't just show up at the doorstep and demand to look around; it'll spook the unsub."

"Evelyn and Reid could blend in," Prentiss nods. "They fit the profile of two of the victims. Maybe they can draw the unsub out." Evelyn's eyes widen as she glances towards Spencer.

JJ chimes in, "And maybe Morgan could--"

But Rossi interrupts, shaking his head. "No, the second male victim's profile is different--older, more experienced. It's more Hotch's profile."

A crease forms between Hotch's eyes, a shadow of concern etching his features as his protective instincts surge to the forefront, coupling with a deep-seated unease about the unfolding plan. A delicate warmth crept up Evelyn's cheeks, her pulse quickening at the thought. The idea of going undercover with Hotch and Reid, a scenario plucked straight from her wet dream, sends a shiver down her spine and her thoughts into a tailspin. She opens her mouth, to joke it off, but it dissolves into a muddled string of half-formed words, leaving her with a bashful silence.

Hotch's words falter, a rare hesitation flickering across his usually impassive features. "I'm not sure if this is the best course of action--," 

Emily interjected swiftly, her words slicing through Hotch's protest. "Hotch, we may not get another shot at this. Using you three as bait isn't ideal, but it might be the only way to corner our unsub."

Hotch's eyes settle on Spencer, who gives a firm nod. His gaze than shifts to Evelyn, and though he resists the urge to analyze, the rosy flush of her skin and the accelerated pace of her breath betray her feelings. It's a jarring contrast to the professional distance he's been striving for. Hotch's nod was there, almost imperceptible, but the frown that follows is deeply etched, a clear sign of his disapproval despite his acceptable. 

The room hums with a focused energy as the team pores over digital and paper archives alike, each article detailed events like this and of the couples who frequent. Garcia curates a comprehensive collection of profiles detailing the Labyrinth and its attendees, while JJ and Morgan sift through social media for the gala's guest list. In a corner, Spencer and Rossi huddled over a cluttered desk examining the blueprint of the Whitmore Estate.

Meanwhile, in a makeshift office provided by the local police chief, Hotch and Evelyn are deep in study. The walls, now a gallery of whiteboards, are dense with the scribbled complexities of polyamorous relationships and the backgrounds of the victims.

"I've come across open relationships in case studies, but an entire society? That's a statistical outlier if I ever heard one--Spence would have a field day with those odds." Evelyn says with a soft shake of her head.

A faint arch forms in Hotch's brow, a muted signal of surprise to the informal reference of Reid. Catching the lift of Hotch's brow, Evelyn quickly adds, "You know, Hotch, the silent treatment isn't going to work when we're undercover," she started with a tilt of her head. "You've going to have to convince everyone we're together soon, remember? So, you might want to start practicing liking me now."

"I'm not giving you the silent treatment, Evelyn." Hotch remarks, his countenance flat, eyes reflecting any readability. 

"Sure, if you say so," Evelyn replied, her eyes thin slits of skepticism. "But if you're not up for this, Rossi could step in. We need to be believable, or people could get hurt."

"That's not going to happen," Hotch assets, his gaze unwavering, the firm set of his jaw sending a flutter to Evelyn's core. "I've played the part before; I can do it again."

"Then what are you so worried about?"

"I just want you to remember boundaries, Evelyn." Hotch reminds. "The seriousness of this cannot be understated, and I need to know your focus will be on the right aspects of the plan."

Hotch could see the subtle crumble of her face, the faint twitch of hurt that flickered across her features. She masked it swiftly, her voice laced with feigned indifference. "Understood. I'll try to keep my inevitable swooning over your pretend affections to a minimum, sir." The lightness of her words contrasted sharply with the hurt in her eyes, and Hotch felt an immediate ache in his stomach for causing it.

"Evelyn, that's not--" Hotch's voice trailed off, the hardness in his eyes giving way to a rare vulnerability. His fingers twitched with the need to reach out, to smooth away the creases of pain from her expression, but the opportunity slipped away as Rossi emerged at the door.

"Hotch, can I see you for a second?" he asked, gesturing subtly with his head.

Hotch offered a silent nod, his gaze holding Evelyn's for a moment longer than necessary, his eyes etching a mental image of her--the tilt of her head, the unresolved tension in her shoulders, before he reluctantly turned to follow Rossi. Spencer, shadowing Rossi's steps, pauses at the threshold, his gaze fixed on the departing figures. With a soft click of the door closing, he turns, the hush of the room settling around him as he turns to Evelyn.

He steps behind her, his hands coming to rest gently upon her shoulders. Evelyn tips her head back, her eyes lifting to meet his. "You okay?" he asks, his voice low and soothing.

Evelyn's laughter bubbled up, slicing through the heavy air. "Had a moment with Hotch. Pretty sure he was subtly hinting that I keep my feelings in check as if I'm incapable of that."

Spencer's lips curled into a half-smile, amusement flickering in his eyes. "Hotch tends to get a bit tense with these high-stakes operations," he reasoned, his thumbs tracing soothing circles on her shoulders, easing the knots. 

Evelyn melts into the warmth of his hands. "That feels good," she sighs, her head gently reclining in contentment. "And tell me about. I'm the one who's going to be all up on my boss and coworker. Talk about awkward."

The thought of sharing Evelyn with Hotch sent an unbidden rush of blood straight to his cock, a visceral response that caught him off caught. He clears his throat, a subtle cover for the fleeting thought that, perhaps, the idea isn't as disconcerting as it should be.

"At least with you I don't have to pretend."

"I don't know, I think additional practice might be beneficial." Reid says, his fingers edging closer to the delicate skin of Evelyn's neck, prompting an involuntary hitch in her breath. "My room tonight? Purely for preparation purposes, of course."

"Dr. Reid, w-what are you suggesting?" Evelyn managed to tease out, despite the gentle pressure of his hand on her pulse point making her senses swim and her focus waver.

He leaned in, his head tilting to plant a gentle kiss in the hollow of her neck. "You're smart enough to deduce it," he murmured softly against her skin, the words almost a sigh, "missed you."

A giggle escaped Evelyn, and she nimbly evaded his grasp. "Spencer, we're practically inviting an audience at this rate."

"Which is precisely why I'm saving it for later, just wanted you to give you a preview, sweetheart."

The remainder of the day unfolded without incident, with Evelyn buried under a towering pile of research papers, its weight causing a dull throb behind her eyes. Every detail was meticulously arranged for tomorrow--the tickets secured, the outfits chose, the escape routes mapped. However, no degree of preparation could quell the fluttering feeling in the pit of her stomach. This is precisely what led Evelyn to Spencer's hotel door, perched anxiously, her knocks rapid and insistent, her gaze sweeping the corridor for onlookers.

The door finally creaked open, and Evelyn breezed inside, her voice a soft tease, "Took you long enough." Spencer, with a quick glance over his shoulder, closed the door with a silent snap.

Spencer's laughter echoed through the room, a carefree sound that made Evelyn pause. "Sorry, I was in the shower," he said, a sheepish grin on his face. 

It was then that Evelyn really looked at him--his hair damp and tousled, clinging to his forehead, chest bare, skin dotted with water beads that caught the light, the soft material of his pajama pants hanging from his hips. Her eyes lingered, almost hypnotized by the sight, and rendered mute. 

Evelyn's lips parted, ready to unleash a clever comeback, yet only a soft, airy giggle escaped. Without thinking, her arms encircled him, her heart thudding erratically from the sheer nearness of him.

His fingers tenderly framed her face, his laughter a comforting hum. "Evelyn, you're going to get all wet," he teased, thumb softly grazing her cheek.

"That's what I'm counting on," Evelyn replies, a coy smile on her lips as she lets her hands wander down his chest, her fingers flirting with the edge of his pants. "I believe I was promise there would be a rehearsal on the agenda this evening."

"Mmm, is that what you want baby?" He questioned teasingly, his hand guiding her gaze to his with a soft tug at her locks. "Be the good girl I know you are, get undressed, and get on the bed."

Evelyn's eyes sparkled with anticipation, her feet barely touching the ground as she hurried to the bed. Her gaze locked with his and with deliberate care, she pinched the hem of her shirt, swiftly gathering the fabric and sending is flying across the room in a fluid motion before she attended to her pants. His eyes followed her every move as he inhaled a sharp breath, his thumb brushing against his bottom lip. Her gaze followed down to his pajama pants and the tent that was growing within them, excitement growing in her chest. 

She carefully turned her back towards him as she hooked her thumbs around her pants and underwear letting them drop to the floor. She crawled on to the bed, arching her back in an exaggerated motion, giving Spencer a full glance at her glistening pussy. She turned quickly, resting on her elbows as she smiled sweetly at Spence who was all but drooling at the sight.

"You're so good sweetheart," Spencer exhaled, each step towards the bed measured, the corners of his mouth lifting at her eagerness, "so pretty."

Evelyn's legs instinctively clasped together in a silent plea for relief as a wave of warmth surged through her cheeks and pussy.

"Take this off, baby," Spencer commanded, the sound of his tongue clicking in disapproval as his fingers drummed a soft rhythm against the material of her bra, "Wanna see all of my beautiful girl."

She quickly complied, sitting up just enough to unclasp the pesky thing. His large hands splayed over the expanse of her thighs, coaxing them open as he settled between them, his gaze penetrating as her tits bounced out of the cups of the bra. "God, you're so pretty sweetheart."

A soft moan escaped Evelyn's lips as she squirmed on the mattress, "Spencer, need you."

Spencer let out a soft chuckle, his hand moving closer to her heat, fingers tracing back and forth in a tantalizing motion. "Gonna take such good care of you baby."

His thumb began to rub slow circles on her swollen clit, Evelyn's breath hitched, her hands frantically searching for something to grasp on to, landing on his wet curls. He teased her slowly, his fingers moving across her soaked folds. Evelyn felt as though she could see stars as she watched Spencer begin to plant soft kisses up her thighs, getting closer and closer to where she wanted him. 

She jutted her hips off the mattress, her fingers curling around his hair as if to move him towards her throbbing cunt. "Evelyn, patience teaches us to regulate our emotions. Neurologically speaking, it's linked to serotonin levels in the brain, did you know that pretty girl?"

"Spencer, please, baby put that good mouth to use."

Spencer let out a soft laugh before placing his mouth to her clit, sucking as if it were his full-time job. The moan that released from her was loud and unrestrained, her body thrusting against his mouth. His tongue curled into her, eating her out like it was his last meal on earth.

"Need you to be quiet, baby. Hotch is on the other side of this wall, don't want him hearing you, do you?" Spencer asked, his voice muffled. "Or maybe you do? Is that what you want? You want Hotch to know how I treat this pussy?"

Evelyn's body trembled with pleasure, her hands grasping against the cool sheets as if to steady herself. His hands wrapped around her thighs, pulling her closer as if to suffocate himself between them. "I-I,"

His tongue lapped greedily through Evelyn's folds, her cunt trembling against the pressure as broken moans escaped her lips. He met her eyes, peering up from his position devouring her aching pussy. 

"Spencer I-oh, fuck, I'm so close," Evelyn moaned out, her eyes rolling to the back of her head as she humped against his face, his nose brushing against her clit every so often. "I can't, I'm gonna-"

A knock at the door caused Spencer's motion to freeze, a panicked gasp releasing from Evelyn's lips as her orgasm dissipated into thin air.

"Reid, are you up?" Hotch's voice, firm and unexpected, pierced the silence. Evelyn's mind was a whirlwind of foggy thoughts, her body reacting before her brain could catch up. Beside her, Spencer's limbs flailed in a hasty attempt to feign alertness, both like deer caught in headlights.

"Oh my god," Evelyn hissed, her hands flying to shield herself. She leaped from the bed, her eyes darting desperately around the room for her scattered clothes.

"Just a second!" Spencer called to Hotch. Meanwhile, Evelyn snatched the nearest shirt, one of Spencer's and yanked it over her head. It was a clumsy dance, one that nearly ended with her sprawled on the floor, tripping over the bulky obstacle of his go-bag. "Get under the bed."

"Under the bed?" Evelyn's voice was a hushed blend of disbelief and urgency. Spencer returned her gaze with an unwavering stare. "God, you're lucky you're so good with that scholarly mouth of yours."

"Radio waves... they're the longest wavelengths in the electromagnetic spectrum," Spencer began, his voice a low hum as he paced the confines of the room. "First predicted by Maxwell in 1864," he continued, more to himself than to Evelyn. Her brow furrowed in confusion. "And they--"

He was cut off as Evelyn interjected. "Spencer, why are you giving me a physics lesson right now?"

"I'm trying to, uh... calm down."

Evelyn's gaze traced the path of Spencer's, her eyes light up at the sight of the tent still evident in his pants. A soft giggle escaped her lips, a delicate sound in the quiet room. Their eyes met once more, and she exhaled a prolonged, "Oh," the syllable stretching out as brought a hand to her mouth.

"Just get under the bed."

Evelyn's laughter was a soft echo, quickly muffled as she deftly maneuvered herself under the bed. Her breath caught in her throat, the only sound the creak of the door swinging open.

Spencer was met by Hotch, his figure framed by the hallway's dim light. "Reid, can I come in?"

With a subtle clearing of his throat, Spencer managed a casual tone, "Uh, yeah, sure, of course."

He swung the door fully open, his expression carefully schooled into one of practiced composure. Hotch stepped over the threshold, his eyes sweeping over the room. Spencer's gaze flitted after his, a silent prayer of gratitude that the room bore no trace of Evelyn's clothes. 

"I just wanted to talk to you about tomorrow," Hotch stated, his voice betraying none of the scrutiny his eyes had just performed. 

"Sure, what's up?" Spencer asked, the words slightly pinched at the edges, his voice climbing a register.

Hotch's arms locked across his chest like a barrier. "This undercover operation is delicate, and we can't afford any... complications."

Spencer swallows hard, his eyes darting to the bed for a fleeting second. "Of course, I understand."

With a casual lean against the desk, Hotch's features relaxed just perceptibly. "I know you understand, but it's not just about the operation. It's about perception too. Evelyn's already under a bit of scrutiny."

An awkward cough escaped Spencer, a clumsy veil over the tension he felt, knowing well that Evelyn hung on every word. "Right," he responded, an unspoken understanding that they were discussing her father.

"Gideon set a high bar, and it's clear Evelyn is rising to meet it," Hotch begins, his voice steady, a tinge of pride in his tone. "She's carved out her own space on this team, a fact we all recognize. But rumors don't always favor the truth, and any suggestion of her involvement with another agent could be damaging..."

