#truly i stare uncomprehending

[trashpremiium]

based on vibes jonahs favorite homestuck troll would be sollux and his least favorite would be feferi but only because her lusus is a big water monster that eats 1 million trolls every day for fun. he would also be a vriska apologist

none of these words are in the bible

@voidsayshi can you confirm or deny this

[yuesya]

Twin AU Muneyoshi: It's for the best that Shiki dies, it's for the clan and Satoru's future, Hina will understand. Well, surprise! Hina DID NOT understand and used all the rest of her life to protect her daughter, FROM you and said clan. Muneyoshi reeks of copium and self-justification, and was probably only truly called out and confronted with his bullshit when Satoru killed him for it. His wife apparently killing herself over it never got through to him. Yue, what did that 'rampage' look like?

Muneyoshi is calm.

His calmness is one born of faith in his clan, and confidence in his elders. He knows what they have planned, in order to remove the imperfection staining the honored one. It would take… extreme measures, quite understandably. The case that they were dealing with was unprecedented, after all. In all cases of cursed twins throughout the clan’s history, there had never been a case of twins bonding with each other as Satoru had done with… as Satoru had done.

It couldn’t be allowed to stand.

Satoru, he thinks helplessly, Why can’t you just understand?

His son is entirely much too like his mother; the thought strikes him with fondness, and sorrow.

Because the whole point of Muneyoshi dirtying his hands with the deed in the first place was so that Satoru would be free from it. Free, and unchained. Muneyoshi wouldn’t let anything –anyone– hold his son down, and yet Satoru saw fit to snap manacles into place around his own wrists, and willingly chain himself once more.

But he would see reason, someday. Muneyoshi was sure that he would. He was sure that he–

The doors behind him abruptly slam open, and the scent of blood fills the air. Muneyoshi exhales slowly, knowing that the deed is done. His son is finally his own once more. Now, all that’s left is to placate the boy and calm him, so that he will know to–

“Got any last words?”

Muneyoshi turns around with a reprimand on his tongue, and his voice dies in his throat.

… Satoru?

His beloved son is covered in blood. There’s a bloody gash split down the middle of his torso, and Muneyoshi’s mind flickers back to what the elders had said –exceptional circumstances, so exceptional measures will have to be taken– but there’s just, there’s just so much blood.

If he didn’t know any better, he’d say that it looks like they’d tried to split Satoru open.

But… evidently, that hadn’t actually been the case here. Satoru is bloodied and swaying on his feet, but in one piece and standing, whereas the open doors behind him reveal a conspicuous trail of blood and corpses.

Muneyoshi’s throat tightens. “What have you done, Satoru?”

His son laughs. “You’re asking me? Really? Why don’t you think a little harder about what you and the rest of the clan did?”

The man purses his lips. “This was… necessary. Satoru, you are the honored one. Blessed with Six Eyes, and Limitless. The fate of the clan falls upon your shoulders, and it is your duty to lead the jujutsu world–”

“A world like this? I’d rather burn it to the ground before I lift a single finger to lead it,” his son says coldly, and Muneyoshi flinches at the cutting tone. “Shiki wasn’t hurting anyone. You really couldn’t just leave us alone?”

“She’s a cursed spirit!”

“Yeah, ‘cuz you made her into one!” Six Eyes flash with an unholy, burning glow, and Muneyoshi finds himself frozen in place with sudden terror. “And the brilliant idea of putting together that mockery of a ritual to dig her out of me with a carving knife? Yeah, if I didn’t have Shiki with me, I would be dead, thanks for that!”

Muneyoshi shakes his head vigorously. “No, no, no. You have this wrong, Satoru! The elders wouldn’t have–”

“I was dead for ten solid minutes while Shiki was literally putting me back together!”

Muneyoshi stares blankly at his son, uncomprehending. “… But you’re alive.”

The white-haired boy hisses, a frustrated sound. “Whatever. It’s like talking to a brick wall, I swear… if you don’t have anything sensible to say, then I’m just going to go ahead and get this over with.”

Ah.

… Patricide, is it?

Muneyoshi looks up at his son, who stares down at him like a vengeful god, then nods and carefully places the last few sticks of incense in front of Hina’s shrine. His son can’t hear Muneyoshi’s words, and he’d killed all the elders who’d only wanted what was best for him. Years of effort, all down the drain… but oddly enough, Muneyoshi can’t find himself to be upset about it.

Instead, there’s something inside his chest that feels almost… relieved.

“Not in front of your mother,” is his only request. Muneyoshi closes his eyes. “I… won’t apologize. I regret the pain that this has clearly caused you, but it was necessary, Satoru. I’m not sorry for it.”

His son snorts. “Go to hell.”

[dangermousie]

The whole episode was gold (this is the sole airing drama out of all the ones I am watching - yes even PMR, My Dearest and Kunning all of which I adore - that I do not forward even a minute of) but that final sequence where she shoved him out of the way of a speeding car and got hit instead, took me into stratosphere. He was eyeing her bracelet a second before, planning how to remove it so he can kill her. But when he sees her hit in front of his face, his face - his faaaaaace! He looks uncomprehending, stunned and as if he himself just sustained a mortal wound. And it's not at all about the fact that his chance to break the curse might be gone.

This is EVERYTHING EVERYTHING EVERYTHING!!! This is the most epic love confession!!! (But then for them, it's all mixed up together, isn't it? She finally told him she loved him right before killing him, didn't she?)

The way he just drops on his knees by her body and cradles her head so gently and calls for her. He is never going to be able to truly kill her, will he?

The way he stares at his hand covered in blood because it's her blood. As if it's the most horrifying thing he's ever seen. Even though he wandered around with his face splattered in gore; heck he recently had his hands blood covered because of the gang and didn't blink (except when it came to touching her with bloody hands!) But that was random blood and this is HER blood, and it makes all the difference. To quote a very different character from a very different show, as Stark told Zhaan on Farscape: "I am an expert on dying. I am just not an expert on you dying."

And to make it even more glorious, in her close to death state, our FL flashes back to Silla, she sees what happened after she attacked the general but before she took that offer of clothes instead of the sword.

When she started wondering what is going on and what Jun Oh the actor was doing there - eeeee!!!!

[timotey]

Ficlet: Odds as Terrible as These

The Sign. Phaya/Tharn. What if. Unbeta'd.

A what-if set in episode 10. What if Montree decided to get rid of Tharn.

(Back to writing what-ifs of the h/c kind. Yay, go me! And Yai is, as always, the goodest boy!)

*.*.*

They’re lounging around Tharn’s living room, discussing their captain’s possible involvement with Montree, when there’s an odd sound. Actually, a quick succession of sounds: pling-thud-bang. They all flinch and turn around, after the sound, towards the fridge that now sports a crater and a hole right in the middle of its metal door. They stare at it, uncomprehending.

Then, a soft sigh, a whispered oh. From Tharn. They look at him - and their eyes widen.

Tharn’s standing in front of the room's large window, staring down at his own chest, at the red stain spreading across the left side of it, faster and faster, drenching him in crimson. He lifts his head, his hazy, unfocused eyes searching out Phaya’s. Then his knees give out. 

There, behind him, in the glass. A small bullet hole with a spider web of cracks around it.

This all, in a matter of mere seconds.

Tharn’s collapse breaks Phaya out of his frozen state of shock. He jumps forward and catches Tharn before he can hit the floor, cushioning his fall and pulling Tharn close to his chest, hugging him tight.

“Tharn? Tharn?!” Phaya calls out, his voice breaking at the end. He can feel Tharn’s blood running down his arm, the one he’s supporting his body with, while his free hand seeks out the hole at the front of Tharn’s shirt, blood pumping out of it at an alarming rate.

Tharn’s looking up at him, blinking dazedly. Then he coughs a little and crimson stains his lips.

“No, no, no, no, no,” Phaya keeps repeating in a whisper, not even aware of it, as he presses his hand hard against Tharn’s chest, trying to staunch the bleeding. It breaks his heart when Tharn makes a soft pained noise. But Phaya can’t let go, he can’t, if he does, Tharn’s going to bleed out, Phaya’s going to lose him and he can’t lose him, he can’t lose him, he can’t–

Tharn’s eyes close, his body goes limp in Phaya’s arms.

***

Tharn is in surgery and Phaya is sitting in the waiting room, looking like an escapee from a butcher shop. Tharn’s blood, it’s everywhere. Soaked into his clothes, into his shoes even, splashes of it got onto his face, his hands are sticky with it, sticky like candy floss. It makes Phaya’s stomach turn, the knowledge of it, the coppery smell of it.

Yai brings him a fresh set of clothes from Tharn’s condo. Luckily, he dropped some off at Tharn’s that first morning after their first night together - “since we’re here, i can change into my own clothes, you know” and “no, don’t, i like you wearing mine” and “you’re enjoying this way too much” - and there’s even underwear and shoes. 

It’s also Yai who pleads with the nurses to let Phaya use their shower. He must look truly shell shocked because they agree. And as Phaya stands under the hot spray, watching red, red and more red swirl down the drain, his stomach twists and he throws up. Because this is Tharn’s blood. Tharn’s blood. Yai packs his stiff and sticky clothes into a bag and throws them out without asking. Phaya’s grateful.

And then he's back in the waiting room again. And he waits, as one is wont to do in such a place. And he waits. Hours slip by. People come and go, Captain Akk, his teammates, they discuss what happened, what’s going to happen next - Mayris is processing the scene (Tharn’s condo!), trying to find out from where the shot came - but it’s all happening in the background, it’s all hazy.

Because Phaya promised Tharn to protect him. And he failed. Because he only focused on one threat - Chalothon - and lost sight of the others, of actual people who wanted to hurt Tharn. He failed his lover. Just the night before, he promised Tharn to be there for him and protect him. And he failed so horribly.

When the doctor finally comes out, he looks grim and Phaya’s heart leaps into his throat. Please, let him be alive, please, anything else Phaya can take, anything, just not Tharn’s death. Please.

Tharn is alive. But his prognosis doesn’t sound good. The bullet tore a hole into his lung and nicked his pericardium. His blood is gathering in places where it shouldn’t, putting pressure on his heart that’s already weakened by the blood loss. It will be wait and see from now on. The ICU. Hope and prayers.

Captain Akk insists on a security detail. He gets into a row with the doctor but he puts his foot down. One of his officers became the victim of a murder attempt. In his own home. What’s stopping the people behind the attack from getting to him here, in the hospital? Can the hospital guarantee Tharn’s safety? Can the doctor? Is he willing to bet Tharn’s life on it? He gets his way. 

No one even tries suggesting it should be anyone but Phaya, despite him being on a medical leave himself. How would the doctors know? Certainly, he just escaped from this very same hospital but, as it is with all institutions, one ward has no idea what’s happening in the other. Phaya gets to stay.

***

When Phaya enters Tharn’s room in the ICU, in scrubs and a mask, everything is quiet - and there’s someone standing at Tharn’s bed, with his back to the door. Phaya doesn’t think much of it, from his own experience he knows that doctors come and go in places like this to take care of things the patient usually doesn’t understand.

He doesn’t think much of it - until he rounds the bed and sees.

It’s Chalothon! He has his hand on Tharn’s chest, over Tharn’s wound and his heart, and it’s flickering with black and green energy. Tharn’s not reacting, pale and motionless and breathing through a tube, but the bastard is doing something to him.

“Hey!” Phaya shouts and lounges at Chalothon, heart beating hard in his throat. He’s furious - and scared. For Tharn. Because what–

“Don’t!” Chalothon snaps at him without lifting his eyes from Tharn, without stopping what he’s doing. His voice is full of power so that his command freezes Phaya in his tracks. Literally.

“What are you doing to him?” Phaya demands through gritted teeth as he strains against Chalothon’s magic.

Chalothon finally looks at Phaya, glaring at him with so much hatred and disdain that it’s almost a palpable thing. Phaya can’t help but notice the green and black scales now marring Chalothon’s skin, climbing up his neck and up to his face, getting more and more pronounced by the second. Even his eyes don’t look human anymore.

“I’m actually saving him,” Chalothon hisses at Phaya, rage filling his voice. “Because unlike you, I know how to protect him, I know how to keep him safe. All you do is put him in danger.”

“Saving him? The doctor–” Phaya tries to protest but Chalothon cuts him off.

“Was too optimistic in his assessment of Tharn’s condition,” Chalothon says. “The damage to Tharn’s heart was too extensive to let it beat for much longer. I’m healing him, at a great cost to myself, I must add. Without my help, he would’ve died before the day’s end.”

Phaya’s chest constricts. He wants to snap at Chalothon that he sure isn’t doing it out of the goodness of his lizard heart, that his help will definitely come with strings attached but… right now, Phaya doesn’t care. They can deal with strings later, as long as Tharn’s alive, they can deal with anything.

The flow of Chalothon’s magic slows down then disappears completely. He lifts his hand off Tharn’s chest - then he strokes Tharn’s face gently, he runs his thumb over Tharn’s lips, wrapped around the breathing tube. His gesture makes Phaya’s skin crawl.

“He’s going to be fine now,” Chalothon says, smoothing down Tharn’s hair. “I didn’t heal his wound completely, that would’ve been too suspicious, but I did away with the worst damage.” Then he turns away from Tharn, towards Phaya, and his whole posture is full of mocking. “Because I actually can offer him the help he needs. I can do that. What can you do, Garuda?”

Phaya growls at him, impotent in his fury. Because, as much as he hates it, he knows that in this case, Chalothon is right. 

“I will come for him before the 15th day of the 11th moon and I will take him away with me,” Chalothon states firmly, as if it were a done thing, as if nothing could change the inevitable outcome. “And if you let him get hurt again, I swear I’ll make your death a long and painful one.”

And with that, he simply disappears. There’s a shimmer of air and he’s gone.

Phaya’s paralysis dissipates. He throws himself to the bed, to Tharn, and oh so gently, oh so carefully he touches Tharn’s hand and his face and strokes his hair. Tears flood his eyes when he leans down and kisses Tharn tenderly on the forehead through his mask, mindful of all the tubes and wires keeping Tharn alive.

“I’m sorry,” Phaya whispers brokenly. “I’m sorry I failed you. It won’t happen again. I know I keep saying that but I’ll make sure, this time, I will make sure that you’re safe. That nothing will hurt you again. I will make sure of it, Tharn…” 

But as he sits down on the stool the nurses prepared for him, as he sits there, holding just the fingers of Tharn’s hand because he’s so afraid of hurting him, of disrupting something he shouldn’t, Phaya wonders how he’s going to do that. How he’s going to keep the promise he's given against odds as terrible as these.

[bluecatwriter]

Yesterday I walked up to my sister's boyfriend and said, "Hey, do you want a kiss?" and he stared at me uncomprehending for a moment before saying, "A what now?" and then I handed him a Hershey's kiss. Truly I am the king of comedy.

[itmightrain]

"I thought you of all people would understand my need to be free of such things. You were the most spiritual of the three of us as a girl. Do you remember that? No devotee of the Nameless certainly, but you used to make me take you to the Mothers' shrine so you could lay jasmine blossoms and kiss their feet."

"That was before the first time that Chandra hurt me," Malini said crisply. "That ended my childhood fantasies abruptly."

He stared at her uncomprehending. "When," he said, "did he hurt you as a child?"

She sucked in a breath. He didn't remember.

She wanted to lift her hair and bare her neck. She wanted to show him how she had been hurt. To show him not simply the physical scar, but the way Chandra's cruelties large and small had flayed her sense of self until she was raw, a furious tangle of nerves, until she was forced to build herself armor, jagged and cruel, to be able to survive. But he would not understand. He had never understood. Her hurts and her terrors, which had consumed her all her life, had always been small to him. He had either never truly seen them or simply easily forgotten them.

