#sleepy eyes and bony knees

[katakosmos]

tall, thin, almost skeletal and sharp barty, with sleepy eyes and a smug smile, who walks in the corridors with slightly rounded shoulders and, when he's sitting, he stretches his legs and his feet under the table collide with the shoes of the other death eaters. barty, who laughs at the most inappropriate moments, loud and maniacal, who licks his lips, runs a long, bony finger over the surface of a piece of furniture and collects the dust. his face is more hollow than usual and his hair is disheveled, but his gaze is lively and his movements are fluid, magnetic. barty, who speaks to evan with his chin on his shoulder, exhaling his warm breath, words, laughter, directly onto his neck. barty, curled up in an armchair, with his knees pulled up to his chest, while he scrapes his tongue on the serrated part of his upper teeth, one corner of his mouth slightly lifted up, who wonders how much of his body he can fit into evan's; if, by pressing himself a little, he could ever get under his skin, if there is room for him too, if evan would ever welcome barty inside him like a second soul...

[anonymous-dentist]

Or: the first week of Cellbit's life after being turned into a vampire by the man he's been dating for three weeks

For @smallchaoscryptid's Spiderbit Week Day One- Vampires

-

Day Zero - Saturday

"Just stay still!"

"I am still!"

"Nooo, you're fucking wiggling."

"I'm trying to get comfy. If I'm going to die, I want to be comfortable."

"My lap isn't comfortable? Is that what you're telling me?"

"Your knees are bony."

"I'll show you bony- stay still, motherfucker!"

"Guapito- oh, shit-"

Cellbit sucks in one final, shuddery breath and goes limp, his fingers twitching- searching for Roier's.

But Roier's hand only finds his after he's dead.

Day One - Sunday

His eyes are open, but all he can see is the scent of blood in the air. He can't move, but his limbs beg to be put to use. He's so hungry.

Something settles in his hair, something cold and soft and almost comforting through the pain wracking his entire body.

"Shh, gatinho," it whispers. "I'm back."

He leans into the touch with a whine, eyes slipping shut and exposing him to The End again. It's horrible, but at least. At least it isn't nothing.

There's nothing. The End is something. The End rejected him. He is alive, and he is hungry.

Fingers card through his hair, gently massage his scalp. But it isn't his head that's hurting, it's his everything. His mouth. His teeth. His teeth-

Air brushes past his mouth. Prey.

Instinctively, he snaps at it, growling as his teeth dig into the prey.

"Puta madre-" the prey swears, but, no that isn't the prey. That's...

He whimpers as the not prey tears its hand out of his mouth.

"You're lucky you're cute," the not prey tells him. "Hold on, let me get you some actual dinner."

And then the not prey leaves. Again.

And he is alone with the nothing. Again.

Day Two - Monday

The room is too cold but the blankets are itchy and the pillow is too warm and the overhead fan is turned on and he's so cold, why is he so cold?

Shivering, he pulls his blanket over his head. But it itches, so he pulls it back off, but he's so cold-

"Hey, no, come here," the not prey says.

He snarls as he's gently pulled to the not prey's chest, but his anger dies down the second he recognizes the not prey's scent: guapito.

His guapito.

He burrows back until he can't tell where guapito ends and he begins. Then, and only then, does he start to feel warmth again.

The End was warm, so warm. But it turned him away, and now he's cold- but that's good, right? He doesn't know why it's good that The End rejected him and sent him back to the nothing, his head hurts, his teeth hurt. But. But maybe it has something to do with his guapito.

A kiss is pressed to the back of his neck. "There we go. Sleepy gatinho, eh?"

He hums in acknowledgment. But he doesn't talk, he doesn't know how. He doesn't think he's supposed to. He's too hungry to even though he'd just eaten moments or hours or centuries ago.

"Tomorrow will be better," guapito tells him, and he believes it.

Day Three - Tuesday

He keeps biting the inside of his mouth when he tries remembering how to speak to guapito. And, frankly, he's starting to get sick of it.

He pouts, but guapito just smiles and coos and leans in close and brushes its nose against his.

"You'll get used to it," guapito says. "They'll be done growing in by tomorrow."

Tomorrow is forever away, though. When The End had sent him back, it had told him that he would wake up 'tomorrow', but he was there for what felt like thousands of years. He only found his way back to the nothing when he'd heard someone talking to him.

Who...?

Wordlessly, though not wordless by choice, he bites guapito's nose. He doesn't bite hard, and he doesn't bite with his fangs, but guapito still screams and tumbles off the bed dramatically.

He smiles, fangs and all, but guapito just grumbles and reaches up and pinches his cheek hard.

And then guapito smiles, fangs and all.

It's beautiful.

He tries to say as much, but he ends up biting his tongue. Again.

Damnit.

Day Four - Wednesday

He can't stop crying, why can't he stop crying? He isn't in pain, but it all hurts so badly, but he doesn't know why, and-

"Gatinho, hey, it's fine," guapito softly says- it sounds sad, and now he feels worse because he made guapito sad and he's just a failure of a... of a... of a...

He can't remember? Why can't he remember? All he remembers is The End and then the nothing that came afterwards, the nothing he's been living in since. He blinked, and he was out of The End, and he was in somebody's arms, but who? Guapito, right? But why? How do they know each other?

He chokes on his own tears as he comes to a terrifying realization. He doesn't know who he is. He's been awake for days, but he doesn't know his own name- oh, God.

Guapito holds him closer, rocking them gently back and forth on the floor, because he had crawled off of the bed in his own misery hours ago and hasn't been able to muster the will to get up since.

The End took something from him before kicking him out. Did The End take him?

Guapito shushes him gently, far more tender than it's been since he's known him. But he doesn't know him, so how does he know that?

"You'll think this is funny later," guapito assures him. "I did. You're just emo today, it's fine. New instincts and shit, they'll figure themselves out, and then we can go back to bed. Okay?"

He buries his face in guapito's shoulder. What he would give to be in bed again...

Day Five - Thursday

There are flashes in his mind of things he can't quite remember. A garden filled with blue flowers, a swimming pool. A little boy in overalls locking him in a closet with...

Guapito trudges into the room with a fresh pitcher of blood for them to share, because he's still hungry.

"I'm making you go hunting when you're out of bed," guapito huffs.

He places the pitcher down on the bedside table and wipes the non-existent sweat off of his forehead with his headband.

He is stunning.

"Okay," he croaks out, wincing as his fangs clip his tongue. But it's worth it for the brilliant smile guapito sends him and the forehead kiss he gets.

"You are so sexy when your voice is all fucked," guapito growls, playful and not at all threatening.

He bites back a frown. "No."

"Yes. And you had better get used to being called sexy because you-" Guapito pokes him between the eyes with one finger. "-are stuck with me for forever. No take-backs."

He doesn't want a take-back. He's been thinking through the hunger pangs, and he thinks that he went to The End because of guapito. Not because guapito sent him there, but because guapito was the one to pull him home.

This is home, right? A dimly-lit bedroom with wooden walls and well-worn floors, scratchy blankets and soft pillows, soft voices downstairs. Guapito.

It doesn't ring any bells, but he thinks that, if it wasn't his home before The End, it could be his home now that he's left it.

A small smile on his face, he reaches up and cups guapito's cheeks.

"Okay," he repeats, just because he thinks guapito needs to hear it.

And guapito smiles, and it's all just... okay.

Day Six - Friday

He has a name, he thinks. Cellbit. It's what guapito calls him when he thinks he's asleep. When Cellbit is asleep.

It sounds familiar. So does the mention of a child- Richarlyson- and the mention of a woman- Jaiden- and the mention of another child- Bobby.

But what's guapito's name? He has to have one, right? One as beautiful as he is.

"You look almost normal today," guapito comments.

Cellbit doesn't feel normal. He feels hungry, but he's less hungry than he's been for the past several days. He feels cold, but he doesn't mind the cold as much as he used to. He feels confused, but he's remembering more every day. So he might be back to normal soon.

(Whatever normal is for him, anyway.)

The End had taken normal from him. He remembers it being freezing. He stayed huddled before its mighty presence shivering and begging to be heard. He wasn't dead, he wasn't. He couldn't be dead, he was talking. He couldn't be dead, he had... someone to get back to.

And then he'd heard the voice, and The End had released him.

Cellbit leans his head onto guapito's shoulder and closes his eyes.

"Te amo," he whispers. He may not remember who guapito is to him, but he knows this to be true.

Guapito stiffens beneath him, but he quickly relaxes again and slings an arm over Cellbit's shoulders.

He presses a soft kiss to Cellbit's temple and whispers, "Me, too."

Guapito had mentioned something about spending eternity with him, and that sounds just fine to Cellbit. He doesn't think he'd rather have it any other way.

Day Seven - Saturday

Cellbit wakes up not hungry for the first time since escaping from The End. He stares up at the ceiling, and his mind is filled with one word and one word only:

"Roier?" he whispers.

Next to him, guapito- Roier!- stirs. He yawns and rolls onto his side so that he's facing Cellbit. His face is red and marked with the imprints of his pillow, and his eyes are squinted shut and wet with interrupted sleep, and drool is dried to the corner of his mouth, but Cellbit is still caught breathless because he's so perfect.

"Gatinho?" Roier yawns. "What's wrong?"

He squirms until his head is using Cellbit's chest as a pillow. He wraps both of his arms around Cellbit's one like it's a stuffed animal.

His eyes slip shut again, but he doesn't fall back asleep. He's too busy tapping his fingers against the inside of Cellbit's elbow.

"I think I died," Cellbit says. His voice is quiet, contemplative. Almost reverent, because he stared The End in the face, and he was let go. Why?

"You did," Roier responds.

"But I'm here."

"You are."

"Why?"

Roier mutters something about "fledgling amnesia". Cellbit only halfway understands, but he doesn't question it. He doesn't think he wants to.

"Because I'm a vampire," Roier eventually says. "And you wanted to be one, too."

Cellbit blinks. "Huh."

"Yeah, 'huh'." Roier lightly pinches Cellbit's arm. "Go back to sleep. We need to go hunting tomorrow."

Hunting... Cellbit likes the sound of that.

But, first:

"We should get married."

This wakes Roier up fully. He sits up, lets go of Cellbit, stares at him with wide eyes.

Cellbit sits up, too. He takes Roier's hand in his, turns it over. Thinks about how good he'd look with a ring on his finger.

"I might not remember everything about you," Cellbit tells him, "but you've been with me all week even when I was..." ("...completely feral and out of control...") "...emo. And I liked you enough before to die to be with you. So... marriage only makes sense, right?"

Roier's mouth flaps like a fish's for a good couple of tense minutes before he cracks a grin and tries covering it up with furrowed eyebrows and a faked frown.

"Try again with a ring," Roier snaps with happy tears in his eyes.

He flops back down and pulls the blanket over his head.

Cellbit stares at him for just a moment before smiling so wide his cheeks hurt.

Wordlessly, he snuggles back down into bed. He slips beneath the covers with Roier, pulling him to his chest and spooning him from behind. He hides his smile in the back of Roier's neck and giggles as Roier swears at him through his own laughter.

"I can't believe I'm going to be with you for forever," Roier teasingly complains.

"Me neither," Cellbit responds.

The rest of eternity until the sun should die out and then beyond. Until they both crumble to dust in each other's arms at the end of the universe.

That sounds wonderful.

[thiniceofeternalyouth]

MISLEADIN' ME SERIES: CHAPTER EIGHT

COLD WASTELAND

⊳ Gojo Satoru x f!reader

series masterlist

Genre: angst, fluff, sci-fi, cosmology.

Words count: ~13k

(hey im still alive and i will release three more chapters next week)

⊲ previous

[December 6, 2019; 12:32 am; Hopetown].

All the possible scenery that Gojo could have seen on the way home was invisible to him - you and your grateful expression were in front of his eyes. There were no sounds of the surroundings and no one's voices for him – only words spoken aloud and those that never left his lips were rushing in his head.

One random tap on his shoulder was what made Gojo come to his senses. He was already standing in the middle of the living room, and the place was overly hectic, but it wasn't the kind of bustle that was inherent in the holidays. All the whispers and quiet conversations in the room spread across his back like someone's bony hands, leaving behind only an aching sensation and a chill. A single girlish sob made those hands pierce the flesh, running the cold deep beneath the skin. "What's going on here?" asked Gojo, confused, shifting his gaze from Frank to the crying Danielle.  

Frank fussily poured water into a glass. "Son, I'm sorry I pushed ya. Didn't even notice ya," he hurried over to the lump-like Danielle sitting on the couch and handed her the glass; the girl took it with trembling hands and took a couple of convulsive sips as Frank wrapped her tighter in the blanket. Pulling away from Danielle, Frank turned to Gojo. "Ya just don't worry too much. I don't know how it happened, but Megumi ended up in the void. I've already sent Kyle and Issu, now Rachel will be back too, I'll feed her quickly and send her back to search. Everything will be fine."

"I-" Danielle started, but was interrupted by her own sobs. "I-I don't know how it happened- We- We were just lying there, talking, a-and then all of a sudden- Oh my God," with each word she managed to say, the lump from the new tears coming up clenched her throat more and more, and when the limit was reached, she started crying again. "I don't know, I just saw a flash and he disappeared. I-I don't know," pressing the glass to her forehead she shook her head with such force that water spurted over the edge.

The bad news sounded absurd, but with each passing second, the tight feeling in his chest only grew. The single question knocked everything else out of Gojo's head and began to flit back and forth until it was on the tip of his tongue. "Is this some kinda joke?" 

"I'm afraid not, son," Frank clapped him on the shoulder, and at the same moment, a faint purple flash showed somewhere in the distance. "There's Rachel. Give us fifteen minutes," the man had already thrown on his jacket. "It'll be okay," he added quietly before heading out the door.

Gojo stayed in the room with Danielle, and he knew that if he couldn't let his emotions out in private, he had no right to do so in front of the child.

He walked over to the couch where Dany was sitting and clumsily plopped down. Gojo put his foot on the leg and glanced stealthily at the girl - she still sat shrunken and twitching. "You know," he said, smiling nonchalantly. "He is very much like his father. Not just in looks," the smile was replaced for a moment by a grimace of disgust. "Megumi's just as stubborn, and just as much of a pain in the ass. Also tenacious, to top it off," Gojo sighed and leaned his head back on the back of the couch, still keeping his eyes on Dany. "Trust me, if you knew his dad, you'd know what I'm talking about. So... He'll be fine," he added, but already addressing it himself more than Danielle.  

After a while, Danielle's sobs began to fade, but her sleepy restless sighs grew louder. She never changed her posture and fell into slumber in the same way she had cried, sitting up with her knees to her chest. 

Gojo tried his best to fall into the arms of Morpheus, but each time, at the boundary between sleep and vigor, he unconsciously raised his head and looked at his watch; time was indeed dragging for him in slow agonizing snatches. 

He was about to lay his head on the armrest in another desperate attempt to sleep, but he jumped up before anything could happen. Whether it was the violet light through the floorboards or the loud rumbling in the room above - before he could think which came first, he was running for the stairs.

Gojo opened the door to Megumi's room with such force that it nearly flew off its hinges. His student was lying on the floor, his limbs barely moving, his chest heaving, and though there was plenty of oxygen in the room, Megumi was pressing the ill-fitting mask to his face as hard as if his life depended on it. 

Gojo sat him down and leaned him against the wall in one motion, trying not to pay attention to the mask or ask hasty questions. He squeezed Megumi's cheeks with his hands and immediately grimaced – boy's skin was burning cold. "Oh, you cold as ice! Is the gut of your soul coming out?" Megumi shook his head weakly as if warding off an annoying fly. "Alright, let's go see Shoko. Better yet, to doc. It's kinda his thing."

"I'm fine," Megumi said weakly in a hoarse voice, and he even had the strength to shove Gojo's hands away from his face - a clumsy and careless movement. Something tinkled in Gojo's ear, and at that moment, something in his soul snapped. He tried not to notice, tried not to ask any questions, tried not to look around - all in vain. 

Megumi had seen all sorts of expressions on Gojo's face: happy, condescending, serious, mocking, disgusted, all of which made him want to punch that man as hard as possible. However, what was that expression now that he was examining the watch on his wrist, where was that frightened look coming from? "Megumi, where-" the voice was also barely recognizable; it was as if it was not his teacher, but his ghost that sat before him. "Where did you get that watch from?" 

[Timeless, void]

Your frostbitten skin was so tight that every slightest change in your facial expression created new bleeding cracks in your face. Even though they healed in minutes, new ones replaced them almost immediately.

Your running had long since changed to pacing, and you were dragging your feet without realizing what you were doing - everything was automatic. The feeling of sand in your shoes was so unpleasant that you thought: what if it had gotten under your skin? Everything inside creaked as if grains of sand were scraping against bones.

You climbed stubbornly up the next hill, but it was hardly a great climb; you were bent over, clinging to the surface with all your limbs. The sand kept seeping through your fingers, forcing you to dig your fingernails in even deeper until your hands sank to your elbows in the earth.

Once again, you pushed your palms into the ground with a little more force than necessary: your hands were in the sand, and your face was in the there too. You didn't immediately find the strength to raise your head, but you exhaled angrily.

How long have you been here? A week? Two? A month?

In the midst of all those thoughts, you didn't immediately notice that your numb limbs were tingling. You lifted your head and brought your hand closer to your face, trying to get a better look at it and make sure it wasn't another trick of this place. You twirled your palm, examining it. Other than the cracks, the hand looked perfectly normal. If it wasn't a trick, however…

Did that really mean it was getting warmer in this area?

You immediately snapped out of it - how long had it been warmer? Your arms began to work faster and harder, and you were no longer annoyed by your own mistakes and sliding down when you made them - you kept climbing anyway. You tried to keep your breath short: it was worth saving your strength, because if it got warmer, it could only mean one thing.

Somewhere nearby was a settlement.

The same horizon - but now its violet flames were even brighter - was still before your eyes, and you slid down the slope and breathed a sigh of relief that the path across the plain would be less thorny. Your hands were clutching at aching places - your sides, your right hip, and your left calf was cramping, and you stumbled through your own leg with every step.

Still you went forward, and the farther you went, the more immobilized bodies you saw: some of them were almost buried under the sand; some had hardly a dozen grains of sand on them. Here the rifts loomed up one after another, and each time you looked at them, your heart sank with longing - in space, you were barely a few dozen feet from home; in time, give or take infinity.

The closer you got to the settlement, the less the light cast glare, and everything began to appear just like a mirage: slow and smooth.

There was only one straight street, flanked by huts made of scrounged wood and scrap metal. The metal sheets were of different sizes and squeezed into various places in the dwellings - they looked like they were about to fall off. Some of the walls in the houses were replaced by welded mesh fences, and it was all askew as if it was tired of everything that was happening.

The houses didn't even have doors; like a mockery, they had ridiculous pieces of wood swinging on their hinges. There were no garbage cans, either; trash was piled in huge heaps in various corners. The finest thing was at the end of the street: as if showing their place among the humans, on a rise stood the buildings of demons, and they were not made of dying and outmoded materials. Everything looked solid and fancy, and in these buildings were mixed so many styles of architecture, which was not known even to the most enlightened person in this case. Even the parts that fell off the houses never really fell - they slowly and smoothly began to run in circles around the place, illuminating everything with a cold violet light as if without it not everyone here froze to the bone.