"There's nothing unprofessional going on, Hotch," Spencer quickly countered, his voice a swift defense. 

Hotch raised a hand, a gesture of pause and consideration. "I'm not accusing you of anything," he clarified, his voice firm yet fair. "I'm just asking you to exercise caution," he articulated. "For her sake. She has a bright future, and it shouldn't be jeopardized by baseless chatter."

Under the bed, Evelyn's brain was in overdrive, dissecting every word, her mouth suddenly dry. 

"I understand."

"Good," Hotch affirmed with a supportive squeeze on Spencer's shoulder. "Goodnight, Reid."

"Yeah, you too."

next

taglist: @aceofspades190 @nonamevenus @lukesaprince @doigettokeepyou @tequilya @carley12041 @satellitelh @greatdinosaursalad @malewife-cas

[pringleshortbread]

I Have Died Before, I Can Die Again

Prologue

Pairing: Spencer Reid x Reader (18+) Summary: A car accident leaves you with amnesia and forced recruitment into the CIA. A new assignment places you into the BAU. Content Warnings: Car Accident, Amnesia, Hospitalisation, abduction, forced labor

The rain fell on my windscreen like hundreds of little bullet casings and thunder rumbled in the distance. I had turned down the radio until it was a low murmur as I sat at a 4 way intersection, waiting for the traffic light to turn green. The scene before me felt like a dream, or maybe a nightmare, as there were no cars in either direction, except for one black car behind me with tinted windows and an 18 wheeler to my right.  After an eternity, the light flicked to green and I put my car into drive. I heard the blare of the horn from the car behind me, I glanced into the rear view mirror to see what this prick’s deal is, when I felt the 18 wheeler slam into my car. And the world faded into black.

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When I tried to open my eyes; the world was bleary and the noise was so far away. My head felt wet from my scalp all the way down to my neck and the collar of my shirt. I saw several figures crowding my crushed car, but I could not make out their faces or their clothes. I opened my mouth to talk when a dark mist fell across my eyes and I was pulled back into nothing.

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I opened my eyes to bright white. I was laying on my back, there was beeping from a heart machine nearby. The wetness from the side of my head was gone but instead I felt the dried, crusty residue in the corner of my eye and my mouth. I could feel that my clothes were also gone, instead placed by a thin papery gown. I tried to speak or even raise my arms, but my arms felt like concrete and my voice was lost in my throat. Two shapes appeared in the vision, obscuring the large light directly above me, their distant voices shushing me, I couldn’t understand what they were saying. As my vision cleared, I recognised the surgical uniform. My brain slowly processed their words, the people above me said, “You were in an accident, just let the pain medication do its job. We need to place you under anesthetic as we work to tackle the internal bleeding. Please do not struggle. You will hurt yourself further.” I slipped back into unconsciousness. 

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When I awoke again, I was in a sterile, white room. The heart monitor next to me beeped in rhythm and my entire body felt weighed down. I blinked to clear the blurriness from my eyes. I recognised a hospital room. There were no windows in this room. Just a door. An oxygen mask covered my face. I tried to recall what happened. I could not. I remember looking up to the faces of the surgeons on the operating table but I could not remember anymore. What did they say? I was in an accident? Why could I not remember the accident? I heard the heart monitor spike as my panic set in. What happened to me? Where was I? WHO was I?

The door to the room opened and in walked a man I didn’t recognise. He wore a beige suit, a plain white shirt and a brown tie. He was bald with a round face and an overweight build. “Hello there. I am Mr. Monroe.” He announced as he closed the door. He had no identifiable accent. 

I groggily dragged my hand up the scratchy hospital blanket placed on me to pull off the mask. “Where am I? Who am I?” My voice broke and I truly felt how dry my mouth was.

“Ah.” He said, plainly. “The doctors told me you might have some amnesia. Brain injury, you see, from your little accident. Nasty business that was. We lost you for a moment on the table, but luck was on my side and you pulled through.” He smiled, his eyes creased. 

I waited, hoping he would tell me who I am. And he both did and didn’t. “As for the question of who you are is unimportant right now. You may get your memory, you might not. But from now on, you are my little protégé. I will come to collect you once you are well enough to be discharged. I shall explain more then.” He limped back to the door and pulled it open. “Oh, and welcome to the CIA.”

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True to his word, Mr. Monroe came to collect me as I was discharged. The accident left me with 4 broken ribs, fractures in both my legs, and a fractured vertebrae. Oh, and a brain injury, of course. The only memory I was able to recall again was the accident and it was the only one I didn’t want. I could remember nothing before that time.  I laid in the hospital for several weeks, trying my best to remember but it was like staring at the blank white walls that surrounded me. Nothing. I was given physical therapy so I could walk again. A metal plate was also placed in my legs. 

I was hoping during the weeks while I was laid in that hospital bed that someone would tell me my name but no one did. Anytime I tried to ask I was told the same thing, “You will remember it one day.” I was my own John Doe. Mr. Monroe brought a travel bag for clothes for me. I opened the bag in the room I had been laying in for the past several weeks, eager to leave before I went mad, and inside was a plain white shirt and loose gray sweatpants, white socks, white underwear, plain white sneakers. No name brands. No brands at all. All the tags and labels had been removed. I followed Mr. Monroe to a car parked inside an underground parking lot. It was an all black car, with black tinted windows. I stopped walking at the sight of it. It looked a lot like the car that was behind me at the accident. Mr. Monroe took notice of me stopping and turned around. “What’s the matter, kid? You look like you have seen a ghost.” He stepped closer to me, as two, tall men in black suits, black ties, white shirts and black aviators, stepped out of the driver and passenger seats. They both stood stoic, arms by their sides. 

“I-” I stuttered “What about my family and friends? Wouldn’t they be worried about me? I’ve been gone for weeks.” I tried to reason, I had no ideas if I even had any friends or family.

Mr. Monroe’s face pulled into a blank slate but his eyes showed a silent command that I was to silence myself. “We are your family.” He said calmly as he brought down his onto my shoulder hard, which triggered a sudden pain from my fractured ribs. I groaned and doubled over, clutching my sides. “And as your family, you will join us in the car to discuss your service and your training.”

Panic bubbled into my throat as I slowly nodded. Accepting my fate, I walked with Mr. Monroe digging his fingers into my shoulder as he guided me to the car, that the driver opened for me and I was pushed onto the seat as the man in black opened the door for Mr. Monroe to sit next to me. The car pulled out of the parking space and drove away.

[ponder-the-orb]

The definition of home

Saw the epilogue where Gale is still 100% down to marry mind flayer Tav. And so THIS was born.

Pairing: Fem (illithid) Tav/Gale

Tags: Hurt/Comfort, post-game (pre-epilogue), Gale would still love you if you were a worm,

Word count: 4.6K

Summary:

“Have you really thought about the things I cannot give you?”

She reaches out and parts the folds of his mind, her own face impassive and wet through his eyes. “This.” She concentrates, projecting the image of her former self, naked and wanting, into his mind. “Or this.” Another image of her elven body, now heavy with his child. “Or this.” She twists the image until it’s the two of them elderly and grey, their withered hands clasped together.

Such pictures are not hard to conjure for her. Once, they were her own wants, the things she’d dreamed about a lifetime ago now. All the things she can’t be.

After the Netherbrain lay in the Chionthar and they’d found one of the city’s unscathed inns, she’d simply sat in the dark as he slept and contemplated just how truly alien she was compared to him. All the parts of her he’d loved, the places he’d whispered his devotion against– they’d gone. There was nothing left that could fit together, not as lovers should.

Read on AO3 or below

***

She had never thought that she’d call a wizard’s tower her home. Before, they’d seemed like such uninviting places: lofty, solitary and always exuding such an obnoxiously foreboding aura — perhaps to match their owners she’d once presumed.

It turns out, she’d been half right as this particular tower very much matched its owner. Gale had not exaggerated when he’d described its comforts. Every single floor was dedicated to either good literature, good food or good rest — and while it was as cluttered as an addled mind when they’d arrived a few days ago, it had been a strange sort of gift to sort through the mess and dig into the person he’d been before.

It had been a greater gift still to see him so at ease for the first time. Every discarded elixir or scribbled note had a story, one told with bright eyes and eager words- free from the poison of that Netherese orb or the expectations that had once festered so cruelly within him.

Tonight, as with most nights since her arrival, she’d retired to her favourite desk in a comfortable corner of the library. It’s a shadowed spot nestled between towering bookshelves, a thousand tomes watching her like a leatherbound forest as she writes. The window is half open in front of her, Waterdeep itself glinting in blue and silver splendour beyond. Her new city. Her new home.

It’s almost strange how that word has evolved almost as much as she has recently. For most of her life, it had meant the bustle of Baldur's Gate. It’s still somewhere she finds herself thinking of often, the wonky streets, the cobalt waters, how there was such a strong scent of ale and stone and smoke wherever she went. 

For a while it had also meant a continuously moving campsite, barely a few paces ahead of the Absolute’s horrors. Those memories of dirt and stale bread and shared bedrolls still bring a joy to her, despite the peril that stains them. They’re pieces of her, pieces that slid into place and changed her down the fabric of her soul. 

Even now it’s a little difficult to fathom exactly who she’d been before she’d been abducted. 

She looks to the small mirror propped up on the desk, really scrutinising the reflection. All the same elven features stare back, from the sharp angles of her face to the points of her ears — yet there are still details that don’t quite seem to fit properly. 

More doubts crop up as she takes in every inch of visible skin. Had she always had this many freckles? Are the scars on her shoulders new or old? Are the shadows under her eyes usually this deep?

Was this the face he fell in love with?

“Have you finished your guest list yet?” Gale calls from closer to the hearth. He’s reclined in an armchair, eyes glued to some massive compendium on psionics he’d picked up almost an hour ago. He waves his hand and the fire blooms brighter, perfuming the air with a stronger scent of bark and spices.

The glow illuminates those handsome features in a softer gold. She feels herself warm a little at the sight.

“Yes. Here,” she replies, picking up the paper next to her and floating it over with a flick of her own wrist. 

He cocks his head as it lands between the pages of his book. “This is really everyone you wish to attend?”

“Yes.”

“I suppose I shouldn’t be surprised that you’ve put Omeluum and Blurg at the top. I am rather curious as to what the Society would consider an appropriate wedding gift.” He smiles and turns back to his reading. “One would hope for a rare magical artefact of some kind but we may have to be content with an exotic selection of mushrooms.”

“Our correspondence has been a great help to me,” she says, turning back to the mirror and concentrating on how her mouth forms the words. “And they said they’d be delighted to attend under the guarantee they will not be attacked the second they enter the city.” 

She can understand their worry. It had scarcely been a fortnight since the city had been saved but the illithid invasion is already legendary news across the entirety of the Sword Coast. She’d seen multiple mind flayer corpses kicked into waiting fires, whispers about parts of their bodies being sold for high prices to wizards and alchemists spreading along every single street. 

It scarcely mattered. There was never going to be any outrage over that.

They were monsters after all: soulless, mindless, evil creatures, ready to enslave everyone who didn’t fit their image. After such destruction caused by the Absolute, it would be foolish to not be ready to kill one on sight.

She hears him sigh and shut the book in his lap. “There’s really no one else?”

“I’m very sure that is everyone who will want to come.”

There’s a quiet shuffle and his face appears in the reflection behind her head. 

“You know, you really don’t have to do that,” he says, meeting her eyes in the mirror. “I know how much effort it is to maintain.”

“I will need to do so for the wedding. It’s practice.”

He squeezes her shoulder gently. It’s a familiar comfort. “It’s just us, my love. You can be yourself.”

She exhales and closes her eyes, finally pulling her illusion out of both their minds. When she opens them again, her true form looks back. All her bright colours have faded, giving way to taut grey skin, a pulsing stretch of pale brain matter on either side of her head and four long tentacles. The textbook image of a freshly birthed mindflayer.

The slick pebbles of her eyes catch his in the mirror, but he doesn’t flinch.

“There you are,” he says, patting her shoulder again. “Was it tiring to hold it for so long?”

She turns in her chair. “It is just you and I in here. When there are others, it will be harder to distort their perceptions of me.” 

“You don’t have to do that for the ceremony either if you don’t want to,” he continues softly, sitting on the loveseat opposite her desk. “I’ve already spoken to several clerics and after a lot of explaining a few of them are happy to-”

“It’s easier this way,” she interrupts. Her voice is stronger now that she’s speaking directly into his mind. The lack of vocal cords had taken a few days to get used to when she’d first transformed but now she can scarcely think of another way of communicating.

He leans forward in the chair. “It’s not about what’s easier. It’s about what you want.”

“What I want is for our wedding to not be interrupted by a group of angry citizens, terrified that there is a mind flayer in their city.” She can almost count the people who know of this tower’s new tenant on one hand, only ever leaving under the cover of night and wrapped in several layers of clothing to hide herself. 

Despite Gale’s assurances, she knows she’s not ready to fully explore the city yet and neither are her new neighbours.

His small smile doesn’t fade. “No one is going to hurt you. Plus I think you’re more than capable of defending yourself.”

She nods and floats over to the fire, the flames highlighting the deep grey tracks in her hands. “Perhaps it would not be so bad. I heard that it is good luck to have at least one murder at a Waterdavian wedding.” 

Gale chuckles. “I think we already have all the luck we need.”

A long beat of silence passes as she faces him again. She can see another thought twisting in the front of his mind, clear as any parasite. It would be no trouble to reach in and find out for herself, but she stops. 

Waiting is the human thing to do , she reminds herself.

“Is there something bothering you about the wedding?” he eventually asks.

“Nothing in particular,” she replies and begins to methodically float various piles of books back to their places on the shelves. “Perhaps only that we do not need such a large cake when only one of us can eat it.”

There’s another moment of quiet, a slightly more uncomfortable one this time. She can feel the way his eyes bore into her, even as she avoids his gaze. 

“You’re a poor liar, even now,” he says. The chair scrapes behind her and she hears him pad over. “Can you be completely honest with me please? You haven’t seemed overly enthused about any of this.”

She halts her book sorting. “You want this. I want you to have it.”

“I meant what I said before. We do not need such a ceremony if you’d prefer.” His voice drops when she doesn’t answer, gentle as an embrace. “To many it is an unusual situation, but those that matter will understand.”

“That is not what I am concerned about.”

He closes his eyes. “Then tell me. You are not exactly the open book you were before. Forgive the wording but, I have never found reading someone so tricky.”

“Precisely,” she says, turning to him fully. 

