#just hate walking into a spiderweb in the dark

[666prophet]

14, 15, 63

14. Are you psychic in any way? I might be. I seem to be rather good at predicting the outcome of a lot of different situations/scenarios. My family hate it because of how often I'm right.

15. Favorite song? Favorites are hard. That could change depending on the mood or context.

63. Biggest Fear? The possibility of working on yourself and bettering your life only to discover that it doesn't make you happier or that you in fact end up feeling worse than where you started. Ummmmmm.....I mean spiders. Spooooky

Get To Know Me Uncomfortably Well

[jasmines-library]

Could you please do Winchester!sister fic where the boys and sister are on a hunt in the rain and they get to a two story house and while the boys are checking the bottom floor, the sister goes off on her own to the rooftop and faces one of the monsters up there who cuts a wire and the boys come outside to see just as the sister gets electrocuted and flung off the roof and…

Currents Convulsive

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Warnings: possible swearing, electrocution? Hospitals.

Word Count: 1.3K

SPN MASTERLIST

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The rain splattered heavily against the hood of Baby as slammed your door shut. The rain was heavy. Treacherous. It soaked through your clothes and chilled h your skin as it sat slick against it. You were half sure the sky was trying to drown you as it pooled at your feet before rolling down the hill. You slid your pistol into your waistband after checking it was loaded, and shouldered your rifle.

“You ready?” Dean asked, running his fingers through his hair to try and shake some of the rain from it.

“Yep.” You agreed, stepping behind him and Sam as they walked towards the house. It was an old house; half destroyed by an earthquake a few years ago that left the paint flaking and the brick crumbling. It also left a gaping hole in the roof, so the chance of any sanctuary from the rain was practically gone. Especially upstairs.

You and your brothers were hunting a spirit tethered to one of the belongings lost here. The spirit was rather angry and had been terrorising the street for years. The problem was: you weren’t entirely sure what you were looking for and while you would usually salt n burn the whole place, with the torrential downpour that showed no sigh of stopping that wasn’t an option. You figured you would know when you found what you were looking for. Hopefully. If not it was back to square one.

Stepping round the rubble and pushing open the splintering door, the three of you stepped inside.

Inside the house was just as dark and grim as the outside. The only light spared came from the gaping hole in the roof: the weather and conditions breaking through the floor below it too. Picture frames that once hung on the walls now lay shattered on the ground from where they had slumped from their hooks. Furniture was overturned and the windows broken; the glass spiderwebbing along the frames. The rest of the spirits possessions were strewn across the floor or spilling from cupboards. Great. At least the ground floor was relatively dry.

“Dibs not going upstairs” Dean announced loudly when he took in the trickle of water from the hole in the ceiling and how the water dribbled in from the lack of roof.

“Nope. Nuh uh.” Sam said, glancing at the stairs. “That’s not how this works, Dean.”

“I’m the oldest. That means I get to decide. And I say I’m not going up there.”

“Dean.” You grumbled.

Sam held out his hand in a fist. Dean rolled his eyes before sighing and joining the two of you for a game of rock paper scissors. The three of you played, and you pulled rock, fully expecting for Dean to pick scissors like he did every time. And sure enough Dean’s hand flattened as he played paper—

Paper?!

Dean grinned proudly as he and Sam beat you. You looked at Dean unamused.

“I hate you.” You deadpanned. Of course, you didn’t mean it really. A lighthearted joke.

Dean ruffled your hair. “Have fun getting wet, kiddo.”

Rolling your eyes, you grumbled and trudged up the groaning stairs to sort through all of her things.

You’d been upstairs for about 10 minutes when the atmosphere seemed so shift; the air grew colder and the rain seemed to hammer through the roof harder. And then, things were being pelted at you. The spirit stood at the other end of the room and if the fact he was pelting things at you wasn’t enough for you to gauge his anger, then the cantankerous look on expression was.

Rolling to your left, you managed to dodge the onslaught of rubble he was throwing at you, and made a move to grab your rifle. Pulling it back and aiming it at the spirit, you fired. The rock salt rounds slammed into its humanoid figure and sent it dissipating somewhere else. But not for long. The sound of the gun being fired had alerted your brothers, who called out your name.

“We’ve got company!” You yelled down to them. You stepped further into the room, so you were close to the middle. Water pooled at your feet, the cold seeping into your toes. The wind howled above you, rattling the power lines above.

When the spirit reappeared, he let out an awful howl that seemed to rattle the whole house and the trees around it. You fire at it again.

“I could really use some help here” you grunted as you dodged.

“We’re coming kiddo.” Sam yelled back at you as they raced towards the stairs.

An awful crack sounded. A rumble of thunder and then a ripple of sparking as the power lines came crashing down. You tried to jump out of the way, but your reflexes were no match for the spirits actions.