- The Jasmine Throne by Tasha Suri

[definitelynotshouting]

Hey guys who wants a hunger au scene?? :]

My friend @corvidaearts was so cool and kind enough to draw a comic for the hunger au fic, so i thought i would post the actual scene in question to provide a little context for it. Thank you so much, Crow, i am truly bananas over the comic you did for this holy shit, PLEASE go check it out on their account, and i hope you guys enjoy this little nugget of the fic!!!

cws for: suicidal ideation, past suicide attempt, starvation, themes of disordered eating. Be safe!!

"I think," Grian says, slowly, wearily, "you've made a mistake."

Xisuma winces; the motion is sharp and jarring without his helmet as a barrier between them. "I know," he says, and there's a layer of shame and heavy regret running over the words. "I… I hear that. I wasn't thinking with my head when we– when I kicked you. It was all–" he makes a nebulous gesture in the air between them, before letting his arm fall again– "such a big mess, it got away from me." His lips tilt up in a wry smile. "Like it always tends to."

"No, no– not that." Grian sighs, does his best to ignore the band cinching tight around his chest. His eyes flutter shut, just for a moment; the echoes of Mumbo's urgent voice still plead with him to keep them open. "You made a– kicking me was for the best." He lifts tired lashes again, staring Xisuma down with as much conviction as he can muster. "But you should've just killed me when you had the chance. I was trying to help you."

The words drop from his mouth like beads of glass, shattering as they hit the floor. For a single, frozen eternity, Xisuma stares at him with uncomprehending eyes.

Then the world begins to spin again, and Xisuma physically recoils.

"Grian," he breathes, "You can't actually mean that. And– help us? What does that even mean?"

"It means I'm dangerous when I'm like this." Bitterness drips from Grian's voice before he can stop it– thick and viscous, painting the air in broad strokes. "Every time I pulled people into those games, it was because I was hungry. And people– people got hurt for it. People died over it, and they were tricked into thinking it'd be permanent–" he breaks off; his breath is beginning to come fast, chest expanding and contracting in a rapid cycle. "I did that," he finishes, and it's a punch to the gut, a breathless admission that shrouds the air over them. "I shouldn't be– I can't let myself ever do that again, X. I can't be trusted."

[understandableparadox]

Bottom of the barrel isekai review

did i say I was going to read something horrible for you? turns out it was horrible for me.

behold a fucking pre-amble. I think the idea of loving and being loved is a concept ambiguous enough for it to be idolized by almost anyone because the ways to love are so varied and different. unconditional, unrequited, toxic, wholesome, forbidden, destined, love has more modifiers then fucking charizard and oops we gotta update that sentence because someone on book tik tok has invented a new type of love known as Squimy love. what does this mean for your children? more at 11.

regardless we yearn for a type of romance or if you are aromantic a form of intimacy in the form of the platonic. in some cases we can form such ties with people we don't see, people that Do not know that you exist.

in worse cases, sometimes the people who don't know we exist want to foster that relationship further for their own benefit. Parasocial love.

im sure you heard it from whatever drama youtuber you have decided to use to funnel useless bits of rage bait into your ears but its a tale as old as creepy guys. streamer is a little to eager to play into the fantasy of the viewers, that they love them, that they thing You, that's right, You dear viewer are special...Then they use that to groom or take advantage of a kid and they don't go to jail and someone writes a long expose piece on them and you want them to get hit by a truck but god rarely allows such lovely Closure...

anyways that defeintly has nothing to do with the work we are unraveling today, right? right???

oh.

oh no....

god, just kill me... ok the premise is simple, the internet has been made by a reincarnated rando who has decided that anything in regards to adventuring and fighting is just not in the cards for him so he has decided to just be a streamer. The only streamer in the world...Well more of a podcaster, given his streams are soley voice. but lets not label spikes being driven into my head.

but hey, thats a intresting concept, the idea that someone has created the true information highway across a world that is fucking Eras to early for it, theres a lot of things that one can explo-

kill me kill me kill me kill me kill me kill me kill me, please, im begging, im pleading, im a fucking deer on the side on the road stareing at you with blank uncomprehending eyes, my comprehension of Big Block Of Metal screaming down the road is null, dont let up on the gas and turn me into a grease smear so I may obtain something resembling an iota of peace of mind

NOT EVERY FUCKING CHARECTER NEEDS TO BE THE STRONGEST, THEY DONT NEED TO HAVE THE MILLION MANA MULTIPLIER, ITS OK TO BE SOMEWHAT WEAK, DID LUFFY POP OUT OF THE BARREL SCREAMING GUM GUM GIGA COCK AND ONE SHOTTING EVERY POOR PRIVATEER AND BUCANNEER THAT SO DARED TO GIVE HIM ANYTHING OTHER THEM WARM PRAISE AND DELIGHTIED WELCOME?! NO, BECAUSE WE ARE ALLOWED TO ENJOY THE FACT THERE ARE STAKES, THAT NOT EVERY SITUATION IS ONE IN WHICH WE ARE IN SOLE COMMAND OF! THAT GIVES IT SPICE.

anyways they wont talk about this for ten additional chapters and then again for the arc finally so i'm going to ignore it and move on.

they also go to a school that accommodates commoners and nobals, but its also the first school that actully does this, which is really intresting as its a mixing of classes and allowing "commoner" students acess to higher education and training for magic for a war with the demon king, meaning is this truly for public betterment or is this a method of ensureing nobel students arent drafted into war due to magic potential by haveing a healthy supply of seemingly more expenda- oh? your bored? you want me to jinkle something in your face? oh i messed up that sentance? You Meant to say jiggle? ok cool

reaching the end of the comic we come to its inevitable Gimmick because one cannot be Fucked to try to make just one gimmick work. thats right, the streamer has developed a collection of accidental parasocial relationships with various well endowed women across the nation, each in astoundingly have posistions of power or in some way highly skilled.

Each woman dispite not knowing who the streamer is, never seeing his face are thusly so infatuated by the mere sound of his voice and the kind words he mutters that they have their brain matter utterly rewired, becomeing true devouts for their favorite streamer...

Rinse and repeat for 20 plus chapters and you get Shitty Ecchi Slop delivered out to be consumed en masse because men cannot hope to penetrate the core of male lonliness without true introspection which in turn is stymied by a hunered or so other dude bros who loathe the word and offer a far easier view in which to dye the world. thus they seak idea of being coveted by someone in mangas in increaseingly more convluted power fantasies...

IS WHAT I WANT TO END THIS ON BUT IT GETS WERIDER, DISPITE BEING SLOB THE AUTHOR IS BASED ON TWO AREAS IN PARTICULER,

HOLY SHITBALLS BATMAN, IS THAT AN ISEKAI CHARECTER THAT ISNT IMMEDITLY BUM RUSHING THE FUCKING SLAVE MAKRKET OR GIVING IT A TUT TUT?! IS THAT A HUMAN BEING WITH ACTUAL FUCKING EMPATHY?!

OH MY FUCKING GOD IN HEAVEN I DIDNT KNOW THOSE EXISTED, NOW AINT THAT THE SHINIEST FUCKING PENNY IN THE BUNCH, BUT OH PLEASE DO SAVE ROOM FOR DESERT BECAUSE IN THE SAME FUCKING CHAPTER

THEY BRING THE ABOLTION OF SLAVERY, LADIES AND GENTLEMEN PARASOCIAL RELATIONSHIPS WORK FASTER THEN ABRAHAM LINCON AND HIS INDESCIVE BEARED ASS.

IMAGINE MY FUCKING SHOCK AND AWE, HEARING THE TERM SLAVE AND BEING AWASHED WITH THE TRUAMA OF WATCHING SO MANY BLACK HAIRED SAD EYED ANIME PRETTY BOYS EITHER DECIDEING TO BUY A SLAVE WHO ALSO JUST HAPPENS TO BE THE FUCKING POSTER CHILD FOR STOCKHOLM SYNDROM OR JUST SAYING "THAT SUCKS" AND LEAVEING IT BE, READY FOR THE INEVITABLE KNIFE IN THE HEART AND THEN BOOM, STREAMER SAYS SLAVERY IS BAD AND THEY GET RID OF IT, MAYBE I DO BELIVE IN THE POWER OF THE STREAMER.

DID YOU FILL UP ON SWEET SWEET ANTI FANTASY SLAVERY COOKIES?1 YOU GOD DAMN IDIOT, YOU SHOULD HAVE SAVED ROOM FOR "GUY WITH NORMAL OPINIONS ABOUT SEX WORK"

I AM A CONVERT, I AM A DEVOUT, HAND TO THE HEAVENS I SHALL ESPOUSE THE VIRTUES AND DIVINITY OF THE STREAMER, WITH A WAVE OF THEIR VIRTUAL HAND SOCIETAL PROPLEM LOSE FLIGHT AND FALL TO THE EMBRACE OF THE COLD GRAVE, I JUST NEED A CHAPTER WHERE STREAMER SAYS TRANS RIGHTS AND I PROMISE I WILL NEVER EVER TALK SHIT ABOUT THIS SERIES AGAIN, PLEASE MR. STREAMER, JUST SAY TRANS RIGHTS ONE TIME, JUST ONE SINGULER TIME AND I CAN ASCEND THE RUNGS OF PEACE AND JOY.

turning down the notches this manga is funny in the fact that it pulls me back and fourth with wild abandon between utter and complete slop and genuinly funny bits and abnormally normal opinions for the genra.

"Is the underlying story, barring any other concept, good?" 

there really isnt a story, its just streamer talking and women going batshit insane.

"on a sliding scale of min to max, how much is the author using this to explore fetish" 

medium. the story has an obsession with the idea of yandere but it rarely goes into the idea of a stalker. the women are respectfull of his boundries barring one but that one is called the odd one out. aside from that, alot of scenes are just an ecuse to draw anime tits.

"How many story crutches does the author use to explore the story" 

it dosent need crutches because it has little to no intrest in telling a coherent story, it talks about what it wants and drops the rest.

 "Is the author attempting to use the story as a way to explain why he is not weird."

streamers can solve all of socitial ills as long as the women who they create parasocial relationships in are in posistions of high political power. .

[warlordfelwinter]

what is it you want?

long time no posting of anything i've written. have some more celeste backstory. i'm not avoiding studying, you are.

.

.

"Are you bored?"

Asmodeus looked down at Celeste who was lying down on his back, head resting in his lap, looking up at the devil. He currently wasn't disguised, they were alone in Celeste's back garden having done just about nothing the entire time Asmodeus had been here. Part of him thought he should be irritated by the waste of time. Several hours spent not having any idea what was going on in Baator. But he wasn't particularly concerned. Likely no one would even notice his absence. 

"Should I be?" he asked.

"You've been letting me talk about elven ballet for the past half hour," Celeste said. "And you looked like you were falling asleep."

"I don't sleep. Is it so hard to believe I might find what you're saying interesting?"

Celeste squinted at him, smiling. "A little. You are Lord of the Nine Hells," he said.

"Oh, I'm sorry," Asmodeus drawled. "Next time I'll remember to only be interested in what new methods of torture have been devised."

Celeste laughed. "You truly enjoy spending time with me?"

"Rest assured if I didn't want to be here, I wouldn't be."

"Why?" Celeste asked. "I'm no one special."

"I don't precisely know, just yet," Asmodeus said, with rare honesty. He still hadn't quite managed to pin down what he found so intriguing about this particular mortal. "On that note," he sighed, "my patience is near infinite and on one hand I would be curious to see how long you can keep up this charade, but on the other I'd like to cut straight to business. What is it you want?"

Celeste stared at him, uncomprehending. "What do you mean?" he asked. He sat up to look at Asmodeus more easily, seeming genuinely confused.

"Celeste, don't play coy with me," Asmodeus said, shortly. "I invented that game. Every mortal that consorts with a devil wants something. Riches, fame, power, immortality. You must think yourself quite lucky to have caught my eye. So what is it?"

Celeste glanced away and then looked down, frowning, thoughtful.

"Celeste—" Asmodeus began, about to be irritated.

"I'm not trying to lie to you," Celeste said quickly, looking at him. "I'm just trying to think of something. Give me a second. If you want me to want something from you, I'm sure I can think of something."

Asmodeus frowned. "You cannot mean to tell me you want nothing."

"No," Celeste said. "Of course I want things. At the moment, I want lunch. But the things that you said… I have plenty of money, I don't want to be famous or powerful, and… living forever sounds like a nightmare. No offense."

Asmodeus tilted his head slightly, he couldn't entirely argue with that last point. He smiled somewhat patronizingly. He couldn't sense that the aasimar was lying, but he couldn't be telling the truth. He had some ulterior motive for this, even if he didn't realize it. Asmodeus would figure it out eventually.

Celeste caught his expression and smiled. "Is it really so hard to believe I might find your company enjoyable?" he asked.

"A little," Asmodeus admitted. He couldn't immediately remember the last time anyone had found his company enjoyable. Glasya or Mephistopheles perhaps came the closest, but he still wasn't sure he could say they enjoyed his presence at any given moment. It didn't bother him. Companionship was never something he had needed or craved or even spared more than a passing thought about. In the end, they would all die, by his hand or someone else’s. There was no real point in getting particularly attached. In general, he'd rather everyone be afraid of him, even just a little bit. It made them easier to control. 

And Celeste just… wasn't.

That did bother Asmodeus. Even the most zealous of his cultists proclaimed their love in ecstatic fear. Mortals, celestials, devils alike all cloaked him in epithets and insults, hesitating to even speak his name for fear it would attract his attention. Even the Archdevils, though they constantly hungered to overthrow him, only ever worked their schemes in the darkest of shadow, knowing and fearing what he would do if they were caught.

And Celeste—cosmically unremarkable Celeste—gazed at him without an ounce of fear in his luminous golden eyes.

"You should," Celeste said. "I don't understand why you keep showing up, but I'm glad. I like spending time with you."

Asmodeus didn't understand why he kept showing up either. The first two times he'd met Celeste had been circumstance. The next several times had been a projected image purposefully seeking him out. This was the first time he had brought his avatar here, specifically to see Celeste. He thought he was trying to solve what was fascinating him so much about this aasimar. Then, once he figured it out, he would stop thinking about it and could move on and forget Celeste.

Celeste smiled, just watching him as he thought, that disorienting topaz gaze mapping his face. He licked his lips lightly, looking like he was on the verge of asking something.

"What?" Asmodeus asked.

"Nothing, just… I thought of something I want."

"Let's hear it."

Celeste hesitated, looking almost nervous. Uncharacteristic for him. He was flushed, slightly, the blood rushing to his cheeks making him look more bronzed than reddened. "I'd like to kiss you, if that's okay?"

Asmodeus blinked. Unexpected. He let the request hang for a few moments, considering it. He lifted a hand, fingers caressing Celeste's jaw, leaning closer, giving his answer in movement rather than word. Celeste tilted his head, eyes fluttering shut as he closed the remaining distance. Their lips barely brushed when Celeste gasped in pain, ducking his head with a hand to his temple.

"Celeste?" Asmodeus asked, wondering if he'd done something to hurt the aasimar without realizing it. "Are you all right?"

Celeste shook himself. "I… yes, I'm fine. It's nothing," he said, unconvincingly, and tried to lean in again.

Asmodeus laid a finger against his lips, looking at him seriously. "What was that?"

Celeste looked away, seeming almost a touch embarrassed. "I have a… guardian. A deva," he explained. "She and I have shared a connection since I was born and she watches over me. Tries to keep me on a good path, letting me feel her approval or disappointment or whatever else." He looked at Asmodeus for a moment, and then smiled. "I… don't think she's very happy with me right now."

Asmodeus laughed, surprising himself. There was something comical about the idea of a deva watching their charge about to kiss him. He wondered how loud she had screamed in Celeste's head to make him flinch like that.

"No, I doubt she is," he agreed. "Are you going to listen to her?"

Celeste held his gaze, hesitating for just a moment as he thought about his options. "No," he said, softly, leaning in again. He stopped, just before their lips touched, eyes flicking upward to meet Asmodeus' gaze, as if once again confirming he was allowed to do this.