She takes his hand in hers, so delicate and pale in comparison to each of her long clawed fingers. It would be so easy to break his skin with but a caress, tear all the soft places to ribbons without even meaning to.

“Gale, are you truly sure that this is everything that you desire? What we have can never be any definition of the word traditional or domestic , at least by the standards of Faerûn. What you want is something you envisioned with my previous self and that is not someone I can become again.” She pulls her hand away, something akin to a sigh projecting from her mind. “It is also not a form I ever wish to return to.” 

That was her one fear before evolving — the permanence of it. She could save everyone, save him but forever be branded a monster. 

That was before the universe opened like a flower before her eyes.

The moment she changed, all that abhorrence dissolved into astral dust. The walls of her mind opened, possibility upon possibility flowing through her until the bounds of space and thought seemed such novel concepts. Gone were her aches, her bruises and the limitations of such a weak shell, replaced with the thrill of being able to bend the world around her with but a thought.

How could she have ever been scared of these gifts? Of such wild beauty? 

But elegance to one can so easily be an atrocity to another. It was the first feeling she’d tasted when her mind had opened, as deep and sour as vinegar. 

Part of her still wishes she couldn’t have immediately known that reaction belonged to Gale.

He folds his arms at her words. “I know all that.”

“Have you really thought about the things I cannot give you?” She reaches out and parts the folds of his mind, her own face impassive and wet through his eyes. “This.” She concentrates, projecting the image of her former self, naked and wanting, into his mind. “Or this.” Another image of her elven body, now heavy with his child. “Or this.” She twists the image until it’s the two of them elderly and grey, their withered hands clasped together.

Such pictures are not hard to conjure for her. Once, they were her own wants, the things she’d dreamed about a lifetime ago now. All the things she can’t be.

After the Netherbrain lay in the Chionthar and they’d found one of the city’s unscathed inns, she’d simply sat in the dark as he slept and contemplated just how truly alien she was compared to him. All the parts of her he’d loved, the places he’d whispered his devotion against– they’d gone. There was nothing left that could fit together, not as lovers should.

She’d seen it in his dreams that night too: visions of him pressing his lips to the places that were tulip-soft, tonguing the sweetness of her skin, slipping his hands under swathes of white lace to touch her  — each beautiful thought piercing like a needle of ice to her mind.

It was the night she’d wondered if such caresses would feel the same now. The same night she’d realised that illithids cannot cry.

The walls of Gale’s mind suddenly slam down like a portcullis.

“Out!” His shout reverberates around the library as he swipes the air in front of him.

She floats backwards, almost pushed by the force of his thoughts.

“Do not do that again.” he whispers, the words breathy and broken like he’s just taken a blow to the stomach.

She turns her face back to the fire, mind burning with regret.

“I am sorry. I only wished to show you the truth.”

“The truth,” he says flatly. “Do you really believe that I didn’t think through our future? Or rather that I was lying to you and myself when I said that I wanted us to stay together. I’m honestly not sure which of those options is more insulting.”

She sighs and wraps herself in a new form—  him, from their first meeting.

“It’s a process known as ceremorphosis and it is to be avoided .” She wags her finger as she speaks in a perfect echo of his voice. “Day one, fever and memory loss. Day two-”

He holds up his hand, cutting her off. “I remember what I said.”

“That was only a few weeks ago. Is it surprising for me to wonder why you have had such a sudden change of heart?” she says, fading back to her illithid form.

“Because of you ,” he answers, exasperated. “You chose this and you saved us, saved everyone .”

She shakes her head. She’d never thought that rationalisations could hurt more than an outright rejection. 

“Yes, I was instrumental in stopping the Absolute and it may be the greatest thing I will ever achieve. But awe or gratitude are not reasons you have to stay with me.” 

“If I recall correctly, I was also fairly instrumental in that.”

“You also offered up every other option to me evolving, even using the orb,” she continues, suddenly finding it hard to keep her voice so even in his mind. “And I am not sure whether your own death being preferable to this or you still hanging on for Mystra’s forgiveness feels worse.”

She immediately tastes his anger at her words.

Mystra isn’t someone they’ve discussed much since her arrival here, but it is not something she can simply cast a veil over and forget. His previous lover was a Goddess , a being described as more wondrous than the light of the weave itself, beautiful and terrible as a storm. 

The very statue of Mystra herself had once sat at the desk she now calls her own, a cruel and shapely reminder of what she has to live up to.

It had tactfully been moved one morning before she could blast it into a thousand pieces.

“Do you really believe that is what I was thinking?” Gale utters after a moment. His expression splinters like glass in front of her, the frustration around him turning colder- hurt.

She immediately wants to take it all back. She wants to lie and say she was angry and jealous and pave over this whole evening with a sweeter candied drawl about the wedding. 

She fights it, knowing this conversation is long overdue for them both.

“The more foolish part of me wants to say no. But I cannot,” she says as calmly as her mind will allow.

She holds back her power as much as she can as he silently processes her answer. She can see the feelings churning behind his eyes, but it feels wrong to sip them now. She can handle his anger, his realisation, his wish for her to leave– but not his pain. 

“Tell me the truth in its entirety, regardless of what you believe my feelings will be,” she urges gently. “Regret will fester between us otherwise.”

He runs a hand through his hair, closing his eyes. “The only regret I have is not realising sooner that her forgiveness boiled down to me blowing myself up at a more convenient time,” he finally says in a firm whisper. “I didn’t care a jot for it then and I do not now.” When he opens them again, there’s a stronger look set there. It pins her to the spot as he takes a step forward. 

“The truth in its entirety, very well. You already know that when we first set out, our main objective was to stop this very thing from happening, so of course I was scared when you chose it. In all my studies on ceremorphosis, the same thing was emphasised repeatedly: that the host is completely destroyed, soul and all. What remains is merely a husk and there is nothing left of the person they were.” He pauses and takes a shakier breath. “Even if it damned the world, I couldn’t bear the thought of losing you.” 

The air feels somehow quieter as his confession hangs between them. She stays silent, waiting for him to gather himself. 

“But that didn’t happen,” he continues, his voice a little more resolute. “It took a minute, but after you changed I could see it. You still looked at me the way that you did before. You even made a joke about wanting to taste smoother brains than mine,” his smile softens, eyes glossier the firelight. “Perhaps you are a new kind of illithid, or maybe there is even more we need to learn about them. But I can definitely say that I never thought that a mind flayer could feel ashamed.” 

She bristles a little. “I am not ashamed.” 

“Then why are you trying so hard to push me away?”

She looks back to her desk, the reflection of their strange pairing shadowed in the mirror. “I will not be the reason you cannot have everything you want.”

He grabs her hands as she begins to float away.

“I have said it before. I am many things, but I’m not coy nor am I a liar. I made a promise that you will always be enough for me. That has not changed and it never will.” He strokes her palms in a familiar pattern and memories of her sitting with him in star-spun visions of the outer planes drift to the front of her mind. She holds onto the image, remembering the warmth on his face when he’d told her the first time, the light and love so clear in his eyes.

It’s the same look he has now, the same feeling unfurling hot and unyielding in the pit of her stomach. 

What she’d give to hold onto it forever.

“I doubt this was what you imagined when you made that vow,” she answers quietly. Her tentacles shiver as she moves her head as if to prove her point.

They both look down at their joined hands for a moment, before he brings one to his mouth and presses a long, warm kiss to her wrist. “You can pry into my mind and seek my true feelings on the matter if you wish, but after everything that has happened to us, there are really only two questions I have about your new form.”

He lets go of her hands and lightly cups her shoulders.

“Firstly, do you love me?”

Her head snaps up. “Of course I do.” Her response is immediate, the airiness of her voice almost breaking at such a thought. 

After all she’s said tonight, she knows it is not a completely unfair question to ask, but hearing even the tiniest curl of doubt in those words feels like a greatsword carving straight through the space where her heart once lay.

“Before, I always believed that illithids were simply not capable of any type of real emotion, other than mindless obedience I suppose. But I could not have been more wrong.” She looks down at herself as she speaks, taking in everything from her feet hovering a few inches from the ground to the pinkened tips of her tentacles. A monstrosity through and through, but one that she’s proud to be. 

“I know it can be hard to see. My face is… grotesque to many and emotions can be difficult to show when you lack even the basic attributes to form a smile. I will never sing nor weep nor kiss again but that does not mean the desire to do so has left me. And the feelings I had for you, they too have evolved with me.” She pauses, trying not to stumble under the intensity of her words. “I did not realise that love could run this deep inside of me. I can remember everything so clearly : the strength of your passions, the beauty of your kindness, all you are, all you have done for me. There is not a second I do not hold dear.” She hesitates as she reaches up, still so keenly aware of the razor-sharp claws protruding from each finger. He meets her halfway instead, leaning in to press his cheek to her palm. 

It’s such a simple gesture, one she’d done maybe three dozen times when she was still elven. It’s a stronger feeling now – every sensation against his skin settling firmly into her memory.

“Gale, it is no exaggeration when I say that you are everything .” She traces the familiar trail from his eye to his neck as she speaks, where the edges of the orb had once cracked his lovely face like porcelain. 

He leans into the touch, just as he had three dozen times before. “And now that you’ve had time to settle into this body, even with the tentacles and the talons, do you still feel like you ?”

It’s the question she had pondered herself for weeks now, one that she’d already been asked repeatedly by practically everyone… everyone but Gale. 

And for the first time, she has a firm answer.

“Yes, I do,” she says, pressing each word clearly into his mind. His face breaks into a wider smile as she looks back up, one that she wants to paint her dreams with should she ever remember how to sleep.

“It is curious in some ways,” she continues, “I do not feel as if anything has been taken from me, rather added– perhaps because I have no higher purpose to serve as the rest of my kind do. I am no slave, no thrall and I have no wish to conquer this world, at least no more than before.” She huffs out a small laugh, the first in what feels like a lifetime. “The desires I had then are still those that I want now.” 

“And what are they?” Gale asks, still resting his face against her hand.

She pats his cheek. “ You ,” she gestures around them with her other hand. “This.” She looks to the window, watching the nighttime bustle of Waterdeep gleaming below. “And perhaps more adventuring when the time is right.” When that time may be she isn’t sure, but she knows she wants it – wants it all. She wants to feel every inch of the Sword Coast against her skin, seek new ways to use her mind, love in every physical and abstract way she can fathom until both of them have experienced all joys and pleasures possible between them. 

“That sounds perfect to me,” he says, twisting to kiss the palm of her hand.

She sinks into the feeling of his lips for a long, wonderful second before letting go. “You really do not think that you will ever wish for more?”

She already knows his answer. She can taste it in the air between them- rich and sweet like honeyed wine. Perhaps there is still some shred of her old mind that lingers, one that wants to hear him say it one more time.

He hums for a second before gently gripping one of her tentacles. 

“You are the person I love. The person I want to be with,” he says, his hand leaving a pleasurable warmth as it slides up the length of her. She doesn’t notice the lower portion reflexively curling around his arm until his face is but a hair’s breadth from hers. “It is true that this has required a bit of an adjustment. Our relationship will be one of the mind for the most part, but there’s more than one way to be a family… and to be intimate.” He bends down, letting his lips follow the trail of his hand until they rest against her forehead. 

“I doubt the world will ever fully accept this.” Her voice wavers with an unfamiliar pleasure as he continues his slow exploration of her.

His answering laugh tickles her skin. “As if I give a damn what the world might think. To know that you care for me is the only reassurance I’ll ever need.” 

He leaves a lingering kiss between her eyes and the whole room blooms in pink around her.

“Thank you, ” she says as does it again.

“For what, my love?”

She presses her forehead back in her own imitation of a kiss. “For everything. For opening your home to me.”

He looks down with heavy-lidded eyes. “Home is with you: wherever that is, in whatever form that is. And you should never, never doubt that.” He leaves one last kiss against her face before stepping away.

“Plus, I never realised how fascinating the field of psionics could be!” She quickly pulls her tentacles back as he grabs the book he’d been reading. “You are a veritable treasure trove of discovery– that the power of the mind can rival the weave itself in certain ways has made for such an amazing study. Texts on the subject are fairly rare and, as I have come to realise, inaccurate. Not many have had  the privilege to see the power up close and I’ve already got several papers planned on the subject.” He turns back to her, his expression softer. “Provided you would be my co-author, of course.”

She drifts over, studying the masses of notes scrawled in the margins of the text. “Dekarios & Dekarios,” she muses. “We would certainly leave quite the author’s note. But I believe it would be best to have the wedding first or I fear you will be too distracted to plan such festivities.”

He chuckles and carefully puts the book down. “True. In that case, I suggest we return to that at once.” He pulls another chair up to her desk, smiling as he gestures to the empty one next to him. “Shall we?” 

--

It quickly becomes an open secret in Waterdeep: the wizard and his illithid companion. Questions fly as to the true nature of their partnership, of the work they do, the ways such a being is kept satiated in the city.

And if they are spotted on the evening streets or in the quieter corners of the Yawning Portal, the same answer is always given by both of them.

Their tower is open to any who seek knowledge. Simply knock and be welcomed into their respite from the bustle of the city.

Their office. Their oasis.

Their home. 

***

I take back what I said before, THIS is the most self-indulgent thing I've ever written.

[emathyst9]

Hey bet you're shocked by this because I never share my writing but I like this one so have something I just wrote from my AU where William's a ghost

Be warned I'm not a fic writer or anything and definitely not a professional either so uhhh I don't know how to post this properly

The gist before you start reading is that he kind of goes into a dream like state since his soul keeps getting pulled back to UCN hell where it should be

Oh also it's not like a what if he wasn't Springtrap this is if he was a ghost after all of that and during the Security Breach time

But anyway he meets "himself" in the red lake in UCN and has a chat with him

Or is it himself?

Just a Burning Memory

A head slowly rose up out of the static, crimson water.

Then came the body it belonged to, held up by its arms, placing itself upright.

This figure was a contrasted purple to the unnatural scarlet scenery.

A gnarled hand clutched the mess of hair on its head, as the figure let out a near silent groan.

Emerald green, dead eyes skimmed the surface of the lake.

That body of water, as well, was red like the rest of this strange world. It did not ripple when anything touched its surface, but possessed all the other qualities that a liquid would.

The figure rigidly stood upright, looking down at this water in curiosity.

He leaned over and touched a pointed finger to it, then the tips of the rest of his fingers.

At first, it felt like nothing. Not hot, not cold. No temperature at all. No wet feeling on his hand either. Almost like it wasn't there.

Until the figure closed his empty eyes for a minute.

