#they will know no peace!!!! they will be each others torture in the nightmare realm!!!!

[nellandvoid]

so i caved and made a journal page of the wayfinder,,,,,,

while i continue to make procrastinate on my first meet comic with her and ford, i figured i could make a little somethin somethin about ford's first impressions. and who knows, if inspiration strikes i may make more (like when he first saw her without the helmet, learning about the arms, etc etc) cause tbh this was actually really fuckin fun to do!

i figured ford had to have kept some kind of journal while traveling the multiverse so this would have probably been after the first week of meeting the wayfinder

close ups of the text (with transcription in alt text cause i also can't read the damn cursive lol) below cut!!

[ravenstargames]

✦ Lost in Limbo Masterpost ✦

Everything you need to know about the game so far! 💜

When you finally quit your dead-end job and move back to your mother's house in the ever-peaceful town of Faybourne, you think things could only get better. However, the moment you set foot in your childhood home, a harrowing nightmare long forgotten reappears to haunt you once more.

A tower that crumbles in the vastness of a bleeding sky. A voice that mourns and yearns for something.

Torn away from your peaceful life and thrown into a world of danger and deceit, you are at the mercy of the Seven Sovereigns of Limbo, almighty gods that have sworn to be your protectors...as long as you prove yourself useful.

As the consequences of a plan set in motion long ago start to unveil, will love be the key to your freedom, or the first chapter of your downfall?

To obtain every CG, we reccommend playing the demo twice and testing different options! 

🔮 JOIN OUR KICKSTARTER PRE-LAUNCH!

✦ PLAY OUR DEMO NOW ON:

🔮 STEAM (MAC, LINUX, WINDOWS)

🔮 ITCH.IO (MAC, LINUX, WINDOWS)

🔮 GOOGLE PLAY

✦ THE STORY ✦

Lost in Limbo is a dark fantasy & romance visual novel taking place in the mysterious realm of Limbo. Take the role of River Winchester (full name and pronouns changeable), a human dealing with common-life problems, as you find yourself trapped in a foreign world.

Try to survive and go back to your family with the help of the Seven Sovereigns, gods who rule over Limbo and have sworn to be your protectors...even if their intentions may be completely different.

Which of the Seven Sovereigns will be in charge of your life is up to fate, but whether you fall in love or in disgrace... is up to you.

✦ THE GAME ✦

✦ Lost in Limbo is rated +17 and will include flashing lights, mild horror, disturbing imagery, mild jumpscares, implicit and suggestive sexual scenes and discussions, sensitive topics such as toxic family relationships, anxiety, depression, depictions of alcohol / drug use, etc. Each route will have content warnings available for the player. 

✦ The game and demo will be released on itchio and then steam. Other platforms (mobile/nintendo switch) are being considered and will depend on future kickstarter stretch goals.

Keep reading to know more about the game and the choice system, the cast, the MC and the Demo release!

✦ The game WILL NEVER depict gruesome scenes such as torture, sexual assault or any kind of overly cruel violence. The game has some fighting, a few deaths, and some unsettling descriptions, though!

✦ There will be four different choice systems that will give shape to your playthrough:

Trust Points centered around your Love Interest; a low level of trust can translate into Bad Endings*.

Plot-driving choices that will shape the story and its possible endings and the fate of the side characters.

Personality choices that will determine the Main Character's relationship with their Love Interest, as well as how the MC reacts to certain events, their abilities, hobbies, etc.

Flavor choices! These don't impact the game directly, but are there for the main objective of the game: having fun!

*In Lost in Limbo, there's not only one correct answer and one wrong answer. There's different ways of earning trust points without having to stick for the "one and only right answer", and mistakes can be redeemed...sometimes.

✦ Lost in Limbo treats consensual sex as a natural, integral and positive part of the game. Every Love Interest will approach it differently based on their experiences and their preferences; the player will have the choice whether to engage or not* without being penalized.

*Amon's route is strongly centered around the sexual tension between him and the MC, and how this attraction quickly develops into a physical relationship. Sexual scenes will be more frequent than in the rest of the routes and can be skipped, but happen nonetheless.

✦ This is a LGBT+ game.

✦ THE CAST ✦

The Seven Sovereigns: Because a family of gods can be a father and his six children...with all the problems that this entails.

✦ Lost in Limbo features seven Love interests and a wide cast of secondary characters yet to be revealed. Each Love Interest is in a different stage of their lives and has a past and personality that molds their relationship with the MC into different kinds of romance.

✦ The routes will be episodic, meaning that the game will update regularly with new chapters instead of the complete routes being released all at once.

As the older sibling, Amon had plenty of time to learn how to be a god living amongst mortals, and yet, that hasn't stopped him from indulging in mundane pleasures...greatly so.

A frantic-paced and intense romance in which a physical relationship blooms into love with a great deal of hardships to overcome.

Dedicated and brave, Praefectus Raeya takes her role as Limbo's protector extremely seriously, but the truth behind the realm's darkest times will soon put her loyalty to the test.

A woman bound by duty and a romance full of yearning and mutual pining. A route centered around trust, forgiveness and finding the strenght to fix what's broken.

Pronounced [ɡaˈel]

Master of the Grand Houses, Gael is admired for his humble and altruistic persona, but a dangerous secret has kept him away from love his whole life.

A fake-marriage scenario turns into a forbidden romance for a man who has been denied affection since the day he was created.

Stripped of their name and shunned after commiting treason, the Sovereign now known as Lord Envy lives a life of solitude—if only he could get rid of his siblings.

An enemies-to-lovers romance, a betrayed heart that needs healing, and a god who constantly denies themselves from being happy.

Kind and caring, Ara is not only determined to make your time in Limbo a happy thing to remember, but also to make things go back to the way they were, no matter the cost.

A charming and playful romance and the tale of a girl who takes matters into her own hands—for better or worse.

As the youngest sibling, no one expects anything from Xal, not even himself. He is seen as a good-for-nothing and a poor excuse of a god, but you two are about to prove everyone wrong.

A first love romance about a young god who was born in the wrong side of the universe, and how someone can be the reason to try again where you once failed.

Creator of Limbo, Father Pride has to watch over the safety of his realm and the happiness of his family. However, the life of the God of Limbo can be solitary...and that solitude can lead to one's demise.

A convoluted love story about a god that can't let go, as much as he wants to. A dramatic route where the right decision is never the easiest to make.

Pride's route is the sometimes hopeless tale of an all-mighty god brought to his knees. His good ending will be "harder" to obtain than the rest of the cast. It'll be the last route being written and produced because of its weight plot-wise.

✦ THE MC ✦

River Winchester (name and pronouns changeable) quit their job and had to move back to their childhood town to live with their mother and grandmother. Old family dynamics and the dread of an unknown future await them—as well as a cryptic nightmare they have been having since they were a kid.

A past buried under years of lies must come to light sooner or later, if you are able to put together the pieces of the puzzle and live to tell the tale.

✦ The MC is written as a young adult who is at least 21 years old. The player can headcanon their character as any age they desire, but every route is written so the MC is of an age similar to that of the chosen love interest, except for Father Pride who is older than the MC.

✦ The MC is a strong-willed individual who isn't afraid to jump into action. In the game, you'll be able to channel these characteristics in different ways. River is funny, kind and a bit too stubborn—but you choose how to manage those traits and whether to let them shine or not. The game will remember, so if you are not too athletic, maybe hitting that monster with a chair isn't a very good idea.

✦ The MC also has some default tastes, hobbies and memories. During the game, you'll be able to personalize how the Main Character feels about their interests, add new ones, or reflect about how the past affected them. The characters will remember this.

✦ THE DEMO ✦

FEATURES:

The first version of Lost in Limbo's prologue

Customizable first name, last name and pronouns of the MC (she/her, he/him, they/them) or use a default name; River Winchester.

Over ~42k words (around three hours of gameplay)

Seven CGs (one per character) + mini-CGs to enhance the experience!

Over 25 different choices (some of them timed!)

If you have made it this far—thank you for your time! We are sorry for the obnoxiously long post. We hope it has been useful to at least solve some questions you may have about the game. You can always ask us anything and we will reply as soon as possible! 💜

[dailyadventureprompts]

Deity: Torog, the Crawling King

But see, amid the mimic rout /  A crawling shape intrude! A blood-red thing that writhes from out  / The scenic solitude! It writhes!—it writhes!—with mortal pangs  /The mimes become its food, And seraphs sob at vermin fangs  / In human gore imbued.

Out—out are the lights—out all! / And, over each quivering form, The curtain, a funeral pall, /  Comes down with the rush of a storm,   While the angels, all pallid and wan, / Uprising, unveiling, affirm That the play is the tragedy, “Man,” / And its hero, the Conqueror Worm. 

- Edger Allan Poe

An avatar of suffering and madness, the worm god Torog embodies the worst aspects of mortalkind’s relation to pain: both in the cruel supremacy of those who inflict it, and in the desperate degradation of those they inflict it upon.

There are many mythologies that explain why the king crawls, usually painting him as a great and terrible divinity of the dawn age who was broken in battle with some foe, imprisoned within the underdark and crushed beneath its ever shifting weight. There Torog lingers, suffering eternally save when someone inflicts suffering in his name. To these individuals Torog grants power, blasphemous secrets, the promise of endless indulgence to their heartless desires. One would think that only the most twisted and broken of souls would worship such a foul god, but the worm wriggles its way into the hearts of many as there is always profit and power to be had in the subjugation and exploration of others. From the slave driver to the industrialist to the prison warden to the residential school instructor, few actively understand that their cruelty is a form of worship, or what exactly that worship is feeding.

Hooks

Travelling into a decrepit castle for whatever reason adventurers do, the party makes its way to the actual dungeon part of the dungeon, discovering disused torture chambers and a single cell that still seems to be occupied by some poor wretch begging for release. This is a lure into one of Torog’s many prison realms, a realm the party will have to escape but not after being marked by the crawling king’s agents for further collection.

Grotesque monstrosities have been lurking about the city’s underbelly: shambling tangles of wormflesh that sprout from the wounds and ruptures of humanoid corpses. There seems to be no pattern in who these, until the party investigates and discovers that one of the vessels was a vagrant and petty criminal that was sentenced to a workhouse some years ago. There they find the workhouse is operated by a puritanical social reformer that places strict emphasis on cleanliness, obedience, and piety. All the corpses turn out to be those who stepped out of line and died as a result of her “discipline”, but it’s not until the party notices that her dutiful but bruisemarked husband shows the sign of infection that they realize that her abuse is what’s allowing the worms to take root.

While excavating the foundations for the duke’s new estate, a group of workers stumbled across an unsettling statue and altarspace buried low beneath the earth. The duke ordered the altar torn down and work to continue, and since then has not known peace. Terrible accidents befall everyone who was on the digging crew that day, and the duke’s dreams are full of the earth yawning open to swallow him and everything he knows. The heroes are hired to break whatever nightmare or curse is preventing the duke from sleeping, but must deal with their patron growing increasingly paranoid unhinged as Torog’s influence over him grows. Should the party not play their cards right, they might end up imprisoned by their employer just as a colossal worm breaks through the foundations and begins ravaging the castle.

An aside from the author: I think Torog might be one of the best gods ever produced by the the greater d&d think tank, as I fell in love with the Matt Mercer’s presentation of him during the second campaign of critical role. Iconic, Thematically rich, and Adaptable, he’s EVERYTHING you want from an evil god whether you have him as a central antagonist in a campaign or the slightest hint of worldbuilding. 

As it turns out, Torog is one of the few exceptions to my “people don’t worship evil gods” rule, as the evil that Torog represents is so insidious and far ranging that worship for him can occur without the worshipper even acknowledging it. Every society has people that perpetuate cruelty and restrict the freedom of others, and those are all the prayers the wormgod might ever need.

Also, for your benefit, Here’s a grand listing of all my Torog inspired adventures

[weekend-whip]

garmadon, H?

H. Someone’s Greatest Fear (this could read either as post NS10!Garmadon or Legacyverse!Garmadon in general, take your pick. Also with some light Crystalized speculation but technically not spoilers)

(Send me a letter and a character and I’ll write a small fic!)

AO3 Version

. . .

“What’s your greatest fear?”

Four words. A common icebreaker against lesser willed individuals. A invoking thought passed around for simple metaphorical discussion. A question asked so casually in times of calm and peace, a question designed to dig deeper into the minds of others, to invite understanding into another’s worldview...

It is a question that should not be taken lightly.

It’s a question Garmadon’s asked himself time and time again, yet each and every time the answer has been significantly different. 

He’s been afraid of the dark as a child, but darkness is and always has been something synonymous with his own soul, something capable of destruction and chaos on a whim. It’s his essence, it’s his very being, it’s the thing he knows better than anyone else in the world. And now, darkness has become something of an old friend. Darkness is only terrifying if you let it be. 

He’s been afraid of the venom as well, ruining his family’s love for him, ruining any sense of friendship he’d once had with the Elemental Alliance, ruining his perception of himself, terrified of what it would turn him into. He once looked at a reflection of himself and saw a monster that haunted his dreams until the day those dreams turned to nightmares and the nightmares came true.

But perhaps the venom, too, had become something of a comfort. Something of a crutch to weigh all his sins upon, something to place the blame upon when the divide between his compulsive desire for evil and his own personal vendetta against the world became too blurred to separate. It made him believe he was invincible, infallible, incapable of feeling inadequate—or at least, that’s what he would tell himself. 

Because how could you fear anything when you were the very thing so many others feared themselves? When you were someone else’s greatest fear? 

How could he invoke terror into others if he were to be terrified himself?

And his horrid excuse of a life had hardened him against anything that could’ve possibly brought him down to his knees in cowering shame. He thought he wouldn’t have to be afraid of anything anymore when his wife took their newborn child and fled from his influence, when his brother finally drew the battle lines between him and his greatest dream, when divine lightning struck him straight down into the Underworld with the hopes of leaving him there to rot...but none of it lasted for long. He picked himself up each and every time, his ambitions renewed like the rising of a phoenix. 

He doesn’t have the time to be afraid, even after ages of being alive. 

He could have the venom purged out of him by the power of love, his family tortured for the power they possessed, forfeit his life to be banished to the Cursed Realm by his own flesh and blood, and be forcibly born anew without purpose, without proper personality, and without pretense...and still, could there be nothing in this realm that might paralyze him to the core with terror? 

...well, once, long ago, there may have been one thing...

...maybe, just an ounce of dread bloomed within him when the Four Weapons of Spinjitzu twirled around his son in a dance of Green and Gold to deem him the Chosen One...

...of being told that one day, to fulfill the prophecy, Son would have to face down Father...of knowing that his son possessed a power that far rivaled his own and paralleled that of the First Spinjitzu Master...

...that Garmadon would one day have to look into the eyes of his son and try to kill him (or, vice versa)...

...and he’d thought that day had come and gone already. Twice or thrice over, even. 

But now, he beholds that very son of his, right in front him, embodying everything that everyone’s ever hated, despised, and feared about Garmadon...and everything Garmadon’s always hated about himself since being alive. 

It stands reflected in Lloyd, bleeding out through his rage that rolls off him in unrelenting waves and the tears that stream down his face as finally, the weight of the world has become too much to bear. As finally, the pressures of responsibility, expectations, and his own personal beliefs crush what remains of his soul into a paper ball and turns it inside out, reflecting only the ugliest parts of Lloyd that have been kept within for far, far too long. 

Garmadon beholds his son giving into the temptations of power, and anger, and hated, and vengeance, because he’s denied it for so long, and even the strongest being to ever be has their limits. Even a god gets tired, and in their fleeting moments of rest do the unexpected things happen. Garmadon knows this. He’s felt these things before, lived through these things...

...and knows exactly what it is like to be so sick of your circumstances beyond your control, to be so fed up with being stuck as who you are when who you are is something you never wanted to be. 

Lloyd, pausing for a miracle of a moment in his crystallized rampage, looks at Garmadon with eyes filled with such pain, agony, and sadness, and for the first time in a long time does Garmadon feel something tug within him. Something he doesn’t like, something that makes him want to fight, flee, and freeze all at once. 

Something...that makes him want to grab Lloyd and hug him with all four arms he’s got.

. . .

 . . .

  . . .

He’s been asked time and time again what it is he fears the most in this unforgiving world. A question he’s pondered so many times, and never truly had a concrete answer to pacify himself with. 

But this time, honestly and truly, Garmadon knows what his greatest fear is.

It’s looking at his son...and seeing himself at his worst. 

   . . . 

 . . . 

. . .

...And perhaps, a fear even greater than that...is to be powerless to do anything to stop it. 

[trashmenofmarvel]

Branded - Chapter 45

Pairing: Demon!Bucky Barnes x Reader

Summary: Bucky will do whatever it takes to get her back.

(This is a fan AU of Falling’s Just Another Way to Fly by araniaart​ . Please check out this incredible series for all of your demon Bucky needs.)

Chapter Warnings: Anger, grief, thoughts of violence, angst

AO3

Bucky paced like a wild animal, back and forth, tail lashing with each circuit he made. He hadn’t slept. He hadn’t eaten. He hadn’t functioned much at all in the past few days, and he was always a heartbeat away from snapping like a wire pulled too taut.

He couldn’t go through the door he was pacing in front of, the demonic wards holding him at bay. It was just as well. Without them, he would have marched straight inside and ripped Helmut Zemo’s spine out his throat.

It wouldn’t have solved any of Bucky’s currents problems, but it would have improved his mood. And it might have distracted him for a few moments from the black hole currently residing within him. A negative space where the bond had been. Every moment that void was there, he wanted to tear out his own heart.

Maybe he’d still get the opportunity if they couldn’t find a way to bring her back. He’d end his own life for a fast one-way ticket to the demon realm if he had to, and there Bucky would stay until he found her.

And then… what? They’d be trapped there forever? Why didn’t that scare Bucky as much as the thought of being separated, with her being all alone in that place? He knew she was resourceful. She’d proven it by the fact they’d captured Zemo at all.

When the gun had gone off, Bucky had felt like he’d been the one shot, only it hurt so much worse because he actually knew what a bullet to the gut felt like. He’d barely made it in time to catch her as she fell, and he’d been in no state of mind to deal with Zemo after that. Steve had barely been conscious by the time Strange and the others had found them, so it wasn’t him who had caught the bastard.

No, it had been the Alp itself that had stopped Zemo. Before the man had even gotten a chance to order his demon to teleport him away, it had used its paralysis aerosol on Zemo and knocked him into a peaceful sleep. And then it had vanished in a puff of sulfurous smoke, leaving its master there to be collected by the sorcerers.

The thought made Bucky shake his head. Somehow, Bucky’s girl had managed to make a demon turn on its own master. Not once, but twice, if Bucky was including himself.

Leave it to her to befriend a demon and turn it to her side.

Leave it to her to give everything for Bucky, including her own life. And what had he done in the time since then except vacillate between rage and grief? Between shouting at Strange and standing by Steve’s healing bed like a mourner at a funeral, waiting for them to come up with a rescue mission.

The sorcerers had made little progress, and Bucky feared their only hope lie in the man that had murdered her.

Bucky would have gotten the answers out of Zemo himself, if only for the fact he couldn’t get his hands on him. The demons wards weren’t to keep Bucky out, they were to keep Zemo from calling his demon slave to teleport him away. No matter how had they’d tried, the sorcerers couldn’t break the demon bond. And no matter how much the Alp might not want to, it wouldn’t be able to resist the call of its master, no matter how far away it was. Bucky had learned that lesson the hard way with his own escape attempts from HYDRA.

So now they were at an impasse. Zemo imprisoned but refusing to cooperate, and the sorcerers unable to get anything useful out of him but having no choice but to keep him locked up. Bucky hadn’t be surprised the sorcerers had failed to take away Zemo’s last Hail Mary. If they were capable of breaking demons bonds, they wouldn’t be in this situation to begin with.

The door opened, and Strange had to wave him off before Bucky accosted him with questions.

“Well?” Bucky asked, impatient. “What did he say?”

“Still nothing helpful.” Strange glanced at Wong as he too strode toward the door. It shut with a heavy thud behind them, no doubt locked by all sorts of arcane spells. “It’s clear that Zemo doesn’t know how to work the demon gate with any expert knowledge and relied solely on the red book to achieve his goals.”

The circular stone archway they’d found in the basement of the Siberian compound, which Strange had named the “demon gate,” had remained inert no matter how the sorcerers tried to manipulate and power it. How Zemo had managed to summon the Alp through it, but it wouldn’t respond to the sorcerers, left Bucky short-tempered and frustrated.

It was nothing compared to the guilt. The shame at being controlled, manipulated into almost killing Steve. He was still being tended to by the healers, and the only reason he wasn’t in a hospital was because Strange had insisted they take him to the Sanctum.

And as if that wasn’t bad enough, then Bucky’d nearly killed her. His worst nightmare being played out before his eyes, or it almost had. Through their tenuous bond she’d somehow broken through to him, and Bucky had managed to stay his hand when he’d never been able to do so before.

It had been… freeing. Liberating to disobey a direct command. To be ordered to hurt someone he loved and having the strength to resist.

And then Bucky had failed to save her anyway. She’d died, right there in his arms, her heart going silent the loudest thing he’d ever heard. As if that hadn’t shattered his world enough, she’d turned to ashes in his hands, the stink of sulfur and brimstone stinging his eyes as she slipped through his fingers.

In that moment, Bucky’s bond to Zemo had been severed. One of the apparent benefits of a demon having a human slave. She’d gone to Hell so Bucky could be free.

And all he’d managed to do with that freedom was absolutely fuck-all.

Bucky’s fist flew, the jagged knuckles of his armored hand knocking a sizable chunk out of the stone wall.

Strange merely lifted his eyebrows. Wong frowned in disapproval. Bucky didn’t give a shit. They should have woken him as soon as she’d gone missing, but instead, he’d woken on his own, bursting through the cryo-chamber and shattering its door to pieces. He’d been so confused and enraged that the sorcerers had had to bind him with glowing ropes and wards until Bucky calmed down enough to explain she was being tortured, and he could lead them to exactly where.

So, yes. As far as Bucky was concerned, this was as much Strange’s fault as it was his, and the only reason he was even still tolerating the sorcerers is because they were her only chance of rescue.

If they could get the fucking gate to work, anyway. A big fucking if. Apparently, sorcerers could make portals on Earth without a problem, but crossing into other dimensions was even beyond Strange’s capability.

And yet, she had been able to do it as a ten year old child. Bucky had hoped, maybe, somehow, she would be able to summon that power within her once again and come back to him, but there had been no sign of any mysterious blue portals popping up on Earth.

So as pissed as he was, Bucky had to remain patient, and right now, he had to pay attention.

“I have an idea on how to power the gate,” Strange said, wearily eyeing the damaged wall before turning to Bucky. “We have more of HYDRA’s research that Zemo ever did, and I have no doubt we will be able to create a stable connection soon.”

“Soon isn’t good enough,” Bucky snapped, struggling not to snarl at the sorcerer. “Every minute here is hours over there. Each day wasted is weeks she has to endure, alone, in a place humans were never meant to survive. We can’t—“

The lump in his throat forced him to silence. Bucky couldn’t say what he’d been thinking, and from Strange’s sympathetic expression, it didn’t need to be said.

They might already be too late.

Bucky still wanted to punch Strange in the face. If he cared so damned much, why hadn’t he kept a closer eye on her? Zemo may have been smart, hell, he was probably a genius to figure out how demon magic worked, but how had he managed to outsmart a whole sect of sorcerers?

“We will move as quickly as we can,” Strange said, indicating Bucky should follow him. “I don’t wish to waste any more time than you do.”

Bucky somehow doubted that, but he still followed after the head sorcerer. His tail twitched as they made their way deeper into the Sanctum, to the place Bucky had spent every waking moment when he hadn’t been by Steve’s side.

“I am aware of the time dilation in the demon realm,” Strange said as they walked down a spiraling set of stone steps, “but it might not be uniform or even linear. Your experience may differ from hers.”

If Strange thought that would be comforting news, he was wrong. Bucky didn’t need an overactive imagination to come up with whatever horrors she might be facing now. He certainly didn’t want to dwell on the possibility of… of finally making it to the demon realm and realizing hundreds of years had passed.

Bucky couldn’t… he couldn’t think about it. He would lose his mind. Bucky would only let despair swallow him after he was a hundred percent sure that… that there was nothing left to hope for. That she was truly gone and wouldn’t be coming back.

That he would never get to see her again. To watch as her eyes brightened and that familiar mischievous grin tugged at her lips. To hold her in his arms while he buried his nose in her hair, filling his nostrils with her scent and—

Bucky shook his head and grit his teeth. He couldn’t afford to get distracted, not when they were closer to their goal, so he forced himself to focus on Strange’s words. Something about a power source needed to fuel the thing, and that Zemo must have hidden it away from the base because the sorcerers couldn’t sense it. Bucky honestly didn’t understand most of it, only that it would take an unnatural power source to get the gate running.

The underground lair, as he called it, left Bucky as awed as the first time he’d stepped food inside. The room was essentially a giant dome constructed of very large stones, but the most interesting aspect of the room was the glowing glyphs carved into the stones. The power thrummed under his skin and set his arm plates rigid as his tail flickered.

And there, in the middle of the room, lay the instrument that had been the focus of his frustration and anger over the past few days. A stone gateway, teleported here by great effort from the sorcerers. It was ancient, possibly constructed during the days of the Holy Roman Empire, or so Strange had rambled. Bucky was too fucking stressed to appreciate the mythical history lesson.

When the sorcerers working on the gateway turned to Strange and confirmed it couldn’t be powered by anything in their vaults, Bucky turned away, fists tightening, mentally preparing himself for what he had to do. But before he could take even a single step, Strange laid his hand on his shoulder.

“Just a moment, Sergeant.” Strange’s voice was gentle, and it was the only reason Bucky didn’t grab the hand on his shoulder and break it. “There’s one thing left to try. It’s not without danger and risk, but—“

“I’ll do it,” Bucky said immediately. “Whatever it is, I’ll do it.”

“I suspected you might say that.”

Strange’s smile was sad but accepting as he patted Bucky, and then let his hand drop. Bucky’s desire to strangle the man went down a few notches, and if this worked and he got her back, Bucky might even forgive him.

Might.

Strange straightened his posture and faced the stone archway, held his hands in front of his chest in a manner that meant he was about to cast a spell, and he said, “Though I must warn you, tapping into the power of the Infinity Stones can be quite dangerous.”

With an intricate pull of his fingers, glowing patterns in the air emerged, and that’s when Bucky finally noticed the green light shining from Strange’s amulet. He’d vaguely wondered around the thing always around the sorcerer’s neck, and now Bucky had an answer as to what it was. Something otherworldly, deadly, and strong enough to compare with the power of the blue cube HYDRA had once wielded.

A deep thrumming filled the room, vibrating through the air and up the stones, the potential of something building made Bucky’s wings flair behind his back.

Then the glyphs along the demon gate began to glow, first green like the stone and then to a bright blue that made Bucky’s heart clench with fear. Strange blue lights often accompanied the demonic rituals HYDRA had conducted on him, but he swallowed down the panic and didn’t blink.

The charge in the air built higher and higher, until with a crackle of electricity, the empty space between the archway suddenly filled with light. It pulled outward to the edges, a border of blue around a watery image that sharpened into something Bucky recognized.

The demon realm.

“I can’t hold it forever!” Strange yelled, his hands still in the same position as he somehow, impossibly, held the gateway open using the green stone around his neck. “Get moving, Sergeant!”

Bucky didn’t have to be told twice.

With none of the hesitancy he’d shown the first time being confronted by a blue portal, Bucky flared his wings as he raced forward and gave one hard flap, lifting off and darting through the gateway like a missile launched from its tube.

The dry wind buffeted him from the other side and Bucky nearly nosedived into the red sand, but he managed to right himself and soar up into the air. The human side of him balked at the alien surroundings, but it was the demon part of him that Bucky needed now.

Orienting himself to the familiar magnetic fields of the planet, because in a sick way he’d been alive longer here than on Earth, and he knew this place as intimately as his home.

Turning in the direction of his territory, Bucky pushed his body as far as it would take him and flew faster than he ever had before.

Hold on, sweetheart, he prayed to her, hoping he was heard. I’m coming.

Next Chapter

[wrenhyperfixates]

Oh, Calamity!

Pairing: Loki x reader Summary: Your death breaks Loki, and all he wants is for you to come back to him. Warnings: short, but pure angst; mentions of death and blood A/N: inspired by the song Oh, Calamity! by All Time Low. It’s written a bit different from usual style, but felt right for what this was. Hope you enjoy :)

Disclaimer: Gif not mine

Loki had been planning on being king from a very young age. One thing he never considered, though, was needing someone to rule beside him. And then he met you.

After the Battle of New York and a brief imprisonment, Loki was able to straighten things out with Thor, who then convinced their father to release him. The only condition was that he had to live among those who he viewed as so inferior to himself. Naturally, that stirred some trouble on Midgard, but they were able to reach an understanding; Loki would work as an Avenger and serve humanity, so to speak. No one was too pleased with that arrangement, Loki least of all. Most days, the God of Mischief was relegated to his room or the library, alone and untrusted. Thor was kept busy protecting all the realms, though he did visit Earth quite often. Loki hated to admit it, but those times were the most bearable. Then, one day, you joined the team, and the rest of his time became far more enjoyable.

“Mind if I join you?” you’d asked your first night in the Tower.

He didn’t respond with anything but a small gesture of his hand, signaling for you to sit next to him. So it went for many nights, both of you reading on a common room couch. Neither of you said anything to each other until one day you showed up with the same book. You struck up a conversation with him that lasted into the early morning hours. He didn’t want to enjoy it, but he did. Thus started your new routine of reading the same thing, almost like your own mini book club. The conversations eventually led to things beyond your reading material, and then one day you kissed him. Despite the disapproval of the rest of the Avengers, you began to date. Finally, Loki felt like he had a place on Midgard.

But that was all in the past now, and Loki was left with nothing but his memories to keep him company. He could still hear your last conversation playing in his head.

“Why are you acting like this?” you’d asked, teary eyed after Loki had pushed you away yet again. “Every time I think we’re close, you act like a stranger.”

“Try as you might, you cannot change what I am.”

“No. I guess not.”

It was the last thing you said before walking out of the room, slamming the door behind you. He wanted to chase after you, but convinced himself you would be better off without him. Told himself he was too much of a wreck for you, that he’d just ruin you. Now he wonders why he ever dared leave it there. You left for a mission the next day, the last one you’d ever go on.

Loki was waiting in the hangar for you, watching as the rest of your team got off the ship. He immediately noticed the tears in their eyes, but no one could speak of whatever tragedy had occurred. But he knew, even before it became obvious that you would not appear on the ramp. As if possessed, he walked onto the ship. Your limp body was the first thing he saw, draped across the seats of the plane. He knelt beside you and grabbed your ice-cold hand, eyes landing on the blood soaking your shirt. A wound, far too close to your now silent heart. Thor came up behind him and placed a hand on his brother’s shoulder as a lone tear stained Loki’s cheek.

“Come, brother. It will do you no good to stay here.”

There was nothing Loki could say. His mouth was dry and his tongue heavy, and any words he tried to speak choked him. He began to sob.

“I am sorry, my love. Please come back to me. I am so sorry,” he repeated over and over as Thor dragged him away.

By the time he reached his room, he was completely hysterical. Desperate to be alone, he threw his brother out and began his rampage, taking out his anger on the expensive furniture and decor. Broken glass on the floor cut his hands and knees as he crawled over to the now cracked frame holding a picture of you, his beloved. He stayed there all night and into the next day, just staring at your face that would never smile at him again.