Hitting the water, the live wire sparked and the electricity rippled through it. And then you were overcome by a blinding pain that shot through your veins. You screamed raw as the force of the voltage flung you backwards across the room and you slammed into the brick. Your vision swam overcome quickly with white spots. And the last thing you remember was the scream of the spirit as it went up in flames before the blurry outline of Sam loomed over you.

~~~

You were sure if it was in incessant beeping of the heart monitor, or the pain that radiated through your body. You blinked, a soft groan slipping from your chapped lips. Your throat felt like sandpaper.

“Hey, Sweetheart.” It was Dean’s soft voice that greeted you; low and gentle, laced thick with concern that will be hard to unpick later.

Your eyes fluttered, assaulted by the harsh lights before they settled on your older brother. You tried to shift in search of Sam, but a gentle hand to the shoulder stopped you. “Take it easy, Kiddo.” Sam reassured you. His voice held the same worry that Dean’s did, and he had worry wrinkles creased between his eyebrows. “I’m here. We’re both here. You’re safe.”

“What…….” You croaked “what happened…?” It had all happened so quickly that you hadn’t really been able to process it.

Dean smoothed his hand over your forehead and threaded his fingers through your hair. “The spirit cut the power lines. They fell in the water and electrocuted you before flinging you against the wall. That was…two days ago.”

You felt your stomach drop at that.

“The throw broke a couple of your ribs and the voltage caused some damage but they managed to fix you up. Just rest a painkillers for now.” Sam said gently, unable to help the sideways glance at the IV poking out of your skin.

“…..the spirit?….” you rasped out.

“Burnt. It was tied to a wedding ring.” Dean answered. “We burnt it just seconds too late— oh sweetheart. We’re so sorry……it’s my fault. I should have just gone up there myself—“

“Stop that.” You chided. Although your weak voice didn’t do much to assert your authority in the slightest.

“It is my fault—“

“Not it’s not. It was an accident.”

“An accident that could have been prevented.”

You shook your head. “Nope. Stop that.” You said. “Please.”

That seemed to cut across him, and he dropped his next comment. You could still tell him and Sam were feeling guilty, but at least he wasn’t outwardly saying it, so that was a step in the right direction. They still watched you with worried eyes. “I’m okay.” You said softly. “A little sore. But okay. I promise.”

Sam squeezed your hand a little. “Of course you are. You’re a tough one, kiddo.”

Dean agreed. “The toughest.”

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SPN TAGS:

@hell-o-kittys @inlovewhithafairytale @harleycao @that-wannabe-vangoghgurl @rosecentury @xxrougefangxx

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[tadpolesonalgae]

Can’t Bring Myself To Hate You — Part 20

Azriel x Third-Oldest-Archeron-Sibling!Reader

a/n: I’ve been slumped over my computer like a living Fibonacci spiral—also, pretty sure I’ve proofread the first half of this but my memory isn’t that great so I’ll check in the morning (I should have been asleep about two and a half hours ago—I’m so sorry if there are errors)

word count: 7,869

-Part 19- -Part 21-

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

It’s quiet. 

There’s nothing in your mind, and it’s quiet. 

No skittish thoughts, or fleeting worry. No frantic heartbeat to wake up to, nor an anxious tug of energy hurrying you along to get out of bed for fear of seeming lazy. It’s quiet. 

The sheets still smell faintly of gardenia, clinging to the delicate fibres relentlessly. How? Maybe it’s just lodged itself in your nose. 

There’s no sunlight this morning—it’s hard to tell the time. A slight outline presents itself on the edge of the mattress, beginning to slide down onto the floorboards. It’s watery and pale, hardly there. Is it warm? You can’t feel anything on your hands… 

You can’t feel anything on your hands. 

The curtains are open, and grey sky fills the window panes. Dark and deep. Probably not deep enough to signal a storm…it would be nice if it stormed though. It feels as though time has paused when it does. With rain so thick and heavy. The rain’s nice, sometimes. It waters things, and gives smells a new shade of depth. When it rains, you remember the shack. How the smell of damp was everywhere. In clothes, in hair, in sheets and furniture. 

These sheets are dry, though. Dry and warm, and keeping you wrapped up and comfy. Heat having sunk into your body, feeling so rarely soft anymore. 

A bell chimes in the far distance, metallic and sturdy. Counting to nine.

You’ve slept in. Wasted hours, already. Wasted, wasted, wasted, wasted away. Wasted away in bed. Throwing time out the window. Letting it slip between your fingers. Draining it out of sight, watching it gush far from your clutch while you sleep. Sleep all your time away. 

Wouldn’t that be nice. 

————

A bell chimes in the far distance, metallic and sturdy, clanging pain through your mind. 

Counting to eleven. 

There’s no point in getting up now. The good part of the day has gone. The early morning when it’s quiet and fresh, and sunlight weakly trickles across the horizon. Glittering upon the frost that’s begun to dust the morning cityscape. Heavy fog rolling off the Sidra, steaming in the early hours to smudge the nearby streets and houses in a dreamlike blur. Even if it bites, it’s a precious part of your morning, only occasionally daring to venture out into it. To walk the misty streets. It’s peaceful, and quiet. Not many folk are about at that time, most either beginning to wake up, or beginning to go to sleep. You have the streets mostly to yourself. 

Though with winter setting in, it’s getting dark. Darker in the mornings. Dreary and dismal, with rain softly spraying in the air as it floats down like powder. Only wet, and cold. Like walking through a fine mist, one that shimmers with iridescence if the sun catches it at the right time. Spiriting you away to another world entirely. Your Quiet Moments. 

The clock chimes a short succession of notes for quarter past. 

You sink into bed. 

Warm and welcoming. 

————

A bell chimes in the distance, metallic and sturdy. Three O’clock. 

It’s afternoon. 

Your head pounds when you open your lids, eyes straining with pressure, and they fall back closed. The light is grey—heavy grey—and cloudy. Droplets were on the outer winder pane.

Evergreen branches holding full pinecones. Damp and gleaming. Spiderwebs with dew drops jeweling them. Bugs crawling along the cracks of bark. Twigs snapping beneath human feet, the smell. Filling your lungs with fresh air, alone in the woods. The twigs might not snap any longer. The leaves might not rustle when you walk over them. Losing the weight of presence. 

The forest with the leaves of yellow, and red, and orange, sometimes capillaries of light green or brown shot through them. Silver bark that had eyes in it, branches growing out like nerves. The forest floor thick with earth, creatures scuttling about, water gathering in the small pools created by tree roots. Mushrooms growing from the underside of the forest floor, some a grey brown, others a chalky red with white drops speckling them. A few had been a murky green, with smaller fungi growing from the parent’s trunk. 

You should have taken it in more, gathered the details from real life instead of giving them form through the illustrations. If you ever get to go back, you’ll remember more. Pluck leaves from the forest floor and dry them out in a candle lit room, pressing them between the empty pages of a leather-bound book. Fungi have simple structures, and fae eyesight would surely lend you a hand—maybe you could manage an illustration of your own. They’re just shapes, after all. Then you could splash some watery colour over them, adding liquid to powdered pigment. Start a journal of some sorts. Of all the things you get to see. 

But you’d have to get out of bed to start, and it’s already three O’clock. 

You won’t be able to get anything done, now. You should wait until tomorrow. Then you can get up in the misty morning. Find an empty book somewhere. Feyre must have one. Could you borrow one? Wouldn’t that be fun? 

Fun. 

Anticipation filters through your blood. Something to do. Something to work on. Something to make. Something real, to keep. To remember things with. To look at when you forget. 

That would be nice. 

————

A bell chimes, ringing through your head. Six O’clock. 

Your mind is aching. Behind your eyes, between your brows. You’ve slept too long. 

Gods, you feel sick. 

You roll off your front, settling on your side, hugging the duvet closer. 

No—no. You’re definitely going to be sick. 

The duvet flies off you as bare feet slap across the tiles of the bathroom, making it to the latrine. You wait, knees pressing to the cool floor, arms shaking as you push your hair away. You don’t have to wait long, fortunately. 

It’s over quick enough. Over and done with. Relief settles through you—it’s over. Your mouth tastes awful, though, and you go to the sink to clean yourself up. Rid yourself of the flavour that’s stuck to your throat and tongue. It takes a while for that strange notch to go away—the one that’s always present after regurgitating, like there’s a lump of something lodged there that you have to swallow around. And each time it refreshes the flavour of your stomach. You grimace. 

At least it’s over, now. 

You hastily clean up the red droplets on the white porcelain. That’s new. 

You sigh heavily, exhaustion weighing on you. You and your now empty stomach. Whatever. You’re up now. Might as well stay up. No point in going back to bed. 

Thankfully your body is still sustaining its warmth from sleep, but it’s beginning to cool with so little maintaining it. Time to wash and dress, then. 

You stand at the wardrobe for what feels like an hour, trying to figure out what you’d like to wear. None of the colours are particularly appealing tonight. Maybe since it’s already evening you could get away with wearing something slightly cosier? Or why care at all—you’re going to cover it all up with a robe anyway. No one’s going to see what you’re wearing, you should go for comfort. 

But you still want to look nice. 

Your head hangs between your shoulders, eyes shutting briefly with exhaustion. At least you’re feeling relatively well-rested. There’s that. 

The missed appointment crosses your mind. Madja. Azriel. You were supposed to see both of them today. Did you sleep through both? And Bas. You were supposed to see Bas soon. Is it too late to go now? It’s too dark. And cold. Miserable. He probably won’t want you inside, either, so you’ll be on the doorstep for most of it, or maybe the entrance hall. 

It’s not happening. 

Is it too late to see Azriel? 

You don’t want to. Not so far into the evening. He’ll ask about the conversation with Nesta, and you’ll have to tell him, and you don’t want to. Your head falls again with fatigue. So much. So much to do. Should have done. You’re getting cold. At least the faelight is warm. Or looks warm. Yellow and orange on pale wallpaper. Your thoughts feel sluggish. 

With a sigh, you pull out a gown—grey as the skies—and shuffle yourself into it, pulling the strings taut so the fabric remains together without being tight. And pull a robe over it. Warm but polite. Put together enough. It doesn’t look like you’ve been asleep all day, then woken to throw up—that’s…enough. 

You go to your window, peeking out through the curtains, wondering if you’ll see any people in the street. At this time a few faelights might be lighting the street, two or three dimly shining a glow onto the cobbles, but for the most part the city is dark for the sake of the stars. It’s peaceful in a way, and makes you feel a little better about having wasted the light away. What good is the day in a city of Night, anyway? There’ll probably be an equal number of shops open at this time as there would at six in the morning. Maybe more, if you think about it. There’s some comfort. Maybe you can shift your schedule to fit the night. That way you won’t have the constant awareness of the day going by.

The sun is a pleasant accessory, but it shows the passage of time too obviously. It’s easy to tell when it’s early morning, when it’s midday, afternoon, evening. Maybe the night has the moon, and maybe the stars will eventually come to indicate time passing should you become well-acquainted enough with how they look, but you might be afforded some time to yourself, unaware of life draining away. Though that’s a very human outlook. 

Your brows furrow. 

Does the passage of time even bother immortals? Do they feel the need to hurry, and get things done? Having grown up without an end? What differences does it make, to live knowing you won’t die? 

————

There’s no one downstairs, and it’s quiet. 

Even straining your ears, you struggle to hear anyone—they must all be out. 

Maybe they’re having a meal at some evening restaurant. 

Maybe they’re having fun.

You tread over to the kitchen to make yourself some tea but find the room completely dark. The faelights are out, allowing only that faint grey light to filter through the— The curtains are closed. Huh. They must have left… Strange to draw the curtains though… On second thought, you don’t really feel like putting liquid in your stomach just yet. Maybe some plain bread would be nice. More digestible, too.

Taking your plated bread and butter with you, you head over to the living room, passing through the entrance hall with the stairs that lead up to the first floor, cutting through to the living room that also overlooks the front garden. You pause when you recognise Feyre’s shape on one of the sofas, a small, winged bundle propped up in her lap, cheek laying across her chest. 

“Feyre?” You murmur quietly, incase he’s sleeping. Deep, blue-grey eye lift heavily away from her baby, her palm stroking the crown of his head. Brows furrow over half-lidded eyes, “couldn’t sleep?” 

“No. I slept all through today, actually,” you reply, making to settle at the other end of the sofa, so you can balance your plate on the plush arm. “Do you know what happened with Madja? I don’t know what happened today—I guess I just really needed the extra sleep. I didn’t mean to sleep through it all.” 

Feyre’s brows furrow, her eyes squinting as she looks over to you. “It’s six in the morning. What are you talking about?”  

“It’s six in the evening,” you counter with equally furrowed brows. “I heard the bells go. At nine, eleven, three, and six.” 

“No, it’s definitely six in the morning,” she replies wearily, “everyone’s asleep, and the lights are off.” 

You blink, looking around. “It’s six in the morning?” She mumbles something that sounds like agreement. Pulls the blanket tighter around the both of them. Nuzzles at the top of Nyx’s head. “Did he wake up early?” You ask, trying to sound normal through the confusion that’s happening in your mind. Dreams can be so alarmingly powerful at times. 

“Mhmm. He’s probably missing his papa,” Feyre mumbles against his head, smiling faintly, pulling back to peer down at their baby, stroking his back tenderly beneath the blanket, habitually avoiding his still-developing wings. “Isn’t that right? Missing papa? He’ll be back today. He hates being away from you.” She kisses the crown of his head once. Twice. Brushes her nose against him, inhaling softly, still smiling despite the obvious fatigue and strain lining her features. There are half-circles beneath her eyes. Her skin taking on a slightly bluish tint in the corners of her eye-bags, shadow making them more pronounced than usual. 

“Rhys’ away?” You ask quietly, beginning to chew on your food. 

“Up in Illyria for the night.” She sighs, readjusting her hold on Nyx. You hum, not wanting to press her on it. You chew on more of the bread quietly, waiting to see how your stomach manages it. You can’t stop thinking about the strain in her features. 

“Is everything okay?” You whisper, glancing at her. “Are we…is it safe now?” 

“Rhys says there’s always a revolt brewing up in Illyria,” she mumbles without opening her eyes. “Says they’d love to stick a knife in his back one day. It’s the same with the Hewn City. A lot of strained ties after the war. We’re still dealing with the aftermath of it all.” 

“But no immediate looming threat?” You ask. Maybe the shadows are just making her fatigue more prominent that it actually is. Maybe you’re bothering her for no reason. 

You shouldn’t be asking her all these heavy questions right now. 

Her body stutters, and her lips have twisted down. A wet droplet shines on Nyx’s head.

“Feyre?” You whisper, shuffling closer. “Feyre, what’s wrong?” Her shoulders shudder under your arm, hand trying to soothe down her back. She sniffles, then tightens her hold on Nyx, hoping she won’t wake him. 

“I don’t know what I’m doing,” Feyre whispers against his hair. Another tear drips down her cheek, and you settle a little closer to her side. “I’ve got no idea. There’s so much to do, and so much to learn… Rhys says he can manage it… I don’t have to take on any more, but I can’t leave it all up to him.” Another tear falls, and her brows squeeze together over tightly shut eyes, the interior of her lower lip clasped between her teeth. 

You don’t know what to say to comfort her, so settle for remaining beside her, arm wrapped over her shoulders. She’s trying to keep her eyes squeezed shut, her brows knitted together tight, nose still grazing Nyx’s sleeping head. You’re thankful he hasn’t woken up. 

“Elain said…” you fumble, unsure. “Mentioned you might like to do something for your birthday.” Feyre sniffles, but you can pick out enough movement that looks like a nod. “Have you…is there anything in particular you’ve thought of?” 

She shakes her head. “There might not be time.” 

You glance at her, heart sinking slightly, hand rubbing over her shoulder. “There’ll be time,” you whisper, not sure where the conviction comes from. “What would you like to do though, if time wasn’t an issue?” Feyre doesn’t respond, her throat working silently. Your tongue flicks out over your lips, “what about visiting the coast? There are a few islands in Night Court territory, we could explore a few?” 

Her body goes rigid, brows squeezing shut tighter if possible, shaking her head. Her fingers tremble, and Nyx’s face scrunches in his sleep. You worry he’s about to wake. 

“Okay, a definite no to that one,” you murmur, forcing some lightness into your voice. “What about…just a quiet day at home? We could…stay in? And talk amongst ourselves?” Her shoulders begin to relax, but she shakes her head. “I don’t want…I like it…love it here, but…” 

“Just not on your birthday?” She nods. You nod back. “Got it. Somewhere outside? Or away a bit?” She nods again, and your heart begins to steady. You’re getting somewhere with this. 

“Okay…then how about…” Oh dear. This is what you get for keeping to yourself for so long. What would she like? 

The silence is stretching…you need to hurry up…think of something to do…something she’ll like that isn’t boring and generic…“Painting?” 

She seems to pause for a moment, and an instinct that isn’t something human urges you forward. “We could take turns? So you aren’t always the one in the chair working? I don’t know how good they’d be, but we could try? I’m sure we could manage some basic patterns. How hard could circles be?” A quiet, wet laugh escapes her lips, and you hold back an obvious sigh. 

“Harder than you’d think,” she whispers, sniffing again, raising one hand to wipe her nose on her arm. “Well then how about we each take turns trying to paint things, and you can laugh at how disfigured our basic shapes are, hm? What about that?” 

Feyre nods her head gently. “I’d like that,” she whispers, “as long as I can keep them afterwards.” 

“I’m not sure you’ll have anything worth keeping,” you mutter, half-joking, “but if that’s what you want…”

“I do,” she replies firmly, making you glance down at her in slight surprise. But then you nod. “Okay… Let’s do that.” 

In the back of your mind, you consider broaching the subject of borrowing—acquiring—a sketchbook, or journal of sorts, but she looks so tired. She looks about ready to fall asleep. That’s probably why she kept the lights off, so the both of them might be able to settle back down.

Her eyes have fallen shut, nose and mouth resting atop his head, keeping him close to her bare skin beneath. He looks like he’s sleeping peacefully. His wings kick in his sleep, and your lips twitch. 

As quietly as you can you stand from the sofa, untangling yourself, making sure to be silent as you make back for your bedroom, pausing a few paces from the sofa to look back at them. Feyre seems so tired, so small, bundled up in the corner of the sofa with her baby. 

She looks like your little sister again, in a way. 

Your lips open, the first of three words sitting quietly on your tongue, but… 

You don’t want to risk waking them. You don’t need to say it. It would probably come out too loud, anyway. 

It would be strange to announce it out of nowhere. 

You don’t need to say it. 

————

You made the mistake of falling back asleep, and now your head hurts. 

You don’t want to open your eyes, for fear of what the clock might tell you. 

If you were given another chance to restart the day, and wasted it again, you might just throw yourself out the window. 

Your brows furrow in disagreement, disliking the flippant thought. Your eyes open on their own, glancing to the clock, not giving yourself the opportunity to doubt anything. It’s about nine o’clock. 

You can work with that. You can get up now, and the day is still ahead of you. It’s not wasted, and you haven’t missed anything. 

Glancing to your side table, you spot a half eaten piece of bread on a plate. Your brows furrow tighter, fingers rubbing at your forehead—what was the dream part? Did you actually see Feyre? It’s all so foggy first thing in the morning. 

The plate’s there, it has crumbs, and it has bread on it. 

You repeat those facts in your head, slowly but surely driving away the haze that’s settled over your mind. Reorganising those events and sectioning dream off from reality. 

A heavy sigh falls from your lips as you glance about your bedroom. You’re still dressed as you were, and you feel fine—no churning stomach, no tingling skin…you’re fine. Breathing is coming easy to you, and while you fail to completely feel the scratch of the sheets beneath your fingertips, there’s enough sense still left in the skin for you to pick up on its softness. 

It’s nine o’clock. 

You groan into your pillow, feeling restless. What can you do today? The weather’s still grey, soft sprays of rain floating down from the sky, misting the air, and you think you spot the faintest trace of condensation in the corners of the glass window panes. Maybe it won’t immediately cheer your spirits, but you can try going outside. Even if it means wandering aimlessly for an hour or so, it’s nice to sometimes look at things and recognise them. Maybe you’ll even end up wandering your way to Bas’ house, or Nesta’s—though you’re not sure you’re ready to see either of them again, with the grey of your heart. 

Pulling a sigh into your lungs, you push up from the bed, dragging yourself to the door to head down the hallway to Azriel. He’ll’ve had his conversation with Mor by now. Will have more questions to ask you. Clarifications to make. It’s tiring. 

You’re tired. 

————

As usual, you knock on his door, entering when he calls, keeping the shawl wrapped closely around your shoulders, remembering how cold he likes it. 

You quietly walk inside, socked-feet pitter-patting across the floorboards, gloved fingers pulling the shawl a little closer.

Hazel eyes flick over to you, sharp and observing. You’d like to hide from them, sometimes, for fear of what he’ll see. “Did you get a chance speak with her?” He inquires. Like I asked?

“It’s barely been a day.” You take the seat at his bedside, organising your skirts carefully so they won’t crumple or wrinkle while you’re sat. “But yes, we spoke.” 

“I’m glad.” He’s watching you, a curve to his under eyes, a small upward tilt to his lips. “How was it?”

Your shoulders roll in an uncommitted shrug. “It happened.” 

A beat passes, and he glances out the window, gazing at the grey sky. “Did you find it helpful?” 

“Not particularly.” 

Hazel eyes move over you, wrapping you in their sight. “Change won’t immediately occur. You should give it time.” 

“You said I just needed to try speaking with her once.” 

“It might be better—for you—if you tried again.” His hands are resting by his sides atop the sheets. Wings pressed to the pillows. “What did you speak about?” 

“You said I just needed to try speaking with her once.” 

“And did you? Have an honest conversation with her, about her experiences and your own?”

The pencil has been moved from where it was resting yesterday, now caught between the pages of the notebook. There’s a mug of tea on the tabletop too, completely cold and untouched, an empty plate by its side. A different book besides the cup, this one with crisp, pale edges. 

“Did you?” He reminds, drawing you out of arbitrary thought. 

There’s a full glass of water, too. It has a hexagonal base, with the six sides made into the shape of small arches, before expanding into a circular top to drink from. The light filters through it, pale and bright, distinctly liquid-like. His eyes are on you, lips set in a line, brows resting as they normally might on his expressionless face. His hair has a slight curl over his forehead. 

You love this male. With his blank eyes and blandly set mouth. With his uncaring attitude toward you, and easy disregard for things out of his control. You have to love him, even if you can’t feel it right now. It’s just a numb patch. 

Even if your heart isn’t beating the way it usually does, and you don’t feel as skittish as you usually do, it’s easy to pick out you feel differently for him that for anyone else. 

Have you ever felt this way over someone else? No, you don’t think so. What is it, though? Is there a reason? He used to make you smile a lot more. He used to make you feel a bit like yourself again. Or perhaps, who you could have been if there hadn’t been so many downfalls in your childhood. 

Oh. 

You don’t want to be here right now. That’s what’s going on. 

Where would you like to be? In your room? No. With Feyre, then? Maybe, but not particularly. With Elain? Nesta? No, and no. The walk was nice though, over to Nesta’s house. Maybe just walking somewhere, in the cold. Treading through frost, and streets that look as shut down as your mind. Noticing things is nice. Seeing plants you recognise, and other architecture features you’ve read about in real life. That’s nice. Maybe a walk is what you want. It feels right. 

How long has it been since you’ve seen Bas? Two days? Can you see him today? Do you want to? It’s a nice question to ask yourself, at least. Do I want to? Do you want to see Bas today? Yes, that would be nice. But would he still be upset with you? He might still be upset with you. Do you still want to see Bas today? Yes, that would be nice. Why? You miss the smell of his home, a lot. The smell of rosemary, and freshly tilled earth, you think. Something like that, anyway. The smell of the outdoors, even if you don’t like it that much. 

Do you not like the outdoors? You like the colours of the streets under frost. It gives everything a slightly glacial, pale purple look. And it all sparkles. Even in the cold. You can appreciate the niceness of it, now you’re distant from it. 

You’re a bit like the frost, Azriel.

Hazel eyes blink. “I am?” 

“Yes I did speak with her. It was a bit helpful, in a way, but I didn’t like how inorganic it was. I don’t like scheduling appointments for my vulnerability. I’d prefer for it to be more spontaneous, and my own choice.” The fabric of your skirts have managed to wrinkle themselves. You release the material from the tight curve of your fingers. “But I liked it being mutual.”

His wings rustle faintly against the pillows, cold air breezing through the room. A latch clicks faintly as the window shuts. 

“It sounds like you enjoyed it a little. Why not try it again?” 

Because you said once. You said once, and then I could speak with you. 

Never mind.

You stand from the seat, pulling up your gloves. You turn from his bed. It would be nice to lie in bed. Beneath the covers, in the warmth. Wrapped in heat, with bare skin feeling the hitch of the fabric, the weight of the duvet. But it would be nice to see Bas. To walk down the quiet streets, where you’re free to observe at your own leisure, and take things in at a pace that suits you. 

You wish conversations with him were simpler, but you find yourself often leaving them feeling lost. 

He calls after you, but his voice sounds so far away you think you might have imagined it. Your mind playing games with your reality in order to cope. Whether or not he truly did call after you, you won’t verify for fear of it being false and turning around to nothing. So you keep going. 

You wish you didn’t have to speak with him. Wish you didn’t have to see him. Wish you didn’t have to look at him and be reminded of how effortlessly he can pluck at your heartstrings, so often stringing out minor chords instead of the light and skipping arpeggios that used to make you beam. You wish you never told him how you felt. It would have all been so much better if you kept your mouth shut. If you’d just seen how obviously he was interested in her. It was a stupid decision to make—how could you have hoped for it to end in any other result? 

It would be better to shut him out. You’re tired of always being the one with her heart in her hand while he keeps his far away from sight, somewhere you’ll never find. 