A jolt of pain shot up through every non-existent nerve in his arm, and he could perfectly visualize the path it traveled. He felt the air stolen from the lungs not in his chest. His apparition of skin burned intensely like it was on fire. Every last part of him that should have been long decomposed was in excruciating agony.

The figure panicked and withdrew his hand, clutching his wrist. The look on his face spelled extreme confusion and distress.

It was only for a split second that he touched that strange water and felt everything that he did.

But it seemed like an eternity. It was like every injury over a lifetime all came back at once. Certain incidents that wrought havoc upon him, every cut given to him by others and his own hand, every slap and punch to the face...

The figure looked around him, past the cursed lake.

There was a strange building. A house? No... A restaurant?

It seemed to change shape as he looked at it, as though it did not have one true form.

All around everything else were dense forests of scarlet pine trees. He couldn't see anything past or within them.

There was a shore around the lake he stood in the middle of.

But there was no one else around.

At long last, a realization hit him.

"...No.

No no no. I remember this. I can't be here again, no!"

The figure hurriedly splashed through the red water, scrambling to get free from it. Though every so steps would be a mere falter that nearly brought him crashing into the lake completely, he did not give up his fight.

Eventually, he leaped out and onto the red, grassy shore. Though he plummeted to the ground, he shakily lifted himself up again.

As his head turned upward, he found a pale white hand reaching out to him.

The modestly smiling person extending this assistance was strangely familiar.

His attire was rather fanciful, with a dress shirt and a star patterned bowtie, and a vest that had a coat tail on the back.

He was dressed in purple, rather than crimson. Waves of brown hair poured down from his head, tucked behind the ears and placed strangely across his forehead.

Though the lost soul on the grass knew precisely who this man was, he simply took the hand offered and allowed himself to be placed firm on his feet.

Only then, as he looked into the emerald eyes that mirrored his own, and noticed the uncharacteristic absence of gloves covering the stranger's hands, did his comprehension of this sight take hold.

"You...

You're... Me."

"Indeed.

The much better version, if I do say so myself."

The stranger placed a hand lightly on his broken self's shoulder.

"Just look at the mess the future has beaten you into.

You've become frozen into a distorted version of someone you pretended to be. Fitting of your nature, wouldn't you say so yourself?"

"...

Are you not already saying that?"

The ghostly figure was rather unimpressed with the remark. It was too close to a bad joke.

The other him was all but correct. The ghostly man was stuck in a tattered uniform that a security guard would have worn. It was loose fitted now, and there was even a giant bloodstain in the middle of the shirt. Though the badge on his chest was severely cracked and snapped, the name that nearly remained there was D. Miller. Dave.

But that was not his name.

Ignoring the question, he inquired to the one stood in front of him.

"So then, William.

Why do you think you have found yourself here?

... What a strange feeling, saying my own name to myself. That's not really something that could happen in reality, is it?"

His tone was calm, and even a bit light-hearted. As though he were just a friend the present him was speaking to.

"Pardon the satirical remark.

My question still stands."

The ghostly William crossed his arms.

"Whoever put me back in that god forsaken lake just wishes to torture me again, so I'll hazard the guess that it's for that.

Just for me to suffer for my actions.

Can't you forget the sarcasm or whatever that is? It's annoying."

William snapped back at his other self in exasperation.

Once again his request was ignored.

"How interesting that you speak of something 'godforsaken.'

You know yourself there is no god you worship.

...

Indeed, this place was crafted to serve as punishment to you. Or so that is what you believe.

Yes, all that happens whenever you find yourself here is nothing short of a form of torture.

But...

Is it truly something real and personal, or could it be a prison built by your hand? Perhaps even just fictitious?

That is another question I ask you."

The ghostly William snatched up the front of his other half's shirt.

"Oh, enough with your stupid questions! I don't care!!! All I want to know is why the bloody hell I have to be here yet again, and why I'm seeing myself as if I've absolutely lost my fucking mind!!"

But the other him only stared blankly.

"Answer me god damn it!"

"...

Do you understand where you belong? That you should not exist the way you do?

You're a dead man. Brought to ruin by your own destruction.

You're a dead man.

And yet you turn your gaze away from what you should have met long ago."

A smirk crept up on his mouth.

"Why don't you give it a good look?"

Somehow, William did not notice that with every spoken word, he was slowly backed up by the figure that stepped closer. And closer. He soon stood right at the water's edge.

Until a hand placed itself upon his chest.

It shoved him down.

He grasped the arm trying to force him into the red lake, gritting his teeth to exert force with the muscles he did not have anymore.

His green eyes burned bright with fury in their black sockets.

All while the other him simply looked on blankly.

"Give up, Afton. Go where you belong."

"No! Never!! You'll never take me back!!"

Something was strange about that term of address.

For whatever that shadow of the past was, just why would he refer to himself that way?

He continued to grip the arm, his feet slipping closer into the water.

He suddenly lifted his leg and delivered a swift kick to the knee of his other half. It caused that version of him to falter. William used the opportunity to take full hold of the arm grabbing him, whip around his other self, and shove him into the lake.

He practically leaped onto him, forcing him down far into the water, watching it flood into his airways. The other him struggled immensely against the forcefulness. He tried to push the arms back himself, splashing the water with his flailing legs.

"YOU. You are the one that's GONE.

You're just the past. You are DEAD. I AM THE ONE STILL HERE.

SO YOU WILL ACCEPT YOUR OWN FATE."

William yelled in fury and strenuation as he kept shoving himself down.

But he did not expect what came.

As if in the blink of an eye, the figure before him took on a new form.

It was crimson, blending into the water.

But the round face, the wide figure, the ringlets of hair.

All of it belonged to someone.

To a person he loved and loathed. To a person that had too much and lost it all.

This person that shaped the trajectory of his life like a god fashioning clay into a living being.

He let go as his own figure flashed to reflect the one that was in the water a moment before.

"...Henry?"

And for a second, the crimson took on color.

Vibrant warmth. Just like the warm complexion and darkened blonde hair he hadn't seen for ages.

Dressed in comfortable garments of black and brown and blue.

Only his hazel eyes did not appear. They appeared to have a shadow cast over them by the wire glasses he wore.

The figure gently caressed him.

It brought him close, distracting him from the fact that he was slowly being turned back towards the water.

But he only placed himself above, to prevent it from happening.

He stared longingly into the eyes he could not see.

Memories seemed to come to him as he felt the water this time.

Many were fond and warm, picturing the moments they shared in the light and in the dark.

But then the painful remembrance gripped him.

Arguments. Anger. Condemnations. Convictions.

Loathing.

A burning flame that singed the mechanical and organic body he once had. Vengeance. And one final knowing glare as he watched the flames consume this man.

Though he loved and hated and desired and wished to destroy this one he caressed, he almost forgot about all the pain, as he became a reflection of the humanity buried within his soul. In fact, he forgot the static red world he was trapped in, remembering one from ages ago.

He leaned closely to Henry's lips.

The figure wrapped his hands around him.

William received the signal, and began to carry out his action.

But he was fooled.

The figure dragged him down, and though it caused their lips to meet, William was plunged into the water with a splash.

...

The ghostly man simply manifested and found his presence lingering in the depths somewhere in reality.

He was at the base of a stairwell that winded up a high distance. The modern lights around him dimly flickered at inconsistent intervals.

The moment he was tricked into was only stolen away from him.

He did confront his thoughts in that chaotic space, but the one he spoke to was not truly himself.

Or at least, not just himself.

Whatever part of him that cared in any way for the blurred figure in whatever dream that was, was repressed now. If William ever found him again, he'd only shove him into that water and drink in any intoxicating fear he may have showed towards the situation.

But what was it exactly? Could one who did not sleep call it a dream?

William believed for certain he could not.

As he looked down, his apparition still held the disheveled appearance it had in the "dream".

He opened his raised right hand, and closed his eyes.

He concentrated for a moment, conjuring up the energy and emotion within his projection.

A bright and dark purple blame burst forth. It twirled and danced on his fingers and palm.

He clutched his hand and the flame flew out quickly as it came to life.

That was right. He was dead after all.

Just a lingering spirit that had no intention to release his grip upon the waking world.

[sanjithesimp]

♡ video girl ft. jeon jungkook♡

a/n: i’ve been waiting to write for jk for sooo long and until now i had time to write it.

warnings: nsfw (minors DNI).fem reader. pwp. unprotected sex. masturbation. oral sex (f! receiving).creampie. degradation kink. fingering. mirror sex. mention of alcohol.

summary: jungkook being a soft dom? yesss pleaseee

taglist: @sweet-sourhotcoco , @lvrjjoyyy

playlist suggested to listen while you read this &lt;3

you were his favorite of all. he would get so excited whenever he got a notification that his favorite cam girl was live. sometimes he even thought he was falling in love with you. it was just the way you looked so pretty on the screen, he loved the little heart tattoo on your left hip he thought it looked so pretty on you, he dreamed of leaving small kisses on it, your soft moans were music to his ears as you fucked yourself with your fingers.

sometimes he wondered how you would feel on his dick, the mere thought of it made him so hard that it was almost painful. he would fuck his fist until ropes of cum would smear his uncovered abs. never in his life he would expect to have you in his bed, and fuck you until you couldn’t move anymore.

the memory of how you casually met was all blurry, mostly because you both were under the influence of alcohol. you don’t know exactly how you both started dancing but you liked the way his arms held you tight as you moved to the rhythm of the music.

you hadn’t really noticed how hot he was, the way his right arm was covered in tattoos, his raven hair and that lip ring was making you feel heat in between your thighs. and by the way he kept looking at you, he also liked the way you looked.

and in your mind you thanked your friend lisa for lending you her favorite mini dress, it definitely was working its magic.

the alcohol in your system made you bold enough to lean in closer and kiss him, he kissed you back, his hands on your ass and his tongue exploring inside your mouth. you could feel the hunger in both of you, the way his lips would travel to your neck, his teeth grazing your skin.

“by the way, i’m jungkook” he said breathless, a smirk drawn across his face.

“i’m y/n” you replied, also breathless.

“y/n, could i interest you in getting out of here?” he said, and without hesitation you nodded and let him guide you out of the crowded club. you would later explain your friends about your sudden disappearance with a total stranger.

“this is it” he said once you got to an enormous building, it was elegant and modern. he then guided you to the elevator, where he pressed the button with the number 20 in it, and once the doors closed you continued what you had been doing back in the club, one of his hands traveling under the hem of the dress, caressing your clothed cunt, feeling the wetness on your lacy thong.

“fuckkk” he whispered against your skin “this wet and i haven’t really started with you” he snickered. you moaned as his fingers started playing with your clit over the fabric, even though you were worried at any moment anyone could see you.

once you got to the 20th floor, he guided you inside his apartment. it was minimalistic and very bright. the windows covered most of the apartment, the view was amazing, and you thought about how incredible would be to wake up and see the sunrise.

“you like it?” his voice startled you.

“yes, i love it” you said, still mesmerized with the view of the stars shining and the city lights.

“i love it too” he said looking at you, making you feel heat on your cheeks. so you pulled him closer to you.

“then do something about it” you whispered in his ear.

he then held your waist as you wrapped your legs around his waist, he walked to his bedroom and plopped you on the bed with ease. when you turned your head to the left there was a big mirror in front of the bed, you bit your lip.

he got rid of your dress in seconds, leaving you almost naked in front of him, you were only left with the small lacy thong. he then started getting rid of his clothes, revealing the rest of his tattoos and his toned abs that were to die for.

“you’re so fu-” he suddenly recognized the little tattoo on your left hip, the pretty heart tattoo. he suddenly lost his words, was he dreaming? it couldn’t be possible that this was just a coincidence.

“is everything ok?” you furrowed your brows, he was frozen. something was wrong, maybe he realized that you weren’t what he was expecting.

“y-yeah, it’s just that…are you bunnygirl ?? ” you were now surprised, how could he possibly know who you were…was this some kind of joke? your head started spinning.

“i- how do you know that?” you were worried, maybe he was one of those creeps that followed you all around and coincidentally found exactly where you were. “i think i should go…” you said.

“no, no please…i just saw the small heart on your hip, and well that’s how i knew it was you…sorry if i made you think i’m a creep” he replied, suddenly worried and embarrassed.

“its just that i’ve found myself in so many situations where creeps follow me around and sometimes it’s hard to know…” you said.

“it’s ok, look i’m sorry if i made you uncomfortable, i can take you home if you want to.” he said, sitting next to you and giving you back your dress.

“no, i want to stay…i really want to” you said throwing the dress somewhere in the room “i think it’s cute you recognized my tattoo” you smiled and laid back on the bed.

“i got it when i was 18, my mom almost killed me because of it but i thought it was really cute” you added, suddenly forgetting the awkward moment you had a few seconds before.

“i think it looks so pretty on you” he said, rubbing the skin of your hip softly with his thumb. then he removed the last piece of clothing on you, your wet cunt on full display for him. he then kneeled in front of you, he spread your legs and placed his head in between them.

“you’re so fucking wet” he said and started living a trail of kisses on your thigh until he got to your cunt, he then used his fingers to spread your folds apart. he started giving open mouthed kisses to your cunt, his tongue playing with your clit as he tasted your sweet juices. he couldn’t get enough of it, he was addicted, hearing your loud moans as he fucked you with his tongue.

his fingers and tongue worked magic, there were few men that made you cum but no one had ever made you cum this hard, making you squirt all over his mouth, as he kept on rubbing your swollen clit.

“you taste so fucking delicious” jungkook said after cleaning his mouth with the back of his hand, he looked so hot, his hair all messed up, his eyes filled with lust, sweat beads on his forehead. you pulled him close to you, your lips crashing into his and tasting yourself as you melted into each other. his cock felt hard against your belly, he must have been so worked up after eating you out, poor thing, you wanted to do something about it.

you slipped your hand under his boxers and started pumping his cock, from base to tip, precum smearing all over his length. he was big, more than what you expected. you could feel the veins around his cock, he whimpered as you pressed your thumb over his slit, rubbing small circles around it, making you giggle.

“fuck, you’re going to make me cum if you keep doing that” jungkook said in between breaths.

“i’m sorry, am i being a bad girl?” you pouted, teasing him. “are you going to do something about it?” you continued.

“so it’s that how you want to play? you’re going to beg me to stop…” he said and without saying anything else he guided you and pushed you infront of the mirror.