He ate nothing for days, his throat and eyes raw from crying. He managed to piece himself together well enough for your funeral, though he was unable to deliver your eulogy. He wanted to, but there was nothing he could say that would do you justice, that would make up for what he had done. Everyone offered their condolences to Loki, to which he responded with a numb nod of his head. It felt surreal, like he was walking underwater or in a never-ending nightmare. Everything was foggy.

Out of habit, Loki still talked to you often, speaking to the air, half-expecting a response. Deep down he knew, of course, that you would never answer again, but most days it felt like the only thing tethering him to his miserable life.

“It is like when I first came to Midgard, my love. I am terribly lonely. When will I see you again? I miss you. I love you.”

He was still in the habit of calling you, too, on the wretched cellphone you’d insisted on getting him. He was met with only dial tones, though somehow he kept hoping to hear you say hello. Those were always his greatest moments, he realized, the ones when you were with him. Now he struggled to find the reason why you were so violently taken from him.

Much like his sleepless nights, his days were spent in solitude. Every corner he turned, he saw your face, but it was just an illusion created by his tortured mind. He saw you in his dreams, too, when he finally slumbered, but even there you never recognized him. Sometimes he’d dream of you sitting in a peaceful field, and you’d offer him a seat.

“You seem familiar, as if I know you. But I don’t, do I?” you’d ask, quirking your head.

“You were the only one that did,” he’d reply before waking up in a cold sweat.

He knew why the dream went like that. He was still haunted by the way you’d called him a stranger. By the way he had been acting like one. By the way he let you walk out without saying what he really wanted. He loved you and he would until the day he died, and only then could he be reunited with you. But through the calamity of your death there was only one thing he wished for.

“Please, my love,” went his usual desperate plea, “come back to me.”

[dmcfsstory]

Also available on Ao3: [link]

Proofreaded a bit by @wikimb​

Partner Artist: @wikimb​

Word count: 13143

Trigger Warning: Graphic depictions of heavy violence/gore, depression cases, PTSD breakdowns(abandoment/bullying/death), severe illness, physical torture(due illness) and emotinal breakdown.

Note: I’m not a native english speaker, fell free to point out via DM any mistakes.

Void Realm(aka Human World) - Same Day 11:30 PM

Victor decided to tell his three visitors everything he knew about the Sparda's twins; Sparda's story, the day Eva was killed, the mess of Temen-ni-gru, and at the end what happened in Mallet Island.

During dinner, Nero, among Kyrie and Nico, told Victor all what they knew and remembered about the Fortuna Incident and the Qliphoth Event.

"And now they're probably stuck in Hell", Nero finished.

"I see…" Victor said, quite thoughtful. "The problem is… the Qliphoth fruit helped Vergil to recover his heavily wounded magic and not make him overpowered like he thought it would happen. But I can't be sure if it also helped with his synchronization. Either way, you two doing Sync will be of great benefit for both."

Nero didn't say a thing. Just the slight idea of having to interact with Vergil, his so called blood father, again was making his nerves itch.

"But…" Victor kept saying. "How could you live this long? Without one of your parents to sync with, you should have died at a very young age, like… two years old."

Nero continued quiet, trying to understand why Victor was insisting so much about that.

Initially, he thought about the day he met Shooting Star Man; he was two years old, the "death age" Victor mentioned. But he’d rather not talk about that with a new person just like that, not even Nico knew about it yet.

"Don't you remember Sync with some woman?" Victor tried to help Nero recall some memory.

"I don't even know how's the sensation of being in Sync, dude." Nero contested, a bit annoyed.

Before continuing to speak, Victor had to adjust his glasses. "Well… as what my mother could briefly study about the twins, Sync in hybrids have some sort of 'bonuses'. Both parts can somehow connect mentally; they can feel what the other is feeling and as well share memories and theoretical knowledge. As for the magic, the twins described it as something very relaxing and peaceful - they didn't know it was a demon magic thing back then, but you got it."

"The peace thing makes sense since the magic energy is calming down," Nico added to Victor's explanation.

After the brief explanation, Nero couldn't hold but make a surprised face.

"Oh. Have you just remembered something?" Victor asked when he noticed Nero's reaction.

Nero was able to recall something, but just the fact of having to tell them that was making him sweat cold. He had a feeling it wasn't a good idea.

Hell - “Same moment”

Vergil and Dante were able to find a shelter to protect themselves from the fire rain: in the middle of the decaying remains of the Qliphoth tree they both sat inside a small cavern inside a massive root.

Dante was quite relaxed, he was laying his back in a small root, calmly waiting for the end of the rain.

Vergil sat a bit in front of his brother, he seemed to be tense for no apparent reason; he was tapping his feet nervously and rubbing his hands as if they were itching or something.

Once Dante couldn't stand his brother's silence anymore he got out of his place walking on his knees, when he got closer he said, "Bro, relax a little. You're too tense" and he gave a small tap on Vergil's right shoulder, unexpectedly making him do a little hop like a cat.

"Geez! Chill it." Dante said, quite surprised. "I'm not gonna attack you." and he moved a few steps backwards when his brother stared at him with eyes wide open scared.

Vergil couldn't think of something to reply to his brother, he was too surprised by how calm he was at that hostile place, such behavior didn't make sense to him; they could be attacked at any moment by some wild demon, but even so Dante was very chill.

Vergil then returned his gaze to outside, leaving his brother in an awkward silence.

The atmosphere was starting to make Dante feel uncomfortable; he recently had made up with his brother, thus regaining their brotherly rivalry, but that was the first time since their childhood they weren't fighting or discussing, instead, they were just in silence sitting close to each other.

Vergil could feel Dante's restless energy coming from behind him, but he had no idea what to say either.

Deep down their hearts, both had a lot of questions to ask each other, but none of them had a single clue in how to start a conversation that wasn't about who's with the highest score.

After long minutes of watching a literal fire rain, Dante was the one who finally took courage to break the ice: "Soooooo… Brother… Who was that 'Baby' you whispered about earlier? I swore you were talking about Nero's mom… Also! How was sh-?"

Vergil quickly interrupted him, rolling his eyes in annoyance, "I told you already, you will learn more about her when I tell Nero about it, he deserves to know that first."

Dante got annoyed by his brother's supposed etiquette, but regardless, he continued in his attempt to create a conversation: "Okay… but, what about the 'Baby'... person…? I guess? You got me curious, man! Especially about the part: 'this wouldn't be happening' thing," he said as he was getting a bit closer to Vergil again.

Vergil's normally stoic expression drastically changed to an uncomfortable one, he looked at the sky, took a deep breath, and let out a very sad sigh,"'Baby' was… a child… That wasn't his name, just how I used to call him. I never knew his name or how he truly looked like…"

Dante highly doubted Vergil's words. "What?! How? That doesn't make any sense yet. You gotta work on those explanations, bro"

"You remember what happened on Mallet Island? After you… -sigh- beat me?" Vergil replied with a bit of annoyance in the end.

"Uhh… yeah, you disappeared in a light…" Dante said a bit confused.

Vergil took a few seconds of silence, mentally gathering all the information he felt necessary to tell his brother before starting his explanation: "I honestly don't know how I did that… probably had something to do with Mundus' magic… I got teleported to somewhere else."

Surprisingly, Dante got quiet and Vergil had his full attention. Vergil didn't look behind him, but he could tell that Dante was staring at him like a curious child waiting for a new bedtime story.

Vergil cleaned his throat before continuing - "Thanks to you, I started to be able to have myself under my control again. I then began to try to fight Mundus' corruption over me, although the more I tried, the more it tormented me. Until I had an idea that would cost much more than I expected…"

Dante's eyes wide opened with curiosity but also of worry about the incoming words.

"Under all that pain...I truly panicked… and tried to Devil Trigger in an attempt to fight the corruption… " Vergil said low, recalling the pain of the said moment.

Dante gasped silently, even not knowing what happened, he was sure that terrible things had happened.

Vergil's voice started to get low and crumbling as those memories were like a living nightmare. "I could feel all my muscles and bones being crushed and twisted by the fight of the magic energies inside me. I couldn't scream, I could barely breathe and move either… I have no idea how much time has passed too."

Dante noticed that his brother started to feel apprehensive about that subject; Vergil was slightly sweating cold and pressing his hands against each other strongly.

But before Dante thought of something to say, Vergi continued to tell the story: "I can remember some very random and quick things that happened… I fought other demons… even humans and perhaps Devil Hunters too? I don't know, but I swore I was destined to feel that pain for eternity, until…"

Void Realm - “at the same moment”

“So, Nero” Victor called his attention. “Have you just remembered something?”

But Nero didn't respond, he was being reluctant to speak, they couldn't tell if it was because of his health state or something else. Kyrie tried to call him back to the conversation, “It’s about Monster, dear?” she said in a soft voice.

He raised his head a bit to look at her, with a visible sad face he replied low and insecure: “Yeah... “

He stayed quiet once again, staring at the void for a few seconds and avoiding eye-contact; Nico was getting anxious to know what was passing through Nero's mind, but Victor kept patiently waiting.

Finally, he looked at Victor and said, "I think… there was someone I connected with this way… but… he was a human that turned into a demon."

Victor raised his eyebrows in surprise, that didn't make much sense but he decided to not question, Nero was already emotionally unstable, it was better not provoke.

"Let's see then. If you don't mind telling the story," he asked politely.

Nero took a deep breath before starting, that subject wasn't that comfortable for him to talk about freely: "I was around six to seven years old, the de-sync started to happen with a higher frequency day by day… The other kids from the orphanage, especially the older ones, never liked me, and one day they were chasing me down in the woods on the outskirts of the city. Even not wanting to fight they still kept hunting me, they weren't satisfied until I passed out." Nero explained.

"Why?" Nico asked confused.

A bit uncomfortable with the subject, he tried to avoid, "I'd rather not talk about…"

He then continued, without making eye contact with Victor, he just continued to look at his own hands and sometimes to the void or away. "I couldn't run anymore, that's when they got me. The oldest was ready to punch me, but suddenly, a horrendous deformed… giant demon appeared from behind the trees. He was like what? four meters(13ft) high? He didn't need much to scare the shit out of them and send them back to the city, just a roar was enough."

Kyrie was the only one that already knew the story and how Nero would feel about it. She honestly wanted to speak in his place, but she felt better letting him put his feelings out by himself.

"I was the only one that didn't run. I was too tired already… and I didn’t want to return to the orphanage either." Nero said in a depressing tone.

(Hell)

"Have you attacked?" Dante asked curiously, yet worried.

"No" Vergil responded. "The others fled away very quickly and the one that left didn't do anything either. I wasn't going to waste my energy and feel more pain for no danger at all."

(Void)

"But the motherfucker didn't do shit", Nero added. "He left me hanging and just turned away!"

"When I saw him turning away, I yelled: "What are you doing?" But he completely ignored me"

"I yelled again, 'What's wrong with you?'."

(Hell)

"The kid came after me, but I didn't want to waste my energy. When I felt him touching my arm and yelling something - that I can't remember - I instinctively just waved my arm and threw him away."

(Void)

"I flew into a tree and all the stuff I was carrying in my small backpack got scattered around," Nero continued, his voice slowing down.

"You will need more than that to get rid of me!' I shouted to provoke him… but…"

He made a pause.

"But when I looked at him…"

"He was staring at one of the books I borrowed from the public library. He simply stayed there, kinda hypnotized by the thing, you know?"

"With the only hand he had entirely -the right one- he tried to pick up the book. His hand was huge and he knew that… but I think… he had terrible eyesight. The first few times he tried to hold the book, he let it fall because he didn't want to… 'hurt' it."

"He tried, over and over again. That scene was pitiful, to be honest. At a certain point, he started to wimp… kinda like a dog's painful crying: 'wimp wimp wimp'."

"and he tried... again and again, and again... the more he tried the louder the wimps we're getting."

"He was clearly in a panic… until then… he let out a very long and painful scream. It was when I noticed… he wasn't supposed to be like that...."

Victor interrupts, "why? What made you think that?"

Nero responded with sadness in his voice as he looked at Victor, "He was crying… Only through the right eye, but he was truly crying."

"'Do Devils cry?' I asked myself."

"During the screeching, he suddenly lost support on his left arm - the most severe and disproportionate one - and fell to the ground. The arm started to bleed around.. where I think it was the pulse… I couldn't tell, but the broken bone pierced through his skin. I noticed that the rest of his body he had various open wounds, that shit surely was hurting him badly. He then started to wimp uncontrollably while he was spitting blood out of the month, he was insanely trying to get up again but he barely could move his body."

"I don't know what the hell happened with me at that moment, but seeing and hearing all that suffering from him was starting to hurt me. I could feel my heart being pressed. My body moved by itself, I took off my jacket and went to try to... somehow help with the wound on his left pulse."

(Hell)

"I don't clearly remember how I got into that situation," Vergil continued. "I only remember very blurry images and immeasurable pain all over my body, especially at my left arm."

"In the middle of all that pain, I somehow could notice the kid getting closer to me. I tried to move away from him but that only was making the pain worse… I was unable to move."

"I couldn't see him clearly, but I heard: 'you weren't supposed to be like that, right?' from him."

"I remember… my heart and breath stopped when I heard he saying: 'Let me help you, stay quiet.'"

Vergil started to get visibly shaken from that point in front.

"Why? He could just have run away… but instead… he came to help me?! Why?! WHY?!"

"I guess... he did some bandages on my left hand… I couldn't move or see it anyway…"

Dante, a bit shocked by his brother's confusion, asked "Why are you so incredulous?"

Vergil turned at him quickly, his face of both anger and sadness. "WHY?! Because never in my entire life someone had lent a hand to me like that! Not even if I asked!"

Vergil recalled for a moment the difficult time he had after his mother's death; food shop owners didn't want to spare not even the smallest thing for him, some even shout him out, with the excuse he was acting. He couldn't find a good place to sleep and winter was a pain. He had to fight demons all alone. He had to manage to steal sustenance and clothes or get from the trash as the last resort.

"I didn't have the same luck as you, brother…" Vergil said harshly.

(Void)

All those memories were starting to make Nero more emotional, recall the monster's pain was very hurtful even to himself.

"I never discovered what turned him into that… but he was destroyed…" he added.

Victor then questioned, "And you just decided to help him? Just like that?"

"Yes… something told me he needed help… a feeling of he didn't deserve that…" Nero said quite sad.

But even being visibly shaken, he continued the story either way, "through the next days I decided to start stealing everything I thought could be the use of help with his open wounds."

Nico interrupted, "steal, man? why?"

"Who would believe in a six years old saying it needs help with a dying demon?!" Nero replied annoyed. "I had to do that myself. Blankets, towels, curtains, all those kinds of stuff I could get around the city, not just in the orphanage…"

-a pause-

"Also food… and the medicine I knew helped with such changes wounds, the one I remember the caretakers using on me."

Nero's tone slowly began to sound grievous, "He didn't leave the place I first saw him… he just waited for me there every day…"

“He couldn’t move, every time he tried he had to do so much strength. He was also… so cold... I tried to cover him the most I could… but even so… he couldn’t stop shivering. I could see that even those smallest moves hurt a lot… even breathing...”

“His wounds weren’t fresh. It was very difficult for me to make some bandages and mostly use the medicine… because whenever I tried he would start panicking and wimping all over again.”

“I used to say things like: ‘Stop, please! I can’t help you like this!’ or ‘collaborate, please!’ to try to keep him calm, but his pain also made me nervous as well.”

“The food was most difficult, the merchants got sharp eyes. The ones that knew me even got so mad that they started to throw stones at me."

Nico quickly stopped Nero's talk, "What the hell?! Fucking stones?!"

He stared at her, his eyes were blank, and then he said, with a low and grievous voice, everyone could sense the pain in the words, "When you are the... 'bastard, son of a whore, demon magnetic child' people just don't care about you…"

Nico didn't expect that, her face was of utter shock, which made her dead silent.

“I didn’t care about my wounds, tho… I just wanted to bring him food and water too. He needed help to eat and drink nonetheless. He used to eat and drink desperately, getting himself dirtier than he already was… he was definitely on his limit…”

Nero let out a desolate sigh while his eyes were getting teary.

(Hell)

Vergil's voice started to sound more painful the more he talked about the child: "The kid kept bringing new things everyday… cover sheets, bandages, food… even water and… medicine...I think? I barely could move anymore either way… I could only stay in the same place and watch…"

Dante started to feel his brother slowly getting more emotional with the subject; Vergil’s voice got low and he was also starting to discreetly sniff, his body was tense and his expression was of sadness: "He… he wasn't bringing all that stuff for himself… he brought blankets for covering me, to help me not suffer that much from the cold nights in the woods…“

“His voice… I’m sure I was hearing every pitch wrongly… but he sounded so… soft anyway: ‘here’s some food’, ‘come on, try to drink this’, ‘I hope you don’t feel so cold now’... and some many others.”

“My vision was a total mess, the colors were switched, the forms were distorted, I never got to know how he truly was or how he sounded… or even if the scent I remember was his true smell…” Vergil vented, as he remembered every single sensation of the kid taking care of him; the way the child had to hold his huge head up for him to drink water, how he had to pick every single food into tiny pieces because Vergil couldn’t chew. The child trying to cover his gigantic deformed body with small cover sheets or even towels.

Breaking Vergil's recall to the past, Dante asked him, “So… you never actually got to ‘know him for real’?”

“I think…” - a pause - “yeah… you’re right…” Vergil told him but looking away to the dark sky and the raining fire in Hell.

"I don't know how he did that… but there were times he used to hug me, or even just touch, and the pain almost got away completely… it was when I was able to breathe without pain for a few minutes..."

He closed his eyes, deep recalling those moments of calm and inner peace. Those were some of the memories he holded dearest, the sensation of being hugged by the child, or at least he thought it was. The kid stroking his head and singing lullabies to calm him down. Such gentle touch from his tiny hands on his wounded head and skin was something he could never forget, even if that used to hurt as well.

Before opening his eyes, Vergil let out a deep sigh, that made Dante get an idea of how much that unknown kid meant to his brother and he was starting to connect the dots with what Vergil said earlier.

"Why?" Vergil said in an indignant tone. "Why did he do all that to me?!"

He turned to Dante, he was very confused and incredulous, "What I did to that kid?! Why did he help me not wanting anything in return?! He never requested something back!"

Dante's eyes wide-opened surprised about his brother's confusion and he asked himself: 'He didn't understand what happened?'

Vergil's voice became louder as he was letting out old thoughts of painful memories, "Why, brother?! WHY!? There were even some days he appeared with wounds; he said it was the people that didn't like him, they hurt him to push him away because they didn't want to give the stuff to him. I could smell the blood, his wounds...he…-inhales- Why was he sacrificing himself?! He was doing all that to me… TO MEEEE! A PITIFUL WEAK USELESS THING I WAS!"

Dante even leaned back scared after Vergil's last scream, that behavior was quite unexpected coming from such a person that is always composed.

"I was weak! I was dying! No one cares for a weakened demon, they just let them die! He could have called hunters to finish me… BUT NO! He did the total opposite!" Vergil kept yelling extremely confused.

"I remember the stories he told me… and sometimes, during moments of physical contact, I saw some of his...memories? -I guess they were - he was an orphan! No one wanted him, everyone else hated him for no reason and the older kids used to hurt him for fun! HE WAS JUST A LITTLE KID! Why didn't he request me to pay back those people in return for the favors he was doing to me?! That's not how it was supposed to work?!” Vergil yelled while huffing out of breath.

Dante gently touched Vergil's shoulder and just gave a calm look at him, like telling him to take easy on his nerves; Understanding his brother's signals, Vergil took an incredibly deep breath in an attempt to calm down, but his disturbed face and stiff body remained.

"That's called empathy, bro…" Dante said softly.

Vergil took a moment to process what Dante said, but he kept looking at him confused. "What?!" he yelled.

Dante hardly believed that his brother never experienced an act of empathy before and stared at him confused as well.

"Empathy. You know… that thing of being able to understand what the other is feeling? To put yourself in the place of the other?" Dante tried to explain, but that only made Vergil more confused. His silence and as well doubtful face made the situation more awkward for Dante - making him visibly worried.

"Well… it's a human heart thing… Empathy generates compassion and that's what moved the kid to help you. He understood your suffering and decided to help you out. He didn't see you like what you described, he saw you as a living being." Dante tried again.

Vergil was slowly starting to understand; it didn't need much for him to recall Nero helping him when he was V and also the people himself helped when he was V during the Qliphoth roots' rampage.

"That's what moves humans to help others? That's how it's called?" Vergil asked confused.

"Yes!" Dante replied happily and a bit relieved. "Such strong empathy like that kid is incredibly rare to be witnessed, especially nowadays. People like that must be protected at all costs, not just because of their kind heart, but also because they can kill themselves because of it. Humans like that are worth fighting for."

Dante's words made Vergil a bit uneasy as if he did something wrong with the kid during a part of the story he hasn't told yet.

And Dante kept talking: "That's what is amazing about humans. But... demons think that's a weakness… well, that's, in fact, a weakness, it's incredibly dangerous but it's also their strongest point! For demons, self-preservation is more important than anything, meanwhile, some humans don't give a shit about that if it's necessary to protect what is important. They rather die sacrificing themselves, and for demons that's a shame, especially coming from a species that's magically and physically inferior…"

*Unfortunately…" Dante's enthusiasm vanished away very quickly. "The own mankind created such a society through the past decades where that kind of stuff is being suppressed...by themselves! And apathy is going apeshit everywhere… This is another reason why that kind of person should be safeguarded… otherwise, mankind will only keep hurting itself."

"I think… 'Apathy' should be considered a Deadly Sin… since the current seven are all based on it…" he said scratching his head.

They stayed in silence for a few seconds, hence Vergil had no idea about what Dante said at the end. They both returned to gaze at the fire raining (supposedly)night sky for a few minutes until Vergil broke the silence: "These kind people you said… It's pretty much like Baby and… Nero…"

"Yeah, you're right…" Dante said calmly without looking at Vergil.

"This thing of sacrifice itself…" Vergil then continued the story, but talking at a more slow pace, "There was one day… Baby didn't come… I was like 'I was abandoned again?'

"Aah…About that..." Dante interrupted a bit unnerved.

But Vergil responded quickly "I know! But back then I didn't! -ahem- I was finally able to get up a bit and worried something may have happened, I decided to pursue his scent…"

(Void)

Nero continued his side of the story, even with the feeling of his throat closing because of the incoming subject: "It was very difficult to take care of him… He didn't have the strength to lift his head or to chew some food… gosh… he smelled so bad, such a strong scent of dry blood and… other disgusting stuff -if you know what I mean- but eventually, I learned how to ignore that awful scent. He used to shiver so much… his extremity members were cold like ice…"

-a pause for a deep breath-

He then continued: "every little movement he tried to do he whimpered in pain… he barely could leave the place we first met. I was getting used to calming him down with some gentle physical contact like strokes on his head… but even so…"

-sigh-

"There were some moments I hugged or when I just touched him and I could feel what he was feeling… it was an immeasurable pain… Other moments… -It's very confusing, to be honest- But I think I was able to see his memories? I guess...?"

"How did they look?" Victor asked, interrupting Nero.

"Aah… well… a huge old man, long-ass beard and with feathery wings… hmmm.. aaaaand... aaaa... red third eye…? He was all white as if he was a statue and had a huge hole in his chest. He always appeared to be torturing him…" Nero said a bit uneasy, he remembered that as if it was his memories.

Victor closed his eyes and let out a concerned sigh, he knew Nero was talking about Mundus, but that wasn't the moment to tell him.

Nero looked at him worried, not understanding what was going on, although he suspected it wasn't something good.

"Just… keep going," Victor said apprehensively.

"The ones that most scared me was when the old man was taking off his members, like, literally. He used them to create monsters…" Nero shivered just with the slightly recalling his eyes even got teary from thinking about that.

He quickly passed his hand on his eyes to clean up the tears, before someone could notice them, "that always made me jump off the place, those images and some others were always storming his thoughts… I guess it was his thoughts… He cried every time I saw them…"

"Considering his reactions about those images and the state he was… I think he didn't deserve to be like that… he wasn't like that because he wanted… I think that old man did that to him…  -sigh- ...he was so needy… he hanged his head in my lap every time I used to sit closer..."

Nero's eyes got more watery than before, he tried once again to hold his emotions and clean his eyes.

Before continuing, he took a deep breath to focus back and keep posture. "Well… there was one day I was trying to stealthily leave the orphanage… but the older kids got me. They were so pissed at me because they discovered it was me that had stolen some of their things… Pfft! They used to destroy and also steal my stuff… so fuck them. But I couldn't escape that time… and I was missing the hour to go meet with Monster…"

(Hell)

"I followed his trail with a bit of difficulty, mostly because of the pain all over my body, but I could find him," Vergil continued.

"Somehow I could hear more people around… so, I stayed behind some trees… or was it a wall? well..." but he hesitated to continue.

"What was happening?" Dante asked curiously.

"Some other kids… I guess… they were not so taller than him and were apparently fighting him. They had the advantage in numbers, he couldn't handle them all." Vergil said low.

"How did you know who he was?" Dante questioned.

"I learned how to recognize him… somehow… his shape and colors we're different from the others and as well his scent…" Vergil answered.

"I remember the other ones saying 'you freak! you're not just the son of a whore but also a thief?', 'what are you doing with our stuff?' I could feel his tiredness of the fight, he then replied: 'I needed them for a…" Vergil suddenly paused as if something got stuck on his throat.

"I needed them for a…?" Dante repeated, anxious for the end of the phrase.

Vergil kept quiet for almost a minute, holding back his next word. He was visibly tense, but Dante attempted to incentive him to continue with the story: "Brother? What happened then?"

No answers, although Vergil had closed his eyes and was biting his lips in tension, he was holding his emotions the maximum he could.

"Bro… listen…" Dante said softly while he put his hand on Vergil's shoulder. "Don't hold back your feelings like this… Put it out, let then go…"

But his brother continued immobile.

"I'm not gonna judge or mock you… I promise." Dante continued to try to convince Vergil. "Look, you can even stab me as much as your heart desires if I do something I shouldn't."

Vergil let out air since he was also holding his breath a little and something Dante never expected happened, not even when they were kids: Vergil's eyes started to become teary.

Yes, tears. Dante couldn't believe what he was witnessing.

"Friend," Vergil said low and with grief.

"He said… 'I needed them for a friend' -sniff- 'I have a friend that needs help, but you wouldn't help me anyway," Vergil said with agony in his voice.

"Friend… friend… friend...FRIEND!" He then looked at Dante with a quick turn and shouted in pain, "HE CALLED ME HIS FRIEND!" and a few tears rolled out in his face.

"WHAT DID I DO?! BROTHER, PLEASE! TELL ME!" Vergil screamed in panic and confusion. "WHAT HAVE I DONE?! WHY HE WAS DOING ALL THAT TO ME?! I CAN'T UNDERSTAND!"

"Why do you think you didn't deserve that?" Dante nearly broke Vergil's sanity with that question.

Vergil suddenly got an empty look, as he never thought about that, he could only stutter trying to come up with an answer.

"T-T-That's not how it works… That never happened before… Y-Yo-you got to do something to receive such a thing… right?! RIGHT?!" Vergil was on the edge of freaking out.

Dante took a long breath, to not absorb his brother's messed up aura. He kept his voice calm and low for don't provoke him more: "No, bro… Kindness is not an award, it is a gift. The kid saw something in you and thought you deserved that… What was it? I don't know."

Vergil's face turned blank, he'd never thought like that before… the way he lived didn't let it anyway, he had no idea about why and how that happened with him.

"So… what did you do to help the child?" Dante asked rather calmly.

(Void)

"The kids were beating the shit out of me… but I didn't give up on trying to flee from them. I didn't want to fight, I just wanted to return to my… friend." Nero continued, his voice getting low while sadness was taking over him.

"I even tried to explain to them that I was doing that for someone that needed more than them, but that only made them madder…"

-a pause-

"I don't know where he came from, but Monster just suddenly jumped off in the middle of the orphanage's backyard. He roared so loud that he even let a huge blue fire column go out of his mouth. He came straight to the bullies and swinging only his right hand he tossed all of them away in a single move! POF! ...He then stayed over me as if he was trying to shield me or something."

"His wounds were bleeding all over again, he must have made a shit ton of strength to reach the orphanage."

"The other kids recognized him from that day… the oldest even shouted: 'I knew it you were a freak, but this is too much!' That only made Monster angrier, he wanted to go for the kill."

"He started to prepare another fire breath, but I couldn't let him do that. I jumped in front of him and shouted 'NO! Don't kill them! It will only make it worse for you!' hoping that he would understand me…"

"And that worked?" Nico asked nervously with the story.

"Yes," Nero responded. "He stopped at the same moment and looked at me very confused. I also could hear the adults screaming to call the Order's knights at the same moment."

"'You have to get out of here' I yelled. 'They will kill you!'"

"I don't think he understood what I meant at first because he suddenly grabbed me by my shirt's collar using his mouth and threw me on his back. He got away from the place very quickly into the woods, I don't know how he was able to stand the pain… he was going relatively fast… and when already far from the orphanage, he tripped on his own legs and arms."

"I was launched out of his back and surprisingly I didn't blacken out when I crashed over a tree. I got up in a rush and the moment I spotted him I saw he was all bleeding… all again, he was back to zero. He was whimpering in pain again, but even so, he was trying to get up."

"I ran to help him out, I didn't know how I would help him, but I went to try anyway."

(Hell)

"I don't remember exactly what happened… The next thing that's more clear in my memory is both of us in the woods. I was trying to get up, but my weakened body and the extreme pain weren't letting me." Vergil explained with a bit of confusion on his face.

"'You have to go! The Order's Knights will kill you!' he yelled at me"

"Hold up!" Dante interrupted. "’Order’? The Order of the Sword?!”

"Yes…" Vergil replied low and slow.

"You were in Fortuna?!” Dante yelled at him quite stunned.

"Yes… Don't ask me how…" Vergil said with a bit of embarrassment.

(Void)

"I was trying to make him get up… but like… he was countless times bigger than me," Nero said with a sarcastic smile.

"I was starting to hear the Knights' yelling and running around the woods looking for him. That only made me more nervous… The only thing I had in mind was: 'they will kill him'."

"Out of nowhere, blue light strips appeared around us and I could make one hell of strength to make him get up. And when I looked at my arms and hands… there were my spectral arms, helping him to stand and move away, they were rather proportional to his size."

"I thought out loud: 'What is this? Your magic?! Thanks! That's gonna help a lot!'"

"Wait!" Victor stopped the story. "Through years you thought your demon magic was a gift from him?"

Nero kept staring at Victor with a surprised, yet embarrassed face. "Oh, well… -scratches his head- I could only use my spectral arms while in contact with him…so..."

"Hmm… makes sense...I would also expect such thoughts from a six years old that grew up thinking it was a human… well, part human in this case." Victor said calmly.

"Sorry for interrupting, continue, please." He asked politely.

Already thinking about what was coming along the story, Nero was already getting nervous and more shaken once more.

The sadness in his voice we're getting apparently the more he spoke: "We ran… and ran… and ran… and like everything can get worse, it started to rain, at least it helped clean his wounds a little. It was so dark, but my 'magical arms' could illuminate the way. At some point, we were able to find a small cave. Monster's absurd size and disproportion nearly didn't let him get in, but he could lay down to rest."

"I could make my spectral arms disappear, but there were the blue strings there yet...They weren't making any illumination tho." Nero said it was a bit uncertain.

"That's because isn't something 'material', it's like...infrared and ultraviolet rays, and only demons and half-demons can see it," Victor explained. "although, it can be seen with special cameras," he added.

Immediately, Kyrie made a worrisome face and Nico looked at her scared as well. The lights that only she could see and apparently, Trish as well, was an actual demon thing and not demon-magic related. That would also explain why Nico couldn't see them. What could that mean? Haven't Kyrie only obtained demon magic but it also turned into one… or she was still turning? After Nero's case, she was the next one to talk with Victor but the feeling of uncertainty we're only making her anxious.