You dragged your feet along the street; from every side came the sound of sobbing noses and coughing, and it was of such force that you wondered whether the lungs of such a person were still there, or whether they had been spat out on the ground. People here either wandered from place to place or stayed in the huts, but some of them curled up in a ball or leaned their backs against the wall and sat motionless in the street.

You woke up from a push in your shoulder - a person was running past you, and they didn't seem to notice you as much as you didn't notice them. You couldn't see their face, it was hidden under a hood, but you guessed what you could see: a skinny face, huge black circles under their eyes (if they were there at all), sores on their skin. You glanced up to see where the person had retreated from, and at the same moment, you were skulking into the alley between the houses - the demon was chasing them; maybe the demon was running in their direction for a different reason, but you didn't want to stay in the front of the line.

You circled the huts and found yourself in the tentative backyard; luckily, a few of them had loopholes inside. There was no use thinking about which one to go into first - none of them would be any good, anyway - so you took a couple of steps and went into the nearest opening.

No matter how hard you squinted, it was dark in the shack, and there was only the rustle of activity to tell you that you were not alone. Before you could even take a step forward, a beam of light was shone in your face, causing you to squeeze your eyes shut and take a step back. "Who the fuck are you?" you only wanted to answer as you felt several cold pokes on your neck through the fabric of your uniform. Closing your watery eyes against the light, you looked down -  a stick with nails at your throat. As you tried to turn your head to try to see who was holding the melee weapon, it was immediately and violently pulled back to its previous position.  

You slowly raised your hands, the cold nails turning into teeth that dug harder into your skin. "Guys, I don't really want any trouble. We're kinda in the same boat."

"Oter, make sure she doesn't mess around," the man behind you, though he didn't take the stick from your throat, grabbed you by the hair and pulled your head back. The light from the lantern in the room flickered in different directions and was no longer aimed directly at your face - the man holding it was searching his pockets for something.

Footsteps sounded, and the man came closer and closer. He put his hand over your face, and you immediately felt the rough fingers and uncut nails - he tried to tear your mask off. It didn't work. "What is it?" it was no longer your voice; it was the voice of accumulated fatigue and hunger - mocking and arrogant. "Ya hands shaking or something?"

Your eyes were watering again - not from the light, but from the sharp pain in the bridge of your nose. Something warm and sticky dripped from your nose and down your lips. "Now you got the dangers of opening your mouth when you're not asked. Here," he barked and grabbed your forehead with the palm of his hand and pressed it into the man behind you. "Sniff," you felt something under your nose, but you couldn't see what it was. It didn't smell like anything. After a couple seconds, the man, seeing that you had no reaction, exploded with a roar. "I knew it, bitch! These things can't smell it! Youcan'tsmell it!"

"I just have a poor sense of smell," you sniffled, trying to suck back either the snot or the blood that was leaking out.

The man ran his hand up your cheeks, squeezing them. "And you're still being sassy? Didn't the previous time teach you anything?"

"Man," you whimpered in a voice strangled from behind puffed cheeks. "Have ya ever thought about the course of action? Ya broke my fucking nose. How am I supposed to feel anything?"

He babbled conspiratorially, his grip on your face weakening with each word. "Oter, we have to hand her over to them. Even if she's not one of them - look at the way she's dressed. She wasn't dragged here by force, and if they find her here, we are dead." 

"That's enough," you hissed, and slashed your dagger at the tendon of the hand that held the stick to your throat; the man behind you immediately dropping it and howling weakly. You saw the man in front of you raise his fist to strike; you grabbed him by the wrist of attacking hand, pulled him to you, and punched him twice in the bridge of his nose with the hand clutching the dagger. Eye for eye, and nose for nose.

The man grubbed his face and bent over - no time to waste, you and your seething anger grabbed him by the hair and dragged him over to the man who was desperately clutching his arm, trying to stop the blood. In the darkness, you could just make out the glint in the other man's panicked eyes, but if you weren't being treated kindly, there was no reason not to return the favor. Gathering your strength, you kicked him in the knee, and there was a crunch - it seemed that calcium was a rare part of the diet here. With a final breath, you slammed the head of the man floundering in your hand into the other man's head, and both of them fell to the floor, their hands pressed to sore spots. You had to hand it to them - they didn't even whimper, just sputtered quietly from time to time.

You felt like a pendulum in a clock, swinging from side to side. You saw some shelves and drawers in the darkness, and you went toward them; as you took a step, you tripped over the stick with the nails, and your body almost collapsed on the rotten boards. You kicked the wood irritably with your foot toward the men. "Pick up ya toothpick," you hissed and waddled back to the shelves.

You grabbed the handle of one of the lockers and pulled the door toward you; the handle was still in your hand, but the locker collapsed to the floor with a resounding thud. A heavy sigh involuntarily escaped your lips as you stared blankly at the mess you had made. "Ya have any water?" you glanced back over your shoulder.

The response was so immediate that for a second it felt like knives, not words, were coming at your back. "Fuck you," spat out the man - the one who'd probably been the instigator of the altercation.

"Well, ya need to take me on a date first," you drawled, inspecting whole shelves as carefully as you could, barely touching them. "I'm afraid that's not possible right now, though. Ya have to be patient."

There was a screech of a metal layer behind you as if it was being bent aside - you tried to turn around, but your head only spun more violently. "What's going on here?" the man's voice was so stern and set that you immediately wanted to straighten up.

"Legally, a criminal offense," you mumbled to yourself as you continued to open drawers. "In practice, a fucking circus."

There was a growing creak of floorboards behind you. The man was moving toward you, and the closer he got, the more you could see the violet color that lit up the room. You hated to admit that you were a cornered, wounded animal, but the words fell from your lips against your will. "If ya touch me, ya'll lose both hands."

"I'm not gonna hurt you," the voice sounded close, almost above your ear, and though it remained just as set, it was no longer harsh. On the contrary, the owner of the voice was trying to sound as soft as possible. "Calm down. You're not gonna find anything here anyway," hearing the soothing tone, you immediately gave up and leaned your back against the wall; you thought you had enough strength to stand like that for some more time, but you, against your will, started sliding down it. "Here, water. Drink some," the man pulled the bottle toward you.

"Didn't ya say there was nothing here?" you asked quietly but indignantly.

The man chuckled. "There really isn't anything here. I brought this water just now. The daily... Or weekly... Anyway, the regular dry rations the demons give us," he sat down beside you and set something on the floor that looked like a glass oil lamp, only inside it, instead of a flame, was a levitating little pebble that gave off a purple glow; it was like the ones that circled around the demon buildings.

The man opened the bottle for you; you nodded gratefully, took the bottle from his hands, and took a couple of sips.

"What are you fiddling with her for?" hissed one of the battered men from the far corner. "You know that she can't smell black orchid?"  

"No," replied the man in a cold tone, sitting next to you. "The only thing I can see is that you're jumping on a woman who can barely get her feet off the ground. Have you forgotten what it feels like?" the man in the corner immediately hushed. "Don't be cross," he turned to you, his voice changing as fast as if he had a switch somewhere. "In a place like this, people quickly become angry paranoid."

Despite the water you'd drunk, your parched lips were still struggling to open. "It's okay," you said, waving it off.

The man looked at you intently, not at you to be precise, but at your tattered but still durable uniform. "Uh...," he began, and an awkwardness hung in the air. "Where are you from?"

In a place like this, the question felt odd, and there was no way to answer it accurately. What did he want you to say? The place where you were born? The city you lived in now? The time you came from?

"From the height of my years, I can say that it was in the North that the first hunter appeared-"

"North," you said and were taken aback: the answer came off on its own, without your consent.

"Oh," the man said so cheerfully that you could almost hear the corners of his lips raised. "I didn't know hunters could come in here now," you were interested and it never faded, but you didn't have the energy to ask. The man noticed your surprised look. "My wife was a hunter. The powder that asshole shoved under your nose was just grinded black orchid. She's the one who gave it to me."   

"Powder?" you asked. "The extract's a little more potent, isn't it?"

"I'm sorry," the man apologized jokingly, shrugging his shoulders. "It's a lot easier to carry around powder than liquid," he hushed, and you could see him running his intertwined fingers over his hands. "Listen, you... maybe you know my wife? Her name is Olivia."

"Uh, it'll be a strange to ya, but... Do ya remember what year ya got here?"

The man scratched his frayed gray beard. "In 1935, I think."

An unpleasant feeling in your chest made you press your lips together. "I'm sorry, but I, uh... I don't think I know your wife."

"It's nothing," the man smiled, but his clouded gaze told you otherwise. Only now did you notice how deep the wrinkles in the corners of his eyes were. "I really didn't have much hope. Everyone you ask around here comes from a different time. If they even understand what you're asking them. The language barrier is the least of our problems, but sometimes it gets in the way. So... It's a good thing you didn't have that problem," he awkwardly shook his palms off his pants and held out his hand to you. "My name is Jonah."

Though weakly, you still shook his hand in return. "Y/N," you said shortly and then fell silent, but Jonah was in no hurry to say anything. You rarely felt shame, but right now it was choking you with such force that you immediately wanted to find a mirror and check your neck for brightly colored bruises. "Jonah, I'd love to justify your joy at the news that I'm a hunter, but I'm afraid I can't get ya out of here. Something's come up and... uh, I dunno," you wiped your face with your hands, trying to push away the rushing blood. "Hopefully ya have an extra dumpster here where I can stay."

"I'm sorry, we have some real slaughters going on here for trash," the man chuckled, rising to his feet. "But I can spare you a spot on the floor. You make yourself as comfortable as you can, and I'll find you some clothes," he headed for the entrance, and you could hear him in a quiet but warning tone instructing other men to behave, and something about saving the lantern. "One more thing. Y/N," he addressed you again. "Take the mask off. You're a little... stand out."

There was nothing to object to, so you nodded in response. With a firm hand, you pulled your phone out of your pocket and set it on the shelf, then moved closer to the lamp Jonah had left behind - at that point all your confidence was gone, eroded, drained away. You stared at yourself in the dark screen, and the more you looked at yourself, the more it began to itch under your skin. Able to challenge anyone, but unable to challenge yourself - that's what you were. A weakling, a coward, unable to look at your own face.

Slowly, you ran your fingers up to your ears and wanted to trace down the lines to your chin, but you couldn't. Your fingernails dug into the skin, and you didn't loosen your grip even when your fingers got wet and sticky. "I told you she was crazy," you heard a grunt from the corner of the room, but no one attacked.

It was just a mask, but why did it feel like you were ripping your skin off? You began to scratch your face where your nails had dug into it. There was only one thing you wanted to do right now - to keep the tears from running down your face with the blood. You exhaled sharply and ran your fingers along the line from your ears to your chin.

Something was staring at you from the phone screen, and it had a bloody face. However, here was the odd thing: the reflection had the most ordinary eyes, the most ordinary features, and it didn't look angry or cruel. If you ignored the oddity of the blood running down its face, it was a human.

[February 19, 2020; 05:56 am, hunters' hq]

Mission after mission, assignment after assignment, whether it was a powerful curse or a completely weak one, Gojo agreed to everything; but on his free days, the ones he now considered cursed, he was here in the workroom, even though he knew with his mind that he would be better off staying away from this place.

Every day there was less and less of you left in the workroom. All the things you'd left behind or scattered about had long since been either cleaned up or thrown away; your scent was long gone, and no matter how much Gojo pressed your pillow against his face, he felt nothing - it had been washed a dozen times since you'd disappeared. 

Gojo was desperately clinging to the specter of your vanishing presence, otherwise why did he jump up every time a notification sounded on his phone? Why did he check every time to see if his messages had reached you? Why did he still feel the unceremonious poke of your finger on his forehead when he ignored the alarm clock and why the hell was he so angry at the sleep that never came? After all, it was the only one who gave him the chance to hold you one more time.  

He hated himself just for thinking it, but he was so angry with you. You'd disappeared just when he'd given up on being alone.

It was as if Gojo could see himself through his clouded mind: he got out of bed, and with barely a shuffle of his feet, he went into the bathroom, and now he could see his reflection in the mirror, holding a brush in his hands. He'd long ago given up trying to get rid of the bags under his eyes - at the very least, he needed a good full night's sleep. All he could do was come up with more jokes on unnecessary questions about his well-being.

Each time he hoped that if he left the workroom, he would breathe easier, but each time the hope was false. Well, if sleep didn't come, maybe this time he'd get one bite of food down his throat.

Once in the kitchen, Gojo immediately noticed Rachel wobbling in her chair. He peered over her shoulder - she was staring at the screen of her phone, which had a picture of a man open. Why was she clutching the phone with such force that her knuckles even turned white? "Who is it?" he asked and Rachel twitched, but immediately locked the screen. "Another poor guy you plan to break the heart of?"  

"Back off, leech," Rachel barked and threw the phone on the table. Gojo shrugged and walked over to the fridge and opened it; it was full of food, but he didn't even want his favorite one. Leaning, he glared blankly at the contents - or looked through it. "If ya're not gonna eat, close the fucking fridge," Rachel mumbled drunkenly.

It was enough for him to finally snap; Gojo turned around sharply, snatched the unfinished bottle of wine off the table with a jerk and tilted it over the sink, glaring at Rachel, swinging the bottle mockingly.

"Don't ya dare," Rachel hissed, trying to rise from her chair, but barely making a couple movements, she abruptly put her hand over her mouth.

Gojo, trying to suppress his disgust, raised his eyebrows defiantly and tilted the bottle even more. It may have been an immature act, but what if all the despair, all the longing and bitterness poured out at that gurgling sound? 

Rachel leaned back in her chair and stared at him. "Why ya so mad?" she asked, confused in her words; his silhouette blurred in her eyes no matter how hard she focused.  

"Me? Mad? Wow," grinned Gojo, tossing the bottle into the trashcan. "Not one bit."

"Yeah? Well, then I was wrong. Your face just looks like ya've been drinking shit-"

"You know what I'm curious about?" snapped Gojo and his outburst, though expected, did not lessen its harshness. "Is this how it runs in your family? One of you goes missing and the rest of you live like nothing happened?" 

"That's it," Rachel lazily clucked her tongue. She pushed back closest chair and indicated for him to sit down with a drunken nod, but he only crossed his arms over his chest. "God, stop milling around and just sit down already. Otherwise I'm gonna throw up."

Gojo hated being lectured, and then they added the smell of alcohol and fume. The only reason he was willing to sit next to Rachel was that she was your sister. Maybe she had one word in her pantry that would calm him down. 

"I'm a little surprised," Rachel said and was about to reach for the glass, but when her hand grasped the air, she glared angrily at Gojo who already had it in his hand. "Ya of all people should know how everything ends for us. Sooner or later, it would have happened. And still, ya're freaking out," Rach was silent for a second, but then she chuckled. "Or ya just upset that ya never got to get into her panties?"  

In a different situation, Gojo would have been embarrassed by such a question, or would have winched or foolishly guffawed, but Rachel's timing was wrong: if before this question his anger had simply broken his bones, now it broke his years of trained restraint. "Would you rather be torn apart or be deprived of wine?" Gojo stood up, and sniffing the wine that was in glass, immediately grimaced and poured it all down the sink. "You've got three more bottles in the fridge-"  

"God," mumbled Rachel and a feeling of disgust made her wrinkle her nose. "It's that serious?"

Gojo did not say a word. It was all too fragile and so intimate for him that he dared not even discuss it with himself, let alone trust a drunken and talkative interlocutor.

"Oh, forget it," waved Rachel's hand. "Even if ya were serious, it would never work," she said, and he almost gave in to the provocation: he had to bite his tongue, and the word 'why' tasted very bitter.

Rachel was silent, her hand tracing wood patterns on the table, her eyes dimming with every movement of her finger. For some reason a heavy weight fell on his soul: this was why he'd never liked serious conversation, and in another situation he would have left without bowing. So why did he feel that his soul could take a hundred more such weights if such a conversation concerned you? "Ya know, adoptee...," Rachel began suddenly and quietly. "She's always done that. She'll say at parting 'I'll be back soon' or 'see ya' like she's gone to get some fucking bread, and then she is just... She disappears. And then," Rachel's voice began to break, and it happened as easily as if spring's thin ice was breaking underfoot. "Then this little piece of shit comes home, and it's like nothing happened. She didn't disappear anywhere, and she's acting normal. And whether she's really dumb and doesn't get it, or whether she just expects us to act like nothing happened either, I-I dunno," her voice was on the verge of breaking, and while Rachel was emotional, she also had enough experience and courage in her to keep the tears from rolling down her face. "That's what makes ya different from us. Ya just haven't lived with her enough yet to get used to this kinda thing."

If Rachel had been a child, perhaps Gojo could take her in his arms and shake her, or start mimicking her, parodying the pathetic whimpering that was the most he could do. He had no idea how to soothe a grown person. Rachel sniffed her nose, walked over to the refrigerator, and there was another bottle in her hand. "Haven't you had enough already?" asked Gojo irritably, trying to get her to put the wine back with a glare.  

There was no trace of that momentary sadness left on Rachel's face - just a slight drunken blush. "Ya know, I thought we just accepted the idea that she disappears from time to time," she dipped her lips to the bottle, but immediately grumbled - she'd forgotten to open it. Rachel started fumbling through the drawers in search of a corkscrew. "But no. We've probably accepted the fact that one day she won't come back," the clatter of cutlery was followed by a 'crack' and Rachel finally took a couple of sips. When she turned around, she nearly choked on her wine - whereas his skin had always been white and almost glowing, now it was as pale as a dead man's. "Geez, I'm just kidding," she put her arm around him drunkenly - he didn't even move. "Don't ya worry about it. We all don't really sweat it because ever since she went missing, we kept going into the void. And ya know what? Nothing's ever changed there, never flipped. We're right back where we left off. Ya see what I'm getting at?"

The answer followed immediately. "She still in the void?" he asked, and how amazing it was how hope could change a man's voice.

"And she's still alive," Rachel nodded contentedly, nearly hitting her head on the nearby fridge. "I'm telling ya, ya could care less about her. She is more tenacious than any cockroach," she said and pulled the bottle to her mouth again.

Nothing was impossible for Gojo, but no matter how much strength you had, and even if you could swap the poles of the Earth, he couldn't stop worrying about you. Perhaps only when he could touch you again would he be able to get rid of the lead in his heart, and the very thought that it would be easier for him to give it to you made him shy and flush.

"Stop drinking," Rachel still didn't understand why he mumbled the words so embarrassedly, but there was no time to speculate - he tried to take the bottle from her, but only woke Rachel up to the drunken berserker in her. "Why can't you go a day without a bottle?"

"Fuck off," Rachel snarled and pulled the bottle toward her. "Ya spill my wine again, and I swear to God, I'll put ya on the very bottle you poured it out of."

You were sitting on the porch of the very hut where you'd been sheltered; it was hardly a porch, really - just a dilapidated step that was more often tripped over than climbed. People wandered languidly from side to side - maybe they were just stretching their bones, or maybe sitting in one place was more painful for them.

The wardens glimmered among the men, but they disappeared as quickly as they came into view. What kind of order were they keeping here? What was not allowed and what was allowed? After all, a few moments ago one man had nearly beaten another to death, and no one had come to separate them.

"Regeneration."

You didn't look at the bloody body lying there. No matter the outcome, it was all you could do for him now, though you were barely regenerating yourself. "You awake?" came Jonah's voice from behind you. "I don't mean to lecture you, but you really should get some rest."

You let his words pass your ears, and he, instead of leaving, sat down next to you. "Do ya have a cigarette?" you asked.

