#tried wrinkles on his trousers for the first time

[unma]

Been a while since I drew my sona. I decided to change up his design a little (this is the third time but hey).

I actually did this because I wanted to draw him in other poses, but didn't like my old refs and decided to draw a new one first.

Might draw him more now since I'm really satisfied this design for once.

There's a lot I could say here, but it'd quickly devolve into just ranting about all my odd quirks so I'll leave it here.

[ilovespec]

Even a rotten heart can love..

| Yandere FEM ! Drug lord × FEM ! civilian reader. | part 1

WARNINGS !!!!! : mention of death, corpse, settled corpse, non-con touching, Kristina Zmeeva (she is already red flag lol), drugs, use of death from drug overdose, yandere is a FUCKING DRUG LORD, yandere and y/n are female, all my characters similarities with real people are random, grammatical errors are possible.

1228 words

Her description

The ??? city . Autumn.

You walk home from work with your face buried in your phone. You're texting with your friend. You looked up for a moment, choosing which way to go... There are 2 ways. The first one is shorter, but it goes through a dark alley. And the second one is longer. But he's walking down a lighted street. And you chose to take the short cut. That's why you walked briskly to the alley to get home as soon as possible. After a couple of seconds, you're already walking quickly down this alley, you put your phone in your pocket just in case and listen to the footsteps. And after a couple of minutes , here you are , almost coming out of the alley ! But suddenly you feel like you're being grabbed by the scruff of the neck...!! You're in a state of shock, you don't know what to do, and some kind of rag is pressed to your face. And as soon as you tried to breathe in, everything started to darken and blur..

且_(ﾟ◇ﾟ；)ノﾞ

You opened your eyes... your head hurt like hell ! You tried to shake your arms or legs... But they were tied up so tightly that you just can't feel them... You scream, but your mouth is gagged. You look around the room you are in... This is some kind of basement. It smells damp and ... A sickeningly strong smell of metal ....? You look down nervously and see what's lying on the floor... The corpse....!! It's a man.. And his stomach was ripped open, and his face was disfigured as if he had just been bitten by some wild animal....and because of this "look" you fainted.

且_(ﾟ◇ﾟ；)ノﾞ

You woke up because someone LICKED YOUR CHEEK !!! You opened your eyes in shock, and saw a girl by your face... Blindfolded .. She has black hair , pale skin , and 2 large scars peeking out from under the bandage , and she joyfully exclaims sadistically

- ??? - Gaetana ! Gaetana !!! Look how cute she is! ~ No wonder I took her in that alley.. ~

The one she is addressing is a woman of about 30 years old. Does she have short black hair, red..??? Eyes and tanned skin....She sighs and looks dejectedly at this strange and creepy girl.

- Gaetana : Kristina. Go away from this poor lady. Do you see how you scare her?!

Gaetana approaches Kristina , and ... Grabbing her by the leg and lifting her up (which clearly does not like Kristina), she turns to you.

- Gaetana : young lady . I'll call the boss now, and she'll decide your fate. Whether you live or not..

And then they leave.

且_(ﾟ◇ﾟ；)ノﾞ

Through ... You don't know how many minutes. You've lost track of time. The basement door opened again. And Gaetana and Kristina entered it again.

- Gaetana : young lady. The boss is coming now.

While Gaetana was talking, Kristina came up to you (violating your personal space for the second time) and hovered over you... she started unbuttoning your shirt!!! You started screaming into the gag again (about 20 times already this day). But Kristina stopped abruptly as her head was squeezed by someone's HUGE hand in white glove...

且_(ﾟ◇ﾟ；)ノﾞ

She was a huge woman.. About 2 meters tall . She has black , graying hair , dark green eyes , broad shoulders , prominent cheekbones , small wrinkles and muscles visible against the background of clothes ... She is wearing a dark red shirt, a black coat with white stripes , black trousers with a leather belt, black classic shoes and white gloves.

且_(ﾟ◇ﾟ；)ノﾞ

-Unknown woman: Kristina Zmeeva. Get away from this süsse kleine maus quickly.

Her voice is deep.. With a strong German accent. And even with the naked eye, it is noticeable that Kristina began to tremble. Just like you... AFTER ALL, EVERYONE IN THIS FUCKING ROOM IS DAMN SCARY. And Kristina obeyed and walked away from you. And in turn, this creepy tall woman came up to you, knelt down on one knee and... buttoned your shirt. And then she tried to make a kind smile and spoke.

- Unknown woman : Don 't worry mein süßer Kitz . They won't touch you in my presence... Perhaps , yes , you will live . You don't have to worry.

And then she gently stroked your face with her rough, big and warm palm. Trying to calm her down. This unknown woman, and it looks like she 's their boss

- Creepy woman - boss : Kristina, untie this Kätzchen.

- Kristina: Of course , boss !!! ~

Kristina runs up to you and... HITS YOU IN THE CAROTID ARTERY!! Knocking you out... But in the last seconds when you were conscious, you saw this unknown woman - their boss - hitting Kristina with an elbow in the neck. Making her fall down and then starts beating her up....!? And Gaetana just sighs and comes up to you, wiping yours.. Tears? Or it 's sweat .. You almost passed out , but you heard a phrase from her , against which there were sounds of blows , kicks and painful moans..

且_(ﾟ◇ﾟ；)ノﾞ

This time , you woke up on something warm ... You open your eyes in fright, remembering today's events, and see on whose lap you are lying..This is the creepy female boss. She notices that you are awake and smiles at you. She smells of VERY expensive perfume, tobacco and blood...

- Creepy woman - boss : good evening to you, Mein Schatz can you even get up?

Trembling violently (from fear and adrenaline at the same time) , you get to your feet , and immediately it gets dark in your eyes , and your legs give way and you fall... But you are caught by two powerful hands of that woman. And she... He sits you on her lap..! She looks into your scared face, and with a soft smile, hugging you, pulls you closer to her, and with her free hand caresses your face.

- Creepy woman - boss : Don't worry... And don't tremble. I don't want you to be afraid of me. And yes, don't worry about that rube girl. Right now, she can't even think and is sitting in your place right now.

- You: M -Miss..

She shushes you softly.

- Creepy woman - boss: Don't call me that. I'm Ricarda. Ricarda Reinhardt. What's your name?

- You: my name is.. (Your name)... And why am I even here..?

- Ricarda: well, how can I say it... One of your friends is my dealer. And he took my payment, but he didn't give me the batch of drugs. That's why we decided to kidnap you in order to lure him out, but... As it turned out, he died of an overdose yesterday.. And you're so cute to kill you ~

She gently stroked your back and hugged you. Pulling you even closer to her body while you were sitting on her powerful lap. She took the phone with her free hand .

- Ricarda : Hello, Jones, bring some food. Yes, thank you.

Ricarda nuzzled the top of your head and inhaled the scent of your hair.. And then, there was a knock on the door.

- Ricarda : Come in.

A man who looked like a butler entered the room, and put a tray of food on the table next to the bed on which you are sitting and left the room. And Ricarda took a fork, one plate of food, and with a fork broke off a small piece from the dish from the plate and gently brought it to your mouth.

- Ricarda : meine Seele, say "aah" ~

You open your mouth uncertainly and embarrassedly, and she feeds you..

- You: but I have hands.. I can eat by myself.

And Ricarda just smiles sweetly in response, shakes her head slightly and sends another piece of food into your mouth..

Thanks a lot for reading, the second part will be released tomorrow because I'm tired <3

[sitp-recs]

You're a Kingsman fan?!? That is one of my top five favorite movies! Do you do any fic for it?

Yes! I wasn’t a big fan of the sequels but the first movie is one of my favourites too 😍 I was in the fandom between 2015-2017 and luckily had a bunch of bookmarks in my old account. They’re not recent but tbh I’d rec anything from the authors below, they’re all excellent. Enjoy!

Tongue in Cheek by venvephe (E, 4k)

Eggsy's never done this before - or, to be clear, he's never had this done to him.

Squeeze by rageprufrock (E, 5.7k)

From the start, Harry’s read Eggsy all over, seen right through him, so Eggsy’s not surprised that he’s barely had time to think about how he wants to feel ruined that Harry gives it to him — just like that.

under my skin (tried so not to give in) by venvephe (E, 12k)

This is a monumentally bad idea, Eggsy realizes, in the fraction of a second between reaching out and tugging at Harry’s tie and seeing his eyes briefly widen before their lips meet.

Only As Directed by rageprufrock (E, 12k)

“Arthur is a bad man,” Roxy had said. “Fucking tell me about it,” Eggsy had muttered, and gone to put on the tarty trousers Harry had picked out for him like a fucking high-end pimp.

Class Of Conduct by fideliant (E, 12k)

Or, Six Things Eggsy Has Learned About Being A Gentleman.

all the tables turn by DivineProjectZero (E, 23k)

Harry Hart has terrible taste in men. So it comes as a bit of a surprise when Eggsy smiles at him and the predator inside Harry cocks its head in consideration.

As Men to Fear the Dark by proxydialogue (E, 25k)

After V-day, the world is a jigsaw in a tumble dryer. Nations across the world have collapsed. Kingsman itself is in shambles. Eggsy, Merlin, and Roxy are working desperately to piece everything back together, while in the shadows, mad and malicious men find footholds in the rubble, using the chaos to their advantage.

Your Highness by Galahard (E, 40k) - AU

The international community is in chaos this morning in the wake of the deaths of many world leaders. The death of the president of the United States has been confirmed, along with the majority of his cabinet. Great Britain can count itself lucky that the Queen has been found and finally returned to her throne, but her heirs are another story. It appears that both princes and their own heirs are among the casualties of what is being referred to as the Valentine’s Day Massacre. Sources close to--

the parting glass by kirkaut (E, 48k)

The words shrivel and die between them. Harry's chest hitches on an indrawn breath. The contours of his face are cast dramatically in the fiery hues of the street at night, highlighting the wrinkle in his forehead and the soft slope of his chin and the silvery pink of his scar. He's beautiful, and Eggsy loves him.

The Spy who Loved Me (Or so they say) by ToriCeratops (E, 54k)

In the wake of V-day the world’s economy hangs in a delicate balance, liable to crumble without warning. One man has the knowledge and the power necessary to send it tumbling down, so that only he remains on top.

Bon Appétit by Galahard (T, 58k) - AU

“This is actually an excellent opportunity for you. Kingsman is one of the most elite cooking schools in London, and they so rarely offer evening courses like this. The fact that they were willing to work with us and allow you to attend is a miracle.”

Once Upon a Different Lifetime by missbecky (M, 58k)

The night before the final test, Harry makes Eggsy a promise: once he is a Kingsman, they will talk about their future together. Then V-Day happens, and although Harry recovers, he doesn't remember that last day he spent with Eggsy.

[revelisms]

A small moment with Primo and Terzo from a fic I haven't gotten around to finishing 🪴

WC: 1.4k | Hurt/comfort, dysfunctional family dynamics, bandaging wounds, mentioned blood, big brother Peemo doing his best.

The hall echoes around the pincher's thunk-thudding steps like a cavernous wallow: frigid and endless and lonely, as always. At the root of it stands a black-haired boy, stuck between the prongs of a three-branched tree. 

Brother—father—mother and thing. 

His knee is still bleeding.

A hand coiled strangely at his own shoulder, his eyes dismal on the tooth-rotted yellow of Nihil's office, he thinks and scowls and thinks again about how Copia, not more than five years on his bones, had tried to press a healing charm on his leg, with a shiver of magic that felt enormous. 

He'd smacked his hand away, wide-eyed. Then he'd picked between the tears in his pantleg, found the nasty scrape still angry and red, those blue eyes peering miserably up at him, and scuffed. 

Sister has the little freckle-face by the hand, now: her words a silken soothing only a distant memory of his remembers.

The hand on his shoulder squeezes, loosens.

He's off, without another breath—unable to stand any of it: the emptiness, the silence; muggy and dust-soaked and wretched and old. His shoes batter off the stones.

The tussle of habits and buttoned silks are used to this, by now. A mewling stray, some call him: but for all he glides like a cat through the bramble, he just as well soars: a small nightingale flitting through those staccato sunbursts of light and shadow and creaking doors, panting and running, running away from it—from nothing at all.

Still four wings. Still a cage of stone.

He stumbles over the grasses past the stoop to the East Wing: claps his hands on the glass door to the greenhouse. The air is thick with early spring, and damp with the first traces of nectar.

"Nonna." The old goat, nosing over his plants, of course doesn't hear him. He squeaks the door a sliver wider. "Nonna."

Primo sighs, pinching soil into his eyes, and immediately swears a storm. "Yes, what?" He swats his bony hands clean, gruffing dimly. His blondish hair hangs raggled and limp, a few strands slipped loose from the knot at his nape. He's in his gardening clothes, today: wrinkled shirt and trousers, green apron, smattered with fertilizer and grime.

"You three were supposed to be back hours ago. Sister Maria was ready to send a search warrant." His pale eyes leer, gentle for all they glower. He clicks his tongue. "What have you got into, now?"

Terzo, twig-like in the doorway, shrugs. His nails pinch at his shirt. "I, uh—"

His elder brother makes a wordless assessment: a bland stare that slips from his hair to his shoes. "You fell."

He chews on his lip. "I was just in a tree," he mumbles, sourly.

"Little one, we have been through this," Primo chides quietly. "You are too clumsy to do such things." He busies himself over the sink, finding a clean rag for his fresh-scrubbed hands, and hunts for his box of bandages. "One day, you'll break your neck," he grumbles on, peeling the cardboard open, and sighs again. "Come here."

Reluctantly, Terzo does. 

Primo helps him up on the counter, his thin hands cold as claws, and takes his time examining the damage: knee, wrist, cheek. "Always in trouble, aren't you?" he wonders, zeroing back on his battered knee. "You shredded the poor thing." 

The room is so green, so warm, so sunkissed and quiet—a softer sort, now. Terzo keeps his eyes on the ferns, his cheek between his teeth. Avoids the sight of his brother's back turning to look for the rubbing alcohol and cotton pads and whatever else shouldn't be in here but is, because of how routine this has become: how unlikely he is to go anywhere else: how often he has peeked his head around the corner with bleeding fingers and bleeding elbows and a bleeding heart in his hands.

And Primo, somehow, with his box of bandages, always seems to know how to tape shut the cracks.

"You must be more careful, Zito." He says it with a worrisome glance and a furrowed brow: more a mothering hen than the horned thing they've all assigned him to be. The cotton pad he's soaked in alcohol stings. "How your brother has the patience. Now—sit up, please. Hold still."

Terzo frowns, does as he's told, shifting his dirty nails against the paint-chipped counter. There's a cluster of herbs soaking in the window's sun: tarragon, sage, basil, mint. He plucks a sprig of fresh spearmint, sticks it between his teeth, muddling on it. Primo always keeps some there for him to do so, even though he complains. 

"You will eat me out of those leaves," the old goat grumbles—per usual. He smears smooth the bandage on his knee, cleans off his elbow and sticks another one there. "You had lunch, yes?"

"In town."

"And what did you have?"

Terzo picks at his pantleg. "Piadina."

"Good." Primo dabs another cotton pad over his cheek. "And did you get your Chinotto?"

"Uh-huh." He smiles toothily, twists the soda cap out from his pocket. "'Nother for the collection. I'm gonna paint this one purple. See?"

"I see." Primo presses a small bandage over his cheek. "You will have a full set of armor, by the time you are done with those."

Terzo sticks the cap back in his pocket. "That's the point."

"Well, then—perhaps that will help you with these falls of yours."

The light shifts over the glass: a dappling through the pines that cluster around the clearing. Terzo watches it speckle across the floor. His fingers press five knifepoints into the counter.

Softly, unasked, a thin hand cords through his hair.

"You are alright, yes?" murmurs a low voice. "Only a few scrapes and bruises?"

And a little boy with magic that could dwarf him who his mother loved who Secondo could care less for and that must mean Secondo didn't care much for him, either—

He blinks at the plants piled around the room. Shrugs.

A quiet sigh ebbs across from him. "Then all is good, mh?" Primo's fingers comb softly through his hair again, mussing the strands into some floral nicety. And before Terzo can let that comfort shiver through him, let the tears pricking at his lashes build and burn and fall too, that hand draws still over his temple. "Come here."

He slumps into his apron. It reeks of compost, and that wet earthiness of worms, and a trace of his cologne: the one that smells more spicy than sweet. Terzo breathes it in like a blanket he was born with, breathes it out like the first gulp of fresh air he's had in an age. 

"It is alright, little one," Primo is muttering on, rubbing gently over his shoulder. 

Terzo doesn't think it is.

He doesn't know what he thinks about any of it, really.

He thought he wasn't going to fall from that stupid tree.

His bat-eared brother wraps around him like a dragon, like he's a little piece of gold in a rotted den—or, maybe, just a speck of rot, itself. But if he is, he hopes it's the kind he'll stick in his flowerpots, mingle up with the roots so it can grow into something else.

"You want to see the maggots I've harvested?" Primo hushes, smiling slyly.

Terzo blanches to his ears.

"Found them down by the river. They were nested in a deer carcass."

His head twists from his brother's shoulder. "Wait—is it still there? Can we go see it? Please please please—?"

"So you don't want to see maggots, but you...want to see that." Primo ticks a pale brow. "Satan, what am I to do with you?"

A small hand paws at his apron. "I won't touch it—I promise! Pinky-promise! Double-triple-quadruple promise!"

Primo kneads his fingers into his eyes, again. "You will help me with the roses first, eh?" Terzo's mouth pops open, ready for a beewinged bluster. "And then," his brother hisses on, before he can start, "maybe."

The smile that lights up the room might be worth it all—even if it is at something so grotesque. 

"Maybe," Primo reiterates again—but Terzo's already off the counter, sprung free like a wind-up doll, hunting for the clippers and gloves, and, well.

It seems there's not much room to say no, after that.

[noforkingclue]

No Questions Asked (Laszlo Kreizler x reader) Chapter 22

Warnings: mentions of period typical misogyny

No Questions Asked tag list: @direbatattck

You laid in the comfortable bed looking up at the ceiling. You had tried to sit up but the pain in your side was a sharp reminder to be careful. You had never felt as useless as you currently did. While this wasn’t the first time you had been injured, far from it in fact, this was probably the most serious wound you had received. You were also going to have to deal with the consequences of your secret being found out. You closed your eyes and tried to think of a good reason for your crossdressing but none came to mind.

Oh well.

The truth it was going to have to be.

You looked over sharply when someone knocked on the door. When you didn’t answer the person knocked again only slightly louder.

“And what were you going to do if I was asleep?” you asked, “keep on knocking until I woke up or would you have left me alone.”

The door opened a crack and you glanced over as Sara entered the room. She held an armful of clothes and you wrinkled your nose at them.

“I want my old clothes back.” you said

“They’re covered in blood.”

“I don’t care.”

“Right.”

Sara grimaced and marched further into the room. You sat up, hissing in pain, and pulled the sheets up against your chest. Bandages were wrapped around it but you still wanted some modesty around someone who was a virtual stranger. Sara knew ‘Doc’, she didn’t know Y/n.

“There’s hot water,” Sara said, snapping you out of your thoughts, “get yourself cleaned up. We’ll be waiting for you downstairs.”

“And they know?” you asked

Sara gave you a disappointed look and you just rolled your eyes. You knew that John and Kreizler knew but a part of you, a very small part, hoped that they didn’t. You let out the breath you hadn’t realised you had been holding when Sara finally left the room. You waited for a minute, just to make sure you weren’t going to be interrupted, before finally slipping out of the bed. You winced and held your side as you slowly shuffled over to the screen that Sara had gestured to.

You let out a sigh as you slowly sunk into the hot water. Fuck, you couldn’t remember the last time you had a hot bath. You were far too used to cleaning yourself in cold water. This was a luxury you really shouldn’t get used to. Soft beds, warm baths and probably good and rich food. All things that you were now so close to and yet was so far out of your reach.

This still wasn’t your world.

You were just visiting and on the whim of those who occupied it.

You could be tossed out into the mud and blood and shit at any moment and they would get on with their lives.

You only got out of the water when it had turned cold, grabbing a towel. You wrinkled your nose at the clothes Sara had provided. You had been in disguise for so long, you couldn’t remember the last time you wore a skirt let alone a dress. You threw it to the side, trying to ignore how nice the material felt, and turned to the wardrobe in the room.

Right, time to find something more suitable to your tastes.

You grinned when you found an old shirt. It was slightly too big but that didn’t matter. It was clean and you could still make it work. You had started doing up the buttons when you heard someone else knocking at the door.

“You can come in.” you called

You had been expecting Sara but to your surprise it was Kreizler who opened the door. The two of you stared awkwardly at each other for a moment before he turned his back. You just rolled your eyes.

“My apologies,” he said, “I didn’t realise you were changing.”

“I didn’t realise you were such a prude,” you said as you continue to look through the drawers, “would you be reacting like this if I was a man? Are there any trousers in here?”

“I thought-”

“No you didn’t,” you turned around and put your hands on your hips as you glared at him, “now trousers. Unless,” you smirked and walked closer towards him, “you enjoy seeing me like this. Half naked and in,” you looked about, “a room in your house.”

“I was merely looking out for your health.”

“By putting me to bed.”

“That was just one aspect.”

You walked closer to him until you were standing directly in front of Kreizler.

“And now I’m half naked in front of you,” you said quietly, “most men wouldn’t be so… honourable.”

You made direct eye contact with Kreizler and paused. You had never seen that look on his face before. His eyes had gone dark and he slowly raised his hands to your shoulders. You knew you should pull away, to avoid getting too close, but you didn’t want to.

“I’m not another project for you to study,” you said, “I did what I had to do to survive in my world. My world, not yours. Now, are we going to continue our investigation?”

Kreizler held your gaze for a second before smiling and nodding.

“We’ll be waiting for you downstairs.” he said before turning and leaving the room, shutting the door behind him

You let out a sigh of relief before collapsing back onto the bed. You closed your eyes before sitting up straight.

“Damn.” you said, hitting the mattress

He didn’t give you any trousers.

Bastard.

[soap-lady]

Back on my bullsh*t

Ok, so...I wrote this awhile ago, was unhappy with it, had a few people look at it and hopefully now it's better. Special thanks to @tenebrare, @idreamtofmanderleyagain and IDemon for taking a look and helping make it better.

TW: Attempted sexual assault, canon typical violence, sensory overload, war, death, corpses, nightmare imagery, mentions of sex.

Prisoners of Personal History

Elliot was dreaming.

It started out as his usual potpourri of nightmares. First, he was back in the war, smelling expended gunpowder and seared flesh. Rain pelted him and his peaked cap did little to keep it out of his eyes. He heard the cries of dying soldiers all around him. Some were calling out for wives or mothers while others invoked the name of God. He pulled his boots out of the muck and trudged slowly to the closest person. He tried to open his mouth to assure them that help was on the way, the usual platitudes. No sound came out. His tongue felt as if it were made of clay and stuck to the bottom of his mouth. He searched his pockets for the first aid kit he usually carried with him but found nothing. No sidearm either. He was defenseless as mortar fire exploded all around him.

The soldier was well and truly dead, eyes clouded, throat torn open from shrapnel. He went to close the corpse’s eyes when suddenly its hands shot out, grabbing him by the throat and pulling him down.

As Elliot struggled, other hands shot up from the ground and grabbed him. Some were gray and mottled. Others were wet with blood and weeping sores. Yet more hands erupted from the walls of trenches and began to drag him underground. As they did so he heard the voices of the dead hissing accusations at him, their voices almost overlapping.

“Why didn’t you save us?”

“You never should have been a captain.”

“Useless piece of shite!”

“This is all your fault!”

“I’ll never see my children again thanks to you.”

“You should be dead too!”

“Join us.”

“Join us!”

“You don’t deserve to be alive and you know it.”

The hands tore at his clothes, ripping his coat and smearing his trousers with mud and viscera. His nose wrinkled as he smelled dog muck and old blood. Suddenly the dead soldiers were gone and his father and older brother appeared in front of him, at least five meters tall and ghostly pale. Percival sneered at him like always and turned away as if disgusted by the sight of him. His father took a long draw from his pipe before looking down his nose at his second son.

“I always knew you were useless, boy,” his father said. His blue eyes, like Elliot’s own, were arctic and merciless. “And now I see you’re expendable too.” He looked over the battlefield then back at Captain Spencer. His voice was disapproving and merciless, just as it always was when Elliot stepped more than a toe out of line. “They’re all right. You should be dead. You deserve to die for failing them, your family and your country.”

Logically, he knew that the war wasn’t his fault and he’d done everything in his power to keep as many under his command alive. Yet hearing his long-dead father scolding him filled him with shame.

The corpses returned, pulling him down again. This time he did nothing to resist. “I know,” he surrendered, “I know.”