"Ah… that would explain how they didn't find us…" Nero continued, without noticing the girls' reaction. Unfortunately, Victor did and he was already preparing questions for them.

"When the rain stopped I went back to the first place I was taking care of him and got our stuff back. Monster had fainted from tiredness and only woke up the next day."

"I haven't returned to the orphanage either."

(Hell)

"I don't remember too much of how we got in that cave, but the kid didn't return to the city, it was the first time he passed the night with me," Vergil said.

"That night was also the first time I had dreams in a long time… but I don't think they were mine, they were memories from the kid…" Vergil then made a pause, he remembered the child's memories as if they were his.

Dante was getting nervous since he discovered that little kid was from Fortuna; he had a feeling that 'Baby' could actually be 'Nero' since he was aware about the Sync's traits and many of what his brother described matched with.

Vergil had let out a depressing sigh before continuing to speak: "I could see more clearly than before how his life was… It also reminded me of mine… loneliness, pain, and sorrow… But that child didn't have a special sword or demonic powers to take care of himself alone… he was dependent on people that didn't care about him."

(Void)

"When Monster woke up I was outside the cave, wondering what I would do about my little life… the people from the orphanage definitely wouldn't want me back and I was one hundred percent sure I wouldn't be adopted after what happened. I had nowhere to go." Nero said quite sad, his eyes were getting teary again.

(Hell)

"He was just sitting right in front of the cave entrance." Vergil continued. "The pain on my body had returned, I could barely move again."

"'What I will do?' he asked me. 'No one will ever adopt me now… not after they discovered I have a demon friend…' and he started to cry… it was a quiet cry."

"…and ...I still can't understand what happened to me... His painful crying made my heart hurt… psychologically hurt… not literally. I didn't want to see him like that… I knew how much that was painful…"

Dante made an embarrassed smile without his brother noticing; Vergil just had described a moment of empathy, a thing that a few minutes ago he had no idea even how it was called.

Dante then thought: "You have so much to learn about your humanity, bro…"

"He then turned to me and said, 'I don't want to come back…' his voice was more trembling than before." Vergil continued with sadness in his voice. "His face was a big distorted blur to me, but somehow I could identify his tears dripping down his face."

"I honestly didn't think rationally at that moment, I just wanted his welfare. That child… he's been doing so much for me without me saying a thing and for nothing in exchange… I couldn't leave him hanging in the wind like that."

Dante, even having an idea about what was coming, became so hyped to know what would happen next that he got very close to his brother, nearly starting to invade his personal space. Vergil didn't like all that proximity, but he hasn't complained… yet.

"I extended my right hand to him, inviting him to get closer to me, hoping that he would understand what I meant with that."

"He did?" Dante asked curiously.

"He hasn't understood the first few times I made the signal, he kept staring at me for a brief moment, until he said 'Do you want to adopt me?'" Vergil explained.

(Void)

Nero was already in tears without even finishing to tell that part of the story. He was sobbing and crying as if he was living that moment all again. He began to desperately try to stop crying and to clean his tears, Kyrie even got closer and handed a soft tissue to him.

"It's okay to cry, Nero. No need to be ashamed of your tears." Victor said in an attempt to tranquilize Nero.

"Yeah, man," Nico said worriedly. "No one will judge you, I promise."

Nero tried to take his breath back between many hiccups and sobbings in an attempt to regain his posture, but that was impossible, that moment was too shocking for him.

"H-He.. he.. -sob- He wanted me -sniff- he was the only o-one… tha-that… -sniff-  aaa-accepted me… that didn't see me as a… -sob sob- freak… a-a-a problem…-sniff sob sob-"

(Hell)

"I just waved my head confirming what he asked and he suddenly broke. He began to cry out loud like a newborn baby."

"sniff"

That "sniff" totally surprised Dante; Vergil was unexpectedly once again shaken and teary with the story. That kid surely meant a lot to him after everything they passed together.

"He came at me running for a hug… and kept crying like that for so long that he nearly lost his voice. He hugged me tight around my neck -sniff- as if I just had saved him from. death..."

Vergil stopped to take a breath and, surprisingly, he tried to clean a few tears. "And then... -sniff-...after that we began to live together… but I have no idea for how long… I just remember that he grew up a lot."

(Void)

"We then lived together for… six years…" Nero said between sobbings.

"He was my best friend… almost like a father… still… -sniff-... we had to take care of each other. But through the years his condition was getting better -sob- his body was getting more proportional and looking 'human-ish', he didn't have more pain like before… almost none to be more exact -sob- the pieces of the some short of armor he had started to fall off his body too."

"What do you mean?" Nico asked. "He was like… 'healing' or something?"

"I think?" Nero replied a bit confused as he scratched his head.

"Most of the time his actions weren't like a demon's, he mostly looked like a human in a demon body." Nero tried to explain.

"One day I asked him if he was a human once, he took a long time to answer, like five minutes almost, but he said 'yes'. Although… It took him hours to explain to me that he was half-human. He tried to explain other things but he couldn't because of his condition; he couldn't write or draw and much less speak. He gave up on the explanation and we never talked about it again."

"So, you never asked him how he was when human?" Victor asked with a bit of suspicion.

"No…I was waiting for him to speak and move better..." Nero answered quickly. "But I would be lying if I say I never tried to imagine…"

-a brief pause-

Nero giggled when he remembered about a silly thing.

"We.. we made up a 'special handshake' if he returned to be human when I wasn't looking…" he said with an embarrassed smile. "I never forgot how it was -sigh"

(Hell)

"It was very difficult to live around a demon-infested forest with a dependent child, a debilitated body and the Order of the Sword hunting us down," Vergil said sadly.

His face became sadder and more tears started to form as he continued to speak

"But he was someone I swore to myself I would protect", he said fiercely but still with a sad tone in the voice.

Vergil quickly cleaned his tears, expecting that his brother hadn't noticed them. But even sitting a bit behind him, Dante could tell by his movements what was happening.

"I tried to teach him what I knew of sword and fist fighting, fortunately whenever we touched each other and some kind of...lights...? I guess, appeared around us, I only had to think about the theory and he would learn right away, he just had to practice."

"While the time was passing I could feel Mundus' magic fading away veeeeeery slowly... as if I was being purified somehow. My body was getting back to normal, I wasn't feeling that much pain anymore, sometimes I even felt nothing wrong… but I was still a mess."

Dante dry swallowed a bit audible; that was more proof of Sync, a Parent and Child or Siblings of same parents exclusive stuff. A little brother of them the kid couldn't be, so the only possible conclusion was a child from Vergil.

Confused, Vergil turned back after hearing his brother's nervous noises. Dante couldn't hide his anxious face, that gave to Vergil a very suspicious feeling.

Dante then giggled nervously, "sorry, keep going…"

Vergil stared at him with skepticism, but he continued the story either way. "There were some moments I… I just wanted to hold him closer… comfort him with gentle strokes and give him kisses in the head."

He then wrapped his arms around his chest, like demonstrating a hug, while he made a face of joy and he said with a tender voice: "I wanted to tickle him to make him laugh… Play silly children activities like hide-and-seek…I wanted to read bed-time stories for him, cooking him food… and so many other things…sigh..."

His face was of pure happiness, that kid was very precious to him; thinking about the good times they passed together was one of the few ways for Vergil to be able to smile, a discreet but honest and pure smile of happiness.

Dante finally came to a concrete realization and interrupted Vergil: "You mean… The things mom used to do for us?" he asked, expecting a certain reaction.

Vergil stopped to think for a brief moment; his brother was right. Everything he wished to be able to do was everything he remembered what their mother did for them.

He turned to look at Dante, his face was of surprise, he never related the things like that before. It was when Dante knew that his brother had some parenting instincts and love hidden somewhere inside him. He just needed a chance to put them into practice.

But the problem was: what if Baby is Nero? Vergil had hurt the most precious person in his life for his "more-power-quest"? And how both parts would react when they discover they already knew each other?

Should he tell Vergil his thoughts? Tell him the deep details about Sync, since he seemed to not know them? Dante saw himself in a very complicated and delicate crossroads.

"I think...I understood why you called him 'baby'" Dante said calmly, trying to keep his anxiety away.

"Ahn?" Vergil blurted. "That was a misunderstanding, to be honest: a few days after I invited him to stay with me, he asked if I would give him a name. My debilitated mouth and tongue didn't let me speak a single comprehensive word. I tried to say 'maybe', but he understood 'baby', and no matter what I tried there was no way I could either speak or he understood me. So, we stuck with 'Baby'".

Dante surely wasn't expecting that; the disappointment had hit him like a truck, he was expecting something cute, something special… but no, it was just a misunderstanding.

"But… Why… "wanted"? You weren't able to do a single thing of that?" Dante asked, even already knowing the answer.

Vergil's joy quickly vanished, as if Dante just had stabbed him on his back. "How could I? In that state?! Even after all that time, we passed together, in the end, I could not even speak or see him clearly. The maximum I could do was hold him closer and nothing else."

They passed a few seconds in silence until Dante came with the worst question he could have done about that subject: "Well… what happened with the kid then?”

Vergil's soul left his body at that moment. Only to think about it made him visibly depressed. He started to stare at the void, his eyes had no shine anymore as if he just died that moment.

(Void)

"He used to teach me how to sword fight and also how to fight bare hands. I learned all the basics with him… although… I don't know how, but when that lights appeared, I used to instantly know about whatever he wanted to teach me." Nero explained, with a bit of confusion on his tone.

“Sometimes I had those… ‘de-sync breakdowns’… but being with him helped me endure the pain… I don’t know how that happened…but somehow it hurt him a bit as well. With time that stopped to happen and only came back a few weeks ago nowadays."

Now even Nico and Kyrie were with the feeling that Monster was in fact, Vergil. Everything Nero was describing matched with the description of Sync Victor gave to then early.

Nero giggled remembering every good moment he passed with his best friend. "When he was feeling good, we used to go to the city late at night and steal stuff. Clothes for me, food, cover sheets, and so on. Hehe. When he was in a good mood, rare times, we used to steal food from delivery guys, especially the ones from pizzerias. Or even watch TV from the windows of some houses… I could watch something, I don't know about him. I remember he loved to hear me reading books to him too… He always wanted to try to read them too, but he definitely couldn't because of his wounded eyes… - sigh."

"Why did you call him Monster?" Nico questioned, quite curious about.

"I don't know exactly, I just started to call him like that… Nowadays I think it's quite an ironic name… he only looked like a monster… but he was more human with me than every actual human I ever met…"

"He was so affectionate…" he said with a smile. "Not at the very beginning, he turned with time. He liked to hold me closer, especially during bedtime. He tried to do some gentle moves like… stroke or pat my head, but his size and lack of better control of his moments didn't let him do that so well…"

"... he even made up a clicking noise to pretend it was a kiss… sigh…"

"But… what happened to him?" Victor asked, taking off Nero's happiness from his face. That was the worst question someone could make about the monster.

Then, both Nero(at Void) and Vergil(at Hell) started to recall and talk about that fateful day:

Fortuna - back to 13 years ago - 04:00 AM

Baby and Monster were sneaking their way through the city, going in the direction of the port area.

Monster was wearing a dirty cloak, he was almost the size of a tall human by that time, although his large horns made a weird shape on the cloak’s hood. Since his body was almost proportional now, he was able to walk on his legs, only needing an improvised cane Baby made using hardwood to support himself standing.

Baby was at the end of his childhood, around twelve years old. He was wearing some humble clothing that he stole from a shop and on his backpack, also stolen, he was carrying the few material things they had. On his waist, it had a badly forged iron sword, a failed attempt to recreate a katana that he made among Monster.

When the Port got on sight, Baby whispered, "Finally! We need to get into one of those big commercial ships and we will finally get out of this hell.

They both went slow and silent through the darker areas of the place, contouring every lamp post and the one or two workers they spotted. Until they reached a medium-sized cargo ship; an uncommon kind of commerce ship that docks on Fortuna's Port bringing special products from the continent.

"Now we just need to get in thought the anchor" Baby whispered excitedly.

But before he gave the next step, Monster gently touched his shoulder calling his attention to him. Baby turned at him visibly confused but when he saw the gesture Monster was doing he understood what it was: he was calling him for a hug.

Baby could tell that his friend was trying to smile, Monster had to kneel to look at him eye to eye and his arms were stretched toward him, calling him closer.

Nero didn't get why that right now, but he didn't question, he went straight to the hug. They hugged tightly and tenderly and the time seemed to have stopped, they were enjoying every second of that comforting hug. Monster felt his heart warming, that feeling of seeing Baby happy was indescribable. While Baby was immeasurable happy about how much his friend got better.

They didn't want that moment to end, it was the first time they were able to do a decent hug, even if Monster's arms weren't totally recovered. Monster was even purring like a big cat for much of Baby's fun.

"Thank you...I love you Monster, you're my hero." Baby said from the bottom of his heart.

Those words were going to get stuck on Monster's mind forever, but it was him that wanted to say that most.

'No… you that saved me, my baby… I love you too' Monster thought. But he was so desperate to say such words that he tried to talk, unfortunately his vocal cords and tongue haven't healed enough and he could only mumble mostly random demonic noises and a syllable or two.

"it's okay…" Baby said when he noticed his friend's despair. "I can't wait for your mouth and neck to get better so we can have actual talks" he giggled.

"Let's go" he called him, gesturing for them to keep walking.

Once they were side by side with the anchor's huge chains, Baby said quite confidently:  "Are you rea-?" he suddenly was interrupted by a loud painful screaming from Monster.

When he turned, he couldn't believe his eyes, Monster got stabbed on his back by a silver sword that pierced through his chest. It wasn't the same sword type the Order's Knights used.

The sword slightly opened its blade in the middle like a jaw and quickly drained Monster's energy, making him scream in pain again.

"MONSTER!" Baby shouted with all his strength.

He sprinted to help his friend, but twenty or more Order's Knights jumped out from inside the crates that were closer to the ship.  

"The Order?! How?!" Baby yelled in panic. All those years living hidden from them, how they finally found the double?

The silver sword got out of Monster's body quickly; the fatigue caused by the energy drain made his -already unstable- body fall to the ground. Behind him, it had a woman in the Order's Knight uniform, the hood and low light were hiding her face and she was holding another sword, of the same look, on her other hand.

"Finally found you, you brainless beast," she muttered. "What's your problem in dying?"

Baby ran towards his friend's body on the cold metal floor of the dock, he was bleeding tremendously. He didn't have time to think about what that sword did to him. The moment he got closer Monster was still conscious, but he was weak once again.

Baby was on the edge of freak out: "No. No. No. No. No! You just got so much better! Why?!"

He tried to help him get up, but two Knights rapidly dragged him away from Monster. They quickly turned his hands to his back and wrapped his pulses together with a silver rope that had some strange runes written on it - immediately he felt his strength being drained and he kneeled tired as if he had just trained for the entire day.

"NO! Monster!" He shouted, feeling even his breath getting heavier.

Monster was feeling weak because of the energy drain, he felt the same tiredness he had years ago. But this time there wasn't pain aside from the stabbing on his chest, he could do that, he MUST and he WILL protect his child.

He started to concentrate strength on his arms to get up, his almost fully regenerated wings opened wide to intimidate the Knights, revealing his demonic body under the cloak, they also now had a blue glow inside that helped to illuminate just a little the place.

The woman with the pair of odd swords rolled her eyes before going straight to stab Monster's left hand against the floor. He didn’t scream but his face was of real pain.

She stabbed his hand so strong that the sword got stuck on the metal floor, with the strength he had left he couldn’t take his hand out of the place so quick and easy, dragging him into the beginning of insanity.

He roared scared, kinda telling Baby to run away.

Baby tried to untangle from the Knights' tight grips: He jumps and shakes his body, fighting to get free… But the ropes had cut off all of his strength and the Knights were being able to hold him like a normal kid. All that effort only made him more breathlessly.

Under all that stress he could only think: "What's going on with me?! If I don't do something they will kill him! He's not one hundred percent yet!”

Monster realized that Baby wouldn't get out on his own, he tried to get his hand out of the sword trapping, with no results. The only way would let the sword cut its way through his hand for he can get out, leaving his left hand useless for the moment.

"Spare me of this shit…" the woman said, annoyed by the attempts of the double to get out of that situation through the last minute.

"Listen, you piece of shit!" She called Monster's attention. "If you come with us in peace, we won't do anything with the kid."

She gets very close to him and whispers, for only him to hear it: "I know you can understand me… Nelo Angelo."

Her last two words made his blood boil.

Hear that name again triggered nightmares and traumas that he already had suppressed years ago thanks to his life with Baby.

Monster roared loudly and in despair, just for the fact that the woman had that information, she was surely dangerous and probably somehow knew Mundus.

He goes fully charged with his right arm at her, his claws ready to slaughter, but she could easily dodge by kneeling.

Monster barely could move his chest to turn around because of his stuck hand.

He threw his body forward, his mouth was wide open to get her.

Unfortunately, the woman was countless times faster than him.

He got close enough to take a piece out of her, but he had bitten the air. She did a high jump over his head and landed on his back, going down with everything she got and smacking his chest against the metal floor.

For some reason, she hated Monster and that could easily be seen in her vicious eyes.

With the other sword she had in her hands, she began a quick yet cruel multiple stabbing on his back.

The sword had not just pierced him, but it also drained his energy and magic at every stab.

Baby screamed in pain so loud that he almost lost his voice. Monster could do nothing either except shout in pain.

"STOP! STOOOOOOOP!" Baby screamed in panic and started to cry uncontrollably, that was the only thing he could do in that situation.

The woman jumped off from Monster's back, her sword dripping his blood as well her leggings and cape dirty with it as well. She took off the sword from his left hand and stabbed in his right hand, but he couldn't move anymore, he returned to zero all over again.

"WHY ARE YOU DOING THIS?! YOU ARE THE MONSTER HERE, YOU SCUM!" Baby shouted with his most honest anger and panic towards the unknown woman.

Baby couldn't see her face but could feel her stare at him. The pressure was immeasurable, but it hasn't shaken him anyway.

She made a hand signal to one of the Knights to let the kid go. At the moment they had taken off the rope from his pulses, he ran away towards his friend - his face was completely wet with his desperate tears.

"Monster! Monster please… no… you have to get out of here!" Baby cried in panic, trying to help him get up.

But he was so weak… again. He tried to give his arms some strength the maximum he could, but the energy-draining made that an impossible task.

The woman pulled Baby, holding on the neck collar of his jacket, with ease away from Monster.

Very close to losing his conscience, Monster kept trying to get up and even charge some magic to help Baby. Unfortunately, all of his efforts were useless, he was already out of battle.

Baby couldn't speak, he only could stare at the image of his best friend dying in front of him and he couldn't do a thing about it.

Mentally, Monster was in a total panic, his body and magic weren't responding to his commands anymore, but he kept trying to get up anyway.

"AAAAAH!"

Monster had a bad vision, but he could see and understand what happened right in front of him: Baby was stabbed in the chest by the woman and a few blood drops had fallen on Monster's face.

The sword then electrocuted him with a deadly high voltage: "AAAAAAAAAAAAHHHH!"

Monster's heart and soul slowly started to die together with Baby.

"You two can't stay together, that's not how it's supposed to work," she told him drily and dreadfully while she threw Baby's dead body in the ocean.

Monster died inside together with the sound of the “splash” of Baby’s body in the water.

The Knights could easily chain him up and take him to a big vehicle, transporting him to the Order's Headquarters after that.

Through a few years, the Order used him and the pieces they found of his armor to create their Angelos. They thought they were draining his magic, although, somehow he managed to hold the most he could his own magic and he made them drain all of Mundus' corruption out of him.

That nearly had the cost of his life, but he was able to regain his full consciousness and "original form" at a high cost.

One day we faked his death and was able to flee from the facility in a killing spree. That happened a few weeks before the Fortuna incident.

Through the next years, he lived that moment of Baby's death over and over, corrupting him from inside out; making him realize once again how weak he was, that he didn't deserve a human life or either love. His human side was only responsible for his and his loved ones suffering and that he had to return for his search of power because of his weakness and this time… no matter what, even if that meant discarding a part of himself.

Meanwhile, Baby survived the stab of that day and found himself on a shore later, still at Fortuna.

He went to live around the outskirts of Fortuna for a long time, attacking and sometimes even killing by accident every Knight he spotted on the path between the city and the Order's headquarters. He questioned every single one of them about Monster, but none of them knew what he was talking about.

Until he attacked Credo, that had an idea about what he was looking for.

Credo and Kyrie's parents accepted Baby to live among them since he had white hair and some connection with demons, very similar to the description of the figure they worshipped: Sparda.

Unfortunately, a few weeks later they got killed by a demon, thus, bringing the "demon magnet curse" back to haunt Baby.

He then joined the Order with the only intention of getting good equipment and to get inside the HQ to look for Monster.

A few weeks before the incident with the Savior, Credo was able to bring for Baby, in secret, a copy of documents talking about Monster… only for him to discover that his best friend had died.

Void Realm - Pitch Black City: Back to the present

Kyrie had to finish the story from Nero's "death" in front since she knew it as well, all because Nero was sobbing and sniffing uncontrollably, his tears were too much for he could clean it and he was too shaken to be able to speak.

Nico never expected to feel so sorry for Nero, she was aware he had a tough life, but not that much… Victor was also feeling bad for him, but he had to tell him the truth, the only possible truth. What he didn’t expect was the reaction that was about to come.

They waited in silence nearly an hour for Nero to calm down, it was already very late in the night.

“Nero...” Victor started slowly, breaking the silence. “I don’t think Monster really died…”

Nero raised his head to look at him, he couldn’t understand how Victor got to that conclusion.

“Have you payed attention… on the things you described?” Victor continued calmly. “Be able to feel what the other is feeling… see memories… receive the knowledge from the other…”

Victor’s words weren’t clicking Nero’s memory, he was still a bit shaken with the story.

Noticing that, he decided to be more direct: “You described every characteristic of Sync”

Nero’s brain gears began to work again, Sync was a recent subject Victor explained to him: an exclusive ability of Siblings of the same parents and… Parent and Children exclusive thing.

“No! Wait!” Nero blurted confused. “Ar-Are you… Are you trying to tell me that Monster… - a pause- was Vergil?!”

“I’m sure about that,” Victor said quite seriously, staring at Nero’s eyes.

Nero immediately got up from the seat, scaring Kyrie that was closer to him. His face had changed so quickly as if someone had pressed a switch. He began to yell angrily at Victor for no apparent reason: “VERGIL ISN’T MONSTER! No way that cold-blooded motherfucker is Monster!” he screamed between tears, but this time tears of anger.

“Dude! Chill! What’s up?!” Nico yelled scared with his reaction.

“Why are you in denial?!” Victor questioned, keeping his calm and serious posture. “Can’t you see that everything you said described Sync perfectly?”

“NO!” Nero shouted angrily.

Kyrie could see some sparks starting to blink around Nero, but before she was able to say anything Victor went first: “Why then?!” he yelled confused.

Nero took a deep breath and concentrated all his anger and depression on his next words and tears: “I’M NOT THE BASTARD CHILD OF A DEMON!”

And immediately after those words of sorrow, he started to bleed through his eyes, nose and mount at an alarming quantity. He lost control of his body and fell off the ground, shaking so much as if he was having a convulsion.

Only Kyrie could see the mess of blue and red bolts circling around Nero: “Oh my God! He’s desyncing again!” she shouted scared and instinctively rushed to help him out.

“Kyrie! Wait!” Nico shouted, but it was too late.

The moment she touched him, purple and white energy strings came out of her and touched his energy streams. At exactly the same moment, his energies repealed hers away, sending Kyrie a few steps backward.

“Are you a demon?!” Victor shouted quite surprised. “Or a half demon?! - he quickly turned to Nico - “You said she was human!”

Hell - at same moment

The situation got quite awkward between Dante and Vergil.

Vergil was holding his feelings the maximum he could, he was even holding his breath to do so, his body was shaking of so much tension and a tear or other was going down his cheeks, his face was red of stress.

“Ah… That’s why you did that then…” Date said low, finally understanding what initially motivated his brother to go after the Qliporth and throw away his human half.

There was no way Vergil’s uneasy and tension could pass unnoticed. Dante started to feel sorry for his brother like he never thought he would; Vergil lost the most precious person in his entire life. Baby was his savior and he barely could do something to help him in return.

The way Vergil was holding himself made Dante recall how he felt that day; Yeah, that fateful day he couldn't hold Vergil to destroy his own life. That killing sensation of feeling useless and powerless. The thought of 'everything could be different IF...'

“Bro…” Dante said soft and low, trying to call Vergil’s attention. “Listen… even a Devil may cry when they lose a loved one.”

When Dante thought he couldn’t see his brother more shaken, the inevitable happened: Vergil couldn’t hold anymore, not after his brother’s last words; he started to sobbing and crying in grief. Baby's death was too painful for him: he hugged himself trying to endure the pain and he stuttered uncontrollably many incomprehensive words, he brought his legs closer and assumed a fetal position.

Dante got closer and in an attempt to comfort the desolated man he laid his left hand on his left shoulder. Vergil couldn’t resist and laid his head on his brother’s shoulder; he was crying and sobbing as if Baby just had died that moment and even being a silent crying, he was in pure pain. His chest and shoulders were giving small jumps because of his strong sobbing and hiccups, his lips and jaw were trembling as if he was shivering and his nose was very runny.

“I-I-It-t-t w-as just like… just like that day… - sob- just like… -sob sob- just like that day…! -hic hic!” Vergil cried. “I-I-I I couldn’t protect him! I WAS WEAK! t-t-THE SA-ME SHIiiiT-T! ALL OVER AGAIN! -sob sob... hic- aaaaahh...!”

Dante tried to stroke Vergil’s shoulder to comfort him more, it wasn’t helping that much, but he was trying. He had no idea what to do, he’d never been in a situation like that before. Now… should he tell his thoughts to him? He was more than certain now that Baby is Nero. But how would his brother react? That would help? Would it make it worse? There was only one way to know.

Dante waited for a long time in silence, for his brother to catch his breath back before he could say something again.

For several minutes, if not an hour, Vergil's crying was the only sound around, echoing in their hideout.

“Vergil… Do you remember… that thing… we used to be able to do it when we were kids?” Dante tried to start slow, touching the wound with a bit of care.

“Sob - W-What… - hic - thi-thing…?” Vergil asked, very lost.

Dante got a bit nervous, he didn’t want to go to the point so quick. “You know… that when we touched… we could see each other’s memories, learn what the other learned… and so on…”

“Sob- Th-That thi-ing... -hic- Rose was studying about us - sob - ?” Vergil tried to remember but it was a bit blurry at that moment. “Sob sob - that later I dis-dis-covered -hic- with Vi-Victor that it was… -sob- a demon thing?”

“Yeeeeaaaah…” Dante said a bit awkwardly.

There’s a moment of silence before Dante gets the courage to continue: “Sooo… Have Victor told you everything about that?”

“No -sob- why?” Vergil replied as he raised his head to look at his brother.

Dante let go of him and gave a small distance, afraid of his reaction.  “Well then… Victor explained to me… that’s a demon thing like you said… BUT it’s a thing… exclusive to siblings of the same parents… and...”

“And?!” Vergil started to notice Dante’s reluctancy on the subject.

“And a parent and children thing too… and a lot of you described about what used to happen between you and Baby matches with what Victor explained to me....” we said very slowly. “So… I’m afraid that… maybe... Baby…”

“NO!” Vergil understood very fast. “No no no no no no no no no no no! NO!”

“I’m afraid that maybe… Baby was your child all this time… He’s...Nero.” Dante finally said.

Vergil’s soul left his body and returned for a brief moment. Had he hurt Baby for real? Someone that only deserved love and care met his worst? His face became full of total despair and panic, he brought his hands to his head, pressing his fingers against his scalp. The more and more he recalled what he did wrong with Nero the thoughts started to storm his mind like a hurricane. Until he let all the panic concentrated on his gut explode away in a loud despair scream, that even called the attention of nearby demons.

Vergil began to freak out in tears, he was insanely crying in pain that he started to hurt his head with his nails, digging them on his scalp. Dante quickly grabbed him by his arms to hold him still, for he didn't get himself hurt in the middle of his panic.

“Bro! BROTHER!” Dante tried to call. “Easy Vergil!”

Between the heavy sobbing, he could split out a few words. “No no no! -sob sob-  I would ne-never -sob- hu-hu-hurt him! - Sob sob”

“You can’t blame yourself for that, man!” Dante attempted to help him get in control. “You thought he was dead, you saw him being killed in front of you and you didn’t know he was a hybrid like us!”

Vergil looked at him, a desperate face and eyes red of so much crying, but he was listening to his brother.

“If you explain to him what really happened I think he will understand.” Dante said, very worried with Vergil.

It was very hard for Vergil to believe that he would be forgiven for such doing, especially the arm literal take off. He couldn’t think clearly about that now, he was too worried that it was very likely he had hurt the most important person of his life.

By now, he laid his head on Dante’s shoulder once more and let go all the tears as possible.

Inside Vergil (figuratively)

The place was close to being dead for real, the sun was hidden behind very heavy dark clouds, the ground was totally dry and crackly and there was a small pool of water at the center of the place. A loud painful crying was echoing very high around that infinite desolated place.

It was V, crying uncontrollably as he stared at a very small dying flower, smaller than his fingers, with another one starting to blooming at the side. He got his arms, legs and neck chained to a dead tree stump in front of the pool that had scorched marks at the roots. Although the chains were heavy, he could move his members. He was wearing the same clothes as Vergil and his hair and facial hair was purely white now.

Urizen was sitting behind the stump, he was quiet, only listening to V’s painful crying.

V kneeled to the little flowers that were at his side, with the point of his fingers he gently touched the dying flower, and raised it a little.

“My little one.. -sob- my little little one…. - sob - I’m so sorry… -sob sob- I’m so sorry for having hurt you… - sob - my baby…!”

To be continued...

[bubonickitten]

Summary: Jon goes back to before the world ended and tries to forge a different path.

Previous chapter: AO3 || Tumblr

Chapter 18 full text & content warnings below the cut.

CWs for Chapter 18: discussion of passive suicidal ideation; unintentional self-harm (scratching at arms as a stim, to the point of drawing blood); brief allusion to childhood neglect; internalized ableism (re: ADHD, but not explicitly stated as such); brief acephobia (past experience & internalized); Jon-typical negative self-talk, guilt, & rejection sensitive dysphoria; discussion of past trauma (including having bodily autonomy overridden, canon non-consensual surgery, & stabbing); internalized victim blaming/comparing victim to their abuser; discussion of self-inflicted blinding/eye gouging (past attempts & potential future attempts); brief mention of Mr. Spider/arachnophobia themes; swears. SPOILERS through Season 5.

Chapter 18: Reconciliation

Once Jon opened the door and the Fears rewrote reality, not only was sleep no longer a physiological necessity – it was no longer an option. Much like the Coffin, even a temporary escape via unconsciousness was contrary to a world defined by the ceaseless generation of terror. And just as it did any human in that place, perpetual wakefulness took its toll on Jon’s already ravaged mental health.

The fact that he was no longer plaguing the nightmares of his victims may have been a small consolation, if not for the fact that he was instead witnessing the waking nightmares of billions of new victims: the same scenes looping over and over, layered one on top of the other, an endless soundtrack screaming in the background of his mind. Venting a statement from time to time could only do so much to quell that storm. He’d really had no choice but to learn to compartmentalize on autopilot and dissociate on command.

So when, for the first time since before the world ended, Jon awakens to Martin at his side, his mind cannot immediately reconcile the sight. He might think he was dreaming, if not for the fact that he hasn’t had a pleasant dream of his own since he became the Archivist. And even before then – well, he’d always been more predisposed to nightmares.