“look at yourself, all messed up and i haven’t even fucked you” he was right, your hair was messy, your makeup was smudged and you were flushed. “now keep your eyes on the mirror, i want you to see for yourself the little whore you are…” he said, you knew he was definitely going to ruin you.

you never thought he would be so cruel like that, but you liked it. you liked how he could be soft and gentle, but also rough and demanding. it turned you on.

he started teasing your entrance with his tip, sliding it all over your folds. you couldn’t wait to feel him inside of you. you clenched on nothing from the anticipation, but he was just playing with you. he had a devilish smile drawn across his face whenever he made you whimper or moan, just by teasing you.

he was right, you were such a whore, thinking about his big cock filling you to the brim, making you moan until every single neighbour could hear you. his rough hands touching you everywhere.

“what are you thinking about, baby?” he whispered in your ear, his lips grazing your earlobe. “are you thinking about my cock?” he said as he pushed his tip slowly inside of you, finally. but suddenly he slipped it out, your eyes closing from frustration.

“what did i say? you have to keep watching” he was enjoying this a little too much, but he also couldn’t wait to feel the warmth of your walls around his cock. he dreamed about this so many times, more than he would like to admit. but he was just enjoying making you beg.

“please…jungkook, fuck me” you begged him.

“that’s all i needed to hear, baby” and with that he slipped his cock inside you, inch by inch, feeling your walls stretch and adjust to his length until he bottomed out. making you both moan.

he then started thrusting in and out of you, his hands on top of yours as you were pressed against the cold mirror. he loved watching his cock disappear inside your cunt, your juices combined with his precum. it was a thousand times better than what he imagined you would feel like. your cunt clenching around him, and how he felt like your cunt was made for him and only him.

your breath ghosting over the mirror as jungkook increased the pace, ripping out the most lewd sounds out of you. he was proud of it, and he was going to make sure that whenever you went live the only thing you would think about was his cock inside you. you felt the coil on your belly tighten as he rubbed his fingers around your neglected clit, sending electricity through your spine and making you arch your back.

“fuck…l-like that, jungkook…” you managed to say, as you watched his fingers move faster. he knew you were close, but wanted it to last just a little bit more. even though he also was close to his orgasm too.

he fucked you into oblivion, making you see stars as he spilled his cum inside your cunt until the last drop. you both were a mess, so after a few minutes, jungkook pulled out his softened cock out of you and carried you to his bathroom. you took a shower together and after putting on some clean clothes you plopped on his bed. and after talking for a bit you felt your eyes heavy and you both dozed off.

[voxofthevoid]

Time Travel Fuck-It Wednesday #5. This thing is now over 43k, and I have half of it left to write. I don't think the word count of the second half will be as high as the first half, assuming the plot doesn't mutate on me again.

It better not mutate on me again.

CWs: References to Getou's death, human remains, murderous thoughts between lovers, Gojou being a bit of a clown, and implied suicidal ideation on Yuuji's end

The rest of December isn’t so pleasant.

As Christmas Eve creeps closer, the household becomes more and more tense. Yuuji spends most of his time with his grandfather, alone now that Kenjaku’s finally gone. Satoru stops taking him out on missions, starts filling up his own days with them.

But he finds he can’t stay away for long, and the boy who comes home to him night after night looks at him with tired, unwavering eyes that say he can’t either.

There’s a finger stashed in the innards of this house, its miasmic aura smothered by three layers of seals.

Satoru’s not waiting for anything anymore, but he’s still waiting. Yuuji simply thinks they haven’t found the final finger, and they don’t really talk about it, but these days, there’s an air of desperation in the way he touches Satoru, pressing bruises into his flesh when they fuck and skimming delicate fingers along his skin in the aftermath, that’s more telling than any kind of fear. It’s no kinder, how he sometimes looks at Satoru with a wide, unblinking stare, like he’s drinking him in by the eyeful.

Satoru tries not to return that desperation in kind, but whenever he reaches for Yuuji, he finds himself gripping too hard and pulling too fast, and after he limits the touches and even the time spent in this house, there are the nights. It’s not just the sex, which is wild and violent but devastating in all the wrong ways. It’s also the way Yuuji stares at him till he falls asleep, a palm splayed on Satoru’s chest or throat. It’s the way he writhes closer and closer in his sleep, body slotting against Satoru’s like it was born to and trembling gently as Yuuji sleeps through dreams that slick his skin and quiver in his throat. It’s the quiet mornings, the silence too heavy for even the wet sounds of their bodies to penetrate.

He can’t fuck Yuuji happy, Satoru knows. But there’s a hunger in his flesh that’s mirrored in Yuuji’s, and no amount of touch will sate it, not with the inevitable hanging over their heads, but they try and try and try, and when daylight comes, they both run away.

It won’t last. It can’t.

Satoru tries not to think of the finger, of what he’s waiting for.

And then it’s the twenty-fourth of December, and they’re both home somehow, but Yuuji’s been holed up in his room—rarely used, more guest room than Yuuji’s ever since he started sleeping with Satoru—since morning, and Satoru’s been alternating between haunting the backyard and stalking around the living room.

He always comes to a stop in front of the shelf, its only significant occupant a small, sparsely decorated urn.

There’s not much in there. It took Satoru a long time to realize that he’d even grabbed a fistful of Suguru’s ashes. When he opened his palm, they were strangely wet. Half, he gave to Shouko. He meant to spread the other half in some river, wash his hands clean in the most literal sense, but he kept putting it off for so long that he had to stop fooling himself and just accept he was keeping this for good—a little part of a piece of his heart, suitably charred and marred.

“Happy anniversary,” Satoru murmurs—to Suguru, to himself, to another version of the boy now avoiding him, to a whole host of ghosts. “I'll keep you waiting a while longer this time. Not that you’d mind. You’re in no hurry to see me, are you?”

The urn, as always, offers no answers.

Satoru stays there anyway, eyes growing unfocused the longer he stares. The elegant patterns on the ceramic fade out of view, replaced by flesh both whole and torn. Satoru’s body doesn’t cling to sense memories as faithfully as his mind stores everything he’s ever gazed at, but just this once, the sticky hot sensation of blood slicking his hands is as vivid, as real, as the images running through his head.

And then they’re gone, the present reasserting itself with a vengeance.

“Good evening, Yuuji,” Satoru greets without turning around. “I was starting to think I wouldn’t see you at all today. What’s the matter—got hungry?”

There are a few seconds of silence, pregnant with a thousand unsaid things.

“Not really,” Yuuji says eventually. Another moment and then— “I was right here.”

“Oh?”

“If you wanted to see me, I was right here.”

“Ah, but I didn’t say I wanted to see you.”

Yuuji says nothing.

Satoru cheats a little, turning the Six Eyes to the view behind himself. Yuuji’s standing at the foot of the stairs, both arms crossed across his chest in a gesture that’s more pitiful than defensive. He looks tired.

The clothes hanging loosely on his body are Satoru’s.

There’s a pang at that, shuddering to death within the insides of his ribs.

Yuuji’s expression doesn’t give much away. His eyes are still and intent, watching Satoru the way he’s taken to recently.

What do you see? Satoru wonders.

Nothing less than what he is, he’s sure. Nothing grander either. But also not all of him. Satoru’s never had that. There was Suguru and Sukuna, but he was only a boy with one and a fool with the other. There’s more than one reason death didn’t bring him peace.

Still, Yuuji’s seen enough that he should be running. Aimless, pointless, but fear and self-preservation are powerful masters.

Yet, here he is—watching Satoru, seeing Satoru.

Wanting Satoru, so badly that it streams out of his pores even now—a pulsing ache that sinks into Satoru’s own skin, burrowing into his bones.

He turns around. Yuuji doesn’t flinch.

Satoru crosses the distance between them, slow enough that Yuuji has plenty of time to retreat. He doesn’t, of course. He doesn’t move at all, not even when Satoru comes to a stop within breathing distance of him. He does tilt his head up, meeting Satoru’s eyes through a few inches of heavy air and thick fabric.

Brave, beautiful fool.

Satoru curls a hand around his throat.

Yuuji still doesn’t flinch.

Under Satoru’s palm, there’s a soft, steady pulse. No fear, no arousal. Only a flesh mirror of the dead-eyed serenity on Yuuji’s face. Satoru tightens his grip, and Yuuji’s eyelids flutter slightly. It’s almost beatific.

Satoru considers it.

The finger is there, waiting, and Yuuji is here, also waiting. Maybe Satoru was also waiting—for this day, this date. There’s a seductive appeal to ending this on the twenty-fourth of December, a day that’s already witnessed so many endings and beginnings. It’d be poetic.

Satoru could confine all his grief to one single day.

Fingers brush the inside of his wrist, the touch unspeakably gentle. It grows bolder, firmer, but Yuuji doesn’t pull Satoru’s hand away from his throat. He only holds it, with a care that says he’s afraid Satoru might be the one to break.

He says, “It’s alright, Satoru.”

Satoru lets him go as if burned.

Yuuji’s expression shifts, but Satoru never sees what it settles into, space twisting around him with a hot, howling violence that lands him a few thousand feet high in the air. It’s enough distance for his house to be a dark speck down below, nearly blending into the dark, damp green of the forested mountains.

And he can’t see Yuuji, ensconced in walls and Satoru’s own seals, but he can sense him—the lashing edges of his cursed energy carefully, resolutely softened.

Yuuji’s pulse was calm under Satoru’s palm, but his is racing in his throat, as wild and vicious as the heart lodged in his throat. Satoru presses his hand to the base of his neck, grinding the heel into flesh and bone until his lungs start to burn.

It doesn’t kill the warmth lingering on his palm, pulsing in the shape of Yuuji’s throat.

Sometimes, Satoru thinks he should never have kissed that boy.

[thevampirelevi]

Adventureland | Part I

Masterlist

"Flight of Icarus." (part 1/7)

cw: vampire!eddie x fem!reader, mentions of grief, mentions of blood, introduction; no actual interaction between reader and eddie (yet)

wc: 1041 ☆

After the events of the Upside Down, a confused- albeit somewhat the same - 'Eddie the Banished' crawls his way back to Hawkins and seeks refuge in the now abandoned theme park, where he one day finds an equally confused - albeit somewhat the same - you.

The horizon ahead of you resembled something of an unfinished Michelangelo project with all of its ‘cadmium orange’ and ‘cobalt blue.’ The further south you drove, the more you found evidence of a burning ‘sienna’ in the mix as well, brushed onto that plaster sky still wet from the rain earlier today. You thought if you pushed the gas just a little more, you might soon start to see outlines of God extending his hand to Adam, but you were going 55 now and the only change in scenery was that the clouds were quickly taking on a darker hue.

The sun is setting and you’ve not even touched the asphalt of the fairgrounds yet. Maybe you should have admitted that you were somewhat lost one ‘Sattler Quarry’ ago, but you were too determined to turn back now. You had your mother’s Lou Reed cassette in your car stereo, playing “Perfect Day” from side A. You could sometimes listen to the whole tape without crying, and you had already had your mind set on today being one of those days.

You were also fixed on reliving some of your favorite memories with her, which is what brought you back to good ol’ Hawkins in the first place. Before the days of factory smoke pollution and L trains, you went through a good portion of your growing pains in Roane County. Then your father’s job pulled your family of three to Bloomington, before dreams of your own pulled you out of ‘Indie’ altogether.

But now you’re back, for the first time since the funeral. Has it been a year already? It felt like only yesterday to you, but so did all of your other resurfacing memories at the very moment you drove into your old hometown. Most of which plagued you the second your car neared that playground. You didn’t dare look in the direction of the schools, it took one year in Chicago and a whole other sabbatical year in New York for you to at least try to forget every classroom you’d ever entered since kindergarten. You had to practically reinvent yourself just to be free of any of the names you’d ever been called haunting every mirror you met. You prayed you wouldn’t recognize anyone, and moreover that no one would recognize you, especially those whomst had made you hate this town in the first place.

“You’re going to reap just what you sow,” sings your janky car radio as you cruise down Morehead Street, passing an abandoned house just as the Roane County Fairgrounds come into view. 

It had only just now occurred to you to consider whether or not you were dreaming as you silently sat in your car, staring past your rearview mirror and at the broken bulbs of the large and all too familiar ‘Adventureland’ sign. Last time you had caught even a glimpse of this place was in February of 1986, surely it couldn’t have been completely stranded since then?

The flecks of light snow you’d seen giving the place an almost powdered sugar finish last time, were now replaced with heavy and mangled vines, as well as wilder patches of moss. You could see that a bird had made itself a home in the ‘U’ of the buzzing sign, but there was no telling if it had belonged to the murder of crows that quickly flew away from the pavement at the creaky sound of your car door slamming once you stepped out of your station wagon.

It wasn’t the cold suddenly nipping at your nose that made you regret stepping out just as soon as you did, nor the fact that you were seemingly utterly alone. Rather, it was the slight prick of fear at the possibility that you weren’t.

Be it your intuition or not, you pushed that and all of your other worrying thoughts aside. Catching a peek of sunlight dancing on the broken glass of one of the carousel’s mirrors ahead of you, you used what little daylight there was left and the fact that there was still electricity powering the very broken sign as motivation to tread farther and approach the gates for a closer look at least.

Almost as if a sign to continue and no doubt only fueling your curiosity, you found the undone chain hanging from the rusted iron wickets of the gate to clearly have been cut with bolt cutters or something alike, as if anticipating your arrival. Determined to get at least half of what you came here for, and even more determined not to run away and cry at what might arguably be the biggest roadblock to your plans, you made your way inside the at least somewhat abandoned theme park.

⋆⋅☆⋅⋆───── ⋆⋅ᓚᘏᗢ⋅⋆ ───── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆

The sound of metal scraping against the gravel of the ground made Eddie’s head snap toward the direction of the park entrance hundreds of feet away. Of course, thanks to his annoyingly heightened senses, he’d heard the sound of slightly balding tires screeching to a halt before that - but that itself wasn’t a rare occurrence here.

Occasionally, someone would journey too far past Forest Hills, only to find a more and more desolate and straight up abandoned version of Hawkins. But, like clockwork, they’d all turn right back around and rejoin the rest of society. This, along with the scavenging raccoons in the trash cans and squirrels climbing up and over the fences, or even the whisperings of things lurking in the woods nearby, were all sounds that Eddie had learned to ignore. In fact, most of his time here was spent trying to ignore all signs of life.

But this rare sound, a sound so rare he’d stopped worrying about locking the gates back up long ago, meant that not only was a human nearby, but now they were coming closer. 

So close, in fact, that he could smell the iron in her blood and hear just the faintest ‘thump, thump, thump,’ of her heart synchronizing with the steps she made drawing nearer and nearer to his hiding spot; his favorite ride when both he and Adventureland were alive, ‘Flight of Icarus.’