The battlefield dissolved and he found himself back in the Labyrinth. The sounds of screaming surrounded him, eerily musical and almost…soothing? Well, anything would seem soothing after being berated by a giant image of his father, he supposed. Cries of pain and pleasure were indistinguishable from each other and he had the odd sensation of being…home.

He heard metallic clinking and suddenly he was surrounded by his familiar chains. They didn’t try to bind him, just caressed his hands and face, like pets begging for their master’s touch. He stroked them absentmindedly until something caught his attention.

He saw three figures clad in black leather. One was so fat it was almost obese, one was tall and slim and the third was clearly female. He felt a jolt up his spine when he recognized them. This was his former Order of the Gash. All had been killed by Channard so quickly they couldn’t even mount a defense. If it hadn’t been for Kirsty’s timely intervention, he would have joined them.

The trio were huddled around a metal examination table. All he could see were struggling limbs and a vaguely familiar brown jacket. He approached them cautiously for a closer look.

He stopped dead when he saw who they had captured. Kirsty. Not the strong and kind woman she was becoming but the frightened one he’d first met nearly six months ago. Her mouth was gagged but he could still see her halo of brown curls and her tear-filled eyes. She caught sight of him before the others did and tried to scream his name through her gag.

Elliot watched, unable to move as she whimpered and thrashed about, trying to free herself. Her eyes begged him for help as he tried to will his body forward and release her from her restraints. Sudden paralysis seized him and he froze, unable to move.

Finally the three noticed him. Chatterer clicked his teeth in greeting. Butterball smiled and grunted. Sister Cilice, his second, allowed the corners of her lips to turn upwards; a beaming smile for her.

“Infernum Sacerdos,” she addressed him by his formal title. Hell Priest. “So sweet of you to come back, Brother.”

Chatterer clicked again, which Elliot interpreted as, “We missed you.”

“How…how are you alive?” he asked. He looked at them. All three were whole, uninjured, exactly as he’d always remembered them. “I saw Channard kill you.”

“We have Leviathan to thank for our rebirth,” Sister Cilice intoned. Her eyes were alight with quiet joy. “Our God has not forsaken us.” She gave him another almost smile. “And now, by Leviathan’s grace, you have returned home to us as well.”

He glanced up and saw his god floating overhead; their familiar voice sounding like a foghorn as their loving gaze swept over him with their sacred black light. He almost smiled.

Ignored, Kirsty continued to fight against her bonds. Her pleading eyes became angry when she sensed he would do nothing to help her. Elliot forced himself not to look at her. He still couldn’t move.

“Rebirth requires pain, Brother Priest,” Sister Cilice said as the other two nodded. “And blood. And sacrifice.”

She pulled a blade from her belt and handed it to him, hilt first. He looked at it; it was curved and serrated with a heavy coat of rust or dried blood. He recognized it as her favorite blade.

Sister Cilice smiled, wider this time and with a hint of teeth. “Admit it,” she glanced at him, then Kirsty and finally at the weapon she offered. “You’ve missed this.”

His sleep paralysis faded and he reached out to grab the blade over Kirsty’s muffled protests. As the blade touched his hand his clothes changed from his old Army uniform to the black leather he had worn as leader of his Order.

The other three Cenobites stepped back as he approached Kirsty. She no longer struggled or pleaded beneath her gag. She just stared at him with her eyes burning with hatred. Elliot, now the Hell Priest again made himself look at her.

“Yes,” he agreed. His voice trembled but his blade hand was steady. “Yes I have.”

He brought down his hand towards Kirsty’s stomach and everything went black.

*****

In her four-poster canopy bed, Kirsty dreamed.

She tried not to most of the time. In fact, she tried to keep herself busy with schoolwork, homework, helping Tiffany with hers or driving Elliot places that would take too long by bus. Usually this kept her so exhausted she didn’t dream. Unfortunately she had no school projects due, her friends had coupled up and were going camping. Tiffany had free time and Elliot had gently but firmly insisted she take some time for herself. That commanding tone he used sometimes made it difficult to argue with him and she sometimes thought he’d be a soft and gentle dom.

Wait, what?

She firmly shoved that thought back into the inky blackness of her subconscious and rolled over into a better sleeping position.

That night after weeks of peace, she dreamed about Frank.

Goddammit.

He was chasing her up a winding staircase that just got higher and higher as she ran. He was only just out of reach, never out of breath even though she was nearly panting. While they ran he made disgusting comments towards her.

“Look at you. Daddy’s little girl is all grown up. So beautiful and tender and ripe.” He swiped a hand at her and she felt a breeze blow through her hair. “Beautiful, beautiful baby. Come to Daddy. Come sit on Uncle Frank’s lap. Let’s play a game. Don’t you want to play?”

His voice was oily and low in a sad attempt to sound seductive. If she were able to, she probably would have laughed in his face. But no, she had to save her energy for running.

She finally made it to the attic only to trip over her father’s skinless corpse like she always did in these dreams. She tried to get back on her feet but she was now coated in her father’s blood and it was sticky, holding her in place.

Frank approached her, switchblade out. His clothing blurred and now he was wearing the strange leather priest robes worn by the Cenobites. His eyes turned black and his voice gained a reverberation.

“No deals. No pleading.” He was now both Frank and the Hell Priest. He licked his lips and rubbed himself through the leather cassock. “Time to play, Kirsty. Taste our pleasures.”

The clothes blurred again and now he was just Frank again. “Time to play, baby.”

Kirsty desperately tried to push herself off the floor but couldn’t. As he circled her she looked for something she could use for a weapon and saw a claw hammer. She tried to drag herself towards it, flinching when Frank got too close.

She was crying now as she remembered how she felt that night. Realizing her uncle was wearing her father’s skin, that he and Julia had murdered him. He was going to rape her and kill her and not necessarily in that order while Julia watched or even helped him. Her father, loving though he was, couldn't protect her. Neither could Steve. She was alone and nearly helpless.

Kirsty looked around. Frank noticed her gaze and laughed, pretending to take a swipe at her and chuckling when she screamed.

“No Daddy to protect you from dear Uncle Frank, beautiful”, he taunted her as she scrambled away. His face turned ugly. “No fucking Cenobites either. Just you and me.” He pointed the blade at her. “So you can be willing or unwilling. Either way,” he smirked and she wanted to kick him in the balls. “You’re finally mine.”

Suddenly there was a tolling bell, the room darkened and a wall split open to reveal the Hell Priest.

He was just as she remembered him, all leather and pins and torture instruments strung on a cord through his belly button. He gazed down at her, his expression was stoic but she thought she saw a glimpse of compassion in his eyes. He glared at Frank.

Her uncle backed away from her but didn’t lose all of his bravado. “She’s mine, you son of a bitch!”

The Hell Priest looked at her, ignoring Frank. “No.”

Her uncle looked confused. “No? What are you saying? That she belongs to you, you freak?”

The Hell Priest’s face changed. His skin became more human. The pins disappeared and she was looking at Elliot Spencer in his captain’s uniform. His eyes turned blue and he smiled at her with warmth. “She belongs to herself. She always has.”

He held out a hand and she took it. He pulled her to her feet and she hugged him.

She felt arms around her and breathed in bay rum aftershave with a hint of…vanilla?

Wait, why did she smell blood and leather?

She looked up and to her shock she saw the Hell Priest once more. His gaze was again dispassionate.

“Kirsty.” He told her in that deep commanding tone that terrified her. “You must wake up.”

“Hey, what the hell do you think-” Frank tried to threaten the Cenobite only for hooked chains to grab onto him.

Kirsty looked at Frank as he rolled his eyes and said, “Fuck. Not this shit again.”

She turned her head against the priest’s chest as she refused to watch him get torn apart for the second time.

“Kirsty,” his voice was once again Elliot Spencer’s gentler tone. He caressed her face. “Wake up.”

Then he turned into the Priest again. “Wake up, Kirsty Cotton.”

He was turning into himself and Elliot so fast it was confusing. “What?” she mumbled.

Now he was Elliot again and petting her hair as if it were a frightened kitten. “This is your dream. You are the one with power here. Wake up, Kirsty.”

*****

“Please wake up, sweetheart. Please, God, if you’re listening, let her wake up.”

Kirsty slowly began to wake, her senses returning gradually. First sound, then touch, and sight. There was no taste; her tongue was dry and she couldn’t smell anything at first. Her eyelids felt like sandpaper and her throat was raw.

She looked up to see who was talking and was shocked to see her father and Julia staring down at her with concern.

Her father looked just as she always remembered; kind blue eyes filled with love, a sweet smile, and a gentle demeanor. Then she took a second glance.

Larry’s eyes were bloodshot, with dark circles from lack of sleep. His blond hair was mussed and his clothes were wrinkled as if he’d slept in them for several days. His smile, though relieved, was strained. He also looked thinner, as if he hadn’t been eating properly.

Julia was an even bigger shock. Her usually put-together, perfect hair and makeup step mother looked like hell, no pun intended. Her hair was unbrushed and tangled and her clothes were shabby and wrinkled. She wore no makeup and instead of her usual cold contempt whenever she looked at Kirsty she looked apologetic, eyes shimmering with unshed tears.

“I…you…” her voice came out as a croaky whisper.

Her brain was foggy as it tried to reconcile the memories surrounding her father’s death with the very alive person in front of her. “What…?”

Larry reached for her hand then stopped himself. He looked her in the eyes and asked, “Do you know who I am?”

“You’re my dad,” she answered.

The room smelled like disinfectant and hothouse roses. It was stark white with fluorescent lighting. The bed wasn’t uncomfortable but she felt stiff, as if she’d been in one position for far too long.

He smiled and she felt warm and happy, like she did when she brought home a drawing and he proudly put it on the refrigerator. “And do you know your name?”

“I’m Kirsty Cotton,” she smiled. Her dad was alive, even Julia was alive and she couldn’t believe she actually felt glad about that. Her fingers reached for the bed controls so she could sit up but her father grabbed the remote and with a whir of machinery Kirsty was now sitting up.

Julia opened her mouth to speak but then shut it and looked at her father in an uncharacteristic show of meekness. What had happened? Why was she in the hospital?

Larry pointed at Julia. “So, do you know who she is?”

“Julia,” she croaked and wished she had some water. Larry poured her some from a bedside pitcher on a table. “My…your wife.”

“That’s right, Kirsty.” Julia gave her the usual formal smile she usually did but this time it was tinged with genuine concern and a hint of guilt. She glanced between father and daughter. “Now that Kirsty’s awake I’m going to go to the nurse’s station and have them page the doctor.”

She gave them both another smile that almost looked sincere and left the room, closing the door behind her.

Kirsty was silent while she drank the water. She set it down once the cup was empty and looked up at her father. “Daddy? What happened? Was I in an accident?” It hurt her to think. Her limbs felt stiff and heavy. How long had she been unconscious?

Her father didn’t answer her at first. Then he looked at her and asked, “What’s the last thing you remember?”

Kirsty wasn’t sure how much she should tell him. After her mother died Larry had always seemed so emotionally fragile. It’d always seemed like she had to protect him from being hurt and make nice with Julia. It should have been the opposite. She remembered how frustrating it was to always have to “be the bigger person.”

Huh. I didn’t realize how much I resented that until now.

Out of habit she censored herself. “I remember…Uncle Frank. He attacked me, chased me through the house. I tried to find you, I thought he killed you. And Julia.” She added that as an afterthought.

Larry’s eyebrows rose in surprise. “Wow. That’s…weird.” He took a deep breath and let it out slowly.

Kirsty breathed a sigh of relief. She was safe, her father was safe. Nothing too bad had actually happened. So what was really going on?

“I know that look,” Larry gave her a quick half smile. “It’s the same one your mom used to have. ‘What’s going on? Explain it to me, Larry!’ “ He sighed with fond exasperation. “Well, here goes, kiddo.”

He pulled a chair over from the corner and sat next to her bed. “Frank really did attack you.” Larry looked uncharacteristically disgusted, almost angry. “He was squatting in your great-grandmother’s attic, running from the cops. At least one country wants to extradite him.”

Kirsty nodded and he continued. “Well, Julia found him up there one day and he swore her to secrecy. She provided him with food because he told her he’d kill me if she didn’t.” The disgust was back on his face. “And she felt…something for him. Apparently they had a one-night stand the night before the wedding and he was also blackmailing her with that.”

So they weren’t having an on-going affair. Kirsty felt ridiculous, like she had dreamed up some cheesy soap opera plot. She just tried to look sympathetic and reached out to hold her father’s hand. There was a tan line where his wedding band usually was.

Her father noticed what she was looking at and nodded. “Yeah. Julia and I are separating. We’re going to try couples counseling. If that doesn’t work, well, we might be getting a divorce.”

That was…new. Larry had always worshiped Julia. A divorce sounded too good to be true but counseling was a good idea. She squeezed his hand tighter.

Larry patted her hand, appreciating her support. “Yeah, well,” he took a deep breath and looked away as if ashamed. “I thought something was up but just that she was having trouble adjusting so I asked you to check on her.”

Kirsty’s eyes widened. “Yes! You asked me when we went out for Chinese.”

He looked pleased, almost beaming at her. Maybe he’d been worried that she’d lost her memory. “You remember! Well, anyway, you surprised Frank when you went up into the attic when you heard someone moving around up there. He hit you and knocked you out. Julia found you just as Frank was trying to make a run for it.”

Larry rubbed his eyes. “Long story short, some nuns happened to be collecting door to door and heard the screaming. They went to the neighbors who called the cops. They arrived just as Frank was trying to fight Julia to get away. He managed to fracture your skull. There was some…swelling in your brain.” Larry’s breathing became ragged as his voice choked up. Your neurologist, Doctor Channard decided to put you into a medically induced coma so your brain and body could heal.”

“Channard!” She must have looked alarmed because her father stared at her in concern. “I…remember that name. I thought I dreamed it up.”

Kirsty felt silly for thinking the doctor who saved her was trying to kill her. Must have been a weird coma dream.

He just shrugged. “I don’t know much about comas. Maybe your doctor would know. You seemed to wake up briefly in the middle of your operation.” Larry told her. “You must have remembered his name and then dreamed about it.” He was the one who put you into an induced coma so your body could heal.”

That made…a strange sort of sense. If Frank beat her up so badly she ended up in a coma, her brain had probably mixed up fiction and reality. She almost laughed. Sure, Channard might be real, but there was no way a leather wearing weirdo from Maze Hell was gonna walk into her hospital room.

The door clicked open and an attractive man in his early 30s entered the room. He had lovely blue eyes that locked onto her as soon as they saw her. His smile was professional yet charming.

Well, shit.

“Miss Cotton?” he asked. He didn’t even have to glance at her chart. “Or would you prefer to be called Kirsty? My name is Doctor Spencer and I’ve been your primary care physician while you were…indisposed.”

She tried not to stare. Channard could be explained if she’d woken up during surgery but where the hell had he come from?

Spencer looked just like he had in the dream she was having, except he’d traded in his leather for a lab coat. Maybe he’d been assisting Channard during her surgery. Maybe she shouldn’t think so hard about her subconscious and its weird fantasies or she’d give herself a headache.

“Um, hello,” she managed to stop staring at him long enough to be polite. “Kirsty is fine, thank you for asking.”

His smile faded and his demeanor became wholly professional. He approached her with a penlight in his hand. “May I examine you, Kirsty?”

She glanced at her father. “Can my dad stay in the room with me?”

Doctor Spencer nodded. “I just have a few questions. Nurse Cilice will check your vitals later and help you bathe.”

He approached her and stood opposite her father and shone the light in her eyes. “Any dizziness or nausea?”

“No,” she answered and tried not to stare at his pretty blue eyes.

“Very good. Now what about double vision?”

The questions went on but Kirsty mostly tuned out. As happy as she was to see her father and yes, Julia, were alive, she felt an odd disappointment. It was wonderful that her stay at the Channard Institute wasn’t real but did that mean Tiffany wasn’t real? Maybe she represented how Kirsty viewed herself as a child but she wasn’t a puzzle solver. Were the other Cenobites just medical staff too? If she took a walk down the hall would she see Chatterer working in Pediatrics and Butterball was a X-ray technician?

The thought made her smile.

Doctor Spencer blinked. “Something amusing, Kirsty?”

Kirsty grinned, feeling embarrassed for being caught not paying attention. “Sorry, Doctor. Miles away.”

He began to ask more questions but suddenly she heard a high frequency humming sound that drowned him out. She blinked rapidly as he began to shift out of focus. She looked at her father who was equally fuzzy.

“Kirsty?” Her father’s voice sounded as if she were hearing it from underwater. “Honey, are you all right?”

“Daddy?” she said as her vision went black.

She woke up with a jerk and looked around her. She was still in her canopy bed, her textbooks were piled on her desk and…she felt her throat to be sure…her father’s wedding ring given to him by her mother was still on a chain around her neck. None of it was real. Her father was still dead.

She sobbed.

*****

Kirsty rolled onto her right side, then her left and even tried lying on her back. She felt restless, as if any second now she’d leap out of her skin. She didn’t want to do the Cenobites’ work for them so she decided to go downstairs. Maybe if she wore headphones she wouldn’t wake anyone by watching TV.

Elliot was waiting for her at the foot of the stairs.

She jumped back a step and covered her mouth to stifle the yelp that nearly escaped. In the semi-darkness she could almost see him as the Priest of Hell he’d once been. She blinked and he became Elliot again. Her friend. Her family.

Sure he kept turning up in her dreams as both a Cenobite and a human to remind her of the shit show her life could be but that wasn’t his fault.

He looked at her, his expression was compassionate. His eyes were kind. “Can’t sleep either?” he asked.

Kirsty nodded. “Nightmares.” She looked at him a little closer and noticed his eyes were as bloodshot as hers must be. “You too, huh?

He nodded. “I think some chamomile and valerian root might do the trick.” He turned towards the kitchen then looked back at her. “A nice tisane, dear, not herbal tea as you call it. It’s only tea if it’s made from the leaves of a tea plant. Using herbs makes it tisane.”

She snorted and followed him into the kitchen. “Tea snob.”

*****

After the kettle had boiled and Elliot poured them some cups the two of them sat down at the table across from each other. Kirsty wrapped her hands around her cup and inhaled the steam. The chamomile didn’t have much of a smell but it helped temper the sharp odor of the valerian and mellowed it out. It made her think of the two sides of Elliot’s personality; gentle and stern. Kind but capable of bloody violence. She wondered if the darkness inside him responded to her own.

Unaware of what she was thinking Elliot asked. “Would you like to talk about your dreams? You don’t have to if you don’t want to. We can talk about anything you’re comfortable with.”

She smiled, appreciating his reassurance. “I’ll tell you what I can, as long as you do the same.”

He nodded in agreement and waited patiently for her to begin. She blew on her cup to cool it and started to speak.

“Well,” she spread her hands. “It starts with Frank. It always starts with Frank,” she commented bitterly. Elliot looked like he wanted to say something but let her continue.

She appreciated his consideration. “He’s chasing me up this never ending staircase with a knife, the whole time telling me what he’s going to do to me when he catches me. Then,” her voice hitched and she took a shuddering breath, willing the images of her dream to leave her mind. “Then we reach the attic.”

He nodded to show he was listening but his eyes told her he dearly wanted to interrupt but wouldn’t. He was also a little fidgety, well, fidgety for someone who tried to keep himself under tight control. He made a “mmmhmmm” sound to let her know he was paying attention.

He could be so considerate. She liked that about him. Her hands clenched into fists to hide their trembling. “And I…trip over my dad’s corpse, just like in real life. And suddenly, Frank is dressed like you. Like a Cenobite I mean,” she clarified. He looked confused but still didn’t interrupt.

“Then you appear. The Hell Priest you. Like when we first met.” Elliot nodded his understanding. “And then you turn into…well, the present you. Elliot. And you hug me and protect me from him. Frank I mean.”

His head tilts, eyebrow raised, when she mentions the Hell Priest. His former self. He sipped from his cup and remembered those days. He had no past and his future was in Leviathan’s hands. He didn’t have to question his existence and all decisions were made for him. It was oddly comforting.

He blinked to dismiss his thoughts and focused on Kirsty again.

Everything seemed so clear in her dream but she felt her memories slipping away as she tried to tell him about it. “Then you keep changing from you to the Hell Priest and back and both of you are telling me to wake up.”

Kirsty wanted to tell him how strangely reassuring it was seeing both halves of him trying to save her from Frank, even if the Cenobite’s motives were less than pure. He wasn’t a monster like Frank and he had a moral code, even if she didn’t understand it.

She was silent for a few minutes and they both took a sip from their cups.

“So,” Elliot prompted her gently, wanting more information without prying, “is that when you woke up?”

Her laugh was bitter. “I thought I had.” She looked at him then down at her cup as if the golden liquid could predict the future. “I woke up in a hospital bed with Daddy and Julia looking down at me. They told me I’d been in a coma for a few weeks after Frank had attacked me.”

He looked surprised and she kept on. “So Channard was the doctor who operated on me and you…human Elliot…” he chuckled and she laughed, “yeah, you were my primary physician and apparently I incorporated you and Channard into villains in my coma dream.”

Elliot felt amused by the idea of himself as a doctor taking care of Kirsty. His family would have taken umbrage at him eschewing the military in favor of medicine but in the modern era the profession carried a great deal of prestige. Then he saw her face.

Tears welled in her eyes, spilling down her cheeks without a sound. Her body trembled and he was seized with an impulse to pull her into his arms until she stopped crying. He settled for reaching a hand towards hers and her reaching out and seizing it. “Is that when you awoke?”

“Yes,” she whispered. “It hurts to wake up. It hurt so much because…” she faltered.

He squeezed her hand and looked into her eyes. She was fixed on him, struggling to explain herself. His answer was gentle and understanding. “Because it wasn’t real. Because we’re conditioned to know bad things happening will hurt us.” He sighed as he remembered the odd comfort he’d felt being a Cenobite again. “But sometimes good things will hurt more.”

Kirsty managed a nod. “Yeah.”

*****

Kirsty dried her eyes, took several deep cleansing breaths and sipped her tisane. She waited in silence before asking, “So, what about you?”

Elliot hesitated for a moment, unsure of whether or not he should tell her everything. “Well, the war of course. They always start with the war and I’m back there again. It’s not just the sights or sounds.” He tapped his nose. “The smells are the strongest, you know. Dirt and blood and gunpowder.”

It had been months after Flanders that he could smell meat cooking without feeling ill. He tried not to remember the smell of burnt hair and searing flesh. Nor the cries of dying men. He remembered feeling helpless and hypocritical as he tried to comfort them, wishing he could join them. He didn’t deserve to survive when his soldiers died in an anonymous field…

He felt her hand squeezing his own and came back to himself. His eyes began to burn and blinked a few times to clear them. Now wasn’t the time for him to lose control; Kirsty needed him to be strong.

He sighed and continued. “Then, I’m with the Cenobites again. It was curiously…familiar.” He tried to laugh. “I know, being a devoted priest to a sadomasochistic religion shouldn’t be comforting-”

“But compared to trench warfare, it is,” Kirsty spoke up then stopped. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to interrupt.”

He just shrugged, unoffended. “Quite all right. Besides, you make a good point.”

“Well, to continue, my former compatriots are all standing around someone strapped to a metal examining table…”

Memories seeing Kirsty strapped down, afraid and crying flooded his mind. He flinched as he remembered the look in her eyes as she realized he wasn’t going to help her. It hurt him to remember her contempt, even as he held the blade Sister Cilice had given him. Knowing who he was going to harm didn’t eliminate the temptation and it shamed him.

But he still did it.

“Well, the person on the table is struggling and pleading with their eyes but then I’m handed a knife and told, ‘Admit it. You’ve missed this.’ “

“And what did you say?” Kirsty wanted to know.

Elliot dropped his eyes to his cup. “I said…yes.”

She nodded to show she was still listening. Then she asked what he had been dreading.

“So, who was it? The person on the table?” she asked. “Tiffany?” she guessed. Her eyes grew solemn and she sat back. “Me?”

He paused. He couldn’t tell her the truth; that there was a part of him that missed what he was. Or that it was her he’d betrayed and harmed. He valued hers and Tiffany’s good opinions of him. They were the most important people in his life and the idea of letting them down and losing their goodwill hurt more than anything he could imagine.

Elliot was selfish enough to lie to her. Not out of cruelty, but protection. Even from him.

Especially from him.

He saw how she reacted to seeing his former self in her dreams. He knew the Hell Priest scared her. She’d risked herself to save him from Channard. He had a duty to shelter her until she was strong enough to stand without him. Which probably would be very soon. She was growing so much as a person and he was proud of her.

For a moment he impulsively wanted to tell her everything. That it had been her, that he fought with his identity and didn’t know which side of himself he wanted to be; Elliot Spencer, or the High Priest of Hell. Or perhaps his other darker impulses.