Jon feels his heart stutter in his throat when he sets eyes on Martin. Their hands are still clasped together, and despite the sweatiness of their palms and the way Jon’s arm is cramping from the angle, he has no desire to let go. Instead, he lies still, breathing shallow and measured, fearful of any sound or movement that might shatter the almost uncanny peace of the moment.

He really shouldn’t be staring like this, though, should he? Martin has given him permission to stare many times before, but that was in a future where they had Seen each other at their most vulnerable. Being seen, truly seen – as terrifying as it was for the both of them – became a comfort, because of what they had been through together. Here in the past, Martin hasn’t shared that experience. He might not be as keen to put up with Jon’s incessant watching.

Those reservations still aren’t enough to stop him, though.

Martin is still sat in his chair, but bent sideways at the waist to lean halfway on the cot. He’s snoring lightly, his head pillowed on his free arm, glasses askew. The angle is probably hell on his back.

Maybe I should wake him up, Jon thinks idly, one corner of his mouth turning up in a small, fond smile.

He doesn’t. Instead, his eyes remain rapt on Martin, soaking in every detail, as beloved and familiar as always: the length of his eyelashes, the shape of his lips, the spray of freckles across his nose, that particularly stubborn cowlick that always, always stands on end. Jon wants to reach out, sink his fingers into those curls, massage his scalp in that way Martin used to love – but that would be a step beyond staring, wouldn’t it? So he watches: unblinking, aching, adoring, and so overwhelmed that he's at risk of tearing up.

It’s painfully, embarrassingly maudlin of him, he knows, but can he really be faulted for that? Jon surpassed the lifespan of a normal human several times over, bereft and alone in a desolated realm of his own making. He spent much of that time out of his mind with grief, drowning in hopelessness and guilt, cycling between numb dissociation and raw destruction. When he wasn’t wandering aimlessly – near-catatonic, subsumed by the never-ending deluge of fear permeating that world – he was lashing out. Although he couldn’t die, he could still hurt, and so he did, with exacting focus: both himself and all the other monsters going through the motions in that doomed world.

Ending them neither decreased nor increased the net output of fear, but it was the closest Jon could come to some nebulous, fleeting sense of justice. He didn’t enjoy it – in fact, he hated the other Avatars sometimes, bitter that they could attain a release that seemed impossible for him. His first few acts of vengeance in those early days had felt good in the moment, but the high never lasted: just like taking a statement.

Eventually, once the fear began to grow scarcer, it felt more and more like granting mercy – often to monsters who never showed any themselves – rather than meting out justice. A few moments of pain was preferable to slow, torturous starvation. Breekon was the first to request such a favor. He was far from the last.

It made Jon feel monstrous in an all new way, offering escape to predators when he could do nothing to save their victims – at least not without turning them into Avatars themselves, creating more monsters to replace the old. But it also made him feel real – a tangible, active presence interacting with the world, as opposed to a ghost, unseen and unknowable. An undeniable consequence, rather than a detached observer.

Tears start to gather in the corners of his eyes. Jon tries to swallow them back, but his throat has grown thick with emotion. He never expected to escape that place; never expected to see a friendly face or hear a kind word ever again. And now that he has…

This isn’t for you, says an insidious little voice in the back of his head: some twisted chimera comprised of all those who have known him well enough to see him for what he is, to catalogue his failings, to pass judgment. There is no place for you in this world. You don’t belong here. You were made for something greater; eliminate that, and what remains –

A gentle knock-knock at the door startles him out of his thoughts.

“Jon?” Georgie pushes the door open and peers through the gap. “You awake?”

“Yeah.” It comes out as a fractured whisper. He sniffles and rubs his eyes, but Georgie has already noticed his distress.

“Bad dream?”

“No.” Jon clears his throat and props himself up on one elbow. “No, ah – quite the opposite, really.”

“Oh?” Georgie says, probing for an explanation.

Jon's gaze drifts to his hand, still joined with Martin’s. “None of this feels real, and…”

“And?”

“I, uh…” Jon closes his eyes, blinking back tears. “I don’t deserve it.”

“The world doesn’t work that way.”

“Maybe it should.” Jon lets out a wet, clipped laugh.

No one got what they deserved in the world he created, only what hurt them the most. Tempting as it was to find some meaning in it all, to retroactively draw correlations between past actions and current circumstances, Jon Knew from the very beginning that there was no cause-and-effect at play. Not really. Any misery being experienced in that new world was utterly unrelated to the lives people lived before the change. It was indiscriminate. Everyone was afraid and in agony, regardless of any subjective judgment on whether or not they deserved it.

And nothing Jon did changed those material conditions in the slightest. He could shift an individual’s role from subject to object and vice versa, reassign their place on the spectrum of the tortured versus the torturer, but at the end of the day, he was still just facilitating fear, regardless of what shape it took. Despite being one of the most powerful and fearful things roaming that scorched earth, his options were as limited as they’d always been. Every choice led to more or less the same end.

By every measure that could be said to actually matter, he was ultimately powerless.

Would it have been any more tolerable if the suffering was more proportionate? If at least some of the people trapped in the domains could be said to be receiving just punishment for any agony they themselves had inflicted before the end of the world? Maybe. But probably not. Securing vengeance never actually yielded any meaningful catharsis for Jon. Even Jonah Magnus' ultimate fate produced nothing but revulsion. The Archive may feed on such fear, but after all this time, Jon – all the pieces of him that still belong to him – has no desire to behold suffering. He has seen enough for several lifetimes, and he was never once given the option to look away, let alone put an end to it.

Jon shakes his head and begins to fully sit up, slowly and carefully so as not to disturb Martin. He’s hardly expecting Georgie to engage with his newest avenue of brooding, but after a minute, she gives a thoughtful hum and leans against the doorframe.

“Don’t know that I want to see what that would look like,” she says pensively.

“What?”

“A world where ‘deservedness’ was quantifiable – where you could put a precise value on suffering, and every action had a moral price tag on it that stayed the same regardless of the circumstances. Where subjective experiences could be – shoved into neat little categories that everyone could agree on.”

“Like Robert Smirke,” Jon murmurs.

“Sure.” Georgie shrugs. “I don’t know if humanity as we know it could even exist in a world like that. We’d be… unrecognizable.”

“O-oh?”

“Mm. We aren’t equations. Or – well, we are, I guess, at the most basic physical level, if you scale down small enough. Atoms, physics, chemical reactions and all that. But when it comes to the experience of consciousness, personal identity, free will… isn’t the complexity what gives it all meaning? If we could account for every last variable, know the exact effect of every cause, what would that make us?”

“I… I don’t know.”

“Life isn’t about the destination, I guess is what I’m saying.” Georgie runs her thumb over her lips as she muses. “We already know the destination. One way or another, everything dies.”

“‘The moment that you die will feel exactly the same as this one,’” Jon recites, a distant quality to his voice. “There’s no difference between that last moment that ushers us out into oblivion and the one we experience now – everything ends, even the universe, even time. And… that means it has always already ended.”

It takes a moment for Jon to come back to himself, blinking dazedly. It's another few seconds before he realizes what happened – and when he does, a sudden, heavy coldness takes root and blossoms in his chest.

“I’m so– I didn’t – I wasn’t –”

“It’s – fine,” Georgie says, although she sounds a bit rattled. “It was an accident.”

“Still, I’m sorry, I –”

“Apology accepted, Jon. I’m not angry.” When she sees Jon gearing up to belabor the point, she holds up a hand. “You’re forgiven. Let’s just move on, okay?”

Jon bites down on his lower lip, torn between dueling impulses: groveling, berating himself, shutting down, or… simply taking Georgie at her word. With a long, shaky exhale, he settles on trust: Georgie expressed a desire to drop it and move forward. He should respect that, right? Right.

He bites back his protests and nods stiffly. “Okay.”

“Look, what I was trying to get at is – knowing the destination doesn’t invalidate the journey, right? If anything, the inevitability of an ending is what gives meaning to all the rest.”

The End forced Georgie to confront the insignificance of her own birth and death against the backdrop of a vast universe – but rather than allow that realization to immobilize her with despair, she opted to make all the moments in between meaningful. Jon can't help but once again remember the confidence with which Martin countered Simon Fairchild's brand of flippant nihilism: I think our experience of the universe has value, even if it disappears forever.

I might have a type, he thinks to himself, equal parts wry and endeared.

“We all end up in the same place,” Georgie continues, “but that doesn’t have to mean we all follow the same path. What matters is what happens along the way, and – if you could map out every bit of the journey, predict the outcome of every single step you take, then – what else is left?”

“If you already know the answer to every question,” Jon says softly, “what’s the point of being?”

Jon isn’t sure what expression he’s making, but whatever it is, Georgie blanches when she catches his eye.

“Oh, I – Jon, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean –”

“No, it’s – it’s alright. You’re not wrong.” Jon chuckles awkwardly. “Is it odd that I find the thought…reassuring? Sort of?”

“We’re getting lost in the weeds, aren't we?” Georgie says with a flustered laugh. “My original point was – this obsession you have with deservedness, and establishing dichotomies, and trying to find simple, objective answers to complicated questions – it’s a skewed way of looking at the world, and it’s eating you alive. You have to stop treating your life like it’s a scorecard. Relentlessly punishing yourself isn’t going to change the past. It’s not healthy, it’s not productive, and it just makes you more likely to sabotage your future.”

“I know. It’s just… the things I’ve done, they’re – unforgivable. I can’t leave it behind, and I can’t take it back.”

Jon used to wonder when the Eye would make him too monstrous to feel shame. It never did, never had to: he abetted it regardless of how he felt about it. For the most part, he can’t even apologize: the people he hurt are either dead or have no memory of what Jon did to warrant it. Besides, some consequences too irrevocable, too catastrophic to cushion with remorse.

Sorry that you died because I failed; sorry that I burned a bridge that could have kept us both safe; sorry that you’re trapped here just because I stood too close to you. Sorry for the invaded privacy, sorry for the mistreatment, sorry for all the hunger and fear and nightmares. Sincerest apologies, everyone, for the eternal torment.

He could have composed a personalized apology for every last person in the world had he wanted – he’d certainly had the time to spare, as well as detailed knowledge of each victim’s plight. But any apology he could possibly make, no matter how eloquent or sincere, would have been insulting in its inadequacy. What reparations can be made to soften the blow of a life lost or a world ended?

“S-so,” he says, eyes downcast, “that just leaves… guilt.”

And fear. Fear enough to cram an Archive full to bursting.

“I know,” Georgie says.

“I’m sorry, I –” Jon breathes a bitter laugh. “I’m a broken record, aren’t I? I fall apart every time I see you.”

“Jon,” George sighs, “you don’t have to apologize. You’ve been through unimaginable trauma. You’ve had barely any chance to start to heal from it. You’re still living it. I don’t expect a few heart-to-heart conversations to close the book on… all of that.”

“Still, it’s – annoying, I imagine.” Jon picks nervously at a loose thread on his trouser leg. “To sit through the same conversation over and over again.”

“I’d be more worried if you went back to just – pretending to be okay, refusing to talk about it. It’s been barely a month since you got out of the hospital. Shit, it hasn’t even been twenty-four hours since you crawled out of that Coffin.” Her eyes narrow slightly, intent and searching. “Speaking of which, I should ask: Are you a danger to yourself right now?”

“What?” The question catches Jon off guard. “No? N-no, I’m – why would you –”

“Just checking in. Which I’m going to keep doing. Regularly. So you may as well make peace with that now.”

“It’s not like I’m going to kill myself,” Jon mumbles – aiming for casually unconcerned and instead landing squarely in transparently uncomfortable territory. “I’m fairly certain I can’t die a mundane human death, anyway.”

“Maybe not, but that doesn’t mean you can’t still hurt yourself. And being suicidal sucks regardless of whether you actually plan on going through with it.” Jon studiously avoids eye contact as Georgie speaks. “Anyway, I know I sound like a broken record, but I’ll say it as many times as you need reminding: You have a second chance. You said you were going to make the best of it, and you can’t do that if you won’t let yourself have some peace.” Her expression softens, as does her voice. “Just… let yourself be, won’t you?”

There’s truth to what Georgie is saying. Even if he wasn’t mired in guilt, though…

“I’m afraid,” Jon whispers. “Of losing him, of losing everyone, of…”

Of dooming everyone. It was so easy. All it took was his voice, an incantation, and this ceaseless, aberrant hunger. He’s seen the consequences of the destiny for which he has unwittingly been prepared. Like it or not, he is the most dangerous thing in this world – a walking hair-trigger, already having overstayed his welcome on this earth by several lifetimes. One misstep, and…

“I should be grateful to have this, to have him – and I am, but every – every time I come close to letting myself feel – safe, hopeful, content, it… it never lasts. It’s always swallowed up by fear – not of if something goes wrong, but when. It just feels like… any choice I make is bound to end in tragedy. Like there’s no way out. Like nothing I do will change anything. I – I’ll mess it up; I always do.”

It’s a pattern that began long before he became entangled in Jonah’s machinations. Jon was a difficult child who grew into an even more difficult adult, always saying and doing all the wrong things because he’s never been able to fully grasp the invisible rules that other people seem to navigate so naturally. At home he could never shake the feeling that he was an odd guest, secretly unwelcome but with nowhere else to keep him; at school he was a menace, asking all the wrong questions at all the wrong times and prone to following his own lesson plans whenever the curriculum failed to hold his interest. Peer relationships typically failed to take root: he’s too guarded, too abrasive, too annoying and tactless and awkward. Whatever friendships managed to blossom tended to wilt before long, for all the same reasons.

Romantic relationships have historically been even more fraught. There are expectations that he will never meet, forms of intimacy that are traditionally assumed to be required rather than optional for such a relationship to qualify as normal, healthy, and sustainable. In his experience, setting those boundaries have usually been a deal-breaker. Georgie was the first to accept that aspect of him unconditionally; Martin was the second – and although Jon no longer believes that it’s a problem to be fixed, those old, long-held insecurities still rear up from time to time.

He had hoped he could at least prove himself capable as a Head Archivist, but, well… he was inexperienced with the duties of a mundane archiving job, unsuited to managing a department, and his preexisting difficulties with establishing rapport were exacerbated by his need to maintain a professional boundary between himself and his assistants. He tried to make up for those shortcomings with effort and dedication and – in retrospect – frankly obscene levels of overwork, but he never did manage to be a good boss or a good coworker.

It’s a cruel joke that of all the roles to finally excel in, it’s as the Archivist – or, specifically, Jonah’s Archivist. He met every expectation, even – perhaps especially – when he didn’t know what those expectations were. Not like Gertrude. She would doubtless be disappointed by her successor: constantly second-guessing himself, resolving indecisiveness with impulsivity, stumbling around in the dark, pointlessly sabotaging himself and those unlucky enough to find themselves in his orbit – ultimately devastating a world that she had made so many ruthless sacrifices to protect.

Jon has spent most of his life fumbling at being a peer, a friend, a partner, a colleague, an ally. If he couldn’t manage to figure it out when he was still human, how is he supposed to play at being a person now, when he’s…

“This – this isn’t for things like me,” Jon says hoarsely. He can feel more tears teeming as he looks down at Martin: kind and good and so, so deserving of happiness, of security, of a peaceful life that Jon fears he will never be able to provide, no matter how fiercely he loves. “I don’t get to” – end the world – “to become – this, and still get a happy ending.”

“Do you Know that?” Georgie asks.

“N-no, I can’t predict the future, but –”

“Then you shouldn’t assume the worst. You don’t have a fixed destiny, no matter what you’ve been led to believe.” She scowls at him. “And stop referring to yourself as a ‘thing’. It really doesn’t matter how human you are or aren’t, you're still you. You’re still a person.”

Jon doesn’t know how to respond to that without either contradicting her or offering lukewarm, disingenuous agreement. Luckily, he doesn’t have to: Martin begins to stir, and Jon hurriedly wipes away any evidence of tears, fighting to regain his composure. With a snuffle and a sleepy groan, Martin opens his eyes, blinking blearily.

“Hey there,” Jon says with a soft smile.

Martin returns a vague grin, muzzy with sleep. With unfocused eyes, he appears to slowly take in his surroundings, gaze lingering briefly on and then skating over his hand, fingers still interlocked with Jon’s. When his attention drifts towards Georgie, he stares at her for a long few seconds, squinting at the influx of light from the hallway. Another slow blink, another extended stare at his and Jon’s linked hands, and then his eyes widen. Color blooms on his cheeks as he abruptly surfaces into full consciousness, glasses tumbling off his face as he jerks upward.

“Oh, god, I’m sorry,” he says, groggy voice at odds with the panicked embarrassment in his eyes. He pulls his hand back, mumbling apologies about clammy palms. As he straightens in his seat, he lets out a pained hiss.

Jon cringes sympathetically. “You should’ve taken the cot.”

Martin ignores the comment, scrubbing at his face now, hiding it in his sleeve. It does nothing to conceal his reddened ears, Jon notes with amused affection.

“Did you sleep alright, otherwise?” Jon asks.

“Mm?” Martin retrieves his glasses and slips them back on before turning his attention to Jon. “Oh, uh – yes. You?”

“Yes, actually.”

His first routine breakdown of the day notwithstanding, Jon did manage to sleep through most of the night, only waking once after a brief foray back into Karolina’s nightmare.

The rest of the dreams were relatively benign. He spent some time with Georgie. Naomi was pleased to see him and eager as ever to regale him with cat anecdotes. Dr. Elliott was less pleased, but he was at least no more afraid of Jon than he had been during the coma. Seeing Jordan Kennedy was as uncomfortable as ever; Jon doubts he’ll ever know what to say to him. Tessa was more difficult to read. She wasn’t exactly happy to see him again, but she didn't seem angry, either.

Should’ve known it wouldn’t last, she’d sighed to herself – and then promptly changed the subject before Jon could stammer out an apology.

“Learned a lot about the right to repair movement,” Jon says absently.

“What?” Martin asks, bewildered.

“Oh, uh – Tessa Winters. Gave a statement in 2016 about a haunted chatbot. It forced her to watch a seventeen-hour-long video of a man eating his computer.”

Georgie perks up at that.

“Oh, is that the, uh – that creepypasta about that guy who mutilated himself trying to upload his mind to his computer?”

“Sergey Ushanka.”

“Yeah! Something about how he tried to crack open his skull and wire his brain to the motherboard?”

“That is one variation of the story, yes.”

“What,” Martin says flatly.

“I was thinking about doing a What the Ghost episode on that one,” Georgie explains, her sheepish smile doing little to conceal her lingering enthusiasm. “Haunted technology is always a popular topic. Didn’t expect that one to be real, though. I wonder –”

Jon answers her question before she can ask it: “I doubt Tessa would be interested in being a guest on the show.”

“Yeah,” Georgie sighs, “I guess not.”

Martin lets out a nervous chuckle. “What, uh – sorry, what does any of this have to do with right to repair?”

“Oh. Right. Tessa’s one of the people whose nightmares I… invade. Perpetuate, I suppose. She’s, ah, not my biggest fan, considering what I’ve put her through, but she says I’m a decent audience.” Martin gives Jon a blank look. “She basically gives me free lectures sometimes? Technology-related subjects, mostly. Fascinating stuff.”

“God, you sound like a grandpa,” Georgie says.

“Yes, yes, Tessa tells me the same.” Jon rolls his eyes. “Anyway, she has some, ah… strong feelings about Apple. Among other things.”

“Right,” Martin says slowly. “Wait, back up – you know what creepypasta is?”

“Yes, Martin,” Jon says with a sigh and an indulgent smile, “I know what creepypasta is.”

“That particular internet rabbit hole was one of his many, many avenues of procrastination in uni, believe it or not,” Georgie says.

“Contrary to popular belief, I’m not a Luddite. I tried to introduce the Archives to the twenty-first century, remember? It’s not my fault the Beholding has a retro aesthetic.”

“Huh,” Martin says with a bemused smile. Then he yawns. “Sorry. What time is it?”

As soon as the question is posed, the Beholding drops the knowledge into Jon’s head.

“About 10:30,” Georgie answers, just as Jon says, “10:28 and forty-six seconds” – and then, wincing at his own pedantry, “Sorry.”

Georgie looks ready to let loose with a snarky reply, but before she can say anything, Martin is on his feet, the blanket on his lap sliding to the floor.

“10:30? Jon, why didn’t you wake me up?”

“I – I wasn’t really paying attention to the time, I haven’t actually been awake for…”

Jon trails off as the Beholding casually notifies him that he woke up thirty-seven minutes and twenty-three seconds ago. He can feel heat pooling in his cheeks as a vague sense of shame sets in. Good lord, was he really just watching Martin sleep for that long?

“I should have been upstairs over an hour ago,” Martin says, frantically scanning the room for –

For his shoes, the Eye informs Jon.

Do you ever mind your goddamn business? Jon shoots back. On impulse, he swats at the air to his side, momentarily forgetting that the ever-present eldritch tagalongs he’d grown accustomed to during the apocalypse are no longer with him. In his dreams, he’d come eye-to-eye with them again for the first time since waking up in the hospital; apparently, that’s all it took to reintroduce this old, reflexive shooing tic to his waking life.

Georgie raises her eyebrows at the gesture, but Martin appears not to notice, preoccupied with his escalating panic.

Jon scrambles for some way to soothe him, but he’s at a loss. In his future, through trial and error and intense observation, he had painstakingly learned how to comfort Martin. Now, though, after so much time spent alone, Jon is out of practice. Moreover, he’s always been more adept at offering comfort through action and touch rather than words – and right now, he’s still uncertain where Martin’s boundaries lie.

So Jon continues to sit there, hands fluttering slightly as his mind rifles through a mountain of inane clichés in search of something, anything that might be able to help. Meanwhile, the Archivist in him is distracted by Martin’s growing anxiety. It isn’t the same as abject fear, per se, but it’s similar enough to pique the Eye’s interest.

Once again, Jon takes a swipe at the empty space beside him – and again ignores Georgie’s amused expression.

“If Peter notices I’m not in the office…” Martin nearly trips over the blanket on the floor as he turns in place to search behind him. “He – he’ll be suspicious –”

That’s when Georgie decides to speak up. Thank god, Jon thinks to himself. She exudes far more confidence than he does in this sort of situation.

“Won’t he already be suspicious?” she says, calm as can be. It’s enough to bring Martin’s fretting to a pause. “It’s not like you can keep this a secret forever, right? Your change in attitude is… pretty noticeable, Martin.”

“I – I – I didn’t really think much further ahead than –” Martin laughs nervously. “I was just – playing along, and it felt right, like if I just kept following the path I’d reach a – a – a conclusion? I don’t know what, but…” His shoulders slump, leaving his arms hanging awkwardly at his sides; he tugs at the hem of his shirt, as if he doesn’t know what to do with his hands. “I don’t think I cared much? I figured I could just – gather information and pass it along, and if nothing else I could keep Peter’s attention away from the Archives, and… that was the whole plan, to just keep doing that until… until whatever was going to happen happened, I guess, and now I don’t – I don’t know where to go from here, and…”

“Martin?” Jon says softly.

“Huh?” Martin finally glances up to meet Jon’s eyes.

“Can I take your hand?”

Cautiously, wordlessly, Martin offers his hand. Jon takes it in his, lacing their fingers together loosely.

“It’ll be alright,” he says. “You don’t have to figure it out on your own. Not anymore.”

Martin’s lips move minutely for a few seconds before meekly saying, “That doesn’t feel right.”

“I know.”

“I’m – I’m not saying you’re lying,” Martin says, rushed and anxious to appease, “it’s just…”

“Hearing something isn’t the same as accepting it. Or trusting it.”

“I do trust you, I do, it’s just… I don’t know. It’s like I can’t wrap my mind around it.”

“It’s alright,” Jon says gently. “I understand.”

“I’m sorry,” Martin whispers, his voice steeped in guilt.

“You don’t need to apologize.” When Martin opens his mouth to protest, Jon reiterates: “You have nothing to be sorry for. I promise.”

“Okay,” Martin says after a pause, still sounding somewhat doubtful. Then he grimaces. “I, uh, still don’t know what to do about Peter, though.”

“That depends on what you want,” Jon says, squeezing Martin’s hand. “I trust you. I’ll follow your lead.”

“O-okay,” Martin repeats. He blinks several times, surprised, before giving a nervous chuckle. “Only… I, uh, don’t really know what I want, to be honest?”

“Break it down into smaller pieces,” Georgie says. Martin flinches slightly – he must have momentarily forgotten she was in the room. “Do you want to go back to the Lonely?”

There’s only a short delay before Martin says, “No. I don’t… it feels different than before. Doesn’t fit right.”

“Do you want to continue working with Peter?”

“I don’t know,” Martin says slowly. “Not really? I mean, I never wanted to in the first place, it just… seemed like the thing to do.”

“Okay, rephrase,” Georgie says. “Do you want to stop working with him now?”

“I think so.” Another pause. Martin’s brow wrinkles as he stares at the floor in thought before glancing back up at Georgie. “Yeah, I – I think I do.”

“But…?” Georgie prompts, sensing Martin’s uncertainty.

“I worry about how he might react. He’ll probably start paying more attention to the Archives, and…” Martin looks at Jon. “What if he takes it out on you? Or – I mean, I don’t want him to hurt anyone, but I…” He looks down at their joined hands, tightening his grip just slightly. “I think you would be his most likely target.”

“Maybe,” Jon admits. He’s witnessed firsthand how vindictive Peter can be. “But I would rather take that risk than have you torture yourself on the off chance he’ll let me be. And… I think we’ll all be safer if we cooperate as a group rather than stay divided.”

“I guess. I’m not sure how to go about it, though.”

“Well,” Georgie says thoughtfully, “it depends on whether you want to quit all at once or ease into it.”

“I don’t know.” Martin looks to Jon again. “If I continue to work for him in some capacity, would it give us an advantage?”

At this point, they know more about the Extinction than Peter does, and Jon has a decent grasp on Peter’s goals and how he operates. So…

“I… don’t think there’s anything to be gained if you keep working closely with him, no,” Jon replies. “And anyway, I – I would rather that not be the deciding factor? It’s your decision, of course, it’s just – your wellbeing is more important.”

“Hypocrite,” Martin mutters, but there’s a tinge of endearment there.

“I know,” Jon sighs. “I’m working on it. But to the point, I worry that working closely with him might drag you back into the Lonely.”

“Yeah.”

“I’m also worried about you confronting him directly to resign. Especially on your own.”

Peter is patient. Moreover, he enjoys a long game. If he sees Martin’s change of heart as a surmountable obstacle, Peter is likely to take a step back and wait for another opening to regain the upper hand. If, on the other hand, he decides that Martin is a lost cause… well, Peter is a sore loser. There’s every chance that he could drop Martin into the Lonely out of spite again.

“Either way,” Jon says, “I don’t think it’s safe for you to be alone with him. Sooner or later, he’ll realize that the Lonely’s starting to lose its hold on you.”

Unthinkingly, Jon tightens his grip on Martin’s hand.

“It’s been slipping for a while now,” Martin says quietly. “I think he’s already noticed.”

“In that case… there’s no telling how he’ll react if he decides your allegiance to the Lonely is too tenuous to salvage.”

“Do you – or…” Georgie appears to grapple with wording for a few seconds. “Can you Know what Peter knows?”

“No,” Jon says. The last time he tried to Know something about Peter, not only did it yield nothing of value, it nearly incapacitated Jon – and he didn’t recover until he gave in and fed on a new victim. He can’t afford to repeat the experience. Daisy’s supply of statements is finite; Jon needs to ration them as much as possible. “I do know that Peter can’t spy from a distance, but that doesn’t mean he can’t just turn invisible to eavesdrop. Or that Elias won’t feed him information.”

“Let’s focus on the immediate question, then,” Georgie says. “Do you want to go upstairs and walk into your office two hours late with bedhead” – Martin runs a self-conscious hand through his hair, eliciting an affectionate smile from Jon – “or do you want to no-call/no-show?”

“Well… Peter isn’t actually around much,” Martin says. “Sometimes days go by before he checks in. He might not realize I’m not in my office yet. Maybe I can just – go about my normal routine for now?” He glances at Jon, almost beseeching. “At least until I have an idea of how much he knows?”

Like everyone who has worked in the Archives, Martin has developed a harder edge over the years. Early in his tenure, he seemed unassuming on first impression. He was by no means a pushover, but he was eager to please and preferred to avoid unnecessary confrontation. It made him an all-too-easy target for Jon’s insecurity-fueled ire.

But rather than roll over in the face of criticism, Martin has always been determined to prove his detractors wrong. Whether it’s risking his life for the sake of doing his due diligence – Jon cringes at the memory – or stubbornly caring for people who deemed him incompetent and didn’t appreciate his attentions, Martin is tenacious. It would be admirable – and it is, to an extent – but all too often it leads to self-neglect, bordering on self-harm.

And right now, despite the thicker skin that Martin has been forced to grow through necessity and loss, his demeanor when he looks at Jon is vaguely reminiscent of those early days in the Archives: cowed, cautious, desperate for approval and dreading reproach. With a pang of old guilt and a desire to soothe, Jon forces a smile and kneads the back of Martin’s hand with his thumb.

“I trust you,” Jon says, “and I know you’re more than capable. Just – when the fog starts to creep up on you, try to remember that there are people who care about you. You’re not a burden; you’re not – unseen, unwanted, undeserving, or – or whatever other lies the Lonely wants to tell you. You’re not alone. Not anymore.”

“Right,” Martin says in a breathless whisper. He gives Jon’s hand another squeeze before letting go. “I guess I, uh – I guess should head upstairs.”

“Text or call if you need a reminder,” Jon blurts out as Martin turns to leave. “S-sorry, I don’t mean to – to hover, it’s just… sometimes it helps.”

In Scotland, once Jon was too hungry to safely visit the village, Martin had to go on supply runs alone. Although he had largely left the Lonely behind, it still lurked in the background, waiting for quiet moments in which it could seep back in through the cracks it left behind. It was opportunistic and insidious, passive until it wasn’t, and it could strike unpredictably. And so, he and Jon would check in with one another frequently whenever Martin had to go into town.

In many ways it was an exercise in codependence, but they were doing their best, considering their particular circumstances.

“Thanks,” Martin says, splotches of pink staining his face again. “I – I will.”

“There’s no service in the tunnels,” Georgie reminds them. “Just in case you were planning on going down there today, Jon. Martin, do you have the rest of our numbers?”

“I have Basira’s. And Melanie’s.”

“Give me your phone. I’ll add my number. And Daisy’s.” Martin makes a face at that, but hands his phone over. “If Jon doesn’t answer, text one of the rest of us. We can make sure to always keep someone up here and reachable, just in case.”

“That’s really not necessary,” Martin says stiffly. “I don’t need my hand held every second of the day.”

“No, but you might need your hand held at any second during the day,” Georgie says, entirely unfazed by the shift in attitude, “and there's no shame in that. Sometimes a bad time sneaks up on you. Doesn’t hurt to be prepared.”

“I’ve always taken care of myself. I can handle a few hours alone.”

“I’m sure you can, but that doesn’t mean you have to.” Martin looks ready to object, but Georgie cuts him off. “You’re not going to win this argument; I’ve already heard it all before. I’ve known this one” – she jerks her thumb in Jon’s direction – “for years, and you have near-identical hangups about being an inconvenience or whatever.”

“I’m right here, you know,” Jon mutters.

“Yeah, this is directed at both of you. People want to help you. The world won’t end if you let yourself accept it without berating yourself in the process.” Georgie looks between the two of them as she hands Martin’s phone back, and then chuckles. “Huh. You two have damn-near-identical scowls, too, by the way.”

Simultaneously, Jon and Martin both roll their eyes.