Why does it always have to be you opening up, when he gives nothing in return? 

————

“And how are you feeling this morning?” Madja asks with a smile on her round face. 

You manage a half smile in return, fingers curling in the duvet to pull it further up, hugging your shawl closer. “Good, for the most part,” you answer honestly. Your throat rolls, fingers playing with the fabric of the duvet sheet, “and you?” 

“Good,” she answers, taking her seat at your side. “Tell me, did you come up with anything you found suiting?”

The smile slips away, head dipping. “No, I…I don’t think I’ve been thinking much over the past day.” 

“You don’t think you’ve been thinking much?” Madja laughs, “I’m afraid we don’t have a choice in whether we think or not. The mind will always be active, whether you’re awake or asleep, it simply depends on whether you recall the thoughts.” Your lips remain in an undisturbed line but your nostrils flare with amusement. “I actually had quite a strange sequence of dreams this morning,” you begin, checking her face for approval before continuing. “I dreamed that I spent the day in bed, and the time kept on passing beyond my control. When I woke up I thought it was six in the evening due to the bells, but it was morning.” 

“The mind can convince you of strange things,” Madja agrees. 

A beat passes, and you shift on the mattress. “Madja, I…I’ve been experiencing some things that I…” Your lips tug down in the corners. “…that I don’t think…” 

The healer nods, understanding your hesitance to complete the sentence. “Can you tell me what they are?” The breath doesn’t come easily to your lungs, but it’s inhaled nonetheless. “This morning, when I woke, I experienced nausea—as I sometimes do…” Madja sits attentively, listening. “I went straight to the washroom, and I…” You make a slow tumbling-spinning gesture with your hands. Madja nods. “Then I…I cleaned myself up, but there was—…there was blood. On the seat, I mean, and I could taste it.” 

Madja’s expression remains calm, showing no signs of repulsion nor alarm, so you swallow, forcing yourself to continue. “Do you…” You cut yourself off—it doesn’t matter whether or not she knows you went to Autumn—that part can be forgotten. “I had some unpleasant sweats maybe a fortnight  or so ago, and…” You struggle to get the words up, heart pounding as shame and embarrassment try to strangle your throat shut. “…I saw blood then, too. When I visited the—…the washroom. It wasn’t my cycle,” you add on the end. You can’t look at her. 

“Did you feel any pain leading up to either of those occasions?” She asks, keeping the rhythm of her words steady. You shake your head. “And have you noticed any blood while visiting the washroom since then?” 

Heat scalds your skin. “I try not to look. But I don’t think so.” In your periphery she nods, but solemn quiet settles. 

Then she reaches out and touches your hand. “Don’t be afraid,” she tells you, squeezing. “People are with you.” 

You nod, unknowing how else to respond to the strange set of words. Madja smiles, but there’s something withheld from it. She sighs, shaking it off. “Now, let’s get started with that checkup, shall we?” 

You don’t speak as much as you usually do while her magic seeks out those bunches of tissue, purging them from your body. You’re thankful for the peace, in a way. Needing some time to come back to life after the mood that had found you this morning. Madja’s as gentle as she always is, careful and tender in her touch as that tingly magic warms your skin, sending targeted bursts deeper. She sits back, laying your hands to rest, then seems to change her mind, touching them again. 

“There’s no easy way to say what I’m about to tell you.” The gentle heat of her magic tingles at the surface of your skin, setting into your carpals, between your knuckles. “How much do you know about Magic Development Theory?” 

“A little,” you answer, searching her face. “I know it isn’t well researched among High Fae, and lesser so amongst faeries…”

“But you know it touches on the development of magic in correlation with physical and mental progression?” You nod. Madja’s lips purse, squeezing your hand gently. “You and your sisters came into magic…in essence, unnaturally. Your bodies didn’t go through the preparations most born-fae experience naturally—that is, the gradual deepening of power. That phase is a crucial part of development, and can cause irreversible damage if something is caused to suppress it. Of course there are exceptions to this—I believe Morrigan was rather unfortunate in that respect as her magic awoke all at once, and the High Lord had a similar experience—but they are by no means normal circumstances. Even if the awakening of power was abrupt, their bodies were prepared for the sharp exhaustion it would cause, while it’s likely that you and your sisters were not afforded that preparation due to your circumstances.” 

“So my body is…you think it’s damaged from two years ago?” You ask, strangely relieved there might be an explanation, even if it might be unpleasant. Just to know what’s going on with your body, to have a reason for night sweats and fevers and nausea and blood. Dizziness and delusion. “Perhaps not from your initial Making, but you’ve told me you’ve had trouble with your magic—that it took these years to manifest?” 

You nod. 

“And that it’s caused you pain in the past? Along with those two experiences you told me?” 

Blood drains from your skin, but you nod again.

Madja strokes her thumb across your knuckles, pushing that comforting warmth into your skin. “Being unable to release your Cauldron-given magic likely means to give it relief, it was infused into your own body. Whatever the Cauldron gave you—that is likely the reason you experience the pain you do.”

“Because it’s inside of me?” The healer nods solemnly. “And it’s— You think it may be irreversible by this point?” 

Madja’s throat rolls. “It is.” 

You swallow thickly, turning your gaze from her, staring instead down at the speckled and flaky skin of your hands. The dry scaliness of your arms. 

You turn back to her, looking feverishly. “It doesn’t hurt as much anymore… Might that not be a sign it can heal?” 

Madja pauses, remaining steady. However she forms her reply…it will matter to you, how she answers. 

Her eyes slide shut, mouth falling to a calm line before she looks at you again. 

She hands you the full glass from your bedside.

“Will you let me try and show you a precious silver lining?” 

————

You can hear the rain from outside, pelting against the ink-black window panes. 

Night has fallen. 

You’ve decided you won’t yet attempt to digest your earlier appointment with Madja—that you’re magic will cause you pain until you die…to never be able to use it properly without that lacerating burn…to be well and truly useless after all… 

Face it tomorrow. 

And yet tears are rising again. 

If you just hadn’t been so scared of it. If you hadn’t subconsciously locked it up so thoroughly. It’s stupid to think that—you didn’t even have any choice in it. 

But if things had been different and you’d be bolder… If you could have been more like Feyre in the woods, or Nesta with her silver flames… If you weren’t so inherently afraid, on such a subconscious level. 

You could have lived and thrived. Explored whatever the Cauldron gave you. And now it’s forever cut off from you. 

You’ll never be able to save anyone with magic like this. 

It’ll never have meant anything. 

————

Three whisper-quiet knocks are landed to your bedroom door, and you pull your head up from the desk. 

You don’t rise from your seat. You don’t want to move. 

Nobody knows you’re awake. You’ll happily pretend you’re asleep. 

Seconds tick by, and you wait with a spiking heartbeat to hear whether they’ll knock again. You don’t know why, but you feel like it’s Feyre. Your little sister stood outside that door, hoping to be let in. After you’ve tried to shut them out for so long. Well, apart from Elain. 

Your lower lip wobbles, vision turning blurry. You’re in a rather regretful mood, apparently, un-helped by the rain outside. It would be nice if these moods didn’t plague your mind so frequently and intensely. If your mind would let you be happy. 

Something hot and wet drips down your face, and you wipe your cheek, blinking away the remaining wetness. 

You think back to this morning, when you nearly told her you loved her. 

You could have died without her in the woods. You probably all would have. You could have easily died in the Cauldron too—they didn’t know what they were doing. Could have died during the war, if they’d aimed the Cauldron to the camps instead of the skies. Life isn’t guaranteed…

The seat is pushed back from your haste, striding across the room and opening the door outwards, those three words trembling in your mouth. 

Marginally widened, dark hazel eyes peer down at you, having narrowly missed having a door flung into his face. You jolt with recognition, hurriedly drying your eyes. “You aren’t Feyre.”

He pauses, assessing your state before shaking his head. “I’m not.” 

You sniff, quickly pulling yourself together. Your brows pinch as you take in the tall Illyrian. “You aren’t… Are you allowed to be up an about?” 

“Technically, no.” 

“Then…?” You think back to this morning, and want to shrivel into the floor. Then Madja passes through your head. You swallow, standing straighter. “I…wasn’t okay to speak this morning,” you admit, remembering how you’d left before even answering any questions. Azriel dips his head, “I thought not.” 

Your stomach sinks. “Do you…are you wanting to speak now?” 

He blinks once. Shifts on his feet. “You weren’t at dinner this evening.” 

“Were you?” You ask in surprise. 

He nods. “You should try to eat. To help you recover.” He pauses, then adds. “It helps a lot. To eat a full meal, sometimes.” 

“I know. I just— I think I fell asleep again.” 

“You’ve been sleeping well?” 

You tilt your head from side to side. “I’ve been sleeping a lot? I couldn’t tell you whether it’s good though…” Azriel nods his head, and quiet begins to settle in the darkened hall. How late is it now? 

“You seemed in a low mood this morning.” He says after a few beats of silence. You swallow. “Yes…I think the recent weather might be just…you know…” 

He nods. “I know.” A few more beats pass. “You seem awake?” 

“…I don’t want this conversation, right now,” you say, averting your gaze. You’re far too tired, far too drained…but if he insists you’re not sure you’ll be able to turn him away, wanting more than ever his quiet company. 

In your periphery however, he shakes his head. “No, it’s not that.” He assures, then pauses. 

“I said you could speak with me, if you tried reaching out to Nesta.” You incline your head by a fraction to look at him, not skilled enough to mask your doubt. “You told me you didn’t like how inorganic it was.” 

You don’t know where he’s going with this, but you nod your head. You did say that. And it was true. 

Azriel nods his head. “Will you come with me?” 

————

The chill of midnight sets your teeth on edge, but the fleece keeps you warm as does the thick, woollen scarf you have wrapped around your neck and shoulders, and arguably the lower portion of your face. 

He’d flown you out quite a way from the River House—to a part of Velaris you don’t recognise—and yet seemed to have chosen to not go directly to his destination, leaving time for walking. Not that you mind of course, but you turn it absently over in your mind. 

The smell of rain is fresh on the cobbles, droplets of water dripping down the wrought iron of lanterns, weighing the lush green of long leaves until the droplets slip, relieving its end of the weight and catapulting back to its original height. Puddles accumulate in the narrow dips between the cracks in pavement, every colour made brighter, fresher by the gleam of rain. Vivifying colour and scent, life brimming at the surface, adding layers to smells. Walking past an alley, you see a small, speckled bird fluttering its feathers in one of those puddles, bathing itself in quick shivers, tiny eyes squeezing shut in pleasure before shuddering out a spray of dirtied water, now happy and clean. 

While lamps aren’t uncommon, most parts of Velaris are without light during the course of the night. Letting starlight spill over the paving, basking in the moon’s lonely glow, fae eyesight having no need for the aid of candles as humans would. Here, the night sky is bright and beautiful, scattered full of tiny, glittering specs, like millions of miniature sequins cast to the heavens. Some stars glow like gemstones, like diamonds—big and bold, and demanding attention away from the surrounding scatter; others are peaceful and codependent, relying on the smaller sparkle of others to build into a complexity created by a myriad of stars. 

Rainwater still trickles heavily, the splash of droplets echoing between buildings, small streams gathering as the water courses through the streets. You allow the droplets to fill your mind, their trickling splash, their content and syncopated rhythm keeping you listening, unable to predict the next pattern—how it’s an ever-changing, ever-evolving piece. 

Up ahead you can spot warm light spilling out onto the cobbles. It’s noticeably quieter in this part, and you wonder if it’s more residential. If he’s flown you far enough away from the shopping areas. 

“Up here,” he tells you, nodding to the warmly lit area. 

There are no doors, just some stout, rectangular, navy pieces of fabric hung from the threshold of the ceiling’s entrance, hanging in a single row like bunting. Upon each dark blue piece seems to be the side-shop’s logo, embroidered in pale white thread, kept within a neat circle. It’s startlingly small, compared to others you’ve seen, looking more akin to a bar in its layout—high-stools pushed close to a raised table, the kitchen immediately behind…and smelling delicious. 

Your stomach makes some interested noises. 

He had mentioned the destination was food-related, but you’d imagined something bigger, more closed off…not a walk-in, first-come-first-served sort of place. You suppose the thick layers make sense now, with how there are no temperature wards on the place; no indoor seating, seeing as the establishment doesn’t seem to have any doors. 

Teeth nip at the interior of your lip, glancing at what you can see of the interior—it looks pleasantly lit, two fae behind the raised table, with three others on the far end. There would be space for you to sit, without disturbing them… “I’m not sure I’ll be able to finish a meal…” 

He nods. “They have containers you can take food away in.” 

You glance back inside, chewing on your lip. Then you nod.

You hadn’t recognised anything on the menu, but Azriel seems to have visited before. A few times, by the friendly tone spoken between him and one of the cooks. A few minutes later a black, red, and gold, lacquerware bowl had been set in front of you, filled with more than a few things you haven’t so far had the chance to try. It seems to be comprised of a mouth-watering smelling broth, a selection of steamed veg, and half a well-boiled egg, it’s yolk still slightly runny, along with something string-looking. You’re presented with a pale white spoon, decorated with blue ink strokes that make up the petals of flowers and vines—to drink the broth with, you’d guess. 

“Smells good, doesn’t it?” Azriel nods to the bowl. “The taste is even better.” 

Hesitantly, you dip the different-looking spoon—almost more like a miniature ladle—into the broth, blowing on it gently, before raising the steaming liquid to your mouth, taking an experimental sip. It’s pleasantly spiced, the juices from the seasoned veg likely playing a part in the depth of flavour, and most importantly, it’s hot. “It’s good,” you murmur, smiling faintly as you finish the small ladle’s-worth, refilling it swiftly. It’s only once you’ve practically polished off the bowl, encountering a little difficulty with the utensils in your gloved fingers, that Azriel disturbs the peace that you hadn’t realised had settled. 

“You looked like you enjoyed that.” You nod, lightly drying your lips with the paper napkins, the logo of the walk-in this time printed in a warm red, matching the accent of the bowls. “I loved the broth.” The light catches in Azriel’s eyes, and he nods. “The broth is good.” 

You glance down at the lacquerware bowl, wondering if you might be able to get the last few drops of liquid from the circumference of the bottom if you tilt it and let it gather. You might have done so if you weren’t feeling pleasantly full for the first time in a while, no worries of nausea to be found in your body. Just warm satisfaction. 

A good meal for a shitty day. 

“It would be easy to have one of those picked up for a dinner,” Azriel mentions on the way back, after having paid. You’re walking at a dawdling pace, unrushed so you don’t get indigestion and spoil the heavenly state of your stomach. You hum, but your eyes feel heavy, despite having slept so much already. 

He doesn’t push it, allowing the comfortable quiet to settle, with raindrops still dripping in between buildings, splashing into puddles. You’re happy to let it remain quiet, your mind feeling pleasantly empty. No skittish thoughts, or fleeting worry. No anxious tug of energy telling you to hurry along in case you’re wasting time. 

There’s little in your mind, save for the warm spice of the broth, and it’s quiet. 

It’s peaceful. 

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

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[chainsawmascara]

Figuring out where every companion fits in my Suddenly A Thing art school au doodle world is. Going to be interesting.

God's favorite princess who started it all is in general fine arts. She loves charcoal, painting feels like a necessary evil but it's secretly what she's always wanted to do.

Lae'zel is clearly in metalworking/sculpture.

Astarion is in textiles, specifically embroidering and fashion design/history. He has an entire brand built in his head. He works at an upscale fashion store part time. He judges EVERYONE.

Wyll???? Wyll's studying art history and debating going into curation. He's a trust fund kid and his father is deeply disappointed THIS is what he's doing with his college fund. He spends free time in the dark room. Darkroom photography has no place in the world these days, but he loves the classics and waxes poetic about 35mm film and its versatility - he does some oil painting over certain photos for flourish. It's phenomenal. He doesn't think it's that great. Everyone disagrees.

Gale is. Gale is the english major from the sister university who decided a double major is a good idea (it isn't, he is suffering) and hurled himself into abstract/surrealism. (It works very well in his favor when tara steps in his paint and walks on the canvas. He had a three hour anxiety attack and decided he did it on PURPOSE.

(Part of me wants to slam him into dark room photography and i will not elaborate. Maybe he sneaks in to hang out with wyll. He cannot be good at everything but he NEEDS TO BE GOOD AT EVERYTHING. He's a recurring subject of wyll's work.)

Where the FUCK do i put karlach. She's on a roller derby team outside of school. But what does she DO. She's in there somewhere but WHAT DEPARTMENT.

Dammon shares classes with Lae'zel bc that's The Most Obvious Thing. He's a natural.

Isobel? Pottery. Aylin doesn't go here. She's just The Girlfriend also on the roller derby team and hangs around.

Rolan is obviously into impressionism. He's the manet of the school, trying every artist's style in a desperate attempt to find his own despite cal and lia both knowing he HAS his own style and it's GORGEOUS but he just can't see it himself.

Alfira is also in the textile department. Astarion hates everything she makes. She plays music at local clubs on the weekends. Lakrissa is her bartender girlfriend who studies sequential art.

I need to keep this going, I'm on to something here.

But where the FUCK do i put KARLACH.

Edit: 9 fingers is the drug dealer. I went to art school, i promise you there are so many gatherings based solely around that, she'd be there constantly. Jaheira and Halsin are figure study models. Jaheira probably has her hand somewhere else in the school, she'd definitely have something to do with installation pieces, I'll get there let me cook on that one. Minsc is. Fuck. I need to figure that out. We're GOING SOMEWHERE HERE, WE'RE MAKING THIS HAPPEN.

Someone is in the jewelry department it's someone it's SOMEONE maybe lae'zel dips into it bc metal casting NO IT'S MINTHARA. MINTHARA. YES. I WILL JUSTIFY THIS WHEN IT'S NOT 2AM BUT TRUST ME IT'S MINTHARA. Intricate wire wrapping with gem stones she gets from 9 fingers, she has 5000 tools for it and no one realizes how violent whitesmithing tools are but I've BEEN THERE TRUST ME and the wire wrapping gives big spiderweb vibes, it's perfect, i love it, yes, she's in cahoots with astarion on a future design house and the bickering is CONSTANT.

[thisaccountisagainstmywill]

In the Garden of Grief

My first published fanfiction. Finished just in time for everyone to be super upset about Gort changes. Huge thank you to @dandelion-bride for beta reading for me. Shout out to @the-grand-gemini and my own winter-swollen fingers for helping me think too much about Chronic Pain Gortash. Pairing: Implied Dark Urge/Enver Gortash Rating: T Summary: Set soon after the Dark Urge goes missing. Gortash waits for a meeting with the House of Grief and cannot help but reminisce. Warnings: Angst, Descriptions of Chronic Pain and Injuries, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms, Grief, Depression Word Count: 2,962

Below the cut or on AO3

Counselor Enver Gortash pulled his simple cloak tighter and carefully turned his face from the checkpoint guards as he entered the Lower City’s streets. He was dressed down without his trappings of office, and bare of all but a few baubles of his faith and personal necessities, leaving himself almost unrecognizable.

For the first time in years, he was alone outside of his office and estate. No peasant crowd gathered to hear him speak, not one guard or attendant at his heel. He felt vulnerable without them, but no one could know what their lord was about to do.

He had not slept in a tenday. Food would not sit right, so he resigned himself to black coffee and smoking tobacco just to remain upright. The ever-present bags beneath his eyes had sunk even deeper and darker, leaving his face gaunt and looking bruised. The purpling served only to emphasize the spiderwebs of broken capillaries that reddened his eyes. Black stubble across his cheeks had gone untended and now sprouted in unruly growths that framed cracking lips.

Enver felt a shell of himself, and his Dark Lord was beginning to notice. During the too-long blinks that served as whispers of sleep, his Lord would sow his mind with doubt. To rule over Banites was to rule over constantly circling sharks. A faltering ruler was doomed to be torn apart, as he had torn apart so many before him. He could not go on as he did - he had reached the breaking point. Something needed to change. He would purge himself of this weakness before it could be preyed on by his lessers.

The streets of Baldur’s Gate were dimming as the sun sank lower over the Gray Harbor. He had planned this excursion for when the City would be empty enough for him to pass unrecognized, but not enough to raise suspicion. Children rushed through the streets to answer calls to dinner. Fisherfolk and other tradesmen slowly ambled their way home. Shopkeeps closed up street stalls, and newspaper hawkers rushed their unsold supplies back to the Mouth.

No one paid him any mind. He was no lord today, just another weary man.

As he made his way over cobblestoned streets, he favored his good leg the best he could, but recent rains made the ground damp and his gait slow and awkward in turn. More than once his boots skidded too wet across uneven stones. A bad ankle made it hard to brace against looming falls, and he had to pause and will himself steady anytime the threat arose. So he resigned himself to trudge onward, tentatively shifting his weight from side to side as his body allowed. His Master’s blessing kept him from aging as Chosen, but on these days when Bane’s favor waned and the Black Hand’s grip loosened, the reminders of mortality reared their spiteful heads.

Enver paused a moment, the effort made just to walk corroding his resolve. With his back pressed against the wall of a house, he rubbed the swollen joints of his fingers. He left most of his rings at home, the Netherstone stowed carefully in a pocket close to his skin. Exposed to the world now, his fingers swelled red, ugly, and noticeably crooked. He hated the sight of them. Too many injuries and too many years past now, he could not remember exactly what caused each of them. A fracture left untreated. Too many sloppy resettings. A mishap while tinkering. Maybe he had hit an underling too hard. Perhaps they swelled simply as a warning of another storm on the horizon. It didn’t matter. He was all aches these days. The worst of them penetrated through his flesh, past his bones, and into the core of the man beneath. He exhaled a slow, steadying breath and scanned the emptying street.

He had plotted his route meticulously before he deigned to take this trip. Save for the rare crossroads, he would only pass residential buildings. By design, this would keep his business secret. In his hard-won experience, Baldurians did not care what their neighbor did, as long as it did not inconvenience them or feed the gossip mills. If he did not give them a reason to care about him, they wouldn't.

Across from his brief shelter stood a bulletin board decorated with local announcements and requests long left unanswered. Amongst them, he was greeted by the shining smile of the man he had been a month ago. The image of that man mocked him with its vibrancy. He could not now bear to look at himself, be it in a mirror or these false fragments he had too diligently plastered across the city. The consequences of his successes and plots weighed heavy on him. With a silent snarl, Gortash pushed his pains and self-pity down, swiftly paced across the street to the board, and tore the poster down. His body groaned at the effort, but he drowned its protests out in rage. Piece by piece he ripped through the printed façade of his own wretched face and let the remnants fall away limply into the mud. A hero's smile and shining halo faded as the dampness claimed the shreds.

That man who was in those posters did not know hurt as he did, not the gaping wound of loss, not hungering maw of words unspoken and deeds left undone. That man did not know what was to come and, oh, how he envied him now.

There has been no body. No evidence. No closure. Just another seated where his companion should have been. That was all the evidence Enver needed. He was not fool enough to hope.

He ground the last bits of paper into the mud with his dressed-down boots. Filth splattered over the freshly waxed leather. His face twisted down into a sneer at them. Perhaps he would make that his parents' problem before the end of the evening.

With a sharp flex of his fingers, he cracked his knuckles and returned to his path. His momentary show of weakness had only impressed on him the importance of completing his mission tonight.

Enver passed an iron fence and crossed a low bridge, arriving finally at the House of Grief. He had never been here himself - it was a refuge for men weaker than him. The House’s reputation and skills had reached him through idle chatter at a meeting of counselors, and with no current confidants to discuss such sensitive matters with, he determined then and there to make an appointment.

He paused before the stoop to the main entrance of the House. Hesitation was not like him, but the rashness that brought him here wasn't either. Doubt crept like a cold hand up the back of his neck, raising his nape hairs and setting his empty stomach in knots.

A Griefguard paused their patrol across the House’s gardens to address him somberly, “I am afraid we are closing for the evening.”

Gortash looked up from his brief contemplation. “I sent a letter ahead with a generous donation. An exception will be made,” his reply terse.

“Ah.” A dull sense of recognition sparked across the Griefguard's face. “Very well. The previous client’s appointment is running long. Please take a seat in the garden, and we will inform you when the Inquirer is available again.”

Their flat and practiced tones only served to infuriate him. He did not require the coddling of their typical clientele, only their services rendered on schedule as promised.

Still, he complied and took a seat at the small table in the far garden. At this spot, he was comfortably away from the bumbling patrons who hadn't enough mind to survive the delving of the so-called Inquirers and return home after their appointments. The garden was as peaceful as the Lower City could get. A waterway that framed the garden on two sides, and the lush shading trees and trellis of vines, made the spot seem like an oasis in the urban sprawl. Fine smooth brick buildings and the dividing wall of the Upper City left the garden fairly private and gently separated from the noise and stench of the Foundry and Fishmarkets only a stone's throw away.

Enver did not like being here.

Inaction did not suit him. He sat stiffly, his torso held upright and off the back of the chair. Beneath the table, the foot of his good leg tremored and tapped impatiently against the slate walkway. His right hand, the worse of the two, was stashed away from the growing evening cold beneath layers of woolen cloak. Bulging knuckles clenched together to find some semblance of relief. The other hand flipped idly at the book left on the marble-topped table, an enticingly named tome with contents that served only to disappoint: some sloppily printed and useless dribble about self-improvement. Yet the points within on obedience may’ve held some merit. The place seemed perfectly constructed to lull visitors into false security and reliance.