He finally compromised and told her some lies and a few half-truths. “Well, the person kept changing. It would be you, or Tiffany, and then my father. One time it was even Trent.”

Kirsty smiled just a little bit. “Y’know, a psychiatrist would have a field day with us.” She huffed. “If we could ever go to one that is. They’d probably tell us some Jungian stuff about the collective subconscious and all the symbolism in our dreams.”

“Aren’t there all of those anonymous mobile apps now?” he asked and grinned back. “For people uncomfortable talking to a psychiatrist in person.”

“Cenobite nightmares?” she laughed. “There’s an app for that.”

They chuckled together and then she continued.

“Your Cenobite dream makes sense, you know.” He raised both eyebrows and she elaborated. “I mean,” she leaned a little closer. “You were only human for thirty-four years. You were a Cenobite for over a century. That’s almost three times as long. It’s what you know. It’s weird to think of it this way but it’s comfortable. To your subconscious at least. That’s going to be a hard mindset to shake. It’s like…” she made elaborate gestures with her free hand, as if trying to grab the right word. “You just escaped a cult and you’re being deprogrammed. It’ll be hard to escape from your old life but you can do it.” She shrugged. “It’ll just take awhile. You’re doing fine.”

Her smile was so kind, so trusting. She believed in him. In his innate goodness. That he could change, be the man he once was and forget everything he’d done. Forget that he nearly dragged her into eternal torment.

That wasn’t true. He was tainted by who he used to be; as a human and then as a Cenobite. His sins as a human were worse; as the Hell Priest he’d had no malicious intent, he just did as his god wished. Otherwise, he wouldn’t have drawn the attention of Leviathan.

“Kirsty, I’m not a saint.” He dropped her hand and leaned back. He made his voice stern and hard, as if he were still giving orders on the battlefield.

“I know that-”

“No. I don’t think you do,” he interrupted. “Otherwise you wouldn’t say such things.”

She wouldn’t give him such sweet, gentle looks if she knew he lusted after her. Even after she confided in him about her nightmares and he told her about his own he longed to throw her down and take her roughly on the countertop. He often fantasized about her pushing him onto the kitchen table and ravishing him until they both came undone. Sometimes he thought himself no better than Frank.

He slaked his lust and indulged his fantasies of her with others. He tied them up and disciplined them and imagined their moans to be her own. He did this not just for himself but for her as well. She was his family and he cared enough to keep her safe and innocent from his corrupting influence. Even without his demonic past she was sweet and kind and clever, with a bright future ahead of her. Kirsty deserved a truly good person, not some scarred old war dog who had nightmares about charred bodies and hid in his room during firework displays.

Elliot glared at her and she looked surprised and hurt. He went on.

“Even before becoming a Cenobite I did horrible things. Monstrous things.” He wanted to be sure she understood. “I sent good soldiers to their deaths. I went inside my dugout and drew the curtain and turned on my phonograph to drown out the sounds of the dying. I ordered the looting of the dead to keep the living clothed. And after the war…” he sighed.

“I went to India and participated in the oppression of the native population. I drank and smoked opium and dabbled in cocaine. I had quite a bit of sex with any willing man or woman I found. I tied people up and whipped them bloody and had them do the same to me.” He rubbed his face.

“India was a land with thousands of years of art and culture. I believed as I was taught; that theirs was a primitive land and the British Empire was superior. We were doing them a favor. That it was our right to conquer and colonize and any rebellion was to be put down. I-”

He broke off and sneaked a peek at her face. She didn’t look hurt or surprised any more. Instead she looked resigned, almost annoyed. Had he been rambling again?

She gave him a look that somehow made him feel very old and very dumb. “Wow, really? You’re not a saint? Do you have complex feelings and flaws, just like other men?” She took a long sip of her tisane, deliberately slurping because she knew it would annoy him.

She set it down and gave him a stern look of her own. It looked rather attractive on her. She’d truly evolved from a princess in need of rescue to battle queen. It was rather arousing and no. No no no, he wasn’t going to think of her as some cheap fantasy.

“No one’s perfect. Everyone has flaws and baggage and a history they’re not proud of.” She shrugged. “You fought in a war and had to do bad things. You believed in the imperialist doctrine you were spoon-fed since childhood. You were a product of your time. You became a hedonist because you could only believe in the physical after having all these high-minded beliefs about honor and national pride you had drilled into your head knocked out of you by reality.”

Kirsty sighed at the look of amazement on her face and crossed her legs. Couldn’t he see all these things for himself without having her point them out?

“You became a Cenobite without your consent and did things your god forced you to do. They erased your past because they knew you’d never do what they wanted otherwise. Well, newsflash, Eli.”

She grabbed both his hands and the look on her face was intensely passionate.

“My father was a good man but he was flawed and burdened with some horrible weaknesses. It didn’t make him evil.” Her eyes darkened with intense emotions as she continued to vent at him.

“You were brainwashed. First by blind patriotism and then by Leviathan. Just because you did horrible things didn’t mean you weren’t also a victim.” She leaned closer. “And it also doesn’t mean you’re irredeemable if you admit you did wrong and work to be a better person.”

Part of her wanted to shake him for still thinking he was crap and believing he deserved all the bad things that happened to him. Another part wanted to lean across the table and kiss him. She wanted him and even though she’d never say so out loud she was curious about what he was like in bed.

She wanted the gentle, gentlemanly lover and she also wanted to experience his stern, dominant side. She wasn’t a huge fan of pain but bondage would be all right, also long as she had wiggle room and could escape when and if she wanted to.

Kirsty was tired of doing all the emotional heavy lifting. She had to take care of her father and Steve, now she was taking care of Tiffany and Elliot. So many times she wanted someone to take the weight off her shoulders and let her relax.

She was also tired of people who wanted to exploit her. Frank, Channard, even Julia. She wanted to be an equal; she deserved respect. Ironically, it was the High Priest of Hell who’d first shown her any respect, even if it was only as a worthy opponent.

Sometimes she wasn’t sure which category Elliot fit into, or maybe he had his own. She’d only broken up with Steve (or had been abandoned by him) a few months ago. She was also still mourning her father and her loss of belief in humanity’s innate goodness. So where did that leave Elliot? A rebound man? A father figure? New best friend? Just a fellow survivor?

Hell if she knew. She worried that once he made his own place in the world he’d leave her and Tiffany behind. Or maybe they both would. That thought made her heart feel as if someone were squeezing it.

They just sat there staring at each other without really seeing the other person. Each was lost in thought and unwilling to speak again lest they broke the new, fragile thing between them. There was so much more they wanted to say of course but were unsure how to articulate their thoughts.

Perhaps it was all best left unsaid. For both their sakes.

Kirsty let his hands go and drew back, feeling embarrassed. “Well, I should probably try and sleep now if I’m going to drive Tiffany to school.”

“A fair point.” Elliot stood up and she copied him. “There’s some classes at the community center I’d like to learn more about. Small engine repair and the like. Could be useful.”

“Sure,” she saw her chance and approached him, arms wide. “I know it’s weird to ask but could I…have a hug?” He blinked and raised his eyebrows. “A hug good-night I mean.”

“A bit not done, but all right. If it’ll help you sleep,” he teased and let her wrap herself around him. He did the same.

Elliot smelled so good, like bay rum aftershave and sandalwood. He was warm, his heartbeat steady and comforting.

He tried not to be obvious about sniffing Kirsty’s hair. It smelled of strawberries and her skin of honey.

They stood there, inhaling each other’s scent. Finally it became awkward to be so close and alone that they separated with great reluctance to their separate rooms.

Any dreams they might have had were free of nightmares and too saucy to describe, thank you very much.

[doiefics]

mean, odd, love

pairing: lee know x gn!reader

prologue: high societies are boring, thanks to minho you could at least have a little fun amidst the dullness

genre: suggestive + fluff + rich kids!au + friends to lovers

wordcount: 1,098

warnings: suggestive content + language + smoking

"Mom, how long will it take us here?" You sighed as you toyed with your white gold Harry Winston. 

"Shh!" Your mother hushed you up, like she would any other time.

"Mrs. Hong! It's been a while!" She held her arms open elegantly as she brushed her cheeks with the other lady.

You let out a silent chuckle.

Deep down everyone present in the room knew how fake these interactions were but yet none failed to comply with the laws of the high societies.

This was boring.

The clinking of the champagne glasses, the bragging about the sons, the prices of the pearls and diamonds, everything was boring.  

You digested the fact that the whole night was going to get wasted and that chucking more champagne was a far better idea. 

At times like these, even the lines of the palms seemed intriguing. You focused on tracing your fingers on your palm in a pattern only until the room started to fill up with more whispers and gasps.

You tilted to your neck to see what kind of Greek god was stepping out for the people to give such a big reaction.

It turned out it was Minho. Okay, maybe it was not boring anymore. 

The young man was dressed up in head-to-toe designer. The wine-red Brioni tux, wrist studded with Rolex and expensive leather shoes, so shiny one could see their face on them. Those cold, dark eyes paired with that little smirk on his lips made his aura glow like diamonds. 

"Oh my god, Minho is here!"

"The last time I knew, he was still single."

People, young and old alike never ceased with whisper-toned comments as they glued their eyeballs to his figure, he was indeed hot.

Minho always left people in awe of him, this fact wasn't new.

"Hi oddball!" Minho bit his lip and stood before you after a good forty minutes or so when his fan wave went a bit quieter. 

Oddball. The nickname he gave you when you were seven. 

"Yeah, the oddball that doesn't fangirl over you, Meanie." You thought you could hide the fact that you anyway secretly did.

Meanie, you probably gave this name to him around the same time as an act of revenge, even though he was anything but.

"How long have you been here already?" Minho stuffed his hands in the pockets of his trousers as he raised his shoulders, rolling his tongue on the inside of is mouth.

"Around two hours, I guess." You replied. 

"Two hours of acting? Or were you waiting for me to show up?" Continuing the conversation, he teasingly questioned, playing with his earring.

"Ew. Fuck you." Your eyebrows pulled down and your nose wrinkled. 

"Right now. Right here?" He ceased his hand movements as his eyes got wider and yet another smirk took over his cat-like face.

"You're not as good in bed as you think. Let me make it clear." Of course you would know that very well, yet your words left him speechless, he tried to open his mouth but could not. He was embarrassed for a second, but you knew he would never take this never-ending banter seriously.

And who knows how minutes later you very taken tackling the same task with him.

"Ahh" Minho hissed when you bit his lower lip, causing his mouth to open wide, providing you with the entrance. 

The classical music from the outside could still be heard through the bathroom doors, but it was to be soon muted for the two of you who only focused on earning more whimpers and moans from each other.

"We're so good at sneaking out like this." He growled, running his fingers through your hair.

"It's not the first time." Your focus was at another place.

By now his upper body was naked. The exorbitant blazer was thrown away on the floor, leaving him only with his silvery shimmering neck chain and timepiece.

"Let me show you how it's done right." You whispered against his ear, placing the tip of your finger on the zip of his pants. His body shook from the tingling. 

And by the time you both finished, time itself had lost it's tracking. Minho followed you to the basement, where you thought you could get some solace, the bathrooms were busy places anyways.

"That was so filthy."

"They'd be looking for us."

The two of you voiced at the same time. 

"Let them, they don't care about us anyways. Anyone could be as precious to them, they just have to be their offsprings and heirs, it's as simple as that." Giving his signature rich kid explanation, he went on to put his arm behind your neck, allowing you to rest your back that was pressed against the car door, more comfortably. 

The two of you sat on the floor after what was one wild session of sex. Yet it was not awkward, for again, it was never the first time.

Were you dating? Were you just friends or fuckbuddies? There appeared to be no clear answer to this. 

"Are you okay?" He questioned.

"Come on, I could handle much-"

"I meant are you doing okay, you pervert. Aren't you bored of this life?" He cut you off.

"Oh. Well. Yeah. A hundred fucking per cent." You continued as Minho took out his lighter, placing one cigarette between his lips and one between yours as he lit them together at once.

"Let's run away and build a mud cabin on some land near the woods." You suggested.

"Then we'd have to live together." He spoke and dusted off his pants.

"That's what I mean." You held his hand that was hung above your arms.

"I think I love you, Minho." The confession was sudden.

"What? Really?" A tiny grin took over his face before he quickly changed it into an astonished one.

"Don't you love me back?" You asked, perplexed by his reaction.

"Of course I love you. You're like a sibling to me!" He nodded.

"That's not what Jisung told me." You got out of his grip by now.

"Plus, siblings don't do this." The next moment you were straddling him. 

"Incest." He giggled as he threw his head back.

"Minho!" You smacked his arm.

"I could've confessed in a much better way. You ruined my plan." He brought his hands to wrap around your waist. 

"Oh god, not this meanie again." 

"Oh god, not this oddball again." He mocked you, before pulling you closer into his arms.

There was no denial of feelings that this Meanie had for his Oddball.

masterlist please refrain from plagiarising, translating or posting outside of this platform

[tomatette]

Prompt #11 - Vampire @huxloween

Stensland and the Terrible, Horrible, No Good, Very Bad Night (and how it turned out sort of okay in the end, after all)

„Feck you! Feck you, Mister!” Stensland turned around to give Paul one last, withering glare, only to face the closed door instead.

That utter prick!

Stensland fought back tears. Why? Why did he always end up with people like that? It seems like he was always attracted to the wrong sort of person. Either the ladies who just wanted to use him for his body, or the blokes who were so deep in the closet, they should rightfully smell of mothballs and laundry detergent.

GodDAMMIT!

Honestly, when he first discovered that he swung both ways, he’d been utterly delighted. After all, it meant he needn’t limit his search for his soulmate, the love of his life, to just one gender anymore. But it didn’t take long for his elation to turn sour. Because, really? He could understand why the ladies so often complained about how they men were treating them now. The amount of entitled arsehole-ness he’d been subjected to ever since he had started dating blokes …

But then, dating was probably a bit of an exaggeration, sadly. Like Paul (that cunt!) they usually just took him somewhere for a quick shag, only to kick him out right after without even a  bit of cuddling afterwards. It was demeaning. Utterly and thoroughly so.

Furiously, he blinked back the tears that were threatening to fall. It wasn’t that he was ashamed to cry. But gits like Paul didn’t deserve to have even as much as a single tear shed over them.

“Feck you, Paul” he hissed one last time, before he took off in the direction of the nearest subway station.

It was the wee hours of the morning, and the streets were pretty quiet save for a taxi passing by every now and then, and the occasional drunk stumbling along the sidewalk.

He patted the back pocket of his mustard yellow corduroy trousers for his purse, when he saw the lights of the subway station’s entrance in a distance. But – fecking shit – it wasn’t there. Which probably meant that he’d left it back at Paul’s.

Oh, shite!

Whatever, it couldn’t be helped. All his money – which wasn’t much, but needed to last for the rest of the week – and his monthly ticket were inside, so he couldn’t just say ‘feck it’ and leave it there. As much as he loathed the idea of going back, he didn’t have a lot of other options. None, to be exact.

With a deep sigh, he turned around, resigning himself to the humiliation of having to grovel before the bloke how had kicked him out right after giving him the most spectacularly mediocre orgasm of his life.

He was about half-way there, when Stensland passed the entrance to a dark, narrow alley and heard something that made him stop in his tracks. A moan, but not one that was emitted in the throes of passion, but one of pain and despair.

Hesitating, he peered into the alley, but it was so narrow, the lights from the streetlamps couldn’t illuminate more than the first metre into it.

Stensland wasn’t a complete bloody flute (though some would say the jury was still out on that one). He knew it wasn’t the smartest call to make, but he ventured into the alley anyway. Just a quick peek to make sure no one was dying or anything, so he could be back on his merry way without having to carry a guilty conscience around with him for the next couple days.

It took a moment for his eyes to get at least a little used to the darkness. He wrinkled his nose. The place was cluttered with junk in various stages of decay, and it reeked of piss and other unsavoury things he didn’t even want to try and distinguish.

“Hello?” His voice sounded overly loud in the quiet of the night, and he felt kind of stupid for even calling out in the first place. Clearly, he had been mistaken and there was nobody there.

He was about to turn around, when he heard it again. Closer this time.

“Hello?” he tried again, despite his better judgement. Honestly, he should have just called 911 and be done with it. But no, of course he had to go check himself first like a total nutjob.

Well, maybe he was  a bloody flute after all.

Speaking of ‘bloody’ – was that a leg peeking out from behind the overflowing waste container?

Unthinking, he rushed forward, finding that, yes, it was a leg. And one that was attached to a body, no less. A distinctly male, and very impressive body, with a chest as wide as a barrel and biceps the chap could probably easily squash Stensland’s skull with. If he wasn’t currently busy writhing in agony that was.

“Hey”, Stensland squatted down next to him. “Are you okay?”

And what kind of question was that? It was pretty obvious the bloke was as far from okay as one could get. Stensland couldn’t find any obvious injuries, but that didn’t have to mean they didn’t exist. He wasn’t exactly an expert when it came to first aid. Actually, he had no clue what to do whatsoever. He kind of pitied the man that he, of all people, had been the one to find him. But then, he figured he was still better than no one at all.

The bloke’s only reply was another pained groan, which … okay, that was definitely a case for a professional, which he very assuredly was not. He took his phone out and flipped it open (yes, it was an old flip-phone, sue him), and deflated when the display was completely black. Dammit, he must have forgotten to charge it. Again. How unfortunate.

“Okay, Stensland, think … Think!”

He figured, it might be a good idea to take a closer look at the chap, to try to figure out what the feck was wrong with him. Maybe he was just completely rat-arsed or something. Highly unlikely, but a bloke could hope, right?

He bent forward and could finally see them man’s face – well, as much as possible in the rather dim lighting. The first thing Stensland noticed was how pale he was. As white as a sheet, making the smattering of moles on his skin stand out even more, like an inverted night sky.

His hair was dark and on the longer side, probably in an attempt to cover his rather big ears. Stensland caught himself thinking they were kind of charming, which probably was completely inappropriate, given the situation, but he couldn’t help it. And they matched his other features too, because everything about him was …  big. His nose was wide and long, his dark eyes deep-set and his mouth slightly crooked with lips that were currently pressed into a tight line.

He didn’t really seem to see Stensland at first, staring right through him, pupils blown wide. But then he blinked, and it was like a fog was lifted from his eyes. He gasped and then tried to scramble away, his attempt hindered by the dirty wall behind him.

“Go!”

“What?” Stensland was utterly flabbergasted. Of all the reactions he had expected, this wasn’t one of them. “I … you need help.”

“Go! Away!” he bit out, between harsh pants and pained moans. “I don’t know how long I can hold back. You have to leave. Now.”

“But …”

“Now!” He bared his teeth, and Stensland froze when he noticed the overly long canines curving over the bloke’s fat bottom lip.

What. The. Feck?

Another groan – but this time it turned into a growl half-way. And there was feral glint to his eyes that had not been there before.

It was that, more than anything else, that freed Stensland from his blank stupor. He scrambled back, or tried to at least, but he wasn’t fast enough. Everything happened so quickly, he could barely comprehend it. One moment he was sitting with his ass on the cold pavement, the next, he was pulled against the man’s (creature’s? thing’s) broad chest, manhandled like he was nothing more than a human-sized doll.

“Wait,” he pleaded, but he wasn’t sure his voice was even heard.

His heart was hammering and his whole body was thrumming with adrenaline. He couldn’t believe this was happening to him. Monsters were not supposed to exist. They were nothing but products of overimaginative minds. They had not business mixing with the real world.

His attempt to fight the man off were doomed to fail from the start, but he tried anyway. He kicked and scratched and punched, but it was like attacking a slab of concrete. If the man was feeling it, he sure as hell didn’t let it on.

The next thing Stensland felt was a sharp pain lancing through his neck, followed by a cold sort of numbness, like from anaesthesia. There was a sucking, slurping sound, and his foggy mind idly wondered how long it would take for him to die of blood-loss.

He wouldn’t mind for it to take a while. Now, that the pain was gone, it was kind of nice, even. Like floating on air.

Well, that was it, then, he thought, only mildly disappointed that he never had to chance to meet his other half, when his vision started to get grey and fuzzy at the edges.

*

Stensland usually woke up slowly and in increments. Not this time, though. His eyes snapped open, and he knew exactly where he was, and why.

What he didn’t know was, how he was still alive.

Carefully, he prodded the two little puncture wounds on the side of his neck with his fingers. They stung and felt slightly sticky, but weren’t actively bleeding, at least.

“Are you okay?”

His head whipped into the direction the voice had come from. Then he scowled at the looming figure hiding in the shadows. “What do you think? You bit me, you fecking animal!”

“I’m sorry,” came the soft reply. “I didn’t mean to, but … I was just so hungry when you found me. I lost control.”

Stensland scoffed. “Obviously.” He squinted into the darkness. “Are you wearing a fecking cowl? What is this, the bloody Middle Ages? Are you a monk? The least you can do, after what you did to me, is show me your goddamned face, don’t you think?”

After a moment of hesitation, the other man pulled back the hood of his jet back robes. His face shone cool and smooth like alabaster, but his eyes were of a surprisingly warm brown. There was regret in them. And self-loathing. Both things Stensland was painfully familiar with.

He watched him chew on his bottom lip with remarkably unremarkable looking canines.

“Better,” he said. “And now – care to explain the meaning of all this? Maybe start with your name, if you don’t mind.”

“Ben,” he said, looking down at his feet sheepishly. “My name is Ben and … I know it sounds crazy, but I’m … um … I’m sort of … a vampire?”

“Don’t worry,” Stensland deadpanned. “I have the marks to prove it, so I’m not overly sceptical. I’m Stensland, by the way. I’d say it was nice to meet you, but I doubt you’d believe me, given the circumstances.”

Ben barked a startled laugh. “I … You’re taking this remarkably well. Aren’t you scared?”

“Should I be?”

“No.” Ben’s shoulders dropped. He very much reminded Stensland of a scolded puppy. “I didn’t meant to drink from you,” he said. “I had managed to avoid attacking anyone for two weeks now, and at first it wasn’t so hard, but …”

“I assume it got harder in time?”

He nodded. “In fact it got worse and worse, up to the point where my instincts took over. I … I’m really sorry, I didn’t mean to do … this. I stopped, once I got back to my senses, but it was too late. You were … You would have died, so …” Shrugging, he avoided looking at Stensland. “I guess you could say that I turned you. Even though I didn’t really have a clue what I was doing. I’m still pretty new to this, if you couldn’t tell.” Bashfully, he looked up. “Was it the wrong call to make? I didn’t get the chance to ask you what you wanted. I …”

“Are you asking me if I would have wanted you to let me die?”

He nodded.

“Hell, no!” he exclaimed. “I’m glad you did this. I … would have said yes, you know … if you’d asked me.”

“You would have?” Ben looked at him with an almost hopeful expression on his unusual but handsome face.

“Yes. And now, where are we going to stay? Don’t tell me you live in this dirty alley. I have to admit, I’m not too keen on appropriating some damp crypt or something.” He looked at Ben, frowning. “Do we have to sleep in coffins? I don’t have one, you know? I would honestly prefer my own bed, if that’s even an option. We could crash at my place. It’s a bit of a dump, but you don’t mind, do you?”

When Ben smiled, it took Stensland’s breath away. Or something like that, because breathing wasn’t a thing he did anymore. But, fecking hell, he was gorgeous. And maybe, Stensland thought, he had just had such an unlucky hand at picking potential partners in the past, because he’d been looking for them among the wrong species altogether?

Well, he’d see where the tingly feeling in his stomach would take him. But for now …

“C’mon,” he said, extending his hand towards Ben. “Let’s get home. I really need a shower, and,” he sniffed and curled his nose, “you should have one too. And afterwards, you can tell me everything I need to know about being a vampire. Alright?”

Ben nodded, smiling brightly again. “Alright.”