And man, Icarus sure was flying too close to the sun.

[ehatnow]

Heres yet another thing ive been thinking abt to much

How did shit go down in the Mirror World:

DL1: Dark found Shadow and just kinda followed him around, helping out where he could. After seeing Shadow beat up Umbra (SDDD), he basically just adopted him. (He had a lot of help from Umbra)

Adventure: Dark Mind comes in, and things get depressing

DL2: Swordsman doesn't fight Shadow, instead the Animal Friends do

Super Star/Ultra: Essentially the same as how it went for Kirby, just Marx is a lot shyer and didn't wish to rule over Popstar. Also Dark didn't try to start a revolution, he gave the Halberd to Mirror Daroach

DL3: Dark Mind's influence starts to grow and Dark gets corrupted??? Mind controlled?? I dunno. Anyways Shadow fights Dark instead of Zero (i misspelled Zero like three times btw)

Crystal Shards: Never met Ribbon, instead went on a mission with Dusk (Mirror Bandee) and whatever I decide to call Mirror Adeleine to fix the Dimensional Mirror. Didn't fight 02

Amazing Mirror: No I'm not explaining this one, nothing would be different

Squeak Squad: Mirror Daroach isn't a thief, so SS could literally never happen.

RTDL/DX: Crown (Mirror Magolor) goes to Shadow and Co. asking them to get his crown back from Landia. Landia is trying to revive Dark Mind. They beat up the dragon, get Crown his crown back (lol) and wet cat redemption arc never happens

TD: Raz (Dark Taranza. Raz is a nickname Dark gave him) plants the Dreamstalk with the help of those weird flower people, and gets Shadow and Co. to help him kill Sectonia. Mirror Sectonia was elected to be president of Floralia and became a dictator. Mirror Sec almost achieved her goal of taking over Popstar, getting closer than her reflection. The only reason she didn't was because Kirby killed Sectonia. Raz then became king of Mirror Floralia.

Robobot: Mir Susie finds Shadow after the Ark does its whole thing, saying that she wants to take down the CEO. Shadow agrees to help her, and Dusk and Umbra tag along. Mir Susie tells them that she learned that Dark got mechanized, and that she would help them find him. When they get to the CEO's office, they fight Max, (Mir Haltmann who still lost his memories. But like. Almost all of them. He forgot that he was the CEO before, he forgot he had a daughter etc etc.) who then goes back to working right after. Mir Susie then reveals that she was actually insane the whole time, pulling out a mechanized Dark and sending him to kill them all. After Dark loses, she willing gives up her soul to Star Dream, and that whole thing happens. Mir Daroach pulls up in the Halberd to help and Mir Susie dies

Star Allies: Literally nothing happened for them

Forgotten Land: Essentially the same as it was for Kirby, just that Dark joined the Beast Pack and Shadow fought him at the end instead of Umbra

[shentm]

outsider still doesn't feel complete to me but i'm leaving it here for now. blade pov, no beta we die like baiheng, check tags for trigger warnings

dreamwidth mirror, which by the way is the more updated and also likely more permanent version of this piece, as this tumblr post always runs the risk of deletion anytime i'm awake past 11pm

The dream catches itself on those at the center of the tragedy, locking on to the minds already half-emptied by mara. It watches, as the nights repeat, as the hunt grows farther from its purpose.

He's covered in it, clothes slick with blood, the moonlight sliding off of it and watching him through the reflection. Every time he shows up, Jing Yuan has to stay awake for hours afterward, scrubbing at the floors to rid his home of the stains and the stench of mara-stricken beasts. It doesn't help that he likes to trail his sword behind, leaving gouges that the blood flows through, pooling in divots and seeping into the cracks between. But it's not like Jing Yuan expected him to be different.

An Outsider, who participated in a horrific ritual, and became tethered to the merging of paths, a creation of a collector who found the occurrence too interesting to resist. Who was given the abundance emanator's blessing, transforming him into something thought of as prey by most of the Xianzhou Alliance. It's strange that he's still sane sometimes, occasionally managing to break the contradictory resonance of intertwined paths where the hunt and the abundance intersect.

In the shared dream he sees the echoes of those he once knew, dead beings recreated in a perfect recollection of the waking world. It's just how he remembers, an everlasting reminder of what they did. He's drawn in when asleep and awake, unable to escape the repetition of memory.

In that intersection of paths he sometimes finds the shadow of the Imbibitor Lunae running away and away, too afraid to face his crimes. He finds the corpse of a dragon protected by its unborn kin, and tears it apart instead of looking back. He fights through the same landscapes again and again, always waking up in front of the same dim lamp. The only reason he can think of for this endless repetition is that someone out there likes these memories, wants to see the moment of the sin done right.

Skin melts against skin, fire burning through hair. The wet noise of a blade squelching as it rips through meat is the only sound that interrupts the guttural screaming of those beasts, displacing the cries with blood down their throats. Their pathetic existences mirror his own. Eyes press against his brain where they grow inside his skull, amplifying the beats of his heart. A constant high pitched whine carries through the sky, staying with him wherever he goes. Physical discomfort keeps him in the dream, afraid of what deeper pain awaits with the dawn of wakefulness.

He sees her too, sometimes, guarding the path before the corpse. She sees him in return, and they always meet in a clash of swords, the moon almost close enough to touch. It watches next to them, the blue light of her own weapon brilliant against the clouded orange sky. There was never any other choice; a recreation can only travel down the path of the original, like wheels in a rut on a dried dirt road. They tell each other that the dream will end. He continues the hunt again.

The dream is an awful thing to endure. He wonders about its purpose when cleaning his blade that Jingliu so kindly returned.

Dan Feng never acknowledges him, never admits to what he did, never even calls him by name. But it's clear that despite the physical differences, he's still the same arrogant coward that lives in the dream. How else would Dan Feng manage to kill him every time with the weapon he forged with his own once-deft hands, buying useless time before his inevitable judgement?

When he wakes up it is only a brief moment of respite from the dream as clear-cutting pain reminds him of his immortality. Sleep comes with the soothing promise of comfort, but also with the knowledge that it will not be restless.

Later he joins the Stellaron Hunters, gets taken in despite being on the brink of insanity. Feels the frenzy slipping away with Kafka's words, feels the understanding leave his mind. Turns him into a docile puppet, waiting for the next command. He names himself Blade. She gives him the first genuine rest he's had in seven hundred years.

His senses are diluted with her influence, not enough to render him completely useless, but enough to clear his mind. It's mostly just his sight that's a problem, and it's easy enough to counter with his other senses. The other one is touch, but he doesn't expect that to really be important. He does most of his hunting with a sword anyways, distanced enough from his prey.

He's never gone back to the Luofu personally. Once or twice through the years he hears news of its whereabouts, and soon has those reminders taken from his mind, rendering his sleep dreamless yet again.

He doesn't go back because he's not done hunting.

But at some point it was bound to happen, the meeting of three tragic sinners and that other guy who was also there.

A mission brings him back to the Luofu, and he doesn't complain because his mind is too empty to think. He tries to think of himself as just a simple vessel to help Elio carry out his plot. A stagehand for the endless show that they try to put on. It's quite nice, being like this, the desperately needed reprieve from the eyes that always try to crawl their way back into his brain. It's not easy to forget once your body has learned.

Kafka says the mission went well. Elio says he can break the tether now. He doesn't remember any of it, except from the brief moment of clarity when Jing Yuan asked him if he was done, and then the consciousness when he wakes up later.

Jing Yuan looks the same now as he did all those years ago, except for the young shadow he keeps at his side. He's still just as radiant as the sun, the center of everything he joins. Of course a comet like himself was never meant to stay long in Jing Yuan's orbit. The sun does not need to change when a dirty snowball cuts through its orbit after centuries of desolation in the universe; the sun burns bright on its own, without a need for a secondary light.

None of them are, were, like that, just a product that reflected their surroundings instead of the magnetic core that shaped their era. Maybe that's why they're all criminals wandering the stellar seas now, shot out from the gravity well and driven by their own definitions of the hunt.

But eventually he feels the searing pain start to fade when he chokes awake on drying blood, glances over at the dissolving bodies next to him. The eyes can no longer see. Kafka helps with her lightning, and soon the only physical links left are those burning wounds inside his brain.

Between puddles of blood and dripping black stone he wakes up, and the night grows deeper but the streetlights start burning. He collaborates, strangely, with Dan Heng (a new trailblazer) to force Jing Yuan back into his bed. He sees the artificial sunrise a few times, occasionally with Kafka, and sometimes just on his own. The sight of a celestial object rising behind the clouds has been one he's not seen for a while, even if it is still a false sun.

It's done, the dream has an end. The hunt is over, its conclusion long since found.

He meets the one who couldn't let go in the waking world, both of them more alive than they should be. Neither of them deserve to be here, yet they sully the Luofu with their presence anyways, carving and gouging out a place where they no longer belong.

She meets him with the same intensity she always carries, unable to be diminished by time or a dream's veil, and he feels alive as they dance the familiar battle once again, for what may be the last time. Unlike the cycles before them, this time it feels like a breaking of bonds, like something being set free.

On the last night of his stay on the Luofu he ends up at Jing Yuan's family home after he manages to separate from the dream, and he's lucky that Jing Yuan still stays here even after seven hundred years. Conveniently, Dan Heng mentions that Yanqing would be dragging the Luofu's heroic trailblazer on some sort of sword-hunting adventure on that day.

"Yingxing," Jing Yuan says when he enters civilly through the window, "please stop dripping blood on the floor."

It's that name that breaks him into the clearest state of mind he's had for centuries. That and the newfound control over his own mind, now that the moon no longer watches him. Jing Yuan still sounds the same, calls him with the same tone of voice. When's the last time anyone's referred to him as Yingxing? When's the last time he's been able to hear that name without his consciousness slipping through the cracks?

"Jing Yuan," he responds, and he's suddenly aware of the winds outside, carrying with them a fine mist of pollen that coats everything in a layer of grit, sticking to the drying blood on his clothes. He's aware of the artificial moonlight that gazes into the room, blue in tone and so much softer than the harsh orange red in his sleep. He can feel the silence of the home, where four others once gathered and where only one stays now.

"That's not my name."

The dream tries to call to him, but its voice is quiet here.

Jing Yuan reclines on the mass of pillows he calls a bed, and when he shifts he can hear the sound of feathers scratching at their confinements. He hears his pulse in his head, reviving nerves once thought to be dead, and he can feel the tingling sensation where it creeps through his limbs.

The air is cold where it hits his skin. It's been so long since he's been able to feel the temperature. He looks at Jing Yuan, and he can see the shine in his eyes, the strands of his hair where it was only a blurred image before. The world is clearer than it's ever been. It's like getting glasses. Do they still have those?

Jing Yuan grounds him in the present, the physicality distracting him from the broken link between his mind and that all-seeing eye disguised as the moon. The moon here on the Luofu is fake, as is the rest of the sky over most of the ship. The mara-stricken here do not scream as they claw at their faces, nor do they tear apart their prey with overwhelming strength.

He can touch and be touched now, acutely aware of the blood on his face, his body, his hands, the stains across the sheets and the fabric where he dares to rip them apart, but it doesn't matter in the moment. Cauterized wounds of foreign eyes that once grew inside his head start to make their presence known again, but they don't try to regrow. Flesh, not his own, knits itself together when he lets go, and the scent of iron permeates the air.

He's never been a particularly selfless lover. He bites down again.

"Ren," Jing Yuan says, quiet with an edge of something else. The false moon silently hangs behind the clouds, diffused into a hazy shower of light. The metallic taste of blood fills his mouth.

Jing Yuan is just as pliant for him now as he was centuries ago, body remembering and opening its vulnerabilities for him so readily. The heat in his head is easily ignored in favor of the heat beneath his hands. It's easy to get lost in the chase to consume and feed, but he reins himself in with the control he thought he'd lost a long time ago.

An Outsider, on equal ground with the Luofu's general, if only for one night. An Outsider, carving his own mark into the Xianzhou's history.

He finds Jing Yuan again after all these centuries, and he's still just as passionate as he's always been, fervent energy and primal fear driving him deeper into the desperate desire to stake a claim of his own.

[nihils-trolls]

In Darkness, Wailing

Catill Eidwyn | Wisp's Hollow | Present Night

Dancing lights flick across a pitch-black canvas. Red, yellow, green and white- they swirl in their flight, the light they shed traveling seemingly forever as nothing stands in its path. Suddenly, they separate and disperse into tiny, glittering pieces that scatter across the darkness.

The millions of twinkles hang in intricate patterns, the spaces between them seeming to hold them in their current place.

And yet, something shifts in that emptiness. It writhes in anticipation. In response.

Also sitting amongst the vast nothing, a pure white cat gazes upon the activity taking place just above it. Its four, wide and piercing yellow eyes take in every detail and attempt to process their meaning. It lets out a pained yowl, and begins to bend and contort. Another yowl from somewhere else joins in chorus, and another. And another. They crescendo, becoming discordant as a distinctly different set of screams joins in. Something not like any creature, nor speaking being.

The poor beast’s fur begins falling in clumps, its skin beginning to ripple underneath it all. A black tendril reaches out from nowhere to latch onto the feline-

Catill wakes suddenly, slowly dragging herself to sit up. A decorative, lacquered bowl sits shattered in front of her, and the tablecloth is absolutely soaked with some sort of black fluid. She feels a sharp pang in her stomach, and then in her head and chest as well. Her memory is foggy, and she doesn’t remember how she got here, or what she was doing. But falling asleep at the table doesn’t sound like something she’d do normally.

She attempts to rub the sleep from her eyes, smearing something wet across her face. In fact, her whole face feels weirdly sticky and it makes her want to crawl out of her skin. Catill pauses- resisting the urge- to bring her hand down and look at it. A dark, resinous substance streaks across the back of it. Looks almost black, but fades into murky yellow.

She brings herself to stand. She needs to look at her face, right now.

But standing too fast was a bad idea. Catill’s head starts to spin, and she nearly falls over. Her chest and head throb in pain once again, but she manages to stay upright long enough to get to a decorative mirror hanging in the hall.

Screaming. Gods, the fucking screaming. They ring in her ears again, reminding her of the horrible dream she just had. Catill leans against the wall in an attempt to support herself, panting. Upon gazing at the reflection, her expression twists into a pained grimace.

The same gross fluid stains her entire face. She looks like she hasn’t slept in several nights with the bags under her eyes and wrinkles lining her brow. Her hair is a mess and she’s paler than usual, even.