He scanned the garden, his raptorial mind desperate for something to focus on. Windows from the House itself stared down into the garden. Inside, silhouettes of figures moved lazily about, but he could not make out exact shapes. A deep, loathing frown etched its way onto his face as he thought bitterly on being made to wait. His time was precious and precarious – the city, Faerun, and Toril itself relied on his time being well spent. Now it was being wasted in this damnable garden with its artfully overgrown yard.

He bristled at the sight of the flowers: poppies for remembrance, valerian flowers for a sedative, bixa as a cure-all and aphrodisiac– information he had learned unwittingly while babbled at in his youth by Lady Jannath – or perhaps it was Lady Hullhollyn, he would check his notes later.

With dimming eyes he squinted at the rooftops of the buildings that framed this place. It was paranoia that drove him to search the rooflines, yet he could not help but think of the man who was his cause of being here today.

On idle evenings the two would sit on a balcony outside of his office or at his estate. Enver would give the man a theoretical starting point somewhere in the city or outside of it. The Bhaalist would point to rooftops and with his fingers trace an imagined path across them. All the while Enver would listen, a drink in his hand, while the other man articulated aloud the exact route he would take to arrive where they stood and kill them both without ever being seen.

When he felt roguish, Enver would attempt to break the other man’s plan by throwing complications into the scenario: the structure of that house is failing, the roof can’t support him; the lady of that house suspects her lord of adultery and has been watching all night; that house had a warding alarm; that house has a pigeon problem and has spiked the roof. Then he would watch in awe and delight as his Assassin’s mind would spin its gears and adapt to his challenge.

In the morning, Enver would update his security or mandate proposals to handle the prior night’s winning scenario. The next time they played, he would increase the difficulty for his companion just to make it to him on the balcony: traps placed at blind corners, light-sleeping visitors, a change in patrols, and even once an ill-fated endeavor with guard dogs.

Each time, the man would surprise him by finding an unexpected route around the new obstacles: static sent in questing tendrils over stone walls, a paranoia-induced argument started between two guards as a distraction, a seamless joining of the patrol, or the dogs rallied and set loose on the rest of the house. When he arrived finally at his goal, Enver himself, his eyes would be ablaze with delight.

It was a game for them and though neither ever mustered the will to say it: they relished the precious moments it let them linger together.

Never again.

Hurt welled behind Enver’s eyes and threatened to spill down his face. He frowned ugly and deep. The lines of a life not lived well, but lived thoroughly, cut his features into a grim mask. It was bad enough he was at this House of Grief, he would not let this weakness show more than necessary.

The secrets that threatened to be revealed here if he was not careful would leave him vulnerable and a dead man, but he would be dead anyway if his feeble affliction was not cured soon. He did not like this plan – but he did not have to like a plan born of desperation. It was necessary.

In their Absolute Plot, he had prepared for every inevitability but one: the death of his god-born associate. A being sculpted from such power did not die easily, and at the time it seemed impossible.

Maybe when the pain passed he would let himself see the potential and ambition in Orin. For now, the thought was vomitous. She was a feral dog that had eaten its better and nothing more.

Lesser beings had done more calamitous deeds. That fact he was certain of. Yet, try as he might, he could not think of what could be worse. This calamity affected him. His world was cracking at the seams and threatened to fall apart entirely.

As he remained in this garden, the gusto and determination that drove him here faded. In their absence, he yearned for the presence of another. For the confidence and safety he brought. For the wild but ever-present warmth of their love.

He pondered that word, love. He had cast it at debutantes and dilettantes alike who demanded to hear it in the throes of his performative passions. But here it threatened to mean something more than those placating lies. It made the saliva on his tongue curdle at the taste of it now. It was true that he had loved the man as simpletons would understand it, but there was a depth of meaning there that could not be contained within that simple word.

What is it to love more than ‘love’ could contain? Adoration captured his affection, but it could not grasp a sliver of their grotesque intimacies. Exaltation captured his devotion, but it felt too sterile for a bond made hands deep in sinews and viscera.

No, it was not enough. It would never be enough. They were two beings on the cusp of ascension and they loved like gods: well beyond the paltry lexicon of any mortals. They were first at the altars of each other—two gods-to-be in tandem veneration—equal parts in a singular whole.

His left hand slid idly to the trinket remnants of their promise, kept safe with him on his belt even dressed down as he was. The open maw for him, at once Infernal and Banite, and the spiraling wyrm for the man he lost. The symbols united, just as they were by an unbreakable bond. By the time they had sworn their oaths to each other, it had been only a formality, the symbols themselves were mere tokens of affection.

These solid, simple reminders were one of the few things he had left as worldly evidence of the man. When he realized the loss of his companion, he had swept through his saved papers like a machine. Without the man there he was vulnerable. Each letter that could not be twisted to mean Orin was physical proof of his weakness. Systematically he burned the evidence of the man who was. Anything that would not grace his memoirs was turned to ash and left to the wind. He regretted it now, in the depth of his sentimentality. The only other remnants of his Bhaalspawn were their plan and his grief.

That grief was the last and lingering gift from the one man he could not help but love. The last wound that dug as deep as his Assassin’s blades ever did in life. Each ragged breath dragged against the hollow in him, sending reverberations from his core skinward where they threatened to shake the tears loose from his eyes.

They would not take his grief from him. This pain was his.

Enver wrapped a covetous hand around the unified tokens at his belt, his sudden rage driving him as he squeezed until the pointed metal cut into the meat of his palm and sent a crimson trickle through clenched fingers. The sharp pain made him feel alive again. It broke through the dull and longing ache and fueled him enough to stand.

On forcefully steady legs, he determined then and there that he would dig his fingers into the wound in his heart, bore it deeper, and make it scar. A hole in him, borne of them both. He would fill that aching hole with malice and let it fester. He would not let their machinations become what could have been, they would still be. If his love could not live, he would spew the combined remnants of them both across the world and have the weak and unworthy suffer for it.

Where tears had once threatened to pool in his eyes, they now burned with fury. A smile stretched across his worn face, all teeth and no eyes. He recalled an idle fancy of his belated beloved, jovial musings shared in the dead of night, at the time when great and terrible feats are birthed to those who dare listen to wicked whispers. His love and their plans would live on through his deeds.

The first of his love letters to a dead man would be written tonight, painted across the Outer City in bits of refugee.

[panjakes]

HIIIII!!!° I ABSOLUTELY LOVE UR WORK!!

Can I have a request for a Spiderman Niki x black fem reader?? I love your Jungwon Spiderman post, but can i have it as Niki (he's my bias 🤭)

LOVE UR WORK!!! Keep up the good work, Luv you :))♡

Thank you for the request and reading my work🫶🏼❤️

“I’m spider-man” Niki says holding his breath right after

After a long moment of silence he looked back up at his girlfriend who had a confused expression before bursting into a fit of laughter now making Niki confused

“W-what’s funny? I didn’t tell a joke” he says tilting his head in confusion

“I-I’m sorry but you? Your spiderman? You told me you hate that guy” she says before laughing again slapping her knee

Niki side eyes her before sitting in the rail of Yn’s fire escape

“I said that so you wouldn’t suspect me” he says sighing

“I’m sorry babe but your not spiderman” she says shaking her head and wiping her tears

“Oh. So im not?” Niki says

“No babe. Jokes over” Yn says pulling out her phone leaning on the rail. Niki nods his head

“Okay. Yeah jokes over” Niki says before leaning backwards and falling off the rail

“RIKI!” Yn let’s out a shriek trying her best to reach her boyfriend but failing. Just before she could shriek or even cry, a web wraps around the railing of the fire escape and Niki was on his way back up with a very cocky smirk on his face

Landing safely on his feet, Niki stands up smirking at Yn

“Still think I’m not spiderman?” He asks

“You fucking asshole! Out of all ways too prove to me that your spiderman you fucking jump from the fire escape?!” She asks shoving him

“You weren’t believing me!” Niki says

“Show me the suit! Shoot a web at me or something! You really fucking scared me” Yn says shoving him out the way to get to her room

“Okay Yn wait” he says grabbing her waist only to be shoved away again

“Leave me alone” Yn says opening the window to her bedroom only to have Niki web it closed. Yn turns around to look at him with a glare

He grabs both of her hands bring her closer to him

“I’m sorry. I’m really sorry. That was the wrong way to go about it and I shouldn’t have done that too you. I’ll never scare you like that again. Please forgive me?” He says

“No” Yn says quickly

“Pleasssseeeeee Snookum wookum!” Niki says with a pout causing the dark skin girl to finally crack with a smile and giggle

“Fine. I forgive you but the next time you do that shit it’s your ass! And I’ll tell Jay on you” Yn says pointing her finger at him

“Nobody’s scared of jay, I’m spiderman I’ll quite literally web him to a wall” Niki says following Yn into her bedroom

“Niki stop worrying. I’ve worked the night shift before I’ll be fine” Yn says grabbing her phone from its charger

“Yeah that was one time and you also had a ride! I don’t want you walking home alone” Niki says

“It’s only a 6 minute walk Babe I’ll be fine” Yn says

“You call me if anything happens, I’m serious Yn” he says picking up her house keys to give to her

“I will now go Patrol and stop worrying about me” she says putting a claw clip onto her black, brown, and blond braids

“I’ll always worry about you” Niki says pecking her forehead before pulling his mask over his face

“And you don’t think I worry about you now that I know you spiderman?” She asks making Niki sigh

“I have super strength and super hearing and I can shoot spiderwebs from my wrist. You have nothing to worry about” Niki says making the girl slowly turn around

“So what’re you trying to say?” Yn asks

“Nothing yn. I just want you to be careful alright?” He says pulling down his mask and jumping out the window before the dark skin girl could say anything

Groaning and rolling her eyes, Yn opens her apartment door and leaving

“Yn you can go home early”

“Are you sure? You know I have no problem staying to close” Yn says to her boss

“Yn, go home and take these with you” her boss says handing her a container of left over sweets from the bakery in the cafe

“Fine, I’ll see you in the morning” Yn says with a pout

“Don’t miss me too much, see in the morning”

Yn grabs her things and leaves the shop with a wave.

She puts in one of her AirPods and gets to walking down the street to her apartment. Pulling out one of the muffins out the bag Yn turns the music down just a bit so she can be aware of her surroundings

“Excuse me sweetheart, can I please have a dollar? I’m hungry” a “homeless man” asked

“I’m sorry I have no cash on me, you can have these if you want?” She says holding out the bag of sweets

“I don’t want that shit! I know you have money” the man says standing up from the curb

“I-I don’t. I’m sorry” she says turning around to make an escape but was to late when the man hit her side with a bat.

She groans falling to the ground. The man grabs at her purse getting frustrated when the bag wouldn’t leave her shoulder

“Get! Off me!” She screams kicking the man in the knee causing him to groan and fall to his knee. Yn gets up making a run for it only for the man to also get up and be hot on her tail.

The man takes a swing for her head but she ducks making him miss. Just running Yn didn’t notice that the man wasn’t chasing her anymore

She looks back seeing the man being thrown around by her boyfriend. Ending the fight, Niki webs the man to the brick wall.

Niki dusts off his hands before walking over to her

"Call the police and i'm going to take you home" He says causing yn to just nod her head, still shaken up from what just happened

after making a police report and watching the man get arrested, Niki grabs yn by the waist, swinging her back to her apartment.

Once they arrived Niki opens the window watch the girl climb in and he climbs in after her.

"He hurt you?" He asks making yn nod her head. She pulls up her shirt showing the now purple bruise on her side. He sighs walking to the kitchen to fill up an ice pack.

handing it to her niki starts to clean up her tiny scraps

"I thought I told you to be careful" Niki says making yn roll her eyes

"I was as careful as I could be" Yn says

"If you were I wouldnt be clean scraps on your body" Niki says not making eye contact which upset the girl

she rolls her eyes pushing his hand away from her bleeding knee, getting up to go to the bathroom. She grabs her scraf off the sink tying it around her braids. She sighs in annoyance when she realized her bonnet was not on the bathroom counter. she turns around to see Niki with her bonnet in his hand

She says nothing as she turns around and allows the blond to put her braids into the bonnet.

"I'm sorry, I didnt mean to be harsh its just...anything could have happened" Niki says looking down at the tile floor not wanting to think of the possibilities that could have happened tonight

"I tried to be careful I did, It;s not my fault I was attacked" Yn mumbles

"No, Its not. I just dont want anything to happen to you" Niki mumbles pulling her into a hug

"I'll be extra careful from now on" Yn says patting his head

"Please"

"I will...now go make us some ramen" Yn says

"Really?" Niki asks

"Please? I dropped my bag of sweets" Yn asks pouting

"Fine" Niki says smiling as he goes to the kitchen

"Thank you! Love you" Yn says smiling

"Yeah love you too" Niki says smiling and glad that his girlfriend was safe

[wyked-ao3]

writing update

I am tagged here by @fortunatetragedy

TPKODR technically I wrote this last night and it needs some refining before I'm happy but most of today's writing has spoilers to plot 0_o

I'm about to get to a rum scene then we hit shore and cause a little havoc and I'll be writing the shovel scene I promised @gioiaalbanoart blame Amon for the delay 0_o (brat decided to change the order of events)

so this is the equivalent of a first draft of this scene I suppose

(BTW it's not as creepy as it sounds for context A pirate is pranking him.)

Oisìn nodded and started climbing down the lower hatch down into the bilge. When he hit the bottom rung he felt water go into his boots and he shuddered, he really hated stagnant water. It reminded him of the smell of bodies who were left in the water for a long time. He walked around feeling the boards for any damage as his eyes adjusted to the darkness. He pulled his sword to use it as a light source, it glowed a soft yellow light when it was in complete darkness. Slowly he was getting the feeling of not being alone and he trusted his gut on that.  Oisìn didn't want to be labeled as a chicken so he remained down there. He wanted to get this done quickly so he could go back up. He could tell it had been at least a week since the last person had been down here, the spiderwebs told him that although one side was suspiciously absent of spider webs. He couldn't see very much down here even with the glow of the sword in his hands. It reminded him of things better left in the past. He shuddered as he tried to block them back out. The smell of the decaying rats and the stagnant water giving way to his memory. He could smell the brine of the Deadmans sea and blood in the air around him. He knew it was an illusion but it was a rather convincing one. There was a sound in the water just before he felt something grab his ankle. He jumped as he realized it was a hand, he prayed it was not a skeleton reanimated. He still had nightmares about the last time he had seen that in person. He started to come down with his sword to cut off whatever had grabbed him when he realized it was hot and that meant it was alive. He wrenched his foot away.

Np tags @paeliae-occasionally @aintgonnatakethis @the-golden-comet @jev-urisk @evilwriter-originals

@gioiaalbanoart

@gwens-fiction

@leahnardo-da-veggie

[planetkiimchi]

the strings of fate | l.mk

no. 5 of my song collection (requested!)

featuring: mark lee x gn!reader, chenle

word count: 7351

warnings: arson, fire, burning, people die in the fire, death (funeral), rooftops (?) if you're scared of heights, there's mentions of nudity but not described, swearing, you'll probably hate me for this fic but idc

playlist: anaheim - niki; 10:35 - tate mcrae; psycho - jun; adelaide - johnny orlando; let me go - hailee steinfeld + alesso + florida georgia line + watt; after you - gryffin + jason ross + calle lehmann; haunt you - x lovers + chloe moriondo

summary — when mark lee, student council president of riize highschool goes missing, you’re the first suspect. as his best friend and well-known crush, you stood to gain the most from it. you’re also vice-president, and with mark gone, you’ve stepped up to be the president and predicted valedictorian. all eyes are on you, and one wrong move can send you to your downfall. but who’s that lurking in the shadows, tugging on the puppet-strings of fort irwin? the city is small, but you feel smaller as things go spiralling crazily out of control. OR mark loves you more than anything else in the world, but you're too broken to receive his love.

if you liked it, REBLOG it.

5 months ago — if i could, i’d freeze this moment, make it my home

“Mark?” You peeked into the room, footsteps resounding in the hollow space. Mark had promised to meet you at the auditorium, but he wasn’t there, leaving you stranded in the middle of the school in a dark room with only the dark red seats to keep you company.

As you turned to leave, you heard a muffled sound that sounded suspiciously like someone landing on the carpet floor. You looked behind you just in time to see Mark removing his mask, breathlessly calling after you, still clad in his Spiderman outfit.

“Just as I thought I’d been stood up,” you told him.

“Nope. In fact, I would have been early if someone hadn’t tried to mug me on my way here. It took some time to get changed and wrap him up in spiderwebs before I dropped an anonymous tip to the police station.” As he spoke, Mark reached into his back pockets, which were luxuriously deep and could seemingly fit as many things as Doraemon’s bag.

“I brought you the book you said you wanted,” Mark said as he pressed it into your hands. His smile was contagious, and you couldn’t fault him for having a heart of gold. It wasn’t his fault that he wanted to make things right, so you forgave him for it.

“Aren’t you gonna get changed?”

He blushed and made some vague motions with his hands before settling on, “Yeah. If you could just- turn around?”

You turned around swiftly, lips pressed together as you tried to ignore the hot blush spreading across your cheeks. You fiddled with the book in your hands, the thumping of your heart making it difficult for you to hear when Mark told you he was done.

He gave you a thumbs-up, and you saw his mask hanging out from the open pocket of his bag. You walked over to him, tucking the mask inside and zipping the pocket up before reaching up, tiptoeing slightly to reach his head, and smoothed out his hair.

He shook his head slightly and wiped the sweat off his brow with a grin. “Better?”

“Better.”

“Since we’re already here, why don't we take advantage of the projector and watch a movie?”

You hesitated, shifting your weight from one foot to another. “I’m a little busy,” you said, rubbing the back of your neck as you thought about the countless assignments you had piling up.

Mark smiled disarmingly and extended his hand, shooting webs from his wrist. They reached the control room, hitting the “on” button. The screen blinked on, showing the default screensaver. “I didn’t mean it as a question, more like an invitation. I know you’re still not over Chenle, so I thought this might cheer you up.”

You were given little choice when Mark slipped into one of the back seats, procuring popcorn from his bag like a magician, patting the seat beside him as he projected his Netflix account onto the screen, and “Little Women” started playing. You couldn’t lie, you had a soft spot for that movie, and seeing it playing was all it took for you to cave in and slump into the seat next to him, dispelling all thoughts of work from your mind.

“Are you supposed to be using your student council pass to get access to the auditorium for a movie?” You asked curiously, reaching for the popcorn.

Mark passed you the box with a dismissive shrug. “If they didn’t want me to take advantage of it, they wouldn’t have given it to me. Perks of being liked by the teachers, I guess.”

That was Mark Lee for you. Handsome, smart, popular—well-liked by both the student body and the faculty. He was perfection in a nutshell, and his heart was yours. You only regretted never being able to give him the same.

3 months ago — you’re all i want to, want to know

Dangling your feet off the rooftops, breeze soft against your skin as you watched the sunset. Yellow waves of light washed over the red sky, turning it gorgeous shades of orange and pink and purple, if you squinted hard enough.

The sky was a vast expanse of intangible matter, the whispers of the wind calling out to you. Instinctively, you reached out for it, hands grasping at thin air. It felt like it was just out of your reach, and you leaned further, hands outstretched…

You forgot that you were on the rooftop, stomach rising to your throat as you fell from the building, scream caught in your throat which was squeezed so tightly you could barely breathe.

Every second of the fall was torture. You could feel the air rushing past your face, hard enough to chafe but not dense enough to cushion your fall. Your hands flailed about, scrabbling for something to hold onto, desperately searching for holds to grab onto, until you felt a tug on your back.

Mark lowered himself to your height, and you found yourself swinging like a pendulum from the top of the building while Mark leaned into his pants like he was going rock climbing with his friends for leisure, fully trusting his webs to hold him up.

“You good?”

You nodded, gulping nervously. Don’t look down, don’t look down, don’t look down…

Mark seemed to sense your fear, one hand wrapping around your waist reassuringly. The concrete touch of his arm against your back calmed you, and you inhaled deeply while staring straight into his eyes, refusing to look down for fear of how high up you were.

“You know, if you wanted to swing around town, you could’ve just asked.”

Your face dropped as you glared at him, your grip around his torso never loosening even for a second. “Ha ha, very funny. Please bring me back up before I throw up.”

“My pleasure.” Both of you shot up suddenly, and you almost collapsed in relief when your feet found hard ground again, but you made sure to move far, far away from the edge that time.

“I think I’m happy just staying here,” you said cautiously from the middle of the roof, as far away from all the sides of the building as possible. You knelt down to feel the ground, afraid that it wasn’t sturdy enough, before falling into a cross-legged position with a grunt.

Mark bent down to sit beside you, guiding your head onto his shoulder as he rubbed your back comfortingly. “I know it’s scary, but hey, the sunset’s worth it.”

Its beauty was almost comparable to Mark’s.

2 weeks ago — i can tell you mean it when you kiss me slow

Your hand tightened in Mark’s as he ran gleefully towards the ferris wheel, dragging you along behind him as he stood in line for the ride.

Autumn was all around you, in the air as auburn leaves drifted past on a breeze, gently gusting over your hair and leaving you feeling chilly but not cold. The crunch of your footsteps against the ground, the smell of apples all around, the earth heralded the third season of the year.

Mark’s figure was stark against the rest, dressed in all black against the neutral tones of fall, taller than everyone else. Mark was your rock, and sometimes he seemed a little larger than life.

The queue moved slowly, but Mark kept you entertained with silly jokes while it inched forward, and you found yourself lost in the sound of his laughter. It sounded muffled to your ears, like you were hearing it while you were submerged underwater. How could you bring yourself to hurt someone like him?

Your knuckles whitened as they gripped the side of the carriage tightly when you boarded the ferris wheel, eyes staring straight ahead—anywhere but down—while you fought to calm your racing heart.

“It’s not too scary if you look at me, right?”

You had to admit that he was right. If you focussed only on Mark, the world disappeared into a blur of white lights and cloudy skies, and the ground felt solid under your feet.

It was a reassuring thought to know that Mark had your back. So when you reached the top of the wheel, sky-high above the rest of the world with no weight on your shoulders, and Mark kissed you, you kissed him back.

You kissed him like your heart didn’t belong to someone else, like you didn’t care if it hurt him. Because you selfishly wanted his heart, even if you could never reciprocate his love for you.

1 day ago — but please don’t ask me, the answer’s no

You woke up in Chenle’s bed, his hands tangled in your hair while you wrapped your arms around him. The blanket was at your feet, having been kicked off in the night. Chenle’s breathing was peaceful, and the steady rise and fall of his chest pulled you out of your trance.

Chenle had done nothing to Mark, yet he had unknowingly hurt him again and again. You kept coming back to him even after you had broken up, slipping into his arms after shitty decisions late at night, clothes strewn over the floor as you willingly hurt yourself again and again.

To Chenle’s knowledge, you were single, and it was true—to a certain extent. You didn’t love Chenle, and he didn’t need to love you either. You had come to a mutual agreement that he would keep you warm on lonely nights, and there would be no questions asked.

In the mornings, you would leave, and there would be no expectations of breakfast or loving words when you woke. 

And so, you became a ghost of yourself, hovering in spaces just long enough for you to be seen before vanishing again, never happy or satisfied.

You pried yourself from Chenle’s hands, slipping into your clothes, running your hand through your hair in the mirror before rinsing your mouth and washing your face quickly. You left no traces of yourself behind, save for the guilt-ridden kiss you left on Chenle’s cheek with a sad smile.

Mark didn’t know what had happened when you met him that morning, reaching out to envelope you in a hug when you stiffened, pushing him away with a grimace. “Don’t- I don’t want to do this to you, Mark.”

He raised his hands in surrender, but you could have sworn heard his heart shatter, the pain in his eyes too much for you to bear. You turned towards the school, firmly avoiding his gaze as your lead-filled limbs brought you further and further away from him.

now — in a perfect world, i’d kill to love you the loudest

mark: can we talk? mark: i feel like there's something you're not telling me mark: i'm always here for you, you know mark: even if just as a friend

(i don’t know if that’s enough for you)

The messages he left on your phone burned a hole through your pocket. You didn’t want to answer them, but you didn’t want to ignore him either, so you opted to climb into a cab and asked it to take you to an isolated area just out of town. It was close enough for Mark to go to, but only as Spiderman. If he took any other form of transport, he would arrive too late.

you: 📍live location you: come over you: please

“Y/n?” Mark was in his Spiderman suit, eyes shielded by the mask. You couldn’t decipher any of his mixed emotions, but you saw his fingers twitch slightly before he reached out to touch the fence that separated you, hesitance laced in his voice. He sounded unsure, afraid even.

“Are you okay? What are you doing out here?” You had never heard Mark scared before. To you, he had always been the brave one, the one who walked first in haunted houses and killed insects while you screamed and leaped away. He wasn’t afraid of heights or those he fought against, and he seemed to shrink in front of your eyes when he was afraid.