[f1-disaster-bi]

I blame @princelancey for this:

"You are truly one of the most pig-headed men I have ever met" Lando did not regret the insult as he spoke it. His words low and filled with a rage that seemed to consume him every time that he laid eyes on the Viscount which was far too often these days since his brother had decided to start courting the Viscounts younger brother. Lando did not hate Max from bringing them closer to this family and George. How could he hate his brother from falling in love, and he did like Charles. Unlike his other brother, Charles was actually a lovely person. Lando just hated that it led to moments like this. George and him alone in the grounds of George's family estate. The two of them so stubborn that they butted heads over a simple game, chasing their balls into the undergrowth and the mud to try one up each other and that was how he had ended up here with his feet stuck in the mud while George stood their all high and mighty, judging him and unhelpful. "And you it seems, are a clumsy fool", George bit back, leaning on his mallet and his looked on smugly. "My mallet will make acquittance with your head if you keep standing there", Lando mumbled as he tried to use his own mallet as leverage as he tried once more to free his feet. The struggle continued for a few more moments. The cold and wet mud made Lando wrinkle his nose as it seeped through his trouser and into his shoes, making him uncomfortable but he did not stop until he heard a sigh and a hand entered his field of vision. "Let me help", George offered, his mallet at his side and gaze steady as he offered Lando his hand, "It is quiet pathetic watching you struggle" Lando wanted to slap his hand away just to be petty but he did not. He took the offered hand with sigh and a nod. George's grip was strong but surprisingly gentle somehow, and Lando ignored the flutter he felt in his stomach as finger tips brushed the delicate inside of his wrist for a moment before George braced himself and started to pull. It was a struggle again at first. The two of them trying to free Lando until George dropped his mallet and cautiously took Lando's other hand after he abandoned his own. Lando had expected it to work but the force of the pull was no match for the mud no matter what Lando did and somehow, in the blink of an eye, George was stumbling forward until they were both falling until they were laying in the patch of mud. They stared at each other in shock for a moment as it seeped through their jackets and shirts. The disgruntled and shocked look on George's face was worth mud that was definitely in his curls, and Lando couldn't help but smile. His lips shaking with the urge to laugh. "It is not funny", George tried to glare but the look caused Lando to burst into laughter, and George, despite his personality, was not immune to it as he started to chuckled as well until they were just both lying there. The two of them soaked in mud and laughing, making now effort to move. In his head, as he looked at George, Lando thought that maybe George was rather beautiful when he was like this, carefree and relaxed in a way that Lando had never seen. He was so used to stiff, responsible, brooding George that he had, for a moment, forgotten that maybe he had a human side too. As they laughed in what was probably the first ever peaceful moment they had ever shared, neither of them noticed that they were, in fact, still holding hands.

[noxexistant]

Javey modern au fic idea, please take care of him for me

Jack is an artist

Davey owns the art gallery that Jack is showing at

i love thiiiiis

maybe the gallery was davey’s father’s, but - similar to canon - he’s injured or sick or maybe even retiring, and gives the gallery over to davey to run. davey is an anxious wreck over it, terrified of ruining all his father’s hard work somehow, particularly because he’s seen growing up how incredibly hard his father has worked for the gallery, but his aba’s adamant he’ll do well. he even tells davey he’s got a new client lined up for a show, meyer’s done all the negotiations and everything so davey just has to work with him, and davey’s doubly anxious about liaising with a client - a real artist - for the first time, particularly when meyer mentions it’s a young man around davey’s age. davey does not have a good track record of getting along with young men his own age.

he sees the artist’s work before he meets the artist. most of it’s already in the gallery, big canvas pieces in rich paint, and pages and pages of smaller sketches in pencil and charcoal. david’s breath is taken away. the work is beautiful, the canvas pieces are these larger than life landscapes - trees and lakes and mountains - that somehow hold this longing within them, all intricate and detailed but hazy like an image from a dream. he feels he could step right into them, but thinks he might stop existing altogether if he did, like the dream would just swallow him up.

‘santa fe’, he reads, scrawled on the back of one of the canvasses in untidy handwriting. he wonders if maybe that’s where the artist grew up - a lot of the paintings seem to be the same place, like lost images from a childhood.

the sketches are different. a lot are loose leaf, piled chaotically, but plenty are in chock-full sketchbooks covered in paint and scrapes and stickers and dirt, like they’d lived life with the artist for as long as he’d been filling them. his name is in the front of each one - jack kelly, in the same terrible handwriting as on the back of that canvas - and the pages beyond that are filled with everything. countless portraits, all different faces, so diverse in race and age and gender and expression. david begins to notice the same people over and over as he browses, and wonders who they are. friends, siblings, lovers? there’s dozens of portraits of a particular, beautiful girl with loose curls and freckles and a wrinkle to her nose when she smiles. david tries to picture jack, the man that loves her, the man that would go beside her, as he looks through the rest. trees and flowers and buildings and animals and trains and buses and—bunk beds and piled bags and empty bedrooms and very tidy kitchens. office chairs and hospitals and thin hands and the same grave with its engraved name garbled to gibberish, over and over and over—

“‘ey!”

david flinches so hard he knocks the whole pile of art to the floor. the loose pieces scatter and the sketchbooks make deafening claps against the polished stone floors, but the approaching footsteps are louder, a rapid thudthudthudthud of heavy boots.

“the hell said you could go through my stuff? huh? who even are you?”

he’s shorter than david. dark hair, dark eyes, a crumpled, faded red shirt with the sleeves shoved up to his elbows, worn trousers that are too short, dark boots that look older than the man himself is. his hands are dirty, fingernails paint-stained and cropped to the quick, he’s wearing bracelets - he wrenches the open sketchbook from david’s hands and snaps it closed, holds it in one hand while he crouches to the floor to start roughly gathering the rest.

jack kelly, david realises, much later than he probably should’ve.

“i’m sorry,” he chokes out, watching jack pile his art back up and shove it into an open portfolio leaning against a nearby wall. “i didn’t know i shouldn’t—i didn’t know they were private, they just, they were with your display pieces, i assumed—“

jack turns back to him, jaw set, face so guarded that david has to resist the urge to run. he reminds himself that he owns the gallery, tells himself he won’t be bullied into scurrying off by some strange, self-important artist who freaks out over david seeing his sketches. isn’t that the point of an exhibition? sure, it isn’t open yet, but the art’s all here, and david owns the place!

“who the hell are you?” jack says, slow, and david realises it’s at least the second time he’s asked.

“sorry!” he says, shaking his head in the hopes of clearing it. “i’m, uh—i’m sorry. i’m david. jacobs. i’m…meyer’s son, you’ve talked to him. i’m—it’s my. gallery. um, well, it is now, i mean, aba, he, uh—he said i—“

jack puts a hand up - broad, calloused, smeared with charcoal - and david shuts up so fast his teeth click. his heart is pounding.

“okay,” jack says. “feel like…maybe we got off on the wrong foot there. ‘specially if you’re—“ he glances at david, expression still guarded, “—who i’m gonna be working with now. so. how’s about we jus’, uh...”

he breathes deep, and then suddenly he’s smiling, this practiced, charming thing that shows off his teeth. they’re crowded and crooked, like he’s never had braces. he holds his hand out, and steps closer. “i’m jack. jack kelly. uh…artist, i guess.” he gestures out to the canvasses with his outstretched hand, grinning like he’s embarrassed, and then presses it towards david again. “nice to meet ya, davey.”

david looks at him. jack looks…a lot less threatening like this, but he still looks guarded.

david shakes his hand. “um. pleasure. mr. kelly. jack.”

he could probably do worse for a first client.

[123pixieaod]

"I care, I care, I care"

The weirdest brainrot pairing I've ever gotten lol. Set in the aftermath of the sprint today. Please enjoy this Oscar/Logan fic

You ’ll get it soon.

Unspoken words, hovering above his head. Like a lightbulb in a cartoon, just waiting for the idea to strike. Talent finally awakening. Light flicking on.

James, telling him that he’ll get it soon. The car is different, it’s new, and it’s a beast which Logan still needs to tame. But soon. Soon he’ll get it, whatever it is. The ability to finish, to get out, to smile. To be something other than an embarrassment, a pay-in, a stupid American.

“You’ll get it soon baby,” Lacy runs her fingers through his hair. He hums, scrolling through Instagram. Blue light, burning his eyes. Mindless. Anything not to look up, to not see her pity. She’s two years younger than him. A part-time student, full-time model. Oscar had raised his eyebrows at Logan when he first saw her. Blond hair as straight as rain, skin perfect, tight white tea with a neat skirt. Ticking all the boxes. An influencer and he’s a driver, and they look so good together, everyone says it.

“You sure caught yourself a good one with her, didn’t you?” He joked later. Elbow knocked into Logan’s side, and he forced himself to look up, offer a small smile. Wait for the joke, the barb tangled into his flesh.

“Lucky”, Oscar had simply said. A quick wink, as if it wasn’t just the two of them.

Who? Logan had imagined saying. Cut his tongue out. No need for words in a car anyway.

“You’ll get it soon,” his mother tells him. Voice soft, even over the line. About two continents and three oceans between them. Lacy still beside him. Updating her own Instagram, and Logan watches her edit the photos. Manicured nails in the pattern of a chequered flag tap on the screen, zooming in and out. I’m surprised you even know what a chequered flag looks like.

“Thanks,” he says. She zooms in on her skirt, dragging her finger over the material, instantly smoothing out the wrinkles. Saturation turned up slightly. In other life, I think I’d like to be an artist, he had once said. Laughter. Turning to look at him, eyes bright even in the darkness. Why wait for another lifetime? Why not this one Loge?

Maybe when I’m older, he had conceded. But for now, I’m too busy winning races to bother with sketching.

Don’t you mean too busy losing to me? Oscar giggled. An arm out, hand playfully pushing him in the darkness. Night heavy. Thirteen, heart too big in his chest.

“It’s just unlucky,” his mother continues. It’s dawn back home. He wonders has she slept at all. “Quali set you back, and the car isn’t good overtaking in circuits like these. You couldn’t do anything else, Logan. The car isn’t good with grip, you’re just getting the hang of it. It’s unlucky, could’ve happened to anyone.” He nods, even though she can’t see him. Lacy is now zoomed in on her face, softening her skin texture and smoothing the imperfections away. Filter only her lips, brightening them.

“Are you tired?”

He nods again, and then feels stupid when the silence stretches. “Yes. A race is always tiring, you know?”

Of course, she knows. She’s the one who stood with his dad at the side of every race, every go-karting competition. American wind and American rain and American sun. Home saturated on the track, accents matching his own.

“Yes, sweetheart. Are you going to the after-party?”

“No, I don’t think so.” Logan pretends not to notice how Lacy stills.

“Really?” His mother tries to keep any inflexion from her tone. “Not even with Oscar?”

Logan huffs a laugh. “Oscar will be way too busy mom. He won the sprint.”

“I know, that’s what I meant. Not even to celebrate his first podium?”

He swallows, looking down at his trousers. Thumb fingernail trailing up and down the seam, made to perfection. India, China? Mass-produced, workers whose names he’ll never know. He wears and uses and discards their work, move on to the next thing to taint with his touch. Always new shirts, new trousers.

Oscar wrinkling his nose. Eleven. Carting academy in Brexton/ Brixton. Both are the only non-Europeans there. Locked as roommates, these foreigners who speak English differently. Logan’s first time sharing a room. Oscar’s first time meeting someone like Logan.

“That’s a waste,” he told him, watching as Logan sorted through his wardrobe. His parents had left him to unpack. His father telling him he was growing up, he was taking the first step in his career. His mother’s tight hug, promising to call every night, promising that he can come home whenever he wants. “You don’t need all those clothes.”

“Yes, I do.”

“No, you don’t.” Incessant. Australian accent foreign and harsh against his ears. Bouncing through tones. Up and down. Higher-pitched than Logan’s.

“I don’t have half as many clothes as you have, and I’m fine,” he continued. Logan just shrugged. “I keep my clothes until they fall apart.” Proud, and Logan couldn’t help but turn, nose wrinkled in disgust.

“What?”

Oscar nodded, happy to finally have his attention. Cross-legged on the bed, skin still warm from Australian weather. Freckles. Front tooth missing, young for his age. “My mum even stitches them, if the tear isn’t bad. It’s a waste. It’s bad for the environment. Why buy new things when the old things are working fine? Plus, it’s an easy way to save money.”

Saving money. As if money was a finite source, something to be counted and hoarded and saved. Saving time, saving face, saving money.

Logan had never thought about that before.

“Tell him we’re happy for him, will you?” His mom is continuing. “I remember when he was just so small I just wanted to put him in my pocket.” She laughs, and Logan wrinkles his nose.

“Whatever mom.”

“I’ll text his mother too. She was always nice to us. Don’t tell Daddy, you know what he’s like.”

Another laugh. Like it’s nothing, just a joke. Logan continues to run his thumb along the seam of his pants.  His mother always the one to ring him after the races. DNF, fighting with HAAS for the bottom three places. An investment. That’s what his dad used to call it. Carting is a creature surviving on a steady diet of money, and his dad is always there to provide for it. Up to F1, and success brushes against his fingertips before racing away.

“You made it to the family fridge,” Oscar once told him. Grinning, tone pitched lower, finally broken. Spots and acne. Seventeen and on the edge of something great.

“Oh yeah?” Logan replied, smirking. “Nicole couldn’t get enough of me, could she?”

Oscar laughed, pressing his side against Logan’s. A wall of warmth, his gentle sandalwood aftershave lingering in their shared space. Then pulling back, telling him he’s an idiot, the smile shaping his words.

“You’ll get it soon,” his mom says, the quiet stretching. She always had a knack for knowing what he was feeling, even though he’s lived away for longer than lived with her.

“Yeah,” he says, still picking at his jeans. “I better.”

Part 2

[thewritingsandwich]

The Chiming Lady - Part 2

A Lockwood & Co. Fan Fiction

Other Parts: 1 2 3 4 5

Summary: The agents of Lockwood & Co. are invited to the Halloween-Party of a former client.

A/N: I originally wrote this for @ savelockwoodnco on instagram's filler episode theme. But I'm a month too late... anyways this takes place after 'The Empty Grave' but there are no major spoilers for it. Originally I wrote it in german, but I translated it for the internet with the help of DeepL.

Tag List: @ahead-fullofdreams

Warnings: Mentions of injuries, brief mentions of su***de and mu**er

I'm not quite sure what to think about the fact that I can only really celebrate Halloween this year. In the past, the last day of October was just that - an ordinary day. For many years, October was the start of a stressful time, as the early darkness meant that even more ghosts appeared and caused trouble.

I can still vividly remember a Halloween night when I was still working at Jacobs. Together with my friends, we watched old scary films and ate so much sweets that our bellies would burst. I spent all the other nights of 31 October either at home or in a haunted house. After all, parties and good humour seemed to be reserved for the rich who could afford a good security system and didn't have to chase ghosts at night.

It was the first time I'd ever been in a costume - or at least I couldn't remember any other time. I was wearing brown trousers and had wrapped a top over them with different fabrics. Over the wrapped top I wore a loose-fitting corset made of fake leather. On my back I wore a quiver with fake arrows and I had made a real belt with Holly with lots of storage space. I had painted on fake freckles with a little make-up and braided my hair into a braid. My ears looked pointed thanks to plastic prosthetics. I wasn't really happy yet, but I guess I could only disguise myself as far as my resources would take me - I still looked too much like Lucy Carlyle and not like Eobyn Truewood Heroine of Thalore.

I smoothed out wrinkles in my costume as the stairs to my attic began to creak. I turned to the opening in the floor and saw Lockwood climbing the stairs in his costume.

"Hello, I was wondering if you could paint my face red? George was actually going to do it, but he's locked himself in his room." He was holding a make-up sponge and red face paint in his hand. On his head he wore a headband with little devil horns.

"Sure, but can't you do it yourself?"

"I've already tried that. It looked terrible." He laughed briefly.

So I gestured for him to sit on my bed (the only acceptable seating up here). I sat down next to him and turned to face him.

The colour was really pigmented, but I left a few streaks that I had to painstakingly touch up with the sponge. In the meantime, I was just as red as Lockwood - if not more. I was just getting incredibly warm in this room, in my costume - next to Lockwood.

But we were finished. There were still spots here and there that someone with more knowledge of make-up could perhaps have improved, but Lockwood was happy, so I was too.

We waited together in the kitchen over a cup of tea for Holly and George.

Holly's outfit was truly stunning. She wore a long, loose pastel green dress and fake pointy ears too. Her make-up matched the pastel colour palette she had chosen for her character. Her dark skin made the colours particularly vibrant.

Just before the driver arrived, George finally made an appearance. And his costume was many things.

He had painted his skin chalky white and dyed his hair black. In his mouth, from which (hopefully) fake blood was running, pointed fangs were visible and behind his glasses he had red eyes. His costume resembled the suit of a Victorian gentleman with a long cape and a few pieces of armour.

The three of us knew that George was no ordinary vampire. He was Lord Glethin, a nefarious vampire who had taken control of a country and was now spreading fear and terror with the undead. He was the main villain of our campaign and had spanked us mightily a few times already.

Holly broke the silence that prevailed shortly after his arrival with a round of applause, which I joined in with, as did Lockwood. He looked impressive.

A car horn signalled us to leave and we ran to the front door. I had stowed all my essentials in my belt bag, while Holly carried a fashionable handbag and Lockwood slung a rucksack on his back - I didn't really want to know what he was up to.

Just as we were out of the amazement again, the next surprise greeted us outside our door. In the faint light of dusk and the greenish glow of the ghost lamps, an Austin Healey saloon was parked outside 35 Portland Row. And no, I don't know anything about cars, I just understood George's mumbling.

The driver, an old man with white sideburns, greeted us and opened the door to our seats. Even then I was sure that this was going to be a night to remember.

[nihiladditaenihilperdidi]

Day After Awakening || Rune + Enoch || September 28th, 1924

Enoch: There, Enoch would stay, nestled against Rune, having shifted closer sometime during the night, effectively trapping his mentor. The weight of the blanket and Rune’s warmth in lieu of the fire kept the scholar asleep long past the other’s awakening. And even as Rune managed to sneak out of Enoch’s hold, he remained asleep for a little longer. It was when the cold started to creep in that he finally roused. The morning was quiet; the sound of birds outside greeted him as he slowly sat up, keeping the covers over his shoulders. Glancing around, he concluded that he was alone.

Was any of last night real?

He kept his eyes closed as his mind groggily tried to recall the details.

What time was it? 7:48 and 36 seconds.

Time.

He was a Cultist.

The word felt funny in his mind.

But it had to be true, didn't it?

Cultist.

It didn't sit right, but those memories...

It was too early to process childhood trauma before his first cup of tea, and for that, he needed to get dressed for the day.

Rune: There were eyes upon him when he came downstairs. A blessedly rare occasion without malice, this morning. Only concern from the innkeeper’s wife, already fussing over a young couple with a newborn and a man as old as Rune nursing a cup of coffee over a newspaper. She was a kind old soul, and this was just the day to take advantage of her generosity. In no time he was returning upstairs with a tray of dry toast, marmalade and butter, grapefruit, and coffee.

The door had been left unlocked and cracked. Just enough to shoulder open, assuming his apprentice would still be asleep.

Enoch: It was funny; he had told himself to get up and get dressed, yet he hadn't moved an inch from his huddled position on the floor. The covers were draped over his hunched form as he hugged his knees, cheek pressing against them as he fought off the lingering grogginess.

Enoch probably would have drifted back to sleep if not for the gentle creek of the door that prompted him to look up.

"Aren't you a breath of fresh air?"

He said in German, obviously talking to the coffee...and not Rune.

Rune: Rune looked from the tray and back, sitting it at the foot of the bed neither had bothered to use.

"Did I wake you?" Getting out of bed, he meant.

Enoch: Enoch shook his head; at least he didn't feel like Rune had woken him up. Right, he had slept curled up next to him all night—the source of his warmth even when the fire went out.

"The cold got to me." Probably why he hadn't shed the extra layers in exchange for his clothes. But he would gladly accept a cup of coffee if Rune offered.

Rune: Coffee and his choice of toast or fruit. Rune would eat whatever he didn't want.

Rune took to the other side of the bed, kicking off his shoes. Trousers, suspenders under his wrinkled vest; without a mirror, his necktie was a bit of a mess, but an attempt had been made to be presentable downstairs. But seeing the state of Enoch, he realized there was no rush.

"Spent my morning with pleasantries downstairs. Then I said hello to someone whom no one else could see. I'm a disturber of the oblivious peace, now."

Enoch: "Another wraith?" He asked as he looked at the tray that was out of reach. The blonde groaned as he stood up, letting the blanket fall off of him as he stretched. Arms above his head as he closed the distance and reached down to pick up his mug of coffee.

He was still very much waking up, given the state of his tousled blonde hair and pajamas. Coffee would help as he cautiously nursed the hot drink, even as it scalded his tongue.

"Disturber of the oblivious peace," he repeated with a grin.

"I agree. It's an adept way to describe you."

A slice of toast with butter and marmalade was next, the grapefruit left untouched.

Rune: Legs were crossed, thumbs digging into the skin of the fruit to tear into pieces. Debris began piling up at a corner of the tray.

"I'm too tired and we're too busy to push someone else along." He said this, knowing he was probably going to stay.

Enoch: Between eating his toast and sipping his coffee, Enoch was starting to feel more awake.

"And what's on the agenda?"

Not that Enoch would be opposed to helping guide another spirit across, but between opening a portal and awakening the apprentice, it was too much for one person.

Rune: This was only a glimpse into Rune's life. The only time he was unburdened by spirits was aboard a pirate ship, the very one he had abandoned a week prior.

Only a week. A week with Enoch felt like a lifetime. It was a compliment, but... he was also exhausted. The kind of fatigue coffee couldn't cure.

"You go home."

Enoch: He was mid-chew as Rune answered him, not having expected that response.

You go home.

It was a valid reply.

And momentarily, there was a flicker of uncertainty across his features before he smiled and nodded.

"Of course, it's been a lot, and those exams aren't going to grade themselves."

The toast had been finished, but the coffee had not as it was returned to the tray. Enoch stepped away to start gathering his clothes from beside the fireplace.

Rune: Rune watched his apprentice from behind his black cup of coffee, nibbling on segments of grapefruit in between sips.

"Grade papers if you must. I just want you to rest."

His gaze lowered, giving some semblance of privacy. He could only front so much.

"I'm going back to bed. I'm going to deal with Ms. Nancy downstairs. I'll be home after."

Enoch: "I promise I will. You should, too."

With his back turned to Rune, he'd start changing into his clothes, trading soft pants for slacks and his T-shirt for his button-down and sweater vest.

Fingers ran through his hair, pushing it back for a look of some semblance before giving up on it. He'd deal with it at home.

Turning, he finally looked back at Rune.

"Don't..."

The look lasted a moment before he started searching for his satchel.

"Don't overexert yourself."

He hadn't forgotten last night, how they both had all but collapsed once they made it to the room. How fragile everything felt...

Scooping up his bag, Enoch placed it over his shoulder and nodded at Rune before heading out.

"I'll see you around."

Rune: "I'll be back to playing poker in no time."

Rune wondered where that concern was coming from. He didn't have an answer, for once. Too early in the morning, maybe, to go riffling around in his mind. He hadn't picked up on anything, and wouldn't before Enoch disappeared downstairs. Was it really business as usual, or was Enoch fronting?

"Rest," was his sternly parting, "and get some sun. I'll see you tomorrow evening."

Enoch: Enoch nodded at the advice. Some sun and fresh air would probably do him some good. Ignore the sigh he released as he descended the stairs and asked the front to call a cab. There was a lot on his mind to process, so maybe it was best that Rune had dismissed him.

Ah. There it was.

He felt dismissed and had disguised it with indifference and a smile.

Outside, Enoch rubbed at the bridge of his nose, pushing the thought away. It wasn't...it wasn't like that.

He was still tender from last night and his dreams, making him more susceptible to these negative thoughts, he convinced himself as the car pulled up to the inn. He gave one last glance over his shoulder until he climbed in to the car and gave the driver his address.

Rune: Rune had gathered his things to migrate to his room for the first time since its purchase. The long crawl onto the bed promised undisturbed sleep. Rest had begun and ended with Enoch. Sleep that wasn't really sleeping, with his hand upon him, monitoring his breathing, his heartbeat.

Leaving him to his own devices was nothing short of irritation. A whispering vexation in his ear that no amount of sleep would cure. He had thought separation would give them both respite. Give the newborn mage a moment to collect himself.

But had it been the right decision?

With no one here to watch over him, to grab at his arm should he stand and stumble, he had no choice but to tether himself to the leg of the bed. Already he missed the warmth of Enoch's nearness. But, he would see him soon enough. Nancy roamed the kitchen, the music room, and the halls. She couldn't even recall her unfinished business. There would be no return home until tomorrow afternoon.

Enoch: Enoch spent the entirety of the car ride looking out the window, much like he had when they had driven to the inn. And while London passed by, the scenery wasn’t on his mind. Instead, it was the memories from the lake and the ritual itself that preoccupied the scholar. He was awakened. Wasn’t there supposed to be some feeling of elation? It certainly wasn’t that, and he didn’t know what to call it, but the word ‘hollow’ seemed fitting.

He was being irrational. This was just shock manifesting itself as something more sinister. A good cup of tea and rest would clear his head right up. There was a lot to think about.

And he did.

After their drive, the driver was thanked, and Enoch was eager for fresh air as he stepped out. He quickly made it to his room, where he would stay for the rest of the day. But rest didn’t come. Incessant thoughts went through his head as he stared at his journal. Only the words, ‘I died’ had made it onto the page. He knew. Even if Rune had politely declined it, that was what death must have felt like.