Something is horribly wrong. The wailing, the feeling horribly ill, the dream- she wasn’t one for divining in that fashion. Dreams were fleeting and there was little chance of remembering details. But clearly, this was a warning. For what, though?

… Her chest feels heavy again, getting another sharp, almost burning pang in the center. It hurts to breathe for a moment, and then it’s gone. It feels almost like-

Mana exhaustion. But that doesn’t make sense, she thinks. She’s barely done anything. The scene at the table suggests she was viewing the stars at some point, but that doesn’t wind her like this.

Catill shambles further down the hall, headed to her bedroom. There’s another familiar feeling to this affliction, one that she hasn’t felt since she was five or six sweeps old. It’s ancient. Musty. Rotting. A tug on her, and an uneasy feeling of being watched. It does nothing to make her feel any better, nor assuage any worries.

She slides open the door, making her way over to collapse into a pile of pillows on the floor. It’s too early in the night to properly sleep, but some rest is definitely in order.

There’s no solving whatever this is on empty energy reserves.

---

The goldblood barely managed to take care of herself. Her body felt heavy, and she just wanted to crawl back to sleep during the whole endeavor. Though, she managed to scrub the guck from her face and find something to eat.

Now all that needed to be cleaned up was the table. Catill finds her way to the kitchen, grabbing another tablecloth from a closet on the way. The bowl was unsalvageable, and the stains on the old cloth were a mix of ink and the same residue from before. Definitely not worth trying to wash out. She wraps everything together and tosses it in the trash.

… Was it always this dark in here? A somewhat unsettling feeling fills the air, and it's noticeably cooler in the room. Catill studies the changes, noticing a shadow swaying back and forth- then it stops. Something is definitely amiss. Catill squints to adjust her vision, focusing her other senses as well. It becomes abundantly clear to her that her hive is inundated with magic- of her own variety.

It's just… strange. Concerning, even. This, combined with the omen, and the reminder of that thing from sweeps past. It's almost as if it's coming to haunt her again.

Maybe she should call someone for help. There aren't many others she keeps close, but there are others more prepared to handle this than she is. Someone like…

Catill's face scrunches at her thought. Absolutely not. Not the fun police. They don't need to be bothering people in the village, and she doesn't want to deal with them.

No, she'll try to figure this out herself for now. If anything, there is one troll she doesn't mind reaching out to. But she hopes it doesn't come to that.

For now, the cat troll shuffles back to her room to try and sleep again. Before nodding off, she sends out a few messages to her quads to let them know she's not feeling well- passing back out shortly after.

[theindescribable1]

Saw that one anon about a creepy dream a little while ago, and wanted to pitch in with a little retelling of my own, prologued by how the morning afterward went. Sorry if any of it sounds a little off—I’m not exactly an author, but I’ll do my best.

3:19 AM I woke up, slick with sweat. And I’m not talking about wet in the pits or wet in the brow. I’m talking scalp wet, sheet wet, and at that hour, an hour already lost in a new year—shivering wet. I’m so cold my temples hurt but before I can really focus on the question of temperature I realize I’ve remembered my first dream.

Only later after I find some candles, stomp around my room, splash water on the old face, micturate, light a sterno can and put the kettle on, only then can I respond to my cold head and my general physical misery, which I do, relishing every bit of it in fact. Anything is better than that unexpected and awful dream, made all the more unsettling because now for some reason I can recall it. Nor do I have an inkling why. I cannot imagine what has changed in my life to bring this thing to the surface.

My guns sure as hell were useless, instantly confiscated at sleep’s border, even if I did manage to pick up the Weatherby before my credit ran out.

An hour passes. I’m blinking in the light, boiling more water for more coffee, ramming my head into another wool hat, sneezing again though all I can see is the fucking dream, torn straight out of the old raphé nuclei care of the very brainstem I thought had been soundly severed.

This is how it starts:

I’m deep in the hull of some enormous vessel, wandering its narrow passages of black steel and rust. Something tells me I’ve been here a long time, endlessly descending into dead ends, turning around to find other ways which in the end lead only to still more ends. This, however, does not bother me. Memories seem to suggest I’ve at one point lingered in the engine room, the container holds, scrambled up a ladder to find myself alone in a deserted kitchen, the only place still shimmering in the mirror magic of stainless steel. But those visits took place many years ago, and even though I could go back there at any time, I choose instead to wander these cramped routes which in spite of their ability to lose me still retain in every turn an almost indiscreet sense of familiarity. It’s as if I know the way perfectly but I walk them to forget.

And then something changes. Suddenly I sense for the first time ever, the presence of another. I quicken my pace, npt quite running but close. I am either glad, startled or terrified, but before I can figure out which I complete two quick turns and there he is, this drunken frat boy wearing a plum-colored Topha Beta sweatshirt, carrying the lid of a garbage can in his right hand and a large fireman’s ax in his left. I’m scared alright but I’m also confused. “Excuse me, mind explaining why you’re coming after me?” which I actually try to say except the words don’t come out right. More like grunts and clouds, big clouds of steam.

That’s when I notice my hands. They look melted, as if they were made of plastic and had been dipped in boiling oil, only they’re not plastic, they’re the thin effects of skin which have in fact been dipped in boiling oil. I know this and I even know tje story. I’m just unable to resurrect it there in my dream. Stiff hair sprouts up all over the fingers and around the long, yellow fingernails. Even worse, this awful scarring doesn’t end at my wrists, but continues down my arms, making the scars I know I have when I’m not dreaming seem childish in comparison. These ones reach over my shoulders, down my back, extend even across my chest, where I know ribs still protrude like violet bows.

When I touch my face, I can instantly tell there’s something wrong there too. I feel plenty of hair covering strange lumps of flesh on m chin, my nose and along the ridge of my cheeks. On my forehead there’s an enormous bulge harder than stone. And even though I have no idea how I got to be so deformed, I do know. And this knowledge comes suddenly. I’m here because I am deformed, because when I speak my words come out in cracks and groans, and what’s more Ive been put here by an old man, a dead man, by one who called me son even though he was not my father.

Which is when this frat boy, swaying back and forth before me like an idiot, raises his ax even higher above his head. His plan I see is not too complicated: he intends to drive that heavy blade into my skull, across the bridge of my nose, cleave the roof of my mouth, thr core of my brain, split apart the very vertebrae in my neck, and he won’t stop there either. He’ll hack my hands from my wrists, my thighs from my knees, pry out my sternum into tiny fragments. He’ll do the same to my toes and my fingers and he’ll even pop my eyes with the butt of the handle and then with the heal of the blade attempt to crush my teeth, despite the fact that they’re long, serrated and unusually strong. At least in this effort, he will fail; give up finally; collect a few. Where my internal organs are concerned, these too he’ll treat with the same respect, hewing, smashing adn slicing until he’s too tired and covered with blood to finish, even though of course he really finished awhile ago, and then he’ll slouch exhausted, panting like some stupid dog, drunk on his beer, this killing, this victory, while I lie strewn about that bleak place, der absolute Zerrissenheit. I’m awful at German, I don’t know why I bother even putting it here. Anyway back to the dream, me chopped up into tiny pieces, spread and splattered in the bowels of that ship, and all at the hands of a drunken frat boy who upon beholding his heroic deed pukes all over what’s left of me. Except before he achieves any of this, I realize that now, for some reason, for the first time, I have a choice: I don’t have to die, I can kill him instead. Not only are my teeth and nails long, sharp and stromg, I too am strong, remarkably strong and remarkably fast. I can rip that fucking ax out of his hands before he even swings it once, shatter it with one jerk of my wrist, and then I can watch the terror deep into his eyes as I grab him by the throat, carve out his insides and tear him to pieces.

But as I take a step forward, everything changes. The frat boy I realize is not the frat boy anymore but someone else. At first I think it’s my first crush Kyrie, until I realize it’s not Kyrie but Ashley, which is when I realize it’s neither Kyrie or Ashley but Simone, though something tells me that even that’s not exactly right. Either way, her face glows with adoration and warmth and her eyes communicate in a blink an understanding of all the gestures I’ve ever made, all the thoughts I’ve ever had. So extroardinary is this gaze, in fact, that I suddenly realize I’m unable to move. I just stand there, every sinew and nerve easing me into a world of relief, my breath slowing, arms dangling at my sides, my jaw slack, legs melting me into ancient waters, until suddenly my eyes on their own accord, commanded by instincts darker and older than empathy or anything resembling emotional need, dart from her beautiful and strangely familiar face to the ax she still holds, the ax she is now lifting, the smile she is still making even as she starts to shake, suddenly swinging the axe down on me, at my head, though she will miss my head, barely, the ax floating down instead toward my sholder, finally cutting into the bone and lodging there, producing shrieks of blood, so much blood, and pain, so much pain, and instantly I understand Im dying, though I’m not dead yet, even if I am beyond repair, and she has started to cry, even as she dislodges the ax and raises it again, to swing again, again at my head, though she is crying hardwr and she is much weaker than I thought, and she needs more time than I thought, to get ready, to swing again, while I’m bleeding and dying, which now doesn’t compare to the feeling inside, also so familiar, as the atriums of my heart on their own accord suddenly rupture, like my father’s ruptured. So this, I suddenly muse in a peculiarly detatched way, was this how he felt?

I’ve made a terrible mistake, but it’s too late and I’m now full of fury & hate to do anything but look up as the blade slices down with appalling force, this time the right arc, not too far left, not too far right, but right center, descending forever it seems, though it’s not forever, not even close, and I realize with a shade of citric joy, that at least, at last, it will put an end to the far more terrible ache inside me, born decades ago, long before I finally beheld a dream the face and meaning of my horror.

And then, well, I woke up. 3:19 AM, sweaty and cold, yadda yadda yadda. I still think about that night sometimes, housing one of the few dreams I can actually recall with any sense of clarity, though I wish it had been something more pleasant. Though I guess we all wish for that kind of thing, eh?

Ok I'm just gonna say this took so long to read..

I won't spoil this post, its lkke a whole horror movie. No spoilers or a summary, read it yourself guys! HAHA! Pure evil.

[murderous-muse]

wholesome stuff

The sounds of children giggling echoed in the forest. Kanoa squealed when Briar splashed water onto her, pouting. "Aww, you got my clothes wet! These were my favourite ones too!"

Briar scoffed, hitting Kanoa on the back playfully.

"C'mon, you have twelve of those shirts and thirteen of those sashes. It's not the end of the world."

"Says you. You've hoarded twenty of those long shirts you like to wear."

"Hey! We are not talking about my hoarding problem!" Kanoa rolled her eyes. "Hmph. Let's just go back to the village and eat something."

"Fine. Also, I totally won that fight."

"Did not!"

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

Briar yawned, blinking slowly. Kanoa sat behind him, brushing his hair. "Hey, Bri? Is it just me, or are the village people acting weird?"

Briar hummed. "Think its just you. They seem normal to me." Kanoa shrugged and continued brushing his hair. It was already late. They could see the two moons in the sky already. Kanoa tied the ribbon. One ponytail down, one more to go. "Kan?"

"Hm?"

"You know I love you right? You're the best sister in the world."

Kanoa laughed, smiling at Briar in the mirror.

"Aww, of course I do. Love ya too, Bri."

"Hey!! Only I get to say that! I'll- I'll trip you on the way to the lake if you say it again!"

"Yeah, yeah, sure you will. I love you too, idiot."

Briar huffed, crossing his arms and looking away from the mirror. Kanoa finished tying off the last ribbon. "And... done! Look at how pretty you look!" Briar looked in the mirror. "Eh... I still don't like ponytails." Kanoa put him in a headlock, ruffling his hair affectionately.

"Hey! Stop tha-"

"Nah."

"Stop ittt!"

Their laughter rang throughout the village.

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

Briar replayed the memory in his head, not bothering to wipe away the tears freely flowing down his face. It was the last memory they had before Kanoa was tricked. Their home was razed to the ground, and every resident was killed. Kanoa was oblivious to everything going on, hidden away somewhere it'd take years for Briar to find.

The image of Esther and Remiel popped up in his mind. Them. Why did they get what he should have? Why did they get to do everything Briar could only dream of doing, all with his sister who didn't even remember who he was and despised him? He should be laughing with Kanoa. He should be causing chaos and mischief with Kanoa.

Maybe that was why he allowed those villains to use his power. To distract himself from reality. "They earned it"? What a bullshit excuse. He was a stupid excuse of a spirit. Stupid, stupid, stupid. He should've just isolated himself in some empty planet far, far away.

Kanoa was better off with Esther and Remiel. At least nobody knew she was related to an asshole who acted high and mighty despite being weaker than everybody else.

Briar wiped his tears away, forcing the same crooked smile he'd worn for years onto his face. He'd better get going. If he didn't show up, Kanoa would think something was wrong because he wasn't bothering her and her friends.

Just smile, and be the person he's made himself to be for the past 200 years.

[underfiends]

Watch Me Breathe

Posting an actual story for the first time in months. The muses and I have been engaging in extreme combat and we have finally begun peace talks. Next we will band together to torment my friends with more angst. For now, have a fluff fic of yet another batch of D&D characters. Ramal is mine, Val is @hannrenn, and the DM for these two lovely dumpster fires is @peppermintpinklemonade. Hope y'all enjoy!

There’s a chill in the air; the softest of nips on an otherwise gentle breeze. A cloud shifts, golden light chasing away those cold touches, dappling ashen grey skin with a rare brush of colour. Oranges and reds bloom in the dark of closed eyelids, so much softer than the brilliant burn of flame.

A breath in, lungs filled to burst. A breath out, and with it goes a lingering tension through corded muscle. Fingers of warmth run over dark skin and chase the breeze through even darker hair. A puff of hot air against a pointed ear; a soft tap on one arm, then the other; an echo of laughter meant only for one person, only for them, just here in this moment of calm.

When their eyes open, there is only red. A red mirrored by the petals of scarlet catchfly scattered about, bundles of leaves and flowers growing on cracked boulders at the base of a rocky cliff. The hot breath and warm fingers turn into the press of hands on their shoulders, a constant companion showing that she is still here.

The wind picks up, whistling through the trees that have grown and thrived in this deep ravine between two mountains. The cold is more apparent now, raising goosebumps on their arms. They could don their leather armour, cover up to trap the heat against their skin, but it is peaceful here. The presence of an armoured warrior is not needed among the vibrant greens and browns of maple trees and buckthorn. There is no danger beneath the strangling vines twisting over wet earth.