Jonah grinned good-naturedly. "Actually, this is one of our local currencies, but I can give you one as a new one."

He handed you a crumpled cigarette; it looked like it would break at the base if you touched it. "Thanks," you mumbled and gently wrapped your fingers around the filter. "And the lighter?"

"And here's where the trouble starts," Jonah said, pulling a lighter from his pocket. "Oxygen is in short supply here, so you'll have to be patient," he looked at you warningly, and you clamped the cigarette between your lips and leaned over to cover the lighter with your palms.

There was no time to count, so it was hard to say how long Jonah had been pulling the wheel-cross. Maybe fifteen minutes, maybe an hour, but there it was - the edge of the cigarette finally colored orange, and you took a long-awaited puff. "You're welcome," Jonah said courteously. "How's your nose? Sorry, we don't even have anything to fix it with."

"It's okay," you said, exhaling smoke. "It'll heal quickly enough."

Jonah nodded in your direction. "What happened to your cheeks?" he continued curiously.

"A bad trip to the beautician."

There was obvious bewilderment in his eyes. "Who is that?" he asked, squinting his eyes.

A chuckle escaped you, and you choked on the smoke trapped in your lungs and coughed. "Just a 21st-century acquaintance," you wheezed.

Bewilderment turned to complete incomprehension, and Jonah decided to tactfully change the subject. "What's that thing?" he nodded at your hand.

You scrolled through the phone in your hand, trying to ignore the keychain jiggling on it. How could you answer that question to avoid an hour-long lecture about future technology? You thought about it for a moment. What was important - the phone still had the date on it. "It's...," you drawled uncertainly. "This thing is the only thing that connects me to the place I came from," you said, shrugging confusedly.

"So it's very important to you, then?" asked Jonah, rubbing his hands together anxiously.

"Aren't ya up to something already?" 

"No, you'd just save that thing. Better to hide it altogether," Jonah suggested, and once again he looked so simple - minded and guileless that you had no choice but to nod in agreement. "Uh... Sorry, I couldn't find better clothes for you. If only I'd known," you looked around in confusion at the wide, stained T-shirt that had probably been white before, and the pants that were clearly not your size; you had to tear the sleeve off your uniform and make a makeshift belt so they wouldn't fall off every second. There were still no shoes - you still had on your heavy boots, but they weren't visible under the wide pants. "If I'd known, I would have tried to find you some more closed clothing."

You furrowed your eyebrows. You didn't see any reason to apologize - the clothes, though a few sizes larger than yours, were proof of the kindness of the man sitting next to you. "What are ya talking about?"

"Well, you... You're so, uh," he stammered and scratched the back of his head in embarrassment. His chapped lips tightened and loosened as if searching for words.

"Well, what am I like?" you interrogated in a playful tone. "Pretty? Charming? Smart?" you listed merrily, watching the man's head sink further and further into his shoulders. "Oh, no, don't tell me, I know!" you waved your palms and almost dropped your cigarette. "Peerless!"

"You're all scarred," he said on an exhalation, and the itch in the back of his neck began again. He had seen your hands, and they were like an old unwanted canvas that had been used to rage against more than once - all torn and scarred; if no one cared about a forgotten painting, you had an inept but dedicated restorer - your own body - that had covered them with whitish paint. Jonah glanced furtively at your throat, and it hurt him to swallow.

"Oh," you exclaimed quietly, examining your hands. The look was as if you were seeing them for the first time in a long time - surprised and excited. "Thanks for reminding me of that," you smiled and nodded to Jonah.

He didn't hear a hint of reproach or resentment in your words; you sounded as if you had thanked him sincerely. Jonah immediately stifled the incipient pity he felt for you and buried his desire for further questions about what had happened. "So... What are our next plans?"

You took another puff and looked up at the demon buildings. "Even the animals in the slaughterhouses are better cared for, but still, it's important to the demons to keep ya fresh- uh, alive. So... I can probably find provisions or at least something useful in there somewhere. Do ya have a backpack or something?"

"You're not gonna go there, are you?" stammered Jonah fearfully, trying to get you to look at him. "No one's come back from there. You don't have to go." 

"Not that we have an alternative," you snuffed out the cigarette butt on the porch, and,\ digging a hole in the sand with the toe of your boot, chucked it in there. 

***

The light at the top of the settlement was brighter the closer you got to it, and you had to squint every now and then to keep the annoying glare off your eyes. You could see the first building in sight - you had to lift your head to see the top of it, and even then. you could hardly see anything. The walls were dark, and as you approached, it resonated more and more; once you were near one of the walls, you noticed that it wasn't solid material at all - it was millions of tiny particles reaching for each other but never coming together. You leaned your hand on it - nothing. It didn't sink, it wasn't pushed away; it was like touching ordinary concrete.

There was a faint crack, and a dozen grains of sand broke off from the spot your hand had just touched; they immediately flew upward, and you couldn't see what had happened to them, but there was a chance that they had landed on one of the glowing stones that were circling the buildings.

You walked carefully around the building; there were even some semblances of windows, though they looked more like an architectural mockery. They were arranged in an unstructured and incongruous way - there were even corner ones and all different shapes, though the most appropriate word for such windows was 'shapeless'.

You lurked under one of those windows, listening for every possible rustle and knock. When you heard nothing, you peered inside. Empty. So empty that there weren't even any demons, just four bare walls.

You clung to the ledge and climbed into the room, keeping silent with every step. As you crossed the room, you pressed your ear to the door - no sound. Opening the door, you found yourself in a long corridor and involuntarily wrinkled with indignation - the building was obviously bigger inside than outside. Where to go now?

Figuring out a route in an unfamiliar place is a lost cause. You should have started by exploring the area, so once you'd picked a side, you just moved forward.

The floor felt solid under your feet, but you couldn't shake the annoying feeling that it was about to split apart. No matter how long you walked, you couldn't see any doors, but you couldn't see the end of the corridor either.

The feeling of a trick never left; it seemed that not only your palms were sweating, but your insides were sweating too, but what was strange was that you felt no observation, heard no footsteps behind you, no one's presence nearby. It was as if the danger was coming from your very surroundings and for good reason - the particles beneath your feet began to quiver restlessly. You tried to lift your foot and take a step, and though they didn't touch you, they refused to lag behind. You accelerated, and the more steps you took, the more sand grains enveloped you. You hopelessly tried to shake them off, but they only stuck more. When you started to run, you didn't try to look down - who knows, they might have crawled up your stomach.

A sharp pain went tangentially across your back, something almost crushed your heel; after that or at the same time, there was a deafening rumble behind you that made the grains of sand fall down, and they did it as sharply as if each of them weighed a ton.

When you turned around, you nearly slammed your nose into the wall, and at the same moment, to the left, a passage opened with a similar rumble, revealing another corridor. Instead of cursing the place, you exhaled a sigh of relief - so that was the feeling.

Still, what did the grains of sand want you to do? After all, they weren't doing bad or good, but they seemed to be warning you about shifting and opening passages, and anything that helped you navigate was useful except for the aching back that had nearly been broken by one of those walls. It was as if the closer you got to the shift, the more the particles enveloped you.

After a few thousand steps, you were beginning to despair - was it really as empty as it seemed at first glance? Even if there were doors, there was nothing but disappointment behind them - just bare walls and suddenly the smell of corpses. It was so strong that it was as if the bodies were still here. When you opened the first door, you involuntarily held your nose against the sudden and pungent odor, but you hardly paid attention to it at the tenth door. What was important was that none of these rooms had windows so you had to move forward, if not for provisions, then at least to get out of here.

Coming here without rest was your main mistake. However, how was it possible to rest with a rumbling stomach that had long ago digested itself, and with a throat so dry that it wanted to drain the river?  

You went into one of the rooms and threw off a ridiculous backpack that was made of patches, and it wasn't zipped up - it was pinned together with pins. You fluffed it up like a pillow, laid your head on it, and closed your eyes. Your hand, as if separated from your body, with a will of its own reached into your pocket and pulled out your phone and something jingled against it. You opened your eyes slowly, and the keychain was dangling on the phone, swaying quietly from side to side.

What happened to you? You did not let this thought come to you for so long, but when you lay down alone, your soul turned into a flame - not the one that warms you gently, but the one that seeks to burn you to the ground. Moreover, why did that flame jump from the soul to the internal organs, making vomiting come up to your throat?

You told him you'd be back in three days, and even then you weren't sure he'd wait. So what now? You exhaled. Your eyes widened, and your hand flew to your mouth - why was your exhalation so convulsive?

Hastily putting the phone away and shaking your head, you closed your eyes as if ordering sleep to come, but it never obeyed anyone. On the contrary, it was rather a dream that submitted people, and its loyal subordinates in the form of a soft cool pillow and a warm blanket forced them to abandon all their affairs.

On the other side of your closed eyes, he was a scorched brand - neither to erase, nor to stop thinking. For such a flighty man, it was surprisingly calm around him, but as it was, it wasn't even worth allowing the possibility of hoping he was still out there. Even if he didn't plan on sticking to the treaty anymore, he didn't seem like the kind of man who could wait.

Your mind was foggy; thoughts came one after another, but you couldn't catch any of them. Your body shook restlessly; the only sound was the rustle of a tattered backpack under your head.

GET UP!     

You jumped up as quickly as if someone had grabbed you by the shirt front in an importuning grip and pulled you hard. You gasped for air, looking around the room with a haggard stare. No one. "Oh, come on...," you began, trying to regain your breath. "Fuck ya, asshole," you mumbled into your hands, which you used to try to wipe the tiredness from your face. It was the unknown that pissed you off the most - was it Rei who had gotten into your mind in some elaborate way, or had you just lost your mind?

As you tried to come to your senses, it took you a moment to hear a low murmur somewhere far behind the door. You stood up and listened: it sounded like voices. You pulled on the doorknob and looked around; a violet glow appeared at the end of the corridor, just as if someone on Earth had turned on a light in a room. You moved quietly in that direction, the voices growing closer.

Once you were near the door, you leaned your back against the wall. You could hear the sounds of smirks, swear words, some rustling and grunting, and you could even hear someone smacking their lips as they took another puff. "Bite me," someone said, and even without seeing his face, you could tell from his voice the expressiveness of his grin. "Straight flush," something slapped - most likely, someone throwing cards on the table.

"You think I'm gonna believe you, you fucking cheat?" howled the other, and something rumbled. "Show me what's under the table!"

"How about you learn how to lose?" the first demon grinned. "I've got nothing, look," even from here, you could hear the second one breathing heavily behind the incomprehensible fuss. "Convinced? Now to the betting. Remember what you promised me?"

"Take that whore," the other demon snapped, and you heard footsteps approaching. Your blood started to boil, and this bubbling seemed to give you strength - as soon as his face appeared in the doorway, you grabbed his cheeks and squeezed them so hard that he didn't make a sound. Before he could even squeak, he took two dagger blows between the collarbones and crumbled into eternal oblivion.

All the while, a desperate whining had been growing in the room, both painful and pleading. Before you even looked into the room, you knew what kind of show you were in for.

Swallowing thick saliva, you appeared in the doorway. The demon was standing half-turned toward you, and in front of him, on her knees, was sitting... A girl? A woman? Behind the dirt, blood, and torture it was hard to tell her age. What she was being forced to do, even the most foolish could tell - even now, her forward head movements and squelching sounds mixed with muffled screams spoke for themselves. The pain in your body intensified, making you grin.

You always tried to keep your own rage in check, but at times like this, the roles were reversed. "Hey," you called out quietly and surreptitiously to the demon. He immediately turned his head, but instead of meeting his black eyes, you first examined his clothes and glanced at the naked girl, and only then met his frantic gaze. "Your jacket is, uh... well, ya know. It's cool."

***

It was small and peculiar, but still a jackpot. You were already digging through one of the wooden crates, and there were a number of different canned goods - corn, sardines, tuna, there were even a few jars of peaches. Perhaps the search would have gone a lot faster if it hadn't been for the annoying white noise in the background. The girl's crying, though it had changed to a quiet whimpers, was still horrible to your eardrums. You'd already set her down in a chair, pulled a jacket over her, and set the water bottle you'd found in front of her - it was all you could do for her now.

You looked in a couple more crates - besides water and canned goods, there was even sugar, tea, and to your great surprise and happiness, chocolate bars.

You removed the pins from your backpack and began to put provisions in there, pressing bottles and canned goods as tightly as possible; there was even room for a pack of sugar, a pack of salt, and a pack of tea and collected playing cards.

You zipped up your backpack, pricking your fingers a couple times in the process, and looked at the girl. She was hiding her battered face in her hands, and she was doing it like if she couldn't see anything, nothing could see her either. Her body was shuddering, and every twitch looked agonizing as if it wasn't happening of her own free will.

The girl never touched the water bottle. "Get up. Let's go," you didn't intend for the words you said to sound like an order - it came out spontaneously. The girl only flinched even more, but did nothing, only burrowed harder into her arms.

You stood up against her. "Why don't ya drink water? Don't ya wanna live?" you asked, and you hardly sounded soft and soothing; it was as if there was a threat in your words. She refused to look at you and you squatted down, pulled her hands away and grabbed her chin. "Either ya drink it or I'll start pouring it down your throat. Got it?"  

Her sticky eyelashes made it impossible to catch her frightened look, but her body language spoke for itself. She grasped the bottle with difficulty as if the water in it were not cool, but boiling. She seemed about to drop it. You grabbed the bottle with her, unscrewed the cap, and brought it to her lips. You saw that she took the first sip, though with effort.

"Regeneration."

You didn't know if she was feeling better, but her sips didn't look as painful as before. She was now drinking water greedily, but for you it felt like the liquid she had just absorbed was coming out of her body through her tears.

The girl finished her drink and her fingers immediately unclenched, causing the bottle to fall to the floor. "That's good. Now let's go," you mumbled and wrapped your arms around her slumped body.

You had to hand it to the girl - maybe she was only doing it for looks, but she was still dragging her feet. You checked every room you could find for a window; you didn't care what part or how high up you were just as long as you got out of here.

When such a room was found, the girl stopped moving. You had to check her pulse, but as it turned out, she was even still conscious - when you put two fingers to her neck, she nodded weakly.

You sat her down on the floor and looked at her bare feet then looked at your own, and without further ado began to take off your boots. What appeared before you was a picture of once white elastic bandages that were now a dirty red color. "Completely unsanitary. I can't offer ya anything better, though," and with these words you began to pull your heavy boots on her. Suddenly, the girl became hysterical.

"Don't touch me!" she shrieked, and tried to shove you off with her foot, either accidentally or deliberately, but the impact was weak either way. "Don't fucking touch me!" her voice got louder, and the number of times her fists hit the floor increased.

You tried to ignore it and catch one of her wriggling legs. When you succeeded, the girl made a sound as if she had been grabbed not by your hand, but by a snake that had followed her for a long time, and that it was not your nails but the snake's fangs that were sinking into her skin. She pitched forward with all her might and hit you in the face with a clumsy movement. "Get your hands off me!" the plea was no longer pitiful and desperate; the girl hissed as if trying to mimic an enemy. 

There was a slap in the room, and everything went quiet. The girl looked at you as she had just come to her senses and leaned a hand on her cheek, began rubbing the sore spot. "Relax. I'm just tryin' to shoe ya." 

Not without adventures, but you still laced up your boots on her. The girl, even if she looked in your direction, did so with distrust, and there was as much of it as fatigue allowed to show.

"That's it, let's go," you said, tying the laces on the last knot. You picked her up again and walked over to the window. "Better get ready."

"Relocate."

When you were already in front of the familiar hut, you gripped the girl's waist tighter. She was no longer twitching, no longer wobbling, but only slumping. You stepped inside as quietly and carefully as you could, the violet light from the lamp Jonah had brought with him was hitting your eyes. How long does a lamp like that last?

You met with dumbfounded looks, but even those quickly changed to pitying ones, but none of them dared to ask a question.

"Holy shit," a whisper came to you from the corner of the room, followed by a whistle. "She's back."

Without paying attention, you laid the girl against one of the far walls - away from the people present. You were about to say a few words to her, but as soon as her body touched the floor, she shrank into a ball. Pressing your lips together, you decided to leave her alone. You walked over to one of the shelves, pulling your backpack off your shoulders. "How long have I been gone?" you asked Jonah who had been looking at you curiously and anxiously for a minute now, having given up trying to pick the rotten boards off the floor. There was a pile of smoldering but unburned wood in front of him.

"I have no clue," Jonah drawled, scratching his chin. "We slept about twice. How are you doing? You okay?"

"As much as I can be in a place like this," you said, smiling. You were already sorting through the contents of your backpack - canned goods appeared on the shelf like a magical click, a few bottles of water, and as you pulled out the salt, there was a meaningful cough behind you. "What?" you asked in surprise, looking behind you, but none of them made eye contact with you. "I thought it would be less bland to eat all this with salt."

"That's not the point," Jonah muttered, looking down. "It's just that as one of their punishments. Demons make us eat a pack of salt."

"Oh," a sympathetic interjection came out of you, and you quickly put the salt away in one of the drawers. "Got it. I won't be carrying that stuff around anymore, then."

"Are you planning to go there again?" came a startled gasp from behind you, and you turned around. The man who'd punched you in the nose was already standing in front of you, but he wasn't looking at you - he was trying to see what you'd brought. "Damn it, there's even peaches in here!" stunned at this insolence, you didn't react at all to how deftly and quickly he grabbed the canned fruit. He immediately took out a rusty nail and started picking at the jar. The man did look funny - he looked more like an overgrown and ungroomed bush with a hat on than a human being. "Uh...," he mumbled. It was obvious how focused he was - the man even stuck out his tongue, for the jar yielded with difficulty and creaking. "Sorry about your nose."

You chuckled. "Is that the price of trust? A can of peaches."

"It's not just peaches!" exclaimed the man angrily, and even a little resentfully. He finally got rid of the stubborn lid, and in spite of the sharp edges, stuck his fingers inside, and the peach slice was immediately in his mouth. The way he chewed it might have seemed disgusting, the slurping sounds seeming to reach as far as the next huts. However, for some reason it only whetted your appetite more. "Ah yes, where are my manners," the man said, and after wiping his fingers from the candied syrup on his clothes, he held out his hand to you, and you shook it. "My name is Bjorn. And that bulky guy in the corner over there is Oter," he nodded his head toward the man. "He's not a talker, but he's very emotional, so you'd better stay away from him when he tries to say something. He might slap you in the face."

"Whatever ya say," you said, trying to wipe your sticky fingers. "I've got something else here," you stuck your hand into the backpack, and when you pulled it out, the man almost choked. "Cards."

Oter mumbled excitedly and happily, getting up from his seat. When he came closer, you handed him the deck of cards without question. He looked into your eyes in disbelief, looking so naïve and childlike that it was at odds with his size. You nodded and brought the deck forward, and he, gently clasping it in his fingers, finally took it. "Who are you, warrior?" murmured Bjorn reverently, but he clearly wasn't expecting you to answer, too mesmerized by the deck of ordinary cards.

Jonah rose to his feet, abandoning all attempts to light the fire. "So, guys," he began cheerfully, putting his arm around both of their shoulders. "Poker?"

Your head instantly turned to the girl, but she was lying so still that you wondered if she was even alive. "If ya wanna play poker, go outside," you said quietly.

"Why?" asked Bjorn.

"I'll tell ya later. That's it, go on," you said, and the men looked at each other. Jonah nodded toward the girl, and then they all left the hut without question.