His tea sat cold on the corner of his desk as he focused on darkening the lines on the avatar he called Raine. Exams forgotten as he tried to capture each detail of his awakening, the details he neglected to tell Rune. Ones he wouldn’t tell him about for fear that he’d reject the scholar.

Enoch did not know sleep that first night. He sat across his tucked library with books surrounding him as he read by the light of a candle, searching through his notes and LaRoux’s writings. This wasn’t what he had described magic to be.

Rune: Nancy didn’t even look back. She had forgotten her fetter, roaming ritualistically throughout the house, now an inn, having forgotten that it was her husband who had killed her. Forgotten that it was her husband who converted the inn with his brand-new wife. It took following her route, allowing the residents and guests to assume him mad, before finding the answer. There, in the music room, she would shrink and choke and crumble, getting back up and returning to her route. A violent death, creating an echo.

Rune returned upstairs with paper and pen. Slowly filling in the details of an ornate sigil. Wrongful death required rightful karma. She would not come to until meeting the gaze of her murderer. Facing him in death was a guaranteed fulfillment, and in Rune’s belief, a rightful act, superior to finding her remains and burning them.

This was another reason Enoch had to leave. Diana was a benevolent and benign case, all things considered. Not every death would be as harmless as hers.

A Cultist. He still couldn’t believe it. Etherite or not, he would still have the power of matter. Had to. The man was a scientist. Would he see and feel spirits now? Yes, it was imperative to have him leave. He would see and hear enough in London, but Nancy was too much too soon.

But what would his apprentice see in a great old city without his guidance? There were too many questions. Too much concern churning his stomach. He was right: this yearning was indeed a vexation. Kraus hadn’t prepared him for the crawling beneath his skin. There was no experience to compare.

The sigil complete, Rune made sure to avoid the ink as he began folding the parchment. Smaller and smaller, tighter, and tighter into a manageable square. He breathed on the curse, filling it with his intent. He needed only to get close to the man, to ask about the history of the inn and his charming family, to distract him long enough to slip the paper into one of his pockets.

An unfortunate accident would befall the innkeeper, and Rune had no interest in bearing witness. It wasn’t his spirit that needed to be seen, but he would linger in his room, in the bathtub, waiting for the inevitable scream that filled the house at 12:42 in the afternoon. Tripping and falling with a butcher’s knife in hand, how fortunate for his new wife she had only heard and not seen the moment of his death. Not a drop of blood to stain her beautiful blue dress.

Nothing and no one anticipated his arrival at the pub. No Enoch sitting pretty at the bar. No Clarissa beyond the gray curtain waiting for a game of cards or a fuck.

Stepping through the threshold, there was nothing he wanted more than to walk himself back, to find himself outside of Enoch’s laboratory. But, he had to be a man of his word. Tomorrow afternoon.

Enoch: It was the first twittering of the birds that alerted Enoch that it wasn’t night anymore. Sunlight peeked through his window, casting a hazy glow into the room, highlighting the man who sat in the middle of scatterings of paper, books, scribbled notes, and empty coffee-stained cups. He was looking for anything that he could relate to what he saw in his dreams.

A hand ran through his hair for the umpteenth time, pushing pale blonde strands back as he flipped the page of one of his notebooks, fingers tracing over his notes from LaRoux’s journal. Why…was that man in his memories? He had been someone he trusted up until his untimely death. Another turn of a page. His eyes stung, and his body begged for sleep. Maybe if he closed his eyes just for a moment. Just a few minutes and he’d be up and ready to give lecture.

The sound of paper crinkling under him roused the scholar; a piece of paper stuck to his cheek as he sat up suddenly. He must have passed out. Shit, what time was it?

7:45

Double sh-

Enoch quickly got up, heart pounding as he clumsily stepped out of his cocoon of paper and ink and stumbled across his flat to quickly throw on clothes and rush out the door without so much as looking at himself in the mirror.

He was fifteen minutes late. Unheard of for Professor Neumann, but it went to show that he was human. The lesson was lackluster, and it seemed like the young professor was distracted or had other things in mind. Unbecoming of him. But as soon as class was done, followed by a mandatory faculty meeting, Enoch headed to the library, forgoing lunch.

He checked out several books to add to the stacks at home to research and better understand this lucid dream he was chasing. And all throughout his day, he swore he was seeing things that weren’t there, people just out of the corner of his eye, but if he looked directly, they weren’t actually there.

He needed sleep, he thought as he wrote down notes at his desk in the lab.

Rune: Some days it seemed his life was nothing but a series of sleeps. Work, and sleep. Work, and sleep. Awakening Enoch hadn’t changed his pattern. Life, he thought, staring at the ceiling of his modest room, was a series of unconsciousness. Hours remained until he could find his apprentice. Time was not on his side today. Every second felt like two, and the hundreds upon hundreds of seconds weighed heavily on his mind.

Something to do. Something productive. Rune took to the floor of his room, spilling the contents of his satchel onto the round burlap rug that served as the only other practical decoration. With the portrait of this decade’s king and queen and a cross above the bed, the simplicity of the room left something to be desired for locals and travelers. But not the mage.

The rug was pulled away, white chalk used to mark a large circle the width of the rug. Little intricate details finished the demonic trap, and the rug was returned. Next, he crawled under the bed, approximating where his head rested above, a new sigil was drawn into the wood for peaceful sleep. There he laid his head and rested his eyes, forcing himself to meditate, bringing his demesne to the surface. A place to replay the awakening from the inn to Enoch’s depart. The fumbling for words, the repetition of stay, come, and the cradling of the Englishman’s face.

There, in his dream, he contemplated his life. On why Enoch didn’t feel like a stranger. He had spent months aboard a pirate ship with people known only as obscenities, or the cadence of their voice. People he’d suffered conversations with over breakfast, fantasized throwing over the crow’s nest, and forced to endure during missions ashore. People who had every right to feel more personal than his apprentice.

Rune’s eyes opened with a sigh. He crawled from under the bed, bathed, groomed, and redressed, stuffed everything back into his satchel, and headed downstairs, intent on finding himself in front of Enoch’s laboratory.

Enoch: Enoch was sat at his desk, elbow propped on it with his cheek cradled in his hand. Glasses had been pushed up to rest at the top of his head, and his eyes were closed. Exhaustion had caught up with the sleep-deprived professor as he tried to stay awake long enough to make sense of the book he was studying. It was about ancient languages, presumably trying to figure out what the sigils on the ground meant. He had thought about asking Rune, but that meant waiting for the man to show up when he promised…and he wasn’t sure when that would be.

Enoch wasn’t expecting guests. Most of the students had arrived earlier to ask questions concerning their exam since they hadn’t got it back yet. The young academic assured them they would receive their marks later in the week. So, for now, his bowtie had been abandoned, and the cuffs of his blue shirt had been rolled up to his elbows. Tan suspenders had surprisingly stayed on, and his tweed jacket was draped across the back of his chair. Graphite marked up his left hand, presumably from sketching and notetaking. He would be blissfully unaware of the unexpected mage stopping by his lab.

Rune: There were times, more often than not, when Rune felt as a man looking in on other people's lives. A window shopper of life itself. He lived outside of their everyday routines, only pausing to glimpse before moving on. From Singapore to Japan, everywhere along the Mediterranean, even the Umbra. Nowhere felt like home. Aboard a ship, sometimes, but not even Amsterdam was his. There were no four walls to call his sanctuary, dictated and run by his authority.

But sometimes, where were people. People were home. It had to be enough.

Such thoughts the Euthanatos had, looking in on Enoch's life from the other side of the laboratory window. That weight which burdened his shoulders... vanished.

The door knob was tried. Slowly, so as not to startle.

Enoch: The lab's atmosphere was comfortable and quiet, with the occasional sound of something bubbling in the background. Enoch had set some clear liquid to boil away until all that was left was a fine powder to study. Ask him what it was and prepare to be trapped for at least ten minutes with a lengthy explanation.

The man remained asleep as the door opened, drifting back into those shadowy dreams. This was partially why Enoch had avoided a full night’s rest. He didn’t want to relive the dream he had while at the inn. The familiar sense of comfort from his mentor was absent, and what if he didn't wake up?

Enoch.

 And again.

Enoch.

His name was being called. Was it in his head or somewhere outside?

It didn’t matter. With a deep inhale, he was abruptly pulled back into consciousness. A large yawn escaped him, and his hand rubbed at the bridge of his nose, eyes still closed, as he tried to wake himself up—another yawn.

Rune: The room was a familiar comfort. A far contrast from the first night within, having his blood drawn by an enthusiastic sleeper. Not months ago, but mere days.

The door should have been locked, he thought, sitting his satchel down, sitting across the desk from his apprentice. The room itself, as well as his flat, needed to be warded. He would not do so without first explaining himself. So in the meantime, he would wait, and pull out the London Gazette from his satchel, and try to make sense of the English language.

Until Enoch breathed deeply, sitting up and rubbing the sleep from his face. So it seemed from his peripheral.

"You look gorgeous," he greeted.

Enoch: More often than not, Enoch had his lab door open during the day due to the heat that crept in. Rarely did he lock it, feeling particularly safe tucked in his own slice of the world. The only people who sought him out were his students, other faculty, and, most recently, the mage.

Groggily, glasses were taken off the top of his head and adjusted as the world came into focus, including the figure sitting across his desk.

“Jesus-“

His hand pressed against his brow as he stared at his notes, willing his heartbeat to slow down. Well, now he was awake.

“Rune…”

It took him a second to register the other’s greeting, and fortunately for the mentor, Enoch couldn’t close the door on the other’s face.

Instead, he huffed instead of calling the other something that would get him slapped.

“How long have you been here?”

Rune: The reaction beat his expectations to the point of laughter, silent though it were, newspaper hiding his mirth. He was quick to recover, this time.

"Enoch," he returned coolly. "Oh, forever. From the moment you closed your beautiful eyes."

Too much. He was doing it again. But it had been over 24 hours since he had laid eyes on the man, and concern had become a knot in his chest, and all he wanted was to see his apprentice relaxed and content. Would he ever see that again? Had he ever seen it to begin with?

"What have you been doing?"

Enoch: Enoch skeptically raised a brow at Rune, momentarily considering throwing his pen at the other. He was not used to the forward compliments from the smooth talker. But it did make him realize that Rune was teasing him to get a reaction.

“If there’s a silencing spell, I’m going to learn it only to use it on you.”

His pale, freckled features were a little flush, but that was because he had just woken up and for no other reason. He stood up to put some distance between them, closing the book he had been reading as he moved to investigate the solution he had been slowly boiling away.

“The same as before you met me,” he stated as he carefully picked up the bottle with tongs and gave a slow swirl, peering at the viscosity of the liquid.

“Lecture, meetings, grading, and research. I don’t live a very exciting life.”

Untrue.

The bottle was seated back in its ring.

“And yourself? Did you get the rest you needed?

“Mm, and Theo, of course.” He hadn’t forgotten about the little bear in the repair shop.

Rune: The challenge was accepted with a glint in his eyes. That was the level of confidence he wanted to hear.

"It exists," he said, turning in his chair to watch Enoch work, only mildly interested. Science was never exceedingly interesting to him, but the man operating the table was.

That was something else he wanted to hear. Knowing Enoch continued life as usual was comforting. Perhaps he should have been disappointed. Perhaps he should have wanted to hear how engrossed he'd become with a spell taught to him on the other side of his awakening, but, what mattered was comfort, and he would tell himself that as many times as he needed reminding.

"Shut up." He agreed; it was untrue.

"Fuck. I forgot about the damn bear." With a sigh, he hauled himself back to his feet.

Enoch: “I can’t help but notice I’m at a disadvantage since you’re my only resource at the moment.”

It wasn’t like Rune was going to teach him the spell. But it brought up a good point: he could now embrace and actually try his newfound powers. So far, he only remembered parts of the sea shanty, but not enough to recreate its warming effects. And well…everything else was too advanced aside from being able to tell time innately.

“Teach me something then.”

Rune didn’t need to know that Enoch had stayed up searching for answers. He was trying to understand the things he saw in his awakening. Or the fact that he might be a part of something his mentor needed to be worried about.

“I had a feeling,” grinned Enoch as he lowered the flame's heat.

Rune: "Is this where I leave you, then? Leaning over your potions and science as I rescue Theo from needles and loneliness?" Not quiet 'will you come with me,' but close enough. He wanted to have that very conversation along the way, before it got any later in the evening and he missed his chance to finish his elective mission.

Enoch: Potions. That's what they were, wasn't it? Boiling away liquid to powder so he could use it in a concoction. Science was a type of magic; it just had more chemistry behind it.

"I can't have you take all the credit for rescuing him. I was there, too." His way of agreeing to tag along was accented by snuffing out the flame and letting the glass cool down. Whatever he was boiling would be stable at room temperature.

Enoch moved to tug down his rolled up sleeves, working on re-cuffing them before grabbing his jacket to follow Rune out the door.

"So when did you get back?"

Rune: "Mhm." There was no denying he had been there, but hearing from Enoch's mouth was delightful. But like so many things, that surprise was kept to himself. Couldn't say everything on the cuff of his sleeve.

"Hours after you." Keeping answers vague was his intention, but so many intentions with Enoch were dropped or modified the moment of. This would probably be no different.

"Did you rest? Get some sun?"

Enoch: “Yesterday?” he followed up as he turned to lock the lab.

Since it had been colder outside, he slipped on his jacket and fell in step with his mentor, hands sliding into his pockets.

Did he rest and get some sun?

“As much as you’d expect. I haven’t been able to stay asleep for long. I keep dreaming about it.”

If Enoch were inspected closer, Rune would probably pick up on his apprentice's signs of fatigue and exhaustion.

Rune: The lack of his satchel on his shoulders was a promise of his return to the lab. One less weight to bear, and the air felt good on his skin. They needed this, he told himself, slipping his hands into his pockets.

"Hm." Wasn't exactly a lie, but, let's try that again, and in German for good measure. "Did you sit on a bench in the sun? Lay in the grass? Stand pensively at your laboratory window?"

Enoch: “Hm?”

Oh. Clever boy. He picked that up.

Enoch breathed out with a sigh, easily transitioning to German as he replied.

“And you think I have time for this between my research and my work?” he asked, a hint of a smile playing on his lips. He’d elude the questions just a little longer for his own amusement.

But eventually, each question was answered with a measured pause.

“I burn too easily.

“And get stains on my clothes?

“No- Maybe…yes.”

He did have a habit of pacing and looking out his window when he thought about his research.

“And yourself, did you get the much-needed quiet and rest you were seeking?”

Rune: "If you have time to awaken you have time to sit in the sun. Twenty minutes isn't asking much. It's not even begging." Despite the lightness of his voice, he wasn't smiling.

The subject was moving on. He would leave it there. It wasn't worth an argument. Wasn't an argument to begin with.

"I slept and worked, and slept. Even slept under my bed. Isn't more restful than that." A lie for a lie sounded fair enough, even if it was laced with a little truth. Would Enoch even notice? Could he hear them, now?

Enoch: “Then sit in the sun with me tomorrow during lunch.” An indirect invitation as Enoch looked forward while they walked. It wasn’t an argument, but the apprentice could sense the disappointment from his mentor, or was it his own self-doubt echoing back at him? Enoch let his shoulders roll back with a sigh, turning to give Rune a side glance, realizing that he might be projecting.

“You lead such a luxurious life with all that rest.” He might not pick up on lies, but he was perceptive, and that was useful. “I missed your sullen attitude.” Rune would get a light bump to his shoulder.

Given everything they had already gone through, the trust was there, but the scholar still felt delicate, and by admitting this, he feared that he would be seen as weak. But he wanted to be honest. “I didn’t sleep. I couldn’t. I saw things in my awakening that I still can’t make sense of. So, I stayed up reading.

“Nothing’s come of it except exhaustion as you’ve witnessed.”

His hands came out of his pockets as he flexed them, thinking about his sphere. “It’s useful to tell time without a clock, but I thought I would be something else.” He noticed the graphite that clung to his skin, rubbing at it to fixate on something rather than the topic. Something felt restless inside of him.

Rune: A glance was given to his apprentice, offering only a nod of consent.

Projecting or not, none of Enoch's pending questions would be answered telepathically. His mentor couldn't even if he wanted to, even if he actually knew what he was thinking. As it stood, he had only the churning of his stomach to go by. What insanity was this that he had missed the feeling of his anxiety.

"I thought you would be something else. We are what we are for a reason." His head slowly tilted, coming back up with a sigh. Long ago he'd been told those very words. He had to believe them.

"You'll know eventually. We all do. I just thought... I just thought you would be more... elated. Magic is real. You're a part of it. But you look like a child seeing someone put dirty fingers in your birthday cake."

Enoch: To a degree, Enoch had ultimately convinced himself of the same. He was what he was for a reason, even if he didn’t know why.

“What?”

Surprised by the analogy, he turned to look at Rune, but in retrospect, his mentor wasn’t wrong.

“I am. Honestly, I really am.” Enoch’s words were sincere. However, the experience had been marred for reasons he hadn’t explained in full detail.

“I’m excited to learn and test what I’m capable of. Now is when your work begins.”

He looked at his hands, only having spread the graphite across more fingers. Oops.

“When do we begin?”

Rune: "The sooner the better. I will teach you a spell this moment if you'll only do as I say." One had already come to mind, one that took hours under Kraus' supervision to master, but neither of them were Cultist.

Now the question was, would Enoch follow through?

Enoch: Enoch’s steps slowed down when offered the chance to learn a spell just then. His curiosity was piqued. Of course, he’d be receptive to following the instructions.

“You’ll find that I’m a very good student.”

Rune: "I don't have a doubt." After everything experienced together, everything he had witnessed, he had no doubt.

Rune caged his fingers in front of his diaphragm. "You need to learn to breathe here. Be aware of your core. The pressure of your breathing, how your blood flows. Right here. You can tell time, but now you're going to perform a spell.

"You must look forward, shifting meditation from your core to your dominant eye." He gestured, "Your left eye. It's where you will see everything, wraiths, auras. You're looking for danger, signaled by a shift in color."

To demonstrate, Rune slowly closed his right eye, shifting slowly to his shoulder, uttering in a guttural whisper, "Zamran a fafen."

The streets were as busy as ever. Hardly anyone paid them any mind. A man stretching his shoulder and neck were nothing new. Drew little attention, but tugging Enoch against the wall caught a few gazes. The mage pointed to his right eye, the subtle hint of yellow in his sclera.

"Zamran a fafen," he enunciated. "Celestial speak. You won't find a more potent language for casting your magic. You're asking to be shown the way. Yellow is caution, red is danger."

Enoch: Without his bag, there would be no threat of the lesson being interrupted by the mage scribbling away. Though now, in hindsight, he thought about it, but it was too late, so he focused on the Rune’s words.

The apprentice nodded, indicating that he understood, cognizant of his breathing as he listened. Meditation wasn’t his strongest suit, but for this, he would try. The mention of wraiths and auras made the scholar question whether that was what he saw in those near misses throughout his day, seeing people there when they really weren’t. Were those…wraiths?

Enoch clung to the pronunciation of the Celestial words, nodding again in understanding as he felt something inside him anticipating his first spell. The blonde easily drifted against the wall, too focused on the lesson to pay mind to the uninvited looks they received at being so close. He watched as that shift happened in real time, noting the yellow tint in otherwise dark-colored hues.

Deep breath in, slow release out. He had to focus on his breathing and block out everything except the spell. But would the spell be useful for someone like Enoch, who didn’t lead an adventurous life unlike his mentor? “Zamran a fafen,” he tried the words aloud.

Rune: "When you master the spell, know what you're feeling, what you're begging for as easily as breathing, you won't need to say the words out loud. The thought will be enough. But always the motion. You're activating the spell; deactivation is the same."

So long as his apprentice meant the words, gave his intention willfully, he would see their path was clear. Across the street, blocked by construction signs and mounds of rubble, making way for a new tunnel for the London Underground, was marked yellow.

Enoch: Another nod. He understood. It would be as easy as breathing.

Deep breath in, slow release out. Again, this time, his shoulders relaxed as he focused on the spell. His intention on what he was asking for was to be shown a path as he whispered the celestial words.

Zamran a fafen.

Time was his element, and so, with his intention set, he tried again. His left eye closed, and the words were repeated in a whisper.

Zamran a fafen.

The power was not entirely his own, and he could feel Raine’s influence threading through it, a dark whisper at the back of his mind. Was he supposed to? But it felt so easy to cast. The sensation was both immediate and intense. It started as a cold, tingling feeling in his fingertips and spread like icy tendrils up his arms. It was as if he had plunged his hands into a frosty stream, the chill seeping into his bones.

But there it was, their path clear save for across the street where construction was underway. The rubble path was marked yellow, cautioning the scholar. Like Rune, his sclera reflected what he saw; there was that hint of yellow.

The longer he looked, the more he felt a weight pressing down on his shoulders, an invisible presence that was both comforting and oppressive. He knew it was Raine, lurking in the depths of his consciousness, watching.

 Ok. That was enough. He wanted to deactivate it.

Deep breath, same intention, but this time to turn it off.

Off.

The construction was still marked. Was he not doing it right?

He tried again. It wasn’t working.

Rune: Warmth seeped through that chill, but only just. Rune's hand upon his shoulder, he turned the professor to face him, raised his hand in time with his long, slow inhale, lowered for his equally lengthy exhale.

"This is your power. You're stronger than me, my friend. It's all right. You have nothing to fear." He would have rather been wrong, but fear and panic seemed to be crawling over Enoch's skin. He didn't understand why it was happening, but he would mollify. This was supposed to be Enoch's forte. Perhaps it was the sting of perfectionism.

Enoch: There was a different weight on his shoulder, a warmth that pulled him to face Rune as the mentor guided him. With a slow inhale and exhale, focused on deactivating the spell, this time, it worked, and his sclera returned to normal. When Enoch glanced at the construction site, it was no longer marked. Good. That sense of panic and fear would lessen as time passed, and he felt like he had been released from whatever that had been. It almost felt like he didn’t have control over his power. Maybe he had just gotten too worked up.

“First cast doesn’t always go smoothly, right?”

But he nodded, shaking off that feeling of uneasiness.

“I’ll practice until I get it.” He just needed to get the kinks out.

“You mentioned wraiths and auras earlier. Because…I think I have been seeing them. Or I’m very sleep-deprived.”

Rune: "I've been stuck in loops, skipped too far ahead, not enough. I've burned my arm and tripped on primal essence. You're going to make mistakes. Don't convince yourself you will be flawless. It's folly."

Enoch was guided back to the sidewalk, back on the path to Theo.

"Do you remember what you saw? Where you were, what you were doing?"

Enoch: “Stuck in loops?” Like multiple? “How did you get out?”

He understood what Rune was trying to get at as he joined his mentor to continue on their path to pick up the bear. “I know I won’t be perfect, but you still try, right?” He couldn’t shake off that unsettling feeling from his casting, a sense of something not quite right.

“It was at the library earlier today. I was picking up some books when I swore I saw something out of the corner of my eye, but when I looked there wasn’t anything.” And now, saying it aloud, he realized how foolish he sounded.

Enoch sighed as he lifted a hand to push his glasses up and rub at his eyes. “Ignore me. Now I’m positive I was seeing things that weren’t there.”

Better to change the subject. “So, what do you do when it goes red?”

Rune: There was a lot to unpack, but he would start in the order questions and statements were given. There would be more; a reminder that this was the path he had chosen.

"By pouring more primal energy into the spell, forcing myself back from the moment I initially cast and understanding why my mentor recommended me as a lighthouse keeper."

Rune raised his finger. "Let me answer everything, and you can give me more."

Onto the next question.

"Striving for perfection is how spells explode in your face. It's about the emotion and intent behind your power, and prioritizing what you need when you need it. If you have no Quintessence because you're flinging magic every hour of the day, you're going to put yourself in a dangerous situation."

Now, the final.

"I'll take a look when we're finished here. If you haven't figured it out yet, Enoch, I run to the red."

Enoch: Magic in equaled magic out. It made sense on a rudimentary level, but even as it was explained, the scholar couldn’t fathom it. He would have been dead in the water, so to speak. Rune was met with a nod, Enoch following along for now. He appreciated the thoroughness the other was going through to answer his questions, even the rhetorical ones.

“I-…” but he stopped himself with a faint smile and looked ahead, nodding. “Noted.” But part of him was curious to know what that threshold was. He had to learn what his limit was, in the name of knowledge, of course. He wouldn’t be shy to push himself that far, but only after he had mastered a few other spells first.

“So, is that what you saw at the inn and back with Diana?” The two instances he had to draw from, but it made sense. Run to red. Was this his duty now?