Asmodeus rolled his eyes and kissed him. Celeste's lips were warm and soft and this close he smelled of flowers and sunlight. Idly, Asmodeus wondered what had gotten into him. He wanted nothing from this mortal. He was an amusement. A curiosity. Asmodeus drew back, smiling at the way Celeste almost chased him before catching himself, blinking up at him with that beautiful luminous gaze.

An indulgence, he decided. It had been a while since he'd allowed himself an indulgence. Celeste was a puzzle. A mortal who held no fear of him, who seemed to be trying to court him without a single ulterior motive. Solving him would be a fun distraction from his responsibilities. A puzzle and an indulgence, nothing more.

[kareenvorbarra]

i am feeling very scatterbrained and can't decide what story i want to work on, so i'm going to do the 150 words fanfic meme!

send me a number from the list of WIPs below and I'll write 150 words in the project of your choice. this is not a list of all my unfinished stories - it's just Queen's Thief stuff, and just the ones i'm most interested in working on at the moment, but that still leaves me with six options (plus some little excerpts of what i've already written):

What We Are Allowed (chapter 11) - look, it's going to get worse before it gets better

Cautiously, because it truly seemed Mirad would not tell me his news otherwise, I sat. After a moment’s hesitation, Mirad joined me. He was tall enough that I still had to look up in order to see his face. “Laela. Kamet’s dead.” I stared at him, uncomprehending. He continued in the same calm, quiet voice, his dark eyes full of sorrow. “Nahuseresh told me when I came in to help him dress. He had word from the emperor first thing this morning.”

2. In the House of Hanaktos (chapter 3) - After Zec is beaten, Dirnes asks Melinno for a favor.

“What happened to your face?” she exclaimed, reaching out as if to touch his cheek, then pulling her hand back. Gingerly, he felt his swollen lip. After everything that had happened in the aftermath of the incident, he’d almost forgotten about the blows he’d taken from the soldier. It didn’t hurt much anymore, but it probably looked worse than it felt.  “Well?” Melinno demanded. “It wasn’t a punishment, not from Ochto. Did you get into a fight?” “No,” he said at once, then hesitated. “It’ll take a minute to explain.”

3. Marin and her family (working title) - this fic is basically just a combo of two questions I had: "what if Marin had kids?" and "how might she have learned about Kamet's escape?"

It took a while for news from the capital to reach them out here; she usually had to wait until one of her husband’s friends or relatives decided to visit, or for her husband to make one of his rare trips into the nearest city. And, of course, the people in Ianna-Ir whom she most wished to know about were not important enough to be included in such reports.  Despite these gaps, she always found herself curious about Nahuseresh’s affairs, imagining how the slaves in his household had reacted, what they had said to each other. All the girls she’d danced with would be long gone by now, but surely some of the people she had known remained. Mirad and Kamet, certainly, if they had not met with any misfortune.  

4. Assorted WWAA extras (Sevan POV) - This doc has two separate scenes in it right now. The first one is set a few months after "Prize" in which Sevan adjusts to her new situationa and learns some old household gossip from the other girls:

Sevan had been shocked to learn that the handsome man who bought her mere hours after seeing her from a distance at a slave market was the emperor’s nephew, and even more surprised when she arrived at his lavish estate and the other slaves explained that he was in a sort of informal exile from court, and that no one knew when he would be permitted to return. Laela, a former dancer who served as the girls’ matron, made sure they rehearsed every day, but it was really just to stay in practice; their master had no visitors in his exile, so there was nothing in particular for them to rehearse for.

and one about the night Sevan spends with Nahuseresh after the party in chapter 7:

“What did you and the general talk about?” she ventured to ask. It would likely be a safe topic; she’d watched that conversation out of the corner of her eye, and it had seemed cordial enough.  “The dancing, mostly,” said Nahuseresh, not sounding bothered by the question. “He spoke very highly of the performance.” He gave her a slight smile, and Sevan smiled back, pleased at the praise. “He particularly wanted to ask me about Hurik. The rest was mostly pleasantries.”

5. Assorted WWAA extras (Inaya POV) - Inaya and the rest of Nahuseresh's household react to news of Kamet's death.

But just beyond the relief was the painful twinge of guilt that Inaya couldn’t suppress. Not guilt for what had happened to Kamet—his reason for leaving remained a mystery, and she knew it could have nothing to do with her—but guilt at the relief itself. Never in her life had she felt relief over another person’s death, and it was not a pleasant experience.   Then there was the issue of Laela. Inaya’s guilt always grew more acute in her presence, knowing (as they all did) that Kamet and Laela had been close. They had been friends since Laela came to the household well over ten years ago, and it was clear that Laela had taken his death hard. The older woman hid her feelings well, but not even Inaya could miss the signs—there were dark shadows under her eyes, and though she was no less kind, she almost never smiled.

6. Scenes from the Court of Attolis Nahuseresh (chapter 2) - Costis tries to navigate his new responsibilities and ends up attracting more attention than he meant to.

By the end of his first month guarding the queen, Costis had begun to feel as though Aris might be a better choice for the captain’s eyes and ears in the palace. He knew why his friend had not been chosen—Aris was okloi, and his family lived in lands administered by Baron Erondites, one of Attolia’s most powerful and dangerous barons. Still, as Costis tried to learn as much as he could about the people he encountered in the queen’s circle, no matter how insignificant it seemed (for he had no idea what might prove useful to Teleus one day), he found himself wishing over and over that he had Aris’ knack for reading people and keen memory for personal details.

[aminiatureworld]

Small Bits of Memory

Characters: Scaramouche, gn!reader

Word Count: 1,531

Warnings: None

Premise: Little moments between Scaramouche and the reader.

Author’s Note: Warning, I’m not caught up on the archon quest. I did skim the wiki (which made me kinda sad ngl), but if there are inaccuracies, that’s why. I also may have made Scaramouche a bit sappy because of this.  

I took “comfort” to mean “hurt/comfort” so if some of these are a bit melancholic it’s because angst brain does not turn off.

Scaramouche

Scaramouche is well familiar with nightmares. He knows the feeling of opening yours eyes in the dark, not moving, not crying out or sitting up; simply opening your eyes as the latent fear of your dreams finally catch up with you and finally your breathing starts to speed in your chest, as your finally realize how afraid you were. Thus on the first night he wakes to you staring intently at the darkness around you, still to the point of stiffness, he automatically understands what’s going on.

At first he’s too scared to wrap his arms around you, afraid that you’ll find the action frightening, or that you’ll instinctively reject him. He only reaches out his hand, secretly relieved when you entwined your fingers within his. Feeling vaguely sentimental in his tired state he whispers: “I’ll protect you from the dark, so stop staring and go back to sleep.” He hopes that you won’t tease him about it tomorrow, as some small part of him knows that it was a very silly thing to say.

Afterwards he grows a little bolder, inching closer to you, then letting one arm rest on your shoulder, fingers featherlight on your skin. Thankfully your penchant for nightmares isn’t too great, so it’s about two months before he wakes up the next day to his arms wrapped around you, you nestled within his sleepy embrace. Seeing you sleeping peacefully after the look of uncomprehending panic plastered across your features the night before calms him like few other things, and he sighs peacefully, letting his eyes flit closed once more. The two of you sleep in that day.

Scaramouche always panics slightly whenever you get hurt. It could be a paper cut, it could be a bruise, it could be a battle injury, his response is relatively similar each time. You might squirm as he cleans your cut off for the third time in ten minutes, assuring him that you aren’t going to die, but he isn’t truly listening to you. There’s a glazed look in his eyes, and it takes him a few moments to register that you’re calling his name. You worry about it sometimes, you wonder what might happen if you were to truly injure yourself. You hope he wouldn’t blame himself too much. Scaramouche has a surprising penchant towards self-flagellation, when he’s not telling himself that he’s superior to everyone around him.

Scaramouche has never horsed around in a river, never experienced a snowball fight, never watched a sunrise for the sake of it. He was not created for such things after all. It’s hard for him to imagine enjoyment in the little pieces of universal humanity, perhaps because he feels somehow separated from such a privilege. You start keeping a list of these sorts of things, small moments to enjoy. He finds the idea silly at first, but gradually grows to like the experience. Perhaps not the individual activities, but the experience as a whole. He might not understand the “universal human experience” as you call it, but the snow against his skin is cold and clear, and the sun looks like fire in the sky, and you’re smiling next to him, and all is well in the world.

Scaramouche doesn’t have much attachment to Inazuma, considering it a desolate land where the people survive despite, not because of, the land. He has no love for the plains, or the skinny forests, or the craggy rocks and hills. The flowers glow preternaturally, and the electricity that fills the air makes unpleasant crackling noises. Nevertheless he has to admit a fondness for the cherry blossoms that bloom on Narukami Islands. It’s as if a small sliver of beauty managed to scrape its way into the world. He’ll take you to see them sometimes, regardless of his status as a Harbinger and a general menace. Perched amidst the falling petals you remind him of some sort of spirit from folklore. If he could draw well at all he thinks he would make a portrait of you surrounded by those blossoms. Certainly there’d be nothing else worth painting.

The two of you like to read together, Scaramouche going over whatever plans he’s currently focusing on, you curled up with a book. If you find a passage or a quote you particularly like you’ll tap him on the shoulder, and Scaramouche will duly listen to you read it aloud. He likes the sound of your reading voice, the way it varies slightly from when you talk. Unfortunately he made the mistake of telling you that once, and you began to insist that he read for you. Though he secretly enjoys doing so, he still grumbles about it out of habit. The both of you know he’s only doing it for show.

Scaramouche once caught you using a broom like a sword. Though you looked very drunk he secretly found it endlessly endearing. He offered to teach you some basic sword forms (despite his weapon knowing swordplay is a basic requirement for all Fatui soldiers). You accepted eagerly at the time, unaware of how much you’d underestimated Scarmouche’s fervor when it came to training. It took a wooden sword snapped in half for him to lay off a little bit, but at least his troops started dropping hints at you that they no longer feared for their lives. Though you think they were joking, you were still glad for the learning experience. You two still spar every once in a while though.

Living up to his title of “Balladeer” Scaramouche has quite the haunting voice. Not particularly high, his range still has a natural warmth to it that belies his cold exterior. You almost never catch him actually singing. The first time it happened was when you had a migraine. Refusing to leave your tent – you hadn’t actually convinced him you weren’t dying – he seemed torn between boredom and worry. At first it was a mere hum, but soon enough it morphed into a captivating song. He refused to tell you the name of it, claiming he’d forgotten, and refused to bring it up the next morning. Still sometimes you’ll catch him now and then humming out a tune, usually when he’s reading or if you’re sick or upset. His singing is something you associate with comfort.

Scaramouche is a terrible letter writer. If you send him ten letters while he’s away he’ll send you three. Still what he lacks in quantity he makes up for in word count. Curt in his official reports, his letters to you are pure stream-of-consciousness, captivating whatever he’s thinking about at the time. Usually the letters are somewhat sappy (or surprisingly bold) missives on how much he loves you and misses you, somehow more honest than when he speaks to you face-to-face. Still you’ve also gotten quite used to a thousand words on how much he hates his fellow Harbingers. You don’t mind, keeping all his letters to you in a box. Though he claims to burn yours, he does the same.

Scaramouche always tell you the days he’s leaving and the days he’s returning. Sometimes he’ll have it down to an estimated hour. Though he appreciates the pomp and spectacle of appearing around others unannounced – something he does quite a bit when working – he refuses to keep you in a limbo of waiting. Secretly he’s also always afraid you might not show up on the docks one day, and every time he sees your face after a long time away a weight lifts in his chest, the pressure on his soul just a little easier to bear every time.

Scaramouche has always felt most comfortable at night. When the world sleeps, when he has the advantage of being awake, being alert, being more powerful. When there are fewer eyes on him, and he can even tell himself that he is the only one awake in the world, can indulge in those moments of wondering, wondering whether he has ever felt something, whether he is missing a crucial piece. Whether he has ever been happy, whether he wants to be so. He can be vulnerable at night, and thus is the reason it appealed to him so much.

Now the night is his favorite time of day because he can always be near you at that time. If you two are in the same land, then you will spend the night in the same room, the same tent, the same bed. Listening to the sound of your breathing, letting himself revel in your closeness, your arms wrapped around his waist, or his wrapped around you, Scaramouche feels truly content. Perhaps he is even happy, perhaps this is what happiness is, what love is. Perhaps it is something more than that, something undefinable, something too abstract to put into words. He loves you, he realizes to himself, he loves you so much. It is overwhelming, like a tidal wave, yet it does not frighten him. He could be struck by lightning and it would not frighten him. It will in the daytime, but now is the night, and now he can marvel peacefully at the fact that he truly loves you.

[voiceless-terror]

I mean, I don’t believe in the predictive power of dreams, obviously, but still, it’s a deeply unsettling thing to find. I had Tim look into it, as I don’t entirely trust the others not to have written it as a practical joke and slipped it into the archives. - Episode 11, Dreamer

Jon stares down at the paper in his hands.

He’s had many an unkind thought towards Gertrude, his predecessor, the woman responsible for this mess and the current bane of his existence. She’s been the topic of most of his grumbling as he sorts through piles of nonsense and decaying cardboard boxes. He’s got no love lost for her, but that doesn’t mean he’s happy she’s dead. Or, specifically, to have a statement apparently predicting it through the medium of some prophetic dream. Ridiculous. He wants to feel detached, unaffected, but he can’t help the sickly sense of dread that creeps up his spine and lingers in his throat. 

It was your face and the expression upon it was far more fearful than any I had seen in eight years of wandering this twilight city.

Jon doesn’t know Antonio Blake and has no reason to believe him. But he’s known something’s wrong for a long time now.

He’s never admitted it aloud, never within his assistant’s hearing range, but he can feel it, as foolish as that sounds. This miasma of wrong, of being watched, of becoming...something else, that happens every time he records a statement. Despite the academic detachment he aspires to, he does attempt to empathize with each statement-giver and get into their mindset. But what he’s doing here...it’s different. He can visualize it so perfectly, the terror in their words sticking in his throat and setting his own heart pounding, as if he were the one experiencing it and not just regurgitating it to an ancient recorder. He’s always had an ‘overactive imagination,’ as his grandmother would say, but this is relentless in its manifestation. The fear is real, not imagined. Each statement draws him further and further away from the safety he used to cling to, where the only real cases were few and far between and the most sinister things lurking out there in the world were books and the monsters within them.

And as much as he wants to linger on the false accounts and take comfort in tearing them apart, his hands automatically seek the real ones, the right ones. It’s frightening, the ease with which he finds them nowadays. Perhaps he’s a better archivist than he thinks. 

She died and you’ll be next, something whispers to him. He’s being dramatic, as he’s wont to do, but it feels true. Every statement that doesn’t record correctly, every follow-up he has to qualify with an ‘I would dismiss this, but-’ is starting to add up. His nights have become restless. He often lies awake regretting that he ever took this job, that he left the relative safety of research for a position he’s not sure how to fill, his only reassurance Elias’s occasional emails that he’s ‘moving in the right direction,’ whatever that means.

Jon assumed he’d be more removed from the dangerous aspects of the job that research entailed- following up, going to locations, field work. And it’s true, he has assistants to do that for him now. Dependable, for the most part. And while he should feel safe in his tiny office with nothing but dust and paper and cobwebs (good lord, the cobwebs) he feels more unsettled and exposed than ever. He once joked he’d die of old age before getting the archives in order. But now a stroke sounds much more pleasant than whatever happened to Gertrude. If it’s true.

Perhaps it’s a joke, he thinks. Planted by one of the others, designed specifically to unsettle him. Well, it worked. 