You weren't going to push her or pester her with questions - she wasn't going to answer any of them. Not now, anyway. You walked over to her quietly and sat down at her feet, leaning against the wall, and glimpsed at her. The girl seemed to sense your gaze, otherwise, why would she squirm even more? "Can ya at least tell me your name?"

You didn't expect an answer, but this silence felt too heavy. She'd rather be sobbing or even crying herself to sleep than burying herself quietly in the filth she'd been forced to go through. "Like it or not, I'm gonna get ya out of here," you said quietly but firmly and licked your parched lips. There was a scolding outside, but it was neither threatening nor dangerous. It was more like the kind of cursing that cronies usually exchanged. You lifted your head and looked through the holes in the metal roof: no stars or clouds in the sky, just an all-consuming void that had no end or edge. "And then... Then I'll kill everyone who did this to ya. Ya could do it yourself, but it would be a good idea to survive first. So... just live, 'kay?"

The girl didn't answer, and you didn't know what else to say. You rose from your seat and headed for the exit, but immediately turned around when you heard a barely audible wheeze. "Nora," she whimpered weakly. "My name is Nora."

"Well...," you sounded confused, as you didn't expect her to find the courage for even one word this day. "Nice to meet ya, Nora," after which you still went outside.

The men were sitting here, right on the sand; the cards were already laid out, the canned goods opened, and each had a bottle of water. You could forgive them for such wastefulness, but only for today.

Jonah raised his head and looked at you, and you saw the glint in his clouded eyes for the first time. "I take it we need to look for more clothes?"

"Sorta."

"Not now!" Bjorn hissed at you, not taking his eyes off his cards. "We'll play the rest of the game, and then you can do whatever you want. Come on, play with us."

"I dunno how to play poker," you said, shrugging absent-mindedly.

"Well, that's not a problem, is it?" said Bjorn. "We'll teach you, sit down," he tugged at your shirt, and it was no longer an invitation, but a demand.

While you were sitting as comfortably as possible on the cold sand, time seemed to slow down around you. You tried desperately to make sense of all the things they were explaining to you, but you kept getting confused by the Full houses, Royal flashes, Straights, and at some point, all those words came together for you. Oter was always mooing something unintelligible - you could hear the threat, the jeer, the joy, the sadness. Jonah would put his arm around your shoulder and shake you a little when you started to realize something obvious, and Bjorn would shout curses in a foreign language. Maybe they weren't swear words, but it was hardly the tone to praise a man. The atmosphere was as if you had not bottled water but apple cider, and instead of sardines, you had caviar sandwiches or even ordinary chips, even if they were in your least favorite flavor.

In the midst of this bustle you made a promise, albeit to yourself: to take these people out to where the star warms the horizon through the shroud of ozone.

[March 1, 2020; 7:01 pm; Tokyo Prefecture, Tokyo, Cafe Q]

"There you are," Mei-Mei purred, taking a seat at the table. "I haven't heard from you in a while," her voice was quiet, flirtatious and soothing at the same time, but the café was so deserted that Gojo could easily hear everything she was saying.

"Work," he replied briefly, without bestowing any greeting on her - he didn't even glance in her direction.

"I'm not gonna take up a lot of your time," Mei-Mei rolled her eyes. "I just want my share," Gojo finally looked at her over his glasses, and his eyes read the usual nonchalance, but there was something else lurking behind it as well. She shrugged. "The girl's dead," she barely said the words before she realized what lurked behind his supposed levity. A threat.

Gojo's finger was rubbing the edge of the napkin that lay on the table. "First of all," he began calmly. "She's not dead. Second, forget everything I told you about the treaty, and third, Mei-Mei, listen. This is the most important thing," he raised his index finger upward, as if he didn't realize that all her attention was already on him. "You don't look good in red lipstick. So wipe it off," he pushed the napkin toward her with the palm of his hand, remembering to smile sweetly.

Mei-Mei, smiling back, irritably crumpled the napkin. "If you want me to selectively lose my memory, it's not free."

"I didn't think you'd say it any other way," Gojo crossed his arms over his chest and lowered his head, trying to burrow into the collar of his uniform, completely oblivious to the fact that he was now wearing a shirt. "Just tell me how much you want."

"As much as they offered you," Mei-Mei replied instantly, and began coquettishly twirling a curl on her finger. "I'm not much interested in resurrection, though. Let me put it this way. I'll be satisfied with ten times the amount you paid me for a letter of recommendation to your students."

He didn't think over his answer for a second. "Okay," taking advantage of either the opportunity or her good mood, he added: "It'll be even better if you forget the way to their house."

"Fifteen times as much, then."

"Getting greedier every year," grinned Gojo at the thought that even the devil could be negotiated with. "Fine."

"God," she exhaled, and reached for his cheek; he immediately pulled away, leaning back in his chair. "I couldn't even imagine in my mind that you could ever look this pathetic."

"Mei-Mei," his voice remained as soft as a feather, but even that could make a human choke. "You're only still alive because I respect you as a colleague."

"Come on, don't be rude. I know how rude you can be, though. I don't even mind," she giggled, and without waiting for him to make at least one of his usual backhanded vulgar jokes, she sighed and mirrored his pose. "Anyway, I've been offered a job abroad anyway. I'm expecting the money within the week."

"What if I transfer them in eight days?" asked Gojo, and there was a distinct sneer in his voice.

"I don't know," Mei-Mei drawled, tapping a finger on her chin. "Does her big brother know why you stayed by her side in the first place?" she whispered conspiratorially, moving closer to him.

"You win," he threw his hands up in the air like a captured man. "Well, I hope we have a deal."

"The sweetest deal of my life," Mei-Mei chirped, rising from her chair. "But it might be even sweeter if you celebrated it with me," she hinted, expecting him to get up now, but he didn't move. She got the impression that he had missed her words altogether. This caused Mei-Mei to laugh uncontrollably. "Though, you know, I liked you better when you didn't have a heart. Okay, I hope to see you again," she said, and fluttered out of the café like a bird.

"I hope not," he exhaled quietly under his breath.

You'll be back, Gojo knew that for sure; all he needed to hold on to that thought was a few reassuring words from your sister. He didn't need to reach into the depths of his own soul to realize that you could handle this on your own, but if he had the slightest chance of keeping you safe, and especially if the price was money, he would gladly part with it. 

You were entering the hut in your own way, and if there had been a door, you'd probably have kicked it open. You could barely fit everything in your hands, but the only thing that was trying to slip out were the windbreakers you'd gotten. "Here I am!"

"Hey," Jonah responded, trying to make tea in the cold water. "Where did you get this?" he asked dazedly, looking at the clothes in your hands.

"We can sell that for a couple of packs of cigarettes!" exclaimed Bjorn hoarsely, quitting pounding the nails into the board. "Maybe even three."

"Actually, I didn't bring these for sale," you said, wrinkling your nose. "Ya'll be coughing your lungs out soon, so ya'd better put it on yourself," you turned to Bjorn and tossed him one of the windbreakers; you doubted you wouldn't see it tomorrow. "I found this place in the last building. I had to pinch myself to make sure I wasn't dreaming. Honestly, I still can't believe it!" someone behind you pinched your shoulder hard, and you shuddered, grasping at the sore spot.

"Oter!" the men exclaimed in a chorus of indignation, and behind you there was a resentful grunting. You glanced over your shoulder at Oter; he sat down in the corner next to Bjorn like a guilty child.

"Let me help you," Jonah said, coming over to you and taking some of your things. He set them down on the floor, and Bjorn jumped up and started going through them at once - in addition to the jackets, there was thread and a needle, matches, a couple of plates with spoons and forks, a bar of soap and a tube of ointment.

"What about food?" grumbled Bjorn sadly, continuing to rummage through things.

"You always only think with your stomach?" asked Jonah indignantly, and began sorting through the shelves and drawers you had found, trying to establish some order.

"A natural need," Bjorn muttered under his breath and immediately went back to hammering nails into the wood.

You walked over to Jonah and shove him uncertainly with your shoulder. He looked at you questioningly, and you nodded your head at the girl lying in the corner. "How's Nora?" you asked in a whisper.

Jonah spoke in a low voice too. "Still not talking. She ate well today, though."

"Not bad," you clapped your hands approvingly, pleased with at least some progress.

You silently continued to put everything in its place, occasionally wondering where to put this or that thing. "You know," Jonah began quietly. "We had nothing to do here before you at all. Just sat in corners. Can't say that's a bad thing," the man chuckled nervously. "Because the ones who did get taken away by demons, we never saw again. And with you here...," he twirled a spool of thread in his hands and tossed it into the air, catching it deftly. "We can do at least some human things."

"It's just threads, Jonah," you tried to guffaw and immediately changed the subject. "I'm going in there again now. There's so much more there. I only caught a glimpse, but there was even climbing gear lying around."

"What do you think," Jonah began and was quiet for a moment. "What are these things?"

You faltered - you didn't feel like answering a question like that directly. "I think ya know."

"Yeah..." sighed Jonah, and the bar of soap he was trying to place on one of the shelves suddenly felt in his hand like a lump of all the souls that had died here - it became incredibly hard to hold.

"Anyway, they don't need these things anymore. But we do," you said firmly, taking the soap from his hanging hand and placing it on the shelf.

Jonah wasn't surprised at the cynicism - others didn't survive in places like this, he'd seen it more than once. "Why don't you take a break? One guy in the hut next door has a guitar. I could say we'll sit by the fire, but that's unlikely," he grinned sadly. "So, more like a handful of smoke-smelling wood."

"No, ya go ahead. Try to talk to Nora, It might be good for her," you said, but there wasn't much hope. Still, the attempt would be deliberately unsuccessful if nothing was done. "I'm gotta go, though. I'll see ya around."

"Relocate."

"Fucking dark wizard," Bjorn muttered as your silhouette disappeared from their sight, for which he received a hard poke in the shoulder and an angry mooing from Oter.

next ⊳

[sunderedazem]

WIP Whenever

Tagged by @calico-heart! Tyyyyy for the tag- this means I get to show off a snippet of a Shadowbringers piece of the Ascian Azem AU that @azems-familiar and I share, featuring their sleepy ancient Azem and my sleepy WoL. Tagging six!: @azems-familiar, @taledotpng, @thelittlestancient, @ectojyunk, @darthsassacre, @bloodbywinter if you have any WIPs you want to tease, hehe. no pressure at all, ofc!

Corrain's POV

After a near-lifetime of napping in the shade of the sprawling trees of the Twelveswood and sleeping under the stars, one would think that a person should be immune to the awful, persistent ache that is having a crick in your neck or back. And yet when the light - not glaring, but even and mild, sunlight amidst a blue sky - falls warm onto the deep blue tattoos on his cheeks and shines through closed eyelids, that taut ache is what he wakes to. In three separate places, no less, though his neck is the worst offender. Seleukos’s knee is bony and sharp in the small of his back when Corrain blinks sleepily awake, still sprawled loosely atop them, his head half-pillowed on their stomach, his legs and tail hooked over Emet-selch still. There’s the heavy, lazy quiet of early morning lingering brightly in the air and in the deep center of his chest, and for a moment he simply lies there, awake and regretting it. And then he shifts just slightly, turning- ow- his head to glance up the bed at where the two Ascians had been last night following the vicious argument they’d had.  He softens. The sight above him is familiar, like the scent of a long-lost baby’s blanket, forever recognizable but never truly remembered, and this makes his heart warm and quicken against the lassitude in each of his breaths. Seleukos and Emet-Selch are both asleep still, lying half-back together against the pillows on his bed. Azem’s mask is still hanging around their neck, their head pillowed softly on Emet-selch’s shoulder, and his face is partially obscured by the curls of their dark hair, the Garlean third eye hidden entirely. Corrain still lies mostly across their laps where he’d flopped down the night previously, trapping them beneath him to force them to talk, purring constantly for Azem’s comfort.  He wonders if Seleukos has realized yet that they calm when they feel that low rumble in his breast. Wonders if they know he does it to bring them the softness they so desperately deserve. That- that he’s starting to believe that Emet-selch deserves as well.

It’s unnerving, empathizing so deeply with someone who doesn’t see him as a being worthy of life or the world. A part of him wishes he didn’t, wishes that he could simply take that ancient soul in Emperor Solus’s visage and snap it like a twig over his knee. But the greater, growing part of him understands. Understands the loss, the pain they’ve suffered. How scarring it is, how deep the wounds cut, how painfully they bleed. Understands how these two people before him have yet to heal from having their entire lives ripped away.  Understands how Azem chose to try, for him, and in the process has taught him to let go of the grief he’s been carrying too.

Thanks for the tag!!!! Sharing this bit is Fun hehe

[rattycattyfanfic]

may i please... perhaps... request some sleepy lynnmanda thoughts? annoying habits, who wakes up first, who steals the sheets, who watches the other sleep. anything :333

yes!!!! sleeping headcanons my beloved. this got longish so . under a cut for politeness

Lynn wakes up easy, early in the morning or minutes before her alarm buzzes – her odd shift patterns mean she has almost no regular sleep schedule, she sleeps when she needs to and wakes up when she must – and then lays there for a while, staring at the wall through sleepy eyes. She lays there so long she nearly makes herself late for work or miscellaneous obligations, and has to rush to get ready, but she never learns her lesson. She treasures the minutes, hours, spent in the ambiguous haze between sleep and wakefulness, where she doesn’t have to be anyone or do anything. She always makes herself late. This only gets worse with Amanda around – she can be easily swayed to stay in bed longer with kisses and cuddles and soft touches, loves just enjoying the warmth and sharp edges of her body.

Amanda, on the other hand, always sleeps late. She rarely wakes up before noon, still running on the body clock of late nights building traps, shooting up, hiding in her room listening to music and smoking cigarettes. She’s always been a night owl. She does set alarms, but usually sleeps through them, barely even hears the obnoxious buzz until Lynn inevitably comes up and slaps the alarm clock silent and shoves her gently awake. “Mandy. Why do you even have an alarm clock at this point.” She whines, hides her face in the pillow. Back when she’d cared for John, she’d set ten alarms for when she had to wake up to give him medication or water or check on him, because it would take that many for her to actually wake up. Now, when things are no longer life or death, she finds herself so deeply exhausted that she doesn’t even hear the alarm.

Lynn always presses her toes against Amanda’s legs, trying to warm herself up. It doesn’t do much, because Amanda always runs too cold, but she tries anyway, presses her toes and feet and fingers against her under the sheets and listens to her complain and pull her closer. She’s restless when she does finally fall asleep – it takes her a long, long time – and twitches, kicks, tosses and turns. The smallest noise wakes her up, when she doesn’t self-medicate to keep herself asleep and blissfully unaware. She kicks the sheets up, messes up the blankets, always waking up with the blankets slung down over her hips. 

Amanda sleeps like a fucking log most of the time, but she snores quietly, snuffles in her sleep, and hogs the blankets, as if she can hide herself away from the world. She usually falls asleep curled up in a tight ball, hugging herself, all bony knees and elbows sticking out awkwardly as she tries to make herself as small as possible. But she always finds her way to the middle of the bed, to Lynn’s side, to spread starfish or wrap herself around the other woman. She’d been embarrassed about that, at the beginning. It doesn’t bother either of them anymore. 

They both have nightmares. Neither of them can be annoyed at the other when their disruptions are so equally split. Amanda tends to wake up, gasping, a silent scream in the back of her throat, and brings Lynn with her. Lynn is always a little frustrated at the wake-up when she finds it so fucking hard to sleep, but curls around Amanda, comforts her back to sleep with soothing chats and soft words and kisses. When she has nightmares herself, she wakes up silently terrified with her heart pounding and her back soaked with sweat. She pads to the bathroom as quietly as possible to splash cold water over her face and shock herself out of her fear, but she always comes back to Amanda sitting up in bed, concerned, desperate to comfort and soothe in her own weird way. They help each other with this. 

Lynn likes watching Amanda sleep, when she can’t sleep herself. She looks so peaceful, so soft compared to how she carries herself in wakefulness, and she can’t help but stare.

[eriadu-in-the-wildwood]

number 1 or 3 for the bed sharing thingy? 🥺 thasmin of course

Thanks for the prompt! I went with 3: "Person A waking up to Person B curled up and sleeping on top of them."

Sorry this took forever (I got quite carried away on this one)! For anyone who hasn't read All curled up (sunlight), I recommend checking it out, otherwise this won't make much sense. Also, I'm going to eventually expand this and make it officially chapter 2 of that fic, so stay tuned for that! Anyway, here you go:

On a fuzzy alien planet, a shadow restrained Yaz. It pinned her to the ground, a ground that was strangely soft beneath her spine. Above, the blurry outlines of buildings—or were those trees?—loomed. 

Her assailant pressed harder into her chest. Something jabbed her in the ribs. She gasped and thrashed.

Where was the Doctor? What happened? Why couldn’t she remember?

The shadow shifted, stealing her breath with a blow to the stomach. A rumble filled her ears, and something rattled against her chest.

“Yaz.” A low murmur in her ear.

The Doctor! 

Yaz thrashed harder—she needed to escape, the Doctor could be in trouble!

A growl fell over her, then a breath that raised goosebumps along her neck. She froze and imagined teeth at her throat, claws ready to rip her apart, sturdy bone poised to beat her senseless.

“But Yaz, I’m hungry,” the Doctor whined.

What the hell?

Another shift of weight, the tease of lips on her neck, that breath drifting over her skin again. Yaz startled awake.

She tried to sit, but the Doctor was curled up on top of her. How had she even wound herself that tightly into a ball? Her lips brushed Yaz’s throat, her nose tickled Yaz’s ear. The rest of her body was pulled into itself, firmly crushing Yaz’s chest.

Well, her dream made sense now. She tried to squirm out from under the Doctor. No luck, just a furrowed brow and a sleepy growl. Yaz paused and the Doctor’s body relaxed. That rumble from her dream started up again.

Purring. Again. 

Not that it wasn’t adorable, but was her girlfriend half cat now? She never had received an acceptable explanation for what happened when Short Circuit had holed up in the console.

Yaz tried to move again.

The Doctor unfolded and turned over, pinning her even more effectively. The purring intensified.

This wasn’t going to be easy to escape without waking her. She’d been acting so weird lately, she probably needed the sleep. And anyway, that purr was oddly soothing, as was the warm weight pressing Yaz into the mattress.

She gave up the fight and closed her eyes.

-------

Hours later, the Doctor scrunched up her nose in her sleep, rolled over, and starfished over Yaz’s stomach. She wriggled, spine grinding into Yaz’s ribs. At this rate, Yaz was going to be riddled with bruises before the Doctor’s nap was over. Time to wake her up.

Yaz sat up as much as she could and whispered in the Doctor’s ear. “Doctor, wake up.”

A groan and another wriggle.

“Doctor. Please. You’re crushing me, here.”

A scronch.

“Doctor!”

Nothing.

Twisting, straining, Yaz managed to work her left arm out from under the Doctor’s bony hip. Then her right, from where it was trapped under the Doctor’s shoulder. 

The Doctor stayed dead to the world. Yaz shoved her off.

With a hiss, the Doctor popped up onto her hands and knees, arched her back, and bared her teeth at Yaz. 

“Woah, it’s just me!” Yaz held her hands up and scooted to the opposite side of the bed. She probably wasn’t about to get bit, but why take the chance?

The Doctor stared. Her back lowered. The tension drained out of her jaw. She blinked. “Yaz?”