Rune: A hand was placed on Enoch's forearm, only to be removed as though hot to the touch.

"I'm a Euthanatos, you're not. You have to find your own path; it's not mine." Rather than sullen, his words were light. These were simply facts.

"I felt a change in air pressure. Static on my skin. Saw them both. If you're taking what I say literally."

Enoch: The touch to his forearm caused Enoch to glance over at Rune. Momentarily surprised by the answer to his unspoken question, then he remembered who he was talking to. Right.

“I thought I had that all sorted already.” He had followed in his mentor’s footsteps in research, but here he was having to do it all over again now that he was awakened. But what was the path he was supposed to take as a Cultist?

The answer wouldn’t come tonight.

“You should know by now, I do.”  Take things literally, that is.

“Do you know any other Cultists?” If so…what had they gone off to do?

Rune: "Seen them in passing." What could he explain? He'd already felt so much, as though their separation hadn't happened at all. The reason for him touching him, to begin with. He didn't want to push him away by being too personal.

"Don't worry about what they do, or what I do. You need to tell me, and... more importantly, yourself, what... what do you want to come of this."

Enoch: Rune had witnessed the most intimate and vulnerable moments of Enoch, which had replayed throughout the scholar’s day: the way his mentor held him and consoled him, the way he cried, and the confessions they shared. In a single night, all formalities had been shattered, and a mere touch would not be enough to push Enoch away.

However, the question that hung in the air left the professor deep in thought. What did he desire from this situation?

“There will come a time when you believe everything is finished. That will be the beginning,” Enoch began, quoting Louis L’Amour. "I never thought it would be like this." His eyes were fixed on the pavement, drifting closer to Rune as they passed a couple walking in the opposite direction.

“The man from the bar that night, the one that was the dean at one point,” Enoch vaguely gestured at the university building they were passing, “He was right when he said all academics are the same. We’re looking for some great truth that’ll change the world. I think that’s part of the answer.”

His hand went back into his pocket.

“I don’t think I really know what my purpose is, but does anyone truly?"

Blue eyes lifted to look at Rune, allowing himself to lightly shoulder bump his mentor, that familiar smile finally appearing as it tugged at the corner of his lips.

"How about you? Since you're set on making me self-reflect, why do you do what you do?”

Rune: Dark eyes glanced at the couple as they passed, looking forward once their path was clear. One more block, was it? Or two? They would continue until something looked familiar.

In the meantime, he nodded. The ghoul hadn't crossed his mind since that night, but the old bastard had some merit.

The smile was met with one of his own. Subtle, barely reaching his eyes, but it was true. Prompted both by Enoch and a memory.

"I've told you what I do." His hesitation was only to gather his thoughts, how to present them. "When I was a child, I saw things." Fingers wiggled in his peripheral. "My father... I'd already broken the house by screaming. He... He did... something. I don't remember. But, I remember being afraid. Afraid of what he would do if I told him there was more. That I saw things. I saw the Gauntlet thinned. Spirits, wraiths, the true face of demons. Just... glimpses. I was terrified. I told only one person. She was like a mother to me." That sentence... he would swear he'd said that exact sentence before. Hadn't he?

Deep breath.

"She told me not to tell anyone. And she told me to pray. Pray for the souls and that they find their way. I don't know why God gave this to me, but she gave me a purpose. Haven't found a better one."

Enoch: Enoch nodded. At least he was partially familiar with the story. It was how Rune had hooked him since the first day. How could that have only been a week ago? But Enoch listened, keeping his attention on the mage as they continued walking towards the shop. Reminded of how poorly Rune had been treated as a child by his father, along with the reason behind his scars, Enoch felt some of that bitterness growing for the man. It may have had to do something with his grandfather, too, based on his recently revealed memories.

But the story continued, and this was the first time Enoch heard more of it. Rune hadn’t initially mentioned another mother figure; the apprentice only knew that his biological mother had died at sea. He listened intently, taking note of the pause before his mentor continued.

“I’m glad you had someone like her in your life.”  It also helped explain where Rune’s religious beliefs stemmed from. “So, you pray for them and help guide them.” In all sense, the man was pursuing the purpose he was given, and that was something Enoch found himself quietly admiring.

“What was her name?”

Rune: "Danique." He didn't smile, but there was a fondness in his eyes. "I think I called her something else. So long ago now, I don't remember."

Fingers felt for the prayer beads hidden under his clothing.

"I help things that have overstayed their welcome." He had always preferred an explanation that encompassed the living and the dead.

Enoch: He turned to look at his mentor, watching as a look of fondness crossed his features as he was reminded of this woman. Enoch couldn’t help but wonder what had happened to her as he watched Rune’s fingers seek out his prayer beads.

"I never got to meet mine." They had that in common.

His gaze softened as he looked back toward the sidewalk. "Her name was Amelia." He knew little, but he had pictures his grandfather had shown him. Did Rune know anything about his mother?

Rune: A glance was given to the mage's blond hair. His smile softened, nodding to the shop across the street, having reached their destination.

"Look in the mirror, you'll see her."

He could say more, but there was no rush. Explaining the Deadspeak dance, summonings, and crossing over would all come in due time. There would come a night, someday, when the option to call out to Amelia would present itself, and it would not be his place to say whether he could or couldn't.

Getting Theo was relatively painless. Button eyes had been replaced with polished intricate brass. A crisp red and yellow bowtie made him quite handsome. The daisy had been cleaned and saved, as requested. The man had earned the other half of his payment and then some.

"You're going to accompany me back to Samantha?" he asked, the chime his only farewell.

Enoch: It was true; they shared similarities, at least from what he saw in the black-and-white photo he had of his parents. But the thought started and ended there with his mother’s name as they crossed the street to the shop. Enoch stood back, hands behind his back as he quietly wandered the shop, listening to the interaction and peering over Rune’s shoulder once Theo was rescued.

“Looks like a trip to the doctor was all he needed. He looks good as new,” he mused, reaching over to tug on his bowtie. He was fond of it for obvious reasons.

“Is that an invitation?”

Be it or not, Rune would find himself being followed by the scholar.

Rune: "Might have been cheaper to start fresh, stitch the daisy on a new Theo." But it wouldn't have been the same. Objects had their own energies and memories. If he concentrated all of his energy, he might see Theo's greatest witnessed memory, but Diana was already gone. There was nothing more to glean - nothing more he wanted to see.

"And you can detail what you've been seeing along the way - preferably after you flag us a cab."

Enoch: "I think it's better to have kept it this way." There was more history tied to old things. Things that had experienced history. It wouldn't feel as authentic otherwise, the scholar found himself thinking.

"You are a masochist, my friend. You enjoy being uncomfortable," he teased with a chuckle. He had taken notice of how discomforting car rides were for Rune.

"Have we really not come up with a better way of transportation?"

Portals maybe.

A hand went up to hail a can as they stopped at the corner of the sidewalk.

Rune: "I've lived in the time before automobiles, Enoch. You're living in, mm, your own luxury. I'm still partial to carriages."

No comment on masochism. Too close. Too... close.

"I'm not knocking on her door," he announced, taking a step back to better their chances.

Enoch: “Luxury? I rather think that I’m keeping up with the times.”

Things felt like they were falling back into place as their playful banter picked up again. Something that had been missing.

“All I’m saying, Mr. Rune, is that I wouldn’t be opposed to having walked there.”

 A car pulled up, and Enoch took his seat, giving the driver directions to the other side of town. It wouldn’t take them that long to get there compared to if they had gone on foot.

“Why? Last time, she didn’t care very much for me.”

But knock he did, a hand going up to his bow tie to subconsciously straighten it. Hopefully, the door wouldn’t be closed on their face this time.

Rune: The only English spoken had been to Theo's remaker. German was his nature with Enoch, and German would be whispered between them in the cab.

"We weren't welcome then, and we won't be welcome now. I'm not going to stand there and force her to face me and what I represent. I'm leaving Theo at the door and that's that."

Slowly but surely, Rune was assuming the position. That cramped fetal position.

"You're feeling guilty about something? Anxious?"

Enoch: At this point, it was natural for him to pick up the conversation in German anytime he was around Rune. He followed the other’s lead seamlessly as they transitioned back to German in the car.

“Fine, yes, but we should knock so he doesn’t get stranded outside.” How about if it rained? And a small part of Enoch was a little curious to see the response to seeing Theo.

“Hm?” His hand lowered from his neck, his gaze shifting to the curled-up Rune. Next time, he would insist on walking.

Anxious? Guilty? His attention shifted to watch London pass by.

“No.”

Untrue.

Rune: "Why do you lie to me? Haven't we been through enough this week?"

And yet, he glanced at Enoch in the dim light of the cab, a bit of mischief behind his eyes. He didn't have to say anything; he couldn't force the truth - not yet. Still a ways to go with mind magic.

Enoch: “You know…you make it impossible to be polite with you. I can’t say fine without actually meaning it.” There was amusement in this; he couldn’t give a generic answer because this man would always catch on. Annoying, but it kept the professor on his toes.

“If you must know,” he sighed, “I feel a little bad about the car ride, and I’m worried a bit about how Samantha will receive Theo.”

Rune: "Politeness is for family and ship captains."

Rune forced himself to sit up with a sigh, eyes closed.

"It was my idea, and are you afraid she'll put scissors to his fuzzy throat?"

Enoch: “Sometimes they’re not good ideas.”

Enoch grinned as he looked down at his lap and finally shook his head.

“No, not quite that. Just…

“I’m worried if it’ll cause more grief and pain rather than closure.”

Rune: "Why didn't you say this sooner? Or is all this because you want him for yourself?"

Enoch: Enoch looked up, surprised by this before he softly laughed, shaking his head.

“This would have been an elaborate ploy all for a stuffed bear. No, Theo is better with her. I just remember the way she looked at us when we spoke of Diana.”

Maybe he was looking for closure to the sister's story. Just then, an idea occurred to him to leave a note but...a pat to his pockets quickly informed the scholar that they had left their belongings in the lab.

Rune: "If you want to talk to her, then by all means, I won't stop you."

Eyes were forced open, just a crack, glancing first out the window before retreating to his apprentice's figure.

A safe place to look.

"I'd rather not know what happens. I don't deal in aftercare."

Enoch: Untrue.

The memories at the inn after Enoch’s awakening countered that statement.

“Now, who’s lying?”

But his gaze shifted over Rune’s shoulder as the car began to slow down as they approached the home.

“Fine, I’ll say hello.”

Rune: For once, the old mage was oblivious, looking at Enoch with a softly furrowed brow. Still, he said nothing, only quick to make his escape as soon as all four wheels came to a halt.

And he would argue with payment if Enoch dared bring forth his wallet.

"What are you going to say?"

Enoch: There would be a small argument as Enoch brought his wallet out, ready to pay, but was countered by the stubborn mage. Fine.

“It’ll come to me.” Hopefully.

He really should come up with something before knocking on the door.

“I thought you didn’t want to know.”

Rune: "I don't want to know about her." He preferred saying a lot with a little, but that was rarely the case with Enoch. His tongue wagged far too often with the scholar.

"Well, go on. Dazzle me."

Enoch: “Mhm.” Enoch reached over to talk hold of Theo since Rune had been carrying the bear since the shop.

“Prepare to be dazzled.”

Theo was squeezed a little as Enoch stepped up to the door and breathed out the nerves that had worked up in the short walk. Both bowties were straightened again before he reached out and tentatively knocked on the door.

Rune: Rune remained on the sidewalk, well away from the little gate and walkway to the front door. There was a creak and groan of wood from somewhere in the house, but no one had yet reached the door.

Rune didn't see this going well. He would have left the bear as a mysterious gift for her to contemplate, come to her own conclusion. His job wasn't about the alive and healthy.

But, perhaps this was the job Enoch wanted. Better the hopeful doe eyed apprentice than him.

He knew she was on the other side, staring through the peephole, weighing politeness in opening the door, or waiting for the pair to leave.

Eventually, the door opened just enough for Samantha to peek through.

Enoch: Had Enoch been a mind reader, he would have prodded the elder for having little faith in him. This interaction would go just as planned.

Enoch stood there, holding Theo, wondering how he had gotten to this point. It would have been fine if they knocked and ditched, but somehow, here he was, patiently waiting for someone to answer the door. His curiosity dictated his following words as it opened.

"Hello again. Apologies for stopping by so late, but I promise this won't take long, if I may."

He waited one beat before continuing, "My colleague and I-" Might as well throw Rune under the carriage, too. "-wanted to tell you that Diana was very happy to know you are well."

He paused before continuing.

"She has found peace and has moved on. And we...wanted to let you know and leave Theo with you and your new family if you'd like."

The little bear was held out, clean and pristine compared to his previous condition at the old childhood home.

Rune: Hands tucked into pockets, staring out to the other side of the street, listening to Enoch's story very few would believe. But there Samantha stood, one hand on the door, one hand on her belly, watching the two of them as though deformed. A misshapen truth she couldn't look away from.

"Theo?" She looked at the bear and back. The name meant nothing to her - at first. She had been but an infant during Diana's passing, but the name...

Yes, the name her mother had said. Diana and her Theo.

"That's..." The toy was taken, hand still secure to the door. "...You're too kind."

And the door was shut again.

Enoch: Enoch had mentally prepared that this would go south, much like it had gone so the first round and had been dragged away by his mentor, but thankfully, that wasn’t the case. He was able to speak his piece, even if he felt his words faltering based on how Samantha was looking at him.

He would have explained or given more context, but he knew his time was limited and her patience ran out. It seemed sufficient to get his point across because Theo was taken. A smile lit his features as he nodded in appreciation.

“Thank you for giving me the time,” he replied gently.

“I hope you have a lovely night.”

See? Successful mission!

Enoch turned from the door and walked down the entrance to join Rune.

 “Are you dazzled? Stunned even. I can tell by your shocked silence.”

Rune: A glance back to the shut door, and the silence beyond. Silence his right ear picked up, but he wasn't straining.

"That was for you," he confessed. "How did it feel?"

Enoch: Enoch glanced back over at Rune, weighing the question.

"Like we did good."

His hands slid into his pockets as he started walking. Clearly still stuck in his thoughts before he spoke again.

"I know not everything will get wrapped up nicely such as that, and when it's not the case, I can hold on to this."

Rune: There would be no suggesting a cab home, whoever's home. There were many miles to go, and he was curious how long it would take to tire Enoch out.

"Are you saying you want more of this?"

Enoch: Given how little sleep he had gotten the day before, it was debatable how long he would last on their walk home.

Enoch had taken to looking ahead of him, amused by the implication he had made, pointed out by the mage.

"Maybe.

"Biochemistry professor by day, ghost hunter by night."

He smiled tiredly.

"At least until I figure out what I want to do."

Rune: "Your purpose doesn't have to reflect mine." In fact, he would rather it didn't. "Do you think every man, woman, and child has decided their purpose? or desires one? Sometimes, they're burdens. You'll know what you want, eventually."

A little shoulder nudge of encouragement.

"Would my staying help you sleep?"

Enoch: "Fine, fine, I hear you. I'll return to my less-than-thrilling nights pouring over my books instead of delighting you with my company."

The mage had opened a door, and Enoch knew himself well enough to know he'd eventually grow restless.

"Eventually," he echoed as he swayed a little from the nudge.

The suggestion was considered, and while tempting, he wasn't sure to accept it. "Yes, but I should be alright. Thank you for the offer."

Tonight, he would get some sleep. Surely he would...

Rune: The sound of his scoff was taken by the ambiance of the city. The further they walked, the louder their world became.

"Yes, but no," he smirked.

"My room is small, but should you need me, even... knowing I'm nearby, you may come and find me."

And then he laughed.

"We should work on some correspondence. A messaging system between our rooms."

Enoch: A dark brow raised, looking at Rune, grinning at the sound of his laughter.

"I appreciate that, but are you really that concerned about me?"

And at the idea of setting up a line of communication,  Enoch wouldn't turn down the opportunity to learn more magic.

"What do you have in mind?"

Rune: "If you're comfortable with speaking to the dead, Then we have the option of a messenger. For emergencies, mind you. There is another spell, but requires a... certain mastery of the mind I haven't practiced. An acquired patience."

Enoch: "What does it entail?"

He would have to think about speaking to the dead, which reminded him of the silver ring still sitting on his nightstand. He probably should return that.

Rune: "The messenger? Requires knowing the name of the wraith. They're bound until their command is fulfilled."

A soft sigh later, "The other requires being at peace with your mind. Willing your thoughts to a place you can't see. Kraus would write letters and always place the envelopes between the same two books. He'd place them, and they would disappear, reappearing at his sister's library in Berlin. Three spells for the same purpose: communication."

Enoch: Interesting. He had many more questions about bound wraiths, but the sigh deterred him from asking any follow-up questions.

"I'm more partial to the second option. Easier to expect a letter appearing versus a ghost waiting at the foot of your bed."

Enoch momentarily was quiet as they continued to walk, noticing the business of London pick up the closer they got back to the university.

"Did Kraus teach you all that you know?"

Rune: The letter has been the third option, but either way, both of the alternatives required Correspondence magic, and he still had no idea what Enoch could do.

"Half of what I know. Mostly Time, Correspondence, and a better understanding of Entropy. I experienced Mind magic from a lover. Former lover." He didn't quite clear his throat, but their surroundings was suddenly engaging.

Enoch: Enoch wasn’t aware of what he was capable of yet. His awakening hadn’t been the most transparent when it came to his innate abilities, but he was willing to learn. He had already become proficient in teaching himself difficult subjects with his degree. This was just that but with more variables and risks. Hm.

Back to the conversation, the blonde nodded, having suspected that to be the case, but raised a brow at that last part, glancing at Rune. Oh, interesting.

“Yeah? Is that why I can’t get away with anything around you?

“What else did they teach you?”

Rune: "Nothing else. I learn as I go. Making trades with those I meet; a spell for a spell, for money, knowledge, items, time. I've told you about the Arcanum Society, but there are formal schools. One in Sweden, I think. Just stories."

That in mind, he looked at Enoch again.

"Does anything pull you? Time, yes, but... what are you craving?"

Enoch: “I was thinking on the Arcanum actually. It would be useful to get in touch with them.” After all, Rune had said that they were very much up Enoch’s alley.

He didn’t immediately respond to the question. What pulled him, and what was he craving?

“What do you mean?”

Rune: "Exactly what I say. What magic are you interested in?"

Enoch: He had understood the question differently but was glad he clarified. “Matter draws me in equally as much as time.”

Rune: "Tell me something you want to do."

Enoch: "Sleep."

A wry grin crossed his features.

Rune: If he was trying to elicit a sigh from his mentor, he succeeded, and a smack to the back of his head with no strength behind it.

Enoch: He was very much proud of himself, chuckling after he was smacked.

“Hey, you asked me what I wanted to do. I gave you an honest answer!”

He flashed a grin as he side-glanced his mentor. “I don’t think you’re supposed to badger your students.”

But back to the question, he had to think about it, looking back towards the sidewalk. What did he want to do? Enoch breathed out a sigh as shoulders lifted and fell.

“Maybe see into the future or slow down time? Both could be useful."

Rune: He didn't know why Enoch's smile brought him relief. The idea that something or someone could take it didn't sit well with him, and he wondered why he considered that at all.

"Is that what you think you're supposed to say, given your ability?"

Enoch: “Yes, but to be fair, I don’t have much else to go on.” The smile lingered on his lips before he continued.

“It’s like one of my professors said: you don’t know what you don’t know. But…”

He tilted his head back, staring up at the sky as he considered what he wanted, catching his lower lip between his teeth as he thought. But the longer he thought about it, the more he remembered the scenes from his awakening and his previous mentor. Mind magic would be helpful just to read people’s intentions.

“Maybe make things along the same lines of alchemy and transmutations.”

Rune: "I'm not asking what you already know, I'm asking what a child would want. What you imagined when you were little, pretending to be, I don't know, a prince with a dragon, or something. That's what children do, right?"

Realizing that he had to ask, decided to skip ahead of the question.

"Turning something into gold? Is that all alchemy is?"

Enoch: He looked back over at Rune, nodding slightly.

“Along those lines, yes. Initially, that was the thought: turn things into gold or discover the secret to everlasting life with a universal elixir. Little did we know it was gambling your literal life.” A little tongue-in-cheek moment for the scholar as he collected his thoughts. “But the idea of transforming one object into something else –how useful that would be? We would solve so many problems that way.”

Now, onto the next. “And to answer your question, as a child, I wanted to be an adventurer and explore every continent. I would draw it and hope my pictures would come to life one day. That’s how Raine came to be.”

That left Enoch to wonder, what did little Rune want to be? “How about you? Weren’t you a child once? What did you dream of?”

Rune: No longer did he wonder how much longer he would have to explain things. This role was nothing but words, both regurgitated by his own mentor and his own design. This was just another game he would not lose.

"Where there's a Tradition, there is a spell to accommodate that Tradition."

He knew in his heart of hearts that Enoch would backpedal to the previous mention. He now had to feel whether or not he would answer or brush it off.

"I didn't have dreams... like that."

Enoch: Enoch held onto that statement. Where there’s tradition, there’s a spell for it. He would press upon it, but he was keener on getting to know his mentor as much as he seemed interested in getting to know the apprentice.

“Then what did you dream of?”

Rune: That was about as much getting-to-know-you as he was willing to give. Too soon to dampen the mood between them and have Enoch go mucking about in the mire of his childhood.

"Tonight's not the night for that."

Enoch: Enoch looked at Rune, studying him for a moment before he nodded in agreement.

“Alright.”

He didn’t seem irritated or put off by this. Rune’s decision to share or withhold information was his own, and Enoch respected that. He didn’t owe the scholar anything. So, they would walk in the quiet as the noise of the city picked up.

But for only so long before Enoch’s curiosity got the best of him.

“So, is that the case with most, if not all, traditions?”

Rune: The silence was beginning to prick Rune's skin, akin to many tiny needles. Enough to scratch at his arm, though the feeling was prominent down his spine.

Not telling him this one bit of information felt like a betrayal.

"Having variants of the same intent?"

Enoch: "I meant spells to accommodate them. That's what you said, right?"

Rune: "That's what I just said, yes," he smirked.

Enoch: "Those were not the words you used," he grinned and reached out to push at Rune's shoulder.

Rune: "You're literate enough to read the intent." He pushed back with his hand.

"I wouldn't say every Tradition, but certainly if there is one way to cast a spell, there might be another."

Enoch: "Enough being the key word. I wear glasses for a reason." That's to say, sometimes things went over his head.

"Ok, so what I'm hearing is...I can turn things into gold if I really want to. Yeah?"

He chuckled at the reciprocated push, gently swaying from it.

Rune: "You can't just think it into existence, but yes, eventually you can. I believe in you." Not just empty words. The man already had a solid foundation, intelligence, and presumably patience. If Enoch set his mind to it, he could easily surpass in skill. Experience was another beast entirely.

Enoch: "I know that." Well sorta. Everything he had seen up to now had required something in exchange. Sometimes, it was clearer than others.

But the last part of Rune's statement made him go quiet. Sure, he had thought of a response but decided against sharing it. It was easier to skirt around it rather than acknowledge it.

"How are we not there yet?"

It seemed like they had been walking for a while now.

Rune: "This is what happens when we don't take a cab in London, friend. Lie in the bed we made."

One of those instances where he hadn't felt a thing, had no reason to question the silence in between. "If you're tired, we'll flag someone."

Enoch: "Nope, we're walking, even if you have to carry me."

It was amusing to see what things Enoch would double down on and be stubborn about. This was one of them.

Much like how he took the shot despite the foul taste it left in his mouth. He had a point to prove.

Rune: "Don't offer a challenge under the assumption that I won't."

Enoch: Rune was given a side-eye."You wouldn't. You would much rather leave me stranded than carry me."

Rune: His stop was abrupt, hands akimbo as he stared at his bold blond apprentice.

"In my arms or on my back?"

Enoch: Enoch had stopped as well to stare back at his mentor.

"..."

After a second of serious contemplation, he shook his head with a grin before he started walking again.

"I am not drunk enough for this."

Although, there was a brief pause before Rune got his answers.

"On your back, by the way. How else would I lead the charge?"

Rune: "Are you inebriated at all, and I've been fooled?" From his perspective, they seemed to be oscillating between absolute trust and camaraderie and reluctance, secrets. He'd lived many years and experienced many strange relationships, but this was quickly climbing the ladder.

"Challenge accepted, when those weak ankles give out."

Enoch: "No, that's exactly it. I'd have to be to let that happen."

The thought was amusing and painted a fun yet mortifying visual for the prim and proper professor.

His attention was back on the sidewalk.

Rune could be a friend. A good friend, and maybe that's where the waffling came from between trust and reluctance. Enoch was trying to find his footing between staying professional yet found himself constantly slipping more and more into that sense of comfort with the mage.