Compared to the last time Jon saw her, Melanie looks… well, better. The wild, furious look in her eyes has subsided and the bags underneath are no longer quite so heavy. Her posture doesn’t look relaxed, exactly, but she doesn’t seem nearly as overwrought. She's still clearly weighed down by ambient tension, but she always has been – and the Archives have a way of making even the most well-adjusted person feel on edge.

She pauses at the bottom of the ladder, watching Jon with an air of distrust and uncertainty. Then Georgie takes her hand and a little more of that stiffness bleeds out of her. She allows Georgie to lead her over to the circle of chairs where Jon waits, and mirrors Georgie when she sits.

The ensuing silence is thoroughly unsettling. When it becomes clear that Georgie isn’t going to break the ice for them, and Melanie likewise keeps her silence, Jon reluctantly takes the initiative.

“Hi,” he says eloquently. He starts to give a little wave, but doesn’t fully commit to the motion, instead allowing his hand to hang awkwardly in the air for a few seconds before lowering his arm again, self-conscious.

“Hey,” Melanie replies – guarded, somewhat flat, but without any outright hostility.

Melanie scuffs one foot against the ground. Jon bounces his leg, chewing the inside of his cheek as he stares at the floor. Neither of them speak.

“So…” Georgie says after a minute, drawing out the vowel. “Do you two want me to, uh… I can leave, if you’d prefer to have this discussion in private?”

“Stay,” Melanie says abruptly, seeking out Georgie’s hand again. Georgie looks at Jon, a question in her eyes.

“I don’t mind. You can stay, Georgie.”

“If you’re sure,” Georgie says. “Just – let me know if that changes, I suppose.”

More silence. When Jon can’t take it anymore, he blurts out: “H-how have you been?”

“Well,” Melanie says sardonically, “I’m essentially trapped in an eldritch fear prison, doing the bidding of an evil voyeur-god, and apparently the only way out of its unfathomable contract is to gouge my eyes out.”

“Right,” Jon says with a hollow laugh. “Stupid question.”

“How are you?” Melanie asks with mock cheeriness.

“Same as you, really. Well. Except for the eye-gouging clause.”

“What, don’t have the stomach for it?”

“No, uh – it… it just won’t work for me, is all.” Staring down at his lap, Jon occupies himself with tracing circles onto one knee with his fingernail. “The Beholding isn’t keen on losing its Archivist.”

“It didn’t mind losing Gertrude.”

“Gertrude… wasn’t as far gone as I am,” Jon says quietly. “She never fully embraced the power the Eye offered. Not to the extent that I did. Blinding herself would have released her from the Eye’s service. She planned on it, actually, but Elias got to her first. And she was still human enough for a gunshot to kill her.”

And wasn’t that a release, in a way? Is it morbid for Jon to envy the fact that Gertrude even had that option available to her?

“Right,” is all Melanie says. She sounds dubious.

“I’m not just speculating a worst-case scenario to give myself an excuse not to go through with it.” Jon can feel himself bristling now. “I know it won’t work. I’ve tried. Multiple times. It hurts like hell, and then I heal. All I got out of it was an onset of chronic cluster headaches – though, who knows,” he adds acidly, “that may have just been the side effect of becoming a linchpin of the apocalypse and having all the world’s terror crammed into my head. I didn’t bother Knowing. It wouldn’t have made a difference.”

“Jon,” Georgie says gently – and all the fight goes out of him, shoulders slumping.

“Sorry,” he sighs. “Didn’t mean to snap.”

“I wasn’t scolding you. It’s just – you’re scratching.”

Oh. Jon looks down to see long, angry red scratches on his forearms, already fading now.

“Sorry,” he says again. “Didn’t notice.”

“It’s alright.”

Another awkward pause, until Melanie breaks the silence.

“Are you sure blinding will work for the rest of us?” she asks. She no longer sounds suspicious. Simply… curious: reminiscent of how things used to be, back when she was an avid investigator, beholden only to herself.

“Yes.”

“Did I…? Last time?”

“Are you sure you want to know?” Jon waits until Melanie gives a firm nod before he answers the question. “You did.”

“And it worked.”

“It worked.”

Melanie nods again. She’s clenching her teeth, if the subtle movements in her jaw are any indication. Closing her eyes, she takes a deep breath in, lets it out slowly – and her shoulders relax. By the time she’s opened her eyes, there’s the hint of a smile on her face.

“Good,” she says, equal parts relief and determination.

“S-so, do you think you’ll –” Jon stops himself, shaking his head. “No, sorry, I shouldn’t pry.”

Melanie simply shrugs. “I haven’t made a decision yet. Let’s just say I’m strongly considering it.”

Georgie’s hand tightens on Melanie’s, worry lining her face.

“Tell me what happened last time?” Melanie says. “I’d like to hear the whole story.”

Jon takes a deep breath, rubbing his arms as he orders his thoughts.

“Last time, I didn’t know about the bullet until after I woke up,” he begins. “I, ah, only saw you briefly – you were, um… you were convinced that I wasn’t me anymore. Didn’t want me anywhere near you.”

Thought I should have been the one to die, he doesn’t add. Most days, Jon couldn’t find fault in that assessment. He didn’t want to die – most of the time, anyway – but if he could have traded his life for Tim’s… well, it wouldn’t have been a difficult decision.

“So how did you find out about it, then?”

“I just… Knew it, all of a sudden.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Melanie narrows her eyes suspiciously.

“It’s an Archivist thing. I mean, you're probably already aware – I just… Know things, sometimes, even without compelling anyone. It started before the Unknowing, but it wasn’t as noticeable. Or as often. And it was typically more vague impressions, rather than specific truths. It got worse after I woke up from the coma. More frequent, more detailed, more – intrusive.”

“Fantastic,” Melanie says sourly.

“Yes, I’m not thrilled about it either. Sometimes I can Know things by choice, but the Beholding has a tendency to withhold answers to the questions I actually ask. Mostly it just airdrops information on me unsolicited. Often without me even wondering about a thing. Just… apropos of nothing. I did have much more control over it after the world ended, but, well…” He shrugs, awkward. “Not anymore. I’m sorry.”

“Sorry?” Melanie repeats.

“Last time, I had – still have, I suppose – a tendency to Know things about specific people. Things they wouldn’t normally share with me. I still remember things I Knew back then. Including some things about you.”

The color rises in Melanie’s cheeks. “That’s –”

“An invasion of privacy, I know,” he says, contrite. “I really will try to avoid it, just… sometimes things slip through the cracks when I’m not paying attention.”

“So, what, you can read minds?” Melanie says, an accusation threaded through the question. “Like Elias?”

Jon visibly recoils.

“Melanie,” Georgie begins, but Jon cuts her off.

“No, it’s – it’s a fair question. Elias’ powers come from the same source mine do.” He pauses, nervously flexing his fingers as he composes an explanation. “I can’t see your thoughts verbatim. It’s just… Knowing things. It’s the same with Elias. Sometimes it seems like he can read minds, b-but that’s – that’s just because he’s very – very good at reading people –”

“– finding you when you’re at your lowest point, when you’re your most emotionally vulnerable. And when you’re at that point it’s astounding what can crawl into your heart and start to fester there –“

Jon bites his tongue, applying pressure until the Archive stops its clamoring. Melanie raises her eyebrows in an unspoken question.

“Sorry. Sometimes it just slips out, and…” He laughs and massages his temples. “Well. Still an Archive, in the end.”

His voice cracks and Georgie’s already-concerned expression grows more serious.

“Jon –”

“I’m fine, Georgie,” Jon says, more curtly than intended. “Sorry. I just – I can’t go there right now.”

“We can take a break if you need,” she says.

“No, I… let’s just continue.” He nods at Melanie. “You have more questions.”

Melanie gnaws on the inside of her cheek for a moment, mulling over her words.

“Can you do that…” She wiggles her fingers vaguely. “That thing where you put thoughts in people’s heads?”

“No. Not – not really.”

Not anymore, he corrects privately. During the apocalypse, he was able to make others See and feel things, but… only because he could call upon the Ceaseless Watcher to turn its gaze upon them. Here in the past, the Beholding and all the other Fears remain cloistered behind their door, leeching through the cracks but unable to fully manifest in the world.

“But I, um…” Jon pauses, wetting his lips nervously. “In addition to compelling people to tell me things, sometimes I can compel people to… to do things. Nothing – nothing complex. Simple commands, mostly. ‘Stop,’ ‘leave,’ ‘look,’ ‘don’t look,’ that sort of thing. I haven’t done it often, but the times I have… with a few exceptions, it’s usually been accidental. A sort of – knee-jerk defense mechanism of sorts.”

“Hmm.” Melanie crosses her arms, tapping her foot on the ground.

“I realize that reflects poorly on me.” He swallows, mouth going dry. “It’s… a terrifying prospect, being near someone who can do something like that, and doesn’t have full control over it.”

Jon knows – and Knows via billions of proxies – what it’s like to have something other supplant his will and commandeer his body. Melanie deserves to know the risks of standing too close to him.

“I promise I’ll try to keep it under control, I just – wanted you to be aware of it. I won’t blame you if you’d rather not be around me.”

“Stop being so melodramatic,” Melanie says, rolling her eyes.

“I’m not,” Jon says flatly. “Compelling answers and – and subsisting on a diet of fear has always been more than enough to justify people keeping their distance. Adding more sinister bullshit on top of the pile doesn’t exactly do me credit. I know – Know how people see me.” He laughs, a harsh and humorless thing. “I can’t not Know.”

People tend to naturally give him a wide berth, as if they can sense that there’s something wrong about him, even if they can’t quite discern why. If he’s too careless, if he locks eyes with the wrong person, sometimes they can’t look away – and sometimes he can’t, either, and he’s forced to watch as the terror dawns in their eyes. Just like the nightmares, bleeding into his waking life.

Jon can feel when people are afraid; the Archivist in him relishes it, gravitates towards it like a flower turning to face the sun, soaks it in regardless of whether or not he wants it. And there is always a part of him that does want it, that always wants more – and isn’t that fitting, taking a page from the book of his very first monster? He is, quite literally, a thing of nightmares. Helen is right: he is what he is, and there’s no use denying it.

He’s always been hypersensitive to how other people perceive him. Being able to Know how people really feel about him has historically tended to confirm his customary hostile attribution bias. Vicariously feeling the reality of others’ hatred and fear of him, passively basking in it, being forced to derive sustenance from it – god, it’s like cannibalizing his own vicious self-loathing, a sustainable resource that can be recycled ad infinitum. It takes self-flagellation to a new and perverse extreme.

“I Know when people don’t want to be near me,” he says, unable to suppress the bitterness in his tone. “When someone nearby is afraid, I feel it – as natural as sensing the temperature in a room. I feed on it. It’s an automatic process. So if it’s all the same to you, I’d rather not bask in the knowledge of how much the other people in the room can’t stand breathing the same air as me, if I can avoid it.”

“Jon,” Georgie tries again, “I know how things used to be, but –”

“It’s different now, I know. But the Eye tends to prioritize – well, unpleasant impressions. I know it’s only giving me one side of the story. That there’s more, even if I can’t See it. But fear is loud. Doesn’t leave room for mindfulness.”

Georgie has a reply ready, but Melanie speaks first.

“Okay. I get it.” At Jon’s blank expression, Melanie heaves a sigh – aggravated, but not hostile. “It’s like how anger was for me, okay? Rage has a way of drowning out everything else. Reliable, when nothing else can be trusted. Makes things clearer, simpler. Made me feel more… alive, real.” She hesitates, crossing her arms and shifting uncomfortably in her seat. “Nourishing. Sort of. I guess.”

“Yeah,” Jon says, picking aimlessly at his sleeve.

“I’ll just avoid being in the same room as you when I’m… having a day,” she continues. Jon nods. “Or you can just tell me to go away if I’m – I don’t know, giving off rancid vibes, or whatever.”

Jon breathes a surprised, amused huff. “Well. Same goes for you, I suppose.”

He’s even more shocked to see a grin twitch to life on Melanie’s face – very small, but present all the same. Then, appearing to take pity on him, she changes the subject.

“So, you Knew about the bullet.”

“Yes,” Jon says, grateful for the opportunity to move on. “But not until a couple weeks after I got out of the hospital. Didn’t even realize I Knew it until I said it aloud.”

“Meaning it had more time to poison me, where you’re from. Was I… worse?”

“Well, the first time I saw you after I came back, you attacked me on sight, so… maybe? But I don’t really have a point of comparison. That was the only time I saw you up until we removed it, so I don’t know how much you deteriorated in the interim. And this time, I only saw you after the bullet had already been removed.”

“I attacked you?” She doesn’t sound surprised, really. More… intrigued.

“In your defense, you didn’t think I was me anymore. Tim died, Daisy was presumed dead, and I was still alive.” He knows that, of the three of them, Melanie wouldn’t have picked Jon to be the survivor. I hope it hurts, she’d said in her testament. Instead, he slept for six months and then woke up wrong. “You were angry, and afraid, and you had a bullet in your leg making it worse. You needed someone to blame, and Elias was beyond your reach.”

So I was the next best thing, he doesn’t say. Bitterness aside, Jon can’t say he blames her.

Melanie narrows her eyes suspiciously. “Then how the hell did you convince me to have it removed?”

“We, uh… we didn’t. I told Basira first. She – didn’t think you would have agreed. So, we…” Jon forces himself to meet Melanie’s eyes as he gives the confession. “We performed some amateur surgery. Without your consent. Basira procured some local anesthetic, and the Eye let me See where the bullet was, how to remove it with… minimal damage. You were using some rather strong sleep aids, at the time, so you slept through most of it. You only woke up once the bullet was out. And you, uh, promptly stabbed me with the scalpel, though I – I probably deserved that.”

“What the fuck, Jon.”

“I – I know, I know. I’m – well, it might be – odd, to apologize for something that never happened from your perspective? But I am sorry. It wasn’t right, for us to do it that way. We should have asked you.”

“I might not have agreed.” Her voice is tightly controlled, but there’s still a quiet sort of fury simmering just under the words.

“No, uh – probably not. You said later that the anger was always there. Motivating you to keep going. Helping you survive. The Slaughter validated that rage. Made it feel like home.” Melanie stares, unblinking. “You told me the bullet stayed because you wanted it, and… we took that choice from you, decided what was in your best interests without asking you how you felt about it.”

Melanie is quiet for a few more moments, glaring at the floor, before her eyes flick back up to meet Jon's. “What would have happened if you didn’t get it out of me?”

“I can’t say for certain, but it’s likely that you would have become a Slaughter Avatar. Reached a point of no return.”

She scoffs. “So it was worth it, in the end?”

“I don’t know. I want to say yes. You saw me as a monster, and I doubt you would have wanted to become like me. Something inhuman, feeding on suffering. But…”

“But?”

“It’s easy to look at how things ultimately worked out for you and use that outcome to justify what we did,” he says, “but I – I’m not fond of the idea that the ends justify the means. I didn’t know at the time that you and Georgie were this close. If I did, maybe I could have asked her to talk to you, except…”

“We weren’t speaking,” Georgie says.

“Yeah. I – honestly don’t know what else we could have done, but… still, the way we went about it was wrong. You were trapped here like the rest of us, and we… we stole the only thing that gave you some semblance of control. What we did was a violation of your autonomy. I know that feeling, I know how it feels to…” Jon shakes his head. “We saved your life, or – your humanity, at least, but in doing so we took away your choice. Subjected you to more trauma, made it so you couldn’t feel safe anywhere. Eventually you quit, and you and Georgie seemed happy together after that, but the fact that you were able to start healing – that doesn’t change the fact that we hurt you in the first place. I’m sorry.”

“This place,” Melanie says with a breathless laugh.

“Yeah. It’s… not known for presenting benign choices. I’m, ah… I’m glad that this time, it was your own choice.”

“And what if I had still said no?”

“I probably would’ve given you the line about becoming a monster like me. I would have told you what happened last time – or, told Georgie and let her tell you, more likely, if only to avoid any, ah… stabbiness.” Melanie huffs, but it sounds amused rather than offended. “And if you still decided to choose the Slaughter after being fully informed… well, it wasn’t my place to take the choice away from you.”

“Even if I wasn’t in my right mind?” she asks.

“Even if you weren’t in your right mind.”

Melanie’s stare is piercing, scanning him for any signs of dishonesty. Eventually, she folds her arms and leads back in her chair with a hmm.

“What?” Jon asks, heart in his throat.

“Just – unexpected. Would’ve expected you to make a unilateral decision.”

Truthfully, Jon doesn’t trust himself to make those kinds of decisions. Last time, he’d let Basira call the shot. Not only did he trust her judgment more than his own – secretly, selfishly, he was relieved to abdicate at least some of the responsibility. He doubts that his conscience would have been able to carry the full burden of that choice.

Later, during the apocalypse, he had made an executive decision on someone else’s behalf: Jordan Kennedy. In that instance, there was no one with whom he could share the blame. Although it was intended as an act of mercy, Jon cannot deny that he created an unwilling Avatar – stripped a man of his humanity and reshaped him into something other, same as had been done to Jon.

The people in that domain would have continued to suffer just the same whether it was controlled by an Avatar or a hivemind of ants. At least this way, one person could be spared the torture. But it didn’t save anyone. It did not even end Jordan’s suffering, only transformed it into a different, hypothetically more endurable but still horrific shape – one that Jon knew all too intimately.

It was done with merciful intentions, and he may have given Jordan the choice to reverse it – a choice that Jon has never been given himself – but making that decision for Jordan in the first place… well, at the end of the day, Jon could never shake the feeling that he’d taken a page out of Jonah’s playbook. It wasn’t the same, but it felt… adjacent, too much so for comfort.

The choice has haunted Jon ever since. It eats away at him every time he sees Jordan in his nightmares, whenever Jordan watches him with the same dread that he does Jane Prentiss. Yet, Jon still cannot say for certain whether he would do anything differently, if faced with Jordan’s agonized pleading a second time.

But as for Melanie’s particular situation…

“I know what it’s like to have someone else decide on your destiny for you,” he says quietly.

Melanie looks thoroughly unimpressed.

“Look, I – I understand why you resent me. Elias used you to further the Archivist’s progress. Same as he used Tim, Sasha, and Martin, and Basira and Daisy, and Helen… even Jane Prentiss, Mike Crew, Jude Perry – and Jared, Manuela, Peter… everyone, everyone who crosses his path is either irrelevant or a stepping stone. Which means that everyone who crosses my path suffers.”

Stop, Jon tells himself, shutting his eyes tight against the first stirrings of panic lapping at the edges of his mind. It’s pathetic, he thinks, how easily he sinks into this headspace. Jon’s mutinous brain does all of Jonah’s work for him – like prodding at a recent wound, just to see if it still hurts, even knowing full well that it only sabotages the healing process. Stupid, pointless. Just stop dwelling on it.

He can’t.

“All of it – all of it was to create the Archive to his specifications –”

“– bound together – I would look at him, and see a grim sort of destiny for myself: trapped here, until I became him; any future I might have had, sacrificed to his –”

“– and I just – I don’t want people to look at me and – and see him. Or the Beholding –”

“– keeping its prisoners ignorant in pursuit of… knowledge –”

“– I've spent enough time being synonymous with the Eye. I don’t want it. I never wanted it, even if I did choose to – to keep looking for answers –”

“– idiots who destroyed themselves chasing a secret that wasn’t worth knowing –”

“– I can’t reverse that, but I can still make it difficult for Elias to get any use out of me. But I’m sorry – I’m sorry that I let him do it for so long –”

“– any idiot could have seen it would play out that way –”

“– I’m sorry you got dragged into all this. I wish I could have gone back to the very beginning, back to the day I took the job, and – god, I thanked Elias for the opportunity, and he – he smiled, because he knew, he knew I would be easily manipulated, knew everything about me – knew all about –”

Thankfully, Georgie interrupts his heated muttering and brings that thought train to a jarring halt. Or – no, she's been saying his name, but he's only just now heard it.

“Jon,” she says, loudly but calmly. She's leaning forward in her seat, hand prepared to reach over to him. “You’re scratching again.”

So he is. Badly. As soon as he stops, the scratches along his forearms heal, leaving only drying blood behind: thin, messy streaks painted across his skin and caked under his fingernails. He should probably clip them shorter, at this rate.

“Sorry,” he says, pulling his sleeves down to hide his arms. “I’m just – sorry.”

“Change the subject?” Georgie offers, lowering her arm.

“I think that would be best,” Jon agrees, discomfited and more than a little annoyed with himself. Will he ever be able to spare a thought for Jonah Magnus without completely unraveling in the process? Hell, will he ever be able to go a day without sparing a single thought for Jonah Magnus at all? Okay, no, stop harping, he reprimands himself. “Just – give me a minute.”

Jon forces himself to take several breaths until he can no longer hear his heartbeat thundering in his ears. Once he regathers his composure, he meets Melanie’s eyes again.

“What I mean to say is – I owe you a lot of apologies, Melanie. I was dismissive of you when we first met, and it just sort of – snowballed from there.”

“It was mutual, I think,” Melanie says guardedly.

“Still, I was – unprofessional, at the very least. And unnecessarily cruel. It was my job to be impartial, but I didn’t have to be callous. Most of the statements that come in aren’t real, but they aren’t impossible, either. And even if a story was due to – substance use, or mental illness, or – or even just an overactive imagination… most people who came in still believed that their story was true. Their distress was genuine. They deserved comfort, not ridicule, regardless of whether or not their story actually happened the way they remembered. And beyond that, it was… poor research methodology, really, to refuse to entertain the possibility of a story’s veracity simply because of my first impression of a statement giver.” His voice grows quieter. “Or because of my own baggage.”

“Your own baggage?”

“I, ah…” Jon deliberates for a brief moment on whether to share this part of himself. It seems only fair, given the personal details he knows about the rest of them. And… telling Daisy had felt cathartic in its own way, hadn't it? “I had a supernatural experience of my own once. Before working at the Institute, I mean. I was a child, so of course it was chalked up to an overactive imagination. And then at some point I was too old to still be afraid of monsters.”

Jonathan, this has gotten out of hand, his grandmother had told him with hands on her hips, exasperated after once again finding every door and cupboard in the house thrown open. Ten is too old to be sleeping with the lights on and checking closets for monsters.

And with that, she had closed the closet doors, flicked the light off, and pulled his bedroom door shut on her way out. He had clung desperately to the hope that she would at least leave the hall light on – but moments later the thin strip of light filtering through the crack under the door was snuffed out. When he heard the click of his grandmother's bedroom door down the hall, he'd dissolved into tears. Turning his face into his pillow to muffle his sobs so as not to alert her to yet another of his childish meltdowns, he spent the rest of the night – and countless nights thereafter – sleeping in fitful stops and starts, plagued by phantom knocking and chitinous clicking and creaking doors. He knows now that such sounds were nothing more than hypnopompic hallucinations, the remnants of nightmares chasing him into wakefulness; knows that the web binding him in place and the hulking presence in the room were only symptoms of sleep paralysis; but at the time…

Jon shakes his head.

“The fear doesn’t go away just because people don’t believe it’s based in truth. So, I learned to hide it instead. To stop talking about it, even though I never stopped searching for an answer –”

“– was there when he was taken; he never got over what he saw. Or didn’t see. After much searching and despair, it drove him into the waiting arms of the Institute –”

“– damn,” he hisses, flustered.

“You okay?” Georgie asks.

“Yeah,” he says gruffly. “Just – one moment.”

Pause, breathe, recollect. Listen to the quiet – which really shouldn’t be so difficult, should it? Aren’t archives supposed to be quiet? Why does this library have to be so horrifically noisy? – and breathe, breathe, breathe. Okay.

“What I’m saying is, I coped with it – poorly – with denial. I could never shake the conviction that what I saw was real, no matter how I tried to rationalize it. But I was still afraid that admitting belief in monsters would – draw their attention to me, somehow. Again. And because of that, I was… unsympathetic, to people who were genuinely afraid. The last thing they needed was derisive skepticism. Or projection. I know what it’s like to not be believed. I shouldn’t have put others through the same thing.”

“Huh.” Melanie looks him up and down. “That’s… unusually insightful for you.”

“I had a lot of time alone to obsess during the apocalypse,” Jon says drily. “Some of it even ended up being productive.” Melanie snorts; Jon gives a cautious smile. “I, ah, also should have tried harder to warn you away from India. Or the Institute in general.”

“And I would have told you to fuck off, because I already didn’t like you, and you would have been just one more in a long line of pompous men acting like they knew better than me.”

Jon laughs. “I suppose you’re right.”

“Look, we just – we both treated each other poorly. You were the easiest target to take my anger out on. Martin’s too nice, Basira was basically a hostage, Daisy is Daisy, and Tim… Tim wasn’t around much, and anyway, he would have thrown whatever I gave him right back in my face. You were a prick, but I think I blamed you more than was fair. And I guess… you were – are – trapped as much as the rest of us. So. I’m sorry too.”

“Well, it’s not like I tried to make a good first impression.”

“Neither did I.” She glowers at him, daring him to challenge her. “Accept the apology or don’t, but don’t throw it back in my face.”

“Fine,” Jon sighs. “I accept the apology.”

“There. Was that so hard?”

“Excruciating,” he deadpans.

Georgie snorts. Melanie and Jon both look at her with a combined, “What?”

“Just… watching the two of you. I think I may have a type.”

Another simultaneous, “What?”

“Curious, stubborn, temperamental, cute, short…”

“H-hey,” Melanie protests, “I’m at least a few centimeters taller than he is –”

“One-point-eight, actually,” Jon mutters under his breath – and then cracks a smile, encouraged by Georgie’s bright, surprised laugh. Melanie just glares at him.

“You know,” Melanie says, “you make it very hard to like you sometimes.”

“Sorry.” He’s not sorry at all. Shooting Georgie an indignant glance, he adds: “Also, I’m not cute.”

“I’m sure Martin would beg to differ,” Georgie teases. Jon sighs, arms crossed and face uncomfortably warm. “Well, anyway…” Georgie grins, looking between the two of them. “Does this mean… truce?”

Melanie gives Jon another long, searching look, and Jon forces himself to meet her eyes.

“Yeah, alright,” she says after a moment, then looks down, bouncing her heel against the floor. “Seems the only one who isn’t trapped and miserable is Elias. And you’re not him. Or working with him. So.” She shrugs one shoulder. “That just makes you one of us. I guess.” When Jon doesn’t reply, she glances back up at him. “What’s that face for?”

“That, uh…” Speechless, Jon roots around for something substantial to say. Instead, one corner of his mouth quirks up as he says, with tentative daring: “That might just be one of the nicest things you’ve ever said to me, is all.”

“Yeah, well…” Melanie scoffs, but there’s a hint of amusement in it now. “I’m still going to call you out when you’re being a dick, mind.”

“A public service, really,” Jon says, wry and more than a little elated.

An invitation to playful bickering as opposed to scathing antagonism is, as far as he and Melanie are concerned, an undeniable olive branch.

End Notes:

Jon: my type is Aggressively Idealistic Existentialists Who Give Amazing Hugs, apparently Georgie: and my type is Short Nerds With Strong Feelings About Basically Everything ~*mlm/wlw solidarity*~ But seriously though,,, I love the idea of Georgie and Martin meeting the End and the Vast, respectively, and basically going "hey why don't you read some Camus and maybe you'll calm down???" I may or may not be projecting. I need them and Oliver to have a philosophy book club. Actually everyone else can come too. Basira strikes me as the type to have some Strong Opinions about Certain Philosophers and yes sure that dude may have died ages ago and maybe she shouldn't take it so personally but if she found a Leitner that let her temporarily resurrect him for an hour she might just do so if only for the opportunity to debate his pompous ass in a Tesco parking lot. (I, once again, may or may not be projecting. I was a philosophy minor and I WILL pepper in the fact that I hate Kant. You cannot hold this against me.)

____

Citations for Jon's Archive-speak are as follows, in order of appearance: MAG 094; 153; 144/101/111/014; 101.

Martin's "I think our experience of the universe has value, even if it disappears forever" quote is from MAG 151 and yes it IS one of my all time favorite Martin quotes, how could you tell

Disclaimer re: how Jon talks about his ace identity: I'm ace & projecting a bit, like I do with Jon's ADHD/neurodivergence. The way I describe ace stuff is not meant to be reflective of all ace-spec people's experiences.

would you believe me if I said the whole 'deservedness' spiel was written before the latest episode??? bc it was and then I read the newest ep transcript and I was like "oh"

Sorry for the delay in getting this chapter out, btw. funny story: I accidentally let the prescription for my ADHD meds expire and I had to go like four days without them before I could go get another paper script bc it's one they can't submit electronically or call in, soooo I got fuck-all done for half of that week and it broke my writing flow :0  hoping to get back into my usual flow from here on out and manage to have the next chapter ready in 2ish weeks, but we shall see. Thanks for sticking with me <3  (I might start shortening chapters again, the last few have been 10k+ compared to the earlier 6-8k and I could probably stand to split them up a bit.)

Speaking of the next chapter - yes, I AM planning on moving the plot forward I swear. I realize the last few chapters have basically taken place within a single week and have been mostly People Talking About Things, RIP.  

And as always, thank you for reading, and for all your comments! <3 They're basically 50% of my regular serotonin intake. The other 50% is my cat's motorboat purring.

[tokoyamisstuff]

A Thousand Years Ch. 1: “First Meeting” - Loki x Reader

Chapter Summary: Loki spends his sentence in Asgardian prison with nothing else to do than thinking about his wrongdoings. All of this guilt and self-loathing are leading him even deeper into his own insanity. And the only distraction are his memories of you.

Warnings: Angst, depression, flashbacks, mentions of death. Loki suffers.

Words: 4657

[Masterlist]

Story Masterlist right -> HERE <-

Masterlist to my other fics right -> HERE <-

“No matter what, I’ll always find my way back to you, Loki…”

It has always been the same dream, ever since he’s lost you in midst of his crimes. The beginning would be like a wondrous theathre, like how one would imagine heaven to be. You’d be waiting for him on the hill of your first meeting, looking as breathtaking as always. But when the sky darkened, he remebered what that all was about, and that it couldn't last.

When you’d turn around, he wouldn’t see any hint of aversion towards him - only those bright, loving doe eyes, which have been the only thing in the universe that made his icy heart feel some kind of warmth.

And this fact only made it harder for him: Why weren’t you mad? You should’ve been furious at him! You, the only person who would always believe in the God of Mischiev - disappointed in the cruelest way possible, his blood metaphorically spoken at his hands. “I love you, Loki. I was disappointed, indeed... But no matter how much I tried to hate you, I just can’t. You’re the love of my life, and I forgive you...I already forgave you the moment my heart stopped beating.” He felt tears running down his cheeks, falling down onto the grass in form of small ice drops. “Y/N, I am so deeply sorry! I-” he wanted to finish his sentence, try to explain himself and make you believe just how much he regrets his actions - but his throat felt like it was tied with barbwire. All he could do was running towards you, fighting his inner urge to just collapse into a mental breakdown. He was almost there, stretching out his arm to take your hand, to pull you right into his arms where you belonged. The Laufeyson didn't even realize that his hand had turned in a shade of dark blue, revealing his true form - a part of him only you were allowed to see. But you just disappeared, dissolving into what appeared to be embers, whispering that sentence as if you were standing right next to him: “I’ll find you. You just wait...don’t give up.”

Loki woke up, his breath heavy and face wet from the tears. Immediately, he sat up and looked around all the broken furniture just to pick up a piece of broken mirror, dirtied by his own blood when he broke it. The image he saw in it looked like the mess he was on the inside. It has been two weeks since Frigga found her death to the hand of a Dark Elf, the only person that kept the fragments of his soul together since your death - until now.

The God of Mischief had nothing anymore. He wouldn’t eat or drink since then, and the nightmares kept him from having a long needed, refreshing sleep as well. Every time he closed his eyes, he’d see either you or his mother - except for Thor the only people he ever cared about - die in the most excruciating ways one could think of. His desperation spiraled down to the point where he couldn’t even tell what was real, and what simply a delusion, made up by his own mind to torture him.