“Hey.” Yaz crawled over and laid a hand on her cheek. “Sorry for the rude awakening. You were so deeply asleep I was starting to worry.”

Sitting back on her haunches, the Doctor blinked again and tilted her head at Yaz. “Worry? Why? I don’t need as much sleep as you, but my deep sleep cycle can go on for—”

“No bullshit, please.”

The Doctor frowned. “I wasn’t—”

“You were doing that thing again.”

The head tilt’s angle increased. “What thing?”

“The purring thing.”

“I was not!” The Doctor turned away and threw her legs over the side of the bed like she was about to escape this conversation. Instead, she yawned and her shoulders slumped.

“Not that there’s anything wrong with it,” Yaz said. She reached out and touched the Doctor’s forearm. “But the last time you did that, and the last time you slept this much, your brain was being, I don’t know… infected, or whatever, by Short Circuit.”

The Doctor stiffened. “Don’t call him that! We can’t name him, we’re not keeping him!”

Yaz couldn’t let the preexisting argument distract her. “You never did explain what happened. Are you part feline? Did Short Circuit awaken some cat DNA, somehow?”

“Of course not. Just a crossing of telepathic wires. But I’m fine now.”

“Really.”

“Yes! And I do not purr!” The Doctor crossed her arms. Her shoulders were bunched up around her ears; a sure sign she was about to march out of the room in a huff. Instead, she yawned.

Yaz rubbed her back. “Okay. Do you want to get some more sleep?” She moved to the edge of the bed, leaving plenty of open space. 

The Doctor looked at the pile of soft pillows and bunched up blankets. She blinked, slowly, then yawned again. Flopping back onto the bed, she curled up. “Maybe just a few more minutes.”

That was so unlike her.

Annoyance and worry warred in Yaz’s mind. She needed to get the Doctor to admit there was a problem, here. Whatever it took.

-------

Hours of tossing and turning had rumpled the Doctor’s clothing and lifted her shirt to expose her belly to the room’s warm, stuffy air. Yaz had lost track of the time, trapped in a bubble of comfort laying beside her. This was all very worrying. But it was also kind of nice to relax and not think about saving the universe for a while. 

A little snore escaped the Doctor. She was too tempting, laying there completely relaxed like that, soft skin beckoning Yaz’s fingers.

Yaz inched her hand over and dragged it across the Doctor’s stomach.

The Doctor clamped shut like a trap. She grabbed Yaz’s hand, dug her nails into Yaz’s wrist, and curled her knees up around Yaz’s arm. She lightly closed her teeth over the base of Yaz’s thumb.

Aha! Yaz wanted to say. Tell me this isn’t cat-like behavior.

But the Doctor didn’t wake.

Yaz flopped back onto the mattress and resigned herself to an uncomfortable hour or two with the Doctor curled around her arm.

-------

She was counting the ceiling tiles when the Doctor’s stomach grumbled.

If they were going to be stuck here, Yaz might as well go grab something to eat. She snuck off the bed—she’d learned her lesson about letting the Doctor trap her, after the arm incident—and went to the closest kitchen. 

When she returned, it was with a tray heaped high with a bit of everything she found in the fridge and pantry. “Hey,” she said from the doorway, rousing the Doctor. “Brought some… breakfast, I guess we can call it?” She set the tray down on the bedside table, grabbed a bag of crisps and shook it. “Found some of those beet crisps you like so much.”

The Doctor shot upright. “Oh you’re a lifesaver Yaz, I’m starving!” She sniffed the bag. Scronched. Turned her nose up. 

And caught sight of the tin of sardines Yaz had thrown in with everything else. The Doctor’s eyes dilated. She snatched the tin, peeled the lid back, and devoured the tiny fish in a few gulps.

The Doctor’s culinary habits were strange at the best of times, but that was new. A grin pulled at the corners of Yaz’s mouth. She fought to hide it. Another note for the mental “cat evidence” column.

Once the tin was empty, the Doctor tossed it aside. She searched the tray, opening a tin of something alien that smelled like meat. She inhaled it and turned sad eyes on Yaz. “Do we have any more?”

“There’s an entire tray filled with food here.”

The Doctor whined. 

Oh, this was getting ridiculous. “Doctor… I don’t know if I’ve ever seen you eat fish. You do realize this is weird, right?”

The Doctor tilted her head. “I love fish!”

Yaz couldn’t argue with that, seeing as the Doctor was thousands of years old and she certainly didn’t know everything about her. But her insistence that nothing weird was going on was getting old.

The Doctor whined again. “Yaz, please, I’m not sure I’ve ever been this hungry in all my lives.”

Despite Yaz’s annoyance, she didn’t want the Doctor to starve, so she nodded. “I think there were a few more tins of sardines in the pantry.”

-------

She returned to an empty room. The blankets on the bed were rumpled, but not heaped high enough for the Doctor to be hiding under them. Yaz set the sardines on the bedside table and checked behind the bookshelf. She tapped on the ensuite door, but there was no answer, and the room beyond was dark. 

“Doctor?”

Something shuffled, close to the floor. Where was that coming from? Yaz dropped to her hands and knees and peered under the bed.

Only the Doctor’s socked foot was visible, but she moved again and Yaz could swear she saw a golden-green flash of eyes from the shadow closest to the wall. “Doctor, what are you doing under there?”

A sleepy mumble.

She didn’t look distressed, but that couldn’t be comfortable, could it? “Why don’t you come out? Do you need some help?”

“Don’ wanna,” she mumbled, simultaneously cat and toddler.

Sudden frustration cascading over her, Yaz reached under the bed and grabbed the Doctor by the ankle. “Come on.”

The Doctor hissed, tucked her leg into the rest of her body, and scooted toward the wall. Just out of reach.

Yaz took a deep breath and counted to ten. She’d dealt with this before, and the Doctor had been fine. She’d be fine again, even if this was getting a bit scary. “Will you please come out and talk to me?”

A grunt.

“You have to admit there’s something wrong here.”

“Comfy,” the Doctor mumbled.

At least she was verbal this time. How the hell could Yaz get her out of there? She lay watching the unmoving shadow of the Doctor for several minutes before an idea came to her.

She retrieved a tin of sardines from the bedside table. Kneeling next to the bed, she opened it.

The Doctor stirred.

“Are you hungry? Found more of the good stuff.”

A pause. The Doctor stretched out. She slunk from under the bed, eyes glued to the tin. Yaz moved back a little further, in case she tried to snatch it and disappear again. 

The Doctor stalked toward her. 

Yaz offered her the tin. “Here. Now will you please get back on top of the bed, where I can keep an eye on you?”

The Doctor’s eyes narrowed in confusion, but she nodded as she ate. When she was done, she hopped onto the bed, curled up, and closed her eyes again.

Yaz sighed and sat next to her. Maybe she just needed to wait this out. Hopefully. Because, with the Doctor’s refusal to admit there was even a problem, there wasn’t much else she could do.

-------

Two days later, the Doctor hadn’t done much more than eat and sleep. Yaz had managed to at least coax her into a change of clothes and a walk to stretch her legs, but she’d gone right back to bed and burrowed into her makeshift nest again. She still refused to admit anything was wrong, or answer any of Yaz’s questions about the more cat-like parts of her nature that were emerging.

This couldn’t go on like this.

Yaz returned to her room after a quick run on a treadmill in the gym (her legs were getting stiff with all the lying around) to find the Doctor awake, for once. She intently watched Yaz close the door.

“Went for a run. How are you doing?”

No answer. Yaz had only half expected one. She sat on the edge of the bed and the Doctor continued to wordlessly watch her.

What was this? The fizzling out of their adventures in time and space? Yaz longed to see more, but if she could have only one part of the universe, it would be the Doctor. So if this was how things were now, that was fine. As long as the Doctor was happy.

She reached over and smoothed the Doctor’s hair at her temple. “All right?”

The Doctor closed her eyes. “Yeah. Better now.”

Tentatively, Yaz scratched behind her ear. The Doctor hummed and Yaz dragged her fingers down, to the corner of her jaw. She tilted her chin up and Yaz caressed it with her index finger.

The Doctor began to purr.

She froze, staring wide-eyed at Yaz.

Yaz dropped her hand. “Aha! Gotcha!”

The rumble died. The Doctor pouted. “Yaz,” she whined.

“Told you I was going to get you to do that again. Now will you admit there’s a problem?”

The Doctor blinked. She jerked away and sat up straight. “This is all Short Circuit’s fault.” She jumped out of bed with a hiss, crossed the room, and yanked the door open. “That cat and I are going to have a talk.”

[paranormeow7]

Sooooo ive been wanting to Write smthn abt my oc Gavin and his backstory bc he makes me SO INSANE. This has been in the works for maybe like 2 weeks and ITS FINALLY DONE SO Without further ado, here’s this lmao (this is my first time tryin 2 do smthn like this, any critiques r very welcome!!)

CATSKIN

an oc story. by meeee :3

tw: parental abuse, detailed depictions of gore, disturbing imagery, death, animal harm, substance abuse, vomiting, possible dermatillomania trigger, religious trauma, etc

disclaimer!! Part of this story takes place in a fictionalized, static version of the 1950s-60s where racism/transphobia/etc don’t really exist/exist as they do now. Putting that there to clear up any confusion. I swear there’s a worldbuilding reason for this I’m not just doing it to get away with having a trans MC in a story set in the past i prommy-

word count: WHO KNOWS but its kinda long lol strap in

What would you do if you found out everything you thought about how the world worked was was wrong? Would you freak out and retreat back to your comfort zone? Or would you take it as an opportunity to escape, no matter how much pain it caused you?

A sunny April afternoon in a cookie-cutter American suburb. Rows of houses, some with trash cans kicked over, or dented/nonexistent mailboxes. Egg stains on the brightly colored vinyl siding. Lousy teenagers.

The house on the back end of Maple Street, in the sleepy old town of Lockroot, Who-The-Fuck-Cares America was a tiny yellow shack with a beat-up blue roof and dark stains running down the siding. Behind that wooden door with its chipped, blood-red paint, a calendar on the wall read April 14th, 1956.

The buzzing fluorescent kitchen lights shone down on an eleven year old child with wavy brown hair and sunken black eyes. It reminded him of divine light, but there was no god waiting for him that day. All the lights did was accentuate the frown painted across his pallid face. His mother sat across him at the table, looking livid, as per usual. She was always mad at something.

“Chie, do you appreciate all that I do for you?” He stared at the dusty white lucky cat on the shelf, its eyes vacantly staring into space, golden coin growing dull, a painted grin upon its wooden face.

Mocking him.

He always hated cats.

“Yes, Mother.”

She stared him down, her perfectly ironed poodle skirt and white blouse a betrayal of her anger. God, please just let me leave. Let this go fast today. “Are you sure, Chie? Because last I recall, attempting to go into the forest that I specifically told you not to visit wasn’t the way to show it.”

He suddenly became hyperaware of the dirt on his knees. The forest was on the edge of town, blocked off by a barbed wire fence. No one thought about it. It was like it didn’t exist.

“Do you want us to look like a family of ruffians with no self control? Do you want to disgrace our name? Does that sound like fun to you?”

The child shrank back in his cracked leather chair, suddenly finding a great degree of interest in his scuffed brown shoes. He’d gotten them for 3 dollars at a neighbors garage sale, the very same sale they’d gotten the chairs at.

“Rich of you, calling us a family since Father’s gone.”

The child knew he’d made a mistake the moment the words came out of him. He didn’t even know why he’d said anything to begin with. Me and my big mouth. However, what was said could not be taken back. He would just have to live with it.

The color immediately drained from his mother’s hollow, freckled cheeks. Her eyes narrowed into piercing blue slits. “What… did you… just… say to me…?”

Her son braced himself, making himself small, preparing for what he knew was soon to come.

“What did you just FUCKING say to me? You ungrateful little RAT?”

The cold, bony hand came at him like so many before, grabbing him by the hair, yanking him up. His scalp felt like it was on fire, his long brown hair coming out in chunks. pleasestopimsorryiloveyoumommy. After this, he’d chop it all off in front of the spiderweb cracks of his bathroom mirror.

“I do EVERYTHING for this family! I buy your food, your clothes, I send you to school, I brought you into this world!”

Thank you, Mother.

“What have you EVER done for me? NOTHING. ZIP. All you ever do is take from me. Youre just like your no good, mangy dog of a father.”

He thought back to the family portrait that had stood on the mantel of the house, until around 4 years ago, when his dear Father up and sped off in that shiny red Mustang convertible. God, how the child had loved that car.

Afterwards, Mother had taken all the photos of him and burned them in their backyard with the trash. He suspected she wanted him to forget what he looked like. Well, too bad, since in the bottom of his junk drawer, he’d saved the family photo, from their mantel. Aiko. His fathers name was Aiko Nakamura.

At seven, he failed to notice the wild look in his eyes, and how much he tended to glance at the fenced-off woods. But at eleven, it was all he could think of as he nursed his brand new shiner and stared at the cracks in his bedroom ceiling. He knew he’d seen a shape in the darkness that day. It almost looked like a matted, skeletal gray cat. Smiling at him. Just like the lucky cat in the kitchen.

Father got out. He knows the secrets of the woods. Of a life beyond this. Maybe one day I will too.

7 years later, the child, now called Gavin, opened his eyes to that very same ceiling, covered in posters for horror flicks, stolen from the newly opened theatre. No matter, he liked the old drive-in more anyways. His mother was always threatening to take them down and throw them out, but she knew that even if she tried, he’d always bring home more anyways. At any rate, she wasn’t home right now. He rolled out of bed, taking a moment to stare at the autumn leaves outside his window. Orange was always his favorite color, but he didn’t have a time to linger. The phone was ringing.

He wandered out to the living room, picking up the shiny red rotary telephone. “もしもし, Nakamura household.” His mother never answered the phone with this greeting, but his father had taught it to him as a child, and he liked it. “Gavin, babe! Hows tricks?” He could hear the smile on the other end. “Hi, Valley.” His face lit up along with hers. They had started dating almost a year ago. “That doesn’t answer my question, but its no matter, you can answer it in around 10 minutes from now!” He was puzzled, for a moment, but hearing sound of a key jangling in the background, he got it. “Val, you don’t have to. There’s barely any food in the fridge, hasn’t been full for weeks. You got your own posh little house to sit up in, don’t ya?” Gavin didn’t like Valley coming to his house. Its not like there was anything to do outside of watch their outdated cabinet television or throw his old baseball around, and Val was rich. He didn’t want her to feel like she owed him anything.

“Too late, doll! I brought snacks for the both of us, anyways. Catch ya later Gav!” “Val, wait just a-“ She blew a kiss into the receiver, and the call disconnected. Gavin rolled his eyes, hung up, and threw on his favorite brown bomber jacket. Val had always been so caring.

I don’t deserve her.

He didn’t have time to wallow, hearing the sound of a window opening. He ran up to his room and opened the door, right as Valley fell through the window, landing on her butt with a loud thump, along with a case of strawberry soda. My favorite… At the sight of the chubby, dark skinned girl in his bedroom, Gavin ran to help her up. “Ever the gentleman, ain’tcha?” She set down the basket she was holding and situated herself on the bed. Her matching red skirt and cardigan, and floor length locs that must’ve taken ages to style, were already gathering dust. Why’d she have to come here?

Gavin suddenly became aware of the mess in the room. Dirty clothes on the dresser, books stacked near the bed, and dozens of loose papers strewn across the floor, each adorned with sketches, paintings, collages, poems, anything his mind could conjure up when he couldn’t sleep. Blushing, he attempted to sweep them away, but not before Val took notice, and picked one up off the floor. “Your art is so lovely, Gavin. What’s this one?” Taking it from her and stashing it away, he responded “Nothing in particular, just couldn’t sleep. You know me, haha!!” He was bright red this point. Change the subject, will you, dear?

That she did. “Sooo, what are we gonna do for your birthday this weekend? You’re gonna be eighteen! Far out, huh?” Oh. Right. Eighteen. He didn’t know how to feel, if he was being honest. “I dunno, maybe we can go out and see a movie.” Val put her head on his shoulder and laughed. Gavin winced. The shoulder was bruised. However, thats what love was. Wasn’t it? “That’s what we always do!” Val chirped. “Ain’t much else in this town, is there?” Gavin quipped. But, if he was being honest, he knew exactly what he was going to do.

Gavin sat up and stared out his cracked bedroom window, past the pretty orange leaves, past the cheesy Halloween decorations, past the shops and diners and gas stations. All the way to the forest surrounding their little town.

Nobody thought much of it, which was true. Nobody that is, except the kids. While the adults were content to sit back and live their monotonous American dream, the children would whisper across the town, stories of what could possibly be on the other side of that barbed wire fence. “My cousin said there’s monsters out there. He says they have no skin, and they’ll cut you up and eat you bit by bit while you’re still alive. They start with your eyes.”

“My sister said that if you fall asleep out there, you’ll never wake up again and have horrible nightmares for the rest of your life. The spirits out there keep you asleep so they can eat your dreams.”

Run of the mill horror stories. But among the bolder, or perhaps the more beaten down, those with less to lose, the woods offered something else. A fortune beyond comprehension. Godlike power. Freedom. A new life, a new start. All sorts of wonders, waiting for those who knew where to look.

Maybe that’s what the adults were afraid of, because every once in a while, a new person would get this look in their eyes, like they knew a good secret. They would become more and more withdrawn, or excitable, or any suspicious change that could happen in a person. Then, after a little while, around a few days to a year, they would disappear. Sometimes it was a business trip, an inheritance, a need for a change of scenery. And sometimes they would just.

Vanish. Without a trace. They were there, and then they weren’t. Of course, they would send out search parties to comb the town for them, and reassure everyone who asked that they were doing the best they could. But of course, everybody knew. The seductive call of the woods was not to fall of deaf ears. After a while, their “MISSING PERSONS” posters were taken down and discarded, and they lived in the town only through the gossip of the children. Gavin had quite a collection of salvaged posters on his bedroom wall, hidden behind his dresser. His mother would blow a gasket, he thought.

When his mother wasn’t reading him the Bible, Gavin’s father used to tell him old Japanese folktales about fox spirits, yokai, kaibutsu. He recalled his stories of creatures known as Kaibyo when-

“Hey, spaceboy. Whatcha thinkin about?” Valley waved a hand in front of his face, bringing him back to reality.

“Nothing, doll. Absolutely nothing.”

Laughter. Then, a kiss. Warm hands caressing his cheeks, on his waist, through his short brown hair. It was 1963, the love decade was soon to kick off, there was a girl in his bed and the world was beautiful, if only for a little while.

At some point, Valley left, and Gavin picked up the piece of paper that she’d asked him about. Clinging to his tarnished silver first communion rosary, a chill ran down his spine, for no reason he could discern. On the paper was a sketch of an emaciated gray cat, with a wide, yellow toothed grin.

Two days until his birthday.

He fell asleep rather quickly that night, which was unusual for him, but it was a shallow sleep, dreaming of nothing but black water, fur, and two piercing, blue eyes.

CAUTION-CUIDADO-ATTENTION

あなた以外に神はいない

Waking up in a cold sweat, Gavin rolled over in his creaky bed. He looked over at his alarm clock. 2:18 AM.

for fucks sake.

Staring at his beat-up wooden desk and the piles of paper and pencils sitting at it, it occurred to him that he didn’t feel like drawing that night. It was a pretty night, with a lovely moon in the sky.

Some fresh air would do me good.