Red eyes drift back to red petals. There is one patch of flowers close enough to touch, close enough to see the sticky hairs all up the stem. A memory floats to the surface, of a roughened voice one hot summer day.

“See those hairs, kid? They’ll sting you if you touch them, and your hand will hurt for days.” They remember Magnus had been crouched down next to a shallow riverbed, the heels of his boots dug firmly into the rocky ground as he pointed out the vibrant red flowers. Then, as if summoned through sheer outrage, a hand had smacked him upside the head.

“You idiot! That’s stinging nettle. They’re completely different, how could you have fucked that up?” Rhetta glared down at the man now rubbing his head, hands posted sharply upon her hips. Suddenly, like the flip of a switch, she looked over at them with soft eyes and a kind smile. She folded herself to hover at their height with her eyes trained on the flower. “This is a fire pink, Ramalek. Also known as a scarlet catchfly. Don’t worry, it’s safe to touch, however the stem is a bit sticky. That’s why people call it ‘catchfly’, because it catches flies on its stem and leaves to protect its nectar.” She reached out to brush against a petal, pulling it back just enough for them to see the sheen of liquid hidden in the flower. Then Magnus had said something–the words lost to time–that had left her sputtering indignantly, and the two bickered all the way back to Magnus’s tavern.

That had been years ago, back before they’d taken their new names by the blood of the slain. Before a ghost from their past had resurfaced, had turned out to be alive. Just the thought has them feeling winded and wrong-footed; as though the world is going to slip from underneath them and they’ll wake up to find it was all a dream. Panic begins to swirl just below their skin, prickling their mind. Their fingers twitch, and then a warm hand intertwines with their own, and heat presses all up their side.

A breath in, until lungs are fit to burst. A breath out, and with it the wave of panic settles.

They know where their travel companion is; the one who is a miracle. When they return, red eyes will fight off a swell of tears. The creature of dark grey skin and black hair will don their leather armour and settle back into the role of a savage beast. But for now, Valentine is off in the distance, crouched beside a small pool of algae-choked water, touching the surface every minute or so to watch the tiny tadpoles scurry away. Ramalavikfeng can stay where they are, and their armour can stay on the ground beside them.

There is no place for anything other than peace and calm here, among the green and brown and red. At the base of a cliff, backed by a forest growing in the ravine between two mountains, looking at a brilliant red flower that is close enough to touch with a sticky stem and leaves. Here, where the wind has eased back down to a gentle breeze.

There is a nip in the air. Summer is fading, and autumn is on its way. Perhaps Valentine would be willing to visit Magnus and Rhetta.

[spines-tvo]

Saw that one anon about a creepy dream a little while ago, and wanted to pitch in with a little retelling of my own, prologued by how the morning afterward went. Sorry if any of it sounds a little off—I’m not exactly an author, but I’ll do my best.

3:19 AM I woke up, slick with sweat. And I’m not talking about wet in the pits or wet in the brow. I’m talking scalp wet, sheet wet, and at that hour, an hour already lost in a new year—shivering wet. I’m so cold my temples hurt but before I can really focus on the question of temperature I realize I’ve remembered my first dream.

Only later after I find some candles, stomp around my room, splash water on the old face, micturate, light a sterno can and put the kettle on, only then can I respond to my cold head and my general physical misery, which I do, relishing every bit of it in fact. Anything is better than that unexpected and awful dream, made all the more unsettling because now for some reason I can recall it. Nor do I have an inkling why. I cannot imagine what has changed in my life to bring this thing to the surface.

My guns sure as hell were useless, instantly confiscated at sleep’s border, even if I did manage to pick up the Weatherby before my credit ran out.

An hour passes. I’m blinking in the light, boiling more water for more coffee, ramming my head into another wool hat, sneezing again though all I can see is the fucking dream, torn straight out of the old raphé nuclei care of the very brainstem I thought had been soundly severed.

This is how it starts:

I’m deep in the hull of some enormous vessel, wandering its narrow passages of black steel and rust. Something tells me I’ve been here a long time, endlessly descending into dead ends, turning around to find other ways which in the end lead only to still more ends. This, however, does not bother me. Memories seem to suggest I’ve at one point lingered in the engine room, the container holds, scrambled up a ladder to find myself alone in a deserted kitchen, the only place still shimmering in the mirror magic of stainless steel. But those visits took place many years ago, and even though I could go back there at any time, I choose instead to wander these cramped routes which in spite of their ability to lose me still retain in every turn an almost indiscreet sense of familiarity. It’s as if I know the way perfectly but I walk them to forget.

And then something changes. Suddenly I sense for the first time ever, the presence of another. I quicken my pace, npt quite running but close. I am either glad, startled or terrified, but before I can figure out which I complete two quick turns and there he is, this drunken frat boy wearing a plum-colored Topha Beta sweatshirt, carrying the lid of a garbage can in his right hand and a large fireman’s ax in his left. I’m scared alright but I’m also confused. “Excuse me, mind explaining why you’re coming after me?” which I actually try to say except the words don’t come out right. More like grunts and clouds, big clouds of steam.

That’s when I notice my hands. They look melted, as if they were made of plastic and had been dipped in boiling oil, only they’re not plastic, they’re the thin effects of skin which have in fact been dipped in boiling oil. I know this and I even know tje story. I’m just unable to resurrect it there in my dream. Stiff hair sprouts up all over the fingers and around the long, yellow fingernails. Even worse, this awful scarring doesn’t end at my wrists, but continues down my arms, making the scars I know I have when I’m not dreaming seem childish in comparison. These ones reach over my shoulders, down my back, extend even across my chest, where I know ribs still protrude like violet bows.

When I touch my face, I can instantly tell there’s something wrong there too. I feel plenty of hair covering strange lumps of flesh on m chin, my nose and along the ridge of my cheeks. On my forehead there’s an enormous bulge harder than stone. And even though I have no idea how I got to be so deformed, I do know. And this knowledge comes suddenly. I’m here because I am deformed, because when I speak my words come out in cracks and groans, and what’s more Ive been put here by an old man, a dead man, by one who called me son even though he was not my father.

Which is when this frat boy, swaying back and forth before me like an idiot, raises his ax even higher above his head. His plan I see is not too complicated: he intends to drive that heavy blade into my skull, across the bridge of my nose, cleave the roof of my mouth, thr core of my brain, split apart the very vertebrae in my neck, and he won’t stop there either. He’ll hack my hands from my wrists, my thighs from my knees, pry out my sternum into tiny fragments. He’ll do the same to my toes and my fingers and he’ll even pop my eyes with the butt of the handle and then with the heal of the blade attempt to crush my teeth, despite the fact that they’re long, serrated and unusually strong. At least in this effort, he will fail; give up finally; collect a few. Where my internal organs are concerned, these too he’ll treat with the same respect, hewing, smashing adn slicing until he’s too tired and covered with blood to finish, even though of course he really finished awhile ago, and then he’ll slouch exhausted, panting like some stupid dog, drunk on his beer, this killing, this victory, while I lie strewn about that bleak place, der absolute Zerrissenheit. I’m awful at German, I don’t know why I bother even putting it here. Anyway back to the dream, me chopped up into tiny pieces, spread and splattered in the bowels of that ship, and all at the hands of a drunken frat boy who upon beholding his heroic deed pukes all over what’s left of me. Except before he achieves any of this, I realize that now, for some reason, for the first time, I have a choice: I don’t have to die, I can kill him instead. Not only are my teeth and nails long, sharp and stromg, I too am strong, remarkably strong and remarkably fast. I can rip that fucking ax out of his hands before he even swings it once, shatter it with one jerk of my wrist, and then I can watch the terror deep into his eyes as I grab him by the throat, carve out his insides and tear him to pieces.

But as I take a step forward, everything changes. The frat boy I realize is not the frat boy anymore but someone else. At first I think it’s my first crush Kyrie, until I realize it’s not Kyrie but Ashley, which is when I realize it’s neither Kyrie or Ashley but Simone, though something tells me that even that’s not exactly right. Either way, her face glows with adoration and warmth and her eyes communicate in a blink an understanding of all the gestures I’ve ever made, all the thoughts I’ve ever had. So extroardinary is this gaze, in fact, that I suddenly realize I’m unable to move. I just stand there, every sinew and nerve easing me into a world of relief, my breath slowing, arms dangling at my sides, my jaw slack, legs melting me into ancient waters, until suddenly my eyes on their own accord, commanded by instincts darker and older than empathy or anything resembling emotional need, dart from her beautiful and strangely familiar face to the ax she still holds, the ax she is now lifting, the smile she is still making even as she starts to shake, suddenly swinging the axe down on me, at my head, though she will miss my head, barely, the ax floating down instead toward my sholder, finally cutting into the bone and lodging there, producing shrieks of blood, so much blood, and pain, so much pain, and instantly I understand Im dying, though I’m not dead yet, even if I am beyond repair, and she has started to cry, even as she dislodges the ax and raises it again, to swing again, again at my head, though she is crying hardwr and she is much weaker than I thought, and she needs more time than I thought, to get ready, to swing again, while I’m bleeding and dying, which now doesn’t compare to the feeling inside, also so familiar, as the atriums of my heart on their own accord suddenly rupture, like my father’s ruptured. So this, I suddenly muse in a peculiarly detatched way, was this how he felt?

I’ve made a terrible mistake, but it’s too late and I’m now full of fury & hate to do anything but look up as the blade slices down with appalling force, this time the right arc, not too far left, not too far right, but right center, descending forever it seems, though it’s not forever, not even close, and I realize with a shade of citric joy, that at least, at last, it will put an end to the far more terrible ache inside me, born decades ago, long before I finally beheld a dream the face and meaning of my horror.

And then, well, I woke up. 3:19 AM, sweaty and cold, yadda yadda yadda. I still think about that night sometimes, housing one of the few dreams I can actually recall with any sense of clarity, though I wish it had been something more pleasant. Though I guess we all wish for that kind of thing, eh?

*_* You said you WEREN'T an author? Geez, that makes my worst dreams sound like a slightly annoying breeze... Uh... I'd need, like, a month to unpack all this. Are you alright?

[balilive]

Where to take the best shots for Instagram in Bali?

Bali is one of the most Instagrammable destinations on Earth. Even if you haven’t set foot on the island, you’ve likely seen its iconic landmarks: lush green rice terraces, split gates, majestic views of Mount Agung, and swings soaring above the jungle. For bloggers and photography enthusiasts, Bali is a true paradise. These places, beautifully crafted by nature and enhanced by human touch, are not only the most photographed but also the most visited. You simply can’t miss them!

Rice Terraces

The most impressive rice terraces are found at Tegallalang, just a 20-minute drive from Ubud, and Jatiluwih in Tabanan.

These rice plantations stretch across hillsides in giant steps, creating breathtaking scenery. Some terraces are over 1,000 years old and still serve their original purpose. Depending on the season, their appearance changes. When the rice is newly planted, the terraces fill with water, resembling thousands of mirrors—a spectacular sight! Equally stunning are the lush green terraces when the rice is mature. You can stroll along the pathways that weave through the terraces, and it's best to visit in the morning or near sunset when the sun is softer.

Jungle Swings

Bali is known for its jungle swings, which can be found over rivers, waterfalls, and rice terraces across the island. These swings offer a unique way to experience Bali’s stunning landscapes, capture picturesque photos in flowing dresses, and enjoy a thrilling rush of adrenaline. Many swings are surrounded by Instagram-worthy structures like bird nests and hearts, adding extra charm to your shots.

Split Gates (Candi Bentar)

A symbol of Bali, split gates are found everywhere, but the most famous are at Pura Lempuyang, one of Bali's oldest and most significant temples. The "Gates of Heaven" photo spot has become a global sensation, attracting hundreds of tourists daily. The skillful photography techniques used here create the illusion of floating in the sky. On clear days, Mount Agung provides a breathtaking backdrop. Arrive early in the morning for the best conditions. Pura Lempuyang is a complex of seven temples located at various levels, and reaching the main sanctuary requires climbing 1,500 steps. Are you up for the challenge?

Another iconic gate is located at the Handara Golf Resort in northern Bali, framed by lush green hills.

Waterfalls

Bali's waterfalls are an Instagram sensation, each offering its own breathtaking beauty. For dramatic photos of water cascading down black stone steps, visit Kanto Lampo waterfall. If you’re after an Avatar-like experience, head to Sekumpul, the highest waterfall on the island. For more tranquil shots, Tibumana waterfall features a perfectly smooth flow of water into a blue pool—a perfectionist’s dream!

With so many unique waterfalls scattered across the island, it's worth dedicating a day to exploring them. Be prepared to get wet! Our website offers waterfall tours organized by region, making it easy to find the most scenic spots.

Volcanoes

Volcanoes not only make for otherworldly photos but also create memories that last a lifetime! The most Instagrammable volcano—Mount Ijen—is actually on the neighboring island of Java. At dawn, you’ll witness a surreal scene: Martian-like landscapes, plumes of smoke rising from the crater, yellow sulfur deposits, and the star of the show—a glowing blue acid lake. Put on a respirator and snap a post-apocalyptic photo by a dried-up tree, with the toxic lake as your backdrop.

Nusa Penida

Just off the coast of Bali, Nusa Penida is a small island that’s a favorite among bloggers for its stunning turquoise waters and hidden beaches.

Diamond Beach, one of the most Instagrammable beaches in the region, requires descending a steep staircase carved into the rock. The beauty starts as soon as you begin your descent, offering perfect spots for a striking photoshoot.

Another must-see is Kelingking Beach, home to the famous T-Rex-shaped cliff. If you’re feeling adventurous, you can tackle the challenging hike down to the secret beach at the bottom. The trek is steep and involves climbing down the cliffside, but the reward is a peaceful stretch of white sand nestled between towering cliffs. Though swimming is not recommended due to the powerful waves, lounging under the shade and taking in the views is a well-deserved treat after the climb.

Broken Beach

At Broken Beach, waves crash through a natural archway carved into the cliffs. While swimming isn’t possible here, the view is simply spectacular, making it a prime location for photos.

Keep in mind that Nusa Penida lacks public transportation, so renting a scooter or a car with a driver is essential. Alternatively, you can book a tour that covers all the main attractions. We offer both one-day tours and longer stays, allowing you to explore every corner of this exotic island at your own pace.

Bali and its surroundings are made for Instagram, drawing bloggers from all over the world. In addition to its natural beauty, the island offers countless Instagram-worthy villas, cafés, and beach clubs. Come to Bali and embrace your inner aesthete!

More interesting places you can explore with https://mybalitrips.com/en/blog/instaplaces/