He never learned, didn’t he...Yes, indeed, he’s hopeless.

What horrendrous things did he say to you just before you died - and the same thing now happened to his mother.

Deep down in his heart he was very relieved that Thor had survived the war with the dark elves through his help - not that he’d ever admit it. And still, even though he did things one could call heroic, he got imprisoned here again. His father didn’t show any mercy, - and even though Loki could’ve easily fake his death and escape back then, he didn’t see the point in doing so.

All of his dreams: Being his brothers equal, erasing the Frost Giants from the nine realms, his birthright of ruling and finally earning respect...Nothing of it mattered any more.

Finally, he got to see what’s really important - but it’s too late now. Forever.

Loki would be doomed to cry and scream while having all of his mistakes played in his head in a continuous loop, seeing the haunting look of sadness and fear in your eyes and knowing he caused it.

Yes, this would be the only thing left of his meaningless existence.

“It is a fitting punishment, don’t you think, Y/N?” he almost chuckled, giving an empty stare to the prison ceiling. “This is more agony than Thanos could’ve ever brought upon me.”

The guard that was sitting on a wooden chair in front of his cell was raising a judging eyebrow to the once so intelligent and graceful prince, now looking like a peasant and talking to himself.

Oh, how must he have failed you...This sure was a rightful penalty for a traitor and murderer just like he was, Loki concluded.

The emptiness in his heart was eating him alive, telling him you’re still gone.

It has always been just a feeling, honestly.

After so many time spent together, fighting back to back - loving each other, as well as having lost you before, he just knows it. When you’re back, needing him to remember you of who you truly are. He would know.

Loki couldn’t explain it himself. It seemed like a magical bond, yet he never found anything like this in the old books. Maybe Frigga knew the answer, yet he had always been too afraid to ask...

“You sure are leaving me waiting, Y/N...” Loki whispered to himself, feeling that constricting in his chest again as tears filled his already red and swollen eyes. “Are you really coming back? Or are you just mocking me?”

It didn’t matter.

Even though he knew he didn’t deserve it, his hope of you coming back to life were the only thing that kept him going.

If you were to never come back, he’d accept this fate and would pay for and regret his crimes till the end of his existence. On the other hand, if you’d be to ever come back, he would never allow himself to come near you again. 

Anyway, death wasn’t an option.

“Have you already gone mad, Laufeyson?!” the guard finally yelled, kicking against the wall. “Whining and speaking scatterbrained words to yourself. You’re a disgrace, you’ve always been!”

Loki went silent, without doing so much as looking at the man, who in the past would’ve never dared to speak his mind. He didn’t care what he’d say - he was right with everything, anyway.

“If you’d ask anyone else in Asgard, you would’ve simply been executed! It’s such a waste that you’re allowed to live in all that luxury, thinking of what you’ve done!” he added, spitting to the ground. Seemed like the man Loki knew all those years finally showed his true face, considering he wouldn’t get punished for it anymore. “You’ve never been one of us, not even a god! You’re a wild animal and the Allfather should’ve never brought such a plaque like you over us!”

His voice had a tone of disgust that Loki knew all to well, even back as a kid when he was silently listening from the shadows to people talking about him.

He didn’t know why he never belonged. It was a feeling that he kept in his heart for so long that he thought it was a part of him - and when he realized just what he was, a part inside of him got shattered beyond repair.

The God of Mischief - he acted like he was carrying this title with pride, always acting all high and mighty. But it was just a facade.

All of his life, he just tried to be praised, loved - to fit in. Be the perfect son and brother everyone wanted. Yet that wasn’t him, and he got used to everyone seeing him as a disappointment. Trying to please, but always being seen as a disgrace - just for being himself.

There was something wrong with him from the very start, even before he got torn between his two heritages, he knew that much. Well, he found his way to get attention anyway - if not positive, he’ll take the negative one. Pranks, lies, being seen as a troublemaker.

He’d tell himself that he didn’t need anyone but himself, that one day they’ll realize their own hypocrisy and admire him for not leading an empty life as they do, restrained by rules and laws.

But this fragile walls he built around him were also lies. Lies he told himself to protect that sensitive boy that needed appreciation as desperately as breathing.

And you saw through all of his illusions from the very start.

The guard finally ended his rant, giving up on having a conversation with the fallen god. When he got back to his seat, Loki could finally and without distractions concentrate of the more important things.

It wasn’t that he’s gone fully mad - well, not more than usually. The memory of happier times were the only thing that kept him sane.

So he lied on the bare floor, closing his eyes again and concentrating all of his senses just to remember your scent, voice, touch...

____

Your first meeting dates almost 800 years ago, when both of you would probably be considered teenagers - calculated in god years, of course.

Almost as if it was fate, even though both of you never knew about it, you shared the same birth year. While Loki was born  09.02.967, you were born (your birthday) in the same year.

He remembers it like it was yesterday, when he escaped the royal garden once again to wander aimlessly around the wilds of Asgard. Actually, admiring the view of nature was one of the few things that truly brought some kind of peace to his confused soul.

"And you are?” the Odinson spoke, his back still facing you as you climbed the grassy hill he was standing on. From here, far away from the main city and the palace, you could overlook the whole sea, with civilization stretching over the horizon.

You gulped, trying to catch your breath as you undid your concealment spell and presented yourself fully. Immediately you bent your knee, showing your goodwill through facing the ground instead of answering.

“Surprised?” the man said as he turned around, giving you a crooked but satisfied grin. “No one can hide from the master of the shadows. I’ve wandered them a thousand times, so I can tell you’re not an amateur.”

“My prince” you started, still not daring to meet his eyes - out of respect, but also fear of his reaction, “I am deeply sorrry to having disturbed you. I mean no harm.”

“I can see that much” he retorted, raising an eyebrow. He knew you were right behind him this whole time. “I rather wonder what objective you might pursue, following me this far.”

“My name is Y/N”, you almost whispered, your voice shaking nervously. So many years you waited for this moment, and now you were about to ruin it because you just couldn’t find the right words to explain yourself.

“Then stand up, Lady Y/N” he said with a cold but well-meaning voice, reaching out his hand towards you to help you get on your feet again. Much to your surprise, of course - the stories you heared about him wouldn’t make you think that he’s this kind of a gentleman.

He lifted your chin with his fingers, and you would lie if you’d say that it didn’t make your heart race. This icy, stinging look you felt even before you met his eyes was just too much to bear. Not even to start about his looks and wits you could already tell were far beyond any tale about him.

And he was intrigued by your look as well. Eyes are the door to the soul, some people say, and even though he was outstanding at reading people, he’s never met someone like you - a mistery to him.

That weird mix of the tone in his voice  caught his interest - so kind and calm, but also confident and with a storm hiding underneat. He could tell from the very first second, that the two of you were alike: Two sides of the same coin, having more than one layer of personality treats, but were also able to hide some parts of themself through being very good actors. It’s exhausting to pretend to be someone else, he thought. 

Sadly, he thought to know immediately why you were here.

“Another one of my brother’s admirers, huh?” he spat, making those neutral eyes now direct a burning look of disgust at you.

“If you want to share his bed, the best way is to ask him directly” he explained, adding “With a man this...imbecile, there’s no need to be shy. And no need for formalities either.”

It’s not that Loki wasn’t attractive - he could be very charming, and wasn’t reseved when it came to lies just to have his ways with women. His Silver Tongue was known in all the Nine Realms, after all. Being the son of the Allfather would also help much when it came to this part of desire.

Yet Loki didn’t really have interest in relationships at all. Of course, he’d like to “conquest” sometimes, but it was more to feel equal to his popular brother, and boost his confidence.

No woman was even allowed to even speak to him after they’ve spent some hours together - not that any of them was heartbroken afterwards. The females he usually physically encountered were shallow. Not ones to have a real conversation with, or anything resembling a fun time.

They had their own intentions, that’s what made it so easy for him to just dump them instead of having a real bond with someone: Improving their social ranking, earning material gifts - or, what Loki hated most, simply getting near his way more attractive, famous brother.

Great, he managed to get lost in all those negative memories again, now ready to direct his anger towards you. The air has gotten thick after only as much as a few sentences. Sometimes it felt like his own mind was mocking him, keeping him from any form of joy.

“My prince” you repeated again, breaking his like of thought, “I fear there’s been a misunderstanding...” You cleared your throat, explaining “I am assigned to be your new guardian from now on.”

Well, at first you helped him to break free from remembering the embarassments of the past - yet your words wouldn’t be able to lift his mood in the slightest.

“You?!” he blurted out, holding his stomach in laughter. He was right, though. 

Even though your body language had a serious military tone, you wouldn’t look like a warrior in the slightest: Small, pale and dressed in a long, silken dress instead of an armor.

“A true warrior doesn’t need to be intimidating, they need training, experience and tactics” you murmured - much to his approval. How often did he mock his brainless brother for only knowing blunt violence instead of thinking a plan through. Yes - another similarity between you and him.

You placed your right hand over your heart, to symbolize what honour this matter meant to you - while also trying to calm your own breath and heartbeat.

Not that it mattered for Loki, but he loved to be respected and was quite flattered of your words and actions.

He mustered you from head to toe, trying to find out why he was so involved with you from the very first second. Loki circled and watched you from every angle, making you even more flustered than you already were. All these years of preparation couldn’t help you deal with this unreal seeming moment.

You knew who you were dealing with, but you’d never think of how it all would turn out in the end.

“I-I am deeply sorry, Lord, I thought you’d already been informed about this” you babbled, not knowing that the mood was about to shift.

“Great” he gritted between his teeth, a grim tone coating his voice, “Incredible! A bodyguard?! What a joke...”

Loki walked back and forth, kicking some stones and yelling randomly while cussing words unsuitable for someone of the royal family. He just wasn’t able to find any rest in his head.

Yet he tried to comprehend why his father would want him to have a bodyguard - and the result of his pondering wasn’t really satisfying: Odin probably thought he was too weak, to ill-minded and not fit to be the heir of the throne. What a farce - someone of the royal family, not able to protect themselves and needing someone to watch over him all the time.

Or did his father simply not trust him? Is it that, he lets a “bodyguard” follow his every step and report all failures and mischief he causes directly to the Allfather, so he would be punished immediately?

Still, all the anger put aside, Loki was oddly restrained. Was it because he didn't want to concern you or have an all too bad first impression? You, who only knew him for a mere few minutes, and who is below him in any way?

For a long time, there was just silence. While the sun settled and night began, the two of you were still standing on that hill, encoated in an unsettling abscence of words.

"No" he finally cut through this thick air, "No, I haven’t been informed. I never am. Why ask your son anyway, if you don't care about his opinion anyway?" he now yelled, throwing his hands into the air.

He really lost his cool around you, leaving you only able to watch and listen him talking all the weight from his heart. "Now tell me: Do I really look that weak?! Hel!”

It made you sad seeing the mighty prince like this. Sorrow overcame you as you realized just what kind of pressure he was putting on himself.

Still saluting, you summouned a halberd and kneeled once again, the light of the settling sun making your whole silhouette shimmer. To Loki, it was a truly breathtaking view. Finally, his head was completely empty - absent from any of his usual dark thoughts.

“It is not my place to judge you or the majesty" you said confidently, without any doubt in your voice. "But I vow that from this moment on, all of my loyality will belong to you and only you, my prince. Ever since my birth I have been trained in secret, far away from any bindings, until I was ready to serve. You see, the Allfather also did me wrong, but I don't hold any grudge. He robbed me of a normal life, yet it was for a higher good."

Tz. How naive, he thought. But as much as he disliked your not at all justified understanding for his father, this vow managed to touch him deeply.

"And what's so special about a simple fire magician?"

For a second, you couldn't hide the look of surprise on your face. "How did you-"

"-know?" he interruped, obviously having regained his composure. "Don't insult me. I'm a master at the magic arts, and I'm much more experienced at that. At least concerning this, you are an open book to me."

"That's right" you explained while trying to stay professional as he mustered you again, picking on your clothes and weapon like a curious child.

"Yet you could say that I have a…” for a second, your voice got lost in your throat. “... property, that makes me the ideal bodyguard.”

A property? What kind of quirk might you posses that makes you so valuable?

Hearing this, he stopped in his tracks, standing still like a statue after getting a strand of hair out of your face. The brightest eyes, (your eyecolour) irises stared at him in pure wonder. Even after all that he said until now, all the God of Lies could feel was pure, genuine concern.

And oh, how he yearned for this. From this moment on, his decision was set in stone: He'll keep you near, make you his pet and pastime - at least his pride didn't allow him to think otherwise. Even though his real intentions were something the reserved, warily man didn’t understand himself.

Loki shook his head when he realized just for how long he stared into your eyes, with his mouth wide open. He felt like he's been caught being weak, and like he always did when he felt insecure, he found the only way to compensate for this was for him to humiliate you.

“I ask once again: What are you? "

You managed to keep a straight face. Finally, you were allowed to share youur secret with someone:

"I am the Keeper of Fire, my lord."

Impossible. A simple, weak girl like you, possesing one of Asgards greatest attributes?

But he could tell you were telling the truth.

"I wonder what else my father tries to lock away from the world...through hiding and lies he reigns. That's the only way me and my father are similar."

Suddenly, he grabbed both of your wrists, almost as if to crush them, his emerald eyes piercing into the core of your being, trying to somehow comprehend what great power was now under his control.

When he saw your shocked look, he let go off of you.

“For a trained combatant, you’re very easy to rattle” he frowned, seeing that you took a step back. “But from now on, I’ll be your teacher - not those moronic warriors who are wasting your potential. You’ll take every single word from my lips as command.”

He stepped closer again, whispering right into your ear “You’re wax in my hand, little dove. And I’ll form the ideal warrior.” It was like your power was making him feel invincible, too. “Did I express myself properly?”

“As you wish, my Lord.”

“Oh” he smirked evily, “I prefer the term ‘master’ from now on.”

“All right” you finally smirked back, making his heart jump a little, “Everything you say, my master.”

___

When he finally got back to his senses, Loki almost felt like he could actually feel your soft hands like back then, when he escorted (more like dragged) you back to the palace, where you’d live officially from now on.

It was ridiculous when he thinks about it: The man who didn't trust anyone instantly believing a girl he's never seen before, and just came out of nothing with a wild story about being a chosen one.

Yet he did, and it felt so easy, so naturally to trust you.

Reality fell onto him like a crushing punch from the Hulk when he remembered ‘the rules’. They were engraved into his heart like scars.

Many people thought that the ‘Keeper of Fire’ was just a tale. No one knew what details were true and which part of stories and ballads, yet it seemed like it had just been another one of his fathers well kept secrets.

On your way home from that hill - the beginning of your shared way - he persuaded you to tell him everything about this incredible power:

1. There can only be one Keeper of Fire at a time. When the choosen one dies one and for all, a randomly selected child will inherit this attribute. There is no way to affect who is chosen next.

2. The Keeper of Fire is blessed with the Power of the Phoenix - technically, he can never die. Every time he does, he’ll be reborn randomly as a creature of the Nine Realms.Their appearance stays basically the same, expect for the characteristics of the respective race.

“So you can turn out to be something else than an Asgardian, right?”

“Yeah, the moment I take my last breath, my soul will be transferred to a child that’s about to be born in this very moment. It's coincidence, really."

“Have you already experienced this?” Everything about you was so exciting, so different from this whole, boring life that Loki could only harldy hide his excitement.

“It is wonderful, actually. You see so many different points of view, ways of living... It's truly a privilege.” Remembering your past lives, you began to smile so bright that Loki thought he might faint. So that's why you were so calm, understanding and thankful. Did he even deserve to walk aside such a pure creature? “My whole existence, your father would always manage to find me. It’s not that hard to find the Phoenix’ Flame, if you know how. So I’ve spent all my lives earning experience on the battlefield, dying very young.”

Much to your surprise, the prince looked very sad upon hearing this - little did you know it was because he felt like he should blame himself. You were trained to become his bodyguard, after all. And it had surely not been easy on you.

Not that he would ever voice those feelings, nor admit that it would affect him this much. Maintaining his distance to people he might open up to was his main commandment.

3. Your new body will age very fast, up to your “blossom time”. Around that time, you’ll stop aging at all, making it impossible for you to die. None of your fellow beings will ever be aware of this fact, and neither are you. So everyone around you behaves as it was completely normal.

4. After having been reborn, you'l have no memory of your past lives, until something very important from reminds you of them.

Chuckling, you tried to lighten up the mood as you added “I lived 2 lives as an Asgardian, one in Alfheim and...one in Nidavellir.”

Loki laughed, loudly and heartily, and you almost forgot that this man was known only for making everyone’s life miserable. Right now, it felt like the two of you knew each other forever - that’s how freely and satisfyingly you could talk.

“So that’s why you’re so small” he joked, wiping a tear of joy from the corner of his eye. "You were a dwarf, hilarious!"

"Hey!" you responded, "Maybe you're just too tall! You're almost as big as one of the Jotuns!"

His face darkened again when he thought of all the comrades he lost in battle against them. "This is no matter for jokes. Do not compare me to those vile beasts."

By the gods, this guy really has mood swings, but you guessed you should prepare to get used to that.

Actually, you wanted to say something about the Jotuns - yet you thought it'd be better if not all secrets were to be lifted from the very beginning. A feeling told you it would be better if you kept your mouth shut about this topic - at least for now.

"One last question..." Lokis own voice was echoing in his head, "If there can only be one of you at a time, but you cannot perish... How can there ever be an end to your immortality? How do you pass it on?"

His silent tears turned into loud sobbing as he slammed his fists onto the ground, until his knuckles began to bleed.

His heart felt like it was bursting under the pressure of him once again realizing the reason of you not coming back to live like you always did.

There was no hope, he now understood.

It was him, he knew that much. Everything he's done to you made this cruel, final rule work:

"That's easy. I will only reincarnate if I have the will to live on."

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[in-somnis-verita]

━  BURNING BRIDGES

he truly doesn't remember, does he? ah, the million dollar question ... it did cross her fleeting mind, in the dead of the night, as navy hues observed the unfolding scene from afar. And if the ponderation itself HURT, then the answer, that promptly came, was DESPAIRING: he did not , for a fact.

and oh, she knew so, but that didn't ease the weight on her chest, nor the way her heart clenched everytime she saw him; the ghost of the man he once had been. Mana was no longer, or at least, not in the way she remembered him as. And now, what else could she do but wait? for days, weeks, months and years, all that the ninth, the SHEEP THAT WIELDED THE DREAMS OF NOAH, could do, was wait for the inevitable to happen: for him to remember who he was and what was his purpose.

              the gene always awakened, eventually. And they always remembered.                       NOAH DOESN'T SLEEP FOR TOO LONG WITHIN HIS HOSTS.

the MILLENIUM EARL. the one who would bring this world to its demise, the one who's done it once and who'll do it again, inescapably. The one who devoured his own other half. ❝  Don't stop, keep walking, ❞  he had said, before his life was stolen from him. And he didn't stop, but he also didn't recall his past; because the blood that stained his hands was so unbearable (and so desired, at the same wicked time) that he forced himself to forget what he had done. Destroyed the face of ❝ Mana ❞ and replaced it. Destroyed the memories. REPRESSED THE GENE.

ah, the courage it must've taken him to go as far as erasing his own identity impressed her greatly, and she couldn't say she blamed him, really ━ how could she? ━ for the weight of his brother's death in his shoulders was far too heavy in comparison to the mental torture the pierrot, who lived in a faux state of peace, put himself through all over again.

              if only she could ease his nightmares or the unsettling sensation that something important was lacking or the shadows that seemed to watch over him at night, creeping, lurking, waiting FOR A CHANCE TO STRIKE ... if she could ease all that, she would.

                       BUT SHE COULD NOT. NOT UNTIL HE REMEMBERED. until then, there was nothing she could do. It'd be useless, anyway; nothing but a waste of energy. All she could do was checking on him every once in a while to see if there was any evolution on his awakening. And that was precisely what had brought her, at such ungodly hour in the night, to the outskirts of the campsite of the GARVEY CIRCUS TROUPE.

what had motivated Mana to join a circus as a pierrot, she did not know: but it'd be a lie to say that it wasn't ironic. A sad, lunatic clown that ingenuously lives in his own reality; as though in a limbo between what's real and what's not quite. It'd also be a blatant lie to say that it didn't take her a great ammount of time to discover his whereabouts after he vanished without a trace, and not only because of how his features had drastically changed, but the BOND between hosts ran far too deep in their veins.

another thought that left a bitter taste in her mouth and caused a frown to form itself upon delicate features and a shiver to trickle down her spine: that had been why Nea couldn't hide for long, after all. and sometimes, the ninth apostle couldn't help but wonder ( for her heart did not only ache for one, but for BOTH ) if he had fulfilled his promise of returning. She liked to believe he did, or that he would, but there wasn't a trace of the fourteenth anywhere.                      nor in her DREAM, nor in the physical realm. life is made of uncertainty, though, is it not? And thus, no matter how the perspective of being reunited with Nea once again caused a torrent of feelings to wash over her, Road Kamelot didn't waste too much time dwelling on that idea. The world, to her knowing eyes, was nothing but an endless chain of action and reaction; where free will and fate constantly clashed and waltzed together, trying to escape and contradict each other in an endless loop that she had seen far too many times. and far too many times had she been awfully amused by the choices humans made and by the mistakes they kept falling into. Just like she was on that moment, heeled shoes clacking softly against a ground that had been cleaned from the snow that covered it a few hours before, as she made her slow way towards the tall and mighty circus tent. one thing was for sure; he hadn't lost the kindness that had always been part of him, not yet, at least. Sometimes he was alone, with a dog that went by ❝ allen ❞; other times, gradually more often than not, he was accompanied by a kid that had, most likely, been bought by the ringmaster. Red was the name she had heard others calling him, out of spite and out of sheer rage, and while she knew how to recognize INNOCENCE when she saw it, this one didn't seem to want anything to do with its bearer. which was, as far as she had been concerned, good and bad ━  it couldn't hurt Mana, on the one hand, but on the other, it also confirmed that she'd still have a long time to wait until she could bring him back. Mana didn't seem to be bothered by it, either; for there wasn't any sort of adverse reaction to the present of such a thing so close. And this despite the beaten up child's protests against his attempts of affection ( did he know anything else other than ire and hatred tossed his way? ) and how particularly fond he seemed to be growing of him.                                               he seemed genuinely happy with the kid's company.                AND SHE WOULDN'T BE THE ONE STEALING THAT JOY FROM HIM. not when life would do that, sooner than later, she thought to herself, as she halted her march and adjusted the thick cloak closer around her petite bodice. seen from up close, it was impressive how HUGE the circus actually was: beyond the main pavillion, the one where the shows were presented and repeated to death almost every night, a quick look around put into evidence the three smaller tents that surrounded it, as well as the lion's cages. Other than her lonely steps, there was barely any other sound in the air; apart from the ocasional snore from inside any of the make-do cots or the cutting, bone chilling wind that whistled by and recklessly agitated trees and fabric with its passage. she was alone, then. The one she sought wasn't in sight, so she could only assume he'd be sleeping ( or trying to ) inside one of those tents with his precious, loyal companion. This had been the first time she had been so close to him, since thirty five years ago, hadn't it? Despite being on her own, and despite how he ignored her existence ( AS HE SHOULD ), being there, running a dainty appendage through the shelter, brought a sense of peace to her errant heart.                                                                                    HE WAS STILL FAMILY. regardless of how she'd like to ( mayhaps ) stay for longer, she had already seen what she needed to and put her mind to a rest. So she figured she should be on her way back; it had already been a risk to get so close ( what if he was risen from his slumber by her presence? what if she triggered his memory earlier than what it was supposed to? ) but curiosity never killed this cat before. who could have guessed that it'd be this one time? as a sigh escaped past pale chasms, Road's hand slowly slipped down the dusty fabric and she gracefully spun on her heels. And as she did, she realised that she WASN'T on her own, after all. Although a glimpse of surprise might have been noticed upon her visage and posture, which tensed up momentarily, such a look was immediately replaced by a rather soft, almost gentle, simper across her lips. what a child was doing up at that hour, she didn't know, but she wasn't asking either. A few feet away from her, staring at her with an emotion she couldn't quite grasp ( was it fear? confusion? curiosity? ), stood Red, silent. It would have been easier to simply vanish without a word; it would have been easier to write it off in the youngster's mind as their little secret, and yet, maybe because of HOW this child had been treated his entire life, maybe because he seemed so upset by her presence, Road decided to instead approach him. and when she was close enough to crouch in front of him, she held out to him a colorful lollipop. It was all she had on her, at the moment, so a sugary treat would have to suffice to at least ease him.   ━ ❝ here, ❞ she said, dulcet tones soft and barely louder than a whisper. ━ ❝ do you like candy? ❞

[fleshpurifies]

THE BIG BLEACH HC MEME centering around politics, repost & fill out! For anyone who wanted to explore those aspects more, considering it played a big role in the story. Some things may be unknown to your Muse, just think in WHAT IF then & well, have fun and take your time!

BASICS

Name:   Unohana   / / /    Age:  3000+   / / /      Gender:   nonbinary woman Race:   Shinigami / Quincy / Hollow / Fullbringer / Visored / Human / Other Currently lives:   Soul Society / Hueco Mundo / Silbern / Living World / Hell Exact Location:  Seireitei Group(s):  Gotei 13, Squad 4, Squad 11 (formerly)

QUESTIONS

- Would your muse consider themselves more: GOOD / BAD / NEUTRAL ? - Would your muse consider their group more: GOOD / BAD / NEUTRAL ? - How does your muse think others see them: GOOD / EVIL / NEUTRAL ? - How does your muse think others see their race: GOOD / EVIL / NEUTRAL ? - How does your muse think others see their group: GOOD / EVIL / NEUTRAL ?

- Is your muse considered a threat: YES / NO ?   By whom?:  Central 46 , to the Soul Society governed by laws and ideals of justice , to any living creature in any and all realms on an instinctual level - Is your muse powerful: YES / NO ?  Could they be considered OP:  YES / NO ? (probably... but i love op women so keep them coming) - Did your muse commit any crimes: YES / NO ? (sweaty emoji) - Does your muse think they are doing mostly the right thing: YES / NO ? - Would society think the same: YES / NO / MIXED OPINIONS ? Does your muse think they are treated unfairly: YES / NO ? - Does your muse feel understood from others: YES / NO ? - Is it important for them what others think of them as a person: YES / NO ? - Would they welcome death:  YES / NO ? - Will they ever find peace:  YES / NO ? 

01.0.  Do they fully stand behind the group they are part of? YES / NO. Why is that? Explain: As one of the founding members of the Gotei Thirteen, Unohana’s loyalty to Yamamoto and resolve to uphold the governing laws have never once wavered.

02.0.  Do they like as things are in Soul Society? YES / NO. 02.1.  Is there anything they would change? Explain here: It’s not until she becomes ‘Retsu’ Unohana, that she truly begins to understand feelings like empathy and compassion, even if feigned at first to fulfill the role she’s taken. While she feels sympathy for those souls subjected to living in Rukongai in poverty, and genuinely wants the legislature of Central 46 to improve the quality of life for the poor outside of Seireitei’s walls, her sense of duty to the Yamamoto and the Gotei, as well as her own responsibility in regards to her personal ‘sin’ outweighs much else. She is capable of recognizing the nuance of morality to some extent, especially as Retsu, she firmly distinguishes right from wrong (her compliance with Rukia’s execution for example, despite recognising it was objectively too severe a punishment), but this code will in most cases come second to upholding Soul Society’s ideals.

- (this next area is tricky because I stand by the fact that there is a LOT of conflict with the image of ‘The Self’ that exists within Unohana, and as such, she falls into the category of both traits in a lot of these- bold is the more dominant of the two, italicized is secondary)

03.0. Would they ever actively try to bring change (in general)? YES / NO. 03.1. Is your muse more: passive / active ?  Introverted / Extroverted ? 03.2. Does your muse care more about: others / themselves ? 03.3. Do they trouble their mind over a lot of problems, others? YES / NO. 03.4. Do they mostly involve: the world / everyone / themselves / comrades / friends / family / elderly / kids / teenagers / home / workplace / strangers / souls / humans / quincy / shinigami / nobles / fullbringer / visored / hollows / espada / arrancar / former bosses / pets / animals / zanpakuto spirit / enemies / partner / lovers / soul king / god / other…(add more) 03.5. Name (up to) three which are the most on their mind (optional, adding names): - Kenpachi Zaraki. The burden of guilt weighing heavy on her shoulders, the promise of the heights he could rise to, should she raise him properly. - Isane Kotetsu. Her tender-hearted, earnest ally in everything; who she trusts to keep her greatest secrets (her greatest shame), the person with whom she entrusts her zanpakuto, who runs to her side when the nightmares are too vivid, who will proudly stand alongside her, and honor her legacy as Retsu. - Genryuusai Shigekuni Yamamoto. When monsters still roamed the realms and the balance of souls was in chaos, her strength was once sought out by one such demon in exchange for endless enemies to fight and cut down for him. She has never looked back. - Shutara Senjumaru. They once knew each other when they were nothing more than The Kenpachi and a noblewoman. Feelings, relationships, names, social standing, roles, identity— if everything about a person is subject to change, what is left remaining? Still, the threads connect; pulling, stretching, but never breaking.

04.0. Do they think frequently about politics? YES / NO / SOMETIMES. Why is that? Explain: Her position as a long-standing Captain and founding member of the Gotei Thirteen itself is highly politicized. As stated above, Unohana has a strong sense of objective “right and wrong”, but this always comes second to her duty to Soul Society. Specifically following Aizen’s betrayal given her direct role in partial discovery of his scheme, she gives deeper thinking to the flaws within the Central 46 governing system.

05.0. How do they feel in their current location, more: POSITIVE / NEGATIVE / NEUTRAL ? 05.1. Why is that?: Positive is in response to her death, and Kenpachi absolving her of her sins and guilt over being unable to bestow him her title years earlier. Neutral & Positive also both correlate to her standing and service as the 4th Division Captain, as well as the post-canon AU I’ve given her.

06.0. Does your muse have any goal: YES / NO ?  BIG / SMALL ? 06.1. Does it involve anything world-changing: YES / NO ? (technically ig??) 06.2. If goal or not, any future plans? Share here:  To raise the next Kenpachi and correct her mistake. Though perhaps in itself a small goal, the ramifications on the world are large, and it is a largely character-defining goal for her.

07.0. Does your muse know about the original sin of soul society*: YES / NO / MAYBE ? * curious? Read about it here. 07.1. If they knew, would it change their views on Soul Society: YES / NO ? 07.2. More: POSITIVE / NEGATIVE / NEUTRAL ?

08.0. Who is the worst person in their eyes?: Yhwach , Aizen 08.1. What should happen to them? Execution (quick / slow death) / Imprisonment / Stripped of their powers / Torture / Repay for their sins / Pay a Fine / Social Work / lose their loved ones / Exile / other… (add more). 08.2. Explanation:  I feel like they’re both fairly self explanatory, though extra points to Yhwach for killing Yamamoto because she is Not A Fan

09.0. Thoughts on the Quincy Massacre if they knew: POSITIVE / NEGATIVE / NEUTRAL ? 09.1. Would they be alright with such thing happening again: YES / NO / INDIFFERENT ? 09.2. Would they try to prevent it: YES / NO / DEPENDS ? 09.3. Explanation:  They were a threat to Soul Society and the balance of souls between the realms, one that was eliminated in response to a rebellion they themselves started. Perhaps if circumstances were different (such as, the Mod Soul dump/genocide, where they were innocent), there wouldn’t have been a need for such bloodshed. But as always, everything is done in the name of preserving the balance of souls, regardless of the cost.