"You have a strange obsession with my ankles."

Rune: Hands returned to his pockets for warmth, staring forward the same, biting his cheek to keep himself steady. Were they sharing thoughts tonight? Felt like it.

"Do I? I'm not aware. I haven't seen them."

Enoch: “It would not be proper of me just to show you.” Scandalous!

Of course, this was more teasing from the professor. Besides, he was wearing tan leather ankle boots.

Rune: His smile was more earnest, now, and a struggle to subdue. "Enough to make a prostitute blush."

Enoch: Amusement danced in those blue eyes as he looked at Rune. He found himself liking the way the mage smiled.

“Exactly, I can’t have you thinking indecently of me.”

He looked at those dark locks, having half the mind to gently tug on them much like he had done the other night, but refrained from it.

"So, what else are you going to teach me tonight?"

Rune: Now he sighed, staring at the sky and the group of people across the street arguing over where to go next.

"If my ship were still in port, I'd bring you to meet an oracle. She's someone to... map out the makeup of your magic, your history, your fortune. As of now, we're speculating." He still wanted to give it some thought, but by saying so, he felt made him appear weak as a mentor. "I want to try something, the next time we're properly alone."

Enoch: “See, that would be most useful. We’d have a clear idea of what I’m capable of and could go from there.”

Enoch wouldn’t have thought Rune weak because he wanted more time to think things over. He was doing very well, given his relentlessly curious student.

The group was given a look, picking up a bit on their argument before his attention shifted back to his mentor.

“What are you thinking?”

Rune: "There's a spell, for feeling curses, blessings, and... I'm betting I might manipulate it enough to read what you're capable of. It's not a sure thing, but it's a start."

Enoch: “That is a start.” He was willing to give this a try.

“Did you want to do this tonight?” Though sleep probably would be better. In all honesty, the professor wasn’t quite sure how successful he’d be. So why not indulge this?

“What do you need for it?”

Rune: "Will you despise me if I say your blood?"

Enoch: “No. I should have known you’d be getting back at me for that first night.”

A small smile tugged at the corner of his lips as he glanced at Rune.

“We can do it at the lab once we get back or at my place.”

Rune: In truth, he only needed meditation and a bit of saliva, but his gut told him Enoch would be more receptive to blood, which would suffice.

A strange world they lived in. He'd rather not question it.

"Your place. Your lab is... a lab. Quintessence is tricky in those places."

Enoch: His head gently tilted to the side. “Why is that?”

Rune: "Places where science and magic clash. Typically. It didn't feel as stifling in your laboratory. We know why."

Enoch: “Ah, but didn’t you say science works because people believe in it like magic?

“But if it makes it easier, then my place it is.”

They still needed to pick up their things from his lab though. Surely, it wouldn’t be too much longer now.

Rune: "Which is why I say typically. People who believe in science have an aversion to magic. Makes casting a thorn in my heel."

They had miles to go, and if Enoch wanted to spend them in silence, it would be a pleasant and consensual peace.

Enoch: “How many scientists have you come across?” However, realizing that they were still quite a bit away, a cab started to sound like a good idea.

Rune: "Jealous I know more than one? Don't worry, you're my favorite." The city was bustling, despite the hour. The acrid scent of gasoline and cigarettes, the bakery two blocks away, and the fish market well beyond their view. He considered again their route home, and smiled.

"Are we going the right direction?"

Enoch: Furrowed brows relaxed at the unexpected question, Rune earning a smile from the man as he looked over at him. “That was not what I was implying, good sir.”

Spotting the bakery up ahead, Enoch nodded to it. Might as well make a slight detour since they were taking the scenic route.

“I’m just curious how many others you entice with the promise of changing their world. Does it always work so well?”

That smile didn’t diminish as he looked back in the direction they were walking.

“I…think so.” There was hesitation in his voice as he looked behind and back.

“Maybe we should consider a cab.”

Rune: "Entice? Is that what I did?"

Some food in his stomach wouldn't hurt. He couldn't remember the taste of his last meal.

"Enoch, you're my first, and the possibility of you being my only will be judged by the end of next year. I've never had to care about anyone other than the sailor to my left and right." That was about as much confession as he was willing to give. Still felt too much.

"If you insist I don't carry you," he smirked.

Enoch: The only one? That would not do. What about the pursuit of knowledge?

“I can’t be the only one! I mean, your teaching methods can use a little help…But that’s not to say you haven’t done good.”

While it was fun to prod at the older mage, Enoch did mean his words. Rune had taken a chance, and for that, he was grateful.

“Besides, isn’t it nice to make friends outside of your shipmates?” He had picked up on that confession.

“Mm, I absolutely insist,” he replied as he moved to open the door for his mentor. They had finally arrived at the bakery.

Rune: "Beg pardon?" He knew his methods were junkyard scraps of every experience before London, but to hear from his own apprentice might as well have been another needle in his arm.

"I've yet to decide," he frowned.

The bakery could have been from any city in any country. The sweet and savory scents were both familiar and overwhelming. All trace of London's general pollution was left on the other side of the glass door. If nothing else, the bakery had its atmosphere in its favor.

"What are those little cakes I've been seeing since arriving here?"

Enoch: Oh. Oh no, had he taken it seriously? Enoch hadn’t meant it seriously.

“Rune. Rune, I’m just teasing. Please, don’t look so concerned. It doesn’t suit you.” Enoch playfully nudged the older mage, that glint returning to his light eyes. “I just have more questions that a book can probably answer.”

Inside the bakery, the air was filled with the sweet aroma of freshly baked pastries and the comforting scent of tea, providing a delightful respite from the bustling streets of London. Enoch's attention was immediately drawn to the array of delicacies displayed behind the glass counter.

“Do you mean the pasties? Or the…” He looked at the display case, pointing out the lemon and elderberry small cakes. “Those? They’re my absolute favorite.” It would eventually become apparent that the professor had a sweet tooth.

Rune: The blond was given a nice long stare. This wasn't a mistake. Nothing about Enoch was a mistake. He pushed the thought aside.

"Or one person," he concluded.

The subject pushed aside, A sharp finger poked at the glass.

"I'll have one." He didn't know what that was on top, but it was shiny, and Enoch said it was his favorite. He was inclined to try.

Enoch: A dark brow arched at Rune’s conclusion. Was he proposing that he could answer all of Enoch’s questions? The thought amused him as they entered the shop, but he wouldn’t pursue the subject.

“Two, please,” Enoch said from behind Rune, holding up two fingers to the attendant.

“And tea for me…” his voice trailed off as he glanced at Rune. Would he like one too?

Either way, Enoch moved to pay for the treats and drinks before the mage could complain.

And as they waited, he turned his attention back to his mentor.

“What’s your favorite dish?”

Rune: Rune glanced back, and despite his instinct to protest, held his tongue. He would get the next, he decided, and would shove Enoch from the cash register if he had to.

Allowing someone to pay for him was a relatively new phenomenon as well. New since, London.

The scholar was getting under his skin at every turn. Was this typical of mentor and mentee?

Sinking too deeply in his memories, the image of Kraus was shaken from his head. His sigh soft and deep.

"Favorite what?"

Enoch: He half expected Rune to protest, but the peanut gallery remained silent. Good.

Still, brief power struggles were inevitable in their future. For example, he made the executive decision to order two teas, even if Rune didn’t drink his, so therefore he’d foot the bill.

“What is your favorite dish to eat?” Enoch repeated gently, noticing that moment of disconnect within the mage.

Rune: The Euthanatos was struggling to navigate back from his memories. Enoch's voice made for a solid anchor. Better still, a mooring line.

"Um, pickled herring and boiled potatoes."

Enoch: “That's very Dutch of you." There was a shadow of a smile there, but Rune's disconnect gave him pause. There was a moment of hesitation before he asked the question that lingered on his lips.

"Is everything alright?”

His hand landed on the side of Rune’s arm, his gaze trained on him. Their order was called but momentarily ignored in favor of his mentor.

Rune: The hand on his arm was largely ignored, if only for Enoch's sake. The less attention drawn to them the better. Ignored again to take their order. The lingering stare from the stiff man behind the counter might as well have been a smile.

"As if German food is any better." He smacked the professor's chest with the back of his hand, making a beeline for the door.

Enoch: "Ah, it can be!"

His hand fell away as Rune moved to take the order, reflexively wincing at the smack, although it didn't hurt. The blonde reached over to steal one of the drinks away from him.

"There's a variety of things." Ask him what, and he'd be at a loss since Enoch was through and through an Englishman. He had only visited Germany a few times but never lived there.

The shopkeeper was given a slight wave as Enoch held the door open for Rune, sipping his tea. They were met with the busy streets of London, continuing their long walk back home.

"You never answered my question."

Like a dog with a bone, Enoch wouldn't let go.

Rune: "Which one? You ask so many." The deadpan of his voice was all an act. One that usually fooled others, but so far, made little effect on his apprentice.

His tea was sniffed. Sampled just enough to coat his tongue.

"One of the finer inventions," he raised his wax-coated paper cup. "Flushable toilets, refrigerators, opium, and paper cups. By all means, tell me automobiles and radio."

Enoch: Enoch gave him a skeptical look, furrowing his brow. He sighed and decided to drop the subject, taking another sip of his drink. The herbal tea was naturally sweet from the leaves, unlike his usual English morning brew, which needed milk or sugar. This didn't.

As they walked, the blond reached over to take one of the packaged-up cakes and bit into it. Enoch silently listened and only spoke after swallowing.

“They each have their place, and yet there is more to come,” he said, reflecting on the promising whispers he had heard about upcoming engineers and their inventions.

"I don't think opium was 'invented'. Refined, sure, I'll give you that."

Rune: The world around them was bustling. A good word for a city like this, but the noise was mere background when Enoch spoke. The same feeling the night he had called to him, chasing after him in the hopes of a proper conversation. Over a week ago. No, couldn't be.

"Aspirin comes from a tree, but the pill was invented." The scholar dished out enough sass, it was nice being able to dish some of his own.

Enoch: Rune was given a look. He would refuse to say that he was right. It would go to his head. The audacity of this smug man.

“Eat your cake.”

He’d hide his smile behind another much needed sip of his tea.

Rune: A smile reflected in Rune's, hidden behind his chewing. He could call whatever this was even.

"Have you had it? Opium."

Enoch: “Me? Opium. Does it seem I have?”

Flattering that Rune thought the professor to be adventurous, but he was exactly as he saw him. His life was as mundane as it could get, except recent developments suggested otherwise.

He shook his head before taking a bite of his treat.

“No.” It was muffled by his bite.

Rune: "Yes." Enoch was given a look. "A man who asks strangers about magic and miracles. A man wanting to see beyond. Of course I considered it."

Enoch: "Touché. And just so that we are clear, I was following up on a strange anomaly. You could have chosen to ignore me." Rune was given a side glance. Of course, Enoch was glad he hadn't.

"What do you think of it?"

He gestured to the empty wrapper his small cake had come in, crumpling it up to toss in the next trash bin they came across.

Rune: Rune looked ahead, debating whether or not he should say the first statement that came to mind. He decided to keep it to himself.

I couldn't ignore you if I tried.

"It's sweeter than I'm accustomed." A pause. "I like it."

Enoch: At first, it didn’t sound like it was going to end on a positive note, so the scholar was glad he was wrong.

“Good, there’s hope for you yet.”

Another sip of his tea and silent contemplation.

They still had quite a bit to go, and the exhaustion was catching up to him. He was hoping the sugar would give him some energy soon…

“How serious were you about carrying me?”

Rune: There were times he wondered if his brow might become cramped in a high position. Enoch was entirely to blame.

That's right, he remembered, Enoch had hardly slept.

"You'd receive more sympathy for me with a broken ankle. Want I should flag down a cab?"

Enoch: Enoch glanced when his ankle was brought up.

“Too much trouble to go and break it.”

They would get there faster at this rate if they took a cab, and that meant the sooner he could try to sleep.

“Yes, please.”

Rune: What remained of his food was shoved in his mouth. He wasn't for eating carefully. Never had been except in the presence of his father. Perhaps it was rebellion spanning all these years, but who cared.

Flagging down a cab wasn't as swift as Enoch, but after a third attempt, one particularly loud vehicle came to a clanking stop.

Rune would rather chew rubber, but there he was, leaning into the window, asking for the vague direction of his pub.

Enoch: Enoch watched as the car came to a rolling stop, not convinced by the loud clanking of this one. Hopefully, it wouldn’t fall apart on their drive to the pub.

The professor stood back, savoring the last few sips of his tea before it got tossed, and if Rune were able to convince the driver, he’d get in, glancing at the mage with a slight smile on his lips.

“I appreciate your willingness to suffer for my comfort.”

Rune: "Do me a favor," he whispered, still in German, "don't talk to me during this hell ride."

The foreign language had the driver glancing back in surprise. He had suspected foreign, but not that.

"Not from around here?" was an attempt at small talk.

"What gave me away?"

Enoch: Enoch nodded, abiding without a fight as he settled into his seat. Rune already looked pale—poor man. Thankfully, their ride back to the pub would be shorter by car, but that still left the matter of getting back to the lab to collect their things.

More walking.

The professor looked away from the window, back to his companion and the cabby driver. He doubted Rune was in the mood to talk, so he’d wait for a pause before interjecting.

“Has it been a busy night for you, Sir?”

Rune: The cabby was much better off chatting pleasantries with Enoch, lest he find himself sniped by throwaway insults.

By the time they arrived, he was back in his usual position, forehead to his knees. Though he would make no swear unto God, he promised himself to acclimate to his fear.

Eventually.

If he had to slap Enoch's hand to pay, he would. Anything to swiftly earn their privacy. He had questions that needed answering.

"Are we doing spells first, or sleep? I know you're tired."

Enoch: He’d gladly do this for Rune. Between snippets of conversation, he’d glance down at the mage, brows furrowing with concern at his declining state. For the briefest moments, hidden away from the cabby, Enoch allowed himself a sympathetic touch on Rune’s shoulder.  He was there for the mage.

Of course, Enoch reached to pay but was met with a slap to his hand that caused him to jerk away.

“Tch, ow. Rude.” It hadn’t hurt, but it surprised him.

Rune earned a short-lived frown as they started walking again, this time back to the lab to get their things.

“Spells.” Though he wasn’t sure how well he would fair or last until fatigue caught up with him. He wasn't looking forward to sleeping and having those dreams come back.

“Do you like ginger?”

Rune: Rune stared at nothing for a time, walking with a kind of dazed look behind dark eyes, and then he laughed, brief and just a bit fatigued.

"Forgive me. I thought - I thought you were asking about - nothing. Yes, sure. Ginger."

Enoch: They were back to their familiar stretch of town, and Enoch didn’t have to worry as much. He could navigate this part of London with his eyes closed. Which…sounded tempting.

“Hm?”

His eyes had closed for the moment, a smile crept on his lips hearing Rune’s laugh.

“What did you think I was asking about?“

He opened one eye, ready to judge his mentor for his answer.

Rune: "Don't be daft, you know what I thought." His hand was ready to swat should he find himself on the palm-end of a retaliation.

Enoch: There it was. Anything less than wholesome, and Rune was getting smacked.

“Rune!” But he laughed as his hand was swatted away, eyeing the other as they walked towards the lab.

“And here I was with my infinite kindness to offer you the ginger chews I got.”

It was a purchase he hadn’t thought much about while at the shop the other day. It had flitted across his mind that perhaps the motion of cars made Rune feel sick, and ginger would help with nausea. Either way, Rune would be gifted the small bag of candies by the end of tonight.

Keys jingled, and the lab door was held open for the mage to step inside, Enoch following after, flicking the lights on.

“Did you want to do it at my place or yours?”

Rune: "Can't say I've had one." But the intent behind the offer was sincerely Enoch, and appreciated. There was no need to explain.

The laboratory was becoming his second home, was a flitting thought of his own as he stepped through the threshold.

"Your phrasing," muttered the mage sotto voce.

"You can scarcely walk with your eyes open, professor. I have half a mind to actually carry you home."

Enoch: Enoch was so tired he didn’t initially realize how he had worded that last question until it was pointed out.

 “Y-you know what I meant…”

The young mage shuffled in to grab his satchel, bringing the strap over his shoulder as he turned to stare at the other.

“I’m fine.”

He was most certainly not fine.

“Besides, my ankles are still functioning.”

One quick look around the lab to make sure everything was in order before he was ready to head back out.

Rune: An executive decision needed to be made. Not only as his mentor but as a friend. He wondered if Enoch viewed him as such, or simply an acquaintance. After everything they had been through, he still didn't know.

"Spells tomorrow. Sleep tonight. I'll walk you home. My offer to stay still stands. Better than you're standing."

Enoch: "I..."

He started to argue but thought better of it. His mentor was right; sleep was needed, but that meant revisiting those dreams.

"I'm sure I'm due for a second...or third wind at any moment."

Maybe coffee was in order.

But he'd agree to be walked home.

"Thank you," he said a little softer as he brushed past Rune on the way out to lock up behind them. It wasn't an answer. He debated whether he should let the man crash on his couch again. Maybe knowing he had company, it wouldn't happen tonight?

Rune: Satchel to his shoulders, the laboratory was given a parting look. He still wasn't certain how he felt about the room. There was Quintessence, juxtapose and rivaling the very essence that held magic back.

But it was also Enoch's second home, the first private place that belonged to him, there was meaning in these walls, and it was special.

"Don't thank me until you've properly slept. Actually," he sighed, adjusting the strap he grasped, "I have a spell to help you sleep. I'll need chalk."

Enoch: Rune had pinned it right. The lab was Enoch’s second home. If he wasn’t at his flat, it was here, and if not here, then at his office, which the mage had not visited yet.

“I can thank you for making sure I get home safely, and I’m not kidnapped off the streets of London,” he teased as they started walking back toward his apartment.

At least he still had a spell to look forward to tonight, though he couldn't help but wonder what the chalk would be used for. Another sigil, perhaps?

“Anytime I close my eyes, I see my awakening.”

His gaze had dropped to the sidewalk as he spoke.

“The more I reflect on it, the more it feels like a ritual than anything else. The things I saw Rune…”

Rune: A glance back to the lab. He half expected to see the door still open. Something felt off, and then he realized it wasn't a forgotten locked door, but the man beside him. He tried to study his face without appearing obvious, and without crashing into a lamp post.

"If I find Clarissa behind the curtain again, I'll inquire of her awakening. Will that ease your mind?"

Enoch: Furrowed brows eased, his expression returning to a more neutral one as he glanced over at Rune with a shake of his head.

“You said everyone’s experience is different. I wasn’t expecting this as mine.”

He worried too much was his conclusion.

“No, but thank you. I’m overthinking it. Forget I mentioned it,” he smiled, but it didn’t reach his eyes this time.

Clarissa. That was her name, Enoch concluded. She was the witch from the late card game just before his awakening.

Symmetrical.

An internal groan caused him outwardly to rub at the bridge of his nose before pushing his glasses up. No more drinking around Rune. It was dangerous.

Rune: "Nor I," he sighed. Seemed the awakening itself was getting in the way of progress. A thought that was immediately pushed aside. It was awkward and considered with haste. Enoch had panicked over a simple safety spell. He was a new mage who was seeing the world through fresh eyes and little sleep.

Only a day. They needed more time, and he needed patience.

"You're one more eye rub away from being carried."

Enoch: Surprised, the professor glanced at Rune, the offer to be carried back on the table. It amused him as he shook his head. Good, he hadn’t picked up on his thoughts or was doing a good job ignoring them.

“You’re not carrying me. I’m calling your bluff.”

Not that he was actually looking to be carried back up to his flat.

Luckily for them, Enoch didn’t live too far away from his lab. They were just a few blocks away.

Rune: "Don't you dare. You've forgotten what I am."

He was in front of the scholar now, waiting for Enoch to notice his slowed pace coming to a halt. Once he had his attention he turned, dropping to a knee.

"Bet."

Enoch: Enoch’s footsteps slowed as Rune moved in front of him, staring at his mentor. And much to his chagrin, the other dropped to his knee to invite the scholar to hop on.

“I have forgotten how ridiculous you are.”

Instead of the professor climbing on, he leaned forward and took advantage of the fact that Rune wasn’t looking in his direction. He grabbed hold of a few of those dark strands and gave them a playful tug.

“Get up, I’m just up there.”

Rune: There were certain things in life one came to expect. And then there were surprises, both pleasant and revolting. What surprise Enoch's fingers were, was his secret. But one truth was certain, such a little thing had arrested Rune's tongue.

What remained of their walk was in silence. Hands in pockets, staring out at nothing. A calm had washed over the mage's features.

"Am I invited in?" were forced words to fill the void. He already knew the answer.

Enoch: He was surprised at the softness of those dark strands and found himself considering how it would feel if he pushed them back, a thought that was quickly dismissed because that was less than appropriate to think of regarding his mentor.

The professor, intending the gesture as a playful way to retaliate against the other, was surprised by the mage's quiet reaction. The silence between them as they walked back to his apartment was palpable. Was he offended by this? Either way, he wouldn’t get an answer until Rune broke the silence.

“How else are you going to do your spell?”

Of course, Rune was invited in. Enoch gestured, holding the door open to enter the building, and led him up the stairs to his flat.

Rune: "Mm," was all he gave, slipping past the open door and continuing at a slower pace, waiting for Enoch to catch up.

"I think I have my chalk," he said to himself. After all, he had just performed the same spell hours before.

"You should make friends with Clarissa," he decided.

Enoch: If needed, Enoch was sure to have some chalk, too, somewhere squirreled away at his desk amongst his supplies.

Make friends with Clarissa?

The mage was given a look as he worked on unlocking and opening his door.

“Not to sound rude, but…why?”

Sure, they had met at that game before his awakening, but she seemed indifferent towards Enoch.

Rune: "I learned from more than my mentor and so will you. If you stick to just me you're going to isolate yourself and then where will we be?" Rune smirked, adding, "I won't get jealous."

Enoch: "Promise?" He teased as he stepped into his living room.

He slipped out of shoes, leaving them by the door as he padded to his desk to drop off the satchel by his desk.

"See, I made it on my own two feet," he continued as he turned to look at Rune with a grin.

And now, within the comfort of his home, he'd start shedding the more formal parts of his outfit. Off came the jacket to get hung, cuffs were undone, and the same with the little bowtie he had been wearing.

Rune: Only a hum was elicited from his prompt, looking at Enoch's shoe placement and begrudgingly removing his own. Personal preference or custom he didn't yet know, but it reminded him of a woman in Japan, thus leaving a terrible taste in his mouth.

Shoes were off, but his coat remained. Shared feelings and thoughts were... vague. Perhaps it was best he remained prepared for the door.

But in the meantime, it was straight to Enoch's bed, fishing through his satchel for chalk, dropping his bag without ceremony and dropping to his knees, wiggling underneath the bed frame.

Enoch: Had Rune asked, it was habit. His grandfather impressed upon young Enoch after one evening he had accidentally trekked in mud from being outside, chasing frogs. He wouldn’t be forgetting it anytime soon.

The professor slowly followed Rune to his bedroom. It was as simple as could be. A bed, a nightstand, an armoire for his clothes, and a small dresser. Unsurprisingly, there was a stack of books on his nightstand to be read.

“So what are you doing?”

Enoch leaned against the doorframe, arms crossing his chest as he tipped his head to rest against the wooden frame. The corner of his lips curved up as he watched Rune get on his knees and partially disappear under his bedframe.

Rune: "A sigil," as Enoch had predicted. Gentle tapping underneath the bed was followed by silence, followed by a hum.

"Lay as you normally would," he instructed, thumping his fist against the bed frame as a means of encouragement.

The spell wasn't quite finished, but Enoch would know the moment it was; he wanted to witness the moment his apprentice would be washed over with a sense of calm akin to a cool breeze at the start of autumn.

"Tell me when you feel something."

Enoch: Aha, he was correct!

He didn’t know how involved the spell would be but was surprised when he was instructed to lie down.

There was a moment of debate as he looked back down the hall. He’d take a shower in the morning, then. His gaze drifted back to watch what he could of the mage under the oak frame.

“Trying to get me in bed already? I still need to change and set things up for you.”

There was the invitation.

Enoch pushed off the door frame, and as he passed Rune, headed towards the armoire, he nudged his foot with a tired grin.

“Do you need something to change into?”

The deep brown wood doors opened with a creek as Enoch dug inside, pulling out an extra blanket and pillow for the lounge in his small living room.

Rune: That sigh underneath the bed was nothing short and nothing short of exasperated. Dark eyes peeked from the darkness, fingers drumming on the hardwood floor.

"Enoch Alastor Neumann," he called. "I do not need anything but you on this bed to test this spell. Get your vexing ass over here and do as you're told."

Enoch: “…”

The full use of his name made Enoch look over his shoulder. It only got used when he was in trouble! And it had been ages since that had happened.