“Can you come over to this side?”

Mark scaled the fence and dropped silently in front of you, cautiously moving towards you as his hand reached to pull his mask off.

“What’s going on?”

Mark felt somebody grab his hand, pulling him towards them with his face away while they held him in a chokehold. He felt a needle poking into his neck, injecting anesthetic into his bloodstream. He went limp in his captor’s arms, and was gently laid on the ground while his captor reached for their phone and stopped the recording.

“I’m sorry,” they whispered as they anonymously sent the video of an unmasked Spiderman to the news station they could count on to deliver their news the fastest.

but all i do is live to hurt you soundless

Mark came to in a dark room, hands tied behind his back. He tried to move his feet, and found that they were also tied to the legs of the chair. Defeated, he slumped in the chair, breathing heavily as he surveyed the room. It was small and empty, and he was the sole occupant inside it.

Welcome, Mark Lee. I hope you make yourself at home. With that, the speakers crackled and went quiet.

Chills ran down Mark’s spine as he heard the voice playing. Where were you, and why couldn’t he remember anything? His mind was foggy and he couldn’t remember a thing, except for your text. He remembered receiving it, and going to a shady, isolated place….

Could someone have kidnapped you and taken your phone to trick him? The idea of it caused his throat to seize, heart thumping painfully inside his chest.

The clanging sound of a door opening startled Mark, and he strained to see where the door was. He heard metal grating against the floor and the thump of footsteps, coming face to face with a masked silhouette. The white of the mask was a stark contrast to the dark cell, and it was the only thing Mark could make out.

A spoon clattered to the floor as the silhouette knelt down and set a tray of food on the floor, the water in the cup sloshing out at the impact. The silhouette’s voice sounded robotic when it spoke.

“I will untie your hands, and you can reach down to take your food. This will last you until tomorrow, so ensure that you don’t finish it all in one sitting. If you struggle or try to escape, just know that you won’t like the consequences.”

Mark’s hands felt numb, and he winced at the feeling of pins and needles as the blood gratefully rushed to his wrists, and he rubbed at his sore shoulders. He bent down gratefully to take a bowl of rice and meat from the ground, and when he sat up again, the masked person had vanished like a wisp of smoke.

say you see i’m lying, babe, and let this go

Mark was going insane. An entire day of silence was enough to drive a man to the brink of insanity, but Mark was just barely holding on. He had estimated the length and width of his cell, tried to write it down and realised that the best way was to write it in his food; hopped around, trying to stand up, and fell multiple times; and was growing bored.

He counted the seconds it took for him to breathe one full breath, then held his breath for as long as he could, then glanced back down impatiently at the analog clock he had found on his food tray.

If it was telling the right time, then 12 hours had passed since he had first woken up in his cell. He had fallen asleep in his chair during what he hoped was nighttime, but woken up with a crick in his neck that had been irritating him the entire day.

It didn’t feel like daytime, although it was supposed to be past noon, simply because there was no natural light filtering into the cell, and the only way he could see was by the light of the clock’s hands and numbers, and the dim light coming from what he assumed was a corridor outside his cell.

Mark drummed his fingers against his lap and rubbed the back of his neck tiredly. He had eaten breakfast when he woke up, then lunch just after noon, but his water was running low and his parched throat itched.

It was odd, he thought, that the food that he had been given actually wasn’t that bad. It was simple, but the meat wasn’t as hard as he had expected, and he had been so hungry that he had scarfed it down in one go.

He was just about to risk hopping over to the door of the cell and yelling for help when the speaker that had scared him the night before suddenly crackled to life.

Fort Irwin is a little small for mysteries, but the latest case of Spiderman had everyone puzzled. Mark Lee, 17, was reported to be missing yesterday evening. According to reports from 35.7Hz Radio, the unmasked Spiderman circulating on the internet is exactly the same boy that has gone missing.

However, the hero was spotted swinging by a Target today, persuading a teenager to return the goods they had shoplifted from the store. Has Mark simply run away from home but felt obligated to continue enforcing the law, or has he been kidnapped?

And, more importantly, if Mark Lee has gone missing, then who is his replacement Spiderman?

Mark’s heart dropped as the speaker went silent. There had been a video of him being unmasked in his Spiderman suit? But he hadn’t even worn it in the past 24 hours—oh. Mark looked down at himself to check that he wasn’t wearing it anymore, finding his own clothes on his body.

Odd. He had only brought his phone with him when he went to find you, and he never wore his regular clothes under his suit. However, the clothes that he was wearing were definitely his—they even smelt like the laundry detergent his mum used when she washed his clothes.

If he was wearing his own clothes, then where had his Spiderman suit gone? He craned his neck to the side to look for it, immediately wincing in pain when he felt the burning pain sear through his neck. He had completely forgotten about his stiff neck.

He rubbed his neck, and the door creaked open, the masked silhouette standing there. “Good afternoon,” they said casually, picking up the empty bowls and cutlery from the floor. Mark had been bored enough to stack them up, so it was an easy task for his captor to collect the items and place them on the tray.

“If it were a good afternoon, I would be at home doing homework,” Mark snapped.

i can never promise you tomorrow

“Watch your tone,” his captor said. “I could kill you if I wanted to.”

“They’d find you,” Mark said, but he wasn’t very sure that they would.

“I don’t need to set my hands on you to drive you crazy. In fact, you’re already halfway there,” the silhouette sneered, and Mark could hear the contempt in their voice. He shuddered at the thought of going crazy, knowing that the boredom would surely drive him to do things he never would if he were in the right frame of mind.

“You should show me your face.” It was a weak attempt, but Mark didn’t want to hear anymore about his future loss of sanity, and he wanted to at least be able to identify the culprit if he ever got out alive.

“You’re changing the topic. And I don’t think I will,” the captor said. They grabbed the back of Mark’s chair and forcefully turned him around, facing him away from the door as their footsteps retreated out of the confines of the cell.

Later, the clang of a metal tray on the ground informed Mark that his food and water had been replaced, and he found that it had come with a chamber pot.

‘cause i have yet to learn how not to be his

Chenle’s hand traced lazy circles over your back until you turned to face him, legs intertwined in his.

“How are you- what do you think of the… y’know, the Mark situation?” He asked hesitantly. It was crossing some boundaries, that was for sure. Your and his relationship was meant to be free from emotional baggage, romantic gestures, and only meant as a way of comfort for both of you.

But at the end of the day, Chenle and you had dated once. Even if you had hated him for a while after the breakup, and he had ignored you for a good couple of months, he did still care about you, although he didn’t know how to—or whether he should—show it.

“I’m dealing with it,” you responded curtly. The truth was, it hurt more than it should. You were being investigated by the police, and when they found the last texts you had sent to him, it didn’t help your case much. The best you could do was to defend yourself, telling them that you had really only been in a bad place and wanted a friend to comfort you.

What they forgot was that he was still your best friend, and even if you didn’t love him back the way he loved you, he was still important to you. You didn’t want him to come to any harm, though it might seem differently to some.

You were, after all, vice-president on the student council. Now that Mark was incapacitated, you were the acting president. Besides, Mark’s crush on you had never been a secret, and half the student body thought that you had taken advantage of his crush on you to get rid of him.

His parents were the most worried, and you could barely look them in the eyes, knowing that you might have been the reason that Mark was missing. They didn’t suspect you, fully trusting you as Mark’s friend, but you didn’t want to let them down if the police found that you had led the kidnapper to Mark.

Mark’s exposed identity was also an issue. You and his parents had known since he decided to create an image for himself, but he had always wanted to keep it private for two reasons: he believed that good deeds did not need to be rewarded, and he was shy.

He didn’t want people to think of him differently because he was a “hero”. You admired him for that, but you also hated him for it. That he could be so noble and righteous, and you hated the jealousy you felt when you saw him walking around school and waving at everyone.

Superhero student council president Mark, who was only missing a lover in his otherwise perfect life.

this city will surely burn if we keep this as it is

Riize Highschool has been set on fire. 5 bodies have been recovered, and the number of injured individuals is 36 and counting. Authorities are working with the school to investigate the source of the fire. It is suspected to have been an arson attempt.

Mark’s mind ran wild with questions. Who could have tried to set the school on fire? Why? What was going on in the world, and why had his “replacement” not done anything about it?

His hands itched for something to do. The cell seemed to grow smaller by the day, the space constraining him and shutting him in. If he couldn’t escape soon, he would explode, and all the parts of him he’d tried hard to keep hidden would be on display for all to see.

He tried to pull his legs from the metal chains strapping him down for the hundredth time, pushing away from the back of the chair until he lost his balance and fell face-flat on the floor.

Blood dripped from his lips from where his teeth had torn skin, and he tried to push himself up from the floor. But the exhaustion and the weight of the chair on his back combined made it difficult, and his arms quivered from the effort.

He lay on the ground, breathing unsteady as he wondered if it was really better to be left in there alive or to leave the world peacefully.

i'd give anything to stop time

Mark missed being able to walk. He missed the sensation of sun on his face, of light reaching his eyes, he missed the freedom of not being trapped in isolated boredom the whole day. He missed his family and his friends, and most importantly, you.

He missed the curve of your neck and the warmth of you when you leaned into him on a cold day. He missed the way your waist felt in his on the rare occasions you let him hold you, missed your smile when you laughed at a silly joke on your phone.

He missed the way your face lit up when you saw him, missed sending you texts between classes, he missed everything about you. And he realised that lately, you hadn’t even felt like friends anymore.

Mark. You have fifteen minutes to leave this cell. You have been given all you need to leave, and I suggest you do it quickly.

Oh, by the way, your beloved Y/n is also trapped here. If you don't rescue them and leave in time, you can imagine what will happen.

Mark couldn’t tell what was going on in the cell, but it seemed to him that he could smell gasoline and smoke. His head whipped towards the door, seeing a flash of silver in his peripheral vision. A pair of wire cutters lay on the floor near the door of the cell, and he lunged for it, hands shaking as he tried to cut through his chains.

It was hard work, and his arms were tired and sore, and he struggled as he tried to free himself. When the second chain finally snapped, he dropped the wire cutters on the floor as he leaned back, spent.

But the reminder of you in danger spurred him on. He stood up shakily, fumbling for the key on the floor, and his trembling fingers only made it more difficult to unlock the door. As soon as he did, he stepped out into the hallway.

Smoke drifted in slowly, illuminated by the lights along the corridor. He couldn’t tell where it was coming from, but it was getting thicker by the minute.

“Y/n!” He yelled, voice hoarse from dehydration and misuse, desperately hoping that you would answer.

He almost collapsed from relief when he heard your voice. “Mark?”

“I'm coming! Please just keep talking, okay?”

“Okay.”

He ran down the hallways, your voice keeping him company as he searched for you.

“I miss you. I’m tired. I want to go home. Mark, we’ve all been worried sick while you were gone. I hate the responsibility you shoulder even more now that I know what it feels like, and I can’t believe you had to go through all of that. You’re insane for holding out for this long and I’m so glad you’re alive. Most of all, I miss every part of you. I’d give anything to have you back.”

“You sure about that?” The proximity of Mark’s voice filled you with relief. You turned towards the sound of his voice, and the blindfold over your eyes was the last barrier before you got to see him again. You heard the creaking of the door hinge and felt Mark’s hands land on your shoulders before he wrapped you into a hug.

As soon as he removed your blindfold, you were taken aback by how exhausted he looked. Dark circles were prominent under his eyes, his face gaunt and the cheekbones that used to be covered in a soft layer of fat seemed like a thin layer of skin over bone. His body, which used to seem taller and bigger to you just a week ago, had grown skinnier. He wasn’t taller, but somehow his body proportions looked off. He was smaller, taking up less space.

The outgoing, cheerful, popular Mark was gone — he had been replaced by someone a little awkward and unsure of himself, having grown used to living in fear.

You were in no place to comment on his appearance, however. Neither of you were in great shape; you were trussed up and your wrists were red from struggling against your bonds. Your ankles were bound tightly with rope, and it was clear to Mark that you had not been meant to stay there for long.

“We have to get out of here.”

“Yeah, no shit. Do you have a map or something? What’re you gonna do, navigate us out of here?” You were taken aback by Mark’s tone, and hurriedly amended your statement.

“I know there’s something in this room that you’re supposed to take. I was told that I would be able to get us out. Can you search the room?”

Mark scanned the room quickly before his eyes landed on you. Without a word, he knelt down in front of you, searching your pockets thoroughly. Your jeans pockets were empty, but there were a few surprises hidden in the thick folds of your hoodie.

“Got it,” he said triumphantly. He opened up his hand, and in his palm lay a few crucial items. His phone, car keys, and a sticky note.

“These are my car keys… how?” While Mark looked between his car keys and his phone, the gears in his mind whirring as he wondered how it could be, you snatched the sticky note from his hand and read the message aloud.

“Drive home, and never come back. Your car is outside. Leave.” The note ended on that threatening note, messy handwriting trailing off into a scrawl scratched across the page. Smoke drifted into the cell and you grabbed Mark’s hand.

“Run!”

As if on command, you saw the pathway lighting up. At the end of the corridor, a door opened up into light and with it, freedom. You ran toward it, the fire lapping at your heels. Although it hadn’t touched you, you could feel the blistering heat of it on your back, and the first thing you could think to do was flee.

The signs of freedom continued to greet you in the form of Mark’s car, and you ran over to the driver’s side while he unlocked the doors.

and drive around anaheim at sun down

Mark was blinking furiously, shielding his eyes from the sun with one hand while you sped off, unused to the influx of light. Luckily, you hadn’t been in darkness for long, so you adjusted quickly enough to be able to drive safely.

You sat in silence like that for a while, and Mark leaned across to stare at the building, watching it go up into flames.

You said nothing as you turned on the highway, heading towards Anaheim. It was your hometown, and though it was a little out of the way, at least no one you knew would be there. For the time being, both of you needed some peace and quiet.

When the main road branched off, you took the first exit, finding yourselves next to a grass field. You shifted the car into reverse, parking along the side of the road and turning towards Mark.

“C’mon,” you gestured to him over your shoulder and went outside the car, feet sinking into the ground as you laid back onto the grass.

The sun had set on the drive there, and you could see the moon peeking out from behind the clouds, the small visible crescent shyly waving at you. You grinned back in response and felt Mark plop down next to you, one of his arms snaking under your neck and settling on your shoulder.

to teach my mind to put you first

Even if it was Mark’s hands around you, all you could think of was Chenle’s lips on yours and his hands in your hair, and not a single thought your restless mind conjured up was of Mark.

You wanted to rip the grass from the soil and scream into the void. Why couldn’t you just love him back? After all that Mark had done for you, all he had sacrificed for you, all he had given up just for a sliver of your heart? Why did your traitorous heart despise him so?

Perhaps it was because you didn’t deserve him, and despite all the selfish greed you harboured, you knew deep down that Mark deserved so much better.

here you are, a hero

Mark had grown comfortable next to you, breathing quietly as he let loose of every muscle in his body. He could feel every knot filled with tension dissipate, could feel the pain of every cut and bruise on his body finally sinking in, almost as if he’d been too scared to register it.

"Mark-"

"Y/n-"

"You go first."

"No, you."

“I want to kiss you” was his confession, blurted out like a bad choice from the depths of his subconscious, said aloud before he even had time to think it through.

“I’ll try hard not to make this feeling a crime,” he said as he cupped your face in his hands and kissed you tenderly, tears falling silently down his cheeks.

You knew you were only putting salt on the wound when you kissed him back, claiming the parts of his heart you had known were yours all along. You knew he liked you, and you hated hurting him but you never wanted to lie to him. You didn’t want Mark to think you loved him when you didn’t. Though you’d done so much to him, you didn’t ever want Mark to have his heart broken by someone who told him they loved him when they didn’t.

Not with all of their heart, at least. You did love Mark, platonically, but the important parts he wanted were the ones he couldn’t have, the ones that belonged to someone else.

You could feel Mark’s sadness piercing through your heart, his tears saltier than the dead sea. He was so genuine, so raw with his hurt as he kissed you, you almost caved and told him you could give up on Chenle. Almost.

But you couldn’t- you couldn’t do that to him.

you wanna be my new home

He pulled away, and as you stared at him, the pale yellow glow that emanated from him seemed to grow brighter before it faded. Mark, your guardian angel, who had fallen from glory and had been reduced to naught but a shadow of his former self. Everything that had made Mark stand out was gone.

And it was all because of you.

You had first started to want to know how to make Mark's webs synthetically when he first used his powers on you for target practice. His webs were long and unwieldy, and uncomfortable to use. You had been curious to see if you could possess those powers too, perhaps better than Mark.

The point where your intentions went from harmless to harmful was when you were about three-quarters of the way through the process. Mark had told you that he had won a scholarship that you had been eyeing.

It had been a tiresome period of jealousy for you, constantly feeling outdone by Mark. Him getting the scholarship you wanted had been the tipping point for you, and you were jealous that it seemed like Mark had the perfect life, while you were always competing with him. Sick and tired of it all, you had decided to give him a taste of his own medicine.

“Your turn,” Mark said, interrupting your thoughts. “What did you want to say?”

“It was me, a week ago, that knocked you out and kidnapped you. I had been planning it since you had gotten that scholarship I had wanted, and by the time I realised that I wasn’t upset with you any more, it was too late. You had been gone for 3 days and I didn’t know how to let you leave without anyone figuring out that it had been me.

“I wanted to come clean, yet I was scared of the repercussions. It took me a few days to come up with a plan to get you to ‘save’ me so you wouldn’t suspect me, and I would burn the place down so no one would ever know.

“I wanted to live your life, Mark. I wanted to know what it was like to have everyone adore you, to be at the top of the world, carefree and loved. I was sick of hiding in your shadow, I wanted to know what it was like to be a hero, to no longer settle for second best.

“But after experiencing it? I don’t think I want that life. It’s not for me. The amount of pressure you must have been under every day of your life is not something I envy. I understand now why everyone admires you. You’re worthy of that, and I’m not.”

Your palms were clammy with sweat, unsure how he would react. “I’m sorry for all I did. I hope now you understand why I would never be worthy of your love. And I hope- I hope that you won’t love me anymore in ways I can’t return.”

You didn’t know what you had expected from Mark, but it definitely wasn’t acceptance, much less his forgiveness.

When he said, "It's okay," you looked at him in confusion. What was he talking about?

"What you've done is in the past. We're both here now, aren't we?" At that, you understood. It was because he was Mark Lee, angelic and purer than you could ever hope to be, with a heart bigger than the universe. Only he would be able to forgive you after everything you had done. You nodded, and when you stood it felt like your feet were weightless against the cotton candy clouds soft under your feet.

but baby, let up

By then it was getting late, and the sun was starting to set. Mark had been silent for a while, and though it worried you, you had other concerns. The most important one at the moment was how you were going to get back home, because you were still stuck on a little road in Anaheim when you lived all the way in Fort Irwin.

It was late at night and Mark’s phone was dead, so you handed him your phone to ask him to navigate. It was an unfamiliar place and you couldn’t wait to be back in the comfort of your home, and you wanted to get Mark back to his parents as soon as possible.

Deep down, maybe you wanted to prove that their trust in you wasn’t misplaced, wasn’t unwarranted. But when you slipped your phone into Mark’s hand, it was freezing cold, and when you turned to look at him, it sent shivers down your spine.

“Mark?” He disappeared before your eyes with a sad smile, fading into nothingness while you grasped at him in a panic, refusing to believe that he wasn’t real. Your attempts were all futile as your fingers met with cold air until all that was left of Mark was your memories and regret.

i won't ever recognize these roads

You sped back after that, unsettled and afraid. If you hadn’t saved Mark, then your guilty conscience wasn’t cleared after all. How long had you been hallucinating him? Had Mark ever been real, or was he simply a figment of your imagination? How much of your reality could you trust?

Your foot on the accelerator never let up, speeding across the highway with a sinking feeling in your stomach. If Mark was real all along, and you had kidnapped him, but he wasn’t there with you, then there could only be one possibility…

'cause i am lost, but not in you

“Chenle,” you managed breathlessly while Chenle looked at you in horror. He was dressed in pajamas, as if he had been about to sleep, and you knew you were a mess.

Your wrists were red from struggling against the bonds that you had tied for yourself, an effort to make your kidnapping look real to Mark. Parts of your hair had been singed in the fire, and you smelt strongly of smoke and sweat. Your clothes were stained brown from the wet soil of the grass fields, and your shoes were falling apart.

“I think I killed him.” You wished the revelation would hurt, but Chenle slamming his door in your face hurt you more. You sank to your feet, defeated, back against his door as you sighed.

Perhaps it would be better if you ceased to exist, too. At least in hell you would get the punishment you deserved.

epilogue.

The sky burns bright like ochre, burnt umber streaks like autumn. As if on cue, as the coffins are lowered side-by-side into the earth, thunder rumbles across the sky. The sky weeps as if haunted by memories, harbouring the guilt of the murderer and the pain of their victim.

The land sings its heart out, crickets chirping and nightingales drifting by as the sky darkens. Chenle tightens his grip around the chrysanthemums in his hand as he watches the disfigured silhouettes descend.

He doesn’t know what to do. Mark Lee had been a friend of his. Granted, not a close one, but a friend nonetheless. And to think that his fuck-buddy had killed him in cold blood was a burden he wasn’t sure he wanted to bear.

He breathes in and sighs. Even if he loved you, it was too late to change the course of things. All that had happened would have happened some way or other, and all he could do was try to right things in his own way.

Chenle watches on in silence as the families of the bereaved pay their respects. He’s hidden under the shelter of the umbrella, drawn to his eye-line so no one can make eye contact with him. He observes silently as the families mourn their loved ones, not knowing that the two best friends hadn’t been kidnapped, but that one had killed the other.

When you had showed up at his door, Chenle had the fright of his life. Your pants were dotted with blood, tears streaming down your cheeks. When he heard what you had done to Mark, his first instinct was to deny it. He slammed the door in your face, head spinning, stunned by your confession.

There was nothing else he could have done.

He could not have stopped you, headstrong as you were, heading back the entire way to Mark’s deathbed, where you hugged him tightly as flames enveloped you, burning away all traces of your guilt.

When the authorities found you a day later, the forensics seemed to match up to logic—the unknown killer had killed both of you, burned you to erase their footsteps, and you two had huddled together in fear during your last moments.

He kneels to the ground and weeps with the sky, umbrella dropping to the side as the downpour drenched him and the earth as if they were one. His sorrow would melt into the soil if it could, but as it could not, it remained heavy in his heart.

Onlookers would see a grieving boyfriend, crying for his lover and friend. It was not far from the truth, but nothing they thought would come close to what had really happened to the unhappy dead.

If only they knew the truth.

fin.

if you liked it, REBLOG it.

[toyybox]

Spiderwebs #38: Occam’s Razor

Masterlist

content: escape attempt, stabbing

· • —– ٠ ✤ ٠ —– • ·

Heather was asleep. Jackie felt terrible, but his coat was already on, so he couldn't look back now.

At least the packing was light. His book, an apple, a pencil and paper-pad, and the rolled up dollar bill he had found on Matthew’s corpse. It felt wrong to leave his entire life behind and take only that paltry selection, but he didn’t know what else to bring. Jackie didn’t want to steal any more from Heather. She might deserve it, sure, but she had been exceptionally sweet to him lately. It didn’t feel right to steal. And he didn’t know where she kept her money, which was what he really needed. Her clothes and things were useless to him.

Because money made the world go ‘round, and it also got you a full tank of gas. But the lack of it didn’t deter him. Heather’s car had enough fuel for a day or two. That was enough. Jackie had found her keys on the table. He was in no state to walk very far or fast, but a car could get him miles away within a few minutes. 

After that, he could try going back to his old apartment. There were people who knew him, even if they were indifferent. Maybe someone would give him a little more money, a phone call, a place to sleep at the very least. But the first step was the car, which was conveniently located in the parking lot just outside the hotel.

It was still betrayal. She would hate him for this. It won’t sink her, he reasoned. It’s not going to kill her. She has enough money to buy a new car and, besides, I’m sure she’ll appreciate the silence when I’m not here. He didn’t mean any harm. It was necessary. It was survival. It was tragic, yes, but inevitable. It was Occam’s razor—his reasoning wasn’t impossible to understand. 