10.0. Would they ever switch sides: YES / NO ? 10.1. If yes, What could bring them to do so?:  N/A 10.2. Would they create a new one: YES / NO ?  or join a current one? If so, which:  In my post-canon AU, she “retires” to Rukongai and lives as an herbalist before being recruited by Yoruichi Shihoin to teach at the Shin’o Academy. So in that sense, she joins a current subset of the Soul Society faction with which she was aligned.

11.0. Does your muse follow a certain moral code*?:  YES / NO / GRAY AREA ? (UH... LOL) * (ethics) A written, formal, and consistent set of rules prescribing righteous behavior, accepted by a person or by a group of people. 11.1. What does it involve?: The laws and governing laid out by Central 46, though this is secondary to Yamamoto’s commands. The latter is especially important, given that Yamamoto’s own laws changed drastically over time. 11.2. What does it NOT involve?: This one is subject to the changes laid out above; torture, murder, violence, whatever earns you the title of The Most Bloodthirsty and Violent Criminal In Soul Society’s History.

YOUR MUSE’S VIEWS / OPINIONS ON THESE GROUPS ?

Central 46:   positive / negative / neutral.   ━   because: they govern the Soul Society, but she follows primarily Yamamoto’s command.

Four Great Noble Clans:   positive / negative / neutral.   ━   because: She herself has no divisive opinion on the Nobility beyond her disapproval that certain members can buy their way into a high rank within the Gotei. Those positions ought to be earned by strength and skill, not monetary means. That said, due to the Nobility having extensive influence within Soul Society, Unohana has personally served as the attending physician to such distinguished houses, most notably the Kuchiki Household (with regards to Ginrei, Sojun, and Hisana).

Royal Guards / Gotei 13:   positive / negative / neutral .   ━   because: She literally helped to create the Gotei 13, so there is a certain amount of pride in that fact.

Fullbringer:   positive / negative / neutral.   ━   because:  Other than the actions and fate of one Ginjou Kuugo, she has no true opinion on Fullbringers existing as their own “spiritual race”. 

Visored:   positive / negative / neutral.   ━   because:  Not positive in the sense that she is perfectly fine with their circumstances, however she explicitly refers to them as her “comrades”, which is an especially interesting note given how other Gotei officers and Captains reacted with suspicion or out right disgust. Unohana has been known to heal enemy and ally alike, however, and likely viewed them as such given their shared history as Gotei officers, as well as already having proven themselves to align their interest with those of Soul Society.

Espada:   positive / negative / neutral.   ━   because:  As far as fighting beneath Aizen’s command, she disapproves. However, given the post-HM attempt at establishing relations between Hueco Mundo’s de facto ruler and Soul Society, there is a begrudging neutrality between their worlds for the time being. That said, Unohana was not opposed to healing Gantenbainne Mosqueda after arriving in Hueco Mundo, suggesting that she views Arrancar in general with as much autonomy as Humans and Shinigami.

Quincy:   positive / negative / neutral.   ━   because:  Her prejudice against Quincies comes chiefly from their practice of eliminating souls vs cleansing them, creating an imbalance between the worlds, as well as Yhwach during the original Blood War. Prior to the TYBW, she was fairly neutral, if not perhaps somewhat pitying over their race for having stood and fallen against Soul Society. But she’s a firm believer that the Quincy genocide was a result of their own hubris; angels with wings of wax, etc etc. That said, she gets absolutely zero direct interaction with any Quincies during the TYBW, and I personally think that despite her stronger opinions, she’d be inclined to heal the likes of Bazz-B, Giselle, and Liltotto because they defected from the Wandenreich. It’s a whole nuanced thing.

YOUR MUSE’S VIEWS / OPINIONS ON THESE (IMPORTANT) PEOPLE ?

Aizen:   positive / negative / neutral.   ━   because:  Treacherous reprobate, etc etc. All the obvious reasons. I don’t think she’d disapprove of Shunsui’s decision to free him though, only because drastic times call for drastic measures. If that weren’t the case, surely she wouldn’t have been pushed to finally teach Kenpachi Zaraki the Art of Killing.

Yhwach:   positive / negative / neutral.   ━   because:  Other than the obvious stuff, him cutting down Yamamoto was something she reacted to negatively and viscerally so.

Mayuri:   positive / negative / neutral.   ━   because:  His personality is infuriating, but she does find it hilarious to push his buttons and prod at his ego. She doesn’t agree with some of his crueler methods, but she really doesn’t have room to talk and in the end, it’s for the sake of the Soul Society.

Kurosaki:   positive / negative / neutral.   ━   because:  INCREDIBLE, INSPIRING, SHOW-STOPPING, BRILLIANT. Really fond of the kid, really worried for the kid. She kind of wants to fight him.

Soul King:   positive / negative / neutral. ━   because:  While his origins are dubious and objectively horrific,  his presence is necessary for the sake of the greater world.

CONGRATS, you managed till to the end, now tag your fellow bleach partners!

TAGGED BY: genuinely cant remember. it was prob either tom or hela TAGGING: anyone who hasn’t done this yet, feel free 2 steal!

[hergan416]

First line meme

Rules: List the first lines of your last 15 stories. See if there are any patterns. Then tag your favorite authors!

I was tagged by @touchmycoat and I will pass this on to anyone who wants to do it. Even if I don't follow you, or you don't think I mean you, I mean you if you think this sounds fun. Feel free to tag me so I can see what you learn!

About formatting--I am considering each chapter in the fic "Thirty One Days" a unique chapter for the purposes of this meme, as they are written to be loosely connected one shots.

I am using both of my pseuds to better get a picture of my writing history, so if you end up looking up my yugiomo pseud...know that there WILL be omorashi and consider this your warning. If you do not know what this is, and are over 18, use urban dictionary or something.

Astonishingly, all of the first lines of all of the fics are tumblr safe. Horray. Most of the fics aren't. If you look up any fics, PLEASE pay attention to the ratings on AO3, and any content warnings.

Patterns: Every. Single. One. Of my new (2019 holiday season forward) fics starts with the name of a person and a paragraph. This paragraph immediately sets up the person's thoughts. Previously, I had begun fics with much more action, often with dialog, or specific thoughts or actions. "Keijo!!!!!" was sitting in my drafts for years before it was finished and posted, so it makes sense that it followed my old format, despite falling on the newer side of the break I took writing. (It is the only thing I published besides the 2018 YGOME before the 2019 YGOME started me writing again.) The long break coincides, to my memory with the tumblr purge and me entering a long-term relationship with my current partner. I should maybe think about adding more action into my writing again.

15. "War of Love: The Game" from "Thirty One Days" --- “Draw!” Atem yelled as he pulled the card out of the deck and looked at it.

14. "Dignity Lost! The Ship Ride to Duelist Kingdom" (yugiomo pseud, and yes apparently I'm mainblogging that now). --- Anzu grit her teeth as she listened to the gentle sound of water on the hull of the giant boat, every wave torturous to her ears. Finally she stood from her position crouching next to Honda. “I’m at my breaking point,” she complained, her voice a slight whine.

13. "Paladins: Champions of the Realm" from "Thirty One Days" --- “Enemy double kill... enemy triple kill!” the automated voice announced. "Enemy killing spree.”

12. "Failure" (yugiomo pseud) --- Stupid Kaiba and his stupid rules! Jounouchi thought, desperately working at the restraints that held him him in place. Who even made desks like this anyway? It almost seemed like the chain was built in, like it was meant to be on the desk. But that couldn’t be right. Kaiba had said he’d had this desk as a kid.

11. "More Sex Play" from "Thirty One Days" --- “Want to play something other than Duel Monsters this afternoon?” Atem suggested to Kaiba as he dug through the golden box for his deck. “I live in a game shop, surely there is something else you’d like to try to beat me at.”

10. "Alone" --- All Kaiba wanted was to shrink away from the music, the noise and the crowd. He didn’t want to play this part anymore, but he had to, for Mokuba’s sake. Mokuba was all that was left.

9. "Trying (On) My Patience" -- “Look, all I’m saying is that you need to find something other than a discarded school uniform to throw over your shoulders. And maybe some better jewelry.”

8. "Keijo!!!!!" from "Thirty One Days" --- “Don’t you think we should check it out?” Atem insisted, his intense gaze meeting Kaiba’s across the desk. “It’s the latest competitive fad in Japan. According to Yugi, men are going crazy for it.”

7. "Liquid Gold" --- https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=9XaS93WMRQQ

Atem sat at the computer, simply searching the internet while he waited for Seto to finish up with his work. While he almost exclusively had been using this specific computer in Seto’s office space since coming back from the afterlife, occasionally Seto would use it to set the ambiance while Atem was gone. What Seto didn’t know is that Atem had figured out how to search the browsing history, and that he had recently seen that there were nearly 20 plays of the same youtube video.

6. "All I Want For Christmas..." --- Yugi yawned as he watched out the window of the Kaiba jet . It was the private one, not the blue eyes white jet; Yugi had always been secretly nervous about that plane’s capability of flying, and regardless, there wouldn't have been enough room for Mokuba, Yugi, and Seto to fly in the dragon-shaped jet together. He’d been woken by the announcement of the plane’s descent, as dawn broke over the unique arrangement of city and harbor that forms Sydney, Australia. 

5. "Help Me Doctor (I Have Sinned)" --- Marco always had an eye out for sails as he went about his daily tasks on Whitebeard’s peaceful home island. He’d been expecting Edward Weevil to make his way there eventually, and in the meantime needed to protect the small island from bands of low-class marauders. So, when he was walking down the beach and he recognized the telltale black flag, he immediately pulled out his spyglass. The jolly roger showed a skull surrounded by a fluffy pink scarf, with giant red lips and a brown and pink tricorne on its head, and Marco’s heart rate immediately increased.

4. "Shimmering Blush" --- Tony Tony Chopper woke up bright and early, excited to go back to see his friends. The last two years in Birdie Kingdom without seeing any of the other Straw Hats had been long, even with the new friends he’d made here. He knew he was stronger, and would do his best to support everyone now that he would finally get to see them again.

3. "House On A Hill" --- Marco wasn’t about to listen to Katakuri (of all people) lecturing him on selflessness. They both had always been the kind of people that would prioritize their families over themselves. That was why they had ended and Marco was cursing Katakuri for not leaving the island after yet another ill-advised tryst.

2. "Relief" (yugiomo pseud--you thought this died in 2017, didn't you?) --- Ryou had, for the most part, reached an understanding with the Spirit of the Ring. Unlike Yugi, Ryou was well-aware of the other person that had come attached to the Millenium Ring, the Item his father had gifted him from one of his archeological digs. Most people probably would have assumed they were cursed the first time they saw the disembodied Spirit following themselves around, and thrown the Ring away as far as they could. Ryou, in contrast, turned around, faced the Spirit, and said hello.

1. "Shared Nightmares" --- Robin has had nightmares about the Buster Call that destroyed Ohara ever since she escaped her fate. Sometimes it’s just the kids back home that picked on her and called her a devil child, all in the rescue boat and dying because she might have made it on board, sometimes it’s the burning of the Tree of Life, sometimes it’s Saul’s laughing face as Akoiji froze him solid.

0. "Seek and Ye Shall Find" (I miscounted and started a fic late and I am not spending time readjusting this nonsense) --- Atem was so happy he’d finally found a way to at least view what was happening back in Domino. Rather than getting surprised by the Gods’ future requests at world-saving, he could keep an eye on things from the afterlife. It’s not like he could transport himself to Domino without the Gods’ help, so it was more a way to keep an eye on things in the meantime. The Kaiba Dome seemed the best place for the mirror into the realm of the living; after all, Seto Kaiba now seemed the center of all the trouble.

[sasorikigai]

Yesterday is History and Tomorrow is a Mystery (Ghost Verse)

🗒️|| Crime, obviously, calls for night;  for crime would not be crime without darkness, yet - were it pitch dark - this horror of night aspires to the burst of sunshine. Kuai Liang could never escape both the purity and imbecility of death: fever and agony transfigure him, along with an ample dose of befuddled delirium. The torturing nightmares strikes him, and yet, while appearing indifferent to the blows, the deeply-haunted depression and desperate unease causes him to become the most zealous devotee, lost in the labor of agony. And he would soon stop breathing, and be resurgent in a dream within a dream, despite having being stopped living. 

Once he buried himself in solitude. he had a moment of silence that lasted an eternity. The sun searched for him, openly sought him out for him to resurface from his long hibernation, as he would bury incessantly and obsessively into the ghosts of the cold cases, founded on speculations, instead of facts and truths. For no aspect of his reclusive life is based on normalcy, but of perilous moribundity of savagery and carnage. Kuai Liang still harbors the fatal tendencies; even in the freedom of death, and the liberation of suffering. How could he not kill in him the various forms of madness and be at the same time tender and lucid, creative and patient, and survive in this eternal solitude and sunrise. 

How he would wear the two wonders of the world he’s worn in disguise, while shedding off the very skin that he has so desperately held onto - to step out of his humanity means wandering to find two merged realms he could fit into, and going through the same process of posing through the glass, and praying that his heart yearn for the day his soul will find peace, as he recalls the day his body laid cold underground, unbothered by this broken world, and the selfishness of the people who walk it. 

His heart was breaking, but as usual, he would hide from the hurt. He would bury the pain along with the rest of him, even away from the subject of his love as if his pain never mattered. He never let himself feel it. He just carried it around inside of him. And he never grieved what he lost; lost in the process of excavating the unknown, the unpredictable, the unpaved future’s road ahead. Most importantly, he never mourned losing who he was. The once-mechanics and angles he used to know all too well, but they seem to have been assembled, instead created, and with each new analysis, he will let the glimpse of hope become hope that perches in the soul, and make his heart sing the tunes without the words. 

For destiny will always find its way, and he’d wasted enough of his time refusing his true desires. In his fanciful heart, he could feel the pulse there, throbbing somewhere; a manifestation of heartbeats that speak in a tongue he will never understand, but knows by intuition. For there is a cavity waiting for something else inside his chest, and he would wear his guilt on his sleeve. Despite being an intangible spectre, he could feel the fabric of his heart’s fibers unpool as he acknowledges the pulsation of life through his other senses. As his once-graceless fall into darkness lifts, the world clarifies in a tiny light in the sky, while Kuai Liang still feels his body, petrified in the paroxysm of the moment of shock, of loss, of rude awakening and denouement. As he recalls the encased bullet devouring through his torn flesh, spewing scalding embers of his crimson, he looks upon his world once again usurped by violence. Kuai Liang may continue to struggle, upholding hope and honor, yet his eyes hone towards a home he long for. 

Even when he could see nothing, but abysmal darkness, and all the hopes, aspirations, dreams and goals crumbled like Tower of Babel with his incapacitating depression, unapologetically, Rebecca protected him. He should’ve have fought for her; as strenuously and tirelessly, yet the very discharge of his blood gripped him in a deafening desire, which became hope, which also became inextricably tied to all this painful longing. Perhaps that alone had been his conduit to find even an infinitesimal semblance of life he could possibly find, in his doomed damnation. The delicate bones may continue to spill milk and blood gone putrid, yet Kuai finds himself content, as he surrenders to his vapor-like being with supreme tranquility. 

Even in the pounding hollowness, as more darkness envelops his vision, nighttime grasps him by his throat, and he suffocates in silence, as the tenebrous spill of his thoughts, ideas and passions saturate the abandoned cabin. The fire burning from a star resides within him, and even in death, Kuai Liang will shine his light and cast his fire, as he embraces and cradles the void of his heart, to fulfill promises made in the presence of darkness. Silence in the place of glee, as breaths disturbing the silence with its sharpness as eyes stare. The past’s funeral of the mind had been honored, as its lurking, twisting shadows had been pushed into the fire; lapped up by the flames of want, life and desire in the penumbra of pain. The dawn of the enigmatic future has risen, and even in the decay and rot, the beautiful things shall grow, as the nurturing soil will plant his feet, deeply rooting in a newfound life in death. 🗒️|| 

@desxderium​

[sarahw-writing]

“Let It Snow” - 03 Fire

Well guys, here's the new prompt!

I finished it a few days ago, but my Christmas and post-Christmas days have been a bit busier than I first anticipated, so it took me a little longer to find the time to edit this one.

I've actually enjoyed one of my best Christmas in a long time, and I really hope that you've all had an amazing time too!

I hope you like this one, and Happy New Year!!!

Summary:

After a highly unusual Christmas Eve, Vegeta will take delight in an even more remarkable Christmas Day...

This may or may not be a naughty prompt, so as always:

You can read the uncensored version on AO3.

You can read the censored version on FF.

Or you can keep reading under the break:

03. Fire.

Vegeta stood his ground in the midst of the storm, feet firmly planted on the barren rocks as an endless tidal of vast, raging waves broke against his immobile form, buried amongst a flood of tempestuous waters, an ocean just as turbulent as the thoughts suffocating his perturbed heart.

He could still feel them, he could still feel those small hands clutching his sweater in her sleep as she’d drifted off in his nervous embrace the night before, just like he could still hear those drowsy, whispery words, begging him to stay after he’d carried her to her bed, trying to carefully untangle her arms from his neck, and get her to let go of him, with no success.

“Please don’t go…” Bulma murmured in his ear, shimmery eyes still half-open, but already drizzled with sleep.

It was terrifying, absolutely terrifying how easy it’d been for him to obey her wishes last night, sensing his body freely choosing to stay beside her long before his mind could catch up with his own reckless actions.

He’d quietly removed his shoes, trying to ignore the nerve-racking emotion that that pair of greedy little hands evoked inside of him, obstinately refusing to set him free, not even after he managed to sneak into her girly bed, joining her under the covers and lying with her.

At first, the Prince had expected a repeat of their first night together in the infirmary, hoping for the sleepy earthling to release him, perhaps curling by his side, now that she’d finally convinced him to ease her loneliness by keeping her company.

But Bulma’s body seemed to have different plans for him, and it wasn’t long before the intrepid woman broke the rules, one more time, smashing yet another one of his boundaries by getting even closer, pressing her lithe figure against his pitifully trembling one, and holding onto him as if she’d always been meant to be right in his arms.

The weak hands that had once been draped around his strong neck for support, had now found refuge in the broad protectiveness of his chest, tiny fingers grasping his warm clothing as her legs naturally entangled themselves with his own, languidly rubbing her cheek against his flushed neck in exactly the same way she had when she’d leaned into him underneath that white mantle of snow.

Everything in her was soft, gentle, so terribly inviting that his anxious indecision quickly vanished into thin air, chasing the memory of the chaste cuddle they’d both indulged in outside, and instinctively trapping her in his arms, binding her in a placid hold as the longest sigh caressed his skin, as if the only thing she’d ever needed to find some peace was for him to give into her humble pleas.

She’d felt smaller than ever beneath his touch, and he couldn’t help but panic at the realization of just how fragile, how absurdly defenseless she truly was, and how brave it’d been for such a delicate creature to get as close to him as she undeniably had, not only in the physical but in the emotional realm, touching and reaching out to him, tugging at his darkened heart in ways no one ever had.

He’d hardly gotten any rest that night, merely dozing on and off from time to time, acting like some inexperienced juvenile as he watched her sleep with ingenuous fascination. He couldn’t deny to himself any longer that he’d fantasized with a moment such as this more times than he could count, yet no fantasy would ever come close to the sensation of that minute body flowing in his hands, that slow, rhythmic breathing reminding him of how marvelously comfortable the gutsy woman felt in his presence.

Vegeta spent the night drowning in the purity of her essence, in that clean, lily-white scent incessantly emanating from her. And, either he was getting close, dangerously close to losing whatever remained of his sanity, or he had, as sure as creed, heard his name slipping from her lips in her state of blissful unconsciousness.

The Prince had, at least, possessed enough willpower left in him to part from her before she’d rise and shine, reluctantly disentangling his needy body from her own deprived one, and giving her one last, longing glance as he’d stood on her balcony, a defeated figure bathed by the early rays of sunshine, devouring the heart-wrenching sight of the small woman swaddled in a cocoon of pink sheets and floral blankets, whining faintly in her sleep, lamenting the loss of the man who’d kept her safe all through the night.

His new masterplan had taken shape the moment he’d flopped down exhaustedly on his miserable bed, furious with himself for having behaved, yet again, like some silly puppet in the hands of that wicked woman, gladly allowing himself to fall into whatever sentimental trap she’d conceived, and built, especially for him, and vowing to duck out from that blasted house as soon as he squeezed in a few vital hours of sleep.

But then Panchy Briefs had to make another one of her annoying entrances, barging into his room with her perky giggles and that disconcerting, maternal tone, followed by another irresistible whiff of succulent foods and, before he knew, he was sitting at the table once more, impotent to escape the nightmare that these infernal ‘Christmas’ celebrations had become.

He’d partly found some consolation in the abundant feast of tasty goodies, and in the comforting fact that the only ones enjoying with him that heavenly ‘Christmas Day’ lunch would be Dr. Briefs and his peppy wife.

And then she came along, brightening up the whole place with her invigorating presence, and making the food in his mouth instantly fall into his stomach, hard as a rock, when she brazenly sat right in front of him with zero hesitation.

There had been no fancy jewels or elaborated hairdos this time but, much to his shame, the Prince had been entirely unable to keep his eyes off her throughout the whole meal, powerless to ignore those shiny blue curls, which she’d chosen to carelessly set free, or that simple, but oddly elegant, little black dress, with long sleeves and a demure décolletage, openly exposing the most kissable collarbones with every casual flick of her hair.

But the most unbearable torture of them all had been that smile, that pure, honest-to-Gods smile of hers, perhaps not as bright as the one she’d proudly displayed before her ex-lover’s betrayal, but just as candid, inundating his confused mind with absurd thoughts and the most ridiculous of hopes, the secret hope that he’d been the only one responsible for the rebirth of her lost happiness.

Too much.

It had all been too damn much, and the only thing left for him to do, the moment his ravenous Saiyan appetite had been fully sated, was to awkwardly mumble the pathetic shadow of an excuse, getting the Hell out of Bulma’s home before he’d end up making a fool of himself, just like he’d done the previous night.

He’d practically galloped straight to the door, blasting off into the freezing skies with not one look back, not even bothering to get out of his formal clothes as he sped up, setting loose in a futile attempt at letting off steam, desperately striving to leave such madness behind, from her every gesture and charming mannerism, to those increasingly intimate moments shared in confidence, away from the rest of the world, and that turmoil of foreign emotions overruling his spirit, taking over from his usual cold, detached self, and scattering suggestive ideas and fantasies that he’d never truly indulged in before.

It’d been a long while since he’d run from the Briefs household like this, seeking solace in the silent comfort of solitude. But now, as he stood stoically amid some thunderous sea storm in the middle of one of Earth’s majestic oceans, he bitterly discovered that loneliness no longer seemed to pacify his insanity as effectively as it once did.

His shoulders fell in defeat, his regal body growing limp at the frightening realization that there was nowhere to run, no place to hide anymore, and that the time had come for him to make a choice, to either walk away from the bewitching female, and from everything she represented, or to cave in and let Destiny take charge, surrendering to the woman’s magnetism, once and for all.

 And Destiny turned out to be a golden light, an illuminated window guiding him through the dark of night as he walked the perennial fields of snow that Capsule Corp.’s immense gardens had become, deliberately letting go, with each hypnotized step, of his fears and inhibitions, not even knowing what Life had in store for him yet, but accepting, beyond the shadow of a doubt, that his capricious Luck would somehow be bound to one being, and one being only.

Destiny was a woman sitting by the fireplace, finding shelter in the cozy seclusion of her home’s small guest house, a sacred place that no one but her ever made use of anymore. He watched her unashamedly through the glass doors, not afraid, for once, of the possibility of getting caught in the act by the brilliant woman whose stunning blue eyes were now daydreaming in front of a sea of sizzling flames, a small hand swirling a thick glass of liquor distractedly, while the other toyed with the fringes of the Persian rug that served her as perch.  

Destiny was a jubilant smile, followed by a lanky finger curling in a come-hither motion, happily inviting him to join her, without qualm, the second her curious gaze discovered the unmistakable silhouette of the familiar intruder lurking outside.

 Destiny was Bulma.

 “There you are!” She exclaimed with relish, her genuine joy at seeing him joining her for the evening racing a barrage of emotions all through him. “I’ve been looking for you all day… Come! Come sit with me!” She asked enthusiastically, already patting the cushy rug with the excitement of an impatient little girl, eager to share her special surprise with the stunned object of her affections. “I have a surprise for you!”

“You do?” Vegeta asked in bewilderment, cautiously joining her on the carpeted floors by sitting cross-legged beside her.

“Yup!” She announced, the thrilled pride in her voice making her anticipation contagious by the minute. “I guess it’s my Christmas present for you…” Bulma confessed, letting go of her untouched glass and turning to her side, where a pillow, a furrowed blanket, and a pile of wrinkly blueprints revealed that, whatever it was that she had in the cards for him, she must have been working hard at it for a while.

He waited patiently for her to find what she was looking for, doing his best to stop his stupefied face from showing any emotion, especially his honest surprise at discovering that the woman had one of those holiday gifts for him too.

She’d already briefly introduced him to such a bizarre tradition the night before, after having exchanged quite a few of them with her closest friends, but Vegeta had simply assumed that he would be excluded from this ritual this time. After all, Bulma and her family had already shown him far more generosity than anyone ever had, and it wasn’t as if he was in the position to give her anything in return, should she ever choose to present him with some sort of special gift.

“Alright… I found it…” She murmured to herself, successfully finding her chosen blueprint and crawling clumsily towards him, her knee casually touching his as she sat nearby. “Look!” She proclaimed, proudly spreading out the large piece of paper before his inquisitive eyes.

“What…?” Vegeta mumbled reticently, with that sense of embarrassment striking him every time he was in the presence of one of Bulma’s prodigious inventions. “What is it?”

“It’s a new training bot!” Bulma clarified, a sympathetic smile etched on her lips at how strangely vulnerable the proud warrior looked whenever he was shown something he knew nothing about. “Look…” She calmly proceeded to explain, making the Saiyan’s mouth run dry when she leaned almost indecently into him, resting the mysterious document on his lap and running her fingers all over it. “The exterior is made of this new alloy that my Dad and I have just patented. It’s much more resilient, not only to your blows, but also to extreme heat. And, you see this?” She asked, pointing to one of the circuit designs with her index finger, without even giving him the opportunity to answer before she resumed her masterful presentation. “I’ve finally solved this equation that’s been driving me crazy all week! So, basically, this bot will have several settings, and tons of aleatory programs, so it’ll make things really challenging for you!”

The Prince gawked at the enigmatic blueprint in sheer shock, aiming to digest, with severe difficulty, not only the tsunami of brand-new information that she’d just put at his disposal, but the incredible thoughtfulness of such a gift. It wasn’t one of those useless, sentimental presents that these foolish humans were so inexplicably fond of, but a real gift, something that would help him grow and improve, something that would allow him to attain the one dream that mattered to him the most.

“So…? What do you think?” Bulma prodded, her good-hearted smile never faltering, trying to lighten the mood of a man who was clearly struggling with a generosity that he, very possibly, thought himself wholly unworthy of. “Pretty cool, uh?”

Vegeta’s gaze returned to the woman, and to that gorgeous smile of hers, awkwardly clearing his throat while trying to think of something, anything, to say, yet knowing that he’d fall pitiably short regardless of his choice of words.

“It’s…”

“Acceptable?” She guessed gingerly, a playful expression dancing in her eyes as she secretly tried to spare him from embarrassing himself.

Even if the pigheaded Saiyan still remained an enigma in far too many ways, all these months living together hadn’t been entirely wasted on her and, by now, Bulma had already unraveled quite a few of the Prince’s secrets. The main one being that, for all of that pompously conceited mumbo-jumbo that he loved to babble about on the battlefield, Vegeta was painfully uncomfortable, most times verging on pathologically shy, when it came to expressing his emotions anywhere else; and, though he loved to bicker and order her around any time he needed repairs on his beloved Gravity Room, he always seemed to be at a loss for words whenever she was the one who’d take the initiative in helping or having a nice gesture with him.

“I’m glad you like it…” Bulma whispered fondly, her heart breaking a little at the way he timidly nodded in assent, those obsidian eyes now evading hers, getting lost in the spellbinding flames of her fireplace. “You’ve never had these before, have you?”

Her new offer, and a warm, appealing scent he’d never smelled before, instantly made him peep at the woman’s hands, which had now put down her precious blueprints, and were graciously holding a large bowl in front of him.

“They’re chestnuts,” she pointed out, delicately resting the bowl on the rug. “I just roasted a few. They’re really nice, you’ll see… They’re kind of sweet…” She carried on, picking up a few of the small brown items and placing them on the open palm of his hand. “You have to peel them like this, and then… Wa-Wait!”

“What?” He frowned, his mouth freezing, having popped the whole thing in right after hearing the word ‘sweet’.

“Um… Uh… You’re… You’re supposed to peel them first…” Bulma broke down, trying as hard as she could not to crack-up at the hilarious view of her alien guest holding a mouthful of unpeeled chestnuts in his mouth. “See? Like this…” She demonstrated, slowly peeling one of them and splitting it in half. “And then you open it first, like this, in case there’s a worm inside of…”

She hadn’t even finished her sentence and Vegeta was already spitting out a bunch of half-chewed chestnuts, at the speed of light, straight into the fire.

“There are WORMS in this?!” He barked, absolutely horrified at the mere thought of such repulsive critters.

“What? No, no!” She exclaimed defensively, surprised at seeing him so openly disgusted by something of this nature, particularly considering that little Goku had once offered to share one of his centipedes with her for supper. “It’s… It’s actually very rare, I swear! It’s just in case…”

“Hmph!” He snarled, his scrunched nose reminding her of some bratty five-year-old refusing to eat his Brussel sprouts.

“Aw, come on Vegeta…” She pleaded, both incredibly amused and a little worried about such a strong reaction, wondering if perhaps there was some obscure, traumatic event associated to those scary worms. “I’ll do it for you. Here…”

Bulma expertly peeled one roasted little nut, cracking it in half and examining it with great attention, before tentatively offering it once again to the offended Saiyan who kept side-eyeing her as if she were holding a bottle of pure poison in her hand.

“Please? Pretty please?” She begged, puckering her bottom lip like a needy brat. “You trust me, right?”

“…”

 ‘Damn her!’

 Damn her and those sad puppy eyes, and her blushing cheeks and fluttery eyelashes, and her luminous smiles and unreal kindness. Damn her and those stupidly pointless ‘Christmas’ celebrations, and her sappy gifts and fluffy pink socks. Damn her and her foolish generosity, and her steady hands, never relenting, never letting go, treating him like a man instead of a monster. And damn those goddamned roasted chestnuts for tasting so goddamned good, just like every goddamned thing she’d ever given to him, when he finally had the courage to accept her invitation and eat the goddamned thing.

“It’s nice, isn’t it?” She whispered, her tone subdued, but brimming with the calm satisfaction of a woman who was gradually discovering that, perhaps, she held more power over the man she was falling for than she ever knew.

They both ate in silence by the fire, with Bulma peeling and meticulously checking every single one of the warm delicacies, before passing them to the compliant Saiyan quietly appreciating them. Every now and then, she’d eat one herself, but she gladly gave most of them to her guest, happy to see him enjoying yet another one of her home’s traditions, and overcome by the most nostalgic déjà vu as she evoked the times when it was her Mom the one peeling her chestnuts for her, it felt like centuries ago now.

When they were done, Bulma discreetly set the empty bowl aside, stifling a muffled yawn while stretching like a mellow kitty, ready to share one more treat with him tonight.