Rune wouldn’t get an immediate response as the blanket and pillow were carried over to his dresser. There, he would leave his tie and cuff links, undoing the buttons of his vest followed by his shirt before begrudgingly going over to the bed.

“Yes, sir,” he muttered as he sank on the edge before getting into it properly.

Laying there, he turned to his side to peer at Rune. Well, what he could see of him.

“Now what?”

Rune: Still taking his sweet time, it seemed. He wasn't demanding this man to sleep, only to aid in a rather simple spell.

Why did it feel like Enoch was avoiding him?

By the time his host turned, skin peaking behind his loosened button-down, Rune was doing nothing but staring. One might say admiring. Enoch's nudity hadn't been a thought the night of his awakening. Nothing more than a fact, like the skip of his heartbeat, and the gooseflesh and shivers.

But now, now he was looking. Really looking. And grateful when he no longer could.

"Now you relax. Lay as you normally would. The spell will make you feel both heavy and weightless, your mind... pleasant."

More tapping under the bed. "I'm going to prescribe another spell for dream focus. It's a good place to sort your magic and your thoughts."

What was the word? "Lucid dreaming."

Enoch: Maybe it felt that way because Enoch was actively not fond of the idea of sleeping. He didn’t want to close his eyes. He didn’t want to dream.

But eventually, his eyes would become heavy, and he couldn’t fight the mage any longer on this without upsetting him.

“Alright.” He agreed, rolling onto his back, arm draped across his abdomen as he settled against the pillow, staring at the ceiling. Freckled skin peeking through the slit of his unbuttoned shirt for Rune to continue admiring, unbeknown to Enoch.

The professor took a few slow, deep breaths, forcing himself to relax his shoulders and unclench his jaw. But that word, prescribe, made him smile, turning his head to look at Rune.

“I’m familiar with the concept, doctor, but can’t say I’ve done it.”

Rune: There would be no admiring anything else for the time being. The space beneath the bed was his, accompanied by nothing more than wood, chalk, and dust bunnies.

"You will tonight." Casual confidence rearing its head again, having been better acquainted with the dream spell for much longer than the sleep sigil, to the point of no longer requiring the former.

"How do you feel?"

Enoch: Enoch rested his head against the pillow, staring at the ceiling as he considered the other’s question.

That confidence amused the scholar, his eyes finally closing as he felt that heaviness overtaking him, a calm that washed over him and stilled his thoughts. Maybe it was the spell, or maybe it was the fatigue and exhaustion catching up with him.

“Like I’m talking to you from under my bed.”

Silence as he waited for a beat before continuing.

“Tired but calm. I think it’s working. It’s finally quiet...”

Rune: At last, shifting and scraping from under the bed. There he squatted, fingers curling into the sheets as he readjusted, eventually crossing his arms, chin resting in the nest between them.

"Have I told you about Demesne?"

Enoch: “I don’t think so. What is it?”

Rune sounded closer. He must have gotten out from underneath the bed. But he was too tired to open his eyes to confirm his suspicions. That heaviness was weighing him down.

Rune: "Demesne is the place you go that is yours. Dreams are different every night, but this place is your sanctuary. A retreat in your mind to reflect, meditate, and practice. It's every bit as real as you and me. Some realms... Some realms you can't enter by tearing into the fabric of reality. Some realms are doors in your mind. Astral realms. Doesn't matter. Try to make this place in your dreams tonight. Brick by brick."

Enoch: “You’re saying I’ll have to build it?”

Dark brows scrunched slightly as he tried to follow along.

“This sounds very similar to the memory place technique.”

He took a breath, willing his eyes to open. This needed some focus to explain. He couldn’t do that while lying there with his eyes closed. Enoch shifted onto his side, tucking an arm under his head as he looked over at Rune. He hadn’t bothered to remove his glasses yet.

“It’s a memorization strategy based on visualization of someplace that’s familiar, and it helps you recall information. That’s how I remember things. Can these both be one and the same?”

Rune: "Sometimes sleepers get it right." The temptation to reach out and pinch the bridge of his glasses was too great. Gently the spectacles were pulled away and neatly folded.

"So, you already have one. Describe to me."

Enoch: "It wouldn't surprise you if I told you it was a library, right?"

He leaned against his arm, lazily watching Rune until his glasses were sequestered by the mage. Typically he would have said something, but Rune got away with this small act.

The world went fuzzy, and he couldn't make out the finer details that made up his mentors face, so might as well close them.

"Well, it's the library on campus where I spent most of my time studying."

He paused as he focused on the details of his demesne. "It's a tall building with different floors depending on your subject. Rows upon rows of towering bookshelves stretch across them, each one organized by specialty. You can pick up on the subtle scent of aged paper and leather bindings. The shelves are crafted from rich, dark oak, polished to a sheen, their edges worn smooth by the countless hands that have brushed against them."

"And as you walk through the aisles," Enoch continued, his eyes still closed, "you can hear the soft rustle of pages and faint whispers. Their spines are inscribed with gold leaf titles, some in languages I don't understand, others in familiar script."

Rune: "No," he smiled, glasses left beside his pillow.

He hadn't expected his explanation to stretch poetically. Little reminders here and there told the story of an artist behind all of the science. Rune couldn't say he had an artistic bone in his body. Shanties about a pirate ship were a necessity. Spells were indifferent to a broken voice. And sigils? That wasn't art. If anything, they were viewed more like mathematical equations.

So to sit there, leaning against Enoch's mattress, listening to him describe his demesne as one would scenery from a well-crafted novel, impressed him. It was a kind of lullaby.

"Woonschepen," he finally said. "Mine, it's a... a houseboat. I saw them as a child, and I made one for myself." Fingers tapped to his temple, whether Enoch opened his eyes or not.

"The inside is larger than it seems on the outside. Red, white, and black stripes along the hull. Steel and wood and little white lights on the bow and stern. Below deck... looks a lot like my childhood home. My real home. The woman that helped raise me, if not for my demesne, I wouldn't have the details. The fireplace with chipped stone, the table with... a bottle of genever."

The pause was for reflection, and to swallow.

"The windows are all wrong. Portholes, all of them."

Enoch: It was easy to get lost in this version of the library Enoch had built. It brought a sense of comfort, somewhere he could leave his knowledge and find it in the right volume when he needed to call upon it. This was somewhere he could retreat when the world became too much for the overly anxious scholar.

As he spoke, he imagined himself walking through the aisles, his fingers lightly grazing the spines of the books. But the vivid scene began to dissolve as Rune spoke, and Enoch's eyes opened to listen.

Rune’s demesne made him smile. Of course—a houseboat. The sailor and the scholar. What a pair they made.

Enoch's hand gently cradled his cheek as he listened and watched this blurry version of his mentor paint the image of his houseboat.

“Mm, I don’t think they’re out of place. It’s your sanctuary, right? You’ve brought both together perfectly, and I think it reflects you.”

His voice was soft, faint, and on the cusp of falling asleep. His breathing had slowed and his eyes had closed, feeling the gentle pull of the sigil’s calming influence wash over him.

Rune: He would say nothing else. Watching Enoch fight the inevitable, and now, in peace and privacy, studied the man before him. The slope of his nose, the pout of his lips, the dusting of freckles on his cheeks, and did his utmost not to admire beyond the youth of his face.

And there, now on his knees, cheek resting in the nest of his arms, did his eyes grow heavy. There on the floor, watching over his apprentice, did his mentor fall asleep.

[midnightraynesworld]

Embers of Affection

Ouhgan and Clover Chapter 1

  The sky was overcast with dark gray clouds. There was a chill in the air, and Clover could see her breath riding the wind as she stared wide-eyed at the orcs trekking through the wet muddy ground towards her lord's manor.

This was only the cinnamon-colored, brown-eyed, black-haired half elf's second time seeing orcs in person, and she could never get used to how big they were. They didn't seem menacing, but their size made them appear threatening.

"Orcs are such barbaric disgusting beasts," Opal said. " I don't even  know why  my lord would even insist on doing business with them."

Opal was Lord Delancy's favorite, to look at the breathtaking beautiful dark-haired elf no one would ever think she was a slave. Well dressed in the finest clothes and jewelry, running the day to day of her lord's manor.

"Well, whatever the reason, I'm sure it's important. Don't you think so, Clover?"

But Clover didn't hear a word Opal said. She was mesmerized, completely captivated by the approaching orcs.

Her heart was pounding against her chest, and her breathing was accelerated and eager. She licked her lips and swayed back and forth. This did not go unnoticed to Opal as she wondered which orc Clover was staring at.

There was only one way to find out.

          Clover felt a hand on her back, then a hard shove. She stumbled and tried to catch herself. But fell in a small puddle that splashed muddy water on the trousers of one of the orcs.

Clover was horrified. Of course, it had to be the biggest orc in the group. She looked up and locked eyes with the orc, who looked down at his trousers, then back to her.

The hulky gray-skinned bald orc's deep gold eyes shined down on Clover like the sun.  He rubbed his short, well-kept silver wiry beard as he towered over the tiny half-breed who cowered in his shadow.

His face was touched by time that gave him a more distinguished look than an elderly one. He was covered with more scars than wrinkles, every last one earned in the heat of battle and every last one worn with pride that shined as bright as his golden eyes.

          Clover rose to her feet, keeping her head lowered and her eyes on the ground, she could feel the orc glaring at her and a low growl in his throat caused her to instinctively back away from him.

"Begging your pardon, my lords," her voice quivered.

Clover prayed to herself that Lord Delancy didn't see what just happened. But that man has eyes and ears everywhere, and she should have known better.

When she felt a hard pull of her jet black hair, "you will know your place slave," Lord Delancy hissed.

A swift kick on her backside sent Clover crashing to the orc's feet once more.

"I am terribly sorry Ouhgan," Lord Delancy said, stepping on Clover's head and shoving it into the mud. "You know good help is so hard to find these days,"

Ouhgan glanced down at the elf who remained unmoving under her master's foot.

"If you would like, I could kill-"

"That won't be necessary," Ouhgan replied. "It accomplishes nothing and is not the reason why I am here."

"Very well," Lord Delancy laughed.

After some time that seemed like forever to Clover. He took his foot off her head, she was finally able to get in a well-needed breath but knew not to move.

"Since you are the one who has been wronged in this offense. I'll let you decide her punishment."

"Just leave her be," Ouhgan hissed. "It was just an accident."

Clover released a low sigh, grateful that he was willing to show her mercy. Something that her master did not possess.

"How boring," he mumbled. "But, as you wish I shall leave her be. Now, I'm sure you are weary from your long journey. This way," he extended his arm. "I'll show you where you can rest and freshen up before supper. First, we feast, then business."

Lord Delancy waited until he was sure the orcs were out of earshot before turning his attention back to Clover.

"As for you," he hissed. "I shall do as your merciful savior wished and leave you be. You will stay there like that until I say otherwise."

          The sun had begun to set and Clover's body was chilled to the bone, shivering uncontrollably from the cold that cut through her like a knife. At least now she couldn't feel the pain in her legs from kneeling in the same position all day.

"Clover."

Clover raised her head to see her master glaring down at her.

"Go clean yourself up, you're absolutely disgusting."

"Yes my lord."

She slowly tried to stand up but fell. Her legs were too weak and numb from the cold to balance herself. She tried again and looked like a newborn calf trying to stand for the first time.

"Clover."

"Yes my lord."

"Next time I'll leave you to freeze to death, do you understand me?"

"Yes my lord."

          Clover warmed herself by the kitchen fire. Opal had insisted she clean herself outside, and the whole time all she could think was one of the orcs walking outside and seeing her half-clothed.

"Those orcs drink like fish," Lord Delancy busted through the kitchen door.

"Clover!" Lord Delancy called, relief in his voice.

He picked up a pitcher of wine and shoved it in her chest and pushed her towards the door. She hardly had time to warm herself and Delancey was already pushing her back out the door.

"Don't let those orc's cups go dry," he ordered.

"Yes my lord."

Clover took a deep breath and started down the corridor to the dining hall. Her fingers were still stiff and tingling from the cold. As she got closer she could hear music and laughter. Her heart dropped to the pit of her stomach. She didn't want to see that orc again. She was sure Lord Delancy called him Ouhgan. She had been embarrassed and humiliated in front of him, and even though he had granted her mercy, he sounded annoyed when he did it.

Maybe he won't be there, she told herself. Maybe he doesn't like big extravagant feasts with delicious food, drink, and women.

Clover's shoulder slumped as a low groan escaped her lips. What orc wouldn't want free food and drink? She took a deep breath and stepped into the dining hall.

The orcs were having a good time eating and drinking, laughing and flirting with the playful elf maidens. There were a total of five orcs in all. All enjoying themselves except for Ouhgan who drank and ate quietly to himself.

          Clover made rounds keeping the cups full and Ouhgan hadn't even noticed her until one of the orcs made sure he did.

"Hey Ouhgan look," the black-haired green orc pointed. "It's the Little Bird that fell for you."

Everyone in the room laughed and Clover could have died of embarrassment. Her face flushed red and she clenched the pitcher to her chest and tried to make herself as small as she could, wishing to just disappear.

Ouhgan held his chalice up beckoning Clover to fill it. Clover could feel every eye on her as she walked towards the orc. It was the longest walk of her life and she dared not look at him.

She raised the pitcher to pour Ouhgan a drink but her hands were shaking from fright.

"Steady your hand Little Bird," Ouhgan's voice silently thundered. "I do not bite."

"Y-yes my lord."

Clover took a deep breath, steadied her hand, and poured.

"Thank you," Ouhgan said.

Clover finally managed to tear her eyes from the ground and glance up at him. His unblinking golden gaze stared down at her with an intensity that made her look away. His eyes were hard and stoic, Clover couldn't tell what he was thinking. But she was happy that she had managed to capture his eye, even if it was just for the moment.

He gulped down his wine then held his chalice out for more. Everyone in the dining hall went back to enjoying themselves once they realize Ouhgan just wanted another drink.

"I wish I had some grog," he gulped down his drink once more, eyeing his empty chalice.

"This wine is a ladies' drink, meant for ladies."

Clover giggled at the obvious joke meant for her master, then looked away when Ouhgan glanced up at her.

"The Little Bird laughs," he grinned. "You bring a sweet smile with your sweet wine Little Bird."

Clover flushed red and looked away from Ouhgan. Her heart was pounding against her chest so hard she was sure it was going to explode. She felt an intense heat welling up in the pit of her stomach and dared not look at him.

"Clover!" She heard the familiar voice of her master's call.

She turned her head to see her master's empty chalice held out. Clover scurried off towards her master to fill his cup. Never in her life has she been so happy to see him.

"I think the Little Bird likes you," one of the orcs whispered in Ouhgan's ear.

"Nash," he scolded. "You know I'm a married orc."

"Well, I think you better tell that to Little Bird. She's about  ready to have your sons."

[idontknowreallywhy]

Best Jupidad Moments #5 Nevermoor Ch 8 - What is honesty anyway?

One thing I find fascinating about the Nevermoor series is how the author treats the concept of honesty, truth and provision of information as a right, both on a society level and, as here, within Family. It would be easy to say “love and respect must = full disclosure of all relevant facts and 100% brutal honesty. End of.” After all, who is a better judge of what a person “needs to know” than that person themselves?

Easy to say, that is, until you have a child to look after who asks questions and you often find yourself having to figure out what is helpful for them to know now and what you should withhold because they aren’t ready / they need to discover and understand some other things first / their life doesn’t need to be tainted yet with the full knowledge of how messed up the world is / it’s just going to be a distraction from what they need to know right now etc etc.

So how does our Jupidad tackle the difficult questions?

‘What’s my knack?’ she demanded.

‘Good morning to you too.’

‘Good morning,… ... ‘What’s my knack?’

‘Mind if I nick a pastry? I’m famished.’

‘Help yourself. What’s my knack?’ Jupiter stuffed his mouth full of pastry while Morrigan watched him and fretted.

<paragraph of Morrigan’s fret-fest-monologue>

‘I’m right, aren’t I?’

Jupiter swallowed. ‘Before I forget – my seamstress is coming to fit you for a new wardrobe this morning. What’s your favourite colour?’

Jupiter isn’t daft, he must have know this question was coming because while he was away, Morrigan would have been asked by everyone she met what her knack was (didn’t take Frank long). So you’d think he’d already have had a plan of how to answer it, but he starts by stalling, and then tries to distract / change the subject! Is it just Wunsoc instinct to control the conversation? Has he just lost his nerve, or has her direct approach thrown him off his game? Is he just tired and hungry and not quite ‘on it?’

It was the most dishevelled she’d seen him. He was barefoot and wore a wrinkled, untucked white shirt over blue trousers with braces that hung down untidily against his hips. Morrigan realised they were the clothes he’d worn the day before. She wondered whether he’d slept in them, or hadn’t slept at all. His eyes were closed against the light, and he looked as if he’d happily sit there all day.

I like to think maybe he didn’t exactly know what he was planning to say when he knocked on the door. That he didn’t actually prepare quite as much as maybe he should have BECAUSE he just went straight there after getting back from wherever he was called to because he was excited to see her, wanted to spend time with her, check how she was, maybe finish the tour he started the day before…

She groaned. ‘Jupiter!’ ‘Oh, all right.’ He leaned against the wall and slid all the way down to the floor, stretching his long legs out on the rug. ‘If you want to talk about boring things, we’ll talk about boring things.’

Part of me wonders if all of this is just his very laboured way of trying to make his point that this knack business isn’t the most important thing about her, that in his eyes it isn’t the only thing that would give her value? By acting completely unbothered about it I guess he’s hoping she’ll decide it’s fairly unimportant. Bit of a misfire because of course as soon as you tell an 11 year old something isn’t important and they shouldn’t worry about it… pretty much they are going to. And she’s already realising from her conversations with others that to most people the knack is *everything*.

I wonder how the story would have panned out if he had told her at this point what made her different? If he’d got in there first before she found out much more about “The Wundersmith” and how everyone was terrified of the concept? Would she have coped with hearing all that knowing she was one herself? Or did she need a good few months of being loved and treated as a normal (non-cursed) human before she’d be strong enough to believe she could rewrite the wundersmith narrative in her own, positive, way? Reading this chapter I’m frustrated with Jupiter along with Morrigan, but can’t help thinking he did make the right call on day 2 after all.

‘How do I win?’ ‘You just need to trust me. Do you trust me?’ Jupiter’s face was earnest and open. Morrigan nodded without hesitation. ‘Then let me worry about the Show Trial. I’ll tell you when you need to start worrying. I promise.’ It was an odd feeling to trust a stranger she’d met two days ago. But Morrigan felt somehow it was hard not to trust Jupiter. (He had, after all, saved her life.)

For a kid who has been so badly treated, she does trust quite easily (not only Jupiter but Mr Jones too). She’s possibly still at the stage where she is going to trust anyone who isn’t overtly awful to her. Even so, I do think there is something inherently trustworthy in Jupiter because of how he’s acted so far, beyond just the life saving part, and also she’ll have picked up on his employees’ view of him too.

‘Is being cursed my talent? Do I have a knack for … making things go wrong?’ Jupiter looked as if he was about to speak, then snapped his mouth shut. Thirty seconds passed during which he seemed to have a brief but lively argument inside his head.

I’d love to know what happens in Jupiter’s lively head-argument! But I also love the fact that Jessica leaves this for us to guess. I suspect what I imagined when I first read it might be different to what I think now, having read books 1-3 an embarrassing number of times. And it may change again. I’m not going to say what I currently reckon because I think having that gap for the reader to fill with their own impressions is really valuable.

However what we do know is this - he doesn’t answer immediately. He could - we know he’s a quick thinker and we know the Jove one-liner is legendary (see: everything with Flintlock!). Our Jupidad knows this is a really pivotal moment, that what he says here could make or break her, could form part of her inner monologue for the rest of her life. So he doesn’t respond with a throwaway line. He stops, he thinks, he makes her wait… and then gives a considered answer. Not only is this excellent parenting but it’s modelling exactly what she will need to do in the book trial in a few weeks.

Then at the conclusion of his considered answer, This:

You forget it,’ he said. ‘You forget it, from this moment on. Do you understand? You are not a curse.’

‘Yeah, okay.’ Morrigan rolled her eyes and tried to turn away, but Jupiter took her face in his hands and held on fast.

‘No, listen to me.’ His wide blue eyes burned into her black ones. Righteous anger rolled off him like heat from the pavement in summer. ‘You asked me if your talent is being cursed? If you have a knack for ruining things? Hear me when I tell you this: you are not a curse on anyone, Morrigan Crow. You never have been. And I think you’ve known that all along.’

I wonder if the reason this passage is so universally loved is that so many of us desperately need to hear (and believe) this for ourselves?

You may not have literally been told you were a curse like Morrigan was, but life events, the words and expectations of other people, or the disappointed facial expression of somebody you barely knew (or worse that you do) sit on you like a cloud and eat away at your self-esteem and sense of worth.

Maybe it’s depression, which I know from experience can be a constant disparaging voice mocking your attempts to believe in your own value?

Maybe you don’t fit in any of the myriad artificial boxes society keeps throwing at us to keep us predictable, controllable.

Maybe you feel stuck in a box that confines you.

Maybe you feel nobody has ever truly understood you.

Whatever it is that you wear like a heavy cloak, hear me when I tell you this: 

You are not a curse on anyone.

You never have been.

You have great value and a unique and beautiful contribution to make to this crazy world. 

[skylarstark4826]

"We're closed." 

M'gann says the words automatically when she hears the door of the bar opening, but she's not overly worried, doesn't turn around from her job of putting the freshly washed glasses back onto the shelf, all ready for the next day. This bar is a haven for people like her and besides, if anyone, human or alien, decides to try to cause trouble, she's more than capable of stopping said trouble in its tracks. There's no reply from whoever's just entered though, which is unusual - she'd usually get at least an apology - and she's on guard then, looking up into the angled mirror above the bar so that she can see who it is. 

What she sees makes her smile. 

Because what she sees is J'onn, evidently having just come from the DEO, fresh from whatever the disaster of the week was this week. He's still wearing his regulation Director garb, black trousers and black shirt under his usual dark jacket, but what's distinctly non-regulation DEO is the small smile that hovers around his lips as his eyes meet hers in the mirror. The smile is in his eyes too, as well as his lips and she knows that he's pleased that he's surprised her - all those years of living among humans and he's mastered the ability to keep his thoughts shielded from everyone, including her. She, on the other hand, still has trouble with that - not that she's had to worry about it too much, psychic powers are few and far between among aliens and it's not like there have been many Martians around to trouble her. 

She turns and comes around to the end of the bar. "One day, you're going to have to teach me how you do that."

J'onn tilts his head like he's considering it. Then he wrinkles his nose, says, "Nah. A man's got to have some secrets." 

M'gann narrows her eyes, tries to pretend that she's annoyed but she's fairly sure he doesn't have to be psychic to know that she's nothing of the sort. "I'm glad to see you," she says and if he can tell that that's an understatement then, frankly, she doesn't give a damn. Maybe he knows that too if the way his smile broadens is anything to go by. She tears her eyes away from him to look towards the door. "Are the others-"

"I'm alone." He doesn't let her finish and she's relieved at his answer. It wouldn't be the first time that the DEO have descended on the bar after closing time following an alien threat and if they were there, she wouldn't turn them away. 

But she hasn't seen J'onn in almost a week, thanks to this latest crisis, and she'd known she'd missed him but she's only just now realising exactly how much. 

Her hands curl over the smooth wood of the bar. "Can I get you a drink?" she asks and he shakes his head, steps forward until he's standing right in front of her, only the bar between them. 

"I had something else in mind." He extends his hand towards her and she blinks but she takes it, lets him lead her out from behind the bar, across the floor to the jukebox in the corner. Inserting a coin, he presses a couple of buttons and instantly something slow and bluesy fills the air. J'onn looks down at her, lips twitching. "May I have this dance?"

She laughs despite herself. "You may," she says as he takes their still joined hands and rests them on his chest, sliding his other hand around her waist. Her free hand rests on his shoulder and she follows his lead, matches her body movement to his as they sway to the music.

"I've often wondered," he says after a few moments, "how this would feel. All these years, I've seen humans do it... I never did." 

She knows exactly what he means, exactly how he feels. "And?" She keeps her voice light, teasing, tries to forget that he can feel exactly what she's feeling, the tremor of nerves at how much his answer means to her. "Does it live up to your expectations?"

J'onn's smile is soft, his eyes warm as he looks down at her. "And beyond." 

She shivers, she can't help it, but her voice is steady when she says, "You know... often, when humans are dancing like this... they do something else as well."

"Really?" He lifts one eyebrow. "And what would that be?" 

She doesn't tell him, decides showing him would be much better.

From his response, she's pretty sure he agrees with her.