It wouldn’t be surprising. He’s...not had the best start. The promotion was a surprise, but not wholly unexpected; he knew he’d been on Elias’s radar, though he wasn’t expecting it quite so soon. He’s young and unfortunately, it shows. The way he stutters through department meetings, talking about digitization while the others, all of whom have at least a decade on him, shoot pitying looks. He stays later and later, the desire to show some sort of progress even as he discovers more mess by the day. The permanent scowl that now graces his features becomes his armor as he walks the halls and feels himself becoming the uptight, unlikable curmudgeon everyone believes him to be. The one time I measure up to expectations, he can’t help thinking.

A joke. There’s a comfort in that. At least it’s familiar.

But it didn’t record to the laptop, his traitorous mind supplies. It's a bit sad he would prefer it to be a mundane attempt at bullying rather than a real expression of the supernatural, but he supposes it’s par for the course. There were many nights as a child he wished for the same thing, for that boy to go back to taking his lunch money and the occasional beating or two instead of…still, he dismisses it from his mind. You don’t know there’s a correlation. Follow up. Disprove it. 

He’s interrupted from his musings by a knock on the door and the vague outline of Martin through the frosted glass. “Come in,” he calls, attempting to inject some irritation in his voice to cover up the shakiness. “Did you need something?”

“Ah, I finished my write up for the Herbert case, was wondering if you had anything else for me?”

His hand hovers over the statement on his desk. He opens his mouth but then closes it, thinking better.

“Can you send Tim in, actually?”

______

“Sorry boss, I couldn’t find anything on this Antonio Blake fellow- well, at least with the details he provided, which were next to none. Proper spooky, though.”

Of his assistants, he trusts Tim the most with this sort of thing. 

On a surface level, it wouldn’t make sense to some. Tim can be loud and gregarious: the typical, charming extrovert. But he’s not unkind and he’s a hell of a researcher, especially when something grabs his interest. He digs into statements and doesn’t let go- not unlike Sasha, though he’s a bit better at empathizing and handling things...sensitively. Easily attuned to Jon’s moods, Tim’s always been willing to lend an ear whenever he gets too in his head about cases, helping him talk things through or on several memorable occasions, go down the rabbit hole with him. He’d taken the statement from his hands with an easy smile, though his face grew serious with the nervous look Jon shot him.

And if Tim couldn’t find anything, well. Maybe it was a prank after all.

He sort of wanted it to be true, frightening as the implications were. Because then it would mean this terrible, heavy feeling on his shoulders was real, and not just the byproduct of his own mediocrity. He doesn’t want to be scared, he doesn’t want to be in danger, but at least it would provide a real reason for panic, and not just his own inability to measure up.  He doesn’t want to prove them all right, collapsing under the stress of a job poorly done and so easily crumbling at a stupid, made-up statement, targeted as it may be. 

“A joke, then.” Jon says, rubbing a hand at his temples, trying not to let the hurt seep into his voice. Tim makes a commiserating noise.

“You know how people are, the institute isn’t exactly popular. You remember last Halloween, when-”

“Yes, I don’t need a reminder.” Jon sighs. He’d rather not relive that day, stressful as it was. “But that wasn’t quite what I was thinking.”

Tim stares at him for a moment, uncomprehending. Jon continues, attempting to make his hands busy as he pointlessly shuffles papers.

“It’s rather pointed, isn’t it? I doubt someone off the street would create such a detailed account of the death of an...archivist as opposed to the usual ghostly drivel.”

A look of pity flickers in Tim’s eyes and Jon has to turn away. “I don’t really think anyone here would-”

“Really? You don’t?” Jon lets out a mirthless laugh, rubbing a hand across his face as he stares down at his desk. “I’m not blind. Or deaf.” The derisive snorts if he goes off on ‘needless tangents,’ how Rosie pretends to be busy whenever he approaches Elias’s office, the way his name badge still reads ‘researcher’ after months of asking for a new one. He’s basically become a pariah.

“Jon, did someone say something to you?” The words are carefully chosen and he’s leaning forward now, making as if to stand up and god forbid, do something comforting. It’s not that Jon doesn’t want the comfort; he craves it more than anything. But he’s gone without for so long he doesn’t trust himself not to break at the gentlest of touches. Being on the receiving end of Tim’s protective streak is nothing new, but he shouldn’t need his assistant looking out for him like he’s some sort of helpless infant. 

He snorts derisively instead, covering up the insecurity and hurt with a sardonic, self-effacing smile. The kind he knows Tim hates. “They don’t need to. I’ve walked in on conversations, I’ve seen the way people go quiet, the looks they give me-”

“Hey,” Tim’s voice is low, like he’s dealing with a frightened animal. Jon wonders how he looks, if Tim’s going this soft. “Don’t listen to them, alright? You inherited a mess, we all did- but we’re doing our best, yeah? Study and record, like Elias said.” Jon doesn’t dodge the hand that finally lands on shoulder, and he’ll deny to anyone that he leaned into it. 

“Study and record.” He repeats listlessly, slumping back down into his seat. He’s let himself get too worked up, acting like a child instead of a boss. He’s not sure when he started wearing his heart on his sleeve, but Tim’s always been good at reading him. Though he’d rather people think him an arrogant ass than the seething mess of insecurity he truly is. 

“Atta boy.” The pat to his shoulder is purposefully light, devoid of Tim’s usually friendly force that sends him stumbling forward. “Now get out of here at a normal time, alright? We can grab lunch tomorrow. Just the two of us, if you like.”

Jon makes a noncommittal grunt, though the thought is nice.  He entertains the idea for just a moment, remembering their occasional outings back in research. Tomorrow he’ll make his excuses. He hasn’t been much of a friend as of late, and he’s not sure he deserves the kindness of company.

“And if there’s anyone that needs a stern talking to from me, I-” Tim wags a finger and Jon rolls his eyes, ignoring the pang of warmth the words send through his chest.

“Don’t, please. It’s fine.” It isn’t. “But...thank you, Tim.”

“Course.” A wink and a sloppy salute to lighten the mood, and Jon feels the tension in his posture ease minutely as Tim shuts the door behind him. 

He lets out a breath and reaches for the tape recorder. He’s wasted too much time already.  

Be careful. There is something coming for you and I don’t know what it is, but it is so much worse than anything I can imagine. At the very least, you should look into appointing a successor.

Good luck.

He fights a shiver as the man’s voice leaves him and the last vestiges of that twilight world fade back to his dimly-lit office. In his follow up, he tries to play it off as a joke. A bit of hazing for the new boss. And yet the uneasiness still creeps into his voice, and he ends another tape on a stilted, half-believed note.

If this is genuine…

Jon prays that it isn’t. 

And like most of his prayers, it goes unheard and unanswered.

ao3: https://archiveofourown.org/works/32165071

reblogs > likes

[kurowrites]

That Boy.

So, as the start into the new year, have Lan Zhan getting hounded by his brother’s groupies and despairing over Wei Ying’s compulsive flirting. :)

---

“Hello, handsome,” the woman said, smiling at Lan Zhan.

Lan Zhan looked at her, and tried to remember if they had met somewhere before. She was carefully styled, wearing a tight black dress and high heels, with long hair and equally long red nails. She looked somewhat out of place in this cosy coffee shop, more like she was on her way to a fancy event than looking for a cup of coffee. It was certainly someone he would remember, if they had indeed met before. She was, however, entirely unfamiliar to him.

And if that had not been enough of a hint yet, there was a certain gleam in her eye that immediately put him on edge. Her smile was friendly, but there was something about her that made her feel not unlike a predator, smiling at her prey before she opened her mouth and swallowed it.

Lan Zhan sighed internally. Another one of his brother’s fans, he assumed.

He was happy about his brother’s success, and he would always support Lan Huan, there was no doubt about that. But ever since Lan Huan had his big break as a pop musician two years ago, right after he left university, Lan Zhan had found himself constantly hounded by fans of Lan Huan. Some of them genuinely confused Lan Zhan with his brother and were thrilled to meet a pop star on the streets. Others confused him with Lan Huan, but also hit on him in the process, trying to shoot their shot with a celebrity. (Which would never happen, Lan Zhan thought uncharitably. His brother was better than that.)

The ones that were possibly the worst, however, were those that had done their homework, realised that Lan Zhan was not his famous brother, and still decided to go after him. Those were usually the ones that were the most difficult to get rid of, and they came in all shapes, sizes and genders.

Frankly, Lan Zhan was getting tired. He was getting tired of people hitting on him in general, but he was particularly tired of people hitting on him because he was the brother of a celebrity who also happened to look very similar to said celebrity.

He glanced at the woman who had accosted him while he was drinking his tea, and tried to figure out which category she belonged to. And, of course, how he could get rid of her quickly and efficiently.

He wanted to drink his tea in peace.  

She did not seem to be cowed by his critical glance, and gestured to the empty armchair across from him.

“Are you here on your own?” she asked. “Do you mi-”

Before she could finish her words, there was a mad scramble, and with rather more noise than necessary, a large cup of coffee was unceremoniously dumped onto the small table between the two armchairs, and one Wei Ying dove onto the empty armchair across from Lan Zhan, throwing his bag under the table as he did so.

“Sorry, m’lady,” Wei Ying said as he pushed his hair, messy from his athletic stunt, out of his face. He smiled at her broadly and in a way that showed that he very much was not sorry. “This place was reserved for me. I fear you have to look for another seat.”

The woman stared at him in disbelief. She opened her mouth, presumably to lodge a complaint, but Wei Ying could not be bothered. Ignoring her, he directed his gaze towards Lan Zhan.

“So Lan Zhan,” he said loudly. “I heard that you got engaged. Congratulations, I have to say. Took you long enough. Where you failing to find the perfect engagement ring or what?”

Without another word, the woman turned around and walked away in a huff.

Lan Zhan was not sorry to see her go. Still, he felt his face twist into a frown. Wei Ying’s words made no sense to him. What engagement was Wei Ying talking about?

“Wei Ying, I have not gotten engaged.”

Wei Ying laughed loudly, his face shining with mirth.

“Lan Zhan! Of course you didn’t get engaged! I just said that to make her leave! You should have seen your face when she descended on you, like a small, helpless rabbit! Of course I had to help!”

He sighed dramatically and reached out to take hold of his overly large coffee cup.

“I know Lan Zhan is handsome and irresistible, but the nerve of that woman. You were obviously not up for conversation! It’s your strictly scheduled tea break! Which is why I will drink my coffee in silence now, so you can meditate over your tea or whatever it is you do.”

He took a big gulp of his coffee.

Lan Zhan considered Wei Ying for a moment. He was obviously grateful for Wei Ying’s unexpected help, but it came with two problems: First, Wei Ying never did anything silently. Second, Wei Ying himself flirted with Lan Zhan incessantly, calling him handsome and whatnot, so in all fairness, he was hardly better than any of the overenthusiastic Lan Huan fans that approached him.

There might also have been a third problem, though Lan Zhan did not admit to that. He definitely did not notice Wei Ying’s handsome face, brightened by his irreverent, sparkling smile. Neither did he notice his long, deft fingers, carelessly tapping out rhythms on the coffee cup, nor the way he was slouched on the armchair in a way that should have looked sloppy, but instead ended up looking artfully draped.

After all, it was only Wei Ying, irredeemable and obnoxious flirt, and there was nothing for Lan Zhan to notice.

Still.

“Thank you,” Lan Zhan said, because he was grateful. “I think she mistook me for my brother.”

Wei Ying raised his eyebrows, an incredulous expression on his face.

Lan Zhan could divine the meaning of that look. After all, Lan Huan was the friendly, approachable one out of the two of them, and he was also a pop star. Certain physical similarities aside, no one with eyes in their head should ever mistake Lan Zhan for his smiling, gentle older brother.

Wei Ying was evidently of the same opinion.

“Haha, Lan Zhan, don’t worry about it,” he eventually replied between two sips of coffee. “I could hardly have looked on while the impeccable, incomparable Lan er-gege was in distress.”

There we go again, Lan Zhan thought to himself, trying to suppress an eyeroll. Incorrigible.

---

It was not often that Lan Zhan went out with his brother, considering that his brother was a very busy person, so of course they had to run into Wei Ying when they did the next time.

Oh no, Lan Zhan thought to himself when he saw Wei Ying’s eyes flit back and forth between Lan Huan and himself.

This, he would have wanted to avoid. Permanently.

It had been his biggest fear, ever since he had met Wei Ying. Wei Ying was bad enough with Lan Zhan, when he could hope for nothing and had no encouragement. How Wei Ying would act once he had the encouragement of a friendly disposition in addition to Lan Zhan’s oh-so-handsome face, he had never wanted to know.

And now they stood in front of Wei Ying, giving him a truly perfect opportunity to compare and judge.

What the judgement would be, Lan Zhan already knew.

(It would never be him.)

“Lan Zhan!” Wei Ying chirped once he was apparently finished with his thorough analysis. “Is that your brother?”

“Lan Huan.” His brother stepped forward and introduced himself, always a little bit better at being polite than Lan Zhan. “It’s very nice to meet you.”

Wei Ying smiled at him, and Lan Zhan quietly begged Wei Ying not to say–

“Nice to meet you, Lan Huan,” Wei Ying said. “I’m Wei Ying, one of Lan Zhan’s university friends. Did you know, Lan Zhan staunchly refuses to talk about you? But actually, I think he’s really proud of you, and he’s just careful to not spread private information.”

Lan Zhan was so surprised about these words, he could only stand there and stare.

That… was not what he had expected from Wei Ying. After all, when it came to Lan Zhan, Wei Ying couldn’t open his mouth without saying something flirty or suggestive.

And know he looked Lan Huan in the face and managed with a simple ‘nice to meet you’?

“Thank you,” Lan Huan replied with a small, but genuine smile, completely unaware of Lan Zhan’s current internal crisis. “I’m proud of him too.”

Suddenly, Wei Ying perked up.

“I know, right?” he asked excitedly. “He’s such a good, serious student. And so smart! And also ha-” he interrupted himself and coughed once. “Well. You are handsome, too. And he’s your brother. So I guess you know.”

He twirled his hair around his finger and pulled once.

“Well, I guess you have things you need to get done,” he chirped. “And I do too. Have a good time! And see you at university, Lan Zhan! Don’t be a stranger!”

With that, he hopped off, quick as a fox.

Lan Zhan just stared after him, not understanding what had just happened.

You are handsome, too.

When had Wei Ying, of all people, learned moderation?

When he turned back to Lan Huan, he found his brother smiling at him widely, and it put Lan Zhan on the defence immediately.

“What?” he asked, rather more harshly than he had intended to.

“Oh, A-Zhan,” Lan Huan said, his smile becoming smaller, but also more intimate. “I’m very happy for you.”

Lan Zhan frowned. Why would Lan Huan be happy for him? Because one of his university colleagues had finally managed not to embarrass themselves in front of Lan Huan? Because Wei Ying had managed not to completely expose himself? Because he had somehow survived this encounter without getting his heart smashed to tiny pieces?

Of course, there was no good way to ask these questions.

“I think you should move fast, dear brother,” Lan Huan observed, continuing the conversation without needing any input from Lan Zhan. “He’s very handsome, this Wei Ying, is he not? And smart. You might have some stiff competition if you’re not careful, so you need to be quick.”

Lan Zhan stared at Lan Huan, uncomprehending.

What, exactly, was his brother talking about?

“A-Zhan,” Lan Huan sighed when he saw that he had lost Lan Zhan. He reached out and squeezed Lan Zhan’s shoulder once, a quick, familiar comfort. “That boy only has eyes for you, and absolutely nothing else. I don’t think I have ever seen someone more in love.”

His brother let him go and walked away, leaving Lan Zhan standing there, as if he had not just dropped a bombshell of truly earth-shattering properties on him.

That boy only has eyes for you.

That boy.

Only has eyes for you.

 Wei Ying??