His backpack was slung over his shoulder. His coat was all buttoned down. The sky went pale outside the window, only visible through a gap of curtain, striped by long strings of clouds. The hotel room was dark and hushed. He could hear every little breath Heather took.

Her face was obscured by the pillow. She slept on her stomach, or her side, he had discovered. She took silvery breaths, in and out. Her black hair was messed up by sleep, scattered across the soft white cotton. Her chest rose and fell, though it was hard to see from a distance. Jackie was only across the room, but he already felt so far away.

Au revoir. There was no time to waste on words. Ne parles pas, s'il te plaît. Ç’est adieu. If she woke up, he could spit out an excuse, but the window of escape would slam shut on his fingers. So his goodbyes would have to be silent thoughts and prayers. 

Indeed, it was a good time to start praying. Though he believed in nobody watching him and nothing after death, it was worth a try. He closed his eyes for a long moment. 

Heather didn’t stir. She didn’t make a sound.

It was a sign from God: hurry up, idiot. Hallelujah. Amen. So he opened the door. It creaked, and he winced, but she didn’t move an inch. 

Jackie stepped out the doorway. He walked into the hallway. She was still asleep. 

He closed the door. Excuses would be a little less believable, now, but he could still make them. He could go back, if he wanted. Tap out. But nothing worthwhile was ever easy, so he needed to just bite the bullet and get on with it.

There was nobody else there. The walls were plain white. There was some kind of stereotypical hotel pattern on the carpet, some kind of odd hexagon checkerboard. A dreamy feeling permeated the air. He made his way to the stairs, though every footstep felt like walking through liquid lead. 

His journey came in bursts in starts, stopping and taking breaks more often than he would like. He paused for an entire minute on the second floor because his vision went white—Heather told him why it happened, at some point, but he couldn’t remember now—and he had to blink the hotel back into view. For a while after that, he felt lightheaded. But it was a fairly uneventful walk otherwise.

He entered the lobby itself. Rather unimpressive, compared to the last few, but cozy. There were a few soft and worn sofas. No aquarium, but there was a water fountain, and a receptionist busy with a stack of loose-leaf papers.

It was otherwise empty, and completely quiet. And he wasn’t getting any younger. Jackie adjusted his backpack again, then he pushed the lobby doors open.

Outside. Good Lord. Out in the cold air without Heather. It pierced his lungs, scratched at his throat, vivid and pure. At this point, his hypothetical excuses were sounding more like desperate apologies. He would promise to never try anything like this ever again, plead and beg, maybe shed a few tears. But it was time to stop thinking of hypotheticals. This was really happening. He needed to focus.

His steps crunched through thin ice, which was scattered all over the sidewalk. The snow was starting to melt, though the weather was never predictable in that regard. Thinking of these things kept him moving, kept him from breaking down and cowering on the concrete, and kept him walking to the parking lot. 

There was nobody else there but himself. The concrete was cracking and the painted lines were chipping away. Weeds sprouted through all the potholes. Beyond a picket fence, there was a perfect view of the street, which was just as run-down and empty.

So this was his great Houdini trick. It wasn’t that exciting. There was not much to see. The sky was getting a bit more color in its complexion. It was faintly cobalt now. His mouth tasted of the cold air. 

Birds sang. Branches rustled, though they were quiet in the absence of their leaves. There were a few houses, down the block and up past the stores, although this was mainly a commercial block. A tailor’s, an antiques shop, a restaurant, lined up one after the other. But nobody was around. It was making him nervous.

He reached into his coat’s pocket and dug out the car key. He unlocked the doors. Although it was a faint sound, he could hear how the mechanisms clicked into place inside. He pulled the handle, and it opened without resistance. 

A pigeon landed on a faraway telephone wire. He turned his head, just for a second. No, it was too sleek, too dark to be a dove. Too haughty. It was a crow, or a raven. Something ominous, anyway. It spread its great fanned tail and set about fixing its feathers up. 

There was something comforting in that, the compulsive grooming of a bird, the repetition and the routine, the preemptive fluffing of wings before it flew—

“Turn around, Jackie.”

It had the effect of being pushed into an electrical fence, or being plunged into ice water. That overwhelming first shock. His throat closed up. His heart appeared to simply stop beating. 

And he knew this wouldn’t work. It never did. He would never be anything more than what he was—whatever that was, a rat or a doll, whatever you wanted to call it. This was a terrible, terrible mistake, and now it was time to pay the cost of ever wanting anything more.

“I didn’t tell you to ignore me. Turn around.”

Her voice was remarkably calm, which meant that Jackie was going to have nightmares about this for months. He turned around, though every bone in his body told him to run, though even the marrow and the soft tissue resisted his obedience, every nerve and muscle. He couldn’t bring himself to look at Heather, so he stared at the concrete instead. Cracks of gray, pieces of gravel and sharp edges.

“You’re so selfish," she said. “After everything I’ve done for you—“

“I can explain, I swear. This isn’t what it looks like.” He stepped closer to the car, as if that would help at all. This wasn’t supposed to happen. There were no rules here, no games to win. This was failure by default. The trap had already snapped shut. 

“Then explain. Right now.”

He stuttered. “It’s—I—It’s not—“ He glanced around. Maybe if he ran—

“Don’t you dare move.” She shoved him further against the car, held him trapped there between the metal frame and her presence. 

“I just…” He couldn’t come up with anything. “Heather. Please. Don’t make a scene, we’re in public.”

“I don’t care. I’ll scream. Don’t test me.” He believed her. There was nobody around to help, anyway. It was too early in the morning. “Tell me why you did it.”

Jackie had completely blanked out. His body had gone numb, nerve impulses all dead in their tracks. It was like he couldn’t even think, like he couldn’t perceive anything beyond his immediate senses—it was like he wasn’t even there, that this was a dream. He certainly had many dreams like this. None of them were very reassuring. But he didn’t have an answer for her.

“Fine.” She placed something at his throat, something small and sharp. Faintly, he recognized it as her Swiss Army knife. “We’ll discuss this at home.”

Home sweet home. How had she found him? Did the receptionist talk, or did she follow him that whole time? Jackie thought he would faint, but he managed to look up. He barely registered the action. He barely registered what she had said, and later on he wouldn’t remember that part at all. 

What he remembered was this: he saw the hotel windows. He hadn’t thought about them. They overlooked the parking lot. Anyone could see him perfectly clearly, and nobody except for Heather was awake. The curtains of their room had been drawn—roughly drawn, torn aside. He felt his stomach drop. 

He felt Heather’s hand on his wrist, felt his heart beating faster and faster, each breath shallow and rough and short. He didn’t want to go home. 

Heather had him pinned, but the street was only a short distance away. He tried to run. He pushed away with all the strength in his body. 

That only left him exhausted and got him stabbed straight through the throat. He hit his head against the car’s frame. He attempted to inhale, felt the warm bubble of blood, felt the pain of his flesh and failing lungs, and began coughing uncontrollably instead. Her grip on his wrist was too tight. He couldn’t pull himself away. 

Jackie was down on the ground before he could stop sputtering blood—gravel dug into his face—his wrists, pulled behind his back and bound with the cuffs—he tasted metal stinging his tongue, the roof of his mouth, and he could not breathe at all—something along his ankles, as well, and now there was a gag in his mouth. Not a chiffon scarf, this time. Something rougher, tasting of detergent. She did it all so quickly, without hesitation, like she was gutting fish.

As soon as it began, it was over. The world tilted, then something slammed shut. He did not have the energy to struggle. Jackie closed his eyes.

Pain came in heavy waves, all over his body, fading away as his pulse slowed. He exhaled and did not inhale again. Consciousness left him in privacy. One last comfort before… whatever happened next. 

· • —– ٠ ✤ ٠ —– • ·

Taglist:

@theelvishcowgirl @lthrboy @whumpy-wyrms

@yassifiedinformation @creppersfunpalooza

@vidawhump

[roxannarambles]

Title: The Bloodmoon Graves (Part 4/7)

Summary: Nemona learns about the rumors of a fabled "Bloodmoon Beast" and decides they should all go for a camping trip out in the Timeless Woods to search for it. They end up finding a bit more than they bargained for.

(See Ch 1 for tags & other info)

Chapters: Ch 1 - Ch 2 - Ch 3 - Ch 4 - Ch 5 - Ch 6 - Epilogue

When Penny awoke once more, her first thought was spent wondering why she wasn’t dead.

As she climbed to her feet and brushed herself off, her second thought was to wonder where the hell she was. She was pretty sure she’d only strayed just barely out of camp when she blacked out, but now she looked to be in the middle of the woods somewhere. 

Admittedly, it was difficult to tell. The fog was so thick by now, she could hardly see more than a few feet ahead of her, the trees little more than murky, jagged shapes looming in the darkness. In theory she could be practically on top of camp and not even realize it. Still, the ground was different here, a lot more hilly and uneven, because they’d pitched their tents on the higher, flatter ground, and there definitely were more trees around her than before, so she was pretty sure she was right. Which meant that either she’d been sleepwalking or she’d been moved. 

Very strange.

It was a shame that whatever mysterious force that had moved her hadn’t bothered to transport her backpack or any useful items. Like that nice sharp stick she had earlier. Tugging her ripped jacket tighter around herself and shivering, she did the only thing she could think to do– she started to walk. Slowly and carefully, wandering into the unknown.

As she walked, she thought about her predicament, because it still confused her. She’d passed out earlier from that Smog, so why didn’t these pokemon just kill her then? There was no better opportunity to do so.

Unless that’s not what they wanted. But what did they want? They were behaving so erratically. They’d run through camp but then just vanish. They waited until they fell asleep and then stole all their stuff, and then they came back again later to separate everyone and kidnap them, one by one. It was almost as if they were doing everything just to mess with them.

Penny paused, blinking. She muttered,

“Like a Liepard playing with a Rattata . . .”

If that really was the case, then that was good news. Well, sort of. It meant they still might have an opportunity to get the hell out of here, while these freaks were busy toying with them. Just as long as they managed to do that before the pokemon grew bored with playing cat and mouse.

Penny had to find the others. It was the only way.

Determined, she started to walk faster through the woods. If everyone else had ended up the same as her, they had to be somewhere out there. If only it wasn’t so freaking hard to see. She squinted through the fog, searching for anything that might stand out besides the vague shapes of trees as she passed. The air was damp and had a sharp chill– nothing like actual cold you found in Galar winters, mind you, but cold enough to make her shiver through her torn jacket, especially after being conked out on the ground for who knows how long. There was the distant drone of Kricketot and the occasional hoot of a Noctowl from somewhere. After walking for a while, she passed by some Spinarak spinning webs in the trees, and she could hear the sneaky giggling of Impidimp from somewhere in the underbrush. Nothing too terrible, really. If she wasn’t so terrified, it might actually have been even sort of a relaxing walk, in a way. Her heart skipped a beat when she spotted some lights in the darkness, but she soon realized they were just a small group of Volbeat and Illumise hoving about, blinking their lights slowly.

“Euughh!”

She quickly stopped walking and flailed, grabbing at whatever had suddenly clung to her face. After peeling it off she determined it was an old spiderweb. Gross. She’d always hated Bug types.

Carrying on, Penny’s walk continued in much the same way for a while, generally very uneventful. The trouble was that she didn’t seem to be getting anywhere. Try as she might, she couldn’t seem to find any discernible landmarks. It felt like the trees just stretched on forever in all directions. She knew logically this couldn’t be the case, in fact the Timeless Woods on the map wasn’t even all that massive of an area, relatively speaking. But down in the thick of it, in these conditions, it may as well last forever.

When she passed by another group of Volbeat and Illumise, she squinted at them, feeling uneasy. Was that the same group from before, ten minutes ago? Was she walking in circles? No, she’d been so careful not to. There was no way, right? There had to be hundreds of bugs in the stupid woods, she was just being silly. She really missed her phone, though. A map would have been comforting.

She turned suddenly when there was a new light shining in the corner of her vision, something bright and purple. But when she looked, there was nothing there. Strange. 

Well, probably just more fireflies. She sighed, zipping the zip up on her jacket even further, so that it choked into her neck a bit uncomfortably, and pressed on. She passed by some Toedscool, which were rooted to the ground and dozing, the yellow spots on their bodies glowing very softly in the night. As she was looking at them, she saw the bright light in the corner of her vision again.

With a jerk, she turned to see it, and for a half-second, she thought she saw a purple light floating in the darkness, some unknown distance away from her. But then it blinked out almost as soon as it had appeared. She frowned. 

Turning away from where the light had been, she started walking again. A little faster than before. She concentrated on her path and on not stumbling in the fog, and on listening to all the little pokemon sounds in the darkness.

After a bit, she stopped and whipped around, looking behind herself.

She saw it clearly now, a pair of purple lights hovering out there, flickering like candlelight. The way that they were spaced, they almost looked like eyes watching her. After a few seconds, the lights vanished once more. 

Penny didn’t like it. But her rational mind told her that surely the purple lights were Litwick or a Lampent. It made sense. It looked just like them. And those things loved to creep on people in spooky woods. She’d be fine as long as she didn’t follow them, she didn’t need to be scared of some dumb candles.

Just around the same time Penny had managed to rationalize things and calmed down, still walking along her path and occasionally glancing behind herself, something happened to ruin all that; she could hear growling. That may or may not have been connected to the lights. Probably was nothing. Probably just a random Poochyena.

“Just a Poochyena, it’s just a Poochyena . . .”

She looked behind herself. The pair of purple lights seemed much closer this time, their glare casting an eerie glow in the fog; they blinked out once more, and Penny couldn’t help her heart picking up speed, filled with that dreadful suspicion of being followed. The hairs on the back of her neck prickled.

She started walking much faster. 

It was difficult, in the fog, but she just wanted to put some distance between her and whatever it was. She tried very hard to resist the temptation to look behind her, to just focus on moving, but eventually she looked back again– she had to know.

The pair of lights were even closer than before, despite how fast she’d been walking, and they didn’t blink out this time. Instead, they seemed to sharpen in brightness. Then Penny heard a rumbling growl, the lights flickering rhythmically with the sound. 

That was no Poochyena, and that sure as hell wasn’t a Litwick.

Penny gasped and broke into a run. 

Running in the fog was completely disorienting, and she abandoned all hope of traveling in a straight line and making sure she wasn’t headed in circles– her only focus was getting away from the purple lights. But as she ran, her shoes slapping against the leaf-coated earth, the purple lights only seemed to gain on her. Soon Penny was running full-tilt, as fast as she could manage, her breaths coming in desperate gasps, the world around her nothing more than a blur. As she ran, she could hear the pokemon cries that had haunted them all earlier, the manic shrieking that sounded half-human and half-pokemon.

She cried out in shock when something grabbed at her jacket, and twisted around to see it had been a Trevenant’s claws snagged around the hood of her jacket, the misshapen tree leering at her in the darkness; she yanked free and continued running, the sound of howling practically at her heels. She was misfortunate enough to stumble into a spot with a lot of underbrush and fumbled through things, before feeling a gross, sticky material wrapping around her face– sputtering and scrambling to pull it free, she found it was more spiderweb. When she’d cleared off enough to see, she saw something lunge at her from above, angry glowing purple eyes, and she screamed.

Belatedly, she realized it was only an Ariados that had been angry at her for destroying its web. By that time, though, she was back to running, not wanting to give the lights a chance to catch back up again.

She didn’t get to run for long, however. She tripped on something very solid, a rock or a tree root or something, sprawling into the dirt painfully. Honestly, it was probably inevitable, considering she’d been running like mad in the fog with no care of where she’d ended up. 

With a pained grunt, she tried to push herself up again.

The pair of flickering purple lights appeared before her, perhaps a few yards away. She could see the dim outline of something in the fog, the body that the eyes belonged to. It was darker than the night itself.

The creature growled, low and dangerous.

Unable to even think, just react, Penny forced herself to her feet and continued to run.

~

Nemona had no idea where the pokemon had dragged her to, but it was clearly somewhere still in the Timeless Woods. Her top priority was to find everyone else. They had to be somewhere around here, the pokemon couldn’t have taken them too far. She walked through the woods at a brisk pace, calling out the names of her friends occasionally and listening carefully around her. So far, it had been almost eerily quiet, just the Kricketots singing and the occasional pokemon cry to keep her company. 

As she walked, she puzzled over the identity of their mysterious pokemon kidnappers, counting things off on her fingers as she spoke aloud.

“So, we know they used Confuse Ray and I’m around 90% confident the thing Arven and I fell into was a Phantom Force portal. Plus we know they dig, they’re nocturnal, they travel in packs. Hmmm . . .”

As far as she knew, only Ghosts knew Phantom Force, and Confuse Ray was a common Ghost move, so she was favoring the idea of a Ghost-type. It also matched their behavior, lurking in the dark just out of sight and generally acting very mischievous. Maybe this was the work of some ghost-types they were already familiar with? 

“What ghosts around here can dig?”

She scoured her memory. She was pretty sure none of them did, not naturally anyway. So it was possible they were indeed dealing with something entirely new, especially considering none of them recognized the pokemon cries from earlier. 

Nemona stopped, a strange wail piercing the air from somewhere. Speak of the devil. She tried to judge where it came from, but the way sound echoed in the forest didn’t make it easy. Not that she had a great chance of spotting it anyway, she’d lost her cell phone before she’d been pulled here.

Still, she took her best guess and tried to walk in that direction. If the pokemon were calling, maybe it’s because one of her friends was nearby. She hoped, at least. She couldn’t stand the thought of the others wandering lost and alone, maybe even hurt. Nemona’s memory flashed to the last moments the Phantom Force had opened up beneath her, Juliana reaching for her and looking terrified.

. . . they better not be hurt.

She heard the pokemon howl again, a little closer this time. She listened to it carefully, then started to walk again.

“Juliana? Penny? Arven?”

Admittedly, it was probably not super great to be shouting all the time, since of course the pokemon could find her instead, but Nemona was more worried about finding the others than about that. 

“C’mon, Arven, can’t you make some smoke signals or something for us?”

As she wandered through the gloom, she sighed. Even smoke signals probably would be useless on a night like this. She could hardly even see the full moon, swathed behind so many layers of fog that it looked like a little winter ornament. It was kinda pretty, actually.

Somewhere in the darkness, there was a growl. 

Nemona stopped walking and hesitated.

Now, a lot of pokemon growled. It was in fact an incredibly common pokemon noise. But this growl in particular sounded pretty threatening. It wasn’t as low and rumbling as something like an Ursaring or a Pyroar, sure, but it also wasn’t something innocent and high-pitched like a little Dachsbun. This was something in-between, something closer to a Lycanroc or a Houndoom, or a . . . well. She wasn’t really sure. But it had an unnerving, angry edge to it . . . something almost feral.

Nemona quietly backed up and started to walk away from the sound, hoping perhaps the pokemon hadn’t noticed her yet. She walked for about a minute or two in silence, so she was pretty sure she’d managed to elude the predator.

She let out a breath she hadn’t noticed she’d been holding.

“Whew, glad that I’m–”

A few inches behind Nemona, a sudden, savage snarling noise caused her to scream and bolt for her life. She didn’t know how far she ran, but she eventually slowed her pace when she felt she got far enough, her heart still pounding and her ears still ringing from the pokemon’s cry.

“About gave me a heart attack, jeez,” she panted, trying to figure out which direction she ran and where the pokemon had come from. 

It was too hard to tell, really, so she just started to travel again, doing her best to stay alert, looking in all directions. She continued to call for her friends on occasion, although admittedly not as loud.

When the creature came up behind her the second time and shrieked in her ears, her heart leapt just as hard as before and she screamed and bolted again, but she didn’t run as far this time before stopping to catch her breath.

Exasperated, she griped,

“Okay, enough with the jump scares, they’re getting old!”

She squinted into the fog, wondering what these pokemon were actually up to. 

~

Arven knew the situation was not great. There weren’t a lot of options for him and all of them seemed pretty lousy. As much as he hated wandering around in the fog and possibly running right into a much bigger problem, he had to look for the others. Unfortunately, there weren’t really any formal hiking trails in the Timeless Woods, as the place was very rarely visited by people. The best Arven could find were some subtle paths worn into the ground from places that pokemon tended to move, especially pokemon like Stantler and Bisharp. So he followed those trails, making sure to leave behind trail markers as he moved. It would keep him from getting turned around and maybe even one of his friends would notice them.

He felt like such an idiot for leaving everything in his bag, though. It wasn’t like he possibly could have anticipated a pokemon stealing his bag right out from beneath him, but it still made him feel dumb. He had everything in there, and here he was running around with no flashlight, no survival gear, not even a jacket or his vest, for pete’s sake.

Not to mention no pokemon.

He tried very hard to not dwell too much on how bleak it seemed. He had to keep his chin up, he had to hope things would turn out all right. Yeah. That’s it. Maybe the pack of angry wild pokemon weren’t so bad and would decide to leave them alone.

Ha . . . he was never very good at optimism. 

Sighing, Arven stooped to make another rock cairn to mark his trail. He tried to think of what Nemona or Juliana would say to cheer him up. What was it Nemona had said earlier? Ah, right, she said maybe they’d come across Arven’s stuff and his pokeballs would be untouched by the gross tar stuff and everything would be fine. 

Chuckling, he brushed his hands off and continued walking. Man, he’d love for that to happen. Seemed pretty far-fetched to hope for that though. Everyone elses’ stuff had already been found, but not a single trace of his. He sort of figured that maybe his bag got lodged in the holes the pokemon had used and the whole thing was trapped somewhere in the pool of tar. His bag was larger than the others’, after all. It seemed like a logical idea. 

But really, who knows? The pokemon apparently had the ability to transport people (that was NOT a fun experience by the way), so maybe they transported his bag too. To . . . who-knows-where, maybe deeper into the forest, but also maybe further, or heck, maybe even just caught in limbo in some shapeless void. He might never see his pokemon again.

Arven swallowed, feeling like a lump had formed in his throat. No, he . . . he couldn’t let himself think about that right now. Now was not the time to catastrophize. He had to keep cool and focus on surviving, he had to . . .

Wait, what? Arven spotted something on the ground that he almost missed, but it looked distinctly not like a rock. He went back a few paces and stooped to pick it up.

He blinked, turning the object over in his hands. It was a compass. 

It was his compass, in fact.

Arven felt himself breaking into a grin.

“Hot dang, some good luck after all!”

There were a few scratches and smudges but it otherwise looked fine. Not that a compass all by itself was super helpful for navigation– he could use it to be certain he wasn’t moving in circles, at least, but without a map or useful landmarks he still would be walking mostly blind– but still. The most important thing was that his stuff was out there somewhere. Which meant that so were his pokemon.

With a renewed sense of hope, Arven continued walking, this time carefully watching the ground as he walked. Well, he’d already been watching the ground pretty carefully just to mind his footing and the path he was taking, but now he was even more vigilant. Before long, more bits and pieces of his stuff turned up– a roll of duct tape, a bottle of Max Repel, a few bits of clothing, a couple extra tent stakes. The pokemon certainly hadn’t been kind to his stuff, the clothes were shredded and the tent stakes were gnawed on, big teeth marks chomped into them. He wasn’t thrilled with the implications, but he tried to ignore it and focus on collecting his stuff, which he was finding more and more of. It almost seemed like a bread-crumb trail, the way he kept turning things up the more he followed. The trail of stuff led him away from the Stantler path and deep into an area with a lot of bushes, where it took some digging to locate more of his items. It was pretty noisy, and he was wading into the underbrush pretty deep.

Arven started to feel uneasy. This whole thing almost seemed . . . calculated. As if the pokemon had laid this trail out intentionally for him. It was perhaps paranoia, since it was probably just that the brutes had dragged his bag along and things had fallen out along the way. Yet he could not escape the sinking suspicion that he was walking into a trap.

He crept forward anyway, spurred on by the sight of more of his things, feeling that surely he’d reach the end of this trail soon. 

Which, as it turned out, he did. The trouble was, the end of the trail didn’t just lead to his belongings.

When he stepped out of the underbrush, he stopped short, staring. The place was littered with most of the rest of his bag’s contents, but there also were several pokemon out there in the murky fog, sniffing and chewing on things. When Arven appeared, they stopped and looked up at him.

“Um,” Arven said. 

The pokemon’s eyes flashed purple. They began to growl.

~

Juliana was being followed, that much she knew for certain. In fact, she was pretty sure she had been followed the moment she’d woken up on the ground, covered in dirt and leaves and scratches. 

She couldn’t always see the one that had been watching her, but she could feel it, like a cold gaze boring into the back of her skull. Occasionally she’d catch glimpses of the thing in the corner of her vision, a flicker of purple somewhere in the night. She tried not to act as though she noticed, though. She moved carefully and steadily through the woods, wanting to keep ahead of the Thing but not do anything to alert it. If it was watching her, that meant it wasn’t sure yet what to do, right? 