“You must taste this…” She murmured naughtily, taking a small sip of the half-full glass of liquor she’d been idly stirring in her hand when he’d first found her tonight, closing her eyes and moaning softly as she savored every drop, before offering it to him. “It’s my Dad’s favorite cognac. It’s more than fifty years old…”

Vegeta didn’t vacillate this time, bringing the heavy glass under his nose and inhaling a long, deep breath, before getting a leisurely taste of the intoxicating brew. The Prince had never cared much for alcohol, finding Earth’s wide assortment of liquors especially weak for his insanely fast metabolism, but he had to admit that this particular blend was pretty damn good.

He savored it slowly, deliberately, letting it melt in his tongue the same way her tiny moan had melted in his ears, never taking his eyes off the woman who kept staring at the comfy fire as if it held the answers to her every question in life.

“I haven’t thanked you yet…” She muttered, her stare low, but with a shy confidence that implied that she’d already made peace with whatever Demons had been tormenting her in recent times.

“What for?” He asked genuinely, so deeply overwhelmed by the swell of foreign emotions and events experienced during those past few days, that he didn’t even know what to think of her, of them, anymore.

“I don’t know,” she confessed in a meek whisper. “For understanding, I guess…” She turned to him, the peacefulness in her serene smile awakening something occult and forbidden inside of him. “It’s nice to have someone on my side…”

 Her side.

A man like him, an eternal outlander with no real home or roots to speak of, had no one’s side but his own, taking and plundering as much as he wanted, whenever he wanted, without owing anyone a goddammed thing in return.

And yet, as preposterous as it sounded, if there was one being, just one single being who deserved to have his side no matter what, it should be Bulma. The one who’d offered him a home, and everything his heart could ever desire, in order to conquer his most coveted dream, the one who’d given him more, far more, than a penniless scoundrel like him would ever deserve, without asking for a thing, not one blasted thing, in return.

All in all, Vegeta figured that, since the beautiful dummy had been foolish enough to take his side, it would only be fair for him to take hers as well.

 “And thank you for staying with me last night,” she insisted, laying a soft hand on his forearm and petting it lightly. “I know it wasn’t easy for you…”

Bulma cheekily reclaimed her glass, briefly running the tip of her tongue across her upper lip as she brought it smoothly to her mouth, bracing herself for her grand revelation.

“Yamcha called after lunch, you know?” She confided, breaking into a roguish smile when she saw one of the warrior’s eyebrows raising with unexpected curiosity. “He tried to tell me about some big fight he just had with that dumb girl… I don’t know…” She shrugged with palpable disinterest, taking another sip of the bittersweet drink and languidly tilting her head back as she tossed it down. “I told him to go fuck himself…” She proudly concluded, looking Vegeta right in the eye with a cocky smirk that he could have easily made his own, instantly erasing his sudden fear that she might consider taking that worthless idiot back in a moment of weakness.

“Good girl…” He purred in approval, sending shivers down her spine with his husky bedroom voice, and with that sly smile curling his lips as he leaned to her, covering her hand with his own as he stole her glass, washing down the rest of the potent drink in one clean gulp.

His fingers lingered around hers as they both held the empty glass, his touch anxious but firm, rugged fingertips stroking her shaky hand with a closeness he’d never shown her before, holding her stare for a lifechanging instant until he lost his nerve, letting go of her as that irresistible smirk died out on his lips.

Bulma’s gaze remained fixated on the empty glass, captivated, enthralled by that almost magical exchange as the room spiraled around her out of control. It wasn’t the first time she’d felt the direct contact of the Prince’s flesh against hers, but such innocent moments of intimacy had always been accidental, casual, a far cry from the affectionate nearness they’d both engaged in ever since he’d agreed to keep her company in that cold infirmary.

In any other man, she would have never dared to look much into such apparently superficial instants but, in this man, a man who kept his masked heart guarded under lock and key at all times, she couldn’t help but feel that such wonderful gestures of kindness had truly meant something, something real, something that could lead them both to the most extraordinary path, if only she succeeded in helping him set his emotions free.  

“All those years…” She whispered pensively under her breath, contemplating her future at the bottom of an empty glass of expensive cognac. “All those years wasted…”

The glass was soon discarded, and she sat still on the spot, tucking one lock of that aquatic mass of tousled curls behind her ear as her abstracted stare walked through those scorching flames, under the watchful eye of a certain Saiyan Prince who simply didn’t know what to believe anymore.

There was longing in her words, but not in her demeanor, nothing but a cool, collected calmness, a quietude that let it slip that the woman freely sharing her inmost feelings with him, had already made her choice.

“Sometimes…” Bulma thought out loud, that unnervingly blue gaze falling right back on him as she cutely tipped her head to the side, looking at him through brand-new eyes. “I think sometimes you don’t… You don’t really fall in love with a person…” She resolved, the palms of her hands now splayed on the lavish rug, proceeding to crawl in his direction, with the idle indolence of a sensual little tigress who’d just spotted her next prey. “Sometimes…” She concluded in a raspy whisper, taking advantage of his unusually low guard, and effortlessly straddling his strong thighs as he kept sitting sloppily on the floor. “Sometimes you just fall in love with an idea…”

She truly was delicious, the most lethal combination of virtue and sensuality he’d ever met, carelessly discussing words of love with the childish naiveté of a teenage girl, but seeking, and taking control of him, with the savvy expertise of the finest of women.

And, although she was the one who knew emotion in ways he never would, her softness never got lost on the way, that compassionate purity of spirit that made him understand that she’d never cross a line he wouldn’t wish her to.

“Do you know what I mean?” She asked meaningfully, amazed by how young he suddenly looked as he let her docilely caress his cheeks with those silky fingertips. “What we did last night…” Bulma muttered gently, knowing that he had no possible reply to her first question. “I liked it…”

“Woman…” He mumbled in gruff warning, fighting not to lose himself between that pair of curvaceous thighs narrowing around him as she pressed herself even tighter against him.

“Did you…?” Her shaky question spilled from her lips, hating herself for feeling so completely naked, so exposed to a man who could so easily break her heart before she’d even give it to him. “Did you like it too?”    

She gasped in mild shock when he clutched her wrists without warning, taking her bold hands off his face as he huffed sharply through his nose, lips pursed into a cautionary thin line, not even sure if he was about to caution her or himself at this point.

All he knew was that he was about to lose, he was about to lose his own battle of self-control to this woman, and the stupidest truth of the matter was that he didn’t care anymore, because nothing really mattered, nothing but her and her inspiring presence, and the only question worth asking tonight, the only measure of reassurance that she could ever offer to someone like him.

“What about your human lover?” He blurted out, the disgust overtaking his cracked voice, at the mere thought of Bulma ever belonging to anyone but him, plain as day.

His irrational jealousy must have boosted her confidence, for she smiled grippingly at him, exquisite and delighted, already savoring the triumph of the unintentional admission of his selfish interest in her.

“I just told you, Vegeta…” She whispered bucolically, her fingers grazing his jaw, despite having her frail wrists still trapped under his firm hold. “He was just an idea…”

“I am not an idea, Bulma…” He murmured darkly, hands tightening in desperate warning, reminding her of who he was, trying to stop her from ever forgetting that she was about to dance, quite literally, with the Devil himself.          

“I know…” She promised, her delicate face finding his, resting her brow against him as she held his starved gaze with unblinking confidence.

 She knew.

He was real, perhaps the realest man she’d ever encountered, nothing like those Ivy League sycophants who used to prowl around her father’s mighty company, professional adulators trying to charm Capsule Corp.’s golden heiress, uselessly doting and kissing up to her, in hopes of getting into her bed and loaded bank account.

But this man, this untamable alien warrior, was anything but a charmer, he’d never lie or be untrue, because he was who he was, and nothing and no one would ever change that, or so he thought. Vegeta would never pretend to be something, someone, he was not, if anything, Bulma had learnt by now that the Saiyan Prince seemed to go out of his way to make himself as unapproachable as he could, not because he didn’t possess a heart, but because he was utterly terrified of anyone finding out that he did.

She couldn’t afford the luxury to ever forget that, if she got too close, she might get burnt, but she also knew that the man trembling in need beneath her, staring at her with an intensity that would have made any other woman slip instantly away, would never pretend to be anything but fire.

 Her binding words brought his surrender, arms dropping submissively on both sides, letting her merge her lips with his as her eager hands explored him, leisurely sliding across his heated skin until they found the nape of his neck, velvety fingers holding onto him as she boldly sought to deepen their kiss.

She could think of nothing but how surprisingly gentle he was, how anxious and untried, even after having already shared a first innocent smooch last night. His mouth was soft, twitchy, too afraid at first to part his lips for her as he did his best to follow her lead, indulging in an exotic human ritual that he’d seen before only in those ridiculous soap operas that the earthling’s mother seemed to adore so much and, of course, whenever he’d inadvertently walked in during one of the scarred-faced man’s visits to the woman who was now giving herself to him with such fervor.

He’d hated her mate back then, even before he’d ever toyed with the implausible fantasy of one day making her his, even before he knew what they did, or why they did it, why did they engage in such a pointless practice with such irritating frequency.

But now he understood, now, as he reveled in her intoxicating taste, grunting in exhilaration when her tongue lovingly caressed his, Vegeta learned the meaning behind such a gesture, an act that felt almost more intimate than sex itself, making him hate her ex-lover even more for having been given the undeserved chance to feel like this with her too.

The more he steadily relaxed in her arms, the more her supple body responded to him, arching and grinding in his lap, until the excruciating sensation of those ten little fingers passionately clutching fistfuls of his wild hair proved too hard to resist, temptingly inviting him to put his hands on her, encircling her waist with such force that her breath instinctively hitched in her chest, making his touch stop at once, petrified by the possibility of having hurt her.

“Ssshhh…” She shushed him with maddening tenderness, deeply moved by the touching concern blurring his features, and instantly calming him down by enfolding his thick forearms with her hands. “Softly… Like this…” Bulma panted lightly against his lips, drawing slow, lazy circles on his wrists with her tiny thumbs, instantaneously loosening his possessive hold on her. “That’s nice…” She reassured him, nuzzling his cheek when she sensed him getting comfortable once again, learning how to hold her just the right way. “That feels good, Vegeta… Really good…”            

Oh Gods, what a fool she was, what a pretty little fool, letting him near her, letting him touch her like this. One wrong move and her ribs would have cracked beneath his fingers, and yet here she was, trusting him again, and taking his breath away by kissing him within an inch of her life, her erratic breathing accelerating as he run his hands all over her, cherishing that small figure hidden under the unbearable softness of her oversized sweater, while he wondered how much, just how much of herself would she give him tonight, and finding his terrifying answer when he felt those needy hands tugging impatiently at the hem of his clothes.

Vegeta needn’t think twice, groaning in frustration as he humbly submitted to her, breaking their kiss with reluctance and taking off his jersey in one quick, smooth motion. He didn’t move any further, barely keeping his breathless puffing under control as her enigmatic stare, now roaming across his naked chest, chilled him to the bone.

Hideous, he thought gloomily to himself, she must have found him absolutely hideous, utterly repulsed by that grotesque roadmap of macabre scars, cuts and bruises. His flawless Saiyan anatomy should allow him, in theory, to heal and regenerate at a shockingly fast rate, but his ghastly, self-destructive training regime was making it virtually impossible for him to ever be fully healed these days, always plagued by fresh wounds and swollen lacerations, purple-and-blue slashes that the sensitive woman would so expertly clean and stitch for him, every single night without fail.

He was unlike any other man in her life, and he knew, nothing like those suave sons-of-bitches always prowling and lurking around her, with their expensive suits and leather briefcases, unscrupulous bastards who merely saw her as some attractive, wealthy trophy, instead of as the extraordinary creature that he now knew her to be.

After a painful silence, a secret part of him was already dreading the very real possibility of the woman getting cold feet now that she had him, quite literally, bare before her stunned eyes. But, as usual, Bulma Briefs was about to prove that she was no ordinary female either, and that the cryptic gleam in her eye stemmed, not from any form of repulsion towards his flawed flesh, but from her own beautifully distorted view of the world.    

“Does it hurt?” She asked with candid concern, airy fingertips tenderly outlining the large scar crossing his marred chest, his most recent one, the one which had ended up prostrating him on that damned infirmary for a whole week this time. He’d taken off his bandages as soon as Bulma’s father had given him his approval and, though the disturbingly deep gashes had mostly healed by now, they still retained a faint pinkish color, a reminder that the skin wasn’t fully restored yet.              

“No,” he answered throatily, not knowing how he could find a way to even talk to her anymore, not when she kept looking at him like this, touching and exploring him as if she’d never had a man before.

“That’s good…” Bulma murmured almost inaudibly, her shy hands regaining their confidence as they swirled slowly all over his muscular torso, her touch light as the wings of a bird, playfully running her fingers up and down, right until the thick waist of his jeans, only to travel upwards again, tracing a languid path up to his robust shoulders. “You’re beautiful…” She quietly professed, awe-struck eyes meeting his, cupping his blushing cheeks in her hands, and catching one of his thirsty moans in her mouth when her lips descended on his for another sensual kiss. “You’re so beautiful…” She reassured him, kissing him again, and again, lustfully indulging in the most pleasurable friction as she rubbed her body against him, her fear of hurting him slowly fading away.

He was beautiful, the most beautiful man she’d ever seen, a body slim, yet built to perfection, moving, flowing, with the sinuous litheness of a black panther. He may not have been the biggest of men in the physical sense, but he surely walked with a command larger than life itself, brave and resolute, fearless and tenacious, a courageousness that demanded respect, even from those who held him in low esteem. The man holding her in his arms had lived hard and battled even harder, and perhaps, someday, he’d love with more intensity than any human heart ever could.

But there was no time tonight for fatuous thoughts of love and romance, there was only now, only this moment, and the way he was disarming her, her body like clay in his hands as he kept kissing and imprisoning her in the fiercest hold, finally taking control as he carefully nestled and lifted her body from the ground, rolling them over and lying her defenseless on her back.

Bulma stubbornly refused to let go of him at first, her lips aching for more, always for more, trying to make up for all the times, oh Kami, all the times she’d envisioned him like this, giving himself to her with such abandon, allowing her to open his blinded eyes so that she could teach him her ways. But it was he who put an end to their kiss this time, leaving her whimpering breathlessly on the extravagant rug, mourning the loss of his heat when he cautiously nudged her knees, spreading them apart as he knelt at her feet.

His large hands glided smoothly across her squirmy legs, until they found the perfect hips buried underneath her baggy sweater, dark eyes silently begging for permission to undress her as he hooked his fingers around the old fabric of the waist of her washed-out jeans, earning a shaky nod of assent from the restless woman inflamed with need under him.

The most enraptured glint burned his features as he slowly unzipped her clothing, pulling from it with gentle determination, and marveling at every inch of flesh unveiled just for him. When her lower body lay fully undressed, Vegeta paused for an instant, mesmerized by the hypnotizing effect that the warm glow of the sweltering fire had on her ivory skin, reds and oranges bathing those long legs already yearning to wrap themselves around him with ardent zeal.

Only when one of her feet boldly tried to reach the very evident proof of his desire for her, right between his legs, did he choose to resume his erotic journey, deftly removing those cursed, fluffy pink socks which had recently invaded his daydreams with such shameful frequency, and crawling bit by bit atop her, sinking his knees domineeringly on both sides of her small figure as she awkwardly helped him take off her baby blue sweater, avidly waiting for him to make his final move.

Years later, the Prince would still recall just how insanely adorable she’d looked to him that night, clad in nothing but her everyday cotton underwear, plain white adorned by a girly pattern of those bright red strawberries she loved so much. Just like it would take him far too long to understand that she’d been just as nervous as he had, as if they’d both intuitively known, even back then, that once they gave into each other, there would be no going back.

“Do…? Do you want to stop?” Bulma asked weakly when she sensed his vacillation, tremulous mouth breathing heavily against his as he kept still, staring anxiously at her as he committed to memory everything that she was, every beautiful curve and gesture, never wanting to forget her just as she was tonight.

Her insecurity moved him like nothing ever had, fervently putting her mind to rest with a smoldering kiss, basking in his own relief when she passionately kissed him back. A flash of scarlet seared his cheeks when her lips smirked playfully against his, giggling excitedly as she reached her back to unhook her bra by herself, when it soon became obvious that his clumsy hands had never before handled such a bizarre garment.

Vegeta’s hands hurried to get rid of whatever remained of his clothes, his need intensifying when her eager little fingers frantically reached down to his belt, unbuckling it with frenzied impatience as he unzipped his jeans, rapidly discarding them with the help of those feverish legs, wriggling and twisting against him until he was fully naked before her.

There was no indecision anymore, not even shame at the way his body was already reacting to her closeness, yanking off her panties as he kissed her again, a deep grumble reverberating in his chest when one of her hands draped itself around his hardness, while the other one settled fiercely on the back of his neck, pressing her mouth even harder against his, and nipping at his bottom lip as she sensually stroked his length.

Bulma’s movements were slow, sensuous, dazed blue eyes feasting on the masculine face contorting in pleasure at her timid but expert touch, squeezing his eyes shut in some poor attempt at self-control as he felt himself already coming undone with agonizing ease, his dam shattering, hopelessly exposed to the only woman who’d ever own his heart.

“Bulma…” He implored helplessly, exhaling a heavy sigh of release when she guided him to her wet entrance, plunging inside of her, burying himself to the hilt as a breathless cry tore up her throat.

“S-Slowly…” Bulma pleaded, teasing his lips with hers, clammy hands still barely holding onto his corded neck as she struggled to accommodate him.

He quietly fulfilled her wishes, just as he always would, bowing shakily, and reading the poem writing itself on her lovely face as she threw her head back, sobbing in bliss when his hips set out a new pace, slow and deep, a rhythmic quest to get to know, and possess, every beautiful part of her.

It was impossible, it was impossible for such a woman to ever fully belong to him, but perhaps, tonight, as they made love under the warm protection of her sheltering fire, they could pretend. They could pretend that he wasn’t who he was, and that every conceivable sin didn’t hang over his head, fooling themselves into the impossible fantasy of being just a man and a woman, giving into each other in the most ancient and primal of rituals.

Bulma’s rosy cheek met the opulent rug as she pressed it against it, closing her eyes and pouting deliciously, filling the room with soft, muffled moans that were like music to the Prince’s ears.

He held as tightly as he could, clutching one of the thighs possessively encircling his waist with one of his arms as he cradled her delicate head in the curve of the other, gently removing a damp curl from her pale forehead as his nose found her temple, nuzzling her darling face while drowning in her provocative aroma. Her porcelain skin was already coated in a thin sheen of moisture, glistening faintly under the warm, flickering radiance of the fire, and it was becoming impossible not to get lost in the thick, lusty scent of sex heavily permeating the air.    

“Vegeta…” She whimpered with want, supplicant eyes finding his as her hands descended uncontrollably from his shoulders to his perfect bottom, nails digging into his unyielding flesh and pulling harder, inviting him to rush that luscious, animalistic flow already making her fall into pieces in his arms.

His dizzy mind might have lost any semblance of reason long ago, but his body knew just what she needed, gladly caving in, giving her his all, anything she’d ever want, by quickening his pace and thrusting faster, harder, stripping the most extraordinary cries of pleasure out of her lips, and forever keeping them to himself.

He heaved a relieved breath of gratitude when Bulma hid her smitten face in the crook of his neck, never letting go of him, but sensing how vulnerable, how incredibly unguarded he was feeling in that instant. His body told her that he’d had other women during his turbulent past, but an even stronger instinct was screaming at her that he’d never had someone in such an intimate way.

And she was right for, as Vegeta held securely onto her, glorying in that sweet, fluttery voice, whispering words of encouragement and desire in his ear, and confessing how much she liked, how much she loved what he was doing to her, he knew that it’d never been like this.

He’d never had the honor to experience this wistful emotion taking a hold of him, loving hands touching and caressing him as if he were the only man in existence, or that rush, that exhilarating rush of satisfaction when he felt that small, hopelessly soft body writhing in ecstasy underneath him as her impending climax ripped through her.

She tightened urgently around him, a stream of blinding electricity ravaging her as she cried his name with intense ardor, crumbling in his arms, those ravenous arms pulling her even closer, insatiably nestling her body against him, already bursting at the seams, grappling with his own desperate need to succumb to her.

“I-It’s okay… You can let go…” Bulma’s trembling voice murmured into his skin, gently seducing him as she recognized the aching tension overpowering him, beckoning him to surrender, to forget about his every haunting inhibition and give himself to her, if only this once. “Let go, Vegeta…”    

The ghost of a string of alien words ruptured from his lips as he spilled himself inside of her, a deep grunt thundering in his lungs, swamped by the sensation of those silky arms and legs still clinging to him, never abandoning him, never letting go, relishing his own peak of pleasure as if it were her own.  

Vegeta fell tiredly on top of her, without thinking, without speaking, melting powerlessly under the soothing power of that pair of shuddering hands fondling and stroking his magnificent skin, kissing and petting his hair, and happily luring him to stay with her for as long as he’d ever want to, the sad atlas of tortured scars tainting his back suddenly feeling just a little closer, a little less foreign than it used to be.

A soft, snug blanket carefully covered his stark-naked form, enveloping him in a cottony cloud of safety, almost as soft as the woman providing it for him, heavy eyelids drooping on her contented shoulder, vaguely registering the distant uproar of the stormy blizzard pouring outside, and the crisp rustle of the logs gradually turning to ashes in her luxurious fireplace.

For a lifetime of carnage, snow had always signified the most degrading pain, and fire nothing but cancerous destruction. But, on a cold Christmas night, everything was Her, and the first dreamless sleep he’d ever been blessed with as he peacefully dozed off in her caring embrace.    

  *sigh*

It looks like Veggie finally got to discover what Christmas is all about?

I hope you've enjoyed my lil' Christmas stories so far! I know it's not Christmas anymore, but I may add a few more chapters in the future, if you guys are okay with it, since I had some little tales in mind that I really wanted to explore.

Anyway, thanks so much for reading, as always, and I hope you all have the BEST 2019!!!

*hugs*

[fairestmusesismoving]

continued from here w/ @thexforgottenxones​

The castle’s healer. He walked as if he didn’t know what sacrifices had been made or how much he had been involved in ridding the Evil Queen of this realm. They had peace now, but at what cost? Doc stared intently at Leopold and seemed strangely unaware of his request. His head and body were working independently of each other. The elder king had been a kind man, but as far as Doc remembered, they didn’t often speak. He thought it was strange. Such a warm being and they just always seemed to miss their connections. Sometimes he believed that perhaps he said something wrong when sleep deprived after being up all night in the infirmary to take care of wounds from the guards... It was coming back to him. Little by little, it was breaking through in his mind. The memories. The torture. The survival. The healer made a strangled and pained noise as he made halting steps towards Leopold. His face was twisting in fear as he was slowly gaining flashbacks. Each scene caused a whimper. Doc reached up to hold his head. “...Was it a dream? Did we share a nightmare? I see your face... Why? Why?!” Doc began to stumble backwards and landed on his desk, knocking off papers and an ink jar that shattered on the floor. “It hurts! My head! It’s burning my head! ...Leopold? No...don’t leave me... don’t go!”

[nadziejastar]

Naminé: Some people think pain is something you can just wipe away–and sometimes, maybe, you can. But not all pain can be erased. The only way to deal with it is to accept it head-on. And if the hurt is too great for you to bear it alone–well, then you turn to a friend close to your heart.

Well, the whole point of the power of waking was supposed to be that it’s the most powerful form of healing that there is. It allows someone to spiritually heal from all the abuse they’ve suffered. That’s the only way to wake someone up from sleep. If they’ve gone through too much torment, they enter the Realm of Sleep and exist outside of time without any conscious awareness. They can’t cope with that much pain on their own. 

It wasn’t supposed to be about time travel or instantly bringing someone back from the dead. It was supposed to be about intimately connecting with a person’s heart and helping them overcome the intense pain that caused their psyche to fracture. It’s essentially a miraculous power that is akin to a near death experience. You see the light, feel the intense love that the person has for you, and are never quite the same afterwards. It transforms you from the inside out. That’s why Sora needed to acquire this ability and why it was so important to the story (originally).

Riku: You okay? Feeling all right?

Sora: Yeah, I’ve never been better. I was watching what was going on in my dream. And I could hear your voice the whole time. Thanks, Riku. Thanks, everybody!

Terra has been through similar abuse to Isa. When he was saved, he said the same thing Sora did after Riku used the power of waking on him. He heard Ven’s voice in his dream. Presumably, Terra also felt better than ever after he woke up. The problem was that KH3 eliminated the power of waking. We didn’t see Terra get healed. Ventus was supposed to dive into his heart, defeat the nightmares that were imprisoning him and guide him back into the light using the power of their hearts’ connection. 

All of Terra’s inner darkness—all of his shame, hatred, and despair would be confronted head-on, like Aqua’s was when her shadow was fought. KH3 was supposed to show that love has the power to heal the deepest wounds. And Ventus loved Terra like a brother. This would make it so that Terra wasn’t a broken person after he woke up. He’d always carry his past, but he’d essentially be the same guy as before and be able to live a normal and happy life.

"Their hurting will be mended when you return to end it."

The same would have been true for Isa. Saïx has two weapons that are shaped like a Reiki pose and a Reiki angel. Reiki is a Japanese technique for stress reduction and relaxation that also promotes healing. It is administered by “laying on hands” and is based on the idea that an unseen “life force energy” flows through us and is what causes us to be alive. If one’s “life force energy” is low, then we are more likely to get sick or feel stress, and if it is high, we are more capable of being happy and healthy.

The word Reiki is made of two Japanese words - Rei which means “God’s Wisdom or the Higher Power” and Ki which is “life force energy”. So Reiki is actually “spiritually guided life force energy.” A treatment feels like a wonderful glowing radiance that flows through and around you. Reiki treats the whole person including body, emotions, mind and spirit creating many beneficial effects that include relaxation and feelings of peace, security and well-being. Many have reported miraculous results.

Axel: Hey, Roxas. Bet you don't know why the sun sets red. You see, light is made up of lots of colors. And out of all those colors, red is the one that travels the farthest.

Reiki involves activating all of the chakras. There are 7 chakras with each one colored after the 7 colors of the rainbow. There are 7 Guardians of Light. That’s why the red sunset was so significant. Red light can penetrate the deepest darkness. Saïx’s weapon shaped like Reiki is named “Light Year”. And it’s part of Hazard Gear, which is the same as “The Sun” in Luxord’s deck. The other weapon “Luminary” is the same gear as “The Moon”. The Moon card represents fear, anxiety, and the subconscious.

The Sun card represents warmth, success, abundance, and radiance. Because of your own personal fulfillment, you provide others with inspiration and joy as well. You radiate love and affection towards those you care about the most. Both The Sun and The Moon are shaped like The 4 of Coins. This card can indicate that you are clinging to people, possessions, situations or past issues. You are trying to hold onto what you have and not let go. This interpretation can apply to not just physical things, but also emotional things like relationships. The whole idea was that Lea was supposed to heal Isa. And the strength of their bond was so great, it could even heal someone as messed up as him.

Sora: It'll bring us closer together; the hurt will only make us stronger.

“The Devil” is Rage Gear in Luxord’s deck and has a Recusant’s Sigil on it. Saïx’s weapon in this category is called “King of the Night”. It’s a reference to the Red King of alchemy. Queen of the Night is a white flower that blooms under a full moon. The Red King and White Queen are alchemical allegories, and their union represents the process of uniting opposites to create a greater, fully unified product of that union.

The Devil card represents your shadow side and the negative forces that constrain you and hold you back from being the best version of yourself. Feelings of entrapment, emptiness and lack of fulfillment in your life. The Ten of Coins deals with permanence and satisfaction. The card shows that everything you have put your efforts into for a long time will pay off in the future. Everything will work out well in the end, for you have always kept the long term picture in view, choosing to take no shortcuts. The path to get there has been filled with setbacks and challenges, making this point of the journey even sweeter. It’s the ultimate happy ending card.

“But I’ve heard him say fighting wasn’t his thing.” Roxas briefly pondered that and went on quietly, “I guess everyone in the Organization is good at different things.” That had to be true, Xion realized. They were all Nobodies, and yet, none of them were alike, not in appearance or personality.

���Right,” said Axel. “Everyone’s unique.”

“But how?” Xion wondered. “We’re Nobodies. Don’t you need a heart to be unique?”

“Oh, we have other things that set us apart. Like memories from before.”

I do think Isa was a gentle and kind person. I think his gentle personality is probably what got him turned into a vessel. It caused him to mentally break after being abused so badly. If he were to be revived, he’d have to confront all of the abuse he suffered. I think that would have played out while Lea used the power of waking on him. If Isa was restored post-KH3, I think he’d have the same overall personality as he did before his abuse, like Terra, Aqua, and Ven do. But all of that trauma would have to be dealt with.

Saïx didn’t understand that. Despite the lack of a heart, he could imagine what it was like to have emotional responses based on what he remembered from his human life. And he must be able to remember how much trouble it was.

And clearly there was a lot of trauma. There would be rage, despair, and probably jealousy due to the fact that Axel didn’t know that Isa was possessed and alienated Saïx in favor is Roxas and Xion. His heart would feel abandoned and hurt. I don’t think Saïx is a reflection of who Isa was at all and I feel bad that his character got treated with such little empathy or compassion by the story and most of the fandom. It always astounded me how so many fans treated Isa like he was simply a bad friend that Axel had a falling out with, instead of recognizing that he was possessed. 

“You made it back in one piece, didn’t you?”

Were you worried I wouldn’t? Axel almost said, but he didn’t want to deal with putting him in an even fouler mood. Disgust and rage seemed to linger closest to the surface of Saïx’s memories.

It was laughable that KH3 just tried to write him as a normal guy who was a maybe a wee bit on the callous side. And since he helped Roxas and Xion come back, everything was totally fine. Um, no. He was not normal in any way, shape, or form. You can’t make some Nobodies act like Luxord, Axel or Demyx, and then have Saïx act the way he does without giving an explanation. Especially since Isa was a normal kid. None of the other Organization members (besides Xemnas) acted psychotic or demonic like Saïx did. His Japanese title was “Demoniac Dancing in the Moon”. Isa was a rabbit and Saïx is a Werewolf. After he got Norted, Isa’s heart was devoured by Xehanort’s heart. And probably the Lich. 

Each Nobody gets their personality—their abilities—from their memories of their time as humans. What are abilities, anyway? I wonder why they occur. When I think about it, the existence of memory is what comes to mind. We are bound according to those memories, and so, we get our abilities according to memories. 

He didn’t need to atone. He needed to be saved and healed. It was never disclosed what Axel’s past was like, what his most precious memories were, or what was actually done to Isa to create so many awful memories. So I guess Square/Disney thought people would be too dumb to notice that Isa was a victim. He was one of the most tortured and abused characters in the series. It’s why Axel was always so patient and understanding towards him, despite his awful attitude. Axel knew that Isa’s memories were so bad, he became “twisted”.

He’d never deluded himself that tracking down Riku would be easy, and neither had Saïx. It was just that if he went back and reported that he couldn’t find anything, he would have to deal with those attempts at “personality”—the sneers, the snide remarks, the only trappings of human emotion that Saïx ever showed. Not that Saïx was even capable of annoyance or disappointment, of course, what with the lack of a heart and all.

Heading up the slope to the station, Axel bit into the ice cream bar. “This stuff is so salty,” he murmured to himself, as he often did.

I think it’s really sad that Lea will also never heal from his pain, since the root cause of it all was what happened to Isa. It seems like the fandom thought all of his pain was due to losing Roxas, which was simply not true. I think both Lea and Isa would always be affected by the abuse they’ve suffered, just like TAV. It’s likely that Lea would always be unwilling to talk about his past with anyone except Isa. And it’s probably the same with Isa. It would always stay with them. But I think they would have helped each other heal and live happy lives. Unfortunately, neither of them got to heal, and the story is just going to pretend their pain never existed in the first place.