[delldarling]

bearberry bargain | pyre

male arctic fox shifter x gender/body neutral reader 10,261 words lemon | older shifter, knotting, oral, penetrative sex, no choking but there is throat touching, tricks and bargains, getting lost note: this was the Story of the Month for December 2020 over on my Patreon! It is loosely tied into the same world as my dragon fellow Arroven, but reading Arroven’s story first is most definitely not required. 

————-　🦊　————-

The tundra is a gorgeous, but unforgiving landscape. You can hear the words on repeat in your head, clear as a twice damned bell. Worse than that, you can see Bristle, the orc woman that had served as your guide out here, in your mind's eye saying the words as she gestured to the fog drenched terrain. And The Mirrored Teeth are a little more dangerous than most. In the rain, or like now, in the fog, the stone spires gleam. They are beautiful, and all too easy to mistake for a far off porch light, or street lamp—but that isn’t what’s truly dangerous out here.

Bristle’s partner, a curly haired satyr by name of Rhim, with coins jingling in his carefully coiffed beard, had then stepped up to speak. Unfortunately, The Mirrored Teeth weren’t named for the teeth-like spires alone. The mirroring, or in this case, echoing, is the real danger. Voices carry strangely out here when the fog is thick, and if someone is lost? Our first instinct is to travel towards a light, or someone shouting. Whether the voices are our own, bouncing back to us from the spires or the mountains, or they’re the product of a still-living magical area?

They’d both spoken in unison then, smiling at each other with the ease of familiarity: Don’t follow the voices.

Each person in the tour group had been given a small token after their list of safety precautions, to serve as a tracker in case someone was separated. One person had asked if it was likely to get lost, and Bristle had snorted before she’d adopted her tour guide voice again. To come out here in the first place, everyone had been asked to sign a waiver because, inevitably, someone did end up wandering away. They followed voices that sounded like loved ones from past or present. They followed voices that sounded like themselves, calling out warnings. It was generally why people ended up taking the tour in the first place, listening eagerly for a voice they’d long since thought lost, or some kind of warning from their future self, so compelling and entrancing that they must be the product of magic. Most, though not all, of the people were generally found. Overtired and aching from sleeping on the ground out in the cold, but otherwise unharmed. Whatever caused the voices, magic or not, didn’t seem to hurt people, only leave them confused.

A few of the others currently with the group had come out for more academic reasons. Art and science in most cases, but otherwise those going on the tour were magic chasers, looking to record the fog voice phenomena for further study.

You might not have come out here with a recorder, but you can’t exactly deny that magic chaser applies to you as well. Claims of The Mirrored Teeth holding tangible residual magic are terribly rampant. You’ve wanted to witness it for yourself, to hear the voices, or feel the soft ache of magical energy on your skin, just the once. You’ve wanted… Well, it’s hard sometimes, not to want to feel the call of magic.

“And look where it’s led you,” you mutter, searching your pockets for the hundredth time. You know you won’t find the token, that you must have lost it when you slipped on some slick moss about an hour ago, but you can’t stop yourself now. It’s like trying to leave a loose thread alone once nervous fingers have found it. You keep reaching for the token, keep trying to find it, even though you know nothing you do will help any longer. You don’t recognize any of the surrounding terrain.

When you’d started out with the tour group, there hadn’t been anything but fog and the scrubby ground, hardened by a hidden layer of permafrost. You’d seen pictures of the teeth-like spires, but hadn’t been able to spot any when you first arrived. Now, every time you turn around it feels like you’re surrounded by the damned things. They radiate a soft glow, magnified further by the heavy mist and from far off? They look just like the teeth they’re named for. “Done in by moss,” you add, straining your eyes to see further through the fog. ”Not even by the voices!” Which, frankly, was disappointing. Not that you wanted to be lost in the first place, but hearing some of the voices the Mirrored Teeth are known for would have at least given you a better reason. An expected reason to be lost or wandering away from the group. Instead you’d simply slipped, brushed off a handful of withered greenery and pebbles, and had gotten back to your feet to find yourself alone.

You’d shouted yourself hoarse after the first half hour, calling out for Bristle and Rhim, staying in the same place, or assuming you’d stayed in the same place. You’d bent to find the token again, but even that had apparently been too much movement. Every time you lifted your head to look away from the ground, there was a different bit of flora springing up in front of you—and then you’d nearly smacked yourself head first into one of the spires, none of which are clearly marked on the map you have of the surrounding area. There’s always too much mist to plot them.

“Bristle! Rhim?” You call out again, cupping your hands around your mouth, not knowing if you should even hope for some kind of answer. What if they don’t answer because of the echoes? What if that’s the reason they’ve yet to answer in the first place?

The soft crack of a branch makes you whirl, throat growing tight when you spot the shadow of three figures through the fog. They straighten up, huffing, and the fog slowly spins away, shadows coalescing and revealing an older man shouldering a pack that he’s clearly just dug up from the ground. For a moment, he’s silent, staring, hand clenching tight at his pack as his eyes rove over your face. His gaze dips to your feet and lifts quickly back to your face before he wipes the surprise from his expression. “I hoped I was mistaken,” he grouses in a soft voice, tossing his head to get his ragged mane of salt and pepper hair out of his eyes. “But ‘lo, a human. Those tours are getting earlier and earlier every year, aren’t they?” He sighs, not asking like he expects an answer, but more like he’s just making an unpleasant statement. For half a second you have a retort on your lips, but the longer you stare, the more words vanish from your vocabulary.

The man has clearly tried to tame his ragged hair, weaving it into a messy, short braid that’s just long enough to hang over his right shoulder. There are earrings hanging from his right earlobe, dangly things that clink softly while he brushes impatiently at the dirt on his knees. His jacket, once a lovely heather gray, and obviously a match to a long lost suit, is patched and worn in multiple places. His jeans are nothing to write home about either, with frayed hems and patched knees. He has silvery stubble on his cheeks, and crows feet at the corners of his copper eyes, and—and a long tail, like a bottlebrush, fur standing on end. Until he sees that you’re watching. The tail vanishes behind his legs and your eyes zero in on his sharp nailed fingers, the backs of his knuckles covered with pale, soft looking hair. He grimaces, baring razor edged teeth, and promptly makes to stride past you, not even bothering to wait for you to get out of the way. He draws a rough breath as soon as he bumps into you, flinching away from actually knocking you to the ground, but it’s near enough to set your temper stoking.

Frankly? His manners are atrocious. But you’re also lost somewhere out in the tundra, and even if he doesn’t know where your tour is, he knows of them. You wrestle your temper into staying silent and rush after him.

“Wait! Hey, wait up,” you ask, ignoring the thrill that runs through you when you snag hold of his jacket sleeve and his tail bristles again. He’s not just hiding a tail either. His feet look more like great canine paws, which means—

The man whirls, and you spot two furred ears hidden under his uneven hair before he yanks his arm away from you, breathing far too fast. “Surely you know better than to grab at a shifter?” He hisses, leaning in close to your face. For half a second, he’s close enough for you to feel warmth radiating off of his body, but then his nostrils flare and his voice grows quiet. “Or are you from one of those backwater humans only villages in the East?”

“I’m—I’m sorry for grabbing you,” you blurt, mildly startled by his proximity to your face. “And while yes, that wasn’t a smart idea, I’m lost out here. Would it have been smarter of me to let you leave me in the dust before I asked for directions?” You take a slow step back, though you don’t let your eyes drop from his. You’re not going to take your eyes off of him for even a second if it means the fog is going to swallow him up and leave you all on your lonesome again.

The shifter narrows his copper eyes, highlighting the faint wrinkles in his brown skin. “Lost, you said?” He straightens, and keeps staring, eerily still. His frown only grows more pronounced when you nod your head. “You’re three days out from where the tours start. How long have you been lost?”

“Three days,” you repeat, uncomprehending. For another few seconds, the words don’t make any kind of sense. You’ve been separated from your group, according to your watch, for just over an hour. When you glance at the timepiece, only another handful of minutes have passed, but not enough time to even come close to explaining three days worth of travel. Your pulse is already racing, but it’s beginning to grow past the point of discomfort and into painful territory with how hard your heart is working. How the hell are you supposed to get back? “That’s not possible,” you breathe.

He doesn’t soften, but for a few moments he doesn’t look quite so irritated. “If you heard anything at all on that tour, then I’m sure you know it is possible. Residual magic, yes? It can do quite a bit more than just throw voices like a puppeteer.” He shifts his weight, like he’s ready to leave the moment you give him a chance.

“I’ve been lost for an hour,” you say, hoping that will spell out exactly how ridiculous you find his claims. “And I did my best to stay in one place. I’ve barely even begun to walk anywhere, and I didn’t—didn’t feel anything magical.”

“Isn’t it terribly rare to feel anything magical?” He asks, only gently mocking. “So few people even notice when something magical has happened to them. Now, it sounds as if the fog leapfrogged you through space,” he adds, wrinkling his nose. “Or did those green guides of yours not mention that something like this might happen?” He waits, but when you don’t immediately answer, the shifter sighs again, shakes his head and pivots, heading back into the still-swirling fog, ready to leave you behind.

You make another desperate grab for his sleeve, thankful that he only grimaces when he turns back to face you again. “In fact, yes, they did forget to mention! If you happen to have a satellite phone, or maybe-”

The shifter laughs and your grip on his sleeve grows slack. He’s rather handsome when he smiles, and looks like some kind of down-on-his-luck musician, dreaming of his glory days. You hastily let go of his sleeve, before he decides to yank himself away a second time. “Me? Ol’ Pyre, wandering about the tundra with a satellite phone?” He lifts his bag, clumps of dirt still falling from it. “I’m coming out this way to spend the winter in my other skin, and generally? Foxes have no use for phones.” He lifts his chin, scenting the air, and then nods his head in the direction behind you. “Head that way and the fog is likely to lead you right back.”

“Likely or certain?” You press, scowling. “Because there’s a rather large difference between those two options, and I’m not going to risk myself on likely.”

Pyre huffs out a sharp edged: “Which do you think?” before he registers the way your hands are starting to shake with nerves. His mouth opens, and then snaps shut. For a long moment he’s quiet, gritting his teeth, eyebrows furrowed. “You’re not prepared for more than an evening trek through the tundra, are you? Enough food for a snack and dinner round a campfire before they herd you back?”

A small wave of relief loosens your shoulders. If he’s asking, then surely he’s not going to turn tail and leave you all by your lonesome? You start to smile, ready and willing to ask for further help, but Pyre turns away with a quiet curse.

“Pitiful idiots,” he says, glancing up at the sky, even though he can’t see anything but the vague hint of daylight through the thick fog. “Three days. And leaving would be akin to murder.” He bares his teeth, still looking up for a few seconds longer before he turns a sharp look your way, fingers curling and uncurling at his side. “I’ll lead you as far as the Slavering river. If you stick to that and keep yourself from wandering off into the fog again, you’ll certainly make it close enough for those idiot guides to find you.”

Slavering, the river is called, Bristle’s voice picks up in your head again, because they once thought the tundra a hungry thing, with teeth besides. She’d gestured to the West, though none of the group had been able to spot or hear the roar of the water yet. It had just been another wall of fog over hard earth and low growing shrubs. We’ll end our hike there.

You offer Pyre your hand, still worried about the trek, still ill at ease with what the fog has done, but feeling decidedly less panicked. Residual magic my ass. As soon as I’m back, the guides are going to expand that little safety speech of theirs.

“Thank you, really. I appreciate it. If I hadn’t—”

“Save your breath for the walk,” Pyre mutters and fully ignores your outstretched hand, skirting around you in a wide arch so he won’t risk touching you accidentally. He doesn’t get more than a few paces away though before he’s turning to look at you over his shoulder. “And keep up. If the fog decides to deposit you somewhere else, there aren’t many other helpful shifters wandering about the area.” He saunters off ahead, trusting you to make your own way, but the fur on his tail doesn’t lay flat until you’re jogging to catch up with him.

“Are there dangerous shifters then?” You risk asking, thankful for your heavy coat and the weight of your own pack. Bristle and Rhim hadn’t mentioned any shifters in the area at all, but then they also hadn’t told any of you that the residual magic might move you without your knowledge. Perhaps they would have, if you’d been allowed to stick around, but it feels like a glaring oversight, now that you’re all the way out here. Maybe this is why they make everyone sign the waiver. Not because of some idiotic, siren-like voices, but because of magical fog.

Pyre’s ears twitch, visible for only a split second through his hair. “Don’t wander off,” is all he chooses to add before he falls silent, doing his best to stay several steps ahead of you to discourage speech.

“That’s encouraging,” you mutter, and his ears twitch again, but he doesn’t respond. The walk to the Slavering is going to feel like a very long one from the looks of it, and it isn’t just because everything looks much the same no matter which way you turn. You shove your hands deep in your coat pockets, watching the middle of Pyre’s back, and do your best not to unconsciously search for the lost token. You already know your pockets are still empty.

————-　🦊　————-

Despite Pyre’s desire for absolute silence, he mutters about things without thinking. He comments quietly on a hare speeding away when a noise startles you. He grabs up handfuls of wild berries off of the scrubby bushes you pass, promptly dropping any that are too spoiled to be edible. He flicks some of them away with soft, but mocking farewells until he recalls that you’re not far behind him, listening to everything he says. Pyre’s threadbare shoulders always rise with embarrassment, but after the third time it happens and he remembers you’re there, he sighs, shaking off his chagrin. He pauses just long enough to grab your arm and slap some of the berries into your open palm, doing his best not to meet your eyes.

When he speaks, he keeps his eyes on your fingers, touch careful and tense. “Eat those if you’re feeling peckish, or save them for this evening and you can boil them down into tea. Don’t dive into any of your stores if you can until sometime tomorrow.”

“What about you?” You ask, noticing that he’s barely kept any at all for himself. A berry or two slips away, rolling off of your hand and dropping to the ground.

Pyre arches a brow, closing your hand around the berries so no more can fall before he takes a step back. “I’ll be hunting as soon as I leave you by the river. I’m more than well equipped to look after myself out here. A few berries won’t make much of a difference.”

“Is this a regular thing for you then? Coming out here to the tundra once a month for shifting?”

“For the winter,” Pyre corrects in a sour tone, and then turns back to his chosen path again. “Coming out to the tundra isn’t a regular thing for you though, is it? Or was it just the magic that left you so frightened?”

The berries he’s given you are small and gleaming red, and you don’t much care for his continued irritable attitude. You pop three into your mouth while you ignore him, expecting it to be, at the worst, bitter. Instead it’s dry. You make a noise of distaste, which makes Pyre glance back again. He stops, confused for all of two seconds before his eyes widen and he chokes on his laugh. The sour twist of your mouth is clue enough. “Definitely not a regular traveling spot,” he states. “Unfamiliar with bearberries?”

“I hope that isn’t what they taste like when they’re boiled,” you mumble, doing your best to refrain from scrubbing at your tongue. “And no, the tundra isn’t really a prime vacation spot for me or most anyone else. The draw of lingering, tangible magic is a little too much for some people to ignore though. Maybe not everyone, but some of us.”

Pyre hums, tail raising when he hops over a strange looking crack in the earth. “Feeling a call?” He asks, voice far too even to be pleasant.

That’s a personal question in most places, and Pyre has already quietly mocked your interest in magic once. He does seem the type to poke at uncomfortable topics though, to try and get a rise out of someone. His tail is still bristled out as well, quietly hinting that he’s not in a pleasant mood. “Is that why you come out here during the winter? I don’t hear much about other shifters vanishing for an entire season, fox or not.”

“The only call I’ll ever feel is the one to shift,” he grumps, but he does smack his lips and slow down for a moment, letting you keep pace. “I make bad decisions,” Pyre finally adds, as if that clarifies anything at all.

“All the time? Or-”

“Smartass.”