That’s what she hoped. But Juliana wasn’t sure what to do either. She’d been searching for the others for a while now, but there were no signs of them anywhere. She’d hoped she would at least recognize what part of the woods she was in, but everything looked so different in the dark and the fog. Eventually, the land sloped a little, so she traveled up the slope, remembering vaguely that they were camped on higher ground, but it wasn’t much to go on. It didn’t help that the thing that had been following her seemed to be drawing closer and closer as time wore on. Growing bolder. It felt like she was running out of time. 

Juliana muttered under her breath,

“C’mon, guys, where the heck are you?”

The dried leaves crunched underfoot as she walked, providing a steady background noise in the otherwise very lonely night. She briefly glanced behind herself again, noting the purple lights were still hanging back but not by much. She had no idea what to expect once they caught up to her. Nervously, she pressed on, hoping she’d finally come across something recognizable.

Around ten minutes later, something did stand out in the fog as she moved past, and her heart picked up speed at the sight of it. Was that the lake? 

“Oh thank god,” she whispered to herself, rushing up to it. If she found the lake that gave her a much better idea of where the heck she was, she could probably guess how to get back to camp from here.

But as Juliana reached the edge of the lake, something didn’t seem right. It was hard to tell in the dark and the fog, but the water seemed . . . strangely murky. As she leaned over to see better, she realized it smelled weird, too. 

It smelled like tar.

“What?”

This wasn’t the lake at all. Which in retrospect made sense, since she couldn’t hear the waterfall, either. This was a pool of tar. But how didn’t they notice this in the daytime? Granted, they hadn’t explored the entire forest, but still, it was surprising. She would have expected some other people living in Kitakami to have stumbled across it at some point, at least. The tar pit in the cave, she could understand how that could be overlooked, but this? This was just sitting on the surface, and it looked pretty big, too.

Juliana was so preoccupied with the mystery of the tar pit, she completely forgot about the purple lights that had been following her until they suddenly re-appeared. Her eyes widened and she prepared to run, but she didn’t just yet, something inside her desperately wanting to finally see what had been pursuing her for so long.

The ghostly pair of lights drifted forwards in the fog at a leisurely pace. As they got closer and closer, Juliana realized there was nothing there except the lights . . . nothing that she could see, anyway. It really did look just like a pair of lights flickering in the darkness. 

She muttered to herself,

“Litwick, maybe?”

The lights continued to draw closer until Juliana felt uncomfortable at their proximity. She backed off, ready to leave, but the lights didn’t advance towards her any further. Instead, they drifted over to the pool of tar, closer and closer to its surface, before sinking down into it and blinking out. Juliana blinked, surprised and confused.

“Where’d they go?”

She had no clue what she’d just witnessed. She was pretty sure the lights weren’t any sort of pokemon move; they seemed to move with purpose, as if intelligent. But if the lights themselves were some sort of pokemon, they sure weren’t any kind she’d seen before. A new kind of ghost-type pokemon was her best guess. She crouched down, gazing into the pool of tar where the lights had vanished into. She wondered why they’d be drawn to the tar. A food source, maybe? Sort of a weird thing to eat, but some pokemon ate rocks and minerals, so it seemed entirely possible. 

The tar pit began to bubble and sizzle. 

Juliana watched, fascinated, as she could barely make out the shape of something submerged in the sticky substance. It moved slowly but surely, pushing up from the tar. At first it was so drenched in the goop, it was impossible to tell what it was, but the tar slowly sloughed off in syrupy strands. The object underneath was white, which stood out in stark contrast to the tar. The shape of it became clearer, something smooth and round on top that led to a sloped plane and . . . 

And . . . 

Teeth?

A skull, she was looking at a skull, she realized. The tar dripped from it and an open jaw revealed rows of sharp teeth, the front canines especially thick and wicked-looking. Enough tar sloughed off that the empty pits of the eye sockets became visible. The skull was attached to a narrow spine, which was lifting it higher and higher out of the tar. 

Juliana stared, horrified but unable to stop watching. The thing began to move through the pit as if headed for the ‘shore,’ although it still moved at an almost agonizingly slow pace. Perhaps that’s why Juliana felt safe enough to keep watching. When the thing made it to the pit’s edge, it started to climb out on long, spindly legs, the bones of its feet ending in almost dainty-looking, clawed toe bones. 

It took a wobbling step onto land. The tar made a squelching sound, not wanting to let the skeleton pull free. Watching the creature struggle against its pull almost made Juliana feel sorry for it. Should she . . . should she help it?

With another tug, the skeleton suddenly lurched forward as the tar’s hold finally gave way. The skeleton tumbled onto the ground in a clatter of bones. It shifted, apparently attempting to right itself.

It somehow found its footing again and slowly stood: a full skeleton, its curved ribs still dripping, a narrow tail, broad shoulders and long legs. Juliana couldn’t help but feel like it was a bit like watching a Girafarig being born, the way it wobbled onto land on those tall, skinny legs. 

Within the creature’s empty eye sockets, a pair of purple lights flickered to life. They looked like purple candlelight but gave the impression of pupils. 

The creature turned its head. 

The candlelight narrowed and brightened, as if its eyes were focusing on Juliana.

Juliana let out a nervous chuckle and backed up a few paces. 

“I-it’s okay, I’m not gonna hurt ya, little . . . er . . . not-so-little guy . . .”

It looked intimidating as hell, but maybe she could convince it she was friendly? She’d seen some pretty vicious-looking pokemon that ended up being way nicer than they looked. Mind you, she’d never seen a pokemon that was nothing but a skeleton before. Parts of a skeleton, sure, but . . .

The tar that had been slowly dripping off the creature had gradually pooled beneath it, but now, it stopped dripping. The creature’s purple eyes began to glow brighter.

The tar started to move. Strangely, it began to crawl back up onto the skeleton, slithering up its legs and onto the rest of its body. Juliana was confused, but it seemed the pokemon was causing it to happen intentionally. 

It didn’t take anywhere near as long as its trek out of the tar pit had taken. In fact, it was relatively fast. The tar soon covered the whole skeleton, forming an organic shape, as if molding muscles onto the creature in real-time, and after that, flesh and fur.

When it was complete, Juliana was gazing at what looked like an enormous wolf. It was nearly as tall as she was, and the previously spindly-looking body was now stocky and muscular. Its fur was the blackest black she had ever seen and glistened, looking oily to the touch. 

When it stared at her, she realized the eyes were the only thing that hadn’t been fleshed out. She could see right into its empty sockets, the purple light flickering inside acting as its pupils.

The wolf’s ears flattened. Its lips curled back and it snarled, bearing its massive fangs.

Juliana almost tripped in her haste to back away, squeaking out,

“Okaynevermindseeyoulater!”

She turned to run, feeling stupid for waiting for so long to do so, just to satiate her curiosity. Fortunately, the wolf didn’t lunge right away and she got a good head-start on it. 

At least, she thought she did. But she’d made it perhaps only five yards until she was struck by something almost searing-hot and viscous, a horrible feeling that quickly enveloped her.

She realized it was tar. The foul substance coated her body and limbs in a thick layer. She struggled to move her legs, but could only lurch them forth at an excruciating pace, like running in molasses.

Juliana screamed.

[saltineofswing]

APOSTATE

Destiny 2 || 3200 Words

In Another World, In Some Ways Like The One We Know...

The dark cavern did not smell like rotting chitin and decomposing muscle fibers, the fetid stench of rusted iron and maggot earth, like most other Hive abodes Toland had inhabited. Rather it smelled like rain-damp wood and old parchment; Toland found either smell pleasant, but it was easier to breathe around the latter while traversing physically, and so he was glad for Ish-Mulmir’s preference for self-grooming. 

“O Thief-Of-Moths,” Toland began, sweeping through the gossamer curtain of fabric and out of the swirling eddies of lunar wind, “One who they call Throne Watcher, and also Shadow of Eleusinia, and also the Clever Blade, and also Ish-Mulmir. I have come to seek parlay with you. It is the agreed-upon time; the Earth is in high repose and the Sun has turned its hateful eye from this hollow place, and we have such grim and wonderful work to do.” He steepled his fingers together as he stepped deeper into the den, his bone-crested robes sweeping the footsteps away behind him. 

From deeper in the cave came a sound like parchment rasping over bone, and a sound of mandibles clattering together, like many sets of chattering teeth.

Brazenly walking into a Hive den amounted to certain death for most Guardians, Warlock or not, but this was no ordinary Hive den. Toland courteously wiped his booted feet on the mat set just inside the curtain covering Ish-Mulmir’s den, which said ‘WELCOME’ emblazoned in bright green letters. The rug beyond the mat was mostly clean, though time had tarnished the once bright ivory color – especially at the edges – and worn the fibers so that it looked somewhat like a large, ovular map of antiquity. The trinkets of many a bored patrolling Guardian hung along the walls among many whittled bones which dangled from the ceiling, strung into intricate charms, like gruesome wind chimes. Additional gossamer curtains, some sheer and some opaque, hung here and there like sheets of spiderweb, breaking the space into neat little sections. 

Against the stove leaned a long, thin blade, carved of the longest bone of some unknowable thing. 

A curtain – opaque – in the back of the den curled aside and Ish-Mulmir stepped through. She was not so tall as a Knight or Wizard, though she stood taller than an Acolyte and cut a more imposing figure. At first, many assumed that the fine and detailed fabric that draped around her shoulders and obscured her body from view was simply a very nice, Hive-themed robe or cloak; in fact they were wings, patterned like a moth designed by time to evoke some alien landscape, and they slid behind her with an insectoid shiver to rest at her back as she wove gracefully between furniture and approached him. 

“Toland,” the creature rasped in crooked Hive dialect, like stones grinding together between two hands. “I’ve told you that you don’t need to do that every time we meet.”

“It’s not for you,” Toland replied coyly. “How have you slept, Ish-Mulmir?” 

“Poorly,” Thief-Of-Moths said. “Ever more my dreams turn towards the Reef, the Shore, and the city beyond. I dream of her, caught both there in a place with no ceiling, and also near to us and the Earth, where the Queen’s portal connects our two worlds with void-silk.” Her movements were bird-like and darting as she traversed her den to her stove, where a pot sat simmering. The stew within had no odor that Toland could detect, but as Ish-Mulmir’s bony face passed over the thick broth she seemed satisfied by what she smelled. “Will you stay for lunch?”

“I’m afraid I am anxious to carry out our chore for the day,” Toland said, declining with a graceful tip of his head. The eye that sat in the middle of his forehead blinked between wavelengths of light, and the den exploded with colors – pheromone marks that revealed themselves like ink under ultraviolet light. Reds and greens and bright phosphorescent yellow-whites, cordoning off areas of specific purpose. “My appetite will be along shortly after our business is concluded.” 

“After, then,” Ish-Mulmir agreed; she brought the wooden spoon delicately to her mouth, her mandibles clicking together, and her teeth scraped the wood. 

Since the Young Wolf had taken Ish-Mulmir to the Librarian and purged the chronology of Worm-blackened corruption from her genetic history, Toland had noticed many healthful changes in her. Her tongue was dry and crisp, curled delicately, as opposed to wet and swollen like a maggot; her chitin was no longer cracked and flaky, and had begun to grow a sparse, bristly fur; her wings, of course, had filled in beautifully with feathery insect scales over the patches of scarred leather that had once marred them like a skinned animal made into a coat. Toland knew that she could not be Krill, for those creatures had been extinct for many eons – but the body that had been parsed out of alternate timelines and re-evolved biology was not Hive, either, not quite. Vex technology, stolen and repurposed or otherwise, was not in his area of expertise.

Her bony face turned towards him, and he reflected that many Guardians probably still saw little else but the Hive in her gaunt features and Lich-like complexion. She was still quite alien, though that did not preclude her from beauty. “Have you spoken to the Vanguard about what must come next?”

“Yes, Ikora has been enlightened to what we discovered during our last ritual,” Toland said. “The crystal – for now – remains mostly dormant. If what Savathûn told us is true, and it almost certainly is not, freeing her is going to be the difficult part of this entire affair.” 

“Asûr-Ïst-Alam-Kost,” Ish-Mulmir said, as she often did after the Witch Queen’s name was mentioned; there was no easy translation into the common tongue that Toland had figured out for this oft-repeated phrase, but he likened it closest to ‘Keep her name to yourself’. It was an honorific and a warning and a disparagement at once. “And what of Osiris?”

Toland sneered slightly, though his intent had been to smile. “The old master Vanguard is busy with other things. Jin has enlisted he and the Saint in his investigations into he who calls himself ‘Drifter’. Unfortunately, this is not the only area in strife in the system. But he gave me his blessing, for whatever that is worth, and assured me that the Guardians could handle it. As if I didn’t already know that.”

He hadn’t come deeper into the den than a few steps past the welcome mat, and that proved to be fortuitous; he usually didn’t mind shuffling through the curtains, but he also usually didn’t need to worry about them getting tangled in his ungainly arms and legs. Ish-Mulmir slunk through her den towards him with a basket of woven Earth-grasses under her arm, full of bone shards and woven leather tassels. Devrim had gifted her a bottle of wine as a housewarming present, but she had kept its delivery vessel instead. “Let us go outside, to the circle,” Ish-Mulmir said. “And hope that the Guardians have cleared the opposition.”

Toland sometimes thought the crooked light that the Moon received from the Earth had become more natural to him than the proper light of the sun on his homeworld above. Indeed, Guardians had burned every last fleck of Hive chitin to dust by the time the two of them had made their way to the ritual circle in Sorrow’s Harbor. As they approached, the Guardians who had cleansed the area greeted Ish-Mulmir with bright and cheery pleasantries. How are you? I made you this from a piece of aluminum, do you want it? Do you need helium coils? Your wings are looking nice today. Can I have your sword? Why did you need this circle cleared again? Can I help you perform your ritual? 

Toland found their brightness to be grating, like children scuffling about the feet of their teacher. He fantasized about the obscure and faintly disparaging non-sequiturs he would deliver if a Guardian tried to engage him in conversation, or dribbled some placative banality in his direction; but it didn’t matter, because none of them bothered. “Yes, yes, I am sure we all have many important things to discuss,” he finally said above the chatter of the crowd, “But I’m afraid we are on a time-table. Shoo, realm-walkers. Begone from this place, so that we may begin the ceremonies.” 

The Guardians slowly dispersed, leaving Toland and Thief-Of-Moths to their business, crafting the ritual circle beneath the peaking light of the Earth. 

“You profess to loathe their affections,” Ish-Mulmir said with a shrewd cant of her head, “but their disinterest and mistrust still stings you.” 

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Toland sniffed. 

“Very well. But I think they would not balk at your presence if you would only sing them a less bitter song, O once-shattered. I know you have the notes.”

Toland gripped the simply-wrapped hilt of the silvery blade that always sat against his hip, tucked into his belt. The metal was never cold against his skin, as if Guren supported him even in this state. “I reserve my sweeter songs for the few who have already heard them,” Toland said, and thought of its three matching mates.

“Yes – I am surprised that Sai Mota is not here,” Ish-Mulmir said. She began to place the bone shards in proper sequence, stacking them into the appropriate runes they needed. “Did you tell her that we were performing the final ritual?”

“Sai Mota does not always know what is best for her,” Toland said. “Nor do I, which is why I did not invite her here. This requires the kind of precision one cannot find at the tip of a dagger.” 

“She is going to be very cross with you.”

So be it, Toland thought to himself, and turned his attention to completing the runes. So be it. She would forgive him when he had finally achieved their mutual goal.

When the last rune was lain in place the bones shivered and snapped together as if magnetized. The ritual circle flexed and groaned as Toland and Thief-Of-Moths took their respective places of power and began to guide the spell. Toland felt an exhilarated rush of energy race through him and lamented, silently, that Guren was too dead to feel it. The lamentation fed the circle. Toland lamented that Omar had been reduced to a simple munition. The lamentation fed the circle. Toland lamented that Eriana and Vell had given up on their quest and left him behind. The lamentation fed the circle. More than anything he lamented that even after all this time, and everything they had shared, and how desperate she was to see this mission through, he continued to fail Sai Mota. The lamentation fed the circle.

“O Witch Queen, God of Liars and Deceit,” Ish-Mulmir said, “We call you to this mortal place, an act of parlay, between the dulled edges of two great scimitars. We invoke the right of communion and have brought you tithe.” Toland closed his eyes to listen to Ish-Mulmir’s song with more clarity and focus. Hive had two voices, he had discovered long ago; a voice for speaking to kin, and a voice for speaking to God. The former was difficult for a human to articulate. The latter, impossible, and rarely heard in any way that a Guardian could hear. So Toland listened as Ish-Mulmir sang, calling to Savathûn in twin crisp and resonant tones that twined into a clear, wheedling tremolo.

Then the roil of magic snapped taut like a cable, and Toland was nearly thrown from his feet as the magic bucked and strained under the weight of a new presence. Three pinpricks of light appeared in the air over their heads, and Ish-Mulmir fell silent – she would not speak in the true presence of Savathûn, Toland knew that. But she had done her part. The pinpricks stretched and widened until they merged, and through a large oval aperture Toland beheld another land. 

The crystal hung with dreadful weight suspended in midair somewhere in the stone halls of the Dreaming City. It was, save the crystal, an empty room to anyone without the requisite number of eyes to properly glean its occupant. Savathûn’s phantom consciousness paced the confines of her prison cell, slowly orbiting the crystal; in its twisted facets Toland could just barely make out the shape of a courtly bow. Within, Toland thought, was not the body of a Hive god. Though he could not be positive, and though hope chafed him like bone plates, within the crystal was Eris Morn.

“Well well, the aspirant one. I was beginning to wonder if perhaps I had seen the last of you after a week went by with no call. How long has it been, Toland?” Savathûn’s voice purred in his ear, a false human croon that many mistook for mockery. Toland never heard mockery in Savathûn’s voice; only temptation. And occasionally – though he would never tell her, for it would ruin what little power over her that he possessed – longing. “You look pale. And fleshy.”

“It has been some months,” Toland said, steeping his fingers again and providing Savathûn with a graceful smile. “I decided to take the mortal vessel out today to meet you. Wearing my best seemed fitting, now that our time together is reaching its end.”

“A paltry threat, Toland, I know you can do better than that.” Savathûn tutted him coyly. “Mara Sov feeds me five a day, each more bitter and angry than the last, and I admit that I wish she were more imaginative. Like you. I find it quaint that any of you think my death is on the table as an outcome of this little sleepover. I don’t think you know what that even means.”

“It is not you who defines death in this place,” Toland said to the Witch Queen, his voice lofty and pointed like a blade. “It is we, in the low places. If you wish to truly let your words become law, you’re welcome to come join us in learning the art of looking upward.”

“Ah, Toland,” Savathûn sighed, “You are nothing if not consistent. Does it still sting you to be so rejected?” She let her phantasmal fingertips brush the surface of the crystal. Ripples of light crept like veins through the stone where they touched. “Or does it sting you more that I have her, and you do not?”

“I don’t see why I have to choose.”

“You cannot save her,” Savathûn said innocently. “She is not yours to save.”

“It’s not about ownership. I own nothing, and I know nothing, and that is my greatest power,” Toland replied. He was not angry; he was, instead, clever. “I can tell that your plans are constructed upon the head of a pin, and your focus is wholly bent towards balance. You think yourself vulnerable in different ways from us, but in this we are the same: you stand on a precipice above a deep and black abyss, and you cannot afford to fall in. Without balance, you have nothing, O great and powerful liar.“

Savathûn hummed in thought at that, and that more than anything else gave Toland pause. That she considered anything he said made the hairs prickle on the nape of his neck as if she had threatened him with some great unkindness, and his mouth tilted into a lopsided black gash across the pale skin of his face. He blinked his eyes, one at a time, and tried to decide through the silence what it meant to him that she was taking him seriously. Some trick? She did love to watch mortals squirm. A calculated maneuver designed to shatter his repose? Well, it had worked. Or maybe…

“I am not sure if that is true,” Savathûn finally said, though she chose her words with unusual care. “But I admit that I don’t know. I suppose it is worth examining. Thank you for your input, Toland. As always, I find your viewpoint on these matters refreshing and valuable. Now – as much as I find the company charming, I believe I have my favorite Guardian coming to visit me today for the first time in a long time. I need to rest before I entertain again – those of you with two eyes require more effort to engage. Ta for now.”

Toland did not have time to unroll his tongue from his throat and get the last word in, as Savathûn swept her hand in a placid motion as if hanging up a phone, and the portal twisted into a hundred shards and was lost. Ice raced through him like cracks in a mirror, and he felt these cracks turn warm and boil his blood at being both acknowledged and dismissed in such short order. He hissed through his teeth like a Dreg and smoothed down his robes, focusing on the poise of his motions to help keep him from losing his composure. 

“Well,” he said, once his heart rate had quieted somewhat and he could no longer hear blood rushing through the space between his skin and his skull. “I must apologize for wasting your time, dear Thief of Moths. I was expecting something more concrete. She is less rattled by her circumstances than I had hoped, after depriving her of attention for so long.”

“Aiat. I am not necessarily surprised. After all, she claims to be alone – but if we are correct, she does have a cell-mate.” Ish-Mulmir’s croaking voice was almost jarring after Savathûn’s carefully-manicured mahogany buzz. Without the Witch Queen’s presence clogging the Veil, she was speaking once again.

He had been chasing her, with Sai Mota and Eriana-3 and Vell Tarlowe, since their nightmare together during the first fall of the Moon. First locked away in Crota’s personal chambers like a mounted trophy, then lost to his father’s hateful touch and very nearly Taken. The astral echoes she was able to scatter across the Ascendant Realm were like pinpricks of radiant light in the dark for him and the others and the younger Guardians that had invested themselves in her recovery. But since Oryx’s fall – since her crystal prison had been inches from being Taken – she had been silent. 

Just like every time they spoke with Savathûn, Toland though of Eris, alone save for one of her most hated foes, and took some small amount of solace in the fact that they had at least saved her from Crota and Oryx’s daggered grasps. Just like every time they spoke with Savathûn, he did not think about the last time he had touched her before he had lost her. “I suppose that is true.”

“Do not despair, my friend. With the Queen and her Techeuns working from the other side, the day draws near. Savathûn cannot keep her from us for much longer; her power in this regard is stretched thin. And, of course, it is possible that she may yet keep her word.”

“One way or another,” Toland said, nodding in agreement, “At long last, we will finally bring Eris Morn home.”

[thesyndicateofeden]

First fully original work, this one’s gonna be a little violent and disturbing, so be warned.

Twilight Circumstance

The dusty tomes that filled this place barely got used. It had existed for so long, yet only the rare college student or eccentric bookworm ever came here anymore…

Despite the “ancient” nature of the place, the dust and age to Vex was just a child’s amount of time compared to how ancient she was. It felt..calming, being in the presence of books like this. Like them she was a thing of vast depth, knowledge, and power, yet hardly anyone ever got close enough, or lived long enough, to open her and read her pages. It was nice to know she wasn’t alone in being forgotten, she wasn’t alone in being unknown. Then again, some of these books probably told her story incorrectly. Her eyes, those horrid pits of abyssal black overlaid with cracking, spiderwebbing lines of orange hellfire flicked down to the spine of one of these tomes. “Gods of Greek Mythology, a Compendium.” It read. Ahhhhh…Greece. What a beautiful place. She could only enjoy its beaches and ancient civilization during the nighttime, but surely humans would think the Mediterranean Sunshine a most gorgeous sensation. To her it was abhorrent. The Greeks had given her one of her favorite names: Nyx. A being so ancient that even Zeus feared her wrath and displeasure. How charming! They clearly thought highly of her.

Vex never did anything that Nyx did, all that had occurred were the few glimpses the ancients had gotten of her. Moving in a forest, spying her orange eyes around pillars, and on the rare, rarest of occasions, either helping or killing their number as fancy took her. It felt good to be revered, or feared, by a society en-masse. She was a superior being to them after all, maybe not in thought or morally, but most definitely in physical prowess.

That had been stolen from her, that reversion, in the modern era. No longer could her bare feet walk into the center of a nighttime plaza and not fear light around every corner. The lanterns and candles and torches of yore were unbelievably easy to avoid, or stamp out with impunity should they get in her way. In America, every city was a glowing beacon of disgusting accursed poison. It spewed from places it should never naturally spew, humans carried light bricks of the stuff in their pockets, who could make a beam as intense as 5 torches and with great direction. How dare they-

“H-HEL-“ Came the cut off crying of a young woman, piercing through the growing tendrils of dark hate gripping the walls of the abyss that was Vex’s brain. Very calmly putting the book back on its dark shelf, she leisurely took a more physical form.

Prior she was an amalgamation of thick black miasma with her trademark eyes, wallowing in the library aisle who’s lamp above was broken and neglected. In that shadow the miasma solidified, black webs erupting inside itself and violently tearing the darkness together. First came an ebony skinned body of a woman, bare and as gorgeous as the last sunset. The hair bounced into long curls that tended to roll and smoke at the edges, rising back up above her head and invisibly resettling into the mass of curled tendrils. Next the dress, silky and loose, had little style to it and more as if Vex had taken the most beautiful sheet of coal-colored silk, sprinkled stars inside, and tossed it over herself.