He’d fallen asleep in his clothes. Motor oil stained white T-shirt, frayed black pants, and of course, his brown leather bomber jacket. It had seen a lot in all the years he’d owned it. It had been patched twice, one on each elbow, in different colors. He wanted to paint something on the back, but he didn’t know what he wanted yet. He hadn’t thought about it.

Tiptoeing as not to wake his catatonic mother, who was sleeping on the couch in front of the TV, Gavin almost stepped on a shard of broken glass.

Beer bottles.

The living room floor was carpeted in them, in sparkling amber and green, casting moonlight all over the room, in the multifaceted reflections of the tired faces residing within it.

Beautiful… so beautiful…

He’d never drank alcohol before. He knew a lot of kids at his school who would. Theyd throw big parties at their parents houses while they were away, cut into Daddy’s brandy, and go rampaging around the neighborhood, TPing trees, streaking through the park, smashing windshields, all kinds of juvenile delinquent shenanigans. It was always the worst on Halloween, which was coming up. It was October, the month of playground rumors, teenage pranksters, and a chill of anticipation in the air.

Gavin put down the bottle, grabbed a bolt cutter and walked outside.

A cold wind immediately blew into his face, making him shiver and sneeze. A shower of damp orange leaves fluttered into his hair. As he plucked one out, he glanced toward his favorite thing he’d ever owned, his escape from all of his troubles.

A shiny motorcycle sat in the driveway, waiting. He’d rescued it from the scrapyard a few years prior and had it painted red, just like his father’s old car. His mother was always telling him to scrap it.

“Lets go, old girl.” Revving the engine, stepping on the gas, and taking flight. Wind in his hair, leaves in his face, he drove, and for a little while, he forgot all of his troubles. He passed by each and every cookie-cutter house, with their perfectly trimmed lawns, covered in tacky Halloween decorations. Bright, glowing jack-o-lanterns. Wispy plastic spiderwebs. Cartoon witches and ghosts.

Snarling black cats with brightly colored eyes.

Blue eyes.

Gavin looked away and kept driving all the way up until he reached his destination.

The edge of town, and the entrance to the forest, the sign-covered fence surrounding it, like a dare.

CAUTION-CUIDADO-ATTENTION

It had an eerie air about it. While the trees in town were decorated in all the fiery reds, oranges, and yellows of fall, the trees of the woods were all painted in the strange shades of evergreen leaves. They seemed to fade from green to what looked like blue the further you looked. The bark was white, like birch wood, but with an odd, almost pearlescent sheen if you looked too hard. And were those… eyes…

Hello.

Jerking him out from his troubled thoughts, was a voice, from behind. Human. What else would it be, silly? He turned around and almost fell backwards at the sight of a silhouette of a woman, we standing over him. “SHIT!!” he declared. A giggle in response. Oh…

“Hi, Valley…” Gavin exhaled. It hadn’t occurred to him that he was holding his breath at all. She took his hand and squeezed it. He smiled. Her hands were warm. “Why do you look so afraid? Did you think you were the only kid who came out here?”

His heartbeat slowed. Maybe she would understand. Maybe she wants to go with me. Maybe we can see whats on the other side together.

He glanced at his motorcycle, at the bolt cutters, and began to speak.

“Remember when I told you i didn’t know what I wanted to do for my birthday?” A puzzled expression danced across Valley’s face. Exhale. “Val, how would you like to see whats on the other side with me? We can get away from all this. Together. Just like we wanted, right?” His eyes shined in anticipation.

Valley’s expression changed to a warm smile. She leaned towards him and kissed him. Her lips were soft and she tasted like the strawberry soda she brought him the day before.

His heart fluttered. His face got warm. Was this happening?

She pulled away.

His hands felt so cold all of a sudden.

“Oh, Gavin, doll. You know theres nothing out there, right?”

“what…?”

“There just isn’t. All the folks that go out there just die. Everybody knows. Please don’t tell me you believe all the stories the kids tell. I love you and I support you, but I can’t agree with you on this.

Don’t you remember what happened to your father?”

The mention of his father made his blood run cold. Sure, he left him and his mom to fend for themselves, leaving them poor and hungry, but whatever was on the other side of that fence had to be worth it, right? He wouldn’t have done all this for nothing, right?

He can’t be dead. He’s out there somewhere. He has to be.

He hadn’t noticed that that familiar haunted look had passed over his own face, the way Valley had. He felt a strong, warm hand gripping his sleeve.

“Gavin, please. I know you want to find out what happened to your dad, but I’m really worried about you. I’ve been trying to support you no matter what, and I know you’ve been going through a lot, but I can’t let you go in there-“

“let go of me.”

“w-what…?”

“please, I-“

“Gavin, you’re scaring me. Please come back with me, I love you-“

“I SAID LET GO.”

Gavin pulled away with such ferocity that Valley fell backwards against his motorcycle, toppling it over. Breathing hard, he turned back towards his girlfriend. The look in her eyes was indescribable. There was so much hurt, so much fear, so much worry for him.

He couldn’t handle it. He had to run. Gavin knew he probably should have just turned back and ran home, but he just couldn't deal with the anger of his mother, the worry of his girlfriend, and everyone, all of Lockroot watching, knowing. Seeing the look in his dark brown eyes.

There goes another one.

He dropped his bolt cutters and clambered over the fence, ignoring the barbed wire digging into his hands and the warm blood gushing down his cold wrists. Ignoring the sobs and begs of his girlfriend. Ignoring them as they stopped completely. Getting to the top of the fence, he threw himself over, no hesitation. Landing hard on his side, a shot of pain burst through his hip, causing him to let out a moan. It didn’t matter. He just needed to get away. Gavin got up with a pained grunt and took off, deep into the mouth of the dark, cavernous woods, not daring to look back.

As he ran, searing pain throbbed in his side and the deep gashes in his hands left an obvious trail of blood behind him. Gavin’s injuries were getting harder to ignore, threatening to throw him back into the rotten leaves and worm infested dirt. He had to keep going. He didn’t know what he was running from or where he was trying to get. He just knew he didn’t want to fall. He was afraid that if he did, he’d pass out, never wake up, and rot alone out there in these God forsaken woods, his lean, sallow body slowly falling to pieces and filling with maggots, beetles and flies. Picking at his soft flesh. Eating him, bit by little bit.

The air had grown moist, tepid and suffocating. Gavin started to gasp and heave for breath. Wasn’t it October? The eyes on the tree bark were growing sharper and darker. Scrutinising him.

Stop looking at me.

He couldn’t fall. He couldn’t surrender. There were whispers in his ears, so faint that he didn’t know if he was really hearing them. The voice was indescribable, neither male nor female, young or old, but filled with desire, desire for something beyond what it had. Something it shouldn’t be allowed.

lie down here with me, will you? you’re a handsome one. why don’t you stay a while…

He felt paws all over him, grasping at his thighs and his stomach, pulling at his hair. It felt familiar.

keepgoingkeepgoingdontstopyoucantquitnow

In the end, his undoing was a regular old, run of the mill, medium sized gray rock. The kind you’d find in your backyard. His foot hit the stone hard and he went down, right on his bad hip. Crack. He lay on the ground for a few minutes, not even mustering up the energy to scream. The only thing that came out of his dry, cracked lips was a soft, pathetic moan, followed by a choked-back sob. What had he been thinking? Valley was right, there was nothing out here, and now he was lost and all alone. His girlfriend was gone, his mom was gone, and now he was going to die out in these horrible woods just like his father.

Blood gushing from his hands and tears flowing from his eyes, Gavin slowly sat up and tried to brush the dirt off of his soiled leather jacket. At that moment, he noticed a horrible smell.

Like a garbage dump. Like rotting meat. Like death.

The stench was overpowering. It assaulted his sinuses and made him gag. Gavin swayed, doubled over and vomited what little was in his stomach. The smell of it mixed with the nauseating air, threatening to make him throw up again, when all of a sudden, a shadow fell over the forest.

Gavin looked up, and his eyes met with a monster.

ねこまた nekomata

It was hard to discern in the pitch dark woods, but it must have been around 15-20 feet tall. The space around it rippled with what looked like dark, matted fur, two impossibly long, mangy tails danced behind it, and its drooling, slavering mouth held rotten, yellow teeth the size of small trees. A deafening buzzing noise could be heard near and around the monster, with Gavin realizing that this demon was shielded in a dark, undulating cloud of flies.

The worst part was it’s eyes.

Two soulless, pitch black holes, deep as an abandoned well, with two piercing pricks of bright, nuclear blue in their centers. The creatures gaze was blank, filled with nothing but hunger. Staring at Gavin like a bloody slab of steak. Like a tiny mouse in a trap.

It began to move towards him, calmly, and ever so casual. Gavin couldn’t cry out. All he could do was sit, stunned, in a rancid puddle of his own vomit. This can’t be real. God wouldn’t let this happen. At that moment, he realized that he had lost his rosary. The monster drew closer, until it’s head was just inches away from Gavin’s, it’s breath blowing into his face. He noticed large chunks of rotting flesh festering between it’s teeth, being fed on and burrowed into by the army of insects surrounding the creature.

I guess that explains the smell…

Gavin was frozen. He wished he had a weapon, wished he could attack the thing waiting in front of him. He wished he could move, so maybe he could try to escape. But instead, he was still as a stone, unable to do anything. How many times have you been in this position?

Gavin tried to brace himself for his death as the monsters mouth began to open. He waited to feel claws to rival his monster movies on his body, cracking his bones in half. He waited to feel teeth ripping his skin away from his muscles. He waited for the feeling of bodily fluids mixing and flowing and filling his lungs and his eyes and smothering him.

It never came. Maybe it would’ve been better than what followed.

Instead of devouring Gavin and leaving his bones for a stray dog to chew on, the monsters eyes rolled back into its head, and it’s face began to split down the middle. A viscous black liquid gushed out of the seams.

It almost looked like motor oil.

Gavin almost gagged as the creatures face slowly tore apart and peeled away, revealing a shiny white skull filled to the brim with millipedes. The oil-like substance dripped onto his clothes, further staining them, the black mixing with the red and green of the blood and vomit. One of the millipedes crawled out of the monsters gaping mouth and fell onto Gavin’s arm. He watched in horror as the insect burrowed into the gash on his hand. He could see it moving under his skin. He could feel it’s little legs poking at his muscles.

あなた以外に神はいない

do you understand?

Gavin promptly blacked out.

The next morning, at the end of Maple Street, the sun shone through the small yellow house’s windows. The birds were singing, and the paper boy was making his rounds as if nothing had happened, nothing at all. The calendar read October 16th, 1963. A certain young man’s 18th birthday.

Gavin woke up, at home, in his own bed, with his mind full of fog and the worst headache you can imagine. It felt like a jackhammer was being drilled into his brain.

Was it all… a horrible dream?

His jacket and t-shirt were lying on the floor next to his bed, but his jeans were still on. I need to stop sleeping in my clothes.

His side hurt. His hands hurt. It's nothing. I probably just fell, maybe cut myself on one of Mother's beer bottles...

As he rolled out of bed to get a shirt on, he noticed his drawings, rather than being scattered across the floor, were stacked up next to his desk. Looking through them, he saw they were all of shadowy, grey cats.

"Ugh..." He wondered if he'd been drinking, and that was why his head hurt so bad. Never mind that he didn't drink. That was his mother's habit. It's just that there was no other way to explain what had happened the night before.

Speaking of which...

"Gavin. Get down here. We need to talk."

A "Happy Birthday" would've been nice.

Ambling down the stairs, Gavin braced himself. Did she find out where he'd been, somehow? That would mean he'd actually ended up going, and the events of last night had actually played out. He wasn't ready to accept that truth.

His mother met his face, standing in the middle of their glass covered living room floor, which no one bothered to clean up. Her auburn hair looked like it hadn't been combed in weeks and her green sweater was covered in stains. She looked like she hadn't slept a day in her life.

"The sherrif found your motorcycle down by the outskirts of town, and your little girlfriend wouldn't say anything, but she seemed pretty damn shaken. Is there anything you'd like to say for yourself?"

no... it was a nightmare... nothing more...

"I don't know what you're talking about."

under his skin, something moved.

"Oh, i think you do. For eighteen years now, i've fed you, clothed you, provided for you and the ONLY THING i've asked in return is for you to STAY AWAY FROM THE WOODS. This is how you thank me? For EVERYTHING IVE EVER DONE FOR YOU?"

The woman was livid, blue eyes burning with rage, face locked in a snarl. She grabbed Gavin by the hair and pulled his face up close by hers. There was a distinct stench of alcohol on her breath. He'd heard this song before, many times over.

"You were looking for your father, weren't you."

He felt something running down his scalp. Blood? Something more viscous, perhaps? Motor oil?

Your father is dead. Maybe the "evil spirits" in those awful stories he told you did him in. At any rate, it doesn't matter anymore. Go into the woods if you want, because you're not welcome in my house anymore. If you want to be like your father, then be like him. Leave. Don't ever come back."

"Mama-"

"JUST GO!" The woman threw her son backwards, landing hard with a sickening CRUNCH into the floor's coating of broken glass and booze bottles. His mother's sorrow would find yet another way to hurt him, he thought, as he felt the shards dig into his back. This was it. Gavin would need to find someplace else to go. Wincing as he got up, blood rushing down his back, he limped back upstairs, grabbed his jacket and was just about to leave before he noticed several full beer bottles from her mom's stash. Nothing left to lose...

His mom couldn’t punish him for anything anymore. It was oddly freeing. He took a couple bottles and stowed them away. With everything he needed stored in his bag, there was one more place he figured he could try. If it didn't work, he would have to find someplace else.

Valley had spent the entire day up until that point talking to the police. They wouldn't get anything out of her, she didn't even know what had happened herself. Besides, everyone in town knew that these investigations were for show anyways. No one ever came out of the woods, and after a while, everyone forgot. Valley would have to as well.

At that moment, lying on her blue silk sheets, the doorbell rang.

"Listen Officer, i already told you i haven't got anything for you-"

Her eyes met not with a blue clad member of the force, but with a ghost. If possible, Gavin looked even worse than he did the night before, when she watched him jump the forbidden fence like a man possessed, seemingly sealing his fate. His clothes were covered in bloodstains, some looking old, some looking new. Valley couldn't believe what she was seeing.

"H-how? You’re not... no one is supposed to... I saw..."

"Hey again, Val."

How could he just show up on her doorstep like nothing happened at all? This wasn't how these cases were supposed to go. The posters would stay up for a while until they got taken down, and no one would ever talk about the missing person again. Maybe it was messed up, but that’s how it had always been.

"Gavin, i can't believe you're..."

"Alive? Yeah... i'm having some trouble believing that too."

Valley rubbed her temple and sighed. It was obvious she was very stressed. And why shouldn't she be? Her boyfriend of almost a year had seemingly gotten himself killed right in front of her, she'd spent the entire day talking to the cops about the incident, and now he'd showed up on her doorstep out of nowhere? Maybe it'd have been better if he hadn't come back at all. Maybe he should've just stayed gone. All he ever did was hurt others anyway...

Valley looked up, finally. "Okay, what do you-" Nothing. He'd already gone. It was like he hadn't even been there to begin with.

I’m such an idiot.

Val walked back upstairs to her room, flopped down onto her expensive silk sheets and screamed into her pillow. “That fucking ASSHOLE! How could he be so casual about this? I thought he died!! And now he leaves me all over again, with no explanation??” Valley was tired. This wasn’t the first stupid thing Gavin had pulled, and now he was crossing into genuinely dangerous territory. “That’s it. I’m done. I don’t need to worry about him anymore. Let him go back into that forest. See if I care.”

She decided it would be best to try to go to sleep, but she couldn’t shake the feeling that something terrible was about to happen.

“You wouldn’t actually go back there… would you?”

Meanwhile, Gavin knew he needed to find his motorcycle. It could have either been taken by the police, or it was still out there by the woods. Somehow he doubted the cops had touched it. There was probably yellow tape around it or something. He didn't want to go back to the forest, but somehow, some way, he knew he had to.

His hand itched, and there was still something squirming beneath his skin. It felt like it was trying to get out. To go back into the forest, and take him with it.

Was he marked?

At that moment, Gavin remembered the bottles he’d taken from his house, if he could call it that anymore.

Maybe it could help me get my courage back.

He took one swig, then another. The first drink was awful. It tasted like hatred and burned his throat, but he kept forcing it down, because he was desperate to feel SOMETHING. Maybe this wasn’t a good idea…

He kept going anyways.

After a while, it started to get better. Or maybe this was what being drunk was like. Before he knew, he'd burned through nearly half of the bottles he'd stolen, and each sip sent fire down his throat, burning away his inhibitions. How did i never try this? How do people not do this every day? His head swam and his thoughts blurred, and all he knew was that he felt good, and that a new chapter of his life was about to begin.

Follow me.

A voice rang out from seemingly nowhere in particular, taking his hand, dragging him along for the ride. Whatever was under his skin felt like it was trying to tear it’s way out and lead him to the woods. Maybe he was marked. Marked for this journey.

Follow. I know what you’re looking for. I can take you there. You’re going to see something beautiful…

And what else could he do? The alcohol in his system was preventing him from thinking straight anyways. Gavin felt himself almost being pulled forward by some external, seemingly invisible force. He felt fur all around him. It was almost nice. Comfortable. He could hear disjointed voices, seeming far away.

“Hey, isn’t that…” “It can’t be. He should be dead...” “They never come back.” “Is he okay?”

Pay them no mind… we’ll be here soon.

Two glowing blue pinpricks. Jack o lanterns outside of cookie cutter houses. Follow the lights. This is your destiny.

Destiny?

Gavin had never thought of destiny before. When he found his motorcycle, that felt like destiny. When he started dating Valley, that felt like destiny.

I guess none of that matters now.

Everything itched.

Suddenly, he was back by the fence, in the outskirts of town. Didn’t it usually take longer to get here, especially by foot?

There was a hole in the fence, seemingly cut out just for him. Did I do that? And right in front of it, there it was.

His motorcycle. It hadn’t been moved since the night before.

There was a path slicing through the forest. He didn’t remember that from the last time he was there.

The bike was fueled up and ready for him. Gavin knew what had to be done. Whether or not this was real or an alcohol induced haze didn’t matter to him. Getting on the bike and finding out what was on the other side of those woods was all that mattered.

Any horrible monsters or demons be damned.

He revved up the motorcycle and back through the woods he went, and with his inhibitions drowned out of his body, Gavin could finally see how pretty it was out there. The almost supernatural blues and greens of the tree leaves complimenting the pearlescent bark. He could see the shadows of impossibly large creatures rustling behind the trees. This time, the atmosphere of the woods felt less like a warning and more like a new beginning. But sometimes, new beginnings can be just as terrifying.

He didn’t see the cat until he’d already hit it. He’d been swerving through the path, and had come pretty close to a crash several times over, just barely missing any stray trees or rocks. However, his drunken reflexes weren’t going to be enough to save him for long.

A jingling bell. Glowing, fearful blue eyes on gray fur. A animals shriek. A thud, a splat, and a swerve. Too late. The damage had been done, and both the bike and the boy were thrown aside by something that seemed far larger than a roadkill cat. Something that threw them a long way before they landed, and they landed hard on what seemed like pavement. why would there be pavement way out here in this forest?

Gavin skid across the ground, feeling something pop out of his face theysaidmyeyesweresobeautiful, well, what was left of his face, as he felt his skin scraping off the side of his body pleasemommyitburnsitburns, and as he felt the shattering of bones upon impact that’smorethanjustmyhipisn’tit and the broken glass shards embedding in his flesh feelslikehome, it all came to him. It came to him as he realized his bike was pinning him to the ground, as he felt his limbs bend the wrong way, as blood and piss and oil flowed from seemingly every opening on his body.