“That wasn’t even hard, are you really going to fault me for that one?” You wait, patiently, but no answer is forthcoming, and then he rushes forward a few steps ahead. “I’ll take that as a yes?” You call out, but Pyre just keeps walking, like he’s reached the end of his tolerance for speaking politely with another living being. “Well, that was nice while it lasted,” you mumble, frowning when you spot his shaking shoulders. He’s—he’s laughing. Maybe he isn’t suffering from lack of manners entirely, but instead has been too long out of practice.

“Not all the time,” Pyre calls back when he trusts his rasp of a voice not to betray his amusement. “Just a fourth of it.”

For the season, he’d said. You snort and don’t even try to hold back a smile when Pyre tilts his head to look at you. His head immediately snaps forward and he shakes it, as if to ward off an unhappy thought. He’s grumpy because... he’s awkward and shy? The last of your fear, still borne aloft by the way he’s spoken thus far, by his quiet mutter of akin to murder eases immeasurably. You follow after him now in less strained silence, a bit more confident now that you’ll make it back to the tour group in one piece.

————-　🦊　————-

Your confidence lasts until early evening, when visibility is becoming a huge issue for you. No matter how well you might see in the dark, the fog feels like it’s pressing in on you from all sides. Pyre hasn’t slowed by much, but then you see the pale, rapid swish of his tail, moving so fast it looks for a moment like he has more and then you recall that he’s a shifter. His eyesight, as well as his sense of smell, are by far better than your own. He might be able to keep going well into the night, but—You grunt, catching your toe on a white rock the height of your ankle. Before you can fall, or do much more than exclaim in quiet pain, Pyre has his hands on your shoulders, keeping you up and steady.

“It’s dark,” he says quietly, by way of apology. “We’ll stop for the night just up ahead. Can you make it?”

“Without tripping over rocks or falling on my face, you mean?” You breathe in, and promptly swallow. He smells a bit like fresh campfire smoke and the faint citrusy scent of the bearberries and he’s entirely too close. You don’t necessarily want him to move away though, not with the darkness growing thick around you. “Probably not,” you admit quietly.

Pyre hums, breathing in slowly, and the sound is terribly intimate. “...you need a hand?”

“Unless you’d rather I trip and skin my knees and palms in the dark? Yes.”

“Humans,” Pyre says, amused, and clucks his tongue as he takes hold of your wrist, turning away to continue on and pull you after him. He only pauses when you try to tug your hand away.

“You can hold my hand instead of towing me along like a kid at the fair. I don’t even have sticky fingers.” You turn your hand, thankful when he lets you adjust his hold. His fingernails, thicker due to his shifting nature, dig a little too hard into the side of your hand before he reflexes his grip.

He pauses, tense, even though his palm is a soothing warmth against yours. “Not sticky,” he finally agrees. Pyre hesitates, like he wants to say more, but a low, strange voice calls out something from far off. As soon as you hear it, the voice has it’s hooks in you. Your entire body grows tense, hair prickling, listening as hard as you can to try to make out the words. “No,” Pyre says in a low growl, trying to interrupt your concentration. He’s only barely louder than the voice. “Don’t listen. It’s all too easy to-”

“That sounds like—”

“It sounds like nothing that matters. Even if you know the voice, it doesn’t matter.” Pyre grunts when you turn your head, trying to follow the fading voice with your ear alone. He rips his hand out of yours so he can take hold of your face, pulling you close until you’re nearly nose to nose with him, thumbs on your cheekbones, fingernails scratching gently behind your ears. “Right now, the only thing that matters is making camp for the night. We’re heading this way and you are not going to go looking for that voice in the dark.”

You suck down a fierce breath, closing your eyes as the last of the echoing voice fades away. As soon as it’s gone, your shoulders start to slump, and you feel strangely hollow. “That is why they make us sign that waiver?” You ask, opening your eyes to find Pyre still terribly close, his hands still cradling your face.

For a moment, he lingers, breath warm against your lips, the wrinkles at the corners of his eyes deepening the longer he stares at you up close. The bright copper of his eyes is muted in the darkness, but the white in his hair, in his eyebrows, stands out brilliantly, and you think there might be more of it now than there was earlier this afternoon. “I knew you’d be a bad decision,” he whispers, and inexplicably, you think he might be about to kiss you. Your heart begins to gallop around your chest, your hands lifting to grasp at his wrists, his own still on your face—and then Pyre pulls away, dragging his nails over your skin. He tangles his fingers with yours and leads you quietly through the dark.

You’re not sure whether you should ask about his other bad decisions again… But you desperately want to.

Putting together the camp is a chilly affair at best. The shelter you help Pyre fumble through in the dark, though of course he has no trouble navigating the process, is little more than a heavy tarp tied securely between two of the tall, white teeth. There isn’t much wind, but now the mist is heavy enough to dot your eyelashes and bead along your sleeves. You don’t quite believe Pyre when he says he can get a fire going, forcing you to sit next to the small ring of stones he’s gathered. “There’s a copse of trees not far from here,” he explains, tilting his head to your right, though you can’t see anything through the fog, and especially not in the dark. “And I’ll be able to scrounge up enough for a fire.”

You want to ask him if he’ll be able to find his way back to you. If he thinks you’ll be safe sitting here on your own, especially after the voice from earlier. Voicing your concerns feels a bit too much like an invitation for bad luck though, and you still don't know Pyre very well. He might be helping you out of the goodness of his heart, but he's already dubbed you a bad decision. You're not sure you want to push things. “Won’t the wood be wet?” You ask instead, chafing your hands together to stir up a little bit of heat.

“No fear of shifters,” Pyre scoffs, straightening up and pulling his bag off of his back. “No screaming at strangers when you're lost in the foggy tundra, but you're worried about damp firewood?" You scowl, knowing full well he can see your expression. That surprises a rough sounding laugh out of him. "I may choose to spend my winter as a fox, but that doesn't mean I don't turn back into a man when spring comes." Pyre brandishes a small box, a tin filled with what sounds like matches. He rattles them about for emphasis. “Charmed matches are a necessity out here, not optional. Even if the wood is damp, they’ll catch well enough to last us the night.”

Charmed matches aren’t exactly common. A package of them, when used only in dire situations, should last someone a score of years at least, and as the spells to make them are some of the few guarantees of still working magic… They cost a pretty penny. “...should you be wasting them on me when I’m supposed to find the tour guides tomorrow?”

Pyre shakes the box at you, silently insisting you take it from his hand. When you take it from him, there’s more hair, more fur on his fingers than there was earlier in the day. You wonder if it’s a conscious change to help stave off the chill, or if it’s simply too close to when he shifts. “We need some way to boil a bit of water for bearberry tea, don’t we? Unless you’d rather eat them plain.” He sounds like he’s smiling, but the dark is getting more oppressive and you can’t see it. Pyre’s tone turns a little more serious, a little more apologetic as he continues: “And using them seems to keep away the voices, so yes. As I’ve taken responsibility for your safety—”

“Responsibility,” you murmur, arching a brow, but you can’t exactly disagree.

“—I’ll do exactly as I said. You’ll get to the Slavering, and I’ll even give you a match as a gift. You can make a torch as you head back and the voices should leave you be.”

You don’t shake the tin of them, knowing that they’re valuable, but you stroke your finger over the top, following the raised patterns of letters. “Will they work, even if they’re unlit?”

Pyre waits, and you don’t know whether he’s reluctant to give you an answer or he doesn’t actually know. “Are you worried about me going to grab the firewood?”

Well, it was kind of ridiculous, trying to hide your nervousness from him anyway. You’re lost in the tundra with someone you don’t know. No matter how resilient you are, it’s going to be nerve wracking. “I’ve never felt quite as strange as when I heard that voice, even with you pulling me back from it…” You stop, a frown growing on your lips. “But the voice didn’t do anything to you. You had no problem telling me not to listen to it.”

Pyre crouches, his knees popping, and groans quietly, rubbing at the patch just under his left kneecap. You can see his hands, pale fur the only spot of brightness in the night. “They don’t much affect shifters. We’re…. We’re already rather full of magic ourselves, even if it isn’t the kind one can use by uttering spells or mixing ingredients in a pot. Whatever the reason, the voices don’t seem to like magic. So a box of those matches?” He reaches out to tap on the tin with one long nail. “It should keep you from falling prey for the few moments it will take me to gather wood. I still wouldn’t get up though, then you might risk dropping it.”

You don’t know everything about the tundra, even with what research you did before you came on the trip, and the talk of magic here? It’s still something people want to study. One of the ones that came with a recorder would probably be thrilled to hear this much about the place from… Pyre might not be a year-round local, but he knows quite a bit. If he can hold off his shifting, maybe you’ll ask him to talk to one of them. “I’ll be safe,” you say, extrapolating, “as long as I stay sitting here. You’ll be able to find me again?”

“...I’ll be able to follow your scent, yes,” he admits, like he expects you to be irritated with the thought. Far, far away, another voice echoes, much fainter than the one you’d heard before. It doesn’t sound pained or panicked though, it sounds a bit like—Pyre takes your fingers, almost crushing them around the tin box in your hands. The voice vanishes. “You’ll be safe,” Pyre repeats, and a breeze whisks through the area, catching at his wild grey and white hair.

“Then get the wood,” you say, before you lose your nerve. “I’ll wait.” Pyre’s hand, still curled tightly around your fingers, eases. He brushes his thumb over the valleys between your knuckles and then pulls away.

“A few moments only. I promise,” he whispers, and then his canine-like feet are scuffing through the hard dirt and lichen covered rocks.

As soon as he’s gone, you soothe yourself by running your fingers over the tin of matches, trying to figure out what words are written along the top in fine, curling letters. There are too many loops though and when you do your best to try and focus on it, bringing it up close to your face, all you can see is that places on the tin have been worn down. Whatever it might say, the color on the tin won’t help you figure it out. It feels like only seconds, but another noise echoes in the darkness, your heart jumping back into overdrive. You clutch at the matchbox, but then Pyre is stepping out of the heavy fog, dropping a heaving armful of twisted branches and thick tangles of what looks like weeds.

“Moments, I thought you said! What was that, 30 seconds?” You ask, trying to calm your racing heart.

Pyre laughs. “I think you were just lost in thought, hm? It’s easy to lose track of time in the dark.” He kneels at the ring of rocks, cursing, even though you can’t hear any popping in his limbs this time. “Now, give me the matches and let’s get things a bit warmer, hm?”

You hand them over, and then get to work. You feel more than see Pyre’s surprise when you start picking up the branches and weeds. “I may be human, but I can help do a bit of work. It’s the last I can do after you helping me like this, what with your shifting getting close.”

“Noticed that, did you?” He asks, tin creaking as he opens and closes the lid. You glance over, but other than his pale fur, you can’t make out what he’s actually doing. A second later and he’s striking one of the charmed matches over a rough rock, and then it blazes merrily in a bit of fire smaller than a penny. “I won’t be a danger. I’m old enough to keep my wits. My… I should warn you, my breed of shifting isn’t always so pretty as others though.”

“Is that why you come out here?”

“One of many reasons,” Pyre mutters and holds the match to the wood in the fire pit. The match doesn’t burn down immediately though, or even catch the weeds when he touches it to them. Pyre deposits it carefully in the exact middle of arrangement, planting it almost like a seedling in the wood and weeds. Only after he removes his hand does the match start to spark, and then fire twists open like a blooming flower. It’s gorgeous. You lift your eyes to Pyre, awe clear in your gaze, and then you have to blink. He’s still the older man you saw this afternoon. He still has a mostly human face, but his arms look longer now, and his copper eyes flash strangely in the firelight. He glances at you, and you see that his mouth has grown wider, the edges either curling back towards his cheekbones or… Or his jaws are elongating. “Frightened?” He asks, and then you realize that you’ve been staring.

“Mildly startled,” you correct, refusing to look away. Whether he’s a pretty kind of shifter or not, you can still see him in his eyes and the way he holds himself.

He chuffs, and the noise warms something deep in your chest. “Smartass,” he says, sounding very fond. “I’ll make some of that tea now then, if you’d like it.”

“Bearberry tea,” you muse, reaching in your pocket for the rest of the berries he’d given you. Pyre unearths a small cooking pot from his bag, as well as an earthenware mug, glazed some kind of deep green. He hands you the mug and then holds out the pot, nodding his head when you lift your berry filled hand over it. It takes longer than you would like. Pyre has to mash the berries down and then he surprises you by standing and tugging at the tarp edge of your shelter. Water, mist really, beaded so heavily along the taut plastic that there’s enough to fill the pot near to overflowing. It’s much more than you would have thought, but Pyre seems unsurprised, even though you’ve both been relatively dry since he started building the fire.

“Alright,” you finally say, watching Pyre stir the faintly pink water with a metal spoon from his bag. “You mentioned bad decisions, and I’m not wise enough to leave it well alone. What are all these ‘bad decisions’ that drive you out into the tundra for an entire season? And, I can’t not clarify, were they flings?”

Pyre stares at you, eyes gleaming in the firelight, his too wide jaw falling open due to your blunt questions. When he laughs this time, it’s a sharp bark and more fox-like than human. “Oh, you are one of them. Much more perceptive than many of the others.” He licks his lips, still human-smooth, but his ears have grown longer. They’re peeking out from the sides of his head, poking through his hair now. “Some of them were flings. Some of them were just… A way to stave off loneliness, even if they were unpleasant.”

“And where am I falling on that scale?”

Pyre arches a thicker brow, baring his sharp teeth in a slightly eerie smile. “I wouldn’t be opposed to a fling with someone like you, but your companionship is more than enough if that’s all you want to give.”

You can’t help but laugh. “Then how, exactly, am I a ‘bad decision’? Making friends isn’t a bad thing, is it?”

Pyre’s smile wavers. “No, no it isn’t.” He looks away, into the middle of the fire, where the charmed match is still blazing like a seed of flame. “The bad decision is that my loneliness drives me to go looking in the first place.”

You let a few moments pass in relative silence, puzzling over his words. It sounds more than strange, but you can’t put your finger on why. “What does that mean?” You finally ask, noting the way he’s digging his nails into his thighs.

He looks back at you. “Anyone who wanders out here is an offering, of sorts. To help bear the brunt of winter. The tours… They’re more like a ritual than those guides of yours realize.”

Your head feels strangely empty. Ritual, he’d said. Slowly, you think back to the myths linked to the tundra, to the Mirrored Teeth, to the folktales attached to cities and Serpent Towers. There had been something about bearing the brunt of winter, holding it back from sweeping over the land…

“Your time here will be no more than the three days I promised. You will be taken back to the Slavering, with only this time gone from the memories of others, and I will do nothing but what I promise: to lead you back, if that is all you desire.” Pyre creeps closer, long arms and long fingers bracing himself on the dirt. All it takes is a single stretch and he’s by your side, towering over you in his half shifted form. “The bad decision was that I was given the right to choose without any warning. That I could only claim those I charmed away.”

“You charmed me?” You whisper.

“You heard my voice,” Pyre explains and your heart beats painfully in your chest. He is why people vanish from the tours and come back tired and dirty but… But most of them come back unharmed.

“What happens to those that don’t make it back?” You ask, trying to quell your panic.

Pyre’s shoulders hunch. “Sometimes people react poorly, and they run. Running in the fog is never wise.”

“How am I… How am I supposed to help you keep winter from swallowing the world?”

Pyre barks out another laugh, though he’s grimacing. “Those years I don’t have a companion, winter escapes my hold. It’s much easier to keep in check with help.”

“Helping how?” You ask, voice going brittle.

“Companionship. You’re already bound to the three days,” he says quietly, nodding his head to the pot of slow boiling bearberries on the fire. “You ate three of them. If…. If you choose to help, to spend the winter with me, then you can drink. You’ll be with me through the entire season—”

“Out in the middle of the tundra, with nothing but a tarp and an evening's supply of food?” You ask, getting to your feet. You take a step away from the fire, nervous energy making you move, and then freeze when you hear a far off voice again. You glance down at Pyre, angry and convinced it must be him, but then you recognize it. The voice, low and soft as it echoes strangely through the fog, is you.