The Wraith never wore shoes, for her feet could no longer feel whatever the ground could resist her with, and as she stepped forward near the end of the shadowy aisle only the most observant could notice she walked toe-heel, instead of the modern heel-toe that evolved out of the comfort of shoes. Such was one of the only outward signs of just how ancient her customs were. At the edge of her home material she stopped and looked distastefully up at the working aisle light that thrust its burning curse down the central walkway of the library. Her ears could hear the muffled cries for mercy and gentleness that fell on the deaf ears of two attackers. Human, male, based on the sound of their muscles and the thoughts in the head she could read as easily as that book earlier.

“Hmm..simple as always.”

Sneering at the light she raised her right hand and brutally snapped her wrist in an arc, out of the darkness molded a double bladed dagger she sent into a spin so rapid it blurred. Her machinations could not go through the light, but humanity in their ignorance tended to never light the wires who fed them their power. Into the ceiling the shadowy dagger chewed as if wood were the thinnest of paper. With a great ZZZZT-KHSH the lights in the library went out..

And oh how great was her smile, framing those eyes who burned with tantalizing desire.

As calmly as before Vex walked into the aisle, and into the aisle over where she saw the mugging. A college student, it seemed, with red hair, freckled face, and glasses, had chosen the wrong time to study at night. Holding a knife to her throat, the burlier of the two men pulled her wallet from her pocket.

“Alright, thanks swe-“

Vex cleared her throat impatiently, and the two whipped around, switchblades now drawn on her. The Wraith had closed her eyes and could barely be seen as a normal, humanoid outline. Mentally, she was giggling so loud she couldn’t even hear the thoughts of the would-be muggers. Aloud the burly one growled,

“Hey!! Stay right there..double payday, or this kid gets it.”

Vex smiled wide and shrugged, her voice playful and teasing.

“Pry it from my corpse, little baby.”

The hooded and masked criminal stepped forward threateningly.

“Say it again! To my face!”

He rushed up right in front of Vex and stopped inches from her face, whose eyes were still hidden. The young and wiry bandit was trying to pull him back, whispering to stay quiet and calm down.

But the deed had been done, and Vex’s emotional manipulation had easily bent this man’s mind to one course.

He struck forth with his switchblade-!

It shattered upon her chest.

In a violent flash her eyes opened and she laughed so hard she nearly fell over. In shock both men yelped at her demonic eyes and began running in the dark, flailing for an exit.

“AHhaHA! No no no! Playtime isn’t over!!”

The darkness around the wily one suddenly solidified into tight chains, crushing him lightly and dragging him screaming away from the door outside. The pitiful whimper annoyed Vex’s ears and a dark tendril shut his mouth with such casual force several of his teeth snapped.

The other didn’t last long either, only he simply tripped over himself in his own terror and right into the sharing embrace of solid darkness that dragged him back to her, airborne.

“Now now now…”

Her voice could only be described as the most sweet of coos,

“You’ve both been..despicable, right?”

She giggled lightly at both their floating bodies and turned them upside down and grinned wickedly at the student, who was paralyzed with fear.

“And she seems so nice. What a shame you chose a target I care to defend, I don’t do it much! Unnnnlucky you..”

Vex flung both of them onto the table she had been studying at and strode to the girl, who immediately fell to her knees and started crying. To her credit, the Wraith was offput. When her mood was protective, the tears of the innocent always felt painful to Vex. She’d cried once too. Long, long, long ago, she knew she did it. Her hand gently reached down and patted the red hair.

“Don’t weep, Angel, it’s alright. I-“

Breaking down into sobs the student asked, begging an answer,

“W-w-wh-what-what are-are y-you?!”

Vex smiled ear to ear and crouched down so she could look eye to eye with the one she saved.

“The same thing you are, only fallen. Long, long, so long ago.”

Her fear was so delicious to the dark hungry shadows of her mind, but Vex tried to not enjoy it too much. She didn’t feel like killing this one too tonight.

“Run along now, and carry some protection, Maeve.”

Confused and terrified the thing knew her name, she sprinted away and out the door to freedom.

Turning back to the two bandits strapped onto the table, that charming, confident smile kept its confidence but abandoned charm in favor of wicked pleasure. She ran her hand along the burly one’s chest.

“Hm, you’re quite a buffoon, but I can admire the rage in your..”

Her hand gripped with enough strength to instantly shatter his ribs and his screams were muffled by the shadowy tendrils holding him down as Vex’s hand began to plunge into his chest, brute force enough to destroy flesh and muscle under its weight as he began to concave inwards.

“Awww, that’s a pretty sound…and poetically ironic, given you made that girl cry in a similar manner.”

The screams turned to bloody gurgles as her hand clamped around his beating heart, and with a vicious tear a fountain of blood exploded into the air, as it did, the crimson turned black, and thick with a horrible cursed ichor from being touched by the Wraith. The body convulsed and trembled as the curse spread throughout every vein and artery that remained, until the flesh had rotted away into a saggy grey skin over bones. Swiping it aside it crunched against the ground as a second Wraith formed out of the shadows along the ground in its place. It was the man, except with his horrible wound and a death mask covering his whole face. Instead of a hoodie and jeans he now wore a tattered medieval cloak and robe that hid his insides from view.

“…..Mistressssssss”

The wiry bandit was sweating bullets and struggling against the chains as he screamed through his shattered teeth. Vex floated upwards, feet trailing down, and her arms spread out wide with palms up like a cursed parody of Jesus, with a playful and cruel smirk.

“Kill your friend, make it entertaining.”

The puppet-wraith’s ghastly head tilted and let out a croaking hiss.

“Yesssssssssss…Misssssssstresssss…”

With the croaking and creaking of bones it stumbled forward and pulled upon what was once his partner in crime. Soon enough his muffled screams too turned to choking gurgles as Vex laughed at the mortal body getting torn apart in front of her. When the last chunk of meat had fallen off the table the Goddess clapped and descended back to the ground lightly.

“Thank you. Kneel.”

She smirked as the thing obeyed without question.

“While you were very fun, I prefer more.. worthy servants. Die, for now.”

“Yessssss Missstressss…Thannnnkkk Youuuuu.”

She shrugged as the soul fell apart and was consumed by the hungry darkness in her heart.

“Now..it would be so rude to leave a mess.”

With the many tendrils of darkness at her bidding they cleaned the scene as best they could, even filling the ink back in with her own ichor before placing the books Maeve had been studying back on the shelf, exactly where they belonged in the organized rows. In a burst of black miasma Vex became one with the Darkness of the world at large, and this library was abandoned and dusty once more.

Thank you so much for reading, or even just scrolling, if you made this far. I’m happy to finally have a place to share my work with the world. I’m very new to real fictional writing and trying my best. As always, criticism and feedback are always appreciated. Thank you again, and until next time: May the stars guide you.

-Eden

[kusuguricafe]

Tickletober Day 3 - Shriek

Summary: reki and langa go to a haunted house. langa finds a way to help reki find his courage

Characters: lee!reki, ler!langa

“Langaaaa, I don’t wanna go in there…” Reki whined.

“You’ll be fine. You’re tough, right? Plus, none of it’s real.”

“But it’s scary!”

“Daijoubu. I’ll protect you.”

Reki knew none of it was real, but that didn’t matter. Haunted houses still scared the bejeebers outta him. Why had he suggested going to the fall festival again??

“C-can I, um. Can I hold your hand?”

Langa was surprised, but he graciously offered his hand.

“Thanks,” Reki blushed, looking down at his feet.

Langa finally convinced Reki to walk through the entryway with him. They entered a dark hallway filled with eerie sound effects and music.

“I don’t like it!!”

“We’ve barely taken four steps in, Reki!”

They walked in a bit further and were greeted with some spooky decorations, including gigantic spiderwebs, a dismantled skeleton, and a glowing green witch’s brew in a black cauldron, magically stirring itself.

Reki heard an ominous howl, jumped, and scurried behind langa, wrapping his arms around him.

“It’s okay, Reki.”

“I don’t wanna go any further!!”

Langa sighed. He pried Reki’s hands off his middle. Still holding them, he turned around to face the redhead.

“Look at me. You’re okay. Nothing’s going to hurt you.”

Reki whimpered, “B-but, what if—”

“You need to stop thinking so much. You can make it through this, okay?”

“O-okay…”

They continued onward. Langa could feel Reki’s hand trembling slightly in his. Was there anything he could do to distract him? Suddenly, he got an idea.

A cartoonish ghost popped out from behind the shadows.

“AAAAAIIIIIIEEEEEEE!!” Reki shrieked. He was cowering behind Langa again, eyes squeezed shut.

Langa reached backwards and gently pinched up and down Reki’s sides, to the best of his ability from this angle.

“AHH!! Ehehehe whahaha? Langahaha!”

“I’m going to tickle you until you calm down a bit.” Langa said, quite matter-of-factly.

“Hehe nohohoho!!”

Langa stopped and turned to face him again. “At least you're smiling now. I hate seeing you so scared.”

Reki gazed up at Langa with a wobbly smile.

“Feeling any better?”

Reki hesitated for a moment. “A little, yeah.”

“Good. Now come on, I think we’re about halfway through.”

Langa noticed Reki’s hand was no longer trembling. He loosened his grip enough to skitter his fingertips along Reki’s palm.

“EEhehe hehehey!”

Langa smiled. “You’re so cute.”

“HUH!? Langa?? Y-you can’t just say tha-WHAAAHA!!”

Something near them let out a ferocious growl. Reki hadn’t jumped behind Langa this time.

“EEEYAAAAHAHAHA W-WAHAHAIT! NOHO!!” Reki shrieked, again, but for a different reason this time.

Langa dug his fingers into Reki’s rib cage from behind.

“LANGAHAHA STAHAHAHAHAHAP!! I’M OKAHAHAHAY!” Reki flailed his arms about, leaning his head back into Langa’s chest.

Langa snickered. He wrapped his arms around Reki and gave him a quick, tight hug. “I know, but the opportunity was too good to pass up.”

“You—! Ughh.”

The further they progressed the less scared Reki was, until he wasn’t scared at all. The goofed off the rest of the way, making fun of everything they encountered.

Once they finally exited, Reki let out a sigh of relief. A staff member suddenly elbowed him lightly.

“You two sure had fun in there.”

That was when Reki noticed the security cameras.

“Oh, man… You saw?” He buried his face in his hands, blushing furiously.

The security man smiled at Langa. “That was creative. You two have a fun rest of your night!” he winked.

Langa smiled back. “We will! C’mon, Reki.” He grabbed Reki’s arm and hurried along, heading towards a candied apple stall that caught his eye. Reki stumbled at first, but caught up to Langa’s pace fairly quickly.

“Ah, young love.”

[trboyrants]

jacob grimes

BASICS

Name: Jacob Charles Grimes

Nickname: Jake, Jako, Jakoby, JC

Gender: male

Age (as of 2024): 29

Birthday: November 15th, 1995

Birth Stone: topaz/citrine

Zodiac Sign: Scorpio

Sexual Orientation: straight

ROMANCE

Ideal partner? Someone who can put up with his stressful job and crazy family and that will stick by him no matter what. Being able to deal with him being clingy is a good bonus too

What was their first kiss like? Honestly, he hates it because he found out later that day that she just kissed him to try and get closer to his brother

CHILDHOOD

Life Story: He grew up in an Atlanta suburb, very much white picket family where they were all close and overall a mostly happy family

Did he have an imaginary friend growing up? No

Nurtured or neglected growing up? Very nurtured

Closest family member? His mom or his brother

Financial situation growing up? They weren’t rich by any means, but they lived a comfy life

PERSONAL

Do they ramble or are they to the point? He’s pretty to the point, he’s learned to be because of his job

Does he have any addictions? No, he used to smoke but he quit once he finished college

What’s his biggest secret? That he regrets picking up some of his cases, and winning them

What is he obsessed with? You

Does he have any pet peeves? Dirty socks on the floor

Does he have any superstitions? He always gets coffee from the same shop every day he has to go to court

What’s his favorite swear word? Fuck

One word they would use to describe themselves? Determined

Sense of humor? Flirty

What’s his soft spot? You, his family, and his dog

Favorite person? You

Do they rent or own? He owns, he used his first big bonus from winning a case as a downpayment

Do they live in an urban area or rural? Urban, he lives about 30 minutes from Atlanta

What’s their dream home? A big house with a yard and plenty of space for a family

How long can they hold a grudge? Depends on what happened and why he’s grudging

APPEARANCE

Eye Color(s): Ocean blue

Hair Color: Dark honey brown

Hair Style(s): Longer and slightly curly, usually has a mind of its own

Height: 6’4

PERSONALITY

Personality traits: Funny, charming, charismatic, smart, witty, loving, family oriented

Good Habit(s): He’s a very clean person overall, he doesn’t like things messy or dirty and keeps things organized

Bad habit(s): He doesn’t eat the best, he eats a lot of takeout and fast food

Like(s): Home cooked meals, hanging out with his family, relaxing, being outside to get fresh air

Dislike(s): Being inside all day, being away from the people that he loves, overly salty foods

Hobbies: He likes to go on walks with his dog, he’s not a workout nut but he does do it a few days a week to relax and get a change of pace from sitting at a desk most of the day. He likes to read, has tried drawing but doesn’t do it very often because he isn’t confident in it

Allergies: Cats

Fear(s): Spiders, losing his family

Fun Facts? When he first moved into his house, he called Rick because he found a massive spiderweb with a big spider in it and he couldn’t bring himself to take care of it

WORK

Ambition/dream: To open his own law firm

Occupation/Job: A criminal defense lawyer

RELATIONSHIPS

Parent(s): Richard (Dick) Grimes, Cindy Grimes

Sibling(s): Richard (Rick) Grimes, 35 (brother)

Relative(s): Lori Grimes (sister in law,) Judith Grimes (niece,) Carl Grimes (nephew)

Pet(s): Bubba (Australian Shepherd/Corgi mix)

EXTRA

Scent: Books, whiskey

Outfit(s): Because of his job he’s usually in smart pants, a dress shirt, and a button down but when he’s not working he’s in jeans and band tees

Scars: He has one on his cheek from hitting himself in the face with a cupboard door as a kid

Tattoo(s): He has one on his shoulder of a fisherman in a boat for his grandfather, and he has one on his bicep of a snake with a sword because he thought it looked cool when he was 19

Jewelry: He wears a few rings and has a chain

FAVORITES

Favorite Song: Work Song - Hozier

Favorite Food(s): Chicken parmesan

Favorite Drink(s): An iced caramel macchiato

Favorite Color(s): Blue

Favorite Animal(s): A walrus

Favorite Number: 17 (his old baseball number)

Favorite Season(s): Fall

Favorite Holiday(s): Thanksgiving

Favorite Time of Day: Evening

[a-wandering-imagination]

Chapter 20

The sound of the motor was what had first alerted the bear to the presence of a stranger, but it was the strange scent that brought the old bear down from the alder thicket to the beach at Taku Harbor. He waited in the brush just above the tide line, watching as a man made his way from the boat, up the dock and across the beach to the old cannery buildings. 

The old bear was the monarch of the woods around the harbor. His territory stretched for nearly fifty miles over the quiet, pine shrouded wilderness he called home. But even the biggest bear in the woods knew to avoid man and their noisy sticks. The old bear had the bullet scars to remind him of the mistakes of his youth. He walked with a slight limp caused by a bullet lodged in his left shoulder nearly a decade before. But even the wounds of his youth had not prevented him from clawing and biting his way to supremacy in these woods, chasing all the other would-be challengers from his domain. His hide bore testament to the years of vicious battle with the seemingly endless line of young bears searching for a new home. Ugly pink scars sliced through his thick fur on his back, his haunches and his ribs. His face bore the worst of the damage, however, with most of his snout and lips spiderwebbed and dimpled with the marks of fangs and claws. 

One scar in particular stood out, running from the tip of his snout up the bridge of his nose and across one eye. That fight had cost him the sight in that eye, which was now clouded white with cataracts. The bear hardly noticed the loss of sight, however, as even young healthy bears had extremely poor eyesight and relied on their ears and their nose to find food or detect danger. And it was primarily the old bear’s nose that had brought him to the beach. He had heard the motor first, of course, and would have headed deeper into the woods if that had been all he had noticed. But his nose had detected something else. Something different. It was his nose that had brought him within striking distance of the hated human. He lay quietly, like a big log, listening and watching with his one good eye as the man walked along the beach in front of him less than ten yards away. Still the bear did not move. He could smell the man alright. No question there. But there was something else. Something strange… and yet familiar. The bear’s small mind reeled as it tried to recognize this new scent. No. Not new. This scent was strange, but definitely not new. The bear knew this scent from somewhere. Somewhere before. He tried to remember but wasn’t sure. It awakened something in him, something from long ago. A feeling that he’d not experienced in many years. The feeling prickled the hair along hulking hump on his back and a soft growl rumbled deep in his chest. 

He didn’t like this smell. 

It smelled like rotted stumps and chalky white bones. It stank of decay and mildew. Something was here. Something that had come back to the forest after a long absence. Something very, very old. The bear shivered a bit and turned his massive head to the right and looked at the dark opening of the old cannery building. He could see it fairly well through the trees and he knew the man was in there. But the smell… he swung his head back to the left and stared through the leaves at the boat. The smell was coming from out there. 

A soft breeze rustled the leaves around his face and the bear stiffened. He sniffed the air, sucking in deep breaths and his ears twitched left and right. Something was wrong. He stood softly, still hidden in the brush and his head swung back towards the cannery building. The smell seemed to be coming from the building now and he could no longer smell the man. The low growl rumbled in his throat once more and there was a hint of a whine in it this time. Worry had crept into the old bear’s mind. His nose seemed to be playing tricks on him. Now he stared at the dark opening of the cannery building, sure that the man was not alone in there and that whatever was with him knew the bear’s hiding place. The feeling of danger that washed over him seemed to come from inside rather than anything he could identify with his fine nose and sensitive ears. He heard nothing and the only thing he could smell was that soft, rotting mustiness that seemed to be enveloping everything around him like a slowly spreading fungus. The bear stepped quietly out of the brush and stared intently at the door of the cannery building, waiting for the danger he sensed to emerge. One of the many things the bear had learned in his long life was that success in a fight was usually dependent on meeting the danger head on. Face it. Attack it. Kill it. The bear growled again and stared at the cannery building. Still nothing emerged. His massive head then swung back to stare at the boat. It too was silent and still. But now the scent was so strong he felt like he was suffocating. Fear was building in the pit of his stomach, fear of something even bigger and older than himself. Something that was waiting for the right moment to attack. 

Disregarding his lifetime of experience, the big bear huffed once more at the dark cannery building and then turned tail and slipped back into the woods. The prickle along his spine returned and he quickened his pace till he was at a good gallop, pushing through brush and undergrowth with no further care about any noise he was making. Branches snapped and crashed as he blasted through the brush headed up into the hills away from the beach and that disconcerting smell. 

About a hundred yards up the hill, the bear broke into a small clearing and finally slowed. He scanned the meadow for movement, his nose and ears on full alert, but all seemed normal here. He stopped and sat for a moment, listening to the wind in the trees and breathing in the faint scent of berries coming ripe in the bushes across the meadow. The day was turning into night and the cloudy sky was darkening quickly. The shadows among the trees grew dark and silent. The bear stood again and slowly made his way around the edge of the meadow, snuffing here and there for something to eat. The chocolate lilies down near the beach were his favorite. When they went to seed, the root system produced a small rice-like ball of starchy nodules that could be easily dug up with his long claws and deft tongue. But those grew near the shoreline and the bear had decided he wasn’t going back down there tonight. So now he searched for stray blueberries and mushrooms among the brush at the meadows edge as he slowly worked his way around the perimeter towards the east side of the meadow which led further upwards into the mountainous forest beyond.

The bear had made it about halfway round the meadow’s edge when his body tensed. He spun, looking back towards the direction of the beach. No sound or smell had disturbed him, but the prickle along his spine was back. He was too old and experienced to ignore even such subtle warnings. He stretched his nose west and sucked at the breeze, trying to ascertain if he’d been followed up the hill. Other than the soft hiss of the wind in the tops of the hemlock trees, no sound came to him. Even the birds had all gone silent. A gust of wind from the west brought the strange scent to his nose once more. Just a hint of it, but it was enough to bring his hackles to full rise on his shoulders. His heart began to beat faster and huffed a warning at the silent shadowed trees across the meadow. He didn’t hear anything or see anything but he felt that something was there, hidden in the darkness, watching him. Something big. The huge bear pawed the earth in front of him in a show of dominance over the perceived intruder and he bellowed at the darkness, a long drawn out roar of anger and fear. Only silence answered his call. He swung his massive head back and forth and bounced on his forepaws, hoping the display would ward off whatever was hiding there. He was just about to turn and head further into the trees when he heard a branch crack in the darkness on the opposite side of the meadow. He spun and rose up on his hind legs and roared once more. Nearly ten feet tall, the big bear was an imposing sight and his angry bellow would have struck fear in the hearts of even the most valiant of any would-be challengers. He popped his jaw loudly and pawed at the air, menacing the unseen visitor. Dropping to all fours once more, his ears laid back against his head as he bared his long fangs and growled deep and low. His breath misted around his head as darkness settled over the meadow. The bear took a tentative step towards the west and the hidden intruder, still growling, hackles raised.

As the bear took another step a flash of movement erupted from the trees on the far side of the meadow. Something was coming. Something big. Something fast. The bear rose onto his hind legs once more to meet the oncoming attacker, another mighty roar forming in his throat. But the roar was cut short. The fight was over almost before it had begun. The bear, lunging towards the movement was caught mid stride by a massive taloned claw which slammed into his throat with such force that the roar was immediately silenced and a sickening crack filled the air. The impact was so powerful that the large bear pinwheeled in the air, head over feet, and landed heavy on the soft moss, lifeless. One rear paw twitched fitfully a couple of times and then the big bear was still. The massive black creature crouched over the bear and leaned in close as if sniffing the lifeless corpse. It stayed in that position for several minutes. Then, finally, the beast rose and grabbed the bear by one of its hind legs. It walked, silently, back in the direction it had come, effortlessly dragging the bear’s mammoth carcass along behind.

[duskys-dreams]

Two siblings, brother and sister, received a business card from a strange visitor, a carpet cleaner. They read the tagline, and were transported to a new world.

In this world, there was a giant falcon who tried to capture the siblings and bring them to the king. The ground would melt like quicksand under their feet if they paused for too long, so they had to keep running. The falcon kept taunting them, insisting they would be found and running was pointless.

Eventually, the falcon caught up to them and picked them up, dangling them by their feet, and dropped them into a giant dust spiderweb. The siblings sank through it and found themselves on the next level. There was a beast-keeper on this level (which looked like a giant burned-out house) and had to run around and not get caught. They also had to keep a hand on the flag they had received upon arrival, otherwise they would fall out of the realm (and likely suspended in limbo for eternity.)

They found their way out of the maze without incident, picking up a long-legged hellhound ally along the way. Now they were in a relatively nicer hotel, and they wandered into a room that had a bed and two couples sleeping. They were told that this was a party and they had to socialize, but the people in the bed were all married, so they couldn’t exactly talk about crushes, which had been the siblings’ plan.

The couples woke up and wondered why the hell two kids and a hellhound were in their room, but one of the people recognized the girl. Her name was Hope, but he called her Lola, which apparently was her nickname. This man was Nil, her long-lost brother. Apparently the other brother on the journey was a step-brother or something.

The other couple got into an argument with the hellhound, because apparently the two races hated each other (they were mostly humans but had strange ears and looked animal-like somehow.) Nil has turned into one and ages rapidly because he stayed in this world for too long. He stayed because he found the love of his life, who was in the bed next to him.

Meanwhile, back on earth, an interesting man asked to come into my house. I said yes, but was very suspicious of him. He kept clutching this laminated Britain flag, and asked to see my computer. He said that there was a problem with it and asked to take it with him. I said it was Marcel’s computer, not mine, so I couldn’t say yes. He asked Marcel, who didn’t care at all and seemed to trust this stranger completely. While the man took a drink from the faucet, I stole the important USB drive and secretly pulled our biggest knife from the knife drawer and waited outside.

Once he stepped outside with the computer, I stabbed him with the knife. He fell down and dropped the flag, revealing that he had really long ears and burn marks all over his once-perfect face. I went overboard and started slicing his body with the knife, over and over, making smooth diagonal cuts. He seemed to have sunk down in the ground a bit, and it wasn’t hard to cut through to the ground beneath him.

After I was done, I picked up his business card, read it, then ran inside to tell Dad and Marcel that the man had been dangerous, and wanted to take us to the spirit realm. My family laughed it off, and I became frustrated. I walked down to the road (the body had completely disappeared) and started reading the card again. It was the same one that the siblings had read, and I realized that I was going there, too. Dad stepped out of the leaf pile and came to see me, reading the card as well. I told him now he was going to the spirit realm, and he was like “haha, okay, whatever you say.”

We went on the bus, and appeared in a car with Mom, Nil, and the siblings. I went “I Told You So” and dad was just fascinated that he was indeed in a different world. It was dark and looked like a burnt down city, and we drove to where the siblings had set up camp. They had found an outlet and pulled in an entire air conditioner, and tried to charge their phones, but there was only one outlet. The siblings were experts on this world at this point, and explained everything that was going on.