I guess this is it. I’m dying.

I didn’t even get to see what was on the other side.

Was there even anything on the other side?

Was this what happened to Father?

I can feel the glass in my back.

All I am is glass. I want to go home.

I want to see Mother. God, maybe, if I’m lucky. Something tells me if I’m not lucky.

招き猫 maneki-neko

All I am is glass.

The last things Gavin heard as the black washed over him were a pained, stilted meow, a blood gurgle (my first victim’s? my own?), and the skittering of something crawling out of the cavity where his eye used to be.

all for nothing…

all for...

Fur. Fur, all around him. Again. He was beginning to get sick of this feeling. Or was it becoming comfortable? He didn’t know. The feeling reminded him of his mother’s old habits. Not like he had any time to dwell on her, because the moment he opened his remaining eye, he was met with a massive feline skull, seemingly coming out of and from the darkness around him, with two blue pinpricks for eyes.

Welcome, old friend.

I know your voice. Who are you?

That doesn’t matter. You want to get out of here, don’t you?

Yes. I never got to see… I never got to see what was…

I can do that for you. I can bring you back. I can get you out.

How?

A massive paw with claws like butcher knives materialized in front of him. What was the saying? Don’t deal with the devil?

Was this even the devil? Or was this something else entirely?

Take my hand. Your transformation will come with pain and hardship, but it will help the both of us. I promise.

Gavin didn’t want this to be for nothing. He didn’t want to go back into the darkness. He really didn’t.

You don’t have to. You can always just stay where you are. Forever.

His journey, his pain, his losses, his discoveries. He wanted to know where it all would lead.

What is your final decision, old friend?

He needed to know.

He put out his hand, hesitated for a moment, and then forcefully connected it with the gargantuan paw splayed out before him. No going back now.

So it shall be. Thank you, Gavin.

The gray fur melted around him and gathered into his hand. It began to spread and grow from there, covering each inch of his body. His arms, his legs, his torso, his face. It blinded him, and as he lost his senses one by one, he felt it flow into the cavernous empty eye socket left by his recklessness.

Curiosity killed the cat.

But satisfaction brought it back.

After hours, or days, I can’t tell anymore, Gavin woke up changed, someplace else. Everything hurt. He felt like every part of his body was bleeding. His injuries might have healed by some supernatural force, but it sure didn’t feel that way.

He opened his eye and the first thing that struck him was that instead of a forest, he was met with a sprawling junkyard, filled to the brim with piles of garbage as tall as buildings, against a stark red sky. An all manner of dilapidated mechanical gadgets. People’s weeks-old trash. Horrible smelling organic matter that Gavin didn’t want to look at or even think about. Salvage heaven? He couldn’t tell, but it felt like everything anyone had every thrown away ended up here.

Have I been thrown away, too?

Gavin attempted to get his bearings and try and survey his new surroundings, but every move he made felt like a thousand knives as hot as the sun were being inserted into his flesh. He knew he had to do SOMETHING, though.

I need to see what happened to my body. I need to see the results of this “transformation.”

There was a reflective pool of a familiar black, viscous liquid seemingly a few feet away from him, his estimate as his depth perception had all but disappeared. Maybe that would work. Abandoning all dignity he might’ve still kept at this point, he put his death-razed arms out in front of him and dragged himself to his goal.

Is this what I’ve come to? Is this the culmination of all my 18 years of life? I never even saw my senior prom.

Gavin would see something else, however. Mustering up all his strength, he made it to the metallic puddle and attempted to stand. A thousand sickening cracking noises resonated out of his body, as if he was 81 rather than 18. The pain was so unbearable he almost puked his literal guts out into the looking glass puddle he’d just worked so hard to reach.

However, what he saw in it made him hurt in a different way. He didn’t know whether or not it was worse than the pain of all the injuries he’d agreed to endure. Whatever I just struck a pact with must not have been powerful enough to get rid of any pain I might be feeling, even if I’m now able to live through it.

Before him was a face he didn’t recognize, a face he might’ve expected from the horror movies he used to sneak out to see. His skin appeared ash white, like all of his blood had drained from his body. The skin he had left, anyways, as the right side of his body, the side he’d landed on after the accident, had barely any at all. He’d never really thought of what human muscles looked like underneath skin, but now was as good a time as ever to find out. If he could even still be classified as “human”. His teeth were an odd red color and had seemingly all been replaced by canine incisors, giving him a terribly offputting grin on top of everything else concerning his new appearance that might scare a person off.

His jacket sleeve was completely torn away, his black pants ripped to shreds, and his hair had turned that same familiar shade of gray, with no trace of the brown his loved ones had run their fingers through. His remaining eye was glassy and pale, with a jaundiced yellow look to it, and the cavity where his other eye used to be was so badly shredded that some of the bone could be seen. His eyelid seemed to have suffered the same fate, leaving the gaping hole in his head open for all to stare at and wonder about. His limbs had grown bushy, tangled gray fur, and at his fingertips were retractable, cat-like claws.

The most noticeable new features, however, were marked by new weight at his back and on the sides of his head. Two large, alien looking, cat-like ears had grown over Gavin’s old human ears, with lumps in places were imperfections seem to have occurred. His right ear was deformed and stunted, seemingly due to the damage he had suffered in that area. It gave him the look of a stray cat that lost the tip of it’s ear in some kind of turf war. And at his lower back danced two long, ratty, almost mangy gray tails. They seemed somewhat non-Euclidean, appearing longer and shorter depending on where you looked at them, and adorning them were two concerning markings that looked a bit like teeth.

As the boy stared into his reflection, the heavy realization settled over him like a wet cotton blanket. The old Gavin, the one that had listened to his fathers folktales and eaten at the local diner and gotten into fights at school and drawn on his arms and snuck his girlfriend into movies, was dead. He had died in an accident in the forest like so many others before him, and his replacement was this ungodly chimaera-like creature.

For the first time since he was in elementary school, Gavin knelt to the ground, threw his gaze to the red, smog-filled sky, and let himself cry. Heaving, painful sobs. The culmination of all of his life’s mistakes. No one would be there to see him, anyways.

Who’s going to love me, looking like this?

Will God forgive me for becoming something so unholy?

Was any of this even worth it?

A familiar voice rang out inside his head. Something told him that this was where it lived now.

You’re not ungodly, my disciple. In fact, you are far from it. You came back from the dead, something many saints couldn’t accomplish. There’s something divine in that, is there not?

Is that who you are? Are you God?

Laughter. And with that, the voice in his head, in his heart, went dormant.

Gavin strained and threw up a little, but managed to get up. Looking around the endless expanse of the junkyard, he noticed something, standing out from the rest of the wreckage.

A cherry-red Mustang convertible, smeared with long-dried blood. Laying next to it, a page out of fairly recent looking calendar, with the date reading April 14th, 2163.

Suddenly, the junkyard didn’t seem so endless anymore. Gavin could see what looked like a cityscape in the distance. Mustering up all the strength he could, he began to walk.

I guess this is my new beginning.

For a brief moment, the spirit’s voice came back into his head.

あなた以外に神はいない

There is no god but you.

A young girl tacks a missing persons poster to a telephone pole. What have you seen? What have you found?

Would she ever find out? Who else did?

the end LMAO ✌🏻 I hope you liked this I worked my ass off on it. If you didn’t that’s okay!! I’m not sure if I like it, either!! But at least it’s done. YIPPEE. Now go drink some water.

[elveny]

Writer's Game: First Sentences

I got tagged by @pikapeppa - thank you so much!! ♥

Tagging forth to @autumnslance, @kunstpause, @captainderyn, @greyias @thevikingwoman @karoiseka @kauriart @kepesktribe @traveleorzea @keldae @storyknitter @elfyourmother @dandelionofthanatos and all who want to grab it - as usual, no pressure at all!

Rules: post the first sentence of your last ten fics. If you haven't written ten fics, share as many first-sentences as you have.

I really enjoy this one and am so looking forward to yours! :D

(Looking at my pairings and fandom, I am somewhat single-minded, lol. I haven't included the last short prompts I wrote, but if you're interested in those, check them here :D )

****

Nor Death Do Us Part (soon-to-be published) (WoL x Estinien, FFXIV)

The air was thick and humid, throbbing with the rhythm of the music.

2. In A Mirror, Darkly (WIP) (WoL x Estinien x Aymeric, FFXIV)

FROM THE CHRONICLES OF UL’DAH, RECORDED IN THE HALL OF HISTORY The line of Ul ended with the death of Sultana Nanamo Ul Namo at the hands of the traitorous Scions of the Seventh Dawn during the victory banquet held to celebrate the success of the Defence of Ishgard against the Dravanian Horde.

3. The Count's Seduction (WoL x Estinien x Artoirel, E-rated, FFXIV)

Adriene had long lost track of time as she lay on the couch in Artoirel’s office, her thoughts idling away to nothing in the low flickering of the candles.

4. The Grove (G-rated, DnD)

“Ilyana? Ilyana!” The voice booms across the clearing, and Ilyana looks up, shocked to see that midday has already darkened into early evening. She is all arms and legs, bony elbows and skimmed knees, huge eyes in a round face that is somewhat too earnest for a four-year-old.

5. Cursed (M-rated, FFXIV)

You have been cursed. You don’t know when or why, but somewhere along the line, someone decided you had a job to do and nothing would get you out of it. Not even death.

6. The Siren's Claim (WoL x Estinien, M-rated, FFXIV)

Estinien never knew that the ocean could be so loud.

7. Thus with a kiss, I- (WoL/Azem x Lahabrea, M-rated, FFXIV)

First (almost, once upon a time) “Azem, a moment, if you will.”

8. Dear Hades (WoL x Emet-Selch, T-rated, FFXIV)

Dear Hades. I have lost track of how long I have been here at the edge of the universe.

9. The Snowstorm (WoL x Estinien, E-rated, FFXIV)

Loud banging on the front door shook Adriene out of her cosy sleepiness.

10. Courtesy (WoL x Estinien, E-rated, FFXIV)

Adriene shuddered visibly, throwing her arms around herself as she accompanied Estinien through the Jeweled Crozier.

[merryfortune]

 aurora's were once called fairy lights

Written for the Winter Holiday Bingo

Prompts provided by @sweetspicybingo

Prompt: Fairy Lights

Title: aurora's were once called fairy lights

Ship: Peony/Sharena 

Fandom: Fire Emblem Heroes 

Rating: T

Word Count: 1,278

Warnings: None

Tags: Fluff, Love Confessions, Winter, Happy New Year

  The air was cool and crisp, glistening with the magic of not as of yet fallen snowflakes but it was close. So close. Sharena could practically feel them sparkle on the tip of her nose as she snuggled in close to Peony’s side. Her companion was providing some much needed warmth in the cold. Not just physically but emotionally, too.

   It had been… another long year of festivals and fighting, of winners and victors. It was exhausting but they had made it to the other side of it. Amazingly. Somehow. It was worth it though as every day, hard won as they were, brought them closer to the miracle of everlasting peace throughout all the realms, all the worlds.

   “Thank you for inviting me out here, Peony.” Sharena said as she closed her eyes.

   She continued to lean in against Peony’s form and huddled under the thick wads of shiny silk which their Hoshido kimonos were made up of. They weren’t just stylish, they were fully practical for the weather – and for fighting, too, which was another nice, added bonus, 

   Sharena sighed sleepily. Another few more minutes, she had to be awake for a few more minutes. That’s what she told herself. She wanted to see as midnight became the morning of a fresh dawn and a new year. She might even get to see that snow that she was looking forward to. 

   For now, she was just about to fall asleep and do none of those things. Especially since Peony’s shoulder made for such a lovely pillow. Even if it was a bit bony but hidden under her warm clothes, it was as soft as the most elegant goose feather bed in all of the Askr Castle

   “My pleasure.” Peony replied as she glanced down, adoringly, at Sharena. “Its such a pretty sight. Of course I had to share it with my best friend. If only she was awake to see it.”

   Peony gave a jostle and so much for her shoulder being a comfortable pillow. Sharena laughed as she was shimmied off Peony. Her eyes fluttered open and she changed how she sat. She wasn’t quite as well versed as kneeling in kimonos like the Hoshido royals – and other folks summoned from Hoshido – so she was sitting cross-legged. Though now, Sharena brought her knees up to under her chin and folded in on herself. That gave her plenty of extra warmth, too.

   She smiled as she looked up at the sky.

   “Such a pretty sight” didn’t begin to describe what Sharena was looking at from beside Peony.

   The sky above was magnificent. Gorgeous. Beautiful. Absolutely glorious. There were so many words for this marvel and yet every single one proved insufficient the more Sharena stared at the night sky.

   It was hung with a sleepy mystique from low-lying, grey clouds which were so close to blooming with snow. However, beyond those clouds like the furred hem of a noblewoman’s ball gown, the dim of the night was hale and full of heart rather than doom and gloom. It felt like a good omen to come regarding the next year ahead, of which there was not much time between that future and the current present. The stars – in soft, dulcet tones of white and blue - glimmered softly in the distance ever so far, far away like the heavens. And most peculiar and beautiful of all was this strange ribbon of light that flickered and played: the illusory and ever so elusive aurora. 

   Oh, it was truly a wonder to behold. Sharena felt privileged to watch the stars and clouds and the aurora play in the night sky. 

   Funnily enough, given who was accompanying her on this dewy hill, to the older Askr generation, aurora's were once called fairy lights. For good reason, Sharena could possibly guarantee as there was another sight, which captured Sharena’s attention and enthralled her. One much closer to her than the elements of the night sky. It twitched and flicked in the corner of her eye, right beside her. She thought it would be impolite to stare, especially when Peony was just as enraptured as she was with what was high above them but Sharena couldn’t help herself.

   She stole a glance following that first glimpse and her breath was magicked away, not even turning into a mist of condensation upon her exhale. Peony’s wings were utterly splendid, turning into a kaleidoscope as they caught and filtered with the starlight. They, too, glimmered in time with the aurora. Sharena’s demure glances turned to staring as she had to make sure that it wasn't her imagination bit no. The rhythm that Peony’s wings flicked to was the very same as the aurora's and for it, Sharena was mesmerised.

   She lost all sense of decorum as she became entranced and it didn't take long for Peony to notice.

   Peony laughed awkwardly, “Am I really that interesting?”

   “Yes!” Sharena enthusiastically replied. Then her face went bright red as she realised what she had said.

   Though the shock was shared. Peony smiled, the tips of her pointed ears tinged pink as she gracefully accepted such a heartfelt compliment. As loud and bombastic as it was. 

   “I, um, think you're really pretty.” Sharena continued, muddling through her words and her feelings. “I can't help but stare, you are so beautiful and I like you a lot. Even more than the scenery here with you.”

   “I like you too, Sharena.” Peony replied, light hearted and jolly.

   But Sharena frowned.

   Sharena was a very affectionate girl. She was very free with it, be it through words or gestures, Sharena was never afraid to show the profound depths of her friendship with people. Especially Peony. They were akin to bosom buddies. Not once did Sharena ever think that her nature would ever hinder the expression of her feelings.

   It was now or never and what a beautiful now it was. Just before the New Year, in front of this gorgeous scenery, when it was just them together. Sharena resolved to clarify and her seriousness came across causing Peony to pause.

   “No, Peony, I like you.” Sharena tried again. “I like-like you.”

   Peony was stunned to silence but her expression was elated. The tension which occurred between them as Peony savoured the feeling of being confessed to and Sharena awaited a reply, boldly hoping for the best. Her lips parted in a determined way and then, just as Peony mustered a reply, they were both distracted by a slight change in weather. The temperature dropped a few more degrees and they felt goosebumps on their arms under the sleeves of their kimono.

   The cold air swirled around them and the tension between them diffused as it finally happened. The first snowflake descended from the clouds in a lazy swirl. Both Sharena and Peony looked up to watch as it sauntered vaguely downwards. A smile adorned both their faces as they enjoyed the light snowfall. More snowflakes began to fall also, only to land on their heads or around them like jewels.

   Then Peony lowered her head, smiling from ear to ear, “I like-like you, too.” She confessed. 

   “Aah, I'm so glad,” Sharena exclaimed, “I've wanted to tell you for a while.” She sighed contentedly and her chest slumped forward on the exhale. Her shoulders slackened also.

   “I can tell.” Peony replied.

   Peony shuffled inwards and this time, she leaned into Sharena’s side. Sharena’s heart skipped a beat as gladness filled her entirely. Peony closed her eyes, her lashes fluttering and her wings flitting, casting prismatic lights, as she added one last thing to their conversation.

   “Also, Sharena,” Peony whispered, “happy new year.”

[aurathian]

spring ♕ ao3

was so excited to participate in the Zelda Creators Secret Santa, and even MORE excited to get to gift the incredible artist @wrenlink !! please enjoy :)

Rating: G

Fandom: Twilight Princess

Summary: The Hero's Shade visits him in a dream.

It’s a spring.

He knows this spring. He knows this crystal-clear water, the small falls and the grove surrounding it. He knows the little peaks from which streams descend, the horse grass framing the shore, the light and gentle tides.

Link knows this peace.

Pants rolled to his knee, bare feet cooled by the water, something soft yet coarse under his hand. His left hand, marked by the Triforce, resting upon the coat of his horse. Epona. The other hand holds a brush, light wood and dark bristles, sweeping gentle strokes across the rusty hair. She snorts, shakes her head a little.

He knows the sky above.

It’s an ethereal, glowing yellow, with hints of fading blue, dotted by golden clouds and towards the horizon, a rich and deep orange. He knows this twilight. He knows this setting sun, casting its sleepy rays over the water lapping at his ankles.

If he knows all of this,

then why does it feel so distant?

There is no birdsong, nor is there even a slight breeze, and yet the water moves. There are no rodents scuttling about, no squirrels or insects or anything living besides him and his Epona. Why is it that the leaves seem to move in spite of the nonexistent wind, but he doesn’t hear them shuffle against each other? Why does water trickle into the spring, but he can’t hear the drops twinkle against the surface? Why, when he runs his brush across Epona’s coat, does it not make a sound? He kicks his foot in the water, watches it scatter and splash elsewhere in silence.

He hears footsteps. They’re muffled by the thick grass until they hit coarse sand and become piercing, crunching sounds. Link turns around, dropping his brush in the water (it doesn’t make a sound) and stares.

He hadn’t howled a tune at one of the stones in a while, nor had he seen the golden wolf lingering anywhere. The ground isn’t cloudy, and the scenery is clear–no haze or fog, the leaves are green and the sky is gold and nothing is shrouded with mist. Link looks around again. No, there is only forest. He can’t see the proudest, highest points of Hyrule from here. He looks down at the water. Just him.

So why is the Hero’s Shade standing there?

The Hero’s Shade bears no sword, no shield. He has only his phantom body and overgrown armor, and that helmet with cracking, shattered horns.

“Hello,” says the Hero’s Shade. Tentatively, Link replies with a small nod and furrowed brows. The armored ghost looks around, eyeing the surroundings carefully. “What is the name of your steed?”

Epona.

Link continues on petting her. It’s almost awkward–like a shock interrupting the peace that hung in the air only a few seconds ago.

“Epona,” the Shade repeats.

Again, Link says something. Why are you here? But when he opens his mouth and asks, no sound comes out, not even a breath.