“The voices are possibilities only,” Pyre says, talking over the needy sounding moan. It vanishes, like nothing more than smoke on a fast moving breeze. “And I would take you back to my home, I wouldn’t make you wander out here and sleep on the freezing ground!” Pyre starts to get to his feet and then thinks better of it. He stays where he is, looking up at you, holding out a hand. “If you drink, all I require is companionship. Loneliness lets the ice creep further out, but friendship, or, or anger or passion keeps it at bay. With your help I can bind the overflow of ice in the teeth. But if three days is all you’ll allow, then I’ll find another, I promise. You’ll be free of this, and you’ll forget this ever happened.”

You’re out in the middle of the tundra, wreathed in magical fog and standing before a shifter, a… a spirit? A deity? That keeps winter at bay. You did want magic, didn’t you? You ask yourself. You look down to his open hand, brown palm calloused, nails long and sharp, white fox fur growing longer along his arm.

“No one will even notice I’ve been gone?”

“You’ll be lost in the fog for three days, according to them. What life you’ve missed will feel like a blink, but no. They won’t realize you’ll have been gone for the entire winter.” Pyre’s mouth closes, stubbled throat working as he swallows.

Slowly, you sit back down, picking up the glazed green mug and holding it out for Pyre to fill. “The winter then. If we end up hating one another? You have no one to blame but yourself.”

Pyre doesn’t answer, but he watches like a predator after he fills the mug with bearberry tea, copper eyes caught on your lips. You finish half the cup, and what chill lingered in your bones slowly fades away. Carefully, Pyre takes the cup back and downs the rest, long tongue licking stray droplets off of his lips.

————-　🦊　————-

You travel with Pyre for three days before you reach the banks of the Slavering, only when you do, the tour guides aren’t waiting for you. This is where the Slavering begins, the thick snowmelt coming off of the high mountaintops and rolling down through the craggy rocks to make a river. There’s a cave entrance not far from the rapids, covered over with weeds and just large enough for Pyre to stoop over and fit into. You stop at the entrance, with him close behind you, and stare into the far off dark.

“It’s not like a dungeon in there, is it?”

Pyre grumbles, somewhere between indignation and a laugh. “You always know just what to say. No, it’s not like a dungeon. There’s plenty of modern day amenities inside. I’m a shifter, not a beast.”

Cautiously, still not entirely trusting him, you head inside. It’s dark at first, and earthy smelling, just like a cave, but then Pyre strikes another one of his charmed matches and pulls you to the side so he can lead. There’s a lamp up ahead, the frosted glass globe just big enough for Pyre to reach in and set the match. Heat and light seem to roll through the entire area, a locked, wooden door revealing itself to the side of the lamp. The cave floor, still cold and a bit damp, is actually stones, pieced together into what looks like a strange little map. You frown down at the stones, eyes tracing the edges of a single, deep blue vein, wondering why the chips of pale rock surrounding it strike you as strange.

“The Teeth,” you murmur suddenly. “You have a map of the teeth in front of your door?” Some of the spots are much smaller than others, more like a pinprick of pale stone as opposed to some of the hefty chips. If you unfocus your eyes, the map looks like a reflection of the stars.

“Magic,” Pyre explains, though he doesn’t sound pleased with his own answer. “There’s plenty to talk about when it comes to the Teeth, and the voices, just… Let’s go inside. It’s going to start snowing soon.”

When he opens the door, all the lamps inside are lit. Much like Pyre himself, his decor is frayed and worn down. There are heavy furs on the walls, and tapestries too, both simple and grand, but fragile looking. There are furs on some of the furniture as well. There’s a large stone fireplace, with hooks over the mantle made of horn and a set of stone stairs that curve out of sight. There’s no sign of things like phones or televisions, but you feel like you should have expected that. Companionship through a screen probably didn't fulfill the parameters of his… his curse?

That’s something you decide to ask about later. After all, you have the rest of the winter to spend with him, and he explained plenty over the three day trip to the mountain. The teeth are made of contained winter. The larger the teeth are, the more someone helped Pyre through that season. Through friendship, or anger, or passion, they melted the ice and snow. Pyre would take the melt and bind it in magic-made spires, but he couldn’t build on only one. Each spire was the product of a different person, each fling or friend made or fight had melted the snow at different rates. If your help has already begun, then you know some of the snow must have melted already due to your anger over the past few days, but it’s not something you think you can hold onto. Pyre tricked you into the three days, gave you the bearberries and bid you eat if you were hungry. You’d eaten three of them. The rest of the winter though? That you chose yourself. At least for a while, you’re ready to try and enjoy a little bit of the magic, keeping back winter or no.

“It’s not quite past midday,” Pyre says quietly, voice a strange melding of fox and man. “If you’d like food, I will make it for you. If you’d like a rest, I’ll show you to your room.”

“My room?” You ask, only sounding mildly sarcastic.

Pyre narrows those coppery eyes of his. “Sometimes I think you say these things on purpose. Yes. Your room.” He heads for the staircase, his toenails clicking on the stone floor before he reaches the layers of rugs, the soft padding of his feet on them makes you smile. “I would hardly complain if you decided to join me in mine, but even so, you will have your own space.” He tosses his head, earrings catching in his hair and then vanishes up the stairs.

You move at a much more sedate pace, still examining your surroundings. There’s a very old looking table, covered with the remnants of a puzzle that looks to be from forty years ago at least. There’s a rack of old bottles, some of them look like wine, but others are clearly beer, and still others look like glass bottles of soda, the liquid half evaporated. Pyre’s house is going to be a treasure trove of history, of things left behind by others. The winter is going to be very long, you’re certain, but it won’t be forever. All of the people that left these things behind have obviously left and returned to their homes. You turn on your heel, slip your bag off of your shoulders and leave it at the foot of the stairs. You can come back for it later.

The lamps, all seemingly lit from that single charmed match, spiral up the staircase. There aren’t any doors that open up off the sides, only a hallway at the very top and three open doors leading to the far end. The first one you pass is a bathroom, with a large tub carved out of the stone of the mountain. There are elderly looking cupboards in there, and what looks like a wood burning stove, though it’s empty. The toilet, you assume, is behind the drawscreen, and when you peek your head farther in, there’s also a shining, copper mirror hanging on the wall. The second room is where Pyre is, hands fussing over the thick curtains around the bed. There’s a fireplace against the wall, and a nightstand next to the bed, and more furs draped over a chair made of wood and horn in the corner. There’s a worn desk, obviously hand-made by someone unskilled, but a beautiful bookcase next to it, filled with books in various states of wear. Some of the spines are cracked, but others still are pristine. To the right of the bed, there’s a single paned window. Snow is coating the sill outside, thick flurries weighing down the weeds that are growing in the cracked stone.

Despite the magic, despite the voices and his promise, it still hadn’t felt quite so real, wandering through the tundra with him. He’d said the snow would be coming down soon though.

“It’s lovely,” you answer, honestly, even if not everything is to your taste. It almost makes you want to laugh though, because it definitely looks like it’s somewhere removed from the normal world, some kind of strange mish-mash of time periods all pressed into a two story place. You wonder, without Pyre, would anyone ever find this place?

“Parts of it,” Pyre says, strange looking hands pausing in their tying of the curtains. He’s looking at the headboard, you realize. There’s a faint gouge in the dark wood, but it doesn’t look like it was from Pyre. It looks like a very human scratch. Warmth crawls over the back of your neck, though you’re not sure whether it’s embarrassment or eagerness. You’d been feeling a healthy dose of attraction with Pyre before he told you about everything, and it had taken a bit to sort through your feelings on the matter, even with you making the final choice to come here. You still don’t know how things will continue, but for now…

“Let me see what I can do to help make a few more lovely memories then,” you say suddenly. Heat is pulsing through you now, warming your cheeks and the tips of your ears and zinging down along your spine. Pyre’s head snaps to the side to find your hands working slowly at your clothes. He doesn’t move any further, doesn’t even tip back his head, just stares at you over the crest of his shoulder, pupils swallowing down the copper of his irises.

“If—you don’t have to do anything,” he insists, and his tail swishes, slowly, just the once. It doesn’t bristle out as it had when you’d first spotted him.

Your coat drops to the floor, and his eyes follow it. “I know. We were flirting though, before you told me about all of this, and I still…” You glance away, only for your eyes to snap back to Pyre as he drags his patched suit jacket off of his shoulders.

He slows when he realizes you’re watching, but doesn’t stop. A slow grin pulls at the corners of his wide mouth. “You still want to feel magic?” He taunts, and laughs when you roll your eyes. He stops laughing when the rest of your clothes hit the floor, the hint of a whine escaping him when you take a step closer, shivering when you feel the temperature of the stone on your bare feet. “My room,” Pyre says roughly, though you can’t tear your eyes away from him. He’s still a wonderfully strange mix of man and fox. His face is still humanoid, with lips and stubbled cheeks, and so is the shape of his shoulders through his holey t-shirt. There’s soft curls of hair peeking out of the stretched neck of his shirt, but along the backs of his arms it looks more like fur and his feet are still wholly canine. His tails, tails plural, are starting to grow longer too, and you recall the way he’d seemed to coalesce into one person when the fog had rolled back.

Pyre crosses the room, hesitating before he places his hands on your shoulders, thumbnails scratching gently at your bare skin. The chill of the room had been seeping into you, but at his touch, warmth chases it all away. When you slide your hands up his chest, Pyre’s eyes fall closed, gray lashes bright against his skin. “M’ room,” he repeats again, but pulls you into a kiss as he tows you out the door. There’s no more time for examining the hallway or the knick-knacks he might be keeping in his own space. There’s his lips and his stubble scratching at your skin and his hands splayed over the back of your neck and the base of your spine. He coaxes you into his room with deep, slow kisses that leave your head spinning, whispering things that make your pulse speed. “Want, want the smell of you on my sheets,” he says against your neck, dragging sharp teeth carefully over your throat. He growls when your hands dip to undo his trousers, your thumb following the trail of hair that vanishes beneath his underwear. “If this is, if it’s—”

“I agreed to the winter,” you remind him and then he’s turning you and letting you fall back onto his bed. You have a moment to register soft fur, and crocheted blankets, and comforters too, before Pyre is pulling his shirt off and tossing it across the room. He wrestles with the rest of his clothes, leaving you another moment to admire him. The hair on his chest and trailing down his abdomen looks human, much coarser than the fur on his arms and below his knees. Between his legs is a thick cock, hard and beginning to leak, with a small bulge near the base of him, and then your gaze is drawn back up as he crawls onto the bed, moving much slower than he had in the hall. He doesn’t press, doesn’t rush, just leans his body over yours to kiss you again, careful with his teeth. He groans when you reach up and tug at his braid, pulling the rough tie away and tossing it to the side. You comb your fingers through his hair, tangling your fingers in it to keep him kissing you and tense when his cock slides over your thigh, hot and hard and enough to make you buck up, already seeking friction. Pyre kisses you until you’re breathless, leaving you sucking at your own lips and trying to calm yourself as he urges you further up the bed, back to a veritable nest of pillows.

He isn’t slow when he settles himself between your legs, hands curling around your thighs and pushing them carefully back towards your chest. He isn’t slow when he drags his tongue over you, hot and slick and slightly rough. He’s careful as he can be with his teeth, but there are a few pinches that make you gasp and tremble. He laves his tongue over them, soothing the sting, but his nails are pressing hard into your skin and you’re fairly certain you’re going to bruise, simply from the continued pressure. Pyre is noisy too, whining and groaning as he tastes you, as you do your best to rock yourself against his tongue, hand tugging at his hair while he sucks and eats. The ache of orgasm, painful-but-sweet, is starting to build, starting to make you tense everytime he opens his jaw, teeth dragging over tender skin, leaving you wet and shuddering. He huffs when you whimper, and pulls away before you can come, copper eyes as bright as flame when he moves to sit back against his headboard. The loss of him feels sudden, and the cold is sharp without his warmth against you.

“That was on purpose,” you murmur. Pyre arches a brow, trying to keep from smiling when you scowl at his crooking finger. You still get up, on shaking knees and gasp when he tugs you over and onto his lap, your back against his chest, cock slick and sticky against your ass.

“I want to feel everything when you shake apart,” he murmurs, hand splaying over your sternum as he helps you arrange your legs. By the time you’re straddling his thighs, his fingertips are dipping into the hollow of your throat and his cock is rutting against your thigh and every part of you is on edge, desperate for more. You’d been so close. Pyre licks at the side of your throat, pressing his hand harder against your chest to keep your back still. “Lift your hips,” he urges, and takes his cock in hand, dragging the head over you as you do your best to listen. Like fitting a key into a lock, Pyre finds the correct angle, breathing raggedly as you press yourself down. As soon as you’ve taken enough of him, he lets go of himself and then presses on the top of your thighs, making you gasp out his name as you take him in deeper. He eases off after a moment, letting you adjust, letting you wriggle and groans out your name roughly as you do your best to ride him.

You think for a moment about saying something, about teasing him or trying to rile him up, but it’s all you can do to keep up what rhythm you have, heart beating terribly fast against the hand he has on your chest. He lets you move, lets you reach back and clutch at the messy locks of his hair, his breath warm against your throat and the top of your shoulder and then Pyre pushes roughly against your thigh again, thrusting up until his knot is grinding against you. “Fuck, fuck, Pyre, that—”

“Too much?” He asks, waiting while you shake, trying to steady your breath. You’re probably going to ache later, probably won’t want to do much but doze or take a bath in that massive stone tub, but right now? Right now you want to be greedy.

“More,” you get out and Pyre laughs, that eerie, fox-like noise echoing in your ear as he teases you with the knot, pressing you down and then pulling back his hips. Pillows cascade off the edges of the bed, spilling over the floor. You start squeezing, doing your best to drive him over the edge, so sensitive it almost hurts. “Please,” you whisper and then you’re too busy for speech. His knot stretches you and his hand dips between your thighs, stroking and his fingers press into the base of your throat. He’s not choking you, but he’s starting to squeeze and then you’re coming. Pleasure washes over you in a fierce, pulsing ache that shoots down to your toes and fountains back up your body. You shout out his name and shake in his arms, eyes falling closed as his knot expands, locking you in place. Your eyes flutter open and closed and drift to a steamed up window, much like the one in your own room. Weeds are still poking up through the cracks, but now it’s not snowing outside, it’s raining.

Pyre turns his nose to the space behind your ear, breathing deep, his own limbs growing loose. “The winter might well be softer this year,” Pyre mumbles, voice raspy, his hand smoothing down your sternum and over your hips. “And I have you to thank for that.”

“We still have the rest of the winter ahead of us,” you remind him, but you’re too sleepy to argue with him any further. Whether you end up enjoying the rest of your time here, you do know one thing: Passion will definitely be a huge part of fulfilling your bargain for the winter.

————-　🦊　————-

[cuttoothed]

Day 5 of @jonmartinweek for the prompt "scars". Set in a nebulous, post-finale future that may or may not take place in the same universe as the therapy fic.

Warnings: Martin is trans in this, and briefly discusses past gender dysphoria and suicidal ideation. There is also a scene where someone reacts poorly to Jon’s scars, and mention of other such instances (staring, whispering).

*

The Riverbank Cafe is their usual go-to for lunch; it’s small and cozy, generally quiet, and does truly excellent toasted sandwiches. It’s also not far to walk, which is nice on a day like today, when the air is chilly and damp.

The bell over the door jingles as they enter, and the waitress glances up from where she’s clearing a table. She’s new—or at least, Jon hasn’t seen her before—and looks more than a bit flustered by the modest lunch rush.

“Take a seat anywhere,” she calls, bustling off to help another customer. They find a table near the back and wait; they’re in no hurry. Jon is just warming up enough to take his coat off when she makes her way over to them, menus in hand.

“Sorry about the wait,” she says breathlessly. “It’s my first day.”

“No problem,” says Martin sympathetically. “First days are tough. I remember my first day at my old job, my boss was a right arse.”

Jon rolls his eyes affectionately, and tugs off his gloves and scarf as Martin takes a menu. He reaches for his own menu, and sees the waitress’ eyes widen, darting from the pale knife scar on his neck to the shiny flesh of his right hand. Her expression goes from shock to horror to pity in the space of a second.

“Oh god, what happened?” she blurts out, and then her face goes crimson and she’s looking anywhere but at Jon. “Sorry!” she stutters, “I didn’t mean—god, I’m sorry. I’ll just...I’ll come back in a few minutes.”

She hurries away, almost running, and Jon feels a sinking sensation in the pit of his stomach. Across from him, Martin looks furious, eyes blazing and jaw set angrily.

“I’m going to talk to the manager,” he says. “That was completely out of line!”

“It’s fine, Martin,” Jon tells him. “She didn’t mean anything.” She’s young—hardly more than a teenager—and she reacted in a perfectly understandable, instinctive way to the sight of not one but two horrible scars. Jon doesn’t want to get her in trouble on her first day,

“It doesn’t matter what she meant—” Martin begins, and then stops when Jon places a hand, the unburned one, over his. He huffs in annoyance.

“Fine,” he says. “Let’s—let’s get lunch to go though, okay? I’m not sure I can hold my tongue if we stay.”

“Okay,” Jon agrees; he’s lost his appetite anyway.

Jon isn’t vain. He knows how the scars look, and mostly, it doesn’t bother him. They don’t matter to anyone who matters to him; Martin loves him scars and all, and the friends he’s made here have never drawn attention to them or asked him to explain.

He sees people staring at them sometimes; especially children, who are too young to be polite about it. He’s heard the occasional “What’s wrong with that man?” and the whispered admonitions from parents or guardians to not be rude. For the most part, though, he can almost forget they exist, except in cold weather when his hand stiffens up, or when the deep muscle scars in his leg start aching, and he has to use his cane for a few days.

But inevitably, something always happens like today, and he’s forcefully reminded of them. Of the fact that he is wounded, damaged; of the other wounds that can’t be seen, that he and Martin both bear.

It’s not fair to Martin, either, having to put up with strangers staring or whispering when he’s with Jon. The constant, visible reminders of everything they’ve been through. Jon sees the way his expression goes hurt and closed off sometimes, when he sees the scar he gave Jon, and Jon wishes there was some way he could spare him the pain.

Jon will admit that the cafe incident throws him off kilter for the rest of the day. He doesn’t think he’s been obvious about it, however, until they’re getting ready for bed that night; he catches sight of his bare torso in the bedroom mirror, and flinches, and Martin frowns in a way that says they’re about to have a serious conversation.

“Are you all right?” he asks. Jon blinks at him, trying to look uncomprehending.

“Absolutely fine,” he says; Martin looks at him skeptically, and he relents. “I’ve been...a bit preoccupied, I suppose?”

“Moody,” Martin corrects, and Jon shrugs. Maybe.

“It’s nothing, really.”

“Is it because of what happened at lunch?”

“It’s fine, Martin,” Jon tells him. Martin raises an eloquent eyebrow, which says louder than words: I don’t believe you. Jon knows from experience that Martin won’t relent until they talk about what’s wrong; a lesson learned from therapy, and yes, it’s the correct and healthy thing to do, but sometimes Jon would like to just stew in his feelings by himself a bit, thank you very much.

He sighs.

“I’m sorry,” he says. “These—it can’t be nice, having a constant visual reminder of—of everything that happened.”

“Why are you apologizing to me?” Martin looks confused. “Those things—or, well, most of them, they happened to you, Jon. You’re the one who was hurt—who was deliberately put in harm’s way.”

“Yes, well, at least I don’t have to look at myself.”

Jon can’t keep the bitter note out of his voice, and there’s a taste like bile in the back of his throat. Martin is staring at him now, wide eyed. He sits down heavily on the bed and pats the space next to him. When Jon doesn’t move, he pats it again.

“Come here,” he says. “Please, Jon.”

Jon sits beside him, folding his arms defensively. He doesn’t want to hear reassurances now: that the scars don’t matter, that Martin loves him regardless. Even if it’s true, it doesn’t take away from their ugliness, from what they represent.

Martin doesn’t say anything immediately. Instead, he reaches down and pulls his t-shirt off over his head, leaving him in just his pajama bottoms. Jon’s eyes are drawn as always to the freckles on his shoulders, the wiry, ginger hair on his chest and belly, the softness and the strength of him. Martin takes Jon’s hand—the burned one—in his, and presses it to the pale, silvery scar on the right side of his belly.

“When you see this scar, does it remind you of the fact that my appendix burst when I was twelve and I almost died?”

“N-no,” says Jon. Martin’s told him the story, of course, but it’s an old scar, long since faded; the part Jon remembers most is Martin grinning with delight, telling him how the nurses in the hospital sneaked him extra ice cream while he was recovering.

“What about these?” Martin asks, moving Jon's hand up to his chest, to the faded t-anchor scars. “Do they make you think of how my dysphoria used to be so bad I wanted to die?”

“No—of course not!” Jon’s heart aches, and he clutches at Martin’s hand. Martin smiles.

“Good, because they shouldn’t. These scars mean I survived—I got the treatment I needed, and my life got better. I found you.”

“Martin,” Jon starts to say, but Martin shakes his head.

“I know it’s not the same. What was done to you, it was...horrifying. Monstrous. But it comes down to the same thing, Jon. Our scars might not be pretty, but they mean that we survived. You survived, and you’re here with me.” He tugs Jon’s hand up and presses a fierce kiss to the shiny, scarred skin across his knuckles. “I love them for that.”

Jon feels a lump rising in his throat, his vision blurring with tears. He wraps his arms around Martin and pulls him close, buries his face against Martin’s warm, solid shoulder. Martin’s hands pet soothingly over his back and sides, don’t flinch from the knot of scar tissue below Jon’s rib cage where the knife drove in, in those last, desperate moments.

“I love you,” he mumbles, his voice thick with emotion. It’s the only thing he can think to say. The only thing that really matters.

“I love you,” says Martin, and they stay like that for a while, skin to scarred skin.

[staysaneathome]

Think of the Family (Part 2)

Present Day

Martin stumbles at the force of Daisy’s shove, barely catching himself on his hands.

“If this is how you treat guests, I’d hate to see what happens to intruders.” He grumbles to himself, as Helen’s door slams shut behind the three women.

Daisy doesn’t even look that angry with him, is the thing. Melanie’s bulge-eyed and spitting mad, several forks making jabbing motions in the air around him, while Gertrude has a face like a thunderstorm.

But Daisy? Daisy may as well be a stone wall, giving nothing of how she feels about this situation away.

Martin can’t help feeling wary of that.

He’s seen Daisy angry, seen her furious after Bertrand Macguffingham made the extremely poor decision to run his mouth about Robbie within her earshot, barely holding herself back from mauling the man in defense of her nibling.

By all accounts, she ought to be like that now towards Martin. So why isn’t she?

Melanie certainly has no such compunctions.

“How dare you?” She spits, incensed. “How-how dare you?! We, we thought you were our friend, we let you into our home, Jon loved you, and, and this is how you repay us?! By lying to a child who trusts you, telling them that, that their own family doesn’t care about them, wants to hurt them?! Trying to take them away from us?! Of all the sick, twisted, awful—!!”

“Well it’s not like you’ve got the best track record.” Martin can’t keep himself from snapping back. “The last time you thought someone was responsible for something bad happening, he vanished, didn’t he? No body, no trace, no evidence. And Jon was family too, wasn’t he?”

Daisy actually flinches at that. No more than a small twitch at the corner of her jaw, but there.

Melanie’s too busy yelling back, something that begins with “Oh, for the loVE OF, WE DON'T KNOW WHAT HAPPENED TO JON, YOU—!” but he catches it.

She knows, Martin’s mind chants. She knows something, anything, she knows what happened to Jon, she knows where he is, she was responsible for him not being here anymore, get her to talk, make her tell you what, how, where—

“That’s quite enough, Melanie.”

Melanie sputters, “But, Mum!” as Gertrude Robinson steps forward.

She’s quickly quelled by a stern look, falling sullen and silent, the forks orbiting slightly too close to Martin for comfort.

“After all, stubborn fools never will let go of ideas they’ve been obsessing over.” Martin doesn’t cower under the dissecting gaze that seems to pin him in place, but it’s a near thing.

Gertrude’s lip only curls further as she continues, “And given that, despite ample evidence to the contrary, Mr. Blackwood is either unable or unwilling to let go of the notion that we were somehow involved in Jon’s leaving, it’s clear he’s more stubborn and foolish than most. And more cruel than most, to lead a child to believe he cared about them when he was only intent on this obsession of his.”

That gets a flinch out of him, though he hates himself for it.

“Can you truly say you ever spoke to that child without the intention to use them in your fool’s quest?” Gertrude Robinson says. “Befriending them solely to gain access to the family, trying to uncover our secrets?”

Martin glares at her.

She sniffs regally, turning on her heel. “I’d truly thought you were better than such lowly behavior, Mr. Blackwood.”

“Yeah, well, what about you?!” He shouts after her. “Have you ever looked at anyone in this family like they weren’t, weren’t a tool for you to use?!”

That stops her up short, at least. Good.

“Maybe I did start talking to Robbie to try and work out what happened to Jon,” He says, self-loathing flaring in his gut as he speaks. “But at least I actually care about them. I cared about Jon. Not for his gift, and not because Robbie doesn’t have one, but for them. Their happiness and wellbeing is important to me. Can you really say the same?”

Slap!

Martin’s cheek stings bitterly. He stares up at Gertrude, near uncomprehending.

Melanie starts forward too late, placing herself between him and her mother, while Daisy makes as though she’s about to seize her mother’s wrist but flinches away before she can actually make contact with skin.

Probably a good idea, part of Martin thinks half-hysterically, if what her increasingly haywire gift did to the table earlier is any indication.

“How dare you say that to me?!” Gertrude says, drawing herself up to her full height. “Everything I have done, I have done for this family and our miracle. But what could someone like you know about family?”

He thinks he hears Melanie draw in a breath, over the rushing of in his blood in his ears.

Martin Blackwood looks this sad old woman in the face.

He could say so many things to her. Like he knows what it looks like for a child to grow up in the shadow of resentment and longing for those who left. Knows what it looks like when a man’s grown up feeling somehow not enough, shrinking in on himself every time the person he most wants to impress looks and keeps finding him wanting. The similarities between his mother and Gertrude Robinson beggar belief, for all that one is a pillar of the community and the other not-quite a pariah towards the end of her days. But those are all mouthfuls, and she’ll have written him off before he can even finish his sentences:

In the end he goes with something much simpler.

“Far more than you ever could.” Martin Blackwood replies.

Gertrude Robinson doesn’t strike him again, but it’s a near thing. He’s sent back down to the village with her screams of recrimination in his ears, vowing that he’ll never be welcome up at the house again.

Vowing that he’ll never see Robbie again if she or her daughters have anything to say about it. Well, he thinks to himself as he plods down the hill into the gradually quieting streets of the village. At least the expressions on Melanie and Daisy’s faces hinted that they wouldn’t be as efficient in enforcing this decree as their mother would want them to be.

Maybe they’ll sneak Robbie by the bakery sometime?

But that might be hoping for too much.

He unlocks the bakery door with numb fingers.

It’s so quiet inside.

He stares down at his shoes as he locks the door behind him again, and trudges through the shop, through the back, and up to his small flat above the bakery.

He flicks on the lights, and heaves a quiet sigh. Tonight, like so many nights before it, he makes his way to his small room, with his small bed.

He sits down on the covers, and pulls open his bedside drawer.

Inside there’s a small, worn box. Martin runs his fingers over the cracking leather before opening it up.

A ring sits inside, nestled on the small pillow. The gold is bright, shiny from the number of times he’s turned it over between his fingers. The jet inlay is still just as stunning as the day he finally saved up enough to buy it, winking almost silver as the light catches it. It’s set into the ring just enough that it won’t snag on Jon’s clothes or hair when he wears it.

If. If he wore it.

Martin bends over the ring between his fingers, presses his lips to it.

“’M sorry Jon.” He mumbles into it, tears welling up in his eyes and spilling down his cheeks. “I-I couldn’t. I didn’t. I, I should’ve—! ‘M sorry. ‘M so sorry.”

He stays like that for some time.

There’s a furious hammering at his door.

He’s downstairs and halfway to opening to it before he registers the breathless cries of “Mr. Blackwood! Mr. Blackwood!” that are coming from the other side.

Frey Lukas is near bent double on his doorstep, chest heaving violently as xey struggle to catch xir breath. “Oh thank heav-heavens—”

“Mx. Lukas?” Martin opens the door slightly wider, out of confusion if nothing else. “What—what are you doing here?”

Xey straighten slightly, gulping as xir eyes dart around the interior of Martin’s shop. A few coils of hair have come loose from xir ponytail, hanging limp in a sad match to xir bruised nose and rumpled formal wear.

“Robbie’s missing.”

Ice slides down Martin’s spine.

His mind works furiously to dispel it. It’s—it’s fine. It’s fine, it’s probably fine, Robbie’s fine. They’ve, they’ve likely just taken the initiative to escape is all. They’re probably waiting for him at Tim’s, or are hiding around the back of his shop and he just hasn’t taken the opportunity to check yet. They’re not disappeared. They’re not gone. Not like Jon.

Not like Jon.

“Do—” He has to clear his throat to get his voice breaking under control. “Did you come here to check if I’d taken them? I’m sure Mrs. Robinson and her children could easily tell you that I never had the chance to do so, so if you’ll excuse me Mx. Lukas…”

“What? No!” Frey Lukas wedges xir foot in the door as Martin attempts to close it. “No, no, that’s not it at all! Robbie, Robbie was in the, their room, door locked, but they’ve somehow vanished from there completely! Just, just poof, gone, no trace of them anywhere!”

Martin’s not entirely sure he’s breathing. “But, the—the window.” He hears himself say.

Frey clear xir throat, shuffling nervously. Xir cheeks are too dark to flush, but the nervous darting of xir eyes tells Martin that xey are, the bashfulness giving him a pang of painful nostalgia.

“Well, ah, Pet, Petra and I would’ve, would’ve noticed if they’d left that way! Yep, yep, definitely…definitely noticed.” Xey stop fiddling with xir fingers, looking beseechingly at him. “We’ve, we’ve been searching Helen and Michael for, for an hour at least, but there’s, there’s no sign of them. Mrs-Mrs. Robinson, Ms. Daisy and Ms. Basira, Ms. Georgie and Ms. Melanie have no idea where they could’ve gone either. Ev-everyone’s frantic.”

Martin barely stops himself from scoffing, a “yeah, right” wanting to escape his lips. If him being at the family’s tender mercies meant that he had no chance to secret Robbie away, then that means the inverse is true until proven false.

“Right. Right, um.” Martin shuts the door behind him.

He straightens his collar, glancing up and down the street.

“I’ll wake Cecil— he’ll help spread the word to get people up and about. You go to the Tahans, the Fairchilds, old woman Josie and Marcus Vansten. They’ll listen to you more than they will me, and they’ll be able to get people organized.”

Frey nods, almost comically serious as Martin keeps muttering to himself. “Sasha, Tim, Grizzop and Cel’ll be best for finding if they’ve been taken from the village, so I’ll get them next, but we’ll need to split the search parties up, in case—!”

There’s a thunderous rumbling that almost throws the two of them off their feet.

Martin catches himself on the side of the bakery while Frey isn’t nearly so lucky, crashing to the ground with a pained groan. It feels like the very earth itself is determined to buck them off like a dog shaking itself.

Martin turns his eyes up to the hill that Helen and Michael sit upon.

Just in time to see the house and the mountains behind it crack and crumble apart.