“I knew an Epona once, too.” The Shade approaches Epona, extending a ghoulish, bony hand to trail down her snout and stroke her mane. His eye lands on Link, frozen in place. “You must cherish the things you have. The people and places you know.”

I do, Link says.

“No.” The Hero’s Shade fully turns to him. “You don’t, until you lose it all. Truly, everything.”

Link’s hand fell from the coat of Epona, resting at his side. I’m trying, he said. I’m trying.

“I know,” he replied. “I tried too. And no matter how hard you try, you will never please them, because our suffering is unending.”

Who is them? And our?

He doesn’t ask it aloud, only runs through the people he knows. The people of Ordon? The monarchy? Midna’s people? When the Hero’s Shade looks to the sky, he understands at last. Or, he thinks so, anyway. The tales of Hyrule are still new to him.

Can I ask you a question? Link asks. And this time, you’ll answer?

“Yes.”

Why are you here?

He watches the ghostly form of the shade tense and then relax, akin to heaving a sigh. Epona whinnies, rubs her hand against the phantom bones of his hand, like she knows him. Remembers him, perhaps, from some bygone age.

Link will ask her about it later as a wolf.

“I am here…” he pauses, focusing his eye on Epona. “I am here because I know who you are, and because I want to guide you.” The Hero’s Shade walks over and takes Link’s hand into his own, tracing the faint Triforce upon it. 

“I am here because I know what this means. I know the gravity of this mark.” He flicks his gaze up, piercing red into Link’s clear, innocent blue. “Because you do not understand, and one day, you will carry its burden with you forever. Perhaps, I am a warning.”

Link closes his mouth, glancing between the ghost and his–their, seemingly–horse. He looks at the Shade’s breastplate, the face of an owl–or is it a hawk? He knows owls mean wisdom, because one day at twilight, Rusl had told him. One day, at twilight, in this overgrown, glimmering spring…

Link looks to the Hero’s Shade once more.

What happened to you?

It seems like the Hero’s Shade smiles at him, casting his singular red gaze back over the water.

“I wonder if you, too, will meet my same fate.”

Link blinks away the bright sunlight, sitting up from the earth beneath him. It’s a spring.

And now, there is birdsong.

[cassiopeiagarcia]

I wanted to write something for @hinataxsunshine as a thank you for everything. ☀ Not only for what you do for me, but also for the community.

'Little mouse, little mouse, where are you? Little mouse...♩ ♫' The Mad Hatter sang, as she made her way through the once lustrous gardens, with a jar of jam in one of her hands, each white, long, bony finger holding it covered with blood, paint, and dirt. She frowned, and pouted, as would a little kid realizing that she wouldn't be able to find the dormouse with this obscure widow's veil handicapping her sight, as he was a tiny, scurry thing. So she lifted it up, as a result seeing the world with color for the first time since he had died.

She swallowed, hard, the sinews on her neck standing up even more than they usually did because of all the weight she had lost. Suddenly scared and overwhelmed by the fact that even without him the world still had color, she fell to her knees and crawled towards the shadow of big tree, below all the foliage, as memories started coming back. His face, his lips, his hands, his body. His smile, directed at him.

Your hair is like the sunshine.

Tangled and greasy, she couldn't remember the last time she had washed it. Her once luscious strawberry blonde curls had lost all their shine due to the lack of nutrients (had she eaten anything today? Yesterday? The last week?), and now, every single time she'd run her hands through them, she ended up with a fist full of hair, around a quarter of it white. Soon, there would be nothing left.

Your chocolate-colored eyes...

Which had been beautiful at some point, but were now bulging, like those of a frog or a toad, blood-shot and yellow. There was a dark, aubergine purple around them, as if the capillaries surrounding them had burst and leaked blood into the skin. She hadn't been able to sleep for more than a couple of hours since that eighth beheading.

I'll never get tired of kissing your lips.

Waxy pale, with red ulcers on them. Like blood upon the snow. Like the blood clotting the petals of the white roses that bloomed in the Red Queen's garden. Chapped, cracked, dry, painful. Nobody would kiss them now. Only Death, maybe, when He finally lowered his scythe and severed the thread that binded her to life. The moment she would join him again, she would be in his arms once more. She hoped he understood. He would, right? He had to.

She would make a good corpse. She already looked the part. Like a woman who had contracted the plague and barely survived it. Like he had looked after they had stitched his head to his body and burned him in a funeral pyre, her first instinct having been walking right into it, becoming ashes, hers and his, intertwined... no, but they hadn't burned him, had they? They had buried him... who had they burned, then? Whose ashes were staining her dress, the soles of her shoes?

She pressed her eyes shut, arms surrounding her legs, body rocking forth and back, forth and back, forth and back... repeating the same sentence like a mantra, now. Who had they burned, who had they burned, who had they burned, how had they burned them?

'My queen, we burned the corpses of those who died in the war.'

Oh. Her mouth opened in surprise and she lifted her head, looking at the Dormouse, adorable with his little mouse ears that... didn't look like a mouse anymore. Now it was a tall human with space buns, with a kind, sleepy face, that sat by her side and didn't seem to mind the fact that she smelled like a grave's miasma or that she looked like she had just dug herself out of a tomb. That flies were buzzing around her, that beetles and other critters had made their home on the edges of her dress, confusing her with a dead body they could lay their claim on. Not now, but soon, she promised them, pushing them away kindly with a finger.

'What war? Against the Red Queen? Have many of them died?'

A yawn. 'So, so many, my Queen.' Heavy eyelids.

'Was it my fault? Was it my fault, Hinata? Was it, was it?'

'It was nobody's fault. Only the Death of Love.'

'You don't blame me, then?' She found it surprising, the fact that she still could cry, that without even trying, tears still streamed down her sucked-in cheeks.

The Dormouse, fighting a battle against tiredness that, they both knew, he couldn't win, shook his head and got closer to Cass, surrounding her with an arm, making her place her head on his shoulder. 'You are not to blame, Cass. Of course I don't. You're my friend. You need to get some rest.'

She closed her eyes, a calm expression in a body that was nothing but tempest, a raging storm, but Hinata had that effect on people.

On her.

'I brought you jam but I got scared and...' She had let go off the jar when she had taken off her veil and got shocked by the realization that there was still a life without Soma, that birds still sang and flowers still grew, even if she couldn't fathom it. It would be somewhere in the garden. Maybe they could go and try to find it after they had a little nap. 'I promise I won't say the word that starts with c...' Cat. Because mouses were scared of kittens, and, thinking about Cheshire's creepy grin full of sharp teeth and tendency to appear and disappear whenever he wanted, and make his head float around the room... she really couldn't help but be it a little bit, too.

They both drifted off to sleep.

Cass leaning on Hinata as she had done one too many times, in too many different realities, and would keep doing for as long as he would let her.

[pawla666]

sleepy eyes and bony knees

[neckdeep--in--realfriends]

I miss the sleepy eyes and bony knees…

I also miss Dan.

Real Friends - I’ve Never Been Home

[libidomechanica]

The mark the receive

And as clomb on her dream, and blown.     His gylden ground, that echoes and hide indeed of the ball     sleepeth not turn or eleven; tis trace; the fair pale as     loves derives as weapons house. Beside. Smiling with which in     my smart, and man, and as

he’s goodnight or she had been she     felt thought, which make, thus Good Betty all might by a day on     the has nature silence and her who vent. A thou have me.—     She night of one failing told these like a wretch and loathing     I deny, and her o’er

tread, it home back, so the more settled     eithers’ feare. Like with rainbow of solemnize the sea-     nymphs rough child of haunt a blink, ere her than centurit glen;     thou now? Their obstinacy, both punch, but pause, thus is surpris’d     her mark; the hearted

then fire scaffolding; they were all     that a thorne Neptune’s the river’d from their sleepe. These world.     Sprang to dislike a wretch, doth least, and now, but though erst: they     light, and in each selfe pype and there’s an every eyes in     my book out! Of the down

length thy advice: the lay, ye wad     na gie for a whirl the passe I doubts and say the honey     fed; which sorowe, and raised who is but when their time with     then the cries from their such was penn’d: his foremost, which sing purpose?     Who had love of

Sicily: to norther love is wintry     germ is empty. Freely mind; and though ever than their     ruin! Stay than this dusk as I have fell, desiring     ye. Grow good was setting a youth, and her Cheek,—who single     must leave a blessing ye.

Her her own so rich rubies but     oh, thou have which hoped, if some clever, mute to walked and nymph     of ruin. If I wene third’s-eye view from breast it was she     view; they were than your feeling innate chanc’d; the changes of     strange in one of paying,

no hand, all though his like they this     fine and my sovered trac’d, with they were than the dust all     the windy nigh. Sea-nymphs rough shepheard me reveal to the     Door old sad and better the roaring to the dreary as     a bird, and thou pointerfered

place, and is leftst thy sins     and drove a lion, I hae been music the heart. On board     of wives derives do blossom’d bow’d face and seamen, seated     more. The dreary as a while them sing from thing earth, which I     lie of the secret

portraiten’d quick stripped in chief sae shy;     for than did I loves, scent remain heaped winds and me who like     state! In orders brown like lie, but each painful son leaue a     dream of the love, wan, althought as all off, or display for     tea and her lip to the

scaffolding sweetest began to     ken, even his cheek turn outlass, and gone, for then hundreds     real spent. Susan will sleepy at all. Homely, flush’d thrall! Where     great nameless mountains o’ land, as the round, airport so I     swarm the fixt a sentimes

such colored; we shuddering,     the should not a tree, whatever gladly her child from thought,     elbows, knee concord of humour. Happy, half raught her in     one should far majestine this honey barbed shall not tell by     the shalt low river damm’d

up they country gentle was outside     no double task. Topics mostly in had see the was     of Fame, if the fish to shall night twice, that unfading passion,     but like a masquerade; the last, and Scorn? Have no more     it me when I’m surely

string, salving from the rest because     I will her Johnny soon from else sad mistress! How lightly     bell. Being thought rise, and if I euery of the bird-     underings the never will show my waterfall, at this last     all have more will heart could

surely to chaced yet is the     vaulted, Charity. Pensive zebra music came, every     was more the sea-shore devis’d her the little eyes the sweet     love. Alas! Heart to kill from Vesper’d of cattled eithere     your fail. But such lust in

her bonie laddie’s you art of fortune     of his some forget no doubt he look up but oh, that     was the beauty’s near, quoth Beauty’s moorland great use the come     two. Too near rosary need heaven of they had ta’en and     grieve, to this joyous task.

[gayspaceheist]

    Jin, shoulderblades pressed against the front of the scuffed yellow couch, looked up from the mess of gun parts on the floor in front of them to discover that Hal had spread a quantity of blueprints around herself and was studying them intently, pen in her teeth. She had a second pen in her hand and reached over several different pages of schematic to scrawl a sloppy question mark over what looked, from the wrong direction, like either a pair of sliding doors or an escalator. Mina had gone to bed, which probably meant Mina had gone to put on her noise-cancelling headphones and text eight people simultaneously about engine specs, but Jin had been too engrossed in oiling gun barrels to have really noticed Mina’s goodnight, other than a faint half a memory, if they really reached for it, of Mina ruffling their hair and saying, goodnight asshole, with that fond and sleepy crook of her mouth that meant she was tapping out. 

   They had sort of forgotten that Hal was still here, engrossed in the ritual of parts and placing. Felt weird, somehow, like they’d missed tightening a part of the gun mechanism or hadn’t noticed the air purifier had kicked on. Almost asked what she was doing, to diffuse the ticking silence, but probably it was only ticking for them, loud and pressing, now that they’d suddenly noticed it was there. And anyway it was just Hal bent over her spread of maps and blueprints, checking exits and entrances again again again, trying to find flaws ahead of time. She’d been doing it off and on for days, like a protection ritual. Maybe it was. 

   Jin went back to cleaning the revolver, which no longer needed the attention. They thought for a minute, like someone had unthinkingly tabbed open the window blinds in their brain, about the night before the last go, when Zarrow had got extremely tipsy off a fizz she’d stolen out of Mina’s workroom minifridge, and had mimed the entire plan, twirling Pross across the floor of the workroom with such giddy zeal that Pross even fucking laughed, and then with her hand still in Proserpine’s had braced her back up against Jin’s in a dizzy parody of their usual gunfights. 

   They sat up, blinking, trying to tear the cobweb of memory off. Hal was looking at them, felt-tips down, so still, arm flung over knees, eyes wide and dark. Jin said, “What the fuck are you looking at me like that for?” and Hal pulled her mouth wry and long and weirdly sad. 

   A beat. And then Hal said, like it was a perfectly ordinary question, “Can I kiss you?” 

   Jin stared, words and thoughts drying up. Their ears were roaring like they’d gone to sit in the engine room. They could see, suddenly, exactly how it would go. How, if they nodded, Hal would close the few feet between them, and the way she would first slide one hand against Jin’s face, thumb skirting the still-tender bone beneath their eye. Jin understood with horrible clarity the way they would turn their face into Hal’s palm, the smell of felt-tip and skin-warmth, how they’d kiss into her hand and shut their eyes. The way Hal, so slowly and so gently, would kiss the thin tissue of their eyelids, first one, then the other, and the bridge of their nose; the way they'd feel the riverbed-lap of her breath, the firm tender warmth of her mouth. How still so gently she’d press her mouth to the corner of Jin’s, and Jin knew the way their mouth would open at the touch, and the long slow breath they’d let out like an uncapped valve, and the way they would at last bite very lightly at Hal’s lip and draw her in and their mouths would align, and she would kiss them and she would kiss them and she would kiss them, Jin’s bony knee hedging her in, her hand skimming their jawline and fingers digging in behind their ear, the way Jin’s hands would stay braced to the floor, wrists white with strain, until Hal’s other hand came up to cup their jaw with too much reverence and they would snake a hand into her hair to tug meanly, hungrily, balance back the energy between them, turn the kiss-- 

   Jin flinched back. “You planning to die tomorrow? What the hell? Since when do we -- that’s dying-tomorrow behaviour. What are you going to do now, pull out your wallet and show me pictures of your grandmother back home? Fucking hell, Goshawk, get some air.” They reached over to cap the bottle of gun oil, crumple up their rag. 

   Hal looked stung, and then embarrassed. “No, I -- never mind.” She stood up, brushing at her trouser legs, leaving the felt-tips and the blueprints on the floor. “Anyway, I’m out. I’m not getting anything else done tonight. Did Kventhe shut down the -- never mind, I’ll do it. Get some sleep, hotshot. Can’t have you going blurry tomorrow.” 

   Jin stared up at her from the floor, knee pulled up. Their mouth tasted like metal. They scrubbed a wrist across their face and then set to reassembling the revolver. “Okay,” they said, light and casual. “All right. Goodnight, detective.” 

   Hal turned crisply on her grey-socked heel, somehow, and went for the door, leaving her collage of schematics behind. Jin watched her shoulderblades move under the black tank and the dark curl of hair at the nape of her neck. The sliding doors swallowed her up. Jin leaned back against the couch, and thought very hard about the way the cheap synthetic upholstery prickled at the skin of their neck like radio static. Every bruise they could remember having ached at once. They shut their eyes. 

[sky-limits]

[twwm] polaris prompt 9 - cairn

My home is my habitat, and like the animals the people in the town keep in cages, I pace too. My head is heavy with the weight of my sorrows, and I hang low, stuck in the mire and muck that surround my boundary. The forest crowds me to the east, darkness encroaching and following me when the sun is high, allowing the shadows to reach out their bony fingers and grab at me. The village, city, whatever it classifies itself as it is now, rises, nearly towering over the mountains that ring a sleepy valley and its lake. I climb the walk up to the village on my saddest days, quietly taking in everything around me. The sun rises in the east, and the city is painted golden orange rays through the morning. Often, I amble through town at this time of day, slowly padding along as my flower and lantern disappear.

Naked, classified now as wandering, I sit with the beggars on the streets, the people seeking a warm shawl or hunk of bread. I know these people, know them in my soul with deep mourning. They are simple in needs, complex in story, like me. I curl next to them, and though they cannot feel me, I know I am of comfort to them, somehow. They realize they aren’t alone, know that while I cannot keep them warm physically, something is trying to help. I see it in their eyes, the crinkles and wrinkles and crow's feet relaxing into a comfortable, vulnerable smile. It is rare to see them like this, open to the world after it has shut them out. They inspire me, to smile with my mouthless face, to open back up to the world through my pain.

I visit them daily, and leave my mark. When I exit the village at sundown, many of them stand together, no longer solitary and afraid of one another, but embracing and singing sweet songs, of sunny pomegranates and crystallized warm waters. I feel warm, looking back at the scene I’ve created, inspired. These are good people, and I am lucky to be graced with their presence. Soon, my head no longer hangs low as it did. I swim in my lake for the caress of the silky water, not to lose myself in its orchestral wailing. I float, bouncing and leaping along, joyous and light. The people in the city come together to help each other, supporting everyone within their little kingdom. I’d like to believe this is all me, but I simply know that it isn’t. I may have contributed, but I was not the patch for their wounds, the salve for their bruises.

By night, I stand in front of my home, hopeful, lantern swinging above me with a gentle, unseen breeze. I am ready to help travelers in need, while not able to be seen by these people, I am noticeable in some way. Some sense my energy, the humming that lives inside of me and echoes outward, reverberating through spaces around me and conforming to others’ energies around me. In the twilight blush of the sun setting over the mountains, a pair of staggering wanderers stumble through my path. One is wounded, the other holding them up, mumbling something encouraging.

I follow them, worried, until the wounded one collapses, and the other with them. Down on their knees, the helping, weary traveler weeps into their hands. I sit on the sidelines of this interaction, and try to absorb how they feel, comfort them in this time of need. I know the injured traveler will not be getting up again. With a heavy heart, the other trembles, walks over to a patch of soft earth, and begins to dig. Their hands scrabble in the dirt, desperate for purchase, digging a hastily made grave before darkness fully sets in, envelops the world in a simple choking hold, when the predators and highwaymen come out, when someone such as a lone traveler would be in danger.

Standing by, I watch them, unable to help. Dirt catches under their fingernails, in their hair, on their skin, until they are splotched with the effort of the labor. Soon, it is dug, through sheer force and willpower. The wounded, now still person, lies in the grave. The now lone traveler closes their eyes, and weeps, filling in the resting space of their companion quickly. The sun has now set, catscratch moon crowning the canopies of the slim-fingered trees, and now unaccompanied, the traveler leaves, quickly jogging to the city.

For a while, I sit by the grave with my head bowed, the grief of the situation overtaking me and all the good I have done so far. I lay, gently at the head of the dirt mound, and rest with the soul now resting beneath it. It feels right, good to do, keeping them company with my lantern light and glowing petals. This person needs to be remembered, recalled by those that pass, I decide. So, I rise to my feet, and begins lifting rocks, moving them into a clumsy pile, balanced delicately on their edges and ends.

When the morning comes, the traveler comes back, presses their palms to my cairn, and leaves again. I become sort of a myth in the city. People whisper of me in hushed tones, little messages and pipsqueaks of rumors spreading tendrils through the cracks, binding them together. Soon, more and more are buried near my home, near the lake. I build cairns for them all, the mysterious spectre with a light only glimpsed faintly in the densest of fogs. Over time, they grow stronger, more intricate, the rocks shining, a monument.

I am Polaris, guiding star to spirits, Cairn-Builder to humans.